When I was twelve-years-old, I would come home from school, kick off my shoes, and pad my way upstairs in stocking feet. My sister would poke her head out of her bedroom door to greet me and ask about my day. My response was to grunt hello and run into my room. My sisters and parents would ask me what I was up to and I would say "I'm busy."
I had toys, and CDs, and a border around my room that depicted the planets and the stars, the nebulas and supernovas. Like many my age, I played video games, and explored outside with my friend Adam and, later on, Jason, and rolled around town on roller blades and my bicycle. I was allowed to watch television after I finished my homework, and sometimes snuck television viewings while my parents were out of the house. I had crushes, had friendships that turned out not to be friendships at all, pined after girls, and daydreamed about the what-ifs. For the most part, my twelve-year-old life was as ordinary as any other twelve-year-olds' life.
But I had a secret. None of those things were as enjoyable to me as the adventures I went on when I came home after school and snuck off to my room on my lonesome. See, I had begun a project: a novel. Not just a novel, but an entire series of eight books.
It was a very different kind of thing to be concerned with than what most kids my age focused on.
I was creating whole worlds in my room, where anything was possible and I was in charge. In a narcissistic, even megalomaniacal sense, I became a god of my own domain, creating and destroying at my will and no one else's. Yet, in my youth, I was little more than a literary sponge. Most of the creations I had at the time were rehashings of stories that I had read and loved; cheap imitations and knock-offs. See, I did not, at the time, understand the kind of energy and dedication went into a creation like a novel. But I still discovered my true passion that was writing.
The book that I began in seventh grade, which at the time was called Darkness Rising or some sort of cliche like that, would not be recognizable if I looked at it today. It has gone through iteration after iteration, rewrite after rewrite. My refusal to world build, or character build, haunted my writing and stifled what little originality I had.
Now the purpose of this post isn't to be down on my twelve-year-old self. I was young, new to writing, and, as I said, did not understand how much of myself needed to go into it. But I began there, and continued to grow as a writer and as a person.
I worked on Darkness Rising through middle school, and on through high school. Although, in high school, I became distracted by other things: friends, and girls, and music, and musicals. Life began to happen, and my focus on the book began to shift.
I talked about it a lot. Those of you who knew me well in high school know that. I'd talk to just about anyone who would listen about it, about my plans for an awesome, intense new series. In classes, I drew in the margins as many did. But I didn't draw random doodles; I drew whole scenes, whole characters, whole worlds. Through my high school doodles, I began my world building. Eventually Rith Rilec, hero of Darkness Rising, became Ingram Tallhaus, hero of An Age of Demons. And still I talked.
Many folks asked to become characters in my book, and to many of them I said yes. I will say now that many of you won't appear in the first book, and I hope you're not too upset if you're not major characters in the series. When you say yes to everyone, it gets harder and harder to focus on their characters.
When I went to Bard, I took the opportunity to hunker down and begin again. I wrote about nine chapters of the book, using the collection of notes that I had written through the years since I first began. Ingram Tallhaus became the brother of the true main character, named Marcus. Then he became the main character's cousin, and the main character was instead called Marcus Wainright. That name is the one that stuck.
Freshman year came and went, and my work on the series stalled out. Jason, who has from the beginning been a sounding board for this series, began simply calling the series "Marcus," and that's what it's been called since then. We talked about Marcus all the time, planning and drawing out scenes. But once the planning stopped, I didn't start writing. Instead, I scrapped what I had of "Ingram" and started it over.
And over.
And over.
You get where I'm going with this.
Junior and senior year, I all but forgot that Marcus existed, working instead on The Longest Fall for my senior thesis. After I graduated, I tried to start Marcus again, but instead I wrote Tree in the Sky and met Amanda. Neither of these two books felt particularly strong or praiseworthy to me. The Longest Fall is downright painful to read, in my opinion.
And I started Marcus over again: first he was in high school, then he was in college, then he was out of college, back to high school. It was a mess. I have the outline for the entire series, but I just couldn't get down to writing it.
When I turned 24, I looked closely at the things in my life that I wanted to change before I turned 25. For the most part, I did very well. I moved out of my parents' house; I got out of a difficult and unpleasant job; I started playing cello professionally. Another promise I made to myself was that I would finish this book that I had been talking about since seventh grade. I thought: I do not want to turn 25 and still not have this book done.
I did a lot of planning and outlining. I began writing this book on August 11th, in my first one-subject notebook, with all of the books that inspired me over the years out to continue to push me along. I had my soundtracks and playlists, support from my friends, and a girlfriend who understood what I was driving for. I had a determination to finish Marcus Book 1 before I turned 25.
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| It's appropriate to me that I finish this book where I started it: at my parents' house. |
I wrote the Afterword this morning. I turn 25 in two days.
I did it. I managed to pull this project out of the void that it had been sucked into. It's hard to describe how I feel today. I know that I have a lot of work still to do; there will no doubt be many drafts of this book, but no longer will I be starting it over, and no longer will I be letting it go by the wayside. Marcus has been 12 years in the making, and I am beyond thrilled that it didn't get to 13 years.
I'm mostly surprised, unable to believe that I actually did it. I guess it's been so long that it doesn't feel real. My friend Jason had even said, not one week ago, that he would only believe I'll ever finish it when I finish it. And I suppose I feel the same way. Plus, his saying that served as further incentive for me.
Today, I'll allow myself to feel the pride that I feel about this. I'll let myself take a break this week. Then, next week, the next draft begins. Let's try to get this prepped for publication by 26.
Although I should really find a proper working title for this soon.
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