Write Your Rock 'N' Roll While You Are Young: An Old-Testament-Style Exhortation

O my daughter, write all your rock ‘n’ roll while you are young.

My kid. This exhortation is for her in 10 years.

Rage, scream, pierce, sulk, defy. I give my blessing for your worst tattoos. I want you to grab the microphone and screech into it. Wear pants that are too tight. Stomp around. Growl at people.

You will never be so safe and free as you are right now. And it is only from this wealth of safety that you can so blithely growl. It is only from the peace of your perfect, unspoiled life that you can stand there, razor-sharp. You can criticize me and everything I stand for. I’m so glad you are that safe.

Change the world. Why not? Defy me to change the world. Get in my face. Write a manifesto.

I remember standing on the basement stairs in the house where I grew up, and my mother was unloading the washing machine. I was challenging her about the morality of the death penalty, not because she disagreed with me, but because she agreed, and that maddened me the more. “If you believe in change, then why don’t you do something about it?” I raged at her. And she stood there, with my clean underwear in her hand. I was so disgusted by her complacency.

Kid, hate me hard while you can. As long as you hate me, you can’t miss me. As long as you are repulsed by my life choices, you can not imagine what it will be like to lose me. I want to be here for you, stupidly steadfast, boring you to death for all your life. I dread the moment when you look at me and realize I will die. Because I know in that moment you will become a little bit quiet and a little bit afraid. Why should you be afraid now? You are so young, no one you need can ever die. It is unthinkable.

So now, write all that brave material that only you can write, sing the songs that that only you can sing, tear down the edifices that only you can muster the sufficient angst to bring yourself to hate. Now while you have not seen sorrow or felt pain, while you are still self-righteous enough to muster indignation. Do it for me, your mother who has been scared stiff.

Me, when I was 19. I knew everything, so it was a good time to be loud.

I remember writing political songs and singing them loudly in public spaces. I said a lot of brazen things. I used the word “America” in songs with a “message.” I stuck my head up high, as high as I could get it, and yelled about indignities and injustice. I hope you do that. I will listen.

O my children, I used to have balls. Balls no more. And the saddest thing is -- it didn’t even take that much to stomp it out of me. I went down hard with a few deaths, some sadness, a little madness. Used to be, the threat of consequences made me laugh. Now, consequences terrify me -- imagined, real, inevitable, yours, mine. I am rigid with it. Put a guitar in my hand, and it cracks.

Because I’m afraid now, I’m quiet. A microphone? Outrage? The stage? It takes everything I have to say anything at all, even in a small voice. It takes everything I have to crawl out from under the bed and say “I’m still here.”

But I want to listen to all your songs, especially the loud ones, the angry ones, the ones that stand outside of memory, that pay no attention to history or the inevitable repetition thereof. I’ll clap. I’ll yell. I’ll be like “That’s my kid! The ignorant one! Look at her! She’s so amazing!”

I am not saying this in scorn and I’m not scoffing at you. I really would love for you to stay like this forever. Just as hot. Just as ignorant. To be able to write that rock ‘n’ roll all your life. To speak for 20-year-olds and to 20-year-olds. Stay so perfect and unassailable and so convinced of your own idea and so untroubled by the weight and the stickiness of reality.

I earnestly hope for you that you will never be able to write anything that is at all relevant to an adult audience. But the world is probably not going to treat us that way.

Me at 40. Acquainted with fear.

I write this to you because I know that time is short. While my hope for you is that you never outgrow your ragged edge, I know you will. You will not be one of those people who still jingle and rage and thrash around when you’re my age. Your heart will break and shatter, and the things that charm you now will not be interesting. You will no longer be able to fit yourself into a mob. You will not be able to be reckless.

I know this because of myself, but also because of you.

Growing up is a trade. You trade in your rock ‘n’ roll but you will get your own spouse, your own children. You will trade in your white water rapids and get a riverbed so deep, a surface so flat, it reflects the sky. I see that in you already. Your time to scream and rage is going to be short. So don’t miss it. Life is a good trade, but you don’t have to make it yet.

When I say “Stop!” to you, understand that it’s what I have to say, and know that it’s your job not to listen. Press on. Do stupid things. Don’t tell me about them. It’s okay, you will live. Don’t worry about who’s listening, or what people will think, or what adults will say. Find friends that really get you and let them become very important. Drive around and do dangerous things and don’t tell me where you are. Tell me, “I’m fine!” and “Back soon!” and “I love you!” Don’t ask my permission, worry about my feelings, bow to my judgment. I’m only your mother. I love you, but I really don’t know anything.

Me at 18. Fearless. About to write a manifesto.

This is twenty year old me that was, writing to twenty year old you that will be: Write your rock ‘n’ roll this year. Set fires you don’t know whether you can put out. Forty year old me can’t tell ten year old you the things that I have done. The bottles smashed, the boys kissed, the cliffs hung from, the trains caught, the words screamed, the people hurt, the ropes cut. I can’t tell you about that because forty year old me is contractually obligated as your mother to hold up a stop sign and say “No more piercings. Home by ten. I want to meet his parents. Call me when you get there or your phone’s confiscated.” That’s my job. And that’s what means that you are safe enough to ignore every one of those restraints and write your rock ‘n’ roll and dangle yourself over those cliffs.

O my children, do the things that can’t be undone. Do the brave, stupid, wild things. Do everything that doesn’t make you die. Write your rock ‘n’ roll while you are young. Time is flying, don’t I know it? But no, this is not a suicide note. I’m happy! To my surprise, at this age it only takes a metal watering can covered in red enamel, with a big brass spout. And to make me whimper, it only takes a truck in an oncoming lane with overly bright lights. I’m not strong anymore. I’m not like you are. But I’m glad I was. Now I write books about it.

Where will you be when you sit down to write your books? When you settle into your deep riverbed? I hope you are panting, and tired, and worn, and I hope you come to your senses smiling and crying and barely holding yourself together. It’s one youth you have. Make much of it. With your warm blood, rock. With your new eyes, roll. When you tell your daughter how you put it all away, give her something to remember.

Everybody's Baby, an Original E-Novella about Love, Motherhood, and Kickstarter

Last fall, I had a crazy idea for a story.

What if a young, tech-forward couple funded their in vitro fertilization on Kickstarter, and then sold perks to donors -- perks like naming the baby and cutting the cord? Technology, love, parenthood -- in a weird way the idea was right in my literary lane. I got excited.

I was deep in another novel, but I decided to try writing this Kickstarter story, to see where it went. Twenty-thousand words later, I was in love with the characters, their heir love story, and the story of how they became parents. I brought it to my agent and then to my editor.

They thought it was a great idea! We came up with a title: Everybody's Baby. We worked in some plot twists, some new scenes, new characters, and started planning how we could best deliver this book to readers.

The most interesting thing about the project is that it is so very now, a snapshot of life on the internet the way it is right this very moment -- it's about Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, Pinterest, even Get Off My Internets and Jezebel, and of course Kickstarter. Putting this book on the schedule for publication in 2016 or even 2015 meant that it would be less current, and possibly even completely irrelevant, by the time it came out -- a dilemma unique to our high tech world, and as it happens one that could be solved by technology as well. The wonderful people at St. Martin's Press came up with the idea to release this story as a novella, direct to e-readers, which would allow us to bring it out before my second book, which is due out in July.

I am thrilled to announce that my original e-novella, Everybody's Baby, will be published by St. Martin's Press on June 3, 2014 (in two months!) and that it will be available in every format imaginable! There are links below to pre-order. I hope you do!

Here is the catalog copy, to tell you a bit more about the plot:

Jenna and Billy are in love.  He's an app developer, a hyper-plugged-in citizen of the internet, with a big Scottish family and winning smile.  She is a yoga teacher, tuned in to the vibes of the spiritual universe, who was abandoned by her mother as an infant and orphaned by her father's recent death.  When they meet, it's electric, and it is no time before they are married and eager to start their own family.  But when they can't get pregnant, Billy devises a plan:  they would raise funds for their in vitro fertilization on Kickstarter, offering donor perks like cutting the cord, naming the baby, and catching the baby when it takes its first steps.

The good news is that they make their fundraising goal, get pregnant and have a baby! The bad news is that their marriage begins to fall apart when they have to deliver on all those perks. It’s hard enough to survive delivering a baby without a performance artist making a documentary of the cord cutting. It’s difficult enough to get baby to sit up and smile for a six month portrait without a local politician taking up half the lens. What does it mean to be owned by the internet? Everybody's Baby explores how relationships grow and fail in public and private life, the hazards of living “in the cloud,” and the nature of love online and off. 

I'm so excited about this story you might even convince me to come and tell it to you in interpretive dance, but for all of us it might be easier to if you pre-order it at one of the following retail links:

Kobo

Amazon

eBooks.com

Barnes & Noble
Google Play
Apple iTunes

The great news is that due to the wonder of apps, you can buy this book for your Android, iPhone, or whatever, and even support local bookstores like Fountain Bookstore in Richmond or Prince Books in Norfolk by using their links to buy via Kobo. Got your own favorite indie? Use their domain.com/ebook/9781466867840 and see what that does for you.

I hope you enjoy this new story. I can't wait for you to read it.

10 Other Places Besides Amtrak That Should Give Writers Residencies

Inspired by Amtrak's round-trip writers residency on a train, and Sally Kilpatrick's recent adventure to Staples, where she wrote 1000 words while trying out office furniture, I present ten more places that should give residencies to writers:

1. That boxcar from Dexter. 

Photo: Håkan Dahlström - http://www.flickr.com/photos/dahlstroms/

People are turning shipping containers into all kinds of things -- energy-efficient office spaces, homes... sometimes they are even used to ship things. But I'm envisioning a residency experience where you sit in a boxcar, up to your ankles in the blood of your relatives, and the only way to get out is to finish your draft. Looking at the photo above, I'm envisioning a group writing retreat. I'll take the orange one.

2. The ISS.

Photo: nasa.gov

Sorry, children, I can't get you that thing you need from the kitchen because I AM IN SPACE. Also, I accidentally left my phone on Earth, and I'm not going to the grocery store for 6 months. Bye.

3. IKEA

Come and work in the best organized office/pantry/closet ever. Eat many meatballs. Toss plateware of sparse design at curious shoppers.

Photo: IKEA

4. Wonderland

Photo: Reuters/David Grey

Remember that weird abandoned-before-launch amusement park in China? I know I could write a kick-ass book here. But I'll need fog. Lots of fog. I think if writers took this place over, like a pack of feral cats, with laptops and gin, we could probably revolutionize literature. I mean, if I try to write a sentence explaining how this place is a metaphor for...


5. My Bathtub

Photo: clawfoot.com

I have an old, huge, claw-foot tub. This isn't it, because that would be weird. But believe me: it's grand. When my friend Veronica saw it, she said: "That's a suicide tub." I might have already put that in a novel, but that just shows how inspiring this tub is. When I'm stuck on a plot point, I go boil myself in this tub, read 19th century fiction, and the answer comes to me. It would be a great place for a writer's residency, if I weren't such an uncharitable, self-centered person.

6. The Pit Under Jiffy Lube, Where They Do the Oil Changes

Maybe I just want to go down there. I'm pretty convinced it's a whole other world, one I will someday descend into on a greasy rope, laptop under my arm, and write 5000 novels while goblins march by on whispering missions.

Photo: Youtube user j1300

7. The Dressing Pods at Bloomingdale's Concept Store

Here white, glowing pods descend on you and your laptop from the ceiling, and cannot be lifted until you are writing-satiated. They're meant to be retractable dressing rooms that turn into lanterns, but you can pretend you're inside the brain of an insect from the future, and use the privacy to change short stories instead of pants.

Photo: Grey Crawford

8. The One Stall with a Door in the Women's Prison on Orange is the New Black

The urgency. The laser focus. You are not going to dick around on Twitter when you should be writing, if there's an angry woman outside your door yelling "PINCH OFF THAT SCENE, BITCH."

Photo: Alison Wright

9. The Waiting Room at Someone Else's Therapist's Office

Photo: http://www.wellness-centre.co.uk/

If you've ever taken someone else to their therapy appointment, you understand the sweet sanctuary of sitting in the waiting room, waiting for them to be done. You know exactly how long you have, you're responsible for absolutely nothing else during that time, and you forgot the wifi password, if there ever was one. There's a pleasant swirl of mild insanity infusing the room, giving you interesting ideas for your book. And there's also that confidence that comes with the satisfying knowledge that today you're not the crazy one, you're the driver. Fully capable of writing solid, reasonable novels that wise, sane people will find full of value and delight.

10. The Overlook Hotel

Photo: The Shining

Ok, screw being the driver. What I wouldn't give to sit down right now at that old typewriter, smoke one of those old cigarettes, and hurl my crumpled up manuscript pages at somebody's skinny wife and satanic kid. And of course the best thing about the Hotel Overlook as a gathering point for writers is not the demonic possession or the underage apparitions. It's the bar! 

Books I Read in 2013

The Third Son by Julie Wu

The Magicians by Lev Grossman

Don't Ever Grow Old by Daniel Friedman

Lord of the Flies by William Golding

Familiar by J. Robert Lennon

The Hobbit (read-aloud)

A Wrinkle in Time (read-aloud)

A Wind in the Door (read-aloud)

A Swiftly Tilting Planet (read-aloud)

River of Dust by Virginia Pye

Fantay Freaks and Gaming Geeks by Ethan Gilsdorf

The Hive by Gill Hornby

Fuse by Julianna Baggott

The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan 

Hemingway's Girl by Erika Robuck

Let the Water Hold Me Down by Michael Spurgeon

The Wife, The Maid and The Mistress by Ariel Lawhon

Heaven Should Fall by Rebecca Coleman

The Golden Age by John C. Wright

The Phoenix Exultant by John C. Wright

The Golden Transcendence by John C. Wright

Wash by Margaret Wrinkle

The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets by Diana Wagman

Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter

Small Blessings by Martha Woodruff

Red Moon by Benjamin Percy

The Last Enchantments by Charles Finch

The Rook by Daniel O'Malley

Swamplandia! by Karen Russell

Room by Emma Donoghue

The In-Between Hour by Barbara Claypole White

Calling Me Home by Julie Kibler

Fightsong by Joshua Mohr

The Art of Floating by Kristin Bair O'Keeffe

Gods of Gotham by Lyndsay Faye

A Marker To Measure Drift by Alexander Maksik

How to Be an American Housewife by Margaret Dilloway

The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

Pattern Recognition by William Gibson

Alva and Irva by Edward Carey

The Giant's House by Elizabeth McCracken

Seven For a Secret by Lyndsay Faye

The Animals by Christian Kiefer

Run, Don't Walk by Adele Levine

Shipbreaker by Paolo Bacigalupi

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

A Separate Peace by John Knowles

Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood

Untold Damage by Robert K. Lewis

Heap House by Edward Carey

The Deepest Secret by Carla Buckley

YOU by Austin Grossman

The Year of the Gadfly by Jennifer Miller

The Future for Curious People by Gregory Sherl

Golden State by Michelle Richmond

Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card

Not a Drop to Drink by Mindy McGinnis

Budapest by Jessica Keener

World War Z by Max Brooks 

An Explanation for Everything by Lauren Grodstein

Cascade by Maryanne O'Hara

Field Guide for Lost Girls by Amy Franklin Willis

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen 

Don't Ever Look Back by Daniel Friedman

A Highly Unlikely Scenario by Rachel Cantor

Still In Progress as of December 28:

The Moment of Everything by Shelly King

Where I Am Born by Michele Young-Stone

Melville Biography by Herschel Parker

Stupid Children Lenore Zion

Cinder by Marissa Meyer

The Story of Britain by Rachel Frasier

Guess the Story

On Christmas Day, the Richmond Times Dispatch will publish an original short story "Right Before Christmas." This is the illustration they created to go along with the story. If you can be the first to accurately guess the plot of the scene depicted here, I'll send you your choice of prize: a signed copy of the story printed in the newspaper, or a signed paperback of Shine Shine Shine. I'll pick one winner from my Facebook page and one winner here.