The Novel Must Die
Today marks one week since I murdered my first novel. It was not a senseless act of violence, but neither was it premeditated. I just knew–and, if I am to be honest, my readers did as well–that it had to be done.
As always with something birthed through a haze of blood, sweat, and tears, I snotted, sweated, and bled (well, that last part’s a bit hyperbolized) all over myself once I realized the time had come for it to die. My husband who, after a year and a half of marriage, has become quite accustomed to my all-or-nothing personality was still a little frightened when he stumbled into our office and saw me sitting before the computer monitor, my fingers hovered above the keyboard, with tears coursing down my face.
Being the good husband he is, he asked with just the right amount of tentative sincerity, “What’s wrong?”
“The novel must die!” I replied before bursting into a fresh bout of mucousy matter.
(I’m glad you weren’t there. It wasn’t too pretty.)
I cried for a good hour, and I cry like I sneeze–no delicate little sniffle, no dainty little mouse squeak. Both of these cathartic actions strip bark from trees and sprays everything within a ten mile radius with the efficiency of a produce sprinkler. (Keep this on the down low; I don’t want to go under alternative engery testing.) I was crying for the death of my novel, but I was also crying for the death of an ideal.
Nine months ago when this project began, I was brimming with confidence and felt an inner writing switch had flipped. I remember that day clearly. It was a Sunday. My husband and I had journeyed to our 40 acre patch of land, and I wanted to take a walk regardless of the storm clouds boiling overhead. I was trotting along, thinking about espionage plots set in Amish country, when those clouds cracked like a china cup and rain poured over me. I didn’t have an umbrella, of course, and the closest thing I could find to one was those veined maroon numbers that sprout up everywhere in the spring. I ripped the plant up by it roots and held it over my head. I’m sure I would’ve been committed right then and there if someone had found me looking like a deranged Mary Poppins, but our road is (thankfully) deserted.
Then, that funny little “umbrella” got me thinking (always a slightly dangerous
endeavor). I recalled the ending scene in one of my favorite movies, Little Women, when Jo March and Professor Frederick Bhaer stand under an umbrella in the rain while drenching each other with mushy words; then, my mind zipped back a few scenes before that. I recalled Jo March spouting angry tears once she realizes her novel, filled with tales of sabers and sorcery, is not considered quality work by Professor Frederick Bhaer. Her pride wounded, Jo flees the city and her dreams; and only after the death of her sister, Beth, is she able to tap into her true writing potential by creating a world she has already inhabited; thus, reconnecting her with her dream and with her love (Professor Frederick Bhaer–I’m still fuming over that one).
The End.
If I had a mustache that rainy spring day, I would have twirled it contemplatively; for, instead of creating a world filled with espionage plots set in Amish country, I could–just like Jo March–write a novel about my unique childhood experiences and have an instant best seller and perhaps a movie deal! 
Right?
Well, nine months and 115,000 words later I can confidently say, WRONG!!!
During the creation of Segregation at Springcreek, like a crazy pageant mother with her child, I smeared the story with paint and dressed it in frills–all in preparation for the publication stage–while not even caring if that was what it wanted to do or where it wanted to go. I had an internal plotline that nothing and no one could divert me from. Once the novel was finished, I printed it out, bundled it up, and sent it away to my dear readers. Five days later, I found myself bawling in front of my computer monitor after reading a kind yet honest email, which confirmed my sudden inkling that my novel was too close to me and therefore had to die (okay, that whole pageant mother analogy doesn’t work so great any more–ignore it). Even though I really, really wanted to toss my computer off a short bridge and perhaps jump with it (not a tall brige, mind you), I knew I couldn’t.
For although the pain surrounding the story’s figurative birth had been something quite apocalyptic–just ask my husband (many times, while screaming like a banshee, I had squeezed his hands until his fingertips turned white)–I was glad it was safely nestled in my “Stuff I Can No Longer Use” folder. And like I hear about the birth of a literal child, you soon forget the haze of blood, sweat, and tears surrounding its entry when you’re holding that lil’ papoose of joy in your arms and soon begin yearning for another one.
Hence, only one week since the murder of my first novel, I’m creating another which is completely removed from me (no, it does not involve espionage in Amish country–I said it was removed from me). And once it is old enough to walk on its own, I am determined to let it take me by the hand, and I will gratefully follow wherever the plot may lead.