I STARTED A NEW NOVEL.
Okay, okay. I know. How strange is it that I - a writer, mind you - would start a new novel? How odd is it that I, of all people, would insist on writing more than one book in my lifetime? (Please take note of the sarcasm here.)
To be honest, maybe this isn't huge, exciting news for everyone else, but for me, it's like I'm getting my muse back. I was kind of starting to feel like I'd spend the rest of my days as a writer working on Pro Deo et Patria. (Fun fact: Do you know how long writers tend to write? Forever, that's how long. So, in other words, I was beginning to think I'd spend forever working on that one novel.) I felt like those charries had forced all other charries out of my head and I was just stuck with them. And only them. Forever. O__O
Of course, like any author, I love my characters, all of them, and I had a great time working on that novel. But inspiration fades when you work on one thing nonstop for - what - two years. Yeah... I needed a break.
AND I FINALLY GOT IT AND I'M SO EXCITED AND HAPPY OH MY GOSH.
Ahem. All right. I suppose you're wondering about the details of this new story (or not; either way, I'm about to tell you). I was debating on a title the other day when, suddenly, something came to mind! This rarely happens, since titles tend to give me a lot of trouble. However, this one sounded like it could work (and it was even in English this time!), so I was perfectly happy with it.
The Truth About Forever. Yes, it did sound like the title of a book. And a good one. I was proud of myself. In fact, I was so proud, I even dared to think, "Hey! That kind of sounds like the title of a book Sarah Dessen would write!" And she's one of my favorite authors. So I was super happy. It still sounded familiar, though, like a title I'd heard before, so, in order to put my mind at ease, I decided to Google it, just to make sure there was no such book out there. Lo and behold, there it was: The first result, on Amazon. The Truth About Forever is indeed a book. And by who? None other than Sarah Dessen herself. Oh, suddenly everything made sense.
For a moment, I sat there in disappointment. The perfect title was not even an original one, merely something I had read in a list of books by my favorite author at some point. However, this agony was short-lived, because that was when I remembered something my little sister had said the day before. We'd been driving by a field of dandelions, all of them a beautiful, bright yellow. "There are so many of them," she told me, "and one day, when they're the kind you can blow, we'll come back out here and make a thousand wishes."
It was a simple statement, but, to me, it held such depth. The thought of returning to this field with her and actually making one thousand wishes on each of those dandelions was beautiful, something you would see in the movies, like thousands of paper airplanes being thrown through the air, or dozens of origami swans being dropped into a pond. To me, the imagery was incredible and I couldn't imagine anything more perfect. So I wrote it down in a notebook. Maybe I'd need a title in the future.
Turns out the future arrived quickly and there I was, in search of a new name for this book. So, yeah. My newest novel officially has a title. And not one stolen from the cover of a Sarah Dessen book.
A Thousand Wishes is the name and I couldn't love it more.
The first thing that surprised me about this story was that it was not a fantasy book. Pro Deo et Patria and its sequel were the first fantasy novels I'd ever written, but I fell in love with the genre - creating new worlds, where perilous adventures and kingdoms at war were okay, filling them with dragons and elves and fairies. I thought I'd never go back to writing about anything else. I adored this genre. It was creative, fun, enchanting. Who needed regular ol' YA fiction now? I had fantasy on my side!
But no. This book decided it did not wish to be a fantasy novel. It wanted to be a young adult novel, with no dragons or fairies or worlds with names I can't pronounce. It was an odd feeling, returning to my first love in that way. It felt kind of like I'd gone on a long, far away trip, to someplace unfamiliar, and then, after countless months had passed, there I was, coming home. Familiarity surrounded me and I felt this overwhelming nostalgia. It was amazing, to be perfectly honest. I guess YA is my home, in a way.
And, as if this novel hadn't already thrown countless curveballs my way, it decided it did not want to be written like a normal book. No, if I was going to write, it was going to be something completely different and out of my comfort zone. It was, for starters, in first person. I never write in first person. Ever.
And that wasn't enough. Noooo. A Thousand Wishes refused to follow my rules. In fact, it insisted on breaking every last one of them. Meaning? "No, that's all right. We don't need to start at the beginning like a normal book. Let's just begin right here at this nice spot in the middle, when you don't know who the characters are or why they are or what they're doing. That works, right?"
It had to work, because, worse than the characters taking control of the book, the book itself was taking over. And when that happens, it might be time to listen.
I knew nothing about the characters when I started, in the middle of the story. I only knew that, at the moment, there were two of them, a brother and a sister, who'd never met before. In my head, he looked like Jordan Witzigreuter and she looked like Miranda Cosgrove. That was all the information I had when I began typing. No title, no real plot, and only two characters, without names or personalities or back stories. This is what happened:
~ * ~ * ~
He stepped into the house slowly, sneakers tracking dirt and flower petals from our garden. Upon entering, his eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect circle as if his surprise hadn't been evident before. His bag, old and tattered, wet from the rain storm, escaped his grasp and collided with the hardwood floor, a puddle forming beneath it. I could tell he was taking it all in - the spiral staircase leading up to the second floor, the chandelier hanging from the skylight above, the black, grand piano adjacent to the wall. It must have been like something from a magazine, or straight out of a movie, a room most people would never see in a lifetime. It was nothing special, of course - most houses in our neighborhood looked identical to this - but, to people like Jordan, this was like glimpsing into another world, or, in his case, the life he might have had.
My mother entered the room now, heels clicking nosily across the floor. "Oh! You've arrived!" she cheered, clapping her hands together as she crossed the room. "I'll have George gather the rest of your things! George-" She stopped when something splattered beneath her heels, surprise forcing her to a halt. It was the water from Jordan's bag, seeping through the fabric and creating a stream across the hardwood. I bit my tongue, waiting for her to explode, to scold him for making such a mess (after all, that floor hadn't had a single drop spilled on it since 1940, when her parents had built the house), but she never did. Instead, she took a deep breath, her gaze following the trail to his bag. "Oh, dear!" I could sense the irritation under her concerned facade, but also there was a hint of sorrow, as if she felt horrible about being angry in the first place. "Is that your only bag? Surely there are more outside!"
Jordan, who hadn't uttered a word since his arrival, watched as she strode over to the window, moving the satin curtains to peer outside, in search of a taxi she would never find. "No, this is all." He barely met my gaze before stooping down and grabbing his duffel bag from the floor. Finally noticing the water, his eyes widened again and he looked like he wanted to say something, but my mother beat him to it.
"Oh, dear, a few belongings just won't do!" She crossed the floor once more, taking the bag from his hands and holding it at a safe distance, as if it carried some sort unearthly, homeless disease. "Don't you worry about this, dearie! I'll just take it and have George put away your things. Wait, where is George? Did he not hear his name being called? George! George?" And then she stalked off down the hallway, the sound of her footsteps fading in the distance.
I waited until she was gone to speak, "I'm sorry about . . . her. She can be a little-"
He raised his eyebrows. "Scatterbrained?"
"I was going to say George-oriented, but yeah, that too." I motioned around the room, where rays of light filtered in from above, littering the floor with sparkling beams. "So, what do you think?"
He glanced around the room again, as if just remembering he was still here. He wore a bewildered expression, a mixture of horror and amazement apparent on his face. "I . . . um, it's nice." He was trying his best to remain calm, to act normal, but I could tell he was still a bit overwhelmed by all of this. "So" - he shoved his hands into his pockets and met my gaze - "who was she? An aunt? A cousin?"
"My step mom, actually." I hoped my disdain wasn't evident. "Dad married her shortly after-"
"Right. I get it." He shrugged his shoulders, his struggle to appear optimistic a visible battle. "So, where is . . .?"
"Dad?" I laughed. "It's okay. You can say it, you know." I wasn't so sure I'd ever get used to all of this - the awkward, the uncertainty, my brother. "He's here, somewhere. I told him you were coming."
"Does he know-"
"No. I didn't tell him."
"Didn't tell whom what?" Laughter erupted from within my father as he emerged from the hallway, a wide, goofy grin on his face, as usual. "We're not keeping any secrets around here, are we?"
I smiled as he approached us. "Nope, just discussing the fact that I . . . forgot to tell you Jordan is allergic to sweet potatoes, so Mom can't make her famous casserole tonight. Right, Jordan?"
I looked to him for assistance, to help put my father's mind at ease, but, if he had been stunned before, he was frozen now. His mouth hung open as he stared up at my - our - father, who was several inches taller than him, with short, brown hair and identical blue eyes. I could see him analyzing this man, taking in the button-up shirt, the khaki pants, the expensive ear piece. What must this be like for Jordan, laying eyes on him for the first time? What had he imagined, when picturing his dad? Had he imagined a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy? A businessman? What could he possibly be thinking now, as he met his father for the first time in twenty, long years?
If Dad noticed his surprise, he didn't show it. "Oh, you must be Jordan." His smile widened, if possible, and he extended a hand. "Robert Forde. Pleasure to meet you, son."
Jordan's gaze flickered to meet mine before he stared back up at Dad. If only he knew.
"You, too, sir." He offered the smallest of smiles. "I really appreciate you opening up your home like this. I, uh, don't mean to intrude."
Dad gave him a hard pat on the shoulder. "It's no problem at all. Any friend of Eloise is a friend of mine."
Translation: "Any daughter of mine is a sister of yours."
Jordan didn't glance at me, instead he nodded, mustering up what little strength he had left to smile, a real one this time. "Thanks. I really-"
Dad's earpiece beeped then and he held up a finger to silence his son, pressing a button with the other hand. "Robert Forde speaking." A pause. "Oh, yes, Jerry. Thanks for getting back to me. That business deal is important and we can't afford to-" Another pause. "Yes, I know." He offered Jordan an apologetic look, mouthing "I've gotta take this" before heading out of the room. He failed to glance back at either of us.
Jordan stared after him, as if he were trying to make sense of all this. We stood there in silence, him staring into the now vacant hallway and me watching him, waiting for him to say something, anything. Several minutes passed before he finally spoke up, "So . . . That was him."
"Yeah." I grinned. "What did you think?"
He tore his gaze away from the hallway and, at last, I could see the mixture of pain and joy hiding behind that crooked smile of his. "I think I love sweet potatoes and you suck at lying."
I snorted and then we laughed, because that's what brothers and sisters do: Laugh at each other.
~ * ~ * ~
~ * ~ * ~
So, yeah. It's not literary perfection, nor is it anything super unusual, but I guess that's what I love about YA. It doesn't have to be any one thing. It can be many different things, all wrapped into one package. The plan hadn't been to give the MMC the name Jordan, especially not when I pictured him as Jordan Witzigreuter, but, when I was going over names in my head, Jordan was the only one that fit for this character. So I left it that way.
And Eloise. Eloise was truly the last name on Earth I'd ever pick for a character, but I asked my family for help with names and one of my sisters suggested that one, among others. At first, I didn't like it at all, but something about it felt right, so, as a final surprise, my main character was named Eloise.
This book is made up of things I didn't expect.
So, to continue the trend, I wrote a blog post. Not surprising? Well, then, guess what? You just read all I've written of A Thousand Wishes. No one has ever read a whole novel of mine, but now you have. If that isn't strange, I don't know what is.
Expect the unexpected, you guys. You never know when a book might start writing itself.
