HOW TO WRITE A BOOK 2: ELECTRIC BOOKALOO

About a month ago, I wrote a blog entry called How to Write a Book. I wrote it on a hot July day in England, a deadline barreling down on me. I had been sitting at the same table, staring at my computer for what felt like nine years. So I decided to write exactly what was going through my mind at that moment.

I was considerably heartened to find that many other writers felt the same way that I did.

Now that I find myself in almost the exact same place, only a little bit worse, I think it’s time to bring you another installment of How to Write a Book. This time, let’s talk about some writing realities and fictions.

THE WRITER: BASIC HABITS AND APPEARANCE

Movies and TV love to portray writers a few different ways. Sometimes they are extremely glamorous, cocktail-swilling people. Sometimes they are hopeless romantics in tweed.

Let’s take a common fictional portrayal of The Writer. He’s at his desk, wearing a suit, typing with one hand, picking up the phone with another. He’s fielding invitations to caviar tastings, literary white-water rafting trips, free hot air balloon rides, and cocktail parties on private jets owned by celebrities.

“What do you want?” you imagine he yells into his phone. “I’m mere sentences away from completing a major work of literature. Yes, yes. I’ll come to the opening of your champagne factory. Now get out of here!”


In the usual public image, The Writer is a calm, smooth operator

It doesn’t work that way. The problem is, writing is not a fancy, interactive activity. There is no inherent glamour in sitting in front of a computer for two months straight. If The Writer came out of his house dressed in his usual working manner, you would probably drop change into his coffee cup.

A really dressed-up writer is maybe wearing extremely fancy sweatpants. He may not have put on shoes in a week. There may be a sweater involved, but that sweater probably lives on the back of his chair. Don’t ask about the shower, or when he changed out of the pajamas. These things are not important.


When working, The Writer really looks something like this

THE PROCESS AND THE TOOLS

The painful truth is that writing involves writing. And by writing, I mean sitting down and putting words into meaningful strands. This has always been one of the serious flaws of the job that no one has worked out yet, though many have tried.

Writing is often a wonderful thing. The Writer usually starts out with lots of ideas. Sections of the story will appear in his mind, almost whole. Unfortunately, The Writer can’t just write the bits of his story that come easily. He has to write the entire story, even the parts where he simply has no idea what it supposed to happen. Even when left alone at night with soothing music playing, the story will not write itself. Then the participants will start acting up. Normally well-behaved characters will start speaking out of turn, or wander into scenes where they don’t belong.

Plus, books are not just written once. They are written three, five, ten, forty times. And some drafts will just not be that good. Writers never set out to write bad drafts—it’s almost a draft’s job to fail. The Writer will turn in some drafts and feel like he will never be able to look into his Editor’s eye again. The Writer spends an inordinate amount of time doing things wrong, before he can do them right. It’s like riding the failurecoaster to success.


Some drafts will fail to impress

THE OTHER WRITER

To add to The Writer’s anguish, there is always someone out there who appears to be doing what The Writer is doing—and several times more. If the Writer writes one page, the Other Writer writes ten of breathtaking beauty and meaning. If The Writer finishes a chapter, the Other Writer finishes a book. When The Writer finishes a book, the Other Writer has written a trilogy and released three CDs of original music to go with it.

The Other Writer does this while maintaining a grueling schedule of partying, ribbon-cuttings at gala openings of supermarkets, firefighting, directing television shows, and professional ice skating.

What’s even worse is that The Writer LIKES the Other Writer’s work. The Writer knows better than to compare himself with the Other Writer. Writing is not a competition. But it’s useless. The Writer cannot help but watch the Other Writer’s every move.


The Other Writer does it all with style

CABIN FEVER

So, The Writer doubles his efforts. He locks himself inside and gets down to it.

This is usually the time The Writer notices the quiet, and it will dawn on him that he has not been out of his apartment in two days. The thundering silence will begin to eat at The Writer’s psyche. He can’t sit still.

It’s so . . . quiet.

So very quiet.

“I need to research,” The Writer says to himself. “I need to look some things up for my book! That will be productive.”

(The illusion here, of course, is that the WWW is an actual world, and a legitimate substitute for going outside and seeing other people.)

The Writer starts Googling his subject. Then he sees something in that link, which he clicks. And then there’s a news story about that link, so he reads that. Then he Googles himself, Googles people that may have at some point mentioned him, Googles books he means to read. He Googles the Other Writer. He Googles the things that appear at the top of his Google pages, until he has fallen into such a swirling haze of Googlegoo that he long forgets what he first set out to do. He stumbles around his apartment for a while trying to get his bearings.


The Writer after a week at the desk

TEAM WRITER

Meanwhile, even though the book is nowhere near done, it has taken on a life of its own. It takes a lot of people to get a book out into the world. They plot silently, somewhere just outside of The Writer’s field of vision. Somewhere . . . out there.

There’s the Editor who reads all of The Writer’s bad drafts. There’s the designer who is making the cover that The Writer will either love or hate. There’s a copyeditor and proofreader who already have the as-yet-incomplete book on their schedules. There’s the production manager, who is scheduling the time when this as-yet-incomplete book will go off to the printer. There’s a sales and marketing team figuring out how many copies of the as-yet-incomplete book will be needed, and where they might go, and what publicity will be needed. There’s a publicity team making plans for coverage of something they haven’t even seen yet.

Sometimes these people make The Writer nervous. He cannot see the Team, but he knows there are there, somewhere, and they want his book.


There is always someone working behind The Writer.

THE CRITIC

So, let’s say The Writer finishes his book. Well done, Writer!

But, here’s the thing . . .

No matter who you are and what you write, there is always going to be at least one person who has to tell you that they hate it. And not a little bit, either. A lot. It may be an actual critic. It may be someone online. It may be someone in a writing group. But someone is going to hate it.

The Critic usually just likes the sound of himself talking. He needs to be heard trashing The Writer. Bad reviews are easy and fun to write. Jokes will be cracked at The Writer’s expense. Even worse, sometimes the Critic will say something that The Writer knows is absolutely true.

And many times, the worst Critic is The Writer himself. Often, The Writer cannot read his own work once its out. Why? Because there is something wrong with it, and that is all The Wrtiter is able to see. That glitch on page 41? That haunts The Writer’s dreams at night. Chapter twelve? Oh, let’s not even talk about chapter twelve, not unless you want to see a grown man cry.


CRITIC 1: “You know who this book would be good for?”
CRITIC 2: “Who?”
CRITIC 1: “Someone who’s run out of firewood!”
CRITICS: HA HA HA HA HA HA

THE READERS

Far outnumbering The Critics are The Readers. Out of the sheer kindness of their hearts, out of some magical ability . . . they take what The Writer has written and they make it their own. They don’t set out looking for things to hate (usually); they sit down willing to be transported to the place The Writer has created.

The Writer can barely believe that such wonderful beings exist.

The Readers are there to make it all happen.

Devilish Roundup

Every once in a while, I have to do a bit of a roundup and get some information out there! I have a book coming out, and there are things you need to know. Having done this, I can then go back to my normal rambling bloggy self.


THE 12 DAYS OF DEVILISH

Devilish hits stores in 12 days. It’s the same day (and the same publisher) as Scott Westerfeld’s The Last Days. You’ll obviously need them both. September 7th. Be there. I’ve already warned you about Scott, so don’t fool around with this one.


TAKE THIS QUIZ

Just to get you ready, I made a Devilish quiz. Why not waste five more minutes and find out which character to align yourself with? Oh, go on. You’re not going to be doing any more work in the next five minutes and you know it. (See? Evil.)






PIMP MY PAGE

I’ve finally started a MySpace page. And to be honest, I have no idea what to do with it. People just kept saying to me, “Start a MySpace page!” And, lemming that I am, I did it. Feel friend to friend me, or just send me advice on what to do to make my page cool.


GET YOUR VERY OWN MJ

Do you have a book club? Is it reading one of my books? If so, e-mail me to find out how to set up a phone “appearance” by yours truly. Imagine hearing my babbling voice coming out of your phone. Live the dream.

A DAY ON THE TOWN WITH FAMOUS AUTHORS

There are a lot of great things about being an author. One of the biggest and greatest is that you get to meet and spend time other authors. I spent the other day with Scott Westerfeld and Justine Larbalestier.

If you know anything about YA, you already know Scott and Justine are pretty much a royal couple. Scott is the author of books like So Yesterday, Specials, and Midnighters, just to name a few. Justine is the author of the Magic of Madness trilogy. Scott has recently acquired the mantle of New York Times Bestselling Author, and the two have ever-expanding legions of fans.



Scott and Justine

I met the power duo at a swanky NYC restaurant and noon sharp. We had a selection of stinky cheeses, garlicy pizzas, and ice creams made of olive oil and corn (better than they sound). Somewhere in the middle of the meal, I managed to throw a knife across a long marble counter, where it slid off, bounced off a chair and landed on the floor, deafening all in a three block radius.

Over lunch, Scott and Justine noticed the fact that I have odd, stripy sunburn. (I am not so good with the sun. This is a long subject that merits its own blog. Three days ago I looked like a candy cane. Today I look like a slowly separating mochachokalatte.) I explained my tragic history of sunburns, and Justine told me I was not allowed to go out in the sun anymore.

“Enough about you,” you must be saying. “We don’t want to hear about your poor motor skills and your weird, multi-colored skin. Tell us more about Scott and Justine!”

Understood.

The Westeralestiers are a very funny, astonishingly well-read, and gleeful couple. They believe strongly in justice, fair play, and dessert. (Though Justine does not like chocolate. There’s one you can put in your pocket.) You get the feeling that they spend a good part of their day thinking up things that will amuse the other.

You can learn a lot by spending time with them. Justine is an ex-academic scifi expert, and Scott is a science buff, overflowing with information about computers and the cosmos. Scott currently has a lot to say on the subject of Pluto—namely, that it is not a planet. I remember hearing a lot about gas giants and something called UB313.

Justine had to return home to finish revising the final book Magic or Madness III, Magic's Child. (As I’ve said before, finishing a book is a sad, madness-inducing experience.) So, for all of you waiting for it . . . it’s coming. Don’t pressure her.

After lunch, I went with Scott while he signed some books at a Barnes and Noble in Chelsea, where he charmed the entire staff with his sly Texan ways. Then, we went to a shop where I acted as a size-model for a lovely gift he got for his wife to encourage her to finish her book. (I can’t say what it was because I don’t think she’s seen it yet, but it was really nice.)

We paused a moment on the sidewalk, taking in the lovely mid-August afternoon, and then Scott looked at me in a strange way.

(From this point on, various points in this story become harder to verify.)

“Listen,” Scott said to me, watching Justine walk off in the direction of their apartment. “There’s something I have to do. I couldn’t say it in front of Justine—not today. Not when she has a book to finish. I need your help. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this Pluto thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Plutophants are winning their insane campaign to keep ice balls labeled as planets,” he said. “Pluto is an ice ball, and we need to tell the world. We need hard, clear evidence. And that means one thing . . .”

“Wikipedia?” I offered.

Instead of answering, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a blueprint of some building, held it close to his face for a moment, then folded it away.

"You know what I've always wanted to do?" I rambled on, oblivious to this strange activity. "I want look up the Wikipedia entry on Wikipedia."

“We need to get to the Hubble Telescope,” he said. “We'll use that to get the evidence we need. The observatory is down in Baltimore. Come on.”

He spun on his heel and raised his arm to hail a cab.



Scott had a plan.

“Scott,” I said. “We can’t go down to Baltimore now. What about Justine? She’s all alone, revising her book . . .”

“It’ll be fine,” he assured me. “We have fast transport.”

“We do?”

“I’m a New York Times Bestselling author. They’ll let me use their helicopter. We’ll be there and back in no time.”

“They have a helicopter?” I asked.

“You bet! How do you think we New York Times Bestselling authors get around? Think we walk? Don’t be insane! Choppers, kiddo! Choppers!”

A cab stopped. He threw open the door.

“Sometimes we also take cabs,” he added quickly. “Get in.”

Soon we were speeding uptown towards the New York Times building. Scott was furiously adjusting his sunglasses. It seemed that he didn’t want to look at me directly.

“So,” I said. “We’re going to fly down to Baltimore in the New York Times helicopter and talk to the people at the Hubble. That’s pretty cool. But I wouldn’t expect less from the author of books such as Specials and Peeps.”

“Why are you listing off the names of some of my books?” he asked.

“I had to work them in again somehow.”

He pulled the drawing out of his pocket again and smoothed it out over his knee.

“They keep the helicopter on the roof, obviously,” he said. “We shouldn’t have much trouble getting to it. If you cause a minor distraction here by, say, setting fire to the wedding announcements desk. Don’t worry about the arson charges. You’ll be a hero to a lot of people after that. From there, we should be able to . . .”

“Wait . . . are you saying we’re going to steal it? I thought you said they let you use it?”

“Commandeer is a much better word. We’ll be bringing it back. And I never said they let me use it. I just said choppers. Pay attention, kiddo. The devil is in the details. Anyway, we’re just using it for a while, and we have a good reason. The best reason.”

“Except that we’re also going to be kidnapping the pilot,” I said. “Is the New York Times okay with that, too?”

“What pilot?”

We turned a sharp left on to Sixth Avenue that sent us both sliding across the back of the cab. I noticed the cab driver watching us through the rear view mirror.

“There is a pilot,” I said. “Right?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. He just adjusted his glasses and watched as we narrowly missed taking out a messenger on a bicycle.

“How hard can it be?” he finally said. “Up. Down. Nothing to it. It’s just like a Volkswagen with a ceiling fan stuck on top. No problem. I’ve been reading up on airships recently.”

At this point, I was honestly wondering if all was well with Scott.

“Scott,” I said. “Why do you care so much about Pluto? Who cares if they call it a planet?”

“It’s personal,” he said simply.

“How can Pluto be personal? It’s a cold and dark lump of ice in the backwater of the solar system. It’s not like you’re going to go there. Just let it go.”

He sighed heavily. Then he slipped off his glasses and faced me. That’s when I saw the eyes. Yellow. Thin-pupiled. Not human.



The eye of Westerfeld was upon me.

“Two things I don’t do,” he said, his pupils narrowing to a sliver. “One, wear jeans. Two, tolerate false planets. You with me?”

I was backed up against the door, actually.

His phone rang. I could hear Justine’s voice on the other end—clear, Australian, and slightly under duress. In that moment, his eyes slipped back to their normal appearance.

Scott clicked his phone shut.

“We have to abort,” he said. “My wife needs me. Can I safely assume you’ll tell no one about what you’ve seen or heard this afternoon?”

“Who would I tell?” I said.

“Glad to hear it.” He signaled for the cab to stop, tossed a handful of bills into the front seat, and threw open the door while the cab was still moving.

“Next time,” he said. “Be ready. You’re in my gang now. I could come for you at any time.”

The last time I saw him, he was running down 42nd Street, weaving through the tourists and the hucksters. I followed for a little while, but he was moving with unnatural speed. Somewhere between the Hershey Store and the Crowne Plaza Hotel I lost sight of him. In one instant, he was gone.

One thing they always say about New Yorkers is that we never look up at the buildings around us. Maybe it was because I was thinking of Pluto or the helicopter that I wasn’t forced into stealing . . .

I can’t be certain, but I think I saw a figure scaling the giant chocolate bar on top of the Hershey Store. Maybe it was a trick of the eye, a fault in the circuits, a ripple in the choco-static continuum . . . but somehow, I don’t think so.



The last known sighting of Westerfeld.

THE GUIDE TO COLLEGE WEIRDOS

I like Meg Cabot’s blog. I read it all the time. The other day, she wrote about how it’s back-to-college time, and gave some great tips on how to avoid pervs. This is all very sound advice.

It made me think of my own college days, and the various and sundry characters I met. College was a fantastic experience, by and large, but I met some odd people, too. You are also likely to meet, and live with, with some odd people. You will have to deal. This is just the truth.

I’m not in the least bit ashamed to admit that I was a bit clueless when I arrived at college. I’d just spent four years in an all-girls Catholic prep school (the basis for St. Teresa’s in Devilish). I hadn’t had to deal with guys on a daily basis since eighth grade. So to suddenly be living with them was a bit of an eye-opener. I made all kinds of mistakes, and met all kinds of weirdos. I offer these experiences up as a guide.

College weirdos are not just guys. And many of the guys you meet will be great. They will become your friends, maybe even your boyfriends. But, as in the animal kingdom, the males are often the more brightly colored and exotic of the species.

Without further ado, let us look at some college guys.

THE HUNGRY GUY WHO WANTS YOUR VACCUM CLEANER

There’s always a guy who shows up at college with nothing, not because he is destitute, but because he didn’t put any thought into getting ready. His room looks like something from an army barracks—near-empty desk, one plain blanket, nothing on the walls. He will eventually buy a poster or two from the bookstore, but this will take a while. He may have a fridge, but he will never put anything in it except food that comes from you.

The HGWWYVC visits your room for the first time and looks around in awe at your coordinated bedsheets, your closet organizers, and your well-stocked pantry and mini-fridge. From this point on, HGWWYVC will view you as a food source, like those tiny fish that live in the teeth of sharks.

You will dazzle him further with your Dustbuster, bagless Stick Shark, or whatever cleaning tool you’ve brought. It would never have occurred to him in a million, billion years to bring such a thing. And at some point, when something weird happens—like a minor ceiling collapse or a fishtank explosion—he will come looking to borrow it. He won’t return it for weeks, even though he will tell you constantly that he is going to bring it back. He means it too, but he is either very forgetful or just can’t bear to part with the precious shiny thing.

HOW TO DEAL WITH HIM: You shouldn’t be stingy with your food, but the HGWWYVC should be viewed with the same caution reserved for squirrels. He has an insatiable appetite, and he will keep coming back. He’ll also eat anything, so don’t think that you can fool him by giving him some nasty, super-healthy snack. Try to keep your meetings with him confined to the dining hall.

If he borrows your vacuum, go to his room when he is out and get it back from his roommate. You won’t have any trouble finding it. It’s in his otherwise empty closet.


THE DOORWAY SHADOW

For some guys, coming to college and living with girls is just way too much for their heads. (The same can be said of the girl-guy relationship, but we tend to react differently.) Upon arriving and finding that he now lives among the womenfolk, the Doorway Shadow’s head explodes. He never recovers.

Doorway Shadows do exactly as the same implies: they come and stand in your doorway and stare. I’m not talking about the guys who just come around a lot to talk, or the guy who looks at you shyly in class; the Doorway Shadow comes to your room, never comes in, and he rarely speaks. He may just linger in your hall, even though he doesn’t really know anyone who lives there.


HOW TO DEAL WITH HIM: It’s hard to tell if a Doorway Shadow presents any actual threat. You will definitely meet people in college who are simply awkward and overwhelmed. But the behavior in and of itself falls on the pervy side of things. Some Doorway Shadows will simply become known as “that guy who just lurks around” and it will never come to more than that. But you will frequently have to make this call in college—“should I be nice, or should I get out the mace?” When in doubt, err on the side of caution. The Doorway Shadow really can be a problem, sometimes a serious one.

The first steps are simple. Talk to the people in your hall/suite/building and let them know your concern. They’ve probably noticed too. Shut and lock your door when you go out. Tell a guy friend what’s going on and ask him to come and sit in your room with you for a while. This will often deter the Doorway Shadow. I also had some success with just asking the DS what he was doing, but this doesn’t always work.

If it happens more than once or twice, or if you really feel that something is wrong, speak to your RA. They’re likely to leap directly into some plan already laid out in the Big Book of Residence Life, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS

College represents an opportunity to start again. New town, new friends, a blank slate. This is refreshing for everyone. Some people, though, will take this chance to reinvent a little too far. Ever once in a blue moon, you will meet that elusive and colorful beast, the pathological liar.The Man Who Never Was decides to rewrite his entire life story. He makes everything up.

I met my Man Who Never Was in my freshman year. He was a sophomore, and therefore was Experienced in the Ways of College. He soon made friends with a large group of us freshpeople. We knew that he had a girlfriend from high school who he had loved deeply, and that she had died in a terrible accident. We knew he had a blackbelt in karate, that he took Russian classes at another school, and that he was a celebrated actor at his high school.

We knew these things because he told us. We never thought, on hearing about his dead girlfriend, to say, “Nuh-uh. Liar.” He had her picture, and he looked genuinely sad when he talked about her. Who would lie about such a thing?

He sometimes went off for the weekend to karate competitions and came back sore. He drove off a few times a week for Russian class. We believed him, because these things are real. There are people who have had a girlfriend die. And some people take karate and Russian. It happens.

The Man Who Never Was had all kinds of grandiose stories. He could be fun to be around, simply because he always had interesting things to say. The professors at our school, he would tell us, were “working with him individually” because of his great talent. He told us about fights he’d had, and crazy stories about shows where he’d suddenly had to take on other roles in the middle of a performance when another actor got sick. He was a fun time, the Man Who Never Was. We, his freshman groupies, loved him.

We also knew that he was failing every class at our school because he never went. He always had an excuse to give—karate injury, a dead grandmother, some illness. I was the one always pleading with him to get his act together, and then letting him borrow my Biology notes (because I actually made it to the 8 AM lectures). I always thought it was a little odd that he was taking Russian at another school, but he said our school didn’t have the class he needed.

After a few weeks, I knew something was up with him, but I didn’t quite know what. This was because I was clueless. But that changed, a bit.

HOW TO DEAL WITH HIM: The hard part in dealing with really big liars is that they lie about weird stuff that you wouldn’t even think about lying about, and they do it for seemingly no reason. The only way to tell is that there will be inconsistencies in versions of stories, or things that simply do not add up in life. Like if someone tells you that they are so motivated that they take Russian at another school, and never attend classes at their own. They’re lying.

I actually caught him one day over a short story he was writing. The Man Who Never Was also claimed to be a great writer, much esteemed by the English department, even though I never saw his work. (“It’s not good enough yet. I can’t show you. It’s trash now! Trash! I never show work until it’s ready.”) He was actually enrolled in our school’s fanciest writing class, and I think he really went, as that professor was not going to deal with excuses.

One day, he came down and (very dramatically—he was always dramatic) offered to read to be from his new story. He said he needed my opinion. He read. I was honest. It was terrible. I mean, genuinely terrible.

He looked slightly put out, but responded gamely.

“I know,” he said. “It’s supposed to be. I’m supposed to write it badly first. Then I’m supposed to rewrite it. It’s what we do in [fancy writing class].”

I didn’t know what went on in [fancy writing class], but even I thought that sounded a little insane.

Maybe an hour later, I had to go up to his room for something. He wasn’t there, but his door was open. I went in, as I always did and was welcome to do. His computer was on, and the story was on the screen. Next to the keyboard was a high school literary magazine, open and face down. I picked it up and looked at it. I wasn’t completely shocked to see the same horrible story I’d just heard printed there, and a totally different name under the title.

I waited for him to get back, magazine in hand. I held it up.

“What’s this?” I asked. “You’re copying?”

He looked put out again, and then said. “No. We’re supposed to take something that’s bad by someone else, and then rewrite it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “And you didn’t say that before. You said it was yours.”

“I thought you would get upset,” he said. “I know how you are. You wouldn’t like it if I had to copy someone’s work. I didn’t like it, but . . .”

Never let it be said that I don’t eventually catch on. A little lightbulb went off over my head.

“Where are your Russian books?” I asked.

That one stopped him cold. After a moment, he said they were in his car.

“Okay,” I said. “I have some time. Let’s go out to your car and get them. There’s something I need to look up in a Russian dictionary.”

His face went totally blank, and after a moment, he left the room. And that was that.

In the next week, every story that the Man Who Never Was had ever told us slowly collapsed. In comparing notes, we all realized that our versions of the death of his girlfriend (which we hadn’t repeated, as he’s always said, “I’m just telling you—please don’t tell this to anyone else”) varied slightly. In one, he was in the car with her when it was hit. In another, she was in the car in front. In a third, he wasn’t even there. There was no girlfriend, no karate, no Russian, no nothing. He was just a garden-variety weirdo with an exceptional ability to make up stories on the spot.

The last time we saw The Man Who Never Was was a few weeks later. The stress of being abandoned by all his new freshman friends had taken its toll. He had started wearing sunglasses indoors, and had decided he was a smoker. In fact, he was a super-smoker, going so far as to procure a large pedestal ashtray which he placed in the center of his room. It overflowed with cigarette butts, and he smoked so much that the hall outside his door stank. He came out less and less, and then eventually vanished into his own smoke. Perhaps he went somewhere else to start all over again, carefully working out the details of his stories so that next time . . . next time would be different.

PLANES, TRAINS, AND AUTOMOBILES, and an exciting interlude

The last few days have been a nearly endless succession of planes, trains, automobiles . . . with the occasional coach and ferry stuck in there. I have been in more lines and departure lounges in the last four days alone than I think I’ve been in in the last six months.

I woke up this morning thinking, “Okay, I need to put that post up today.” And when I got to my computer was greeted by the news that all airline traffic in and out of Heathrow Airport in London is absolutely snarled, due to a massive operation to stop an impending terrorist attack. The target? Flights out of the UK going to the US. Basically, my route.

I was in Heathrow about 24 hours ago. I squeezed out of the UK just in time. I would have been in one of those painful lines, putting my passport in a plastic bag. Actually, since they’re not letting anyone carry laptop computers on board, I probably would have just thrown up my hands in defeat and stayed in England. I don’t go anywhere without Gilda. (Gilda being the name of my Apple PowerBook.)

Not that I would have put up a fuss. Like I’ve said before, I don’t make trouble for the nice airline people. If I can’t carry my laptop for safety reasons, I’m all for it. I just won’t go. I would have called Oscar Gingersnort and headed back to the London Office. That is how devoted I am. Or, rather, that’s how much I need her. Gilda is where my books live, and I don’t really like the idea of her being thrown like a Frisbee into a cargo hold. I stood watching bags come down a conveyor in London the other day. (I was coming back from Italy—that’s not just something I do in my free time.) Something went wrong, and a large piece of metal came off the belt and started stabbing the bags. Like an angry, insane fencer. “Ha! I stab you! And you! I stab you and you and you!” I won’t have that for Gilda.

In any case, I’m back in New York, still slightly baffled by my long absence, but recovering.

I was, as I last wrote, very briefly in Italy. Very briefly. One of the great things about being in England is that you can get to Europe very quickly, something that blows my mind every single time. My brain cannot seem to accept that France could only be an hour or two away, and that you can just pick up and hop on a train and go there anytime you want.

I was in Sorrento, which is an insanely beautiful place along the coast, just south of Naples. Sorrento is built on the very edge of the land—and I do mean the very edge. There are buildings which have back walls that line up exactly with the edge of cliffs. Considering that this is a place of considerable seismic activity, the Italians seem to be daring nature to throw another earthquake at them. And nature does, and the Italians just rebuild and dare nature again. Here’s what I mean:



You do what you have to to live in a place that looks like that, and has desserts that look like this:



Oh yes. There comes a point where you really have to stop eating, and I have found that point. Remember, I do this for you! All for you! Why? Because I was there researching for Girl At Sea, which is entering its final draft stage. And Sorrento and the surrounding area is where it is largely set—with scenes in the Island of Capri, Pompeii, and various towns up the Italian coastline.

AN EXCITING BREAK IN THE POST

As I was writing this, an e-mail came in. You will never guess what was in it. No, you will not. So I’ll just tell you. It was a blurb (a blurb being a quote that goes on your book jacket or elsewhere) from Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s TARA! Yes, Amber Benson! Willow’s girlfriend! The victim of Warren’s outrageous shooting! THAT Tara!

Amber is a prolific author in her own right, and I TOTALLY LOVE HER!

(*hyperventilates*)

(*tries not to spaz on the blog, as this will ruin perception of cool that she has worked so long to build*)

(*realizes what a joke that last statement is*)

Tara likes Devilish! Look!

“I adored Maureen Johnson's book Devilish. I read it in one sitting and immediately wanted more. It's the cleverest take on selling your soul that I've read in a long time.”
-Amber Benson



This is Amber.

I am so excited by this that I am going to spontaneously write a song for Tara, I mean Amber, right now. Feel free to make up the tune.

Amber
You are so awesome
I’m sorry Warren shot you
Causing Willow to go crazy
And try to blow the world up
Until Xander stopped her
Not that I know this
Obviously I had to look it all up on Wikipedia
There’s no way I just pulled this off the top of my head
(Okay, I knew it.)

Amber
Thanks for liking my book
You are so clever
I’ll bet you have lots of pencils
Because you are always writing
Because you’re so clever
And that lots of people call you
Because you’re awesome
You probably use a headset
Because you get so tired of holding up the phone
You can get wrist-weariness that way

Tara
I mean, Amber
You are the best
And we all like you
And (*hyperventilates and has to breathe into paper bag*)

Okay, but really. No, really. She’s that cool. So, hey, Amber likes Devilish. That can’t be bad.

I’m just going to rest for a moment now. I have . . . jetlag. Yeah. That’s it. Jetlag.

Ciao! from the Italy Desk

Hello!

I am sorry to have been so silent the last few days. That is about to end, my friends. I was finishing a draft (as you may have noticed) and then I left to come here. Yes, it’s the Italy Desk. I’ve spent the last few days drinking fine wine, eating too much, and leaping out of the way of scooters. Also, I have to say, “Ciao!” a lot, which is exciting.

Ciao!

Like that. I'll throw it in a few times so you can get the experience.

I’ll fill you in on all of this and give you some fantastico glimpses into the new book, Girl At Sea. Because that’s why I’m here. I’m researching. I do these things for you. All for you.

In the meantime, I thought I would share this photo. See, the main problem with being a writer is that I am constantly around celebrities. I am knee-deep in them and their celebrity ways.

“Why,” I sometimes say to myself. “Why can’t I just be around some ordinary folk? Why the glitterati, and why all the time?”

(Ciao!)

Here is a picture of me, taken with a famous television personality, at Brighton Pier in England a few nights ago:



Ciao.

Yes, it’s Noo-Noo the vacuum cleaner from Teletubbies. I look bored because he is, in fact, really boring. He’s a vacuum cleaner. He absolutely insisted on hanging out with me. What a night that was, listening to him talk about what dirt tastes like.

But this is what I mean. Constant, constant fame and glamour.

Consider this a placeholder. I’ll be back with a more in-depth report. Maybe even two posts in one day. Possible? Ciao!