ABOUT THE BOOK

When a mandatory marriage education course forces Fiona to “try the knot” with super-jock Todd Harding, she’s convinced life could not possibly get any worse.  Until moments later, when her long-time crush is paired with her arch-enemy (otherwise known as Todd’s obscenely hot, slightly sadistic girlfriend).  But that’s nothing compared to her best friend’s fate – a year with the very shy, very goofy, very big Johnny Mercer.

A series of hilarious pranks and misunderstandings leave Fiona wondering: is there something her supposed “best friend” hasn’t told her? Could there be more to Johnny Mercer than a deep voice and an awesome music collection? And perhaps most intriguing of all, is it possible that Todd Harding could actually have a heart – and a brain – beneath his pretty-boy exterior?

Kristin Answered My Three Favorite Questions...

-I think teen books can, and should, be read by grown-ups. Tell my grandma Grace why she should read your book.

My book is so spicy and sweet that it'll make her forget all about the flavorless pablum they serve at the old-folks home.

--What would your 16-year-old self say if she read your book?

She'd say, "I can't believe you didn't put Duran Duran or the Thompson Twins in the book. And by the way, you're grody to the max."

--I am fascinated by writers' inspirations. Tell me about a real-life setting that found its way into your book.

I based East Columbus entirely on my town. Some stuff was made up, but even now, when I picture scenes from the book, I see them happening here.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kristin Walker grew up roaming the Pennsylvania countryside. She finally landed at Penn State, where she earned a BA in Theatre Arts. In addition to being actor, Kristin was many things on her way to becoming an author, such as a lifeguard, a nanny, a beginning ballroom dance instructor, a library circulation clerk, and very nearly a nurse. A Match Made in High School (Razorbill/Penguin Group) is her first novel. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ladybug, Wee Ones, and two Chicken Soup for the Soul books. Kristin lives in a Chicago suburb with her husband and three sons. 

Loved that jumpsuit.

I haven’t sewn since high school, unless you count the slipcover I made for a living room chair. But I’ve been busy creating other things—most notably, stories. Today my mother reminded me of something from sewing that applies to the writing work I’m doing right now. It was something Baba, her grandmother and my great-grandmother, taught her about sewing.

“Nothing is worth making unless you rip it out three times,” she said.

Ripping out is just what it sounds like—you take a sharp, mean little tool and run it along your hard-won seams, ripping stitch by stitch until the two pieces of fabric fall away from each other. I sewed a lot in high school, which means I’m really good at ripping out seams too. You can’t avoid it. You get five steps into a pattern and realize that you messed up step 1B and now everything has to be ripped out, unless you want your shirt to have two and a half sleeves on it. And then you get to the eighth step and it happens all over again.

My beloved jumpsuit? The seams started to fray, in spots, because I had to rip it out so many times.

As for my writing, I’m now ripping out the seams on my story DROUGHT—for the third time. We’re talking some major ripping; shifting the timeline of the story back and cutting out a big BIG chunk of the current draft. It’s like I finished making that jumpsuit and realized I’ve got the right fabric, the right pattern, but I somehow managed to sew it inside out and backwards. Every little stitch has got to come out before I can make it the right way.  Sure, I could try wearing that jumpsuit out in public, and forget about fixing it, but there’d be no hiding that it wasn’t the best I could do. There would be way to conceal its flaws.

So I am taking a deep breath and picking up my stitch ripper. I’m not afraid: I have the fabric. I have the pattern. I cut everything into the right shape, and I wound my bobbin. I even have the buttons picked out.

I just have to find the right way to sew it all together.

I basically served my editor and agent a big bowl of fiddleheads. And I’m wondering whether this story ought to be a single lovely fern frond, instead.

Haven’t heard of fiddleheads? They are curled-up baby ferns, gathering their fern strength before they pop out into big fronds. Some people like to boil and eat them in the spring. I tried one once. It was sort of like a brussels sprout. I remember that the texture was very dense. That makes sense, given that I was eating an entire fern frond in a single bite.  I also remember being a little freaked out by eating baby ferns!

So when’s a novel like a bowl of fiddleheads? When it’s full of densely-packed events, a whole series of them. So much is going on that the story can feel a little jumbled, or intense. But you’d be hard-pressed to get bored—at least, when the author does a good job cooking up those fiddleheads.

On the other end of the spectrum is a novel that takes its time: a single fern frond. The plot lingers over each small detail, each little leaf that makes up one lovely frond. Some readers might find that the story is a little too slow, or that they’re skipping past the quiet details that help to build the plot and establish characters. But even a single fern frond can have lots of little leaves. A well-done “frond” story doesn’t have to be boring.

Either approach can work. Take a look at one perfect contrast in two best sellers: Lev Grossman’s THE MAGICIANS (a big old bowl of fiddleheads) versus J.K. Rowling’s HARRY POTTER series (one lovely frond after another). Both tales are a boy’s coming-of-age set at a secret, exclusive academy for budding magicians. What Grossman does in one book takes Rowling seven. Grossman packs interesting details into the stories but sometimes manages to encompass an entire year at the Brakebills academy in a few chapters—while Rowling, of course, takes an entire volume for each year of Harry Potter’s education at Hogwarts. Both authors manage to turn out engrossing stories that have me reading while I’m drying my hair, eating my lunch and putting my shoes on. I wouldn’t want to see either approach changed.

Perhaps market explains part of the contrast between those two stories. THE MAGICIANS is a story sold as adult fiction while HARRY POTTER is of course marketed, first and foremost, as a book for children ages 8-12. Maybe younger readers demand that we slow down and examine each detail, and go with a deliberate and predictable pace. Adults are less jarred by sudden jumps in timeframe, and less patient with detail. The implication for YA writers? Maybe we need to land somewhere in the middle.

I haven’t decided whether my story is a single fern frond, a bowl of fiddleheads, or somewhere in-between. But understanding the difference between the two is a step in the right direction.

Yesterday’s entry made me glad I bought that chunk of paper and plastic backing. It had a quote from Henry Van Dyke: “Use what talents you possess. The woods soul be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang best.”

I’ve never heard this particular quote before. I love it—what artist wouldn’t? It gives us permission to keep creating even when we know full well that we’re not at the top of the heap, or even near it. Do your best. It’s enough. Don’t be ashamed to share your best efforts with the world.

I have this lovely vision, now, of writers perched in a strange forest of trees—all different sorts: fruit trees, towering pines, thick-canopied oaks. Everyone is working away, intent, pages fluttering to the forest floor in a light constant rain. Every kind of story is on those pages. Imagine yourself walking through that forest—how the floor would be soft under your feet, cushioned by years of other writers’ efforts. Imagine how you’d be a little taller, on that cushion, and a little closer to the first foothold that waits in your own tree. Pick your tree. Look around at all those other writers, birds of every sort of feather. Then turn your eyes to your own story and write.

You’re not alone---and you are worthy.

But sometimes the label of sci-fi feels like an itchy fit for books like CANDOR--stories that are set in a world with one imagined technology element but otherwise don’t dwell on the mechanics or history of that technology. Maybe it’s because sci-fi makes a lot of people think of only robots and space ships. I worry about readers who don’t regularly delve into science fiction getting turned off. Don’t get me wrong: I am not ashamed to be called a sci-fi writer. I’ve been a sci-fi fan since my father and I spent a summer eating TV dinners in front of Star Trek re-runs (perhaps an unfortunate example, give that ST is replete with both robots and space ships!). And if I spent my entire career being called a sci-fi writer, that’s fine by me. Talk about being in fantastic company.

I wonder if some fantasy authors have a similar issue. A lot of people think the fantasy books all have dragons and dudes wearing long robes, bearing wands. And that is just as narrow a view of the genre as the aforementioned robots and space ships. That’s probably why the sub-genre name “urban fantasy” emerged.

I’d like to propose a new genre name: extra-ordinary.

Extra-ordinary books have at least one element that doesn’t exist in our mundane world. Sure, it could be robots. But it could be a moon that’s moved closer to the earth, as in Susan Beth Pfeffer’s LIFE AS WE KNEW IT. Or it could be a virus that turns New Yorkers into vampires, a la Scott Westerfeld’s PEEPS. Some fantasy books fit in here. So do some sci-fi. But they’re about the normal world, twisted by forces that (supposedly) don’t exist.

Do we really need a new genre name? Shouldn’t we instead hope that readers come to see that sci-fi and fantasy are broad homes for all sorts of cool ideas? Maybe so. But I think this type of book is only going to grow in popularity and hopefully it will attract a broader cut of readers. And darn it, if paranormal romances—which now, I notice, are often just called “paranormals”—can get their own special name, why not extra-ordinary books too?