total constant order

Teen Read Week

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 17:59:02 GMT

At Books&Books in Coral Gables, the teens wore top hats and waistcoats. They carried pocket watches and dog-eared copies of Scott Westerfield's paperbacks. The members of YAthenaeum, a "community of readers and writers of all things Young Adult," met at Miami's coolest indie bookstore for the Teen Reads Forum.

When asked, "Why do you like to read?" the number one response = to escape from reality, experience another person's life, and learn that "villains can be conquered." Scott Westerfield joined the conversation, adding, sometimes it's not about escaping. It's about being transported (either from the "noise" of your everyday life in school...or the cramped space inside an airplane).

What makes teens pick up a book? Yes, the cover art is "really important." But first lines matter most. Scott says, "The writer makes a promise that something interesting is going to happen." He quoted the first line from Charlotte's Web ("Where's Papa going with that ax?") The audience agreed. Weird is always better than boring. And when it comes to endings, the writer better deliver. Readers want to feel what writers describe. Even if the rest of the book is stale, a strong ending can change a reader's view of the entire story.

Local teen novelist, Alex Flinn, said, "Every teen story is a step. A YA mystery isn't just about solving a mystery. It's about growing up...and helping people see someone make changes in their life." Every choice in a YA novel has a consequence. This is the age when you start questioning the world ("Why do bad things happen to good people?") When writers tackle big issues, readers see: It's okay to make mistakes.

With the giant boom in YA literature, Scott believes, "It's fun to be at the beginning of something that's wide open." He turned to the audience and said, "The world doesn't know how to handle you guys yet..."

On Saturday, I spoke at the Boynton Beach Library. We worked on a writing exercise together and the teens shared their journals with me. Sonida wrote, "I'm like MC Hammer. You can't touch this." Her diary came with a bookmark shaped like a wolf. She talked about being strong, even when there's violence all around you. I said, "When you write something on paper, it's like taking a burden off your back."

Sonida asked if my next book has "violence" in it.

"Yeah," I said. "It does."

She grinned. "Excellent."

It reminded me of a conversation from YA-LitChat, earlier in the week. How "dark" is "too dark" in teen literature? I truly believe that scary stories create a safe place for readers to explore their fears. We can't censor these kinds of stories--not when the Sonidas of the world need them so badly. They're out there...listening.

Virginia Is For Readers

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 19:21:30 GMT

The bell rings like a war siren. A hundred sleep-deprived kids shuffle into the library. They slump in their plastic chairs, just as a police officer marches through the door. Everybody snaps awake. They can't stop staring---not at the man with the badge, but at Leda, his K-9.

The German Shepherd curls up on the carpet. Every so often, she lifts her head and blinks, as if listening to a secret. Alan Krugel, her handler at the LAPD, talks about the "awful, frightening, hollow feeling--that terrible, dreaded feeling of being alone."

When Alan lost his family, he also lost his hope. Then he met Leda, a dog doomed to be "put to sleep," all because she wouldn't chase the bad guys. Alan calls Leda his four-legged angel. Alan grins. "She's a coward," he says. But she's also a gifted sniffer. Now she helps him find the things that go boom...all because she got a second chance.

When Officer Mark Kearney invited me to BOOK EM, an event to promote literacy as a form of crime prevention, I volunteered to speak with other authors at local schools. I met Alan Krugel and Leda at Robert E Lee High School, along with Jonathan Queen, a motivational speaker who transformed his life after spending ten years in prison. He spoke about "change reaction" strategies from his new book, Are You S.A.N.E. (Setting A New Example).

I also visited Stuarts Draft High School, where I had a blast, chatting over lunch with the Writer's Club. They asked a lot of questions: How do you start a chapter? (in the middle of action). Where do you get good names for your characters? (the phone book) And the question that stabbed me in the heart: What if your parents don't believe you can make it as a writer?

Prove them wrong.

Kaitlyn has a "vision" of writers typing masterpieces in a log cabin. She giggled when I said, "I've got a laptop in my bedroom. That's it." She said it's "painful" when she breaks away from her imaginary world (especially at dinnertime). I said, "Sounds like you're meant to be a novelist," and her face glowed. I also spoke to the "poet's corner" and met a recently-published student who had returned, just to visit her old English teacher. "He's the reason I wrote my book," she told me. I met Tessa, who loves "funny zombie fan fiction," and on Friday, I talked with Drew, who created an alternative universe, based on the planets in our solar system.

On Saturday, at BOOK EM, I sat beside Kathy Erskine (author of the brilliant teen novel, QUAKING). We spoke on a YA panel about "The Power Of Words" and met the kids at Kate Collins Middle School (including a trio of giggly girls who kept petting their friend's armwarmers). The event lasted all day. Kathy had decorated her table with bookmarks, temporary tattoos, and candy. We spent the afternoon smiling at the same things (like the smirky boys who ran up to the microphone in the auditorium and played a disco ringtone on a cellphone).

The book sales raised money to fund crimefighting and literacy programs. Officer Mark said he'd never seen so many young people at the event, which is sponsored by the local police. I hope more cities will get involved with their own version of BOOK EM-style literacy campaigns. So much fun to see kids grabbing paperbacks off the table and lugging them like gold--not to mention, all the hardworking teachers and librarians who snagged books for their collections (special thanks to Catherine Morris, Darren Ralston, and Sue Simmons).

Afterwards, I stopped at Stone Soup, an indie bookstore down the block. It looks like a farmhouse on a hill and it's packed with a great teen selection upstairs. I wanted to pack my bags and move into the attic.

In Virginia, I stayed in the historic district of Staunton--a town that reminds me of those miniature villages that come with train sets. Or maybe a Thomas Kinkade sculpture: all brick Colonial houses with buttery lights. The Stonewall Jackson Hotel was smack in the middle of everything (including "fork to farm" restaurants that could rival any organic-inspired plate in NYC: check out the Staunton Grocery and Zynodoa).

On my last night in the city, I took a ghost walk with the Staunton Paranormal Investigators. They showed us their spirit-hunting tools, like an electro-magnetic field detector, and audio recordings they had captured of whispery, little girl voices in graveyards. One of the haunted buildings is now an Italian restaurant (sometimes diners get a whiff of cigar smoke on the stairs). I ducked inside and climbed to the roof, where a dredlocked band was blasting funk and reggae classics. A waiter scooted past me, turned around, and said, "You came to my school." It was Colton, who had shared a conversation with me about OCD.

I was so busy thinking about ghosts, I didn't notice the police officer. He marched upstairs, looking amused in his uniform, and told the band to "shut it down." I waved goodbye to Colton and headed back outside. The wind stung my cheeks. It was two in the morning. I wanted to stay there, with the Halloween lanterns winking in the stores, and write a novel in a log cabin. But that will have to wait.

Annual Book 'Em literacy event planned for Oct. 17 | newsleader.com | The News Leader

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 20:35:12 GMT

Annual Book 'Em literacy event planned for Oct. 17 | newsleader.com | The News Leader

Hey people in Virginia. Please come out and support Book Em--an event that connects literacy with lower crime rates. More than 50 authors will sign books on Saturday (including me!)

Book Em
9:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.
Oct. 17 at Kate Collins Middle School
1625 Ivy St. More
Waynesboro, VA

he wrote back

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 17:16:18 GMT

Santa Ana, CA
1992

Dear Crissa:

Thanks, belatedly for the wonderful letter. Sorry I took so long to respond. My only advice about writing is that it generally takes years of failed attempts and rejection before there’s even a small success. So don’t give up! And keep reading my books. Somebody has to. Thank your mom for me.

Cheers,
Jim Blaylock

Miami, FL
2009

Dear Jim,

Thanks for taking the time to write me, back when I was seventeen and doodling stories about dragons in my algebra notebooks. It blew my mind, that someone I admired (a real life author) would send a postcard to a high school kid. I tacked it on my bulletin board, where it stayed for years (even after Hurricane Andrew smeared the ink with ocean water). My mom first introduced me to your books, starting with The Elfin Ship. She found this postcard in a photo album. I asked her to keep it for me, just in case I forget what it says.

I'm still reading.

((hugs))
crissa

Bar Harbor Book Festival (thanks Maine and Carrie Jones)

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 13:48:21 GMT

The taxi filled with the smell of woodsmoke, even when we didn't roll down the windows. The driver twisted the radio dial, landed on a classic rock station, I-95, like the highway that stretches all the way home. I watched rows of pointy-roofed farms whiz past. Almost all of them flickered blue with big screen TVs. We sped around cemetery stones that glinted like teeth in the fields, buildings that reminded me of barns--the houses, the hotels, even the Dunken Donuts.

"How long you staying in Maine?" the driver asked.

"Forever," I wanted to say.

At the Bar Harbor Book Festival, a slew of authors (25 total) met at the (possibly haunted) Municipal Building on Cottage Street to talk about the things we love best: reading, writing, and imaginary friends. We sat in a semi-circle upstairs in the sun-flooded hall. Local author, Carrie Jones (NEED), hosted the event with the help of the police department. Carrie skipped between the tables like a pixie in a plaid skirt, handing out gift bags filled with Play-Doh and miniature sailboats.

I listened to Kelly McClymer (MUST LOVE BLACK) talk about writer's inspiration for a panel called "How Did You Think of That?" First she thinks of a title, then builds a book around it. She pulls her ideas from words and phrases and often fills a drawer with them. "Something personal calls to you," she says. You may not see a "message" until the story is finished. It depends on the timing, the market, and a little bit of luck. The hardest part? Convincing others to see what you see.

A trio of ladies in princess tiaras--Deva Fagan (FORTUNE'S FOLLY), Erin Dionne (MODELS DON'T EAT CHOCOLATE COOKIES), and Megan Frazer (SECRETS OF TRUTH AND BEAUTY) spoke for the panel, "Chocolate and Coolness." Heaps of cupcakes, Oreos and candy kisses surrounded them.

The bold-faced words on Deva's t-shirt said, "Self-Rescuing Princess." She mentioned that many books feature heroines who try to prove, "Anything a boy can do, I can do better." Deva wanted to create a strong female character, "Not a "Xena princess warrior."

Megan grew up playing in the woods and longed for books about girls she could relate to...not the stereotypical dramas of gender-specific battles: issues that revolve around a girl's physical appearance. "It's time to question those archetypes."

Erin believes that in our society, there's a lot of focus on performance and pleasing others. Her characters achieve confidence in themselves, not for somebody else. "It's all about inner strength."

On Sunday, the editors of Hunger Mountain literary journal, Kekla Magoon (THE ROCK AND THE RIVER) and Bethany Hegedus (BETWEEN US BAXTERS) explained their strategy for school visits. They formed a team, working as a pair, which plays off the thematic similarities in their Civil Rights stories. This works well in a classroom setting (and bookstores often do joint signings based on a theme). Kekla and Bethany perform "reader's theatre" in schools, inviting the audience to reenact scenes and become the characters.

"That's the fun part about writing," said Kekla. You get to approach the world, teaching kids how to find their own voices.

Robin MacCready read from her debut novel, BURIED, and talked about the need for older teen books, especially realistic fiction for boys. I read from my work-in-progress and closed the day at Lompoc cafe, where a small group of us met for drinks (surrounded by a stump-sized owl statue and kids playing bocce ball in the garden).

During the weekend, I hiked the Jordan Cliffs in Acadia--a mountain path so steep, the trail featured iron rungs. I tasted lobster ice cream (like vanilla, studded with tasteless, frozen chunks of meat), sunset-sailed on a pirate ship replica, watched finback whales and harbor seals play hide-and-seek, and crammed my pockets with pinecones, rocks and acorns. Most of all, I loved hanging with other writers. We're all dreaming the same dreams, and like the smiley-faced signature that Carrie scribbled in my book, they are my "writer hero people."

c.

Uspeak reading

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 12:04:49 GMT

The USpeak podcast is up on iTunes.

Catch me reading snippets from the cutting room floor (stuff that didn't make it into my book)
and new scenes in progress.

Thanks to Matt Gajewski for the audio magic!

Click on the icon to hear the reading.

http://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=330695343

Miami - Riptide 2.0 - Young Adult Author Crissa-Jean Chappell Returns to UM

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 15:50:41 GMT

I'll be reading at the University of Miami tonight. 6:30pm. @Oasis.

Check out this cool article from the New Times:

Miami - Riptide 2.0 - Young Adult Author Crissa-Jean Chappell Returns to UM

notes from the underground

Fri, 14 Aug 2009 16:54:14 GMT

First day of school
10th grade
1991

Our teacher is really young (wanna-be adult). I had him last year. He always talks about his life and even passes around pictures of himself, his wedding, his baby, etc. But do I really mind him getting off the subject?

How many times can you write the word BORING? Right now, Tony is saying (hopefully, like he's happy) "I got a few Ds on my report card."

Here's what people are saying:

"I love it when they write F+ "
"I might be able to play tennis because I like hitting people."
"I don't have the mental capacity."
"What's that show? Going Life?"
"Hey folks. I'm a Roman citizen."

Pauline moved in front of me just now but I doubt that Mr. Berry will let her stay there. She is sneaking chips that she bought from the Spirit Shop before class. Chris just fell out of his chair. Pauline got a lunch detention for sitting in the wrong seat.

When teachers say, "That's a good question," it means they don't know the answer.

Rachelle just said, "Some lunches are too long."

There's this girl and this kid calls her, "Space," because she's never paying attention. You get the idea.

I'm not supposed to be in here. I was going to switch classes and the teacher was like, "Do your best while you're in here."

Is it just me or do I sit in the same area in every class? There is music coming from next door (Higher Love) and everyone's laughing at it.

We are reading King Arthur (1000 x better than Romeo and Juliet). This lady is really into being a teacher. The worse thing about this class is Vocab. This note must be even longer than your neighbor's phone bill.

Art Saves!

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 00:33:42 GMT

In high school, I used to draw comics during 6th period geometry class. I sketched with Pigma pens and watercolor paint. The stories (from time-travel epics to swoony vampires) were typed on Bank Street Writer (pre-Microsoft Word), cut and Glue-sticked onto paper. After the first page, I often tossed them out and started something new.

My mom saved a few of my old sketchbooks, along with a battered copy of The Watercolor Painter's Solution Book. Today I'm more into pen-and-ink (although pencil, as seen in the smaller doodles above, was my weapon of choice in Art class).

Last week, the Sun Sentinel book critic, Chauncey Mabe, visited my college. He talked about sneaking into the library as a teenager, staring at the stacks, and thinking about the power in the books. (Does anybody know what's in these stories? he wondered. Politicians would close the place down). He said the artist's job is not to imitate the way things look...but to create new ways of seeing the world.

In that spirit, Readergirlz is hosting Art Saves: a program to encourage creativity in schools and libraries across the country. Teens can download the Art Saves template on the Readergirlz website and contribute with their own sketches and photographs.

Scan your artwork as a JPG and send it to Little Willow:

artsaves(at)slayground(dot)net

mental spotlights

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 19:32:57 GMT

At Sweat Records, the music labels are hand-scribbled in magic marker ("Portishead is named after a town in England.") Last Wednesday, a group of wordsmiths, painters and poets got together in the record store. We talked about merging pictures and words. It was the first meeting for Miami Book Arts. The goal is to team up and create broadsides: (old-timey illustrations adorned with prose. Think: London's Telegraph in the days of Charles Dickens).

We stood on a stage, surrounded by a burbling fishtank, rock posters and velvet couches. A projector flashed our names on the wall in alphabetical order. I read before John Dufresne, one of my local literary heroes.

"He's like our elder statesman," whispered my friend, David.

Both of us read scenes from our Everglades stories. After a while, I closed my eyes and listened to the voices blur together. The weapon of choice--typewriters or paintbrush--didn't matter anyone. When you write or draw, it's like shining a spotlight on the important details: parrot feathers and gator teeth, sawgrass and Santeria, rum and cortaditos.

On Saturday, I taught a teen writing workshop at the Pinecrest library. I thought about mental spotlights while listening to the student poems. I encouraged them to concentrate on the five senses. "It tasted like rocks and coffee," wrote one boy (a powerful combination). It sounds like a baby crying. It feels like your hand on a swollen belly. It smells like mac and cheese.

The kids had just completed a "botanical illustration" class. The auditorium swarmed with Crayola-colored flowers. We wrote down our earliest memories and I tried to show them the difference between concrete (like the sketches taped on the wall) and "floaty" abstract language ("That's the stuff you can't see," said one girl in a "we're homeschooled" t-shirt). Special thanks to librarian-poet, Kathleen, for the invite.

Another quarter of school has ended. As I finish up a marathon-grading session, I can't help grinning over sentences like, "Everything from my childhood is gone...even my teeth." It makes me want to tell them, "It's not gone. Not as long as you remember."

Shine a spotlight on it.

VOYA's "perfect tens"

Mon, 01 Jun 2009 18:42:03 GMT

Check it out: I just learned that Total Constant Order made the list for VOYA's "perfect tens."

The book must have two things: literary quality (Q) and teen appeal (P). In each of those they can receive up to 5 points, so the top score would be 5Q 5P. That's a perfect ten.

I bet Fin would dig that number! :)

http://kidslit.menashalibrary.org/2009/06/01/voyas-perfect-tens-2/

QWERTY

Wed, 13 May 2009 22:57:59 GMT

"She asked for a poem about horseradish," said my friend, David.

We stood beside a table in the street. Under the lamplight, a pair of boys hunched over Swingline typewriters, clackity-clacking inbetween gulps of Miller Lite. I snuck a peek at the poem-in-progress--something about a sucker-punch to the face.

David laughed. "Funny thing is...she's never had horseradish before."

The F.I.U. poets were taking requests. I asked for an impromptu ballad about Wynwood, where low-slung warehouses have morphed into Saturday night gallery walks. (think: wine in plastic Dixie cups, dudes in skinny jeans and fedoras, and miles of factories where machines once churned out uniforms for flight attendants).

I never read my custom-made poem. David is holding it for ransom.

Earlier, I had driven up to the Delray Beach Library. The Y.A. head honcho, Loly, invited me to talk about my book and paint graffiti-inspired t-shirts with the teens. They asked a lot of cool questions (they even helped mop up the mess). Each of them received a copy of TCO. As I signed a stack of books, I overheard a girl saying, "This is my first author autograph."

I grinned.

"Do you remember yours?"

Yeah. It was Interview With The Vampire. I stood in line for hours on Miami Beach, just to see Anne Rice arrive in a gilded coffin, carried in a funeral-style procession.

My autographed copy still sits on my bookshelf.

Now I need to make room for more.

NYC Teen Author Festival

Wed, 25 Mar 2009 14:34:24 GMT

The traffic lights blinked and we lunged forward in a herd. Everybody dressed in black coats, looking straight ahead, not saying a word. I dug out my headphones--a soundtrack to the city. I stared at a shredded plastic bag that flapped on a tree. The wind lifted its branches and the bag tipped forward. The sidewalks were swollen with garbage. Cigarette butts heaped in flowerboxes. Oil sludge dribbling into the gutters.

I glanced up. There was David Levithan, walking ahead of me. I wanted to shout, "Hey. There's the guy who co-wrote Nick and Nora." Instead, we just kept marching along fifth avenue, both of us plugged into our iPods (me, with the new Mates of State. What songs had he downloaded for his infinate playlist?) A lemon-yellow messanger bag bounced on his hip. I kept my gaze pinned to it like a flag.

We reached Books of Wonder. I waited outside for a minute, not to seem stalkerish. Then I opened the door and got swept into a tide of people. Over 40 YA authors were signing all at once (or rather, in timed clumps, according to the paper a cashier handed me). Kids were scarfing down cupcakes and plowing through the aisles on Razor scooters. I couldn't deal with the crowd, so I pushed my way to the cafe and sat on a chair printed with ladybugs.

"I just found a tooth in my pocket," said a woman in a pastel sweater.

I watched her husband flick a paper cup across the table. "Home run!" he kept shouting, over and over. After a while, I sucked in a breath and headed toward the signing.

"Are you in line?" I asked a blonde-haired girl.

"Hey, Crissa," she said.

"Sarah?" I blinked. "I thought you were in a castle."

"I'm just here to see the chaos," she said, laughing.

"Your book comes out soon, right?" I asked.

She nodded. No pre-pub jitters for Ms. Sarah Cross. I told her to bring a falcon to her book launch and she laughed. "Good idea."

We got in line. Barry Lyga signed his new book for my niece, Corie ("What do you believe in?" he wrote). Beside him sat Blake Nelson, wearing button-down plaid and old-school Adidas kicks.

*

Earlier, I heard Blake read at the New York Public Library "trustees room" (think: glowing chandeliers, wall-length tapestries, a marble fireplace so big, it could burn a sequoia). Blake read from his new novel, Destroy All Cars. When he got to the part about "concerned soccer moms," he busted out, giggling.

"This is my favorite part," he said, as his cell phone beeped. "You guys aren't calling me from the back, are you?"

He tried again. More beeps.

He turned a page.

Another screamy ringtone.

Blake slammed the book on the table. He sighed, then laughed again.

After the reading, Jack, the NYPL librarian/rockstar, arranged an epic, campfire-style "round robin" story marathon between several authors in the audience (Coe Booth, one of my literary heroes, tried to drag me up there, but I said: No, no, no). We scribbled titles, characters, and scenes on slips of paper. Jack, wearing a "Proud to be Awesome," tee that matched his striped socks, tossed the notes in an empty Coke box.

"I hope this is Diet Coke. I found it behind a curtain," he said.

The story involved: prom, secret agents, drag queens, and soft leather wing chairs, a zombie motorcycle race, the men's room at JFK, and "death by pommegranite." It sounded like Greek theatre crossed with a plot capsule on the TV guide channel.

Barry Lyga wrapped the whole thing up in one sentence:

"We never did go skinny-dipping."

*

When the story ended, we were told to "mingle." Megan McCafferty found me lurking in the back row. She was smiling for photo ops near the medieval-looking tapestry. Her fans--mother and daughter--had flown all the way from California, just to attend the Teen Author Festival.

I stood by the marble fireplace, thinking: How amazing is this? I'm talking to Blake Nelson in a room straight out of the movie, Clue. He's talking in a whispery voice, asking questions about my weekend.

"You go out and stuff?" he asked, and at that moment, he sounded just like a boy from his books.

*

At the Saturday afternoon reception for the NYPL "Stuff For The Teen Age," I listened to Walter Dean Myers talk about libraries as "the last hope," a place where kids can escape, just as he used to do. He said:

Teenagers are smarter than you think. That's why we should never dumb things down.

I clapped until my hands stung.

c.

clutter

Fri, 13 Mar 2009 13:52:04 GMT

I need things around my desk. Lots of things.

On top of my computer hutch, I keep a mountain range of clutter--a miniature lava lamp, a paper mache dragon puppet, sand dollars and seashells, lanterns and candles, a plastic "pato azul" from a botanica on eighth street. Not to mention, a Siamese fighting fish named Kingsley, who keeps watch as I type.

I'll peck out a few sentence, blink, and stare into space. The clutter keeps me calm. So does my music: the stacks of mix CDs heaped next to my monitor. Or the pirate radio station, just barely leaking bad words through my boombox, always tainted with static.

Yesterday I left my desk early and headed to the university for their MFA alumni reading (as mentioned in the Miami wordsmiths). Since I spend so much time in my room, talking to imaginary people, it was cool to hear Celia Alvarez read a poem about Hialeah (where the boys wear baggy shorts and empty threats...and men squat outside stores lit with neon, too tired to sit or stand).

I know how it feels.

All this week, I couldn''t sleep. Clutter fills my head, keeping me awake with their push-pull, low tide, high tide. So I get up and crawl to the computer. When I check my email, I find questions from my readers.

Kathleen wants to know: why do you write?

Why do I write?

Then I read I mindblowing letter from Tre, who says the Total Constant Order reminds him of his life and someone he used to know, someone who meant a lot to him. Most of all, it reminded him of himself.

So I say: YOU are the reason I wrote that book.

And I go back to my desk and get to work.

circles

Tue, 03 Mar 2009 19:30:55 GMT

When construction workers dug up the land at the bank of the Miami River, they discovered a perfect circle carved into the limestone. At first, they shrugged it off. They had planned to build high-rise condos over the so-called "septic tank." Some people took a look at the stone Circle and wondered if UFOs landed there. Others believed that we had found the lost city of Atlantis.

The archeologists swooped down with their buckets and brushes. They found shark's teeth and shells, human bones and pottery beads.

They called it "An American Stonehenge."

Nobody knows exactly what happened at the Circle. Human sacrifice? A home for astrologer kings? Did the Mayans paddle up to Florida and carve their signature into the stones? Or was it the Tequestas, the "People of the Glades"?

The circle keeps its secrets. It makes me wonder: What mysteries remain hidden beneath the high-rises and condos of downtown Miami?

When I started writing TCO, I wrote about the Miami Circle (as seen from the parking lot of the Sheraton hotel). I had to change the reference later, when the hotel morphed into another construction site.

Now you can find the Circle from the top floors of the swanky viceroy hotel. I spotted manatees shaped like exclamation marks, cruising below the Brickell bridge. Buzzards perched on balconies, high above the businessmen sipping cocktails by the pool.

I stopped at the Viceroy after visiting Prof. Goran's MFA class at the University of Miami. The students asked a slew of questions related to the craft of writing. They wanted to know how screenplays differ from novels, and how to create characters that speak and breathe "like real souls."

"It's all about listening and paying attention," I told them.

One of the grads (a whipsmart girl named Margaret) told me about her mom's love for sportscars and sculpture-like dogs. Margaret asked me to serve on her thesis committee (She's writing a YA novel.) Of course, I said yes.

After class, a reporter from Miami.com interviewed Prof. Goran and I for an article regarding the creative writing programs in South Florida. (I'll post it here soon). I snuck a peek at the reporter's notebook and noticed doodles of girls in profile. "I like to draw, too," I told her and she smiled.

I walked across the campus, thinking about how little things had changed. Same hand-shaped shadows on the grass. Same glue-and-ink smells in the bookstore. Maybe even the same loudmouthed macaws cutting across the sky, their tails dangling like streamers.

Later at the Viceroy, I sat by the pool, not far from the buzzards and businessmen. I peered down and searched for the Circle. All I saw was a bald patch in the grass.

I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there.

sketchpad

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 14:37:45 GMT

In high school, I used to sit at my desk and daydream about imaginary people.

I still do.

When my brain needs a break from words, I drag out my sketchpad.

(Aaron, aka Mr. Mystery)

(The girls, from left to right: Morgan, Lex, and Skully)

kids heart authors

Sun, 15 Feb 2009 19:35:13 GMT

At the Odyssey Bookshop in South Hadley, Massachusetts, we gathered around a table heaped with pink lollipops and paper hearts for the Valentine event: Kids Heart Authors--a signing at indie bookstores across New England. Our roundup included: Richard Michelson, D. Dina Friedman, Diane de Groat, Jeannine Atkins.

Everyone took turns reading in the cozy chair by the window. Dina's son, Raf, played his oboe under a blanket (or rather, Jeannine's sari) just like the composer, Paganini. I wondered if the music would summon snakes down the stairs. Instead, I looked up and spotted my boyfriend standing there. He had driven three hours that morning to surprise me.

After the event, we found old-timey typewriters perched on the street, poetry carved in the sidewalks and tree trunks, and people reading, reading, reading, at cafe tables or booths. No wonder I (heart) Massachusetts, the place where my parents grew up. Thanks to Mitali Perkins for starting this thing, Twitter-style, and to the indie bookstores who made it possible.

<3
crissa

http://www.myflashfetish.com/playlist/18460178

Thank you, Palm Beach (Wellington)

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 16:14:23 GMT

A silver-haired goddess rises from a lake.
A pregnant woman runs for her life.
A Japanese schoolgirl opens a door and rose petals fly out.

At the Palm Beach library, teen writers gather for a workshop. AnneMarie, the librarian-in-charge of tonight's meeting, picks up a pen decorated with glittery stars. "Because we're all stars," she says, giggling, and she's right.

AnneMarie listens to Finnish metal while she types her ghost stories. I ask everybody at the table, "Who listens to music when you write?" A slew of hands go up. We talk about the show-don't-tell rule. I encourage them to think like a movie camera. "Write what you see."

As they take turns, reading out loud, I hear a story thick with details. "Do you like to draw?" I ask Alexis, who smiles and nods. Around her neck, she wears a chain with a dangling skeleton. On her hands, she wears gloves shaped like bones.

A boy named Ocean says, "I'm going to be the next Stephen King. Except I'm going to make him look like an old grandma."

Ocean only goes to the beach at night. Otherwise his freckles will burn. I tell him I do the same thing. He digs for ghost crabs in the sand and makes up "gorey stories with lots of blood." He wonders if he could get in trouble for writing something scary.

"Are you afraid that someone is going to judge you?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Not really."

When the class ends, they keep asking questions. Is there such a thing as writer's block? (I don't believe in it). Is it "bad" to write about emotions? (every story is about emotions. It's all in the way you show it).

Alexis gives me her sketch--the one she's been working on, all this time. When I ask, "Where's your signature?" she points to a zigzag in the corner. Then she waves goodbye.

AnneMarie leads me through the "secret VIP tunnel" to the front desk, where Amanda, another children's librarian, sits behind a desk. In this room, the chairs are shaped like owls. The desks are carved with silhouettes that remind me of children's drawings: lollipop trees and suns.

"I was going to display your book," Amanda says, "but it's been checked out."

I tell the librarians: I wish something like this program had existed, back when I was in high-school.

As I wait for my ride, a conga line of cars roll up. Kids race across the parking lot, talking nonstop. Their parents look straight ahead. "Come on. Let's go. Hurry up."

I lean against the wall and listen.

I collect

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 14:14:36 GMT

Candles I will never light.

Buttons I won't pin to my jacket.

Cups I refuse to use.

Scarves I wear once a year.

Clocks I can't trust.

Cookies I won't nibble.

Flowers I can't smell.

And journals I fill to the end.

a Valentine for Generation Twitter

Sat, 31 Jan 2009 17:26:43 GMT

Your life. Six words.

That's what the editors of SMITH magazine dared in their collection of "terse true tales"...Not Quite What I Was Planning. In their newest book, "Six-Word Memoirs On Love And Heartbreak By Writers Famous And Obscure," they ponder matters of the heart with the brevity of a text message.

There's the woman who preferred the drive-in movie over the date. A guy who thought, "Great legs," and said, "Great smile." The one who wouldn't give up the remote. The one replaced by a mail-order bride.

Steve Almond "screwed and screwed up" before settling down, happier. Erica Jong married more than once (the fourth time is charmed). Oh. And I'm on page 128 (quoting the six words my boyfriend would whisper before I drove home at night).

Can you sum up your love in six words?

I dare you.

xoxo
c.

SCBWI Miami

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 03:43:54 GMT

At the SCBWI conference in Miami, I sat in the sub-zero meeting room, staring up at the row of ceiling lamps glowing like spaceships. Just above my head, I noticed a dragonfly stuck in the glass. The bug looked prehistoric, as if trapped in amber.

Beside me sat a couple of slouchy teenagers--a boy and his (sister? girlfriend?)--hunched over a Wyndham hotel memo pad. They slid the pad back and forth across the table, giggling as they scribbled messages in cyber shorthand: "LMFAO." After a while, they started messing with the mints in a flower-shaped dish across from us, then a half-empty bottle of "agua purificada". I kept stealing glances at them as I listened to the speeches. Later, the boy raised his hand. He wanted to know if age mattered to publishers "if the writing is good." The answer?

That depends.

Scholastic editor, Arthur Levine, figited behind the podium, trying to flick off the lights before his PowerPoint presentation. He turned to the audience and grinned. "Everyone think dark thoughts." He encouraged writers to remember that editors' tastes are subjective. The key to success is knowing: Who am I? He chuckled. "No, you're not witnessing the tragic mental deterioration of a children's editor." He posed the question: Does who I am limit what I write?

The novelist, Lisa Yee, took the stage with her travel companion--a stuffed Peep. She stuck out her arm and propped him up for a picture with us. "I'm going to do a backup because some of you guys blinked," she said. Lisa spoke about expanding your imagination beyond the borders of your upbringing. "But you better get it right," she added. Laughter is the same in any language. If viewers can identify with a talking sponge who wears square pants...why can't the identify with an Asian girl from the suburbs?

Linda Sue Park channeled the mythologist, Joseph Campbell, who believed there are only two stories in the world:

1. going on a journey
2. a stranger comes to town

She said, "Some people hate this idea because they find it limiting." Writing is so intensely personal, there is no secret to success. You can't find the magic formula by attending a conference. The so-called formula is different for every writer...and every book.

Liz Waniewski, an editor at Dial, reminded us that "voice must penetrate the entire story." And it must be there from the beginning. She listed a few outworn ideas that have crossed her desk far too often:

The new kid in town. The social outcast vs. the popular crowd. Divorce. The ordinary kid with superpowers. The hero with a secret.

Alexandra Cooper, an editor at Simon and Schuster, spoke about how a manuscript is acquired at a publishing house. She compared the experience to shopping at a mall. "If I want a feathery pink boa and you're sending me penny loafers...it's not going to work out." She encouraged writers to use the internet for research. It's also a good idea to check the acknowledgement page in the books you've read and loved.

During lunch, I had the chance to hang with cyber-pals (many I've never met in person). Jodi Turchin was my conference-buddy, cracking me up with her notebook (adorned with the words, "I am my own evil twin!") Mindy Alyse Weiss swooped me into a hug at first glance. So did Flora Doone, sneaking up behind my chair and announcing, "Hey! I know you!" (Can't count how many times I heard the phrase, "We're friends on MySpace/Facebook/Blueboards/LJ". It always takes me a split-second to place a face to the name. (instead of "the-girl-with-the-dancing-bunny-in-her-profile-pic.") That was the best part.

I also met up with my fellow Florida authors: Alex Flinn, Christina Diaz Gonzalez, Debbie Reed Discher, Gaby Triana, and Marjetta Geerling, (who signed books beside me with her feather-pen) and our literary fairy godmother, Joyce Sweeney ("We look like Christmas ornaments," she joked, wearing a bright green sweater beside my red dress). Rock on!

While waiting in line for my sandwich (What did I order? Oh yeah. I flipped over my tag...with my name printed on one side and "turkey" on the other), I met Faran (with two A's) and told him, "I'm thinking about a new character with the same name." Only I wasn't sure how to spell it (until now). Everybody drifted out to the patio and soaked up the sun. I stuffed a cookie in my purse...thank goodness...because I got recruited for the role of "room monitor" during the one-on-one critiques.

"Um...what do I have to do?" I asked Adrienne Sylver.

"Basically, you're playing bouncer." She smirked.

Every fifteen minutes, I marched around the room and announced, "Time's up," to those waiting for a chance to chat up an agent or editor. A few years ago, I sat in the same spot. No doubt, quite a few happy endings have sprung from these chance encounters. As I perched on my chair, plugged into my iPod, I closed my eyes and sent out good vibes to everybody.

On the way out, a man grabbed my sleeve and asked, "Where can I recycle this Coke can?"

I shrugged. "You can't."

I missed the Big Top party because I had another obligation--my brother's toga-themed birthday party. No way could I skip out. Back when Tim turned eighteen, I was just a "little blonde thing," as one of his buddies put it, toddling around a room filled with guys in bedsheets. They blasted Zeppelin on the radio and scarfed foot-long subs from Steve's on South Dixie Highway. Mom took a picture of me perched on my brother's shoulder. (For some reason, I'm clutching a Valentine pillow on his head and wearing a Santa hat).

Somebody transfered that photo to a Publix cake and covered it in candles. I took a new picture this time--me and my nieces, Corin (who spraypainted gold leaves for her corsage) and Corie (in her Spiderman bedsheet). We rocked out by the pool to 70s anthems that hit the charts before they were born.

Another old-school toga-dude (with a Dolphins baseball cap, Tevas and cigar) came up to me and said, "You probably don't remember the first toga party."

"Hell yes, I do," I said.

My brother said, "She'll probably write about it."

I kicked my sandals under the table and said, "Maybe."

warriors and canes

Tue, 13 Jan 2009 19:34:53 GMT

As I pulled into my old high-school parking lot, I noticed the names spray painted into the concrete: T Mac, princess, and Steph (flanked by a heart and a sun and her name smeared with a wobbly red X). I wondered who had X-ed out Steph. Maybe her boyfriend? Or did the school mark the spot as a reminder: all spaces are equal?

I parked on the grass.

When Westminster asked me to give a presentation as an "alumna," my pulse jumped. Could I speak in the same auditorium where I used to chew Starburst and doodle elves on my Algebra II homework?

Yeah. I could handle that.

I sat on the edge of the stage, watching the handyman, Mr. Chuck, flip open the plastic seats. The same guy who always wore suspenders and patched up the classroom with duct tape when somebody (a boy who shall remain nameless) kicked a softball-sized hole under the blackboard.

"Hey, Mr. Chuck," said Patty, the person-in-charge. "Do you remember Crissa?"

He squinted. "Nope."

Patty turned and whispered, "He's always grumpy in the morning."

"Me too," I said.

In the past year, I've given my "book presentation" talk at schools all over the country, but never at my own school. And never to a crowd of teachers. They sat still in the bleachers, raised their hands, and asked questions like, "How do you get kids interested in learning?"

I looked into the rows of faces and saw Mr. Nolander, my psychology teacher who quizzed me about medieval humors and personality types (No surprise. My answers came up "melancholy").

"You never got angry when I doodled in class," I said, keeping my gaze on Mr. Nolander, who beamed back a grin.

After the presentation, he told me, "I still have your short story about King Solomon's cat."

I chatted with my French teacher, Mrs. Whiting ("Didn't your hair used to be really long?" she asked), my History teacher, Mrs. Springer ("FDR had no plan," she would chant before a test) and, of course, my English teacher, Mrs. Cameron, who put up with my novels-in-progress (complete with laminated covers and paper-clipped spines).

I finally had a chance to say, "Thank you."

Patty was a graceful host, dancing on the stage, turning perfect pirouettes. "I'm always moving," she said, touching my arm. We walked across the campus to the art room, my sanctuary. The room was new but it smelled the same: acrylic paint and butcher paper.

Last week, I played the alumna role at the University of Miami. My creative writing prof, Goran, asked me to visit his undergraduate workshop. We sat in a semi-circle of desks and gossiped about publishing. One kid wanted to know, "Could I set up an appointment to meet with an agent?" Goran strutted to the front of the room and jabbed his finger into the air. (I remembered the time he drew a pair of circles on the board. "This is you," he scribbled next to small circle. Beside the large one, he wrote, "This is the world.")

Goran was talking about the teen genre, how it doesn't really exist. "You wrote a book about a fifteen-year-old," he said. "But it's not just for teenagers."

Recently, at a holiday party, I overheard someone whispering behind me. They pointed and said, "She's a writer. But she writes for teens." The party-whisperer went on: "I never read those books when I was in high-school."

I wonder what she did read.

In Goran's classroom, I noticed a girl in a Friends With You t-shirt flipping through Paper Towns. She shrugged. "It's good."

On the way out, I walked across the parking lot. The spaces were mostly empty, a rare sight, like a NASA photograph of the sun's blistered surface. No names painted in the concrete. Just empty spaces, waiting to be filled. I sat in my car and listened to the crackly voices on public radio. They sounded like people I used to know, but couldn't remember.

smile meme

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 04:56:37 GMT

Music makes me smile. Here's a winter mixtape for you:

http://view.playlist.com/14172284939

merry merry merry merry merry

Fri, 12 Dec 2008 17:07:24 GMT

Five merry-ings on a Friday:

1. Sending yumalicious cupcakes from Sugar Sweet Sunshine.

2. Buying books for my favorite people this holiday season: including illustrated diaries by Nikki McClure. Her spare, yet elegant, illustrations remind me of construction paper cutouts.

3. Reading wise words from Lorie Ann Grover at her blog, On Point. Mucho thanks!

4. Looking at art inspired by adolescence at this year's Basel fair. Check out Michael Scoggins and his giant sculptures of crumpled-up notebook gossip, The Girl Project, a traveling exhibition of photos taken by teen girls, and Julia Fullerton Batten's Teenage Stories...where daydreams are truly larger than life.

5. Hugging Willa--the tiger-striped kitten who popped up like an early present on the lawn. She is looking sleek and fit. The little monster has tripled in size and spends her days fetching balls, dunking her paws in the tadpole pools, and sparking hissy fits from the felines-in-residence.

I made the list!

Wed, 03 Dec 2008 02:39:03 GMT

Just wanted to share with you: If you click on this link to Metromix magazine, you will see a "Best of 2008" article for South Florida. Scroll through the People section and find my name. Pretty cool! A big shout out to Colleen Dougher and all the staff.

http://southflorida.metromix.com/home/photogallery/best-of-people/795378/content