Focusing on the important stuff.

This article cracks me up: Where are India's beauties?

Are these people really complaining that the young women of their country aren't racing to sashay around in swimsuits as the bizarre Barbie pawns of the Miss Universe racket? Like, seriously? Besides, they won seven years ago! It's totally not their turn yet.

I am a sewing maniac lately. Other people have contests for galleys and advance copies of their books... I might have to have a contest where I give away coasters. Special handmade coasters. Eh? Eh? Eh? But first I'd have to think of a contest. "Name My Book"? "Come To My House and Make Me Stop Sewing and Get Back to Writing"? Or possibly... "Who Wants Some Coasters?"

Also, is anybody else on Facebook? Joanne from Backspace just friended me there (but you probably don't call it "friending"... oh well), and it seems so much faster and cleaner than MySpace. Anyway, friend me there. Or face me or whatever you call it. I go by... Katie Alender.

Taking control and letting go

We've been watching "On the Lot" because a girl we went to film school with is on the show. It really dredges up those film school memories -- squabbles on set, people thinking their way is the only way, etc.

One girl's comment stood out to me. She was on a team with this guy whose "I didn't go to film school" shoulder chip is, in my opinion, oversized. But he was opinionated and not afraid to act. I'm not saying I like him -- if I met him, I'd probably hate him -- but he was standing up for himself. And this girl was not. When she got kicked off because her scene was poorly conceived and poorly executed, she said, "But I didn't DO it." As though that were an excuse.

Not DOING it is the whole problem. She meant, "I was focused on the acting, not all the other stuff." She kept saying that she was a good director and trusted her director of photography to look after his end of things.

But like so many other things in life, directing means DOING it. It means being aware that your DP is off in the corner, picking his nose, and letting the boom dip into the shot. And fixing the problem.

I'm not sure if this ties neatly into writing. I think the bigger problem in writing is that people have too much control, in a way. They create the whole thing, which is such a monumental effort that by the end, you feel like you've really paid those dues. You've really earned (an agent/a book sale/the adoration of your peers). But the worst part is that the initial burst of hard work doesn't usually suffice. (More power to you if it does, of course!)

As the author, you have to let go. You have to back off. Some people need a day. Some people need an hour. I'm starting to think I need about a month. And then you have to dig back in, and you need to swallow your pride and look for the literary equivalent of your cameraguy crouching behind the desk consuming his own nose excretions. And you need to fix it.

I think I may have mentioned this, but one of the Lovely Editor's most recent notes was, "Do we really need the second-to-last chapter?"

Huff huff huff! Of course we do! I wouldn't have written it if we didn't! I mean, look, you can't wrap up the story without mentioning X, and Y, and Z...!

Except it took me about forty-five seconds to realize that we really didn't need it. Cutting it was a major act of cleanup. A major removal of content that lessened the impact of the conclusion of the book. So it's gone.

And I guess my conclusion is that in writing you have to know when to let go and when to take control.

Happy weekend! I have two days of voice-over next week on this show and then I'm on hiatus, woohoo!

Although I do have jury duty. Can everyone please cross their fingers that Uncle Sam doesn't want me?

In which I discuss today's events.

The husb said: "Matt is coming over to watch the season finale of 24."

I heard:

"Matt is coming over to watch the season finale of American Idol."

I said, "Really? Hmm. Why?"

And then I figured, oh, what the hey. Live and let live.

The Lovely Editor has completed her tenure at Hyperion. She is off to use her superb story sense to create her own writing. We talked about this, and she said (PS - if you read this, I hope you don't mind my paraphrasing), "But I don't have the ideas," and I was forced to realize and admit that I don't have the ideas, either.

I mean, really. Right now, I am 30 years old and I have... five?... ideas that I consider to be very strong. Some of them are more-than-one-book strong, but still. I fully expect more in the coming years, but still.

I am always, I said wisely (ha), looking for ideas. In the car on the way to work. At work. In the grocery store, when I get dragged to that hateful place. Walking the dog. Talking to the neighbors. Being scared into psychotic fits of giggling by my friends, in the name of birthdays. I must come up with, conservatively, a hundred ideas a month.

The most important part of my job is not to think up stories; it is to write them down.

The Lovely Editor and I had a lovely conversation, during which I realized how much my book and I owe her, and how even though she is no longer my editor, I still want to hear what she has to say about... just about everything.

She is now a Lovely Friend. Always has been.

What a gift, yes?

I'm Thirty, I'm Wordy, and Here's a Birdy

I wasn't actually planning on adding a photo until I needed a third rhyming word, but okay.

I made it to and through my 30th birthday. Nothing has bothered me about it, except that people around me KEEP throwing surprise celebrations, which is startling and basically gives me the vapors, AND that I realized I'm "in my thirties". There's something about being in one's thirties that is thuper different from being in one's twenties. Pretty soon I'm going to be in a different advertising demographic -- ouch.

For the first time in a long time, I'm working on a short story. The marvelous Backspace has a monthly short story "contest" (quotes are misleading -- it really is a contest, it's just kind of low-stakes), and I wanted to give it a try. For a long time, I thought I couldn't write short stories, and maybe I can't. But I suspect it just takes the right idea, and not some book-length something or other mangled down to 3500 words. So anyway, I have to finish that soon. I'll report back on how it goes. (If it goes well. If not, crickets chirping.)

A girl I went to film school with is on "On the Lot". She's the girl in the red jacket and black puffy beret (the only other way to describe it is "Fievel Hat") that they couldn't take the camera off of the first day. Go, Tamela D'Amico! I didn't plan to watch that show but now I suppose I have to. Watching that show, where they have to pitch the ideas, made me think that if any one of them had read through Miss Snark's Crapometer exercise, they would have had a huge edge. God bless Miss Snark.

Aside from the short story, I've realized that it's time I start writing on the new project. I have a few thousand words I put down to get my head in the game for the synopsis, and now those are getting consigned to the "OLD" folder while I move forward without them. Gone but not forgotten.

And I had the most frightful idea yesterday for a sequel to TGLL, of all things. I never ever thought about that before, but there you go. So we'll put that one in the back to simmer for a while and see what bubbles to the surface.

Birdy (this is one of the three or so Cooper's Hawks that sail around our neighborhood and cry in their surprisingly girly voices):

Mom, this is the right page. (Content-light posting follows.)

Hi, Mom!

My mother just called to tell me that 30 years ago, she was in labor with my fine self. I didn't really interfere with all the parties and picnics and what-have-you they had planned, which was polite of me. I kindly held out until three o'clock in the morning, when all the festivities were over with.

I'm moving a little slowly today because what I thought was a normal trip to the beach yesterday was actually a surprised birthday party, which was awesome. We still got in quite a bit of Winston-chasing-tennis-ball-me-chasing-Winston, so I'm quite wiped out.

I do have to get myself dressed soon, but first I had to clear up any confusion my mother might be experiencing due to the blog switchover. Hey, she brought me into this world, it's really the least I can do, right?

In writing news... I'm going to speak to my new editor this morning. I think I might need a second cup of coffee first... to ensure coherence.

Miss Snark, whither goest thou?

So since you are reading this, you must be one of them hepcats who messes around in the blogosphere, and that means there's a 90% chance you've heard of Miss Snark. An anonymous advice-dispensing literary agent with a poodle, a ginbucket, and a one-way love affair with George Clooney.

Well, Miss Snark is retiring.

I hope her Snarkives will live on in perpetuity, because her advice is well worth reading for anyone interested in publishing.

It actually kind of boggles the mind how much she's done for the writing community. How much of her time and energy must have gone into sifting through the vast amounts of questions and comments, and then answering them thoughtfully! I wonder what she will do with her time now. Somewhere in the 212 is a woman who is about to be shocked at the amount of free time on her hands, I predict.

Well, I discovered Miss Snark last fall, read through the entire archives, and was looking forward to continuing to read for as long as she was willing to blog.

Long live the Snark!

Girl power!!

Welcome to KatieAlender.com!

Well, I have always been the type to spend eight hours doing something myself rather than asking for help or following someone else's directions. And that is why I am so proud to announce that I wrangled this Blogger template all by myself.

My name is Katie Alender, if you didn't guess that already, or know it already, and among many other things, I'm an author. I write books for young adults. Most of what I write features girls who are really cool and powerful, because I knew a lot of girls like that growing up and I want more girls to have the chance to grow up to feel smart and confident and like they own their bodies and their souls etc. etc. etc.

My first book, which for now is called THE GIRL LEAST LIKELY but probably won't be called that for long, will be released by Hyperion Books next Spring (2008), and I'm having a great time getting it all prepped for publication.

I love to write, I love to read, I love to sew, I love my dog, I love hanging out with my friends, and I love the fact that after like two solid DAYS of trying to get this blog to work, I did it!

Please subscribe to my RSS feed, and I'll try to keep you entertained and informed. Also feel free to prowl around the website and email me with suggestions.

Title agony 2k7

I have to put this in writing, because I can't get it out of my head. And at least if I blog about it, I stand a tiny chance of moving forward.

Titles have been on my mind nonstop lately. If anyone knows the perfect spooky title for a YA ghost story, please post it here, and I'll send you a dog quilt.

Anyway, naturally, as one continues to ponder and ponder and ponder, and make mental and actual lists of words that are remotely associated with scariness, ghosts, teenagers, girls, pink hair, green eyes, photography, haunted houses, etc., one is bound to stumble upon some really dumb ideas.

So here's my magnum opus of dumb ideas, which like I said, I am ashamed of.

In fact, it's not even so much a title as a slogan, like for a really cheesy horror movie. One where Paris Hilton (bless her heart) plays a high-schooler despite the fact that she hasn't seen the inside of a high school for, like, years. That is, if she ever saw the inside of a high school.

You have to picture one of those commercials where the kids are all screeching and the girls are wearing bikinis at a house party (there are neither bikinis nor house parties in my book, because who can think about those things when one's little sister is homicidal?)... and then the announcer comes on, with his gravelly voice and says:

"ALEXIS JUST DISCOVERED THAT HER LITTLE SISTER PUTS THE 'DIE'... IN DYSFUNCTIONAL."

Yes, this is what I'm doing to myself in the name of art. My brain is officially soggy egg noodles.

Paris, Britney, Nicole, etc.

Paris Hilton is going to jail. Somehow her legal team allowed her to show up for court 10 minutes late. You would think they could have a helicopter waiting. Something, anything -- to avoid arriving late. Of course, celebrities tend to spend a couple of hours at this particular jail and then go home. But it was eerie yesterday, knowing that somewhere within 15 miles of me, Paris Hilton was having a complete and total meltdown.

I wonder how this looks to teenage girls. When I was in high school, our role models were Madonna, Nancy Kerrigan, Kennedy from MTV, the staff of Sassy magazine. They didn't do stupid things in public (well, you know). They had an identity. They weren't these photocopied versions of some Eurotrash ideal, reproduced to the point of complete incomprehensibility. You didn't have to like them -- that was half the fun -- but they were real.

Every time I sit down to write about a teen girl, and what she goes through, and what she's trying to be and trying not to be, something in the back of my head is repeating, "Show them they don't have to be like those girls."

We are letting the vague specter of society gobble up beautiful young women and spit them out. How sad, how limiting, what a waste!