In September 2008, I went to the Kidlitosphere Conference here in Portland. Of the many people I met that day, one of the most delightful was Lisa (L.K.) Madigan. Like many authors, Lisa had spent years pursuing her dream of publication, and that dream was about to come true: her debut YA novel, Flash Burnout, was published in 2009.
I liked Lisa immediately for her sharp sense of humor, her wit, her kindness, and her down-to-earth good sense. At the launch party for Flash Burnout, the loving tribute of thanks she gave her husband and son moved me to tears. As one of the Portland KidLit, Lisa was an enthusiastic cheerleader for all of the rest of us. Even in the midst of her own publishing ups-and-downs, she always made us laugh with her dryly funny, spot-on comments.
Her talent was immense. Flash Burnout is told from the point of view of 15-year-old Blake, and Lisa nails Blake's teen male voice. To our delight (although not our surprise, because the novel is that good) Flash Burnout won the American Library Association's William C. Morris Award for a debut YA novel. Lisa's second critically acclaimed novel, The Mermaid's Mirror, was published last year. After the years of writing and revising and struggling and waiting, Lisa had earned her place among the brightest lights of YA literature. I looked forward to many years of devouring her books and enjoying her friendship.
Those years are not to be. On February 23rd, Lisa passed away from pancreatic cancer.
I last saw Lisa in December, shortly before she was diagnosed. She'd been ill, but was already back at work and looking forward to getting back to her writing. Less than three months later, she is gone. She leaves behind her husband and the son who was her world.
The video below, in which Lisa thanks the William C. Morris Award committee, gives a taste of her wonderful humor. Lisa's tremendous grace and strength shine through in her last blog post. I will miss her. Godspeed, Lisa.
If you would like to donate to a college trust fund for Lisa's son Nate, please click here.
The other night we caught a movie at one of our local pub theaters. We love our pub theaters, because 1) $3 admission, and 2) I've yet to see a movie that is not improved by pizza and beer. (Or if you prefer, a vegan wrap and Pinot Noir. This is Portland, after all.) One of our favorites is at the Kennedy School, which is an actual elementary school that sat empty for decades before being converted to a B&B. Guests bunk down in the former classrooms. There's an Honor Bar (no smoking) and a Detention Bar (light `em up!), and the school auditorium is now the theater. Instead of metal folding chairs, though, it's stuffed with vintage sofas, chairs, and loveseats, with little end tables for your grub and ale.
Another of our favorites is the Bagdad Theater.* The Bagdad is one of those old-timey movie palaces from back in the day, with a fabulous Mediterranean decor that has been lovingly restored.
And the movie? Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 1. Let me confess right here: I have not read any of the Harry Potter books nor seen any of the movies past The Sorcerer's Stone. Not for any snobbish or disdainful reason...I just sort of haven't gotten around to it. The main reason we picked it was because the showtime fit our evening the best. Sometimes, it's all about going with the flow.
Which goes for the movie, too. Because the last time I looked, Daniel Radcliffe was still like, twelve and had baby fat in his cheeks and he and Emma Watson had the same build. Apparently, much has changed. When you haven't seen a HP movie since little Harry was trying on the Sorting Hat, The Deathly Hallows Part 1 comes at you like a fever dream: gorgeous and incomprehensible. Sudden shifts in scene with no apparent reason...characters I couldn't place saying things I didn't understand...Ralph Fiennes without a nose. But I still had a good time. Although why Harry, Hermione and Ron spend the entire middle of the movie in a tent, moaning about how they have to find Horcruxes and a magical sword, or else all is doomed, but instead of actually searching for the damn things, they listen to the radio and get into snits with each other and then the sword coincidentally shows up like, ten feet from where they're camping...well, maybe it's explained in the book. (But hey, did I mention the scenery was gorgeous?)
So, OK. Apparently it's time I catch up with the biggest cultural phenomenon in living memory. All you Harry Potterities, what do you advise? Read all the books first, then watch the movies? Or watch, then read? Or...?
*Not all the pub theaters in Portland are owned by the McMenamin brothers--there's also the Laurelhurst, which is fabulous--but the McMenamins have four, including Kennedy and the Bagdad. The McMenamins specialize in buying old, abandoned buildings and either restoring them to their original use (like the Crystal Ballroom, which was and is again a dance palace), or converting them (the Chapel Pub used to be a funeral home, and has an eternal flame burning outside; Edgefield used to be the county poor house, later an insane asylum, and now it's a B&B and youth hostel with taverns, a restaurant, a golf course, pub theater, glass-blowing shop, a...oh hell, you just have to go there and see.) All of them are beautifully renovated and loaded with original, custom artwork that just makes me smile. Like this.
The typical writer's cat is content to curl up for hours at his owner's side, purring subliminal messages of comfort and peace; furry, faithful balm for a weary writer's soul.
And then there's Seamus O'Leary. To Seamus, being a writer's cat is a full-on competitive contact sport. Seamus has only three legs, yet he is undeterred in his pursuit of gymnastic excellence.
This is Seamus. These are his moves.
The Lap-Sit
Easily mastered even by kittens, the Lap-Sit is the foundation on which many of the more complex maneuvers are based. This move lulls the unsuspecting writer into a false sense of trusting companionship. From here, cat can easily segue into:
The Big Sleep
Cat leans toward desk until writer's view of keyboard is obstructed. This should successfully disrupt the work of the novice writer; however, experienced writers on a roll are unlikely to notice. In this case, the move is extended until full lateral contact with keyboard is attained, thus blocking writer's access to the space bar and all mid-keyboard letters. Bonus points if cat actually falls asleep in this position.
The Wrist-Breaker
Essential components of the successful Wrist-Breaker include: 1) forepaws and chest draped over writer's forearm, such that most of the cat's weight is concentrated in the writer's wrist; 2) an irritated stare at writer every time writer uses the mouse and joggles the cat; and 3) ignoring writer's complaints that if the cat would just go loll somewhere else, he wouldn't get joggled in the first place.
Bonus points if cat baps other cat in the head. Championship status if escalation of bapping results in other cat moving to a quieter location. If writer loses concentration and/or temper sufficiently to dump cat off lap onto floor, cat loses round and must immediately begin again.
The Time-Bomb
**PROFESSIONAL CAT ON A CLOSED COURSE. DO NOT ATTEMPT.**
This highly advanced maneuver requires not only agility but a pronounced degree of shamelessness. As there is no way to accomplish this move without attracting the writer's notice, the goal is to astonish writer such that she is willing to see if cat is actually going to go there. Phrases such as, "What the hell do you think you're doing" and "You can't possibly think this is going to work" will assure the committed cat that he is on the track to success.
"Time-bomb" refers to the possibly explosive response of the support-cat, as well as the likely reaction of the writer if one or both cats slip and utilize claws in a desperate effort to regain balance.
Due to extreme difficulty rating, successful completion automatically confers supreme championship status.
The Wrath-Slayer
Deceptively simple, the Wrath-Slayer is an essential move in any writer-cat's repertoire. Highly recommended anytime a previous move ends in disaster (for example: coffee spilled on keyboard; bloodshed. See under The Time Bomb.) When properly executed, the Wrath-Slayer confronts writer with cat's undeniable cuteness, thus ensuring that cat will not be permanently barred from writer's presence.
The Wrath-Slayer may also be utilized after a successful maneuver; before a difficult move is attempted; or anytime cat is in need of writer's adoration as well as restful sleep.
Although the Wrath-Slayer is essentially free-form, it is critical that cat position himself such that every time his writer glances down, she sees cat's innocently adorable sleepy-face. A view of the back of cat's head, for example, is far less effective. It should go without saying that this is not the time to flaunt one's backside.
A DVD with step-by-step instructions to these and other moves, plus tips and tricks from the master himself, Seamus O'Leary, will be available for the 2011 holiday season. In the meantime, to those writers' cats weary of endless boring days full of nothing but the clack of keyboard keys, remember: her office is your arena. Go forth, and excel.
Many thanks to Melissa for putting together the Writing Buddies Blog Carnival! For peeks at other, undoubtedly nicer writing buddies, click over to Melissa's blog, Writing with Style.
Last week I was discussing romantic comedies with a co-worker, and--as always happens when romantic comedies are being discussed--we wondered why so many of them are so terrible.
I mean, when someone sits down to write a romantic comedy, the word comedy ought to be a clue. As in actually funny, instead of one contrived gimmick after another. You know what another key word is? Romantic. Chemistry, people! That's what we're looking for, not two leads who go together like flashbulbs on a goat. **cough cough Hugh Grant Sarah Jessica Parker cough**
But when a romantic comedy is done right...ah, then what a sparkly, joyous thing it is indeed. And hardly any romantic comedy does it more right than The Philadelphia Story.
I don't remember when I first saw it. I just remember falling head over heels for it, and I've been head over heels ever since. Katharine Hepburn is glorious as Tracy Lord, strong-willed society aristocrat and ex-wife of Cary Grant's C.K. Dexter Haven, whom she divorced because of his alcoholism. Tracy is preparing to head down the aisle again, this time with George Kittredge, a self-made man and budding politician.
Enter Sidney Kidd. Kidd is the publisher of Spy magazine, a tabloid that specializes in prying into celebrities' private lives. Kidd wants the inside scoop on the society wedding of the year, and he doesn't care how low he has to stoop to get it. He concocts a plan to sneak writer Mike Connor (Jimmy Stewart) and photographer Elizabeth Imbrie (the drily hilarious Ruth Hussey) into Tracy's wedding as bogus "friends of the family." Mike doesn't want any part of it. He has no use for celebrities and even less for snobby rich folk. But his true calling--writing short stories--doesn't pay the rent, so rather than lose his job, he reluctantly goes along with Kidd's scheme.
In the hands of lesser screenwriters, this would turn into a stale sitcom of mistaken identities and breathless last-minute revelations. Instead, The Philadelphia Story is an unpredictable, riotous delight. Witty barbs fly like darts--and at times, they stab deep. The characters have lots to say about class, prejudice, passion, human frailty, and what it means to be truly loved. "The time to make up your mind about people," Tracy Lord insists, "is never."
Add to that the sizzle between Hepburn and all three of her leading men, Jimmy Stewart in a side-splitting drunk scene (he won an Oscar for this role), and Cary Grant as the discarded ex, all casual flippancy on the surface and desperate yearning underneath...oh, it doesn't get any better than this.
So if you're in the mood for a romantic comedy, but you just can't find one delicious enough to hook your finicky heart, do yourself a favor. Pop The Philadelphia Story into the DVD player. And then, when someone like me sighs and says, "Why can't they make them like they used to?" you'll sigh too, and say, "I don't know...but wouldn't it be wonderful if they did?"
It's an odd feeling, finishing the writing of a book.
For thirteen months I was immersed in the world of my new novel. I wrote with a constant sense of urgency, even though the only deadlines I faced were my own. I was having a blast writing it, yet at the same time, I wanted it to be done and out in the world like, yesterday.
Over the past year, when people have asked, "How's the book?" or "What are you working on now?" I've mostly answered, "Fine," or given my vague two-sentence description and left it at that. I've learned the hard way that the more I talk about a novel-in-progress, the less drive I have to actually write it. It's as if I have a well of creative energy to draw on, but that well is finite; I can spend it talking, or I can spend it writing. So I played it close to the vest. Instead, I poured everything I had onto the page.
And now it's done. Thirteen months, two major drafts (plus a lightning-fast "clean-up" draft), 100,000 words. The very last thing: attaching the cover page. I never type the cover page until the manuscript is ready to go. I don't know why. But it's become a little ritual, the official symbol of completion. Then I sent the manuscript winging through email to my agent.
Done.
Since then, I've felt rudderless. The sense of urgency I've lived with for over a year is suddenly gone. With any luck, it'll be back; if the novel gets picked up by a publisher, then there will be rounds of revisions, copyedits and first-pass pages, all with deadlines I'll be scrambling to meet. But for now, it's out of my hands. I have that sort of disoriented, blinking-in-the-sunshine feeling I always get when a book is finished. Now what do I do?
The answer, of course, is "plenty." Blogging to catch up on, not to mention all the lovely social media which I've neglected for months. Cleaning up the enormous stacks of manuscript pages and books in my office. Guest blogs and interviews (more on those later!) Updates to my website. Training and playing with the new puppy. Starting the next book. Oh, and now that this novel is done...
...I finally get to tell you what it's about.
While on an education abroad trip in Italy, 17-year-old Dessa discovers that the world is about to be destroyed. Infinitely worse, the only person capable of saving it is her ex-best friend, Skylar. Skylar is careless, selfish, and unless saving all humankind comes with its own reality show, she has zero interest in being its chosen heroine. Somebodyhas to make sure some actual world-saving gets done, so—aided by a rugby player from New Zealand with a bum knee, a 13-year-old with a talent for sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, and a quest guide who may or may not be a raving lunatic—Dessa reluctantly becomes the sidekick to a girl she’s barely spoken to since they were seven years old.
But her problems are just beginning. How does a motley group of teens with an uncooperative heroine convince a parallel Earth that its discovery of limitless energy—which is about to turn that world into a paradise—is responsible for their own world’s destruction? As if that little issue isn't stressful enough, Dessa also has to figure out how to deal with a rogue pug, an annoying yet completely irresistible ex-boyfriend, and revelations about her childhood that threaten to upend everything she thought she knew about Skylar, their shared past…and Dessa herself.
The title of this post pretty much sums up my current mental state. Where have I been, you ask? Under a rock?
If "rock" means "finish-novel-celebrate-holidays-get-a-new-puppy," then yes. That's exactly where I've been.
I'll tell you about the novel later. For now, let's talk about the puppy. I mean, a brand-new finished novel is pretty damn exciting. But let's face it: cute as a manuscript might be, you can't teach it to sit. Or kiss its warm fuzzy head. (Then again, a novel doesn't keep you up all night barking, either. Hmm.)
As you may remember, our sweet Ginny dog passed away last year. For the first time in our almost-22 years together, my sweetie and I decided to try being a one-dog family. The house became quiet. Sedate, even. Ginny was always the flamboyant one; Inja, in contrast, is low-key. Very low-key. As in, this was her daily routine from 8 AM (just after breakfast) to 6 PM (just before dinner):
Highlights of her days included lying in front of the heater vent in the kitchen when the heater kicked on, and getting her head washed by the cat. Oh, and walks. After all, a nice long walk is the perfect excuse to jump back on the chair for a little rest and recovery.
Enter Roxie. Roxie is a 9-month-old German Shepherd. Now, I realize she seems pretty calm in this photo. That's because this is her second day in our house, and we discovered that she had never in her short life seen 1) stairs, 2) cats, or 3) bare floors. She kept staring at us as if to ask, "WHY? WHY DO YOU PEOPLE LIVE ON ICE? DON'T YOU REALIZE THERE'S A BETTER WAY AND IT IS CALLED CARPET?!"
Just look at the worry on her poor face. "I HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY THE ICE PEOPLE," that look says. "NEXT I SHALL CERTAINLY BE EATEN BY ICE TROLLS."
The day after this, though, she decided that the floors maybe were not actually entirely lethal, and she began gingerly walking on them. Stairs were a different story. She clearly regarded stairs as devices of Satan. We live in an old Portland house, which means: Stairs in. Stairs out. Stairs everywhere. For the first two weeks, letting Roxie out meant leashing her up and walking her out the front and around the side yard to the back gate. In thirty-five degree rain.
The stair boycott also meant Roxie had to sleep alone downstairs. Once she decided we were not in fact dog-eating ice trolls, but actually sort of fun to be around, this became unacceptable to her. Unfortunately, it wasn't unacceptable enough to give stair-climbing a whirl. No, her solution was to bark. All. Night. Long. In case you didn't know, German Shepherds can bark really, really LOUDLY. At one point, a dog-eating ice troll started to sound like a pretty good idea.
Fortunately for all of us, she had a sudden stair breakthrough. Maybe she realized that if she climbed the stairs, she could go in search of the cats. Whatever the reason, now stairs are her friends.
And so is Inja.
Yep--Inja's up out of the chair, for a few hours of the day, at least. The house isn't quiet anymore, or sedate. But now that Roxie has decided that stairs are not Treacheries of Doom, at least we're all getting a full night's sleep again.
And the novel? It winged its way to my agent a couple of days ago. More on that later. Now it's time to go play with the dogs.
New novel, new puppy. And a very Happy New Year to you all!
Now, you all know I like me some Jane Austen. And I do adore cats. So this recent discovery, which I am about to impart to you, made me squee with delight. Yes, for those of us who like a little purr with their prejudice...
"All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading."
...we now have AustenCats. In the words of site founders Debbie Guyol and Pamela Jane, Chick Lit has finally met Kit Lit; in others of their words, this is where the adorable meets the absurd. Go to gawk, but don't be shy; they've set up the site so you can join in, too. If your cat is a Pride and Prejudice character reincarnated (in a higher form, naturally) you can upload and caption a photo of your own. They're even hosting a Mr. Darcy-cat Contest. If you're an Austenite or a cat fanatic, or you simply like a little preposterousness with your afternoon tea, skip on over. And may Austen Mania--in all its endless variations--continue to reign!
One thing I'm thankful for: A really vibrant, enthusiastic online community for young adult lit. Today, I'm thrilled to be the visiting author at one of the best all-around YA sites: TeensReadToo.com. Kudos to TRT founder Jen for asking delightfully original interview questions, designed to bring out the inner weird (admittedly, not too difficult to do with me.)
If you'd like a chance to win a signed paperback copy of Ten Cents a Dance, stop by and leave a comment. Or if you'd rather, just relish the weird.
When I finished the first draft of my new novel back in September, I issued myself a challenge: Finish the second draft in 2 months.
As any of you who still follow this blog can attest--and as anyone who knows me in real life can certainly attest--the past 8 weeks have been spent either at the day job or writing that second draft. I have not blogged. I have barely emailed. Facebook has forgotten who I am, my Twitter account is adrift. Don't even start with me about letters. Go Fug Yourself has not been perused for fashion disasters, the cats of ICanHasCheezburger gambol in vain for my attention. New Yorker magazines pile up unread; yea, even unto the cartoons they are ignored. As far as the house goes...well, thankfully, none of us are allergic to dust. It's cozy here under my rock, is what I'm saying. And yet...
...I'm not done.
If writing this novel has a theme, it's me giving myself crap deadlines. Not that two months isn't a reasonable amount of time for a second draft. I picked two months because a) I finished the second draft of Ten Cents a Dance in that amount of time, and b) two months would make it exactly one year since I started the novel. What can I say? I like a nice round number.
What I didn't count on, this time around, was how much brand-new writing would be involved. All revision drafts include some new stuff. But thanks to an epiphany late in the first draft, the front end of the current novel needed some seriously heavy-duty overhauls. New scenes, new chapters. A whole new character. Not that I'm complaining, heaven forfend. On the contrary, I'm loving it. Loving the process, loving the results. Every writing day, I sit down at the computer with mug of white hot chocolate and am just stinkin' grateful that I get to do this.
So what's the new deadline, you ask? Ah, I won't say. I do have one. I'll let you know when I get there. One foot in front of the other, avoid the Slough of Despond, and I'll see you at the finish line. Oh, and here too, in the meantime. Cool stuff to tell you.
Hm. Bit quiet around here lately. *dusts off chair* In the 4-1/2 years of this blog, it's rare that I've gone a whole month without a post. Lots of reasons why, which I'll tell you about soon. But I'm jumping back in today because this Wednesday, fellow writer Melissa Marsh will be blogging about the places writers do their work, with links to everyone's posts on their own personal writing havens. As a devotee of HGTV (what can I say? I can't resist poking my nose in stranger's houses) I'm curious to see how other writers arrange their work space.
Which means, of course, that you get to peek in mine.
Virginia Woolf wrote about a room of one's own. I feel most fortunate--I have not just a room, but a whole house to write in. We've lived here my entire writing career, and in that time I've wandered quite a bit.
I started out in the logical place: my office.
The office is home to two overcrowded bookcases, cat beds, dog beds, cases of printer paper, stacks of books that don't fit in the bookcases, stacks of novel chapters with comments from my writing group, office supplies (my 3-hole punch and paper cutter are dear to my heart), stacks of research materials for whatever novel I'm currently working on, a footlocker stuffed to bursting with research materials from previous novels, an old scratched up dresser containing our paltry selection of house linens, a sloping ceiling, cat hair, dog hair, and a desk with computer and peripherals. It has only one window facing north, which in Portland means that it's dark in here most of the time. (I've spent years dreaming of a skylight. Someday...) This office is where I wrote the many drafts of my first novel, Tallulah Falls, plus a chunk of my second novel. And then...
...we purchased a new laptop. A laptop that was actually functional. And suddenly, the entire house was my oyster.
I wrote most of the second book, Ten Cents a Dance, on the futon couch in our living room with my feet up on the coffee table. I liked the open space and the light pouring through the windows.
My animals liked the fact that they were no longer on measly pet beds on the floor, but now up on the couch with me. Before:
After:
As far as they were concerned, this was definitely an improvement in the daily routine.
The abandoned third book was also mostly written here. When I set it aside, and moved on to the next third book, a change in venue seemed in order. (Plus, that couch was starting to hurt my back.) So I migrated upstairs.
My sweetie gave me this rocking chair, complete with cozy afghan, for Christmas one year. I've done copyediting here, and for years, whenever I got stuck and couldn't figure my way out of a writing dilemma, this was my go-to spot. I would leave the laptop behind, grab my notebook and a pen, and head up here for a brainstorming session. The chair is magic; the chair always works.
These days, this corner of our bedroom is my writing space. With the afghan pulled up over my lap and a mug of hot white chocolate on the windowsill, I'm in writing bliss. The animals aren't sad over my defection from the couch, because they simply moved onto the bed. (Less crowded for me, which is a relief. Typing with a cat draped across your wrists is a serious challenge.)
If I need a change, I'll pop back to one of my old haunts. Occasionally I'll set up shop at the kitchen table. But the rocking chair is where my third novel sprouted and continues to bloom. (Speaking of which--and thank you for asking!--I'm well into those 2nd draft revisions. More on that later.)
So this is where I work. If you'd like to take a gander at other writers' spaces (I know I do!), don't forget to head over to Melissa's this Wednesday, October 20th!
--and completed the first draft of my novel-in-progress.
Big deal? YES. Because I've been in first draft hell for 3 years, more or less. (When it comes to these sorts of things, a slightly fuzzy memory is essential to one's self-esteem.)
I spent the bigger chunk of that time wrestling with a historical novel I just couldn't make work. I still love the story idea. I still think it could be a good book someday. But in its current form, it's missing something deep and vital, some unknown thing that would set my heart pounding. My gut knew this almost from the beginning; but for a long, long time, I refused to listen. Even after I did start paying attention to that uneasy feeling, I spent months more agonizing over what it meant, while still hammering away at that first draft. Meanwhile, I rained my doubts and fears onto my writing group (bless you, good and stalwart people, for putting up with my weekly fits of anxiety), my sweetheart, my friends, and my wise and very patient agent, who has always believed in me and whose cool, calming advice was like the paper bag to my hyperventilation.
I finally decided to put that novel aside, unfinished. Part of me felt like an absolute failure. But my gut--which had been telling me all along that the book wasn't right--was jumping up and down, squealing, "Start the next novel now! Start the next novel now!" The thing was, I'd come up with an idea as different from the historical as could be...and whatever the historical lacked in the heart-pounding department, this idea made up for. In spades.
So: the same day I made the decision, I cleared every trace of the abandoned historical from my office. Eighteen or so library books went back to the library. I filled an entire footlocker to bulging with all the other research material I'd collected: dozens more books, plus WWII-era magazines, pamphlets, letters, and other eBay finds--one of which I'd spent 2 years searching for, and had finally acquired less than a month previously.
I clearly heard the universe laughing at that one.
The next day, I threw myself into the new book with a firm resolution: to have a first draft complete within 6 months. Now, I've never written a first draft that fast. But I have friends who can and do (heck, I have friends who can write a first draft in 6 weeks), and I reasoned that if they can do it, so can I. I would be a writing machine.
And I was. But guess what: it still took me 10 months.
Lots of writing lessons learned, these past few years. Among them:
ALWAYS listen to your gut.
Everyone writes at their own pace. What works for other writers may not work for you.
On the other hand: outlining actually CAN be useful. Sort of. (Oh heck, let's just make that its own blog post, shall we?)
So now what? Going to Disneyland, right?
*sigh* I wish. The first draft is the literary equivalent of the half-baked cake. A distressing amount is comprehensible only to me, at this point, because I know what I meant, but it's sort of not actually on the page. Yet.
That's the job of revisions. And so, after a brief gulp of fresh air...
...back into the story I go.
Second draft deadline: 2 months.Can she do it? Stay tuned...
The most rewarding part of any presentation I give is the give-and-take with the audience, especially the Q&A afterward. Most of the questions are light-hearted and fun ("How long did it take you to write the book?" "Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?"). Often, the questioner will share an insight or personal experience. Sometimes, a question will make me stop and think, and dig deep for an answer.
And every once in a while, I get thrown for a loop.
Earlier this year, I was invited to give my Hepkitten presentation to an adult book club which had read my YA novel, Ten Cents a Dance. During the Q&A, a woman who wanted to be a YA author asked me why I'd ended the book the way I did. I wasn't sure what she meant, so I asked for clarification. She said that here I had a main character who had made bad decisions, disobeyed her mother, gotten herself into some pretty sketchy situations...and in the end, she comes through it all and goes on with her life! Where were the consequences for her actions?
But there were consequences, I replied. Because of her choices, the character severely damaged her relationship with her mother, which she now has to try to rebuild. She lost the trust of her sister. She lost her best friend. She realized that she threw away the last bit of her childhood, and that she can never, ever get it back. She can make amends, but she can never go back to the person she used to be.
Yes, the woman said, I realize all that. But why didn't you punish her more?
Punish her more? You mean like, because of what she did, her life is ruined forever?
Yes, the woman said. Like that. Don't you think that would be a better message for teens?
NO , I DON'T THINK THAT WOULD BE A BETTER MESSAGE was the first thought that jumped to mind. Before I popped off with the easy answer, though, I asked myself: Why not?
I paused and gathered my thoughts, and I realized: It's because I believe in hope. Not just in life--I knew that about myself already--but in my writing. For my characters. And for my readers.
We all make bad decisions growing up. Some of us, worse than others. I believe that, if we're lucky, we can come through those choices--and their consequences--and be better for them. Wiser. I believe that we can redeem ourselves. That's why I ended that novel the way I did.
I don't think my answer satisfied the woman; I'm pretty sure she'd still vote for punishment and ruined lives. Still, though, I'm glad she asked the question, because it got me thinking about this in a way I hadn't before. It made me realize that pretty much all YA fiction--even the books that deal in the darkest, grimmest subjects, the books that get banned because adults think that teens shouldn't be allowed to read about hard issues--ends on a note of hope. Of growth. Of new and hard-earned wisdom.
I don't often get the Monday blahs, but today they're all over me like slippery on squid. Much as I'd like to loll on my couch and watch "LoTR: The Return of the King" again, though, no such luck. Too much to do.
But even in my ennui-ridden state, this made me squee with glee. Whether you're suffering from your own Monday malaise, or bounding through the world in high cheer*, I highly, highly recommend.
*If you're bounding, kudos to you and stay away from me. If you're my compatriot in the doldrums, courage! A good night's sleep, and tomorrow all will be well. And if it's not, at least it will be Tuesday.
There comes a time in every first draft--well, every one of my first drafts--when little voices begin jabbering in my head. Shrill, almost hysterical voices, saying things like:
This book is terrible. Nobody will want to read it. Your idea stinks. Your execution of the idea stinks. Your characters have all the life and spark of reanimated zombies. Your plot is spinning out of control. Your plot is running aground. Your prose contains not one original phrase. You're not writing fast enough. You're not writing deeply enough. You suck.
The funny thing is, the voices aren't there in the beginning. No, they wait. They bide their time, and when I'm closing in on the end of the first draft, when I only have another quarter of the book or so to write, that's when they pipe up with their terrible little naysaying songs.
I've been through this enough times now that I've realized a few things.
The first thing is that the voices come from fear. They don't show up in the beginning, because in the beginning everything is wonderful. The novel bursts with endless possibility! Every story arc is deep and profound! Every character is charming and unforgettable! Every plot twist is shocking and original! In my head, because none of it has actually been written yet.
By the time I'm in 250 pages or so, that illusion of perfection has died a messy, messy death. The real thing--with all its flaws--is staring me in the face. Plot holes big enough to swallow a small planet! Character motivations that make no sense at all! Story arcs that are going nowhere! I've jotted down note after note about what needs fixing, come revision time. Enough notes to fill pages.
The reason the voices kick in now is because what they're really saying is, Maybe it can't be fixed.
The second thing I've learned is the answer to the voices. It's very simple. The answer is:
YES, IT CAN.
When I hit a snag--like I did yesterday--I have to remember to take a breath. Don't panic. Realize that the snag is my cue to dig deeper into motivation, into character, into the possibilities of the scene. Yes, the swoony honeymoon beginning is wonderful. But this, the wrestling to the end, when all seems unwinnable...this, I know, is when the real magic happens. But only if we earn it. Only if we keep faith with our visions, and with ourselves as writers.
Only if we keep going.
P.S. For a really good comparison of the inner critic vs. the inner editor, and what to do with both of them, I recommend this by YA author Malinda Lo.
Back in town,* and a whole lotta book stuff happening on these interwebs.
First up, exciting news: Ten Cents a Dance is the featured book at Books on the House for Kids & Teens! The founder of BotH, Misa Ramirez, is an author herself, and she was looking for ways to bring authors and readers together. The answer is her website: Books on the House, and Books on the House for Kids/Teens. Every week, readers can visit the sites and enter to win free signed books. Win-win for everyone!
Four reasons to trot on over and check it out: --This is your absolutely, positively, last chance to win a signed paperback of Ten Cents a Dance (that I know of)! So throw your hat in the ring, already!
--You can see a video interview, done specially for BotH, in which I talk about why I started writing; my mother's horror when she realized I was going to make public a family secret that had been under wraps for three generations; and my current novel-in-progress (never before discussed anywhere!) Also, I make funny faces when I talk. Not helped by the fact I'm trying to look at the camera, not my computer screen, because I didn't realize they should both be in your line of vision. (I was mostly concerned with making sure that the cat litter behind me wasn't visible. Which, BTW, thank you Miss Molly Brown, for NOT peeing in the box until thirty seconds after the interview was over.)
--You can also see the Ten Cents a Dance book trailer. Didn't know there was one? Neither did I, until last week when Google Alerts tipped me off. The trailer was done by Adriana, a teen librarian in California. This is one of the most astonishing things about being published...that people will read your book and be inspired by it to create something completely new.
--Seriously, you need a fourth reason? BOOK TRAILER. CONTEST. FUNNY FACES. Ye gods, people.
*The wedding was gorgeous, BTW...sunshine, ocean breezes and rose petals, the bride and groom crazy in love, and yes, this auntie did shed tears. Bellissima!
To some people, shopping for a dress is the most perfect possible way to spend an afternoon.
I am not one of those people.
However, several undeniable facts have been staring me in the face:
Fact #1: When it comes to attending weddings, jeans just don't cut it. Not even my best boot cuts.
Fact #2: The most suitable dress I own was last worn to the wedding of the current bride's older sister. Two weddings a few years apart...aunt in exact same dress. Question: Do I want to be that aunt? Answer: No.
Fact #3: My next most suitable dress happens to be ten years old. Still cute. Still fits. But, realistically, how long can one drag out the millennium?
Fact #4: Even if one decided that the millennium could stretch one more year (a sketchy proposal at best), that means buying new shoes, since the old ones that went with said dress are now kaput.
Fact #5: As much as I dislike clothes shopping, I would almost rather pull my own head off than venture out for shoes. Oh, you 6 mediums who prance through shoe departments plucking pairs of cuteness right and left...pity the poor 10 double-narrow, who slogs from store to store, the inevitable refrain ringing in her ears: "We're sorry, that style doesn't come in your size. But we do have this" *displaying the shoe equivalent of a wart with hair growing out of it* "Would you like to try it on?"
No. No, I wouldn't.
So. Goal: Buy cute dress in a good color, suitable for a late-afternoon wedding, that goes with existing shoes and doesn't break the bank. Really, how hard could that be?
Fast-forward through 4 hours, 8 stores, and a crosstown drive chasing down a dress in a bigger size which a sales associate assured me was available at another location, and yet...was not. I am now a wee bit cranky.
May I ask the designers of America just one question? What is so difficult about providing dresses for grown-up people? Seriously. I would like to know the answer to this question. The few dresses I found that didn't make me look like I was trying to be 18 again (believe me, I'm not--been there, ain't going back), and also didn't make me look like someone's aged mother (which I also am not) invariably cost upwards of $200. Am I the only 46-year-old in America on a budget who wants something other than a thigh-high skirt in garish cheap jersey or pleated navy polka dots? I think not. Where are our dresses, o designers of America?
Bereft of answers, I found myself, at long last, wandering through Nordstrom. The budget is why I didn't go there first, but I love Nordie's, and will always love Nordie's, for one reason: they absolutely refuse to put up any Christmas decorations--not a single strand of tinsel, not the tiniest star--until the day after Thanksgiving. In a day and age when we're subjected to Rudolph and his damn red nose two weeks before Halloween, a store that hews to traditional seasons is dear to my heart.
And then there's Desiree.
Desiree saw my frustrated, worn-out self and took me in hand. I gave her all my criteria--including the one I haven't yet mentioned, which is that this hypothetical dress needs to be on a plane with me in less than 24 hours--and she ran with it. In ten minutes, I had eight dresses to choose from. In twenty minutes, I had a dress. A great dress. The dress. AND it was on sale.
Desiree, I wish you kittens and rainbows and your own personal enchanted genie who will wash your car and clean your house and cook you scrumptious dinners forever.
Now: if only I can get everything into the carry-on, so I don't have to check luggage. I know, I know...I already have the moon, must I want the stars, too?
To everyone who stopped by and left a comment last time--thank you! I appreciated all the sweet thoughts.
One thing I've noticed, when I've got a lot going on or I've hit a rough patch, is that my reading pattern changes.
Some people eat for comfort. Me, I read for comfort. (Not that I have anything against comfort eating. In fact, best of all is a combination, with the eating portion preferably involving bacon. Or cheese popcorn.)
I'm much less likely to start new novels, even if they're by authors I know. Instead, I go to my shelves and pick down old favorites. These are novels I've read anywhere between five times and, I don't know, maybe twenty. Some are books I first read when I was a teen. As far as genre, they're all over the map, but they have one thing in common: From the first page, I feel like I've slipped into a sweet, familiar place.
In the past couple of weeks, I've reread The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley, The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, Spring Moon by Bette Bao Lord, and I'm just finishing Dragon Seed by Pearl S. Buck.
After that, I think I'll be ready to dive into new waters again. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo is already on my nightstand, waiting.
How about you? Any favorite comfort reads? Or, when you have a lot on your plate, do you prefer to plunge into something brand-new?
You were six months old and you'd already had three homes.
Your first people didn't want you; their son's girlfriend brought you one day and never took you back. They kept you tied you to the porch. The only time they untied you was to bring you to the humane society. They'd had you for months, but they couldn't tell the staff whether you liked cats, kids, or other dogs. Unwanted, that's all they knew.
Your second family gave up on you after only a few days. We don't know why. But when they brought you back (an adoption failure!), that's when my sweetie met you. He described how cute you were and how you'd snuggled and pressed your head against his shoulder and gazed up at him with brown puppy eyes. (Twisted around your little paw, right from the start.)
We went to get you. But you were gone, adopted once more. So disappointed! But we were happy for you and wished you a glad doggy life.
Three days later, we visited the humane society again.
And there you were.
A second-time failure. You'd jumped on the third family's little girl. It turned out you adored kids. But you didn't know not to jump. Of course not, you'd had no socialization, no training, hardly any human interaction at all. But no excuses! Back to the humane society you went.
I knelt to say hi. You pressed your head against my shoulder and gazed up with brown puppy eyes and your funny little underbite. An hour later, you were in our car headed home.
Home to stay.
The name you came with was Mamacita. You didn't answer to it. We renamed you Ginny. Virginia Pearl, for formal occasions.
You couldn't stand to be left alone. You weren't housebroken. Every time we fed you, you frantically leaped and knocked the food bowl out of our hands, as if you didn't trust we'd actually set it on the ground. You had no idea how to play with our other dog or the dogs at the park. Let's just say you had issues.
But you wanted to please so badly. In a few days you were housebroken and you sat politely for your meals and you'd figured out a chase-me game with Jerry, our elderly German Shepherd, and you'd learned not to chase the cats.
But for the rest of your life, you couldn't stand to be alone. Well, who would, if they'd been left tied to a porch and ignored? So when dear Jerry passed on, we brought home Inja. And with your new best friend, you discovered the world.
Running in the snow on Christmas Day...
...and in Utah on vacation...
...and when you were tired, turnabout's fair play when it came to being a pillow.
You patiently kept me company while I wrote my first novel...
...and my second... ...and my third.
Being in the water was the only time the Labrador part of you ever kicked in. On dry land, your idea of "retrieving" was: The Toy is MINE If You Want It You Have to Chase Me But You'll Never Get It HA HA HA!
Your very favorite thing was to flaunt your toy-of-the-moment, lay it delicately on our knees or drop it on poor Inja's head, then snatch it back and run away laughing.
When we babysat Fergus the Sheltie puppy, you wanted his favorite fleece toy so badly you practically bled out your eyes. All other subterfuges having failed, you suddenly ran to the window barking. The moment Fergus jumped up to see what was out there, you swiped the toy and snuck off with it. Like stealing candy from a baby.
But when baby Molly got a trouncing from her big cat brother Albert, you hurried over to see if she needed saving. If we were upset, or unhappy, or sad, you'd press your sweet head against our shoulders and gaze up with anxious brown eyes, and if we needed to hug you, you'd let yourself be hugged forever.
When you were six years old, you got sick. That's when we discovered your liver cirrhosis. (Hadn't we told you to lay off those margaritas?!) Oh, and you had congenital kidney disease, too. Double whammy. The liver disease alone gave you a life expectancy of six months.
But you pulled through that episode. And another one. And a few more. But surely you were a bedridden invalid? Ha! That's you at eleven. (Photo by your friends Kim and James at Stay Pet Hotel.) We began joking that you would never die, because then Inja would get all your toys. I half-hoped it was true.
It wasn't. You'd just turned twelve. Almost six years late, but it finally came.
Six extra wonderful years. I know we shouldn't have hoped for more. But we did.
Your ears stuck out to the sides and when you trotted, their tips bounced up and down in a way that made random strangers laugh. When you were sleepy, or you really, really, really wanted something (like begging to get on the couch..."But look, you've got sooooo much room up there!!") your underbite showed.
You were adorable. You were smart. Your sense of humor was better than some humans' I know. We count ourselves the luckiest people in the world to have had you.
Grieve not, nor speak of me with tears But laugh and talk of me as if I were beside you I loved you so... ...`Twas heaven here with you.
I'm a veterinarian who started writing and never stopped. I've published two young adult novels: Ten Cents a Dance, which was named a Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults by the American Library Association, and Tallulah Falls, which was named a 2007 Book for the Teen Age by the New York Public Library. I practice veterinary medicine part-time; the rest of the time, I'm up in my office, clacking away at the keyboard.
Life is discovery. Sometimes, I think the stuff I’ve discovered is so cool, I have to share it. Feel free to roll your eyes, it won’t bother me. I’m a geek…I know it.
In September 2008, I went to the Kidlitosphere Conference here in Portland. Of the many people I met that day, one of the most delightful was Lisa (L.K.) Madigan. Like many authors, Lisa had spent years pursuing her dream of publication, and that dream was about to come true: her debut YA novel, Flash Burnout, was published in 2009.
