precedent

I’ve been thinking about Prince lately, so much so that I wrote him into my latest novel. What do today’s teens know about Prince? One nonbinary character considers him a role model but my other character only knows that Prince died of an overdose. I’ve said it before but I really feel lucky to have been a teenager in the ’80s. There were so many ways for men to express/perform gender, but I didn’t have language for any of it. I either liked their music or I didn’t, thought they were cute or not—end of conversation. Today I went to see Bohemian Rhapsody and was nearly bawling by the end. I didn’t know or think much about Freddie Mercury as a kid but I definitely knew Queen’s rock anthems from the ’70s. I never knew he was born in Africa and educated in India, but I could relate to being the child of immigrants who don’t understand that being an artist is a calling and can be a viable profession. My father once said, “No one can get up every day and write.” But I can. And I did in order to finish this novel in about five weeks. Here’s the summary:

Ever since his uncle committed suicide, thirteen-year-old Taj has been trying to hold his family together. He’d do anything to see his mother happy again so when Taj meets a strange woman in Woodlands Cemetery, he carefully considers her curious offer: directions to a magical door that will let Taj and his mother escape this world’s misery. All he has to do in return is find something precious that was taken from the woman over a hundred and fifty years ago. But can Taj reach the portal once the vengeful ghost’s wrath is unleashed upon the city?

In the afterword I talk about my family history of mental illness and how learning about West Philly made me feel more connected to my new neighborhood. I didn’t set out to write about a Black woman who died in an asylum but that narrative mirrors the fate of my paternal grandmother. Sometimes I know exactly what I’m going to write about and sometimes the story comes in pieces that I have to puzzle over for a while. Students in Brooklyn last week asked me if I had a favorite book—which is like asking a parent to name their favorite child. I always give the same response: “I don’t have a favorite, but I remember who and where I was when I wrote each novel.” Someday I will look back at Cin’s Mark and remember that I wrote it just a couple of weeks after moving to Philadelphia. I’ll remember writing quickly, desperately; I’ll remember how emotional I was, how menopause and the midterm elections had me eating and weeping and dreaming of moving abroad. I printed five copies of the novel but only one of my readers had time to give me feedback. She loved it and she grew up in this neighborhood. But I worry that I wasn’t able to scrub all the Brooklyn residue from my imagination. If I waited a year, I would know Philly better. If I waited a few weeks, I could probably find other readers and get feedback on the nonbinary and disabled characters. If I waited. But everything feels urgent right now. I’m part of a YA reading at Big Blue Marble Bookstore this Friday and hope to have copies printed in time. The next morning I’ll be at Uncle Bobbie‘s to read from Dragons in a Bag. The week after is NCTE in Houston. And then the holidays begin.

I started a new novel yesterday. I was thinking of the horrific shooting in Pittsburgh and how a sequel to The Phantom Unicorn would give me another chance to write about Nazi-puncher Ari. First Charlottesville, now Pittsburgh. Would I write less if there were fewer crises? Or would I just write simpler stories about unicorns and rainbows? Sadly, I doubt I’ll ever know.

The election is Tuesday. If you haven’t already, please vote. We have turned things around before and we can do it again.