Why Pam van Hylckama Vlieg Rules the Universe!!!
It’s not too often you have a dream where everything is going right, where it’s just you and Zac Efron, and your hair looks shiny, and your make-up is flawless, and that extra five pounds you hate has vanished like snowflakes in hot cocoa…
The downside is that you usually wake up. At least, I HOPE you wake up, because otherwise you’d be in a coma and Zac Efron’s career might tank because he’s too busy giving you backrubs to make new movies.
But here’s the thing: I’m having one of those dreams, right now, as we speak!!! It’s been going on for days, and I’m not waking up. Apparently, my dearest fantasy (besides saving the world with Zac Efron as my sidekick) is getting a three-book deal with an awesome publisher.
Well, earlier this week, my spectacular agent, Pam van Hylckama Vlieg (aka Agent P) with Larsen-Pomada Literary Agency, negotiated a three-book deal for me with Entangled, arguably the most awesome publisher on the planet! (If you don’t believe me, go look! http://www.entangledpublishing.com/)
I had to keep checking to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, which Pam assures me I’m not (http://bookalicio.us/category/blog/). Laurie McLean (weirdly, also my agent) even posted it on her website for that extra-special reality check (http://agentsavant.com/2012/05/15/congratulations-pam-vhv/).
So here I sit, jammie-clad with broadsword in hand, waiting for Zac Efron to ring my doorbell 
and invite me to topple an evil, intergalactic dictator who’s bent on world domination. Because really, that’s about the only thing that would make this cooler.
Ooo, and possibly the ability to teleport… Um, Pam?
(While she’s working on that, I’m going to eat breakfast. You should go follow her, study her, query her. And if you figure out the teleportation thing, call me. Better yet, POP IN!!)
XOXO,
C
“My First Kiss… A Cautionary Tale.”
There is absolutely nothing as memorable as a girl’s first kiss. Or at least I’m pretty sure that’s true. I can’t quite remember.
You see, for me, the memory is clogged by an even more visceral, more sweaty-palmed, more heart-palpitating, gut-twisting, spine-tingling experience. . . . Pure revulsion.
It wasn’t Steven’s fault. He was a perfectly decent boy, as boys go– a little dorky (he liked golf) and his hair could have used some product. But overall, he wasn’t bad. Just your basic freshman from the all-boy’s school down the street, here at the beach with his friends for Spring Break, looking for a little lip-action. Not like you’d expect much else, right?
For example, one thing I definitely DIDN’T expect was a giant toungue shoved immediately and forcefully into my mouth. Nor did I expect said tongue to taste like the bottom of a dirty ashtray (no, I’ve never licked one). I also didn’t expect to spend the entire time (twenty-seven and a half minutes) wondering when my friends were going to come get me, or how the hell I was going to excuse myself gracefully back to our condo to brush my teeth. Repeatedly.
After the fourth or fifth tooth collision, and several minutes pondering whether enough Listerine existed to correct this revolting taste in my mouth, I summoned the nerve to say, “There’s sand in my underpants.”
Steven pulled back to look at me like I had mental damage. “Caroline, it’s a beach,” he said. “There’s sand at the beach.”
Oh, right. I told him my name was Caroline. Still not sure why. Also not sure why he didn’t question it when my friends kept calling me Cecily right in front of him. Did I mention Steven was an honor student?
“Yeah, well,” I said, dusting off my denim mini-skirt. ”Life’s a beach. Doesn’t mean I want sand in my butt.”
I started to make my way back to the crowded, well-lit area of the beach (all twenty feet of it) when Steven stood up. “I’ll walk you back,” he said, “to make sure you find your way.”
Because maybe I’d get lost on the fifty yard trek back to the elevators?
“That’d be great! Thanks!” I said, all the while musing how it’d be a cold day in Tijuana before I kissed anybody ever again. All I could think about was this disgusting article I’d read on how aroma has weight, and every time you smell something– like someone’s farts, or toxic foot odor or nasty smoker breath– what you’re really doing is injesting small particulates of that substance. So just by sniffing you could actually be INJESTING poop!!! Which, translated, meant I had just eaten a partially smoked, fully undigested cigarette.
Back at the condo, I did a heroic job of not hurling. Even when Steven came in for another smooch, lips guppy-wide, with sticky little spit trails connecting the corners of his mouth. Or when someone’s mom came onto the veranda to hose off her kid’s vomit which smelled, unsurprisingly, like bourbon. And especially when I ducked the kiss, gave him a high five, and bolted for the condo entrance.
“Kissing is disgusting,” I announced, slamming the door behind me. “I’m never doing that again.”
My friends stared after me, some with pity, others with measured scepticism. “Never?” Dina asked.
“But what if you have to?” Elizabeth said. “Like if you want to have babies?”
Elizabeth was also on the honor roll.
It wasn’t until my teeth had been firmly scoured, my tongue fully scrubbed with hot water and Brillo pad, then doused with Scope, that I came to one very certain conclusion: If I ever did have babies, NO WAY IN HELL would I ever let them go to Destin, Florida for Spring Break. And no matter where they went or what they did, I would be sure to impart a few pieces of motherly advice.
1. Start with the lips. If tongue seems like a good idea, go for it. Then (for God’s sake) retreat. Nuzzle, nibble, take a freaking breath. It’s a paintbrush, people, not a battering ram.
2. Do not smoke. Ever.
3. Make sure you know her name and at least one other random thing about her. (For example, “Sheila K… likes mustard on her French fries.”)
4. Try not to reek of desperation.
5. DO NOT SMOKE! EVER!!!!
I was pretty sure that advice alone would earn me the Successful Parenting Badge.
How about you guys? What are your first kiss stories?
Into the Pale… and Screaming
Okay, I’ve read gobs of posts lately about whether or not YA lit has gotten too dark. . .
And it’s a fine question.
I mean, with kids killing kids in The Hunger Games, innocent girls getting stalked by vampires in Twilight, and the rash of YA stories exploring teen suicide, bullying, eating disorders, school shootings, drug addiction, plastic surgery, sexual experimentation and more, it’s hard not to wonder about the effect of the YA genre on today’s teens.
But as much airtime as this question is getting, I can’t help thinking, it’s the wrong question.
The fact is, these stories are succeeding in the market because these are the stories teens crave. If such dark topics didn’t speak to teen readers, they wouldn’t be on the shelves, right?
I can’t help wondering why folks aren’t asking better questions. For example:
“What’s happening for teens that makes them gravitate, en masse, toward the darkness?”
“Why are they connecting so deeply to authors like Jennifer Brown, Jay Asher, and Laurie Halse Anderson?”
Well, let’s have a look, shall we?
FACTS:
–Teen suicide is the third leading cause of death in young people age 15-24, and even more scary, the fourth leading cause of death in ages 10-14. One in eleven high school students admits to having made a suicide attempt (CDC).
–2.5% to 4% of teenage girls have either anorexia or bulimia (Eating Disorders Coalition).
–Approximately 160,000 kids miss school every day due to fear of attack or intimidation by other students (MBNBD).
–In the past year, over 70% of teens admit to having used alcohol, 34% marijuana, and an average of about 8% to using hard drugs like cocaine, opiates, hallucinogens, and steroids (U.S. Dept. of Justice).
–1 in 5 female high school students report being physically and/or sexually abused by a dating partner (Journal of the AMA). Approximately 58% of rape victims report being raped between the ages of 12-24 (U.S. Dept of HHS).
–Roughly half of all U.S. high school students have had sex, with 39% of those reporting that they did not use a condom. Likewise, nearly 8000 young people age 13-24 are reported as having HIV, and more than 400,000 girls ages 15-19 give birth each year (CDC).
– 9% of the murders in the U.S. are committed by kids under the age of 18.
If art reflects life, I’m stunned we get our happy endings at all!
So, to those brave authors willing to write about it, I say “Good for you!” This is their reality. We may not intend it, but kids deal with hard stuff, every day. If the YA industry can raise awareness, offer resources, and make parents talk to their kids about getting help, then I’m having a hard time being anything but grateful.
But enough about me, what do y’all think?
The Golden SPANX… and other weird events
Some weeks the glass is half-empty.
Other weeks you look at the glass and think, “Dang, I wish that was vodka instead of water.”
This week, I was just happy the glass was metaphorical, because otherwise it would have been smashed by the rollicking earthquake of good news I got.
It started with an email. “We at Larsen-Pomada would like to talk to you about your manuscript.”
Seriously? I thought, sitting at my father’s (dial-up) computer in New Orleans. They seriously want to reject me in person? Isn’t that a little. . . sadistic? (And me, without my rejection pants!)
So I charged my cellphone, reassured myself that a few other agents were still reading my manuscript, and went to a coffee shop to wait for the soul-crushing call. The phone rang:
THEM: “We’d like to offer you representation.”
ME: (choking on decaf) “Excuse me?”
THEM: “Um, representation. We’d like to represent you.”
But, but… this was Laurie McLean, agent extraordinaire of Larsen-Pomada. MY DREAM AGENT! Well crum, I thought. Exactly what kind of mushroom was that in my lunch salad?
Then Pam van Hylckama Vlieg, Laurie’s fabulous assistant (and agent-in-training with whom I’d been emailing), got on the phone and confirmed. Nope, no hallucination. Dream agent likes me.
For the next few days, I doodled in my notebook, “Cecily White, repped by Laurie McLean,” then I added, “and Pam van Hylckama Vlieg,” because two agents are better than one, right? I drew a bunch of flowers around it and started smiling a lot. My kids didn’t think this was weird at all. They began referring to Pam as Agent P, and Avery started asking things like, “Mommy, if you get published, will I be famous?”
ME: “Yes, dear. Absolutely.”
EVAN: “Does this mean I don’t have to eat vegetables anymore?”
ME: “Only if you want to get scurvy and die young.”
AVERY: “I like carrots.”
I thought the wave of joy had ebbed when Monday morning rolled in. Then the second call came:
PRANK CALLER: “Hi, this is Nikki Enlow calling from Romance Writers of America®. You’re a finalist for the Golden Heart®. “
ME: “That’s not funny, Stephanie.”
PRANK CALLER: “No, really. You’re a finalist.”
ME: “Dude, you know I have caller ID, right?”
Turns out, she wasn’t kidding. Apparently it’s okay for judges to eat funny mushrooms too, because I can only assume that’s what they were doing when they read my manuscript. So yeah, I’m a finalist.
Which means my photo is going to be up on a widescreen in Anaheim and now I have to lose like, ten pounds so my butt doesn’t obscure the attendees’ view when I get there.
MY SISTER: “You can’t wear jeans.”
ME: “I don’t own anything else.”
MY SISTER: “Go shopping.”
ME: “But I look good in jeans. They’re slimming.”
MY SISTER: “Invest in Spanx.”
Yes, clearly, only Spanx can save me now. And so, at the end of one of the most adrenaline-packed weeks of my life, I am left with a nugget of awesome and a handful of Lycra.
Yeah.
Some weeks the glass is half-full.
Holding the Ranks…
I like to rank things.
I rank order my jeans, my bedroom slippers, and my collection of fuzzy sweaters. I even have the fruit in my produce drawer ranked according to which I like best. Not just which types of fruit– I mean which actual grapefruits I find most appealing. (Get it? A-peel-ing?)
So it’s no wonder my office is coated in books, each section rank ordered within its category according to which author is my favorite at any given moment. And the order is constantly changing. Obsessive, you say? Maybe. But if you’re looking for something to read, and you know immediately whether it’s a Rick Riorden day or a Maggie Stiefvater week (when is it NOT a Maggie Stiefvater week?) then it’s wildly convenient to have your favorite books at the ready for an emergency re-read.
Just to be anal-retentive, I planned to give you a ranked rundown of all my favorite authors. The problem is, I’ve read too many lately that I love.
Gayle Forman, Michelle Rowen, Kiersten White, Jenna Black, Julie Cross, Jennifer Brown, Leigh Fallon, Lara Chapman, Kody Keplinger. . . and we mustn’t forget the inimitable Cassandra Clare (Seriously, that woman has a whole zip code to herself). I don’t think I can reasonably rank them anymore.
This disturbs me.
What will become of my carefully ordered universe? Will I morph into a person who wears flared or bootleg-cut jeans willy nilly, with no thought to ranked preference? Will I stop comparing my husband’s kisses to the myriad of idiots I kissed before him (whose full names and tongue styles I still maintain notes on, btw)?
It’s a sad thought indeed.
I suppose I should do what any rational woman in my position would, and go re-organize my underwear drawer. (The pink lace have been in the ‘favorites’ spot far too long. . . they’re starting to get cocky.)
And so I leave you with a gallery of my top five favorite nerdy guys– because if you can’t reduce men to a list of rank-ordered specimens, what has the world come to?
#5 Demetri Martin (Hilarious… and Yale educated.)
#4 Andy Samberg (Pretty ripped for a nerd… I won’t hold it against him.)
#3 Joseph Gordon-Levitt (So much style, you hardly notice the pocket protector!)
#2 Michael Cera (Scott Pilgrim. ‘Nuff said.)
#1 Jesse Eisenberg (He can join my Social Network ANYTIME!)
The Tweeting Twit
Okay.
I admit, it’s been a
while since I’ve blogged. Not because I don’t love sitting at the computer, dredging my brain for something witty to say. Nor because I don’t have scads of extra time between guitar lessons, class, gymnastics, conferences, soccer, and trying to
come up with dinners that don’t inspire widespread hissy fits.
No.
It’s because of Twitter.
That’s right. 175 million
people all trying to convince you they’re worth following. And you, in turn,
must contribute not just daily witticism, but actual MEANINGFUL “content” in
order to attract them.
You heard me, ATTRACT them.
I specifically recall
getting married so that I would never have to “attract” anyone again. And every
time I gain a “follower” or lose a “follower” I feel my self-worth expand and
plummet respectively.
It’s dizzying. It’s
painful.
I did this in high school
and I deeply, passionately, don’t want to do it again.
Yet, here I am. Every day.
Tweeting.
So, I twbeg of you, if
you twlove me, come to my twhouse, ascend the stairs, and rip my cramped, twfrozen
fingers off the twit-board. I will thank you in the end.
After I quit twitching.
(…Live the nightmare @cecilywhite)
Five for Friday
Hello friends and readers!
If you’re anything like me, you’re CONSTANTLY looking for something to read. So I’m going to make it easy for you.
Here’s a list of the top five BEST BOOKS I’ve read in the past few months. No mistake, I’ve read a lot of good ones. These are just the ones that go supernova in my memory.
Here goes:
5.) Carrier of the Mark, by Leigh Fallon. (This one isn’t actually due out until next month. I got it in ARC form at RWA and WOW! I actually forgot to eat. It was that good.)
4.) Clockwork Angel, by Cassandra Clare (Came out a while ago, but is worth the re-read. Makes me wonder why men don’t wear waistcoats anymore.)
3.) Demon Princess:Reign or Shine, by Michelle Rowen (Seriously funny. This woman’s wit is sharper than a razor and more lethal than a light saber. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again… I want to be Michelle Rowen.)
2.) Bloodlines, by Richelle Mead (Started it yesterday, will finish it tonight. My only complaint is that I can’t put it down long enough to write anything!)
1.) Forever, by Maggie Stiefvater (This is the third of the Shiver series, and I actually cried when I finished it. I kept rereading the last few chapters because I didn’t want the series to be over. Pathetic, I know, but true nonetheless. So go. Start at the beginning. Buy the whole series. Spend the weekend with it. I don’t care who you are, if you have a pulse, you’ll love it.)
That is all. Hope you’re all writing madly and loving it.
XOXO, me!
Dark… like his soul.
I’ve been thinking about Bad Boys…
You know who they are. Maybe you’ve dated one… or three. They’re dangerous. They smoke, they drink. They have tattoos in places your mother wouldn’t want you thinking about. They’re unemployed and probably unemployable. They drive motorcycles without a license and only sometimes wear a helmet. They are (say it with me girls) BAD NEWS.
And yet, we flock to them. Again and again, we choose the bad boy. Why take Luke Skywalker when you could have Han Solo? Simon Lewis? Um, not when Jace Wayland is around. They’re like chocolate at a Weight Watchers convention. Raw hamburger to a stray cat.
It’s not because we want to tame them. We don’t. And it’s also not because we want to rebel. I mean, sure, that’s true. It wouldn’t be nearly as much fun if Mom took one look at him and said, “Such a thoughtful young man who checks his girlfriend’s tonsils so intently.” But that’s also not the root cause.
So let’s explore the possibilities: 
#1 They’re hot: It’s a fact. Beneath our expanded capacity for reason, we are mere animals, with all the consequent animal desires. We like good looks, charisma, dominance, boldness of action. All the things that make a bad boy so appealing. They buck convention. They defy gravity. Your father doesn’t like them and neither do state troopers. There’s no getting around it. That’s hot.
#2 They’re unattainable: As the great Arthur Shopenhauer once wrote, “Life without pain has no meaning.” We’re constantly striving toward something undefined. . . some un-fathomable happiness. But the tricky bit is, if we ever actually achieved it, we wouldn’t be happy. We’d be bored. At least bad boys keep us from boredom. 
#3 They’re safe: And yes, this is the ultimate irony. The dangerous guy, for all intents and purposes, is a fantasy. Deep down we know he’s not the one. We don’t look at him and think, “Mortgage payments, Diaper Genie, and minivan.” We paw him with our eyes and think, “Yum.” Maybe. Mostly we don’t think at all. And THAT, my friends, is the appeal.
So why, oh why, do we go for the bad boys? The answer, sadly, is because we can’t have them. Not in real life. That’s why we read books. Books (and sometimes movies) are the one place we can go to find heroes who possess manners beyond those of Charlie Sheen, and souls deeper than the average urine puddle. The kind of guy whose suffering explains (and excuses) his badness. The redeemable hero who writes songs about us and feels empty when we aren’t near. The man who can be saved.
Yeah.
Good luck with that.
It comes undone…
The phone rang this morning. At five am.
It was one of those calls where you’re freaked-out because you expect something awful has happened, but you know it’s probably just some drunk idiot who misdialed his latest booty call. Only this time, it wasn’t.
“He’s gone,” was what she said. That’s all she said. “He’s gone.”
And I knew instantly who it was, because we’d known it was coming. For months. My father-in-law has been battling pancreatic cancer since February. I thought for awhile he might actually win. Not because he was stronger or because it made sense, but because this man was simply too stubborn to sit down for anything. . . including cancer. Up until the very last day he was cracking jokes about the hospital “shamen” and wondering what his 21 virgins might be wearing. (I voted for Laura Ashley)
In the end, though, humor wasn’t as good as a working pancreas. So, like Luz said, “He’s gone.”
I think the thing I will remember most about him is his utter lack of self-consciousness. When he forgot his backpack on a seven-day wilderness canoe trip, he didn’t complain or gripe or insist we go back. Nope. He ate dinner in his underwear, bathed in the lake, and didn’t worry too much about the lack of a hairbrush. Because it wasn’t important. Being there was important.
So that’s what I will take from him: I will be there. I will live in my body, in my life, and not judge it. Because this life is all we get. And as Fred would say, “We’re damned lucky to have it!”
This post, small as it is, honors the memory of my father in law.
Thank you, Fred.
“One always dies too soon- or too late. And yet one’s whole life is complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up. You are- your life, and nothing else.”
- Jean-Paul Sartre
Fangirl Friday!
Hi all! Welcome to Fangirl Friday!
Today I’m thinking about love. You know the stuff– it crawls inside you and wiggles until your heart is scoured clean and you can’t breathe without sparking the raw sting of infinity. Well, this week there are not one but THREE authors with whom I have fallen in love. I can’t wait to introduce you to them. So grab your glittery nail polish and get ready to scream.
Today’s Literary Fangirl picks are:
1.) Leigh Michaels – I finished Just One Season in London, and I gotta say, it was FANtastic! So sexy, emotional, and incredibly well-written. Buy it immediately. Then buy all the copies on the shelf and give them to your friends. Or go to: www.leighmichaels.com
2.) Michelle Rowen – Read anything by this woman. Seriously. Anything. She is BRILLIANT. And beautiful. And hysterical. I want to BE Michelle Rowen when I grow up. Until then, I want her to write faster so I’ll always have something good to read. So go. Read her. Her new release is Bloodlust, or you can start with the Demon Princess series, or anything Sarah Dearly. Visit her at: www.michellerowen.com
3.) Last, but DEFINITELY not least, Rob Thurman – I just read Chimera. It’s STUNNING. Heart-stopping action, compelling characters, dark humor, and the perfect amount of existential depth to make you think hard, yet NOT propel you into a pit of Kierkegaardian despair. I’m going to re-read it as soon as I finish the laundry. Then I’m going to re-read the Cal Leandros novels. Check Rob out at: www.robthurman.net
I hope you take time to fall in love this week. Until next time, dear readers.
XO, Cecily
Why Pam van Hylckama Vlieg Rules the Universe!!!
Posted in Uncategorized
It's not too often you have a dream where everything is going right, where it's just you and Zac Efron, and your hair looks shiny, and your make-up is flawless, and that extra five pounds you hate has vanished like ...
“My First Kiss… A Cautionary Tale.”
Posted in Uncategorized
There is absolutely nothing as memorable as a girl's first kiss. Or at least I'm pretty sure that's true. I can't quite remember. You see, for me, the memory is clogged by an even more visceral, more sweaty-palmed, more heart-palpitating, gut-twisting, spine-tingling experience. ...
Into the Pale… and Screaming
Posted in Uncategorized
Okay, I’ve read gobs of posts lately about whether or not YA lit has gotten too dark. . . And it’s a fine question. I mean, with kids killing kids in The Hunger Games, innocent girls getting stalked by vampires in Twilight, ...
