A cave under a house, a women’s studies teacher, a group project, a girlfriend for Molly, an African American character with a disability, a horse, and mean girls. . . . When I started “Don’t Mean Maybe,” I thought, how can I throw all these in? Thanks to the miracle of Shamari, the main character, Molly, her horse, and Etta James, they came together so well that all I can say is, thank you, Shamari, thank you Molly, and bless you, Etta.

How could I also sneak in a couple of references to Bowling Green friends? I needed a cave and our good friends, Katie and Bill Green, used to live in a house with a little cave underneath. Very little. Ms. Terrell (remarkably like Farrah Ferriell, my former WS student and now good friend) lives in that house, but the cave, though still small, is now large enough to hold two people. It was used as a cellar back in the day.

Shamari has two distinctive physical features, a differently formed hand and significant paralysis from the waist down. One of my favorite characters in Letters from the Karst, Shamari is a whiz at computers, something able-bodied horsewoman Molly is woefully inept at. When Ms. Terrell assigns them a group project on a famous woman of the 20th century, Shamari suggests Etta James. Just when she thinks no one is going to join her, Molly pulls her desk up. Did I mention that this is a love story?

When I was kid I loved horses above all other living creatures, except maybe my mom. I drew them ad nauseum, marshmallowy bodies with eyes sitting like marbles on top of long faces. We got Morgy when I was a teen-ager, and that was my introduction to 4-H. My neighbors, Judy and Nancy (cousins), both had horses and we’d ride together. It is to show how much I appreciate that part of my youth that I made horses feature so strongly in Letters from the Karst. You’ll see why in “Don’t Mean Maybe” and also in the last chapter, “Extremophiles.”

I talked some in a previous post about writing about what I don’t know, and though this story/chapter has a number of things I do know well, I am sticking my neck out with Shamari, both because she is African American and because she is disabled . . . “differently abled” never rang so true for me than in getting to know Shamari. The one thing you have to be most cognizant about when you’re white and able bodied is that you don’t fall into stereotypes and assumptions. I tried to question everything I wrote about her. I made her middle-class and a little uncomfortable around street smart black girls, though her best friend walks both worlds with ease. She is also without self-pity and suspicious of anyone who might feel sorry for her. I hope I’ve done her justice.

Here I am with my horse, Morgy, long long ago . . . in our front yard in South Amherst, Ohio.

To order Letters of the Karst, request it from your local library or order from amazon, here.