This is a song about dying, but it’s also a song about making it through one more night, seeing the dawn light and hearing the birds sing, welcoming the morning, which I think makes it hopeful too. And so, to me, it’s the perfect song for the end of the novel, as Kaelyn comes to grips with everything she’s lost and realizes how grateful she is for what she still has. There’s still plenty of uncertainty (“I don’t know how/I made it ’til now…” “Will I see another dawn?”). Yet at the same time, she’s ready to meet whatever will come (“Hello future, goodbye past…” “Let there be light/Let there be morning”).

I’m a little sad to say that today I’m sharing the last of my The Ways We Struggle guest posts. It’s been inspiring hearing about all the obstacles my writing colleagues have overcome, and I hope you’ve found it so too.

Last but certainly not least, we are joined by Janni Lee Simner, author of the YA fantasy Bones of Faerie trilogy and Thief Eyes, as well as the MG Secret of the Three Treasures and Phantom Rider trilogy. Janni has also published more than 30 short stories for kids, teens, and adults, including appearances in Welcome to Bordertown, Cricket magazine, and Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar. She lives with her husband, Larry, in Tucson, Arizona. Today she talks about the difficulties of letting go.

   

It’s been fascinating reading the posts in this series, because so many of them resonate with things I’ve struggled with as well: jealousy, control, imposter syndrome … things that are a little uncomfortable to admit to, but, well, one of the things about a series like this is that it reminds us all that there’s nothing we struggle with that others don’t struggle with, too.

So here’s one more thing I struggle with: letting go.

That’s related to control, but it’s not only about control. For me at least, it also means holding on to things that have nothing to do with control. It means keeping close that hurtful thing someone did two years ago, or five, or ten, long past when they’ve forgotten. It means beating myself up for that hurtful or maybe just awkward thing I said, long past when it could possibly have any effect. It means letting the past cast longer shadows than it deserves to cast over the present.

Holding on isn’t always bad, of course. It’s holding that let me continue writing during the ten years between selling my first three books and selling the next. It’s holding on that made me return, time and again, to an opening scene that I loved but couldn’t find a story for, until a decade later I finally wrote the rest of the book that became my first YA fantasy, Bones of Faerie. And holding on to what it feels like to be eleven or sixteen years old is pretty much required for telling stories with characters who are also these ages.

Like all our tragic and not-so-tragic flaws, holding on is a strength and a weakness at once. I tend to think of it as problematic when it ties me up in knots inside, or when it keeps me from moving on.

Sometime during that ten-year career gap, I realized holding on was one of the things that was holding me back.

I was holding on to three different things at once: a work-for-hire project that I was the wrong writer for; a writer’s group whose members had different processes and looked for different things from critiques than I did; and an agent who, while the just-right agent for other writers I respect, wasn’t the right agent for me or my stories. I held onto the work-for hire project for a year, trying to write the book the packager’s editor wanted. I held on to the writer’s group and the agent both for five years.

When I finally did let go, it wasn’t because I was on my third page-one rewrite of the work-for hire project, or because I left the writer’s group meetings depressed and disheartened, or because the agent had been unable to sell any of my original work. In retrospect, there were clear enough signs things weren’t working, but in all three cases, instead of making an active decision to leave, I passively waited for some clear sign that things had gotten bad enough that I was “allowed” to let go.

For the work-for-hire project, I waited until I realized the in-house editor of the project liked the same drafts my packager editor was rejecting, meaning nothing I did would ever result in a book we all accepted. For the writer’s group, I waited until we reached a point where of one of the other members was calling me unprofessional for workshopping rough drafts and refusing to outline, and even then, I took a three-month trial hiatus before leaving for good. For the agent, I waited until I wrote a book that was not only one he couldn’t sell, but one he didn’t believe in enough to try to sell.

I don’t blame work-for-hire project, writer’s group, or agent for this, at least not anymore. Because it wasn’t their job to let go for me. It was my job to step back, admit to myself things weren’t working, and either try to fix them or admit I didn’t want to try to fix them, and move on.

   

Once I left, I began selling books again, and helped start a new writer’s group, and signed with a new agent. I also began to be more actively for signs that it was time to let things go before they got bad.

A couple years later, I saw those signs very clearly, not in my writing life, but as a Girl Scout leader. After eight years, the girls in my troop were about to start high school, and they were getting busy with other things, so busy that whenever we tried to schedule an event, they’d run into conflicts. Over and over again I’d tell them it was fine if they were too busy for an activity, and over and over again, they’d complain bitterly that I didn’t understand that… they were too busy for that activity, never mind that I’d just said I did.

I finally realized out that on some level they, too, knew it was time to leave, but were waiting for things to get bad enough that they felt they were allowed to — had no choice but to — let go and move on, even if they had to generate the angst to make things that bad themselves.

I decided I wasn’t willing to let these girls, who’d become friends and who’d loved Scouting for so long, leave the troop angry and bitter. We talked, though at first they didn’t want to. We looked at our schedules. We cut back to once a month meetings, and we talked some more. We stopped meeting altogether and planned one last, grand weekend of horseback riding, and then — with tears but also with fond, not-at-all bitter memories of our time together–we let go, and doing so felt good and right and as it should be.

I remain on the lookout for those moments when I’m holding on to the wrong things, because of course I still have them. Fortunately, I also have my stories, which sometimes understand what I need to work on better than I do.

When I wrote Bones of Faerie — which became the first book I sold with my new agent — I created a protagonist, Liza, who had summoning magic she could use to call things to her. Whatever she called had to come, and it had to stay until she released it. In Bones of Faerie, that magic saved Liza and her loved ones’ lives. In the sequel, Faerie Winter, it continued to do so, but I also began exploring the problems that went with such magic. And by the third book — Faerie After, due out in 2013 — I found myself telling a story where summoning magic threatens to destroy everything and where the fate of more than one world just might depend on Liza’s ability to let go.

Looking back, I suppose I should have seen that coming all along.

View all the The Ways We Struggle posts so far.

I do have one main writing space. I’m lucky enough that at the moment I’m able to have a whole room of my house devoted to my work, which I generally call my “office.” It’s where I do almost all of my writing, as well as other writing-related activities like posting to this blog (I’m in my office right now), answering emails and interview questions, updating my website, and so on. It’s also where the majority of my and my husband’s books (all of our fiction, and all my MG, YA, and research books) are kept. And when my in-person critique group gets together, we hang out in that room.

I actually have a video tour of my work space up on Youtube, which you can watch there (for a larger size) or here:

Of course I don’t always write there. It’s good to have some flexibility about where you can write, because you won’t always have the ideal circumstances when you need to get to work. We don’t have air conditioning in this house, so in the summer I often take my laptop downstairs and work on the living room couch (it tends to be several degrees cooler on the first floor). And during nice but not too hot weather, I like to sit out on our deck and write. I really enjoy writing outdoors when I can — maybe because it makes me feel more separate from my day-to-day life, which makes it easier to sink into the world of the story. When I’m on a writing retreat I always try to stake out a good outside writing spot. Hoping for less rainy weather here in Toronto soon so I can start doing that more often now!

To me this is a song about still trying and fighting to survive, even when circumstances are dire… which is pretty fitting for the book, particularly the final section. The hospital imagery in the lyrics makes sense with the story. But mostly I love the chorus, which I can imagine Kaelyn repeating to herself over and over as she gets through one more awful day:

“Hold on
One more time with feeling
Try it again
Breathing’s just a rhythm
Say it in your mind until you know that the words are right
This is why we fight”

I’m joined this week by Kirstin Cronn-Mills, author of the contemporary YA novels The Sky Always Hears Me and (coming in October) Beautiful Music for Ugly Children. Kirstin is a self-proclaimed word nerd. She lives in southern Minnesota, where she writes a lot, reads as much as she can, teaches at a two-year college (she won the Minnesota State College Student Association 2009 Instructor of the Year award), and goofs around with her son, Shae, and her husband, Dan. Today she talks about taming her Inner Bully.

   

The anthology Dear Bully has gotten a lot of press in the last year—as it should!—because the authors who wrote it are speaking back to their bullies. Bullies hate that, you know. I have a bully in my life, and it’s taken me years and years to speak back to her. What’s her name? Kirstin, but I call her The Bad Voice, or TBV. She can’t physically hit me, but her words are a punch to my gut every time she opens her mouth.

TBV has kept me company for years. Way back when I was a kid, TBV heard the questions I kept asking myself: what’s wrong with me? Do my parents care about me? Why don’t other kids want to play with me? Nerdy smart kids don’t mix well with small towns, so my self-confidence wasn’t great to begin with. Since nobody was answering, TBV decided to speak up: everything is wrong with you, of course. No, your parents don’t care about you. Other kids don’t want to play with you because you’re awful.

By the time I was a grown-up, TBV was constantly chattering in my ear. Should I be an English major? What can you do with an English major? You can’t be trusted to figure out your future. Is he the right guy for me? You’re too dumb to figure that out. And guys don’t like nerdy English majors—especially ugly ones.

You can imagine how Inner Bully reacts to the world of publishing. You’re too stupid to be a writer! You’re writing the wrong thing—nobody reads edgy contemporary YA. Teenagers hate you! Can’t you tell? That editor hates you. Librarians can’t stand you, either. It’s possible what she says is true, at least for some people. Who knows? But now I know TBV lies—bullies are great liars. And I’m not friends with liars.

Most days (though not all of them) I’m wise enough to know the little girl who thought she was awful is now a woman who understands she’s just fine. I may never win an award or make enough money to quit my day job, but I like my books, and other people like them too. I’ll keep writing, because you never know what could happen. My best-seller could be right around the corner! If I quit writing, I’ll never find out.

Now, when The Bad Voice starts yelling, I offer her chamomile-pear tear while I listen. Then I whisper some soothing words, give her a hug, and send her to a dark corner of my mind. Then I go back to my story. I was silly to trust her for so many years, but she was talking about important stuff, so I thought I had to listen. Then somehow I realized I could listen to my heart instead. That sounds so corny! But I don’t know what else to call the Good Voice. Yes, my parents cared about me. Being smart is a good thing. I’m not ugly. I make good decisions. I can figure out my future.

Flesh-and-blood bullies are bad—no question—but inner enemies can be just as awful. I’m sure I’m not the only one who lives with The Bad Voice. I just hope other people can send theirs away sooner than I could. Life is so much better without her.

View all the The Ways We Struggle posts so far.

This week I’d like to welcome Julia Karr, author of the YA science fiction novel XVI and its sequel, Truth. Julia’s schooling in the art of writing came from reading, voraciously. As a young mother, reading books to, and eventually with, her daughters, she fell head-over-heels for children’s literature. While still working a nine-to-five job, after hours she can be found at home, sitting on the couch tapping out stories on her laptop, with one of several cats draped behind her and her dogs sleeping nearby. Today she discusses struggling to stand up to one’s fears.

     

Thank you, Megan, for asking me to write a post for your blog! Of course, it IS a tough subject – talking about something that I struggle with. I have to say – I have a wealth of possibilities! lol! However, I think the one that’s at the root of all struggles (at least for me) is fear.

I’ve been fighting against fears of some kind or another since I was a little girl.

The fears I face now are just as frightening and paralyzing as the bogey man outside the door fears. Which, actually, for me weren’t pretend. When I was a young teen living with my grandmother and sister we were terrorized by a stalker who would come around at night and rattle the windows, scrape on the screens, tap on the doors, and during the day he’d make obscene phone calls to us. Even with increased police patrols and a neighbor who was always at the ready with his shotgun, we never found out who was doing it.

I remember one particular night I was sitting in the living room reading and he started clawing on the screen. I stood up and screamed at the window for him to go away and leave us alone! I don’t recall if that was the end of his tormenting us – but it was the end of me being terrified. Sure, I was still scared, but I didn’t feel powerless after finding my voice.

So – I was thinking how this relates to present struggles for me and how I face down my fears (scream at the window, as it were.)

One of the biggest fears for me is that I’m not “good enough” as a writer. The struggle I have keeping that at bay comes from comparison. Comparing numbers of any variety (Goodreads ratings, Facebook fans, Twitter followers, Amazon ranking, Book Scan numbers, etc., etc., etc.) is not an author’s friend. Particularly not this author. Numbers do absolutely nothing to help you become a better writer – nothing.

My struggle is to keep away from the numbers, from reviews, from anything that might bring up a comparison (good or bad.) Because this writing business isn’t a competition. It’s a personal desire for me to put words on paper – telling a story – and to get better at it as time goes by.

I don’t always succeed, because I don’t live in a bubble. But, being aware of the challenge and recognizing when I’m getting caught up in it gives me the opportunity to step away from the toxic comparing and get down to the business of writing. Because there’s only one person I need to be a better writer than – and that’s myself.

Thanks for having me, Megan!

View all the The Ways We Struggle posts so far.

Hope all’s well with all of you!

This week I’m joined by Sydney Salter, author of the MG Jungle Crossing and the contemporary YA novels My Big Nose And Other Natural Disasters and Swoon At Your Own Risk. Sydney lives and write full-time in Utah while her daughters attend school and her husband keeps busy with his pediatric patients. She spends my days at my messy desk working on novels, and drinking lots of tea. She also loves reading, hiking, skiing, cooking, going to movies and rock concerts, and traveling absolutely anywhere! Today she talks about rising above other people’s expectations of what you can do.

     

This school year, I’ve spent a lot to time teaching writing workshops to kids from 4th grade through high school. In every class, there’s at least one precocious author-in-progress. I’ve met 5th graders who’ve finished novels, sophomores who possess crazy-good plots, and 6th graders who capture authentic dialogue. I can’t help praising these young stars.

Most of the kids I meet aren’t stars. I’m thinking about the 4th grader who erased every word, leaving messy marks on the page. Or the 5th grader who never quite finished anything; the 6th grader who inked pages of words, but shyly shook his head when offered the opportunity to share. And the high school junior who listened intently, but never spoke. I can’t help recognizing myself in these kids.

No one ever singled me out either. I poured words into journals, but I struggled against other’s low expectations of me.

High school classmates muttered bitterly when I won a 3rd place prize at a regional journalism conference. How could such a mediocre student win? Yet that itty bitty victory allowed me to dream, maybe I could be a writer?

I watched other students receive the kind of praise I craved throughout college. Yet, I plugged along—stubbornly—filling journals and notebooks, crafting poems and stories. I submitted a few pieces, beginning my impressive collection of rejection letters.

Later I attended workshops and conferences. No one ever singled me out. I watched agents and editors pull other writers aside. I kept writing, completing one manuscript after another. I won a few local contests, each little victory allowing me to dream, maybe I can succeed as a writer?

     

I wish I could say that publication has erased my struggle against low expectations. But editors still reject new manuscripts, agents have stopped believing in me, and I’ve received a mix of good and bad book reviews. Yet I’m still plugging away, writing new manuscripts, filling journals and notebooks.

And when I teach, I end every presentation by talking to those kids who haven’t impressed me. “You’re the only one who has to believe in yourself,” I say. “If you want to write, do it! Don’t let anyone else tell you can’t be a writer.”

View all the The Ways We Struggle posts so far.

On Friday, I flew to Houston. I got my first thrill before I even got on the plane: I found The Way We Fall face out in the airport bookstore!

The event in Houston was TeenBookCon, an amazing conference for teen readers (as well as adult fans of teen fiction). I met with a couple dozen wonderful authors at the reception at the beautiful Blue Willow Bookshop on Friday night, which you can see pictures of here.

On Saturday we zipped off to the high school where TeenBookCon was being held. More than a thousand enthusiastic readers showed up! I was on the Dystopia Rising panel with Michael Grant and Marissa Meyer, and we had a full room every session (you can see only part of the audience below):

I may have gotten a little over-excited seeing a girl in the front row holding Give Up The Ghost during the first session. The teens asked a lot of thoughtful questions which led to some in-depth conversations about books, writing, and publishing.

And of course we had to take a picture with all the authors and the conference organizers:

(More pics from TeenBookCon here.)

The next day, I left Houston with fellow Hyperion authors Robin Mellom and Inara Scott to zip over to Austin, where we had a school event planned for Monday. When we got together for dinner after checking in, we all squeed about the incredibly lovely surprise we each had waiting for us in our rooms: a tray of treats including an edible version of our book covers!

We arrived at Hill Country Middle School in style, to a parking spot specially reserved for us:

Inside we found huge stacks of books waiting to be signed…

…as well as three teen book bloggers who interviewed us, and a large group who’d gathered to hear us talk about our books, read from them, and answer questions. They cheered when we came in! It was a great crowd. I’ve never spoken to a school group anywhere near that large before (I’ve usually just done single classrooms), but after meeting those kids, I’d love to do it again.

And now, of course, I am back home. Happy to see my husband, missing the warmth and new & old author friends. Can’t wait to visit with more of you at Rochester’s Teen Book Festival next month!

This is another song that’s more about the general feeling to me than a very literal connection to the story. The lyrics talk about death (“And ’til then we pray and suspend/The notion that these lives do never end”), the unpredictability of life (“And all that I knew/Is moving away from me/And all that I know/Is blowing like tumbleweed”), and the need to hold on to what’s important to us (“And you do lose/What you don’t hold”). I can imagine Kaelyn listening to “Sadie” toward the end of the book, and feeling both reassured and saddened by it.