About writing Cross Roads (Part 2)

This is the other half of the previous post, About writing Cross Roads. It finishes my explination about how and why I wrote my first novel.

That was what I decided to call How It Started. It was a guide for me, of all the things, large and small, that would become anecdotes in the actual story that was coming later. Finished with that, I turned off the computer and got my kids off to school. The baby was up by then, and I got her fed and spent some time being a mom.

When nap time came, though, Jessie was there again, politely demanding my attention. She asked me to sit down at the computer for the second time that long day, and being curious as to what she would tell me, I did. That was really the true beginning of Cross Roads, as Jessie talked, I typed. I was surprised when the baby woke up, what seemed like only a few minutes later, to discover that I’d typed thirteen pages.

It continued like that, in one voice or another, for the next six weeks approximately. There was a short break in there, when I didn’t work on the story at all. I knew that I’d done something wrong with it, but everybody was quiet in my brain for the first time since they’d all showed up. It was almost weird, not hearing even one of them prompting me to write down some important thing or other that they’d said, lest it be forgotten, but also very nice. After all, I’m not really crazy, and I just couldn’t get used to hearing other voices then my own, inside my head.

I realized that, in my hurry to get down what they were trying to tell me, I’d gotten it wrong, and they were unhappy about that. So I went back through my manuscript, searching for the incorrect information. It took a couple of days, but I finally pinpointed it. When I did, I asked them to tell me how it was wrong, and Caleb spoke up. This time, I paid closer attention, and got it down right. I felt better immediately, better but also a little overwhelmed.

After fixing that error, I sat at the computer for almost thirteen hours straight, typing frantically. Thankfully my husband was off work that day, so he dealt with the kids and dinner. As I typed that time, a new voice spoke up in my head. Just where he’d been all along, I still have no idea. Though late, Toby became a major character, and spoke often. Just not usually about himself, I’m still learning new things about him, even now.

I wrote an amazing forty-seven pages that day. Amazing for me, because I couldn’t type more then hunt and peck. I still don’t do it the right way, but I’ve gotten incredibly fast doing it my way now.

That was the first marathon writing session of many, and the longest. After that, I finished the story in about two weeks. It took me another two weeks to get it to where I thought it was as polished as I could personally make it. Then another week to get it to where it is now. After I received a request from a literary agent for the first five chapters, I decided to look at my story again, just to be sure that it was ready, that’s where the last week of editing came in.

Along the way, there were times that I was deeply affected by the things that my characters told me. I remember being alone in the car on my way over to pick up one of my nephews, and as I drove, Tyler spoke up and told me what he was planning to do, and I cried. Silly, you say, and I’m sure you’re right, but I was already so attached to my people, that it really upset me.

There were other things that they told me that made me laugh, or confused me, sometimes I got angry with them, and sometimes I was so happy that I could have cried again. My nephew Josh asked me once,

“Aunt Christie, why can’t you just write the story how you want it to go? Aren’t you the author?”

My answer to him then (and it’s still the only one I have), was that, as weird as it sounds, I’m not the author, merely the storyteller. It might sound like I’m trying to be philosophical or deep, but I honestly don’t have any other answer. The story is what it is, I just took it from the mouths of my characters and repeated it for everyone to hear.

So, if that’s insanity, then I guess I need some serious help, that’s what my son thinks. Then again, most teenaged boys think their parents are crazy. All I know is, I’m very grateful for the chance to know the people in my story. If someone will pay me for that, it’s all gravy. If they won’t, it doesn’t change anything. I’ve still heard this incredible story, and I’ll find a way to turn it into a book on my bookshelf so that I can read it as many times as I like.