I have finished revisions on the first part (of five) of my Middle Grade supernatural horror novel, Something’s Wrong with Sissy. I’ve pasted the text below. I’m happy with it overall. If you like it, I’d love to hear from you with a comment.

Part One: Summer

It was this time last summer that Sissy stopped talking. I remember it clearly. We were in the backyard, near the woods. Midsummer, so it was really hot. She turned to me, face shining with sweat. She glanced at the treeline and grinned. I could see the mischief in her eyes.

“C’mon, Mags! Find me!”

Those are the last words she ever said.

She took off, clearing the lawn in no time. She had always been a fast runner. Before I could say anything, she had disappeared beyond the oaks and maples. I groaned as I got to my feet. I was tired already from the heat and really didn’t feel like moving.

“Come back, Sissy!” I yelled. “I don’t want to play!”

No response. I called out again. Nothing.

I stomped forward, slowly building up the energy for something faster than a crawl. As I reached the treeline, I shouted again.

“Sissy! I’m not playing!”

She didn’t respond. I figured she didn’t want to give away her position. She was a champ at hide and seek. It always took me forever to find her on the best of days. I was always a little annoyed by the time I found her crouched inside a box in the attic or stuffed in the lazy susan (after she had stashed the pots and pans inside the oven) or, one time, hanging from the top branch of the tree by our bedroom window.

Sissy had always been small. She was born that way. I was the big twin, that’s what people called me. Sissy was the little one. The sick one. The frail one. “Frail” was what Gramma Mullins always called her. Frail little Sissy.

But she wasn’t frail. She was strong. And fast. “A natural athlete,” our father said.

As I walked through the woods, I kept an eye up toward the sky. I was looking for a hint of her green shirt or white shorts or bright blue shoes–something to give away her position. On the ground, I gently kicked at any large piles of upturned earth or fallen acorns. She had never hid in the dirt, but I bet she could dig like a dog and make herself a spot in no time flat.

I called out again. Then again.

Nothing.

“Look, Sissy,” I yelled at the trees. “I’m seriously not playing this stupid game right now. It’s hot and I am going inside. And if you don’t come with me then I’m going to–”

I struggled to think of something appropriately wicked.

“–I’m going to throw all your books in the trash. After I burn them. I mean it!”

I screamed the last part so loud, it made my throat hurt.

Still no answer.

I was so angry by that point, I almost didn’t hear the thud.

All my anger sank to my feet and suddenly I felt scared.

“Sissy?” I called out. “Sissy, are you okay?”

I ran toward the sound, almost snagging my shoe on a tangle of branches. Some twigs stuck to my laces and I kicked them off as I ran. I spotted something white in the distance. My brain tried to process what I was seeing in the confusion of color.

White. White shorts. Green. Green shirt.

Blue.

Blue shoes.

Sissy.

I ran.

Roots scraped at my ankles, twigs crunched under my feet, leaves gathered into darkness above me. Every step seemed like a mile. I couldn’t run fast enough. Finally, I reached her. Finally, I saw her.

My sister, slumped against the rough trunk of a graying tree.

She looked like a broken bird. Arms bent at her side like dead wings. Her head at a hard angle, face turned away.

I stopped, unsure of what to do. Something inside me pushed me forward, my feet suddenly stones. My hands shook. My thoughts were nothing but a blur.
When I got close enough, I dropped to my knees beside her.

My mom always said never to move anybody who was hurt because you could make their injury even worse. While that warning was in my head, I couldn’t resist rolling her over. She was breathing, which was good. But her face. Her face was pale. Blood trickled from her nose in thin red rivers. Tears lined her eyes. A stream of saltwater trickled down her cheek and pooled inside her left ear. She stared at the sky, eyes wide, catching the beams of light breaking through the leafy cover of the woods.

I snapped my fingers in front of her face. She didn’t respond. No blink, no sound.

Nothing.

I didn’t want to leave her but I had to. I cemented her location in my mind. I memorized the path I took out as I ran back home to get our parents.
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So I gave up writing.

It wasn’t intentional. It honestly just happened. A confluence of rejection, exhaustion, and anxiety wore me down and I stopped writing.

Outside of the day job, that is.

Time passed. Writing became something I didn’t do. I didn’t even think about it.

It was freeing. I stopped worrying about a lot of things and allowed myself to be okay with where I was in my career, in my life.

Then things started nagging at me. Unconsciously. I started to feel that anxiety when walking through a book store. I felt an aversion to reading. I got The Guilt over not having an agent and not having some big publishing contract. The tells.

The desire to write showed up soon after.

I dreaded things going back to how they had been. Back to being stuck in this constant cycle of unfulfilled ambition and unending self-defeat.

Then something else happened. I broke through a barrier, pierced some emotional membrane. I felt the need to write, the drive to create, but all those other anxieties melted away. I had the desire to go and make—and that was it. Nothing weighing me down, making me feel less-than. I fell back in love with both writing and reading without all this other baggage.

I wasn’t used to that. Depression, fear, anger had always been part of the package. Without those feelings, that creative fever I felt wasn’t a burden. It was exciting.

Admittedly, that made me nervous. I waited for the other shoe to drop and it didn’t.

Certain I wouldn’t be ambushed, I wandered into the writing fields again. I dusted off an old story of mine and started revising it. Free and clear and without. Without all those other, horrible things.

Which leads us to now and the name of this blog post. The story I’m revising, the story I’m finishing, is a Middle Grade horror novel called Something’s Wrong with Sissy. It’s a dark fable about a young girl named Margaret whose twin comes down with a strange affliction that only she can solve—or at least try to.

It’s about 20-25% of the way done now. I’ve posted some bits of it on my Twitter but will post longer excerpts here as I’m comfortable.

It appears I’m back writing. And for the first time in a while, I’m happy about that.

Stay tuned.