Want to win this fun prize pack? Participate in our #AWTeen Twitter chat on Sept. 12 at 8 p.m. CDT!
Have you ever wondered what being an author is really like? Do you have a burning question about our young adult novels?
On Tuesday, September 12 at 8 p.m. CDT, you will have a chance to ask ten of our authors questions during our Fall ’17 #AWTeen Twitter chat, moderated by Stacey from Page Turners! One participant will be randomly selected to win a set of AW Teen novels along with a special prize pack!
One participant will be randomly selected to receive our two brand-new young adult historical fiction novels along with a prize pack, which includes a candle, phone case, speakers, lights, nail polish, and more!
I grew up in Maine, where trick-or-treating was often a frosty affair. My mom would insist that snow boots looked perfectly fine with Cinderella’s ballgown, and that Frankenstein was still totally scary beneath a puffy down coat. My kids are growing up in South Florida, where I wage the opposite battle. Every October, I pitch costume ideas that involve shorts. “How about a boxer? I can give you a fake black eye! Or a lifeguard. You can wear a whistle!” This never works. Our first year here, my boys dressed as Power Rangers, in full-length polyester suits. They got so hot on the walk home that they stripped down to their underwear. Another year, they were Indiana Jones (cargo pants, long-sleeved shirt) and his greaser son, Mutt (jeans, “leather” jacket). That was an especially sweaty Halloween. (Faux leather does not breathe. AT ALL). This year, the boys plan to be Batman and Robin. Come on….wouldn’t some nice cotton shorts look perfectly fine on the Dynamic Duo?
When Sam was three, “fairy” was the Halloween costume of choice. Many trick-or-treaters mistook Sam for royalty. “What a pretty princess!” they exclaimed. “I’m not a princess,” Sam snarled back. “I’m a fairy!”
The funny thing was, no one considered he might be a boy.
At six, Sam startled us by wanting to be Luke Skywalker. Given that we’d never seen him express interest in a masculine costume, we didn’t know what to think, except that Halloween is a time for experimenting, trying on new identities, or being things we are not.
Each year, pink boys wonder: If I wear the costume I want to, will the kids at school make fun of me? The parents of pink boys wonder: Is this safe? Can—should—we trick-or-treat somewhere where nobody knows us? Of course there’s no “right” answer; each family has to work out on their own what works for their child. If this is your family’s struggle, we recommend a video from The Onion, America’s favorite satirical news outlet: “How To Find A Masculine Halloween Costume For Your Effeminate Son.” It won’t answer your questions, but it will help you laugh about them.
Dressing up like pirates was always a fun costume choice when our two boys were small. From store-bought accessories to homemade ones, there were so many options. Eye patches, hats, bandanas and more! School parades and trick-or-treating were lots of fun…but the fun didn’t end on the last day of October for us.
Costumes and accessories were added to a laundry basket designated as “dress-up clothes.” Kept right next to all the gadgets and gizmos of childhood, the items in this basket were played with almost more than any other toy we owned. I loved the imaginative play it encouraged. Our kids loved it for all the exciting moments they had.
They’d play “dress-up” and re-enact favorite stories we’d read. They’d pretend to be a pirate or a dinosaur or an astronaut (Yes, we had a dinosaur and astronaut costume, too!) or “fly” around the house wearing a cape made from a large scrap of fabric. Many family memories were made—all from playing “dress-up” the whole year round.
When I think of Halloween, I think of my right ankle. I broke it three times: in first, fourth, and sixth grades, each time right before Halloween, a holiday where ankles really come in handy for trick-or-treating.
The first time my brother John told the neighbors about my injury and they compassionately dispensed sympathy treats. The second time John was with his fifth-grade cronies and didn’t want to seem uncool, soliciting candy for his clumsy kid sister, though some of the neighbors kicked in an extra candy bar. But the third time we had just moved to a new neighborhood where no one knew us and John volunteered nothing, so no one knew of my candy-less plight.
That night John came home to me lying miserably on the sofa and the guilt kicked in. He gave me the candy he didn’t like, basically anything with peanuts. This brings me to my second, happier Halloween memory: Snickers. Years later, when I took my own kids trick-or-treating, I would relive my youth by coaxing them into sharing their Snickers bars, insisting I deserved something for walking with them for hours. I’m happy to report guilt worked, just like it did on John.
I turned 15 years old on Oct. 19th. This was the first year I started to feel a little old for Halloween — a favorite holiday for my best friend Lori and I since we shared October birthdays, too. I wrote in my diary at the time that John, a boy I crushed on, went trick-or-treating with us that year. Lori and I always had so much fun making costumes and walking out in our friendly neighborhood to collect candy. Afterwards, to avoid eating TOO much candy at once, we made a game of hiding our wrapped candy in our bedrooms. We’d usually forget where we hid it, making Halloween last a long time.
The idea for Are You Still There originated after being on a school campus during a lock down. Teachers are instructed to lock their classroom doors and not open them to anyone. Of course that’s logical, because in the case of an active shooter, a teacher could unwittingly let the shooter into their classroom. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what could happen to the kids who happened to be out of class when the lockdown was initiated. When I was a student, we didn’t have lock downs at school, but I could instantaneously put myself in my own teenage shoes, and envision myself stuck in a bathroom during a lockdown.
The idea moved very quickly from there. I, like so many others, am saddened and frightened by the number of acts of school violence. I read an article in the Washington Post that indicated there are now more mass shootings in the U.S. than days in a year. It boggles my mind that we have not yet found better solutions for these problems.
In college, I was on a real crisis helpline. It was the best experience throughout my college years. Helping other people gave my own life a purpose, and the alliances formed with my fellow listeners were like gold. I finally felt at home.
While writing this book, I was essentially trying to climb into my character Stranger’s brain. What a sad, lonely, and angry place to be. Spending a lot of time there led me to a lightbulb moment. It surrounds what I’ll call the Four P’s: Problems, Pain, Perspective and Permanency.
Problems: We all have problems. We don’t always know other people have them, because some people hide them better than others. And some people don’t talk about them. But we’ve all got them.
Pain: We all experience pain. And it sucks. Emotional pain can be overwhelming.
Perspective: Over time, our perspective changes. This happens to everyone. Things that seemed important or particularly painful at one point in our lives fade over time. They may still be painful, but not as painful. Sometimes we see that the pain sparked personal growth.
Permanency: Some choices in life are permanent. If you ever make a permanent decision when you’re highly emotional and in significant pain, then you can’t benefit from the perspective you’ll gain over your life. Example—violent or self-harming acts. Any time young people choose a violent act as a solution to a problem, they’ve forgotten that their perspective will change over time. They’ve forgotten that their emotional pain will lessen in intensity. I wonder how many violent acts could have been avoided if people could press “pause” in their lives and fast forward five years to see if they’d still care.
When author Jandy Nelson’s 2010 novel The Sky is Everywhere was optioned for film by Warner Brothers in late August, I let out a little “whoop!” The book is amazing, but more importantly, it launched my love of reading contemporary YA literature and inspired me to write my debut novel, Burn Girl.
Ever since her stepdad’s meth lab explosion, Arlie has avoided the stares from strangers and questions about her face. But can she stay hidden forever?
While I’ve thoroughly enjoyed fantasy, paranormal and dystopian YA series (you know which ones I’m talking about), I am especially drawn to stand-alone contemporary YA novels. There are a number of extraordinary writers tackling once-taboo subjects like death, physical and emotional abuse, sexual assault, drug abuse, bullying, gender identity and more. The prose is sometimes described as dark or gritty, although I think those labels are inadequate attempts to say that these books I love to read deal with real life.
I’m a huge fan of author Courtney Summers. Her latest book, All the Rage, addresses rape culture, class prejudice, and bullying, and has been called unflinching, powerful, brutal and heartbreaking. To me, that’s a good sign she’s hit a nerve with readers and is shedding light on subjects we’ve been reluctant to talk about in the past.
I believe that YA literature dealing with serious subjects gives teens (both female and male) a voice they may not have had otherwise. My two latest purchases are Julie Murphy’s Dumplin’ about a self-proclaimed fat girl who’s comfortable in her skin, and Adam Silvera’s More Happy Than Not, which navigates subjects like suicide and gender identity in a skillful, honest way.
It’s not a surprise to me that so many of these books are being optioned for film. I don’t believe we’ll see a downturn in YA contemporary literature in the near future. There’s still so much that has to be said.
What contemporary YA title has made an impression on you?
While starting a new school year could sometimes cause anxiety, especially when my best friend was going to a different school, the one thing that made returning to school fun was my back-to-school shopping day with Mom. I have three siblings so going out with Mom alone was rare. Before school started every year, each of us kids went out individually to buy school supplies and have lunch with Mom. After buying paper, pencils, binders and a new outfit to wear on the first day of school, we’d climb up to the lunch counter at Woolworths and order burgers and fries. I think I enjoyed this special lunch more than getting new clothes. And I’d always end this fun outing with a milk shake for dessert. –Linda Joy Singleton
Back to school was always hard for me. I LOVED summer swimming and bike riding. And trips to the penny-candy store. But one thing made back to school fun—BOOK FAIRS! My mom is a big reader too, and she’d let me buy an armload of books at the fair. I could trade them for my allowance. I’d stack my new books on my desk and stare at them, dreaming of the stories I’d discover. I’d smell my books and run my hands over the clean pages. I’ve never lost that love of books—new or old. As long as the teachers let me read, I was a happy girl. –Whitney Stewart
I couldn’t wait to go back to school every September! I had my pencils sharpened, notebooks labeled, and my Scotch-plaid school bag packed and sitting at the front door by August 1st. I have very fond memories of my metal lunchbox, a favorite back-to-school item. After all, it was also Scotch-plaid like my school bag, and it came with a matching Thermos, which meant my mom trusted me with something that could shatter in an instant if dropped. I carried it like it was a glass goblet. When the first day came, I jumped out of bed the second I was called. I dove into my outfit (skirt, cardigan, knee socks, black and white saddle shoes), and skipped to the bus stop. No one was there, of course. I was always an hour early. That back-to-school enthusiasm never faded in high school or college. Always first in class and last to leave; I never wanted to miss a thing. –Nancy Viau
Middle school is a time of change. Changing classes, changing friends, changing bodies, changing “out” for P.E. (ugh.) One special part of my routine did not change. Our English teacher, Mrs. Moore, read out loud to us for the first fifteen minutes of every class period. I had English right after lunch, and I remember sitting in my seat, listening to the shushing sound of the air conditioner, and drinking in the story. It was one of my favorite parts of each day. I particularly remember her reading the book Tuck Everlasting out loud. After she read, she’d pause and ask us what we thought of the story. Good times. –Sarah Lynn Scheerger
When I do author visits, one of the throwback photos I share is my first grade school picture. The dress I’m wearing is made from a fabric with an autumn leaf print. I loved this dress because I felt like I was wearing a tree. I loved and still love climbing trees, hiking through a thick forest, and sitting under the shade of a tree to read a book. I was a daydreamer (I still am!) in school, often looking out of the classroom windows. It helped me focus to see the trees behind our school, especially when writing or tackling math problems. It’s no different now. If I gaze at the trees in my yard, or take a nice walk in my local park, I’m always more focused when I sit down to write. –Alison Formento
In this picture you see not one, but three moms (and possibly a 4th one in the future) – my mom Sandra, my grandma Carmen, me, and my daughter. The picture was taken here in the U.S. in Indiana, at Appleworks Farm. There’s nothing more special than having a supportive family. I am thankful to be so close to my mom and my grandma, despite the physical distance (both live in Brazil). Happy Mothers’ Day!
In many ways, my mother and I are alike. We both love tea, anything tea: pots, cups, Earl Grey. We both love our family, floral patterns, and Lake Michigan. We love to create: she paints, I write. Her house is neater than mine, but I try! She taught me the importance of manners and love, two topics I’ve written about. A Kiss Means I Love You is dedicated to her and my dad. People often say I’m just like my mother. Thank you very much, I say.
Mom has a book addiction. I can’t remember a day when she didn’t lose herself in prose. She reads at home and on adventure. She reads by head lamp or candle, at dawn and dusk. She reads to know herself and the world. And she gave this gift to me. We have traveled together across continents, up mountains, and down rapids, forever lugging books in our packs. What better end to a journey, Mom thinks, than finding HOME in a book?
Frances Somerville Krick, a.k.a. my mom, died in 2009. She was an English teacher. Whenever I showed her my writing she would read it carefully, then point out any grammatical errors. “But what did you think of the story?” I would ask, exasperated, after hearing that the third sentence in the first paragraph contained two independent clauses which should be linked by a semi-colon instead of a comma. “It was wonderful, Lolly,” she would say, unruffled, as if this were a given. While my mother considered her role limited to proofreading, the truth is she shaped my life relative to words. In the days before tech she was a faithful snail mail correspondent; when I was living on one side of the country and she on the other, she penned lengthy letters several times a week. She was a dedicated reader. In fact, I cannot recall a day (apart from her very last) that she didn’t spend some period of time with a book in her hand. As a grandmother she made it a loving daily practice to read aloud to her grandchildren. And, despite her characteristic humility in casting herself as proofreader, I know the truth: she was not an editor but an exemplar. The dedication in my debut novel reads simply For my mother. It is an independent clause linked to her shining spirit.
My mom embodies generosity. I can’t remember her ever saying “no” to anyone who asked for help, and she has a sixth sense when friends need support. More than anything, I admire her generosity of spirit. She is a true listener—genuinely
interested and empathic. Whether listening to a mundane anecdote or a serious problem, my mom is never distracted and never thinking of a witty reply or what she wants to contribute to the conversation. She listens to understand. I work hard to emulate her, and it turns out, good listening has helped my writing tremendously.
My mother taught me that anything was possible if I put my mind to it. I learned that hard work was more important than raw skill, and that being kind was more important that being smart or being pretty or being talented. She introduced me to the love affair that is reading. I knew that spending a summer
lounging with book after book after book was a “good use of time.” I learned to think for myself…and that what I had to say mattered. She showed me how to appreciate life’s gifts, no matter how big or small. And you’re one of those gifts, Mom. Thank you! (I learned to say “thank you” too!)
(Pictured left: Author Suzanne Slade)
About twenty years ago I (the Mechanical Engineer who didn’t take any writing classes in college) told my mother I wanted to try writing children’s books. What did my practical, realistic, two-feet-on-the-ground mother do? She read story after story, kindly pointing out typos, grammar mistakes, and paragraphs that were just plain confusing. She encouraged, even when rejection letters piled up. She applauded, even when the “successes” were incredibly small (like a rejection letter with my name on it.) And when I finally got published, she bought books for most everyone she knew. Thank goodness for mothers!
I love picture books. So, as you can imagine, I read lots of them. For now, I have a good excuse – a five-year old who loves them as much as I do. However, I don’t think I will have the excuse for too long, as the five-year old will soon move on to more wordily adventures.
Born and raised in Brazil, the books I read as a child were not the same ones you probably read. Throughout my childhood, my two favorite picture books were Flicts by Ziraldo (a renowned Brazilian cartoonist) andChapeuzinho Amarelo (Little Yellow Riding Hood) by Chico Buarque.
Flicts tells the story of a lonely color. No one wants to play with Flicts because he’s different. Flicts travels the world looking for a place where he’s accepted, but finds none. He ends up in the moon. As Ziraldo tells it, “nobody knows, except maybe the astronauts” what color the moon is. On the very last page of the edition I have (but can’t find), Ziraldo says he met Neil Armstrong when the astronaut visited Brazil. After telling him about Flicts, Neil Armstrong confirmed, “The moon is Flicts.”
Chapeuzinho Amarelo is about a little girl who spends her days doing nothing, because she’s afraid of everything. “She was afraid of thunder. For her, worms were snakes. And she was never caught under the sun, because she was afraid of the shadow,” Chico Buarque writes. Eventually, Chapeuzinho Amarelo gets over her fears, thanks to a play with words that just works in Portuguese. So creative!
Because I grew up abroad, I have a lot of catching up to do when it comes to American picture book classics. The first time I read an Eric Carle book, for example, was in 2002. I had never heard of Lois Ehlert, Shel Silverstein, Leo Lionni, or even Dr. Seuss, until about a decade ago. And I am sure there are lots of wonderful authors and illustrators that I still don’t know.
Of the most recent American picture books, some of my favorites are Mr. Tiger Goes Wild by Peter Brown, The Dot by Peter Reynolds (and almost anything by Peter Brown and Peter Reynolds. What is it about Peters?).
However, I don’t read only picture books. I have a lot of catching up to do in other genres too. I love the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling, and Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. Angela’s Ashes is possibly my favorite book ever. I just finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, which I also enjoyed.
We’re excited to announce that our YA author, Laura Hurwitz, has written a #FridayReads post this week! Be sure to check out Laura’s Tumblr.
Joan Didion first entered my life when I was a college freshman. It was 1973 and the book of her collected essays on our required reading list was Slouching Towards Bethlehem. Didion got the title from the Yeats poem “The Second Coming” which you should read, if you haven’t already, because it captures the chaotic social tenor of the 1960s, which is what this particular collection of Didion’s essays encompasses.
At the time, Didion made me feel worse than I already did about my generation, positioned as we were at the dawn of disco, which even then I perceived as the gateway culture to the ’70s Me Generation. As a young adolescent, I longed to be a hippie, to belong to a movement that was, to my mind, at least, defiant and romantic and, most of all, cohesive. I held onto this dream, which inspired and informed my YA novel, Disappear Home. Didion’s unflinching vision evoked the ’60s in a way that made me feel like a counter-culture insider, rather than a wistful wannabe.
Didion is not just smart, but whip-smart—not simply observant, but incisively so. She is not, to quote Holden Caulfield, a phony, but the real deal. I was immediately pulled into her writerly admixture of wonder and dread, a literary vortex where things that happened mattered in a way that cut to the bone, unlike now, when it seems we just slough things off and move on. What keeps me a Didion devotee, though, is not her keen evaluative eye but the perfection of her prose.
This is “In the Islands” from her 1977 collection of essays, The White Album.
…I want you to know, as you read me, precisely who I am and where I am and what is on my mind…You are getting a woman who somewhere along the line misplaced whatever slight faith she ever had in the social contract, in the meliorative principle, in the whole grand pattern of human endeavor.
Even now, reading Didion keeps me on my toes. She requires me to look up things like “meliorative principle.” I am consistently mesmerized by her ability to examine life without the slightest intention of demystifying anything, but rather, to reveal its bewilderingly illogical complexity. She makes me acutely aware that every shiny surface connects to a dark underbelly, a fact not confined to a time period or a social movement, but emblematic of the human condition.
At 80, Joan Didion is still writing. In 2005, her memoir of her husband John’s death, The Year of Magical Thinking, won The National Book Award. The subject is intensely personal, but the theme of death and loss is universal, and the voice is one hundred percent Didion.
What I would say is if you haven’t read Joan Didion, do. A good place to start is the collection of the full content of her first seven volume of non-fiction, We Tell Ourselves Storiesin Order to Live (Everyman’s Library).