Follow me as I aim to finish my current project, an as-yet-untitled young-adult novel. You’ll see my progress in real time. I’ll post excerpts of my drafts and explain my thought process, as well as what I’ve learned from the experience. It’s a chance for you to see the writing process first-hand, from the cringe-worthy rough copies to the (hopefully) high-quality finished book.
What’s my novel about? I’ve outlined the story in “About the Blog.”
The Backstory—Part 1 of 4
In April 2014, I was working on a novel about angels. I’d devoted years to studying angel lore and history, I’d plotted out and started three different versions of the story, and I was 200 pages in to a draft. In other words, I was heavily invested in this project.
Along comes Lyra.
Out of nowhere, into my head pops this character, a bad-ass girl who has “super cells”, cells that always heal themselves.
Not a single wing or white dress on her.
I told my husband I was excited about this new idea I had for my next book after the angel novel. “Why not write about it now?” He very logically asked. I gaped at him. “Are you kidding? That means starting all over. It means years before I complete it. At least with the angel novel I’ll be done soon.”
A furrowed brow: “But if you like this idea better, so what?”
Damn him.
I abandoned the angels.
I pictured Lyra on a set of railroad tracks, playing chicken with the oncoming train. In this first version, Lyra had always known she was basically invincible.
I walk along the rusting railway tracks, hopping from tie to tie. Piper, as usual, shuffles beside the tracks on the gravel bed, jumping puddles of melted snow. It’s early April, the first warm day we’ve had in months, but the wind is cool, giving the air a lingering scent of winter. No one else is around; this barren stretch of land is hardly a short cut home from school, but Piper and I like the solitude.
I hear a low rumbling coming from behind me; know a train is coming. The freights move fast through this empty stretch of field; I should join Piper on the side, but I don’t.
“Lyra,” Piper calls out, “the train.”
I ignore her. I turn around to face the roaring train bearing down on us.
“Lyra!” Piper cries. “Move!”
But I don’t. I stand my ground, feet spread apart, balancing on the rails. I feel my heart beat faster, feel my hands clamp together, but I don’t feel fear.
“Lyra!” Piper’s shriek is laced with panic. I barely hear her over the train whistle’s angry blast.
My legs are trembling with the vibrations from the rails, and I scream into the air, a crazy laugh drowned by the thundering train.
I can’t hear Piper anymore, but I see the terror on her face, and it’s for that reason alone that I sigh, and jump off the track toward her, just as the train clatters past.
“Jesus, Lyra!” Piper shoves me. “You have a death wish?”
She knows I do. We’ve been friends long enough she shouldn’t have to ask.
I’m not suicidal, though, and that difference took me a long time to explain to Piper. I don’t want to die; in fact, I want the opposite; to feel the exhilarating rush of being alive after the possibility of near death. But I never do. I can’t feel that rush of adrenaline, of elation because I don’t feel the fear that it could all be over in an instant.
And that’s because I can’t die.
Then I got rid of the friend—not nice of Lyra to give her a heart attack—and tightened up some of the description.
I walk along the rusting railway tracks, hopping from tie to tie. It’s early April; puddles of melting snow pockmark the gravel rail beds, so I prefer it up here on the rails, high and dry. The price, however, is a lingering winter wind that buffets me across the empty stretch of field.
No one else is around; this barren scruff of land is hardly a short cut home from school, but I like the solitude.
I hear a low rumbling coming from behind me; know a train is coming. The freights move fast through this scrub; I should jump off, but I don’t. Instead I face the roaring train bearing down on me.
Move! Its shrill train whistle shrieks.
But I don’t. I stand my ground, feet spread apart, balancing on the rails. My legs are trembling with the vibrations from the iron rods, and I scream into the air, a crazy laugh drowned by the thundering train. I feel my heart beat faster, feel my hands clamp together, but I don’t feel fear.
Suddenly I picture my mom’s sad eyes, my dad’s worn face and for that reason alone, I sigh, and jump off the track, just as the train clatters past. Good God, Lyra, Mom would say, why do you have a death wish?
I don’t, actually. I have a life wish, which is significantly different, but I’ve been wholly unsuccessful in explaining that to my parents. I don’t want to die; in fact, I want the opposite; to feel the exhilarating rush of being alive after the possibility of near death. But I never do. I can’t feel that rush of adrenaline, of elation because I don’t feel the fear that it could all be over in an instant.
And that’s because I can’t die.
The train scene is important to my vision of Lyra, no matter how many times I’ve changed the story. I’ve kept a version of it in my most recent draft. In this case, it’s no longer at the beginning; it’s right after Lyra learns her whole family has been killed in a terrorist attack. She doesn’t yet know about her super cells.
Aimlessly, Lyra wades into the brush, the damp brown grass tickling her feet. She spots a rusted railroad track, an old industrial line, and clambers onto it. She hops from tie to splintered wooden tie. It’s windy here in the open. She stretches out her arms, closes her eyes and lets the gusts buffet her, her mess of black hair streaming loose behind her. She likes the whip of wind on her face, the challenge to keep her balance. It makes her focus only on this moment, not the past, recent or distant, which slices her up whenever she thinks of it, nor the unknowable, unbearable future, which crushes her with its yawning, gaping eternity. She hears a low rumbling behind her; a train is coming. Lyra is about to hop off the tracks, her first and sensible instinct, but then she stops herself. Why should she jump? There is no past, no future, only this moment.
She twists around to face the roaring train.
Move! Its shrill whistle shrieks. It glares at her with its Cyclops eye, threatening, menacing.
But she stands her ground, her bare feet spread apart, the steel cold against her skin, balanced on the rails. Her legs tremble with the vibrations from the iron rods, and, for the first time since the explosion, she lets loose her grief. She screams into the leaden hair, a crazed laugh, one poisoned by anger and fear and despair and crushing anguish. Her heart hammers in her chest, begging to escape. One more minute and it will be over, the pain, the fear, the hopelessness. One more minute and she’ll right the wrong of the bombing, the mistake that she survived when she was meant to die. One more minute…
The train bears down on her.
Less than a minute…
“Ahhh!” With a final, agonizing cry, Lyra leaps off the tracks, slams her shoulder into the ground and rolls away. The train charges past, a deafening beast, indifferent to her anguish. Lyra sits up on the gravel train bed, draws her knees to her chest and rocks back and forth to the pounding in her head.
In May 2014, I applied to the Humber College Creative Writing Program. This would be perfect.
- I’d be working with a mentor, someone to tell me how to improve rather than relying solely on my own intuition of how to write a book.
- It was correspondence, so I didn’t have to take a leave of absence from my day job.
- It would force me to write—I’m better with deadlines.
- I’d be done a solid draft within a year, maybe even have something ready to send out to publishers and literary agents by the fall of 2015.
I got in!
But since we’re already August 2016 and you know I’m not yet done my final draft, you know it didn’t work out that way…