PIG DEATH : Fact Fiction Fitching Around Audience Intention

Someone murdered a pig, slit its throat and dumped its bleeding head on THE MAYOR's front door step.  

THAT is a FACT. And the opening line of my next book. I think. 

There were sirens. Police cars. We circled the mayor's house on our way to school. It was a Tuesday. This might be.. not a lie just a fictional memory.   

"There might be riots," I heard my father tell my mother. Right. RIOT. Not riot as when he said "you're a real riot Alice" whenever my mother cracked a joke. (Her name was Doe not Alice.) RIOT. Like down in "The States." My father  told me those sorts of things only happened in the STATES. Shootings. Assassinations.    

I still can't get that pig or that world or the days that followed, that long summer, this "book" out of my head and onto the page. Yeah, headless pig's travelled with me for a long time. Heavy. Messy. Buh-loddy.

willanbodycaredoesiteverreallymatterwillanybodycaredoesitmatterjustwhodoyouthinkyouare?

Pig's hollering this time. Squealing. Yanging at me. Jostling for airspace in my head-- greedy needy for a place at the trough -- snuzzling out another image. I see the headless pig. A pouty snout. Shouting out.

Not an idea. An Image. A Fact. Waking Dream.     

It was 1968. The city was Moncton New Brunswick. THE Mayor was Leonard Jones who fought bilingualism tooth and nail and stirred fury and protests at the U of M. (FACT.) The neighbourhood, the city, the province, our family would never be the same.

It's all because of a pig I'm wading into research. Me with my Acadian roots.

My mother lost her mother tongue. My father was also a p-i g. RCMP style. Pride, integrity, guts, stamina he said PIGS stood for.   

Travelling back to those streets, that time, that world. Maybe I'm  just yearning to remember a time. Tobogganing down a hill of gag-me self-absorbed nostalgia? Maybe. This is grub time.

Novel. Memoir. fiction/non. Adult/kid. Dunno. Yet.  

Headless Pigs fly over my head.

Patience. I think stories get born if and when they are meant to be born.

willanbodycaredoesiteverreallymatterwillanybodycaredoesitmatterjustwhodoyouthinkyouare?

Oink.

Oinkanese is now an official language in my house.    

So, anyhow ---as I'm brooding and noodling over these things, lately, recovering a bit from last novel, I receive some good news. PG's doing great.      

I wrote Pluto's Ghost as a Y/A  book and hold to that CS Lewis addage that any book that's good enough for kids needs to be good enough for adults as well. I'm thrilled both The Gravesavers and Pluto's Ghost are considered crossover books by some. I love that Pluto's Ghost has been shortlisted for CLA book of the year for young adult fiction. So is Room by Emma Donoghue-originally marketed with a wonderful trailer and full page media ads as an adult book. The book's made a lot of adult literary lists. So this is verrrry interesting.     

Questions: If you set out to write an adult book with a youth or child as protagonist, would you want same book to be presented as a young adult book? Would it matter?

Marketing matters. Yes. Sales. Getting Readers. READERS.

Yet intent matters - doesn't it? I read "adult" books when I was a tween because there was no real young adult market. At least not the way it is now. So I write kids books that I would enjoy reading now as an adult and meet teens who have read my adult work. So. 

A panel of librarians and young adult fiction enthusiasts -in their wisdom-made a very bold move.

An adult book on a Y/A list makes "sense" to me.   

 Yet maybe this means one day my pig book-if it becomes a book- will fly any where it can.

Oink. Oink. Who's there? Okay, so it's a rhino up top not a pig.

Same dif? No, they are different creatures.