My first YA novel, Starting from Here, is still a little over a year from publication and not yet out in galley form. But in the last month, it's started to squeeze its way into the world.
For a writer like me, who keeps her writing projects very close to the vest, this has been especially daunting. I never share partial drafts with other people, and I'm extremely selective about who gets to read and critique the finished ones. For the most part, my friends and family have resigned themselves to the fact that they won't get to read SfH until Fall 2012, even though many of them have been hearing about it for years. (Gold stars for your patience!)
Then, with my last round of line edits, my editor asked me to give SfH to some LGBTQ teen readers for feedback. Does the book authentically reflect contemporary teens' experiences being out at school and so on?
For weeks, I put this off. I'd come this far; wasn't it a bit late to change anything now? Besides, while I know lots of kids through my job, I don't know any queer teens (that are out to me, at least). Etc. Finally, I had to face the truth: I was scared. More than scared: terrified.
Some writers of YA books claim they "didn't know they were writing a YA book." They wrote the book they wanted, and agents or editors decided it was YA. That's fine, but it's not true for me. All along, I have known I was writing a book for teens, especially teens like I was back in the early/mid-1990s. Figuring out that I wasn't straight. Looking for myself in books at the library and bookstore. Sometimes finding such books, more often not.
In other words, while I hope all sorts of readers will find and appreciate Starting from Here, young LGBTQ readers are the ones I especially hope to reach. Theirs are the experiences I wanted to echo as I wrote this story. And so, in a way, I value their opinions more than any other readers. If I struck out with them, where would that leave me?
Still, I want my book to be as good as I can make it before it goes to press, and sometimes that means opening the door to outside opinions, no matter how scary the prospect. So, I asked some friends to connect me with queer teens they knew, and my book's previous readership suddenly doubled in size.
When I received the initial responses in my email, I cried. After the first two, I stopped crying, but I was still overcome. Everyone I sent it to devoured it, reading it two days or less. These young women used words like "amazing" and "wonderful" and "this feels like my life." The characters felt real. One reader said she cried during a tough scene between the main character and her father. Another reader said she was left wanting to know what happened next, after the book ended.
I don't say these things to boast--not remotely. Instead, these comments leave me so humbled. It's so incredibly hard to be a teen, and it's even harder to be a queer teen battling social norms and homophobia, both internally and externally. That hasn't changed in the past 15 years. These young women told me a little about their personal stories, and they inspired me with their bravery, intelligence, and strength. For them to deem Starting from Here worthy of a new generation of young queer readers is an incredible honor to me.
As I struggle to write my next book, I find myself mired in self-doubt more than I would like. That hasn't changed. But even on the days when I don't have faith in myself, I now have faith in Starting from Here. And I can't wait for it to fly into the world next fall.