My cousin Val tells people that she owes her entire existence to a defective cola-flavored condom. I've never known whether it's the truth or if she says it just to be shocking. But if it is true, the makers of cola-flavored condoms have a lot to answer for.
Or, I think I'm going to do it at least. I'm researching and plotting for a new novel. It feels so strange to put my current project on hold, but I am hopeful that it will be for the best. The planning is very exciting!
I've become increasingly frustrated with MEOW SISTERS. I am finding the alternating first-person viewpoint to be evil. It hurts my feelings! At the same time, everyone who reads pieces of it say they find the style to be really cool, so I must be doing something right. In the midst of my frustration, I've come up with a completely new concept for a YA novel. I'm excited and I'm considering taking a break from MEOW to start it. But it's really a scary prospect and I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing.
If I'd taken a break from my first novel, would I have ever come back to it? I'd like to think so, but I have no way of knowing.
When I wrote my first novel, I kept my dad's old St. Christopher pendant and a few postcards of Snoqualmie Falls at my desk for story inspiration. Even though I've been finished with that novel for months, I still keep those things in their places. They belong here now. (I also have my nametag from the first writing conference I attended: Mindi Sc*tt, Young Adult Novel. I felt so important when I wore it.) For inspiration for my current project, I've been collecting four-leaf clovers and gradually adding them to my arrangement beneath the glass of a small picture frame. Four-leaf clovers are going to have some major significance to a subplot. As of today, I have found six four-leaf clovers and one FIVE-leaf clover. It makes me very, very happy.
I have two large corkboard bulletin boards in my home office just above my desk. One has a calendar, some family photos, and all my household bills posted. The other is my Writing Stuff Bulletin Board. It contains business cards, little notes pertinent to my current project, my first (and only) piece of fan-art (yay!), a critique checklist, and other things of that nature.
Until about three hours ago, I had all my agent request and rejection letters tacked up there in a stack as well. I did it originally because I was trying to be all Stephen King. I thought that having rejection letters in my sight at all times would make me feel more like a writer or something. But now I've realized that having rejection letters in a file folder is just as useful. After all, seeing them tacked up doesn't make me remember them any better; it isn't like I'm going to forget them any time soon! Now I'll need to find new things to put up there in place of the letters.
From the ages of 13 to 17, I was a diligent journal-writer. I loved my journals. I would name them and write to them as if they were some far away pen-pal who couldn't wait to hear from me. The names of the journals I recall right off are Carnation, Rainbow, and Tulip. I always felt like the first two were better "friends" to me and more understanding than Tulip. She was always judgemental and sarcastic. (To this day, I still keep the Rainbow's key on my keychain even though I haven't written in there in 13 years.) I went through phases where I'd write daily to my journal friends, then inexplicitly not write for over a month. When I read through and reflect on what was going on in my life at those times, I can remember exactly why I wasn't writing -- because I couldn't be honest about what I was going through. It's strange how those events from over half my life ago are still in my mind. I can read what I wrote, but I also have the ability to read between the lines about what isn't on the page. It's like I was writing in a secret code that only I can decipher.
I met and hung out with other writers when I took the nine month course at the university. They were all writing sci-fi, thrillers, or historical fiction -- you know, adult stuff. During critiques, they were sometimes astounded that I could write YA in a convincing teenage voice. Some of them could remember who their first kiss was, but they couldn't remember what it felt like. They could remember going to a dance, but they couldn't remember what really happened. They said they could never write YA because they just don't remember that period in their lives with enough clarity to be convincing.
It's kind of made me wonder: Are the adults who write YA able to remember so well because, like me, they've kept journals over the years that they can look back on? I'm really very curious.
