Book Report by Glo

So…..

November is National Novel Month per some organization that I joined only to motivate me to finally write that novel I’ve always known I couldn’t write.

It’s done.

I actually wrote novel. A big one. With plot.That’s not necessary per NaNoMo, but I’m a traditional sort of girl, so I stuck with the plot thing.

The novel will never be published. Never. It’s in a format that precludes reading by anyone but the people for whom it was intended. Those people would likely not pay for it. (Hmm. What was that about the popsicle truck and free popsicles?)

Anyway, the story started like most of my brilliant ideas: over conversation when I’m feeling silly. I am a born storyteller. I love to spin tales and most of my friends do not hesitate to ask. One day, while attempting to distract me from obsessing over my rotten summer, a friend asked me to write her a personalized love story.

I did.

The story started as a rather lame spin on typical romantic fantasy. There was mind-numbing make-out followed by an aborted picnic and minor miscommunication. Then things got interesting.

Without warning, my characters came to life. My hero grew flaws while my heroine became multi-dimensional. Their love life blossomed into a thorned red rose threatening to wilt. I violated every tenet of romance by writing a hero capable of adultery, a heroine who suffered without drama, a supporting cast devoid of true villains, and sensuality instead of sexuality.

As the plot twisted, my characters became more forthright with their author. I lay in bed at night trying to see the next chapter. Sometimes, my characters would jump to my bidding. I would see them fall into place, watch their movements, and feel their approval. Other times, things did not go so smoothly.

When I hit the climax of the novel, I could not figure out how to get the necessary communication to resolve the underlying conflicts. I ordered my characters in my head and tried to run the scene. As a complete surprise to me, my heroine threw hands on her hips and turned to face me in my mind’s eye. “This is not working!” she exclaimed. Her hero nodded his agreement.

Eventually, it worked itself out with a little help from the heroine’s real life personage. When I finished, I felt glutted on imagination. My mind felt as though it had eaten a Thanksgiving dinner of thoughts and emotions. I just sat, empty of desire, and stewed in my own creativity.

I’m quite proud of my creation even though it will never be read outside its intended audience. It had themes and symbols. There were moments of real truth for the characters. It was a decent piece of chicklit from a completely unseasoned author.
I was sad to close the book last weekend. I miss my characters already. They have mostly gone away in my head. Every so often one will pop in to show me a glance of past or future, but nothing congruent. They have disappeared into the shadow of font which encapsulates my one, and likely only, great American novel.