My book died today. It was a quick and quiet death, I don't think anyone around me realized it was happening; but none the less..it was. Some may view this as a suicide but realistically it was a homicide. My book (it didn't even have a title yet, although I was toying with the idea of 'The Lost Life of Evelyn Price') lived a short life and wasn't even old enough to be on paper (except for the scrap piece from work that had the names and ages of all my characters) This book had a happy life though, it excited me while I was at work thinking of the research I would do, the families I would talk to, and then the coming together of a story no one had thought of before.
I. was. wrong.
As I stood there in the book aisle of Target I began my ritual of fantasy; thinking of one day having my book beside the numerous ones that people (like myself) pick up to read the back cover and decide if there as been a connection enough to buy, take home, and become friends with. Like I said, this was a homicide and it happened before my very own eyes. 'Still Alice' stood out to me and for some reason I had an urge to pick up the book. Like most murderers Still Alice had a simple cover and inviting font. As I turned the book slowly and began to read the summary the screams became louder and louder in my head. How could this Lisa Genova have stolen my idea for a book? She lives all the way in Massachusetts for goodness sakes there's no way our paths could have crossed. Plus I have only been thinking about my book for the last year or so, she wrote Still Alice in 2007!
My husband, Stephen, came to find me holding the murder weapon in my hand and the look of disbelief on my face. 'Someone has written my book already!' I was practically shouting now as I shook the book at him. He took it from me flipping through the pages and casually stated that this probably wasn't the first book about Alzheimer (yeah I found out how to spell it THANKS TO LISA GENOVA!) I could still write mine.
I moved to stage two of the grieving process as I read her bio (rage is stage two right?) 'Lisa Gevona, a first-time novelist (well I would have been too if she hadn't stolen my idea) holds a Ph.D. in neuroscience from Harvard University (of course she would) and is an online columnist for the National Alzheimer's Association (go ahead, add salt to the wound why don't you!) She lives with her family in Massachusetts.
Now I would agree with Stephen, I could still write mine, if I hadn't read the summery. 'Still Alice is about a women in her fifties (Evelyn would have been in her 60s) and starts becoming disoriented and forgetful (there's my first 3 chapters!!!!) 'a tragic diagnosis changes her life- and her relationship with her family and the world-forever. ( Holy Sh*t, this was almost word for word my thoughts 3 nights ago as I lay a wake thinking about my chapters to come) I can not still write my book. My book is hers except at an elementary level. She would probably read mind and think 'Aw that's cute, it's like my first draft.'
I stood there in shock still as a grin spread across Stephen's face, "maybe you should read it and get a few pointers for your book.' he was finding this humorous. How could he find this funny, there was a death right in front of him could he not see I was mourning my loss. The blood was still dripping from the pages and the yellow tape was starting to go up around the aisle. He shrugged his shoulders and moved on to the sporting goods. I slammed the book back on the shelf and stomped away, only to suddenly change my mind. I went back to the crime scene grabbed the guilty and threw it in the paddy wagon (our cart) There has to be closure to this. I have to say good-bye and the only way to do that is to read 'Still Alice' and see what my success looks like; but the view point is different than I pictured. I'm looking in from the outside instead of the opposite.
Congratulations 'Still Alice' you got away with murder.
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