We love films because they make us feel something. They speak to our desires, which are never small. They allow us to escape and to dream and to gaze into eyes that are impossibly beautiful and huge. They fill us with longing.
But also.
They tell us to remember; they remind us of life. Remember, they say, how much it hurts to have your heart broken. Remember about death and suffering and the complexities of living. Remember what it is like to love someone. Remember how it is to be loved. Remember what you feel in this moment. Remember this. Remember this.
Outside, cars are approaching, their engines cutting off, one after the next. And there is the shutting of doors and so many familiar voices, and everyone sounds excited and anxious but happy. Soon they’re streaming in, and Ava and I are no longer alone, but the room is alive with beginning.
We step away from each other and Ava smiles, and her face is flushed and I feel this elated twist in my stomach when I realize that I will be able to kiss this face again when our day of work is over.
I will be able to hold her hand.
I will be able to talk to her whenever I want.
I will be able to want her without wondering if she wants me back.
Ava is swept away by Grant and Vicki, and I notice Charlotte watching me from across the room. She glances at Ava and then back to me and I nod yes. And living is beautiful. And she smiles because she knows.
The lights are already set up. Charlie’s camera is on its tripod, pointed to our opening frame. In the bedroom, Grant is applying Ava’s makeup while Vicki is standing back, assessing. I begin the last-minute steps to make the set perfect. I look into the monitor the way Morgan told me I should, and our first shot looks just as I had hoped. I prepare the first props: one of the ceramic plates with a piece of toast, a ceramic mug of peppermint tea. My toast comes out a little too brown, and when Ava sees it a few minutes later she smiles.
Her hair is straight, falling over her shoulders. Her eyes are lined with shimmery brown eyeliner and her lips are shining.
I will be able to make toast for her in the mornings.
I will do my best to get it right.
“Okay,” Theo says. “Ava, remember, we can take as long as we need to get this scene. And you don’t need to overthink it. It’s just Juniper, existing in her apartment. We’re getting to know her through her actions and her surroundings, so just, if you can, make yourself feel like you’re home.”
Ava nods. I watch her through the monitor. I wish I could tell Theo that the idea of home isn’t always simple. It isn’t the comforting direction he meant it to be. But, on the screen, I see Ava looking around at the set I’ve created for her. She moves from one place to another, lifting up the objects of an imaginary girl. And then she looks at me.
“Yeah,” she says. “I can feel that.”
“Okay, good.”
Ava takes a seat at the tiled table. She has a book of poetry. She has her toast and her tea.
“All right,” Theo says. “Are we ready?”
“Yes,” Michael says, holding the sound equipment.
“Yup,” Charlie says, from behind his camera.
“Okay,” Theo says. “Roll camera.”
“Camera rolling.”
“Roll sound. Scene three. Take one. Action.”
The room holds its breath. Ava turns to a page and silently reads.
In a few weeks, Toby will come home, and he’ll say, So tell me what you did. And I’ll show him this footage, and it will look so professional, so beautiful. It might take him a few seconds to recognize that these are his walls holding up the framed portraits of strangers. His table, hidden under a bright yellow tablecloth. His windows with sea-blue curtains instead of their usual shutters.
He’ll grin, say, You made a movie, of course, how perfect. And I’ll say, No, that’s not it. He’ll cock his head, waiting for more. I’ll take my time, keep him guessing.
Then I’ll say, I fell in love.
Acknowledgments
Though I had been interested for a while in writing a novel about two girls in love, it wasn’t until I went to Minnesota in the fall of 2011 that I decided for certain that I would. I was spending a few days in a suburb of Minneapolis, visiting a high school that had chosen my first novel, Hold Still, as a school-wide read. As part of my visit, I met with the school’s Gay Straight Alliance. Seated in a large circle in the library, the students told me about their lives and asked to hear about mine. They taught me how important it is to share stories about love and hope, a lesson for which I thank the Champlin Park GSA; the students of Champlin Park High School; Terri Evans, Media Specialist extraordinaire; and all the RHRR committee members, past and present.
Katie Byron is not only my favorite production designer, she’s also to thank for so much of this novel. A close friend of my dear friend Vanessa Micale, Katie was who I turned to when I realized what Emi’s calling would be. In a series of passionate and illuminating e-mails, Katie described every position within a film’s art department. She told me about the lengths she’s gone to when working on films with small budgets, the challenges, the strategies, and “the love.” I thought I was turning to Katie for technical advice on a small aspect of the story, but what she shared with me altered the trajectory of the entire novel. I’m sure I’ve gotten many technical things wrong, but I hope that I’ve captured the spirit of the work.
My cousin Danielle Diego generously facilitated a private tour of the Fox lot for me. Walking through the sets of televisions shows, and then past a facade of buildings that had been used in many different movies, I fully realized the extent to which filmmaking is a series of elaborate illusions. And then, stopping to admire the photographs of past stars that line the walls of Danielle’s building, I was struck by the historical glamour of it all. These impressions turned into major themes in the novel, and I have Danielle to thank for them, as well as for a year’s worth of answers to my follow-up questions.
Between drafts of this novel, Kristyn Stroble, Amanda Krampf, and I decided to turn Hold Still into a movie. We raised a micro-budget on Kickstarter. Many of our contributors were friends and family, and many were colleagues and readers. The experience of raising the funds and making the film left me humbled and grateful. I give immense thanks to our contributors, as well as to our actors and crew members, most of whom volunteered and all of whom approached the project with a level of dedication and artistry that left me touched and inspired. I am so proud of the work we did together, and thankful for the ways in which it influenced this story.
While Mia Nolting was at an artists’ residency in South Africa, she offered me her beautiful apartment in Portland, Oregon, as the site of a private writing residency. I was desperately trying to produce a complete first draft, but I learned that long stretches of gray, rainy days combined with an abundance of solitude don’t suit me. In between maddening writing sessions, I made myself tea in her small enamel pot, listened to her Patsy Cline record, and traded e-mails with her about the South African filmmaker she was quickly falling for and would end up marrying soon after. (Hi, Paddy!). Though I left with far fewer words written than I had hoped, the days away certainly enriched this novel.
Sharing drafts is always terrifying and exciting. Jessica Jacobs, with whom I’ve shared work for a decade, and Gayle Forman, who read a draft during our group book tour, provided me with early and invaluable feedback, as did my wife and my mother. Mandy Harris, Amanda Krampf, Peter Thompson, and Kathy Kallick all swooped in near the end with valuable insights. My long-time and ever-inspiring writing group (Lizzie Brock, Laura Davis, Teresa Miller, and Carly Anne West) gave me feedback through multiple revisions, and kept me motivated and productive throughout a time of great change.
Sara Crowe has been my dream agent and advocate for many years now. I remember well the rush I felt when she told me she’d like to represent me, and my gratitude
and trust in her have only deepened since then. She helped get me through this novel’s messy first stages and provided nurturance along the way. I’m so lucky to have her by my side. Thanks also to Rachel Ridout for her lightening-quick turnaround in a moment of doubt.
I am tremendously grateful to the talented and committed people at Penguin Books for Young Readers. From Theresa Evangelista, who gives my books beautiful covers, to Eileen Kreit, who gives them a second life in paperback, to Anna Jarzab, who gets the word out online. Thank you to Anne Heausler and Rosanne Lauer for their expertise, and Elyse Marshall and her team of publicists for working magic. Thank you to Melissa Faulner, who came to Dutton before this book’s rush to publication and who has been a pleasure to work with. And, of course, thank you to my editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, whose gift for discovering the heart of a story makes my novels so much stronger. If I were to apply the famous E.L. Doctorow quote to myself—the one where he likens writing a novel to driving through fog at night—Julie would be my headlights.
Originally, I hadn’t intended for this novel to have much to do with family, but by the end family became an important part. Though my parents are not Emi’s parents, they raised me in the same spirit, in a stimulating household full of art, music, films, and books, and with unwavering love, support, and belief in me. And though my brother is not Toby, we have found ourselves separated by an ocean for a couple years now, and I love the way his face looks on my computer screen. Thank you all for being mine. Thank you also to my beautiful extended family, near and far, especially my grandmother, whom I love dearly.
Finally, thank you to Kristyn Stroble, my lookout girl and getaway driver. Writing this book made me remember what being nineteen and in love with you felt like. Twelve years later, I feel the same.
Nina LaCour, Everything Leads to You
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