I’m kind of having a hard time wrapping my brain around this: In six months, Gray Wolf Island will be out in the world.
Gimme a sec:
Okay, I’m functional again.
To celebrate this milestone, I’ve teamed up with Julie Dao, author of Forest of a Thousand Lanterns, and Heather Kaczynski, author of Dare Mighty Things, two other authors whose debut YA novels come out on October 10.
We’ll pick three winners from the entries, and each will get a book pre-order, signed goodies, and a book-related gift from the author.
For your chance to win one of three prize packages, enter here, or click the image above!
In honor of Halloween, I’m re-posting a true story I told on my blog a few years back. It goes like this:
There might have been a ghost and there might not have been. You can decide which option is scarier.
It was a warm autumn day that started with a cold morning. I’d woken too early, as I did every weekday because the school district was determined to singlehandedly ruin my life. It was still early when I finished getting dressed, scowling at the cute outfit that wouldn’t distract from my full mouth of metal. Though I was only in middle school and technically expected to trash my room with discarded clothing and whatever else middle schoolers can’t be bothered to put away, my bedroom was spotless. I am and was and will always be a neat freak.
This is important. As I left my room, shutting off the light before I traipsed downstairs to catch the bus, everything was in its place. Clothes in the closet. Full-length mirror against the wall. Rocking chair in the corner. And a collection of framed photos arranged in a pattern beneath the circular mirror that hung over my vanity.
My father left for work first. Maybe long before the bus came or maybe minutes. It doesn’t matter. My sister and I went next. My mother, who didn’t have a job but was somehow always busy, did something unmemorable that day. The what isn’t the point. It’s the when.
She left the house some time in the morning and didn’t come home until minutes before my sister and I got out of school. It had been hot that afternoon, too hot for the long pants and shirt I’d worn that morning. I went up to my room to change into something cooler, something that wouldn’t have me sweating through hours of homework.
That’s when I saw them.
Four pictures that used to hang on the wall above my vanity lay in the middle of my room. They were too far to have fallen from the wall and tumbled down the furniture. But that didn’t matter. Even if their fall had somehow catapulted them across the room, they would never have arranged themselves, face up, in the exact pattern they appeared on my wall just that morning.
Straight lines, even spaces between frames. The precision with which the photos had been arranged was amazing. It had to be my mother.
Only it wasn’t. Nor was it my father or sister.
For years I thought they had all played a trick on me. I didn’t freak out and I didn’t lose sleep over the practical joke. But I never forgot it. A week ago, I asked my family again who had arranged my photos in the middle of my room. They all denied it. My mom even admitted to real fear over the mystery. My parents changed the locks on our house that week even though there was no sign of forced entry. They too often think about the mystery of the picture frames. It’s impossible to forget.
Because it could have been a ghost, if you believe in that sort of thing. Or it could be someone else. Someone living.
Yep, that’s me in that photo above. I begged my mother to get rid of the coat—fairies didn’t get cold!—but I lost.
So I’m doing this thing.
Actually, I’m attempting to do this thing. Mostly I’m flailing around.
But fancy Internet skills or not, I’m creating a newsletter. In the next month or so, I’ll be sending out the first one—complete with words and pictures and stuff.
If you like that sort of thing, you should sign up. My mom says it’s going to be great.
There may also be sneak peeks and giveaways in the future. In case you like that sort of thing.
For now, though, I’ll leave you two things:
1. The link to the sign-up page.
2. This edit of Stranger Things into a romantic comedy. (And if you haven’t watched the show yet, you are seriously missing out!)
So I’ve been on a bit of a fantasy kick, which has nothing to do with working like crazy and wanting an escape from real life.
Anyway, I assume your to-be-read list is like mine—tall and mocking. Nothing says fun like a teetering tower of books. Here are four more to add to your pile:
The Wrath & the Dawn was one of my favorite books last year, and I count its sequel, The Rose & the Dagger, as one of my top books of 2016. The world was just as lush, the characters just as layered, and the prose just as evocative as the first. What I loved so much about this book was that Ahdieh doesn’t pointlessly complicate Shahrzad and Khalid’s romance with misunderstandings or wavering feelings. These two never falter in their love for and faith in one another, and it made me love them (and the romance) all the more. On top of that, the book is fast paced and exciting—there’s war, betrayal, magical carpets, and flying serpents. It’s exactly the story I was hoping for in this series conclusion. Renee Ahdieh is now and auto-buy author for me.
This book surprised me in the best way possible. I knew it was about a girl and a boy and a book. I didn’t expect it to be such an experience. We have the main story—Sefia is in search of her aunt, using a mysterious object (a book) to guide her way. But that’s only the most basic plot. There’s a story about the past, a book within a book, a monster boy with big heart, and a pirate you’ll adore. Here’s where it gets even more fun: the pages of The Reader are marked up in the same way Sefia’s book is. (Don’t miss the hidden messages by the page numbers!)
The Reader is a love letter to language and reading. It’s no surprise, then, that Chee’s prose is beautiful—the kind you highlight and come back to again and again.
I’m currently dying for the sequel. Like, I’m pretty sure that’s why I have a headache and stuffed-up nose. This is an actual medical thing.
Cool fact: I’ll be posting an interview with author Traci Chee next month on The Swanky Seventeens blog, and a longer version here. Stay tuned.
There are so many reasons I adored The Daughter of the Pirate King, not the least of which is that it’s set on the high seas and is about a bunch of pirates. (I mean, PIRATES, guys!) But even more than that, I loved Alosa.
Raised by the Pirate King, Alosa is ruthless and driven, staging a kidnapping to get to a legendary treasure.
Slight spoiler (highlight to read): I really liked how Levenseller lets Alosa be ruthless, killing people purposefully and without remorse. I was worried she’d be softened to be more likable, but this felt like a realistic pirate girl bent on making her father proud. Besides, there were plenty of other things that softened me to Alosa.
She’s smart, she’s calculating—but she’s also spirited and funny and exactly the kind of heroine I want to hang out with for 320 pages. I loved watching her play the role of the outsmarted damsel … then outthink her captors time and time again.And then there’s Riden, the first mate who’s smart and kind and, yes, totally swoonworthy. Their romance was slow building and so entertaining—it’s a battle of wits between them, which I adored.
Daughter of the Pirate King has a quick, cinematic quality (think Pirates of the Caribbean minus Johnny Depp), which made the book fly by. I read this in one sitting—it’s that exciting and fast paced.
I will now commence impatiently waiting for a sequel.
It’s no wonder the film rights to Caraval have been sold: Reading this book was like watching a film—gorgeous set pieces, splashes of color all over the place, and a world unlike any I’ve ever read about. (In my mind, it took on the same quality as Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge.) The world of Caraval is beautiful and bone-chilling, the sort of place you want to get to know and never visit.
Garber’s story has been compared to The Hunger Games, which isn’t exactly accurate, unless you count the fact that both have a game. But Caraval felt more like a mystery, a puzzle: Follow the clues to win the game.
Of course, nothing is as it seems at Caraval, and Garber kept me guessing. Who is Legend? Where is Scarlett’s sister? Is Julian good or bad? Will everyone make it out alive?
It was easy to like Scarlett—she’s practical and cautious (to a fault, as she learns throughout the story), but her hesitancies felt real. Above all that, she’s fiercely protective of her sister.
That’s what I love so much about Scarlett: There’s a super hot guy she’s pretty sure she’s falling for, but everything she does is to save her sister. (Though let’s be serious, I loved the romance between her and Julian and was ready for them to JUST KISS ALREADY from the moment they arrived at Caraval.)
I’m so excited there’s a sequel so we get more of Scarlett and Tella. If you’re looking for a fantasy in a wholly new and originally world, this is it.
What have you been reading?
KALI BY GABOR SOMOSKOI FEATURING ZSOFI FENYVESI
When you get to be a certain-aged adult (which is basically anything over 25), you get this idea in your head that you’re the you you’re always going to be. It’s the idea that growing is for kids and once your body has settled on a shoe size, that’s that. You’re you.
I had this idea about my writing after I wrote my first novel. I drafted that sucker in a month. I felt pretty pleased with myself.
“That’s the kind of writer I am,” I told myself. “I don’t outline. I write fast. I love drafting. And I’m pretty sure revising is of the devil.”
I held onto that version of writer me. I am a pantster, a fast drafter, and a despiser of all things revision.
But by the time I was ready to write the next book, I was … broken. I couldn’t start it.I became very shouty at myself. The Man sent me these really worried looks, then he put on his noise-cancelling headphones and mumbled something about writers.
“I DON’T OUTLINE!!” I said it over and over again. Except, maybe I do. Because for that second book, I made an outline. And then I could write.
So that was it. I had been mistaken after the first book.
“That’s the kind of writer I am,” I told myself. “I outline. I write fast. I love drafting. And I’m pretty sure revising is of the devil.”
I held onto that version of writer me. I am a plotter, a fast drafter, and a despiser of all things revision.
But by the time I was ready to write the next book, Gray Wolf Island, I was … broken again. Only this time it was worse. I outlined. I started it. And I was slow.
No, that’s a lie. I was SLOW.
“I AM A FAST WRITER!!!” I said it over and over again. I whined about it to friends who were very kind with my fragile writer brain.
No matter what I tried, I stayed broken. I wrote the entire book slowly. Writing each page was like pushing blood up through my pores. It was a disgusting and scary process for someone who still considered herself a fast writer who loved drafting.
When it came time to revise, I steeled myself for the horror.
It wasn’t there.
The revision thing? Way easy.
I had no idea who I was anymore, because the Writer Tracey I knew despised the whole ordeal, but this me? This me was tossing around words like “fun.”
Last week, I turned in a round of edits on Gray Wolf Island and the process was—yes, I’m going to say it again—fun. Unlike drafting my new WIP. Which brings me to a revelation I had: I’ve changed.
I’m not the type of writer I was when I first started. Drafting is full of doubts and fears, while revision is a process I love. And that’s okay.
I think we stuff ourselves into boxes, partially because so many writing articles force us into them: Are you a plotter or pantster? Do you write fast or slow? Do you revise as you go or do you get it all on the page first?
It’s taken me a long time to realize it’s okay to change. It’s okay to vary your process from year to year or book to book. We’re not expected to stay the same version of us from the cusp of adulthood into eternity.
Kind of freeing, isn’t it?