People have asked me how, in between practicing law, being a deeply devoted watcher of TV and roasting the occasional chicken, I found the time to write a novel. The truth is that I have no idea.
I didn’t set out to write a novel. I wrote a short story, The Mostly True Adventures of Peanut Girl, for a contest run by the Boston Review. I was pleased with it, but while I was waiting to find out if I won (I didn’t), I realized that I wasn’t finished. I wanted to spend some more time with Jenna, and I thought that you might, too.
So I wrote some more stories, overlapping in time and subject matter, about Deirdre, and Mara, and John. Jenna too, but sometimes just in a supporting role. It felt less daunting that way, more manageable, like it would be okay if I decided to bail at some point. A handful of stories would feel better than an unfinished novel.
I was more than halfway in when I realized that it didn’t work. The chronology was screwy. Things that had already happened in one story hadn’t happened yet in the next. And while time travel can be fun, it really didn’t belong here. I resisted the overwhelming urge to stop, to go back and fix things. Instead, I kept going, allowing time and events to unfold from that point forward in a more linear way. And then, once I got to the end, I went back to the beginning.
But as for the question – how did I find the time? I really don’t know. But I better figure it out soon because book #2 has been living inside my head for a while now, and it wants out.
