It's not so easy being an A

I finally saw Easy A last night (one of my rockin' Saturdays in which I visited my parents, ordered pizza, and On Demand-ed a movie) and thought it was darling -- as countless people predicted I would. (What took me so long?) Though, I do think it could have gone a bit further in terms of dissecting why girls' sexuality is always up for public debate when boys' isn't, and I questioned the Lisa Kudrow storyline, but my quibbles are minor. Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Also, Stanley Tucci. Who knew he was so attractive?!

After a tri-state weekend where I celebrated my parents' 35th anniversary and a baby shower for my impending nephew, I am now home, taking care of small errands so I can be uber productive tomorrow, which I took off from work with the express purpose of finally being able to get some work done on my new manuscript. It's getting there, y'all. Anyway, because of my weekend travels, I am skipping any and all Super Bowl festivities (which, I mean, is not exactly a sacrifice, since I really dislike sports culture) and instead catching up on some DVR favorites, like Community and Cougar Town. Hey, I warned you I had a rockin' weekend.

Sewing stories, finding time

I cannot be the only person with this problem.

When I'm not able to work in my current manuscript (say, I'm at work or hanging with family or watching Friday Night Lights on Netflix streaming, which btw, is either the best or worst invention ever), I itch to get back to it. I think, "Man, if only I didn't have to do ____ today, I'd be glued to my desk chair writing, because I am so flipping excited about this one." Which is a great attitude!

But then the weekends come, and I sit down and start toiling on it, and I think, "Well, maybe I should go do those dishes first. And then of course I should Swiffer the floors while I'm at it. And I should really call my mom...and Skype my niece...and return those shoes..." And, and, and.

I'm a procrastinator by nature, and with a lot of dedicated effort, I've been able to curb those tendencies when I need to. (Say, when I had five weeks to crank out that book last fall, which I, amazingly, managed to do while still working full time.) But it is hard to curb them when I already have so little free time, and sometimes, I just want to crash on my couch with the latest Us Weekly and some popcorn and waste the day.

Today, however, I will not. (I mean, I probably will at some point for an hour or so. But I will also be productive!) I sent my current WIP out to my two critique partners as well as to my sister and my former mentee (who are pretty much my ideal readers, which every writer should have); they've all been so helpful with their feedback, but what's so exciting is how excited THEY all are about it. I am, too.

I just need to keep working on channeling that excitement into actually writing the rest of it.

Pulling feathers

I am an unabashed holiday junkie, but even I can admit there's something refreshing and peaceful about January. I miss the twinkling lights, but I like the fresh calendar; everyone hibernates and bar invitations dwindle and people stop bringing chocolates and cookies everywhere. It's a nice type of newness. I had a most excellent holiday. I went down to south Jersey; thanks to the epic snowstorm, I was stuck in a warm, festive, food- and drink- and love-filled house with my amazing family, including my 18-month old niece, who is just a cup-runneth-over sort of gal (that is to say, every time she laughs, every time she gestures for me to hold her hand, every time she snuggles in to me as I play her the videos I took of her on my Flip cam, my cup runneth over). And then I went back to my office, which was incredibly productive (two full days without a single meeting = checking lots of things off my to-do!), and then rang in the new year with some best friends, dirty martinis, and a Just Dance competition. (I am purposely trying not to count the number of shots I did that night, because it is terrifyingly high.)

This afternoon I finally caved and saw Black Swan. Before I talk about it, I need to talk about the single best movie trailer I have seen this year (perhaps apart from HP7 for emotional reasons, but definitely better than the Red Riding Hood trailer, which until now was my favorite...although it's a new year, so I suppose it's irrelevant to rank them? Anyway.): it was Sucker Punch.

I love movie trailers (sometimes more than movies themselves) and they're pretty consistently my favorite part of the movie theater experience. And earlier today, Sucker Punch, well, it sucker punched me in the gut. We all know I'm not a huge fantasy/para fan, but oh. my. goddess., this was an incredibly well-done trailer. Is it weird to say that I was close to tears during it? Because I was. It just hit me in the right place at the right time (I'm in the middle of a new manuscript and I really dig it, but I'm toying with an entirely new idea that is far out of my comfort zone, and this was completely inspiring), so I'm now watching it on repeat, pretty much. Here you go, and you're welcome.

Back to Black Swan: fabulous. Other adjectives that mean fabulous. We went to the grocery store afterward (which, big mistake, Sunday evening shopping -- the shelves are empty and the lines are long) and I felt erratic and twitchy as I tried to find the whole wheat pasta, pulling feathers from my down coat (what the hell, Michael Kors? Why does your expensive down coat prick me so much!?) and wondering if I, too, was suffering a mental breakdown.

I am relieved to say I was not. However, I still have no idea what the hell happened in that movie. And I loved it anyway.

image via

Ch-ch-ch-changes

If this blog looks wonky, it's because I'm in the process of transferring morganbaden.wordpress.com to morganbaden.com (fancy!). Bear with me. On a related note, sometimes I'm more technologically challenged than I anticipated I'd be.

December, December

I love December. I love winter in general, and the buttoning up and wrapping around the season entails. On my morning walk to work I like to remember how, mere months ago, I was struggling to keep from passing out from the humidity, and now I'm pulling on a puffy coat and cinching the hood; how, where there used to be a gutter drip from the Starbucks on Houston, there are now long icicles that glint in the 8am sunlight.

Time passes, and so do we, but they're still serving mochas and I'm still passing them up for cheap cups of decaf at my office. The more things change, etc.

Last week I went to San Francisco, and it was so lovely to be there when it's all holiday-ified. Last Saturday was their Santa-con, and on a cable car ride (my mom insisted, and I obliged, and found it to be a highlight of the trip) we passed a woman dressed as a black-and-white version of Santa. Gray skin, matted just so; an entire gray and white Santa suit. It was brilliant, the contrast between her and all the fire engine red Santas around her. We unwittingly followed her around the city (or perhaps she followed us?), from the Ferry building to Market Street to North Beach. We never got her on camera, like she was a ghost.

Speaking of ghosts, we stayed in an adorable hotel called the Queen Anne (that's the lobby, where we sipped wine and brandy in front of roaring fireplaces and tried to imagine what kinds of lessons the girls of the early 20th century attended in that space. It was an old girls' lodging house.). It's supposedly haunted, but we, alas, can neither confirm nor deny.

And then yesterday, back in New York, I got caught in a Santacon of our own. I rounded the corner of 37th Street on my way to the Girls Write Now journalism workshop when I ran smack into a parade of Santas. I think the holdup was that they were trying to get into Stitch, a bar where I actually held my 28th (?) birthday drinks.

It was 10:30 am, and a mob of Santas were in line to get into a bar in Hell's Kitchen.

Oh, December.

Today in things I can't get enough of...

These are wholly incongruous, but: "The Walking Dead" and Anna and the French Kiss.

Let me begin with "The Walking Dead." Like others, I just needed something to fill the gaping wound that Mad Men left behind. And "gaping wounds" are exactly what I got.

How have I gone 31 years without giving zombies much thought? Sure, I saw Dawn of the Dead (the remake). I read The Forest of Hands and Teeth (a good book!). But never have zombies crawled their way into my subconscious the way they have now. And I hate being trendy, but seriously, this is a great show. I have now had half a dozen dreams in which I am part of the show -- not in any nightmarish way (I'm never scared in these dreams), but in a curious, oh-how-would-I-handle-this-situation kind of way. Because really -- what will I do in the event of a zombie apocalypse?

Of course, the zombies themselves are the least interesting thing about the show. I watch for the moral and political questions that keep popping up; the mourning of people and relationships; the need to see how a society could or would rebuild itself if it needed to; the role a government would take, etc. And, okay, fine, some of the gore. I'm only human, after all. (For now.)

Meanwhile, I just finished a delightful arc of a YA romance called Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins. Y'all, I capital-L-Loved this book. I don't tend to read straight up romances (YA or otherwise), but I needed a new book and this one fell into my hands. It's set in Paris at an American boarding school, and as a francophile, how could I not give it a shot? Well, I devoured it (zombie-like!) in a couple of days and promptly passed it on to K. It's Perkins' debut and it was fresh, romantic (obvs), and yet a nice combination of mature, snarky, and utterly YA.

Save the scraps

My friend Melissa posted something on her blog about the first thing she remembers writing, which was a novel when she was 11 years old. And it got me thinking about the first thing I remember writing. It was a short story called "Lily and the Art Gallery" about -- wait for it! -- a girl named Lily who visits an art gallery. (As one does at age nine?) I was nine, and I think that remains the only short story I've ever written to this day. (Surely that means something?) Anyway, Lily wanders away from her parents and is so entranced by a painting that she touches it and discovers -- whoops! -- it's actually still wet. Naturally, the guards have to escort her out and her parents yell at her, but Lily explains that she didn't do it on purpose, and there's a lovely, Full House-esque ending.

Unfortunately, I can't be sure of any of this. I wrote "Lily" on loose-leaf paper 21 years ago, and between moves and floods (don't grow up on a bay, kids) and cleaning sprees, it's floating in a a landfill somewhere. It's surely joined by the brilliant Flowerlon series that K and I co-wrote (or rather, she wrote, and I designed the covers. We were a book packaging company before we knew those existed.) and the class newspaper I helped create in fifth grade (which I was totally trying to turn into the Sweet Valley Sixer).

So this is my plea to everyone out there: treasure your early starts. Make it a point to save your scraps, your notes, your out-of-the-lines coloring books. You never know when you'll want to look back on them, and how amazing it'll be. One of my favorite paintings hanging in my parents' house, for example? A messy, charming watercolor my dad did when he was around seven years old.

If only Lily were around to see it.

No-voice Wednesday

The first time I remember losing my voice was in high school. My twin sis sat in front of me in my 11th-grade Trig class and as the teacher asked if anyone had any questions, I raised my hand, furiously scribbled my question on a note, and handed it to my sis to read for me. I got my answer, the math world was saved, my voice came back, and all was well. I tend to lose my voice now once every few years; the last time it happened, though, was just under a year ago, when I was dealing with a regular old cold but then spent a winter day outside, and then had to deliver an acceptance speech later that night. By the time the evening ended I was raw and hoarse; the next morning, my voice was gone.

Where am I going with this? Just to say that last night I knew it was coming -- I could feel the scratches as I dined with friends at Hudson Hall (which I don't recommend, though the company was excellent), and my tone had sunk into when-Pheobe-from-Friends-gets-sick-and-sings-Smelly-Cat levels. Then I woke up this morning, croaking. I called out of work, thinking a day of rest would cure me.

Alas! Here it is, one nap and 12 hours later, and my voice is now officially gone - even worse than this morning. Finis. Which of course leads to humorous scenarios -- for example, the grocery store clerk probably thought I was rude because I couldn't say hello or thank you. I don't like unproductivity so I thought I'd handle some simple home errands today, but when I called to activate a replacement card (thinking it'd just be an automated thing), I was shocked to suddenly be ear-to-ear with a real person. (She got a kick of out my cackling, though.) And just now, my mom tried to Skype me. It was not pretty, friends.

So here I sit, with (more) hot tea with honey and (more) reading materials, trying to embrace the silence. I never actually realized how much I talk to myself - out loud - until today, when all that greeted me were my pathetic squeaks.

And for a brief moment today, I wondered if this was the universe's way of telling me that I've said too much this week (in my real life, not on this blog, obvs). Which is definitely very possible.

Sundaying

I first heard the word "Sundaying" when a friend of mine used it on Facebook a few years ago. It's the exact word to describe my whole weekend, which included:

• sleeping in (not enough to feel lazy, but enough to feel indulgent)
• running errands (carbon monoxide detectors are important!)
• running (first time since June, which is either a long boring story or a long fascinating one, depending on your belief in things like reiki)
• writing (once in a Starbucks, once in a Panera, which I normally hate and suddenly love)
• finishing three (!) books
• cleaning (lightly)

That extra hour really served me well.

Anyway, I feel like I've made several blog promises that I've failed to keep, recapping my thoughts on Traister's Big Girls Don't Cry chief among them. I know you're all holding your breath. I loved the book; I made massive amounts of notes throughout it; and someday soon I will be motivated enough to transfer them here.

Also, I finished the Lost girls books and it's funny; they're fairly well-written, but they're in third person from each of the six characters' perspectives -- often switching perspectives every few paragraphs. That's a format that would not sell these days, which is interesting.  At any rate, they were a fun trip back to seventh grade.

Happy Sunday!

Lost! Girls! Adrift! Alone!

You know how weird scenes or lines from old books pop into your head at random moments? The other day I thought about this scene from a pair of books I used to devour, in which a group of girls gets lost at sea (as you do!). The baby sister of one of the main characters gets really  sick while they're stuck on the island, and I remember the girls pouring rain water into her mouth as she was unconscious, and her lips were cracked and peeling.

That's it. That's all I remember. But it was enough for me to suddenly Google the books just to see their covers and revel in the nostalgia of them for a few moments.

And then I learned they're Apple/Scholastic titles, which made me leap with joy. Because that means I can easily check them out of my work library and re-read them.

So I am! Let's see how they hold up. Will they be like Sunset Island and Who Killed Peggy Sue (in other words, totally amazing and definitely living up to the memory), or will they be like The Older Boy, Sweet Valley Twins #15 (which was painful to re-read)? We shall see.

Sweet Valley Confidential: That's how it's done

News broke today about the cover of the upcoming Sweet Valley High sequel, Sweet Valley Confidential. Here's what made the execution flawless:

1. The Sweet Valley Confidential social media accounts: I follow SVConfidential on Twitter, and I "like" them on Facebook. And you know what? They do it right. I've always felt included in the excitement, like they granted me access to a secret sorority (like, I don't know, THE UNICORNS?!). (Although I do have a bone to pick with whoever manages their Twitter...I won a Team Jessica shirt in July and have yet to receive it, and my message to them went unheeded. But I'm nothing if not forgiving!) (Ha. Not really.)

2. The tie-in to traditional media: People broke the cover news. This is a great example of using an established outlet to house the content and then using social channels to market it. And really, what other mag besides People would make sense? Even though I don't read it regularly, it's the perfect choice. (Although now I know that Melissa Rycroft is having a girl, and frankly, I didn't care to know that, though perhaps it will come in handy if there's ever a Bachelor category on Jeopardy.)

3. The artwork itself: It's kind of gorgeous, yet totally predictable, and still somehow feels both modern and retro at the same time. $10 says it's Liz on the front and Jess on the back. (Though how cool would it be if they printed two versions with the front and back covers reversed?! You're welcome, St. Martin's Press.)

Of course, none of this would matter if there weren't throngs of people waiting to see the cover and read the book. When the content is stellar (or at least that nice mix of average-yet-appealing-for-nostalgic-reasons), the community will respond organically.

Teen Read Week!

When I was 28, I fell in love with YA lit.

I don't know why it took me so long. Growing up, it felt like I skipped from The Baby-sitters Club to Margaret Atwood (with a summer or two of Sunset Island and Who Killed Peggy Sue somewhere in there). It was the 90s, or what I like to think of as "the black hole of YA" years -- I'm sure there were great YA titles out there, I just didn't know about them. And I was way too interested in escaping my high school (which wasn't bad, just a bit stifling and predictable) to read fiction about other high schools.

Enter my late 20s, when I left a finance/editorial firm and joined the world of children's publishing. I remember looking at the bookshelf in my office and seeing all the incredible YA titles up there and thinking, where have I been?

I had a lot of catching up to do. I read it all -- from middle grade to YA, from contemporary to paranormal. And then I thought, as I struggled over my chick-lit manuscript, why wasn't I writing YA?

The heavens opened. (It may have been my ceiling light flickering.) The earth shook. (The R train runs right under me.) I became a YA addict.

So, this all relates to Teen Read Week, of course, because what I primarily read these days is teen lit (including many of the titles that made this year's top 10!). (Last week I was speaking on a panel at Random House and realized I was incredibly out of place. There's so much amazing adult fiction out there, and I'm barely reading any of it!) And I am unabashedly unashamed.

Thoughts on The X Files

The X Files was probably the first show I fell in love with. It was on a school field trip somewhere (I honestly have no recollection where) and an episode played on the tiny bus televisions. It was my first time. I was hooked.

Back then, it came on Sunday nights at 10pm (maybe 9pm? Who can remember?), which means by the time I caught on to it, the rest of the country had, too, because it had been moved from it's death-by-timeslot initial night of Friday. And after that bus trip, I became obsessed with it. The thing is, it wasn't even necessarily about the aliens or conspiracies (though those helped); it was about Mulder and Scully. Their multi-layered relationship was pure brilliance. I knew they were in love, because Scully would quickly glance back and forth between Mulder's eyes and his mouth, seemingly unconsciously. (I recently read an interview with Nathan Fillion where he tells his Castle co-star Stana Katic that she does that to him on camera, too, which is true. She claimed to not realize she did it. Either way, it works.) It was about the two of them - how they interacted, their body language, their longing glances. Yes, I am still one of those people who believes that Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny belong together. It's why I never took to Tea Leoni. (Sorry, Tea, it's nothing personal.)

A few holidays ago someone - maybe my brother? - bought me one of The X Files mythologies DVD sets and it was incredible to watch from beginning to end. So incredible, in fact, that I splurged and bought the complete series on DVD. Tonight I pulled out Season 6, episodes 3 and 4 (both sort of stand-alone episodes, which I wanted, rather than mythology eps). And you know what? I still love love love the show, but it's pretty clear now, in retrospect, that it's not perhaps the finest television ever created. Most of the scenes are too dark (in the literal sense - I often can't see what's happening on screen), and occasionally Mulder has a line that is utterly cringe-worthy.

But still. The components that I watched it for back in the 90s are still there, and still why I will love the series forever. And it made me think -- they're the same components that make me love my favorite books. I can overlook flaws when the relationships are there, and when the author has made me care deeply about the characters. I can overlook a bad line or two of dialogue, or a muddled scene, if I'm still finding new layers to the characters.  And yes, I am willing to overlook aliens in Mulder's apartment and an implanted chip in Scully's brain, just like I'm willing to overlook a book based on kids who get sent to kill other kids while a nation watches on live television*. Because I need to know how all those characters survive. I care about them.

*Omg. Are Katniss and Gale the new Scully and Mulder?

Rainy Monday

To cheer myself up on what promises to be an awfully long, gloomy week (apparently the weather is stuck in this circle for a few days, which means I am very glad I bought rain boots and a new umbrella yesterday, even if said boots do seem to pinch a bit and make my feet go numb), I thought I'd upload some of my photos from last week's trip to Sedona.

Only I settled in on my couch under my blanket in my favorite PRHS Wildcats softball sweatshirt from freshman year and tried to plug in my camera only to realize I brought the wrong wire from my desk. And I am too lazy slash comfortable to get back up and switch it out.

Luckily I have a few photos from my phone!

Anyway, after my crazy two months of nonstop writing, I allowed myself the luxury of reading and sleeping on vacation. I read two full books, which felt like the best form of gluttony (I was YA all the way with Lauren Conrad's latest and then Hex Hall, which I'd been meaning to read and wasn't disappointed. Witches!). I also dove in to Big Girls Don't Cry as promised. Except it makes me cry, and I'm only halfway through. It is spectacularly written.

Overall, Sedona was lovely. I always find it difficult to be somewhat landlocked - I just need a big body of water around me to feel comfortable - but I didn't notice it too much in AZ like I normally do in other places. And the views were incredible; we took a ride up to the top of some of the mountains (are they mountains?) and I was in awe. (I will conveniently leave out the part about how, while taking the tour in the backseat of a jeep, the driver sometimes parked so close to the edge that I began texting my last will and testament to my family.)

I promise soon I will have thoughts on Big Girls Don't Cry, and I'm also planning on blogging my way through the Sunset Island books. Why? Because I can.

Breathing space

Last night I turned in the big project that's been taking every spare moment of my time for the past five weeks (and then some), and it feels AMAZING. (And nerve-wracking and terrifying and strange, but that's fodder for a different post.) Today after work I went to reiki (ooh, that's also fodder for another post, but it's too important to just babble about, so I'll have to give it some thought) and then came straight home. I promptly sat on the couch. And here I still sit, as I haven't left.

Dancing With the Stars is on. I don't even *like* that show. And yet I haven't changed it.

That's how excited I am to be able to come home and simply...be. I can read (let's see...I've got Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters, Heist Society, Big Girls Don't Cry* (nonfiction. Who am I?!), and One Day in my TBR pile, as well as a re-read of Harry #7). I can watch television (just in time for the fall season!). I can go to a movie. I can go to...

Sedona! Yes, I'm leaving this week for Arizona. Despite the political implications of such, I am heading to Phoenix (tagging along for a day) and then taking a weekend road trip to Sedona with friends. (And seriously, I never intended to go to AZ, and I feel guilty for doing so, but I also need a vacation and this opportunity came up and I took it and I'm sorry.) Apparently it will be hot, but it's also the equinox and a full moon, so I am looking forward to how hanging out in the vortex capital of the world will be. I'll be sure to buy some crystals. (Seriously.)

I'll also be sure to sleep. And breath in the (hot) desert air. And look at the red rocks. And just be.

*I heart Rebecca Traister, and long story short, I am excited about this book; I said so on Twitter; she RTed me; I squeed; she did it again; etc and etc and etc. Now I feel like I need to write a book report about it when I finish. Which is kind of awesome, actually.

My point being, I will read it and blog about it when I'm done.

Mad Men and the writers who love them (it)

I tend to shy away from making vast statements that involve the word "everyone," because there are always many exceptions to those rules. But in this case, I think I can safely say: everyone who fancies themselves a writer should be watching Mad Men.  

And I don't mean "watching Mad Men" in the sense of having it on in the background while you eat dinner or check your Facebook or chit-chat about your day to your roommate. I mean WATCH watch it -- turn off the lights, light a candle, pour a glass of wine, and focus on that television the whole time, taking note of all the intricacies of the language and dialogue.

There are very few shows which require me to do that. (And in fact as I wrote out that sentence I was desperately trying to think of another show for which I do that, and I failed. Oh wait! Now I have some, though they're oldies. The X Files. Sports Night. Veronica Mars.) One day a while ago, I talked about how watching General Hospital makes me a better writer. And it does, but in a much different way than Mad Men does.

I languish in Mad Men. I take my time with it. Kind of like how I re-read my favorite Edith Whartons each year, slowly and with great care, just enjoying the words -- that's how I am with Mad Men. I let it take up all the space in the room for the hour. I let it entertain me. Every word of dialogue is used to within an inch of its life. It is all necessary. It is what makes the show so smart, so subtle. And while I adore the styling and the politics and the actors, oh my goodness the actors, I stay for the writing.

Do you remember, the very first night of September?

I feel terrible about not posting here for three weeks! Okay, not really. Maybe just a twinge of guilt. But I swear, I've been busy -- writing! I have a quick turnaround for a project so every spare moment has been going to that (it's going swell, thanks for asking!), but because my day job has been so crazy, my spare moments have been few and far between.

And I may or may not have snuck in the time to read Mockingjay.

I can't even talk about it.

Okay, I can. NO SPOILERS. I will just say that, even though I have my issues with some things - pacing, what was left out versus what was included, and that off-the-mark epilogue - I can honestly say I've never had a book affect me like that before. I finished it up last Thursday night when I was home alone, zonked out from a long day, and I just...lost it. There was a moment at the end (not the "big death" - that one didn't really affect me much) where I just fell apart.

I finished the book, and just sort of laid in a stupor for an hour or so, and then fell into a bad sleep during which I awoke every two hours thanks to dreams about the Capitol.

So of course, now that Mockingjay is over, and I had just come off of re-reading the first two in the trilogy, I needed some light-hearted contemporary fiction. So I turned to Candace Bushnell's The Carrie Diaries, which I'd purchased for my Kindle months ago and never got around to reading. Well! I like it! It's funny and breezy and is it wrong that I am only picturing Sarah Jessica circa Girls Just Wanna Have Fun? I mean, if that's wrong, I don't want to be right, but still. It's just what I needed.

This weekend I am taking a day off (and we have Monday off) to go down to the beach. I haven't been since July 4th, and I. Cannot. Wait. Of course, I have tons of writing to do, but that's okay! It will be gray and cool-ish outside, which let's be honest, is my favorite weather, yes even for the last weekend of the summer don't judge me.

September is probably my fourth favorite month, but it's the precursor to the rest of my favorite months, so I'm chirpy and optimistic today. I hope you all are, too.

Putting my money where my mouth is, or something.

Hello from Chicago! I've just come off an excellent conference for work out in the suburbs of this great city, and now I'm crashing on a friend's couch for a couple of nights to see the sights. So far, from this wifi-enabled Starbucks, it's gorgeous! Unfortunately, this blog will need to languish for the next few weeks, as I have a deadline that is approaching much sooner than I thought it be. But before I go, should we talk about Pretty Little Liars again?

We shall!

What a great finale, yeah? Emily's mom knows about Maya...Aria and Ezra are back on...Spencer's still my favorite character...Hannah may be dead or dying...and Ian may manage to get away with it all.

PLL is like a soft-serve vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles: it tastes oh-so-good, it will forever remind me of summer, and it's bland enough to appeal to a wide audience but special enough to make those of us who love it feel cool.

Happy rest-of-August, all. While I'm gone, I'll probably be unable to read Mockingjay (no, really. Because I need to re-read HG and CF first, and there's just no time to do that), and I guess I'll have to save my re-reading of Harry Potter 7 until the fall. The horrors! So please go forth and read, and hang out at the beach, and have a vanilla soft-serve for me. I'll be in my little corner, writing furiously.

Edited 8/17/10: Okay, I totally caved. I'm re-reading The Hunger Games right now. I couldn't NOT. Plus, I needed something read on the PATH. #itsalmostmoreincrediblethethirdtimearound

Photo via

In which I make moving correlate with Sweet Valley High?

As a single, young (kind of), urban professional, I tend to move. Often. I live in a city right outside of Manhattan (I just can't seem to give up my Jersey roots, y'all) and in this city alone, I've lived in 5 apartments in 8 years. Two days ago I moved again, and man, it feels like home. I feel like a new person here. (Forgive me for being dramatic.) My old place was awesome, but was dark, old, exposed brick, no amenities, and I felt closed there. Here, the layout is open, and large, and sunny, and I feel like twirling around and line dancing, or something. (I may or may not have done just that earlier today.)

The kicker, of course, is that now I have to unpack, cut up boxes, buy things, decorate -- all things that I tend to prefer others do *for* me. Which means I take a lot of breaks to recuperate from the stress.

I was unpacking my YA-only bookshelf yesterday when I came across Lila's Story. Would you believe I had never read it, even though I own it? (This is because I bought it from eBay a while back and just never got around to it. As discussed, I was never a Sweet Valley High girl.) So of course I stopped the unpacking and read it. (Also, my cable wasn't set up until a few hours ago, so. There are only so many episodes of Sports Night* on DVD you can watch before you need a break.)

You guys? It was really good. Like, in an 80's YA way, but still really good. I never cared one way or another about Lila as a character, but this storyline had me feeling for her. Also, she totally wears some rockin' outfits that would definitely make her fit right in on the LES these days.

Now I'm thinking that Bruce's Story should be next. Or, you know, I could unpack the rest of these boxes, buy more bookshelves, paint three pieces I already have, go back to work, write a bit, etc...and yet here I am, thinking about Bruce Patman.

* Not really. I can watch the entire series on one fell swoop. IT IS THAT GOOD OF A SHOW.

The inevitable post about the return of Sweet Valley High

First I need to set the record straight: I am really more of a Sweet Valley TWINS girl, not a Sweet Valley HIGH girl. There is a marked difference, one which puts me at a disadvantage now that the news about the return of Sweet Valley High is out and Chapter 1 of the new book is already available, because it means I kind of need to catch up on the high-school goings-on. Nevertheless, I still read The Dairi Burger and, being at least familiar with some of the High titles, still feel like the series is a formative part of my identity.

So of course, I am ridiculously excited about the return of Elizabeth and Jessica, 10 years later, even though most of my Sweet Valley memories are of the sixth grade variety, when Jess was just being initiated into the Unicorns and Liz was besties with Amy Sutton. I clearly remember how it all began, too: for my 8th birthday, which was about five days before my family moved from Beach Haven to the little town across the bay (not far distance-wise, but worlds apart in the other ways that matter), my grandmother bought me Book 1: Best Friends, and gifted my twin sister Book 2: Teacher's Pet. Hello! Identical twins reading about identical twins! Who were four minutes apart, just like us! Who were blond and dimply and tan and in California, just like...well, not us, but close enough, sort of. (Read: not at all. Seriously, the similarities ended at the 4-minute mark.)

The rest is history. SVT was, like The Baby-sitters Club, our go-to series for years and years. If

I hadn't just packed up my apartment this weekend for next week's move, I would snap a pic of what remains of my SVT collection. (Which is almost nothing, thanks to the floodwaters of '92 that ruined my bookshelves. Yay for living on the water?) Much like the BSC, my favorites tended to be the super editions -- in this case, Holiday Mischief (singing! competition! Christmas!) and The Big Camp Secret* (uh, camp. Need I say more?).

Anyway, so fast forward to this year, when Diablo Cody announces that she's penning a Sweet Valley screenplay and then comes news that a new book will be available in 2011. Folks, this is serious business here. I have already won a Sweet Valley tee-shirt on Twitter. I am *that* excited.

So what does all this mean? First the return of BSC (obviously, a notable moment for me for many reasons), and now Sweet Valley? Folks, I think it means the universe is listening to me. Which means I should put in some more requests, including for the return of Sleepover Friends and Sunset Island.

What series you like to see revisited?

*Here's a funny story! When I googled Sweet Valley Twins to get some cover images, The Big Camp Secret came up from a post I had written for Scholastic's kids blog about my favorite camp-themed books. I forgot I wrote that! Small world.