A goal.

30 Jan

My goal: write a novel. Just one. If I can write more than one, nifty. If I only ever get one? Goal met. (Okay, so I’d really like to be as prolific as King, but I’ll try shooting for a cloud before I try for the moon.)

So, what do I want to write? I used to think I really really really wanted to be a fantasy author. It’s what I read. It’s what I know. The more I think about it, though (and the more I shelve books – I’ll get back to this), the more I want to write within the young adult genre.

Why?

Well. I can’t teach. I don’t have the patience for teaching. I’d end up going postal. But! I love kids. I love their minds. I remember, fondly, being a kid. I remember what I loved to read and how much I loved to read. The opportunity to help in the development of a young person’s mind, and imagination, is intoxicating. There’s a snobbier reason, too. See. I work at a bookstore. I see what comes in, in huge boxes of new – never read – books, and a I see what goes out, in the eager hands of a book lover. Some of it’s inspiring. Some of it worries me. There’s a series right now that falls into the latter category. It’s written for girls; young and impressionable. It chitters on, relentlessly, about make-up, fashion, boys, gossip, drugs, partying, sex, and other such garbage. Victorian whores. Women, written by a woman, who are, essentially, naught but objects. No personality. No depth. Pretty little things meant only to be gazed upon. Well, and fucked, but that thought makes me shudder.

So my snobbier reason? To give young women something else to read. Something that doesn’t make light of their gender. Something that lets them know that it’s okay to not be a size two (’cause really? Who is?), that it’s sexier to be intelligent than stupid. That yourself is the most amazing person you can be.

When I was young, I read Wrede‘s Enchanted Forest Chronicles, wherein several women exist who are not, at all, the paragon of what was “normal” in scribed women. They’re quirky. Witty. Sarcastic. They’re who I wanted to be. The kind who can look at the world and laugh in its face. Not mice who scurry about, noses to the pavement, trying to avoid life.

So I want to write for young adults. I want to help. I want to teach without having to step into a classroom.

Do I have a plot idea? Well. Sort of. I have a character. I have yet to decide whether she should thrive in a world akin to ours, or whether she should adventure with the fantastic creatures of a world long forgotten. I’ve been reading a great deal of fairy tale literature, lately. I imagine that’s going to lend vibrant colour to my current levels of inspiration. So? A little bit of both, I’d wager. I can’t, after all, do anything too normal. It just ain’t my MO. Ya dig?

I think Ima go dream, now.

Eric Clapton – Layla (Unplugged)

UNT.

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One Response to “A goal.”

  1. hiro February 3, 2008 at 9:22 am #

    When I was growing up Dickens’s women were my rolemodels – specifically Estella Havisham and Louisa Gradgrind. Cold, brittle, beautiful and brutal. Apparently careless of the emotions of others but in truth seething with feeling – just keeping it all hidden out of an instinct for survival in a man’s world. You could have left either in charge of the Underworld and known it was in safe, heartless hands. I wanted to be them and I wanted them.

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