I needed a key made, so I went to my local hardware store. It's the kind of place you want to go instead of Home Depot--not a chain, a storefront where you always know how to find the exit. I had a conversation with the female clerk at the front counter about getting my key made. There was a man standing to my right working on something, and I'd seen him there before. I got the impression from prior visits that he was the owner. He certainly projected that he was the boss. I wasn't talking to him and he was focused on something else, so I was surprised when he interrupted me to say, "You sound uncertain." 

I said, "It's interesting how often men misinterpret female vocal patterns as uncertainty."

He said (again), "You sounded uncertain."

I said, "No."

Then he returned to what he was doing and the female clerk  smiled extra big at me when she gave me my key. 

I walked away thinking, well, at least this time I got to say what I thought on the spot. I didn't smite my forehead fifteen minutes later, wishing: dammit, I should have said...whatever. 

As I walked on, I began thinking about The Power, by Naomi Alderman, which I'm reading and admiring. It's speculative fiction that imagines a world in which young women suddenly develop what's called a "skein" of electrical power within their bodies--and they use that electrical power on the people (men, especially) who anger or threaten them or over whom they want to exert power. And of course this alters the power balance of the entire world. Essentially, the novel asks: What comes from physical power? Spoiler alert: It's remarkable how quickly men start saying please. And often enough that's not because the power has been used on them--their behavior changes simply because they know the power exists and could be used. But back to keys: In lieu of greater physical power, women have learned to use our words--and to use the tone of our words--to communicate. Sometimes we sidle up to things instead of punching straight through. And you know what? I like to do both. And both can be good, and I get to decide which I do. 

I confess my anger didn't abate as I walked. I wasn't at all sure that if I had a skein I wouldn't have been tempted to give Middle Aged Hardware Store Dude (as I referred to him on Instagram) a little shock. Not permanently damaging or terribly painful, but a noticeable zap, just to make sure he got the point. Because I'm pretty certain he didn't get the point, and he will say the very same thing to some other woman who asks for something in a voice that is all her own.

There wasn't anything particularly querulous or diffident about my voice when I asked for the key. Rather, I was speaking to another woman the way women often do with each other. I was smiling, I wasn't trying to dominate, I was inviting her to be my ally in getting me what I needed. But the nature of the patriarchy is such that even though half the population is more inclined to speak the way I did, it's deemed wrong by a significant percentage of the other half of the population (and certainly many women have also internalized the message that the way we speak is a sign of weakness). We're thought to be uncertain, unclear, incorrect. When some men don't listen to women, they tell themselves it's because we're not expressing ourselves well--not that they lack the ability to decipher our meaning.

I'd been intending to watch the movie In a World for ages, and I finally did recently. I enjoyed most of it very much and Lake Bell is wonderful, but the ending was disappointing. I'm not giving away anything by saying that the point of the ending was that there is something inherently wrong with the way young women speak. And sure, in the movie the examples given are egregious (more comparable to cartoon baby talk than to the way young women really speak), and sure, young women should own their opinions. But it makes me sad that we're so quick to denigrate their voices. No wonder they don't want to speak up. Personally, after my experience at the hardware store, I'm going to uptalk all I damn well please. 

Another movie I saw that was deeply moving and was very much about one woman expressing herself in ways that could discomfit those around her: A Quiet Passion. In that movie, about Emily Dickinson, the poet is full of barely contained desire and rage.  Cynthia Nixon plays Dickinson, and I cannot get her face out of my head. The Dickinson she portrays is at once vulnerable, nakedly desperate, fiercely original, resentful, supremely self-controlled, and explosive. Watch it when you're ready to hand your emotions over to a film. 

As always, thank you so much for reading. When I write to you next we'll be verging on spring!

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The infamous key, henceforth known as "The Middle-Aged-Hardware-Store-Dude Memorial Key."


I’ve had my reasons for feeling somber lately, but that’s not why I’m reading The Book of Calamities: Five Questions about Suffering and Its Meaning, by Peter Trachtenberg. Someone I trust recommended the book to me for a very particular thing the author talks about. Still, I approached it with trepidation. I thought, I’m not reading a whole book about suffering, so let me just look up this thing in the index.
Then I discovered there is no index.
I flipped and flipped through the pages hoping that my eyes would settle on the thing I was looking for, the handful of words among thousands that would be all I needed to read, but that book refused to give up its nugget. It insisted that I start at the beginning. This book knew what I needed better than I did. Trachtenberg immerses himself in his subject, and where others might find only suffering, he finds people. These are individuals who have experienced genocide, unimaginable loss, and illness, and yet are still themselves, still something other than their pain. Their humanity rises from every page, meeting and informing my own. 
The phrase I kept hearing in my head as I read the book? See me. Suffering, we know, is inevitable. Unavoidable. I fear it. You probably do, too. But what I learned about myself as I read this book is that what I fear most of all isn't suffering, it's suffering alone. Unseen. Misunderstood. When something terrible happens to us, we want that thing not to have happened, of course. But in lieu of that, we want our suffering to be recognized.
Among the many people he writes about, Trachtenberg offers especially beautiful, sensitive profiles of twins Kate and Kelly Daley, who were born with a horrendously painful, disfiguring illness. As a young adult, Kelly attempted suicide. In the hospital, she wrote in her journal, “Do you see me? Do you think this is easy, my life?”
Trachtenberg goes on to emphasize those words: “Do you see me?
This striving to be seen and understood is so human. And in that experience we all have company. 
Megan Ganz, a former writer on the television series Community, was sexually harassed by her boss, creator and executive producer Dan Harmon. When he recently publicly acknowledged the harassment, she wrote on Twitter, “I didn’t expect…the relief I’d feel just hearing him say these things actually happened. I didn’t dream it. I’m not crazy. Ironic that the only person who could give me that comfort is the one person I’d never ask.”
See me.
What, after all, is the worst thing that can happen to someone? It’s not to suffer, it’s to suffer invisibly. To be made, in effect, nothing. This was the experience of one survivor of the genocide in Rwanda whom Trachtenberg interviewed. The word she used to describe what she endured was roughly translated as “debasement.” She was made into nothing by those who tortured her. The way Trachtenberg describes her suggested to me something beyond dehumanization. It was death—a living death. I spoke to someone recently who said he feared death, and I didn’t have a chance to ask why, but my imagination can fill in that part. I imagine that for him death is the ultimate in disregard. It’s the universe saying: You don’t matter anymore. No one sees you
My understanding of Buddhism is simplistic at best, but I think I’m correct in saying that at its heart is the belief that there is no self, not in any real sense. And therefore there is nothing to fear in death or suffering; there can be no loss of what doesn't exist. This is why I’m sadly not cut out for Buddhism. For me, as a writer and a human being, it is the self in all its striving that fascinates me at one moment, frustrates me the next, and regularly breaks my heart and puts it back together again. The self is what I’m interested in.
The self is why I write young adult novels. What I love so much about teenagers and young adults is their ardent selfhood. Their graceless yearning. Their inability to hide their most desperate desire: to be seen. And even more than that: to be seen accurately.
I read an article in The New York Times titled, “Want to Be Happy? Think Like an Old Person.” The gist of it is that happiness in old age is about not wanting or needing anything more than you have. And there is not a thing wrong with the article. But while I started it hoping for some wisdom, by the end I wanted to throw open my windows and shout demands at passersby. Not because I want more things. No, but I do want to want: that drive that exists inside of us, that keeps our eyes and ears alert for something more, something else, something we don’t know or haven’t yet experienced or done or produced. What is the exact opposite of thinking like an old person? Thinking like a teenager. Probably if I took one of those tests that tells you what your emotional age is it would land me somewhere in the vicinity of thirteen to twenty-one.
Thinking like an adolescent might not be as easy as thinking like an old person, or as conducive to happiness, but give me graceless yearning any day. Which brings me to Tonya Harding. I saw the movie I, Tonya and I read this interview with her, and I’ve spent a lot more time thinking about her in the last several days than I ever thought I would. I was surprised to read in the interview that some people see the scenes of Tonya being beaten by her mother and her husband as played for laughs. And I was taken aback that the interviewer felt the need to tell this to Tonya. It seemed cruel to point out to her that so many people were entertained by her blood and bruises. For Tonya, the movie has been a sort of vindication. Not because it proved her innocence—she says she's not interested in that. As the interviewer writes, “There are facts, and then there is the truth, and you can’t let one get in the way of the other or you’ll never understand what she’s trying to tell you.” And what Tonya is trying to tell you is that she suffered.
See me.
The article describes Tonya’s experience watching the film: “She watched it a few times, and the shock wore off, and there from the comfort of her living room, sitting beside the only romantic partner she has ever felt loved by and safe with, she watched what had happened in her life and realized that she never really stood a chance.” When the interviewer prodded Tonya to correct the record somehow, to argue that the movie got details wrong,  she writes that Tonya “leaned back, frustrated, made her hands into fists and rubbed her eyes. It’s exhausting.  Nobody ever gets it. She’s been waiting for a way to tell the world that the abuse she endured was so much worse than they thought, that she was so much poorer than people could imagine. And then all people want to know is whether or not there’s something she’s not admitting to.”
See me.
She did it or she didn’t do it. She did some of it or none of it or all of it. But to Tonya Harding (now Tonya Price), that’s not the important part. The important part is her, the person in there, the person gracelessly yearning to be seen.
Happy New Year. I wish you a 2018 full of the most beautiful sorts of wanting and desiring and seeing: a year of shamelessly thinking like a teenager.

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On August 1, I handed in the first draft of my second novel, and wow was I feeling good about it. I thought, sure, I’ll get some edits back and I can make the manuscript better here and there. But we’re talking brush strokes! Subtleties! In October I got the news that…yeah, I might need a really big brush. So that was disappointing. It reminded me of my freshman year in college when my literature professor handed my first paper back to me and said, “I can’t even grade this. It’s not a paper.” And then I learned how to write a paper. And now here I am writing and editing for a living, so I guess all’s well that ends well.
Soon after that disappointment, I attended the Anderson’s Bookshop YA Festival in Lisle, Illinois, and that restored my faith on a few levels. Number one, I heard from other authors that second novels are hard (I knew this, but shouldn’t I be different?), and that editors often recoil in horror at first drafts (I knew this, but shouldn’t I be different?). Number two, I got to hear Becky Anderson Wilkins of Anderson’s Bookshop talk about how meaningful the work of reading, writing, selling, and teaching books is. She called all of us—readers, authors, booksellers, and educators—“merchants of empathy.” I loved that phrase, and it was what I needed to hear at that moment. Just that day I had visited a nearby high school and talked to the students there about empathy. Then I had the whole group of one hundred-plus kids play a game that I called “Who’s the Monster.” This involved having several student volunteers role-play characters from a few familiar fairy tales. I asked the kids in character why they did what they did. Then we all got to vote on "who's the monster." The girl who played Hansel and Gretel’s father, when asked why she’d led her children into the woods, answered, “Because I thought they’d be better off. If they went somewhere else they might find food, but if they stayed with me I knew they’d starve.” Now that was an answer I was not expecting.
I open up the New York Times on my iPad every morning, and increasingly my eyes flutter around looking for something that I actually want to read. In recent weeks the headlines that have unsettled me most of all have been about men abusing power. A revelation that hit me particularly hard was about the host of an NPR show that I’ve listened to nearly every weekday for years. He was not only sexually abusive of female colleagues, interns, and guests—he also systematically demeaned and drove off his black female cohosts. I was never a big fan of this host (I wasn’t at all surprised to find out he’s toxically narcissistic), but he was on my beloved WNYC, and so I listened to him. This man has no doubt affected my opinions and thoughts about important issues. This man—and other powerful men like him—has determined what opinions I hear and how much validity they're given. He also set a tone that I apparently tolerated: He routinely interrupted his black female cohosts on-air, in effect making them seem less worthy of airtime.

Now, as I said to a friend, I feel like I’ve been made a nonconsensual partner in his crimes. And not just his. So much of what I take in has been shaped by abusers that I feel generally complicit. Beyond that, I'm left to grapple with the fact that my brain has been formed by male gate-keepers of the art, literature, music, and politics I've absorbed. There's nothing inherently wrong with being a male artist or a male gate-keeper. But it's horrifying to realize that women haven't been allowed the same access to my brain that men have. It's not that I didn't know this before, but the last weeks have brought this home to me so painfully that each day I can wake up feeling like I'm in the most nightmarish Twilight Zone episode ever. Or maybe The Matrix—and I took the red pill and now I can't unsee it. 
At times like this, we can all start to feel like there’s no refuge anywhere. The news is upsetting, and we can’t trust the men who are delivering us the news. And the arts we take in to restore our faith in the beauty that humanity is capable of—or even simply to distract us from our troubles—are now some of the worst reminders of how awful humanity can be. What to do?
A friend sent me an article about how writers need to protect their inner lives, and I’d recommend it to anyone, not just writers. It’s really about how we protect and nurture a place within ourselves where our own sense of truth and beauty holds sway. It’s about not comparing ourselves to others’ demonstrations of success. It’s about not worrying. That last part is pretty hopeless for me—I’m a worrier by nature. But what I can try to do is to think more. Reading the paper is worrying. Listening to WNYC these days is worrying. Comparing myself to others is definitely worrying. Reading books is thinking. Doing my work is thinking. Taking long walks while totally unplugged is conducive to thinking. I walked all the way around Prospect Park, and I found that it wasn’t until three quarters through that my brain had fully switched from worrying gear to thinking gear. I’m going to work on shifting gears faster.
Two events coming up: I’ll be at Teen Bookfest by the Bay in Corpus Christi, TX, on Saturday, February 17. And I would love for NYC-area friends to come out to hear me read a short story at the KGB Fantastic Fiction Reading Series on Wednesday, February 21. I think it will be fun.
I’m going to end the year with a single, blatantly selfish recommendation. Blatantly. Selfish. It’s the gift-giving season, and if you’re thinking about what to get for anyone—ANYONE—on your list, I have the perfect thing. You must know an adult reader of atmospheric, immersive fiction. You must know a teenager. You must know someone who loves Stranger Things. You must know someone who was gripped by The Handmaid’s Tale. Do you know at least one of all of the above? Jackpot. Your holiday shopping is done.  If you order your copies directly from Greenlight Bookstore in Brooklyn, I will sign your copy for them, and they will ship it off to you. I'll be sure to slide in a bookmark (which I drew myself).
Thank you for sticking with me this year. I wish you and yours a peaceful end of 2017 and a 2018 of more thinking and less worry.

September is my favorite month and not just because it’s my birthday month (I’m not saying Virgo is the best sign, because that would be too grand a statement for a Virgo to make, so I’m just going to let the implication rest there). For a nerd like me September has always felt like the true beginning of the year. When I started my first job after college and September rolled around, it was such a shock to my system to face the reality that my life wasn’t going to completely change. There was no new dorm room, no new semester of classes to sign up for. No new school. I was genuinely depressed. I’d grown accustomed to change.

That should have told me something about myself, but for a long time I believed that I was someone who didn’t like change. Change is confusing, and confusion is bad (I told myself). So I tried to be very certain all the time. Then something changed that I never, ever thought would: My mother died. I’d thought she would always be there. I thought we’d be old ladies together. But instead she was taken from us too soon and I was left to make something of a life that I never thought I would have. The dams of confusion that I’d carefully blocked up cracked for good. There’s been no sealing them together ever since.

And this is okay. I’ve come to realize that confusion is a natural state of being for me. It doesn't always feel good. Sometimes it feels terrible, and it can certainly be terrifying. But the only alternative to embracing it is denying it, and denying it makes me feel worse. Denying it makes me feel like there’s something wrong with being confused—like there’s something wrong with me. And that way true madness lies.

Forgive all this philosophizing, but I’ve been answering questions for my UK publisher (publication date: September 21!) to send to media, and I was asked about my inspiration for The Beast Is an Animal, and also why I write for young adults. I realized the answers were related if not the same. The protagonist of my novel is a young girl who is deeply confused about who she is, and also terrified by who she might be. And that, to me, is highly representative of adolescence. Okay, it’s highly representative of me, too.  This is why I’m so devoted to writing about young adults and inspired by writing for them. I’m inspired by the honest admission of confusion and internal conflict. Once many of us hit adulthood, we either do have all the answers, or we think we do, or we actively hide that we don’t. I prefer the honesty of adolescence. It’s difficult to be that unsure about so many things, but wow, it's real. I look at the young adults I know and I see people who are trying so hard to do right, to be right, to feel right. They wear their fears on their sleeves. I can’t hug all of them, so instead I write for them. Or if I’m honest, I write for me—confused me.

Okay, I have lots of news!

I completed the first draft of my second novel. If all goes according to plan it will publish in early 2019. I’m so excited about it. It’s also a dark fairy tale, but with an all-new setting and characters.

The Beast Is an Animal has been optioned for film! I’ve loved Ridley Scott since I first saw Alien. Any male director who could make way for a heroine as strong as Ellen Ripley is aces in my book. So I don’t mind at all that most of the responses have been WHOAH, RIDLEY SCOTT! Because, yeah: Whoah Ridley Scott. However, if you knew the writer-director team who first fell in love with The Beast Is an Animal and brought it to Ridley Scott, you’d be all WHOAH, BERT & BERTIE. When I spoke to them on the phone and they described their response to the novel and how they imagined translating it to film…well, it’s no exaggeration to say that it was a moving experience. And if you’re curious about how extraordinarily creative they are, and how unique their artistic vision is, I encourage you to step on over here and check out some of their shorts, especially this one. I saw their work and realized how lucky I am that they found my Beast.

Rights to The Beast Is an Animal have now been sold in the UK (including Australia), Turkey, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Denmark, China, and Spain!

Boston area friends: At 7PM on September 27, I’ll be appearing at Brookline Booksmith with three other YA writers. I hope you can make it, and if you can, please drop me a line so I know to look out for you (or go on over to Facebook, where I’ve posted the event).

Chicago area friends: I’ll be appearing at the Anderson’s Book Company YA Literature Conference in Lisle, Illinois, on Saturday, November 4. It’s a wonderful event that attracts lots of authors, so if you know folks in the area who are into YA, please encourage them to come out for it.

In the category of change, not only did my only child go off to college in August, but I moved apartments (and boroughs—to Brooklyn!) earlier this month, so I confess my pleasure reading has suffered. I just haven’t had the focus to get through much. I’m looking forward to settling in and diving back into my pile. In the meantime I will tell you that while unpacking, I’ve had Radiohead’s A Moon Shaped Pool on repeat. My son knows me well and he’d recommended the first song “Burn the Witch” as excellent book inspiration (he was right). Then he urged the rest of the album on me, and he was right about that, too.

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My new view. A tree grows in Brooklyn


This last month is a race to the finish for me—the first draft of my second novel is due on August 1. Actually, it was due July 1, but I begged for another month. Which is what authors do. Used to be, I was the editor on the receiving end of such requests. Now it’s me asking for more time. I think I was always nice when I was the editor in that situation. May goddess give me a stitch in my side if I wasn’t. I abjectly apologize for all those times I might have been less than understanding.
While I write and write and write and write and write, I haven’t had a whole lot of time for anything else. I did have an editorial client deliver a 120,000 word manuscript in the middle of this. Which was a good reminder to me that what I do is a joy but also a job, and when you’re paid to do a job you just do it. There was no way I could say to my client, sorry but I’m writing my NOVEL so could you wait a month? No, I had to say, why thank you, client, I am delighted to read and edit your 120,000 word manuscript. And in truth, I was. It was in fact a bit of a relief to help make someone else’s words better, rather than to worry about coughing up my own.  Then when I did return to my own, my coughing was all the more aggressively from the gut. Because time’s a-wasting, my friends, and August 1 is just around the corner OH MY GODDESS.
Deep breaths.
Anyhoo. One thing I did to quell the wild lizard of panic that took up residence in my belly was to cancel any and all engagements. This has rendered me an anti-social, unexercised creature with the rough shape of a desk chair...but needs must. The one exception I made was to visit the Brooklyn Museum of Art to see the exhibit Georgia O’Keeffe: Living Modern. I love the Brooklyn Museum, and it was a surprise to learn that her very first retrospective took place there in 1927. This current exhibit’s goal was to present O’Keeffe as an artist who merged her physical presence and her personal environment with her art. The same clean, at times austere, always precise and yet sensual aesthetic that you see in her art, she wished to incorporate into everything about her personal world—from her dress, to how she decorated her home, to how she cooked her food. And oh my, the blouses she wore. There were several blouses hanging in the exhibit—in pale, buttery silk and linen—that were defiantly soft and touchable, in direct contrast with the black, angular garments she wore over them. It was as if she were saying to the world: I will be me, and I will be comfortable, and I will also wear sheer, creamy silk under which you may glimpse the tiny bow of my lingerie, because this is all of who I am.
This idea that you can be perfect and also perfectly yourself is so dangerously attractive to me. And O’Keeffe did seem perfect. She was perfect when she was all black and white in Brooklyn, and she was perfect when she was all denim and white in New Mexico. Either way, she decided the form and the function, often making her own clothes—clothes that allowed her to do the work that she passionately loved, while also being distinctly her. Throw away your fashion magazines and delete your aspirational bookmarks. Isn’t that what we all want: to live a life so seamlessly integrated?
It’s tempting then to revile anything in one’s wardrobe and life that isn’t perfect. But then. Then. We come to the work of art in the exhibit that moved me more than any other. It was a watercolor stroke of a brush, inspired by Japanese calligraphy. And it was rendered with the help of an assistant when O’Keeffe was losing her sight to macular degeneration (painted in 1979, she was 92 at the time). And…it’s gorgeous. Focused. Distilled. Expressive. Still perfect in its way, but not trying to do any more than it can within the confines of that piece of paper and the physical limitations of the artist.
And what a lesson that is. Putting aside all the aspiration, all the ways in which one might wish one could be the monumental success that O’Keeffe was…what it all comes down to is her drive to make something beautiful, even if, ultimately, that was a bit of red water color on white paper. The message I decided to take away from this is not that one is inadequate if one isn’t able to emulate her perfection, but rather that perfection lies not in a particular thing but in a state of being. And that state is self-expression, whatever form it might take. Do something that represents you: This is really what her life was about. And do it as well as you can, whatever the circumstances. Even when you’re 92 (or less than 92) and you need someone’s help. (And I hasten to add: I'm not saying we should immediately quit our day jobs and take up water colors. But if you want to paint: paint. If you want to move your body: move your body. If you want to make muffins: blueberry are my favorite. Not unrelated: Georgia O'Keeffe loved to garden and cook.)
I’m pleased to report that despite the tunnel vision that comes from OH MY GOD HAVE I MENTIONED THAT I HAVE A COMPLETE FIRST DRAFT DUE ON AUGUST FIRST?....I do have a few recommendations for you. The first is a book, of course. It’s Dawn Kurtagich’s And the Trees Crept In. Oooooh, it’s as lovely and as creepy as that title would suggest. If you’re a fan of Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle and the absolutely marvelous movie The Babadook, then this novel is most definitely for you. It’s the very perfect thing for me when I climb into bed, mentally exhausted, and I need someone to masterfully take the narrative wheel and point me to the backseat. Sit there, Kurtagich says, and leave this to me. And I do. Boy howdy.
My other recommendation is music. Because when I have to go somewhere these days, that’s what I reach for to keep me company. Music is like fertilizer as well as relaxant for my brain when I’m in writing mode. Right now I’m swept away by the Fleet Foxes' new album, Crack-Up. Each song is a short symphony, and the album art of a rocky coast and foamy ocean perfectly captures the feeling I have when listening to it.
Now I must go to sleep. My brain, she is tired. I look forward to reporting back in a month that the deadline has been met. Oh! And I will also hope to confirm details of an event I will be doing with some other YA novelists at Brookline Booksmith in Brookline, MA, on Wednesday, September 27 at 7PM. Please put a pin in that if you’re in the area. I would love to see you there.

My artistically limited portrait of how it feels to be me these days. 

Here's a detail of one of O'Keeffe's breathtakingly beautiful blouses. As delicate-seeming as a butterfly wing, and yet ninety years old and worn by a woman as strong as the landscapes she painted. 

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Last and definitely most sublime: Untitled (Abstraction Red Wave with Circle), 1979, Watercolor on paper, Georgia O'Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe, NM. One of more than forty watercolors she created with the aid of an assistant as she was losing her eyesight to macular degeneration.

I wrote an arguably scary novel in which very bad things happen, so one of the questions I’m often asked by bloggers is some version of: Why did you do that? Sometimes the person asking me the question will preface it by saying, “You seem so nice.”

I could blame it on what I read as a child, which planted in me a love of the creepy. But what came first, the creepy kid or the creepy reading? I think it was probably love at first sight, pure chemical attraction. A magical meeting between mind and mind’s perfect match. Two novels that I read at a young age and which—no exaggeration—formed me, were Dracula by Bram Stoker and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.  There isn’t a box those two novels didn’t check for me. Long before this was quite such common knowledge thanks to “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” I knew about garlic and holy water and the required invitation by which a vampire could enter your home. Oh, yeah, and how it's best to be extra safe and cut off the head of the vampire after you’ve staked it. You knew that one, right? That is super important. In “Buffy,” the vampires turn to dust when they’re staked. No. No, no. Incorrect. They do not do that. And you need to cut off their heads after you stake them, because what if you missed the heart? What if the stake is removed and they come back to life? Trust me. Any job worth doing is worth doing well. If you stake a vampire, please: Take the time to cut off its head. Preferably with a silver knife.

Where was I?

Oh, right. Charlotte Bronte.  I won’t belabor this one, but I remember reading Jane Eyre as a child and being transfixed by the long (it felt to me, anyway) and detailed description of the cold, privation, loneliness, and cruelty of Jane’s childhood—from the torture she is subjected to by her aunt (locked overnight in the room where her uncle died!) to the sadism of the Lowood School. Mr. Rochester may have thought he had all the power in his relationship with Jane, but any woman who could survive all that should not be underestimated. And in the end, she was the one leading him around.

Another question I’m asked by bloggers is what frightens me. I’m usually coy in my response to that—I don’t want to put into words what terrifies me the most. But this last time I was asked, I went ahead and answered: Right now I’m most terrified that our president is going to destroy the planet on which I want my child to live a long and healthy life. I’m terrified that this president is in the process of destroying pretty much everything else I hold dear, as well: freedom of speech, affordable access to healthcare, reproductive rights, equality under the law for all, the truth.

The degree to which women and especially women of color have been targeted by the current regime is unsurprising. And we still live in a democracy, so one poisonous regime can be voted out. What really terrifies me is the prospect that this presidency's combination of misogyny and racism is a fast-moving parasite that will keep infecting host after host. That is a horror story that I don’t have to write, because we’re seeing it all around us.

Elizabeth Warren’s silencing when she tried to read a letter written by Coretta Scott King on the Senate floor sparked a wonderful-sounding hashtag: #shepersisted. And don’t get me wrong, I love it, and I bought myself a T-shirt. But that hashtag didn’t prevent Senator Kamala Harris from being silenced just this past week. One of only three women on the Senate Intelligence Committee, and the only woman of color, she was effectively told to behave by white male Senator Richard Burr. He said she was being discourteous for insisting that white male Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein answer her yes or no question. Implicit: How dare a woman of color insist that a white man do his job, respect her office, and answer her question?

This parasite is spreading, and we can see it all around us if we open our eyes. A few days ago I was on the subway with a friend in my blue city in my blue state. As passengers were exiting the train, a small, older Asian woman stood meekly off to the side in the doorway. Was she in the way a little? Sure, strictly speaking. Was she preventing anyone from getting off the train? No, definitely not. There was plenty of room. It wasn’t a hideously crowded subway. First I saw a white man shout directly in the older Asian woman’s face, “MOVE.” Then I saw the middle-aged, nicely dressed white woman a few paces behind him shove the small, Asian woman. The shove was unmistakable. The white woman pushed her in the space between her shoulder and chest using the entire open flat of her hand. The Asian woman seemed confused by the whole experience, and it was unclear if she spoke much English. To my eyes she seemed to shrink in the face of the onslaught, willing herself to be smaller and even less significant. My friend used the word "accommodating," and I think that's exactly right. 

Why did the white woman feel entitled to push a stranger who wasn't bothering her? Was it because the older woman was smaller than she was? Was it because she was Asian? Or was it because the guy in front of the white woman had emboldened her by dehumanizing the Asian woman first? Who knows? Maybe all of the above. I followed the white woman off the train and up the steps. “Excuse me,” I said. “Excuse me,” I said again when she wouldn’t respond. Finally I came right up alongside her and said, “I saw what you did. I saw you push her. That’s not okay.” Her response? “I’m so tired of people pushing me on the subway.” But no one had pushed the white woman, at least not in that moment. That was her cover-up for bullying a smaller, weaker person. She thought she could get away with it. And truthfully, she did. The Asian woman back on the train actually apologized to the white woman after she’d been shoved. Yes, the victim apologized for being in the way. 

This incident occurred less than two weeks after the Portland stabbing that left two women (one wearing a hijab) terrorized, and two men dead (and a third badly injured) who rose to the women's defense. I don't despair that people of strong character will continue to be so. Those three men are heroes, and it is a fact of human nature that the truly hateful will always be among us. But it's the iffy inbetweeners like the woman I encountered on the subway that I actively worry about and puzzle over. They're the most susceptible to the parasite. They're the ones who seem all too willing to let it in. They're the ones whom I want to ask the question: Why?

The most horrifying element of my novel, The Beast Is an Animal, is the one drawn most directly from history. There is a scene in the novel in which a character is accused of being evil (essentially, a witch), and she’s forced to wear what I called in the book a witch’s bridle. This is a real thing,  a form of torture that was used as late as the 18th century in Europe and America. It was a metal contraption that locked around the head and had a bit that pressed the tongue down and prevented the wearer from being able to speak. Originally used on women, they were actually called a scold’s bridle, and weren’t intended for punishing witches. They were used on women who were considered trouble-makers—who talked too much. I wonder now what the other women in the town thought when they saw one of their sisters in the bridle. Did they persist?

What am I most afraid of? Things that really exist. I can handle the make-believe horrors with my silver knife.

Book recommendation? Oh, heck. I haven’t finished this month’s book yet, but what I’m reading right now is fascinating and certainly timely. It’s The Witch’s Trinity by Erika Mailman.  Set in 16th century Germany, it's about the accusing eye we turn on the weakest among us (in this book's case, elderly women), when we’re looking for someone to blame for our problems. It’s chilling. And now I wished I’d handed my copy to that white lady on the subway.  

May we all keep surviving with our hearts intact, our eyes wide open, and our voices heard.

Scold's bridle, June 2017 newsletter image.png

The scold's bridle in action. It was developed in the 16th century to punish mouthy women, and was used in England and other parts of Europe as late as the mid-1800s. Often bells were attached, thereby attracting more attention and shame. The concept of the bridle was imported to America as a way of further brutalizing the enslaved. Moral of the story: Don't let this happen to you or someone you love. Or even to someone you don't love. 

Today I was pondering why we do things that we don’t immediately (or ever) succeed at. Certainly I didn't succeed at writing The Beast Is an Animal for a very long time. And it was a big question for me as to whether I ever would succeed.

It seems to me there are two reasons we keep trying:

1) We’re determined to succeed one day.

2) We enjoy the task. 
Some people can keep driving forward for just one of those reasons. For example, if you need a passing grade in a class, you’re going to keep working at a subject you don’t enjoy (see: Peternelle, 11th grade, Algebra II). Alternatively, you may know you’re never going to be a great artist, but you take art lessons anyway, because you love to express yourself that way (see: Peternelle in any art class ever taken). Disaster strikes in the absence of either motivation. The task is so hard that even a passing grade isn’t enough to keep us going. Then sheer loathing for the task takes over, and we run away as fast as we can, or waste time with our friends at coffee hour (see: Peternelle, freshman year in college, Statistics).
If I’m going to do something at all challenging, there usually has to be some joy in it for me. This isn't such a good thing. Sometimes you just need to buckle down and do something. Not all parts of our jobs are there to give us joy. I just read the definitions of Type A and Type B personalities, wondering if that made me a Type B. I think of Type A's as being competitive and driven to succeed at whatever the task, enjoyable or not. The definition I looked up tells me that Type A’s are also really anxious and at greater risk for heart disease. Type B folks are calmer about getting things done. They don’t stress. (Um. That’s definitely not me.) Type D folks are passive and altruistic, tend toward worry, and are at greater risk for illness. Yeah, not really me either (at least not the passive/altruistic part). There should be a personality type that correlates with hurling yourself into things you like, procrastinating mightily the things you don’t, and being pretty anxious all the time. We could call that Type Y for yeah, that’s me.
As a Type Y, I need ways to relax that also make me happy on some level. So that disqualifies reading the newspaper or spending too long on social media (I've discovered the latter works best for me in short bursts). My way of relaxing is to do something that rewards me and feels productive or creative in some way, but is utterly without negative consequences. Baking definitely qualifies. Lately I’ve enjoyed knitting, but I’ve learned that if it gets too hard and takes too long to complete a project, then it’s defeating the purpose. I’ve also learned to enjoy a certain kind of failure: the New Yorker Caption Contest. I never win, and I doubt I ever will. This is starting to become an accomplishment in and of itself—doing something that makes me laugh that won’t ever earn me a penny or land my name in tiny print one week in the New Yorker. Wow, I think that’s called doing something just for the fun of it.  It feels…healthy? Very Type J for joy.
And what is more joyful than getting lost in a book? There is a very particular charge I get when I'm reading something that delivers on all levels—art, emotion, and pure enchantment. This month’s book recommendation is a novel full of joy and magic—The Girl Who Drank the Moon by Kelly Barnhill. Don’t read it because you should, read it because it will remind you of a time in your life when (for the most part) you did things just because you wanted to. 

Here’s how it goes with me and the New Yorker Caption Contest. These are last week’s contest finalists.

Caption contest image one, May 2017.png

And here’s my entry.


One of the most illuminating things about meeting so many booksellers and librarians in the last few months is hearing about the challenges they face in placing books in kids’ hands. It’s not an easy job they have—and certainly they’re not in it for the riches. But it’s not the reluctant readers that are their biggest challenge (at least not from what I've heard).

The biggest obstacle is us—the gatekeepers. I heard from booksellers that parents regularly insisted that their reluctant reader would be wasting their time on a graphic novel. They wanted their child to read a “real book.” Being a parent who listens to other parents talk, this doesn’t surprise me too much. I can remember when the Harry Potter series was first exploding and parents would brag about their seven-year-olds reading it. I’d have to suppress my urge to eye roll. I can remember my own parents bragging that I could read the newspaper at that age. But isn’t the point of reading not that you can decipher the words, but that you can derive meaning from them? As someone who has made my living by making books for other people to buy, my attitude is only: Please read. Please love books. Please want them and escape into them. And beyond that, whatever floats your boat. 

So snobbery is certainly one roadblock for booksellers and librarians—the notion that one’s child is or should be a genius and read like one. One bookseller told me that she had a parent come in asking if they had a version of Noam Chomsky for toddlers. Which, among other things, is hilarious.

But way more difficult is the barrier the gatekeepers construct around subject matter.  There are some parents who don’t want their kids to read anything that might disturb them—and we could have a whole conversation about how we learn to cope with our world via reading. But what I was even more fascinated by is this: Over and over booksellers and especially librarians say that they have to be incredibly careful about sexual content. Parents will explicitly state that they’re fine with violence and spookiness, but sex? Not fine.  

I just got back from the Texas Library Association meeting in San Antonio, Texas, which was such a wonderful experience, and this was a very active conversation while I was there. Librarians were happy to know that there’s no sex in my book, because it means they can recommend it to a wider assortment of kids. On the one hand, of course I’m pleased that my book is open to all kinds of readers. On the other, I felt guilty that my book might be chosen over one that has sexual content. I think my book is terrifying in many ways, but apparently way more terrifying to some parents and adults is the notion that adolescents are sexual beings and have sexual thoughts.

I’d guess that many adults look at teenagers and think about what was going on in their own heads at that age and it freaks them out.  Suddenly your child is someone with secrets and privacy. Suddenly your child is someone unfamiliar to you. This can be something we embrace and are curious about—look at you, fine young person, let me learn something new about you today. Or we can approach it with revulsion and a desire to take back the control we thought we had at one time.

These thoughts have especially percolated in my head as I’ve been reading Megan Abbott’s The Fever,  which has been very hard for me to put down since I started it. The novel is written from a few perspectives, but the central protagonist is Deenie, a teenaged girl who feels like she’s changing in ways she can’t control. If that isn’t a metaphor for adolescence, I don’t know what is. And this is the really poignant thing about of all of this: At the same time that we adults are afraid of the changes in our kids, they’re just as terrified. In The Fever, a number of teenaged girls in the public high school are struck one-by-one by a strange ailment. Seizures, twitches, hallucinations—each suffers in different ways, but in all cases they lose control over their bodies and to some extent their thoughts. Wild theories spread as to what has caused the ailment—from HPV vaccinations to the town’s toxic lake. But what bubbles right up to the surface of this novel is sex. That our children are having it, thinking about it, and sometimes victims of it in ways that we wish we could protect them from. We see these girls—not even at the age of consent—who nonetheless have sexual feelings they can act upon, and bodies that other people with sexual feelings want to act upon. And yeah, that’s pretty terrifying.  There’s a powerful refrain in the novel—the girls often appear facially different to themselves, to each other, and to their parents. Almost as if they are transformed, or possessed.  It’s no coincidence that classic stories of demonic possession (which often focus on girls), show the possessed child spewing sexual profanity. There is truly nothing more terrifying to us than the collision of untouched adolescent girls (and boys) and sex. Nothing more terrifying—and yet such is life.

And if such is life, my goodness, we should really want our kids to read about it first, shouldn’t we?

I’ve rattled on long enough. By all means, if you’re looking for a thought-provoking novel that you can also lose yourself in, get yourself a copy of The Fever. I’m planning to deep dive into everything else Megan Abbott has written.

Happy spring. Don’t worry about what the birds and the bees are getting up to. If we cut back on the pesticides, they’ll do just fine. 

My copy of The Fever, which I've looked forward to getting back to every day since I started it. I don't feel right when I'm not loving what I'm reading, so Megan Abbott is making me a happier and more well-adjusted person right now.


January 1978. Rudolph Nureyev is a guest on "The Muppets," and I'm ten-years-old. Not even an adolescent. But I had feelings, people. FEELINGS. See Miss Piggy's face? That was me, age ten.

Muppets image.png

I have some new people to thank. I was lucky enough to attend the Texas Library Association Meeting in San Antonio this past week, and I had a fantastic time. Librarians are heroes, and their passion for books and commitment to putting the right book in the right reader’s hands is so inspiring. I was so lucky to get to meet so many librarians and was so flattered by their interest in The Beast Is an Animal. I’m very grateful to the Texas Library Association for inviting me, and especially to meetings coordinator Anne Glasgow and panel moderator, librarian Donna Maher. I’m also grateful to the other YA Horror and Fantasy panelists I appeared with—Kim Liggett, Courtney Alameda, and Kara Thomas. It was lots of fun. I’m continuously blessed to be published by Margaret K. McElderry Books. My publisher, Justin Chanda, and editor, Karen Wojtyla, were both at the meeting and in addition to talking up my book to everyone, they treated me and the other S&S authors to some lovely dinners. And the marketing staff worked tirelessly—especially the ever-kind and charming Anthony Parisi, Nick Elliot, Christine Naulty, and Amy Beaudoin.

Since The Beast Is an Animal published on February 28, there are a whole host of new people to thank. First is Cristin Stickles at McNally Jackson Books for hosting my wonderful launch event on March 1. I’ve spoken in front of large audiences before, but I have never been so terrified in my life. This wasn’t just any large audience—this was an audience of family, friends old and new, and publishing colleagues who are also friends old and new. My life truly flashed before my eyes. In the end it was a wonderful experience and I’m hugely grateful to Emily Gould for introducing me and asking me such interesting questions—while taking time from her own writing and family to do so. Last I want to thank everyone who came—you know who you are. I don’t take for granted that you spent a few hours on a weekday evening just to support me and my book.

Special thanks to my dear friend Pamela Milam who went out in the cold and snow with me to all the Barnes & Noble bookstores in Manhattan and Brooklyn, as well as to the independents Shakespeare & Co and Kunokuniya Bookstore in Manhattan, to help me sign all their unsold stock. She’s a friend, champion, and social media advance team all in one.

Last, I had a wonderful time at the NoVa Teen Book Festival in Arlington, VA, March 10-11. They arranged for me to talk to 80+ students at South Lakes High School in Reston, and that was so much fun. The school’s librarians, Linda and Kathy, were such fantastic hosts, and the students and their teachers were inspiringly engaged and asked excellent questions. It was my first high school visit, and as I said to one of the student organizers of their book club, they set the bar really high. The festival itself was also a wonderful experience, and I enjoyed meeting so many YA authors whom I’d admired from afar. I was awed by how much work the organizers put into it, purely for the love of books. The organizers and all the booksellers at One More Page Books were so inspiring. I’m particularly grateful to author and organizer Danielle Ellison, who seemed to have thought of everything and whose passion for YA literature is palpable.  I’m so grateful to have been invited.

Since I last posted, this thing happened, which is that my book published! I’ve looked forward to that date for more than a year. As I wrote that, I wondered, well haven’t I looked forward to it even longer? Haven’t I been looking forward to it for years? Possibly—it’s hard to remember now. I tend to race to the next milepost, and then the next, and I don’t give myself a lot of time to enjoy whatever I’ve accomplished. Because there’s always so much more to do—and there are always so many ways to imagine that one hasn’t yet measured up. What I really aspired to all those years that I worked on The Beast Is an Animal was for it to be worthy—to be worthy of my agent feeling that it was worthy of publication and for a publisher to then find it similarly worthy. Worthy. I used that word multiple times on purpose. It’s a loaded word. It’s heavy. A lot to drag around. Now I hope my book is worthy in a different way—that enough people will buy it that my publisher will think the whole enterprise was worthwhile. And that therefore the next book is worthy of publication. And on and on. To the next milepost and the next.

Something else happened on February 28, 2017, the day my book published. My father died. My father, Jan Walter van Arsdale, Sr., was a bright, handsome, charismatic man. He wanted to be a poet, and I recalled today how often he went to “Writers Conferences” when I was a kid. I put that in quotation marks because the concept sounded fancy and mythical to me as a child. To him, being a published writer was probably also fancy and mythical. He wanted it, badly. But it remained out of his grasp as it does for many of us. He self-published a volume of poetry when I was about eleven. He also wrote many, many sermons, and was thought to be an excellent preacher. He was tall and prematurely gray, and had a beautiful voice. And he had a gift for drama. My favorite service he performed each year occurred on the evening of Good Friday, the most morbid day in the Christian calendar. I used to love how he’d have all the lights in the sanctuary go out after Christ says his last words, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit,” and then dies. After a minute or so in the pitch black, my father would smack two hymnals together with a loud crack and all the lights would blaze on again. It was spectacular.

My father was a difficult man; I tried and failed to feel worthy in his eyes. He suffered from bipolar disorder at a time when it was even less understood than it is now. Lithium destroyed his body over the decades. And what the lithium didn’t do to wreck him, he did himself. He could be mean, very mean. He could be frightening. His highs were high and bizarre and his lows were low and dark—and silent.

But always what I remember about my father is that he desperately wanted to be good. No, that’s not right. My father desperately wanted to be great. Correction: My father desperately wanted to be great, while wishing he were someone who simply wanted to be good.

I’ve realized even as I write this the extent to which the subject that I wrote so much about in my novel—the quest to be and believe that one is good (worthy)—was a part of my father’s life as well. More consciously, whenever I talk about my belief that we are not good or bad, but that good and bad exist in all of us—I’m certainly thinking at least in part of my father.

As often happens after someone we love has died, I’ve had flashes of memories of my father over the last few weeks. One was that my father admired Walt Whitman. And I thought of one of Whitman’s most famous poems, “O Captain! My Captain!,” which he wrote to eulogize his great hero, Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln was also a hero of my father’s. I believe that my father wanted to be a hero himself. I think for some people he accomplished that goal. He did many great and terrible things in his life—as we all do. My father wasn’t my hero, but he was a man I loved. And for him, I offer this beautiful poem, and my understanding, and my belief that he was someone worthy. 

As always, thank you so much for reading.


Another of my father’s heroes was Martin Luther King, Jr. I tried to find the particular drawing of him that my father had framed on our wall, but I couldn’t. Instead, here’s a picture of King in his jail cell in Birmingham, after he was arrested on Good Friday—April 12, 1963. You can find a beautiful description of his letter and all that informed it on BrainPickings, one of my favorite sites. 

It’s now less than a week until publication (2/28) of The Beast Is an Animal, so let’s all take a quiet moment to listen to my heart beating. Yes, that’s right, you can hear it through whatever device you’re currently using.

In the last month, I’ve been happy and relieved to get several nice reviews, excerpts of which you can read here. So far, this is probably my favorite. (And not just because of the seal GIF, which is admittedly awesome.) It made me feel—wow, she really got what I was doing! That has been one of my biggest fears, that people would read it and scratch their heads. She said, “Where has this book been all my life?” Which, you know, I could ask myself. And the answer would be: percolating.

Since I last wrote, I attended Winter Institute, a big conference organized by the American Booksellers Association. It was so much fun, and I describe why here. In March I attend the NoVa Teen Book Festival, which I’m so excited about. Not only do I participate in a number of panels with other authors, I get to visit a high school where teenagers have read my book—actual readers of my actual book. And we’re going to talk about it! Truly, I can’t imagine anything more rewarding or exciting than that.

I’m also doing a Skype conversation with a group of teen readers at Powell’s Books in Portland, Oregon, on Friday evening. If you know of a reading group or classroom that would like to order books and have me Skype in for a conversation, please let me know. I’m happy to talk not just about my book, but about writing in general, as well as how to be a good editor of your own work as well as others’.  This goes for groups of adults as well as teens and middle-graders.

Okay, the last thing about me: One of the blessings of having my publisher acquire two books is that it’s freed up some of my time to do other writing. So I’ve now written an essay that appeared here—which is about the ways in which my novel is eerily, weirdly, sadly applicable to our times. In short: There is a wall in my book, which fearful people build to keep out the monsters. Yikes. Why does that feel like a newspaper headline? In the coming weeks I hope to have announcements about more essays, which are currently in the pitching and writing stage of things.

Now, for goddess’s sake let’s talk about someone else, because this is what I look like when I talk about myself too much:

 Photo by © Barbara Morgan

Photo by © Barbara Morgan


I’ve been watching “The Man in the High Castle,” which imagines what the world would be like if a dictator had won WW2. Hm. Anyway, one of the more fascinating things about watching it is that you’re often challenged to ask yourself: What would I have done in that situation? Would I have kept quiet and stayed safe, or would I have spoken up for myself and others? What’s brave and what’s foolhardy? What’s selfish and what’s caring for the ones you love?

My reading right now is glorious. I don’t know why, but when I started Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye years ago, I didn’t get past the first quarter. It wasn’t because I didn’t enjoy it—I did. It may have been the usual excuse, which is that I had so much reading for work that I couldn’t read for pleasure. Now the only thing that gets in the way of my pleasure reading is my social media addiction, and I’ve been working hard to curb that. So any time I feel tempted to avoid work by checking out Twitter, instead I pick up Cat’s Eye. And if that isn’t a cure for spending time in other ways, I don’t know what is. I love Margaret Atwood, no secret there, and in Cat’s Eye she is at the height of her powers. Sentence by sentence I have never felt such suspense, such terror that something awful was about to happen. She alleviates this terror by showing us her protagonist in the present—we know she survived—but that makes it just bearable. And what is her protagonist threatened by? Not a rival empire or some otherworldly force of evil. No, she’s a grade school girl threatened by other grade school girls. And it’s terrifying. Each perfectly-shaped sentence carries so much implicit threat and certainty of doom that I’m finding it the most propulsive reading experience I’ve had in a long time.

Okay, one last thing about me. (I know. I’m terrible.) My book event at McNally Jackson is Wednesday, March 1, at 7PM. If you can’t make it, you have until tomorrow, February 23, to pre-order a signed, personalized copy.

You must have people with birthdays coming up. And Mother’s Day! Wouldn’t Mom like a copy with her name in it? Of course she would.  Plus, I’ll include one of these nifty bookmarks that I drew my very own self:

  Illustration by P. van Arsdale

Illustration by P. van Arsdale

As always, thank you so much for reading.


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I was lucky enough to be invited to the American Booksellers Association’s Winter Institute at the end of January. If it was inspiring to be with small groups of booksellers on my pre-sell tour, it was like a rocket launch to be surrounded by hundreds of booksellers, many of whom had already read my book or very much wanted to.

I’m so grateful to the Indies Introduce panelists, especially Joy Dallanegra-Sanger of ABA and Billie Bloebaum of Third Street Books, for choosing me and The Beast Is an Animal to be among the short list of debuts included, and for allowing me to do my first-ever reading from the novel.  Billie called me when I was hiking on an island off the coast of Maine last summer to give me the news that I’d been selected. I shouldn’t even have had cell service, and I’ll never forget the thrill of getting her call while I stood in the woods.

I especially want to thank my publisher, Margaret K. McElderry/Simon & Schuster for sending me to Minneapolis in January, and for hosting such a lovely bookseller dinner for me and their other authors present. Jason Wells, the VP of children’s publicity and marketing, was our shepherd and charmer-in-chief, and I cannot express enough gratitude to marketing director Chrissy Noh, marketing manager Emily Hutton, and head of children’s sales Christina Pecorale for talking up my book so passionately over and over and over again and persuading even booksellers who claimed not to like YA fantasy that they really should read my book.

I also want to thank fellow S&S author Shaun David Hutchinson for sharing a signing table with me and being such a lovely colleague all weekend.

Finally, once again, I was brilliantly guided and watched over and generally lucky to have Faye Bi as my publicist.  I don’t know how she’s as focused on my book and responsive to me as she is while also having so many other responsibilities, and I’m so grateful.

It's now just over a month until publication of The Beast Is an Animal, and it's time to start thanking some of the people who work so hard behind the scenes to launch a book (specifically mine) into the world. Often people are surprised to find out how long it can take between a book being finished and being published—usually a year or more. That’s not because it takes that long to print a book; it’s because it takes that long for the publisher and author to spread the word about a book and get people to read it in advance of publication. Then, ideally, by the time the book publishes there are booksellers who are ready to hand sell it to readers.

One person whom I must lavish with praise and thanks is Nikki Terry of Orange Custard, my talented web designer whose wisdom I have come to rely on. I wanted a website that would be clean and pretty and also do about five million things, and somehow Nikki managed to make it work, and she’s still making it work every time something new arises. Life can be hard and stressful, and we all need people who make our lives easier—Nikki is most definitely one of those people for me, and I’m deeply grateful.

At Margaret K. McElderry Books, my editor, Karen Wojtyla, and publisher, Jason Chanda, perform the miraculous juggling act of publishing a full list of books while also making me and my book feel special. They and Anne Zafian, the deputy publisher, as well as marketing director Chrissy Noh, have been doing the advance work of both planning the details of the publication as well as communicating the kind of passion and enthusiasm for the book that make all the difference to the sales force.

Having worked with many publicity departments and publicists over the years, I have some inkling of how hard their jobs are and how much they have to do—and against very difficult odds—to get their authors and their books the attention they deserve. I could not be luckier to be working with publicist Faye Bi and publicity director Katy Hershberger.

I just recently returned home from a pre-publication tour that Faye arranged for me. The pre-publication tour is strictly about meeting booksellers—and there is no more joyous experience than talking to passionate book people. And if those passionate book people also happen to have read and enjoyed your book, well…that’s pretty much heaven for an author right there.  

In Boston I was warmly greeted by store manager Beth Przbyla and her colleague Sophia at the Prudential Tower Barnes & Noble. They interviewed me and even took some video and it couldn’t have been a nicer first experience. The S&S National Accounts Manager John Muse was my charming and gracious host for dinner with a group of kind and witty booksellers who made me want to become a local. They were Katherine Ferguson (Harvard Bookstore), Lauren D’Alessio (Wellesley Books), Leo Landry (An Unlikely Story), Amy Brabenec (Brookline Booksmith), Clarissa Hadge (Trident Booksellers), Katie Eelman (Papercuts JP), Christina Anderson (Concord Bookshop), and Chris Abouzeid (Belmont Books).

In San Francisco, I enjoyed meeting Sandy Graves at the El Cerrito Barnes & Noble. S&S Retail Account Manager Kelly Stidham was my friendly and wonderfully gracious host for dinner with a group of bright and lively booksellers who made me feel like a friend, not just an author. They were Olivia Moncial (Mrs. Dalloway’s), Hannah Walcher and Shannon Mathis Grant (Books Inc.), Jane Bramley and Mary Ann Hill (Hicklebee’s), Susan Kunhardt (Book Passage), Patty Norman and Grace Bogart (Copperfield’s), Caitlin Jordan (Kepler’s), and Alison Nolen (Linden Tree).

In Seattle, S&S Retail Account Manager Christine Foye was my sparkling and vivacious host for a dinner that took place the evening of the inauguration. It was good to talk to book people on such a dark day. My inspiring beacons that evening were Christy MacDonald (Secret Garden Bookshop), Rene Kirkpatrick, Anna Eklund, and Mel Barnes (University Bookstore), Justus Joseph and Lauren Banka (Elliott Bay Book Company), Alison Webb (Eagle Harbor Book Company—note: she had to take a boat to come!), Suzanne Droppert (Liberty Bay Books—she also had to take a boat!), Lillian Welch (Island Books), and Rene Holderman and Emily Adams (Third Place Books).

I know there are many people working behind the scenes in the sales force and marketing departments whom I don’t get to see and appreciate. So for all of you who aren’t named here, please know: I know you’re there, and I’m so grateful.

Dear friends,

As I write, it’s 42 days until the publication date of The Beast Is an Animal. I think it’s 42, because I just counted it day by day in my planner with my index finger and that seems scientific. And that also means it’s 43 days until my book launch event at McNally Jackson Books on March 1!* I am very excited about this, and I hope all of you in the New York City area can come. I’m especially excited that the brilliant writer, publisher, and thinker Emily Gould, with whom I worked years ago at Hyperion, is doing me the honor of asking me questions at my event. My greatest fear was that my book event would be boring, and Emily is constitutionally incapable of being boring. If I, on the other hand, break into desperate tap-dancing, please tell me to stop.

This entry is a bit more me, me, me than usual, but them’s the breaks, pals. It had to happen eventually. I’m an AUTHOR. I think you need to forgive me because of the whole 42 days until publication thing. So here’s something: If by any chance you can’t be at the McNally Jackson Books event, you can still order a copy signed and personalized by me, and have it sent directly to you (as long as you do so no later than February 23).

One more me, me, me: Today I leave for Boston, San Francisco, and Seattle to meet a load of booksellers in each town, and I’m really excited. Expect many nerdy-happy, whee-I’m-meeting-booksellers posts on social media. But I also haven’t packed yet. And you’re no help in deciding on outfits, because I’m already going to be on Amtrak by the time you get this. Fine, if it’s really all up to me, I’m going to be dressed comme ça (courtesy Alexander McQueen).

Last, what to read? I have two friends with books just out or coming out soon, and you should buy or borrow and read these books not (only) because the authors are wonderful people, but also because they have meaningful things to say. Will Schwalbe’s Books for Living is on my soon-to-be-read shelf, because I’m confident it’s going to change my life. I attended his book launch event and he said something that has stuck with me ever since: “We can choose to remember people for how they lived, and not for how they died." And another friend, Jeff Giles, has an original, page-turning YA novel coming out on January 31 called The Edge of Everything. He imagines a hell in which the damned become bounty hunters who are sent up-top to collect the incorrigible. The heroine, a young girl named Zoe, encounters both bounty hunters and incorrigibles, and she’s forced to define for herself what justice and mercy mean. It’s terrific. I was lucky enough to read it in advance, and it’s stayed with me.

Happy New Year, dear ones. A year is just a collection of days during which a variety of things happen. Some things will be better than others, and I hope the majority of your days include some joyful things.

* Eagle-eyed social media observers may think: Wait a second, wasn’t the book launch event at McNally Jackson supposed to be February 27? It was, but it changed. And March 1 is better, don’t you think?

Thank you for reading and subscribing.


PS: If you like this newsletter, please tweet about it, post about it on Facebook, forward it to friends, and encourage everyone to subscribe. Also, The Beast Is an Animal is an exceedingly anti-fascist book, so consider it your moral responsibility to preorder a copy. KIDDING!

PPS: I'm kidding only about the moral responsibility part. It really is anti-fascist.

This is the magnificent stamp I will use when signing books. I love it. 

cape woman.png

This is an accurate representation of my demeanor when meeting booksellers. 


Dear friends,

Two days ago I received my first review from an industry publication. I can’t share it with you yet, because it hasn’t been posted online. It's confidential (they actually wrote that part in red). So I’m not going to talk about the contents of the review. I’m going to talk about how it feels to have your first novel reviewed for the first time.

It’s a milestone, receiving my first review, one I’ve been waiting for with trepidation and anticipation. I’ve worried that while I think I’ve done one thing, reviewers might think I’ve done something else entirely. This, to me, is much like life. I often move through my days wondering if I’m performing well—if my reviews at the end will be good or bad.

I’m my worst critic (I'd better be, because if anyone else is an even harsher critic of me than I am, I don't want to know about it). I'm constantly evaluating myself and finding my performance lacking. Maybe because I so often wither under my own gaze, I'm deeply uncomfortable judging works of art. Someone made that, I think to myself—with their hands and heart and head. I don’t envy anyone faced with reviewing a novelist's performance. At their best, novels are complicated creatures. Like people, they can please you at one moment, disappoint you the next. At the end you have to collect those moments together and ask yourself how you feel about the whole creature. It’s like deciding whether a person is good or bad. It feels. . .unforgiving.

I wrote a novel about a girl who wants to be good, but is terribly afraid she’s bad. She grows up in a world where that’s an either/or assessment. You can’t be both—you have to be one or the other. I didn’t put it exactly this way in the novel, and I’m not giving anything away by saying this, but I think what matters more than whether the people and books in our lives are good is whether the people and books in our lives are worthy of our love. To me the real question is if we’re changed for the better on the other side of our time with them; if ultimately we wouldn’t want to go back to the time before we’d known or read them.

So, marking the milestone of receiving my first review, I very much hope that once you read The Beast Is an Animal, you won’t want to go back to a time when you didn’t know my heroine, Alys, and her heartbreaks and longings. And that you certainly won't want to go back to a time when you didn’t know what flits, flaps, creeps, and floats in the deep, dark forest.

Now, my friends, the gift-giving season is upon us, and you must know people who want a book. A book with a beautiful cover that will grace any shelf or tabletop! And here’s the thing: While my book isn’t available in bookstores until February 28, you can preorder it wherever books are sold now! And you can give your dear ones a card that tells them that what lies on the other side of January is a sliver of hope that goodness can be found in the seemingly darkest places.

I was recently asked by a blogger to name my favorite Christmas book, and I couldn’t think of anything particularly seasonal that I personally associated with the holiday. When I was in college, my mother always gave me a fat, juicy paperback in my Christmas stocking, something I’d curl up with for days after. A book I recently whipped through like that was the first in Justin Cronin’s Passage trilogy. The second is waiting on my shelf. I know what you're thinking: Peternelle, you're recommending I spend time with vampire-zombies at Christmas? The jokes write themselves, people.

And because I’m not completely subversive, here’s my favorite nonreligious Christmas song of all time. It's just the way I like my Christmas songs: full of melancholy and Judy Garland.

Wishing you peace in these final days of 2016, and here’s to finding—and making—goodness in 2017.

Thank you for reading and subscribing.


PS: If you like this newsletter, please tweet about it, post about it on Facebook, forward it to friends, and encourage everyone to subscribe. Also, repeat after me: "The best way to spread good cheer is singing loud for all to hear that Peternelle's book is currently available for preorder."

This month's inarguable point is brought to you by Hiddy Hilda.


Dear friends,

I wrote a novel about fear, monsters, and a wall. It was supposed to be a fantasy. I started this novel long ago--long before this election season and conversations about actually walling ourselves in. 

Fantasy literature has always imagined not just what might be, but what already is. Monsters are all around us--and they’re in us. We do bad things, and we let bad things happen. We can try to run from this truth, and we can build barriers, but we can’t get away from the monsters until we figure out who and what the monsters actually are. This is much of what my novel, The Beast Is an Animal, is about.

After walking around in a soup of despair for several days, I thought about what has convinced me before that there is too much good in the world to succumb to what’s bad. So here are a few things that might help you do the same.

Art: See left. One of my favorites—The Giant, by Francisco de Goya. That’s a monster to love.


Music: "Familiarity" by The Punch Brothers is one of my favorite songs of all time. It's about disconnection and the desire to connect. And it's simply beautiful. 

Reading: If you want to get thoroughly away, V.E. Schwab’s A Darker Shade of Magic is a wonderfully original, so-skillfully-imagined fantasy that hooks you right in. There are four connected worlds, one of which has been overcome by black magic and was sealed off from the other worlds. But it turns out the black magic wasn't completely locked out after all. An oldie but a goodie is A Wrinkle in Time by Madeline L'Engle. In that novel, the most evil place, the place most dominated by IT, isn't chaotic, it's orderly--in an awful, awful way. That has powerfully stayed with me in the decades since I first read it. Finally, it's never a bad time to read or reread A Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, and this would be a particularly good time. It's a book for adults and teenagers, imagining one particular way Fascism might take over the United States. Spoiler alert: The women don't fare so well. Make this your motto: Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. 

And finally, some news about my book: The publication date has been moved up to February 28, 2017! You can preorder a copy here, which I highly recommend.

Hang in there, my friends. Look at something beautiful. Listen to something that sweeps you away. Read something mind-expanding.  Donate even a few dollars to Planned Parenthood and the ACLU. None of those things will press the rewind button on what happened last week, but a few of them will do some good, and I’m pretty certain they’ll all make you feel at least marginally better.  

Thank you for reading and subscribing.


PS: If you like this newsletter, please tweet about it, post about it on Facebook, forward it to friends, and encourage everyone to subscribe? You'd be really surprised to know how many people don't subscribe to this newsletter. I mean, we're talking millions of people.

Hello friends,

My website is up and running and it is lovely. I hope you visit regularly and have a look around. Already there are some events on the Events page. Which is good, because an Events page without events is an existential crisis. There are some FAQs you might enjoy if you've wondered how and why my first novel, The Beast Is an Animal, came to be.

Please take a look at the Thanks page as well--it's a running narrative of all the people who have helped The Beast Is an Animal get its start in life. It's also a little glimpse into how the process of finishing a novel and finding a publisher can go. A number of people have said that since I've been an editor for so long it must be easier for me to be an author--at least I'm a little less confused by the process. That's definitely true. (Although one can quickly forget everything one knows when one is an author oneself. Trust.) Also true: Being an editor didn't make it any easier to write the book. I hope that's reassuring to all writers frustrated with themselves for not getting it right the first or even the tenth time.

I'm often asked why I write for young adults, and I answer that question on my FAQs page. A related question is why adults read YA fiction. What are those readers looking for? Someone who doesn't read YA once said to me, "YA is so accessible." Which can be true. But not always. YA is tremendously varied, and multiple genres exist within the YA category. Sometimes the designation can feel a little arbitrary. Two recent examples: Nova Ren Suma's The Walls Around Us and Robin Wasserman's Girls on Fire. Both books could be read by sophisticated readers thirteen and up. Both are about adolescent girls who alternate between the roles of victim and victimized. Both ask really important questions about what adolescent girls are capable of--good and bad and everything in between. (Which my book does as well.) Both are gorgeously well-written. One has a supernatural element (gracefully and organically incorporated), and the other doesn't. One is categorized as YA and the other as adult. I recommend them both highly, and if you have a reading group I think it would be fascinating to read them side-by-side. Or make your own reading group of one.

And hey, if you're reading anything wonderful, tell me!

Wishing you a lovely October--


PS, Hiddy Hilda is a little creation of mine that started on Twitter. Find her here. She is not me. But there are similarities. 

Your October doodle is brought to you by our sponsorAnxious Moments with Hiddy Hilda)

hilda with book.jpg

I have a bias against acknowledgements in works of fiction, even if they're palced in the back of the book where they're supposed to be less distracting. The real-world intrusion of acknowledgments pages at the end of a transporting reading experience is jarring to me—like someone accidentally leaning up against the overhead light switch at a party and everything seems suddenly too bright and oh my god our foreheads are really shiny and what’s that in your teeth?

But thanks are also really important. I take them seriously, and I want everyone to know that this book would not be what it is without a number of people other than me. Instead of listing those names in a way that won’t mean a whole lot to you, I thought I’d tell a story instead--the story of how The Beast Is an Animal came to be. As time goes on, these acknowledgments are going to grow, and I’m going to start thanking people who didn’t help the book itself, but helped the book reach its audience. So think of this as The Beast Is an Animal’s ongoing journal of thanks. The Beast thanks you for your interest, and so do I.

Years ago, my family and I lived in an apartment one floor below Simon Lipskar and his family. Simon and I have sons the same age, and although I was a book editor and he was a literary agent, we met first as neighbors. I think (I know) I was in my pajamas at the time. When I wrote a middle grade novel that I should have shown to no other human being on the planet, I nonetheless showed it to Simon, and he handled it with way more delicacy and seriousness than it deserved. I will never forget the kindness and complete sincerity with which he simultaneously convinced me I should put it in a drawer and also that I should keep writing and he’d read whatever I wrote. It took me a few years to be inspired again, and then I wrote another middle grade novel that was a fantasy set in contemporary New York City. He said it wasn’t for him, but he wanted me to be at Writers House (his agency), and he made me feel like family. Again, something I will never forget. So he passed that novel along to a lovely agent named Steven Malk who read it many times and couldn’t ultimately see it working for him. Along the way he had some questions about the villains in that novel, so I decided to write a prologue to help fill out their backstory. It was the most fun I’ve ever had writing anything. It flowed out of me like magic. I loved that prologue. I secretly loved that prologue more than I loved the novel that it was meant to introduce.

When Steven passed on The Manuscript-That-Shall-Not-Ne-Named, Simon said, okay, let’s think about who else at Writers House we should show it to. He described Rebecca Sherman to me, and I said, yes, please: her. Rebecca read it while I held every cell in my body in suspense, because at that point I was genuinely despairing that I would—that I could—ever write anything that anyone would want to read. Rebecca replied almost exactly this way: “Please tell Peternelle that I loved the prologue and would she consider dumping everything else and writing a novel like that?”

Simon forwarded that email to me, and said, “This is what Rebecca says, and I’m sure you’re not going to want to do this.” Remember, by this point I’d been through multiple drafts with this novel, and she was asking me to press delete on a 250 page novel that I’d worked very hard on.

I said (essentially), “Simon, she loves 12 pages that I wrote? I have zero problem deleting 250 pages. I relish the thought of deleting 250 pages.” Because she was absolutely right. The novel I wanted to write all along—the novel I needed to write, the novel I would myself want to read—was the novel that would eventually flow directly out of those 12 pages. Not the one I’d written. Something else. Something dark and fairytale.

This began a process that (to me) took ages longer than it should have, but seemed never to daunt or discourage Rebecca and her associate agent, Andrea Morrison. Between them, they read multiple drafts, versions, partials…I couldn’t even tell you how many. And through it all, they kept the faith that the writer who wrote those twelve pages could write a novel that would match them.

I didn’t always have that faith. There came a point in 2015 when I got very close, but still it wasn’t there. Rebecca and Andrea knew it wasn’t quite good enough, but they were finally at a loss for what to tell me to do. They even had an intern read it, and among them they gave me a set of edits that threw me a bit for a loop. Not because they were wrong, but because I could no longer see the novel for the cloud of anxiety and fear of failure that hung over it. Mostly, I think I was tired. I knew the novel wasn’t right. I knew that in my gut. But I wished it were otherwise.

At that point I decided it was time to stop being so private about my writing. I hadn’t shown my novel to anyone, not even to my immediate family, and many close friends and family members didn’t know I was writing a novel—largely because I dreaded being asked “so. . . . how’s the novel coming along?” every time I ran into someone. The answer would have been “It’s not,” followed by me bursting into tears. Not what I wanted. Plus, as an editor, I felt I should have been able to do it myself. Of course that’s ridiculous.

So, once I got desperate enough, I turned to two friends, both of whom I met on Twitter, which is why I’m going to link to their Twitter accounts when I mention them here. Bless Twitter. It has brought some truly dear people into my life, not the least of all these. Catherine Nichols and Tim Walker both read it and had advice that sometimes dovetailed, sometimes mirrored, and sometimes contradicted what Rebecca and Andrea said. Catherine had tremendous insight into a central relationship in the novel that really changed the course of things for me. And Tim gave me some of the best editorial advice I’ve ever received. He said, take all the notes you have from everyone, put them in a new word document, take away all the formatting, and forget who said what. Then decide what feels right.


As with all great editing, the point was not to tell me how to fix the problems or what to write. The point was to tell me where the readers were tripping and slowing down. Sometimes I followed their advice, sometimes I didn’t, but most important, I knew where the problems were, and what they were, and I was newly inspired to come up with my own ways to fix them. By the time I came back to it, I was ready. I wrote whole new chapters. I deepened relationships. I answered questions I’d refused (stubbornly) to answer before.

I sent the novel back to Rebecca and Andrea in January of 2016. I waited about a week. I was in suspense, but I was also calm, because I felt I’d done everything I could.

This was the moment when I also sent the novel to another friend, Pamela Milam. I’d only let her read the prologue and first chapter before. Now I let her read the rest. Let’s just say her response made me feel like I hadn’t completely embarrassed myself. Okay, she raved. She said I’d done something special. And of course all any of us has ever wanted is to do something special. So that meant a lot to me.

I was standing in a knitting store on West 79th Street when I got an email from Rebecca saying that I’d done it. The novel was ready to be submitted to publishers. Cue happy tears while clinging to skeins of yarn.

Then Rebecca masterfully chose who to send my novel to and how to describe it to those editors and publishers. The person who responded most enthusiastically and immediately and in a way that said she really got it was Karen Wojtyla, editorial director at Margaret K. McElderry Books. She and publisher Justin Chanda made it clear that they also thought I’d done something special. Again, that’s really all any writer—anyone—wants to feel.

Once they’d agreed to acquire two novels (The Beast Is an Animal and another novel I didn’t even have the idea for yet)…well. If I had more space and less natural reserve and decorum I could tell you all the ways in which this changed my life and answered a lingering question that had hung over me for years.

Karen then edited the novel—because now I had an editor! And she pushed me so carefully and strategically that I felt neither over-edited nor under-edited. This, my friends, is an art. And she got me (perhaps most important) to finally, finally, tackle a few problematic sections that I just hadn’t been able to fix until that final go-round.

After that, Simon & Schuster’s managing editor and the copy editor, Beth Edelman, also took cracks at it, and found yet more. There was one mistake in particular they caught that still causes me to shudder. Thank you. Thank you.

Now I must pause to recognize the as-yet-unsung in all of this—Karen’s associate editor, Annie Nyobo. Annie, I feel your pain. I’ve been there. It’s hard to be an editor and an assistant at the same time. It often feels thankless. I hope I never give you reason to feel that way. Thank you.

And what was the satin bow on all this wonderfulness? THE MOST GORGEOUS COVER THAT EVER COVERED A BOOK. Sonia Chaghatzbanian designed the cover I would have dreamed up if I could have dreamed that well. And this, to me, is a life lesson. Because if you’d asked me what I wanted to see on the cover, I would have said, “Whatever you do, please: Don’t put a girl on the cover. That’s been done to death and it would be all wrong for this book.” And I would have been incorrect. Because this cover…I sigh when I look at it. I want to fall into it. It gives me joy.

And that is how The Beast Is an Animal became a book. Stay tuned for further adventures.