Dear...

There has been a tremendous amount of life happening in my world right now that has kept me from sitting still for too long...or at least still enough to write. That's been rough and I've missed it so very much. But I've stolen few moments this morning before racing off to an appointment to get a few words and thoughts recorded.

I've read two books in the past month that have to do with letters. The first, was Jenny Han's new YA To All The Boys I've Love Before. It's about a high school girl who, when she's decided it's time to be done with a crush, writes an honest, heartfelt letter to the boy and then seals it away in a hatbox, giving her closure for her feelings. Someone discovers the letters and sends them to the boys. What happens next is funny and sweet. It is a book with honesty, humor, and wisdom.

Earlier this morning I finished Jojo Moyes' The Last Letter From Your Lover. This one is centered on the story of Jenny Sterling and Anthony O'Hare and their star-crossed love affair. The story starts in the 60's and then is picked up again in 2003. Moyes has such a gift for telling stories that inhabit not only your imagination, but also your heart. I don't know how you could read one of her novels and not feel it as if it were your own. I'm left with a bit of an emotional hangover that I think is going to follow me around all day.

About half way through Jenny Han's book, as I was sifting through the artifacts of my earlier life that had been long buried in the office closet, I stumbled upon a letter in my own handwriting addressed to a boy who had once, rather long ago, ruled over my heart. I had no recollection of writing the letter. I pulled back each fold until the letter was open in front of me and was brought back to those days of my 14th year when I rarely thought of anything aside from this boy.

I couldn't help but wonder why I decided not to send this letter.

There were plenty of other letters I did send and as I sifted through boxes and boxes of letters and cards saved from high school, college, and even after, I found many replies from all the boys I'd written to over the years. There were some from lovers, some from friends, some from friends who wanted to be more, and some from unrequited loves, those boys who stole my heart and never even knew how much I cared.

The truth is, I miss letters. In these days of social media and email, they have become a rare treat. Some of those correspondences from my teens and twenties are counted among my most cherished possessions. I think about what they mean to me now and I wonder what they will mean to me in another twenty or forty years.

I've written before of the letters my grandpa wrote home during WWII and how he gave them to me a few years ago. I value those as if they were great riches. And now that he's gone, they mean even more. They're probably the reason why letters are such an important part of the novel I began last November.

A letter unearthed from my late grandfather, who was an inspiration for my most recent manuscript.

Teenage Daydream

I went for a long walk last night, hours after the sun had set. I put on some headphones, selected a playlist I'd made over a year ago and put one foot in front of the other. I walked past a high school and saw some boys hanging out on a picnic table, listening to music of their own. Out of the blue I was overwhelmed with a memory from my own time in high school. It was a night that felt quite similar, the air was cold, the sky open. I was walking alone. I had gone to see the school play. I can't even tell you which one it was. It's funny the kinds of things our brains hold onto and the kinds of things it lets go. The memory that hit me so hard, so fast, was one in which I ran into the boy I had an epic crush on at a time when I was least expecting to. I came around a corner and there he was, right after I'd been thinking about him. It felt like magic, like it was meant to. We talked. And like always, he left me wanting for more than our few words. I went home, wrote about it in my journal, and fell asleep dreaming of him.

For the rest of my walk it was hard to escape my teenage self. Further along I could hear laughter over the sounds of my music and I looked to see where it was coming from and saw a bunch of kids out in the front yard of a house, running around and goofing off. It made me smile and drew me to other memories and other emotions.

I've been thinking a lot about books, about why I'm drawn to the kinds of books I'm drawn to, why I read (and write) so much YA. I recently read Jojo Moyes new book One Plus One (which sadly for you, doesn't come out until July) and while it didn't affect me in the same way as Me Before You) it was still emotionally resonant even though I have very little in common, at least on the surface) with any of the characters. I'm currently reading a MG (Middle Grade) novel (which is a genre I read maybe 1-3 books a year). This book is hitting a very different emotional nerve that links back to a much earlier part of my childhood than I usually think about.

The truth is, I like all kinds of books about all kinds of different things. But the books that pull me in again and again and again are the ones with compelling characters who have interesting stories to tell.

I tried writing several other novels, writing pages, a few chapters. I even finished one manuscript. But it wasn't until I started writing about high school that I started to truly feel like I had something I wanted to say, something that I needed to say. I still feel that way.

I read two books in the last week in exchange for sleeping.