y i write

So, it's not like I'm necessarily trying to spread the bad smell around to my friends who write, but I have been having one of those why-did-I-ever-want-to-be-a-writer weeks. I even mentioned this to a couple writer friends, and they were, like, yeah... I get those, too.

So here goes:

Look, I know there are plenty of people out there who've been pouring their lives into trying to get their work into the hands of an appreciative agent or editor. And... then, after that... actually seeing your book in the hands of a reader, on the shelf of a bookstore or library... well, it just doesn't get much better than that.

I mean, that's the dream, right?

Yes. It is.

But, there are other things that go along with the dream that you never think about when you're trying so hard to write your best stuff, just so a qualified, proven agent or top-notch editor will give you a nod and let your foot in the door. Not that knowing those things up front would ever have changed my mind about what I was doing... because I was -- and am -- immature and dumb.

So I wrote this long piece today about why I was having one of those why-did-I-ever-want-to-be-a-writer weeks, but I just deleted the whole thing. I'm keeping my mouth shut.

I am never satisfied with what I do. So I keep trying to write something that -- to me alone -- is perfect: something that can neither be stripped-down nor added to without ruining it.

That's why I have these why-did-I-ever-want-to-be-a-writer weeks.

The thing is kind of like trying to run to the horizon. You never get there. It's kind of like what the kids in Marbury find out, too (without being a spoiler).

Henry Miller said something about writing "one perfect page," in a novel. That one page was enough. A lot of novels I've read (or stopped reading) don't even have that one page. But one page isn't enough for me.

So I was kind of beating myself up this week -- what Nick would call a crisis of dissatisfaction -- and swearing I was never going to write another word (and here I am in the middle of yet another novel, looking for those perfect pages).

And then, like a miracle, out of the blue, an email comes in. A reader in Texas received an advance copy of The Marbury Lens from a librarian [Side note: Thank you, Ksenia, for giving out my ARCs at TLA], and took the time to send me a note about enjoying the book.

I might not ever get the perfect page, but things like that, I guess, are reason enough to keep after it.

off line week

tweet tweet

I forgot to mention that, while at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, I had several life-changing experiences.

Actually, that's a kind of dumb concept, when you think about it. Because if you're, say, sitting down here, and then you decide to get up and go into the living room, you just changed your life, right? In fact, every time you inhale, as opposed to, say, deciding not to...

Well. Not to lessen the degree to which my life has changed, and to get back on topic: one of my panelmates was Allen Zadoff, who wrote Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can't Have. I met Allen last November when we were speaking at Books Inc. in San Francisco. Great guy. Really funny. He's like one of those guys you immediately feel comfortable with and want to sit down and talk about things like how deeply disappointing your childhood was.

Because I am the Colossus of Have a Shitty Day.

Anyway. So, we were standing there, and the MC of our event pulled out his BlackBerry (I know... I am so judgmental of non-iPhone users, and I really ought to try to overcome this personality flaw. Don't even get me started on Droid users. Sheesh.), and he asks us, "What's your Twitter handle?"

You know, it's kind of funny... but, back in the day, "handles" were nicknames that hairy, pill-popping truck drivers used on their CB radios.

Sigh.

So, Allen and I start talking about Twitter. How we both suck at it. I told him that I try to tweet about once every sixty days, that I get Tweeter's Block, so can only come up with around two characters per day, so it takes me 2 months sometimes to come up with a coherent stream of babble.

Then, Allen changed my life.

He said he tries to tweet every Tuesday.

Genius, I says to myself. Sheer genius.

Allen Zadoff has a Twitter Strategy.

I need a Twitter Strategy.

Why didn't I think of that?

Because I am dumb, that is why.

Allen Zadoff: It is Tuesday, and I am coming into the light.

Now, I am off to cast my first intentional Tuesday Tweet.

(my "handle" is fallingobjects)

note to self

By Nick Sweeney, Grade 11

Mr. Smith said he was posting a note to himself, that today he should just sit on his hands.

I thought that was a weird thing to say. He said he didn't want to write anything because he wants to lay into some people, "And, Nick," he said, "Nothing gets better when you do that, anyway."

I've never really seen Mr. Smith lay into anyone, because I don't think the guy can even get mad, so if he's decided to "sit on his hands" today, it might be a good thing.

Personally, I can't sit on my hands. I have Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, which was caused by Twittering too much. Oh, don't look for me on Twitter. I'm in a 12-step program to get me off it. You really know you've let yourself go when you accidentally drop your smartphone in a toilet while tweeting.

Enough said on that.

Maybe he's mad at me for not cleaning up his office yet.

-- Nick S.

boys will be

Yesterday's wasn't my first Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, but it was probably the best one I've been to. And it's still going on today, so if you live in SoCal and you're complaining about having nothing to do -- or your kids are -- go there.

One reason why this year's Los Angeles Times Festival of Books was better was that they finally built a special section for YA, thanks to the hard work of author Cecil Castellucci, who also moderated the panel I was on (more on this in a bit). And, judging by the turnout of crowds who came to hear YA authors speak (not an empty seat in the house), the YA section has assured its permanence at the festival.

And maybe from now on, we YA folks will no longer be ghettoized into the Children's area and have to do book signings next to clowns who make giraffes out of balloons. One downer: they did put that talking goat robot who made his debut at BEA a few years ago in Los Angeles near the YA area. All I can say is if I ever saw something like that in my yard in the middle of the night, well... I'd have to shoot it (count: one dead animal in the blog. Well, it's not really an animal, because it was a robot, and a goat. A very, very creepy goat. Who talked. LA Times folk: move that crap next year.)

So the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books folk are finally getting it -- when not a lot of people around the world are -- that YA doesn't fit in at all with "Children's Lit." If you'd heard the selections read from some of the authors' books yesterday, you'd know why.

I mean, not mine... not mine... I just read a creepy part about bugs from The Marbury Lens, but I did take some degree of pleasure looking out through my dark glasses (nobody could tell I was watching them) at the uncomfortable shifting-in-the-seats of more than a few moms and dads who kept their heads fixed straight forward so they wouldn't accidentally make eye contact with their teenage kids during some of the very funny, and, um... kind of embarrassing passages read by Ben Esch (Sophomore Undercover) and Blake Nelson (Destroy All Cars).

And, let me tell you, it was quite a treat to be on a panel with those "guys," and also with Allen Zadoff, who also read a very funny passage from his Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can't Have, that didn't seem to have a similar butt-squirm-rigor-mortis-neck reaction from the parents present.

Which now brings me to my panel discussion. See... I knew this was going to happen. It happens to me every single time I ever show up on a panel and they ask us to read. This time, I had been told ahead of time that we would be asked to read exactly one page. But what happens, see, is other authors start reading their stuff, and it's, like, really funny and awkward and contains boner jokes and stuff (I did make a mental calculation of "boner" references yesterday. I even announced it on stage after the tenth reference... but I digress)... and then I have to go.

And I am, like, the colossal downer.

Because my books don't contain any of that whimsical boner stuff.

So, before the panel began, I was, like, Cecil, put me last. Cecil, put me last. I am the Colossus of Have-a-Shitty-Day.

And Cecil was, like, "I know."

Or something.

So, at least everyone knew where I was coming from. And I got to read first, so I probably had a significant bum-out effect on the very funny guys who followed my very un-funny reading from The Marbury Lens.

Afterward, the panel had a terrific discussion on writing for boys and boy readership, and how boys are stigmatized by an environment that expects them to not want to read. So, naturally, I had a lot to say on the topic, but you've read it all here before.

And the other guys definitely get it, too. It was a real honor to be on a panel with them, and Cecil asked some terrific questions that, I think, opened more than a few minds in the audience about setting our sights on providing more substance to boys who really do want to read books.

the arc of the coveted

Okay, so I am going to UCLA today, to the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books where I will be speaking on a panel (1 p.m., YA Stage) about guys who write YA, and -- the best part is -- I get to read a bit from one of my books. Well, not just one of my books, the book I really want to read from: The Marbury Lens.

But that isn't even the best part, really. The best part is that this copy that I'm going to be reading from is the first ARC that was sent to me. I've carried it around with me every day, everywhere I've gone (Like to New York), since it arrived on my doorstep. It is the only Advance Reader Copy of the book I have.

And the reason that's the best part is that I'm going to find someone at random at the festival and give this ARC away.

Get rid of every last one of them once and for all so I can stop being tormented by them.

This book wants to kill me.

So, with apologies to all my friends, family members, librarians, reviewers, and everyone else around the country who are guilting me with the but-you-gave-me-an-ARC-of-your-last-book-so-why-won't-you-give-me-an-ARC-of-this-one requests that are making me feel completely HORRIBLE, I no longer have a single copy of the book I wrote.

Not even one for me.

And I will be glad once I'm rid of it.

Because this book wants to kill me.

I have no trouble speaking in front of large groups. I've done dozens of readings, all over the country. But, to be honest, there are a couple things making me nervous about the UCLA gig today. There are going to be young people -- well, not so young -- in the audience that I've known since they were just out of diapers. One is about to become a medical doctor, attending UCLA's med school, one is a filmmaker with some incredible credits, who'll be attending with his pregnant wife, and one is in UCLA's law school. Yeah, I know some pretty smart people who apparently find some perverse element of fascination in observing public displays of self immolation.

And I hope my 15-year-old son wakes up in time to go with me. Not so he can drive home, but because I want to show him the campus of UCLA (despite his age, he'll be applying to colleges in the coming school year). Because I want him to go to UCLA. Don't worry, UC Regents -- you can skip poring over the application. He's got the grades and the ranking.

He just hasn't made up his mind yet.