So, I wrote a book on accident.
Here’s how that happened...
I’m the youngest of eight kids and, no, it wasn’t a Brady Bunch deal where two reasonably sized families were joined by marriage. Rather, all eight of us were born to the same mom and dad, one right after the other, and we all grew up together under the same roof, usually stacked on top of each other in bunk beds.
It was like being born onto a football team. There was a lot of shouting and running around. We were a tide of humanity that swept across public places like thundering linebackers. We caused a lot of damage, incurred many injuries, and accumulated a lot of stories, which we still retell to make each other laugh.
Then, after fifty some odd years of withstanding my family, the house we grew up in burned down. Totally on accident, which was the weird part, considering I had nearly burnt the house down three different times that I can recall.
When my sister Martha called to tell me—first and most importantly—that everyone was fine, no one was injured in any way, but everything from our childhoods was lost, we both started laughing. She texted me pictures of the smoldering ruins, and to this day they make me giggle.
Unfortunately, this phone call with my sister Martha happened just minutes before a conference call with my editor and my agent. I had to explain to my agent and my editor that I was only partially prepared for the call because the house I grew up in had just burned to the ground. I really tried to say it with a straight face, but I couldn’t. I burst out laughing.
Naturally, they had some questions.
I told them that if they knew my family, they’d know that the house had survived far longer than it had any right to. And burning the house down is just so Angelini. It was bound to happen someday.
That’s when they both told me I needed to write about my family. For years now my husband has been telling me the same thing, and he’s usually right about stuff like this. So I said okay.
I started writing down anecdotes. I went for the old classics, the one’s my family had memorized. I had a blast writing it all down, laughing myself to tears. But when I read it back, it didn’t make any sense. It was a mess. I realized I couldn’t tell the funny bits without telling all of it. And the more I wrote, the more of those funny anecdotes I removed.
Memoirs are not my thing, apparently. But fiction is. I came up with a story, I added some characters and took others away. I never intended to write this book, and yet somehow, without meaning to, I ended up with Snow Lane.
Snow Lane is a work a fiction. It didn’t happen this way. But it’s all true. This is the most honest book I’ve ever written, not because the plot is a faithful recounting of my childhood. But because if you read it you’ll understand why my sisters and I can laugh at tragedy.
The book comes out January, 2nd, and I am so excited for you all to read it!
You can pre-order your copy using the link below.
those of you who can’t wait that long…. I just received some ARCs. :)