hello, internet.
it's been a couple months. i'd say i was sorry ... but i'm pretty sure nobody expects anything else of this blog lately. :P
part of the reason it's hard for me to write is because most of the ideas that come to me seem really ... heavy. (astonishing, i know. the depressive's ideas seem heavy. what gives.) believe it or not, i'm highly invested in the idea of spreading positivity on the internet and making the world a better place, and it's difficult to wrap my mind around sharing my personal thoughts and experiences when my voice is too worn out to represent with anything but periods and lowercase letters.
on the other hand, my values also prioritize other people's attempts to demystify their own greyspace and personal traumas on the internet and elsewhere as some of the most important work going on in all of the media, which basically means I'm a hypocrite. i publicly applaud the courage of others in laying themselves bare for all to see while my foot is covertly nudging the rug to cover back up my own unseemly parts, lest, heaven forbid, somebody SEE them and NO LONGER LIKE ME.
(oh, look, there are the capital letters)
part of it, i think, is that communicating takes so much work. the puzzle of deciding what to put in and what to leave out, how to generate intimacy without oversharing ... there's simply too much material to put it all in. how do you balance between the good and the bad? how do you edit a story to make it seem complete?
lots of questions without time for answers. right now I'm at the point where this post is already starting to seem long and I'm wondering if it's time to call it quits -- but I haven't actually said anything. and this is the struggle, always. lingering outside your roommate's door, wondering if you should knock and say hi, wondering if you've already bothered her enough. sitting beside your friends in the institute classroom, knowing they care about you but questioning why, wondering what any of them would say if they knew how badly you just wanted to be held.
the greatest irony of human existence is that we all feel so incredibly alone, and we all think that we're the only one. it takes bravery to reach out. it takes guts to stand up and say, hey, friends, I have an eating disorder. it's so hard to find the nerve to confess that you are not okay, not happy alone, that any of these people who love you could wrap their arms around you and hold you tight and it would literally never be too much ... except that when they do, you hug them for the requisite four seconds and if you're really brave then you hold on for fifteen and then you pull back because heaven forbid if anyone you loved ever knew how much you need them. we'd rather die than admit that it's killing us to sleep alone.
and then there are the other things we aren't saying: that we think someone is so beautiful, we could watch them walk down the street all day. we admire someone so much we're petrified to talk to them. we wish our body looked like hers, and she wishes her body looked like ours, and NONE of us EVER SAYS ANYTHING. most of us are sitting around in our rooms, dying alone in a crowd, and holding ourselves back from engaging with the people we really want to because we are 100% certain that they have LOADS of friends, all of whom are better than me. he is so handsome, she is so smart, nobody like that would ever waste their time on me.
well, i'm calling bulls#^%. you is funny, you is smart, you is half the reason somebody else is hiding in a closet and crying out to God for the guts to reach outside. probably also you is a coward like me. it's very easily to hypothetically believe you are worth something. it's a damn sight harder to show that something to another human being in all of its naked, unedited glory.
vulnerability is so much riskier than dying alone.
live dangerously.
(and if you need someone to hug you for about an hour, by all the glory of the western sunset you come and find me. i am always game.)
Sarah
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Friday, November 27, 2015
Flashback Friday #1: Waitressing
Heyall! I've decided to start a new feature on the blog: Flashback Fridays, in which I will dig through the mess of my ancient, outdated drafts and fish out something semi-presentable to an audience. Then I'll share it, with a little background and no minimal editing.* Hopefully it will be fun, provide you with a little insight into what I'm working on ... or, err, was working on a couple years ago, and allow ME to appreciate how much I've grown! Let's try it out!
[Now for the moment you've all been waiting for (drumroll, please) ... an unfinished scene written Jan '14, meant to be the opening of one of my WIP's, codename WONDERLAND. This book is one of my more troublesome babies, and you'll be seeing more alternate versions of it soon -- I think it ran up to seven openings before I caught the one I'm using now. Nothing about this scene is still accurate to the book, but I loved it enough to share, in all it's warty goodness. Comment with your favourite line below and you could win something awesome! (and totally imaginary shh just pretend)]
The restaurant was stifling, heavy with the scent of grease and bad cologne. Scarlett was sweltering in her black waitress uniform. She itched to get out, to burst through the doors into the cool night air and never come back. Instead she plastered on a smile and went to refill a tableful of water glasses.
This table sat a party of six — three adults, three children, the youngest of whom seemed to be painting a Picasso in the gravy on the table. Scarlett’s plaster smile became a little strained at this.
“Will you be having dessert today?”
“Actually …” The thickset older woman at the head of the table frowned at the man on her right, and he subsided.
“We don’t need any dessert, thank you,” she told Scarlett.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite positive. But do be a dear and get us some extra napkins. I believe Franklin has upset his plate.”
The heavyset woman had a sharp glint in her eye. It was the look of someone who only bought toilet paper on sale. Scarlett decided not to press for dessert.
[Now for the moment you've all been waiting for (drumroll, please) ... an unfinished scene written Jan '14, meant to be the opening of one of my WIP's, codename WONDERLAND. This book is one of my more troublesome babies, and you'll be seeing more alternate versions of it soon -- I think it ran up to seven openings before I caught the one I'm using now. Nothing about this scene is still accurate to the book, but I loved it enough to share, in all it's warty goodness. Comment with your favourite line below and you could win something awesome! (and totally imaginary shh just pretend)]
The restaurant was stifling, heavy with the scent of grease and bad cologne. Scarlett was sweltering in her black waitress uniform. She itched to get out, to burst through the doors into the cool night air and never come back. Instead she plastered on a smile and went to refill a tableful of water glasses.
This table sat a party of six — three adults, three children, the youngest of whom seemed to be painting a Picasso in the gravy on the table. Scarlett’s plaster smile became a little strained at this.
“Will you be having dessert today?”
“Actually …” The thickset older woman at the head of the table frowned at the man on her right, and he subsided.
“We don’t need any dessert, thank you,” she told Scarlett.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite positive. But do be a dear and get us some extra napkins. I believe Franklin has upset his plate.”
The heavyset woman had a sharp glint in her eye. It was the look of someone who only bought toilet paper on sale. Scarlett decided not to press for dessert.
On her way back to the kitchen, she caught sight of one of the TVs set up beside the corner booths. It was displaying a local news channel, where one of the news anchors was talking against the backdrop of …
Scarlett’s heart sank at the sight of the smiling fourteen-year-old girl’s face. Emily Keys, her name was. Local kid — she attended a school only six blocks over from where Scarlett’s own younger sister went. She’d been missing for six days.
There was no evidence of foul play, no unusual behavior on the girl’s part before the incident. She had left for school that day perfectly normal, had by all accounts had a perfectly normal day at school, and had biked home from school with a group of friends, only turning off when she reached a residential alley half a block away from home. Then she had simply … disappeared.
They’d found her bike in the alley, when they finally went looking. Lying on its side across a jagged crack in the pavement, one wheel spinning gently in the breeze. Perfect and unharmed. What they didn’t find was the girl.
================
* Originally there was going to be no editing allowed, but then I found a couple things in this snippet that I absolutely COULD NOT post without editing. So I've settled on a compromise -- I will edit as little as possible, and then tell you exactly what I changed in a postscript. Deal? Okay.
DISCLOSURE OF EDITS!!!
Edit #1: second paragraph, first sentence. In the original copy, for some reason it said the oldest of the children was painting in the gravy, but the wording wasn't absolutely clear as to whether the artist in question was child or adult. It was driving me crazy, so I changed.
Edit #2: tenth paragraph, second sentence. My subconscious does this obnoxious thing sometimes where it names minor characters after celebrities I know just little enough about to not realize, in the distraction of drafting, why the name sounds so natural. This scene was one of those times -- in original copy, the little girl was named Alicia Keys, and I didn't realize until I was uploading it to the blog. Oops.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
an experiment in authenticity
hello, internet.
I struggle with blogging. I know I've said this a million times, and I suspect that most people really don't care, because I am quite certain that most people do not actually read my blog. In fact, I'm pretty sure there are exactly three people who read my blog.
[...hi, grandpa]
What you might not know, if you are one of those three people, is that for every post you've seen on here, there are approximately a hundred more that never get written. I just did the math, and I have exactly 74 posts on my blog -- 75 if you count this one, which I hope will actually be going up. And there are 102 drafts on my archive. and there are a million and three aborted drafts lost in my brain.
There is a very real possibility that this post will never be read. There is a very real possibility that I will never share it, for the same reason I never shared any of the others. Because
people.
don't.
care.
Somewhere deep down in the core of my being, I firmly believe this. I believe that everyone who is reading this blog post 'right now,' in this abstract unit of time known only to writers and the mentally unstable which comprises EVERY SINGLE MOMENT in which anyone could POSSIBLY be reading my work, everyone is judging me. I hear your voices in my head: Oh, puleease, staaaahhhp. When are you going to realize, nobody cares? I am mentally writing to an audience of constant eye rolls and bored texting.
Actually, now that I think about it, I am mentally writing to a mass-produced audience of middle schoolers.
But, for some reason, I keep writing.
And I'm not going to quit.
And so if you are one of those non-imaginary people who is actually reading this, right now, in any moment in time ... this is for you.
hello. my name is sarah.
i have monsters in my brain.
i would like to be your friend.
please, let me know if you are human too.
dysfunctionally yours,
S
I struggle with blogging. I know I've said this a million times, and I suspect that most people really don't care, because I am quite certain that most people do not actually read my blog. In fact, I'm pretty sure there are exactly three people who read my blog.
[...hi, grandpa]
What you might not know, if you are one of those three people, is that for every post you've seen on here, there are approximately a hundred more that never get written. I just did the math, and I have exactly 74 posts on my blog -- 75 if you count this one, which I hope will actually be going up. And there are 102 drafts on my archive. and there are a million and three aborted drafts lost in my brain.
There is a very real possibility that this post will never be read. There is a very real possibility that I will never share it, for the same reason I never shared any of the others. Because
people.
don't.
care.
Somewhere deep down in the core of my being, I firmly believe this. I believe that everyone who is reading this blog post 'right now,' in this abstract unit of time known only to writers and the mentally unstable which comprises EVERY SINGLE MOMENT in which anyone could POSSIBLY be reading my work, everyone is judging me. I hear your voices in my head: Oh, puleease, staaaahhhp. When are you going to realize, nobody cares? I am mentally writing to an audience of constant eye rolls and bored texting.
Actually, now that I think about it, I am mentally writing to a mass-produced audience of middle schoolers.
But, for some reason, I keep writing.
And I'm not going to quit.
And so if you are one of those non-imaginary people who is actually reading this, right now, in any moment in time ... this is for you.
hello. my name is sarah.
i have monsters in my brain.
i would like to be your friend.
please, let me know if you are human too.
dysfunctionally yours,
S
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Thoughts On Writing Diversity And Other Complicated Things
[ETA: There are a lot of things wrong with this post that (as of a couple weeks later) I now see and wouldn't write today. However, this were my real and honest thoughts that accurately represent a period of my life, so I'm going to leave this up. Please read mindfully -- I hope to have follow-up posts soon.]
Crap, crap, crap. I shouldn't write this post.
Crap. I'm writing this post.
Let me start out by saying that this is NOT a post about how to write diverse fiction. NOT EVEN CLOSE. This is NOT a post about how to talk about diverse fiction. NOPE, NOPE, NOPE. This is a post about my experience as a straight, cis, white girl with mental illness who cares, cares, cares about the whitewashing, straightwashing* and otherwise homogenization of fiction to exclude marginalized groups, AND DOES NOT HAVE A FREAKING CLUE WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT.
Brace yourselves. This is going to be a long one. You might want to grab a drink. I know I'm going to need a drink.**
(brb getting water)
(got the water. drank the water. now let's do this.)
Okay. Okay.
First, before I go flailing like a chicken with my head cut off into territory I don't understand, let me give you some background into what I HAVE experienced. Because although I don't have a FREAKING CLUE what it's like to be a person of color or LGBTQIA+, I do know what it's like to be marginalized in fiction.
Exhibit A) I am a girl.
And I know: females are not a minority group. But in fiction? It sure as heck feels like it. I have lived my entire life in a world where speaking male characters outnumber speaking female characters by a ratio of 3 to 1,••• where the precious few women who do make it through are stereotyped and objectified, where stories about men are considered universal and stories about women considered "niche." I fought my entire life against a world that tells me MY stories are not important, that MY voice is not worth listening to, that I will never ever be as 'relevant' to the human experience as that neighbour boy down the block. And I HATE IT.
When I have spoken up about this, when I have protested a fictional diet of active men and passive women, when I have cited statistics and studies and anecdotal evidence, I have repeatedly been told to sit down and shut up, to get the chip off my shoulder, to forget about female representation, because there are more important things to worry about. But I do not sit down, and I do not shut up, and for this I make enemies and I shed a LOT of tears. I am familiar with the experience of being told I do not matter.
Additionally, I have serious mental illness. To be more specific, I have lived with moderate-to-severe anxiety and depression since I was about five years old.† Sometimes it's not so bad. Sometimes it's a living hell. Currently, as I write this, I am living through one of the worst depressive episodes of my entire life. Some days, it takes literally everything I have to get out of bed by 9 AM, eat, shower, exercise, read my scriptures, pray, watch a couple YouTube videos, and go to bed at a reasonable hour without killing myself. I am not saying this because I want your pity. I do not want your pity. I am not saying this because I want you to worry about me. You do not need to worry about me, although I will happily accept any good thoughts and prayers you want to send my way. I am saying this because I am sick and tired of living with a legitimately life-threatening illness that everyone pretends isn't real. I am saying this because the other night as I was sobbing in my mom's bed because all my broken brain would show me was repeated demands that I smash my brains out against a wall, that I hurt myself cut myself kill myself MAKE IT STOP, part of me was STILL whispering, "you know this isn't really a thing. mental illness isn't a thing, and if it is, you don't have it. you're probably just selfish. you're doing it for attention. grow up and get a life."
Not okay. This is not okay. I am no longer okay with living a world where the thing which threatens my life is dismissed as laziness, or bad character, or immaturity. I am a hard worker. I have to be, to stay alive. I am a positive thinker. I have to be, TO STAY ALIVE. I have more willpower than you would freaking believe. EVIDENCE: I AM STILL ALIVE. I keep the door to self-harm or suicide tightly shut, locked and superglued, and I get up every morning and go at another day in spite of living in a world which tells me I had better not exist, and where there is next to no one like me represented in the media.
I know what it's like to be discriminated against. I know what it's like to be marginalized.
I don't know what it's like for you.
I do not know what it is like to be targeted by racism, by homophobia, by transphobia, by physical ablism, or by any of the other things that make YOUR life hell. I cannot even imagine wearing my differentness on my skin. I could pretend I do, try to compare it to the way I experience sexism or the fear I sometimes experience as a woman, but we both know it's not the same.
I have spent most of my life in an unusually homogenous environment. For the last eight years, I have lived in a small town that is not only overwhelmingly white, but in which 80% of people belong to the same Christian faith. This is not good preparation for writing diversity.
I am aware that the burden is on me to educate myself. Problem is, self-education has proven to be more difficult than it looked in the commercials. This is partially because of my anxiety issues, and partially due to a horrific tendency I have of speaking before I think and the fact that I tend to try to lighten all moods with humour ... which usually results in me saying something hideously offensive and then I want to crawl into a hole and die because A) my ignorance is showing, and B) I KNOW WHAT THAT'S LIKE. I have been the one cringing in my seat because someone else just said something nauseatingly sexist, or they have innocently reflected a whole society's worth of damaging stereotypes about the mentally ill. I know what it's like to be hurt by someone who's not intending to hurt you, but is just accidentally stupid today. And I have also been that stupid person. All the freaking time.††
And all this is made even worse when I see white, straight, cis authors (who appear to genuinely care) make attempts at including diverse characters in their fiction, and mess up, and then I see the Internet rip them to pieces and spit on the remains. And I get it. I get that the voice of the privileged should not take precedence in conversations about marginalized groups. But when I see privileged authors who attempt to write inclusive fiction villainized for their mistakes, the message I get is YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. WE DO NOT WANT YOU HERE. GET BACK TO YOUR SIDE OF THE PLAYGROUND AND NEVER COME BACK.
And then I think, oh crap. If I attempt this, I am going to mess up so bad. And so I slink away and write another MS with another white protagonist, in a very white cast where everybody is straight and able and Hollywood beautiful. Because it's safe. Because it's where I'm comfortable. Because, ultimately, no one wants to be where they do not feel wanted. Not even straight, able-bodied, white people.
And yet I still want to write diversely, because honestly? Although POC writers should absolutely be the loudest voices in fiction about POC, although queer writers are the MOST IMPORTANT sources of queer representation, although women know best how to write about women and we mentally ill writers SHOULD represent the mentally ill, I honestly do not believe that our society will ever progress to the place it needs to reach unless those who are privileged put in the effort and the courage to write about those who are not like them. Plain and simple.
Unless men write about women, white people write about POC, and the mentally able learn to write stories about the mentally ill, marginalized authors will always be "niche." Nothing is ever going to get better, and I will continue to write long, rambly blog posts with random passages bolded. I don't know about you, but to me, that future looks pretty bleak.
So, please, CORRECT MY MISTAKES. Correct all the mistakes, because bad representation is worse than no representation, and those who are not oppressed do not know what the heck they're saying about those who are. When I do something racist, or homophobic, or otherwise hurtful, PLEASE, please, PLEASE CALL ME OUT ON IT, and EXPLAIN. Otherwise I will never get better. You will never get better. None of us will ever get any better.
Just ... try to show a little compassion, if you can. Try to have a little patience, even with the ignorant. Especially with the ignorant. Because some of us are like five-year-olds, and we speak before we think, and we will make stupid mistakes, because we have not hurt like you have, and we do not understand.
Help us understand. And by all means, make your voices heard. You are the only ones who can get us out of this mess.
Sincerely,
Sarah†††
[P.S. I'm not editing this post, because I've learnt long ago that if I 'edit' something for postage online, I will end up deleting the whole thing. So I'm just going to post it, and you can let me know if you see any typos or otherwise strange things I should fix? Thanks. Really, really thanks. <3 S]
===================
* Is that a word? Let's pretend that's a word.
** Of water. As a Mormon health food junkie, I strongly advocate the drinking of water. You can, of course, drink whatever you want. But I suggest water.
*** In animated movies/this is an approximation/blah, blah, blah. I don't really want to nitpick about statistics. You can look them up yourself if you want.
† I have not officially been diagnosed, because ????. I have had a handful of doctors say things like, "Yup, you have depression," and "I think you just have serious depression," to which I reply, "You don't say, I never would have figured that out thank you for your help." /sarcasm
†† If you know me in real life, you are nodding along. I have the insatiable curiosity of a novelist and the tact of your average five-year-old. Baaad combination. On so many levels.
††† Lots of things have happened on Twitter since I wrote this post. (This post originally happened because of things said on Twitter.) I have a lot of different thoughts, and conflicting thoughts, and new thoughts. But here is the ultimate thought:
With my writing, I want to help people more than I hurt them.
I don't know how to do that. I don't know if that's possible.
Maybe the only way is to write lots of books about white, straight, cis, mentally ill girls like me, or maybe there is a place for my carefully-researched-novels that will never ever ever measure up to the Real Thing -- books by people who have LIVED the experiences they're writing about. It's hard, because I know the industry is biased towards me right now, through no virtue of my own, and so any 'diverse' books I publish will tend to obscure the voices we really need, by making people think that's enough, we have diversity, game over. When really, what matters is the diversity behind the author name, and I'm not it.
For once in my life, I really don't know what to do. That's where this post came from, even if it doesn't communicate it clearly. I want to find out what I'm supposed to do. It seems that I am, by default, part of the problem. I want to do whatever I can to change that, but I will need the help of people like you to figure out how.
Crap, crap, crap. I shouldn't write this post.
Crap. I'm writing this post.
Let me start out by saying that this is NOT a post about how to write diverse fiction. NOT EVEN CLOSE. This is NOT a post about how to talk about diverse fiction. NOPE, NOPE, NOPE. This is a post about my experience as a straight, cis, white girl with mental illness who cares, cares, cares about the whitewashing, straightwashing* and otherwise homogenization of fiction to exclude marginalized groups, AND DOES NOT HAVE A FREAKING CLUE WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT.
Brace yourselves. This is going to be a long one. You might want to grab a drink. I know I'm going to need a drink.**
(brb getting water)
(got the water. drank the water. now let's do this.)
Okay. Okay.
First, before I go flailing like a chicken with my head cut off into territory I don't understand, let me give you some background into what I HAVE experienced. Because although I don't have a FREAKING CLUE what it's like to be a person of color or LGBTQIA+, I do know what it's like to be marginalized in fiction.
Exhibit A) I am a girl.
And I know: females are not a minority group. But in fiction? It sure as heck feels like it. I have lived my entire life in a world where speaking male characters outnumber speaking female characters by a ratio of 3 to 1,••• where the precious few women who do make it through are stereotyped and objectified, where stories about men are considered universal and stories about women considered "niche." I fought my entire life against a world that tells me MY stories are not important, that MY voice is not worth listening to, that I will never ever be as 'relevant' to the human experience as that neighbour boy down the block. And I HATE IT.
When I have spoken up about this, when I have protested a fictional diet of active men and passive women, when I have cited statistics and studies and anecdotal evidence, I have repeatedly been told to sit down and shut up, to get the chip off my shoulder, to forget about female representation, because there are more important things to worry about. But I do not sit down, and I do not shut up, and for this I make enemies and I shed a LOT of tears. I am familiar with the experience of being told I do not matter.
Additionally, I have serious mental illness. To be more specific, I have lived with moderate-to-severe anxiety and depression since I was about five years old.† Sometimes it's not so bad. Sometimes it's a living hell. Currently, as I write this, I am living through one of the worst depressive episodes of my entire life. Some days, it takes literally everything I have to get out of bed by 9 AM, eat, shower, exercise, read my scriptures, pray, watch a couple YouTube videos, and go to bed at a reasonable hour without killing myself. I am not saying this because I want your pity. I do not want your pity. I am not saying this because I want you to worry about me. You do not need to worry about me, although I will happily accept any good thoughts and prayers you want to send my way. I am saying this because I am sick and tired of living with a legitimately life-threatening illness that everyone pretends isn't real. I am saying this because the other night as I was sobbing in my mom's bed because all my broken brain would show me was repeated demands that I smash my brains out against a wall, that I hurt myself cut myself kill myself MAKE IT STOP, part of me was STILL whispering, "you know this isn't really a thing. mental illness isn't a thing, and if it is, you don't have it. you're probably just selfish. you're doing it for attention. grow up and get a life."
Not okay. This is not okay. I am no longer okay with living a world where the thing which threatens my life is dismissed as laziness, or bad character, or immaturity. I am a hard worker. I have to be, to stay alive. I am a positive thinker. I have to be, TO STAY ALIVE. I have more willpower than you would freaking believe. EVIDENCE: I AM STILL ALIVE. I keep the door to self-harm or suicide tightly shut, locked and superglued, and I get up every morning and go at another day in spite of living in a world which tells me I had better not exist, and where there is next to no one like me represented in the media.
I know what it's like to be discriminated against. I know what it's like to be marginalized.
I don't know what it's like for you.
I do not know what it is like to be targeted by racism, by homophobia, by transphobia, by physical ablism, or by any of the other things that make YOUR life hell. I cannot even imagine wearing my differentness on my skin. I could pretend I do, try to compare it to the way I experience sexism or the fear I sometimes experience as a woman, but we both know it's not the same.
I have spent most of my life in an unusually homogenous environment. For the last eight years, I have lived in a small town that is not only overwhelmingly white, but in which 80% of people belong to the same Christian faith. This is not good preparation for writing diversity.
I am aware that the burden is on me to educate myself. Problem is, self-education has proven to be more difficult than it looked in the commercials. This is partially because of my anxiety issues, and partially due to a horrific tendency I have of speaking before I think and the fact that I tend to try to lighten all moods with humour ... which usually results in me saying something hideously offensive and then I want to crawl into a hole and die because A) my ignorance is showing, and B) I KNOW WHAT THAT'S LIKE. I have been the one cringing in my seat because someone else just said something nauseatingly sexist, or they have innocently reflected a whole society's worth of damaging stereotypes about the mentally ill. I know what it's like to be hurt by someone who's not intending to hurt you, but is just accidentally stupid today. And I have also been that stupid person. All the freaking time.††
And all this is made even worse when I see white, straight, cis authors (who appear to genuinely care) make attempts at including diverse characters in their fiction, and mess up, and then I see the Internet rip them to pieces and spit on the remains. And I get it. I get that the voice of the privileged should not take precedence in conversations about marginalized groups. But when I see privileged authors who attempt to write inclusive fiction villainized for their mistakes, the message I get is YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. WE DO NOT WANT YOU HERE. GET BACK TO YOUR SIDE OF THE PLAYGROUND AND NEVER COME BACK.
And then I think, oh crap. If I attempt this, I am going to mess up so bad. And so I slink away and write another MS with another white protagonist, in a very white cast where everybody is straight and able and Hollywood beautiful. Because it's safe. Because it's where I'm comfortable. Because, ultimately, no one wants to be where they do not feel wanted. Not even straight, able-bodied, white people.
And yet I still want to write diversely, because honestly? Although POC writers should absolutely be the loudest voices in fiction about POC, although queer writers are the MOST IMPORTANT sources of queer representation, although women know best how to write about women and we mentally ill writers SHOULD represent the mentally ill, I honestly do not believe that our society will ever progress to the place it needs to reach unless those who are privileged put in the effort and the courage to write about those who are not like them. Plain and simple.
Unless men write about women, white people write about POC, and the mentally able learn to write stories about the mentally ill, marginalized authors will always be "niche." Nothing is ever going to get better, and I will continue to write long, rambly blog posts with random passages bolded. I don't know about you, but to me, that future looks pretty bleak.
So, please, CORRECT MY MISTAKES. Correct all the mistakes, because bad representation is worse than no representation, and those who are not oppressed do not know what the heck they're saying about those who are. When I do something racist, or homophobic, or otherwise hurtful, PLEASE, please, PLEASE CALL ME OUT ON IT, and EXPLAIN. Otherwise I will never get better. You will never get better. None of us will ever get any better.
Just ... try to show a little compassion, if you can. Try to have a little patience, even with the ignorant. Especially with the ignorant. Because some of us are like five-year-olds, and we speak before we think, and we will make stupid mistakes, because we have not hurt like you have, and we do not understand.
Help us understand. And by all means, make your voices heard. You are the only ones who can get us out of this mess.
Sincerely,
Sarah†††
[P.S. I'm not editing this post, because I've learnt long ago that if I 'edit' something for postage online, I will end up deleting the whole thing. So I'm just going to post it, and you can let me know if you see any typos or otherwise strange things I should fix? Thanks. Really, really thanks. <3 S]
===================
* Is that a word? Let's pretend that's a word.
** Of water. As a Mormon health food junkie, I strongly advocate the drinking of water. You can, of course, drink whatever you want. But I suggest water.
*** In animated movies/this is an approximation/blah, blah, blah. I don't really want to nitpick about statistics. You can look them up yourself if you want.
† I have not officially been diagnosed, because ????. I have had a handful of doctors say things like, "Yup, you have depression," and "I think you just have serious depression," to which I reply, "You don't say, I never would have figured that out thank you for your help." /sarcasm
†† If you know me in real life, you are nodding along. I have the insatiable curiosity of a novelist and the tact of your average five-year-old. Baaad combination. On so many levels.
††† Lots of things have happened on Twitter since I wrote this post. (This post originally happened because of things said on Twitter.) I have a lot of different thoughts, and conflicting thoughts, and new thoughts. But here is the ultimate thought:
With my writing, I want to help people more than I hurt them.
I don't know how to do that. I don't know if that's possible.
Maybe the only way is to write lots of books about white, straight, cis, mentally ill girls like me, or maybe there is a place for my carefully-researched-novels that will never ever ever measure up to the Real Thing -- books by people who have LIVED the experiences they're writing about. It's hard, because I know the industry is biased towards me right now, through no virtue of my own, and so any 'diverse' books I publish will tend to obscure the voices we really need, by making people think that's enough, we have diversity, game over. When really, what matters is the diversity behind the author name, and I'm not it.
For once in my life, I really don't know what to do. That's where this post came from, even if it doesn't communicate it clearly. I want to find out what I'm supposed to do. It seems that I am, by default, part of the problem. I want to do whatever I can to change that, but I will need the help of people like you to figure out how.
Monday, May 4, 2015
A Monday Poem
"Chocolate Cake"
by Sarah
I would like a chocolate cake.
A rich chocolate cake.
A moist chocolate cake.
A dense chocolate cake.
I would like a rich, moist, dense chocolate cake.
by Sarah
I would like a chocolate cake.
A rich chocolate cake.
A moist chocolate cake.
A dense chocolate cake.
I would like a rich, moist, dense chocolate cake.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Blogging And Mental Illness
Sometimes, I hate blogging.
Why do I hate blogging, you ask? Well, because blogging, in its simplest, purest form, is the intersection in Hell where all my demons pass each other on the way to work, exchanging friendly hellos and paper bags full of blood money. Or something like that.
I don't remember how much I've said about my personal cocktail of crazy on this blog, (and frankly, I'm not about to find out, because if I leave this post for longer than ten seconds I am literally never going to get it done). Suffice it to say that I have experience with a wide variety of mental disorders, all generally agreed upon by doctors (although never officially diagnosed? because apparently there was no motivation to get me diagnosed? Internet, what do I do about this -- do I even need to be diagnosed? These questions and more) and they all make blogging difficult in their own particular way.
Today, I am going to share some of my experience with these conditions ... particularly as they relate to blogging. No, I'm not sure this is a good idea either. But I'm doing it anyway.
Here goes.
1. Depression: If there is such a thing as a *primary* mental illness, this is probably mine. I have lived with moderate to severe depression since I was about 5 or 6 years old. Sometimes it's just the faintest grey haze in the corners of my eyes. Sometimes it is a black, crushing weight on the solar plexus of my soul. Usually, it falls somewhere in between.
What it means: Deadlines kick my butt. If there's anything I absolutely hate, it's feeling incapable of meeting my commitments. Unfortunately, with depression, this happens all too often. (Note that this failure to meet commitments doesn't come in the form of blowing off the commitments entirely: if I promise to get stuff done, I get it done. However, I often have little control over when I get it done -- and I am blindsided by this reality more often than not.) Blogging, in its traditional form, constitutes a commitment. And every. single. time. I have made this particular commitment, whether to myself or to you, whether I promise to blog every month or every Tuesday, it falls through. Every. freaking. time. And that brings us to ...
2. Anxiety (ALL SORTS): If depression is my primary mental disorder, anxiety is my second. I suffer primarily from generalized and social anxiety disorders, with a side of what I think might be panic attacks?*
What it means: The primary function of my anxiety disorders -- in blogging and other threatening social situations -- is to make it very, very difficult for me to behave like my actual self. I am hyper-aware of possibilities, and my anxiety zeroes in on the negative ones, enlarges them until they're all I can see. I become terrified, and then I try to cover it up, often becoming hyperactive, occasionally becoming belligerent, almost always saying or doing things I don't mean, and then I panic and lose it completely.
Social media makes this both better and worse, because it provides both the illusion of control and, you know, the complete lack of actual control. I can edit and consider what I say on the internet, but once I've said it, it can be really, really hard to take it back. And while normal social situations move on and fade into the past, the internet is forever ... and there are some very scary possibilities associated with forever.
This leads directly into ...
3. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: I am blessed with very mild obsessive compulsive disorder, which means that although I spend rather more of my life than I would otherwise choose dealing with the niggling feeling that something is wrong, that the world is off-balance and needs to be fixed, that feeling does not lead me to, for example, punch myself in the face. Or bash my head into walls. Or go running in the dark at -20°C. These are all real things, some of which have happened to people I love. OCD is brutal, and I am grateful that my experience with it has been so mild. That said, it is still unpleasant, and I am here to tell you what it means for me (and for my blog).
What it means: OCD is a funny thing. It might be the mental illness I understand the least (out of those I experience myself). It hitches very closely into my anxiety disorder, which makes sense, as OCD is technically an anxiety disorder, but I'm listing it separately both because it's often recognized separately and because my OCD symptoms are quite distinct from the symptoms I experience with generalized anxiety.
Sometimes, when my OCD is acting up, I find myself compelled to use words that have the 'b' sound. As many 'b' words as possible. (When it's really bad, I can end up rocking back and forth and crawling in circles on the floor, but that's a story for a different day.) When my OCD is triggered by journalling and/or blogging, I can find myself compulsively writing and deleting, stuck on a sentence I want to say because THIS word is a 'bad' word and this OTHER word is a 'good' word and I somehow have to find a way to cut the 'bad' word and use the 'good' word.
I don't know. It doesn't make sense to me either. All I know is that it's real. It's something I regularly experience, and while it doesn't always affect everything like my depression and anxiety do, it does make blogging a regular pain in the neck. The intricate workarounds necessary for me to get around my compulsions and actually write the blasted thing are exhausting, and frankly I usually don't have the energy to do it. Because depression.
CONCLUSION: This has been a really hard post for me to write, for all of the reasons I have listed above. There is a reason I haven't talked much about my mental illness on this blog. The stigma against abnormal mental processes -- even the terminology we use to describe them (mental illness, mental disorder) -- makes it easy to identify those who experience these processes as diseased. Undesirable. Broken.
I don't understand a lot of the things going on in my brain, but I am 100% sure that it isn't broken. I am objectively brilliant. (Another very risky thing to say on the internet.) I absorb information quickly and easily; I acquire new skills in a lightning flash, so long as they don't require kicking a ball or otherwise using my body in any way. I read voraciously. I love unashamedly. I draw and act and dance and sing.
I could afford to be better at all of the above. But so could every human being on the planet.
I am not interested in being broken. I am absolutely interested in being human.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I am tired of being ashamed.** My mental processes affect me. They do not define me. Honestly, I am grateful when I think of the abnormalities of my brain. They remind me that I'm still breathing.
Even when it hurts, even when I feel a little less than alive, even when I have to drag myself out of bed and I'm living on the verge of tears and writing a simple 500-word blog post feels like sledding uphill, I am grateful for the person I am, and I am even more grateful for the person I am becoming.
Even if she never gets a handle on the whole blogging thing.
===========================
*I have done extensive research on panic attacks, and I don't seem to manifest many of the physical symptoms that seem common to panic attacks, but I don't know what else to call them, so I call them panic attacks.
**I am also tired of missing deadlines, and freaking out around mosquitoes, and drinking water with chlorine in it, but unfortunately we cannot have everything in this world.
Why do I hate blogging, you ask? Well, because blogging, in its simplest, purest form, is the intersection in Hell where all my demons pass each other on the way to work, exchanging friendly hellos and paper bags full of blood money. Or something like that.
I don't remember how much I've said about my personal cocktail of crazy on this blog, (and frankly, I'm not about to find out, because if I leave this post for longer than ten seconds I am literally never going to get it done). Suffice it to say that I have experience with a wide variety of mental disorders, all generally agreed upon by doctors (although never officially diagnosed? because apparently there was no motivation to get me diagnosed? Internet, what do I do about this -- do I even need to be diagnosed? These questions and more) and they all make blogging difficult in their own particular way.
Today, I am going to share some of my experience with these conditions ... particularly as they relate to blogging. No, I'm not sure this is a good idea either. But I'm doing it anyway.
Here goes.
1. Depression: If there is such a thing as a *primary* mental illness, this is probably mine. I have lived with moderate to severe depression since I was about 5 or 6 years old. Sometimes it's just the faintest grey haze in the corners of my eyes. Sometimes it is a black, crushing weight on the solar plexus of my soul. Usually, it falls somewhere in between.
What it means: Deadlines kick my butt. If there's anything I absolutely hate, it's feeling incapable of meeting my commitments. Unfortunately, with depression, this happens all too often. (Note that this failure to meet commitments doesn't come in the form of blowing off the commitments entirely: if I promise to get stuff done, I get it done. However, I often have little control over when I get it done -- and I am blindsided by this reality more often than not.) Blogging, in its traditional form, constitutes a commitment. And every. single. time. I have made this particular commitment, whether to myself or to you, whether I promise to blog every month or every Tuesday, it falls through. Every. freaking. time. And that brings us to ...
2. Anxiety (ALL SORTS): If depression is my primary mental disorder, anxiety is my second. I suffer primarily from generalized and social anxiety disorders, with a side of what I think might be panic attacks?*
What it means: The primary function of my anxiety disorders -- in blogging and other threatening social situations -- is to make it very, very difficult for me to behave like my actual self. I am hyper-aware of possibilities, and my anxiety zeroes in on the negative ones, enlarges them until they're all I can see. I become terrified, and then I try to cover it up, often becoming hyperactive, occasionally becoming belligerent, almost always saying or doing things I don't mean, and then I panic and lose it completely.
Social media makes this both better and worse, because it provides both the illusion of control and, you know, the complete lack of actual control. I can edit and consider what I say on the internet, but once I've said it, it can be really, really hard to take it back. And while normal social situations move on and fade into the past, the internet is forever ... and there are some very scary possibilities associated with forever.
This leads directly into ...
3. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: I am blessed with very mild obsessive compulsive disorder, which means that although I spend rather more of my life than I would otherwise choose dealing with the niggling feeling that something is wrong, that the world is off-balance and needs to be fixed, that feeling does not lead me to, for example, punch myself in the face. Or bash my head into walls. Or go running in the dark at -20°C. These are all real things, some of which have happened to people I love. OCD is brutal, and I am grateful that my experience with it has been so mild. That said, it is still unpleasant, and I am here to tell you what it means for me (and for my blog).
What it means: OCD is a funny thing. It might be the mental illness I understand the least (out of those I experience myself). It hitches very closely into my anxiety disorder, which makes sense, as OCD is technically an anxiety disorder, but I'm listing it separately both because it's often recognized separately and because my OCD symptoms are quite distinct from the symptoms I experience with generalized anxiety.
Sometimes, when my OCD is acting up, I find myself compelled to use words that have the 'b' sound. As many 'b' words as possible. (When it's really bad, I can end up rocking back and forth and crawling in circles on the floor, but that's a story for a different day.) When my OCD is triggered by journalling and/or blogging, I can find myself compulsively writing and deleting, stuck on a sentence I want to say because THIS word is a 'bad' word and this OTHER word is a 'good' word and I somehow have to find a way to cut the 'bad' word and use the 'good' word.
I don't know. It doesn't make sense to me either. All I know is that it's real. It's something I regularly experience, and while it doesn't always affect everything like my depression and anxiety do, it does make blogging a regular pain in the neck. The intricate workarounds necessary for me to get around my compulsions and actually write the blasted thing are exhausting, and frankly I usually don't have the energy to do it. Because depression.
CONCLUSION: This has been a really hard post for me to write, for all of the reasons I have listed above. There is a reason I haven't talked much about my mental illness on this blog. The stigma against abnormal mental processes -- even the terminology we use to describe them (mental illness, mental disorder) -- makes it easy to identify those who experience these processes as diseased. Undesirable. Broken.
I don't understand a lot of the things going on in my brain, but I am 100% sure that it isn't broken. I am objectively brilliant. (Another very risky thing to say on the internet.) I absorb information quickly and easily; I acquire new skills in a lightning flash, so long as they don't require kicking a ball or otherwise using my body in any way. I read voraciously. I love unashamedly. I draw and act and dance and sing.
I could afford to be better at all of the above. But so could every human being on the planet.
I am not interested in being broken. I am absolutely interested in being human.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I am tired of being ashamed.** My mental processes affect me. They do not define me. Honestly, I am grateful when I think of the abnormalities of my brain. They remind me that I'm still breathing.
Even when it hurts, even when I feel a little less than alive, even when I have to drag myself out of bed and I'm living on the verge of tears and writing a simple 500-word blog post feels like sledding uphill, I am grateful for the person I am, and I am even more grateful for the person I am becoming.
Even if she never gets a handle on the whole blogging thing.
===========================
*I have done extensive research on panic attacks, and I don't seem to manifest many of the physical symptoms that seem common to panic attacks, but I don't know what else to call them, so I call them panic attacks.
**I am also tired of missing deadlines, and freaking out around mosquitoes, and drinking water with chlorine in it, but unfortunately we cannot have everything in this world.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Reinventing the Wheel
This year, I realized something important. This is something I probably should have figured out a long time ago, but being remarkably unaware of my own creative processes, I figured out now instead.
Writing is freaking hard.
Sure, there are days where your fingers fly across the keys and words come streaming out of brain and onto page like ... like [vivid metaphor].* But those days come at the expense of months and years spent painstakingly picking a story out of ... out of ... yeah.
Daydreaming is easy. Everyone's mind is full of fantasies, and there isn't a writer I know who can't happily sit for hours just playing with the people in her head. But writing.
Writing is like reinventing the wheel. Every. Single. Day.
I used to get disheartened by this. I used to feel like if writing was hard, I was doing something wrong. And I do still believe that, to a certain extent.
Writing is doing something wrong over and over and OVER AGAIN until you figure out how to do it right.**
I have learned that if you wait until you can do something perfectly, you will never do anything at all. If you aren't prepared to do something horrifically, mind-bleedingly hard, nothing worthwhile will EVER seem easy. And when you feel like you can't, that is the time to decide that you can.
Sometimes, you just have to sit down and make the mistake.
=============
*Clearly today is not one of those days.
**Not that I am advocating the perpetuation of bad habits. If you know you are doing something wrong, and you know WHAT IT IS, then you should fix it. My point is that you should not be writing unless you are prepared to make mistakes. Because art, like science, is a series of increasingly intelligent mistakes. (But hopefully with less explosions.)
Writing is freaking hard.
Sure, there are days where your fingers fly across the keys and words come streaming out of brain and onto page like ... like [vivid metaphor].* But those days come at the expense of months and years spent painstakingly picking a story out of ... out of ... yeah.
Daydreaming is easy. Everyone's mind is full of fantasies, and there isn't a writer I know who can't happily sit for hours just playing with the people in her head. But writing.
Writing is like reinventing the wheel. Every. Single. Day.
I used to get disheartened by this. I used to feel like if writing was hard, I was doing something wrong. And I do still believe that, to a certain extent.
Writing is doing something wrong over and over and OVER AGAIN until you figure out how to do it right.**
I have learned that if you wait until you can do something perfectly, you will never do anything at all. If you aren't prepared to do something horrifically, mind-bleedingly hard, nothing worthwhile will EVER seem easy. And when you feel like you can't, that is the time to decide that you can.
Sometimes, you just have to sit down and make the mistake.
=============
*Clearly today is not one of those days.
**Not that I am advocating the perpetuation of bad habits. If you know you are doing something wrong, and you know WHAT IT IS, then you should fix it. My point is that you should not be writing unless you are prepared to make mistakes. Because art, like science, is a series of increasingly intelligent mistakes. (But hopefully with less explosions.)
Friday, August 1, 2014
The Day of Writing Frenziedly
I have a cold. Or possibly a sinus infection. Whatever it is, it has me coughing and streaming and spitting up gobs of nastiness everywhere, so I am compelled to stay home from work, because for some reason gobs of nastiness are frowned upon in the world of cherry sorters. (Who knew, right?)
Ordinarily, I would embrace this excellent excuse to spend the entire day lying in bed. Unfortunately, this is the second day I have been ill. I staggered home yesterday after only four hours of work, and proceeded to spend the next four hours lying comatose in bed. This, combined with the blessed eight hours of sleep I got last night, meant that by 7:00 this morning I was ready to be ANYWHERE but in bed. So I got up, saw my cousins and my sister off to work, then sat down at the computer.
I can only describe what happened next as a sort of manic frenzy. I scoured the internet for ANYTHING even vaguely related to picture book revision and queries. I chopped and smashed and foamed at the mouth and when it was all over, I had a complete second draft of CECILY'S MONSTER and a solid first draft of my query.
And, oh, yeah, a pounding headache. Because in all my frenzy to get this done, I had totally forgotten to eat.
So I trudged off to take care of some of the more pressing needs of my mortal frame (a toilet, a shower, and a granola bar, in that order) and then off to bed I went. And then I wrote a blog post for the first time in almost a year.
Maybe I should get sick more often.
(Or maybe not, because I am now indulging in a manic-frenzy-anxiety attack over EVERYTHING I HAVE EVER WRITTEN BECAUSE IT'S ALL GARBAGE AND AAAAAHH. I think I need a sedative. Or at least some cold medicine. Sheesh.)
(AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHURGLE *shoots self in arm with chamomile tea* *passes out* *the end*)
Ordinarily, I would embrace this excellent excuse to spend the entire day lying in bed. Unfortunately, this is the second day I have been ill. I staggered home yesterday after only four hours of work, and proceeded to spend the next four hours lying comatose in bed. This, combined with the blessed eight hours of sleep I got last night, meant that by 7:00 this morning I was ready to be ANYWHERE but in bed. So I got up, saw my cousins and my sister off to work, then sat down at the computer.
I can only describe what happened next as a sort of manic frenzy. I scoured the internet for ANYTHING even vaguely related to picture book revision and queries. I chopped and smashed and foamed at the mouth and when it was all over, I had a complete second draft of CECILY'S MONSTER and a solid first draft of my query.
And, oh, yeah, a pounding headache. Because in all my frenzy to get this done, I had totally forgotten to eat.
So I trudged off to take care of some of the more pressing needs of my mortal frame (a toilet, a shower, and a granola bar, in that order) and then off to bed I went. And then I wrote a blog post for the first time in almost a year.
Maybe I should get sick more often.
(Or maybe not, because I am now indulging in a manic-frenzy-anxiety attack over EVERYTHING I HAVE EVER WRITTEN BECAUSE IT'S ALL GARBAGE AND AAAAAHH. I think I need a sedative. Or at least some cold medicine. Sheesh.)
(AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHURGLE *shoots self in arm with chamomile tea* *passes out* *the end*)
Monday, September 23, 2013
FORGET PREVIOUS POST
I have moved the blog. And it wasn't even painful.
All I had to do was drop a dummy blog where the old blog was, so that anyone who goes looking for me there will find a link to here. Then I switched the domain name and voilà! New blog address.
I hope you all survived the journey over. If you're still with me, give a shout in the comments. I'm still tinkering with the new site: setting up pages, planning new blog posts, etc.
All I had to do was drop a dummy blog where the old blog was, so that anyone who goes looking for me there will find a link to here. Then I switched the domain name and voilà! New blog address.
I hope you all survived the journey over. If you're still with me, give a shout in the comments. I'm still tinkering with the new site: setting up pages, planning new blog posts, etc.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
BLOG NAME CHANGE ALERT
So, as you may have noticed, I'm dabbling in blog renovations at the moment. And the next thing to go is my address.
In ONE WEEK'S TIME, this blog will no longer be located at sarahhudsonscribbles.blogspot.com. Instead, I will be found at srhmustwrite.blogspot.com.
I understand that this shift in our relationship could be rocky. I realize that some of my (like, five) beloved readers could be cast adrift. And that's why I'm posting this warning.
Be strong. Hold on. I'll see you on the other side.
In ONE WEEK'S TIME, this blog will no longer be located at sarahhudsonscribbles.blogspot.com. Instead, I will be found at srhmustwrite.blogspot.com.
I understand that this shift in our relationship could be rocky. I realize that some of my (like, five) beloved readers could be cast adrift. And that's why I'm posting this warning.
Be strong. Hold on. I'll see you on the other side.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
ARC REVIEW: RELIC (Renee Collins)
Genre: YA Fantasy Western
Publisher: Entangled Teen
Release Date: August 27th 2013
Source: eARC provided for an honest review
Book-According-To-Goodreads:
After a raging fire consumes her town and kills her parents, Maggie Davis is on her own to protect her younger sister and survive best she can in the Colorado town of Burning Mesa. In Maggie’s world, the bones of long-extinct magical creatures such as dragons and sirens are mined and traded for their residual magical elements, and harnessing these relics’ powers allows the user to wield fire, turn invisible, or heal even the worst of injuries.
Working in a local saloon, Maggie befriends the spirited showgirl Adelaide and falls for the roguish cowboy Landon. But when she proves to have a particular skill at harnessing the relics’ powers, Maggie is whisked away to the glamorous hacienda of Álvar Castilla, the wealthy young relic baron who runs Burning Mesa. Though his intentions aren’t always clear, Álvar trains Maggie in the world of relic magic. But when the mysterious fires reappear in their neighboring towns, Maggie must discover who is channeling relic magic for evil before it’s too late.
Book-According-To-Me:
Sixteen-year-old farmgirl plays a dangerous game with expensive people and their shiny, shiny relics. Did I mention the shiny relics?
REVIEW:
First off, I want to say how much I LOVE the magic system Renee Collins has created in this world. As someone with a fascination for shiny new toys in the fantasy game, I deeply appreciated the vivid worldbuilding encapsulated in these glittering pieces of bone. I finished the book half-convinced that relics were, in fact, real, and very nearly able to feel one lying heavy around my very own neck. I also enjoyed the Wild West setting of the story, something I haven't seen much of in the fantasy genre.
That said, I found that the rest of book fell a little flat. I had a little difficulty connecting with Maggie, the main character, although I did enjoy her distinctly Western storytelling voice. I took a loooong time warming up to Landon, her love interest -- to the point that I found myself hoping he was just a stepping stone on the way to someone else. And the plot, well, it wasn't a page-turner for me, but the fascinating magic system and general enjoyability of the book means I'll be reading the sequel if there is one.
CONTENT: ORANGE LIGHT
Maggie works in a saloon that doubles as a brothel, although she's firm about staying OUT of that part of the business. Characters kiss in what Maggie calls 'a most indecent way', and there's one scene involving a sort of MIND CONTROL that ... ahem ... is not something I'd give a twelve-year-old. (Although that scene is ended by what might be Landon's best behavior in the book. So yay for that.)
CONCLUSION:
I rate this book an evening huddled around a smoky campfire, roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories while roaming packs of coyotes howl at ... whatever it is that coyotes howl at. Assuming that coyotes howl. Which maybe they don't.
Clearly I'm not the one writing a Western.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
WoaW: DRAGONFRUIT Prep Edition
Dvorak Update: Since my last post, I have made definite progress with the demons now inhabiting my keyboard. I no longer quite remember how to type QWERTY, which is good. Less good is the mini-seizures that happen when I get overly excited about what I want to say. (WHERE IS K?! HOW TYPE THIS?! EOHUXUEUCEURCKCTBT!!!) But overall, I have made progress. Hooray! Or, in Dvorak ... Drrpaf!
Hey, remember last month, when I whinged about my WIP and insisted that it would all work out in the same breath? Well, it didn't work out.
I'm still not sure what went wrong. I love WONDERLAND. I love the wonder and the hunger and the gutwrenching INTENSITY of it. But however hard I tried, I couldn't get the magic to happen on paper. The characters were flat. The scenes that were supposed to be gripping were actually just dumb. And after months of desperate scrambling, of writing and rewriting, I finally had to admit it.
WONDERLAND isn't ready. I still don't know why. I believe in the story, and I want to write it. I WILL write it someday. But, well, that day is not today.
The bright side of all this is that I'm now free to tackle Camp NaNoWriMo, the summer session of my favorite writing challenge. This July, I intend to do a page-one rewrite of the first novel I ever finished.* This is a huge project, as the first draft in question weighed in at around 250k.***
And, well, it wasn't very good. I mean, it was GREAT when you take into account that I was fifteen, and it was my first book, and I wrote all 250k of it in a little over nine months. But I had no idea what I was doing, and it shows.
So for this draft, I am doing a COMPLETE RENOVATION of this book. New setting, refocused (and shortened!) plotlines, fresh paint ... the whole shebang. Which means I need to let go of a LOT of preconceptions about this story and build a new, fresh approach.
Which, for me, means clustering. Lots and lots of clustering.†
So I thought I'd share a few of the things I've turned up in my mad quest to figure out this book ... which I'm going to call DRAGONFRUIT online because a) the story involves dragons and b) I think dragon fruit is awesome.
(Not that I've ever tried it. Has ANYONE tried it? I want to try it. It has an awesome name, and it's spiky and oddly colored, which ought to mean it's delicious, right? And ... oh, yeah, the book. Right.)
TEN THINGS THAT MAKE ME WANT TO WRITE DRAGONFRUIT THIS VERY SECOND, AND MAYBE EAT SOME TOO:
And with that, I'm off to see if I can dig a little deeper into my first scene before dinner. Until next time!
=======
* Finished being a relative term. I've obviously never polished a book to shiny, query-ready (not quite) perfection, or I would be querying with it. This is the first book I typed The End on, which is quite a feat and not to be sneezed at.**
** Unless you have hay fever like me. In which case, have a tissue.
*** For those of you who don't speak word count, that's about the length of the fifth Harry Potter book. YEAH, I KNOW.
† I may do a post on my clustering technique in the future. Until then, this is the woman whose course, HOW TO THINK SIDEWAYS, got me started. Brilliant, brilliant stuff. (And that's my affiliate link, so anything you buy through it helps me out of my current state of miserable poverty, which is kind of fabulous. But the courses are more fabulous ... which is why I'm so poor to begin with. Well, that and jaw surgery. And mental illness. But I digress.)
Hey, remember last month, when I whinged about my WIP and insisted that it would all work out in the same breath? Well, it didn't work out.
I'm still not sure what went wrong. I love WONDERLAND. I love the wonder and the hunger and the gutwrenching INTENSITY of it. But however hard I tried, I couldn't get the magic to happen on paper. The characters were flat. The scenes that were supposed to be gripping were actually just dumb. And after months of desperate scrambling, of writing and rewriting, I finally had to admit it.
WONDERLAND isn't ready. I still don't know why. I believe in the story, and I want to write it. I WILL write it someday. But, well, that day is not today.
The bright side of all this is that I'm now free to tackle Camp NaNoWriMo, the summer session of my favorite writing challenge. This July, I intend to do a page-one rewrite of the first novel I ever finished.* This is a huge project, as the first draft in question weighed in at around 250k.***
And, well, it wasn't very good. I mean, it was GREAT when you take into account that I was fifteen, and it was my first book, and I wrote all 250k of it in a little over nine months. But I had no idea what I was doing, and it shows.
So for this draft, I am doing a COMPLETE RENOVATION of this book. New setting, refocused (and shortened!) plotlines, fresh paint ... the whole shebang. Which means I need to let go of a LOT of preconceptions about this story and build a new, fresh approach.
Which, for me, means clustering. Lots and lots of clustering.†
So I thought I'd share a few of the things I've turned up in my mad quest to figure out this book ... which I'm going to call DRAGONFRUIT online because a) the story involves dragons and b) I think dragon fruit is awesome.
(Not that I've ever tried it. Has ANYONE tried it? I want to try it. It has an awesome name, and it's spiky and oddly colored, which ought to mean it's delicious, right? And ... oh, yeah, the book. Right.)
TEN THINGS THAT MAKE ME WANT TO WRITE DRAGONFRUIT THIS VERY SECOND, AND MAYBE EAT SOME TOO:
- DRAGONS
- FEVER
- PINE TREES
- SWADDLE
- TATTERED PAPER
- FIRST KISS
- BARE LEGS
- HEARTHFIRE
- FULL BELLY
- ITCH FOR MORE
And with that, I'm off to see if I can dig a little deeper into my first scene before dinner. Until next time!
=======
* Finished being a relative term. I've obviously never polished a book to shiny, query-ready (not quite) perfection, or I would be querying with it. This is the first book I typed The End on, which is quite a feat and not to be sneezed at.**
** Unless you have hay fever like me. In which case, have a tissue.
*** For those of you who don't speak word count, that's about the length of the fifth Harry Potter book. YEAH, I KNOW.
† I may do a post on my clustering technique in the future. Until then, this is the woman whose course, HOW TO THINK SIDEWAYS, got me started. Brilliant, brilliant stuff. (And that's my affiliate link, so anything you buy through it helps me out of my current state of miserable poverty, which is kind of fabulous. But the courses are more fabulous ... which is why I'm so poor to begin with. Well, that and jaw surgery. And mental illness. But I digress.)
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Dvorak Typing: Taking The Leap
If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I just made the switch to the Dvorak keyboard layout. If you have ever tried this, you know that I am currently going nuts.
My fingers, just this morning able to fly across the keys without a thought, now stumble over every letter. (Except, of course, for the letter a. And m. Three guesses what my new favorite word is.*) It's maddening. It makes my fingers itch and my head ache. It has taken me half an hour so far just to type this post.
But here I am. Still plugging away.
When I first heard about Dvorak typing (which was last night, at Holly Lisle's blog,) I immediately knew that I had to try it. I did a quick web search, figured out how to switch my keyboard over, flew off to this handy typing tutorial ... and faltered.
Don't be stupid, said the mean little voice in my head. You're doing Camp NaNoWriMo in a month. You can't afford to mess with Dvorak right now. Besides, you have DEPRESSION. You barely made it out of bed this morning. DON'T YOU REALIZE WHAT THIS WILL DO TO YOU WHEN YOU FAIL?!
I have spent years with the mean little voice. I knew what to do.
Push off, I told the mean little voice. Then I started typing.
And it was HARD. Fifty minutes later, I was still struggling on the home row. The mean little voice was back, louder this time. You're worthless, it said. You can't do this. Switch back to QWERTY and go make me a sandwich.**
I wish I could say I blew a metaphorical raspberry at my imaginary tormentor and typed the next hundred words with a will. But I didn't. I caved. I switched back to QWERTY and I went to bed.***
And then, this morning, I decided to try again. I ignored the mean little voice screaming in my head; I ignored the fear and the shame and the WHAT IF I FAIL OH SOMEONE STOP ME. I opened my computer. I took the leap.
And, so help me, I am going to fly.
* If you guessed 'am,' you're wrong. Sorry, but all I want to type these days is 'MAAAMAAAA!!!'
** This is a dramatization, and as such, may be inaccurate on a few of the finer points. In this particular instance, the voice requested a drink of water, not a sandwich. I felt that the substitution better represented the spirit of the demand.
*** I didn't make anyone a sandwich, which would be more of an achievement if I hadn't made that part up for the post.
[P.S. If anyone's looking for a good book to read, MIND GAMES by Kiersten White is only $1.99 through June 24th! Sisters! Psychics! Teenage assassins!]
[P.P.S. Looking at the page, I see that PARTIALS by Dan Wells is on sale too. Post-apocalyptic adventure on an epic scale plus save-the-babies equals one of the best books I've read in years. Read it. You'll see.]
[P.P.P.S. And don't forget ONE by Leigh Ann Kopans! Teenage quest for independence! Superpowers! Kissing! SO MANY GOOD BOOKS!!! SO LITTLE MONEY!!! *passes out*]
My fingers, just this morning able to fly across the keys without a thought, now stumble over every letter. (Except, of course, for the letter a. And m. Three guesses what my new favorite word is.*) It's maddening. It makes my fingers itch and my head ache. It has taken me half an hour so far just to type this post.
But here I am. Still plugging away.
When I first heard about Dvorak typing (which was last night, at Holly Lisle's blog,) I immediately knew that I had to try it. I did a quick web search, figured out how to switch my keyboard over, flew off to this handy typing tutorial ... and faltered.
Don't be stupid, said the mean little voice in my head. You're doing Camp NaNoWriMo in a month. You can't afford to mess with Dvorak right now. Besides, you have DEPRESSION. You barely made it out of bed this morning. DON'T YOU REALIZE WHAT THIS WILL DO TO YOU WHEN YOU FAIL?!
I have spent years with the mean little voice. I knew what to do.
Push off, I told the mean little voice. Then I started typing.
And it was HARD. Fifty minutes later, I was still struggling on the home row. The mean little voice was back, louder this time. You're worthless, it said. You can't do this. Switch back to QWERTY and go make me a sandwich.**
I wish I could say I blew a metaphorical raspberry at my imaginary tormentor and typed the next hundred words with a will. But I didn't. I caved. I switched back to QWERTY and I went to bed.***
And then, this morning, I decided to try again. I ignored the mean little voice screaming in my head; I ignored the fear and the shame and the WHAT IF I FAIL OH SOMEONE STOP ME. I opened my computer. I took the leap.
And, so help me, I am going to fly.
* If you guessed 'am,' you're wrong. Sorry, but all I want to type these days is 'MAAAMAAAA!!!'
** This is a dramatization, and as such, may be inaccurate on a few of the finer points. In this particular instance, the voice requested a drink of water, not a sandwich. I felt that the substitution better represented the spirit of the demand.
*** I didn't make anyone a sandwich, which would be more of an achievement if I hadn't made that part up for the post.
[P.S. If anyone's looking for a good book to read, MIND GAMES by Kiersten White is only $1.99 through June 24th! Sisters! Psychics! Teenage assassins!]
[P.P.S. Looking at the page, I see that PARTIALS by Dan Wells is on sale too. Post-apocalyptic adventure on an epic scale plus save-the-babies equals one of the best books I've read in years. Read it. You'll see.]
[P.P.P.S. And don't forget ONE by Leigh Ann Kopans! Teenage quest for independence! Superpowers! Kissing! SO MANY GOOD BOOKS!!! SO LITTLE MONEY!!! *passes out*]
Monday, June 10, 2013
ONE comes out tomorrow! (Final Comic Teaser!)
That's right: ONE, the highly-anticipated (particularly by me) debut of author Leigh Ann Kopans, comes out tomorrow. I've already gushed about this book in my previous post, and alas, I've left this one a bit late, so I'm just going to have to post the teaser and scarper.
(But not before telling you all to BUY THIS BOOK! And also, to express my gratitude to Leigh Ann for letting me help promote her really fabulous novel, even while the current craziness of my life made me less than a dream team member*. You're great, Leigh Ann. I hope everyone buys your book and you buy a throne made of chocolate.)
Now, for the comic.
*Note the fact that this post is being written ON THE DAY IT NEEDS TO GO UP.
(So gorgeous, right? I love the colors in this one.)
About ONE (by Leigh Ann Kopans)
[Release date: June 11, 2013]
"When having two powers makes you a Super and having none makes you a Normal, having only one makes you a sad half-superpowered freak.
It makes you a One.
Sixteen-year-old Merrin Grey would love to be able to fly – too bad all she can do is hover.
If she could just land an internship at the Biotech Hub, she might finally figure out how to fix herself. She busts her butt in AP Chem and salivates over the Hub’s research on the manifestation of superpowers, all in hopes of boosting her chances.
Then she meets Elias VanDyne, another One, and all her carefully crafted plans fly out the window. Literally. When the two of them touch, their Ones combine to make them fly, and when they’re not soaring over the Nebraska cornfields, they’re busy falling for each other.
Merrin's mad chemistry skills land her a spot on the Hub's internship short list, but as she gets closer to the life she always wanted, she discovers that the Hub’s purpose is more sinister than it has always seemed. Now it’s up to her to decide if it's more important to fly solo, or to save everything - and everyone - she loves."
It makes you a One.
Sixteen-year-old Merrin Grey would love to be able to fly – too bad all she can do is hover.
If she could just land an internship at the Biotech Hub, she might finally figure out how to fix herself. She busts her butt in AP Chem and salivates over the Hub’s research on the manifestation of superpowers, all in hopes of boosting her chances.
Then she meets Elias VanDyne, another One, and all her carefully crafted plans fly out the window. Literally. When the two of them touch, their Ones combine to make them fly, and when they’re not soaring over the Nebraska cornfields, they’re busy falling for each other.
Merrin's mad chemistry skills land her a spot on the Hub's internship short list, but as she gets closer to the life she always wanted, she discovers that the Hub’s purpose is more sinister than it has always seemed. Now it’s up to her to decide if it's more important to fly solo, or to save everything - and everyone - she loves."
Add ONE to your Goodreads and learn more about the author here: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17251203-one
Find a full list with links to the other installments of this series on the author’s blog: www.leighannkopans.blogspot.com
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Two Weeks Till ONE Comic Teasers - Installment #7!
Today we interrupt our regularly scheduled horribly erratic programming to celebrate a fabulous YA debut that's coming out in LESS THAN A WEEK! (!!!)
That's right, it's time for ...
That's right, it's time for ...
About ONE (by Leigh Ann Kopans)
[Release date: June 11, 2013]
"When having two powers makes you a
Super and having none makes you a Normal, having only one makes you a
sad half-superpowered freak.
It makes you a One.
Sixteen-year-old Merrin Grey would love to be able to fly – too bad all she can do is hover.
If she could just land an internship at the Biotech Hub, she might finally figure out how to fix herself. She busts her butt in AP Chem and salivates over the Hub’s research on the manifestation of superpowers, all in hopes of boosting her chances.
Then she meets Elias VanDyne, another One, and all her carefully crafted plans fly out the window. Literally. When the two of them touch, their Ones combine to make them fly, and when they’re not soaring over the Nebraska cornfields, they’re busy falling for each other.
Merrin's mad chemistry skills land her a spot on the Hub's internship short list, but as she gets closer to the life she always wanted, she discovers that the Hub’s purpose is more sinister than it has always seemed. Now it’s up to her to decide if it's more important to fly solo, or to save everything - and everyone - she loves."
It makes you a One.
Sixteen-year-old Merrin Grey would love to be able to fly – too bad all she can do is hover.
If she could just land an internship at the Biotech Hub, she might finally figure out how to fix herself. She busts her butt in AP Chem and salivates over the Hub’s research on the manifestation of superpowers, all in hopes of boosting her chances.
Then she meets Elias VanDyne, another One, and all her carefully crafted plans fly out the window. Literally. When the two of them touch, their Ones combine to make them fly, and when they’re not soaring over the Nebraska cornfields, they’re busy falling for each other.
Merrin's mad chemistry skills land her a spot on the Hub's internship short list, but as she gets closer to the life she always wanted, she discovers that the Hub’s purpose is more sinister than it has always seemed. Now it’s up to her to decide if it's more important to fly solo, or to save everything - and everyone - she loves."
You guys, I am so excited for this book. I've been lucky enough to be part of the street team for ONE, which means that I got an ARC, which lamentably sat neglected on my computer for far too long*. But when I finally read it, I was blown away.
I love this book. I love Merrin, the clever, angry, unsure-where-she-fits-in-the-world protagonist. I love Elias (mmm, Elias) her equally clever and utterly adorable boyfriend. I love the conflict between Merrin's need for independence and her growing attachment to said wonderful boyfriend. I love that.
And so it is with great delight that I present the seventh installment in a super-cool comic adaptation of the first chapters of ONE. Drumroll ...
HOORAY!!! Now, some more info about the book ...
Add ONE to your Goodreads and learn more about the author here: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17251203-one
Find a full list with links to the
other installments of this series on the author’s blog:
www.leighannkopans.blogspot.com
Thanks for stopping by! Come back in a few days when I post the final installment, and don't forget to pick up ONE once it comes out! (Now, back to the WIP. This book may possibly be melting my brain.)
* My ARC was unfortunate enough to arrive at roughly the same time that depression ate my life. And also my homework. But that's neither here nor there.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Introducing Words on a Wednesday -- WONDERLAND Edition
[insert obligatory and witty apology for practically-never posting on this blog here]
I've decided to start a Thing called Words On Wednesday. In case the title isn't self-explanatory, the basic concept is that I throw a list of words at you. On a Wednesday.
The reason I think this is a fun idea is because I spend quite a LARGE portion of my life compiling lists of words. That's a central part of the prep work I do for every novel, and it's also what I turn to when I get stuck on a chapter or a scene. Hence, WoaW will focus on portions of these lists, each time focusing on a different theme.
This week, the theme is WONDERLAND, which is the code name for my current WIP.
This book ... well. It's probably the most problematic book I've ever tried to write. Next to WONDERLAND, my last project looks like something that fell from heaven on feathery wings. But I'm wrestling it into shape, and hopefully I'll know what it's about by Chapter Ten.
For now, this is the best I've got:
GUT
RAW
SCAR
PRIMAL
NEED
TENDER
CORNERED
TREMBLE
HUSH
CLING
SINEW
MARROW
SCREAM
FINGERTIPS
COLLAPSE
SURRENDER
JAGGED
ENTWINE
BILE
FLUTTER
So, given that list, what do YOU think WONDERLAND is about? Answer in the comments -- I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Dear-Undear Villain: TCWT Blog Chain
This month's TCWT prompt is:
"Write a letter to an antagonist."
After some deliberation, I have decided not to write a letter to Scar from The Lion King, as I originally had planned. Yes, Scar is my most-despised villain from my most-loved movie. But I don't really have much to say to him other than "You're a filthy, murderous creep and I hope those hyenas suck the marrow from your bones, murderer."
Which, you know, is a nice way to relieve stress and all, but would get really old after a few pages.
So, instead, I'm writing to someone else. Someone I don't hate, someone I can relate to. He's not the most evil villain I know, or the most brilliant, or the most attractive.
He may, however, be the most misunderstood.
Dear Severus Snape,
Before I say anything else, I'd like to establish that I agree that you are an excellently constructed character. J.K. Rowling is to be admired for creating such a potent blend of villainy and humanity. My quarrel is not with her.
My quarrel is with you.
Everywhere I turn, I find your fandom. They swoon over your devotion to Lily. They praise you for your continued efforts in keeping Harry alive. Some even seem to believe that YOU are the true hero of the Harry Potter series.
I disagree.
Throughout the Harry Potter series, I have watched you deal vicious attacks to the students in your care, including, but not limited to: Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, and Hermione Granger. You have threatened to kill beloved pets, mocked the appearance of vulnerable teenage girls, and openly favored the most malicious among your students.
Were you a fellow student at Hogwarts, this abuse would be reprehensible. But you are not a student. You are an adult, a teacher, designed to be a NURTURER of children.
But do you nurture them? Do you even ONCE express a desire to change, or show a hint of remorse for your actions? No. You are merciless, unrepentant, unrelenting.
And so I denounce you, Severus Snape, as a villain. You may be more real, more human, more sympathetic than the average literary antagonist. But you are not the hero of this story.
Harry Potter is.
Sincerely,
Sarah R. Hudson
"Write a letter to an antagonist."
After some deliberation, I have decided not to write a letter to Scar from The Lion King, as I originally had planned. Yes, Scar is my most-despised villain from my most-loved movie. But I don't really have much to say to him other than "You're a filthy, murderous creep and I hope those hyenas suck the marrow from your bones, murderer."
Which, you know, is a nice way to relieve stress and all, but would get really old after a few pages.
So, instead, I'm writing to someone else. Someone I don't hate, someone I can relate to. He's not the most evil villain I know, or the most brilliant, or the most attractive.
He may, however, be the most misunderstood.
Dear Severus Snape,
Before I say anything else, I'd like to establish that I agree that you are an excellently constructed character. J.K. Rowling is to be admired for creating such a potent blend of villainy and humanity. My quarrel is not with her.
My quarrel is with you.
Everywhere I turn, I find your fandom. They swoon over your devotion to Lily. They praise you for your continued efforts in keeping Harry alive. Some even seem to believe that YOU are the true hero of the Harry Potter series.
I disagree.
Throughout the Harry Potter series, I have watched you deal vicious attacks to the students in your care, including, but not limited to: Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, and Hermione Granger. You have threatened to kill beloved pets, mocked the appearance of vulnerable teenage girls, and openly favored the most malicious among your students.
Were you a fellow student at Hogwarts, this abuse would be reprehensible. But you are not a student. You are an adult, a teacher, designed to be a NURTURER of children.
But do you nurture them? Do you even ONCE express a desire to change, or show a hint of remorse for your actions? No. You are merciless, unrepentant, unrelenting.
And so I denounce you, Severus Snape, as a villain. You may be more real, more human, more sympathetic than the average literary antagonist. But you are not the hero of this story.
Harry Potter is.
Sincerely,
Sarah R. Hudson
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Valentine's Day
Valentine's Day is a very, erm, CONTROVERSIAL holiday. I myself don't have strong feelings on it one way or another, but I happen to be quite close to someone who does. I thought I'd take this opportunity to share a page of her story with you.
* * *
Valentine’s Day is not my favourite holiday. In fact, if I were to list my favourite holidays, Valentine’s Day would hover somewhere near rock bottom — several ranks below Labour Day but ahead of Boxing Day, because if there’s anything that makes me sicker than shopping, it’s obligatory shopping. And Valentine’s Day is about nothing if not shopping.
I should know. I work at Walmart.
I wipe a strand of sweaty red hair out of my face. I have never been so happy to clock out. My register has featured an endless parade of balding men bearing Hallmark cards and ticked off women who are trying their best to look like they really couldn’t care less about being single on the most romantic day of the year.
I’m not buying any of it, literally or figuratively. I just want to get home.
* * *
Dear, dear. A bit of a downer, isn't she? I'd better get back to her story right away. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! *throws cookies in the air and flees*
Monday, February 11, 2013
Cover Reveal: CLICK TO SUBSCRIBE by L.M. Augustine + Giveaway
Today, I'm delighted to be a part of the cover reveal for CLICK TO SUBSCRIBE by L.M. Augustine! And let me tell you, this cover is adorable. I can see why he raves about the designer, Allie Brennan.
So, about the book. CLICK TO SUBSCRIBE is a YA romance, coming out this April. Try this blurb on for size:
1,135,789. That’s how many subscribers sixteen-year-old West Ryder has on his web vlog series. But he only has eyes for one of them.
As one of the internet’s most prestigious video bloggers, West talks about high school relationships under the name “Sam Green.” As far as he knows, no one from school, not even his best friend, Cat, has seen his videos. But the highlight of the whole thing is Harper Knight, who comments every day at exactly 2:02 in the afternoon. He doesn’t know anything about her aside from the occasional deep philosophical messaging on why pizza tastes so delicious, but as stupid as it sounds, he might be falling for her. So when they finally agree to meet in real life, West’s hope for romance seems more and more in reach. But that all changes as soon as he arrives at their meeting spot and sees Cat walking toward him, wearing the same “I ♥ Sam Green” T-shirt Harper promised she'd have on.
To his alarm, West realizes he is falling in love with the best friend who has always been a sister to him.
Are you ready to see the cover? Scroll down!
Keep scrolling ...
Not quite far enough ...
a Rafflecopter giveaway
So, about the book. CLICK TO SUBSCRIBE is a YA romance, coming out this April. Try this blurb on for size:
1,135,789. That’s how many subscribers sixteen-year-old West Ryder has on his web vlog series. But he only has eyes for one of them.
As one of the internet’s most prestigious video bloggers, West talks about high school relationships under the name “Sam Green.” As far as he knows, no one from school, not even his best friend, Cat, has seen his videos. But the highlight of the whole thing is Harper Knight, who comments every day at exactly 2:02 in the afternoon. He doesn’t know anything about her aside from the occasional deep philosophical messaging on why pizza tastes so delicious, but as stupid as it sounds, he might be falling for her. So when they finally agree to meet in real life, West’s hope for romance seems more and more in reach. But that all changes as soon as he arrives at their meeting spot and sees Cat walking toward him, wearing the same “I ♥ Sam Green” T-shirt Harper promised she'd have on.
To his alarm, West realizes he is falling in love with the best friend who has always been a sister to him.
Are you ready to see the cover? Scroll down!
Keep scrolling ...
Not quite far enough ...
Ta-da! You see what I mean? Adorable. And I love the title design.
But it gets better. To celebrate the cover reveal, L.M. is holding a giveaway! Two lucky winners will get an eBook of their choice, and one person will get an eARC of CLICK TO SUBSCRIBE as soon as they become available! (This will be in late March or early April. If you win, you'll get an email the day after the giveaway ends to inform you.)
I ought to urge you to enter, but I'd actually prefer that you DIDN'T enter the giveaway, because that way my chances of winning are better. (Just kidding. But really. Don't enter.)
Even if you don't win the ARC, you can still get sneak peeks at the book by following the author's Facebook page, blog, and Twitter account. You can also add the book on Goodreads. I recommend doing all of those things -- every Facebook like and Goodreads add brings us one step closer to having the ENTIRE FIRST CHAPTER to read.
I like first chapters.
So that's the end of our cover reveal! Enter the giveaway, check out the links, and don't forget to comment with your thoughts on the cover!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
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