I was digging through my stuff today (continuing from when I attempted to clean but got distracted by all the lost things on my computer), and of course I found more things–namely, my first three “novels”.
The first is about eight pages written in purple magic marker on a third-grade dare. It’s called Angle Kid (because as a third-grader I couldn’t spell “Angel” apparently). The first line is “Cam (short for Cameron) was again daydreaming.” The rest of the story (or the 2 1/2 chapters I completed) is about Cam making friends with a mysterious girl who lives in the forest by her house.
The second is from fifth grade, around 30 pages this time. This one was titled Children of Fate and began, “New York City’s Central Park. An area for fun and nature. Unseen, however, are hints of other things. Poverty, hunger, and unknown magic.” This one is about a rich boy who meets a girl who lives in Central Park, and they go have an adventure in a magical land.
The third (and last) of my childhood novels is called Legion and is the only one that’s actually finished–if you count 114 handwritten pages as ‘finished’ but I digress. I thought I’d lost this one until I found it in a box of random papers under my bed. It’s the tale of a gang of superhero teenagers and essentially follows what you would expect from a comic book put to paper. And yes, there was another metahuman whom they discover–a mysterious girl.
For awhile I tried to resist this character, but the stories I wrote during that time were never quite as important to me. Eventually I matured a bit (or hopefully a lot), and finished my first novel. And then I promptly realized that that book’s leading lady was just Mystery Girl named Becky instead of Anya. Holy crap, can I not get rid of this chick?
I put that novel down and started my three most recent projects (Project Carson, Project Karen, and The Revolutionaries). Karen failed. The other two, in one way or another, both have forms of the Mystery Girl in them. Not always main characters, but they’re there, darn it.
So I guess I’ve got to accept that this weird green-eyed chick keeps invading my stories. Some writers have themes (Andrew Clements and child empowerment, anyone?), or settings, or heck even weirdly specific genres that permeate their body of work. Maybe I’ll get famous someday and years afterward English students will curse my name because they have to analyze the significance of the green-eyed girl, and how she evolves throughout my fiction.
(Well I can dream at least)