I write Young Adult novels. Ever since I wrote the first one in the fall of 2014, I can’t seem to stop.
Unless the muse leaves, and then I gnash my teeth and weep over the rubble that my life has become. Then the muse comes back, and life again becomes a meadow to be danced through. For the most part.
I absolutely love writing, and have ever since I penned my first novel at age six. It was called “Cry Baby.” Every page was an explosion of question marks and exclamation points, and the main character (probably living out a fantasy of mine) was constantly insulting everybody. One of my favorite of her tirades: “You hard-hearted, unloved, unthink-for-yourself, baby-brained computer-directed cry-baby!” You can read more about that here.
I also scribble poetry, but you’ll never see it.
Okay, maybe you’ll see it, but only if it’s past midnight and I’m feeling crazy and reckless and high on Doritos.
Oh yeah, and I wrote a cozy mystery. You’ll never see that either, and you’ll never know how grateful you are not to have seen it. That was the novel that proved (to myself) that I could write a novel, work out plot twists, and generally forge through from beginning to end. Its purpose has been served, and now it will live rent-free on Google Drive forever and ever.
I’m currently deep in the querying trenches, revising one of three completed YA stories (a speculative, a speculative-thriller and a magic realism contemporary), or knocking my head against my keyboard trying to get traction on the elusive “next project,” (in quotation marks because I’m in the stage in which I don’t believe it will ever actually happen). From day to day, Project #4 changes from a high fantasy story (it involves a yurt!) to a contemporary summer friendship romp project to an exploration of madness and art in a veiled fairytale retelling. Decisions, decisions.