Ezra Miller, Writing Coach

The other day I watched We Need to Talk About Kevin, which was a great, if not totally disturbing, film. It was sort of stuck in my head for a day (well, really, it’s still stuck in my head) so I was poking around looking for interviews with the actors—all of whom were brilliant in this—and came across this interview with Ezra Miller, who played the psychopathic son.

I’m a bit of an Ezra Miller fan girl. He’s a great actor, and there’s something else I love about him that I can’t put my finger on. Anyhow, he was answering a question about preparing for a role (this happens around 1:50), how he got into that dark, dark place where Kevin lived, and he said:

“By understanding the memories of a person’s life that forms this character, this person, I can understand who they are now. For Vince, Jr it was creating a whole history with this family who’s never been able to be honest with one another. And for Kevin it was less inventing a history and observing a history that was already laid out in front of me in terms of these pivotal moments in his life.” 

And, well, that day Ezra Miller was my writing coach because his method of immersing himself in a character is a great way to give characters dimension. It’s asking how we, as writers, can understand the memories of a character in order to know her. What history can we create that will explain her physical and emotional reactions, who she’s friends with, why she embarks on the journey we’re following.

I’ve been revising to pump up a couple of my characters, and this seemed like a great way to look at it. Instead of filling out character sheets or forms I was understanding these people’s memories.

How do you dive into a character?

Recent Reads: 5 Books I Love

I have been reading so many good books that I want to share with you, but each time I finish one I’m hit with the realization that all the stuff that I should have done while I was reading still needs doing. So I skip the review.

Which makes me sad since part of the fun of being in the YA community is learning about new books. Or hearing new takes on old books. Or both.

So I though I’d do a round-up of some of the books* I really enjoyed:

There were a few things that drew me to this story.

1. The main character hunts ghosts
2. He’s hunting a serial killer ghost
3. The ghost is has a pretty awesome nickname: Anna Dressed in Blood
4. There are fun sidekicks
5. It was supposed to be scary

I love to be scared (unless were talking about spiders, snakes, mice, lizards, or any bug), so this was kind of a no-brainer for me. Truthfully, the story didn’t scare me, but I rarely scare, unless we’re talking about the aforementioned critters, in which case I’m all:

Still, I loved this book. It was suspenseful and perfectly paced. The main character, Cas, was strong and mature, but still a realistic teen boy. His relationship with his mother is one I wish I saw more of in YA stories, and his unlikely gang of ghost hunters, especially the absolutely awesome and completely dorky Thomas, serves a nice contrast to Cas’ serious side. But my favorite character? Anna.

Yes, my favorite character is a serial killer ghosts who rips her victims in half once they enter her house. (On that note, if blood and gore leave you lying horizontal, be warned: Blake isn’t afraid to murder her darlings.) The relationship that forms between Cas and Anna is believable and sweet, and their moments together were some of my favorite.

Two words: assassin nuns.

Okay, I’ll give you 145 more. Ismae (which I pronounced and continue to pronounce Ishmae because my mind decided of its own accord there needed to be an h in there) was raised as an assassin by a nuns who serve as the handmaidens of death. That’s what hooked me. The world-building in this novel is fantastic—it’s a fantasy in a historical setting, and LaFevers pulls it off so well. Aside from a killer protagonist—literally—there’s a wonderful romance that blooms between Ismae and the half-brother of the Dutchess, whose house she’s staying at to suss out information about the string of murders happening in the high court. The characters are all fully formed—from Ismae and Duval, the love interest, to the austere head nun and the adorable (and young) duchess. I’ll be honest: I’m not a big fan of historical novels, but I tore through this one.

You know sometimes how you just want a fun book, a fast read that’ll entertain? Enter From What I Remember. It’s basically The Hangover for YA. It’s told from alternating perspectives: Kylie, the valedictorian who wakes up in a hotel room in Mexico with a boy she barely knows and a wedding band on her finger; Max, the stuck-up boy who makes fun of kids at school who’s stuck in Tijuana on the morning of graduation; Will, the flamboyant best friend who takes a road trip to Mexico to save Kylie; and Lily, who walks in on her boyfriend with another girl. In Mexico.

Usually I think four POVs is a lot, but it worked in this case. The story was just plain old fun, and I loved all of the characters. The love-hate relationship between Max and Kylie was adorable as was the loyalty between Kylie and Will. It’s a cute read.

Graffiti Moon is one of those books I went into expecting a typical YA contemporary story and got ... well, something that blew me away. (Which forces me to conclude that I should read any Aussie book that comes my way.) The story centers around a single night: Lucy’s on the hunt for Shadow, a graffiti artist she admires, and she’s joined by Ed, the boy she’s tried to avoid ever since he touched her butt and she punched him in the nose. Ed just so happens to be Shadow, but he’s keeping that quiet because it’s, like, his secret identity. (Though sayting mum is hard when Lucy’s going on and on about the things she’d like to do with Shadow…)

This story has so much more depth than I imagined. The writing is beautiful, the characters so well created and complex. It made me appreciate art and graffiti in ways I haven’t before. And it had a realistic and complicated romance that was also believable and sweet. Before I spend the rest of this post gushing, please read this. It’s really great.

There’s so much I enjoyed about this story. For one, the premise is fresh: A volcano blows and within minutes part of the United States is plunged into survival mode. The book is narrated by Alex, who’s making the trek from his now-destroyed house to the town in which his parents are staying. It’s a great story of survival—dealing with food and water shortages, ash that can damage the lungs if inhaled, the whole every-man-for-himself atmosphere—and both  honest and funny. There’s romance (which worked really well for me), but it’s not insta-love and it makes sense considering the state of the world. I love reading books narrated by boys, and the voice here was spot-on. Plus, I’ve come away with some great new survival tools should a volcano erupt or zombies attack. I’m anxiously waiting the sequel.

And I’ll stop there before your eyes have a chance to glaze over. (Or has that already happened?)

What books have you recently read and loved?

*Click on the book image to go to the Goodreads page.

Kindness and the Great Big Zit

When I was sixteen, the most massive zit I’ve ever seen erupted on my chin. It was one of those cruel zits that ache before they surface, a warning that whatever pops up overnight is going to seriously mess with your social life.

The aching, red mountain sat on the edge of my chin like a beacon. By that age I was a makeup wizard and could cover up most of the zits I’d gotten—except this one. I remember spending the day with my hand over my chin, as if I were considering everything I heard very seriously.

“Do you believe Death of a Salesman is a criticism of capitalistic America?”

“Do you want tater tots with that?”

By the end of the day I felt like the most hideous creature in all of suburbia. I was five seconds from screaming, “Pray thee, father, cover my head in a potato sack with haste lest the villagers turn to stone!”

And here’s where I’m going to tie everything into the Kindness Project. (Not sure what that is? Here’s an explanation. As is this. )

A few years ago I came across Operation Beautiful. The idea is simple: Leave a note for a stranger letting them know that they’re beautiful. For instance:

What I love so much about this is that it’s easy. Write on a Post-it. Stick it somewhere someone will find it. It asks you to be kind without thanks; chances are you’ll never know whose day you brightened.

I imagine my sixteen-year-old self finding one of those Post-its. She has a giant zit on her chin, but she’s trying to cover it. She feels disgusting and ugly. I imagine her reading that she’s perfect just the way she is, and feeling a little less crummy.

Maybe she doesn’t remove her hand—these aren’t miracle-working notes, you know—but maybe she doesn’t knock herself down some more.

Posting today for The Kindness Project:

Sophia Chang
Erica Chapman
Jessica Corra
Elizabeth Davis

Christa Desir 

Sarah Fine
Claire Hennessy
Elana Johnson

Liza Kane

Amie Kaufman
Alina Klein

Sara Larson

Matthew MacNish

Sara McClung

Tracey Neithercott
Katherine Owens
Elizabeth Poole

Lola Sharp

Michele Shaw

Meagan Spooner

Carolina Valdez Miller

Be sure to check them out. We post the second Wednesday of every month. Want to join us? Grab our button and spread a little kindness.

Your Story: The Sand Bleeds My Name

Once upon a time I showed you guys the photo above, gave you a first line, and asked that you come up with a story for this girl.

…and then I got swamped and never posted the story. Let’s still be friends, okay? So, proving the power of a single image to get our creative brainwaves going, here’s the beginnings of the story we created.

Anyone looking for that creative spark, feel free to run with this. Take pieces to create your own story or use the image for inspiration. I feel like this should be a bumper sticker instead of a cheesy line on my blog, but it’s true: You are your own muse. Also, my kid beat up your honor’s student.

Ahem. The story, which I’ve titled The Sand Bleeds My Name:

My father forced me to run away, leave the beach, and never look back. My mother’s screams echoed in my ears, pounded away at my senses as I streaked through the scorching sand. A part of me wanted to turn around, to see the horror that was unfolding back down at the waters edge, but the adrenaline coursing through my body propelled me forward.

To you.

You with your calloused hands but sweet smile. You with your quiet mannerisms but thunderous touch. You with all your lies.

I should have known better than to believe the things that came out of your mouth, and yet I always did. Because that first night when the sun went down, when it dipped so low that the sea swallowed it whole and the beach succumbed to the frigid breath of evening, you gave me a fur coat.

As I was walking down the road, tears in my eyes. I came upon a hidden pathway. As I walked down the path, I saw the scenery changing. Suddenly I was surrounded by unicorns and gigantic creatures I thought had gone extinct millions of years ago.

Three rapid blinks, and the image is gone. I'm still alone, stranded with nothing but my fur coat and the memory of my father’s face as I ran. There are no unicorns. No creatures. No you. I ran away, to you, and nothing.

It seemed I had been running to nothing my entire life. It pulled me, no, dragged me to it and whether I wanted to or not I had to follow. Defeated, I collapsed into the sand. I called out for you, or for Byron, the unicorn, but my cries echoed across the beach and remained unanswered.

Only then, palms against the sand, did I realize it wasn’t my heartbeat, nor the pounding ocean. It was the thunder of a thousand feet, running in step. I should have known my father wouldn’t let me leave at my leisure. Daughters can’t be left to wander. They must be driven, relentlessly, into the ground.

And yet, strangely, I know I’ll get away. The blood on the sand will drive me on until there is no strength in me to run, and then further still. I cannot outrun the memory of that dreadful sight but, at least, I can outrun the demons they send for me now.

Slipping out of my fur coat I throw it up, up, high into a tree. Let the hounds bay for that. Swinging into the branches I fly.