Category Archives: Wing’s Words

YA Lit Revisited: What About Old Young Adults? OYA Lit, Anyone?

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It’s been almost a year and a half since I first addressed this question: “What is YA, Anyway?”

Here’s what I had to say in July of 2013:

In libraries it’s still called “Juvenile,” but everywhere else in the world of books you see this label: YA. It stands for Young Adult. Problem is, YA Lit seems to include everything from Judy Blume’s finding-out-about-your-adolescent-emotions books to some pretty dark, vampiry stuff, not to mention drugs, sex, and language that sounds like plain old Adult, without the Young. So what, exactly, qualifies a book as YA?

Sometimes publishers will subdivide YA into Middle Grades, meaning “Tweens”–11 and 12, I guess–but there’s still this question: what defines it? Is it a book where the main character is 12? Or one which mostly 12 year-olds read? Under that definition, the first two Harry Potter books both would and would not qualify. When those books first came out, I knew as many grownups in love with young Harry as I did kids. (I was one of ‘em!)

Or maybe the definition of YA/Middle Grades is silly, and who cares? Well, I do, but only for this reason: there seem to be certain rules about what you can or can’t publish under these categories. In later posts, I’m going to examine this question, and I’m going to be asking for your input. Whether you are a young reader, a parent, a teacher, a librarian, or all of the above (?!), your opinion is valuable to me as I wend my way through the thickets of YA publication.

Stay tuned.

Still tuned? Good.

It’s now November, 2014. In the past nine months I’ve published two YA/middle grades books–to give them the label that would seem to qualify best, based on genre, story content, age of heroine. Problem is, I keep getting excited, “can’t-put-it-down, when-is-Book-Three-coming-out?” reviews from people in their 30s, 40s, 50s…on up through 70s. (And one 84 year-old, but yeah, my dad doesn’t count.) So IS this YA?

Young people seem to like my first book too–phew!–but I haven’t heard from very many. Clearly, it’s not the “grabby” kind of book most teens and tweens have become accustomed to. It contains no wizards, vampires, zombies, werewolves, nor boyfriends. (Book Two has one of those beings, but it’s only been out for ten days, so I haven’t heard the results yet.)

I’m not complaining. I wrote the story I wanted to write. But I’m still scratching my head over what to call it.

What genre is THIS? (Courtesy Pinterest)

What genre is THIS? (Courtesy Pinterest)

“YA lit for young adults of all ages” is what I find myself saying more and more these days. “A coming-of-age story.” Or, if I’m feeling a little snarkier, “I don’t know–what would you call To Kill a Mockingbird? Is that Tween lit? Well–there ya go.”

Disclaimer: in no way am I claiming to be a writer on par with Ms. Harper Lee. But the point is still valid, right? Can’t you have a story about a young person without it being a story FOR young people?

I would love to hear your thoughts on this–especially that last question. Anyone?

“Why No, I Don’t Mind if You Put Me on Hold”: How To Survive Hold-Hell

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Made a new friend the other day. She’s 26–or she will be on November 21–she’s from Cleveland, she works near Raleigh, North Carolina, and she’s getting her Masters from UNC-G, after which she hopes to become a fashion buyer. Also her mom turned 50 just a day before my birthday. Also she loves gumbo.

Oh, and her name is Chris. But I didn’t learn this until about 75 minutes into our new friendship. Although a good 65 of those minutes were spent in silence. Holding.

See, Chris works for Verizon. I threw myself at the feet of that mega-Lucifer called that noble, worthy scion of technology last week after our iPad suddenly stopped communicating with whatever satellite is supposed to be holding its little 3G hand. (Since we’re about to embark on another road trip, we kinda need our iPad to have all its wits about it.) After holding for 26 minutes (“we are experiencing a higher than normal volume of calls,” “your time is important to us,” “did we mention, you moron, that you can get all your questions answered on our website, even though you can’t?”), I finally reached a human.

I won’t bore you with the back-and-forth of our exchanges as I familiarized her with my problem and my failed attempts to solve it via the website. She was cheery; she called me “Miss Gretchen.” Just the sound of her voice made me feel like we were getting somewhere. Except we weren’t. After walking me through several fixes that didn’t fix, the cheery Verizon rep uttered these chilling words: “I’m going to have to put you through to our tech department.”

At this point I wailed, “No, don’t leave me!” asked politely if she would remain on the line with me, so that she could explain to Tech what-all she had tried to do, rather than making me start over. She agreed.

And so began our journey of friendship. She held for Tech. I held for her. Every few minutes she would check in on me–“Still holding? Doin’ okay?”–to reassure me she was still there. The second time she did this, I asked her to tell me a story.

She laughed. “Oh, I don’t know any stories!”

“How ’bout a joke? Don’t you know any jokes?”

“Miss Gretchen, I can’t think of any jokes. Do you know any?”

“Yes,” I said, but then it was time for her to put me back on hold.

When she checked back in, she said, “I’m ready for my joke now.”

“What’s blue, and tastes like red paint?”

She chuckled. She had a lovely, appreciative chuckle. “I don’t know, Miss Gretchen! Uh…blue paint?”

“See–you DO know a joke! What’s brown and sticky?”

I got a real laugh that time. “I don’t know!

“A stick.”

When she accused me good-naturedly of stealing my material from Laffy Taffy wrappers, our bond was secure. I think that’s when I asked her where she was working from, and she said North Carolina. Since that’s my home state, a flurry of conversation erupted, during which I learned most of the material in my opening paragraph. Except her name.

What Miss Chris did not say to me. (Courtesy someecards.com)

What Miss Chris did not say to me. (Courtesy someecards.com)

The Mate came home in the middle of this exchange, and looked at me questioningly. “I’m talking to my new friend…uh, what’s your name?” I finally asked.

She laughed again. “Chris.” (Or perhaps Kris? I didn’t check.)

Of course from then on I called her “Miss Chris” for parity’s sake. And of course she put me on hold a bunch more times. And oh…Tech never did pick up. After Miss Chris and I had been on hold together for an hour and five minutes, I had to leave for a dinner engagement. Chris sounded honestly sorry to have to relinquish me back into the icy wastelands of Hold, where we both knew I’d end up when I returned to the iPad/Verizon Solution Quest.

The Mate noted I seemed pretty upbeat for a person who’d just wasted 90 minutes of her life holding the phone. He was right. Yes, the problem remained unsolved, but my time wasn’t wasted. Somewhere near Raleigh, a young woman was feeling better about her soulless job because, well, a little soul had snuck into it. I like to think she was still chuckling over my stupid sense of humor.

Along with thinking of jokes to share with Miss Chris, I also spent some of my hold-time jotting down lyrics for a new song I’m working on. Actually, I put Miss Chris to work on that topic. “Hey, can you think of a rhyme for “won’t” other than “don’t?”

I spent another hour in hold-hell the following morning, but I was in the car with The Mate, so I had him to chat with. By the time I reached a human voice, I didn’t need my hand held, so I let myself be connected with Tech all by my lonesome like a big girl. Besides, that rep was no Chris. I could tell.

For the record, my iPad’s still not fixed. Still workin’ on that one. But I’ve definitely learned my lesson about such moments: I get to decide if my time is wasted or not. I choose not.

Do you have your own Hold-Hell stories or strategies to share? I’ll hold.

The Kindle Giveaway is Live

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I don’t often reblog. In fact, I think I’ve only done it once. But this is too good to pass up. In one post I can promote my fellow Indie authors of middle grade fiction AND offer my fellow readers (or parents of readers) a truly magnificent deal. Take it away, Michelle Isenhoff of Emblazon!

“Read Me a Story!” How to Spice Up Author Readings

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Face it–we all love Drama. Even when we say we don’t. Period.

We also love being read aloud to. IF the reader is animated. IF the story catches our attention. IF we’re not too distracted by when’s dinner-what-time-do-I-have-to-get-up-tomorrow-wonder-how-bad-traffic-is-did-I-even-remember-to-thaw-that hamburger-oh-shoot-I-forgot-to-call-so-and-so to attend.

Notice the difference between Drama and Being Read Aloud To? There are no “ifs” in Drama. Provide it to your listeners, and…they’re yours.

(all photos courtesy Susan Breslow)

(all photos courtesy Susan Breslow)

That’s what I’ve discovered in my first year of Author Readings. Choosing a good bit of the book to read is key, of course. Providing a nice, gracious, humorous intro–also a must.

[Important tip: get someone who KNOWS you, someone who can make that intro part of the entertainment itself, like my friend and fellow writer Iris Graville:Iris

Even when I’ve checked all those boxes, though, I’ve seen some squirming in my audiences, some furtive watch-checking. But when I’ve done dramatic readings of those same bits, with fellow “actors”? RAPT attention.

Yes, it takes a little more work. You have to round up folks. Bribe them with cookies. Meet to practice. And be prepared for last-minute let-downs. In the case of this last reading, the launch party for Headwinds, my 13 year-old “actor” failed to appear, so I had to read her part as well as that of the narrator.attitude

Turns out I love reading the part of a 14 year-old. Can you tell?

Even little glitches become part of the entertainment. So you flub a line–it’s not a play! You’re not a REAL actor! You’re just an author who happens to be a person with a spirit of adventure, someone who’s reaching out to your audience in ways they can appreciate.

Moral of the story: read, by all means! But when you can, bring others along. Bring your story to life.

And then, when they line up to buy your book–they’re not just doing it out of obligation. They LIKE you–they really LIKE you.

pic1

Has anyone else had experience with dramatized author readings, or readings that were made somehow extraordinary? Please share!

To Copyright or Not to Copyright: Pondering the “Writing” Part of Songwriting

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Copyrights? For books, it’s a no-brainer. Duh.

For songs? Well, yes, when I first started writing them, about two and a half years ago, my music teacher persuaded me to go through the copyrighting process as each song came out. Obediently, I did…through the first eight or nine songs. Then I got tired. (And it got expensive! $35 per song adds up!)

And I started wondering…what would happen if I didn’t?

Worst-case scenario: I upload one of my songs to YouTube. It goes viral. Everyone starts singing it. A famous singer picks it up, does a cover, makes a million bucks.

You know the part of that scenario I’m focused on? “Everyone starts singing it.” The million bucks? That singer’s welcome to it. Money is not driving my songwriting impulse. Money, apparently, does not figure anywhere in my calculations.

My books? Yes, definitely. I would love to be paid for them. But they represent hours and hours, weeks, months, years of my life. My songs–maybe a few hours each, no more.

Even more than the time differential, my songs come from a place that is wholly spontaneous, unplanned, even startling…unlike my books, which represent a deliberate and highly-planned career shift.

So…by all means, check out my songs as they begin to appear in cyberspace. Let me know if you’d like the lyrics and chords. Sing them, share them, pass them on. I’ll be nothing but thrilled.

And if Emmylou Harris that famous singer out there ever does a Gretchen Wing cover and makes a million bucks…feel free to remind me of this post if you ever hear me snark about it.

Think I’m being naive here? My mind’s still open on this topic, so feel free to chime in.

Poems as Gifts: The Idea Itself Is a Gift

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This past weekend I had a birthday and a concert. My best present: my mom, who flew 3,500 miles, rode a shuttle bus for two hours and a ferry for 45 minutes to attend. But I received another gift, from my writer friend Iris Graville. Actually, Iris gave me two.

Gift #1, this poem. It was written by our local poet John Sangster, who died with tragic suddenness last winter. John was a musician and a writer, like me, and when I first heard “Once More,” I connected instantly. So having it sent to me on the eve of my show AND my book launch felt especially meaningful.

Once More

 

Say you write.

You awake, eager

to return to pen and paper.

Those words that came to you 

last night. A poem?

You read aloud, your ear keen

for each line’s pulse,

for the sound words make

as they bump against each other.

 

Say you play.

You reach for your instrument,

old lover, familiar in your arms.

You tune, fret that first note,

round and golden,

then set to work, metronome slow.

You study your hand,

how the wrist rolls as the pick

pushes through the string.

Later:  melody, pulse –

how do you hear it, 

feel it?

 

What do you want?

Once more, that path to a part of you

you do not know. When what appears

on the pen’s trail surprises you,

when music arrives beyond thought,

when the instrument plays you.

 

Yeah.

"Say you play..."

“Say you play…”

Gift #2 is the idea, which I hope I can internalize, of giving poems as gifts. I have other friends who do that. When my dog died, my friend Lorna sent me a poem, and I was grateful. Now, I’m becoming determined: I’m going to start saving up poems to give as presents when the moment is right. Why wouldn’t I? Look how good it’s made me feel.

Anyone else out there already doing that? Anyone wish to share an especially moving poem you like to give to people, or one you have received? 

 

If The Big-Girl Panties Fit…

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It’s concert time again.

A quick retrospective:

2011, Chicken Biscuit: “Which end of the mic do I sing into?”

2012, Gretchen Wing & Chicken Biscuit: “Oh, I get to sing a couple of my songs too? OK…but YOU introduce ’em, I don’t want to talk.”

2013, Gretchen Wing & Chicken Biscuit: “What do you mean, Bill’s going out of town? Who’s going to be emcee? I don’t know any jokes! Oh, s–t…”

2014, Gretchen Wing & Friends: “OK, everyone. At tonight’s rehearsal, I’d like the musicians to be there at 6 so they can get all their stuff ready. Singers, come whenever you need to in order to be ready to start right at 6:30…”

Ah, if only it were that simple. Yes, my “career” as local singer-songwriter-performer has evolved to the point where I think of this weekend’s show as “my” concert. Yes, I am in charge of the set list and the rehearsal schedule. Yes, my face is the only one on the poster.

GW

But oh my, do I have a long way to go before I can be said to be “putting on” a concert! Here’s my To Do list for 2015…just in case I do this again:

1. Start rehearsals in June instead of August.

2. On second thought, start rehearsals in July, but schedule the darn concert for November when there aren’t gazillion other things going on around here.

3. Find the “sound man” with the best reputation in the community, and secure his services several months in advance. Bribe him with pie.

4. Provide binders for all musicians so they can keep track of their music and notes.

5. Fill the freezer with treats for rehearsals, so I can grab ’em and go. (No, I will never let go of my need to feed people.)

I have other resolutions, but I won’t bore you with them. This is just my way of saying: Yes. OK. I get it. If you’re new at something, you can enjoy being helpless and having everyone do stuff for you…once. Once you get halfway good at something and want to run it yourself, be ready to RUN it. No whining.

(Courtesy someecards.com)

(Courtesy someecards.com)

Don’t get me wrong–I am totally looking forward to, and totally humbled by, this chance to share my music with my community. I will be one happy woman on concert night. But for now–I gotta go bake cookies. And I still need to find another joke. And does anyone have any extra binders?

I would love to hear your stories of transition from bystander to administrator of…anything. What lessons did YOU learn? Anything I can steal?

There Is an “I” in “Community,” But It’s a Small One

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Humbling experiences aren’t always fun. Or tasty. The other day, I had one that was both. I got together with a bunch of people to press apples into cider.

(all photos courtesy Gene Helfman)

(all photos courtesy Gene Helfman)

It started out totally fun, as I’d expected. A huge pile of boxed and bagged apples of all colors and sizes awaited us on the sunny grass. We set up a rough assembly line along two picnic tables: wash, bleach, rinse, cut. Ferry bowls of cut fruit to the pressers; ferry bowls of bruised bits to the compost. Chat, munch, switch roles. Joke, chat, munch. Ah, work parties! On a sunny day in October! What could feel more comfortable, neighborly, plain old right?

! DSC_7127

Except that it was taking FOREVER. At one point somebody glanced up and noticed that the giant apple-box pile did not seem to have shrunk at all. Then I made the mistake of asking what time it was. I had budgeted two hours in my busy day for this communal activity. We had been there for an hour and a half, and we were maybe a quarter done.

Uh-oh.I could feel those comfy communal feelings begin to evaporate. Cue pun about “pressing issues”…

I have SO MUCH to do. Gotta finish my Book Two proofs to get them to my book designer in time to upload the fixes and still be able to have Headwinds ready at its launch party. Gotta paint the signs and put up posters for the Gretchen Wing & Friends concert next week. Augh, my concert!!! Gotta practice that run in the third song which keeps tripping me up, and that horrible C-B-flat-G progression I haven’t nailed yet. And I’m having friends over for dinner and I promised them pie. And, oh shoot, when’s the last time I vacuumed?

Did I mention that the group doing the cider-pressing was the Quaker Meeting I attend?Can there be a more communal, thoughtful, self-less group than a bunch of Quakers? Anyone else feeling the irony here?

DSC_7146

Of course I couldn’t leave. That would just have increased the workload for everyone else. No one else was leaving early. Probably no one else was even thinking of leaving early. And plenty of them had more pressing job or family concerns than I did.

Apparently publishing a book and performing in a concert–especially within the same week–can make you kinda self-centered. Especially if you tend that way already.

So I stayed. We rinsed and chopped and chatted and munched. We laughed a lot. Finally, we stopped…not because we ran out of apples. We simply ran out of containers.

! DSC_7134

I biked home, two hours later than I had expected to, with two gallons of cider, and another gallon of perspective. Did not get my proofs fixed until the next day. Did not practice. Still have to paint those signs. Haven’t touched that vacuum. But yeah…that pie was delicious. And the cider–even more so.

Does this sound at all familiar to anyone? Do you ever struggle to let communal work find its place amid your personal “stuff,” or do you have the opposite problem? Any tips for finding that balance?

 

Confessions of an Imperfectionist, Part II

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I have finished another landscape quilt, and I’m bursting with pride. Please, look at my pictures! But don’t look too close.

004 (5)

“The Enchantments”–based on my Happy Place in the central Cascades.

005 (4)

Detail of the bottom. I like to have the picture overflow out of the border.

007 (4)

A look at the variety of stitching on the back. I try to match the quilting with the picture.

About a year and a half ago, I blogged about my imperfectionism as it relates to quilts. Here’s what I said:

I’m a lousy carpenter. So I never thought I’d make it as a quilter either, and I never tried. Till I discovered landscape quilts.

Landscape quilting is just what it sounds like: you create a landscape, like a painter, substituting appliqued cloth for paint. The effect can be as realistic or impressionistic as you choose. Me, I’m all about the impressionism. Who cares if that flower has eight petals in real life? On my quilt, it gets five, and it’s still pretty.

Nice and sloppy, just like nature.Another way landscape quilting is like impressionist painting is in its wonderful, inherent sloppiness. Who cares if my stitches are uneven, or if I miss an edge here or there which might fray? Nature’s full of ragged edges, weird curves, asymmetry. It’s a gorgeous slop-fest out there! Too much precision = unnatural-looking landscape…or so says I.

Am I making a virtue of necessity? Cheering myself up for being lazy, not to mention bad at arithmetic?

You betcha. But hey: I’m quilting, aren’t I?

 

Now, a year and a half later, my quilts are no less imperfect. Or no more perfect. And I’m still okay with that…in quilts. But in writing? Good enough has never been good enough. That’s why I write draft after draft, that’s why I’m still re-re-re-re-re-revising Headwinds even when it’s in its final proofs.

And lo and behold, with my next community concert looming in a week and a half, I’m starting to apply that perfectionism to musical performance.

You: “What do you mean, starting to? You mean you’ve been performing up till now without caring how good you are?”

Me: “Nnnnyeah….well…not exactly. See, when I first got onstage, it was really kind of a lark. I didn’t think of myself as a “real” performer. So what if I couldn’t nail the hard chords? Isn’t that what the other musicians were there for–to cover for me while I distracted the audience with my singing?”

You: “You’re really buying this?”

Me: “Well…the alternative was to practice a WHOLE LOT more than I wanted to. So…yeah.”

You: “Wow.”

Me: “I know, right? I sat on a stool for my performances because I’d never used a strap with my guitar and I didn’t want to learn. I used a music stand in case I forgot the words or chords. I glanced at my fingers all the time, even when that meant singing away from the mike.”

You: “So is there something you’d like to say to your audiences now?”

Me: “I’m SORRY! I’ve upped my standards. Come to my concert on October 26th and you’ll see.”

GW

You: “Yeah. But you still could have brushed your hair for the promo poster.”

Me: ***sigh…***

OK, all you fellow imperfectionists: where do you draw YOUR line? Where do you let yourself slide, and where do you NEVER let yourself slide? Are you trying to work on sliding less, or sliding more? I am very interested to hear.

 

 

 

Hunted: Why My Book Would Be Banned in Russia

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If you’ve been paying the slightest attention, you would know that Russia is not a good place to be gay right now. If you have any doubts, Ben Steele’s documentary, Hunted: The War on Gays in Russia, clears those doubts right up.

I’m not going to post the trailer of that film here. It’s too disturbing. Go to the official website to see for yourself. But here is the synopsis:

In modern-day Russia, where it is estimated that just 1% of the LGBT population lives completely openly, a recent anti-gay amendment to a “propaganda” law has triggered a rising number of assaults on gay men and women by vigilantes who, more often than not, go unpunished for their crimes.

Directed by Ben Steele, the startling expose HUNTED: THE WAR AGAINST GAYS IN RUSSIA looks at this climate of hostility. Matt Bomer (Emmy® nominee for HBO’s “The Normal Heart”) narrates.

Homosexuality was legalized in Russia 21 years ago, but gay people in the country have yet to win mainstream acceptance. In fact, attitudes in Russia appear to be moving backwards. With jobs and relationships at risk if their sexual orientation is exposed, most gay Russians remain closeted. As one gay man who lost sight in one eye during a recent unprovoked attack says ruefully, “Hunting season is open…and we are the hunted.”
HUNTED: THE WAR AGAINST GAYS IN RUSSIA features disturbing insider footage of homophobic Russians who, in the name of morality or religion, beat and torment gay people, posting graphic videos of their encounters online with few or no legal repercussions. These vigilantes see homosexuality as related to pedophilia, stating publicly that their justification for violence is protecting Russia’s children.

images

 

Mainstream US media like MSNBC agree with me, reporting on this phenomenon while choosing not to show the worst images from the documentary. Mainstream US media!

The original law in Russia focused on “practices.” But, according to Wikipedia’s unusually well-documented article on this subject, “The 2013 amendment, which added “propaganda of non-traditional sexual relations” as a class of harmful content under the law was, according to the Government of Russia, intended to protect children from being exposed to content that portrays homosexuality as being a “behavioral norm”. Emphasis was placed upon a goal to protect “traditional”family values; bill author Yelena Mizulina (the chair of the Duma’s Committee on Family, Women, and Children, who has been described by some as a “moral crusader”),[20][21][2]argued that “traditional” relations between a man and a woman required special protection under Russian law.”

Headwinds is not a book about gays. But two side characters are gay, and this author makes it very clear that sexual orientation, like flying, is a personal characteristic that others have no business trying to stifle.

That would be enough for Putin. Homosexuality a “behavioral norm”??!! I am officially “promoting” the “pedophile lifestyle.” Headwinds would be banned. I could be arrested.

(image by Lanphear Design)

(image by Lanphear Design)

That makes me feel equally proud and sick to my stomach.

Not sure what to do about this, other than what people are doing: keep talking. Keep the lines open. Listen to those on the front lines for their advice on what people who care about their Russian (or, for that matter, Arab, or African, or Asian, or American) neighbors can do to remind people that love is not a crime.

And go see that documentary. Maybe that will give you your own source of inspiration.

Thoughts? I don’t have a specific question here, but I’d like to hear what you have to say at this point, so I’ll stop. Sigh…