Fictionland

What's next? I consulted my list, the one I've started obsessively keeping for this endeavor, and thought maybe we should take a trip to Fictionland. I have tried to find the journal I kept during this time. I would like to accurately track the path from self-indulgent, imprisoned self-discovery to untethered, limitless fiction. I'm afraid I've forgotten things along the way. I will keep trying and I'll let you know when I do. Those pages are filled to bursting with gratitude and wonder at what I had found. I, for one, would be really interested to see them again.

So, how did it happen, to the best of my recollection? What caused me to one day turn the corner and stumble upon the amazing, brilliantly free and colorful world of fiction? I don't exactly know. I think partially it was because Bestie A kept talking to me about relaxing a little bit on being so beholden to the “truth” of my life. Also, I reached a point where I was willing to let someone else read the crap, a writer friend of mine in Helena. She didn't once talk about how crappy the pages were, and she hadn't known me since I was 13, she wasn't obligated by love to adore me. Wow. She gave me the most gentle, considerate feedback. She told me that there was something raw and real there, but how I needed to jump to the next brave place.

The subject line in my email to her read: My Guts. I think she knew she was dealing with a fragile writer's ego right from the start. She said great things, things like YOU DON'T SUCK, in big bold caps, and that I was honest, funny and insightful. She said that she loved how I used humor, even in the dark moments (a trait that I've carried with me into Fictionland.)

Then she told me the other stuff; that it was too self-reflective, that I did too much telling and not enough showing, that there were times when I belabored the point. She told me, in a general way, that I wasn't writing fiction, and that I might need to take a look at not following the arbitrary rules I had written for myself so obsessively.

I took a deep breath, peeked around the corner at Pretend and wrote my statement of intent. I had said similar words before, only this time, I had put myself in a position to receive. I asked for the inspiration and I meant it. I had shown myself and the Universe through my discipline that if it came to me, this inspiration, I would honor it. I had been waking up every morning at 5:30, stealing time from my children and husband and fake work (the work I do to support my writing habit until the writing pays off). I had been staying up way past my bedtime. I wrote crap in every spare second until the crap ran out. And then. There it was. Fictionland.

I took a step back from the girl I had been writing about and thought about all the things I'd love to change about her, starting with her hair and skin. Instantly, she had the absolute confidence in her beauty that comes with being tall, and having perfect skin and long curly hair. Oh, the freedom of it all! She was callous and smart and funny (okay, we had some things in common (: ). I knew she was damaged, but suddenly she became damaged in ways I wasn't, her neurosis showing itself in ways that weren't my ways. She could be someone separate FROM me, but informed BY me.

And then I started thinking about what I like to read. I have to be honest, I'm a sucker for an impossible love story. Right around that time I had seen both Becoming Jane and Atonement. I'd read two horrible books sans happy endings. I can't remember what they were. I've blocked them out. I'm predisposed to adore the story of a love that just can't happen. My natural state when witnessing a tale of passion that is doomed is total submersion. But I want a happy ending, I want it tied up with a nice big bow. I was becoming a little depressed with my life's lack of happy endings. And then I found Twilight.

Now. I'm going to be talking about my teenage-like obsession for a moment. Boys, if you feel like skipping this paragraph, feel free.

Twilight. Edward. Bella. Oy. Right? What was so great about it? What was so compelling that it grabbed me so violently and wouldn't let me go? What was it that had turned me (and all of my friends) into fiending, sleep-deprived, neglectful girlfriends, wives and mothers?

The passionate, irresistible, pure love.
The other-worldly, aching love that made me feel what they were feeling.
The all-consuming, bleeding love that came pouring off the page.

An impossible love story. THE impossible love story. Yes. That's what I wanted to make. And I thought I might have a good start.

So who would be the guy, I asked myself? Who could hold a candle to this consummate leading man Steph had created? Was I up to the task?

Yes. Oh, yes, I was. And anyone who's read my book will tell you so. Jack Finch rivals Edward any day of the week.

So here she is, the girl; screwed up, dark and dangerous, no tools for living but funny and run. And here's this guy; whole, centered inside himself, the product of a complete and wonderful family, but still irrevocably in love with her. And then I had to ask the question, Why? What would make a man like this lose the power of choice in the matter of loving this mess of a girl? There was just one answer for me. She had grafted to him too young for him to have known better. He'd loved her his whole life. Once he realized what was happening, it was too late. How would they ever work it out???

This was it. I had found them. Or they had found me. And I was hooked. I had to know what happened. Don't you?