This month, the Sweet Sixteens (a group of YA authors debuting in 2016) are writing about gratitude. I'm grateful for many, many things, but 1977 changed my life from just okay to downright lucky. (On this blog, I refer to my family by their birth dates. 1977 is my spouse.)

I've had many, many jobs in my life, but all I really wanted was to raise my own children and write books. At 28, I was working a 70-hour a week job, traveling 100 percent of my work time, and dating a guy so awful that I couldn't even see babies when we were together. (He was the antidote to Baby Fever The relationship ended badly.)

A month later, I met 1977 and everything changed. Within six weeks, I quit the traveling job and followed my heart into the nonprofit sector. 

Very early in our relationship, we agreed that we would have children. There's no one right way to raise a family, but we were perfectly aligned in that respect: we wanted one parent home to parent the children. Given the differences in our earning potential and my overwhelming desire to mother every small living thing, I stayed home. We sacrificed so we could live on one salary. He got to play with computers at work every day, and I snuggled our first baby.

​It was bliss.

Our first child was very difficult to soothe and satisfy, and tag-teaming a small child's bodily fluid leakage really bonded us. By our third year of marriage, we had seen each other at our worst and shared the most embarrassing parts of ourselves. There were no secrets. Almost. I still had that very private, quite insistent need to keep writing.

Years into our marriage--years!--I confessed to my dear 1977 that all I really wanted to do professionally was write. I'm a relatively reserved and hugely insecure person, so this felt like baring my soul to him. His encouragement was all the permission I needed. I started writing while our daughter napped and, eventually, I shared my writing with 1977. He liked it.

A few months into writing, I had another confession: I wanted to be a published author. He told me to go for it, and that time his encouragement felt bigger than permission. It felt like confidence, strength, and assurance that I could do it.

And I did. Next year, a couple of books and a couple of babies later, my first novel will be published. I still stay home with our girls, and I still write on naps, but this is exactly where I wanted to be. And I couldn't have made it here without him.

I am grateful, and changing my entire life is just the really big thing I'm grateful for. My 1977 also is a goofy dad, a thoughtful cook, a worthy board game rival, a great friend, and a life partner in the truest sense. Basically, he's a solid guy, and I'm grateful for that every day.



*Special thanks to Amanda and Eric for the awesome Meeple t-shirts.

I wrote a short story for the Ballard Writers' Collective Friday the 13th event. For years, I’ve been toying with the idea of America electing our President via reality TV show, a concept that seems closer and closer to the truth every day. In this story, all American adults have endured standardized tests, and the twelve best testers will be drafted to run for President. I’m calling it "Civil Circus."
 
 
​
Eight years ago, Edward missed the cut by 7 points. Every time Northwestern’s faculty suggested his dreams were too lofty or his aspirations unreal, Edward rebutted, “Seven lousy points.”

This year, test results would be skewed. Ambitious Americans had studied for their chance to become the most powerful man in the world. Others had thrown the test to ensure they weren’t one of twelve candidates drafted for the months-long reality TV show.

Anna waddled into the living room. In threadbare yoga pants and a faded law school t-shirt, she still waddled two months postpartum, though he wouldn’t mention it.

When they got pregnant quite accidentally, Edward enthused that a new baby would increase his likability on the show.Now he wasn’t so sure. “She’s poopy,” he said.

Anna sat cross-legged on the sofa. “You’d better change her, then.”

Anna buckled the nursing pillow around her waist and tuned in to their first real time-TV broadcast in years. She wanted Edward to miss the cutoff by fewer than seven points. This baby was their last, and she hadn’t a baby in her arms for over a decade. Anna wanted to enjoy her maternity leave: to sleep when her baby slept, to enjoy the new-baby smell, to coo at tiny baby feet for six months before she was compelled back to her law firm.

If Edward was a candidate, producers would whisk away the whole family for two whole months. Privately, she was certain he wouldn’t be drafted. He probably fell short on business or economics. His knowledge of the law was unparalleled. His skills in geography and world politics were admirable, but Edward could hardly be one of the smartest people in the country about everything, though Anna wouldn’t say that aloud.

The music started and she hollered up the stairs, “It’s starting! Edward? Ryan? Emily?”

Edward bounded down the stairs and returned the mewing infant to his wife. Anna said, “You have a bit of spit up on your shoulder.”

“Her shit on my shirt, too.” He scoffed. “Emily! Ryan!”

Anna latched the baby onto her breast as their older children sulked down the stairs. Every social studies teacher in America had assigned the show as required viewing.

Emily threw herself onto the sofa. “She pooped again, Mom.”

Anna whispered, “It’s your dad who smells like poop.”

“Gross.”

“Quiet, or find another television,” Edward said, despite the absence of another TV in the house.

“I cannot imagine what ludicrous tasks candidates will endure this year,” Anna said, as she coaxed the baby’s mouth back open.

“I can only dream,” Edward absently massaged his abdominal muscles. In January, just days after they sat for the civil service exam, his confidence led him to Chicago’s best gym and a personal trainer. He wanted the sexy vote.

“It’s all bullshit anyway,” Ryan said.

“Words,” Anna said.

“Well, it is. I can’t vote. I don’t care who wins. Dirk’s parents sent everyone home way earlier than usual so we could watch at home with our families. Seriously, this is why we have DVR.”

Edward crossed his arms over his chest. “Eight years takes you through college and into the job market, so you should care. The wrong guy could screw up your future and, indeed, your whole life.”

Ryan crossed his arms and pouted, the same crooked pout he’d made since birth. Anna sighed. In three short years, no matter who was President, her baby—the one who had made her a mother—would go to college, likely several states away. Maternity leave let her bond with the baby, but she was more grateful to bond with her son, who was becoming more of a man every day.

For two hours, energy in the room ebbed and flowed with each new candidate, the most promising of whom was a retired teacher from Seattle named Katie. The twelfth candidate was an actual United States Congressman. That hadn’t happened last time.

Host Cat Deeley said, “Folks, we have one last surprise for you. Two candidates tied this year, so there’s one more after the break. Stay with us.”

Desperate, Edward looked at his wife. She panicked that it might be him. He panicked that it might not be.

“I’m going to make popcorn, “Emily said.

Edward shouted, “Butt on the sofa in 90 seconds.”

The doorbell rang and Edward raised his arms. “Am I the only person who understands how important tonight is?”

Something crashed in the kitchen and Emily screamed. Edward ran to her as the doorbell rang again.
Anna glared at her son, who would not budge from the sofa. “Edward, I’m nursing here. Can’t you just get that?”

“In a second,” Edward said. “Jesus.”

Anna turned back to the television where her own, gorgeous cream hydrangea heads slowly bobbed in the early September breeze. The new landscaping looked good.

Music returned as Edward thumped down the hallway in his stained t-shirt. “Edward?” she said, as she realized exactly what was happening.

She rushed after him, too far behind to catch him and unable to articulate what lay on the other side of the door.

Edward’s phone rang and she could see its backlight through his thin back pocket. The baby wailed for more milk as Edward threw open the door to find the production crew.

“You are required to support for Civil Service,” the onsite producer blasted. “Anna Mitchell.”

The camera panned to their thirteenth candidate: disheveled and slackjawed with a nursing pillow hanging limply from her sagging postpartum middle. The baby wailed five inches from a dark, dripping, exposed nipple, and her father clenched his jaw.

This post first appeared at Teen Librarian Toolbox, a professional development website for teen librarians. If you are a teen librarian and don't know TLT, skip this post and go straight to their website. It will change the way you work.

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​As a writer, my very favorite thing is talking to teen readers. I find a lot of energy in hanging out with passionate people, especially when they’re passionate about books. NerdCon: Stories was 2,500 (mostly young) people inspired by stories; it was heaven.
 
Cons are like camp: you can form a genuine, lasting friendship in a matter of days. NerdCon: Stories felt different, as if we all were friends from the start. We all loved things, intensely, and were free to geek out about contemporary YA books, or tabletop games, or public education, or Sherlock. (I’m cheating here. Those are my passions.) This was our first time in a room together, but already we were a community.
 
NerdCon weekend coincided with World Mental Health Day and National Coming Out Day, two events that reinforced NerdCon’s mandate: Be You. Panelists shared their “Be You” breakthrough moments, and attendees repeated the sentiment in personal conversations.
 
We covered many topics—activism, diversity, the myriad ways we tell stories, writing outside your experience, why stories matter—and “Be You” popped up dozens of times. Every panel and serious mainstage event fell into one of two general themes:
 
We all are the same, and you are one of us.
On the surface, everyone at NerdCon had exactly one thing in common: we believed in the power of stories. But our commonalities were greater than that. We were nerds. We were passionate fans. Every one of us wished we could change something about ourselves. Regardless of color or culture or history or who we loved or how we dressed, everyone had something worth sharing. We received each other’s stories without criticism, because we also acknowledged:
 
We all are different, and we embrace that.
There were Night Vale nerds, Star Wars nerds, Game of Thrones nerds, Hamilton nerds, math nerds, and nerdfighters. We each embraced some fandoms and couldn’t connect with others. Some of us thought of our bodies as prisons. Some thought our brains were wired suboptimally. We all had histories, but our histories were different. We each were the culmination of life experiences that gave us each a unique perspective. Our life stories intersected but did not completely overlap with any other person on earth. We all were different, and our stories mattered.
​
 
To reinforce that, NerdCon held one storytelling circle and two open mic sessions where eager attendees shared their stories. Though the headliners and panels were top notch, my weekend’s highlight was the storytelling circle, where storytellers held the floor for six minutes each. I loved learning what was meaningful to everyone who spoke. Cathy reveled in the realization that bisexuality was a thing. Julia told us about her first kiss (just two days prior). James recounted the perils of urban exploring.

This is an addendum to this post. (TL;DR: Don't just write what you know; go learn whatever you want to write about.)

​For the record, that's still true, but I'm diving a little deeper into the "what you know" part. We all have unique life experiences, and there is value in that. For instance, here's a reasonable representation of all the places I've ever been and want to remember. (And yes, it highlights my inexperience in Spain, South, America, Africa, and Asia. Also, I've only seen France from the middle of Lake Geneva.)

Writing requires a lot of research. A lot. And some of it's at the library, or interviewing professionals, or reading books. . .but most of it (for me) is online.

​And I hope if someone ever looks through my search history they first know that I am a writer and not a nutjob.

Two years ago, for instance, I was determined to write a book about grief and the media. The protagonist of this (adult) novel was a mother of three, dedicated to her family and her nonprofit work, and facing one utterly overwhelming week. I wanted to examine her overwhelming grief and how the media crucified her. In my initial research, I googled this:

which is all well and good, until my next Google searches were:
--How hot does a car need to be for a baby to die in it?
--How cold would a car need to be for a baby to die in it?
--How long would you need to leave a baby in a hot car for it to die?

You see where I'm going here? My children have aged out of hot-car deaths, but it definitely looks like I was planning something.

And this is just one novel! Here are some gems I've googled recently:
"pig teats"
"where to go when you're having an affair"
"hidden camera detector app"
"computer with pasta on it"
"hot male actors under 20" (not a unique search, by the way)
"how bodies decay"

I research poisons, murders, causes of death, weird sex terms, and court cases--all sorts of things that normal people just don't.

But then, writers aren't normal people, are we?

My first book will be in bookstores next June. I write fiction, but this is a true story.
 
 
I was what even the weirdest kids called a weird kid. A super smart kid who loved math and tended to obsess over trivial things like grammar. I was a nerd; that isn’t the sort of thing you grow out of. (Sorry, I should have put a spoiler alert on that.)
 
Socially, I was an anxious, insecure introvert. I never had a best friend and felt infinitely awkward in large groups. I rarely shared my feelings. Outside of academic participation, I was an observer.
 
And that was just at school. At home, my family was broken and weird. We were an all-girl family: my mother, my aunt who hacked into my computer files, my emotionally-reserved elderly grandmother, and my sister who had a raging case of hypochondria.
 
Between my sister and my elderly grandmother, conversations revolved around physical woes, other people’s health problems, likely causes of death, and my sister’s obscure disease of the moment. This was before WebMD, so I we checked my symptoms in our secondhand reference books in our dank basement. My sister was always convinced she was ill, and I grew convinced that I would die young. Of something. (Spoiler alert: I didn’t.)
 
But I was scared. What if I died without ever telling anyone how I felt? Early in middle school I hatched a brilliant plan. I started writing letters to everyone I knew, saying everything I could not say aloud. I told my friends I loved them, and shared everything that mattered to me.
 
Dear Steve*: I really wanted to kiss you when we were going together but I didn’t know how.
 
Dear Kara: I am so sorry about that rumor I accidentally started about you.
 
Dear Robert Kalman: I think we’re soul mates; I’ve had a crush on you for all of seventh grade.
 
I shoved the letters into a big manila envelope, probably twice the size of this one. I scrawled on the outside, “to be opened in the event of my death.”
 
I was maybe a little dramatic.
 
I pinned the envelope to my bulletin board so, you know, they could open it in the event of my death. Every year, the first week of summer, I holed up in my room and updated them, these death letters. By senior year, my letter to Robert Kalman read: I have been in love with you for six years. I wish we would have talked about it.
 
I took that envelope with me to college, where it lived in my desk drawer. My sophomore year,  my world exploded. I found a huge community of nerds who embraced me. It was a revelation that other people saw the world through my nerd lens. I had found my people.
 
And among them, I found Matt, and I fell in love so real that I forgot Robert Kalman. He wasn’t my first love, and it wasn’t that kind of love, but Matt was the first person who got me, and there’s no better feeling in the world than someone getting you. He understood my need to change the world. We talked for hours, days, about the big things: religion and politics and the state of the earth.
 
For a time, we were almost inseparable. My heart burst open, and it was bliss. A month after we’d met, I wrote a death letter for him, full of all the love I held in my heart, and the activism I hoped he would carry on after my death, and everything awesome about him.
 
In person, I could tell him anything, except the fact that that he’d made me feel okay for the first time in my life. Matt was brilliant and kind and funny. He also was in remission for leukemia.
 
When he came out of remission again, he knew it was over for him. In his last few weeks, he started shutting some people out. In my desperation, I did something I will forever regret. Without opening it, without editing or sugar coating or changing a single word, I mailed him my death letter.
 
I mailed him my heart. And I never heard from him again.
 
I crawled into a cave after that. I can’t tell you how long it lasted, only that before I could crawl out of it I first threw out all those death letters. I started calling people, telling them what I most admired in them, and how they had affected my life.
 
And I try every day to stay that open. Because I know this for sure: as difficult as it is to tell someone you love or admire them or are scared for them, it’s terrifying to have never said it. 
 
Fast forward to 2005, when my grandmother died. We weren't terribly close, but I hadn’t left anything on the table for her, so to speak. She knew I loved her and what I most appreciated about her.
 
But.
 
A few weeks after her funeral, a manila envelope arrived from my mom. I expected a recipe or photos or an article from my hometown newspaper (which was the 2005 version of your mom sending a cat video).
 
Instead, I found a sealed envelope:

Inside was a dated list of notes, all the things she never said to me in life:
1987          I liked your dance revue
6-29-1990  Always remember I loved you deeply
1991           You are a loving and thoughtful granddaughter
 
And before each of her major surgical procedures, she wrote notes saying she loved me, and good bye.
 


​
*I spoke their real names at NerdCon, but it’s hardly fair to post them here.

Photo Credit: @kidzlibrarian, my dear friend and slumber party companion

Last week, I filled out an author form that included the question, "Does your book feature characters from marginalized backgrounds?"

I wasn't sure how to answer. In my first book, a pretty significant character is gay, but I never say he's gay. *I* know he is (because, well, I know him,) but his sexuality wasn't germane to the story, so I didn't include it. The high school in my book is pretty much like yours and mine. There are gay people and asexual people, obese girls and anorexic boys, Asians and black kids and genetic mutts.

But here's the thing: I never talk about them like that. To me, their relationships are infinitely more important than their skin color or weight or sexuality. As with real life, a character's sexuality becomes important when he is interested in another character or about to embark on a sexual relationship.

(It's kind of like Dumbledore being gay, but we never knew because we never saw him in a sexual relationship.)

Generally, I don't introduce character traits that aren't important to the story, but those characters are real to me. Even in my head, ​everyone is different. I realize now, however (as the book is in edits and releasing in June,) I need to be more blatant about diversity among my characters. Our society marginalizes people because of race, culture, and identity; I don't want to perpetuate that abuse in the books I write.


Photo Credit: pixgood.com

I grew up hearing that my most cherished dreams wouldn't come true. Mine were pipe dreams, or unrealistic, or too big.

I wanted a happy marriage, the opportunity to stay home and raise my children, and I (desperately) wanted to be an author. And here I am, closing in on 40, with three wonderful girls, one generous spouse, and a book releasing next spring.

It took me a long time to get here, and my life doesn't look much like my idealized adult life, but it's pretty awesome. 

While it's true that some dreams won't ever come true: your life will be better than those dreams. Whatever does happen, whatever you DO make of your life, it will be better because it is real, and you made it happen.

In my previous life as a management consultant, we mapped processes “from soup to nuts,”* which is a delicious way to explain my writing process.

Soup: Idea Consommé
My novels begin with a single idea, be it theme, bizarre character trait, or what-if scenario. This simmers for months or years among thousands of other ideas while I write other books and live life.

Amuse-Bouche: Unamused Synopsis
Once a single idea takes hold, I force myself write a two-page synopsis of the manuscript (without, you know, the manuscript.) Writing a synopsis before writing a 90,000-word manuscript helps ensure the story won’t fizzle halfway through. When this course is prepared properly, it makes the rest of the meal go down easy.

First Course: Outline, with an Inspiration Reduction
For the next several courses, I use Scrivener writing software to manage the intricacies of my work. My current manuscript, an adult contemporary novel about a group of women in crisis, includes complicated relationships and a series of flashbacks. Scrivener’s corkboard was instrumental in keeping my thoughts together as I outlined, and gave me a path forward.

Second Course: Blanched First Draft
The first is my most linear draft, written from chapter one straight through to the end. I write at least 1000 words a day, every day, for three or four months. To stay productive, I use brackets for unknown elements: the protagonist’s brother is named [BROTHER] and her favorite pastime is [SOMETHING RARE AND EXCITING]. I research and replace the brackets in my free time outside of writing. This helps me immensely; if I didn’t cage my thoughts between brackets, I would spend whole hours researching popular boy names from the 1970s, or going down a rabbit hole on Wikipedia. This course is rife with gaps, but the major story arc is in place and characters are taking shape.

Third course: 19 Revisions, with Mint Sauce
Each time I revise the full draft, I focus on a single thing (e.g. establishing consistency of character, expunging my writing tics, or sharpening the language). These drafts solidify story arcs, characters, and dialogue. If I’ve done a good job on the second course, this course takes about two months. If I was sloppy, I’ll spend five months here. When I’m satisfied with the tone and characters, and once no brackets remain, I move the document into MS Word so I can share it.

Fourth Course: Family-style Pappardelle
I serve this course to my computer-scientist husband, and three dear friends:
--Dear Reader, a middle school English teacher turned attorney, often provides suggestions over the phone, frequently in real time as she’s reading.
--Super Reader, a YA librarian who has reviewed hundreds of novels for Booklist, sends back her plate—piled with insightful commentary—within a week.
--Alpha Reader, a YA author, takes a month to review the manuscript (usually twice).
My invaluable early readers come to the table with different perspectives, so they offer vastly different suggestions. They have my manuscript for six weeks, during which time I don’t touch it. Instead, I keep a separate list of notes offline.

Fifth course: Sushi for One
After six weeks of the fourth course, I edit the manuscript with fresh eyes. In a single pass, I edit and incorporate my own notes.

Sixth Course: Michele’s Mole with a Thoughtful Garnish
Using brackets for notes and placeholders, I add all four readers’ suggestions into the manuscript. With more than 300 pairs of brackets, the difficulty of this course lies in making decisions: how shall I proceed  when the Alpha Reader loathes my Super Reader’s very favorite part? Now editing is less time consuming but requires far more thought. The sixth course is my favorite, because the manuscript changes rapidly into something much better.

Seventh Course: Filet de Récite
While alone in my house, I read the entire manuscript aloud, changing my dialogue and anything else that sounds improperly seasoned.

Eighth Course: Twice-Baked Edits
I repeat courses four through six, with the same early readers plus a few more. Edits are generally swift, and I sweep through the manuscript two or three times. When I make it 83 percent through the manuscript without finding any major issues, I start anticipating dessert.

Proper Dessert: Final Read Pavlova
This is sweet. I spell check for the first and last time, and read through without making any changes.

Nuts: Cashews, Macadamias, and Book Deals
This part is new to me. This winter, I will forward my new manuscript to my agent and hope she knows an editor who’s eager to buy it. The second I hit send, I will open a new Scrivener project for a new amuse-bouche.

* I’ve eaten dinners around the world, and have yet to start with soup and end with nuts.

 
​Everybody has something.

Maybe you were born with a metabolic disorder, or your body never made adult incisors. You have six toes. You're sensitive to light, or loud noises, or scents. You're allergic to shellfish, peanuts, milk, sunlight, or water. You have a temper. You need contacts or hearing aids or medications to get your senses up to snuff.

Maybe you were born in the wrong body for you, or the wrong religion for you, or the wrong country for you. Maybe you were born in the wrong century. 

Perhaps your family is uncomfortably conservative, uncomfortably liberal, uncomfortably religious, or disconcertingly atheist. Your parents love you too much or too little. Your parents abuse you mentally, physically, or emotionally.

You could be dyslexic, or have ADHD, or find school really, really difficult for other reasons.

You are athletically, academically, or emotionally deficient. You are a certifiable genius, a professional athlete, or completely emotionally secure. You have issues with food.

You are painfully shy, perpetually insecure, or overly confident. You are socially awkward. You have hobbies that others consider strange, boring, or ludicrous.

Maybe, unlike your friends, you are attracted to boys, or to girls, or to boys and girls, or you're not attracted to anyone.

Maybe you are a loud chewer or the gas you pass is extra stinky. You bite your nails, pick your scabs, or moisturize incessantly. You have an abnormally large tongue, wide feet, or thin hair. Your skin is the color of night. Or clouds. Or noodles.

In any group of people, everyone is a little off. (If you don't know what is off about you, ask around. Some honest soul will share.) And, like everything else in the world, it's not a big deal. Our differences are what makes life interesting.