HOW THIS ALL BEGAN

This week I will tell all (most? part? some? just a little?) regarding what The Book is about and why it took me so ridiculously long to write it. The Book is titled "How to Live With a Ghost," but I still call it The Book because that's how it has identified itself since the beginning of the beginning. 

It's about a woman who doesn’t believe in ghosts who buys a house rumored to have a ghost.

It took me forever to write because life.

Now you can get on with your day.

 

Oh. You want more?

 

It's about woman who doesn’t believe in ghosts or love who buys a house rumored to have a ghost and a hot neighbor. (He's real, not a rumor.) He doesn’t believe in love, either. Of course he doesn’t. They’re already perfect for each other. Oh. And there are dogs. Of course there are dogs. I can't tell you any more.

 

Okay, what kind of book is it? This is where things got complicated. Books are categorized by genres, and there are fairly specific guidelines about which content qualifies for what genre. To make matters worse, there are sub-genres, which go down all kinds of rabbit holes. I struggled to identify which genre The Book belonged in. I called it a paranormal because ghost. It’s also kinda a romance because hot neighbor. And mysterious things happen which the protagonist must solve, so mystery.

 

 

At this point I feel compelled to make one thing clear. This book is rated PG13. The language is generally clean, but sometimes people have to say what they have to say and everyone has their favorite words. There is no mention of thrusting or moaning or throbbing male members or quivering thighs or any other anatomically correct body parts doing things you would not want to read aloud to your grandmother. Everyone keeps their clothes on—more or less—and there are smoldering looks and witty repartee for your enjoyment. If you're looking for Laurell K. Hamilton, this isn't it.

 

I think your grandmother could read this book
and not have a cardiac event.

It might be easier to tell you what The Book is NOT. It’s not a romance, dark romance, fantasy, romantasy, suspense, horror, thriller, police procedural, Western, paranormal, sci-fi, mystery, cozy mystery, literary fiction or biography. Good grief—by the time I dismissed all those genres, I was starting to wonder if The Book was destined to wander aimlessly through eternity, un-genre-fied.

 

The Book doesn’t take itself too seriously. It doesn’t have deep philosophical themes you would discuss at a book club, aside from the usual crap life throws at a person. It would be enjoyable to read on a rainy evening with a glass of wine in hand and a warm dog on your lap. Or on a sunny beach with an umbrella drink and your toes in the sand. You probably won’t need therapy after you read it. (It’s been two years and I’m still recovering from Grady Hendrix’s “How to Sell a Haunted House.” That’s a great book, just not when you’re cleaning out your childhood home. Alone. The stuffed animals are watching me. Make them stop.)

 

 

So I went along calling it a paranormal/romance/mystery. Then I was informed by People Who Know More Than I Do About These Things, that it is not.

 

It’s women’s fiction.

 

When the first editor told me my paranormal/romance/mystery was women’s fiction, I smiled politely and hoped I didn’t look like the village idiot. No idea if I succeeded. Google informed me women’s fiction is a commercial fiction genre (oh holy hell, then I had to figure out what commercial fiction was—basically, it’s mainstream fiction—dear God in heaven why couldn’t they just have called it that in the first place) that centers on a female protagonist’s emotional journey and personal growth and explores themes of relationships, identity and life challenges.

 

That sounds like a lot to unpack. The Book is not that heavy, I promise. It’s women’s fiction with elements of paranormal, mystery and romance. So there. (Sticks tongue out)

 

It took me forever to write it and I thought about it for twice that long before I typed the first sentence. I’d always wanted to write a story about a woman who bought a haunted house, which is a pretty vague plot line and probably why it took so long for me to actually hang a story on it. I started writing somewhere around 2015 and messed with it off and on in the manner of someone doing something they don’t seriously expect to finish. I just enjoyed escaping into my self-designed parallel universe, you know, where the unicorns run by and everything sparkles. It was so different from the grind of city council and schoolboard stories I did for my day job. Community journalism is great, but there’s only so much waste water treatment plant angst and county supervisors wind turbine feuds a girl can take. (Disclaimer: there are no sparkly unicorns in the book. Sorry.)

 

 The element of time played a big part in getting “How to Live with a Ghost” out of my head and onto a Word document. Specifically, having enough of it to sit down and create coherent sentences (paragraphs, scenes, chapters and sections that sounded like they knew each other) without interruptions. When you add spouse, pets, day jobs, domestic engineering and the need to avoid slowly calcifying into a desk goblin, it’s a challenge to find time.

 

I am pretty sure I looked like this several times while writing "Ghost."

 Plus, there was the reality that when I finished it, I would have to get serious about letting other people read it, otherwise I'd just committed a gigantic waste of time. This was even scarier than looking out the kitchen window and seeing a cow wandering by. Followed by another cow . . . and another . . . and another . . . and just when your brain registers that the cows are out, you realize they are not your cows. The neighbor's cows being out are only marginally less terrifying than your own cows being out. Cows were definitely a reason it took so long to write The Book. Or at least I’m blaming them.

 

These critters are where they are supposed to be. Behind secure fences.
That is not always the case with critters.

Next week: drafts, editing and other things that panic first-time novelists. Maybe they panic veteran novelists, too. That’s the weird part about being a writer: you write things for people to read, then you're terrified when you have to let someone to read them.