On gratitude

Yesterday evening a man sitting on a stoop in SoHo tossed pink flowers my way as I walked past him. I don’t know his intentions, but I liked it, the way they showered over my shoulders and landed on the tops of my Toms. It felt like a commercial. It felt like he was congratulating me for something I hadn't yet done for him. I think the most beautiful thing you can do for a person is throw something gorgeous their way when they least expect it, whether it’s soft pink petals or a compliment or a slice of your gratitude. I try to do that, but it can be hard – sometimes I’m stifled, blocked by an invisible wall of restraint that I have to force myself through. Other times, though, it’s the simplest, breeziest thing in the world.

Today is one of those glorious spring days that helps justify the rainy ones. I woke up early and went for a run on the water (the Hudson, but there were moments I could have sworn I was on the beach, on the strip of road between the bay and the Atlantic); if only every run, every morning, could be like this.

Image via

The universe speaks

In college, my older sister did something against our school’s regulations. I think it involved a hot plate. It definitely involved a hearing of some sort, where a few people had to vote on whether she would be kicked out of campus housing. It was all highly dramatic.

I remember sitting in the hallway outside the room of the hearing, waiting for the results like it was some kind of trial. Even my parents were there! It’s all so silly in retrospect. Anyway, as we were waiting there, Tori Amos came on the radio. This is notable for several reasons, the most important one being that Tori never comes on the radio. As Winter played, the hearing concluded. The results? My sister was allowed to stay in her dorm.

We weren’t surprised. See, we knew that hearing a Tori song in that moment meant that everything would be okay. (Go with me here. I was, like, 19.)

But the funny thing is? I still believe this. When I unexpectedly hear a Tori song in a public place, it means good luck is on its way. I firmly believe in this theory, and it’s been tested many times. It’s like the universe’s secret gift to me.

I had Pandora on today, and while I was working diligently on an important piece of work, I also had something bothersome taking up a lot of my head space. And wouldn’t you know it? Tear in Your Hand came on – even though I didn’t have my Tori Amos station on. (Actually, I had what's kind of my opposite-of-Tori station on.)

Listen, I like science, too. I get probability. My Pandora surely has gleaned enough info from my listening habits to know that I will thumbs-up any and all Tori they throw my way. And yet it’s fun to believe in the magic of the universe sometimes, too. So thanks, universe.

Meanwhile, I have been a bad blogger. It’s been a busy month!

A love poem

I kind of hate the month of April, which is mean to say for a few reasons. (Sorry to my brother, who celebrates his birthday this month, and my brand new nephew, just born last night!) I'm just not a spring type of gal, what with the thick air and rain boots and wildly inconsistent temperatures. Also, flowers. What are those about? (Okay, just kidding about that last part. Look at those flowers I found in London last week! Breathtaking. Of course, they're like a month ahead of us, season-wise, so don't get any ideas, East Coasters.) But there is one thing I adore about April. It's National Poetry Month.

I love, love, love poetry.

One day in college I was assigned "Spring Azures" by Mary Oliver. It was fall, and I was curled up on a couch plowing through my work with russet-colored leaves twirling around the windowsill and witches and spiders adorning my walls (it was Halloween, obvs) and I opened up that Oliver poem and read it out loud (it's what I do with poetry) and I started crying, completely unexpectedly. (I just remembered I talked about that here. Geez, Morg. Diversify.) It remains my favorite poem of all time.

Second place, though, is vastly different from Oliver in both theme and style: WH Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts." The poem was inspired by Brueghel's "Fall of Icarus" but I don't even think you need to see that painting to get it; I think you just need to pause over those final five lines and let them seduce you; linger over them for a while and think about humanity. I don't even care if that sounds pretentious. It's what you need to do.

One year I was leading the poetry workshop for Girls Write Now and we were teaching sestinas and villanelles and I found myself falling in love with "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop and Sylvia Plath's "Mad Girl's Love Song," and so many others, so many unexpected others, and spent months afterwards starting and stopping my own until I finally landed on one I was okay with. There's something really freeing in all that structure.

There are others who've made big dents in me. Margaret Atwood. Seamus Heaney. Dorothy Parker. Edna St Vincent Millay. Langston Hughes. My point is, poetry is super. If you're not a reader of it, why not try? April is the perfect month, after all.

Night swimming

I spent summers working at the best store on Long Beach Island (three stores actually, all selling the same merchandise within a two-block span of each other, which sounds indulgent now but actually worked back in the heyday of the mid-to-late 90s), and there are certain albums that, when I hear them unexpectedly, stop me in my tracks and bring me back to warm summer mornings, the smell of the beach lingering in the wind, the store empty and the sun shining. Those were my favorite moments in the store, when the island hadn't yet awoken and it was just me, loading up the seven-disc player and refolding tee shirts, waiting.

Just now, an old 10,000 Maniacs song came on the Adult Alternative music channel (fodder for another post, but you know you're old when your favorite music channel is Adult Alternative), followed by REM's Night Swimming, and I died.

I set a high writing goal for myself this weekend, and I almost always listen to background music while I write, and those two songs just brought me back into my character's head in a new way like whoa. So it got me thinking about the music I've been listening to for this particular manuscript, which may seem odd but, if you know me, is actually quite perfect: 10,000 Maniacs Unplugged (probably one of my top 5 albums of all time), Taylor Swift's Speak Now (I know, I know, but it's perfect for this character), David Gray's Draw the Line, and Mumford & Sons' Sigh No More. What's interesting this time around is that this WIP doesn't take place on the beach (my first one did), which means that I'm trying to actually stay away from my versions of beach music (which includes Indigo Girls, James Taylor, Carole King).

I know everyone has those bands that take them back to key moments in life. And I don't think I will every be able to listen to Natalie Merchant without thinking of my favorite summer job, or Taylor Swift without remembering being in Hoboken's Panera while I cracked open a scene I hadn't expected to write.

A discovery of awesomeness

Today, in things I can't get enough of: A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness. Listen, I know I have a thing for witches. I love the history of witchcraft, including the origins of the word ("wise woman") and its obvious and buried feminist connections. In college, a professor began delivering an annual lecture series every Halloween - excuse me, Samhain - about the history of witchcraft, and I was obsessed. I love Wicked (the book and the musical). If I had a dog, I'd name her Elphaba. And sometimes, just sometimes, I hold out my hands and consider carefully the amount of power, real or imagined, they hold, and hope to see shooting sparks of energy dance around my fingertips.

I started A Discovery of Witches last week and it's one of those books that has made me fall utterly in love with reading. (I mean, it's kind of like preaching to the choir, but still.) There are times where the language is perhaps a bit redundant or unfresh, but it's a classic example of a story where the plot and characters are so inventive and engaging that the book's flaws don't matter.

I don't care about vampires, but I care very much about witches, and together, they just work in this book. Why on earth I am sitting here blogging instead of going back to my Kindle is beyond me.

A Siren song

Let's talk about sirens for a moment. Here is what they mean to me:

• Margaret Atwood. My favorite poem of Peggy's is Siren Song (Alas/it is a boring song/but it works every time)
• College. I worked on the literary magazine called The Siren. I think fondly of it often.
• John William Waterhouse. Which, again, makes me think of college.
• Mythology. Specifically, Greek; the three bird-women who lured sailors with irresistible songs, until they came too close to the coast and wrecked their ships. (How I love these women!)
• The Odyssey, Homer, etc., etc., etc.
• Religion and history, and the trends in each. Did you know that belief in literal Sirens was discouraged by the early Christians, though symbols of them were still often used to represent the dangerous temptations of women? But, get this: by the 17th century, some Jesuits began reasserting their literal existence. They were posited to be everything from singers with horrible morals to Sicilian prostitutes. These poor ladies, real or imagined, just couldn't win.
• The amazing way language connects us, and the history of linguistics. For example: in Spanish, French, Italian, Polish, Romanian and Portuguese, the word for mermaid is Sirena, Sirène, Sirena, Syrena, Sirenă and Sereia, respectively.

Why is this important? Well, K. came back from a trip to Santa Fe, NM and brought me something I fully adore.

It's this little matchbox with a picture of a mermaid on it, all bright blues and pink glitter and orange binding. La Sirena is stamped, almost like an afterthought, below the depicted waves. Inside the matchbox aren't matches. Instead, it's a "magic matchbox shrine," holding worry dolls from Guatemala, healing dirt from New Mexico, turquoise for protection, and an Anasazi bean for purity and wisdom.

There's something about the Southwest that brings me peace. When I was in Sedona, despite being landlocked, I didn't feel breathless and trapped the way I often do in landlocked places (like Quito, Ecuador, where I felt like something was missing the whole time. Turns out that "something" was a body of water.). I carry my La Sirena magic matchbox with me, and it reminds me how much bigger we all are than just the sum of our parts.

Passport worries

One winter a few years ago (who can keep track anymore, really) I took my semi-annual jaunt to London (my second city, in a sense) and then booked a Chunnel to Paris for a long weekend with some best friends. It had been my first time in Paris since the first time, which in turn had been during my worth-every-cliche backpacking trip post-college-graduation in the summer of 2001. (Oh, what a different world it was then!) Paris is really something else. I'm reading a GWN colleague's accounts of her January spent there (as well as in London -- I suppose those two cities really are the perfect pair when one is looking for a fancy, yet gritty and completely unforgettable, tryst in Europe) and the memories are just flooding into the corners of my swirled brain like that time the bay invaded our house when I was in eighth grade. My first time in France in 2001 was transformative; I remember sitting in a cafe in Avignon (such an amazing city), conversing with some locals, and having it strike me without a shred of doubt: I could live here. I could live in this foreign city halfway across the world from the tiny, sleepy town I was raised and it would all be okay -- the whole world could be mine. Which is a necessary, if not entirely unoriginal, concept that every young person should experience at some point.

And then Paris...Paris! That city is like everything you've ever heard about it and then some. My second trip there was nearly as magical as the first, despite my needing to sit down for hot tea every few hours due to some nasty cold I had been battling (but if one is going to suffer from a chest cold, there's really no better place to do it than along the Champs-Elysee, when the holiday lights are still looped around the trees and people are wearing slate gray scarves and capes and Carla Gugino passes by you, speaking lovely French, and you feel that perfect blend of American and global citizen, whatever that means.

Then, of course, I fell in love with London (not to mention in London) a few years later, when my job required me to be there fairly often; my life almost took a permanent detour there, and it felt like all signs were leading me to a move. There are still neighborhoods in that city, and the way the shadows fall in them during the late afternoons, when I am so overwhelmed with memories that I can't remember what year it is, who I'm supposed to be meeting, and whether I even needed a passport to get there. In a way, I often feel more at home in London than I do in New York.

I too have daydreams of skipping out of town for a few weeks or months and taking up a little studio in the 18th arrondissement, or a flat in the West End , to just immerse myself back into the language, the people, the world, and fling caution to the wind. No matter how modern the world gets, or how quickly we transform into our future selves, there's still something that feels so early-20th-century American about leaving New York behind to find some space in the best of Europe.

I'm off to London again next month for a dear friend's wedding (the second English wedding I'm attending in less than a year's time), and I'm getting all swoony and reminiscent as I book my flights. Um, and a little nervous, since my passport expired and it's currently somewhere in the renewal process, with me crossing my fingers that it gets here in time.

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?