Revision Day: The Thread I Didn't See Coming

October 22, 2026

Revision has a reputation for being the hard, unglamorous part of writing. And it can be. But every so often it gives you a gift, a moment when you realize something about your story that was there all along, waiting for you to notice it. Today was one of those days.

I was working through the parts of my novel where Mags spends time with children in her town who have lost a parent. I knew she was good with them. I knew she had a gentleness there, a way of meeting them where they are instead of rushing them toward feeling better. What I hadn't fully understood was why.

Then it hit me. Mags lost her daddy when she was five.

Of course she understands those children. She was one of them. She knows what it is to be small and have the world tilt out from under you. She knows the questions children ask and the ones they're afraid to ask. She knows that grief at five doesn't look like grief at forty, that it comes out sideways, in stomachaches and stubbornness and sudden silence. She doesn't have to imagine it. She remembers it, even if she'd rather not. And she wasn't the only one who lost him. Her mama, Judy Lee, lost him too.

Finding that parallel unlocked her for me. So many of her choices suddenly made sense, the way she holds people at arm's length, the way she shows up anyway, the tenderness she doesn't advertise. It also deepened everything she feels about her grandmother, Blue, who raised her, and the visits Mags let slip away. When you've already lost someone so young, every loss after that lands on top of the old one. Grief stacks.

I sat with that for a while. It's a sad thing to realize about someone you love, even someone you made up. But it's also hopeful, because it means her pain isn't wasted. It's become a kind of understanding she can offer others. I believe that's true for a lot of real people too. The hurts we survive can turn us into the very people someone else needs.

The second discovery was lighter, though it has its own shadows. Mags loves horses, which makes sense for a girl whose mama and daddy rode rodeo. She'll groom them, feed them, muck out stalls, lean her forehead against a warm neck and just breathe. Caring for them comes naturally to her. But she's scared to ride.

I love that contradiction. It feels so human. How many of us love something and keep it at a careful distance? We stay close enough to tend it, but not close enough to let it carry us somewhere we can't control. For Mags, staying on the ground feels safe. Climbing up means trusting something bigger than herself, and trust doesn't come easy to a girl who learned early how quickly things can be taken away.

I won't tell you whether she ever climbs into that saddle. Some things you'll have to find out for yourself. But I'll say that knowing her fear made me love her more.

These are the days that remind me why I write. I don't plan every piece of a character ahead of time. I get to know her the way you get to know a friend, slowly, and sometimes all at once. Today Mags trusted me with two things about herself, and I'm grateful.

Back to the pages I go. Thank you for walking along with me.

Thank you for sitting a while. If you'd like the next letter from home in your inbox, along with news about Bluebonnets and Magnolias as it comes, you're welcome here.