I’ll never forget the moment I decided to write a book. It
was October 2007 and I was driving to visit my family in Utah. A seven hour
drive all alone, and somewhere along the I-15 north I made the decision that I
was going to fulfill my lifelong dream of writing a novel.
Skip ahead five years, one degree, and two kids later I
still hadn’t written a word. That is a lie, I’d actually written several pages,
but I’d never completed what I’d set out to do. I don’t know what it was about
New Year’s Eve 2012 but for some reason I decided 2013 was going to be my year,
and by the end of January I was well on my way to writing the novel that had
been living in my head for years.
I’m not going to say it was easy, because it wasn’t, but it
was a lot easier than never doing it…if that makes any sense. For five years I’d
dreamed, schemed, researched, and planned but suddenly I was allowing myself to
trust me and move forward. Two things were holding me back. No not my children,
my own ego.
1)
What if I suck? (Still a very real possibility.
So often I read books and marvel at the genius and talent of the author I am
reading and feel envious of them.)
2)
What if nothing comes of it? I spend all this
time pouring my heart and soul onto a page and nothing happens? I can’t
publish, or I do and I get horrible reviews?
So at long last I put pen to paper (or actually I just
started typing) and eventually I had sixty thousand words (the average length
of a young adult novel). Then came the extremely long (and continuous) process
of editing, revising, getting feedback, querying agents, etc.
Guess what. It paid off! I actually have a several figures
contract with HarperCollins Publishing and my husband is getting ready to
retire. I kid, I kid. I have no clue if I will ever see the financial fruits of
my labors (odds are, I won’t see a penny for all my hard work and diligence).
But here is my big payoff:
1)
I accomplished a lifelong dream…I mean, I wrote
a freaking novel for crying out loud. I’ve always wondered if I could do it—especially
the last six years, and I DID IT.
2)
I sharpened my writing and grammar skills, which
in turn has sharpened my communication skills in general.
3)
I gained confidence in my ability. I used to
keep my dream a secret for fear of being mocked or ridiculed. I didn’t even
tell my HUSBAND I was writing a novel until I was half way through, and I didn’t
tell most people until I was finished with the first draft.
4)
I’ve been continuously educated and enriched as
I’ve researched different methods and techniques of writing, editing, querying
etc.
5)
I realized it’s something I actually enjoy, and
I will continue to do it…even if I never get published. I actually have several
more stories gestating in my brain, characters who have appeared who want their
story told.
Although I’ve had positive feedback from agents, unfortunately
I’ve been told the market is not trending in the direction of my book. I’m
going to query for another few months, but I’m actually leaning toward self-publishing
in February 2014. I feel a need for it to be published in some way, for
closure.
Now, in a move that terrifies me to the depths of my soul, I’m
including the synopsis and first few pages of my book. Remember, it’s
copyrighted.
Celia Tyler is an intelligent seventeen year old girl with a
penchant for mischief. She always enjoyed the occasional practical joke, but
after her mother Jennifer died, she turns pranking into an art form. When one
(semi destructive) prank sends the staff and students at Taft high into frenzy,
her widowed father sends her nearly a thousand miles away to live with Amy
Carter, her estranged aunt. In the Carter home, Celia discovers a stockpile of her
mother’s possessions, including a diary from her senior year. Through the pages
of the diary, Celia begins to piece together fragments of her mother, finding
answers to questions she hadn’t even asked yet. Along the way, she is adopted
by a hodgepodge of friends, united by one common goal—to pull off an epic
senior prank. It’s the story of a girl who defined herself by her pain, and the
journey out of it.
In hindsight, I realize that the thoughtless execution of
the Great Frog Rescue (aka the greatest prank ever pulled at William R. Taft
High) was my downfall. Had I had more time to plan I would have gotten away
with it. In the past my shenanigans have been meticulous, untraceable, and of
course, big enough to make waves but small enough to allow me to fly under the
radar. This time, I was over confidant and under prepared.
To be clear, my intentions were (mostly) pure, although
watching hysteria spread among my fellow classmates and teachers was a
gratifying experience indeed. My purpose
was to A) rescue 500 ill-fated amphibians while B) sending a message to the
science teachers that object lessons should never require loss of life, no
matter how small, insignificant, and if I am being honest, repulsive the
subject may be. While I’m being honest I also did it to C) enliven the
otherwise mind-numbing existence that is my life.
In my defense (and perhaps demise) I did try to warn Mr.
Klein that the use of previously living subjects would not be tolerated by
students growing up in the golden age of virtual reality, where a graphic
simulation of frog dissection would have sufficed.
“Thank you for your opinion Miss Tyler,” he replied in a
voice indicating that he was not at all appreciative of my opinion. “It’s
always a pleasure to hear from one of our elite students.” His voice dripped
with sarcasm and I felt my blood boil. Teachers always felt it necessary to
bring up my intelligence, usually by citing my SAT score (perfect scores in
Comprehensive Reading and Writing, and not too shabby in Math).
It was as if my intelligence was directly related to my
potential which made my extracurricular activities especially disappointing.
Had I been an idiot, my irresponsible behavior would have been easily
dismissed. Expected even. Possibly embraced as a creative outlet. “She just doesn’t know any better,” they’d
say.
“Elite…if you ever decide to apply yourself and turn in some
work now and then that is,” Mr. Klien finished, not bothering to mumble his
intended insult under his breath. While teachers enjoyed reminding me of my
intelligence, they also enjoyed reminding me of my GPA (1.6) trying to guilt me
to action. As if it wasn’t my choice to slide through life uninterrupted by
homework deadlines. He turned back to the class.
“It is understandable that students may feel uncomfortable
dissecting a frog over concern for animals being killed, or simply because they
lack the motivation to complete any class work that may require significant
effort,” he paused, looking my way. “I believe that using frogs' bodies for
educational purposes is worthwhile. In addition, the evidence is strong that
bullfrogs are an invasive species in much of North America.”
“So are perverted old teachers, but I don’t see you donating
your body to science,” I replied making my own implications. The low hum of
fluorescent lights overhead punctuated the silence and the class waited in
awkward anticipation while Mr. Klein seethed. Not bothering to wait for a
reply, I let myself out.
Sure I got a semi-abusive earful about my behavior from the
school counselor Mr. Tyler, who prefers I call him “Dad,” (yes, my school
counselor happens to be my father, which could not be less convenient) but my
snide remark was worth watching a man on the edge of an aneurism try to steel
himself in front of 30 teenagers with camera phones at the ready—even if it did
mean three days without the internet (Mr. Tyler’s go-to punishment).
I was wrong about one thing. Mr. Klein wasn’t forking over
money from the minuscule lab budget for rotting carcasses. In fact, due to the
miniscule lab budget, Taft High couldn’t afford already deceased animals. They
got a 35 percent discount for buying live frogs to be slaughtered via
chloroform at the hands of the students, pre object lesson. A fact I
unwittingly discovered while signing for the delivery after school waiting for
my dad to complete his nine millionth transcript request.
I had come to learn many behind the scenes secrets of Taft
since the only car I had access to happened to
be communal, Dad having the
privilege of primary use, and I had no desire to spend twenty minutes sharing a
school bus with my inane peers among whom I had no friends, so what was the
point of going home anyway. Besides, the internet connection was much faster at
school (pathetically).
I actually don’t mind staying after school waiting for my
dad. It affords me great opportunity to openly rebel him by being a nuisance.
On this particular day, the prank was literally delivered to me. It really
would have gone against my nature not to take advantage of the situation.
There was no time for scrupulous planning. No time to “weigh
the consequences” or “smooth out the details” as they say. Rather, I went with
my gut. Obviously, the deep “brrroop, brrroop, brrroop” of five hundred live
bullfrogs was not conducive to a stealthy operation. I told the delivery men to
leave the frogs in the commons, where they would be transported later. A wiser
man would have looked into the face of a 17 year old and recognized menace, but
then again, a wiser man’s life ambition wouldn’t have been delivery boy.
Once the frogs were
in place, I created a sign on William R. Taft letterhead, instructing students
and staff to leave the frogs alone until they could be transported, threatening
something about suspension and consequences.
Finally, I used the widely hated Principal Crawley’s signature stamp
sealing the frogs’ fate (and my own).
The staff ignored the frogs, probably too overworked and
underpaid to even notice the amphibians waiting ominously in the epicenter of
social interaction.
I knew if I set the scene, I could most likely count on one
of the other 1,200 students to be curious enough to open Pandora’s Box, but
just to be safe, the next morning as Mr. Tyler and I arrived at the ungodly
hour of 6:30am I replaced the “Do Not
Touch” sign with a “Free the Frogs” sign.
I didn’t want to open the latch. I would let someone with
little to lose take the fall, leaving me standing guiltless. That someone was
Matt Coburn.
Matt Coburn had been the class clown since third grade. He’d
been suspended for so many minor infractions over the years that his parents
started blocking the school’s phone calls. He was a nice enough guy. A
non-entity, really. For him, the frogs would end up being just one more letter
in his file.
At precisely 7:36am Matt, never hesitating, unleashed the
frogs in the commons. I was there (of course) as a casual observer.
At first, it wasn’t
really all that exciting. The frogs hopped out a few feet and a few kids walked
over to inspect the goings on. One of the jocks, whose name I never bothered to
learn, walked up with his other nameless jock buddies and picked up a frog,
chucking it towards one of the cheerleaders, also not interesting enough to
know by name, who of course screamed, and squealed, and jumped up and down like
gender clichés will. It set off a chain reaction. For every squealing girl,
there was a guy hocking a frog in her direction. This was bad news for the
frogs, which seemed to sense impending doom and attempted to evade capture by
hopping away, often into the direction of a terrified and or grossed out
student. The madness spread thick and easy like peanut butter. I couldn’t look
away.
Apparently when a couple hundred people start panicking,
frogs panic. They hop, they hide, they kamikaze into industrial grade mixers in
the cafeteria (okay, just one of them did that, but it was enough).
It took almost three hours, half the staff, and even a few
firefighters to collect (most of) the frogs.
School was cancelled. Lawsuits were threatened. I took silent pride in
my accomplishment.
I realize now that I made two critical errors.
1) I underestimated the cunning determination of my
otherwise dimwitted teachers when dealing with “a case of serious vandalism and
animal cruelty”. Please, the only animal cruelty going on was the purchase of
five hundred unsuspecting frogs for the purpose of slicing open their chests
just so freshmen could see what would have sustained the frogs in life, had
they not murdered them.
2) I forgot a fundamental rule: Never sign for a package
with an alias that can be traced to you, which in my case was Kitty Sherbatsky.
Those amateur sleuths deduced that I was the only one who had checked out
Tolstoy from the school library in over a decade. I’m daring to hope that my
English teacher Mrs. Reed wasn’t the one who pointed them in my direction,
having introduced me to Anna Karenina. She’s the only person I have any amount
of respect for in this school, my dad included.
Unfortunately, even though my previous infractions were not
on such a large scale, when you have a reputation of defiance, you will be considered
a suspect pretty quickly. That and I had access to the letterhead.
While Matt received detention and service hours (which he
accepted indifferently, having enough hours to keep him busy until graduation
anyway) I, having “masterminded” the operation was facing expulsion. First, I was unauthorized to sign for the
frogs, and did so with an alias. Second, I used the school letterhead and
“forged the identity of Principal Crawley” and of course there was the giant
amphibian in the room: 178 frogs were either missing or dead. I was in deep,
murky water.
