My novel: The Day We Are Born

The Day We Are Born

There’s nothing funny about depression. At least,16-year-old Elle’s parents don’t think so. And Elle? It’s her sense of humor and her foul-mouthed best friend Libby that keep her going as she deals with her depression, diagnosed three years earlier after Elle announced to her parents that she thought she’s supposed to be dead. Who can blame her parents, then, for being a little fearful for her?

The story is told in Elle’s voice, and we follow her over a week as she and Libby - with a liberal dose of ironic high fives, really bad German, swearing (Libby), eye kissing (Elle), and a boy called Sam - plot how they're going to get to a music festival to see their favorite band. Elle and Libby have made a pact to not get involved with boys. Libby has her reasons, and Elle doesn't have the energy for a boyfriend; she needs all she's got to get through the day. But when the boy is Sam, does she even have a choice? Because something weird keeps happening every time they’re in the same room…

The biggest problem they have in planning their road trip to the festival is how to persuade Elle's parents to let her out of their sight. Elle struggles to make her parents understand what she needs: that they have to let her go - and she doesn't mean only to the concert.

~ ~ ~

It’s been a fascinating journey creating the character of Elle. She’s really likable and funny, and the kind of girl you want to be friends with. You’ll find yourself rooting for her throughout the book as every day you get to know her a little better, through her own thoughts and words as well as from her interactions with her friends and family. She also stands up for what she believes in:I would rage against small  injustices: the mother who didn’t buckle her child into the car seat, the boy who dropped his empty candy packet in the street, the people who put out their cigarettes on the sidewalk, in the park, everywhere.

~ ~ ~

Her friendship with Libby:Libby’s already there. She’s got headphones on, the big clumpy kind that you wear over your head, and they dwarf her face. I slump into the seat next to her but she’s not startled; she just looks at me and then pulls down her headphones so they straddle her neck. I can hear a tinny beat coming from them.
“Bad day,” she says.
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.
“Okay, then,” she says. “That’s enough about you. I think I’ve found the perfect song for your funeral, dude. Oh, I guess then it is still about you.”
She sighs, a long exaggerated one. “Why is everything about you? Who died and made you king of everything? Don’t answer that,” she says, even though I make no move to do or say anything. “Listen to this.”
She pulls the headphones off, leans forwards and snaps them, quite painfully, over my ears. The sound is turned up really loudly so it takes a moment before I can focus on the music and then zoom into the lyrics. The words are incomprehensible at first; the singer is rolling them around in her mouth—or is it his mouth?—and then spitting them out. Suddenly, for a second, everything goes quiet, then, “I’m going straight to hell!” the falsetto voice shrieks. “And ya’ll be right behind me!”
Libby’s looking at me expectantly. “What do you think?” she mouths.
I pull off the headphones and shove them back at her.
“That,” I say, “is the worst song ever.”
“Isn’t it?” says Libby. “It’s so perfect.”
I can’t help but give a small half-smile at this. “Perfect? For my funeral? Are you completely insane?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’m only partially insane. Besides, you’re the one who’s always saying that you’re supposed to be dead.”
She tilts her head. “Don’t you want to go out with a kick-ass song? Oh wait,” she says. “That’s what I want. You’ll probably want an a capella band at your funeral, singing The Carpenters love songs.”
I throw a punch and connect with her upper arm. Luckily I don't know how to punch, so she doesn’t even wince. I stretch out my arms and crick my neck. I’m starting to feel better. Well, a little bit. Either the meds have finally kicked in or Libby’s version of therapy is working. 

~ ~ ~

Her relationship with her parents:He’s slightly hunched over and the tail of his shirt is hanging out of his pants, but he’s whistling quietly and tapping the fingers of one hand on the counter. I watch him for a moment. My father is such a solid man - his shoulders are wide, his back is broad, his arms are thick. A rock. My rock. When my river runs high, he’s my headland; no matter how deep I am, I can always see him rising out from the water and guiding me home. I don’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t do for me.

“It’s just that,” I stumble. “It’s like I can’t imagine a world where my mother isn’t one of the first faces I see in the morning and the last one I see at night.”

~ ~ ~

Her thing with Sam:Sam is still looking at me and I'm looking at him and I can’t look away and I don't think he can either and I can hear him breathing, rapidly, but it's my breath too, so we're both just standing there, panting, and I need him to come over here, I need him to be right here, and then he's moving towards me and I'm leaning towards him from the bottom step and he reaches up…

~ ~ ~

But despite all this, why Elle doesn't want to be:Sometimes it stalked me and taunted me. I knew it was there and I’d breathe in shallow, little sips of air in the hopes that it couldn’t see me, couldn’t hear me. But as it came closer, I’d start to cry silent tears that melted down my cheeks and pooled in my collarbones.

Who do you think should play the roles of Elle, Libby and Sam when (!) The Day We Are Born is made into a movie? Here's who one of my young beta readers thinks should play them - cute composite that she sent in...