Maplewood was the first book I wrote. Back in 2016, I had no idea what I was doing but felt an absolute compulsion (almost a fevered yearning obsession) to get the words out as fast as I could. I finished the 130,000-word monstrosity in two months and cried like a baby when I typed “The End.” I had achieved my lifelong dream of writing a book. I had fallen in love with my characters and my story and wanted more than anything to share them with the world. Little did I know that it would be five years (and hundreds of rejection letters and rewrites) later before I would become a published author, and in fact, three other books came out first (Rue, Punk, and Bibliointuitive).
I know this will sound crazy, but looking back now, I’m grateful for those rejection letters. Writing is like a muscle that needs to be exercised and stretched and perfected in order to become strong. In the beginning, my writing was mechanical and mystical but lacked finesse. I have since learned (through the course of daily writing, struggling, and growing) how to make a story come together and click. And I’m still learning.
The other reason I took so long to publish Maplewood is because it made me sad. In 2016, when I started writing, I didn’t tell anyone except my husband (who wondered why I was getting up at four o’clock in the morning—before heading to my day job—to pound away on my computer like a deranged gerbil). I kept it quiet because I was afraid that people would judge me—who is she to think she can be an author? I struggled with my self-confidence. But in March of 2017, my best friend, Bobbi, came into town for a work conference, and we met for dinner. With my hands shaking, I handed her an envelope with a thumb drive and a set of instructions, telling her I had written a novel and wanted her to read it but not to share it or tell anyone. As I held my breath and wondered if someone’s heart could actually fall out of their chest from pounding so hard, she took the envelope and said, “Amy, that’s really cool. You wrote a book? Wow, I didn’t even know you liked to write.” She was so gracious, and when she returned home and read it, I was even more grateful because she didn’t pan it (even though she probably should have—that first version was really rough!). She could have said, “Amy, this is a great little hobby, but really, you probably need to quit because to be honest, your writing is awful.” If she had said that, I would have walked away and never written another word (and probably cried myself to sleep for a year). But instead, she said, “I had trouble separating the ‘real Amy’ from the words in the book, and maybe you could shorten some of the descriptions, but otherwise it’s a good story, and you should keep going.” The blue sky opened up and my heart soared right up into the heavens!
Now, here’s the sad part: a couple of years later, Bobbi got an aggressive form of colon cancer and passed away at the age of forty-nine. It was awful. It’s still awful. She was an amazing best friend and an amazing human. She was also the first person who read my writing and told me to keep going. Much like Michelle and Kelly in Maplewood, she grew up in a house full of girls kitty-corner across the street from me on Maplewood Avenue. And because this story is a tribute to her and to our happy childhood growing up on Maplewood, it makes me sad that she isn’t here to finally see it come to fruition.
I dedicated Rue to her, even though she never read it, because back when I gave her Maplewood, she was the one person who could have crushed my soul but didn’t. Instead, she selflessly handed me the moon with her encouragement, and I will be forever grateful. So, even though I’m sad about her not being here to see my dream come true, I know she’s looking down on me with a thumbs-up and a “You go, girl!”
I have three other manuscripts in the hopper that are waiting to tell me their own right timing, and I will trust that instinct and be patient. I will also look up to the heavens and think, Bobbi, I did alright, eh? Patience really is a virtue. And thank you, my friend, for believing in me and for teaching me that friendship goes beyond the grave, and that life isn't always a straight path, and I'm all the better for knowing it now.