Libba Bray's Blog, page 3

Hey, guess what’s happening tomorrow? Yep, Tuesday, for sure. All day. Probably going to rain also. We’re getting used to that in NYC. There’s also a good chance that I’ll get a song stuck in my head, like the theme from “Flash Gordon” (Ah-ahhhhh!) or ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.”

All those things will most likely go down tomorrow. But you know what I can guarantee you will happen tomorrow? BEAUTY QUEENS will finally be on your bookstore and library shelves. Huzzah! That’s right, Tuesday, May 24th, is the official pub date. If you see it in the wild anywhere, be sure to let me know. Extra BQ sequins if you post a picture.

But wait—there’s more! I’ll also be appearing with Meg Cabot & Maggie Stiefvater tomorrow and Thursday nights as part of Scholastic’s “This Is Teen” initiative. We will answer your questions and sign your books and maybe even sign other people's books. Meg promises to roller boogie and Maggie will play the banjo.* Deets below. You can find more tour information for the “This Is Teen” tour at www.libbabray.com on the events page.

When: Tuesday, May 24th        7:00 PM
What: “This Is Teen” Live Event with Libba Bray, Meg Cabot, & Maggie Stiefvater
Where: Barnes & Noble Carle Place
Country Glen Center
91 Old Country Road
Carle Place, NY 11514

When: Thursday, May 26th         6:30 PM
Where: Scholastic Store
557 Broadway (between Prince & Spring)
New York, NY

So much to do; so little time—and I should probably get a shower since I’ll be in public tomorrow. Hope to see you tomorrow or Thursday. 


* This is a lie. I like to lie. Fortunately, it’s an important part of my job description.

One of the things that continues to surprise me about the writing life is how bloody impossible it can seem at times. I always feel that somehow I should have figured out how this whole thing works, but I swear that every single book is like learning how to write all over again. It’s learning not to break and run when you start dredging up those ghosts of the subconscious, those deep-down scary things that we do our best in our everyday lives to ignore. I’ve written five books now, and I know this is part of the process, and yet I am always surprised, dismayed, and panicked to find myself in this spot. I’m telling you this happens EVERY SINGLE FRIGGIN’ TIME.

Usually, I get a sense that this is about to happen because I become agitated and completely avoidant. I will whimper and pace the way dogs do before a bad storm. There will be a few days, maybe a week or two, sometimes even a month, in which the writing feels terribly stilted. False. Awful. The equivalent of small talk at a party where you don’t know anybody and you can’t leave yet because somebody else is driving, and so you just have to keep standing in the corner holding on to your sweating seltzer glass saying, “Really? How interesting. I did not know that about elephants.”

I hate this part. Hate it. These are the days when I come home with the comic book dark cloud scribbles over my head, and when my husband asks me how the writing’s going, I sigh and press my head against my palms and moan, “Terrible. I can’t figure this thing out. I don’t know anything about writing books. You have to tell them I don’t know how to write books. The last five books were a fluke, and now it’s over. Over, I tell you. I’m so sorry. I tried. I have to go watch The Simpsons now.”

If this part of the writing process were an iPod track list it would look like this:

Track #1: I Suck
Track #2: I’m Not Smart Enough to Write This Book
Track #3 No, This Is Different
Track #4: Maybe I Could Become a Firefighter/Gravedigger/Finger Puppeteer
Track #5: I Suck, Parts IV-VIII
Track #6: Why Can’t I Write Like (Fill in Blank)?
Track #7: This Doesn’t Happen To (Fill in Blank)
Track #8: Will You Help Me Fake My Death/It’s the Only Way/My Life in a Storage Unit Medley
Track #9: I Suck (Extended Dance Remix)
Track #10: What Was I Thinking?
Track #11: This Is Hopeless! (DJ Flail ‘N’ Whine Mix)
Track #12: So Overwhelmed I’m Underwater
Bonus Track: Also, I Hate My Hair

I’m in a weird no-(wo)man’s-land right now. BEAUTY QUEENS comes out next month, May 24th, and I’m very excited about that. (More to come. Watch this space.) But I need to make headway on the first book of the DIVINERS series. And I’m still trying to heal the broken elbows and keep the wheels of my non-writing life greased and working. So my attention is very divided.

When I’ve done school and library visits and people have asked me how I deal with writer’s block, I usually say that I do a free write. That the act of confession on paper helps me to get out of my own way.

So what would I tell you if I could? I would tell you that this book scares me. That on some level, it feels too big, too unwieldy, too…much. Like I’m a very small knight in ill-fitting armor dragging an untested sword, and I’m staring up at a gigantic, multi-headed, fire-breathing dragon who’s working a good smirk. (Those dragons, big on the smirk, which, if you ask me, is just overkill. I mean, dudes, you’ve already got flight and fire. Give the snark a rest.) These fears are, I’m sure, pretty universal. But in the moment, they feel so very personal.

This is the magic/curse of writing: That in crafting your fiction, you leave yourself open to sudden moments of unguarded truth, and you have to be willing to tolerate that again and again. You have to keep raising your sword and charging, even knowing you could retreat scorched and missing a limb. You have to keep doing it even when you don’t want to. Especially when you don’t want to.

Right now, I’m sitting in a café in Brooklyn. It smells like hard-boiled eggs—not my favorite smell. The music is plaintive and reminds me of road trips through Texas countryside in the rain when the car has gone quiet and everyone is riding in some mutually respected bubble of silence, an unspoken recognition that some distances cannot be traveled so easily. There’s a lady having a loud conversation on her cell phone a few tables over, and if this were a movie, I would rip it from her hands and break it John Belushi-styles with a sheepish, “Sorry.” Behind this LJ screen, Scrivener waits with a smattering of half-thoughts, broken phrases, and ideas that I hope I can connect into paragraphs, then pages, and so on, into a story I want to tell, a story I have to tell though I don’t know why yet and I’m sure I won’t know for a long while. I hate what I’m wearing and my hair looks like shit and what I want to do is go to Bed, Bath, and Beyond and feel all the towels. I want to look at all the perfectly made beds and imagine the life I would have with each one—“This polka dot duvet cover is for my imaginary beach house life, which will be free of care and worry; these paisley shams say, ‘Welcome to my townhouse in Cambridge; Fondue party in five.’” Or maybe I’d sit in the darkened halls of the Natural History Museum, one of my favorite places, and imagine myself as part of the antelope exhibit, eyes open and searching, ears alert, mouth mid-chew on some delicious grass. I want to escape, which is the very reason why I have to keep at it. Because I know something’s about to break through. And when it does, I really hope I’m there to catch it.

How’s your writing going?

Oh hello. I didn’t see you there. Come on in. You can park your unicorns right there in the lot and your zombies in the storage shed. Don’t forget the lock.

Do you know what we are doing today, peeps? We are treasure hunting! You know, kind of like when you dig into the pocket of that coat you last wore in the fall before the weather got cold…feeling underneath the used tissues (Is that old gum or a piece of somebody’s liver? Let’s hope for gum)…rooting around past the loose pennies…finding the random phone number of that person whose name you don’t remember whom you were supposed to call about something that eludes you…

Wheeee!!!! Treasure hunting is FUN! (Full disclosure: It has been a big coffee morning.)

But today, peeps, we are not concerned with old gum and used tissues of questionable origin. Today, we are part of Cassandra Clare’s fully awesome treasure hunt for what Cassie calls the “DSAS, or Dirty Sexy Alley Scene.” You’re intrigued now, right? (P.S. Dirty Sexy Alley is my new alias. I’m going to use it when I check into hotels.)

Anyhoo, the story is—if you haven’t yet been to Cassie’s blog cassandraclare.livejournal.com/ and really you should start there—that when they shot the book trailer for City of Fallen Angels, there was a “makey-outy” scene which was deemed “too hot for TV” by Simon & Schuster. See, already that’s got my attention. So Vania, the videographer, made a mini-movie out of the “lost” footage and you—Y-O-U—can see it…IF you are willing to seek it, young Padawans.

All you have to do is start at Cassie’s blog then follow the clues across the blogoverse of YA authors gathering letters. Once you have all the letters, you can unscramble them for the password that allows you to watch the video. Note: The password is Mortal Instruments-related.

Okay. Download complete. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to find the kissing footage. (However, this blog will not self-destruct in five seconds. At least, I hope not.) Hop on your unicorns—or your zombies—and get a move on. Happy treasure hunting!

HELLO TREASURE HUNTERS! YOUR LETTER IS : N

Your next blog is Carrie Ryan's, author of The Dark and Hollow Places: carrie-me.blogspot.com

Sometimes, there are writers whose skills with words leave you awestruck and not just a little bit green with envy. Franny Billingsley www.frannybillingsley.com/ is such a writer, and I’m thrilled to get to interview her and take a peek into her latest, CHIME, which arrives in bookstores TODAY! (You were looking for something to read next, weren’t you?)


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When I was first working on what would become A Great and Terrible Beauty, Franny graciously agreed to read my very rough first draft and offer critique. Her advice was spot-on, and I’ve always been grateful for her sage counsel. Franny takes her time with her books, crafting and thinking and rethinking and polishing every word. It’s been over a decade since her last novel, THE FOLK KEEPER, came out, so those of us who are Franny fans have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of CHIME. And it was well worth the wait. 

CHIME has already received SIX starred reviews (Holy Awesomeness, Batman!) with Publishers Weekly calling it “a darkly beguiling fantasy” and School Library Journal hailing it as “…both lushly sensual and shivery.” CHIME is certainly all of that. Set in the English Fenlands in a fairy tale-worthy town called Swampsea, CHIME feels like a haunting trip to some Gothic otherworld where the locals carry Bible balls into the swamps to protect themselves from the wrath of the Old Ones, and witches are tried and hanged to see if they turn to dust (proof of witchery). Parson’s daughter Briony Larkin knows she is a witch and a wicked girl responsible for the death of her stepmother and for the accident that left her twin sister, Rose, in a mentally childlike state. Now, the delicate Rose has been cursed with the dreaded swamp cough that has killed many in their town, and Briony might be the only person who can cure her by making a bargain with the Old Ones. But how can she save Rose and still protect herself from the hangman’s noose? Can she untangle the threads of their mysterious past? Could Briony escape the clutches of the Swampsea altogether? And what can she do when the handsome, smart, and witty Eldric moves to Swampsea and makes her wonder if she might just be lovable after all? CHIME is moving, creepy, intense, sensual, and absolutely exquisitely written.

And now, without further ado, here’s Franny. (I lied. There is further ado. I sent these questions to Franny via email. I decided that rather than try to craft this into a perfectly flowing narrative, I’d leave her notes to me intact. After all, writing is a less-than-linear process for many of us, and this just proves it.)


1. You are a spectacular world-builder with a singular voice like a Tim Burton, Jonathan Carroll or Kelly Link, so that, when reading a Franny Bilingsley novel, I immediately feel as if my own world has fallen away and I am somewhere strange and wonderful and somewhat menacing. In CHIME, Swampsea is an early 20th-century English town that feels slightly Victorian, slightly modern, slightly not-of-this-earth, and wholly original. How do you go about constructing your worlds? Is there some magical Franny wisdom you can impart to us mortals?

Libba, it’s interesting that my answers to many of your questions are tangled up in and with other questions you asked. This question about world-building, for example, is connected to the question about the genesis of Chime (below):

You and I were at Cynthia and Greg Leitich-Smith’s wonderful WriteFest workshop in Austin, TX, in 2005, where I had a first draft of GOING BOVINE and you had a first draft of CHIME. It’s astounding to me how much CHIME changed in those six years. What was the initial inspiration/seed/spark for the novel and can you tell us about the changes and the process of revision you went through?

I do have to talk about that initial spark to explain how I ended up in the Swampsea. The kindling for the spark was handed to me by my daughter, Miranda. When she was about five, I read her “A Fair Exchange,” a changeling story from the collection The Maid of the North, and when I had finished, she said she wished I’d make a novel of that story. I wanted to, as well. It’s a wonderfully gripping story, about a mother willing to do anything to retrieve her baby from Fairyland. But I was then still finishing The Folk Keeper, www.frannybillingsley.com/folkkeeper.htmland so I tucked the idea away in the back of my mind.

Like the woman in the story, I had a baby, too. Miranda’s baby brother was then about six months old.

A year passed, two years, three . . . The baby brother was pretty darn perfect, except for one niggling worry: He had not yet started to speak. I started taking him to see doctors of various kinds, doctors who saw only his weaknesses but not his strengths, which were prodigious. It was those doctors—damn them—who put a match to the kindling Miranda had handed me three years earlier. My idea was this: There’s a girl, like Miranda; maybe she’s about twelve. She has a little brother; maybe he’s about six. The brother doesn’t speak but he’s prodigiously talented in other ways: He’s very musical, for example, and this talent shows up in all kinds of ways when he fools around on the piano.

Enter the fairies: They don’t care about talking; they care about music. They steal the brother away to fairyland and leave in his place, a changeling—a fairy child, magicked into a perfect resemblance of the brother. The parents (dumb old parents) are delighted that their son seems to have turned the developmental corner overnight. But the sister, who knows the brother best, knows he’s not the real brother. There are many clues, but the biggest clue is that the fairy child has no music inside of him: He can’t fool around on the piano. It’s up to the sister to find her way into Fairyland and rescue her true brother.

It’s a great plot—I thought so then and I still think so today. But I couldn’t write it. I couldn’t write it because I couldn’t figure out the physical nature of Fairyland. I knew it wasn’t a place with enchanted forests and white stags and jeweled fruits. I knew it was a sinister sort of place, but that’s all I knew. I tried to superimpose various landscapes upon it—a volcanic landscape, bright with flowing lava; a labyrinth of twisted stone spires. But however intriguing each landscape might be, I knew I was simply imposing it upon my book. The geography of Fairyland needed to spring organically from the needs of the book itself—the characters, the plot—and I never could find that organic connection. That’s the book, Libba, you read in Austin.

Being nothing if not stubborn, I held onto the changeling/fairyland idea for just a little longer—just a few years, just a few long years of my life. Meanwhile, my son grew, learned to talk, and in third grade, was reading the Lord of the Rings. He was okay, more than okay, and the initial situation that had fueled the story, drizzled away.

Finally, I sat myself down for a serious talk: I was never going to succeed in finding a Fairyland organic to the story, and even if I did, I’d lost interest in the story itself. “Franny,” I said, “what about finding another setting for the story? Perhaps other story elements will emerge because plot and setting are, of course, inextricably enterwined.”

“They are?” I said.

“Just kidding,” I said. “I knew that.”

How did I come to choose the swamps? I have no memory of how I got there, but it was the right decision. The sinister creatures arose organically from the swamp setting rather than my planting the fairies in a setting not their own. And although the details changed, the plot was essentially the same: the sister (Briony) had a sibling (a twin sister, this time), who was threatened by the creatures of the swamp. Briony’s job was to save her.

Same plot, different geography. And now I circle back round to your question, Libba—now many paragraphs ago? How did I come up with this world?

It was handed to me by history and folklore. The British wetlands had been drained again and again, so often that folk stories had grown up around it. They were, often as not, stories about the chief spirit of the swamp who objected to the draining of his water, which meant he had a nasty tendency to kill the people who came to drain the swamp—engineers and other workers. I used these stories and I used the history: The people who dwelt in the wetlands (the real people) were stuck in the past; they resisted the pull and romance of technology, of the future. But the future came upon them of itself: The swamp was drained, and the folks of the wetlands had to find another way to live. There was no more fishing, no more weaving of reed baskets. They were forced to race after the future in order to survive. And so it became clear to me that Chime would be set just then, at the fulcrum of history, when the balance shifted, when the folks of the wetlands were forced to embrace the future. And had the swamp creatures really existed, what would have happened to them—what? They would most likely have died. It’s not that I made any of this up. It’s all in the folklore and history of the wetlands.

Maybe there’s a shorter answer to this question:

I steal from history and folklore. It doesn’t seem to me as though I’m building a world. I take what already exists and stir my characters into the brew. That’s why, in the swamp setting, there was never any question about the setting and plot being organic to each other. The history and folklore that pre-dated my novel made them so.

I take; I steal.

I recommend it.

2. Language always plays a huge part in your novels. There are turns of phrase and word choices that are so unusual and unbelievably beautiful that I have to read them again just for the sheer enjoyment (and jealousy!) of your craftsmanship. Has language always been important to you? Is it a way for you to discover the voice/feel of the novel? How did you come to be such a wordsmith?

The answer to this question is woven into the answer to the question below:

I know you’ve talked about the importance of ballads and fairy tales in your life. Can you tell us a little more about that and about how they came to shape CHIME?

It’s not so much about how ballads and fairy tales came to shape Chime as about how they came to shape my voice as a writer. It was the ballads more than the fairy tales, and it was the nursery rhymes and, later, the poems my father read me. My father sang to us (us kids), sang lots of songs, American folk songs as well as British ballads, and he read to us aloud, starting with Mother Goose. He started when I was young—young enough to have a sponge-brain that could soak up the poetry and the melody, soak up the rhythm and the rhyme—young enough so that later, I could speak this language without an accent.

I won’t say that the language comes to me easily—I write as many shitty first (and second and third) drafts as the next writer. More, probably, because I happen to be slow. That’s just wiring, I think, nothing existential. It doesn’t come to me easily but it comes to me naturally. It has its limits, though. I think I would have an accent were I to try to write a Western, say, or try to assume the voice and manners of the American South.

Which leads me to this question:

3. There is a great deal in CHIME about the importance of storytelling. The Old Ones beg Briony to write their stories again. And, without getting spoilery, the telling of stories, of getting down to the bones of truth, plays a crucial role in the plot. What sort of power do you think storytelling has for us now? Like the old world magic versus industrialism in CHIME, is storytelling changing for us in the wake of e-books and social networking and what-not?

I think we’ll always need stories and tell stories—the vehicles may change but the essence will not. I don’t worry about that. The one thing that perhaps I do worry about is whether people read nursery rhymes and poetry to very young kids. Whether they sing to very young kids. My bookstore experience leads me to believe that they (mostly) do not. Certainly, kids get exposed to rhythm and rhyme and melody when they’re older, but are they too old? Are their brains still sponges? The cut-off age for learning a foreign language perfectly—to be able to speak it as a native would--is terrifyingly young, and I feel that the same is true about learning the poetry of our language. But generally, I’m not in despair about the state of civilization: I don’t believe that the snow was deeper and colder when I was a child than it is today. (Well, okay, maybe it was cleaner.)

4. Briony is a fascinating character. Haunted by guilt and self-loathing, she is by turns hard, witty, arch, vulnerable, and unflinchingly honest. She is not trying to win friends and influence people. She is not concerned with being “likeable.” What drew you to tell her story? Were you concerned that you would catch shit for writing such a take-no-prisoners sort of girl? And do you think that we are, in subtle ways, encouraged to make our female characters more “likeable”? (There is no Holden-Marie Caulfield. I’m just sayin’.)

It never occurred to me I’d catch shit for writing a Briony type of girl. But then, a lot of stuff never occurs to me.

I do think we’re encouraged to make female characters more “likeable,” whatever that means. Beauty is certainly part of what it means. I know I haven’t yet broken the beauty barrier. If my protagonist isn’t beautiful (which Briony is), then she’s sort of exotic and interesting looking, which is much the same. I really admire Philip Reeve in the Mortal Engines books for creating Hester with her knife-scarred face. Do we love Hester despite the scars, or because of them? Or do we love her simply because she’s Hester? I think the last is true, but I haven’t been brave enough to test it out.

5. There is, of course, a romance in CHIME between the witty, affable Eldric and Briony. I really enjoyed the ways in which they complemented and challenged one another. And Briony thinks quite a bit on both lust and love. In your estimation, what makes for a satisfying romance? Are there romances you particularly like?

One of my favorite books is Jane Eyre, and I love your saying that Briony and Eldric complement and challenge one another, because that is exactly how I perceive Jane and Mr. Rochester. He’s longing for someone to be honest with him, he’s longing to shake off his jaundiced view of the world, and that’s exactly what honest, straight-talking Jane does. Eldric does the same for Briony in Chime. He’s playful, irreverent, non-judgmental, and once he comes into Briony’s life (Briony, who does nothing but judge herself), she can’t help but view herself differently, take life less seriously. Briony, who thought herself incapable of either lust or love, mixes them up but gets a healthy dose of each. Although I love a little lust and steam in a romance, the romances I go back to again and again are mostly the complementing and challenging sort. I love Robin McKinley’s Beauty (which is really Jane Eyre in disguise), and I Capture the Castle, and The Perilous Gard. And although not a true romance, I love David Copperfield. I love it that David who—although he initially makes a mistake in love—finally realizes that Agnes (whom he’s known for years) is the complementing and challenging life partner he’s been yearning for. I guess I can sacrifice steam for that.

6. Of course I have to ask: What’s next from the fabulous Franny Billingsley?

As I was finishing Chime, I had a sort of epiphany: The two most interesting story ideas that had come to me as I was writing Chime actually belong to the world of Chime. They’re companion books, not sequels; they’re related thematically. The first is tentatively called Shadow, the second (again tentative) Cloud. I’m hoping and assuming that because I know the world, I can write these rather more quickly than I did Chime. Perhaps I need no longer worry that I’ll die of old age before I can publish another few books.

Hi Peeps (of the non-gelatinous-covered-in-sugar-sprinkles-shaped-like-chicks-and-bunnies variety),

Just a reminder that the NYC Teen Author Festival is happening NOW! Well, not technically now now. It's 7:18 in the morning here in New York and I'm cutting my eye at The Boy in a way that says, "No more Simpsons. Time for putting on clothes and rushing out the door for another fulfilling day of education. Thrill me with your newfound knowledge when you return at 3:15." Boy's knowledge extends to ignoring such looks.

So I must jump into "We'regoingtobelatewhereareyourshoesdidyoupackupyourhomework?" mode. But here's the schedule to remind you. You're welcome. Also, can somebody explain why my background has changed to a hideous yellow-and-green spring flower motif? I didn't change it. *sigh* Why do the Keebler Elves of the Internet like effing with my LJ?**

NYC TEEN AUTHOR FESTIVAL MARCH 14-19

Tuesday, March 15 (B&N Union Square, 7-8:30):
YA Reader’s Theater
featuring: Holly Black, Judy Blundell, Gayle Forman, Eliot Schrefer (aka E. Archer)
Host: David Levithan

Wednesday. March 16 (South Court, 6-8):
YA Rocks, featuring Tiger Beat!
Tiger Beat: Libba Bray, Daniel Ehrenhaft, Barnabas Miller, Natalie Standiford 

With music-related readings from: Philana Marie Boles, Libba Bray, Barnabas Miller, Jon Skovron, Jeri Smith-Ready, Rita Williams-Garcia

Host: Jack Martin / Chris Shoemaker


Thursday, March 17 (Five Borough Read, 10-12):
Manhattan

Seward Park Branch, 192 E Broadway, Manhattan, 10am
featuring: Alma Alexander, Philana Marie Boles, Leanna Renee Hieber, Lena Roy
Mark Shulman

96th Street Branch, 228 E 96th St, Manhattan, 10am
featuring: Violet Haberdasher, Kimberly Marcus, Micol Ostow, Eliot Schrefer, Natalie Standiford

Washington Irving H.S (in conjunction with Mulberry St Branch) - 40 Irving Place, 10am.
featuring: Eireann Corrigan, Jocelyn Davies, Anne Heltzel, Matt de la Pena, Patrick Ryan, Leila Sales

Muhlenburg Branch, NYPL, 209 W 23rd St
featuring: Alexandra Bullen, Helen Ellis, Sarah Mlynowski, Matthue Roth, Adrienne Maria Vrettos, Robin Wasserman

Brooklyn
Central Branch, Brooklyn Public Library, Dweck Auditorim, 10 Grand Army Plaza
featuring: Cathleen Bell , Gayle Forman
Christopher Grant, Melissa Kantor, Jeri Smith-Ready, Melissa Walker

Bronx
Bronx Library Center, 310 E Kingsbridge Road, Bronx
featuring: Margie Gelbwasser, Sarah Darer Littman, Arlaina Tibensky, Maryrose Wood

Queens
Library TO BE ANNOUNCED
featuring: Brent Crawford, Barry Lyga, Melina Marchetta, Neesha Meminger

Staten Island
St George Branch, 5 Central Ave, Staten Island, 10am
featuring: Elizabeth Eulberg, David Levithan, Michael Northrup, Danette Vigliante


Friday March 18th, Symposium (South Court, 42nd Street, 2-6)

2:00 Introduction

2:10 – 3:00: Telling the Truths – Hard Topics, Illuminating Fiction
featuring: Eireann Corrigan, Donna Freitas, Sarah Darer Littman, Kimberly Marcus, Micol Ostow

Moderator: David Levithan

3:00 – 3:50: Debut Author Showcase
featuring: Jocelyn Davies, Margie Gelbwasser, Christopher Grant, Anne Heltzel, Kimberly Marcus, Arlaina Tibensky

Moderator: Jack Martin / Chris Shoemaker

3:50 – 4:00: Break

4:00 - 5:00: I Think I Love You (But Maybe I Don’t?) – Writing About Teens in Love
featuring: E. Lockhart, Terra Elan McVoy, Sarah Mylnowski, Patrick Ryan

Moderator: David Levithan

5:00 – 6:00: Under the Influences: Discussing Influences on YA Fiction
featuring: Libba Bray, Alexandra Bullen, Susane Colasanti, Barry Lyga
, Carolyn Mackler, Lena Roy, Adrienne Maria Vrettos, Maryrose Wood

Moderator: Barry Lyga


Saturday. March 19th, Symposium (South Court, 42nd Street, 1-5:30)

1:00 – Introduction

1:10 – 2:00: The Ties That Bind, Part One: The Struggle Against Darkness
featuring: Kim Harrington, Lisa McMann, Maggie Stiefvater, Robin Wasserman

Moderator: David Levithan

2:00 – 2:45: The Ties That Bind, Part Two: Family Bonds
featuring: Melissa Kantor, Melina Marchetta, Alyssa Sheinmel, Natalie Standiford, Danette Vigilante

Moderator: Jack Martin / Chris Shoemaker

2:45 – 3:30: The Ties That Bind, Part Three: Friends and Community
featuring: Matt de la Pena, Torrey Maldonado, Michael Northrop, Leila Sales

Moderator: Barry Lyga

3:30-3:40 – Break

3:40 – 4:20 – Tribute to Michael Cart

Host/Opening: Jack Martin
Speakers/Readers: David Levithan and Jacqueline Woodson
Acceptance: Michael Cart


4:20-5:30: LGBTYA: Past, Present, and Future
featuring: Nick Burd, Michael Cart, David Levithan, Martin Wilson, Jacqueline Woodson

Moderator: Jack Martin / Chris Shoemaker


Sunday afternoon:
Books of Wonder Signing (1-4)

Authors:

1-1:45
Lizabeth Zindel (A Girl, A Ghost, and the Hollywood Hills, Penguin)
Maryrose Wood (The Hidden Gallery, Harper)
Suzanne Weyn (Empty, Scholastic)
Danette Vigilante (The Trouble with Half a Moon, Penguin)
Maggie Stiefvater (Linger, Scholastic)
Natalie Standiford (Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters, Scholastic)
Mark Shulman (Scrawl, Roaring Brook)
Alyssa Sheinmel (The Beautiful Between, RH)
Kieran Scott (She’s So Dead to Us, S&S)
Leila Sales (Mostly Good Girls, S&S)
Patrick Ryan (Gemini Bites, Scholastic)

1:45-2:30
Marie Rutkoski (The Celestial Globe, FSG)
Lena Roy (Edges, FSG)
Michael Northrup (Trapped, Scholastic)
Sarah Mlynowski (Gimme a Call, RH)
Neesha Meminger (Jazz in Love, Ignite)
Terra Elan McVoy (After the Kiss, S&S)
Lisa McMann (Cryer’s Cross, S&S)
Kimberly Marcus (Exposed, RH)
Melina Marchetta (The Piper’s Son, Candlewick)
Torrey Maldonado (Secret Saturdays, Penguin)
Barry Lyga (Archvillain, Scholastic)

2:30-3:15
E. Lockhart (Real Live Boyfriends, RH)
Sarah Darer Littman (Life After, Scholastic)
David Levithan (Dash and Lily’s Book of Dares, RH)
Melissa Kantor (The Darlings Are Forever, Hyperion)
Carla Jablonksi (Resistance, First Second)
Gwendolyn Heasley (Where I Belong, Harper)
Kim Harrington (Clarity, Scholastic)
Christopher Grant (Teenie, RH)
Margie Gelbwasser (Inconvenient, Flux)
Elizabeth Eulberg (Prom & Prejudice, Scholastic)
Helen Ellis (The Turning, Sourcebooks)

3:15-4:00
Daniel Ehrenhaft (Friend is Not a Verb, Harper)
Sarah Beth Durst (Enchanted Ivy, S&S)
Matt De La Pena (I Will Save You, RH)
Brent Crawford (Carter Finally Gets It, Hyperion)
Eireann Corrigan (Accomplice, Scholastic)
Susane Colasanti (Something Like Fate, Penguin)
Marina Budhos (Tell Us We’re Home, S&S)
Kate Brian (Book of Spells, S&S)
Philana Marie Boles (Glitz, Penguin)
Judy Blundell (Strings Attached, Scholastic)
Cathleen Bell (Little Blog on the Prairie, Bloomsbury)

**Elves have changed it back. Please go about your business. 

You know, they say sometimes March comes in like a lion; sometimes like a lamb. And sometimes she comes in like a crazed bitch with lighter fluid in one hand and a sequined skull-and-crossbones Zippo in the other, an XL Muammar Gaddafi-sized “Let’s Boogie Into Hell” gleam in her eye. Okay, March. I see you. Let me just pack my protective gear.

Last Tuesday (March 1st for those of you keeping score on the home game), I was just finishing up the last day of recording the audio book for BEAUTY QUEENS and was leaving the studio. As I crossed Broadway and 13th Street (near Forbidden Planet, most excellent NYC comic book store), I somehow collided with a dude crossing the other way. I tripped over his foot, which I’m going to pretend was the size of a small boat, and went flying, ending in a total face-plant on the street. I landed HARD, people. When you hear an actual crunch, you know you are in some deep doo-doo.

It took me a minute to register the shock of Wait, why am I face-down on Broadway? How did this happen? Then I had a moment of total embarrassment. That faded as soon as I realized that I was, in fact, not going to get up and walk it off with a chagrined smile. That, in fact, I was going to have to sit in the street by the curb and wait for an ambulance no matter how embarrassed I felt for putting everybody, including some NYC paramedics, out on my behalf. (I am allergic to fuss.) You'd think at least one of those Marvel or DC superheroes at Forbidden Planet could've busted out a move on my behalf. Where's the love, Batman?

Now, let me restore your faith in humanity: While I waited, I had company, because every New Yorker in my radius stopped to ask if he or she could help in some way. I’ve long maintained that the bad rap New York City peeps get for being rude is an absolute lie. Yes, New Yorkers are direct and not shy with opinions. There are eight million of us and we are always in a hurry and jostling for space on a tiny island. But I’ve never not had one help me when I needed help. And Tuesday was proof. The dude whose foot I tripped over (I can’t remember his name, sadly, as I was dazed at the time, so let’s call him Bigfoot), stopped to see if I needed help. He called an ambulance and sat in the street right next to me to wait, trying to keep my mind off the pain with light conversation. A lady walking her dog stopped to help and stayed with us. Hearing that I was a dog person, she let me sit with her sweet pup, who even licked my face. (All together now: Awww…) And then something truly amazing happened.

We had been waiting for the ambulance for a good fifteen minutes or so when a homeless man stopped to see what was going on. I could sense that people felt tense and wary in his presence. The homeless man, who reminded me of Kris Kristoffersen, crouched down and looked at me. “Did you hit your head?” he asked. No, I answered. I told him I couldn’t move my arms without pain. “Can you move your fingers? Any numbness?” he asked. I told him yes and no, respectively. He had a great bedside manner. “Anybody call for an ambulance?” he asked. Bigfoot said yes. “How long ago?” Fifteen plus minutes. “Call them back and say this…” the man said, giving instruction. Then he said, “I may be on the streets but I was a paramedic for twelve years.” Bigfoot called 911 again. A minute later, we heard the sirens. Another New Yorker directed traffic so the ambulance could get through, and the homeless paramedic, seeing that I was okay, walked away. The EMTs said they had been out on another call and had just gotten the call directing them to my location about thirty seconds before. Then they trundled me off to the ER where a couple of hours and x-rays later, it turned out that I had fractured both elbows trying to break my fall. In a word, ouch.

But I am now haunted by this man. Who is he? Where is he? How did he end up on the streets? What is the trajectory of his story? I wish I knew. I hope when I’m healed, I can find him again up near Union Square. All I know is, he was a sudden angel--the right person in the right place at the right time, and I hope that one of us will be his right person in the right place at the right time.

So this is a story about a bone-headed fall. And yes, I will be in slings and going through physical therapy for the next two months and will be limited in my typing for a bit. But mostly, it’s a story about how there are still soft people in a hard world. That often, people stop in the whirl and buzz and chaos to do the right thing and then go on about their lives with no fanfare and no medals or even a theme song. (People who helped me, I would totally write you a theme song. However, you probably would not want to dance to it is what I’m saying. But still: * fist bumps heart * * then says “ouch” because of the broken elbows * ) Thanks for that, good people. And all of my lovely YA pals have stopped by with muffins and treats and company: Robin Wasserman, Barry Lyga, E. Lockhart, Gayle Forman, Dan Ehrenhaft, Natalie Standiford, Barney Miller. More have sent good wishes and Jon Skovron even made me a thematic CD. The hubby and The Boy have been total mensches. And our stalwart assistant, Tricia Ready, deserves her own superhero cape, which I intend to steal from Batman because he was asleep on the job.

I’m going to save my typing hands for working on THE DIVINERS. But I did want to let everyone know that the New York Teen Author Festival 2011 is next week, Monday, March 14th through Saturday, March 19th. All the information is conveniently located below, stolen from Barry Lyga's blog. (Thanks, Barry.) I've put *** by the events at which I will be a participant, though I hope to attend as many as possible.

And TIGER BEAT will rock the 42nd Street NYPL on Wednesday, 3/16 @ 6 PM! Because rock ‘n’ roll doesn’t stop for broken bones. We will even be playing the debut presentation of the Copenhagen Interpretation's "Words for Snow." I hope you can make that and many (or all!) of the other awesome events.

Until next week, I'll be sitting here with my elbows on ice thinking about how much I'm going to enjoy being able to once again button my pants or hold a book or turn a doorknob. It’s the little things. ☺ Watch out for big feet crossing the street and take care of yourselves. March seems to be in a mood.


2011 NYC Teen Author Festival

Monday, March 14 (Chatham Square Branch of the NYPL, 33 E Broadway., 6-8): Finding Voice, Giving Voice: Speaking Up for Characters
featuring: Cathleen Bell, Jen Calonita, Cecil Castellucci, Brent Crawford, Elizabeth Eulberg, Brian James, Kekla Magoon, Melina Marchetta, Marie Rutkoski

Moderator: David Levithan

Tuesday, March 15 (B&N Union Square, 7-8:30):
YA Reader’s Theater
featuring: Holly Black, Judy Blundell, Gayle Forman, Eliot Schrefer (aka E. Archer)

Host: David Levithan

***Wednesday. March 16 (South Court, 6-8):
YA Rocks, featuring Tiger Beat!
Tiger Beat: Libba Bray, Daniel Ehrenhaft, Barnabas Miller, Natalie Standiford (Woot!) 

With music-related readings from: Philana Marie Boles, Libba Bray, Barnabas Miller, Jon Skovron, Jeri Smith-Ready, Rita Williams-Garcia

Host: Jack Martin / Chris Shoemaker


Thursday, March 17 (Five Borough Read, 10-12):
Manhattan

Seward Park Branch, 192 E Broadway, Manhattan, 10am
featuring: Alma Alexander, Philana Marie Boles, Leanna Renee Hieber, Lena Roy
Mark Shulman

96th Street Branch, 228 E 96th St, Manhattan, 10am
featuring: Violet Haberdasher, Kimberly Marcus, Micol Ostow, Eliot Schrefer, Natalie Standiford

Washington Irving H.S (in conjunction with Mulberry St Branch) - 40 Irving Place, 10am.
featuring: Eireann Corrigan, Jocelyn Davies, Anne Heltzel, Matt de la Pena, Patrick Ryan, Leila Sales

Muhlenburg Branch, NYPL, 209 W 23rd St
featuring: Alexandra Bullen, Helen Ellis, Sarah Mlynowski, Matthue Roth, Adrienne Maria Vrettos, Robin Wasserman


Brooklyn
Central Branch, Brooklyn Public Library, Dweck Auditorim, 10 Grand Army Plaza
featuring: Cathleen Bell , Gayle Forman
Christopher Grant, Melissa Kantor, Jeri Smith-Ready, Melissa Walker


Bronx
Bronx Library Center, 310 E Kingsbridge Road, Bronx
featuring: Margie Gelbwasser, Sarah Darer Littman, Arlaina Tibensky, Maryrose Wood


Queens
Library TO BE ANNOUNCED
featuring: Brent Crawford, Barry Lyga, Melina Marchetta, Neesha Meminger


Staten Island
St George Branch, 5 Central Ave, Staten Island, 10am
featuring: Elizabeth Eulberg, David Levithan, Michael Northrup, Danette Vigliante


Friday, March 18th, morning (Scholastic, 557 Broadway), 10am
Scholastic Event

Reading/Signing:
Alexandra Bullen
Judy Blundell
Libba Bray
Elizabeth Eulberg
Kim Harrington
Sarah Darer Littman
Michael Northrup
Patrick Ryan
Eliot Schrefer
Maggie Stiefvater

Signing only:
Eireann Corrigan
Aimee Friedman
Barry Lyga
Michael Northrop
Matthue Roth
Lisa Sandell
Samantha Schutz
Natalie Standiford
Suzanne Weyn


Friday March 18th, Symposium (South Court, 42nd Street, 2-6)

2:00 Introduction

2:10 – 3:00: Telling the Truths – Hard Topics, Illuminating Fiction
featuring: Eireann Corrigan, Donna Freitas, Sarah Darer Littman, Kimberly Marcus, Micol Ostow

Moderator: David Levithan

3:00 – 3:50: Debut Author Showcase
featuring: Jocelyn Davies, Margie Gelbwasser, Christopher Grant, Anne Heltzel, Kimberly Marcus, Arlaina Tibensky

Moderator: Jack Martin / Chris Shoemaker

3:50 – 4:00: Break

4:00 - 5:00: I Think I Love You (But Maybe I Don’t?) – Writing About Teens in Love
featuring: E. Lockhart, Terra Elan McVoy, Sarah Mylnowski, Patrick Ryan

Moderator: David Levithan

***5:00 – 6:00: Under the Influences: Discussing Influences on YA Fiction
featuring: Libba Bray, Alexandra Bullen, Susane Colasanti, Barry Lyga
, Carolyn Mackler, Lena Roy, Adrienne Maria Vrettos, Maryrose Wood

Moderator: Barry Lyga


Saturday. March 19th, Symposium (South Court, 42nd Street, 1-5:30)

1:00 – Introduction

1:10 – 2:00: The Ties That Bind, Part One: The Struggle Against Darkness
featuring: Kim Harrington, Lisa McMann, Maggie Stiefvater, Robin Wasserman

Moderator: David Levithan

2:00 – 2:45: The Ties That Bind, Part Two: Family Bonds
featuring: Melissa Kantor, Melina Marchetta, Alyssa Sheinmel, Natalie Standiford, Danette Vigilante

Moderator: Jack Martin / Chris Shoemaker

2:45 – 3:30: The Ties That Bind, Part Three: Friends and Community
featuring: Matt de la Pena, Torrey Maldonado, Michael Northrop, Leila Sales

Moderator: Barry Lyga

3:30-3:40 – Break

3:40 – 4:20 – Tribute to Michael Cart

Host/Opening: Jack Martin
Speakers/Readers: David Levithan and Jacqueline Woodson
Acceptance: Michael Cart


4:20-5:30: LGBTYA: Past, Present, and Future
featuring: Nick Burd, Michael Cart, David Levithan, Martin Wilson, Jacqueline Woodson

Moderator: Jack Martin / Chris Shoemaker


Sunday afternoon:
Books of Wonder Signing (1-4)

Authors:

1-1:45
Lizabeth Zindel (A Girl, A Ghost, and the Hollywood Hills, Penguin)
Maryrose Wood (The Hidden Gallery, Harper)
Suzanne Weyn (Empty, Scholastic)
Danette Vigilante (The Trouble with Half a Moon, Penguin)
Maggie Stiefvater (Linger, Scholastic)
Natalie Standiford (Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters, Scholastic)
Mark Shulman (Scrawl, Roaring Brook)
Alyssa Sheinmel (The Beautiful Between, RH)
Kieran Scott (She’s So Dead to Us, S&S)
Leila Sales (Mostly Good Girls, S&S)
Patrick Ryan (Gemini Bites, Scholastic)

1:45-2:30
Marie Rutkoski (The Celestial Globe, FSG)
Lena Roy (Edges, FSG)
Michael Northrup (Trapped, Scholastic)
Sarah Mlynowski (Gimme a Call, RH)
Neesha Meminger (Jazz in Love, Ignite)
Terra Elan McVoy (After the Kiss, S&S)
Lisa McMann (Cryer’s Cross, S&S)
Kimberly Marcus (Exposed, RH)
Melina Marchetta (The Piper’s Son, Candlewick)
Torrey Maldonado (Secret Saturdays, Penguin)
Barry Lyga (Archvillain, Scholastic)

2:30-3:15
E. Lockhart (Real Live Boyfriends, RH)
Sarah Darer Littman (Life After, Scholastic)
David Levithan (Dash and Lily’s Book of Dares, RH)
Melissa Kantor (The Darlings Are Forever, Hyperion)
Carla Jablonksi (Resistance, First Second)
Gwendolyn Heasley (Where I Belong, Harper)
Kim Harrington (Clarity, Scholastic)
Christopher Grant (Teenie, RH)
Margie Gelbwasser (Inconvenient, Flux)
Elizabeth Eulberg (Prom & Prejudice, Scholastic)
Helen Ellis (The Turning, Sourcebooks)

3:15-4:00
Daniel Ehrenhaft (Friend is Not a Verb, Harper)
Sarah Beth Durst (Enchanted Ivy, S&S)
Matt De La Pena (I Will Save You, RH)
Brent Crawford (Carter Finally Gets It, Hyperion)
Eireann Corrigan (Accomplice, Scholastic)
Susane Colasanti (Something Like Fate, Penguin)
Marina Budhos (Tell Us We’re Home, S&S)
Kate Brian (Book of Spells, S&S)
Philana Marie Boles (Glitz, Penguin)
Judy Blundell (Strings Attached, Scholastic)
Cathleen Bell (Little Blog on the Prairie, Bloomsbury)

I had the weirdest dream this weekend.

I dreamed I had been nominated for an Oscar. (Yeah, I know—I'm laughing as I type it.) Apparently, it was a big surprise to dream me, too. Some people showed up at my house and told me I needed to get ready for a photo shoot at Vanity Fair with the other Oscar nominees as well as some other YA authors, and I was all, "I'm sorry—what? I was just going to eat this burrito. Oh, okay, right. We're in a photo studio loft now. I recognize the exposed brick and stylists. But where is my burrito? Goodbye, dream burrito. I miss you already."

A lady with a clipboard informed me that they'd picked out outfits and shoes for all of us—shoes that were "representative of who we are as people." Melissa Leo got black kitten heels. Annette Bening got some sort of sneaker. Natalie Portman rejected every shoe they showed her. My shoes were Pepto-Bismal-pink suede, 1970s platform sandals with duck appliques on them. I don't think I can fully convey the horror of these shoes in words. Like if you gave a five-year-old too much sugar and put her under a disco ball, you'd get these shoes. Please tell me this is not who I am in shoe form. I've been trying to interpret this. So far, I got nothing.

I looked at those sandals and was struck by the terrible realization that I was about to bare my winter-ravaged feet to a photographer's lens. At first I tried to make a joke about it: "Oops. Wish I'd known—I haven't had a pedicure since August! My bad." This was met with great apprehension, like I'd just said, "I have an unpredictable heart ailment and could drop at any time, so I hope you guys are quick with the defibrillator."
"Not since August?" Clipboard lady said in disbelief. "Why not?"
"I've been busy. And I cut my leg open on a grocery cart, which is a long story, but basically, I gashed my leg open to the bone and decided to Clint Eastwood it out and not go to the ER for stitches, even after Maureen Johnson's mom told me to. It's only just healed." (This is true, btw. What the hell is the matter with me?)
"Let's see," Clipboard Lady said.
While the other Oscar nominees tried on clothes and ate good cheese and laughed in attractive ways, I took off my snow boots (which have been a constant fixture on my feet since December…) and exposed my troll feet.

I wish I could telepathically share with you the look of utter revulsion and smug-righteousness on the unblemished face of Natalie Portman. It was the perfect cocktail of contempt and pity. (Note: I'm sure Ms. Portman is a lovely person; she just decided to moonlight as an uber-witch in my dream.) Ms. Black Swan immediately handed me the card for her personal pedicure place in Soho, which was called, inexplicably, The Tea House, and DEMANDED that I take care of my foot situation before pictures were snapped. She didn't even want to stand near me. My feet were a plague.
"Call them, like, now," she said, like she was trying to save my life. "Take a cab."

But I was afraid that if I left to de-skankify my feet, I wouldn't get back in time. I'd miss my photo call, piss everyone off, and not "do what I am supposed to do." But if I didn't go for the pedicure, my hideous winter-cracked feet would be on display (in a pair of crazy shoes, no less) forevermore in the pages of Vanity Fair.
It was a real pedicure paradox. This is what we call an anxiety dream.

I'm pretty sure it has to do with the coming release of BEAUTY QUEENS in May. There's always that weird moment when someone says, "I have an ARC of your book!" and you feel somewhat confused: "How is that possible? That book only exists on my computer and in my head and sometimes on my editor's desk. How did it escape? What is it doing at your house? Where is my dream burrito?" I've now written five books, and I swear to you, this moment happens every single time.

There's lots to tell you about BEAUTY QUEENS, exciting stuff, possibly pink platform shoe stuff, but for now, I am sworn to secrecy. Plus, I have to get back to writing Book #1 of THE DIVINERS—I have already thrown away that outline and gone rogue. God help me—and since winter seems to want to be my BFF, I've got snow and ice to shovel. Also, "Where is my dream burrito?" is going to be my new catch phrase.

But that dream did make me wonder: What kind of shoe would I be? Pretty sure I would be the red Converse high-tops my son doodled all over in marker when he was ten. The ones with the funky star laces. Quirky, but comfortable and functional. I don't think I would be pink suede sandals with duck appliques. But you never know.

So I ask you: What kind of shoe would YOU be?

Oh, and as soon as this ice melts, I am getting a serious pedicure. For reals. I can't take Natalie Portman's judgment.

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Happy New Year...on, um, January 25th. Yeah. Been stuck in a wormhole. I have much to catch you up on in another day or two! But for now, I am nursing a lulu of a sinus infection. Ugh. So instead of hearing me whine about my mucus (yum!), you have the pleasure of spending time with today's guest blogger: the fabulous Ms. Cynthia Leitich Smith.

What can I tell you about Cyn? Well, I don't know if Everyone Loves Raymond, but everyone really does love Cynthia Leitich Smith. She's an awesome Austin writer, teacher, interviewer, blogger, and cheerleader of other people. She is the New York Times bestselling author of the novels TANTALIZE and ETERNAL (Candlewick). Her award-winning books for younger children include HOLLER LOUDLY, JINGLE DANCER, INDIAN SHOES and RAIN IS NOT MY INDIAN NAME (HarperCollins). She is a member of faculty at the Vermont College M.F.A. program in Writing for Children and Young Adults. Her website at www.cynthialeitichsmith.com was named one of the top 10 Writer Sites on the Internet by Writer's Digest and an ALA Great Website for Kids. Her Cynsations blog at cynthialeitichsmith.blogspot.com/ was listed as among the top two read by the children's/YA publishing community in the SCBWI "To Market" column. She makes a bitchin' spread of snacks and she has been known to take pals to Austin vintage shops to purchase yard gnomes. Just sayin'. (I am forever indebted to her for forcing me to write a weird little book I was scared to write called GOING BOVINE.)

If you haven't yet discovered Cyn's wonderful Gothic/Romantic/Funny/Offbeat/Scary/Sexy paranormal trilogy, well, now's the time. ETERNAL introduced quirky Texas teen, Quincie Morris and her wolf-boyfriend, Kieran Morales, as they battled vamps (and cooked up linguini) in "Keeping It Weird" Austin, Texas. ETERNAL upped the Goth "to eleven" in a thrilling tale of vampires, werewolves, and fallen angels in Chicago. Now, Cyn's back with the third novel in the series, BLESSED, which pulls together the casts of both TANTALIZE and ETERNAL into what she calls, "your basic sorta funny, kinda girl-powered, rescue-the-boy, kill-the-monster, save-the-world story." I'm sold. But why just take our word for it? Kirkus Reviews calls it: "Wild and ultimately fascinating"…"..the pages fairly smolder in describing their [Quincie and Kieren's] attraction to one another." The Horn Book cheers: "A hearty meal for the thinking vampire reader. Bloomsbury Review says, "Cynthia Leitich Smith is the Anne Rice for teen readers."

All this and she manages to use the word "coulrophobia" in her post. (Yeah, I had to look it up, too. And then I realized I also have this. In the extreme. No. I'm not going to tell you. Look it up, as my mother would say.)

If you want to catch Cyn on tour (and why wouldn't you?), here's the schedule: http://cynthialeitichsmith.blogspot.com/2011/01/blessed-by-cynthia-leitich-smith.html

There's also a giveaway: http://cynthialeitichsmith.blogspot.com/2011/01/blessed-grand-prize-giveaway-truth-be.html

And while you're on the Intramanets, why not watch some trailers?
TANTALIZE: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1205455452400
ETERNAL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GaBIoUEMWrg
BLESSED, here you go: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=pieAazPg_b0

And now, without further ado, here's Ms. Cynthia. Take it away, Cyn.

GUEST POST: CYNTHIA LEITICH SMITH

Today I'm jazzed to tell y'all about the Texas teen who's the hero of my latest novel, Blessed. She's a smart, sassy, hard-working redhead with a rockin' job at a hip Austin eatery. She's also funny, upbeat, and a sensualist who loves….
At this point, you're probably wondering: is it the story of a teen Libba Bray?
Alas, no, though raise your hand if you'd like to read that! We'll all pay the big money, Miz Libba, please keep that in mind.
That said, my protagonist is Quincie P. Morris, from Blessed (Candlewick, Jan. 25, 2011), a romantic Gothic thriller that picks up right where my 2007 novel, Tantalize, leaves off.
My Gothics feature diverse (defined broadly) casts, mix humor with passion and spooky-ness, and take place in a multi-monster-verse populated by vamps, a variety of shapeshifters (werearmadillo anyone?), angels, ghosts…. You get the idea.
Some back story: Back in late 2001/early 2002, I was known to readers as a Native American children's author. I'd been taking the advice that folks often give to beginners—write what you know. For me, that meant stories of middle class, mixed-blood Indian families in the mid-to-southwest.
I love Native lit (and still write it), but the time had come for me to build new creative wings. So, I latched onto the second piece of advice, pros give to beginners: write the kind of book you love to read. And I've always loved a spooky story.
I fault Stephen King for my coulrophobia and treasure my tattered copy of V.C. Andrews' Incest in the Attic series. I was a Whedonesque slayer in a former life.
Beyond a handful of paperback series, the existing books that grabbed me were M.T. Anderson's Thirsty, Vivian Vande Velde's Companions of the Night, and both Annette Curtis Klause's The Silver Kiss and Blood and Chocolate.
They were terrific, but pickings were slim. Back then, spooky-story lovers were seriously underfed. Edward wasn't even a sparkle in Miz Stephenie's eye, and my biggest concern was convincing a national publisher that girls would read books with monsters in them.
Then there the people who told me that Indians didn't write horror novels. Ha.
I did my homework, studying Gothics for grown-ups, clear back to the 1800s, and the old oral stories that inspired those. I got stuck on Abraham Stoker's classic novel Dracula.
What's Dracula about? An unattractive, undead Anglophile with bad breath who wants to take over the world, and the heroes—including one Quincey P. Morris (a Texan)—who fight to stop him. I decided to gender flip that gallant gentleman, creating my own Quincie P. Morris, and brought the mythology "home" to Texas—specifically, artsy-techy-hippie-weird-neon-blue Austin, Texas, which is where I call home.
That was a start. But what's the novel Dracula really about? A lot: invasion, the "dark" foreigner (which back in the day meant "Eastern European"), orientation, and gender dominance. Meanwhile, in present day, the news was all about war, the immigration and gay marriage debates, and…. Okay, let's pause on the ladies a minute.
Stoker's Mina Harker is a modern woman of her time. She's the one who organizes all the information to track the monster. She's the one who pulls together the weepy mess of guys after her own best friend dies. And she's the one who can work that newfangled gadget, the typewriter. Granted, at one point her husband tells her to go to bed to protect her delicate sensibilities and she does. (Memo to my husband: good luck trying that.) But for the most part, given the era, she's a hero to cheer.
Go Bram. At the same time, according to the mythology, if against his or her will, a victim is penetrated (by fangs) and/or bodily fluids are exchanged, that victim is damned. A monster in the eyes of humanity and the Lord God Amighty and, therefore, must be destroyed.
Harsh. Wrong.
But in our own real world, what too often happens to victims who—against their will—face the basic equivalent? Who're attacked against their will? Do we as a society too often blame them, too? Um, that would be a big yes. Which is seriously lousy.
All of which is to say, that I wanted to talk back to Bram. It wasn't that I disagreed with the dark master on everything (go, Mina). But I had my own point of view.
That said, a point of view isn't a novel. Fortunately, my evolving characters quickly yanked the story away from me. I'm practically irrelevant to them at this point.
The first book sold in late 2004, I think (maybe early 2005?), and was released in 2007.
(I was working on YA short stories and books for younger kids at the same time, but yes, I'm doing my level best to write at least as well—and faster.)
In Tantalize, I drew on my own memories of being a teen waitress to create the fictional Sanguini's: A Very Rare Restaurant, on Austin's South Congress Avenue. It's a vampire-themed restaurant, kitschy, all in fun, until some real bloodsuckers show up.
Then I jumped from Austin to Chicago in Eternal, a love story/political thriller, which zeroed in on a "slipped" (not "fallen") guardian angel and the assignment/true love he failed to save.
Now, the two casts crossover in Blessed. It was a treat to revisit Quincie in this latest book. On the other side of her transformation, her red cowboy boots are more firmly on the ground.
Where Tantalize was an exploration of her losses, Blessed is a celebration of hard-earned gains.
Or, put another way, it's your basic sorta funny, kinda girl-powered, rescue-the-boy, kill-the-monster, save-the-world story.
On second thought, Quincie may be Libba after all.

One of the earliest memories I have of my dad is of him in his sober ministerial robes on Sunday mornings at Woodlawn Presbyterian Church in Corpus Christi, Texas. I wasn't real keen on attending services as a kid. It seemed like a lot of fuss about some boring abstract idea as well as an interminable amount of time spent sitting on a hard pew while wearing scratchy dresses and pinching Mary Janes. My usually jovial father was so serious up at the pulpit that he seemed like a completely different person. So doubtful was I about this Sunday split personality that I even asked my mother, "Is Daddy always God or just on Sundays?"

As soon as the benediction had been pronounced, I would dash down the aisle and make a beeline for my dad who was positioned at the front door to greet parishioners on their way out. I'd dive under his robes and hide there, refusing to greet people, insisting that I was a ghost and, therefore, could not be seen or spoken to by anyone. (You can feel sympathy for my parents; the task of civilizing me was an enormous one that stretched over many years. There are some who would say this task was never quite accomplished.) I think that I needed to make sure that my father was in there somewhere in the folds of that "preacher costume." I needed the comfort of him near.

He was a comforting presence. I often said that when he hugged you, you stayed hugged. Quick with a joke or a witty remark, he was outgoing and outspoken while also courtly and very much the southern gentleman. He was a staunch feminist who nevertheless insisted on walking on the outside on the street "to protect the ladies from the horses." Sometimes he was absent-minded and excruciatingly rambly and vague, and my brother and I would roll our eyes and shout, "A verb, Senator! We need a verb," because we were horrible children. He loved animals and could not resist the foster care urgings of his friend, Fern, whom he called, "The Puppy Pusher." He was also a complex, secretive man who lived a double life. There was always the sense that he was holding back something in order to protect the lie he felt forced to maintain. Don't ask, don't tell could have been his motto.

It was on a cold morning in January, when I was fourteen, that my father, weary of at least part of the pantomime play, finally told his family the truth: He was a gay man and he and my mother had agreed to divorce. He was out to us, but he had to remain closeted in the outside world due in large part to his position within the church as editor of The Presbyterian newspaper for the Synod of the Southwest. We were entrusted with keeping his secret. From that moment on, I understood what it meant to live a double life. I understood the toll that secrecy, silence, and self-loathing can take. In this way, it's ironic that my father's job was in the field of journalism when he constantly buried the lead. I think he unconsciously trained me to be a writer, to feel compelled to dig up those buried truths, to bring them kicking and screaming into the light.

The first time I really remember registering AIDS was when Rock Hudson died. This was huge news then, in 1985. I worried about my dad. "You're being careful, right?" I didn't ask it expecting to get a response. That was too scary. It was a declarative—"Be careful"—wrapped in a rhetorical question. My dad was lovely, but he wasn't great at taking care of himself. He had a self-destructive streak twined, I believe, to his self-loathing about being gay. Today, there are celebrity campaigns for AIDS awareness, merchandise to support the cause, splashy photo spreads. But back then, it was a very different story. It's hard to explain the level of fear those four letters elicited. The initial federal response to AIDS was lackluster and reflected a bias. Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome, as it was being called, was a "gay cancer," and the societal response seemed to be, "Serves 'em right." It was not a pretty moment in America.

For a time in Austin, after college graduation when I hadn't quite figured out what I was doing with my life, I lived with one of my best friends, Ed, and his partner, Norbert. We did theatre together, forming an arts collective called SOMA, Self-Ordained Ministers of Art. It was the eighties; what can I say? Ed directed all of my plays; Norbert did the graphic design for the posters. On Sunday nights, we ate pot roast and watched "Star Trek: The Next Generation." They were Lakers fans and indoctrinated me in the ways of NBA playoffs. In the fall, we hosted the Third Annual Hat Party. It was always the "third annual" and you had to wear the most ridiculous hat you could find or make. We had a Barbie Doll shrine to Nancy Sinatra. On Saturday mornings, we put on Diana Ross & the Supremes and cleaned the house according to our assigned tasks. We ate cheap Tex Mex and sat in the backyard under the carport to drink sweet tea and catch a breeze. Whenever the landlord dropped by, we had to pretend that I was Ed's girlfriend. Yes, that old charade. I remember it, actually, as one of the happiest summers of my life.

The spring before I left for New York City, Norbert came down with what everyone thought was mono. "I don't feel well," he said. "Well, you have mono," I said. "No," he said a little anxiously. "I don't feel…right." Denial is an amazing coping mechanism, because of course the word AIDS crow-barred its way into my subconscious like a burglar intent on robbing my peace of mind. But I bought a new lock and went about my business. Ed and I started work on my new play, an AIDS piece, presciently, called, "Requiem A-Go-Go," and we waited for Norbert to get better. He did not. By August, when my bags were packed for New York, Ed told me they'd gotten the diagnosis: AIDS.

This was terrifying. In 1990, AIDS was always a death sentence. Ed would send me notes from New York, terrible notes, about Norbert's rollercoaster deterioration. The last time I saw him, he was lying on the couch under an afghan, pale and tired and scared. "Pray for me," he said. I said I would. I flew back to New York. By October 1992, he was gone. That summer, I took the train to Baltimore to see my father and we went to view the NAMES project AIDS quilt. In the shadow of an old church not too dissimilar to the church where I played hide-and-seek in my father's ministerial robes, we walked around huge swaths of colorful cloth, squares bearing the names and dates of people who had died, some of them unbearably young like Norbert. "So unfair," my father said. I didn't realize the full weight of his statement then.

My father often sent me clippings—articles I might find interesting, Shoe cartoons, coupons to ease my way up there in the frozen north of NYC, ribald jokes. Usually, these were accompanied by the briefest of notes. So when I opened that multi-page letter in February 1995, the one that began, "Sweetheart…" I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, some premonition that all was not well. Part of me wanted to seal the letter back up. He admitted that he was HIV positive. That was a lie. He had been HIV positive for six years and kept it secret. Keeping things secret, of course, was one of his talents, a skill foisted upon him by a judging world.

What he had was full-blown AIDS, a fact I would discover in September of that year when I received a call from my brother, Stuart, out in Colorado where my father had gone to spend his retirement so he could be closer to his grandchildren. "Daddy's in the hospital. They don't think he'll make it through the weekend. You need to get on a plane." Reeling, I made the flight from New York to Denver. On the drive to Ft. Collins, my brother and I talked about music and Cowboys football, how different Colorado was from Texas, my niece and nephew. Denial is a family trait. Finally, he said, "You need to be prepared. He looks bad. Not like you remember him." That was an understatement. My dad had Cryptosporidium, what was called "the wasting disease." My formerly robust father had withered down to about ninety-seven pounds. I didn't recognize him at first, and I had to stifle a gasp. When I hugged him, I could feel the bones of his spine like rosary beads. My father rebounded after his potassium came back up, something we soon discovered was part of the cruel course of the disease, the up-and-down nature of it all. For nearly three months, I stayed in Colorado, taking a leave of absence from my job to be with him.

There were things my brother and I learned: how to put together an IV of Sandostatin. What to do if he couldn't hold down the Ensure drinks we made for him. What to put in the red plastic biohazard containers that dotted the house like some kind of dystopian home decor. When to call the doctor. We met with his hospice worker, Dorothy (oh, the irony!), who was lovely and informative and a godsend. For a week, we went about our business, and this became the new normal. I began to think we would beat this thing.

One night, we even had hamburgers at my brother's house. It was good to watch my father, who had been a third-helpings man, eat half a burger. We were encouraged. Hopeful. On the drive back to his apartment, my father began to feel ill. Suddenly, he was vomiting violently as he tried to keep the swerving car on the road. In a panic, I tried to take the wheel. "Don't!" My father shouted. "Don't touch it!" And it hit me: The vomit. I had no gloves. He was afraid for me. We were on a dark road facing oncoming traffic, snow lightly falling, turning the pavement slick, and my father was at the wheel and sick. The most natural thing in the world was for me to take over. And I couldn't. We managed to steer the car onto the shoulder and get him outside. The air was cold. My breath made small bursts of fog as I said, over and over, "It's okay; it's okay," unsure of who, exactly, I was comforting. Later, when I'd helped to clean him up and put him to bed, I pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, grabbed a bucket of bleach water, a rag, paper towels and a trash bag and went out to the parking lot to clean my dad's Toyota. The early October snow was still falling. It looked pretty in the lights from the apartment complex. I sobbed angrily while I scrubbed the mats and upholstery with bleach and dumped everything into the trash bag. I started to put the bag in the dumpster, then thought better of it. Unsure about what to do with it, I stood in the parking lot, my arms out like some misplaced, directionless scarecrow, then double-bagged it and tossed it in.

After another hospital stay, we had to move my father into the nursing home later that week. It was a cheerless place, and I fought it by decorating his room for each holiday, until finally I brought in a small tree—a real Charlie Brown mess of a thing—and put up a few ornaments and Christmas cards. On December 10th, just as a I was attending a gay men's chorale concert in honor of him, my father, who had been in and out of consciousness for two days, turned to my brother who had just arrived, gave a small smile, said one last word, "Goodbye," and died. The next year, they came out with the retrovirals that changed the game.

Before my father died, he stage-directed his memorial service. Really, you had to know how into organizational systems my dad was to appreciate this. This was a man who kept his take-out menus in a folder in his file cabinet under M for menus. The menus were in alphabetical order. When my brother and I had the task of taking his house apart, we found that folder and laughed till we cried. "Don't mess them up—he'll come back to haunt us!" Trust me, you need a laugh at such times. The funny thing was, for all his attention to detail, the man was never on time. The only time I ever missed a plane was a time I forgot to lie to my dad about the departure time.

Anyway, Dad was insistent on three things for his service: 1) He picked the music (We are real music dictators in my family) 2) It should be a celebration, not a funeral, and 3) No flowers. "What the hell would I do with a bunch of flowers? I'll be dead. Give to the living."

Give to the living. It's a good mantra. I'm not big on memorializing as a general rule. What I prefer, the way in which I choose to honor both my father and my friend Norbert on World AIDS day and throughout the y ear, is by continuing to speak about and advocate for equal rights for ALL Americans. This has been a tough year to be gay in a lot of ways. The teen bullying crisis has been particularly hard to watch. I know if my dad were alive, he would be writing editorials about it. I know how both he and Norbert had to hide, and that isn't good for anybody. That doesn't make society stronger; it only makes it sicker, and I've had enough sickness to last me a lifetime, frankly.

I keep thinking back to that line I loved so much in "Milk," where Harvey Milk says to a gay teen in crisis, "There is nothing wrong with you." There's nothing wrong with you. Remember that.

So today, I raise my glass and say, hey Norbert—I've got Diana Ross on the iPod. (I'll explain iPods later, Norb.) Dad, wish you were here; you'd really get a kick out of my kid. And to everyone else out there, especially if you are a gay teen trying to find your way in an often hostile world, you are all right. In fact, you are fucking fabulous. There is nothing wrong with you. Silence = death, as ACT UP used to say. Make some noise. Put on the biggest hat you can find, and don't let anyone tell you you're not welcome at the party.

On this day, let's remember to keep fighting and to honor the dead who can no longer raise their voices by refusing to silence our own.

Happy Thanksgiving, folks. Om-nom-noms.

I'm typing this from the comfort of my couch (thankful) where I am currently channel surfing between the James Bond marathon on Syfy and the Buffy marathon on Chiller. (doubly thankful) Oh, modern dilemmas. Or embarrassment of riches. Either way, it feels like a TV feast. (Also, I'd forgotten how much I love Xander.) Oooh, Buffy just got Giles in a head lock. Okay, right now, Buffy is winning. My Joss Whedon love cannot be denied. I love him almost as much as pie. But I have to wait for pie. Protocol says no pie until after dinner. Protocol is a killjoy. * wears look of annoyance * * touches pie box lovingly *

On the TV: 
Obnoxious Frat Boy: Hi sweetheart. I'm Richard. And you are?
Buffy: So not interested. 

Swoon. (Also, RUN, BUFFY! DO NOT GO WITH THE SINISTER FRAT BOYS!) 

Watching Buffy reminds me of how much I love horror. I know this is a strange topic for a Thanksgiving blog. Go with me. My methods, they are unorthodox. But full of the kind of creepy-crawly, flesh-eating monsterrific-ness that says, "Hey, is this liver we're having for Thanksgiving...?" 

Anyhoo. Things that go bump in the night. My love for. Continuing.

I grew up on horror. It is my genre of choice. I used to race home from school in time to catch "Dark Shadows" at 3:00 PM every day. (For the uninitiated, "Dark Shadows" was the world's first gothic soap opera, featuring vampires, witches, werewolves and the like as well as your run-of-the-mill secrets, dysfunctional families, affairs, betrayals, etc. Can you say catnip? en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dark_Shadows)

My love for "Dark Shadows" was supplanted by my love for Hammer Horror films. The ones I watched were circa late-1960's, 1970's-era films with names like "Dracula Has Risen from the Grave," "Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed," and "Blood from the Mummy's Tomb," and starred Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee (you know, Sauramon--I had a crush on Christopher Lee; I'm not sure what this says about the young me...). My favorite part of these movies were that, despite their being period pieces, the men looked like they just stepped off of some Gothic Carnaby Street and the women all had 1960's beehives and false eyelashes like Marianne Faithfull gone Mary Shelley. They were so sixties glam. I am thoughtfully providing a link so you can see for yourself: www.youtube.com/watch I was also a bit chuffed that they were filmed at Bray Studios. It made me feel vaguely British and cool when I was very firmly neither. 

Hammer Horror was my on-ramp to the very campy Roger Corman adaptations of Edgar Allan Poe stories starring Vincent Price. "The Pit and the Pendulum," "The Fall of the House of Usher," "The Raven," and a non-Poe movie about a vengeful Shakespearean actor called "Theatre of Blood." There was Rod Serling's TV show, "Night Gallery," and a short-lived TV show hosted by Sebastian Cabot (who had been the kind butler on a seminal show of my youth, "Family Affair"--one of those shows that made me think I'd be living large on Park Avenue if I moved to NYC. Um, no. But that's a different kind of horror story.) The show was called "Ghost Story/Circle of Fear" (not exactly sure when the name change came about) and the first one, the one that haunted my nightmares for so long, was called "The New House," and it was penned by Richard Matheson. Yes, that Richard Matheson, of I AM LEGEND fame. www.youtube.com/watch (Honestly, what did we do before YouTube?) I watched these shows every week, and then, in 1974, came one of my favorite TV shows of all time: "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" starring Darren McGavin. It was about a rumpled, snarky, slightly unethical reporter for Chicago's Independent News Service named Carl Kolchak who always found himself investigating the paranormal without meaning to and having to convince people that strange things were afoot in the Windy City (and beyond). en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kolchak:_The_Night_Stalker This is the show that Chris Carter credits with being his main influence on one of my later faves, "The X Files." It was a time of paranoia in America, and this was the perfect show to capture that feeling.

Sometimes, I would buy horror comics with my allowance. Sadly I don't remember the titles of any of these comics, but my favorites often seemed to be retelling of Grimm's fairy tales (which I also loved), vampire tales, and anything gothic. I do recall some horror tale I read that started in medieval Germany and involved sacrificing girls (always girls...what up, horror?) to some unnamed demon. For my fifth grade story project, I wrote some hideously macabre, fully illustrated tale of bloody death. I do remember that the cover, in perfect ape of Hammer Horror films, featured my color pencil rendition of Dracula fanging the neck of some buxom Victorian-era-looking maid who was chained to a wall in a dungeon. See, this is the sort of thing that today would guarantee your folks would get a visit from CPS. Instead, I got a check plus (the equivalent of an A+) from my fifth grade teacher.

I graduated from these to the harder stuff of my teen years: Dario Argento's "Suspiria," "Halloween," "When a Stranger Calls" (I didn't babysit after that for a long, long, time), "The Omen," and "Rosemary's Baby." I read Stephen King, The Amityville Horror, Frankenstein, Shirley Jackson, Peter Straub, Edgar Allan Poe, Hawthorne, Flowers in the Attic (I think this might be a rite of passage read), The Turn of the Screw, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and Helter Skelter, among others. I've seen "Jaws" so many times, I can almost quote it. On Saturday nights, my friends and I would pile into somebody's car and go out to the drive-in to watch really awful flicks like "It's Alive!" or "The Legend of Boggy Creek." Occasionally, we'd get revivals of George Romero movies, and I even saw "The Exorcist" for the first time at a drive-in, which did nothing to dull its scariness if only because I could not get the sound of "Tubular Bells" out of my head for ages. Even now, if I hear the opening notes of that song, I have the urge to reach for my blankie.  There were real horrors going on in the world and in our lives, things we had no control over, and I think this may be horror's biggest attraction for children and teens: You can name the monster and kill it. It is not the unsettling raised voices behind closed doors. The divorce that takes one parent away. The terrible feeling that you do not belong, that no matter what you do, you might never belong, that, in fact, you're somewhat alien and unnatural. The frightening/thrilling specter of sex. The secrets that seem to lurk beneath the banal facade of every town. The growing realization that you can never really know somebody, even people you love. The soul suck that is junior high and high school and its complicated hierarchies, its boredoms. Pep rallies and forced readings of Moby Dick. :-) 

In horror, there is a Big Bad (thanks, Joss) and a moment of stand-off with the Big Bad. It is a moment in which choices are made and sometimes people are made in that moment, too. What can I say? I'm crazy about horror. That's one of the reasons I'm really excited to be writing The Diviners, my new four-book series, which I will talk about more as it progresses. What I can tell you is that it's a 1920's, New York City-based, supernatural, four-book series that's going to edge into that territory I love so much, of things that go bump in the night. I'm excited to see what develops. I'll keep you posted.

And now, speaking of horror, I have to go watch The Cowboys/Saints game. It's already looking ugly and we're less than two minutes in. Oy. 

I wish you all a happy Thanksgiving--and maybe a good ghost story or two. And pie. Lots of pie. 

xo
Libba


P.S. Let's let Kate Bush sing us out, okay? Okay. www.youtube.com/watch