For the last few weeks, I've been laboring to get to the end of my new book, and last week, as the final pages finally came in to sight, I spent a lot of time talking (okay...whining) about searching out that perfect last line so that I'd be able to write my two favorite words in the world, "the end."

Well, mission accomplished -- last line located, end achieved.

Meaning I now get to start all over again at the beginning.

Ah, revisions. When you're working on the first draft, confronting blank page after blank page, nothing could seem more blissful than the idea of revision. Nothing could seem easier than having a book already written, needing nothing but a few corrections here and there, as if someone else (or at least some former self) has already done all the hard work. It seems, in one's imagination (especially the desperate daydreaming that settles over you as you're deliriously pushing through the first draft), almost like the kind of thing you could do while watching tv. (Okay, maybe not good TV, and maybe not vaguely mediocre but still riveting TV like last week's Heroes premiere, whose ridiculously large number of plot twists are still skittering around in my brain trying to make sense of themselves, but definitely a couple episodes of General Hospital. Not that I watch General Hospital...not more than a couple times a week, at least. But can you blame me, now that original recipe Carly's back, and despicable Michael is off the show, and Sonny is -- um, okay, how about we disregard those last couple sentences and return to the subject at hand.) (And stop judging me!)

Where was I? Oh. Right. Revisions. So the point is, when I'm sitting around all day coming up with brand new scenes and characters, all I can dream of is the revising stage. But now that I'm actually here...well, now I remember that it's actually hard work.

Sigh.

It would probably be even harder work if I were actually good at revising, because then I'd be much better at figuring out what kind of surgery to do to make my book well. Alas, a lot of my revising tends to be cosmetic surgery, giving the book a pert little nose and tight abs because that's easier than figuring out what to do with the fact that its kidneys are locating where its lungs should be and its veins seem to be pumping kool-aid instead of blood. The best revisers, so I've heard, dig deep and rip out the heart of their books, patch it up, shove it back in, and do so over and over again. (I often do so as well, but only on the urging of my editor. I love my editor. Even when I'm cursing her and throwing darts at her picture.) In one of my first writing classes, our teacher told us about a writer who used to throw out her first drafts and then rewrite them from scratch (ie, without looking at a copy of the first draft, except for the one in her head) as part of her revision process.

I suspect this writer might now be in a mental institution.

The fact is, in every writing class I've ever taken, "Writing is revising" was the silver rule. ("Show don't tell" takes the gold, since it sometimes seems like writing teachers, or at least my teachers, believe those to be the only three words in the english language). And with a sigh (and a resigned flipping off of the television), I'm forced to admit that they're probably right.

Still, the mind boggles at the number of things I could be doing, rather than taking a scalpel (or in some cases, a hatchet) to my pages and pages and pages of rough prose. Rather than dwelling on the things I'd rather be doing (baking cookies, eating cookies, watching Battlestar Galactica, enjoying Libba Bray's delirium), I find it more therapeutic to think about all the things that would suck more than revising. I could be at the dentist getting my teeth drilled; cleaning my room; selling cookies door to door; shoveling snow; reading The Red Badge of Courage; eating liver; dissecting a liver; on hold with Verizon; in gym class; playing volleyball; playing volleyball in gym class -- no, I'm sorry, that one's just too horrible to contemplate.

For all this, I don't actually hate the revision process (and I do find it far less terrifying than the blank page) but it terrifies me nonetheless. Nearly every stage of the writing process does, when I think about it. Writing a book is a little like throwing yourself off a cliff and hoping that somewhere on the way down you'll figure out a) whether you remembered to pack your parachute, b) where you put it, and c) how to make it work. (Which I suppose means that revising is hoping that once the parachute actually unfurls, it doesn't have a gaping hole in it, and if it does, you'll be able to patch it before you smash into the ground.) On the other hand, when everything goes exactly right, for a few minutes, you get to fly.

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Just out of curiosity, I did a google image search on "revisions." The first thing that pops up seems to be in reference to the British definition of the word (studying for a test), but I feel it's still apt:

One more day until SKINNED is officially out. (Though I hear plenty of rogue copies have already made their way into the wild, so you may very well be able to track one down.)

I am a basket case.

Going crazy with nerves. That's crazy like if you saw me on the street, you'd be well advised to run the other way. (Though hopefully you'd take pity on me and hand me a cupcake first.)  Crazy with a capital K.

As in kraaaaaaaaaazy.

But! Two pieces of good news are bobbing to the surface of my murky brain soup. (Isn't that an appetizing image? I told you: kraaaazy.)

GOOD NEWS #1: Contest winners! Thanks to everyone who entered the SKINNED giveaway.  I now have a long list of books that I need to read (as soon as I'm no longer tethered to my computer keyboard, that is). And congratulations to the two winners:

B., whose favorite book is Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott

Emily, whose favorite book is Old School, by Tobias Wolff

GOOD NEWS #2: The day after SKINNED makes its official debut, I'll be making my own, at a YA author reading at the New York Public Library.  I'll be reading from SKINNED, alongside a bunch of brilliant YA authors with new books you will love. So if you live in the NY area, you should come and cheer us on! 

Here's the info:

6 pm, Wednesday, September 10
NYPL, Jefferson Market Branch
425 Avenue of the Americas

Authors include:
Me!
Gordan Korman (The Juvie Three)
Beth Levine Ain (Revolution of the Sabine)
Melissa Walker (Violet in Private -- which just got mentioned on the Tyra Banks show!)
Emily Franklin (The Other Half of Me)
Moderated by David Levithan (whose new movie looks awesome)

I wouldn't say my stress levels are at an all-time high. But given a) the national news, b) a September calendar packed with deadlines, c) a new book coming out in six days, and d) [miscellaneous], I'd say they're pretty close.

Sometimes, you just need a pick-me-up.

And sometimes, the world delivers:


Would you think less of me if I admitted that "Hangin' Tough" was the first album I ever owned?

The fabulous folks at Simon & Schuster have put together a free sampler of the fall's hottest books. If you click the cover and download the sampler, you'll get excerpts from new books by Ellen Hopkins, Amanda Marrone, Margaret Peterson Haddix, Sonya Sones, and -- oh yeah -- yours truly. 

That's right, the first sneak preview of Skinned, here and now!



In other news, I'm feeling very cranky and incompetent today, so if anyone wants to take a stab at cheering me up, go for it.

What is it about my recent emails that has led gmail (which usually posts annoying ads and useless news stories in this space) to believe I'm in need of the following wisdom?

"Only the mediocre are always at their best." -- Jean Giraudoux

I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm in any way affected by a bit of hallmark-worthy cheese dropped on me by my email server, but...

I think this is a sentiment I should have tattooed on my forehead. (Or at least on my mirror, at forehead height, so I could actually read it.) Because it would go a long way toward satisfying the "I suspect this may be a total piece of crap" inner voice that's on a constant rinse/repeat cycle whenever I sit down in front of a blank page.

Or I could just listen to this song again. (Oh, who am I kidding, I listen to it every day.)

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Don't forget to enter the contest and win yourself a free copy of SKINNED -- which I assure you is not crap!

At least it is if you've ever tried to create anything and been foiled by self-doubt, writer's block, underminers, paying the rent, sheer laziness, or the need to watch a General Hospital marathon just to dull the what-the-hell-do-I-write-next pain.

And now, courtesy of someone who I'm beginning to suspect may be the source of all things fabulous* (but who I will not name here because my current self-doubt goes by the name of "repeating private conversations on the internet or anywhere else without permission, even when they're innocuous, is a quick way to get yourself a nice fat black eye or at least a one-way ticket to social siberia"), I present to you the GREATEST SONG OF ALL TIME:


This show, [Title of Show], is on Broadway now and I plan to go see it ASAP. See you there?

While we're on the subject of musical theater (and really, when are we not), I feel it's necessary to once again raise the issue of my love for Neil Patrick Harris. Because, while I promise this blog is not turning into a 24/7 NPH love-athon (tempting as that may be), this picture requires comment:



And the comment is: NPH, I love you.

Also, I want that troll doll.

Have you guys done your duty and watched the shoe fairy video yet?

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*I don't think Fabulous Anonymous Lady actually reads this blog, but if she does, she should feel free to claim her latest fabulous find for herself. Because it is a good one.

Ever have the disconcerting feeling that everything you think about yourself (or at least a selection of important things) is wrong?

Someone asked me two questions recently:

• Is your mood affected by whether you have a good writing day or a bad writing day?

• When you're having a bad day, do you conclude that your entire life must be somehow defective?

It took me about twenty seconds to answer 'no' to each of these.  It's taken me several days of reflection (and a couple bad moods) to realize that the answer is, in fact, a resounding yes.

So much for my vaunted introspective capabilities. Apparently I'm as clueless about myself as I am about everyone else.

Sometimes it feels like I've created a persona for myself, a fictional character named Robin Wasserman whose personality is made up of a series of "I'm the kind of person who" statements. (eg "I'm the kind of person who hates small talk." "I'm the kind of person who hates parties." "I'm the kind of person who hates change." and, apparently, "I'm the kind of person who loves to hate stuff.")

Am I so invested in this persona that I willfully ignore reality?  Is this Robin Wasserman character just somebody I made up, based on wish-fulfillment and self-deprecation and a weird inclination to put myself on the fringe of whatever group I'm currently trying desperately to fit into?

Last week, someone (a different someone) explained to me that a pathological liar -- a term I've used for years without actually knowing the definition -- is someone who believes her own lies. I'm pretty sure there's a distinction between this and the delusional person who can't distinguish truth from fantasy, but I'm not sure where to locate the dividing line.

If I'm basing my choices in life (whether to go to this party, whether to take this job, whether to write this book) on some mistaken belief about myself, drawn from a fictional persona that I accidentally created, am I lying or am I delusional?

(Just to be clear, no one -- ahem, mom -- need worry that I'm having some kind of massive identity crisis here. Nor do I think I'm particularly unique on this front. I just think it's interesting that, given the embarrassing number of man-hours I've put into analyzing and obsessing over the finer points of my personality, I'm still wandering around in the dark.)