Adele Griffin's Blog

Last Saturday, on what has been the greenest and sunniest spring day of the year, I got to hang out with a bunch of wonderfully talented authors and illustrators–Jenny Han, Lauren Oliver, Christopher Grant, and Lisa Greenwald, to name a few–up at St. Joseph’s College, as part of the Author’s Unlimited reading festival. (www.authorsunlimited.org.)

Our coordinator slash organizer slash event guru Barbara Moon had explained a bit about AU to me when we met up for lunch last summer, and had promised a fun time, but I had no idea that it would be quite the extravaganza  that it was. There was a stretch limo! A drum corps! There was a red carpet! There was a band! There were throngs of amazing kids, who’d all turned out to help out, and to listen to us talk about books–the ones we’ve read, the ones we love, the ones we’re working on rightthisminute. The Q&A morning panel was a great way to get to know some of the other authors, while reconnecting with friends.

The workshops then split us off into different classrooms, where I got to talk about ghost stories. The great things about a ghost stories–everyone has one! Later, we were treated to a delicious lunch, and an over-abundance of customized gifts–my “Gifts for the Kitchen” book has more cupcake recipes than there are days in the year.

Ahhh, somebody knows me . . .

All in all, a great day and perfect kickoff to spring.

More photos can be found here: http://bit.ly/IHU4VW

the original Betty Crocker recipe, made with cream cheese and pears

Last weekend was the start of Series Five of Mad Men, which has been eagerly anticipated by this household for 17 months. And by household I guess I mean just me. But it was a good enough reason to throw a party.

Period clothing was encouraged, but the best surprise was that everyone brought their A-game Don, Peggy, Joan or Roger.

The second-best surprise was that the magical meatballs, made from a vintage cookbook using Smucker's Concord grape jelly and chili sauce, were gone in less than ten minutes.

writers all-- Sarah Mlynowski, Jessica Rothenberg, and Courtney Sheinmel

rotary phone, smokes, and chips.

I think Betty ate them.

Nothing is better than homemade gifts. We got a few this year and we will treasure them. I used to be better at making them. Gold spray-paint macaroni vases, cellophane book-marks, latch-hook potholders. Once I made a book of paper dolls for my cousin. Another time I knit a cape for a friend's dog. For the past couple of decades I have relegated myself to chocolate chip cookies.

My favorite story of a homemade endeavor is a friend who– in tweenhood– sang the entire song book of the musical Annie five times over, creating a unique cassette tape for each member of her family. You can't beat that. But I never really found my niche until I started hand-writing pot-boilers for my grandparents. So in a way my homemade gifts turned into a full-time job. And I can't beat that.

I will start taking requests for the cookies in September. Seriously, they are pretty awesome. Get on my Nice list.

I am getting old. That's the only reason I can think why it has taken me three months to finish this final round of revisions for my new book ALL YOU NEVER WANTED. My pace has changed in every other way– so why wouldn't it change in novel-writing? I now spend half an hour looking for a stuffed penguin. Forty-five minutes walking my introverted, stumpy-legged dog. So I really shouldn't be surprised. But I do remember when I could knock off a revision in three weeks and charge onto the next. Not so much, anymore.

Hello– I'm giving away fifteen copies of The Julian Game to celebrate its release in paperback this month. Also, I do not need twenty copies of the book. So I'll keep five and give the change.

Go to Goodreads.com and click to enter.

Many thanks!

I am taking a break from writing Untitled to write about losing. Specifically, the loss of the manuscript I've been working on for months. I have yet to resolve to packing it away, and that's why I'm writing this, but the very act of this post is a concession to the fact that tomorrow morning probably won't be spent in the rhythm of its company.

But it's a gradual letting go. Now I call it a break, but tomorrow, I'll reprioritize. Start the day with revisions for a book that comes out next fall—the safest work an author does, holding an editor's hand on a project, tucking it into its flaps and jacket. And by July, I'll have stopped visiting Untitled, sliding it off my desktop and into a dark file, and I won't hunt for it again until I've forgotten mostly what it looks like. Then I'll drag it out and stare at it, and it will surprise me, mine but not mine, a few charming moments here and there perhaps, but largely embarrassing and irritating and naïve.

The other week, someone sent me an old picture of myself taken at a party, where in my lace dress and black tights and pink boots, I was about as rebel punk as a Blythe doll, with an added youthful certainty that I've tricked everyone into believing that I was more enticing, compelling, and experienced than my nineteen years suggested. An unfinished manuscript is the same bland face, all hopeful bravado, a childish demand for the thing it wants so badly to be. Its entire emotional weight lies only in personal retrospect, the self-conscious shrug and the memory of all that excitement for what you hoped to achieve. Best to look once, have a laugh, and be done with it.

This Saturday, I'm heading down the street to BookCourt in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, to talk about my new novel. But if they'd called up and asked me help them unpack, sticker, and shelve for them, I'd have happily done that, too. Any time in BookCourt is time well spent, and like many authors, I feel a big debt to my Indies. The two I like to call "mine" are BookCourt and Books of Wonder in Chelsea, NYC. Over the years, I've signed books, done readings and panels, been in the audience for other readings and panels, snarfed cupcakes at Teen Book Week parties, and rung up countless birthday gifts for all my favorite picky readers.

Though set in different neighborhoods, both spaces serve up the perfect local vibe in their invitation to laze, browse, linger, languish, loaf, to stay and then stay a little bit longer. Each has a unique draw– Books of Wonder with its adjunct bakery, and BookCourt's kids section is the most private nook in Brooklyn. But my personal best Indies moment came last week, when my daughter walked into BookCourt wearing her weekend Spiderman uniform, complete with mask and gloves. In one staffer's friendly-casual greeting "Oh, hey, Spiderman" — as if she might be the fourth Superhero Walk-in that day– my child was totally affirmed in her right to her own tastes. You can't beat that kind of spidey-sense, and you can't find it in the chains.

It takes a village to raise a We Love Indies Blog Tour, and the participating author links are here below. Also, I want to give a big thanks to Lisa and Laura Roecker, two sisters with endless great ideas, the latest being this tour. So please stop by Lisa & Laura's blog to take part in their giveaway as part of the Indies Lovefest.

Author links:

Sarah Frances Hardy
Shana Silver
Elana Johnson
Stasia Kehoe
Shannon Messenger
Carolina Valdez Miller
Mundie Moms
Myra McEntire
Sara Bennett Wealer
Janet Gurtler
Joy Preble
Ty Drago
Kate Walton
Julia Karr
Randy Russell
Helen Landalf
Andrea Higgins
Beth Revis
Tess Hilmo
Sheela Chari
Gail Handler
Christine Fonseca
Lisa and Laura Roecker
Crystal Allen

We had so much fun with iClue. Big thanks to all of you who played along and helped us spread the word. Today we are beyond excited to finally announce the winners!

Drumroll please . . .

The winner of the 6 autographed books is . . .

Melissa Wheelock!

Congratulations Melissa! We'll be sending you an email shortly to get your address.

And . . . now for the grande prize. The winner of an iPod Touch donated by The Reading Room, loaded with six AMAZING mysteries is  . . .

Jasmine Miller!

Congratulations Jasmine!! We'll be in touch shortly to work out all the logistics.

And now for even more awesomeness …

We are officially declaring May 31st We Click here. It's going to be EPIC!

Have a fabulous weekend everyone!

Many thanks to Jennifer Armbrust and Motel Projects for this one. The book site for my new novel.

Hope you check it out.

www.tighterthebook.com

i iClue Mystery One: Jessie's Mystery

Happy Seis de Mayo. This week, as some of you know, I've been guesting for the lovely Roecker sisters' iClue Mystery. Solving my mystery means you'll have the password that will enter you for a grand prize of an iPod Touch.

Here now is the entire mystery . . .

BACK STORY: My new novel, TIGHTER is about Jamie, who arrives on the fictional New England island of Little Bly to work as an au-pair—and is caught up in the disastrous events of what happened the year before. But my iClue mystery centers on the tragic Jessie Feathering, whose white-hot romance last summer proved to be as irresistible as it was fatal.

It had been taped to her windshield of her Beamer, so that she saw it before she left for Green Hill Beach Club that morning.

An index card, on which is scribbled a note:

Be with me, Jessie

She flipped the card into the back seat. "Thanks, babe, but I'm busy right now," she called out, all fake nonchalance. The answering silence felt hostile. Her heart drummed in her chest. Of course, it could be anyone. But was it Peter, playing a game? They'd broken up—again, secretly, for the millionth time—last week. Nobody knew. Or so she thought. Or maybe . . . no. He didn't know.

And if he did, he wouldn't dare. Would he?

At the club, the girls have already staked out their lounge chairs. Same old same old. Poolside in the morning, Cobb salads with balsamic on the side for lunch at the Mud Hut. Then down to the ocean to bake away the afternoon. These lazy summer days seemed to slip so easily into one another.

But today was different. He's here—somewhere—and he's watching. Even as she greeted her friends, skimmed off her cover-up sundress to apply her own one-two combo of sunflower oil and SPF . . . she sensed him. Feigning another bored yawn, Jessie picked up her phone to check her messages . . . and her pulse jumped.

Ambient noise faded as Jessie blinked down at her emails. The screaming and squawking of the hungry seagulls. Her friends, Emory and Noogie, giggling over nothing together. That overplayed Bruno Mars song that the lifeguard loved too much.

Sandwiched between a Spam from FreePeople.com about their summer sale and a note from her Dad's assistant—probably reminding her about her dental checkup, the message is from patronsaintof@gmail.com.

"That's so not a valid account." She was talking to herself; guiltily, she looked up and around. Any other day, she'd have tossed it unopened into her trash. But she had a feeling about today—that it would be more dangerous to ignore this creepy game than to play along.

Her finger double-clicked and opened to a vintage photo of a group of men seated both comfortably and precariously on a steel beam, high over the city, of a building under construction.

But now Emory was breathing down her neck. "What the . . . ?" She snatched the phone and tossed it to Noogie, who sniggered. "Patron Saint of? That some new club?"

"No, Jessie's a sinner," said Emory, "and now she's got the Church after her."

"And we all know why," added Noogie, pointedly.

Jessie snatched back the phone and rolled her eyes. "Whatever. If pictures of old-timey construction workers are sending me a message, it's pretty cryptic."

But she didn't like the feeling of the other girls' eyes on her, or the implication of Noogie's remark. A girl could play, right? And she'd have to do a lot worse around here to get the Church after her. She stared at the photo. Patron Saint of Buildings? And did this image relate to the card on her windshield this morning?

She suspected it did.

He was attempting to meet with her. That's all she knew. Maybe it was Peter, or maybe not. He didn't want her to know who he was. He was hoping to interest the flirt in her, the girl who'd be intrigued to see who showed up. If she got another clue, would she follow it . . . all the way to him?

"I'll have one Bacon-Blue Cheeseburger," she ordered, when they'd all trekked up to the Mud Hut for lunch, "plus a large chocolate shake."

"Oooh, Jessie's stress-eating." Emory's eyes twinkled over the menu. "No Cobb salad and iced-tea? What gives?"

"Nothing."

"Another mini-break up with Peter, probably." Noogie smirked. "Why don't you two get married already? Save us all the drama?"

"Or maybe we should break up once and for—"

Her text pinged, a link from a five-digit code. Her heart leaped. Him. She knew it. "You give the shops your information, and the whole next month is bots and trons." Could they hear the lie in her voice? They seemed more interested in the complimentary chips and salsa, as she clicked the link.

Emory burst out laughing as the fragile, warbling voice thinned the air. "Who sprinkled your phone so generously with vintage randomness today?"

Red-cheeked, Jessie lowered the volume. "No idea," she muttered."

Jessie should have known that this joker would end her day the way he started it. But this time it's not an index but a postcard of a gorgeous tropical island. Lime green palm fronds and Windex blue ocean.

On the back, a time: 6:00 PM. Along the bottom, the place of origin had been inked out in heavy black marker, leaving only the words "Grenadines." So there was no way to find out specifically which island she'd been looking at.

Upstairs in her bedroom, Jessie took a legal pad from her desk and scribbled down all the clues she'd assembled. So . . . what was the connection between a patron saint of builders, a forgotten poet, and a remote island in the Grenadines? Could she figure it without leaning on Uncle Google?

And then, in an electric pop of moment, Jessie knew.

She'd meet him all right, at the church on Little Bly that bore the same name as the saint, the poet, and the island. She checked her watch. She had half an hour.

"And anyone who's put that kind of a puzzle together deserves at least half an hour of my time," she decided, as she grabbed her car keys and headed out the door, hoping it would be Him.

Have you figured out what the password is? Hint: no abbreviations.

But to figure out who is competing for Jessie's attention—with tragic consequences—you will have to read my book.

Go enter it into the iClue site for a chance to win an iPod Touch pre-loaded with novels by the six authors participating in iClue!