There will be a giveaway on this blog!

Yes, you read that right. I will soon be doing a giveaway on this blog, based on the fabbity fab Unsung YA Heroes Project! I am looking to feature some authors here, so if you or a friend are one of the authors featured in my previous post and want to help me out, leave me a comment and I'll send you an email!

If you're a reader of this blog who just wants in on the giveaway action (duh, that's what I'd be interested in), keep watching The Tart. IT WILL COME. In the mean time, check out these videos, as I am now addicted to video blogging:

Distractions are my friend. That's what I'll keep telling myself.

Okay. So I've been neglecting this blog again and I 'm going to tell myself that it's because I've been in my revisions cave. Funny how my revisions cave looks EXACTLY like my living room. And who put these cats here? Jeez.

But you know, it's hard to stay in the revisions cave. Sometimes really shiny things come up. Today I spent a good amount of time working on the playlist for the main character in MYSELF BEHIND MYSELF (formerly called HISTORY) so that I could revise when I was done. But what did I do when I was done? I IMed my friend James to tell him what I was doing and then when he said he wanted to see my awesome playlist (it is awesome) I told him I would put it up on last.fm. And when I finished putting that one up, I put all my project playlists up. And uploaded art. Fun!

Oh yes, it is super fun to procrastinate by making pretend cover art for your books. I shared some for previous projects in a past blog post, but here is my mock cover for 1999. Look! It's so colorful and cute! I used free stock art from sites like morguefile.com and deviantart.com.

I also counted all the swear words in MYSELF BEHIND MYSELF. Why? Because I can. Scrivener -- a writing program that, incidentally, changed my life -- has a text statistics option that lets you count how many times you use certain words. MYSELF BEHIND MYSELF drops 28 F bombs in it's third draft. There are 31 variations of shit and 7 instances of taking Jesus' name in vain, including 3 where Christ is included. I am sad to say, right this second, there are no douches. I will work on that.

This option also allowed me to tell my mother, upon sending her the first draft for 1999, that this book has much more swearing than my previous manuscript and that I didn't want to hear about how offensive it is. She claims she can handle it. But you'll be happy to know it has 3 creative uses of douche/douchebag. My characters, apparently, have potty mouths. Unlike ANYONE I know...

I've been watching Olympic hockey games and telling myself that I can totally watch and revise at the same time but OH NO WE ARE SLAUGHTERING RUSSIA GO TEAM USA. Right. Women's hockey rules, and instead of actually getting any work done, I'm generating ideas for new books while screaming at the television. Also, this week my buddy Kyle explained curling to me in such a comprehensive manner that I mostly understand it and can now watch the sport with interest. Crap.

And of course there's one of the best excuses in the world: my cat is sitting on my manuscript. I know, this is right up there with "my dog ate my homework." But, you know, sometimes the truth is the truth. I mean, look. Turkleton is a very needy cat. He spends a lot of time vying for my attention, always in contention with this strange laptop machine that I'm always staring at and clicking on. When he can actually, physically PWN his rival, he's going to do it. (Telemachus, for those of you wondering, doesn't care if I'm writing, as long as I give him his own pen to chew on. Much easier to deal with.) Let's also take the time to note that, in his spare time, Turkleton also likes to sit on my phone, my keys, books I have open and am trying to read, and my arms while I'm trying to type.

Naturally there's also this classic distraction, the internet. Between micro-blogging on Twitter and this long and rambling post I'm writing right now, the web is a fun distraction that sucks up a lot of time. Of course, it is useful procrastination, right? Twitter is a great resource for meeting and chatting with other authors and industry professionals. And this insight into the glamorous life of being a yet-unpublished-YA-author is sure to, uh, help someone else along, right? And sometimes I even research things like chupacabras and 1990s pop culture items that have escaped my memory.

Hey, at least I haven't turned on my TV yet today. And it's not like YOU'RE writing right this second, are you? That's what I thought.

Austin SCBWI recap. Whoa, longest most awesome day ever!

So on Saturday I attended my first ever SCBWI conference. IT WAS AWESOME! No one made fun of my pimples or roots and I even made new friends and learned things! It was so fun to catch up with a lot of my writer buds, whom I haven't seen in a while, not to mention meeting some of my friends who live in my computer for the first time!

Here are some exclamation points! For good measure!

The whole event, as usual, started with TRAVEL DRAMA. I am still a pedestrian, and getting to remote, busless places like Cedar Park is difficult for me. Fortunately, my amazing friend Jessica Lee Anderson offered up the idea of having a sleepover at her house (okay, it was more of a stay-up-all-night-because-we're-too-excited-to-sleep-over, but whatever) where I presented her with A DOG SNUGGIE. Jess is more than an amazing critique partner, but someone I'm lucky to call a BFF. She gave me great advice on what to expect at the conference and a jillion reasons I shouldn't be nervous. PS, if you haven't read her latest book, BORDER CROSSING, get the eff on that. It rocks. Jess recently gave an interview here, btw, which is a must-read.

We got there at the butt-crack of dawn, and it was COLD out! Not Texas cold, but normal people cold. Luckily, the Austin SCBWI croud is WARM and welcoming, so the second we arrived the chill melted away. The muffins helped. One of the first people I saw at breakfast was Shelli Cornelison who I know from YALITCHAT on twitter. She introduced me to Nikki Loftin and a group of lovely ladies at breakfast. Here is a picture of breakfast that I lovingly stole from Jo.

Former editor and current agent Mark McVeigh gave an opening presentation, in which he explained that the publishing industry is not in collapse, but in transition. He gave several arguments for accepting the digital revolution. "There will always be people who want hardcover books," he said, comparing these people to today's vinyl aficionados. He made the point that most people were no longer buying CDs, especially young people. Whenever people talk about ebooks and the digitizing of the publishing industry, my brain goes right to that scene from UGLIES, where Tally discovers the old library in the Smoke and all the paper books and magazines that are unrecognizable relics to her and her peers. I find it terrifying. But, McVeigh is right. "We are all running scared," he said. "Use that fear." He also suggested writing outside our comfort zones as a cure for writer's block: "Rub your muse the wrong way."

Over there is a picture Jo Whittemore took of Brandi November Lyons and, yes, that's me, looking, supposedly "sassy and cute." Okay, Jo. I think it's a little more "half-crazed, early-morning style." But, whatever you say! We were waiting for our critiques in the "holding cell."

I had my first critique of the day with the adorable Sara Lewis Holmes, author of OPERATION YES, which I am so very looking forward to reading. Sara's advice was practical in every way. She had HISTORY, which is my completed YA contemporary, and I have always felt there was something missing in the first few chapters. With Sara's suggestions (and some from Shana Burg, later in the day), I think I know how to make HISTORY a million times stronger than it is now.

Cheryl Klein, editor extraordinaire from Arthur A. Levine Books (Scholastic), was one of my favorite presenters of the day. She gave a lot of wonderful information on picture book writing -- a genre I am just beginning to try. One wonderful bit of advice she gave was that picture books should be centered in a real childhood emotion, like like of power. Delightfully, she added, "You have to get rid of the parents, because parents are like the anti-power." She also introduced us to (Laurie Halse) Anderson's Law: Plot = Compulsion vs. Obstacles.

At this point in the day I had an amazingly helpful critique with local lady P.J. "Tricia" Hoover, author of THE EMERALD TABLET and THE NAVEL OF THE WORLD. It was so nice to sit down with Tricia, as she's someone I often talk to about books and writing, but never really about my books and writing. Since I knew that Tricia loves mythology and sci fi, I sent her pages my unfinished paranormal project, HARKNESS BEACH. The first thing she told me was that she loved the story but the voice felt female. This was so important to hear -- my narrator is a teen guy and I need to make him sound more dudely. Tricia also recommended a few books that she thinks share similar themes and will help me figure out my voice and pacing. Yesterday I started writing some new scenes for HARKNESS BEACH, which I've had a hard time working on lately. This book has a whole new lease on life!

I had a great lunch with Kelly J. Holmes of YAnnabe, founder of the Unsung YA Heroes Project! Funny thing: we found each other twittering during a presentation and made plans to meet up at lunch. Oh, intarnets! I also met the fabulous Tessa Burns, who ended up giving me a ride back into town (thankyouthankyouthankyou) and Lynne Kelly Hoenig, another of my YALITCHAT buds. Guys. Seriously. I cannot express enough how awesome twitter is for connecting with other writers in your community, not to mention writers you wouldn't normally get to talk to. GET ON IT.

Another of my favorite presenters was author Kirby Larson, whose book HATTIE BIG SKY is a Newbery Honor title. She was funny and delightful and full of witty advice. My favorite? She told us we had to "write through the bad stuff." Meaning, life gets in the way of writing. Shit happens, but the only way to get to the other side is to slog through it. She also gave us some great quotes from other folks: "Inspiration is not a gift" from Madeleine L'Engle and "Frustration is a sign of seriousness" from Ralph Keyes.

Around this time I had two more critiques. Chris Barton, Austinite and Sibert Honor author of THE DAY-GLO BROTHERS and the upcoming (can't wait for this!) SHARK VS. TRAIN, took a look at MOON YETI and knew exactly what it needed: a real plot. Ha! Like I said, picture books are new to me. He asked me some import questions about character motives. I have a lot of work to do on MOON YETI, but with Chris' help, it will get there.

Immediately after my critique with Chris, I got to sit down with the amazing Shana Burg, local author of A THOUSAND NEVER EVERS, who always has good writing advice (I loved her presentation at one of the previous SCBWI meetings, during which she shared some marvelous tips on character development). Shana had fabulous advice, and suggested some bold suggestions to the opening of HISTORY. She thinks it should be more spooky, and I totally agree. I'm going to be doing some reworking of this book in the near future before sending out too many more query letters.

Lisa Graff, former editor and author of Texas Bluebonnet List titles THE THING ABOUT GEORGIE and THE UMBRELLA SUMMER (the later of which has been on my TBR list since I first saw it in publisher's catalog) gave a very entertaining talk about how to be a writer and your own editor, and why you shouldn't wear your writer and editor hats at the same time. My favorite tidbit from her presentation? "An author knows what a genius he is, an editor knows you could do better." Basically, as an author, you have to believe that what you are writing as amazing and valuable and world-changing. You have to believe in it, or you'll never get anything done. But when you attack it as an editor, you also have to believe that you have the ability to improve it, and make it the best it can be. At some point Tim's photgrapher caught me furiously scribbling notes and looking out-of-my-mind. I like to call this "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Crazy Person."

At the end of the day we had a short panel with several of the featured local SCBWI authors. My favorite parts? Philip Yates, author of my favorite Christmas picture book, A PIRATE'S NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, wrote a poem about getting an agent by name-dropping all the amazing Austin talent. He also confesses that he likes to print out his manuscripts and read them aloud to his cat. And Shana Burg professed that she approaches revisions "like a daredevil...open to any suggestion." She said you have to make painful changes, and, that is one thing I am going to take seriously in my upcoming revision process.

So I've got a lot to do this week. For now I'm focusing on HARKNESS BEACH, but I've always got my crop rotation process to fall back on. It may be time to start revising 1999 (my Y2Kpocalypse novel) in the near future. And of course I have amazing critiques to work with for MOON YETI and HISTORY. I started reading THE MAZE RUNNER by James Dashner last night, per P.J. Hoover's suggestion, and I'm super intrigued by it. My next post should have some book reviews. In the mean time, I hope you all have a great week, writing, reading, and otherwise!

Really silly things I'm worrying about right now. Le sigh.

So the SCBWI Austin conference is this weekend and I'm totally excited. All of my Austin writing friends will be there (except for poor Kari, for whom we will be tweeting) and then of course there's the special guests like out-of-town authors and agents and editors.

Oh, wait. VIPs are coming! I am TERRIFIED of VIPs! VIPs en masse could give me a heart attack! I'm all twitchy.

So instead of thinking of important things like how I might pitch my novel if asked or what questions I'll ask other authors I'm meeting for the first time or what I'm supposed to bring I'm worrying about the following:

I have two zits on my forehead and they are getting kind of huge and what if they don't go away before the conference?
(Because obviously someone with zits can't write a decent manuscript and should be shunned.)

I noticed yesterday that I'm getting major rootage and my dye job is fading.
(Because no agent in his right mind would sign a pseudoredhead. If ginger kids have no souls, what on earth is in store for a faker?)

What if someone asks me about my book and I completely forget the plot?
(Because, you know, even though I spent a year and a half of my life having conversations in my head with a made up character this is totally likely.)

What if I fall asleep in the middle of a presentation because the conference starts so early and I don't really like coffee and I can't figure out how to sugar up the coffee provided enough so that I can actually drink it and, BAM, catching z's.
(Because coffee is rocket science. Only rocket scientists can make it. That is why Starbucks is secretly run by NASA.)

In my sleepy stupor my Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome will flare up and I'll either make an inappropriate Freudian slip or say something ridiculous and make someone important hate me.
(Because it's not like I've ever made a good impression on someone. Of course not!)

The list goes on. Does anyone else get the jitters before an event like this? It's a great opportunity, and it will be hugely informative, but I know it's also going to be big-time fun. Clearly, I need to chill out. And that's why the world is blessed with pharmaceuticals.

In the future: I plan to blog about a few books I've read lately. Feel free to tell me what you've been reading down in them there comments. I love reading suggestions. Now I'm off to finish Girl from Mars by Tamara Bach (sososososo good) while listening to Catatonia. Goodnight.

Return to the blogosphere - here's hoping it sticks.

I'm finding myself micro-blogging on Twitter way more than I expected. A few months ago someone - I think the brilliant, gorgeous, and hysterical Justine Larbalestier - asked tweeters if microblogging was taking away from keeping up with actual blogging.

My answer, as you may have noticed, is a resounding, all-caps YES.

The summer here has been a wash of dramas - both personal and vicarious - so I've thrown myself as much as I can into my writing.

My front-burner work-in-progress, History, is in the final stages of its first draft. My critique partner, Jessica Lee Anderson (no relation - we all know Anderson is my nom de plume, oui?), is a freaking godsend, and the Austin writing community (mostly the SCBWI cult, which I will be joining in the future, if only for their excellent KoolAid) is beyond amazing. If you write YA or MG, move to Austin stat.

I mean, come on, I'm such a nerd for my projects I've even got fake covers for two of them:

Harkness Beach is back burner #1, a story I've been rewriting since I was 16, but which has recently come to light as what it's meant to be - a YA sci-fi detective story exploring secular Hell and reincarnation. Whoa. History is the big project, my real first novel, that I've been assured will find a home if I can just finish the thing. These covers keep me feeling positive that they're real books that will find real places on real shelves one day. I highly recommend making fake covers - it's great for upping your ego-maniacal writerly rights self esteem.

If you'd asked me two years ago if I was going to be a novelist - as a career or as a hobby - I would have told you no. Poetry is all that my attention span allows for and I'm fucking good at it. Why dive into a craft that isn't lucrative if it only means I'll be bleeding from both arms.

Backing up - the infamous Blanche Boyd, Writer in Residence at my Alma Mater, Connecticut College, refused to let me take her fiction writing classes at the same time as taking classes with Charles O. Hartman, my first real teacher in poetic medium (he showed me how much I sucked and, thank the lord, gave me the tools to fix it). I recall a phone call with Blanche in which I did a lot of eyerolling as she said in her delectable Southern accent "Honey taking my class and Charles' at the same time would be like bleeding from both arms. You'd be crying in my office every week and I'd have to put you in counseling."

I was too speechless to tell her that I'm a certifiable crazy person who was already IN weekly counseling. Hey, everyone loves a high-functioning manic-depressive with a sprinkling panic disorder and hypochondria. I never did take her class.

But she was right - having endeavored into novel-writing I've all but abandoned my poetic roots. I can't compose poetry while trying to figure out what my girl Jody is going to do next and whether or not she's a reliable narrator and how on earth to disguise my high school experience as a fictional world. Of course, that doesn't mean I don't want to write as poetically as, say, my newest heroine Randa Jarrar. I swear, this woman is the literary equivalent of the marshmallow-pooping unicorn on that Threadless tee I can't quite get the nerve (or the cash - I'm a starving artist here) to buy. Everything she puts on the page is gold. I won't believe her if she ever tells me she writes crappy first drafts. I just won't. Sorry, Randa.

That said, Twitter has been a great tool in keeping me in touch with other writers, as we encourage eachother to keep cranking out wordage, celebrate each other's successes, and have Twitter Book BDays. (Mitali Perkins is a goddess.)

I'd like to say that I'll pick back up on this blog. Every YA novelist needs a blog these days, and here's mine. It should have words in it on a regular basis. I'm going to try. But I'm such an oversharer! I beg you to bear with me.

In the mean time, the other arm I'm bleeding from is The BookKids Blog, which I write for several times a week for BookPeople, the largest and most awesome bookstore in Texas. (PS, it's an indie.) I post a lot of book reviews and banned books propaganda (oooooh that fire is always in my belly!) and interview whichever authors are willing to put up with me. I love it. I hope you do, too!

Email me any time, y'all. I'm open for questions, comments, and bad jokes.

Love,
Emily

Things I should be doing instead of reading your blog

1. Widdling down my to-read pile which, I assure you, is bursting at the seams. No, it's warping my bookshelf quite literally. I need to add more shelves to the unit but Wal-Mart (hush, hippies, I'm POOR) doesn't carry them. ANGRY.

2. Working on either of the two YA books I'm meant to be writing and have manuscripts-in-progress for. I have organized them both into Scrivener (which I discovered thanks to Maureen Johnson's blog), as well as an incomplete thought of a middle-grade novel and a not-so-short short story that I wrote two Augusts ago. The crop-rotation method has ceased to work on either of these projects and tho I have disguised one as my NaNoWriMo for this year (I didn't start it this month but I didn't work on it for the first half of the month so, no harm no foul?) and still have managed more than a scribble.

3. The dishes. I think there's stuff growing in my sink.

4. Reading more books by Justine Larbalestier, Scott Westerfeld, and M.T. Anderson since they'll all be at BookPeople this week and I'd like to have something useful to say to them. I'm halfway through Magic or Madness right now and totally into it, but that leaves little time for me to engage the rest of the books in this "upcoming authors" stack.

5. Studying Cramming for the GRE which I am taking on Tuesday. TUESDAY! I've been operating under the assumption that if I don't know it now I'm not going to know it anytime soon, but, as Tuesday Doomsday approaches, I'm getting nervouser and nervouser. And less able to use real, dictionary-certified words.

6. Sending in my writing sample to UT, where I have applied for a fellowship in their MFA program. I'm a crazy person and am completely terrified that my work is not what they're looking for. I've gotta just stamp the envelope and put it in the mail.

So, you see, you people writing blogs are NOT helping me at all. Cut it out. I have too much to do to be reading your clever, funny, exciting, tragic, important ramblings & rants on the interwebs. No more!

I'm Cheating on You

With another blog.

So I work at this amazing bookstore and help run the kids section and we have this blog all about kids' books. I write in it. It's awesome. Here is my first post for said blog, and, goddammit, you should read BookKids regularly.

American Satire & Obama Drama

Since I've been getting emails and IMs about this, I figured I may as well lay it out here in Ye Olde Blog. I think there's nothing wrong with The New Yorker's recent cover. You know, the one causing all the ruckus, since it's got the Obamas all dressed up like terrorists. Since I'm not terribly politically-minded, I can only assume all y'all are harassing me 'cause I used to work at that fine magazine. That's ok. Just let me share my piece.

I really think the biggest problem with the cover has nothing to do with the magazine or the artist (Barry Blitt) at all. I think the biggest problem is that American's don't get satire. And that's fine, except, there are a lot of smart media outlets like TNY that are really great with satire, and the Obama cover is a perfect example. It addresses all the propaganda that the right-wing pundits are throwing at the Obama campaign. You know, that bullshit about him being a terrorist, a Muslim (and who cares if he were, really, but that's another blog for another day), etc. It highlights that "terrorist fist jab," has a flag burning in the fire place, and a portrait of Bin Laden on the wall. I mean, really, folks, what's not to get about this? It's so absurd, it has to be a joke.

And, okay, okay I get that it's a controversial cover. But seriously, the folks at The New Yorker are smart people, and you shouldn't think for a minute that they weren't expecting some sort of lashback from Obama supporters and the liberal media. And they know exactly what Fox News and all those conservative pundits are going to do with that - but, let's face it, those guys are preaching to the converted. You could put Obama in a crown of thorns, a frilly pink dress, or a Hitler-esque mustache on a magazine cover and these folks are still going to refer to him as "B. Hussein Obama" when they call in to raise a stink on talk radio.

But let's face it folks, controversy sells. This cover is going to move units, and that should make Obama supporters happy. If you actually open the magazine, you'll find not one but two articles on the senator. Now, given that a) I don't work at TNY anymore and b) as a result of a) I'm broke (and busy), I haven't had the time or money to sit down and read the articles (you may have noticed I'm up to my ears in teen and middle grade books), but, given the way the magazine tends to lean, you can be pretty sure that they have something good to say about Obama. At the very least, you know that they are going to be smart, no-bullshit pieces. And, you know what? That's exactly what the skeptical and the undecided need to read.

Yes, I support Obama. As I previously stated, I'm not very smart about politics. I'm one of those horrible people that gets pissed off when the President gives a speech or there's an important debate and it interrupts my TV programs. I don't read a lot of political magazines (or any, these days - like I said, too many kids' books), and I don't do a lot of research on the candidates. That said, I have seen Obama speak, I've heard what he has to say, and it seems to me he has a lot of good ideas for the American people, and the drive, ambition, and will-power to see these ideas through to fruition. Barack Obama loves America. For Chrissakes, anyone who is going to let a magazine cover dissuade them of that fact was never willing to consider Obama's character in the first place.

In conclusion: what's the big deal?

In another conclusion: I think you guys just need something to complain about. As if there wasn't enough already. Seriously.

Die-Cut Covers Are the Enemy

Dear Publishers,

I am writing you as a lover of books, no, an ambassador of books. As an inventory manager at a large independent book store, I assure you, I care for books like very few Americans do. I spend a lot of time every day thinking about books, shelving them in my head the way you fit Tetris blocks mentally after having played for hours before bed. Things like humidity pain me not because of the state of my hair, but the state of paperback covers curling when they are face-out on the shelves. But at least these covers revert to their prior state of flatness when shelved spine-out and pressed between their literary brethren.

Not so is the case for a damaged die-cut jacket.

Publishers, I come to you hoping that you will understand that books with die-cut details in the jacket or cover, however cute or funny or exciting to look at, stand no chance on a shelf not maintained and guarded by an ex-member of the FBI's bomb squad, treating each with the delicacy and precision he would treat a live wire. Inevitably, these seemingly simple jackets will be shelved too close and too hastily next to another book by a customer - or even a distracted, busy member of the staff - and the material that creates the cute little hole(s) will start to tear backward. The tome has begun its descent into book purgatory.

One tiny tear is never where it ends. Even books with just one simple cut in the cover wind up with their covers tattered beyond recognition, and remain lonely on the shelves where they cannot, will not sell until marked down and banished to the clearance aisle. And nobody wants a damaged book. Much like Rudolph's Island of Misfit Toys, the damaged books in this aisle can stay there for years before anyone even gives them a sidelong glance.

So here's the thing, Publishers. If you want your books to look beautiful and pristine on the shelves of my book store, stop making books with die-cut covers. Especially books for kids and teens, as these are folks who often times haven't figured out the proper care and keeping of a perfect-bound masterpiece. And even the young ones who do love their books as much as I do have no control over the four year old who comes into the store behind them just thinks it's fun to pull book after book from the shelves, throwing them to the floor, just to see how much damage they can accomplish before Momma notices. Kids will be kids, after all.

I understand that you want your books to be the most intriguing, cutting-edge items customers can see. But if you want your books to be seen at all, for the love of all things literary, make that cutting edge a little less literal.

With All Due Respect,

Emily
Ambassador of the Books

EDIT: Below is a picture of Sarah Dessen's latest book. I haven't read it, and have no opinion on the book itself. But I thought maybe this post needed an example photo. Here you have it:

The Next Movement: Death by Words

It's April, and you know what that means - it's National Poetry Month! Some of us, in the name of Masochism, I suppose, have twisted this into (Inter-)National Poetry Writing Month, or NaPoWriMo. This is much like NaNoWriMo, except instead of writing a 50k novel, the goal is to write a poem for each day of the month of April. Poets in several communities, online and off, I'm sure, are participating, cheering each other on, and cranking out verse. The idea, much like with NaNo, is not not necessarily to produce top notch writing, but simply to produce. It's an exercise in endurance, in breaking through writers' block, and, for me, in having 30 poems at the end of April that I might edit into something decent come May.

So far I'm doing well, and have penned five poems over the past five days (today's has yet to be written, but I'm sure I'll get there before I fall asleep). I started with a list of topics I might write about, with some lines and phrases and words that I'd like to work into my poetry, and have been referring back to this list for inspiration from time to time. Strangely enough, I seem to keep writing about bugs, which is weird, because I hate bugs. At the same time, it's not so weird, because I love watching Discovery Channel specials on bugs. They're fascinating.

This is the third year I've participated in NaPo, and since in the past two years I completed the task, I'm raising the bar for myself. I'd really like to write 30 pieces that are usable. Even though NaPoWriMo isn't about quality, I think as a writer I need to challenge myself. Several poems from last year, and even a few from the year before, have since been published, and I wish I had more salvageable works to draw from. This is partially because I'm hoping to take a big leap in the upcoming months - toward a chapbook or a collection.

I'm not sure of the exact benefits entailed in having a book of poetry vs. having pieces published in magazines, but I've been assured that they are many. Of course I also like the idea of having a selection of work all in one place that my amassed fans grandmother can pick up and enjoy. At this point in my career, I am a bit loathe to self-publish. I am rather confident that with time and patience I might stand a chance in the big kid's league.

So, in the very near future, I will be submitting manuscripts to the Mimesis Digital Chapbook Contest (my manuscript for this contest will include my photography as well), and to the Templar Poetry Pamphlet & Collection Competition. Wish me luck!

And Then There Were Five

It's official: I'm off to Texas.

If you'd asked me a year ago if I were ever going to move to one of the redneckiest states in the nation, I would have given you the evil eye. However, after having visited the lovely city of Austin, its suburbs, and also having roadtripped to San Antonio, I'm making one of the craziest moves of my life. I blame my boyfriend, Mark, who has enticed me to join him there. Despite my lovely Brooklyn, and all the seductions of the city that never sleeps, he didn't want to come here. And, well, my roots are barely planted, so as a writer, why not wander?

After the initial shock of friends and family wears off, they've been asking a lot of questions. How will you get there? Are you living together? Are you living TOGETHER together? How will you get around? What about your job? And, finally: What about your cats?

As you all know, I have two special cats. On the left, Telemachus, my 16lb+ Maine Coon with a heart of gold and the will to snuggle. On the right, Mocha, the small but plump (about 10lbs, where she should be 6 or 7) Siamese that was abandoned by several owners before finding her way to me and peeing on my carpets and kitchen counter. More on that later. These animals are family and of course are making the trip with me to the Lone Star State. Most likely by plane. Because of Mocha's nervous habit of urinating-at-will, the plane ride is a huge concern. I brought her to the vet on Saturday to find out that, well, she needs kitty Prozac.

I shit you not, the vet gave her antibiotics in case of an infection, but assured me that her pee problems are most likely the result of anxiety. Given her abandonment issues and past on the harsh streets of the Boston 'burbs, I can't say I blame the poor girl. But cat Prozac? I thought this was the sort of thing that only ridiculous celebrities and crazy show dog breeders would recommend, not a nice, friendly neighborhood veterinarian. Mocha has run up a nice list of veterinary bills for me already - her former owner ditched her with me when she moved out of my current apartment. At the time Mocha had ear mites which lead to her scratching her ear so hard she gave herself a hematoma that required surgery. She also needed to be dewormed and demited.

So why, after all this, are Mark and I adopting another cat? No, wait for it:

a three-legged calico kitten whom Mark has insisted upon naming Imogen Beatrice SQL Fleeterson should the adoption papers go through. Yes, this is our soon-to-be-lovespawn.

She's precious! Just look at that face! She apparently suffered some nerve damage to one of her front legs before she was rescued from the streets of Austin and had to have that leg amputated.

I'm a veterinarian's dream.

So, in Austin, I will have three cats, a new house, and a new job. Which, of course, all ties into this post. I want to be a veterinarian. Sort of.

Whenever I take the cats to the vet I wish I'd had the brains to stick to biology and the stomach to do veterinary school. I know I couldn't handle a lot of the things vets do - invasive surgeries, euthanasia, etc. But, why not get a job at a veterinary office? Yes, right now I have a fairly successful publishing career under way. I am looking at a ton of publishing venues from University presses to Austin-based magazines. But if the price is right, so is a change of pace. And, hey, I bet I'd get a good deal on veterinary services for the animals, seeing as I have several sickies to take care of.

Given the fact that I have no experience in animal clinics or shelters, this is just another pipe dream. But, I can volunteer. With any luck Mark will keep me from bringing home every stray animal I encounter, and I can help some orphan cats and pups stay healthy and happy. And, with that in mind, I have two hungry cats waiting for me to finish this up so I can cuddle and feed them. Cat Lady Out.

Recipe Time

My room mate says I'm like Izzie from Grey's Anatomy. If you're not familiar with the show, she deals with stress by baking, to the dismay of her room mates who are then forced with the dilemma: to eat or not to eat.

I don't know what's come over me, but recently I, like Izzie, can't stop baking. Muffins, cookies, breads — it just doesn't stop. I've been modifying recipes (note: you can try, but you just can't make cumin cookies taste good) and heating up the kitchen. While it is probably stress-related, I haven't heard many complaints from coworkers, who are happy to share in the bounty of my bakathon.

Tonight I made pumpkin muffins. Sadly, I was out of walnuts. Hazelnuts are no substitute, and neither are almonds. So I was forced down a different route altogether: chocolate chips. I added both miniature semi-sweet and white chocolate to the batter. And they are delicious. So, if you would like your very own muffingasm, try this recipe. It's my very own, so, you know, if one day I'm famous and write a cookbook, you can say you were privy to this information back in the day.

INGREDIENTS:
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon of salt
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup canned pumpkin purée
1/2 cup olive oil
2 eggs, beaten
1/4 cup water
3/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ginger
1/3 teaspoon cloves
1/2 cup mini semi-sweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup white chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350°F (180°C). Whisk together the flour, salt, sugar and baking soda. In a separate bowl, with an electric mixer, blend the pumpkin, oil, eggs, water, and spices. Slowly mix in dry ingredients until just combined. Add chocolate chips. Pour into papered muffin tin. Bake 25-30 minutes (until a knife comes out clean when poked into the center of a muffin).

I cannot promise that they will be beautiful, but they will certainly be delicious.

Hug Your Mail Man (or Woman)

I can really understand why postal workers are so grumpy. They do what I've been avoiding my whole life: dealing directly with the public. I was at the post office today and the line was a slow-moving fifteen people deep when I walked in. Some of these people had children with them, one of which was running wild, playing with the stamp machine and one of the mailboxes.

I don't know about where you live, but where I live, the postal workers are all behind double panes of bullet-proof glass. You speak through an intercom, and any time you give them something (or vice versa) you open your side of the window to place the item on the counter and after you close your side, they open theirs to retrieve your goods. National security at its finest.

So you can see, perhaps, why the line of customers moves slower than molasses in January. Mailing a letter requires quite the rigmarole - opening and closing windows, etc. - and if you're the attendant dealing with a cranky old woman (my neighborhood has its share) who can't hear or can't lift the heavy glass or just feels like being difficult, it's going to take that much longer, and you're going to wish that much harder for a freak tornado/tsunami/nuclear explosion to blow up your postal district.

Enter my new best friend, the Automated Postal Center. The APC, or, as I like to call him, the MailBot, is a lovely little machine that I've seen in several post offices that will do almost everything a human postal worker can do without any attitude or security systems. And, in my neck of the woods, there's never a a line. There was one man in front of me today, and the only other time I've had to wait was so that the receipt paper could be replaced. So, why on earth would you wait in that long line to mail a letter when, using your debit or credit card, you can purchase stamps, weigh and mail a package, and purchase delivery confirmation or insurance.

I'm in the post office every week at least once. I mail out submissions to lit journals like a well-oiled machine. On top of this I have friends all over the globe, not to mention a boyfriend in Texas and a wee sister at her first year in college up in Maine. Care packages are necessary. The MailBot gets me. He doesn't judge the amount of mail I send — though I'm sure the mail carrier considers it odd that I receive so many small manila envelopes addressed to me in tag-like print (my goofy handwriting) without any return label (rejection letters). And the MailBot is just so fun to use! With a touch screen and perfect postage you can affix yourself, there's nothing better. Except, well, a lot of things. But, as an individual obsessed with mail, I have to give props.

And let's give those postal workers a break, eh? They have to deal with plenty of stooges every day. I'm sure they love the MailBot, too.

When I grow up

Summer time can be a veritable wasteland for cable viewers - our network favorites go into reruns and new short-season summer series are often no more than a flash in the pan. Thankfully TNT developed The Closer a few years ago providing at least one night a week with some clever crime drama. Army Wives, while airing amongst the notoriously sentimental and uninspired shows on Lifetime, is an intriguing new series that lands it a good few notches above mediocre. But every summer, without fail, the Discovery Channel alone can boast an event with both reruns AND original programming that would completely beat out a week with new episodes of House, Criminal Minds, Grey's Anatomy, and CSI - at least on my TiVo.

Shark Week makes me want to go back in time and become an ichthyologist.

These animals are brilliant and beautiful. I just finished watching Top Ten Most Dangerous Sharks, which I remember watching last year. The narrator talked about all these amazing experiences, and shows biologists and divers doing the most exciting things. I want to go swim with sharks, get bitten by one or two (nothing fatal or damaging, just enough for a cool scar and a story), experience the awe and adrenaline of sharing the ocean with them.

When I was young I was obsessed with whales, and I feel like I missed out. If I had had a poster of the various species of sharks on my wall, instead of whales, perhaps I would have stuck to my guns and become a biologist of some sort instead of crapping out in high school and giving up on the sciences. It's not likely, as the science programs, even in my school district in coastal Maine, weren't exactly deep sea expeditions.

I found myself writing a poem about shark predation on the train last week, in anticipation of the Shark Week extravaganza. I felt like a cheat. I've never seen a shark in the wild, only in aquariums (and according to the aforementioned program, it was most likely a sand tiger, as they survive best in captivity and their needly teeth make for a great spectacle). My experience on boats is limited to Portland Harbor and the Staten Island Ferry. I once went on a whale watch - I was about 14 - and wound up seasick and vomiting and not seeing more than a dorsal fin. I will take whatever drugs necessary to go on a shark watch so that I can record their majesty in earnest.

I promise not to get eaten.

And so it begins...

Inspired by my many "serious" blogger friends, I am hereby abandoning my past as a "casual" blogger. Blogging is, as some might say, serious business, after all, and there are a lot of serious things to be said.

My name is Emily, but some of you may have read my poetry published under the moniker E. Kristin Anderson. You know, as in ekristinanderson.blogspot.com. Yes, it's a penname, don't fault me for it. Some other Emily Morse got there first and published screenplays with my name. I know, I know, it's a tragedy. But I figure this is a great way to take advantage of my grandmother's maiden name. And she's an awesome lady, so why not be an Anderson? And as to prevent further confusion with the billions of Emily Andersons that must exist, I decided to shorten that first name to E. and use Kristin. Of course, this has caused just the slightest bit of agony. It seems that the popular way to spell Kristin is with an e: Kristen. Funny story: my Dad can't spell. And having not discussed spelling with my mother before she was put on infinite painkillers, I was born and my birth certificate was filled out wrong. And never corrected. I'm a walking mistake, in some sense of the world. No wonder I'm a hate-mongering tart.

Emily is a great name, though. The first person I shared my name with was Miss Emily Dickinson. I mean, clearly, there were millions, no, billions, of Emilies running amok in the world at the time, but when i was seven or eight I was standing in line at the book store with my mum and saw that there was a book with my name on it with all the other bargain books: the Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson. It MUST have been a bargain book because it was a massive hardcover tome with roses on the cover, and I can't imagine even my, who was and is a great advocate of reading and the arts for kids, spending more than ten bucks on a book of poetry that I wanted just because of the author's name.

I fell in love with poetry that summer. I read most of Emily's poems (I'd like to say all, but I know that's not true), which of course I thought were all about love of nature and wanting to live in the ocean as a mermaid and such - the naiveté of childhood blocks out the ideas of depression and suicide that are so predominant in such works - and that fall I started telling people that I was named after Miss Dickinson. A total lie: if I was named after anyone, my mother said, it was her "Aunt" Emily, who was actually just a favorite babysitter who spelled her name E-M-I-L-I-E (another spelling mistake on my parents' permanent record) and, truth be told, it wasn't so much that I was named after her but that my mother really liked her name. I kept lying, much like I had when I found out that Emily had once been a nickname for Amelia and started writing Amelia Morse on all my school papers.

Nevertheless, Emily Dickinson and her twee poems about the birds and the ocean and her deep, dark heartache built me as a writer. Her superfluous use of the em dash and her impenetrable meter may not be my shtick, but she gave me my first taste from a cup that I just can't seem to put down. Over and over I asked my mom why she never showed anyone her poetry, why she hid it (I imagined that she kept it with a few hand-made sachets of potpourri in her underwear drawer) and it was only published after she died. I can't remember what my mother answered with, only that it was unsatisfactory. Poetry is art, and art is meant to be shared.

Recently I began my quest to share my poetry in a serious manner (i.e., not just posting it on the web for my friends). On the right, much like my pretentious poet friend James, I'll post journals that have picked up my verse for publication in their pages. For the time being, some of my poetry is also available at my deviantART page, but it is quickly disappearing these days, as it finishes its time being workshopped and is mailed off to literary journals. Literary journals to me are worse than crack-cocaine and I hope never to go to rehab for this addiction. I hope that literature will be the problem that takes me over and puts me in the ground. It is, after all, so much like love.