We have A.N. Casey stopping by today with his new release Permanent Jet Lag from NineStar Press
Nineteen-year-old Lucas Burke prefers being alone. He likes the silence, and he loves not having to care about anyone else’s problems: the less he’s forced to feel, the better. But after a year of college-induced isolation from everyone he used to know, the wedding of a former classmate sends Lucas back home, and that means reconciling with a group of friends that now might as well be strangers.
His sister hardly knows him, his “genius” best friend is nothing more than an addict, and his ex-boyfriend is still in a coma. All the while, wedding preparations send Lucas head first into a relationship with the groom’s best man—a recently cancer-free ex-Olympian who can’t stop talking.
Lucas knows that if he wants to survive the summer, he’ll have to learn to be a friend again, but it doesn’t come easy, and it might already be too late.
Title: Permanent Jet Lag
Author: A.N. Casey
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: May 29, 2017
Heat Level: 1 – No Sex
Pairing: No Romance
Genre: Contemporary, literary, Student, family, coming of age, alcohol use, illness/disease, tear-jerker
On the last day of my freshman year of college, my parents—dressed head to toe in the obnoxious green and gold colors of my school—arrived on the threshold of my dorm room…
Sitting under my university’s crest—a slightly tacky and equally beautiful gold and green shimmering phoenix—I knew I wanted to include our terrible, Loki-esque color scheme into my novel. I knew the book would begin with those colors: gold and green. I knew they would make up the first sentence. Don’t ask me why. The colors ultimately weren’t very important on their own, but I played that sentence over in my head a hundred times before I finally wrote it down, and when I did, I was able to see a story in the works, to begin to finally understand how college played into Lucas’ life.
Lucas does not attend my alma matter. Permanent Jet Lag is not autobiographical. Lucas and I have very little in common, and his hometown is not my own, but it is inspired by the places I have been and the people I have met. Like Lucas, I grew up in a small town and attended college in San Francisco, was amazed by the commotion of the city and the way it opened up my world. San Francisco was a friend I made, a lover of sorts that I spent three incredible years with and ultimately left behind when I moved again. But that very simple idea began to spark a story: how do towns shape us; how do the places we have lived make us different people?
All things considered, I am not an incredibly creative writer when it comes to setting. I simply don’t have the patience for it. I am captivated by character, by human interaction, and while I marvel at the writers capable of creating brand new worlds—down to the map included at the beginning of their books—I find myself so eager to learn about the people in them that I sometimes forget where they live. But this just doesn’t work. People are shaped by their location, crafted by their atmosphere, bound by the world they were raised in. Contemporary authors like myself get to skip quite a few steps—they don’t have to invent new cultures, new religions, or their own geography—but setting remains important, remains a character in its own like.
Permanent Jet Lag did not begin as a story about location. When I began, it was just a story about people: a boy and his old friends, a wedding, a love story. But when I finished, the setting became perhaps the most important character, and now when I describe the book, I begin with location: a boy returning to his home town after a year away in the big city. The small town to which Lucas returns in the first chapter is a character that is featured in every page of this novel; it is the antagonist that he runs from, fights with, learns from; it is his driving motivation, his greatest fear. And the story could not exit without it.
Franklin Creek, California does not exist. I made it up. But it is shaped by a real place, by many real places, and I like to believe that there is a little bit in it of every place I have been, every town that has captivated my imagination, made me want to write, that has inspired me, that has taught me something. It is my hometown, but it is not; it is the little towns I have visited during my travels, but it is not.
Franklin Creek began with me taking note of the real locations I was writing in, but that ended almost as soon as it began. The more I wrote—and the more the characters came to life in their setting, and the more I revised—the more Franklin Creek became its own entity, its own growing, developing, unique person. As it stands now, it is unrecognizable as any place I have ever been.
And I think this is the point of fiction, the fundamental difference between fiction and creative nonfiction. For in creative nonfiction, you are still required to tell a story, to inspire, to be, as it says in the title, creative. But you are expected to tell the truth, to draw from real life and find the story in the facts. And I believe fiction often begins similarly: we take what we know. But then we crush it. We lie like it is our job to lie—which in the end it is—and we pick up the streets we know and bend them, curve them, rearrange them. That shop on the corner is gone, replaced with one you saw a million miles away. And it’s not a red door anymore, but purple, the sign is now misspelled, and the shop owner is a man you’ve only ever met in your dreams. Real life becomes clay: malleable and ever changing. And, if you’re doing it right: a whole lot of fun to play with.
Permanent Jet Lag
A.N. Casey © 2017
All Rights Reserved
96 Days Before
On the last day of my freshman year of college, my parents—dressed head to toe in the obnoxious green and gold colors of my school—arrived on the threshold of my dorm room with five extra-large boxes for packing, a tin of mom-baked chocolate chip cookies to cure my assumed “home sick blues,” and two snippets of hometown gossip for my ears only. When you leave home for college, there’s a certain assumption that says you will learn to be independent. You do your own laundry, you buy your own meals, and your parents never come knocking on your door to ask if you’ve done your homework or to ground you for coming home past curfew. You’re alone—blissfully independent and free.
My mother had other ideas. Ideas that filled the voicemail on my cell phone until I could no longer receive friends’ missed calls. Ideas that left a pile of cookie tins in the corner of the room and a dozen more care packages under the bed. Even now, as I finished the bulk of my packing, a poorly knit mom-made sweater hung limp over the side of the latest care package, threads unraveling and fraying in every direction with a note pinned to its sleeve with words I could not remember—words I likely never read.
My roommate sat on the other side of the room upon his stripped-down bed, munching away at the first cookie handed to him. He wore a thick pair of headphones that flattened his usually unruly brown hair. Though the cord was not connected to anything, my mother seemed pleased with this sense of security and began her “top secret” gossip. As though my roommate would care at all about the small-town news of Franklin Creek, California.
“Rylie Graham is getting married!” she squealed. Despite her rising age, my mother’s face still lit up with all the excitement and energy of the young woman I could just barely remember from the photographs on the walls at home. Today, my mother was plump and nearly always flushed in her cheeks. The freckles on her nose were faded underneath a splotchy tan that extended only to the bottom of her neck, and her clothes, though neatly pressed, still appeared crumpled by her slouch and the endless movement of her limbs. She went on and on about the wedding, the beautiful invitations, and the color schemes she hoped they’d use, how she could still remember Rylie as a baby, crawling around at the neighborhood block parties.
I was already aware of this news, of course. The invitation had arrived in the mail two days ago, vividly pink with a handful of red hearts and almost a dozen purple and green flowers decorating the edges. Unless the groom was a botanist, there was no inkling of his presence in the design. To top it off, at the very bottom of the paper, beneath the RSVP notification, was a dried crimson lipstick mark. Nine months since I’d seen her, and I could still vividly imagine Rylie prepping her mouth with that darkened color she had so adored in high school and kissing each invitation one by one.
The invitation was now crumpled up in my suitcase with the rest of my belongings, but the image of it had not left my mind for a second.
“Isn’t it great, Lucas?” my mother asked, and I nodded. “She’ll look so beautiful as a bride.” Another nod. “Just wait until you meet the groom. What a charming young man.” At this, I fidgeted with the zipper on my luggage and forced a smile.
My father, lounging lazily upon my still-sheeted bed, gave me a knowing smile over the top of his third cookie. My mother promptly smacked it out of his hand.
“That’s enough, Tim. Didn’t you hear a word the doctors said? I think one heart attack is quite enough for one year, don’t you?”
“I thought two would make a more interesting story at this year’s Christmas party,” my father replied, grinning.
And so began an argument that lasted through the remainder of my packing, the long trek downstairs, and into the oversized van waiting for us in the parking lot. It continued as my father stabbed the key into the ignition, as my mother pulled on her seat belt, and as I peered through the window and watched San Francisco—all its big buildings and bustling bridges—disappear into the night.
By the time we pulled into the driveway of my childhood home, my parents were just progressing toward the makeup phase of their disagreement, or, as I’d dubbed it over the years, the honeymoon period. They sat, arms tangled in the front seat, kissing and whispering loving platitudes into each other’s mouths with such nauseating enthusiasm that sitting through it was quite like staring at the sun: tolerance came in small doses. I left the car and dragged my luggage up the porch steps alone.
I had come home exactly twice since leaving for college, once for spring break and once after my father’s heart attack, and I was greeted the same each time. Homecoming generally went like this: my oldest sister, now sixteen, would nod her head in my direction over the top of her cell phone, give me a hug if I came close enough, and then resume her texting. My brothers, identical in all but their clothing, would rush in for the tackle. And my youngest sister would wave from the couch—a simple twist of her hand—and then return to her TV show. Today it was an old rerun about a teenage spy, and because the theme song was particularly catchy, the wave was even shorter than normal, barely a twitch of her fingertips.
I disappeared into my room.
From the window of my dorm room in the mornings, I could see the wide expanse of the San Francisco landscape for miles, a hundred buildings huddled together against the fading fog, life bustling below. From the window of my hometown bedroom, I could see the neighbor’s pool. A thoroughly unexciting, lifeless pool. As summer had not technically begun, the water that would soon promise endless good times and relief from the heat was still currently abandoned. A heavy pile of leaves covered much of the surface, but through the spaces between, I could make out a glimpse of the water—a murky, untouched green.
Rylie called at half past eleven while I was cleaning the windowsill for the second time. Her voice was shrill and rushed as she screamed into my ear, “Why didn’t you tell me you were home? I had to hear it from my mom, who heard it from your mom, and I feel like I’m in a weird stupid sitcom, because I’m not supposed to be hearing gossip from your mother, Lucas. You’re supposed to tell your friends when you come home. Clay is pissed.”
As she spoke, I tucked the phone between my shoulder and ear. Downstairs, my mom was yelling at the twins, and Dad was swearing about the score of a baseball game. I retreated farther into my room and closed the door.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Sorry?” Rylie let out a long, exasperated sigh, and I thought I could hear her nails tapping against the back of her phone. “Will you meet me somewhere? I haven’t seen you in ages, and everyone misses you. Please?”
“Is this how this is going to be now? One-worded conversations?”
Rylie laughed, a deep, chest-rattling sort of sound that in no way matched the high, squeaky pitch of her voice. It was for reasons like this I’d stopped trying to understand her in the third grade.
“You’re an ass, Lucas. Meet me at the flower shop across from the grocery store, okay? Ten minutes, don’t be late. Oh, and Todney is going to be there. I can’t wait for you to meet him. Don’t be late.”
“We have a grocery store?”
One lucky winner will receive an ebook of their choice from NineStar Press
A.N. Casey is a Californian born and bred writer with very few interests beyond the literary. As a former copywriter and a current freelance writer and editor, Casey was asked what he likes to do outside of writing for work and responded only with: “write more”—much to the disappointment of his colleagues who had hoped he might be more interesting. His few attempts to leave his computer or notebooks behind have led to an interest in camping, traveling, and very bad attempts at cooking. He is currently studying to become a teacher where he hopes his fondness for the red pen will not make him too many enemies. Above all, Casey believes that storytelling has the power to shape lives, and that young people deserve to see themselves represented on the page in every shape and form until no one is left feeling alone in this wide and confusing world. You can find A.N. on Tumblr.
5/29 MM Book Escape
5/29 MM Good Book Reviews
5/31 Divine Magazine
5/31 Love Bytes Reviews