I have no idea if anyone except me is interested in an update on my experience, but here’s how it’s going so far.

These are the (very reasonable!) prices of three of my e-books: Poison Oak is $5.99, Double Feature (which is two books in one) is $6.99, and Grand & Humble is $3.99.

Since these are all older titles, I’m pretty pleased with how they’re selling. I’m not grossing the tens of thousands of dollars that some indie authors report, but I’m making much more from these books than when they were still in print with my old publisher (and I’m getting paid instantly, not a year later). Such is the beauty of the 60-70% royalty rate that self-publishing pays, compared to the 10-25% from traditional publishing.

The sales are particularly strange because I’m used to really flogging my books: doing a zillion interviews, sending out dozens of review copies, and dragging myself all over the country to do readings and speaking gigs. But I haven’t done much of that lately (because I don’t have any “new” titles out), and I haven’t done any particular marketing for these old titles (except redo my website), and they’ve sold pretty consistently anyway. In fact, my totals have risen for each of the three months they’ve been available.

I’m not the first indie author to say this, but for whatever reason, Amazon and the other online retailers do a pretty good job of connecting me with my readers. It’s arguable — and I really hate to say this — they do a better job than actual bookstores. They definitely do a better job than Barnes & Noble, which hasn’t even seemed to stock my last few books on their actual shelves.

But the really interesting part of my indie e-publishing experience is my experiment with “free” pricing. I made my book The Last Chance Texaco free for a couple of weeks. It had only been selling about 15 copies a month at $2.99, for a total monthly income of about $25. But it was a crowd-pleaser at the time of release (in 2004), so I figured, “Why not?”

Not surprisingly, it sold a lot more copies “free”: about 20,000 in all between all the online outlets. This isn’t quite as many copies as it sold when it was traditionally published, but those 20,000 copies sure sold a lot faster. I’m sure I’ve never had any title move so quickly.

I have no idea how all those people found out about the free book because, as I said, I haven’t done any real marketing.

After two weeks at “free,” I upped the price to 99 cents, where it still is. Since then it’s continued to sell at a rate of about 150 copies a week which, when all is said and done, is netting me about $100/week — $375 per month more than it was earning. I’m really curious to see how long that lasts.

Plus, I would like to think at least a few of those 20,000 buyers will read the book, like it, and hopefully buy copies of some of my other books.

That said, despite having moved 20,000 new copies in two weeks, I haven’t received any particular bump in fan email for The Last Chance Texaco, which is weird, because I usually receive dozens of emails right away when a new book comes out, and the dozens more in the weeks that follow. I think I’ve received two emails or Tweets on Texaco total in the last month.

This has me wondering if a lot of people buy “free” e-books, but don’t necessarily read them, or at least don’t read them right away. I suspect the reader’s engagement with a “free” book is lower than the engagement with a book that was paid for. (But I have got about eight more Amazon reviews, all very positive.)

No matter. This is all a grand experiment for me, like it is for a lot of other authors: a way for me to make even my older books available to anyone who wants to read them, and also even out my income in between traditional book advances and other writing gigs.

So far, in that respect, it’s been a great success. And I gotta say, the best part is that I personally feel like I have far more control over my writing than ever did being traditionally published: I get to decide the covers, the pricing, the titles, the jacket copy, and all the rest. And once a decision has been made, I can change my mind later, experimenting with different strategies.

I also feel much less obsessed with, and much less neurotic about, marketing and huckstering than I ever have before: there’s no frantic worry that I have six weeks to get people aware of the book before bookstores start to pull it off the shelves.

And as much as I’ve appreciated the support from the “gatekeepers” in the publishing industry over the years — critics, award committees, librarians, booksellers, and all the rest — it’s a really good feeling knowing I can now go directly to my readers. In order for the book to be available, I don’t need to convince someone to make it available, that it’s “worthy”: it just is, to anyone who wants to read it.

At this point, there’s nothing new or original that can be said about e-publishing, so I’m just repeating what others have said. But the revolution is definitely real.

Yes, it’s the story of a teenage Victor Frankenstein, and normally I’m not a fan of these “before they were famous” retellings of classic figures from myth or literature (for that matter, I’m not a big fan of reboots and reimaginings in general). But I’m making an exception in this case, if only because the book is so masterfully plotted and written.

Victor Frankenstein has always lived in the shadow of his twin, Konrad Frankenstein. To make matters even more infuriating, Konrad is a genuinely great guy. It just makes sense that their mutual friend Elizabeth would be more attracted to Konrad. One point, not quite intending to be cruel, she says outright that although Victor and Konrad are identical, they’re nothing alike.

So it also stands to reason that when Konrad falls victim to a mysterious illness, Victor would be particularly driven to explore the secret library in the bowels of his father’s castle searching for a cure. Finally, he has an opportunity to both win Konrad’s respect and Elizabeth’s love.

This being the foreshadow-y retelling one of the most tragic figures in all of literature, things don’t go quite as planned, of course.

And this is perhaps what I liked most about the book: it gives us a plausible, yet mostly unexpected explanation as to how Victor ended up where we all know he does. He wasn’t born to play God — he had to be driven there. The book does a smashing job of showing us, in big and small ways, how Victor, a very flawed character to begin with, does things that, well, make a lot of sense at the time.

Like the best flawed characters, he’s sympathetic. There but for the grace of God (and hopefully a little less ego) go I.

There are two big twists in the book, the first of which caught me completely by surprise — even though it had been telegraphed strongly and cleanly. I love it when that happens.

Oppel is perhaps most well-known for the steampunk Airborn books (the first of which won the Printz Award). This Dark Endeavor isn’t quite steampunk, although it takes place in a sort of an alternative 19th century Switzerland, at the cusp of the age of science (directly after an age of alchemy). This was a wise (but subtle) artistic choice: writing in 1818, Mary Shelley, of course, set the original Frankenstein in the “real” world, but science soon eclipsed the novel. The only way the story can be taken seriously now is in exactly the alternative dimension described here, which is perfectly executed.

One quibble: as much as I think the title is evocative and wonderfully representative of the genre, I can never remember the damn thing!

The story continues in Such Wicked Intent, coming in August, and a major movie version (from the producers of the Twilight films, alas) is reportedly in the works.

Speaking of which, do you have a question for the brain? Ask it here! (Be sure and include the city, state, or country where you’re writing from, though that can be obscured if necessary.)

Hey Brain: Well I’m a wannabe writer, I am currently in the midst of producing a manuscript and sending it around. My question is: when should I use my real name or my pen name? Because my books are usually from the point of view of gay youth, and are usually boys — and there’s that whole thing where people say, “People mightn’t read the book because it’s written by a girl and she knows nothing about a teenage boy.” But there’s also a nagging feeling in the back of my mind saying if I use my pen-name and people find out I am not male, then will the readers ‘rebel?’ — Girl Who (Hopefully) Writes Like a Gay Boy

The Brain Responds:

There are a lot of different reasons writers use a pen names, but the most common is probably because authors want to keep their “brand” clear. A book by “Nora Roberts” means a very specific thing, as does a book by Tom Clancy and Stephen King and Dean Koontz.

So when these writers have written books that are in different genres than what they’re readers are used to, they’ve sometimes chosen to use pseudonyms in order to not confuse the reader. With the new name, they’re trying to create an entirely new brand.

As an author who’s written in many different genres (and totally confused my readers), I can say I don’t necessarily think this is a terrible idea. As a reader, I have some pretty strong genre expectations of authors I like too.

But you’re talking about something a little different. You’re talking about the other reason why writers and publishers often use pen names: to hide the true gender or identity of the author.

Most of the times this has been done, it’s usually women pretending to be men so as to not scare off male readers. One of the most famous examples of is The Outsiders author S.E. Hinton — who is actually Susan Hinton, although her publisher worried a female name would confuse critics and readers, since the book is told from the point of view of a teenage boy.

And of course J.K. Rowling made exactly the same choice for exactly the same reason.

I’m not going to name any names, but this still happens a fair bit in gay male publishing. Whether it’s initials (which are a tell-tale sign of a female author) or a complete pseudonym, it goes on a lot, especially in gay male romance.

Should you do it? I’d love to be able to tell you that you shouldn’t — that we’ve long since moved on from such necessities. But the fact is, I suspect a female name on a book about a gay male teen might have a negative effect on sales and critical reaction. (I’m absolutely positive minority-themed books are considered more “authentic” when written by a member of the minority in question.)

On the other hand, a big (and growing!) part of the market for gay teen books, especially romance, is women and girls. So maybe you can start a whole new trend!

I also think you put your finger on a very real concerned: pissed off fans who feel a little tricked, at least if you have an entirely different pen name.

Bottom line? Perhaps using your initials is something to consider, at least when circulating the manuscript to editors and agents. Then once you’ve landed one, you can decide together what the best marketing strategy might be.

Dear Brent’s Brain: This sounds terrible, but here goes: I hate my good friend’s friends. They’re not necessarily “evil” people, but they’re just not people I relate to in any way: they’re often kinda judgmental and superficial, but mostly they’re just plain boring. I know this sounds harsh, I know this doesn’t really affect me, except that I often have to spend time around them. But I’ve tried to like her friends, and I’m just not into them. Part of me thinks my friend is not quite the person I think she is — frankly, around her friends, she’s judgmental, superficial, and boring too. But another part of me thinks my friend just has low self-esteem and, therefore, low standards in friends: if someone expresses and interest in her, she’s too flattered to not be a friend in return. Anyway, does all this mean my friendship with my friend is doomed? Should I say something? And for what it’s worth, I’m not a teenager: I’m 35, she’s 34. — Non-Teen Drama Queen

The Brain Responds:

We all have that friend whose partner we can’t stand. What in the world does he or she see in that person?

Sometimes those relationships don’t last (and we’re thrilled when they don’t!). But sometimes they do. Does it make your friend any less of a friend?

Actually, sometimes it does. A person’s choice of a partner, just like your friend’s choice of friends, is a reflection on her: it’s a part of her identity, of who she is. These friends you don’t like are telling you something important about her.

But it’s not the only part of her identity. A friend might also like cilantro and I can’t stand the stuff, but so what? I focus on the things I have in common, minimize the cilantro-related parts of our friendship, and I carry on.

But for some reason, you can’t. Her friends are more important than her like of cilantro, after all. This is clearly bothering you, so ask yourself these questions:

Why did you become friends with this person in the first place? Is that still intact? When her friends aren’t around, do you still like this person? Is this a symptom of a bigger problem with your friend: namely, that she has no solid identity of her own and she tailors her personality to be like whoever she happens to be around at the time — you when she’s with you, her friends when she’s with them?

But it’s also worth asking: are you a judgmental person in general? Does this kind of thing come up with in most of your friendships and partners? If so, the problem might really be you and your uncompromising standards, and not your friend at all. If so, you might be the one who has to change.

I can’t answer these questions: only you can.

But in the end, friends should be friends because they genuinely like and respect each other. Staying friends with someone out of guilt or obligation does no one any favors: it just makes you feel resentful in the long run, and the friend (usually) senses it on some level anyway, creating many more problems than it solves.

If you’ve got a history together, you owe it to the other person to try to work this through. If you do decide to bring up the topic, tread gently — and put the onus on you, not her.

But if you’re ultimately not feeling it, you’re not feeling it. It might finally be time to move on — or at least downgrade her status from “friend” to “acquaintance.”

Now do you have a question for the brain? Ask it here! (Be sure and include the location where you’re writing from, though that can be obscured if need be.)

First, I’m auctioning off some signed first editions of the three books in the Russel Middlebrook series for charity (a LGBT scholarship). Check it out (and make a bid) here.

Second, I have an essay in a new book, just out, called The Girl Who Was on Fire (edited by Leah Wilson), which is a bunch of authors’ take on The Hunger Games series.

So what did I decide to write about?

Um, well, I really loved the first book in the series, I really liked the second book in the series, and I was really disappointed by the third book.

So I wrote an essay called “Does the Third Book Suck?” exploring the issue of whether Mockingjay really is bad or not (I argue both the “pro” and the “con” positions).

I know, I know. What was I thinking? But I do believe that whether you liked Mockingjay or not, my essay will cause you to think a little more deeply about it.

Get the book at Amazon.

Get the book at Barnes and Noble.

Dessert is the kind of project I can’t wait to read or watch — and the kind that leaves me breathless and enraptured and totally entertained when I do. These projects are not always sweet and “fun” per se (sometimes they’re harrowing), but the fact is, I want to consume them, just like dessert.

Broccoli, meanwhile, is the kind movie, book, or TV show that I sort of have to force myself to read or watch — but that I feel that I should consume because I’ve been told it’s “important” or because there was a rave review in the New York Times. I’m consuming it mostly because it’s good for me, just like, well, broccoli.

Oscar nominees and award winners are often dessert, but … um, sometimes they give off a strong smell of broccoli as well.

They’re about “the human condition.” They’re about “difficult” or “small” subjects. They make a point to MAKE A POINT.

And just between you and me, they’re also sometimes a load of pretentious, self-important twaddle.

But let me hasten to add that box office hits and bestseller books are not necessarily pure dessert. Sometimes — maybe even often — they’re just plain sh*t. And who wants to ever eat sh*t?

Obviously my artistic judgments — like all artistic judgments — are subjective. One person’s dessert is another person’s broccoli.

But maybe it’s not entirely subjective.

I’m a playwright, and one of the reasons why I love the medium is that it’s inherently humbling. If the writer attends a production of his or her own work, he or she is forced to deal with the reaction of the audience.

It’s sort of like Amazon reviews times a hundred.

Here’s the thing: just by sitting there with the audience, it’s almost always incredibly obvious what they think. It’s even obvious what specific parts of the play “work” and which don’t.

And in my writer’s heart of hearts, here’s what I, like all who toil in the theater, have been forced to admit: the audience is usually right. Sure, not every project is for every audience. And furthermore, the audience can be swayed by gimmicks and spectacle (but who says genuinely entertaining gimmicks and spectacle are necessarily bad things?).

Yes, the reaction might vary slightly from audience to audience (and opening nights are notoriously bad predictors of anything, since they’re stocked with sympathetic friends).

But when something “works” on stage, most people in the audience generally agree that it does; when it doesn’t, they don’t. They may not know “why” it does or doesn’t work — I think it takes a real talent, and a lifetime of study, to enumerate that. But they do know.

I’ve sat through many, many, many play productions in my life — sometimes of my own work, and often the work of other writers.

When it comes to all entertainment, the audience isn’t always right — the People’s Choice Awards prove that definitively every year. And then there’s Tim Allen and Adam Sandler, diminishing my view of humanity by the hour.

But I think the audience is right more often than it’s not — at least as often as the critics or the award committees (although remember: critics and award committee folks are part of the audience too!).

So what do almost all audiences want from their writers?

Well, they want to be entertained. The way I see it, audiences and readers are doing us writers a big favor to consider our projects (and pay us for the privilege); it’s not the writer who’s doing the audience the favor here by bestowing his talent or wisdom on the world (which is what a lot of self-important writers seem to think).

Audiences want to be the opposite of bored. They want to laugh, they want to cry. Basically, they’re desperate to be fully engaged, but they don’t want to have to work too hard — or be confused or mystified and bludgeoned by a message.

In other words, they want dessert.

But hold on, hold on! That’s not all most audiences want. They also want to see something genuinely new. They want to be mentally stimulated. And they (sometimes) want to be challenged.

They just don’t want to be preached at or lectured to or talked down to: they don’t like writers who think they’re smarter than their audiences. And all audiences get really, really frustrated with self-indulgent authors who are too lazy, too untalented, or too disinterested to clearly communicate their visions.

In other words, audiences also want broccoli — assuming it’s a reasonably modest portion, and it’s well-prepared.

No, really! This is absolutely true! Ask any playwright or actor: they’ll tell you, because they know.

What’s the point of all this? It’s that good writing is both dessert and broccoli.

I absolutely believe this to the core of my being: a project that is obviously well-intentioned and about an “important” topic, but ultimately boring or confused or preachy?

That’s bad writing.

There is nothing wrong with having your audience be thrilled and excited and entertained. On the contrary, that’s the writer’s goal. And once you’ve done that, then you can offer up the broccoli if you choose.

Take the Starz series Spartacus. It’s chock full of nudity, explicit sex, and stylized violence — all the stuff you’d expect in a project that is “dessert.” But if you’ve seen the show, you also know the writing is breathtakingly complex, and the themes are large and profound. The stuff of broccoli.

And it was a huge, break-out success for an obscure network that had never really had a break-out success before. But here’s the thing: I think it was the “dessert” factor and the “broccoli” factor together that made it the kind of success it was. One or the other alone wouldn’t have worked.

Or take Downton Abbey. From a distance, this is broccoli all the way: a stuffy period piece about upper crust Brits during World War I and the servants who serve them? And it’s Masterpiece Theatre, no less!

But again, as anyone who has watched the show knows, along with the “broccoli” elements is some pretty sweet dessert: smart, funny writing; crisp, indelible characters; and fast-paced, get-to-the-point pacing. Things happen. Once again, some very sophisticated themes — about power, gender, status, and all its many consequences — are made extremely watchable.

(Interestingly, Downton Abbey has many of the same themes as Spartacus, and no, I don’t think that’s a coincidence!)

And once again, Downton Abbey was a huge, break-out hit for its respective network (PBS).

The audience knows.

Including an element of dessert in your writing doesn’t mean dumbing it down, or selling out, or toning down your message. It simply means respecting your audience: not treating them like idiots, or forcing them to sit in an awkward uncomfortable seat while keeping the temperature way too cold.

And including an element of broccoli also means you’re respecting your audience: taking for granted that they want works of truth and substance.

The most memorable meals include both broccoli and dessert. They’re both important. And together, they’re something to savor.

P.S. Before anyone says it? Personally, I love broccoli, even without dessert. Which means it may not make the best analogy for our purposes here. But hey, it’s catchier than “dessert” versus “castor oil.”

Speaking of which, do you have a question for the brain? Ask it here! (Be sure and include the city, state, or country where you’re writing from, though that can be obscured if necessary.)

Dear Brain: I’m a teen who’s scared to come out that I’m bi. My family is super-religious and strict and heavily involved with church. I told them gay marriage was legal somewhere and they were all “EEWWW THATS SO WRONG.” I’m scared they’ll sent me to straight camp or something if i tell them? Should I tell them or not? — Scared Bi Teen

The Brain Responds:

You didn’t give your exact age — if you’re a legal adult or not — but it doesn’t matter, since it’s clear that your parents still have a lot of power and control over your life.

In your case, the answer to your question is really, really, really easy: Don’t come out!

I repeat: Do! Not! Come! Out!

Your family clearly has a lot of prejudice and misconceptions about gay people — and probably even more about bi folks. So there will come a day when you’ll definitely want to come out to them: it will be empowering to you and, more importantly, it will be enlightening to them.

But it probably also be ugly and awkward and messy. Who knows for how long?

But this is why, five or ten years from now when you finally do come out to them, it will be so incredibly important for you to have:

(1) Complete financial security and total control over your life. You will need to be physically safe, so you can’t be thrown out on the streets or sent to an ex-gay camp.

To any teenager thinking about coming out, this is a very important thing to consider. It’s even more important than making a difference to the world or your own empowerment. Could coming out put you in personal or physical danger? If so, don’t do it. Case closed, no arguing.

Five or ten years from now, you’ll also have:

(2) Much more psychological support. Being rejected by your family, even if it’s only for an hour, a day, or a week, is just about the most difficult thing a person can go through in life. And it sounds to me like there’s a very high likelihood that you’ll be rejected by your family, at least for a while. If that happens, you’ll desperately need the support of your many future GLBT-supportive friends and loved ones who will be able to say to you, “It’s not you, it’s them.” And: “You are fantastic and loved exactly the way you are.”

It’s really important for everyone to come out eventually — especially bi folks, who (for important reasons) are less likely to be open about who they are, but who, as a result, live in a world of more misinformation. (It’s a vicious cycle).

But Scared Bi Teen, the key word here is “eventually.” There is no rush to come out, no deadline.

You’ll know when the time is right. But I can tell you strongly, clearly, and unequivocally, this is not yet it.

Dear Brain: I have a writing question for you: do you have any tips on how to handle ‘tokenism’ in YA? Many of the characters in my book are minorities, and I want to know if you have any characterization tips on how I can avoid having them coming across as tokens. — Virginia

The Brain Responds:

It’s an excellent question, and in fact, I just wrote a blog post about something similar to this — stereotypes — that might be helpful for you to read.

Everyone calls for more “diversity” — racial and otherwise — in books and movies. And yet everyone is also critical of “tokenism.” What’s the difference?

To some degree, this is subjective. Someone’s “diversity” is someone else’s “tokenism.”

I think it’s a question of intent. If you’re writing a story about a character who happens to be white, and you’re making an effort to include other well-rounded, non-stereotypical non-white characters, I think that’s usually clear and good for all involved.

But it’s worth asking: are your non-white characters involved in the heart of the action? Even supporting characters can play pivotal roles in a story — or they can just be window-dressing. And if you’re non-white characters are both non-essential and stereotypical, that is telling you something about your own intent — and your commitment to the cause of diversity.

Take the recent phenomenon that almost every single police chief on TV (along with many mayors and judges) is now black. On the surface, these seem like powerful characters: after all, they’re mayors and judges and police chiefs, right?

But leading characters on TV are rarely mayors, judges, and police chiefs. On the contrary, these are usually the stuffy, by-the-numbers characters that the rookie, but plucky, eager-to-prove-herself lead character goes up against … in one or two scenes per episode. Either that or these black police chiefs are simply part of the backdrop, with no essential dramatic role at all.

This is where the criticism of “tokenism” comes in. Racial and sexual minorities have made clear and undisputed case that they’ve long been unfairly censored from TV and movies.

So how has Hollywood responded to this withering and totally accurate criticism?

With tokenism. By pretending to give audiences “powerful” minority characters, but not really.

Clearly, this is better than the alternative. But it grates nonetheless, because it seems so half-assed and insincere. “Yes, yes, we gave you a black character — are you still complaining?”

Minorities want minority characters that are more than just background characters; they want well-rounded, active, main characters. You’d think this would’ve gone without saying.

But no. Tokenism is alive and well.

I suspect this is not what you’re doing in your books. But it’s still worth asking yourself: “Are the most active, well-rounded, and interesting characters in my books always white?” If so, you might have a problem.

Now do you have a question for the brain? Ask it here! (Be sure and include the location where you’re writing from, though that can be obscured if need be.)

And for what it’s worth, this is one of the most popular books I’ve ever written — at least in terms of fan letters and sales (it sold tens of thousands of copies!).

More details below. And if you like it, please help me spread the word by posting a review — or, hey, buying another one of my books.

The Last Chance Texaco
By Brent Hartinger

(For readers 12 and up)

Fifteen years old and parentless, Lucy Pitt has spent the last eight years being shifted from one foster home to another. Now she’s ended up at Kindle Home, a place for foster kids who aren‘t wanted anywhere else. Among the residents, Kindle Home is known as the Last Chance Texaco, because it’s the last stop before being shipped off to the high-security juvenile detention center on nearby Rabbit Island–better known as Eat-Their-Young Island to anyone who knows what it‘s really like.

But Lucy finds that Kindle Home is different from past group homes, and she soon decides she wants to stay. Problem is, someone is starting a series of car-fires in the neighborhood in an effort to get the house shut down. Could it be Joy, a spiteful Kindle Home resident? Or maybe it’s Alicia, the bony blond supermodel-wannabe from the local high school who thinks Lucy has stolen her boyfriend. Lucy suspects it might even be Emil, the Kindle Home therapist, who clearly has a low opinion of the kids he counsels. Whoever it is, Lucy must expose the criminal, or she’ll lose not just her new home, but her one last chance for happiness.

In the tradition of S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders and Louis Sachar’s Holes, Hartinger writes about a subculture of teenagers many people would like to forget, in a novel as fast-paced and provocative as his first book, Geography Club.

Awards and Honors

• A 2005 ALA Quick Pick for Reluctant Readers
• A Yahoo.com Summer Read
• An ALA “Popular Paperback”
• A Teenreads.com “Best of 2004″
• A Genrefluent “Favorite of 2004″
• A MyShelf “2004 Favorite”
• A 2005-2006 Missouri Public Library “Best of the Best”
• A 2006 Michigan Library “Thumbs Up!” Award Nominee
• A 2006 Utah Library “Beehive Award” Nominee
• An 2006-2007 Iowa “Teen Award” Nominee
• A 2006-2007 South Carolina Young Adult Book Award Nominee
• A 2005 Maryland Library “Great Book”
• A 2005-2006 Maine Student Book Award Nominee
• A 2004 Texas HS Reading List (TAYSHAS) Pick
• A 2007-2007 Missouri “Gateway Award” Nominee
• A 2006-2007 Berkeley Book Award Nominee
• A Girls Life Top Ten Summer Read
• An EmbracingTheChild.org Book of the Month

Reviews

“Hartinger draws on his own previous experience as a group-home counselor to write a fast-paced, riveting story filled with multi-dimensional characters who command our admiration as they struggle against their personal demons…This book should have wide appeal to parents and adolescents alike. Grade: A”
– Rocky Mountain News

“The Last Chance Texaco has everything a reader could want…Never have I read a book that screamed so loudly to be made into a movie…Don’t pass this one up!”
–MyShelf.com

“A fast-moving, heartfelt story…beautifully conceived and executed, very well written [with] characters who seem very real…brutally honest [but] full of hope…You won’t be taking a chance with The Last Chance Texaco. It will reward you on every page.”
– (Oregon) Statesman Journal

“Hartinger clearly knows the culture [of group home life]…The talk is lively, and the whodunnit will keep readers hooked to the end.”
– Booklist

“Readers will root for Lucy and come away with a greater understanding of the complexities of group homes and their inhabitants. Hartinger excels at giving readers an insider’s view of the subculture.”
– School Library Journal

“Hartinger has a wonderful ear for the diction and eye for the furniture, of all sorts…Lucy, cagey and smart, becomes a character we care about.”
– Chicago Tribune

“After dealing with kids in the system for 17 years and living with foster kids 13 years, I look very closely at books about them and usually find them wanting, but The Last Chance Texaco is right on. Hartinger captured the voices of the kids perfectly and portrays [the situation] extremely well.”
– Genrefluent

“The Last Chance Texaco is a fast-paced, dramatic story, populated with authentic characters…His dialogue is pitch-perfect and his narrative is utterly believable.”
– The Bremerton Sun

And it’s really good advice. First, it’s just plain boring when your characters act in a predictable, stereotypical fashion — when gay guys are snappy dressers with bitchy comebacks, when black women are always sassy, when disabled or autistic kids are always brilliant visionaries imbued with the superpower-like abilities or the wisdom of the universe, and when Christians are uptight and bigoted. We’ve been there and done that.

But even more importantly? Stereotypes are inaccurate.

Most gay guys aren’t bitchy, snappy dressers; most black women aren’t sassy, most autistic kids don’t have super-powers or know the wisdom of the universe; and most Christians aren’t uptight and bigoted. I’m not making this up: it’s the truth. And if you think any of these things are true, you aren’t getting out nearly enough.

Are there prominent, real-live examples of all of these stereotypes? Maybe.  But the reason why we remember these folks is because they reinforce the stereotypes. It’s just the way the human mind words: we seek out information that confirms the patterns in our brain, and we discount the information that contradicts it … at least until the evidence becomes overwhelming, and the pattern in our brain is rewritten.

(I think a big part of the reason why these stereotypes are so hard to rewire is, depressingly, because of media portrayals. Every time a writer resorts to a hackneyed stereotype, it gets further entrenched — and also a cute little kitten dies.)

My point is, good writing is about telling the truth — about convincing your reader that while your story may be entirely fictional, it has the “ring” of emotional truth and honestly. A reliance on hackneyed stereotypes screams to the reader that, no, your story doesn’t have the ring of truth.

Are you with me so far? I suspect you are, because I haven’t really yet said anything that almost all writing teachers say.

So here’s where I complicate things: sometimes stereotypes are good. In fact, usually they’re essential.

Think about this. Let’s say you’ve written a story set in the suburbs. You’re trying really, really hard to avoid stereotypes, so you make all the characters artsy, bohemian types. Everyone thinks outside the box and questions authority.

Wait. Are you sure you’re still in the suburbs? Sure, suburbs are not nearly the bastions of conformity that they’re sometimes made out to be, but … well, does this wild, free-thinking suburb have the ring of truth to you, at least short of some kind of other explanation for people being the way they are?

In short, you’ve gone from contradicting stereotypes to confusing the reader.

Stereotypes exist for a reason: they help us make sense of the world. They enable us to make snap-judgments — judgments that usually are, at least in a very general sense, right. We’re more likely to find an obscure indie ethnic restaurant in the city than we are in the suburbs.

As writers, we use stereotypes just like all people do: as shorthand. With a measured, effectively-placed stereotype, we don’t have to start with a completely blank slate. We assume some common knowledge, some agreed-upon expectations.

And the fact is, while extreme or overused media stereotypes are inaccurate, personality traits are not necessarily distributed randomly across all races, classes, and locales. Tendencies exist, and it’s obviously okay to reflect that in your writing. In fact, it’s required. Again, good writing is about truthfulness, right?

So what’s the distinction? When is something a “hackneyed stereotype” and when is something “reflecting the reality of the character and the situation”?

There’s the rub, isn’t it?

Here’s what I know.

(1) No person in the history of the world has ever been just a list of stereotypes. Even the most “typical” person of any race, class, sexual orientation, or situation has something about him or her that would surprise many people — something that contradicts the “usual” stereotypes. This isn’t political correctness, damn it: it’s literally the truth! And if you’re not reflecting this in your writing, you’re not telling the truth. You’re lying to your readers.

I’ll repeat this in a different way for emphasis: there is no such thing as “typical” anyway. We’re ALL a collection of crazy contradictions. Again, this is the truth. Reflect it or die.

And let’s face it: even if such a crazy-stereotypical person did exist, would you really want to write about him or her? Why? It’s a totally boring, predictable character! And the only writers who are drawn to these sorts of characters are people who are (a) stupid, or (b) have some kind of an agenda.

(2) Your characterizations of specific races, types, classes, and sexual orientations of people get better and better the more of those actual people that you know. Why would this be? Because as you have more real-world experience — as you get further from media portrayals of these people, which are often hackneyed and stereotypical, and closer to “reality” — you literally begin to rewire the patterns in your own brain.

The result? Your fiction begins to seem more and more “real” and “true.”

None of this is easy. Stereotypes are easy, which is why a lot of lazy writers employ them.

But one more time: good writing is all about telling the truth. Which is why the stereotype is always the beginning, never the ending, of a well-written character.

Speaking of which, do you have a question for the brain? Ask it here! (Be sure and include the location where you’re writing from, though that can be obscured if need be.)

Two weeks ago, I asked readers for questions. Now is when I provide some answers:

Dear Brain: So I’ve ended up in one of those dreaded “I think my friend’s  boyfriend is cheating on her — do I tell?” situations. I can’t say for sure, but I saw the boyfriend in an intimate almost-kissing-type situation in a parking lot where it was clear they didn’t know they were being watched. It’s complicated by the fact that I have never liked the boyfriend (he’s a pompous idiot, exactly the kind of guy you’d think would cheat), and my friend knows this. They’ve been together forever, and even live together, although they’ve “almost” broken up a few times for reasons that have never been quite clear to me (and every time I’ve casually encouraged such a break-up, I’ve ended up regretting it when they ultimately end up staying together). So … do I tell? –Tongue-Tied in Connecticut

The Brain Responds: The usual response to this situation is, “Ask yourself this question, ‘Would you want to know?’” But Brent’s Brain thinks this is too simplistic.

More sophisticated advice-givers might say offer you this slightly-more-helpful question: “Do you think she would want to know?”

But the Brain maintains that neither of those questions is quite right.

Here’s the right question: How close a friend is this?

From your letter, it’s not quite clear. She’s obviously more than a casual acquaintance and you’ve known her a while, but she clearly hasn’t shared with you the intimate details about her relationship with you.

Maybe she’s a close friend anyway — one who knows how you feel about her boyfriend and therefore chooses not to discuss him around you.

In that case, yeah, you tell. If they’ve been together as long as you say, and if they’ve almost broken up before, she probably already knows what her boyfriend is doing. But you’re close enough with her to be able to say, “Look, this is awkward, but I saw something that I think you should know.”

In any event, be discreet. In fact, there might  be a perfectly logical explanation for all this. (What? There might!) You’re offering information, nothing more. By offering her specific advice along with the info (“Leave the bastard!”), you’re injecting yourself directly into their relationship — something that, frankly, is none of your business.

Drop the bomb, be available to talk if she wants, then leave it alone. This is about helping her, not satisfying your own curiosity.

But if she’s not a close friend, it’s a much tougher call. Have you considered the fact that this could be some kind of “open” relationship — or a “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” kind of one, where the boyfriend is allowed to play around, but the girlfriend doesn’t want to know anything about it? These arrangements are more common than you think — and, frankly, they’re also none of your business.

It’s complicated by the fact that you don’t like the boyfriend. What a perfect opportunity to get him out of her life forever! But this, of course, is exactly the kind of motivation that will wreak havoc on your karma — have you coming back as a squirming little grub  in a future life.

If her personal life is none of your business even if you are a close friend, it’s really none of your business if you’re not.

Bottom line? Tell if it’s a close friend, don’t tell if it’s a casual acquaintance, and if it’s somewhere in between, remove all your negative feelings for the boyfriend, and then do whatever you gut is telling you is right.

Dear Brain: So I’m a guy, and my boyfriend and I were recently in this small town in Mexico, taking a cab. The cabby didn’t speak English, and I don’t speak much Spanish, but I know enough to know that he thought we were two straight guys and was asking us if we wanted him to arrange a (female) hooker for us — in, uh, very graphic terms, no less. I’m an out-and-proud kinda guy — that’s the only way things will ever change — but we were in an unfamiliar country, so my boyfriend and I both pretended we didn’t understand. But I’ve felt kinda bad about it ever since. Should we have outed ourselves to him? – Jay, Palm Springs

The Brain Responds:  Been there, done that!

Okay, so maybe I’ve never been in that exact situation, but my partner and I have been in plenty of foreign countries. And we’ve always chosen to be very, very discreet, at least in countries that are anti-gay and/or corrupt.

Here’s the deal: despite some recent, well-publicized advancements (like marriage in Mexico City), Mexico isn’t always gay-tolerant even in the big cities. In the small towns, it can be downright Middle Ages. That foul-mouthed cabby who was trying to get you to pay for sex? He may also have been a devout Catholic who would just as soon turn you in to the police for violating anti-gay laws that you didn’t even know existed. Or maybe he’d just pass the word to someone else in town who just might end up harassing you later that night.

Unfortunately, Mexico also has a reputation for a sometimes shaky criminal and legal system. And anti-gay attitudes alongside shaky legals systems can a horrible combination.

Bottom line? Not only was it perfectly okay for you to not come out in a situation like that, you would’ve been an absolute idiot to do so.

Always remember when it comes to personal activism: safety first. Sure, there are very rare times when it might be necessary to take a personal risk in the name of a greater good — if, say, someone else’s life was in danger.

But this, obviously, was not one of those times. You made the right call.

Now do you have a question for the Brain? Ask it here!

It did! It was originally published by HarperCollins back in 2007 as Split Screen (with the same “zombie” subtitles).

So why does it have a different title now?

When I was writing it, I had originally titled the book Double Feature, which I thought was really important to communicate the overall “concept” of the book (it’s two complete books in one that tell of the same period of time from two points of view — Russel’s and Min’s). I also loved the retro sci-fi allusion, which totally fit the plot of the book (Russel and his friends get a job working as extras on a low-budget zombie movie).

The new jacket

But my editors didn’t like it. They didn’t really have a reason, except that marketing had told them, “No. It’s not ‘colorful’ enough.”

(And it didn’t matter when I said, “Not colorful enough? The sub-title is all about brain zombies!”)

No matter how much I begged and pleaded, my editors refused to give the book my original title. I didn’t like our “compromise” title, Split Screen, which I thought was awkward and confusing and didn’t fit the concept I had in mind. But I was trying to be a good soldier, so I ultimately went along with it. (And then, of course, after the book was published, I had to read a lot of reviews and email from people who thought the title was awkward and confusing and didn’t fit the concept. D’oh!)

Hey, editors and writers don’t always see eye-to-eye. Nothing new about that. And they’re signing the paycheck, so their word goes on things like that. What can you do?

The original book jacket

Anyway, when I got the rights to the book back earlier this year, I decided to publish my own e-edition, and I was able to finally give it the title I had originally wanted. I was also able to give it a cover that I think does the book better justice than the one HarperCollins chose (authors have no control over their book jackets, alas).

I know that changing titles will probably cost me some book sales, but you know what? I really didn’t like the title Split Screen, so it was really important to me to return to my original vision.

Miss the book (which ended up winning the Lambda Award, despite its title!) the first time around? Check it out here!

(Graphic artist April Martinez did my original e-book covers for Double Feature, Grand & Humble, and The Last Chance Texaco, and I recommend her very highly.)