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Rewritten (Unwritten Duology Book 2) by [Tara Gilboy]

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Rewritten (Unwritten Duology Book 2) Kindle Edition

4.1 out of 5 stars 6 ratings

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Length: 155 pages Word Wise: Enabled Enhanced Typesetting: Enabled
Page Flip: Enabled Age Level: 9 - 14 Grade Level: 4 - 9
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From the Publisher

Opening Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The problem with real memories, Gracie thought, was that they had actually happened.

She lay in bed, sprawled on her stomach, a blank journal open in front of her. She was supposed to write about her feelings in it. Jacob, Gracie’s father, had given it to her that morning before he and Mom left on their trip, to help her deal with “what had happened in Bondoff.” He’d learned about this technique in one of the self-help books he was always reading. Even though the glimmers had ceased six months ago when Gracie changed the

ending of their story, the memories didn’t fade as easily.

Glimmers. Gracie would never forget the pain of them. Glimmers were those vivid visions of the story world that once plagued her every moment, coming on without warning. They were slippery, mutable, like the shadows that prowled across her ceiling when she lay awake at night. Sharp edges blurred into flashes of what might have been, of what Gertrude, her author, had written. Not what Gracie had done.

Memory, on the other hand, was solid, bulky, heavy as an oil lamp in her hands, jagged as the spraying shards of glass when she had heaved it at the wall. True memory was the scorching stink of burnt fabric, the glare of flames reflected in the lenses of Walter’s glasses, everything she’d done in Bondoff when the story’s power had seized hold of her. Real memory, she’d learned, was every bit as painful as a glimmer.

Gracie would rather forget about her past than write about it in journals.

“What are you doing?” Walter asked.

Gracie slammed the journal closed and turned. “Nothing.”

Walter stood in the doorway in faded cargo shorts and a button-up plaid shirt with a frayed collar. As storybook characters, they didn’t have certain real-world things like birth certificates and social security numbers, which made it difficult for their parents to find jobs. Gertrude Winters, the author of their story, earned some income from the royalties of her dozen published books, but money had been tight lately, and they were all looking a little ragged. This was one of the reasons Jacob and Mom had left that morning. Jacob had gotten a two-day construction job in Arizona, and Mom had gone with him. They had only recently gotten back together after being separated for most of Gracie’s life, and they had decided to turn the trip into a working minihoneymoon.

Walter nudged his glasses up on his nose. “I think Gertrude’s having a crisis.”

“Again?” Ever since she’d quit writing fiction six months ago, the author had been moping around the small house they all shared. Gracie shoved the journal under her mattress and followed Walter downstairs.

Gertrude Winters sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by notepads, scraps of paper, and reference books. Her hair was uncombed, and she wore a T-shirt with a coffee stain across the chest. “There is no drama in vegetables,” she moaned. An ink spot smeared her cheek.

Gracie slid a yellow legal pad out from beneath a stack of books and seed packets. At the top, Gertrude had written “The Science of Beets???” Below that, she’d scrawled “A Cultural History of the Sweet Potato???” No wonder Gertrude was depressed. “Giving up fiction doesn’t mean you have to write a book on gardening,” Gracie said.

Gertrude cradled her head in her hands. “What else is there to write about?”

Walter leaned over Gracie’s shoulder, reading Gertrude’s notes. “Oops, that reminds me! My mom said we’re supposed to start dinner. She wanted us to peel potatoes.”

Gertrude whimpered again but said nothing, and Gracie joined Walter at the counter. He plopped a bag of potatoes in the sink and handed Gracie a peeler. They worked in silence, though they exchanged smirks every time Gertrude let out a muffled moan (muffled because she had plunked her face down on the Formica tabletop). They knew from experience that Gertrude would be fine in a few minutes. She could be dramatic when she was frustrated with her writing, but usually having Gracie and Walter—her very own characters—near was enough to snap her out of her mood.

“You know, potatoes are actually pretty fascinating.” Walter rinsed one under the faucet and examined it. “The acid in a potato can work like a battery. Researchers think maybe someday we could power cell phones with them.”

“With potatoes?” Gracie imagined people holding cell phones to their ears with potatoes strapped to them.

“You’d be amazed at all the things we can make electricity from. Onions, tomatoes, citrus fruits . . .”

“That could be an interesting novel.” Gertrude raised her head from the table. Her forehead was imprinted where she’d been resting it on the corner of a book. “A science-fiction story set in a future where the world is powered by vegetables.”

Editorial Reviews

About the Author

Tara Gilboy holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia, where she specialized in writing for children and young adults. She teaches creative writing in San Diego Community College's Continuing Education Program and for the PEN Writers in Prisons Program. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, Beloit Fiction Journal, Cricket, and other publications. She lives in San Diego, California. --This text refers to the paperback edition.

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