Expected Much, Achieved Little
I printed up the manuscript for a book I’ve been working on since I was thirteen. Most of the plotline was developed in my teen years, most of the “working on since” has been rearranging the story to make the plot a little more linear. I meant to edit, do some moderate revisions, and send it off to a publisher.
The writing itself is good. I read enough literature to give myself that credit. But the story is so young… all the things I hate about the fad fiction that is out right now. I read Dickens and Forester and write something short of Libba Bray. The sad part is, I think its marketable, I think I could make money from it – but I don’t want my name on it, I don’t want my big sister to read it. They are the immature thoughts of a thirteen or fourteen year old, and still I can’t get the characters out of my head. They’ve been with me for so long. They were my friends when times were tough, my confidants when I was sad, and the people I rejoiced with when I was happy. Reading the story is like reading a diary in code because only I know what event or what comment inspired what sentence and which character.
I think teen girls would find something familiar and comforting in this fantastical tale. I think I would be frustrated that I never meant to be that kind of writer, ever wondering why I hadn’t been able to write like Audrey Niffenegger or Ayn Rand. I’m nearly 26 years old and I had very high expectations for myself and my writing. I may be checking things off my bucket list religiously, but I have actually achieved little.
Anakalian Whims 
Leave a Reply