My book officially launches tomorrow, and all I can do between obsessively refreshing the page and throwing my computer across the room so I don't go crazy is remind myself to breathe.
Because apparently, the second time around isn't any easier.
I've told a few people that the rewrite gutted me in ways I never anticipated because this book—the one I so desperately want you to read—is the one that was just waiting for excavation. I'm sure of this.
There's a process in writing where pieces of you filter into the work. It's a shedding of sorts. Your psyche gets lifted and examined, the subconscious gets twirled around a bit and all of these emotions are spilled on to the page. When I drafted Come Alive I barely knew myself. When I worked with the editor at Rhizome I was just starting to recognize the girl the mirror.
And now, with Every Shattered Thing, I know who I am and where I stand.
This book doesn't tie itself with a pretty bow. It won't pull you in and wrap you in a woolly blanket. It brushes up against something raw and real and broken, cutting you on a story you may want forget. But for the past five years, I haven't been able to get it out of my bones, which is why I'm here now talking about a rewrite I much rather would have let sit after experiencing failure.
But Stephanie wouldn't let me. She screamed and pushed and rattled around until I paid notice. And now it's your turn.
Will you listen?