What kind of a psycho decides to get their first ever publishable novel written in a year?
Er, yeah, that would be me.
I vowed, after a writing conference (see last post), that I would have a novel to pitch the next year.
Before the conference ended, during the closing remarks if I remember correctly, I started scribbling ideas for the novel.
At this point I didn't know what story I would use. I had three or four that I'd already done some work on and had some great ideas about. One I love, love, love, but didn't feel like I was a good enough writer to tackle it yet.
So I wrote a list of ideas and let them sink in.
Yeah, that whole sinking in sometimes never happens.
None of the stories I'd written down sparked my interest. And when I figured out that I should start something new, I was not happy.
Starting from scratch is not one of my strong points. I can edit until the cows come home—don't have cows, btw—but the creation process is hard for me.
So I pouted.
Oh get off it, everyone pouts about silly things. Don't judge me.
Well, I knew I wanted to write either science fiction or fantasy. I knew I wanted to write a YA novel. I probably jotted down a hundred different story ideas. None off them really tickling my fancy.
Okay, the next bit is a spoiler. Sort of.
I remember quite clearly driving north on I-215 coming home from work. The Ivory house neighborhood sat to my right, and the sun warmed the left side of my face. Music played, but the air whooshing through the opened windows drown it out.
I was still pouting about the lack of inspiration/spark on which story I should write, when this came into my mind clear as the day was outside.
The story is about kids, addicted to magic.
Well, the idea stuck in there. I couldn't get rid of it. And New Sight ensued. After a whole lot of ideas, trauma and rewriting. More on that next time.