Free as a bird, by Deb Katie

So a song came up in my random lineup today. The song is called “Friends of P.”, and it’s by The Rentals, and the first time I ever heard it was the first semester of my freshman year of college. My roommate always had the college rock station on, so instead of my usual diet of Indigo Girls, Danny Elfman scores, and Sinead O’Connor, I listened to that.

Isn’t it amazing how one smell, one song, one glance at a photo, can transport you to another place and time?

In late August 1995, my mother drove me to Tallahassee, Florida, the home of FSU. I spent much of the car trip in tears because I was leaving my boyfriend and my cat (oh yeah, and my home/family). When my mom and I got to the dorm, we rearranged the beds and unpacked my stuff. She spent the night, and then, the next day, she left.

I remember walking around campus with my map. I had friends who were going to FSU, too, but I didn’t know when they’d arrive (and this is before cell phones, so you couldn’t just text somebody and find out where they were). I ate in the dining hall; I bought a few things from the campus store; I got my student ID and first ATM card, for Tallahassee State Bank, which had ATMs on campus. You could withdraw amounts starting at $5, with a 75-cent fee.

That night, a film school classmate of mine (we’d all met at Film School Orientation a few months earlier) called to invite me to the local coffeehouse. I remember setting the phone down and being completely blown away by the fact that I didn’t have to call anyone and ask if I could go out. I didn’t have to be back by a certain time.

I was on my own. And it all started that night.

Of course, in college, freedom means something different than it does once you hit the real world. Even if you’re working and paying your own way, you’re still in a bit of a cocoon. By the time you get to be a senior, you’re ready to strike out on your own, get away from campus, live your life.

When you’re living that life, looking for a job or working at one, when ATM cards are no longer a novelty and you’re so flush with cash that you can take out more than five bucks at a time… the independence of college life seems downright laughable.

But I can’t think of another moment in my life when I felt such a huge change in the fiber of my experience. Maybe the morning after my wedding, when I told the taxi driver, “I’m just waiting for my husband.” But nah, I think that’s second place. (And I know everything will shift around when there’s a baby in the picture… but I’m not there yet.)

Life is such an interesting journey, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s nice to crank an old song and wallow for a few minutes. Thanks for joining me in the wallowing!

Happy Tuesday!

~ Katie Alender

PS – Please jump over to my blog and enter my CONTEST! Win free stuff (or, if you’re international, win free stuff for a friend in the continental North America region)! Very fun goodies on the line.

PPS – We’re still taking applications for next year’s Debutantes! If you’re a 2010 debut author, click the “Got Pearls?” link in the sidebar… or pass it on to a friend!

July 7th, 2009 | Posted by Katie Alender | Katie Alender, change, college, nostalgia, school | 6 Comments

A letter to myself, circa 1990, by Deb Katie

Dear Katie,

Oh, Katie, Katie, Katie.

There are a lot of things I could tell you but won’t, because as tempting as it would be to give you all the lottery numbers and sports scores, that would change a lot of things that I’d just as soon not change.

Instead, I’ll just tell you that, yes, this is definitely your awkward stage. And yes, you will grow out of it. The funny thing is that someday the things you’re being made fun of for are going to be the things that your life is about. It’s okay to be smart, when you’re grown up. In fact, it pays better than being dumb.

It’s also fine to be a prolific writer, no matter what the bastards in 8th grade history said to you that one day. Also, your 8th grade history teacher was a bastard for letting them say those things. (Never trust anyone who says the Civil War had nothing to do with slavery.)

Here’s the thing–someday you’ll be prettier and your hair won’t be so, you know, awkward, and you’ll be better at putting on makeup and getting dressed. But you’re never going to wake up in the morning feeling the way you think the popular kids feel. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that even the popular kids don’t feel the way you think they feel. Maybe they learned early on how to blow-dry their hair or perfectly poof their expensive shirts out of their expensive shorts, but that doesn’t guarantee happiness.

So what’s the purpose of all the angst and lonely nights spent listening to that one New Kids on the Block album, over and over again? Here’s a hint: someday you’re going to write about girls like you. And the girls that read about those girls are probably going to be like you, too. And letting them know they’re not alone is actually a pretty good legacy.

Now, put on those generic Keds and the too-bright lipstick and go work on your observation skills and compassion. Nobody is ever what they seem to be, and you, my dear, are no exception.

Fondly,
Katie Alender (that’s right, you’ll eventually find a boyfriend and get married–don’t worry, you’ll kind of know him when you see him)

PS – The pearl ring is on your top bookshelf, and the heartburn is from nitrates! Nitrates! Put the cheap lunchmeat away!

June 30th, 2009 | Posted by Katie Alender | 2009 Debs, Katie Alender, childhood, junior high school, nostalgia | 8 Comments

You probably had to be there, by Deb Katie

The problem with telling “LMAO” stories is that, 99.9% of the time, you had to be there. For instance, here are three incidents that had me crying with laughter:

* The time in college when my roommate, who sucked at swallowing pills, tried to swallow one and came running down the hall gagging on it. Employing my lightning-fast (though misguided) reflexes, I leapt from my desk into the hallway, where I proceeded to try to Heimlich her. At which point she spat a tiny pill across the hallway and cried, “Katie, Katie, I’m not choking!”

* The time when the husb and I were driving somewhere with a friend in the backseat and one of us made an offhand remark about something, to which our friend replied, “Oh, yeah,” in what was basically a dismissive action, but which prompted about five minutes of all of us saying, “Oh, yeeeeaah,” in our best nasally wiseguy voices. Every time the laughter died down, someone else would say, “Oh, yeeeeah!” and start everybody going again.

* The time my family was playing Pictionary and one of us asked which was right and which was left, and my mother spit her coffee all over the gameboard and pieces.

So, even sitting here writing these down, I’m giggling to myself at the memories. Is there anything more incredible than laughing with our friends? More miraculous than sharing joy with people we care about?

Every time I see or think about a person whose life is falling apart because they spent their efforts in pursuit of a bigger house, nicer car, prettier wife, etc., I wonder what that person would change about the way they defined success.

Do you think Bernie Madoff would give his left arm right now to erase the massive wealth he gained and go to a life in a modest home in the suburbs, spending his weekends playing Pictionary with his family, having someone spit coffee on the board, and then everyone laughing until their sides ached?

Throughout my life, the friends I’ve kept over the years are the ones I’ve laughed with. And one of them, the one who could always, always makes me laugh, I married.

May your home be full of laughter, even if your house isn’t full of equity and your closets aren’t full of designer clothes.

~ Katie Alender

PS – In case you missed the News Flash, my big news this week is that Disney-Hyperion has decided that Bad Girls Don’t Die should be a 3-book series! So thank you so much for your support.

PPS – After Mother’s Day, we did “mom” posts, but we don’t have a “dad” week. So, Par, if you’re reading this, let me just say that I’m so glad to have you as a father, and I’m so glad we learned to get each other’s jokes… even if it took a little while. I still remember the time you told that guy that was bugging me to stop calling the house, and the time you stopped to help that old man with his broken down car in the parking lot at the office, even though you were in your fancy work clothes. I remember how, at my wedding, you reminded me to stop and look around at everyone’s faces, like I asked you to. And I especially remember how you told me you thought I should major in something that I could make a living doing–like writing. I’m happy and proud to be your Dar!

June 23rd, 2009 | Posted by Katie Alender | fathers, joy, nostalgia | 7 Comments

The screeching brakes of hindsight, by Deb Katie

I went to film school in Tallahassee, Florida. Not exactly a hotbed of film industry activity. In fact, the film school was pretty self-aware about that. In order to give us a few months’ jump on all of the other matriculating film school students across the country, they assigned us an additional summer’s-worth of classes and kicked us out the door in December of what would be our senior year.

The not-yet-husb, of course, had even more ambitious plans for himself. Our school had an internship program, and he planned to finish his last semester in Los Angeles, finding fame and fortune and counting pages and doing precision stapling work as an intern.

I liked the not-yet-husb. I wasn’t dying for another soupy-hot autumn in the Florida panhandle. So I decided to tag along.

We arrived in LA in October and promptly found internships. We did a lot of script coverage (which is like book reports for grown-ups), photocopying, and counting of pages, which I still do, to this day—count every page of every script before it leaves my hands.

After six weeks, our internships wrapped up and we returned to Tallahassee, where we put on our caps and gowns (well, I didn’t–I actually slept through graduation (ironically, after staying up way too late at a party talking to a guy named Matthew—who, 7.5 years later, would become my literary agent)) and were promptly graduated.

Looking back, seeing how eager we were to get out of college and get on with our lives, I have just three words for myself:

ARE YOU NUTS?

First of all, there’s no prime hiring season. Film school grads aren’t scooped up the second they graduate. Jobs are filled when they open up, which is all year, and having lived in LA for an extra couple of months doesn’t do you much good.

Second of all, I have my whole life to go to work. What I don’t have is cheap and easy access to lots of information on topics that interest me. Well, I have the internet, but it’s not the same.

And I don’t have crazy fun football games to attend, even though it’s soupy-hot and a sunburn is 100% guaranteed.

Look, hard work is great. I’m a big fan. And pulling oneself up by one’s bootstraps is also great. I’m all for it.

But everything has to come in its own time, and I wish I had taken a little bit of extra time to explore the relatively carefree life of an undergrad, surrounded by friends, on a beautiful campus, in a city where apartments don’t rent for 2/3 of your starting salary.

So that’s my reflection on graduation. My advice to college students is to stay a steady course, but for heaven’s sake, enjoy your time in school. Take classes in subjects that interest you! Hang out. Go to football games. Look around. And try to remember that life isn’t always going to be this way.

(This may sound like I have regrets, but I don’t. How can I regret the things that changed me into who I am today? If I hadn’t hurried out of school, I probably wouldn’t have spent that evening talking to Agent M. I wouldn’t be married to the husb. I wouldn’t have written Bad Girls Don’t Die. So it’s not regret… it’s just a sort of marveling that I was in such a hurry.)

~ Katie Alender

May 19th, 2009 | Posted by Katie Alender | 2009 Debs, Katie Alender, Life, Los Angeles, college, nostalgia, the past | 11 Comments

In which Deb Kristina gives up a political career

I ran for office, once. As far as I know, I only got one vote. Mine.

It was for class secretary in eighth grade. Middle school already being arguably one of the most miserable times in any kid’s life, especially that of a distinctly unpopular kid like me, it’s unfathomable why I put myself through this. (I wonder now if my parents knew this would be a debacle. Did they cringe for me? Or if they think I had a shot?)

I made up some signs on posterboard with marker. My drawing is about as terrible as my handwriting, which as everyone knows, is awful to legendary proportions. The signs had terrible puns, too. I remember one which showed someone running off a dock to catch a boat, and missing. Splash! The slogan was, “Don’t miss the boat, vote for Kris.” Cringe, cringe.

Then I saw the signs of my popular and well-loved competition. They were splashy, and decorated, and they were done in volume and posted everywhere, obviously written up by a team of popular people all helping out their popular friends.

It soon became clear to me what a colossal mistake this was. But, there were campaign speeches to come.

In front of the whole cafeteria, at lunchtime, we had to give speeches. I swear, one girl approached the podium in a backless dress, to the hoots and delight of the assembled middle school boys. I wasn’t sure why a backless dress was so appealing (what’s hot about someone’s back? I wondered) but it was a damn sight better than whatever I was wearing.

My speech had some line in it about “I’ve never had detention and I always turn my work in.” Cringe, cringe. My best friend admitted she didn’t vote for me.

You know, I’d still like to vote for the candidate who has never had detention and always turned his or her work in. Why is it a liability to be a goody two-shoes in this world? Don’t we want good little Girl Scouts running things?

Apparently not, as I was reminded during my time covering small town politics as a newspaper reporter. The flashy, bombastic candidates always seemed to snag the attention away from the quiet do-gooders.

I’m clearly not cut out for modern politics, but I hold out hope someday for a squeaky-clean candidate to run on a platform of never having had detention.

Deb Kristina

November 3rd, 2008 | Posted by Kristina | 2009 Debs, childhood, junior high school, nostalgia, politics, school | 18 Comments

A sweet summer day anytime I want one, by Deb Kristina

There are “sweetest days” that loom large on the marquee of a life. Wedding days, days children are born, days of heady professional success.

For me, there’s one sweetest day I can still summon up to slow down my heart rate and quiet my mind when the world cranks up the volume on my anxiety tape. It wasn’t a big day, nor was it amazing. But it sure was sweet.

I don’t remember how old I was — as young as twelve, as old as my late teens. I do know I was an adolescent and it was summer and as fall approached I knew I’d be thrust into the rush of school activities and teen angst with barely time to catch my breath.

I was in Charlevoix, Michigan, with my family. We were at a secluded beach at Mt. McSauba, which is not so much a mountain as a large-ish sand dune. It’s not a place tourists will easily find, so even on the most postcard-gorgeous days, it’s peaceful. First, you have to have the fortitude to slog uphill through the sand on the forested side of the dune, then as you reach the crest, a dazzling vista opens up at your feet – sun dancing on deep blue water reaching out to kiss the soft sandy beach. Then, if you’re a kid or even a giddy, nimble adult, you can skip down the beach side of the dune, your momentum throwing you into the horizon.

That’s what this one particular sweet day was like. A running-down-the-dune kind of day. Lake Michigan was bracingly cold, but the day was so hot that the cold felt decadent. Our time at the beach was running short, so I waded in for “one last dip.” As regular readers will know, I’m not much of a swimmer. But I do like splashing around, swimming underwater for short stretches, floating around and bobbing in the waves. After a satisfying splash, I came out of the lake and walked back to my towel. The day was hot enough that I was instantly warm again. I didn’t bother toweling off. I just stretched out in the sun and let myself bake dry.

I wiggled into the sand, making a Kris-shaped divot more comfortable than any Sealy Posturepedic. I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythmic waves, almost like the lake’s own breath, while the sun rained down warmth.

And I knew right then I’d have to memorize that moment. Because soon it would be fall and busy and stressful, but if I stored up that moment’s peace, maybe I could call it up in times of need.

And for fifteen or twenty years, it’s worked. When I’m feeling overwhelmed, I can page through my memories until I find my sweetest day, like a worn page in a scrapbook, and stretch out in the sand again.

Is it any wonder I set Real Life and Liars in Charlevoix? If one plans to spend untold hours mentally elsewhere, why not pick someplace sweet?

Deb Kristina

Edited to add this important reminder!
We’re still celebrating the launch of Cancer is a Bitch, by 2008 Deb Gail Konop Baker! Don’t forget to check out our contests page and enter for a chance to win a signed copy.

October 13th, 2008 | Posted by Kristina | 2009 Debs, childhood, nostalgia | 10 Comments

Backward, turn backward, oh Time in thy flight… by Deb Katie

(This week’s theme is “Back to School.” I never was much of a first day of school junkie, so I thought I’d turn it on its head a little.)

I’m hopelessly nostalgic. It’s pretty sad. I can even make myself nostalgic for the present. In college, I used to walk across the campus and notice the way the brick buildings cut into the deep blue of the sky and think, with a deliciously tragic chill running up my spine, “Someday I’ll really miss these beautiful mornings.”

I had a great time in high school, probably because I went to a hippie-dippy arts school. I was in the least exotic of all programs: the utilitarian “Communication Arts” department, so I wasn’t required to break into song or dance on cars. The atmosphere was very laid back, because we all—students and staff—had it pretty good, and we knew it. I made good friends and had good times and learned a lot and all those other things you’re not supposed to be able to do in high school any more.

Sometimes my nostalgia kicks in, and I long for the open-endedness, the freedom. The knowledge that your whole adult life is ahead of you, that the choices are yours for the making.

But as refreshing as it is to consider going back and reclaiming the fun and spontaneity of youth, most people I’ve ever talked to about it wouldn’t give up who they are or what they’ve become—not even for a magical do-over—because even some of the most difficult times make us who we are.

So instead, we browse the yearbooks and the photo albums. We play phone tag with the old friends and try to see them when we’re in town. We make surreal reconnections on Facebook and alumni websites. We look at the people with whom we once walked from third period to fourth period and think, How can she be a mother? (We also, occasionally, have such thoughts about ourselves.)

Is this why, I wonder, I write for young adults? Because I can’t bear to let go of the good times? Because I’m trying to relive the happy haze of youth?

The thing is, and I think everybody knows it, nothing was as good as you remember. There’s no such thing as the good old days. And unfortunately for my protagonists, they aren’t exactly living the golden days of youth. They actually tend to get kinda knocked around.

The boring truth is that I write for young adults because that’s the voice that comes out of me. Those are the stories that come out when I sit down to write. Despite the fact that I read lots and lots of great books by adults, about adults, and for adults, the thought of sitting down to write about a woman in her 30s seems as fantastic as me going out to the garage and building myself a bicycle out of odds and ends.

But don’t think I don’t draw on that sense of possibility. The idea that nearly everything that happens can shape you, change you, change your mind—I hold it in my mind like a treasure map when I write.

I still get gloomy thinking of the times we can never go back to. I do, as a matter of fact, miss those incredible fall mornings on the college campus, with a brisk breeze slicing through the trees and the buildings jutting proudly into the sky, like the prows of ships.

I still let nostalgia get the better of me sometimes. But I like to think I’m making it earn its keep.

~ Deb Katie

P.S. – The title of this post is from the poem “Rock Me To Sleep” by Elizabeth Akers Allen. If it sounds familiar to you, you may have read it in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little Town on the Prairie. (Which I remember fondly from my childhood, natch.)

September 9th, 2008 | Posted by Katie Alender | 2009 Debs, Katie Alender, YA, childhood, high school, nostalgia, writing | 14 Comments