But in my defense, I've been very busy all month finishing a draft of my Brand New Book. (The only reason I've poked my head up for air this week is that I've forced some very gracious and easily suckered friends into reading it for me, and am now waiting for their thoughts on it. Which, by the way, is the current subject of my nightmares. And my couch-nap nightmares, which there have been a lot of opportunity for this week. I love my couch.)
Curious about the new book? Perhaps you would like to ask me about it in person THIS WEEKEND:
Saturday, October 16, 2 pm
Upper Dublin Public Library
805 Loch Alsh Ave
Fort Washington, PA
More info here
I'll be talking about the Skinned trilogy and what comes next and -- since I grew up only a few miles away -- probably spilling some embarrassing stories of my awkward youth. So you won't want to miss that part.
There's nothing I love more than doing events in the Philadelphia area. When I was a kid, 99% of my time was spent either reading other people's books or fantasizing about the day when I would write my own. (0% of my time was spent actually writing said books, which is perhaps why it took me so long, but that's another story, and by story, I mean cautionary tale.) So it's a bit surreal to go back there as an actual real, live published author. I wish I could travel back in time, drop by the high school, take teenage me for a ride, and tell her that, despite how it may seem, everything will work out in the end.
(There are plenty of other things I'd tell her, but most are truly not fit for public consumption.)
As may be apparent, for someone who was so miserable growing up, I am ridiculously, unnaturally, inexplicably nostalgic for the trappings of my youth. Even the ones (cough, junior high) that could only be described using words like "prison" and "fiery pit of hell." (And let's not forget "stink bomb." Ah, junior high.) It's probably a good thing that all my teachers have retired by now, or I'd likely spend every visit to the area parading through my former schools, mooning over my old lockers and classrooms and shoving copies of my books at all my favorite teachers.
Actually, I'd probably shove copies at all my least favorite teachers, too, or at least the ones who tried esp to ruin my life, too, because what better way to demonstrate how they failed? Um, not that I hold petty grudges like that or imagine running into certain people who will remain nameless and watching them weep as they behold my glory. Because that would be totally nuts.
Wait, what was my point here?
Oh, right, doing writerly stuff within a certain radius of my hometown tends to bring out my crazy, mostly in a good way, and you can generally be guaranteed that I'll start babbling madly or reminiscing or complaining about some eighth grade bully or having a heart attack because someone I haven't seen in ten years is sitting in the back row...point being, I can't promise you excitement if you show up, but you've at least got a good shot.
(Especially if you're the one I haven't seen in ten years. Then you can probably ensure there will be screaming of some sort.)
(Unless you're my eighth grade bully, in which case there will be screaming of another sort, so you might want to stay away.)
(Not that I'm holding another petty grudge from -- wait, ALMOST TWENTY YEARS AGO? -- okay, I really am nuts.)