Back in June, an article in The Wall Street Journal caused a stir in the world of young adult fiction. (You can read it here.) I follow what goes on in that universe because I mainly read YA books, and I'm writing one. Most everyone with an online presence in the YA world had something to say about the article, which asserts that YA fiction is "too dark" and generalizes the genre as poison to the minds of our youth.

The article reeks of someone who has read about the books she describes, but not the books themselves. And that's why I didn't write about this whole business sooner. There is no surer way to make a fool of yourself than to take a stance on something that you don't know enough about, and honestly, I've only read a few of the books the author mentions.

Ay, there's the rub. I read around two YA books a week, and I have only read a handful of the books mentioned. Obviously there are plenty of books out there that don't fit into her poison box, because I read them all the time. In fact, the book I finished reading yesterday prompted me to write this post, but I'll get to that in a minute.

I picked up my first Stephen King when I was in sixth grade. At 12, it was a little too dark for me, and I lightened up by reading John Saul and Dean Koontz. From ages 12 to 14, I stuck to these blends of horror, mystery, sci-fi, etc., and by high school I moved back to King again, who I read alongside the Brontes and Hemingway and Hawthorne. I read these books because I was bored by the age-appropriate fluff I found back then. Anyone who thinks teenagers are reading dark stuff because it's in the YA section should peek over the rims of the rose-colored glasses. I read YA now because the books are entertaining and engaging, which is probably the same reason teens do, if they read them at all.


I recently had the good fortune to meet the talented Kristin Harmel, and yesterday I finished reading her most recent YA novel. After tells the story of 16-year-old Lacey, whose father dies in a car accident. Lacey's journey reflects real issues, with an ultimately positive, emotional resolution. I connected with the characters from the opening pages; I lost my own mother too soon. I would recommend After not only to teenagers, but to anyone who has lost a parent. (Click on the cover to find out more and read it for yourself!)


After is the antithesis of what is described in the WSJ article about YA. It is an awesome, uplifting read, and one more card stacking the deck of proof that YA is not "bulldozing coarseness or misery into children's lives." To the mother who couldn't find anything appropriate for her daughter to read, I say look harder. Ask librarians, book sellers, or other young readers for recommendations. Ask someone who knows where to find great books.

A few months ago, I was convincing my husband to take me to Lollapalooza for our anniversary. He swears I've permanently damaged his hearing dragging him to concerts, but he usually indulges me anyway. While searching for flights and hotels, somehow I stumbled upon a writing conference taking place the same weekend, in Jacksonville.

This wasn't just any writing conference, but one with a primary focus on critique groups. And the cost was equivalent to one ticket to the music festival I've dreamed of attending since I was a teenager.

Somehow life just slaps you in the face, at just the right time. What was my priority? Would I chase after my beloved Muse, and many other awesome bands, or would I focus on improving my writing?

I chose the conference. And, wow, did I make the right decision. This weekend I walked into a room full of strangers. I walked out enriched by the experiences and talent of ten unique, funny, brilliant writers. I hope to call them friends for years to come.

Writing is a solitary process. I feel so blessed to have joined a community of people who know what that solitude feels like. They have all stared at a blank screen. They've struggled for hours to find the right words. They know their characters better than they know their best friends. They all know the madness I've chosen to indulge, and they keep choosing it, too.

In honor of what I'm sure was a jaw-dropping performance by Matt and the gang this weekend, I'm listening to a Genius mix based on Muse's cover of Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want. While I do what I love. Write.

Until next time...

It's finished.

Last night I finished the first draft of my YA novel. I haven't blogged in a while because I've spent all my writing energy on this draft, and I can't believe that I've finally done it. The feeling is not quite as sweet this time around; I know that the hardest part still lies ahead, in the revising. I also have plans for a series, so the story is nowhere near over in my head. But at least this milestone is one giant leap forward from staring at a blank page all those months ago.
Tomorrow I'm going to my second writing conference, where I will be a part of my first critique group. The thought of ten strangers ripping my words to shreds terrifies me, but I know that this is just one more leap of faith on my writing journey.

That's all for now.

Music this week: enjoying some old-school Death Cab

Show, don't tell.

If you've ever taken a class or read a book on writing, you've heard it. Three little words provide the best, simplest writing advice. But this perfect sentence has an obnoxious cousin: "Easier said than done."

What got me thinking about showing verses telling? When I'm online, I usually end up on a random succession of websites that have nothing to do with why I got online in the first place. A few days ago, I ended up on a photo blog.

At first I thought, what interesting, artsy pictures! As I spent more time exploring, I found that not only were the photos beautiful, they showed the story of the artist's life. Through pictures alone, I learned how the artist likes to change her hair color, how she makes suit jackets and shorts stylish, what she likes to drink, what concert she went to last weekend, and how much fun it was. And I know not because she told the world, but because she showed us.

I might try my hand at this new art form. Whether I do or not, I appreciate the reminder of the power of "showing."

Now playing: Boy, Ra Ra Riot

Health update: What a difference six weeks makes! Today I washed dog #1 and clipped her nails, took dog #2 to the groomer, went to the grocery store, changed the sheets, paid bills, washed three loads of laundry, cooked dinner, and cleaned the kitchen. Thanks for all the well-wishes.

My favorite and most reliable way to find great new books used to be asking friends what they were reading and loving. I still do that. But my new method has moved up on the list, and it has me pretty excited.

Following blogs and tweets in the publishing industry leads to an ever-expanding network of more bloggers and twitterers. A while back, through that network, I started following Veronica Roth. I've enjoyed getting to know her over the past several months, all before the release of her first book. Of course I was cheering for her success. But I admit I'd wondered, what if I finally read the book, and I'm disappointed?

The novel was released this month. I finished reading it this morning, and not only was I not disappointed, I was thrilled. Ms. Roth linked the first hundred pages to her website, and I started reading yesterday. When I made it to page 100, I went straight to Amazon and bought the Kindle version, just so I could keep reading without going to the bookstore. (And I don't even have a Kindle- I read it on my Ipod. This was my first e-book.)

I wholeheartedly recommend Divergent, by Veronica Roth. I'm not going to review it like I normally would; I have all the links set up so you can check it out for yourself. This book is special to me because not only do I feel connected to the characters, I feel connected to the author. I'm proud of her accomplishment. I think you will be, too.

Three months.

Has it really been that long? Sitting here again feels strange. Sometimes this monitor feels like a window, but today it's more like a mirror. Back in my theatre days, I learned hundreds of lines. My favorite line, the one that I've never forgotten, was from the musical Pippin. "Things never turn out the way you think they're going to." Whenever I have plans and life steps in and changes them, I always think of that line.


My husband processes things by talking through them. That's one way we are different; I tend to stew in silence. Instead of talking, when I am ready, I process with this silent voice, these words on a page. Mental and physical roadblocks have kept me away until now, and my line between what is personal and what is fit for public consumption is thick and curvy. That being said, I had some medical issues recently that required surgery. But I don't want to talk about that. What brings me back to the writer's seat is not the cause, but the effect.


I don't like to ask for help. With anything. By the time I do ask someone for help, I'm usually frustrated because I've already tried to do the thing myself, and I've failed. How do you humble the independent? Render them helpless. Physical pain is bad enough; helplessness adds the insult to the injury.


Surgery humbled me, if only for a short time. Getting out of the bed. Taking a step. Standing for more than a minute. Taking a shower. Getting dressed. Making a glass of water, much less a meal. Caring for my children. Driving. This is the short list of things I couldn't do without help, or at all. Even now I fear going to the grocery store alone, because I'm not sure if I can walk that far or for that long.


I have been exceptionally blessed, to have so many friends and family taking excellent care of me. I am so grateful. I hope that I can provide that same support, in some small way, for each and every one of them. But on a personal, more reflective note, I feel that I stand at a precipice. Now that I'm recovering, and am close to normal, will I have the resolve to embrace my opportunities and responsibilities? Will I remember not to sigh because I have to cook dinner, but to be grateful that I am able to stand and move and care for my family? Will I dedicate myself to my goals, because at least for the moment, I am the only obstacle to reaching them?


I pray that this note finds its readers healthy, well and strong. I pray that if you are not, you have the help and support you need to recover. And I pray that I will always remember the lessons I learned from this experience.


Now playing: Arcade Fire, The Suburbs

After a long few weeks, and a difficult weekend for my family, last night I found myself cozy and asleep in my own bed. But not for long.

Around four in the morning, I woke up from a vivid dream with my mind racing. This has happened to me several times before, and usually I wait until first thing in the morning to record what goes on in my mind at night. I have a folder on my hard drive reserved for my crazy dream memories that may one day turn into a story. But this was different. I couldn't go back to sleep. After tossing and turning for over an hour, and knowing that the carpool would sneak up on me soon, I grabbed a pen and a notepad from my bedside table. I scribbled in the dark, words, names, images, phrases. When I finally got it all out, I tossed the paper on the floor and fell immediately back to sleep.

I should be working on a critical plot point in my manuscript-in-progress. My poor characters have been sitting for too many days, stressed, bored and waiting for me to come back to them. And instead I've spent the past hour trying to make sense of my own chicken scratch, hoping these ideas won't be lost forever.

Here's hoping for a better night's sleep tonight.