#mywritingprocess blog tour

Ive been tagged by my Freshman Fifteens buddy Kim Savage, author of After The Woods, to participate in the #mywritingprocess blog tour. Her writing process can be found here. As a taggee, Im supposed to answer the following four questions, so here goes:

1) What am I working on?

Well, I just finished the first draft of my second YA book in my contract with Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers. Tentatively titled Jewelry, its the story of six high school seniors living with the (magical, disturbing) consequences of discovering a jewelry chest in a back yard pond when they were ten years old. Now that the manuscript is in my editors hands for a bit, I have to decide what to work on nexta revision of one of my two earlier manuscripts? Something entirely different? (I actually think I know the answer, but for now its a secret!)

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Im not sure it does differ. That implies most other books in the genre are the same. Todays YA field is wide and complex, with room for genre-blending, experimentation, and a wide range of age-appropriateness. There isnt a formula to be different from, except for the requirement that the protagonist be a young adult. Almost anything goes, and thats one of the reasons I like writing YA so much. My two contracted books are a genre mix of contemporary, fantasy, and romance, and both contain a mysterious element. I also like to believe my stories have a takeaway that makes a reader think even after theyve finished the book, though I certainly am not the first YA author to hope this.

3) Why do I write what I do?

I bet theres a whole psychoanalysis of me that can be done to answer this question. The short answer, though, is that I write what I feel like writing. I chose to be a high school teacher for fourteen years, and now I write for that audience, so I guess I find something fascinating about that time of life. I also love science fiction and fantasy because I feel those genres have the potential to test characters in unusual and meaningful ways.

4) How does my individual writing process work?

Generally something like this: I develop a concept and some characters, like a boy who can create worlds or a group of kids who find a jewelry chest. Then I brainstorm a bit about what could happen in the story and what the ending might be. Then I write. One chapter at a time I let the story unfold for myself, occasionally pausing to think about where Im headed. Its like reading any other book, wondering whats going to happen next. I often have no idea until I write the words. Both of my contracted books ended in a far different place from where I thought they might go, and that process of finding my way through a plot is most of the pleasure of writing for me. Of course, the downside is I find myself having to revise my beginnings quite a bit to match my endings!

Next up: Two writers who have been an integral part of my journey to become a professional writer. Rhonda Mason‘s writing spans the gamut of speculative fiction, from space opera to epic fantasy to urban paranormal and back again. Her space opera trilogy, Empress Game, launches from Titan Books July 2015. Writer/Producer Diana Dru Botsford‘s work runs the gamut from novels to the screen including several Stargate SG-1 novels, the Star Trek TNG episode, “Rascal’s” and the award-winning science fiction webseries “Epilogue.” She most recently contributed to the up-and-coming Stargate short story anthology, “Far Horizons,” due from Fandemonium this fall.

Where I’m at Part 7: Long time no see

Ive kept my distance from this blog for a few months because most of whats been on my mind is more personal than professional in nature.

On a happy note, Ive done a lot of traveling with my family. We visited the Blue Ridge Mountains (from Asheville, NC) and Great Smoky Mountains National Park (from Sevierville, TN). We also spent the end of 2013/beginning of 2014 out West (Scottsdale, AZ, Las Vegas, NV, and Grand Canyon National Park). I attended YALLFest (Charleston, SC) and the NCTE ALAN workshop (Boston, MA).

Ive also said goodbye to some dear family membersmy grandmother, my cousin, and my aunt. I dont want them to be gone. I miss them so very much.

And, of course, since I live in the Boston area, Ive spent a considerable amount of time dealing with snow!

As for progress on my book in the publishing world, I completed two revisions with notes from my editor and a third revision with notes from my copy editor. I understand there will be one final edit to come. In A World Just Right is still scheduled for release in the spring of 2015. Between now and then galleys will be printed for the purpose of getting reviews ahead of the release. Soon I should have cover art. Mostly, all is progressing at the slow but steady pace that it should be. It takes a long time to prepare a book for release.

Ive been hard at work researching my next book, tentatively titled Jewelry. Im a bit behind where I wanted to be at this point, largely because of the travel and the mourning, but Ill catch up. I always do.

I conclude with some pictures from the last few months.

View of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Visitors at our cabin in Sevierville.

At Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden outside Charlotte, NC.

Deer on the pond in my back yard.

Thoughts after reading Insurgent

A small storm of thoughts have converged on me today as the result of three occurrences: 1) Yesterday I finished reading Insurgent, 2) I am disheartened by some of the response to the choosing of Miss America, 3) I am ever mindful of the place YA literature has/should have in the high school classroom.

Whenever I read a book, I think about what students could gain from reading it. In this frame of mind, I noted the following passages from Veronica Roths Insurgent:

People, I have discovered, are layers and layers of secrets. You believe you know them, that you understand them, but their motives are always hidden from you, buried in their own hearts. You will never know them, but sometimes you decide to trust them (510).

Color fills her cheeks, and I think it again: that Johanna Reyes might still be beautiful. Except now I think that she isnt just beautiful in spite of the scar, shes somehow beautiful with it, like Lynn with her buzzed hair, like Tobias with the memories of his fathers cruelty that he wears like armor, like my mother in her plain gray clothing (517).

If this book were read in my classroom, I would ask students to explain what they thought each passage meant in the context of the book. Then I would ask how they could apply this meaning to what they know of life.

How valuable it would be for young people to reflect upon their knowledge of othersfriends, family, acquaintances, strangersand on what they can or cannot truly know about them. How valuable to reflect upon what they choose to share with others and what others can never really know of them. Or upon how they can trust people whose motives may or may not be transparent to them. Or upon beauty and whether it might possibly stem from what people become because they have suffered.

Despite the usefulness I see of including such a book and such a discussion in a high school classroom, I have personally witnessed some educators dismissal of contemporary YA works as worthless, simple, or too focused on kissing, popularity, and vampires. Can such an attitude be espoused by a person who has read a book like Insurgent and discussed with students the passages quoted above? I have a hard time believing so.

The truth is that high school students possess many resources that will make meaning of canonical textsfor them. The teacher will do it in the classroom. The internet will do it outside the classroom. With so many answers out there, the sad truth is that many students choose not to read the challenging, original text at all. If they dont read the text, they cant make their own meaning.

One of the primary values of YA literature, to me, besides its presentation as less daunting than a canonical tome, is the use of a young adult protagonists perspective to make it easier for the young reader to make their own meaning.

When I read comments about in Indian-American becoming Miss America that call her a Muslim terrorist, or bemoan the fact that she was chosen just after the anniversary of 9/11, or that another, whiter candidate is somehow more American because she can shoot a gun and loves her country, I think of the chance that might have been missed when these commenters were in high school, what truths they might have discovered if they hadnt been forced to accept a teachers interpretation of a canonical text, but instead had been asked to read and discuss YA literature that delivered messages about being human in a way that could help them make meaning for themselves.

I believe that texts read in schools should be challenging, but I dont necessarily believe that for a young audience they should be challenging for their obscure language, sophisticated art, or esoteric philosophy. Many, many young people, to be sure, have the skills and aptitude to handle the canon independently or with minimal guidance, and I strongly believe all students should experience the canon. However, I feel there is a challenge even greater than the one to stretch a vocabulary or appreciate brilliant figures of speech. It is the challenge to ones ideas and beliefs about the world. For many, many students, YA literature is the very best vehicle to help them rise to that challenge.

I realize that this post probably seems self-serving because I’m now going to be a published writer of YA literature. However, my belief in the power of contemporary YA books predates my decision to write them. I write because I hope something I have to say will challenge young people to examine, then confirm or revise, their ideas and beliefs.

Where Im at Part 6: Offer accepted!

So this not-quite-published-yet writer is one giant step closer to having a book in print. For me, it was not the one-week whirlwind that it sometimes can be, but in the end I got a deal that Im happy with. Excited about! THRILLED, really!

The brief tale goes like this: I signed with my agent, Alexandra Machinist at Janklow and Nesbit, last summer. I waited in line for a bit for World Maker to be submitted to editors. In January, Alexandra sent the manuscript to an editor as an exclusive because said editor had been looking for something like World Maker. The editor liked it and asked me to revise a significant aspect of the novel, which I did. On May 2^nd, I was told shed decided to pass on making an offer.

In mid-May Alexandra sent the manuscript out to six editors. In the first week of June, Christian Trimmer at Simon and Schuster Books for Young Readers expressed interest. He took it to his editorial team and then requested a revision from me. I was, admittedly, nervous about doing another revision since the revision for the other editor had taken up so much time only to be rejected. But Christian convinced me he was enthusiastic about the project, he was good at articulating what he wanted changed, and the revision focused only on the first couple of chapters. In the end, I simply moved a scene from chapter two to the opening and tweaked accordingly. Over the next few weeks Christian read my revision, gave the manuscript to second readers in the editorial department and, Im assuming, took it to another editorial meeting where the changes were approved. The next week it went on to the acquisitions meeting, where an offer was approved. My agent did some negotiating, and I ended up with a two-book deal and a great editor at a great publishing house!

(Here is the Publishers Weekly announcement, if you like to look these things up.)

Although it took some time to get the ball rolling, sometimes patience is necessary to get the end result you want. I couldnt be happier with the result I got.

World Maker likely wont be published until 2015, so there is yet more waiting to do. While I wait for my editorial letter on World Maker (which will likely be given a new title), I must get to work on an outline for book two of my two-book deal. Remember that post I wrote a little while ago about an idea I got while going for popcorn? The idea is barely 1,000 words of notes, but thats the book I sold with World Maker!

I must conclude with a HUGE THANK YOU to Alexandra Machinist and Christian Trimmer. My little book is a little different, a little hard to pitch because although its about a boy who makes a world so he can have a girlfriend, its more than that description would lead one to believe. Both Alexandra and Christian saw something in it that made them read to the end, and in reading to the end they decided to become champions of the manuscript, and I cant quite express in accurate enough terms how very much that means to me.

My cat left on a rocket ship

My heart is broken. Three days ago my beautiful, friendly, loving cat went to sleep forever. Two days before that our local vet had diagnosed him with cancer. My four-year-old son was with me when I got the news. I burst into tears, then had to explain to my son why I had just broken down in the vet’s office.

I told him that the Mugga was going to die. Very soon he would leave us forever, and he would go to Heaven. I told my son I was crying because I loved Mugga and would miss him so very, very much.

“Is Heaven like another Earth?” my son asked. I said yes, it was very much like that, only more beautiful and the Mugga wouldn’t be sick any more.

The next two days between the diagnosis at our vet’s and the confirmation ultrasound at the big veterinary hospital were horrible. My cat still wouldn’t eat. I mourned him already. So many times in my life, when I had a day that left me in tears, it was my kitty who sought me out to snuggle and purr and console me. Those last two days I was crying over him, and I could see his little ears turning in my direction, and I felt awful to be needing him just as he was needing me more.

The final morning, I awoke at 4:44am. Normally the Mugga slept with us, but for the last few nights he had not come upstairs. In the end, this was how I knew he really was in trouble. So on that morning, I snuck downstairs with my comforter and my pillows, picked Mugga up from the dining room rug, and put him on the ottoman beside me on the sunroom couch. He let me pet him a little, then shifted position away. I shifted over with him. When he shifted again, it was to plop his body against mine, just like he used to all his life but hadn’t done in a while because he was sick. I petted him, and I put my ear to his belly to hear his weak little purr, and we watched the sun rise together while we looked out at the new garden in the back yard. Somewhere in there I fell asleep for a little bit, and my kitty stayed right there, curled up against me. I didn’t know it was the last morning we would ever spend together. I wonder what he knew.

At the vet hospital later that morning, my husband, my son, and I were in the special room saying our goodbyes. The vet’s ultrasound had not only confirmed an orange-sized tumor in his belly, but had also found two other large tumors in his liver and spleen and a whole bunch of nodes everywhere. The cancer was causing fluid to accumulate in his belly. Nothing could be done, and he was suffering. He had been suffering for a while, and I am still dealing with the guilt of not listening carefully enough to my cat to know how much pain he was already in.

My son petted the Mugga for the last time and asked again about Heaven being a new Earth. We repeated that a new Earth was a good way to think about it. “Is the new Earth in outer space?” he asked. Between sobs we said it probably is. “Will he take a rocket ship to get there?” We told him we’d ask the doctor to make it so (and later I really did ask the technician if she could find a rocket ship; she said she would arrange it). Then my mom took my son away while my husband and I said a long, loving goodbye to our family member of 15 years.

He had always been a vigorous groomer, so we’d been sad all morning that he wasn’t giving even weak kisses. Right before the catheter went in his leg, I put my fingers to his nose to ask for a kiss. In his final act, he put out his little tongue and touched my fingers. I don’t know if it was instinct, or love, or his generous heart still trying to comfort me when I was sad, but it was the most beautiful thing he could have done for me. When the Mugga was gone a few minutes later, I picked up a tuft of hair he had shed in all that final petting. I’m keeping it forever as my keepsake of his final kiss, his final gift to me.

In the days since I’ve been beating myself up over what I could and should have done for the Mugga. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be grieving so intensely, but one thing that helped a little was to read some blog posts others had written about their cats’ deaths. A number of their fond memories echo so many of my own, so for my sake and my sake only, and because I want to remember all of Mugga’s life, not just the last few days, I’m going to recount my memories below. Thinking back, talking to friends and family who knew the Mugga, and looking through pictures has revealed to me that my cat did very much have stages of his life. And we loved each other through all of them.

My son and I have been picking up tufts of his hair around the house and calling them kisses and hugs the Mugga left behind because he loved us.

I miss you, Mugga-doo. Safe journey, my forever friend.

 

 

 

 

MY MEMORIES

Mugga came into my life because I was mourning the loss of another cat, Kitty. My family thought it would help me to move on if I had another cat to love. I wasn’t so sure, but that was what my family wanted to give me for my birthday present. We went to the shelter to rescue a cat.

The Mugga was one of a litter of white-haired kittens. We picked up a few of them, but the Mugga (whose given name was “Marshmallow” and was officially so for his whole life. It was my husband who coined the nickname the “Mugga”) was undeniably friendly, scrambling for love and attention. We took him home.

My husband and I were engaged at the time, and somehow we figured out that Mugga had been born in June (it was, at that time, November). We were to be married the following June, so we decided the Mugga’s birthday would be in June, on our anniversary, more or less. So he was one year older than our marriage.

Mugga first lived with us in a third-floor apartment with locked outer doors in Woburn, right on Montvale Ave. near where it intersected with Main Street. For these reasons, we decided to keep him safe as an indoor cat.

Every time we opened the door to our apartment, he would try to sneak out. One day we let him go and shut the door behind him. I think we forgot he was out there. Later we found him curled up waiting outside our neighbor’s door, mistaking it for our door.

We used to let light reflect off the faces of our watches and make moving light circles on the walls and furniture. The Mugga used to chase the light. I think we have video of this somewherehim jumping up the wall like a crazy cat.

I had (and still have) a few plants in large pots. The Mugga used to pee in the dirt. Although I’d forgotten this, my friend remembers I’d put cereal boxes in the plants to keep the kitty out.

He also ate plants. This was a constant throughout his entire life. We had to keep poisonous plants out of his reach so he didn’t get sick and other plants out of his reach so he didn’t destroy them. He often found ways to reach what we thought was unreachable.

We moved into my parents’ basement from the apartment in Woburn when my husband went back to school. Mugga used to sit on the wide window sills and chatter at the birds outside.

Because my parent’s house is on something of a corner, car headlights used to shine in the windows when they went by in the dark. In the early mornings before rush hour, Mugga used to chase the headlights on the wall. More than once he jumped up to catch the light and ended up flicking on the lights in the bedroom, waking us up.

From my parent’s basement, we moved into our first house. At night we would sit together on the couch and eat and watch TV. I had (still have) a yellow puff (my word for a comforter) that I would put across my lap. The Mugga used to come snuggle up on that yellow puff every day with me.

In that house we had a two-story foyer with a coat closet on the left. The closet had hardwood flooring on the top. It was outside the bannister railing for the staircase, so you could only get on top of the closet by climbing over the railing (dangerous) or going through the railing (only possible for a cat). The Mugga used to perch up there and monitor the goings on of the entire house.

One time we went away and left the Mugga alone. Although it had been a long time since he peed in a plant, we came home to dirt all over the floor and an ammonia smell in the pot. We then discovered the bathroom door had been closed while we were gone, and the Mugga had no access to his litter box. We wondered how long the poor thing had held out before finally using the plant.

When I was pregnant with my son, I did not start the new school year in my teaching job. I was at home for that fall, and I had a routine where I would go upstairs to bed and take a nap every morning. The Mugga always trotted along up with me and slept with me.

While pregnant, there got to be less and less room on my lap with the yellow puff. Mugga would crawl up anyway and snuggle against my belly. I think he liked being near the baby and his movement and his heartbeat.

We didn’t know how the Mugga would react to the birth of our son, but we needn’t have worried. He loved and sniffed and generally wanted to hang around our son for the entire four and a half years they were together. I remember one night in particular (I’m skipping ahead here because this was in our current house, not our first house, only a few months ago) I was awakened in the night by the Mugga sitting on the pillow above my son’s head (my son still sleeps with us), grooming his hair with gusto.

I actually don’t remember when it started, but the Mugga used to sleep on/by my head. He’d always be trying to sneak in good grooming of my hair, but I never liked him to do it.

By contrast, my husband let him lick his head, as long as it wasn’t when he was trying to sleep. In our new house, my husband gets up for work before my son and me. When the alarm went off, the Mugga used to get excited because after my husband’s shower and dress, he would say a special goodbye to the Mugga by letting him groom his head.

The final phase of my cat’s life was in our new home where we’ve lived for a little over two years. He slowed down. He didn’t chittery and chattery as much at the birds. We were busy with our growing son and didn’t sit on the couch anymore with the yellow puff. Instead, my best time with the Mugga was always at night. As an insomniac, I often fall asleep last and wake up often. I would snuggle with the cat during those times when the house was dark and quiet and my son and husband breathed softly beside us. Sometimes I petted him just once because I wanted to fall back to sleep, sometimes a little longer. For a while he slept on a pillow I placed above mine. After that he slept at my feet or my husband’s. Or sometimes cuddled up warm against me.

Our days in the last few years were defined by 8:30. In the morning and the evening, that was when we had to feed the Mugga and give him his insulin. It’s so hollow now to see 8:30 on the clock and have no date with the Mugga anymore.

Two nights ago I got up in the night to use the bathroom. I felt like his little footfalls were supposed to follow me into the bathroom. I’d forgotten how often he used to do that, since he hadn’t done it in a while. For years he used to follow me at might to get some love.

There was white cat hair everywhere. It’s still everywhere. We couldn’t get dressed without having to check for cat hair.

That last morning watching the sunrise, and that last afternoon on the leather couch at the vet’s.

How he used to meow before he threw up a hairball, and how every time he did throw up, he did it in threes. If I found one small puddle, I knew to look for exactly two more.

How, in our new house, when it was time to eat, he would wait at the top of the stairs for us to come and carry him down. He let us cradle him when we held him. He was our first baby, after all.

The way, before he got diabetes, he would love his Fancy Feast cat food, and how afterward, as it approached 8:30 he would, as we said, “advocate” for himself by seeking us out and letting us know he was ready.

He was always his own best advocate, not just with feedings, but with love. He used to make a place for himself near us, like if one of us was holding the baby, he would sit just a little further down the lap, or on top of the chair by our head.

He had golden eyes.

When he was very little he had a tuft of gray hairs on his head that eventually grew out.

If we went away overnight, he got so lonely. He’d cry at us when we got home and be extra special needy for attention. I used to think about him and worry about him every time we went away.

How he used to love sitting in a sunbeam, especially in younger days.

Sometimes he’d do a “drive by,” where he reached out with his claw and grabbed you as you walked by.

How he cowered during a thunder storm, most recently in our closet.

He once got shut in our coat closet. We didn’t find him until we went looking. Later I caught him opening that closet himself and realized he must have opened it the day he got stuck and someone just came by and shut it without knowing he was inside.

He used to visit our overnight guests and sleep with them for part of the night.

He had his favorite places to hang out. Not only over the closet in our first house, but in our new house under the dining room table. There is almost enough hair under there now to make a new cat. Though sometimes I’d find him in new places like the wicker chair in the sunroom.

A few times, when I had the chance at night to work on the computer in the playroom by myself, he would come in and sit beside me on the rug.

In younger days, he would unroll the toilet paper. To save rolls, for years and years we hung them backwards.

He liked being stroked on his jaw and under his chin.

The way he meowed in the car. He could keep it up for the hour-long drive from our first house to my mom and dad’s house.

Before showering, I put the clothes I’ll need afterward on the bed. When I would come out of the shower, the Mugga would be nesting in my clothes.

We used to tease him by making shrill noises, especially shrill singing noises. His ears would perk straight up.

His fur was soft. Very, very, soft.

Even as my son grew from an infant to a toddler to a very active pre-schooler, the Mugga loved him. When my son was loud and crazy, the cat kept his distance, and when my son poked and pawed him, the cat could bite or scratch. But in quieter moments, he’d come and sniff and snuggle and groom, and my son was just getting to the age where he could appreciate the cat and pet him properly.

What I remember most about the Mugga, what was most special and most wonderful about him, what will always define him in my life, is that he was always there for me, unconditionally, until he kissed me with practically his dying breath.