Ack! It's December. Did you know about this? Were you going to tell me? When were you going to tell me? Where have I been? Where am I now? Where do I need to be next? Where are my socks?

I'll tell you where I've been--in the writer's cave, that's where. Down in the Hobbit Hole with my Gollum of a deadline mumbling ever near my ear. In the meantime, I'm trying to post a bit here and there on my Twitter (I'm @libbabray, as opposed to @notlibbabray or @thatidiotlibbabray.) And I'm going to try to get on a more regular blogging schedule in another week, week-and-a-half. Also, it is holiday shopping-wrapping-packing-and-mailing time. I hate this time. No, do NOT attempt to post your efforts at Christmas cheer. Do not say, "But Libba, it's a beautiful time of holly and berry and peace on earth and goodwill toward all, God bless us everyone." I say "Bah, humbug."

But this is all beside the point. Here are things I want to tell you--there are signings going on!

* Tonight, Dec. 4th, @ the Voracious Reader in Larchmont, NY @ 7 PM
* Tomorrow, Dec. 5th @ the Brown Bookstore in Providence, RI @ 4 PM
* Monday, Dec. 7th @ Red Fox Books in Glens Falls, NY @ 6 PM

It will be a roster of yours truly, David Levithan, and Natalie Standiford. There could be finger puppets and singing. I'm just saying.

Also, THOSE OF YOU WHO WON MY CONTEST FOR HAVING YOUR NAME WRITTEN INTO A SHORT STORY: I have your ETERNAL KISS books and I would like to send them to you! So, if you could leave me a message on my LJ inbox (it's all I have right now) with your name and addresses, that would be swell, and I'll get it right out to you. Amanda, due to my terrible oversight, you will officially be written into the next short story, which is due...gulp...next month.

For those who've asked about a way to contact me, that LJ inbox really sucks. I've tried responding to people before and if there are parental controls, it boots me out. (And after I brought a cake and everything.) So, I'm going to be talking to my web master, Mr. Theo, and getting an email put on my website for the new year. Hoorays!

Is that it? I think that's it. Wait, where are my socks again? I'm going to hop the train to Larchmont. Hope to see you there tonight. And stay tuned to my Twitter feed for updates.

Several months ago, Maureen Johnson http://www.maureenjohnsonbooks.com/index1.html lost a bet.
She had to face her fear of flying high on a trapeze.
Then she got swine flu and had to cancel.
But yesterday, Maureen met her fear. And her fear looked her in the eye and said, "Sucks to be you today, Maureen Johnson." Then it cracked its knuckles and said, "Boo-ya!" just for a little extra flavor. I love Maureen's fear. It's funny.

Lest you feel any pity for her, please remember that MJ made me do this at Christmas: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GRtNvvef08

Oh, I could watch this video all day long. Oh wait, I have watched this video all day long. I can feel your appendix, too, Maureen. It is screaming.

Please to enjoy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yvRoYH7T2aA

I love Junot Diaz.

I'd always loved his short stories and then, I fell in love with his novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. (Apparently, I wasn't the only one because it won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction last year.) But I really love him for this essay about how freaking HARD writing can be sometimes.

www.oprah.com/article/omagazine/200911-omag-junot-diaz-writing via www.robinwasserman.com/

I am trying to take his words to heart as I struggle through my new WIP which is starting to feel like a Pedro Almadovar-directed version of "Glee" meets "Lord of the Flies." (In the the immortal words of "Spinal Tap": "There's such a fine line between stupid and clever.") I feel like there is a spot on my wall that reads: Your Head Here.

Anyway, I love Junot Diaz for his honesty about how difficult writing his novel proved to be and especially for these words:

"Because, in truth, I didn't become a writer the first time I put pen to paper or when I finished my first book (easy) or second one (hard). You see, in my view a writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway."

Yeah. That. Thank you, Junot Diaz.
Back to it.

This morning in Brooklyn, there is rain. It darkens the cement of the sidewalks and slickens the unswept leaves. It annoys the commuters as they hurry to the subways and buses, caught off-guard by such chilly assault after two days of spring-like warmth. It lays a cotton-thin blanket of fog over the snarling pre-work traffic of the BQE. It shortens the dogs’ walks, their owners tugging gently on the leashes, leading them back home.

Today, while the rain taps against the windows of a hospital in Brooklyn, they will remove the tubes keeping my friend Sylvie alive since the seizure that stopped her heart a few days ago. Today, those of us whose lives intersected with hers will say goodbye.

I first met Sylvie in Lamaze class at St. Vincent’s hospital. When the boy surprised us by coming three weeks early, before the Lamaze class had even finished, she and her husband Vid came to visit and ask questions. Years later, I was surprised to run into her in Prospect Park. Our sons attended the same elementary school, and Sylvie and I often took the boys to the park on nice afternoons or out for a hot chocolate when the weather did not cooperate or to the zoo, enjoying the comforts of motherhood shared. There were times of sitting at her vintage red Formica dining table drinking bubbly water (She bought Pellegrino by the case) and eating the kids’ leftover animal crackers while laughing about one absurdity or another. Sylvie had a truly dark sense of humor, Beckett dark, and I loved that about her.

She was a tattooed, subversive French-Belgian New Yorker with in-laws in India and New Zealand, a real world traveler. She had an appreciation for and involvement in the edgy, underground arts world. She was as comfortable discussing feminism and the work of Kara Walker and Karen Finley as she was picking out paint colors for her living room or organizing Art Day or the plant sale at our elementary school.  She loved French comics, and she shared this love with her son. She delighted in watching her daughter run around making the small, interesting discoveries that toddlers do, often erupting in laughter when the girl would escape from her diaper or put odd things on her head. Many was the morning that Sylvie and I would meet up at either Tea Lounge or Ladybird Bakery and gab over coffee before starting our daily routines.

We did not always agree. Sylvie had little regard for the arcane rules of social politesse. Or rather, she was not bothered by them—she was inquisitive and direct in the way that children can be. The straight line of untainted honesty. One day, in the midst of suffering through the writing of The Sweet Far Thing, when I was losing my mind, I breezed into the schoolyard at 3:15, feeling harried and hunted and irritable as all hell.
“How are you?” she said.
“If I were any more stressed out, we’d be having this conversation on the ceiling,” I snarked.
She looked at me and said, matter-of-factly, “Yeah, but you’re always stressed out, Libba.”
“Fuck you, too, Sylvie,” I said, pissed off. And she laughed, because she enjoyed it when you didn’t try to pretty things up. When you just…were. And then we went to my house with the kids and had something to eat. She had, quite rightly, reminded me to get over myself. In the feint-and-parry world that can often distinguish our zip code, it was nice to feel that there was no pretending with Sylvie. She was consistent on that score. It was a comfort.

On Monday night, I sat with Sylvie in a cramped ICU room whose boundaries were drawn by flimsy pale curtains. Inside, it was the half-dark of hospital rooms, which, like cities, never seem to sleep. Sylvie lay peacefully in bed, a tube taped to her mouth, a ventilator raising and lowering her chest mechanically with a slightly jerky rise and fall as if it were a dancer not entirely sure of the steps and trying to catch up.  I stared at the computer screen readout of her vital signs as if I could divine some meaning there—heart rate, blood pressure, jagged Etch-A-Sketch lines of functioning that I did not understand.

There were pictures of her children on the wall—a school photo of her 10-year-old son and a candid of her 3-year-old daughter—and a profile shot of her husband. A child’s drawing, colorful, cheerful dots of paint dripped across the white paper sky with abandon, was Scotch-taped above a medical advisory. The radio in her room played some godawful bubblegum pop, which Sylvie would have hated. I joked that I would stage a coup and put on Joy Division. On the other side of the glass, doctors and nurses moved indifferently, used as they are to the daily occurrence of tragedy.

I did not know what to say. I did not know what to do. I sat on my hands and stared at her swollen eyes, her lower lip pulled down by the angle of the breathing tube. After a while, a nurse in blue scrubs came to change the saline bag, moving silently, finessing both the IV and the weight of grief. First do no harm. She said nothing but gave me a sympathetic half-smile, an acknowledgment that what was, was; what would be, would be. No more magical thinking. Accept. Accept and continue. Give comfort. Learn compassion. Be here now—not distracted by the radio static of work to be done and chores to be seen to and not forgetting to pick up milk and remembering to email so-and-so about the what’s-it. It is what the Buddhists and the holy ones encourage us to do, to be mindful. Let the tears come; the grief we feel is the price we pay for caring. This is the painful course correction death bequeaths. Do not worry, you will forget and relearn time and again.

The nurse left as quietly as she’d come. I wept then. A steady flow of tears I could not seem to wipe away fast enough, the salt on my lips, my nose running, the act of swallowing sound painful, a great ballooning in the throat, sorrow pushing with determined hands against the doors I’d hastily erected there. Eventually, I worked up the courage to stroke Sylvie’s hair and then to hold her hand, which felt puffy and slightly hard but surprisingly warm. I said words I wanted to say to her.  I said goodbye.

I’ve debated whether or not to post this. I’m debating it even as I type these words. But writing is how I make sense of the world, how I make sense of the nonsensical. It is how I try to come to terms with what is unfair and yet, what will be, whether I like it or not. And so, this morning, I write because it is the only thing over which I can exercise control. I write because I am human and, as life should be shared, so, too, should grief.

I am reminded of one of my favorite poems about loss, “Lament,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay:

LISTEN, children:
Your father is dead.
From his old coats
I'll make you little jackets;
I'll make you little trousers
From his old pants.
There'll be in his pockets
Things he used to put there,
Keys and pennies
Covered with tobacco;
Dan shall have the pennies
To save in his bank;
Anne shall have the keys
To make a pretty noise with.
Life must go on,
And the dead be forgotten;
Life must go on,
Though good men die;
Anne, eat your breakfast;
Dan, take your medicine;
Life must go on;
I forget just why.

Life must go on. I forget just why.

This morning in Brooklyn, there is rain. It blesses the heads of the pre-schoolers snaking up the sidewalks in a human chain. It beats a gentle rhythm against the windshields of the parked cars. It heralds the coming of winter waiting in its armory. It baptizes the streets, washes the gutters clean, sends tiny rivers down and away with surety, toward a great joining, a place we do not see from where we stand.

It is rain and it will not be stopped.
It is rain and rain and rain.
We must learn to live with it.

 

 

 

www.robinwasserman.com/ Egads. Lately, I feel like I've been shot out of a cannon and am waving my arms wildly in order not to hit the ground. I'm doing a quick round-up and hope to FINALLY post notes from these events next week. (Sorry, Camp Awesomeness 2009. Thanks for your patience.) 

In the past month, I've been to the Ivy Bookshop, Baltimore Book Festival, Anderson's YA Conference, Naperville and Woodstock, IL, Doylestown, PA, the Brooklyn Barnes & Noble, and The Austin Teen Book Festival. On Sunday, I fly to Austin again, just for the day, to do the Texas Festival of Books. I've written two speeches, done three school visits, and need to get my act together for the Book Notes series that will be happening with Lev Grossman (The Magicians) levgrossman.com/ at the Knitting Factory in Brooklyn on Sunday, Nov. 8th. (Sadly, the link to this event is showing a server error. *frowns*) Lev and I will talk about the music that inspired our books and read a bit. Here's a feel for what it is: www.largeheartedboy.com/blog/archive/2009/10/book_notes_libb.html 

Meanwhile, I have a short story due in January and a novel due in December. Yeah. That. Desperately need some writing time, especially since my new novel seems to be turning into a Pedro Almodovar film before my eyes. Honestly, I set out to write a straightfoward little book and once again, I'm veering off into bizarro land.

Anyway, Tomorrow, David Levithan www.davidlevithan.com/ & I drive up to Wellesley and the Wellesley Bookshop for an event at 6:30 PM: wellesley.booksense.com/NASApp/store/IndexJsp;jsessionid=bacPqk5Gp_l479qECDBss
And then we turn around and drive right back to NYC, singing along to whatever songs will keep us awake. Because we're insane like that. 

Next week, on Thursday, Nov. 5th at 7:00 PM, I'll join the wonderful Robin Wasserman www.robinwasserman.com/  & Carolyn MacCullough www.carolynmaccullough.com/main.html at Word Bookstore in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, for an event called, "Sex, Drugs & Vampires: Everything You Secretly Wanted to Know About YA but Were Afraid to Ask. wordbrooklyn.wordpress.com/events/

***But TONIGHT--TONIGHT, PEEPS, I AM LIVE ON YOUR INTERNETS AT READERGIRLZ readergirlz.blogspot.com/
That's tonight at 9:00 PM EST/6:00 PM PST. Come join the conversation. I will answer all your burning questions. Unless your burning questions involve Neosporin and a Band-Aid. 

And now, I must do two things: Have lunch with my German publisher, whom I adore, and shop for cheap costume stuff for Halloween. We have decided to go as Plants Vs. Zombies, and now I can't get this tune out of my head. www.youtube.com/watch

"There's a zombie on your lawn...
there's a zombie on your lawn..."

 And I'm not just talking about David Levithan and me. 

In a few hours, the lovely David Levithan http://www.davidlevithan.com/ and I will be road-tripping down to Doylestown, PA  (please hold back, weather) for a gig tonight at the Doylestown Bookshop @ 7 pm: http://ow.ly/u9Fy

I’m trying to decide if we should stop and buy state spoons or take pictures in front of odd monuments or howl at the moon. Mostly, I think we will sing along to favorite songs and talk about goofy things like if you had to mud wrestle a world-famous intellectual would you rather have Jacques Derrida or Freidrich Nietzsche? Or maybe we’ll eat Cheese Nips out of the box and come up with the craziest book ideas ever.

On Tuesday, October 23^rd @ 7:30 pm, David and I, along with Matt De La Pena, will be appearing at the Park Slope, Brooklyn, B&N on 7^th Ave @ 6^th Street. Here’s the link: http://store-locator.barnesandnoble.com/event/60400 Not sure about this “Gemma Jones trilogy,” though. I remember writing a Gemma DOYLE trilogy, but hey, whatevs—I’m already imagining Gemma Jones as a Victorian Foxy Brown-type and she’s fierce.

 

 

“Don’t mess aroun’ with Foxy Brown!”

I hope those of you who are in the Eastern PA area today and the Brooklyn area on Tuesday can come out to see us. It should be amusing. ***Keep checking my blog for bookstore/library updates. Things are coming in daily.

 

I think this will be one of those odd, not-quite-right-in-my-skin posts today. Last night, the family and I went to see “Where the Wild Things Are.” It was a weep-fest among the three of us. Some folks on Twitter asked if the movie was too scary for a five-year-old/seven-year-old/fill in with age here. I loved Maurice Sendak’s response. Apparently, he said that if the adults were too scared, they could go and let the kids stay. LOL. But it’s true. I think kids are much less afraid of the darker, sadder aspects of life than we give them credit for. It’s the adults who can’t quite bear that sadness. It’s as if we, too, fall victim to magical thinking; we think we can protect kids from life’s inherent injustices and cruelties, from the knowledge that things fall apart, that our anger is powerful, and that, ultimately, underneath it all, we are alone in a big world in a vast universe. And we try to bridge that loneliness with our connection to other people, people who disappoint us as much as they love and complete us. Life is hard. Growing up is hard and it never stops. Thank heavens for art.

Anyway, it’s been a long time since I saw something that felt as if it pierced through every piece of my armor and jostled my atoms inside. I’m still waiting for those atoms to settle. I always loved that book. I think I identified with Max. And I loved that he could be so angry and not have to be penitent in the end. He could just sail away and return when he felt ready to rejoin civilization.

There’s a moment in the beginning of the film that involves a snow fort. I won’t spoil it for you except to say that it doesn’t end well and Max’s response is so nakedly honest and true that I was completely disarmed. I felt what he was feeling. That happened a lot. There are many silences in the film. (Someone said that the book has only ten sentences? Must hunt down my copy to verify this.) At times, Karen O’s soundtrack (which helped make it for me) is filled with the kind of humming children do when they are playing unselfconsciously. It has howling and screeching. It’s primal.  It’s terrific. Yeah, it’s getting a workout on my iPod today.  

I think that’s what I really respected about this movie: Spike Jonze and Dave Eggers  and Karen O trust us to have whatever feelings we’re going to have. They don’t explain. They don’t try to take the hurt away. They don’t reassure. They don’t patronize or spoon-feed or lie. They let us be. And when we are ready, they let us return, changed. I guess that’s what ideal parents do, too.

It really made me think about art and writing, about how we approach what we do, about that trust between the writer and reader. I am hoping I can take some of these lessons to heart in future writing and allow the work to be. It’s certainly left me with lots of thoughts/feelings/questions to sift through. Thanks, Spike, for letting me get in touch with my inner wild thing for a bit. We’re never too old for rumpusing.

Those of you who've seen it, what were your thoughts? 

You all know what an absolute music freak I am, how much I love it and how much I enjoy having you leave me your music suggestions. (I've been introduced to many cool bands by you, by the way.)
So it was a complete joy to be asked to participate in Largehearted Boy's blog.largeheartedboy.com/ wonderful Book Notes series in which authors discuss the playlist for a particular book explaining why the songs were chosen. Really, I can't think of a more pleasurable assignment other than personal assistant to Johnny Depp. 
Now, I've been invited to participate in the very first Largehearted Boy Book Notes Reading Series at The Knitting Factory in Williamsburg right here in Brooklyn, NY. on Sunday, November 8th. ny.knittingfactory.com/show.php I'll be there with Lev Grossman, author of The Magicians. levgrossman.com/magicians.html The event is hosted by author Jami Attenberg. www.jamiattenberg.com/icecream.htm I hope you can make it.

Here, without further ado, is the link to my GOING BOVINE Book Notes. And you'll want to bookmark David Gutowski's terrific site--it's chock-full of new music, bands, and literature. What could be better?
www.largeheartedboy.com/blog/archive/2009/10/book_notes_libb.html

Hey, who likes libraries? 
I see an impressive show of hands. 
Who likes fun authors and neato mosquito books? 
Uh-huh. Another impressive display. Nice.
Well, you are in luck because this is happening tomorrow:

COOL AUTHORS READ @ THE NYPL JEFFERSON MARKET BRANCH 
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7TH     6:00 - 7:30 PM
Moderated by David Levithan. With:

Libba Bray, GOING BOVINE
Sarah Beth Durst, ICE
Melissa Kantor, THE INVISIBLE I 
Shani Petroff, DADDY'S LITTLE ANGEL
Jeff Rivera, FOREVER MY LADY
Courtney Sheinmel, POSITIVELY
Natalie Standiford, HOW TO SAY GOODBYE IN ROBOT

But WAIT! That's not all! David Levithan and I are going to road trip it to a few places together. People, collect your bail money, because David and I together are just DANGEROUS. If we don't get arrested first, we will be here:

David Levithan, LOVE IS THE HIGHER LAW  & Libba Bray, GOING BOVINE = LOVE IS THE HIGHER BOVINE TOUR

Saturday 10/17 7:00 - 9:00 PM Doylestown Books
Doylestown, PA  www.doylestownbookshop.com/braylevithansigning

Tuesday 10/20 @ 7 PM Barnes & Noble (with special guest: Matt de la Pena, WE WERE HERE)
Park Slope, Brooklyn, NY 
267 7th Avenue @ 6th Street

All day: Saturday 10/24 Teen Book Festival (Libba sans David; you will hear the Velcro rip when we are separated)
Westlake High School, Austin, TX  www.austinteenbookfestival.com/Site/Home.html

Thursday, 10/29 6:30 PM (with David again! Hoorays!) 
Wellesley Booksmith, 82 Central Street, Wellesley, MA www.wellesleybooksmith.com/

David and I will be taking to the roads of the East Coast in his Prius. He will drive. I will bring snacks and badger him with "Are we there, yet?" which, ironically, was the name of one of his books. So I can just say I'm paying homage instead of being annoying.* I've suggested we play all the songs from every John Hughes movie. And I think we should stop at random places to take pictures. And maybe I'll sing a few hundred rounds of "B-I-N-G-O!" just for good measure. You can send your pain meds c/o David Levithan at Scholastic. 

Feel free to weigh in with your LOVE IS THE HIGHER BOVINE road trip suggestions. 

And do come out and see us. We don't mind reading to each other, but it's so much better when you're there. 



* for the record, I'm just being annoying

Where did September go?
Is September on a Lost Pet-type poster on phone poles across the country? Because I swear I don't remember it happening. This is doubly flummoxing because I meant to put up this invite a week ago. For the month of October (which is possibly my favorite month), I am the Author in Residence at the fabulous ReaderGirlz.com. readergirlz.com/issue.html

I will be answering YOUR questions (but only if you show up because my superpowers don't extend to mind-reading. Yet. Working on it.) and talking about The Sweet Far Thing (and Going Bovine, too, if you wish.) I will also be participating in a LIVE CHAT on Wednesday, October 28th at 9:00 PM EST/6:00 PM PST. So mark your calendars. I'd hate to be hanging out in my jammies and sipping hot chocolate all by my lonesome. Also, we could talk Halloween. (Just got all my decorations out yesterday. Yay! My favorite holiday.) 

I must go help The Boy with math homework, which sucks for him since I couldn't add a fraction back in the day and it has not gotten any better in the subsequent years. Wish him luck. Really. 

As promised, I will blog about my travels as soon as I get a smidgeon of time to myself that isn't devoted to insane deadlines. So, do not despair, CAMP AWESOMENESS 2009 OF BALTIMORE, MD. Your time will come. Yes, it will. :-) 

P.S. I am sorry that this is all underlined. It won't stop. And I do not have time to beat my blog into formatting submission. My underlining mechanism will have its day. It will be seen. Like a two-year-old that insists on wearing a tutu to the doctor's office, it will be what it is. 

 There’s so much I wanted to blog about today—I’ve just returned from the Baltimore Book Festival; I was in Chicago doing appearances; it’s Banned Books Week—but I’ve just received the shocking news that my old friend, Kate Duffy, Kensington Romance Editor Extraordinaire and Editorial Director, died rather suddenly on Monday. It seems unreal to me, and I’d like to take a moment to pay tribute to my pal.

Kate Duffy was one of the most bad-ass dames I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And she was a dame, in all the best ways. Kate was not a small woman in any sense of the word. When she entered a room, you were aware of her presence. It was like having the Queen visit; you expected a half-wave and some Corgis. What you usually got was a hilarious retort of some kind followed by a Puckish grin or a naughty cackle. Kate was, quite simply, an icon in the romance industry, launching and nurturing the careers of many beloved romance writers.

After my son was born, I quit my job and went to work for Kensington Publishing two days a week as a freelance copywriter. One of my duties was to write copy for the bazillion romance books that came across my desk. I’ll admit, when I first started, I didn’t have a lot of appreciation for romance. I tended to think of it as “less than,” a sentiment, I’ve come to realize, is about the ways we do not value a genre that is written largely by women for women about women’s fantasies and sexual desires. People don’t like that. It makes them uncomfortable, and so they tend to denigrate it. Kate helped me come to see that. She was passionate about romance, if you’ll pardon the pun, and her enthusiasm and love for both the genre and her authors was infectious. It was Kate who introduced me to the delights of MaryJanice Davidson, Lori Foster, Eloisa James, and Judith McNaught, among others. I looked forward to those mornings when I would sit in the chair across from her desk while she told me about the books I’d be writing copy for with the sort of rhapsodic bliss I use to describe great meals. “You are going to die over this one,” she’d say, placing both hands on the desk with great fanfare, before launching into a fabulous Kate book talk. She’d ask me what I thought. Sometimes we’d argue; usually, later, when I’d come back raving, she’d grin and say, “Didn’t I tell you?” She loved being right. Good for her that she often was.

She was also one of my biggest cheerleaders as a writer, and when my first book came out, no one was more excited than La Kate. I steadfastly refuse to Google myself, but Kate would, and on the Monday and Tuesday mornings I would show up, I’d hear her shouting to me from her office, “Well, if it isn’t Herself! Get in here. I’ve got something to show you.” She talked me up wherever she could, and I don’t know if I was ever able to get past my inhibitions to sufficiently tell her how much I appreciated it. She made me feel like a million bucks. I know she did the same for her authors.

Kate was an Irish Boston Brahmin, from a well-known acting family. Her mother trod the boards, and Kate’s uncle was the famous Peter Boyle. (the actor who played Frankenstein’s monster in Mel Brooks’ classic, “Young Frankenstein.) Kate herself was a larger-than-life character. A chain smoker. A Diet Coke drinker. A sardonic commenter on the publishing scene who never lost her pie-eyed joy for the books she loved. She was quick with a withering witticism. Her closest equivalent might be Dorothy Parker, but Miss Parker fused with Bruce Willis in “Die Hard.” You did NOT want to piss Kate off. The lady could throw down. But I appreciated her directness, her eye-rolling frankness, her wicked asides and her breadth of knowledge about books, music, art, theatre, and politics. Her interests were many; her opinions were plentiful. I secretly relished the irony of a romance editor who looked like she could probably clean and assemble her own AK-47 in under ten seconds, a lit cigarette dangling from her lower lip and a mischievous gleam in her eye. I love this memorial from Sarah at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books: "When I tried to explain to my husband why I was so blown away by meeting Kate and talking with her at RWA, I couldn't figure out how to explain who she was in romance. She wasn't just an editor or a fan of the genre. 'She's the Julia Child of romance,' I said." 

Perfect.

The details are murky, but the word is that Kate had been secretly battling cancer. It would not surprise me to know that she would keep it a secret, that she would continue to ride into battle every day without expecting or wanting special treatment or sympathy. No doubt she would have shrugged off any such attempts with her crisp Boston toughness.  Kate Duffy was real dame’s dame. A top-notch editor. A tough cookie with a softy, gooey center. A passionate promoter of romance. A good person to have in your corner and a charming dinner companion. I can’t quite believe she’s gone, like someone that formidable should go on forever. I suppose she does through books. She will be greatly missed.

Here’s a link to a little more about Kate, if you’d like to read it. And there’s a 25-second clip of her at an RWA conference that makes me smile, because it is so Kate. ciaralira.wordpress.com/2008/08/06/kate-duffy-says-get-off-the-internet-and-write/ 

As for me, I think I will honor Kate the way she would most like to be honored—by reading a romance novel and enjoying every minute of it. Rest in Peace, Kate. I hope there's Diet Coke and Lord Byron wherever you are.

Thanks so much to everyone who came out to the B&N reading last night with Frank Portman and me. It was great to meet you and thanks also for reminding me that "participation" rhymes with "evisceration" for that serial killer musical that would be so fun to write. (You kinda had to be there.) 

I'm heading out on the road tomorrow, first to Baltimore, then on to Chicago. So just wanted to post the info here. Note: There's a new signing in Chicago!

Thursday 9/24 5:00 pm
IVY BOOKSTORE, Baltimore MD
6080 Falls Road

Friday 9/25 5:00-6:30 pm 
BALTIMORE BOOK FESTIVAL 
Panel with David Levithan, Sharon Draper, Garret Freymann-Weyr, Edward Bloor
Children's Bookstore Stage

Saturday 9/26 8:30 am - 4:00 pm
ANDERSON'S YA CONFERENCE
Call Anderson's Bookstore in Naperville, IL for details

***Sunday 9/27 2:00 pm***  NEW EVENT!!!
READ BETWEEN THE LYNES
129 Van Buren Street, Woodstock, IL

Monday 9/28 7:00 pm
ANDERSON'S BOOKSTORE
Naperville, IL

Also, I'm doing a blog tour right now. I'll post the full schedule later (must go to bed!) but here's a taste:

www.teenreads.com
goodbadandunread.com/2009/09/23/duckies-going-bovine-interview-with-libba-bray/

Last but not least, I'm at Random Buzzers still answering questions through Friday, www.randombuzzers.com

Hope to see you Baltimore and Chicago peeps soon!

Calabi Yau!* 

It's finally here. GOING BOVINE is on sale now at your local bookstore. I know I'm supposed to be jaded and cynical about this process by now, but you know what? I get as excited as a six-year-old with a birthday at Chuck E. Cheese every single friggin' time. 

I want to thank everybody who comes by here and says hi and leaves me great music suggestions and funny videos. I want to thank you for reading my books and for telling me what you like and don't like about them. (I especially like the what-I-like-about-your-books part, but it's all good.) I want to thank you for including me in your lives, trusting me with stories about yourselves and for sharing your opinions about various topics posted here. You complete me. You had me at "Why the hell did you turn {name removed} into a tree?" Seriously, I am just damn lucky to know you all. Some of you in a virtual sense but whatever. From the heart, I thank you.

I hope you enjoy GOING BOVINE even though it's very different from The Gemma Doyle trilogy and there are no corsets. There is, however, a bad-ass yard gnome, and I like to think that counts for something. 

One quick schedule change: THE EVENT TONIGHT AT THE LINCOLN CENTER BARNES & NOBLE IS AT 5:00 PM, not 5:30.
I got confused. I do that sometimes. Here's the info:

LIBBA BRAY & FRANK PORTMAN. 
GOING BOVINE & ANDROMEDA KLEIN
LINCOLN CENTER BARNES & NOBLE
1972 Broadway, between 66th & 67th Streets
New York, New York, baby! 
5:00 PM! 5:00 PM! 5:00 PM! 

In honor of Going Bovine's birthday, the lovely and talented Miss Cynthia Leitich Smith, she who forced me to write this book, has an interview up. If you are a lover of paranormal YA, you gotta read Cyn's TANTALIZE and ETERNAL. www.cynthialeitichsmith.com/CLS/cyn_books/cyn_books.html They'll rock your socks, peeps.

Anyway, here's the interview, if you are so inclined: cynleitichsmith.livejournal.com/192124.html


Hope I'll see some of you tonight! It's gonna be wild. 

* Really, that will all make sense once you read the book. 

 I hope to have a very special interview up this weekend. A special guest star interviewer. No, I cannot tell you who. I am sworn to secrecy. 

My word is my bond. So I'm really glad my word isn't superglue. Or toejam. I'd hate to be bonded by toejam. 

Anyhoo, just a reminder about my two NYC events:

SUNDAY, 9/20 SIDEWALK CAFE 6 PM
94 Avenue A @ 6th Street
NYC
Libba Bray, Tiger Beat, and Frank Portman
Now with the power of baking soda!

I'll be rocking out with Tiger Beat and talking a little Going Bovine. Plus, Tiger Beat will play our first original song! (Let's hope I don't screw it up.) Frank will be playing an acoustic show and reading from his new book, Andromeda Klein. 

It promises to be a good time. It also promises not to wreck your car or call your mom names.

TUESDAY, 9/22 LINCOLN CENTER BARNES & NOBLE 5:30 pm
1972 Broadway between 66th & 67th Streets
Libba Bray. Frank Portman. Going Bovine. Andromeda Klein.
Let the awesome awesomeness begin.

Frank and I will be together again, singing, talking, answering questions, making up answers to each other's questions. Come on down. It's Tuesday. Nothing else happens on Tuesdays. Tuesday doesn't even get a cute moniker like "Hump Day." 

Folks, these are two of my only appearances and Tuesday is the official release day for Bovine. I hope to see you at one or both! 

 Before I forget, I wanted to post some GOING BOVINE events. I’m not doing a tour for the book, so I hope you can make one or two (or all, if you’re feeling really robust) of these. I’d love to see you there!

SUNDAY 9/13 BROOKLYN BOOK FESTIVAL  5:00 pm
Youth Stoop (Borough Hall Plaza) http://www.brooklynbookfestival.org/
Panel: “High School and the Paranormal” with Libba Bray, Claudia Gray & Carolyn MacCullough

I was a last-minute addition to this line-up, so you won’t find my name on the panel. But I’ll be there. Oh, yes, I will. That restraining order Claudia got will not keep me away!

SUNDAY 9/20 SIDEWALK CAFÉ  6:00 pm – 8:00 pm
94 Avenue A, New York, NY  10009 (212) 473-3737 info@sidewalkmusic.com
Tiger Beat + Libba Bray + Frank Portman aka Dr. Frank of the band, The Mr. T Experience
Free w/2-drink minimum*

If you don’t yet know Frank Portman, allow me an introduction. As a musician, he’s known as Dr. Frank, the witty, uber-literate singer-songwriter of the iconic punk band, The Mr. T Experience. He’s also the YA author of the books, King Dork, and the brand-spankin’-new, ANDROMEDA KLEIN. http://www.andromedaklein.com/ Dr. Frank will be laying down a fantastic acoustic show and reading from his new book. Also, check out the theme song he wrote for Andromeda Klein here: http://shelf-life.ew.com/2009/08/20/frank-portman-andromeda-klein-mr-t-experience/

He will be joined by the insane musical stylings of TIGER BEAT!, the world’s only YA author band. www.youtube.com/watch Featuring Daniel “Are You There God? It’s Me, Satan” Ehrenhaft on guitar, Natalie “Yeah, Tina Weymouth Is Cool, But Can She Write About Robots?” Standiford on bass, Barnabas “Not All Drummers Explode—Unless You Want Me To” Miller on drums, and Libba "I Write Weird Stuff" Bray on vocals, bad tambourine, and marginal keyboards. We will, we will rock you. And I will shill a bit for GOING BOVINE.

 *This is an ALL AGES SHOW. (That two-drink minimum can be Sprite.) And it’s early on a Sunday night, so please come on down and get your groove on.

 
TUESDAY 9/22  BARNES & NOBLE @ LINCOLN CENTER  5:30 pm
1972 Broadway (b/t 66^th & 67^th Streets), New York, NY
Libba Bray + the fantabulous Frank Portman—TOGETHER AGAIN!

So nice we have to do it twice. Frank and Libba. B&N. Andromeda Klein and Going Bovine. Frank may do an acoustic set. I may do shadow puppetry and folk dancing. If you don’t show up, you’ll never know. *Note: This might be my only NYC book signing, so be there or...um, be somewhere else.

THURSDAY 9/24  IVY BOOKSHOP, BALTIMORE, MD   5:30 pm
6080 Falls Road, Baltimore, MD  21209/ (410) 377-2966

Who doesn’t want to hang at a place called The Ivy? It makes me feel warm and cozy. And according to the Baltimore City Paper, The Ivy was voted “best indie bookstore.” *Sigh.* I’ll bet they’re nice there. I’ll bet they’ll do the Time Warp with me. I’ll bet they’re stocking up on Tasers.

FRIDAY 9/25  BALTIMORE BOOK FESTIVAL, BALTIMORE, MD  5:00-6:30 pm
Mount Vernon Place  600 Block North Charles Street
Panel: “Coming of Age: Love, Rage & Anxiety in the Young Adult Novel.” With Libba Bray, Sharon M. Draper, Garret Freymann-Weyr, Edward Bloor & David Levithan

This panel looks to be great fun. Love, Rage, AND Anxiety? It’s like the Greatest Hits LP playing inside my mind ALL THE TIME! Plus, these are some fabulous YA authors. Well, there’s always one you have to watch out for, and that one is David Levithan. Shhh. Don’t tell.

SATURDAY 9/26  7:30 am - 4:00 pm
6^TH ANNUAL YOUNG ADULT LITERATURE CONFERENCE
ANDERSON’S BOOKSHOP  
http://www.andersonsbookshop.com/youngadultliteratureconference.php

Ch-ch-check it out! C-c-come on down! I am beyond excited about this. If you don’t know where beyond excited is, you just get to Excited! and go a little further. There. You’ve got it.

MONDAY 9/28  ANDERSON’S BOOKSHOP  7:00 PM
123 West Jefferson
Naperville, IL 60540  (630) 355-2665
Bookish type event

I am extremely stoked to be coming back to the amazing indie bookstore, Anderson’s, in Naperville, IL, just outside of Chicago. My son is psyched because I am powerless over the tractor beam of purchasing Anderson’s exerts on me, from which he benefits.

No deets yet, but stay tuned and/or give Anderson’s a ring. (On the phone. Not a diamond band. Unless you’re generous like that. In which case, BY ALL MEANS, come to this event.)  

SATURDAY  10/24 1^ST-EVER AUSTIN TEEN FESTIVAL! AUSTIN, TX
Westlake High School, 4100 Westbank Drive, Austin, TX  78746
10:00 am – 6:00 pm

GAHHH! I am abnormally excited about this. (Can you be abnormally excited? What does that look like? Probably like me doing the robot dance I performed when I got this call.) Panels, breakout sessions, ninja skillz, book signing, kibitzing, pictures of me taken while putting food in my mouth, the singing of 80’s anthems. It’s all going down, people. Be ready.

SUNDAY, 11/1  TEXAS BOOK FESTIVAL, AUSTIN, TX 
Location TK
Panel with Libba Bray, Sara Zarr & Jessica Lee Anderson where we talk about writing YA that pushes the boundaries.

Very happy to be in this esteemed company.  Very very happy to be in this esteemed company and also get a chance to eat Tex-Mex.

All of this, plus a gig at Books of Wonder in November, I think. Stay tuned. Hope you can make it. 

 

 

 

This week, there was definitely that end of summer feel to the air, that melancholic, transitional, time-to-shop-for-school supplies-and-corduroys feel.

When I was fifteen and about to go into high school, I bought a pair of forest green corduroys that I loved beyond reason. I insisted on wearing them on the first day of school. In August. In Texas. When I peeled them off that night, I swear I’d lost about a pound in sweat. But by God, I was wearing those things if it killed me. I think I gave them away the next year. 

I’ve spent the past four days doing a purge of my house. Some people are all about spring cleaning. Me? I’m a fall cleaner. It’s like I have to get my house right before I can settle into the new routine and work. The Boy and I managed to clear out four trash bags of stuff from his room: Chaotic card wrappers. Little toys won from claw games and gum machines. Random pieces of paper with code words written on them. Old school work and supplies. Cheap Scooby Doo paperbacks.  T-shirts that no human being should wear in public anymore. Pajamas four sizes too small. Highlights magazines with all the mazes and quizzes filled in.

The kid likes his stuff. (Don't we all?) And we can’t part with what we’re not ready to let go of yet.

This cleaning frenzy got me to thinking about what I can’t get rid of: Pretty paper. Notes sent from friends over the years. Sentimental birthday cards and wacky gifts from the husband. My kid’s art work and various Post-It notes proclaiming love or disdain for our parenting at that moment. Photographs. The sweater my father was wearing the day he died. A brooch my mother gave me before I left for NYC. One grandmother’s cigarette case and the other’s beaded flapper necklace. The motorcycle jacket I bought my first year in NYC under the mistaken impression it would keep me warm in winter. (Please see previous reference to being from Texas.) And cartons upon cartons of writing—about thirty or so spiral notebooks in sad shape. I never really go back and read them, and yet, I can’t seem to throw them out. It’s a chronicle of where I was and who I was at a particular point in time, from “David Crowell is a super fox, but I think he likes Stacy instead” to “Found possible gray hair in my bangs. Am in fugue state now.”

I was thinking about this in reference to writing books—how inspiration and influence comes from the oddest of places sometimes. How we’re never really certain what all goes into the making of a book. When people ask, as they have been lately, I find myself shrugging and offering an apologetic smile. Sure, there’s the obvious, the books and people and life moments we’re drawing from. But a good percentage is completely unconscious and random, an arbitrary “I turned left instead of right” moment that ends up shaping the piece you’re writing and taking it somewhere else. This happens to me all the time and was the case in GOING BOVINE.

The story behind GOING BOVINE begins, as most books do, with a random series of events—a chaos theory of ideas, emotions, thoughts, questions, and, occasionally, odd things on TV.

1. A long while back, my mother told me a story about someone we vaguely knew. It was a terrible, awful story. The man had been diagnosed with Creutzfeldt Jakob’s disease, a.k.a., mad cow disease, and during his deterioration, he suffered from one particular hallucination in which he would see flames shooting up into his field of vision. This haunted me for years, as did the attendant questions: What is reality? What part do we play in crafting it? Is it only a shift in perspective? Is there another reality behind what we see? Are there other worlds in which other realities play out, like a computerized solitaire game with different cards, different choices, different outcomes?

2. I am a bit of an insomniac, and one night, I happened to catch part of a program on PBS called “The Elegant Universe” by physicist Brian Greene. I sat, transfixed and awed, as he talked about vibrating strings that might be other dimensions too small for our minds to see. It was as close as I have come to a religious experience.

3. While sitting in a café waiting for a time-challenged friend, I picked up a discarded copy of Don Quixote and began to read haphazardly. By the time my friend arrived, I just wanted to keep reading and not just because she was forty-five minutes late.

4. I hate to fly. On one particularly turbulent flight, I had run through my gamut of self-help techniques—iPod, trashy magazines, bargaining, reciting GOODNIGHT MOON under my breath like a prayer. Nothing was working. And then, rather suddenly, I thought: Wait, this is not how I’m supposed to die (which seemed rather bold of me to surmise.) I asked myself the natural follow-up question: Well, then how ARE you supposed to die? What is a good death? So, I opened my notebook and wrote, “In a house by the sea in an upstairs bedroom….In a house by the sea, it will end, and I will slip from this life as if it were no more than a sweater grown too large and threadbare with years.” This is exactly the way I would want my funny little sojourn on this planet to end if I could choose. Strangely enough, writing about my perfect death calmed me. (Really, planning is everything.) So I continued, and before long, I had a new character for my book, an old woman facing death. I had no idea what to do with her or why she was there or whether she would stay, but I trusted that I would figure all of that out later. And, hopefully, I did manage that. Because it’s too late now if I didn’t.

There were other things: a trip to New Orleans six months before Katrina and that horror itself. A remembrance of a musician boyfriend explaining jazz, which, to my mind at least, seemed as trippy as string theory. A vacation at Disney World during a particularly dark period of my life and my first encounter with the strange, surreal creepy-joy of the Small World ride and the we-are-particle-and-wave wonder that I felt riding the Transit Authority tram. A love of the road, the sense memory of childhood car trips from the Texas Gulf Coast through the South on the way to the East Coast. A news article about black holes that sing. Reality television. Absurdist Theater. A detour through Norse myths and Ovid’s Metamorphoses. A long listen to The Flaming Lips’ At War with the Mystics and The Who’s Quadrophenia. A chance reading of a quote from playwright Eugene Ionesco, “I am not quite sure whether I am dreaming or remembering, whether I have lived my life or dreamed it.” An article on the Hadron Super Collider. The human need for connection. The fear of death and really happy people. Bowling.

Just a small sampling of the random ping-ponging of events and associations that went into a journey that was, for me, filled with wonder and transformation and meaning that I cannot adequately explain.

One last bit of randomness. When my son was five and stalling before bedtime, he asked me, “Why do we die?” Amidst the pulling up of blankets and securing of stuffed animals, I felt suddenly so very mortal. “I don’t know,” I answered. He thought about it for a second or two. “I think we just go somewhere else.” He did not elaborate further.

And so, perhaps I should be wise and take that to heart. Here is a book. It means a lot to me. I hope it will take you somewhere else.

 

 

 

 A big old kiss to everyone who I managed to guilt into participated in the Random House Fantasy Road Trip contest. And thanks to everyone who said they would have if they had a camera/weren't too old/weren't Canadian/weren't actually living a life that does not involve catering to my forlorn public service announcements. You were all so sweet and concerned in your responses that I felt a little chagrined. Sometimes my attempts at humor don't come through. (For those who wanted to wrap me in a blankie and give me a cookie, that pathetic 7th grade dance was a loooong time ago, and not only did I survive, but I was uncool enough to think my Little Bo Peep outfit was totally bitchin'. I have always had a rich fantasy life. Sometimes to my detriment. Anyway, didn't want any peeps to think that this was a deep and lasting emotional scar. The awesome thing about the slings and arrows of cruel fate that make up the middle school/high school experience is that, in my profession, it is all awesome material.) Anyway, as a few of you noted, my guilt tripping skills are SUPERB (Thanks, Mom!) and it did spur quite a few of you to represent for the Gemma Doyle Trilogy and make what I'm sure will be delicious videos. As far as I'm concerned you are all winners. Did I ever tell you you're my hero? You're everything, everything, I wish I could be...

In other ridiculous news, the GOING BOVINE trailer is finally up. You can watch it here at Entertainment Weekly's Shelf Life: shelf-life.ew.com
Be warned, you may never feel the same about me or cows or ukuleles ever again. And I cannot be responsible for your therapy bills. You watch at your own risk. 

GOING BOVINE. September 22nd, 2009. Let the countdown begin.

 
Dear Readers,

 Once upon a time, I went to the 7^th grade dance. It was in a dark gymnasium that smelled of Binaca breath spray and sweat. There was a cover band with enough big hair to make Muppets. A Boston song was played. And I was standing on the sidelines in a white eyelet dress my mother made me that looked vaguely as if I had lost my herd of sheep.

I stood on the sidelines for a long, long time. I stood and mouthed the words to bad songs while my friends Jeannie and Marcy and Dale were asked to dance, like petals plucked from a daisy, leaving only the awkward stem.

 The hour grew late. Finally, a few 7^th grade boys huddled together, presumably drawing straws, and Greg Fake (whose mother had raised him to be kind) shuffled over to me, hands in pockets and asked me in a voice of utter defeat if I wanted to dance. This was clearly a mercy mission. I am not proud. I danced with Greg Fake. Greg Fake kept my first school dance experience from being an exercise in total humiliation. Thank you, Greg Fake. Thank you. And I’m sorry I talked to you the whole time in a nervous Tourette’s Syndrome stream of consciousness.

 Why do I mention this? Right now, as you sit, perhaps watching reruns of reality television, Random House is hosting an awesome contest. It is called The Fantasy Road Trip Contest. Doesn’t that sound cool? I mentioned this in May. Truly. Awesome. Here is the link to True Awesomeness in Contest Form: www.randomhouse.com/audio/features/listen-up-florida/contest/

You can win an 8 GB iPod Touch plus signed audiobooks of the Gemma Doyle Trilogy. Not too bad. But here’s the thing: No one has entered the contest for my books. For Rick Riordan and Tamora Pierce—many, many videos entered. Me? Not so much. 7^th grade, 7^th grade, 7^th grade.

 See me standing over there mouthing the words to “More Than a Feeling” and attempting an ill-advised half-hustle, half rainbow-arms move? Consider this your mission of mercy. In 7^th grade, Greg Fake was not offered a prize for asking me to dance. But you can win a prize for entering a video. You have until Monday, August 17^th. I believe in you, readers. Truly, I do. Pick up those video cameras. Send in your submissions. You can make a difference! Yes, we can.

 People, I am standing on the sidelines in my puffy, white eyelet dress. I am spritzing my tongue with medicinal breath freshener. I am pushing my glasses up on my nose and adjusting the rubber bands on my braces.

In the dark, sweaty gym, I am waiting for your videos.

Please make the videos.

Please.

Thank you.

 

"Everybody's talking at me...I don't hear a word they're sayin'...only the echoes in my mind..."

You know, people, I've done a lot of interesting, some might even say strange, things in my life. But I now know that you haven't really boogied on the dance floor of bizarre until you've wandered the streets of New York City in a cow costume. This is what we authors call "living the dream." 

Yesterday, we filmed the book trailer for GOING BOVINE. Often, book trailers are beautiful movie preview-style promos for the books. Which, I think, is a very good idea. Very good idea. We decided to mix it up a little this time. You only live once. 

My spectacular publicist, Meg "I Am So Down with This" O'Brien, ordered me a cow costume online. Kinda scary to know that niche exists, but whatever. For you fashionistas out there, I will describe: A basic summer white with lovely black spots, a sweet minx of a tail, detachable cow-face-bonnet that sat fetchingly on the head, and...rubber udders. Not gonna lie--the udders were incredibly disturbing and not just a little pornograhpic in their placement. (The costume was for a tall person. I'm five-foot-three. I'll give you a minute to work out the visual. *supplying hold music* You're back. I can see from the look on your face that you need a picture of Clive Owen to restore your equilibrium. Here you go:)





*Sigh* Clive makes everything better.

The inspiration for the video was one of my favorite movies of all time, "This Is Spinal Tap."  "A 'mockumentary,' if you will." And while I don't choke on my vomit or anyone else's vomit in this video, I do get to play the ukulele. And by play I mean make a sound that vaguely resembles what it would sound like if I removed the skin from a live cat. Which you shouldn't do because that is awful. (Remember: Mr. Fantastic Fiction says be careful with figurative language: libba-bray.livejournal.com/26535.html) I had the pleasure of meeting all the guys at Wheelhouse Communications www.wheelhousecommunications.com/ : Chris the Directing Genius, Mark #1-the Sound Wizard, Mark #2-the Camera Guru, and Eric the (God Help Him) Editor of this later on. Honestly, I do not envy these guys. It was seven hours of shooting and a lot of improv, let's-throw-it-at-the-wall-and-see-if-it-sticks, up-the-stakes insanity. They have the task of turning that random lunacy into two minutes of somewhat coherent narrative structure while I chill in my backyard. (Good luck, guys. Let me know if I need to ride over with a cake and a therapist.) I have the idea they will rock it. 

The first shot involved having me walk two blocks on Broadway from a newsstand to the Random House offices. Lots of people yelled "Moo!" Some said "Got milk?" One guy offered me money, and I didn't want to know anything more about his life. I had to sing "It's a Small World After All" lots and lots and rock gently to get back to my happy place. And then--what are the odds?--this family of four comes up to me. I think they are going to ask for directions or if they can snap a pic of the crazy woman, but the mom says, "Excuse me, are you Libba Bray?" Now, I have never ever been recognized anywhere, sometimes not even by my friends and family, so that I was A) recognized and B) recognized while wearing a cow suit, well, I don't know what to say. The teen daughter, the lovely Kate, was a fan of the Gemma books and had read my blog mention of me in a cow suit and there you go. So I had a lovely time chatting with Kate and her family, who were in from Calgary, and Kate, if you're reading this, I hope you had a great time in NYC and sorry that my bovine activities kept me from sitting and having coffee with you. Have fun in D.C. 

After getting a few shots on the street outside Random House, we decided to walk from 56th Street down Broadway to Times Square (44th Street). It was a beautiful day, and I was having such fun talking music with Mark M., the Sound Guru, that I honestly completely forgot that I was wearing a ridiculous cow costume with swinging utters. (Those who know me can believe this. In fact, when I started to tell my husband this story, he interrupted with, "You forgot you were in a cow suit, didn't you?") Occasionally, I would look over and see someone staring and think, "What's HIS problem?" Bloody tourist. And then I'd remember, Oh ri-iii-ight.... We shot some footage in Times Square, while singing, dancing clowns in neon rainbow wigs performed a routine in the background, which is actually the default setting in my head most of the time, so I felt right at home. I'm also going to be in a lot of tourists' "New York is crazy" photo albums. 

Then we walked back up Broadway to Random House with a few stops along the way. LOVED the guy who clapped hold of me and told me what a pretty, pretty Holstein I was. The guy who kept insisting I should look him up, that he was Al Gore's right-hand man. Really. Al Gore. He worked for Al Gore. And I could tap into his YouTube account if I wanted. (Is this the new equivalent of "come see my etchings"?) Al Gore's name was dropped so many times that I wanted to tell Mr. Scary Dude that he was contributing to carbon dioxide poisoning every time he spoke, and in the interest of saving the planet, he should shush now. Mr. Scary Dude really, really felt that I should look him up, while I really, really, REALLY felt that he should take his hand away. I don't know everything, but I have the idea that Al Gore's right-hand man would have a dental plan. Also, that he would not be wandering Times Square with his fly open. Just saying. Then again, given the proclivities of the Clinton administration, perhaps that's their version of the Freemason handshake. 

Once we got back to Random House, we did many, many shots (that's film shots, not alcohol, though when this is all said and done it may look like we were all drunk. I swear, nothing harder than bottled water.)  I played the ukulele, which everybody appreciated SO MUCH, and I could tell by their cringing and tears that they were holding back the flood of love they felt for me right then.

We broke into Random House Childrens' publisher Chip Gibson's office, and I resisted the urge to rearrange all of his personal objects and furniture so that when he came back on Monday, he'd feel confused and watched and unsafe. LOVE Chip. I did, however, sit in his chair and touch everything of his. Then I chewed his gum (top drawer on the left in case you're there) and ate one of his Pixie Stix, which, it turns out, is crack in granulated sugar form. Ten minutes after ingesting it, I felt like I wanted to rob a bank, write a drag musical, and cheat Death at poker. Instead, I had to content myself with the RH costume closet, which, due to their annual Halloween party, is incredibly well-stocked. I especially loved the purple frock coat which to them said "pirate" but to me said "Prince, 1984." People, if you know what I'm talkin' about come on and raise your hands. "Wendy?" "Yes, Lisa..." But I digress. 

Then came the mock interview with the brilliant Chris who would patiently feed me smart questions and wait to see if I would actually answer any of them with something resembling linear thought. He was screwed on that front. I was so wired-tired that words were coming out of my mouth as if they had hit override on my brain. At one point, I got on a riff about Jamba Juice and I have no idea why. Like I had to keep saying the words Jamba Juice as if I were an obsessive-compulsive touching her shoes. At 4:30, Chris called a wrap. I got to change out of the cow costume, which left me feeling oddly naked. I had become the cow. We were as one. I had truly gone bovine. Because I'm a method writer. That's how I roll, people. What it is.

I rewarded myself with a Jamba Juice and then googled the dude who claimed to be Al Gore's sidekick.

He so lied. 

I know lots of you have been waiting for a movie update, and I haven't been able to provide any info. Sorry about that. I was having to wait for some things to sort themselves out before I could say anything. Now they have and I'll tell you what I know: There's no movie for now. Icon is out. Cut, print, roll credits. 

I think I can hear you saying, "WTF?" Which seems a perfectly reasonable thing to say. I'll try to explain the W behind TF. 

Here's the long story short(ish): Three years ago, Icon optioned the rights to the Gemma trilogy. In case, like me three years ago, you are largely ignorant about how this works, I'll break it down for you as best I can. Basically, if a movie studio/director/producer/influential Hollywood pet is interested in your book, he/she/they/it can option said book, meaning they can throw money at you and "rent" your book for a while, usually about 18 months while they try to get the financing and creative team together. They approach a star or studio to get them on board. They try to get that sucker into production. If they get a deal and a green light, they purchase (as opposed to option) the rights to make the movie (more $$ for the author) and said movie goes into casting and filming and all those fun things that signify "This movie is being made" and you can email all your friends and buy the shoes you hope to wear to the premiere.  

This was how it started with AGATB. Three years ago, the lovely and deliciously British-sounding Charles Sturridge, a rather wonderful director (and the father of the up-and-coming Tom Sturridge), optioned my books. He has a deal with Icon, so they were on board from the beginning. Charles and I had two very nice conversations. He went to work on the script. That was hammered on for a while, then they made more changes. Then there was a writer's strike which threw lots of things into kerflooeyness. (Feel free to use my made-up word.) The original option expired. Icon contracted for another 18 months, but we still had not gotten that green light. We still did not have a signed-off-on script or some bankable star to make the powers-that-be say, "Yes! We will annoint this one!"

I confess that I stayed largely outside of all of this, mostly by necessity (I was feverishly working on The Sweet Far Thing followed by Going Bovine, which consumed my working hours and then some) and because, from as near as I can tell, in Hollywood, no one thinks to involve the novel writer. (I understand why writers like Tennessee Williams and William Faulkner ended up drinking like fish in Hollywood.) 

Anyhow, a little over a year ago, I'd heard that Charles had been asked to step in to take over Anthony Minghella's last project after this sudden death. I heard no more about the movie after that. Occasionally, I would inquire and it felt a bit like getting one of those an automated phone systems gone a little wonky: "Yes, movies are wonderful!" "Some people eat popcorn at movies; others, Jujubees." "We are in sunny California--hello!" "Press nine if you are having difficulty with pressing eight." I exaggerate. Slightly. It did seem like the whole thing was taking place in an alternate universe though, which, I suppose, it was. The option's 18-month period ran out this month.

I know one of the reasons cited for the difficulty in turning these books into movies is the cost. It's a period piece, which, as you can imagine, ratchets up the budget substantially. I can imagine that most studios wouldn't look at an historical boarding school supernatural fantasy with elements of class, race, gender, and sexual awakening, and say, "Wow! Now, THERE'S a surefire money maker!" I get it. 

Am I disappointed? Meh...a little. It would have been cool to see what Charles's team would have come up with. But I can't say I was too invested. I have books to write, and that's pretty much where I live. And you know what? THEY PAID ME FOR DOING NOTHING! I got paid to eat M&Ms and answer a few questions over the phone and then be summarily ignored for three years, which, honestly, exactly describes my high school experience but without the $$$. I'm thinking that maybe I want to become a professional optionee. Are you listening, Hollywood? You can rent my books and we don't even have to talk. I'll send you a Christmas card; you'll send me cash to fix my basement. This is the start of a beautiful friendship.

So right now, there is no movie version planned. Could a studio snap these books up tomorrow? Sure. Could happen. Could happen next month, next year, in ten years, twenty. Or never. Or who knows? Maybe one of you lot will go to film school and option the rights someday. That would be amazing. And there is always my suggestion of the guerilla, backyard movie version. 

But the books live on. You can make movies in your head, see the characters however you like, imagine the rooms of Spence and the creatures of the realms. When you read, you are the cast, the crew, the director, and the audience. Not a bad deal. 

I promise I'm going to try to be better about blogging. I'm working on lots of fun stuff which is eating my brain. Tomorrow, if the weather holds out, we film the book trailer for GOING BOVINE, which involves a cow suit and a ukulele. 

I can say no more.

My cat is sitting on my head. 
I do not know why she thinks my head is an ottoman, but there is no rhyme or reason when it comes to cats. They own you, and if you are smart, you will play along, make no sudden moves, and give them the kibble when they demand it. 

It has been raining here for, I swear, four years. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration. But it feels like four years. I have grown mold on my brain and that is why I have been unable to write a blog. I would look outside, see the rain, sigh, and invite the cat to sit on my head in hopes that she would warm it up. (This is not a proven scientific technique, but I am a pioneer.) 

Today, there is glorious sun. It hurts the eyes, this strange glowing orb in the sky of which we have heard tell in legend. And so I must go outside and play. Thankfully, other people have come to do my work for me. 5AwesomeYAFans fiveawesomeyafans.ning.com/ provided me with some video of Tiger Beat doing "Superstitious" at BEA. There is also video from Melissa C. Walker www.melissacwalker.com/blog/ and the lovely Rachel Cohn www.rachelcohn.com of some Tiger Beatness back in March at the NYC Teen Author Festival. It's, um, interesting to see yourself on video. *runs screaming*

Much as I love Books of Wonder (much respect to our beloved NYC children's indie), next time we gig, I think we have to be somewhere where the mic will allow me to move more than three inches in any direction. I was terrified of pulling everything out and bringing down amps in a crash of "Oops, sorry. You know those head injuries often aren't as bad as they look." 

So, in place of my blogging, please enjoy (hopefully enjoy?) the stylings of the all-YA author-comprised Tiger Beat: Daniel Ehrenheft www.danielehrenhaft.com/(bitchin' guitar), Barnabas Miller "I need a website ASAP" (thunderous drums), Natalie Standiford www.nataliestandiford.com/(oh-so-cool bass...she's the one hiding behind the pole in the vids), and yours truly on vocals. I can now cross that singing-in-public fear off my list of things I won't do. So there, Lauren Myracle lauren-myracle.livejournal.com/37608.html. 

When I get back from ALA next week, will do an ask the author blog. And I can answer one question already: No, I have no new information on the movie of AGATB, which seems to be stalled at present. Perhaps we should just film our own version in my backyard.

The Tiger Beat vids:

"Down on Me"/Janis Joplin (which Melissa thought was "Down on Knee," which makes me giggle and think of all the song lyrics I have heard differently over the years) 3/19/09
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKmGgQkIpaE

"Superstitious"/Stevie Wonder At BEA 5/29/09 (Thanks, 5AwesomeYAfans!)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AvUCYYjK80w

"Dear Prudence"/Beatles 3/19/09 (Thanks, Rachel)
Cutest little girl. Like, to die for.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7y8bEuzWDPY

"I Want Candy"/Bow Wow Wow version 3/19/09 (Thanks, Chrissy!)
Just scroll past Dear Prudence to the second half. But from this angle, you get to see Dan's smokin' guitar solo with violin bow.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzB_1f5v_Lg