This past week, I finished revisions on the tenth (10th!) draft of my young adult novel and sent it back to my agent. Next steps should be a final re-read and then prepping to go “on sub”. My agent will start making lists of publishers she feels would be interested in this book and then submit my manuscript for their consideration.
And then we wait.
I’m fortunate to be able to distract myself from the waiting game by working on other projects. In six months, my first middle grade novel will publish, but in the meantime, I’ll be working on revisions for my second middle grade novel. I’ll also be continuing the planning for my next novel (contemporary adult) and I hope to start writing that sometime in March.
But…
Without meaning to, I came up with an idea for my next memoir. I wasn’t planning on writing another, but at lunch last week, a friend (Hi, Cathy!) asked me what my next memoir was going to be about. I told her I didn’t know because it wasn’t something I had even thought about.
But…
Last weekend, I started reading a book, and I was ready to give up around page 43. I put it down, did something else and picked it up again later that evening. I'll read three more pages, I thought, and then I’ll decide.
On the second page I read, the 16-year-old female protagonist was thinking about the boy she kissed and how he tasted and smelled and, BOOM, the idea wormed into my prefrontal cortex. I slammed the book shut (with glee because I was done trying) and started a new note on my phone.
He smells like bagels.
That was the first thing that went through my brain as the boy pressed his mouth to mine and slid his hand up the front of my oversized sweater.
He was my first boyfriend. We were in Grade 10, 15-year-olds hungry for attention and clueless about intimacy. We were sitting at a corral in the school library, our metal and cloth chairs facing each other. Between my legs, a white smear stained the nubby and worn black fabric. It was just as likely to be cream cheese (the student body was predominantly Jewish) as to be cum (it is high school, after all). This corral was tucked off to the side of the library, away from the prying eyes of other students, hidden from view of the front doors, shielded by high shelves of books and the sensitive ears of the school librarian.
Why does he smell like bagels?
My mind should have been focused on his tongue slipping into, then squirming around my mouth. I should have been paying attention to his fingers slipping into my C-cup and squeezing my breast. Instead, I was thinking about baked goods.
Why do teenage boys—the ones we think we love—smell like a bakery? Every young adult novel I’ve read describes the boy smelling like cloves, cinnamon, almonds, vanilla, and caramel. But every boy I know now (my own teenagers among them) smell like funk: sour milk, abandoned fried onions, and sweat. The white smears in their bedrooms are as likely to be mayonnaise as they are to be cum.
The title came fast, too. Crushed: Tales of Heartbreak, Infatuation, Lust and Love
Now I am faced with the tricky issue of juggling five projects at once.
Seeing two middle grade novels to the finish line.
Start laying down the first draft of my next novel.
Polishing the young adult novel to get it fully ready for submission.
Start writing the next memoir.
I haven’t been this overwhelmed with writing since my first year of university (and if you read The Girl in the Gold Bikini, you know how that went). I know I’m going to have a meltdown at some point. I’m going to yell at my husband. I’m going to Skip snacks from 7-11 at midnight. I’m going to wish I never quit smoking more than ten years ago.
But…
I will enjoy the process of laying down the words. I’ll have fun with the characters in my novel, who are all over 50 and DGAF. I’ll sit back in my chair and stare at a blinking cursor and remember how lucky I am that I can tell stories for a living.
I promise to keep you updated on how things go from here. Oh, and of course, I forgot to add writing this weekly newsletter to the list.
I’ll be fine…right?
I was asked late last year if I would be open to writing a piece on my writing process, specifically as it pertains to memoir. Without hesitation, I said yes.
I love when I’m asked to submit. It frees me to write what I want, how I want. I hope you enjoy this short reflection.
Happy reading!
Dana