Most people spend summers reading cheap novels; I spent the summer trying to write one.

It started when my youngest went to the hospital and I was stuck in that little room, fraught with worry, unable to do anything but pester the nurses, change diapers, feed the baby, and pace. I had a notepad with me for taking notes and making observations for the doctor. As my daughter recovered, the hours grew long. The TV was exceptionally dull and the food barely palatable.

I had brought a book with me, The Odyssey. Like the hero, I longed to get home. Reading a line about Helen entertaining Odysseus's son and her popping some opium in the wine, I thought, "That crafty minx, making sure no one gets stirred up at her again." Then I started imagining what she would be like if she were old. I didn't even realize I'd picked up the pen. I started scribbling with a fury. I ran through six sheets, front and back, afraid the spell would break, afraid I'd forget. The story threads seemed to be unrolling all around me, leading me through a maze of thoughts that seemed to have been waiting for just this moment to come to the forefront. It was as though my brain had been composing this piece all my life, but had it on the back shelves, saved for a special occasion.

Then the nurse came in with my lunch tray, and it was as if that door suddenly shut. I was afraid to visit the door for fear it wouldn't open. I was afraid to look at my sheets for fear they weren't as wonderful as that experience of pouring them out. I ate the lunch. As I consumed the cardboard turkey and paper paste mashed potatoes with glue brown gravy and mushy canned green beans, I chewed on what had happened. My thoughts jumped to what I hoped would happen, what I thought had happened.

I had started a book.

I had started a book about Helen of Troy. I wasn't Greek. I hadn't been to Greece. The closest I'd been was Athens, Georgia and that was to stop and find a laundromat because my son had thrown up in the back seat and we needed to wash the car seat cover. I started wondering if I should see about traveling to Greece for research. Maybe I should learn Greek. Imagine going to Greece, touring the Parthenon, visiting Sparta, maybe crossing the Aegean to view the ruins of Troy. Were there even ruins of Troy? I didn't know.

Before I had written a word, research threatened to stymie the creativity, but then my imagination took over. I had started a book. I really had. I could be the adult version of J.K. Rowling, starting her novel in a hospital-- what a cover story, this new sensation to the writing world is busy raising her children and still found time to write what critics are calling a literary masterpiece of classical fan fiction, The Book of Helen.

I thought about THE BOOK. I thought about writing THE BOOK. I thought about THE BOOK getting published. I started to picture THE BOOK, how the cover would look. Book signings. Seeing THE BOOK, MY BOOK in the bookstore... my mind exploded again.

Abandoning all reality, "The Book of Helen has been fast-tracked to be a major motion picture and Hollywood's best and brightest and most beautiful women are lining up to see who will be cast as the most beautiful woman of all time." I could hear Mary Hart's voice-over as the camera panned through multiple shots of famous actresses. "Will it be Glen Close? Meryl Streep? Julia Roberts is considered a favorite, but let's not forget Catherine Zeta Jones and Angelina Jolie, who have also expressed an interest. Oscar winner Halle Berry recently voiced her desire as well… as much fun as casting the supposedly eighty-year-old Helen of Troy, the role of Pythia will be much more complicated, requiring a young fresh face that will be able to convey the story believably as the much put upon personal scribe of Helen of Troy." 

My mind had gone off the deep end and was living in "Entertainment Tonight," with brief shots of me being interviewed by Oprah about the "feminist" aspects of the novel. I had my great answer, the equivalent of jumping on the couch to gain fame and further promotion of the book: "I'm not a feminist. How come no one ever asks a man who writes a book if he's a masculinist novelist if his book is about main characters that are men?" Mentally I heard the "Yeah, sister!" and some appreciative applause from the audience. I didn't even watch "Oprah." I had never watched "Oprah"; okay, maybe once, when I was at the gym. The insanity didn't stop. Maybe I'd start watching "Oprah" so I could be honest about saying I watched her show when her producer called… maybe I should write the book? Maybe I should get an agent? Maybe I should do some research?

Maybe I should nurse the baby who had woken up and was trying to be an alarm clock to my runaway brain.

I know, it's insane, it's not like I have anything else to do with my time, being a stay at home mom of many children, including a newborn. But the dream wouldn't let go so I carefully folded up the papers I'd written, resolving to put them on my computer once I returned home. I'd have oodles of extra time to pop on the computer once school started up again, I told myself.

In the meantime, think I'll turn on "Oprah," just to be ready.

Sherry Antonetti is a full time mother of eight and a freelance writer, whose past credits include work in the Washington Post, Catholic Standard, Beaumont Enterprise, Imperfectparent.com and Absolutewrite.com. She is currently still working on a book on Helen of Troy and hopes to hear from Oprah's people soon.

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