The most important Olympic observation yet...and an anniversary

First things first...

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, MOM AND DAD!

That's right. My parents have been married 44 years (I think) today. Yep, you read that right--44 years.

THEY ROCK.

Can we have a round of applause for my parents please? (And, just so you know, they routinely read the comments section of this blog.)

What's the secret to their success, some may ask. Well, I think it's that they never let the romance die.

For example, I asked my mom a day or two ago what they had planned to celebrate the big day and she said, "Oh, we'll probably go out to dinner."

"Where?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe Subway."

Which is probably slightly less exciting than the year he got her the manure spreader. Nothing says true love like a machine that is built to hurl...manure.

Oh, and one time I asked my father what he was going to get Mom for Valentine's Day and he said, "Well, I was thinking about maybe taking her to Wal-Mart and letting her read a card. Heck, I might even let her read two."

(Am I starting to make more sense to you guys now? Because, seriously, this explains A LOT about me.)

So happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. Just don't go too crazy with the celebrating.

And now on to the Olympic moment of the day...



Last night I watched the women's gymnastics all-around finals with bated breath as Nastia Liukin and Shawn Johnson flew and flipped and forged their way into history. It was a thing of beauty.

And then, during the medals ceremony, I cried. Again.

And not because two American women stood atop the medals stand in this event for the first time ever.

And not because, as happy as I was for Nastia, a part of me couldn't help but feel bad for Shawn because no matter what, they couldn't both come home with gold.

And not because I'm way too old (and fat) to fulfill my Olympic dream of medaling on the beam.

Nope. The reason I cried last night was because as I sat there I remembered something that I've known all along and hope the world never forgets: the power of the teenage girl.

All you have to do is look at the sheer single-mindedness that all of the competitors exhibited for not only that night but for their entire lives to know that this is not a group to be taken lightly.

YA authors frequently get asked when we're going to write for "grown ups" or when we're going to write "real book" or whether or not we want to stretch our muscles by writing for someone other than teenage girls.

To this, I've always shook my head felt a little sorry for people who have never seen the precision with which a teenager can see through a book's mistakes--who have never witnessed the voraciousness with which a teenager can latch on to the things that they value most and the strength with which they will work to meet their goals.

So to the critics of YA fiction I have to say I write books for the Nastia Luikins and Shawn Johnsons of the world... Is there anyone better to write for?


-Ally