03/16/01

Phebe kept spying on me when I was writing yesterday on her computer. She kept coming in the room, looking over my shoulder at the computer screen.

Whatcha doin‘? She asks.

Oh. . . nothing. . . really, I reply.

A little bird told me you’ve been spending all Winter on the computer writing about everybody, she says.

A little bird? I’m not writing about everybody, I lie, I’m writing a novel.

A novel? really? May I read it?

No. . . you can‘t.

Why not?

Because. . . it’s not finished. . .it’s. . .in a. . .rough draft.

Well, why did I see my name on the screen?

Because the story is about your namesake, Phebe Reynolds.

Really? Historical fiction?

Yessiree!

What happens?

Oh. . .uhm. . .well. . .see. . .I take a lot of poetic license. . . It’s kinda like a Romeo and Juliet story.

Romeo and Juliet story? Really? I like that.

Phebe Reynolds in my story belongs to a family who had their Iron Forge destroyed by the British for not complying with the Iron Act. A rival forge owner with a handsome son turned them in---

And when the war breaks out Phebe’s family sides with the Patriots while the family of the rival forge owner remains loyal to the crown? Phebe asks.

That’s exactly right, my dear. Exactly right. That’s the premise I came up with. I’m still hammering out the finer details: Phebe Reynolds gaining intelligence from her secret lover to smuggle the forged links needed to create the great chain that spanned the Hudson past Claudius Smith’s men in Sterling Forest, so on and so forth.


You have to finish that so I can read it! She says excitedly, leaving me to my work. Maybe you’ll be the next Nicholas Sparks!

Okie dokie.

Little bird? Maybe that’s like a Freudian slip or something, description of Stash Skimington’s anatomy.