Teen Thursday: Guest Blogger Jessica Martinez on Standing Up and Speaking Out

Now is not the time for Carmen to fall in love. And Jeremy is hands-down the wrong guy for her to fall for. He is infuriating, arrogant, and the only person who can stand in the way of Carmen getting the one thing she wants most: to win the prestigious Guarneri competition. Carmen's whole life is violin, and until she met Jeremy, her whole focus was winning. But what if Jeremy isn't just hot...what if Jeremy is better?

Carmen knows that kissing Jeremy can't end well, but she just can't stay away. Nobody else understands her--and riles her up--like he does. Still, she can't trust him with her biggest secret: She is so desperate to win she takes anti-anxiety drugs to perform, and what started as an easy fix has become a hungry addiction. Carmen is sick of not feeling anything on stage and even more sick of always doing what she’s told, doing what's expected.

Sometimes, being on top just means you have a long way to fall....

Jessica Martinez's debut novel, Virtuosity, won't be out until October, but we're lucky enough to have her here with us today, sharing a lesson learned from a too-real moment from her own teen  years. Thanks so much, Jessica! 

Walking Out

I was a nice girl.  Still am.  But when I was a teenager I was the dangerous kind—the kind that would sooner die than mouth off.  Adult confrontation was avoided at any cost.  That kind of nice girl.  But there comes a moment in every girl’s life when she has to stand up for herself.  Even the nice ones.

My moment came when I was 17.  I was concertmaster of a youth orchestra, playing under a conductor I knew well and respected.  I even considered him a friend.  We were sight reading new music when I made a stupid mistake, bringing half the first violins with me.  It was embarrassing, but not fatal.  I did as I had been taught—corrected my course and kept on playing.  Or I tried, but I didn’t really have time before the conductor’s palm collided with my face, nearly knocking me out of my chair.  

In the second it took to regain my balance and put my violin back under my chin, I felt nothing.  Just shock.  Had that really just happened?  My eyes found the notes on the page and I was suddenly playing again.  I couldn’t think of another option.   

I’d been playing the violin for fourteen years, but there was no precedent for this.  I’d been yelled at plenty, but I’d never seen a student get hit, though.  Not in orchestra, or chamber music, or lesson, or masterclass, or anywhere.

The notes flew by and I kept playing them, but it was seconds before my emotions finally caught up.  Shame was the first and the heaviest.  I had just been hit in front of 70 of my peers, and I felt like a dog, slinking alongside the owner who had just kicked it. 

But I wasn’t just humiliated.  I was ticked.  I hadn’t deserved that.  Couldn’t he see I was working as hard as I could, pouring my heart into every second of this rehearsal?   Getting smacked was my thanks?  The self-pity and frustration made me want to cry, but I knew tears would only make the situation more embarrassing, so I sucked it up.

Walk out.  By the time this thought occurred to me, I’d been playing for at least a minute.  I tried to reason my way out of it—maybe I was exaggerating how hard he hit me in my mind, or maybe everyone else was too wrapped up in their music to have even seen it.

But I was old enough to know that what had happened was wrong.  At the very least it was unprofessional.  I knew I needed to stand up and walk out, because hitting me wasn’t okay, and to continue playing like nothing had happened would be telling my conductor and everyone around me that it was okay.  Staying would be telling myself that too.

Except, by the time I had thought all that through, minutes had passed.  I didn’t want to bring more attention to the whole thing, did I?  It was already over.  And where would I go?  I couldn’t just pack up and leave without my younger brother, who was still playing away with the rest of the cello section.  If I left, this would become a big deal.  There was a real possibility that my best friend and stand partner would follow me—what if other people did too and I was at the heart of some huge orchestral coup?  I didn’t want to be at the center of a mess like that, and I didn’t want my conductor to get in trouble.  If I walked out there would probably have to be an official apology and everyone would know and my parents would be told, which for whatever reason, made the whole thing ten times more humiliating.  I’d look like a brat and a prima donna. 

I wish this story ended differently. 

I didn’t leave.  I kept playing.  He muttered an apology the next time there was a break in the music, and then found me after rehearsal to give me a sincere apology, because he was, as I’d guessed, mortified that he had done such a thing.  The huge mess that I had feared would erupt just fizzled and died, because I sat there and didn’t make a big deal.  One could argue I did the mature thing.

But.  I don’t think I did.  To this day, every time I replay the moment (and it is often) I wish I had walked out.  Afterwards I was disgusted with myself for being so spineless, and it took a while to recover from that hit to my self-esteem.  Not because of what he did, but because of what I didn’t do.  I never want to feel that way again.

As an adult, I occasionally catch myself on the cusp of being bullied into an engine flush when I just want an oil change, or getting talked into lowlights when I really do want to go blond, and I’ll summon the memory of that moment for strength.  Not the moment that I was hit.  The afterwards.  The regret.  It’s good fuel, because, nice girl that I am, I never want to give someone permission to push me around again. 

Sometimes standing up for ourselves - which should be the most basic instinct we have, right? - is the absolute hardest thing to do. Here's a picture of Jessica at age 17, when her story takes place: 

 And Jessica now, much less likely to take any drama: 

And I know I'm for sure going to keep Jessica's story in mind the next time someone tries to push me around!

Teen Thursday: EVERYONE LOVES A REBEL! - A Guest Post with Amy Holder

Rebellion is a common theme in YA literature.  It's aptly showcased in characters such as Peeta and Katniss in The Hunger Games, Harry, Ron and Hermione in Harry Potter, Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, Ponyboy in The Outsiders, and even Jane in Jane Eyre, among countless others.  Rebellious characters are satisfying to read (and write) because their spunk of unconformity makes them three-dimensional, exciting and unpredictable.  We generally relate to these types of characters, and often cheer on their rebellious efforts because, in the words of Rita Skeeter, "Everyone loves a rebel." 

Since life often parallels fiction, I felt it would be apropos to discuss my own teenage rebellion in this Teen Thursday guest post. Being that I was a late-rebellion-bloomer, my own rebellious efforts didn't come to full fruition until I was in high school.  In fact, I was anything but a rebel through my early years.  I minded my Ps and Qs...and if there had been Rs and Ss to follow, you'd better believe I would have followed those to a T (no pun intended).  Suffice to say, I was a bit of a goody-goody.  That changed when I was bitten by the teenage rebellion bug.  All of a sudden, I stopped following blindly and began questioning, often venting my frustrations into pages and pages of angst-ridden poetry.
  

Although I did quite a few things to test the limits of my parents' sanity as a teenager, I'd have to say that my temptation to rebel culminated on my 18th birthday.  This was the day that I decided to get an eyebrow ring...because I liked the way it looked, and I wanted to have a silver badge of individuality right where everyone could see it.  However, having grown up in a relatively conservative family, this wasn't something you just go out and do...especially without talking to your parents first.  So you can imagine the shock on my parents' faces when I came to dinner that night with a shiny silver hoop sticking out of my right eyebrow.  Coincidentally, they had company visiting, so my parents didn't want to rock the hospitality boat by questioning me about what the heck was on my face.  For 45 minutes, we sat, we ate...and I felt thoroughly entertained by my parents' bugged eyes, and satisfied with my crafty stance against conformity. 

Sure, getting a facial piercing is most definitely not like rebelling against the Capitol, Death Eaters, the Socs, castes, authoritarianism or repression like some of the rebels we love so much from YA fiction.  But it did give me a sense of independence, individuality, and control over my own destiny that I think is an important rite of passage in adolescence. I decided to take the piercing out less than a year after I got it, much to the joy of my wonderful parents, but the point is that I was able to experience it by my own choice to decide that it wasn't for me in the end. I believe this is an important step during teenagedom.  After all, adolescence is about figuring out who you are, what you stand for, your likes and dislikes, and where you fit in the world.  And how can you do that without trials and errors.... and a little rebel streak here and there?  

Although I can't say I'm much of a rebel anymore, unless you think going through the 10 items or less line with 11 items is rebellious (shampoo and conditioner is one item, right?), I do enjoy passing down a hint of rebellion to my YA characters. 

To close this post, I would like to give a word of advice to any aspiring teen rebels out there thinking about getting a piercing: Be wary of eyebrow rings... they leave scars, and a bizarre tweezing/sneezing reflex.  Trust me, I know...

Amy Holder’s debut YA novel, THE LIPSTICK LAWS, published with Houghton Mifflin Harcourt in April 2011.  With a passion for chocolate, hair straighteners and all things Saturday Night Live, Amy’s abandoned her former life in psychology and education to throw herself into writing. She lives in Pennsylvania with her verbally challenged sidekicks (pets).

Teen Thursday: Guest post by Stasia Ward Kehoe

Point-of-View & the Wayne Gretzky Parable

I grew up in a creative bubble.  Between hours spent dancing and super-artsy friends, I floated through school barely realizing there were sports teams and student councils and yearbook committees.  I assumed everyone’s world revolved around books and stages. (Can you say uber-ballet-Gleek? Or, maybe, snob?)

Freshman year, my English teacher asked us to peer-critique “Someone I Admire” essays.  I was paired with super-popular Greg*.  He had sandy hair, a perfect nose, and even I knew he was one of our school’s star athletes.  We exchanged papers.  I can’t recall the person I wrote about but, to this day, I remember Greg’s essay.  It went something like this:

“I really admire Wayne Gretzky.  He is the most amazing guy. If I could be anybody in the world, I’d want to be Wayne Gretzky.  I hope I grow up to have a career like Wayne Gretzky.”

I looked from the paper to Greg’s swoon-worthy blue eyes, while two thoughts ran through my mind. 

1) Wow, this guy cannot write his way out of a paper bag. 

2) Who the heck is Wayne Gretzky**?

For YEARS, I told this tale to my artsy friends, getting kudos for my lack of sports knowledge and literary superiority, and having laughs at Greg’s expense.***  Then, in college, I was on a date with this cute theater dude and decide to trot out the Gretzky story.  He laughed then said, “Seriously? You don’t know who Wayne Gretzky is?” 

Here was a guy I admired.  A funny guy.  A hot guy.  And he was basically implying I lived under a rock.  I giggled as he talked about “Broadway” Joe Namath and other athletes he admired.  He listened as I described my stage idols. Our conversation went on to favorite musicals, military generals, what works in stand-up comedy acts, the space shuttle…all kinds of stuff.  But something about his Gretzky comment stuck.  I realized I’d been so fixed in my own point-of-view, that I’d never considered learning about Greg’s. 

Ultimately, I married the actor guy.  We go to tons of theater performances.  But I’ve also developed an appreciation for the Jets (I know, they’re football, not hockey).  More importantly, as a writer, I make sure to envision the individual “bubbles” in which my characters live—to fill them with quirky details, to respect their differences, and to include the occasional worshipper of Wayne Gretzky.

Stasia Ward Kehoe’s debut novel, AUDITION, will be published by Viking/Penguin on 10-13-11.  She is currently cheering for the Mariners (yep, baseball) while counting the days until the Les Mis tour arrives in Seattle.  Visit her online at www.stasiawardkehoe.com.

*Name changed to protect the innocent.

**He is a very famous hockey player.

***I should mention that, despite his writing deficiencies, Greg turned out to be a successful businessman J

Teen Thursday: Guest Post With Tara Altebrando

People are always asking writers, myself included, about how much of
their work is based on their own life experience. My answer is: a lot
of it vaguely, but not a lot specifically. Because, frankly, I have a
terrible memory. Whole years of my life seem to be gone. Events and
parties that friends in high school and college swear I was at...poof!
The bulk of my college education (don't tell my dad)...irretrievable
at best. Fortunately I was a good record-keeper, even as a teen, so I
have a lot of letters and mementos hanging around. I kept a diary of
some kind from 4th grade on, and at some point in high school I
started scribbling things I wanted to remember—bands, song lyrics,
events, quotes—onto single pages of loose-leaf, cramming tiny print
and little doodles onto the page until both sides were full. Like so:





Something I do remember: carrying these things with me everywhere,
never knowing when something I'd want to write down would happen or
spring to mind. (Which, in many ways, was good preparation for
becoming a professional writer. Trust yourself to remember a good plot
point or turn of phrase and you'll surely be banging your head against
a wall before long. This is sort of funny advice to writers when you
think about it but still: WRITE STUFF DOWN!)

I still like a lot of the sentiments recorded in quotes. Like, "Live
life like a diamond ring," a lyric from one of my favorite bands in
1985, Frankie Goes to Hollywood. And I vaguely remember some of the
events documented, like "The Metal Detector Fight." But there are a
ton of silly things on the pages (there are six, spanning 1984 to
1987) that don't resonate at all. "Jeff's party. Glen Friedman
dancing." Jeff Sanchez, probably. But who the heck was Glen Friedman?
"Tall and yellow." Okay, if you say so. "Water News"? News to me.
"It's all algebra" must have seemed funny, or SOMETHING, at the time.
Likewise, "Racing from the gift shop to the car and the simultaneous
door slam." Wha?

But that's okay. Because it turns out you don't need specific memories
to incorporate into novels; it's better to draw on things that are a
little bit beyond reach, a little bit fuzzy around the edges—so that
you have to bring them into focus on the page. Which works out great
for me. In the case of Dreamland Social Club, my newest novel, it was
the idea behind the doodle pages themselves—the notion of this kind of
frenetic documenting of one's own teen years—that eventually worked
its way into the story.

I guess you never know, though. If I try really hard, maybe I'll be
able to conjure the face of Glen Friedman AND his dancing, or that
race to the car, and maybe they'll turn up in a novel somewhere down
the line and I'll call it "Water News." Never say never, they say. In
fact, I'm pretty sure I wrote that quote down in 1984. :)

Teen Thursday: Guest Blogger BRIAN FARREY

Fair warning: I love musical theatre. And more often than not, when I want to make a point, I quote a musical.  This would be a good time to click “home” or something. Maybe check out Pottermore.

Still with me? I knew there were some other musical buffs out there.

Let me set the scene for the musical 1776. It’s summer in Philadelphia. Sweltering temperatures are adding to the acrimony as the Continental Congress meets to discuss the affairs of the thirteen Colonies.  A controversial resolution to declare independency from England is brought before the Congress. This should automatically trigger a debate on the issue. But Colonies who disagree with the idea of independence make a motion to table the question of autonomy indefinitely.  A vote on the motion is split down the middle, the deciding ballot going to Stephen Hopkins of Rhode Island.  Hopkins states, “In all my years, I’ve never seen, heard, nor smelled an issue that was so dangerous, it couldn’t be talked about.” Hopkins votes in favor of debate.

I have no idea if the real Stephen Hopkins said this. Still, this musical—that line—pops into my head every time an online firestorm erupts following an assault on young adult literature. This tends to happen every 4-6 months by my calculations. And, in my mind, every argument condemning some aspect of YA can be boiled down to this philosophy: discussion of a controversial topic is the same as advocating it.

As John Adams says repeatedly with disgust during 1776: “Incredible.”

The best YA promotes discussion. Whether it’s chatting over coffee about which werewolf from which book is sexier or some sort of deep discourse about hard-hitting issues that reflect the realities of many readers, YA succeeds when discussion follows. As an advocate of free speech, I’m fine with people who want to question the content of YA. I wish they used things like, you know, evidence and, heaven forbid, logic to do so.  And I wish they’d understand that the act and art of intelligent discussion—something that stimulates the mind—isn’t tantamount to brainwashing. But the fact that they get their knickers in a twist is simply demonstrating that contemporary YA is doing exactly what it should be: fomenting dialogue.

Thanks to all defenders of YA. And thanks, in a more peculiar way, to those who would take it to task. Rest assured: we’re all doing what we’re supposed to be doing. Stephen Hopkins would be proud.

Brian Farrey is the acquiring editor at Flux books. His debut novel, With or Without You, was published by Simon Pulse in May. It’s very probably filled with things that people will discuss, for better or worse.  

Teen Thursday - Amanda Cockrell talks about her new book and the subject of war

This book really started not as a meditation on war but with the idea that sainthood might be accidental, so to speak. That canonization might take a man by surprise, and be hard to live up to. That’s where Felix came from.

The germ of the plot was my college senior thesis, a play in verse heavily under the influence of Christopher Fry. It concerned a girl who has been praying to the statue of a saint, which suddenly comes alive, claiming that God has de-sainted him for not being holy enough. I don’t write blank verse nearly as well as Christopher Fry did, and there is not a lot of market for historical plays in verse. But years later I thought the premise still had possibilities, and we were in the middle of a war - again - and I thought the saint probably had some old battle scars of his own.

War is a very different thing when you are fighting it than when you are supporting the troops on the home front with “Power of Pride” bumper stickers and magnetic ribbons on your car. Angie, my heroine, is fifteen, and anyone her age has grown up with these wars. Even Jesse, who was hot to join the Army at seventeen, was a child when it started. For them, it’s always been there. And yet I wonder how real it seems to teens if they aren’t in a military family. I’m reasonably sure that Jesse didn’t know what he was getting into. I looked at the pictures of young people cheering when Osama Bin Laden was killed, as if they were at a football game, and I had a sense that to them it was a game.

During the Vietnam War, it was clearly no game because any male might get drafted and sent to fight. At first you could get a deferment by staying in college, but after a while it became clear that the war was unfairly taking the boys who couldn’t afford college, and so they began a lottery – literally. Numbers were drawn once a year corresponding to birthdays. If your birthday got a low number, you were gone. Every man I know of that generation has some scar left over from it, whether he was drafted, volunteered, protested the war, or even went to Canada with the draft board and the FBI on his heels. Even the unscathed ones have a sort of survivor guilt about that. But now, I wonder. We have no draft, and I thought that it was likely that for someone like Angie the war would only get suddenly and extremely real when someone she knew got hurt or killed.

That’s when Angie wakes up, so to speak. She befriends Felix, a Vietnam era medic who has nightmares about the boys he couldn’t save, and Jesse, nineteen, with one leg gone to an IED in Afghanistan, who has demons of his own and an enormous need to someone to love him and be his anchor.

A structural difficulty arose when I had to figure out how to let the reader see what Felix and Jesse had been through, since the story is told by Angie and she wasn’t there. We had to know what had happened to them, and in fairly excruciating detail if it was to be effective. But it’s never a good approach to have action scenes summarized in dialog and besides that neither of them would be likely to talk to Angie about it. That’s when Felix’s nightmares came fluttering out of his head and suggested I let Angie have them too. So the book has a bit of a magical realist twist to it, between the dreams and the question of who Felix really is. I’m very fond of magical realism and it seemed a good match with the war, which I have always thought must be the ultimate in surreal experience.

What We Keep Is Not Always What Will Stay isn’t meant to be an anti-war book, although certainly not a pro-war book. It’s a story about a girl who gets tangled up in what war does to people she loves. Story is important because through story we look at the world and “get” certain things we didn’t get before, and I admit that I did have in mind all those boys who went to war and didn’t come back, or came back someone else. But as Sam Goldwyn said of his films, “If you want to send a message, use Western Union.” As writers we go easy on message and heavy on story and let our readers think the hard thoughts for themselves.

Note from Lisa: I really can't wait to read this book. Thanks for stopping by, Amanda!

***

Amanda Cockrell is the founding director of the graduate program in children’s literature at Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia, where she also teaches creative writing and is managing editor of the university’s literary journal, The Hollins Critic. At various times she has also been a newspaper reporter and a copywriter for an ad agency and a rock radio station. She is the daughter of a screenwriter and a novelist and grew up in Ojai, California, the town that provides the template for Ayala in What We Keep Is Not Always What Will Stay.

Teen Thursday - Contemporary YA

So... it's almost June. We started this blog almost a year ago, wanting a place to highlight contemporary fiction. Wow. How time flies, huh?

We wanted to get people to realize - hey, real life stuff is kind of cool. Exciting. Funny. Scary. And anything and everything in between. Maybe books about real life stuff aren't so bad after all.

I don't think we've accomplished everything I had hoped we might accomplish. Part of it is that authors are busy, busy people.

But to those of you who have stopped by often, who have tweeted for us and about us, who have bought our books and told your friends about our books - I want to say thank you!!!

Agent Mandy Hubbard had this to say on her blog about contemporary fiction recently, after a trip to meet editors and find out what's on their wish lists:

"Another thing I heard all day, every day? Realistic/Contemporary YA is a tough sell, but almost every editor wants it to rally and come back in a huge way. Some editors joked that they are going to force it to come back by buying some killer Realistic/Contemp. Successful books like ANNA AND THE FRENCH KISS By Stephanie Perkins and PERFECT CHEMISTRY by Simone Elkeles make everyone very hopeful that this trend continues. The more contemps that break out, the more likely this trend can actually pan out. So if you’re a contemp lover, get thee to the bookstore. If the readers don’t buy it, the editors can’t buy it."

Did you hear that? If the readers don't buy it, the editors can't buy it.

I'd love for you to tweet this post far and wide. Let people who have never seen our web site before see it now. Let people realize that we have an amazing assortment of books to offer up for whatever kind of reader one might be. We've got a lot of stuff covered in our list of books - suspense, mystery, loss and tragedy, humor, romance, relationships, and much more.

Summer is almost here. It's the perfect time to curl up with a good book on the beach, by the pool, in a tent, under a tree...

Can we make June contemporary YA month? And maybe even July and August? Hey, why not? A contemporary YA summer! Support contemporary YA authors and buy one or three or five or ten contemporary novels!!!

SO I want to know, what's your favorite contemporary YA novel you've read lately?

Teen Thursday: Graduation Songs!

It's mid-May, which means high school graduations are fast approaching. Two years ago, I was one of the people prepping for my graduation. I bought the cap, the gown, the class ring, the invitations. But, for me at least, all that stuff was a bit boring. Instead, I was most interested the ongoing debate among my friends - what should our graduation song be?

A lot goes in to a good graduation song. It needs to represent this huge moment, when adulthood is just around the corner. Sometimes the best graduation songs are happy, and sometimes they are a bit sad and full of longing. A few of my friends wanted "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" by Green Day played at our ceremony, but I was very against this since the song is actually very sarcastic and not really fitting for such a big moment.

Ultimately, I wasn't thrilled with the choice of graduation song we got. Ours was "The Climb" by Miley Cyrus, which is nice, but to me it just wasn't the song that fit all of us. So, instead, I picked my own graduation song - the song that, in my heart, represented that big night in my life. For me, that song is probably "The Great Escape" by Boys Like Girls, which had just come out around the time I was preparing to make that final walk across my high school gymnasium.

Graduation songs can be hit or miss, but music is such an emotional thing that it speaks to everyone. I want to know what your graduation song was/is/should be. Are there any songs you want to hear played at your graduation? Or, if you've graduated already, what was played and how did you feel about it? Tell us all about the best and worst graduation songs!

Teen Thursday: Longing to Belong

Yesterday, we spotlighted Micol Ostow's chilling new novel Family (which I reviewed a couple weeks ago). Her verse and imagery are beautiful, but what struck me the most was the concept of family, and belonging to a group -- no matter the cost.

From cliques to cults, collaborative blogs to high school clubs, gangs to sports teams, special interest organizations to secret societies, people are always gathering themselves into groups. The urge to belong to something is just so human, and never stronger than in our teenage years.

Some of these groups are undeniably positive.

maypole parties

u2

heifer international

the dillon panthers in seasons 1-3

Others are decidedly negative, even destructive.

the manson family

the westboro baptist church

zombie hordes

creed

The group depicted in Family (based on the Manson family) is one of the latter types. But the book's main character, Mel, thinks it's positive, at first: the loving, supportive family she lacked growing up. She's so eager to belong, she attempts to overlook the warning signs, even as they stack and stack.

Of course, Mel has joined a cult, which is an extreme case of a negative group. However, many much more casual groups have destructive qualities – even groups of friends.


When it comes to friendships, one thing I've realized is how much is a result of chance. Where your school is. The random selection of people in your area, in your grade. Who happens to sit beside you. Or who reaches out when we're vulnerable -- new students, or in a unhappy headspace, or simply searching for different friendships. Unfortunately, that longing to belong doesn't always lead to the best decision-making. I think many of us have found ourselves in situations where we changed parts of who we were, what we liked, or what we were comfortable with, just to fit in with a group.

What groups were you part of as a teen? Did any of them have destructive dynamics? Did you ever change something about yourself to belong? Did you ever actually like Creed?

Teen Thursday: Shopping for Prom

Sunday afternoon I was doing some shopping for a an event I have coming up in a couple of months, and while in the dressing room, I heard a few different mother/daughter conversations. From the conversations, I could tell they were dress shopping for prom.

And none of them seemed to be happy conversations.

They disagreed about what looked good.

They disagreed about what looked bad.

They disagreed on pretty much everything, I think.

Why is shopping for prom filled with so much angst, especially when a mother is involved? Is it that tastes differ so differently between generations? Is it the daughter wanting to have control and the mother not wanting to give it to her? I remember getting in dressing room arguments with my mom, but I don't really remember why. It almost seemed like if she liked something, I was intent on not liking it. Based on principle alone, maybe?

Did you or do you shop well with your mom? Have any prom dress shopping horror stories to share? I can't even remember shopping for my dress. Perhaps it was such a bad experience I blocked it out?

TEEN THURSDAY: Linda Gerber Rocks the Drop and Shares Her First Kiss Story!

Linda Gerber is a fantastic, funny, adventurous writer (you can gather all of that from her Death by Bikini Mysteries -- three madcap, action-filled novels in one big package which is perfect for summer reading!).

Today, she's Rocking the Drop with Readergirlz and Figment! And she's also sharing the story of her first kiss, which was... well, not like in the movies:

"He was older and more experienced; I was young and naïve. My first kiss was… memorable.

"It happened on a perfect summer night when the heat of the day had mellowed to a warm caress. Stars winked and twinkled in a cloudless sky, earthy smells of honeysuckle and freshly-cut-lawn floated on a gentle breeze. Or not. I really don’t remember those details. All I know is it was dark.

"Back in my old neighborhood, there were probably about two dozen of us who would get together nearly every summer night to play popgun, crack-the-whip, radar, kick-the-can, and about anything else we could come up with. Our houses were fairly close, so that when it was time for someone to go in, all our parents had to do was to stand on our respective front porches and yell. (Yes, this was before everyone carried cell phones in their pockets.)

"The accepted rules for The Yelling were simple: the first time you were called, you could consider yourself on notice. The second time was a warning. When a parent yelled for you a third time, it was time to move, or suffer the consequences.

"On the night of my first kiss, the group had been playing radar in front of my house. (Radar is one of those games that was a lot more fun in practice than it sounds on paper. To play, we would stand in the street and watch for cars. When we saw one, we’d yell 'Radar!' and dive onto the lawn, pressing ourselves flat in the grass so that the beam from the car’s headlights wouldn’t touch us. Yes, we thought this was the height of entertainment.) One by one, kids were called inside until there were maybe only four or five of us remaining.

"When my dad yelled for my sister and I the third time, we said our goodnights and started inside through our dark garage. To my surprise, one of the older boys followed us into the shadows. (He was a ninth grader, a year ahead of my older sister, and I was in sixth grade – still elementary school in our school district.)

"He grabbed my hand. 'Just a second.'

"By then my sister was safely inside. 'I have to go in,' I told him, and pulled away.

"'I just want to ask you something.'

"I glanced at my back door, fretting. After the third yell, my parents didn’t give us much leeway. I could either get inside or get in trouble. 'What?' I demanded.

"He moved a little closer – crowding my space so that I backed up a step. 'Will you go with me?' he asked.

“'I can’t go anywhere,' I said, exasperated. 'I have to go in.'

"He just smiled. 'No. I don’t mean go somewhere, like to Carson’s Market or anything. I mean go with me. Like, go steady.'

“'Um,' I said.

"He got close again, but I had run out of room to move away so stood with my back against the door and looked up at him warily.

“'Will you?' he asked.

“'Yeah, okay. I guess so.'

“'Then we should kiss.'

"I panicked. Until that time, I’d only ever kissed my mom and dad goodnight or that sort of thing. How did people kiss kiss? 'I don’t know how,' I had to admit.

“'Just relax your lips.'

"I made my lips go slack, and he smashed his slack lips against mine. It felt kind of clammy and weird. And his breath smelled funny. I was oddly disappointed. I mean, I hadn’t really given first kisses much thought before or anything like that, but I was thinking, This is it?

"After the lip-smashing had gone on for about a minute (or maybe more like ten seconds), I pulled back. 'Okay. I have to go in now.'

"And I did.

"(P.S. I am glad to report that although I really didn’t get the whole smashing lips thing back in sixth grade, I happily discovered the bliss of the kiss not long after.)"

Thanks, Linda! I think this is a classic first kiss, if only for its randomness! Anyone else have a story to share?

TEEN THURSDAY: Gayle Forman's Senior Prom

Gayle Forman's latest novel, Where She Went, is out next week! It's the follow-up to her gorgeous If I Stay, the story of Mia, a girl clinging to life after horrible accident and trying to decide whether to live or die.

Gayle was generous enough to stop by and share the story of her senior prom, which didn't go quite as planned...

My senior prom turned out to be on the same night as my 18th birthday. The night was like a double milestone event.

I got dressed up, did some very weird things to my hair (it was the eighties, so it involved crimping), went places I’d never been before, stayed out all night, and danced my ass off. But none of this happened at my prom.

In high school, I didn’t have boyfriends—mostly because I was too busy having inappropriate crushes on much older guys (okay, five years older, but when you’re seventeen, those five years may as well be 15). But I did have lots of guy friends, really good guy friends, and one of those guy friends (let’s call him Alex), we decided early on senior year to go to prom together. We’d go as friends. I’d wear a vintage flapper dress. We would not do the limo thing. We’d have a blast.

Alex and I were always together. He helped me with Algebra II. We sat together in AP English and compared notes on Dostoyevsky. We hung out at after school. We had dinner at each other’s houses. I thought we were best friends. But platonic heterosexual friendships are a tough trick to pull off, and one math tutoring session, before I went away on vacation for a week, Alex handed me a note, telling me not to read it until I was on the airplane.

Alex’s note was a love letter, an embarrassingly graphic one. When I returned from my trip, I told him I wanted to remain friends, to have things stay as they were. Of course, admissions of love are like Pandora’s Box. Once they’re opened, all manner of havoc is wreaked and cannot be undone. Alex never recovered from my rejection. Neither did our friendship.

Prom didn’t seem like prom without him. Another friend asked me but I declined. You might only have one senior prom, but you also have only one 18th birthday—and I wanted mine to be memorable. Real. Not a consolation prize with shadows of a lost friendship pogoing about.

In the wake of losing Alex, I’d made another close friend. Her name was Ulrike, or Uli for short. She was an exchange student from Germany. I’d been an exchange student myself the year before so I felt a kinship with her. Uli wasn't going to prom, either (maybe because was German, she didn’t quite get what the fuss was all about). We made vague plans to meet up with friends for the after parties but other than that, we had no idea where we’d go.

We never made the after parties.

Here’s what we did do. We drove to the beach to watch the sun set but cluelessly picked a non west-facing beach and laughed at that. We drove into West Hollywood and ate dinner at this crazy restaurant where all the servers were transvestites, which in 1988, felt totally subversive and made us feel incredibly sophisticated and hip and also giddy (Ohmygod, those are guys!). And we went into this uber-exclusive velvet-rope club Downtown (no one ever went Downtown) that my sister and her friends had snuck me into once before. The club was 21 and over and full of the most beautiful people. I have no idea of how we talked our fake-I.D.-less selves in (actually, now that I think about it, my look-alike older sister might have loaned me her ID for the night—kids, don’t do what I did). As for Uli, she was very pretty and her accent very cute and doormen were more lenient back then. We didn’t drink (I was driving, after all—and, you know, 18). We just gaped. And danced. And got flirted with. I think we left at four. Maybe got breakfast somewhere. Then we went home and crashed.

People often say you’ll regret not going to your prom. Seriously? I feel like I’ve gone to 20 proms. Because believe me, there are ample opportunities in life to get dressed up in a frock, eat rubber chicken and drink too much with your friends. But how often do you get to experience that frisson of a place you think you’ve always known opening up its secret back doors to you? Finding new facets in the familiar still gives me a huge thrill, way more than getting dolled up to go to a fancy party. Maybe it’s why I love writing fiction. I get to discover the new and exotic in my Very Own Brain.

Twenty-five years later, I can see that my prom night was such a perfect way for the person I was becoming to celebrate her entry into adulthood. It was my milestone. And wouldn’t you know, Uli and I are still in touch. I have no idea what’s become of Alex.

Thank you, Gayle! I was one of those "you'll regret not going to Prom" thinkers, but after this story, I'm not so sure. Love the adventure!

Did you guys go/do you plan to go to your prom? Thoughts?

TEEN THURSDAY: Barry Lyga Writes His Life

Barry Lyga is the author of a bevy of Young Adult novels, including Goth Girl Rising (now available in gorgeous violet-lipped paperback). He was generous enough to stop by and tell us why he can't really write a guest blog... Here's Barry:

When Melissa was kind enough to ask me to guest-blog on The Contemps (and do you realize how easy it is to mis-type that as “The Contempts???”), she included a list of possible topics. A very good move on her part because otherwise my tendency towards paralysis through analysis would have stymied me on this particular assignment, as I spent days and weeks and months agonizing over what topic to discuss. (She was also wise enough to supply a deadline. She knows me well!)

Melissa’s suggestions were uniformly great. In fact, I’d like to share them with you:

Tell us about the worst day of your young adult life.

I like this one a lot. I had many “worst” days in my young adult life, but one in particular really stands out and would be a juicy story...

Tell us about the best day of your young adult life.

Heh. If I’m being honest, talking about this one would make me look sort of smug and petty, in retrospect, but “best” is “best,” right?

Tell us about your first kiss.

A tale as goofy as you would imagine coming from a geek like me...

Tell us about your favorite HS teacher.

I love this one — I usually make out teachers as dolts, idiots, and just plain useless in my books, but there were a few (and one in particular) I really admired in high school, and it’s way past time for me to pay proper homage.

Tell us about one book you remember reading as a young adult and why you think it's stuck with you.

Oh, wow, this one is so good. It really gets to the core of how and why I write.

Now, you may have noticed something: I commented on all of Melissa’s ideas, but I didn’t actually answer any of them.

That’s because I realized, as I sat down to work on one, then the next, then the next, that in each case, I would most likely someday write a book about each of these. Or build a scene around one or more. Or use one of them to influence the building and development of an important character.

This goes beyond, “All writing is autobiographical to a degree.” See, when you write, say, fantasy, you still infuse autobiographical elements, but they’re disguised and morphed to such a degree that their provenance is largely lost. Same goes for other varieties of paranormal and horror and historical and sci-fi and dystopian.

But when you write contemporary, realistic fiction… Well, in those cases, your influences, your autobiographical elements, and your personal anecdotes end up flapping free and naked in the breeze. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been hanging out with a new acquaintance and casually mentioned something from my childhood, only to have this person — this person I just met! — say, “Oh, yeah, I knew that. I read your book.”

It’s weird. It’s discomfiting. It’s undeniably cool, too, but yeah, it’s also weird and discomfiting.

(True story: First question people asked after Boy Toy came out — “So, uh, um, er… Did this happen to you?” Answer: Nope. But people assume.)

And it works the other way, too. If you tell the world (in an interview, in an article, in a review, in a — ahem! — guest blog) something about yourself and then use it in a book, a little piece of the magic goes away. What might have been affecting or heart-warming or surprising is now predictable. “Oh, I had a feeling it would turn out that way — that’s how it happened in real life, after all.”

So as much as I really wanted to tell you guys the story of my first kiss or the story of my best day in high school, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It’s not that I mind sharing those pieces of my past and my soul — it’s just that I feel like I need to guard them jealously until that day when I decide to exploit them.

Revealing our deepest and darkest (and brightest, too!) secrets to the world at large with little in the way of disguise or armor is one of the hazards of writing the kinds of stories we contemporary writers write.

But knowing that these small moments of our lives can be illuminating for others... is one of its joys.

Thank you, Barry! I agree. I really save my personal life stories for, um, my books.

Have you ever read a book and wondered if the experience came from the author's real life?

Teen Thursday - Teens are So Write On!

Yesterday, we spotlighted the RAISIN RODRIGUEZ series by Judy Goldschmidt. But what you might not know about Judy is that, in addition to being an amazing writer, she's also a crazy-talented editor who has worked on many of your favorite series (in fact, she was one of the original creators of the A-List series). 

As you can imagine, she's a great person to talk to about all aspects of writing, and I'm not the only one who thinks so - Judy currently blogs over at Miss Literati, giving writing advice, tips, and even prompts and assignments for aspiring teen writers. Personally, I wish something like Miss Lit had been around when I was a (much) younger writer!


If you're a teen looking to find a writing community, definitely head over to Miss Literati and see about setting up a profile. You can send Judy questions and with any luck, she'll pick yours for her column. But in the meantime, here are some tips she shared with me especially for the Contemps: 


Read as much as you possibly can and write everyday. At least in your journal if nothing else. Also, writing in the style of some of your favorite authors helps you find your own voice, believe it or not. Writing involves a lot of creative borrowing.


I totally agree on both points - emulating someone else's style is a great way to flex one's own creative muscles. And often we forget that, as writers, READING is actually part of the job!


Now, excuse me while I go back to work - curling up with a book, that is...

TEEN THURSDAY: Wendy Toliver's Worst First Dates Ever!

Wendy Toliver, author of Lifted, is here to lay her love life bare. She shares three first date stories, and we get to guess which one was a one-date wonder, which one became a boyfriend and which one is her husband now! Fun!

That's Wendy on the left. Isn't she cute? She also once told me a story about a guy saying to her "You're pretty... in the dark." That one still makes me laugh. Here's her guest blog:

When I was a teen, I had a lot of terrible dates, but these three top my list:

1. Guy: Good looking, a year older, went to a different high school.
How introduced: Through a basketball teammate of mine who dated his friend.
How the date goes: He picks me up in his car. I’m nervous but he’s sooo cute. Winter storm blows in as we’re driving to movie theater. We end up having to park in the field behind it. He suggests taking a short cut, which entails climbing a fence. (He probably offered to drop me off but I’m too stubborn to accept.) I believe that climbing a fence will be no problem for someo

ne as athletic as me. Wrong. The fence is slicked with snow and there’s barbed wire on the top.

I snag the seat of the designer jeans I borrowed from my friend’s little sister. My buttock and thigh are exposed and bleeding. I’m completely mortified that I have to ride to his house, bleeding all over his car seat, and meet his parents in this state. He gets me something to wear and I clean off the blood in his bathroom.
How the date ends: Too embarrassed to even look at him let alone want to kiss him.

2. Guy: Decent looking, same age, goes to different school.
How introduced: Danced together at club the weekend before and I gave him my number. (He’s a great dancer!)

How the date goes: He picks me up in his BMW. I’m not really nervous. He mentions being a little low on cash, do I mind going Dutch? We go to McDonald’s. I hate McDonald’s. He orders an entire tray full of burgers and fries. I order a drink. He talks about himself. Then we go to a movie. I buy my ticket and then he buys his. While I’m in the bathroom wishing I could figure out a way to get out of the date, he hits the concessions and buys a large soda, a box of popcorn, and a box of Sour Patch Kids for himself. We see the worst movie, Graveyard Shift, adapted from Stephen King’s novel. Seriously bad. He offers me a few Sour Patch Kids.

How the date ends: He drops me off. He asks if I want him to call me again sometime.

3. Guy: Good looking, same age, both freshmen at Colorado State University.
How introduced: Met at a tennis party (he plays tennis and I was there with a friend from my dorm).
How the date goes: After spending a long time going to my friends’ rooms and borrowing items to make a cute outfit, he shows up at my door an hour late in his tennis clothes, still sweaty from the nightly practice. I slam the door and throw on some jeans, pretending like I’d meant to wear something more casual all along. He has no plan what to do. We decide to go to a movie but it’s so late there’s only one playing, Basic Instinct. Practically X-rated for back then. We lean apart from each other, totally embarrassed. Hit Taco Bell afterward, again due to the late hour.

How the date ends: We laugh about the movie. He drops me off at my dorm. I can’t remember if we kissed.

So! One of these guys was a one date wonder, one became a boyfriend, and one (gasp!) became Wendy's husband. Can you guess which is which?

PS-Wendy's latest novel, Lifted, (right) has an awesome trailer. If you need another reason to become a fan (aside from this open and funny blog post), check it out:

TEEN THURSDAY: Sekrit Teen Journal Excerpts From Tara Kelly!

Do you (or did you) write notes to your friends in high school? Would you ever let those notes out into the public? I know I wouldn't! But my very brave author-friend Tara Kelly is here to share some of hers...



First off, I want to thank Denise Jaden for featuring Harmonic Feedback and inviting me to guest blog for The Contemps. It’s an honor! You should all go out and buy LOSING FAITH if you haven’t. It has my seal of approval, okay? And I’m mad picky.

I went back and forth on what to do for this blog. You see, I’m not terribly good at writing about myself. Odd, huh? Being that I’m a writer and all I thought about blog posts I really enjoy. And I love it when authors post excerpts from their teen years. So, I’m going to do the same…although I’ll warn you of a couple things.

I was a bit of a delinquent, and this is the tamest stuff I could find. No joke.
I took being an angsty goth to a cliché level. 

I was wise (or unwise) enough to keep my teen years in a box. Every notebook I scribbled in, every short story I wrote, every song lyric, every poem, every journal entry, every note…you get the picture.  I’ve retyped everything exactly as written. However, my OCD adult self insisted on making everything grammatically correct. Believe me, you don’t want to see just how bad my grammar was…

Now that we have that out of the way…I present to you bits and pieces of my teen self.

Unfinished notes that apparently never got delivered to friends (names of friends have been changed for privacy—some names were their REAL nicknames):

Undated note/Age 15
What’s up Kermit!

In Tinkle Dinkle’s class right now. SO BORED ! ! !  I’ve decided that French is not the language of love. It is the language of hell.  Tu es tres bête. Even insults sound like a bad entree.

Tinkle Dinkle is wearing a pink bow today. I’m not even lying. Like pinker than a poodle’s ass hole.  She tore me a new one in front of the class yesterday because I couldn’t order a ham sandwich. I told her I was vegetarian and my preference was avocado and cheese. Then she’s like, transferring in the middle of the semester is no longer an excuse and she has no problems flunking me blah blah blah.  What is it with French teachers? Every one I’ve had likes to give people shit.

I saw Britt at Flames last night. She gave me the stink eye. Guess that means she still hates you?

Backstory: ‘Kermit’ was one of my best friends. He wasn’t big on notes, but I kept writing to him anyway (notes were kind of my therapy back then) I’d transferred to a new school mid-semester. Unfortunately my new French class was 8 chapters ahead of my old French class…and I stunk at French to begin with.  It didn’t help that I was a huge slacker…and I actually thought I was funny. 

Undated note/Age 15
Hey Cornhole,

I did it. I spoke to El Camino! I walked past him at lunch and was like, hey, cool shirt. NIN is awesome. He kind of smiled I think? I’m not sure because I freaked out and kept walking.  I am such a dumbass!!!!!! (dumbass was gone over about 100 times)

Backstory: This was a note to one of my girl friends regarding the El Camino driving Goth boy at school I always admired from afar. I simply couldn’t get up the nerve to talk to him. And I wasn’t that shy! 

Undated note/Age 16
Hey Rabbit,

Mansonites are taking over the school this year. Half of them still think Marilyn Manson is a chick. Preppy girls are carrying lunchboxes. The same girls who laughed at mine last year and called me a freak. One of them put butterfly stickers all over hers. They glitter too. I’m tempted to steal it and draw a giant dick on the front. Does that make me a bad person?

I wish we hung out like we used to. I miss you. I heard that stupid Bad Religion song the other day and thought of you. It reminded me of the time Genius set his pants on fire. I think it must have been playing at the time or something.

Backstory: ‘Rabbit’ was THE best friend. We were pretty much joined at the hip—us against the world. And then junior year happened and things changed. He changed…a lot. This is about when I started to notice.  

Really bad poetry
I wasn’t a poet, but I sure thought I was. Let’s leave it at that.

Lost Child, age 16

Moving pictures glow back at me
Centering deep within his pupil
A collage of green and gold
A scowl binds his lips

I see the young boy
Chocolate covered face and wide eyed dreams
Tiny pink hands clutch on to his daddy’s leg
He questions the indifferent eyes of his teddy bear
Why did daddy leave?

Mommy’s station wagon coughs down highway 29
Boxes of 59 cent Mac and Cheese swam around his little feet
Cheap motels and welfare checks
Mommy’s vodka covered bedtime stories
Little boy ignores his aches

The moving picture skips ahead
Boy meets a girl with eyes like violets
Salty kisses and cotton candy lips
Her tear stained white pillows stayed in his mind
But he learned to never look behind him

Tattered docs hit the sweaty city streets
Yearning for his daily anesthetic
Drunk with rain
He cowers in the dark alleys

 He lays there on his anonymous hospital bed
No one knows his name
His mouth twitches and struggles to form just a word
The nurse smiles and says
Just another lost child with a story to tell

Conversations at Denny’s

I had a lot of odd hobbies as a teen. One of my favorite activities was to go to a local coffee shop or a Denny’s and write down the conversations people were having. My goal was to use them as inspiration for dialogue. And, man, did I get it. In hindsight, I’m not sure how I could write this fast…so there’s a good chance some of this dialogue is slightly fictional.

DAUGHTER: (speaking swiftly in an urgent tone) I really don’t know what to do, because I can’t stop thinking about him and he totally blew me off. I’d at least like to know why he dumped me. He didn’t even tell me what was going on! He just like stopped calling me and totally disappeared.
MOTHER: (monotone) Wasn’t he the one with all the holes in his face?
DAUGHTER: You mean piercings? No, that was Brett. I’m talking about Brandon.
MOTHER: Oh, okay. The one who had a bird’s nest for hair and never wore deodorant?
DAUGHTER: Ew, no that was Cody. And they are called dreds.
MOTHER: (monotone continues) Whatever. I can’t keep track. How long has it been since you’ve seen him?
DAUGHTER: It’s been forever! At least 2 months!
MOTHER: Did you try going by his house?
DAUGHTER: (fork scrapes the plate) One time I was with Courtney and we were like let’s go over there and see if he, like, still lives there, stop in, say hi, and then leave.
MOTHER: Mm hmm.
DAUGHTER: (frowns) But we didn’t end up doing it, because I didn’t want to seem like obsessive or something.
MOTHER: (rests chin on her hand and looks bored) Right.
DAUGHTER: (talks quickly and gestures furiously) Even though he treated me really badly, I still want to know what happened to him. See, I think he might have moved, but I don’t know how to find out where he lives. I’d like to call information and ask where he lives just because I’m curious, you know? He was like a friend since junior high. I don’t like want him back or anything.
MOTHER: Uh huh
DAUGHTER: And I tried calling his old number the other night, but he never called me back.
MOTHER: Told you that was going to happen.
MOTHER: (Lifts her chin from her hand without changing expression and continues in a monotone voice)) So how is school going?
DAUGHTER: It’s okay. We are doing this thing in history class, like looking up the causes and effects of the Constitution.
MOTHER: (Crinkles her brow) What do you mean?
DAUGHTER: You know, it’s like you look up a cause or you have to define something.
MOTHER: So you are talking about George Washington and Thomas Jefferson?
DAUGHTER: Yeah, we talked about them awhile ago.
MOTHER: Oh yeah? You know who Paul Revere was?
DAUGHTER: The name sounds familiar, but I have no idea who he is.
MOTHER: (Rolls her eyes and sighs before continuing) How are you doing in that class?
DAUGHTER: Well, on the last test I missed 42 questions out of 100.
MOTHER: Uh, isn’t that a lot?
DAUGHTER: Yeah, I didn’t really study. I got a D on it.
MOTHER: Wouldn’t that be an F?
DAUGHTER: No, it was a D because they averaged it with another test.
MOTHER: Ah.
DAUGHTER: Yeah, I was pretty lucky.


Thanks so much, Tara! Aside from being AWESOME and HILARIOUS, Tara Kelly has another book coming out this fall. If you haven't read HARMONIC FEEDBACK yet, it's an absolute must-read. Her next release, AMPLIFIED, is due out from Henry Holt & Co. this October. Thanks to Tara for stopping by to share some secrets and for reminding me of what it was like to be a teen!

From our teen readers, I'm curious...do you write notes to your friends in school? Or write any kind of poetry (good or bad).  Or how about jot down people's conversations word for word?