How I Gained My Edge?

Once upon I time I was a horror wimp. I had a zero-tolerance scary movie policy. If it could make me scream, cringe, or dripped blood I couldn't take it.

I had nightmares after seeing the Poseidon Adventure: no joke. I'm a bit claustrophobic and I partly blame this film (the other part I blame on the time I got stuck in a sleeping bag).

As Halloween approaches I'm seeing perpetual homage to frights and freaks. Blogs posting lists of the all-time best horror films, windows full of spiders and ghosts, and I realize that at some point I shed my fragile disposition for a tougher one. And I'm wondering when that happened.

Was it simply a result of growing up? Maybe it's that my research focuses on violence in human history and at a certain point I just detached from the visceral fear that had accompanied scary stories. Maybe fear of the things that go bump in the night is always accompanied by fascination.

Because everyone loves vampires right now.
Even Buffy couldn't hate all of them.
I used to hide from scary stories, but now I write them. It was a bit startling when my editor and I concluded that we shouldn't have the swing set in my author photo because the content of my book was too dark for playgrounds. And it really is. And that's who I am now. I don't hide from the dark; I embrace it.

It's not that I don't get scared. There are moments when I'm writing that I freak out, shriek, ditch my laptop and run from the room. At which my husband says "what's wrong" and I say "I'm so scared - the story is so scary!" and he says "but you're writing it."

But it doesn't matter. That's living in the world you write, feeling the words and scenes scream through your veins - I write scary worlds.

So how did I go from "the X-Files is too scary" to mistress of the macabre? I don't know, but I think I like it.

How do you Quirk?

August 1 was my birthday, which astrologically puts me in the Leo camp. We leonine types are "impossible to miss, since they love being center stage." I won't deny that I enjoy attention, but I don't necessarily seek it, with one major exception: MY BIRTHDAY!

I am a total birthday narcissicist, unafraid to lord over the entire day like the Empress of Everything and expect all participants in the big "me" fete to just go along with it.

My family and friends have very kindly indulged me in this annual practice to the point where I now get calls not only to wish me "Happy Birthday," but to hear what sort of shenanigans I've gotten up to on the big day.

I consider Andrea's birthday hegemony to be one of my defining quirks.

Quirks are those traits that set us apart as individuals. Beyond personality, quirks are those inexplicable behaviors, desires, dreams that truly make each human unique. Quirks don't always show our best sides - they show us for who we really are: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Beyond birthday bliss, here are a few more of mine:

I love eating pickles right after chocolate. The contrast is taste-bud overload awesomeness!
I can't tolerate the Beatles or the Beach Boys. (I can already hear the moans of disbelief and objection. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I am who I am.)
I name all the cars in my family.
I find clutter comforting. (My husband hates this one.)
When I'm happy I make up little, tuneless songs about whatever I'm doing, (i.e. "dusting, dusting, this is the song for dancing and dusting").
I am horribly ticklish right behind my knees.
I think being offered vanilla ice cream for dessert is an insult. (And no, it doesn't matter if it's "real" vanilla with the little black specks. If it isn't slathered in hot fudge I'm not interested.)
I think morbidity involving children, ala Edward Gorey, is hilarious.

(photo credit)

Why do I think quirks deserve close scrutiny?

Because the quirks that set us apart from other folks are also the best tools for building characters in your writing.

Knowing a character inside and outside means understanding their every tic, their own special quirks.

Advice on writing often discusses writing characters that aren't "too perfect," that even your protagonist must be flawed. I completely agree, but I think there's more to it than simply the absence of perfection.

To make your characters lovable, understandable, and empathetic they have to be like us: unique, strange, fascinating, fallible - in a word: Quirky.

Think about your characters - go beyond motivation to really discover who they are.

What is the song she hates having stuck in her head?
What color does he really wish his hair was?
Why does he refuse to make his bed in the morning?
What is her most frequent recurring dream?
Is he superstitious?

Quirkiness builds dimension in characters, makes them live and breathe. Have you discovered how your characters quirk?

From Whence We Came

It takes four hours to drive from Minneapolis to Ashland. When I'm alone I use this time to write. Of course I'm not literally writing (other drivers can stop screaming now), but I come up with many plot twists, key dialogue, and new scenes while listening to what my mother dubbed my "muse music" as the miles roll by.

When I'm not alone, I'm either listening to public radio and discussing current events or, in the case of the last trip home, playing games from childhood. Namely MASH. That's game the where you use a cryptic formula to scry your future, not unlike this.

Since my friend Casey and I had already gotten to adulthood we came up with a new twist on this slumber-party favorite, we created a chart that pulled together a movie using categories like "Who would play you?" "Who is the villain?" "Who directs?" "Who wrote the soundtrack?"

In my film I was played by Lauren Ambrose who had to fight Dracula with a slingshot while serenaded by the music of Tangerine Dream. So that's how it went, and it was loads of fun.

Being in my hometown always gets my mind churning over my life as a child and after revisiting the world of MASH, I started to wonder if the games we play as children don't predict our paths as adults.

My friends and I spent hours upon hours in the woods near my house. We invented innumerable worlds and characters and played out scenes in fantastic places from dusk till dawn.
Is the creative life one we start from the very beginning? Is it reflected in our childhood pursuits?

How did you play as a child?

Help (The Good Kind)

Shel Silverstein might be my favorite philosopher.*
(Reader: "Huh? Isn't he a children's poet?" The answer: Yes, but bear with me.)

Silverstein's darkly funny, unpredictable descriptions of life ring true to experience and keep me hopeful in the face of its daily pitfalls.

One of my favorite pieces, "Helping," appeared in Free to Be You and Me.


Writers need to become well-versed in the necessity of asking for and graciously accepting help.

I knew my agent would be great for my writing because he loved the story and he "got it," when we discussed the full arc of the series he made suggestions for the plot that I'd already written (but he hadn't yet read.) Even so, engaging another person (other than my critique partner) in the revision stretched the boundaries of my comfort zone.

As much as we long for public acknowledgment and that fabulous "yes!" from an agent, once your work is out there it's no longer yours alone. Editing becomes a shared exercise and investment of time and effort.

My agent's ideas are fabulous and reflect how much he understands my writing and the story I'm creating, so when I wrote the additions he'd suggested they took the novel to a new level and I was thrilled. Scenes that hadn't existed prior to our conversations have become some of my favorites. But that doesn't mean that making the changes to a book I'd submitted as "complete" was easy.

Without help from family and friends (who support, love, and believe in us), crit partners (who help us through the rough patches in writing), and agents & editors (who bring us to the finish line), writers would be lost at sea without a compass.

Don't be afraid of help. As my yoga teacher reminds us in each class during the balance sequence: "Don't be afraid to fall, everyone falls. When you fall just get right back in it. This isn't about perfection, it's about progress."

*My one exception to Silverstein's work is "The Giving Tree." I hate this story, it's about an abusive relationship - I realize that's a controversial statement, but it is true.

Children's Book Week

Happy Children's Book Week!

My favorite children's book store, The Red Balloon, is celebrating by hosting Rick Riordan tonight (I can't wait!).

As I'd imagine is the case with most writers, books utterly sculpted my childhood. In honor of Children's Book Week I've concocted a brew of the top ten (yee gads, the choice is painful!) texts that left an indelible mark on my soul. In light of the honorary week of kid lit, this list is exclusively children's books, though I read a lot of "adult" books as a child. I've also only listed books that I read as a child, so anything published after 1996 (I'm calling 18 years old adulthood) won't appear.

Chris Van Allsburg's oeuvre. From Jumanji to The Stranger, this genius author/illustrator's dreamscrapes made me believe in infinite worlds (im)possible.

Maurice Sendak. Be daring. Be bold. Be wild.

Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising series. Cooper's weaving of contemporary England and Wales with Arthurian legend still inspires my writing.

Lloyd Alexander. Yes, children's fantasy can be dark. And scary. And wonderful.

Louis Sachar. Sideways Stories from Wayside School. Zany, sharp humor never fails.

Walter Farley and Marguerite Henry. Because I will always, always be the girl who loves horses.

Natalie Babbit, Tuck Everlasting. Revealed the fragility of life and the pain of immortality.

C.S. Lewis. The Chronicles of Narnia. Deftly woven, intricate worlds and fantastic, profoundly moving tales. Narnia is the kind of place you long for.

L.M. Montgomery. Anne of Green Gables. Every smart, independent young woman's role model. Bonus if you've got red hair. And wouldn't we all love Gilbert Blythe (sigh)?

J.R.R. Tolkein. The Hobbit. Now I realize I'm walking a fine line here. I wouldn't list Lord of the Rings, as I think of that series as "adult," but The Hobbit always struck me as a children's book. My family owned the hardcover text illustrated by Michael Hague. Orcs, elves, dwarves, dragons. Can't get much better than that.

That's ten? Oh horror! So many books left unnamed, but I'll stick to my limit. What children's books shaped you, or are still on your shelf, yellowed and dog-eared like mine, after so many readings?

Quote of the day from my Bikram Yoga instructor: "This is Simon Says in hell."

The Derby

I was a girl who dreamt of horses.
Every Christmas and birthday that came around would find me leaving a carefully-folded sheaf of paper (or two) atop my parents' pillows. (Yes, I was destined to be a writer, without doubt.)


I held my breath and waited for them to find the letter that oh-so-pleadingly detailed the reasons I needed a horse of my own.

My parents never caved.

The gods smiled on me though and I ended up working summers on a ranch from age ten through high school. For someone who never had her own horse, I've spent more time riding than most.

I don't ride much anymore, and I always feel a bit of a loss because of it. I usually can tell when I've gone too long without spending time around horses because the dreams come back. They are always the same. I'm back at the ranch, helping saddle and bridle horses, prepping for a trek out into the forest, but obstacle after obstacle arises - each delaying our departure - and inevitably I don't ever get to ride.

On this day, each year without fail, horses fill my mind.

It's Derby Day.

That young girl who loved horses, loved everything about them. I followed the two-year-old racing circuit closely, awaiting its culmination on the first Saturday in May. And I was convinced that some divine symbol rested in the fact that the last Triple Crown Winner appeared in the year I was born. On the list I kept of things I wanted to do in life, a trip to the Kentucky Derby numbered among them.

I made it to the Derby - twice. It was not what I expected.

I'd always thought of the Kentucky Derby as something of a horse lover's Holy Grail. It's not.

The first trip I made was with a friend from Louisville. We were in our early twenties, and she took me to the infield.













For anyone not indoctrinated into the revelries associated with the Derby, the infield is something of a gathering point for the common folk. A heavily-inebriated crowd partakes in what resembles a mixture of Mardi Gras and spring break. My maiden voyage to Churchill Downs presented me with more flashed breasts than thoroughbreds.

Having recently gone through college life, I took it in stride. But the tiny horse-obsessed girl inside of me felt as though the inner sanctum of horse heaven had been violated.

The second trip I made to the Derby happened the following year. The corporate honchos I worked for had two extra tickets to the Grand Stand, and offered them to me. And I thought my redemptive Derby trip had arrived.

But lo, disappointment once again.

Instead of a drunken, hot press of half-naked bodies in the infield, I was surrounded by a drunken, hot press of starched-linen bodies topped with silly hats. And still no horses.


(I present "Kentucky Derby Barbie," and yeah, it really was kinda like that...sigh)





You wouldn't believe how hard it is to actually watch the race if you attend the Kentucky Derby.

But I did it. I made my long-envisioned pilgrimage to the Kentucky Derby, twice. Neither experience lived up to the sacred horse-worshipping experience that I had wanted to partake in.

It made me wonder about the way we create ideals as children, pin our hopes on far-reaching expeditions that will somehow make us the human beings we long to be. How often does the reality bear pale resemblance to the beauty of our dreams?

My Big Fat Geek Movie Weekend

One of the nice things about having a Ph.D. and a job is that I no longer feel compelled to construct an exterior persona that depicts my own self as anything other than the exuberant nerd that I am. (I wish I could have claimed this level of self-awareness and rejection of normative consumption earlier in life, but alas, I was insecure.)

In my younger days I kept my passions close to the chest, reticent except for my vehement defense of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which I could no sooner supress than a geyser eruption. But now I frolic through fields of comic books, graphic novels, their web sites, television, and film adaptations. In fits of ecstasy I plot my pilgrimages to children's book conferences, Comic-Con, and Worldcon. And sometimes the convergence of events makes for a particularly exciting circumstance.

Case in point: This weekend features the release of two movies I am dying to see. Coraline is the film adaptation of Neil Gaiman's fantastically scary children's book, and Fan Boys is a road-trip homage to Star Wars fiends like myself.

If you're looking for me this weekend, I will be worshiping the silver screen with much abandon.