Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Yesterday I sat down for the first time and read Dangerous Neighbors, cover to cover, inside its covers. I remembered, as I read, the many iterations this book went through. Three voices had, at first, told this story, and one of those voices was a fire. Countless Centennial scenes were painstakingly researched and written and then excised, so that the story might move at a more rapid pace. 1876 Cape May once had a cameo role; now it reveals itself across pages. The young man named William, who rescues lost animals for a living, evolved from a bit player into a major protagonist, and into the character I've most enjoyed writing.
Writers are supposed to know what they are doing. I rarely have. I have felt an impulse. I have submerged myself in research. I have written lines until I've heard a voice. And then I have found my way until I can no longer find my way, until other readers—Amy Rennert, my agent, and Laura Geringer, my editor, among them—say stop, look at this, consider that.
The bookmarks are here...