"For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning." ~ T.S.Eliot

Best YA Books

What's not to love about a best of list? From Galleycat readers, here's a list of the best YA books with Links to Free Book Excerpts
13 Reasons Why by Jay Asher
Girl from Mars by Tamara Bach
Ship Breaker by Paolo Bacigalupi
We Could Be Brothers by Derrick Barne
You by Charles Benoit
The White Cat by Holly Black
Zora and Me by Victoria Bond and T. R. Simon
The Girl Next Door by Selene Castrovilla
The Clockwork Angel by Cassandra Clare
Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins
Matched by Ally Condie
The Gates by John Connolly
The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet by Erin Dionne
Personal Demons by Lisa Dosrochers
Hope in Patience by Beth Fehlbaum
Crossing by Andrew Xia Fukuda
Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green
Escape from Furnace by Alexander Gordon Smith
Guardian of the Dead by Karen Healey
The Deathday Letter by Shaun David Hutchinson
Teen Cyberbullying Investigated by Thomas A. Jacobs, J.D.
Please Ignore Vera Deitz by A.S. King
Denim Diaries by Darrien Lee
Last Sacrifice by Richelle Mead
The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner by Stephenie Meyer
Star in the Middle by Carol Larese Millward
Qualities of Light by Mary Carroll Moore
The Sky Is Everywhere by Jandy Nelson
Monsters of Men by Patrick Ness
Deception by Lee Nichols
Before I Fall by Lauren Oliver
Firebrand by Gillian Philip
Greyhound by Steffan Piper
Sorta Like a Rock Star by Matthew Quick
Freefall by Mindi Scott
The Marbury Lens by Andrew Smith
The Fallen by Thomas E. Sniegoski
When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead
Linger by Maggie Stiefvater
Marcello in the Real World by Francisco X. Stork
Leviathan by Scot Westerfeld
Paranormalcy by Kiersten White
The Mockingbirds by Daisy Whitney
The Freak Observer by Blythe Woolston
Food, Girls & Other Things I Can’t Have by Allen Zadoff
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

From an Editor's Desk:
Words you rarely, if ever, need in your writing: then, now, absolutely, positively, very, quite, some, somehow, suddenly, just, really, perhaps, personal, personally, actually, basically

"I see but one rule: to be clear." -Stendahl

One of the conclusions I have reached is that people want order, but some part of them craves anarchy, and writers are seen to embody both elements: in a sane, reasonable way, writers will present a situation, but the components of that situation, and the implications, can be dynamite. ~Ann Beattie

Short stories should tell us what everybody knows but what nobody is talking about.  At least not publicly.  Except for the short story writers. ~Raymond Carver

Wishing everyone light, peace, and joy in this beautiful season.

 CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

           

    childhood is about newness, first loves, and endless possibilities for when we grow older. And sometimes, miracles. Childhood memories carried in our grown-up selves years later are rare and sensory and alive. For some of us it takes years to sort through the pains and pleasures of childhood. But it is a worthwhile task, to go back and find the magic, no matter how small.

     I remember the first time I saw the streaming tail of a jet drawn high in the summer sky. I remember when my brother taught me to make angels in a fresh snow bank and the first time I caught a large haul of slippery, sparkling perch. I remember the steamy windows of our old farm kitchen on wintry Saturdays. We'd bake fat, golden loaves of bread and pies and crescent rolls. I remember the taste of cinnamon toast and hot chocolate on cold winter mornings. I remember the crunch and smell of fallen maple leaves and the wild, dark, changeable skies of November. I remember thunder storms fierce and shattering, and how once a lightening bolt struck the neighbor's tree and burned it in a fiery explosion.

     And I'll never forget my first Christmas miracle. I was six, the second child in a family of six, and no stranger to disappointment. I was a little girl who often felt misunderstood and I substituted imagination for pretty dolls and fancy dishes and adults who lavished love on me.

    That summer my parents returned from a trip to Lac du Flambeau, an Indian reservation in Northern Wisconsin. They brought back rare gifts, an Indian doll in a beaded, buckskin dress and a ring with a beautiful, blue stone. I'd learned about buried treasures and loved my ring so much that I buried it in the back yard for safe keeping. The next day I returned to reclaim my treasure, but it had disappeared. Although I dug and dug and frantically searched, I never saw my ring again.

    For days I stood under the dimming twilight sky and wished on the first evening star for my ring to come back. `Star bright, star light, the first star, I see tonight. Wish I may, wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight,' I recited with the naive hope of a child. After days of futile wishes and still no sign of my beloved ring, I changed my wish and asked the stars for my heart's desire; a doll buggy. To this day, I don't why I changed my wish. I specified that I wanted a blue buggy with stars drawn on it. I told no one, but I hoped with the desperation of a child in a poor family where pretty things arrived mostly on Christmas morning and little girls with freckles and scabby knees don't feel special. And then, as children do, I forgot all about it.

    Months later, Christmas came as it always did in our small town. I sang in the Sunday school pageant wearing the green corduroy dress my mother sewed for me, I visited Santa, and bought handkerchiefs for my parents at the Ben Franklin variety store. We visited my grandparents on Christmas Eve and I played in the back bedroom with the Tickle Bee game I had received from my godparents. I coaxed the fat yellow and black bee along a maze with the magnet and as usual, envied my cousin all her fancy new toys.

    But of course, this was all a prelude to Christmas morning. The one day of the year when hope lived while we unwrapped our bounty from Santa. I came down the narrow stairs in my flannel nightgown, and standing near the tree, with my name on it, was a doll buggy. A turquoise buggy with whimsical, gold stars spangling the toy like a night sky. It had shiny wheels and a brake and a blue-eyed baby doll with flannel diapers and a tiny bottle were waiting for me too.

    I was proud of my toys as a new mother, but mostly I was stunned. Privately and deeply, I wondered again, and again, about the miracle of this toy. Because now I had proof that I'd been heard. I didn't know how or who or why. But I'd been heard. And I didn't feel quite so alone. And some of the pain of my young life, the neighbor kids who called me Jessie James, my jealousy of my younger sister, my simple wish for attention amid the clamor of a large family, began to dissolve into hope with my first Christmas miracle.

For me the strongest influences are the varied landscapes and bare ground of the hinterlands, rough weather and rural people living lives in the pincers of damaging isolation, ingrained localisms, and the economic decisions made by distant urban powers. The rush, for me, comes from the effort to put these lives on paper, and through them examine the society that draws the lines.~ Annie Proulx

"You are writing fiction. Fiction is an illusion. The moment you speak as the author you rupture the illusion, and upset the delicate balance between storyteller and story-reader. The only place where this is acceptable is in first-person narrative where the narrator is also a character in her own right." ~ Sarah Harrison

"As every author- and every reader- knows,
  writing well is the best trip of them all." ~ Gore Vidal

                                                      

I'm going to be on Sirius Radio, Thursday December 23
I'm going to be interviewed on Sirius Radio, on one of thefoxxhole shows, Jamie Foxx's network. Here is the link and info:
Zo Williams' Voice of Reason: Homeless & In Love
Thurs 12/23 8:00 pm ET
Zo Williams broadcasts live from the Union Rescue Mission in Los Angeles, CA. In this special holiday show, Zo covers the seemingly rare highs and overwhelming lows of the homeless love relationship. It will also be a call to action to donate funds, clothes and food to shelters that provide services to the homeless.
I will be speaking from 6:30-7 PST
I wrote Voices from the Street over a 3-year period. It's based on over 600 interviews of people living on the streets of Portland, Oregon. Writing this  book changed me more than any other project I've ever undertaken. 
 
When I began this project, I considered myself as someone who had compassion for the homeless but as I worked on it I found myself noticing them with greater clarity. In January of 2004 a severe ice storm blew into the region and I saw the ravages of the storm and all weather with a keener awareness of what it meant to people without homes. And while I’d always noticed the homeless among us, I found myself really looking into their faces and making contact in small ways that earlier I might have been too busy for.

 One moment stands out for me. It was dusk on a November day in 2003 and the brooding sky was changing with the ferocity of a tornado sweeping through with towering, black clouds scuttling across the West hills with a ferocity that crept into your veins. This backdrop looked like a movie depicting the end of the world. In the midst of a busy street near an I-5 off ramp and the Broadway Bridge, a man was standing, silhouetted by the ominous sky, holding a sign. He was walking along a narrow curb between lanes of traffic and I noticed that he was unsteady and wondered if something was wrong. I was a few lanes away from him and traffic was stalled as it was rush hour. And then I noticed the reason for his unsteadiness, he was missing a lower leg and instead wore a peg. I have never seen a sight more lonely than this man hobbling amid the traffic and end-of-the world sky, with his sign begging for help.

This man and so many of the transcripts that I read seemed to illustrate that many of the homeless had more than their share of bad luck, illness and tragedies .I was struck by how many had led rootless lives starting in childhood and suggested that it was a compelling theme worthy of exploration. And I also noticed how the more I read, that the many myths of the homeless I had heard over the years were erased.

I'm looking forward to telling listeners about a particular couple's story that has always haunted me.

And so winter begins....
"I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter.  Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show. " ~Andrew Wyeth
 

Plain English

Drizzly and gray here this morning and I've got editing projects and cookies to bake before I sleep--wait a minute--attend a family gathering. I was reading a friend's short story this morning which set me to thinking about why most of the time, most of us should use unadorned English to tell our stories. I look to William Zinsser, Constance Hale, Arthur Plotnik, and Richard Lederer among others for guidance in such matters. Here's a link to some terrific information on the topic and an excerpt from word guru Zinsser:
So if those are the bad nouns, what are the good nouns? The good nouns are the thousands of short, simple, infinitely old Anglo-Saxon nouns that express the fundamentals of everyday life: house, home, child, chair, bread, milk, sea, sky, earth, field, grass, road … words that are in our bones, words that resonate with the oldest truths. When you use those words, you make contact—consciously and also subconsciously—with the deepest emotions and memories of your readers. Don’t try to find a noun that you think sounds more impressive or “literary.” Short Anglo-Saxon nouns are your second-best tools as a journalist writing in English.

What are your best tools? Your best tools are short, plain Anglo-Saxon verbs. I mean active verbs, not passive verbs. If you could write an article using only active verbs, your article would automatically have clarity and warmth and vigor.

Let’s go back to school for a minute and make sure you remember the difference between an active verb and a passive verb. An active verb denotes one specific action: JOHN SAW THE BOYS. The event only happened once, and we always know who did what: it was John who activated the verb SAW. A passive-voice sentence would say: THE BOYS WERE SEEN BY JOHN. It’s longer. It’s weaker: it takes three words (WERE SEEN BY instead of SAW), and it’s not as exact. How often were the boys seen by John? Every day? Once a week? Active verbs give momentum to a sentence and push it forward. If I had put that last sentence in the passive—“momentum is given to a sentence by active verbs and the sentence is pushed forward by them”—there is no momentum, no push.

One of my favorite writers is Henry David Thoreau, who wrote one of the great American books, Walden, in 1854, about the two years he spent living—and thinking—in the woods near Concord, Massachusetts. Thoreau’s writing moves with simple strength because he uses one active verb after another to push his meaning along. At every point in his sentences you know what you need to know. Here’s a famous sentence from Walden:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of nature, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

Look at all those wonderful short, active verbs: went, wished, front, see, learn, die, discover. We understand exactly what Thoreau is saying. We also know a lot about him—about his curiosity and his vitality. How alive Thoreau is in that sentence! It’s an autobiography in 44 words—39 of which are words of one syllable. Think about that: only five words in that long, elegant sentence have more than one syllable. Short is always better than long.

Now let me turn that sentence into the passive:

A decision was made to go to the woods because of a desire for a deliberate existence and for exposure to only the essential facts of life, and for possible instruction in its educational elements, and because of a concern that at the time of my death the absence of a meaningful prior experience would be apprehended.

All the life has been taken out of the sentence. But what’s the biggest thing I’ve taken out of that sentence? I’ve taken Thoreau out of that sentence. He’s nowhere to be seen. I’ve done it just by turning all the active verbs into passive verbs. Every time I replaced one of Thoreau’s active verbs with a passive verb I also had to add a noun to make the passive verb work. “I went to the woods because” became “A decision was made.” I had to add the noun decision. “To see if I could learn what it had to teach—two terrific verbs, learn and teach; we’ve all learned and we’ve all been taught—became “for possible instruction.” Can you hear how dead those Latin nouns are that end in i-o-n?  Decision. Instruction. They have no people in them doing something.

So fall in love with active verbs. They are your best friends.

Quick Take: (filed under balance)

When writing fiction the inner life of your protagonist (as in inner conflict and decisions, changes, realizations--in other words,character arc), must match the outer life, or the story events or plot arc.

Where do you write?

In case you missed it, here's a link to an article about writing in coffee shops  Destination: LAPTOPISTAN that appeared recently in The New York Times. Although I lug my notebook everywhere I go, I  mostly write at home, preferably in the morning, and these days I keep the room quiet most of the time. I can edit in other places, but that again is best done here, without too many distractions. I like a big flat screen, natural light, and an easy-to use mouse (an unfortunate name for a tool).

Portland is a land of coffee shops and if ever there was a Laptopistan, it's here. Every coffee shop is crowded with people at work on their laptops, coffee cup at hand, pecking away--it's like a secret society. I used to wonder how Portlanders had so much down time to lounge in coffee shops, but I've come to realize that a lot of them are actually working.

Now it's true that there are plenty of distractions when working at home--mainly the refrigerator. But this time of year, especially when I just pulled out a batch of small pumpkin-ginger breads that I plan to give away,  while a load of wash is churning, I appreciate the ability to break off and complete a few tasks. In fact, I've got two boxes that need to be mailed to Wisconsin tomorrow and the place smells like heaven as ginger permeates the rooms.

It seems to me that some time during the end of the year it's good to assess the habits that have been working for you. For example, I'm drinking less Earl Grey these days because too much caffeine and it becomes hard to sit here and concentrate....So I'm wondering: where do you write and is it working for you?

It's Jane Austen's birthday

Called the first novelist and born in 1775 into a minister's family. In college I took a course taught by the head of the Jane Austen Society on all her works as well as the novels of George Sand.And I learned a lot about subtext by reading Austen. What did other novelists, or Austen, teach you about writing and what it means to be human?
She had so many great quotes and lines, but here is one of my favorite: "You have delighted us long enough." from Pride and Prejudice And here is a link to  scads of information about everything Jane Austen.
Keep writing, keep dreaming, have heart

Quick Tip: Make Choices
Lovely sky this morning--patches of blue chasing away silver and clouds the color of a baby's ears.
No matter what you're writing--a short story, essay, novel, memoir, or poem--as you work on it, refine it, and create the final draft, you'll be making choices. For most of us, it's rare that every word,sentence, or idea that we first conceive is going to end up in the final draft.

Before you begin your first edit or second draft, put distance between you and the first version, even if it’s only ten minutes spent walking around the block while obsessing about how you’re going to fix things. However, work on a hard copy, and if possible print it out in a font other than what you wrote it in. This is a trick that helps you see the work with a fresh vision. 

During this first editing session you’re analyzing your work for coverage. Have you told the whole story? Are all the important details included? Do you have enough information to support your main points and theme? Is the order logical? Are the facts accurate? 

This is where you're making those hard choices of what must stay and what must go. You've got to justify every sentence, every modifier, every time you move your characters around in the story, or your readers back and forth in time.  "Sit down, and put down everything that comes into your head and then you're a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff's worth, without pity, and destroy most of it." ~Colette

Keep writing, keep dreaming, have heart

Write your first draft with your heart. Re-write with your head. ~From the movie Finding Forrester

Quick take: 

When writing  about people or characters you can omit references to body parts at times. Some can be implied. For instance, he shrugged his shoulders is redundant, since generally shoulders are the only body part that shrugs. I know my eyelashes don't. Same with he nodded his head. Only heads nod. He nodded. Period. Less, writer friends, less.

Writing, downside

Over at health.com the helpful folks have rated the ten top careers with high rates of depression. And, no surprise, writing is one of them. Here is the piece:
Artists, entertainers, writers
These jobs can bring irregular paychecks, uncertain hours, and isolation.

Creative people may also have higher rates of mood disorders; about 9% reported an episode of major depression in the previous year.

In men, it’s the job category most likely to be associated with an episode of major depression (nearly 7% in full-time workers).

“One thing I see a lot in entertainers and artists is bipolar illness,” says Legge. “There could be undiagnosed or untreated mood disorders in people who are artistic…. Depression is not uncommon to those who are drawn to work in the arts, and then the lifestyle contributes to it.”

They've obviously forgotten other factors that contribute to it:
a spreading butt
paltry advances
puny royalty checks
eye strain
sore neck
family and friends who claim they could be writers too if they only had a bit more time and although they've never written more than "much love" on a birthday card
family and friends who insist "you just need to get on Oprah" 
the cost of ink cartridges or whatever printer gadgets you need
caffeine jitters
carpal tunnel syndrome
when you realize that getting a book published doesn't change your life all that much, although it does change your sense of self
Did I mention a spreading butt?