Big News

From today's Publishers Marketplace:

Suzanne Hayes and Loretta Nyhan's I'LL BE SEEING YOU, a story of unexpected friendship told through letters shared between two American women on the home front during World War II, to Erika Imranyi at Mira, in a two-book deal, by Anne Bohner at Pen & Ink Literary and Joanna Volpe at Nancy Coffey Literary & Media Representation.

So...how did this happen?

Magic? Happenstance? Accidentally?

I fell in love with Suzy's words on her lovely blog. She read mine, too. We connected. We emailed. We discovered.

Both of us had projects on sub and waiting is hard and lonely. We became friends.

One day Suzy said, in her charming and enthusiastic way, "Let's write a book together while we wait." I said, in my best Spicoli voice, "Uh...okay."

We're both history geeks, the World War II era in particular. When Suzy suggested we write letters to each other as women waiting for their men to come home from the war, I was all over it.

When I got that first letter, my character came to me, fully formed, and started talking. It sounds crazy, but Rita became real, as did Suzy's character, Glory. I found myself refreshing my inbox, hoping a new letter would pop up. I had no idea when this would happen---sometimes days would go by.

When a letter did come, I'd take one look at the Dear Rita subject line and my heart would shake. The computer couldn't bring it up fast enough. My fingers couldn't type a reply fast enough.

We ached for these characters, laughed with them, cried for them. And when the last letter was written, we cried for ourselves. Because it was over.

But then, it wasn't. Our agents, Joanna Volpe and Anne Bohner, loved the book. Later, a wonderful editor, Erika Imranyi at MIRA, loved it as well.

We couldn't be happier. And we couldn't be luckier. How can we adequately thank the people who are making our dreams possible?

And, Suzy, how can I thank you enough? My crazy East Coast twin? Someday we will meet face to face, and you'll take one look at me and know what this has all meant. Love you.

L

Sunset for Woody

A few weeks ago, I walked out of Midnight in Paris and said something I never thought I'd say after watching a Woody Allen film: "Well, that was cute."

And it was, in a literary geek/celeb spotting kind of way. Oh, there's Hemingway. And Gertrude Stein. And Omigod, Adrien Brody makes the best Salvador Dali!

Yeah.

In Midnight in Paris, Woody Allen revisits the magical elements that made The Purple Rose of Cairo such an interesting, compelling film. But in Cairo he seemed to know this: the realism is just as important as the magic. Midnight in Paris is visually stunning and fairly whimsical, but it presents a world populated with caricatures. At some point during this film, Allen decided to sacrifice believability for jokes.

The thing is, he used to do both so well.

I get that he's 75, long past the age when most directors have retired or simply faded away. I also understand that artists evolve and later work may reflect a shift in perspective or a refusal to follow trends. I also suspect some find great comfort in repetition, in watered down versions of older, more successful works. I don't want Woody Allen to be guilty of the latter. It's just too disappointing.

I think he's still got it in him to create movies like the following, movies that made me laugh and think in equal measure, movies that made me want to be a better writer:

Annie Hall

Manhattan

Hannah and Her Sisters

Zelig

The Purple Rose of Cairo

Radio Days

Crimes and Misdemeanors

Husbands and Wives

Manhattan Murder Mystery

Want to add any to the list?

Happy 20th Birthday, Kody Keplinger!

(Kody Keplinger, the author of THE DUFF and the upcoming SHUT OUT, is an agent sister, friend, and occasional writing challenge buddy. This is for her.)


I know, I know...in some ways it does suck to say adios to your teens. You're stressing. I could feel your anxiety over the Internet.

At first, I couldn't understand it. You published a novel at 18. You have another coming out in a couple of weeks. You've accomplished more than people twice your age. You're independent and lovely and focused.

But then...I realized that I'd forgotten.

I'd forgotten that jumping into your third--and first wholly adult--decade is a throat tightening plunge into an ocean of wide open nothingness. The water appears vast and overwhelming, and it seems the waves pull your raft--the safe, secure anchor of teen life--farther and farther out to sea.

My 19 year old self, full of nerves about the future, wrote a timeline for my 20s in my journal: By 19-- I would publish my novel (Um...not that I'd actually written one at that point!) In 19-- I would travel through Europe with only a back on my back. Then I would meet a wonderful man and get married. We'd live on a commune in California and an artists' colony in Provence and a rustic cabin in Maine. Etcetera, etcetera--the list was waaaay long.

Some of those things happened. Some of those things didn't. Your twenties is when you realize planning with pretend knowledge of the future is useless. And this is a freaking exciting revelation. Because anything can happen.

It is also universally acknowledged that at some point between twenty and thirty you will be the best looking version of you. (This is not a superficial statement because this beauty comes more from internal than external factors.) Acne will disappear, baby fat will melt away, and you will be years away from wrinkles and age spots. Your skin will glow. You might not have much money, but you will be secure in your taste and confident in your style. Your hair will shine. And one day you'll be sitting with some friends, holding a glass of wine or a root beer or a San Pellegrino, in a romantic cafe in a city you've come to know as your own, in a city that you've come to own. The sun will make the glass in your hand sparkle and you'll think of all the things you know and all the things there's left to learn and the road is so deliciously long. "This," you'll say, "is life."

And it is good.

Happy Birthday, Kody. The best is yet to come...



For more birthday wishes, check out blog posts by Amy Lukavics, Lisa and Laura Roecker, Erica O'Rourke, and Kaitlin Ward later today!

Back to the Past

The book I'm working on now is set in WWII-era Iowa City. Yep, Iowa.

I have a good grasp of 20th C. history, but I nearly googled myself to death trying to get the setting right. There's not a lot out there, but, I thought, what I found was enough. Through the University of Iowa photo archives I saw where my character might live, where she'd do her grocery shopping, and where she'd stop for a cup of tea or a beer, depending on her preference. Their collection is wonderful.

Still, I had to make some assumptions based on more general historical facts. For example, small-town USO functions were typically held in YMCAs or YWCAs, so when my gal went to roll bandages for the guys overseas, she skipped on down to the Y.

Those assumptions started to bother me. What if I was wrong? You might think, who the heck is going to know the difference? Well, I would. Someone who was around back then might.

So I called the Johnson County Historical Society. The woman who picked up, Sue Foster, patiently listened to my questions. "You need to talk to Bob Hibbs," she said when I finished. "He's our local historian and he knows everything. Let me see if I can find his number..."

She did find it, and next thing I knew I was asking Mr. Bob Hibbs where I might go if I attended a USO function in 1943 if I lived in Iowa City.

"All the USO activities were held in the American Legion Building," he said without even pausing to think. "The old YMCA building burned down."

Okay, then. I would have been wrong.

This might not seem like a big deal to you. But the more I learn about the brave, industrious souls who inhabited Iowa during the war, the more I want to do right by them. It seems an insult to assume now. I want to know.

The closest you can get to that knowledge is through real, live human beings. Thanks, Sue. Thanks, Bob. My book is better thanks to both of you.

Depraved YA: An English Teacher-y Response

It's been a few weeks since Meghan Cox Gurdon's infamous article in the Wall Street Journal decried the current crop of YA novels as pits of depravity, luring our youth into lives as cutters, bulimics, and drug abusers.

The response ranged from ad hominem attacks (Gurdon is clueless, an idiot, stupid, old, out-of-touch, etc.) to thoughtful personal essays (Libba Bray, Sherman Alexie), to a tidal wave of tweets including the hashtag #YASAVES.

Do books have the power to save teens? Well, this has been my personal truth. I was a horribly insecure person during those years, a misfit, unsure of my place in the world. I hate to think of what would have happened to me without the lifeline books provided.

But in equating YA literature with self-help books, we cease to view it as literature. This is more dangerous than Gurdon's article. If an author's main goal while writing a book is to offer solace to the suffering reader, it often comes at the expense of characterization, plot, even diction, the writer's careful choice of words. (And you are insane if you think I'm going to offer examples, but there are many who use the story to serve the issue, not vice-versa.)

This mindset also makes it nearly impossible to evaluate the worth of books like John Green's LOOKING FOR ALASKA, a young adult novel which contains all the hallmarks of classic literature. To describe it as a suicide book is to lessen the artistic impact of the novel.

Which leads me to the dicey topic of quality. This, I think, was an underlying message in Gurdon's WSJ piece. In evaluating these books solely on what she feels their impact is on a young reader, Gurdon is essentially saying this genre is not worthy of true critical analysis. Her method is not only impossible given the breadth of options in YA, it is simply not an effective way to critique art.

And YA lit is where some of the most exciting writers in any genre are crafting novels. Look at Jandy Nelson and Nova Ren Suma's use of language. Or Suzanne Collins and Veronica Roth's expertise with plot. Or Sarah Dessen's ability to extend a metaphor. Or Charles Benoit's experimentation with point of view in YOU.

I teach literature courses to young adults. I know they are fully capable of looking at novels with a critical eye. To assume a monkey see/monkey do response is to insult their intelligence, and the artistic merit of the work. I hope Meghan Cox Gurdon eventually comes to that realization.

Happy Birthday, Bobby D!

Today is Bob Dylan's 70th birthday. Second only to the Beatles on the list of my all-time greatest influences, I can't go too long without listening to his music. When I was a teen I studied his lyrics, so much so that I copied Tangled Up in Blue onto my history folder, with the seriousness and accuracy of a surgeon. When the teacher's droning got to be too much, I'd run my fingers over the words, again and again, hoping their perfection would seep into me somehow. I learned a lot about diction from Dylan, and the power of the image. Those lessons have stuck with me.

In honor of Bob's big day, here are my favorites of his many songs. Feel free to add your own to the list in the comments.

1. Tangled Up in Blue: A friend once said I require narratives of my music. I'd say that assessment is spot-on. Tangled Up in Blue is a freaking 7 minute novel. LOVE this song.

2. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right: So simple on the surface but so emotionally complex, really.

3. Just Like a Woman: I, uh, assumed he was talking about me. He was, right?

4. Subterranean Homesick Blues: Maybe I just like the performance arty-ness of Bob standing there with the words on placards. Maybe it reminds me of the Beats. Maybe it's because the words feel like little punches.

5. Baby Let Me Follow You Down: Okay, he didn't write this one, but it's the perfect blend of Dylan's signature guitar, harmonica, voice. It just always makes me feel good.

Happy birthday, Bob!

I'm a Winner!

So...

Writer/Fellow Blogger Diane Lebow (Check out her blog, About Writing) gave me this award:

In accepting it, I've agreed to write seven intriguing things about myself (um...no problem there--I know very few writers who would pass up an opportunity to talk about themselves) and to pass it along. As far as the latter goes, I'll pass it along to any interested blogger--go for it! Here are my seven:

1. My husband and I met when we were nine years old. Seriously. At fifteen, we went on one date. It didn't go well. Eight years later we decided to try again and had a better time. We've been married for thirteen years!

2. My favorite flower is the ranunculus.

3. I like to eat my ginger and garlic raw. I brush my teeth a lot.

4. On the Myers-Briggs scale, I'm an INFJ, which, at one percent of the population, is the rarest of all types. I don't mention this to be braggy, as the descriptions always start with, "It won't be an easy life for the INFJ, but it will be interesting." Um...yeah. Totally.

5. I make crazy good lemon bars.

6. I like people, but I need to be alone a lot and I reaaaally like silence (see INFJ).

7. I don't have any tattoos, but I do have a birthmark on my upper right arm that looks like Mr. Peanut.

Okay, feel free to give yourself this award and get cracking on those big reveals...