National Novel Writing Month - Brave the Page

by Jason Reynolds

Okay.

Youre here.

I suspect that means youre interested in writing a novel. I know a little (just a little) about writing novels, but Im going to be completely honest with you: Im writing this introduction lying on a couch in the weird new house I just bought, because, for me, today was moving day. Meaning, a few hours ago I moved from an apartment to a house, and the last thing on my mind is talking about novels, because its really hard to think about stories when youre drenched in sweat and covered in whatever kind of sneezy dust-pepper that cardboard boxes seem to make infinite amounts of.

Like I said, I know a little (just a little) about writing novels. However, after today, I feel like I know much more about moving. About somehow packing life into boxes. My clothes and shoes (so many pairs of shoes!). My books. The ones on the shelf. The ones next to the bed. The ones stacked along the walls. All of them had to be packed away. My dresser, and bed, and sofa, and chairs. Pots and pans. Plates and glasses. Spoons, forks, and knives (oh my!). And also all the things Ive collectedmy trinkets and tchotchkes. Silly childhood photos. My grandfathers cookie jar. Coins Ive saved from around the world. And most importantly, letters from readers Ive received over the years. All packed up in boxes. A whole lot of boxes. Taped and labeled like mummies with tattoos.

I wish I could tell you the fun stopped there. But it didnt.

After the packing came the loading. Those 200 boxes (and when I say 200, I mean somewhere around 40) had to be carried down the 15 steps leading to the door of my building, through that door, down the stoop, through the gate, and into the truck. We had to take the legs off the sofa so we could maneuver it, tilting it, wiggling it through the narrow doorway and down the stairwell. And the bed... you dont even want to know!

After the loading came driving to the new place, and once we finally arrived, we had to unload everything. The thought of it all made me question if maybe I could just live in the truck. I mean, my bed was already there, and so was my sofa. I figured it could be kind of cozy, but the winter nights might get tricky, so... onward with the unloading we went. Box after box taken from the back of the truck, carried up the 20 steps leading to the front door. The sofa and bed had to be moved strategically again. And the boxes of my memories and mementoslabeled FRAGILE were moved gently and placed in corners, clear of leaning (and eventually falling) mattresses.

And right now, as I write this, Im looking over my laptop screen at all the boxes in this new place, shaking my head because tomorrow Ill have to unpack. Ill have to figure out where my things belong in this home. Where do the books go? And what about the art, and the letters? My family pictures? Where does the sofa belong? And what about my bed? Also, I need to buy curtains. Immediately. And I hope I packed what was left of the toilet paper, but even if I did, its going to take me forever to find it. Oof. Smells like paint in here. Speaking of paint, Im pretty sure I put a small hole in the wall moving my dresser. My new wall. Oh well, I guess that makes it mine now.

Im rambling.

But Im not. See, I know a little (just a little) about writing novels, and what I can tell you is that the process is exactly like moving from one home to the next. Your characters are your boxes. The protagonist is, perhaps, the biggest box, packed with a little bit of this, a little bit of that: dirty shoes, random books, and always some of the fragile stuff as well. Your job is to take them from a familiar place, a place where they feel they belong, and get them to the truck. Sometimes that means forcing them through the door, removing legs, bending a corner of the box. Sometimes that means sliding them down the steps, letting them tumble and burst open. Sometimes that means taking them through the back door and walking them through the alley. And once youve got them in the truck, you have to take them on the journey that gets them from one place to the next. It may be dark, it may be bumpy, and there may even be trafficstop and go, stop and gothe boxes uncontrollably slamming against each other.

Then, upon arrival, you have to get them from the truck, up even more steps than theyd come down when leaving their home, and somehow get them inside. Again, this may take maneuvering, and the boxes might be damaged in the process. But once youre through the doorthe new doorthose boxes will be sitting in a much bigger, more beautiful space. And youre thinking, Yes, I did it! But the truth is, now that big boxand all the special things in ithas to find its place all over again. It has survived the journey, but now must figure out where it belongs in this spaciousthough... weirdnew environment.

Pack, load, journey, unload, unpack. Thats a novel. And guess what? Its you lifting the boxes. You will sweat. Youll get dirty. Youll even try to convince yourself to let the boxes stay in the truck. And when that happens, use this book as your dolly (the strange little metal thing with wheels that people use to move heavy boxes).

And if it ever gets really tough, return to this introduction. Take a deep breath. Then read and remember the first (or last) three words.