How I Gave My Mother an Ulcer (And Why I’m Only Partially Sorry)

So, the other day, I got in trouble. With my mother. Honestly, if I wasn’t at the ripe old age of thirty-seven I think she might have grounded me.

You see, I wrote this post here, posted it, and then – as I typically do – forgot all about it.

Later that day, the phone rang. It was mom.

“Well,” she said, “I’ve been on the verge of throwing up all day,” she said.

“Really?” I said.

“And I’ve been studiously avoiding commenting on your blog.”

She only rarely comments on my blog, and I still really had no idea what she was talking about.

“If I,” she said, “could reach through the computer screen and snatch you off that precipice and drag you to safety, I would do that.”

“Oh,” I said, the light slowly dawning (I think I’ve mentioned before here that I’m really not all that bright). “You’re talking about the bridge incident. I never told you about that?”



Mom: (in a whispery hiss of a voice) “No. No you never did.”

Which, in retrospect, was a smart choice.

Here’s the thing: Youth is dangerous. Teen youth. Kid youth. Young adult youth. Youth in general. It’s crazy and confusing and utterly wild. It is wildness defined. And it’s amazing we come out alive. We certainly don’t emerge without scars – both visible and invisible.

Someone remarked not too long ago at the sheer number of scars that I have on my legs. And I do. And I don’t cover them up. There’s the marks from the sharp rocks in a fast river when a canoe flipped and the scars from surgeries and the scars from the hot metal of motorcycles and the scars from the teeth of a dog and the scar from road burn and the scars from where I had gravel imbedded in my skin. My scars are magnificent.

I smiled.

“My legs tell stories,” I said. And they do.

But, really, I think that’s one of the things that draws writers who write young adult novels and middle grade novels and early adult novels to do what they do. We remember the dynamism of youth. The bad choices. The mistakes. The headiness. The passion. The despair. When we are young we are juiced-up, enraptured with the world and with one another and act as though everything is possible, because it is.

And we are stupid.

Astonishingly stupid.

Which is how I ended up on that sultry, humid night with a group of friends (two of the boys I had kissed earlier that week), with wine and cigarettes and wild abandon. We were in love with our bodies, in love with the air, in love with each other and in love with the inky water slithering below us.

And so we jumped.

And there was only speed and stars and wind and night and voices and the splash below so sudden, it took a while to remember how to breathe.

But we did breathe.

And we did live.

And we almost died laughing.

It is the task of the young to make the adults in our lives worry. And this never goes away, even after we domesticate, grow roots, and raise the people who will one day give us heart attacks. I have no doubt that as I have sown, so shall I reap. And holy hell, do I ever have some reaping in store for me, I’ll tell you what. And I’m bracing for the stomach acid that will no doubt flow once my children are old enough to make the impulsive, heady, joyful and astonishingly stupid choices of their own.

Mom. I’m really sorry. (Mostly.)

And you deserve to say “I told you so.” At least four hundred times.

To illustrate my theory on Youth, let me point you to the speech on the roof made by the inimitable Nathan from one of my most favoritest Brit television shows, “Misfits”. Enjoy!


On Entropy, Accretion and Exploding Novels

There was a time in my life when I was a lot tougher than I am now. And though I was strong enough to break a man’s nose (and did once, but that is another story) that time in my life was marked – no, defined – by terrible, terrible fear.

When I was a teenager and early adult, I never feared death – which can partly explain the ridiculous risks that I took with my personal safety and well-being (walking alone through sketchy neighborhoods late at night, fist-fights, jumping off bridges for fun, dating boys who liked punching things, and etc.). I didn’t fear death at all. Now, I will heartily admit that I was (and I really and truly admit this) a certifiable idiot, which accounts for at least some of my…..misguided behavior. I was an athlete and very fast and very strong, and I somehow equated that with invincibility, with deathlessness, with indomitability.I was intoxicated with my body’s ability to preserve itself.

It wasn’t death that I was afraid of. It was decay. It was entropy. That my strength would ebb, diminish and fail. That my skin would stretch and fold and hang, that my eyes would dim and my ears would clog and my brain would muffle and cloud and fade. But mostly, I was terrified that, one day, after I had coughed and shuddered and stopped breathing forever, that every cell in my body would disassemble, disassociate, dissolve.

It was, at the time, a terrifying thought.

It wasn’t death that scared me. I knew that everything that breathed would stop, and that alive and dead were just two different sections of that same long road. I was pretty sure there was a heaven, and I was mostly sure that God had enough of a sense of humor to let me in. No, it was the corruption of the body that gave me the creeps. And kept me up at night. And haunted my dreams again and again and again.

For a long time – for much of my twenties and into my thirties – this notion of entropy of dissolution – defined much of my understanding of the world. Entropy increases, I told myself. That is the nature of living: We form; we complicate; we undo; we fade; we blow away. We don’t just fall apart; we become food.

And I accepted it, and was okay with it, because it is true. Mostly.

Last year, I participated in a yearly workshop called Launch Pad, a program funded by NASA and the National Science Foundation. I wrote about the experience here. Now, after listening to lectures for eight hours a day and looking through telescopes at night and reading textbooks until the wee hours before finally falling asleep in a desk chair, waking with a crick in your neck, and heading out to do it all again – for an entire week….. well, it leaves an indelible mark on a person, I’ll tell you what. I felt the metaphors upon which my understanding of the world was organized start to shift, wobble and reform.

We are all made of stardust, our professors told us. Every atom in your body, every atom that surrounds you was once part of a star. That star exploded into dust. That dust became a new star, a new system, and everything began again. Indeed, our universe, being about 13.7 billion years old, went through some pretty dynamic changes along the way before morphing into the images that we’ve all seen and loved from Hubble and other beloved telescopes.

The first stars that formed in that primordial soup of dark matter (about 100 million years or so after the Big Bang) and glowing plasma were hot and bright and brief. Live fast, die young, indeed. They exploded, sent their matter across the universe, and their atoms bound to other atoms, and more, and more until they accreted into stars. And then those stars exploded and the process started again.

The point is that the atoms that made me were not just in one stars, but more likely they were from many. And from everywhere.

I tried to explain that to my son. He thought about it for a while, and said, “You mean when Buzz Lightyear said, ‘To Infinity And Beyond’, he was talking about me?”

“Yes,” I said. Leo was thrilled.

And while the central bulge of our galaxy was formed while the universe was still very young, our own star is under five billion years old. How many other stars were born, lived and died before our own emerged?


And billions.

A star explodes and becomes dust. Another star explodes and the shock wave incites the dust to become stars. Such is the nature of things.

And I bring this up because I’m working on a book.

A book that I destroyed.

A book that I exploded.

A book that became dust, ash and wind. That became plasma and fire and energy. That was given over to the universe as an offering. A book that fell apart, bloated, liquified, decayed, jellied and became food. A book that I left for dead.

A nebula is the dusty, gassy, dissolved remains of an exploded star. It is also the dynamic womb for a forming star. It is both. I like things that can be both. There are entire universes in both.

The thing is, as far as my process goes, this is nothing new. I start books in a flurry of heat and light. They are all I can think about. They are all I can do. And then they collapse. And I need to learn to accept the collapsing. I need to learn that entropy is part of my creative process. Hell, my book that’s coming out this summer, The Mostly True Story of Jack, ground to a halt no less than twenty times while I was writing it. My book that’s appearing next year – Iron Hearted Violet –  had to sit and wait for an entire year before I could finish it.

I start books; I create universes; I foment stars, and then I blow them up and leave huge clouds of dust behind.

Last year, I’ve been suffering from an increase of entropy.

Or, it isn’t so much that I have experienced the entropy, but the book did. I shouldn’t be surprised, not really. This is how I make books. I wrote The Firebirds of Lake Erie last year. Wrote the end. Hated the end. Erased the end.

Then I erased the last third.

Then I erased the last half.

Then I left it for dead.

Recently, I felt a shockwave. A jolt. The energetic pulse of an exploding supernova, half a universe away, and it knocked me out of bed and onto my knees. The book was in pieces. It was subatomic. But the tiny bits were starting to coalesce. They were starting to stick. And I think I know what to do now. The thing that was dust is becoming book. And it was good.

This makes me happy, because the other book I started last fall – Witless Ned and the Speaking Stones – suffered a similar implosion in February. So now I just have to trust that the undulating cloud of dusty novel bits will one day shudder, tremble and live. And the best thing I can do for poor Ned is to leave him be.

Change exists. Matter recombines. The Universe reinvents itself again and again and again. There is no death. There is no destruction.  There is only formation and history and newness and memory and structure and pattern and arc.  And, deep in our souls, is the unshakable knowledge every atom within us gleams with the memory of stars.


I told my son that all the matter in his body was formed when the universe was formed, and that his atoms are as old as the Big Bang. He thought about that for a while.

“You mean that I’m the same age as you?” he asked.

“Yup,” I said. “In a matter of speaking.”

“Well,” he said, “next time you do something naughty, I’m totally going to send you to your room.”