Beth Kile-Herchkorn

Dr. Warner

English 112B

2 December 2009

Creative Project: Rationale

I believe we read in order to learn how to live. Teenagers, especially, who read are exposed to characters and situations they may not yet have encountered themselves—and it is through reading about a character�s course of action that the young adult reader (unconsciously) creates a bag of tricks that may influence later behavior. It is to the writer�s credit to create characters who model desirable behavior, or face expected consequences, without becoming moralistic or pedantic. Good writers leave judgment to the reader�s discretion and leave her asking herself, �What would I do?�

Literature should not be instructive to the exclusion of entertainment. Reading for pleasure is a wonderful pastime, and there are few discoveries more exciting for the avid reader as well as the reluctant reader than finding a book he enjoys. Strong characters and a fast pace, in addition to other Exeter Qualities, create an engaging diversion that can transport the reader out of his world and into the pages, if only for an hour at a time.

My novel Below the Dark (working title) was written over the span of a few months in the winter of 2008, and revisions have been in progress since then as I prepare it for probable self-publication. I was inspired by a friend who self-published her hilarious but typo-riddled novel (I thought, I can do it if she can) as well as by the popularity of the Twilight series and other mediocre teen books that I had been reading at the time. As I continue to revise, I keep in mind the qualities of good Young Adult fiction as laid out by researchers at University of Exeter to create a finished product that is not only marketable but valuable to readers.

The Exeter study suggests that a strong teen protagonist who can reflect the experiences of real teenagers is critical to the health and success of a novel (9, this and all other citations refer to Literature for Today�s Young Adults by Alleen Pace Nilsen and Kenneth L. Donelson). Strong female characters, especially, are important because there is a dearth of them in the current literature. My novel is told from the first-person point-of-view of sixteen-year-old Gina, a junior in high school and an all-around normal girl who gets involved with the paranormal. It was important to have Gina show some errors in judgment—liking the Bad Boy, sneaking out and lying to her parents to go party—but not suffer or be punished for her transgressions. I balanced these scenes with examples of Gina making good choices, asking smart questions, doing things she�s afraid to do but feels bound to. The opportunity for the emotional and intellectual growth of the character is another Exeter quality that I believe I have fulfilled. As she grows throughout the story, and as the reader learns to trust her more, I hope to leave the reader with the impression that Gina, while fallible and impulsive like every teen, respects herself, expects others to respect her, and isn�t afraid to be true to what she believes.

The Exeter study reveals that it is important for young adults to read about challenging issues that are of concern to them, both immediately and globally (9). While my novel includes paranormal events occurring in a specific and contemporary setting, I have tried to make it general enough that a variety of readers may find it familiar. My characters are high school students dealing with topics relating to parents and family, dating and the opposite sex, friends and peer pressure, and finding a niche in the world. There are no easy answers to any of the problems they face, and I hope readers may find comfort in the fact that these are nearly universal experiences.

Even the strongest, most competent characters cannot sustain a weak or uninventive plot. The Exeter study points out that �going beyond simple chronologies� (9) add to the appeal and sophistication of a novel. As Gina researches her town�s history, I have included a glimpse into the past through the use of flashbacks. I have also written a couple dream sequences, and I know these two techniques are tricky, so as I revise further I intend to pay special attention to them and pare them down as much as possible to avoid seeming clich�. A �fast pace� and �narrative hooks� also contribute to the �secrecy, surprise and tension� that create exciting plots (9), and by structuring a mystery that the main characters must investigate and solve I hope I have achieved a sense of secrecy. I plan to develop the thin subplot that currently exists to add more tension to the interactions between the characters for even more excitement.

My current interactions with my target audience, as well as remembering my own teenage years, have given me a useful lens through which I can critique my work. Further exposure to the genre, through Nilsen and Donelson�s book as well as through the comprehensive recommendations in Dr. Warner�s Adolescents in the Search for Meaning, have also heightened my awareness of what young readers are looking for and what constitutes quality Young Adult literature. Writing my novel was the easy part. Editing and revising, and developing a self-assuredness about what I have created, is the most difficult creative task I have ever undertaken. I hope, through honest self-evaluation, constructive criticism, and continuing to learn about the genre, I will end up with a finished product that a teenager may actually want to read.

In this excerpt, we have already met Gina on the first day of her junior year. We have met the popular, out-of-reach boy she�s obsessed with, and we�ve met the boy she�s been friends with forever but isn�t quite sure how she feels about—it may be too obvious where that is heading, so that is another relationship I will look at closely as I revise. Gina enjoys her own company and she loves the outdoors, and here, she�s heading to the park that is the main feature of the small town where she lives. Despite the Exeter demand for a fast pace, these are only three pages out of 160, so taken out of context, the plot may not seem action-packed.

Chapter 3

Judson Park consisted of thousands of acres of undeveloped land stretching from downtown all the way into the foothills outside the town. One of the largest municipal parks in the country, it was also the thing that made our sleepy little college town truly special.

Lower Park, a wide swath cutting through the center of town, was flat and shady, the perfect place to play soccer or baseball on one of the fields, or to walk along the paved trails running for several miles along the creek. During the summer, the deepest part of the creek was dammed up, creating a swimming pool complete with lifeguards, mostly college students trying to earn some money. A playground and picnic tables rounded out Lower Park, which was the site of many school field trips and summer birthday parties.

But it was Upper Park I liked best. Where Lower Park ended, at the eastern edge of town, Upper Park began, and the drastic terrain change was only one of the many differences between the two. The trees grew less thickly here, creating a yellow and brown rugged landscape, and canyons and rock formations cut down into the earth and soared above its surface. The pavement of Lower Park gave way to gravel and dirt trails, marked with stone cairns instead of signposts, some not even marked at all.

The creek originated here, more a river than a trickle, bringing the snowmelt from the mountains through the town. This water was colder and swifter, and pooled into several wide lakes along the narrow banks. No swimming was allowed in Upper Park, although that didn�t stop countless thrill seekers—and skinny dippers—from taking advantage of the park�s isolation.

And compared to Lower Park, isolated it was. People didn�t come here. Most families, cyclists, and runners preferred the flat convenience of Lower Park, only a few minutes� walk from downtown, surrounded on all sides by residential streets. Lower Park was where the cute college boys played frisbee, where girls showed off their bikinis by the side of the pool, where the trees and grass provided a resting spot out of the elements. Up here, there was nothing to do but hike the miles and miles of trails, and not many people liked to be out in the blazing sun or frigid wind, away from the noise and chatter and traffic of the town.

But I did.

I loved to get out and explore for myself, choosing the trails I wanted, resting when I wanted, not having to yield to other pedestrians or vehicles. When I pedaled along East Avenue on my bicycle, there were always cars in the parking lot at the entrance to Upper Park. Yet I rarely came across another person when I was walking the trails, and I reveled in that: the fact that I could feel so alone and so far away, while knowing that there were people nearby and a whole town just a few miles down the road.

My dad didn�t like me hiking by myself. There were too many things to worry about, he told me, both natural and unnatural. I pressed him to explain. "Natural things that could hurt you," he said, "are mountain lions or rattlesnakes." But even worse was the unnatural: vagrants who wandered the hills, potential attackers or rapists—�mashers,� he called them.

"You�re paranoid," I protested. "There are plenty of people who hike out there. When do you ever hear about anything happening to them? Never, that�s when."

"Why can�t you go with a friend?" he asked. "Or your mother."

I laughed. "Mom hasn�t hiked since she came over Donner Pass in a covered wagon. And my friends are too busy or too afraid of physical activity to do anything more than walk around the mall with me."

"At least carry your cell phone when you go," he said. When I reminded him that cell phone reception was spotty at best, he made me promise to never stray outside the range of the cell towers, only two or three miles in. I promised and wished I had kept my big mouth shut.

I had been studying with Tyler for the past couple Saturdays, always at my house, always with my parents greeting him and hovering nearby. This Saturday, however, he was working with his dad, doing demolition at a job site near the college. He needed the money, he said; even though our town was small, gas was expensive, and his car guzzled plenty of it.

I didn�t mind a break from math or English. We were already into our fourth week of school and it was going as well as could be expected. Since I wasn�t failing Trigonometry I saw no reason to stay indoors and torment myself with my math book.

So after I told my parents where I was going I packed a snack and a bottle of water in my backpack, made sure my cell phone was turned on, and hopped on my bike. September in our area was as hot as July or August, but the sun felt good on my shoulders and the breeze cooled the sweat on my face as I rode.

Half an hour of riding brought me to the entrance to Upper Park. I parked and locked my bike to a horse hitch at the edge of the parking lot, and headed for one of the trailheads I knew by heart.

Park regulations instructed pedestrians to stay on marked paths. It was a good idea for the protection of the hiker as well as the landscape: those rattlesnakes my dad worried about were more likely to be hidden in the brush than on the paths, and some areas were sensitive to deforestation and erosion. I wanted to respect the land and creatures living on it, so when I moved off a path—and I did break the rules—I was always very careful of my footing.

Some of the most beautiful places in the park were ones that very few had seen—tiny clearings full of wildflowers, ancient trees gnarled with knots and twisted branches, cliffs and drop-offs with beautiful sweeping views of valleys below. And I kept discovering more of them. I had explored off the beaten path so many times, yet the park was so vast I hadn�t even uncovered a fraction of what existed in it. There were places I had never been, parts I had never seen and probably never would see.

It was to one of these hidden treasures I headed for now. During one of my forays breaking my own trail, I had caught sight of a slender oak, not as old as some in the park, on the edge of a meadow, hidden from view by surrounding trees. Mindful of ticks and other insects, I picked my way carefully off the trail and through low-lying brush.

Meditation was one of my newest ventures. I didn�t buy into chakras or acupuncture or any of those other fads guaranteed to give you inner peace, but something about resting my mind as well as my body appealed to me. I didn�t practice from a book or a DVD; for all I knew, I was doing the whole thing wrong. But allowing myself a few moments to turn my brain off was one of the nicest things I could do, I thought.

Sliding to the ground, I leaned my back against the trunk of my oak and closed my eyes. For a moment I was aware of nothing but the hot, sweet smell of the yellow grass and the chirping of the cicadas. Then, unbidden, Tyler�s face swam into my mind. I frowned as I tried to push the image away, breaking my own rules of keeping my mind still and calm, but his lean face and dark eyes stayed in my thoughts. This was no time to be thinking about anything school related, even if I was liking the time we spent together more and more, even if he was becoming a friend. My frown relaxed a little.

Another thought pushed Tyler�s face away. Something darker, more elusive. I saw myself, under the oak. Eyes were watching me, eyes I couldn�t see. Shadows darted toward me, then away, before I could even grasp what form they took. My thoughts turned backward even further, back hundreds of years, back to the beginning of the land. An ancient tribe, practicing day-to-day life but also something more serious, more sinister. . . .

My eyes flew open and I glanced around, squinting in the bright light, even checking over my shoulder to see if someone was lurking behind the tree. Of course, there was no one there; I was getting spooked by my own imagination. I knew Native Americans had lived on the land before the white settlers came; I knew the Maidu tribe had been one of the first "tamed" by the whites as the town below was built.

I knew, too, that even then they had told stories about the land, stories that still appeared in the displays at the museum downtown, stories that local historians acknowledged as oral tradition but dismissed as superstition. Stories about medicine men, or shaman, practicing vengeance as well as healing, so powerful that even the land they lived on would do their bidding, destroying those who would harm it.

I shuddered despite the heat. Maybe this wasn�t the best place for me to go traipsing off the path.

No way. I must have been out in the sun too long. How else to explain my daydreaming about a group of people I never thought about outside of a museum? Besides, I told myself, getting back to the trail more carefully than I had left it, my intent is never to cause harm. The only reason I leave the trails is so I can discover what else is out there for me to enjoy. I would never hurt something I care about.

Tyler�s face flashed once more through my mind. I grimaced and began jogging back to my bike. I had had enough meditation for one day.

"Gross!"

My dad held the tweezers close to my face so I could see them grasping the tick�s tiny body, bloated with my blood. I turned my face away and poured rubbing alcohol liberally over my shin as my dad tapped the tweezers against the edge of the wastebasket.

"I can�t imagine how a tick found its way onto your leg if you were staying on the trails," he said, glancing at me sideways.

"I may have been walking too close to the edge of the trail and brushed up against some weeds," I told him, then continued as a sliver of guilt crept up on me. "Or . . . I may have stepped off the trail once or twice."

My dad sighed and finished washing his hands. "The next time I have to pick something like this off your leg, Gina, you�re going to find yourself spending a lot more time at home. Understand?"

"Hey, so what do you know about the park, anyway?" I jumped up and followed him down the stairs and into den. "I mean, the history, and the people who used to live in this area and stuff."

"You mean the Maidu?" My dad switched on his computer and swivelled around in his chair to face me. "I know probably only as much as you learned in school."

"Which wasn�t much because in history class, we always seem to get stuck on the Puritans and the thirteen colonies and all that. We never make it to anything interesting;�

My dad smiled a little. "I think that�s a matter of opinion, but if you�re so interested in local history, why don�t you talk to Dr. Kittle at the university? He�s in charge of the Public History program and I know he teaches at least one class on the American Indian. I could talk to him and see if he�d be available to meet with you."

"Would you?" I found myself getting excited and wasn�t sure why. "That would be . . . fine.�

He raised his eyebrows. "It�s nice to see you taking an interest in something new. Mom and I have gotten used to seeing you going through the motions for your classes without finding anything that really caught you."

"I read!" I protested. "I read all the time."

"Yeah , and we love that you�re so literate. But branching out a little, beyond what you already know, can lead to good things."

"I hope so," I murmured, remembering my visions under the oak tree.