When I was much younger and even more naive I decided I was going to write a book, and I did. I finished it in the summer. It was a grueling, thankless job and the biggest achievement of my life.
It was written in a green notebook from Target and with a Bic mechanical pencil.
When I finished it, I remember calling everything in my family to spread the good news, much like my sister did when she birthed a real life human person.
Apples and oranges.
I was beaming and banking on it making me millions.
(Spoiler: it didn’t)
Those who were privileged enough to read it didn’t exactly share the same excitement I did. So I packed it away until it caught up with the times. I imagined someone finding it years after I’ve passed and, of course, realizing its brilliance- publish it. It would be that sort of deal.
I just recently found it, unwrapped it from the shoelaces I had double knotted around it for safe keeping and dove it.
Just as I had feared- trash.
The first big problem- the pencil has, over the years, faded. Making reading it a little hard.
#2 I spelled almost nothing right (lolz still struggle with that.)
And #3 there’s HUGE holes in the plot line. Like big.
What the frick Ava?
(There also is a point mid-book where I do change a main character’s name, however, I leave a little note about the change at the top of the page so the readers would be able to keep up- really what’s the big deal?)
It’s 167 pages of confusion.
A little bit disappointed, but a lot a bit not surprised.
The world moves on, right?
The 13 year old in me is still enthralled with the story, and the 19 year old in me is keeping it safe until I feel like rewriting it. All it really needs is a facelift, a little Botox and a good pep talk.
Good as new.