total · constant · order

A week ago, the kids at Capuchino high-school invited me to chat with their book club (aka "You Say Read, We Say Party"). I hadn't seen San Francisco since I was fourteen. All I remembered were the seal lions barking for their breakfast at Pier 39, and a street dude popping and locking beside a boombox on the sidewalk.

The school was perched on a hill, layered like a wedding cake (not a coffee cup, as I'd imagined). Out of all the schools I've visited, this one reminded me of my own--due to the "al fresco" atmosphere instead of the closed-in corridors of chillier cities. But my school never had a book club like this...or a culinary class (the F.E.A.S.T. program, which provided us with cobb salad and rhubarb pastries. Rock on!)

I shared the event with another newbie Y.A. author, Cecilia Galante. The protagonist of her debut novel, The Patron Saint of Butterflies, shares a lot in common with Fin. Both girls struggle to maintain control as their worlds spiral into chaos (Fin counts numbers and Agnes murmurs prayers).

Cecelia wore a lovely silk blouse adorned with butterflies (a gift from her sister, her sewed it by hand). Like me, Cecelia is an English teacher, and we had no trouble sharing the spotlight. We decided to take turns interviewing each other while a student camera crew filmed us like an E. Entertainment newscast. The Capuchino kids asked a lot of smart questions (nothing about walnuts or my romantic status). They wanted to know how our own experiences had shaped the events in our books. They also asked if I would continue to write books about mental disorders. I said, No. I'm not going to write about OCD again. But I'm going to keep writing about outsiders, that is, characters who don't quit fit in.

"I love outsiders," I said, and the room crackled with applause.

After the Q&A session, we sat and ate lunch with the kids (one of my favorite events so far!) I scooted a chair next to Alex, who didn't have a book because "My mom stole it from me and she read, like, a hundred pages at once." So I signed a sticker for him to take home. Alex told me about being straight edge, hanging out at the punk shows, and how people tend to judge others too quickly, even when they claim to be open-minded.

"So where are the X's on your hands?" I asked.

"I had them on yesterday and they washed off," he said, grinning.

I also met Dazzy, who shared a poem with me about "riding the bus and taking pictures with your eyes." And Malena, who wrote verses about reality TV, "which has nothing to do with reality at all."

I could've stayed with them all day. When they waved goodbye, I wondered what it would be like, growing up in California. (One girl wanted to know why Thayer talks like a Cali kid. I guess we use the same slang...except for "dog," while the West Coast peeps prefer, "cat," bringing to mind the Beat Generation).

Speaking of which...in my spare time, I visited the City Lights bookstore, the notorious Beat hangout (Maybe a few are still with us...like the leather-jacketed bum outside the door. He took my leftover quarters and sang, "Check it out!" No doubt, a poet in disguise).

I cruised through Japantown, with kimono-clad drummers and wind-up sushi in the windows. Caught a train ride to the Mission district, loaded with taqueria stands and trendy boutiques. I sipped lattes in North Beach at Cafe Trieste, which was packed with bohemian people scribbling on notepads and pecking away at their laptops. A mandolin and guitar duo strummed in the corner, making music like rain. I watched a French girl tuck her Papa's shoelaces inside his socks. "What's that? What are you doing?" he kept asking, but she just shrugged.

I also had a chance to visit the Redwood forest in Muir Woods. The gargantuan stump at the front entrance, marking time through tree rings, was straight out of the Hitchcock movie, Vertigo. The minty breeze made me shiver. Only a trickle of sunlight oozed through the thick branches (which truly scraped the sky). While taking a picture on the bridge, I got a weird feeling. Someone was watching me. When I spun around, I spotted a deer wobbling on stilt legs. She plowed through the stream and disappeared. Nobody else seemed to notice.

When I flew back to Miami, I had to teach a class. On the next day, I drove four hours to Saint Petersburg, and then back again, in time for an 8am class the following morning. Insanity, yes...but I couldn't miss the Florida Book Awards or the chance to bring home my medal. (much better than the Presidential Fitness prizes in 6th grade, back when Arnold Schwarzenegger urged us to dangle our chins above the monkey bars).

Before the banquet, I drove around Eckerd college, where my sister, Caren, graduated years ago. I remembered her roommates in bikinis, sunning on the ledges outside their dorms. (I kept wondering if they would fall off).

Next week, my niece, Corin, will don a cap and gown and receive her college diploma. Her baby sister will stand in the audience, just like I did, and probably try the cap on for size. When I was her age, I didn't have a camera. I took pictures with my eyes, just like Dazzy described, and sometimes, those are the images I remember most.

My editor emailed with more good news.

TOTAL CONSTANT ORDER was selected as a "VOYA Editor's Choice" Book for 2007.

That night, I took my niece to the Dade County fair. Cassie had won a red ribbon for her puppet of Jane Goodall (perched inside the sprawling Expo...on display beside the other celebrity puppets, including Jimmy Carter and Miley Cyrus.) We combed the booths--past The Hurricane Center where I picked up a poster of cloud formations.

"My uncle chases tornados," I told the guy behind the counter.

He rolled up the poster like a treasure map. "Is he crazy?"

I scooted past a robot on stilts (He danced a little salsa for us), and the Siamese Fighting Fish in glass jars, past the salad shooters and karate demos. When I was Cassie's age, I won a blue ribbon for my oil pastel rendition of "My Favorite Place in South Florida" (The Seaquarium, complete with a killer whale splashing in a pool).

We held hands on the Swings. The DJ blasted, "Love in This Club."

"Are you going to write another book?" Cassie asked me.

"I'm working on it," I told her.

"A book for kids?"

"Big kids," I said.

She smiled. "Excellent."

Big ups to everyone who came to Thursday night's reading at Sweat Records!

We settled into velvet purple couches, surrounded by crates of records (there's no better place in South Florida to find your favorite indie tunes) and black-and-white photos of Blondie and Vincent Gallo. I sipped mint tea with Soraya, one of my former students, who told me stories about Brazil and longboard surfing and the picnic we will share with the injured birds on Pelican island.

My friend, John, strummed original ballads on his guitar, minstrel-style. We finally got the DVD playing with a little help from Jason (who was kung-fu fighting on the Playstation).

Hugs to LoLo, who arranged the event. She is a walking encyclopedia of songs!

Double hugs to the TM Sisters for their rainbows and lightning bolts and digital photos. (They're the ones behind the camera)...

After the reading, we scooted next door to Churchills for cold mugs and conversation. Leave it to Miami to make this reading one of my favorites so far.

I peeked into my P.O. Box today...and found a flurry of thank-you letters from Ligon Middle School in North Carolina. Sula sat with me and we looked through each and every one. Some of my favorite lines:

"I liked the way you made it fun to listen to you when you talked, and the way you wanted to show people the real Miami! PS: I'm not finished with the book but I love it so far."

"I love your Book and I think you did a very good job at my school. I love florida (even tough I have never been)."

"Thanks for being a nice person and coming in, and taking time to talk to us. I really appreciate all you talked about. The 'Real' Florida is interesting."

"The book is really great. OCD seems like a very dificult condition to live with. It is so amazing that it takes 2 years to make a book. I really enjoyed the things you shared."

...and this one, from George:

"Thank you for coming to visit my third period class yesterday. I learned a lot about the true Miami, and how it is different from how it is depicted on television and in movies. I also learned about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and that it is not funny, as they say it is on television. I enjoyed looking at the pictures of your cat, and your manatee, Whiskers. I found it interesting to hear about dealing with OCD and the different rituals. It was also interesting to hear about the road to releasing your novel, because I hope to become a writer one day."

Thanks for keeping it real, Ligon. I loved every word.

There's a lion in the library. Or rather, it's a dude dressed in a rumpled lion costume, like a walking stuffed animal. I hide behind a pillar and pray he doesn't notice me. As I bolt around the corner, I catch sight of him, kneeling down on the carpet and posing for a picture with literary punk rocker, Cecil Castellucci, and I wonder what alternate universe I've been zapped into...The New York Public Library's Books For The Teen Age.

Across my sweater, I wear a sticker ("Crissa-Jean Chappell: Total Constant Order). This compels people to stop and stare at my chest. A tiny woman peers up at me and asks, "Do you write for high school or elementary school?" I grin and say, "Teens." Apparently, this is the wrong answer. "Well, good luck with that," she says, scurrying away.

I spot another YA author, Jo Knowles--a person I've never met in real life...but in another dimension called cyberspace. I recognize her flowy locks, like a princess in a fairy tale.

She says, "I was wondering if that was you."

Yeah, it's me.

She and Cecil are chilling near a buffet loaded with nothing but cookies. Cecil sticks out her hand and says hello. Her shoes are decorated with skulls. I flip over my tote bag, which is skull-flavored, as well.

"Skulls are good," Cecil says.

Jo wants to know, "Where are our books?"

I warn her, "When you go over to the tables, people are going to talk to you."

The "tables" are stacked with this year's titles and arranged by category:

"The Soundtrack of Your Life," "Parents From Hell," "Dead and Relatively Dead Relatives."

I tell Jo, "Maybe you're in the dead section?"

Turns out, we're both in "Dealing With It."

I bump into Chris, the librarian who hosted my NYPL reading in the Bronx, just a few days ago. He takes a geeky picture of me, clutching my book, and counts, "Two, four, six," before the flash. I wish that I could bring him on tour with me. He gave the best introduction of all time--something like, "This is Crissa. She collects Japanese candy and pinback buttons and recorded stories on tape with her cousin, etc. etc."

"Best intro ever. It was borderline stalkerish," I say, giggling with Jack, the master of ceremonies. He's decked out in pink ruffles, bringing to mind proms of the 1970s. He rolls back his sleeves and shows off his "blingy" cufflinks.

I tell him, "My boyfriend has cufflinks shaped like safety pins."

Jack throws back his head and laughs.

After pacing around the crowd (under a swooping blue ceiling that reminds me of a snowglobe, minus the snow), I collapse in a front row chair (where nobody dares to sit). This scene is so intense, I need to take a break. I keep turning around and looking for my friend, Siobhan, but no sign of her yet.

I close my eyes and think of the movie we just watched at the Angelika theater (think: clouds painted on the ceiling and subways rumbling under your feet). We caught a matinee of Paranoid Park, Gus Van Sant's brilliant adaptation of the Blake Nelson novel. At first, I couldn't imagine how anyone would translate such an interior narrative to the big screen, but in Van Sant's hands, scenes are shot out of sequence, building suspense, along with a subjective sense of time. The main character's thoughts and feelings are translated into visual clues (like the columns of water spewing in the shower, as birds chitter in the background). Did I mention that Elliott Smith plays on the soundtrack? Did I mention that I left the theater in a daze, as if New York itself had morphed into a film?

Somebody waves at me. "Remember we met at a Radiohead concert?" he says.

It takes me a second to realize, it's Nico Medina (plus he's wearing a nametag). He tells me about his next book (about a "hoochie mama") and we both crack up, imagining what his nametag might say next time: "Nico Medina: Fat Hoochie Prom Queen."

Nico introduces me to the person standing beside him--a woman with movie star hair. "This is Rachel Cohn," he says.

I almost slide out of my seat. "Wow!" I squeal like a fangirl.

Rachel is about to duck out the door, but she takes a couple minutes to chat with me. "I used to be shy, too," she says (though it's hard to believe). Her rapid-fire speech (punctuated with giggles and one-liners) reminds me of wisecracking Cyd in her Gingerbread series.

Now it's time for the "keynote speech." I turn around in my chair. There's Siobhan, a few rows behind, wiggling her fingers at me. We're still glowing from our N. J. school visit (Franklin Middle School Author Day). I brought my stencils and the kids painted t-shirts with me in the art room. I also had a blast, meeting the other authors (During our lunch break, we ate sandwiches on a stage in the auditorium, making it seem like we were actors in an absurdist play).

A sign on the wall said: "We eat, talk, line up, and purchase food in an orderly fashion, using a pleasant conversational tone."

On the early morning bus ride to NJ, I sat next to Robert Lipsyte, another HarperCollins author. Turns out, he's the keynote speaker for the NYPL reception. He talks about "dick lit" (yes, this is an actual quote) and how boys are groomed to be team players, not individual thinkers. No wonder dudes get dissed for solitary activities, such as reading.

I scoot out of my chair and slink to the back of the room. There's no place to sit, so I plunk down on the floor. The lion sits in front of me, nodding his head. I lean against the wall and listen.

When the speech ends, everybody claps, long and hard. I want to tell Robert that I loved his speech, but he's already posing for pictures. So is Siobhan, along with Jo and Cecil. My boyfriend is texting my cell phone, something about the Whitney biennial in a Civil War armory. Later, we'll eat cupcakes and stroll through half-frozen parks. We'll party in a Brooklyn warehouse stacked with mile-high canvases, watch breakdancers tumble and spin on the concrete floor.

I will wake up on Easter morning, pack my suitcase, and fly south. I'll forget to bring a few things---my bag of stencils, a sweatshirt with a bird stitched into the tag. But of course...this only means one thing.

I will go back again.

When I flew back to Miami, I received an email from the Florida Book Awards committee. They have chosen Total Constant Order as a bronze medal winner for the young adult category! It's an honor to receive an award from my home state.

As I pack my bags for The Big Apple this weekend...I receive an email from my editor.

TCO was selected for the New York Public Library's Books For The Teen Age.

I'm so psyched about my reading at the NYPL (but I think I'll find something else to wear...)

Things I've learned on the book tour (so far)...

--Brings lots of pens. (They disappear to the land of partner-less socks, car keys, and earrings.) My writing utensil of choice? Lumocolor fine point pens.

--Kids will ask you to sign anything (ala rock star fashion). For this reason, I always tote along a package of plain address labels.

--Kids dig free stuff. For all my stickers and buttons and TCO swag, I carry a clear plastic sewing kit (love the Container Store!) I also carry business cards and a CD of my book trailer and Powerpoint slideshows (just in case my flash drive goes bonkers. (just like the Apple commercials...sometimes Macs and PCs don't speak the same language).

--one extra thing to carry: a little homemade book (printed on heavy duty--yet cheapo--cardstock paper) taken from a page on Fin's blog. (kids aren't the only ones who love free loot. Plus it gives a sneak peak inside the novel).

I never was a girl scout, but my motto is "be prepared." At the same time, it's best to remember that...

...things don't always go according to plan.

When I arrived at the Chicago Public Library (after getting lost in the cavernous, bank-like building and riding the elevator down to the basement)...I discovered that the fabric pens we had ordered for the t-shirt painting extravaganza were too pale. No need to panic! I dipped into my bulging tote bag and dug out another set of silvery paints that I had brought from home.

"Man, you're really prepared," said Robin, (ultra cool Teen Services boss).

"That's one of the perks of being obsessive," I said with a smirk.

Yes, I managed to lug a package of paint through the airport, in spite of the Liquid Police. I had visions of the bottles exploding inside my luggage, so I double-wrapped them in Ziploc bags. At the bottom of my suitcase was an artist's portfolio--the perfect solution for carrying my jumbo stencils without bending them into yoga positions.

The kids poured into the basement, all laughing and talking at once. They asked a slew of questions during the "street art presentation" (I was told: do not use the dirty word, "graffiti," but I'm sure it slipped once or twice). I talked about Swoon's melting newspaper portraits (wabi sabi: beauty in decay) and the way Banksy used the war-torn walls of the Middle East as his canvas, like a conversation with the city, a form of call and response. They gasped over Invader's tiled Pacman murals, in which the whole world serves as a backdrop to a neverending video game.

The teachers smiled and nodded (They asked questions, too!) The kids clapped when they recognized some of the street art I'd photographed during my last visit to Chi-Town (including the Version fest show and local artists like Elisa Harkins and her crying clouds).

I kept looking at one boy in the second row. He had a sketchpad in his lap and he never stopped doodling. I knew he was listening (and he kept raising his hand, asking about the names of the street artists in Wicker Park). At first, he didn't feel like painting shirts with us. He was trying to draw his left hand (not an easy thing to do) and a teacher walked past and said, "There's a scene in the book where Fin draws her foot). He blinked and said, "Really?" Two minutes later, he was getting messy with the paint.

I strolled around the table, checking out the masterpieces-in-progress. One girl had scrawled, "Adam's Babe" across her shirt. ("Who's Adam?" her friend wanted to know. The girl rolled her eyes. "Adam Levine, you know? Maroon Five?") For some reason, she called me "British lady." (The Chicago kids said I talked with an accent. Neither did they realize...Midwestern kids have accents, too). At the end of the session, they gave me hugs and high fives. Another girl ("Miss Pink," I called her...decked out in head to toe pastel sweats) told me about her non-rhyming poetry. "I write when I'm feeling sad," she said. I told her, "So do I."

I signed their books (one boy insisted that I slope my signature sideways across the cover. "What are you? A graphic designer?" I joked, and he nodded.) Many of them wanted to share their sketchbooks with me--mostly wide-eyed anime cartoons of their friends.

"Time to go," their teachers called, dragging them out the door.

Robin gave me a tour of the library. I took pictures of the sun-dappled winter garden and browsed the hallways where new books had arrived. To my surprise, a circle of librarians sat reading in prayer-like silence (trying to decide which ARCs they wanted to purchase for their shelves). Their offices reminded me of the HarperCollins headquarters, complete with posters and toys of children's classic literature.

The day wasn't over yet. I had a long list of bookstores to visit. Since most of them were scattered throughout the suburbs, I decided to hire a driver. (more economical and efficient than a cab, in this case). I didn't realize that the only car available was...a black stretch limo. The driver and I made a pact.

Jorges said, "We're going to do this Chicago mafia-style. I'll park around the block and you can walk up to the stores."

"Deal," I said.

Among my to-do list...I swung by The Book Stall, a stellar indie store in Winnetka, and met their "well-informed and caring staff" (as printed on their bookmarks). I sat at the Goldilocks-sized table and chairs with the savvy teen buyer, Liz (who keeps a pink feather boa in her office.) It's a blast, meeting with bookstore people, because we already have oodles of stuff in common. As we chatted about TCO, a customer peeked around the corner.

"Where is that book?" she asked, and I signed a copy on the spot.

My last stop was the cozy Magic Tree Bookstore in Oak Park. The yin-yangy owners, Rose and Iris (affectionately known as "the Flowers") were talking about "blue carnations" when I strolled in the door. The girl at the cash register mentioned the food dye in flowers. "When you cut them, it stains your hands," she said. "Looks like you juiced a Smurf."

The Flowers took me to tea at a cafe next door. We chatted so long, I forgot about my driver.

"Is that your limo?" Iris asked, blinking at the window.

I called him up. "Our cover is blown," I said.

"Just tell them you run with people in high places," he said.

Maybe that's true. But when I finally collapsed back at The Inn of Chicago , all I wanted was a cheap burrito picnic on the floor, spread out on a hotel towel.

No time to rest. The next morning, I zoomed off again (in a glamorous yellow cab) to meet Katheen at Anderson's Bookshop in Downers Grove. Kathleen had read TCO "in one sitting" and selected it for her list of "New and Notable Books For Teen Readers." We loaded her car with hardcovers and drove to a school so large, it looked like a college.

"And this is just the junior high building," she told me, as we wandered past long rows of lockers (like the tracking shots in Kubrick thrillers). Even the teachers lose their way, as we learned whenever we asked for directions.

This time, I sat at a desk in a classroom with a panel of smiling English teachers. Kathleen read down her list, summarizing each title like a fast-talking movie producer (I told her, "You should move to Hollywood.") She did such a good job, I wanted to buy every last book. At the end of her presentation, I stood up and asked, "Are you guys sick of books yet?" I talked about TCO and signed copies for the panel. Kathleen made me blush, saying, "I wish I had read this book years ago."

My favorite part of the trip was driving back with Kathleen. Touring can feel lonely (in spite of the crowds of people you meet) and I was glad to sink into my seat and look out the window. We spotted a hawk perched on a telephone pole, the steeples of Polish churches, and snow-crusted lawns as smooth as mints. Kathleen stuffed a vegan muffin in my purse. She put me on the train back to the city and I listened to my iPod as dead trees and factories blurred past.

The next day, I had to fly back to Miami. Just enough time to take pictures of my reflection in Milllenium Park's Magic Bean and breeze through Quimby's bookstore. I bought a book about the secret lives of authors (I'm not the only one who's a little odd...or obsessive compulsive. (Did you know that Balzac drew pictures of imaginary furniture in his empty rooms? Or that J.D. Salinger drank his own pee?) I also scooped up a DVD to watch on the plane--Nomads and No-Zones--cinematic diaries about punk rock kids who hop freight trains across the country.

I kept thinking about what Jorges had said. There's a Spanish expression...while you're alive on the planet, you should do three things: form a family, plant a tree, and write a book.

I would add, "Travel with your book."

And bring extra pens.

In junior high, my best friend moved to Houston and I sobbed for days. Her mom had a thing for John Wayne, tumbleweeds, baked beans and rodeos. They used to raise chickens in their suburban backyard. Today they've traded hens for horses and steers.

I didn't see any ten gallon hats in the Heights--the neighborhood where I stayed during my quick trip to the Wild West. After checking into the Sycamore, I tossed my suitcase on my bed and took a walk. Lots of brick warehouses and galleries crammed with sunset-colored pottery. A sleek cafe with a minimalist name, Shade, that might have beamed itself from Miami (if you want to sip a glass of vino in this "dry" section of town, you must pretend the cafe is a country club and sign up for membership).

"Where have all the cowboys gone?" I asked the kids at my signing.

They groaned in stereo surround sound.

Over a hundred and thirty students from four different high-schools had piled into the sprawling library...though "library" doesn't do it justice. My high-school library never had its own coffee bar. The place boasted a loungey vibe, along with butterfly chairs and plenty of space to stretch with a good book.

The kids were a rainbow-colored bunch. I made sure to peek at their ID cards before scribbling in their copies of TCO. I tried to connect with each of them, if only with a doodle or a special shout-out ("I like your shoes...") and then a smile for the next face in line. I could've chatted with them all day.

"How much money do you make?" one girl wanted to know.

I just shrugged. "I got paid when I sold my book and after I finished my revision."

"How does it feel to be famous?" a boy asked.

"I don’t know...because I'm not famous," I told him, and we both collapsed into giggles. (For some reason, the kids were under the impression that authors are rich and famous, on the same level of rock stars. Although this is far from the truth, their countless hugs made me feel like a big deal).

After my slide presentation ("Birth of a Book") a girl raised her hand, then lowered it and whispered, "Never mind."

I smirked. "Was it a bad question?"

"Yeah," she said. Later in line, she spit it out. "I just wanted to know if you're related to Dave Chappelle." (a question I've heard a million times, although our names are spelled differently, mine is pronounced, "chapel," like a church, and we...um...don't look alike).

"This is not the Chappelle show," I said.

A few kids asked questions about the business of becoming an author. One girl wanted to write a story about the apocalypse. "But that's been done."

"Everything has been done," I said, glancing at the rumpled stack of notebook paper in her arms. "Is that your novel-in-progress?"

"Yeah," she said, surprising me.

I encouraged her to keep writing her end-of-the-world tale, as long as she made it personal.

A punk rock chick modeled her home-sewn coat ("Definitely not Hot Topic.") Another girl showed off her piano-themed laces.

I asked, "What class are you cutting to be here?"

She said, "Band."

"I used to play clarinet," I told her.

"I almost played that," she said, "but I thought the sax was cooler."

"You still get splinters in your tongue," I said. "Is music going to be your life?"

"No. I want to make money," she said, skipping off.

I drew a cello for another musical kid--a boy who bounced up to me and announced, "I have ADD."

"That just means you're smart and creative," I told him, and he beamed.

They asked a lot of tough questions. In fact, one girl wanted to know if I had "seen a shrink." (They're often surprised to learn that I wasn't born in Vermont, my parents aren't divorced, and my mom and I are best friends).

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a teacher shaking her head, as if to say, "Don't go there." I told the girl, "Yes. But my shrink wasn't as cool as the one in the book." Just then, an alarm buzzed and I said, "I must be crazy because now I'm hearing things."

The librarians arranged the teen book club with a stellar indie bookstore, Blue Willow (shout out to Valerie, aka "girlboss"). In order to attend the event, the students had to read my book and discuss it together. Apparently, the discussion was a hit because they had a ton of stuff to talk about. Guess I'm not the only person with lucky numbers. The librarians told me that the kids were talking about their own quirky habits and rituals. I always felt like the only one. Now the kids have taught me something.

I was never alone.

I don't own a pair of cowboy boots. But when I was learning to two-step, I clomped around in these tan leather lovelies. Now they fit in the palm of my hand.

1. I need a new pair because I'm headed to Houston this week. Blue Willow Bookshop is hosting a huge TCO event for a bunch of wonderful high-schools. I think I'm also going to need a microphone.

Next I'll need to break out my armwarmers because I'm flying to Chicago. Anderson's Bookshop is hosting another big school event, and I'm psyched to work with the Chicago Public Library on Thursday morning for an arty party involving stencils and metallic fabric paint.

2. Independent bookstores are stocking their shelves throughout my home state of Florida—including the fabulous Books and Books in Coral Gables, the newly-opened Bookstore in the Grove, and the Vero Beach Book Center (which boasts...not a room...but an entire building devoted to kid/teen lit. The stairs are swarming with felt-tip doodles and graffiti, thanks to an all star cast of children's authors and illustrators. There's even a stage for performances. How much do I love this place?

3. Super positive reviews arrived from Booklist, School Library Journal, and the Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books...still more rolling in from a long list of websites, including TeensReadToo. And what do you know? The list includes a few "grown up" literary blogs. (Colleen Mondor just posted a thoughtful review at Bookslut ).

4. My dad has become my literary pimp. I keep signing copies for his Sunday morning coffee buddies, the neighbors next door, and my dentist. Somebody left a sweet message on my dad's answering machine, talking about how much she enjoyed Total Constant Order. She passed it to her daughter (who happens to have OCD and doesn't like to read...but she's reading my book and loving it!) Unfortunately, Dad erased the message.

5. Most of all, I'm thankful for emails like this one:

"I just finished the book this morning...I couldn't put it down. it was far better than I thought it would be and I pretty much knew it would be great lol so u know it was amazing. Fin and Thayer are truely one of a kind characters. I hope to read many more of your stories in the future =) "

THANK YOU!!!

In this charming little diary of blank pages, I've begun to scribble in the first lines...

For the nitty gritty details...go to this page or check the tour updates on my website.

"With her parents' divorce coming not long after her family's move to Miami, ninth-grader Fin finds stability only through the rhythm of counting and the voices in her head that establish order. Finding herself isolated from the high school world around her, and disliked by fellow students who find her behavior strange, Fin finds solace when she meets Thayer, a boy with learning disabilities, whose world seems to be a lot like hers. With the help of free-spirited Thayer and a sympathetic therapist, the girl is able to make sense of her life. Chappell's first novel is a brave attempt to explore the world of a teenager ravaged by both obsessive-compulsive disorder and depression. Fin's struggle with both the drug Paxil and her troubled mother is a telling revelation of the recurrence of these diseases through generations. Likable characters and an intense pace make this a good purchase for most collections."