Ghost Medicine

the why chromosome

2012-01-31T08:27:00.000-08:00

Way back in November of 2010, Laura Scholes published an interesting study in The International Journal of Learning, in which she critically examines the Boys-Are-Failing panic.

She says the gender gap panic has dominated educational policy agendas in western nations since the 1990s, and it is largely a result of simplistic projections cast on an entire homogenous population of all boys that label them as illiterate failures, and similar projections on a homogenous population of all girls that label them as successes.

She says, "This homogenizing of boys and girls as binary and oppositional groups distorts social justice principals that advocate supporting and valuing differences between students... The construction of boys as a disadvantaged group has tended to position all boys as educationally disadvantaged..."

And people buy into it.

Scholes' study is long. I'll be talking about it more, particularly because I have some speaking engagements this year dealing with the topic of boys, reading, and writing.

But one of the most compelling elements in her study identified what she called "Clandestine Readers" -- a group with a near 3-to-1 ratio of boys to girls, who were tested meeting or exceeding grade-level requirements for literacy, and who also were identified as having high levels of enjoyment in reading, but concealed their passion for reading because their peer groups tended to be unsupportive or had negative feelings about reading.

Wow.

Do you know any Clandestine Readers?

I see them, dozens of them, every day.

More to follow.

travis pope had also molted during the night

2012-01-28T09:47:00.000-08:00

There are rules about used book stores.

You have to know them.

I wonder if it makes me a bad person as an author if I love used book stores.

There is almost nothing better than a good used book store.

Berkeley, California, where my son is a student at Cal, has some amazing used book stores.

A few weeks ago, when I took my son up there to deposit him back in the dorms for spring semester, we went into one of Berkeley's used book stores one afternoon.

I found a book that looked interesting. I had never heard of it before. I showed it to my son.

"Have you ever heard of this?" I said.

He said he'd heard of it, but had not read it.

I opened it and read the inside flap copy. It sounded good.

Inside the book, which was about 20 years old, was a stamp that said:

FROM THE PERSONAL LIBRARY OF JAMES L. EDDLEMAN

And, beneath that, in pencil, was written N-111

I wondered if it meant it was James's 111th novel.

Who knows?

Also, the stamp was crooked, like James was in a hurry to read the book, or maybe to place it on his bookshelf.

Somewhere around page 260, it looked as though James had spilled some blue fountain pen ink on the bottom of the book. The stain does not obscure any print, and I am certain it is fountain pen ink because I had always used fountain pens for most of my early writing.

My son and I both agreed the ink stain was very cool.

In the middle of the book was a bookmark, possibly from the bookstore where James originally purchased the book, in Livermore, California.

When my son saw the bookmark, he said that I now had to buy the book.

He said it is a rule that when you find a used book with that much extra stuff in it, you have to buy it.

That's a rule.

I try to always put as much extra stuff as possible in all my books.

Thanks for letting me find this one, Mr. Eddleman.

kimber drive

2012-01-27T07:52:00.000-08:00

It has been an interesting week.

I saw some more artwork for Winger.

What a book!

I am most thrilled about my fourth novel, Stick, being named to the American Library Association's 2012 Best Fiction for Young Adults.

I have been thinking about this quite a bit.

I stopped myself from saying a lot.

I like the name: Best Fiction for Young Adults. I like the name because it says "here is a novel that might make a special connection to a reader who happens to be Young and Mature."

It does not say: Here is a Young Adult Novel.

This is a good thing, because I do not write Young Adult Novels.

I am an American novelist.

I make that distinction, American, because there are some important characteristics which make American novels identifiable and unique. One day I may talk about that idea.

I am NOT a Young Adult Novelist.

A lot of people are [there, I said it], and there is nothing wrong with that at all. But not me.

I wish more grownups would read my books. I think a lot of grownups do not want to read my books because somebody keeps telling them I write Young Adult Novels, and that I am a Young Adult Novelist.

Believe me, I am not young, and I rarely exhibit adult behavior.

But I am a novelist.

So let's clear that up right now.

Here is what I think: There is absolutely nothing positive I can say about "suffering for one's art."

Suffering for your art is stupid.

Experiencing setbacks in order to come out on the other end with some sort of wholeness or redemption is also stupid.

That's what I think.

I worked very hard over these past four years. I am not conceited at all -- I can honestly say that -- but I can also honestly say that it is a hell of an accomplishment to write four published American novels over four consecutive years and have every one of them named to the Best Fiction for Young Adults list.

I have been told that I write too much.

And I am here, sitting on a few more novels that are not even out yet.

And I am working as I sit here.

robby could have been a preacher

2012-01-25T11:19:00.000-08:00

The American Library Association's YALSA (Young Adult Library Services Association) announced its list of the 2012 Best Fiction for Young Adults books.

I am happy and flattered to say that my novel, Stick, made their list.

This makes four out of four on my novels, each of which has been added to the list: Ghost Medicine (2009), In the Path of Falling Objects (2010), The Marbury Lens (2011), and now, Stick.

In addition, The Marbury Lens was honored just yesterday to be named to YALSA's Top Ten Amazing Audiobooks for 2012.

the brain room

2012-01-23T03:50:00.000-08:00

This is where I write.

No, you can't see the stack of manuscripts here. They are in the other corner, beneath the Conor Oberst concert poster.

Last week, I got to have a look at some of the sketches illustrator Sam Bosma is doing for Winger.

I know.

I really hate it when authors say stuff like, "Oh, I adore the cover of my new book, but I am not allowed to show it yet. Squee."

I hate the word adore, nearly as much as I hate the word-thing Squee.

Winger is coming out in spring of 2013. That is a long time away, I realize, but artwork for something like this is quite a bit of work.

Let me tell you a little bit about the book.

This is from my website's description:

Fourteen-year-old Ryan Dean West may be the smartest 11th grader in school, but there are some things he just doesn't get. He's convinced that the woman living downstairs is a witch -- out to destroy his life; believes the girl he's in love with only sees him as some kind of pet; and wonders why his best friend -- the only voice of reason in Ryan Dean's life -- likes other boys more than girls. A funny, sometimes dark, part-graphic YA novel about fitting in, and the consequences that can occur when big deals are made over small differences.

So the book has illustrations in it. Ryan Dean West sees his life as a sort of self-deprecating comic, and he has an interesting interpretation of his reality. Ryan Dean likes to explain things through charts, graphs, notes, and other stuff that pops out of his head.

I can't imagine a cooler, more appropriate style for the illustrations than what I saw in Sam's sketches. If there is some way that line and shading can mesh with a narrator's voice, Sam has found it.

This really is going to be an amazing, one-of-a-kind book.

considering the bison, and free will

2012-01-22T06:24:00.000-08:00

Saturday morning brought a nice winter storm -- heavy rain and gusty winds.

I run every day, no matter what.

I enjoy running in the rain, the heat, snow, whatever. I do not like wind.

But I went out running, anyway. I have to.

There was nobody outside, no cars on our little streets; it was pouring.

At the end of the lake there is a trail that leads up into the mountains. I run this way nearly every day.

Just at this spot, there is also a junction box, or something like that, for the phone company. Yesterday, there was a worker there with his phone company truck doing something inside the box.

This is a true story.

It is my job to tell the truth.

When I ran past him, he smiled and said, "I guess I'm not the only one crazy enough to be out in this weather!"

(I added the exclamation point. I believe phone guy had "exclamation point" in his eyes.)

Oh yeah, Phone Guy. You. Me. Brothers.

This is what I was wearing: shorts, shoes, a cap, a vinyl windbreaker. I was already drenched, and I had about 6 more miles to cover.

And I said, "It isn't that bad."

In a flash, I considered the following: Why did I say that? What does "that bad" even mean? I would have probably said the same stupid thing if the ground were cleaving open and lava was burbling up at my feet.

Then Phone Guy said to me: "Yeah! But I'm getting PAID for being here!! Ha ha ha!!!"

What a jovial fellow.

And I said, "I have free will."

Last night, when I was lying awake in bed (I haven't been sleeping in the past 2 weeks), I was visited by my Psychotherapist In Glass.

We had an intense conversation.

I will tell you about it another time.

Psychotherapist In Glass is not a jovial practitioner.

when their sons uncomfortably venture toward asking them questions

2012-01-21T06:37:00.000-08:00

I came back.

I needed to go away for a while.

When I was a kid, my parents neither wanted nor encouraged me to write shit down on paper.

I was created during the Age of Paper.

I have a number of friends who are writers struggling to be published.

I have this question for them:

What do you expect?

I'll get back to that in a while, but I want you to keep thinking about it: What do you expect?

And then what?

I bet you guys aren't even thinking two moves ahead as you toil over the positioning of your exploratory pawn.

Remember that stack of manuscripts I have sitting here in my office?

It got even bigger this week. I found another one. A version of The Marbury Lens from a while ago. I can't remember.

My office is very clean and open now. I should post a picture of it. Maybe I will, too, when I get back to that question that I want my as-yet-unpublished writer friends to keep thinking about.

I have a couple things I am obligated to turn in this year.

I have never, never, never written anything on assignment -- except for the stuff I had to do when I was a journalist.

I hated being a journalist.

I quit putting shit on paper and became a sort of bum with wanderlust because of it.

Someone -- harmlessly, I might add -- remarked something like Look at all those trees you killed! when I posted the picture of my original manuscripts (which is now bigger).

What can I say? I came out of the Age of Paper.

So, I am thinking I am going to write my next book by hand on the backs of the pages of my original manuscripts.

Somewhere out there, an agent and an editor just got a stomach ache.

My handwriting looks like it was done by a sleep-deprived seven-year-old boy on a tilt-a-whirl.

stet

My dear friend, the copy editor who is working on Passenger, said something like this: Next time you write a book, you should provide a list of words you choose to freakishly mutate ahead of time, so your editors' heads do not become troubled.

Well. She didn't say it exactly like that, but I probably should do that because I do derive some sick satisfaction creating lexical centipedes.

Are you guys still thinking about that question?

a good question for the books, i thought

2012-01-17T05:52:00.000-08:00

If you have read my blog for a while, then you know that I almost never talk about other authors and their books.

It is not my job to talk about other authors and their books.

But I am going to deviate from my ethical constraints and do that in the coming weeks.

I am going to do that because I have been fortunate enough to read some books which are not yet published, and I want to say a few things about them because they are good.

I would never say anything about bad books because I can't get to the end of bad books.

Included in those not-yet-released books that I'd like to say a few things about because they are so good are BZRK, by Michael Grant (February, 2012), and The Raft, by S.A. Bodeen (August, 2012).

I admit that it is a rare occasion when I read Middle Grade books, but I will throw something out there -- go out on a tender limb -- about the YA titles I've read from 2011.

This is a prediction: You will see these three books in the Michael L. Printz Award corral for 2012: How to Save a Life, by Sara Zarr, Brooklyn, Burning, by Steve Brezenoff, and Everybody Sees the Ants, by A.S. King.

Let's see if I'm not right about at least one of those.

the ealing registry of historical homes

2012-01-16T08:12:00.000-08:00

I am home again.

Jiggety-jig.

While I was away, Lori Strongin, who lives in Florida, won a signed copy of Stick from Jen Bigheart's "Best Books of 2011" giveaway. Jen is a librarian and member of Texas Library Association who also manages a very cool blog about books.

It is my goal to go to Austin this year.

I just have to warn Lori that I have not been lucky with shipping stuff to Florida. It took SIX WEEKS for my pages from Passenger to get to my friend Ian. Rest assured, the book is on its way.

Duct-taped to the back of the hindmost animal in a caravan of trained delivery kittens.

I have this thing in my head that fails to recognize the beginning of a new year until Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

I don't know why that is, but to me, the year doesn't officially begin until this week.

I have a lot of work to do in 2012.

Damn. I said it again.

I don't even know where to begin.

my foot got stuck between the passenger seat and the console

2012-01-14T08:40:00.000-08:00

If The Marbury Lens is about heat and desert, Passenger is more about water.

Here is something else I want to tell you about Passenger:

The pages I sent Ian made his head explode, according to him.

I suppose I should apologize to Ian's mother.

In Passenger, the kids get stuck inside this lightless maze of flood control channels beneath Marbury, called the Under. Nobody likes getting stuck in the dark. Especially with the things you know you'll find in a place like Marbury.

But here is some news: Around the same time that Passenger comes out (possibly just before), I am going to publish a short story that goes with the novel, as a kind of companion appendix. It will be something that will also make heads explode.

The story will be on the Tor Books website. Tor is a publisher of fantasy/science fiction, and is an imprint of Macmillan, the publisher of The Marbury Lens and Passenger.

I am excited about the story. I think you're going to be surprised.

I'll let you know more details as the date for the unveiling nears.

a repository of cast-off consonants

2012-01-13T07:03:00.000-08:00

I have been cleaning my office this week.

Well, not today, because I am up in Berkeley.

By Tuesday of next week, my goal is to have an office that is so clean and spacious, it will say to you, "This would be a nice place to commit suicide."

To me, that is the number-one quality I look for in an office.

After all, writers have suicidal impulses in their blood.

It is like hemoglobin, or shit like that, to regular people.

This is a stack of original manuscripts that were scattered around the floor of my office. I piled them up and took a picture of them. I have not thrown them away yet.

The stack is higher by two manuscripts now.

Well, actually, by about one-and-one-half manuscripts.

When I cleaned out my car to prepare for the road trip of driving my son up here for his spring semester at Cal, I found a complete manuscript for Stick (my novel that invisibly came out in October), and about the middle-half of Passenger, the sequel to The Marbury Lens that will be coming out this October.

So, yes... those manuscripts, for the most part, are not in order, and there are some "chunks" floating around inside the jumbled stack. But there it is.

I have two news updates on Passenger, too:

The first one, I cannot tell you yet, because I am not finished thinking about it and I have other shit to do this morning.

The second one is that the package of pages (which happened to be my favorite part of the book) that I MAILED to Ian on the other side of the country on December 7, finally got to him. It took more than one month, and Ian ended up getting two packages from me -- the second of which I shipped via UPS which included a different set of pages and a handwritten (in seven-year-old's script) letter and poster, and was delivered to him in just a few days.

I am happy the kid scored twice, and relieved that the US Postal Service did not lose those pages and proved that I always do what I say I'll do for the kids who deserve good things.

Like Ian.

Who now has about 20 original pages from the manuscript for Passenger.

The rest of it is in that stack up there.

the silo

2012-01-12T05:35:00.000-08:00

I am leaving this morning very early.

I am driving up to San Francisco for 5 days, taking my son back to begin his second semester at UC Berkeley.

Next year, in early 2013, my book Winger will finally be published (by David Gale at Simon and Schuster).

When I wrote the book, I did ~~a lot~~... er... a number of drawings and diagrams right in the middle of the story. It was my intent to have the book be a kind of hybridized graphic novel/analytical experiment in storytelling.

The narrator is quite a creative guy. He likes to draw comic book panels and charts and shit like that to explain what's going on inside his head.

He kind of reminds me of someone I know, but I can't think of who, exactly.

Anyway, I never intended my artwork to be used in the published version of the book, because, well... you see I'm not really an "in-the-lines" kind of artist, and I just thought that a real artist could do it better.

Thankfully, Simon and Schuster agreed.

Meet Sam Bosma.

Sam is the guy who is set to illustrate Winger.

Take a look at his work, it's pretty amazing.

Sam Bosma is an illustrator.

By the way, I might be gone for a while if you need me.

this is what the end of the world looks like:

2012-01-11T07:46:00.000-08:00

"did you actually just say prostitute?" "um... i can't be certain."

2012-01-10T07:44:00.000-08:00

[As always, click on the images to see them more gloriously clearly]

a real dynamo

2012-01-09T07:38:00.000-08:00

I should make a FAQ page on my website.

The FAQs I get are not FAed to most other authors I know.

If I kept track of such things, the Q I am most FAed is this:

When do you sleep?

I told you before:

I sleep when I achieve a state of reversible (thank God for reversibility! thank God!) unconsciousness, during which time my pulse and respiration slow, and my brain enters a wave-pattern known as delta.

That is when I sleep.

But I was talking to a friend of mine the other day about how I sleep, and I thought it was kind of telling about how I write, too.

By the way, it is Monday, January 9, 2012. God help me, I started writing today.

I haven't really written since mid-ish October. I've just been reading, re-reading, and editing in the last three months.

I guess it is appropriate to get working about now.

Every night, without fail, I sleep like this:

I go to sleep for an hour or two. It's a meaningless, black, sleep in which I think about nothing, possibly the likelihood of non-reversibility.

Then I wake up and lie there, conscious.

Usually, I am awake for an hour or so. Maybe 90 minutes. During that time, I think about things. Lots of things.

Then I go back to sleep.

The second time I sleep is when I have intense, vivid, colorful dreams.

This always happens.

Last night, I had four separate dreams during that time. They were really cool dreams, too. Especially the last one, where I had a big boat in the harbor and there was a ladder floating in the ocean that had fallen off the upper deck of my boat. I won't tell you the whole dream, but I do remember that it cost exactly $400 per month to rent the slip where I kept the boat in the marina.

I keep a pad of paper and a pen on the nightstand beside my bed. On that nightstand, there are also 6 books, the framed copy of Exile on Main Street my son gave me, and a statue of Ganesha.

I used to train myself to wake up and write down my dreams.

I wrote a lot of the narratives to In the Path of Falling Objects and The Marbury Lens this way.

In fact, just about everything that happens to Jack and Conner in Marbury happened first in the delta waves of the reversible (thank God!) unconsciousness of my sleep, which I wrote down (in red pen, by the way. I don't know why I have a particular fondness for writing in red ink).

Now, even though I keep paper and (red) pen nearby, I do not need to write down my dreams. I always remember them. Every day.

At least, every day I wake up I do.

I am not sure if other writers use their dreams in what they write, or if other writers even dream.

In my case, the majority of my dreams have almost no connection to the "real" waking world. I have never owned a boat (with the exception of my kayaks), and I probably wouldn't jump in the ocean to retrieve a floating ladder if given the opportunity.

And, to answer FAQ at the top of the list, that is exactly how I sleep.

Every night.

the blue light was my baby

2012-01-08T08:56:00.000-08:00

So I was going to write this post a while ago about how disappointed I was in the Postal Service.

Eh... whatever.

It's kind of a non-issue, like when people who want to be President of the United States of America talk about amending the Constitution of the United States of America in order to "protect" marriage against gay human beings.

That's probably the dumbest thing anyone who wants to be President of the United States could ever talk about in 2012. It is dumber than talking about the current season of Doctor Who, which, I am told, is a television program that I have never seen.

One time I told somebody that I had never seen Doctor Who.

You know what he said to me?

He said this:

That is really sad.

I did not know my life was really sad because I had not ever seen Doctor Who.

I thought all the sadness in my life was due to other things.

See how stupid and misled you can be when you do not watch television?

Anyway, that same guy -- the one who shook his head woefully and said That's really sad when I said I have never watched Doctor Who -- you know what I did to him?

I made him a character in a book I wrote and killed him.

I do that kind of shit a lot.

Oh yeah? You think it is "sad" that I do not watch Doctor Who?

Well, take that, motherfucker.

I was angry at the US Postal Service because of this important stuff I had sent to this important kid on the other side of the country, and the US Postal Service never delivered it.

There ought to be a Constitutional Amendment banning lost packages. It could come right after the one that forces me to stop killing people in my books who judge me harshly and find happiness by watching Doctor Who.

Are the Doctor Who fans getting pissed off at me?

Yesterday, I think I pissed off everyone in "Hollywood," as well as Andrea Bocelli fans, and possibly the Republics of Italy and North Korea, too.

I failed to mention that the movie I had watched had James Franco in it.

I think James Franco should run for President.

Or, maybe, he should be appointed Postmaster General.

James could do it.

I think those might be the last two things on James Franco's to-do list.

Me? I need to clean my office.

Remember the 12-year-old kid named Ian, who was solely responsible for bringing me out to Miami in November for the Miami Book Fair International?

Ian's a big fan of all things Marbury.

Well, it was probably the best thing I have ever participated in as a writer. So, before I left Miami, I got to spend some time with Ian, and I told him I would send him some original manuscript pages from Passenger, which is the sequel to The Marbury Lens, as well as a poster for The Marbury Lens.

So, I packed all that stuff up in one of those unstoppable cardboard tube things at the beginning of December and sent it off to Ian -- via the un-James-Franco administered US Postal Service.

It never got there.

I was bummed.

Ian was bummed. I know what it's like, being 12 and waiting for something to come in the mail. It is like a black hole.

Worse, I think Ian may have entertained the thought that I didn't do what I told him I was going to do.

I can't stand people who break promises to kids.

Now THAT should be a Constitutional Amendment, you stupid idiots who want to be President of the United States of America: There will be no breaking promises to kids.

Also, the pages I sent him were my FAVORITE pages -- from an original manuscript -- that no longer, apparently, exist in this universe. I sent him about 10 pages of this really creepy scene that takes place in the middle of the wasteland of the Marbury desert.

Part of that scene is on my Writing page on my website.

Some people who have read that short excerpt have guessed that it has something to do with Seth, the ghost from The Marbury Lens. I am not going to tell them if they are right or not. I will only say it is a very creepy scene.

So, anyway... I packaged up a new set of pages (from three different parts of Passenger), another The Marbury Lens poster, and a handwritten (well, printed, actually, since I can not handwrite) letter to Ian and shipped them all off -- again. But this time, it was with UPS.

I think it's cool to send handwritten letters to people, even if my writing looks like a nervous seven-year-old who needs to pee really bad and cannot write on horizontal parallels.

I have heard that James Franco has very nice penmanship.

breakout session 4.1: optioning your book for film

2012-01-07T07:47:00.000-08:00

Okay.

That was a bit caffeinated.

And, as usual, I forgot what I actually wanted to say.

I learned something the other day: For a film to make lots of money, it should be rated PG-13.

And for a film to be rated PG-13, you are allowed to say fuck one time only.

Uh.

One.

Obviously, that's how you make a book as long as The Marbury Lens fit into 100 minutes: make it PG-13.

I won't tell you how many "fucks" have to be cut to get The Marbury Lens down to the magic number.

It is a lot.

I realize, too, that I have not been very effective at reducing the number of times I use the vague quantifier "a lot," which has kind of been a New Year's Resolution of mine.

I should make a magic number:

I am only allowed to say a lot three times per day.

Three times seems like a lot.

When you have magic numbers, which are a lot like frosted raspberry cupcakes, exceeding them is, by definition, excessive in any quantity.

breakout session four: optioning your book for film

2012-01-07T06:55:00.000-08:00

I don't know whether this is actually Breakout Session 4 or not. I have lost track.

Look at all the free shit I give you.

Well, kind of free.

I realize that a while back I started talking about the movie option for The Marbury Lens, and then I got sidetracked.

That happens.

I know a lot of people don't really know what it means when a book gets optioned for film, but here's the simplified version:

It is like selling your child to your next-door neighbor for a year or two.

If you are okay with selling your child to your next-door neighbor for a year or two, then you have to be willing to shrug off certain things -- like blood curdling pleas for help in the middle of the night, bad hygiene, and poor fashion choices, like Crocs or hairstyles evocative of Kim Jong Il.

Hmmm... is next-door supposed to be hyphenated?

How about blood curdling?

This is why we have copy editors.

Copy editors are like invisible angels that poop frosted raspberry cupcakes from the heavens.

Did I just hear a scream?

No matter.

I'll just crank up the Andrea Bocelli.

[If you knew me, you would laugh at that. I would rather die than crank up Andrea Bocelli. I do not like to get screamed at in Italian. It creeps me out.]

You can get a haircut when you come home. Now quit complaining.

There is a script.

I have it.

If you have read The Marbury Lens, then you know it is a huge story, with stories inside stories that go back as far as the late 1800s.

I realize that the only possible way you could make that child into a 100-minute movie is by rearranging some of the furniture in the playground.

Do playgrounds have furniture?

This is precisely why my childhood wasn't very fun.

Go outside and play on the coffee table, Drew... Or we'll sell you to the creepy man next door for a few years.

I am not complaining.

Don't get me wrong.

I am explaining, in my usual whimsy-infused manner.

I write books, not movies.

I watched a movie the other night with my family.

This is the truth.

As I sat there watching it (the part I did not sleep through), I thought the following quietly to myself:

If I wanted to write a movie like this, I would have to have a portion of my brain surgically removed, blended with margarine and candy corn, heated to a boil, and then injected back into my skull.

That did not sound like a good idea.

Listen: I am pretty much okay with anything anyone wants to do in movieland once I sign the paper.

It just has to be that way.

I write books.

But I do believe two things:

I believe The Marbury Lens will be a very good movie.

I also believe I would like a cupcake.

ingrid's bakery

2012-01-06T07:33:00.000-08:00

I blog a lot.

It is practice.

But my philosophy is this: blogging is not writing.

Blogging is not-writing.

When people use language to communicate (whether written or spoken), there are actually two things going on: The words and the thoughts behind the words.

The words are like clothing; the thought is the nude form beneath.

Sometimes the clothing is so... um... form-fitting, that the thought and the outer layer -- the word -- are indistinguishable.

This is real concrete writing.

It can be bad writing at the wrong times, and it can uppercut you in the guts at others.

You have no idea what I am thinking about when I type these words.

Hint: Among other things, I am thinking about keystrokes. I am a bad typist who grew up using manual typewriters and carbon paper.

When I say carbon paper, I am thinking about sex.

My first typewriter was a Smith-Corona that came in its own black vinyl suitcase. Half of the ribbon was red.

I was thinking (not while typing) about practice and how it works.

To be a good pole-vaulter, you have to practice.

I have never pole-vaulted in my life.

Pole-vaulters do not only pole-vault all day long. If they want to be good, they do other things.

This is why standardization in education is going to destroy humanity and result in a massive economic/social/class catastrophe.

You can never practice at being creative if your path in life is reduced, without possible deviation, to the following:

( ) A.

( ) B.

( ) C.

( ) D.

Creativity solves problems.

The world has a lot of problems.

Like, what to do with all the carbon paper we did not use up in the 1980s.

Two years ago, I wrote a series of blog posts about why I hate YA.

People got mad at me.

They said, If you hate YA, why do you write it?

I do not write YA. That is just the clothing that you see. You need to call it something, so you call it YA.

I have published 4 novels. My 5th, 6th, and 7th are already on the calendar for publication at Macmillan and Simon and Schuster.

I never wrote a single one of those novels as YA.

I don't think I really know what YA is.

But I do know I hate it.

I never even heard of YA until I thought about publishing my first novel, and a good friend said, Oh, that's YA.

And I was, like, Yay?

Yay for me.

Now I know what I write.

I have found the bridge between the clothing and the body.

Thank God.

I can live.

I do not read YA.

Is that an offensive shock? I mean, I read some books that people call YA, but I only read them because they are good. Not because they are YA.

And... um... to be honest, almost nothing that people call YA will get me past page five.

Sorry.

I am practicing.

Look: If you want to be a writer of any category or genre and that's all you read, you will never be a good writer.

Sorry, but that is the truth.

If you want to be a writer and you never read, um... you should quit now.

eden five needs you

2012-01-05T06:16:00.000-08:00

I frequently get lost.

Oh.

NOW I remember why I started off on yesterday's post about writing after a pitch, as opposed to pitching after a write.

Because series writers have to do that.

It was not too long ago when I was finally able to talk about Passenger, which is my forthcoming novel, a sequel to The Marbury Lens.

When I made the announcement, my friend, the affable Michael Grant, said something like this:

Welcome to series hell, buddy.

Um.

No.

This is it.

Isn't it?

I absolutely never intended to write another book about Jack, Conner, and Marbury. It just happened.

Like poop or something.

I could not help it.

There will be nothing more on the subject of Marbury and Jack and Conner and the rest of them after this.

At least, I think so.

But then again, being a middle child, I have very poor impulse control.

I have a spastic impulse sphincter.

Anyway, the reason that I was thinking about series books is something that is purely personal and anecdotal on my part, so it may very likely be as wrong as discussing poop on a blog for two consecutive days, but it is this:

It seems that more and more young readers (and I am talking primarily about older teens), and YA librarians are looking for new reads which are not part of series.

I don't know. Maybe it's just the kids I hang around with.

That sounds creepy, doesn't it?

So, yesterday, I stumbled onto this website -- a nice looking website, by the way -- run by a business that produces generic-type covers for self-pubbed/indie/e-books. I'd really like to share the site, but I would probably get a bag of flaming poop on my doorstep.

The covers are very well-done.

In fact, they look like just about every cover out there nowadays.

You know what I mean.

I hope.

In fact, I started to laugh until I cried thinking up titles to their "Paranormal" collection.

Do this:

Look at the latest Paranormal/Romance/YA book cover.

Pick any one you'd like, and open it in another tab, right alongside this post.

Do it.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

Okay.

Are you looking at the cover?

Good, my friends.

Good.

Now say aloud the following:

I just took an upper-decker in your toilet.

Sorry.

I am a bad person.

You might have to look upper-decker up in the urban dictionary, or something.

A two-day streak of nonstop poop references.

Why do YA Dysto/Para/Rom covers have to be so lame and generic?

Whatever happened to the days when publishers made covers like this:

Seriously.

Now here is an author who probably started with a title.

And a cover.

"Stand back! I've got a clarinet, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Seriously.

And... Satan? Who knew Satan played tambourine?

Grimacing.

And I'm not sure, but maybe "lesbian" meant something different in the 1950s than "lesbian" means today.

I also like this cover:

Um.

Uh.

On second thought, "It hurts when I poop!" is also a very funny thing to say aloud when you look at the current slew of covers for Dysto/Para/Rom YA, too.

I believe I am now finished talking about poop.

Who knows?

the pulse-o-matic

2012-01-04T07:14:00.000-08:00

Last year, in 2011, I sold three books for publication.

Nothing ever seems really good enough for me, but then again I was a middle child.

This year, I will sell some books, too.

I only mention that because the books I sold last year are already written.

Finished.

That's why I can put quotes from them on my website.

I've said it before: I don't see how writers can pitch an idea about something they intend to write, but haven't yet written.

I mean... I would give it a shot, but the pressure must be pure hell.

It would be like pooping on command.

With an audience.

"You! Poop now!"

Even if I had a gun to my head, I don't think I could break routine.

Am I finished talking about pooping?

Yes. Yes, I am.

searching for her invisible silo

2012-01-03T08:07:00.000-08:00

I did it.

The bio is finished.

It is vague and thin-shelled, because it does not tell about all these other things I have done in my life and where I went to school and stuff like that. I am not going to put it here, and it is not on my website, either, because I do not like that kind of stuff.

I have been restless.

I am not a good person when I am restless.

I am about ready to begin something new, but it isn't there yet. I know when things are there, and this is not.

There.

So, out of restlessness and my intense avoidance toward completing such tasks as taking author photos and crafting vague, thin-shelled bios which make me sound neither heroic nor accomplished by any stretch of the imagination, I decided to re-read through the last beast of a novel I'd finished writing this past October.

I still think it is good.

But I found about four typos in it.

Typos make me insane.

How can typos remain invisible through so many sessions of reading, rewriting, and editing?

Typos are like ghosts.

Here is one that made me want to break something: I typed od in a sentence where I had intended to type of.

How the hell can you do that and not even see the little bastard for months?

I hate typos.

Sure, you think, I am finished writing... now I will just do a quick read-through for spelling errors. And you read a few hundred pages a day and a misspelled, two-letter preposition camouflages itself amongst multisyllabic vessels of presumed significance.

And then I cringe, what if THEY think I really am an idiot who uses words like "od"?

This is what happens when I don't have enough to do.

the dragon parade

2012-01-02T05:32:00.001-08:00

The ordeal is over.

I am not talking about 2011, which was not really the terrible year all the newspapers I've been looking at have claimed it to be.

I am talking about the author photo mission.

Now all I have to do is make up that damned biography and I'll be off the hook.

When my first book, Ghost Medicine, came out, I was greatly relieved that there would be no author photo on the dust jacket. But I also did not want any biographical info on it, either.

I believe I actually suggested something like this:

Andrew Smith is the guy who wrote this book.

For some reason, that suggestion did not fly with the higher-ups.

Oh well.

We took the author photos inside some old abandoned clubhouse buildings near the lake where I live. Over the years, kids have converted these old shacks into sex dens or something. I think they look cool, but then again, I like the art that can be found in destruction.

In fact, a very important scene in my book Winger, which is coming out early next year from Simon and Schuster, takes place inside a building very much like the one in our photographs.

Just so you know what it looks like there.

About one mile from my house, if you follow footpaths through the hills (there are no roads here), there is also a small family graveyard, where we took some of the pictures.

They just don't let people bury family members on their property these days.

Well... I mean, you know... if you do bury your family members in your yard, nowadays you usually don't let people know about it. It's got to impact resale value and shit like that.

Anyway, in the graveyard, the most recent headstone (there are only five of them) is dated 1933. You can't help but wonder how tough it must have been to bury a family member on your own property during the Great Depression.

Three of the graves are for children. One of them -- a kid named Eddie -- died in 1919.

On New Year's Eve, when we took the photos, I had a dream about Eddie. Actually, I have been thinking about that kid for two nights in a row now. I am probably going to go back to the grave today, but I am a little creeped out about it.

I know Eddie's there. I guess that's a weird thing to say, but... he is.

Eddie is a cool name for a kid from 1919. Not Edward. Eddie.

In 1860, the population of the planet Earth was about 1.3 billion. I mention that because one of the people in the graveyard was born in 1860. I think it was Eddie's grandfather.

In the 1860s, people sometimes named their kid Phineas.

P.T. Barnum's first name was Phineas.

P.T. Barnum was alive in 1860.

He is falsely credited with devising the calculus that There is a sucker born every minute.

If I extract out the math, given the world's current population, there is now a sucker being born about every 14 seconds.

That is real progress, and it makes me want to breed.

I hear kids frequently moan about how boring their lives are.

I think, as I sit here at the beginning of 2012, that boredom and discouragement piled up invisibly as we invented more and more shit to entertain ourselves -- like iPods and Xboxes and smart phones -- shit like that, which really build isolating technological igloos around human beings.

It's too late for a lot of kids. They will never dig their way out of all that isolation and boredom and discouragement.

I know. Not very cheerful.

I bet the kids who lived by Eddie, on the side of a lake where people raised cattle and horses and grew cherries in 1919 never complained about being bored.

Anyway, here are two pictures we took on New Year's Eve. The Black and White photo was taken in the graveyard.

mind the gap, jack.

2012-01-01T06:01:00.001-08:00

to grady, thanks for the corn!

2011-12-31T06:53:00.000-08:00

Ah.

The last day of the year here in California.

I'm trying to imagine what predictions I would have made about my own trip through 2011 exactly one year ago, on New Year's Eve 2010.

They certainly would have been wrong.

When I was an undergraduate, I read a 19th-century novel called Looking Backward, which was written by Edward Bellamy in 1887. Bellamy tried to predict the social and economic progress America would experience by the year 2000 through the eyes of his character, Julian West, who is hypnotized and wakes up in Boston 113 years in the future.

Bellamy, not one to be frightened away from speculation by labels which today have become epithets (um... like socialist), actually envisioned a kind of utopian Marxist-socialist society where everyone would be cared for and share in the productive capacity of America.

Funny.

Then I was thinking about 20th-century authors who wrote about the future. Guys like Orwell, Huxley, and Vonnegut certainly had a... um... more tempered optimism than Bellamy.

Dark, dark, dark.

And they always get the machines all wrong, too. Bellamy, of the four, was actually pretty good at foreseeing certain technological changes.

I can't say I read contemporary books about the future. Of all the books I've sold for publication, there is actually only one of them that takes place at some time in the distant future in America -- Once There Were Birds, which is going to be published by Simon and Schuster in 2014.

I don't know if it's a good future or not.

Yesterday, I had a little fun on my Facebook page.

Today, I am supposed to have my AUTHOR PHOTO taken for Simon and Schuster.

I stress about things like this. Not because I'm concerned about blemishes, my hair, or whether or not a particular outfit makes me look fat.

It's because author photos tend to categorically be very douchey.

This is something else they need to cover at those $450 Writers' Conferences:

How to take an author photo.

I think this year, in 2012, I am going to have an entirely FREE Writers' Conference. I will volunteer my time and conduct panels and breakout sessions.

In order to provide all these valuable tips and tricks for free, rather than have it at a posh city-center highrise luxury hotel, we will hold our 2012 No-Fee Writers' Conference in an abandoned foreclosed home in the Antelope Valley, which is in sunny Southern California.

There are plenty of locations to choose from there, and some of them still have meth cooking on their stovetops.

I will teach you how to have an author photo taken.

A photo that says: Beneath all this simmering awesome-gravy I am pouring out on you is a hunk of pure literary man-meat.

That is what my author photo will say to you.

I think I will wear a scarf.

the intergalactic gesture of this is the end of the world

2011-12-30T06:51:00.000-08:00

This is not actually the end of the world.

But I am going to blog today about something I never blog about, which may lead one to erroneously conclude preparations are underway for some apocalyptic occurrence.

Movies.

Not really.

I do not know anything at all about movies. Everyone knows that.

Yesterday, I had coffee with one of the producers who holds the film option for The Marbury Lens. A lot of people who know me don't really know anything about writing or the writing business, just like I don't know anything about movies, television, awards shows, and the State of Delaware, which, I am convinced, does not actually exist.

Here's what a lot of people who know me and do not really know anything about writing believe:

1. Editors fix your mistakes. (Editor's fix you're mistakes.)

I just punched myself in the face for writing that.

2. Writers have to pay money to get their books published.

3. If you spend $450 and go to a Writers' Conference where people dress up in kooky costumes, swap sexual partners, and get drunk, you can also become a successful published author, providing you have enough money to pay for printing your book and you higher a good enough editor whom can fix all your spelling airs.

Why do I keep getting emails asking me to sign up and pay for these conferences?

Attention: I am NOT coming to your $450 conference to have "face time" with someone who once got an email from Nathan Bransford.

At least the emails I get from China about penises and shit like that (I run them through Google Translate -- I am not making that up) are reasonably entertaining.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Some people ask me what, exactly, does it mean when a book is optioned for film.

You know what I say?

I say this: I don't know. Maybe I should attend that $450 conference, after all.

Just kidding.

I actually do want to talk about the film option for The Marbury Lens, and where we're at in the process of making this movie, but I just flashed on something I'd been meaning to gripe about and neglected to attend to.

I am like that when I start typing.

I never know what the next line is going to say, and before he gets really really pissed off at me for throwing his name out there, sorry Nathan.

Um.

Uh.

I fly a lot.

I realize I say a lot a lot, too. I need to stop doing that. It will be one of my resolutions.

A lot is a stupid thing to say.

I am also going to make a resolution to write a novel in 2012.

I know. You are probably thinking that is a cowardly, wussie-like resolution for me to make.

Oh yeah? You try writing a book.

Bitch.

Just because I write a lot of them doesn't mean it's easy, or shit like that.

Don't judge.

So, anyway, when I travel, not only am I the snob who refuses to carry his entire wardrobe through the airport so he CHECKS HIS BAG, but I also carry with me the following: An iPhone, a Macbook Air, and an iPad. I carry them in a frayed black nylon backpack.

That is what we writers call "backstory."

Cha-Chinnnggg!!!! That will be $450, please.

[Note the exquisite use of the word "frayed"]

Anyway, here's the deal. Some airports, the TSA people get angry at me if I take my iPad out of my backpack. I have actually been mocked -- in San Francisco, no less -- for doing that.

"Oh!" The TSA screener shouted and pointed, laughing mockingly, "An iPad is NOT a laptop! Ha ha ha! You, sir, are a world-class buffoon!"

[TSA screeners are known to talk all haughty like that]

[Clever dialogue breakout session]

[ALWAYS avoid adverbs. Get rid of the "mockingly"]

[That is why we can charge you $450]

Okay. So, in the past month, I have flown back and forth across this continent three times.

Since I was taunted and emotionally scarred by a TSA screener at SFO, I no longer remove my iPad.

Guess what?

At one of the six or seven wonderful airports I passed through this month, leaving my iPad in my backpack was not a good idea.

At this particular airport, however, the TSA screener did not say anything to me at all. She only shook her head, pointed at another white-shirted officer, and motioned for me to go down an alternate chute.

When I got to the end of the roped-off tunnel I had been directed to, the man at the end said this to me:

"Don't be nervous."

I am not making that up.

He was in a uniform. With a badge and latex gloves on, and he said only this to me, and nothing else:

"Don't be nervous."

I should have known that "Don't be nervous" is the intergalactic greeting that roughly translates to:

In about 30 seconds, I am going to grab your balls.

Because that is exactly what happened to me.

I do not think it is possible to "not be nervous" when someone in a uniform is grabbing your balls.

This is true.

I bet shit like this never happens to Nathan Bransford.

I will tell you more about the Marbury Lens film option... soon.

she floated and floated

2011-12-28T08:21:00.000-08:00

I have a list, too.

This is the time of year for lists.

This morning, when I woke up and started my usual stuff, I saw this post from Paul Hankins, a teacher of literacy who reads something like 650 books per year. It was about his favorite books for 2011.

Stick is on that list.

I'll put a link below.

It means a lot to me for several reasons. First, maybe I'm a tough-sell, but I have this nagging suspicion that the majority of people who post "Best Books" lists do not read that many books, and the ones they do read often seem to be the buzz books, or ones from the list-maker's favorite author.

Also, it's cool to be on that list with friends of mine. I know it's a good list, because these really are good books. Really. And being on the list alongside people I actually know and have hung out with is really freaking cool. For a moment, I can almost begin to feel like I've gotten somewhere.

Nah.

I have two books that, to me, are the best books that have ever been written about writing. One of them is not Stephen King's On Writing, although I do like that book very much. One of them happens to be a novel -- just one chapter from a novel, but the novel is about a writer and this chapter is about writing -- and the other happens to be an old smarty-pants experimental thing about writing and teaching writing that practically nobody has ever heard of. The book was first given to me by a friend of mine, a guy I sometimes mention on this blog (who is a real person) as SMIK -- the Smartest Man I Know.

SMIK knows how I feel about words.

So here are the reasons I was thinking about a list:

Being a writer is kind of like standing on one side of a noisy river and trying to shout across at people on the other side.

Teachers and librarians are really the bridgebuilders for us. (In that category of Teacher, I would also include Parents -- although, sadly, an awful lot of Parents have deferred this responsibility on to technology and other people). Bloggers and booksellers help to reinforce the structure, but the teachers and librarians are the ones who fundamentally connect kids to words, to books, literacy, and to writers.

Let me tell you how important this job is.

It pertains directly to the future of human civilization.

Reading.

I am not taking potshots here as an outsider. I have been a professional educator for -- ugh -- decades, and I know what I'm talking about.

There is a distressingly large population of teachers being churned out by the standardized credential mills in the country who do not read.

This is true.

Not only do they not read, but they have not read any literature of substance in their entire lives. I spoke to one teacher (who has been in the classroom for something like 15 years) earlier this year who told me that she wished she could get her own teenage children to read books, but she herself did not like to read, and could not remember the last time she'd bought or held a book of her own choosing.

I am honestly not making that up.

There are more Teachers like this than anyone thinks.

This is also true: That particular Teacher is moving up into school administration.

Hooray for the future!!!!

Squee!!!

I've said this before: Everything we know, everything we have ever done or discovered, and everything we ever will find out is a word.

Words are everything.

The vast vacuum of nothingness is wordless.

The war against words is being waged with Number 2 pencils.

So I wanted to make a list of some of my Favorite Bridgebuilders of 2011.

I know bridgebuilder is not a word. I have had lengthy discussions with my editors and copy editor Anne about my inclination toward constructing Germanic-style compound structures on my own.

I can do that.

I am a writer.

So I started to make this list of my favorite Bridgebuilders of 2011, and I realized that there are an awful lot of them. I keep thinking up more and more as I sit here, too.

So let me start with 9 of my most appreciated footsoldiers on the right side of this battle to save humanity (with more to follow... lots more):

Cathy Blackler, California

Paul Hankins, Indiana

Kristen Pelfrey, California

Dodie Ownes, Colorado

Jennifer Sternberg, Wisconsin

Andrew Lawrence, Arizona

Alan Geibe, Arkansas

Jen Rogers Bigheart, Texas

Drue Wagner-mees, California

You can read Paul Hankins' Best of 2011 List here.

Oh. By the way, you notice how I not-so-cleverly avoided giving the titles of those two best possible books that have ever been written about writing?

Yeah.

I did that on purpose.

One day, I may actually give a real class at a real conference that is really about writing.

Lucky, in Polish Boy Names

2011-12-27T06:59:00.000-08:00

Here are some more tips from my ongoing Online Writers' Conference.

I am still in that generous kind of mood.

I hope you are, too.

Last week, I told you one of the big infomercial lies they want you to believe: Show, don't tell.

Show, don't tell is the Sham-Wow of craft.

If you know what the hell Show, don't tell means, and you do it, you will be magical.

Today, I am going to tell you two more things that are lies. For some of you, I am re-gifting one of them. It is one thing I always talk about with the writers I coach.

Here it is: To be a writer, you need to have a thick skin.

That is a lie.

To be clueless and insensitive; to have an impermeable, monolithic ego, you need to have a thick skin. To dumbly believe that your story is brilliant and original, even though you cannot spell or use punctuation and set it in a place called "Middle Earth," you need to have a thick skin.

Those are the only things that thick skins are good for.

And maybe living in a malaria zone.

The only writers who are better off with thick skins are ones with lots of money who keep going back to expensive writers' conferences to share samples of their brilliant and original story (for they almost uniformly only have ONE story they've been carrying around since the fucking Reagan Administration) that has some spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors (but that's what editors are for, right?) and happens to be set in a place called "Middle Earth."

That was a really long sentence.

So I will inject a free third lie: Sentences are not allowed to be that long.

Not.

Allowed.

You must always count the words in your sentences. Once you have gone past the number seven, insert a little black dot followed by something you typed using the shift key.

How long was that sentence, anyway?

That was a baby. Only 76 words.

Maybe I should not say this. In my book, Winger, coming out from Simon and Schuster in spring 2013 (and, by the way, it is completely finished with edits and on its way to copy editing, page design, and illustration)... um... there is one sentence that has 233 words in it.

Heads will explode.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. The other lie.

I love Ernest Hemingway.

That is not the lie.

I really do love him.

So much he would undoubtedly be uncomfortable about it. If he had a pulse.

But this is wrong:

The first draft of anything is shit.

Hemingway said it. The big fat giant THEY keep repeating it at expensive writers' conferences.

I'll bet my house that some knucklehead with thick skin and a fat wallet even got that shit tattooed on his body somewhere.

But it is wrong.

No.

No, the first draft of anything is NOT shit, you moron.

The first draft of something that is going to always be shitty is shit.

That is the truth.

Try this:

Try making soup out of shit, Hemingway.

Even you wouldn't eat it.

Class dismissed.

2011-12-25T12:40:00.000-08:00

“my fear is that when boys read books such as this,” he said, “they will assume there is nothing at all wrong...”

2011-12-24T07:40:00.000-08:00

That did not last very long at all.

Although my service provider is FedExing me a new, free modem for my DSL, I went out and bought one yesterday after holding out for about 90 minutes, which was how long it took for me to do my morning run.

Now I have material for a third Marbury book: going to a big electronics/gadgets store two days before Christmas.

No, I do not want your "Black Tie" extended service plan. If the thing is a piece of shit, I do not want you to fix it two years from now. I will buy a new one.

And no, I am not writing a third Marbury book about electronics gadgets stores.

I have flown back and forth across the country three times in the past month. I am sorry if it makes me a snob, but I always check my bag. I do not want to carry my bag through the airport.

There are now airlines that will let you board the plane first if you pay them ten extra dollars.

I always sit on the aisle.

You know what you get when you board the plane first?

You get a lot of peoples' asses in your face, that is what you get.

I was thinking last night about a couple books I wrote this year, in 2011.

I realized that I wrote parts of them in reaction to ignorance.

Some people just did not "get" Jack and Conner's relationship in The Marbury Lens. While I would never say that "all boys" are like Conner, or "all boys" are like Jack, an awful lot of us are.

Oh well, you will see when Passenger comes out in ten short months.

I also wrote this new book called Grasshopper Jungle almost as a complete reaction to the Wall Street Journal Op-Ed columnist Meghan Cox Gurdon's attack on me and my novel, The Marbury Lens. So, thank you for that, Meghan. I think it is a very good book.

I even considered dedicating the book to Meghan Cox Gurdon, but only for about five seconds. I assume from reading her that she is a very concrete thinker, and might take the dedication the wrong way.

I have never said anything offensive about Meghan Cox Gurdon, and have nothing cruel to say about her now.

Listen:

If I could have one gift for 2012, I would like to have an academic debate with Meghan Cox Gurdon about literature and society and history.

The problem with such discussions is that people often resort to emotions like outrage and offense when they have difficulty countering rational academic positions.

That's what happened when I was interviewed on Minnesota NPR. The on-air host wanted me to get all emotional and angry. She was doing a good enough job of that on her own, I thought. I just wanted to talk about literature and society, and shit like that.

By the way, Minnesota NPR: I am still waiting for my invitation back, like you said.

I will bring a big ol' sack of outrage if you want.

Um.

Not really.

Speaking of rational academic positions, I have some really fantastic news:

I have been invited to speak at the Booklist Youth Forum at this summer's American Library Association Annual Conference, which, I believe, is in Anaheim this year.

The Booklist Youth Forum will be held on Friday, June 22, at 8:00 p.m. This year's topic is writing books of particular interest to boys, and will feature authors who have been strong advocates of promoting literacy for guys.

Um. I want to say something about this right now, too. The other day, my agent said something about the number of manuscripts featuring boy protagonists he was receiving. This is a good thing.

But there are lots of different kinds of boys, and what makes them all "boy" is not necessarily sports or trucks or swords or gross stuff or hot chicks.

Just saying.

I think a lot of people still get that totally wrong. That's why some people get confused and uncomfortable with boy characters like Jack or Conner, or now Bosten and Stark, the brothers in Stick. And the other characters you'll be seeing in 2012, 2013, and 2014, too.

Yeah. I have lots of books coming.

Anyway, the forum is going to be moderated by Daniel Kraus, the author of Rotters. Absolutely nothing could be better than that, except maybe digging up the corpses of Mark Twain and Ernest Hemingway to take part as well.

Also, Daniel Kraus has read Passenger.

Just saying, too.

And, speaking of Passenger... Um... I think there will be lots and lots going on about this book, coincidentally, at ALA this summer, too.

Maybe you might want to think about heading out to Southern California in June.

masking the scent of death and decay with springtime potpourri

2011-12-23T08:02:00.000-08:00

How do you like your machines?

Here is what happened this morning.

I always start work by checking my email. This time, I could not get anywhere.

My modem has completely died.

It was an old modem. It worked nicely. In fact, I was the very first person here in my little non-gay lakeside community to have DSL.

That is the truth.

When I called my service provider (keep in mind this was very early), they talked me through all this dumb stuff for, like, 45 minutes.

[actually, it was exactly 45. I checked my phone record.]

I do not even own a "landline" at my house.

Unplug your modem.

Unplug your router.

Plug them back in.

Reboot your computer.

It was all very dumb.

I did all that shit, like twice, while I was on hold and answering a computerized but pleasant-sounding female voice.

They finally decided that my old modem was dead, and they would need to send me a new one.

I am not certain if there are less-convenient days for a DSL provider to decide you need a new modem than two days before Christmas.

So I am blogging from my iPad.

I have this really cool wireless keyboard built in to my iPad's case.

It's not like I really need the internet, or shit like that, for a few days. I was doing some writing work (which did not include composing a goddamned autobiography) entirely offline, anyway.

Sigh.

I need to go outside and feed the horses.

the battle of kelsey creek bridge

2011-12-22T07:27:00.000-08:00

Let the conference continue!

Have I ever told you how much I despise exclamation marks?

This is what an exclamation mark represents to me: The spot on the bottom is my eyeball. The slender pointed thing on top is a filth-encrusted, burning hot knitting needle that stabs me in the eye. It goes entirely through the eyeball, popping it like a grape, and continues onward to the center of my brain.

That is what exclamation marks do to me.

You know what else I despise?

Having to write a biography of myself.

The class begins:

By the way, in case you have not noticed, the noble colon is perhaps my most-favored punctuation mark.

It reminds me of halibut.

I know this: I will admit that even if you are a man, as I am, and you are a writer, again, as I, you probably cannot avoid using that utterly disgusting exclamatory implement of punctuation.

It is wise to avoid ever creating a character who routinely says shit like this:

"Squee!"

If I were, as I've wished in the past, an amoeba, I would split in two just so I could punch myself in the face for having written that.

On the other hand, I find characters who say the following to be both endearing and masculine:

"Holy shit!"

In this case, the exclamation mark is kind of like kissing your wizened, phlegm-hacking, chain-smoking grandmother: Disgusting, but obligatory. It is also offset by the indisputable coolness of the preceding two-word combination:

Holy + Shit

And, unfortunately, if you are a man, and you are a writer, somebody is going to inevitably require you to compose a short autobiography.

Autobiographies, like exclamation marks, make me feel slutty.

So I thought I'd give some tips to aspiring writers (especially manly ones) about how one goes about conquering the task of composing a short autobiography.

I have little arguments in my head between myself and myself.

This morning's argument went like this:

DREW 1: The people at Simon and Schuster are asking me to send in a biography.

DREW 2: Make shit up!

DREW 1: Why did you use an exclamation mark?

DREW 2: I like to fuck with you.

DREW 1: I got an email from a kid this morning. He asked why we don't have a Wikipedia page. I do not know why we don't have a Wikipedia page. I never thought about it.

DREW 2: You know what does have a Wikipedia page?

DREW 1: What?

DREW 2: Pus has a Wikipedia page. Also Underarm Hair has a Wikipedia page. You want to know why you don't have a Wikipedia page? Because you are a fucking loser, that's why.

DREW 1: Maybe I do not have a Wikipedia page because I do not ever submit short autobiographies of myself when people ask me to.

DREW 2: Let me write your autobiography for you. I will tell them all the most embarrassing shit I can remember about you.

DREW 1: Um. Look. I can't believe that author biographies and photos contribute in any positive way to the published work.

DREW 2: You don't believe in a lot of shit.

DREW 1: I'll have to give you that.

DREW 2: Did I actually just win this argument?

DREW 1: I think you did.

DREW 2: Squee!

This was my morning.

the patron saint of donuts

2011-12-21T03:51:00.000-08:00

I am in that benevolent online Writers' Conference type of mood today.

You know the drill.

It's Christmas and Hanukkah, after all, so drop your cash and feel better about giving and generosity, and shit like that.

I will tell you some things.

I get plenty of questions from writers who hand me great heaping stacks of stuff, which they ask me to read and then tell them if I think their great heaping stack is any good or not.

Why would you ask me?

I am insane.

I do not know whether or not your great heaping stack is any good, because it is 50 pages long and appears to be a solitary, single-spaced paragraph. With dialogue in the middle of it.

I am not making this shit up. I have seen this more than once.

Since you, apparently, are not Octavio Paz, I must begin by telling you that you do not know how to write.

I am going to buy a van and paint a clever message on the side of it. I will also paint a picture of myself on it. I will have a slogan, too, as soon as I think of one.

I am going to use this van and travel around the country. Then I will set up one of those folding card tables outside the entryways to expensive Writers' Conferences where people get to speed-pitch and schmooze, and all kinds of other shit that have nothing to do with writing words.

My slogan will be something like: Save money now, ask me how!!!

People will hand me their great heaping stacks and I will tell them to go home and learn how to write.

Do you think that is mean?

Do you think that is meaner than taking money from someone who doesn't indent a fucking paragraph and imbeds undecipherable dialogue within its body?

Somehow, someone has pitched the idea that it is all about the story.

That is a lie.

It is a lie that people who watch too much television and play video games assume to be true.

Writing is about writing.

Writing is about the words.

Ideas do not come before words.

Aristotle was stupid.

You don't get an idea and then make it real with your words.

Words must exist, in all their precision, before an idea can be anything. Your idea comes to you in words. If it did not, you wouldn't know it was an idea.

Here is a lie that people who take your money will tell you:

"Show, don't tell."

What the hell does that mean?

Especially when they tell you that.

They tell you to show. They can't show it, because they need to have words.

All writing is telling. That's what words do.

You know who shows and doesn't tell?

Mimes.

When you hear that said to you, you have obviously signed up and paid for a Mime Conference.

Writers are all about telling.

But I will show you something:

don we now

2011-12-20T03:17:00.000-08:00

I have been encountering a lot of uptight people lately.

Seems like everywhere I go, people are lacking that certain this-time-of-year spirit.

Um.

I am not Christian.

But every year my wife and kids celebrate Christmas.

I enjoy giving gifts, but I do not like receiving them.

We've had this talk before.

Anyway, my family likes to decorate the tree and stuff like that at this time of year.

I am okay with that.

We have a nice tree.

Would I be a bad person if I said that I think we have a predilection for hanging ornaments that are particularly gay?

I love our gay Christmas tree.

I do believe it is the gayest Christmas tree in our little lakeside community.

Even though it is Christmas, my little lakeside community is not very gay at all.

I always thought you were supposed to feel gay this time of year, but up here where I live, people just don't seem to have the spirit at all.

Eh... what do I know? I'm not even Christian, anyway. I probably do not have the right to feel gay this time of year.

My dumb, uptight neighbors need a hug or something.

Maybe if I show them pictures of my Christmas tree ornaments, it will, as the song says, make their yuletide gay. I feel gay every time I look at my tree, and I want my neighbors to feel gay, too.

I'm all about spreading the spirit.

This is my tree:

Here is one of my ornaments:

How can you NOT smile at that???

That little fellow always makes me feel gay.

Here are some more:

I bet you feel gayer now, too.

I would show you some pictures of the sparkling, bejeweled unicorn ornaments, but that might be too much for one blog post.

So here are two other random ornaments from my very gay Christmas tree.

First, this ornament came from (I am not making this shit up) President Ronald Reagan. It is a long story, but it is true. Ronnie, if you are reading this blog from heaven, I just want to say thank you for making my tree so gay and... I don't know... gold plated or something.

That ornament doesn't make me feel so gay. It's a little too regimented and contains a subtle message like "We are not gay in this house." I can almost hear the gold doors slamming. But, oh well... it came from the president of the fucking world. It deserves a spot on the tree.

Am I allowed to say "fuck" in a post about my Christmas tree?

I'll have to ask my neighbors.

And finally, I don't know what the fuck this is. My son made it when he was in 2nd grade.

He always got bad grades in art.

Fuck that.

How can you give a child a bad grade in art?

Guess what, second-grade-teacher-with-a-telephone-pole-up-your-ass? My son is now at UC Berkeley, which is, like the number-three rated university in the fucking world. He got in when he was sixteen years old.

Maybe it was because he made shit like this, that nobody understands:

Um.

Maybe not.

Ho ho ho.

reciting our favorite poems above the jangling vocals

2011-12-19T03:22:00.001-08:00

One of my favorite things has to be getting letters from readers.

Here is one of the best letters I received this past year. Well, I will paraphrase it. It went something like this:

Dear Mr. Smith,
I just got a copy of Stick for my Kindle. I am sure you have probably been told this already, but there are some major formatting errors in this first Kindle version of your novel. Some of the words are out of alignment with the text, and some pages contain passages that are right-justified. I just thought I'd let you know. It is a very good book, though.

Um.

I was thinking about letters just this morning, as a mater of fact. In the past 24 hours, I received a letter from a boy in high school in one pat of the country, who had some really insightful things to say about The Marbury Lens and Passenger. Really, this was one of the smartest letters I've ever received about The Marbury Lens. This kid totally caught on to something that very few people have dared to suggest.

At the same time, I got another letter from a boy in high school in a totally different part of the country who had some serious questions and praise for Stick. It was also a terrific and insightful letter.

As a matter of fact, I've gotten a lot of letters like these in the past year or so since The Marbury Lens came out.

I know... I don't really put letters up here on the blog because I'm not sure that it would be fair to the writers, and most of them are very personal.

But as I was thinking about letters this morning, it dawned on me that the vast majority of letters that I receive are from guys (maybe 90%)... and most of those are from guys in high school.

More proof that boys do read, and they think about what they read, too.

Sure, the stories I write and the content of my novels tend to emphasize strong male characters and the whole "guy" experience, but the voices I hear coming through from these letters speak loudly to counter the loudmouthed myth that boys do not read and cannot connect to or process literature.

Because, honestly, I got two of the smartest and most well-thought-out letters from boys in high school about two different books in just the past 24 hours, and that's always a nice way to ease out of a pretty good year.

2012 is coming soon.

Jack and his friends will be back.

I'm sure there will be lots to talk about then, too.

ten of eleven (part 2)

2011-12-17T05:16:00.001-08:00

The Ten Best Albums of 2011

There is no particular ranking to these albums except for the top three, which to me, represent the absolute best musical offerings of 2011.

Here you go:

1. The Year of Hibernation (Youth Lagoon): This magnificent, quiet, subtle, huge record is my favorite album of 2011. Trevor Powers is this kid from Idaho who created a totally unique sound through which he threads some wickedly insightful lyrics. The Year of Hibernation is a personal work, introspective and sometimes defiant. Powers intended the effort for nobody but himself, but the results went viral after he paid from his own pocket to host a few downloads. The album rings with honesty and doubt, the stagnant reek from a trapped lagoon of youth in this go-nowhere opportunity-devoid era. I love this small and hopeful monument. It will be interesting to see what the kid comes up with next, but I am almost afraid that the simple rawness of the sound and structure of Powers' work will be engineered away by the handlers who will undoubtedly gobble Youth Lagoon up. Buy this album. Drink from the lagoon. It is brimming with greatness.

2. Parallax (Atlas Sound): Oh Bradford Cox. You are such a twisted and addictive talent. Parallax is lonely, harrowing, terrifying -- all the things that make Cox so scary and compelling. You cannot turn away from Bradford Cox. He is like driving slowly past a field of beheadings. This album is intense, ambitious, and crazy. Cox says this work is about his desperate loneliness. Then he throws a hollow pop number like Mona Lisa to belt the equator of this demented world of Parallax. It is a tight album, even better than Logos. Cox crashes down, an alien on this godless planet, hungry for everything and stranded in a desert. Bradford Cox is every bit as lovably doomed and sad as Vonnegut's Billy Pilgrim. It is almost too much. Cox himself admits his dystopian Flagstaff makes him want to vomit. And I can't tear myself away from that cut. Parallax is in many ways reminiscent of Deerhunter's Halcyon Digest (last year's Bradford Cox masterpiece), but perhaps more absorbing and deeply sinister. Spend some time with this one.

3. The Rip Tide (Beirut): A sub-compact model in terms of playtime, but what a listenable and haunting gem this album is. The Rip Tide is the manifestation of the maturation of Zach Condon's musical development, both as a lyricist and musician. There is no band that sounds so simultaneously joyous, unique, and hypnotic. The only disappointment is the limited, 9-song playlist on this focused and relevant record. Keep it on replay. It is just that good.

4. Days (Real Estate): I liked Real Estate when they released their first stuff back in 2009. At that time, people didn't know how to get a handle on these New Jersey kids who sounded all throwbackish (I get a strong Byrds vibe from them). They really came into their stride with Days. Here's what makes an album hit my list: You have to be yourself, own the sound, so there's no doubt it's you we're listening to. Real Estate is so tasty in the sound department, so chilly and so evocative of the best influences in American Pop/Rock, but they really own their sound. Nice.

5. Burst Apart (The Antlers): Okay. Would I be a bad person if I admitted up front that The Antlers' album Hospice is one of the greatest albums ever made? When you make an album like Hospice, it's like everything else you do has to measure up, and I'll admit that I did not think Burst Apart could do it. I was wrong. Go home now and listen to Putting the Dog to Sleep, or Parentheses, for that matter. There is something disjointed in the themes within Burst Apart, but that is the essence, I think, of bursting apart. Singer-songwriter Peter Silberman apparently has a lot of shit to get off his chest, and he does it in a way that sounds and feels like nobody else out there. The Antlers explode with whispered intensity. This is a great album from a great band.

6. El Camino (The Black Keys): I intentionally waited to compile this list, because I had pre-ordered El Camino, which dropped on December 6. I knew I would write something about this album, and I half-suspected it was going to be in the sour-notes-why-did-you-do-this? section on yesterday's post. Not so. This is raunchy Black Keys magic at its gritty best. Danger Mouse's production sensibilities are impeccable. Everything sounds like it comes from inside your head, and your head is a dirty garage, where, quite possibly some heroin has been slammed or someone got whacked with a torque wrench. Nobody can touch Dan Auerbach's guitar playing or his vocals. This album may have hit my top three if I had more time to spend with it. Listen to Little Black Submarines, and for God's sake, turn it up to full volume. Thank you, Black Keys, for this December present.

7. Bon Iver (Bon Iver): Sigh. Oh Justin Vernon. You are just so freaking magnificent.This follow-up album to Vernon's highly personal For Emma, Forever Ago incorporates some new blends of sounds and layers, but the final product is distinctly Bon Iver through and through. Now that you've done this, Justin, I'd most like to see you strip it down and put out a raw, acoustic product with a single-track vocal. You can do it, and I can wait. But this album is pure beauty.

8. Father, Son, Holy Ghost (Girls): I so wanted to put Girls' 2010 Broken Dreams Club on last year's 10 Best list. But it was an EP. It was also one of my favorite releases of 2010. I was definitely not disappointed with Father, Son, Holy Ghost. Who can resist an album with an epic, raunchy, Pink-Floydesque song about obsessive love, called Vomit? This album is so very good. Again, it belongs on this list because there is nothing else like it at all, it rocks, and you will love it when you hear it. That is all. And one more thing: the structure of the songwriting. Brilliant.

9. Dye It Blonde (Smith Westerns): This album might be the surprise on the list. I have a feeling the other nine have popped up on lots of overlap music lists. Hear this: I did not forget you, Smith Westerns, even though this neat and twangy album came out way back in January of 2011. You almost made me believe it was going to be an unstoppable (heh... that's a very inside joke) year for great music, but what you offer was enough to keep me going, I guess. They claim influences as broad as David Bowie and T. Rex, but I hear George Harrison in that guitar and the Beatles in those vocals. This is such a fresh sound, with clever lyrics that taunt our lust for fun and freedom. And besides, Smith Westerns are from Chicago. How can you not love that? If you have not heard Smith Westerns, go get this album. I believe the band still gives free downloads of the single Weekend on their website.

10. Hurry Up, We're Dreaming (M83): I did not feel compelled to add a France/trance/trippy/dance/electronic album on this list as a token for anything. As a rule, I do not like France/trance/trippy/dance/electronic stuff. But this thing is something else. It is, in fact, brilliant. And this is a huge album, too. It is Anthony Gonzalez's (AKA M83) homage (is that a French word?) to classic supersized albums of the 90s (in particular, Smashing Pumpkins' Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness). But the similarities start and end with this album's length. Listenable, moody, mysterious, and big in sound and playtime, Hurry Up, We're Dreaming deserves its spot on this list.

ten of eleven (part one)

2011-12-16T03:36:00.000-08:00

This is that list-making time of year.

Yesterday, Sara Zarr posted on Twitter a congratulatory tweet to the authors whose books were named to Los Angeles Public Library's Best Young Adult Books of 2011. (The link is at the end of this post)

Stick is on that list.

In fact, it is a very good list that includes outstanding titles.

And it is alphabetized.

This is why I love librarians. Not because of the alphabetical order thing, because they read books, and they connect human beings to them... even the small quiet books that kind of sit in the back of the room and don't get noticed. Like Stick. Like the kid in Stick.

So, thank you very much LAPL.

And, speaking of lists:

I'm sure I wasn't the only one who started thinking back in October about what might possibly be the ten best albums of 2011.

I was out to dinner early that month with my friend Yvonne, and I said something like this: "It is not a very impressive year for music."

She agreed.

There were some bright spots, however.

But I just need to get a few sour notes off my chest.

Part 1: Sour Notes

Two things strike me about 2011: First, 2011 seems like it was the year for very short albums. Like, playtimes you'd expect from an EP or shit like that. And, second, it seems the philosophy of If you throw enough shit at the wall, some of it is bound to stick has become a sort of categorical imperative for 2011.

Unfortunately, I now have some shit stuck to my wall.

1. Colin Meloy.

Oh bespectacled Oberon to the kingdom of the hip! You, Colin Meloy.

Know this: I love the Decemberists.

But... Colin... I'd like to believe that maybe you just put all your creative energy and talent into writing a children's book.

But... um... I read that book, and that can't possibly explain it.

What the fuck is going on?

If writing a children's book explains the sterile porridge of The King is Dead, maybe you should have considered producing a textbook on multivariate Calculus, or some shit like that.

Please.

Please, for the love of God, Colin Meloy do not write another children's book.

2. Thom Yorke.

No.

I also love Radiohead.

King of Limbs? Not so much.

Maybe Thom might consider writing a children's book.

About dancing.

3. Ian Felice.

Listen: I believe the Felice Brothers are the greatest American band playing.You did not need to put out that album, though.

Ian, do not write a children's book. You are a singular talent. Your paintings are amazing, and your songwriting is perfection. This was an off-year. I will give you that.

Please come back.

4. Stephen Malkmus.

Oh saggy Peter Pan!

Why?

The Jicks album constructed a gaudy sonic McMansion from the beloved chicken coop of jangle and lyric that was Pavement.

There is something wrong with that.

I had a talk with my son about this.

It went something like this:

ME: The Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks album sounds so slick and tight and overproduced. I wish he would get wasted or something and make it sound and feel like Pavement.

SON: Yeah, but the songwriting is there, isn't it?

ME: Well. Songs have been written. That's for sure. I can't fairly compare them to the substance of songs like Grounded or Shady Lane, and there's something about an all-grown-up Stephen Malkmus singing about not being able to do one sit-up that is not nearly as romantic as hearing the same cynical self-rebuke coming from the awkward Stephen Malkmus who fronted Pavement.

SON: You are my fact checking cuz.

ME: An island of such great complexity.

I could rant for hours about the musical yawns of 2011.

I suppose I just did.

But there were some great things, too.

Part 2: An Admonition

Oh wait.

I just thought of something I wanted to rant about first, before I get to my picks for the best 10 albums of 2011.

It is this: I bought all these albums. I did not illegally steal them from the artists. I paid for them. I paid for a lot of albums that were not so good, too. That is why I have shit sticking to my wall.

The following ten treats make me feel not-so-ripped-off.

(You will have to wait until tomorrow to see my list of the Ten Best Albums of 2011...)

You can see the Los Angeles Public Library's Best Young Adult Books of 2011 here.

stuff i did this year (part 2)

2011-12-15T03:58:00.000-08:00

More stuff about this year:

3. Yesterday, I picked my son up from the airport.

He just finished his first semester at Berkeley and is now home for winter break. He took his last final on Tuesday night, and he posted a link to the Mountain Goats' video "This Year" on his Facebook wall.

I'm not sure if that song is optimistic or if it is a joking stab from the perspective of a guy behind the wheel of a broken down car, but the kid made it through a very tough semester away from home.

4. Speaking of music, I have written my annual lengthy rant about the music of the past year, ending with my review of the Ten Best Albums of 2011.

These are ten very, very good albums that came out in an otherwise bad year for music.

The article will be posted in two parts on the blog this week, just in time for you to pick up some of my recommendations at an indie music store.

Like Amoeba.

5. I wish I were an Amoeba.

I would asexually reproduce with myself and write more books.

6. I am going to completely change my website (www.ghostmedicine.com) between now and mid-January.

That is a chore, but it is time.

7. I am also going to start writing my next book in January.

It is also a chore, but it is time for that, too.

8. My cats are still alive.

9. Finally, yesterday Dan posted a comment in which he asked:

If you can offer any advice on how to manage the demands of life and time on a aspiring writer, I would love to read your thoughts.

Okay. I will tell you what works for me.

This is not advice.

I do not want to be responsible for telling anyone what they should do when it comes to managing the demands of their lives and their compulsion to write, if it is a compulsion.

I usually start writing every day at 3:00 in the morning. If I am away from home, I still write throughout the day, using my laptop and my iPad, which I use to email stuff to myself. I can get a lot done that way.

People often ask, When do you go to sleep?

I go to sleep when it is time to.

I do not have a "bedtime."

The reason I do not have a bedtime is because I do not watch television.

Sometimes, when I tell people that I do not watch television, they act offended, as though I am offering some blanket criticism aimed at lifestyle choices that include sitting still and watching stuff on a screen.

Listen: I do not watch television.

At all.

I have that condition that makes it impossible for me to stay focused on things like television and movies.

I apologize for that.

People also get very sensitive when I say that I do not watch movies. I have watched some movies, but I usually have to stop watching them very early on in the "action," if you can call it that.

I have this condition that makes it impossible for me to pay attention to movies.

I can pay attention to words, but it has to be very quiet.

I am the tyrant of quiet in my house when I am working.

I have an understanding family, but I suspect it is because they live in fear of me. I am moody, brood constantly over meaningless shit, and when I work they give me a lot of space.

When I start writing something -- really writing it -- I will usually put in about 8 to 10 hours per day on it. That is why I usually finish writing a novel, which is complete and in submission-form, in 6 to 8 weeks.

My last novel was a beast. It took me 11 weeks to finish. Although it is only 103,000 words, it reads really big, because it has something like 90 characters in it and goes back and forth through time over centuries, and shit like that. It took a lot of time to write.

I think that is how I do it, Dan.

Like I said, this is not a prescription. Nobody would want to do shit like that.

stuff i did this year (part 1)

2011-12-14T03:55:00.000-08:00

I need to tell you about some things I did this year.

1. This year, in 2011, I wrote three complete, new novels. I will tell you a little bit about them.

I figure I am good for about three new novels per year. I know that is a lot to write, but that's what I do. I have a lot of shit to get off my chest.

In total, these three novels add up to 1400 pages. They contain 303,000 words combined. The shortest of the three is 82,000 words in length.

Two of them are already in the queue for publication: Passenger, which will be published by Feiwel and Friends, an imprint of Macmillan, in fall 2012; and Once There Were Birds, which will be published by Simon and Schuster Books for Young Readers, in spring 2013.

Once There Were Birds is the shorty, coming in at 82,000 words. That really is not very short for a novel, especially when you consider that (like Stick, which came out in October) Once There Were Birds uses an experimental approach to the structure of the prose which requires the stripping away of an awful lot of unnecessary words. That's all I will say.

It was very difficult to write.

The third novel I wrote this year is quite the treatise on my insanity. Only a few people know anything about it, and it is far too late for them at this point. I will tell you what it is called, and little else. The novel is called Grasshopper Jungle.

It is about a love triangle in Iowa at the end of the world.

Oh yeah... I forgot. There are already too many books about love triangles in Iowa at the end of the world.

I think people may start to get a look at Grasshopper Jungle in early 2012.

I thought the novel was so different that I wanted to get a new agent to handle it. So I did that.

2. My new agent is a guy.

My editor at Simon and Schuster is a guy.

My friend Kelly told me she believes it is a good thing that I am surrounding myself with "male energy."

Um.

Does that sound weird?

It sounds weird to me.

My new agent is Michael Bourret. I like everything about Michael. I have this checklist of what agents should be, and Michael Bourret matches the requirements. I am not going to post this checklist.

It is not the kind of shit they tell you about at "Writers' Conferences."

I have more stuff to tell you about this year coming up.

something crazy is going on around here, robby

2011-12-13T03:57:00.000-08:00

Yesterday brought a heavy snowfall.

It was pillowfight snowflakes the size of my finger.

I went for a run in it. It was slippery, not good for my ankle, which I twisted while running in New York where there are no soft surfaces at all.

To get anywhere at all, you need to run on sidewalks in New York.

I think the sidewalks in New York are the hardest sidewalks in the world.

This is a true story:

When I ran yesterday in the snowfall, I was wearing shorts, a cap, and a hoodie.

I can't see how people can run in long pants, and I do not get cold when I run.

When I ran down my street toward the lake, there was a man standing in his front yard. He is a new neighbor who had just moved here from what he calls "the city."

He is probably used to hard sidewalks, too.

The man's wife was in their front yard, too.

He said something like this: Look at that crazy guy running in shorts! I thought we left all the crazy guys back in"the city!"

He was taking a photograph of his wife.

She was building a snowman out of three balls of snow and some sticks.

hell breaks loose

2011-12-12T03:53:00.000-08:00

I am home.

Yesterday morning I got up very early to go for a run before my ride to the airport.

It seemed that at 4 in the morning on Sunday, people were just coming home from the Saturday night bars.

I ran past a fistfight in the middle of 8th Avenue.

It was actually a small-scale war, I think, because there were at least eight guys involved in the fighting, and each of them had flanks of supporters shouting encouraging slogans from the sidewalks.

That is what friends are for, I think.

When the police drove onto the scene, their lights made the whole area look like a disco from hell.

Then everyone started running.

Did I mention I was running, too?

Because everyone started running in my direction.

The cops did not run so fast.

Further on, down in Chelsea, I ran past an old storefront where, for a nominal fee, one could purchase a psychic reading.

The building had caught fire and burned a couple nights before.

While I was in New York, I met several people for the first time with whom I had had many written correspondences.

I was fascinated by the expectations I'd developed concerning voice.

Do people, in general, communicate with sound the way they communicate with writing? I tried to see if the expectations I'd developed about how my friends would say things - as opposed to writing them - would be accurate.

Anyway, I found myself thinking about that idea for some time.

It was an interesting trip.

sometimes i am confused

2011-12-10T05:13:00.001-08:00

So last night I got to sit and talk with Dave Barrett, managing editor at Macmillan.

It was good.

We were at a bar that had been established by a boxing "cut man."

Afterwards, I met up with Joe Lunievicz, author of Open Wounds, a terrific book. We walked down through Hell's Kitchen and Chelsea, and he took me to a fencing salle, where we sat and watched kids practicing fencing, and Joe explained what was going on and told stories about how he came to learn the sport.

Naturally, we also talked about rugby. Joe is a rugger, and he's also one of the first people who had a chance to read the manuscript of Winger. I didn't know Joe at the time I sent him the manuscript. I did it because I was very fortunate enough to read a manuscript version of Open Wounds, which I loved, and during the course of our exchanges, I found out that Joe played rugby, so I told him about this book I had written about kids who play rugby.

Um... which is this book called Winger.

So the biggest part of our evening was taken up by a conversation that wove together probably the two biggest forces in our lives: fatherhood and writing. Joe's methods and discipline toward writing are different than mine, but I have always said this from the beginning: Nobody who expects to succeed should ever write (content or execution) like anyone else. That is the largest force behind an aspiring author's frustration and failure.

You have to find your own way, just like the kids we watched fencing got dinged up and driven back, trying to find their own way against the opposition.

Something Jonathon said on yesterday's comments came up during our conversation last night, too: The Fantasy life of an author.

I think Joe and I both agreed how amazing our experiences have been, and what a gift it has been in our lives to have earned the opportunities we have worked for.

I should say that again: My experience as an author has been an amazing thing, and I am appreciative of the gift of the whole trip, and the opportunities I have earned through my hard work.

I work very hard at what I do, and I earned all this good stuff.

I do not believe in luck.

I didn't ask Joe if he did, but I have a feeling I would know his answer.

As far as the other part of Jonathon's comment, the "It's harder work than you'd think" part: I don't know if being an author is harder work than anyone thinks or not, but I do know that the difficulties I have faced were surprising and debilitating at times.

Like losing my whimsy and zaniness, and shit like that.

Here are some pictures I took yesterday when I was out and about:

It was a spectacular day. The New York Public Library.

What can I say? This has to be one of the most photographed buildings in the world, but every time I come to New York I end up taking another photo of the Empire State Building.

Um. I went shopping here. I did not know that people who worked in elevators actually do what the people at Tiffany & Co. do.

Um.

Um.

Those are really big.

And this was shot, post-Dave Barrett, on my way to meet Joe for dinner.

And yes, all these were shot with an iPhone.

Now, off to the Met.

and here's number five

2011-12-09T04:54:00.001-08:00

I spent yesterday at Simon and Schuster in Rockefeller Center. It is quite the impressive place.

Also, Rockefeller Center has that really giant Christmas tree.

It is an unstoppable Christmas tree.

I have a hard time with books. I left Simon and Schuster with a bag filled with books.

Making books is probably the greatest thing that humankind has ever done, if you think about it. Books probably do not offset all the awful things humankind has done, but they do offer some brief respite from our evident bend toward evolutionary nihilism.

I could easily have gotten lost in that last paragraph. I could also have gotten lost walking around inside Simon and Schuster. I must have looked like an acidhead walking through Disneyland. Good thing my editor, David Gale, stayed with me so I didn't get sucked into all the pretty colors. Everywhere, naturally, were books and books and books. And there were posters and cover art, artists' examples of images worked and re-worked.

It was very hard to pay attention. But I have that thing where it is always very hard to pay attention.

At Simon and Schuster, I noticed that all the people I met -- when I was introduced as the person who wrote Winger -- got broad smiles of recognition, like, oh, that's the guy who wrote that book. Clearly, they like my book.

It is very different.

I also got to meet the art director who will be overseeing the artistic design of the book, because it has some weird stuff (go figure) in it, like comic strips and graphs and notes, pie charts, random drawings, stuff like that. Anyway, I came out of that meeting convinced that this book (which is coming out in early 2013) is going to look and read like no other book you have ever seen. I know early 2013 sounds like a very long time from now, but it's not.

And the ARCs will most likely be out in the coming fall, so you can live with that, right?

You know what else will be coming out in the fall?

Passenger.

And the paperback edition of The Marbury Lens.

I spent the evening with my great friends at Feiwel and Friends. It was probably the best evening ever. I signed books for people in the Flatiron, and got to see some friends I hadn't seen face-to-face in quite a while. It was really nice. Better than anything.

So I ran into Rich Deas, the amazing artist behind the cover of The Marbury Lens, which, face it, was probably the best book cover of 2010.

Rich is amazing. He works in absolute secret. Naturally, the first thing I assaulted him with was a half-joking demand to see what he was doing for the cover for Passenger.

Nobody in the world knows what Rich has been doing.

But he did tell me a story about something he did to get a visual idea for what he might put on the cover, and all I can say is this: Holy Shit.

Later today, I am going to get to meet up with author Joe Lunievicz, who wrote Open Wounds, one of the best books of the last few years.

Tomorrow will be an epic day that I will try to record in as honest and unbiased a manner possible: I am going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with copyeditor Anne, whom you know as hellskitchen.

a cigarette with the saint

2011-12-08T06:14:00.001-08:00

I am in New York.

I have traveled forward in time from California.

Flying here I was reminded of two things:

First, it is inescapable that flying on an airplane consistently reinforces my deep, deep hatred for human beings.

Second, why do people at the baggage claim carousel always fall under the hysterical delusion that somehow their luggage may have developed stripes, changed color, shape, or size while in transit?

Why do people not know what their fucking luggage looked like when they put it on the plane?

Whimsy.

Zaniness.

Ebulience.

These shall be my Tantric mantras while I stagger through the days.

I am channeling my inner motivational speaker.

Because I can.

Today, I am going to spend some time over at Simon and Schuster, which, I am told, is in "The Rock." I know a lot of author friends who are published by Simon and Schuster, but, so far, I have only met and spent time with my editor, David Gale. He is one of those top-notch, editors' editors. I realized the other day that I actually met David at an ALA conference back in 2008. It is very weird how paths cross and cross in this kingdom of the perky, over which I rule. I also met publisher Justin Chanda, but only in passing... kind of like the way you'd brush a hand across the garment of a Pope.

After my visit at Simon and Schuster I am going to go for a run.

I run no matter what, every day.

It is what gives me my sunny disposition.

When I was in Florida, one of the kids who waited in line to ask me a question on "The Mike," asked me how I stay so young.

I do not know how I stay so young.

I suppose the alternatives are unpleasant.

This afternoon, I am going down to the Flatiron Building, which is where Macmillan Publishing Group is located. I really enjoy the people I work with there. I will be going out to dinner tonight with my publisher, Jean Feiwel, and editor (chimey chimey chime) Liz Szabla.

the evolutionary slot machine that will destroy mankind

2011-12-07T03:09:00.001-08:00

I am going to New York.

This week has not been much of a farcical romp. Maybe in New York I will recapture my elusive whimsy.

Whimsy and romp: these are the things I live for.

Prancing, too.

But you already knew that.

This week I have been sullen and morose.

I realize I have used a lot of adjectives.

Sometimes when writers feel sullen and morose, they turn to alcohol.

Not me.

I turn to annoying descriptors.

I need to recapture the zany.

Zany is what I am.

I am the walking personification of Klezmer music.

I will tell you if I find anything in New York.

the future of mankind is... um... inside our jumpsuits

2011-12-05T03:30:00.001-08:00

I'll be totally honest again.

I do not like jacket copy.

You know, the shorty-short stuff inside dust jackets or on the back of the book that serves to abbreviate the attractive elements to a story?

That stuff.

So when I read it, I keep reminding myself that it is no good. In fact, I often will not read jacket copy on a book until I'm nearly finished with the book, and then, I'm usually, like, eeewww!

I'll be honest yet again: A good cover will make me pick up a book. If I put it down, it's because of the jacket copy (which I won't read at all if I'm seriously thinking about reading the book). I won't even pick up a book with a bad cover, or if it has a cover that would be embarrassing to carry around.

The Steve Jobs cover is good.

You know what it says to me?

It says, "This man is insane."

If it were the author photo on the back of the jacket, as opposed to the cover, I would never touch that book.

That is another thing: If a book has a full-cover author photo on the back of the dust jacket, I will not pick it up. If you are such big-name author that your publisher would actually suggest printing a dust jacket with a photo of YOU as the entire back cover, and you (assuming you are that big of a name) actually are okay with that, you know what it says to me?

This author is insane.

I mention all of this simply because over the weekend I was reading some short jacket-copy summaries for books that are going to be coming out in 2012. I will not say what books they were, or name the publishers or authors, but they all sounded unreadably horrid.

But that's just what jacket copy does to me, I think.

So let me circle my literary wagons and offer an intervening blast at jacket copy for 2012's Passenger, my book, the sequel to The Marbury Lens.

Excited?

Here goes:

A magical flying unicorn that shits frosted raspberry cupcakes from its ass enchants the whimsical world of Marbury, turning it into a fanciful playland...

Fooled you, didn't I?

Bet you want a frosted raspberry cupcake now, don't you?

Um.

Okay.

How about this - the version without the unicorns and cupcakes:

Jack and Conner prepare to leave for England. They have a plan. They think it's the only reasonable way to deal with the Marbury lens. But the four boys - Jack, Conner, Ben, and Griffin - end up scattered in different places at different times. Jack is lost in a Marbury that isn't Marbury, a Glenbrook that isn't Glenbrook, pursued through every crumbling not-world by an uncaring cop trying to solve the mystery of Freddie Horvath's murder, and a deceitful kid named Quinn Cahill who believes he is the King of Marbury. Jack's universe is collapsing in on itself. He finds his friends. He finds his home. There's always just one thing, and Jack knows it. This can't be it.

rat boys from mars, and an unfortunate incident involving an inflatable whale

2011-12-04T06:11:00.001-08:00

I'll be totally honest.

I was asked to submit a short piece for an upcoming anthology. You may have heard about it. It's got a website and everything. I won't say the title, but you probably know what it is.

I said okay.

I wanted to try to do it, and the editors wanted guys to write, because, as is the case with the kingdom of the written word, there are few male voices to be heard.

The anthology involved authors writing letters to themselves as teens. You know.

Um. I'll be totally honest again. When I told my agent I was thinking about doing it, he groaned.

I like my agent. I should have high-fived him on the spot, but I wanted to try.

I realize I have almost nothing to say to myself as a teen that would not be laced with f-bombs.

No part of my teen life was cute or whimsical.

I tried. I read several of the other submissions. They all sound so fun, perky, and shit like that.

I could not do it.

I kept looking for signs of misery and helplessness, and all I came up with was encouragement and dogged determination.

Optimism.

Squee.

I mean, what can I do? I tried, but words like fuck and shit magically started coming up in my letter to my teenage self. I tried to be whimsical and bubbly, all you-can-do-this-kid! bullshit, but the absolute truth is there were no encouraging adult voices at all in my teenage life.

There are also almost NO photographs at all from my teen years.

Here is one of them (taken when I was 17):

Um. I was not a happy kid.

Dear Teen Drew: You are on your own. When you fall down, you have 2 choices. You know what they are. That is fucked-up, but it is the shitty truth. P.S. -- If it is any consolation -- surprise! -- you live to be older. Squee.

You know what I would rather do?

I would rather write a letter to my office.

Here it is (taken this morning, at 5:45 AM in California):

Dear Drew's Office:

You have let yourself go, man.

I think it is time we stage an intervention.

Since I do not have time to participate in an intervention with you, I am hoping someone else will pick up the ball and run with it.

I'd like to be all encouraging, promise that I have faith in you, and will still be here for you when you straighten the fuck out, and shit like that, but I am leaving for New York and I am afraid when I come back home nothing at all will have changed about you.

Let me clue you in: When men enter relationships with offices, they expect them to STAY THE SAME. What is all this change bullshit?

Just look at yourself.

The rest of the house isn't like this.

Well, I am only guessing, since I am not actually allowed to go into any of the other rooms.

But trust me: It isn't me, it's you.

I wonder if there is a place like the Betty Ford Center, or shit like that, where I can send you for 30 days so you can clean the fuck up, and then come back and be reintegrated as a decent part of the household.

Dear Drew's Office: Straighten your shit out.

I mean it.

I am at the end of my rope.

signed,

Drew

unstoppable corn

2011-12-02T06:39:00.001-08:00

Here is the danger.

I am totally finished with everything.

No edits. No nothing.

At least I have had about a month and a half of not writing anything new. It is probably about time to start that next thing.

Yesterday, I sent off the final version of Winger to my editor at Simon and Schuster, and to my new agent, too.

Yes, I have a new agent. I will tell you about my agent some other time.

But I wanted to say that this last time working through Winger, I really fell in love with that book again. It's hard sometimes to get in and out of books when you write a lot of stuff, and when, as I said yesterday, nothing you write is anything like anything else you write.

One of the things that is cool about Winger is that the narrator draws stuff in the book, and he puts in notes and phone conversations (and he plays rugby, too). Anyway, I ran across this little self-portrait note from him toward the end of the book that I'd forgotten was in there, and I thought it was a cool cartoon.

I will not show you the cartoon, because I drew it, and there will be a different -- real -- artist doing the artwork for the book when it comes out in spring of 2013. But here's what the cartoonist/narrator has to say (don't worry, there is no spoiler -- not even a hint about anything that happens in the book):

You ever hear of Joseph Conrad? He said, "One writes only half the book: the other half is with the reader."

Mr. Wellins might say that I have made you a conscripted audience; that I didn't give you a choice as to whether or not to believe me, and, believe me, sometimes I can't believe myself.

Or something.

But I wrote this all down, and I tried to make everything happen the same exact way it did when I was seeing it and feeling it - real time - with all the confusion, the pressure, and the wonder, too; even though I did get off the page once in a while and make jabs at things. Which is kind of like the cartoonist drawing a cartoon of himself while he's drawing himself.

wherever boys ride bicycles, paved roadways ribbon

2011-12-01T03:26:00.001-08:00

Here are two things I think people will never say about me:

1. Drew is perky, bubbly, and excitable.

2. Drew's current novel is too much like another novel we already have on our list.

Um.

How was your NaNo?

Mine was good. I have not written anything new at all since October. That has been nice for my brain.

In October, I finished writing the strangest, most twisted thing I have ever written.

It is not like anything on anyone's list. Probably.

Nobody knows anything about it.

I am going to New York next week. If I run into Roger Sutton, I will high five him for reading my book, Stick.

I am going to get to see all the great people I work with in the Flatiron Building, at Feiwel and Friends; and also the great people I work with at Rock Center, at Simon and Schuster. I'm also going to hang out with Joe Lunievicz, the author of one of my favorite books that was not written by me, Open Wounds. I'm kind of hoping Joe arranges a pickup rugby game in Central Park. I will play.

Joe is also a rugger, and he has read Winger, which is about kids who play rugby. Winger is my first book coming out from Simon and Schuster.

But I wanted to say something about my next book that is coming out from Feiwel and Friends.

You know.

It is called Passenger, and it is the sequel to The Marbury Lens.

Almost nobody knows anything about Passenger.

I haven't even let my son read it, although I did let him read the very twisted and deranged 105,000-word novel I finished writing in October.

He liked it.

But, and I don't really like to use the term "favorite," but the guy who wrote my favorite book that came out last year and was not written by me did get to read Passenger.

I will not tell you what he told me about Passenger.

I will tell you eventually.

But I will say what my favorite book of the past year that was not written by me is: Rotters, by Daniel Kraus.

When Rotters came out, Daniel sent me a grave-robbing kit that included gummy body parts.

When Passenger comes out, I am going to send out black gummy worms.

You will see.

grant wallace murdered me

2011-11-30T03:18:00.001-08:00

Well.

Roger Sutton read my book.

I do not know Roger Sutton, but I have seen photographs of him. It makes me feel kind of weird to think that Roger Sutton has read my book.

He wrote a review of it, as a matter of fact, that is going to appear in the Jan/Feb Horn Book Review.

The book he read is Stick.

I do not know if he has read any of my other books, but if he wants to, I would be okay with that.

Here is the Horn Book review of Stick:

Stick
by Andrew Smith
High School Feiwel 292 pp.
10/11 978-0-312-61341-9 $17.99

“Stick” is at least slightly better than his given name of “Stark,” but what he’s called is the least of this thirteen-year-old’s problems. Stick was born with only one ear, his narration occasionally spaced across the page to mimic his hearing, and his parents are secretly and sadistically brutal. For the slightest infraction of their petty and/or incomprehensible rules, Stick’s father will beat him and his older brother Bosten, a beating that is often followed by consignment to a locked room for a couple of days or even longer: “no lights, no nothing, not even any clothes; just a galvanized bucket to use for a toilet and a cot with one sheet.” Stick suspects that even worse is happening to his brother; after Dad finds out that Bosten is gay, both boys, separately, run away. The violence of the story is intense, but so is the deep loyalty between the brothers, and the melodrama of life at home is balanced by Stick’s sweetly nascent romance with a longtime female friend and both boys’ experience of true family love when they visit their Aunt Dahlia. She is perhaps impossibly benevolent, but, man, is she welcome. Readers who have appreciated Chris Crutcher’s and Adam Rapp’s forays into adolescent darkness will find themselves on uneasy but familiar ground. roger Sutton

Thank you very much for that, Mr. Sutton.

hide the switch and shut the light

2011-11-29T03:14:00.001-08:00

Yes, I have been gone for a couple days.

This was not only due to the fact that my son came back home from college for the long weekend. We also, for the first time ever, lost phone and internet service at el Rancho de Drew.

It was probably a good thing, anyway.

But yesterday, I received a copy of the Bulletin for the Center of Children's Books upcoming December review of Stick. A very nice review, in which, according to my editor, the last lines pretty much say it all:

Smith, Andrew Stick. Feiwel, 2011 [304p] ISBN 978-0-312-61341-9 $17.99 Reviewed from galleys R Gr. 9-12

Born with only one ear, Stick has grown used to the teasing he endures at school. Worse, however, is the abuse he and his brother endure at home at the hands of both their motherand father, who express their displeasure with savage beatings and by locking their sons in a room bare of all save a cot and a bucket. Stick and Bosten have each other, though, and they each have a close friend—Stick has Emily, and Bosten has Paul, in a relationshipthat is more than just friendship. It turns out that they also have an aunt, and when they go to her house for their Easter vacation they realize how different home life might be. It’s hard to go back home, especially when they find out that their mother hasmoved out, leaving them with their father, whom Stick realizes has been sexually abusing Bosten as well as beating them. When Bosten and Paul are caught in a compromising act, Bosten has no choice but to run away, and Stick soon follows, only to run into moretrouble than he left at home. This tragic story has at its heart a solid core of brotherly love and loyalty that survives even the worst of situations; it’s those situations that are exceptionally difficult to read about and conceptualize, with their harshand gritty realism. Aunt Dahlia seems almost too good to be true if readers don’t think too hard about the fact that she hasn’t tried to see the boys for the first sixteen years of their lives; however, it’s enough that she offers a safe haven for them whenthey finally make their escape. The prose is strong and evocative, lapsing into imagistic poetry at times to reveal the intensity of Stick’s emotions. Readers should be prepared to have their hearts broken by these vulnerable, utterly lovable brothers.

So, thank you for that nice review, BCCB.

openers

2011-11-26T06:15:00.001-08:00

Everyone likes first lines, right?

Have some:

The garage steams with the smell of cat piss and something dead. The reek hangs in the still press of late August heat.

Every one of us is sick and scared.

I tell them, “We said we’d do it, and we’re going to do it, okay?”

-- That's the beginning of Passenger, which is coming from Feiwel and Friends next fall, just after the paperback release of The Marbury Lens.

Well, it's really the first lines of the actual story. There is one page that precedes those lines.

And this:

I said a silent prayer.

Actually, silent is probably the only type of prayer a guy should attempt when his head's in a toilet.

-- That's the beginning of Winger. It is coming in spring, 2013 from Simon and Schuster.

lucky, a cigarette run, and the bison

2011-11-25T05:56:00.001-08:00

Nobody reads blogs on Black Friday.

I can only hope you are sitting at home by the fire, looking out at the autumn trees and reading a book, as opposed to being conditioned to behave like good consumers by huge corporations with combined revenues that exceed the entire GDPs of more than half the countries on the planet called Earth.

When I was in Chicago, I had a very nice lunch with David Gale, my editor from Simon and Schuster. Among other things, we talked about my novel, Winger, which is coming out in the spring of 2013. David tells me there is a definite pub date for the novel. I hadn't even asked about that before, but when he returns to work in New York after this holiday weekend, I will find out and post it here.

I also know from my Macmillan people that the paperback version of The Marbury Lens will be coming out one month before the release of Passenger (the sequel), this coming fall, 2012.

I think there will be, like, a six-month party coming up in fall of 2012.

Anyway, back to this lunch. David asked some questions about rugby. The principal characters in Winger happen to play rugby, which is a sport that involves much more than just what happens on the field of play. It's kind of hard to explain.

You will see.

Anyway, Winger is definitely not a Sports book. It's just a book that tells a good story, and there happens to be sports involved. Although I believe that rugby fans and players will like the book, there is absolutely no need to pre-load your brain with any rugby information to enjoy the book.

It is illustrated, too. And there are comics and notes and index cards and scripts inside it, too.

David asked if I could send some photos of kids playing rugby for their artists, so they could get ideas about cover art. He even asked me if there were any elements I thought needed to be included in the cover art.

That was really nice.

Anyway, I have literally thousands of photographs I've taken over the years because I have coached high school rugby for many years (sadly, I don't do this now, as much as I love it... there just isn't enough time for me any longer).

So I thought I'd share some photos here, before sending them on to New York.

This is a lineout. Yes, you may recognize that the kids happened to be playing on the pitch at UCLA here. There is a funny story about a lineout in Winger.

This is a scrum. You can see our hooker's foot getting the ball in the middle.

This is what the bottom of a scrum looks like. The team in green was from Perth, Australia.

This is a ruck. Yes, it does hurt.

This is ouch.

One last look at a lineout.

great big jar

2011-11-24T06:04:00.001-08:00

The other day in Chicago, one of my co-panelists said something like this: Your imagination is limitless.

I thought about that for a moment.

Moment is a word that I rarely use. It sounds pretentious and condescending.

But I have heard that frequently. It's kind of like mass-hysteria.

Disneyspeak.

Your imagination has no limits.

Or shit like that.

Um.

Yes.

Yes it does have limits.

It has definite limits, and I can tell you precisely and to a pinpoint of accuracy where your imagination ends in the black, idea-less void of eternal dumbness.

Do you want to know where your imagination runs up against the sizzling barbwire fence of emptiness?

Even if it makes your head explode?

Okay.

Here goes: Your imagination is only as vast as the number of words you have in your head.

Period.

In fact, it would be a simple feat to mathematically calculate the exact dimensions of your imagination based on the combination of linguistic structures and the rules by which you apply the syntactical framework of understanding -- making sense -- of those building blocks to reality.

Words.

Sorry to burst your giant balloon.

Imagination = Finite.

You can't argue with that truth.

Go ahead.

Try this: Try to imagine something that is also not a word.

You can't do it.

Even if you get all righteously indignant and try to picture something that does not exist, you will not be able to picture anything unless you begin by giving it words -- colors, teeth, hair, geometric constraints, words, words, words.

Words are reality, and reality cannot exist without words.

Which brings me back to the topic of yesterday's post: Is there too much reality in young adult (I will no longer capitalize those words because I am punishing them for being bars on my cage) literature?

I believe this: I believe there is not enough reality in young adult literature, simply because there are far too many examples that can be held up to the light of scrutiny and reveal their predictable sameness, their application of one-size-fits-all imaginations.

We will talk.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Your brains are leaking out.

hey-ho, lemur boy

2011-11-23T03:22:00.001-08:00

Two sentences into your future, I am going to use some words that cause uncomfortable and anxious feelings in me.

I will print them in red, so you know what they are.

Over the past few days, I have found myself involved in several conversations about new trends in YA literature.

Every time someone starts to talk about trends in YA (especially at conferences), I can almost feel humidity from showers of Pavlovian salivations among aspiring authors who suddenly come up with brand-new OMGWIPs.

You know what OMGWIPs are.

They are Facebook statuses, usually.

Now, lots of people are talking about Paranormal Burnout and the renaissance of realism.

Blah.

I will tell you the current trend: Good shit.

At NCTE, one of the panels that I was on dealt with this idea about YA "returning to its roots" by focusing on realistic characters and story arcs. Thankfully, the moderator of the panel began the introduction of the discussion by stating that realism in YA was not a "trend," that it has always been an essential feature of all American Literature.

This is very true. The fear and misunderstanding that underlie the outrage of editorial writers like Meghan Cox Gurdon express a two-pronged condescension of sorts: First, that there is an absolute content limit that can be measured as far as subject matter is concerned; and second, that "too much" reality (which frequently equates to bleakness) in literature is a bad thing to expose young readers to.

In fact, on a librarian listserv I have been voyeuristically following, the current topic is exactly that: Is there too much reality in current books for kids, from picture books and chapter books through Middle Grade and YA titles?

Um.

What do you think?

In the coming few days, I want to visit this idea of Realism in literature (not as a trend), and if there is such a concept of "too much" of it going on.

the creature in front of the pancake house

2011-11-22T03:22:00.001-08:00

This has been quite a memorable trip.

Yesterday, I had lunch with my Simon and Schuster editor, David Gale. We talked about books, of course. He is the one responsible for bringing you Winger in spring 2013. I am very excited about the process and how much Simon and Schuster is behind this book.

Later this week, I am going to send him a few of the thousands and thousands of photographs I've taken over the years of the teams I have coached playing rugby, so the art department can get an idea of potential cover elements. It is not surprising that not too many people here in the US really know what rugby looks like.

When I send him the photos, I may also post them here.

After lunch, I spoke on a panel about books and outraged indignation with fellow authors Paul Yee, Lauren Myracle, and Cheryl Rainfield.

What an honor that was.

When it was my turn to speak, I talked a little about the Wall Street Journal condemnation of my book, what it felt like to me, and how it also impacted my own kids. It was a very good panel.

The room at the ALAN conference was absolutely packed, too, which was very gratifying.

It probably helped that while we gave our talk, Laurie Halse Anderson stood in front of the stage and hurled donuts into the crowd.

Laurie has quite an arm.

One thing I noticed from NCTE/ALAN: Well, maybe more than one. The people there are really incredible. Also, so many people there had read and fallen in love with Stick, my latest novel. There were people who actually waited in line just to meet me and tell me thank you for writing that book.

Things like that are pretty freaking amazing.

Also, yesterday I received from Liz Szabla (chimes!), my editor at Feiwel and Friends, a release of next month's School Library Journal review of Stick.

It is an amazing review.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, School Library Journal.

I will leave you with this:

SMITH, Andrew. Stick. 292p. Feiwel & Friends. 2011.

Gr 8 Up–A tall, thin frame has earned 13-year-old StarkMcClellan the nickname “Stick.” He was born with a deformed ear, more like ahole in his head, and he is hyperaware of what he sees as a grotesquephysical defect. His older brother, Bosten, defends him from bullies when hecan, and the boys do their best to look out for each other when their abusiveparents are on the rampage. Stick has one friend, Emily, but not much else isgood in his life. When Bosten finds some small measure of love with aschoolmate (another boy), Stick keeps the secret without judging, but all tooquickly the families find out. Bosten runs away and Stick follows to find him.Well into the story, Aunt Dahlia is introduced, adding a small blossom of hopefor the brothers. While staying with her, they experience life free fromemotional and physical abuse and enjoy a week surfing with kids in herneighborhood. Dahlia and her seaside home offer the promise of healing andbetter times to come. Smith effectively structures the words on some pages tomimic the one-sided input Stick hears through his single functional ear. Mostof the story is bleak and harsh, and Stick tells his tale in language that isfrank, dark, brutal, haunting, and mesmerizing. Suggest this to readers who canhandle the intensity of Smith’s In the Path of Falling Objects (2009) and TheMarbury Lens (2010, both Feiwel & Friends).–Maggie Knapp, Trinity ValleySchool, Fort Worth, TX

It is my job to make your head explode.

Thank you, Maggie Knapp.

Yet another reason on my lengthy list of why I need to get Texas included on my next tour.

call the roller of big cigars

2011-11-21T04:27:00.001-08:00

This is my last day in Chicago.

Tonight, I get to go home to California.

I am happy about that.

Last night was good. I went to the ALAN cocktail party. It was quite the gathering of partying author stars.

I went there with Janet Tashjian and Laurie Halse Anderson. I am awkward in noisy party situations, especially ones attended by stars, around whom congeal swirls of animated people who resemble asteroid belts of wine glasses.

It was, however, very very nice to hang out and talk with the following: David Gale (my editor from Simon and Schuster), Sara Zarr, Jackie Morse Kessler, James Dashner, Heather Brewer (we talked about tattoos), A.S. King, and David Levithan.

I have to admit something: I was embarrassingly swoonful when I met A.S. King. She knew who I was, and I think she is an amazing writer. She also likes corn.

I guarantee I will change that.

You will see, Amy.

I know this is a bad picture, but here are A.S. King and me at the ALAN cocktail party (where I saw a surprising amount of very red wine being spilled -- it looked like a Sam Peckinpah film -- and countless shatterings of crystal glasses. Come to think of it, I've seen teenagers party with fewer mishaps):

It was fun.

Afterwards, I did what people in Chicago do: I ate meat.

It was good.

This afternoon, I am speaking at the ALAN Conference.

ALAN stands for Assembly on Literature for Adolescents.

I know.

I don't get it, either.

Anyway, my talk is on Titles that Challenge and Are Challenged, and I will be speaking with Lauren Myracle, Cheryl Rainfield, and Paul Yee. The discussion will be moderated by David Gill.

After that, I will try my best to get to O'Hare on time to not miss my flight home.

the intergalactic bug cops

2011-11-20T11:50:00.001-08:00

So now I am in Chicago.

Which brings me to the topic of the last blurry couple of days.

Yesterday was my last day in Miami at the Miami Book Fair International.

Well... it was my last day this year. I am certainly coming back for more next year.

This really is the best book festival I have ever attended.

So yesterday I got to hang out and chat with my friend Ellen Hopkins for a while. We talked about business and writing, and what we're doing at the moment. It's always nice to talk to Ellen because we share similar viewpoints on important issues, and also because I think Ellen's process of writing is very similar to mine.

Later, we participated in a panel discussion on Young Adult Literature with graphic novelist M.K. Reed (Americus). It was also a very good session, and we got to spend a lot of time addressing very specific questions from the audience.

But the best part of the evening, and, to be honest, the highlight of my trip, was getting the chance to meet Ian, the kid who was responsible for having me sent across the country to talk to all those hundreds of kids in Miami to begin with (see yesterday's post).

I have told about this kid before. It's just something really amazing -- almost religious, or supernatural, I think -- when you get the opportunity to connect with someone across so much time and space -- and all because of words.

Anyway, in person, Ian is even cooler than he is in his email version. I gave him a copy of Ghost Medicine (which he does not have), and I promised to send him a few pages of next year's sequel to his favorite book (The Marbury Lens), Passenger, too. I also promised him the following (and I always keep my promises to kids who read): When the Advance Copies for Passenger come out, he is going to get the first (and probably ONLY) one I give to anyone.

Here is a picture of me and Ian at my panel discussion last night:

After the panel was over, I had to go directly to the Miami airport and catch a plane for Chicago.

Have I slept yet?

I do not think so.

I arrived at my hotel in Chicago at about 1 a.m.

I think this is the coolest hotel in the entire world. It has those creepy elevators that make you feel like you're trapped inside some steampunk zoo cage.

It also has real keys made from actual metal.

Even though it was 1 in the morning, I had to take a picture of my hallway.

That is my door, on the left.

The challenging thing was this: I was scheduled to meet people this morning at 7:45 in the lobby for today's presentation at NCTE (National Council of Teachers of English), and I always start my day by running 3 or 4 miles (at least). So I was out on the streets in the dark, just before 6 a.m. trying to get myself to wake up.

One thing about Chicago (and I totally love this city): It is a GREAT city for runners. Anyone who runs here knows that. I can't wait to get out again tomorrow, when I will be a little more into it.

So I had a panel discussion this morning with Julie Halpern, Tara Kelly, and Donna Freitas. It went well, but to be honest, I hardly remember it. My head is a little fuzzy.

Afterward, I got to meet my editor at Simon and Schuster, David Gale, and publisher Justin Chanda, just before sitting down to sign copies of my books for all the people who came out to NCTE this morning.

Now -- no naps. I never take naps.

I am going to a cocktail party this evening, then on to dinner with some of the Macmillan people, Janet Tashjian, and Laurie Halse Anderson.

Finally, tomorrow, I'll be having lunch with editor David Gale before participating in an ALAN panel discussion with David Gill, Lauren Myracle, Paul Yee, and Cheryl Rainfield.

Whew.

Sorry I posted this so late. It was my first chance to sit down.

blind dates at a barn dance

2011-11-19T03:53:00.001-08:00

Let me tell you how it went.

I am in Miami. I know that people may have strong feelings about Miami.

I love this place.

So yesterday, I was escorted from my hotel to the site of the Miami Book Fair, and taken to the theater where I would be speaking to a group of about 700 high school students.

I know that people may have strong feelings about talking to 700 teenagers.

I love doing that.

This is what the auditorium looked like just before we opened the doors:

I do not stand behind lecterns when I speak. I like to move around. So I had a remote microphone on.

The books were there because, naturally, I talked about my books. But not in the usual way. I talked about them only in passing references to other things that have happened in my life.

Also, I read passages from Ghost Medicine and Stick.

When I read from Ghost Medicine, a few kids almost started to cry. Actually, I think they did. I explained something about a certain passage in the book that I have never told anyone.

The open book in the middle was only there as a source of inspiration -- a focus point for me. I will tell about it later.

When I speak, I do not like to read from papers or anything. I plan out my speech and I know what I am going to say ahead of time. That book was there to keep me focused on my real message, which was not about the novels I have written, it was about the things that those 700 kids in front of me had not written yet.

If that makes any sense.

Here are a couple more pictures of what the place looked like after they opened the doors:

I stick my tongue out when I concentrate.

I was concentrating on how amazing these kids from Florida are.

I challenged them to reclaim their imagination. We talked about how the world is faced with more serious problems than we have ever had to deal with, and that none of these problems is going to be solved by bubbling inside a circle with a number 2 pencil.

The kids and teachers got it. They applauded for that.

I talked about how they used to spank us (boys) in school when we were bad, and how my principal had a metal hook for his hand and he would hold the paddle in his hook, and they used to make all the boys in the school watch him spank kids (boys) when he did it.

That is a true story.

Kids love true stories like that.

I talked about my horses, and letters my brother sent home when he was fighting in Vietnam, and what it is like to live in coastal western Washington.

But none of that was what I really wanted to talk to them about.

So we talked about words and where they come from and how words create the universe.

I have lately been fascinated with this theory of Linguistic Determinism called the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis.

Of course, none of the kids had ever heard about the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis.

Basically, it presents the notion that your universe is only as large as the quantity of words you have in your head.

I made the kids say that. I made them say Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis.

I made them own those new words.

Naturally, those kids' universes got bigger yesterday.

We played this game: The kids -- all 700 of them -- had to imagine emptying their heads of every word they ever knew. They had to shut their eyes and imagine not having a single word in their brains, and then open their eyes and think about what their universe would be like.

Owen Barfield wrote about this idea in Poetic Diction:

The entire... cosmos must be extinguished. All sounds would fuse into one meaningless roar, all sights into one chaotic panorama, amid which no objects -- not even color itself -- would be distinguishable.

Without words.

Our universe, and the words we use to make sense of it -- to address the constant human desire to figure out what, exactly, is going on -- are not distinguishable from one another. Words do not represent (RE-present, as though showing something over again that is separate and distinct from the actual THING it RE-presents) the universe.

Words are the universe.

The kids really got it. They were pumped.

They are ready to go out and make their universes bigger.

population explosion

2011-11-18T04:08:00.001-08:00

Today will be the day of the exploding heads in Miami.

This morning, I am speaking to a group of 700 kids.

I am going to tell them a few of the things they will expect: about my books, why I wrote them, and I even plan on actually reading (I almost never do this) passages from Stick and Ghost Medicine.

But I am going to trick them into listening to something else, too. And that is what will make their heads explode.

Reports to come.

it happened to the italians in ethiopia

2011-11-17T02:59:00.001-08:00

Here is my philosophy about writing scary stuff: If it weren't more than just a little bit real, there would be no chance of it also being scary.

I am on my way to Miami.

Before I got onto the plane, my wife said, Do your agent and editor know how to get in contact with me, just in case something happens?

Whenever someone says SOMETHING HAPPENS in a question like that, it can only mean one thing. It means this: Just in case I receive the Nobel Prize for unraveling the secrets of the universe and must fly off to Sweden to receive my one-million dollars and glittery medal.

That's what it means, right?

I got some emails the other day.

This is what they looked like: (I smeared out the top and bottom messages because they happen to be from someone famous, and not, unfortunately, the Nobel Committee)

The first message was sent on 12/31/00.

The second message was sent on 12/31/69.

Obviously, they would have been Happy New Year messages, or some shit like that.

But I wonder if they were from the past, or from the future?

The 12/31/69 message is particularly fascinating.

There are people who were alive in 1969 who might be very angry with me about something that I recently wrote.

This troubles me.

Something.

Might.

Happen.

nobody makes hair shirts nowadays (part three)

2011-11-16T03:18:00.001-08:00

Now it's time to talk about the water.

In the first post on this subject, I mentioned that I'd told Rachael you can't honestly write something THE PEOPLE are going to call Young + Adult and omit the element of sexuality/sexual identity.

It's the same thing as the water to the fish in the Zen parable: It is everywhere, at all times; it is the universal climate change that occurs during the Young Adult experience. And it puts particular pressure on boys, which, I suppose, is why Rachael found The Marbury Lens so intriguing, and why she asked the question.

In the book, in several passages, Jack rants about how much he hates being a teenager -- that there is nothing remotely whimsical or adorable in the sexual awkwardness and the external pressure he feels to "be a man." Like a lot of kids, he is confused and anxious, even questions his sexual orientation at times.

This is all part of the universal experience, I think, but it can also be emotionally troubling for kids like Jack, especially when combined with other traumatic (in Jack's case, at least) events.

Let me tell you a little side note about mean comments (and another mean comment story will come up later in this post): When my first book, Ghost Medicine, came out, I received more than a few comments from people (none of whom happened to be males, but I am not going to make a generalized statement as to the significance of this) who said Boys are not introspective like this in real life. They do not look inside themselves and examine things like love and life and friendship. This stuff never happens with real boys.

I am not making this shit up. That is the truth.

The thing is, that because boys (like Jack) feel so much pressure to "suck it up," to not express unmanly feelings (as though society dictates that genderless emotions such as love, attraction, or appreciation of beauty are feminine, and that other -- equally genderless emotions -- are masculine) externally, they are, in fact entirely vastly more likely to be introspective than girls, especially when it comes to sexuality, sexual identity, and the anxiety they feel because of sexual expectations -- pressures from outside.

If you don't realize that, then I am glad I taught you something which may make your head explode.

It is my job to tell the truth.

And this really is (if there were such a thing) a recurring concept that ripples through just about every book I have ever written.

When you pile all these pressures and expectations on a reasonably bright and aware kid, like Jack, from The Marbury Lens, it is not at all unreasonable for him to conclude -- as he does -- that there must be something wrong with him, and he better not talk about it, too.

Which brings us to Conner.

Lots of over-the-top mean comments came in about that character, the book, and me -- all because of Conner Kirk. In fact, there was a blogospheric supernova that occurred on one Oh-I-am-a-self-proclaimed-BOOK-BLOGGER's blog about how homophobic and bullying I am to have included a character like Conner Kirk in The Marbury Lens.

I am not making that shit up, either.

That person just doesn't get teenage boys.

Conner Kirk is the absolute opposite of a homophobic person. He masks his own curiosity and self-doubt behind a veneer of boisterous masculinity -- always testing Jack, wondering if his friend will have more guts than Conner does himself and come out and talk openly about sexual confusion and the pressure to "act like a man."

Of course, neither boy does that, because boys aren't allowed to do such things, and Conner, if nothing else, is society's manifestation of a perfect boy. Inside, he's got some issues, like most of us did at that age.

It's normal stuff.

Tomorrow, I am off to Miami, where I promise to make 700 kids' heads explode.

I have been working on this speech and presentation for them, and I honestly think it's some of the coolest shit a writer will ever tell young people.

I'll tell you about that later.

nobody makes hair shirts nowadays (part two)

2011-11-15T03:20:00.001-08:00

Okay.

The questioning fish is just not tuned in to the fact that water is actually everything to him, it constrains the limits of his universe and defines his existence.

I think there are two important aspects of sexuality that are frequently mishandled, trivialized, and obfuscated (that word sounds nasty) in popular "YA" (and let me tell you how much I absolutely hate that categorical brand) literature: gender identity and sexual identity.

They are different things, and both of them put a hell of a lot of pressure on adolescent males.

I don't know so much about females. Never been one.

The gender identity aspect has to do with what it means to act like a man -- the expectational pressures placed on boys to behave in certain ways -- to "suck it up," for example. This is no small part of Jack's problem in The Marbury Lens. He doesn't tell about what happened to him, because he believes he isn't supposed to. It's just the way boys are socialized to behave.

A side note -- I have met hundreds of people who have read The Marbury Lens, many of whom are young adult males who've had similar experiences to Jack's. Their stories have been distressing and predictable to me. I have also received lots of emails from very irate -- outraged -- people who have said things along the lines of, Oh, I totally stopped caring about Jack when he didn't report what happened to him to the (police, his family, etc. etc. blah blah blah).

Nice one, Mother Teresa.

In fact, Jack only tells two people -- Conner, who loves Jack and would do anything for him -- and Nickie, who also loves Jack but does not want to put up with his self-destructive bullshit. So Jack promises Nickie he will get help (of course this is a lie, because Jack expects he is supposed to "suck it up" and be a man, and he doesn't want to lose Nickie).

The gender role of Nickie is also important to me. Guess what? She is NOT the Barnes-and-Noble crafted YA female lead. She is not a huntress, queen of the forest, who will fix a shallow, flawed, and frail Jack. She is in love with Jack for his endearing qualities, but she draws the line (and suffers because of it) when she recognizes she doesn't have the power to mend the things broken inside this guy she cares about.

Tomorrow, I'll talk about the more important part of the water in our fishbowl -- the pressure of sexual identity.

nobody makes hair shirts nowadays (part one)

2011-11-12T16:03:00.001-08:00

Finished.

I sent my completed revision for Passenger in yesterday.

You know. Passenger is the sequel to The Marbury Lens.

I did it just because I could. The "dream" deadline was today, but I beat it, like I always do, so felt compelled to send it in on Sunday (when nobody is ever home to notice, anyway).

I rearranged some of the furniture in there. Made some parts creepier, and some parts sadder, too. I deleted an entire chapter (and no, I will not tell you what happened in it), and, in the end, the thing came out... longer. I think.

536 pages, nearly 120,000 words.

Nobody ever told me it was too long.

Readers have been asking for more. I gave them more.

I am selfless like that.

A couple days ago, I got mentioned in a Tweet, which, naturally, happened on Twitter, which is the only place I ever get mentioned in Tweets.

My aunt in Italy had a mynah bird when I was growing up. His name was Beo. He was the creepiest, smartest bird I ever saw.

Anyway, back to Twitter, where a friend named Rachael said (her exact tweet):

LOVED Marbury Lens! Curious if you have ever written a post about male sexuality in it, because I found that aspect intriguing.

Hmm... First off, I like to write blog posts in response to specific questions from readers. So I tweeted back and forth a few times to Rachael because I was trying to wrap my head around this concept of writing about male sexuality in The Marbury Lens.

Um. Here goes:

There is this Zen parable that I am especially fond of. I tell it over and over because it's kind of a pivot point to my life. It goes something like this:

Two fish are swimming along beside one another. One fish turns to the other and says, "So, tell me about this water stuff I keep hearing about."

That is the story.

Good, wasn't it?

Now I suppose I should explain.

One of my respondo-tweets to Rachael said something like (and I will not abbreviate for the sake of character limits):

You can't honestly write what people are going to call "Young" + "Adult" and NOT include some element of sexuality. If you try to do that, you are really just writing Middle Grade (a bizarre and twisted, asexual universe in which, my dear friend Michael Grant points out, nobody ever says "fuck" -- what a Marbury that shithole is...) with numerically aged characters.

This post is going to turn out to be quite long.

I'll leave you with that initial thought, as well as the story of the fish, and will continue with a discussion about male sexuality in my book(s) tomorrow.

Swim in peace.

if you ever want to get shot in ealing

2011-11-11T05:49:00.001-08:00

So, the reason I did not post anything yesterday was NOT because I have nothing to say.

I've just been... um... kind of immersed in something.

As I said, I have a Monday (as in the-day-after-freaking-tomorrow) deadline for Passenger (the sequel to The Marbury Lens).

Guess what?

I am finished.

Guess what else?

I am reading the entire book again. Just because it's a trip.

Passenger makes The Marbury Lens look like a Thomas Kincaid painting.

With fluffy kittens.

Just so you know.

So, to make up for skipping out yesterday, I have four things to give you today (aside from the above taunt, which, admittedly, is kind of like standing in front of a tiger cage and waving a Polska Kielbasa through the bars).

1. The Miami Book Fair International: I will blog more about this in the coming days. I promise to upload pictures and stuff from there. I looked through the stuff they sent me yesterday, and I was like Holy Shit! I absolutely can't believe what an incredible book festival this is. Guess who will be there.

Guess?

Chuck Palahniuk.

I do not care about anything else.

2. Someone asked me for the story about the kid named Ian: I have told this before. I think. Maybe not. But I'll start with a side-story:

At the first Bridge to Books event I attended, at Vroman's in Pasadena, I met this young blogger named Tessa who asked me to sign The Marbury Lens for her. Tessa was 14 at the time, a very sweet and brilliant girl. I was, like... Uh... How old are you? This book is kind of mature...

But it was all good. She had actually already read the book, and liked it very much. And I met her parents, too... so, it was like Whew!

Look. I'll be honest. I want young kids to be careful about reading my books. Every reader is an individual, and that makes the whole idea of "recommended ages" completely impractical.

So, when I got an email from this kid named Ian, who was ELEVEN years old and wanted to ask about The Marbury Lens, I (this is absolutely true) asked him if his parents were okay with him reading the book. I also thought I was probably being pranked by someone.

After all... eleven???

But I always respond to all my email. Even the ones from China trying to sell me aphrodisiac ointments.

So, Ian and I exchanged several emails. Eventually, he asked if I would be willing to come to the Miami Book Fair International, because his mother is one of the organizers of the event.

Where Chuck Palahniuk is going to be.

This is why authors should always answer email.

Even if they have to use Google Translate.

So, Ian, a brilliant young reader, actually arranged for me to be part of the Miami Book Fair International this year. And I am really looking forward to meeting this young man of impeccable taste and maturity well beyond his years.

3. A video review of The Marbury Lens: You Have to see this. It is such a great book show:

4. A random and genuine photo I took this week: I am having a hard time understanding this.

Weird things happen to me in urinals.

I do not know why.

I have blogged about this before.

I was in a urinal this week. Alone.

It was a good thing nobody else was there.

Guys get anxious when you take out a cell phone camera in urinals.

That is another story entirely.

But somebody left this in the urinal:

If you cannot tell what it is, it is a plastic scientific beaker that is partially filled with piss.

I am not making this up.

It is my job to tell the truth.

roof access ⇑

2011-11-10T03:09:00.001-08:00

So I am getting ready to head to Florida next week for the Miami Book Fair International.

Let me tell you about this. On November 18, Friday morning, I will be speaking -- alone -- to a group of 700 kids.

That is amazing.

And the organizers of the Miami Book Fair have purchased something like 100 of my books to hand out to the kids at that presentation.

So, I'm making a little show for them. I like doing stuff like that. I promise I will have stuff for them that I've never shown or talked about before.

And I mean that in the most non-creepy way possible.

For me.

I am most looking forward to meeting this kid named Ian, who was pretty much singlehandedly responsible for bringing me out to Miami. He's a big fan of all things Marbury.

When there are ARCs to give for Passenger, Ian gets number one.

Ian, it will freak you out. I can hardly tear myself out of it right now, and I've read the thing at least a hundred times.

And nobody else can ask me for an ARC of Passenger. I am not giving out any advance copies. If the people at Feiwel and Friends decide to do it, that is up to them. The rest of the world may have to collectively wait until the same time to find out what happens to Jack and the rest of the people (and monsters, new and old) linked together by The Marbury Lens.

Saturday, I'll be speaking with Ellen Hopkins. I am really looking forward to it. Ellen is so smart and funny, and I always have a good time at events with her.

That night, I'll be flying straight to Chicago, where I will be speaking, signing books, and stuff like that at the NCTE and ALAN conferences.

I will post more about these three amazing events in the coming days.

See you soon, Ian.

the inner tomb

2011-11-09T07:51:00.000-08:00

I thought I would taunt you with something.

So, I have been working on my editing project for next year's offering, Passenger, which I am pretty sure you know is the sequel to The Marbury Lens.

It is entirely okay to cheer.

Anyway, I sent a short email to my editor (chime!) the other day, just to let her know how things were going. Because I am really into it and having fun... because it is a freaking cool book.

Okay. Well, I just mentioned something in passing, like... I know you're not a high-pressure editor and shit like that, but if you were to do something totally crazy and give me a deadline for this five-hundred-plus-paged beast, what would you say?

Um.

She said Monday.

Okay.

Don't get me wrong... Monday is entirely okay with me. She knows how fast I can work when I am into something, and I am.

In.

Marbury.

So I thought I would taunt you with this: The middle two hundred or so pages freak the shit out of me.

And it gets weirder after that.

Just sayin.

all roads intersect on pages on my desk

2011-11-08T07:49:00.000-08:00

I have run an awful lot of marathons in my life, but this was the first time I'd ever started a race in so much rain. Rain has its particular challenges, like massive weight gain in your clothing.

45 degrees at the start, and pouring through the first 8 miles of a 13.1-mile race.

I liked it.

Most marathoners have had this experience, too. Here is what happened: At the finish of the race, I went back to my car so I could get out of my soaking wet clothes. I didn't even realize this had happened, but when I took my shoes off, both my feet were covered in blood. The rain had caused the tops of my shoes to cut into my ankles, and my sodden socks were completely red. I never even felt it until after the race was over.

That was cool.

I kind of felt guilty that I did not sign up for the full marathon.

Maybe next year.

It has been a very weird week in my life.

I will tell you about it in a week or so.

running out of non-lutheran boy clothes

2011-11-06T05:31:00.000-08:00

Today is is rainy and windy and cold.

And I am getting out of bed to run a half-marathon (13.1 miles).

There are many obvious comparisons between running marathons and writing.

I have run 30 full (26.2 miles long) marathons in my life. Not too many half-marathons. This will be my third.

Running distance is dumb and it hurts. I have also done a 50-mile race.

Writing is also dumb and it hurts.

I think the attraction for me is the idea of doing something that the other 6-point-something billion people in the world would not choose to do, when given the opportunity to remain in bed.

Most people go back to bed after writing about a page and a half of prose, too.

The thing about running is that you are guaranteed to finish, as long as you do not die and keep moving forward.

You NaNo people should remember that, too.

Don't die and keep moving.

Get out of bed and write.

discarded consonants from the wastepile of history

2011-11-05T06:55:00.000-07:00

Here are some pictures of my past week:

First, one that I am particularly proud of. It is from Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon. Powell's is a legendary independent bookstore. I hope that everyone in America who gives gifts of books during the holiday season please buys at least one book from an independent bookseller. It's about much more than economic survival.

Next, this is a photo sent to me from a high school class that I am a big fan of in Arizona. The kids read, and their teacher connects them to books. I love this stuff:

And third, I think I have complained too much about my neighbor (ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CREEK BED) who screams and fights constantly (a very happy family) and plays Andrea Bocelli at ear-piercing levels to drown out the cacophony of their domestic discord. My Andrea Bocelli complaints have led to this popping up in my Facebook sidebar ads:

And that was my day.

a tough day at curtis crane lutheran academy

2011-11-04T07:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I read a piece on CNN's website by William J. Bennett called Men Become the Target of Jokes.

It was kind of interesting to me, because Bennett points out something that I think is relevant about our culture, and he questions the depictions of manhood and masculine character traits which seem to be generalized by popular art forms (television and film).

I admit I don't know very much at all about TV shows and movies. It is a deficit, and I own it: I do not watch television, and cannot sit through most movies, either.

But a friend sent me a message on Facebook and Twitter yesterday that struck me as a strange and cosmic kind of coincidence to the Bennett piece.

A few friends had tweeted to me how they had written in Stick as their vote in the Opening Round for the Goodreads Choice Awards 2011 in the "Best Young Adult Fiction" category.

That was very nice of them to do that. Maybe 5 people I know took the time to do it.

I also do not read anything on Goodreads. Ever. I have an account, but I never read or write reviews there. I have said this many times before.

In the afternoon, I received a message from a friend who wondered why, of the fifteen "Nominees" on the Goodreads 2011 YA page, there was not one single title written by a man.

I do not know the answer to that.

I'll have to guess it is because men do not write good shit.

But I also wonder what kind of unstated message such displays give to Young Adult boys who happen to be readers, or who happen to enjoy creative writing. I would post a link to the page here, but I don't want to. I'm kind of offended.

I admit, too, that I have only read one of the fifteen books displayed as nominees.

I also do not read "YA."

But I wonder, too, if some intrepid and sociologically-minded reader could read all fifteen of these books and put together an aggregate image of the boys who float through the pages as characters, and what kinds of depictions of adolescent males are being presented to our American young adults as iconic and elemental images of our boys.

It could be an eye-opening aggregate, I think.

a bath, a shave, and modesty

2011-11-03T03:48:00.000-07:00

I have decided that since I give such good advice to writers that I would start my own advice column.

I am going to start an advice column for spam email.

Here is an example of what I get in my "advice" inbox:

I received a desperate cry for help just today. The subject line said this:

春藥壯陽增長增大持久激情藥

When I translate it, this equals:

Aphrodisiac drugs aphrodisiac growth increase lasting passion

I don't really know what you are asking me, but I will try.

The email came from someone named Cherry.

I figure if you name a kid Cherry, they are pretty much going to be in a good mood for their entire life.

How could anyone named Cherry ever be disgruntled?

Cherry, my advice to you is to wear lots of bright colors. You should also invest in a sassy boutique dog -- like a Pomeranian, or shit like that -- and walk it where singles gather!

Thanks for writing!

I got another email that said this:

大変お待たせいたしました。

It was from someone named Japan.

Japan's parents were probably hippies.

Google translated the message to this:

We very much for waiting.

I feel bad, like I've strung Japan and his or her hippie sensibilities along or something.

Don't wait for me, Japan.

I think it's time for you to move on.

Try treating yourself to a relaxing foot bath!

Thanks for writing!

the diving bell

2011-11-02T06:00:00.000-07:00

I have a hard time answering this question that I am most frequently asked: What is your book about?

My usual answer is this: It is about 400 pages or so.

The reasons I have a hard time answering the question are many, and here are a few of them:

1. The book is "about" something else to me than it will be "about" to you.

I do not know how to make up a good answer as to what it will be "about" to you.

I have never read flap copy on one of my books that did not make me want to crawl under some random object of furniture and drink Clorox (and I apologize for saying that).

2. I see my books holistically. It is almost impossible for me to describe a storyboarded this then this then this, which is how most people "see" books. So, for that reason, I also cannot really say what my books are about.

3. I do not like talking about the "about" of my books. I apologize for saying that, too.

But I will talk, from time to time, about universes.

Last week, I wrote a post about universes -- scientific theories about this one here, and how those theories relate to the structure of Jack's universe in The Marbury Lens and in Passenger.

I mentioned that at some point in the future I would talk about Stark McClellan's universe, too. Stark McClellan is the narrator and protagonist in my latest novel, Stick.

Don't ask me what it's about.

I was interviewed by a radio station yesterday, and the interviewer asked me what Stick was about. I didn't really know what to say. My answer took about fifteen minutes, I think, and I don't think I described one single this then this then this kind of event.

Because I was looking at a universe.

I think if you grow up inside a blacksmith's furnace, you will not know there are universes which are not hot and smoky.

Heat and smoke will be the exact same things as cozy blankets in bed and the smell of Thanksgiving dinner cooking in the house to other people in other universes.

A blacksmith's furnace is a pretty simple universe.

Kids have an amazing power to see universes with awe and wonder. We learn to get sickened and scared when we grow up.

That's what Stick is about.

breakout session two: the proposal

2011-11-01T07:31:00.000-07:00

Maybe you thought I'd forgotten about my online How To Be a Writer Conference.

I did not forget.

Here is Breakout Session 2: The Proposal.

First, remember, nothing is free.

Um.

Your money goes here:

Okay.

So, the other day I was talking about writing books and shit like that with some of the guys. Yeah. There were actually guys who write gathered together at Mrs. Nelson's on Sunday. If you missed it, that's why you're here, paying me.

I was chatting with my friend Allen Zadoff. Allen is a great guy to talk to. He is funny and he knows a lot of shit about writing, which is a definite plus considering he's a guy, and everyone knows guys don't know anything about writing and women's hairstyles.

So I was telling Allen how I just write books. That's it. I write them. Nobody knows about them. I just do it. My fourth book, Stick, just came out. And I have another book coming out next year. It is called Passenger. It is the sequel to The Marbury Lens. I have already written that book, too. I am currently pouting about it, though. I will tell you some other time.

I also have a book coming out in Spring of 2013, shortly after Passenger. That book is being published by Simon and Schuster, and it is called Winger. I have already written that book, too. And in 2014, Simon and Schuster will also publish my novel called Once There Were Birds.

Guess what? I finished writing that book too.

Um. And I just finished writing another book. Nobody knows anything about it (except for my son, who has read it, and one other person). So, I'll tell you. It is a very long book. It is a completely insane science fiction, and it has a deliriously happy ending. That book is finished, too.

So I was saying to Allen: I can't understand how most writers sell books, or even multiple books, on proposal to publishers before they are even written.

That would scare me into illiteracy, I think.

Because, if I said, I am thinking about writing a book about this and that, and shit like that, and then someone said, I will pay you to write a book about this and that, and shit like that, as soon as I sat down and started working on it who knows what would happen?

I do not believe stories come OUT of me. I am pretty sure they come THROUGH me.

So I could never be boxed-in by the constraints of a prefab great idea, even if it was specifically about this and that, and shit like that.

On the other hand, there is cash and cash to be made selling great ideas, I am told.

This is how you do it: You walk into an editor's office (it would be nice to have an agent with a briefcase and an iPad with you), and you hand the editor a slip of paper with your proposal on it.

A proposal looks like this:

If you do not know, an enchanted lamprey looks like this:

You can tell it is a lamprey, because it does not have a briefcase or an iPad, and has a circular mouth with rows and rows of needle-sharp teeth.

I hope you learned something today in my online How To Be a Writer Conference.

all good books are about everything, abbreviated

2011-10-31T07:34:00.000-07:00

I believe that good books are about everything that has ever happened.

This was a long and extremely tiring weekend, and now I am home for a little while.

Yesterday, I went from San Diego to La Verne, where I participated in Bridge to Books' event called The Why Chromosome. It was a panel discussion with six male authors who talked about boys and literacy.

It was very interesting, and we had a good crowd of enthusiastic readers, educators, and parents.

Bridge to Books plans on taking it on the road and doing this again in the future, too.

I have participated in countless author talks in the past few years. Usually, I am in the extreme minority (frequently the only male on the panel). I think everyone noticed a tremendous difference in the tone and substance of yesterday's talk. I don't mean to imply anything crude or sexist.

It was just different.

Very different.

Ask anyone who was there, and they will tell you. It was a good thing.

I have met just about all these guys at various events in the past. It was really cool to see how funny, smart, and insightful the other authors were about their own childhoods and how they discovered their literate drives.

It was a really positive event. And there were actually guys (dads and boy readers) in attendance in the audience, which is also a rare occurrence at book events (especially ones on Sundays during football season).

Here is a photo of the authors who participated in the panel:

The back row, left to right, is John Stephens, Allen Zadoff, and Greg Neri. In the front are Johnathan Auxier, me, and Greg Van Eekhout.

another universe, part 2

2011-10-30T08:58:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, I will be talking about another universe: The universe where boys and books coexist, and boys actually read and write and are not discouraged by institutional brainwashing that has redefined literacy as a feminine trait.

Last night, I had the pleasure of meeting and talking at length with some fellow writers from all over North America whom I had previously only met through Facebook and Twitter.

That was kind of like going through a wormhole, too.

In any event, I will have more to say about this other universe I am leaking into this afternoon when I get a chance to meet with yet another group of great writers and educators at Mrs. Nelson's Books in La Verne.

On the panel, which will be moderated by the brilliant Cathy Blackler, are myself, Allen Zadoff, Greg Neri, Greg Van Eekhout, John Stephens, and Jonathan Auxier. We will all be signing books afterward, and the event begins at 1:00.

And, just so you know, in keeping with the trend of discussing universes and such (which began on Friday -- check it out -- with my piece about the cosmic architecture in The Marbury Lens and its sequel, Passenger), I do plan on running a piece sometime this week about the universe of Stark McClellan, the narrator and protagonist of my latest novel, Stick.

His universe is something else altogether.

another universe, part 1

2011-10-29T14:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I wrote a lengthy post about Jack Whitmore's universe in The Marbury Lens, and Passenger, its sequel.

Today, I am writing about another universe.

It is a universe of hair, capes, swords, and unpronounceable names.

Yes, I am at World Fantasy Convention in San Diego.

In the universe of my hotel room, I have this staring directly at my King-size bed:

This is a painting that talks to me.

It says to me: "As soon as you shut your eyes I am going to jab an icepick through your temple."

As though that weren't disturbing enough, on the opposite wall is a Japanese image of 5 cranes. I know you don't believe me, so here:

Their razor-sharp beaks are pointed directly at the head of my bed.

They may also be pointed directly at the painting of ships on the Grand Canal in Venice -- I can't be sure.

I would post a picture of the painting of the ships on the Grand Canal in Venice, but the glare coming in from the window is too much.

I have a feeling you believe me about the painting of the ships on the Grand Canal in Venice.

This is my universe today.

Tomorrow, I am going up to Mrs. Nelson's in La Verne to talk about boys and reading.

I have a lot to say about that.

I read an article in the Washington Post a couple days ago. It was about the woman writer who started the American Girl series of books and dolls. She wants to do something like that for boys.

Please.

Do not do that.

Please.

We have done enough to scare boys away from reading, thanks, in no small part, to people who have good intentions about what boys should be like and should be interested in, from a successful white woman's point of view.

Hey, American Girl lady: Leave them kids alone.

And, can I interest you in some fine artwork?

an awful lot of math

2011-10-28T07:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, a Twitter friend in Idaho posted: Is @marburyjack right? Are we living inside a series of nesting universes?

(@marburyjack is my Twitter user name)

She linked to a National Geographic article that reported findings from a recent study proving by mathematical equation that the universe is, in reality, just as Jack Whitmore (the narrator of The Marbury Lens) described it to be.

Yay.

To the Nobel committee: I would be happy to come to Sweden and accept my one million dollars and sparkly medal, and I am available for lectures.

The article begins:

Like part of a cosmic Russian doll, our universe maybe nested inside a black hole that is itself part of a larger universe.

In turn, all the black holes found so far in ouruniverse—from the microscopic to the supermassive—may be doorways intoalternate realities.

If you have read The Marbury Lens, you might find the study above to have some eery similarities to the architecture of Jack's universe in my novel.

At the opening to Chapter One, Jack says:

I am going to build something big for you.

It’s like one of those Russian dolls that you open up, and open up again. And each layer becomes something else.

On the outside is the universe, painted dark purple, decorated with planets and comets, stars. Then you open it, and you see the Earth, and when that comes apart, there’s Marbury, a place that’s kind of like here, except none of the horrible things in Marbury are invisible. They’re painted right there on the surface where you can plainly see them.

...And throughout the book, Jack keeps coming back to this image of things inside of things; universes inside of universes -- how he is actually at the very center of everything.

The universe.

A few years ago, when I was writing The Marbury Lens, I initially started off with the intent of making the novel a kind of dark thriller about Jack's kidnapping, guilt, and an accidental murder.

But when I began writing the novel, I also started having coincidental dreams about this place inside of our world, which was inside yet other worlds.

The place I dreamed about was called Marbury (and, in my dreams, it looked a lot like the place in the book, too). I drew pictures of nesting dolls (I keep paper at my bedside) and I imagined myself -- as Jack does -- as being a kind of arrow that goes through multiple layers at the same time. I thought, what would that be like?

This is why Jack gets shot with an arrow the first time he pops in to Marbury, and why arrows and images of arrows keep coming up in the book. Die-hard fans of Marbury, get ready: The Arrow is the title of Part V (the final book) in Passenger, which is the sequel to The Marbury Lens.

(That's not giving away too much, is it?)

Well, at that time a few years back, I figured I had to include these concepts in the novel I was writing, so along came this creepy British guy -- Henry Hewitt -- and a pair of broken glasses -- The Marbury Lens.

So that's how Jack's universe is built. People have asked me to explain it hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. Universes that stack and enfold one another like Jack's grandmother's collection of Russian nesting dolls.

And Jack is an arrow, an antenna -- as we all are -- that happens to be able to "tune in" to other layers. Given the predictability of pattern that is evident in living and non-living things (lately I have been obsessed with biological, political/social, and inorganic iterations of the Fibonacci Sequence), then it stands to reason that there are going to be other "Jacks," and also worlds where those other "Jacks" have already died -- which happens to some of the characters in the initial novel, The Marbury Lens.

And if it were possible to "tune in" to one of those other universes -- as Jack, Conner, Ben, and Griffin obviously do -- it would be ridiculously egocentric to presume that life would stand still and not go on in our absence. This explains the pictures Nickie takes when she meets Jack on the Thames River cruise ship.

The real issue for Jack is this: If you could pop around, as he does, how would you ever be certain what was actually real?

In The Marbury Lens, Jack seems unwilling to admit that Marbury is actually real.

In Passenger, Jack has to confront the very disturbing possibility that not only is Marbury real, Marbury is everywhere.

Everywhere.

And maybe he never "gets back" to any place he had ever been before, even if he believes, as he says, "This is real."

In Passenger, Jack, the arrow, gets to rip his way through his universes. He sees himself as standing between endless walls of mirrors that come from inside him, and he is shattering them all, watching everything fall apart.

So I took a picture of my iPhone between two flat mirrors, to show what Jack's universe looks like to him:

You can read the National Geographic article here.

And mind the gap.

eva nightingale

2011-10-27T03:47:00.000-07:00

This week begins a stretch of traveling around the country that will bring me to San Diego, Miami, Chicago, and New York.

Well, except next week. Next week I am going to stay home and run a half-marathon. It's been a while since I've done a full (26.2 miles) marathon, but a half is like a 13.1-mile walk in the park.

Seriously. Full marathons (I've run 30 of them) are way more than twice as difficult as a half marathon. Try one and you'll see.

I am excited to be going back to Miami. I haven't been there in a while, and I really like the vibe, Cuban food and music. I'm going to be at the Miami Book Fair International. On Friday morning, November 18, I am going to be doing a solo appearance at their Student Literary Encounters, an event where they bring in kids from nearby schools, and all the kids have received copies of Stick.

The following day, I'll be participating in their Young Adult Authors Program with my friend Ellen Hopkins.

From there, I'll be going directly to Chicago to do a couple days of events at the NCTE/ALAN conference, which I'll tell you about later.

I promise to take pictures and tell the truth.

the trap door

2011-10-26T03:11:00.000-07:00

If I took a picture of my office and posted it here, you would swear you were looking at an image from that television program about compulsive hoarders.

The rest of my house is not like this.

Just my office.

Well... my garage, too.

But, I ask you, what sane person has a tidy garage?

I blame it on my cats.

I blame most of the shit that happens to me on my cats -- them, and the Satan-worshiping Andrea Bocelli fans on the other side of the creek bed.

A lot of the stuff piled up in my office are manuscripts. There are thousands of pages of them here, all at various stages in the publication process -- from original edits through first-page typeset passes.

I will admit, too, that I have actually thrown away complete manuscripts. I have a hard time doing that, because (and I suppose this is symptomatic of compulsive hoarders), I feel an emotional attachment to the pages, especially once they acquire my editor's comments and marks (which are usually in pencil -- except for my Simon and Schuster editor, who marks in red ink) and me (and I always write editing notes in red ink on my manuscripts, which was kind of confusing when I did my last revision for Simon and Schuster).

So I had an idea for something I'd like to do.

I'd like to offer readers a "peek" -- just like Jack needs when considering a visit to Marbury -- at Passenger, which is the forthcoming sequel to The Marbury Lens.

I am actually going to give away some of the original manuscript pages (signed) from Passenger over the coming months, right up until the release of The Marbury Lens in paperback, and the ultra-creepy sequel, Passenger, in hardcover, which will be in the fall of 2012.

The pages will be random, and may include markings and comments from my editor, Liz Szabla (chimes!), which will be in pencil; and me, which will be in ink. Some of the ink markings may be in black (which I was forced to use when I was traveling and forgot my red pen -- and the only pen in my hotel room was black).

The first page up for grabs is page one of Passenger. It isn't actually page one, which would be the title page, but it is the first page of writing, which happens to be page five in the manuscript.

Also, this particular page is folded a couple times because I carried it around in the back pocket of my 501s for a few days, which is a superstitious, compulsive hoarder kind of thing I do with the first page of manuscripts before I stop pouting and start working on revisions.

Passenger has been a remarkably easy revision for me, but Liz (chimes!) and I know each other pretty well by now.

Want to know how you can win a signed manuscript, original first-page of Passenger?

Go to my friend Kristen's blog, which is linked below.

To my other blogger friends who conduct giveaways and cover reveals (and you know who you are), drop me a line and I might be able to set you up with a page for a giveaway, too.

I am willing to give out six pages or so. Maybe more.

I'll be sure to pick really good ones.

You can enter Kristen's giveaway here.

bugs do two things

2011-10-25T06:57:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, I will be down in San Diego for the World Fantasy Convention. So I downloaded an iPad App that translates English to Icelandic.

Then on Sunday, I'll be up in La Verne at Mrs. Nelson's Bookstore for a discussion on boys' literacy, called The Why Chromosome. This is going to be a terrific event, with some amazing authors and books present. I'm really looking forward to it, and I hope to see you there.

The event is hosted by Bridge to Books, a nonprofit organization that helps connect kids to reading. They are great people, and really serve the needs of our increasingly literate kids. This is a good thing, because I think there are actually people out there who do not want kids (especially boys) to read books. Anyway, you can hear more about this on Sunday at Mrs. Nelson's. Also, check out Bridge to Books at www.bridgetobooks.org

Here is the Bridge to Books The Why Chromosome flyer:

Also, this morning, a friend sent me a link to a video book talk from Lesley Kohles that had been posted on YouTube. The video is really one of the better book talk videos I've seen, and it happens to be about The Marbury Lens (which, coincidentally just won the 2011 SCIBA Award).

Anyway, it is quite enjoyable.

Here is The Marbury Lens book talk from Lesley Kohles:

the death-ray gun

2011-10-24T06:37:00.000-07:00

Last week was Teen Read Week.

So I put together this little video of kids reading and talking about their favorite books with other kids.

There were so many teens who participated that I couldn't show them all, and the video was rather hastily patched together because I have been away on a blurry voyage since Friday. These clips were all filmed on Monday and Tuesday, using an iPad, at the beginning of Teen Read Week.

You will have to forgive the fact that there are some kids reading from books that I wrote. I told them all: No reading from Andrew Smith books.

But you know teenagers.

They do not listen.

They are pretty good readers, though.

Again, I have to say that there are far more teens reading books than there were 20 years ago. This bodes well for our planet, I think. I also see more kids these days sharing books, loaning them out, and making recommendations to their friends.

All very good.

So, enjoy the little film. By the way, the music is composed and performed by Jimmy Marino (also a teenager), the kid who narrated and acted in the book trailer for Stick.

a discussion about experiments

2011-10-23T14:30:00.000-07:00

This is what I have been doing since I arrived here in Long Beach:

I have finished working on the revisions for Passenger that my editor sent me a few weeks ago. That doesn't mean the editing work is finished, though, because I have been waiting for the rest of the book to come.

It was theoretically sent to my house in the mountains while I have been down here at the beach.

In case you were wondering, revising, editing, is not writing.

It is nothing like writing.

Revising compares to writing in the same way that running a vacuum cleaner across a throw rug on the floor of your living room compares to building the house the living room is in.

So I am still not writing.

But I am not working, either, and that is a dangerous place for me to be.

So when I get home, I am supposed to have a package of work sitting on my doorstep.

I have also been sending a lot of email to friends.

For some reason, just being away from my home makes me feel so disconnected and lost.

I thought I was going to hang around the SCIBA events yesterday afternoon, so I could see some real authors signing books, but I did not. I took a boat out onto the ocean instead.

There is something to be said for living in Southern California, where you can take a boat out onto the ocean at the end of October, wearing only a short-sleeved (Sex Wax) T-shirt. And Levi's.

It was a nice day with my daughter (who is sick) and my wife.

This is what Long Beach looks like from a mile out to sea on a perfect Saturday afternoon in October:

So, I went to the SCIBA Awards Dinner last night.

Here is what happened:

It was very nice. Brian Selznick, who wrote Wonderstruck and The Invention of Hugo Cabret was the main speaker. That was cool. I got a beautiful, signed copy of Wonderstruck, as well as about 40 other great books. I got to hang out with very cool indie booksellers, lots of other authors, and great supporters of literacy from everywhere.

And The Marbury Lens won the SCIBA Book Award, too.

This was something I was totally unprepared for, and boy did my speech ever show it.

Totally.

Unprepared.

Here is what I said:

I said I would like to thank Meghan Cox Gurdon.

It was a very big, quiet room. I was afraid I was accidentally standing up in front of a NewsCorp convention or something.

I do not really remember after that. I know I said something about the importance of the support and patience of my family, and how terribly I missed my son, and I talked about my editor Liz Szabla (the sound of bells ringing... I was going to say "chimes," but that, apparently, is a confusing word), and then I think I said Happy Teen Read Week, or shit like that before losing consciousness on stage.

I was pretty much a complete idiot. Trust me.

Here is what the award looks like:

there's blood on your spam

2011-10-22T08:15:00.000-07:00

Today, I'll be hanging out at the SCIBA show, looking at what new books are coming out soon.

There are a few authors speaking today that I thought I'd go see.

Then tonight is the big SCIBA Awards dinner.

I always say I will take pictures at these things, but I rarely do.

I will try.

There are some amazing people hanging out here and speaking at the dinner tonight.

I do not know what I will wear.

Probably pants.

It would be a good idea.

People have been asking about my Teen Read Week video. I have decided I will post it here in the next few days, so you might want to keep an eye out for it.

I can't do it right now because I am in a hotel at the beach, and the video is on my computer at home, in the mountains.

This is what it looks like from my window at exactly this moment:

I am on the top floor.

That is the Pacific Ocean out there.

You can't see it because the fog is so thick, you can't even see the ground below.

Last night, we went through the haunted mazes on the Queen Mary. It looked like this:

I may post more later today, depending on what I see here at the SCIBA show.

gimme shelter

2011-10-21T07:19:00.000-07:00

Today I am leaving for a weekend on the beach.

I am going to Long Beach for the SCIBA Book Awards.

The Marbury Lens is up for an award. It is very flattering just to be there as a finalist, sitting among all those real writers. I would name the names of people I am in awe of who will be in attendance, but that would be too fan-boy-ish.

Who needs that?

Just know that there are some pretty impressive real writers hanging out this weekend.

I will be alone, lurking, and on my meds.

I always end up going to these things alone.

And people say to themselves, Who is that creepy guy?

I got a letter this week from a kid in Texas, which is another reason why I am now planning on showing up at one of the three huge book events in Texas this coming year. Yes, that's right. I am finally going to Texas.

Alone.

I will be the guy without a Stetson, who looks like a hobo.

This is the letter I got:

Mason Parker Dunn's class is doing a project associated with this book they're reading. The project involves writing letters to "famous" people.

He said he would send me an autographed baseball card from his Little League Team if I replied.

That is quite an offer.

Of course I sent Mason Parker Dunn a reply.

I am waiting for my card.

skating and kayaking

2011-10-20T07:11:00.000-07:00

Four days without writing.

Bliss.

My head is quiet.

Today, in addition to being Thursday of Teen Read Week, is also Spirit Day for the Trevor Project. It's a day when we carefully think about acceptance and love for all kids.

I don't like the word "tolerate."

It sounds like a chore you would be forced to do to put up with something unpleasant, like bad breath or something.

Just to be "civil," which is a stuck-up way to be.

If all you do is "tolerate" LGBTQ kids, then the best you can expect is for other human beings to "tolerate" you, because you stink, or shit like that.

Make yourself more pleasant than that.

Smell nice.

Love kids.

Go put on something purple.

teen read week

2011-10-19T04:13:00.000-07:00

Happy Teen Read Week.

What are you doing this year to encourage teens to read?

Every year I have done something. Last year, many of you saw the artwork kids did for me, in which they explained the books they were reading. I showed these in various presentations I gave around the country, and it was really cool.

I found something out in working with the teens who contributed to my 2011 Teen Read Week project.

What I found out is this: Teens read a lot. They read a lot more than we think they do. Especially boys.

In a couple weeks, I'll be speaking with a group of guy authors at Mrs. Nelson's Bookstore in La Verne, California in a panel (which I named) called The Why Chromosome: Why Boys Really Do Love to Read.

I have found that there is this myth about boys and reading. The basis of the myth is rooted in some observable data, but the real message to boys regarding reading and writing is not. The message is: You are not welcome here.

Anyway, I will talk more about that on October 30, at Mrs. Nelson's. And I'll talk more about it here, too, in the days leading up to the event.

So, this year for Teen Read Week, I made a video of teens reading to and talking about books with other teens. It turned out to be a pretty amazing thing. I had many more kids participating than I thought I would. The majority of them happened to be boys, too. These kids were all reading books of their choice -- not ones assigned to them by teachers or required by classes. The range of titles and genre breadth are pretty amazing.

There were so many kids I couldn't even put them all in the video. Video editing is a chore. Good thing I am not writing.

I don't know what I'll end up doing with the video. I was thinking I'd bring it along with me to NCTE/ALAN next month in Chicago. Maybe I will post it here.

The thing that strikes me most about it (and you'll have to forgive me if I get a little gushy here) is how beautiful and brilliant these kids are when they've got books in their hands; when the books they're reading are expressions of their freedom to choose; and when their friends actually listen and maybe even write down titles and authors of books they're hearing about for the first time from another kid.

I have said it before, and I know this is true: Kids today read much more than they did 20 years ago. And the boys are really starting to kick ass as readers.

lucky, a cigarette run, and the bison

2011-10-18T03:57:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I will be down in Long Beach for the Southern California Independent Booksellers Association's Author's Feast and Trade Show.

On Saturday evening, at the Long Beach Hilton, SCIBA is awarding the 2011 SCIBA Book Awards.

The Marbury Lens is one of four finalists in the "Children's Novel" category.

Um.

It is very flattering to have my book on the list of finalists, but a bit unnerving, too.

Just to make certain there was no mix-up, I did a Google search of any other books that came out this past year whose titles rhyme with The Marbury Lens.

Damn.

Some former child actor wrote a picture book about pink chickens called The Strawberry Hens.

I knew it.

Shit.

A couple weeks ago, I got an email from an actual genetically-related cousin of mine.

My cousin said I don't think your book will win an award in the "Children's Novel" category because it has too many f-bombs in it.

I went to a SCIBA Awards dinner a couple years ago, and afterward hung out in the bar with some really great writers to hang out in a bar with.

This year... I am not so sure.

I am worried about the whole "rhyming book" and "too many f-bombs" catastrophe.

You can look for me there.

I will be all alone after the event.

In the bar.

Signing copies of The Strawberry Hens.

great big jar

2011-10-17T03:16:00.000-07:00

I am so happy to be finished with you.

For too long now, you have been a constant preoccupation. You kept me from doing things, interfered with work. There were days I would get out of bed and then not get dressed, all day long.

Because of you.

You would keep me up at night.

Worse, sometimes you would wake me from a sound sleep.

That's how you always were.

But now I am finished with you.

You can go now, and I will go my own way too.

I woke up this morning and realized something.

This is what I realized:

I used to be a boxer.

One summer, around the time when I was 21 or 22 years old, I took off, with all my clothes stuffed in a backpack and a one-way ticket to Italy. After spending a month alone, camping in Yugoslavia, one morning I woke up and something finally dawned on me.

What I realized was this: I did not have two black eyes and did not groan when I stood up in the morning. There was not dried blood in my nose.

It was a real epiphany.

That is how I felt this morning.

It is October 17 and I am not writing.

Goodbye, stupid 105,000-word-long goddamned novel.

I am finished with you.

looking for wiggles

2011-10-15T07:07:00.000-07:00

Um.

Now I am doing something else, too. I have been invited to contribute to an anthology coming out next fall (2012) from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

I am happy about this. The project sounds really fun, and I think it will be something kids and schools will really get into.

That means next fall, I will have three things coming out: The Marbury Lens (paperback), Passenger (the sequel to The Marbury Lens), and this anthology, which I will tell more about at some point in the future.

I've been pretty down on the whole writing thing this week, which is why I only posted a picture yesterday.

This week, I've been thinking quite a bit about being a writer, and how much I suck at it.

Let me make this clear: When it comes to writing, I think I am pretty good. I have some chops. I love/hate the writing part of what I do. It's the being a writer part where I am an absolute failure.

You know what I mean.

Some people want to be writers, and they may even end up pretty accomplished at being writers, but they do not know how to write.

I can't tell anyone how to write.

Lots of people can tell you how to be a writer.

I do not listen to them because I think it is boring. I am a bad student when it comes to boring stuff, which is why I fail.

I envy people who are good at being writers.

Here is my way of being a writer: Have some horrible shit happen to you when you are a kid; then, in your young adult phase engage in reckless behavior that you will probably not live through because you really do not care about living or dying; read a lot of non-shitty books and throw the shitty ones across whatever room you are in; and, if you survive, one day, when you wake up in your adulthood and realize, holy shit, how did I not die yet? you can write it down when the words smack you in the face and force you to start spitting them out.

Why would anyone ever tell you to do that?

You're better off just downloading Scrivener, or shit like that.

gideon's breeding rights

2011-10-14T09:03:00.000-07:00

enola gay and beau barton's boner

2011-10-13T07:38:00.000-07:00

This is a true story.

All stories are true.

It is my job to tell the truth.

Yesterday, I was in a very bad mood. In the afternoon, I went on a long run in the hills so I could think about all the things that were making me mad.

It was a long run.

Deer hunting season opened on Saturday.

A friend told me I am supposed to wear orange when I go running.

I said, why, they will shoot me anyway.

When I run into groups of men in camouflage, carrying deer rifles and shit, they usually have coolers of beer with them, too.

I am coming out of retirement as a runner.

I have run 30 full (26.2 miles long) marathons in my life. It has been a few years since my last marathon. On November 6, I am going to run a half-marathon. That is an embarrassing 13.1 miles. But I am coming out of retirement.

Over the summer, because I was bored, I ran about 10 miles every day. Now I run twice per day. I do 2 - 3 miles in the morning (at 4 a.m., when it is still very dark), and another 5 miles in the afternoon, when I am usually in a bad mood and need to run.

I live in a very remote area, which is why there are deer hunters here who will probably kill me.

There are no street lights, traffic lights, grocery stores... there is nothing here except guys with guns, camouflaged outfits, and alcohol.

There are no police, either.

So you might imagine how quiet and dark the world is when I am out, running alone, at 4 in the morning.

This morning, I ran past a house where a man had been shot five times by the police. That happened about two years ago. The man lived, too. He was despondent over losing his job, so he barricaded himself inside his home. As you can guess, he had plenty of guns and alcohol. So the police shot him five times. But he lived, and after he got out of wherever they put a despondent jobless guy with five bullets in him, he moved back to his house.

I mention this because when I ran past his house today at 4 in the morning, I heard a scream coming from inside the house.

One scream.

Long and loud.

It was a man's voice. It sounded like someone was being murdered, but who knows?

It was at least four seconds long, and on the anguish scale, it was a solid nine out of ten mousetraps on your balls.

So I thought, there is an inherent sexist bias in human reactions when you hear someone screaming in the middle of the night.

I thought, if I heard a woman screaming, I would have... I don't know... knocked on the door, or shit like that.

But when a man screams in the middle of the night up in guys-with-guns-camouflage-and-alcohol land, it's like... well, buddy, you are either going to live to see another hunting season, or you're not.

the intergalactic bug cops

2011-10-12T03:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a quiet day.

We stayed home and ate hot dogs for dinner. I actually watched part of the Detroit game.

My son told me to send him my book.

Son, I have no books.

I will send him one that nobody has ever read yet. I did that with another unread manuscript when he went away to college and he liked it, so I will just send him another file of another book that nobody has read yet to keep him occupied.

Yesterday, I received two very special Congratulations on Pub Day emails. One was from my editor.

She said something that has also been a matter of some considerable distraction on my part. She noted the tone of surprise in many of the reviews popping up all over the place for Stick.

The surprise element comes in because a lot of reviewers picked up Stick anticipating another trip like Marbury.

I keep telling you people, I DO NOT WRITE THE SAME THING TWICE.

Even the sequel to Marbury, Passenger, is not the same old Marbury. I have told you that, too.

You will see.

So, anyway, back to this surprise, I have been slapped in the face with hope reaction to Stick.

Stick is my fourth published novel since 2008.

If my books were meals, here is what they would be:

1. Ghost Medicine -- This would be a very fancy, small-plate meal (like I had at A Coté last week) that would include every imaginable course, cheese, great wine, and spectacular dessert. The meal would involve great conversation and would last 4 hours.

2. In the Path of Falling Objects -- Barbecued bull testicles, with moonshine served in Mason jars. Funfetti cake for dessert.

3. The Marbury Lens -- Army C-Rations served in the jungle in Vietnam in 1968. Oh, and you're all alone because everyone you know and rely on has been killed. Also, you do not have a can opener. It's raining. You are the dessert.

4. Stick -- Pancakes in the kitchen at your favorite aunt's house.

So, sit down and have some pancakes, kid.

it's a boy

2011-10-11T03:16:00.000-07:00

It is here.

Happy arrival into this world, Stark McClellan.

the battle of kelsey creek bridge

2011-10-10T07:50:00.000-07:00

Okay.

I am freaking out, like I always do the day before my book comes out.

In a matter of hours, it will be October 11. That is the release day for Stick.

Stick is coming out tomorrow.

Coincidentally, tomorrow is also National Coming Out Day.

I do not think it was planned for the release, but it does make a lot of sense, too. There are some gay characters in Stick. But I think they are different kinds of gay characters, or I hope so, because they are just regular, normal kids.

I don't know.

Remember back when Mattel got into all sorts of crap for making a Barbie doll that complained about how hard math class is?

Someone should think about starting shit for the way YA portrays boys, and especially gay ones.

Anyway, if you know a GLBTQ kid and he happens to respect you enough to be open about who he is, don't forget tomorrow to tell him he's worth something to you and you're better off for knowing him.

That's all.

I'm going to shut myself back in my dark office and freak out today.

One last thing, an amazing librarian from Texas posted such a nice review of Stick on her blog, I Read Banned Books, today. The link is below.

I really need to get to Texas. There are so many great readers there, connected to works like mine through so many involved librarians. And there is no shortage of love for the Drew in Texas.

State of Texas: I am indebted.

Best quote from the review:

I went into reading this book with my eyes wide open. I was ready for the bat-shit genius that Smith is so famous for.

I love that.

Thank you, Jen.

You can read the I Read Banned Books review of Stick here.

satan and the pastor (2)

2011-10-09T06:47:00.000-07:00

ME: The sad thing is, all the serfs have totally bought into the immutability of economic feudalism in America.

T: It's why the Occupy movement will not work.

ME: True. Even poor people in America believe that there is something diseased about themselves, and something holy and pure about the rich. I don't really get it. It's why so many of these ideologues who bash any economic balancing act that involves reestablishing previous tax rates on the super-rich attract so many working poor followers.

T: With pitchforks and torches.

ME: Ow!

(the needle buzzes)

I have never done this before. I am going to quote two brilliant paragraphs from one of the most talented American writers who ever lived. In fact, people who know me will verify that I do not use words like "favorite," but if I could only read one man's books for the rest of my life, they would be this man's books, which are among the only books ever written that I find myself capable of reading over and over and over.

Here are the paragraphs:

America is the wealthiest nation on Earth, but its people are mainly poor, and poor Americans are urged to hate themselves. To quote the American humorist Kin Hubbard, “It ain’t no disgrace to be poor, but it might as well be.” It is in fact a crime for an American to be poor, even though America is a nation of poor. Every other nation has folk traditions of men who were poor but extremely wise and virtuous, and therefore more estimable than anyone with power and gold. No such tales are told by the American poor. They mock themselves and glorify their betters. The meanest eating or drinking establishment, owned by a man who is himself poor, is very likely to have a sign on its wall asking this cruel question: “if you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?” There will also be an American flag no larger than a child’s hand – glued to a lollipop stick and flying from the cash register.

Americans, like human beings everywhere, believe many things that are obviously untrue. Their most destructive untruth is that it is very easy for any American to make money. They will not acknowledge how in fact hard money is to come by, and, therefore, those who have no money blame and blame and blame themselves. This inward blame has been a treasure for the rich and powerful, who have had to do less for their poor, publicly and privately, than any other ruling class since, say Napoleonic times. Many novelties have come from America. The most startling of these, a thing without precedent, is a mass of undignified poor. They do not love one another because they do not love themselves.

-- Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut

satan and the pastor

2011-10-08T07:15:00.000-07:00

A couple things kept me awake last night:

1. Stick is coming out the day after tomorrow (well... at midnight). Stick is coming out and I do not even own a single copy of the book. I lost the one and only copy I had. Oh well. It's what was supposed to happen. I don't care about that.

2. I want to quit being a writer again. Oh well.

3. The Wall Street Protests:

This is a true story.

As I said yesterday, regarding how I write a novel, I tend to stew about things for a very long time before I actually do them. And I really do not like talking about WIPs (Works-In-Progress), but I started writing this novel on July 7 and it seems like I have been right at the end of it for about 95,000 words (which is how long the novel is).

It never takes me 3 months to write a novel, but when I finish writing, I am finished. There is no such thing as a draft in my universe. I don't care how anyone else writes, and going to conferences so you can hear people TELL you how they write is a waste of time.

Everyone writes their own way.

I do not draft.

Ever.

Did I mention that I do not care to know how other people write?

Among the reasons this novel has taken 3 months to finish are the revision jobs I have had for two different books and two different publishers.

I enjoy that stuff very much. It's been tough.

There has also been bullshit business stuff. I can't express the level of my revulsion at all things bullshitty and businessy. My friend Michael Grant, I think, is a good businessman. He is like a general in the army of dealing with that shit. I faked a battlefield injury and waved a white flag a long time ago.

I realize this is a long intro to a true story.

So, anyway, I have been stewing about this recurring character in the book I've been writing since July 7. Yes, July 7 was the day the first line came out of my hands. The first line is not really the first line, because there is a one-page prologue before it, but the first line kicks ass and made me write this 95,000-word (and still inching along) novel.

So I have been stewing about this character and why he exists and what he really means to everyone in the scope of all the everythingness that I tried to box inside the pages. And some time ago, I decided that because I was so obsessed with this particular character that I was going to have him tattooed onto my flesh.

I know that is a revolting idea to some people, but I do not care about that either.

My friend Matthew expressed a "Bullshit!" call when I said I had this character tattooed onto my flesh. But I really did it. I'm telling the truth.

It is my job to tell the truth.

The artist who did the tattoo is absolutely brilliant.

The tattooing took several hours, and while she did the work, the artist and I had a great conversation about this particular character, why he keeps popping up, and how he relates to the everythingness of where we are at the moment.

I am not going to talk about that. It would be like letting you read the book, and maybe nobody ever will. But I will include a bit of our conversation here:

T: Are any of your novels used in academia?

(T is obviously very intelligent, and also very well-read)

ME: Actually, one of my novels has been used in some college literature courses, and others as recommended readings in MFA programs.

T: Oh.

ME: But the way my books are really used in academia is that I would never have been able to pay for my son going to college if I did not write books.

T: Ha ha.

(T also gets my jokes)

ME: I do not understand how people do it. It's like they are trying to make it impossible for brilliant middle- and working-class kids to go on to college and develop their brilliance and invent the shit that will save the world and exponentially grow economies.

T: The elitists are winning the war.

(to be continued)