Not so long ago, I stood hip-deep in the cool waters of Willow Creek, a place that has been a part of me and those before me for more than four generations. Nearby, the quakey aspens shimmered and sang, and the air smelled of early summer and pine. The water moved clear and quiet around me, and I was certain I had everything right.
I cast. I waited. I cast again and again. Nothing.
Then, as steady as breath, I heard my dad. Calm and patient, he sounded just as he had when he stood beside me as I held my kid-sized pole with the Zebco reel, and later when we stood together, and taught my own sons how to cast their lines.
Check your hook, I heard him say, and though there were no actual words, I set to making the necessary change. My hook wasn’t sharp.
With the treble knot completed, I cast again. As always, my dear old dad was right.
Writing is like that. Someone opens your manuscript, be they an editor, agent, or reader, and you’re gifted that small, quiet moment of chance where something either catches or slips away.
It’s that first word, page, or scene where the connection begins. Or doesn’t.
A sharp hook settles in. It’s precise. Intentional. It finds its place.
So go back. Check your hook. When it’s right, you feel it.
And just beneath the surface, on the water or within the words, is the sense that something has taken hold. Your hook is set.
2025
2025
