As so many of you know by now (maybe in part because I’ve been feverishly tweeting about it), the writer of the brilliant, beautiful, wise, and often gut-wrenching anonymous column “Dear Sugar” on the Rumpus was revealed at her coming-out party in San Francisco last night. I wish I’d been there to cheer her on. I’ve been a fan of this incarnation of Sugar since her early columns—I still remember the day I first read “The Baby Bird,” such an astounding piece, and how I crumpled into sobs over it. Though calling myself “a fan” of Sugar’s sounds almost too casual. Parts of me have been utterly transformed by reading her—it goes beyond being her fan. I’ve cried more times than I can count, and yes I’ve worn the “Write Like a Motherf*cker” T-shirt (I wore it during my residency at MacDowell last year… hoping its magic would work; it sure did). And for most of that time, I did know who Sugar really was… I’d guessed the secret like many of us have. And it never changed my relationship to the columns or my love for her writing. In fact, I think that knowing who she was made me love her all the more.
So I’m excited that everyone can now know that Sugar is…
Cheryl Strayed! Author of the incredible novel Torch and the upcoming memoir Wild—which we should all go out right now and pre-order to support and celebrate her. It comes out March 20! PRE-ORDER WILD RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW!
Photo of Cheryl Strayed by Joni Kabana
How did I guess who Sugar was so long ago? It was her voice. Cheryl Strayed has such a distinct, unflinching, unforgettable voice—and story—and her essays and fiction have stayed with me for years. So it was that after following the “Dear Sugar” column for some months I realized that something was tugging at me… something felt familiar… It reminded me of one of the most amazing things I’ve ever read in my life (was it through a Best American anthology or The Sun magazine, which my mom has a subscription to? I can’t recall). It was this essay, “The Love of My Life,” originally published in 2002. And it also reminded me of a short story I read in Nerve years ago, called “Good.”
I’ve never forgotten those two pieces—THAT’S how incredible of a writer Cheryl Strayed is. To write something so distinct and so memorable that someone who’s read it a long time ago would recognize you years later. (Not to mention her novel Torch, which I loved.) Imagine being a writer like that—a writer so yourself that strangers would know who you are based on your words. That’s what I aspire to become.
So, yes, I had my guess about the true identity of Sugar a long time ago. I then admit I paid very careful attention to the online personas of both Sugar and Cheryl Strayed (both of whom I followed online) to see if they were posting around the same times of day, and if they were ever offline at the same time. When they both went dark / on vacation for the same week, I knew I was right. And I was thrilled. THRILLED. It made me love Sugar and Cheryl all the more.
One of my friends, Christine Lee Zilka, was equally enamored with the Sugar columns (should I admit we were obsessed?) and I confided in her that I thought I’d guessed who it was. I told her my guess. Then she went off and did her own sleuthing and devouring of everything Cheryl Strayed had ever published and agreed. It had to be her. Then my friend and I made a vow that we would not tell anyone else our guess. Not anyone. Even if they begged us. (And I have been begged! Multiple times! I never broke.) I know a lot of us have guessed—probably because they read the same essay and short story I had—and we’ve all kept it quiet for so long.
Today I’m simply excited that all “Dear Sugar” fans can support Cheryl Strayed as she so deserves. She has been so generous with us, so willing to expose her soul to all of us, and help those who needed help, and she never asked anything in return.
I’ve written letters to Sugar, but I never sent them in to her. I was too afraid of what she’d tell me. I knew it could hurt. I knew it would change my life. And I wasn’t ready. All I know is I’ll keep reading anything and everything the woman publishes, under every name.
Here’s a wonderful interview with Cheryl Strayed in The New Yorker online about being Sugar. What she says in answer to the last question is very true. I’m one of those “avid fans”—and I will continue to be. I can’t wait for her new book! And while I’m in California in April, I’m trying to go to one of her readings so I can meet her in person!
p.s. If you read about my summer writing fantasies, you’ll remember it was one of my fantasies to take a workshop with her. I can’t afford to this summer, but if you can, are you crazy?? If it’s not sold-out by now, sign up!
This guest post is part of the Turning Points blog series here on distraction no. 99—in which I asked authors the question: What was your turning point as a writer? I’m honored and excited to host their stories. Read on as Jennifer Echols reveals how she went through her turning point on February 14, eight years ago…
In 2001, I received a “good rejection” from a major YA publisher for my seventh manuscript. A good rejection is one in which the editor writes you a personal letter rather than sending you a form letter and praises your work before dashing your hopes into tiny, sharp pieces. This particular good rejection said that the YA market was abysmal, but if the market had been better, the publisher would have bought my novel. The manuscript had made it all the way to the editorial board meeting, the last step in saying yes, before they said no.
A good rejection hurts because a real person is turning you down, not an uninhabited address in New York. A near miss hurts because you were almost there, but now, you’re not. Again. And everything hurts a million times worse when you’re pregnant. Normally I would have taken a deep breath, rewritten my query letter, and sent manuscripts out again—or started a new book. Not this time. I didn’t think I could take this heartache anymore on top of starting a new job as a freelance copyeditor, buying and renovating my first house, and most importantly, taking care of the baby.
So I quit writing, cold turkey. Not for good. I never thought I was walking away permanently. But after so many years of trying (I’d finished my first manuscript and sent it to agents and publishers in 1990, when I was twenty years old) and so many near misses (I’d had two agents in the ensuing years who had almost sold my books) and so many words written and mostly unread, I needed a break.
I got one. I copyedited. I bought my house and renovated it. I had my beautiful baby. My husband was laid off in the recession after 9/11. I became the sole breadwinner for our new family. We sold the house, moved to Atlanta where my husband finally found another job, and bought another house. The baby grew. He wouldn’t take a bottle at night unless he was distracted by music, so we started watching a new sort of TV show called a “reality show”—specifically, a brand-new hit called American Idol.
I loved this show. I had been a music major in college before I was an English major, and I had expected this show to be a joke of bad singers publicly exposing themselves, but I was wrong. The singers were great, and I was astonished at their grace under the pressure of competition on national television, especially when many of them were so young. I was especially taken with the story of winner Kelly Clarkson and runner-up Justin Guarini. They were not lovers, but in my mind, they should have been. Their movie together bombed, but huge success for the two of them, with lots of drama along the way, would have made a better story. I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. It dogged me every day on the long drive to my son’s Montessori school.
So I wrote this story down. Before I finished, I had a great idea for another novel. But the stakes were so much higher now. I had a great job and the responsibility of motherhood, and I couldn’t invest time in my own personal dream if success was so unlikely and the consequences were so emotionally devastating. I made myself a promise. I would finish this reality show book and send it off. And after that, I would make a change in my wanna-be writing career.
The definition of stupidity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. For fourteen years I had written manuscripts by myself, revised them by myself, looked up agents and publishers in a huge reference book in the library, and sent my novels into the abyss. But now there was a wonderful invention called the internet. There still was no Facebook, no Twitter, and I had never heard of a blog. But there were websites with great information, and there were e-mail listserves. I vowed that the day I sent this manuscript off, I would go straight to the computer, join Romance Writers of America, interact with people, and network. I would make friends, even if they were only internet friends. I would figure out how the baffling publishing industry worked and get the business end of my career off the ground.
February 14, 2004.
It turns out that great minds think alike, and publishers had been flooded with reality show novels, most of which were rejected, including mine. But through RWA, I found my two critique partners, Catherine Chant and Victoria Dahl, who have helped me improve every one of my subsequent novels. I learned how to watch the sales reports and target the literary agents who were most likely to represent—and sell—my manuscripts. One year later, in February 2005, I had a new agent with a high-powered literary agency. Six months after that, she sold Major Crush to Simon & Schuster.
Today, Catherine Chant has been a finalist in the Golden Heart, RWA’s most prestigious award for unpublished writers, which means she’s getting very close to selling. Victoria Dahl is a three-time USA Today bestseller and my best friend, even though we live two thousand miles apart. I have sold a total of twelve books to Simon & Schuster, including The One That I Want in stores February 7, my hardcover debut Such a Rush in stores July 10, and my first two adult novels coming in 2013. Finding friends in other writers has made all the difference in my career, and knowing that they have the same aspirations and doubts as me makes me feel at least fifty percent less insane. I am living my dream—making a living as a novelist—because eight years ago, I decided not to do this alone.
—Jennifer Echols
Jennifer Echols was born in Atlanta and grew up in a small town on a beautiful lake in Alabama—a setting that has inspired many of her books. She has written eight romantic novels for young adults, including the comedy Major Crush, which won the National Readers’ Choice Award, and the drama Going Too Far, which was a finalist in the RITA, the National Readers’ Choice Award, and the Book Buyer’s Best, and was nominated by the American Library Association as a Best Book for Young Adults. Her next two teen dramas, including Such a Rush, will appear in 2012 and 2013, with her adult romance novels debuting in 2013, all published by Simon & Schuster. She lives in Birmingham with her husband and her son.
The Turning Points series will continue with new guest posts three times a week. Subscribe to distraction no. 99 to keep up with the series, or read all the posts with this tag.
This new Writer-to-Writer Interview with Nina LaCour touches on novel inspirations, writing boy narrators, tackling second novels, and so much more about her beautiful new YA novel, The Disenchantments (Dutton, 2/16/12).
I can’t tell you enough how much I admire the author I’m interviewing today. I first discovered Nina LaCour’s debut novel, the stunning Hold Still, soon after Imaginary Girls was accepted for publication by Dutton Books, and when I visited the office for my first lunch with my editor, her assistant gave me a good-size stack of books to take home with me. Hold Still by Nina LaCour was one of those books. Reading it in those fresh-faced weeks when my book deal was still new made me all the more sure that I’d chosen the right imprint and the right editor. Because oh, did I love and admire Nina LaCour’s writing.
In a wonderful reminder of the world’s connectedness, I discovered afterward that not only did we share an editor in Julie Strauss-Gabel, we shared a friend, the writer Christine Lee Zilka, which made me happier still. I was even able to meet Nina in person this past summer at the SCBWI conference in Los Angeles (she was meeting Julie at the hotel one night, and Julie knew how much I loved her writing, so I got to say hi). I made an effort not to fangirl all over Nina and embarrass myself, not helped by the fact that the theme for the gala that night was “Pajama Party.” Yes, I met an author I admire, in the company of my editor who I admire, while wearing pajamas. Sometimes life can be very surreal. Even so, I don’t think Nina held it against me.
Nina LaCour, photographed by Kristyn Stroble
Now, to celebrate the release week of Nina LaCour’s new novel, The Disenchantments, I’m thrilled to share this writer-to-writer interview—as well as my love and excitement for The Disenchantments. I am so passionate about this book, I blurbed it!
And YOU have a chance to win a copy of The Disenchantments—and this giveaway is INTERNATIONAL! Just fill out the entry form at the bottom of this post. And if you comment, tweet, or tell me you’re a librarian or a teacher, you get extra chances to win!
Before we dive in to the interview, I’ll leave it to the jacket copy and the book trailer to give you a peek into the story:
Colby and Bev have a long-standing pact: graduate, hit the road with Bev’s band, and then spend the year wandering around Europe. But moments after the tour kicks off, Bev makes a shocking announcement: she’s abandoning their plans—and Colby—to go her own way in the fall.
But the show must go on and The Disenchantments weave through the Pacific Northwest, playing in small towns and dingy venues, while roadie-Colby struggles to deal with Bev’s already-growing distance and the most important question of all: what’s next?
Morris Award–finalist Nina LaCour draws together the beauty and influences of music and art to brilliantly capture a group of friends on the brink of the rest of their lives.
Now… for my questions:
Nova Ren Suma (me!): I feel like I should start at the start—though maybe there’s a whole other start I don’t know about—when you came to be writing YA and publishing your first (brilliant, beautiful) award-winning novel Hold Still. I know you entered your MFA program thinking you were writing fiction for adults (which sounds oh-so-familiar, as that’s how it was for me), but your workshops there led you to realize the book you were writing was YA. So how did this come about? And once your debut was published for a YA audience, what led you to keep writing for teens?
Nina LaCour: First, Nova, let me just say how incredibly excited I am to be interviewed on your blog. I love your author interviews so much, and have secretly wanted to be featured here for a long time. So thank you!
Now, to answer your question about the start. I applied to Mills College with pages from a novel I was writing that was, and still is, definitely for an adult audience. Not because it’s too raunchy or anything—as we all know, YA can deal with mature content—but because the central characters are adults. I spent most of my first year of grad school working on that novel and on short stories, and then I decided to take a YA craft class, followed by a YA workshop, both taught by Kathryn Reiss, who is a celebrated author and an expert of YA and middle grade literature. I was so inspired by the novels we read in the class: Fat Kid Rules the World by K. L. Going and Looking for Alaska by John Green especially. I also stumbled on a novel called Brave New Girl by Louis Luna that I absolutely loved. These books were so different from the children’s literature I’d read growing up, and I found myself interested in writing about high school for the first time. I was in my early twenties, which felt like the perfect vantage point at the time: close enough to high school to remember almost everything, but far enough to have the distance I needed to really examine it. So I wrote a few scenes about a girl who recently lost her best friend to submit for workshop, and then I just kept writing. I found the experience of working on that novel joyful and natural in a way that writing my adult novel was not, so I set the adult novel aside and just kept writing. The first half of Hold Still was my graduate thesis. A year later Julie Strauss-Gabel at Penguin acquired it. I’ll always be grateful that I took those classes and read those novels.
Writing YA is still exciting; it still feels exactly right. But I also have every intention of returning to that first novel I entered grad school with. It’s continued to evolve in my imagination and I know that I’ll be able to write it much better now than I could have eight years ago. I hope that I’ll be able to write for both teens and adults for a very long time, because I still have a lot of stories about being a teenager to write, and I also have older stories itching to get out.
NRS:Let me just pause and flat-out tell you that I am absolutely, deeply in love with The Disenchantments, your new book coming out from Dutton February 16. There is something magical about this novel—how Colby, your narrator, sees his friends Bev, Meg, and Alexa, the three fascinating, exciting, and yes, beautiful girls who make up the Disenchantments, the worst all-girl band in history. And oh, especially the way he sees his best friend, Bev. Colby’s feelings for Bev fill up this novel in every line of dialogue, every paragraph and description, without ever being too in-your-face. I loved never being able to get inside her head and only seeing her as Colby does: a true mystery. I was struck by this choice in POV and so thrilled you told the story this way. Did you always plan to keep it to Colby’s perspective? And as a female author, was this your first time writing from the male POV? Was there anything different to you about writing in a male voice, or Colby’s voice in particular?
NL: Thank you so much, Nova! Have I mentioned how thrilling this little box on the back cover is to me?
I didn’t worry too much about writing in a male voice. No matter what, people will say that it isn’t masculine enough, and that’s okay with me. It’s Colby’s voice, but it’s also very much my own, and I didn’t try to fight that. Though I know there are major differences between teen boys’ and teen girls’ experiences, most of what we go through are human experiences. We all know what longing feels like, what anger feels like. We’ve all dealt with deception and secrets and forgiveness and hope and friendship and love. So I tried to get into his head and heart the best I could, and trusted that that would be enough.
A couple male friends read an early draft and their reactions to it confirmed what I knew going in—that there isn’t a single teen boy experience. The first friend wrote to tell me about empathizing with Colby because he had once felt about a girl exactly the way Colby feels about Bev. The second friend told me that I was not objectifying the girls enough, that no matter how wonderful and sensitive Colby was, he would be noticing things about their bodies. I took some of this advice, which wasn’t difficult, but I let Colby remain a romantic. I kept him respectful.
NRS: My novels often start from the tiniest bloom—a scene maybe, a character in a situation, but beyond that it’s all fuzzy and I have no worldly idea what will happen. I guess, in a way, I write to find out. So I can’t help but be curious about other writers and their ideas. Tell me, how do your novels first come to you? Is it a character, a concept, a line of dialogue, a song, a place? How did The Disenchantments begin for you—where did the idea emerge from? And did the story come to you fully formed, or did you discover it more as you wrote?
NL: Stories usually begin with a voice for me. Some character, somewhere in my head, will say something, and I’ll think, Well, that’s interesting. Usually a mood goes along with it, too. And then I go from there. I need to know certain things about a story before I get too deeply involved in writing it. At first, I’ll write a lot of scene fragments, just whatever comes to me, usually focused on characters or tone. Soon, though, the story begins to take shape. I know the skeleton of it, but I have to fill in the rest.
The first tiny hint of The Disenchantments came to me in a writing exercise in 2006. I had just graduated from my MFA program, was revising Hold Still, and was terrified about being finished with school. I hadn’t not been in school since I was five years old. So I took an informal workshop with a Mills professor on writing beautiful sentences. I had never taken a class so focused on language, and found the exercises freeing because they weren’t about story or character; they were about structure. So, one day while modeling a very long sentence, I wrote something about a girl named Bev, the lead singer of The Disenchantments and the best friend of the narrator, and how she suddenly changes after a science fair. Those of you who have read the book understand how much of the story this single sentence gave me. I set it aside for a while, but the story kept growing.
Photo courtesy of thedisenchantments.com
NRS: You may not remember this, but I started reading The Disenchantments on a train ride back from the Hudson Valley and while I read I was tweeting wildly about how much I loved it. I wish I could go back in time on Twitter to screen-cap my thrill over your words, but you should know, I dog-eared quite a few pages in the ARC I read… which is something I do when I love a book and savor its sentences and plan to reread it later to savor some more. You have a way of describing emotion that thrills me. What question am I trying to ask you here besides telling you how much I love your writing? Oh, yes. What advice do you have for writers about crafting a story and taking their writing to the next level?
NL: Those tweets made me so happy. Before the release of both of my books, there was this time where I held my breath. We finish copyedits and the ARCs go out and then there’s no turning back. The hush before feedback comes is brutal, so when it does, and when it’s good, it’s the greatest relief.
I am so flattered that you dog-eared pages—I do that with writing I love, too—and I’m glad that what spoke to you was the emotion, because really, that’s what art for me is all about. It’s great if art makes me think—I thrive on that. But when I look at a painting or read a book or listen to a song or watch a movie, what I’m hoping is that it will make me feel something.
For a long time I hoped to change my writing style because I wanted to write rich, lyrical sentences (like yours!). That’s why I signed up for that beautiful sentences class. I thought a lightbulb would go off and I would suddenly be writing the way I thought I should. Like I would suddenly write brilliant similes and have all of this creative imagery. But that didn’t happen, so eventually I had to accept that I write simple, straight-forward sentences and that that’s okay. Sometimes I still worry about it. I worry about my dependance on “to be.” I worry about my copious use of dialogue. About adverbs. About everything. But then I remind myself that for every writer I love who writes in a luxurious, descriptive style, there is also one I love who writes simply. That would be my advice: Pay attention to the way you write and honor it. Don’t try to write like someone you’re not.
NRS: This advice really resonates with me, as I’m struggling with a similar feeling off-screen right this very moment. Thank you for that. Back to the questions…
How does your work as a high school English teacher find its way into your writing? Do your students influence you at all—and does the act of teaching about writing or literature change how you view your own work?
NL: The best thing about teaching high school for me is that it’s so removed from my writing. When I go to work, I get to stop thinking about looming deadlines and plot gaps and Goodreads. I can just sit in a classroom with bright, funny, motivated students and talk about books that are not mine. And yes, my students influence me, but only as much as everything else in my life influences me. I enjoy teaching because it takes me out of my own head, gives me a community of people to focus on so that I’m not so focused on myself.
NRS: Place is so much a part of this novel. Colby, Bev, Meg, and Alexa head off on a road trip from San Francisco up to the Pacific Northwest on the last tour of the Disenchantments, stopping for shows along the way. Every single place is so incredibly vivid: from a basement to a field in the middle of nowhere to a grungy hotel room to “Melinda,” the borrowed VW bus out on the open road. Were any of the places in this novel places you’ve actually been? How many were invented for the story—or how much did the real world, and real settings, shape the fictional road trip that Colby and his friends take?
NL: So many of the places were snatched from real life. In Fort Bragg, I stayed in a motel just like the one I describe, with a laminated list of rules just like the list that offends Meg. That lemonade stand? I passed it on my way north. I drove for another half mile or so and then turned around to go back, and as soon as I got a better look at the wild children and their crappy lemonade and their bikes strewn across the vacant lot, I knew everything would go straight into the book. A few months later, on another trip, my wife and I visited our friends who were farming on Vashon Island. I didn’t have any idea that farming or farmers would be part of the story, but suddenly, it fit. Those are just a few examples. A lot of the places are imagined, though. Going back to Fort Bragg, The Basement, which is where The Disenchantments play their first show, appeared to me out of nowhere in a burst of inspiration. It isn’t real but when I was in that town I felt like there must have been more going on. I wondered where people hung out at night, and then I invented an answer.
NRS: There’s something I’ve struggled with after writing my first YA novel Imaginary Girls, and I keep hearing it’s pretty common: Second novel syndrome. Maybe there’s the pressure of meeting expectations, or not having met expectations; maybe it’s fear or nerves, or some unspeakable creature that haunts novelists after their first book comes out, just for fun. So I wonder, did it get to you, too? Because your second novel shows not a hint of it. It’s so full of life, so gorgeously sculpted, and distinct from your first book in the best of ways, while also staying true to your voice. Did you have any struggles to get it there? And what advice do you have for authors working on their second novels?
NL: I had a terrible case of SNS. I spent a year fretting and barely writing anything. I had the idea for the book, a few scenes, and a crushing desire to write a second book that was better than my first. It’s important to me to be always growing, so while I was so grateful that Hold Still was well received, I was afraid that I was going to disappoint people. I went from a book about a suicide and its aftermath to a book about a road trip. I mean, that’s oversimplifying things, but it’s how I felt. I knew there was a lot of substance lurking beneath the surface of The Disenchantments and that, if I did it right, I could make longing and uncertainty resonate the way Hold Still’s grief and healing did for many readers. I just didn’t know how to get there. One thing Julie said to me on the phone after she read the first draft was that it was a much more complicated novel than Hold Still, which I hadn’t thought of before and which made me feel a lot better.
My first draft was something like 46,000 words. It was a skinny little thing, but it was all I could do at the time. It was in the second draft that it came to life. I added so many pages and a major plot point. First drafts are always a little bit painful for me; I love the revising, the fleshing out, the reconsidering. What made my second draft successful was that I got out of the house, which is something I blogged about here. And then I let myself play a little. I felt very little joy in writing my first draft, but I had some of those amazing highs that come with believing in your work during the second.
I’m the kind of person who, when expecting an email, will stare at my screen until it arrives, barely able to eat or hold a conversation until it does. So my most practical piece of advice to debut writers is this: Start your second book as soon as you can. Don’t stop writing while you wait for the first one to come out. Learn to use all of the empty months, or else you’ll spend too much energy waiting for tiny slivers of information and not enough on the one thing you still have complete control over: your new work.
NRS: I am absolutely not going to give away the end of the book. No spoilers! But I want to say that I found your choices at the end of The Disenchantments—how you left the story, and where you left each of your characters—to be exactly what I wanted for them, and yet also surprise me as a reader. I didn’t predict, yet I now couldn’t imagine this book, and this road trip, ending any other way. When you came up with the idea for this story, did you know how it would end? Was there anything about this novel—or your characters—that surprised you?
NL: I know that it’s a trend, especially in film, I think, to just let a story drop off at the end. Martha Marcy May Marlene is a great example. I understand that choice, but it’s not a choice I’ll ever make. One thing that novels and films can give us, that life can’t always give us, are satisfying endings. I’m drawn to literature and film for the narrative, for the full story, complete with a resolution. I don’t care if it’s happy or sad as long as there’s something. In my first drafts of Hold Still I tried a little too hard. Julie said something along the lines of, “I feel like this story ends for fifty pages,” which was both funny and entirely true. I had to cut a lot.
What you said earlier about writing to find out? That rings true for me. Sometimes the only way to find out is through the work itself. I had no idea what Colby was going to decide to do at the end of the road trip, for example. I had a possible solution, but it didn’t feel exactly right. And then, as the story evolved, it became clear to me. I actually don’t know if I could have captured Colby’s uncertainty about the future if I had been certain of it while writing. In some ways, his panic reflected my panic—I had no idea where I was going in the story!—but I knew where the band had to go next, so I kept moving them up the coast, trusting that I would figure it out eventually.
Photo courtesy of thedisenchantments.com
NRS: And finally, if there were one song you could leave us with, to get readers in the mood for reading your exciting, sexy, gorgeous, and deeply authentic new novel when it comes out this week on Thursday, February 16, tell us… what would it be?
Camera Obscura easily takes a place in my top five favorite bands, and when I went on my first research road trip for The Disenchantments, I spent many hours listening to My Maudlin Career on a loop. The lyrics to this song, “Forests and Sands” suit my novel in so many ways. I mean, the first line is “I’m in a van and I’m holding your hand.” I love its wistful, bittersweet tone, and this version was filmed in San Francisco, where the book begins.
Happy Release Week, Nina, and thank you for letting me interview you! I have to say, I’m feeling very inspired by the wise writing advice you’ve shared here with everyone. Thank you so much!
The Disenchantments by Nina LaCour comes out this week, on Thursday, February 16! Find out more about the book at thedisenchantments.com and visit Nina’s website at ninalacour.com. You can also follow Nina on Twitter.
EDITED FEB. 22. WINNER OF THE GIVEAWAY ANNOUNCED…
Thank you to everyone who entered the giveaway attached to this interview! One lucky person has won a copy of The Disenchantments by Nina LaCour… and that lucky person is…
Joana R.
Congrats, Joana! I will email you soon for your mailing address. Thanks again to everyone who entered!
And now I’ll leave you with one last peek into The Disenchantments, with this music video from the “worst band in history”:
This guest post is part of the Turning Points blog series here on distraction no. 99—in which I asked authors the question: What was your turning point as a writer? I’m honored and excited to host their stories. Read on as Megan Crewe reveals how she found the courage to transform her life…
The biggest turning point in my life was something that on the surface might not seem to have anything to do with writing at all, but would have completely changed the course of my writing career if I’d decided differently.
For you to understand why the decision was so difficult, you’ll need to know a little about me.
All my life, I’ve adored stories. As a preschooler, I’d dictate stories to my mom for her to write down in stapled “books” I’d then illustrate. By the time I was in my teens, I was writing one or two novels (which while great practice will thankfully never see the light of day) every year, amid academics and various extracurricular activities.
I applied the same self-discipline to school. I did my homework without being reminded, spent library time researching projects while other kids were goofing off. I knew I could do well if I tried, and I’d have felt ashamed to turn in work that wasn’t up to my own standards.
My parents encouraged both sides of my personality: the creative and the studious. They made sure I kept in mind that most authors held down a second job to make ends meet. I grew up accepting that I’d better get the best education I could, so I’d have the most possible options while I kept writing on the side.
In the same way, I accepted that I was obviously going to go to university. I was near the top of my class, and got into a BA program on full scholarship. When I picked psychology as my major, I knew I’d also be doing grad school. There were very few jobs in the field for anyone with less than a master’s degree. It was the only option that made sense.
Now, I’d loved school as a kid. By high school, my enthusiasm was waning: too much busy work, and too many other things I wanted to be doing. University turned out to be better, because I had so much more choice when it came to classes—and because I realized I could skip many of the parts I disliked without it hurting my marks. If a professor who bored me always taught straight from the textbook, I started leaving during the breaks in the middle of lectures. If I found a tutorial leader unengaging and there weren’t participation marks, I rarely went to that class’s tutorials. I still enjoyed hearing lectures from enthusiastic professors who clearly knew their subjects. I still took pride in handing in essays I’d thought long and hard about. But my tolerance for all the less-enjoyable parts of the educational experience was dropping rapidly.
I should have recognized this as a warning sign, but since I was still getting good marks, it didn’t occur to me that anything was wrong. I was just adapting to my situation, that was all. In my fourth year, I became depressed to the point that I started taking medication, but I attributed it to other causes. Even when I had to attend monthly meetings with a psychology professor’s grad students and left each one so frustrated with how little actually got done I was ready to scream, I accepted them as a necessary evil.
During my last year, I applied for the grad program I was most interested in, and was turned down.
Since I was confident in my marks and references, I figured the issue was that the program was geared toward working with teenagers, when almost all of my experience was with younger children. (I’d wanted to switch focus, and hoped I could get away with it.) Obviously I just had to build some more experience, and then apply again next year, to programs more suited to my work history. No problem.
I’d been too busy or too exhausted to write much when I was juggling university and a part-time job. Now, suddenly, I had time. I was working, but it was still part-time, and it didn’t leave me with readings and assignments I had to complete after I left. Before long, I finished the first book I had enough confidence in to query agents with, and got several requests, though no offer. I started writing and sending out short stories regularly, and within a few months made my first major sale. It was an amazing feeling, to know that people who didn’t know me actually wanted to read—and pay for!—my writing.
But as the deadline for reapplying to grad school approached, I couldn’t help noticing my happiness fading. I felt increasingly apathetic about everything, including my writing, like when I’d first become depressed. Whenever I focused on anything related to the applications, I felt sick to my stomach. I told myself that was normal, that I’d get used to being in school again, that I needed this in order to get the right kind of job. That it was something I just had to do.
I let things go on like that for several weeks before I finally asked myself, Is it really?
Just allowing myself to consider that question gave me the most incredible sense of release. That, more than anything else, told me I’d been going about this all wrong. I’d been assuming I’d go to grad school for so long that I’d seen anything else as failure. The fact that I knew my family expected me to continue my education was an additional pressure. But when I let myself be honest about it, I knew the last thing I wanted was to give up at least two more years of my life on something that would clearly make me miserable.
Did it mean my job situation was going to be more shaky? Well, yes, but I knew I could make enough money to get by. I could always reconsider in the future, if my writing hadn’t started providing more income. What was really important to me was giving that writing a chance. Giving myself a chance to keep living a life that was making me happy.
Once I’d come to terms with my change in thinking, the hardest part was telling my parents. My dad got angry with me for the first time in at least a decade, and ranted about how I was ruining my future before stomping off because he couldn’t even handle talking to me anymore. (To my surprise, my mom, who’d always seemed more concerned about issues like education and money, took the news a lot more calmly.) But the decision felt so right I didn’t waver. By the next time I went to see them, he’d started to come around.
About six months later, I started working on a new novel. That book, which came to be titled Give Up the Ghost, got me my first agent a year later, and my first publishing deal a year after that.
I can’t say what would have happened instead if I’d gone back to school like I originally intended. All I know for sure is that Ghost would not have been written then, which means it quite possibly would not have been written at all. I might have sacrificed my dream for a little extra security that I didn’t even need.
It’s a decision I’ve never once regretted.
—Megan Crewe
Like many authors, Megan Crewe finds writing about herself much more difficult than making things up. A few definite facts: she lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband and three cats, she works as a behavioral therapist for children and teens with special needs, and she’s spent the last five years studying kung fu, so you should probably be nice to her. Her debut novel, the YA paranormal Give Up the Ghost, was released in 2009. Her YA post-apocalyptic novel The Way We Fall (the first in a trilogy) has just come out.
The Turning Points series will continue with new guest posts three times a week. Subscribe to distraction no. 99 to keep up with the series, or read all the posts with this tag.
Hi. So um. So… about an hour ago while trying to figure out why comments on old posts weren’t showing up (it was something I had unknowingly checked in the settings; I fixed it) I accidently updated an old post marked “private” from 2006… and it was not only no longer private, it was republished as if it were new. I deleted the automated tweet, but I couldn’t delete the post that was sent out via my feed. So if you subscribe to this blog via email or on a feed reader, you may have seen a post go through called “Glug-Glug (That’s the Sound of Me Drowning)” and perhaps you were confused. I would be.
Please know:
I am not ghostwriting again. (The YA novel I mention in that old post was a work-for-hire project.)
I am not that massively stressed out that I feel like I’m drowning.
I am not publishing a new short story, even though I wish I were.
And, oh, we no longer have that loft bed.
That was an old post from 2006. (Fine, I’ll link it here so you know what I’m talking about. It mentions Big Bird.)
But a weird thing occurred while I was rereading this post from my archives. I remembered how things used to be. For a moment, I’d time-traveled back to 2006, waking up psycho-early for my day job because I had to slip my writing time into a couple hours before my stressful copyediting job began, since afterward I came home to my brain bleeding and could only collapse in front of the TV. This was during the time I’d pushed my own writing aside, what I thought of as my “real” writing, and was doing work-for-hire novels for money, a time I was not very happy, when I thought I’d never make it here, where I am today.
I think things are hard sometimes? Ha! Talk about perspective.
(Also, I wouldn’t be anywhere near here without E. Obviously.)
And, so you know how the aftermath of that post turned out, I did drop everything to do the revisions to the story, and it was published. However it now occurs to me: It turns out that the work-for-hire novel and other ghostwriting projects were more important than the adult litfic short stories I was trying to publish. I mean, who gave me first real shot… the YA/kidlit community or the old guard of adult fiction? So, in a way, I was wrong way back in 2006. I was doing something really important and I had no idea.
Anyway, all is well. I apologize for any confusion.
(This post used to have a link to the old short story in question, but yes, I deleted it.)
This guest post is part of the Turning Points blog series here on distraction no. 99—in which I asked authors the question: What was your turning point as a writer? I’m honored and excited to host their stories. Read on as Léna Roy honors the 50th Anniversary of her grandmother Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time by revealing how she came to call herself a “writer”…
I didn’t call myself a “writer” in 2004 when at the tender age of 35, I finally allowed myself to start working on a novel that had been marinating in my head for years. It is the story that developed into Edges.
I didn’t call myself a “writer” until after September 2007, when I really had to make a choice about who I was and what I was made of—when I embraced writing as a vocation.
Yes, I am a veritable late bloomer. What took me so darn long? In my early 20s I wasn’t a stranger to putting myself out there, singing and performing in nightclubs. But my Gran, Madeleine L’Engle—yes, the creator of one of the most beloved books, A Wrinkle in Time—was the writer. Me? As a kid, tween, teen, I always wrote. Then as an adult, I was the actress who wrote, the bartender who wrote, the therapist who wrote, the mom who wrote.
Just never the writer. I would listen to my Gran talk about craft and she would say: “You’re a writer if you write.” Somehow I thought that this dictum applied to everybody else except me. I wrote in secret.
My early 20s were arty and wild. I lived with my grandmother off and on, I did performance art, I wrote, and of course, I would talk about my dreams as if they were already a reality.
When I made up my mind to leave the arts to go to school to be a therapist at the age of 25, I felt I needed to be serious and useful—I had used up my quota of “castles in the air.”
I could never make a living at performing, or writing like Madeleine L’Engle—to attempt to do so past a certain age would be hubris. We all know writing takes discipline, talent, and luck: I wasn’t very disciplined, I was unsure about my own talents, and luck—well, that’s not something we can count on, can we?
I worked in a psychiatric hospital in the Bronx. I moved to Moab, Utah (where I met my husband), and started an out-patient program for teens who had substance abuse problems, I worked as a counselor in a Dual Diagnosis treatment facility in San Francisco. But by far my favorite job was as a high school counselor downtown in NYC: teenagers were my people.
Then in the beginning of 2000, I started having babies and my grandmother needed caring for. My life revolved around the babies and the grandmother. Watching her decline was very painful; she wasn’t herself anymore. It was as if all of her ailments had trapped her spirit.
It’s strange that the death of one of my best beloveds was my turning point.
Early September 2007, I was standing outside of her house in Northwestern Connecticut with my husband, looking at the stars in her honor. Who are you?
My husband asked me the hard-hitting questions: Do you want to be a writer? Are you a writer?
Yes I do, and yes I am.
I had been trying to write that novel for the past four years. I wrote the first draft in three months: a teen runs away from an alcoholic father in New York City and finds himself at a youth hostel in Moab, Utah.
I rewrote it and then sent it out to one agent who rejected it. It went back in the drawer.
It came out again.
More rejection. More time in the drawer.
What then, was my vocation? Should I get another Master’s degree? Become a nurse?
But looking up at the stars on that warm September night, I felt my grandmother speak to me for the first time in years. Yes, it’s hokey, but I’ll say it: it was as if her energy had been released into the atmosphere and she was telling me to accept my calling, that it was time to find my own voice.
That night both my husband and my grandmother were telling me to embrace my true self, to stop fooling around, to take my writing seriously. Stop dabbling! So what if most writers don’t make a living at it. It would be a leap of faith. I would have to live, breathe, eat the writing world. I would have to commit to it 150%. I would have to follow in the road map Madeleine L’Engle had already created for me: create community, be around other writers, open myself up . . . teach.
I did another rewrite and I was finally able to secure an agent, the wonderful Edward Necarsulmer, who opened my eyes to the world of young adult literature, for that is where I found my voice. He recommended that I read Ellen Hopkins, Chris Crutcher, and Laurie Halse Anderson. John Green. It was a joy and a revelation to discover a whole world of wonderful authors and story-telling that wasn’t preachy yet refused to be cynical.
I started teaching and leading writing workshops. First at The Cathedral of St. John the Divine and NYC bookstores, then with Writopia Lab in NYC and Westchester, with kids, tweens, and teens who inspire me every day.
Edges was finally published in December 2010.
Now I write no matter what. No matter the reviews, positive or negative, no matter if my work is rejected. I keep reminding myself that my job is to serve the story and to tell the story in the best possible way that I can.
And I learned that I need to own what I write. People will ask me what my book is about, and even after one year, I still have a hard time narrowing it down to a sexy sound byte. Because truthfully, it’s about spirituality and addiction, and that’s not very sexy, is it? There are no vampires (unless you see addiction as a metaphor), and there’s no bodice ripping, but there is grittiness mashed with sweetness and hope.
People say that an author’s first novel is the most autobiographical, and that is also true in my case. Ava, one of the protagonists, is certainly a version of my younger self. And like all of the characters, I have certainly struggled with the nature of truth and reality, and what to believe.
This week we celebrate the 50th anniversary of my grandmother’s Newbery Award–winning opus, A Wrinkle in Time, which is perhaps my favorite book of all time. Help me honor my grandmother with your promise of being true to yourself as well—if you are a writer, find your voice, because the world needs you. I may not be Madeleine L’Engle, but I am Léna Roy, and I have learned from her that art comes from serving the story: nothing more, and nothing less.
—Léna Roy
Léna Roy was raised in New York City, in the cloistered environs of a theological seminary, with extracurricular education provided by Manhattan’s club scene. She’s worked as a bartender, an actor, and with at-risk adolescents in Utah, California, and NYC. She now lives with her husband, two sons, daughter, cat, and four African water frogs in Katonah, New York, and is the Program Manager for Writopia Lab in Westchester. Edges is her first novel.
Thank you to everyone who entered the giveaway via the entry form—and thank you to the author for donating the prize! I’m happy to announce the winner:
Kristen Aigeldingerwon a signed copy of Edges!
Congrats! I’ll email the winner for her mailing addresses. Thank you again to everyone who entered!
Want more in this blog series?
The Turning Points series will continue with new guest posts three times a week. Subscribe to distraction no. 99 to keep up with the series, or read all the posts with this tag.
Now’s the time of year when I start thinking of all the summer could hold, and I start going overboard not with tropical vacation fantasies… with writing fantasies. Really. Summer workshop deadlines are coming up—and there are so many places to go, if only I could.
(This photo of me was *not* taken at a writing workshop.)
If money (and references) were no object, if I could be in a few places at once and spend the whole summer traveling around the country (and the idea of that many flights didn’t make me sick), here is where I’d go and what I’d do:
June:
I’d start off the summer by going to the Wesleyan Writers Conference, on the campus of Wesleyan University, which E and I visited once, in college, to stay with our friend M, who was a member of something I think called Eclectic House? Anyway, we had a spectacular visit, mostly because we adore M, but I also remember how I loved the beautiful campus. At the Wesleyan conference, I’d kill to be in Amy Bloom’s workshop. (Please tell me you’ve read Away. If you haven’t, you must read Away! Keep tissues close by and maybe don’t read the end out in public. This novel burst open my heart.)
Or, I’d spend the entire month in Montreal, at the Summer Literary Seminars. All I have to do to explain why is give you two words: Mary. Gaitskill. (If you know me, you know my wild passion for the short stories of Mary Gaitskill.)
Or I’d work on something fantastical—and really push at the boundaries of “genre” and see where I’d go and what I’d write—by heading to the Clarion East Workshop in San Diego to absorb genius and learn world-building from none other than Holly Black and Cassandra Clare. Uh, what? Yeah. Dream workshop.
July:
Since Tin House is one of my most favorite literary journals (isn’t it everyone’s?) I would have to start off July by returning to the Tin House Writers’ Workshopin Portland, Oregon—this one is so fantastic, just so fantastic there are no words—and I think this time I’d try to be in Dorothy Allison’s workshop for the simple fact that reading her when I was a young writer had so much to do with going after this dream. Her writing changed my life. Also, any excuse to get back to Portland, I’ll take it.
I happen to be convinced that Cheryl Strayed is utterly amazing, and so even though I don’t even write creative nonfiction, I’d want to take her workshop at the Port Townsend Writers’ Conference(I mean, wouldn’t this be a reason to start writing creative nonfiction?). I think her class could be transformative.
I might need a car for this one—and if I drank I’d probably appreciate this one more since it’s in wine country—but I would have to go to the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference to take a writing class with Tayari Jones, one of my favorite authors. I’ve heard such wonderful things about the intensity of these workshops, and that it’s less about the schmoozing and networking of other conferences, and more simply about craft and writing. I like.
Sure, if I could be in two (three? four?) places at once, I’d also hit the Sewanee Writers’ Conference in Tennessee. I’ve been to this conference, once, when I was a grad student, and it was absolutely wonderful. I’ve always wanted to go back again—as a scholar or a fellow—but the two needed references (and the fact that my book is YA) has kept me from applying again. This conference is a dream, truly. The first time I went, I was in Margot Livesey’s workshop—and she was one of the best writing teachers I’ve ever worked with in my life, and I’m including all the professors I worked with in the Columbia MFA program. This time, if I went to Sewanee, I’d want to be in Alice McDermott’s workshop. (Have you read After This? Charming Billy? Child of My Heart? Aaaaah, read read!)
Now Provincetown. Provincetown in summer is supposed to be such perfection. Even more perfect would be spending a week there for a children’s writing workshop with Jacqueline Woodson at the Fine Arts Work Center Summer Program. Her class is focused on realistic fiction, and I’m already imagining what I’d bring if I could go… a YA novel? A middle-grade novel? It would be a dream to work with Jacqueline Woodson… I devoured all of her novels recently in one fell swoop when I was away at a colony, and her writing is so beautiful and brilliant it makes me want to cry. (Also: actually literally cry. Some are sad.)
August:
I keep peeking at this conference. I don’t know too much about it except that it’s at VCFA (and my VCFA MFA envy has reached the rafters by now). It’s called the Postgraduate Writers’ Conference, so it’s for people who already have MFAs, and even better… there’s a young adult workshop (which, I must say, is sorely lacking at these other conferences). I could take a workshop with Cynthia Leitich Smith or Tim Wynne-Jones! And I could pretend I was a VCFA MFA student for a week…
Of course we know where else I’d go in August. I’ve always wanted to go to Bread Loaf, and I got waitlisted once when I was a grad student for that coveted waitership, but never did get a shot to go. Such sadness when they didn’t call. I’ve heard that this is the summer conference, so every summer I look longingly northward toward Vermont, imagining. Besides… oh, to be in Lan Samantha Chang’s workshop… Her novella Hunger slayed me.
And obviously, obviously, I’d return again this summer to the SCBWI Summer Conference in Los Angeles. Not because it’s a workshop—it’s not—but because I had such an amazing time last year and met so many amazing people. I can’t afford to go again this year, but I can dream!
So there we have it. My whirlwind fantasy summer. I think you can never focus enough on craft, so there is always room for a new writing workshop in my life.
Though… I mean, really… let’s be serious here. If I could afford to do any one thing in the world? I know what it would be, and it wouldn’t be a workshop: I’d rent an apartment in Paris for a couple weeks—ideally a month!—and go there to write. That’s it. In fact, this is an actual goal of mine and E’s, and I want to make it happen in the next few years. So. Instead of shelling out money for a workshop, I’ll keep it close and whisper to myself whenever I get envious of other writers’ summer extravaganzas: Paris… Paris… Paris… Paris… Paris…One day, you will have Paris. (Or Buenos Aires… considering there, too.)
Now it’s your turn. Writers, if you could go anywhere and do anything this summer, where would it be and what would you do? What summer workshops catch your eye… Did I miss any? Or would your fantasy join my fantasy in Paris and write at a sidewalk café together?