End-of-the-book Blues!


Notes from Alexis: Laughing about her “weeping and wailing’ about “what and if, to write next.” Not only did she write 20 novels, she also wrote over 20 genealogy books. Will wonders never cease.


Dearest Lex,

Well, I have another hummingbird story for you. Saturday morning I heard one sing. Well, sing might be a little strong. It sounded something like the swishing sound one makes when walking through tall, dry grass. It took me a while to identify it and where it was coming from- seeing the little bird with — his mouth open, throat throbbing – helped coordinate eye and ear.

I have now given up all thoughts of gargling with sugar water to improve my voice. If it won’t work for birds, how can it work for people?

I had spent a day in town with S.F. and between her and your Aunt A. I have become a born-again ‘weed’. Those two are such frail, delicate, helpless clinging vines, that I have decided to stop babying myself and toughen up. Both of them are tough—minded broads, and their helpless acts blew my cool.

I have been working in the garden, and there can be nothing in the world harder than ‘stooping’ labor. I just feel awfully sorry for myself, which amuses Dad. What is embarrassing is that I should be so out of shape, that a few weeds could put me down. I am determined to be as tough as weeds.

I loved your computer story. Mine is not so interesting. I did, however, wake up the other day and knew exactly how to write the last section of the ‘Guide.’ I went into the computer, and I’ll be darned if it didn’t all un-roll before my wondering eyes. I still have to work out the details, but at least now I know I can, and I sure didn’t know that before. If I get cracking, I should finish the first draft this week. I am still finding tidbits for Part I.

Also, I am into the end-of-the-book-blues. I just hate to finish a book, so sad. And there is no way I can convince myself there will ever be another one. Each one is the last. The very last. I just know it, and it’s enough to make a body cry.

Then I get a letter from my pen pal (you) and you have 100 lbs of plaster, while I am left bereft and Bookless. Is there no justice? Dad finds my weeping and wailing funny and doesn’t believe for a minute that I won’t start another book. Where does one go for sympathy?
I have some fun clippings for you, and it’s a good thing, because my brain has shrunk from all that weeding and fuming at the ladies.