Who knows what's next...

but I handed in a little bit of healing.

This is me on the first day of seventh grade.

All ready for flute playing!

In the past, when I’ve talked about myself as a twelve-year-old, I’ve said things like, “Oh my god, I was so nerdy.” Or “I had no idea what to do with my hair.” Most classically, “I was such a goody two-shoes.”

Thirty-three years is a really long time to carry around judgement about a preteen. I’d probably still be holding onto it if it wasn’t for the work I’ve been doing over the past two years that culminated in the book I turned into my agent last week.

Now, don’t get too excited. I’ve handed in books to my agent for years, and thanks to the pandemic and changes in publishing and who knows what else, I have no further news to share about any of them. The same, vague, “Is this project dead or only temporarily in a coma?” fate might happen to this one, too. Publishing is not for the faint of heart.

But this book feels different. Not because I think it’s any more likely to find the right hands than any of the other manuscripts I’ve been proud of, but because of what it’s taught me.

In 2018, Kate DiCamillo was on a panel at the University of Minnesota. Someone asked Kate how she was able to tap into the mind of an eight-year-old. She said, “Oh, it’s easy. There’s part of me that never stopped being eight.”

In 2018, I had just signed with my agent. My first novel, a book about a seventeen-year-old, was about to be sold, and I was at work on my next: also starring a seventeen-year-old. “There must be part of me that never stopped being seventeen,” I decided.

I’ve repeated this story at countless gatherings of writers. I love it. And I believed, naively, that I would get to keep writing about seventeen-year-olds forever.

Then a bunch of boring publishing nonsense happened, the short version being that the particular brand of young adult contemporary I was peddling stopped being something that was selling well. My editor got on the phone with me and said, “I want you to write a middle grade book.”

I was devastated. Not that there was anything wrong with middle grade, a publishing term that covers books aimed at kids between eight-ish and thirteen-ish, but I’d worked so hard to get invited to the Young Adult party. I still wanted to write Young Adult. Now, after two books, I was being kicked out?

But I didn’t say that. “Of course,” I told my editor. “I’m on it.” I relayed to my agent what my editor had said, and my agent agreed. “You have such a great voice for middle grade,” she insisted. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

What I came up with, was diddly squat.

Then I met this squad.

Okay, that’s a little bit of a lie. I’d met Becca, Juliana, and Payal before, but they were all together at an event I happened to be at, too, and I was feeling so vulnerable about the no-more-young-adult-right-now message I’d gotten, and told them about what my editor had said.

“Oh my gosh, WELCOME!” they exclaimed. “The Middle Grade party is the BEST party.”

I’m going to be honest: I believed it was true for them, but it didn’t feel like it was going to be true for me. They were all so earnest. So excited about twelve-year-olds. I, on the other hand, was not. But I was very happy to be welcomed.

We kept hanging out. And I started putting pen to paper. They read my outline and my sample chapters, and gave me terrific feedback, but I still wasn’t totally sold on writing for and about seventh graders.

I’ve written before about how my mom helped me see one of the reasons I was stuck was because being twelve was so hard for me. (Serious bullying. Meetings called. Support groups made. Nothing focused on the perpetrators of the bullying, of course, because I don’t know if you’ve heard, but boys will be boys?) That revelation helped me push through the drafting.

My middle grade author friends kept encouraging me. I kept writing. And revising. And revising. And revising. It was fine-ish, this book-shaped thing I was whacking together, but the whole thing felt muddy. Writing usually brings me a state a flow, a sense of peace. Writing this middle grade book felt like running the mile in ninety degree heat every day in borrowed sneakers and too tight shorts while the entire track team effortlessly sprinted by, each one shouting, “I got another book deal! Where’s yours?”

More than once, my friend Katharine gently reminded me that I wasn’t under contract. I didn’t have to write this book if I didn’t want to. Drew backed her up. “It isn’t homework,” he said. “You’re not in school.”

But I didn’t quit. Something inside wouldn’t let me.

Then, I got a new job coaching teachers. Suddenly, I found myself scheduled to support a pile of middle schools. I was so nervous. I’d purposefully taught high school—for nearly two decades—to avoid experiencing middle school ever again.

The first middle school I went to, the principal showed me a special room to put my coat in and asked if I needed a desk in case I had downtime. Two teachers recognized me from the training I’d done with them and smiled. “Hi!” they said. “Are you here for lunch? You should eat lunch with us. We do the Isaac Asimov quiz every day. Do you like quizzes?” Another one hugged me after I coached her. Like…what?

And this middle school was not alone. It’s not that teachers and principals weren’t warm and welcoming in the elementary and high schools I supported, but over and over, the middle school staffs were…something else. I think maybe because they have to band together to survive the wild swings of hormones and growth spurts and sudden crushes and the devastating acrid smell of preteen sweat on top of the rest of the things all of our kids are dealing with these days. Middle school staffs are energy personified. They are exactly who they are—matching T-shirts and secret dress up days and goofy hallway dances—with no apologies.

I’ve spent so much of my life apologizing for who I am.

And middle school kids! Who are these people? Look, I know bullying still exists. But you know what happens a whole lot less? Adults looking the other way when kids forget the anti-bullying training they now get starting in kindergarten. Bullying isn’t normalized. It isn’t expected as a part of growing up. Middle school teachers, at least the ones I’ve seen, shut that shit down.

I started wondering if maybe middle grade really is the best party…

Seventeen was a super fun age for me. Easy for adult me to connect with. Twelve, on the other hand, I’d wrapped up in gauze and bubblewrap. Locked her in a box and pushed her to the back corner of my mind. Set up a monster to guard her in case she tried to come out. Or in case I got tempted to look at her.

Somewhere around January, I dared to invite the twelve-year-old inside me to come out and play. Thanks to everyone from the past two years who has directly and indirectly helped me with this book, I can finally say—and believe—twelve-year-old me didn’t deserve to be treated like she was. No one does.

Now there is part of me that feels lighter. More excited. Not so afraid or rejected. I can look at the picture of me on the first day of seventh grade, and instead of judging her or rolling my eyes, can smile and think, “I remember how much I loved those shorts.”

I so want this book to find a home. I’m incredibly proud of it. But if it doesn’t, I’ll still be glad I wrote it. I’ll be glad for the twelve-year-old that I never stopped being who is now, and forever will be, invited to the party.