Boy this week got away from me in a hurry. How is it Thursday already? It's been a week of pinkeye for two of my daughters, the swim team all-star meet (which we, ahem, won), long, in-depth conversations about the future with my older kids, a traveling husband, art camp, a funeral, and me trying to get some work done somewhere in the muddle. I've been reading through a YA book I wrote in a fit of inspiration in the fall of 2011. The manuscript only needs about 10,000 words to be finished and yet it's been languishing in my computer all this time. I knew better than to think with the kids home I could write a book from scratch. But finish and finesse one that's so close? That sounded doable. Sounded. Picking up on the past tense? But I persevere because I'm nothing if not determined.
What? I'm not a YA author? You're right. At least, not yet. I remembered loving this story and, as I've been reading back through and familiarizing myself with it all over again, I'm pleasantly surprised that I still do love it. It's tense and emotional and the two main characters are just so... on the verge all the time. On the verge of what? Discovering themselves, each other, the truth, true love... you name it. I'm excited about this story and I do hope that someday it finds a home in the YA world. I'm not a YA author, but I could be. I actually have at least 3 YA ideas I'd like to write "someday." Ideas that have been simmering for quite some time. Ideas that are dark and even disturbing, which is how I know they will fit in the YA world. I think about the characters who go with these ideas from time to time, and a little smile crosses my face because I'm fond of them. My heart goes out to them-- even the ones who have yet to make it to the page.
Ah, writing is such an odd pursuit. My husband says it's sanctioned schizophrenia since I spend time hearing from people who are not there. And yet they are there, for me. Real and strong and whole. What does that say about me? Honestly? I don't care. I love every minute of it. I think part of growing up is embracing your inner weirdness, loving that part of yourself that you've spent years trying to manage and control. Growing up just means letting your crazy flag fly, however it looks. And knowing that the people who matter will love you anyway.