In the last couple of weeks, I’ve had a lot of interaction, via social media and email, with people who are struggling with eating disorders.

The time has come for us all to get righteously angry.

Myself, I have moved past anger to that steel-eyed, axe-sharpening, calm place of volcanic rage.

I am NOT angry at the girls and boys and women and men who are waging daily battle against the eating disorders which are trying to destroy them. I love those folks. I want to help strengthen them and offer whatever support I can, both to them and to their families.

(Why photos of babies? See the bottom of the post.)

No, my fury is leveled at the industries that make money off of vulnerable people by promoting unhealthy, unrealistic, Photoshopped body images. And I am hereby calling out everyone who thinks that promoting pro-ana (pro-anorexic), pro-mia (pro-bulimic), and thinspiration sites and behaviors is a good thing.

Borrowing a quote from Mamavision’s wonderful site, “Anorexia is a disease, not a fricking lifestyle.” (Learn who ANA and MIA and ED are, if you haven’t heard about them before.)

It is time to speak some hard truth. Are you listening?

ANA wants to kill you.

MIA wants to kill you.

ED wants you to die.

I am not exaggerating. Not even a little bit. More people die from eating disorders than from any psychiatric illness. (Sullivan, P.(1995). American Journal of Psychiatry, 152 (7), 1073-1074.) Want to learn more? NEDA has a great collection of statistics.

People struggling with eating disorders (ED) spend a lot of energy convincing themselves and others that ANA and MIA are enchanted phantoms or fairy godsisters who will help them lose weight and then – magically – everything will be better. They will feel beautiful. Accepted. Loved. Worthy. Accomplished. Important. Cherished. Happy. They starve themselves because they are starving for the powerful sense of security and belonging that every human being deserves.

How does this happen?

It often starts when kids stumble into the howling desert wasteland we call adolescence. Her (his) body changes. Hormones start to drive the brain train. Insecurities fester. Pressure and stress boil. Kids look around for guidance. Advertising hammers home the bullshit message that if they just lose some weight, all of their problems will disappear.

It’s a lie. An evil, obscene lie. Advertisers want to make you feel worse, not better, because if you are feeling kind of crappy, it’s easier for them to con you into buying stuff. They hire genetically thin models, pressure them to drug and starve themselves to emaciation, and THEN they Photoshop the images of these models until they resemble aliens.

Starting to understand my wrath?

People suffering from eating disorders are often malnourished. The chemicals in their bodies are all messed up from starvation and/or purging. Their brains don’t have enough fuel to run on, which makes thinking clearly and making smart decisions even harder. This is why they need our loving support, not our criticism or disdain.

I reserve a nuclear fireball of hatred for the tabloid asshats who fetishize the supposed weight losses and gains of celebrities, and thus, help fuel the eating disorders of millions. Burn, you toxic scum. Burn slowly. Burn and then heal a little bit, and then remember all the lives you screwed up and the pain you caused and rip your scabs open so you can burn anew. Until the end of time.

Yeah, I’m pissed.

Getting angry is a good start. Being proactive is the next step. What can you do?

* Share this blog post.

* Check out proud2Bme.

* When you hear people talking about their love for ANA or MIA, don’t judge. Just quietly say (or write) “ANA is lying. MIA is lying. Don’t let them hurt you.”

* Consider the Body Beautiful app.

* Get more information at the National Eating Disorders Association’s website. They are doing the work of the angels there and can provide you with all kinds of resources. Their PARENT TOOLKIT is especially helpful.)

* Read and share “I Am Not My Eating Disorder,” on the To Write Love On Her Arms website.

Please keep speaking up about real beauty and strength, and our responsibility to be caring and compassionate with each other, so that we can help all the wintergirls and winterboys thaw and start truly living again.

Why the photos of cute babies in this post? Because that’s how we started out. That’s how you started out. No one would judge, belittle, or criticize a newborn about her appearance. We all deserve to be loved for who we are, not how we measure up to some imaginary standard. Love yourself and love the people around you.

** All images in this post were purchased and licensed from the photographers via istockphoto.com. Do not use them for commercial purposes, please.

“When you are not writing, you’re going to be sad. You are going to feel inadequate. You are going to feel untalented. You are going to feel incompetent. It’s crucially important to understand that the impulse to write is a reaching out to God.”

—David Milch, creator of Deadwood and so much more, in a presentation at the WGA Theater, 2001

This is the best advice I have ever read for survivors of sexual assault. It is for everyone who has struggled to come to terms what happened and everyone who loves them. That means everyone needs to read it.

Sooo…. yeah, you haven’t seen much of me lately. This post will explain why. I feel that so many of you are my friends, and you share the good and the not-so-good with friends, right?

Some of you know that the last 18 months have been a struggle for me. The doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I was able to exercise*, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Even reading was a challenge. I tried and tried to write, but the pages I composed weren’t even worthy of the compost bin. There were other weird symptoms that I won’t bore you with. Bottom line? I was confused and tired and scared and sad. And sick.

Everything came to a head at the ALAN conference in Chicago last November. I hadn’t been feeling great that afternoon, but assumed I was picking up one of those conference viruses. All I had to do was to give the Monday keynote speech and then I could crawl off to my hotel room.

Two seconds into the speech I knew I was in trouble. The room started to close in on me and everything turned gray. I sat down, sipped water, and tried to keep going. Not. Possible. Gary Salver (who is a super-nice guy to have around when you are passing out in front of hundreds of teachers) helped me lie down. Other friendly people raised my legs, put a cloth on my head, and made those soft, worried noises you usually hear coming from the mouths of frowning grandmothers.

Laying down with my feet up made me feel better. Not good enough to dance, mind you, but good enough to try and finish my speech**. So I asked for the microphone and I gave the rest of my presentation on the floor. Because I am from the North Country and unless you are spurting blood from an artery up here, you get the job done before you pass out.

This is what it looked like. (If you watch the entire video you won’t see me (thank heavens!), but you will get to hear a small portion of my speech.)

I finished the speech. The very patient and generous audience clapped. I crawled to a sitting position and asked the audience not to tell my husband what had just transpired.

And then I crashed. Big Time.

I don’t remember much of the next few hours. They took me by ambulance to the ER at Mercy Hospital. The hospital report says I didn’t really have a blood pressure reading, but whatever the docs did fixed that. After a couple of hours of treatment, I was good enough to be released. (This meant that instead of feeling like I was dead, I was simply wishing that I would die.) Thanks to Scottie Bowditch, of Penguin, and lots of behind-the-scenes work by the good people at Macmillan and Simon & Schuster, I had a place to stay that night and was very well taken care of.

I didn’t make it home for another 48 hours. Even then, I wasn’t what you call “healthy.” Our Thanksgiving plans were cancelled and the day after Thanksgiving, I dragged myself to the doctor’s. There have been several consults and tests since then. Clearly I had a bout of food poisoning in Chicago. But there was something other than food poisoning at work.

The votes have now been tallied….and… ::pauses for drum roll…

The docs say I have Addison’s disease, also known as adrenal insufficiency, likely caused by an autoimmune attack.

Doesn’t that sound Victorian? I was hoping that it meant I had permission to wear hats like this

and gloves like this

But alas, this does not appear to be the case.

There is more good news than bad in this diagnosis. 1. This condition is slightly life-altering, but not life threatening, if I take my medicine and follow doctor’s orders. 2. That medicine TOTALLY makes me feel better. It replaces the chemicals that my body doesn’t make anymore, so there are few side effects. 3. The medicine is helping my brain work again. 4. There are very few things about my life that have to change as a result of this diagnosis.

It seems like I will still be able to travel and give speeches (standing up!), though my book tours will probably not be as intense as they’ve been in the past, and I’m not allowed to travel abroad without a companion. I can still run and swim and chop wood. In fact, the healthier and stronger I am, the better I’ll be able to cope with crisis situations, like the one that occurred in Chicago.

I’m going to be around for a long time, writing books, pestering my family, tweeting and blogging, racking up overdue library book fines, and eating superhuman amounts of popcorn for a very long time. But – BIG CONFESSION HERE – I am woefully behind on my next two books, ASHES and The YA That Shall Be Named Later. In fact, I can’t say for certain when they will be finished. (Soon, I hope!)

Can you forgive me?

I am back scribbling and having fun doing it. I won’t be blogging and tweeting quite as much as I was pre-Addison’s because I need that focus, energy, and time to go into the stories I’m working on. (Plus, two of our four kids are getting married in the next four months.) But don’t worry. I’m here. My characters are here. We’ve got enough wood to see us through this winter and spring will be here before you know it.

*Doctor’s explanation: all the running I’ve been doing helped me to survive both the Chicago collapse in 2011 and another collapse in 2010 that I won’t bore you with.

**Doctor’s explanation: my blood pressure was plummeting, but my adrenaline was cranked. As long as my feet were higher than my head, I was OK. When I tried to sit up, things got icky.

Whoopi Goldberg and Shel Silverstein – what a wonderful combination!!!!

 

 

 

What do you think? Let me know in Comments or be a part of the conversation on Twitter.

The wonderful, wonderful people at Penguin (actually, the Puffin imprint) have come up with a new cover for CATALYST. What do you think? Will teens reach for it?

This time last year I turned 49 years old – a few weeks after our youngest kid went to college and in the middle of the FORGE book tour. Immediately I started to think about what it would mean to turn 50.

In the decade between my 40th and 50th birthdays, I wrote and published six novels and three picture books. I also spent roughly one thousand days – 2.7 years travelling to schools, conferences, and on book tour. And I got divorced, remarried, moved twice, took care of dying parents, cheered from the sidelines as our first three kids navigated the shoals of high school and college, survived cancer, and read a lot of books.

I was tired.

As I hurtled towards my 50th, it was time to recover, reevaluate, and regroup. One of the first things I did was to give myself permission to exercise as much as I wanted. Shortly after that, I signed up for a marathon, something that I’ve always wanted to do.

My Beloved Husband is a born runner; he nearly qualified for States in high school, and is not all that much slower at age 53. Me? Not so much. I am a turtle. The back-of-the-pack runner. When God was handing out speed, I was in the library reading. But running does not have to be about winning. Running is best enjoyed when you stay in the moment, the child-like moment of play, heart pounding strong, hair flying, grinning from ear to ear. Zen running. It’s much like writing, when it works.

BH and I decided that we had two marathon goals: 1) to complete the darn thing, and 2) to complete it without needing medical intervention. We decided to try to run the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, DC.

We headed down to DC well before dawn last Friday. I was nervous. I had trained hard this summer, but had it been enough? I was so nervous, I ordered a big plate of fettucini Alfredo for dinner the night before the race.

I also forgot to eat or drink anything between my 3am breakfast and the 8 am start of the race. I was nervous about everything, but I was super-nervous about the Beat The Bridge rule. Anyone who didn’t make it to the bridge at Mile 20 by the cut-off time would suffer the heartbreak of having to ride the Straggler’s Bus to the finish line.

Given my natural lack of speed, this was a distinct possibility.

And of course, I was nervous about the notion of running 26.2 FREAKING MILES!

Thankfully, the race started before I collapsed from anxiety. It was cool, crisp, and sunny, perfect running weather. The first seven miles flew by, then the fettucini Alfredo kicked in. I will spare you the graphic details. Let’s just say I now hold the record for Number Of Panicked Port-A-Potty Stops During A Marathon.

But racing alongside so many soldiers and veterans, in the capital of the United States, kept my belly woes in perspective. I was surrounded by people who sacrificed more than I could even imagine. It was an honor to run alongside them.

One of the best parts of the day for me was that we shared it with two of our daughters and their partners. This is me catching my first glimpse of the whole crew around Mile 9 in Georgetown.

I ran into my family a few times on the course, which was a much-needed boost, especially between Miles 15 and 19.95 when I was having serious doubts about my ability to Beat the Bridge. But I had no idea what they had prepared for me. They had changed into these shirts….

…..pointing out that 26.2 Is The New 50. I did not start crying until I was past them. I cried because I was so happy. My blessings overflow my cup; love, family, friends, health, country, the chance to do good work, the joy of being very, very alive. I was, and am, deeply grateful.

We made it! Both my husband and I finished the race and neither of us needed medical intervention. The sight of him running down the hill to greet me as I crossed the finish line will stay with me forever.

Running a marathon felt exactly like writing a novel. I was scared. I was exhilarated. I doubted myself. I had supreme confidence. I cursed myself for a blind, arrogant fool. I leaned on my family for encouragement. I whined. I dreamed. I struggled. I took inspiration from the people around me. I laughed. I sang. I prayed. And I celebrated.

Here’s to the next fifty years!!

Start your holiday shopping early! Bid on a piece of original art by some of the best illustrators out there!

Details:

“The American Booksellers Foundation for Free Expression, the bookseller’s voice in the fight against censorship, is conducting an online auction featuring over 70 pieces by leading artists in the children’s book industry, including Peter Brown, Susan Jeffers, Wendell Minor, Adam Rex and Paul O. Zelinsky.

The eBay auction will culminate during Banned Books Week (Sept. 24-Oct. 1), the only national celebration of the freedom to read. One-third of the art will be auctioned each week with new works posted on Fridays. Items can be located on ABFFE’s eBay page.

In addition to sponsoring Banned Books Week, ABFFE co-sponsors the Kids Right to Read Project with the National Coalition Against Censorship. ABFFE has created a flyer for the Banned Books Week auction that it hopes booksellers will download and distribute to their customers.”

It’s a celebration!!!!!

You made it! Thirty-one days in a row of writing at least fifteen minutes a day!

::dances with abandon, horrifying everyone in the room and embarrassing the dogs::

Wait.

Why aren’t you dancing? Why are you looking at me like that? I know that I dance like Dorkasaurus Rex, but I have fun while I’m doing it, so it’s all good. ::resumes ghastly dance moves::

::stops dancing::

You mean you didn’t write for fifteen minutes every day during the month of August?

::Kool and The Gang stop playing and stare. A waiter drops of tray full of champagne glasses::

So?

I’m not going to scold you, silly. (You’re already doing a good job of that.) Besides, scolding has never turned anyone’s mood from anxious to creative. Listen up. You tried. That’s all any of us can do. I bet that if you’ve been (more or less) following these blog posts this month, that you’ve written more than usual, and you’ve thought about writing more than usual. And I bet that there are few of you (Carrie?) who managed to write every single day, or something close to that goal.

WFMAD is the time for us to come together and commiserate about the missteps we make with time management. When the self-flaggellation ends, I hope we can get down to the business at hand; restoring creativity to our lives, in whatever form feels right and good.

I’m not going to give you advice today. Or a quote. Or a prompt.

OK, I lied. I’ll give a little advice.

Life is short, my friends. Way too short. There’s not nearly enough time to love as much as we want and laugh and watch the stars and hold babies and eat good food and hang out with friends and express the creativity that God put in our hearts. So get to it.

If you want to write, make the time to do it. It’s as easy and as hard as that. When you’re done writing, I hope you’ll come back and dance with me. And with these two guys…