Created for Necessity, Employed for Passion
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet"
Let's build a world. Explore what we believe by writing. In many ways my characters’ experiences with fate, destiny and free-will mirror my own. What is up to us and what isn’t? It’s one of the great questions of the human experience, I think. But no matter what is for us to control, we must own the identity. You’re a writer if you write. Period. Writing is a lovely way to spend one’s time. Enjoy it. And I hope you enjoy my writing here.
Monday, December 31, 2012
I was hanging out last night with two of my friends. They are 19, but they still let me pretend I am cool. So many New Years and birthdays have passed since I was there age and even so, I don't feel grown up yet. And I think that is thanks to all of you. I get to keep talking about being young, figuring it out, about first love. I get to keep giggling and laughing and swooning over cute boys (here's looking at you, Efron). Sometimes people ask me why I write YA novels and I can't give a better answer than this: we have fun.
Thank you for a wonderful, lovely, exciting, dream-making 2012. Here is to an even BETTER 2013.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
I've seen so many words since Friday. News articles and blog posts and headlines. Some have made me cringe, some have made me cry. Some seem to lack pure motive, others have been simply snapshots of anguish. All have tried, in some way, to make sense of this. We have used the only tools we have.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Tweet me @RebeccaASerle and ask me anything! Publishing, writing process, my favorite type of peanut butter-- whatever! I promise to respond. 12 days. 12 questions-- ask away!
And if you don't have twitter, feel free to leave your Q here and I will get back to you in the comments.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
I am a tremendously over-emotional person. I believe this is, in large part, what makes me a good writer. It is certainly what makes me try to be one. Writing helps sort some stuff out. It always has. Whether it's indirect or direct. Whether you see it, like in When You Were Mine, or whether it bears no resemblence to my life at all (except a few ex references. Those are real).
It's therapy. Word. word. word. word. I write. I get through the rocky beginning, and the endless, desert of a middle. I find the sweet ending, sort of. Most of this sucks. Most of it won't make it.
I will edit, and edit, and further edit, and edit some more. And then I will stand on my head, and do everything I just said but backwards, playing scrabble. It's all very confusing. It involves a lot of copy and pasting. A lot of sad, sad cutting. A bit of crying. A few bad decisions. A few breakdowns. One come to jesus moment. MAYBE two, if there is chocolate.
And then I get here.
Finishing a book is a strange experience, but I think you can relate. You have finished books. You have set a world down you've just spent time inside, and said goodbye to it. It's not always easy. Sometimes you don't want to leave just yet. But it's time. It's over.
Every time I read Ephron I find myself totally perplexed at her ending. Not the fact that she's not here, although that is deeply perplexing, the most perplexing of all. No, what I mean is the fact that she was incredibly unsentimental about goodbyes. The woman who wrote the defining romantic comedies, whose love stories will live on for generations and generations (my sentimentality is really showing itself to be a fault of mine, here), didn't have a particularly emotional disposition. She was no-nonsense. She was onward.
There are so many things in life that end. Romance, and friendship, and trust, and even faith, sometimes. Stories are just one of them, but for tonight, for me, they are what matter.
That is all (for now).