Some voices refuse to be silent, no matter how dark their world gets.

That’s what I’ve learned both from personal experience and from reading Sylvia Plath’s letters, journals, and poems so closely and carefully they feel like personal scriptures now—something you have to do when you take on a project like a book based on the life of one of the most iconic (and beloved by a cult-like following) poets in American history. Spending so much time in Plath’s head was a privilege and a pleasure, but it was also not without its challenges.

For me, like so many others, Plath is more than a brilliant writer. She’s a kindred force, a sharp-edged, blisteringly honest voice that spoke about the world of a woman and the world of depression in a way few have since her time. She was the kind of writer who dissected her demons on the page (and there were many) and thus gave me permission to do that same.

Her influence on my personal and writing life has been monumental.

I came to Plath young, as many do, during a time when I needed to see someone surviving the sheer chaos of being alive. My parents had divorced, my father had lost contact, and I was trying, desperately, to figure out who I was and why I was here. Giant questions for a teenager.

Plath’s work, while proof that peace could elude even those most desperate to find it, showed me that self-expression might very well be the light that led me out of my darkness.

Years later, I wrote Love, Sivvy, a novel in verse based on Plath’s young adult years before she wrote The Bell Jar or the poems that comprise Ariel or most of the work she’s remembered for today. Her early years were a time when she wrestled with who she wanted to be, with the expectations she carried, with debilitating doubt despite her success (what we might call imposter syndrome today). She was just like me. Just like us.

And while she wrestled, she wrote.

“I write only because
there is a voice within me
that will not be still.”

Those are the last lines of a poem Plath wrote when she was sixteen, titled “You ask me why I spend my life writing.” I have the words framed on my cork board, because they’re exactly what I feel. When the world falls apart, I write. When it all becomes too much, there is a voice that will not be still.

I’m not the sort of person to romanticize suffering, and I refuse to use Plath’s story as a cautionary tale, since it was never that for me. I’m much more inclined to examine what her life and work teach us about writing as a way to survive, something she knew in her deepest places. Something I know and most writers know. The art and practice and discipline of writing can carry us through the kind of emotional darkness that can’t be driven out by pithy affirmations or better sleep habits or a hundred hours of meditation.

Plath lived the paradox that so many of us live: when we are the most unwell, we need our pens more than ever.

••

Writing, for Plath, was a means of survival. She knew that to live without expressing herself would be to fracture under the weight of her own expectations, disappointments, and up-down moods. She also understood, better than most, that writing couldn’t save her entirely. But it could name what chased her, the demons that haunted her. And naming all of it gave her some small measure of power.

Even as a teenager, she wrestled her inner chaos into language, trying to give shape to what might otherwise consume her. That she could articulate it so clearly so young is a testament not only to her genius but to how essential writing already felt to her.

In her earliest journal entries, it’s clear that she was already caught between the push and pull of perfection and her inability to meet that high (impossible) expectation, which caused despair at many points in her young life. Plath worked out her feelings in her private journal, which helped her stay afloat in the midst of her depressions and identity crises. It was necessary writing that often beat back the despair and made room for hope, joy, and self-understanding.

You can also hear another current moving in her private words: her lifelong awareness of constraint because she was born a woman. She was supposed to be a certain person, want certain things, behave a certain way, feel content with a certain way of life. And she wasn’t supposed to be, in any way, mentally (you can almost hear the disgraced whisper) ill.

Plath was practically a poster child for feminine achievement during her college years—straight As, publishing credits, a prestigious internship at Mademoiselle—but her journals are filled with her unraveling. Just a month before her first suicide attempt, she chronicled her struggle in her journal:

“You saw visions of yourself in a straight jacket, and a drain on the family, murdering your mother in actuality, killing the edifice of love and respect…I am incapable of loving or feeling now…please, think—snap out of this…” (The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, p. 187).

Plath was, on the page, trying to shape her inner chaos into something she could hold or, at the very least, face.

Her suicide attempt that summer made national headlines. She was hospitalized at McLean Hospital for several months—an experience she later used in The Bell Jar.

Just before her attempt, Plath confessed to friends that she couldn’t read or make sense of words. She couldn’t write, and without the ability to self-express, perhaps interrupted by the shock treatments she had to endure or the depth of her depression, she floundered.

Still, writing pulled her through her stay at McLean. Perhaps not creative writing, but she did continue to write letters, and her benefactress, Mrs. Prouty, sent her a manuscript to type, which felt almost like writing her own. She asked Mrs. Prouty to send her more; she could feel how the act of writing had a redemptive, healing force.

Writing, of course, didn’t save her life. Suicidal ideation is complicated. But the act of writing was always a means of survival for Plath, a way to pour her pain on the page and let go. It buoyed her while it could.

The psychological case for writing through struggle

Plath seemed to intuitively know that writing could be a lifeline, and that has since been proven by decades of psychological research. It turns out that the page can be a kind of mirror, a sanctuary, a place where we battle and wrestle our demons, sometimes into submission. When we write about what haunts us, we are metabolizing our grief and trauma and fears and disappointments. It’s a useful step toward mental wellness.

Psychologist James W. Pennebaker was one of the first to study this systematically. In 1986 he and Sandra Beall conducted a ground-breaking study published in The Journal of Abnormal Psychology wherein they asked participants to write for fifteen or twenty minutes a day for four days. Participants could either write about traumatic experiences or about neutral topics. Those who wrote about their emotional pain showed improved immune function and had fewer visits to doctors in the following months. Pennebaker and Beall concluded that writing the truth about difficult experiences has tangible mental and physical benefits.

Other researchers have built on this work. Joshua Smyth, professor and health psychologist, has conducted and written about multiple studies confirming that expressive writing reduces symptoms of depression and anxiety across a wide range of populations. In more recent years, writing has been incorporated into treatments for chronic illness, grief, and PTSD.

Psychologist Dan McAdams offers another framework: narrative identity. In his work at Northwestern University, he developed a life-story model of human identity, suggesting that we make sense of our lives by crafting a story, or a personal myth, that connects our past to our present and helps us imagine a future. Writing, according to McAdams, is helpful for finding a “redemptive” arc in struggle and adversity and giving us agency in overcoming our adversity.

Plath used her personal experiences in poetry and fiction, the most notable “story” being The Bell Jar, in which she wrote about her first breakdown and suicide attempt. She was crafting her narrative, making sense of her experience and her world, reaching toward clarity and redemption.

Of course, not all writing is healing. Sometimes writing through trauma can re-traumatize if it’s attempted too soon and without support. But for someone like Plath, who understood both the precision of craft and the volatility of pain, writing became a form of control. She controlled the narrative. She may not have been able to stop the difficult experiences of her life from overtaking her momentarily, but she could chart them and shape them into poetry or story.

And that matters. For young people, especially, the blank page offers something radical: agency. In a world that too often reduces a person to their performance, their appearance, their productivity or accomplishments, writing says, Here. You get to speak. You get to shape. You get to decide what your story will be.

The power of that can’t be underestimated.

Why young readers (and writers) still need Plath today

Plath has become a myth of sorts, her followers often reduced to a cliché. The tortured poet. The tragic girl genius. Or, worse, the suicidal writer. But young people don’t come to her for death. At least I never did. I came to her for her voice, her fire, her life. Her willingness to speak of unspeakable things, which made me brave enough to speak of unspeakable things.

There’s a desperate need for that kind of voice, even today. According to the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), more than 1 in 5 adults (about 23.1 percent) in the U.S. live with some form of mental illness. The numbers are even more striking among tweens and teens 12-17 years old: The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) reports that about 10 percent of high school students have seriously considered suicide in the past year, and about 3 percent have made a plan or an attempt. Anxiety and depression among young people have surged sharply over the past decade, fueled by economic uncertainty, social media pressures, and leftovers of the COVID-19 pandemic.

In this landscape, Plath offers something many young people need: proof that pain can be named and understood through writing. That you can be afraid and down in the dumps and yet still brave enough to dream and hope and reach for something greater. That you can rage and hurt and break and crumble and still make beautiful art—and a life.

Plath wrote about what it felt like to live in a woman’s body, to put on a necessary mask and perform your happiness while you’re falling apart inside, to be bright and ambitious and seem to have everything going for you and yet still suffer from an overwhelming depression. For young readers who feel the same, as I did in my teenage years, Plath is a kind of beacon. A hero of sorts. Not because she ultimately lost the battle over her depression but because she fought with everything she had, pen in hand.

She reminds us all that writing doesn’t require fixing ourselves before we offer ourselves on the page. We don’t have to be healed to begin. We only have to be honest. Dare to tell the truth. Dare to say, I am still here. This is me. This is my story.

What young people, especially, need to hear is that their “mess” is not too much. That their voice matters. That their story, however flawed or messy or fragile or unfinished, is worthy of telling.

Writing as survival

Sylvia Plath’s life and work show us that darkness is more than a dead end. It is a terrain we must navigate, chart, and transform not by erasing our pain but by exposing it and giving it a shape and a voice. Her writing was a defiance of the darkness, not a surrender to it.

For anyone who wrestles with this darkness, Plath offers a profound lesson: Writing can be an act of survival. It’s a way to reclaim our agency and power when the world and our lives feel out of control. It gives us clarity in the midst of chaos. It enables us to say, I am still here, and I am still speaking, and I will continue. I will overcome.

Love, Sivvy, the book I wrote about Plath, is my attempt to honor that lesson, to show how even in the darkest moments, creative work can ignite a tiny spark of hope. Writing doesn’t promise to fix everything that’s wrong about our lives, but it does offer a way through our challenges and setbacks. It gives us a voice when we’re drowning in the voices of others or in the silence of not knowing up from down or where our next steps should be. It reminds us that we have important things to do.

And sometimes? That’s enough.

I know, because while I wrote this book about the woman who taught me that, I wrestled with my own suicidal depression, my own thoughts of They’d all be better off without me, I’d be doing them a favor. This was my COVID book. This was my desperate I-must-live-and-creativity-will-help book. Love, Sivvy, helped pull me out of my own darkness. And writing through my darkness, which is so like Plath’s darkness, helped me understand it and survive it. Transform it, I hope, into something that, like Plath’s poetry, can shine—sometimes fiercely, sometimes quietly—for others to find light, too.

Survive to create. Create to survive.

The mantra pulses in my brain as I, once again, pick up my head and my pen and write.

What inspired you to write this book?

This is the question I get most often from my readers—kids and adults—and it’s one of my favorite questions to answer. I’m inspired by pretty much anything and everything—a mention of the spiritualist movement in a book I’m reading, an article about coyotes in National Geographic magazine, most recently a mention that Edith Wharton was the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for fiction but only because Sinclair Lewis’s novel, Main Street, was disqualified from the running that year.

But the thread that runs through many of my stories is my life.

Challenges and trials can seem so pointless when we’re going through them. We learn from trials, we hear all the time, but sometimes the learning still evades us many years later. Many times, it’s not until I start to write about the challenge or experience—either in a whole novel, an essay, a poem, or a short story—that things start to become clearer.

I’ve long believed that we can turn our trials and challenges around and make something beautiful.

One of my favorite poets, Edward Hirsch, says, “You can take the muck and mire of your own life and turn it into something. That seems to me a noble enterprise.” Hirsch did that with his book, Gabriel, in which he expresses the sorrow of losing an adult child to drugs. (It’s a beautiful book-poem, by the way.)

If you research writers, artists, musicians, creative people in general, you’ll find that many have been through incredibly difficult things. And it’s not that creating something out of the awful things that happen in life gives a purpose to or reason for those things…but it does give a purpose to and a reason for our lives now. Creating something out of the muck and mire, something that might be called beautiful, can help us see that we, too—who we are, anyway—has been the “something beautiful” created out of the muck and mire.

Research shows that creating a narrative out of the difficult things we’ve experienced in our lives can help us process them and heal from their trauma.

That’s what I often do with the stories I write. I take the muck and mire and make something, hopefully beautiful, out of it.

It’s what I did with my middle grade verse novel, My Brother Oliver, which releases later this month. In the same way Hirsch wrote about a difficult time with his son, I wrote about a difficult time with one of my sons—his breakdown and stay in a psychiatric hospital. It was one of the most awful, challenging things my family has ever been through together, and it took a toll on all of us.

We read the Advance Reader Copy (ARC) of the story together, by the way. I read it aloud (and cried a few times while reading), and we all healed a little together.

The making of something out of the muck and mire doesn’t suddenly make it all okay, and it doesn’t make us glad we suffered through something tough. But it does help us make sense of what happened and let it go in pieces. Lessen its power over us. A noble enterprise but also a helpful therapeutic practice.

Make a song, a piece of art, write a song. A friend of mine is crafting a story quilt, another friend wrote a phenomenal story from her pain, my husband and I used to write songs. The making shines a light on the hope of survival and healing. And that something—whatever you make—can inspire people, help them feel seen, heal them, remind them they’re not alone and they can endure, soak them in hope.

Something beautiful from the muck and the mire.

I hope you have a beautiful month of turning the muck into magnificence.

Much love,
Rachel

P.S. Here’s where you can find me this month:
May 30, noon: Pages for Ages Bookstore,
10350 Bandera Rd Ste. 300
San Antonio, TX

P.S. #2: Here’s the best book I read this month: We Begin at the End, by Chris Whitaker (adult fiction). Lyrical, intriguing, and addictive.

https://amzn.to/4cx7iqD

P.S. #3: You might notice something different about this newsletter. I’m trying to shorten it. Who has the time to read a long newsletter? I might be sending more than one a month, but I’m still experimenting. Lucky you, to be part of the experiment. :) Thank you for being here. And if you miss the book recommendations, sign up for my substack, where I’ll be trying to post a book review a month, along with some other recommendations.

It’s your last chance to preorder My Brother Oliver, which releases May 19. The book has gotten three starred reviews (from Publishers Weekly, School Library Journal, and Kirkus), and has a ton of resources that I’ll be sharing in another newsletter, if you want to use it as a book club read, a read-aloud in the classroom or at home, or part of a therapy program. I’m very excited about these resources, so stay tuned.

Anyway, make sure to preorder to get in on the extra gifts, which include books! Details below.

Rachel Toalson

Monthly newsletter + Essays, poetry, short stories & general musings and snippets on the writing life and life in general that haven't been published elsewhere because even as a multi-published author it's extremely difficult to get published.

My latest middle grade book, My Brother Oliver, publishes in a little less than a month (!!), and I always like to offer curious readers a behind-the-scenes look at what inspired the book, my process for writing it, and my hopes (which are not “win an award” or “become a bestseller”—though those things would be nice!).

My Brother Oliver is a semi-autobiographical novel in verse about two brothers, told from the perspective of Brooks Rutley, the younger of the two; autism; mental health and wellness; and what it means to accept the people we love for who they are. This book is very, very special to me, and I’m both elated and terrified to see it out in the world. Which emotion wins? It depends on the day.

A warning, before we begin: What follows contains mentions of depression and suicidal ideation. Please read with great care.

Inspiration

When my son made his list of reasons he should die, my husband and I FREAKED out.

It shouldn’t have been unexpected; not only does suicidal ideation run in my family (I myself struggle with it, and it’s taken me a long time to say that out loud, because it almost feels like a moral failure—it’s not), but also depression is a common comorbidity of autism (a fancy way of saying lots of people who have autism also deal with depression).

My son, who is autistic, had said things over the years, beginning when he was too young to really understand his words. “I’m going to wrap this scarf around my neck and choke myself.” “I wish I would die.” “I’ll just stay here in the middle of the street until someone hits me,” on the way home from school when he was a third grader.

Often, for him, “I want to die” was just another way of expressing his sadness and overwhelm and the feeling of “wrongness” that many autistic people live with on a daily basis because of the way the world works and how neurotypical people make us feel (not always but sometimes intentionally). It was a way of saying, “I don’t want to keep living like this.”

What made the eve before his thirteenth birthday different?

He made a plan, and it wasn’t a childish one.

My husband took him to a mental health facility twenty miles from our home. We thought he’d get an evaluation, a referral to a new psychologist, and that was that.

They kept him for eight agonizing days, ensuring he was safe with himself, trying out medications, trying to heal something that had fractured in him, for a variety of complicated reasons.

It was one of the most difficult things we’ve ever had to navigate as a family.

And that was the inspiration for My Brother Oliver—our family’s story.

Why write about something so personal and personally devastating?

Well, in talking with students and parents and teachers, I know that my son’s story is not an isolated one. Many adolescents today are dealing with increased pressures and intense feelings about the state of the world, who they are compared to their peers (thanks, social media), and their future. Hopelessness can be an epidemic. And it’s terribly lonely.

So I suppose you could say that my inspiration was also all those friends and siblings who watched their loved ones suffer and struggle or who have, themselves, wrestled with their own kind of darkness. I was inspired by the autistic experience, which I know myself, and the way it can wear you down and steal your confidence and make you wonder if things will ever get better.

It’s hard to keep living like this.

Knowing you’re not alone in your feelings and struggles or at the bottom of a pit you don’t remember ever digging doesn’t magically solve all your problems. But it does sometimes make them a little bit easier to carry.

Another of my sons, who’s naturally nurturing, emotional, and has a gift of compassion, inspired the main character of Brooks Rutley. Living with an emotionally volatile sibling isn’t easy, and it sometimes tells you a story of who you can be: the easy kid, not causing problems, not making more drama, not being a problem for your parents.

This is the story of Brooks and Oliver, but it is also the story of my family and me and my childhood. And I suspect it’s the story of many who don’t ever talk about it.

Process

My Brother Oliver took me years to write.

When my son had his hospital stay, writing (and running) pulled me through the days he was missing from our home. I was not writing this story, I was writing poem after poem after poem about how it felt to leave my son at a place like that, how much I missed even the socks he left all over the floor, how I would give anything to hear him yelling at a video game, or even me, which, at the time, was one of his favorite things to do.

Eventually, after a couple of years, I felt like I had enough space from the experience to write about it. The characters of Brooks and Oliver were born. (I left out four brothers, because it would have been too difficult to keep track of them; it was challenging enough to do that in real life!)

The first step of the process, though, was asking my sons if they were okay with my telling the story. They both said some version of, “If it can help someone else, yes.”

And then I did what I often do: I went to the pictures.

I often write stories using what’s called Ekphrastic poetry. It’s a form of poetry that takes inspiration from a work of art, or, in my case, photographs.

Here are some of the pictures that drove the story of Brooks and Oliver.

I use photos to inspire poems, scenes, plot twists and turns, snippets of dialogue, metaphors, anything that drives the story forward or makes it more beautiful. I use them for most of my novels in verse. For this story, I knew where everything was going, since it’s semi-autobiographical, and so I used the photos to deepen images and metaphors and similes and emotions. Often, a picture like this

shouts emotion! And from there it’s simply finding the right kind of emotion for the scene I’m writing.

Would I have come up with all the emotions and images I used in this book without the pictures? Maybe. Maybe not. Imagination coupled with art, for me, get at a deeper story.

It must be said that therapy was also a part of my process. This was not an easy story to write; the memories were not easy memories to sift through. Caring for yourself when writing stories based on your real life is an absolute must.

It took me a year and sixty photos to get a draft down on paper, and many more months of tweaking and rewriting to shape it into the story it is today.

And all the while, I healed enough to talk about the experience, talk about depression and suicidal ideation, talk about the mark it’s left on me and my family. Because the gift of autobiographical fiction is that you get to write your way into understanding, healing, and hope. And maybe you bring your readers along with you.

Hopes

I have so many hopes for this book.

My first reason for writing it was because there are kids like Brooks out in the world, siblings who have brothers and sisters wrestling with emotional dysregulation who often, seeing the stress that emotional dysregulation puts on parents and on the family as a whole, go quiet. They try to be as close to perfect as possible. Need as little as possible. Navigate their feelings and struggles on their own, instead of asking other people for help, which they both need and deserve.

I hope they read this story and understand that just because they have someone in their lives who demands more time and attention than it seems like their family and parents can handle, they also deserve time and attention. They deserve to take up space and ask for help when they’re struggling. It took me a long time to understand that.

And there are also kids like Oliver, who live in a world that isn’t made for them. It’s an overwhelming, challenging thing to live in a world not made for you, where people misunderstand you and your intentions, where you’re called weird and made to feel like you don’t really belong. Belonging is an essential piece of the human experience, and the lack of it can tell us a story that simply isn’t true: We should be someone different, someone more normal (whatever that is) to fit in and belong.

When we feel we don’t belong, it’s a slippery slope to the fear that “I don’t belong here, in the world, they’re better off without me.” This is partially why clinical depression and often suicidal ideation is seen so frequently with diagnoses of autism.

I hope kids like Oliver understand that we don’t need to be anyone other than ourselves, and I hope they will find, in this story, a sense of peace that there is a place for them, that they belong completely, that they deserve love and acceptance and hope just like everyone else. I hope they absorb and understand that who they are is a gift. I hope they will see that there are others like them and they’re not alone, because that is belonging.

There’s some bullying in this story, because that was my son’s experience and one of the contributing factors to his mental health crisis, along with the deep-seated feeling that he didn’t really belong with his peers. So for those who don’t understand peers like Oliver, I hope reading this book gives them a deeper understanding of and appreciation for those who are different.

And for those readers who aren’t like Brooks or Oliver but maybe know an Oliver or don’t know one at all, I hope they will come to understand how valuable every life is and how the words we say about someone else matter. I hope they begin to see the joy in embracing our quirks and our differences and all the things that make us unique. I hope when faced with a situation where a peer or classmate is being ridiculed for their quirks, they will be brave enough to stand up and say, “That’s not kind. Let’s choose kindness.”

Because choosing kindness, accepting our many brain differences, loving in the most extravagant ways we can just might change lives. The world.

If kindness can save lives and costs us so little, why wouldn’t we choose it?

My son, today, is an inspiration—in his resilience, in his persistence, in his focus and ferocity—just as he was then. I am grateful for the way his inimitable, honest, quirky self shaped the character of Oliver in this story, and I am so glad the world gets to experience both him and Oliver, because their hope was never fully extinguished.

And so, dear reader, I offer you this story—our story.

Please handle it with care.

Poetry is one of our first languages.

We may not even know we’re speaking in poetry, but when young children describe a night sky or a field of flowers or the bark of a tree, they can’t help but speak in poetry. “It looks like someone left a million diamonds in the sky,” one of my sons told me when he was a third grader. “I feel like a tornado,” another said when he came home from first grade with a note from his teacher (it was not a celebratory note).

Whether we like it or not (and I hope we like it!) it’s a part of us.

In our darkest moments, in the moments where we feel something deeply, in the moments we are moved to awe or delight or wonder, poetry is the language of our soul.

Some of us use that language all our lives. Many of us lose it, though, because somewhere along the way poetry is made too difficult, too confusing, too intellectual and rigorous. This is usually through no fault of our own but is often the result of a literary culture that tries to make it more complicated than it needs to be.

What I want us all to know and remember is that there is no wrong or right way to write or read poetry.

We write poetry because we have a need for expression that can’t always be done in a direct, logical manner. Sometimes what we need to say can only be done using metaphor and imagery and figurative language. Sometimes we need the space poetry allows us, space to breathe, space where we don’t have to be explicit or straightforward but can be ambiguous and secretive.

Poetry gives us a place and a form to explore our world and ourselves and make sense of what’s happening, what we’re feeling, our thoughts about all manner of situations and experiences. It captures tiny moments in our lives that we want to preserve or the ones that hold too much significance over us—the moments we need to shrink into something more manageable. It’s a medium of deep thought and reflection, which means it’s something that can benefit everyone (because doesn’t it seem, to you, like we need more deep thought and reflection in our modern times?).

We read poetry because in it we find pieces of ourselves and our experiences and what we’ve felt and believed and conquered. I’ve come to understand that poetry contains three braided threads when we approach it as readers—the thread of recognition, when we see ourselves or parts of the world in it; the thread of emotional resonance, when we feel deeply the soul of the poem in our deepest places; and the thread of collaborative meaning, which is, perhaps, the thickest of the three.

What I have learned as a writer of poetry is that the meaning I make of the poems I write is not the meaning my readers will make of those poems. The magic of poetry is that there is no right or wrong way to interpret the poems we read. We make the meaning, together. It’s a collaborative effort. A poet will write herself on the page, but a reader will bring themselves to the page, and that collaboration bridges the gap between the reader and the poet’s lived experience. The meaning we, as readers, make of a poem we read today is not the same as the meaning we will make of it five years from now, because we’re different people at different times, and that collaborative effort changes day by day.

That’s one of the most beautiful parts of poetry, for me. Give a poem to three different readers, and all three of them will interpret it in different ways—sometimes in vastly different ways.

Poetry is alive. Ever changing. Timeless and timely.

In celebration of National Poetry Month, here are some poems from a poetry book I’m releasing later this year. The book, called Beauty and the Beast, is a collection of fairy tale response poems that include both familiar (think: The Princess and the Pea, Rapunzel, The Little Mermaid) and obscure fairy tales.

I hope they inspire you to write your own.

Rapunzel (Let’s Get Moving)

I wonder what 
she did in her 
tower

I suppose it’s what 
we all do: 
take a good long look 
at the brick walls caging us 
glare at the locked door 
stride to the window and observe 
the world of freedom knowing that 
one day 
		soon 
when the timing is right
we will let down our hair 
and slay the captor—
	that is, the patriarchy—
topple it from the bottom up 
or the top down 
it doesn’t matter 
	so long as they know 
	the real power of 
		our tears 
		our minds 
		our bodies 
	so long as they know 
	that none of it 
		none of us 
	belongs to them 
	so long as they know 
		Rapunzel 
	is not who they thought she was

She is not 
the girl locked in 
		the tower
She is 
the girl who toppled 
		the tower

Great Clause, Little Clause (Welcome to American Politics)

There was once 
a bully who was very proud 
of the way he could knock 

the little guy around. 
He would brag in taverns, 
boast in the streets, 

gasconade anytime someone 
gave him his 
undeserved platform.

But what the great bully 
didn’t know about the little man—
perhaps what his assumption 

of the little man did not 
permit him to see—
was that little men are smart. 

And though it would take 
many days and clever tricks 
and well-laid plans 

to orchestrate the big bully’s 
downfall, the little man 
was up for the task.

Eventually, the big bully 
would be carried away in a 
casket of his own making.

The Little Mermaid II (Dress Up Day)

I chose to wear the shoes 
knew they would make my feet throb 

but the problem is I’m a woman 
and the first thing anyone notices 

about me is 
my appearance—

	how’s my hair 
	am I thin 
	do my clothes match the latest fashion 
	what kind of shoes am I wearing—

and maybe I can check 
all the right boxes: 

	attractive 
	well kept 

	stylish 
but that’s still no guarantee 

I’ll be loved or 
I’ll find freedom or 
I will even manage to walk 
at the end of the day

I just finished launch season for my book, Love, Sivvy, my verse novel about the young adult years of Sylvia Plath. I scheduled some bookstore signings, but I found that many bookstores in my general area aren’t doing in-person signing events anymore. And many of the ones who still host in-person events only do them for the “big” authors and not for mid-list authors like myself.

So while I didn’t have as many appearances as I might have wanted, I did very much enjoy the bookstores I visited, and I’m grateful for their hospitality and support.

Here are my notes from visits.

The Twig Bookshop, San Antonio

The Twig Bookshop in San Antonio is where I held my launch party for Love, Sivvy. I never really expect a huge attendance; people get busy, I publish a lot of books, and many forget. I always tell myself the right people are there, and that’s really all I can ask. I know many authors who have had to sit through events with no one in the audience. I’m always grateful to the friends and new friends who show up and engage in conversation with me.

Someone I’d never met heard about the event on NPR and showed up with a friend, which was a lovely surprise. Two of my friends from pandemic times (we had a club called Quarantine Club) came, which was special, especially since Love, Sivvy was my pandemic book, and they were there from the beginning. They heard me talk about this book all the time. They were nearly as excited as I was to see it finally out in the world.

Most of my book events feature a conversation with another author or a regular person, but for this event, I presented a talk about Plath. I gushed about her, and the attendees indulged me. I did a short reading and then opened the floor to questions.

During the question-and-answer time, one of my kids thought he’d be funny and ask if he could get some water. He probably just wanted to hurry things along so we could get to the part where they benefited from the refreshments I’d brought. Did I mention I baked a chai spice sugar cookie cake and a perfectly gooey chocolate chip cookie cake that had my secret ingredient in it? Anything to build my fan base. :)

Best question? Probably from my husband: “Because you identify so much with Plath, did that make the writing of this book easier or harder?” Answer: Both. In some ways, I felt like I could really inhabit Plath’s voice, like she was speaking, through me, directly to her teen readers. But on the other hand, there was constantly this other voice saying, Can you really do this? Are you really honoring her legacy? You’re probably going to make a fool of yourself. Fortunately, Plath had struggled with that voice many times in her life, and she helped pull me through.

The Twig was, as ever, a great bookstore to visit.

Lark & Owl Booksellers, Georgetown

This bookstore is still one of my favorite bookstores in Texas. It’s a prime location in Georgetown and has so much charm and personality. It’s filled with feminist apparel, stickers, and totes, in addition to all the books. And it runs all sorts of cool book clubs and community events. They’re not just a bookstore, they’re a community hub.

For my event, I used the same talk I gave at The Twig, since my audience was completely different. A writer friend showed up, along with the bookstore co-owner, another employee, and a few friends. There was also a couple who had perhaps been on a date, and they stuck around for the talk and asked a couple of questions about Plath and the book.

Afterward, when I was signing books, one of the staff members told me she’d lost her husband to suicide, so we sat and talked for a while about the importance of talking about the reality of suicide, bringing it out from the shadows and stigma and shining a light on its prevalence. Survivors of suicide and the loved ones of those who struggle with suicidal ideation often feel left in the dark or stigmatized, and we both agreed it’s something that needs to change.

One attendee asked if Plath ever had an official diagnosis (the answer is no; the language for psychological disorders simply didn’t exist, or wasn’t entirely accurate, during the time she was alive). Another asked how I felt about writing the book in poetry and whether it was hard for me, considering that Plath was a poet, too. So I shared how early on, when I was trying to play a game called Say It Better Than Sylvia and I was failing miserably, I finally had to find my own way of writing poems in R.L. Toalson’s style, not Plath’s style.

Interabang Books, Dallas

I loved this little bookstore. This was the first time I’d ever been there, and the event was heavily publicized (Thank you, Interabang!!) and advertised in the community. A good friend of mine joined me for a conversation about Sylvia Plath, and the audience seemed very interested in everything about her and the Plath I’d shared in Love, Sivvy. The staff was friendly, the people were welcoming, and there was so much enthusiasm for my book and even my backlist.

I met some new writers, some who had loved Plath the way I did (“I had to come when I knew this was about Sylvia Plath,” one of them told me), and I met a young teen who wants to be a musician, who found some inspiration in what I shared about Plath and her perfection and ambition. I got to do my favorite thing: speak into this young woman’s life and encourage her to continue chasing her dream.

After the event, I stuck around a while and talked with the staff. We exchanged some book recommendations, and the children’s bookseller talked to me about how my books are important for a lot of kids and that he’s glad I write the stories I write, which is always a thrill to hear.

My only regret was that I didn’t record my conversation with Melanie Sumrow (check out her books!) so everyone could hear it later. It really was thrilling, and now you’ll just have to take my word for it.

It was a long trip to Dallas, but I’d definitely do it again.

Booksellers are incredibly important for authors, so I deeply appreciate having a venue to talk about my books and important things like Sylvia Plath and mental health.

And that’s it for my Love, Sivvy bookstore event roundup. Stay tuned for the next book release, which is just around the corner (May 19!). I probably won’t be doing many appearances right on the heels of this one, but there will be a few, including one at a new bookstore. Until then, keep reading and writing and hoping and dreaming!

We are fully in the midst of spring, when I start feeling the itch to declutter, get rid of things, prepare the home for summer when kids will inevitably bring home (more) rocks, crystals, and golf balls from their wilderness exploration; collect Pokémon cards and memorabilia from their travels; and generally have a collection of clothes/towels/wet swim stuff strewn all over the house.

Spring is also a time to try new things.

This Christmas, my husband and I got the family season passes to Six Flags Fiesta Texas, which is right down the road from our house. The 11-year-old and I are not made for thrill rides, but even so, both of us keep saying, “I’ll try that one on the next trip.” For me, it’s The Joker, a pendulum ride (I’m so afraid of this it’s not even funny). For him, it’s Dr. Diabolical’s Cliffhanger. (I mean, that one’s also for me, but I never promised anyone I’d ride it.)

Inevitably, we don’t follow through on our I’ll-try-that-next-time when we go. It’s something new. Terrifying. New, by definition, can be terrifying. It’s not always easy to try something new (especially a ride that holds you sideways or suspends you nearly upside down—nope, no thank you, I’ll pass).

When I get new ideas, I like to think them all the way through, examine them from all the angles, before I try them. I like to do the same when I’m faced with something new.

The problem is, we usually can’t see all the angles until we’re fully in it (or on the ride, suspended upside down? Ahhhh!).

I always forget a decision isn’t forever, that it can just be for a time. For this moment in time, and if it doesn’t work or it’s not a good new, we can pivot in the next moment. Shifting is allowed.

“Let’s get a smaller car,” my husband says. “Let’s teach our kid to drive,” he said last summer. “Let’s start a new business,” he says every once in a while. None of them ever seem like particularly good ideas when Rachel’s Brain gets into the weeds. (I’ll admit it—sometimes I do actually miss the forest for the trees. That’s why I journal; my journal is very good at providing a view of the forest.)

“It is only afterward that a new idea seems reasonable. To begin with, it usually seems unreasonable,” said Isaac Asimov, a scientist and writer.

Hindsight is the easiest sight. It’s taking the risk, being ahead of our sight that is so difficult. It’s probably no surprise to anyone that I’m not a huge fan of risk. But the reality is, every day I get up and do anything I’m taking a risk. We all are. We take risks getting into our cars, eating certain foods, pulling our bikes from the garage and going on a long ride. They’re small risks, but we’re building that risk muscle.

Lately I’ve been watching Queer Eye on Netflix. People are always taking risks on this show, bringing complete strangers into their lives to give them and their home and lifestyle a makeover. And the people are always happy they did it. (Or at least they are so far; I’m only on the first season.)

We can rarely predict everything that will happen if we do [fill-in-whatever-big-decision-or-new-something-we’re-considering-doing]. Life has a hundred unpredictables. Things can go a thousand different ways. I tried something new last July—bunion surgery—and I’m still not liking that one. But I also tried something new recently—switching literary agents—and I’m really loving that one.

If anything, we learn from the risks we take. We adjust. We recover (that foot surgery? I’m still recovering, but I’ve learned I’m not getting my other bunion taken care of until it’s so bad I have trouble walking). And we acknowledge that what may seem unreasonable can become reasonable with time.

Asimov is credited with the term “robotics,” which he detailed in his stories. He created a whole system with laws (the Three Laws of Robotics, in particular) and science that still inspires real science today. It probably seemed unreasonable at the time during which he wrote (the bulk of his stories published between 1930 and 1950). And look at us now—robot-like consciousness is being used in AI.

That’s not to say new is always better (don’t get me started on AI). But maybe this spring it would be worthwhile to look at places where you could invite some newness into your life.

I wish you a month of taking risks, trying new things, and learning your resilience and magnificence.

In love,
Rachel

News and announcements

Have you preordered My Brother Oliver yet?

It’s almost time for My Brother Oliver to take its place out in the world! If you haven’t yet preordered (which enters you into a drawing for the below grand prize, as well as some prizes that just come to you as soon as you preorder—bonus!), all the details are below:

And here are some of my favorite quotes from the book:

Preorders are incredibly important for authors, and I appreciate all your support!

It’s National Poetry Month!

This is one of my favorite times of year, and if you’re a lover of poetry like I am (writing and reading it, I’ll take it anywhere!), keep an eye on this substack, where I’ll be sharing something poetry-related each week. You’ll get some inside looks at poetry books old and new, novels in verse, and my thoughts about the power of poetry.

I often share essays, poetry, and short stories here that haven’t been published anywhere else, so if you’re interested in the strange, the other-worldly, and the musings of both the more logical and the more creative sides of my brain, stick around and become a subscriber!

Subscribe now

What I’m Working On

Here are some things I’m working on right now:

• An adult literary book about a small town and its running legacy, for fans of Fredrik Backman

• The brainstorm for a young adult romance about a gamer girl

• So.many.extra.things for My Brother Oliver

5 (or so) things worth sharing

This month’s reading and watching was lyrical, illuminating, and downright lovely.

1. Reading (YA): “I do believe now that when the world tips over, joy spills out with all the sorrows. But you have to look for it.” Oh, this book. When the World Tips Over is Jandy Nelson’s most recent book, and it was phenomenal. It’s long, but it’s spectacular all the way through. The characters make the story, which, if you’ve read Nelson before, you know is a characteristic of her storytelling. I love the way her characters’ backstories weave all around each other and also the “we were destined for each other” thread that wraps the plot, which is also a very Jandy Nelson thing to do. I enjoyed every minute of this book. (I read half myself and the other half on audiobook. Both were fantastic.) Very highly recommended.

2. Reading (A): “It takes a great deal of courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it.” Another fantastic read was The Boxcar Librarian, by Brianna Labuskes. Historical fiction is one of my favorite genres to read, whether kids, adults, young adult, it doesn’t matter. And those based on real stories suck me in immediately. This one’s based on a true story about the converted train car library that ran through the rural towns of Montana during the Great Depression. It was a love letter to reading and libraries, and I loved it entirely. It featured dual timelines and multiple characters, but none of it was confusing, and I adored the way those timelines and characters intersected. Very highly recommended.

3. Watching: I’ve been wanting to watch Queer Eye for quite some time, and this month I finally started it, since it’s on its last season. It’s absolutely delightful. I feel like I’m smiling the whole time I’m watching it (except those times I’m crying—and so far I’ve cried every episode). The Fabulous Five are so upbeat and exude love and acceptance, and they almost feel like personal therapists and life coaches coming in and rearranging a person’s entire life. I love the concept and everything about it—someone please nominate me for The Fab Five! Very highly recommended.

4. Reading (YA): “After we were both Scarlet Lettered as disruptive students (simply because we asked questions and demanded answers), we became used to being ignored. Adults often ignore the young people they don’t understand.” Oh my goodness. I loved Mahogany Brown’s A Bird in the Air Means We Can Still Breathe, a pandemic book with short stories and poetry and interconnected characters. It was long listed for the National Book Award, and in it, characters tell what their lives are like and how they’re trying to find a new reality when Covid-19 hits the world and, specifically, New York. At times breathtaking, always encapsulating. Very highly recommended.

5. Reading (A): I’m always a sucker for retellings and especially the retellings of traditionally-dubbed villains, and Ayana Gray’s I, Medusa did not disappoint. Even if you’re familiar with the story, you’ll find something surprising here. This is Medusa’s origin story, a story of rage and heartbreak but ultimately a testament to love. (Also, if more people examined and entertained villain origin stories in real life, we’d be living in a much different world. But that’s a subject for another day.) Very highly recommended.

6. Reading (A, NF): “When they pulled the ladder of upward mobility away from low-wage families, they took away the thing that soothes misery and distress; they took away their hope. What the free-market boosters failed to account for is that, without the potential for advancement and the general sense that fairness and justice will prevail, our social compact is screwed. The more divided our education levels, the more divided our nation.” Beth Macy’s Paper Girl: A Memoir of Home and Family in a Fractured America is SUCH an important book. Illuminating, validating, the kind of book that helps you understand where people are coming from when they vote a certain way or get caught in conspiracy theories or make the decisions they make. Macy examines the way her hometown of Urbana, Ohio, hardened throughout the 2020s and into 2024, inviting conspiracy theories, misinformation and a deep-seated distrust of journalists (such as Macy herself). One of the things I loved most about this book is that it approached the subject with empathy, ensuring that people, no matter what their beliefs, were still seen as humans. Very highly recommended.

10 ideas for new things

1. Let someone else do the dishes (and trust they’ll get done)
2. Ride a bike somewhere instead of driving
3. Eat at a different restaurant than you’d normally patron
4. Write a poem in a structure you’ve never used before
5. Take a different direction to a familiar place
6. Wear something you’ve never worn before
7. Go somewhere you’ve never been before
8. Try a food you’ve never tried before—or have tried and didn’t like (I’m trying sauerkraut again; we’ll see how that goes)
9. Play a new game or play an old game by different rules (I’m trying a video game with my kids—I’m not a gamer, but I guess I can be for them…temporarily)
10. Let someone else pick the next book you read

Happy spring!

Writer’s Corner: The Joy (and Challenge) of Trying Something New

Writers can be creatures of habit, especially when they find a way of writing that works for them. We perfect that way of writing until…well, maybe it starts to feel a little stale.

There’s value in trying new things and shaking things up a little. No one wants to get stagnant in their writing, and even more than that, no one wants to get bored with writing. Trying something new can give us just enough excitement to pick up our work in progress today—and it’s important to have that excitement to finish it in the first place.

Here are some suggestions for where you might shake things up:

1. Try writing a book the opposite way you would normally do it.

If you’re a pantser (meaning, you don’t brainstorm or plot anything), try plotting. And if you’re a plotter (meaning, you plan everything out), try pantsing.

Every year, I choose one or two stories where I’ll just write without any destination in mind. I start with characters and build a loose concept around them. And one day every week I write a chapter or more of the story. Spacing out the story this way, for me, helps me listen to the characters and where they want to go.

I’m usually a plotter. Before I start most stories, I know just about everything there is to know about my characters. I use story structure to make sure the plot is tight and everything’s as it should be. Pantsing is just the right amount of exciting for me to feel like I’m doing something new.

In the same way, I write most of my books by hand. So every year I choose at least one book to write completely on my computer. It’s not my favorite thing to do, but it challenges the brain and makes me think in an entirely different way.

2. Try a new genre.

We all have the genres we feel most comfortable writing in, and maybe those are the genres we enjoy most. There’s nothing wrong with that. But if you want to shake things up a little, challenge yourself to write in a genre you’ve never written in before.

I started doing this one year when someone said, “Have you ever written a thriller before?” Challenge accepted, I said. I wrote a really terrible thriller that became a historical romantic suspense story that was much more to my liking. It went out on submission last year and didn’t sell, but I’m hoping it will get a new life soon.

The trick to this shakeup is to give yourself permission to write badly. It takes practice to become efficient at any discipline, including writing in a new genre. So don’t be afraid to write badly. If you usually write realistic fiction, give fantasy a try. If you’ve never written a mystery, try to write one. If you usually write modern-day books, take a dive into something historical. You’re just trying to challenge your brain to embrace something new. You may learn that you don’t enjoy it at all, but you’ll never know that until you actually try.

3. Try a new voice/tense/perspective/structure.

Experiment with new ways to write stories. Try third person instead of first person, or write some chapters in second person or from a collective “we.” Try poetry instead of prose, or use present tense instead of past, or, hey, if we’re brainstorming and there are no bad ideas in brainstorming, write a novel or parts of a novel in future tense. You never know what you’ll get.

Experiment. Let your imagination lead the way.

Trying new things in our writing can help energize us and reconnect us to our passion—enough to return to our works in progress. Writing can be hard, and sometimes even tedious. But when we try new things, we can challenge our brains to think differently and outside the box, which can breathe new life into our projects.

Happy writing!

Visit https://racheltoalson.podia.com/newsletter to sign up for the full newsletter experience, including writing prompts, first looks at original writing, freebies, and book giveaways.

My latest middle grade book, My Brother Oliver (releases May 19) is a semi-autobiographical story about a family dealing with one child’s mental breakdown and stay in a psychiatric hospital. It’s loosely based on my family’s experience with one of my sons’ stays in a hospital, after he made a plan to kill himself on the night before his thirteenth birthday.

While this book deals with a heavy topic—adolescent depression and suicidal ideation—it is, ultimately, a story of hope and resilience. How could it not be? I got to watch my son wrestle with his suicidal ideation and come out stronger on the other side. Not everybody gets that privilege, and we never know how long the wellness will last (I know, because I also wrestle with suicidal ideation). But we take it a day at a time and keep holding on, as the characters in this story do.

Here’s the cast of My Brother Oliver, in no particular order (or maybe it’s favorites…I’ll never tell):

Brooks Rutley: main character, sixth grader, brother of Oliver. He’s only ever wanted to have a regular relationship with his brother but is constantly disappointed because of Oliver’s brain differences (might this be something he needs to learn? You’ll have to read the story to find out.).

Brooks feels like he lives in a shadow, because Oliver is brilliant and a talented musician and also has an emotionally explosive personality. So Brooks tries not to be a problem for his parents and watches out for Oliver and hopes for the best. He is trying to find himself both in his regular life and in the aftermath of his brother’s breakdown.

Oliver Rutley: seventh grader, brother of Brooks. Talented violinist, brilliant student, neurodivergent. He doesn’t always think about the wants and needs of other people. He thrives on routine and sameness and struggles with emotional disregulation.

Oliver sometimes hates the way he is and the things he does, and often his actions due to emotional dysregulation take him deeper into that dysregulation.

Porter Collins: Oliver’s best friend. They’re two of a kind. They build Lego creations together and often play Minecraft with each other, but Porter also wants to do his own thing. He doesn’t seem terribly bothered by Oliver’s emotional dysregulation and is often a calming presence for Oliver.

Rocco George: Brooks’s best friend. They used to be part of a trio, but now it’s just the two of them. Rocco is in choir, loves Brooks’s Mom’s treats, and hasn’t asked about Oliver in the days after Oliver’s breakdown, which is causing some friction between him and Brooks.

Jill Bregan: a former friend of Brooks. He doesn’t really understand what happened to make them not friends, but he misses her a lot.

Noel Farrow: a bully who picks on Oliver and also targets Brooks. He used to be in Oliver’s grade but was held back in fifth grade. Now that they’re all in middle school together, though, he’s picked up the bullying again. He threatens Brooks when Brooks gets something he wants.

Red Hair + Aiden: Other bullies who form a trio with Noel, because numbers mean power. They bully Oliver during lunch, though Oliver doesn’t really catch on to the bullying.

Dad: author who writes books for kids. Optimistic, kind, attentive, loves to cook, which is good, because Mom doesn’t enjoy it. He believes that crying is good for boys and that they shouldn’t bottle up their emotions. Plays piano—but not since Oliver’s been gone.

Mom: college professor, likes to bake treats, emotional. She’s supportive, but also chooses her battles—she and Oliver butt heads, so she tries to stay out of altercations with him. She cares about school and education. Tries to make birthdays special—and make the most of things. Worries a lot.

The two of them are the kind of parents who know Brooks’s and Oliver’s friends, who pay attention, who ask questions, who let Brooks and Oliver take Mental Health Days off from school. But they’re not perfect and sometimes give in to Oliver’s emotional dysregulation for the sake of peace. Eggshells are hard to walk on indefinitely.

Mr. Hickman: Brooks’s and Oliver’s orchestra teacher. He cares a lot about both boys and tries to be supportive to make sure they know they have an important place in the world. Empathetic and encouraging.

Mr. Rodriguez: The middle school choir teacher who gives Brooks a chance at being seen. His belief in Brooks makes Brooks brave.

I love these characters. I love this book.

I hope you will, too.

Be sure to preorder using this link, and you’ll be entered into the preorder prize giveaways!

One of my sons recently came down to dinner with some news for us. He said he’d just read an article about celebrities and proceeded to tell us how many of them are not good people in real life.

He talked about one particular actor—Ellen DeGeneres. Maybe she’s not the best person on earth, okay, we all have our difficult days or years where we forget who we are. But I still admire her. And I didn’t appreciate someone feeling such satisfaction that she made it on this list of celebrities who weren’t very nice people.

How would I feel if I made such a list?

This is not the first time he’s done this. He frequently makes comments about movies his brothers love, talking about how they’re not the studio’s best work, according to this video he watched, and he agrees. This kid is a teenager, by the way. He’s very wise.

But he gets caught in this algorithm. So when he watches one of these videos, there are more suggested to him.

We talk to him about this, of course, because it’s a real danger. Some don’t have anyone to check them. They go on feeling their gleeful satisfaction when things don’t work out for someone else or someone falls or is disgraced in some way, and no one’s there to tell them, “Wait a minute. We’re all just humans trying to do the best we can.”

This gleeful shadenfreude what I call haterism

I probably didn’t make up that term. I don’t know if it’s an actual term. But it fits the phenomenon well.

You only look for the negative things in other people’s lives. And you feel happy/satisfied/gleeful when you find it.

The internet is rife with opportunities for haterism, and it conveniently offers up a whole menu of haterism plus a community of people who engage in it. It provides a place to belong in this haterism.

And you don’t realize it, but it makes you pretty miserable—or if it doesn’t, it makes the people around you miserable.

In case it isn’t obvious, haterism has zero benefits for a person, even if it makes them feel good temporarily (although I do have a hard time understanding how anyone can feel comfortable tearing people down publicly—much less feel good about it).

The Internet makes it easy to forget we’re doing it publicly.

If we go looking for the negative things about other people or their art, we’re going to find it. There’s plenty of it everywhere. But do we need it?

Haterism is one aspect of negativity, and negativity can create neural pathways in the brain that encourage sadness. It can lead to decreased cognitive functioning. Our organization suffers, and we can’t think as clearly. We’re literally doing our brains damage.

And that’s just the brain. Negativity like haterism also weakens our immune system. It uses excessive energy. It causes chronic stress and can lead to a higher risk of stroke and increase the risk of dementia, according to research.

It’s just not worth it.

When people make mean words and mockery a habit, the prefrontal cortex can shut down. We start functioning on our primitive brain, and we lose the ability to empathize. The dopamine from that habit can be addictive, which doesn’t help us at all (just review all the information above and see for yourself).

Maybe it makes you feel better because someone else’s life is worse—at least no one’s saying those awful things about you. But turn that around—what if you were subjected to that kind of scrutiny. Would you hold up?

I don’t think any of us can.

For someone caught in haterism, I suggest taking a step back. Ask yourself why you feel such a need to tear people down, or feel such glee when someone else does it. What is it about your life that is causing you such dissatisfaction? And how can you address that?

Challenge yourself to practice empathy and seeing people as fully human, like you. Flawed. Imperfect.

And maybe give social media a rest for a bit. Research shows that a higher use of social media is associated with the use of schadenfreude, or haterism, as a coping mechanism.

I’m not a famous person, by any means, but after my son introduced me to this haterism phenomenon, I started wondering, What if that happens to me? I write books. I offer my art to the world in a very public way. Lots of my stories contain pieces of my life and the things I’ve experienced.

There are probably people—or will be people—who feel glee when I get a bad review or when someone meets me and doesn’t like me for one reason or another. Maybe they share it with their family over the dinner table. On the one hand, okay, they’re talking about my book. Or me. On the other, that’s not the way I want them to talk about my book. Or me.

Of course none of us can control how whatever we put out into the world is received. The best thing we can do is not pay attention. It still hurts, but maybe it helps to know we’re not the first to suffer haterism.

And maybe, if we all remember that we’re just humans, doing the best we can, the haterism will start to lose its power.

Wouldn’t that be a thrill.

Not everybody knows this, but authors don’t just write books. We write so many other things—like book descriptions (not my favorite) and pitches, presentations and talks (which take a lot more time for some of us because we’re perfectionists and everything has to be just so), and emails. So many emails. And sometimes we write a whole collection of book extras to pair with our book and entice people to not just buy and read but to use it in book clubs or English classes as part of homeschool curriculum.

Some of my books have themed writing prompts (I love encouraging writers to write). Most of them have book club and discussion questions, and the most recent, Love, Sivvy, has a whole six-week curriculum I put together for high school English teachers.

That’s what I’m here to tell you about today: all the freebies on my web site that you can use with my YA debut, Love, Sivvy, a verse novel based on the young adult years of the iconic poet Sylvia Plath.

Book club/discussion questions

Love, Sivvy would be perfect as a book club or small group or classroom read. Written in verse, it’s a quick finish, and it includes romance, feminism, history, biography, friendship, cultural criticism, poetry, mental illness…need I go on? There’s plenty to discuss, and you can pick and choose from the list of thirty question, which are arranged by topic. It’s intended to deepen reflection and invite readers to personally connect with Sylvia’s story.

(By the way, if you’d like me to come visit your book club in person or virtually, get in touch on my website.)

Teaching guide

I’m a huge proponent of reading aloud (yes, even for high school students), so if your classroom or family use Love, Sivvy as a read-aloud, this guide will help you facilitate some meaningful discussion with your students and teens and provide some important background information about Plath and her career as a poet and writer.

The guide includes a short biography of Sylvia Plath, discussion questions, poetic structure breakdowns, and some writing prompts. It’s a great way to introduce students to the magic of verse novels.

Six-week curriculum plan and daily lesson plan

If you’re a teacher or a homeschool parent of teens and you want to take it a step further and study Love, Sivvy as part of your English curriculum, I’ve put together a six-week curriculum package that includes suggestions for projects, essays, and discussion. The curriculum has two models—one for project-based learning and one for general, more individualized learning.

The curriculum is designed for you to follow as is (the daily lesson plans) or for you to take and make your own (curriculum plan).

It meets all the TEKS requirements and includes instruction on poetry, history, biography, mental health and illness, and cultural criticism.

By the way, a novel in verse is a great option for book-based learning in high school, because it’s not as intimidating as some of the thick classical tomes and has a good amount of white space that both allows the story and students to breathe. Also? How many of the traditionally studied texts in high school English classes are written by women about women? Not many.

I love visiting schools that have used my books as curriculum, so if you do, please get in touch!

Playlist

Lastly, and just for fun, I created a playlist (I shared about it on its own blog) that you can listen to while discussing at book clubs or in classrooms. It might be fun to read a section of the book, then listen to the two songs (most sections only have two songs; one has three), then ask students or participants what songs they might choose to fit the vibe of the sections. I’d love to hear some of those suggestions, too, so get in touch!

Feel free to download any of these extras for free at https://www.racheltoalson.com/books/love-sivvy/.

This world seems to do its best to drag us down.

The news, everyone’s opinion on the news, opinions on the opinions, all over social media and the Internet. Even love and hope aren’t safe—they’re resented and mistrusted and dismissed. Lines have become whole canyons to cross, and many are uninterested in building the kind of bridges that span the chasm. We find the evidence of this new reality everywhere. Everyone’s living out loud, and it gets…loud.

My husband says, “I couldn’t sleep last night. Did you hear about [fill in the terrible thing here]?” There’s some version of this every other day, if not every day.

“Stay in the light,” says DeRay McKesson, an American activist and writer. “That’s the message for today. People will try to drag you into the darkness. But stay in the light.”

That’s my message for today, too.

The question is: How do we stay in the light when there is so much darkness in the world?

We all have our own ways. Some of us pray, some of us burrow into community and friends, some of us take to the page or the guitar or the canvas or the camera. There is no wrong answer to what brings light and life in the darkness and death.

There are miserable people in the world, and misery loves company. Many times, they will try to make you their company. Hear this: They are not entitled to you.

I am not a celebrity, by any means, but sometimes people assume access to me that I haven’t given them—at book events, on the internet and the careless words posted online, in my day-to-day life and the names I’m called in passing. People sometimes go out of their way to say what they think of me when they don’t know me at all.

What do we do when people want to drag us into the dark? It’s not as simple as saying, Just ignore it. It requires managing, which requires energy.

My husband and I have a standing Friday morning date going grocery shopping. I know, so exciting, right? (We both love food, so it actually is a little exciting for us, because our kids strip our refrigerators—yes, that’s plural!—bare every week, so Friday date morning means finally, food for us!)

On a recent morning, I was dealing with the aftermath of an encounter with one of those miserable people. I hadn’t slept, thinking all night about how best to respond, if at all. So I stayed out in the car, listening to Ed Sheeran’s new album, Play, while my husband spent $[redacted] on our weekly groceries. (Trust me, you don’t want to know. I’m living with five teenage boys and another tween boy.)

“Opening” is the first song on Sheeran’s album.

Here are some of the lyrics:

“Draw a line, for the sake of all your family and friends

Draw a line, so history doesn’t happen again

Draw a line, for the day to start the night has to end

Draw a line, for all of these ghosts”

And later in the song:

“Draw a line, for the sake of your little girls and their time

Draw a line, but allow yourself some moments to cry

Draw a line, and leave the past that hurt you behind

Draw a line, for all of these ghosts

Draw a line, be grateful that you’ve been where you’ve been

Draw a line, recognize the path that happened between

Draw a line, there’s future here, that’s yet to be seen

Draw a line

And the day bursts wild and open”

I didn’t make it past that song. I listened to it over and over again, until my husband came back out to the car. And then I made him listen to it over and over and over again.

Because…light.

Because…it’s been a few hard years.

Because…miserable people.

Draw a line. That lyric wriggled into me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And here’s where I landed:

It’s okay to draw a line with difficult, miserable people. It’s okay to cut them off, block them, set up boundaries they can’t cross, even if they’re temporary. You are protecting your light. And the world needs your light.

Working with difficult people, being at the mercy of so many opinions, having little control over the circumstances of our lives—it wears a person down. But a friend reminded me recently that the only failure is to quit.

Our continuing—that’s light.

I wish you a month of continuing and shining bright.

Much love,
Rachel

NEWS/ANNOUNCEMENTS

Love, Sivvy, extras—teach a class, run a book club, or listen to the playlist while you read!

I just shared a post about all the extra things I created for Love, Sivvy, my verse novel based on the young adult years of the iconic poet Sylvia Plath.

But in case you didn’t see that (I’ve linked to it below), here’s a rundown:

1. Book club/discussion questions.

Engage in meaningful discussion about the book and its themes and topics.

2. Teaching guide.

If you’re interested in using Love, Sivvy as a read-aloud in class, this is a helpful guide that includes background information about Sylvia Plath and discussion questions.

3. Full curriculum.

I have a general six-week curriculum that outlines teaching for the week, or a day-by-day curriculum, your choice.

4. Playlist

If you like reading a book along with music (or if you’re just curious what songs I might have chosen for the book), be sure to check out the playlist.

Did I mention they’re all FREE? Visit https://www.racheltoalson.com/books/love-sivvy/ to download some of all of them.

Up next: My Brother Oliver gets starred reviews!

The first two trade reviews are in for my middle grade novel in verse publishing in May, and it’s two stars! One from Kirkus, one from Publishers Weekly. See the highlights below (and revisit the preorder bonuses because it’s now preorder season)!

What I’m Working On

Here are some things I’m working on right now:

• The read-through edit of a YA book about a girl who’s experiencing a feminist awakening

• The brainstorm for a chapter book about a society of monsters

• All the downloadable extras for my next publishing book, My Brother Oliver

5 (or so) things worth sharing

It was a phenomenal month for reading; I love months like this, where every book I pick up is one I can’t stop thinking about.

1. Reading (MG): “Ms. Chelsea was nervous. A little scared, you could say, and everyone knows librarians are never scared. It takes nerves of steel to be a librarian.” I thoroughly enjoyed Fleur T. Bradley’s middle grade mystery, Midnight at the Barclay Hotel. It was a perfect study in how to write short and sweet with fully developed characters and plenty of twists and turns. Compelling, fun, and perfect for a long winter’s night. Highly recommended.

2. Reading (YA): “The thing about being friends with only girls was that they held him accountable for his actions. He got scolded and berated and pushed to be better.” My favorite book, hands down, this year so far (and possibly the entire year from February 2025 to now) is The Corruption of Hollis Brown, by K. Ancrum, a story about a boy who is possessed by another boy and, in the process, falls in love with his possessor. It was absolutely delightful—masterfully written, with lovable and quirky characters and commentary on blue-collar American life. I loved it so much I immediately went to the library to check out other books by Ancrum (Icarus and The Weight of the Stars). Very highly recommended.

3. Watching: Lately I’ve been into mysteries like Agatha Christie’s Seven Dials, which was adapted into a limited series on Netflix. It’s a fascinating, binge-worthy series, and fortunately it only has three episodes (so it won’t take you long to binge it). Starring Mia McKenna-Bruce, Edward Bluemel, and Martin Freeman, the acting is superb—and it takes place during the 1920s, one of my favorite time periods in history. Highly recommended.

4. Reading (A): “I know you know this, but I want to repeat that when someone treats you poorly, it is a reflection of him or herself and the misery within the heart of them. It doesn’t help a bit to hear that when you’re young, but later it will.” I LOVED The Correspondent, by Virginia Evans. It’s a book written entirely in letters and is a masterful example of a great, fascinating, beautiful epistolary novel. So much character development in simple letters with very little dialogue. I’ll be coming back to this one to study as a phenomenal writing example. Very highly recommended.

5. Reading (A): “She has taught me patience. And as someone who has made their living through words, she has made me consider the dignity and persuasiveness of silence.” Raising Hare: a Memoir, by Chloe Dalton, is like reading a love letter to the natural world and what it can teach us. Dalton found a baby hare and raised her to maintain her sense of wild—and wrote a book about the experience. It was a lovely look at hares, their history and their present, their mythology, and the way the natural world can inspire and heal and change us. Very highly recommended.

What is one way you can reach toward the light today?

10 reasons to continue

1. You are the only you there is
2. The world need you
3. The world needs your voice
4. The world needs your light
5. Everything could change tomorrow
6. The only failure is quitting
7. Exhaustion, weariness, burnout is temporary
8. Emotions are temporary, too
9. We will be okay
10. We are not alone

Writer’s Corner: Working with difficult people

The writing industry is just like any other industry in one undeniable aspect: It’s filled with very human people. Humans, as we know, can be unpredictable, emotional, unreliable, dishonest, ridiculous, disappointing…the list goes on.

Some of these human people can be very difficult to work with.

Writers, at least the ones who aren’t Rick Riodran or Dav Pilkey or James Patterson, don’t have a whole lot of power in the writing industry. We provide the books and words, yes, and publishers and magazines/newspapers/online publications don’t have books and words without us if we don’t write them, but there are so many of us out there these publishers and publications may not ever miss our contribution. So we have to be on our best behavior and accommodating and always professional and kind.

That’s how I like to communicate and behave anyway, minus the accommodating; when I believe something should change or be different, it’s difficult for me not to push back on it a little. Because—why? And why not?

(Maybe I don’t need to say it, or maybe I do: alarming red flags in the writing industry include attacking us personally, being intentionally dishonest, changing a story or explanation to suit them, abusive behavior. Do not accept that kind of behavior. You deserve much better.)

When we work with difficult people, it can be a lonely place. The writing industry specializes in veils—writers aren’t supposed to talk about those difficult people or warn others to steer clear of them. We oftentimes suffer in silence and vent to our partner who’s good at keeping secrets (but also probably getting tired of our complaining.)

What can we do to better deal with difficult people without losing ourselves?

Here are my suggestions:

1. Always maintain professionalism

Just because someone isn’t acting professional doesn’t meant mean we have permission to act unprofessional back. Always try to communicate effectively. Sometimes that means ignoring emotional language or personal attacks. Sometimes it means getting straight to the heart of a problem and drawing a boundary around your professional life, setting your own personal self outside of it. Don’t take the bait. Be the bigger person. And look for a way to cut ties with the difficult person, if possible, warranted, and necessary.

2. Lean into community

Community can help you with a hard decision, provide a second opinion when you evaluate evidence, and give you a sounding board for your thoughts, feelings, and reactions—which can’t be underestimated. Some of them have been there before and will remind you that it’s not the end of the world. Some will assure you that you aren’t imagining the difficulty of a person.

Light joined is brighter. Your community can remind you that you deserve better, that you are not alone, that you will be okay.

3. Take time to yourself to recharge your light.

Difficult people can extinguish our light when we work with them long enough. They chip away at our belief in ourselves and our gifts. Our light is not endless. Take time to charge the bulb.

And remember: You will be okay. The only failure is quitting.

I’ll be right beside you, continuing. Persisting. Believing for the both of us.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

Peel yourself out of bed. Take a long, hot shower. Wash off every leftover of last night. Avoid your mother’s eyes coming out of the bathroom—she has some kind of sixth sense unlocked by engaging in eye contact.

Pretend there’s nothing wrong; forget there is—it’s easier.

Dress yourself in jeans—no cute skirts today, no cute skirts ever again, probably. Strip off the tight jeans and grab a looser pair in the back of your closet—your period jeans will do, even though you’re not on your period today. Cover yourself in a baggy T-shirt—the baggiest you can find. Cover yourself in an oversized hoodie.

Cover yourself.

Greet your mom in the kitchen when she says, “Good morning, darling. How’d you sleep?”

Do NOT tell her how you slept.

And don’t wrinkle your nose at her cheer, you usually love her cheer. Tell her, “I’m not hungry. I’ll just take some toast,” when she nods at the pot of peanut butter oatmeal she made for you and your sister. Ignore her look of alarm and say, “Save me some, though?” to make up for the fact that you usually eat two bowls of oatmeal and today you’ve given something away by declining even one.

Don’t answer when your mother says, “Everything okay, Joan?” Pretend you don’t hear her.

Glare at your sister when she looks at you, too.

Don’t let the silence make you crumble. And when it does, only say, “I had a rough night. My stomach’s not feeling so great.”

Shake your head when your mom says, “Do you need a day off school?” She knows you have a a major ELA test; it’s been on the calendar for months.

Ignore your sister’s, “Like she’d ever skip a day of school,” and definitely don’t say what you’re thinking (“You don’t know anything about me.”).

Take your toast on the run, because your best friend honks out front. Don’t forget to say, “Bye, Mom. Bye, Laila. I love you.”—because you never leave without saying goodbye or I love you since no one can predict what a day will bring or who may leave for good.

Scrub your dad’s memory from your brain.

Force a smile when Soren greets you with, “You look pretty good after last night.” Don’t tell her what happened. Don’t cry. Don’t say, “I don’t know if I will ever be good again.”

Rewrite the story—it’s better that way, because no one would believe a girl who willingly went to a party, who wound up so drunk she could hardly think straight, who passed out on the lawn four feet from the pool and woke up to something—someone—holding her down.

Say, “I lost you at the party, where’d you go?” and keep all the rage gurgling inside from dripping into your words. Don’t blame your best friend; you’re responsible for your own actions.

Don’t react when your best friend says, “Well, I have some exciting news” and in the next breath announces, “Jamison and I hooked up.” Don’t ask questions. Don’t dig for details. Don’t even think about what it might mean, whether it’s the same Jamison who—

Just say, “I’m happy for you, Soren,” and try to look like you mean it.

Remember life is a stage and you’re an actor. Play your part well.

I’m not the kind of person who enjoys self promotion. I like my work to speak for itself. And in today’s world, with so many distractions bombarding us at every turn, that work has to be VERY loud.

I’m also not a very loud kind of person.

I used to think this reluctance to self-promote was just my personality. But over the years, as I’ve spent time on women’s studies, delving into history and sociology and psychology, I’ve come to understand that it may well be a part of my personality, but it is also very much a part of my social conditioning.

Women, after all, are socially conditioned not to self-promote. Studies show that there is a likability trap when it comes to women and their achievements. (I’ve written about this before, so I apologize if this broken-record territory for you. Actually, no I don’t. It should be broken record territory until something changes.)

The likability trap is a paradox that says women must be liked in order to succeed in their work—but they are also less likable when they do succeed. Likability is important, because it opens up more opportunities. People don’t want to give unlikable people more opportunities; they want to do the opposite.

So I feel queasy about sharing my accomplishments, because I might be disliked for it.

But you know what? I have another book releasing May 19, and I’m ridiculously proud of it. There were a lot of people who helped make the book as spectacular as it is, my family included, and I’m grateful for all of them. But I also worked incredibly hard, myself, to make it what it is, and I should be able to share about and celebrate that.

Here’s a little poem to make my point:

(In the style of William Carlos Williams’s “This is Just to Say.”)
This is Just to Say

I have written
a book
that is quite
beautifully done

and which
you will probably
want
to preorder

Forgive me
It’s really something
So emotional
and so hopeful

It’s called My Brother Oliver, and it’s a middle grade novel in verse based on my family’s experience with one of my sons’ depression, suicidal ideation, and breakdown just before his thirteenth birthday. Main character Brooks is trying to keep his family together after his brother’s breakdown—and also carrying a secret that’s burying him alive.

I love this book. So I’m stretching out of my comfort zone and telling you: you’re gonna want to get your hands on this one.

Preorder prizes and instructions

Preorder My Brother Oliver for:

A free virtual author talk about the book + Q&A session

Limited edition signed postcard (first 50 preorders)

and entry into

1 grand prize drawing for a signed copy of my novels in verse: Love, Sivvy; My Brother Oliver; The Colors of the Rain; and This is Who We Are

Step 1: Order the book from one of the following bookstores:

For signed personalized copies, order from one of my local bookstores and they’ll mail it out to you:

The Twig: https://thetwig.com/book/9781665956307

Nowhere Bookshop: https://www.nowherebookshop.com/book/9781665956307

Or if you don’t care about signed personalized copies, order from:

Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/my-brother-oliver-r-l-toalson/238031e8ba3f49d3?ean=9781665956307&next=t

Amazon: https://amzn.to/4hMtdLl

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/my-brother-oliver-rl-toalson/1148559818?ean=9781665956307

Your favorite local bookstore

Step 2: Visit www.racheltoalson.com/oliver-preorder to upload your receipt, and you’re entered into the drawing and will get a link for the author talk as soon as it’s available!

Step 3: Pat yourself on the back for doing something wonderful for an author.

How preorders help authors continue publishing books

Did you know you can be part of ensuring that an author gets to continue publishing books? That’s right. Preorders are that important.

Here’s a little crash course on what they do for authors:

1. They signal to our publishers that people will buy the book and…hey, maybe they should consider another book written by us.

Publishers make an investment in authors, and they like to know that investment will pay off. Preorders ensure them it will. And that gives them the confidence to invest in another of the author’s books.

Knowing that readers will buy a book also helps publishers justify where their marketing dollars go. Everything in the book world costs money—getting books on review sites, ads in trade magazines, even book placement on shelves (yes, that book placement at Barnes & Noble was paid for). Publishers pay for all of that, and good preorder sales help them know it’s safe to invest more to get the book in the hands of more readers.

2. They alert bookstores and libraries how many copies of the book to buy and stock.

Booksellers don’t have enough space to stock in their store every book that comes out every week. There isn’t enough shelf room in a single building. But when preorders roll in, booksellers know they can buy a large number of books, because they won’t be storing them on shelves, they’ll be shipping them out to readers.

Preorders also tell bookstores where exactly to put the books—prominent placement or in a dark, dusty corner in the back. Preorders get books attention, which, as we’ve already established, helps authors continue writing and publishing more books (THANK YOU for investing in my dream!)

3. They count toward Week One sales.

A book’s Week One sales are super important for getting a book onto bestseller lists. In fact, it’s the only week that matters. I know, I know, that’s weird, and don’t ask me who made this rule, because I don’t know. There are a lot of weird “that’s how publishing works” things in this business.

So we want to get as many copies sold week one as we possibly can, to get on that bestseller list. (Thanks for helping me with another dream.)

Bestseller lists are important for more than just bragging rights; they can also ensure an author’s continued career, for all the reasons listed above, so preorders are probably one of the most important gifts you can give to an author.

To entice you even more, here are the first five poems of My Brother Oliver. Read them and then go preorder. Please and thank you.

1

The cafeteria hums with voices,
kids talking about useless things.
At least, that’s how it seems to me today.

Mom dropped me off
like she always does.
But one thing was different:

Oliver wasn’t
sitting in the
front seat.

My eyes drift toward the spot
where he and his friends gather
every morning before school.

Do they feel the
sickening emptiness
of his absence, too?

They bend over phones,
staring at screens,
heads nearly touching.

My chest throbs.
I could almost tell myself
he’s gone because today’s his birthday and

Mom and Dad always let us stay home
from school on our birthdays if we want to.
(Oliver never wants to.)

A Mental Health day,
they call it.
But that’s not it.

As long as I live,
I’ll probably never forget
yesterday.

2

Today was supposed to be
a happy day.

Today Mom and Dad
should have woken Oliver in his bed
with a piece of red velvet cheesecake
Mom made last night,
thirteen candles lined up,
glowing like a flickering flame of hope.

Today Oliver should have
smiled his lopsided smile,
worn it all the way to school if he chose,
because today is the day to celebrate him,
and, well,
				maybe he doesn’t always feel celebrated.

Today he should be sitting with his friends,
doing whatever they’re doing on their phones,
feeling on top of the world

because
		today is his
				birthday.

But I ruined today.

I bet he’ll never forgive me for that.

3

The bell shrills.
I join the crowd shoving
through the door,

spot the back of Porter’s
white-blond hair,
no brown head

bobbing beside him.
Oliver’s best friend,
walking alone without Oliver.

This morning I shoved
Oliver’s school ID
in my pocket. I take it out

and stare at my brother’s happy face,
frozen in time.
He should be here on his birthday.

I watch Porter turn toward
the seventh-grade hall.
When he disappears

I turn toward the sixth-grade hall.
I join the sea of students,
but their noise

doesn’t drown out
the unwelcome words
keeping time with my feet.

My brother’s not here.
My brother’s not here.
My brother’s not here.

And it’s all
because of

					me.

4

The thing is,
I live in a shadow.

It’s called
My Brother Oliver.

Sometimes
I get tired of

living in the
shadow.

That’s not a good reason
for what I did.

But maybe it will help you
understand.

5

Hey, Brooks.
Rocco falls into step beside me.
For a second I expect Jill to join us
like she used to, but she looks at the ground
and hurries ahead
like she doesn’t see us.

She saw us.
It’s just . . .
things have gotten weird.
It’s hard to explain.

I glance at Rocco.
His black-brown eyes narrow at Jill,
but he flashes a wide smile at me,
clears a mass of black-brown curls from his face.
Ever since we started middle school,
he’s worn his hair longer.

He doesn’t ask me about Oliver.
He says, Dude, I have
the funniest video to show you at lunch.

I don’t tell him I don’t feel
even close to laughing today.
The world is all wrong without Oliver here.
It’s like the halls that have
just now gotten more familiar,
			six weeks into the school year,
rearranged themselves last night.

Like we all did.

I’m a music lover. When I write, I always have a playlist cued up. (My playlists include a general “Rachel Writes,” “Rachel Writes Badass Books,” “Rachel Writes Angsty Romance,” and “Rachel Writes Nostalgia,” though those likely will not be the only playlists I put together over the years.)

Some songs create a certain vibe, while others remind me of a character I’ve made up or a situation my characters are going through. When I’m out running to music, I’ll often hear a song and think, This would be perfect for the soundtrack for (character’s) story and immediately record it as soon as I’m done with my run (sometimes chanting the title of the song the whole way back home so I don’t forget).

I work backwards. I don’t create the book’s soundtrack while I’m writing it. I just listen to one of my already-curated playlists, and when I’ve finished writing the book, I let songs speak to me about whether or not they’re made for the book. A reverse engineered playlist.

Once I have a collection of songs, I sort them into which chapters and scenes they’d best fit. I approach this part of the process a little differently for each book; some books have a chapter-by-chapter playlist, some a situation-by-situation. For Love, Sivvy, my young adult novel in verse about the poet Sylvia Plath’s young adult years, I chose two songs per part that I thought gave the right vibe for what Sylvia was experiencing.

So if you’d like to read Love, Sivvy like a movie, cue up the following playlist. (Visit my web site for a Spotify link to the playlist if you don’t want to do the work yourself!)

(A note before you begin: While I’ve chosen two songs for each chapter, some of the chapters are longer than others, which may require looping those two songs if you’re a fast reader and are actually reading the book while you’re listening. And yes, I should have chosen more songs for those longer chapters, but this was a really difficult book to put to a soundtrack and if, in the future, you have some of your own suggestions for songs that fit the vibe, reach out to me and I’ll update the playlist, along with a thanks to you, for the world to enjoy.)

The Love, Sivvy playlist is as follows:

Junior Year: Born to Be Remembered
“Youth,” by Daughter
“Hot to Go,” by Chappel Roan

Summer 1949: Work, Date, Write, Repeat
“Fever,” by Peggy Lee
“Untouched,” by The Veronicas

Senior Year: The World Awaits
“4 non blondes,” by what’s up
“Running Up That Hill,” by Kate Bush

Summer 1950: I Must Go
“Fix You,” by Coldplay
“Light On,” by Maggie Rogers

First Year at Smith: This Darkness, My Ocean
“Shake It Out,” by Florence + The Machine
“My Life,” by Imagine Dragons

Summer 1951: Impossible to Be a Woman
“Leave a Trace,” by CHVRCHES
“Control,” by Halsey

Second Year at Smith: A Succession of Little Hells
“Somewhere Only We Know,” by Keane
“Nothing Compares 2 U,” by Sinéad O’Connor

Summer 1952: Up, Down, Sideways
“Nothing Else Matters,” by Phoebe Bridgers
“Numb,” by Linkin Park

Third Year at Smith: The Most Important Thing in the World
“Room,” by Julius
“Only Happy When it Rains,” by Garbage

Summer 1953: The Bell Jar
“Team,” by Lorde
“Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up),” by Florence + The Machine
“Nobody Knows,” by Forest Blakk

McLean Hospital and Recovery: Life After Death
“Liability,” by Lorde
“Bring Me to Life,” by Evanescence

Fourth Year at Smith: We All Wrestle Demons
“Just Like Heaven,” by the Cure
“Born to Die,” by Lana Del Rey

Summer 1954: Casting Off
“Everything I Wanted,” by Billie Eilish
“The Story,” by Brandi Carlisle

Visit www.racheltoalson.com to sign up for my newsletter so you can get in on any future giveaways and freebies I offer.

I’ve added longer fasts to my disciplines this year.

It’s not a first for me. I spent a year and a half cozying up to alternate-day fasting, back when the pandemic swept the world. It’s not exactly a healthy thing; I have a history of disordered eating. I get militant about not eating. Life hurtles out of control, and I want to control something. The easiest thing to control is me. What I eat or don’t.

I’m part of the population that isn’t supposed to fast, for psychological reasons.

I can handle psychological reasons.

That year and a half ended with an injury so intense I couldn’t walk up and down the stairs or accompany my children on their trek to school or sit down or lie down or stand up. Have I mentioned I run long distances for fun? Fasting for thirty-six or more hours when you run eight or ten miles every day doesn’t work for long. It’ll catch up to you.

This could be a cautionary tale. But that was two years ago. I eat every day now. Sometimes it’s not much. But it’s something.

My husband’s the one who said, “I think I want to do alternate-day fasting again.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “I’ll do it with you.”

Fasting’s easier when you have someone to fast with.

How hard could it be? I’d trained myself to do it for eighteen months. I have discipline of steel. And I already fast for twenty hours most days.

This’ll be a breeze, I told myself.

The problem is, our brains are designed to want what we can’t have. No, that’s not entirely true. They’re designed in such a way that when you’re trying to avoid something—food, for example—that’s all they want to think about.

Or maybe that’s just special brains like mine.

I remembered this. I’d stopped the alternate-day fasting not just because of the really bad injury but because on the days I fasted all I seemed to think about was food. Distractions help. But my work is creative. I need my brain to be focused on…anything besides food.

I woke up the day of my first fast to my brain sifting through the leftovers of a dream full of feasting. I pulled on my running shoes and headed out the door.

4:30 a.m.

Runs usually clear my mind. This one kept dangling cupcakes in front of me.

Why cupcakes? If I had my choice of a treat, cupcakes weren’t at the top of my list. Brownies, maybe. Cookies. Definitely pie.

But didn’t I want to order something from Gigi’s? My anniversary was coming up. We usually got cupcakes to celebrate. I’d have to look up what choices they had this time of year, but I already knew: praline, salted caramel, apple cinnamon…

Cupcakes cupcakes cupcakes

5:30 a.m.

I pass a house where breakfast is cooking. Smells like…bacon, eggs, maybe potatoes?

Breakfast tacos. I love breakfast tacos. Maybe we could do Torchy’s today.

I told my brain to cool it, but it was just warming up. It reminded me how much I love breakfast tacos. It said, You haven’t had them in a while. It said, You deserve it. It said, Look how many miles you just ran.

I finished my run and showered and hoped that getting started writing would help distract me from the fantasies of food.

(It didn’t. Instead of writing, I pinned pictures of food on Pinterest…but I’ll get to that.)

6:30 a.m.

My kids need breakfast.

I don’t want to touch food. My stomach is already growling; it won’t be able to handle much more. Fasting is easier for people who don’t have to cook.

During my eighteen months of resolute discipline, I found joy in cooking for the people in my life. No, it wasn’t the cooking. It was the feeding. Watching them eat. I lived vicariously through them. I told myself I could handle food, cut it up, mix it together, plate it perfectly and resist even the tiniest taste.

My god, what strength and fortitude I had once upon a time.

I take out some bread, toss some pieces in the toaster oven. It’s the best I can do today.

I don’t even eat toast on a regular day, but it smells like heaven.

7:30 a.m.

My kids are at school. The distractions are gone. Work could be a distraction, but my brain is chanting in a very unhelpful way. Food, food, don’t you want food?

Of course I want food.

My husband is burning a candle downstairs: apple cinnamon. I can smell it all the way up in my room. I close my eyes and breathe, like the aroma alone will fill me.

You’re full, I tell my stomach. You’ve just had essence of apple.

It grumbles back. Not enough.

I pin pictures of food on Pinterest.

8:30 a.m.

I manage to write a chapter on the young adult book. The teenagers were eating at their favorite restaurant. The detail with which I describe the food is extraordinary.

Before switching over to a new project, I take out a book and read.

Food, everywhere.

I try three different books, and all of them have food. On character is enjoying pizza with her family. Another is baking a cake. Another story has a grandmother teaching her granddaughter how to make cherry pie.

I love cherry pie.

Why do so many authors write about food? Is everybody in the world fasting?

9:30 a.m.

Not everybody in the world is fasting. Fasting is challenging. Most people only do it for religious reasons or financial reasons, not for personal reasons. Many people never do it at all.

Longevity research suggests that fasting can aid in lengthening our lifespans. It triggers autophagy, which is the body’s way of cleaning out damaged cells, and allows stronger cells to grow stronger. It keeps us metabolically flexible, which reduces the body’s oxidative stress (the imbalance between our body’s free radicals and the antioxidants working to eliminate them). It gives our body a superpower boost to slay those free radicals).

It aids weight management, which helps manage a number of health concerns like diabetes, cancer, and heart disease. You can reach autophagy by fasting just sixteen to eighteen hours—fewer if you pair the fasting with a calorie-burning workout.

All that used to be enough for me. It sustained me through a whole eighteen months of extended fasts. It’s why a person like me, with a history of disordered eating, would willingly put herself in a cycle of eat/don’t eat, knowing full well it could go entirely too far.

What happened to her? Is discipline a finite resource?

She may be protecting me. Those eighteen months did go a little too far. People like me have to be very careful.

But I never remember it being this difficult to spend a day without food.

Maybe it’s age and hormones. Maybe I did use all my discipline back when the world didn’t seem quite so…I don’t know, treacherous. Don’t ask me to explain that. It’s impossible. I fasted during the chaos of a pandemic and the first Trump presidency, when my kids failed remote learning and COVID-19 lurked in every sneeze and getting through another day, even without checking the day’s news, felt like a monumental task.

What’s so different about now, besides a second Trump presidency and a world on fire?

I run downstairs for some water. One of the cats is crunching on his food. I watch him for way too long.

I wish I was a cat, I think. Even if they eat the same thing every day. At least they eat.

10:30 a.m.

I’m deep in work. Things are going well, I think. And then the image of an elaborate bean burger, offset by sweet potato fries and a cup of cherries, smashes into my brain.

What the—

Can’t you see I’m trying to write? I ask my brain.

It doesn’t care. It brightens the image, makes it glow a little at the corners, as if to say, Look what you could have if you were eating.

I don’t have time for this. Maybe I don’t have time for fasting. Maybe it’s actually stealing time from my life because of the minutes I’m thinking about food. That’s stressful, isn’t it? Counterproductive, perhaps?

Am I trying to talk myself out of fasting?

I could eat. I have food in my fridge—apples and celery and probably even the ingredients to make a really tasty bean burger. I’m just not letting myself make it.

I try meditation. I stretch out on my floor, take deep breaths, listen to my guide lead me into a reflection of all the people in my life I’m grateful for. He mentions people who grow my food—and it’s over. There goes my brain.

Snagged again on food.

This time it’s a steaming bowl of tofu and rice, a little edamame sprinkled in. I let myself get lost in the fantasy.

You can’t always fight where the brain wants to go.

11:30 a.m.

You know, on a regular day, I rarely eat before 1:30 p.m., unless my husband cooks the kids oatmeal. He makes the best oatmeal, with peanut butter and maple syrup. But tell your brain it won’t eat until tomorrow and it wants to eat at 6:30 a.m.

I pull up my fasting app. So many hours to go.

I try to get back to work. My bedroom door is closed, but I swear I can hear someone crunching on something downstairs. It’s probably another cat. They’re so free. Unconcerned with longevity or what their figure looks like. They can eat anytime they want.

I write a ridiculous story about a woman who turns into a cat. She’s very miserable.

This day is a complete waste, I think.

And it’s only 11:30.

12:30 p.m.

I take my mid-day vitamins. They’re the kind you swallow. I’d like to have chewy vitamins, but I’ve never let myself make the switch, because chewy vitamins have extra calories and sugar. They’d break a fast and send the blood sugar spiking.

One by one I swallow them, trying to imagine some kind of taste, some hint of food. And on the last one I do—what is that? Black pepper? Turmeric?

Perfect.

My eyes snag on the toothpaste.

Oh. Here’s another hack, I think.

I brush my teeth and savor the taste of mint. I can almost imagine it’s a dessert.

1:30 p.m.

My bedspread catches my eye.

The swirls on it look a little like flowers, which remind me of a garden, which reminds me of a juicy red tomato, dripping with deliciousness.

I lie down and pull the blanket over my face. A nap will change everything, I tell myself. I’ll dream of food, and that will be enough.

I don’t dream of food. I don’t even sleep. My stomach won’t allow it. It twists and turns and grumbles and groans, Why won’t you just give up?

Why won’t I just give up?

2:30 p.m.

I go for a walk.

Minute by minute, I tell myself. That’s how a fast is done. You choose to continue minute by minute.

I wonder when the cognitive clarity kicks in. That’s what all the experts talk about—how much more you’ll get done, how your focus will be laser-sharp, how you’ll think in clearer ways than you ever have.

My brain’s been a fog all day. I’ve gotten nothing done. All I can think about is food, and anything I did get done probably has a laser focus on food, which is not helpful.

Maybe I’m not good at it.

Outside, someone’s fired up a grill. It smells like barbecue. My stomach mourns. I don’t even eat barbecue, on principle. But the stomach does not discriminate.

I retreat home.

3:30 p.m.

My husband comes to check on me and commiserate. “How are you doing?” he says.

“Great!” I smile as brightly as I can. I’m withering. Can he tell?

“I’m miserable,” he says. “I think I might eat.”

“It’s not that much longer,” I say. “We can do this.”

It’s easier to believe it when you’re telling someone else.

He pulls me into a hug. And that’s when I notice he’s wearing his “I am Kenough” sweatshirt. It’s fluffy. Colorful. It reminds me of…

Cotton candy. My mouth waters.

I don’t even like cotton candy! Once, when I was a kid, I ate so much of it I spent the whole night throwing it back up. I never ate it again.

But my stomach starts howling.

4:30 p.m.

The kids are back home. It’s my husband’s afternoon with them. I’m up in my room, still trying to salvage the day, still writing in circles.

Food food food food food

I should start on a cookbook. Maybe it would be a bestseller.

The smell of toasted bread wafts up the stairs and into my place of (imaginary) peace. I’m living a circle too, evidently.

Toast. Yes, I’ll take some toast. I don’t have it ever, but why not? It smells divine!

Dear lord, I’m not going to make it.

I press myself into my chair and try to ignore the onslaught of aromas, now announcing the approach of dinner.

I am strong, I tell myself. I can do this.

Some days there’s a canyon between words and belief.

5:30 p.m.

I sit at the table and watch my sons eat dinner. It’s torture. I try not to stare at the rice noodles. Why did tonight have to be tofu pad Thai? When I’m already so hungry?

Someone starts talking about a video game. This kind of monologue can last whole minutes. I feel my vision flicker. I’m about to pass out.

“I’m gonna eat,” I blurt.

“Oh, thank god,” my husband says.

He gets us two bowls. I fill mine and watch the steam curl and waver before curling the noodles around my fork and taking the first, scrumptious bite.

I have a brain that fixates on things, that is fascinated by the stories and lives of people. Maybe that’s why I enjoy getting lost in the biographies of poets and writers and women who were influential to my development. Women who deserve to have their stories told. Sylvia Plath, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Emily Dickinson, Virginia Woolf, Louisa May Alcott, Karen Carpenter, Cyndi Lauper, Madonna, the Bronte sisters, Billie Jean King…I could go on and on, but I won’t because I might be the only one who finds such glimpses into an author’s obsessions interesting.

In writing about these women, though, I find myself reflecting on my own life and a question: If someone were to write a biography about me, what would it say? She kept a quote from Plath (“I write because a voice inside me will not be still”) and Maya Angelou (“My wish for you is that you continue. Continue to be who and how you are, to astonish a mean world with your acts of kindness.”) where she could see them as she wrote her poetry and stories. She enjoyed baking treats of all kinds. She loved running and reading all the books she could get her hands on.

Beyond that…have I been a good enough mother? A good enough wife? A good enough friend? A good enough human?

I think most of us reach a point in our lives where we ask ourselves the same things. When we take stock of where we are and where we’ve been. It happens at different times for each of us—maybe multiple times: a kid’s graduation, a significant birthday, an important person’s death.

Maybe it’s the new year.

My new year began with a belated 16^th birthday trip for one of my sons. My husband I took him around New York, Central Park, the Met, and attended The Great Gatsby on Broadway. My son had stars in his eyes. And there were moments where he was so grown up and mature and other times (any time he saw snow and just had to walk on it or pretend he was slipping on it) when he reminded us that he was still just a kid.

I think there’s something we can learn from that.

One of the themes for Love, Sivvy, my novel in verse about the life of young Sylvia Plath, is believing in your own greatness and letting that drive you toward the future you dream of, even on the days you don’t feel like a great person or parent or friend or sibling or partner.

Life gets in the way, doesn’t it? There are so many terrible things in the world. We may not be where we want to be. We might, right now, feel pressure squeezing us from every side, making it hard to breathe, much less move.

Plath felt that. Many times. But she also felt hope. Same as us.

At the start of Love, Sivvy, Plath was the same age as my son. In her first poem she declares that she was born to be remembered. And that refrain and belief keeps her going through challenges and disappointments.

We are both child and adult at the same time. Just because we’re all grown up doesn’t mean we’ve lost the child we were once upon a time. The child who believed in the goodness of the world and its people. The child who had dreams. The child who knew in their bones that they could be great.

They are still inside us. And one of the secrets of hope, I believe, is reconnecting with that child and letting them lead the way.

I wish that for you.

May you reconnect with your inner child. May you know your greatness. May you believe in your greatness. May you share your greatness with the world.

I can’t wait to see it.

Much love,
Rachel

NEWS/ANNOUNCEMENTS

Love, Sivvy releases in 10 days!

If you haven’t signed up for the preorder bonuses and you’ve preordered the book, make sure you get in on it! Click this link: www.racheltoalson.com/sivvy-preorder

And here’s what others are saying about the book:

Book signings for LOVE, SIVVY

I have some appearances scheduled for LOVE, SIVVY signings. If you’re in any of the areas below, please come out to see me. I love chatting with new and old friends—especially about Sylvia Plath!

Feb. 19, 5:30-7 p.m.: The Twig Book Shop
306 Pearl Pkwy #106
San Antonio, TX

Feb. 28, 6 p.m.: Lark & Owl
205 6th St Suite 101
Georgetown, TX
RSVP here: https://www.larkandowlbooksellers.com/products/r-l-toalson-author-event-love-sivvy

March 6, 4 p.m.: Interabang Books
In conversation with author Melanie Sumrow
5600 W Lovers Ln #142
Dallas, TX

I thought more would be coming, but this is what I’ve got. I’d love to see you at one or all of them!

What I’m Working On

Here are some things I’m working on right now:

• The brainstorm for a middle grade mystery

• A young adult thriller based on a true crime

• A picture book collaboration about a country house full of animals

5 (or so) things worth sharing

1. Reading (MG): I thoroughly enjoyed Kate McKinnon’s The Millicent Quibb School of Etiquette for Young Ladies of Mad Science. It was so funny (I read the audiobook, and McKinnon reads it magnificently) and intriguing and had fun and quirky characters. I can’t wait to read the sequel, Secrets of the Purple Pearl. Very highly recommended.

2. Reading (YA): Ibi Zoboi’s (S)Kin, is a fantasy novel in verse based on Caribbean folklore. I found it gripping and exciting, and Zoboi’s poetry is always something to marvel at. The book was also a National Book Award finalist. If you’ve never read anything by Zoboi, I recommend starting with American Street, which was also a National Book Award finalist. Highly recommended (both titles).

3. Watching: If you haven’t seen the new Knives Out movie, Wake Up Dead Man, on Netflix, it’s worth the watch. Daniel Craig, Josh O’Connor, and Glenn Close are pretty phenomenal in it, and the themes are pretty relevant for today’s times.

4. Reading (A): “Because to remember is to fill the present with the past, which meant that the cost of remembering anything, anything at all, is life itself. We murder ourselves, he thought, by remembering.” I got completely lost in The Emperor of Gladness, by Ocean Vuong. It’s lyrical and lovely, a powerful narrative about what it’s like living on the fringe of society and how we find healing in one another. Very highly recommended.

5. Reading (YA graphic novel): If you haven’t yet picked up Song of a Blackbird, by Maria van Lieshout, you absolutely must at some point this year. It was long listed for the 2025 National Book Award and is a powerful story about artistic expression and how it fights hate—incredibly relevant for our times. Very highly recommended.

Writer’s Corner: The publishing landscape: Ugh

We find ourselves in a strange new world in the publishing sphere.

It’s had its ups and downs, even in the seven years I’ve been in it. But things are more dire than ever before, with book bans happening all over the place, publishers getting spooked, TikTok and Instagram stealing our readers.

Hurdle: Book bans.

Hurdle: “Write shorter books.” (For every age group of every genre)

Hurdle: “These are the only genres selling.”

Hurdle: “Literary realistic books are dead.”

I have to believe things will get better. Publishers won’t always be afraid to take a chance on a new concept or idea, writers won’t always have to cut half their manuscripts because those publishers want to save money and also don’t think readers will read thick books (while big-name authors can write as long as they want even though their manuscript could do with some trimming).

It’s easy to get jaded by all the bad news coming out of publishing and all the rejections that add up (I had four manuscripts rejected in 2025 and sold zero). How do we keep going amid this “ugh” landscape?

1. Keep writing

It doesn’t take a whole lot more bad news than I’ve already shared to make us want to put down our pens and say, Well, this isn’t working; I guess it’s just not for me. But writing can be energizing at the best of times and life-saving at the worst. Even if you can’t quite justify taking all that time on a long-form story like a novel, write some short-form stories or essays. Fall in love with poetry. Just keep writing and growing and reading and maybe it will show you a new way.

2. Keep believing

Trust me, I know how hard it is to believe in a book when all it’s done is get rejected. How hard it is to believe things will get better when there’s no evidence for that. How hard it is to believe all these challenges won’t write “The End” to our careers. But giving up is the easy way out, and who wants to take the easy way out? (Okay, I do sometimes, but it’s usually just exhaustion talking.)

Because here’s the thing: the more challenging something is to accomplish, the greater our sense of satisfaction when we do accomplish it. And we will.

Belief helps carry us through the rough spots. Hold tight to it.

3. Remember you have options

Self-publishing is always an option for that book you love and worked so hard on. Most self-published authors don’t make a whole lot of money (I know from experience), but the act of having control over this aspect of my career—when so much is out of my control with my traditional publishing—has been heartening many, many times—enough to keep me going. I get to share my work with the world on my terms. And I can do it through substack or my newsletter or in book form if I choose.

The publishing landscape may be ugh (and more). But writers have always been the people with a hundred obstacles who learned to plow through every one.

I’ll wave at you as I jump (never gracefully—hurdles are my nemesis) over the next barrier that lands in my path. I’ll be watching for you to do the same. :)

Visit https://racheltoalson.podia.com/newsletter to sign up for the full newsletter experience, including first look at original writing, freebies, and book giveaways.

The morning slides right off me, pooling into my cooling sleeves. Sunrise is an hour away, and already it’s close to ninety degrees, with humidity in an astronomical percentage. My body feels heavy. My brain feels heavier.

I’ve had few truly enjoyable early morning long runs since the summer began.

Some seasons are like that.

I have to remind myself of many things when I walk out the door, headlamp strapped on, hydration belt positioned on my hips, to begin my warmup of calf raises, high knees, and skip-strides. They become mantras as I slog through the miles, one at a time, the end so far removed from the beginning I can hardly imagine it.

As a (amateur) runner who logs anywhere from 55 to 65 miles every week just for fun (I know), I’ve learned a lot about writing from my long-distance running habit. It may seem strange to equate the two—one is incredibly active, the other not so much. But both use the same kind of persistent focus. Both require stamina and dedication. Both are incredibly difficult to finish strong.

Here’s what I’ve learned about writing from long-distance running.

1. Run the mile you’re in. Write the chapter you’re in.

I don’t walk out the door for a twelve-mile run already thinking of the twelfth mile. The run would be doomed before it began. I focus only on the first mile. And then the next mile. And the third, and on and on and on.

So often, we start a story and we already can’t wait to get it done. Part of the excitement of writing is the vision we have for the end product. But if we keep our eyes focused on The End and how far we have left to go, instead of where we actually are in the project, we can easily lose our focus and our enthusiasm for the project. The finish line is so far away! We still have to get through the Fun and Games section! And the Bad Guys Close In! And the Dark Night of the Soul and everything that comes after and…maybe we should just quit. We’ll never make it.

It’s important to write the chapter we’re in. Resist the urge to measure how much farther you have to go. Find your stride in this chapter and watch the words, one after another, propel you along the path of progress.

2. Every day is different—some days are great, others are slogs.

A coach I know tells his runners, “Today’s legs are not yesterday’s legs.” Meaning: We may not be able to perform today at the level we did yesterday.

We’ve all heard the saying “comparison is the thief of joy.” That’s true when comparing ourselves to other people, but it’s also true when comparing ourselves today to ourselves yesterday. Not every day will be a perfect productive day where we write two thousand perfect words. And we can’t put that kind of pressure on ourselves.

Some days we’re tired because we didn’t get enough sleep. Or we did too much people-ing and feel completely burned out. Or the kids are home for the summer and really like to talk and there’s no quiet corner in our house where we can find a minute to think, let alone write.

Some days are slogs. Some seasons are slogs. It’s important to remember they’re only days—or seasons. In the same way today’s writing isn’t the same as yesterday’s writing, tomorrow’s writing won’t be the same as today’s. So if you’re having an awesome writing day, be grateful. And if you’re not, have hope. Every day is a new day.

3. Endurance requires training.

We don’t just decide we want to run fifteen miles and get out there and run a record-breaking fifteen miles without any previous running training. We also don’t just decide we want to write a book and then write a perfect book the first time we try. It takes time to build up the skills and focus to write an entire cohesive piece of writing—whether it’s an essay or a book or a short story. Nothing comes out perfect the first time.

We train. We study our craft. We develop the weaker muscles so we can write strong. We grow in our skills, and we never stop learning how to write better. Growth takes time and patience.

4. Sometimes you fall, but you get back up.

Not everything goes the way we want it to. Sometimes our books are less successful than we’d like them to be. Sometimes we’re practically invisible. Sometimes critics say really difficult things. Sometimes we don’t know if we want to do this again. Sometimes we say the wrong thing or we take a wrong turn or we fail at something that mattered.

Falling down—making mistakes—are just opportunities for growth.

We’re human. We trip every now and then. We do our best to see the cracks in the sidewalk and all the uneven places, but no one is perfect. Let yourself feel the stun of the fall. Keep breathing. Peel yourself up from the pavement. Jog (or limp) back home. And get back out there tomorrow and do it all again.

5. You won’t love it all the time.

Sometimes it’s too painful or it’s too dark or you’re so burned out you can’t remember why you started writing in the first place. I’ve been there. I’ve asked myself the questions, Why am doing this? Who really cares? What difference does it make?

During these difficult days, I fall back on routine. I sit down and write at the same time I always write, even if it’s the last thing I want to do. Even if all I’m writing today will be trashed tomorrow. Even if it feels like I will never ever love it again.

The hardest part is getting started. Once I get started, I feel better. I put one word in front of the other, and I make some progress, even if it’s just the progress of establishing routine and consistency. That’s important progress, too.

6. It’s okay to give yourself a break.

I know I just espoused the virtues of pushing through resistance and writing even when you don’t want to…but there is a flip side. It’s okay to take a break. Sometimes we need a break. We’ve been overtraining, working too hard, skimping on recovery and time off. We don’t write our best when we’re burned out.

We also don’t write our best when we feel like we’re missing out on something important just to write (or run). In the same way I have to adjust my running schedules for things like birthday parties, holidays, book signings, special days with my family and friends, I also have to adjust my writing schedule for the same. Routine is good—and often necessary as a baseline. But we can’t get so obsessed with it that we lose sight of the delicate balance between work and play.

7. A change of scenery can be helpful.

In the fall and winter seasons, I run in the dark. It’s hard to run in the dark every single day. And just when I think I don’t have it in me anymore, the seasons change and I get out at the same time, but it’s summer and the days are longer and I get to see the spectacular sunrise. It’s magical. And beautiful. And invigorating.

It reminds me that as we practice our writing we can often get stuck in a rut. But a change of scenery helps. Write in a different chair. Get a bike desk. Go to a coffee shop or library. Take a walk with your voice recorder. Watch the sunrise or sunset during a particularly grueling writing session.

Change up the scenery, and everything feels just a little bit new. And magical. And beautiful. And invigorating.

8. Community helps at the most difficult times.

When I’m slogging through a particularly difficult run, unsure if I’ll finish what I’d planned, all it takes is seeing another runner waving hello across the street, to put a little more fire in my feet.

Writing community is vital. This is a difficult, emotionally-trying, often thankless and disappointing business. We need people around us who understand the journey, who keep us motivated to continue reaching for our goals. Who remind us we’re not alone. Cultivate that community around you. Choose your people well. And lean on them when times get tough—because we’ve all been there before, and we’ll likely be there again. We need each other to keep our heads and wits and hearts in the right place.

Writing and running require completely different parts of the body, but not so different parts of the brain. I call on the same tricks of endurance for a thirteen-mile run as I do for a 65,000-word novel—though one takes significantly longer to complete than the other.

And both have the same reward in the end: Pride in your accomplishment. Proof that you’ve done it once—you can do it again. And a sense of joy and wonder that you’ve done what many consider impossible.

Many of my books are inspired by real life—either my own or others’.

Sometimes real people, events, and experiences are the richest subjects to write about; all it takes is a little research (okay, it’s a lot—a year or more of research, but if that’s your thing like it is mine, it’s a year or more of bliss).

But I’m not just talking about projects like my novel in verse inspired by the life of the poet Sylvia Plath. I’m talking about…well, most of my books published so far.

The Colors of the Rain, my first traditionally published book, contained elements from my family’s life: characters based on real people, a tragic accident that happened before I was alive, places that I remember from my childhood.

The First Magnificent Summer was based on my first summer visiting my dad after my parents’ divorce—when I started my first period as soon as we got from Texas to Ohio (google how far that is and you’ll understand the angst), and I had too few period supplies and no one to help me navigate the experience (which became a trauma in my young life). The sequel to that book, Something Maybe Magnificent, was based on my relationship with my stepfather and how he came into my life and the trouble I gave him when he showed up.

The Unforgettable Leta “Lightning” Laurel, last summer’s release (but it’s releasing in paperback May 19!), was inspired by my eighth grade track experience, when I had a goal to win the district 400-meter-dash so the local newspaper would write about me, my mom would send the clipping to my dad, and maybe he’d come back home to us because I would finally be good enough.

And the most recent middle grade book, My Brother Oliver, which releases in hardcover and ebook from Simon & Schuster on May 19, is based on my family’s experience of my son’s stay in a mental health facility and the tremors it caused in our lives.

Why write about real life, though?

Well, for starters, real life can lend an air of realism to our stories (although that doesn’t mean readers who have never experienced that kind of thing will find it realistic, judging by some of the reviews—which of course you shouldn’t read ever and especially when you write about your real life!). That may seem like an obvious statement, but people, especially writers, often overlook how powerful and interesting true stories can be.

Taking a real experience and writing a story about it taps into an honesty and authenticity we can’t or don’t always achieve with stories that are entirely made up. Writing that feels real and authentic is writing that strikes a nerve and makes readers feel. And a story that makes readers feel is a story that’s remembered.

Writing about real life can also provide an avenue for us to heal those unresolved traumas we might be carrying around. There’s something psychologically powerful about framing our lives in narrative (science has proven this) and writing the stories of our experiences. Creative writing is even used in therapy as a helpful tool alongside talk therapy and other methods.

When you engage with your own disappointments, difficult memories, or even traumas through a storytelling lens, you can transform the experience into something less damaging. You can see the silver lining of every failure. You can write the ending of your experience the way you wish it had happened or change the things you said or did. You can access long-suppressed feelings and finally put them to rest, which, speaking from experience, takes a giant load off your chest/shoulders/back/neck/all the places you hold tension.

You walk a little lighter.

And lastly, writing about real life can be a way to honor family stories and people. Pieces of my grandmother show up in several of my stories. It’s a way for me to keep her alive, remembering the joy (and sometimes the frustration) she brought to my life.

My Brother Oliver honors one of the most difficult experiences my family went through together. I say honors because it is a part of our story, proof that together we have endured hard things and that, when challenged again, we will help carry each other through the depths again.

And yes, it did help me process through a time when I was just trying to survive—and make sure my kid survived, too.

By the way, these are some of the same reasons people write memoirs—to clarify the world and our stories, to heal the broken places and the experiences that made us who we are.

A word of caution when writing about your real life, especially the difficult stories:

1. Take a break when you need it.

Don’t feel like you have to keep pressing on the nerve or digging into the wound until you’re done with your book. Take a break. A long one, if necessary. Come back when you feel ready. Some books take decades to write. It’s okay. Our minds and hearts need that space, so don’t be afraid to take it.

2. Ask permission or disguise real people.

Either make sure people are okay appearing in your book (before you write it!) or make the characters different enough from the actual people they’re based on that they’ll be unrecognizable to those people. Change physical details, names, favorites and interests.

3. Don’t feel like you have to stick to the whole real story.

It’s fiction. You can change whatever details you want for the story and streamline events and people. Don’t feel like you have to tell exactly what happened or stick to a pre-written script. (Memoir, of course, is different—don’t change the real story or make things up!)

I find so much inspiration from the real people and experiences in my life. And while I enjoy creating stories from scratch, I often reach for those real pieces. They say the truth is stranger than fiction. It’s also, in some cases, more compelling. Any time I feel stuck in a story, I go looking for real people, experiences, and life.

And it usually delivers.

Most writers are naturally curious people. We ask lots of questions about the world. We wonder and challenge and try to make sense of the senseless.

And we love to know how other writers do things—how they write a book, how they manage their time, how they market themselves, how they live, how they breathe, how they parent, how they survive.

When I was first starting out as a writer, I was tempted to do everything the same way someone else did it. I had to write for five hours a day, spend 20 percent of my time marketing, use this one particular story structure, start my stories with a log line so I could make sure I understood what my story was about, explore all of these concepts in my story, never start with a theme, blah blah blah blah blah.

I tried. I really did. And I found myself getting burned out, frustrated, and completely overwhelmed.

There are lots of voices out there saying, This is the way to do it, and it’s the only way to do it if you want to be successful. I wasn’t experienced enough to see this for what it was: one person’s advice.

I strongly disagree with the kind of advice that says, This is the only way to do it. Part of it is my contradictory nature. I don’t like someone telling me I have to do things this one way and that’s the only way, don’t even try to do something different. My natural inclination is to say, “Well, watch me do it differently. Ha!”

The other part is something it took me a long time to realize: We are all different. We all work differently. We live differently and breathe differently and manage our time differently.

We also write differently.

I’m all for researching the many different time management, writing, revision, marketing, whatever methods and strategies people use. And I’m happy to share my own.

But because every writer is different, we have our own best way of working. And we have to find our way.

My way into a story or a piece of writing includes spending a few weeks getting to know my characters or thinking about what I want to say before I start to write. I research and brainstorm for a few weeks. Then I write a first draft from start to finish, without editing or revising.

My revising takes the longest and requires anywhere from three to eight or more drafts, depending on the story.

That process won’t work for everyone, and I don’t expect it to. Because there’s more than one way to write.

Some like the white noise of coffeeshops, some prefer listening to music, some can’t write unless there’s absolute silence.

And guess what? For me it’s different for every story. So there’s that variable, too: Stories require different methods sometimes.

We all want some easy formula, some definitive way to write a story (or do things or live life). And those of us who have done it before are seen as experts. Because we’ve done it. But all we can really offer are suggestions.

We all have to find our own way. What works best for us, not everyone else.

Here’s how we can find our way:

1. Be open to experimentation.

Take a scientific approach. Go ahead and collect other people’s suggestions. Gather as much information as you can.

And then design some experiments to intentionally try out a variety of writing methods. And pivot continuously.

Every experiment (failed or successful) gets you closer to your process and your way.

2. Take notes on what works and what doesn’t.

Every successful experiment requires notes. Ask yourself, What do I like about this way of writing? What do I hate about it? What slows me down? What feels natural to my writing process?

Self-awareness and critical thinking are important factors in improvement—for writing, but also for anything in our lives.

Make a list. Start a spreadsheet. Identify what’s necessary and what’s not.

I’ve learned over the years that I don’t need to fill out a long, complex character sheet on my characters, because I get to know them during my lengthy brainstorms and my first drafts.

There may be additional things you need for your process, and that’s okay. We all write differently. (Have I said it enough?)

3. Be patient with yourself.

It’s not unusual for me to read or hear about another author’s writing process and think, I really need to try that. Still! After writing more than 50 books!

We’ll fall under the spell of “Here’s how to do it” again. But it’s also important to keep in mind that we never stop growing and evolving and adjusting. Even when you think you have a streamlined process in place, you may discover a new method that really works. Stay open to that, too.

It’s all a grand experiment. Keep experimenting.

Take as long as you want and need to find your own process. And repeat to yourself: There is no right or wrong way to write.

Love, Sivvy, is the story of a young Sylvia Plath, one of the greatest American poets in history. As someone who’s loved Sylvia Plath since I was a teen, it’s both a privilege and a pleasure to offer a snapshot of her life to the world.

Here’s a behind-the-scenes look at what inspired Love, Sivvy, my process for writing it, and my hopes for it as it makes its way into readers’ hands.

Inspiration

Love, Sivvy, was my pandemic book.

It might sound weird to say that—all things Plath during the pandemic? When times were rough already? My family was having issues, I was wrestling with a backslide into anorexia, and suicidal depression was lifting its ugly head and…Plath?

Women like me—who love Plath and her creative contributions to literature—are sometimes dismissed as a flimsy cliché. Of course the melodramatic are drawn to the melodramatic, our critics say.

They illustrate how little they know about Plath’s work and influence and also us as people. We are not clichés. We are drawn to Plath because of her brilliance and the way she captured life and depression and how she wrote her vulnerability onto the page.

“I am sick to death of hot salt
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!
There is nothing between us.”

That’s a quote from Plath’s poem, “Medusa,” which explores feelings of entrapment and the desire for freedom. I’d felt exactly that before—about a problematic boyfriend, an expectation, a belief that reduced me to smaller than I was.

So I’ve always been a fan of Plath’s. Obsessed, really. I’ve had her poetry collections, her letters, her journals, The Bell Jar on my bookshelf since college.

But it wasn’t until author Heather Clark published her illuminating Plath biography, Red Comet: the Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath, that my imagination took notice.

Clark began from the beginning, as most biographers do. But what I loved about her interpretation (all biographers “interpret” their subject’s life) was that she did not filter Plath’s life through the lens of a woman who would die young by suicide. She showed a Plath whose brilliance and creativity outshone the eventual tragedy.

I was captivated by that Plath and wanted to bring her to the page, particularly for teen readers. Early on, even in high school, Plath knew she wanted to be a writer—and even more than that, she knew she would be. That conviction was the same conviction I had at a young age. We were alike in so many ways, and while I was initially intimidated to write Plath’s story, especially in poetry—because who could compare to Plath as a poet? Certainly not me!—I began. And once I began, I couldn’t stop.

So, I suppose you could say I was inspired to write Plath’s story by a pandemic, a mental health crisis, and a book.

Don’t all origin stories begin in the same place? :)

Process

Writing a book about a real person is a much different process than writing an imaginary story about made-up characters who never existed until you dreamed them up.

While I do a good amount of research for all of my books (even the fantasies—research helps with grounding details), this book’s research process took much, much longer.

First lesson: If you’re going to write about a real person, you better be obsessed with them. Or at least thoroughly enjoy their story.

I used Heather Clark’s biography of Plath, Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath, as an anchor text, focusing specifically on Plath’s young adult years and into college. I studied Plath’s journals and letters from that time as a cross reference. I re-read all her poetry, though none of the poems in her published collections were written during her young adult years. I re-read The Bell Jar, which is autobiographical fiction.

I took pages and pages of notes, some of those notes poems I would use for my book, some just information pieces.

Second lesson: Too much information is better than not enough.

Third lesson: It takes about as much time as it needs to take to write a book. And sometimes it may be WAYYYYY longer than we want it to take.

The first draft of Love, Sivvy, took me more than a year to finish. And then came the fun work: revision.

Even though I’d only focused on about eight years of Plath’s life, the manuscript was much too long. This was mostly because as a teenager and college student, Plath had a robust dating life. I cut out many of her experiences, most of which were casual as she experimented with falling in and out of love.

For a third draft, I attributed everything to the journals, letters, or biographies where I’d found the information. I imagined any conversations that Plath didn’t record in detail. I allowed myself to slip into the pages, too, because Plath and I were much the same—high achievers casting off outdated cultural and societal expectations in favor of embracing and chasing our dreams.

All in all, the book took me about three years to write. It brought me through a pandemic and a slide in and out of suicidal depression. It became a blaze that lit the way out of my darkness and showed me I was made of much stronger stuff than I thought.

And as my Plath says at the end of Love, Sivvy:

“Nothing will
stop me now.”

Hopes

As always, I have high hopes for Love, Sivvy and what it will do out in the world. What author doesn’t hope the best for their book?

I hope it will spark a curiosity about Plath in a new generation of readers and that they will go looking for her poetry and read it and fall in love with it and be completely changed by it, as I was.

I hope the world will see another side of Plath—that of the looking-for-love, trying-to-figure-out-who-I-am teenager she was. An ordinary young woman but also an extraordinary young woman who knew she wanted to be a writer and began working toward that dream—with success—during her teenage years. I hope they’ll be inspired by her belief and focus and the way she constantly put herself out there despite her doubts and fears. I hope they’ll understand that her mental illness—her ocean, as she calls her depression—never defined her but refined her.

I hope Plath’s push against the expectations for the women of her time will embolden young women today to push against the expectations of women still ingrained in our society. Though Plath carried the weight of those expectations and sometimes they contributed to the depression she wrestled, she never lost sight of what she really wanted and what she would have to do to cast off those expectations and claim a future of her own making, not that of someone else’s.

I hope Plath’s story makes us brave enough, always, to put ourselves out there and try.