A New Book! Meet BUTTERFLY GARDEN

June 30, 2015 at 11:36 am (Butterfly Garden, Writing) (, , , , )

After far too long of silence or really freaking depressing news, I finally have some wonderful to share!

ArmitageRight

…with the help of gifs, of course, because why not?

I HAVE ANOTHER BOOK COMING OUT!!!

There isn’t an official-type announcement, but I did get the go ahead to say that my next book, BUTTERFLY GARDEN, has sold to Alison Dasho at Thomas & Mercer, and should be meeting the world early-ish next year.

YESSSS

BUTTERFLY GARDEN is actually an adult book (I know, weird, right?), and to the end of my days I may never figure out just where this story came from. That is probably a good thing. As giddy as I am, I’m also incredibly nervous. Maybe because a second book creates very different expectations than a debut, maybe because it’s adult instead of YA, probably because it’s a much creepier part of my brain that I’m introducing to the world with this.

River Fear

How does your garden grow?

with pretty maids all in a row…

All houses have secrets, but some are darker than others. When the FBI discovers the macabre collection of a sociopath, they try to piece together a crime they never could have imagined, with the reluctant help of a survivor who knows the story is far more than simply ‘what happened’.

Getting the story out of her? Well, that’s a different matter, and it leads some to wonder just what her role in this twisted garden might have been.

It's Gonna Be Fun

It’s been a while since A WOUNDED NAME sold (three years and change?) and I’ll admit, I was starting to feel a little hopeless. No matter how much hope and determination and patience you have, you hit stretches where you start to feel….well…

Sadness

But the amazing Sandy Lu persevered, and voila! BUTTERFLY GARDEN! I cannot wait to share more with you about this scary brain-child. In the midst of all the crazy and frustrating still controlling the rest of my life, this news is a much-needed celebration and shot of joy to carry me onward.

So dance if you want to! I know I am!

Dancing Queen

Twirl

Hardly Breathing

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Book Review: The Apple Throne, by Tessa Gratton

June 4, 2015 at 12:28 pm (Book Reviews) (, , , )

There’s only one person in the whole world who remembers the famous prophet Astrid Glyn: The Berserker Soren Bearstar.

Ever since Astrid agreed to give up her life, her name, and her prophetic dreams to become Idun the Young, who protects the apples of immortality in a secret mountain orchard, she’s been forgotten by everyone. Everyone except Soren.

For the last two years, he’s faithfully visited her every three months. Then one day he doesn’t come. Though forbidden to leave the orchard, Astrid defies the gods to find Soren. But ancient creatures are moving beneath the country. Astrid’s quest might be the key they need to leave the shadows behind forever.

Not-quite-a-goddess, but no longer only a girl, Astrid finds herself in a situation here fate–and not just her own—lies in the balance. Is there a way to save herself and those she loves, or will this choice unravel the ancient magic holding the nine worlds together?

(from back of book)

The Apple Throne

This is the fourth and final installment in The United States of Asgard, following The Lost Sun, The Strange Maid, and the novella collection The Weight of Stars. In a United States where the new world was settled was settled by the Norse and their gods, berserkers form packs to serve Odin Allfather, the army looks to Thor Thunderer, and the seething dances of Freya’s prophets pluck the strings of fate for answers and possibilities. It is our world but not, familiar and known but woven through with new vitality.

I adored The Lost Sun. It’s where we meet Astrid and Soren, a famous prophetess and a berserker who would really like to NOT be a berserker, as they search for the god Baldur, who didn’t wake up from death quite where he was supposed to. It’s a fantastically rich world with strong, vibrant characters, and if you don’t come out of it with a puppy love crush on Soren, there might be something wrong with you. Despite fears to the contrary, because middle books usually bore me, The Strange Maid was EVEN BETTER. Signy Valborn, who’s been promised to the Allfather as a Valkyrie since she was a child, has a riddle to solve before she can take her place. I love Signy. Fierce, prickly, angry, unapologetic, half-mad Signy, who doesn’t care if she’s liked so long as she can serve, and whose heart’s desire may be the thing that destroys her. I was looking forward to the conclusion like woah.

And then Random House cancelled the series.

It happens sometimes, and it pretty much always sucks, but what we as readers tend to forget is that publishing is a business. Sometimes businesses make decisions that their consumers don’t like, but it protects their bottom line so we just have to deal with it. So, when Tessa said she was self-publishing the novellas and the conclusion, I was thrilled. Self-publishing to create a good product is not easy, quick, or cheap. There is a great deal more involved in the process than most people give credit for. What came out was a beautiful package, a well-crafted product, and an amazing conclusion.

If Soren’s journey was about accepting himself, and Signy’s about anchoring herself, then Astrid’s journey is about making herself. Massively oversimplified, of course, but still true. What she has been all her life is gone, lost by her choice to join the gods, and yet her godly identity is neither truly her nor truly godly. The prophet who once danced the webs of fate and plucked the strings to see possibilities is now outside the binds of fate altogether, able to influence but not to be seen. Her journey may start by looking for Soren, but along the way she finds a great deal of herself, finding the places Astrid and Idun intersect.

There is so much to love in this book, but I think one of my favorite elements may be the introduction of characters from the novellas. Amon Thorson is a bastard son of Thor trading items pretty comfortably on the wrong side of illegal. But then, when your step-mother is the goddess of marriage, your life starts out awkward and just goes downhill from there. Unless you’re Amon’s sister Gunn-Elin, who dedicates herself to her step-mother’s priesthood and finds purpose within the ossuary.

Then there’s Thor’s best hunter, Sune Rask, who has a complicated history with Amon, and there’s Signy. Signy with her abruptness and her consuming fury and sorry and complete lack of shame for any of it. You don’t have to have read the novellas to understand the new characters, but there’s definitely some virtue is doing so. As people previously unknown to Astrid, or known only through rumor or story, they help her define the changes in herself the way more familiar characters wouldn’t be able to.

 

If you love Norse mythology or alternate history, if you love journeys of discovery, if you love witty banter and irreverent bobble-heads, definitely check out this book. But, make sure you read the first two. The novellas add without detracting, but the histories of Soren, Astrid, and Signy are definite must-reads, not simply because they’re awesome but because they build directly into our understanding of how these people grow and change. These books will be on my re-read list again and again and again in the years to come.

 

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Audio Book Review: Beauty Queens, by Libba Bray

April 28, 2015 at 8:20 pm (Book Reviews) (, , , , )

Audio books have not, traditionally, been kind to me. They’ve just never meshed with my particular manifestation of ADD. Sitting and just *listening* to something inevitably makes me drift away-it made lecture classes a unique breed of hell in college. Lately, though, I’ve discovered that I do pretty well listening to books I’ve already read and loved, as long as I’m doing something else at the same time, like cleaning/packing, driving, crafting, or leveling up in video games. This weekend, I listened to Beauty Queens by Libba Bray.

Beauty Queens

I reviewed the book a few years ago, when it first came out, and it’s absolutely hysterical and subversive and thought-provoking and fantastic. I loved it.

And now, having listened to the audio book, I might get down on my knees and worship it a little.

One of the unavoidable problems with audio books is that you HAVE to have a good narrator or actors (I do have a love of full cast audio, a la Tamora Pierce or Brian Jacques). A bad narrator can absolutely kill a good book, but it is extremely difficult to find people who can read consistently over long periods of time (weeks, in many cases, to get enough good takes to edit together), read clearly without over-doing it, AND do distinct voices for characters without shredding your ears. (Example: I recently listened to the first Harry Potter narrated by Jim Dale, and think he does an amazing job–except for Hermione, whose voice made me want to retch with every line) It’s a challenge, and there are many, many audio books that fail to meet this challenge sufficiently.

I am VERY happy to say that Beauty Queens is not one of those.

It’s narrated by Libba Bray–you don’t often find authors reading their own books outside of non-fiction–and she does an AMAZING job. Nearly every voice is distinct, and those that aren’t belong to characters who are, by design, not particularly distinct to begin with. Even heavily accented characters, like the very Miss Texas, or the British-inflected Indian Miss California, don’t lose clarity. The regional dialects are respected, and for the most part (MOST part) not made outlandish. When they are, it’s because that’s the joke. I think the only character voice I had any issue with was Adina (Miss New Hampshire) who had a bit of a flat affect that made it difficult to hear sometimes, but that flatness fit her character so well it was easy to forgive.

This is a rare example of an audio book that can actually give you a little more than the book itself. Part of that comes from fantastic sound effects, like background for the commercial breaks, little chimes for the forty-something footnotes (seriously, footnotes; only novel other than Good Omens where they fit so perfectly), and every single character that mentions a trademarked item gives a high-pitched, sing-song TM after the full product name. A larger part of it, though, comes from being as close to inside the author’s head as it’s possible to be. Here, in the very purposeful choices of delivery, we get unexpected depths to characters who already had the ability to surprise.

One of the strongest elements of that came out in Taylor Renee Crystal Hawkins (aka Miss Texas). She’s a huge personality, completely dedicated to the Miss Teen Dream pageant and a set of very stereotypically Texas ideals. She’s meant to be larger than life, and she absolutely is–but listening to her, rather than reading her, also gives more of an edge to what is, ultimately, a profoundly sympathetic and pitiable character. The performance of Taylor’s break with an already fragile reality is exquisitely performed. Tiara, Miss Mississippi, is still sweet and sincere and too stupid to breathe, but we hear more of that sweetness, and the uncertainty just beneath it. Her obliviousness, and her simple joys and the growth she makes as a character, all come through so much stronger with Libba Bray’s performance.

And then there’s Ladybird Hope. A veteran (dare I say dowager queen?) of the Miss Teen Dream Pageant, a sponsor of the pageant, a corporate superstar, and presidential hopeful, there was always something in her that came off strongly reminiscent of Sarah Palin in the book. Given that the voice was only in my head, it was easy to shrug off that resemblance as pure coincidence. With the audio book? It is definitely not a coincidence. There were many places in this book where I nearly hurt myself laughing, but it was a definite risk EVERY TIME we heard from Ladybird Hope. Really just THE definition of painfully funny.

Beauty Queens is a ridiculous, high-strung journey into the absurd, stretching the absolute limits of plausibility, but travels through genuine, thought-provoking regions of gender and femininity and what those concepts actually mean. It’s a phenomenal book that I love to push into people’s hands, either to start the conversation or continue the discussion, and the audio presentation not only lives up to that love, but quite possibly surpasses it. Even for those like me who love the book, I strongly recommend the audio for your rereading enjoyment. And many congratulations to Ms Bray for taking an already phenomenal book and leading it to make even more of an impact.

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2015: Looking Forward

January 3, 2015 at 5:58 pm (Personal Real Life) (, , , , )

In a weird kind of way, this is my first day of 2015. Whether it makes sense or not, my brain goes less by date than by clump- the new year doesn’t start until major events of the previous year have finished, even if it takes them a couple of extra days. So for me, today is the first day of a new year, because yesterday–with my mom’s memorial service–is still part of last year.

If that doesn’t make sense to anyone else, that’s perfectly okay. I am well aware I have a sideways way of looking at the world. It’s at least half the reason I write.

But it occurred to me, somewhere between eating cookies for breakfast and trying to decide if a migraine meant I could go to bed at five without feeling guilty, that I should probably take a look at the year ahead. In some ways, it feels like that’s ALL I’ve been doing, trying to plan, trying to guess, trying to be prepared without ever being able to pin anything down.

I guess I make it a little easier because I don’t do New Years Resolutions.

I am absolutely not out to insult or offend anyone who DOES do NYRs, I just personally find them a little silly. If I want to make a change, why should I wait until a set day to start it? Especially because there is this prevailing idea that NYRs inevitably fail, which puts a LOT of pressure on efforts. I’d rather see the need for the change or goal, start it, and do my damnedest to keep it going. So rather than set resolutions, or even goals really, I prefer to put down what I want in the next year.

1. MOVE
This is a pretty easy one, mainly because it’s happening no matter what. There’s just a lot involved in that, because I’m dealing with my stuff as well as my Mom’s stuff, and not knowing when exactly I’m going to be done with all of that makes it hard to make plans and set dates. But it does lead into

2. GET RID OF STUFF
I am a packrat. I keep things because I swear I’ll find another use for them someday, only someday never really comes along and I’m stuck hauling more and more around and never finding a place to put everything, which is the single biggest contribution aside from laziness to my being kind of a slob. It’s been in the back of my mind for months that next time I move, I am getting rid of things. Culling the bookshelves, taking a hard look at sentimental things, really whittling things down to immediately useful or extremely (and identifiably) sentimental.
I inherited the packrat tendency from my mother, absolutely without question, and now, trying to go through all of her things, I think I’m about to get a lot more ruthless in what I’m getting rid of in my own stuff. I will never be someone who travels lightly (BOOKS) but I’d like to let go of the things I’ve been holding onto for just too long.

3. GET A JOB
Aside from getting out there and applying, and making sure I put the best foot forward and all that, this isn’t something I really have control over. It is, however, a really really REALLY big desire for the year ahead. After a year of unemployment (not without its silver linings when it came to being available to my mom, but still) I would very much like to be gainfully employed again, hopefully doing something I love.

4. SELL A BOOK
Another thing I have absolutely no control over, but feeding into this is the fact that I need to write books before I can have any chance of selling them. Writing is not something that’s gone well this year, and most of that is stress and loss of focus. Normal stress, every-day stress, makes writing a relief. The monumental stresses I’ve been under this past year made me stumble, a LOT, and I have several half-finished, frustrating, curse-fostering projects to show for it. I also got a little too caught up in numbers this year. If I had a writing day that got less than seven thousand words, I got frustrated, I felt unproductive and disappointing and kind of a waste of space. Yes, I realize I was being too hard on myself, but I felt like when everything else was spinning or had spun out of my control, I should have been able to keep control of this one thing. It’s BS, of course. but that doesn’t change anything about how I felt then. I wanted the staggering numbers of stickers on my calendar, the rows of pretty numbers on my tracksheets, so I could feel like I was at least accomplishing SOMETHING.
So, along with pulling my focus back in, I also want to shift it a little. Rather than worry about word counts or defined productivity or how quickly I’m finishing a draft, I want to dwell on the story and characters, letting the project tell me when it’s had enough for the day–or when I’ve had enough for the day. I’ve been doing this with my current project, and it’s amazing how much it’s helped. Even though writing days have been few and relatively far between in the past few months, I was okay with myself if I only got one or two thousand words down in a day. As long as the words were honest, and didn’t feel forced, I was happy. And I learned that sometimes, despite knowing what happens next and maybe even knowing how to tell it, I just have to back away from a scene for a bit. I don’t know yet if that’s going to become universal or if it’s just this project–this one is intensely personal and emotionally difficult, so I don’t know. But I don’t feel like a quitter or a failure when I close the computer after seven hundred words because I need a few more days before I can write That Scene.
Numbers in publishing are really hard, and really painful, and it’s easy to lose yourself in them at the expense of your writing. How many books have I sold? How many rejections have I gotten? How many projects have I gotten out there? I added a lot of unnecessary stress to myself this year freaking out that I haven’t sold another book yet, terrified I’m going to be a blip on the shelves with one small easily overlooked book. I dwelled on that thought A LOT, far more than was healthy, and I know it’s because this is something I’ve wanted very badly for a very long time, so it had a lot of oomph behind it. I need to let that go. It will happen, or it won’t. The best (and the most) I can do is continue to write and craft and improve.
Here’s my sucker punch, though: I would really like to sell another book for my mom. I think that was one of my biggest whips through the year, this desperate desire to sell another book while my mom was still alive and lucid to know it, so she’d worry about me just a bit less, knowing I’d be a step closer to a career. I am someone whose beliefs mean that I believe my mom is still watching over me, still aware of my life and its successes and failures, its good times and bad times. My mom will know if it happens, and if (or when) it happens, she’ll celebrate with me, but it won’t be the same. I had really wanted her to KNOW, where I could see the relief on her face, that she didn’t have to be scared to leave me. It’s another thing I need to let go, but that one is harder.

5. READ 100 NEW BOOKS
Re-reading is my security blanket. I have favorites that I re-read time and time again (and am, in fact, in the middle of one of those trilogies now!), and my favorite comfy snuggly must have at slumber parties pillow is fanfic. They are my creature comforts, my de-stressors, my safe places. But I need to deal with stress better this year, and hopefully it won’t be nearly as overwhelming, so I would very much like to read a crapton of new books (okay, actually a hundred, which is far less than a crapton). And by new, I simply mean books I haven’t read before. Brand new releases, yes, but also the books that have been sitting patiently on my shelves waiting for me to get to them. Part of getting rid of stuff means culling books that I have to honestly admit I’ll never get to, or just don’t have an interest in getting to anymore, but there are so many books on my shelves already that I really WANT to read, and so many good ones coming out, that this is my goal. We’ll see how it goes.

6. BE OKAY WITH NOT BEING OKAY
This is the biggest one, and by far the hardest. I’ve talked before (I think I’ve talked before) about the fact that I have recurring clinical depression. It’s not chronic, for which I’m very grateful, but it’s something I have to always be aware of. I have to monitor my moods and my actions so that I can identify when I’m having trouble. Admitting that has never been a problem, for some reason. I never felt ashamed to say that I was struggling with an episode. I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t have the perceived stigma of medication (because, with the full support and conversation of my mother and my psychiatrist, I felt that wasn’t the best path for me), or because I was dealing with it and anyone who had a problem with it could go screw themselves.
Grief and stress, though, are really powerful triggers to my depression cycles. I know this, and that’s one of the major reasons why I re-read without guilt, because it helps, but grief and stress have been unavoidable this past year, and they’ll be unavoidable this coming year. I’ve been extremely (probably unheathily) focused on being strong. Don’t break down and put extra burdens on Mom, on the family, on my friends, on the random people who ask for updates. For a while, I could go home and close the doors and just break down in private, but eventually that started to feel self-indulgent, and there were bigger more important things that needed my attention an energy (totally not true, by the way). I’m starting to realize that a large part of my focus on everything that needs to get done is because it keeps me too busy and too tired to feel everything else.
Because if I start to feel all that weight, that crushing loss and bewilderment and anger and fear and all those things that go hand in hand with illness and death, I’ll never get out from under it. (Also not true) If I stay busy, if I don’t have time even to think, much less feel, then the grief and stress can’t latch onto the depression and breed. And like I said, it’s absolutely not true. It’s not just something I know, it’s something I can feel. Right now, no matter how much sleep I do or not get, I’m the same degree of exhausted. For me, that’s one of my more obvious warning signs. It’s also one of the early ones.
Before this terrible year, I was okay with not being okay some days. The cycles happened, and I could accept that and take care of myself until the cycle had passed. I really, really need to get back to that. It’s important for me to remember (for everyone to remember) that depression is an illness, not an affectation. Some days are ALWAYS going to be worse than others, sometimes by triggers, sometimes simply by chemical imbalances. I need to let myself have those days to really take care of myself, before this becomes a much bigger, much more complicated problem.

So, not resolutions, really, and in some cases, not even really goals. I don’t know what 2015 is going to hold. Changes, yes, some of them really massive and exciting and painful, but I very much hope that what I can do, I will, and what I can’t, I can let go of.

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2014 in Books

December 31, 2014 at 6:57 pm (Book Reviews) (, , , , , , , )

You know, I’ll be honest, 2014 is the year I’d like to kill with fire, if that were at all possible. There were a staggering number of reasons for this year to suck, and it fully inhabited ALL OF THEM.

One of the consequences of that is that I didn’t read nearly as much as I usually do, and read barely anything new. That’s one of the signs that my stress level is too high. I love rereading books, but when I actually CAN’T read new books? The inability to focus on or absorb new information is one of my biggest signals that my stress is soaring, so I end up mostly re-reading or plowing through fanfic.

That being said, I still read this year, because I’m still breathing, and because I love to blab about books, here are some that I really noticed.

Prince of Shadows by Rachel Caine
I haven’t read any of Rachel’s other books (I strongly suspect a serious case of vampire fatigue still lingering from six years ago), but then I heard that there was something completely different coming out, and it was Shakespeare (cue the fainting couch and smelling salts because SHAKESPEARE). Then I heard it was off of Romeo and Juliet and I was pearl-clutching for a different reason, because while R&J has some undeniably beautiful language, I really hate the play. I do. Reading or watching R&J makes me want to kill All The People. Then Tessa Gratton was raving in a good way about it, so I settled down with it, and HOLY HELL.
I don’t know how she managed it, I really don’t, but she managed to make me invested and passionate about freaking Romeo and Juliet! Except, not them, really, because they’re just the twits causing problems for the people she REALLY made us care about. Benvolio and Rosaline step away from their more famous cousins here, dropping prop-status and becoming dynamic, interesting people with a whole lot more going on that their cousins ever realized. Family! Politics! Curses! Clever Thieves! Smart Ladies! (I am a total sucker for Clever Thieves and Smart Ladies) I was absolutely blown away by this book, and am already itching to re-read it.

The Emperor of All Maladies by Siddhartha Mukherjee
Not a YA book (I know, weird, right?) but probably the single most personal book of my year. This book is essentially a biography of cancer, with the more humanistic elements interspersed through history. Technically it was research for a project that may or may not ever see the light of day, but it became an anchor of sorts. For anyone slammed with cancer, either in their bodies or in those they love, there’s this overwhelming and ultimately futile rage: why don’t we know more about this? Doctor Mukherjee balances the science (some of it, admittedly, a little dense, and took more than one reading) with the human, and delivers a rounded, sympathetic, and ultimately uplifting progress report. We’ve come a lot further than we realize, and if some cancers are much further along towards successful and humane treatments, well, some cancers are more common than others. Even for those without an intensely personal interest in the subject, it is well worth a read.

The Strange Maid by Tessa Gratton
Months after reading it for the first time, I am still unable to talk intelligently about this book. THIS BOOK BROKE MY ABILITY TO BRAIN. It is just so freaking good! I was already in love with The United States of Asgard because of The Lost Sun (Soren! Astrid! Baldur! VIDER!), and I knew Strange Maid was going to be a middle book, and I frequently find middle books problematic but OH MY GODS! Signy is compelling and repelling and complicated and simple, all the contradictions and madness and focus that makes up who she is and who and what she wants to be. I love that she is so unapologetically unstable, and that her obsession with death is not against life, but rather part of it. She is one of the most fascinating, complex, and RELATABLE characters I’ve ever come up against, and her blood-soaked, passion-driven, fierce, defiant story is an amazing journey.
This year we also got to see a collection of three USAsgard novellas (VIDER!!!!), and words cannot express how excited I am for April’s The Apple Throne.

Perfectly Good White Boy by Carrie Mesrobian
I’m not usually one for contemporary, but Carrie definitely proves an exception. Her debut novel, Sex & Violence, was exceptional and well-lauded, and PGWB is a strong successor. One of the things I love about this book is that while there is conflict, and there are goals, and there’s definitely a journey, there’s not precisely a plot, as such. It’s a slice of life, wonderful and messy and bewildering and painful, full of drugs, booze, bodily fluids, and a sort of relentless optimism wrapped in cynicism. It’s very, very real, pointy sucky bits included. Rather than pushing indiscriminately towards a conclusion, it takes the time to look around, see everything that’s there, not just what’s directly connected to THE PLOT. It’s messy characters and difficult things and it’s amazing.
Also, you should definitely follow Carrie on twitter, because in between thrifting and The Reedus and the renovation that may never be complete, she drops a lot of big truths and smart things.

The Story of Owen by Emily Kate Johnston
Another Lab Rat, but I’m not biased, I swear, they’re just REALLY GOOD BOOKS. Owen is symphonies and trumpets and dragons and driver’s ed and soccer, and it’s a storyteller and a storyteller’s bias and a bouncy Chesterfield couch. It’s a lot of really amazing elements that come together into this astonishing, touching, painfully funny story, and it’s forthcoming sequel, Prairie Fire is absofreakinglutely fanstastic. Siobhan, our intrepid bard, isn’t telling us THE story- she’s telling us A story, and storytellers, of course, lie. Or at least tell carefully edited versions of the truth. Whether we can believe it or not, whether we trust it or not, Siobhan tells an astonishing, captivating story.
Really just anything Emily Kate writes. I got to read the first third or so of her project for Disney Hyperion and now I am CONSTANTLY DISTRACTED BECAUSE IT’S SO FREAKING GOOD AND I DON’T HAVE THE REST OF IT TO READ! Also a very good one to follow on twitter or tumblr, because if you are even peripherally interested in any of the numerous fandoms to which she’s devoted, she finds some amazing stuff.

The Girl of Fire and Thorns by Rae Carson
Actually, this whole trilogy, continuing into The Crown of Embers and The Bitter Kingdom. This set was a re-read, and it’s the first time I’ve read them all together, going straight from one book into the next, and they were just as fantastic as I remembered them being. Elisa is one of my absolute favorite heroines of all time. Her journey through politics and magic and adventure is huge and wonderful and riveting, but what really makes this so unique and awesome is her more personal journey. Elisa starts this series as someone convinced of her own complete and utter lack of worth, and she GROWS. She learns and decides and it’s not ever that she becomes someone else, but that she becomes more and more herself, sloughing off all those things she and others have put on her over the years.
Probably my favorite moment is (and I’m paraphrasing here, because I don’t have access to the books at the moment) is when she’s getting ready for something, and she says “I look beautiful to the one who matters most”, and the person helping her is all “Yes! He’ll be blown away by the sight of you!” and she says “I meant me.”
THAT journey, even as just a part of many larger ones weaving together, is perfect.

What were some of your favorite reads (or re-reads) through this year?

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We Are All Dead, Not Dying

December 27, 2014 at 11:58 pm (Personal Real Life) (, , , , , )

On 4 May 1991, Star Trek: The Next Generation aired episode 4.22, “Half a Life”, guest starring David Ogden Stiers as the aging Timicin, a scientist dedicated to finding a way to restore his planet’s dying sign. The science would have been fascinating enough, but in the tradition of the classic Star Treks, the episode tackled much more difficult questions and issues. In so doing, they did something rather rare, not just for a television show, but in life.

They asked about dying.

Timicin’s people have a practice called The Resolution. At the age of sixty, a person’s family gathers for time together and a farewell, and the newly-sixty-year-old kills his or herself, offsetting the infirmities of greater age, the loss of the sense of self, and relieving the burden and strain on families obliged to care for those who can no longer care for themselves. This is something in which Timicin has always believed, even as he nears his own sixtieth birthday, but under the dual influences of an unsuccessful attempt to save his sun and the passionate, defiant, acknowledges no obstacles love of the inimitable Lwaxana Troi, Timicin begins to consider a life outside of that tradition, where he might be free to continue his work and live his life.

Also in the tradition of the best episodes in this and the original series, they don’t try to answer the questions. Rather, they admit, openly, perhaps ruefully, that the issue is never as simple as yes or no, or right or wrong. They ask the question and let the characters explore that dangerous, bewildering, sometimes polarizing intersection of perspectives. I always loved this episode, but lately it’s taken on new meaning for me.

Because we as a culture don’t really talk about dying.

Death, yes, we’re all obsessed with death, but only when it surprises us, in a way. We talk about murders, about accidents, about natural disasters. We talk about death toll, and once it reaches truly epidemic proportions, we can even bring ourselves to talk about disease. It’s like we all ascribe to this James Dean sort of immortality: unless we’re taken out, we’ll live forever.

We don’t, of course, but we don’t talk about that. We fill ourselves with death as the unexpected, leaving no room for the everyday sort of things. We rattle off statistics, and despite the astonishing number of life insurance commercials on the television, we don’t prepare for things, not really, because no matter how old or young we are, that’s never going to be us. So we’ll talk about violence from people, from animals, from nature, because it can always surprise us. We’re obsessed with death, but we’re never dying.

Except, of course, when we are, but we don’t talk about that.

We don’t talk about the slow, unsteady decline unto death, the gradual and inexorable loss of self and vitality. We don’t talk about what disease actually does to a person, to a family.

We do fundraisers for cancer research, treating it like it’s any enemy to be defeated, using strategically chosen poster children to create a sense of community or empathy, but it’s only ever as an abstract. Because cancer is depicted in our culture as something that can be beaten, we expect strength and grace and dignity and endless optimism from those who’ve been diagnosed with it. Chin up, soldier, and fight, you’ll get through this. We buy into the commercials that tell us beating cancer is as simple as finding the right doctors, the right treatment centers. We don’t buy into it because we’re stupid (or at least not entirely) but because that sort of relentlessly ignorant optimism is part of our cultural obsession with being vibrantly alive until suddenly we aren’t.

We don’t want the truth about suffering. When we ask someone how their treatments are going, we want to hear “Oh, they’re just fine. You know, I really think they’re working!” or “I’ll be cancer-free in no time!” We don’t to hear about the side effects from the chemotherapy a/o radiation. We don’t want to hear about surgical complications. We don’t want to see the pharmacy of carefully measured risks and interactions spread across the counter, hoping the effects will be more than the averse possibilities. We don’t want to hear about vomiting or dehydration, or being unable to eat. We don’t want to hear about weight loss or hair loss or the ability of cold to make you lose sensation in your extremities. We want our poster children to be brave and bright.

We don’t want to hear about the countless people left abandoned or neglected in sub-par nursing facilities as their needs outstrip the ability or willingness of their families to care for them. We don’t want to hear about the families struggling to keep their loved ones at home through increasing infirmities. We want to hear about our senior citizens doing extraordinary things–being active! Iron Man Nun! We went boating, biking, digging for dinosaurs, whatever the commercials are selling–so we don’t want to think about the inevitable decline of the body. We don’t want to think about the body as a machine that will, no matter we do, one day simply run down and stop.

We don’t want to think of dying as a process.

We don’t want to think of dying as something we can’t stop.

So, culturally, we don’t. We shield ourselves with the unexpected, the unpredictable. We comfort ourselves with sudden, with random, with malice.

We don’t talk about dying.

But we talk about death.

My mother died on Christmas Eve.

She was diagnosed with cancer in May 2013, with what the scans showed to be a very small, isolated cluster of tumors. Surgery showed us it was anything but. The pathology report, however, the thing that would tell us exactly what we were dealing with, took longer than usual to come back. In fact, it wasn’t until I was at BEA, a couple of hours after my ARC signing, that the results came back. My mother had a very rare form of cancer, hence the extra days–the pathologists weren’t entirely sure what they were dealing with, so they had to check with others.

In treatments, most oncology centers lump cancer of the appendix in with colo-rectal and other GI cancers, largely because they don’t know what the hell else to do with it. It’s not a GI cancer, and it doesn’t respond or behave or grow like a GI cancer, but they treat it like one anyway. It’s probably not a shock that these treatments don’t have any inspiring results.

The last time I openly talked about my mother’s cancer, we were headed down to Daytona for a surgery that could have been the miracle we were hoping for. It’s a surgery specially designed for THIS type of cancer by a doctor who specializes in rare cancers, but there’s a narrow window for candidacy. Mom’s scans looked beautiful. Opening her up showed a rather uglier picture. There was far more cancer tissue than the scans had indicated–two to three hundred times what was expected–which meant the procedure couldn’t actually proceed. Our miracle surgery was a failure.

The cancer was going to kill my mother.

Really, it was just a question of when. Despite chemotherapy having shown no signs of slowing the growth of tumor tissue before, it was hoped that changing chemo agents (still GI agents) would at least slow or maybe even contain the growth. My mother’s life would revolve around treatments and side effects, but she’d be alive, and for some people, that’s enough. Some people want all the time modern medicine can give them. Some people want to accept the days left to them and live comfortably, doing they things they want done so they leave nothing behind.

But we don’t talk about dying, and that’s really a terrible thing, because as members of our particular cultural peculiarities, we don’t really have any idea how to approach dying.

We don’t talk about Hospice, or just how amazing a thing that really is. It’s always surprised me that so many people don’t seem to know anything about it, and I was never sure if that was because my mom used to be a Hospice nurse, or if it was because I was a broken child obsessed with dying as equally as with death. Hospice began as end-of-life care in oncology wards in England. When the other doctors gave up on patients, when there was no more cure to be sought, they were just left in corners of wards and forgotten, left to die. The amazing Dame Cicily Saunders made it her mission to make their end of life more comfortable. Where the disease or the decline could not be conquered, she sought to alleviate their symptoms. Eventually this spread to the United States. Today, Hospice serves all end-of-life care, not just from cancer. They work in hospitals, in care centers, and in the homes to assist patients and their families. In additions to doctors, nurses, and nurse practitioners, they have cadres of social workers and chaplains to provide emotional support and resources, as well as an incredibly active volunteer horde to assist in innumerable ways.

We don’t talk about the mindset and clarity–and acceptance–it requires to actually make plans for your death and after. To talk with family members and friends, to make arrangements. We talk about the five stages of grief, but only after death. We never talk about how it can start long before the moment of death. We don’t talk about fear or denial. We don’t talk about the frenetic push for things to do, just to pretend that our end isn’t looming.

It’s not about religion or faith, at that point, or any sort of belief in what does or does not (or may or may not) come after death. Fervently faithful people can still be afraid. People who believe, passionately and whole-heartedly, that death moves them to a better place, can still not be ready to go.

We don’t talk about caregiving, not really. In commercials, sometimes, for nursing agencies, but even those are full of crap. The commercials, I mean. They show gracefully aging seniors being assisted in normal activities by smiling, uniformed people, and sure, sometimes caregiving is cooking a meal or helping to clean, but that is such a tiny, tiny piece of it. Caregiving is riding the emotional extremes of the person you love, and not being able to ride out your own, because your focus is so entirely on the other person. Caregiving is doings things it never even occurred to you might be necessary. It can be giving rides and doing the shopping, but it can also be helping someone use the toilet or take a bath.

Caregiving can be learning every single medication and what they do and when they can be taken and what are the side effects and what can be taken at the same time and what has to be separated and what are my options if she throws this back up? Caregiving can be pretending you’re not gagging when you need to measure the color, consistency, and volume of a bucket of vomit as you’re also making sure there isn’t any undissolved medication in there. It’s talking to doctors and nurses and trying desperately to make sure you understand everything. It’s being snapped at and having to remind yourself that it’s the fear and the pain, not the person, saying these things.

Caregiving is hard. It is hard and it is exhausting and it is emotionally, mentally, and physically draining. It is the single hardest thing I have ever done and, God willing, the hardest thing I will ever have to do, and I was far from alone while doing it. But because we don’t talk about dying, or about Hospice, or about caregiving, we deprive those caregivers of really important support and resources to be found in Hospice.

We had that support. My mom entered Hospice at the end of September, after two hospital stays and the realization that her chemo was actually causing life-threatening problems. Chemo came to an end, and the focus switched to pain and symptom management. Accepting that you need Hospice, though, is not the same as accepting you’re dying.

It’s incredibly difficult to talk about dying with someone who refuses to accept that they are, and nothing in our culture prepares us for that.

Our culture thinks people who accept death and dying are weak, somehow, like they’re traitors for not fighting and denying and burying ourselves in a perceived immortality.

My mom vacillated wildly between denying her impending timeline and morosely drowning herself in it. And that’s normal, sadly, and difficult, and painful, for everyone connected to it. Her doctors told her to gather the family and have an early Christmas, and at the beginning of November, we did. We had Thanksgiving a few weeks later. My brothers came down on more weekends than they ever had before. Some days it felt like the house had a revolving door, there were such constant streams of visitors, overlapping each other.

As her symptoms got worse, the medication got higher. A LOT higher. My mother–an incredibly active woman who used to run COPE courses and lead Boy Scouts on hikes and camp outs–was increasingly confined to bed. We had to get a wheelchair for the few longer outings she could still tolerate, like the giant craft fair she and I have gone to together every single year as our one big Mother-Daughter tradition. After getting called at four thirty in the morning because she’d fallen and cracked her head and was unresponsive, we had to get her a walker, and then hound her endlessly to use it, because it’s one thing to know, in a professional sort of way, that your body just can’t do this anymore, and completely another to obey it, to accept it. More and more, we had to help her with medications, and with using the bathroom. When the narcotics and relaxants were at their mega-doses, and she was rather less than cognizant, we had to make sure we repositioned her fairly regularly, so she wouldn’t get bedsores. We had to repeat conversations, and try to parse through the confusion and aphasia that wasn’t entirely the fault of the morphine. As we tried to start making arrangements for After, we had to accept and try to work around the resistance, the insistence that it wasn’t necessary.

My mother fought like hell against something she couldn’t ever hope to beat, and she fought right up until her last breath at 10:25 pm, Christmas Eve. And I have to wonder: if we a culture were more open about dying, would she have fought so relentlessly?

Because that’s our other myth about dying. When we can accept that it happens, when we can somehow manage to work against the prevailing atmosphere in order to talk about it, we have this image of serenity. Surrounded by loved ones, the dying person smiles, closes his or her eyes, and simply lets go on a seraphic sigh, all peace and grace and dignity.

I hope I never again have to hear the sounds my mother made as she struggled to keep going. We clustered around her, holding her hands, touching her, telling her it was okay, we were okay, she could just let go, because we could see how anxious, and restless, and miserable she was. She wasn’t responsive by then, but still fighting like hell against a force that was always, always going to win. We tell people to make the most of life. We tell them to fight, we tell them to cling, we tell them to always focus on how much we have left to do.

So we don’t talk about making your peace with what you’ve done, and what you will never do. We don’t talk about letting go.

Through that silence, that willful ignorance and relentless optimism, we hurt not only ourselves but our loved ones. We, as a culture, cannot handle dying.

In “Half a Life”, Timicin’s people came up with The Resolution in an attempt to be humane and compassionate, to spare themselves the indignities and infirmities and decline. They did it as a way for families to come together and make their farewells, to leave nothing unsaid. They did it as a way to meet death with dignity. We see a number of perspectives in what follows, and they’re paralleled in real life by all the arguments surrounding physician-assisted suicide, and extended into the debates about living wills and do-not-resuscitate orders. The conversations are only half-formed, though, because we refuse to talk about them in practical measures. The ideas, the concepts, the abstracts, those we can discuss. The ethics and philosophies. Faced with the reality, though, we turn away.

We’re all dead, but never dying.

Timicin makes his choice in the fiction, and my mother made hers in real life. Neither was easy. Neither made their choice without doubts.

My mother was a pretty amazing woman. She was a dedicated nurse and Navy officer, and her three favorite areas of nursing were neonatal, Hospice, and teaching. The full spectrum of birth to death. Despite working insanely long hours at most of her jobs, she was involved in all of our activities. Church, choirs, Youth Group, Sunday Schools, Bible studies, soccer, baseball, drama, dance, French club, competitions and field trips and projects. She started a Boy Scout troop and led it for ten years, one of the first female Scoutmasters. She faced derision and insults and sabotage, having to stand in a line across from entire troops of boys and adults chanting “No women in Scouts!”, and rather than return insult, rather than succumb to indignation or hurt, she and her troop won the campwide Spirit Award, and she carved out a name for herself in the Council as a Scoutmaster whose Eagles truly earned that distinction. She also started a Girl Scout troop, and there was very little more funny than my sleep-deprived, caffeine-deprived mother teaching a group of eight-year-olds how to make campfire coffee simply because she was going to scream if she didn’t get that black elixir. The Boy Scouts similarly learned not to approach her until she’d had her first cup of coffee. Preferably the second, maybe even with the third in hand.

My mother spent one Christmas Eve with a flashlight in one hand and a golf club in the other because the snake my brother was baby-sitting got out of its cage.

She spent another in the emergency room, after my Advent candles set a portion of the furniture on fire.

Christmas was really her Thing. The tree was always perfect–not in the showhome kind of perfect, but in the sense that chaos came together to really mean something. We had store-bought ornaments, some because they were meaningful and some because they were pretty, and we had craft-fair handmade ornaments, but our tree always had more clumsily or beautifully hand-made ornaments that were family. And Mom was the only one allowed to put on tinsel. The rest of us would toss it on, letting it fall like flurries of snow, but she’d place it strand by strand on the branches. The presents she wrapped were works of art. Baking smells filled the house, and then later there’d be cooking smells, too, and all of it wonderful. And there was music. My mom had an incredible voice, and every year during Christmas Eve services, she sang “O Holy Night”. One year (the year of the fire) we found an incredible dress shirt with a glittery tree and cuffs (and it was actually a beautiful shirt, even though it sounds like anything but), and as she sang, she’d lift her arm, and the lights would spark off the bit of cuff that came out of the choir robe, and it was like she had her own halo. I sang that song at other services some years, and other songs during others, but even when I sang it, it was still Mom’s song.

My mother was passionate about education, both receiving it and giving it. She believed fervently in continuing education for nurses, and was most of the way through a Masters program to become a Family Nurse Practitioner when she was forced to take a medical leave of absence. She was a teacher, both in profession and in spirit. She passed a thirst for learning on to her children. And she was a caregiver. It wasn’t just a job, it was a vocation. A calling. She was fiercely proud of us, even when we made mistakes. It got a little embarrassing, sometimes, that everyone she talked to just HAD to know that I’m a published author (and here’s something I never thought about with publishing–just how freaking hard it is to write an inscription to your mother!) but she was just that proud of me. My brothers, too, even when we struggled to find a path or stick to a path or just plain make the path work.

She had her faults, of course, and I was by no means blind to them, but at the end of the day, I was lucky to have a mother who was both my mom and my best friend, but always my mom first. The past nineteen months have been hellaciously hard and painful, but even at its worst, there has never been a point when I haven’t been grateful that I got to be here with her and for her. Even being unemployed for year, which otherwise sucks, seemed like a gift, because it meant that I got to be there, and as things declined and that became a necessity rather than simply useful or indulgent, I didn’t have any obstacles preventing me from being where I wanted and needed to be.

My mother didn’t die peacefully or gracefully, she died fighting, and our culture says we’re not really supposed to talk about that. If it doesn’t fit into our myth, it’s supposed to be left alone, because death should always be something unexpected. Death should always be something we can’t fight, so that way we don’t have to face what happens when we lose.

But my mother raised me to talk about it, so I am. We all make our choices, but by choosing to talk about it, no matter how hard or painful or impossible it is, I’m choosing not to be afraid of it. We will all be dead. We are all, little by little or step by hurtling step, dying. We don’t have to live our lives in spite of that. We get to live our lives with that, knowing that there is an end to all things, that we belong to a natural order in which death and life are intertwined. We get to exist in this miracle we call life.

We just need to start accepting all of it.

Katherine Ann Hutchison 9.1.1952-12.24.2014

Katherine Ann Hutchison
9.1.1952-12.24.2014

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Save the Libraries: A Guest Post With Pages Unbound

July 31, 2014 at 6:16 pm (General) (, , , )

The wonderful Krysta over at Pages Unbound invited me to do a guest post about libraries, and you guys have probably realized by now, I am ALWAYS happy to talk about libraries and how wonderful they are. So check it out, and be sure to chime in through the comments and tell us your favorite thing about libraries.

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I Found Treasure in the Library!

June 17, 2014 at 1:00 pm (A Wounded Name) (, , , )

Anyone who’s read through the archives on here knows that I love libraries. I love the accessibility of them, the way they can foster readers, the amazing assistance they can give the public through computer and employment programs. I love being surrounded by books. I love walking in and seeing people–especially children–so excited about what books they might stumble upon that day. I love that libraries are the perfect places to take risks on new books, new authors. I was one of the few kids that knew and conversed with all of the school librarians. I spent large portions of my summers in the main branch library downtown.

Libraries have a very special place in my heart.

A few months ago, my friend Lesley and I made a day out of going to one of the libraries in Ocala so she could look around in prep for an interview test. And can I just say, the main branch of the Marion County Public Library is GORGEOUS? It’s elegant and full of light and space. Their kids area is adorable, with science projects and theme displays, and they have an entire room dedicated to YA, with funky chairs and built-in swivel-top desks. We were scanning the shelves, and all of a sudden, I notice something.

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The audio book of A Wounded Name! It was the first time I’d actually seen a copy of it!

And if it seems weird that the library has the audio but not the physical book, well, I thought it was, too, so I asked (and blushed and stammered over trying to explain that it was actually my book). Turns out, the MCPL has a weirdly specific grant that gives them the ability to purchase a TON of audio books, especially in YA, so they’ve got a significant collection.

And in addition to the first time seeing the audio book, it was my first time seeing the book in the wild! I don’t count my BN as being the wild; we made very sure to order it in. I got to spend a few months seeing my book on the shelf in my store, but being able to see it somewhere completely unexpected was…it was…

Abso-freaking-lutely unbelievable.

There are a million points in the publishing process where your book starts to feel real–the sale, the first edits, the cover, the ARC, the finished copy, seeing it in a store, seeing someone purchase it–but I’m not sure it ever completely feels real. I was reorganizing my bookshelves a few weeks ago and was actually startled at mine being among them (and that alphabetically, I now have like five Carolrhoda Lab titles on a single shelf in one of the cases). I guess it’s just something that will always feel a little bit surreal.

Theoretically, I knew the physical book was in the library system for my county. (Okay, I admit, I totally looked it up on the library website) I hadn’t actually seen it yet, though. I have two branches that I go to fairly frequently, especially since I became unemployed, and I hadn’t seen it in either of them. I also didn’t feel entirely comfortable placing a hold on something I had no intention of checking out just so I could be lazy and not have to go to a different branch. I mean, let’s be honest, I’m lazy enough that I’ll Netflix shows I own so I don’t have to get up and change the discs, so this was me very carefully drawing a line. I would see it or I wouldn’t.

Thanks to Elizabeth Fama (author of amazing books MONSTROUSE BEAUTY and PLUS ONE, as well as all-around amazing person), I’ve been giving audiobooks a fresh chance, because they’re not something with which I ever do. I’ve been so miserably sick over the past four or five days that audiobooks have actually kind of saved my sanity, because taking super long soaks in the bathtub has been the only way to comfortably breathe, and the tubs in my apartment are so miserably proportioned that you can’t read while soaking. But audiobook? Totally works. So I’ve been finding some that don’t trigger my ADD, which is a wonderful thing. This morning I managed to get three whole hours of sleep, the first sleep in four days, and woke up feeling well enough to go out for a little bit. (That wasn’t really an option, though; I needed food. I had none in the apartment, because I’ve been holed up here in my hermit cave of illness). So, on my way to food, I dropped by the library to return a couple of titles and see if anything interesting had pulled up on the shelves. My branch has the audio books separated by section, but also separated from their sections. (Does that make sense? Like each category has, off to one side, its own little audio section, so you go near the end of Middle Grade, you have the Middle Grade audiobooks, etc) I hadn’t intended to go into the YA physical book section, except that I couldn’t remember exactly where the YA audiobooks were, because there was a weird allowance for running out of space in the area.

But my book was there!

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Just randomly sitting there on the shelf! And there’s a special sticker on for Local Author! (And a categorization of YA mystery, which kind of cracks me up a little, but whatever)

As wonderful as it is to see my book in a store, there’s something just indescribable about seeing it in a library. I think a big part of that is how much libraries were a part of my life growing up. Seriously, guys, think about everything your libraries do. It’s not as simple as “borrow books”. Libraries provide such a huge range of services. They help teach English to immigrants, they teach computer and life skills classes, and host job search and interview workshops. They do literacy assistance for all ages, from story time with the youngest children to working with adults who learning how to read. They host book clubs and writing groups and drawing classes. They hold a number of community gatherings, from small festivals to council meetings to town meetings. They serve as polls, both for early voting and standard voting. And that’s just a fraction of the services they provide.

Did you know you can request books?

You can! Most library systems have a way for patrons to request specific books, even in specific formats. You submit the request, they’ll consider it, and if there’s repeated interest or they think it’s a good fit (and, you know, they have money), they’ll buy it. A lot of them will even notify you when it’s in, and give you the option to place an automatic hold. If they can’t get it for their own system, a number of libraries are partnering with other counties, sometimes even in other states, for inter-library loan. In a time when libraries are struggling to get the funds to survive, librarians are doing everything they can to increase the availability of books.

Seriously, you should all go hug your librarians.

But ask them first, otherwise it’s kind of creepy.

I saw the book sitting there on the shelf and for a moment, all I could do was stare at it. Then it sank in and I started giggling, only I have no voice right now, so it came out as a kind of witchy cackle, and I think I scared the guy re-shelving books down the row. It was just amazing to see! There are kids like me, kids who rely on libraries because the money isn’t there to buy books for keeps, who can see this book and take it home with them.

I still can’t stop smiling about it.

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Cancer Needs An Ass-Kicking

February 15, 2014 at 5:59 pm (Personal Real Life) (, , , , )

Let’s talk about cancer, and about moms, and about moms who have cancer. Specifically, let’s talk about my mom.

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Last April, my mom started having some abdominal pains and bleeding, which might have been easy to explain if she hadn’t stopped that process a few years ago. (Ladies, if you notice anything weird going on with your lady-parts or lady-cycles, see a doctor. Better a false alarm than missing something. Actually, that goes for guys, too. True self-love is checking to make sure all your junk is healthy) A scan showed some shadows on an ovary and a mass behind the uterus. The cancer markers on her blood test were low, so there was a possibility that it was benign. If it was cancerous, they were pretty sure it was ovarian, slight chance it was uterine, and they were pretty sure they’d caught it early.

But, when they went in to remove the questionable bits, they found a very, very different story. They found cancer tissue across her ovaries and uterus, across her bowel, and through her lower abdominal cavity, including wrapping around a few blood vessels. They got out what they could, which necessitated losing some bowel, and sent it on to pathology. My mom’s surgery was near the end of the May; I spent the School Library Journal Day of Dialogue and most of my day at BEA waiting very impatiently for the path report. Not that I was going to be able to do anything from New York (or do anything, really), but not knowing was awful, because this was so clearly not what they were expecting. We’d been expecting the report for days, and every day that passed without a response just made it worse, because it had to mean that it was more complicated.

And it was. What they found was advanced cancer (Stage 4) originating in the appendix. Appendiceal cancer is rare; there have been less than two hundred documented cases since it was first diagnosed as a separate and distinct cancer in 1969. Because of its rarity, treatment options are…limited. Limited and still largely experimental, lobbing chemo agents at it and hoping it works. Chemo couldn’t start until she was fully recovered from surgery, which took a while, because it turns out when you lose portions of your bowel, it makes little things like eating a very chancy business.

My mom was, at this time, enrolled in an online graduate program to become a Nurse Practitioner. Grad school has been a dream near and dear to Mom’s heart for a long time. She was enrolled at UF when we first moved to Gainesville in 1990, but she got recalled to active duty during Desert Storm, and was gone for almost a year, and then becoming a single parent meant that grad school had to wait. And wait. And wait. When she finally got the chance to investigate online programs, we crossed our fingers. When she actually got to enroll, we were ecstatic. The program is hard. It’s meant to be done by professionals working full-time, but you would never know that based on the deluge of assignments and impossible class times. She worked herself to the bone while she was still working. Fortunately, she was eventually approved for a grant that allowed her to leave work and do school full-time. It meant things were tight, but it also meant school was doing well.

UNfortunately, once she started chemo, school got harder and harder to keep up. Chemotherapy essentially poisons your body; it’s why the side-effects are so terrible. You’re literally pumping toxic chemicals into your body in the hopes that it kills the cancer before it kills you. She grew extremely fatigued, couldn’t focus, got extreme sensitivity to cold from both taste and touch. She couldn’t walk barefoot in the kitchen without loosing sensation in her feet. She couldn’t pull things out of the fridge or freezer, couldn’t drink anything that was even cold, much less containing ice. Her potassium levels started tanking (which is, among other things, very bad for your heart). As tired as she was, she also suffered from insomnia. Nausea and vomiting came in waves, and the complications from the surgery meant she developed Short Gut Syndrome. She lost weight at a dangerous speed. And there were other side-effects. Eventually, it reached the point where she had to take a medical leave of absence from school, which was a devastating personal blow. She was later able to return to her old job, which was fortunately willing to be flexible with the hours and her needs, but school is such a deep and driving dream for her.

So why am I telling you this?

At the end of the month, my mom will be going into surgery again, a couple hours south of home. There’s a doc in DC that specializes in developing treatments for rare cancers. This protocol he’s developed, which other doctors also perform, is an aggressive combination of a long, intensive surgery and directly-applied chemotherapy. The side-effects of a direct-application chemo wash are significant, not to mention the incredible strain on the body that a long surgery produces. Provided all goes well, she’ll be in the Intensive Care Unit for several days, and then on the main surgical floor for two to three weeks (also provided all goes well). It’s an aggressive procedure, but it has a decent success rate, and if it does work, it has a significantly higher quality of life standard than continuing traditional chemo, which has thus far prevented new growth but not diminished old growth.

And we have no idea how much it’s going to cost.

Thank God, she has insurance through her job, but we don’t know how much it’s going to cover. We heard back from the office of the doc who’ll be doing the surgery, so we know things are covered on that end, but the hospital is a completely different story. Right now, her two-person household is a three-quarter income household, and once she goes down for surgery, she’s not going to be able to work until she’s fully recovered. She tried to make arrangements to work from home, and the doc was certainly willing to sign off on it, but the confidential nature of the work she does makes her employers unwilling to make the arrangements on their end. She has insurance, but no sick time. Some of her co-workers even tried to give her some of their sick time, but no dice. Her job will still be there when she gets back (and even that is a small miracle) but for the duration of her recovery, both in Daytona and here, there’ll be no income.

My mom was lucky enough to form an incredible study-group with some of her fellow Hoyas, and they support each other like you wouldn’t believe. Her phone is always going off with texts, and they moved from study-buddies into genuine friendships. When she had to take her medical leave, they kept her involved in classes by asking for her help editing papers, or helping them go over tests. When the rest of the group had to head to DC for an on-campus intensive for clinical skills, they printed out a picture of her from the previous OCI and Flat Stanley-ed her. They took ‘her’ along with them to clinicals, to meals, to drinks, to the hotel, out on walks, everywhere, and sent her pictures. They’ve committed themselves to helping her study when she comes back from medical leave, and if the procedure is successful and she’s able to join back in summer or fall semester, she’ll actually be able to walk at graduation with them next year.

And they’ve started a gofundme for her medical bills. Cancer is a debilitating disease–physically, mentally…and financially. It’s easy to say to ignore the money and focus on getting better, but that doesn’t work if the money ISN’T THERE. There’s only so much you can put on credit cards before you reach your limit, and all the well-wishes in the world don’t pay the rent.

I’m not really one to ask people for money, largely because I know better than most just how tight money can be. I live well below the poverty line, and am currently unemployed. The one advantage to that is that I can be down there with her at the hospital. But..I am asking. Politely, and with the complete understanding that money is tight, I am asking. If you can give anything to this fund to help my mother pay her medical bills and keep a roof over her head, even just a few dollars, THANK YOU. If you can’t give financially, you can still help by boosting the signal and sharing it with others, and THANK YOU. It’s funny, you’d think I’d be pretty good with words given the whole writing thing and all, but words really can’t express how grateful I will be for ANY help than can be given.

Again, here’s the link to help my mom hopefully kick cancer’s ass and still have her life to come back to when she recovers.

For any donation, for any share, for any signal boost, THANK YOU.

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An Experiment in Control

February 6, 2014 at 8:36 pm (General, Writing) (, , )

Tomorrow marks two weeks of unemployment for me. I’m not panicking yet- last time I couldn’t get a job, it stretched for a whole six months- but it’s led to a lot of thinking for me, in between the cleaning and procrastinating. Mostly, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about control.

Because realistically, I can’t control my employment. I can put out applications, I can search and interview and do my best, but I can’t control what actually happens. It’s led me to other things I can’t control.

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I can write the best book I can write, but I can’t guarantee that the book will sell. It’s out of my hands, and in the hands of an editor who can decide that he or she wants to buy it. I can do my best, my fabulous agent can do her best, but in the end, it depends on a lot of factors, like what else is in the catalog, like what the current trends are, like the purely subjective likes and dislikes of an acquisitions board. A lot of factors, factors over which I have no control.

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Once a book is out there, the way it’s perceived is entirely out of my control. Books become, to many readers, very personal things. The way we enjoy them, the way we react to them, says a lot about us. I can’t control what people think of my writing. Once it’s out there, I can’t argue with people that I think miss the point, can’t tell them what I meant to do. Hell, J.K. Rowling is a superstar and she can’t get away with it without a furor. And really, that’s as it should be. Once it’s in the hands of the reader, it’s open to interpretation, to personal perception. I can’t make anyone like my book. I can’t control whether or not someone enjoys it. Love it or hate it, it’s out of my hands.

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Publishing is a crazy industry that attempts to balance art and business. It’s a juggernaut, really, that steams along to its own timeline. There are eight million numbers and considerations and factors and none of it is in my hands. I can make my contributions on one end or another, but I can’t control it. YA readers on Twitter the other day may have seen #TheArchivedNeedsaThirdBook. For some context, The Archived is an absolutely amazing book by Victoria Schwab. It’s creepy and atmospheric, exciting, heart-wrenching, unexpectedly funny, with the lyrical, gorgeous writing we’ve come to expect from Victoria. It’s sequel, The Unbound, came out at the end of January, and it is just as good. Where the first book was an external enemy, this book is largely internal; the main character is shattering and struggling to make everyone believe she’s okay. A very large part of this book is the realization that it’s okay to NOT be okay for a while after trauma. The story is such that things can end here; it’s the characters that need a third book, and there was originally supposed to be one, but as we know, in publishing, sometimes things happen. They’re not done intentionally, they’re not done to hurt anyone, but it is, at the end of the day, a business, and a business is about numbers and projects and yes, about passion. The hashtag was a fan movement to try to sway the publishers, but at the end of the day, a trending hashtag isn’t going to make a difference to the business. (It will, however, make a hell of a difference to an author to get that kind of outpouring of love and support). What makes a difference to the publisher is sales. Aside from the contribution of buying books from authors I love so they can hopefully make more of them, I can’t control other books. I can’t control other authors. I can’t control publishers, or timelines, or release dates. I can’t.

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I’ll be honest, Other People as a collective tend to piss me off. Not in a “you’re awful” kind of way, but in an “I don’t want to be dealing with you” kind of way. I am an introvert; I prefer not to deal with people if I can possibly avoid it, because I’m awkward and self-conscious and I hate feeling like an idiot in social situations. But I learned a long time that I can’t control other people. I can’t control behavior, or statements, or preferences. I can take accountability for my own actions, but not for theirs. I can’t control luck or good fortune, or bad fortune, I can’t make other people live with compassion or mindfulness.

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There are so many things out of our control it’s frankly a wonder we can convince ourselves anything IS in our control. There is so much about life that we don’t get to decide. We can’t choose the weather, or the climate (unless you choose to move, but even then, have you noticed how things have been recently?). We as individuals have a say in our government, but we don’t really choose it. We can’t control the jury summons or the illness or the falling in love. We can’t choose a lot of things, and where there is no choice, there is no control. It all seems rather a hopeless business, doesn’t it? But there’s something comforting, in a strange sort of way, about acknowledging how small we are, how generally powerless we are. Because when we admit to ourselves all the things we CAN’T control, we start to understand the things we CAN control.

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I can’t control what happens with my writing, but I can control the writing itself. Yes, there are bad days, where every word is a struggle and I’ll probably end up deleting most of them the next time I sit down to work, but those are generally rare. More to the point, what I can control is sitting down and DOING IT. I can control the process of sitting my butt in the chair and WRITING. I can choose to open the file, the notebook, the book. I can choose to exercise my craft and expand my voice. Whatever comes after is out of my hands, but it is precisely in my hands to shape the story and spill it onto the page.

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I’m not by nature a disciplined person, but I can change that. I can control that. I can make it better. Right now my apartment is slowly getting cleaner than any living space of mine has probably ever been, and it’s kind of creeping me out a little, because everything is getting organized and neat and in its place, and that’s just not normal for me. But I’m making the choice, here and now, to keep it that way. To start the good habits and maintain them. I’m usually someone who waits for the mood to write, or who waits for the day off, but I would very much like to get into the habit of writing at least five hundred words every day. Even if it’s not on my main project of the moment, just so I’m writing SOMETHING every single day. Starting good habits is hard. Maintaining good habits is REALLY hard. But- I can choose to have the self-discipline to enforce them, and right now, I choose that.

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I’m not able to control what happens to my books, but I can choose to keep pursuing the goals I’ve set. I can control whether or not I give up. Determination, persistence, they’re hard, especially because they traverse so close to the border of delusional and trying too hard. Sometimes, no matter how badly we want something, no matter how hard we work for it, it just doesn’t happen, and we do have to accept that. Sometimes that means we have to shift our goals. It doesn’t mean we have to give up. Determination got me my first book deal. I can choose to continue that determination.

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Okay, so this one is actually really difficult. Life has a way of throwing things at us, and it’s hard to control your outlook in trying times. But if I can’t control my emotions well enough to be optimistic, I can at least control them enough to not wallow in misery. I can choose to temper my outlook with a bit of joy and hope, or at least a really sick sense of humor. I can’t control the world, but I can control how I look at it, and I can control how I choose to move through it.

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Because at the end of things, the only thing I can really control is myself. All those other factors, all those other things, that I can claim to control, all those really boil into one single thing: me. And as long as I can control myself, as long as I can choose to make myself better, to do better, I can get by.

And what that also made me realize is something else I can control.

My gratitude.

So.

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