I know some of you have been enjoying my Monday lists, but I’m feeling a bit, um, listless about them right now. And since this is my blog and I’ll cry if I want to, I thought I’d explore another topic. Welcome to Manuscript Monday, where I share thoughts about my writing journey.

I had no idea what I was getting into when Dutton contracted me to write TMI (scroll down to “How did you become a writer?” for more details about this). When my editor spoke of drafts and revisions, I imagined a process similar to writing college papers, only with more words. I’d do a first draft, get feedback, make a few changes, and then polish up the grammar and punctuation. I didn’t expect it to be easy, but I wasn’t at all daunted by the task.

The experience of writing and revising TMI behind me, I was seriously daunted when I began working on my new novel. I knew how much work was in front of me. I knew that thousands and thousands of the words I wrote would never make it to the printed page.

The word count on my first draft of TMI was 101,835. The final draft? 76,167. These numbers don’t take into account all of the new material I wrote for each draft, which means that I cut more than 25,000 words during the revision process. If memory serves, I nixed at least fifty pages on the final draft and added seventy new ones.

TMI’s final word count is on the high side for a young adult novel; not counting sagas like Twilight and Harry Potter, most YA novels hover around 60,000-75,000 words. If I could go back in time and do another round of revisions on TMI, I would. That’s not to say I’m not proud of it as is. But like most authors, I see things that could have been better and things that probably should have been left out.

So how am I doing right now? The first draft of my new book was 68,600 words. I’m now about a quarter of the way through revising, and I’ve cut over 10,000 words and added at least 5,000 new ones. The book is going in a different direction than I’d originally planned, and I’m pleased about it. I feel like I’ve grown a lot as a writer in the last few months. I’m not nearly as attached to my words as I used to be. I’ve taken out scenes that were funny and interesting but don’t ultimately move the story along or show the main character’s development.

Those scenes end up in the “Scraps” folder. Occasionally, I’ll go back and rescue a few sentences or paragraphs, but I know that most of those carefully crafted scenes will remain on the cutting room floor. And I’m okay with that. It’s part of the process, and frankly, I’m beginning to really enjoy it. It’s freeing to realize that something isn’t working and that I have the power to change it.

It happened again this morning. I woke up at 4:30 and couldn’t get back to sleep for an hour and a half. Lying in the early morning dark, I felt angry and confused. It’s not like I wanted to rip out a ninety-minute chunk of precious slumber. I have a two-year-old to chase after all day. I needed that sleep.

This keeps happening, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there isn’t much to be done about it, aside from taking sedatives. And I’m not a fan of medications in general (okay, except for ibruprofen).

When I was younger, I expected that by this age (34, if you’re wondering), I’d be this totally calm, happy person who didn’t worry about anything. Yes, I had a few delusions (still do). (And I overuse parentheses.) (I have problems.)

But I really thought I’d have things figured out. I guess it’s because most adults I knew seemed to self-assured. In control. Now I know it was just a veneer.

As I stood groggy-eyed in the kitchen this morning, I told my husband, “I don’t understand why I can’t top worrying about things. Seriously, I’m too old for this crap. When am I going to finally relax?”

He smiled. “Oh, in about seventy or eighty years, I’m sure you’ll be very relaxed.”

I laughed.

It wasn’t one of those light bulb moments, like, “Oh! So that’s just the way I am.” I already know I’m a fretter, a cuticle-picker, a basic Nervous Nellie. But I haven’t embraced it yet. I’ve held out hope that I’m going to magically change someday. And while I’ve mellowed a bit with age, this is who I am at the core.

A worrywart isn’t so bad, though, right? It doesn’t cost anything, it’s not physically addictive, and it’s legal. True, it’s not very good for me, but neither are the cookies I eat everyday. We all have our vices, right?

I have a major regret regarding Hold Still. I first heard about it a few months ago, but I was up to my neck in other good reading and figured I’d get to it eventually. Then in January, I had the opportunity to go out for brunch with a bunch of amazing Bay Area young adult authors. Nina LaCour was among them. We only spoke briefly, but if I’d known how incredible her book was, I would have read it beforehand so I could have talked to her about it. I’m hoping to have that chance in the future.

Hold Still is breathtaking.

It’s the story of Caitlin, a high school senior dealing with the suicide of her best friend, Ingrid. Now, you might be thinking, “Ooh, sounds a little too heavy duty for my taste.” But LaCour handles the entire issue with a grace that allowed me to sympathize with Caitlin while feeling like her grief was very much her own. As I read, I felt as if I were peeking through a window at Caitlin as she figured out how to manage her emotions. I was peeking over her shoulder as she read Ingrid’s journal. I was a witness, not a participant.

That’s not to say that I’m opposed to being sucked into the vortex of a character’s suffering. I was a Russian literature major, for crying out loud. I can handle the heavy stuff. At the same time, I stand in awe of any author who commands a heavy subject without making a book heavy-handed. And that’s exactly what Nina LaCour did in her debut novel.

Hats off to you, Nina. Let’s have brunch again.

Awesome author Sydney Salter interviewed me about romantic relationships and is giving away a copy of my book. See her blog for details. Sydney will be stopping by my blog in May as part of the blog tour. See you soon, Sydney!

Things that make me stompin’ mad!

1. Construction work during naptime

2. Spittle on the sidewalk

3. War

4. Clonking my head on things

5. Smokers

6. The loose interpretation of the word “cappuccino” by baristas (Okay, I don’t get so mad I stomp. Just annoyed.)

7. Shoe salespeople who bring me size 9 1/2 because they didn’t have size 10. Like that’s going to work.

8. Surprise tickles

9. All the suffering in the world

10. MSG

Sorry, no Friday Flashback today. I’m ignoring my dark and shameful past today. Just don’t feel like going there. I’m not sure where I feel like going.

This new novel is kicking my booty. TMI did, too, but in a different way. So what’s changed?

I know more now. I know better. I’m not saying I know what I’m doing; I doubt I’ll ever feel that way (and seasoned authors have admitted that they still feel like frauds and amateurs). But since writing TMI, I’ve read a huge stack of young adult novels. I’ve studied the genre. I’m learning from the masters. I’ve closed the cover on a number of books and said to myself, “Aw yeah. This is how it’s done.”

I’ve highlighted many of those books on my blog already. In fact, I rarely blog about a book I don’t absolutely love. I’m making recommendations. Why would I waste time writing about a book I didn’t enjoy? I’m not a reviewer; there are already plenty of those out there. And okay, I don’t want to make any enemies. But fair enough, right? It’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to.

Or recommend books. Which isn’t at all like crying, unless the books are so good they made me cry. Which sometimes happens.

Oh, whatever.

So with all this newly found knowledge about what makes a YA novel great, you’d think I could simply apply a magic formula to my own book and make it sparkle. Problem is, there is no formula. Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson is amazing in a completely different way than The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks by E. Lockhart. John Green and Lauren Myracle are brilliant in their own unique rights. I love these authors and so many more. And I couldn’t imitate them even if I tried.

So what’s a YA author to do? I’m trying hard to be myself, sing in my own voice, carve my own path. I just don’t know where I’m headed.

Stay tuned.

Current obsessions

1. The huge bin of homemade chocolate chip cookies in my freezer

2. Survivor: Heroes vs. Villains (Go, villains!)

3. How far my new protagonist should go with her boyfriend

4. Removing mold from every stinkin’ corner of my home

5. Sleep, and how to get more

6. Facebook statuses of pregnant friends

7. “Hey, Hey What Can I Do” by Led Zeppelin: the definitive theme song of my new novel

8. Those damn cookies again

9. The Pioneer Woman

10. How in the world that woman got her hair to do that

I took an introductory German class in ninth grade and really enjoyed it (the first blossoms of my grammar nerdity). One morning, Herr Mann was giving a lesson about the weather and going over all the relevant vocabulary. I asked for a pass to go to the bathroom, and when I returned, Herr Mann was reviewing a list of terms on the board. He asked me, “Sarah, imagine it’s a sunny day, and you feel sweaty. What would you say?”

I scanned the words on the board, and saw hot = heiss.

“Ich bin heiss,” I answered. Literal translation: “I am hot.”

The class erupted in laughter. Heat crept into my cheeks, and I wrinkled my brow in confusion.

“Ich bin heiss means ‘I am hot sexually,’” explained Herr Mann. “You should have said, ‘Mir ist heiss.’”

How the flip was I supposed to know that? I scowled at Herr Mann for preying on my ignorance and never asked him for the bathroom pass again.

Next up on the blog tour is Stacey Jay, whose debut You Are So Undead To Me, was released in January 2009. The sequel, Undead Much?, is out now, and with a title like that, how could you resist?

About Undead Much?

Even Zombie Settlers with Super Hot Boyfriends get the Blues…

A few months ago I was a normal girl with a normal life. But that was before my power to Settle the Undead returned and someone tried to kill me with zombies.

Now I work magic and practice kicking butt while trying to find time for pom squad and my boyfriend, Ethan, and trying NOT to think about how freaky my life has become. It can be tough. Still…things could be worse…

Oh yeah, right:

1. Feral new super-strong zombies. Check.
2. Undead psychic hottie predicting a zombie apocolypse. Check.
3. Earth-shattering secrets that could land me in Settler prison for life. Check.
4. Cheerleader vs. pom squad turf war threatening the end of the half time as we know it. Check.

I’m going to need therapy (and a cookie) if I live through the week. Unfortunately I’m learning that’s not something Zombie Queens can take for granted.

About Stacey Jay

Stacey Jay is a workaholic with three pen names, and a sick sense of humor. She loves creepies, crawlies, and of course, romance. What would a zombie novel–or any novel–be without kisses that make your toes tingle?

Stacey has been a full-time writer since 2005 and can’t think of anything she’d rather be doing. Her former careers include theatre performer, professional dancer, poorly paid C-movie actress, bartender, and waiter.

Advice from Stacey Jay

1. What’s one of the best pieces of advice you’ve ever received?

Treat everyone with respect.

2. What’s one of the worst pieces of advice you’ve ever received?

Don’t ever give up. There are times when giving up is the strongest course of action, when it doesn’t make sense to keep slamming your head against the wall trying to do something that isn’t a good fit for your life/personality.

3. What advice would you give to your sixteen-year-old self, knowing all that you know now?

Skip drama school and use that scholarship for something that might actually qualify you to make some money. (Oh, and minor in creative writing .)

Conversational moments that make me cringe:

1. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…”
I know that what’s coming next isn’t going to be pretty. And to make matters worse, whoever says this is preemptively telling me how to react. How fair is that? A better opener would be, “I need to be really honest with you about something.” Then I’m still prepared, and I’m much more likely to listen instead of thinking about what a jackass the speaker is for trying to manipulate my feelings.

2. “You totally look like this person I know.”
That may very well be true. But unless that person is a devastatingly gorgeous celebrity that I’ve seen before, I really don’t care.

3.”Let me tell you a crazy-ass story about this girl I knew in high school. Oh, gosh, what was her name?” [pounds forehead with fist] “I can’t believe I’m blanking on it.” [spends two more minutes trying to come up with name as I pick my cuticles]
I understand that it bothers people when they forget names, I really do. But if I wouldn’t recognize the name anyway, what does it matter? Just call her Georgette and continue the story, please.

4. “Not gonna happen.”
I hate this phrase, for complicated reasons involving a painful conversation with an ex-boyfriend. I’ve forbidden my husband from saying it, along with “I disagree,” “You’re mistaken, and “You’re wrong.” Yes, my ex was a bit of a contrarian.

5. “You actually watch/eat/like that?”
I fully understand the meaning of “To each his own.” I don’t expect everyone to share my taste in television shows, snacks, reading materials, and eighties movies. That’s fine. I am an unapologetic Survivor fan and indulge in the occasional Hostess cupcake. You don’t have to like that about me, but could you stop openly judging me? I’ve never said a word about your collection of velvet paintings. Until now, I guess.