where the writers are
When Writing Becomes Real

She was ten-years-old when we first met, and I was about a year younger. It didn't matter that I was a Chinese-American girl from the suburbs of Los Angeles and that Katie John was a white girl from Barton's Bluff, Missouri. We were soul mates, two misunderstood tomboys trying to navigate through the confusing world of our youth -- no longer little kids, yet nowhere near old enough to sit at the grown-up table.

My parents were teachers, so we didn't have a lot of money. However, I had something better. I had a library card. There were three books that I checked out over and over again -- Katie John, Depend On Katie John, and Honestly, Katie John. I'd get upset if they weren't on the shelf, because that meant that someone else was reading my books. Hello? Didn't they know that the novels were written just for me?

Read the rest on The Huffington Post's books page.

By the way, Gina Misiroglu of Red Room put me in touch with the Huffington Post people, which is one of the great ways she's bringing traffic to Red Room and getting attention for Red Room's authors.


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I beg to differ -- those

I beg to differ -- those novels were written for ME!