I started writing a novel about
eight years ago. Since I had never written
a book before, I didn't know what I was doing. The first half of the book flew
out of my head onto the page. "This is so fun, why doesn't everyone write
a book," I thought. And then I realized that something had to happen with my plot. The characters I created had to do something. Ha! So I sat around and thought and while I was waiting for inspiration - life happened. New job, fertility treatments, new city, new house, the death of our dog, and because of that death - a broken heart. My brain just dried up. Something that came so easily in the beginning didn't even exist in my psyche any more.
Eventually, thanks to a new sweet dog, I was able to finagle my brain, and the plot of my book (two things I thought were lost causes). And I finished the manuscript.
I am in the editing stage right now - meaning my shower has never been cleaner. Because, man, is it hard to edit your own work!
Once I finish though it will land in more capable hands to fix it all up.
I am still working on the title too - don't rush me. It's only been eight years.
I consider this novel to be Commercial Women's Fiction. Maybe Romantic Comedy. I would definitely call it Chick Lit, but I know that term is "dead," so never mind.
Here is an unpolished, unedited excerpt:
#
I walked into the library, the two-story lobby filled with
the aroma of books and ingenuity. I’d requested a few books online, just normal
everyday fiction. Nothing I’d be embarrassed about. But before
heading to the circulation desk, I went into the used book sale area—a separate
room of all glass. I looked for my favorite authors and for a few new titles
that seemed interesting. As I rounded a corner to the next aisle of
books, my heart lurched—Dr. Acres!
Shit. What was he doing in my part of town?
He had his head tilted, looking at books sideways and didn’t
see me. I tilted my head the opposite direction and slowly moved back the way
I’d come. I had three books in my hand and wanted to buy them, but didn’t want
to risk having to talk to him. He was far away from the register so I quickly
got in line, opened one of my books and put my head down like I was reading.
I paid, not talking to the volunteer that I often chatted
with, smiling at her instead, and headed for the only door. Dr. Acres came out
of one of the aisles, and since his head was down looking at a book, and since
I was nearly running, we bumped right into each other. Oh God, dropping two of
my books. It was all commotion then.
“Oh my gosh!” I said out loud.
“Oh, excuse me.” He bent to pick up my books.
“Ooo geez, oops.” I dropped the last book I was holding.
“It’s you.” He looked at me as he stood up.
“Oh, hi.” I let out a breath of air and smiled, but surely
looking embarrassed. The way you would if you ran into a man that pretty much
had proof you were crazy.
“Hello. Ms. Kelley.” He smiled, holding my books.
I put my hand up to stop the formal name, “It’s Anna, hey!”
“I didn’t see you, I’m sorry.” His voice was calm and kind.
“No, I’m sorry, really.” Really, I thought, really
sorry. Please let this be fast. He smelled so good, like soap and leather or
something.
He looked at my books he’d picked up. “The Art of French
Kissing?” He asked, handing me back the first book.
“Uh yeah, what a title, huh? Just fun escapism.” Rats. Why
had I said escapism? That totally linked to my desire to know about time
travel. Oh God, oh God. Why did he torment me this way?
“That is quite a title. What’s it about?”
My eyebrows pinched together for an instant, surprised he
was asking me about this girly, fluffy book. “Uh, a girl that moves to Paris
and I guess learns, you know, the art of French kissing. I love Paris, so...” I
tilted my head and stopped talking.
“Me too,” he said, staring at me for a moment before he
looked at the next book. “Mind In The Making, The Seven Essential Life Skills
Every Child Needs To Know,” he read. “You have children?”
“No. Oh No.” I guess I’m the child, in this case,
still getting my essential life skills together. Hah.” I took the last book
from his hand and noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He looked at the
book as I stacked it on the others.
“Tree of Gold,” he said aloud, his tone questioning.
“Historical fiction,” I said quickly, twisting my mouth
Another link to my crazy time travel thing. When would the misery with this guy
end?
“Makes sense,” he smiled.
He was taller than I remembered and those glasses were
really like Clark Kent’s—all of him was—it was remarkable. He looked
all strong and buttoned up, just like Clark Kent. I’d already been
humiliated, so I had nothing to lose in asking him a few questions.
“What books do you have?” hoping I’d catch him reading
something sordid.
“A cookbook - Cajun food, and David McCullough’s John Adams
book.”
Such normal books. “I read John Adams,” I said but did
congratulating myself in my head Ha! I’m smart too. “It’s good—you’ll like
it.”
“I will?” His eyes twinkled.
