Last winter, Linda Mays, a student in my husband’s novel class, shared a link to a book on Amazon.com that had been sent to her by a friend.

Apparently, said Mays, her friend’s motivation in sending the link was to encourage her to continue writing. “She must’ve been thinking, ‘Hey, if this person can get a book published, maybe you can, too.’”

 Mays wrote that she followed the link and read some excerpts from the book, then scrolled down and began reading the reviews.

 “That’s where the real fun began,” said Mays, who was shared the link with the rest of the class.

At that time, though, I must’ve been busy, since rather than follow the link, I saved it for later, then forgot all about it until this past weekend. My husband and I had just returned from a writing conference, which usually get me so charged up I can’t return to my keyboard fast enough. But this time was different. Instead of brimming with ideas and how to approach them, I came home feeling I’ve been playing out of my league. There are so many fabulous writers in West Virginia alone. How can I hope to even rise to the middle, much less the top?

Fortunately, when I’d saved the link Linda Mays sent, I attached a note to myself that said, “Something to read the next time you’re feeling down about writing.”

I followed the link and read the reviews.

“As a rule,” wrote one of the early reviewers, “I force myself to read at least half of a book, no matter how terrible it is. I must say, this was most certainly the worst half of a book I’ve ever read.  If you’re the type of person who likes to stop and look at train wrecks, see if the library has a copy. If not, spare yourself.”

Wrote another, “You know when you’re sitting on the toilet and you can choose between reading this book or the ingredients on the back of the baby powder? Choose the baby powder. I couldn’t get through two pages before my eyes started bleeding.”

Then came what must’ve been a tongue-in-cheek recommendation.

“Forget Harry Potter. Forget Stephen King. Forget Citizen Kane. Forget that Citizen Kane wasn’t a book,” wrote one reviewer. “(This) is the book you’ll be talking about to your children’s children. It’s the Dune of our generation. Imagine if Tolkien were alive today and writing SciFi Romance, and you’ll have a good idea what this book is like. (This book) is the thinking person’s scifi romance novel! Read it now before it’s made into a major motion picture!”

Said the next person: “The above review is more creative than the book.”

I realized then why I’d saved the link as something to read when I’m down. It was to remind myself that few things can be more inspiring than to read a really bad book. One that somehow got published.

So many times I’ve finished the last page feeling disappointed by a terrible ending, by a character who suddenly does something completely uncharacteristic, by a far-too-convenient solution, or by some other sin that makes me angry to have wasted time on the book. I’ll often be so aggravated I’ll toss the book in the trash rather than get a quarter from some future yard sale book buyer looking for a cheap read.

But not any more. Not now that I’ve realized even horrible books have something to offer–hope.  Hope that if drivel like that managed to get a publisher’s stamp of approval, that maybe someday, I, too, might have my name on a cover.

I recognize the impossibility of writing a book that everyone loves, but if I keep at it long enough, maybe I’ll write something that at least inspires a few other writers.

From the time we first bought our new old house three years ago, I’ve been dreaming about screening in the back porch.

And dreading how much work it would be.

One minute I’d be envisioning just where, on this new porch, I’d put a swing or hanging bed. The next minute I’d be trying to figure out how to remove the porch ceiling without damaging it in order to locate a beam that would support the weight of the swing.

I’d picture white wainscoted walls replacing the cinderblock.

And calculate complexity and cost and the cranium aches that would surely accompany such an endeavor.

For every positive I could imagine, there was an equal and opposite potential pitfall.

I’d never dealt with a home improvement project that would require working with cinderblock and concrete. I’d never worked with treated lumber or screening or this particular kind of wainscoting before.

I began to think I’d never take the plunge, never actually start for fear of not getting it right. The only thing lower than my expectations was my budget. Half a shoestring.

But then it happened. The first mosquito sighting of spring—a bruiser so big he likely required an airstrip. He was dragging a banner that advertised buffet night at Café Fuller, “Featuring even more tender and tasty thick thighs!”

I officially went over the edge, determined to screen in the porch before skeeter skool let out for the summer. Advance preparation, research and knowledge be damned! I’d jump in with both feet and see where I landed.

(I tried not to be discouraged by those wagering my landing would involve a visit to Thomas Hospital, allowing that they had reasons for placing such bets.)

After my first of 43 visits to Lowes, I began with what seemed at the time like the simplest section of porch. I soon discovered this particular section had been built with a different type of cinder block than the rest. Based on the quantity of masonry bits these blocks soon devoured, I suspect Kryptonite reinforcement.

Tempted as I was to throw in the trowel, I pushed myself to keep going. That first section took ages, with parts having to be disassembled, cursed at, sprinkled with cash, then rebuilt. And then–something miraculous happened. My project began to click. I was cutting and assembling sections so professionally I was wishing for witnesses, though most remained too afraid of another encounter with the randomly potty-mouthed Ty Pennington wannabe they were avoiding the back half of the house.

Many weekends and evenings were consumed by my project. And now, as my dream porch nears completion (having reached the 90% mark, which generally means I move on to something else), I’m all swollen with pride. My porch isn’t perfect. I know every place where I pounded bent nails deep into the wood since I couldn’t pry them back out. I know where the crooked cuts are, and how I disguised them. I made many mistakes, but didn’t let my fear of making them stop me. That’s sort of a new thing for me.  

I’m glad I didn’t know when to quit, because if I had, I would’ve. And I didn’t.

My porch is far from meeting the standards of a professional carpenter, but I can’t imagine I’d enjoy it near as much if I hadn’t done it myself.

“You’ll be wasting a pretzel on that one,” I said, nodding toward the panhandling squirrel that had raced up to our group and was about to assume the full cute position.

“Squirrels will eat most anything,” said the woman.

“Not that one,” I said. “I’ve been watching it. It’s here just about every day.”

“Like you can tell one squirrel from the next,” said another woman who was walking with us.

“All I’m saying is there’s one that hangs out every day at quitting time between Building 5 and the parking garage,” I said. “If you give him anything but a peanut, he’s rude.”

The woman bent and handed the squirrel a pretzel. He took it gently enough, then almost immediately spiked it hard to the ground, then ran off toward some other state employees on their way to their cars.

“Beggers can’t be choosers,” she yelled after the squirrel, then muttered something about greedy tree rats.

“I wonder if they just get so much stuff given to them they think they can pick and choose what they like,” I said.

“And slam down what they don’t,” she said. “Jeez. It acted like my pretzel was offensive.”

 “That reminds me,” said the only man in our group. “Has anyone seen the hawk lately?”

“Not for ages,” said the pretzel lady.

“Yes we did,” insisted the other. “Just the other day at lunch. Over where the tulips were. Remember?”

“That was not a hawk,” she said. “It was a turkey or a vulture or something.”

“Maybe it got chubby,” said the man. “Remember–we had that plague of squirrels last year.”

“It was awful,” said the woman closest to me. “Squirrels clear up to here. We were wading in them.”

“Bet that was hell on the hose,” I said.

“Imagine what a plentiful food supply like that would do to a hawk’s waistline,” she said.

“Doubt the poor thing can even get airborne anymore,” said the man. “No more swooping down on prey for him. Bet the best it can manage is to chuck rocks at ‘em and hope to get lucky.”

Or get smart enough to position itself between Building 5 and the parking garage at quitting time and learn how to beg.

* * *  

I apologize for failing to get the names of those amusing people who were walking with me and promise to hereafter carry a notebook so I can start giving credit where credit is due.