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.
Huh? What?
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.
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