Thirteen years ago I started writing a young adult fantasy novel. Keep in mind, this wasn’t nearly as mainstream as it is today. The Hunger Games, Divergent – these books didn’t exist. A reluctant female protagonist wasn’t out there to resonate with moody introvert teens, like myself (at the time. I’m no longer a moody introvert teen, just a moody introvert adult). It was really good for a sixteen year old, if I’m honest with myself. The general plot was new and interesting, the world I created was different, and the driving message was something that girls weren’t being told in 2001.
Years passed. Once in a great while I touched it, brushed it off, reworked a sentence here and there, then left it again. My mom bought me books about publishing, I wrote a few concepts for children’s books (that still make me giggle from the humor), but time escaped me. Last winter I sent a copy to my best friend, an avid fantasy reader, and she sent back some ideas and notes to help grow the book. But my interest had been quelled. It wasn’t fresh and it wasn’t interesting to me, and if I didn’t want to read it, no one else would either. In 2014, the idea from 2001 was blasé at best.
Two weeks ago I was lying in bed and my thoughts trailed to the old book. My mind reread passages that were lending themselves to an entirely different main character. And I got excited. The next morning my Bestie and I texted for hours on this idea. I fleshed it out for her, and at the end of the conversation she said, “I’m not saying this as your best friend. I’m saying this as a fantasy reader. Write this book. You gotta start this right away.”
Ah, but time, my old nemesis. With two kids, three dogs, and a house to unpack, when will I find the time? Our computer is on the bottom level of the house. The kids’ rooms are on the top. Maybe this is just the dream deferred, again.