All at once

I have a fever and swollen glands and that kind of aching back that says no, this will only get worse before it gets better. And I am wrapped in bblankets on one of those wintery nights before NYC landlords turn on the heat... and Im drinking tea. And it occurs to me.

I have ARCs. (translation: Advanced Reader's Copy). I have a BOOK of my book. It is this neat little size. It has a cover with my name on it. It's not copy-edited or anything. It is used for reviews (this part I have yet to process. shhhh) Its sort of mind blowing. And in the same week the UPS man delivered these books to my door, I was interviewed by the amazing ladies here... which was my first real writerly interview. And so, although I am drowning in sick now, last week was pretty real as far as this writer thing goes.

I know I should take a picture of it and post it here... me on a bench reading my own book, my own book tucked on a shelf among other *real* books. And I will, maybe, but much like the dialogue I wrote in the book that is sometimes hard to distinguish from the inner monologues of Nadio and Noelle, the reality of this whole thing is sort of hard to distinguish from imagination. So I'm going to leave the photo out of it for now...

Or maybe I'm just feverish and so. A little delirious

Three things not at all related

I know I’m certainly not the first person to talk about this book but… you should read it.



It is somehow one level deeper than first person because not only is Clay talking to you—painting the terrifying (and in such a physical and mental way) picture of his night and his life and his slow-moving realizations, but Hannah is talking to you and Clay—who sometimes feels like you—at the same time. Jay Asher has done this fantastic and inspiring job of bringing his readers into this fictional world, this frightening reality, and at the same time asking his readers to quietly examine our own motivations.

And from a completely other angle, I also suggest you read this.



Because right now Simon Van Booy is the master craftsman in my mind. His stories are sharp and spare and clear and a little bit strange and sensual and sad. He writes sentences like

“The man who sells garlic comes from the south and doesn’t sip coffee with the others at dawn.”

And

“I have always been attracted to the idea of heaven, and that’s why John F. Kennedy International Airport seemed like a good place to live out the last of my time.”


Also, please save this show. PLEASE.



Go here.

I don’t even have tv. But I faithfully watch this online every week—or I did. And yes, I even own season one on DVD. This show is so amazing. The New York Times even thinks so (not that their endorsement is any more valid than anyone else’s. I’m just saying. The appeal is broad). This show is funny—I’m talking laugh out loud funny. And it does a rare and wonderful thing wherein it leads you to care just as much about the parents as you do about the kids. And yes it is about football, wow, I never thought I’d love watching football so much, but it is about everything else too. Gaius Charles as Smash will break your heart—and so will Taylor Kitsch as Riggins but in a completely different way and Zach Gilford as Matt Saracen will make you have a little crush (ok. I do) and Adrianne Palicki as Tyra will make you wonder WHY you didn’t play volleyball or go out with the kind of dorky guy who made you laugh and was nice to you and Coach Taylor. Well. He’s Coach Taylor! I can’t even say much more than that.

So, read some books. Or check out the best thing on tv.

Read This

Because two years ago I taught a class called English Comp to the most amazing group of students. Most of them didn’t really want to be in the class but they realized pretty quickly that I am a sucker and a few of them even took it semi-seriously. In the end they wrote some truly incredible essays and even paragraphs that still knock the wind out of me.

When I was working with English Comp, I couldn’t teach what I normally taught and I had no curriculum to follow. I dug through boxes of tattered essays and shelves of dog-eared books. I tried it all (who knew they'd hate On the Road? I was schooled. sorry, guys...) What I learned is this: they needed to read something that was written to them—in a voice that was clear and wise and sharp and entertaining and challenging all at once. They needed to read someone who spoke to what they were living that very day and did so with beauty and grace and without condescension. And, most importantly, with an understanding of their secrets.

Because I wish I knew about Jason Brown then. Because what is more raw and real and intense than the moments he captures here? I don’t know. You tell me.