Since I published HOME, I’ve gotten some emails asking if I’m going to write anymore books. To those that wrote and asked that, telling me you’ll buy another book even though you don’t even knowing what it’s about–you’re awesome.

Truth is, I have several books happening right now. Most are only the first few chapters, because I’ll get a fun idea, quickly write the first three chapters, then I’ll jump to another idea. I think I have over two dozen stories that I’ve started, but I get too excited for another story and then nothing gets done.

But sometimes I’ll start writing a story, and I fall so in love with it that I can actually get through more than three chapters. I’ve finished three, aside from the Mirror Trilogy, that are sitting in my computer, maybe forever. One is a regency, another contemporary. I think I’ll published them one day, but not right now.

Because now I’m writing this story, and I kind of love it. This story is about Josephine Audley, who is the daughter of the current bookkeeper of a magic library. This library holds all the stories that authors get too frustrated with and throw away before finishing. The characters are frozen in their books, waiting for their ending.

When she turns 16, she’s finally old enough for a book to choose her to finish it. This story is about her traveling inside her first book, where she meets stereotypical characters–the most beautiful main character ever, the brooding hero, the funny sidekick best friend, and the weird other characters. She joins the group to help them accomplish their goals, keeps reminding herself that the brooding hero is destined to be with the main character even though Josephine and him have a special connection that can never turn into something. There are a lot of twists, and by the end everything Josephine thought about writing the ending of a story is changed, and she’s faced with certain things that will change her forever.

AAAAHHHHHH. I’m really excited about this one. Here’s a sneak peek at Chapter One:

 

one

 

 

At the moment, I have two problems: my bald spot and my pants don’t fit.

The smelly chunk of singed hair currently smoking on my bathroom counter was one hundred percent my fault. I’ll take full credit to rocking out to a song and forgetting that I had my curling iron in my hair for a few seconds. All right, a minute. Or two. It doesn’t matter. All that does matter is the fact that I have a bald spot just above my right ear. The irony of the situation only makes it worse—my hair is naturally curly. So why do I need the curling iron, you ask? It’s because the great gods of fate decided that not only would they bless me with hair that looks like a container of bleach was poured into a big bowl of tomato juice, producing a weird red color that doesn’t even have a name, they also gave me out of control curly hair, except for four fat sections that are straw straight. Well, I guess I’m down to three straight sections now that one is in my bathroom sink.

But I blame Dad for my pants not fitting. It wasn’t the third piece of pizza I had at dinner that made my pants tight, or the big piece of birthday cake that Dad thankfully bought instead of attempting to make. It was because he put my jeans in the dryer. I’ve compared putting my pants in the dryer to cooking bacon, because Dad adores bacon like I do pizza, so the analogy seemed fitting. You put bacon on a hot skillet—it shrinks. You put jeans in the dryer—all the water the hot air squeezes out are the manufacturers tears that you’re ruining a fabulous pair of pants.

So, on the night of my sixteenth birthday, I’m semi-partially bald, and my stomach is cramping because I had to lie down on my bed to stuff myself into a pair of skintight jeans.

But that doesn’t really matter, because I’m SIXTEEN! I know most kids can’t wait to turn sixteen since they get to drive, gain a little more independence, open a door to freedom.

Not me.

I’m sixteen, which means I’m old enough for a book to pick me. My entire life, I’ve watched Dad journey into a story to give those characters an ending. For four years I’ve watched Cass go through, coming back with the most amazing stories of the people, or creatures, she’s met.

When I first learned about the weird circumstances that surround my family, I hated it. Why were authors so scatterbrained that they start a story, create characters, a plot, and then stop before ending it? Over time, Dad told me it’s because some characters are loud, and stubborn, and they don’t like the way the story is going, so they don’t cooperate. Ever heard of writer’s block? Yeah, that’s the characters telling their author that the story is going in the wrong direction. When I heard that, I craved the chance to go inside one of those dusty old books and meet these characters. Now I’m grateful to all those authors who gave up on a story, because when they throw it away, it comes to our library.

It comes to me.

“You ready, funny face?” Dad calls through the door. I haven’t decided if I’m too old for that nickname, or if I’m going to make him call me that until I’m eighty-five and have jowls and saggy neck skin. He started calling me that when I was five and crashed my bike, popped out my four front teeth, got a nasty gash across my cheek, and had to wear an eye patch because some rocks got in my eye. I cried on the way home because I looked like a deformed pirate, hence the name, funny face.

“No, I’m not almost ready,” I say when I open the door. “Do you remember what I told you about the dryer and my pants?”

His eyebrows scrunch down as he rummages through the files in his brain to find the one that reads ALL THE THINGS JOE TELLS ME. It’s a big file. Hard to miss.

“Was it the bacon one?” he asks with that uneven smile that only shows half of his teeth.

“I know why you did it.” I walk out of my room and follow him down the hallway. “You shrink all my clothes so I’ll get mad and start doing my own laundry. Cass told me you did the same thing with her.”

“A dad has his limits, and when you start wearing certain clothes that can’t be dried, that’s my limit.” He smiles over his shoulder on our way down the stairs. “And I won’t wash underwear.”

“Don’t say underwear,” I say through failed attempts at muffling my laughter. “That’s gross.”

He laughs and slings his huge arm over my shoulder. Dad is a big guy, both in height and weight. I’m five-seven, so I’m not short, but I feel tiny compared to his six-six. He has red wavy hair that’s always tied back into a ribbon that’s too short, so it doesn’t fully contain the mass of hair he has. His red beard is short and scruffy, which he always rubs when he’s thinking hard about something. He gave me his eyes that are too clear to be blue, but too light to be gray. He calls them metallic eyes, but normal people just call them blue.

He opens the basement door, and his hand gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before we go down the stairs. I know these stairs like I know the back of my hand. If I could carry a tune, I could sing to the melody of each squeak the stairs make. We make it to the basement, which consists of furnaces, water heaters, cans of food in case of Armageddon, and the hidden stone door.

Dad steps up to the stone wall, places his hand against it, then looks over his shoulder, and asks, “How much would you hate me if I told you we should wait another year?”

I step up to him, put my hand over his, and smile. “Would it make a difference if you told me that? Would the library listen?”

A sadness that is as much a part of him as happiness creeps across his face. “No, it wouldn’t listen.” He blows out a breath, then together, we push our hands against the wall. Air whooshes around, and the smell of leather and dust hits me with such familiarity I smile at the feeling of home. Stone by stone, the wall disappears until we step into the library, and I hear each stone build upon another until it’s sealed shut behind us.

The library has moved through generations, appearing in the house of the current bookkeeper, which right now is Dad. All four walls have shelves beyond shelves of books, stacked seven stories high. Some of the shelves spin in spirals, others are waves, and some are stuffed so full of books it takes two of us to get a book free. My favorite part of the library is the books, of course, but a close second is the magic.

There’s an energy in here that you can’t find anywhere else. It’s like I’m standing too close to an electric fence. The hairs on my arms go up and down, there’s a quiet buzz in the air, and there’s a belonging that settled into my heart the first time I stepped foot in here. Dad’s the bookkeeper, so he’s in charge of making sure the library stays hidden, the stories get finished, and everything inside gets taken care of. But just because he’s in charge doesn’t mean he’s the only one who loves this place. I can’t count the number of nights I’ve spent sleeping on the floor of the library, reading book after book, dying to know what was going to happen next, wondering if it was going to be me who got to finish the story.

“I don’t have much time,” Dad mumbles, flicking his head so I’ll follow him. “You were born at 8:59 pm, so I have twenty-one minutes until you’re officially sixteen. There are a few things you need to know before you jump.”

I follow him, climbing the stairs that hug the walls. My fingers trail along the spines of the books, and I smile when I see the ones I’ve read, happy for the characters who found their ending.

Halfway up the staircase, Dad stops. I glance at the shelf we stop at, and my eyes immediately dart away from it and concentrate on the floor. I hate this shelf. I hate the noticeably empty space right in the middle where a book is supposed to be. I hate that Mom went into that book nine years ago and never came back. If she had died inside the book, the library wouldn’t keep its spot on the shelf, the library wouldn’t be waiting for it to come back. If she died, we probably could have found some closure and mourned the loss of her.

She didn’t die, and that means one of two things: Mom is trapped inside, held against her will somehow. Or she chose to stay. The thought that maybe she chose to stay there instead of coming home has eroded parts of my heart over the years. The others parts of my heart ache at the thought that she wants to come home, but can’t.

“Before you go, you need to know the rules,” Dad says softly, a tremble lingering in the back of his throat. I already know the rules, have known them since I could read, but Dad seems like he needs to tell. “First, you can’t write the story. You can only point and persuade characters in the right direction. Most characters are hard headed—that’s why the author gave up on them. You’ll need to guide them very carefully, in a way they think everything they do is entirely their idea.”

I nod, so he continues. “Second rule: If you get hurt in the book, you get hurt in real life. You bleed real blood in there, Joe. The second you go in, that world is real. Knives are sharp, and bullets are fast. You’re going into children’s books, so you’re most likely going to face dragons, creatures, or bad sorcerers. Be smart, and be careful.” His reaches out and grabs my hand, so hard I think my bones might actually break. His chin quakes slightly, and his eyes begin to fill. “Joe . . .” Tears well up in his eyes, and I have the urgent desire to do anything to get rid of them. I’ve seen Dad cry only a handful of times in my life, but before this moment, I’ve never felt every tear like I do now.

“Joe,” he tries again, “if you die in there, you’re blood is written on those pages, and your soul is permanently part of that book. You can’t come back.”

I gulp loudly, feeling the blood leave my cheeks only to be replaced by ice. I know this already. I’ve known since I was five, but now that my time is here, everything feels so . . . real.

“The third rule,” he says sharply, immediately losing the worry in his voice. “And this is possibly the most important one, is you have to remember where you come from. These worlds you’ll go into are magic. You’ll be able to do actions there that you can’t do here. There will be things you’ll see that your imagination can’t even make up, and the combination of it all can consume you, and you’ll get lost in the enchantment. And if you get lost in it, over time, you’ll start to believe you belong there. Always remember that Josephine Audley belongs here, with a dad too weak to live without you, and an older sister too proud to admit how much she relies on you.” He grips my shoulders and ducks his head lower so we’re eye level with each other. “Promise me, Joe. Promise me you will never lose sight of who you are.”

I smile through the blush I can feel staining my cheeks. “I promise.”

I jump when the grandfather clock strikes nine o’clock, and silence hangs between Dad and me as it chimes nine times. With each chime, my heart beats faster and faster until I feel like it’s going to jump right out of my chest.

A loud bang echoes through the library, a blinding light flashes through the library, blue lightning cracks along the shelves, and I turn my head in time to see a book soar up from the middle of the library, and gently be replaced in its rightful spot.

“Am I too late?” I hear Cass shout. “Joey, you still here?”

“I’m here.” I run down the staircase, and am instantly enveloped in Cass’ arms.

“I think I butchered that ending because I was trying to hurry back before you went.” She pulls away and smiles at me, the smile that turned motherly the day after I turned twelve and needed a girl to talk to about tampons and hormones. Her thick auburn hair is pulled back into her usual ponytail, her deep blue eyes are guarded from trying to keep me naïve from the things she’s seen.

She leads me over to the sitting area, pulling me down onto the couch with her. Her lips pull up on the sides as she reaches out and flicks one of my silver dangling earrings. “I got all dolled up for my first jump too,” she says, and I suddenly feel stupid for wearing them. She tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, her eyes filling with water and worry. “Before you go in, I want you to think of something here—an object, a word, a phrase, anything. Think about it, memorize it, because sometimes when you’re in another story, you start to forget your own. And remembering something as ordinary as a flower or a certain smell can help your thoughts stay clear.”

“What do you think of?” I ask, suddenly overwhelmingly terrified.

She smiles again, clutching my hands in hers. “I think of pizza.” We both laugh, though mine is terribly forced. She pulls me to her, and whispers in my ear, “You’ll do so many great things, Joey. I’m excited to read your stories.”

“A book has to pick me first,” I say shakily, gripping the back of her shirt that sort of smells like a dumpster. I wonder where she just was.

“Looks like one already has.” She pulls away and motions to something behind me.

My head whips around in time to see a tattered blue book being pulled from the shelf, and slowly drift toward the ground. It hovers over the glass panel in the middle of the library, waits a few seconds, then quietly drops, the spine just barely touching it, and light explodes.

“Remember to think of something!” Cass yells over the sound of light. It sounds like wind, hissing and whistling through trees. “Remember something here so you will always remember who you are.”

She puts something around my neck, a necklace I think, but I don’t look down at it. I hug her quickly and stand, because the light coming from the book is sucking me toward it, pulling everything inside of me to move closer. A roaring fire is replacing my blood. I’m not sure if it’s the book that’s making it scorch, or if it’s nerves that have been ignited inside of me, but whatever it is, it feels better with each step toward the book.

I turn to Dad. “I’ll be safe,” I yell, then wrap my arms around his big waist, and immediately I know what I’ll take with me to remember. I’ll take Dad—how he always smells like soap, how his beard scratches my forehead when I hug him, and how he’s looking at me now, like I’m tearing out his heart and taking it with me.

“Come back to us, Joe.” He squeezes me hard, making air puff out of my mouth.

When he releases me, I immediately walk backward to extinguish the burning inside of me. I see Cass step next to Dad, take his hand, and both of their agonized and worried faces are the last things I see before I take that last step into the light. The light flashes and I see unfamiliar faces, hear their names inside my head.

And the story begins.

 

I’ll give updates as it comes along!