Author Life #1: Writing My First Novel

How did I come to write The Rope That Binds Us? Here's the scoop, kids.

Ok, this is officially my first blog post. Well….maybe 2nd, but that was just an intro thing so it only half counts.

I’ve decided that the title of each one will tell you all, my readers (of which there are many, I’m sure), what category that post is in. It will either be Author Life, Books, The Darkness, Updates, Chapters, or Characters. There may be more in the future as I think of them, but you get the idea.

I decided not to overthink what the first one should be about, so the first idea that popped into my head is the one I’m going with.

How did I come to write this story??

As a kid, I always had stories going on in my head. I come from an avid movie watchers. My family and I have watched thousands of movies (and some movies thousands of times). We are always quoting them, sometimes when it’s even applicable to whatever conversation or situation we find ourselves in. People do tend to give you a weird look, but that’s “…a sacrifice I’m willing to make.” *

I would itch to write these stories down, but writing spiked my anxiety. I never knew how or where to start. I always felt like people would find them dumb or they would be total crap. I am a chronic perfectionist, so failure wasn’t an option. Of course what I view as failure in myself is way different than the actual definition of failure, but alas, I digress.

So what are you supposed to do when the stories in your head are too loud? You squash them down deep inside, obviously.

Sure, I wrote the occasional short story, but that was mostly a way to deal with some overwhelming feelings that seemed to push past the anxiety. In those times there was a desperate need for an outlet. Most of what I wrote was something that had just happened to me. Like the time I visited my Grandad in the hospital when he was dying. I was 16 and dealing with my Darkness. Watching my strong, stoic grandfather look at me with fear and helplessness in his eyes pushed me over the edge and I had to get it down on paper.

My instinctive ability to create stories in my head died a slow death. Ok, well maybe not all dead. “Woohoo, look who knows so much! Turns out your friend here is only mostly dead….with all dead, there’s only one thing you can do….dig through his pockets and look for loose change.” *

My first semester of college, I had been dating Kenny for only a few months (more info on that in The Rope That Binds Us). I’m not sure what inspired me to do it, but I began writing down the story of how we fell in love. I only got through the first chapter, because, as I said, anxiety. Actually not even the first chapter. Just the prologue.

Well, what used to be the prologue. I’ll talk more about that later in a future post.

Anyway, I had that in a random notebook for a few years. Over 10 years, actually. From the time I wrote it until I actually decided to write a novel, I had: gotten engaged, gotten married, held 2 jobs, moved to the other side of the country, had two kids, and did many many other things.

Around the time my youngest was…a few months old? Maybe she was a year? I don’t really remember. That time was a little fuzzy. I was struggling with some postpartum depression at that time.

Anyway, around the time she was 4-16 months I was watching the show Jane the Virgin (great show if you love a ridiculous, over-the-top drama parody). The main character, Jane, is a writer. She wants to become a novelist. I found myself getting jealous of her ability to sit and write without reservation. How can she do that? Why isn’t she stopped by crippling anxiety and doubts? Her first novel was about the love story between her and Michael.

I wish I had a love story worth a novel, I thought. I mean, yeah it’s cool that Kenny and I have known each other since we were 5. And that the tragedies in our lives brought us together. And the way we became friends during senior year was interesting. And then there were the adventures we took together with our families. *Around this point I’m thinking maybe I do have a story here.* My depression was part of it too, so that could be an interesting element to the story.

The idea took hold and I thought, Yeah, maybe I can do this.

I sat at the computer, my anxiety doing somersaults in my tummy, and I sat…and sat…and sat. Oh! I do have that thing I wrote in college a million years ago.

So I got it out and started typing out my handwritten account of when I realized I was in love with Kenny Browne. Kenny Browne! (I still have trouble believing it sometimes).

“What are you working on?” asked Kenny.

I minimized the window quickly. “Nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

I mulled for a minute before responding. “I am working on something, but I don’t want to tell you what it is yet.”

He teased (“It’s porn, isn’t it?”), we laughed, I kept my lips sealed, and he let me be.

I just worried that this was so fragile, that anything could tip the balance and I wouldn’t be able to do it.

But the balance was never tipped.

Things started to flow. I still had my anxieties that would slow me down, but I kept writing.

I didn’t end up telling anyone what I was doing for quite a while.

I don’t really remember when I told people I was writing a story, but I remember that I didn’t tell anyone what the story was about until I had finished writing it.

The first draft focused more on the love story, but the subsequent drafts evolved into so much more. I realized that the core of this story wasn’t our story; it was my story. What I went through during the dark days of my depression as a teenager was brutal and all encompassing. It affected my life in so many ways. It shaped who I am and what I have done. I realized how significant and important it was to share my story, not just for me, but for all of those people who could relate, all those people who felt lost and alone, who listened to their own Darkness telling them they were worthless. I wanted to give others hope and understanding.

Writing about my journey gave me a whole new, bigger picture perspective on the whole thing. I got to understand myself in a way I never had before. I also got to relive some amazing memories.

So I hope that this story will help at least one person, make at least one person swoon, make at least one person laugh, make at least one person cry, and inspire at least one person to dance*.

Ok. Let’s be real. I hope more than five people will get something out of it.

But if only five people are affected by this tale of mine, it will be worth it.

Until Next Time,

RaeB