Libba Bray's Blog, page 2

Writing stories set in the past can be exciting and educational for a writer. (So many facts to spout at parties! Bore your friends and complete strangers! Have the fondue station to yourself!)

"Hey, did I tell you about that story about the effects of the Immigration Act of 1924 on...wait, where are you going?
There's melted cheese here!" 

Sometimes, though, it can be frustrating and slow-going.

For instance, on Monday, I was working on a scene in DIVINERS TWO, ELECTRIC BUGALOO*, in which someone drives a car down the street. Seems simple enough, right? That’s what I thought, too. I opened my paragraph with a mention of the sound of the wheels on the rain-slicked streets. Hmm, I thought. So it’s raining in this scene. Are they listening to the rain or to the radio—oh wait. There was no car radio in 1926, was there?** And if it’s raining, they’ll need to clear the rain away from the glass…did 1920’s cars have windshield wipers?

My fingers twitched over the keys. Just go on with the story and fix that point later, I scolded myself. (I scold myself often. I am a Scoldilocks.) But I found that I couldn’t go on. I really needed to sink in and feel, see, hear, and smell that scene. And to do that, I needed to know everything about this car from the 1920s on this rainy night in New York City.

Off to Google I went. Here’s what I found: Cars did have windshield wipers. In the early 1920s, they were manual. Yes, you’d have to flick the little switch back and forth to clear away the wet. (This does not seem like much fun to me, and I am already thinking about hair and humidity issues.) By the latter 1920s, windshield wipers were largely vacuum operated: http://www.secondchancegarage.com/public/history-windshield-wipers.cfm

So this tells me how hard I want the rain to fall: If it’s too hard, the driver probably has to pull over. If it’s just sort of spitting or misty, it’s perfect weather for my scene without the distraction of "Let me interrupt the creepy to just mess...with...this...darn...wiper...Hold on, Evil, having some visibility issues here..." Details, details.

Anyway, I spent a good twenty minutes on this one small moment for two sentences in what will probably be a 600-page novel. Do the math. This is why I don't get out much.

But while research can certainly pin you down or force you to come up with creative ways around a sticky point—“Those high-falutin’ windshield wipers were invented by a crazy automotive wizard and that's why they're so super-fast!”—Most times, research can set you free. 

When I was researching REBEL ANGELS, the second book in the Gemma Doyle Trilogy, I knew I wanted to have scenes set at Bethlem Royal Hospital, a.k.a. Bedlam. I corresponded with Colin Gale, the archivist there, who directed me to some wonderful resources. It was while reading these interesting case histories that I came across something truly extraordinary: Bethlem Royal Hospital hosted periodic dances open to the public. You read that right—they opened the doors of the asylum to the public for a dance. It was believed that such social activities were important for the well-being of the patients. (By the late 19th-century, treatment of the mentally ill at BRH was much kinder than it was in the horrific days of the 18th-century when it earned its nickname.) This single discovery, which I never in a million years would’ve imagined, opened up all sorts of possibilities for interaction. I was able to have the patient, a young woman named Nell, deliver vital information to the girls in a rather theatrical way in a public forum. Plus, it was a criminal amount of fun to write.

But back to DIVINERS, Book the Second, and that itchy little fact about the windshield wipers. Why so much attention to detail for a throwaway moment? Well, maybe because I’m a geek. (True) Maybe because God is in the details, as they say. (Also true.) Maybe it’s a form of procrastination, um, kind of like writing a blog about research instead of writing the actual book. (Why, that’s CRAZY TALK!) Maybe because I’ve made mistakes before and it bothers the hell out of me when I do. (Sadly, true. And thank you to the kind folks who have taken the time to school me when I’ve been wrong about something.) When that happens, I feel like I’ve messed with the reader’s trust. I’ve punched a hole in the world I’m trying to construct—it’s a loose brick that can send part of a wall tumbling. But also, I really want to know for myself, because it helps me become a part of that world if I know the limits and the possibilities.

And for the record, I’m really grateful for automatic windshield wipers and car radio.

*Do not worry. This is not going to be the actual title of the second DIVINERS book. But it is what David Levithan calls it to make me giggle.

**Did they have car radios, though? This was the second question brought up by this one sentence I was trying to write. Once again, I went on the hunt and found this: http://www.radiomuseum.org/forum/first_car_radios_history_and_development_of_early_car_radios.html  This would seem to suggest that they did or that they could have been around, but the iffy-ness around the dates means that I will have to do more research if I want to state conclusively that these two characters are listening to the radio in the car in early 1927.  You always want more than one source. 

I started this blog about a month ago and then abandoned it like a toddler being shown something shiny. (In my defense, the something shiny was the copyedited manuscript followed by the first-pass pages of THE DIVINERS, so, you know, it wasn’t so much distracted by THE SHI-I-I-NEEEE as it was distracted by the cold kiss of the revolver at my head.) Anyhoo, said blog was about playlists.

As many long-time readers know, I write a playlist for everything I write. Well, not grocery lists. Then again, I don’t make grocery lists. Even in food procuring, I go on a wing and prayer. This would explain why I come home with fancy mustard and eco-friendly dishwasher pellets and forget things like milk and bread. But I digress and it’s only paragraph two.

I make playlists because, like a sense-memory exercise, they really help me get to a certain place in the writing. But lately, I’ve been thinking about the various kinds of playlists I like to make: Happy songs playlist. Slightly melancholy with a twist of lime playlist. Beyond melancholy through sad and right into morose self-pity with delusions of grand opera playlist. (Come on. We’ve all been there…) Road trip playlist. Workout playlist. Good make-out songs playlist. Bad make-out songs playlist. (Although, it should be noted that I once made out while watching “Dawn of the Dead” so I may not be a good authority on that one. Or else the undead really turn me on.) You get the picture.

Today’s blog is about the very necessary Happy Song Playlist. See, when the winter doldrums are upon me, I get into complete hibernation mode. My conversations run along these lines:

Husband: Why don’t we go see a movie?
Me: (snuggled under blanket on couch) Can’t. Movie is out of house.
Husband: Yeah, but the theater is only 8 blocks away.
Me: Our house cannot walk those 8 blocks.
Husband: Ho-kaaaay…
Me: (heavy sigh)
Husband: What’s wrong now?
Me: (slightly sad whine) I really want some hot chocolate.
Husband: So go make some. Kitchen’s right there.
Me: (heavier sigh) I know. But I’m here and the kitchen’s all the way over… (with great effort, rolls head to assess the twelve feet from chair to the kitchen) …there.

And so it goes. When winter comes, all I want to do is wear my bear suit. (For the record, I do not actually own a bear suit. But man, I wish I did. Then I could be like Susie the Bear from THE HOTEL NEW HAMPSHIRE, which is one of my Top Five favorite books of all time. Talented sewing people, if you can make me a bear suit, I would WEAR IT AND VIDEO MYSELF DANCING IN IT! I would probably never stop wearing it. It would be my fashion lovey. And my family would disown me, but that is because they don’t understand my hirsute hibernation needs. This is a strange, strange digression. I’m leaving this paragraph now. Okay…turning the knob aaaannd shutting the door.)

This is why I need a Happy Song playlist. Something to get the energy flowing. Something to make a person say, “Hello! There is a bear suit in my future! And now, we dance.”

And now, without further weird, weird ado, here is one of my Happy Songs Playlists:

Solsbury Hill/Peter Gabriel. The first time I went to the south of England (“Thomas Hardy country!” as I was told again…and again…) I imagined that this song had been written about a beautiful green hill I found there. I conjured images of Camelot and the Lady of the Lake…and then this very stoned dude in a black velvet dress came over and showed me his Excalibur and asked if I wanted to play Sword in the Stone. I declined. Now this song always makes me giggle. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-9NEFalsjE&feature=related

Linus & Lucy/Vince Guaraldi Trio. It’s not just that it reminds me of being five, which, as I recall, was a pretty good year, with plenty of cookies and juice. It’s that from the jazzy opening piano riff, I am up dancing, arms at my sides just like the Peanuts gang who clearly would’ve been at home in “Riverdance.” http://www.metacafe.com/watch/2863789/linus_and_lucy/

Goody Two Shoes/Adam Ant. I will not speak too much of my nearly incapacitating crush on Adam Ant in the ‘80s except to say
that boys wearing frock coats, eyeliner and naughty sneers had an automatic in with me. (I kept expecting to date a 19th-century highwayman.) That I also wanted to dress like that says something about the fluidity of gender lines—and the appeal of puffy shirts. http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2ofd_adam-ant-goody-two-shoes_music

"Fancy a little eyeliner, darling?" 

It’s Oh So Quiet/Bjork. Most Bjork songs feel like Artaud for the ears. (For the record, I love Bjork. And Artaud.) But this is pure 1950’s Technicolor musical and lordy, that woman can sing. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEC4nZ-yga8&feature=related

Let’s Go Crazy/Prince. “Dearly beloved…we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life…” Oh, Prince. You are proof that good things come in small packages. Most Prince makes me, um, “Delirous”-ly happy, but this one in particular puts the groove in my groove-shaker. As the Purple One says, “U better live now/Before the grim reaper come knocking on your door!” Word, Prince. Word.

"Baby, baby, baby, what's it gonna be..." 

Gay Bar/The Electric Six. Maureen Johnson turned me on to this Detroit band, naturally. We were sitting in a café when she turned to me with one of those MJ inscrutable expressions which could indicate either “Let’s share a cookie” or “How do you feel about an outing that could result in possible incarceration?” Instead, she showed me this video. And now, it’s on my happy list. 

   "It's all Maureen Johnson's fault."    

It’s All Too Much/The Beatles. This is the song I want played at my funeral, not to get all morbid or anything. I would also like people to wear bear suits and dance. Thank you. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghRODy2B5Zo

Everyday Sunshine/Fishbone. This song, to me, is what I wish church had been like. Then I might’ve actually wanted to go. “I wish everyday the sun would shine…” I also love the infectious joy of this video, so I hope the link proves linky. (I just took five minutes to watch it and now I’m grinning like a fool and chair dancing, which is getting me some interesting looks here in the café. Just wait until they see my bear suit.) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QV5Nkah8nP8

"You, too, could be having this much fun if you will abandon gravity."

She’s So Modern/The Boomtown Rats. “She’s so twentieth century. She’s so 1970s!” Duuuude, I listened to this song so much my freshman year of college that I wore the grooves out on it. (Yes, it was vinyl.) I mostly remember my roomie, Christina, and I dancing around the dorm room to this in our underwear. No doubt, Michael Bay could turn that into a movie scene in which we’d have sex with robots…and then be engulfed in a fireball from a spectacular explosion. 

"Tiger, do not eat Bob Geldof, or there will be no Live Aid!"

Beat Surrender/The Jam. Oh, the skinny tie era makes me so, so happy. “Come on, boy! Come on, girl! Succumb to the beat surrender!” I mean, how often to you hear the word “Succumb” in a pop song? I would’ve killed to have seen The Jam back in the day, but I can still groove to Peter Weller’s soulful growl in the privacy of my living room. 

"What do you blokes think of the name The Style Council?" 


Ain’t No Thang/Katzenjammer. This is the ultimate all-chick, Norwegian pop/folk band kiss-off song.  (You HAD been searching for that, right?) Because nothing says, “I burned your stuff, asshole, and now I’m walking away and I really don’t care what happens to you” quite like a rockin’ balalaika solo. I defy you not to fist pump through this. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-AIdYoMpINQ

Mistress Mabel/The Fratellis. I heard the Fratellis perform this live on some show late at night, maybe it was Jools Holland. I don’t remember. But every time I hear it, I have to sing along. Even if I’m at the gynecologist’s office. Which can be awkward.

"But this IS my Casual Friday outfit."

Cool, from “West Side Story”/Bernstein & Sondheim. Not gonna lie—when I was fifteen and in the absolute hey-day of thinking every day was a possible musical revolving around…me, I would put on my bronze Danskin leotard and multi-colored leg warmers, affix my headband like the girl on the cover of “A Chorus Line” and totally Jerome Robbins it out in my bedroom to this song. That I was not much of a dancer did not deter me. The sharp edges of my bed, however, eventually did. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkdP02HKQGc

What Makes You Happy/Liz Phair. This is the only song I for which I had a burning desire to direct the music video. It was a weird idea that involved Edward Hopper and The Venus de Milo. I suppose this is why they don’t allow me to make music videos. But I love this, and so I suppose, Liz, that what makes me happy is your song. It’s nice when it works out that way. 

"Behold the awesome." 

Cruel to Be Kind/Nick Lowe. I saw Nick Lowe with Rockpile in concert back when I was but an impressionable teen. I had a crush on him. (Really, I’m hard-pressed to think of anyone I DIDN’T have a crush on.) This song reminds me of hanging with my BFF Eleanor, the two of us singing at the tops of our lungs and trying to outdo each other with ridiculous antics including running into walls for laughs. Man, we were some weird, weird teens. 

Dance to the Music/Sly & the Family Stone. This one does double duty: The extended Dance to the Music Medley (about 12 minutes long) is #1 on my workout playlist. I live for the moment when they cut out and break it down with the acapella “Boom-boom-boom boom-boom-boom…” Sly Stone was also born in my hometown of Denton, Texas, and, as everyone knows from “Rocky Horror”, Denton is the Home of Happiness. ‘Nuff said.

"All of the squares, go home!"

Take Your Mama/The Scissor Sisters. “Gonna take your mama out tonight/Yeah, we’ll show her what it’s all about/Get her jacked up on some cheap champagne/We’ll let the good times all roll out…” Well, that works. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPoFXmzaOqk&feature=related

Ray of Light/Madonna. Yes, it’s a Madonna song. Sue me. I love this song. And it’s easier to dance to than Patti Smith. (Don’t start—I adore Patti Smith. Revere her, even. But she’s not on my happy songs playlist.) 

"Libba, you will look back on pictures of yourself in your Desperately Seeking Susan phase and be afraid. Burn them, Libba. Burn them, now." 

What’s New Pussycat?/Tom Jones. When I listen to this, I like to imagine I’m a 1960’s-era Ann Margret with serious, serious hair frugging it out next to The Man himself. It also involves a white-lace jumpsuit and a swing. I don’t know why. I don’t question the images the brain hamsters send. They’re artists, dammit! And they want, nay, NEED, me to be Ann Margret for this song. Thank you, brain hamsters. Thank you. (For the record, I also saw Ann Margret in concert. She was fabulous. My Ann Margret love runs deep.) 

"Sexxy Beast!"

"Rawr!"

What a Wonderful World/Louis Armstrong. Kind of self-explanatory, n’est-ce pas? Take out us, Mr. Armstrong. “And I say to myself…what a wonderful world.” http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1ysp1_louis-armstrong-what-a-wonderful-wo_music

"Life is beautiful. But wear sunscreen."

In a weird moment of kismet, just as I was finishing this, Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" starting playing in the cafe where I'm (avoiding) writing. The power of positive thinking, perhaps?

So...what about you? Which songs would be on your happy song playlist?

On Tuesday, April 10th, Robin Wasserman's most excellent THE BOOK OF BLOOD AND SHADOW comes out. It's a riveting novel of centuries-old secrets, murder, friendship and danger that globe-hops from the ivy-covered halls of American academia to the streets of Paris and Prague. http://www.robinwasserman.com/bloodshadow.html

I had the good fortune to interview Robin this weekend, and by that I mean, I forced her to answer these questions by bribing her with baked goods. She likes baked goods. AND...one lucky winner, chosen at random, has won a free copy of THE BOOK OF BLOOD AND SHADOW. (No peeking!) So, without further ado--take it away, Robin!

LB: So, Robin, I was going to start by lobbing you a softball question like, “If you were stuck in a falling elevator with your two main crushes, Robert Downey, Jr. and Rahm Emmanuel, and you could only save one of them, which one would you save?” But no. I’ve decided to get RIGHT INTO IT with you. *Ahem* You have famously said that you do not like historical fiction (clutch the pearls!). And yet…AND YET…what have you done here but write, oh, I don’t know…a cleverly disguised bit of HISTORICAL FICTION. What up with that, my scornful one?

Look, historical fiction, it’s not you, it’s me.  I mean, you can be very nice and very pretty, and there are plenty of people out there who love those fancy dresses you where and can’t get enough of that adorably kooky way you talk. You deserve better than me. You deserve someone who can love you for you. (Or at least for your fancy dresses.)

And, for the record, Libba, I don’t hate all historical fiction—for example, your new book is pretty damn good (she says, trying not to sound like she’s sucking up). But it’s true that it’s about as far from my thing as we are from Tahiti. (Which reminds me: Can we discuss ways of getting ourselves a little closer to Tahiti?) Unfortunately, I happen to love history, and I’m always wishing that I could find a way to cram it into my novels…without actually having to set the novels in the past.  You probably don’t remember this, but you’re the one who gave me the idea for The Book of Blood and Shadow’s historical thread in the first place. It went pretty much like this:

Me: [whines about wanting to write fiction about history]
Libba: So why don’t you write historical fiction?
Me: [hisses] I HATE HISTORICAL FICTION.
Libba: You know I write historical fiction, right?
Me: Um…
Libba: Okay, how about writing a novel set in the present, but throw in a small parallel plotline set in the past.
Me: That sounds confusing.
Libba: Not if you tell us the past storyline through a series of letters. There’s lots of books that do that.
Me: You mean like Possession?
Libba: Yes, one of the all time greatest books ever. And it has all those beautiful letters from the past.
Me: Yeah…when I read it, I kind of skipped those letters.
Libba: What?
Me: I always skip the old-timey letters when I read books like that.
Libba: Get out of my house.
Me: But—
Libba: [shuts door]

It turns out I had to stop thinking about The Book of Blood and Shadow’s letters as historical fiction, and start thinking of the girl who wrote them, Elizabeth, as a character just as real and vivid and interesting as all the characters in the present day storyline.  Once I was able to do that, I found myself having an inexplicable amount of fun writing a sixteenth century love story.

(But if any of you are like me, and tend to skim over that kind of thing, don’t worry—I made extra sure the book would still make sense either way.)

LB: What made you wake up one morning and say, “You know what? I’m going to write THIS book now,” making all of the other potential book ideas go, “Awww,” and leave their headshots and resumes with the casting director? Did it come to you in a dream? Did your evil twin, Skippy, whom we never actually see, tell you to write it or bad things would happen? Tell us, Robin.

“Other potential book ideas”? Sorry, give me a second to stop laughing.

I am the WORST when it comes to coming up with ideas.  Other writers are always whining about how they have soooo many ideas, they don’t know how they’ll have time to write them all.  When they whine like that around me, I punch them in the nose. (Okay, I don’t actually do that, because I don’t believe in violence, blah blah blah, but I’ve certainly imagined it in gruesome detail.) For me, coming up with the right idea for a book is agony. It’s also agony for everyone around me. (cf the nose punching.) Basically I force myself to brainstorm a list of as many ideas as I can, no matter how dumb-sounding, and I also keep a running list of any random thing that pops into my head.

With this book, I thought a few years ago that it would be cool to write a book with a sort-of supernatural historical mystery at its center, so I remembered that and wrote that down on my list of maybe-stupid maybe-not ideas. I was actually on my way out to dinner at the time, and got so wrapped up in the potentials of the story that I had to buy a notebook on the way and start scribbling. That’s how I know which book I’m going to write next—it’s the idea (generally the only idea) that my brain goes running away with, and I have to scurry to catch up.

LB: Parts of the novel are set in Paris and Prague. I know you went to both places to conduct research. Can you tell us about that and about what was involved in your research in general?

This is going to be the longest interview ever, so I’m going to start giving shorter answers, beginning with this one.  Yes, this novel required a crapton of research, some of it (gloriously) in Paris and Prague.  Both of which were awesome trips, even if they did involve me wandering through the streets with my embarrassing journal in hand, just like I used to do when I was 22 and thought myself very profound.  I think there’s a good chance you don’t know how to post photos here*, so if anyone’s interested in seeing some of the pictures I took, you can find them http://<a href=”http://cloverhillbookreviews.blogspot.com/2012/01/blog-tour-robin-wasserman-author-of.html”>here</a> and <a href=”http://www.bookofbloodandshadow.com”> here.</a> <a href=”http://cloverhillbookreviews.blogspot... and <a href=”http://www.bookofbloodandshadow.com”&...

LB: There’s a great deal about religion and science in BOOK OF BLOOD AND SHADOW and about the battle between the two (and the occasional blurring of the two). What are your thoughts about that?

I say I think I should start giving shorter answers and you ask me about the relationship between religion and science? Are you kidding me? You do realize that I’m a former history of grad student and once wrote a twenty-page exam about the question of whether there was a war between religion and science?

Short answer: No. And I think it does modern society a disservice to act like religion and science are fundamentally at odds with each other, or have traditionally been so. (The Galileo story, as it’s popularly told, contributes a lot to this myth, which irritates me to no end, and I’ve got a good rant on the topic, but I’ll spare you.) 

One of the things I love most about the Renaissance period and the scientific revolution is the way that science and religion are inextricably intertwined. They were two sides of the same coin: A quest for knowledge about the universe.  The scientists we all know from this period—Copernicus, Kepler, Newton, Galileo—were all deeply religious men who believed the universe was wholly divine and that their investigations were serving God. Yes, in those days there were a lot of scuffles between “radical” scientists and the Church, but that’s not because the Church was anti-science. The Church loved science. It just loved Aristotelian science, and the radicals were throwing Aristotle out with the trash. 

Not to get all sincere on you, but I believe you can’t fully understand civilization without understanding science, and you can’t understand science without knowing where it came from, which, at the beginning, was religion.  Magic, science, religion—in those days, it was all a little bit the same thing, and I love it.

LB: In addition to international conspiracy, intrigue, academia, mystery, murder, and awesome travelogue, there is also a very refreshing take on friendship and romance. On the blog, Phangirl27 perfectly articulated the question I wanted to ask you when she posited, “It seems like everything is a cliché nowadays, particularly when it comes to romance in novels. How do you avoid clichés?”

Do I? I certainly hope so.  I think there’s a difference between clichéd language—which is easily avoided (or used consciously to your advantage), if you’re diligent—and clichéd plot/character, which can be much harder to avoided.  And maybe even impossible since, for example, how many different kinds of romances are there to write? I think the best way to avoid seeming clichéd is to try to stay away from generalities and make your characters as specific as possible. For example, in the first draft of The Book of Blood and Shadow, Adriane was just your ‘typical’ kind of bitchy, kind of ditzy best friend—which made her hard to like, and also hard to see as a real person.  Similarly, in the first draft, the friendship between Nora and Chris is pretty generic. They could be any two people hanging out, and the only reason you know they care about each other is because the author tells you so.  I think specifics save you from all that, most of all when you’re writing about two people falling in love. Because the structure of every romance may be the same—and may be a cliché—but the details of two individuals connecting over their shared weirdnesses? That’s got infinite possibility.

LB: They say there’s more than one way to skin a cat. I have no interest in skinning a cat, but I am interested in all the ways writers approach craft/story. Some are elaborate plotters/outliners. Others like to plunge into the deep end without any floaties. What is your method? Are you a planner/plotter? An “Outline? I don’t need no stinkin’ outline!” sort of writer? Do you read/research a ton then get down to it? Write out diagrams and index cards? Make an offering to the Writing Gods? We want to know!

Oh, I’m as anal as they get.  I didn’t start this book until I’d whipped all the research and made a very detailed plot outline noting exactly when all the clues would be discovered and who was doing what to whom.  I think that’s especially important (at least for me) when writing a mystery, but I do in general feel like writing without some form of plot outline is like jumping off a cliff and building your parachute on the way down.

Which makes it all the crazy that I’m trying to write my newest book without an outline. And now you know why I so often walk around screaming in terror.

As you know, over the past few days, people have been leaving questions for you here. (You were referred to there as the “Uber-Awesome Robin Wasserman.” Word.) They’re far better than anything I can think up, and I’m including several of them here. (Lovely blog questioners: Due to the volume of questions, I couldn’t include them all, but I tried to hit as many as I could. If your question isn’t answered here, you can always visit Robin at www.robinwasserman.com or on Twitter: @robinwasserman and demand an answer.)

 (Yes, if you tweet me your questions, I will do my very best to answer right away, albeit in 140 letters or less.)

From the Internet-i-verse:

What music, if any, did you listen to while writing The Book of Blood and Shadow?

Full playlist is <a href=”http://thepewterwolf.blogspot.com/201... but the number one song for me  (especially for part II) was “Breathe Me,” by Sia.

Do you speak & read Latin? Is there some significance to the Latin language in your life?

Not a word of it (except cogito ergo sum—so I guess that’s three words).  It had to be Latin because the real Elizabeth Weston (ie the protagonist of the historical plotline) wrote all her letters to her brother in Latin, so I was just following her lead. Trust me, if she’d written in French, or better yet, English, it would have made my life a lot easier.

After listening to your amazing high school poetry at Leakycon last year, I rather imagine you writing in a dark, tapestry draped living room with a fire as your only light while some death marches play on a gramophone. So just curious what it's really like? (LB: For the record, Robin’s teenage poetry was MIND-BENDING.)

I like this idea, and I think from now on I’m only writing in a place like that. (Previously, I’ve occupied a well-lit coffee shop with bad music and an ample supply of cookies. The cookies are key. I shall bring them with me to my tapestry room.)

What is your least favorite part of the writing process? How do you overcome and get through it? What is your favorite part?

Least favorite: Almost all of it, after the first few chapters. I think of the middle of a book a bit like a death march. Around page 75 I become convinced that everything I’m writing is crap, and this lasts until I’m almost at the very, very end.  I love preparing to write, and I love having written, and every once in a while I hit on a few pages that make me dance, but for the most part, I make it through the middle by promising myself I’ll get to the end.

Favorite: The end. Writing the last page of the book and then jumping on my couch and shouting, “I’m done!” (I actually do that.  Every time. It’s embarrassing.)

If you were this dictator of a small (and tropical) island nation, what would be your first decree and why?

Everyone must bring me baked goods. For obvious reasons.

I believe I read on your website that you found Hacking Harvard the hardest to write of all your books. Is this true, and if so, did you find it difficult to write about Harvard after having attended the school, or was it easier?

It was actually easy to write about Harvard as a physical location—those scenes practically wrote themselves (especially since I was coming right off of the Seven Deadly Sins series, which was set in an imaginary town…and my imagination is not great at architecture). I’m not sure why the rest of the book was so hard, but I’ve always suspected it was because the book was so autobiographical.  The main character is a lot like me, and it’s hard to get enough distance to tell a good story when you’re practically writing about yourself.

If you were doing any other career other than writing, what would you want to be doing, regardless of lack of talent or experience?

Robotics engineer.  (Specializing in artificial intelligence.) Also maybe a theoretical physicist on the side.

What is your favorite kind of pie? How many tacos can you eat?

(LB: This question involves math. Math is hard. But Robin is smart.)

Sorry to say, I’m team cake.  But I am also team taco, so let’s see. If you calculate the volume of carne asada contained in an average taco shell and divide that by the rate of digestion and then factor in stomach capacity and attenuation of taco temptation over time…let’s say I could probably eat six at any given meal.  Perhaps I will start now.

How do you become awesome? (How much some is in awe?)

Practice. (And: More than you’d think.)

Thank you, smart people of the Blogo-sphere/Twitterverse. Last two questions from me, Robin. Yes, it's Bonus Round Time, where your answers could win you a NEW AMANA RADAR RANGE!**

What are you working on now?

I am trying to write a really long, really scary old-fashioned horror novel. I won’t tell you what it’s about, but I will tell you that there will be blood. (And making out. Though not at the same time. Mostly.)

If you were in a falling elevator with Robert Downey, Jr. and Rahm Emmanuel, and you could only save one of them, which one would you save? (This is your moment, Robin. This is why you have a Harvard education.)

WHY MUST YOU TORMENT ME?

It’s a tough call, but in the end, I must save my beloved Robert Downey, Jr. Not just because he’s my beloved, and not just because he’d be eternally grateful to me and sworn to do whatever I asked him to do for the rest of my life (that’s how it works when you save someone, right?) and not just because he looks and talks like Robert Downey, Jr (though that helps).  But because Rahm Emmanuel is basically Rambo, Mr. T, and MacGyver all in one, and I’m pretty sure he can save himself.

Now, where’s my cookie?

*Robin knows me—and my lack of technaptitude well

**If, by Amana Radar Range, we mean a cookie.

AND NOW, FOR THE LUCKY WINNER OF THE BOOK OF BLOOD AND SHADOW, DETERMINED BY THE CAPRICIOUS HAND OF FATE DIPPED INTO A HAT:

(drum roll)

(I love this part…so tense!)

(I’m just having a snack while I wait. You can have a snack, too, if you like.)

(cymbal crash)

x

x

x

x

x

x

Winner: lbkeenan on LJ, whose question was: How do you organize your life to include your writing? And, (this goes along with the first one), how did you work writing into your life before you became the fabulously published writer you are today?

lbkeenan, be sure to contact Robin at Robin (at) robinwasserman (dot) com to claim your awesome free book!

Yeah, I know. It's been longer than the length of Kim Kardashian's wedding since I last posted a blog. In my defense, I've been busily working on THE DIVINERS, which has been moved up and is now coming out September 18th. Woot!

I promise to get back to a more regular blogging schedule very soon. I have much to talk about where THE DIVINERS is concerned. So many fun things. All will be revealed. Mwahahahaha!!!*

But in the meantime, I have an exciting and fun contest to announce: I am giving away a brand-spanking new copy of Robin Wasserman's most excellent THE BOOK OF BLOOD AND SHADOW, which comes out next Tuesday, April 10th.

I am in love with this book. TOTAL. LOVE. If you took all of the things I love to read about--conspiracy, academia, secret societies, dodgy-but-possibly-not-dodgy-or-possibly-dodgy-to-the-point-of-being-killers people, history, magic, the supernatural, travel, non-cookie cutter romance, mystery, high stakes, and smart people--you would have this awesome book. I mean really, the only thing it's missing is taxidermy. (Robin, I demand a sequel: THE BOOK OF BLOOD AND SHADOW AND DEAD HAMSTERS ON THE MANTEL!) 

I love this book the way I love Donna Tartt's THE SECRET HISTORY and Katherine Neville's THE EIGHT (both excellent books and the best comparison I can come up with). Liz Burns of School Library Journal calls it, "Dan Brown meets Indiana Jones." And in a starred review, Publishers Weekly said, "Readers who enjoy fast-paced, bloody, historically inflected thrillers...will be riveted." 

Next week, I will host the fabulous and fabulously smart Robin Wasserman (did I mention she went to Harvard? Haaah-vaaahrd?) on this blog next Monday. But for now--right this red-hot second--you can enter to win a copy of THE BOOK OF BLOOD AND SHADOW for your very own.

How? I'm so glad you asked. 

THE RULES:

1. Submit your question for Robin in the comments section below. Really, any question at all. Well, maybe not, "What were the results of your last pap smear?" That seems a bit personal.
2. I will choose some of your questions to include in my interview with Robin which is NEXT MONDAY, APRIL 9TH.
3. Then, I will put all of your questions into my super-fancy-technologically-advanced-created-through-alien-technology-stolen-from NORAD hat, mix them around while singing a Cher song, and pull out one lucky winner. This is democracy, folks. This is how the next election is going to work. You heard it here, first.
4. Lucky winner will be announced on the blog with the interview with TheFabulousAndFabulouslySmartRobinWasserman(TM) NEXT MONDAY, APRIL 9TH. 
5. Winner will then scream, jump up and down, kiss a random stranger, and make the obligatory Taylor Swift, "OMG, Me?" surprised face. Then s/he will send relevant address deets to Robin c/o [email protected]. Easy peasy.

So, stay tuned. And send those questions in 3...2...1...NOW!






* By "all", I mean some. I'm not good with math. This might explain why when someone says, "Would you like some pie?" I say "Yes!" and take the whole thing. This might also explain my dearth of dessert invitations. 

Today, the ALA Youth Media Awards were announced, which is always an exciting day in our field—like the Oscars for books. This year was no exception, with many surprises announced and, as always, my perilous TBR pile grows ever more tippity with titles. “Tippity with Titles”—alliteration fans, I am here for you.*

What was so cool was seeing book titles trending on Twitter! Yes, book titles and author names trended on Twitter! Attention: We haz control of your Internetz! Mwahahaha! Also, I can’t believe it’s January. And not even new January but a week-away-from-the-end January. Yow. When did that happen?**

I’ve been living in the Writing Cave for so long I’ve forgotten how to do anything but work. So it was such a treat to spend five days at Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA) earlier this month as their writer-in-residence. It was a life-changing experience for me in many ways. As excited as I was to be there, I was also very nervous. Whenever someone wants me to talk about writing, I feel a profound lack of authority on the subject. Usually, I avoid the topic by shoving food into my mouth then making “I’m sorry, as you can see, it would be rude for me to speak” hand signals. This gives me the air of a very polite psychotic. But truly, all I know about writing could probably be summed up in these profound thoughts:

Sit down to write.Write.Have snacks on hand.Build a community for support.Read.

That’s it—the sum total of my advice, unless you want to get into specifics about snacks. (Morning: bagel & coffee. Afternoon: brownies & water. It is important to hydrate. And to brownie-ate.***) So I felt more than a little trepidation about standing at a lectern. At any moment, I expected someone to rush into the auditorium and shout, “J’accuse!”**** This is the Fraud Syndrome. Perhaps you have experienced this?

I wasn’t always a great or willing student. Unfortunately, a great deal of my education was wasted. This is not due to my teachers and professors who were mostly excellent. No, the fault is squarely mine. I was a doodler of pages, a looker-out-of-classroom windows, a constant daydreamer, teller-of-jokes-in-class, and, sometimes, a pig-headed arguer of wrong notions from which I refused to be separated even when confronted by evidence. Sometimes I would even argue a point I didn’t believe in just for the sake of argument. I think some of this stemmed from insecurity over feeling that I wasn’t nearly as smart as everyone else in the room. (Of course, arguing for the sake of arguing rather proves that notion.) I had a pick-and-choose game plan that involved skipping out on lectures that “bored” or intimidated me (most science and math) and sometimes not giving my all out of a fear of failure. Of course, failure and boredom and intimidation are all part of the learning process, but you couldn’t tell me that.

As a consequence of my misbegotten youth, I’ve spent a loooot of time learning how to become educated—yes, learning how to learn. I had to acquire the willingness to be taught. The willingness to say, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Could you please explain that to me?” A willingness to look like the dumbest person in the room. I had to develop an openness to other points of view, to the idea that that my ideas might not be as right as I thought they were and that letting them go isn’t being “weak”; it’s being smart. I began to add the words “explore” “examine” “question” “wonder” “consider” to my educational vocabulary. Oh yeah, and “listen.”

I never went to grad school, though I would’ve liked to very much. But by the time I started getting my act together, I needed to have a job and support myself and so my learning took on the patchwork quilt approach. So I decided that while at VCFA, I wanted to be open to everything. I wanted to go as a student, too, and attend everything that I possibly could while there. I did, and it was extraordinary.

There were wonderful lectures by Matt de la Pena, Betsy Partridge, Susan Fletcher, and Mark Karlins. Lena Schubert & Bonnie Christensen led a great research workshop, which included a guest appearance by the extraordinary Katherine Paterson*****. I also had the pleasure of hearing a few wonderful grad student lectures on topics ranging from the omniscient narrator to writing outside your culture, race or gender. Coe Booth and I stretched out in my dorm room and munched some snacks and talked about where we were feeling stuck with our books. And there was time, too, to hang out and get to know many wonderful, smart, engaged and engaging people.

I came away from these experiences with new insights, with a new way of seeing my writing. Honestly, my synapses were firing like the Macy’s Fourth of July fireworks display. It was like all of the hamsters in my brain who usually lie around on the carpet with empty pizza boxes while watching infomercials on ShamHamsterBalls suddenly went from “ ‘sup? When’s din-din?” to “Holy Edification, Batman! We are receiving pellets of wisdom from the mothership! To the wheels! Fly! FLY!”******

After Susan’s lecture, I went back to my room and cut several passages from the third draft of DIVINERS. They were sentences that I could now see were lazy or not as strong as they could be. My verbs needed some jazzing. (Another educational moment: I remember reading Jane Yolen’s THE SWORD OF THE RIGHTFUL KING in which every single one of her verbs socked me right between the eyes—nothing passive about them—and I thought, wow, I really need to up my verb game.) Matt’s talk about patience and taking your time was fantastic, and I looked back at places where I had been in a hurry and had not drawn out the action in a satisfying way. Thanks, Matt. Again and again, there were moments like this. And in round-table (well, oval-table, really) discussions with students over food that was…well-plated…it was brought home to me the amount of thinking and rethinking that goes into writing a book.

Being a student was wonderful. I guess that’s the thing I’m trying to say here: We’re always learning. There is never a moment where you say, “Well, I’ve got this writing thing down.” I left VCFA with even more questions about DIVINERS. And so, new books were procured. I put in a call to my amazing research goddess, Lisa Gold, and asked for some leads on my rather specific questions. The stalwart Tricia Ready and I will head back to the MTA Transit Museum this week for another round in the archives. I will keep digging—into the research, into the work, into the lives of the characters; I will keep thinking, keep the channels open for something I might learn that will change how I see. And so it goes, to quote the late, great Kurt Vonnegut. But I also left Vermont with a sense of gratitude—for the chance to be a storyteller, for the company of people who love books, for the educational opportunity. I’ll be honest with you: I also left feeling a little scared about the work ahead of me. But scared is good. Scared is the enemy of complacent. I always want to be a better writer than I am. I want to find the best way to serve the story I’m trying to tell. I have a lot to think about.

This past year has been a tough one, writing-wise. Fracturing both elbows back in March put me waaay behind on the writing and even the reading. (Holding a book when you can’t really move your arms without pain—not conducive to a nice reading experience.) At times, I thought I would lose my mind both from the dizzying pace and from my inability to make the various puzzles of the book intersect and work as they should. I am not a linear writer, nor am I particularly good at organization, including outlining. I tend to write madly, stop suddenly with a “Wha????” look on my face, and, in a last-ditch act of desperation borne of utter confusion, try to outline or organize the various threads/character arcs of the book. Usually, I get to about number 14 on my bullet pointed “(p)outline” before I am seized by a new idea at which point I abandon the outline and start writing until, maybe one hundred or one hundred-fifty pages in, I’m forced to reorganize. Lather, rinse, repeat. Amazingly, it all works out in the end. Or, as my friend Bill would say, “The worst thing that can happen is that they take us out into a field and shoot us.”******* Bill plays piano and sings in a lot of NYC bars. His sense of what’s a problem and what is not is finely honed.

And so I am back at it, still searching, still thinking, still learning, still writing. Fortunately, I have friends and brownies both at the ready. And when I’ve put this baby to rest—or the production team wrestles it from my grasping hands—and before I dive into the research on DIVINERS #2, I look forward to reading from that stack of award winners. I’m sure I will learn something there.

*Tippity Titles does sound like a children’s book heroine. Or a porn star.

**It happened right after December, Libba. Keep up.

***Brownie-ate should absolutely be a word. “Dude, it’s four o’clock. Time to Brownie-ate for sure.”

****I really don’t know why the villains of my nervous daydreams are always French.

*****Seriously, this woman is amazing. If you ever have a chance to hear her speak, go at once. Or, like, whenever they open the lecture hall.

******The hamsters in my brain don’t get out much.

*******This is good perspective. As opposed to, “OMG, THIS IS SO TERRIBLE THAT AN ANGRY MOB WILL CHASE ME INTO THE FOREST WHERE I WILL BE FORCED TO LIVE THE REST OF MY DAYS SURROUNDED BY DISGRUNTLED FOREST ANIMALS WHO WILL GRUMBLE ABOUT MY ADVERBS!” That is lacking in perspective. And possibly sanity. 

I need to do something here, people.

No, I’m not going to perform an alien autopsy (too messy) or jump on a couch to profess my love for Katie Holmes. (She seems lovely but we’ve never met.)
 
I need to say hello to Paula from Baltimore. * waves * Hello, Paula from Baltimore! Now, you may rightly be asking, “Who is Paula?” Oh, silly people. She’s Paula! You know…from Baltimore?
 
Wait…you don’t know Paula from Baltimore? Huh. Well, she’s cool.  I’m sure you’d like her.
 
Here’s the story: A few years ago, I had the pleasure of attending the Baltimore Book Festival where I met Paula for the first time and I promised I would blog about it all. Except I didn’t. * facepalm * So in September, when I had the pleasure of attending the Baltimore Book Festival again (in the pouring rain—thank you so much, stalwart book lovers, for coming out in that wet mess. You rock!), Paula walked up to me and said, “Libba Bray, I have a bone to pick with you.” She gave me the stern face. Paula gives good stern face. I’m just saying. I could feel my butt firmly entrenched on the naughty mat from whence I rarely stray. I’m usually in trouble for something. Just ask my friends. Anyhoo, Paula pointed out my transgression and I promised her that I would give her a shout-out here on the blog. So, HEY PAULA! HOW’S IT GOING DOWN THERE IN BALTIMORE?
 
Now, I have made good, and when next we meet, Paula will not give me the frowny face.
 
 
I am hard at work on the second draft of THE DIVINERS. Second draft is really a misnomer as there are a gazillion revisions, large and small, that go into the writing of a book. Everything from revising two lines of dialogue so that it sounds more authentic to moving chapters around to throwing out entire sections that—sad as it is—simply must go.
 
You’ve probably heard the phrase, “Kill your darlings.” This refers to the arduous process of cutting things from your manuscript which you may very well love—perhaps you find them clever or you like a set-up or turn of phrase. But somewhere along the way, as the writing takes its twists and turns, you realize that those things you love no longer really serve the story. Maybe it serves your ego or that burning desire you've always harbored to write a wombat love story filled to the brim with witty wombat banter. (Those wombats, so devilishly clever with a line. Also, try saying "witty wombat banter" three times fast. I just did and I had to untie my tongue at the end.) But serve the actual story? Not so much.
 
This just happened this past week. In the original draft, I had written a scene that takes place at a big, Gatsby-esque party. I’d spent weeks lovingly crafting scenes of decadent partying, layering in social commentary, adding that dollop of simmering romance and a reflection on grief. There were some evocative passages about the moonlight on the Long Island Sound and the echoing light of the city in the distance. These are the moments as a writer that make you say, “Boo-yah!” and celebrate with a brownie. Then you scratch the scene’s tummy and say, “Who’s a pretty chapter! Who’s a pretty chapter, huh? You are! Yes, you are you are you are, hunny bunny puddin’ pie.” (This is ugly. I usually try to spare you from knowing these things, gentle reader. But it’s time you saw the world for what it is…a deeply strange and uncomfortable place populated by many drive-thrus.)
 
So I was very happy with this scene. It was dandy, EXCEPT….that it stopped the story dead. DEAD. Crickets chirping. Hell, I probably would have tried to work those chirping crickets into the TOTALLY DEAD scene and pretended it was metaphor.
 
My editor, Alvina Ling, gently suggested that I might consider cutting it. Two dear friends who also read the manuscript early on suggested the same thing. “But it has pretty imagery,” I said. “And someone vomits in a funny way.” They looked off into the distance and said nothing.
 
Now, I love me a challenge (please see: Wombat Love, the Musical!), and I thought, “There has to be a way to make this work!” So I spent several days trying to do just that. Turning it this way and that. Playing with the placement of the scene—perhaps if it took place earlier or later in the action? And then, the realization began to sink in, like when you understand that no amount of make-up will cover that zit and calling it a “mosquito bite” isn’t fooling anyone. That scene, pretty as it may have been, full of stylish ennui and one amusing vomiting moment just wasn’t cutting it. To quote the great Bette Davis, “It. Won’t. Play.” (Thank you, Margo Channing.)
 
With a heavy heart, I axed it. But the funny thing is, once I cut that scene, I was liberated. I went on a cutting rampage. As of this posting, I’ve jettisoned five of the original chapters and ripped out an entire character storyline, which I am now retooling so as to make it more germane to the plot. (Usually a good idea in general.) It’s like the eleventh hour of “Project Runway”, after you find out that you have to start your couture clown dress all over using only staples and a few handfuls of fertilizer, and then Tim comes in, takes a look at the dirt and staples all over you, your bloodshot eyes and borderline psychotic grin, puts his finger to his mouth in a thoughtful way and says, “I’m concerned.” And you say, “No, Tim, it’ll all work out—I swear!” And you staple some fertilizer to the floor and laugh.
 
This revision is due in…* squints at calendar *… 22 days. My manuscript has been blown apart and is in complete “I don’t know what I am yet” tatters. I am fully psychotic and so terrified that I’m living on coffee and Tums and sometimes I go up to perfect strangers, pet their faces and say, “You have a beautiful light inside you. Shhh, don’t speak. Let’s just have this moment together. You smell good.” Interestingly, I have not been arrested yet.
 
But the game’s afoot. And hopefully, when that dress heads down the runway, it will be, “I had no idea it was made with staples and fertilizer!” and not, “You know what this novel needed? A funny vomit moment.” 

See you on the flip side.

 
What happened after that is worthy of a soap opera called “As the Incompetence Turns.” Over the next few days, a back-and-forth of “we’re keeping it,” “no, we’re not keeping it,” “it’s worthy,” “no, it’s not worthy” was played out in the media and over the Internet in a very public, very hurtful way that did not seem to take into account that at the center of all this was a real live human being, an excellent writer, whose work and reputation were being dragged through the mud as if it were no big thang while the ruffled feathers of injured egos were patted down in a backroom somewhere.
 
In the interest of full disclosure, I am married to Barry Goldblatt, Lauren Myracle’s agent. For the past six days, I have had a backstage pass to this travesty. And I have watched in utter horror and disbelief as this absolute train wreck has continued its injurious slide along the rails, saying to myself at each point, “Surely, they are not such complete, clueless tools. Surely, they are going to correct this situation. Oh wait—they’re actually making it worse.”
 
I do not understand how such an important decision could be left to the—as is now evident—possible human error of transmitting something verbally over a phone line. For Chrissakes, even the decision to elect a POPE is not cloaked in such paranoia that it is not written down. I don’t know whose brilliant plan this was. All I know is that a classy, kind, wonderful person and writer was subjected to a week of anguish in full view of the world in order to preserve somebody’s overweening ego.
 
But then, THEN, came the absolute cherry on the cake of “you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me”: The head of the National Book Foundation, Harold Augenbraum, called Lauren and asked her to please withdraw from the proceedings so that they could “preserve the integrity of the award.”
Oh no, he didn’t.
Oh yes, he did.
As my father used to say, “They’ve got enough gall to be divided into three parts.”
 
I ask you: Is publicly humiliating an author “preserving the integrity” of the award?
Is asking an author you have embarrassed in multiple media outlets to RECUSE herself in order to rectify YOUR STUPID MISTAKE, “preserving the integrity” of the award? Because it reads like an unconscionable, cowardly move to me.
Is that kind of like when Wall Street says, “Oh, sorry we screwed up the economy, jobless folks, but could you, like, not block the access to my high-in-the-sky comfy office where I blow my nose on freshly minted twenties while crying that I am the victim of class warfare by the poor?” Jesus Christ on a crutch. Quite frankly, I do not see how the awards can be seen as anything other than a joke at this point, which is a shame, because the finalists are a group of talented, hard-working authors who deserve to be recognized without the taint of this debacle hanging over it all. But too late—it’s there. And it could have been avoided.
 
You know who has preserved her integrity? Lauren Myracle, that’s who.
 
I have been fortunate enough to count Lauren as a friend for a few years now, and I, like everyone else who loves Lauren, know her to be a real class act. She is kind, funny, generous, encouraging of other writers, and very present for the many kids and teens who write to her telling her how much her books, SHINE in particular, have meant to them, how she has offered a voice to some who are voiceless. SHINE, in case you do not know it, is about a hate crime against a gay teen and how it affects an entire community. This is, sadly, a reality for teens in much of the world, and, as Lauren said in her gracious statement, “I was also deeply moved that in recognizing "Shine," the NBF was giving voice to the thousands of disenfranchised youth in America—particularly gay youth—who face massive discrimination and intimidation every day. So that something positive may come of their error, I have strongly suggested that the NBF donate to the Matthew Shepard Foundation [a charity focused on respecting human dignity among young people].”
 
This is why—and please excuse the pun—Lauren Myracle shines. Even in the midst of such personal disappointment, she manages to rise above and turn the situation into an opportunity for good. She alone has “preserved the integrity of the award” with this generous, gracious gesture. As a writer, she is fearless. She writes openly and honestly about topics which frequently land her on the most-banned-books list. She has faced down censors with grace and logic without resorting to demonizing them. She is at the forefront of the fight against censorship and for intellectual freedom. That this should happen to such a lovely person enrages me beyond rational words.
 
I am not as nice as Lauren is. And especially not when I am moved to put on my serious, Texas-Brooklyn girl ass-kicking boots. So I will say it: You fucked up, NBA. You fucked up in such a colossal, tone-deaf, insulting, humiliating way that I almost wish there were a National Fuck-Up Awards Foundation so we could give you the gold. Bravo. Take a fucking bow. And then, maybe you could take a moment to reflect upon how much “preserving the integrity” of your award cost you.
 
I can only hope that when you dictate the amount of that check to the Matthew Shepherd Foundation, you don’t do it over the phone.
 
If you would like to do something nice for a lovely person who has been very wronged, I encourage you to order SHINE from your local bookstore or request it from your local library today. And if you’re tweeting this, please use the hashtag #ISupportShine. 

SORT-OF FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

 

As I race the clock toward my September 1st deadline for THE DIVINERS, I thought I would procrastinate by answering some of your most frequently asked questions. Sort of. Well, not really. The question I am asked the most is, “Will you get me water/food/a napkin/fill in blank since you’re up?” But that’s beside the point. Unless you, too, live in my house and I just haven’t noticed you yet.

You ask; I answer. Sort of.

Q: What was your inspiration for writing the Gemma Doyle Trilogy?

A: I wanted to save the whales. I feel that if my writing can save even one large sea creature, then by golly, let me at that laptop.

 

Q: You’re kind of weird, aren’t you?

A: Yes. It’s only going to get weirder from here. You are warned.

 

Q: Seriously, what was your inspiration?

A: It wasn’t the whales? They’ll be so disappointed. (Such fragile egos for such large mammals.) I wanted to write a gothic creepfest of a Victorian story with a heroine who could kick butt and take names all in a crinoline and corset—sort of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” meets Henry James and Charlotte Brontë. Whales don’t wear corsets by the way. Just in case that comes up on a test.

 

Q: Where do your ideas come from?

A: From Ideaworld! It’s the big mega-idea mart on the edge of town. I take my cart and roll down the aisles picking up plot, metaphor, simile, character, theme, whatever I need. Sadly, they are almost always out of stock on everything except the Enormo-Box of 100% Suck, which I already have plenty of. So then I am forced to pull ideas from everywhere—my iPod, books/newspapers/magazines/cereal boxes, going for walks, taking note of various quirks of human behavior, the cats, everyday human interaction, everyday alien interaction. Then I dust off the old imagination and work my bum off to try to make it into palatable story bits.

 

Q: Will you make your books into movies?

A: No. Not personally. I have some nice video of my cats, though. Or I did before I accidentally erased it. But somebody might perhaps make movies of the books someday. In the meantime, they seem to really enjoy being books. They’re kind of self-actualized that way, really. That therapy really paid off.

 

Q: If they make movies of your books, can you make sure they don’t screw it up?

A: If it will make you happy, I will promise to suck the marrow from the bones of anyone who adds a hot-oil girl fight in slow-mo.

 

Q: Can I be in the movie?

A: You can do whatever you like. Personally, I have cast myself as Dr. Who many, many times, but they keep using these British actor types. It mystifies me. For the record, I have less-than-zero control over ANY ASPECT of movie-making, including having a studio option the books. In fact, I can’t even locate Hollywood on a map. It’s out west somewhere, they tell me, in a land of palm trees, small dogs, and unnaturally white teeth.

 

Q: Are the characters in the your books based on anybody you know?

A: I will never divulge that information! Never! Actually, that’s not true. You could offer me a cupcake and I’d tell you anything you wanted to know. The characters are not based on anyone I know, per se, though it's reasonable to assume that since I do not live in a cone of silence beneath the earth--well, not all of the time--and I have family, friends, acquaintances, and periodic conversations with everyone from my mail carrier to Jan, who keeps me in Slurpees at the local 7-11, some of the characteristics of my fellow humans might work their way into various characters I write. But I find that once I start writing, the characters become people who are entirely different from what I had originally imagined. You know, kind of like in life.

 

Q: If you were stuck on a deserted island like in BEAUTY QUEENS, what three things would you bring with you?

A: Hmmm. That question assumes planning. If I'm tipped off ahead of time that I'm going to crash on a deserted island, I'm probably not taking that particular flight, if you know what I mean. But hypothetically, it's:

1. Water. (Dehydration is no fun.)

2. Toilet paper. (Is that leaf poisonous? You know, the one you just wiped with?)

3. Someone who can get me off that freaking island. Because I am not equipped for survival outside of New York City.

 

Q: Why did you do what you did at the end of The Sweet Far Thing? You know what I’m talking about.

A: Because I am made from the cloth of evil and sewn with the thread of unrelenting heartbreak.

 

Q: I know you say that we should imagine what happens next to the characters after the end of The Sweet Far Thing, but come on, what really happens to them?

A: That thing that you’re imagining.

 

Q: Are you going to write a fourth Gemma book?

A: No, but Scott Westerfeld is. It’s going to be called The Extra Special Great and Terrible Beauty.

 

Q: Can you stop being so annoying and answer the question?

A: I have no plans to write a fourth Gemma book right now, but never say never. It could happen. The thing is, I don’t want to write a Gemma book just to write a Gemma book, you know? It would need to be a story I’m dying to tell, as happened with the trilogy. I will concede that there is one idea that intrigues me and someday, I may just start writing and see where it goes. I’ll keep you posted. Will you let go of my arm now? Uncle!

 

Q: What do you like most about writing?

A: The panic. I like to know that my fight-or-flight response is primed and ready for the eventual zombie apocalypse.

 

Q: What do you like least about writing?

A: The zombies never show up.

 

Q: How do I get you to come to my school?

A: Offer me free food.

 

I don’t get to do a lot of school visits because of family and writing commitments, but I really enjoy it when I’m able to do so. So, if you want to start a campaign to get me to come to your school/library/bookstore/sock hop, you can have your teacher/librarian/bookstore rep/sock hop DJ contact my outrageously efficient and just plain awesome assistant, Tricia Ready, @[email protected]. She also accepts small gifts in the form of fudge or I Love Lucy memorabilia.

 

Q: Can I be in the movie?

A: Why not? Let’s all be in the movie! I want my corset bedazzled with the words, “Sir not appearing in this movie.” (Extra points if you know that reference.)

 

Q: Did you really let Maureen Johnson touch your fake eye?

A: Yes, I did. I was hoping some of her greatness would rub off on me. Also, I enjoyed watching her shudder. Such a delicate little fox, my Maureen.

 

Q: Will you answer X, Y, Z for my homework assignment and can you do it in Spanish because it’s also for Spanish class and can you get it done by 2:00 today because it’s due tomorrow?

A: It was nearly impossible to get me to do my own homework when I was in school so I can’t see starting over now with someone else’s. We all need guiding principles in our lives. That’s mine and I’m sticking to it. Hopefully, between the links, bio, silly questions, et al, there’s enough here to help with any assignment you might have. And if you have one burning question not answered here, like, “Where do you get your laser eye serviced?” you can always message me on Facebook (Libba Bray…so don’t leave a message for Gayle Forman and expect me to respond) or @libbabray on Twitter or you can leave a note here on this blog. Please do NOT leave a message in that wretched Live Journal inbox thingy that is the spawn of Satan and which I never, EVER check. Hopefully, you will leave this message on a day when I am not buried under the Deadline That Ate My Brain. (Just a helpful hint: It’s always good to give me a long lead time and several polite prompts.) Of course, you can always try this: “Dear Teacher X, I am sorry that I did not do the required assignment. Yesterday afternoon, I began to grow a twin from my pancreas, and this required a rather sudden trip to the mall for clothes with an emerging twin pouch. Thank you for your understanding. Sincerely, Name. Plus Twin.” The good thing is, you can get your new twin to serve detention for you.

 

Q: What is your writing process?

A: Drink coffee. Eat bagel. Open laptop. Google useless factoids and pictures of cute animals playing drums. Whine vigorously. Plunge in with absolutely no plan whatsoever. Write while singing a little song, “Who’s gonna kick some writing butt today? I am! I am!” Stop to pet cat. Read over words just written. Feel hopeless and panicky. Avoid calls from editor. Vow to organize thoughts in outline. Feel taunted by outline, which tells me I dress funny. Remember I am not good at linear thought. Abandon outline. Turn outline into origami one-winged swan-bear-teapot…thing. Plunge in again. Stare at bookshelves containing works from good writers. Weep silently in envy. Start over. Manage to barf up words without stopping. Note time. Grumble. Quit for the day. Reward self with cookie. Lather, rinse, repeat.

 

Q: Can I send you my work to read?

A: Sadly, the constraints of my less-than-glamorous life make it impossible for me to do so. In addition to writing, blogging, mothering, wife-ing, doing laundry, slaying the dust bunnies, foraging, and trying to develop superpowers in my underground lab, I also try to shower regularly and make up obnoxious songs about my friends so that I can torture them at parties. This leaves very little time for other endeavors. But please do keep writing.

 

Q: What’s the best advice you can give an aspiring writer?

A: Read everything. A lot.

 

Q: Okay. I’ve written a book. How can I get it published?

A: Huzzah! That is awesome. The first thing you should do is put it in a drawer for a month, then come back to it and read it again. It should make you cringe in parts. If it doesn’t, leave it in the drawer for another month. When you read it with both love and disdain, you’re ready to revise. Work on your revision. THEN you can send it out.

 

Many publishing houses have contests for first-time authors. You can go to websites for various publishing houses and see if they have contests or guidelines for submission. (conveniently listed below--sorry, I am too lazy to make the linky-links in LJ. Too many steps...) You should also get yourself an agent. Agents are the Alfred to your Batman. Sometimes they are the Batman to your Alfred. You need one is what I am saying. How do you find an agent? Look them up in The Writer’s Market for Agents. This is a huge, doorstop of a book that you would not want to drop on anybody’s head—or not the heads of people you like—and it lists every agency and agent, what they like, don’t like, whether they will turn you into a newt for typos, etc. You can find it at your local bookseller. You can also do a Google search for agents. I Googled “YA Literary Agents” and got, like, a gazillion links. Do you know how many zeroes are in a gazillion? Neither do I. A lot, though.

 

It’s really, really, REALLY important to pay attention to the agent/publishing house’s edicts about submissions. You don’t ever want to give someone a reason to chunk your stuff in the rubbish bin just because you failed to keep your synopsis to one page or you sent the whole manuscript when they clearly state they will only accept the first three chapters. Similarly, if an agent says he/she is only interested in dark, edgy novels and you send him/her your light-as-a-three-egg white-omelet novel about a girl who sings at a nursing home and suddenly becomes an overnight sensation and falls in love with the boy next door and they save puppies and plant daisies in everybody’s yards so the world will be filled with bright, bright color, you’re shooting yourself in the foot. (Actually, if you write that book, there might be a line of people wanting to do the shooting for you.) Read what they say and FOLLOW IT TO THE LETTER. Good luck!

 

 

Candlewick

HarperCollins

Hyperion/Disney

Little Brown

Penguin

Random House

Scholastic

Simon & Schuster

Soho Press

 

I hope I've managed to list them all. If not, I apologize, publishers. 

 

 

Q: Speaking of agents, what's it like to be married to your agent, Barry Goldblatt?

A: I haven't been married to any other literary agents for comparison's sake, but I think he's pretty cool. Of course, it does get annoying when I ask him to take out the trash and he says, "That'll be fifteen percent." 

 

 

Q: Do you ever doubt yourself when you’re writing?

A: At least once every fifteen minutes. That’s what chocolate is for.

 

Q: How do you keep going when you’re stuck?

A: It’s awful, isn’t it? And the answer is…you keep going. I mean, nobody answers the question, “How do you keep swimming when you’re tired but you haven’t reached the other side?” with “Oh, just stop swimming.” That would be a bad answer. The truth is, you just write, even if you hate everything you write. Even if you suddenly go off on a tangent about llamas who long to put on a high school musical. Even if it makes you cringe with every word. Even if you're bored or filled with seething hate for your WIP. Just keep going. Eventually, you will reach the other side. And I’d really like to read that book about the llamas. So few llama musical novels these days.

 

Q: Can you please please PLEASE write a fourth Gemma book?

A: I was actually thinking of just skipping ahead and writing a sixth Gemma novel. Do you think that would be confusing?

 

Q: Will we see more from Mr. Fantastic Fiction?

A: Oh-ho! As surely as the rain falls from the sky in the way in which rain falls, which is to say in a heavy, borscht-thick stream the minute you realize you have locked yourself out of your car and you are wearing that new simul-pleather jacket you special ordered from SeriousWritersWearJackets.com and all you can say is “Balls!”

 

Q: What about the Evil Author Overlord and Mr. Bubbles Kitty?

A: Zere is always time for evil. Ven you don’t make time for evil, it still makes time for you. Isn’t zat right, Mr. Bubbles Kitty? Mwaor.

 

Q: Who do you hope they cast in the movie?

A: Who do I hope they will cast in the movie…of the books that have not been optioned for movies as of yet? Trained, singing meerkats who are making the leap from a teen meerkat TV show. Because above all, I admire a teen meerkat with ambition.

 

Q: Can I be in your movie? I’m better than trained meerkats.

A: Now you’ve done it. You’ve pissed off the meerkats. Sleep with one eye open, my friend.

 

Q: What’s next?

A: I was thinking about making a sandwich. Oh, you meant writing-wise. Got it. I am working on THE DIVINERS, a four-book, supernatural historical series set in 1920’s New York City. It’s taking me back to my love of horror and sprawling, historical dramas. By that I mean that when I realized my historical story was becoming a sprawling mess, I felt a sense of true horror. Oy. The first book comes out Fall 2012.

 

Q: Why do people put up with you?

A: I honestly have no idea.

Oh, my little blog, I've missed you. Do you feel neglected? While I sleep, are you secretly scratching at furniture and gnawing up plastic bags, leaving detritus all over the house to show your displeasure at my having ignored you? I am sorry, blog. I promise, I'm going to make it up to you. I don't want you to come up with your own version of Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle" to punish me someday. www.youtube.com/watch That song makes me weepy, blog. Please don't sing it to me. 

Oh, blog, blog, blog, there's so much to talk about! I went on the This Is Teen tour with the lovely & talented Maggie Stiefvater and Meg Cabot. Both hysterical ladies, they are. My stomach muscles hurt from laughing, blog. Actually, I didn't know I had stomach muscles anymore, so the pain came as a surprise. We had amazing events at Books, Inc. in San Francisco, CA; Anderson's Bookshop in Naperville, IL, and at Wellesley Books in Wellesley, MA. The booksellers were so wonderful, and they put on great events. We got to hang with some cool peeps: booksellers, librarians, teachers, bloggers, readers. People came out! They bought books! They gave me Swedish Fish and regaled me with delightful stories! It was terrific, blog. Really, I would have taken you with me if I could have. I did get you a Dr. Who Ood decal from etsy, though. So there's that. 

In the meantime, blog, I am sort of supposed to be writing Book #1 in THE DIVINERS, my new four-book series set in 1920's New York City. See, here's the thing: On account of breaking both elbows in a fall back in March, I got behind on everything. I was supposed to turn in Book #1 on July 1st, which would be...oh, my goodness...today! Isn't that funny, blog? So, so, SO funny? Do you see me laughing? No, I am TOO laughing. No, it's not crying. Or rocking. Or petting the walls. Huh-uh. Not at all. And anyway, those things are all a prelude to laughter! To the joy I feel at knowing just how behind I am! Wheeee! Who likes a sense of danger, huh? Do you, blog? Do you like that feel of falling rapidly through the air wondering which little pulley is the ripcord for your parachute? Isn't it FUN, blog? I know--I think so, too. Oh, hold on, I need to breathe into this paper bag. It'll only take a second. There. Calm now. And dizzy. Which is like calm but wobblier. With the hope of passing out.

So now this book is due September 1st, which is like July 1st if you squint and have no sense of the Gregorian calendar. I'll be traveling a lot of that time, and making sure my son remembers that I am not always Scary Mom wandering through the house muttering to herself and laughing. But I'm sure it'll all be FINE, blog. Just. Fine. I'm just going to pet my My Little Pony keychain...it holds my spirit on this plane, blog. I'm sure you understand. 

Anyway, blog, I'll be giving you lots of love as soon this book is turned in. In the meantime, can you do me a solid? Can you let peeps know that I will be making the following appearances:

FRIDAY, JULY 8TH
OBLONG BOOKS, Rhinebeck, NY
With the awesome David Levithan, Michael Northrup & E. Archer
www.oblongbooks.com/event/hudson-valley-ya-society-survivor-edition

WEDNESDAY, JULY 13TH
LEAKY CON, Orlando, FL
www.leakycon.com/

SATURDAY, JULY 23RD 
BOOKS & BOOKS, Miami, FL
"This Is Teen" with the delightful Maggie Stiefvater & Meg Cabot
www.booksandbooks.com/event/teen-live-ya-author-tour-gables

SEPTEMBER 2ND-4TH
DECATUR BOOK FESTIVAL
Decatur, GA
www.decaturbookfestival.com/2011/index.php

Oh, blog. *sniff, sniff* You're so good to me. I promise to be better to you. Really. Look, here's some peanut-butter cookies. It's like love mixed with sugar, butter, eggs, and an "I'm sorry I don't pay more attention to you." Forgive me?

More to come soon. Hope peeps can make it to one of these events. It would be great to see you. Blog thinks so, too. 

*goes back to Hobbit Hole to write* 

Hello Robin.

It's me, Robert. Hey, I can't believe it's your birthday, my little pre-Raphaelite-curled dissector of social ills and all-around informant on all things pop culture. You know, if I weren't stuck on a movie set somewhere right now making just a metric sh*t-ton of money, I would be there personally to watch "DeGrassi" with you while also holding forth on the merits of ice cream as a lunch staple. Not ice cream as an afterthought to a meal but as the meal itself, which would be anarchy with anyone else but with you, it just feels right. I would probably also spin out on a monologue that would feel vaguely like Mad Libs: The Acid Trip version. Though, really, I suppose that is the purpose of Mad Libs, to subvert our notions of language as a true pathway to communication rather than realizing the very arbitrariness of its nature, the constraints of its alphabetic symbology in expressing concepts that range from "I love you" to "May I have more pizza, please?" I'm talking smart for you, Robin. I know you went to Harvard. I went to prison, Robin, which is a lot like Harvard but with a slightly different shade of crimson. 

Anyhoo, I know you dig me and, well, why shouldn't you? I dig me, too. Especially in the flying Iron Man suit. For your birthday, I've put together a Greatest Hits of myself for you. Enjoy. Go wild. It's your birthday, Robin. We're all grateful.

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This is my brooding period, Robin. It was the 80's. There was a lot of brooding going down. I think I'm sad here because I have just been told that you are only in first grade, and this makes me feel creepy. Hurry and grow up, Robin. I will do drugs, dress up in superhero outfits and crawl into the beds of strangers to sleep it off, Goldilocks style, while I wait for you.




“A lot of my peer group think I'm an eccentric bisexual, like I may even have an ammonia-filled tentacle somewhere on my body. That's okay.” Robin, if any woman could handle my ammonia-filled tentacle and not run screaming, it would be you. You've written science fiction. You understand how these things go. Also, it's good to know that I could clean the floors while you sleep. I like to watch you sleep, Robin. You're so pretty. I hope you noticed that there's Italian in this photograph, which makes me extra sexy. Really. it's true. If there's a picture you hate of yourself--say, 7th grade school pic--just put some Italian over that shit. Instant Hotness Maker. Not that you need it. That was a public service announcement for the rest of us mortals.



You deserve a tux shot, Robin. Here you go. You're welcome. I hope you weren't planning on being productive today.



I know, I know. This is a shot of me with that minx, Scarlett Johansson. I didn't want to do this, Robin--please believe me. It's Scarlett. She's, well, she's mentally ill, if you want the truth. She has to be near me all the time and always with the metal accessories: "Oh, Robert, look at my new metal glove bracelet! Look it has a light!" It's...frankly, it's exhausting. I'm just being kind to her, Robin. You're the one I really love. I would shower you with red metal glove bracelets if you wanted it. Well, not literally shower you because head trauma is no joke. But just say the word, my little Philly filly, and it's over with Scarlett. No more movies. She's dead to me. Dead.




“I could deal with this [Pokemon] if I smoked a couple of grams of blacktar heroin.” I gave that quote in an interview, Robin. And then, I found out that you used to write Pokemon books. I...I don't know what to say. It's like I just found out that Justin Bieiber is from a reptilian overlord species sent here to infiltrate our entertainment industry and take us over, one mall at a time. That's true, by the way, which is why I've taken the liberty of having a tin foil hat made for your birthday. No worries, it will be of the cloche variety you prefer. But back to Pokemon, Robin. It frightens me, and I don't scare easy. I feel so fragile in the back seat of my limo, my only companion a cappuccino, a cigarette, and these newspapers, reminders of the dying medium that is print journalism. I would weep for that but this is a very expensive suit, and anyway, I'm afraid my tears will summon that yellow monstrosity who can only repeat his name over and over and over again as he lays waste to whole animated planets in the name of "peace." His eyes, Robin. Dear god...his EYES! I feel so alone, Robin; so raw. Hold me. Please...just...hold me. 



I've saved the best for last, Robin. Yes, I lie in repose here, a sheet draped artfully over my Iron Manhood, My Sherlock Holmes, my Brat Package. But my gaze looks heavenward...at the ceiling poster I have of you, Robin. Sometimes there's God so quickly...


Happy birthday, Robin. You're the Pepper in my Potts. The War Machine to my Iron Man. The Watson to my Holmes. Only with much better hair.

Love,
Robert Downey, Jr.