I can’t write or think about anything else except for the fact that I’ve finished a draft of my novel, Follow Me Into the Dark. Words cannot express how proud I am of this book, which took four years to develop and over a year to write. What started out as a strange story about a woman setting another woman’s hair on fire morphed into a book about familial love, physical and emotional hurt, mental illness, feminism, identity and loss. The story centers around two broken children, Kate and Jonah, and how they bear the weight of two generations of mental illness and abuse (and I’d say collapse as a result of it). While the story and characters are important, I’m excited about the novel’s form. I’ve created a nesting doll, triptych structure, where I’ve employed alternating voices and allusions to speeches (think: Jim Jones, the cult leader, not the rapper; Ophelia’s final soliloquy to Hamlet, among others), poetry (think: Edna St. Vincent Millay, Nick Flynn, T.S. Eliot, Walt Whitman, etc) and lines from novels that serve to provide a deeper cultural, moralistic and sociological context for the reader.
I sent the draft to my agent, so here’s hoping for good news. However, I have to keep reminding myself that the achievement is in finishing a book of which I’m proud, not the industry that happens as a result of it.