BOOK NEWS

I’m so happy to announce that my novel will be published by St. Martin’s in 2017!

It’s been such a long journey. A literal odyssey. Let me break it down.

First, I wrote a book.

The first draft, which I wrote over winter break of my freshman year, took about six weeks, and it was absolutely terrible. A version exists in a secret folder on my computer, and I think about destroying it every single day.

I re-wrote and re-wrote for about a year, finishing another version after winter break of sophomore year. I showed it to my one of smartest friends, who read it and gave her feedback. I edited again.

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The book, deconstructed. Middletown, CT.

The summer between sophomore and junior years, I focused on other things. I had been so absorbed in the project that I could no longer look at it. I frolicked around Washington, D.C. with a group of quality vegans and didn’t write all summer.

I found an agent in the fall of my junior year; we revised again, and she submitted the manuscript to publishers at the end of January. On February 22, she closed the deal with St. Martin’s. It’s the perfect fit, and I couldn’t be happier!

NOT A BLOGGER

I never thought I’d blog.

The idea of it–blogging–makes me irrationally afraid that I’ll somehow morph into Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw: gazing into the curved face of an early-2000s-era computer, typing aloud as I spout vague clichés about love in a revelatory tone, the flimsy strap of my camisole drifting down one shoulder. (Just to be clear, I love Sarah Jessica Parker, and Sex and the City is a great and true pleasure.)

But there are a few problems with this scene I imagine. First, I would never wear something as revealing as a camisole. (In fact, my standard nightgown is an ankle-length, collared garment that calls to mind a pre-sexually-awakened Jane Eyre.) More so, though, the concept of self-promotion has always filled me with an odd mixture of horror and nausea; specifically, self-promotion makes me want to crawl into my dog’s bed and gouge my eyes out with his pawnails, which the vet is always telling us to clip, but which we neglect to do out of laziness.

Alas: here we are. The blog exists. Ugh. I hate myself.