I know most of you here are still laughing at the title since my SFF series is about sentient guinea-pigs but bear with me.
The next book is a thriller.
And it’s protagonist is a teenaged girl in a wheelchair*.
I am neither.
I recognise I’m stepping into uncharted territory and I’m excited and scared. I know I’ve got more responsibility to tell it right.
I guess I also recognise the fact that it’s going to wind up being a fantasised version of what I wish for my daughter Nenna, what I know she can never be. And alongside that, it will allow my chance to be angry and shout on her behalf. The character in this book will take no prisoners.
I also feel like I’m following in huge footprints. When I was 10 or, so I read ‘Scallagrigg’ by William Horwood (excellent read, I heartily recommend it). It’s a mystery investigated by a lass with C.P and her mates. I clocked in the front bits that he’d dedicated the book to his daughter. I took a punt and guessed she was the protagonist and wrote him a letter saying how much the book moved me and how I wished them all the best.
He wrote back, love him and was lovely, but also said: “I don’t know what she’d make of it”. Which left the ten-year-old me puzzled.
And now here I am poised to write in a similar way myself. Funny how things turn out.
I expect I’ll be too terrified to worry about it overmuch in November as I’m writing it for #NaNoWriMo (here) in thirty days.
(* I think I might make her a #SWAN too, pending me asking permission!)
Wish me luck!