The Book

 When I was in my twenties, I wrote a book. Well, I started one. It has the same basic ingredients as the one I am working on these days. A group of 12 year old girls, a cemetery and a chilling adventure that happens during one of their weekly sleepovers. 

I know. It sounds pretty good. 

It’s not really, but it was my first.

I was so eager to publish a book. I think in part because my mom always talked about writing a book. I wanted to reach goals for her. I wanted her to be proud of me.  This being before Twitter, I found an agent via some sort of book. I remember I had this image of her in my head. Long cascading hair, a sunlit office on some street filled with brownstones. 

I wrote the query letter and described my book. I left out the part that it was only four pages at this point. I assumed she would read my letter and my genius would shine through. 

About two weeks later. She wrote back. Not only did she wrote back, she asked for the first twenty pages. 

I had four. Four pages.

I called my mom. “She wants 30 pages? Let’s give her 20 pages!” She bought me a ticket home and we spent the weekend drafting twenty pretty decent pages of Sleeping Bag Confessions. Before I left we mailed it off laughing and keeping our expectations low, but hoping. 

My mom and I always talked about writing a book together. If I had known this would be the weekend that we did it, maybe I would have held on to that time. 

I had therapy today and I talked about the book I have been working in for the past four years. A book about a group of twelve year old girls that have to travel to another world to face down their grief and broken hearts and anger. They have to face all the things they want to ignore. If they don’t it will seep into their reality and destroy them.

I started it four years ago. I took it to Scotland and told myself, I’ll finish it here.  Then I didn’t. I stuffed it away.

Now my moms mind is gone. My life has started again. It’s time to face it down. And finish the book.