i didn't know i was writing YA... and i'm still not totally sure.

Today, I'm participating in this:

more info here.

Hosted by SA Larsen at Writer's Ally. Want to join the team? It's as easy as blogging on Tuesdays about anything YA-related. ;) We'll see how well I can hold up.

So, confession time:

I did not know YA was a thing until I started reading blogs. In all honesty, I stumbled upon the microcosm quite by accident. Good thing, too, because my writing life has grown exponentially since then {about two years ago}.

And lo, the lightbulb shone. You know, that lightbulb. I had been fiddling around with the backbone of my story {which has changed so much in two years, I hardly recognize it... in a good way}, eye-deep in identity crisis, when it occurred to me.

My main character is 16.
Not 10.
Not 23.
Of course he's 16.

{maybe 14?}
{no, 16.}

No wonder I like those blogs.
I'm writing YA, too.

Commence euphoria.
Chase with more identity crisis.

Because, you see, here's my second confession, one I realized after a year and a half of total YA immersion:

I'm really not the biggest fan of a lot of YA books I've read.
Like, to the point where I had to call it quits.
For a while.

Is it because I'm no longer an actual teenager? I don't know. The few that I've absolutely loved are the books my teen friends like best, too.

Does it have something to do with the seemingly rapid pace of the market? Am I just a stinky geezer with unrealistic standards for what I read?

Whom is YA really for?

Recently, after finishing yet another book that was supposed to be OMGAMAZING, but was actually omgnotasgoodasitcouldandshouldhavebeen, I realized,

Maybe YA isn't for me?

Buh.

Okay. Time to stop being dramatic. YA is not the problem.

The real issue is that I've been pigeonholing myself. Having a 16-year-old MC doesn't mean I have to write dystopian. My duty is to write the story that wants to be told, as someone other than me probably once said. I'll worry about the marketing later {if I ever even need to}. 

I can't deny that a ton of the YA books I've read truly are OMGAMAZING. Human beings carry different opinions and live different lives. I'm never going to love some books, and that's okay. I can learn from every single one I read. And, no matter how unenjoyable a book is for me, I will ALWAYS respect the person who wrote it.
How could I not, now that I know?

That being said... I have to admit, it's kind of nice to be reading adult fiction, right now.

You know. Just for a while. 

Thoughts?

unemployed and it feels so... awkward.

I quit my retail job in May.
I spent the summer volunteering at Loucon.
Husband and I moved to Chattanooga.
Husband and I went on a cross-country adventure.
I participated in the Writer's Platform-Building Campaign.
My best friend was diagnosed with a grade II astrocytoma* in her left frontal lobe.
Husband and I went to New York.
I won NaNoWriMo.
I was in a play.
Christmas happened.
New Year's happened.
Several friends have come to visit.

Yesterday:
My mom turned 61 {I'm not afraid to share, because she owns it}.
Katie's surgery didn't go exactly as planned, but she's okay.
She starts chemo and radiation in about a month.

And last night at small group, a friend asked how my job search was going.

What job search?

Ah, crap, I haven't worked in eight months. What a loser.

Well, okay. I've worked, but I haven't had a job. I haven't been paid for anything. And if this is what full-time writing looks like? It's a wonder anyone gets anything done {I am not a very productive being}.

I wouldn't mind getting a job. I really wouldn't {it might happen soon, actually}. But I'm not exactly chomping at the bit for one. It's a blessing, for sure, that I don't need to have a job right now. A luxury that makes me blush to admit. My husband works his tail off doing something he half-loves so that I can do what I full-love. If only I didn't fail at it, or dance around it, or gape at it, drooling and terrified.

It's true that I've accomplished far less, writing-wise, than I'd hoped to by now {and, no, I'm not counting NaNo}. Life, of course, has been crazy. But I'm not blaming life. I'm actually... thanking life? Or, to be more accurate, thanking the Lord for giving me this life. As jumbly and hectic and painful as it's been, there have also been great moments. Especially during the play. Things I wouldn't trade for the world, let alone a paycheck.

And so today?
I will clean the kitchen.
I will disconnect myself from the internet.
I will write.
I will inquire about a nannying job.
I *might* even go on a walk in the woods behind our house {oh yes, this one first, please}.

And I will practice telling people that I do have a job. One I love so much, I don't need to be compensated to justify it.

It's called being a stay-at-home writer wife. And if I can really do that with intent {hey-oh, there's my word}, won't it be so much better than throwing in the towel and jumping back into retail?

OH MY GOOD GOLLY, YES.

*I didn't link to any information about this because Katie has asked/trained me not look up stuff about her condition on the internet {or at least, not to tell her about it}. She wants her info to come from doctors, and I wholly respect that. Feel free to google it if you want, but you never know what you might find.

summer! plus: what do we really want?

Ah, the perks of living in this part of the country at this time of year. Hot sun, heavy air (am I the only soul alive who kind of likes humidity?). Humming cicadas, glinting fireflies. The vibrant, almost oppressive greenness of every living thing. As long as I remain well-equipped with bugspray, sunglasses and the occasional coating of SPF 15, I have no complaints.

It's a good thing I'm a summer baby, because we're about to move where it's even hotter, though only a hundred miles away. Funny how mountains and valleys do that, huh? Yes, yes. It's official. We bought a house, like grown-ups do. Chattanooga, here we come. Please, please, please let your restaurants be vegetarian-friendly, your proximity to Georgia less mystifying over time,* and your library as fabulous as Blount County's.

The south shore of Chattanooga in the summertime. Photo from this site.

{*When I was a kid in Kentucky, Georgia was this big, far-away place where they made Coca-Cola and had the Olympics, once. We would drive through it on our way to Florida every summer, and the majority of my opinion of the state went as such: Takes forever to get to. Takes forever to go through. And now, I'll be living, like, ten miles from the state line. This blows my mind, for some reason.}

Speaking of the South and the summertime, this past week at camp was likely the most fun I've ever had there, which, after 7 summers of working on staff and three summers of counseling, is saying A LOT. I mean, I spent one whole day dressed, to some degree, as a pirate. What's not to love about that?

Another highlight of this past week was finding myself in several conversations, both with teenagers and adults, about YA. At lunch one day, a fellow counselor mentioned something about Twilight, and how she had to attend a meeting on the basics of the story, so as to better assimilate to the people she works with in Eastern Kentucky who talk of NOTHING ELSE. I am not kidding. I asked her what she thought, and she said, essentially, "Meh, the first book was a pretty good read. About all I expected, you know, since it's just a young adult book."

Boy howdy, did the hair on my neck ever prickle at that. I said, "Hey, now. There is plenty of young adult lit that is not only better crafted than Twilight, but also better for humanity and far more important. Like The Hunger Games, for instance." And I was off. There was a girl at our table who'd read the books, too, and she nodded vigorously, smile plastered, as I talked about how awesome and integral and significant those books are. I wore my t-shirt the next day and started even more conversations.

My HG t-shirt, pretty much.
I bought it at a Borders in Chicago.

I noticed something else, too: there are a lot of teens out there who really disliked Mockingjay. One of the girls last week described it, pretty much, as "the author going crazy and killing characters for funsies." I'd heard this before, from a couple other kids, and it spurned a thought: What do teenagers really want out of the books they read? A squirmy, sick corner of my mind wants to say, "Flowers and bunnies! Cute boys and no bad things, ever!" But I know that's not true. When I was 16, that's not what I read. I was obsessed with Lord of the Rings, then. The only bunnies in that were food, and the only flower I remember was the elanor. There were no cute boys, in particular (unless you count Aragorn? Faramir?), and plenty of bad things.

Him?

I don't know what it is. I won't claim that Mockingjay was an enjoyable and fun romp through literature, by any means, but it was very good. Perhaps I am just a cold heart, but if you've been reading a series about rebellion and war, what do you really expect to find at the end of it?

Anywho, I suppose that's all for today's soap-box. What do you think kids really want to read? Or, heck, adults, too. What do any of us really want in a book? Personally, as much as I enjoy light fare and humor, I think I love the difficult stories more. Should I not? It makes me sad to think that some folks only want a fair-weather friend out of what they read.  I need both sides of the coin.

nasty statistics and how they eat your soul.

At the library yesterday, my writer-librarian-friend Kate (with whom I would have talked all day, had she not eventually said, "Shoo!  You go write!") mentioned something she'd read that claimed this horrifying statistic (which I will now paraphrase):

If you haven't got the main crux of your novel written in six weeks, it's probably not going to happen.

rrrrRRR?

"Isn't that interesting?" Kate (who is much more confident than I am) said.  And I was, uh, I was too mortified to speak.  Six weeks?  Let me just turn in all those new pens and notebooks and index cards now.  And can I get a refund on Scrivener?

Six weeks?  What can I do in six weeks?

... Zilch, man.  I can't do anything in six weeks.  I've been drafting this thing for SIX MONTHS.  And the rumor implies, to me, that it isn't even about the book getting published.  It's just about you finishing it.  Again, I ask, SIX WEEKS???????  What the almighty heck?


The other girl working at the library asked, "Isn't that a little fast?"  My thoughts exactly.  But, apparently, no!  According to what Kate saw, if the great big picture of it wasn't nailed down in six weeks, the novel probably wouldn't get written.

It feels unfair to the slower writers, you know?  Or maybe I am just horribly naive, and NO ONE takes this long to write a first draft.  And no first draft that takes this long to write becomes a book worth reading.  It bummed me out, too, because it actually makes sense.  A really strong, instinctive writer WOULD be able to draft in six weeks.  A strong, instinctive writer, with lots of experience and no day job or social life.  No to-read list.  No family troubles.  No doubts or disillusions.  And none of my neuroses.

Who's hoarding all this writing-magic, and how can I contact them for a free sample?

Thankfully, another woman walked in and we started a new conversation.  I hoped that Kate hadn't seen my face blanch so... loudly.

Anyway, the whole thing got me to thinking:  is my big picture NOT nailed down?  Had I to guess, I'd say I'm about two-thirds through, maybe a little less (depending on how wild my imagination is about to get), but I do know where it's going.  I DO know my big picture.  And I have no intention of quitting, just because some unknown-to-me observation claims that it's "probably not going to happen."  In fact, I won't even dignify the fear by considering it.  I know that even if I say I'm giving up, the story and its characters will continue in their relentless quest to be brought to life.

This painting by Bella Abati also helps.  [here]

Thoughts?

finally, some thoughts about writing.

Step #1.  Go to the library.  Check.

Step #2.  Locate nook.  If occupied, locate next available nook (there are several to choose from, here).  Check.

Step #3.  Drink white chocolate/macadamia nut latte.  Double check.

Step #4.  Disconnect from the internet.  Um... no check.

Step #5.  Write with abandon.  For the first time in two weeks, check.

Step #6.  Have an interesting thought.  Take a break to blog about it.  Unfortunate check.

This is usually how it goes for me.  My brain gets so excited, thoughts start going out all over the place.  It's the opposite of how I focus on something.  I remember learning that women can concentrate on or notice multiple things at a time, like they have millions of antennae coming out of their brains.  On the other hand, men generally only concentrate on one thing at a time, like they just have one big tube on their forehead that sucks up the information right in front of them.  Well, if this is the defining quality of gender, then I am a very confused girl.  I have remarkably few detail-receptors gathering information from all around me.  I have the man-tube.  I am a horrible multi-tasker.  Reading more than one book at a time feels like a thrill ride.  I don't really know what's going on around me, especially if I am particularly absorbed in something else.

But writing today was different, somehow.  I mean, the man-tube (the more I type that, the more awkward it sounds) is definitely in action.  I can't STAND ambient noise, especially in the form of children.  I am either going to be a horrible mother one of these days, or realize how horrible I was before becoming one.  Probably both.  I usually can't stand to listen to music, either, though today I did.  I think I have two qualifications for that:  it must be instrumental only, and it must be relatively unfamiliar, lest I get annoyed.  Also (okay, three qualifications), if one song works, I have to play it over and over again until the mood changes, and then find another song.  If there's not a song that fits the mood of what I'm writing, I can't listen to anything.  Boy, am I picky.  In six months of drafting (has it been that long?), I've only listened to music about twice, so that proves it.  But it really worked today, so that was... sort of fun.  And really weird.

Who am I, all of a sudden?

And then I started thinking about things.  So, I have a completely unrelated question for all you writerly-types out there:  What the heck makes boys cry?  I mean, I was about in tears writing just now, and so it seemed super-natural (not to be confused with supernatural) for my character to cry, as well.  But... but... he's a boy, and boys don't cry, right?  Do boys cry?  Over being reunited with their family?  Is that something that would make a boy cry?  Wouldn't I get mad if I read this from someone else and the boy didn't cry?  Or would I get annoyed that he did?  [If you can't guess, I married a very non-emotional boy.  We make a bizarre pair.]  OH MY GOSH!  WHAT MAKES BOYS CRY?!?!

According to the majority of my Google-image findings,
the only boys who cry are under 12,
impoverished, or artistically rendered.
With one possible exception:

This came with the explanation, "Stock photo,"
meaning it was likely staged (thus, artistically rendered).
You can't even see his face.  Is this a real thing?
Or only an idea perpetuated by
 emotional women trying to write male characters?

Think back to high school, Julie.  What made boys cry then?  You had enough guy friends to see it happen.  Hmm.  Death?  Accepting Christ?  Yes, those things.

Anything else?

Someone help me before I turn this into more of a crisis than it is.

Step #7:  Publish post, get over the thought, and go back to previous writing.  Hopeful check.

january blues.

It's January all of a sudden.  I slept through the countdown for the first time EVER, and now I have to keep reminding myself that the year has changed.
It's very weird, because this is something I typically think about for a long time.  "This is a new year!," "How is this year going to be different from last year?," "When will I feel like it's this year and not last year?," "I have to remember to write 11 instead of 10"... stuff like that.  
But, this time, it's not there. For the past four days, all I've been thinking about is "I'm tired.  I have to go to work.  Let's go see a movie.  What do you want for dinner?"  And resolutions?  What are those?  My resolutions last year didn't take.  One of them I'm going to try for again (reading and studying the Bible--ahem, daily), but the other (running a marathon?  puh-lease) was a total joke.


On another note, I want to talk about something I don't like talking about.  Writing.
I am at a standstill.  I suddenly hate reading all the blogs and stuff that I used to really enjoy.  I am sick of feeling like I have to write in any certain way, or that I have to be totally original (a requirement I place on myself ruthlessly), or that if it's not going to sell, I shouldn't even bother... industry stuff.  Really?  Since when have I ever worried about industry stuff?
But, what creative person doesn't fantasize about their work being received by others?


I'm half-forcing and half-allowing myself not to care.  Not in this case.  It just doesn't mix with me;  I can't explain it.  I feel as if none of the "formulas" or insights apply.  
Conundrum:  Publication is not my primary goal (how could it be?  I've never done this before!), but I do want my work to reach what I would consider its "final state."  Reading up and learning about novel writing helps me feel like I have a solid chance of getting there.  Sadly, these same things make me feel like a worthless waste of energy for not caring so much about getting published.  Which makes me question why I even spend the time writing.


I came to a really big stopping point in what I'd been working on.  It's not the end, by any means, but it was my unofficial goal for 2010, I guess, and I made it there.  So I feel good about myself, you know?  I partially accomplished something!
Here's the rub:  I really want to go back and fix what I've already done before moving on.  And there is A LOT to fix.  Like, 75 pages' worth.  
And here's another rub:  As much as I love my days at the library, I am so ready to have an actual DAY OFF, where I can go to the store or read or (gasp!) stay home and play Epic Mickey all day.  This is a bad place for me to be.  I tend to over-simplify my life after feeling consumed by something.  For example:  how many times have I been back to Pier 1 (any Pier 1) after not working there anymore?  Once.  And it was right around the wedding, so, a long time ago.  I can't even make myself go inside a Pier 1, here.  Have I been back to Walden since I stopped working there?  Hardly.  Impellizzeri's?  Twice, maybe.
And what about running?  That was my everything for a while, but once I quit, I QUIT.  Why do I put so much distance between myself and these things?  Why the regression?


What a way to start the year, huh?  I promise, I'm not always this sour.  And wait, tomorrow I'll be singing the library's praises again.  One very fun thing about writing, when you take away the anxiety, is the propensity you find you have to surprise yourself.  If you just keep going, it'll come.  This is the sort of thing I have confidence in, because I've seen it.  Like my old pal, running.  Kinda sucks to get into it, but once you're there, the work starts to happen on its own.