I wasn't one of those girls who kept a journal or a diary. I wanted to, but I was petrified that someone would find it and read my innermost thoughts. You know, because everybody really cares that Funshine bear was my favorite and that I always felt terrible about throwing away Patrick Shelton's Scruffy book. I didn't feel sorry for Patrick, I was just sick that a brand new book got thrown away. Since this post isn't about him you'll have to just take my word that he totally deserved to lose that book.
Up until this past week, I thought the first book I wrote was called, The Perfect Man. I know, totally originally title, right? It was a chick lit I wrote about four years ago that was pretty much autobiographical. Like Dona, it garnered a full request from Red Dress Ink. They liked it but didn't think the main character would really react the way she did in certain situations. Which made me feel kind of weird since the situations were all pretty much from my life and the reactions were mine. ECK! Eventually, I cut my loses and moved on to my first YA novel.
But something triggered a memory this week. TPM wasn't my first book after all. Suddenly I remembered sitting on my grandparents back porch making my own books. I don't remember any of the stories but I do remember painstakingly cutting, coloring, and stapling them together. The more I thought about it, the more I remembered. One day a neighbor boy was making books with me and he excitedly showed me his book. I flipped through it, all two pages, and pretty much declared him an idiot.
"A book has a beginning, a middle, and an end. This doesn't have a middle so it's not a book."
I'm pretty sure I was making books by myself the rest of the summer. And while I'm not exactly proud of myself for scaring off the neighbor boy, I'm glad to know that somewhere instead of me, I've always known how to make a book!
What I'm reading...Beauty Shop for Rent by Laura Bowers
Revenge of the Homecoming Queen, OUT NOW!!!!