K.A. Coleman's Blog, page 2
July 6, 2014
La-la How the Life Goes On
There is no correct way to cope with loss. Loss doesn't just come in the form of death. Loss can range from a friendship to a relationship to health to a stage of life. As people, we grow and age. Though some life events are exciting, you still have to say goodbye to life as you previously knew it. Sometimes, you lose people or parts of you in the process. We continually have to learn how to cope with goodbyes and changing. I don't know that there is one proper way to grieve. If so, I certainly haven't learned it yet.
With each goodbye I've said, I've grieved in a different manner. When I was 21, my three year old dog's spine fused together. If you know me, you know that I love dogs. I see them as extra family members. We had put down other dogs when I was growing up, but those dogs had lived to their life expectancy. It was easier to let them go knowing they had good lives. When Molly (named after the lyrics to "Obla Di Obla Da") died, I couldn't bear to hear about dogs or see people with their pets. I remember someone in my grad school class on a kick about puppies the same day I had to put Molly to sleep, and I remember wondering just exactly how hard I could punch someone. Luckily, a friend scooted the puppy-loving grad student away from me. I actually shut down my Facebook for months because I couldn't look at pictures of people cuddling with their pets. I cried, but I kept moving. I was in grad school and student teaching. It hurt, but I fulfilled my obligations at the time. I probably would have curled into a ball, but I didn't have a choice.
I do at least have some amount of choice in terms of when to let go of friendships but that doesn't make it easier. Friendships tend to fade away. Not many of my friendships have ended on too horrible of notes. For me at least, I am only really capable of actually maintaining a handful of friendships. People get busy. People move. Not all friendships last forever, and that is okay. The hardest part of losing a friendship is that it becomes a chapter of your life that you can't really reminisce about with anyone. Given a family move, I didn't really retain any close friends from grade school which is okay. I wish them all well, but my life took me in a different direction. I still talk about that part of my life with my family and friends, but they weren't there in the moment. It's the equivalent to telling a really funny story to someone who wasn't present when the event happened, and you end in the, "well I guess you had to be there" type of sentence. With that said, I am very much in love with my life now, but my point is that it is normal to feel sadness when you leave something behind you. I'm certainly not the same person I was in grade school, but I wish my friends and husband could have known that person. Or not. I was kind of a brat as a kid.
From previous posts (read the one on mental health awareness), we all know I didn't handle losing my health well. I took it for granted. One day, I had my health. The next day, it was gone. It destroyed me, and I could not explain to anyone just how lost and alone I felt. Not only did I lose my health, but I lost my self-esteem and part of who I was. Even with my love of words, I don't think I can accurately describe how much that event changed me. I also can't imagine how frustrating that time period was for the people who love me. Watching a loved one suffer can only be described as torturous. You can see the other person's pain, but what do you say to make it better? Can you say anything to make it better?
In Holding On and Letting Go, I focus on Emerson's grief and her varied attempts to cope, but Emerson is not the only character in the story feeling the pain of loss. Her old friends and family lost the Emerson that they knew. What I love most about the story is watching other characters attempt to stand by Emerson in completely different ways. I don't think any of their attempts are completely right or wrong. I wish I had the right answer for how to handle loss, but I don't. I don't know that anyone does.
Young adults deserve to have a seat at the table when it comes to the discussion of loss because we can't protect them from it. I do know that it always helps to know that you're not alone when you're in pain. I hope the book provides someone at least that much comfort.
As for me, all I'm certain of is that life goes on.
Follow me @KA_Coleman on Twitter or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/WriterKAColeman
With each goodbye I've said, I've grieved in a different manner. When I was 21, my three year old dog's spine fused together. If you know me, you know that I love dogs. I see them as extra family members. We had put down other dogs when I was growing up, but those dogs had lived to their life expectancy. It was easier to let them go knowing they had good lives. When Molly (named after the lyrics to "Obla Di Obla Da") died, I couldn't bear to hear about dogs or see people with their pets. I remember someone in my grad school class on a kick about puppies the same day I had to put Molly to sleep, and I remember wondering just exactly how hard I could punch someone. Luckily, a friend scooted the puppy-loving grad student away from me. I actually shut down my Facebook for months because I couldn't look at pictures of people cuddling with their pets. I cried, but I kept moving. I was in grad school and student teaching. It hurt, but I fulfilled my obligations at the time. I probably would have curled into a ball, but I didn't have a choice.
I do at least have some amount of choice in terms of when to let go of friendships but that doesn't make it easier. Friendships tend to fade away. Not many of my friendships have ended on too horrible of notes. For me at least, I am only really capable of actually maintaining a handful of friendships. People get busy. People move. Not all friendships last forever, and that is okay. The hardest part of losing a friendship is that it becomes a chapter of your life that you can't really reminisce about with anyone. Given a family move, I didn't really retain any close friends from grade school which is okay. I wish them all well, but my life took me in a different direction. I still talk about that part of my life with my family and friends, but they weren't there in the moment. It's the equivalent to telling a really funny story to someone who wasn't present when the event happened, and you end in the, "well I guess you had to be there" type of sentence. With that said, I am very much in love with my life now, but my point is that it is normal to feel sadness when you leave something behind you. I'm certainly not the same person I was in grade school, but I wish my friends and husband could have known that person. Or not. I was kind of a brat as a kid.
From previous posts (read the one on mental health awareness), we all know I didn't handle losing my health well. I took it for granted. One day, I had my health. The next day, it was gone. It destroyed me, and I could not explain to anyone just how lost and alone I felt. Not only did I lose my health, but I lost my self-esteem and part of who I was. Even with my love of words, I don't think I can accurately describe how much that event changed me. I also can't imagine how frustrating that time period was for the people who love me. Watching a loved one suffer can only be described as torturous. You can see the other person's pain, but what do you say to make it better? Can you say anything to make it better?
In Holding On and Letting Go, I focus on Emerson's grief and her varied attempts to cope, but Emerson is not the only character in the story feeling the pain of loss. Her old friends and family lost the Emerson that they knew. What I love most about the story is watching other characters attempt to stand by Emerson in completely different ways. I don't think any of their attempts are completely right or wrong. I wish I had the right answer for how to handle loss, but I don't. I don't know that anyone does.
Young adults deserve to have a seat at the table when it comes to the discussion of loss because we can't protect them from it. I do know that it always helps to know that you're not alone when you're in pain. I hope the book provides someone at least that much comfort.
As for me, all I'm certain of is that life goes on.
Follow me @KA_Coleman on Twitter or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/WriterKAColeman
June 17, 2014
Is That You?
"My granddaughter is on the front cover of a book."
If you talk to my grandmother, she will most likely tell you with pride that my picture is on the front cover of Holding On and Letting Go. At first, I chalked her assessment up to her age and increasing forgetfulness. As time passed though, other people told me that as well.
I get told frequently I look like other people. I don't see it most of the time. Unless it's Emily VanCamp. Whenever I get told I look like Emily VanCamp, I just pleasantly take the compliment. Huge fan of Revenge. Even then, I just don't see the resemblance. After more thought than I care to admit, I do look a little like whoever is actually on the cover of the book. Currently, I have my blonde hair in a bun which my hair desperately tries to escape. I only take earrings out to sleep, and I bury my face in clothes when I get cold.
Just because the title character looks like a little like me, it doesn't mean we share many similarities. To be blunt, the main reason the character is blonde with blue eyes is that I'm awful at describing clothes, so I just looked at my own closet when I needed inspiration. I've always been too much of a wimp to dye my hair. I got highlights for my brother's wedding, and they turned me into platinum Barbie which is not a good look on me. I then had to get low lights as to not look I just dumped bleach on my hair. After that, I decided to divorce hair dye due to irreconcilable differences. I wish I had a deeper meaning to making the main character's hair blonde, but it basically comes down to the fact that I've had over 20 years of experience realizing what colors do not work with my skin tone and hair color. For example, yellow is not a pale blonde girl's best friend. I say that with sadness because I live in the city that bleeds black and gold.
With all of that said, I was very specific in picking the cover in that I didn't want the model's face to be seen. I didn't want someone perfectly airbrushed because no one looks like that. As a teacher and just a person, I refuse to contribute to anything that makes females feel defined by looks or prettiness. I really don't want to perpetuate an already unhealthy cycle.
Imagine whomever you want on the cover. Imagine someone perfectly imperfect.
And to my grandma, I will always be the girl on the front cover.
Follow me on Goodreads, @KA_Coleman, or on Facebook. www.facebook.com/WriterKAColeman
If you talk to my grandmother, she will most likely tell you with pride that my picture is on the front cover of Holding On and Letting Go. At first, I chalked her assessment up to her age and increasing forgetfulness. As time passed though, other people told me that as well.
I get told frequently I look like other people. I don't see it most of the time. Unless it's Emily VanCamp. Whenever I get told I look like Emily VanCamp, I just pleasantly take the compliment. Huge fan of Revenge. Even then, I just don't see the resemblance. After more thought than I care to admit, I do look a little like whoever is actually on the cover of the book. Currently, I have my blonde hair in a bun which my hair desperately tries to escape. I only take earrings out to sleep, and I bury my face in clothes when I get cold.
Just because the title character looks like a little like me, it doesn't mean we share many similarities. To be blunt, the main reason the character is blonde with blue eyes is that I'm awful at describing clothes, so I just looked at my own closet when I needed inspiration. I've always been too much of a wimp to dye my hair. I got highlights for my brother's wedding, and they turned me into platinum Barbie which is not a good look on me. I then had to get low lights as to not look I just dumped bleach on my hair. After that, I decided to divorce hair dye due to irreconcilable differences. I wish I had a deeper meaning to making the main character's hair blonde, but it basically comes down to the fact that I've had over 20 years of experience realizing what colors do not work with my skin tone and hair color. For example, yellow is not a pale blonde girl's best friend. I say that with sadness because I live in the city that bleeds black and gold.
With all of that said, I was very specific in picking the cover in that I didn't want the model's face to be seen. I didn't want someone perfectly airbrushed because no one looks like that. As a teacher and just a person, I refuse to contribute to anything that makes females feel defined by looks or prettiness. I really don't want to perpetuate an already unhealthy cycle.
Imagine whomever you want on the cover. Imagine someone perfectly imperfect.
And to my grandma, I will always be the girl on the front cover.
Follow me on Goodreads, @KA_Coleman, or on Facebook. www.facebook.com/WriterKAColeman
May 4, 2014
The Reality of Holding On and Letting Go
Since it's National Mental Health Awareness month, it seemed like a fitting time to finally write this post.
Someone asked me recently how much of me is in Holding On and Letting Go. At first, I went for my usual answer: my clothes and my love of dogs. While I do own all of the clothes in the book and have two dogs, I gave a superficial answer. The real part of me that seeped into Holding On and Letting Go is my own personal struggle with depression.
Hindsight is 20/20, right? Looking back, I didn't realize just how easy I had it as a child, teenager, and college student. I have a very supportive family and strong friendships, and I didn't necessarily work for any of them. I just lucked out in the draw of the cards. Truly, I love both of my parents, and my older brother is a best friend of sorts. We may not look like siblings, but we are in every way that matters.
I don't know what it's like to be bullied; I saw it in middle school but it never landed on me. To be fair, I can level most people with one comment and hold my own in any argument. I think I got pushed once in my entire life, and I know I knocked that person down. Despite my small stature, my parents taught me at an early age to stand up for myself and other people. The Coleman family isn't exactly made up of passive or passive aggressive personalities. It also probably helped that I was constantly trying to tackle and arm lock my much taller and stronger older brother, so a girl of my size and weight was much easier to shove back when it came down to it. Don't get me wrong. I could very easily get my butt handed to me in a physical fight, but in the years that mattered in school hallways, I just never had to prove myself past one shove.
Likewise, while I'm not naturally brilliant, I realized at some point in college that I didn't have to work quite as hard as some people. I worked really hard for my grades, but I never had to worry about the all too important standardized tests. As it turns out, I find answering those verbal and math questions calming, and I like shading in the little bubbles. Again, I took for granted things that just came naturally to me when I should have been grateful.
In terms of appearance, I'm like any other female. I think most women carry a gene that predispositions us to hate one body part for no apparent reason. That one scene in Mean Girls is disturbingly accurate. I don't know why. I inherited a very fast metabolism, so I never had to worry about weight or whether or not to eat dessert. It's possible my love of food will catch up with me, but until it does, I am going to enjoy the ride on my metabolism for as long as possible.
I had a pretty nice life. When I got strep throat at 24, I didn't think anything of it. I took the antibiotics and never followed up on it despite feeling sleepy all of the time and a persistent sore throat. I didn't actually get retested for strep until about eight months after my first positive strep test. I probably would have went for longer, but my hair fell out in massive sheds, my skin broke out for the first time in my life, and I wanted to cry all of the time. When I went back to the doctor, I found out that I never got rid of strep and had to have my tonsils removed. As a not so lovely parting gift, the strep infection essentially destroyed my thyroid and hormone systems. Watching so much of my hair shed broke me. It sounds ridiculous, but it did. As a very strong Type A personality, I didn't take to watching things spiral out of my control particularly well. At that point, I was a 25 yr old woman watching my hair just come out in handfuls while my hormones just shut down which didn't leave me in a particularly good place to deal with things.
I went through every stage of depression fiercely. Denial. I had been perfectly fine a year ago, so how could things go wrong so quickly? Anger. I had quite a few "it's not fair" moments coupled with "why me?" moments. Overwhelming sadness. I cried so much during that period. I cried out of sadness for what I lost, the part of me I lost, and frustration that I couldn't seem to pick myself up again. Truly, I'm amazed that more people couldn't tell I was on the verge of losing it all of the time. Finally, wanting to disappear. I wasn't suicidal. The rational part of me couldn't do it to myself or the people I loved. I just wanted to stay in the house and in my bed and disappear. I didn't want to talk. I certainly didn't want to go out besides work which was a struggle. I didn't even recognize myself in the mirror. I was very much shattered and just going through the motions. Gratefully, I had a strong enough support system that I essentially got forced into seeing a psychiatrist.
It took some trial and error to find a doctor that I liked and trusted, but it made all of the difference in the world. I didn't want to take any medication. I didn't want to be seen as weak or the stigma attached to it. The psychiatrist won that fight. Given that my body wasn't producing the proper amount of chemicals for me to be happy or even okay, I needed to take something to compensate for what my body had stopped doing naturally. They must train psychiatrists to be able to decipher "ugly cry" speak because I have no clue how that guy heard anything I was saying for the first few months. Depression is ugly. Every insecurity and fear comes to the surface, and all of the good things in life seem to disappear.
I may have lost some battles to depression (a friend's wedding, time with my nephews, some months of my life), but I won the war. Is everyday puppy dogs and rainbows? No. Part of life is getting knocked down. Do I wish I would never shed hair again? Absolutely. Have I gotten to a place where I am happy with who I am? Yes. I like me, and I deserve a life filled with love and happiness which I have. If I kept handing over months of my life every time I got sick or pulled out a handful of hair or couldn't control the world, I'd be fairly miserable. Everyday, I make the conscious decision that I want more out of life, and I am the only person who can make that decision and fight that battle for me. I deserve more out of life.
I'm writing this post because I didn't seek help for so long because of the stigmas attached to depression. I didn't fit the "type". I've always had a great family and friends. I've never gone through a phase of wearing all black. To be honest, I am very much the girl next door in terms of appearance. And that's the thing. No one thinks that the girl next door may be struggling with something. No one signs up to be on the losing side of depression. It's not a choice any more than any other illness is, nor should depression be something to be ashamed of ever. I'm willing to put my name and face with it because I hope that it makes it easier for someone else to get help. I wrote the book in hopes of helping someone else. You're not alone, and you're not weak. You are the only one who can fight this specific fight, and you owe that to yourself.
http://www.amazon.com/Holding-On-Lett...
Someone asked me recently how much of me is in Holding On and Letting Go. At first, I went for my usual answer: my clothes and my love of dogs. While I do own all of the clothes in the book and have two dogs, I gave a superficial answer. The real part of me that seeped into Holding On and Letting Go is my own personal struggle with depression.
Hindsight is 20/20, right? Looking back, I didn't realize just how easy I had it as a child, teenager, and college student. I have a very supportive family and strong friendships, and I didn't necessarily work for any of them. I just lucked out in the draw of the cards. Truly, I love both of my parents, and my older brother is a best friend of sorts. We may not look like siblings, but we are in every way that matters.
I don't know what it's like to be bullied; I saw it in middle school but it never landed on me. To be fair, I can level most people with one comment and hold my own in any argument. I think I got pushed once in my entire life, and I know I knocked that person down. Despite my small stature, my parents taught me at an early age to stand up for myself and other people. The Coleman family isn't exactly made up of passive or passive aggressive personalities. It also probably helped that I was constantly trying to tackle and arm lock my much taller and stronger older brother, so a girl of my size and weight was much easier to shove back when it came down to it. Don't get me wrong. I could very easily get my butt handed to me in a physical fight, but in the years that mattered in school hallways, I just never had to prove myself past one shove.
Likewise, while I'm not naturally brilliant, I realized at some point in college that I didn't have to work quite as hard as some people. I worked really hard for my grades, but I never had to worry about the all too important standardized tests. As it turns out, I find answering those verbal and math questions calming, and I like shading in the little bubbles. Again, I took for granted things that just came naturally to me when I should have been grateful.
In terms of appearance, I'm like any other female. I think most women carry a gene that predispositions us to hate one body part for no apparent reason. That one scene in Mean Girls is disturbingly accurate. I don't know why. I inherited a very fast metabolism, so I never had to worry about weight or whether or not to eat dessert. It's possible my love of food will catch up with me, but until it does, I am going to enjoy the ride on my metabolism for as long as possible.
I had a pretty nice life. When I got strep throat at 24, I didn't think anything of it. I took the antibiotics and never followed up on it despite feeling sleepy all of the time and a persistent sore throat. I didn't actually get retested for strep until about eight months after my first positive strep test. I probably would have went for longer, but my hair fell out in massive sheds, my skin broke out for the first time in my life, and I wanted to cry all of the time. When I went back to the doctor, I found out that I never got rid of strep and had to have my tonsils removed. As a not so lovely parting gift, the strep infection essentially destroyed my thyroid and hormone systems. Watching so much of my hair shed broke me. It sounds ridiculous, but it did. As a very strong Type A personality, I didn't take to watching things spiral out of my control particularly well. At that point, I was a 25 yr old woman watching my hair just come out in handfuls while my hormones just shut down which didn't leave me in a particularly good place to deal with things.
I went through every stage of depression fiercely. Denial. I had been perfectly fine a year ago, so how could things go wrong so quickly? Anger. I had quite a few "it's not fair" moments coupled with "why me?" moments. Overwhelming sadness. I cried so much during that period. I cried out of sadness for what I lost, the part of me I lost, and frustration that I couldn't seem to pick myself up again. Truly, I'm amazed that more people couldn't tell I was on the verge of losing it all of the time. Finally, wanting to disappear. I wasn't suicidal. The rational part of me couldn't do it to myself or the people I loved. I just wanted to stay in the house and in my bed and disappear. I didn't want to talk. I certainly didn't want to go out besides work which was a struggle. I didn't even recognize myself in the mirror. I was very much shattered and just going through the motions. Gratefully, I had a strong enough support system that I essentially got forced into seeing a psychiatrist.
It took some trial and error to find a doctor that I liked and trusted, but it made all of the difference in the world. I didn't want to take any medication. I didn't want to be seen as weak or the stigma attached to it. The psychiatrist won that fight. Given that my body wasn't producing the proper amount of chemicals for me to be happy or even okay, I needed to take something to compensate for what my body had stopped doing naturally. They must train psychiatrists to be able to decipher "ugly cry" speak because I have no clue how that guy heard anything I was saying for the first few months. Depression is ugly. Every insecurity and fear comes to the surface, and all of the good things in life seem to disappear.
I may have lost some battles to depression (a friend's wedding, time with my nephews, some months of my life), but I won the war. Is everyday puppy dogs and rainbows? No. Part of life is getting knocked down. Do I wish I would never shed hair again? Absolutely. Have I gotten to a place where I am happy with who I am? Yes. I like me, and I deserve a life filled with love and happiness which I have. If I kept handing over months of my life every time I got sick or pulled out a handful of hair or couldn't control the world, I'd be fairly miserable. Everyday, I make the conscious decision that I want more out of life, and I am the only person who can make that decision and fight that battle for me. I deserve more out of life.
I'm writing this post because I didn't seek help for so long because of the stigmas attached to depression. I didn't fit the "type". I've always had a great family and friends. I've never gone through a phase of wearing all black. To be honest, I am very much the girl next door in terms of appearance. And that's the thing. No one thinks that the girl next door may be struggling with something. No one signs up to be on the losing side of depression. It's not a choice any more than any other illness is, nor should depression be something to be ashamed of ever. I'm willing to put my name and face with it because I hope that it makes it easier for someone else to get help. I wrote the book in hopes of helping someone else. You're not alone, and you're not weak. You are the only one who can fight this specific fight, and you owe that to yourself.
http://www.amazon.com/Holding-On-Lett...
February 16, 2014
Why I Hate Twilight
Trust me. I'm aware that I'm going to garner some animosity from this post, but it really has been a long time coming. I fully and passionately hate the Twilight series of books. Why? Well, I have a list. My airing of grievances is in no particular order.
1) I have a dog named Belle. Since I apparently named her around the same time the series came out, I get asked, "Oh, after the character in Twilight?", on a regular basis. No, I named her after the Disney princess who loved to read and had one of the best libraries I've ever seen at her disposal. Also, my dog accomplishes more in one day than the character in that book. Simply by barking and catching a ball in mid-air, the dog has shown more athleticism and voice than the character in Twilight. When a dog is doing more than you, it's time to question life decisions.
2) When Edward dumps Bella in the woods, she literally curls into the fetal position. After a search party is sent out to find her, a solid six months pass in the book of nothing happening. I literally mean nothing. The chapters just consist of the names of months that pass. Do you know how long it used to take me to get over someone? Approximately the length of time it took to gather everything the person ever gave me, deposit it at a Goodwill store (someone should benefit from my poor choices), play a few angry songs, and an evening out with girl friends. Yes, I have cried over boys, but if I'm being honest, I cried out of pride. I was mad that I didn't do the dumping first. In more cases than I care to admit, I got back together with the person just so I could rewrite history and dump him. I would apologize for my poor behavior, but as a rule, I don't stay friends with exes, so they shouldn't be reading this post. Also, I'm not really sorry. Until I got engaged and then married, I refused to change my relationship status on Facebook because I knew none of the relationships were going to last. I didn't want them to last. If I was still figuring out me, how could I possibly fully commit to someone else? I couldn't. I took the scenic route to marriage; while that is not the right path for everyone, it was the right path for me. Clearly, I'm not running for sainthood, but I have also never been left completely wrecked by a guy. I say this as someone whose parents started dating in high school; by no means do I mean to say that high school relationship are insignificant, but I truly believe you have to be okay on your own before being in a healthy relationship. A suicidal Bella Swan is not being okay on her own.
3) I wouldn't consider myself an athlete by any means, yet I manage to interact with humans on a daily basis without tripping, falling down, or getting called "clumsy". In Twilight, Bella essentially can't move without getting hurt which is actually insane to me. Have you seen the Olympics? There are some extraordinary female athletes. If they can fly through the air or jump across the ice, surely, Bella can manage to open a gift without hurting herself.
4) I absolutely hate the idea of females reading about a weak female character. I particularly hate that the book was written by a woman. Teenage girls deserve so much better than Bella Swan as a heroine (I'm using the term very loosely here). All of the teenagers I know are exceptionally bright, talented, and extremely strong. In a society where so many pictures of women are photoshopped to an unnatural standard and so many lyrics are demeaning to women on so many levels, why would another female make the decision decide to feed into that image? I'm not perfect. I make messes and I sometimes jump without looking. With that said, I also clean up my messes and deal with the consequences of my decisions. I don't wait for someone to save me. I honestly don't know any females who do.
5) Bella literally has to change to survive in Edward's world. I agree that people change and grow up over time. I'm not the same person I was at 16, 21, or even last year for that matter, but I never changed for someone else. I may act differently depending upon the occasion, but I know who I am. More than that? I like who I am right now. It's an important lesson that Twilight fails to teach.
Maybe we could have done with a little less description of glittering and more actual character development for the central character? Just a thought. For the record, I read the Twilight series because I lost a bet.
More than anything, I want to help change the landscape of YA literature. Realistically, I won't be able to do it overnight. With that said, I don't plan on giving up my dream. I'm a force. I'll get there one day. In the mean time, I'm very excited to see what the next generation will bring to the table. From the time I've spent teaching them, I can see many of them being game changers in the best possible way.
As always, feel free to friend me on Facebook, https://www.facebook.com/kelly.coleman11, follow me on Twitter, https://twitter.com/KA_Coleman, or connect to me on LinkedIn, http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?....
1) I have a dog named Belle. Since I apparently named her around the same time the series came out, I get asked, "Oh, after the character in Twilight?", on a regular basis. No, I named her after the Disney princess who loved to read and had one of the best libraries I've ever seen at her disposal. Also, my dog accomplishes more in one day than the character in that book. Simply by barking and catching a ball in mid-air, the dog has shown more athleticism and voice than the character in Twilight. When a dog is doing more than you, it's time to question life decisions.
2) When Edward dumps Bella in the woods, she literally curls into the fetal position. After a search party is sent out to find her, a solid six months pass in the book of nothing happening. I literally mean nothing. The chapters just consist of the names of months that pass. Do you know how long it used to take me to get over someone? Approximately the length of time it took to gather everything the person ever gave me, deposit it at a Goodwill store (someone should benefit from my poor choices), play a few angry songs, and an evening out with girl friends. Yes, I have cried over boys, but if I'm being honest, I cried out of pride. I was mad that I didn't do the dumping first. In more cases than I care to admit, I got back together with the person just so I could rewrite history and dump him. I would apologize for my poor behavior, but as a rule, I don't stay friends with exes, so they shouldn't be reading this post. Also, I'm not really sorry. Until I got engaged and then married, I refused to change my relationship status on Facebook because I knew none of the relationships were going to last. I didn't want them to last. If I was still figuring out me, how could I possibly fully commit to someone else? I couldn't. I took the scenic route to marriage; while that is not the right path for everyone, it was the right path for me. Clearly, I'm not running for sainthood, but I have also never been left completely wrecked by a guy. I say this as someone whose parents started dating in high school; by no means do I mean to say that high school relationship are insignificant, but I truly believe you have to be okay on your own before being in a healthy relationship. A suicidal Bella Swan is not being okay on her own.
3) I wouldn't consider myself an athlete by any means, yet I manage to interact with humans on a daily basis without tripping, falling down, or getting called "clumsy". In Twilight, Bella essentially can't move without getting hurt which is actually insane to me. Have you seen the Olympics? There are some extraordinary female athletes. If they can fly through the air or jump across the ice, surely, Bella can manage to open a gift without hurting herself.
4) I absolutely hate the idea of females reading about a weak female character. I particularly hate that the book was written by a woman. Teenage girls deserve so much better than Bella Swan as a heroine (I'm using the term very loosely here). All of the teenagers I know are exceptionally bright, talented, and extremely strong. In a society where so many pictures of women are photoshopped to an unnatural standard and so many lyrics are demeaning to women on so many levels, why would another female make the decision decide to feed into that image? I'm not perfect. I make messes and I sometimes jump without looking. With that said, I also clean up my messes and deal with the consequences of my decisions. I don't wait for someone to save me. I honestly don't know any females who do.
5) Bella literally has to change to survive in Edward's world. I agree that people change and grow up over time. I'm not the same person I was at 16, 21, or even last year for that matter, but I never changed for someone else. I may act differently depending upon the occasion, but I know who I am. More than that? I like who I am right now. It's an important lesson that Twilight fails to teach.
Maybe we could have done with a little less description of glittering and more actual character development for the central character? Just a thought. For the record, I read the Twilight series because I lost a bet.
More than anything, I want to help change the landscape of YA literature. Realistically, I won't be able to do it overnight. With that said, I don't plan on giving up my dream. I'm a force. I'll get there one day. In the mean time, I'm very excited to see what the next generation will bring to the table. From the time I've spent teaching them, I can see many of them being game changers in the best possible way.
As always, feel free to friend me on Facebook, https://www.facebook.com/kelly.coleman11, follow me on Twitter, https://twitter.com/KA_Coleman, or connect to me on LinkedIn, http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?....
January 27, 2014
My Story
Once upon a time, there was a little girl with quite a few big dreams. She grew up in a wonderland of sorts with two amazing parents, a brother whom she idolized, grandparents who threw birthday parties for her dolls, and a dog that could only be described as the gentlest being ever on earth. The only thing that was missing was the white picket fence, but the little girl never seemed to notice. She didn't like to be fenced in anyway; she preferred to run wild outside even if that resulted in some talks about looking both ways before crossing the street. The little girl was incredibly happy. She picked berries in her grandparents' backyard, ran around trying to tackle her older brother, wore a princess tiara to her tea parties, and lived a childhood that only very lucky little girls get to live.
As all little girls must, she started kindergarden when she was four. Suddenly, the wonders of the outdoors were replaced by rules about which square she had to stand or sit on for what seemed like an eternity. The little girl grew miserable. She cried every single day in kindergarden. Whenever it came time to go school, the little girl feigned every imaginable injury and ailment. She swore school was her enemy, and she was going to break free as soon as she got a say in the matter.
As the years progressed, the little girl started to grow up; in the process, she gained invaluable friendships, yet she still hated school with a fiery passion. Though all tests and scores indicated that the girl was an academic success, she still felt mostly imprisoned within the walls of the building where she earned her awards. Somewhere in the midst of crying and arguing that she didn't need school and braces (she lost that argument too) for that matter, the girl fell head over heals in love with reading. She read everything and anything. Though she might still be sitting in the classroom, the girl was on deep sea adventures learning about sharks, searching for clues with Nancy Drew, and falling in love with Mr. Darcy; ultimately, with each journey, the girl found more pieces of herself.
Despite her earlier threats to quit school, she continued on to college where she learned that the classroom didn't have to be a prison. For the first time, not only wasn't the now young woman feigning illnesses, but she attended class even when she actually was sick. She fell in love with college and learning and everything that education should be.
With her new outlook on education, she decided to become a teacher. Yes, the little girl who hated school returned to it of her own free will. She decided and hoped that she could make a difference. She wanted to make the classroom about more than a strict set of rules and and a place of judgment, and she planned to do so with the books she loved so dearly at her side. After she spent hours writing lesson plans, she often tossed them to the side the very next day. The woman quickly and somewhat harshly learned that life couldn't be completely planned down to the minute. In fact, the moment she thought she had life figured out, the world threw some very tough curveballs her way. With that earth-shattering realization, she realized teaching had to be just as flexible as her new lease on life. She did her best to be the best teacher she could be, but in a nation full of standardized testing, she came to accept and understand that there really was no way to know for certain if she made a difference.
While she taught, the woman realized that every awful stereotype of teenagers was so very wrong. In her free time, she dreamed of telling different stories. Eventually, she wrote her ideas down, but writing wasn't enough for her. She expected more out of herself and thought her messages deserved to be heard, so she fought, clawed, begged, chased, and searched for a publisher. Unfortunately, the woman found that she would probably have an easier time finding the proverbial needle in the haystack than she would in finding a publisher.
To be honest, she wanted to quit. She had never felt the sting of rejection before, and it was highly unpleasant. It was that week that a publisher offered her a contract that would put her first book, Holding On and Letting Go, on shelves in the summer of 2014. She had succeeded.
I can't end the story with a "she lived happily ever after" because my life, my story, is still being written. Will there be tough days to come? I'm certain. I'm equally certain that I will continue to dream bigger and strive to be the best I can be. I have this theory that your life actually begins to end the day that you stop dreaming. I'm not ready to let go of the carefree little girl who ran wild even if it meant some skinned knees and tears. I would rather run and fall 100 times than never experience the freedom of running. More than anything, I hope the little blonde girl, with pigtails and a bit of a rebellious side, stays with me for the rest of my life.
To be continued....
Follow me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/KA_Coleman or Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/kelly.coleman11.
As all little girls must, she started kindergarden when she was four. Suddenly, the wonders of the outdoors were replaced by rules about which square she had to stand or sit on for what seemed like an eternity. The little girl grew miserable. She cried every single day in kindergarden. Whenever it came time to go school, the little girl feigned every imaginable injury and ailment. She swore school was her enemy, and she was going to break free as soon as she got a say in the matter.
As the years progressed, the little girl started to grow up; in the process, she gained invaluable friendships, yet she still hated school with a fiery passion. Though all tests and scores indicated that the girl was an academic success, she still felt mostly imprisoned within the walls of the building where she earned her awards. Somewhere in the midst of crying and arguing that she didn't need school and braces (she lost that argument too) for that matter, the girl fell head over heals in love with reading. She read everything and anything. Though she might still be sitting in the classroom, the girl was on deep sea adventures learning about sharks, searching for clues with Nancy Drew, and falling in love with Mr. Darcy; ultimately, with each journey, the girl found more pieces of herself.
Despite her earlier threats to quit school, she continued on to college where she learned that the classroom didn't have to be a prison. For the first time, not only wasn't the now young woman feigning illnesses, but she attended class even when she actually was sick. She fell in love with college and learning and everything that education should be.
With her new outlook on education, she decided to become a teacher. Yes, the little girl who hated school returned to it of her own free will. She decided and hoped that she could make a difference. She wanted to make the classroom about more than a strict set of rules and and a place of judgment, and she planned to do so with the books she loved so dearly at her side. After she spent hours writing lesson plans, she often tossed them to the side the very next day. The woman quickly and somewhat harshly learned that life couldn't be completely planned down to the minute. In fact, the moment she thought she had life figured out, the world threw some very tough curveballs her way. With that earth-shattering realization, she realized teaching had to be just as flexible as her new lease on life. She did her best to be the best teacher she could be, but in a nation full of standardized testing, she came to accept and understand that there really was no way to know for certain if she made a difference.
While she taught, the woman realized that every awful stereotype of teenagers was so very wrong. In her free time, she dreamed of telling different stories. Eventually, she wrote her ideas down, but writing wasn't enough for her. She expected more out of herself and thought her messages deserved to be heard, so she fought, clawed, begged, chased, and searched for a publisher. Unfortunately, the woman found that she would probably have an easier time finding the proverbial needle in the haystack than she would in finding a publisher.
To be honest, she wanted to quit. She had never felt the sting of rejection before, and it was highly unpleasant. It was that week that a publisher offered her a contract that would put her first book, Holding On and Letting Go, on shelves in the summer of 2014. She had succeeded.
I can't end the story with a "she lived happily ever after" because my life, my story, is still being written. Will there be tough days to come? I'm certain. I'm equally certain that I will continue to dream bigger and strive to be the best I can be. I have this theory that your life actually begins to end the day that you stop dreaming. I'm not ready to let go of the carefree little girl who ran wild even if it meant some skinned knees and tears. I would rather run and fall 100 times than never experience the freedom of running. More than anything, I hope the little blonde girl, with pigtails and a bit of a rebellious side, stays with me for the rest of my life.
To be continued....
Follow me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/KA_Coleman or Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/kelly.coleman11.
October 13, 2013
Writing about Writing?
As I'm writing the last installment in The Ties That Bind Us series, I realized how much slower I was writing. I could blame it on any number of things. I teach full time. I had laryngitis for a few weeks. I traveled a good bit over the summer. I've yet to meet a cause where I said "no". To be honest, I don't think it's any of those things. I have always multi-tasked. I don't think there is a time during the day when there aren't at least four projects I am working out in my head while I do other things. When I commit to something, I commit. It's why I like to nap and sleep; I get to shut down for a few hours.
I think it's taking me longer to write the last book because it is coming from multiple characters' perspectives at various ages. I continually stop to think about how I would have approached the problem at 17, 21, and 28. I'm not rewriting my own history, but I think it's safe to say that I'm not the same person as I was when I was 17. Most people aren't. My high school and college years were fine and fairly undramatic. I would chalk this up to my own maturity, but it was actually because I have Sherlock Holmes and Nancy Drew for parents. Their ability to tell when someone is lying is uncanny. My dad's second favorite phrase when I was in high school and college was "I didn't put all of this time, money, and energy into raising you to let you do something stupid because I want to be your friend". My mom is a human tape recorder. If I said it, she remembered it which pretty much took changing my story out of the question. I don't need to rewrite my high school or college years because I accomplished what I wanted to at the time.
As I have gotten older, my personality traits have become more pronounced as I've shed the insecurity that comes with being a teenager or young adult. In high school, I only stood up for myself if my back was against the wall. Let's just say I'm really good at sticking up for myself and what I believe in as an adult. As a teenager, I took every mean word said about me to heart. I cried easily. Now, I don't really care what other people think about me. I like me. If someone else doesn't like me, the world will keep on turning. I'm not saying I have all of the answers at 28. I don't. I'm just willing to admit that I don't know everything now whereas I probably wouldn't have ever said that at 17 and 21.
Thus, I'm stuck writing at a slower pace because the voices of a 17 yr old, 21 yr old, and 28 yr old are very different. I don't think one is better than the other, and I'm not doing the characters I've come to love justice if I don't acknowledge the difference. Though this book is taking me longer to write, it probably has helped me become a better teacher. Once I think about the mistakes I made at 17, I become quite a bit more forgiving when students make a mistake. To all my former high school teachers, I am very sorry for all of the times I rolled my eyes in class or complained about an assignment. As it turns out, you probably weren't trying to make me miserable or kill me. Sorry!
Stay tuned for the third book.
I think it's taking me longer to write the last book because it is coming from multiple characters' perspectives at various ages. I continually stop to think about how I would have approached the problem at 17, 21, and 28. I'm not rewriting my own history, but I think it's safe to say that I'm not the same person as I was when I was 17. Most people aren't. My high school and college years were fine and fairly undramatic. I would chalk this up to my own maturity, but it was actually because I have Sherlock Holmes and Nancy Drew for parents. Their ability to tell when someone is lying is uncanny. My dad's second favorite phrase when I was in high school and college was "I didn't put all of this time, money, and energy into raising you to let you do something stupid because I want to be your friend". My mom is a human tape recorder. If I said it, she remembered it which pretty much took changing my story out of the question. I don't need to rewrite my high school or college years because I accomplished what I wanted to at the time.
As I have gotten older, my personality traits have become more pronounced as I've shed the insecurity that comes with being a teenager or young adult. In high school, I only stood up for myself if my back was against the wall. Let's just say I'm really good at sticking up for myself and what I believe in as an adult. As a teenager, I took every mean word said about me to heart. I cried easily. Now, I don't really care what other people think about me. I like me. If someone else doesn't like me, the world will keep on turning. I'm not saying I have all of the answers at 28. I don't. I'm just willing to admit that I don't know everything now whereas I probably wouldn't have ever said that at 17 and 21.
Thus, I'm stuck writing at a slower pace because the voices of a 17 yr old, 21 yr old, and 28 yr old are very different. I don't think one is better than the other, and I'm not doing the characters I've come to love justice if I don't acknowledge the difference. Though this book is taking me longer to write, it probably has helped me become a better teacher. Once I think about the mistakes I made at 17, I become quite a bit more forgiving when students make a mistake. To all my former high school teachers, I am very sorry for all of the times I rolled my eyes in class or complained about an assignment. As it turns out, you probably weren't trying to make me miserable or kill me. Sorry!
Stay tuned for the third book.
September 29, 2013
If you only read one blog post, read this one.
Yesterday, while at Pitt's Homecoming Game, I heard the story of Alyssa Josephine O'Neill. She was an 18 year old who lost her battle with epilepsy to a terrible seizure. One of the last things she asked her parents for was a pumpkin latte; unfortunately, she died before she could get it.
Days after her death, her brother and sister went to the Starbucks in Erie and paid for 40 coffees for complete strangers. Their only request was that #ajo be put on the cup in honor of their sister's memory. Slowly, #ajo has been making its way around the country and the world. People are randomly picking up the tabs for strangers.
I went into Starbucks today, and I donated $20 in coffee to the next few customers with the only caveat being that I wanted #ajo written on the cups. As I waited for my coffee, I could hear the cashier explaining to people that their coffee was paid for already by a stranger. A random act of kindness. The customers I saw hear the news (I tried to slip out quickly) kept asking why, and the poor cashier had to keep explaining to them that there was no catch. The coffee was free.
Before I could get out of the store, the old woman directly behind me asked if I was close friends with the girl who had passed away. I am as much a stranger to Alyssa and her family as I am to the people at Starbucks.
It struck me very quickly that we live in a world where people are less shocked by acts of violence than something as small as receiving a free cup of coffee. It's somewhat of a terrifying notion. I don't want to live in a world where random acts of kindness are such a rarity that people question if there is a catch.
Let me be clear. I'm not the best person in the world. If you really wanted me to, I could list all of my bad qualities in alphabetical order. I'm not a martyr. I'm not a saint. I am also not asking to be commended on my actions.
I am asking that you consider paying it forward. Buy the cup of coffee for the stranger behind you. Send someone a card randomly. Leave a gift card for a family who has toys on layaway. Donate money to a cause. Buy a new toy for Children's Hospital. Leave a gift card at a bookstore. Do something. Do anything.
At the end of the day, we all share this world. It shouldn't take the death of a young woman to remind us to treat others with kindness. Do it for Alyssa Josephine O'Neill. Do it for strangers. Do it for yourself and your family.
Do it because a little extra kindness in the world is never a bad thing.
Days after her death, her brother and sister went to the Starbucks in Erie and paid for 40 coffees for complete strangers. Their only request was that #ajo be put on the cup in honor of their sister's memory. Slowly, #ajo has been making its way around the country and the world. People are randomly picking up the tabs for strangers.
I went into Starbucks today, and I donated $20 in coffee to the next few customers with the only caveat being that I wanted #ajo written on the cups. As I waited for my coffee, I could hear the cashier explaining to people that their coffee was paid for already by a stranger. A random act of kindness. The customers I saw hear the news (I tried to slip out quickly) kept asking why, and the poor cashier had to keep explaining to them that there was no catch. The coffee was free.
Before I could get out of the store, the old woman directly behind me asked if I was close friends with the girl who had passed away. I am as much a stranger to Alyssa and her family as I am to the people at Starbucks.
It struck me very quickly that we live in a world where people are less shocked by acts of violence than something as small as receiving a free cup of coffee. It's somewhat of a terrifying notion. I don't want to live in a world where random acts of kindness are such a rarity that people question if there is a catch.
Let me be clear. I'm not the best person in the world. If you really wanted me to, I could list all of my bad qualities in alphabetical order. I'm not a martyr. I'm not a saint. I am also not asking to be commended on my actions.
I am asking that you consider paying it forward. Buy the cup of coffee for the stranger behind you. Send someone a card randomly. Leave a gift card for a family who has toys on layaway. Donate money to a cause. Buy a new toy for Children's Hospital. Leave a gift card at a bookstore. Do something. Do anything.
At the end of the day, we all share this world. It shouldn't take the death of a young woman to remind us to treat others with kindness. Do it for Alyssa Josephine O'Neill. Do it for strangers. Do it for yourself and your family.
Do it because a little extra kindness in the world is never a bad thing.
May 3, 2013
What's in a Name?
Okay, first of all, I realize I stole that quote from Romeo and Juliet. For the record, I actually think Romeo and Juliet should be titled Horny and Rebellious. The tragedy of that play is not one of a great love story but that two young kids took their lives for no apparent reason. I could continue on my rant, but I won't. Truth be told, I'm a Hamlet kind of girl.
Names are important, right? When I write something, I frequently spend a good bit of time deliberating over what name feels right for the character. Perhaps it is because I have taught high school for six years now, but certain names just have strong associations for me. Honestly, I do my best to not use any names of kids I have taught in any of my books. This challenge is becoming increasingly more difficult because there is a new batch of names every year. Someone asked me if I named the main character in Holding On and Letting Go after Ralph Waldo Emerson. Truth be told, I actually really do like that writer, but it had nothing to do with why I picked the name Emerson for the main character. Knowing how I wanted the character to develop, "Emerson" just felt right.
Clearly, I have some strong feelings about names. In fact, I am getting married in less than two months. I love my fiance. He is a wonderful person. I am keeping my last name though. My last name and I have spent 28 years together; if you separated my first name from my last, it would be akin to separating PB from Jelly. It's just not right. You can imagine my horror then when I realized I had to write under a pen name because I teach. "Lucy" is a nickname by parents and brother have called me since birth; I'm not sure there is a reason why. And "Kelly" is my real first name. It's a great first name. It means "warrior", and given my hatred of damsels in distress, it just fits. I know tons of authors write under pen names, but I hate doing it.
With that said, I am reclaiming my real name when I put out the sequel to Holding On and Letting Go. At that time, I will also put a second edition of Holding On and Letting Go out with my real name. As it turns out, I can't let go of my name.
Names are important, right? When I write something, I frequently spend a good bit of time deliberating over what name feels right for the character. Perhaps it is because I have taught high school for six years now, but certain names just have strong associations for me. Honestly, I do my best to not use any names of kids I have taught in any of my books. This challenge is becoming increasingly more difficult because there is a new batch of names every year. Someone asked me if I named the main character in Holding On and Letting Go after Ralph Waldo Emerson. Truth be told, I actually really do like that writer, but it had nothing to do with why I picked the name Emerson for the main character. Knowing how I wanted the character to develop, "Emerson" just felt right.
Clearly, I have some strong feelings about names. In fact, I am getting married in less than two months. I love my fiance. He is a wonderful person. I am keeping my last name though. My last name and I have spent 28 years together; if you separated my first name from my last, it would be akin to separating PB from Jelly. It's just not right. You can imagine my horror then when I realized I had to write under a pen name because I teach. "Lucy" is a nickname by parents and brother have called me since birth; I'm not sure there is a reason why. And "Kelly" is my real first name. It's a great first name. It means "warrior", and given my hatred of damsels in distress, it just fits. I know tons of authors write under pen names, but I hate doing it.
With that said, I am reclaiming my real name when I put out the sequel to Holding On and Letting Go. At that time, I will also put a second edition of Holding On and Letting Go out with my real name. As it turns out, I can't let go of my name.
April 21, 2013
Why I Hate Damsels in Distress
I will be the first person to tell you that I love characters. Obviously, the plot of a story is important, but if the reader doesn't fall in love with a character or two, the plot doesn't matter. Dan Brown's books have been huge successes in the past that have spawned copycats. I think I've read two of them. They were fine. My main problem is that all I remember about the main character is that he had a Mickey Mouse watch. That doesn't really flesh out the character for me. I didn't want to hang out with him. I didn't want to date him. And I didn't want him telling me the amount of parachute I needed to jump out of a plane and live.
My biggest pet peeve is when authors create books where the main female character is waiting for her Prince Charming to come save her. I hate the message that those books send to the teenage audience. When a female character's qualities are only that she's clumsy, in need of constant rescue, and quiet as a mouse, I am immediately turned off by the book. I hate the message that the book is most likely inadvertently selling, "Females need males to save them and make them popular". Yikes. Count me out on that one. I respect Catherine in Wuthering Heights more. Obviously, she wasn't running for sainthood, but at the very least, her character did something. Anything.
Yes, it's lovely to have a nice looking male lead, and sometimes that is the person in real life to save you. Other times, your friends or family are the ones to jump in to the deep end to pull you out of the water. Most often though, we as people have to save ourselves. We make the decision every day to battle through whatever problems we have. Why shouldn't characters reflect that strength?
No SOS signal from this girl.
My biggest pet peeve is when authors create books where the main female character is waiting for her Prince Charming to come save her. I hate the message that those books send to the teenage audience. When a female character's qualities are only that she's clumsy, in need of constant rescue, and quiet as a mouse, I am immediately turned off by the book. I hate the message that the book is most likely inadvertently selling, "Females need males to save them and make them popular". Yikes. Count me out on that one. I respect Catherine in Wuthering Heights more. Obviously, she wasn't running for sainthood, but at the very least, her character did something. Anything.
Yes, it's lovely to have a nice looking male lead, and sometimes that is the person in real life to save you. Other times, your friends or family are the ones to jump in to the deep end to pull you out of the water. Most often though, we as people have to save ourselves. We make the decision every day to battle through whatever problems we have. Why shouldn't characters reflect that strength?
No SOS signal from this girl.
March 26, 2013
Why did I start writing?
To be honest, it's a harder question to answer than I thought it would be. I've never considered myself a "writer". I am sure if you ask my older brother who had the pleasure (or lack thereof) of proofreading my writing in middle school, he would tell you writing wasn't necessarily a strength of mine. I don't even really want to admit how old I was when I finally figured out how to use a comma correctly; it is actually that embarrassing.
After college, I started to make up stories when I was bored, but I never took it seriously. It was just a way to pass time. And then, I fell in love with teaching. I loved it so much that I would make ridiculous deals to get students invested in my class. I'd watch two episodes of Man vs. Wild if every senior could pass the Hamlet test. I would read the Hunger Games and Twilight if the freshmen could go a quarter without failing an assignment. What started out as a way to motivate students ended with me watching some reality television (it was already a guilty pleasure) and reading young adult books. I hadn't really revisited that genre since I was in high school maybe?
Some of the YA books blew me away, and others just made me kind of sad. They lacked character development and were so very predictable. Moreover, I am always saddened when there is a weak female character and young girls love the book. I'm "Team Hermione" over here. That character brought some substance to the table.
Ultimately, wanting to create a female character with depth is what made me start writing. No teenager, male or female, is one dimensional, and for that reason, the characters they read about shouldn't be portrayed that way either. Take a closer look, and you'll find some pretty amazing young adults who defy all of the stereotypes given to teenagers.
After college, I started to make up stories when I was bored, but I never took it seriously. It was just a way to pass time. And then, I fell in love with teaching. I loved it so much that I would make ridiculous deals to get students invested in my class. I'd watch two episodes of Man vs. Wild if every senior could pass the Hamlet test. I would read the Hunger Games and Twilight if the freshmen could go a quarter without failing an assignment. What started out as a way to motivate students ended with me watching some reality television (it was already a guilty pleasure) and reading young adult books. I hadn't really revisited that genre since I was in high school maybe?
Some of the YA books blew me away, and others just made me kind of sad. They lacked character development and were so very predictable. Moreover, I am always saddened when there is a weak female character and young girls love the book. I'm "Team Hermione" over here. That character brought some substance to the table.
Ultimately, wanting to create a female character with depth is what made me start writing. No teenager, male or female, is one dimensional, and for that reason, the characters they read about shouldn't be portrayed that way either. Take a closer look, and you'll find some pretty amazing young adults who defy all of the stereotypes given to teenagers.
