The Twilight Saga: The Official Illustrated Guide (2 page)

So the dream was me looking down on this scene: It was in this meadow, and there was so much light. The dream was very, very colorful. I don’t know if that always comes through in the writing—that this prism effect was just so brilliant.

I was so intrigued when I woke up. I just sat there and thought:
So how does that end? Does he kill her?
Because it was really close. You know how, in dreams, it’s not just what you hear, but you also kind of feel what’s going on, and you see everything that the person in your head sees. So I knew how close it was. I mean, there was just a thin, thin line between what he was going to choose. And so I just wondered:
How would they have made that work? What would be the next step for a couple like this?

But writing it down and making it real, and being able to go back and reread the sentences, was just a revelation to me. It was this amazing experience:
Wow! This is what it’s like to write down stories.
I was just hooked—I didn’t want to quit.

I used to paint—when I was in high school, particularly. I won a few awards—I was okay with the watercolors. My mom still has some hanging up in her house. Slightly
embarrassing, but they’re decent. I was not a great painter. It was not something I should have pursued as a career, by any stretch of the imagination. I could see a picture in my head, but I could not put it on the canvas the same way it was in my head. That was always a frustration. When I started writing I immediately had a breakthrough:
I can make it real if I write it, and it’s exactly the way I see it in my head.
I didn’t know I was able to do that. So that was really the experience that made me a writer, and made me want to continue being one.

SH:
So you started out writing out the meadow scene. Where did you go from there?

SM:
I continued to the end, chronologically—which I don’t always do anymore.

SH:
So you didn’t go back to the beginning… because you wanted to know what was going to happen next.

SM:
Yeah. I was just like any reader with a story—you want to find out what happened. The backstory was for later. I wasn’t really that worried about it—I wanted to see where it was going to go.

So I kept writing. The last chapter just kept getting longer and longer—and then I made epilogue after epilogue. There were so many things I wanted to explore—like why this was this way, and why this was that way, and how Bella first met Alice, and what their first impressions were. So I went back and did the beginning, and found it really exciting to be able to flesh it out and give reasons for everything that had happened later.

I had lettered all my chapters instead of numbering them. So I went back and did A, and I think that I had chapter 13 being E. Because I thought, maybe, five or six chapters of material would cover the beginning… and then it was twelve, so I was surprised about that. [Laughs]

SH:
You were surprised about how much had really happened beforehand?

SM:
Yeah, it just kept going on. I was thinking:
Wow, this is taking a long time.
And that’s where I finally ended, which was the last sentence in chapter 12. And I knew I had crossed the continent with the railroad, and this was the golden spike that was being driven. It was all linked together. And that was that moment of shock, when I thought:
It’s actually long enough to be considered a book-length thing of some kind.

SH:
You really didn’t even consider it like a book until then?

SM:
No. [Laughs] No, I think if I would have thought of it as a book, I never would have finished it. I think if I would have thought, halfway in,
You know, maybe I can make this into a book… maybe I could do something with this,
the pressure would have crushed me, and I would have given up. I’m really glad I didn’t think of it that way. I’m glad I protected myself by just keeping it about this personal story for me alone.

SH:
And you were thinking of yourself as the reader the whole time.

SM:
Yes, yes. Well, I’m kind of shy, and I obviously had to get over that in a lot of ways. But the essential Stephenie, who is still in here, has a really hard time with letting people read things that she writes. [Laughs] And there’s a lot of enjoyment, which I’m sure you’ve experienced, in letting somebody read what you write. But there’s also the fear of it—it’s a really vulnerable position to put yourself in.

SH:
I was in a creative-writing class once and the teacher asked us: If we were stranded on a desert island, what two books would we take? And one of the books I chose was a notebook—an empty notebook—so I could write stories. And there was a classmate who said: “If you were on a desert island
by yourself, why would you write stories?” And I thought:
Why are you in this class?
[SM laughs] Because if the only purpose you have for writing is for someone else to read them, then why would you do this? It didn’t make sense to me. But there is something extraordinary about writing for yourself and then sharing that.

SM:
I’ve never thought of the desert-island story. But that would be the perfect writing conditions, as far as I’m concerned. That would be great. I wouldn’t want a spiral notebook, though—I’d want a laptop. Typing is so much better. I can’t read my own handwriting half the time.

SH:
So you started immediately on the computer, when you started writing this?

SM:
Yeah.

SH:
Now, how long was it from when you wrote down the dream until you finished the first draft?

SM:
I wrote down the dream on June second. I had it all marked on my calendar: the first day of my summer diet; the first day of the swim lessons. It’s kind of funny to know exactly what day you started being a writer! And I finished it around my brother’s wedding, which was—he just had his anniversary—I think it was the twenty-ninth of August?

SH:
So this was done in less than three months—just an outpouring of words.

SM:
Yeah.

SH:
Was the story going through your head all day long, even when you weren’t writing?

SM:
Even when I was asleep—even when I was awake. I couldn’t hold conversations with people. All my friends just thought that I had dropped them, because I lived in my own world for a whole summer.

But here was this really hot, muggy, nasty summer. And when I looked back on it later, it seemed like I’d spent the whole summer in a cool, green place, because that’s how distant my brain was from what was really going on. I wasn’t there—which is sad. [Laughs]

I was physically there for my kids, and I took care of them. And I had my little ones, one on my leg and one on my lap, most of the time I was writing. Luckily, the TV was behind me [laughs] so they could lean on my shoulder, you know, watch
Blue’s Clues
while I was typing. But I don’t think you can keep up that kind of concentrated effort for more than a summer. You have to find some balance eventually.

SH:
You have to come up for air.

SM:
Yeah.

SH:
How did you? You’re so busy as a mom. Every moment of the day, with three little kids, is occupied. Suddenly, you’re inserting this huge other effort into it. How did you allow yourself to do that?

SM:
A lot of the time it didn’t feel like it was a choice. Once I got started writing, it felt like there was so much that I had been keeping inside for so long.

SH:
Not just this story. But very active storytelling and creating, I’m sure, had been percolating in you for years.

SM:
It was a creative outlet that was the best one I’ve ever found. I’ve done other creative things: birthday cakes and really great Halloween costumes, if I do say so myself. I was always looking for ways to creatively express myself. And it was always kind of a frustrating thing—it was never enough. Being a mom, especially when kids are younger—when they get older, it’s a lot easier—you have to be about
them
every minute. And a lot of who Stephenie is was slipping away.

SH:
Yeah.

SM:
The writing brought that back in with such force that it was just an obsession I couldn’t… I couldn’t be away from it. And that was, I think, kind of the dam bursting, and that huge surge at first. And then I learned to manage it.

SH:
You would have to. But what a tremendous way to start!

SM:
It was. It felt really good—it felt really, really good. And I think when you find something that you can do that makes you feel that way, you just grasp on to it.

SH:
So you had never written a short story before.

SM:
I had not ever considered writing seriously. When I was in high school, I thought of some stories that might be a good book, but I didn’t take it seriously, and I never said: “Gosh, I’m going to do that.” I considered it momentarily—the same way I considered being a professional ballerina.

SH:
Right.

SM:
Oh, and I was going to be so good [SH laughs] in my
Nutcracker
. I would have been fantastic—except that, obviously, I have no rhythmic skill, or the build for a ballerina, at all. [SH laughs] So it was like one of those nonsensical things—like wanting to be a dryad.

And then, when I was in college, I actually wrote a couple chapters of something… because I think it’s the law: When you’re an English major, you have to consider being an author as a career. But it was a ridiculous thing. I mean, there’s no way you can make a living as a writer—everybody knows that. And, really, it’s too hard to become an editor—that’s just not a practical solution. If you’re going to support yourself, you have to think realistically. You know, I was going to go to law school. I knew I could do that. I knew that if I worked hard, I’d be kind of guaranteed that I could at least get a decent job somewhere that would pay the bills.

There’s no guarantee like that with writing, or anything in the publishing industry. You’re not guaranteed that you will be able to feed yourself if you go down that path, and so I would have never considered it. I was—I still am—a very practical person.

SH:
So you really had to go into it from the side… by fooling yourself that you’re not actually writing a book.