Gayle Forman - Where She Went
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- Book:Where She Went
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- Publisher:Dutton Juvenile
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- Year:2011
- Rating:5 / 5
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Where She Went: summary, description and annotation
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Its been three years since the devastating accident . . . three years since Mia walked out of Adams life forever. Now living on opposite coasts, Mia is Juilliards rising star and Adam is LA tabloid fodder, thanks to his new rock star status and celebrity girlfriend. When Adam gets stuck in New York by himself, chance brings the couple together again, for one last night. As they explore the city that has become Mias home, Adam and Mia revisit the past and open their hearts to the future-and each other. Told from Adams point of view in the spare, lyrical prose that defined If I Stay, Where She Went explores the devastation of grief, the promise of new hope, and the flame of rekindled romance. Watch a Video
Gayle Forman: author's other books
Who wrote Where She Went? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.
Gayle Forman
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It is customary in these types of things for writers to thank their editors and agents separately. But when I think of my writing career, I often imagine myself flanked by my editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, and my agent, Sarah Burnes. These two fiercely intelligent book warriors are both so integral to the creation and guidance of my work that its hard to separate them. Sarah advises, advocates, and helps me keep things in perspective. Julies greatest gift is that she gives me the key to unlock my stories. The two of them are my twin pillars.
But, as the saying goes, it takes a village. And in Julies case, that village consists of many, many dedicated people at the Penguin Young Readers Group. I will save some trees and not list them all but suffice it to say, there are dozens of people in the sales, marketing, publicity, design, online, and production departments to whom I am deeplyand dailygrateful. Shout-outs must go to Don Weisberg, Lauri Hornik, Lisa Yoskowitz, and Allison Verost, who is equal parts publicist, therapist, and friend.
Sarahs village at The Gernert Company includes Rebecca Gardner, Logan Garrison, Will Roberts, and the formidable Courtney Gatewood, who, for someone bent on world domination, is remarkably nice.
Thank you to Alisa Weilerstein, for inspiring me, as well as giving up some of her precious free time to help me understand the career trajectory for a young professional cellist. Thank you Lynn Eastes, trauma coordinator at OHSU, for offering insights into what Mias recovery and rehabilitation process might look like. Thank you to Sean Smith for an insiders view into the film industry (and a million other things). Anything I got right in regard to these details is because of these people. Anything I got wrong is because of me.
Thank you to the Edna St. Vincent Millay Society for the generous use of one of my all-time favorite sonnets, Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink. Many of Edna St. Vincent Millays poems are incredibly romantic and yet still kind of edgy all these years later. I only included the second half of this sonnet in the book; you should all go look up the full sonnet.
Thank you to my readers at all stages: Jana Banin, Tamara Glenny, Marjorie Ingall, Tamar Schamhart, and Courtney Sheinmel for just the right mix of encouragement and critique.
Thank you to my other villagemy neighborhood communityfor pitching in with my kids and generally having my back. Isabel Kyriacou and Gretchen Sonju, I am forever in your debt!
Thank you to the entire Christie Family for their enduring grace and generosity.
Thank you to Greg and Diane Rios for continuing on this journey with us.
Thank you to my family, the Formans, Schamharts, and Tuckers, for your cheerleading and cheer. Extra thanks to my sister for hand-selling my books to half the population of Seattle.
Thank you to my daughters: Denbele, who arrived in our family about midway through the writing of this book, and if she ever thought it was weird that her new mom occasionally seemed to channel an angsty twenty-one-year-old guy, never let that dent her ebullience. And to Willa, who inadvertently supplied me with so many of the books fictional band/movie/character names in a way that only a four/five-year-old can. I should probably raise your allowance.
Thank you to my husband, Nick, for your not-so-gentle critiques that always force me to up my game. For your sublime playlists that bring music into my life (and books). For supplying me with all the little band details. And for being the reason I cant seem to stop writing love stories about guitar players.
And finally, thank you to the booksellers, librarians, teachers, and bloggers. For helping books take flight.
ONE
Every morning I wake up and I tell myself this: Its just one day, one twenty-four-hour period to get yourself through. I dont know when exactly I started giving myself this daily pep talkor why. It sounds like a twelve-step mantra and Im not in Anything Anonymous, though to read some of the crap they write about me, youd think I should be. I have the kind of life a lot of people would probably sell a kidney to just experience a bit of. But still, I find the need to remind myself of the temporariness of a day, to reassure myself that I got through yesterday, Ill get through today.
This morning, after my daily prodding, I glance at the minimalist digital clock on the hotel nightstand. It reads 11:47, positively crack-of-dawn for me. But the front desk has already rang with two wake-up calls, followed by a polite-but-firm buzz from our manager, Aldous. Today might be just one day, but its packed.
Im due at the studio to lay down a few final guitar tracks for some Internet-only version of the first single of our just-released album. Such a gimmick. Same song, new guitar track, some vocal effects, pay an extra buck for it. These days, youve gotta milk a dollar out of every dime, the suits at the label are so fond of reminding us.
After the studio, I have a lunch interview with some reporter from Shuffle. Those two events are kinda like the bookends of what my life has become: making the music, which I like, and talking about making the music, which I loathe. But theyre flip sides of the same coin. When Aldous calls a second time I finally kick off the duvet and grab the prescription bottle from the side table. Its some anti-anxiety thing Im supposed to take when Im feeling jittery.
Jittery is how I normally feel. Jittery Ive gotten used to. But ever since we kicked off our tour with three shows at Madison Square Garden, Ive been feeling something else. Like Im about to be sucked into something powerful and painful. Vortexy.
Is that even a word? I ask myself.
Youre talking to yourself, so who the hell cares? I reply, popping a couple of pills. I pull on some boxers, and go to the door of my room, where a pot of coffee is already waiting. Its been left there by a hotel employee, undoubtedly under strict instructions to stay out of my way.
I finish my coffee, get dressed, and make my way down the service elevator and out the side entrancethe guest-relations manager has kindly provided me with special access keys so I can avoid the scenester parade in the lobby. Out on the sidewalk, Im greeted by a blast of steaming New York air. Its kind of oppressive, but I like that the air is wet. It reminds me of Oregon, where the rain falls endlessly, and even on the hottest of summer days, blooming white cumulus clouds float above, their shadows reminding you that summers heat is fleeting, and the rains never far off.
In Los Angeles, where I live now, it hardly ever rains. And the heat, its never-ending. But its a dry heat. People there use this aridness as a blanket excuse for all of the hot, smoggy citys excesses. It may be a hundred and seven degrees today, theyll brag, but at least its a dry heat.
But New York is a wet heat; by the time I reach the studio ten blocks away on a desolate stretch in the West Fifties, my hair, which I keep hidden under a cap, is damp. I pull a cigarette from my pocket and my hand shakes as I light up. Ive had a slight tremor for the last year or so. After extensive medical checks, the doctors declared it nothing more than nerves and advised me to try yoga.
When I get to the studio, Aldous is waiting outside under the awning. He looks at me, at my cigarette, back at my face. I can tell by the way that hes eyeballing me, hes trying to decide whether he needs to be Good Cop or Bad Cop. I must look like shit because he opts for Good Cop.
Good morning, Sunshine, he says jovially.
Yeah? Whats ever good about morning? I try to make it sound like a joke.
Technically, its afternoon now. Were running late.
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