“With literature, as with the arts, as with faith—and life—there is really no good stopping place.”
–Dr. Richard H. Cracroft

I took the quotation above from an article published in my alumni magazine by a former professor of mine, Dr. Cracroft. As I’ve mentioned before on this blog, he taught the Wallace Stegner senior course, and that class shaped me as a person, a reader, and a writer.

I love this quote because I think I expect, or hope for, good stopping places. A nice photo finish to an event; a clear and natural tapering to something, an obvious denouement. But it’s not like that in life. It’s not even like that in books.

Even after we close a book, or finish writing a novel, the story goes on in our minds; we turn it over as we try to sleep; we move it forward as we wipe the counters, change the diapers. We leave it alone but come back to it and pick it up again.

I have crossed paths with Dr. Cracroft several times since I took that class. He lives close enough to me that sometimes I see him in our church building; I am always delighted, as I think we all are, when we see a teacher who truly changed our learning and our lives.

Recently, I’ve been thinking about letting my teaching license expire. I’ve kept it up for eleven years and right now there are many demands on my time (and keeping up a license requires taking classes, tests, etc.). But it’s hard to let go. For years, I dreamed of becoming a Dr. Cracroft or a Marilyn Fotheringham (seventh grade reading) or a Jeana Rock, Louise Durham, Joyce Oldroyd, Jon Ostenson, or Karen Brown (teachers who mentored me when I was a beginner). Reading this article made me realize that perhaps there never really is a good stopping place for the things we love.

As always, Dr. Cracroft has given me a great deal of food for thought.

The article by Dr. Cracroft can be found in its entirety here at BYU Magazine.

P.S. I’ve responded to all the comments on the last post. Many thanks for sharing what you love right now!

The picture of the minivan is because as I was writing this post I was reminded of a comment by my friend Libby when we both ended up falling head-over-heels in love with our minivans, in spite of the aging domesticity and soccer momitude they suggested. One day Libby told me, “You know what I think when people say they will never, ever drive a minivan and can’t believe that I do?”

“What?” I asked her.

“I just feel sorry for them,” she said. “Think of all they’re missing! It’s like people who talk about how they will NEVER read Harry Potter!” I could not stop laughing.

But this post is not to talk about the awesomeness of minivans or Harry Potter, although I do like both of those things. Rather, it’s to address the issue of feeling like we have to justify ourselves for our writing. It came about because of a question Karen asked in the comments of a recent blog entry of mine:

How do you justify what you do to someone who thinks that writing fiction (especially for children) isn’t serious work?

I gave my short answer to this question on Tuesday:

I don’t.

By which I mean, of course, that I don’t justify myself. Perhaps it is because I have worked in a long line of careers that people tend to look down their nose upon: public school teacher, stay-at-home mom. I’ve gotten used to being the one that kills the conversation when people ask, “What do you do?” and then you tell them and then you can see their eyes scanning the room frantically for someone else to talk with.

So I’ve learned that if I have to try to convince someone that what I do is worthwhile, it’s going to take far too long and be too frustrating for both of us. Frustrating for me, because I honestly believe that what I do is worthwhile no matter what anyone else thinks, and for them because they honestly don’t (or else they are being condescending, in which case it’s even more frustrating).

So then what do you do?

You answer with pride, you open the door, and you hope for the shift to take place.

My husband is an economist. For many years, this was also a party-killer. “You do what?” someone would say.

“I’m an economist,” he’d answer.

“Like for a job?” they’d ask, making sure.

“Yes,” he would say, his eyes alight with joy at his chosen profession (people, the man LOVES economics and math).

“I hated that class in college,” they’d say, and then try to escape.

But then the economy tanked, and all of a sudden people were interested in the economy and in talking to him. People on our street would call him for advice. It was great, but he loved economics either way.

So what changed? It became relevant to people. Suddenly they cared because economics mattered to them and they wanted to know why and how and all those good questions.

So I hope for that shift. Maybe I can be the one who causes it, by asking if they remember a book they loved as a child. Maybe I can ask if they have a child, or love a child, or believe that literacy matters, or have spent time in a school recently, or have ever been carried away in a story. If so, then things might change. And we can talk. But if they still aren’t convinced, I can walk away, because I know that these things matter, and someday (I firmly believe this) they will remember that too. I can try to remind people why books, and reading, and stories, are important, but in the end life will teach them or remind them of the truth.

Reading to young people and writing for young people are two of most important parts of my life, and I don’t have to justify that to anyone.

I came up on this anniversary a month or two ago and thought, “I should write a post about that!” and then I worked on an actual book instead.

I’ve been writing for longer than eight years–since I was small–but I have been writing seriously for eight years now. By “seriously,” I mean several hours every day except Sunday, with the hope of getting published.

Eight years.

That’s a long time.

I wrote on the computer in our student apartment while my first baby slept next to me. I was so worried about him that I wheeled him around in a bassinet to wherever I was, even while he was sleeping, so I could watch him and take care of him. Neither of us slept much that first year, but somehow we both managed to dream.

I wrote in the tiny basement apartment where we moved next, where the computer was smashed right up next to the bed. I hurried out to the mailbox every day so the people upstairs wouldn’t get the mail first, because I was embarrassed for them to see all the manila-enveloped rejections coming back day after day.

I wrote in the sorority where we were the house parents for the lovely sisters of KKG, in between their knocks on the door and the second baby crying and the sounds of frat boys and parties out in the hall. In those tiny two rooms off the entrance to the house, I wrote two books and slept even less.

I wrote in my own office for nine months in our first house (bliss!) before I happily gave it up (the office, not the writing) for the third little one to have a room.

I moved to a corner of the basement and kept writing. I wrote MATCHED. I knew it wasn’t a good fit for my regional publisher, and I was scared.

I took a deep breath and started to query again, relieved that this time we didn’t share a mailbox with anyone else.

And, almost seven years after I started, I finally had an agent for the very first time.

Now another year has passed and my book is out in the world.

If I could have shaken the magic eight ball back when I began and asked, “Will I ever be published nationally?” and seen the answer float up “yes,” I might not have believed it.

Sometimes I still don’t believe it now.

So if it feels like it is taking a long time, hang in there. Can you do it?

The answer is “yes.”

We have three kids, all same gender, all close in age, so Christmas morning takes a little bit of finagling to avoid fighting.

So we end up buying a lot of 3x of the same thing, like the item you see pictured above. I could have gone my whole life without a Mr. Potato Head Spud Lightyear in my home, but now we have several to avoid fighting. I branded them immediately with Sharpie so no one could fight over whose was whose.

I think we are like this as writers sometimes. It’s very easy to look at someone else’s writing career and think, “What I have/what I’m doing/how I’m writing is fine, but I wanted THAT!”

I’m guilty of it, mostly in the area of reading a book and thinking, “Oh, but I wanted to write like THAT! I wish I were that talented!” Or deep, or creative, or had such a way with words…I always wish I could write like that.

But our writing is our own. Otherwise we would end up with a bunch of books that all sound the same and what fun would that be?!? You can have too much of a good thing. Ask my kids, who I think are starting to wish they had diversified a little in their toy selection.

Our career is our own, and so is the way we experience that career. And the same with life. Which means that this year I vow:

1. to appreciate the good things even more
2. to not beat myself up because I can’t write like other people– I can only write like me, and
3. to try not to swear when I find yet another pink Potato Head ear or wiry white arm in the middle of the floor.

Wish me luck.

…is the release date for Matched.

People have been asking me a lot of questions, mostly along the lines of how does this feel and aren’t you worried about all the hype?

I can see why people ask about the hype and I’ve talked about it before on the blog. I understand that seeing a book often might make you feel that you are being “told” to like it, and that, as a reader, much of the joy in a book comes with the feeling of discovery. But in the end, what this means to me is that more people are likely to discover my book. And I find that incredibly exciting.

Those who know me personally know that, while I like to think I am reasonably friendly, I am also a rather reserved person. I would rather people not notice me and not talk about me.

But this isn’t about me.

Here is what I could have done for MATCHED by myself:

nothing.

I couldn’t have written it without a family and a husband who believed in me.

I couldn’t have prepared it for submission without readers–some of whom have been reading my books since that first draft of Yearbook in 2003.

I couldn’t have sold the book without my agent.

I couldn’t have made the book worthy of publication without my editor.

I couldn’t have designed the beautiful cover or the interior or done the copyediting.

I couldn’t have put publishing muscle and publicity behind it.

I can’t take my author photos, or pictures of my book that look like this to use in promos or on my blog (thank you, Brook Andreoli).

I don’t own a bookshop–I can’t recommend this book or put it into people’s hands.

I’m not a book blogger who reviews and promotes books and whom people trust for recommendations.

And, ultimately, I can no longer read it new. By this, I mean that I can no longer experience the story for the first time.

I did what I could. I won’t lie–I worked very hard on this book and I care about it deeply. But it now belongs to my children, my parents, my husband, my sisters, my brother, the critique-readers, my agent, my editor, the designers, my publicist, the teachers, the librarians,the bloggers, the booksellers, and you.

It now belongs to you.

I was re-reading a few old posts, trying to get an idea for a new one, and was happy all over again to see my husband’s guest post and your excellent responses. And then I thought of the following conversation with him and I smiled. Since you “know” him a little, perhaps you’ll like it too:

Him: “How did the writing go today?”
Me: “It was fine, considering I’m writing the worst book ever.”
Him (thoughtfully): “Statistically, I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.”

And then I thought of a conversation I had with my dad back when I was in college. My dad and I talked on the phone a lot then and we talk on the phone a lot now (he lives a few hours away). I was lamenting the fact that I had a lot going on with school and student teaching, etc., etc.

Me (crying): “Dad, I just don’t know if I can do it. There’s so much on my plate.”
Dad (kindly, but firmly): “Well, you have to do it. That is how life is. You have to get the s&*! off your plate now because there’s just going to be more there tomorrow.”

Ah, tough love. Sometimes it is just what I need. As I’ve been working on this book and trying to manage everything, I’ve thought of both of these pieces of advice/conversations often and laughed and kept writing. They’ve helped. A lot.

Edited to add: In case you miss it in the comments, I want you all to know how much I appreciate your wonderful comments on this post. Reading all of them made me get teary all over again. Thank you all, so much.

I received some reviews this past week for MATCHED. Some official reviews.

And they were lovely.

And two of them (Kirkus and Publisher’s Weekly) even had stars. Stars. Never in my life did I think I would see a starred review for something I’ve written.

Here is why.

I have only written one other national market title besides MATCHED, a book called FRESHMAN FOR PRESIDENT with my first publisher. I worked hard on FRESHMAN. I loved writing it. At the time, I felt it was the best thing I’d ever written. And when my publisher sent it off for review, I knew it wouldn’t rock the world, but I also thought it was a good little book. I thought it would be fine. When the first reviews came in, they were fine. Nothing starred, certainly, but all right. And then this one came in (I remove anything spoilery-y from the reviews because I am a complete spoiler-phobe):

FRESHMAN FOR PRESIDENT.
Condie, who has published two novels about Mormon teens under the name Allyson B. Condie, starts with an interesting premise. Milo aside, the characters don’t develop much beyond one dimension, however. The text is repetitious and larded with unnecessary scenes, and the pacing is truly glacial. Could be useful for integrating civics and language arts, but not much else.

So maybe you will understand why I was so surprised, and happy, and why I might have cried a little when I read this, from the same journal:

MATCHED. (Starred)
Condie peels back layer after dystopic layer at breakneck speed, Dylan Thomas reverberating throughout. If the Society’s at war, who’s the enemy? …A fierce, unforgettable page-turner in its own right.

Do I think the other review is fair? Yes, because the reviewer has to call it like they read it.

Am I equally proud of both books? Yes, because I did the best I could on both of them. My best was different.

Do I like the starred review better than the other one? Um, yes.

So keep writing. Even if someone says your pacing is larded and glacial. Don’t give up.

(I kind of can’t believe I just posted that other terrible review. Don’t hold it against me.)