A Brief Interruption

I know you guys want Part 3, but we need to do this first.

One year ago today...



Though it had been spotted in the wild before...




BREAK was officially unleashed upon the world.



I celebrated in the usual ways...





Since then, BREAK has received reviews like THIS:

Hannah Moskowitz delivers a passionate debut about one boy struggle to make his world sane by being insane. It's a story that I'll never forget!
A Must Read!

And like THIS...

I thought this book was absolutely boring and stupid. I am not trying to be overly harsh, but I found that I was bored throughout most of the book.

And I've received so many emails that made me do this.



So I would like to offer up a big slice of



to all the lovely ladies (and men--I know you're there somewhere) of Simon Pulse who believed in a crazy book like BREAK.

And to all of you--



Who have read BREAK, especially if you reviewed it, especially if you told a friend about it.

Thank you so much. It has been an amazing year.

Happy birthday, BREAK.

Zombie Tag Rules

My ARC contest is open until midnight, July 17th. Please enter here.

There are a few reasons why this is the most important thing you will ever read.

1. It details proven zombie-killer techniques.

2. It's the most fun you will ever have with spatulas, brains, and your mouth.

3. If you are at SCBWI, we're going to be playing this, and you better be part of the fun, bitch.

Before we begin, I would like to state, for the record, that as much as I would like to, I can't take credit for Zombie Tag the game. (I can take full credit for Zombie Tag the book, so put down your pitchfork.) It was invented by my lovely friend David Colby who kindly insisted that I write a book about it. I made a few small tweaks, but this is largely his game. This is a very good example of how most of my good ideas come from infiltrating (eating) the brains of others.

This official rulebook WAS written by me, as you can probably tell by the snark, but the ideas behind it are his, and I thank him enormously. He'll be in the acknowledgments, and he is also a Zombie Tag player in the book.

So. Without further ado, the rules to Zombie Tag.


--

For the best game of Zombie Tag, you need somewhere between 8 and 15 people. More or less can work, depending on the size of the house. Wil, the main character in Zombie Tag, plays with closer to 6 people, because his parents would never let eight kids in their house at once.

This game is played at night, in the dark.

Let's say you're playing with eight people.

--Your objective is: If you are a zombie, turn everyone else into a zombie. If you are a human, escape the house.

--One person is Zombie God. This is a great honor, usually granted to you if it is 1. your birthday or 2. your house.

-- Zombie God has one very important job. He writes BARRICADE on seven post-it notes, and ZOMBIE on one. He shuffles these and passes them out to all the players, keeping one for himself. The post-its are secret, and none of the players, including the Zombie God, know what post-its the others have. The Zombie God's job is now over.

--Everyone secretly looks at their post-it notes. Chances are, you are a human, in which case your post-it will say BARRICADE. Keep that note. Keep your face neutral.

--Everyone gathers into a circle and closes their eyes. At this point, the lucky player with the ZOMBIE post-it sneaks out of the circle. In some versions of the game, all players will stomp their feet to drown out the sound of his sneaking. But true zombies will not need this, as they move silently and possibly with powers of invisibility.

--The zombie takes a predetermined object--in Wil's versions, a stuffed dinosaur--and hides it somewhere in the house. To escape the house, you need to find this object. It is the key, and the only way to open the front door.

--The zombie runs around the circle and taps each person on the head. Once you are tapped on the head, you silently count to ten before opening your eyes. This allows the zombie to sneak back into the circle.

--It is now time to play. Grab a flashlight and a spatula. You'll need them. You may either strike out on your own or team up with as many people as you like to search the house for the key. The zombie, at this point, pretends to search as well.

--The zombie has thirty seconds to pretend to be normal. At this point, he then reveals himself as a zombie ("RAWWWR, BRAINS," etc.) and attempts to bite as many humans as possible. Ears are a good bet, but anywhere will do.

--If you are the victim of an attempted zombie attack, you have four ways to escape:

1) Fight him off with your spatula. Zombies are terrified of spatulas.

2) Hit him on the top of his head with the flat of your hand (gently, please) which is a zombie paralysis move that will freeze the zombie for ten seconds, allowing you to make an escape.

3) Run. Be warned, however: Zombies possess super speed.

4) Remember your BARRICADE post-it? Slap it on a door and hide in a room. The zombie, upon encountering a barricaded door, must bang on it for thirty seconds to break the barricade before he can enter. This should give you time to find the key if it is hidden in this room, at which point you will need to find an alternate route or fight the zombie long enough to sprint to the door. Or, if the key is not in the room, it is enough time for you to call your mother and tell her you love her.

--If you are bitten, you become a zombie. But all is not lost! You now begin hunting the others with your zombie compatriots. And you win if everyone is a zombie at the end.

--If you are a human and you find the key, run like hell towards the front door. If you escape, you win! You are now the only hope for humanity.

Humor Me Here

I know, I'm posting a lot lately. I have some things to say.

This is one I've been meaning to say for a while. And I apologize if this comes up as somewhat of a rant. And, actually, for probably the only time in the history of ever, I'm going to apologize if this offends anyone. Because, this time, it's actually not my intention.

Because ME ME ME this is about me. Yesterday I told you not to blog about yourself, today I'm blogging about myself. Welcome to Invincible Summer.

So.

Do you remember when Mary-Kate and Ashley made that big announcement about how they didn't want to be called The Olsen Twins anymore? I guess this is kind of like that.

I've thought a lot about this, and I've decided I don't want to be called a teenage writer anymore.

This is a weird declaration to make, because it implies some sort of deceit or, at the very least, shame, that isn't at all what I'm intending. I'm fine with being referred to as a writer who was first published as a teenager, or a nineteen-year-old writer, or a writer who is a teenager, or, hell, a teenager who is a writer. So it's not the actual meaning of the term "teenage writer" that I'm trying to break away from. It's the three connotations this term has come to have.

The first one is the predictable one, and the one that is less of a problem for me. "She's good for a teenager." Yeah, awesome. That was cool when I was turning in papers in high school. It's not going to cut it now.

I'm obviously not the first person to experience it, and I think even people who haven't had this firsthand can see and understand that this is frustrating. And it is, but it is not my biggest problem with being called a teenage writer. Not at all.

The second is bigger. Let's use a story to illustrate this one.

So let's say you have this woman. When she was 27, she decided she wanted to be a writer. She was horrible at first--who isn't?--and she was fine with that, and had fun dabbling around and playing with different things. She started researching the possibility of publication when she was 30, long before she had anything of publishable quality.

She finished her first piece of long fiction when she was 31. That was the same year she got her "great idea," which took her until just after her 34th birthday to finish. This was her first novel. It sucked, but it was hers. But she knew she had a long way to go, and she continued working and working without trying for publication until she turned 36. And then she sent her first query letter.

She kept writing, and she kept querying. She finished projects and queried them and got requests and rejections and no offers. She kept writing. After completing six previous novels, she finally wrote the one that got her an offer of representation right before her 37th birthday. The book sold that summer and came out when she was 38, the same month she got a contract for two more books. She is now 39 and waiting for the release of her 2nd book shortly after her 40th birthday.

Yeah, did you figure out the punchline? Subtract 20 years from all of those ages, and you have my journey.

There's this idea that, because I'm young, this all must have happened very quickly for me. I must have skipped steps, or gotten really lucky, or come out of the womb a perfect writer. I must have slept with someone, or done the twelve-year-old equivalent of sleeping with someone, to get to where I am.

It's bullshit, and it didn't feel fast to me, and I'm not a prodigy. The only reason I got published a lot younger than other people is I'm a stubborn little shit who decided that she had a career when she was eleven years old. The fact that my journey became public when I was a teenager shouldn't lock me into that age. Fuck, call me a child writer, if anything; it's more accurate, in the end. That's when I started.

And here's the third problem with the term. My third problem.

I have slightly less than eight months until I turn twenty.

I'm not planning to be come irrelevant overnight.

I don't want my twentieth birthday, exactly a week before the INVINCIBLE SUMMER release, to be the day in which I'm stripped of something that makes me 'edgy' or 'interesting' or 'catchy.' 'Cause guess the fuck what, bitches. Eight months from now, I'm still going to be edgy and interesting and catchy, and I don't want there to be any doubt about that.

I'm not a child actress. I'm a career bitch, and I have my feet firmly planted in the ground and no no no I'm not going anywhere. And hannah in 8 months is still hannah. She's not any less relevant than this chick right now, just because she doesn't have that edgy little 1 in front of her age.

So I would like to lose it now, because I would like to prove--to you, to the world, and most of all to me--that I don't need it.

When I was a kid, I said I had to be published before I was eighteen, because if I wasn't, no one would care about me. I wasn't good enough, interesting enough, brave enough to run with the big dogs.

I'm calling bullshit on old hannah tonight. In favor of new hannah.

I'm a teenager. I'm a writer. I'm not ashamed of either one. And yeah, I'm fucking proud of what I've accomplished at my age. And my age is staying in my blogger profile. But it'll be there when I'm twenty and when I'm thirty-two and when I'm forty-six, too. Because I'm not here to fucking play games.

The bottom line is, yeah, I'm young, but I'm planning to be around kicking ass for until I'm really, really wrinkly.

And I want you there with me. And I don't give a fuck how old you are.

Deleted Scenes from BREAK

These come from different parts of the book, but I thought I'd post them together because they have a nice little link, which you'll discover if you read carefully.

Neither of these scenes made it to my editor; they were both removed by yours truly when I realized they weren't really important.

Elements of these scenes were snatched up and used elsewhere, and parts contradict with stuff that made it into the book. I figure you're smart enough to figure it out.

------------

“Jesse?” I call.

I hear him stop. “Uh-huh?”

“Feel like a visitor?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. “Sure. Come in.”

I leave the hammer and transfer over to Jesse’s room. He’s sweaty and gross, a heap on his slated wood floor.

He flops down and peers up at me, his hair covering his eyes. “What’s up?”

His room smells like teenage deodorant and feather dusters. I lean against his bed and close my eyes. “I’m going to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He sighs and scratches his throat. “The reaction?”

“Yeah. Don’t scratch.”

He starts his sit-ups again, exercise-growling between his words. “I broke out in some intense hives like five minutes after you left. Went inside, took some Benadryl. Throat closed up. Epi-pen. Ambulance. Standard fare.”

“Who did the epi?”

“I did.”

I sit for a moment, watching his pristine stomach muscles tighten every time he sits up. “I should have been there.”

He rests his elbows on his knees. “Stop, Jonah.”

“I should have been there.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about this. Seriously. I don’t want to deal with you.”

“How bad was it?”

He pushes off and resumes the sit-ups. “They’re all the same.”

I thought talking to Jesse would make me feel better, and now I just want to kill him or myself or both.

“Did Mom and Dad stay with you until the ambulance came?”

“Of course. God, I hate ambulances. I wish they’d just drive me. It would have been faster.”

“Could you breathe?”

“It was okay. I only thought I was going to die for a minute.”

Even when I was in the car accident, I never thought I was going to die. Now, I’m jealous of him in this horrible way.

“What’s it like?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “You basically just want to breathe.”

“You’re fine now, right?”

“Of course.”

“Do you want something to eat? I can make you a shake. Or get you a rice cake or something.”

“I’m all right.” He flips onto his stomach and starts push-ups. “Thanks.”

Yeah, thanks, Jess.

I retreat back into my room and sit on the floor. Push-ups are quieter than sit-ups, and now all I hear is the whisper of his wheezing if I listen very, very closely.


-------------

The cold road is like an ice pack on my chest.

No, wait. There’s an ice pack on my chest.

I open my eyes and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

The first thing I see is Jesse, both his hands tight on the steering wheel. I’m packed in ice from the top of my head to my shoes, like I’m some kind of corpse.

There’s ice in my shirt, over my hips, stuffed in my socks. I’m soaking wet, shaking. Too much ice, or too much fever?

“Jesse,” I say. Jesse is my angel.

“Shh.”

“I--”

“We’re going to the hospital,” he says. “You’re going to be fine. You stay with me now, all right?”

The psych ward will find me at the hospital, but...they can’t make go back. If Mom and Dad want me, if someone here needs me...

There’s no crying. I sit up as straight as I can. “Where’s Will?’

“Naomi’s got him.”

“Where is he?”

“I’m right here,” Naomi says from somewhere behind my head.

I spin around. There she is in the backseat, clutching Will on her lap.

He’s not crying.

“Did I kill him?”

“Jonah, of course not,” Jesse says. “Just close your eyes. Everything’s going to be fine. You’re okay.”

I didn’t know my heart could beat this hard. My blood feels like it’s made of maple syrup.

Naomi says, “Jess, take the beltway.”

He shakes his head. “This is faster.”

I start coughing, and Naomi says, “Shit, you are sick.”

I shake my head.

“Yeah, you are.”

“What’s wrong with Will?”

“He’s fine, Jonah.”

The more I think about not shaking, the more I spasm like I’m having a seizure. Jesse steps harder on the gas.

I say, “Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”

His voice is steady and clear. “Because I can get you there faster. You hold on, now. That’s an order.”

After a minute, he takes his right hand off the wheel and finds my broken and swollen left one underneath all the ice packs. I close my eyes and think about Jesse’s hand and Charlotte’s eyes, and how I’d rather not die right now.

He says, “Please be okay.”

Will coos, “Jo.”

No But Seriously Guys

You want this.

Not just any Tuesday

No no...it's TEASER TUESDAY!!

This is the first page of something YOU WILL NOT RECOGNIZE.

--

“It’s raining.”

He ignores me and changes lanes, his arms draped over the steering wheel. His cuticles are bloody rags. Boy.

“Only children bite their nails, Noel.”

No answer.

“It’s raining.”

His eyes flicker behind his sunglasses. “I’m aware.” He doesn’t close the sunroof.

The radio hisses soft static. We can’t agree on music. Drops of water bounce in and slide down the dashboard.

“Consequently, I’m getting wet.”

Noel finally cracks a smile. “Quiet now,” he says, but he turns the knob and the sunroof slides shut.

About half an hour ago we left the Baltimore Beltway and changed to softer suburban roads. Now we turn frequently and wait for the stoplights. The rain against the hood sounds like a typewriter. Noel’s ruined fingertips tap the steering wheel while I stare at a red light. The message is clear: we’re almost there.

“I’m thinking we don’t go tonight,” he says.

I look at him.

It’s not like I don’t understand his position. It’s just that my entire life is about not going places.

“I mean, it’s getting sort of late.” He indicates the 7:03 flashing beside the speedometer. “Maybe we just check into the hotel tonight. Call Mom and let her know we arrived all safe and sound. And worry about, you know, the family. Tomorrow.”

He’s freaking out. Unbelievable. Noel tends to cycle—-he goes from stagnant to hyperactive, like a bipolar toddler. Freaking out, however, is not part of either of these stages.

“You’re freaking out.”

“I’m not. I just don’t think it’s right to emotionally tax ourselves tonight.”

My fingers crawl into my pocket and I withdraw the two creased photographs. There’s Mariah, striking as always against the old electric factory I used as a backdrop. There’s Josh, trying to be serious for the camera, and I can see right into his mind...loyal, my ass...how could I have been so stupid...all he wanted to do was touch her. Always.

Noel snatches the picture out of my hands. “Especially considering how close you are to some kind of dementia.”

I cross my arms. “Shut up.”

“Look, you’re grieving,” he continues, and our green arrow lights up. We turn left. Noel makes his pretentious voice. “You’re grieving for a seemingly timeless relationship with the seemingly perfect best friend that disintegrated as you walked in on him undressing your girlfriend. Oh, Josh, how could you? Thirteen years of near-brotherhood washed down the drain. The shock, the anguish. Oh, to be sixteen and backstabbed again. These are the happiest days of your life, Ian. Lavish.”

“Have I mentioned shut up?”

He smiles.

“And you’re just trying to change the subject,” I say. “You’re seriously chickening out?”

He is no longer smiling. “Fuck off,” he says, the predictable shut-out. “We’re going tomorrow.”

I pull my knees up and stare out the window. I would do well to remember that Noel and I are not close. Sometimes we get along so well that I forget.

OH DEAR AN ANNOUNCEMENT

YOU SHOULD BUY A COPY OF BREAK FOR YOUR WINTER HOLIDAY OF CHOICE!

YOU SHOULD BUY EVERYONE YOU KNOW A COPY OF BREAK FOR THE HOLIDAY OF THEIR CHOICE!

BREAK FOR EVERYONE!

ho ho ho

So all this holiday cheer has me thinking that I write a lot of books that are centered around--or highlight--a holiday. For BREAK, it's Halloween, which worked metaphorically in retrospect; a lot of the book is about concealing true feelings (oh my god HANNAH YOU ARE SO ORIGINAL) and pretending to be something you're not (HANNAH YOU'RE BRINGING ME TO TEARS HERE--I know guys, I know, just try to keep it together.)

One of my manuscripts that I love but might never see the light of day centers around the Fourth of July, and it is, in large part, a book about pregnancy and independence and how those two coincide and contrast. INVINCIBLE SUMMER, about a boy growing over four summers, centers around that character's birthday each year, from his fifteenth to his eighteenth.

Not all of my manuscripts fit this model, but I thought it was interesting. Anything similar show up in your books, timing-wise?

A Non-Writing Related Note

Some of you may have noticed that Halloween is coming up.

If you've read BREAK, you know it takes place over Halloween. The climax takes place with two of the main characters in costume. And making out, but that's a different story.

You also know that one of the main characters in BREAK, Jesse, has multiple life-threatening food allergies.

So Jesse isn't real--I know, SHOCKING--but there are tons of real kids out there with real food allergies who deserve the safe Halloween Jesse never got to have. Food allergies are becoming increasingly more prevalent--chances are, whether or not you know it, there is at least one child with food allergies in your area or who may come to your house on Halloween.

If you are supplying candy for trick or treaters this year, please consider making it peanut free. Please consider having the bags available for children and parents to check ingredients. If you're going to have peanut candy, keep it separate from the peanut-free! I hope BREAK taught you something about cross-contamination...

And hey, you could always give out stickers or something...it's not like they're not getting enough candy, y'know?

Everyone deserves a safe and happy Halloween. Hope yours is spectacular.

TO EVERY REVIEWER WHO SAYS (S)HE LIKED BREAK ENOUGH TO EXCUSE ITS WEAK ENDING

Thanks. Me too.

Massive Playlist for the WIP

Working on something new. You'll get a query teaser later, but first you get the huge playlist...

Monster Hospital--Metric
All That's Known--Spring Awakening
Rent--Rent
Boston--Augustana
How the Heart Approaches What it Yearns--Paul Simon
Octopus's Garden--The Beatles
Bleed Like Me--Garbage
I'm Just a Kid--Simple Plan
Never Be Ready--Mat Kearney
This is Why--Say Anything
Where I Belong--Motion City Soundtrack
Life Support--Rent
Walk Away--Kelly Clarkson
This Is Not an Exit--Saves The Day
Quiet As a Mouse--Margot and the Nuclear So and So's
Tic--Loch Lomond
Can't Break Her Fall--Mat Kearney
An Insult To The Dead--Say Anything
Talking in Code--Margot and the Nuclear So and So's
Waiting On The World to Change--John Mayer
Sons and Daughters--The Decemberists
Everyone I Know--Mat Kearney
Falling Awake--Gary Jules
Walter Reed--Michael Penn
Let's Not Shit Ourselves (To Love and Be Loved)--Bright Eyes
You've Got To Hide Your Love Away--The Beatles
Virgin Mountain--Loch Lomond
I Don't Want to Die (In the Hospital)--Conor Oberst
For No One--The Beatles
Say What You Will--Damhnait Doyle
See The World--Gomez
Same Old Stuff--The Feeling
Train Under Water--Bright Eyes


Listening to this now, trying to figure out WTF actually happens in this book.

WE BEAT BEAR FEELS SICK

That is all.

(unfortunately we're still #6. The elephant with a peanut allergy snuck in and stole #5. I don't feel I can complain, since BREAK has a peanut allergy as well, and it's really the reason we're on that list. THOUGH WE'RE MORE THAN JUST PEANUTS BITCHES)