Saturday I started writing a new book. (This is not a new
YA, instead it’s another literary fiction like the platypus novel, which is
still with agents. Because the lit fic market is slower and smaller, it takes
even longer to hear back than YA.) This new story had been pinging around in my
head for more than a year. But I’d never started writing it because I couldn’t
figure out who the story belonged to. I knew the incident that set everything
in motion, but which of the characters was going to narrate? I played with
thoughts of multiple narrators, but it didn’t feel right. So, I let the story
stew. And stew.
Then, one day, the final scene in the novel popped into my
head. When it did, everything fell into place. I knew the story arc. I knew the
narrator. And the scenes started writing themselves—it was like watching short
movie scenes in my mind.
At this point, I always feel less like a writer and more like
an amanuensis. It’s as if I’m simply transcribing the story that the characters
are showing/telling me. Though that doesn’t mean I’m removed from the
situation. I always feel their pain and suffering. And it’s like a stone
hanging on my heart.
And as much as I might like to ignore the story, I’m
compelled to put it on paper, even though part of me cringes at the thought of
going through the darkness with the characters. But Saturday, I opened a blank
document. It’s a weird feeling, staring at that blank page. Knowing that once
you start, you’re committed to that novel for the next year or two. But I
started writing. I put 500 words into that document, gave it a title, and made
the characters a promise to tell their story. Because that’s what writers do.
