Six Days From Now and Ten Years Ago

Six days from now, my 4th book, Gone, Gone, Gone, comes out.

It's been getting really good reviews, which is pretty fucking cool. Look at these nice quotes!


"Moskowitz captures the teenage mentality and voice in this tender yet emotionally complex romance."
- Publisher's Weekly

“Moskowitz, as usual, imbues her prose with a dreamy quality that makes every off moment feel monumental….Despite featuring the very real sniper attacks of 2002, this is as amorphous as the author’s Invincible Summer—not necessarily a bad thing for those inclined to float along with the lullaby rhythm. The theme of the randomness of tragedy (literalized here by 9/11, the sniper, cancer, and Craig’s 14 lost pets) is particularly well-handled.”
- Booklist


So there's that, and that's awesome, but let's lay it on the line: this is my fourth book, and after four books it takes a lot to get my feathers ruffled (gross?) in either a good (yeah, it's gross) or a bad way. ANY review means that someone's picked up the book, and that's what's important to me at this point, and maybe that means I'm soulless, Supernatural or Zombie Tag-style.

Except the thing is...it's different with this one. Even though I'm pretty fond of that magic gay fish thing, GGG gets a special section of my brain all to itself. GGG is just very, very me. Both 'me' as a writer--pretty much every hannah-trope you know and hopefully grudgingly accept is in this book, seriously, make a drinking game--and as a actual, real human.

And it's kind of the end of an era. As of right now, this is my last male-POV fully contemporary YA book. This was me doing everything I love so much, wringing into one book, and letting it rest.

This was me closing a door, for now.

That's not really why it's special.

**

John Allen Muhammad, the mastermind of the D.C. metro sniper shootings, was executed on November 10th, 2009.

I was at Brown then, and a friend of mine had a blog where he wrote about political events and such, and he asked me to take a look at a post he wrote criticizing the death penalty with regards to Muhammad's execution. Because I was from Maryland, and also because I'm a bleeding heart liberal who was attending a bleeding heart liberal school and I assume he was expecting me to have a certain reaction to the news that someone had been executed.

In any other circumstance, he would have been wrong, but the thing was...

I'd been waiting for John Allen Muhammad to be executed for seven years.

Except, if you'd have asked me, I would have said eight. Because I would have sworn up and down that the sniper shootings and 9/11 were the same year.

I was young--ten for 9/11, eleven for the sniper shootings, so it makes sense that my memories get muddled. But I don't think that's the reason I was so sure that the sniper shootings were a month after 9/11, rather than thirteen.

I think it's a Maryland thing. A suburbs-of-D.C. thing.

They're linked for us. They always will be. We sat right next to a city that lost 125 people in 9/11, and we very obviously were NOT in New York. We weren't even in D.C. We were Maryland, uncomfortably close and uncomfortably detached, and thirteen months (feels like one month) later we, we fucking suburbanites, were the playground for two snipers and two weeks and ten casualties.

We have issues.

It's a Maryland thing.

So I was at Brown in 2009, and my friend showed me the blog post, and the way he talked about Muhammad's execution was...

normal.

He talked about it like it was any other situation, any other murderer. He used it as a support in a larger argument.

It just made so much sense.

And there I was, seven years out of it. Seven years of reading the Wiki page obsessively, of reading about John Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo and timing the shootings and figuring out how far I was from each when it happened (not far, never far, and how the fuck could I use that as a reason something was important? People die all the time. Why the hell does it matter if I'm five miles away?)

Seven years out of running in zig-zags on my way to voice lessons and reading about a boy my age getting shot on his way to school. Seven years out of our chief of police crying on TV and our faculty members wearing orange vests and patrolling our grounds.

There was nothing else on the news.

People ducked while they pumped gas.

People talked, all the time, about 9/11.

Seven years out of it, and still shocked that anyone could think it made sense.

So I wrote a book.

(I did what I have to do to make anything make sense. I made a love story.)

So I wrote GGG over a few days a month after Muhammad was executed, during final exams, because I take my studies very seriously, obviously. And because I can't be objective about it. I can't. I can't let it go.

I can't shut this door.

So I wrote a book.

I hope you read it.

COVER COVER COVER

You can click on it to make it bigger. Also the tagline is obviously a placeholder. My editor is funny.

And here's some bullshit blurb that I wrote to give you some idea of what it's about:

Craig, for the first time in nearly a year, wakes up in Silver Spring, Maryland on October 2nd, 2002 to a house devoid of chirping, barking, and mewing. Between twilight and daylight, somehow his entire menagerie escaped. All the animals that he'd collected since his old boyfriend was dragged away to the psych ward. Gone.

Lio, the post-cancer kid transfer student from New York City, doesn't like to talk. But he does like Craig. His new therapist says he's "a little fucked up." Craig just says, if he has the time, could he help him put up posters?

At 5:20 PM, when their stack of posters is about halfway out and Lio surprises Craig with a kiss, the sniper shootings begin.

Ten people died in the D.C. sniper shootings. This is the story of two of the boys who didn't.

--

I love this cover. Do you love this cover? Do you hate this cover? TELL ME TELL ME NOW.

We Need You

(Aaaaaaaand we're back. Hey.)

This is a post I've had in my head to write for a long time. It comes from a few questions I've heard asked, to me and to others, ever since I've been involved in the YA community, and moreso after BREAK sold.

1) Why aren't you using a penname? (related: You'd sell better if you didn't have a girl's name on your cover. also related, but not a question, and even more infuriating: your name is too Jewish to be on a book cover!)

2) Why are there so many books about white people?

3) Why are there so many Mormon YA writers? (related, also not a question: Stephanie Meyer waaaah waaaaah)

And, the big question, the one that, in its way, sums up all of the above and so, so much more:

4) Why aren't there more characters like me?

It sounds like a selfish question, I guess.

But...why aren't there?

The truth is, this post was hard to write because it is also a post about halfie-guilt. I'm a half-Jewish and half non-practicing Christian. Since religion wasn't important on my Christian half, I was raised largely, if mildly, Jewish, celebrating those holidays along with a nonreligious Christmas (and sometimes some candy on Easter).

I know the Hanukkah and the Passover blessings and all of that, but I don't speak Hebrew and I didn't have a Bat Mitzvah. But when I tried to get involved in Jewish life in college, neither of these things was a problem for me. The thing that was?

That big clunky Jewish last name means that the half of me that is Jewish is not my mother's half. And that is, according to (all but Reform) Jewish law, the half that matters.

I have not reconciled this yet. It's still something that I think about a lot and struggle with. I've heard a lot of people say that whenever they see half-anything characters in books, that their issues with their halfiness are way overwrought.

I need more half-whatevers. So I wrote a book about them. I'm working (and by working, I mean, desperately trying to avoid working) on an MG right now that features a half-Italian, half-Japanese main character who has issues with both communities since he looks more Japanese but speaks Italian. And he's dragging around the clunky last name, too, his Japanese, that doesn't make the other side of his family too happy.

He's not spending the whole book freaking out about it or anything, but it's there and it's an issue and it's important.

Wil, my main character in Zombie Tag, is Jewish. You would only know by his last name and by the fact that he mentions his Bar Mitzvah and his synagogue, in passing. Lio in Gone, Gone, Gone, is Jewish, and I can't remember when it comes up, if ever. I can't even remember his last name. I think he might not have one.

The point is, I throw Jewish characters in without consideration, and without there being a reason for them. It's important to me that there be Jewish characters, the same way it's important to me that I have gay characters and black characters represented in my books as well.

But I'm not fully Jewish, and I'm not gay, and I'm not black, so why were these things easier for me to write about than a true halfie?

Why aren't we writing characters like us?

Regardless of reasons, there are a lot of YA Mormon writers. So...why aren't we seeing more Mormon MCs?

Why are all of our main characters so pretty?

Why are we still writing books that take place in predominately white, predominately straight worlds, without ever noticing that that isn't the way most of the world works anymore? A gentrified neighborhood should stick out. It should warrant at least a passing reference in the book. It shouldn't be the assumption.

Why are so many books with black characters and gay characters still ABOUT being black and being gay, when we have wonderful writers who fit one or both of those descriptions who are living lives that are not defined by either of those?

I'm not saying we don't need books about struggling with identity. I wrote one about a halfie who is, after all, because that was a book I needed.

I'm just wondering why there aren't more characters like you.

It's Time For...

..Teaser Tuesday! (It's been a few weeks, yeah?)

How about...The Animals Were Gone!

This is Craig's point of view, and he's talking about two different boys--Lio, with whom he's hit a rocky point in their very, very tentative relationship, and Cody, the ex-boyfriend who is out of his life but not at all out of his mind.

--

Things I always liked about Lio:

The gaps between his canines and the rest of his teeth that make him look like a vampire or a really dangerous puppy.

His stupid multicolored hair that he never lets me see because of those hats he wears even though he isn't cold.

The fact that the teachers stopped making him take his hats off after the first week, probably because his hair is so fucked up.

The scar from the central line he had, and how he wears tank tops that let it show and acts like he doesn't give a shit who sees, and explains when people ask about it, with a small smile to show he doesn't mind that they asked, and plays with it, running his fingers across it and pinching the scar tissue when he thinks no one's looking.

His voice, low and gravelly, like he's always getting over a cold.

Things I now hate:

His stupid smiles he makes me work for.

His stupid multicolored hair that he never lets me see because of those hats he wears even though he isn't cold.

The fact that I probably won't be mad at him a few hours because he's so fucking charmed.

Cancer boy cancer boy cancer boy cancer boy, I get it.

His silence.

***

So Cody's dad's death pretty much destroyed my boy, and as much as we didn't want it to destroy us, as hard as we worked, as hard as I worked...

God, I held on. I held on so hard.

When he was screaming. When he was crying. When he was telling me he hated me and why hadn't I died instead. That time he slapped me across the face and shrieked that I bring him back. The time he shoved me across the room and told me if he ever saw me again he'd kill me himself, and called me two hours later, baby I'm so sorry, baby I'm just so sad and I don't know what to do and my therapist says I BLAH BLAH BLAH

When he said he was going to buy a gun and get revenge himself, and I told him no--not because I thought that was wrong, but because I knew he wouldn't go to Afghanistan and I was worried he would go to me or his mother or his therapist.

So they eventually shipped him off, not to Afghanistan, but to some hospital and then some school, and I never visited him, not once, and it took so long before he asked me to visit, and it should be simple to say no, I can't, I won't do it again, I can't, but it isn't, because he fell asleep crying in my arms so many times, and he called me Lollipop, and he told me I was the only thing, the only thing in the entire huge bad scary world, that helped.

***

So fuck frozen cold hearts, because who are they helping?

Fuck you, frozen cold heart.

You People And Your Magic Gay Fish

You're all crazy, you know that? I invent some weird #magicgayfish hashtag and you all LIKE it. And I ask which book you want to see a teaser from, and you're like I LOVE MYSTICAL HOMOSEXUAL SEA CREATURES. You guys are sick. Sick and wrong.

Also my video this week is funny, and you should watch it.

--
The fishboy is pulling me down as hard as he can, and he's going to kill me, fuck, my parents are going to actually fall apart, but I manage to kick him in the ribs and free myself for a breath. My foot brushes his tail. It's rough like sandpaper.

“Get off me!” I push myself away from him, panting. I grab onto the edge of the dock and pull myself up, into the air. Safe. I'm huddling against the wood like it's my mother. I don't know if I'm strong enough to haul myself back onto the dock, so maybe I'll just stay here forever. This is my new home.

He's panting too. Probably from the kick in the ribs. He was already pretty bruised.

I say, “You're not a fish, you're a fucking maniac.”

He laughs, hard, his face up to the sky. I see all his teeth, must be a hundred of them, as thin as pine needles. He has a loud, piercing laugh. Like a whistle.

I know that voice. He's the screams at night. He's the screaming and the crying that my parents told me is the wind.

He spends hours screaming. Goddamn. Either he really is a maniac, or he's got to be the saddest fishboy in the world.

Then he grabs me by the front of my shirt. “I don't want to see you killing any more fish, you got that?”

I pull away from him. “My brother needs them.”

I really didn't think this would concern him, but he lets go and looks at me. He keeps his eyes narrowed. “What's wrong with your brother?”

“You're a shitty spy.”

“What's wrong with your brother?”

“He's sick. Cystic Fibrosis.”

“Cystic whatever.” But he doesn't say it cruelly, but like he's trying to figure out what I meant. ”Whatever fibrosis.” He tilts his head like it will help the words roll around in his brain.

“Yeah. The fish are making him well.”

He keeps looking at me for a long minute. “They're working?”

“Yeah.” Slowly.

“Well. Good, I guess.” There's this pause, then he goes, “The little one, right? Who was with your...you know.”

“Mom?”

“Yeah.”

“That's the one.”

The fishboy rubs the back of his head. “My hair used to be really long. It was awesome. Fisherman cut it off, said I looked like a girl.”

“Oh.”

“Your brother's cute. How old is he?”

“Five.”

I can tell he doesn't like this answer, for some reason. “Oh. He looks younger.”

The way we're balanced in the water right now, I feel like he's a lot shorter than I am. And his frown makes him look suddenly younger.

“Good luck with that, then, I guess,” he says.

I say, “Thanks.”

“But stay the fuck away from my fish.”

Wait. “I...”

Fishboy mumbles, “Sorry about your brother,” then he pushes off from me and swims away. He's faster than I could ever be, but he doesn't get out very far before he has to stop and pant while he treads water. His silver-spotted chest is heaving. I should have kicked him somewhere besides his chest.

Then he dives back under the water and he's gone. And I wait a few minutes until I can pull myself back on the dock. I walk home shivering and trying to think of what story I'm going to tell my parents about why I'm all wet, but when I get there, Dylan's coughing so hard that they don't even notice me come in.

Multiple POVs

SO. Let's talk about point of view.

First, some quick stats, just so you know where I'm coming from.


--Of my recent (read: decent) books, two use more than one point of view (hereafter POV.) These two are THE ANIMALS WERE GONE and ALL TOGETHER WITH FEELING, both of which you will have heard of if you are a regular reader of this blog, but the latter only if you are a REALLY regular reader. Because it has been in hiding for a little while. If you're curious about either of these, they're tagged at the end of the post. Click on the link and you'll see all the posts about 'em.
--THE ANIMALS WERE GONE is my favorite of all my manuscripts, and I love ALL TOGETHER WITH FEELING, too (though I like INVINCIBLE SUMMER more. In fact, if I ranked my top three of my YAs, it would probably be 1. ANIMALS, 2. INVINCIBLE SUMMER, 3. ALL TOGETHER WITH FEELING. Am I allowed to say this shit?)
--Here are some of my favorite books written with multiple POV, some of which are epistolatory, which may or may not be the word I'm looking for: Will Grayson, Will Grayson, The Realm of Possibility, Love Is The Higher Law, Are We There Yet, (can you tell I love David Levithan?) The Kings Are Already Here, The Year of Secret Assignments, Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants, Caddy Ever After, P.S. Longer Letter Later, 33 Snowfish.
--Despite that long list, the VAST majority of my favorite books are written in one POV.

So. It is fair to say that I am far more experienced, both in reading and writing, in single POV than in multiple.

However.

I love writing multiple.

I don't know. I just love it.

I wasn't planning to write THE ANIMALS WERE GONE in two POVs. In fact, I'd already considered and dismissed the idea. It was all going to be in Craig's POV. And then I finished the first chapter, hit enter a few times, and typed LIO at the top of the page. Because apparently it was Lio's turn.

Listen, I don't pull all that shit about how I'm controlled by my characters or my books have a mind of their own or something like that, because frankly, I think that stuff is stupid. I'm sorry if I offend anyone (but seriously, if you're reading this blog and you choose THAT to be offended by...)

I love the roles my characters play in my stories. I love writing them. I smile when I write good lines for them. I don't ever forget that they aren't real people. They are words on a page. I'm happy you like them. I like them too. But they're here to tell a story--my story--and, even though I'm a romantic (I am, damn it, don't laugh) I don't like to get stuck in that sensitive writer mode of thinking your characters are real people with real minds of their own. It sounds cold-hearted, but characters are tools. And point of view is a tool. And words are tools. All of these are tools to tell your story. Characters are not beautiful and unique snowflakes, etc.

So. Lio did not jump off the page and insist I write his viewpoint or anything like that. I just knew, in that second, that Craig's part was closed for now, and it was Lio's turn, or we were only going to get half of the story. But it was a revelation that came after I'd started writing.

ALL TOGETHER WITH FEELING, on the other hand, came into my head as four different points of view, because it's a story about four kids in a high school chorus--one soprano, one alto, one tenor, and one bass. (Yes, yes, girls, I'm writing girls.) The point of views, in this case, are a bigger toll for the story than the are in ANIMALS. They form the premise of the story, while, in ANIMALS, they're just making sure that you hear from both the quiet character and the loud character.

Which leads to another problem I'm having, now that I'm hardcore revising ALL TOGETHER WITH FEELING. Keeping voices distinct. This gets harder and harder the more POVs you have, and four is definitely in tricky territory for me. I'm concentrating a lot on speech patterns, rhythm, and word choice--my bass, if run through one of those scanner things, would result in a much higher reading difficulty than my tenor. But I'm still struggling with this. My alto and my tenor are still blending together a little, and sometimes my soprano starts to sound a little like them, too.

So. Let's wrap this up. What are your thoughts on multiple POV? Do you read it? Do you write it? If you do, how do you keep the voices distinct, and how do you approach revisions? (basically, HELP ME.)

Influences

For each book, I'm usually inspired by two specific things, often ones that have nothing to do with each other. And then my brain mashes them up and makes an idea.

BREAK: Fight Club and Into the Wild, first the movies, then the books.

INVINCIBLE SUMMER: A book of essays by Camus and The Hotel New Hampshire.

THE ANIMALS WERE GONE: Love Is The Higher Law and the 2002 Metro sniper shootings.

ZOMBIE TAG: How To Train Your Dragon (movie) and this comic.

FISHBOY: Peter Pan and Choke (the books).

For me, the experience of going to the movies always triggers something. There's something about sitting in the theater and just getting assaulted by someone else's ideas. Something, even something tiny, always hits me.

What are your inspirations?

Rules

Thanks for the poll answers, guys! I'll post something analyzing the results in a little while, and by all means keep voting until then.

But here's something that's been on my mind lately.

Rules.

I bet you think I'm going to jump around and be like "FUCK THE RULES!" but my opinion on this is actually slightly--slightly--more complicated.

I think there are two kinds of rules in this business that you typically hear--those about writing and those about publishing. The latter usually come from agents. Don't send attachments with your query letter. Don't forget your page numbers. Don't query two agents at the agency at the same time. Format your manuscript in this precise way. Although these rules sometimes seem like unnecessary hoops to jump through, they actually do have, and fulfill, their purpose. These are the ones that you should follow (though there is a time and a place to break them. More on that later.)

The other type of rules, the ones you probably get more and more often, are the ones from writers.

Write every day. Write in Courier. No, Times New Roman. No, Courier. Use MS word count. No, use 250 x number of pages for word count. Don't write a book below 40,000 or over 80,000 words. Set your manuscript aside for three months before you start revising. If you write too fast, your book won't be good. If you write too slow, you'll never finish a book. Don't use adverbs. Ever. Don't use anything other than 'said' for dialogue tags. It's impossible to write with other people in the room. Don't watch TV while you write--are you kidding? Write by hand. Write on a typewriter. Write on an Alphasmart. Write on a laptop. Read all the classics. Read everything in your genre. Read outside of your genre. Write high concept. Write whatever the fuck you want. Write for an existing market. Try to expand the boundaries of the existing market. Write for the lowest common denominator. Write for your mom. Write for yourself. Write for the MFAs. Get a day job. Spend your advance on publicity. Don't expect to earn out. Use a pen name. Write in the mornings.

And here, guys, is where it gets to be bullshit.

The only right way to write is however the fuck you get it done. People decide something works for them, or they read what Stephen King does that works for them, and decide that that's the only 'real' way to write.

I'm going to go over how I write, now, too, but let's be very clear before I do--I am not advocating my method for everyone. For anyone. I'm doing this so you can see how fucked up and crazy my writing method is, so you can see how possible it is to get shit written without following the Butt-In-Chair-Allow-Yourself-To-Write-Crap methods you'll see so often quoted. If that's what works for you, fantastic. But it's not the only way, at all.

--I do not even come close to writing every day. About 80% of days, I'd estimate, I don't write at all. I spend some of these days working on edits or blogging or plotting a new idea, but most of them I spend playing video games or going to school or sleeping or watching Queer as Folk or cooking with the shiksa. Not writing. Am I thinking about it? Of course. But it's not something I do every day.

--When I do write, really write, new words on new pages, I call that initial part "fast-drafting." That's when I get a first draft down as fast as I possibly can. This isn't (just) for the bragging rights; it makes sure the idea stays fresh in my head and I don't lose interest along the way, as I'm apt to do if I stretch the story out. I've tried writing over longer periods of time, when I'm not feeling the story as much. I rarely finish, and when I do, the stories are never as good as the fast-drafted ones.

Fast-drafting so far has taken me 5 (The Animals Were Gone, Fishboy), 7 (Break) and 8 (Invincible Summer) days. I was in school during both Break and Animals, and studying for midterms during Animals as well, so I do this despite being busy. Which means I do nothing else during any moment of free time but write. Nothing. Nada. I park on the couch like a fatass and I write. Eight hours a day, nine hours a day, whatever it takes.

I write my first draft in single spaced, 10 pt font. I am not kidding. This is actually something I recommend. Don't do 10 pt if it's going to kill your eyes. Do triple-spaced 30 pt Comic Sans for all I care. Do anything to keep your manuscript from looking like a real manuscript. Make it something you can fuck up. Double spaced 12 pt looks way too fucking intimidating for a first draft, if you ask me.

I flip to the internet every 70-100 words and screw around. Because that's how I roll. It still gets done.

I watch TV while I write, or I chat with my roommate or my boyfriend, if they're around.

--My fast drafts come out very short. BREAK was 27,000 words. INVINCIBLE SUMMER was 23,000 words. The one I just finished was 25,000. This comes with angst, every single time, that the book isn't going to be long enough.

--I start editing that draft immediately, as in an hour after I finish the first draft. I do not let it sit. If I sit, I'm going to hate the story. I'll start hating it halfway through the second draft anyway, so I might as well get the thing over with. (This is where I am right now. Someone stop me before I set the thing on fire.)

--After the second draft, I've lived and breathed this story for about two weeks, breaks, cereal standing up, sleeping four hours a night kind of living, and I don't want to think about it ever again. Off it goes to Suzie and betas.

--We work from there.


This shit. It is not typical. But it's how I work, and it's what works for me.

You will hear a lot of contradictory advice about how to be a "real writer." But the only ticket to being a real writer is to write. I know you've heard that a million times, but let it give you some freedom this time. You're released. You write words, how you want them, when you want them. You don't have to prove shit to anyone.

Do whatever you do to get it done, and smile and nod when people tell you how their way is closer to the "real thing."

The Animals Were Gone

In honor of Teaser Tuesday, here's the first bit of THE ANIMALS WERE GONE, that sniper-shooting book I teased with a month or two ago. You'll see the title here, or a conjugated version of it--and yeah, it did come from that Damien Rice song.

A fun fact about that song--which is beautiful by the way, and highly recommended. It has one of the best lyrics in history: "Waking up without you is like drinking from an empty cup." So a lot of you know that about 6 weeks ago I was in a pretty bad car accident. I walked out of the car, but logically shouldn't have, given the state of my car. The police who found me kept shaking their heads as they looked at the scene, saying, "I can't believe you're alive." You can imagine that's exactly what you want to hear after an accident like that.

When I crashed the car, I was listening to the song "The Animals Were Gone," by Damien Rice. I haven't been able to listen to it since.

It's the same song that, a few months prior to the accident, so graciously lent its title to a book about how you can die at any minute.

It's weird how things work out.

(Note: despite the use of the word 'zombie' in this excerpt it is not, in fact, my zombie manuscript.)

--

I wake up to a quiet world.

When I do sleep, the only thing that wakes me up is this kind of still, the sound of a million things and thirty-four bodies not here and one boy breathing alone.

I open my eyes.

I can't believe I slept. I sit up and stare at my shoes on the floor. They're black canvas high-tops from Target. My mom got them for me, not for my birthday or anything, and not even because I needed shoes, just because she thought I'd like them. My dad said the last thing I needed was another pair of sneakers, and soon they'd be covered in shit anyway, so what did it matter?

I sleep in the basement, now, and I can feel how cold the tile is. I can feel it through my shoes.

I make kissing noises with my mouth. Nothing answers. My brain is telling me what is different but I am not going to think it, I won't think it. They're all hiding. They're all upstairs. Somehow they're out of their cages, but they're not gone.

I think it says something about you when you don't even untie your shoes to try to go to bed. I think it's a dead giveaway that you are a zombie. If there is a line between zombie and garden variety insomniac, that line is a shoelace.

I got the word zombie from my brother Todd. He calls me zombie, sometimes, when he comes home from work at three in the morning—Todd is so old, old enough to work night shifts and drink coffee without sugar—and comes down to the basement to check on me. He walks slowly, one hand on the banister, crinkling a page of the newspaper in his hand. He won't flick on the light, just in case I'm asleep, and there I am, I'm on the couch, two cats on each of my shoulders and a man with a small penis on the TV telling me how he became a man with a big penis, and I can, too. “Zombie,” he'll say softly, a hand on top of my head. “Go to sleep.”

Todd has this way of being affectionate that I see but usually don't feel.

I say, “Someday I might need this.”

“The penis product?”

“Yes.” Maybe not. I think my glory days are behind me. I am fifteen years old, and all I have is vague hope that, someday, someone somewhere will once again care about my penis and whether it is big or small.

The cats don't care. Neither do the dogs, the birds, the gerbils, the hamsters, not even the one bird I call Flamingo because he stands on one leg when he drinks. None of them care.

The vaguest of vague hopes of a deflated heart.

My bedroom is the basement because the basement is tile because I have thirty four animals total, and animals shit. And tile cures all evils.

I look around the basement. My alarm goes off. I should have slept through it. I shouldn't have heard it over the crowing, the barking, the crying and baying. This morning, five-thirty AM for school, my bedroom is a quiet, frozen meat locker because the animals are gone.

Tease Tease Tease Tease

THE ANIMALS WERE GONE. Lio and Craig are eating lunch outside during the D.C. sniper shootings. Lio's POV.

--

He says, “Can I tell you something about September 11th? It's something I figured out the other day, and I guess I thought you might have something interesting to say about it. Or not say, you know, whatever.”

I squeeze my fingernails into my palms. Now I remember. “Because I'm from New York?”

“Yeah. So here's what I'm thinking. I heard so much about how New York City really came together as a city after September 11th. You know, you guys rebuilt and rejuvenated and there was this new sense of...of humanity? I keep reading that, is that true? You experienced this new togetherness?”

“I guess.” There were a lot of candle and rallies, and people held hands and cried. Three days after we were walking too close to Ground Zero and my sister started crying. I started to hold her and someone held her from the other side and then someone put his arms around both of us. And someone put her arms around him and all of us were there, but my sister was the only one who cried. That part didn't change. It's Rachel, she's always the one to cry. She couldn't go back to school for awhile because she was just messed up. And she was miles away from the towers when they fell, though I know I shouldn't use that to pass judgment. She was in the city. That counts. She was part of the togetherness.

I crumple my empty raisin box in my hand.

He says, “I don't think that ever happened in D.C. We never bonded over September 11th. We swept up and pretended there was never a mess, y'know, and isn't that really depressing?”

“Yeah.”

“We never came together. It was almost like...like we didn't even talk about what happened, because we were so wrapped up in what happened in New York. The Pentagon seemed like such...small potatoes.”

I have no idea what small potatoes means, and that pisses me off. It's probably some Southern thing.

He says, “So maybe this wouldn't be so scary if the wound weren't still raw from 9/11. Though this isn't really happening in D.C, I guess...”

“None of it really happened in D.C,” I mumble.

He looks at me. “What?”

I don't look at him. “You guys didn't come together after September 11th because September 11th wasn't yours.”

Now it's Craig who isn't saying anything. I hazard a glance at him, and he looks a lot like I probably did when he was talking, hands clenched, nostrils twitching. The difference is, I notice that he's upset and he didn't notice I was, and the similarity is, neither one of us gives a shit.

“A hundred and twenty-five people died,” he says eventually. “A hundred and twenty five...”

“Over three thousand in New York. The pentagon wasn't the towers.”

“You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Lio.”

“I don't know...? A hundred twenty five to three thousand is exactly the same as comparing these shootings to 9/11.”

He makes his eyes smaller. “No, it isn't.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's not all about the numbers. It's not...God, dead people isn't just counting. I know it sounded like I was saying that in class, but...”

I pick at my jeans. “I disagree.” That was the only time he was on the right track.

He takes his apple out of his lunch box and squeezes it. “The whole country cared about New York City. No one gave a shit about us. Half the newspapers outside of the U.S. didn't even mention us, all they cared about was New York. I went into the city afterwards and it was like...”

The fact that he has to specify that he went into D.C. makes it all the more clear that he is a fucking Marylander, for God's sake. Soon the Virginians are going to be encroaching on our fucking grief. Then what, Louisiana? Fuck this shit.

I say, “The newspapers cared about us because we got owned. And Washington D.C. was the only city in the entire fucking country who didn't give New York any bit of sympathy.” My throat hurts. I don't want to do this shit anymore.

Craig throws his apple in the dirt. “Fuck off, we had our own problems.”

“You had a fucking inferiority complex.”

He crosses his arms and now neither of us is looking at the other.

But he doesn't know. And it's awful of him to even pretend like he knows, and it's disrespectful to those 3,000 people. He shouldn't be using them as a fucking learning opportunity when he wasn't there. He didn't suffer. What does he even know about dying? He's been so alive his whole life it makes me want to throw up.

And to talk about 9/11 as this inspiring experience for us, what the fuck is that? It was not inspiring, and even if it was, it is not his place to make that call. 9/11 was numbers and death and fire. It wasn't a city giving itself a group hug. Fuck this.

I stand up in time to see that Craig's crying.

This takes some of the air out of me, even though it's hardly the first time I've seen him cry. The boy broke down during a History Channel segment on the Civil War in American Civ a few weeks ago, for God's sake.

“A hundred and twenty-five people, you know?” I say, quietly. “It's just not the same.”

“You don't know,” he whispers.

It's a miracle; I'm so angry, my air came back. “I don't know? What did 9/11 mean to you? What does it mean to anyone who didn't see the towers fall?”

His eyes are cat-narrowed. “My boyfriend's fucking father didn't die in the fucking towers, jackass!” He stands up after he says this, instead of before.

I swallow.

Writer Survey

Yes, yes, I know, the vlog the vlog. But my lovely friend Sage did this over at her blog (http://sagelikethespice.wordpress.com/) and I wanted to play too.

1. What’s the last thing you wrote? What’s the first thing you wrote that you still have?

The last thing I wrote (and finished) is a YA about two boys getting together (the easy part) and staying together (not quite so easy) over the course of October 2002 sniper shootings in the suburbs of Washington D.C. This is my favorite book I've written, and it's basically my baby. The sniper attacks are, with good reason, I think, very close to me--like the MCs in the story, I was a teenager (though a young one) in Montgomery County, MD during the shootings.

I never really let the shootings go--sometimes I'd torture myself by researching details, if I was having a bad day--but John Allen Muhammad's execution this fall made them very raw in my head. I knew I had a book in me about them, and writing it was a pretty amazing experience to me. It was, without a doubt, the easiest book I've ever written, and I think the most honest in a lot of ways. It's called THE ANIMALS WERE GONE, after a song by Damien Rice. I'm working on revising it for my agent right now.

The first thing I ever wrote is a little harder to pin down. My first "book"--about 150 pages--I wrote when I was in 6th grade. It was about a girl named Augusta Margo Elizabeth Talia Clara (hellz to the yeah) who has to go live with her mom after her brother died in a plane crash. She JUST HAPPENS to be looking out her window one day and JUST HAPPENS to see a boy get hit by a car, and this boy JUST HAPPENS to be her half-brother. I. Know. It's called YOU JUST DON'T GET IT, it's all in a fluorescent green composition notebook, and I have no idea where that notebook is.

2. Poetry?

Hahahahaha no.

3. Angsty poetry?

Not since I was twelve...

4. Favorite genre of writing?

Young adult! Contemporary, gritty, angsty young adult. But it has to be funny.

5. Most annoying character you’ve ever created?

Bianca in ALL TOGETHER WITH FEELING makes me want to put her head through a wall. Every. Chapter.

6. Best plot you’ve ever created?

I'm pretty into the plot of my adult book, APD. It's pretty wild and twisted.

7. Coolest plot twist you’ve ever created?

Haha, now it's deeeefinitely APD. Heehee. Although INVINCIBLE SUMMER's climax, too...hmmm.

8. How often do you get writer’s block?

Fuck writer's block, that stuff is bullshit. Shut up and write a book.

9. Write fan fiction?

A lady never tells. (So...yeah.)

10. Do you type or write by hand?

I type. I used to write by hand a lot more (in high school, really, so I could write in class) but not anymore.

11. Do you save everything you write?

Nah.

12. Do you ever go back to an idea after you abandon it? it

Rarely. I have a few plot points I've tried to work into several different books, so far unsuccessfully. Still trying to figure out where they belong.

13. What’s your favorite thing you’ve ever written?

THE ANIMALS WERE GONE, though INVINCIBLE SUMMER is up there.

14. What’s everyone else’s favorite story you’ve ever written?

INVINCIBLE SUMMER, unless you're a muser, in which case it's THESE HUMANS ALL SUCK.

15. Ever written romance or angsty teen drama?

Dude, my career depends on angsty teen drama. Romance? Eh, sometimes it's in there.

16. What’s your favorite setting for your characters?

The beach in INVINCIBLE SUMMER.

17. How many writing projects are you working on right now?

I have a YA rolling around in my head, I'm working on the first draft of an MG, I'm editing THE ANIMALS WERE GONE and waiting for my editorial letter for INVINCIBLE SUMMER (any day now!)

18. Have you ever won an award for your writing?

I won you guys, obv.

Oh and BREAK was an ALA Popular Paperback for Teens of 2009.

19. What are your five favorite words?

Epiphany, lucid, silhouette, maybe, cameo.

20. What character have you created that is most like yourself?

Probably Bianca. No wonder she's so goddamn annoying.

21. Where do you get your ideas for your characters?

I don't really get ideas for characters. I think of a situation, then I just the characters up as I go along. They develop with the story. I don't go in there thinking "Jonah's going to stubborn and honest and introspective and..." he just talks.

22. Do you ever write based on your dreams?

Once. It was weird.

23. Do you favor happy endings?

Yes. Yes yes yes yes. Anyone who follows me on Twitter has heard my opinions on this. A good ending means you satisfy your reader. And satisfying your reader usually means that if you make them root for a character, or a relationship, or an anything, you make that part work out. Characters should get what they deserve. Seriously, I'm sick of authors teaching me some lesson about how life is meaningless and unsatisfying by giving me a meaningless and unsatisfying book. Yeah, I see what you're saying. I'm in on the joke. Now I'm throwing your book against a wall and crying into my pillow.

I read fiction because I want things to work out. If I wanted a disappointment to come and smack me in the face out of nowhere, I have my own life.

(And yes, I recognize the irony that I'M the one lecturing about how to end a book. Sorry about BREAK btw. Buy it anyway, I need money for food and internet.)

24. Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?

Of course.

25. Does music help you write?

Yep. I always write either to music or in front of the TV. I make playlists for all my books.

26. Quote something you’ve written. Whatever pops in your head.

I'm not sure if this is the exact wording, but...
Camus and Melinda were right: "one always finds one's burden again."--Invincible Summer