Should Streaming Movies be Oscar Eligible?

When I saw Steven Spielberg was a streaming topic on Twitter, I worried. I’m at that age, after all, when my idols are aging and dying off. But as it turns out, the chatter is just about how Spielberg plans to push an anti-Netflix agenda at the next Academy board meeting.

The question on the table: What should be the basic minimum requirements for a film to be eligible for an Oscar?

To be fair, the rules were originally made when the world of film could not conceive of streaming, and when the distribution channel was one clear tunnel of release in cinemas, then release on video (once video was a thing), then show some edited version on television (until movie channels came along and did not require ADR to mask the curse words). Now movies can be released in cinemas and on streaming simultaneously.

So maybe the deeper question is: What makes a movie a movie?

That may sound weird, but bear with me. We’ve long had a division between film and television. Movies that show on television are called television movies, just to differentiate. And television movies can win Emmys but not Oscars.

So is a movie a movie because it shows in a cinema? What if it only shows once? What if it shows in a cinema and on television at the same time? These are the questions the Academy needs to address.

And a large portion of the argument comes down to politics. Campaign finance to be precise. In this instance, it’s the fact that Netflix has a ton of money to throw into campaigning for films like Roma. Netflix can buy a few cinema screens outside of the usual distribution channels and therefore meet a bare minimum requirement that allows its films to qualify for an Oscar. So… should there be a cap on what can be spent on campaigning?

Another bone of contention is that Roma only spent three weeks in cinemas before moving to Netflix streaming. Should the Academy demand a longer period between theatrical and streaming?

It’s all a matter of opinion and perspective. I haven’t seen Roma, though I’m sure, based on all the enthusiastic feedback, that it is a lovely film. However, I’m inclined to agree that there should be more definitive guidelines regarding what is Oscar eligible. I don’t think of Netflix as a film studio. I don’t think of Amazon as one either. Or Hulu. And maybe I’m old-fashioned in that. I honestly don’t know.

On the other hand, it’s refreshing that Netflix, Amazon, and Hulu are bringing out content very different from all the superheroes the studios keep churning out. They’re making quality products. But… Are they movies? Or television movies?

Used to be, movies were either made to be shown in cinemas or made to be shown on television. The processes themselves were different. The quality of the film, the aspect ratios—different. Now people have televisions that are almost as large as movie screens. Now the quality of what’s being made for television is as good or better than what’s being made for cinemas. Everything is blurred.

There’s a certain amount of snobbery involved, too, of course. We can accept that FOX studios decided to have a television channel. We have a harder time thinking of Netflix, or Amazon, or Hulu—all of which started out showing second-hand content on television—as a legitimate film studio. I mean, if HBO produced a movie and sent it to cinemas for a couple weeks then aired it on their own channel… Would it be up for Oscars or Emmys? Both?

It’s a knotty problem and one I don’t have an answer to. While I’m inclined to agree with Steven Spielberg, the bottom line is the Academy has to lay out some very clear criteria. A lot of it will look and feel arbitrary because it pretty much is. But without lines and guardrails on these roads, the situation is headed for a crash.

Once in a Lifetime?

We had an extra ticket to Hamilton, so we invited my 13-year-old son’s best friend to come with us because we knew she really loved the musical (well, its soundtrack anyway). She took pictures of the theater, the cast list, and said to me, “I’m taking pictures of everything because this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience! I’ll never get to see a Broadway play again.” To which I replied, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You never know.”

It got me thinking about the first time I had the treat of seeing a touring Broadway production. It was My Fair Lady with Richard Chamberlain as Henry Higgins. I’d always loved the movie and was so excited to see the play. And I guess I had the same feeling as my son’s friend—that this would not necessarily become a regular event in my life. (Though I also got to see Camelot with Robert Goulet as Arthur that same year.)

My son and his friend came out of Hamilton very happy and talking about how they’d like to do drama in high school. I’m so glad we were able to give them this experience, but I’m also a bit sad that for many people it really is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, if that. Sure, some people aren’t at all interested in theater (their loss, in my opinion). But for those who might be, it can be inaccessible. It was to me for the longest time. I was fortunate that my school took us to the symphony, the planetarium, and other amazing places. But with schools trimming arts programs to the bare minimum, these outings are less and less common as well.

I understand why theater is expensive. The work that goes into it: sets, wardrobe, tech, acting, directing, choreography… And a lot more. Even the community theater productions I used to help with were quite involved, so something on the scale of a Broadway show? Yeah. And I know many shows have student discounts, or even special showings for schools or other groups. I just… I think this girl’s remark surprised me. I think people (like me) who go to the theater regularly begin to take it for granted. And that’s a shame.

So what’s the point of this post? 1. To observe that, for some people, going to the theater is a dream and/or rare experience. And that’s too bad, but I don’t actually have any suggestions to change that. 2. To also observe that, for those who do go to the theater often, it’s nice to remember the value of that. And even nicer to take along someone who doesn’t get to go, or has never been. Because their joy is infectious. And will be a fantastic reminder of all the reasons you’re lucky you get to go.

Valentine’s: Yay or Nay?

Happy Valentine’s Day! In our house, it’s pretty much an average day, except that the kids come home from school with armloads of candy and cards. Feels to me like a waste of paper in most cases. There’s nothing particularly sincere or sentimental in these cards; in fact, they usually aren’t directly addressed to my children, only signed by whichever classmate handed them out. That’s how they do it now. Saves time if you can just drop it in whatever bag or box the kids have decorated without searching for the exact one addressed to the right person.

Aside from the economy and marketing, I’m not sure why school kids celebrate Valentine’s Day at all. Sure, as they get older and begin to form real ties of friendship and affection, it makes sense for them to give the people they truly care about a card or token. But other than that? My third grader really doesn’t care. Except about the candy, of course.

And yet, it’s my third grader whose class is having a party. My fifth- and seventh graders are completely disinterested in Valentine’s Day because it is uncool and embarrassing. So even though they are the ones with strong social circles, they won’t be exchanging valentines.

It’s all just a bit backward.

But I’m hardly one to talk. My husband and I also do not usually observe Valentine’s Day. This is the night when, if you do go out, places are crowded and the food isn’t as good. We’d just as soon go out some other night. Which is what we do anyway when we have date nights. For Valentine’s Day, we don’t buy cards, and with my diet restrictions, I can’t have candy. Heck, I probably can’t even eat from the “Valentine’s Day Menus” at most restaurants. So why bother?

On the flip side, Valentine’s Day (and the days surrounding) is a cluster of my friends’ birthdays. For whatever reason, I seem to draw to me people born around this time of year. So I’m just as happy, or happier, to give them all the attention. As someone born near to Christmas, I know what a pain it is to have a birthday near a holiday that eclipses your day. Romance can happen any day of the year, but birthdays should be special.

How about you? Do you celebrate Valentine’s Day? Am I just taking my marriage and husband for granted by not making a bigger deal of the day? Do your kids care about Valentine’s Day, or are they over it? And how do you feel about birthdays that fall on or near holidays? Let me know in the comments!

Good vs. Memorable

Sometimes I’m asked, “What books do you think are good?” and that is a very broad question because “good” is subjective. Also, it depends on your criteria for “good.” Do you mean “well written”? Do you mean “entertaining”? Do you mean books with characters I fell in love with? Or do you mean books that have stayed with me for years, despite whether I actively enjoyed reading them?

There is, perhaps, a fair argument that a book cannot be very good if it can be forgotten the moment you finish reading it. However, not all writers are aiming to live in long memory. While I hope readers enjoy Brynnde and Faebourne, I understand that those books and others like them are often kind of like candy floss, melting away as the reader moves on to the next thing.

Then again, just because a book is memorable, that doesn’t mean it is (or was) enjoyable to read. Sometimes it’s quite the opposite—we remember books (or movies) precisely because they had such a negative impact on us. Yet one could argue the author has done a “good” job because he or she has made the book into something you will never forget. No such thing as bad publicity? Some authors and filmmakers actively attempt to shock and discomfit their readers/viewers. If they do so, they consider themselves successful, even if critics and viewers hate their work.

Sometimes, though, it’s a neutral thing that, for whatever reason, leaves an impression. I was once talking to a friend of mine about (if I remember correctly, and if I don’t, it probably disproves me) Needful Things by Stephen King. And at one point we both said at the same time: “When Alan catches the glass.” This references a very specific scene in the book, one that has stuck in both our brains for years. After all, I’ve only read that book once, when I was about sixteen or seventeen years old. I don’t remember much about it, but Alan catching the glass is burned into my brain… and velvet Elvis paintings.

At the same time, there are plenty of books I can recall liking, but if you asked me for specifics now, I wouldn’t be able to give you any. I loved “The Turn of the Screw” (and The Innocents), but I can’t give you any details on what about the story or film I particularly enjoyed. I only have this general feeling of: Oh, yes, I liked that one. This is true of so many books and movies, probably because we’re designed to remember what we dislike—what affects us badly—more than what we like. This is an old part of the brain, a holdover from the days when we needed to remember which plants made us sick or which animals were dangerous. But it’s the part of the brain that, today, makes us more likely to write a letter of complaint, or a bad review, than to praise something.

So what am I getting at here? I’m only pointing out that “good” is measured in many different ways. You can say, “I liked it,” but can you articulate why? And even if you don’t like something, if it stays in your mind and follows you around, does that make it “good,” at least on some level?

What books or movies have stuck with you over time? Did you like them? Or have they made an impression precisely because they were terrible? I’d love to hear about them in the comments!

Ageism in Writing and Publishing (a birthday post)

I was reading an online message board in which an author asked about whether anyone had experienced ageism when trying to find an agent or publisher. While I didn’t feel qualified to answer, it did make me stop and think.

I’ve noticed many writers—well, the ones announcing having landed agents and made deals—are younger than me. I guess that happens as you age; everyone seems young! But I do think that things have changed. It used to be that authors were relatively invisible aside from occasional book tours (if they were big enough names) or conference appearances. But with the advent of social media, being an author is now like being any other famous person. Suddenly it matters what you look like. And just like aging actresses get booted to make room for the young, pretty things, I do sometimes suspect the same about authors.

It probably varies by genre, though. I think it’s YA authors that skew young. Agents and publishers seem to think that younger readers want authors who “get it.” And of course us old fogeys can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be a teenager these days. We can’t even imagine, despite our jobs being to do just that. However, romance writers can be older because *ahem* “experience”?

There are surely gender biases, too. Just as handsome older actors continue to get cast in big motion pictures, old white men get to keep writing and publishing books.

At the same time, this is impossible to prove. That’s the difficulty with ageism. Especially in a subjective business where it’s perfectly reasonable for agents or publishers to say, “This just isn’t for me.” Whether it’s the work or something about you—age or otherwise—you may never know.

To be clear, I’m not bitter. This is really just meant to be a reflection piece. The nice thing about modernity is that, even if agents reject you because you’re “too old to write YA,” that doesn’t have to stop you from being published because you can publish yourself. It’s hard work, to be sure, but at least then you can know for certain whether your writing is good enough (and your age never mattered), or if the agents/publishers were right all along. As the saying goes: You’ll never know until you try.

My History with Pink

I took one of those random Internet quizzes today about what color I am, and the result was:

Your color is pink! You are a loving, kind, and generous person. You are very approachable, as people are attracted to your warmth and softness. You are also instinctively protective and tend to take care of others first.

I don’t know why I take these quizzes except to see who, if anyone, “gets” me. Deep down, we all want to be understood.

As for pink, I don’t mind it, and when I was young I considered it my favorite color. Except… I don’t think it actually was.

Let me explain. I was a child (and am a person) who very much wanted to meet and exceed expectations. And I felt like I was supposed to like pink. So I liked pink. Or thought I did. But if given a choice about things, I didn’t typically pick the pink one. I leaned more towards purple. Yet if anyone asked, I would say my favorite color was pink. Because that was the “correct” answer.

I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to win approval. My parents were very lax in a lot of ways, which meant they never seemed very impressed by anything I did. For the most part I’m extremely grateful they weren’t the pushy, demanding kind of parents, but over time I’ve come to realize that the lack of praise affected me, too. I ended up looking to my teachers for approval, and I got terrific grades, so there was that at least.

“Liking” pink, then, was just another attempt to be dutiful and hopefully win some appreciation from the adults around me. (I’m an only child.) But deep down, I liked purple. That happens to be my dad’s favorite color, too, so I never wanted to admit that I liked it because in my childish mind that would be taking away from him and/or showing favoritism toward him. I even chose my first My Little Pony based on the fact that she was purple with green hair—my dad’s and mom’s favorite colors combined. I was dead set against playing favorites and hurting feelings. (The pony was Seashell, btw.)

I would even color pictures in purple, green, and pink in an effort to combine my and my parents’ “likes” and not leave anyone out.

It’s been a long, hard road in coming to understand myself and my constant search for acknowledgement. I wanted the gold stars, the stickers, the pats on the head… And I still do. I feel crushed when I don’t receive them. I wonder what went wrong, or what is wrong with me. So I struggle now to remember that my worth is inherent and that it doesn’t matter if others recognize and affirm it.

It’s okay that pink really isn’t my favorite color.

What Makes a Writer?

I got asked this the other day, and to me it seems like a simple question, but it also feels worth exploring.

By basic definition, a “writer” is someone who writes. There are no other criteria. One doesn’t have to be published, or well known, or have an agent, or have done a book tour. You don’t have to write fiction, or poetry, or anything for public consumption; if you keep a journal, for example, it still counts. So long as you write, you’re a writer.

So long as you write. If you stop writing, you are no longer a writer.

Hang on, hang on, I can hear you screaming. But “writer” implies activity. As a noun, it still suggests an active verb. If you used to write but don’t any more, I’d say you’re a “written.” But that sounds weird, so maybe you’re just an ex-writer.

Jesus, don’t kill the messenger. Okay, yes, once you’ve written something, the words become immortal. (Heh heh. See what I did there?) Even if no one else ever sees them. Even if you erase them. Once they exist—or have existed—you’ve become a writer. And since the words last forever (in a sense), don’t you keep that title of “writer” forever too?

It’s a tricky question. But, you know, if you quit a job as a banker, do you still call yourself a banker? Some people might, but they usually do it out of a sense of shame and a need to be something. So if they have no new job, they may say, “I’m a banker,” even if they aren’t one any more. But if they’ve moved on to some other job, or if they’ve gone back to school, they’ll fill in the blank with that information. “I’m a cat wrangler,” or, “I’m a student.”

If you quit writing, you aren’t a writer. Just as that ex-banker might say, “I used to be a banker,” you could say, “I used to write.” But calling yourself a writer if you no longer write is a bit of a lie, to yourself as well as others.

This is more, I think, than the poser of the question wanted to know. The truth is, when we hear someone say they’re a writer or author, we immediately want to know what they’ve written because we make a set of assumptions. We assume they wouldn’t call themselves a writer unless they’ve at least published something. Sometimes we assume they wouldn’t call themselves a writer unless they’ve published a “real” book put out by a major publisher. It’s a shame that writers must contend with these assumptions. I hate, when I tell someone I’m a writer, and they ask, “Oh? Anything I would have heard of?” As if, if they haven’t heard of me or my books, my work must not be any good. Going back to the banker, if I were to arch my brow and ask, “Any bank I would have heard of?” that would be quite rude, I think. But somehow it is deemed okay to treat writers this way.

If you’re looking for validation—for permission to call yourself a writer—ask yourself why. I wrote for years, was even published in a few magazines and journals, before I allowed myself to answer, “What do you do?” with “I’m a writer.” And even then, it was only after I’d left my job in publishing that I adopted the title. Even though I’d been a writer for a long time. Leaving my day job was like being stripped bare, and “writer” was a scrap of fabric I could use to cover my nakedness. In our society, people who don’t work or produce in some way are considered worthless. “I’m a writer,” was my way of trying to prove I had societal value.

But calling myself a writer or author feels right now. It is what I do. Besides mother and wife and daughter and PTA board member, I’m a writer. I’ve embraced that. And it doesn’t matter any more whether anyone else sees value in it or likes my work. (Though I feel good when they do.) I write for me, because I enjoy it.

So. Are you a writer? If so, why? Let me know in the comments.

Sanitizing YA?

There was a Twitter thread earlier today about “sanitizing” high school parties in YA fiction. It seemed to be referring to some other conversation that may or may not have been going on, a stance that the parties are “unrealistic.” And I think these are two different arguments.

I didn’t party in high school, and I didn’t know anybody who did. (Or if they did, it wasn’t obvious.) I went to a handful of “parties,” but these were not like the movies. No houses packed full of students spilling alcohol everywhere, music blasting, precious items being broken. The parties were somewhat small and fairly tame. There was sometimes alcohol, but there was also stuff like Win, Lose or Draw. (Which is hilarious to play if you’ve been drinking btw.) ::shrug::

Anyway, everyone’s experiences vary. What is “realistic” to one person may not be to another. Aaaand there’s the whole “it’s cliché” angle to these teen parties in books and movies. But to say that a suggestion to remove such a scene is “sanitizing”? That feels extreme.

I mean, sure, if the person who is suggesting the change is doing it because they feel like they don’t want to encourage that kind of behavior, then they’re sanitizing the story. I can see why that might be considered problematic, but I won’t delve into that here. However, if they’re saying it should be changed because it’s not realistic, then . . . That’s just a personal opinion. I mean, look at most writers and editors. We were the bookish kids, the quiet ones. Parties like that sometimes don’t seem realistic based on our experiences.

The Twitter thread spent a lot of time talking about how teens need to see themselves reflected in the books they read. Agreed. And some of them party and . . . want to see parties in their books, I guess? Some take drugs and want to read about other kids who take drugs? But some of us didn’t party, and we like seeing the quiet kids front and center because we felt so insignificant and overlooked in high school.

Look, teens who party and do drugs and get in trouble with the law—they’re out there. It’s not an experience I can identify with, but I know it happens. And there’s a place for those stories, too. Maybe it’s because I don’t write those kinds of books, so I can’t see where the scrubbing is taking place. Do agents, editors, publishers really squash stories featuring problematic teens and the issues they face? I honestly don’t know. As I pointed out in a previous post, I was told my teen fiction wasn’t edgy enough, so . . . I’ve experienced the flip side of this problem.

Bottom line for me is that I’d want to know the reason behind an author being told a YA party scene (or sex scene, or drug scene) needs to be changed or omitted. Because I don’t think it’s always simply to sanitize the text, or keep the reader “safe” from those things. Maybe it is some of the time—in which case, that should be addressed—but sometimes the reason may really be that the scene isn’t realistic (or the editor doesn’t think it is, anyway), or else it’s cliché. Those are valid opinions. Not everyone shares them, but they aren’t necessarily wrong.

There have always been books, and music, and movies that parents or adults don’t think appropriate for young adults. This is nothing new. And if a publisher thinks, No parent is going to want their kids to read this, then they might not publish it. Not out of spite or a need to whitewash teen experiences, but because they’re a business and want to sell books. And though teens do buy their own books some of the time, parents buy books the remainder of the time. And school librarians. And teachers, if they keep a classroom library. And school librarians and teachers won’t buy books that will get them in trouble with parents or the school district. And a publisher won’t risk their business for something they don’t think parents and teachers and librarians will buy.

Then again, sometimes you’ll find one who hopes the book will create buzz through shock value. They hope kids will buy it in secret and smuggle it to their friends. But one copy passed around a dozen people doesn’t amount to many sales either.

So, again, it might not be that they’re “sanitizing” YA. It might just be that they see no profit in it. If you write edgy YA—if you write parties and sex and drugs and jail for teens—go for it. Prove them wrong.

Suspending Disbelief

I saw an interesting question posed on Twitter this morning: “How does an author create a tale that allows readers to suspend disbelief?”

It made me think of those YouTube videos where people pick apart movies for how unrealistic they are. We do that with books sometimes, too. So what makes the difference? Why are we willing—even eager—participants in some fiction and resistant to other?

I believe there is a natural barrier between us and fiction. We understand, when entering a book or movie, that it isn’t real. There is a sense of, “Make me believe it.” The author’s job, then, is to make that barrier permeable.

Think about all the things that pull you OUT of a story. Characters that don’t behave in ways that seem realistic, for example, or stilted dialogue. Sometimes it’s the world that doesn’t make sense. If a fantasy author has created a town or country or planet, it still must function within parameters that readers relate to. The place may be very different from Earth, the characters may be aliens, but there are some universal truths that we rely on when entering a fictional world. Touchstones, if you will. If the internal logic of the world doesn’t hold up—if every few minutes the reader is saying to him- or herself, Why did they do that? Why is this world set up this way? It makes no sense, no society would be built this way—the barrier is too solid.

So if you want to create something really different, you have to lay the groundwork of there being very good reasons for things. It can’t be because “it’s always been this way.” There needs to be an explanation of WHY it was ever that way to begin with.

Another reason people begin picking stories apart is sheer boredom. If nothing interesting is happening, the reader begins to look for something else to entertain them, and your world or characters may be the victim of their detachment. When you’re really into a book or movie, you’re carried along on a wave as the plot and characters move along. You feel immersed. Later, someone might point out a plot hole and you’ll say, “I never noticed.” But, boy, when you’re bored you notice everything.

Think about long car rides, looking out the window, trying to find anything interesting to look at. Or, if you grew up going to church, synagogue, some house of worship, think about sitting there and looking around at people, the walls, the chairs/benches/pews. Every stain, crack, speck of dust came to your attention. That’s what happens when a reader is bored, too. They start gazing at the wallpaper and noticing the wrinkles, rips, mismatched seams.

Boredom, then, is one of the particles that forms that barrier to fiction. The reader shouldn’t ask, “Why am I here?” He or she should want to be there, in your world, with your characters. They should never want to leave.

These things don’t only apply to fantasy and sci-fi, though the barrier to those is probably thicker. Authors of these kinds of books have more work to do to make their worlds and characters believable. But even real-world based fiction must give readers compelling characters and situations that, even if far-fetched, the reader can be made to accept.

I love Tana French’s books, but there is one called The Likeness that really stretched my believability. The entire premise is predicated on a detective who looks so much like a murder victim that they insert her into the victim’s world to root out the killer. The book is well written and entertaining, but I still had trouble giving the premise credence. And since no reliable reason was ever given for the, er, likeness . . . Sure, “long lost twin” is weak, but I’d believe it over random chance.

What pulls you out of stories and/or makes them unbelievable to you? Which books have you encountered with this problem? Did you finish the book or put it down? Let me know your thoughts!

Looking for Grit

Back when I was first trying to become an author—a long time ago, just after I graduated from Emerson—I wrote a book that was in the vein of the Judy Blume novels I’d loved as a kid. It was called Nick Terpiccio, Eighth-Grade Hero and was light and funny. I duly combed my reference books of agents (I said it was a long time ago!) and mailed off queries (yes, in the post). I had some nice responses, all saying I had talent but this wasn’t for them. But the response that stuck with me was one from an agent who said my book simply didn’t have enough grit.

Book needed more Jeff Bridges apparently.

It tackled no issues, really. The main character wasn’t battling drugs or dealing with abuse. Nick’s biggest problems were that his two best friends were fighting, and that he liked a girl. Bubble gummy stuff, I suppose, but the novel was meant to be fun and upbeat.

The agent’s letter went on to more or less say “kids these days” (and this was the early aughts) wanted “edge.” I remember that word distinctly. And I guess that must be true because it seems dark books are popular. Angst is in. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. (This article suggests it might be.) It’s just not what I write, really.

The article linked above talks about YA books featuring black protagonists being shot, kids being abused, etc. The stance is that not all kids deal with this stuff, and even if they do, why would they want to read about it? Shouldn’t reading be an escape? Well, yes and no. I think we read for a lot of reasons, often subconsciously. Escapism is one reason, but we also read to know we’re not alone. When we talk about “representation” in literature, we mean seeing people like us. Straight white people don’t have a problem with that since most books have straight white characters. But people of color, people with different sexualities, people with complicated blended families or whatever—they have trouble finding themselves in popular books. That’s starting to change, but when you consider the vast number of books, it’s just a tiny drop in the bucket.

Still, it might be a valid question to ask, “But even when diversifying characters, do they always have to be in gangs or doing drugs or sexually abused?” The article above asks more broadly (and I’m paraphrasing): Why not depict a happier, more hospitable world? Well, readers aren’t stupid. They’ll find a happy-go-lucky world to be fake and therefore won’t invest as fully*. They want complicated worlds and complicated characters. They want the book to reflect what they know because that’s how they’ll connect and identify. Sure, the world may not be as bad as some of the dystopian novels out there, but it’s easy to imagine things going in that direction. And it’s just as easy for us to feel relieved that, hey, at least we’re not living in that world.

*Unless it’s Stepford. Then we’ll know what kind of book we’re in.

I fear I’m starting to ramble. Let me condense my thoughts here. 1. I once wrote an MG book that was considered too happy. 2. I read an article that suggested YA literature isn’t happy enough. 3. Even though I don’t write dark, angsty books, I can see why they might be popular and that they have a legitimate point of view on the world.

This is the world we live in, after all, and while it’s nice to read fluff sometimes, there’s nothing to be gained by hiding our heads in the sand, either. And to only produce happy-go-lucky books for kids would be doing just that. Though I think a few happy-go-lucky books would be good. Anyone want Nick? (Just kidding, I don’t even still have the manuscript. Remember floppy disks? Yeah, neither does my computer.)