I'm nearing the end of my first major revision of THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES. This time, I gave the shitty rough draft to a group of trusted beta readers to get feedback on the general structure of the thing before I tried to make it any good. They  helped me see what I should add more than what I should take away. Cutting is so easy. Adding, for me, is harder.

I've found despite my Internet publishing job and my years working with software development, in the end, I still write best longhand. I sit in front of a screen all day long, and trying to write at night in front of another glowing screen is very difficult for me. It feels like work. Printing the manuscript out and editing it by hand, referencing different notebooks with extended scenes is just easier. I wish I'd known this while working on THE OBVIOUS GAME, but, well, it's like anything else -- you have to fuck it up a few times before you figure out what works for you.

One of my writing professors told me once revising fiction is like pulling it up from the bottom of a well. At first, you can just see there's something there, then gradually as you haul on the ropes, the details emerge, until at last the water pours off and the thing in its entirety is visible. I can't completely see THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES yet, but this past week I've been working on it hours every night, and I can finally feel its emotional compass. Knowing it's a story that ultimately will matter only to me doesn't feel as maddening as it did before. THE OBVIOUS GAME was a story I had to tell, because I thought it might help the people who email me, desperate to hear what helped me recover from my eating disorder. This novel is different -- it's a story. I'm trying to capture what it feels like to be nineteen and on the cusp of your life starting and not knowing where that will take you. The moment when you realize no one really knows what they are doing and the house of cards on which you hung all you know to be true wobbles. The day you choose whether that knowledge will turn you jaded or ambitious. 

As I transcribed my shaky handwriting from notebook to StoryMill tonight, I felt excited. I felt alive. 

I like remembering what it was like when I spent my days and nights asking myself the big questions, before I got caught up in making sure the leaves didn't kill the grass and whether I've volunteered enough for the PTA. I'm still that girl who corrected the grammar of the school behavior manual during suspension. I haven't forgotten the pain of realizing no one would ultimately look after me but me. I remember the day I realized I had to value myself enough to demand the respect of the men I dated, to not accept careless affection as love.

I wouldn't go back to being fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen for anything. God, it was so hard then. But do you remember how alive you felt when every emotion exploded like fireworks over the ocean? 

I do. I still do.

I remember looking around at older women at my first few jobs (and back then, "older" meant "above 30" and wondering why they got so bedazzled for work.

I also remember doing some work with a high-end useless pretty things shop in Kansas City. I was in the shop when a woman came in and ordered hundreds of dollars in soon-to-die centerpieces, and my twentysomething self threw up in her mouth. Of course, at the time, I lived in a first-floor one-bedroom that butted up to an abandoned building/crackhouse, so seasonal color was sort of lost on me.

My daughter has been making fun of me lately because of my obsession with my pumpkin cairn. At the patch, I bought 89 pounds of unusual, low, flat and red, green and orange pumpkins, and I stacked them outside my door. My husband thought I'd gone Pinterest. My daughter thought I needed to get over myself. I was starting to grok the value of seasonal color. Once you get to paint your own walls whatever color you want, pumpkins get to be interesting little fuckers.

It has been a slow change. I now understand why I'd want to iron clothes on a weekday, even though I work from home. And I understand when you get older -- and in my case, are tied at home a lot by a child -- the need for home to be more interesting grows. When I was twentysomething, I was hardly ever home. Now the money I used to spend on cabs and cover goes to cat litter and CVS. That pumpkin cairn greets me every time I drive up.

I get those little old ladies now buying flower arrangements for their foyer tables.

The world outside is yellow. The trees in my yard and across the street turn anywhere from dull brown to bright  yellow in the fall, depending on how much rain we've had during the summer. This year they're macaroni-and-cheese yellow. 

We peered up at the trees last weekend, commenting on how odd it was they hadn't turned yet. It happens so fast. They turned and began falling a few days ago, and now my deck is carpeted in sunshine even as it the sky is gray and rainy. 

It reminds me of "All Summer in a Day," a little, knowing how quickly this beauty will explode and then fade into another winter.

Sometimes I love humans.

DJ Nibbles approves.

[Editor's Note: This post originally appeared on BlogHer.com.]

Last Saturday, I packed my bag, drove to St. Louis and attended the young adult literature/anti-bullying Less Than Three Conference hosted by New York Times best-selling young adult author Heather Brewer.

I knew it would be interesting, but I didn't know it would be life-changing. The sessions ranged from cyber-bullying to self-bullying to school bullying to LGBTQ bullying and were led by young adult authors who had written novels discussing -- in some fashion -- bullying. By the end of the day, I learned every author up there had done what I myself have done: They wrote around the thing that hurt them.

A.S. King: "All bullying is embarrassing to the victim."

Heather Brewer gave the keynote address. "Fourth grade is the first time I remember wanting to die," she said, and the air in the room expanded in an instant. My daughter is in fourth grade. A little piece of my heart broke off and floated away imagining a fourth-grade Heather.

She told a story of trying to hang herself in her closet as a teen. When the bar broke, she didn't tell anyone, because she was unsupported at home and didn't have a friend -- not one friend -- until she was a freshman in high school. When she made that one friend, everyone said they were lesbians, because the only reason someone would hang out with her had to be sexual favors. Her teacher laughed at her the day someone wrote "LESBO" on her folder. She carried the folder all year to show it hadn't hurt her. She didn't care about being called a lesbian if she had a friend. All she wanted was a friend.

T.M. Goeglein: "Never think no matter what you say, it won't help -- if you have the chance to say something positive, do it."

Heather wasn't the only one. Every author had a story. They could remember the exact names of their bullies and see the faces of their bullies in their mind's eye. That these talented and successful people shared that shame drove home how universal the experience can be and how powerless anyone can feel at the hands of a bully.

Carrie Ryan: "The reason it gets better is that we make the choice to make it get better."

At the end of the day, I left St. Louis and drove back to Kansas City wondering how my life might have been different if I'd been one of those teens attending the panels, if I might not have fallen prey to anorexia, if I might have learned to love myself more and ignore the voices in my head telling me the rules were different for me. And I wondered if kids who bullied other kids in my high school might have thought twice if they'd heard Heather's story. "In every school, there is 'that kid,' and it is acceptable to pick on 'that kid,'" she said. "I was 'that kid.'" I remember several "that kids" I knew while growing up. I remember standing by. I remember joining in. I'm so ashamed to say that, but it's true. I never was a ringleader, but I was a follower of leaders. And really, there's no excuse for any of it. There are reasons but not excuses. By the time I was in high school, I knew better and I don't remember being mean, but by the second half of high school I was lost to the voices in my head forcing me to run bleachers and eat fewer than 800 calories a day even after it grew painful to sit and I grew fine hair all over my cheeks as my body tried to protect itself from my mind.

Ellen Hopkins: "You have to ask the person, "What is the reason behind self-harm?" Because there is always a reason."

Maybe I would've been different if I would've had the chance to hear successful adults talk about overcoming, surviving, moving forward. Maybe I would've been different if I'd had my nose stuck in Heather's story. "I'm in every school, and I'm usually quiet," she said. "Give me something to hold onto."

Give me something to hold onto.

Posts on Bullying

• Holli Long writes about being a safe person to talk to.

• Julie Ramanow writes about dealing with adult bullies in the workforce.

• Becoming Supermommy writes about being raped and abandoned in the snow at 14.

• Another Piece of Cake writes a thank-you note to her bullies.

Anti-Bullying Resources

• PACER's National Bullying Prevention Center

• Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

• I Choose

• Project Anti-Bully

Cutting and Self-Harm Resources

• S.A.F.E. Alternatives (Self-Abuse Finally Ends): 1-800-366-2288.

• Mind Infoline – Information on self-harm and a helpline to call in the UK at 0300 123 3393.

• Kids Helpline – A helpline for children and teens in Australia to call at 1800 55 1800.

• Kids Help Phone – A helpline for kids and teens in Canada to call for help with any issue, including cutting and self-injury. Call 1-800-668-6868.

Support for LGBTQ Teens

• National directory of Gay-Straight Alliance school organizations

• The Trevor Project

• Welcoming Schools

Eating Disorder Resources

• AED Academy for Eating Disorders

• EDA Eating Disorders Anonymous

• Eating Disorder Coalition for Research, Policy and Action

• Eating Disorder Foundation

Tonight I'm throwing my laptop, my manuscript notes and a few audiobooks in the car and heading over to St. Louis for the Less Than Three Conference. It's a conference put on by young adult author Heather Brewer, whom I met at the young adult track at RT Booklovers back in May. All the panels are put on by young adult authors and discuss various aspects of bullying that they've written about in their books. I'm excited to meet some of the authors I admire but have not yet met and also say hi to those with whom I've had the pleasure to shake hands. And of all the panels, I'm most excited about the one on bullying yourself -- which is, of course, where THE OBVIOUS GAME fits in.

After a long quiet period, I've had two emails this week from family members frustrated with their anorexic sibling or daughter. It's a relief at this point to have something solid to point to, to be able to say, here, read this, tell me if it helps. I hope it helps. I hope you can talk to each other after.

Growing up is really hard, but so is being grown up. What no one tells you is that for some people, high school never ends. Some people stay bullies permanently, stymied in their growth at tenth grade. Adulthood in many ways is finding the inner strength to surround yourself with people who lift you up instead of tearing you down. Learning not to listen to those who feel better about themselves by telling other people they are utter shit.

There is always someone who will tell you that you are shit. You can look at that fact as depressing or empowering. 

Adulthood for me has been about learning to stop bullying myself. I don't remember being bullied nor being a bully, except with myself. When I bully myself, that anger turns outward, too. That's what I tried to tell the people who emailed me this week. Please read the book. I know their pain is probably presenting as anger to you. It's hard to love someone who is in such pain they become nasty like an injured animal. It's not fair you should have to be the bigger person to love someone who is in pain. 

So I'm interested to see what this conference will be like. I'm excited to meet teen readers and see what they say in the sessions. I hope to come away with lots of ideas for new novels and feel inspired to turn back to the problems Meg struggles with in THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES. I'll let you know how it goes, but I'm feeling more invigorated again. There might be a point, after all. 

The leaves haven't even turned yet, but last night I found myself lying on my daughter's bed with a frowny face.

My husband walked in. "You look upset."

Me: "Yes."

Him: "Should we move out?"

Me: "No. I mean, maybe. But I think it's just me. You moving out might not help, so you should stay."

Him: "Gotcha."

I proceeded to try to explain that it's October and October means cold weather is coming, and I'm at the first revision stage of THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES, which feels like getting all your syllabi on one day and wondering how the fuck you're going to get all that work done in one semester. And maybe I was having a There's No Point to Any of It day, the kind of day where you realize you're just going to have to make the bed again tomorrow and you can be a totally awesome worker and then you'll retire and three years later the entire department will have turned over and someone will ask who the hell made the decision for the border to be goddamn orange and if you do publish books, they'll eventually go out of print, even the ebooks will find a way to go out of print. One of those days.

I felt like when Louis CK tells Conan about that time when you're in traffic and you have the forever empty feeling because it's all for nothing and you're alone, and Conan looks at him like, I'm not sure I want to admit in public that I know exactly what you're talking about. Can someone please hand me a smartphone? I need to check Twitter.

Yeah. I had one of those days yesterday. I'm still trying to shake off that feeling that really nothing I do is important or worth doing and really, I'm pretty sure that's just my fear talking and I should just revise anyway, because that's what you do in order to occupy yourself until you die.

KIDDING.

Sort of. Because even if that's what it is, maybe that's still something worth doing. 

I'm not a big flag-waver. Sometimes I think it's because the flag of the United States of America has been waved from a bully pulpit so many times I've grown weary of it. Sometimes I think it's because it's so often pictured next to oh, say, a gun or a tea bag or someone shouting 'MERICA! while disagreeing with something political that I believe in, as though having an opposing opinion made me less 'MERICAN! than he or she were. 

Late last week, I skimmed an article in The Atlantic that nailed my ambivalence pretty well, and I flagged it (you know I had to go there) for further pondering:

It is one thing to believe that America's history and founding principles are exceptional, and another thing — deluded and profoundly unconservative — to believe that the U.S. is inoculated against acting badly, or is justified in doing things that Americans would condemn if anyone else did them. 

That's it, precisely. I love my country. I was born here, I grew up in its breadbasket and I was raised quite unironically. I believe in a voluntary military, in the three branches of our executive government and even in the checks and balances that have our government temporarily shut down. I believe in the need for freedom of speech even when that freedom gives a voice to someone I deem an idiot. But man. The last few presidential election cycles have been so ugly. The attack ads get worse every time. I didn't agree with the last few military maneuvers. I'm still mad about Guantanomo Bay. The older I get, the more I realize how incredibly ambivalent I am about my country. I love it, but I question its people all the time. I'm very grateful for the right to vote and freedom of speech and really all of my freedoms, and I think the framers of the Constitution were really brilliant in ways they probably didn't even realize.

There just haven't been very many times since we invaded Iraq that I felt like waving a flag. I felt like linking arms with my neighbors. I felt like praying for the health and safe return of our soldiers. I was excited when the guy I voted for got elected, but that's the guy I voted for, not the country itself. There is a difference between one man or one party or even one idea and an entire country, which is where the flag-waving confusion sets in for me. 

Still, deep inside my thirty-nine-year-old self is the six-year-old who believed that America was perfect. That little girl loved the state of Iowa and didn't realize it was considered a fly-over state by some. She earnestly waved her flag for her country and her pom poms for her town's high school and didn't realize how complex the world is. I miss her sometimes. Last Friday, I got to be her again for a few hours because of soccer.

For Beloved's 40th birthday, I got us tickets to the U.S. vs. Jamaica soccer game at Sporting Park in Kansas City, Kansas. I have nothing against Jamaica and neither did anyone there. There just weren't very many Jamaican fans in the stadium, so everyone in the crowd was kind of on the same team, just cheering and happy and ... earnestly and unironically flag-waving. 

And I loved every minute of it. It turns out the soccer was awesome (2-0, US) but the flag-waving was worth the wait. 

USA!