Our Blog

It’s great to read horror all year long, but there’s nothing like some horror for the holidays. Browse these reads and find the perfect choice for your favorite horror fan.

Don’t forget to grab a snack during your shopping with You Gotta Eat!

Browse the books below to find the perfect gift for the offbeat fact finder in your life.

Find your middle grader’s new favorite book below!

Once, long ago in my workshop days, a writer-friend of mine scolded me for talking openly at a party about something I was still writing. He firmly believed that anything still being written, any work-in-progress, should be totally shrouded in secrecy until it was finished. I wondered if he worried that someone would steal his ideas now if he revealed them? Or was it more superstitious? Did he think I could “jinx” myself by speaking about my work to others?

Loose lips sink ships, my grandfather, an old Navy man, used to say to me. But should a work-in-progress ought to be as closely guarded as a sailor’s cyphers?

I decided to adopt my friend’s stance and, for several years, maintained a cone of silence around my works-in-progress. At best it might protect me, I thought—at least it might create some eager expectation, some aura of mystique around my fumbling attempts to write my first book.

But after a while it became something else—just lonely. I missed those old workshops I’d once groaned through. Missed talking to other writers about what I was up to, and hearing from them about their projects too. Certainly I did not find that isolation was good for my art—over and over my books fell apart and the worst thing about it was that nobody even knew but me.

Finally, I decided to break the embargo. I created a simple blog where I could post drafts of my work each week for friends, even strangers, to see. I called it my Forty Stories blog—and I set it up mainly as a motivational tool, rather than as a system for getting feedback. My hope was that my friends would pressure me and hold me accountable if I didn’t deliver on schedule.

I told everyone that I planned on writing forty stories in a single year—one a week, for three weeks, followed by a revision week. Some of these pieces, I admitted up front, would surely be terrible. But hopefully at least some would not be. Even the good ones, though, would be rough, I warned them. Quickly made, needing extensive reworking. But they would exist, warts and all.

At the start I had no idea if I could really pull it off. The stories I posted in the beginning of the year were usually very short, largely undeveloped. But people responded—not always with compliments, and often with just an acknowledgement that they’d read the piece and were excited for another. Was it just having an audience, I wondered? Or was it something else? Either way I no longer felt so isolated and burdened by my works-in-progress. Better yet, the things I wrote took on new hues. I noticed an improvement. They felt more generous than anything I’d written earlier—and why shouldn’t they be? I was writing for others, more than for myself.

In the end, I did it. I wrote forty stories in one year. Many of them were pretty bad, and sometimes my friends were honest and said as much. Some weeks I simply had no good ideas. Other weeks I had a good idea and it simply didn’t come together. Oh well. There was always the next week. And in the end, a decent number of them were good enough to warrant revision, and eventually a handful even became the backbone of my first published novel.

None of that would have happened if I had been afraid to share something that I was still figuring out.

It is rare that we’re told about how often great writers depend on those around them for guidance. Franz Kafka had his dear friend, Max Brod; Vladimir Nabokov had his wife, Véra. Who can we count on for encouragement, or even discouragement when it is needed?

My Forty Stories experiment showed me that there were far more helpers in my life than I’d ever expected. Some friends would simply reach out to say, “Hey, I liked this one!” and others would sometimes say, “Were you really rushed this week? Didn’t like this one as much, I don’t know why.” One friend routinely fact-checked the weekly pieces, sending emails to say things like, “A pack of American Spirits would actually cost $4.57 at that bodega, not $3.77,” or, “If these characters are going to Lake Waccabuc, they’d be better off on the Hutchinson and I-684 at that time of day.”

All of this was valuable feedback, and vital support. I’d never have written the fortieth one, or likely even the third one, without the help of my friends.

Just the other day I saw a former student after an event and, as we spoke after he asked if I’d ever published one of the stories from my blog, and I said that no, I never had—it wasn’t one of my favorites and I’d forgotten about it. But he had liked it, he said, and thought about it still—maybe I should look again, he suggested. That night I did, and wouldn’t you know it, I suddenly saw its strength in a way I’d never seen before. The difference was that now I was seeing it through someone else’s eyes. What a gift that can be!

It’s understandable that we might prefer to be secretive when it comes to our works-in-progress. Writing is a vulnerable thing, and when we feel exposed we become cautious. When our work is in a messy state we want to hold back until it isn’t. After we’re finished, we want to cover our tracks and hide those rougher drafts from the light of day. We may not be able to stand others poking around in our not-yet-great work and wrecking our shaky confidence in the process.

But my best advice is to get over all that. Share the good, the bad, and the ugly. Share it openly and proudly. I still love bouncing ideas off other people. Seeing what excites them and what does not quite land as expected. If I have to suffer a little embarrassment sometimes and confess to a project disintegrating at some point along the way—well, so be it. There’s always next week, and the more you share with others, the more you’ll be able to see your work through their eyes. So go ahead and loosen those lips; your ships won’t sink but will rise on an open tide.

A Brush with Magic goes on sale October 22, 2024!

A Brush with Magic was born from the ashes of a tossed out story I wrote a few years ago. It was originally set in an alternate world where artists used special pens to bring drawings to life. In this story, the main character entered a magical school for such artists and uncovered the mysteries hidden inside the pens. But no matter how hard I tried with my own ordinary pen, I couldn’t bring the story to life. There was something about the world that was lacking. It had no soul.

Frustrated, I took a break and set aside my writing to focus on other plans. With many travel restrictions from the pandemic lifting, my mom and I decided it was finally time to make a trip to South Korea. Having been born and raised in the United States, I was looking forward to immersing myself in a different but somewhat familiar culture. Seoul would not be like the small Koreatowns in American cities I often frequented; it would be a whole sprawling city of its own.

However, in the drive from the airport to the city, I was a little disappointed at first glance because the city felt similar to any other major metropolitan city with its wide streets, tall buildings, congested traffic, and busy commuters. But in the cracks of the polished modern city were glimmers of something different. There I found a world filled with narrow streets enticing people with the aromas of hearty stews and sizzling meat grilled right at the table. Outside of those restaurants were often people talking and laughing as they ate crouched over low stools and tables filled with numerous dishes. Small shops alternated between traditional Korean crafts and flashy K-pop or cute cartoon merchandise. After 10 days there, Seoul captured all of my senses and stole my heart.

Coming back home was a reverse culture shock; instead of navigating through an exciting new city, I settled back into my usual routine. But something still tugged at me, making me repeatedly look through the photos and souvenirs from my trip. I wanted to share Seoul with others. I wanted my readers to experience the wide array of Korean food beyond the well known barbecue and bibimbap. I wanted them to burn their tongues on piping hot hotteok and slurp up thin noodles in an icy broth seasoned with mustard and vinegar. I wanted to walk them along Cheonggyecheon so that they could marvel at a stream cutting through the heart of a city. I wanted to point out the sloped roofs of traditional hanok homes peeking out behind stone walls and help them push through the crowds at street markets packed with small stalls and loud vendors.

So I moved Yumi out of her fantastical but cold world to the welcoming arms of a Seoul buzzing with life. I took the pen out of her hand and gave her a wood-handled brush and ink stone instead. I searched for Korean folk tales and asked my mom to dust off her childhood memories for old stories and superstitions. Some of them were a little hard to put into story form, like ghosts that were shaped like eggs that lurked in outhouses or a woodsman who is rewarded by a mountain god with gold and silver axes. Many folk tales were short and centered around male characters. The few that were about women usually focused on how filial and loyal they were to their family. But upon further analysis, I saw the strength and resilience in the women from these folk tales. Their heroics were just a little different from the ones I’m used to in the modern world. So instead of writing a close but mild adaptation, I stretched the bounds of these old tales and characters to fit the themes I wanted to emphasize. I turned the traditionally male goblin dokkaebi into a girl. Instead of a magic club and hat of invisibility, she had a special paintbrush and the ability to change her appearance. In lieu of a judging mountain god, I added a kind grandfather to guide and support Yumi. And instead of the common stories of brothers competing for fortunes, the heart of my story had the complex themes of identity and sisterhood.

Being the youngest in my family with two older sisters I knew all too well the desire to emulate an older sibling and the frustration when they grew up and away from the childhood dreams and games we once shared. So I gave Yumi an older sister, Minji, and explored the push and pull of their relationship when separated from the safety of their home and parents. I dropped in a handful of aunts and uncles, a trio of cousins, and of course two adorable pugs.

With the help of some magic and a brush, I tried my best to bring not only Yumi and the other characters to life but also the city of Seoul.