Two years ago during an unofficial NaNoWriMo attempt, I wrote the story of one (traumatic, busy, change-filled) year of my childhood.
What began as a sort of memoir for middle-graders has been revised and pruned and expanded into a (too-long) piece of fiction about a twelve-year-old named Celeste. It's still not where I want it, but it's closer.
Most, if not quite all of the events in Full Moon, Half a Heart actually occurred, but they've been ruthlessly embellished and altered. Most, if not quite all of the characters are no longer recognizable as real people, not even family members and best friends.
I like that. It feels less gossipy.
This year, in my normal backwards fashion, I wrote the prequel to Full Moon, Half a Heart, also based on one year of my life. The year I wanted to be a detective.
(To be honest, I wanted to be a detective for more than one year, but that was the year I really wanted it.)
I outlined this time, using what I learned the hard way from my last book. The words streamed out, the way they often do when I have a deadline. I loved every minute of writing it.
Now, I've put Growing toward the Sun on the back burner until after New Year's, at least. I'm letting it simmer while I work on other projects and get ready for Christmas.
I miss it, though. Funny how one can fall in love with one's own characters, one's own story, in one hectic month. Letting my story rest is like hoarding that last Belgian chocolate: it keeps circling my brain, tempting me.
No, I'm not touching it. No.
Here, eat some celery and get away from that drawer!
(We'll see how long I last.)