10 Authors Discuss Adoption, Indigenous Superheroes, and More in June’s YA Open Mic

YA Open Mic is a monthly series in which YA authors share personal stories on topics of their choice. The aim of the series is to peel away the formality of bios and offer authors a platform to talk about something readers won’t necessarily find on their websites.
This month, 10 authors discuss everything from adoption to Indigenous storytelling. All have YA books that either release this month or released in recent months. Check out previous YA Open Mic posts here.

Sarah Dessen, author of Once and for All 

When I was in high school, I spent a lot of time hanging out in front of the post office in my hometown of Chapel Hill. After school and on weekends, my friends and I would gather, a ragtag bunch of skateboarders, hippie freaks and punk rockers. We mocked the tourists on game days, exchanged barbed banter with the local cops and hit up all the guys at our favorite nearby restaurants for handouts. And when there were weddings happening at the churches nearby, we always stopped to watch as the bridal party gathered. Some people yelled, “Don’t do it!”
But I didn’t. Even then, I loved a wedding.
Eventually, high school—and, thankfully, my dark period that involved a lot of loitering and getting into trouble—ended. Over the years, the downtown post office became a place where I just mailed letters and packages while myself sidestepping a new generation of harmless albeit occasionally annoying teens. They looked so young to me as I finished college, started to work, then taught at UNC myself. That’s the thing about living in your hometown. The memories are everywhere.
One Saturday in June of 2000, it was my turn to put on a white dress, get my hair done, and head to my own wedding, where I was actually marrying a boy I’d met during one of those after-school afternoons all those years ago. As my best friend and I headed to the venue, we took Franklin Street, and pretty soon the post office came into view. There were a few kids sitting in front, one of them with a Mohawk and a black T-shirt, looking sort of sullen. As we passed, me in my veil, I raised a hand and waved. I don’t know what I expected: maybe a rude gesture, or disgusted face. Instead, he met my eyes, then held up two fingers in the peace sign. I smiled at him, and we drove on.
There’s so much about that day I recall, and a fair amount I don’t. But that boy, and that sign? I will never forget it. Peace, indeed.

Ambelin Kwaymullina, author of The Foretelling of Georgie Spider

I am an Aboriginal writer who comes from the Palyku people of the Pilbara region of Western Australia and I write speculative fiction. In the Tribe series, I write of an Indigenous superhero. And I am told, over and over, that my work is unusual.
Except it isn’t, and not only because there are many Indigenous writers of speculative fiction. But because there are also many Indigenous superheroes. In Australia these heroes include the resistance fighters of the frontier and the undercover operatives of the so-called protection era where all aspects of the lives of Indigenous people were controlled by the government. I drew upon the tales of these many Indigenous superheroes in telling the story of Ashala Wolf in the Tribe series. Nor did I have to look far for my inspiration for a dystopia, since a dystopia is the world in which Indigenous peoples have existed since the colonial apocalypse. My dystopia included a set of laws based in real Australian legislation that required West Australian Aboriginal peoples to give up Aboriginality—including giving up their friends and family—in order to be considered a citizen.
I wish I’d found more Indigenous voices in books when I was a teenager. I wish we had more now—there are not nearly enough Indigenous storytellers being published either in Australia or the U.S. Instead, we get stories told by outsider voices, many of which treat the familiar path of imagining that Indigenous peoples are in dire need of a white savior to rescue us from others and/or ourselves. So to any Indigenous teenager out there who is tired of hearing these stories, I say this: don’t be fooled.
We are superheroes ourselves.

Julie Eshbaugh, author of Obsidian and Stars

Think for yourself may be the best advice out there. Accepting the assumptions of others at face value can have a devastating impact on your life. Unfortunately, I’ve seen this play out in my own family.
When my husband and I were dating, he introduced me to his extended family, including his Aunt Ann. She and I hit it off right away, sharing a lot of the same interests and laughing at the same jokes. We went for a walk in her garden, and she told me about herself, including the fact that her greatest disappointment in life had been not having kids. She and her husband had been married for over thirty years, and they’d tried, but it just never happened. She explained how in vitro hadn’t been an option for them, and then said something that shocked me. She confessed that they’d considered adoption, but decided against it, “Because with adoption, you never know what you’re going to get.”
Somewhat offended, I blurted out, “Well, I’m adopted.”
My husband later explained to me that his aunt and uncle had once come very close to adopting, but had been talked out of it by their mothers. I guess their assumption had been that no one gives away a child worth keeping. They believed this so strongly, they convinced Ann and her husband not to adopt, a decision that had a negative impact on the rest of their lives.
On our walk, I thought Ann would become embarrassed when I told her I was adopted, and offer an apology. But she didn’t. She just burst into tears. She cried the rest of the time we were on our walk.
I’ve always tried to think for myself, but that day I learned how dire the consequences can be if you don’t.

S.K. Ali, author of Saints and Misfits

It was the after-Sunday-School Barbie club at the mosque. We clustered our four dolls around Superstar Barbie. She was the boss, the Barbie to rule them all, and now she strode on stiff legs to the edge of the teacher’s desk to gaze at the green chalkboard holding the Arabic alphabet. Each member of the club held a Barbie up, except me. I had a Ballerina Sindy, half off at a toy warehouse sale. I always ended up playing the junior assistant to the extra assistant to the main assistant to the head assistant to the boss in all the productions we put on. I guess without that cursive B in her name, Sindy’s eyes looked a little too large and naïve.

We plotted grand parties, broached the mysterious topic of boys through the occasional appearance of Ken, and sometimes even mulled life’s more serious questions. Like today. Superstar Barbie turned away from the chalkboard, abrupt yet calculated, so that her big 80’s hair fanned even more luxuriously around her face. “Are you going to wear one when you grow up?” she asked, marching toward our semi-circled assembly. The other Barbies all moved in adamant ways. NO, each said, with Magic Curl Barbie catapulting a bent arm through her curls to emphasize its lushness. NO way would we wear a headscarf.

Superstar Barbie turned to me, the imam’s daughter, the only one who hadn’t spoken. Was I going to wear hijab when I grew up?

I didn’t know. But I did know I loved the way my mother wore it: Jackie O–style, pulling the two ends apart under her chin the way I pulled apart my ponytails to tighten them. I stayed still, my/Sindy’s large blue eyes facing Superstar Barbie. She turned away, smile on her face, disgust in her slim shoulders. “She’s going to wear one. Her father’s the imam.”

The other Barbies laughed. I laughed, too, my default reflex. It took me a long time, years, to stop laughing at me.

Mackenzi Lee, author of The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue

I have never been a flirt. Coquettishness has always felt like a having normal conversation on roller skates, and I am not a good roller skater.

 The first time I asked anyone out was at my sister’s school choir concert. I had just come home from my first year of college, and I was feeling grown up. And part of being a grownup, I had decided, was taking your romantic life by the horns. 

The choir was accompanied by a band of college-aged musicians, among them a handsome accordion player. I watched him more than the actual show, and we made eye contact once, but that was enough that, by the curtain call, I was convinced I was on the cusp of a bonafide meet-cute.

After the concert, I wrote the Accordion Player a note, which I thought was hella flirty, concluding it with an invitation to call me. When he wasn’t looking, I left the note on his accordion, and strutted from the theater, feeling successfully flirtatious for the first time in my life. 

But when I reached my car, I had a terrible realization: I did not write my phone number on the note.

I sprinted back into the auditorium, vowing to destroy the note, since this folly was certainly a sign of the fruitlessness of this endeavor and maybe it was better if I just never interacted with other humans in a romantic capacity. The note was still where I left it. But when I reached the stage, I found myself face to face with the hot accordion player himself.

We stared at each other. 

I said hi. He said a much more tentative hi. I added,  “You play good accordion. And you’re really cute.” 

He didn’t say anything, which I took as my cue to keep talking. “I left you this note to tell you I think you’re cute and you should call me so we can go out but I forgot to write my number so I came back to do that so you can call me and we can go out.” 

To which he replied, “I’m leaving the country next month.” 

I stared at the Accordion Player. He stared at me.

Then, without breaking eye contact, I did the only thing that seemed reasonable: I picked up the note, scrawled my phone number on it, set it back on the accordion, and ran.

 We were married last year.

Just kidding. He didn’t call.

Adele Griffin, author of Be True To Me

For some reason, I hold onto this photo from college. Maybe because it was, as I recall, a perfect Saturday. Earlier, my best friends and I met on the green, where we slathered up in suntan oil, shared a picnic lunch, and traded gossip and jokes. Later, we went to the spring formal. I wore a sequined dress the color of a tangerine. The dance was held in some echoing public space where my boyfriend and I jumped around mindlessly to George Michael and Boyz II Men, and at some point we showed a lot of teeth for this snap.
But what was my definition of perfect back then, anyway? Maybe that I had pulled off such a show? As a financial aid student, I usually spent weekends working at a women’s clothing shop. That’s where I’d bought my sparkly dress; I was paying it off in installments. I was also heading into an uneasy summer waitressing and living with my semi-estranged, complicated dad. In a twist, the complicated boyfriend was moving away, ending a relationship that had caused me plenty of angst right from go. Perhaps most significantly, the fact that I’d made it onto the green that day was a triumph, because all through college, I was in treatment for panic attacks and agoraphobia.
That teethy tangerine pose can’t define a “real” me any more than my inside anxieties. Years later, I’m still fascinated—as a writer and a reader—by characters whose fierce internal contradictions remind me of those old knocks and bruises to my younger self. It’s a conflict at the heart of so many compelling young adult novels: the bright, aggressive show of joy glossing all the shadow. Maybe that’s why I kept the picture, after all.

Sandhya Menon, author of When Dimple Met Rishi

There’s one thing I’ve had to remind myself of since I was young: It’s okay to not.
I’m a high-achieving person—always have been, and, I suspect, always will be. I have to constantly be working on something and toward something. I need goals; I like to keep my mind busy. Even when I had two babies at home and absolutely no free time (or clean clothes), even in the midst of postpartum depression and anxiety, I churned out articles, poems, short stories and, eventually, novels. It was like I just didn’t know how to turn it off.
But a lesson I’ve learned is that it’s okay—and even healthy, sometimes—to not be going at a hundred miles an hour. It’s okay to take a breather because you’re busy or stressed or tired or even just because you want to. Taking time off, especially from creative endeavors, does not make you lazy or dispassionate. It doesn’t mean you don’t have what it takes. In fact, it shows a strength of spirit and character that’s pretty rare. Besides, every time I’ve taken the time I really needed, my art has been the richer for it.
For a high achiever who also happens to be a creative person, it can be hard not to be sucked into the “create or die” mentality. While I absolutely love the book The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield, I have to remind myself there is a difference between what he calls resistance and simply being mindful about engaging with the world while putting your art aside for a bit. I’ve had to work at it, but I’m better at finding that balance now. While I’m eager to work on my projects, I’m also happy to close my laptop and say to myself, “Good work. Now go live your life.”

Kayla Olson, author of The Sandcastle Empire

Every year the Summer Olympics are on, I buy a beach volleyball.
I buy a beach volleyball, head out to the nearest sand court in 100º+ Texas heat, and my pale freckled skin burns to a crisp. I say to my husband, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could train to be a beach volleyball player before the next Olympics? Have there ever been any YA authors who’ve also medaled in beach volleyball?” I say the same things to my sister, who is inch for inch my height and has not yet agreed to train with me.
I keep buying beach volleyballs because in the four years since the last time, clutter—actual, metaphorical—has buried the previous ball so deep I’m not even sure where to start looking for it.
I should also add, no one has ever described me as athletic. Tall? Absolutely. But athletic? Look no further than my dreadful year on the eighth- grade basketball team for proof that I am not.
Kerri Walsh-Jennings makes strength look so graceful. Behind gold medal glory, though, is discipline and perseverance—passion for the hard road it takes to get there, not just the destination.t
Suffice it to say, volleyball is not my passion: one raw sunburn and I’m out. Writing, though—performing intricate surgery to make a manuscript juuust right—it is the most me career there is. And while I’ve been at it for eight years, my name is only just now on spines.
If you’re unsure of your passion, do the thing you’ll love even when things get tedious. There might be a reward waiting for you, but maybe not. You’ll know you’re doing the thing meant for you, though, if you find joy in the gritty journey itself, not merely the flash and shine at the end of it.

Julie Israel, author of Juniper Lemon’s Happiness Index

Four months ago I logged into Facebook to wish a former best friend a happy birthday. I say “former” not because anything had soured or left bad blood between us, but because our lives had diverged after high school and time and circumstance carried us slowly, naturally apart. A phone in the ocean here and in soy sauce there didn’t help (that’s another story), but despite having lost touch and all means but Facebook to contact her, she was one of the few friends whose birthday I knew growing up, and have never needed a reminder for.
I typed her name into the search bar. Results came up, but she wasn’t one of them.
She had deleted her account.
In that moment, the disconnect with her became real. I mean, it had been real before, but now it was final. Gone were the days of N64 and freezer pizzas after school, of rollerblading and belted choir songs, of Potter Puppet Pals and endless Dr. Pepper, of quoting Simpsons and Python and The Mummy Returns (Why did we love that movie so much? I’ll never know, but we always started a school year by entering the building, looking around, and declaring: “This place…is cursed.”). All that was now not merely a finished chapter, but a closed book.
In Juniper Lemon’s Happiness Index, Juniper must cope with the loss not only of her late sister, but of a friend who is still very much alive and dear to her. We can’t know what’s in the hearts of those who become estranged from us, but I think it’s fair to say that the dead are not the only ones whose loss aches.
If my old friend is reading this, I hope she knows that I remember her often—and always fondly.

Cora Carmack, author of Roar

Confession: I’m a worrier. Sometimes, I worry over big things—like the state of the world and my future. Sometimes I worry about little things…like checking the mail or that dumb thing I said two weeks ago. As a kid, that worrying often translated to vivid nightmares or ridiculous paranoia that made me do questionable things—like sleep with a pair of scissors under my pillow and a thick book on my chest in case someone tried to stab me in the middle of the night. Over the top? Yes. But to my little kid brain, it was reasonable. It was real.

For most of my life, I thought it was just a silly personality quirk. An overactive imagination. Now I know it’s called anxiety, and it’s a giant douchebag.

For example: Anxiety likes to pop up and tell me I’ll never finish another book. That the ten I’ve already finished were all just flukes. It tells me that the things I write aren’t good enough and never will be. Anxiety tells me to shut out friends and family because it’s too exhausting to open myself up to people. And anxiety always shines a light on the bad things while leaving everything good in the dark. Anxiety brings with it a litany of I can’ts, and I shouldn’ts, and maybe laters. Some days it’s so loud I can’t hear anything else.

It took me a ridiculously long time to come to terms with my anxiety, to admit I could not conquer it without help. It’s a war I’m still waging, and one of the many ways I’m doing that is by addressing my anxiety in my writing. I’ve done it subtly before, without giving it a name, but in my upcoming book Roar, one of my favorite characters suffers from anxiety. She’s courageous and smart and unbelievably strong—her anxiety doesn’t lessen that. In fact, she’s all the more impressive because in addition to every outside obstacle, she’s always facing internal obstacles as well. She is the definition of a conqueror. And maybe through writing her, I’ll do a little conquering of my own.