E. Kristin Anderson's Blog, page 29

Review: RELIC by Heather Terrell

With so many dystopian novels on the shelves, it’s easy to feel like there’s nothing new. RELIC by Heather Terrell, however, reinvents the genre for the first time since THE HUNGER GAMES.  Perhaps this is setting the bar a bit high in the eyes of a potential reader.  But here’s the thing — this book is truly fantastic.

Soho Teen, October 2013.

Set in the far north, RELIC follows young Eva, about to take on a task that is usually for young men from the Aerie.  Girls are meant to be wives and mothers.  Or, in her case, ladies.  They aren’t meant to take a team of dogs trekking to the edge of the known world for the Testing, where they might search for historical Relics.  Relics like amulets of the false god Apple.

Eva is undertaking this journey in honor of her twin brother Eamon, who passed away under somewhat mysterious circumstances.  And with the guidance of Lukas, an outsider from The Boundary Lands, she might even have a chance to prove herself worthy of The Testing.  What she doesn’t expect, however, is to find something that will shake her entire worldview — her faith, her society, and her family.

Part post-apocalyptic fiction and part high fantasy, RELIC is the beginning of a trilogy that is written artfully and with a voice you will not soon forget.  Delicately weaving in elements of Inuit culture as well as elements you might find in Game of Thrones, Heather Terrell creates a world that is as intricate as it is icy.  The intrigue and mystery make it a page-turner, and the rich and complex characters make it hard to forget.  I cannot wait for the sequel!

Review: SEASON OF THE WITCH by Mariah Fredericks

There have been a lot of books about bullying lately.  And that’s a good thing — bullying is a real issue that we need books about.  And, man, mean girls are mean.  In SEASON OF THE WITCH, high school junior Toni is about to face the brunt of the consequences that come with hooking up with  queen bee Chloe’s boyfriend over the summer.  And it’s going to get ugly.

Schwartz & Wade, October 2013.

What I love about SEASON OF THE WITCH is that it straddles the line between reality and fantasy while still completely capturing the feelings of helplessness that come with being a target and the power that comes with fighting back.  Of course, neither of these things feels like it’s truly in your control when it’s happening, and that’s almost as frightening as bringing witchcraft into the picture.

When Toni finds an unlikely ally in Cassandra, her best friend Ella’s cousin, Cassandra also brings Toni into a world of ritual, of spells that can keep Chloe and her bobble head friends from hurting her.  Cassandra also brings Toni into her world of secrets and lies, and into a friendship that might be just as toxic as revenge.

SEASON OF THE WITCH is a brilliant novel, lovely and complex, with characters who are both likable and deeply flawed.  Fans of Laurie Halse Anderson, Sara Zarr, and Lauren Myracle are sure to find a new favorite in Mariah Fredericks.  I can’t wait to see what this author writes next.

Review: POOR LITTLE DEAD GIRLS by Lizzie Friend

I love a good conspiracy theory.  Throw in a boarding school, a fish-out-of-water protagonist, and a side of suspected murder, and I’m hook-line-and-sinkered.  POOR LITTLE DEAD GIRLS by Lizzie Friend is dark, creepy, and utterly delicious.

Merit Press, November 2013.

When Sadie scores a field hockey scholarship to the prestigious Keating Hall boarding school, she finds herself dealing with way more than she’d bargained for.  First of all, the field hockey coach is terrifying, and her elite team members are mostly mean girls.  Her two new room mates are some sort of british royalty, and they come with a non-disclosure agreement.  And then there’s the fact that the girl on the team that she’s replacing died under mysterious circumstances.  And nobody wants to talk about it.

Now stuck at school with the richest of the rich and powerful, Sadie is determined to try and keep afloat, with a new bestie and a cute guy kind of by herside.  But she’s beyond skeptical when she gets kidnapped, only to find out that it’s all part of her initiation into Keating Hall’s secret society.  The thing is, the more she learns about the secrets in Keating’s present, the more Sadie realizes that there are secrets in Keating’s past that could answer some of her own mysteries.  She might get answers, but it would mean risking everything.  Maybe even her life.

With a smart, sassy heroine and seriously creepy intrigue, POOR LITTLE DEAD GIRLS is a perfect read for fans of PRETTY LITTLE LIARS and Veronica Mars.  I have no idea if we’ll be visiting Keating Hall again with Lizzie Friend, but I am certainly looking forward to seeing where this author takes us next.

On Writing and Chronic Illness, Part Two: Writing and Events

A few weeks ago I posted about my struggles with mental illness.  Because I needed to talk about that in order to talk about this.  About what it’s like to be a writer when you also struggle with chronic illness.  I’d intended this to be only one post — to write about my struggle and the writing part all at once. That didn’t happen.  The topic is too big — bigger than even I thought, and I’m living it.

There are things you can and can’t do when you have a chronic illness.  These things vary depending on what you’re dealing with.  I’m going to use bipolar, depression, and anxiety as the basis for this, but I think that folks with other types of illnesses will be able to relate.  Some of the stuff is big — traveling for conferences, financial strains, deadlines.  Others are seemingly small — going to a friend’s release party, getting up early for an event or just to meet your writing group for coffee, staring at the blank screen and not being able to write a thing because not only is the blank screen intimidating but also the topic your’e writing on is kind of triggering. Today, though, I want to talk about what it’s like dealing with some of the big stuff.  Specifically events — social and professional and the blurry spaces in between.

Ever feel like these are your inner cheerleaders?

Rather than, you know, the regular cheerleaders?

Writing for a living is a hard path to choose, though I don’t know many people who write who consider it a choice.  Writing for a living really does choose you.  It’s stressful, and it’s unstable, and it’s tough to do right now when you have a lot of days when you can barely tweet let alone leave the house.  One question I get a lot is, “if you’re so sick, how do you manage to go to a conference?”  I can’t even begin to describe how frustrating questions like this are.  For one, it questions my experience as a person suffering from an invisible illness.  But it’s also nearly impossible to explain to a person who has a “normal” body and mind how a person who has a very limited about of energy can do things like this.  It’s sort of like charging a battery.  When I’m getting ready for a conference, I try and spend a lot of time doing less stressful things — as much as possible, you all know how stressful prepping for an event can be — so that I don’t have to run on an empty tank for the whole weekend at conference time.  Usually I do anyway.  The empty tank, that is.  And afterward?  After spending a weekend in Author Mode (you know, where you talk to people as your professional self — in my case, as my pen name, Kristin Anderson) and coming home, back to my personal self (just Emily, the friend, the sister, the neighbor, the cat momma), it’s like crashing.  You crash because you HAVE been running at a deficit.  You crash because you are switching between personas.  You crash because you’ve forced yourself into a state of mania for several days in order to handle the constant social encounters, the pitches, the talks, the signings.  And now you’ve cycled so hard into depression that you pass out.  You sleep hard.  You watch TV that you don’t have to pay attention to.  And even that is hard.  There’s something both lonely and relieving about this, but mostly, you’re so physically and mentally exhausted that being not in bed seems insane.

There’s no such thing as good timing.

After the Texas Book Festival this year, I didn’t even make it to the evening events.  I only went on Saturday, to moderate a panel.  I went to a few other panels while I was there, spent some time with the nice guy I was dating, and then attended a cocktail party.  I was anxious.  I didn’t want to talk to new people, only the people I knew from Austin.  Only people I knew REALLY well from Austin.  I wanted to introduce them to my then-boyfriend, and sit somewhere with a glass of coke (no wine, never wine or beer or champagne or cocktails in public, because a person with chronic illness — let alone mental illness — can’t drink or can only drink in especially monitored circumstances due to medication and God is that annoying to explain over and over) and maybe impress the aforementioned boyfriend by introducing him to a favorite author if I could get the courage to, like, move off of this comfortable sofa.

Have you ever felt like this is what you sound like when you socialize?

 

And this is how paranoid you feel about everything you see or hear at a thing.

After the Texas Book Festival this year, I came home, and the kind man I was with tucked me into bed with my laptop.  It wasn’t even 7pm.  I fell asleep at my computer while trying to catch up on email.  And I woke up at 10pm when my grandmother messaged me on Skype.  She told me to go back to bed, that I needed my rest.  So I did.  And I slept until noon the next day, prying myself out of bed when the cats started batting at my face and crying to be fed.  I could have slept another ten hours.  But even when you’re sick, you have to make yourself do something, or you start to feel bad about yourself.

Crash.

So how, when a single day at an in-town book festival wears me out to this point, do I travel to events like ALA in Chicago?  To TLA in Fort Worth?  To AWP, in just a little over a month, in Seattle?  Part of it is a mystery to me.  I think there’s something to be said for ambition.  I’ve always been an ambitious girl.  A “serious” girl, according to my family.  A little competitive.  A lot motivated.  In some ways, being a pro writer is natural for me because of this.  Rejection has never gotten me down, because I know there’s room for error and room for mistakes and room for improvement and so many opportunities.  (Sure, some rejections suck more than others, especially on bad days, but this is a career with a lot of second and third and fourth chances.)  I think that understanding the kinds of opportunities that arise from attending these events outweigh the monumental crash and burn that follows has allowed me to allow this motivation and ambition to help me charge my batteries just enough to get to the event, survive it, and accept that the recovery will be hard.

It can feel this weird. Seriously.

But what about the little events?  A friend’s book launch, for example.  I have so often missed out on these because my body told me I had to rest.  In a town like Austin where I’m fortunate to have many friends and colleagues who are SO talented…well, there’s always a book launch.  And I have missed many not because I couldn’t find a ride (my anxiety keeps me from driving) or because I had another obligation or even because I had a “real” (read: visible) illness…but because I was mentally incapable of being a person in public that day.  It’s the worst.  You feel guilty.  You feel mean.  You feel like a liar.  Because you’ve spent your whole life being told you’re a liar.  You’ve heard things like “suck it up” and “just grin and bear it” or even “get over it.”  And that sticks in you.  You wonder, could I really go if I wanted to?  Am I being lazy?  Or even, you know, just kind of a selfish asshole?

On days when getting out of bed feels like this…

Or even this.

It’s hard to find an answer in this kind of situation.  Because you can’t measure it.  You can’t see it.  You can only feel it.  And there are days where it’s better to push yourself.  Like when your writing group is meeting at ten and your friend is going to pick you up at nine-thirty and you couldn’t sleep last night and were up until five and even on a day when you fell asleep at midnight you’d stay in bed until noon, maybe noon-thirty.  You can push yourself.  Because you know that a small gathering where you can just be yourself (Emily) instead of your writer self (Kristin) and have a cup of coffee and a muffin and maybe even gripe about the industry while possibly getting a little work done is going to be good for you.  Being around people who are members of your support group?  Usually very good.  It’s a fine line though, and one that’s hard to discern.  I mean, isn’t every member of your local SCBWI (or RWA, or Writer’s League, or etc. etc.) a member of your support group?  They support you.  But it’s different, even if you can’t put your finger on it.  Even if you love all of them.  You have to make choices to keep yourself from falling off the deep end.  Especially when it feels like you’re always teetering on the edge.

And then there’s this.

People ask me about stuff like this a lot, even people close to me.  And I’m getting used to it.  I guess what’s hard is that — as you can see — the explanation is a lot longer and more complicated than most people are ready — or even willing — to hear.  And while many people are compassionate and even great with empathy, others aren’t.  Even good, wonderful people don’t fully understand.  And nothing you can do will get them to wrap their heads around it.  In an age where being an author is also being a marketing guru, a personality, a blogger, and a public speaker, there aren’t a lot of options other than working around your illness in order to do these things.  And some days you can.  Some days you make it work because you have to, and some days you make it work because you’re excited about it, and some days you just plain make it work.  But you have to give yourself the leeway to suck.  To say no.  To take a nap in the middle of the day during a conference because if you don’t you’re going to be burnt out later that night at a get-together.  It doesn’t make you a bad person.  Or lazy or lame or stupid or disgusting or weird or a failure.  It just makes you a person who is taking care of herself.  And that makes you smart.

Maybe you don’t have a beeper, but the world can wait while you take a break.

I’m going to keep reminding myself of this.  Hopefully it will help me get to the next part of what is turning into a blog series rather than a single or two-part post with a little more ease.

Next time: Deadlines and projects and motivation and the writing part of writing with chronic illness.

On Writing and Chronic Illness — PART ONE: Confessional

I’m up late tonight because I found some cockroaches in my kitchen and I’m afraid to turn off the light.  Fortunately, for Christmas, my grandmother got me a Blue Canary night light (think They Might Be Giants), but, bless that canary’s heart, it’s not enough to ward off that gross IS THERE A BUG CRAWLING ON ME feeling.  Or, you know, actual bugs.  It’s like the reverse of that X-Files episode, with the giant bug monster that “hides in the light” and the zombie people.  Except roaches hide in the dark.  And then there’s the X-Files episode with the mechanical cockroaches that eat people…

OR THIS EPISODE OH GOD:

Please bugs do not touch me.

Anyway. I digress. As usual. This post isn’t about The X-Files. It’s about health.

So. Let us ignore the fact that I live in an apartment complex that seems to be a little bit lax on the pest control (I swear, my kitchen is clean!) which is leading to the kind of panic that most people reserve for hearing gunshots in their neighborhood but will most certainly keep me up wee into the hours of tomorrow…and let’s focus on something that I want to talk about that is, believe it or not, loosely (not so loosely) connected to the frigging bugs.  And something I’m seeing a lot of talk about lately.  A lot of important talk.  On the blogs of so many writers, I’m seeing discussions about health, invisible illness, and mental health.  These are writers who are close, dear friends of mine, as well as writers whom I admire from afar (and/or stalk on Twitter SORRY NOT SORRY). And then there’s the tragic loss of a colleague last month, which is still causing ripples in our giant but oh-so-close-knit kidlit community. There is a light shining here into the darker parts of ourselves and, as scary as it is, we need to keep that light on.

I’ve talked before about suffering from bipolar disorder.  I don’t talk about my specific diagnoses a lot, because it’s mostly irrelevant to y’all…and irrelevant in general, since I believe in treating symptoms rather than labels, but I have Bipolar Type NOS (not otherwise specified) which basically means (and I’m not a doctor, here, so I’m just going to sum things up as best I can, don’t take my word for gospel) that I don’t fit the Type I or Type II profile.  I’m mostly depressive with some mixed episodes (where I feel both manic and depressed, as well as agitated), and sometimes I experience episodes of hypomania, which mostly present as bursts of energy and productivity.  As an extra bonus, there’s this:  Have you ever seen those uber-lame “depression hurts” pharmaceutical ads? Yes, my symptoms present very physically as well as psychologically, especially when it comes to back, muscle, and joint pain and general fatigue. I also have panic disorder and issues with anxiety and probably a lot of other things if you give me enough time on Web MD.  (Don’t let me on Web MD.  I’m also a hypochondriac.) But, um, digressing again.

At least I don’t have Ghost Sickness.

Anyway, for some reason, my condition has been brought up with new acquaintances quite a bit recently, and I’ve gotten such strange, mixed responses.  Everything from folks not even having heard of bipolar, to things like “oh, does that mean you have a hard time with stress?” or “does that mean you have multiple personalities?” or “are you violent?” often followed by even more invasive questions like “what are you like when you’re depressed?” which cannot be answered in a simple statement.  (I never thought of this question as invasive until it was asked of me.  I’m so open.  And, yet, there it was, invading my space like a close-talker on Seinfeld.)

What am I like when I’m depressed? I’m sad.  Like, bottom-dropping-out-sad.  I’m unproductive. I’m sad about being unproductive.  I’m angry.  So angry. I’m self-defeating.  I call people who understand and talk to them.  I call people who don’t understand and fight with them.  I pretend I’m going to get work done and take my laptop to my pretend-desk-that-is-actually-my-dining-room-table, only to spend an hour staring at things, feeling tired and achy and upset…and so I take the laptop back into my bedroom and lay down and try to eke out some writing or answer emails or just chat with friends while I marathon some show on Netflix and try to remind myself that I’m not lazy, I’m sick.  I stare at the wall or the ceiling for way too long before realizing I’ve just been staring for, like, ever.  I watch horror movies.  Horror movies don’t give me “the feels.”  I cry in the shower.  I cry not in the shower.  I have an impossible time deciding what to watch, wear, listen to, eat, drink, say, do, be.  These are decisions that are too hard to make and I have to make them and it stresses me out.  I get out of the shower and face plant onto my bed, still wrapped in a towel, talking to myself until I can convince myself that I should probably put on clothes, actual clothes, not the smelly pair of jeans that I keep “forgetting” to wash. (Reality: laundry is hard and I don’t want to/can’t do it.) I forget to eat.  When I remember to eat I eat the first thing I can get my hands on and it’s usually junk food because real food is effort.  Drying my hair is the most gargantuan task you could ask of me. I try to do it anyway. I put on make-up so that I can trick myself into thinking I’m a productive adult (sometimes it works).  I skip putting on make-up because I’m not going to see any humans today so why bother except, wait, I have to pick up mail from the leasing office so maybe just mascara so I don’t feel like a moron.  I call myself a moron.  An idiot. A fatty. A loser.  An asshole. A fuck-up. Useless.  Lazy. Horrible. Lame. Stupid. Worthless.

Buffy has bad days, too. Really bad days.

And when I’m depressed, I know I’m depressed.  And I don’t know yet if that’s a blessing or a curse.  I’ve told friends who have approached me about their own struggles that once you figure out the cycle, and the signs, you can start to talk yourself through it.  You can say this won’t last.  You got past it last time and the time before that.  And it doesn’t matter if it’s a horrible break-up or a broken nail that triggered this bout, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel and it doesn’t matter if you believe that it’s God or the universe or sheer force of will that will get you through, you have to believe and you WILL believe because you have the proof of your past experiences that this light is there.

Sometimes that’s not enough.  Sometimes you just have to cry and yell at someone on the other end of the phone who isn’t getting it during your dark night of the soul.  Sometimes you have to watch the scariest movie on Netflix alone in the dark and let yourself be numb to the fact that the kid on screen is possessed by demons.  Sometimes you have to take a pill to help you deal with the fact that you have a (robot?) cockroach invasion in your kitchen because your life isn’t as glamourous as you want everyone to think and you live in the crappiest apartment you can stand in order to stretch every dollar possible and oh God you hate roaches more than even spiders. And sometimes you have to say to yourself over and over You’re okay you’re okay you’re okay.

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch who watches over you…

And that’s okay.  It’s not weak.  I have to remind myself of this, sometimes daily.  It’s not weak to be sick.  It’s not weak to cry or scream or call a friend.  It’s not weak to say no to a party or a date or a lunch because you’re not feeling so hot and you know yourself well enough to know that you need a day by yourself.  It’s strong to know yourself.  It’s strong to push limits at some times and wrap yourself in the edges of those limits at others.  And, yes, I think there is strength, to a certain degree, in succumbing to your illness sometimes, to feel hopeless and helpless and wish you had a whole army of blue canary night lights to keep the roaches and the negatives self-talk and the people who don’t get it and the stereotypes and the debilitating lack of energy from penetrating your bubble of safety.  Sometimes you need to just feel that in order to remember how to feel.  Or in order to move on.  I mean, I’d say there’s something to be said for the bottling it up method, but that method can die in a fire and I’m happy to light the match.

Which is why I wanted to post this.  I wanted to post something.  As I’m up late, talking to my friend and critique partner Amber Beilharz, who often writes about suffering from chronic illness, I realize how much power we have in each other.  In our friendships.  In a community that shares these things.  I’m not a pioneer.  Amber is not a pioneer.  The writers who have blogged about their chronic conditions before me?  Probably not pioneers.  But if we can share these things with each other both privately and, given some boundaries, on the web, there’s so much we can do for each other. There are wonderful blog posts out there — ones which most of you reading this post have probably already read — such as The Spoon Theory from butyoudontlooksick.com, and a new favorite of mine, Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half’s Depression Parts 1 & 2. (I have been using the phrase, “Basically, my base-self is angry-face-hoodie-sliding-off-the-couch, and I fight through that every day to be the person you know and love” to articulate to non-sufferers what it’s like to overcome what those illustrations so viscerally, well, illustrate.)  I also highly recommend an older post from Sarah Ockler called “Just Make the Bed,” which, Sarah, if you’re reading, I have to thank you for, because just making the bed has been helping me for the last six months or so, in a very non-metaphorical way!

I also want to send love to authors like Cheryl Rainfield, J.K. Rowling, and Heather Brewer (AND SO MANY OTHERS, especially my friends (you DTMers are all my friends now, sorry…not sorry) who have contributed to Dear Teen Me over the years) who have used their experiences in conjunction with their platforms as writers and public figures with young audiences to help destroy stigma, encourage sufferers to get help, and to be a positive part both the arts community and the community of adults offering support to those who need it.  It’s so. Damn. Important.

And maybe next time when someone asks “What are you like when you’re depressed?” I can just say, well, I’m me.  And if we get to be friends, you’ll get to see that me, too.  She’s not half-bad, no matter what she thinks.

COMING UP NEXT, IF THE ROBOT ALIEN ROACHES DON’T EAT ME IN MY SLEEP:

ON WRITING AND CHRONIC ILLNESS PART II: The actual part about writing.

My Favorite Reads from 2013…so far.

So I thought I’d put something here so that you wouldn’t have to stare at 18-year-old-me in a cap and gown anymore.  I know, I know, it’s just…too much.

2013 went by fast.  And everyone says that, and it’s annoying and stupid, but it’s true.  I measure my years in a lot of things — trips and events, friends’ birthdays, seasons and weather, TV schedules (hey, I love stories in all formats) and, of course, in books.  I feel like it was way too recent that I was picking up books from my January 2013 pile…too recent for me to be looking at books from my January 2014 pile and deciding what’s next.

Anyway, I thought I’d give a little run down of my favorite books from 2013.  Not necessarily books that came out in 2013.  But books I read this year.  I don’t really want to write a ton about each book either, so I hope you can live with me just making a list and showing some pretty covers and a sentence or two.  Let’s face it — you don’t have time to be reading my blog, anyway.  You have wrapping and baking and avoiding Great-Aunt-So-And-So to do.  So here you go.  My faves of 2013, in honest-to-goodness no particular order.

Anchor, Paperback Edition, March 2011.

A VISIT FROM THE GOON SQUAD by Jennifer Egan

I read this book — a grown-up book! — when I joined the Pulitzer Remix project and was assigned this text from which to create 30 found poems.  I loved the many, many narrators in the story, the non-linear format, and, of course, the lyrical prose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Putnam Juvenile, October 2013.

PICTURE ME GONE by Meg Rosoff

I love Meg Rosoff to bits and pieces.  I loved THERE IS NO DOG, her previous novel.  PICTURE ME GONE is super different, and it also features a narrator that should be too young for YA.  But somehow, this mystery suits a narrator who is wise beyond her years. I also loved the little illustrations and photos throughout the story, the tidbits about translation, and the family dynamics that the characters explore.

 

 

 

Cooper Dillon Books, January 2012.

RUINING THE NEW ROAD by William Matthews

William Matthews is one of my favorite poets.  Ever.  And this was his first ever book.  It was recently re-issued, and the poems are everything I love about William Matthews — sarcastic, funny, heart-wrenching, honest, accessible, and nuanced.

 

 

 

 

 

Touchstone, October 2013.

HYPERBOLE AND A HALF by Allie Brosh

If you don’t know the blog, go away.  Seriously, go read that instead of this.  It’s brilliant.  And the book is everything that the blog is, and then some.  I laughed so hard I scared my cat.  Given, this particular cat is much like the author’s “simple” dog.  But, you know. It really was that funny.  And truthful.  And all the things.

 

 

 

 

 

Squarefish, Paperback Edition, September 2013.

FREAK by Marcella Pixley

I don’t know how it took me this long to find this book.  A good friend of mine leant me her copy and I read it in one sitting.  It is the viscerally real story of a middle schooler being bullied to the point of self-destruction.  And it hit home for me in a way that a book like this should.

 

 

 

 

 

Algonquin Young Readers, August 2013.

IF YOU COULD BE MINE by Sara Farizan

This book has stuck with me since I first picked it up.  Taking place in Iran, it’s the story of two girls in love.  With each other. And Iran is not a good place to be a girl in love with another girl.  I found it fascinating, the way the protagonist navigates both the landscape of her family and neighborhood culture and the landscape of the “underground” LGBTQ culture. This is a must read for all humans.

 

 

 

 

Simon Pulse, June 2013.

OVER YOU by Amy Reed

I really like friendship stories.  I love stories of toxic friendship.  A friendship that saps the life out of a girl.  A fair-weather friend.  A friend who is a true-and-not-like-in-hollywood frenemy.  I’ve had those friends.  It’s terrible and frightening when you realize the truth.  And this is a book about that truth.  And also moms and hippies and stepping out of your comfort zone.  So good.

 

 

 

 

St. Martin’s Griffin, February 2013.

ELEANOR & PARK by Rainbow Rowell

Are you one of the 6 people left in the English-speaking world that hasn’t read this book yet?  Seriously, you should get on that.  It’s laught-out-loud funny and also completely heartbreaking and also some of the cleverest writing I’ve seen in years.  YEARS.

 

 

 

 

 

Disney-Hyperion, March 2013.

POISON by Bridget Zinn

I didn’t read a ton of high fantasy this year, but I’m glad that POISON is one of the fantasies I picked up.  I loved the plucky heroine, and of course the magical pig with which she has to save the kingdom.  I loved the pie jokes.  And the poison-making.  And the magic and the mystery.  I hate that Bridget isn’t with us anymore to write us new stories.  I love that she got to share this one.

 

 

 

 

Soho Teen, May 2013.

THE SWEET DEAD LIFE by Joy Preble

Gross stoner older brother turned guardian angel.  Also, amazing red cowboy boots.  And a murder mystery.  What else do you want?  Seriously.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Philomel, July 2013.

THE THEORY OF EVERYTHING by Kari Luna

This book is so cute that if it were a cat it would have its own YouTube channel.  And that YouTube channel would go so viral that somehow the cat would end up getting it’s on network television show.  But it’s not a kitten.  It’s a book.  And it has things like shaman pandas and whale pockets and theoretical physics and mix tapes.  See?  Cute.  Also hilarious and heart-wrenching, but…super super sweet.

 

 

 

 

Simon Pulse, January 2013.

TEETH by Hannah MoskowitzA

There is something about the way this lady writes.  It gets under your skin.  And her stories about families and siblings always tug at your heart strings.  But when you throw in a bromance-maybe-love-story in which one of the characters is a fish boy (and kind of a jerk)…well, that’s magic.  Complete, literary magic.

 

 

 

 

What were your favorite reads of this year?  Let me know in the comments!

BIRTHDAY! MINE! (and some other stuff.)

Hi Everyone!

It’s my birthday, and it seems I’ve started a new tradition.  Over at Dear Teen Me, I’ve written another letter to my teen self.  As a birthday present to past me.  Past me could use a birthday present.

My dad, me, and my brother at my high school graduation in 2001.

The OTHER big news is that I’ve joined Ye Olde Wattpad!  I’ve been feeling things out over there, and even started posting segments from a memoir that I’m writing in verse, with the working title THE SUMMER OF UNRAVELLING.

Mock cover made using stock art from a fab deviantART artist whose account is now inactive.

I’ve also posted a short story or two, as well as some poems in an informal collection (all of these poems are previously published in magazines).  Today we are also launching DEAR TEEN ME: EXTRAS! On Wattpad.  This collection will feature some of our favorite posts from the Dear Teen Me website, and hopefully bring these letters to a new audience.  Keep an eye on it.

And since I haven’t been around much over the last month (SORRY!), I’m going to treat you to a picture of me from Austin ComicCon.  Dressed as Scully.  From The X-Files, duh.

Me (Agent Scully) with author K.A. Holt (zombie) at Austin ComicCon.

So that’s that.  Hope you enjoy these various pieces of writing in their various locales.  And happy Friday!

BRB, NaNoWriMo Hangover

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I won NaNoWriMo.  Am collecting my brains back off of the floor.

In other news, I will have some news soon.  So that should be coming.  Watch this space or whatever.

So tired.  TTYL.

BRB, NaNoWriMo. PS, I’m in Asimov’s!

Hi guys.  I’m very busy writing the worst first draft in the history of first drafts. (Okay, it might be better than, you know, something, but I’m not holding my breath.) I’m about a week behind (rough estimate, no time to do the math, here, folks!) and staving off the sort of desperation that NaNoWriMo can push a writer into.  You know, like recycling old X-Files plots or transcribing overheard conversations directly into the manuscript.  (The latter would be easier if I wasn’t working mostly at Starbucks — I can’t figure out half of the drink menu let alone repeat it.)

However, just in case for some reason you were thinking to yourself, “Gee, I wish there was something new from E. Kristin Anderson to read,” THERE IS!

I have a poem in the newest issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction, which, holy crap, is, like, whoa.  Asimov’s is one of the most widely circulated science fiction magazines.  And I can actually tell you to go look for this one at your local book store — most of them should have it!  The issue I’m in is the January, 2014 issue.  It looks like this:

OMG I’m in this issue! Please ignore my messy living room!

I’ll try and get back to reviews and whatnot soon.  In the mean time, I hope YOUR NaNoWriMos are going well.  And here’s a Firefly Gif, for good measure:

Review: HIDEOUS LOVE by Stephanie Hemphill

I love a good biographical novel.  History has so many stories in and of itself, and yet it leaves room for the imagination to conjure its own legends.  Mary Shelley, author of FRANKENSTEIN, is a woman that intrigues so many readers, and who clearly inspired Stephanie Hemphill, author of HIDEOUS LOVE.

Balzer + Bray, October 2013.

Told in verse, HIDEOUS LOVE begins with an origin story of sorts, with Mary narrating portraits of her family — her half sisters, her obnoxious Stepmother, her hard-to-impress father.  And then she meets Percy Shelley, the poet, and Mary falls so head over heels in love that there’s no looking back.  Even if it means disgracing her family and being outcast by the ones she loves.

Over the span of several years, HIDEOUS LOVE chronicles the passionate and often tumultuous affair between Mary and Shelley, as they travel throughout Europe, become entangled in the affairs of other writers (such as the notorious Lord Byron) and are often accompanied by Jane, Mary’s half-sister.  Mary’s life was wrought with tragedy as much as it was passion, and this novelization of her history is a real page-turner, with intrigue around every corner.  This is definitely a book that historical fiction fans and fans of Mary Shelley will enjoy exploring.