It's been over a year since I finished writing Jesse, and while I work on my second book (which has yet to be titled) I can't help looking back every once in a while at my first. As my first complete novel, it will always be very special to me. But that last sentence doesn't satisfy. Does a mother love her first child less, because she experiences the joy of a new life growing within her? Neither could I love Jesse any less.
I started writing Jesse when I was 17. I knew who she was, how she thought, and what her struggles were; that vision held the piece together over the next few years as I typed random pages between classes during the school year, and weeks at camp in the summer. She was a real person to me, and I believe I've remained true to her character throughout the story. That is a source of pride to me. But I see flaws - many flaws. Telling stories is an art - and much more difficult than simply imagining them. Jesse's story is one that haunts me, demanding to be told with skill as well as heart, that it might be read without a single blush on the part of its author. As yet, I cannot claim to have achieved this level.
Oh, I am not sorry to have "published" this novel, imperfect as it is. The essence of what was in my heart is present in spite of my mistakes, and I hope it has been encouraging, uplifting, or at least amusing, to a few people. In truth, it was the best I knew how to do, and our best is never something to be ashamed of. But I know that Jesse deserves so much better. And so, readers, I promise (God willing) to revisit this, my first novel, not too far in the future, and attempt to bring it to completion.
May Christ's richest blessings be on you.
With love,
Corin
