Why I Haven't Updated Recently (With New Blog Link!)

It's not a bad reason! I moved my blog here. Wordpress is infinitely smoother and easier for me than Blogger—after a while updating here turned into a chore, but I'm not having that problem there. I don't expect to update this site anymore, so if you want to keep up with me, I strongly suggest following my Wordpress (which you can do via email if you don't have an account!) and/or my Twitter. I'll let you all know on Twitter when I post something new, in case you don't want to follow me—even though following a writer's blog is immensely helpful to them. It's cool. I get it. (You suck, though.) (Not really.) (But kind of.)

Love to all of you.

Mark

There's no way you're getting a coherent blog post title out of me right now.

(I command you to listen to The Civil Wars's "Poison and Wine" while reading this. If the song ends before you're done reading, put it on repeat. It has no relevance to anything, but it fits the mood; just do this for me.)

My heart is a kick-drum in my chest right now.

You know those things that happen to you and make you think, "Well, this is going to be the defining aspect of my year"? 2010 is the year I first got psychiatric treatment. 2011 is the year I started coming out. 2012 is the year I was one day from attempting suicide before I told someone. 2013 is the year I expanded my support system with so many amazing relationships I hope to carry on forever. 2014 is the year I became proud of myself.

2015 is the year my difficult high school experience paid off; I got admitted to the honors college at my state university.

2015 is the year I said goodbye to some of my closest friends.

2015 is the year I wrote the second book of my heart, SWEETEST DOWNFALL. (If you're wondering, yes, I did decide to title it that because of the Regina Spektor song "Samson.")

2015 is the year...well. We'll get to that. First, a great deal of backstory:

I started writing in 2011 for National Novel Writing Month (actually, Camp NaNoWriMo in the summer), mainly just to prove to myself that I could do it. My first manuscript was this horrific attempt at YA contemporary—the first of a planned quartet—but I didn't know how horrible it was. I finished it, but I didn't know what editing was or if I needed to do it. I queried it, but I didn't know how to query. No one so much as responded to my "queries." I cried. I got back to work.

In the winter of 2011-2012, I wrote my second manuscript, a dystopian romance with a love triangle. It was kind of like if The Handmaid's Tale had been bad. I queried it. I got two requests. I got two rejections. I cried. I got back to work.

In the spring of 2012, I wrote my third manuscript, a YA contemporary with no romance. It was an Issue Book about suicide, but I didn't know that. I queried it. I got requests, one from the lead agent at a solid, well-respected boutique agency. I never heard back. I cried. I got back to work.

It is worth noting here that around this time, I joined Twitter and met Amy Zhang, Ari Susu-Mago, John Hansen, and Olivia, the four members of my critique group besides me. We spent many, many evenings and weekends in a private chat room discussing portable, satchel-held breasts. We're still friends and critique partners now, and I hope we will be until the bitter end. At the risk of being a corny cob of corn made of cheese and sap: Amy is my first critique partner ever and the subject of literal hours spent bragging to my mom about my critique partner; she also made me cry four separate times at the first draft of Falling into Place and another four times at the finished copy, so she's a little bit dead to me. (KIDDING. I LOVE YOU BEYOND ALL MEASURE, AMY.) Ari is my most trusted confidant when I hate the world and also when I love it, in addition to being literally the most talented, intelligent, and warm person I've never met. I know people use that line a lot, but I mean every word of it. Olivia is objectively the loveliest ever, and though we fall out of contact frequently because of dumb life stuff (what the hell is this "productivity" thing), I can always, always trust her to bring me a smile and a virtual hug, in addition to rocking my socks straight into the stratosphere. John is okay.

[editor's note: John is more than okay; he's an amazing person and a bananapants good writer. He's scarily talented and we poke fun at each other because we genuinely do like and value each other's company.]

Me setting off text in brackets means you can't read it.

Back to the feels: In the summer of 2012, I began working on my fourth manuscript, MAD WORLD. Immediately I noticed this one was different—I was actually proud of my work here, and though the first draft was rough, it's safe to say I cried 50% of the time I was writing it. It's about a boy and a girl in a fairy tale relationship—until he's diagnosed with schizophrenia. It took me nine months to write when my previous record for longest time on a first draft was three months. To borrow some parlance from the first paragraph of the manuscript, there's two kinds of love: the kind that makes your heart race, and the kind that stops it. MAD WORLD will always stop my heart. Taylor, Law: thank you for everything.

I spent a long time on MAD WORLD, because I really believed it was my one shot; if this wasn't The Book, what would be? I queried and got amazing replies and queried and got such lovely rejections and queried and revised and polished according to feedback and queried and nothing came of it. It wasn't meant to be. The book of my heart wasn't getting published.

I cried. And it took me a long time, but I got back to work.

In the fall of 2013, I started my fifth manuscript, FOR THOSE WHO LISTEN. This was my Big Huge Commercial book, the one I thought would propel me to the bestseller lists and also fame. As a result, the writing was shaky at best. I queried, I got into contests, I got requests, I got rejections. I cried. I got back to work.

In 2014, I started my sixth manuscript, SWEETEST DOWNFALL. It was inspired by the Tracy Chapman song "Fast Car." It was an emotional maelstrom for me to write. It was my first gay romance. It was the first time I wrote about people who were like me, doing things like I would, loving how I do.

As a writer, I'd never felt more alive.

I took stylistic risks (the first line: "He pulled up to my house in his fast car in his good mood in his Sunday best despite it being Tuesday with a steady stream of pop rock music blaring from his radio"; a sentence structured like that is on almost every page). I made it about a boy with same-sex attraction, generalized anxiety, and a dead best friend, and he's already out to the world. It's Not A Coming Out Book (though you can kindly fight me if you think those aren't still needed). I made it messy and honest and the best book I could write.

I queried it. I started querying it in the early afternoon of February 16th, sending it out to six agents. Before noon the next day, I had three full requests in my inbox.

I cried. I got back to work.

I got a revise and resubmit situation with a lovely new agent at a well-respected agency, complete with a phone call.

I cried. I got back to work.

I got into Pitch Wars with the fierce, lovely Helene Dunbar as my mentor. We worked on SWEETEST DOWNFALL late at night and early in the morning and we didn't stop because we loved this book and what we were going to make it. Someone loved my book like it was her own.

I cried. I got back to work.

On October 4th, smack in the middle of Pitch Wars, I got an email from an agent, one of those within-24-hour requesting agents from the day I started querying, asking about the status of my manuscript and if we could talk on the phone soon.

I cried.

We talked on October 9th, 2015. She started with a few notes for editing she had, and I quaked in my slippers, thinking it was another R&R and I'd gotten my hopes up too much.

She mentioned some issues she'd had with the manuscript.

Some—most—I'd already addressed in my work with Helene. I told her this, explained how I'd changed the problem areas and what they looked like now.

She said she'd love to see the latest version. She said so many amazing, encouraging things. She said, "I'm offering you representation."

I cried.

I signed the contract.

It is with shaky hands and a kick-drum heart and so many thanks and so much love and an unspeakable amount of happy-tears that I announce I am now represented by Heather Flaherty at The Bent Agency.

I'm crying.

Time to get back to work.

Why I'm Still Angry

tw: homophobia, transphobia, suicide mentions

*

Something I see a lot on Twitter is a variation of this: "I don't see why everyone on here has to be so angry about something all the time. Why can't we just talk about the things we like?"

Sometimes it's worded more softly. Sometimes it's more aggressive.

I'm going to endeavor to explain why.

I'm gay. You know why I'm angry? Because people like certain clerks I won't even bother to name would refuse me and my hypothetical husband a marriage license solely because we are the same gender.

You know why I'm angry? Because discrimination based on someone's perceived sexuality or gender is legal in so many states. In employment. In housing. In public accommodations.

You know why I'm angry? Because I'm eighteen years old and I have no choice but to know what the term "public accommodations" means.

You know why I'm angry? Because yesterday in an almost assuredly queer-accepting Youth Identity classroom setting, I was in a group discussing which assignment we'd choose to read, per the professor's instructions. One of them was an article called "Coming Out in Middle School." And I suggested the article about using song in classroom settings instead—not because I wanted to, but because I have to be thinking about my sexuality whenever I am around people, every time I am around people.

You know why I'm angry? Because I carry the weight of every person murdered for their sexuality, their gender, in my bones.

You know why I'm angry? Because songs have to be written to explain to the general public that it's okay for them to treat me like a human being.

You know why I'm angry? Because I aced my high school sex education class and I have no idea how non-heterosexual couples have sex.

You know why I'm angry? Because there are churchfuls of people who want me dead.

You know why I'm angry? Because those people who want me dead want it on principle—they don't know me.

You know why I'm angry? Because there are currently countries where it would be legal to kill me.

You know why I'm angry? Because I hear the word "f*g" every day.

You know why I'm angry? Because Tyler Clementi never got to see gay marriage legalized nationwide.

You know why I'm angry? Because I might've met Tyler Clementi—I go to his former school.

You know why I'm angry? Because I told my mother I was gay, pleading for her not to let anyone know, and she informed two people within the week.

You know why I'm angry? Because I know beyond any doubt my older sibling would assault me if he found out.

You know why I'm angry? Because forty-one percent of trans and gender nonconforming people have attempted suicide.

You know why I'm angry? Because you can compare that to 1.6% of everyone.

You know why I'm angry? Because I was one day away from attempting suicide before I got help because I thought I was hopeless—because I'm gay.

You know why I'm angry? Because not one person knows the reason I wanted to commit suicide was absolutely and irrevocably tied to my sexuality.

Stay angry. Stay furious. Stay protesting injustices. Stay unsatisfied. Stay in "call-out culture." Stay improving. Stay vocal. Stay helpful. Stay open. Stay safe. Stay here with me.

Please.

Social Media for the Socially Anxious

First: I am not a mental health professional. I would have to be very Doogie Howser-esque for that to be the case because I'm eighteen, but I am not Doogie Howser. I'm more of a Leslie Knope, to be real. Also, I am going to be talking about techniques that work for me and which are likely to work for you, but it's entirely possible they won't.

*

My psychiatrist and I don't know exactly what flavor of anxiety would be the most apt description for me. Here is what we do know:

• I am an anxious person, to the point where it frequently becomes unhealthy.
• Going outside can be something between a hassle and an apocalypse, depending on the day.
• Talking to people scares the living daylights out of me.

Even if I know someone—even if that someone is my best friend, who knows absolutely everything about me—I have to get myself in the right mindset to spend time with them. Like, I prefer making plans to go grab something for lunch days or even a week in advance. When we go to a store or somewhere public, I take pains not to leave the other person's side even for a minute. When my BFF went in a clothing store at the mall two weeks ago with me and wanted to try on a few shirts in the dressing rooms for evaluation, I worked myself up to the point of becoming a sweaty mess. What if someone else comes in the dressing rooms while I'm waiting for her? What if they look at me funny for helping my friend (who's, you know, a young woman) decide what clothes to buy? This is the local mall—it could be someone we know. What if they think I'm here with her because I'm gay? I'm going to be outed to the entire town, aren't I. On and on and on.

Despite this, I'm very present on Twitter (hi there, I'm @mobrienbooks). For me, any sort of situation in which I could embarrass myself is anxiety-provoking, but especially public ones like this. Twitter is a cesspool of situations that stress me out, real and likely to occur or otherwise. So I figured I'd throw some tips that work for me out there in case any of you go through a similar thing.

1. CBT, motherfucker.

If you're not familiar, CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) is the bee's knees and the cat's pajamas and meow at the same time together in one cohesive unit. It asks you to change (or at very least challenge) either your thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. You can do just one—in fact, that's generally encouraged. Because the therapist who taught me CBT believed thoughts were easiest to challenge—and since that's what I know and have learned—I'm going to start there, but make no mistake: thoughts, feelings, and behaviors all influence each other in profound ways.

A typical cycle when I'm drafting a tweet (because I do draft and hold onto tweets, sometimes for days or weeks, because I don't know how they'll be received) goes a little like this:

I don't know what I'm talking about. —> I'm an idiot and no one wants to hear my advice or opinions on anything. —> I won't post this. —> ...because I don't know what I'm talking about.

Now, there are plenty of things I don't know much of anything about. I don't know about sports or geography or what it's like to be a woman of color. That said, I know the industry-standard font for fiction manuscripts. I know what it's like to be a gay teenager/technical adult living in New Jersey in 2015. I know approximately how much to feed a small or medium-sized dog. But anxiety makes me start to doubt those things, too—and that's when I (usually) implement CBT.

Do I really not know what I'm talking about in regard to the industry-standard font? Let's examine the evidence: I've finished six manuscripts. I'm an editorial intern at a mid-sized publisher. I've been writing seriously with the intent of publication for four years. Therefore, yes, I think I do know that Times New Roman, size 12 is your best (slash only) option. Because of that, I don't think I'm an idiot whose advice no one wants to hear. So, yes, I think it's fine for me to tweet that tip.

I'm not saying CBT always makes anxiety disappear. I'm not saying it even works at all in some situations. But I am saying that it is a godsend a lot of the time, and I'd be in a worse place mentally without it.

2. Rationalize!

This goes hand-in-hand with the first point. Anxiety is oftentimes the blatant ignoring of logic. A great deal of anxious people admit they know their fears are irrational and even silly. We just can't stop the thoughts, which lead to the feelings (and we know our friend cognitive dissonance says we can feel two conflicting things at once), which segue marvelously into the actions, which work along with the thoughts in sometimes surprising ways. An anxious mind can't always be trusted—by which I mean we have to challenge the parts of ourselves that blare false alarms at all times.

Think: Okay, I'm well-versed in this subject I want to talk about online. I've experienced it; talked and listened to a great number of people who have experienced it; or, most frequently, both. I know my shit.

And think that last line over and over again—omit "shit" if you're not of the cursing persuasion. I know my shit. I know my shit. Do I know my shit? Yes. How do I know I know my shit? Because I'm well-versed in this subject I want to talk about. I've experienced it/talked and listened to a great number of people who have experienced it/all of the above. Use logical (or empirical!) evidence to support that point, assuming you have it. Breathe. Post the thing.

3. Value yourself.

This is beyond difficult for many, and I won't sit here and list all the good qualities you, personally, have. But, assuming your self-worth is there (and I so, so, so so so encourage you to reach out to someone to discuss getting help if it isn't), you can probably name a few good qualities about yourself off the top of your head. For example—and admittedly from someone with a very healthy sense of self-worth—I'm empathetic, a good listener, and a strong writer whose skills are only sharpening. Use some of those if you need a starting point.

Now, if you've thought of some (but certainly not all) of your strengths, you might find these are preeeeetty damn good things. You might've said "I'm kind," "I'm strong," even "I'm a good person." If you did—good fucking job, you! I mean that with all of my heart. As a reward, skip a paragraph down.

If your positive qualities were more like "I'm good at coloring" or "One time I did a nice thing for somebody" or anything obscure, isolated, or not genuine, ask a friend or a family member. Hell, ask me if I know you. Chances are they say "better" good things about you, like that you're selfless or brave or the most intelligent person they know. Do you believe these things? Sit with them for as long as you want, and if you find you do agree with them—good fucking job, you!

So you have some good qualities about yourself lined up. Now write them down. Write a poem incorporating the main word (e.g. "open-minded" or "creative"). Look back at the past week and think of three incidents, no matter how small, when you lived up to that description. Write the exact line you thought of or that someone you trust told you into a story, word for word. Get it inside your head that these are truthful however you can. Because—and I take a lot of pleasure in telling you this—they are the truth. They are. I promise.

I've found a lot of my self-doubt correlates with my self-value. In the most general of terms: I don't think I can talk about this because I don't think I'm good enough to talk about this. If I challenge the "I'm not good enough" part, a whole lot of new doors open up to me.

*

I very much hope this was helpful in some way! What was your favorite part? I liked that, too. And I'm always, always available to talk to you on Twitter (I pretty much live there at this point) or via whichever means of contact is most comfortable for you.

xo

A Small Dose of News

I'm going to strive to keep this short—you didn't come here to hear all my feelings—but of course I'm going to preface the aforementioned news with a few disclaimers and a little story about myself.

Disclaimer 1: This is not That Blog Post, nor is it That Announcement. If you're a writer, you know what I'm talking about. In fact, most people in my position don't write blog posts about this, but to borrow the parlance of an overused quote in YA, I'm not most people.

Disclaimer 2: I'm so, so excited about this regardless.

I have two career goals. The first is, of course, author. I want to write YA professionally, and I want to make a living off of it. Luckily for me, I also know it's nigh impossible for a debut author to make a sustainable income off their writing in the beginning. And, luckily for me, I have another passion. Another career goal. Editor.

I'm pretty darn excited to say: I'm now an editorial intern at Entangled Publishing, where I will work under senior editor Kate Brauning. This is, I do believe, my first step toward a career in publishing, and I'm so excited to take it with such a lovely house and such a sharp editor.

So. You know. :D

YA and Teen Girls

For a long period of my adolescence, I was a Nice Guy™. If you don't know what I mean by that: I grew up in an environment where women (and especially teen girls) were the punchline of some joke. And there were jokes about them, about rape and so many more things. There were racial slurs too—literal and overt hatred of every race and culture that was not white and American. The racism I objected to openly, and I was called a "[slur]-lover" in jest more times than I could count. For context, the last time I've spoken to this person was when I was eleven years old. But I was a Nice Guy™ for that, because I did speak up against the racism.

I spent a lot of time and energy unlearning it. I still slip sometimes, make mistakes—never of the overt hatred variety, because I'd like to think I'm not an asshole. But I remember a few months ago when my best friend in the universe, who was born and partially raised in Turkey, told me how she sometimes feels like she doesn't belong with her friends. "Everyone's so white and they were raised here, and I'm..."

I said, "Well, you shouldn't feel like that." I brushed it off. I tried to comfort her, to be sure—but whether I realized it or not, I also said "That's not a legitimate feeling." I also said "No one cares." I also said "Let me, a white male born and raised in this small New Jersey town, tell you how you should think and feel."

That instinct to jump in and police what someone from a marginalized standpoint is feeling, what they're expressing (which is a brave act on their part in and of itself)—that's something I have to stop doing. And I am stopping. I'm listening more. I'm not chiming in with my opinion because I recognize that, frankly, sometimes I don't get to have an opinion. I don't go up to a homeless person sleeping in a shelter in the city my town is near and tell them "You're a disappointment." I don't stop a soldier with PTSD who's saying we should be mindful of veterans when setting off fireworks this Fourth of July and say "You're overreacting." Why, then, should I be to tell a girl of color that her feelings are illegitimate?

Why, then, should anyone be able to tell anyone else their feelings are illegitimate?

(I know you knew I was leading to this, but hey, anecdotal allegories are fun.)

If you're part of the YA community like I'd like to think I am (and you are, and all our Twitter friends are), you've seen what's been going on as of late. A girl says she's uncomfortable with someone's presence. Someone else jumps in. Four thousand other people jump in, and then that original person takes to the social media airwaves. "That's not a legitimate feeling," he says. "No one cares," he says. "Let me, an adult male, tell you how you should think and feel."

To return to my original story: there was a lot of sexism in my environment. Like, a lot. I never said anything about those jokes, that hatred, though. Because I knew, from the other adults in my life and my experiences even as a child, that Racism Is Bad—but I'd never heard that hey, Sexism Is Bad. I didn't even know what sexism was.

But I sure as hell was sexist for a long time in my life. I didn't unlearn that anywhere near as quickly as I did racism. Again, it wasn't overt, but it was still real. I remember being defensive every time women's rights were brought up. I remember being told by a feminist online that I'd made her uncomfortable with my wording and thinking "Ughhhh a feminist." I remember tweeting about two years ago in regards to someone saying she was reading books by women exclusively for a year, and I remember my tweet was along the lines of "I really hope none of my followers choose not to read my book because I'm male."

The feminist movement and the LGBTQ+ rights movement have a lot of overlap. And make no mistake: the reason I was introduced to the fact that sexism is wrong was because I wanted to be able to marry and visit my future husband in the hospital and not encounter housing or workplace discrimination. The reason I became aware of my sexism was because I became aware of and was no longer able to deny my sexuality.

But that has little to do with the reason I became a feminist. There's a distinction between being aware of a problem and working to stop it. The reason I became (and become, every day, in listening and contributing and countering and growing) a feminist has nothing to do with me.

It has everything to do with that girl who is uncomfortable with John Green's presence. It has everything to do with that girl who told me she feels like she didn't belong because she was raised in another country. It has everything to do with those women who are victimized on a daily basis. It has everything to do with my friends, online and off, who publicly trade personal stories of discrimination, assault, and rape like they're nothing.

So yes, I'm a feminist. Anxiety permitting, I will utterly shut down discussions I overhear (or am, by the initiator's mistake, involved in) of how women's rights are a joke. And yes, I support racial equality. I try to bolster and support the voices of people of color in any way I can.

But while this story is about me, this conversation isn't. So I'm going to urge you to keep YA safe for teen girls. Keep this a community of compassion and love toward them, not snap-judgment and denial. Support their voices, feelings, thoughts, experiences. If you disagree with them, make sure to remind yourself to be the adult—because you are the adult. Teen girls are valuable, and they are worthwhile, and they are needed. We do it for them, y'know?

WIP Update: Summer 2015, Part 1

Hi there! Time for another WIP Update, also known as "Mark tells you everything there is to tell about what he's working on so you're able to interpret his tweets and not go WHAT EVEN IS HE TALKING ABOUT." WIP Update flows a bit better, I think. Anyway, this is Part 1 because I plan on doing a Part 2 updating you all about this same project by the start of fall. As usual, these are more for me than anyone else, but people sometimes like these things, so I post 'em online.

So this WIP (work-in-progress, or the manuscript of which I'm currently writing the first draft) is two weeks old—I got the idea and started writing June 6th—but I've already got 7,000 words down. Considering that I graduated high school this Thursday, the 18th, and was preparing for finals and writing papers and finishing online tests at 11:55 PM when they were due at midnight, I'm pretty proud of this 7k. :) With that out of the way, here's all about it:

Title: Break the World

Category: YA

Genre: Gay contemporary romance

Theme song (song that I play a lot when writing/that reminds me of it): "When You Sleep" by Mary Lambert (link opens to YouTube)

Comp titles (subject to change): WHY WE BROKE UP plus HOW TO LOVE minus heterosexuality. I know in my query I'm going to have to put only the books, not the "minus straight people" part, but LOOK HERE, BUSTER

Structure: Non-linear. The odd chapters tell the story of Jude and Emory's relationship from their first day as freshmen to their breakup the summer before junior year. The even chapters tell the story of Jude and Emory's trip around town over one sleepless night just before graduation.

Original premise, as told in Twitter DMs to @rachelwrites007: "My books always go in a different direction than I intend so right now it's very Jenny Han-y, BUT—15-yo boy writes letters to his 18yo self,
"finds them when he's 18, and tries to adjust his life to be more like the one he wanted. With a queer romance! But it's not a Romance."

Actual new premise (not a pitch because I hate pitching) now that I've written some of it: Fourteen-year-old Jude Oakley is falling fast for his new classmate, Emory, in spite of Jude's homophobic, practically omnipresent older brother Wesley. Eighteen-year-old Jude Oakley drives to Emory's house in the middle of the night, hoping to win him back two years later despite what Wesley did. And sixteen-year-old Jude Oakley knows what happened the night Wesley and Emory met—but he's not talking.

What it's about in these really abstract or otherwise indirect terms: Activism. Active listening. Sexual activity. Hyperbole. Slightly modified classic poetry. Gender. Mental illness. Spoons. Social politics. Political politics. Extroversion. Introversion. Planning marriages at first sight. Imaginary flash-forwards. Hatred—the kind that makes you want to break the world. Love—the kind that does break the world.

Excerpt: 

“I like your name. Jude.” He tests it on his tongue, smiling still, eyes bright, like someone who’s already decided on the car they want but has to drive it around the block first, just for appearance’s sake. I like Emory. Lots.

Which makes my response complicated. I like your face? Too direct. I like your name too? Too indirect. Will you marry me? “Yeah, I was named after the patron saint of lost causes. My parents are big into metaphors.”

“I know the patron saint of lost causes.”

Well. In my head I am now driving to the local gay-friendly church, wearing a new, carefully ironed tuxedo and a smile that threatens to split my face in two. It’s sunny but not too sunny, and the world is awake but not too awake, and we drive in separate limousines to keep us from making out the entire time. I get up and walk up the church steps, each footfall a resting heartbeat in sharp contrast to the thudding and thunking and screeching and screaming and singing my chest is doing now. I open the doors, and he’s there, and I run—I run past the pews, finely pressed suit be damned, past my broken family and his beautiful one, I reach him, I take his hands in mine, and I kiss him hard and slow, and maybe there’s several dozen doves, too.

“Oh, cool!” I say.

How I like my eggs: I don't like eggs.