Sarah Strohmeyer's Blog - Posts Tagged "strohmeyer"
Kissing. Kissing. And More Kissing
Why has this taken me so long to figure out that what I want is what I want in my books, those that I read and those I write? Kissing. Lots.
In adult books, of which I've written something like fourteen or maybe more I forget, kissing is "quaint." Adults kiss their children sweetly or each other at times of crisis. Though, actually, in the case of Bubbles, Stiletto first made out with her on top of a car in the rain which was pretty hot. THAT was fun to write.
Now that I'm writing young adult, I'm reliving my teenage years. Not my real teenage years - the first time a boy kissed me I threw up. Fortunately, not on his shoes. I had enough sense to keep it together until he left.
Also, my first date was seeing Ibsen's Hedda Gabler at the local playhouse. Nothing says hot like 19th century Norwegian suicides!
Looking back, I might not have had the most normal adolescence.
I'm making up for that now with SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT and this fabulous book I'm rewriting now. Hot boys. Hot "me" - I mean, my teenage protagonist - and kissing.
Yes!
In adult books, of which I've written something like fourteen or maybe more I forget, kissing is "quaint." Adults kiss their children sweetly or each other at times of crisis. Though, actually, in the case of Bubbles, Stiletto first made out with her on top of a car in the rain which was pretty hot. THAT was fun to write.
Now that I'm writing young adult, I'm reliving my teenage years. Not my real teenage years - the first time a boy kissed me I threw up. Fortunately, not on his shoes. I had enough sense to keep it together until he left.
Also, my first date was seeing Ibsen's Hedda Gabler at the local playhouse. Nothing says hot like 19th century Norwegian suicides!
Looking back, I might not have had the most normal adolescence.
I'm making up for that now with SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT and this fabulous book I'm rewriting now. Hot boys. Hot "me" - I mean, my teenage protagonist - and kissing.
Yes!
Today I am 5
Well, not me. Fred. Fred the basset. My April Fool. (You can see his birthday photo in my photos since I haven't figured out the Goodreads uploader code.)
I always wanted a basset hound ever since my neighbor Mrs. Arbogast had Pokey, a basset who slept on her driveway and never moved. It was like he'd been steamrolled. Maybe he was stuffed. Who knows?
Having been denied dogs (and Barbies, but that's for another blog) as a kid, the first dog I chose on my very own was Fred. I remember when I used to hold him in my hand and cuddle him under my chin. Now, he's 60 lbs and loooong. And a lover, especially of children.
Now, it just so happens we live about one hundred feet from the elementary school where Fred is something of a local celebrity. When the doors are open in the summer, Fred has been known to saunter into Mrs. Domanski's first grade class and have a sit down. Last year he arrived center stage at the spring concert and more than once the little league coach down the street has had to chase him off the field for catching baseballs.
But that's Fred. He loves chicken and his buddy dogs - Shayla, Sam and Niko. He sleeps. He talks. He insists on sitting in the passenger seat. In fact, he knows all about driving. And he likes dinner at exactly 5 p.m.
What he can't figure out are the cats. And that's just the way they like it.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRED!
I always wanted a basset hound ever since my neighbor Mrs. Arbogast had Pokey, a basset who slept on her driveway and never moved. It was like he'd been steamrolled. Maybe he was stuffed. Who knows?
Having been denied dogs (and Barbies, but that's for another blog) as a kid, the first dog I chose on my very own was Fred. I remember when I used to hold him in my hand and cuddle him under my chin. Now, he's 60 lbs and loooong. And a lover, especially of children.
Now, it just so happens we live about one hundred feet from the elementary school where Fred is something of a local celebrity. When the doors are open in the summer, Fred has been known to saunter into Mrs. Domanski's first grade class and have a sit down. Last year he arrived center stage at the spring concert and more than once the little league coach down the street has had to chase him off the field for catching baseballs.
But that's Fred. He loves chicken and his buddy dogs - Shayla, Sam and Niko. He sleeps. He talks. He insists on sitting in the passenger seat. In fact, he knows all about driving. And he likes dinner at exactly 5 p.m.
What he can't figure out are the cats. And that's just the way they like it.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRED!
When All Else Fails: Bohemian Rhapsody
I can't tell you how many times Bohemian Rhapsody has saved my own butt. But it probably would be best if I spared you details. My parole officer children probably would appreciate a little discretion.
But not Robert Wilkinson!
http://www.nj.com/entertainment/index...
But not Robert Wilkinson!
http://www.nj.com/entertainment/index...
The Cats Are Out to Kill Me
I live in Vermont with two cats I adopted from the local humane society four years ago - evil sisters, or so they said - Fred the basset, as well as a collection of humans. But they're not important. Today, it's all about the cats and how they're trying to kill me.
They've been practicing on small animals, warming up with mice and then moving on to other members of the order Rodentia. Chipmunks. Voles. Moles. They arrive in various states of decapitation much like the Mafia drops off horse heads. Calling cards of cold-blooded assassins. Warning signs that the Sensitive Stomach Purina Chow is just not cutting the mustard.
One day, I emerged from the downstairs bathroom to find their latest weapon - a snake curled up and very much alive right outside the door. This could only have been a matter of revenge since my fear of snakes is legendary. They hate me for reasons I do not know.
Much to their chagrin I'm sure, the snake was a simple garter. Not much poison to kill me and I was able to sweep it into a waste basket and throw it outside.
....And yet they continue to plan and plot.
If I don't blog someday, call the PD and tell them whom to finger. Because if I write "Patches and Tiny" in my blood, you know they'll only lick it off.
They've been practicing on small animals, warming up with mice and then moving on to other members of the order Rodentia. Chipmunks. Voles. Moles. They arrive in various states of decapitation much like the Mafia drops off horse heads. Calling cards of cold-blooded assassins. Warning signs that the Sensitive Stomach Purina Chow is just not cutting the mustard.
One day, I emerged from the downstairs bathroom to find their latest weapon - a snake curled up and very much alive right outside the door. This could only have been a matter of revenge since my fear of snakes is legendary. They hate me for reasons I do not know.
Much to their chagrin I'm sure, the snake was a simple garter. Not much poison to kill me and I was able to sweep it into a waste basket and throw it outside.
....And yet they continue to plan and plot.
If I don't blog someday, call the PD and tell them whom to finger. Because if I write "Patches and Tiny" in my blood, you know they'll only lick it off.
God Bless You, Suzanne Collins
Our sixteen-year-old son is dyslexic, a fact we discovered not by school reading tests - which he aced - but by my sister in law, a schoolteacher, who called me up one day and, after taking a deep breath, said there might be something wrong with the way Sam reads.
It was odd because he understood what he was not able to read. Does that make sense? Prose he could not parse aloud in class he could analyze. Poetry, that he loved. And because our elementary school was a small rural one and my husband was on the school board and felt we shouldn't "burden" taxpayers with tutoring, I took him out of class four days a week when he was in third grade to a specialist who, literally, taught him the rules of words, word by word, syllable by syllable. (Thank heavens I was an author by then because that kind of schedule never would have passed in my newspaper job.)
Sam benefitted from a high IQ, a boost that would only get him so far. He's great in math and I have the feeling that his model as far as math geeks go is not that unusual. By the way, he hates video games, possibly because he can't process them as fast as his friends.
And he hates reading. Actually, he loves it. Or he wants to love it. But it still requires such extra effort on his part that what for most of us on Goodreads is a joy and an escape for him is, well, like sitting down with a cup of tea and a set of twenty calculus problems. (I don't mean to stereotype....maybe some of you do that!)
Until The Hunger Games. Sam read the first two over two days, just as he read Harry Potter back to back (his sister and us reading them to him when he was small helped) along with the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Universe series and for reasons that totally escape me, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
But Suzanne's books are the ones that prompted the words that for years and years I've longed to hear: "I think I might like reading."
God Bless You, Suzanne!
It was odd because he understood what he was not able to read. Does that make sense? Prose he could not parse aloud in class he could analyze. Poetry, that he loved. And because our elementary school was a small rural one and my husband was on the school board and felt we shouldn't "burden" taxpayers with tutoring, I took him out of class four days a week when he was in third grade to a specialist who, literally, taught him the rules of words, word by word, syllable by syllable. (Thank heavens I was an author by then because that kind of schedule never would have passed in my newspaper job.)
Sam benefitted from a high IQ, a boost that would only get him so far. He's great in math and I have the feeling that his model as far as math geeks go is not that unusual. By the way, he hates video games, possibly because he can't process them as fast as his friends.
And he hates reading. Actually, he loves it. Or he wants to love it. But it still requires such extra effort on his part that what for most of us on Goodreads is a joy and an escape for him is, well, like sitting down with a cup of tea and a set of twenty calculus problems. (I don't mean to stereotype....maybe some of you do that!)
Until The Hunger Games. Sam read the first two over two days, just as he read Harry Potter back to back (his sister and us reading them to him when he was small helped) along with the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Universe series and for reasons that totally escape me, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
But Suzanne's books are the ones that prompted the words that for years and years I've longed to hear: "I think I might like reading."
God Bless You, Suzanne!
Kids: Why Can't They Be Like We Were....
....cynical?
Because that's how I felt growing up in the 1970s, as if I'd narrowly missed the cool generation and was doomed to a bogus youth of disco, tight polyester shirts and frizzy hair. (Thank GOD for Springsteen!) My all-purpose attitude back then? This. Sucks.
Fast forward to my son's generation. He's a high school sophomore which I think we can generally agree is the lamest of all teen years having, sadly, come of age in the worst of decades. He was stepping off the bus from Kindergaten when I met to tell him terrorists had flown into the World Trade Center and it was generally all downhill from there - global warming, two wars, a painful recession, teens shooting up schools. Awful.
And yet, amazingly, he doesn't think This. Sucks. Quite the opposite. He thinks this is the best time in the world to be his age.
Excuse me? Where's the teenage cynicism for which I was prepared to do battle with idiotic parental comments like, "It's up to YOUR generation to pick up the banner and march for a better world"? (Oh, I'm so glad I never had to say that.)
In Sam's view, incredibly exciting things are happening - live! Technology is bringing us closer together and the idea that a heretofore brain scratcher like, oh, how to stop cancer cells from replicating without killing the body, could be solved by putting it on the internet and letting everyone have at it, is thrilling to him. People are more tolerant about previously taboo subjects like gay marriage. We've evolved, in Sam's opinion, we're getting better!
Of course Sam has an older sister who doesn't quite see the world through such rosy glasses but why bring in Debbie Downer. (Expect Debbie Downer, a Goodreads member, to chime in with a rebuttal. Razor sharp tongue, that one. Funny, too.)
All I'm saying is it's easy to get mired down in the gloom of front page news. I know I'm more angry and bitter than I was before 9/11, not purposefully, but gradually so. The old boiled frog analogy. My arm is growing tired from the fist shaking I've done, most recently at our out-of-touch Supreme Court.
Maybe it's time for me to relax and uncurl my fingers and like the kids in Sam's generation open them to the possibilities. I just hope for people like me it's not too late.
Because that's how I felt growing up in the 1970s, as if I'd narrowly missed the cool generation and was doomed to a bogus youth of disco, tight polyester shirts and frizzy hair. (Thank GOD for Springsteen!) My all-purpose attitude back then? This. Sucks.
Fast forward to my son's generation. He's a high school sophomore which I think we can generally agree is the lamest of all teen years having, sadly, come of age in the worst of decades. He was stepping off the bus from Kindergaten when I met to tell him terrorists had flown into the World Trade Center and it was generally all downhill from there - global warming, two wars, a painful recession, teens shooting up schools. Awful.
And yet, amazingly, he doesn't think This. Sucks. Quite the opposite. He thinks this is the best time in the world to be his age.
Excuse me? Where's the teenage cynicism for which I was prepared to do battle with idiotic parental comments like, "It's up to YOUR generation to pick up the banner and march for a better world"? (Oh, I'm so glad I never had to say that.)
In Sam's view, incredibly exciting things are happening - live! Technology is bringing us closer together and the idea that a heretofore brain scratcher like, oh, how to stop cancer cells from replicating without killing the body, could be solved by putting it on the internet and letting everyone have at it, is thrilling to him. People are more tolerant about previously taboo subjects like gay marriage. We've evolved, in Sam's opinion, we're getting better!
Of course Sam has an older sister who doesn't quite see the world through such rosy glasses but why bring in Debbie Downer. (Expect Debbie Downer, a Goodreads member, to chime in with a rebuttal. Razor sharp tongue, that one. Funny, too.)
All I'm saying is it's easy to get mired down in the gloom of front page news. I know I'm more angry and bitter than I was before 9/11, not purposefully, but gradually so. The old boiled frog analogy. My arm is growing tired from the fist shaking I've done, most recently at our out-of-touch Supreme Court.
Maybe it's time for me to relax and uncurl my fingers and like the kids in Sam's generation open them to the possibilities. I just hope for people like me it's not too late.
Women vs. Women
Days after the Ann Romney, Hillary Rosen smack down, my Facebook friends were still trying to sort through the detritus trying to answer the question that has plagued our gender for the ages.
How come women can't get along?
Now, personally, I believe this women-hating-women is largely hogwash. Women do get along in the office, on the field, in the home, in hospitals. We work together just fine. What divides us isn't women, but men.
For as long as men have had the power, some women have benefitted (or not) by men who are willing to carry them financially, especially if they are beautiful. I know these are incendiary words and some of you may argue those days are gone. As evidence to the contrary, I give you Exhibit A: Real Housewives of Orange County.
If you're anything like me, you watch these idiots with your jaw open. How is it that they live in these gorgeous homes, seem to do little to no work that doesn't involve promoting their own line of clothing/shoes/perfume and still afford the limos, the multiple body readjustments and nannies? Who pays for all that vanity?
Men. Somewhere there's a man making all this possible. Perhaps not legally or frugally. One husband committed suicide. Many battle debt. They all seem to have problems with alcohol and even if I had to live in a shack pulling potatoes out of the dusty ground for sustenance I wouldn't sleep with one of them.
But it's different for men. Men who are financially carried by women because of their looks are called gigolos. Granted, that day is changing. Hallelujah! The concept of "being kept" is fading because now women are beginning to earn more than men, men are staying home to raise kids and they certainly don't appreciate the slur that they are somehow existing on the good graces of their wives. They want respect and rightly so.
My mother used to say women's liberation was as much for men as it was for women and this is a case in point. When men are liberated to earn less than women and be okay with that, when they're respected for taking care of the kids while their wives earn cash, then I think we'll find that resentment among women who work outside the home and those who don't will disappear.
And then, watch out, because women united might just change the world forever. Unless these stay-at-home guys start getting spray tans and tossing white wine in each other's faces, whereupon I'm just totally giving up.
How come women can't get along?
Now, personally, I believe this women-hating-women is largely hogwash. Women do get along in the office, on the field, in the home, in hospitals. We work together just fine. What divides us isn't women, but men.
For as long as men have had the power, some women have benefitted (or not) by men who are willing to carry them financially, especially if they are beautiful. I know these are incendiary words and some of you may argue those days are gone. As evidence to the contrary, I give you Exhibit A: Real Housewives of Orange County.
If you're anything like me, you watch these idiots with your jaw open. How is it that they live in these gorgeous homes, seem to do little to no work that doesn't involve promoting their own line of clothing/shoes/perfume and still afford the limos, the multiple body readjustments and nannies? Who pays for all that vanity?
Men. Somewhere there's a man making all this possible. Perhaps not legally or frugally. One husband committed suicide. Many battle debt. They all seem to have problems with alcohol and even if I had to live in a shack pulling potatoes out of the dusty ground for sustenance I wouldn't sleep with one of them.
But it's different for men. Men who are financially carried by women because of their looks are called gigolos. Granted, that day is changing. Hallelujah! The concept of "being kept" is fading because now women are beginning to earn more than men, men are staying home to raise kids and they certainly don't appreciate the slur that they are somehow existing on the good graces of their wives. They want respect and rightly so.
My mother used to say women's liberation was as much for men as it was for women and this is a case in point. When men are liberated to earn less than women and be okay with that, when they're respected for taking care of the kids while their wives earn cash, then I think we'll find that resentment among women who work outside the home and those who don't will disappear.
And then, watch out, because women united might just change the world forever. Unless these stay-at-home guys start getting spray tans and tossing white wine in each other's faces, whereupon I'm just totally giving up.
The Plight of "Unhooked" Girls
This spring hundreds of bright, intelligent girls, the ones who stayed up until four a.m. studying for calculus exams, who by sheer ambition aced the SATs and exhausted themselves on the hockey field, who sang Christmas carols at the senior center and rewrote the prom rules, have been rejected in the cruelest form – the dreaded thin envelope from _______________ (fill in your Ivy dream school here).
The spurning of a boy, in comparison, pales.
Who cares about boys when you have just been told that despite all your hard work and determination, Princeton’s leafy green quads are forever off limits? Anyway, it was that boy LAX player one seat over in American Lit (the one who asked to borrow your notes from last class) who got in Seems like boys have it easier – still!
It’s enough to send a valedictorian to her book-strewn bed in tears. Why, she is asking herself. Or, rather, why not?
The answer is an irony to rival Austen’s own. There is an abundance of riches; there are too many smart girls.
Seriously, can there ever be too many smart girls?
Well, yes, apparently, if you’re in Ivy League admissions. “Unhooked white girls” – please, don’t even get me started on deconstructing that term – is the phrase school counselors use to describe the above: intelligent overachievers who earn all A’s, who score 2300 on the SATS or thereabouts but who have no “hook,” i.e. special skill/passion/Tiger-Mother-Induced talent to get them noticed. In other words, all that straight A, perfect SAT stuff is just the foundation. Here’s what the Ivy admissions counselors want to know: when did you last play Carnegie Hall?
“There are so many high-achieving … girls who have studied hard, participated in all the right activities, and expected the top colleges to appreciate their efforts,” Scott Farber, president and founder of A-List Education and a test-preparation and admissions expert told The Daily Beast recently. “Do they deserve to get in? Sure. Would they do well if admitted? Absolutely. But colleges are not looking for the well-rounded kid; they want the well-rounded class. And unless you are a superstar in some area, you’re just one of thousands of smart, all-around, but unhooked white girls. It may be unfair, but that’s life.”
Fellow unhooked smart girls, let me assure you I have received the thin envelopes and so has my smart twenty-one-year-old daughter. All is not doom, as I’m sure your parents have repeated over and over while privately gnashing their teeth at the system’s unfairness. All is well.
Just as we avoid partners in life who believe they are too good for us, so we avoid said colleges. Seek out the university that desperately wants your verve, wit and insight and you’ll only vaguely remember how you longed for that bulldog in blue.
Better, consider these hidden gems discovered more recently by my daughter: all-women’s colleges.
Smith, Wellesley, Mt. Holyoke and Bryn Mawr boast the rich history, the Gothic architecture, the academic atmosphere found at You Know Where. Plus, these colleges are obviously pro women. They believe in smart girls and always have, challenging them to study diligently, to reach beyond their limits and to trust their intelligence. The alumnae networks of all-women’s colleges are famous for actively supporting recent graduates with recommendations to jobs and grad schools.
Correspondingly, the sizable endowments at these schools make a top-notch rigorous education surprisingly affordable. I know because for three years I’ve written tuition checks to Bryn Mawr which has been more than generous.
In addition, many all-women’s colleges have decided SATs and ACTs are not mandatory. Their admissions rates are refreshingly reasonable – or, rather, “self selecting” - thanks to the current prejudice against single-sex education. None of this 5.6% business you’ll find at Harvard. If you’re smart and hard working, your chances are good.
Sure, there’ll be a few classmates in capes riding bikes with fairy wings and distant relatives will rudely inquire how you’ll be able to survive four years without boys….but so what? Fairy wings are fun and boys are everywhere, often in pursuit of girls. Funny, that phenomenon.
Need a role model? Look no further than Hillary Clinton, Wellesley ‘69. She was an “unhooked” smart girl too. Now, she pretty much rules the world.
So sit up, dry your eyes and send in your acceptances to the schools that want you. It’s time to show Harvard/Yale/Brown what they missed because, let’s face it, better to be “unhooked” than “unhinged.”
The spurning of a boy, in comparison, pales.
Who cares about boys when you have just been told that despite all your hard work and determination, Princeton’s leafy green quads are forever off limits? Anyway, it was that boy LAX player one seat over in American Lit (the one who asked to borrow your notes from last class) who got in Seems like boys have it easier – still!
It’s enough to send a valedictorian to her book-strewn bed in tears. Why, she is asking herself. Or, rather, why not?
The answer is an irony to rival Austen’s own. There is an abundance of riches; there are too many smart girls.
Seriously, can there ever be too many smart girls?
Well, yes, apparently, if you’re in Ivy League admissions. “Unhooked white girls” – please, don’t even get me started on deconstructing that term – is the phrase school counselors use to describe the above: intelligent overachievers who earn all A’s, who score 2300 on the SATS or thereabouts but who have no “hook,” i.e. special skill/passion/Tiger-Mother-Induced talent to get them noticed. In other words, all that straight A, perfect SAT stuff is just the foundation. Here’s what the Ivy admissions counselors want to know: when did you last play Carnegie Hall?
“There are so many high-achieving … girls who have studied hard, participated in all the right activities, and expected the top colleges to appreciate their efforts,” Scott Farber, president and founder of A-List Education and a test-preparation and admissions expert told The Daily Beast recently. “Do they deserve to get in? Sure. Would they do well if admitted? Absolutely. But colleges are not looking for the well-rounded kid; they want the well-rounded class. And unless you are a superstar in some area, you’re just one of thousands of smart, all-around, but unhooked white girls. It may be unfair, but that’s life.”
Fellow unhooked smart girls, let me assure you I have received the thin envelopes and so has my smart twenty-one-year-old daughter. All is not doom, as I’m sure your parents have repeated over and over while privately gnashing their teeth at the system’s unfairness. All is well.
Just as we avoid partners in life who believe they are too good for us, so we avoid said colleges. Seek out the university that desperately wants your verve, wit and insight and you’ll only vaguely remember how you longed for that bulldog in blue.
Better, consider these hidden gems discovered more recently by my daughter: all-women’s colleges.
Smith, Wellesley, Mt. Holyoke and Bryn Mawr boast the rich history, the Gothic architecture, the academic atmosphere found at You Know Where. Plus, these colleges are obviously pro women. They believe in smart girls and always have, challenging them to study diligently, to reach beyond their limits and to trust their intelligence. The alumnae networks of all-women’s colleges are famous for actively supporting recent graduates with recommendations to jobs and grad schools.
Correspondingly, the sizable endowments at these schools make a top-notch rigorous education surprisingly affordable. I know because for three years I’ve written tuition checks to Bryn Mawr which has been more than generous.
In addition, many all-women’s colleges have decided SATs and ACTs are not mandatory. Their admissions rates are refreshingly reasonable – or, rather, “self selecting” - thanks to the current prejudice against single-sex education. None of this 5.6% business you’ll find at Harvard. If you’re smart and hard working, your chances are good.
Sure, there’ll be a few classmates in capes riding bikes with fairy wings and distant relatives will rudely inquire how you’ll be able to survive four years without boys….but so what? Fairy wings are fun and boys are everywhere, often in pursuit of girls. Funny, that phenomenon.
Need a role model? Look no further than Hillary Clinton, Wellesley ‘69. She was an “unhooked” smart girl too. Now, she pretty much rules the world.
So sit up, dry your eyes and send in your acceptances to the schools that want you. It’s time to show Harvard/Yale/Brown what they missed because, let’s face it, better to be “unhooked” than “unhinged.”
Love The Ones You're With
There are a lot of songs I could do without, but the one I absolutely can't stand is Love the One You're With by Steven Stills. I blame a guy I was seeing in college who, after an intimate night, explained that he had a longstanding girlfriend in the Midwest at school X but since we were in New England and he wouldn't see her until Thanksgiving it was, ya know, "love the one you're with."
Fail!
I hadn't really thought about that until recently when I finished the superb IF I STAY by Gayle Forman. The book's been on my TBR for awhile and I'm sure everyone else here has read it, but I hadn't. I finished it in one sitting. Or, rather, lying. In bed. Crying.
IF I STAY is about love, all sorts of love. Love for a friend, a boyfriend, parents and a brother. Love for life. And here's the question: are these loves enough to make living worthwhile even if living means pain, both physical and emotional, and loss?
That's why I loved the book, because Forman asks this question with such calm and real insight using characters who make sense. But I also loved it because, unlike a lot of YA books, Forman proudly heralds the love her protagonist, Mia, shows for her quirky family. Even her little brother.
Teddy is not a "stinky little brother" and to that I say damn straight. I've found that many YA authors, especially YA authors who've written adult before, start off with a middle-school character who hates or is annoyed by a younger sibling.
Really?
Sure, siblings fight. Husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends do, too. But how many books begin with "I hate my stupid boyfriend" as though it's supposed to be cute.
Worse, we all know what's going to happen. The older sibling will come to realize his love for his "stinky little brother" and, voila!, instant character growth. Just add tears!
Nah. Forman's right. We love those whom we're with otherwise, in most cases, we wouldn't be with them. Unless you're talking about a crappy abusive family in which your character had the tough luck to be born.
But that's another story and, fortunately, not mine to tell.
Fail!
I hadn't really thought about that until recently when I finished the superb IF I STAY by Gayle Forman. The book's been on my TBR for awhile and I'm sure everyone else here has read it, but I hadn't. I finished it in one sitting. Or, rather, lying. In bed. Crying.
IF I STAY is about love, all sorts of love. Love for a friend, a boyfriend, parents and a brother. Love for life. And here's the question: are these loves enough to make living worthwhile even if living means pain, both physical and emotional, and loss?
That's why I loved the book, because Forman asks this question with such calm and real insight using characters who make sense. But I also loved it because, unlike a lot of YA books, Forman proudly heralds the love her protagonist, Mia, shows for her quirky family. Even her little brother.
Teddy is not a "stinky little brother" and to that I say damn straight. I've found that many YA authors, especially YA authors who've written adult before, start off with a middle-school character who hates or is annoyed by a younger sibling.
Really?
Sure, siblings fight. Husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends do, too. But how many books begin with "I hate my stupid boyfriend" as though it's supposed to be cute.
Worse, we all know what's going to happen. The older sibling will come to realize his love for his "stinky little brother" and, voila!, instant character growth. Just add tears!
Nah. Forman's right. We love those whom we're with otherwise, in most cases, we wouldn't be with them. Unless you're talking about a crappy abusive family in which your character had the tough luck to be born.
But that's another story and, fortunately, not mine to tell.
Why I Wrote SMART GIRLS
When my first YA book SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT comes out June 26th it will mark the end of a journey that began four years ago when Alessandra Balzer, editor and co-publisher of Balzer + Bray at HarperCollins, had just finished THE CINDERELLA PACT and remarked to my agent that I should write YA.
I'd already been thinking the same thing and not just because my writing style tends toward the fast, flippant and emotional. Ever since high school, I'd wanted to write a book about "my people" - smart girls I knew growing up who were often pigeonholed as stuck up prudes. Seemed unfair to say the least since I remember us as extremely funny and irreverent.
My high school was huge - 750 kids in my class alone - and largely blue collar. At Liberty High in Bethlehem, PA., the students who mattered were the stars on the football field, either as players or cheerleaders. A group of girls who fought to get As in calculus were largely ignored.
I'm not gonna lie, it hurt. Let's just say (my husband hates this part) that I played a lot of Janis Ian's At Seventeen when I wasn't invited to the prom. (Which I mooned from the backseat of my friend's car.) Cliche? Maybe. But there you have it.
Fast forward thirty years and now I'm the mother of a smart girl and former Girl Scout leader to her smart girl friends. Things have improved somewhat. Kids are more accepting. The football stuff not so big. (Then again, it's Vermont). But I'm disappointed because I see familiar patterns reappearing. My daughter and her friends are pegged, just like I was, as aloof. And, in some ways, they ARE aloof. All I know is that they're not getting the full high school experience, the richness and rewards that come from those first tastes of freedom.
Why not? In theory, the smartest kids in the school should rule the roost. Carpe diem! Grasp the thistle! Go for it!
The result was my fourteenth baby, SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT. The best part was that from the get go, Alessandra was right on board with my vision of a book triumphing smart girls. And we agreed on a few ground rules:
a) This would not be a "mean girls" book, not that I don't LOVE Tina Fey. But it's been done, it's unproductive and, in my opinion, meanness sucks out the good karma. I'll leave that to Jennsylvania who is brilliant.
b) No cliches. Because smart girls are not cliche. They are usually interesting, well-read people, though hardly goody two shoes. For example, my daughter, a junior at Bryn Mawr is a horrible reality show addict. Her equally smart friend, Thea, and she were totally addicted to Gossip Girls. What they do now in college, I don't wanna ask.
c) Boys, yes! But not for boys alone. My smart girls would not break out of their shells to get guys. If along the way a few guys happened to come their way :) then so be it. And in SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT, there are a couple of brilliant boys who turn up the heat.
So, that's my book and that's why I wrote SMART GIRLS. By the way, my smart girl friends from high school went on to live very fulfilling lives as a dentist, a Princeton professor, a mathematician, a pharmaceutical executive, an airline pilot (oddly enough, she was the WORST driver) and a Presbyterian minister.
My daughter's friends graduated from their Vermont public high school and went to Tufts, Vassar, MIT, Hampshire, Skidmore, BU and University of Chicago. They've got exciting internships this summer in film, journalism and psychology. Mostly, they have a lot of fun with and without guys.
In other words, I'm here to testify, smart girls DO get what they want!
I'd already been thinking the same thing and not just because my writing style tends toward the fast, flippant and emotional. Ever since high school, I'd wanted to write a book about "my people" - smart girls I knew growing up who were often pigeonholed as stuck up prudes. Seemed unfair to say the least since I remember us as extremely funny and irreverent.
My high school was huge - 750 kids in my class alone - and largely blue collar. At Liberty High in Bethlehem, PA., the students who mattered were the stars on the football field, either as players or cheerleaders. A group of girls who fought to get As in calculus were largely ignored.
I'm not gonna lie, it hurt. Let's just say (my husband hates this part) that I played a lot of Janis Ian's At Seventeen when I wasn't invited to the prom. (Which I mooned from the backseat of my friend's car.) Cliche? Maybe. But there you have it.
Fast forward thirty years and now I'm the mother of a smart girl and former Girl Scout leader to her smart girl friends. Things have improved somewhat. Kids are more accepting. The football stuff not so big. (Then again, it's Vermont). But I'm disappointed because I see familiar patterns reappearing. My daughter and her friends are pegged, just like I was, as aloof. And, in some ways, they ARE aloof. All I know is that they're not getting the full high school experience, the richness and rewards that come from those first tastes of freedom.
Why not? In theory, the smartest kids in the school should rule the roost. Carpe diem! Grasp the thistle! Go for it!
The result was my fourteenth baby, SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT. The best part was that from the get go, Alessandra was right on board with my vision of a book triumphing smart girls. And we agreed on a few ground rules:
a) This would not be a "mean girls" book, not that I don't LOVE Tina Fey. But it's been done, it's unproductive and, in my opinion, meanness sucks out the good karma. I'll leave that to Jennsylvania who is brilliant.
b) No cliches. Because smart girls are not cliche. They are usually interesting, well-read people, though hardly goody two shoes. For example, my daughter, a junior at Bryn Mawr is a horrible reality show addict. Her equally smart friend, Thea, and she were totally addicted to Gossip Girls. What they do now in college, I don't wanna ask.
c) Boys, yes! But not for boys alone. My smart girls would not break out of their shells to get guys. If along the way a few guys happened to come their way :) then so be it. And in SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT, there are a couple of brilliant boys who turn up the heat.
So, that's my book and that's why I wrote SMART GIRLS. By the way, my smart girl friends from high school went on to live very fulfilling lives as a dentist, a Princeton professor, a mathematician, a pharmaceutical executive, an airline pilot (oddly enough, she was the WORST driver) and a Presbyterian minister.
My daughter's friends graduated from their Vermont public high school and went to Tufts, Vassar, MIT, Hampshire, Skidmore, BU and University of Chicago. They've got exciting internships this summer in film, journalism and psychology. Mostly, they have a lot of fun with and without guys.
In other words, I'm here to testify, smart girls DO get what they want!
