When the House Laughed

This week I’m writing alongside our youth writers and creative adults in the Spill Some Ink Write-a-Thon at Society of Young Inklings.

The idea is simple: write every day, log your words, and invite people to sponsor the effort so we can continue mentoring passionate young writers.

I thought it might be fun to share a small window into what I’m working on.

Here’s a scene from something new I started on Day One.

It wasn’t until she actually found herself standing on the doorstep that she stopped to ask herself: Did she truly want to do this?

Every morning on her way to school, and every afternoon on her way home—her first week in this prickly new town—she’d passed this house. And as strange as everything, everyone, was, this house was the thing she couldn’t ignore. I mean, it was a house, for goodness sake. How interesting could it be?

… Had that window just winked at her?

It wasn’t only because a twelve-story house didn’t belong on this block. A house like this didn’t belong anywhere in this town, even. But that may not be saying much. To be quite honest, she couldn’t imagine any town where this ramshackle house would belong. Its chimneys and cupolas and jauntily-angled roofs poked out every which way and simply didn’t make sense.

Just like her.

Isa reached out, one trembling finger, to touch the intricately carved door. The worn wood was warm to the touch, and surprising herself, she pressed her whole palm against it. She wished she was brave enough to press a tear-soaked cheek to it, too. Probably the reason for the warmth was logical–the sun, most likely. But if she squeezed her eyes shut and blocked out the world, she could almost believe this moment held something more. Maybe even something magical.

But anyone could see her, standing here on the doorstep like this. And the very last thing she or this house needed was more reason to be noticed.

People hurled rocks at its windows in the exact same way that they hurled words at her. And the house continued to stand proudly, showing off its jagged windows. Even if her own broken windows didn’t glitter fiercely in the sunlight, that didn’t make each shattering any easier.

“You there,” a snappish voice called, getting louder as it continued. “Get away from that door this instant!”

And there it was. Her time was up. Isa counted to three, but what was the point of putting off the inevitable? She turned to face the woman who was bustling along the sidewalk, through the gate, and up the front walk. The woman reminded Isa of the inflatable nylon person at the used car lot across the street from her old house—the one that used to rise up tall and droop back over. Thwump-flop, thwump-flop, as it filled with air and deflated again. She used to count the thwumps as she tried to fall asleep, wondering who they thought they were attracting at ten o’clock at night. And did it really work? Did people honestly see a random flippity person and think, Hmmm… you know what? I should buy a car.

In that neighborhood, more likely: I should steal a car. Or, I feel like slashing a few tires. Or, What should I spraypaint on that wall?

The woman cleared her throat, her arms crossed across her chest. She raised a razor-sharp eyebrow. Yep—totally a flippity person. Tall, impossibly thin, dressed head to toe in neon yellow.

Isa could tell the woman expected her to say something. But even if she wanted to talk to this woman—which she didn’t—she wasn’t sure her voice even worked anymore. Unfortunately, clearly, no one had told this highlighter woman about the new girl in town, the one who hadn’t said a word since she’d arrived.

“What. do. you. think. you’re. doing?” the woman demanded, articulating every single word.

Isa stepped backward, pressing her back against the door’s warmth, trying to collect any shreds of courage she might still have and considered her options. She could dart off the doorstep, across the lawn, and vault the fence. No way this woman could run in her noodle-tight skirt. But Isa wasn’t much of a runner either, and vaulting? Not her specialty. Walking back up the front walk wasn’t an option because the woman was standing smack dab in the middle of it, blocking her way.

Okay, the door wasn’t just warm. It was pulsing against her back. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Like a heartbeat.

The thing was, doors didn’t have heartbeats and houses didn’t wink… at least, not any that Isa had ever heard of before. So … if she couldn’t vault the fence and she couldn’t go down the walk, she could … ?

The pulsing stopped. Isa would almost swear the house was holding its breath. She could feel it leaning into her back, as though urging, Come on, come on …

She could step through the door or walk past the woman. Given those options, given everything—she reached behind her, turned the doorknob, and stumbled backward into the darkness.

“You—you…” the woman blustered, and now Isa heard something more than neon-tinged scolding in her voice. Was it fear?

Possibly. The woman edged backward, as Isa stepped further into the house.

Well, there was one problem solved, at least.

Isa turned to face her decision and the door slammed shut behind her. A lock clicked into place.

… And a new one queued right up.

Isa narrowed her eyes, hands on hips.

“If you think … “ she rasped, surprised to discover that, in fact, her voice did still work after all.

She cleared her throat and began again, each word sharp and growing stronger as she went. “If you think I will rattle that doorknob and cry and beg to be let outside, you don’t know me at all.”

And that’s when the house began to rumble with laughter.

Where is this story going?

Will it turn into a novel?

Is this yet another major creative project?

I’m not sure right now … and that’s what’s making it delightful.

One of the things I’ve been loving about the Write-a-Thon is that it invites writers of every age to sit down and simply begin. What emerges might be playful, thoughtful, surprising … No matter what, with each word, we remind ourselves that there’s something magical about sitting down with a blank page and allowing ourselves to imagine.

If you’d like to follow along with this project—or cheer on the young storytellers we mentor—you can learn more about the Write-a-Thon below.

Inklings Write-a-Thon

You can also sponsor my writing for the Write-a-Thon! Your support helps Society of Young Inklings provide mentorship and creative community for youth writers around the world.

Sponsor Naomi in the Write-a-Thon

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