So many worlds, so little time

I was raised to be curious: a humongous blessing and a curse worse than Avada Kedavra. It leads to things like "I need to grade these HEY IT'S THE GUY WHO DIDN'T SPEAK FOR TWENTY YEARS WONDER HOW HE DID THAT WONDER IF HE COULD BE A CHARACTER IN . . ." Not good for the day job. But there is *so much* out there to explore. How does a person determine where to start?

I have no answer to that question. All I know is there are books I want to write: graphic novels about cats, verse novels about 50s fashion models, a YA starring four boys and a winter hat with a mohawk (though nobody could afford this Dior one). Maybe even a romance novel or two. Who knows? All I know is my day job started again this week, and I'm not doing so hot at getting into the groove.

How can I make my writing pay my bills? That is also the question. I will find the answer, I'm sure, but in the meantime, I need to get my head in the school game (grr) despite my desire to research and write (sigh).

Maybe this is how my students feel about the split between gaming and homework.

Maybe my character needs this beard/mustache hat instead. I think I like the woolhawk better.

Happy 2011!

Let's start with a font joke, shall we? I love font jokes.

2011 will be quite a year, I believe. Aren't they all? Most interesting piece of writing wisdom from 2010: it feels *really* weird to voluntarily take all the f-bombs out of a manuscript. Don't know if it will stay that way, but I wanted to try it.

Happy New Year, friends! Thanks for reading along. Here's to more hilarity and more stories in 2011.

Seven things I am doing instead of writing

Finding time to write these days is like finding a lost kitty--the reunion is joyous, but kitties are quite elusive, especially when it's noisy and chaotic. All I want is my skulls, my Black Hills, and my ghosts. Is that too much to ask? It seems to be. But Ray and Callie sit patiently on my table, waiting for me, as characters do (thank god--can you imagine if they got up and walked around? Eeek.).

Here's what I'm doing instead of writing, right this instant:

1) grading my students' discussion posts

2) listening to Stevie Wonder on the 70s music channel on my TV (this is no hardship)

3) listening to my kid play a video game my spouse lets him play, one that came out this week and I HATE it, but I lost that battle, no pun intended

4) gluing the treadmill key back together

5) reading A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS in preparation for teaching it (also not much of a hardship)

6) prepping for a reading tonight (also not much of a hardship, but it's 90 miles away)

7) wrapping birthday gifts for mailing

All of it serves a purpose, of course. BUT I NEED TO WRITE. I love my family, my students, the people who read my books, the people who need birthday gifts, all of it. I love what I do in life. BUT I NEED TO WRITE.

Hear me? I NEED IT.

A love letter

Dear SKY readers:

After last week's post, I realized I forgot to give credit where credit is due--to whom do I owe my first published year (besides my awesome friends at Flux)? You, kind readers. You have been astoundingly generous and completely wonderful to me. Thank you for taking Morgan into your heart and understanding her. Thank you for carrying her around the world.

I hope you laughed, too. She's a drama queen, isn't she? But she means well.

With my love and gratitude--let's do it again sometime--

Kirstin

(graphic swiped from here)

Yawp, yawp, yawp, yawp . . .

. . . yawp yawp YAWP!

First, anybody know who this handsome young dude is?

That's right! It's our friend Walt Whitman, also known to me and my students as Uncle Walt, sometimes Gay Uncle Walt. I truly, truly heart Uncle Walt. He is into excess (soooo many words!), he has a bit of an ego, plus he is wonderful at detail and is deeply, DEEPLY in love with the world. Plus, without him we couldn't have had lots of other fabulous poets, like William Carlos Williams and Alan Ginsburg.

Why Uncle Walt right here and now? These lines:

"I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

Those words are close to the end of his crazy-ass, wonderfully intense and immense poem "Song of Myself," from his book LEAVES OF GRASS, published in 1855 (he self-published the first edition with his own money!). Every time I think writing is stupid (like today), or blogging is pointless (like a lot), I think of Whitman's words, and I take courage.

If he can yawp, I can yawp. Someone will hear us. And if not, we did it anyway. That's what matters.

The year of living bifurcatedly

Bifurcation = a split. Your word nerd moment of the day. Notice how the yin/yang is split? More on this later.

I have now been a published YA author for just over one year. Craziness. Complete awesomeness. The time went FAST. Of course, I’ve learned things. A*lot* of things:

1) my YA writing colleagues are kind, giving, smart, and tons of fun. I am honored to be part of such a crowd that's so generous. I knew this before I was published, actually.

2) I love my publishing house. Flux and its peeps are the absolute bomb.

3) I am a shy person online, but not in person. It's a mystery. I’m working on it.

4) When you are a debut novelist, don’t teach extra classes.

5) My jealousy can be intense, which both shames me and motivates me. It also doesn’t last long, which helps, because it’s overcome by #s 1 and 2, hearing from readers, and working with book peeps everywhere.

6) People don’t want to read my book.

7) People want to read my book.

8) “Success” is relative, depending on where you’re standing.

#s 1, 2, 3, and 4 are self-explanatory. #s 5 & 6: if I want to sell a million copies and be on the New York Times bestseller list, I need different material. Contemporary YA (and/or edgy YA) is a perennial category—like the sun, we just exist—and we are not generally a hot topic. That’s all right. We persist in our wonderfulness. Some days I think I should aim for trendy, but the hot would be cold by the time the book got to market.

#7 & 8 (still related to #s 5 & 6): Man oh man. Was I "successful"? Depends on who you ask. My publisher: “well, um, sales, yeah, some, well, she almost won an award, so, um . . . maybe?” (I honestly don’t know what they’d say. They might refer you back to #3). My family: “We have no idea. When is supper?” Me: “my book got read on 4 continents, and some people really understood Morgan and Tessa. I met cool people and got to do cool stuff, including seeing/listening to Neil Gaiman, and I got to talk about what I love. Hell yeah I’m a success!” New York Times bestseller list . . . well, you know.

There's a give and take between writing your passion and being marketable--this is the bifurcated part. I haven't mastered it yet. Do I write that crazy-ass storyline about those boys in the Laundromat or should I try a zombie romance (I do like that idea)? Even my husband said, when I was pitching an idea, “You need to write more marketable books.” Ouch. He doesn't know the biz, but he's a reader, so he knows what he likes. And readers vote with $.

And that's the bottom line--publishing is a business (duh) and runs on money. My literature teacher side says WOW THAT SUCKS IT SHOULD BE STORIES. And stories still matter. But marketing possibilities trump stories—-it just happened to me, and it hurt for a bit. But I can’t begrudge folks the opportunity to run a profitable business. No profitable publishers = no books at all.

So. Was it a good year? The best. Will there be more like it? I really, really hope so. Which to write next—-laundromats or zombies? I don’t know. I just want more years to find out.

Silence is the new conflict

This guy is an environmentalist named John Francis. In 1971, he witnessed an oil spill in the San Francisco bay, and he swore off motorized transportation for 22 years. But--more amazing to me--in 1973, he decided to be silent. FOR 17 YEARS, with the exception of 1 phone call to his mom after 10 years. No writing, even. He taught himself Indian Sign Language, then realized nobody spoke it, then just used gestures and touch and pantomime. 17 YEARS, FRIENDS. I couldn't do it for 17 days , even though I desperately want to right now. But teachers/writers don't get very far without communicating. And--get this--the guy completed 3 college degrees (including a Ph.D.), all in silence.

John Francis matters to me right now because of two things: 1) I need a conflict for my next novel, and I can see a teenage boy refusing to speak for long periods of time; and 2) he was a black man who carried a banjo (see above), and this intrigues me. Of all things--a banjo. Francis said that if he *didn't* carry his banjo, then he was a tall threatening black man. If he *did* carry his banjo and play it, then he was a friendly guy with a banjo, not a tall threatening black man. I admire his ability to hide and/or change stereotypes with a goofy instrument, though it sucks he had to think that way in the first place.

John Francis claims he set out to show one person can make a difference. His Planetwalker organization continues to work for environmental change and goodness, which is fantastic, plus he made a difference to me--he gave me a conflict for my character (at least an initial one, though we know how revision changes things, grr). I'm going to study this dude some more.

Tell me, friends: could *you* be silent for 17 years?

Happy/sad/mad + characters

I love how life contributes to art. Or not.

At the moment, I'm trying to write some big emotions for a couple characters, and I'm not quite getting there. Things are still flat. So what does Life decide to do? Hand me situations that I can translate to the page. Grrr . . . I've gotten brained with the sad stick and pounded with the angry stick about sixty times this week (thank you, birth family! thank you, publishing industry!), but hey, it's great for my WIP, right? Grrr. But now I get the sadness that drags Callie down, and the anger that eats up Ray's insides. Still--dang--I'm tired!

Luckily, life also whacks you with the happy stick, and those beatings contribute to the goofy, silly things my characters do. So, some things that have made me happy this week:

Image swiped from here, and the guy with the website is the guy with the funny sign. LOVE. IT. And yay for same-sex marriage in California!








Also this:

I was in the mood to strafe the world, and I let them do it for me. Perfect. Plus it's a decent action film with a relatively coherent script.

Back to your regularly scheduled emotions. Whew.

Maintenance

Confession: I am not good at maintenance.

This confession applies to many things. For example, I don't scrub out the fridge except in the summer. I just did it today, which is why I'm thinking about maintenance. I cleaned my oven two years ago ONLY because I won cook-for-me chefs in a charity auction. Laundry is OK, but dusting is horrible. I get pissed when I have to shave my legs (TMI, but it falls under this category) and color my hair. I don't vacuum my car. I also don't do so hot at publicity, which is really maintenance of one's writing career.

Maintenance ALSO implies that you own it/you bought it/you're responsible for it. Oh come on, can't I be irresponsible? For a supporting argument,please see this post. Clean ALL the things???

Damn.

Some of my maintenance crabbiness is really just laziness. Some is skepticism (who sees the inside of a fridge?) and some is futility (I'll just have to get highlights AGAIN?? WOE IS ME!) Some is self-preservation (dear child, can you fix your own lunch SO I CAN WRITE AND GET THESE PEOPLE OUT OF MY HEAD???).

On the upside, usually I am good at maintaining relationships. I write, I call, I e-mail, I FB (I don't Twitter much). I kiss my kid and husband good night every night, and I pay attention to them (except at lunch). I call my mom. All that other stuff is just that--STUFF. Step off, stuff.

I realize it does matter--people accept me better if I shave my legs. People will see me if I blog/Twitter/have a web presence (my publicist will like me better).

But please, oh please . . . don't make me maintain anything else today. The fridge was enough.

(Full disclosure: my lack of desire to maintain stuff frustrates the shit out of my husband. He is good at maintenance, and is an ace at housework.)

Fences

Do you know the play FENCES? I teach it in my Intro to Lit class, and it just closed on Broadway (three Tonys, including one for Denzel). Awesome play. An African-American play, but a universal play. The main character, Troy, never gets his fence finished. He needs to protect his heart, his family, his territory--but what is he also keeping out?

I am thinking about this because we just finished discussing FENCES, but also because I read this fantastic blog post and its comments, all about inclusion and exclusion in children's literature, and it directly relates to books 1 through 3 of my repertoire. So directly I blushed.

So here's a request: what about gates in the fences? Or maybe a big ol' pasture with little fenced-off spaces inside it? Places to mix and mingle, but still with some protection for those who feel the need? I'm not discounting the need, either--I have no idea what it means to have to protect yourself to survive, and I have no right to refute that feeling. But man, I'm here, outside your fence, trying to say hello because I like you and want to get to know you. Yes, I know. Privilege. I don't have to have a fence. But I mean it: I like you and I want to get to know you. You can give me the finger, and you have every right. But I really don't want to walk away.

Thanks to Malinda Lo for showing me Arthur Levine's blog (he's the man who brought Harry Potter to America, I could kiss your shoes, dude).

W-A-I-T is a four-letter word

I'm waiting right now. If you're a writer, you'd better know how to wait. It's not a good word.


I'm waiting for people to say yes. I'm waiting for people to say no.

I'm waiting for inspiration to strike.

I'm waiting for trepidation to recede.

I'm waiting for confusion to clear up (ha ha--never!).

The other verbs that go with waiting are goofing off, surfing, thinking and avoiding.

I'm goofing off in every possible way by doing *other* kinds of work, which is BAD.

I'm surfing the interwebz for new author promotion strategies.

I'm thinking of all the ways I can strengthen my characters.

I'm avoiding the tough stuff--should I *really* be a writer? Should I quit my job, pierce my lip, dye my hair teal, and take up photography? Should I buy a pair of purple Chucks? Should I run away to Australia? All of these things are valid questions, except the last one. I couldn't run away because then my kid wouldn't take his vitamins, and then he'd die of scurvy and rickets and other horrible diseases, which would not be OK.


Despite all this roiling about, underneath it all, there's always waiting.

(Do people even know what "four-letter words" are anymore? Like p*ss and sh*t and f*ck? Maybe the four-letter word concept is old and tired, but I still think wait is one of them.)

The pug is for you, Amy Tipton, and the sign is from here.

Yaaaaaay, research!

I know--long hiatus. Sorry.

I love research. Why? It's an awesome procrastination tool.

But it's also a smart thing to do. I just took a four-day research trip (and drove 1400 miles total, WOW, lots of gas), and it was beaucoup fantastic. I learned so much, even more than I was expecting to learn.

Some of what I now know:

1) one character needs a French surname, not an English one
2) buffalo are WAY bigger than you'd think (see photo for scale)
3) coyotes can't catch prairie dogs, even though they try
4) grandmothers rule the world
5) people are incredibly generous (thanks again, Ernie & Sonja!)
6) there was a real guy named Buddy Red Bow--he's not just a character in a film
7) a person could get lost in western South Dakota--on purpose or by accident
8) always bring a cooler

The best thing about research is how much better it makes your fiction. At the same time, you have to be very, very careful not to let facts overwhelm your story.

Now to do justice to what I learned. Eeek.


Hilarious photo from here.

Bouncing for books

I wish this was a story about trampolines.

A couple weeks ago, I was the guest speaker at a writing event for 3rd-12th graders. It was great. I even saw parents nodding along with my talk. One guy came up to me afterward (a grandpa) and said, "When you put that cup of water on the podium, I thought, 'Wow, we're in for a long one.' But you kept it short and sweet--and interesting!" Big smile from the dude, and no better compliment could I have received.

After the event, I got to sell my books (which is the subject for another post--reconsidering audience). Great, right? Last week I got a note from the bank, and one check had been returned. My bank account is now out $10, plus a $7 fee, and there's the $6.50 I paid for the book in the first place. $23.50 and a free book went to John and Brenda and their daughter (I'm guessing).

Someone said, "Well, call them and ask for your book back! Or the money!" What good would that do? What if these people have no jobs, but they bought their daughter a book for $10 because she wanted it? What gets me is this: did they *know* they had no money, but they did it anyway, for her? Or was it just a gap between paydays and something came up, and they thought they could float, but they couldn't?

I've thought about this situation a lot (not that it's my biz, but writers think about things). Honestly, I am happy to give them a book and pay $23.50 for it. Maybe they really, really, needed one. Maybe they knew how happy it would make their child.

I could be wrong: John and Brenda may be complete scam artists, though none of the families at this event struck me that way. Moms and dads and everyone else were there to honor their kids, beginning writers who were proud of themselves, and the families were proud, too. I can chip in for that.

Potluck people

It's 11:08 right now, so I'll get this one in before it's not Friday anymore. I'm doing better at remembering! And don't you love the P alliteration in this week's entry titles? It also seems to be LOLCats Week on the blog. Sorry.

I don't know about your people, but Midwesterners are potluck people. My mother-in-law, for example, could throw a potluck with a bag of grapes and a pitcher of iced tea. She loved them--still does--the more the merrier, if people just bring desserts, then we eat desserts for supper. And that's actually the key--a potluck should be SPONTANEOUS. Unplanned. No "if your name begins with a Y, bring chips" kind of stuff. Everybody just bring something and come hang out.

Why am I thinking about this? My writing group, my sisters in ink, we had a potluck on Wednesday. What did we eat? Popcorn. And some hummus, veggies, salsa, chips, meat, cheese, and wine. Oh, and mini cupcakes and strawberry shortcake. I think that's all. It was spontaneous, and it was delicious.

Delicious not just because of the food. Delicious because of the relative impromptu-ness of it all (we decided just the day before, and nobody planned), and because Midwesterners like to share food and conversation over weird collections of victuals (or "vittles"). We ate and worked and talked and enjoyed each other.

I'm sure this can't be just Midwesterners who do this--can it? I know Midwesterners are the people who do holiday sweaters (never so well described as by my incredibly writerly cousin Susan), but we can't be the only potluck people. Can we?

Privilege processing

Today I was talking to someone about privilege, and how I am privileged more than I can even acknowledge: I'm white, middle-class, way too educated, and employed, plus I live in a house, drive a car, have clean water . . . the list goes on and on. And anyone who has darker skin than mine, or anyone in the LBGTIQ spectrum, or anybody without education (to list only a few things) doesn't have the power to affect things in the same way I do. That includes publishing books, which is why I'm thinking about it.

I have a huge interest in writing diverse, multicultural characters. But should I speak *through* my characters? Is it OK for me, with all my privilege, to presume to speak in a first-person voice from the head of a person of color? Or a person who's gay? What about a person with a disability?

Lots of people would say (have said), flat out, NO EFFING WAY. OK, but what if I study a lot, read a lot, talk to people, do my research, be respectful? NO EFFING WAY. What if I acknowledge my privilege, add an author's note, and don't presume to speak for an entire culture? DOESN'T MATTER. WE DON'T CARE. NO EFFING WAY.

There are others who'd say (have said) yes, that's OK, we'll share our stories with you and help you. One literary character doesn't represent a whole culture. We know you'll do your best and treat our stories with care.

Neither group is right, neither group is wrong. I see both sides. My work in progress requires me to ask these questions, as does my work that's looking for a home. Both manuscripts could get me in lots of trouble from the NO EFFING WAY peeps. Am I ready to take it? Do I really want to step in potential literary doo-doo?

I love my characters, and I know what I do with my privilege in my day-to-day life, which is try to jam the cogs of the racist, classist, sexist (add any other "-ist" you want) culture I live in (mwah ha ha, I'm a teacher, I indoctrinate people!). Plus I'm not ready to put my characters away yet. So . . . gulp . . . let the shit grace my path. Here I go.



Graphic stolen from here, a blog that's going on my "to-read" list.

A letter to my characters

This may sound entirely strange, but sometimes I write my books, and sometimes they write me. Mostly I'm talking about my characters. Sometimes I think them up, but sometimes they come and find me and pound on my head to be let out.

Really weird, I know.

And even stranger: I feel like writing them a letter. So here goes.

First, with love to Morgan and Elsie (aka Grandma): WOW! You are doing all sorts of cool things and going places I never knew you'd go. Someone called you "contrived and unconvincing," but someone else called you "funny, frank,[and] profane-but-literate," so we'll keep the second comment and throw out the first. You guys rock. And I owe you.

Second, with deep deep belief to Gabe, John, and Paige: hold on. Amy and I love you. Keep listening to music. Hold on to Elvis (well, not you, Paige, you hold on to Gabe).

Third, with happiness to Ray and Callie: stop making me crazy! Your story is going in seventyeleven simultaneous directions, and I can't hold it together. But you two are awesome (even in the face of Evil Keisha). I can't wait to see what's next, even if I can't control you.

Fourth, with great anticipation to Haven and Marty; Ian, Ivy, and Darcy; and Taliesin: I know it sucks to wait, and I'm getting there, I promise. Ray and Callie sort of cut in line. : ( But your time is coming, swear to God.

Fifth: Ed! Martha! I know you're in there--I see you. I need an artist to deal with you, and some idea of how a graphic novel works as well how as a middle grade novel works (or maybe a chapter book). I'm a little stuck in YA right now. Sorry.

OK, my imaginary peeps: I love you. Thanks for sticking with me. Thanks for making my life incredibly fun.

Kirstin

Telling the story v. marketing the story

This weekend I got to see THE LIGHTNING THIEF, which you may know is the adaptation of the first book of the PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS series. Love the series--the whole family has read it (I'm the last to finish, only on book 3, pathetic). Was the film OK? Mostly. I'm a book girl more so than a film-adaptation-of-the-book girl, so it's a given that I'd like it less.

But here's where I object: the book is middle grade, verging to YA. The film is most definitely older YA--a very clear marketing choice.

Why? If you have YAers, you can go to Vegas and really live it up in the casino. You can have more sexual tension. You can be ironic and cool. That stuff is more off-limits to middle graders. There's still an innocence and a sweetness to them, in my opinion, though that's changing more and more. But those things don't sell as well.

Plus, the original book audience was middle schoolers. The rating is PG, suitable for younger kids (wise move), but wouldn't you like to think they'd like to see the "real" Percy Jackson on screen? He's 12 when the series starts, not sixteen and pouty/crabby/crappily ironic all the time! I really didn't like Percy. My heart was with Grover.

If I was Rick Riordan, after I got over the ecstasy of having my book made into a film and I laughed all the way to the bank, I'd be a little sad, because it wasn't really my story up there. I KNOW--it was a film adaptation. But the marketing decision twists the adaptation into something even less recognizable.

Learning to shut up

As part of my research for my WIP, today I was graced with two hours of stories from a very kind man. He hails from a different culture than I do, so sometimes the rules for conversation are different, as are the rules for listening to elders (which he is). I went in there with my respect in place and my listening ears on. Or so I thought.

At one point, deep in my notes and scribbling along, his comment was along the lines of "you know, sometimes elders don't allow people to take notes."

I put my pen down.

At another point, I said, sort of as a conversation-mover but also as a truth, "Oh, I know that." And he said "well, then what are you doing here?" I am sure I blushed bright red. He followed up that comment with, "If you want other elders to talk to you, don't say stuff like that, or they'll ask you the same question. Just be quiet and listen."

I nodded and stayed quiet.

Stories from other cultures fascinate me. But I need to make rock-solid sure I'm learning them in a culturally appropriate way--appropriate to *the culture*, not me. In this case: shut up. Don't write. Listen.

I was glad for the reminder that my way of understanding the world might actually be disrespectful. I need those lessons. Later this spring I have a big interview with a very respected, rather famous elder, and I really really really really really don't want to screw it up. Wearing duct tape would look stupid, so I'll imagine it--which will also be much less painful. I will probably want to take notes--desperately! But I will just listen.

Then the key part: I must REMEMBER.

Tomorrow's agenda

Blog friends, this entry is small, but mighty: I NEED TO WRITE. I WANT TO WRITE. I MUST WRITE. Ray and Callie want me to write (they're my protags).

Why? Aside from the obvious reasons (love it, want to make $ at it, etc.)?

NEWS FLASH: there's a lurking ex-girlfriend. Where the hell did she come from? Why is her name Keisha? What does she look like? How did Ray get an ex-girlfriend when he seems so clueless about Callie?

All questions will be answered, I am certain, by some bus passenger in my subconscious who knows what she's doing, though she is not me. I just drive the bus. I don't tell it where to go.

I NEED TO WRITE. I WANT TO WRITE. I MUST WRITE.

I must grade, grade, grade. THEN WRITE.

disR-E-S-P-E-C-T

I should be clear: the blog entry about becoming an addict was tongue in cheek. I grew up with addicts, currently know addicts, and know that life, and it's not a path I want to take. I also know addicts with amazing recovery stories, and they have all my respect. I intended no DISrespect by suggesting that addiction was cool or fun.

In the face of all those genius works (that sell and sell and sell), addiction looks pretty good. But not really. The trail of destruction behind those literary greats may have been even greater than their genius. As for me, I have skated close enough to the edge to know addiction would be disastrous.

Just to be clear.

And PS: the photo is, if you're not sure, the infinitely fabulous Queen of Soul Aretha Franklin in her heyday, long before her bedazzled hat at Obama's inaugural. Didn't her presence just say to you, "yes, folks, it's a new day at the White House"? Love. It.