Jedi! Ninja! Homeboy!

literary blog relay - transformation

2011-11-13T21:46:00.000-08:00

Hey, I was a part of a literary blog relay. Here's the gist:

One writer writes at 250 word post/story/fragment and then tags the next writer, etc., etc. We can write whatever we want, so long as our posts begin with the last line of the previous post and are linked to a central them; in this case, “Transformation.” Kind of like a track and field relay–except we’re writin’ it!

This, of course, is awesome and stressful and not the sort of thing I'm used to doing. And, of course, I got sick the week mine was supposed to post. But, even a day late, I gotta say that I'm pretty happy with what came out.

But yo - do yourself a favor. Go read all the posts. Every one of them is amazing. And then come back and read mine.

Christine Lee Zilka czilka.wordpress.com
Nova Ren Suma novaren.wordpress.com
Wah-Ming Chang wmcisnowhere.wordpress.com
Nina LaCour ninalacour.com/blog
Stephanie Brown scififanatic.livejournal.com
Jamey Hatley jameyhatley.wordpress.com
Matthew Salesses matthewsalesses.com
Krystn Lee blog.kryslee.com
Bryan Bliss bryanbliss.blogspot.com

"My love,” she says. “You’ve changed.”

It took me by surprise, of course, because, like most things, it happened slowly and we were never the type to acknowledge the cracks – even as they snuck across every part of our life.

It would be a lie to say either of us expected it. But there were times when I was unable to shake the feeling that everything was backwards. It itched places I couldn’t articulate – a slow, tickling sense of disorientation. Like one of my contact lenses was the wrong prescription. And that just grew and grew.

But even now, I can’t explain it - the attraction had always been there, striking like a match the first time I saw her. God, there were days when we got lost. When we couldn’t wait for the bedroom. The floor, the kitchen, everywhere. Even the backseat of her car, too small for passengers and, most certainly, for the sort of things we tried.

Yet, when she smiles at me – just now, her hair falling across her face – I can’t say where it went wrong. I can’t say that she isn’t beautiful, isn't the same woman who made me stumble so many years back. The one who’d break into my apartment, who can still make me smile, even when I don’t want to. My love – first, truly, fully.

It’s enough to hold my tongue. To pause before I finally say it. Before I agree and everything changes.
She smiles again.

“Your shirt. You were wearing the blue one before?”

What Happens Next.

2011-10-24T10:47:00.000-07:00

I haven't looked at it since I finished. I haven't peeked at the first page, which I already know I love, or played the game where I scroll through the manuscript and stop on a random bit, hoping to find something that surprises me - evidence that I am not a hack. That I deserve the confidence so many people have in me. I haven't worried about the revision ahead, or how I know that the end doesn't match the middle and, maybe, the beginning. That I have a ton of work ahead of me.

Instead, I took the last few days and I let myself read some books I've kept in the wings. I've eaten good food and showed my kids how to properly get bodyslammed onto the couch. I've watched the fourth season of Breaking Bad, climbed a few crags, and made a trip to Portland, then Eugene.

But I admit: I'm scared and nervous. I'm worried my execution won't live up to the vision. I'm worried that Abigail's story won't be told in the way it deserves to be. I'm worried I'm going to be didactic, moralizing, or worse - sentimental.

Yet, where else is there to go? What else is there to do but open the document and begin the work? Not doing so seems to be the harder choice. Because there are moments when this story flirts with beauty. When it shows me the power of family and how people can remain connected and committed and loving even when everything is falling apart. It's about having faith, but also doubt, and how both are crucial to growing up - to finding what is really true.

So, tomorrow I start. Maybe even this afternoon. And despite the fear and anxiety, despite the frustration and pain, I can't wait to see what happens next.

This Week

2011-10-11T15:05:00.000-07:00

Today, I made the mistake of mentioning my (admittedly crazy) attempt to write 15 pages every day for the next week. Like most of what I say on Twitter, I expected this to get lost in the white noise of people's feeds.

Yeah, right.

First, my friend Lisa Schroeder did some math and pointed out that - if I wrote one page per 30 minutes (slower than my normal rate, of course) - this plan would require 7.5 hours of writing per day.

Then Steve Brezenoff retweeted it with a simple "Lol" that made me think, "Wait - is this really that crazy?"

And then there were various Fear of God quotes and remarks about Holy Production, Batman! and other sorts of comments that, really, I never expected.

It's actually pretty simple. I'm trying to recreate the first moments of my writing life. Years ago, in graduate school, I'd spend hours in my living room - writing until I could barely keep my eyes open. Loving every minute of it. It was nothing for me to write 20-30 pages a day then. Granted, most of it was shit. But still - I was writing.

Eight years later, I've got an agent, obe unsold novel, one that never went out, and I'm writing something that makes me look at all the time I've spent working, all the failure and disappointment and thoughts of quitting, and think, "Okay, this is the reason. This one is good." It makes me feel the way I felt in graduate school. Like the next sentence could take me someplace I never expected.

So 15 pages a day. Yes, it's excessive. And there's a good chance I won't reach my daily goal - kids, life, Netflix all seem to get in the way, right? But after I spent so much time - a year, a year - nitpicking my way to the end of a book that ultimately didn't work, I want to do something a bit daring. I want to do something that pushes me. Then, at the end of the week, failed or not, I will be closer - to the end, to knowing who these characters really are. To having a book I can send out into the world once again.

So 15 pages. Right or wrong, win or lose, stupid or not - there it is. And here's hoping that, when it's over, I'll have something that surprises me. Something that helps me catch a glimpse of what this story can be.

I'm Vegan - I don't do Cheesy.

2011-09-19T14:09:00.000-07:00

I like to write - and read - stuff that is emotional. Stories that reach down into my core and pull up something real. It can be sad, funny, tragic - it doesn't matter. I just love it when a book I'm reading makes me stop reading and say, "Well, damn."

Just a few: Please Ignore Vera Dietz, Looking for Alaska, Catch, Sweethearts, The Absolute Value of -1, How to Say Goodbye in Robot.

These killed me, in that good way - the way that makes you feel alive. And, largely, it's what I'm trying to do when I write: give the reader (and myself) something genuine. Something real. And for a long time, it was nearly impossible. I was afraid to put what I really thought down on paper. I was afraid of going there - wherever that might be. I was afraid of making people angry. Of hurting their feelings. I was afraid of making a certain kind of joke and I was even more afraid of not making a joke. Because being real - being me, for everybody to see - will probably always feel uncomfortable.

And now I'm writing a book that isn't very funny at all. Yes, it has it's moments - but mostly it's kind of a sad book about a brother and a sister. And as I re-read pages, as I start to tinker a little bit, I'm worried that it's gone beyond feeling and into a place nobody wants to find themselves. Cheesy. Melodramatic. Worthy of a Dashboard Confessional song. You know.

And then I remembered something from graduate school - an essay first. And then I found the book it was in, still sitting on my shelf. And I read it once again. It dealt with irony and writing and religion. And it ends this way:

But as for [David Foster Wallace's] notion of who the next literary rebels might be, I'm banking on his being right. The scandalous move right now is to have hope, to look out at the world in love in order to discover it anew in whatever way you can, in whatever form you can....risking all the while cheese, corn, schmaltz. The scandalous and radical move right now is to infuse our post-ironic age with hope, and with love, risking, as it always and ever should be, your own heart. - Bret Lott, The Best Spiritual Writing of 2002

And maybe it is sentimental to write with such hope, even if the book is ultimately sad. But I like the idea of writing with a chance of being cheesy. I like the (possibly cheesy) idea of risking my heart in my work. Because, hopefully, the reward becomes the sort of book I love to read.

It Doesn't Have to be Good.

2011-09-13T09:08:00.000-07:00

That's what I keep telling myself as I write the first draft of this new book. It's weird, because the first book - Legendary Days - was my epic, the thing I worked on for years. And the next one - untitled and shelved for the time being - was so intentional. Synopsis. Outline. Discussions with the agent. And to top it off, I edited each chapter as I went - if only to give myself a cleaner palette for the next round of revisions.

But this one - I've had to let go a little bit and write. It's like letting my kids play in the pool by themselves. I know they can swim. I know they've had lessons. But then I see the water rushing down the waterside. I see all the other kids - bigger, meaner, you know - and suddenly I need to be the only dad sitting in the 2 foot section of the pool.

And that's what it's like writing this book. It's flowing, more than anything I've written before. Like a pinched hose that finally became un-kinked. And I want to control it. I want to stop at the end of each chapter and tinker. I want to make it perfect.

But it can't be perfect - at least not yet. Because I don't know where these characters are going yet. And I don't know who they are, what - who - they love. I don't know what they're scared of, or the things they can't stand to lose. And with every page, it becomes clearer. A little bit of the story opens up to me every time I sit down and open Scrivener.

And so, as I get ready to write this morning, I tell myself again: It doesn't have to be good.

Yet.

100 Pages

2011-09-06T12:46:00.000-07:00

There's something about hitting 100 pages in a manuscript that always makes me feel a bit like this:

That, in case you don't recognize it, is total excitement (exhibited by my son...) And that's how I feel whenever I hit 100 pages, because regardless of how long the book is going to be, you're now in triple figures. You've got something that, if you printed it out, looks like a book. Something that can impress your friends and family. The sort of thing that will make people think you're a real writer.

And I guess it's more than that this time. My writing journey hasn't been what I imagined: getting an agent less than two weeks after querying for the first time. And not only getting an agent, but one that seems to understand what I'm trying to do - and wants to make it better. It's been going out on submission and having my book come back like a boomerang. It's realizing what that book was and wasn't, and then realizing I had other stories I wanted to tell. It's writing one of those stories, trashing it, then starting over again. It's sending it to my agent and realizing - crap - it's just not working. It's sitting at a bar, hearing him say: "You can work on this new book. I like it."

It's starting that book and reaching 100 pages and realizing: Okay, this one can work. You can do this.

And that's enough. I'm not thinking about whether it will be published, if anybody will like it, or what the cover would look like. I'm writing something that I think is important. I'm writing a girl, which is so weird and amazing and, at times, has me wondering if writing guys was holding me back a bit. It's taking on some stuff (religion) that has been both important and horrible in my life. And maybe it's a good story that will help people realize we're all on a journey - that we're all unfinished and even when big-ass mistakes get made, there's a shot that things will get better.

So here's to page 101.

You need to hear this.

2011-08-26T10:20:00.000-07:00

Much like everything I have to say, you really need to hear this.

So go read this article. Don't worry, I'll wait.

I don't think anybody tells you about the soul-crushing rejection you'll receive when you decide to become... a writer. Oh, people tell you. But you aren't listening. You've got visions of you in a coffee house, thoughtfully (and effortlessly) typing away on your laptop. Writing another critically acclaimed best seller (with a great cover.)

Fast forward five years. You're in the coffee shop and you're shaking, but it has nothing to do with caffeine. Your fingernails are dirty, clothes wrinkled. You mumble. Sometimes you yell out incoherently. The typing is a battle. And you know to your core that nobody - nobody - will ever want to read anything you've written. Except your mom.

And then you finish and you can't even look at it, afraid it will have teeth and warts and hair and - damn it - it almost always does. But you jump back in and fix it. You shave its back and cut its nails and, maybe, it's presentable.

What keeps you going? What keeps you writing? I've written about this before, but it's always amazing to me: why do we put ourselves through this? It's got something to do with love and passion. And maybe some mental illness. But if I'm being serious, it's the knowledge that every time I open my laptop, I know it can happen.

And if you're a writer, you know what it is. When you are kicking ass. When everything you put down on paper is (or seems to be) amazing. When you don't want to push away from your writing desk, because you're not sure if it's ever going to come again. (A hint: it will.)

And for me, that's enough. As much as I want to be published, writing is so much more than just having a book at Barnes and Noble. It's something that I really just love. It's something that - dramatic as this is going to sound - has literally saved me. But don't get me wrong: I want a book contract. I want to go to my writers group and be like, "Who's the best writer now you ass--"

Well, nevermind.

The point: I love to write. I can't imagine not doing it. And I will continue to rest comfortably on the moral ground high above the rest of the people who write only to be published...

But then I read this:

A friend of mine once said she didn’t want to write a novel because she couldn’t stand the idea of working for years on a project that might fail.

Cough. Sputter. Choke. Die. Stab. Eye.

I've never really thought about that before, so thank you. Thank you very much. And even though I've had it happen twice now, it's never something that enters my mind when I start a new book. I never think, "Well, here's a few years of my life I'll never get back..."

Jesus. Who thinks that way? Who puts themselves in that situation? Oh, yeah - writers.

Is it worth the rejection? Is it worth knowing that you may spend the next years of your life doing something that ultimately will not be important to anybody other than yourself (and your mom)?

I think you know the answer.

When to Change Your Mind

2011-08-08T10:36:00.000-07:00

So, my newest book. Every time I opened the filed, it moaned. Like some kind of pissed off ghost. And it had good reason to be so indignant. It was a hot mess.

Okay, is.

And so I got notes from my agent and I started the process of Ghostbusting the shit out of it. Came up with an entirely new premise and reworked the first 50 pages until they were something completely different. Something that seemed to move quickly while not sacrificing voice or the characters or any of the other things I really care about.

I care about plot. I do. Don't make me cut you.

Anyway, I came to LA for this conference, but I was really coming to carve out some writing time. I had visions of being sequestered in my room, typing away like mad. But a funny thing happened when I got to the hotel: I just couldn't open up the file and get to work. Sure, I sat in the lobby with my laptop open and my fingers on the keys, but nothing really happened. It all seemed flat, like I was just jumping from plot point to plot point.

It was dead to me.

Now, I love this book. I love the characters and the journey and how sometimes blind faith and love have the power to fundamentally define you. But even though that's what the book was about, there was so much noise. So many pieces of furniture being moved around. I needed to scream.

And then I met with my agent. Right before the meeting I told a friend: "I hope he doesn't want to talk about the book." And of course he wanted to talk about the book. What else is there to talk about, right? As we talked, I got some great advice. Stuff I desperately needed to hear. But in the process of this meeting, I did something unexpected. I took off my pants, jumped up on the bar and started yelling.... No.Wait. Different night.

Anyway.

So Michael and I are sitting there and I - again, unexpectedly - am all, "Hey, at some point I want to pitch a book idea to you." We'd been talking about something and it kicked to life this kernel of an idea I'd had for a few months. And so he's like, "Tell me now!" And I'm all, "Really?!" And then he said, "OF COURSE!"

It was very dramatic.

But the point. The point is: he liked it. I think he liked it a good deal. And I hate to say this was shocking to me, but it was. And so of course I said, "So, could I, you know, writethisoneinsteadofthecrazyassbook?"

And he said yes. If I wanted to write it, I could.

Boom. That's the sound of my mind being blown.

Listen, I know it's probably something I should've realized - that I didn't have to be tied to this particular book forever. It's probably obvious that I could start something new if this book was sucking every bit of my life away. But I am a committed guy. I'm good at making things work.

It's hard to step away from something that's consumed a year of my life and, honestly, I'm not sure that I'm going to step away from it. But I have the option. I wrote the synopsis and it sparked something inside me, something I've been looking for. That passion, that excitement. The place where opening up my laptop feels like it did years ago when I was writing simply because I loved it.

I still love it. And I don't know which direction I'm headed, but sometimes it's just nice to know that you have a choice.

Where the Magic Happens

2011-07-13T13:31:00.000-07:00

Last night, a friend and I were driving down the highway in a red Buick, long in the front and cutting through the night like a shark.

(I know, I'm good.)

Anyway, we're talking about what you might expect when it's nearly midnight and you're on the highway. And then we're pulling into one of those gas stations - the kind that looks alive at night.

(I know, I'm good.)

Anyway, we come pulling in and this place looks like something out of a movie. Truckers are roaming around. There's a surly woman manning the coffee machines - or would that be womaneering the coffee machines? Anyway, you get the point. My friend, Jeff, is all, "Hey what's the freshest coffee?" And she's like, "They're all fresh, I just put them out." And Jeff says, "Which one do you recommend?"

Yeah, I know.

Anyway, this lady starts on about how, "Well, I guess that depends on what kind of coffee you like." All surly and I gave Jeff this Look which I hoped he read to mean, "Well, that wasn't very nice."

Jeff ended up going with the Sumatra, mainly because it had a Tiger on the label.

The whole place was alive. Full of characters. And it took me back to high school, to those late night drives that never had a purpose. Me, my friends - sometimes a girl - just doing nothing. Just to be out and alive and, well, young.

As Jeff was getting a taco and some Corn Nuts, I said, "This is where things really happen, you know? This is the sort of place, in high school, where you kiss the girl. Where you make life decisions." And, granted, that's a bit overdone, but I really believe it's true.

None of my transformational moments happened on the side of a mountain, on a beach, or in any other sort of exotic location. They happened in 24-hour pancake houses, in restaurant parking lots, in the passenger seats of friend's cars.

And when I write YA fiction, I try to go back to those moments. I try to extract the importance in those mundane places. I try to remember what it's like to be young, to have just enough novelty left that a Pilot gas station is still a place of wonder. A place where something can happen.

I guess I'm talking about setting. And I guess I'm wondering if any of you have a strong sense of place in your writing, or maybe if you pick it up in the books you read. I guess I'm wondering if I'm the only one who walks into a truck stop and sees the people from my books - clutching half-warmed burritos - and thinks, "This is where the magic happens."

Do Not Pander

2011-06-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

I've been reading Live From New York: An Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live. I bought it awhile ago, but never picked it up until now. Like many people, I love SNL. But this book has made me realize/remember how revolutionary this program was/is.

I won't lie. I want to be cutting edge. I want to be revolutionary. I want to write comedy (and fiction) the way they did/do.

No holds barred. Forget those who don't get it. Make yourself laugh and let everybody else catch up.

This idea is best highlighted by this quote:

We wanted to redefine comedy the way the Beatles redefined what being a pop star was. That required not pandering, and it also required removing the necessary neediness, the need to please. It was like, we're only going to please those people who are like us. The presumption there were a lot of people like us. And that turned out to be so. - Lorne Michaels

I continually struggle with what I write. Personally, I love it. But it is rare for me to walk into the bookstore, pick up a book, and say, "Holy Crap! I should've written this book!" Of course, some people are probably thinking all, "Yeah. Thank god." But still, you know the feeling. The one where a book just gets you. It's like it reads some unwritten part of your history, resurrecting this long-dead thing inside your soul.

Oh yeah, I just went there.

But dramatic or not, I really believe this. I really believe that books can do this for us, for teens.

And trust me, there are times where I just want to be like, Screw it, I'm going to write a INSERT TREND HERE book because it seems like the fast track. It seems easier. And even though I know this isn't true, it's hard not to feel like, maybe, I should just write something uber-commercial. Just to get in the door. Because, honestly, sometimes it feels like everything I love about books and writing is radically different than what I find on the shelves.

I'm not saying what's published isn't good. It is. It's great, actually. I just finished Please Ignore Vera Dietz and it blew my mind.

It's just different... Because despite how amazing it was (I read it in two days), it's not the book I needed in high school.

And I guess that's kind of the point.

I'm not going to say we shouldn't write for the trend. And I'm not going to tell you to write what you know (well, maybe.) Every agent and editor out there has been saying that stuff for years.

But I will say this: don't pander. To the market. To your own ideas of what could sell, even though its not your passion. Don't write something just because you think it's going to please other people.

Because if we're doing that, if we're only writing to gain access to the halls of New York City, haven't we lost something major? Haven't we knee-capped creativity? Are we then producing forgetable, disposable stories?

To be clear: I don't think this is happening. This is not a slight against publishing. But it is a moment of clarity, of clarification, maybe. It's the point where I am saying to myself, Write funny boy books about ninjas and professional wrestling and love and faith and kissing and dudes who have no clue but always seem to say really funny shit.

Because I love it. Because I can't imagine writing anything else, at least at this point.

If writing a dystopian book is your passion--great! Do it. And when the market changes and people are yelling, "NO MORE DYSTOPIANS!" Keep writing them. Create something new and different. Force people to take notice.

And then, maybe, we'll all be able to sit back and say, We were part of something special, something great.

On Death.

2011-04-19T10:06:00.000-07:00

This is an arm bar:

It's used in rock climbing when you come upon a crack. And it's exactly how it sounds: you stick your arm into the crack, lock it in place, and use it as leverage to make your next move.

I am pretty good at this move.

But this weekend, as I was climbing at this wall at Smith Rock State Park, and I fell. I fall all the time. But this time, my arm stayed in the crack and, well, I came about *this* close to breaking my arm, or severly hyper-extending my elbow, or just crying.

Whatever. It was scary and it hurt.

We won't go into the fact that this was a super-easy climb that I, somehow, managed to make difficult.

No.

Anyway, I finished the climb (because I'm the man) and when I got to the bottom, I thought: "Man, that's the closest I've ever come to getting hurt..." And then a bit of mortality set in, because I was like, "Uh, what if I died?" (this was dramatic thinking; death wasn't a real possibility) I thought of my family, of course, but the next thing that came to my mind? The very next thing?

My book.

Because, see, it's finished. Well, it's not finished, or ready for anybody to read, but I'm done with the first draft. And because I was editing as I went along, it's actually closer to a second draft. However, given my history, that still means it's about as good as a first draft. And anyway, I was sitting there on the side of the cliff thinking, "What if that piece of crap is the only evidence of my writing that gets left behind?"

You understand my fear.

And of course, this sort of irrationality is made perfect by all writers. The words are important--maybe too much so. But either way, producing something that is good has the ability to take over your life, to bend your mind in weird directions. It becomes all-consuming. It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to scream. It makes you want to quit. And so, there I sat, wondering if I needed to give up rock climbing and writing. Because life is full of enough stress, enough danger.

Fifteen minutes later, I was climbing again. Because, despite it all, I love being on the rock. I love challenging myself. I love being outside, exposed to all the beauty. And I guess the same is true about my writing. Because today, when I print off the first/second draft of my new book, I expect to find some things that are truly scary. But I also expect to be surprised by sentences and descriptions. I expect to laugh. And I expect to have that exciting feeling of, "Okay, this could work..."

Because, ultimately, without risk there isn't much reward, is there? And if writing is anything, it is a risk. We put something out there, something that is as much a part of us as our arm, and we hope other people find it just as special. So even when it seems hopeless, when it feels like our arm is about to break, we keep moving forward. Because it's something we love. It's something we feel like we have to do. Because life doesn't have enough risk and joy in it.

Gimmicks

2011-03-31T11:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I get worried my writing is too gimmicky. I almost emailed a busy writer friend and asked her to read my first chapter. Because this is what I do. I find things that aren't really wrong, and I try to see if they can put me in the fetal position.

In case you don't know, I love voice-y fiction. As I said to my agent recently, "I would read a book where about four dudes traveling across the country. Nothing needs to happen, as long as they keep saying funny things." He said: "Yeah, but nobody else would want to read that book."

He is very smart.

Anyway, back to my anxiety. I got this idea in my head that my current book's voice was too gimmicky. Nothing more than a carnival sideshow. Something that might draw attention for a moment, but is ultimately disposable. What makes something disposable? I don't know. But I know what makes something special. I know that good fiction gets me excited, helps me remember that I started writing to hopefully emulate the power I found in stories. And the best thing about this feeling? You never know when it's going to happen. When a story will jump off the page and grab you by the gut.

I love that. And it happened recently as I was reading the New Yorker.

Yeah, I read it. You want to fight?

Anyway. Here's a snippet from the story:

And here we aren’t, so quickly: I’m not twenty-six and you’re not sixty. I’m not forty-five or eighty-three, not being hoisted onto the shoulders of anybody wading into any sea. I’m not learning chess, and you’re not losing your virginity. You’re not stacking pebbles on gravestones; I’m not being stolen from my resting mother’s arms. Why didn’t you lose your virginity to me? Why didn’t we enter the intersection one thousandth of a second sooner, and die instead of die laughing? Everything else happened—why not the things that could have? - Jonathan Safron Foer, Here We Aren't, So Quickly taken from The New Yorker, June 14th-21st issue.

It kills me. In a good way. And I can't even articulate why. Maybe that's what makes good fiction special, when it hits us in a place we've forgotten about.

Choices, Choices.

2011-03-21T11:01:00.000-07:00

I once thought writing was fun. I used to enjoy telling people about my current project (when they asked) and figuring out ways to drop it into conversations (when they didn’t.)

I like to call that my naive period.

Because holy crap. The last couple of months (say, four...) have been rough. It’s not that the words haven’t been good, because they have. In fact, that’s kind of been the problem. I’ve really liked everything I was writing. So much, that I was having a difficult time deciding where the story went. Sure, I had a synopsis and an outline (laughter here), but the world I was working in seemed so... big. The characters had a lot to say. I’d look up after a night of writing and realize, crap, maybe they didn’t need to go to that Romance Novelist Convention... even if it was a genius bit of comedy writing. (Think: teenager boys dancing on a stage in front of hundreds of mom-aged romance writers.)

Ultimately, this new novel is about choices. It’s also about excitement and adventure and how the main character craves not these things. It’s about a teenager struggling with who he is, and what that means. (He is not a werewolf. Or a vampire. Or a fallen angel. He is a teenage boy, and that’s difficult enough.)

Along the way, I’ve had a few choices of my own to make. Particularly, deciding when it was okay to go off on a little tangent, and when I needed to advance the plot. Ultimately, I chose (more often than not) to advance the plot. Heresy! you say? Perhaps. But these are the words that come from on high (like the top floors of HarperCollins, Simon&Schuster, Roaring Brook, others...) And so I’ve been carving out my own organs, uh, I mean plotting like a real novelist.

It’s been very exciting.

Anyway, the point. I have a ton of scenes that will never be used. Like the one you’re about to read.

Beth walks over to me, still wearing that ridiculous sombrero. The rest of the idiots are clapping, especially Gary, who is jumping around and pretending to cry. Beth leans close to me, pinning the metal badge to my collar. She smells like baby powder, sweat, and chili peppers. Like a weird stripper.

    And then people start singing.
    Hola! Hola! Hola!
    We hear it’s your special day! 

The Spicy Pepper song is a kind of catch-all, used for birthdays, anniversaries, the times when somebody wants a free fried ice cream. And for some inexplicable reason, they’re singing the hell out of it. To me.
    We’re all so happy for ya!
    So we all came by to say...
    We wish you the best on your fiesta!
    Now let’s celebrate the Spicy Pepper way…
    HEY!
    It’s just as awful as it sounds. People clapping and hollering, like they’re in the middle of a bull ring or something. Stomping their feet. A regular circle of hell.
    Beth finishes fastening the pin to my collar and throws an arm around my shoulder. Gary yells. Somebody else yells out, “Careful now!” I pray for a tour bus full of church ladies or something to come pulling into the parking lot. Because damn.

If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll post a video of me singing (and clapping) the Spicy Pepper song because, yeah, I figured out a melody and a beat.

Why do you write?

2011-03-09T09:13:00.000-08:00

For a long time, I wrote in an attempt to get outside approval. My thinking went, "If an MFA program accepts me, then I'm good." Or: "If I can get into Bread Loaf, then I'm good." And so I wrote.

But I never applied.

Because what if they didn't accept me? What if I wasn't good enough? What if I'd never get a book published and I'd spend the rest of my life working in some job that made me want to take a dull knife to my vital organs?

It was all way too much pressure. And, more importantly, it was ridiculous. About this time, I also decided to give up on my snobbish anti-YA viewpoint (and I actually read some YA books.) I wrote a new book, signed with an agent, got rejected en bloc by fancy NYC editors, and have since started a new book. I gave up on MFAs, writer's workshops, fellowships--any of those things that I had come to decide would give me worth as a writer. Because what was the point? What did any of this really mean? Who really gives a damn if I go to, say, Tin House Summer Writer's Workshop?

You're right, not that many people.

So I spent the time writing. Gaining much-needed confidence in my own words. In my voice. In the way I (kinda) structure a plot. Five years ago, I think this is what I needed most: confidence. Because despite rejection, I like what I write. I know I am producing strong work. And when I turn this book into my agent (soon, soon, soon...) I know it will be good.

This is not arrogance. This is confidence. And yes, there is a difference. Confidence, I think, has an implied humility. In my version, at least. It allows me to say, ~~"Oh, you didn't like it? Okay, well you suck."~~ ETA: "Thanks for the criticism!" Because I know what I want to write, and if that doesn't fall into what is currently hot (Dystopian, Paranormal, Exploding Bunnies).... well, fine.

So, I'm confident. Blah, blah, blah. For a long time, as I said, I wrote for validation. And maybe I still do. Because sometimes, in the back of my head, I'm thinking about all the people who have said I couldn't do something. I'm putting them in my book. As antagonists.*

Okay, I'm kidding.** Now I write to get better. To engage my creativity. To write something that has the possibility of being, say, transformational. Or maybe reaching a kid in a small, true way. At the very least, to have somebody read it and say, "Oh, this kinda doesn't suck. Maybe."

So I applied to some workshops.

And I got in.

To Tin House.

Which is a big deal. (To me)

And even though my submission wasn't YA, I didn't sacrifice my voice, my style, or my sense of humor when I wrote the story. I put down the genius you, my blog readers, have come to expect. And they accepted me.

But this time, it's not about the acceptance. It's not about the validation. It's the chance to work with some of the best writers in the country. To learn. To get better.

And that's got me more excited than I can possibly explain.

*Joking

**Kinda

Why I Don't Like Free Books

2011-02-21T17:54:00.000-08:00

So, sometimes I do the whole Twitter chat thing. Usually, it revolves around YA-type stuff. Sometimes it's super-secret spy chat. But you wouldn't know anything about that, so let's just keep it on topic, okay? Anyway. I was saying. I sometimes get on these chats, because the ideas and the people are generally interesting, sometimes entertaining. But without fail, I usually draw what I like to call The Ire.

This happened a few weeks back. One of said chats involved ARCs (Advanced Reader Copies), and I harmlessly wrote the following:

This brought about The Ire. People started yelling about how I always buy the books I get free! and If I like the book, I'm it's biggest fan!!! I tell EVERYBODY about it!!!

Okay. Fine. But you still need to buy books. As many as you can afford. Especially if you're a writer. Quadruple that shit if you want to be published.

I know, I know. You're the biggest fan. They might as well put you on the publicity team.

Still. Buy the book.

Listen, if you can honestly tell me that you go out and buy the book every time--great. Good for you. But if a restaurant told me, "Hey, don't worry about paying for this meal. It's on us! Come back anytime! Always free!" Well, first I'd be worried by how happy they are (did you see all those exclamation points?) Second, I wouldn't be going out to eat very many other places. Why would I? If I could get the best food - for free - before most people got sat at a table? Damn right I'd be at that place. Every night of the week.

And that's what I see online. A veritable feeding frenzy of YA types, looking to score the next big ARC. To be able to get on Twitter and say something like:

"SQUEE! I just read DIVERGENT!!! Most amazing book EVA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

(And as a note, I was read the first few pages and given the plot breakdown of DIVERGENT by the editor, Molly O'Neill, and it does sound amazing... but I will never 'squee.')

I admit, there have been plenty of ARCs I'd love to get my hands on. One being my friend Nova's (especially after reading her first chapter...) The other being MY FRIEND Suzanne Young's (whose first few chapters I also read... very good.) But I want to support them as authors. And that means buying the books. Because at the end of the day, that's what really matters to me: supporting the authors. Going to the store. Picking the book off the shelf. Paying for it. And then reading it.

Can you really argue with this?

Okay, I probably sound like a dick. I get it. I'm also willing to live with it, no matter what. Bring on the flames. The endless retweeting. Because, if I want to be published, I need to invest as heavily into publishing as I can. In a monetary way. Luckily, I can afford to do so. If you can't--go to the library. Library sales are huge. And if you don't have a library? Well, comment here. I'll send you some books.

My "Process"

2011-01-31T15:16:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged in a long time. Two months, actually. And despite what I'd like to say I was doing - yachting, discoing, ninjitsu (the usual) - it has been rather uneventful. And by uneventful, of course I mean completely insane and the sort of two months that makes me want to run into a wall head first.

Yeah.

See, I'm writing a novel. And it's a novel that I'm pretty excited about. It's got everything a good novel needs: characters, setting, a plot, words. It's funny, heart-breaking. It even has a beat you can dance to. And I've been working on this novel since time began. Or something like that. And guess what? Things were flying along. You could say they were going swimmingly. But don't, because I really hate it when people say things like that. And when people wear berets. I'm just saying. Just because you want to be a writer doesn't mean you need to walk around looking like a cliche. But that's not really the point. So...

I wrote 400 pages. About 100,000 words. And these words were pretty damn good. Funny. But you already know how I roll. There was only one problem: my characters couldn't get past the second act. They couldn't go to Nashville (that's not a metaphor, dogg. It's plot.) They couldn't get to the end fo the book. And of course by them, I mean me.

And so I let my friend Ray read about 200 pages of what I already had. And he came back with some great feedback (kill yourself) and then I read through the nearly 400 pages I had and came up with a pretty sensible conclusion (kill myself), which basically included me starting over.

Starting. OVER.

I know.

400 pages--Gone.
My sanity--Poof.
My novel--page freakin' 1.

Let's all sigh together, shall we?

So I started over. Page 1. I was drinking heavily at this point, but I put the work in. Started knocking some things together. And what I found out was shocking: I wasn't using most of what I had written. Some of it was pretty good, but for the most part, the pages I'd written were my way of getting to know the characters (they will die in this book) and their motivations (selfishness, anarchy, masochism.)

Now I have about 40,000 words. And these are good words. They story is flowing. I've cut back to just beer and shots. There is no longer a need for intervention. However, this could all change.

Because I met with my agent this weekend.

And I shared this story.

And he said....

Maybe that's your process.

What. The. [censored.]

No, no, no. I'm sorry, but my process can't be writing an entire book to find my characters. Thanks, but I'll stick with the prodigious ability to write sparkling copy on a first draft, sipping a glass of red wine, as I laugh all jovially and type FIN at the end of a manuscript. Yes, that seems like a mighty fine process to me.

The stuff of Faust. And I'm fine with this.

Because this can't be my process... can it? It can't be that my process is... hard. That writing is... hard. As much as I'd like to cry right now - to tell you that this was a fluke - I'm not sure I can. Because guess what? The book that was held together by strings, is now solid. The motivations and desires of the characters is real. And the book, I think, is good.

So maybe this is my process, a kind of demented joke from the writing gods. Take the guy who has no patience, who writes fast and hard, and make him have the all-time slowest writing process in the history of... well, whatever. You get the point. It sucks. It's hard. But maybe it's the way I write a book.

See you in August, fools.

How to be Funny

2010-11-09T12:23:00.000-08:00

I'm always amazed when somebody says, "Oh, I wish I could be funny!" Usually, these are writers who put down sentences that make me wish I knew how to actually write. Or they have the ability to plot stories that twist and turn and, again, make me wish I knew how to actually write. Sometimes they are truly boring, but it's mostly the first two.

But humor? That's, like... easy. Right?

Well, for me it is. And maybe easy isn't the correct word. I've found nothing to do with writing is ever easy. Some of it may be more natural, but it is never easy. Because when I'm writing, I'm always looking for ways to make something funny. I like to write funny books. I like funny characters who say funny things and are all-around... funny. There isn't enough humor (or at least good humor.) The question, of course, becomes: what is good humor.

It's an ice cream bar.

And it is not that previous sentence.

IMPORTANT HUMOR WRITING RULE #1: Don't be obvious. The worst humor comes when somebody is so obviously trying to make a joke. This usually happens when the dreaded exclamation point (!!!) arrives on the scene. For many people, the exclamation point (!!!) is a do-all button. Just press it at the end of a sentence and, BAM, you've got the Funny. And that's equivalent to a crime against humanity in my opinion. Instead, maybe use a little subtlety. Be funny in ways that are situational for your characters. Or better yet, they're funny because of who your characters are.

However...

IMPORTANT HUMOR WRITING RULE #2: Don't be esoteric. People won't find your Uncle Paul's comment to your Aunt Pauline back in aught-six funny. There has to be a common context. Having well-developed characters will help. However, what makes me laugh is situations where I immediately understand what's happening. Maybe I cringe in anticipation, or laugh. Either way, I have a personal connection to the situation. So I read something and think: Oh, man... I remember that time the monkey came into MY bedroom... this is going to be AWESOME! The more universal something is, the easier it is to play around with.

But...

IMPORTANT HUMOR WRITING RULE #3: Take a chance. Some of the best humor writing I've ever read comes from these truly twisted, original places. All of a sudden, I'm crying because I can't start laughing. The last time this happened was with a book called FAT VAMPIRE. Without giving too much away, the MC had to come up with a superhero name. Hilarity happens. Of course, this is tricky, right? Because who can tell the line between being obvious and taking a chance?

Well...

IMPORTANT HUMOR WRITING RULE #4: Write what you want to write. For me, that's realistic/contemporary humor. Some creative-types (like Joss Whedon) are able to create fantastic worlds and characters AND make it funny. Douglas Adams was this way, too. Christopher Moore is another one. But you don't have to have humor in your books? A little is always good, but maybe you're just not funny.

Kidding.

Kind of.

No, I'm kidding.

(Well, maybe)

Anyway.

Trying to determine what makes something funny is like hearing an agent/editor say what makes for a good writing voice. And if you asked me about humor, I'd probably give you the same, tired line: I know it when I see it. The problem is, again, that this is pretty subjective.

Oprah, Dr. Phil, Me.

2010-10-29T09:31:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. It's been said before.

Starting today, I'm going to CHANGE! Losing weight. Working out. Blogging. All of those necessary chores that get pushed aside when life gets too hectic.

Jeez, I sound like Oprah or something.

I've always had a tenuous relationship with blogging. Mainly, it seems a bit presumptious (if not arrogant) to post regularly. Because... who really cares what I think? In fact, I used to operate this blog under the name "My Web Pretense." It has a ring to it, I admit. But also there's truth there too: from blogging to Facebook and Twitter, sometimes I feel like there isn't anything people DON'T know about me.

Well, almost. A slight digression...

In fifth grade I was in the marching band. We were scheduled to march in some parade. Damn, I don't know which one, okay? All I can remember is it was hot. And I couldn't play the trombone to save my life. All I would do is move that slide up and down, back and forth, puffing my cheeks out so nobody would catch on. Because at the time, I thought band was the coolest.

But, then again, I also thought it would really boost my image if I wore stuff like this:

So I had no idea what 'cool' really was (and bonus points if your remember or ever shopped at Merry Go Round...)

Anyway, so there I was getting ready for my 5th-grade version of prom: Marching Band. From the kitchen my mom yells, "Put on some deoderant." Now, I don't know if you interact with many 5th-6th grade boys, but 'deoderant' is not a part of their lexicon. For me, it had nothing to do with actually enjoying the Stink. It just wasn't on the radar. But my mom was telling me it had to happen, so I went to the bathroom and put some on.

Of course, I was wearing my white band shirt at the time. And, again, knowing nothing about no deoderant, I put that stuff right over the top of my shirt. Yes, I lifted my arm and rubbed the stick into my shirt sleeve.

Now the internet world knows everything about me.

The point?

None, really. At least, nothing to do with writing.

But I blogged. Jeez, get off my back.

Why I Am Not Here

2010-10-21T11:20:00.000-07:00

Reader Jonathon Arntson asks: My life is meaningless without your words! Will you PLEASE blog again soon? (Actual comment may vary.)

Despite myself, I'm not a big Oh-ho-ho - look at me! I'm writin' a book over here! type of person. When I get involved in the process, I commit to it. And watch out: I'm like NyQuill. I'm gone and out and all See you next year! when it comes to my creative focus. So, sorry blog.

Of course, if this books takes me an entire year? Well, there may not be anybody around to write this blog. And that would suck.

My hope is that this new book will be done and in the agent's hands by the end of November at the very, very latest. As of right now, I have 150 pages (about 40,000 words) and going pretty strong. If not mind-achingly slow.

I have never written a book with so much... pre-planning. Or... concentration on plot. I feel dirty.

Seriously, I have always been a fast draft type of dude. I can put down some words, okay? 4,000? 5,000? No problem. Well, there was a problem: it was exactly that, a fast draft. For the next few years, I'd be revising, cursing, revising, threatening to write a 20 page outline if I ever make it out of this book alive.

But all that has changed, friends. Mostly due to my agent requesting a synopsis, but whatever, we're just going to call it MY IDEA because that's how I like to roll up in here.

So that's what happening. I'm writing. I think it's good. Although, I went through a manic 3-day stretch where I was pretty sure it sucked. Then I let a friend read it. And she liked it. Then I felt better about everything, so I started writing some more. And now I'm wondering: did she REALLY like it? Was she LYING?

Breathing, breathing.

Okay.

Finally, I have nothing to say about Halloween. Only that my son is planning on being a gnome. Prepare the devastating awesomeness of what is below:

Where I Am Now.

2010-09-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

Funny how quickly a blog can disappear. Funny how little I've cared. I kept thinking, "I should blog... something." But I don't really have anything to say.

Okay, not exactly true. My wife recently read a YA book and said, "What's with all these conflicted asshole guys?" Uh, my point freakin' exactly. One of the things that makes me tired is the negative portrayal of men in YA fiction (a joke, yes...) Does anybody else notice that male characters tend to fall into one of three distinct categories:

1.) I'm a rebel, I don't like you, but somehow I'm unable to keep myself away from you. Hey, we should kiss. By the way, I'm a magical creature. Yeah, sucks. But we are FOREVER.

2.) I'm the boy next door. I'm cute, in a nerdy way. Yeah, I'm in a band/in the band/in drama. I'm your friend, but we both know that there's probably more to it. I'll probably be better for you than the magical creature above. Oh, by the way. I'm a freakin' wizard or some shit. You will probably break my heart.

3.) I am hot. My abs ripple. You like to touch me. We do it. I'm a fan of whispering things "hotly" in your ears. Did I mention I turn you on? I am not a magical creature. Well, sometimes. Does it matter? *flex* I didn't think so....

Right, so this stuff annoys the hell out of me. And yeah, sure, I realize that male authors do the same thing with some of their female characters. But whatever. My blog, my biases.

So I could talk about this. Maybe another time. Instead, I wanted to give people a reason for not blogging as much.

Basically, I'm working on a new book. It's fun. It's hard. It's taking up a lot of my time. I took a small three day weekend break but now I'm back on it, typing the Funny. Typing the Genius. Okay, maybe not. But still - typing.

And it's hard to actually come up with so much wit in a given day.

So there it is. I may be silent for awhile.

Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

2010-08-20T12:03:00.000-07:00

It was midnight, the family was asleep. We don't have internet at the house and I couldn't stand to look at my own writing after spending the previous three hours typing, typing, typing.

And there were no books to read. Okay, there were books. But I recently caught up on my to-be-read pile, something that's pretty amazing on it's own, and I was there staring at two whole shelves of books that seemed to be simply lacking in what I was looking for. That is, something new. Something exciting. Anything but the craziness my wife had be recently reading. Don't get me started.

I just re-read John Green's LOOKING FOR ALASKA, which is something I rarely do. After that, I knocked out Sara Zarr's SWEETHEARTS. So there I was freaking out, trying to convince myself that I should just go to sleep.

Then I saw it.

It might be cliche to say Hunter S. Thompson's FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS was important to me. But whatever. Deal with it. The dude scared me, made me want to go on benders, and always knew the exact write words with which to detail these savage journeys of his. And let me just say it so you will not be confused: The first 20 pages of FEAR AND LOATHING is an absolute clinic in Voice. The first paragraph is iconic; I would stack it against any first lines/paragraphs in literature. Need a refresher?

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive...” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: “Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?”

Another one of my favorite parts from the book:

There was every reason to believe I was heading for trouble, that I'd pushed my luck a bit far. I'd abused every rule Vegas lived by—burning the locals, abusing the tourists, terrifying the help. The only hope now, I felt, was the possibility that we'd gone to such excess, with our gig, that nobody in a position to bring the hammer down on us could possibly believe it . . . When you bring an act into this town, you want to bring it in heavy. Don't waste any time with cheap shucks and misdemeanors. Go straight for the jugular. Get right into felonies. The mentality of Las Vegas is so grossly atavistic that a really massive crime often slips by unrecognized.

What makes Thompson brilliant, I think, is the irreverence. It's what makes his writing voice so memorable, like a whip being cracked across your face. I love it. I aspire to it. And you should too.

Okay, so maybe not the drugs. Or the guns. Or the ether, either. But the words - the way he wrote like he didn't give a damn (but it was so obvious that he was in control of everything he put down on paper.) The way he told his story. The passion and fury in his writing wasn't workshopped out. And if you know anything about HST, just pause for a moment and consider him as part of your critique group.

Finished?

He may not be your type of writer. Which means you suck. Okay, maybe not. Maybe we'll just consider you suspect for your obvious lack of taste. Putting all of that aside, maybe you can simply appreciate the simple fact that Thompson was a master at what he did.

It makes me want to take chances in my own writing, to not edit out the stuff I think will offend people; to not make my manuscripts so clinical and pedestrian. It makes me want to write the way he wrote - without abandon, using words that come so close to burning the page.

In Which I Drone On

2010-07-30T09:41:00.000-07:00

I've struggled recently. Every word that came seemed obtuse, full of awkward angles that didn't really work with the next equally mishapen word. I started worrying, of course. That's what being a writer actually is about, right? We worry about the words, the stories, whether people are going to think we're one step away from screaming about The End Times on some corner.

Of course, then at least you'd have a dystopian novel to sell. But whatever.

I was worried. But it wasn't the normal I'm a fraud and people (like my agent, my wife, my friends...) are finally going to figure this out! (And let me pause to point out who was first on that list... we all need serious drugs, people. Really.) No, this was worrying of the existential sort. The type of thing dudes like Kierkegaard and Sartre wrote about. The type of thing that inspires people to wear black turtlenecks and smoke pipes or clove cigarettes as they stand around the coffee house talking about how conflicted they are.

You know, whatever.

The point is: the last few weeks, I've faced something I've never faced in all my time writing. I lost my confidence.

This is bad.

I tend to write pretty freely. I come up with an idea and riff. Kinda like this:

It's nothing for me to write 4,000 words in one sitting. And some of them are good words, at least half of which I will keep and will see a late draft. What I'm left with is a very raw form of my story. From there, I shape it into brilliance.

Feel free to use a different word.

The last month has been tough. I've cried a lot and listened to bands like the National. I watched Lifetime movies and asked my wife if she thought I was fat. All because everything I put down felt flat. And awful. And I hated every single damn word.

This is bad, people.

But something clicked this week. First, I read a blog post about writing every day. You could tell this writer really wanted it, which made me think, "Hey, *I* really want this..." And then I had an esoteric exchange with another friend on Facebook where we quoted movies and talked about heady things like Truth and Beauty and I realized, "Damn, that's what writing has been for me - a way to find Truth." And yes, I realize how pretentious that sounds, but you're going to have to deal with, okay? Fine. And then I read a great book and it was the proverbial tipping point.

When I was in graduate school, I decided I wanted to write. Two years ago, I actually started working on becoming a writer. It has been one of the most confounding, greatest, wonderful, frustrating things I've ever undertaken, filled with highs and lows. The highs make you feel like you're Hulk Hogan or something, larger than life. Like all you need to do is follow the 3 Demandments (Training, Saying your Prayers, Eating your vitamins) and soon enough you'll be bodyslamming Andre the Giant like it's nothing, right? The lows make you feel like Hulk Hogan, too. Just the reality television show version, limping around and seeming so old.

I love writing. I love being a writer. And maybe that's why the past month has been so hard.

This was originally going to be a post about inspiration. How I find it in so many places. Music, movies, books. How it will strike when I'm certain that my life is ending and I will have to take up knitting or some shit. And maybe this post is exactly about that, I don't know.

The point is, I sat down last night and I wrote 5,000 words. Like they were going out of style. I sat in the coffee house, trying not to laugh at what I was writing. But not because it was awful. No. NO! Because it was so damn great.

I cried. Okay, I didn't cry. But I did go home and fall asleep with the peace of a child. Happy. Content. At least until I open the file today and start writing once again.

Regardless, it feels good to be back.

Please, do not be shocked.

2010-07-22T08:50:00.000-07:00

I am not perfect.

I know, I know. Take a second to breathe. This was most evident to me last night when I (get ready for it...) LOST at Scrabble to my wife.

For the first time.

In 10 years of marriage.

She was busting out triple word scores on words like freakin' quay. QUAY. Who even KNOWS that word? And why in the hell is the letter 'Q' worth 10 points? I'm pretty certain that, despite my obvious religious connections, my wife has been associating with the devil. That, of course, is the only explanation.

Okay. So I'm not perfect. It's going to be a hard transition for all of us.

Luckily, I've been reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird*

And you know what? Every draft I've been working on lately has suffered from the sin of perfectionism. I thought I was doing myself a favor, working slow - methodically, even - plodding away word by word, trying to put down words that would make my agent, your mom and, eventually, an editor say something like, "Oh, Bryan! Joyous! Inspired! Prophetic!" And I'd be sitting there smiling all coyly. (13 point word alert...) Then I'd say, "Oh, you know. I just sat down and wrote a bit."

I was pretty sure all that was going to happen. Because I had a plan. Better yet, I had an outline. And I was damn sure that I wouldn't be able to (let alone need to...) revise any chapters because their beauty would be so Awesome, I'd weep.**

I bet you know how this ends.

Yes, I am currently writing the best novel in the history of the universe. It will make you laugh. It will make you cry. And above all... it is PERFECT. (And if you believe this, I'd like you to go back and read this post and take me at my word...)

No. Everything I was writing was awful. I hated it. It felt flat and adult. It was pre-meditated. To put it in literary terms: it sucked donkey butt.

What brought me to this place was the desire NOT to have to revise endlessly. To write something that was focused from the beginning. I didn't want to start off another book with what Lamott calls a 'Shitty First Draft.'

Well, sorry. Because it seems like there is no other way, is there? Because no matter how much you plan, your story will always change. And more than change - it will get better.

So what is my problem?!

I am a writer. Strike that. I am a self concious, anxious, unable to shake the feeling that I'm a fraud-writer. (Wait... there isn't a different type, right?) I was trying to be safe, to make sure that I wouldn't mess anything up.

Good plan. For me (and Lamott echoes this), just sitting down to write has been the joy. That's where the spark comes from. It's how the ideas pop out of nowhere, or a killer phrase jumps from some place deep inside my brain. Almost every funny part of my book has come from me sitting, riffing with my characters. Not with an outline.

I leave you with this wisdom:

I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while their doing it. - Bird by Bird, 28

So, go. Run.***

*Transition, For the Win.
**In a manly, literary way.
*** That was deep, wasn't it?

On Crotch Thrusting and the Newbery Medal

2010-07-07T14:23:00.000-07:00

Of course, I was amazingly popular in high school. Check that mess - I am still massively popular. (According to my blogpatrol stats, I'm apparently huge in Slovenia.) But whatever. You know all of this.

Besides the smashing good looks, the saint-like altruism, the prophetic wit, and a tendency to always say Awesome things, I do have some faults.

DO NOT BE ALARMED. These faults are mostly minor things like a tendency to lean over to my wife during a movie and say, "You do realize that the husband is the one who killed the girl..." And, of course, a way of finding humor in situations that most people would find inappropriate.

So, my 'faults.'

Seriously, I've had many awkward situations where my sense of humor (and lack of filter) have gotten me in some trouble. For example:

MOM OF STUDENT: Hello, it's nice to meet you. You're the youth director at the church, right?"
ME: Oh, YEAH! (vigorous crotch thrusts)

Or a recent e-mail conversation with a friend:

FRIEND: You're going to write a middle grade book? Awesome!
ME: Well, maybe.
FRIEND: That sounds cool!
ME: NEWBERY, BITCHES!

So maybe you get the point? I'm flawed, even if it is in a very awesome and (at times) amusing way. There are times when I think, Man, I wish I could be like one of those, like, contemplative dudes... spending time in silence and shit... Ultimately, I come back to the conviction that I am who I am. And that makes me special. Feel free to make that 'special' if you so choose...

Anyway, the point is: I'd be pretty boring if I was stuffy, tucked in my shirt and, you know, shaved on a regular basis.

Recently, I read a book - CRACKED UP TO BE by Courtney Summers - and the whole time I thought, "I probably shouldn't like this Parker chick. She's so... mean." And then I started thinking, "Yeah, she's like some of my friends in high school..." And then I started crying. What brought me back from the edge was a blog post (again by Courtney) that made think about characters who are difficult to like, and the importance of taking chances.

You may have read the way I swooned over a book called CATCH. Well, as I was reading CRACKED UP TO BE, I felt that similar flutter of excitement. Know why? Let me give you a quick answer: I love good characters. I love real characters. But for a character to be real, they need to be flawed.

I know, I know. This is like Writing 101 (wait for my next explosion of knowledge when I blog about the importance of showing, not telling...) but I'm not talking about these minor imperfections found in some books. Like, He always burps when he's done drinking Dr. Pepper!!!! No. Real imperfections. Real problems. Personalities that struggle to do the right thing, to move beyond their own issues, self-consciousness - beyond their own ability to feel comfortable. That's what makes a character exciting, I think - when an author takes a chance and writes a character in a way that might make people say, "I don't like this person." That's risk. And I think that's what makes great fiction.

But who knows. Let me remind you that I am the guy who just wrote, NEWBERY, BITCHES! So a grain of salt, all that.

When you can't put down a book...

2010-06-28T09:59:00.000-07:00

I was at Borders on Friday, trolling around the YA section, when I found a book all the way at the end of the top shelf called CATCH.

The cover looked interesting and the jacket copy made me say, "Well, okay. Perhaps."

Hell, you know I never say perhaps. I mean, I'd love to be that guy who sits around - stroking his soul patch - saying things like, "Perhaps..."

But I'm not. I'm the guy with the Top 40 patch, saying stupid things in Ebonics like WORD!

Okay, but not the point. So I pull CATCH down off the shelf along with Courtney Summers' book CRACKED UP TO BE, and a few others.

The first thing I notice? It's got a blurb from James Frey* on the front. On the back? Oh, a blurb by some author named John Green. That kinda cracked me up. It also made me think, "When was this book written, dogg?"

And yes, I am TOTALLY the type of guy who sits around - wishing he had a soul patch - saying things like, "dogg..."

So anyway, great book. Made me wish I was a better writer, all that stuff. However, there are a few things that truly blew me away about this book.

1.) It is an authentic boy voice, written unabashedly for a male audience. Well, at least I think so. I am quite the critic when it comes to the authenticity of a male voice. If we want boys to read (which I think we do) shouldn't we write books that, I don't know, actually sound like boys talking? The main character, Tim Temples, isn't easy to peg down. He's not the stoic, marble, smoldering, I'll rip your throat out, overly sensitive, always joking, jock-asshole, typical, Oohh, I bet he's hott! male character you often find in YA. He's complex. And no, I don't have a crush. STOP JUDGING ME.

Okay.

2.) The plot had me turning pages to see what happens next. There were no mythical creatures. There were no tournaments to the death (but I still love me some Hunger Games). The world wasn't ending (again, dystopian? I'm a fan.) And there sure as hell wasn't any sparkling happening. (It's a cheap joke but I'll take it...) No. It was a bout a guy struggling with his future. With what it means to grow, to move on, to make choices. In all ways, it is a true coming of age story.

3.) The book actually elicited an emotional response from me.** As I read one specific part of the plot, I kept thinking, "No. She'd better not. I can't believe this. WHY DOES MY LIFE HAVE TO ALWAYS BE THIS WA--" Um. Yeah. So it was very realistic, but not in an overt way. Without giving anything away, it's one of those moments that I think everybody has at some point in there life. Where you're entire body aches and, no matter what you do, you can't fix what's wrong.

4.) There wasn't a happy ending. I'm a fan of this. But unlike some of the teens in my writing group, I am not a fan of the unrealistic, Let's do this to piss off the reader ending. And when I say There wasn't a happy ending please realize that I mean, There totally was a happy ending. Just not the one I kept wanting to happen.

Because...

5.) It was realistic. And that's what I crave in YA. Real, true realistic fiction. Sure, there's something to be said about dramatic, issue based books. But coming from a guy who works with teenagers on a daily basis? Yeah, there isn't much of that in their lives. Their stress, their problems (our plots?) come from seemingly quiet things like acceptance, being transparent about who they really are, and trying to navigate this weird area between adolescence and adulthood. To me, that is what YA should be about.***

I loved this book. I am not a compulsive reader, and I usually read 1-2 chapters a night. I read this book in a day. It may be my new favorite YA book. Ever. To end, let me just say:

It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.****

* Let me just say this about James Frey. Who gives a damn if he made some stuff up? I don't. That book was pretty good. Not really my thing, but I can see why it was popular. And Oprah, if you're reading this, give it a rest. Making him apologize? Don't make me [edited to keep the author free of any lawsuits, negative blog comments, or Oprah-fan hit attempts.] So, believe THAT! (I actually heard it was originally sold as fiction and changed by the publisher to memoir, which was hot at the time...) Anyway.

** No, I didn't cry. And just for thinking that, I'm going to have to give you a little of THIS.

*** Don't get your panties all twisted, I'm not saying this ISN'T happening in YA. I'm just saying it sometimes gets pushed aside in favor of, say, fallen angels. Feel free to flame me.

**** Kudos if you get this movie reference.

State of the Union

2010-06-24T13:52:00.000-07:00

I just recently finished WHEN YOU REACH ME by Rebecca Stead. I bought the book before it won the Newberry because everybody was talking about it. My wife read it. We loaned it to a few friends. But something wasn't right about me reading it until just a few days ago.

A quick aside: yes, I've kinda given up on adult books for a little while. I read a few Christopher Moore novels, a techno-thriller, and a funny superhero book - but ultimately I came back to kid lit. Why? Well, back to that in a minute...

First, WHEN YOU REACH ME.

Do you ever read a book and, when it's over, are unable to explain why it was so enjoyable? WHEN YOU REACH ME is so well written, it has great characters, and there's this great supernatural twist woven into the plot that, unlike so many others, isn't heavy handed. And she accomplished all of this in less than 200 pages. Amazing.

So I'm reading it and simultaneously thinking:

"This is important. You know, I should write something like this. Yeah, right. You CAN'T write something like this, dude. See? See that right there? Exactly. Just finish the book and stop dreaming..."

It is easily one of the best books I've ever read. I enjoyed it that much. Now, why I was reading it is a completely different story. Let's start at the beginning.

1.) I write a book - yay.
2.) I revise the book - meh.
3.) I revise the book - hey, okay.
4.) I revise the book - -_-
5.) I query agents - meh
6.) I sign with agent - yay
7.) I revise the book - again.
8.) One more time - okay, better now.
9.) We send the book out - yay
10.) I wait.
11.) I wait.
12.) I wait.
13.) REJECTION
14.) Repeat 10-13.

I've purposefully not blogged, or even mentioined, my submission process. One, because it's not something I want public. Second, in a moment of frustration/rejection, maybe it's not best to share your *ahem* thoughts with the world? Third, my agent told me not to. ;)

I admit: the rejection was hard. Really hard. Because I care about that book. And I want it to be published more than I can probably convey on this blog. But that doesn't mean the reasons it isn't being published right now aren't valid. Of course, I won't get into specifics, because that goes back to not wanting everything about the process to be transparent (and, again, my agent probably wouldn't probably find it enlightening...) I do, however, want to say one thing thing: every person I've encountered in publishing is madly talented, intelligent, and they care about books.

Seriously. Some of the rejections I received were amazing in their detail. It was obvious they connected with my writing, which is such a validating thing. But it was also nice to have somebody who had nothing to gain from my writing say, "This part didn't work."

Can I just say how much I've really wanted an honest critique of my writing? Half the time, I feel like a hack (a fact I've mentioned more than once on this blog, I'm sure.) To even get a small crumb thrown my way, having somebody tell me my voice worked but the story needed to be bigger - that threw my eyes wide open. It showed me some of the holes in my own writing. It made me want to work harder, to get better, to write something memorable and, in a word, important.

And while I really think LEGENDARY DAYS has something to say, I also think there are better books inside me.

And that brings me back to WHEN YOU REACH ME.

I may or may not have decided to write a middle grade book. For junior high readers. Without some of my favorite words.

Like shit. And ass. And others.

I know. It will be hard. But maybe that's the beauty of it. Maybe such a stretch, such a different direction is exactly what I need to do right now.

So I picked up a few MG novels. DIARY OF A WIMPY KID, THE STRANGE CASE OF ORIGAMI YODA (great, btw), WHEN YOU REACH ME, and THE TRUE MEANING OF SMEKDAY. Reading these books has been a treat - an almost magical escape from the staleness I was feeling in the recent YA books I read.

And so that's what I'm doing. I'm starting to write a book that came to me on a very basic premise as I sat in the sun, watching my kids play in a sprinkler. It, too, may never get published. It may never even get on my agent's (or an editor's) desk. But like rejection, sometimes it's fun to take a risk. More than that, sometimes it's important and necessary.

Moving Forward

2010-06-06T08:12:00.000-07:00

Some of you may know that I work as a youth pastor.

I know, right?

Luckily, I work at a very forgiving church. (I'm pretty liberal.)

Anyway, today is senior recognition Sunday - the day when the graduating seniors are, um, recognized. The whole to-do falls on my shoulders.

Okay, so, honestly? Being a youth pastor - at times - is pretty weak. You've got apathetic kids, over-scheduled parents (and, again, kids), a senior pastor to deal with, and - at least in the great Pacific Northwest - a community that considers your entire presence a bit sketchy.

The good stuff is pretty great; like having a job where I can go out play Ultimate Frisbee and call it work; a job where an Xbox 360 is a necessary tool; a job where I am asked to be a part of the entire spectrum of highs and lows in a teen's life. And, of course, that moment when a teenage boy tries to pull a practical joke on you in the middle of the night and you are like, "Um, seriously?" And he's all, "Haha!" But then I'm like, "Dude. I had you before you even got off the bus this weekend."

Anyway.

Last night, I started a book by Christopher Moore called A DIRTY JOB. The first chapter is a killer. The next few chapters kept me up much later than I was planning, especially with the alarm set for 6:00 a.m.

This morning, as I was riding my bike to the church, I kept thinking: "You know, fiction (writing in general) is the exact same way... it shows us the highs, the lows, and the truly great ones even give meaning to the in-betweens."

Okay, I didn't REALLY think all that. Call it a paraphrase.

Anyway.

I've always loved books because they allowed me to transcend, to be voyeuristic, to move forward. In a lot of ways, reading/writing is the cheapest (if not hardest...) form of therapy. And now, as I begin (again) the genesis of a new book, I'm struck by how scary it can be moving forward. Everything is so unknown, right? You could write 300 pages and learn - damn it! - you're just a hack. You could realize that you've only got one story to tell and - damn it! - nobody wants to represent it. Or you could realize that - damn it! - you'd much rather watch a movie instead of doing anything related to writing.

But - in a non-religious sense - I think you have to believe, to have hope, to even find joy in the process of moving forward. Because if you don't? Well, you'll be the literary equivalent of the dude who shows up at high school parties wearing his letterman's jacket from 1995.

And nobody wants that.

Adult Books: Part 1

2010-06-03T11:05:00.000-07:00

The other day, I took my kids to a new gymnastics program. It was pretty typical. The place was alive with over-caffeinated instructors (Are! My! Twisters! READY?!?!), modern parents trying to cajole their wild-ass kids (Preston... Preston, please. PRESTON COME HERE NOW!), and a host of screaming toddlers (my children sat quietly in the lotus position meditating.)

I've never been comfortable in this scene. I'm not the type of guy who willingly wears those Number 1 DAD!!! t-shirts. Hell, I make fun of those dudes. And I don't do soccer moms.

Yes. Pun intended.

This is a long way of saying: I don't fit in with many of the adults my age. I don't go to dinner parties. I wear Chuck Taylor All Stars to church. I have no desire to play the stock market and hell if I'm interested in wearing a polo shirt and shorts... with a belt.

But...

I recently decided to read 5 adult books. (And let me say how stupid it sounds to say "adult" books...I'm going to start referring to them as my "Big-Boy Books") I figured, as a writer, it would be useful to read a book marketed for adults and see what was different. Was the writing more advanced? What about the humor? Are they as boring as their covers make them out to be?

Of course, a lot of research has gone into the selection of these books. I wanted to mix up new writers with some well established ones (i.e Christopher Moore.) At the same time, I didn't want to jump in bed with an author who I already love (again, Christopher Moore.) So I went to the book store and I bought....

First, the title - CAPTAIN FREEDOM: A SUPERHERO'S QUEST FOR TRUTH, JUSTICE, AND THE CELEBRITY HE SO RICHLY DESERVES - is awesome. When I first saw this book a year ago, I almost bought it. I think I ended up leaving with AN ABUNDANCE OF KATHERINES by John Green instead (which proved to be a good choice, as it solidified my decision to write YA.) Still, I've always held the title in the back of my head, plotting to come around and buy it.

That day was approximately last Tuesday.

The book is hilarious. But the humor isn't necessarily what I expected. More satirical, the author, G. Xavier Robillard, plays on everything from Movie Piracy (they're actual pirates who live in a hollow volcano...) to Area 51 (which is a prison AND night club for extra-terrestrials... and the uber-famous.) In case you aren't aware, satire is like ninja humor. It has to be stealth enough that you don't expect it, but once you read the joke it has to jump all over you and go, well, ninja. Captain Freedom is kinda like this.

So what did I learn?

Well, nothing. I mean, I went into this thinking, "I'm going to read an adult book, extract some sort of useful knowledge, and then use it to further my own writing!" I'd be lying if I said I wasn't sure why that didn't happen... I flat out enjoyed the book. A lot. It made me laugh. It made me think about crying if that wasn't such an un-manly type thing to do. It made me question my existence.

Okay, that last bit is completely untrue.

There were obvious differences: the plot was a lot slower than many YA books, but that doesn't really bother me. In fact, I'm learning that I prefer character-driven books over your typical 3 disasters and a vampire plot. (Okay, that was harsh. Sorry. Kind of.)

I don't know... maybe I'm becoming more of an adult. Maybe I need to go check out the pleated khaki section at Wal-Mart? Either way, the next book I'm reading is THE ELECTRIC CHURCH by Jeff Somers.

Hopefully my next blog post won't be about my financial portfolio or some shit like that.

That's a day I'll never forget...

2010-05-25T23:23:00.000-07:00

Tonight, as I was driving home, a song popped onto my iPod that I haven’t heard in years – one of those buried tracks that only shows its head when the machine is set to shuffle.

The summer of 1995. North Carolina. Driving around in my red Chrysler Duster, looking for some ladies. You know.

As I drove, I started remembering things about that time in my life. How everything seemed possible. How I’d drive around for hours, burning gas even though I was poor as hell. Just because there wasn’t anything else to do. Because – what if? What if the person I was supposed to be with was out there driving around at the same time? Listening to the radio, waiting for my favorite songs to play. Turning them up. Driving fast.

I don’t miss that time in my life. But I do miss those moments of “What if” when I’d take to the muggy streets of Hickory, North Carolina. Looking for adventure, love, or maybe even just somebody to see a movie with.

I do miss the moment when that song comes on the radio and my entire body reacts. Because everything is tied up in that one moment.

I came home burning to write.

Inspiration is such a weird thing, isn’t it?

The World Has Turned and Left Me Here.

2010-05-17T12:02:00.000-07:00

In high school, Weezer's Blue Album was king of my CD player. And for good reason. It kicks ass, dude. Say what you will about some of the insanity they've put out in the past few years. The Blue Album is a constant.

I remember being in my car, listening to the song The World Has Turned and Left Me Here when one of my friends said, "Man, can we change this... it reminds me of... Her."

At the time, I was like, "Oh, yeah, man."

Now I'm thinking: "Jesus, really? Are we really a couple of emo dudes riding around North Carolina, listening to Weezer and talking about our feelings?"

To make the story even more memorable, this dude - not really a friend, more of a person I was trying to get to play bass in our garage band at the time - kept rewinding the CD to one part of the song and saying, "Right there. That's how I feel."

Seriously.

As writers, we are warned left and right about the deluge of rejections that will come. It's not an "if" it's a "when" we're told by the weathered veterans, people with old queries stuck to their shoe and a 1,000 word stare.

Some of us believe them. Some of us don't. But we all face rejection.

Hopefully none of us are sitting there alternating between refreshing our e-mail and rewinding a mid-90's Weezer song. But the question remains: what do you do when the inevitable rejection comes?

I suggest drinking.

Okay, not really. But hell, it's worked for many writers.

Seriously, though - what do you do when an agent writes back and says, "Hey, you should off yourself and save the world from whatever this thing is you sent me. Or take up knitting. BTW - I just didn't love it."

What do you do?

Here's what I suggest:

1.) Turn to other writers. I can't stress enough how important having a community of other writers is. I, personally, have 5-6 writers at various stages of this maddening process who I can e-mail and say a number of things - good and bad. I've never even met half of them, but I consider them good friends and wouldn't be able to navigate this process without them.

2.) Keep it in perspective. Seriously. Whether your frustrated with a scene in your first (or ninth) book, struggling with your newest agent-penned rejection, or anxiously waiting to hear back from your agent regarding a submission - keep it in perspective. There are bigger things to worry about. The worst thing that can happen is you'll write a new book, you'll query another agent, or you'll (again) write another book!

3.) Remember why you started writing. All I need to do is go into the book store and make my way among the shelves. It reminds me how much I want to be a part of the publishing business. I remember how passionate I am when it comes to my writing. Usually, that's enough to shrug away the negative thoughts.

4.) Learn. Read those rejections. What do they say? What can you use to make your book better? Your writing? Do not fall into the arrogance of thinking everything you write is golden and perfect. Leave that for me.

So what draws me back? Mainly, as said above, my love of writing. My to have a voice in the YA community. But it's more than that. It's the idea that I can always get better. How every time I sit down at my laptop, there's a chance I'm going to put something down that surprises me. Or even better - makes me remember why I started writing in the first place.

Weezer. For you.

Pre-Writing

2010-05-07T10:27:00.000-07:00

I'm not one of those I've got to get my 1,000 words down today! type of writers. You won't find me working on more than one book at a time either. When I commit to something, it consumes every part of my creativity. Even blogging becomes a challenge when I'm working on something I love.

And right now? I've got something I really like in the pipes.

At first, I knocked out 80 pages, like it was nothing. Turns out, nothing is exactly what those pages happened to be. The voice was wrong. The story kind of meandered all over the place. I wasn't sure who the main character was.

So I trashed them. And I cried. Gnashing of teeth, that whole bit.

Since that time, I've slowed down a lot. As I said above, I've never been a conventional writer. I work in furious two week spurts, finishing a draft quickly once I've got the voice in my head. After that, I jump right back in without any time off and do a quick re-read where I re-write as I'm reading, making changes as I see them in real time.

But most of all, I take a lot of time to just think about my story. I turn it over in my head, think of funny situations - the major points in the plot. I try and get an idea of who the character is, how he'd react in a given situation. This type of wondering surrounds my brain for weeks, even months, at a time.

For a long time, I was envious of the people who meticulously plotted out their stories. Those who had complete genealogies of every character in their book. Of course, anybody who constructed their own language was mocked without pity. Obviously.

Like many of my writing quirks, I've come to learn that this is just a part of my process. And more so - it seriously shapes how my characters turn out and how I'm able to jump into their particular voice in a matter of seconds during revisions. Maybe I even enjoy this part of writing. Where everything seems possible, and I get a chance to laugh at jokes that only I've heard.

Okay, I'm off to go play some xbox. But don't be confused. It is totally work. I like to call it pre-writing.

In Which A Puppy Dies.

2010-04-26T10:14:00.000-07:00

Okay, so no real puppies die. That would probably ruin some of my vegan street cred. We're talking fictional puppies and, more specifically, the happy ending.

There are a few of you who've read my book, or at least have a working knowledge of what I like to refer to as the Genius. Without being too specific (I want you to buy a copy if/when it sells, fool), my book is about a guy looking for a happy ending. So what I'm about to write? Yeah, grain of salt and all that.

I'm the type of guy who leans over to you at the movie theatre and says, "Hey, the dude with the moustache killed that lady. Believe that!" This is usually followed with a vigorous bout of crotch thrusting and, sometimes, a loud BAM!

Anyway. It's the same with books. Most of the time, I've got the ending pegged a couple hundred pages before I'm finished reading. My wife likes to read books out of order (She read the last Harry Potter book without reading ANY of the others...) and is known to read the final pages of a book to find out what happens. But you can see from this picture that she's not like the rest of us.

Right. So me figuring out the ending has nothing to do with any of that heresy.

Part of it is just my supreme intelligence. (Of course.) Most of it, however, is because I enjoy unravelling a mystery. I love thinking about how a character has been portrayed in a movie/book and, from what I know, trying to figure out their thought process. For writers, this is something we all do. We create characters and give them personalities. And then we let them go.

This brings me to my question: why are there so many happy endings? Why does the girl always end up with the boy? Why doesn't the dog ever die in those Man's Best Friend-type movies? It's not that I enjoy the type of movie or book that has you questioning the meaning of life... I just know that life sometimes sucks.

Do we expect everything to work out? Is this part of the creative contract between writer and reader? I have to say, I love when a book ends with a bit of ambiguity. And I love a bittersweet, heart breaking ending - especially in a love story. To me, this ambiguity mirrors real life. Very rarely have I found people, situations, love, life, religion - any of it - to be black and white. It's always this very nuanced sort of gray.

Have you read Lauren Oliver's BEFORE I FALL? Besides being a brilliant piece of writing, it plays around with this idea of what makes a happy ending. I don't want to spoil the book for you, so I'll ask a question instead: What is a happy ending?

In theology, one of the biggest hurdles for people is the problem of theodicy or, the problem of evil. Why does God allow bad things to happen to people? I'll solve that question on my other blog (that's a joke, I don't have another blog.) But my answer to that question is much like my feelings on happy endings.

Sometimes healing is a matter of perspective. And maybe the same is true of happy endings.

I Am Punk Rock (part 1)

2010-04-20T08:55:00.000-07:00

Taking a cue from Suzanne, I've been reading through some of my old writing lately. While I don't have a novel graveyard, I do have a number of kick-ass, funny, amazing - almost prophetic - essays that I wrote during a time when I was convinced I could be the straight David Sedaris.

First, some history.

I started writing seriously when I was in graduate school. M.F.A., you ask? Pshaw. (Hell yes, I just went there...) No, I studied religion. Theology. The stuff of Gods. Or God, at least. Anyway, while most of my friends were learning how to be holy, how to look good in a black robe, I became convinced that the best use of my $50,000 Vanderbilt education would be to become... a writer.

Naturally, I started writing about myself. Because is there a more compelling subject? These essays ranged from seeing a person return a Bible to my brief experience selling jeans at American Eagle. The one I've decided to share, however, is about One-Legged Pants. What are One-Legged-Pants, you ask?

Right. So this was just begging to be written about. So, here it goes... Part 1 of I Am Punk Rock

Fashion extremes run deep in my family. From my sister’s pearl necklace phase, to my own flirtations with switchblade combs and shark-tooth jewelry...well, let’s just say that none of us are afraid of Fashion.
    So, when my mom called and told me of my brother’s plans to buy one-legged pants, I wasn’t surprised. Perhaps it was because I had just bought a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that day, but this all seemed reasonable to me.
    “He’s not going to get killed,” I said. “Would you rather him walking around looking like a male model? Now, that would scare me more than these...wait, what are they?”
    “One-legged pants. And he is going to die, Bryan. The greasers are going to kill your brother. This is Tennessee! Nobody here wears stuff like that...”
    My mother’s fear is authentic, if not a bit dated. I am certain she does not believe in fashion greasers stalking the hallways of local high schools, looking to deliver a beating to anybody not in $100 jeans - let alone one-legged pants. But, this is West Tennessee. Home Wranglers and large trucks. And let’s just say that my brother isn’t exactly a good ole’ boy. He watches obscure cartoons, and could give a flip about football or - pretty much - anything else consuming the mind of most other high school guys. You can find him on Friday night recreating epic light sabre duels in my parent’s den that at any of the cool spots in town. So, I get it. Maybe one-legged pants aren’t the fashion statement my brother needs to make at this point in his life.
    “Just tell him not to wear them to school,” my mom said. For most of my adult life, my mother has believed that my words would convince any average teenager from doing one thing or another. Kind of like a pastoral Jedi mind trick, I guess. She also is convinced that, if only I had taught my brother to catch and throw a football, that he would have been somehow elevated above the cruelty and crap of high school. “He can’t wear them to school...”

    Her voice trailed off as I began inspecting my new glasses. They jumped from my face in obtuse glory. These were serious specs. They screamed progressive politics and punk rock mentalities. Of course, I could see nothing out of them as they were most likely plucked directly off the face of some aged revolutionary. That would explain the tri-focal lenses. I enjoyed wearing them around the house, trying not to stumble over toddlers and other unrecognizable things on the floor. My wife, who does not understand Fashion, told me they looked ridiculous.

    “And you can’t even see out of them!”

    “You’ll get used to them,” I said at dinner one night. “This is high Fashion, Michelle.” I missed another stab at the peas on my plate, and began to explain to my wife how these glasses were the stuff of revolutionaries, people who make a difference in the world. You can take them off your face when making a point, and it will be nothing short of profound, my wife.

I'm thinkin' of tryin' out for a scholarshippp.

2010-04-16T11:49:00.000-07:00

First, go watch THIS.

Besides being brilliant, The Breakfast Club has some of the best dialogue ever.

Excuse me, sir, why would anybody want to steal a screw?
Hey! How come Andrew gets to get up? If he gets up, we'll all get up! It'll be anarchy!
I expected a little more from a varsity letterman.

Oh, but my favorite part? When he puts the chair in front of the door and Bender says, "The door's far to heavy, sir." I love the way Paul Gleason ignores him, the way for - just a moment - he looks smug. You know, just before the door slaps the chair out of frame.

Genius.

As I was watching it (what? It's my day off. Well, kind of. I mean, I'm at work. But there's little to do. Hey, do you want to fight about this or something?)

Right. So as I was watching this video I thought, "Man, my high school experience was nothing like this. Bender looks at least 25 and I'm pretty sure you couldn't dance to Pinback and get high in the library without anybody knowing. Plus, the parties were never as epic as they seemed to be in John Hughes's world, right?

But, especially in the Breakfast Club, there is something that I (and most others, I assume) learned long after high school. The stereotypes, the way we see and categorize other people, are rarely accurate. Sure, I'm fairly certain that when I come upon a person wearing a Descendent's shirt, that we're going to have a few things in common. But most of my friends in high school? Not really around now. And those who are friends with me on Facebook seem very different, if not completely foreign.

And that's what I love about the Breakfast Club - the possibility of transformation, even if only for a Saturday. The Jock, The Nerd, The Badass - all of them come together (for the first time in the above scene...) and form a community. Soon enough they're running through the halls, racing Vernon back to the library. You've got the transcendence of boundaries, self sacrifice and, of course, love.

What better message could teenagers leave high school with?

Of course, YA has the exact same opportunity. I recently heard a talk on the definition High Concept. Immediately, someone yelled out, "Snakes on a Plane!" I laughed, and made a note for my next book that will be titled: "A Boat Sinks (And it Sucks.)"

Great title, I know. The talk - which was much better than I'll do it justice - discussed the combination of high concept ideas with something that is universal, something that everybody immediately understands. Breakfast Club is about detention. But maybe it's about friendship and the difficulty it takes to be a teenager.

Right?

And YA is in this insanely unique position to do just that - to help kids break down barriers. To help them take chances so they'll hopefully learn that even if somebody is easily defined as a sport-o, a dickhead, a waistoid, or even a slut - they are inherently more than anything that term can say.

My apologies if this is deeper than the normal, Hey, Look! I'm talking about ninjas and using bad 90's ebonics!

*And if you DON'T know what the title references? Please... click here.

Guest Blog Post

2010-04-13T20:28:00.000-07:00

Hey people. I wrote a guest blog post for Suzanne Young. You can bask it in the glory HERE.

In Which I Swoon. Damn it.

2010-04-12T10:55:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I attended the Annual SCBWI Conference for Western Washington. And I know what you’re thinking: “But... But... You know everything Bryan! Why would you go to a conference if you weren’t on the faculty?”

Read on, friends. Read on.

First, however, let me say that most of my conference experience comes from my job as a youth pastor. These conferences usually feature terrible music being played by dudes that wear too much gel in their hair and are perpetually tan. They’re filled with right-wing types who, if they discovered my true theological/political feelings, would stone me. Or, at least, give me the evil eye. I spend most of those conferences with a cynical half-smile on my face, trying not to shout out: “I voted for Barack Obama!”

This conference was different. First, it was filled with writers. And, regardless of their political leanings, I love being around writers. There’s a lot of hope in that crowd, which is fairly ironic when compared with the Christian crowd - but whatever. A different post at another time, maybe.

My weekend started with meeting my agent, Michael Bourret. I won’t go into any details, because I’m half convinced he maintains a secret identity as some sort of super-powered hero, and I don't want to ruin his cover. I was already happy to have him as an agent, but actually getting to meet him was a different story. I like to meet people, it gives me a sense of who they are... what type of personality they have. And everything about MB was exactly what I hoped for.

Wait... did I just swoon? Jesus. Moving on.

The best part of this conference - hands down - was connecting with other writers. From the unpublished (my new friend J.C. Geiger) to the New York Times Bestseller (Jay Asher) to the “Holy Crap she makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, but I really like her...” (Suzanne Young) - that, to me, is the reason to go to these conferences. Meeting people who can inform your writing, who can share their stories with you.

I was lucky enough to also meet a couple of very interesting editors, painting a picture of the extremely passionate and committed men and women who help bring books to life. There insight was profound.

But let me stop here for a moment and suggest something:
Don’t be a moth.
Don’t rush to the editors and agents, thinking they’re some kind of supernatural force. (Save that for people like me, please.)

These are real people. They get tired. They get annoyed. And, yes, they may hold certain keys to all of our dreams - but they’re still just people. By far, the most often-asked question I got was: “How did you get Michael as an agent?” (Always said with reverence.) When I answered, “I sent him a query by e-mail.” There was disappointment.

Maybe they wanted to hear that I had an "in."

Or perhaps they didn’t want to hear that I worked on my book for years before I queried. I'm not sure, but the visible disappointment really surprised me. Of course, I did not mention that it took me 2 weeks to find my agent. (That's called self-preservation, suckas.)

My advice? Go and have fun. Meet the agents and editors. Talk with them. But don’t do it with the ulterior motive of, “I’m going to find out what he/she likes and then I’m going to use it against them in my query!”

Nobody likes this.

Instead, if you find yourself in an opportunity to speak with an editor, just do it. Bring up something they mentioned that you found interesting and just talk. I did it. And I ended up making a connection with an editor at HarperCollins that I really enjoyed. I admit, I was thinking, "Wow, this guy is pretty cool FANBOY ALERT, FANBOY ALERT..." But, at the end of the convention, I was just happy to have met a person who understood how much American Idol sucks.

One last thing... don't try to slip a manuscript under a bathroom stall door. That will result in one thing: another option for butt wiping.

Edited to Add:

1.) Mandy Hubbard: Fun. Writer. Agent.
2.) Greek Yogurt.
3.) Most of you have no idea what this means. I'm fine with that.

The Curious Case of Cross-Dressing Monkeys.

2010-03-09T19:08:00.000-08:00

I facilitate *ahem* a teen writers group. The *ahem* because "facilitate" isn't really what I do. I just try and keep it to a dull roar.

Yeah. Middle School girls.

So anyway, tonight I let them write off a prompt for 5 minutes. We went around the room and took suggestions for what needed to be included in our story.

Ninja (mine, of course.)

Cross Dressing Monkey.

The Hall of Dragons.

Let the games begin, right? Five minutes later, everybody is laughing and you can just see the creative wheels turning in the minds of these kids.

Everybody wanted to share their little blurb. A few are going to work on it some more until we meet next week to try and turn it into an actual story. Some of the paragraphs were pretty damn good too.

I love leading this group. I love seeing kids - sometimes for the first time - get affirmed in their creativity. Affirmed as writers. Above all, I love seeing their words and the excitement that spawns them.

I'll leave you with my short burst of Cross-Dressing Monkey madness.

The cross dressing monkey walked into the royal hall of dragons. Of course, all the ninjas in attendance were like, “Um… what?” Because, seriously, there was an obviously male monkey – I mean, he had a beard, okay? – standing there wearing a pink dress. And, again, this is the royal hall of dragons we’re talking about. Not some Palace of the Fairies or Vampire Crypt. People have been killed for less than this.

“State your business,” the first ninja said.

The monkey curtsied.

“I’m here to see the King of the Dragons.”

Various ninjas murmured in the corners of the room. The monkey ignored them.

“Nobody sees the King without—“

The monkey shrieked loudly, causing every ninja in the room to pull out various weapons. As they advanced, a growl spread across the empty room like a cloud.

“Monkey,” the voice said. “Why are you wearing a dress?”

The monkey picked lint from the frilly seams. “What would you have me wear?”

Of course, every ninja in the place started laughing because nobody talked that kind of smack to the Dragon King.

“I’d have you in my stomach, you little monkey,” the dragon said.

The monkey just smiled.

Novels. Voices. General Insanity.

2010-03-05T10:50:00.000-08:00

I started working on a new book a while back. I wrote about 80 pages before I realized.

This is the exact same Voice of my last book.

For example:

In LEGENDARY DAYS, the main character might say something like: I'm walking through the halls like everybody is watching, like I'm the main man on the screen or whatever. And hell if I even give a damn.*

It took a long time for me to perfect the frenetic Voice that is Head, the main character. It's something that I can slip into in a matter of seconds, making re-writes for LEGENDARY DAYS pretty easy. However, the problem came when I noticed my new main character was speaking in the exact. same. way.

Something like: And then this fool comes up to me without even saying a damn word, just plops his cup right down in my bin and keeps all smiling and laughing with the rest of his cabron friends.*

After I stopped crying, I realized that the voice of one character doesn't need to be the same as the next character (shocking, I know. With this sort of writing advice, I'm about to start charging for this mess. You'd pay. I know you'd pay.)

And that's fine. I've already started creating the Voice of my new MC. And I like it. The tricky part comes in trying to figure out how much of Head's character is actually my writing Voice. I enjoy intense, fast-paced language. The type of writing that pops off the page and kicks you in the face. And I try to write that way (some people find this very annoying. They get a little piece of this... And, no, that isn't me.)

So that's my goal when I'm writing. I want something like a punk rock song. Funny, with genuine emotion. And, voila - Head. I really think Head is a memorable protagonist, if only for his completely delusional outlook on the world. I don't want to write a six part series about the dude or anything, but there are definitely aspects of his character that my writing needs.

When I re-wrote the first chapter of my new book, it seemed flat. Very boring. Like nothing somebody as Awesome as myself would put down on paper. Seriously, it seemed off. So, I went back to the previous version and found it much more enjoyable.

But, the main character's Voice could've EASILY been Head's.

Insanity.

Of course, this is where editing comes into the picture, right? If I looked back at early drafts of LEGENDARY DAYS, I'm sure I would see huge holes in the Voice. And - hopefully - as I'm moving forward in the submission and (egads!) publishing process of LEGENDARY DAYS, I'll be teamed with an editor who will be able to point me to places where the Voice still needs some work.

But this doesn't really answer the question, does it?

And if you've been following this blog long enough, you'll realize that I rarely (okay, never...) end up with an answer to the question I bring up.

Prepare for Times to Be Changing.

Okay, not really. I'm still stuck on this one. My best bet is that my writing Voice feeds each and every character I write. So there will always be a little bit of that frenetic "Head" voice in my characters. As I continue to flesh out this story, learning the motivations and risks for each character, I believe I'll start discovering the voice of my new M.C. Right now, I'm just trying to convince myself I'm not a complete hack.

You know, the biggest part of any 1st draft.

*neither of these are actual lines from my book. But please don't steal them. No, really. Unless you want a ninja chop to the neck or something. Yeah. That's exactly how I roll.

It does get easier. Kinda.

2010-02-25T08:51:00.000-08:00

I spoke with my agent this week. If you don't know, I tend to be a bit... what's the word? Ah, yes. Crazy - when it comes to this whole book business. When I responded to Michael, accepting his offer of representation, I wrote this:

I would like to accept your offer of representation. That is, unless this is some sort of large-scale practical joke by the NYC publishing community. I admit that I would have a sick respect for such a move (after I got out of the fetal position, of course....)

Yeah, that's how I roll. Total professionalism, dogg.

Anyway. That's the sort of anxiety and paranoia he's got to deal with. This same type of fear sometimes translates into my writing. I rarely - if ever - have suffered from anything close to writer's block.

I can put words down on paper, people. Like it's going out of style or something.

My problem has always been in the revision part. Because, really, I can look at a piece of my writing and change it every. single. time. That's not healthy, from a mental illness standpoint OR when you're trying to be a writer. Because things will never be done... or so they say.

So back to my revision. I'm on the phone with my agent, asking him if he really still likes me. Saying stuff like, "Michael. Say it. Say that I'm a good writer. Please."

(Yes, I'm kidding.)

Maybe all writers have a form of weird anxiety. Maybe it is just a part of the business, because we're putting our true selves out there for people to cut down. This creates an inner voice of judgment whispering that we'll never be good enough, that nobody will want to read this crap - etc.

As I re-read my revision, I started to freak out.

The first chapter seemed disjointed and terrible.

The second chapter was worse.

Half way through the third chapter, I was in dire need of anti-depressants. Or alcohol.

The voice of judgment had struck.

You need to realize something. My agent had sent me a very positive e-mail a week before this, saying how I'd done a great job and there wouldn't be much left to do on this final revision. And then on the phone, he said, "You've accomplished a lot on this revision. Sometimes it's hard to do that with the first one, so good job!"

So why was I freaking out?

I have no idea.

But even though I really, really wanted to tinker with those first two chapters, I finished editing the third. Then the fourth. An hour later, I had flown through almost 80 pages.

And guess what?

It all was so good.

The next morning, I re-read the first two chapters. It didn't seem too bad on the second read. I allowed myself to change some of the passive verbs, and that made me feel better. In the second chapter, the pages were filled with frantic notes like... "Re-write!" But when I read them again, it seemed to flow. It worked.

Last night I knocked out another 100 pages. And every one of them felt right. The minor additions Michael asked for seemed so obvious. They practically jumped out from the page saying, "Hey, here's a good spot for a parental interaction!"

This morning, I read from the beginning again.

And guess what?

I liked every word.

And that's how I'm starting to realize that this book is close. Of course, if it gets picked up by a publisher it will go through another round of edits. But those will only make the novel stronger. Kinda like Obi Wan. They - like the notes I've gotten from Michael - will help fill in little holes that I never would've seen.

They make the book better.

And while, yes, the title of this post may be a bit untruthful (because I'm not sure if it ever gets easier...) maybe it does get better. Maybe the hard work brings forward a book that you can read through in one sitting and doesn't engage your gag reflex.

Community

2010-02-18T10:28:00.000-08:00

I had an opportunity to meet with a writers group this week and talk about queries. When I got there, I discovered a group of six writers who - obviously - are very comfortable with one another, not to mention supportive. Many writing groups I've encountered, however, have a fatal flaw - the, "I'm not going to tell you what I really feel about your book because we might not be friends anymore..." syndrome.

I hate to say it, but I was jealous. Because groups like this one are (seemingly) rare. Most of my interactions with other writers comes in the form of Twitter or The Blue Boards. Don't get me wrong... I've met a lot of really cool people on these (and other) sites.

But it is different.

So, yeah, I'm jealous. This group really seemed to want to make themselves (and, in turn, the other writers in their group) better at the craft. It was nice to go and be surprised by a group of writers that were funny and did not suffer from another syndrome... the, "I'm better than you and you should really understand that..." one.

After I was done meeting with the group, I drove to Portland to attend a friend's book reading/signing. Besides walking in and finding a literal who's who of YA, I once again saw a community of kid lit authors. They took pictures (which I deftly avoided... ninja skills are fairly useless without anonymity. Of course, then I found out that the picture was today's pic of the day at Publishers Weekly...)

Again, nice.

As I drove home, I tried to figure out why both of these groups made such an impact on me. Do I need more friends? Am I needy in general? Maybe I should mix in a salad every once and awhile, because these pants feel kinda tight...

You know, the usual existential thoughts.

Between my wife texting me and a few bouts of in the car rock stardom fantasies, I didn't come up with an answer. But my best attempt at figuring it out now is that, like most people, it is nice to have contact with people who understand what you're going through. People who have - in some way - and invested interest in the same things that make get you all excited.

Because something gets lost in e-mail and Twitter. That spark of recognition, maybe, when you tell a story about how some dude offered to give you directions to Powell's via riding in your passenger seat.**

Or maybe not.

Anyway, it's about connection. That's all I can come up with. It's nice to have people close to you who understand the madness, and are within at least an hours drive.

**So, I'm lost. The stupid GPS tells me Powell's is next to this Best Buy. It's not. But, hell, maybe I just can't see it, right? So I ask some random dude who looked fairly safe from a distance. But then he's all leaning in my window, smelling like menthol and giving me the evil eye. Okay, maybe not the evil eye... still, he looked sketchy. Yeah, so he's like, "I'll just come around and show you how to get there. Luckily he goes around the back side of my car, because as soon as I'm sure I'm not going to hit him - I'm gone. That's when he pulls out a gun and starts shooting, right? I went Blues Brothers on him and took off down the road in a cloud of rubber.

(All of this is true except the part with him shooting. Seriously.)

Be Mentally Ill. Be Extravagant.

2010-02-10T10:56:00.000-08:00

I was reading a friend's blog recently and stumbled across a sentence that had me saying, "Yes!" (Of course, that's not an exact quote and I'm not feeling like coming up with any witty dialogue today. So, for the sake of this blog post, let's just suspend our disbelief and try to believe that I simply said, "Yes!")

Right, so I was reading Nova's blog and the first paragraph had me saying, "Yes!" (Of course, that's not an exac-- okay, you got it...)

Here's the first paragraph:

Say one day you get an idea. You’re delusional enough to think it could be a book or something. So you gather up the stamina, drive, inspiration, guts needed to write it, you dig yourself out pockets of time, you bang your head against the wall, you let go of your grip of reality, you lose friends because you’re always at your writing spot writing, you let yourself think you should be allowed to do something this extravagant like be a novelist or something and… somehow… you complete that novel. That’s the most satisfying moment in the world, isn’t it?

In one paragraph, I found my entire writing life. The frustration. The joy. Re-reading a passage of Legendary Days and thinking, "Holy... this is actually good." And there's all your friends who say things like, "Have you got your book published yet?" Or "I should write a book..." which always seems to be said in a way that barely hides what they're really thinking: If this moron can do it, hell, I'm probably the next Jonathan Safran Foer or something.

All of that is so true, so well put, that I felt like I needed to share it and then ghetto it up with my own thoughts.

But above all the frustration, joy, and friends who are about *this* close to getting a ninja kick to the face, it's the idea that being a novelist is extravagant. I've heard people say that there's a certain amount of arrogance in wanting to write a book, especially when you suffer from the mad compulsion that some of us have faced in trying to put words on paper in just the right order. There may be better words to explain it. Like Mental Illness.

After looking up the definition of extravagant, I think I we should just stick with extravagant... (although certain definitions, when paired with writing/writers, does make a strong case for Mental Illness...) Because writing is extravagant. Writing a novel - even calling yourself a novelist or writer sometimes does exceed the limits of reason or necessity.

Because writing is grueling and, at times, thankless. For every moment of joy, I have about 500 moments of self doubt. For every epiphany, there's about 700 places where I smell my manuscript because I can't tell if I'm a bad writer, or if one of my kids puked on the pages.

I'm convinced it is not normal to want to be a writer. It may be romantic, but it certainly is not the mark of a sane person.

Because why would you want to make your life harder? Why add on hours to your normal work day, long after kids/wives/husbands/dogs/your xbox/whatever have gone to sleep? Why do all this against some very discouraging statistics that say most of us will never be published?

Re-read Nova's paragraph, and I think the answer is obvious.

It's the day when you can say, "This is finished. And it is good." Even better, the day when somebody else - your wife, an agent, an editor - really *gets* what your book is about. It's the day when you can put something out into the world that has the power to make somebody else laugh, cry, stalk you on Twitter.

It's the second or third book you write, when you really get into your groove. Or maybe it's a third draft when everything that's coming out of your head just fits. You've got the voice nailed and, even though it's 1 a.m. and you have to get up at 6 or whatever, you keep typing.

It's extravagant because, for some of us, it is just that important. More than that, it is necessary. There is a lack of moderation on our ideas, our words, our hope that one day we will be able to support ourselves (even meagerly...) as the most hallowed of all things - a writer.

And now for something completely different...

2010-02-05T09:34:00.000-08:00

I have promised to blog more. This is my attempt at said promise.

Enough with that PSA mess. Let's get down to brass tacks. As I've waited to hear back on my revision from my agent (yeah, I totally just linked to my agent... wanna fight about it?), I've read a lot of books (17) and watched a ton of movies.

I needed a break.

From this book. From writing.

And I know: Bryan, you have to write every day. That's how you grow. Just commit to 1000 words a day. But, see, I'm different. Special, even.

So forget that noise.

I needed a break.

But a funny thing happened this past week. And while I was going to blog about that, I figured most people care about writing stuff. So...

I wrote 3 chapters of a new book this week. Almost 50 pages. And while time will tell as to whether what I've written is good (well, of course it is GOOD. Let's just say... last. Yes, time will tell if these chapters will LAST), I am pretty excited.

Because, see, I've never been able to stick with another book.

Hello, my name is Bryan and I have worked on the same book almost fanatically since 2004.

I know a lot of people have 3 or even 4 books in the hopper but I've never been able to successfully swoon about another piece of writing. Call it mental illness. Or maybe the mad drive of a unknown genius. Whatever it is, it's gone. I have officially started book #2.

Some of you might be thinking, That Bryan, he's just so inspirational. To you, I say: Thank You. Others of you might be thinking, You're all kinds of prolific, man. To you, I say: Watch Out.

But this IS a big deal for me. The book that I'm currently revising - The Legendary Days of My 17th Year - was something I could never let go of. Trust me, I tried. Something about the characters and the premise spoke to me in a deep, meaningful way. And even when I put it away for months - even as much as a year - at a time, it was never far from my mind.

I've read you need to write a million bad words before you can start writing some good ones. Some might say it takes a million + 56,000 (hint: my novel clocks in at... yep, 56k). For many writers, I think these words take shape in a number of bad novels.

For me, it was about one hundred awful drafts of Legendary Days. (And then signing with an agent who helps me realize it's about 102...).

What kept me coming back to Legendary Days, however, goes beyond just a love of the story. As I struggled through each draft (some of them horribly sentimental), I became a better writer. But, just as important, I found my voice. Each time I opened up Legendary Days on my laptop, I would find pieces that didn't fit with the MC's voice. With my burgeoning voice.

But now, I feel like I've come to a point where I can cheat on Legendary Days a bit. It's not that I don't love it any less. I just know it's in good hands with Michael. I know that it has a place right now. There is a chance that it might - someday - live beyond my head and laptop.

And that is so freakin' cool.

The Soft Glow of Electric Sex

2010-02-03T09:54:00.000-08:00

I woke up to my phone buzzing - an e-mail coming in. Usually, this is the daily e-mail my mother sends out to all her children.

But not today.

No, today I looked at the Blackberry and said, "Damn blog commentors..."

And then I promptly went back to sleep.

Fast forward a few hours later, after my run and - surprise!

I have won A Major Award
Yes, friends I have won an Oscar. Why you might ask? Well, if you have spent anytime on my blog you will probably have a definitive statement... Something like, "WTF? This guy barely uses proper GRAMMAR."

What can I say, it is one of those lifetime achievement jobs. It's just how I roll.

So look for me on Oscar night. I'm the one who'll be all:

...but a dude.

Okay, for all of you who believed I met Stephanie Meyer, feel free to stop reading here. If you were like, "This fool didn't meet no Stephanie Meyer!" Then, please, continue.

So, let's rewind the past couple minutes you've been reading this blog. You're probably thinking, "Uh, yeah - that's time of my life I'm never getting back..." Either way, let us rewind.

I woke up to my phone buzzing - an e-mail coming in. Usually, this is the daily e-mail my mother sends out to all her children.

But not today.

No, today I looked at the Blackberry and said,"Holy Crap, I've won an award."

Heather Kelly told me to check out her blog, that I'd won an award, all that. So, I did. I read the post, excited. I called all my family. I even woke up my wife all, "My blog just won an award..." She pulled the covers back over her head and said something like, "Po Way!" I don't know.

Anyway, it seems I've been awarded The Silver Lining Award! What does this mean? Well, I don't know. But it's an award. And much like the time I won The Heisman, it is an honor and a privilege. Just read this:

I have decided to only award this award to one person. The five person thing feels too much like a chain letter to me, and someone else paved the way for this technique. (Hint, I already gave him five awards above.)

So, I am awarding this award to... Bryan Bliss. Because he doesn't post often, but when he does, his posts are chock-full of awesomeness. And to rebel against the seemingly girlish nature of this particular award.

So, who cares what this award actually means. I mean, I've actually been able to convince somebody that I am awesome. (I am awesome, obviously, but you'd be surprised how difficult it is to prove such a thing scientifically. At this point, it's more of a theory.)

I'm happy to accept this Silver Lining Award, and I shall treasure it always.

Thank you to Heather for giving me my first interview and my first award (besides the Heisman, of course.)

Oh, if you're wondering about the title of this blog (The Soft Glow of Electric Sex), please view THIS video.

When YA was something else.

2010-02-01T10:54:00.000-08:00

Of course, I read a lot as a kid. Standards like Indian in the Cupboard, Where the Red Fern Grows, War and Peace... and many of those books shaped the reader/writer I am today (especially the last one... go on, click on the link... do it...)

I'd put 2 of the 3 books above below traditional YA (because War and Peace is probably Middle Grade). As I was planning this post, I started thinking, "But what DID I read in high school?"

Answer: Not Much.

I don't remember there being a huge YA section. And let's face it, even if there was a large section of books... I'm not sure whether I'd be checking the stuff out.

Still, I DID read some books. I'd like to share them with you now.

First, U.S.S.A.

I know, right? What. On. Earth. Led. Me. To. This. Book? I don't even remember the plot, although when I saw the cover just now it made me laugh. Loudly. Because, c'mon younger Bryan! What were you thinking? *sigh*

Okay, so let's move on

I think it's time for a little Choose Your Own Adventure. Oh yeah. Secret of the Ninja-style

Anybody who has ever read my writing knows one thing: I'm like a ninja... with words.

And if they DON'T see that? Well, then they get the idea from how many ninja metaphors I use. Like, it's a skill.

So, I loved me some Choose Your Own Adventure books. These are some of the first books where I truly felt myself become lost in the world the author had created. My mom would come downstairs and find me shiftless on the couch saying, "I can't believe that two-headed dragon betrayed me..." And then I'd cry.

Oh, hell no. I didn't cry. I just backed up and choose a DIFFERENT adventure until I got to the one that had me standing on the ruined corpses of all my enemies!

Exciting, right?

Okay. Let's move on.

One thing that's been constant in my life since 5th grade is a love of basketball. I'm not much of a fan of any more and I don't follow 'my' team... but I still like to play some. This same love of basketball recently led me to pick up Matt de la Pena's book BALL DON'T LIE (exceptional, btw...) But before there was a love of YA, there was HOOPS by Walter Dean Myers.

Talk about a book that rocked my world.

When I started considering the move to writing YA, this book came to mind. I remember being transfixed by characters like "Fly" Williams, Lonnie Jackson, and some dude I remember that everybody called "Jesus" because he was white and had a beard... What's not to love?

I think what I loved about HOOPS the most was it truly spoke to me as a teenager who really loved something. I couldn't really relate with the sex, drugs or alcohol references, but I could totally see myself in the games that Myers put on paper.

And I think that's what YA is really about, isn't it? The ability to take some things that are maybe a bit absurd (like vampires or werewolves or... whatever!) and somehow translate that topic into something that meets teenagers (and adults) where they are.

Of course, now I need to go call my agent and tell him I've got the best idea for a book ever.

"You see, it's about a ninja basketball player in a post-apocalyptic USA that's been taken over by Russians! And best of all? Wait for it... Wait for it... you get to choose what happens at the end of the book, Michael! I know, right!?!?!"

Do teens still say/do/wear....

2010-01-15T09:28:00.000-08:00

I frequent a couple of writing boards, and consistently hear a question like:

Do teenagers still say, "That's RAD!"? or whatever. It can be anything from slang, to ways of classifying relationships, to just general terms of excitement. (Note: Teenagers do not say That's the Bee's Knees, Homey! I'm just saying.) Each time I read one of these posts, I'm not sure how to respond.

First, I'm a youth pastor by day (fabulous ninja by night... and writer.) So I'm around teenagers every day of the week. I hear everything they say (unfortunately) and most of the time, they don't use particular slang. I feel like I can enter into these discussions on the boards and give some fairly accurate information - even more so than parents, because I see and meet these kids in an entirely different place.

However, part of me wants to scream every time I see something like this. Why? Because it. doesn't. matter.

No. Really. It doesn't matter if a kid says they're going out or dating. Because I think everybody knows what it means. It especially doesn't matter if you're trying to tap into what's cool right now, because by the time your book comes out it's going to be completely irrelevant.

I don't want to sound like some crotchety old man here, but I think it's important. As the author, you're supposed to create a 'culture' for your book. What do teenagers say in your world? Even if it's contemporary, you still have free reign to decide the speech patterns in your story. And, in my opinion, this makes for a better and more nuanced narrative. I look at M.T. Anderson's FEED as an example of a writer/book that does this perfectly.

Not doing this, I believe, sterilizes your writing. It strips everything out of your voice as you're trying to latch on to the cool words, or the most current phrases. Of course, you shouldn't have some teenager speaking in Old English all, Thou hast forsaken me, thou shalt be smited!

But, then again, how funny would it be to have a contemporary teen who decides to speak only in Old English?

Hmm....

Authentic Voice

2010-01-04T11:50:00.001-08:00

Do you ever read a book and think, "Oh, hell no."

It's like the voice is just so contrived? So... *searches for a compelling word to get across point*... stupid?

Okay, I'm kidding (kinda.)

It's just, I've been reading a ton of books lately as I wait to hear back from my agent about my revision, etc. And voice is huge for me. I can read a couple pages and instantly know whether I'm going to invest a week in the book. Of course, this gets my wife (and others, at times...) yelling stuff like, Snob! Just read it! This is so weird because I'm used to people yelling out, Bryan, Bryan, we adore thee. Come and let me give you $500! (or whatever.)

Anyway.

Voice is important.

But here's the question: is it possible to write an authentic male voice if you are a female? What about a male writing a female?

Two books I've read recently fell into the female writing as a male category. The first one I finished (begrudgingly... I bought it and felt obligated.) The second I read the first chapter and returned to the library.

When my wife asked WHY I was returning it, I showed her a bit of dialogue and made my grand point.

No Dude would ever say THIS! I pointed to the offending piece of dialogue, tapping the paper with my hand in case she didn't understand the horror of it all.

She was all, "I've heard a guy say that."

And of course I said, "No way."

And then she said, "YOU say that!"

And then we got divorced.

Okay, not really. But we did have to have a little Come to Jesus meeting in the Bliss household, which means that she walked away and I just assumed I was right.

You are probably thinking: That Bryan... he's soooo Awesome.

Or maybe: What WAS that bit of dialogue?

Without going into details (read: not being sued), I'll give you a little example of what I'm talking about.*

I walked into the living room. My sister was sitting on the floor getting thumb prints all over my new iPod.

"Girl, you best be getting your cheap 2-dollar nail job off my new iPod," I said, snapping my fingers two times in a circle. "And fix your hair."

Okay, so that's a bit overt. And I don't know if there is such a thing as a $2 nail job (or if it is cheap...)

But maybe you get the idea?

When I write dialogue, I always try to ask my wife whether I'm being too cute, whether my cleverness is superceding the voice in my book.

What do you do?

(As a short aside, I've always wanted to write a book with another writer similar to NICK AND NORAH'S INFINITE PLAYLIST. Except, I'd love to write the dialogue bits in the individual writer's voice instead of alternating chapters. Interesting?)

*This is not from an actual book.

2009

2010-01-01T12:19:00.001-08:00

I know, I know – it’s typical to do the whole, “I’m looking back on the last year” thing. Deal with it. I need to blog and it’s an easy topic.

Okay.

So.

2009 – it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Holy crap, I mean, I might as well just open up a couple Hallmark cards and scan them or something. So far, this post is reminding me of a favorite word: mawkish.

No need to look it up, you’re experiencing it right now.

So, 2009. You were a pretty good year, if not a potential life-changing one.

Evidence

1.) I am still alive.
a. I consider this to be a bonus, generally. So, props to 2009 for meeting my #1 criteria – life.
2.) I moved to Oregon
a. It was a big decision to leave friends and family and move all the way out to the heathen Northwest. Of course, the ‘heathen’ Northwest tends to fit my liberal ways much better. So, point scored.
3.) Money
a. for the first time in a long time, I’m not stressed about money. We actually have a good amount left over when the bastards of capitalism (and utilities) come calling each month. So, yay coffers and all that.

4. Writing
a. This has been a good year for me as a writer. I took a big step and queried some agents. I nearly fell over when one of said agents was like, “Bryan, you are the bomb.” (Okay, he didn’t say that, but whatever… get off my case. This is my blog.) I finished a revision that I never would have done before, sent it to said agent, and am now waiting to hear back on the next step. As if it even needs to be said… word to your mother, fools.

5. Friends and Family
a. My wife, kids, brothers, sisters – all of them – are pretty okay. I mean, seriously, they are severely alright. Without them, things wouldn’t be as fine.

b. Friends. I’ve come to respect and admire a lot of people online, especially when it comes to writing. Ray Veen is a funny, talented writer – and one of the few people I feel completely uninhibited to send my writing to. Nova Ren Suma is the kind of writer I want to be - talented and humble (we already share a natural and fairly rare ability to stress about small things like the SEND button on our e-mail accounts.) Mike Jung – just for being awesome; He also has delusions of being an inter-galatic warlord or something… Vivi/Vikki Brotherton Bickell for being one of the few women who truly appreciate a Star Wars reference. Heather Kelley for giving me my first interview… Mary Kole, who shares a fear of mountain lions and made me promise never to use the word ‘pre-published’… all the people at Verla Kay, Jesus, Axl Rose, and John Cusack (of course.)

Before I thank the Academy, let me just give you my goals for the year:

1.) Stay alive.
2.) See no mountain lions (closely associated with #1 on the list)
3.) Become a better writer.
4.) Get the band back together.

I’m sure I missed some important things, people, events – sorry. I’ve got kids to take to the park right now.

Again, thanks…

I Can't Explain This.

2009-12-07T09:43:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, my daughter told a woman at the library I found my agent on Craig's List.

Proof she has my genes, but whatever.

The lady had just sat down with a stack of books and my daughter immediately went publicist on her.

Daughter: *Points at Stack of Books* "My dad wrote a book. He has an agent."
Woman: Oh, what kind of book?
Daughter: It's about love.
Me: It's for teenagers.
Woman: Is it young adult?

I went on to explain that, yes, it was young adult and gave her a brief explanation about the plot.

Woman: Where did you find your agent?
Me: I--
Daughter: Craig's List
Woman: Is he local?
Me: No, he lives in New York. And I didn't find him on Craig's List...

At this point in the conversation, I was looking around and feeling very self conscious. And I have no idea why. Since signing with MB, I'm felt increasingly weary of sharing my good news with people. I always imagined trotting out the words my agent... with comfortable ease. But it's exactly the opposite. I don't know if I don't want to seem arrogant, all Look at me! or what. But every time the topic of me being a writer comes up, I start to cringe.

It turns out this lady happened to be STEPHANIE MEYER.

Okay, that's not true. But still, I needed some drama (if only for a couple of seconds...)

Am I insane? Is it idiotic to feel self conscious about calling myself a writer? Do you (agented or not) ever feel sheepish saying, "I wrote a book..."?

My Bookstore cough adventure

2009-12-04T20:10:00.001-08:00

I was feeling bad about the whole, Adult books are the spawn of satan tone of the last post. So I decided to hit the bookstore in search of an adult book I could read when I finish Catching Fire.

I wasn't sure where to start. I floated around the nonfiction section for a bit, but felt like I really needed to embrace an adult novel. So I walked over to that part of the store and started looking around. I grabbed a copy of Cormic McCarthy's book The Road, and looked at Everything is Illuminated - both books that I think I'd enjoy.

(Enter hipster book store employee)

Hipster Book Store Employee: Can I help you find anything?
Awesome Me: No thanks, I'm just looking for some adult books.
HBSE: Oh, you mean Erotica?
AM: Um, no...
HBSE: Erotica is located...
AM: No, I meant adult fiction. I read a lot of young adult fiction, so I was looking for something like this *wags THE ROAD at HBSE*
HBSE: OHHHH, you mean literature (imagine snooty fake English accent here)
AM: Um, no...adult fiction.
HBSE: Yes, literature
AM: *sigh*

I took The Road and Everything is Illuminated to the coffee shop part of the book store and started flipping through them, trying not to get all ruffled about her literature comments.

Everything is Illuminated looked like something I'd really dig, and I have a couple of friends who put it on the same level as Catcher in the Rye in terms of 'important' books everybody needs to read. The Road intrigued me simply because McCarthy is a literary beast, and I'd really like to see how somebody like him does dystopian.

I ended up buying both of them (I had a coupon, man...) and for the first time in a few years, I'm excited about reading something outside of YA. I think the outside influence of great nonfiction and fiction (regardless of age designation) can only help in my ability to tell a story - why limit myself to only learning from YA? So, I'm excited.

Stay tuned for upcoming reviews and serious literary analysis.*

*I wouldn't get too excited.

Adult Books Suck.

2009-12-03T09:20:00.000-08:00

I just recently got back from San Francisco, where I had an opportunity to meet a couple of really great YA types. We talked about my book, how I would surely be famous soon, my outfits - you know, all the stuff of a well-balanced conversation.

But more importantly, I had the opportunity to meet two people who are heavily invested in young adult literature - one from the writing side, the other from the business side (although she writes too). As we talked, I realized how hungry I am for insightful discussion (friendships?) that share a love for young adult books.

Without sounding too arrogant, most people who are unfortunate enough to run into me in the YA section of the book store are at a different place. I love YA. I read almost predominantly YA fiction. But, as a YA writer, I tend to come at it from a different perspective. Now, what this perspective is could be debated. Am I an elitist? Do I scoff at people who read books that use awful words like smolder to describe the way a vampire's eyes look?** (No and Yes.)

My perspective, I guess, is maybe more of a deep interest - one I hope will be an invested, professional interest at some point. I love YA because it doesn't carry the baggage that 'serious', 'adult' fiction seems to bring. The idea that there HAS to be a message. That it can't just be fun. YA, I think, will eventually grow out of the small section in the back of the bookstore. In many ways, it already has.

This growth comes from the urgency in the writing. It comes from the sometimes confounding hope that all teenagers have in their life. Their big ideas. Their sense of invincibility. Their fear that life won't work out in the exact way the have it planned. At the very least, it makes me think about that time in my life - the stupidity and glory of it all - and I am transported back.

Rarely does adult fiction transport me anywhere (besides back to the library or bookstore.) It's not necessarily a harsh critique, as much as it is an observation. I recently spoke with another writer about his book idea about a mormon family that did something and then they did something else and the whole thing made me want to take a nap.

I hope that doesn't sound terrible. Because this guy is a great writer. And his book has already generated interest from multiple agents. But when he asked about MY book and MY agent....well....

Let's just say that dropping the young adult label got me a polite smile.**

That arrogance, the opinion that adult fiction is somehow more serious, or even better than YA doesn't make sense to me. Yes, I titled this post "Adult Books Suck". I hope the irony is evident. I would never look at somebody carrying a copy of THE LOST SYMBOL and snicker to my YA buddies. I just wonder what happens when the bookstore becomes filled with more YA books. How does that attitude change?

Do you run into this in your writing? Is it limited to kid lit only?

*To be fair, I don't want to trash TWILIGHT too much. It's just the whole his eyes smoldered like an extinct volcano of love stuff got old. I get it. He's hot.

**He didn't know I'm kind of ninja-ish. And he was pretty huge. Plus, I'm not as fast as I used to be. I apologized to him for even thinking about a come back like, I got your Adult Novel right here, sucka!

Music for the Muse

2009-11-24T06:42:00.001-08:00

I was asked to take part in a blogging...um....experiment? Joint Venture? Well, a bunch of cool bloggers are writing about how music affects their writing. When they asked me I was like, How much you paying, sucka? To which she said, You'll do it and like it! So I was all, Oh Yeah? And she was like, Yeah!

It went down very similar to that exchange.

Music is a huge part of my writing process. Some writers, I think, attempt to 'see' their story by placing themselves in situations to get a better look at what they're trying to describe. In some ways, I do that too. However, if I'm trying to get into a particular mood, I will always turn to music.

Certain bands will always be associated with certain times in my life. Oasis, Weezer, Nirvana - all of them have this particular spot. Now, when I'm writing, I can 'see' the situation in my own life by listening to music.

With The Legendary Days of My 17th Year, my music choices have been very...um...eclectic. Because of the nature of the book (lots of musical components), I've found myself listening to Tegan and Sara one minute, Guns N Roses a few later, and rounding it out with a classic Willie Nelson album.

**This is all for research, people**

The music, in many ways, drives my writing. It serves as a soundtrack, an inspiration, an affirmation that I'm doing something I really love. And, yes, at times it is even a muse.

How does music affect your writing?

Here are the other people writing about this topic:

http://jenniferlinforth.blogspot.com/
http://www.jerismithready.com/blog/
http://chapmansmythe.livejournal.com/
http://marleydelaroseauthor.blogspot.com/
http://stephaniekuehnert.blogspot.com/
http://thetaratracks.com/blog

Revising and Television

2009-11-16T21:40:00.001-08:00

I'm stuck in the middle of a seemingly non-ending revision. Honestly, it's going well. I revise pages every day, but there are days when it is hard to power up the macbook and get going. Some of this has to do with wanting it to be good, of course. Some of it is just I'd really like to be lazy today.

Lately, when the I'm gonna get my lazy on today-vibe comes along, I've been taking a break and watching one episode of t.v. shows that I have on the DVR or from Netflix. I've never been a huge t.v. fan. I don't watch reality shows, and can never remember when shows come on (I blame myself for Arrested Development going off the air....sigh.) But there are a lot of shows out there that I really enjoy.

Entourage
Californication
Ugly Betty
Friday Night Lights
Lost (at least the first 3 seasons I've watched)
And now Glee (thanks to a publishing-type that will remain nameless.)

I've always seen television as a weak alternative to movies.

I love movies.

But recently, I've grown really attached to certain characters on television shows like Entourage. I've watched every season, and I've come to expect a certain brand of humor from the show. From the characters. I think this longevity is something that television, unlike movies, can offer. If done well, a television show can be a lot like a book series (seriously...did I just say that?)

I guess I'm saying that character development in a movie is forced to develop a lot quicker in movies. And with television, I've been able to watch a show and know that I'm going to get something out of it when I need it most....like when I'm stuck and ready to pull out my hair from revising.

I don't know...this all sounded pretty profound before I started writing the blog. Maybe not so much now.

This is not work, family, or any other kind of friendly...BUT...

2009-11-04T11:10:00.000-08:00

I took a break from revising last night after trading a couple E-mails with my friend Ray Veen and watched an episode of Californication.

This scene came up and I felt like I needed to go find a Xanax or something. It Freaked. Me. Out.

**Disclaimer: This video uses some bad language and isn't really work, family, children friendly. But, my blog post does hinge on it...you decide.**

What crawled up my spine, you say? Oh, just the awfulness of the kids writing. Of course, I don't write about Vampires. And I'm not guilty of using phrases like, Rogue-ish Good Looks (or whatever). The part that got me?

He was wicked-smart.

I went back to my book and, yep, there was this line staring at me like some kind of purple, hyphenated freak:

"All with that crazy-beautiful smile."

Egads!

One adjective's enough, I'd say.

Back to Mr. Veen.

In his E-mail he said, "I've spent so much time reading my own writing lately, I'm losing my grip on how to phrase things."

True-dat, my friends. For me, it's a matter of keeping up the pace of my voice (for this book, it's a very fast-paced, wicked-smart....gasp!.....;)....kinda voice.) I fall into the habit of over-extending, trying to be too clever - overwriting, to be all blunt about it.

So how do you deal with this? Am I alone?

In Which I am Self Congratulatory

2009-11-03T10:51:00.000-08:00

People keep asking me stuff like, "How has your life changed since getting an agent?" Of course, there are derivatives of this question like, "You bastard!" And, "You wrote a book? Oh, it's Young Adult. I don't like Vampires."

And honestly, my life hasn't changed that much. Except now I feel an undeniable pressure to make my writing good, better than before, because somebody else is involved with me in the whole writing endeavor. More on that in a bit.

Inevitably, what has changed most in my new status is pretty simple: I feel humbled. And no, that is not a joke. As I've been working on my revision, I'm struck by the amount of faith Michael has to have in my writing to take me on as a client. On the other side of this faith, is a huge dose of affirmation of my skills and abilities as a writer. While I won't say the anxious Is this any good? stuff has disappeared...I feel like I'm close to realizing a dream of being a published fiction writer.

In so many places in life, humility is expected. But I'm going to take a moment and suspend the obligatory and say: Yes, Yes, Yes! and Finally, Finally, Finally! - because that's how I'm feeling. Yeah, my road to getting an agent was like the Autobahn. But I don't think that lessens the accomplishment, or how I should feel about it. I've been working on becoming a better writer for six years now. I can't tell you how many times I've looked at my book and said, "This is a dream, stop worrying about it."

Of course I always dreamed about having an agent, getting published, touring the world with my book (and a re-united Guns n' Roses, but that's another blog post...) But I never quite let myself believe it was going to happen. Because why get excited about a dream that - for most people - will never happen?

And I guess that's what I'm trying to say: it is happening, and I've been a bit cavalier about the whole thing. I've made all the jokes, tried to be humble and not get crazy obnoxious (read: running naked through the streets yelling something to the effect of, I've got an agent, byatch!) So I'm not sure why I've adopted this attitude.

Maybe I'm still scared that the book is going to suck, that it does suck, or at some point everybody who ends up investing in it (and me as a writer) is going to read what I write and say, "We KNEW it. He's a no-talent hack."

At least for today, I'm going to give myself a pat on the back and say, Good Job. But then it's back to revising.

You know, so the whole book-sucking thing doesn't happen.

In Which My Revision Takes Me Many Odd Places

2009-11-01T19:32:00.000-08:00

I've been doing a lot of research lately. And by 'research', of course I mean watching old music videos on youtube and clips from old movies like:

Now, you might be thinking: Oh, Bryan is sooooo awesome....

That is normal.

But some of you also might be thinking: Research? I've been researching the habits of 17th Century Witches for my new YA novel! Now THAT'S research!

That is not normal.

Still, I've been doing my own weird form of research a lot as I've been working on this revision. Today, as I was waiting for some kids to show up for a youth event (I'm a youth pastor), I re-wrote a section that I really liked in previous drafts. Without going into too much detail (I'd hate to get you too excited...), my MC waxes philosophical on how Daniel-san would never leave Ali (Elizabeth Shue) like what they had in Karate Kid didn't mean something. He wouldn't just blow her off and high-tail it to Okinawa with Miyagi like some chump.

No idea what I'm talking about? Well, check this out:

Daniel-san wouldn't be participating in some Tea Ceremony...he'd be off trying to win back Elizabeth Shue. At least, according to my main character.

Of course, as I'm writing this part I started thinking about Peter Cetera. I mean, who wouldn't, right? Right....? Because Glory of Love? From what I remember, that was a kickass jam.

For you, friends:

Time has a way of making you reevaluate what kickass means.

And while this might not seem like revision, for me it is. I'm finding that a couple sentences here and there (based on my research, of course) takes a great line and gives it substance. It goes beyond just purple prose, and turns it into something that points to why my character believes something, and who he is.

Okay, I gotta go do some more research...

Funny Things (A Needed Distraction from Revising)

2009-10-24T09:09:00.000-07:00

*An Actual Conversation with a Toddler* Part I

DAUGHTER: My bed smells like poop.

MOMMY: No it doesn't, it's time to go to sleep.

DAUGHTER: No, Really - it smells like cow poop.

MOMMY: Daughter, how do you think a

DAUGHTER: Sometimes cows break out of their pastures, that's true. (I am not making this up...)

MOMMY: Okay, but how did one get in your room?

DAUGHTER: Must've been a flying cow...(insert riotous laughing from DAUGHTER here...)

MOMMY: Cows don't fly--

ENTER SON

SON: Yeah, but they can jump over the moon!

The End.

And now, this:

16 Days

2009-10-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

As of yesterday, I am officially the client of Michael Bourret of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management.

He represents peeps like Sara Zarr, Heather Brewer, Lisa McMann, Nova Ren Suma, and James Dashner (all of which have amazing books out on the YA shelves.) I queried him on 9/30 and received a request for a full on my manuscript about 30 minutes later. At first, honestly, I didn't know much about him. A fellow writer friend suggested that I query him, because she said his list included similar writers (and she had never heard anything negative about him...a rarity, I guess.) After he requested, I did some research. Very quickly he became my top choice - just based on what I've read online.

Fast-forward two weeks. I get an offer from an agent, which I keep to myself - really, NOBODY knew. I did this for a couple of reasons. 1.) There was no connection during our phone conversation. 2.) This particular agent wanted to ruin my book. And, of course, by ruin my book I actually mean, ruin my book. Basically, I completely disagreed with that particular agent's vision of my book.

So, I declined.

Then came the Rejections. Like five of them all, bam. bam bam. I had four agents still reading my book, all of which were alerted to my offer of representation.

Suddenly that seemed like a really bad idea. I had agents dropping me like I was leg warmers and this was 2009. Seriously.

I wake up, October 14th, convinced that no agent is going to rep my book. I do the worst thing possible and print out another copy of the ms and read it...with my red pen.

The good thing: I really enjoy the book.
The bad thing: I realize it isn't really ready.

October 15th: Wake up with two rejections in my inbox. I'm actually cool with it, because I know that I've got some work to do on the book, etc. And even though I've got two other agents reading, I still get started on preparations for a grand re-write (while looking up a new host of agents.)

Then...and E-mail from Michael.

Long story short, the next day he offers to represent me. I contact the final agent and schedule a phone call.

Yesterday, I officially sign the contract with Dystel & Goderich.

I'm a part of the same literary agency as Obama, suckas!

Ultimately, what led me to pick Michael? His revision ideas were spot-on. And now, after I've read the book again with the various cuts he suggested....I see how better it's going to be when we get finished with it. Also, he just gets what I'm trying to do with the premise - and that's amazing, awesome, and inspiring (all at the same time.)

So, yeah - I've got an agent. And it all took 16 days....

In Which I Cry Like A Little Girl

2009-10-14T09:49:00.001-07:00

So, I've decided to leave my *ahem* finished book as it is and not try to tweak it too much. If anything, I'm going to rock star it out and finish my current WIP in the next 3-4 weeks. Like Mr. Veen here, I can knock out some words when I feel like it.

Slight digression, this is why NaNoWriMo never seems like much of a challenge to me....50k words in a month? Whatever, sucka.

So, yeah - new WIP. Exciting times, everybody's cheering and all that. But as I've gotten back a couple rejections (5 now), I've learned a couple things about my book.

1.) It is a difficult sell in the YA market for a number of different reasons. One agent suggested I re-write a couple of scenes and submit to a agents who work in the adult fiction market. I've considered this before, but I'm pretty happy working in the YA genre so I don't expect to take this advice too much.

2.) There wasn't enough drama to pull various super-agents in. Again, I can see this. Most of the drama is a bit tongue-in-cheek, because the MC is a bit of a drama dude. He's created a life of drama revolving around something that happens to everybody at some point. Again, this 'quiet' drama is directly related to the premise of the book mentioned above (i.e. him living his life like he sees it happen in the movies...)

3.) I've bunched most of my drama into 3 chapters. It all just...happens like, bam. bam. bam. I did it intenionally after Mr. Veen (again) read an early draft and suggested I speed up the pacing of the book. I think I may have erred on the side of breakneck speed, folks....;)

4.) It is well-written and has a distinctive voice. This, of course, is good news. I think 'voice' and 'style' are the things that take the longest to master in writing. It is great to hear agents say things like "you are a powerful writer" and "it is obvious why this is garnering so much attention". Because that means, at least, I can find a bit of validation in the voice.

I really want to go back and fix some of this stuff. Like, REALLY badly. But I'm afraid I'm just too close to this particular MS. Of course, this is the ultimate Catch-22, right? I've got 3 agents reading the full and 1 reading a partial. Not to mention about 4 agents who haven't responded to my original query.

This writing gig can be a bit annoying at times.

So maybe this is the point in the story when I ask if anybody out there would like to read the m.s. - give me some perspective and a fresh set of eyes. Even though I'm going to be working on something else, it would be nice to get some opinions - harsh or not!

B

Got Query?

2009-10-13T17:47:00.001-07:00

Well, check this out:

Kidlit Contest

I am in love with xkcd...

2009-10-13T11:48:00.001-07:00

If you are above 30, you must love this too...

On the Agent Search

2009-10-12T15:13:00.000-07:00

For a long time, I scoffed at the mania surrounding literary agents. Just recently I read something to the effect of:

You have an AGENT reading your book!

It was not directed at me, but it did make me laugh. An AGENT....ha! I expected some sort of emoticon that went: dum, dum, DUM! It's like these agent people are super-human beings with the power to make or break your entire life.

Oh...wait....

Seriously, I've always been pretty unconcerned by the idea of landing an agent. I don't know if this is general naivety, a grand sort of arrogance regarding my writing abilities, or something else entirely (like, say, fear 0_o). Whatever it is, I've never submitted anything to an agent (or done all that much research)before two weeks ago. Of course, given my unusual rate of manuscript requests, this non-chalance has been quite difficult to maintain.

Now, as I sit here using all my Jedi Mind Tricks to make the damn phone ring (and it not be my wife asking if I've heard anything...), I realize something.

Signing with a literary agent is a big deal. You're probably like, Wow, do the insights ever cease? Way to go, Mensa. Of course, I'd love to drop the LA bomb on people.

Waiter: What would you like to drink?
Super Writer (me): Oh, I don't know...what is the best thing for a guy who Just Signed with A Freakin' Literary Agent(!!!!) to drink?
Waiter: Coke?

Obviously that's a perk.

The past few days, however, I've really thought about what it would mean to be offered representation. It means you've created something that somebody else believes in - is willing to champion, to love. Again, while that may seem obvious to some, it came as a bit of a revelation to me today. I think that's why I enjoy writing - the act of creation. Maybe it's the hope that I am creating something universal, something that sparks inside another person. While other people write because they just can't NOT write, I find it to be a completely different reason. I write because I know - when I finish that last revision - no matter what I'm left with, it is something that I have struggled with and shaped.

So, when an agent gets that - connects with your manuscript in a way where they want to sign you up? Man, talk about some affirmation.

I'm writing this because - honestly - I've got nothing else to do except check my E-mail and jump every time the phone rings.

You know, waiting for that affirmation.

The Weekend Time Stood Still

2009-10-09T06:52:00.000-07:00

That's what the next 72 hours will be.

Like an annoying frozen pond of minutes.

I will have a definitive 'yes' (or 'no') from an agent by the end of the weekend. And while this is exciting, it also is a bit stressful. The waiting really isn't fun. But waiting for an answer that I know is coming goes beyond stressful. It borders on lunacy.

So I'm going to rent some DVDs. I'm going to finish reading an AMAZING book called THE MAZE RUNNER (if you like awesome, check it out http://www.randomhouse.com/teens/mazerunner/"HERE). I'll go to the Farmer's Market. I might even go mountain biking. Certainly, I'm going to try and not think about anything involved in this whole writing mess.

Next week comes the grand start of my next book. I've got a decent premise and a good opening couple of pages.

I'm Out.

National Poetry Day//Remembering a Muse

2009-10-08T09:38:00.001-07:00

After reading today was National Poetry Day, I started thinking about how a lot of poetry annoys me. I mean, what else are you supposed to think on such a day?

Right?

Anyway, there are a few poems that I love. One is 'Laugh Literary' a poem by Charles Bukowski that just rips apart a rejection letter he received.

Bukowski was a huge misogynist, so you have to pick and choose. But sometimes, he just hits on something so raw and true that it makes (me, at least) you want to create something just as great.

For instance:

i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me

It's just amazing stuff. So, check out some Bukowski today....if you're unafraid of being totally offended, that is. Beneath the grime, though, you will find some really amazing poems.

The real reason I'm posting this, however, has nothing to do with Bukowski (although sometimes I wish I wouldn't feel so confined by an innate reverence - unlike Mr. B here.) I don't know how or when I discovered Gary Snyder and - honestly - I don't like many of his poems. However, his 'Poems for Robin' are a must read.

Comprehend this, suckas:

You said, that October,
In the tall dry grass by the orchard
When you chose to be free,
"Again someday, maybe ten years."

After college I saw you
One time. You were strange.
And I was obsessed with a plan.

Now ten years and more have
Gone by: I've always known
        where you were –
I might have gone to you
Hoping to win your love back.
You still are single.

I didn't.
I thought I must make it alone. I
Have done that.

Only in dream, like this dawn,
Does the grave, awed intensity
Of our young love
Return to my mind, to my flesh.


We had what the others
All crave and seek for
We left it behind at nineteen

I feel ancient, as though I had
Lived many lives.

And may never now know
If I am a fool
Or have done what my
        karma demands.

Holy Crap, right? The first time I read these poems (there are 5), it hit me in the gut. Because they're just so...True, maybe? So Real. I read them and I feel the devastation. I feel the loss.

I also think, "Holy Hell...I've totally ripped off one of the great American poets..."

Because these poems? Totally like my book. I could send these out as a query and people would know what to expect. (I'd have to add something about ninjas and Hulk Hogan, but I feel like it wouldn't be that hard....)

If you've read my ms, you can find traces of this in Head's character. He's a dude who desperately wants to re-wind the clock...to right what he perceives to be wrongs. All that stuff. And this morning, as I read through the poems again (and feeling that same powerful surge of emotions that came the first time I read these...) I thought: I'm going to jail.

No, not really.

I thought: I want to write something that makes people feel this same way.

And that might just be mawkish writer-ly anxiety as I wait for agents to get back to me. Or it might not. I don't know. What I do know is this: what makes writing great for me is the ability to connect with other people. To put down in words something that is universal; I want people to think, He wrote this about ME. To write something that lasts.

Enjoy National Poetry Day....

I slept under   rhododendron
All night   blossoms fell
Shivering on   a sheet of cardboard
Feet stuck   in my pack
Hands deep   in my pockets
Barely  able  to  sleep.
I remembered   when we were in school
Sleeping together   in a big warm bed
We were   the youngest lovers
When we broke up   we were still nineteen.
Now our   friends are married
You teach   school back east
I dont mind   living this way
Green hills   the long blue beach
But sometimes   sleeping in the open
I think back   when I had you.

(Gary Snyder)

When do you start again?

2009-10-05T11:56:00.001-07:00

It seems like I've been working on The Legendary Days of My 17th Year forever. The original idea came to me when I was in graduate school. It has evolved a lot, and I actually get all sweaty when I start thinking about another book - because this one is safe. It is known. And, honestly, I really, really (really) like the premise.

But you have to keep writing.

The question is: when do you stop? I feel like I'm committing literary adultery by starting the new book right now - even though I came up with a title (it's amazing) and a first paragraph (again, can you say 'amazing'?)

Maybe I'm afraid of getting really invested in this book, only to find out some agent-dude (or dude-ette) wants me to do 7 revisions of LEGENDARY DAYS...Or maybe I'll get into the book and realize I'm not actually a good writer....that I can only write about professional wrestling, Guatemalans and Guns N' Roses (yeah, you know you want to read it...o_0 )

Either way, you have to start writing a new book....right...right?

And that's what I'm doing now - just moving on and trying not to focus on the intense anxiety that keeps creeping through my body like some kind of writer's flu. I'm plotting and having fun coming up with all sorts of obnoxious and funny things (like a girl having to take 'Advanced' Health her senior year of high school. Because, really - what does it take to study 'Advanced' Health? Is it actually an advanced course or some kind of remedial class for kids with The Stink? Like I said, obnoxious...)

Weezer and the Fiction of the Past

2009-10-04T18:12:00.000-07:00

I'll probably buy every Weezer album that gets released, even though the last 3 haven't connected with me all that much. And I'm cool with that - music is so bound by time and place, that I'm not sure if Weezer has changed, or if I have. I'll buy the albums because there is always a song that transports me back. More on that in a bit.

I just listened to the new Weezer song here. Check it out.

Inevitably, people will trash on this song....

...because it isn't 'old' Weezer
...because they've sold out
...because they've gone pop
...because all the purists out there want them to stay the same.

The last one hits home for me for a couple reasons. The first two Weezer albums are like a soundtrack for my last years of high school and my first years of college, when I'd go driving around the rural parts of North Carolina with a carful of friends, just sucking in all the abandon and wildness that comes with being a teenager. For any of you that have read my writing, this theme comes up often. It's the energy I try to harness, because no matter what the music is - that feeling of being....free, maybe - like anything is possible and all you have to do is reach out and grab it - that is what I think people find in music, books - an everlasting connection to the important stuff in their life.

It is hope, maybe.

That feeling is the goal of my writing. Transcendence back to the confounding but visceral times in our lives when it seemed like everything at stake. I think that's why I write Young Adult fiction. Teenagers haven't lost that sense of urgency. They haven't lost the dreams of greatness, of being somebody who does amazing things.

Here's a part from my book. Let me know what you think...why you write.

Every time I’ve rewound to this place – this moment - it’s raining. She’s always smiling, and we’re always laughing like the world isn’t going to end in a month. The clouds blow us down the interstate and catch us here. Every damn time. My hope - the dream, maybe - is that the script will change and she won’t get carried away too. No matter how many times I do the rain dance, she’s never come back. The dream stays the same, and that’s the problem. Whenever you rewind, you know what you’re going to get: something unchanging. The only surprise is the first time.
An older woman with a visor and a fanny pack watches me for a moment before punching a series of numbers into the vending machine. Tears sneak into the corner of my eyes Danielle was right: it’s never going to be ten months ago. But, more. Sometimes holy places turn out to be gimmicks. And damn it, but I don’t know if hurts more being stuck in time, or finding out something so important has become a roadside attraction.

It’s like when Manuel and I watch Wrestlemania and we see Hogan and Macho Man strutting around. The camera flashes to Miss Elizabeth, and it takes me out of the moment. Her hair’s just a bit too feathered for this decade. Those gloves and that god awful dress are staring me in the face, a constant reminder that even high-flying Legends can’t escape time. And even though you might’ve been legendary in the past, eventually the rhinestone duality of fake tans and overly exaggerated speech patterns becomes kitsch. It sucks that time won’t stand still. It’s all around us, but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept. You see the giants of your childhood limping around on reality television shows and it’s sad to see them so feeble. The sun never really stops shining. It never stops casting shadows.

Oh, and here's a Weezer vid for you to be amazed with...;)

To Write A Book

2009-10-02T10:11:00.001-07:00

Obviously, all my friends and family anxiously await my next Twitter/Facebook update (yes, I refuse to say 'Tweet'...) regarding agent submissions....;)

In response to one such update, my brother wrote:

"God, I need to write a book."

To which I responded:

"It has to be a GOOD book..."

To which he responded:

"Oh, I'll write a GOOD book..."

To which I responded:

"Don't make me come down to Tennessee and break open something you can't even comprehend.."

To which he...oh, you get the point.

It's amazing how many long-lost friends I have, because many of them are coming out of the woods to share their books, their ideas, wanting to borrow five bucks - whatever. Because I think everybody (or at least a large amount of people) want to write.

Well, strike that - they want to be a writer. Or a novelist. All that, of course, means they wants to get paid. So, sometimes I don't know how to take comments like, "Oh, you wrote a book - I wrote a book!" Because my experience with writing has never been all, Whee! I'm a writer! While I love writing, it is hard work. Some days, staring at my laptop, all I can think is: "I should buy an Xbox 360." Because being creative, witty, awesome, amazing - that's hard work, right?

For The Legendary Days of My 17th Year I went beyond my normal routine (which usually involves crying and the fetal position.) I decided, to make it more realistic, I would try and immerse myself in various points of the book.

Of course, that meant learning to play Paradise City on guitar.

So, I learned it. And it was hard. But learning it opened up some avenues in the writing of certain passages of my book that I'm not sure would have opened if I didn't know how to shred like Slash.

I also did research. And by research of course I mean You Tube.

Check it out:

Let me just say, why does Axl Rose wear spandex and a leather jacket? It's one of life's mysteries. (In other videos he's wearing spandex and a fur coat - with no shirt, of course...)

So, research. I watched these videos and - admittedly - liked them. My wife kept wondering why I was swaying back and forth with my headphones on, why I kept giving her one these:

Like I said, research.

The Self-Doubt of Writing

2009-10-01T13:55:00.000-07:00

I don't know if there's another avocation as demoralizing as being a writer. I post on a couple writer-y forums, and the desperation is - at times - like a needle to the eye ball.

All kinds of Pain and Suffering.

Until now, I've never really paid attention to many of the 'woe-is-me, my teenage vampire book can't find a home....' I'd get all uppity about saying stuff like, "I write to for the words, man. I don't need not stinking agent!" (And then a chorus of deep-voiced dudes would yell something like, "YEAH!" just after I finished. You know, whatever.)

Then came last January, when I get this E-mail about somebody being interested in my book. Until that point, the only person who ever said anything good about my writing was my mom. And she's not exactly a good critique partner. Hell, I'm her first born.....

Still, that E-mail got a couple bubbles of excitement floating inside me.

But, then I started playing World of Warcraft and - just like one of the magical things that happens inside that game - KA-BLAM!, I hit a major bout of writer's block.

Fast-forward a couple months, and I find myself getting ready to move to Oregon.

Another month and I'm in Oregon.

Of course, I needed to take a month to get everything together (in Oregon).

Eventually, I returned to my book, The Legendary Days of My 17th Year. And I was a bit surprised by what I read....

I liked it. I actually thought it was good. Unlike so many people, I have no misconceptions that I'm some amazing wordsmith. In my daydreams, I'm just a few steps above totally sucking - despite the almost continual reassurances from my various writer friends (and, of course, my mom) that my writing was 'very good'.

The point?

Well, I've entered the "woe-is-me" zone. Thankfully I'm not pitching a vampire book, so we can all be spared that melodramatic part of this story.

I began querying agents - tentatively - this week. I was full of self-doubt, full of anxiety - full of walls being erected (just in case I got rejected, which is more than a possibility as a writer - it's a straight up fact, sucka.) That was Saturday night.

Sunday morning, I raced downstairs like it was Christmas and checked my E-mail.

Nothing.

So I got on Facebook, waiting to hear that bing! from my E-mail.

Nada

As I was eating breakfast, I checked my E-mail and......

There it sat, a response from my first-ever queried agent requesting a full submission.

That night, I sent out a couple more. The next day, I didn't even have to wait - 2 more requests for submissions.

So, I sent out a couple more and consulted some successful writer friends.

Two more requests for full submissions.

The way this story SHOULD end is with me winning the National Book Award, having people be all weepy whenever I'm around, and generally living the life of a literary Rock Star, right?

Of course.

But, surprise!

I got rejected.

And for some reason it just demoralized me. I started thinking, "Yeah, it's not that good..." Even though this specific agent (who I'm told is fairly picky in what she likes) personally replied saying, "You are a powerful writer, but something is holding me back." She went on to compliment the book, too.

So, total craziness happening here. And the craziest part? I'm waaaayyy ahead of the traditional publishing curve here....I should be on cloud-9. I think, because the writing is so important to me and I desperately want it to find a person who thinks, "Man, this is exactly what I am about..." Because so many books have done that for me, you know? Like when I read Dave Eggers's A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius - it just blew my mind. I want somebody who really champions something that I've written.

I don't necessarily care about a big advance, or some huge Twilight-esque sales record. Honestly, I don't. It would be nice, but I really am interested in becoming a better writer and working with an agent (and editor, ultimately) who loves what I'm doing and is a collaborator in all my madness....

So, time to do the inevitable and check my E-mail....I'm beginning to realize that an agents idea of "getting back soon" is vastly different than my own.

;)

Bloggy, Blog-Blog (feel free to hum Snoop Dogg)

2009-09-30T11:34:00.000-07:00

I am officially finished with my book.

How's that for a first blog on this new and shiny blog?

I guess I could have started with something like, "I have an agent!" or "My book's being published!"

But blogging may not be around then....oh, hahahahah...yeah, I know.

But I am finished, and it feels good to be able to watch a movie without the guilt I felt by not working on polishing that eternal bane of existence, the manuscript-in-progress. There is something holy - sacred? - about being able to say, "It is done."

And it is finished. I've worked on this particular book for a year now, and the premise itself has hung around for a long time. It's always been a book I just had to finish, had to make as good as possible. I won't bust out any writer-y pretentious crap here being all, I owed it to my CHARACTERS. Because it's really not like that (and I don't want to be that dude, honestly.)

I guess it has to do with finally feeling like I have something to say (okay, so that smacks of being pretentious....) But, really - The Legendary Days of My 17th Year is the book I wanted to write when I started writing. And I think that's important, at least to me.

So we will see what happens next....some of you know the interest it is generating. Some of you have threatened me with violence due to that interest.

(I suggest you look at my header, suckas. I'm a total ninja.)

Whatever happens, it is an exciting time.