I was bored. Second semester of seventh grade, and somehow I had managed to land myself the easiest schedule ever. I started going through three books at the library a week. I started writing notes to my friends like crazy. I started–well, I started a book.
I took a piece of notebook paper, folded it in half, and wrote “Walk Me Home. By Tamara Hart. Chapter 1.” This became my biggest obsession. I didn’t finish writing the book until right before school started in eighth grade. But I did finish it.
So I began to rewrite. The characters got older. I cleaned it up, taking out lengthy descriptions and random silliness that made me roll my eyes.
I got all excited, because it looked like someone was interested enough to inquire about a sequel. (I mean, if you didn’t like the first one, would you care about a sequel?) I responded right away, letting her know about my outlined sequel. Then I sat on pins and needles, waiting.
On July 6, I received another email. This one said:
We are very impressed with your submission. Your story is incredible, fast-paced and a really, really good read. Your plot development is excellent, and the characters are also well-developed and likeable, except for the villains, who are incredibly frightening.
Um, yeah? Of course I said yes. Thus my novel went from being a YA coming-of-age novel to a YA thriller/suspense novel. In some ways, I felt like I sacrificed a lot of my original plot so that I could get it published. But the end result? It’s published.