Teen Writers Bloc

I love spring cleaning, any kind of cleaning, really. Whenever I have a bad writing day, or I’m not sure what’s going to happen next in a scene, out come the yellow rubber gloves, Windex, and Clorox.

The thing is, I know exactly what is going to happen if I scrub the kitchen counters and meticulously vacuum and mop the floors. They are going to sparkle and shine, like it says in those 1960s Hoover advertisements. Plus, cleaning is the perfect distraction from writing and re-writing a scene that could end up being absolute trash. And I’ve managed to rationalize it as a perfectly reasonable alternative to actually working. I’m still being “productive.” I’m outlining in my head. I’m thinking through dialogue. I need a break to digest what I’ve written. Lies. All lies.  I am procrastinating.

And the thing about cleaning is that everything just ends up getting dirty again.  If you like to dust and organize as much as I do, you can find dirt to wipe up anywhere — at any time, like on a Saturday afternoon when I should be writing, finishing my thesis, and catching up on Publisher’s Marketplace. Or at 3:00 a.m., when I should be sleeping. In fact, cleaning has become the very bad habit I have to give up, because my shirts don’t need to be folded or color-coordinated again. But as I edit the final scenes of my manuscript and get started on the next one, I can’t seem to stop myself from rearranging everything around me.

The problem is I’m cleaning the wrong thing, and I know it, even as I take the Scrubbing Bubbles out from under the kitchen sink.

What I need to do is de-clutter my life. I have to clear out space in my mind and make more room to think about my books. So this morning, I woke up early and worked out, for the first time in longer than I’m willing to admit, even to myself. I had time alone, away from my Swifer Wet Jet, to think and brainstorm and not worry about anything except my characters. I got to go somewhere else, a land I invented where there is no such thing as dust.

Photo courtesy Hoover

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I’ve been writing about being Jewish since 1991, right around the same time I started first grade at a new school. I was having a tough time fitting in, and on the recommendation of my teacher, my parents sent me to art therapy. In a pastel Victorian house that smelled like a mix of mothballs and graham crackers, I learned to draw my feelings. And it turned out I had a lot of them.

Since I wasn’t exactly a brilliant artist, I quickly switched to writing —  journaling. I felt alone and uncomfortable in my new world, where I was different —  the only practicing Jewish student. At times, my identity felt like a burden. Something I wished I could hide. Yet at the same time, I loved baking sweet cheese blitz with my Bubbe and singing Dayenu with my father on Pesach —  it was our thing. At six-years-old, I was just starting to figure out what it meant to be Jewish. And it was confusing.

To be fair, sometimes it still is, which makes it really hard to write about. I’m not sure exactly what it means to be Jewish. There isn’t one version of Judaism. It’s debated constantly if it’s a religion, an ethnicity, or even a race. But the part of myself I don’t completely understand is always what inspires me to pick up my pen.

When I sat down to write this post, it occurred to me that it was about to be Shabbat. So, I took out my candles, a bottle of Champagne, crackers, and a block of Robusto — my favorite cheese from Whole Foods — and blessed the delicious spread.

Somewhere out there, my Bubbe was gasping, “Vey iz mir!”

Bubbe did not screw around when it came to Shabbas. She made enough food for a schettle-and-a-half and packaged what was left in red and blue Maxwell House coffee canisters. Bubbe relished her identity, her traditions, and above all else her family. As far as I knew, her understanding of Judaism was clear. Mine is still not. But I know it’s part of me and my writing, always.

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I hate change. More than anything. More than zits and top sheets, greasy hand-cream, walnut raisin cream cheese (yuck), lukewarm coffee that has been microwaved, and dirty sinks. Change is my arch-nemesis. It makes me want to stomp my right foot and pout. I do that sometimes. Okay, I do that a lot of the time. How do I feel about next semester? Classes coming to an end? The impending changes to my schedule and life? I am having a temper tantrum about it.

I need structure. It’s one of the super dorky reasons I love school. Having a regular schedule, deadlines, and consistent feedback over the past three semesters has made me a stronger and more efficient writer and reader. I’ve made so much progress that I don’t want to come to an end with classes. So other than stomping my foot, I have done a few things to deal with the newness of next semester.

I bought fancy highlighters and notebooks, because what’s better than new school supplies? Not a whole lot. I made two reading lists—a YA and a Middle Grade and started working my way through the books over break. Fiction that made it to the top of my self-prescribed syllabus: Tim Wynne-Jones’ Blink & Caution, Michelle Cooper’s A Brief History Of Montmaray and The Fitzosbornes In Exile, Lauren Barnholdt’s Fake Me A Match and Devon Delaney Should Totally Know Better, Gary D. Schmidt’s Okay For Now, and Kirby Larson’s The Friendship Doll. Since I am working on a revision of my middle grade novel with my amazing advisor, I started plotting out a new tween series that I am so excited about and planning to workshop in my thesis group.

I will definitely pout and whine about not seeing all of my TeenWritersBloc peeps twice a week. I will hate all of the changes, even the smallest ones. I will miss alternating between BLT Burger and French Roast before class. I will miss the stupid vending machine in the basement that dispenses Mountain Dew when I press Aquafina. But I guess maybe this time I’m ready for it.

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This time last year, the Year of the Rabbit was upon us all and I made a list of lofty goals. And the year 2012 is the Year of the Dragon. Chinese astrologists say that the year of the dragon will be marked by excitement, unpredictability, exhilaration, intensity. The spirit of the ancient Chinese dragon can imbue people with the dragon’s notable vitality, sparking untamed enthusiasm to take risks and throw caution to the wind.

The year of the dragon is fitting for the end of my career in grad school. This is my second (and last) masters, and it is time to be out in the real world for an extended period of time without the shield and shelter of school. No more school books, no more homework, no more classes. It’s time to do something ambitious and new. (Well, until I plan to go to culinary school at age 35) .

I am excited for the year 2012 and taking a gamble with new projects and new endeavors. But I think it’s fitting to look back to the Year of the Rabbit, and see how I did.

Was I rabbit-like — fruitful, speedy, and cautiously optimistic?

Here were my top 10 lofty goals for 2011:

1. Finish my current MG historical steampunk W-I-P before the end of January, plus prelimiary revisions! CHECK! Novel done, in drawer to be revised, but I just finished a brand new MG historical steampunk.
2. Get a new agent since mine left the business this past spring. CHECK! I am repped by the lovely and beautiful Emily van Beek of FOLIO.
3. Plot out and write complete synopses for the next two books in my MG historical steampunk series. WELL… this one changed a bit, and I decided the MG historical is a stand alone. I have just finished a book that has series potential.
4. Attend the Society of Children’s Books Writers and Illustrators Winter Conference in New York City and the Summer Conference in California. WELL… I attended the winter one in NYC, but was too busy for the summer one in California.
5. Stay on top of all my critiques AND my reading and writing assignments for next semester.  WELL… I did okay in the spring with the reading and writing assignments for Susan van Metre’s class, but as soon as I was forced by the New School to take an adult fiction class, I failed this goal miserably. My boring fall Lit seminar, “The Use of Setting”, has not kept my attention. I have been better about critiques, but fell off in the online world a little bit.
6. Ghostwrite my cousin’s autobiogrpahical adult novel as well as YA novel. NOPE! Did not get to do this, but hope it comes to fruition in another way in the year 2012.
7. Blog more! YES!
   
8. Embrace writing as a full-time job with full-time responsibilities and commitments. Create a schedule like I am in an office.  YES! 
9. Design a new author website! NOPE! On the list to be revamped early this year. Did start a blogspot blog though.
10. Rewrite the first YA novel I wrote. NOPE! Started something new…

Okay Year of the Dragon I am going to ride the tide of your vitality….

Here are my top 10 2012 goals:

1. Continue to do collaborative projects, especially ones with the following individuals: Corey Ann Haydu, Kate Milford, Lisa Amowitz, and Alyson Gerber
2. Sell a book!
3. Find work and life balance — definitely cut down on tutoring so my creative work can take more of a precedent
4. Have my website professionally created
5. Launch a new endeavor successfully!
6. Get an intern! — YES, I want an intern.
7. Stay on top of my critiques and maintain my critique group.
8. Finish a whole novel in my thesis semester.
9. Continue to blog!
10. Go on a research trip!

I am already tired just looking at the list, but the Year of the Rabbit was successful for me, so I expect the Year of the Dragon to be even better. Wish me luck!

Happy New Year!

Happy Writing!

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The next semester is my thesis semester and I am not 100% looking forward to it. I’ve written a thesis before and the process can be so tedious that I am less than thrilled at having to do another one. The whole getting it printed on special paper thing, ugh! But I am the one who decided to go back to graduate school, so I must accept reality and get it done. Here’s the problem….

I have NO IDEA what I’m going to work on and I have to kinda have it mapped out by the end of January. During the program, I finished two complete manuscripts (one being a collaborative project with two fellow TWB members, the lovely Corey Ann Haydu and Sona Charaipotra), and 85 percent of another one. I plan to have the second manuscript finished over the winter break, so I need to start something brand new.

The blank page is frightening. I have some ideas milling about and some old projects that can be re-worked, but I am having a fear of commitment. I think part of my problem is that I’ve been tutoring too much and I can’t access the creative part of my brain right now, so I am exhausted and the thought of one more thing to do is just not exciting. So I am resolved to having no plan. And if you know me, I always have a plan.

Sigh, sounds like other areas of my life. I hope that my wonderful critique group: Alyson, Corey, and Sona, can bear with me as I try to figure out what I want to write about.

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I have a feeling the next few months will be among the busiest of my life. I suppose, then, that it’s a good thing that classes will be coming to an end and our thesis semester is beginning, but, like Mary, I’m already missing Tuesday nights with the TWB crowd. Workshop can be frustrating and dramatic and exhausting, but it is also engaging and inspiring and downright FUN. I know I need the time off from classes and classwork to get things done, but I’ll be sad to be spending Tuesday nights at my favorite writing spot, Tea Lounge, instead of in the too-cold classrooms on 11th Street.

But I’ll be busy at Tea Lounge! I recently sold my debut YA novel, OCD Love Story, to my dream editor, Anica Rissi at Simon Pulse. And I will be deep in revisions over the next few months. I do love revising, but the mental and emotional work it takes can be quite overwhelming, as I learned this summer when I was working on revisions for my agent. I’m ready to tackle her exciting ideas, but anticipate a lot of late nights and early mornings and venti chai lattes.

In the spring I will also be working on my thesis project, a new YA novel that I’ve been writing a (VERY!) rough draft of since August. My advisor is the ridiculously inspiring Patricia McCormick, author of Cut! I have long been wanting to develop a relationship with an established YA author, so I couldn’t be more excited to work with Patricia. Her books are amazing and if our coffee date this fall was any indication, she is smart, funny, insightful and engaging. I’ll be sending her the first 100 or so pages of my new novel in a few weeks, and hopefully finishing a draft by the time we graduate in May. I have no doubt Patricia will push me and challenge me and encourage me to make this novel something special, and I’m honored to have her guidance.

I have no idea how I’ll balance the intense focus needed for revisions with the bravery needed to write a first draft, but with the help of Tea Lounge, Patricia McCormick, and my peer group of Alyson, Dhonielle, and Sona, I have faith I will find my way through!

Oh, and chai. Lots and lots of chai.

Photo: via Street Legal Play

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When it comes to the Literati, my literature professor, James Allen, is hooked up. I’m not just saying this to try and land an A in his class, although I wouldn’t be opposed. But he is actually friends with the entire literary world, and most of them have come to our class.

When John Edgar Wideman, whose many accolades include being the only writer to have been awarded the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction twice as well as the American Book Award for Fiction, the Lannan Literary Fellowship for Fiction, and the MacArthur Award, came to speak to my literature class about his novel Cattle Crossing, I was intimidated. I hid in my little corner and tried not to make eye contact, especially when he started asking us what we were reading. He wanted US to tell HIM what was “good these days.”

Mostly people offered up obscure novels and collections of short stories that sounded very impressive, and well, depressing. When he pointed to me and asked, “What are you reading?” I almost died.

“Bras and Broomsticks,” I blurted, wishing I was one of those good liars, who with a straight face could say, “Sebald. I just love reading about the Holocaust,” instead of someone with verbal diarrhea.

“Is it good?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Very good.” And I meant it.  I loved Sarah Mlynowski’s Magic in Manhattan series. It was the perfect distraction from a less than uplifting semester of sad, impressive literature. I mean really, what’s better than a little magic and a lot of teen drama?

Luckily, I managed to keep that last part to myself.

Photo courtesy Random House

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I was two months old when my mother took the doll-sized scrubs and operating mask off of my doctor father’s snoopy and dressed me up as a surgeon for Halloween. At 1.2, I was Kermit the Frog, and at 2.2, Little Miss Liberty. Only I couldn’t say my L’s, so it was more like Yittle Miss Yiberty. We were a make-your-own-costume family and throughout my trick-or-treating years, most of my masquerades were based on fictional characters I had become obsessed with—Mary Poppins, Carmen San Diego, Alice in Wonderland, the Wicked Witch and the Easter Bunny. But sadly I never dressed up as a literary character—not for Halloween, anyway.

If I had, it would have been Eloise. I’m pretty sure there was a time, back when I could recite the book from memory, that I thought I was Eloise. To be clear, I was not a city child, and I did not live at the Plaza. But just like Eloise, I lived to make things up and loved to list the things I hated—like Peter Rabbit and getting bored.

Even though I was never allowed to order room service at 6 years old, I was sure I would have loved it—and I was right.

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I learned about sex from Judy Blume. A girl in my bunk at sleep-away camp brought a copy of Forever with her the summer before seventh grade. We sat in a circle during rest hour, shaving our legs and reading passages out loud about Michael and “Ralph.”

Don’t get me wrong, technically I understood. My mom and I had the Our Bodies, Ourselves conversation, with my much younger sister listening in outside my bedroom door. But no one had ever explained it to me like Judy Blume.

I wasn’t alone either. Every girl I knew was fascinated by this book. We passed our one copy around the bunk, re-reading the same scenes all summer.

As a pre-teen, no one had ever explained to me that the stomach flipping, tingly feeling I got when a boy I liked put his arm around my shoulder had anything to do with “intercourse.” Forever didn’t make me want to have sex. It made my face turn red. It made me nervous and a little mad at Katherine. What can I say? I guess even back then I wanted to believe that true love like Katherine and Michael had really could last forever.

More than anything else, the summer I read Forever was the first time I talked to my friends about those feelings and fears. The book was a conversation starter, a shared experience, I’m thankful I wasn’t banned from having.

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I’ve spent most of this summer writing, reading and thinking about middle grade books. A few weeks ago, I did a tour of Barnes & Noble, Books of Wonder and The Strand. I wanted to be immersed in the genre, curious to hear from booksellers about which contemporary covers kids were gravitating toward and why. I ended up with a stack of 7 to 13 Readers in my apartment and a whole new perspective on writing for this age group.

Although so far most of my time at The New School has been dedicated to teen literature, right now, something about working on a middle grade novel feels right. Maybe it’s because middle school was arguably the hardest time in my life. I was confined to a clunky, suffocating back brace for sixth, seventh and eighth grades, 23-hours a day, to fix the scoliosis I inherited from my mother. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

Over the weekend, I was having a drink with a friend at The Standard when I spotted Arlen Galloway playing ping pong across the bar. I spent years standing next to him in alphabetical order (Galloway, Gerber) at Christmas concerts, school assemblies and of course on picture day. We hadn’t seen each other in 14 years, since our eighth grade graduation, but for a moment, I remembered exactly how it felt to be in middle school ― nervous and completely insecure.

At 12-years-old, the only thing that made me feel okay about my awkwardness was books, and the fictional characters, that helped me see I wasn’t alone. Even now, on the brink of my twenty-seventh birthday, I sometimes feel like nothing has changed. I’m still that same girl (sans back brace), unsure but completely curious as I try to make sense of it all.

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