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I started writing as a teenager, the summer before I started high school. It was a magical time where I could write instead of paying attention in class, bring my notebook to my evening job at Walmart and jot some lines when things were quiet in the fabric department, and stay up until three in the morning reworking random scenes. Those were the days!
Now, in my mid-forties, with two busy kids, finding a single moment to even breathe is special. Hearing my own thoughts, let alone the thoughts of my characters, is a bonus.
This has obviously changed my writing process – I take the chance to write any time I can get it, including jotting down a few lines on my phone or writing on the back of a receipt I dug out of my purse. But since that becomes a disaster, I have to corral myself a bit.
I’m very much a pantser when it comes to writing, so while I have a general idea of where I want the story to end up, I mostly just let the characters get there how they want (or sometimes they end up somewhere completely different, and that’s okay). This means I can’t just write scenes willy nilly as they come to me. This has ended up in so many situations where I write a scene I love, and I can’t make it fit with where the story starts going, and then I have to set that scene aside and just read it by myself and think of what could have been. I have to write the whole story in order, beginning to end. Once that’s done, I can slow down and go back in and find moments that need more and let myself toss random lines in, or remember that I really wanted a scene where two of my characters meet for the first time simply because I think that moment would be funny, even though it doesn’t serve the plot, given that the whole story happened without it.
I do find that I hit a wall around the 75% finished first draft stage, which I think is tied to writing the story start to finish – I would argue the 75% mark of most books is where the book hits a wall. It’s usually a moment of calm before the storm that is the climax of the book. The climax is the fun part! The part where everything is going well for the characters is boring! Let’s ruin their lives, come on! But all in all, this process works for me, and it got me here to Haven Strong. I hope you love the book, and the journey they took me on.
Josephine Grant lives a charmed life – a husband, three perfect children, strong bonds with family and friends in the small town where she’s lived her entire life. She’s the helper, the hostess, the one who always shows up. The person who can do it all.
Then the bus carrying her son’s basketball team crashes, and Jo’s husband and son are among the lives lost. Now she has a new identity. Widow. Single mother. Woman who lost everything. Grief begins to tear apart the place that’s always been her home. Infighting among friends. Gossip and rumors. Wounds that may never heal and bonds that just might.
Now Jo has to rebuild her life, but as the person who thinks of herself as the helper, asking others to help hold her together is impossible. Jo must learn to lean on others as she learns to stand on her own.
Enjoy an Excerpt
“Josephine Grant?”
The grocery bag in my hands threatened to fall. He was here for me.
I’d known it since I first saw him, and praying I was wrong had done nothing.
I swallowed hard before turning. “Yes?”
He didn’t speak again until he’d navigated the driveway and stood in front of me. I set down the bag of groceries; my shaking hands and knees had rendered holding things impossible.
“Could we step inside for a moment to speak?” he asked.
I glanced toward the door. “My daughters are inside.”
He nodded, seeming to understand my concern. Whatever he had to say, he didn’t want them to overhear any more than I did.
“Mrs. Grant, I’m so sorry. There was an accident earlier today involving a bus. Two of the people on the bus were identified as Stephen and Matthew Grant.”
No. No no no.
“We’re still trying to figure out exactly what happened, but emergency personnel at the scene did everything they could for everyone. I’m sorry to tell you they passed away at the scene.”
My legs gave out and I collapsed to the ground. Cold seeped through the knees of my jeans, but I didn’t care. My head dropped, my forehead settling into the gray slush that lined the driveway.
The officer crouched beside me as a sob burst from my throat.
“Is there someone who can come stay with you?”
Crumbled on the ground, I struggled to extract my cell phone from my back pocket, but I lacked the strength to pull myself up. Finally I got it. Through the blur of tears, I fumbled to find the button to make a phone call. Instead I landed on random apps, frustration adding to the crush in my chest.
The officer took my phone gently from my hand. “What name?”
“Esther Franklin,” I replied. “My mother.”
He stepped away, and without someone standing over me, I could no longer stop the tears. I sobbed into the cold gray concrete, praying my daughters wouldn’t come looking for me.
About the Author 
Jessica Rakus is a debut novelist, after many, many years of writing practice. She currently lives in Louisiana, after living briefly in seven other states.
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