My new novel Daffodil Uprising is a meatier, more emotional work than its earlier incarnation, Daffodil Sunrise.
Here are ten reasons.
The people and events are now seen from Cassia’s perspective. Just look at her snide commentary for amusement and relief. Really.
Many of the characters have been renamed, starting with the one who would become her father in What’s Left. They’re more fully developed, for sure. In the previous version, the dorm inmates ran as a pack. Now they’re spread out by age and interests, and three of them serve as wise elders for the newbies.
Her father’s reasons for coming east to Indiana are more clearly defined. As a photographer, he’s part of a fast-track program in the fine arts.
Two new characters introduce elements of fantasy and paranormal. The Victorian elements in the earlier version are now amplified.
The focus in now more on their emotions in reaction to the happenings.
The story is now character-driven, more than erupting from the plot.
This is about boyz, especially, trying to make sense of a confusing world, even before they get to the girls.
This version, for all of its light playfulness, is now more baroque and brooding. That matter of loving a flower child, for one, is far more difficult than you might imagine. Or, for her, that matter of sticking with someone as flawed as Cassia’s future father could produce a really baffling relationship.
More dark sides of the era are introduced. It’s not just early questions about vampires or ghosts on the campus, but the violent fringe of the time, too. Just what are they to make of the protest bombings or the drug overdoses, for instance? Or their failure to live up to the responsibilities of living together?
This is clearly focused on the Sixties rather than reaching out into what would come after. It’s the making of a hippie, in particular. Hey, just don’t blame him.
In my new novel, What’s Left, she’s retelling much she’s heard from others.
As Cassia might say, while describing the story she’s telling:
Look, if I’m telling you something, it’s happening now. I don’t care if the event took place a hundred years ago, when I evoke it, it’s all happening now, right in front of us. Anyone mind if it’s for the umpteenth time? Or if I’m quoting someone else in my own voice? It’s all coming through my mouth, so it’s me, too. Pay attention. OK? Now listen! Especially you, Baba.
As an author, I had to ask myself the question. Now it’s your turn for input.
Is it fair to put secondhand dialogue – even hearsay – in separate quotation marks? Or is it some other blending of voices?
There’s a word for these. Phobias. Maybe you know the particular terms for each one.
You pass a police car sitting beside a highway and automatically look in the rear-view mirror, clueless to any possible offense.
Spiders or rats, just because others in my household freak out at the slightest suspicion.
Any missing item. I’ll go squirrelly trying to find it.
Saying the wrong thing … after the fact. Just what was it, anyway? How could that possibly have been offensive?
I’m going to be late – or even miss it altogether. An airline flight, a crucial appointment, or just a big meeting, maybe even where I’m the featured attraction. But interruptions keep me from getting started out the door. And then there’s the possibility of bad traffic.
Some undiagnosed affliction. Like cancer.
Being powerless or helpless. Especially in the face of bureaucracy or injustice.
Losing my keys.
Can’t find the car. Not just a parking lot, either.
Getting locked out of the house when everyone else is away.
’Fess up now. Add to the list.
Of course, this is totally unrelated to the theme. Just another thing on my mind.