#BlogTour — Permanent Jet Lag by A.N. Casey + Guest Post & Giveaway — Available Now!
Please help welcome author, A.N. Casey, to MM Book Escape. I'm thrilled to have him on today's blog tour stop for his new release, Permanent Jet Lag. We have an exclusive guest post from the author, plus an excerpt, and a giveaway which includes an e-book from NineStar Press. Be sure to check out the great content below.
Welcome, A.N. Casey!
The Writing Process
This book began with just one scene: a single clip on repeat of two boys standing in a broken kitchen, glasses and plates shattered across the floor, crying. I knew the plates had been thrown in a fit of rage, and that the boys were friends. And that was all I knew. Why were they crying? Who were they? What had happened? They were the questions that spawned an 80,000-word novel, stole three years of my life, and were the questions that birthed Permanent Jet Lag—though in the end, the book had nothing to do with plates.
For me, writing has always worked the same way: it begins with a light bulb above my head, a burst of inspiration, a single thought or idea that I can’t let go of, a mystery image that must be formed and shaped and brought out of the foggy corners of my imagination. And that light bulb was born purely from spite.
“Don’t wait for the light bulb moment,” said my ninth grade English teacher. He’d go on to teach me all I ever needed to know about comma usage, symbolism, the novel, and what it means to be a writer. He taught me to believe in myself and is, without a doubt, the reason I can still call myself a writer today. But that was the one bit of advice I could never get on board with: don’t wait for the light bulb moment. “You have to work at writing,” he said. “Inspiration doesn’t just strike like lightning from the gods.” And I thought: are you sure?
Don’t get me wrong, writing does take work. I have never been the sort of writer who sits down in a fit of inspiration and cranks out 20,000 words in one-go as the muse enters my body and takes over. I am the writer who wakes up at the same time each day, brews a pot of coffee, and sits in front of the computer, says to the blank word document “something better happen today, damn you” and then I work, and I work, and I work (and I cry, and I delete everything I’ve ever written and swear to everyone that I’ll never write again), and then I work some more, until something happens. But I never begin without a light bulb moment.
I get ideas every day. I have notebooks, documents, a computer filled with them—quick notes jotted down because I saw something in the world that enticed me and made me think, “I could use that later.” But these are the fillers, the notes I go back to when I am stuck in the middle of a book; they never begin it. I have developed a rule of thumb: if an idea is good enough, then I shouldn’t have to write it down to remember it. If I end up dreaming about it, if the next morning it has not been lost to that place between awake and asleep where ideas seem better than they are and can usually be thrown out the window by morning, then maybe—just maybe—I’m on to something. Just in case, I give it a month. If in a month, that idea has not escaped, not flown out of my brain, not become lost forever, then I consider it a viable book idea.
Joan Didion called it “shimmering images,” the “picture in the mind.” I read her essay “Why I Write” in 10th grade, brought it back to my 9th grade teacher, said, “isn’t this the light bulb? The muse the ancient Greeks were so interested in, the creative power that drops into your brain like magic?” Or are we simply sharing in the same delusion?
Permanent Jet Lag began with a kitchen full of broken plates until I was forced to decide that these two boys, busy breaking plates, were doing so because one had a terrible and toxic family life, and the other was his best friend, a boy tired of watching the other fall apart. And so I had a snippet of backstory, a tiny glimpse at the lives of Lucas and Clay. And then the work began. The light bulb moment did its job, got me excited, gave me my mystery, and now it was my job to figure out where on earth this scene came from and how I could make it a reality, wrap it up snuggly in a fictional world and call this book its home.
This scene appears in Chapter Nine. It’s no longer the most important, but it remains my favourite if only because it reminds me how easy—and strange, and confusing—it is to begin a story and how nothing at all ends up the way you thought it would. You follow the muse, the light bulb above your head, and just hope it leads you somewhere good.
about the book
Title: Permanent Jet Lag
Author: A.N. Casey
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: May 29, 2017
Heat Level: 1 - No Sex
Pairing: No Romance
Genre: Contemporary, literary, Student, family, coming of age, alcohol use, illness/disease, tear-jerker
Nineteen-year-old Lucas Burke prefers being alone.
He likes the silence, and he loves not having to care about anyone else’s problems: the less he’s forced to feel, the better.
But after a year of college-induced isolation from everyone he used to know, the wedding of a former classmate sends Lucas back home, and that means reconciling with a group of friends that now might as well be strangers.
His sister hardly knows him, his “genius” best friend is nothing more than an addict, and his ex-boyfriend is still in a coma. All the while, wedding preparations send Lucas head first into a relationship with the groom’s best man—a recently cancer-free ex-Olympian who can’t stop talking.
Lucas knows that if he wants to survive the summer, he’ll have to learn to be a friend again, but it doesn’t come easy, and it might already be too late.
Permanent Jet Lag
A.N. Casey © 2017
All Rights Reserved
96 Days Before
On the last day of my freshman year of college, my parents—dressed head to toe in the obnoxious green and gold colors of my school—arrived on the threshold of my dorm room with five extra-large boxes for packing, a tin of mom-baked chocolate chip cookies to cure my assumed “home sick blues,” and two snippets of hometown gossip for my ears only. When you leave home for college, there’s a certain assumption that says you will learn to be independent. You do your own laundry, you buy your own meals, and your parents never come knocking on your door to ask if you’ve done your homework or to ground you for coming home past curfew. You’re alone—blissfully independent and free.
My mother had other ideas. Ideas that filled the voicemail on my cell phone until I could no longer receive friends’ missed calls. Ideas that left a pile of cookie tins in the corner of the room and a dozen more care packages under the bed. Even now, as I finished the bulk of my packing, a poorly knit mom-made sweater hung limp over the side of the latest care package, threads unraveling and fraying in every direction with a note pinned to its sleeve with words I could not remember—words I likely never read.
My roommate sat on the other side of the room upon his stripped-down bed, munching away at the first cookie handed to him. He wore a thick pair of headphones that flattened his usually unruly brown hair. Though the cord was not connected to anything, my mother seemed pleased with this sense of security and began her “top secret” gossip. As though my roommate would care at all about the small-town news of Franklin Creek, California.
“Rylie Graham is getting married!” she squealed. Despite her rising age, my mother’s face still lit up with all the excitement and energy of the young woman I could just barely remember from the photographs on the walls at home. Today, my mother was plump and nearly always flushed in her cheeks. The freckles on her nose were faded underneath a splotchy tan that extended only to the bottom of her neck, and her clothes, though neatly pressed, still appeared crumpled by her slouch and the endless movement of her limbs. She went on and on about the wedding, the beautiful invitations, and the color schemes she hoped they’d use, how she could still remember Rylie as a baby, crawling around at the neighborhood block parties.
I was already aware of this news, of course. The invitation had arrived in the mail two days ago, vividly pink with a handful of red hearts and almost a dozen purple and green flowers decorating the edges. Unless the groom was a botanist, there was no inkling of his presence in the design. To top it off, at the very bottom of the paper, beneath the RSVP notification, was a dried crimson lipstick mark. Nine months since I’d seen her, and I could still vividly imagine Rylie prepping her mouth with that darkened color she had so adored in high school and kissing each invitation one by one.
The invitation was now crumpled up in my suitcase with the rest of my belongings, but the image of it had not left my mind for a second.
“Isn’t it great, Lucas?” my mother asked, and I nodded. “She’ll look so beautiful as a bride.” Another nod. “Just wait until you meet the groom. What a charming young man.” At this, I fidgeted with the zipper on my luggage and forced a smile.
My father, lounging lazily upon my still-sheeted bed, gave me a knowing smile over the top of his third cookie. My mother promptly smacked it out of his hand.
“That’s enough, Tim. Didn’t you hear a word the doctors said? I think one heart attack is quite enough for one year, don’t you?”
“I thought two would make a more interesting story at this year’s Christmas party,” my father replied, grinning.
And so began an argument that lasted through the remainder of my packing, the long trek downstairs, and into the oversized van waiting for us in the parking lot. It continued as my father stabbed the key into the ignition, as my mother pulled on her seat belt, and as I peered through the window and watched San Francisco—all its big buildings and bustling bridges—disappear into the night.
By the time we pulled into the driveway of my childhood home, my parents were just progressing toward the makeup phase of their disagreement, or, as I’d dubbed it over the years, the honeymoon period. They sat, arms tangled in the front seat, kissing and whispering loving platitudes into each other’s mouths with such nauseating enthusiasm that sitting through it was quite like staring at the sun: tolerance came in small doses. I left the car and dragged my luggage up the porch steps alone.
I had come home exactly twice since leaving for college, once for spring break and once after my father’s heart attack, and I was greeted the same each time. Homecoming generally went like this: my oldest sister, now sixteen, would nod her head in my direction over the top of her cell phone, give me a hug if I came close enough, and then resume her texting. My brothers, identical in all but their clothing, would rush in for the tackle. And my youngest sister would wave from the couch—a simple twist of her hand—and then return to her TV show. Today it was an old rerun about a teenage spy, and because the theme song was particularly catchy, the wave was even shorter than normal, barely a twitch of her fingertips.
I disappeared into my room.
From the window of my dorm room in the mornings, I could see the wide expanse of the San Francisco landscape for miles, a hundred buildings huddled together against the fading fog, life bustling below. From the window of my hometown bedroom, I could see the neighbor’s pool. A thoroughly unexciting, lifeless pool. As summer had not technically begun, the water that would soon promise endless good times and relief from the heat was still currently abandoned. A heavy pile of leaves covered much of the surface, but through the spaces between, I could make out a glimpse of the water—a murky, untouched green.
Rylie called at half past eleven while I was cleaning the windowsill for the second time. Her voice was shrill and rushed as she screamed into my ear, “Why didn’t you tell me you were home? I had to hear it from my mom, who heard it from your mom, and I feel like I’m in a weird stupid sitcom, because I’m not supposed to be hearing gossip from your mother, Lucas. You’re supposed to tell your friends when you come home. Clay is pissed.”
As she spoke, I tucked the phone between my shoulder and ear. Downstairs, my mom was yelling at the twins, and Dad was swearing about the score of a baseball game. I retreated farther into my room and closed the door.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Sorry?” Rylie let out a long, exasperated sigh, and I thought I could hear her nails tapping against the back of her phone. “Will you meet me somewhere? I haven’t seen you in ages, and everyone misses you. Please?”
“Is this how this is going to be now? One-worded conversations?”
Rylie laughed, a deep, chest-rattling sort of sound that in no way matched the high, squeaky pitch of her voice. It was for reasons like this I’d stopped trying to understand her in the third grade.
“You’re an ass, Lucas. Meet me at the flower shop across from the grocery store, okay? Ten minutes, don’t be late. Oh, and Todney is going to be there. I can’t wait for you to meet him. Don’t be late.”
“We have a grocery store?”
Meet the Author
A.N. Casey is a Californian born and bred writer with very few interests beyond the literary. As a former copywriter and a current freelance writer and editor, Casey was asked what he likes to do outside of writing for work and responded only with: “write more”—much to the disappointment of his colleagues who had hoped he might be more interesting. His few attempts to leave his computer or notebooks behind have led to an interest in camping, traveling, and very bad attempts at cooking. He is currently studying to become a teacher where he hopes his fondness for the red pen will not make him too many enemies. Above all, Casey believes that storytelling has the power to shape lives, and that young people deserve to see themselves represented on the page in every shape and form until no one is left feeling alone in this wide and confusing world. You can find A.N. on Tumblr.
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