Right now I should be sending queries out to agents. Or working on one of the two potential follow ups to the novel that I should be querying. Or I should be cleaning the kitchen. What I’m actually doing is making notes on yet another attempt to write something that my kids will be able to read.
This will be my fourth attempt to write something suitable for the YA (young adult) market. Two failed because I wasn’t ready to write the story. The notes and the first drafts are still there and I will probably come back to them. These stories are probably only temporary YA fails.
The third one failed because I was writing across two time periods and the grown up version of my heroine decided she wanted to jump into bed with of her best friends. I can’t really blame her – he’s gorgeous and available and she thought she was going to die the next day – but explicit post 40 extra-marital sex doesn’t really work for in a YA book. I will probably come back to it and it might work as an adult novel but it’s probably a permanent YA fail.
It is deeply annoying to me that I find it so hard to write stuff that my kids could read. I think a big part of the problem is that I find it very hard to think about my own childhood and teen years. My childhood sucked. My teen years were a nightmare and I’m constantly surprised that I survived. All the advice that I can find about writing for teens says that you should try to remember what it was like to be a teen and my reaction to that is, “Hell no! It sucked enough the first time.”
Of course there’s nothing stopping my kids from reading my other novels. They probably will at some point but I’m putting it off as long as possible. Sorry kids. Your mother has a sick, sick mind and I’d prefer that you didn’t know about it.