GONNA PARTY LIKE IT'S 1987

My brother turned the big 3-1 over the weekend; before the Schindler shindig, I found this bottom-of-the-shoebox pic of his big 0-9 at Skateland. (Brother John’s third from the left, in the striped shirt, and I’m on the far right—yes, and actual picture of moi—in that radical penguin T.)




My piano / guitar students have been informing me for years that skating parties are passé, blasé, and in no way cool. But does this photo not prove them ALL wrong? I mean, the skates with the neon orange wheels! The music—Tears for Fears practically oozes off this picture! The arcade—Tag Team Wrestling? Yes, please!

Ah, the 80’s…I swear, if I could only get my Big Wheel back (a green mode of transportation!), I’d be SOOOO happy…

YES, ACTUALLY

I, Holly Schindler, took a weekend (GASP!!!). Okay, so I took it with a notebook. And so I had the first chapter of the current book I’m revising tucked under the cooler in the backseat. And so I worked out a plan to revamp the start of that novel.

But: the point is, I turned the computer off and drove to an actual lake far from the sound of actual car engines and spent time in the actual sun. Barbecued ribs. Laughter. Stones skipping and pe-lunking across the skin of the water.

...I also really love checking in on my own favorite authors’ blogs to see their landscapes. To find out what the sunlight’s dancing off of when they wake in the morning: seashores, city blocks, mountaintops.

This is my landscape. Or a slice of it, anyway.

Yes, actually.

HARD-BOILED BABIES AND SOCK DRAWER MANUSCRIPTS

So you’re thinking: Good God A’mighty, Gertrude, what’s with all this talk of revision? Revision, rewrite, rework…re, re, re…Sure, the girl’s promised to be off and running on a new draft—but has she? Hmm? Has she started a single new project lately, or is she still revising old ones? More importantly: how many old projects can the girl possibly have?

Uh, well, um, a lot. And I mean. A lot. I’ve got manuscripts crammed in my sock drawer and the breadbox. The crisper in the Frigidaire. The glove compartment in the Mercury. They fall out of the linen closet when I reach for clean pillowcases.

I have, after all, been writing full time since ’01.

And sure, those books didn’t exactly work the first time around, but hey, I lost track of exactly how long this female cardinal attempted to build her nest at my house. First she tried the sill of my office window, then the porch light, then an awning, each time getting only about halfway through before the nest toppled from the too-small sill, or slid down the awning, or, okay, got destroyed by a do-gooding writer (that porch light gets so hot, it would have hard-boiled her babies, I swear). But she kept at it…and since I haven’t seen her in a while, I feel it’s safe to assume that she finally found the perfect answer to it all.

…And eventually, the same will be said of all my old manuscripts…

RED SKY AT NIGHT, WRITER'S DELIGHT

Okay, so this sunset's actually more gold than red, but the point is, I'm really pleased with the current OCEAN FLOOR rewrite I've been polishing up for Flux...

And I'm getting so close to an official title and cover art, the roots of my hair tingle!

...Stay tuned...

EVERYTHING'S JAKE

My Peke’s contribution to the revision process:

‘Scuse me, ‘scuse me. HEY. Are you seriously going to stare at that computer all day? When there are leaf blowers out there to attack? Wild onions to sniff?

Come on—ten minutes. Get in the car; we’ll let our ears ripple in the wind.

You don’t even have to pay me for my excellent idea. Or maybe you do. I’ll take a cookie or a belly rub.

Your choice.

THE EVER-EXPANDING DEFINITION OF A WRITER

The ink is barely dry on my long-coveted first contract, and already, I’ve learned that Webster got the definition of a writer (“one who writes esp. as an occupation”) totally wrong. Here’s a better description:

writ-er \׳rīt-ər\ n : a tech-guru, photographer, pitch-man, publicist, advertising specialist, short movie producer, public speaker, networking expert, and, oh, yeah, an individual who pens novels.

I’m sure I’ll only be adding to this definition as my publication date draws near…and I absolutely love hearing from fellow authors (what an ambidextrous bunch) about all the odd-ball know-how they’ve acquired during the course of their writing careers. Their stories make me so anxious and excited to find out where this (already) amazing ride will take me next...

PURPLE PASSAGE

Redbud trees (sigh—mine died in the Springfield Ice Storm of ’07) aren’t really red any more than red onions are. They’re purple—just like the march of spring across the Ozarks.

Funny place to be in, winding down one novel’s rewrite (coming closer to an end) just as Missouri’s in the midst of a new beginning, tugging open a pastel rainbow of buds—white, pink, and, yes, purple. (I love the way the blooms pictured here are clumped like waded-up balls of paper, as though a frustrated writer’s first attempts are hanging from the limbs. Hmmm. Could this be the Revision Tree?)

Soon, blue robin’s eggs will crack open like the spines of books for the first time.

…And I will be off on a new adventure, tramping through the mud of another rough draft.

TREASURE HUNTING

I am in the process of rewriting two novels. This is not a typo. And, yes, I have read Millay and her warnings about candles with two fiery ends.

I am deep-sea diving in two separate oceans, alternating between the two, spending a whole day on one coast, then a day on another.

Actually, taking a day off one project means that, when I return to it, I find new avenues for exploration, new crevices in which to do a little literary treasure hunting.

…As long as I can keep it straight, which ocean I’m in…

HOW TO BUY TIME

Spring’s creeping, slow as a breeze up an arm. Which means that it’s time to pull out the tuning hammer and curl my back over the family Cable.

Our piano’s a real heirloom—the only item my grandfather ever purchased “on time.” Funny, that old expression for charging an item…especially since the piano is what bought me time. Teaching music lessons in the afternoons allowed me to pay those pesky bills while devoting eight hours every day to my writing.

I love the music of old pianos. Their soundboards don’t just vibrate with notes, but with history. The hopes of three generations float out from the inside of mine, every time so much as a single scale is played on the (okay, faux) ivories…

MUG SHOTS IN THE AGE OF HEADLESS COVER ART

Gratitude abounds—I've received so many kind words regarding my spankin' new website!

I've also received several questions about what I look like...which surprises me, actually. Especially in this age of cover-art-sans-faces. I'm thinking of the completely headless images of young girls splashed across the covers of Mary E. Pearson's A Room on Lorelei Street, Laurie Faria Stolarz's Deadly Little Secret, Rachel Cohn's Gingerbread (hardback edition, of course), and pretty much anything by Sarah Dessen: Just Listen, The Truth About Forever, Along for the Ride...

Other recent covers depict partial or obscured faces (Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak or Lisa Yee's Stanford Wong Flunks Big-Time), and some avoid using any kind of portrait at all: Sara Zarr's Sweethearts, David Levithan's The Realm of Possibility, Lisa McMann's Fade, Linda Joy Singleton's Witch Ball, and pretty much anything by Ellen Hopkins: Glass, Tricks, etc.

The tactic bleeds into adult literature as well: In the romance genre, for example (picture the cover of Susan Wiggs' Just Breathe, featuring a photo of a woman taken from the back). And mystery (the faceless girls racing around a tree on the cover of Laura Lippman's What the Dead Know).

Whew—and these are all examples I just pulled from my bookshelf!

Okay, okay, so there are plenty of covers out there that break this rule...but for my book buying money, I like the headless art. The same way I like to read a book before I see the movie. The writer in me likes the chance to fashion the heroes and villains in my own imagination...and, yes, I love to imagine the writer, too...suede elbow patches and pipe, or ripped jeans and piercings. I like to picture a person who fits the persona of the book...like to believe that maybe the voice screaming through the chapters has roots somewhere in the real world (feels less like losing a friend when I turn the final page).

But it poses an interesting question: Does a photo of an author destroy the fantasy? Or does a picture hovering over a bio on a website suddenly make him / her real?

And for those who asked about my own mug, I've got two words: Gwyneth. Paltrow. (Enter wacky emoticon of your choice here.)

I'M A SIGHT...I MEAN, SITE!

Aura Ambrose (the main character of my novel) has just inched the paint-splattered toes of her Chuck Taylors into cyberspace.

(Check out www.hollyschindler.com)

LITTLE KNOWN MERMAID FACTS #1-5

In writing THE OCEAN FLOOR, I actually became quite the expert on little known mermaid facts.

The first five things I was surprised to learn:

1). Mermaid scales are incredibly ticklish.

2). A mermaid's laughter sounds like wind chimes.

3). A mermaid's hair looks like silk ribbons up-close.

4). Mermaids dance.

5). Mermaids are especially happy to be included in novels.

THE ERA OF HOLEY SOCKS

Sure, I've got cold feet—it's February in Missouri, after all, a time when you could practically play music to the beat of an entire town's chattering teeth. And my left heel and right big red toenail are poking through a pair of wool socks as worn-out as an 80-year-old marathon runner.

But metaphorical cold feet? The kind that sends brides running from altars or would-be authors scrambling for 9-5 work when times get rough? Never have known that. Not in the seven and a half years I spent working toward becoming a published novelist. Not even when rejection poured like freezing rain—the kind that paralyzes cities, levels the strongest trees, yanks power lines like they're just stray threads from a blouse.

Rejection, be damned—I kept writing. Incessantly. No regular 9-5 for me (which accounts for the holey socks). Drafted my novels on a clunky, modem-less 1980's-vintage computer (seriously) and spiral notebooks.

Hoped. Believed. Screamed in frustration, but always turned the anger into work-fuel.

Eureka. A yes.

I am thrilled to announce my debut YA novel, THE OCEAN FLOOR (that's just the working title; my editor says it'll probably change) is scheduled to be released by Flux in 2010!

Let me say that again: My debut novel. Flux. 2010.

My feet might (literally) be cold, but my insides are as warm as an August heat wave...