"Flyleaf n. a blank leaf at the beginning or end of a book."
Webster's Dictionary of the English Language, 1987
Why "The Flyleaf" you ask? It all comes down to this ongoing fantasy I have had for years, in which I own a quaint little bookshop in a charming Victorian building on a cobblestone street in some lovely city somewhere. I spend my days running my little store, reading, surrounded by the books I love. And once I close this charming little store, I go home to my beautiful cottage on the nearby lake (within walking distance, ideally) where I spend my evenings and off time writing bestselling novels. Not JUST novels, critically acclaimed bestsellers. Modern literary masterpieces. Generally, somewhere in the background there is a handsome husband and some charming little children, all far too absorbed in their own books to interfere with the creation of literary masterpieces. The charming little store is, of course, called The Flyleaf. There are a number of problems with this scenario, not least of which is the unlikely combination of a cobblestone street in a lakefront village.
Now comes the reality. I spend my days caring for my family and doing some part-time consulting work. My office is in my living room, which is nice enough, but definitely not Victorian. It overlooks a gravel road, not a cobblestone street. There is no lake, unless you count the swimming pool. There is a weed-choked pasture, however. I have yet to write the modern literary masterpiece, largely due to the demands of my handsome husband (that part is real) and my charming little children, none of whom are that absorbed in their own books. This is only partially because some of them can't read yet. They are significantly more demanding than my fantasy family. They are loud, at times (well, often) obnoxious, and expect to be fed, watered, and clothed on a regular basis. Yes, this goes for my husband too. Their needs are endless. They buzz around me like flies. See, I do have a point.
So The Flyleaf represents both: the fantasy and the reality. The Victorian bookstore and literary masterpieces replaced by the image of myself as Mama Fly, attempting over and over to land on a pleasant green leaf, only to be shooed away by the demands of one little fly or another.