On thankfulness

It’s that time again, you guys—that time when I wade out into a deep pool of gooey, soppy, sentimental thankfulness and wallow around in there for awhile. I hope you’re ready. Back up if you don’t want to get splashed.

At this time last year, I’d had my book deal for a whopping four weeks. I’d had an agent for three and a half months, and I was still learning to correspond with her without overthinking every word I wrote in every email. I’d just met my editor for the first time. I really had no idea what the rest of the publication process entailed,  but I was out of my mind with joy and probably more thankful than I’d ever been in my life. I was READY.

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And now for something a bit different…

Ever wonder where I get my writing genes or my weird sense of humor? I have a little glimpse for you today.

My mom is a poet—check out her books here, here, here, here, and here—and she recently won an award in the humor category of the Poets and Patrons contest in Chicago. She doesn’t have a blog of her own, but this poem is way too amusing not to share. So I proudly present it to you here! Enjoy.

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I’ll trade you some vampires for a donation to a good cause…

Since I started writing YA, one of the questions I’ve been asked most frequently is, “Oh, you write for teens? Does that mean you write about vampires?” My books are about as far from paranormal romance as you can get, so my friends and I used to laugh about this a lot. (I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love a good vampire as much as the next girl—I’m a huge Buffy fan, and I watch The Vampire Diaries. But my books are 100% contemporary.) Eventually, the questions about vampires got so out of hand that I actually DID write a vampire story. I sent it out to about eight people, giggled over it for a while, and then put it away and never looked at it again. 

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A love letter to Brooklyn

love1 Dear Brooklyn,
When I was about to move to New York City eight years ago and was starting to look for apartments, a friend guided me toward you. “Brooklyn’s apparently the place to be,” she said. And how right she was. 
 
Oh Brooklyn, you lovely, bizarre, quirky, idiosyncratic city, I adore you with all my heart. I love your tiny indie bookstores, where lazy cats loll in cracked leather armchairs and the bestsellers everyone’s talking about never make it onto the front tables. I love your hipster babies drooling all over their tiny ironic t-shirts. I love that it’s impossible to walk two blocks in the summer without stumbling over a stoop sale where you can buy sequin cardigans and designer heels for five dollars. I love that even in a place so urban, where 2.5 million people are packed into 71 square miles, it seems like there’s a community garden or a little park lurking around every corner.
 

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