Category: kids’ series

Oh Very Young

So, are you ready for some MORE blatant self-promotion?

During the Bold Strokes Book-a-thon, the other panel I was on had to do with writing young adult fiction (the other panelists were amazing, I might add), and once again, I am answering the questions sent to us by the moderator to turn into an interview with JUST me (because it’s all about ME ME ME) but I do urge you to seek out the video of the panel. It was terrific, and I was definitely the most uninteresting person on the panel, seriously; this is NOT self-deprecation. (I bought everyone’s books during the panel, I might add; definitely check out Lauren Melissa Ellzey.)

What is the definition of Young Adult? How does it differ from other genres?

I think it’s primarily an age distinction, to be honest, which is something that always makes me uncomfortable. Growing up I read far above my age level; when I was in seventh grade I was reading at a college level, per the tests and so forth. I mean, I did read The Godfather when I was ten; my parents, despite their conservative religious beliefs and values, let me read whatever I wanted without having to ask permission–I think when I asked Mom if I could read something the last time she replied “Read whatever you want, I don’t care” and after that I never asked again. When I was a kid, there was no such thing as young adult; everything was either for adults or “juvenile.” The juvenile category contained multitudes, beginning with the Little Golden Books and picture books to kids’ mysteries to Judy Blume. I think sometime in the 1980’s the genre was separated into “juvenile” for kids 8-12 and “young adult” for 12-18.

But there are kids like me, who can read above their age/class level and others who can’t read at their age/class level, and I think in some ways that differential could be harmful for those who are below-average readers–reading is the most crucial aspect of education, because if you can’t read…and no matter how many ways they try to make the language around slower readers more accepting and less stigmatizing…it doesn’t really help kids to be told they’re below average or not as smart or quick as the other students. (One of my primary problems throughout my education is I would understand something the first time, while others inevitably didn’t, and as the teacher explained for a second or third or more time, my ADD would kick in and my mind would wander because I didn’t need to listen and then wouldn’t be listening when the teacher moved on.

Ah, well. 

Oh, and all subgenres of fiction also have the middle grade/juvenile and young adult sub-sub-genres.

Why or how did YOU choose YA?

I don’t know that I chose y/a so much as it chose me.

I started writing when I was a child (all my childish scribblings are lost to moves and time passing), and I wrote about kids my age. My first attempts at writing were always some kind of kids’ mystery series, a la The Hardy Boys and The Three Investigators (I’d still like to do this, frankly), and when I became a teenager, I started writing about teenagers. I wrote a bunch of short stories while in high school about the same group of kids going to the same high school. Those stories slowly but surely grew into a sprawling, handwritten novel about the county with plots and subplots and main characters and minor characters and all of this history; a “Peyton Place in Kansas kind of thing”. I worked on it for like five years, and eventually had this enormous sprawling mess that needed to be revised and rewritten and typed…and since I didn’t know how to type, made that part of it a problem. So I shoved it into a drawer and started pulling from it rather than revising it; taking out plots and characters and using them in other books and other stories.

After I finished that, I spent the next five years mostly working on short stories. I started another book, more horror than anything else, but never got further than the third chapter. I finally decided to write a horror novel built from my old manuscript and those short stories from high school. I was about three chapters into it when I discovered two things: there was a big market in y/a horror at the time (Christopher Pike and R. L. Stine were HUGE during this period) and so I bought some of them. When I finished, I thought, “You know, I should turn Sara into a y/a novel” (because I thought somehow that would be easier? Foolish, foolish rookie) and so… I did. I was right in that thinking of it in those terms made it possible for me to finish a draft, but I wasn’t very happy with it so I put it aside and started writing another one, Sorceress, which was also horror but also had some strong Gothic moments in it. When I finished that one, again I wasn’t pleased with it so I started another–Sleeping Angel–which was the one I thought really had potential. I never finished that draft–by this time I’d discovered that gay fiction and nonfiction existed, so I started reading that and trying to write about gay characters instead.

Those manuscripts remained in my drawer for well over a decade, until a friend of mine took a job as a young adult acquisitions editor, and she wanted to work with me. I told her I’d written three (although it was technically two and a half), and gave her a brief synopsis of them. She liked Sorceress the best, so I started revising and editing it and turning it into something publishable. Once it was all done, she’d left that publisher, but started her own small press for y/a books for underrepresented teens, and she wanted to launch the press with Sorceress. I said “okay” and we were off. I eventually realized I needed to let Bold Strokes know, and when I did, I got an email back saying you know we do y/a, too? And so I sold the other two to them, and have never looked back since then.

Are there specific rules for writing YA (things you can’t do)?  Does Bold Strokes add on or impose specific or additional rules?

I don’t pay too much attention to rules, frankly. There’s no graphic sex in my books, but it’s hinted at. I also try to swear less in young adult books than I do in adult fiction, which is probably not as big of a deal as I think it is? The society I grew up in was a lot more puritanical–believe it or not–that the one we live in today. So I always default to that setting, and then have to shake it off. Swearing isn’t as big of a deal as it used to be. No one thinks they’re marrying a virgin anymore, and on and on. And having been attacked for daring to accept an invitation to speak to queer high school students, I tend to tread softly. There have been a couple of times where I’ve had to change language, or how a scene went, because my editor thought it might be problematic; and frankly, I never want to be offensive, so I have no problem with it. I don’t see it as a free speech issue the way so many intentionally offensive writers claim it is. I shouldn’t take offense to someone calling me a faggot? Grow the fuck up. The so-called free speech “crusaders” are always defending hate speech as well as trying to shut up the people who find it objectionable. You do not have a constitutional freedom from consequences or getting a negative response to things you say and do, period. It’s really not hard to understand unless you want to be passive/aggressive and childish and a moron.

How do you remember back to these days, specifically how it felt or feels? (this is coming from your moderator who is much older than you are)

Well, for one thing, I’ve always kept a journal and I still have them all. (I was insufferable when I was younger, seriously.)

My sister has a theory that we forget a lot of the pleasant memories from our childhoods, but remember the traumas in great detail. I believe the truth of that, because school was a nightmare for me from the day we moved to the suburbs until I was done with it. I remember how it felt to read Greg Herren sucks cock on a desk at school. I remember how it felt to be mocked, laughed at, and bullied by assholes. I do remember the good things, though I tend to always focus on the bad.

The first thing I always do is abandon whatever “wisdom” about life I’ve theoretically learned since leaving high school, and put myself into the teenager mindset: they think they are the main characters in everyone they know’s story, and everything is the end of the world or their life is ruined and you are the most horrible parent ever! I’m not entirely sure I’ve escaped thinking that way, to be brutally honest: I am horribly selfish.

How do you come up with your characters?  Your stories? 

I am weird in that I inevitably always start with a title. I hear something or read something and think, that would make a good title. The next question is what story would fit that title? And it kind of goes from there. The title may change, the character names and story might change and evolve, but I can’t write anything that doesn’t have a title. Bizarre, I know. Usually with my young adult stuff it’s an idea I’ve had for a number of years and finally decide to explore whether it’s a novel or a short story, and go from there.

Dark Tide was originally called Mermaid Inn, Bury Me in Shadows was originally Ruins, but the others pretty much stayed the same from beginning to end.

I wrote #shedeservedit because I was angry about the Steubenville/Maryville rape cases, and remembered stories and gossip from when I was in high school and college…and rethinking them through a more evolved brain about women and misogyny… well, it made me angrier. I had already planned on writing a story set in the same town with the same characters and opening with the same murder (I always referred to it as “the Kansas book” for years), but the motive was something I always had trouble grounding in reality. After those cases…it clicked in my head. You need to write this story about small town misogyny, protecting the star jocks from the girls at all cost, and make that the plot. It was easy to write because I was angry. Making it a compelling read was harder, because the subject matter was sickening to me.

I needed to write that book, and I don’t regret doing it, either…but it’s not exactly a feel good story people can escape into, either.

Why do you think YA is so popular?

It’s more accessible, I think. I mentioned reading ability before, and I do think that most readers aren’t into the Great Literary Tomes, hundreds of pages of beautiful writing with no real point or story. People kind of want to escape their cares and worries, and y/a books tend to be really entertaining. We’re competing with phones and tablets and streaming, so we need to write entertaining and engaging books.

Any specific must do-s or must-haves to get your writing each day?

I’m not nearly as anal about that as I used to be, before I returned to work full-time. I am very aware that I have little time to waste when I write, and thus must seize whatever opportunities to write show up. But if pressed, coffee. I can’t write unless I’ve had coffee when I got up.

I think this is all of them, but I could be wrong.

I Need You

Friday morning and I am up way early for PT this morning. It feels warmer this morning–it’s in the fifties–but it’s not cold in the Lost Apartment, which is nice. I haven’t slept well now for about two nights running. My sleeping pills are missing–I couldn’t find them last night–which means they were probably left out on a counter and Sparky the Demon thought “toy!” and now I have to really spend some time trying to find them. I’ll make it through today relatively okay, I suppose, since it’s a work at home day, but after PT I have a couple of errands and after that I’ll be home for the day. I did chores last night when I got home, so the kitchen isn’t messy this morning and once I get back. here, it’ll be relatively easy to get the downstairs back under control and launch into the weekend. I have events all day tomorrow on ZOOM for the Bold Strokes Book-a-thon, too. Paul didn’t get home until after I went to bed last night, so I spent most of the evening (after doing some cleaning, which was wise and I am very grateful that I didn’t blow it off) playing with Sparky and watching some television. I watched the new episode of Percy Jackson and the Olympians, which I enjoyed, and then watched some documentaries on Youtube about history–mostly Byzantine, with some French and Austrian thrown in for good measure before going to bed relatively early. I did rest–my body feels very relaxed–but my mind never really shut off completely or for long.

The Lefty and Edgar nominations came out this week, and I have so many friends nominated on either or both lists! It’s always such a pleasure to see friends nominated for awards. It’s also a great opportunity to pick out some more great books to add to the list. I am also delighted to see Rob Osler nominated for Best Short Story (a queer nominee with a queer story!) and there’s another queer story nominated for the Lillian Jackson Braun Award, a book I actually blurbed: The Body in the Back Garden by Mark Waddell from Crooked Lane, so yay for a gay cozy being nominated! It always does my heart good to see queer writers being recognized by the mainstream, which is the kind of progress we’ve been wanting to see for decades. The categories for both the Leftys and the Edgars are stacked this year, which just goes to show how deep the bench actually is in crime fiction–and so many great books that weren’t nominated for either.

I blurbed several books this past year that are coming out now, so I want to go back and reread those so I can blog about them–not only Mark’s book but the new Rob Osler, Cirque du Slay and the new Margot Douaihy, Blessed Water. I also haven’t started reading another book quite yet–I was dragging too hard every night when I got home, really, to do any reading or engage my brain as much as I would like.

I think I may need to read out of my genre next, perhaps some horror? Paul Tremblay? Elizabeth Hand? I have so many great books in my pile, which is a delightful problem to complain about, but the struggle is real. How do I decide what to read when there are so many great books waiting for me to escape into? Maybe I should try to read just the books currently nominated for awards? Heavy sigh. Decisions, decisions.

It looks like we are having yet another hard freeze this evening, so hurray for not leaving the house for the rest of the day once I get home this morning. Sheesh.

And on that note, I am going to get cleaned up and head to PT. Have a great Friday, Constant Reader!

Twistin’ Bells

Thursday and my last day in the office before Christmas. Our department potluck is today, and so yes, last night I had to make a red velvet cheesecake–one-handed. I stopped to make groceries on my way home from work after swinging by the post office to mail the last of my Christmas cards. The one thing I thought for sure I had? Sugar, and no, I didn’t have any in the cabinets…so I walked to Walgreens to get some and didn’t realize until I was there that I was wearing my house shoes…and since I used sweats as pajamas, I’ve officially become a New Orleans elderly eccentric, going out in public in pajamas and house shoes. I do have to finish the cake this morning–putting it together and making the frosting–but the lion’s share of the work is already done, thankfully.

But the layers are uneven, so it will be a little trickier than usual to pull together.

Of course, the frosting will hide any defects in the layers, so…but I doubt very seriously I’ll be making it again. The sugar was only the first hassle in the entire experience; the one-handed was something easily handled, but the kitchen is not big enough to do complicated baking when you have a kitten with big energy and a lot of curiosity. “Don’t lick that! No, don’t walk there! No, you don’t need to climb inside the refrigerator! No, you can’t climb me while I am whipping frosting!” To say I had a bit of an anxiety backslide while making this cake, giving into frustration and everything else felt like a setback, and that carried over to this morning. Heavy sigh. But now that the cake is finished and in its carrier, I can relax, do some deep breathing exercises, and rid myself of the anxiety again.

We started watching Percy Jackson and the Olympians on Disney last night, and it’s much better than the movies; it works better as a television series, frankly, and this time out they cast age-appropriate actors, for one thing. I read the Percy Jackson books, and some of Rick Riordan’s other mythology series until I judged a book prize one year and fell behind on my reading. I did keep buying them, hoping I’d get back to them at some point but never did. It’s a great concept, and the books themselves are better written and better plotted than anything the Chatelaine of Castle TERF ever wrote. They didn’t become the phenomenon that the TERF Queen ever put on paper, more’s the pity. Riordan also wrote a great crime series before he switched to mythology; I enjoyed those crime novels and was really happy to see his career gain traction when he switched to Percy Jackson. I am really looking forward to the entire series, and there should also be a new Reacher this weekend. Huzzah!

I also wrote some more on the book, and it’s falling together. I’ll soon be at the middle section, so hopefully I will be able to figure out the middle part that I always have trouble with. So huzzah! I hope to get a lot of good work done this weekend…I’m also getting my new microwave this weekend, which is kind of exciting, too. I need to figure out some things, and hopefully I’ll have the time to reorganize the kitchen over the course of this weekend as well as prune some books. I also want to finish reading the Tamara Berry so I can move on to another cozy; I have quite a few backed up in the TBR pile.

And I sent the last of my Christmas cards out yesterday.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow.

It’s Raining Again

Wednesday and it’s Pay-the-Bills Day again, hurray.

Last night’s sleep wasn’t as good as previous nights, but I do feel awake and rested this morning so that’s a good thing. I am also incredibly excited about my wagon, which i know is weird. I had a straight male co-worker look at it*, and sure enough, he was able to get the wheels attached properly. I stopped on my way home from the office to get the mail and thought, hey I had packages and my hands will be full, so let me use the wagon and it was marvelous. Clearly, I should have bought a wagon a long time ago–and it’s the right size to fit along the narrow walkway alongside the house. It’s actually going to make life so much easier for me now it’s almost scary, and it makes the most sense to actually keep it in the car–it’s out of the way, will always be there when I need it, and if I need it for anything else, well, the car is parked usually out in front of the house so it would be easy to get to. I am most pleased with the wagon, I have to say.

I’m also trying–not always successfully–to stay in control over my anxiety. I have all my pre-surgery appointments on Monday, so that’s when I am going to find out what the recovery is going to look like. I am taking unpaid leave from work (I don’t have near enough sick or vacation time to cover the time I need to be out, so here we are) which is going to be an issue I will deal with when it rolls around; but I do have the process started and I can get the documentation I need for Admin from those visits and turn everything in the following day when I go back to the office.

I wasn’t tired when I got home yesterday, but Tug was feeling lonely and needy, so I had to go give him a lap to sleep in for a while, and after watching another episode of Moonlighting and a documentary about Greek fire and the Byzantine Imperial Navy, I’d lost all motivation and was feeling tired and sleepy. I did nothing for the rest of the evening–nothing. I did go to bed around nine-thirty, and of course woke up just before five again this morning, but I think the body is beginning to adjust somewhat to the time change.

I got an unexpected royalty check (small, but I’ll take it gladly) in the mail yesterday along with my copy of David Valdes’ new Finding My Elf, which looks absolutely adorable, and I can’t wait to give it a read after the surgery. I am two books behind on my Donna Andrews reading, I need to read the new Lou Berney and Angie Kim novels, and there are any number of others I want to get to. I am assuming after the drugged haze of painkillers and so forth dies down afterwards, I’ll have lots of down time to read. I am going to have a rigid cast to keep the arm immobile for at least three weeks, and I am assuming that means limited options for doing things other than reading. I imagine typing one-handed is going to be incredibly frustrating, but it can be done. And during the drug fogs of those early post-surgery days, I can just reread things–like histories or true crime favorites or some Stephen King favorites (it’s been a hot minute since I reread Firestarter, for one, and ‘salem’s Lot and The Stand are always fun to revisit), or some of the other great favorites lying around the house.

I was also very happy to see that Ohio added abortion rights protections to the state Constitution as well as legalizing recreational marijuana–well done, Ohio!–and that Kentucky reelected their Democratic governor. There were some right-wing wins, but the great Blue Wave momentum from 2020 has continued, as well as the reaction to the Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe–congratulations, Federalist Society, your hand-picked Supreme Court majority has effectively destroyed the conservative movement’s electability for a generation. The Democrats needs to hit hard on abortion and the illegitimate Supreme Court–Mitch McConnell’s legacy, by the way, have fun being hated for the rest of American history, douchebag–going forward, and frankly, they need to put Howard Dean–who engineered the historic gains of the 2008 election cycle–back in fucking charge of the DNC.

I always said that abortion rights should be put on the ballot. This is the wedge issue that trumps (couldn’t resist) the Right’s religious zealotry and transphobia and racism.

But of course, they won’t learn the lesson that they’re unpopular and so are their policies and values–they’ll just see this in a paternal way: “clearly the voting public can’t be trusted, so we need to install authoritarianism for their own good.“

Yes, this is the same party that thinks they’ve successfully branded themselves as “true American patriots.” Fucking garbage is what they are.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great day, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back to check on you with more blatant self-promotion later.

*ah, stereotypes. Alas, we have a lack of butch lesbians in the department now, so had to make do with a straight guy. C’est la vie.

The Girl Is Mine

I have always loved to read. I always escaped from the world into the pages of books, and quite often thought and/or believed that the world as it appeared in books was a much better place than the world I lived in. Being different from other kids, on top of all the other chemical imbalances and so forth going on in my head (hello anxiety!) left me constantly on edge; never knowing when the next unkindness or disruption to my life was going to happen. My parents worried often that I read too much instead of playing and doing little boy things–which never held much interest for me–but never knew that it was my life, and those societal little boy expectations, that I was trying so hard to withdraw from. I don’t know how old I was when I began realizing that the world was nothing like the books I read; and that interpreting and viewing the world from a perspective primarily gained from the reading of books for children–which were very much about establishing norms and behavioral expectations of kids–was a mistake. Even books for adults–which I started reading when I was about ten years old–didn’t really help me in dealing with the world.

But books were my solace and my job as a child, as a teenager, as a young adult, and even all the way through my thirties. I also drew comfort from rereading favorites over and over again; if I didn’t have the time to start something new I’d just take down an old favorite and reread it again. I recently realized I don’t do that anymore and haven’t in a while; on the rare occasions when I do reread something it’s a choice–“it’s been a while since I reread Rebecca, I should give it another whirl”–and just assumed it was because I have little time to read so I don’t reread anymore. That’s not the actual case; I could reread things instead of going down Youtube wormholes, but I don’t…because my life isn’t so horrible that I need that escape from it anymore and I don’t need the comfort from revisiting the familiar. This is progress, after all, and I am very happy about that realization.

But I digress. I read a middle grade ghost story recently, and it was exactly the kind of book I used to look for at Scholastic Book Fairs and at the library.

“Ouch!”

Ava peered at her fingertip, where a bead of blood was forming. She stuck her finger in her mouth and glared at the rosebush she had been hacking away at with a pair of clippers. Her blood tasted coppery on her tongue and made her feel sick. She took her finger out and pressed her thumb against the spot where the thorn had pricked her. There was a little sliver of black visible beneath the pale pink skin.

“You need to get that out,” Cassie said. “You could get sporotrichosis.”

“Sporowhat?” Ava asked.

Her sister swept her long, dark hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. She, of course, was wearing gloves. “An infection caused by the Sporothrix schenskii,” she said. “It’s a fungus that grows on rose thorns. among other places,” she added when Ava stared at her with one eyebrow cocked. “Named after Benjamin Schenck, the medical student who first discovered it, in 1896.”

“Oh, right,” Ava said. “Benjamin Schenck.” She pointed at Cassie with the clippers. “Why do you know these things?”

“I was reading up about roses,” Cassie said. “Because of the garden and the Blackthorn roses. It just came up.”

“Most girls our age read about pop stars,” Ava teased.

I’ve debated about trying to write for middle-grade readers most of my life. While there were books I enjoyed when I was a kid, as I mentioned before, the stuff classified as “juvenile” in those days rarely depicted kids who were anything like kids I knew in real life; often-times the books always featured kids who never broke rules, never got annoyed or frustrated or angry; paragon children that the authors wished real world children would be more like. (The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew are perfect examples in their revised versions) I enjoyed the mysteries (and the historicals), but never could really relate much to the characters.

The Lonely Ghost isn’t one of those books, and as I mentioned earlier, had Mike Ford been writing these types of books when I was the right age for them, he would have been one of my favorite writers. Look how great that opening scene is–we meet the two sisters, get a sense of who they are and what their relationship is like predicated on how they speak to each other (sisters who love each other and are fond of each other but also are very different). This book follows the classic horror trope of an unsuspecting family moving into a spooky old house–either inherited, or purchased very cheaply–where they hope to make a new life for themselves, only to find the house isn’t what they expected. What we don’t learn about Ava and Cassie in that opening scene is they are fraternal twins–which is also incredibly important to the story. Ava’s more worldly and outgoing, a soccer star; while her sister is quieter, more studious, and into Drama Club, where Ava also ends up because they didn’t get her application for soccer in on time. But there’s something going on in the house that has to do with the previous owner–who also had a fraternal twin–and strange things start happening; and Cassie also starts acting strangely. Ava and her new friends have to get to the bottom of the haunting of Blackthorn House before it actually harms Cassie.

The book flows really well, and the girls–and their friendships–seem absolutely real. It’s been a minute since I’ve read something middle-grade, and aside from language and situations, the primary difference between it and young adult seems to be lower stakes in every way–no murders or sexual assaults or anything that might be too much for younger readers. It’s easy to get lost in the story because of a strong and compelling authorial voice, and the girls are all distinct enough within who they are and what they look like–which isn’t always the case–and it reads very quickly.

Mike Ford is the middle-grade authorial name for my friend Michael Thomas Ford, by the way, and yes, we’ve been friends for a long time but I also believe he is one of the best gay writers of our time and doesn’t nearly get the recognition or rewards that he deserves. I’m looking forward to reading more of these stories!

You Don’t Want Me Anymore

Monday morning after a relatively relaxing and stable weekend. I did a lot, mostly chores that needed to be done and reading, but it was also very nice. The Saints won their game yesterday, which was a very pleasant surprise, and we finished watching this most recent season of Élite, which I realized yesterday I’ve always put the accent on the wrong e, but it’s pronounced ah-lee-tay, so it made sense to me for the accent to go there.

Or maybe I’ve been saying it wrong.

Anyway, this seventh season was disappointing, as the storylines and the crime focused on parents rather than the students–which was a major error, I felt. The season did end with a murder–I’d wondered how long that character, an abusive and controlling lover, would last without being killed or redeemed; I got my answer in the finale–but the primary issue with the season is I don’t really care very much about any of the characters anymore. One of the show’s greatest strengths in those early fantastic seasons was how well the characters were developed (and the talent of the actors playing them) was that they were multi-faceted; even when they were being bad or doing terrible things, you understood them and why they were doing it so they were sympathetic. Now they are all just kids who bad things happen to who have no control over anything that happens or what they do–which is the problem. Before, in the earlier seasons, the kids had agency, and while originally the show was the Gossip Girl we all deserved, it slowly turned itself into Gossip Girl, which was fun but had little depth. A pity. We’ll stick around for the eighth season, which is the last one, while mourning its former glory.

Tomorrow is Halloween, and I signed up to make a cheesecake. The mistake I made was forgetting that I have to go to the dentist tomorrow morning before work, and the other was I must have gotten rid of my cake carrier during one of my pandemic decluttering purges, so I have nothing to carry it to work with–and I don’t like the idea of it sitting in my car while I am at the dentist. Going back home to get it after the dentist isn’t an option, either, because I am trying to spare paid time off as much as possible with the surgery coming, as I also have to run off to UNO after lunch to record “My Reading Life with Susan Larson”. Big day indeed. I guess I can just put the cheesecake into a box and bring it while still in the springform pan? AH, well, all I know is when I get home from work tonight I have to make a cheesecake and figure out the rest tomorrow.

These difficult life decisions, seriously.

I did manage to read Mike Ford’s The Lonely Ghost yesterday which I quite enjoyed; middle-grade books tend to read a lot faster than those for older readers and there will definitely be more on that to come. I will say for now that had he been writing when I was a kid, Ford would be one of my go-to authors, like Phyllis A. Whitney.

We also watched a hilarious (to us, anyway) movie on Prime yesterday, Totally Killer, which starred Kiernan Shipka in the lead of a hilarious mash-up of Back to the Future with a slasher movie playing Jamie, whose mom was the final girl of a spree killer thirty-five years earlier, who comes back in the present day to kill her mom. Her mom is obviously very into self-protection and more than a little paranoid–which of course makes Jamie even more sullen and distant. Her best friend is trying to build a time machine as a science project out of an old photo book, and for some reason the science fair takes place at an old, abandoned amusement park. Anyway, the killer kills her mom and chases her into the amusement park, she ducks into the photo booth and accidentally turns it on, and then the killer stabs the console with his butcher knife–which activates the time machine and sends her back to 1987, with a new task and mission: catch the killer before he kills anyone and thus save her mother–and with the benefit of her knowledge of the history, she knows who is going to be killed and where. A great plan, of course–but her being there slowly starts changing the future. It’s very clever and funny, and the juxtaposition of a modern teenager into a teenager back in the highly problematic 80’s and the cultural/societal differences are absolutely hilarious–especially to those of us who lived through them the first time. It’s light and fluffy, fun and entertaining and not to be taken terribly seriously. Also, because it’s Halloween Horror Month, I’ve been reading a lot of books that would fall into the slasher versions of horror–Clown in a Cornfield, Final Girls–so I’ve been thinking about the trope a lot lately too.

Maybe my next y/a should be a slasher novel? It could be fun.

And on that note, off to the spice mines! Have a lovely All Hallows’ Eve Eve!

Rock This Town

As Constant Reader is aware–because I am nothing if not repetitious–I spent ages two to nineteen in the midwest, and the last five of those in rural Kansas. I’ve blogged endlessly about it, have written several books set there, and often blame (some of) my emotional scarring on the experience. It’s one of the reasons that stupid fucking song from earlier this year (“Try That in a Small Town”) was so ridiculous and offensive; yet another tired round of ammunition from people who equate cities with evil and rural life with purity and goodness–to which I always say “Someone’s never read Peyton Place, let alone lived in a small fucking town.” Big cities certainly don’t corner the market on crime and sin and lawlessness; small rural communities can be just as vile and horrible as any metropolis.

Shirley Jackson didn’t set “The Lottery” in Times Square for a reason.

There’s an entire essay to be written about the moral rot of the Bible Belt and rural America–and make no mistake, rural America is every bit as corrupt, sinfully evil, and dangerous as the worst neighborhood in any big city–but this is not the time, as I am here to talk about this marvelous novel I read very quickly last night.

“Can you see me?” Cole yelled over to them. He was standing on the south shore of the reservoir, barefoot and facing the water. He looked like he was thinking, but Janet knew better. The scrunch in Cole’s expression came from trying to keep his belly in a six-pack.

“I’ve got you,” Victoria yelled back as she framed her brother. She was using his phone and struggling with the device. “How do you zoom on this thing?” she asked as she shuffled to the edge, not looking at her feet and focusing on Cole. Janet could see a pink stamp of tongue at the corner of Victoria’s mouth as she tried her best to get the shot her brother wanted.

“You’ve got to be in portrait mode when you go live.”

Janet meant it as a polite pointer, but as the words came out of her mouth, they sounded like a dig. SHe didn’t mean it to be a dig, but she couldn’t help it, either. Her tone was why people thought she was such a bitch. Her tone and that she kind of was. Whatever–it was fun to watch the sheep quiver.

I don’t remember how Adam Cesare and his y/a horror thriller Clown in a Cornfield first came to my attention; if it was a suggestion from a website or if I saw someone talking about it on social media or I don’t know where, but I am very glad it did. The book is absolutely right up my alley–young adults, horror, small town Midwestern America (you know, “the REAL America,” right, Sarah Palin?), and terrifying clowns. I’ve never been afraid of clowns–although many people are, and I can respect that. The white greasepaint, the garish hair and eye make-up, the clothes–it’s not hard to see how something intended to entertain children (remember, fairy tales in their original form are horrifying) can easily become something that is absolutely terrifying. John Wayne Gacy, notorious serial killer who preyed on children, worked as a clown for kids’ parties–which is very unsettling, and of course, who can ever forget Stephen King’s masterclass of clown horror, It? Killer clowns have become kind of a cliché…but they still work.

Clown in a Cornfield works on its basic surface level–it’s a scary story that reads quickly and raises the adrenaline and is chockfull of surprises and twists; like the novel version of a slasher movie. (Something I’ve always wanted to do, frankly.) It takes place over the course of a couple of days, and is set in the small dying town of Kettle Springs, Missouri, where main character Quinn Maybrook and her father have just moved from Philadelphia; it’s hinted early on that the tragic death of her mother is why they moved during her senior year: a fresh start in a wholesome rural small town in the REAL America…which turns out to be all too real. The town is dying because the corn syrup processing plant shut down, and the town is losing population. The above few paragraphs are from the prologue–which sets up the rest of the book. There’s a tragic death at the reservoir that day, which changes the kids and changes the town–as though they’ve finally crossed a line they were dancing very close to the edge of and there isn’t any turning back.

The willful and wild teens of the town have planned a surprise during the Founders’ Day parade which Quinn witnesses when the prank goes haywire, and she learns there’s a lot of anger directed at the town’s teenagers–the kids from above who have a Youtube channel where they film themselves playing pranks on people around town–and the idea is that the pranks have become dangerous and the kids are out of control. The next night there’s a party out in a cornfield, and that’s when the corn syrup company’s mascot, Frendo the Clown, shows up with a crossbow and the body count starts to rise.

I really enjoyed this book. It was well written and works very well on all of its multiple layers, from the basic story which is well paced and exciting, to the layers of social critique, satire, and politics that it also manages to be. I found myself caring about the main characters and rooting for them, and while I saw one major surprise coming way ahead of time, there were a lot of other shocks and surprises along the way that made up for the telegraphing.

There’s also a sequel now, and I am looking forward to the second installment. I think you’ll like it, too, Constant Reader, so give it a whirl–thank me later.

And The Walls Came Down

When I was a kid, I lived for the Scholastic Book Fairs. There were always more books I wanted than I can afford (still a problem for me with books to this very day), and it was through them that I discovered my love for mysteries as well as deepened my love of history. I bought anything that was history or mystery; very rarely did a book combine both.

This is part of the reason I was so appalled and disgusted by Scholastic’s cowardly abandonment of its commitment to education and diversity by giving book fairs the options to opt out of carrying books–you know, the ones that teach kids empathy for people who are different from them or show kids that they aren’t alone or books they can see themselves in–because they might upset some bigoted parents in Brotherfuck, Arkansas or Sisterfuck, Tennessee.

When I think about what a difference a book like Annie on My Mind by Nancy Garden or Trying Hard to Hear You by Sandra Scoppetone or Rainbow Boys by Alex Sanchez would have made for young Gregalicious, this Scholastic decision makes me shake with rage. (I have pointed out any number of times that Scholastic also publishes the Bitch-Queen of TERFs, so their cowardice is really no surprise. Can’t piss off their massive cash cow, now can they?)

I was thinking about this as I read Angel Luis Colón’s book, Infested, because it would probably be one of the books shoved into that Diverse Books To Not Be Included box Scholastic uses to warn schools about “subversive” and “dangerous” books. The book, by the way, is not only is superb but something any kid who enjoys horror would love.

However, it centers a main character who is a teenager of Puerto Rican descent, and while it never disparages white people…it doesn’t center them, so I can easily some Daughter of the Confederacy getting her panties into a nasty twist over her precious child reading something that doesn’t uphold White Supremacy. How dare young Hispanic readers have an option to read about a Hispanic teenager’s hero’s journey?

The NERVE of MTV Fear to publish such a book!

I can’t remember a time I hated my mother and my stepfather more than the summer before my senior year.

And it wasn’t the normal kind of Oh man, these people don’t understand me bad Disney movie kind of throwback hate. This was mortal-enemy-level hate. It was deep and pitch-black and enough to make me nearly consider getting into death metal.

While I knew I’d change my mind as the emotions scarred over, the laundry list of offenses was too much to bear.

Let me start by saying how much I really enjoyed this book. The main character, Manny, is very realistic and both relatable and likable. The pacing is excellent, and it builds beautifully to its thrilling climax and resolution. The stakes are high but grounded in reality, and the authorial voice is so strong and memorable that I was sorry to finish and bid Manny and his friends and family farewell.

I was also a little amused because the original opening line of Bury Me in Shadows–back when it was called Ruins still–was My mother ruined my life the summer before my senior year.

Obviously, that changed–a lot changed as Ruins morphed into Bury Me in Shadows–but great minds, right? I’ve admired Angel’s work for a very long time–I really need to go back and finish his backlist–and so was excited to see what he could do with a young adult horror thriller.

Great things, it turns out.

The story focuses on the first person perspective of Manny, a seventeen-year-old with a baby half-sister whose stepfather has taken a job in the Bronx managing an apartment building that’s about to open. Manny doesn’t want to leave San Antonio, but it’s more resentment that he wasn’t consulted (no one wants to change schools before their senior year; I can relate because I changed high schools after my sophomore year) rather than anything else. He doesn’t really have a lot of friends back there, but it was home and familiar to him. He also struggles with identity issues; he’s Puerto Rican, but a blanquito–someone who is Hispanic but white (which could lead into all kinds of sidebar conversation which would be inappropriate for now)–and he doesn’t really speak much Spanish anymore; he did when younger but is losing it as he gets older, which is also concerning to him. He’s angry about the move–they didn’t discuss anything with him, just told him it was happening, and he really didn’t want to leave San Antonio–but once he’s in the Bronx, he begins to see that it’s really not a bad thing to have moved there. There’s a variety of Hispanic/Latinx cultures there he can learn about, and he likes that. There’s also other issues touched on here–gentrification being a major one, and as there are no easy answers to that question in real life, one isn’t provided here but both sides of the issue are addressed and Manny sees the good and bad in both.

But the building has a roach problem–and it’s not just your usual roach problem, either. Something very strange is going on in that building, and Manny isn’t entirely sure if these things are really happening, or if he is losing his mind. If you’re like me and hate insects of all shapes, sizes and varieties, your skin will crawl repeatedly throughout this book. It’s up to Manny and his new friend Sasha to figure out the truth about what is really going on in the building, and as I said, it’s terrific and fast-paced and very hard to stop reading once the story starts going great guns.

Highly recommended–unless you’re truly squeamish and triggered by insects. Colón made my skin crawl–no small feat!

Lost in Love

Saturday morning and we’ve at long last made it to the weekend! Huzzah! I have a lot to do this weekend, and I even have to leave the house both nights. This afternoon I am attending a co-worker’s wedding; tomorrow I am having dinner at San Lorenzo with my friend Ellen. Woo-hoo! Yesterday was a good day. I did my work-at-home chores, along with chores, and then ran some errands so I wouldn’t have to do them today–a decision I am very grateful for this morning, believe you me. I then read Angel Luis Colón’s Infested for a while, finished my reread of Death Drop, and watched an episode of Moonlighting. I also rewatched the last two episodes of Our Flag Means Death again–glad I did; I slept through most of them and they were most witty and clever and funny. When Paul got home we started the new season of Elité, but it’s more a habit and completionism to continue watching it at this point. It’s glory days are long past, I barely remember who any of the characters are, and I don’t really remember much of last season, to be honest.

Sigh. But those first three seasons are still epic television. This is kind of what I mean when I talk about shows that keep going because they’re successful when they should have stopped when they were ahead; the season three finale was an excellent stopping place–but at the same time I would have been terribly bummed had the show ended there, too. Be careful what you wish for, right?

The sun was bright and high this morning, just as it was yesterday morning, which leads me to believe the time change should have been this weekend instead of two or three weeks from now. It used to always be in October; and I don’t know why or when it was changed to November, but if we’re going to have to do this every year, can’t we at least have it happen when it always used to happen? I slept really well last night–I’ve been sleeping well all week, actually. I think the change in the weather has helped with that dramatically. I still feel a bit groggy this morning, but that’s okay. I am going to write this and read some more of Infested once it’s posted, and then I have some things to do around here. The wedding window period is from 4-9, with the actual ceremony around five. I am going to try really hard not to be that person who always arrives ahead of the scheduled time and has to sit around waiting for everyone else to show up–the story of my life–and I am quite determined not to even summon a Lyft until four o’clock.

I’m really enjoyed Infested, but I knew I would. I’ve been a long-time admirer of Angel’s work for quite some time now, and his narrative voice is absolutely perfect in this book. I’m not sure if it’s considered middle-grade or y/a–that line is always so blurry–but it’s quite engaging and I really like the main character. I’m also not entirely sure I’ve read a book before that’s set entirely in the Bronx? (And why is it “the Bronx”? It’s not “the Queens” or “the Brooklyn” or “the Manhattan”, but just saying “Bronx” without the article is weird…although I suspect that’s entirely from years of hearing it said with the article.) I am really enjoying it.

I’ve thought about writing for middle grade (I’ve literally thought about writing everything other than fantasy –I even have some science fiction, incredibly bad, in the files) but am not sure if I can do it, which is precisely the reason I should try writing it. I’ve always wanted to do my own kind of Nancy Drew-style series for kids, have wanted to ever since I was a kid reading those books, and I’d really like to at least give it a try at some point before I finally exit the planet or am unable to write anything anymore. Although can I really write for middle-graders when I don’t know any kids that age? Writing is writing, I suppose, and the best thing to do is try it and write the very best book I can with the very best characters I can; I do think two of my strengths as a writer are likable characters and a good narrative style that draws the reader in. Can that translate to middle grade mysteries? I guess I will never know unless I try–and maybe, just maybe, I could write one set in New Orleans?

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines with my book to read. Have a lovely Saturday; I may be back later; you never know!

Hell is for Children

Years ago, there were things you’d never write about in books for teens and pre-teens. Now, though, many more topics are fair game. BUT are there some things you’d never write about? Because of your own feelings, or because you don’t think your audience is ready for it?

On the panel I said I’d never write about cannibalism, but of course ever since then I can’t stop thinking about cannibalism–and that’s entirely on me. I can’t even imagine writing about that.

I’m not going to say there’s anything I won’t write about because I don’t want to limit myself. If I can think of some way to write about something that isn’t pandering or exploitative or offensive, I will. I was recently reading some of my short stories because I am pulling together another collection and one of the stories–I was like, oh yeah, you can’t publish this without a major revision.

I don’t think I would ever write from the perspective of a person of color or a trans-identified individual because while I know I have a very vivid imagination and am capable of empathy, I am also a sixty-two year white cisgender male. I think I could probably do it, with help from a sensitivity reader and my editor, sure; but we need more trans writers and writers of color, not another old white man writing from their perspective. I will include those characters in my work, but not as point of view characters, because we need to make room for those with the lived experience to write those stories. I may not live long enough to see it, but hopefully in about thirty years we’ll have reached the point where exclusion of non-white non-straight non-cisgender writers will no longer be an issue, and what a wonderful world tht will be.

No offense, but none of you is in your target demographic any longer. What challenges does that present and how do you overcome them? How do you ensure that the language your characters speak is reflective of how teens and pre-teens speak today?

How very dare you! I am still a sprightly young man of…um, sixty-two. Point taken. I try to avoid slang and current language because it becomes dated very quickly; akin to how, when I was a child, I saw books and movies and television shows that tried to appeal to the youth market by trying to use current slang and it never turned out well. I mean, once The Brady Bunch kids are saying “groovy” excitedly every other sentence…it kind of killed the word and I never heard it in real life ever again. The time between when a book is written and when it’s released is long enough for current kids’ language to change. My sister’s grandkids are always saying things I don’t understand…but the next year they are speaking a different language, so I don’t try. It’s hard enough keeping up with technology, which also gets dated very rapidly.

What percentage of your readers do you think are adults? Do you consider these crossover readers when writing?

I honestly don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised if mine were primarily adults. I don’t set out to write books for kids, really; I write novels where the characters are teenagers. They get marketed as young adult books, which is something I have no control over. I’d like to think both adults and younger readers can enjoy my books that are so classified. If I think about the audience I am writing for when I am writing, it makes the writing more stressful and harder. I trust my editor to make sure I don’t write anything offensive or way off-base or too adult for a young adult audience–which is where my books would be shelved in the library. No one’s complained about mine yet.

Greg, your book tackles multiple contemporary societal problems. How do you balance writing about such tough topics with ensuring that your work is compelling and hits the right mystery/suspense notes?

The objective, for me, when writing about societal problems and issues is to put a human face on them, by making it personal. Societal problems are easily dismissed or ignored when they are simply abstract principles. If my characters are fully rounded, are relatable and seem real to the reader, then the reader will see, through the characters, what it is like to experience and go through these issues; and to develop a sense of empathy, so we aren’t so quick to judge and blame and not try to understand. #shedeservedit was very important to me, because with the Steubenville/St. Marysville rape cases, it made me look back over the course of my own life and remember situations I witnessed or heard about in a completely different light. For example, one of the cheerleaders at a nearby town had an experience similar to what the girls in Steubenville and St. Marysville went through…but in the 1970s, the blame solely went on the girl. When I heard the story she was a willing participant–the story was told to me in hushed whispers by another girl–and all the elements of the modern stories were there: pretty and popular cheerleader; a party with alcohol and football players; the town football team was successful and beloved in the town; and a bitter ex-boyfriend. As the story was told to me, she got drunk and “pulled a train” (a disgusting phrase, really) with five of the football players, including her ex. I was shocked at the time– to think she’d done this willingly, at a party where it was bound to get around (as it obviously did). But now, looking back–how willing was she, really? But that was how things were back then. I’d like to think things are changing, that we are valuing young girls and women as human beings more now…but are we?

Technology changes very rapidly, and teens—and younger children—are often at the forefront of these changes. How do you handle that in your writing?

Like slang, I try to use as little of it as possible. I do realize everyone is addicted to their phones now, and spend most of their lives texting and facetiming and everything else, but while I will use some basic technology–texting, emails, DM’s–I try not to get into the entire app/social media weeds too much because it may change before the book is published and I don’t want to publish a book that’s already dated. I think that if the reader really cares about your characters and the story…they won’t care so much about the slang and tech.

How has your writing evolved since you first got published? If a reader is new to your work, which book would you recommend starting with?

I’d like to think I am a better writer than I was back then. I know I’m a different writer than I was when I started; more life experience, with the concomitant increased empathy, understanding, and sympathy that comes with it. I try to push myself with every new work; it’s the challenge of doing something new and different I really enjoy.

If we’re talking my y/a, I’d started with the first, Sleeping Angel, and go from there. If we’re talking my career in general, I’d say Bourbon Street Blues or Murder in the Rue Dauphine. It’s always good to start at the beginning. If the length of both series is daunting, try either A Streetcar Named Murder or Death Drop (drops October 31!) and then move into the stand alones.

There are a small number of popular writers who spark controversy in their “real” lives. How do you reconcile a great writer with a bad person? Do you read that writer’s work?

Ah, the old “artist vs their work” question. There are writers with enormous talent whose books I’ve loved that social media has exposed as incredibly horrific people with “values” (I have a hard time using that word in reference to such abhorrent beliefs) and I have stopped reading them. I will never have time to read all the books I want to read, and if I’m able to prune my stack by removing racists and homophobes and misogynists and transphobes? Thank you for making my choices easier. I’ve always believed one should be widely read–I used to read nonfiction books about politics and social issues by conservatives because I thought it was important to listen to and evaluate their positions. After we were lied to as a government and a nation to drive popular support for a war we didn’t need to be fighting in order to drive more profits for military suppliers and oil corporations, I no longer needed those perspectives. I don’t need to read excuses and rationalizations for bigotry and prejudice and other indefensible positions for any human being to hold.

The vast majority of my one-star reviews on-line are from conservatives deeply offended by the “politics” of my books. Yes, because a book about gay men by a gay male author is where you should go to get your bigoted world-view validated. If you want that, read Andrew Sullivan. His nonfiction diatribes about social and political issues is some of the best fantasy being published currently.

Who are some of your biggest writing influences?

God, there are so many. I think my y/a is very strongly influenced by Lois Duncan, Christopher Pike, R. L. Stine, Caroline Cooney, and a long forgotten y/a crime writer named Jay Bennett. He won two Edgars for Juvenile, and was nominated a third time. His work is extraordinary; I’ve not read many other writers with that same extremely tight, terse, and taut style. Jay’s books put teenagers in terrible situations where they had to decide what is right and wrong and what to do. They read very quickly, too. I describe him as the y/a James Cain.

As for adults, everyone I read is an influence; even the books or writing styles I don’t care for, because they make me think how would I have done that differently? But definitely John D. Macdonald, James M. Cain, Charlotte Armstrong, Daphne du Maurier, Phyllis A. Whitney, and the old Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthologies, which I am revisiting. The old Three Investigators and Encyclopedia Brown series for kids, too.

Latest trends in Middle Grade and YA fiction?

Diversity, which is fantastic, and hot social issues!

The Anthony nominees panel for Best Children’s/ Young Adult panel at Bouchercon, with moderator Alan Orloff, Fleur Bradley, your humble author, and Lee Matthew Goldberg.