I am excited that I have been able to finish the second draft of the first fourteen chapters of my second book, my first book that's not for the eight year old crowd. In the past, I have attempted to write fiction that's for adults, but have always felt more comfortable writing for kids, more and more the older I get and more kids I bring into the world.
My kids are never happier than when I am telling them stories about funny things they or their siblings did when they were little. My older kids love to hear stories about their dad and the crazy chihuahua we had before they were born. My kids now love to hear the stories I am writing that have nothing to do with them, even chapters of my newer story that isn't for children. I do pick and choose what I feel comfortable with them hearing and reading - it turns out 99% of it is fine. I think there was only one line I left out when I read some of it out loud to my ten year old.
I love being a storyteller. I love summoning up images, describing characters, and finding the perfect ending. There's nothing better.
What does surprise me lately (maybe I've mentioned this here - my memory is getting worse lately) is that my voice as a writer is pretty much the same in my children's book and my adult book. The children's story is intentionally less sarcastic and ugly, and the characters are soft and cuddly. Anyone that seems to be evil actually ends up being super OK in the end. And the animals talk - I couldn't seem to get around the need for dialogue. There is a little touch of macabre in the children's story - a little bit of dark humor, not much at all.
I am surprised that you can definitely tell that the children's story and the adult story are both written by me. I definitely have some edits to do, maybe several rounds yet to go on each, but I like my voice. I like the way I tell the story. And I can't wait to write more.
I have had a migraine the last two days and have had a flare up in the nerve inflammation in my foot. I sent my baby to daycare yesterday and just ended up sleeping the day away. But when I eventually woke up, laying in bed with my eyes closed, watching the gray and white kaleidoscope in my eyes, praying it would end soon, I wrote my next story in my mind. I let it cook and let it take form.
I cannot wait to finish my current story - only three or four chapters to go, which I may well be able to knock out tonight or this weekend if my aching body cooperates.
I may not make a dime writing, but I am loving it. I am so grateful that I have learned how to write stories that aren't just for kids.