i wrote a book

Image by Jose Antonio Alba from Pixabay

i had a dream

Back in 2012, I had a dream. Like, a literal sleep-at-night dream. This was by no means an unusual occurrence for me because I dream a lot—typically, in a very vivid, weird, and wild fashion. This particular dream, however, was decidedly stranger than my normal in a way that I still remember to this day, and the oddity was that it involved no one that I knew or even recognized. No family, friends, celebrities, or even the cashier at the grocery store made an appearance. It was truly puzzling that not a single face in it was even remotely familiar. Where, pray tell, did my subconscious pull these faces from? (The mystery lingers to this day.) As usual, I regaled my girls with the short but entertaining/tragic tale the next morning over breakfast and my oldest daughter (15 at the time) simply looked at me and said:

That sounds like the plot to a novel.

My initial reaction is hazy, but I’m pretty sure the idea simultaneously took me by surprise, slightly repulsed me in its magnitude, and also immediately shot down roots. A novel? Sure, I’ve always loved to write, but I had never before tackled something as enormous as a novel. I had only a mere sliver of a dream to work with, which meant that I would have to brainstorm pretty much the entire thing. The whole concept was frightfully daunting and more than a little bit crazy, but it was also a delicious challenge—a challenge that my Capricorn Moon became quickly smitten with. Yup, my heart decided in a moment of giddy lunacy, it had been settled. I was going to do it. I was going to write a novel.

silly? i think not

It's probably worth noting that I’ve never had any ambition to be an “author.”  While I love playing with words, I had/have no interest in working with an editor, or going through the hassle of publishing. The very idea of book signings and promoting myself feels repulsive to me (says the hardcore hermit). Plus, while it may be a small thing to many, it’s always really bothered me that the writer usually has little to no say in the cover design. What if I poured my heart and soul into this book and then they adorned it with something ugly? Or something stupid. Or even worse, something silly. Nope, this novel was simply for me. It would surely push me past my comfort zone, but I knew it also had the potential to teach me a lot. And if I were to succeed, it would be an enormous accomplishment that I could definitely be proud of. I knew, of course, that the book might turn out to be a terrific piece of garbage, but that was secondary. Its completion was the ultimate goal. Could I do it? Possibly. Scratch that: probably (because I'm like that). But only time would tell.

Almost from the get-go, a very interesting phenomenon began taking place as I wrote this story that initially had very little beginning, no middle, and only the shadow of an ending: the storyline steadily materialized in my mind as I worked. The book felt as though it took on a life of its own, and working on it became something of an obsession. It’s almost as if the story was already inside of me, just waiting to be noticed. The characters were—still are—so real to me that it’s as if they exist. As if their story exists. I can hear their voices, and feel their emotions in vibrant detail.

just percolating

Sitting down to write each day was exciting in the way that a treasure hunt is: If I followed the clues, I’d be led to some gift-wrapped gem percolating in my busy brain, and I couldn’t wait to unwrap it. Some of the ideas took me totally by surprise, some turned out to be complete duds, and others were pure genius, and through them I began to appreciate the mysterious workings of my gray matter more and more. My oh my, this was turning out to be delicious fun… except, of course, for the days when it wasn’t. Because there were many (many) of those days, too. And on those days, I simply stalked away from my computer in disgust. What was I thinking? This whole book idea was stupid. A complete waste of time. Here was one story that definitely was NOT going to be told. In those frustrating moments, I was not going to do it. I was most emphatically not going to write a novel.

But those giving-up moments were just part of my process, I guess, because they would always eventually pass. I was still in the midst of homeschooling my girls during this novel phase, but I always managed to create pockets of me-time to write. During the course of penning this book, my husband and I were going through a really challenging time. We’ve had two such episodes in our thirty-two years of marriage, and this was the first of them. We were hopelessly stuck, spinning, and growing increasingly miserable. While this pivotal marital blip was unfolding, my mother was in the process of selling her house but had already moved into her new one, so Scott took up residence in her vacant home for a spell. We needed space to think, and this seemed the perfect opportunity. That saga is a story for another day, but I drew on the pain of it all when drafting my novel. When Maggie Rae and Marcus break up, I sobbed myself through the writing of those scenes. The pain of splitting up was crushingly real and cutting, and Maggie Rae and I became one as I wrote. I also became Toby, Amelia, Bobbi, and Jimmy in turn. Little pieces of me peppered throughout each character, each storyline. Much of the whole book was personal like that, drawn from my own life, my own history. It was—still is—a beloved piece of me.

my biggest fans

My two youngest girls eagerly awaited each and every chapter. I’d print out a copy as soon as it was finished and they would fight for first read. It was just the encouragement I needed because the project was as overwhelming as I’d suspected it would be. The first several drafts were terrible—like really, really terrible, but they ate it up anyway. My eldest, who became my very competent “editor,” called the early version(s) an info dump, and she wasn’t wrong. It was bad, took me about a year-and-a-half to complete, and I gave up on it multiple times before it was through. Despite that, however, I was also really, really proud because I’d done it. I’d seen it through. I’d reached the top of the mountain and it felt fantastic. The euphoria was due in equal parts to its successful completion and also to the freedom of being free from it. No longer would my days be consumed with the saga, which was an immense relief; turns out writing a novel is as hard as you'd imagine it to be.

So what did that elation prompt me to do next? Print out copies and gift them as Christmas presents (obviously). But We Carry On had been officially born. It looked so pretty professionally bound and felt so solid and real in my hands—a dream made manifest. And its cover? Perfection. Photographed by my daughter herself, it portrays the vibes of the story beautifully. One of those cherished copies landed in the hands of grandmother—a woman who had been an English professor at URI. I seriously cringe about it now because, good lord, what was I thinking? But my gramma had only praise and kind words for me (this generous and intentionally blind acceptance makes me love her more than I already do ♥). Despite being an info dump, two of my girls remained rabid fans, and I picked up a third in my oldest niece. Their approval sealed my success; I hadn’t only done it, but three people thought I’d done it well. Kudos to me. Clearly, I'd emerged a winner.

If I'd realized how shudder-worthy that early version had been, however, I never would have gifted it with such wild abandon; that awareness came slowly, and as it did I began to edit it—countless times over. Literally, I lost track of how many rounds of rewrites that poor book received. But each time through the wringer, it emerged drastically improved—due in large part to my eldest’s gift of reworking words. Somehow the student became the teacher, and she showed me how to better phrase things and how to cull the excess. (Mostly, anyway; I kept in one chapter simply because I loved it even though she thought it fluff and rather pointless.) I found endless ways to bribe her into reading through each new round of edits so as to offer me her thoughts and grammatical support. Even though each new edition was decidedly better, I always knew there was still work to be done when I'd run into a “sticky” part on the reread. This stickiness presented as words, lines, dialogue, or even whole paragraphs that would catch, abruptly pulling me out of the flow and rhythm. So I’d tackle it again. And again. And again. Relentlessly, I wrote and rewrote until every last one of those sticky spots had been resolved, and I believe the final round of edits was in 2022. After that I put it away, almost afraid to look at it anymore. I had my three steadfast fans and that was good enough for me. It was time to move on.

with significant trepidation

Years passed without giving it much thought because I was busy climbing new mountains. Just recently, though, I felt drawn to pull it out again and give it a read. I did so with significant trepidation because it seemed almost certain that I’d find a sticky spot or two. Or even worse, what if I now thought it was utter trash? Lo and behold, to my utter delight, the book flowed nicely from start to finish; I even found myself tearing up at the end like it was my first time reading. It seems that, ten years after it had begun, I’d finally reached true completion. The book wasn’t only written, but written well—and by that, I mean well enough for me (because I'm sure an editor would tear it apart). It may not be publish-worthy but I'd given it my best, and it filled me with a tremendous sense of accomplishment. I'd done it. I'd written a novel. I had only one regret—a regret I couldn't possibly remedy: I desperately wish that my beloved gramma was still around to read this much-improved and polished version. I just feel like she probably wouldn’t have had to lie so graciously in her praise. But ahh, such is life ♥

So I'm here today, sharing the story of how my novel came to be, because I'm ready and willing to share it with anyone curious enough to give it a read. Fair warning: it’s a YA (young adult) novel where vegan activism plays a pivotal role in the plot, so it clearly won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. I really think it’s time, though, to put it out there, due in large part to a quote that I read several months back. I’d just turned the last page of Language of the Sacred by Loralee Dubeau, and the final line spoke to me quite loudly—a line I’ve been trying to live ever since through the work of this blog. That line was this:

I challenge you with the words the ancestors have said to me: Stop hiding, it’s time to be seen. Come out of your darkness.

So here I am. Cautiously emerging into the light. One small, weird, honest step at a time. Until it gets too bright, of course, and then the happy hermit will probably retreat. Because in all fairness, the darkness can be quite nice, too.

Much love & many thanks for reading,

Melinda

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