Jennifer R. Hubbard's Blog, page 61
April 4, 2013
Words waiting in the wings
Sometimes the words aren't ready to come out yet. They're up there in my brain: baking, or fermenting, or whatever they have to do to get themselves ready for their first public appearance.
I don't blame them for taking their time. Because when they do come out, they're going to be rearranged, modified, and maybe even deleted.
I don't blame them for taking their time. Because when they do come out, they're going to be rearranged, modified, and maybe even deleted.
April 2, 2013
Minor breakthroughs and temporary elations
"... there are minor breakthroughs and temporary elations in the studio to offset the doubts and incipient despair. I do feel as if I were hovering around something that is about to reveal itself."
--May Sarton, quoting her friend Bill, in The House by the Sea
--May Sarton, quoting her friend Bill, in The House by the Sea
March 31, 2013
American Graffiti through a YA lens
I recently watched the movie American Graffiti again. What struck me this time was how much this 1973 film really is a YA story, even though it's more commonly considered a nostalgia piece about 1962 (the year of its setting). It's true that the music and the cars are an integral part of the film, and that some details of the story could not easily be transported to any other time. (What current generations, raised by helicopter parents, will notice especially is how all the teens in the film are free to drive around until sunrise, with no hint of curfew or parental involvement.)
But, boiled down, it's a coming-of-age story. The bare bones of the plot could be told in many settings, with many different characters. Two boys are supposed to leave in the morning, for college on the other side of the country. The one who's been eager to leave is suddenly unsure; the one who would just as soon stay has already committed to going, breaking home ties to the point of lending out his beloved car and suggesting to his steady girlfriend that they be free to see other people. In the morning, one boy leaves and the other stays, both of their decisions affected by the events of the night, and both of their decisions setting the course for their separate futures. At the same time, their nerdy younger friend tries his hand at impressing a girl he's just met; this character, who seems at first like just a lovable goofball, has a grim future at war. The fourth main character, whose life has revolved around cars, is beginning to realize that what makes you a king in your late teens won't necessarily set you up for life. On the night in question, he is still popular, still the best racer, still the envy of his peers, but he can see the cliff's edge looming.
I suspect that what made this movie such a success was not just fond recollections of drive-ins, drag races, Wolfman Jack, and sock hops. There's a larger appeal in a story about such nights: The last night your friends were all together. The moment when you realized high school was really over. The day you decided whether to stay or go.
But, boiled down, it's a coming-of-age story. The bare bones of the plot could be told in many settings, with many different characters. Two boys are supposed to leave in the morning, for college on the other side of the country. The one who's been eager to leave is suddenly unsure; the one who would just as soon stay has already committed to going, breaking home ties to the point of lending out his beloved car and suggesting to his steady girlfriend that they be free to see other people. In the morning, one boy leaves and the other stays, both of their decisions affected by the events of the night, and both of their decisions setting the course for their separate futures. At the same time, their nerdy younger friend tries his hand at impressing a girl he's just met; this character, who seems at first like just a lovable goofball, has a grim future at war. The fourth main character, whose life has revolved around cars, is beginning to realize that what makes you a king in your late teens won't necessarily set you up for life. On the night in question, he is still popular, still the best racer, still the envy of his peers, but he can see the cliff's edge looming.
I suspect that what made this movie such a success was not just fond recollections of drive-ins, drag races, Wolfman Jack, and sock hops. There's a larger appeal in a story about such nights: The last night your friends were all together. The moment when you realized high school was really over. The day you decided whether to stay or go.
March 28, 2013
Facing fear: Finding the sweet spot, or, Writing without fear
Today's guest post by Eve Marie Mont continues our "facing fear" series:
For most fiction writers, creating stories is a passion, something they would do whether or not they had any hope of being published. In fact, when I reflect on my writing life so far, it’s those years before I was published—when I was daydreaming about characters, building story arcs, experimenting with language—that were the most rewarding for me. I think it’s because that time truly belonged to me. It was my choice whether to spend an hour of the day writing or seven. My choice to try my hand at contemporary or magical realism, women’s fiction or young adult. I felt like I was in a giant sandbox of imagination playing with dozens of toys. And best of all, no one was watching.
Now that I’m published and contracted for a sequel, those toys have become tools, and that sandbox has become a workshop, one with glass windows through which any number of people can peer in and pass judgment. And my time no longer belongs to me. Now I’m in the business of creating a product, and people are waiting on the sidelines to judge what I’ve created. Somewhere along the line, I stopped playing because of those eyes on me, because of the voices seeping through the windows telling me that what I was making looked wonky and strange, that it was neither functional nor beautiful.
And then those voices became so loud that I stopped listening to the most important voice of all—my own—the one that was trying to tell its next story.
So how do I find my voice again when all those other voices are shouting at me? How do I find the joy in writing when it feels like a job? How do I get myself back into the sandbox?
A writer friend of mine recently told me that when she's playing tennis, occasionally the ball hits her racket so soundly she can feel the impact of it in her bones. The satisfying feeling travels all through her body, telling her she's made perfect contact, that she's hit the “sweet spot.”
When I told her how I'd been feeling lately, she reminded me that when you’re writing freely and tapping into that reservoir of imagination and possibility, you can find that “sweet spot” in writing too, that place where you know instinctively that you've hit on a truth, made a connection, done something well. If you can somehow immerse yourself in the game and play like no one's watching, the words will come pouring forth and it will feel like magic.
So for anyone out there struggling like me to rediscover the joy of writing, try to find that childlike place where fear and judgment don't exist. Play in the sand for a while, and look for your story there. And once you find it, write like no one's watching. If the words come from that "sweet spot," they're bound to connect with someone.
Eve Marie Mont writes books for young adults and teaches high school English and creative writing in the Philadelphia suburbs. In her newest book, A Touch of Scarlet, the heroine of A Breath of Eyre returns to find truth and fiction merging through the pages of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic, The Scarlet Letter.
For most fiction writers, creating stories is a passion, something they would do whether or not they had any hope of being published. In fact, when I reflect on my writing life so far, it’s those years before I was published—when I was daydreaming about characters, building story arcs, experimenting with language—that were the most rewarding for me. I think it’s because that time truly belonged to me. It was my choice whether to spend an hour of the day writing or seven. My choice to try my hand at contemporary or magical realism, women’s fiction or young adult. I felt like I was in a giant sandbox of imagination playing with dozens of toys. And best of all, no one was watching.
Now that I’m published and contracted for a sequel, those toys have become tools, and that sandbox has become a workshop, one with glass windows through which any number of people can peer in and pass judgment. And my time no longer belongs to me. Now I’m in the business of creating a product, and people are waiting on the sidelines to judge what I’ve created. Somewhere along the line, I stopped playing because of those eyes on me, because of the voices seeping through the windows telling me that what I was making looked wonky and strange, that it was neither functional nor beautiful.
And then those voices became so loud that I stopped listening to the most important voice of all—my own—the one that was trying to tell its next story.
So how do I find my voice again when all those other voices are shouting at me? How do I find the joy in writing when it feels like a job? How do I get myself back into the sandbox?
A writer friend of mine recently told me that when she's playing tennis, occasionally the ball hits her racket so soundly she can feel the impact of it in her bones. The satisfying feeling travels all through her body, telling her she's made perfect contact, that she's hit the “sweet spot.”
When I told her how I'd been feeling lately, she reminded me that when you’re writing freely and tapping into that reservoir of imagination and possibility, you can find that “sweet spot” in writing too, that place where you know instinctively that you've hit on a truth, made a connection, done something well. If you can somehow immerse yourself in the game and play like no one's watching, the words will come pouring forth and it will feel like magic.
So for anyone out there struggling like me to rediscover the joy of writing, try to find that childlike place where fear and judgment don't exist. Play in the sand for a while, and look for your story there. And once you find it, write like no one's watching. If the words come from that "sweet spot," they're bound to connect with someone.
Eve Marie Mont writes books for young adults and teaches high school English and creative writing in the Philadelphia suburbs. In her newest book, A Touch of Scarlet, the heroine of A Breath of Eyre returns to find truth and fiction merging through the pages of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic, The Scarlet Letter.
March 27, 2013
Terra incognita
It's my day to post at YA Outside the Lines, where my topic was the terra incognita of new projects. A sample: "When I start a new book, I’m fumbling around. ... I can’t tell who’s attracted to whom; sometimes I matchmake and it doesn’t work. I’m not always sure who will still be alive at the end of the story. ..."
March 24, 2013
Things to consider in paranormal novels
I attended several excellent panels on YA literature yesterday as part of the NYC Teen Author Festival. The panel of paranormal authors* didn't have time for audience questions, but below are some questions I would have liked to ask, along with some of my own thoughts on them:
--If you write the kind of paranormal book where an afterlife is revealed to living characters, then how does their knowledge of the afterlife change the characters' views of life and death? Do they lose all fear of death, and if not, why not? If they no longer fear death, then what is there for them to fear; what are the stakes? And how does the knowledge of this afterlife change the way they live?
It seems to me that so much of how we decide to live depends on the two things we can say for sure about death: that it is inevitable, and that the exact nature of "afterward" is unknown. We have beliefs about what comes next, but we don't know for sure. If we did know--if we could see with our own eyes exactly what happens--it would certainly affect how we handle this life.
Neal Shusterman handled this well in his Skinjackers trilogy. While some of an afterlife was revealed, there was much that the characters did not know about other parts of the afterlife--much that they never knew. And in one of the books, Shusterman introduced the idea of a fate worse than death, which gave the characters something new to fear.
--If you write the kind of paranormal book where characters have special powers, what limits do you place on those powers? Since books are usually about a main character wanting something and not being certain s/he will get it, how do you get around the fact that a too-powerful character can control people and situations and just get what s/he wants through magic?
Some possible limits include:
uncertainty: for example, a spell might not work all the time, or might work in unintended ways;
range: for example, the character can only affect certain kinds of people or events, or can only work within time or distance limits, or does not have sufficient power to enact the outcome s/he wants;
opposing forces: as the main character exerts magic in one direction, others exert it in the opposite direction;
vulnerability: powers could have gaps or points of vulnerability, such as Superman's kryptonite or Achilles's heel;
cost: the price of using the magic might be high (as in, for example, Holly Black's Curse Workers series, where the use of a memory curse also affects the memory of the curse worker).
If we change the rules of our world, then those rule changes have ripple effects. If we remove our normal human limitations, then there must be other (plausible) limitations, or else the story becomes boring because there is no risk and no uncertainty. It would be unrealistic to have characters treating their magical worlds the same way we treat our own nonmagical world. (For example, if you could fly, why would you ever sit in traffic again?)
*By which I mean authors of novels about paranormal phenomena. The authors themselves do not claim to have paranormal powers. As far as I know.
--If you write the kind of paranormal book where an afterlife is revealed to living characters, then how does their knowledge of the afterlife change the characters' views of life and death? Do they lose all fear of death, and if not, why not? If they no longer fear death, then what is there for them to fear; what are the stakes? And how does the knowledge of this afterlife change the way they live?
It seems to me that so much of how we decide to live depends on the two things we can say for sure about death: that it is inevitable, and that the exact nature of "afterward" is unknown. We have beliefs about what comes next, but we don't know for sure. If we did know--if we could see with our own eyes exactly what happens--it would certainly affect how we handle this life.
Neal Shusterman handled this well in his Skinjackers trilogy. While some of an afterlife was revealed, there was much that the characters did not know about other parts of the afterlife--much that they never knew. And in one of the books, Shusterman introduced the idea of a fate worse than death, which gave the characters something new to fear.
--If you write the kind of paranormal book where characters have special powers, what limits do you place on those powers? Since books are usually about a main character wanting something and not being certain s/he will get it, how do you get around the fact that a too-powerful character can control people and situations and just get what s/he wants through magic?
Some possible limits include:
uncertainty: for example, a spell might not work all the time, or might work in unintended ways;
range: for example, the character can only affect certain kinds of people or events, or can only work within time or distance limits, or does not have sufficient power to enact the outcome s/he wants;
opposing forces: as the main character exerts magic in one direction, others exert it in the opposite direction;
vulnerability: powers could have gaps or points of vulnerability, such as Superman's kryptonite or Achilles's heel;
cost: the price of using the magic might be high (as in, for example, Holly Black's Curse Workers series, where the use of a memory curse also affects the memory of the curse worker).
If we change the rules of our world, then those rule changes have ripple effects. If we remove our normal human limitations, then there must be other (plausible) limitations, or else the story becomes boring because there is no risk and no uncertainty. It would be unrealistic to have characters treating their magical worlds the same way we treat our own nonmagical world. (For example, if you could fly, why would you ever sit in traffic again?)
*By which I mean authors of novels about paranormal phenomena. The authors themselves do not claim to have paranormal powers. As far as I know.
March 22, 2013
Haunted at 17
Nova Ren Suma's latest book, 17 & GONE, launched this week. I was lucky enough to get my hands on an early copy. It's the story of a 17-year-old girl who is haunted by girls who disappeared at the age of 17, and it's vivid and compelling. I wish I could go into detail about why I admired the story's resolution, but that would get into spoilers. Just trust me--if you like dark and mysterious, check it out.
As part of her launch week, she has invited bloggers to share their own stories of what haunted them at the age of 17. She'll post all the links on her blog on Monday, but there's already quite a collection of posts over there, from such writers as Libba Bray, Carrie Ryan, Nina LaCour, Gayle Forman, etc.
I decided that I would go ahead and share mine, since this is a topic I'll be talking about more in the coming months. And I suppose the appropriateness of the word "haunt" is evident in the very amount of time it has taken me to discuss this publicly.
I was bullied from the ages of 11 to 13, although I prefer to call it peer abuse. It was not about someone bigger and stronger threatening to beat me up for lunch money. Mostly, it was about exclusion and insult. People banding together for the sole purpose of punishing me: not physically*, but systematically, deliberately, repeatedly. A favorite trick of theirs will summarize the whole experience. On the way to middle school, there was a path I had to walk down that had a steep incline on either side. One group of girls would get to this path before I did and would walk in front of me, filling the whole path so that I couldn't get around them. They would then inch down the path, talking loudly about me, hacking apart my appearance, my clothes, mocking everything I said and did in microscopic detail. Had this only happened once or twice, I might not remember it today. But the rest of the day, and the next morning, and the days that followed, continued in kind.
One teacher tried to stop it. Another teacher who witnessed some of it actually joined in with a few snide remarks of her own, which nowadays makes me think that even as an adult she was still trying to fit in with the cool kids, but back then only increased my sense of isolation. As you might imagine, all this made me extremely self-conscious. It made me mistrustful--especially of other girls, because they were the ringleaders (although boys would join in from time to time; there were two boys in my junior high who were especially cruel). It taught me that my natural role in any group was to be the victim, the outsider, the butt of jokes, the recipient of any crap that the others cared to dish out. And after the first group did this to me, it happened twice more, with other groups. I grew to expect it.
Middle school and junior high were the prime years for this abuse. By the time I was in high school, it had pretty much stopped. But the damage lingered; my patterns were set. Self-consciousness, distrust, and the expectation of being unwanted and disliked were part of my mindset. They determined how I related to others. Several unsavory patterns grew out of this: an over-reliance on boyfriends in my college years, a reluctance to get close to female friends for fear they would turn on me, an assumption that new people did not want to meet me. At 17, these things haunted me but I didn't know it. I acted in accordance with this script without being aware it was a script.
It was only in my mid-twenties that I began to realize these mental patterns were assumptions, not facts. To see that I was still reacting to people as if they were middle-school bullies. At 25, I began to work on these issues, to undo the damage.
I am a very different person today. Today, I do not put up with that sort of crap. Today, I have friendships with women as well as men. Today, I know there is kindness and generosity in people, as well as cruelty and pettiness.
But at 17, I didn't know it. At 17, I thought it was all behind me. I didn't see how much I still carried with me.
At the time all this happened, bullying was viewed very differently from the way it is today. It was seen as a rite of passage, an inevitable part of childhood, no big deal. Even now that people are questioning this view, now that our literature and our media are exploring the immediate effects of bullying, I don't know that very much attention is being paid to the aftereffects, the ripples that spread outward years later. And it is the post-bullying years I especially want to shine a light on, and I will be saying more about that in the coming months.
*Although I always assumed that was an option in their minds. I never saw any indication that there was anything they considered "going too far."
As part of her launch week, she has invited bloggers to share their own stories of what haunted them at the age of 17. She'll post all the links on her blog on Monday, but there's already quite a collection of posts over there, from such writers as Libba Bray, Carrie Ryan, Nina LaCour, Gayle Forman, etc.
I decided that I would go ahead and share mine, since this is a topic I'll be talking about more in the coming months. And I suppose the appropriateness of the word "haunt" is evident in the very amount of time it has taken me to discuss this publicly.
I was bullied from the ages of 11 to 13, although I prefer to call it peer abuse. It was not about someone bigger and stronger threatening to beat me up for lunch money. Mostly, it was about exclusion and insult. People banding together for the sole purpose of punishing me: not physically*, but systematically, deliberately, repeatedly. A favorite trick of theirs will summarize the whole experience. On the way to middle school, there was a path I had to walk down that had a steep incline on either side. One group of girls would get to this path before I did and would walk in front of me, filling the whole path so that I couldn't get around them. They would then inch down the path, talking loudly about me, hacking apart my appearance, my clothes, mocking everything I said and did in microscopic detail. Had this only happened once or twice, I might not remember it today. But the rest of the day, and the next morning, and the days that followed, continued in kind.
One teacher tried to stop it. Another teacher who witnessed some of it actually joined in with a few snide remarks of her own, which nowadays makes me think that even as an adult she was still trying to fit in with the cool kids, but back then only increased my sense of isolation. As you might imagine, all this made me extremely self-conscious. It made me mistrustful--especially of other girls, because they were the ringleaders (although boys would join in from time to time; there were two boys in my junior high who were especially cruel). It taught me that my natural role in any group was to be the victim, the outsider, the butt of jokes, the recipient of any crap that the others cared to dish out. And after the first group did this to me, it happened twice more, with other groups. I grew to expect it.
Middle school and junior high were the prime years for this abuse. By the time I was in high school, it had pretty much stopped. But the damage lingered; my patterns were set. Self-consciousness, distrust, and the expectation of being unwanted and disliked were part of my mindset. They determined how I related to others. Several unsavory patterns grew out of this: an over-reliance on boyfriends in my college years, a reluctance to get close to female friends for fear they would turn on me, an assumption that new people did not want to meet me. At 17, these things haunted me but I didn't know it. I acted in accordance with this script without being aware it was a script.
It was only in my mid-twenties that I began to realize these mental patterns were assumptions, not facts. To see that I was still reacting to people as if they were middle-school bullies. At 25, I began to work on these issues, to undo the damage.
I am a very different person today. Today, I do not put up with that sort of crap. Today, I have friendships with women as well as men. Today, I know there is kindness and generosity in people, as well as cruelty and pettiness.
But at 17, I didn't know it. At 17, I thought it was all behind me. I didn't see how much I still carried with me.
At the time all this happened, bullying was viewed very differently from the way it is today. It was seen as a rite of passage, an inevitable part of childhood, no big deal. Even now that people are questioning this view, now that our literature and our media are exploring the immediate effects of bullying, I don't know that very much attention is being paid to the aftereffects, the ripples that spread outward years later. And it is the post-bullying years I especially want to shine a light on, and I will be saying more about that in the coming months.
*Although I always assumed that was an option in their minds. I never saw any indication that there was anything they considered "going too far."
March 20, 2013
The jugular
I've been writing for years, and I have tackled some dark subjects. I find that my writing gets the strongest response when I write closest to the edge. I don't mean that the topic necessarily has to be edgy. I mean when the emotion in a scene is so honest that I've basically stopped protecting myself--from embarrassment, from pain, from whatever I fear. Ironically, to produce something that raw usually takes many rewrites. Even after all this time, I seldom go for the jugular in the first draft, or the second. I still hold back.
One reason I appreciate my critiquers is that they call me on this; they point out when I'm hiding. Self-protection is so automatic and so ingrained that I can't see my own defenses. Dropping defenses is not instinctive; it's counter-instinctive, really. It must be learned. And I find that it must be relearned with every project.
One reason I appreciate my critiquers is that they call me on this; they point out when I'm hiding. Self-protection is so automatic and so ingrained that I can't see my own defenses. Dropping defenses is not instinctive; it's counter-instinctive, really. It must be learned. And I find that it must be relearned with every project.
March 18, 2013
Cleaning out the brain closet
Three random thoughts for the day:
1. "If my father, the scientist, were here ... he would remind me that success is only a matter of statistics ... . Failure only means that you haven't thrown yourself, face-first, against the brick wall of probability enough times." --Alina Simone, You Must Go and Win.
2. When people say they're glad that the days are now longer because of Daylight Savings Time, I want to argue, "No, they're longer because of the tilt of the earth." Daylight "Savings" doesn't add a single minute to the amount of light we get.
3. On a happier note: The New Jersey Society for Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, 2013 Annual Conference will be June 7-9 this year, in Plainsboro, NJ. The keynoters will be Lauren Oliver and Peter Brown, and there will be a couple dozen agents and editors in attendance. I'm happy to report that I'll be co-leading two sessions on Saturday, June 8, along with Kit Grindstaff: "The Dark Underbelly: Building Dimensions and Conflict Into Your Characters," and, "Battle Your Inner Censor." The registration deadline is April 30.
1. "If my father, the scientist, were here ... he would remind me that success is only a matter of statistics ... . Failure only means that you haven't thrown yourself, face-first, against the brick wall of probability enough times." --Alina Simone, You Must Go and Win.
2. When people say they're glad that the days are now longer because of Daylight Savings Time, I want to argue, "No, they're longer because of the tilt of the earth." Daylight "Savings" doesn't add a single minute to the amount of light we get.
3. On a happier note: The New Jersey Society for Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, 2013 Annual Conference will be June 7-9 this year, in Plainsboro, NJ. The keynoters will be Lauren Oliver and Peter Brown, and there will be a couple dozen agents and editors in attendance. I'm happy to report that I'll be co-leading two sessions on Saturday, June 8, along with Kit Grindstaff: "The Dark Underbelly: Building Dimensions and Conflict Into Your Characters," and, "Battle Your Inner Censor." The registration deadline is April 30.
March 16, 2013
Borrowed adventure
The last time my husband and I were in Yosemite National Park, while we were hiking up to the top of Yosemite Falls, we crossed paths with another hiker. Actually, we were leap-frogging, which happens a lot on steep trails: you pass someone, and then when you stop to rest, he passes you, and then when he stops to rest, you pass him again. Anyway, I was a bit concerned about this hiker because it was summer, and it's a long steep trail, and he only had a tiny little bottle of water that was maybe a quarter of the recommended amount of water to carry on that kind of hike. Once when we were resting at the same time, he asked, "Have you been up Half Dome yet?" When I said no, he said, "You should go. It's awesome."
I wasn't particularly interested in going up there--from what little I knew, it sounded beyond the range of what I consider fun, and more into the range that sounds like work--but I didn't know much about it. When this guy who wasn't even carrying enough water said that he'd done it, I figured: how hard could it be?
Then I saw this, and I concluded that I'm never going up there unless I turn freaking crazy. While I have my wits about me, I'll stay on the trails where you don't need cables, thank you very much.*
But as scary as that link is, it's fascinating, too. It confirms that climbing Half Dome is nothing I'd ever want to do in real life. But I love reading about it from a safe distance.
That's part of the joy of reading: the ability to experience tough circumstances from a safe and comfortable vantage point. It's borrowed adventure. I don't believe in reading instead of living, but reading in addition to living provides incredible riches.
*Okay, I did hike Gothics via the Orebed Brook Trail in the Adirondacks, which at the time I climbed it had some short sections of cables, in addition to ladders. But that's about my limit.
I wasn't particularly interested in going up there--from what little I knew, it sounded beyond the range of what I consider fun, and more into the range that sounds like work--but I didn't know much about it. When this guy who wasn't even carrying enough water said that he'd done it, I figured: how hard could it be?
Then I saw this, and I concluded that I'm never going up there unless I turn freaking crazy. While I have my wits about me, I'll stay on the trails where you don't need cables, thank you very much.*
But as scary as that link is, it's fascinating, too. It confirms that climbing Half Dome is nothing I'd ever want to do in real life. But I love reading about it from a safe distance.
That's part of the joy of reading: the ability to experience tough circumstances from a safe and comfortable vantage point. It's borrowed adventure. I don't believe in reading instead of living, but reading in addition to living provides incredible riches.
*Okay, I did hike Gothics via the Orebed Brook Trail in the Adirondacks, which at the time I climbed it had some short sections of cables, in addition to ladders. But that's about my limit.
