The Lost Princess of Story: The Chronicles of Story Volume One a Middle Grade YA Fantasy by ➱ Book Tour with Giveaway

The Lost Princess of Story

The Chronicles of Story Book 1

by Suzanne de Planque

Genre: Middle-Grade, YA Fantasy

"The magical land of Story meets Brooklyn in this unconventional fairytale reminiscent of Narnia...a masterpiece..." San Francisco Book Review

"...an epic, imaginative portal fantasy touched with welcoming whimsy..."

Publisher's Weekly BookLife Reviews

Prince Charming grew up, became King, and married and murdered his way through six of the most famous fairytale princesses. Now the World of Story is torn by civil war, the Wall has been built, and the Doors closed.

Knights and princesses, heroes and magical creatures are refugees in Brooklyn, the place in this world most hospitable to magic. They thought they would be home soon.

Fifteen years later, Brooklyn girl Lilla is chafing at her guardian Gus's strict rules. Why home school? Why can't she walk two blocks without a chaperone? And why won't Gus answer questions about her parents?

Lilla escapes the rules in her beloved books. She is convinced she can find a way to the worlds between the pages.

She is right. Everyone around her has kept one giant secret. Magic is real. On both sides of the Wall, in Story and in Brooklyn.

Can Lilla find the Door that will take her to Story, the World that knows her wildest wishes and her deepest hidden damage, where reward is limitless and danger is beyond all she can dream?

MAGIC IS NOT BIRTHDAY CAKE WISHES. MAGIC IS POWER AND TRANSFORMATION.

FIND THE DOOR.

The Lost Princess of story is YA crossover. All ages book of multigenerational urban fantasy/portal fiction/ retold fairy tale with a Tudor twist. LGBT+ characters.

Recommended for readers of Seanan McGuire's Wandering Children series, Lev Grossman's The Magicians series, Melissa Albert's The Hazel Wood, Hafsah Faizal's We Hunt the Flame, and books by Gregory Maguire and Terry Pratchett.

Reviews

"The magical land of Story meets Brooklyn in this unconventional fairy tale reminiscent of Narnia. Exciting action, fun (and sometimes messy) adventures, and of course, wondrous magic awaits readers as the fine line between fantasy and reality is explored. An homage to refugees who find themselves in a world harsher than what they have left behind, The Lost Princess of Story is a masterpiece that is representative of the real-world issues we face today."

-San Francisco Book Review

"The sweeping first volume of de Planque's Chronicles of Story, created as a 'valentine to children's literature and fantasy', invites readers to sink into an epic, imaginative portal fantasy touched with welcoming whimsy...There's amusing banter, an adorable and hungry teacup-sized dragon, and an enthusiastic narrator given to wordplay and allegory... Lovers of fairytales and epic adventures will enjoy this dangerous quest filled with loveable heroes and magical creatures." A grade.

-Publisher's Weekly BookLife Reviews

"Author Suzanne de Planque weaves a marvelous new world for fairy tale and high-fantasy lovers alike. This endlessly creative novel is an immersive new chapter to the fairy tales we've known for generations. The narrative voice is charming, and there are continuously smart turns of phrase and plays on words. A tremendous creative achievement, The Lost Princess of Story will thrill anyone who has ever fallen in love with a story." ⭐⭐⭐⭐ 1/2

-Self Publishing Review

"... a great read, with subtle nods to fairy tales and more current fantasy fiction... carefully skewers and pays tribute to how fantasy tales work... Recommended for readers who prefer works by Gregory Maguire, Terry Pratchett, and works such as Ella Enchanted."⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

-LibraryThing

Goodreads * Amazon

All look, but few can truly see.

So, let’s say you had something to hide. Something particularly important. You could even say life-and-death, the-fate-of-the-world-depends-upon-it important.

What has always been the go-to spot to hide something than can never be found?

New York City, of course.

If you think about it for two seconds, it becomes so obvious. Everything is there. Truly everything. And there are so many millions of people, so many hundreds of streets, so many unmapped, even untold miles of tunnels underground. The sheer scale makes it possible to hide anything.

Besides, New Yorkers have seen it all. They pride themselves on it.

Imagine, if you will, the average person on first spotting a werewolf on the subway. Panic, hyperventilation, hysteria.

But in New York, it plays more like this.

“Saw that werewolf on the F again today.”

“Panhandling?”

“Well, it is the end of the month. Government checks won’t hit for a few days. Still, you’d think he could take the Q once in a while.”

“Could be worse. Could be SHOWTIME!”

SHOWTIME, for all you non-New York natives, being a traveling troupe of acrobatic breakdancing buskers who burst upon unsuspecting trains with their deafening performances, obviously designed to menace riders trapped underground. The message was clear—if enough money was not coughed up promptly, they might do dreadful things; like maybe even perform again.

How much more interesting SHOWTIME becomes once you know that the majority of their performers are actually a group of minor fey elementals, evacuees who wound up on this side when the Wall went up and the Doors closed. Hiding in plain sight.

And once you start to look, the magic is everywhere. Just ask the Billy Goats Gruff who live behind the doors of those mysterious Brooklyn Bridge anchorages. The bridge can never fall, as long as there is a Gruff in residence. Three were better, but magic could be reasonable about that kind of thing.

Like in the midst of the craziness of World War II, where worldwide shortages of everything included a virtual dearth of Gruffs. There was a three-month period where the bridge’s protection Gruff in question was Clarence, a remittance dwarf from the land of South Grimm. Clarence pitched in to hold down the fort, approximating the billy goat part by donning a set of fuzzy donkey ears not unlike those seen in Disney’s Pinocchio. He did, however, manage to be Gruff enough to pass. (He usually accomplished this in between drinking bouts by shouting “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down”, and no one ever had the heart to tell him it wasn’t quite the thing)

The best magic is not cut-and-dried and leaves plenty of wiggle room for interpretation. And he was certainly Gruff of heart. Still, he did his best in a pinch, God bless him, and the Bridge still stands today to guard Brooklyn.

Brooklyn, oh Brooklyn, fabled land of broken things. No, really—Breucklyn = Broken Land. That’s what the Dutch named it. In fact, examination of Brooklyn’s diverse communities—

CLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANG!

Sorry, used the cymbals I borrowed from my friendly neighborhood subway busker.

(No, not the werewolf. He’s more of a panhandler than busker.)

But I had to recapture your attention. I know, you heard the word magic back there. And it was so much more interesting than anything I said next. So, let’s make a deal. You try to stick with me, I’ll try to keep the wandering tangents to a minimum. That should drastically reduce the need for cymbals to focus your attention.

For this, after all, is a story about magic. A story about Brooklyn and a girl named Lilla, and magic. On both sides of the Wall.

You’ve been past the Wall before, most of you only in dreams. But a few of you already know the way back through the Doors. As people have stopped seeing, stopped believing, the portals grow fewer. But the worlds still wait for you.

Beyond that Wall lie your most heartfelt dreams and your most dangerous nightmares. What this world calls make-believe is reality there. That world can make you braver, stronger, and more beautiful than you ever dreamed possible; and it can turn out the darkest, most hidden secrets of your heart.

Others have been there and returned, to bring the stories we all know so well that we have half-forgotten them. Stories of a world that turns pain to beauty, faceless monsters under the bed to fierce dragons that exist only to help you to become glorious and brave. Stories of a world that knows your wildest wishes and your deepest hidden damage, where reward is limitless, and danger is beyond all that you can dream.

So—if you dare—turn the page.

And welcome to Story.

MEET JAMIE

It was raining again, and he was fresh off a yesterday full of frustrating patients, of insurance company indignities and problems with no solutions. His favorite clients had been truculent, his less favored simply unspeakable. He had not slept well last night, waking from a nightmare, worry blocking his return to sleep. He feared he had broken one of his own cardinal rules and allowed himself to bring his own problems into the room.

There was a conversation waiting at home, a continuation of one started in the dark last night. He was so well-matched with his partner; it was unfortunate to be on opposite sides of a problem. No, not a problem. The word gave too much weight to something that was, in analysis, so close to nothing. A cry in the dark, no more or less.

And yet. And yet… this nothing seemed to hide the substance of something else entirely. He was foolish to fret over this. His life would continue, non-threatening and uneventful, precisely as he had arranged. And if in his youth he had yearned to be a hero on a quest, life had taught him early and often that there was a lot to be said for sanctuary.

It was enough, then, to practice psychology in this age of managed care; to guide patients to find peace and safety in the infinite possibilities for chaos that were New York City.

His patients were self-selecting in a buyers’ market, glutted with choice. Those who were not comfortable with a classic “blank slate” psychologist did not last long with him. Occasionally he exchanged clients with another doctor in his co-op office, a woman of the more warm and fuzzy persuasion. He did not recommend patients that were Community.

Some of his clients didn’t understand the message hidden in plain sight on the sign on his door. James Malarkey, PhD. Community Friendly. And the small line drawing of the cat.

But many clients knew the secret that his shingle whispered. They knew their Central Casting by-the-book psychologist with the standard issue beard and glasses took a special type of patient; that he too knew the pain of being trapped on the wrong side of the Wall. That, in fact, he ran two quite different practices out of the same office. They knew the cat was a symbol dating to the earliest days of Story, when tales were told in pictures, knew that stick figures could signal help, warn of danger, and so much more.

There were not many others like him in this World, who treated the specific sort of PTSD that came in the aftermath of fairy tales, who understood the adjustments of a life with not enough Nonsense, and the pain of displacement from the many Worlds of the Community. That was where his practice began, long before he ever put in the years of schooling and training necessary to be licensed in this World.

He knew what it was to be broken, and he had been fixed, leaving him with a debt he could never repay. That was why he did this for a living. Because somehow, despite everything, he had been saved and was therefore compelled to save others. He had earned a cat, for kindness, and must extend that kindness towards other lost children of Story.

MEET LILLA

Lilla had tried it all.

She had started with the basics, bruising herself all over from hurling herself at the backs of wardrobes. Oh, she did it thoroughly. After exhausting every wardrobe at Gus’ house, she had spent an entire afternoon at the cavernous Red Hook IKEA. It had been pouring rain for a week, and she and Charlie had begged his mom, Sophie. Please, they said. We can run around there.

Sophie had pointed them in the right direction. Think you can find Narnia? Then it was hours in and out of every wardrobe she could find. Branching out, trying kitchen cabinets, closets, bookcases with doors. Anything Lilla could open and squeeze herself inside.

Finally even Sophie, the most patient of all their grownups, was showing telltale signs of IKEA exhaustion. They were headed for sweet rolls, the garage elevators, and home, when Lilla saw the huge, deep wardrobe, half-hidden in a dark corner of AS-IS. It radiated an invitation. Lilla could almost swear it hadn’t been there thirty seconds ago. She took it at a full gallop, convinced she would see Lantern Waste in three—two—one—

Well, the good news was she didn’t quite knock herself out cold. And for a consolation prize, Charlie had dragged her back upstairs to the food court, trying to distract her with meatballs and lingonberry drink. Nothing to show for it but bruises and a scraped knee. Not even one step into Narnia.

But that was okay. No one ever said magic would be easy. There was still so much to try. How many, how many coins had she picked up, on the sidewalks, on the subway? How many doubled wishes had she made? Not even one had turned out to be a half-magical, wish granting talisman.

How many hours she had spent in parks, staring at the trees, the grass, willing them with all her strength to turn into a long, low twisting tunnel she could run through into Whangdoodleland?

Why couldn’t she sneak away with princesses to dance at midnight, explore dark and endless tunnels, find just the right carpet, and fly it over London? Each time she tried, she felt a little closer, and so she unscrewed the knob from her bedstead, looked for the owl with her letter, listened for the secret messages the neighborhood dogs barked at twilight, and, always, wished, wished, wished.

It was impossible to see stars in the New York City sky, but she gave her best guess where the second one to the right would be. The question was, to the right of what? Straight on til morning, she thought, and found her most happy thoughts. Neverland, she thought. Narnia. Hogwarts. Wonderland. Oz. She could feel them calling. Lilla, they said. Lilla. Now.

But she did not fly.

All right, she thought. This might take some work. So, she looked through mirrors and into rabbit holes. She listened for the pipes and drums of the Circus Mirandus. She waited for the mysterious package to arrive, ready to drive far beyond Dictionopolis and Digitopolis to explore Loompaland, Whoville, Moominland and places far beyond. Even though she knew all about Stranger Danger, she listened, always, for someone looking for the road to Butterfield.

Oz, Lilla thought, feeling sleepy. She shrugged out of the covers, scanning the shelves for her favorite set of Oz books. She got up and found a favorite volume, scurrying barefoot back across the chilly wooden floor to her warm nest of covers.

There were so many ways to get to Oz, and she hadn’t tried all of them, not by a long shot. By cyclone, by balloon, by sea and earthquake and the Nome King’s tunnels…

Lilla yawned, sinking deeper into the pillows as The Marvelous Land of Oz slid from her lap, splaying open amidst the blankets. The magic word, she thought, sleepy. She had forgotten about the magic word.

Of course, the books never exactly said that the word would take you to Oz, but how perfect would that be? The secret password, right there in the book itself, if you could just find the right pronunciation.

How hard could it be to find the right way to say “pyrzqxgl”?

Sure, the last time she had tried, she had “pyrzqxgl” ed her way into one heck of a case of hiccups, but she thought—maybe—she could tongue twist her way round the word.

Or—another yawn overtook her—she could ask Gus to dig up that old student of his, the guy who taught “Magical Chemistry” at birthday parties to kids in the Jersey suburbs. If anyone could mix up a good magic powder, it was him. And “Weague! Teague! Peague!” was much easier to say than Bini Aru’s “pyrzqxgl” tongue twister.

That was it—use the powder to make a Gump, and fly with Charlie to Oz. Oz was the way in. It had to be. So many ways to get there, she thought, as her eyes closed.

No one, no one could be as close as she was. No one could want it, need it more. So what was she missing?

Lilla slept, not knowing many things. She did not know that there are no more Gump heads in Brooklyn.

She did not know why she was hearing worry and fear, or why the books were calling more fervently each time.

Most of all, she did not know how close she was to Story, and how soon she would be there.

MEET SOPHIE

“Breathe—” Bob said.

Sophie drew in one deep, slow breath and pushed it all the way out.

“Good girl,” he said. “Just one more—” and he pulled even harder, and she gasped.

“This—better—do it—” she said. “Any tighter and I’ll pass out on Merry’s pretty pink marble floors.” She giggled at the ridiculousness, standing in pantaloons and a corset that had to be pulled in so tightly to get her into her dress that a minotaur had to do the job.

Not to mention the weirdness of standing in front of Bob in her undies. Not that he noticed, but still. It had been a long time since anyone male had seen her in any state of undress.

“I would bet good money—that I’m the only—woman—in this city—currently being—laced up by a—minotaur—to—fit into a—princess gown.” She gasped.

“Last one—” He yanked even harder.

“I’m just—not—that—small—anymore—”

“None of us are,” Bob said. “We’re all past our prime.” He pulled even tighter. “Gorgeous.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head before he knotted the strings tight. “Now just don’t talk, breathe, or blink for the next six hours.”

“Stop. Oh—don’t make me laugh—” It was too late. She couldn’t stop laughing, even though it felt like she was being squeezed like toothpaste and something very uncomfortable was poking her in soft, private places. “There’s no—laughing—in—corsets!”

But that wasn’t true, and she remembered so often this same scene, stepping into the first of the many petticoats, each with yards of ruffle trimmed with fine, handmade lace and tucks.

She remembered the Palace, and Merry saying just precisely that— “there’s no laughing in corsets”—right before Elspeth imitated some pretentious knight and they all fell about in giggles. Remembered how they traded ribbons and whispered secrets. How Elspeth’s hair always got caught in the buttons down the back of her bodices, how she would help her tuck the rusty curls up tighter. How Merry made sure her maid always made her waist look the smallest of all.

“Focus, Sophie—” Annikey said. “If you’re determined to suffer like this, make it count. I haven’t worn a corset since I left Charming Castle for the last time. Nothing could get me back into that torture device.”

The dress and its spreading skirts were so heavy Bob had to help Annikey lift it over her head. “How does it look?” Sophie said. It had to fit this time.

“Better—” Annikey said. “Hang on—” And she felt both sets of their hands starting on the endless row of buttons down her spine. How Bray had loved her in a dress like this, how he had cursed the buttons each time he struggled to open them.

The dress was a copy of a favorite from Story. Pink, of course. Elspeth claimed green, to cool down her flaming hair. Merry preferred blue. That left her pink, like the heavy velvet of this dress.

How long had it been since she put on the princess dresses? Years. This one was made for her by that sweet little old Hedgehog seamstress for one of Gus’ Christmas parties, in those early years, when Gus felt secure enough in their new land for the Community to assemble, when they had all thought they would be Home by next Christmas, at the latest.

That was the year Xerxes had dressed up as the world’s tallest, palest, most scarred Father Christmas. The year Gus had allowed them to decorate the pine tree in the front yard, and a whole group of fairies graced the tree as living ornaments. Children walking by had told their parents to look—look! There were real fairies! Not one parent had seen.

It had felt so safe here, then. They had thought they would be Home so soon.

“And—done!” Bob announced. She sighed as she looked in the mirror. The dress had, finally, buttoned. But somehow all the things that made the gown look so lovely—the color and thick nap of the velvet, the deep tucking and rich pearls, the heavy embroidery and laces—made her look worse. All she could see was a woman too old, too grey, too tired for a pretty princess gown.

“Promise—” she said. “Promise you won’t tell anyone how tight I had to lace—”

“You look great, kid—” Bob said, one big hand rumpling her hair, and it started to fall down from the elaborate upsweep.

“Don’t forget—” Annikey said, picking up the tiara from the dressing table. Annikey fussed with hair and pins for a few moments until everything was fixed.

“Wow,” Bob said, taking in the gigantic center stone. “Did you smuggle that through the Door in the hem of your skirts?”

“Baby blanket. Same difference. Thanks, guys. I couldn’t have done it without you.” Annikey headed out of the room, but Bob hesitated at the door.

“Go easy on Jamie, huh, kid? He looks ready to bolt and run. This knight thing—don’t burst his bubble.” She nodded, imagining the jerry-rigged court clothes the poor shrink had pulled together overnight. Visions of sweatpants, Wellies, and cardboard swords filled her head. “Car’s here in ten minutes,” Bob said. “Finish up quick. I want pictures!”

Describe your writing style.

My books are kind of epic, in the many pages, sprawling narrative sense. I love words and language and wordplay. I love to combine high stakes with humor. I fall in love with my characters as I write them, and I hope readers will, too.

I think my style is fairly casual. When writing, I feel like I am talking to the reader, telling them the story. Years of bedtime stories with my kid, years of library story hour reading, years of acting in children’s theatre all have taught me how to tell a good story. And when I sit down to write, that’s what I do. I imagine telling a really great bedtime story to my kid, one that keeps going night after night.

I have been a writer since I was really young. But before I was a writer, I was a reader. I have read so many books over the years. And, like most writers, every book I read has shaped me a little. Some have shaped me a lot. I think that what writers read, what we live, what we experience all comes out in the work somewhere. Intentionally or not.

I am always amazed when someone reads my work and passionately tells me that their favorite part is how I worked in –fill in the blank— and I am amazed, because it never crossed my mind, not once. But they saw it.

What makes a good story?

To me, a good story is immersive. My favorite stories can feel more real than the actual world around me. A good story is one where I care about the characters, where I am passionately invested in what they do and what happens to them, and where I love what they love. A good story takes me on a journey. I am in a different place at the end of the book than I was at the beginning. A good story takes me out of my world and work and worries to someplace else. Someplace enveloping and fascinating and real.

A good story has me turning the pages quickly, because I can’t wait to see what happens next. Some fantastic, suspenseful stories make me cheat and flip to the back of the book, because I can’t stand the pressure—will my favorite character actually die? Is something terrible really going to happen to the feral twins? Do they get together in the end? If I am so impatient that I can’t wait through the pages, that I am flipping ahead to peek, I know it is a truly good, immersive story.

What are you currently reading?

Currently I am in the last throes of pre-launch hysteria and not reading as much as I would like to be. But I am reading Rainbow Rowell’s new Simon Snow book, and I am treating myself to a reread of Seanan McGuire’s Wayward Children series. When I read the first book, a jolt went through me like—this. This is my world. This is my life. Revisiting it has been a delightful break from all the last-minute marketing that goes with a book launch.

I love the freedom of indie self-publishing, but I had no idea when I started down this path how much time and energy marketing would take. This year has been like a degree in self-publishing for me. My previous experience was on the traditional side. I love the indie world. But wow, yeah, the marketing is hard. Especially because I am super, super shy.

I am also reading three different recent novels from other indie authors. I love supporting the self-publishing community. Reading and reviewing is so important. Reviews are the life blood of books. If you enjoy my book—or any other book you read—please consider leaving a review. It makes a real difference in terms of being able to find that book on Amazon.

What is your writing process? For instance, do you do an outline first? Do you do the chapters first?

I usually start with a loose outline. My books are pretty tightly plotted, but a lot of the action comes from the characters. Each of my characters is distinctly different, and no two of them would act the same way in a situation.

I like to use note cards—real ones, not the ones on Scrivener—and I post them on the wall of the basement corner where I write. I shuffle them around as needed to find the right structure. The Lost Princess of Story is told from three different POV characters. In some chapters, it was very obvious who had to tell that part of the story. In some places, I tried the chapter in different ways.

Then it is a balancing act, between the requirements of plot and the places my characters want to lead me. I am very much one of those writers whose characters “talk to them”. They are always with me, even when I am not writing. In fact, down time, like cooking or cleaning, is often a very creative time when great ideas come to me, sometimes via the characters.

What are common traps for aspiring writers?

The indie author community is wide and welcoming. So many people are offering advice. It can get confusing as you hear conflicting advice from one or another “expert”. You are the expert on your own voice and the stories you want to tell. Don’t lose track of that.

Listen to those with more experience. There are so many generous writers out there who want to share what they have learned. But there is no one way to succeed. If something doesn’t quite feel right—listen to your gut.

There are also many people out there trying to take advantage of the aspiring writer who wants success. You can publish your own book cheaply. Don’t feel you have to invest lots of money on plans that sound too good to be true. They usually are scams. Research everything.

It can also be a trap to compare yourself too much to other writers, whether they are friends, other students of writing, people in a writing group, or even your favorite bestselling authors. Do the work, keep your eyes on your own page, celebrate others’ achievements, but don’t feel the need to compare.

What is your writing Kryptonite?

I was writing The Lost Princess of Story while recuperating from long haul COVID that caused heart damage and autonomic nervous system dysfunction, and I was dealing with my pre-existing chronic illness and pain issues. Health was my Kryptonite. Brain fog, exhaustion, and pain. Also (more brain fog fun!) when I got interrupted while writing, it all just flew away.

Fortunately, I have been in cardiac rehab, which is helping with this.

Do you try to be more original or deliver to readers what they want?

I’m not sure that I really approached it from either point of view. There is this thought out there—write the book you want to read. And I did. I love big, epic stories that take me out of my world and into a different place. I love magic and fairy tales and urban fantasy and portal fiction. I love books with characters that feel real to me, characters that I am invested in, that I argue with and worry over and love. And I tried to put all of that in the book.

Writing fantasy and fairy tales means a certain amount of tropes will work their way into the narrative. I tried to put new spins on the tropes I used. One of my favorite beta reviews told me that at least half a dozen times the reader was absolutely sure they knew what was going to happen next—and each time, they were wrong, and totally surprised by what happened. So I guess there is originality to the approach.

I didn’t analyze what the top trends are right now in the genre. Maybe that is something I need to pay more attention to in the future. I just had a story I had carried for a long time, a story that was practically bursting its way out of me. And I just got it down on paper as quickly as I could. I hope the book will be what readers want. I’m open to readers who reach out to me and communicate what they’d love to see—or not see—in the next volume, and what they loved, or didn’t like so much in this book. I love feedback.

If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?

If I actually could go back and do that, I think I would tell her to focus on the writing, not the acting. As much as I loved being an actor, it led to some very serious injuries I still pay for today, including a broken neck and spinal surgeries.

But in a more general wisdom sort of way, I would tell her to keep writing. I would tell her there will come a time when you are more comfortable with your own voice and hope that the knowledge would make that true for her more quickly than in my actual experience. I was raised to be a Southern lady, sweet and polite and basically invisible. It took a long time for me to be brave enough to share my own voice.

I would tell that younger me that her voice has value, and that success will come, along with experiences beyond her imagining. I would tell her she would get out of that place where she did not belong and she will live in her dream city as her true self, that she would be truly and deeply loved, that she would discover more inner strength that she thought possible. And I would tell her to just, always, keep writing.

What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?

I always worry about whether I am getting the emotions right. I love books that really get inside a character, so we understand how they think and what they feel. I don’t want to say in any way that men do not have as rich an emotional life as women, but I think they have a different kind of emotional life. There are jokes in the book about Bob just wanting to watch TV and eat Cheetos—this is certainly one trope about men—but I think there is just as wide a spectrum of emotional response in men as in women.

It can be tricky, as a woman, getting those responses right. I have always been very comfortable with men—grew up with brothers and lots of male cousins, lots of male friends over the years. I am used to being the only girl in my house, and I have had the opportunity to observe men a lot. But it can still be a challenge.

In this book, writing Jamie was a bit of a balancing act. Jamie’s work is emotions—he is a psychologist—and that gave me a little more room and scope. He has his own history of stress and loss, and his path to dealing with them led him to go deeper inside how people tick. This made an interesting contrast to, say, Bob, whose way of dealing with loss is to hide it away and not discuss it. I think Jamie’s slight hyperawareness of his internal workings works for his character, but it would not necessarily work for all men. And, like all of us, Jamie has some large blind spots in his understanding of himself and the world around him.

How long on average does it take you to write a book?

This is my first published book, and I wrote it in a little over two months. Then I took about ten months to edit it. It went through quite a few drafts. Cutting, mostly. I cut so much from this book. There were so many adventures I wanted to tell. Hopefully, some of them will show up in other volumes.

I have written other books that took longer, but this is the first published one. This is the quickest I ever wrote a novel. Probably because I was writing it in bed recovering from COVID. Usually I have so many other distractions.

Do you believe in writer’s block?

I do, because I have seen so many writer friends deeply affected by it. Thus far, I have been lucky (don’t want to tempt fate here), but I think it can be a very real thing. It's hard to get into the right mind space to write.

I’m a stay-at-home mom and there are always so many calls for my time. It can be frustrating, getting into a real rhythm with the writing, getting into that quasi-magical space where it is just all—there, in my mind, and it’s like I’m taking dictation from the characters. Dialogue, description, plot all come rolling out and I’m immersed in it—

—and then I am interrupted, and it all flies away, never to be seen again. Writing can be fragile and fleeting. Or it can be hard work, almost mechanical, like building with blocks, putting down the structure hoping later the magic will come.

I think that any number of things, including pressure, time, mood, and outside stressors can build up to a point where turning off the outside world so you can hear your inner voice becomes very difficult. So difficult that it can seem impossible.

The best advice I ever heard about writer’s block is to keep writing. Put aside whatever you are hung up on and don’t even look at it for a while. Write something. Anything. Just keep writing, so that it doesn’t become a suspicion, then a fear. Don’t fan the flames of “I’ve lost the magic… I can’t write… I may never write again”! Get something on paper, and then give yourself a nice reward, and take a break.

Breaks can be really important.

Suzanne de Planque is a writer, actor, and a stay-at-home mom.

Theatrical credits include off-Broadway and other New York, regional, and tours; everything from Shakespeare to Sondheim. A few highlights from her years in the theatre include enacting what must be

every Grimm's fairytale in her years as the self-proclaimed Queen of Children's Theater, playing cut-rate Disney princesses at birthday parties, inspiring a generation of high school students as the DON'T examples in a series of job-seeking educational videos, and breaking her neck falling out of a giant teapot dressed as the Dormouse.

The latter resulted in a career change to playwriting, and a healthy respect for teacups. Her plays have been commissioned and performed in New York and regionally. This is her first novel.

She lives in a little white house in Brooklyn with her husband and son, an impressive array of costumes, swords, and Original Broadway Cast albums, and a world-class collection of children's books. She is an avid collector of antique and vintage children's literature and a fan of literary

tourism in person and on Pinterest. She has never passed a wardrobe without checking, just in case.

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