Ann Redisch Stampler's Blog, page 2
October 14, 2012
USA Today Recommends Rachel Firasek's Where It Began Trailer
Hi All --
I was so pleased when USA Today recommended Rachel Firasek's trailer for Where It Began and the book as well!
See what you think:
This is the USA Today article + link (scroll down; it's the second trailer):
http://www.usatoday.com/blog/happyeve...
This is the link straight to Youtube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbx2gu...
I was so pleased when USA Today recommended Rachel Firasek's trailer for Where It Began and the book as well!
See what you think:
This is the USA Today article + link (scroll down; it's the second trailer):
http://www.usatoday.com/blog/happyeve...
This is the link straight to Youtube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbx2gu...
June 21, 2012
ALA-12 signing 6/24 at S&S, 4:30
Hi all,
I'm excited to be signing Where It Began at the Simon and Schuster booth (2600) at ALA this coming Sunday, June 24, from 4:30-5:00.
I would love to meet Goodreads friends in person, please drop by and get yourselves books!
Best,
Ann
I'm excited to be signing Where It Began at the Simon and Schuster booth (2600) at ALA this coming Sunday, June 24, from 4:30-5:00.
I would love to meet Goodreads friends in person, please drop by and get yourselves books!
Best,
Ann
May 4, 2012
Teenreads review of Where It Began
I was holding my breath, but here's a lovely review of Where It Began by Molly Horan:
http://www.teenreads.com/reviews/wher...
http://www.teenreads.com/reviews/wher...
April 24, 2012
A Fan's Surprise Book Trailer for Where It Began
I was amazed to find that Jenny Dutra had made a lovely book trailer for "Where It Began" and posted it on youtube. I've never met Jenny and had no idea that she'd done this and then, in the middle of a very frustrating day, I came upon her trailer.
All I can say is, thank you, Jenny! I'm moved and grateful and completely thrilled.
I hope that everyone who reads this will go take a look at Jenny's trailer and "like" it.
Here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=21sdqw...
All I can say is, thank you, Jenny! I'm moved and grateful and completely thrilled.
I hope that everyone who reads this will go take a look at Jenny's trailer and "like" it.
Here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=21sdqw...
April 13, 2012
L.A. Reading&Discussion 2/14 at The Grove
Hi all--
Tomorrow, Saturday April 14, at 2:00, I'll be reading and talking about "Where It Began" at Barnes & Noble in The Grove. So if you're in L.A., you're cordially invited.
I'm also very open to talking about writing, breaking in, getting published, changing genre, and all that sort of thing.
Hope to see you tomorrow!
Ann
Tomorrow, Saturday April 14, at 2:00, I'll be reading and talking about "Where It Began" at Barnes & Noble in The Grove. So if you're in L.A., you're cordially invited.
I'm also very open to talking about writing, breaking in, getting published, changing genre, and all that sort of thing.
Hope to see you tomorrow!
Ann
January 3, 2012
Addicted to Television
There is nothing like the winter holiday season, a time of warmth, fellowship, good friends, and spiritual uplift, to remind a person (that would be me) of how addicted she is to television.
I do have an ever so slim excuse for this addiction. One of my kids is a budding cinematographer and we get to sit around and marvel about the gorgeousness of the lighting of Mad Men and the gloriously well-shot Modern Family.
Unfortunately, this excuse is, how would you put it, a complete crock.
There is nothing educational, bonding-with-kid promoting, or pretty about me slamming around the family room, panting and throwing lovely, down-stuffed decorative pillows against the wall and screaming, “What do you mean Revenge isn’t back yet?” “Where the hell is Good Wife?”
And reassuring myself that I’m not actually that far gone -- at least I’m not hyperventilating in the absence of Survivor 17, Stranded in Waukegan, Illinois -- isn’t doing all that great a job of calming me down.
I mean, I’ve heard Laurie Halse Anderson’s inspirational talk about finding time to write, dedication, and commitment.
And so I ask myself, if not for my blood lust and inability to turn away from Emily Thorne wreaking havoc with all those evil, rich people with, btw, spectacular houses in the Hamptons, would my WIP that is due in 28 days be, say, finished? If not for The Good Wife, would I now be an expert on the folklore of the Sephardic diaspora?
Never mind that the answer to these questions is, No, I would be playing Scramble on my cell phone.
Does this mean I have to turn in my credentials as a literary type? Probably not. Last month my critique group of well-published doyennes of kidlit spent a good long time discussing Castle.
I do have an ever so slim excuse for this addiction. One of my kids is a budding cinematographer and we get to sit around and marvel about the gorgeousness of the lighting of Mad Men and the gloriously well-shot Modern Family.
Unfortunately, this excuse is, how would you put it, a complete crock.
There is nothing educational, bonding-with-kid promoting, or pretty about me slamming around the family room, panting and throwing lovely, down-stuffed decorative pillows against the wall and screaming, “What do you mean Revenge isn’t back yet?” “Where the hell is Good Wife?”
And reassuring myself that I’m not actually that far gone -- at least I’m not hyperventilating in the absence of Survivor 17, Stranded in Waukegan, Illinois -- isn’t doing all that great a job of calming me down.
I mean, I’ve heard Laurie Halse Anderson’s inspirational talk about finding time to write, dedication, and commitment.
And so I ask myself, if not for my blood lust and inability to turn away from Emily Thorne wreaking havoc with all those evil, rich people with, btw, spectacular houses in the Hamptons, would my WIP that is due in 28 days be, say, finished? If not for The Good Wife, would I now be an expert on the folklore of the Sephardic diaspora?
Never mind that the answer to these questions is, No, I would be playing Scramble on my cell phone.
Does this mean I have to turn in my credentials as a literary type? Probably not. Last month my critique group of well-published doyennes of kidlit spent a good long time discussing Castle.
December 8, 2011
ARC giveaway
Not a proper blog post, but if you'd like a copy of "Where It Began," (or if you'd just like to see a photo of my extremely cute dog) the fabulous Nova Ren Suma has a just posted a blog interview with me, & if you tweet or comment, you can win an ARC with a personalized book plate. Here's the link:
http://novaren.wordpress.com/2011/12/...
Get over there!
http://novaren.wordpress.com/2011/12/...
Get over there!
November 22, 2011
31 Romanians -- Why Blogger, Why?
Okay, this isn't actually a blog post, this is an informative follow-up.
I just thought I should share that even though not a single Latvian ever came back (Forgive me, Lativians, if I was somehow culturally insensitive.), I am now besieged by Romanians. Thirty-one Romanians, to be exact.
And I find myself wondering, is it possible that this isn't another outcropping of my inexplicable popularity in Eastern Europe? Is it possible that I'm being hacked by a nefarious offshore hacker with an unhealthy interest in teen novels? And just when I was on the verge of international fame and vast numbers of pre-sales in Bucharest...(Don't look at me like that. It could happen. They have Amazon in Bucharest, and probably more bookstores -- remember bookstores?-- than we do.)
In any case, I would like to extend the same invitation to the thirty-one Romanians who showed up here 45 minutes ago as I did with their Latvian fellow travelers: Come back. Tell me who you are and how you got here? Are your friend or foe? Are you avid followers of English-language ARC's set in LA prep schools, or was your presence here a happy accident?
Spill, because I'm mystified.
I just thought I should share that even though not a single Latvian ever came back (Forgive me, Lativians, if I was somehow culturally insensitive.), I am now besieged by Romanians. Thirty-one Romanians, to be exact.
And I find myself wondering, is it possible that this isn't another outcropping of my inexplicable popularity in Eastern Europe? Is it possible that I'm being hacked by a nefarious offshore hacker with an unhealthy interest in teen novels? And just when I was on the verge of international fame and vast numbers of pre-sales in Bucharest...(Don't look at me like that. It could happen. They have Amazon in Bucharest, and probably more bookstores -- remember bookstores?-- than we do.)
In any case, I would like to extend the same invitation to the thirty-one Romanians who showed up here 45 minutes ago as I did with their Latvian fellow travelers: Come back. Tell me who you are and how you got here? Are your friend or foe? Are you avid followers of English-language ARC's set in LA prep schools, or was your presence here a happy accident?
Spill, because I'm mystified.
November 7, 2011
My Life as a Writer Who Used to Be Really Awful
I’ve written all my life, in the since-I-could-hold-a-pencil model of the single-minded writer. I remember being seven and printing “Chip and the Sea” in one of those wonderful, old fashioned notebooks with the marbled black-and-white covers, bound with ribbon along the spine. Almost too good for the climax, which read “You must be my long lost brother!”
I remember a poem that opened “When the misty, balmy, silver-clad dawn…” a time of day I had never actually been awake to experience, and I shudder to tell you what the dawn was doing, but suffice to say it involved a certain amount of scampering.
I remember a staggeringly horrible free-verse story about a rape, expressed entirely through nature metaphors, which was a good thing because I wrote it way before I’d ever actually seen a naked man.
And I remember angsty college poems that expressed my unyielding individuality by railing against houses that scarred mountainsides and plastic and Barbie dolls, except that, oh yeah, Malvina Reynolds and the entire women’s movement had kind of been there first.
I was too cool for school.
Indeed, I left high school before actually learning any math or serious science to attend the College of Creative Studies on the backs of all those scarred mountainsides and bad Barbies, attending poetry seminars I departed with the memory of (someone else’s) poem that read “suck, suck, suck” ad infinitum, filling the entire sheet of paper, except for the white space that spelled “fuck.” I wasn’t exactly sure what to make of this, and transferred, taking my creativity with me. At my next college, I came up with a stunning short story that more or less paraphrased a piece of “La Chute.” Only in English. I don’t remember much about it, except that it was profound.
Indeed, there is hardly a single chapter of my life as a writer that isn’t extremely easy to make fun of. (My first PB manuscript was entitled “Binky, the Very Rude Finger.” Not kidding.) Except that throughout all these misbegotten adventures in dreadful literature, I’ve been completely serious about what I was doing.
Even when I didn’t think that I was any good at it or could make a go of it and tried out a series of other (failed) career possibilities, I kept writing. I didn’t see it as a journey – indeed, I am loath to go into the journey, transcendent power of language, cosmically transformative whatchadinget aspect of it all, possibly because I really love what I’m doing and there’s just so much laughing at myself doing what I’m doing that I can take. I just kind of saw it as what I do.
Only now, doing exactly what I’ve always been doing although, one hopes, somewhat more skillfully, it would appear that I have arrived. Professionally speaking. My fifth picture book is showing up in March, the most explicitly religious folktale I’ve ever done, the plot of which turns on prayer and the value of an optimistic faith, the same month as Where It Began, a steamy YA novel full of sex and drugs and rock and roll.
I am officially a children’s book writer and YA novelist. (To authors who have written 20 prize-winning novels of extraordinary depth and power, I say, yeah, well I have an agent and a business-sized envelope with business receipts in it and a scary deadline.)
And while those who use their optimistic faith for more cosmically transformative ends might look askance at me for saying this, it really did take an optimistic faith to get here. Even when I could tell it was bad. Even when the misty, balmy, silver-clad dawn was breaking over Chip’s long lost brother. Even when my critical and satirical abilities outstripped my writing ability by maybe 27 to 1. I just kept doing it because I more or less had to and, as the hero of The Wooden Sword will tell anyone who reads it four months from now, everything has turned out just as it should.
And thank God for that – how embarrassing would it be if it hadn’t?
I remember a poem that opened “When the misty, balmy, silver-clad dawn…” a time of day I had never actually been awake to experience, and I shudder to tell you what the dawn was doing, but suffice to say it involved a certain amount of scampering.
I remember a staggeringly horrible free-verse story about a rape, expressed entirely through nature metaphors, which was a good thing because I wrote it way before I’d ever actually seen a naked man.
And I remember angsty college poems that expressed my unyielding individuality by railing against houses that scarred mountainsides and plastic and Barbie dolls, except that, oh yeah, Malvina Reynolds and the entire women’s movement had kind of been there first.
I was too cool for school.
Indeed, I left high school before actually learning any math or serious science to attend the College of Creative Studies on the backs of all those scarred mountainsides and bad Barbies, attending poetry seminars I departed with the memory of (someone else’s) poem that read “suck, suck, suck” ad infinitum, filling the entire sheet of paper, except for the white space that spelled “fuck.” I wasn’t exactly sure what to make of this, and transferred, taking my creativity with me. At my next college, I came up with a stunning short story that more or less paraphrased a piece of “La Chute.” Only in English. I don’t remember much about it, except that it was profound.
Indeed, there is hardly a single chapter of my life as a writer that isn’t extremely easy to make fun of. (My first PB manuscript was entitled “Binky, the Very Rude Finger.” Not kidding.) Except that throughout all these misbegotten adventures in dreadful literature, I’ve been completely serious about what I was doing.
Even when I didn’t think that I was any good at it or could make a go of it and tried out a series of other (failed) career possibilities, I kept writing. I didn’t see it as a journey – indeed, I am loath to go into the journey, transcendent power of language, cosmically transformative whatchadinget aspect of it all, possibly because I really love what I’m doing and there’s just so much laughing at myself doing what I’m doing that I can take. I just kind of saw it as what I do.
Only now, doing exactly what I’ve always been doing although, one hopes, somewhat more skillfully, it would appear that I have arrived. Professionally speaking. My fifth picture book is showing up in March, the most explicitly religious folktale I’ve ever done, the plot of which turns on prayer and the value of an optimistic faith, the same month as Where It Began, a steamy YA novel full of sex and drugs and rock and roll.
I am officially a children’s book writer and YA novelist. (To authors who have written 20 prize-winning novels of extraordinary depth and power, I say, yeah, well I have an agent and a business-sized envelope with business receipts in it and a scary deadline.)
And while those who use their optimistic faith for more cosmically transformative ends might look askance at me for saying this, it really did take an optimistic faith to get here. Even when I could tell it was bad. Even when the misty, balmy, silver-clad dawn was breaking over Chip’s long lost brother. Even when my critical and satirical abilities outstripped my writing ability by maybe 27 to 1. I just kept doing it because I more or less had to and, as the hero of The Wooden Sword will tell anyone who reads it four months from now, everything has turned out just as it should.
And thank God for that – how embarrassing would it be if it hadn’t?
November 1, 2011
Greetings, Latvians!
The ways of the internet are strange and mysterious. Obsessed as I am with this blog and whether anyone is coming to visit, and if so, why, and if not, why not, you would think I would have picked up on this fact early on and be a lot calmer about it.
And I was a lot calmer. Until a few days ago, when I had 28 visitors from Latvia.
.
All right, for those of you with highly popular blogs that get hundreds of visitors from foreign lands traipsing through regularly, this probably wouldn’t be that big a deal. But suffice to say, on that particular day, the 28 Latvians were virtually the only people to come by.
What can I say?
Greeting Latvian blog visitors! I am absolutely delighted that you came over, but simply put, I don’t get it. I looked up your referring sites and I came up with something that appeared to be a search engine that uses the Cyrillic alphabet, and I, not reading any languages that use the Cyrillic alphabet, have no idea what you were searching for.
It could have been anything. A couple of weeks ago a visitor from the U.K. found me when he was searching for the image of a large, grey short-haired dog. Apparently my mother-in-law’s tiny brown and white Chihuahua, who appears sitting pertly on my mother-in-law’s chaise in my post #1, filled the bill. Hmmm.
But back to the Latvians. I ask, why now? And why 28 of you? Did every member of an unusually large book group dedicated to English language picture book folk tales all come looking for me simultaneously? Was it a weird coincidence that occurs with the frequency of Haley’s Comet sightings, but with less celestial inevitability? Was it some Eastern-European version of internet punking? Or was I having my 15 seconds of fame in absentia in the suburbs of Riga?
I may never know.
That is why I am posting with this simple message: Come back, Latvian blog visitors! Please. I am obsessed with you and until you tell me who you are and what in God’s name you were doing here, I will remain mystified, obsessed, and confused.
And I was a lot calmer. Until a few days ago, when I had 28 visitors from Latvia.
.
All right, for those of you with highly popular blogs that get hundreds of visitors from foreign lands traipsing through regularly, this probably wouldn’t be that big a deal. But suffice to say, on that particular day, the 28 Latvians were virtually the only people to come by.
What can I say?
Greeting Latvian blog visitors! I am absolutely delighted that you came over, but simply put, I don’t get it. I looked up your referring sites and I came up with something that appeared to be a search engine that uses the Cyrillic alphabet, and I, not reading any languages that use the Cyrillic alphabet, have no idea what you were searching for.
It could have been anything. A couple of weeks ago a visitor from the U.K. found me when he was searching for the image of a large, grey short-haired dog. Apparently my mother-in-law’s tiny brown and white Chihuahua, who appears sitting pertly on my mother-in-law’s chaise in my post #1, filled the bill. Hmmm.
But back to the Latvians. I ask, why now? And why 28 of you? Did every member of an unusually large book group dedicated to English language picture book folk tales all come looking for me simultaneously? Was it a weird coincidence that occurs with the frequency of Haley’s Comet sightings, but with less celestial inevitability? Was it some Eastern-European version of internet punking? Or was I having my 15 seconds of fame in absentia in the suburbs of Riga?
I may never know.
That is why I am posting with this simple message: Come back, Latvian blog visitors! Please. I am obsessed with you and until you tell me who you are and what in God’s name you were doing here, I will remain mystified, obsessed, and confused.
