this is cristin terrill

Young adult author and aspiring grown-up. ALL OUR YESTERDAYS is available now from Disney-Hyperion.
Posts I Like
Who I Follow
Sometimes a book just cannot be fixed. And sometimes you can’t know that until you’re in the middle of it.

- Cristin Terrill, author of ALL OUR YESTERDAYS, on realizing the planned sequel was not a workable project. Listen to the whole interview here! (via jeskuhbs)

Oh good, I’m so glad this quote about my failure is becoming so popular. *headdesk*

(via jeskuhbs)

4 plays
Sarah Enni,
First Draft Podcast

firstdraftwithsarahenni:

The lovely Cristin Terrill invited me over to discuss theater, Sir Ian McKellen buying tea, and her recent decision to admit a planned sequel to her debut novel, All Our Yesterdays, was not a workable project. Cristin is funny and quick, and her kindhearted vibe may have something to do with the fact that she knows she has a safety net: dog grooming school.

Cristin Terrill Show Notes

Artist Alfons Maria Mucha

His Dark Materials performance by the National Theater

D.C. writer Sara McClung

I couldn’t listen to this since hearing my own voice embarrasses me, but Sarah is awesome (you should be following her!) so I trust she made me sound cool.

If you want a little more insight into how the whole sequel thing went down, I know we discussed that for a while.

I made the mistake of getting up to get a glass of water. Now I guess I’m done working for the night.

authorsarahdessen:

All the books I have written but not published. 13 in all. Wow. Don’t have words, really.

This is very inspiring to me right now. Especially because Sarah Dessen wrote a really genius post about a novel of hers that wasn’t working which helped me finally face the truth about and do the right thing creatively with my novel that wasn’t working. Thanks, Sarah.

(via badwolfbooks)

To thank you guys for being so wonderfully supportive since I announced yesterday that there will be no sequel to ALL OUR YESTERDAYS, here’s a little scene that I think of as taking place about nine months after the end of AOY. I hope you like it!

(**SPOILERS**, obviously.)

image

“Back again?” the barista with the purple streaks in her hair asks me as she takes my order.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to smile. I hand her a couple of bills, and she hands me the bright red sticker with the smiley face for my loyalty card. I stick it to the side of my messenger bag instead, where I’m amassing quite the collection. I never bothered getting a loyalty card. I didn’t plan to spend so much time here.

As I take what is now my customary seat at a corner table by the window, I think to myself that today has to be the day. This can’t go on any longer, or I’m just some cliche from one of the rom-coms Mom makes me watch with her when she’s feeling particularly bad.

I refuse to be a cliche. I refuse to pine.

I will not be Tom Hanks.

I sigh. I really don’t know who I think I’m kidding.

My coffee sits cooling in front of me as I pretend to read my Intro to Sociology text. Really I’m watching the big red door of building down the street. The Spence School for Girls. It took me about ten minutes on the computer to find out where Marina Marchetti enrolled after her mother moved her to New York City last winter and another two weeks to decide to stake out the place. This is my sixth day of surveillance. Each day I’m convinced I’ll approach her, and each time I talk myself out of it in some creative new way, putting it off until tomorrow, and then tomorrow again. But today — I swear — I’ve finally gotten up to the courage to quit being so pathetic and creepy and actually speak to her.

I glance at my phone. Classes will let out any second.

Soon girls in gray skirts and blue sweaters are streaming from the doors of the elegant old building. I scan the faces, looking for the one with chocolate brown eyes and an empty, lost expression. She’s easy to spot, even in the sea of uniforms. She’s one of the few who leaves the school alone instead of in a group, who looks down at the sidewalk as she walks instead of laughing or running. Her long, dark hair — which she used to be so vain about, always making sure it fell around her shoulders just so — is swept back into a pony-tail, and her face is clean and colorless. The Marina I knew before — a word that feels like it should be capitalized, because there’s now and there was Before — was never without her lip-gloss. She seems naked without it.

…but I should definitely not be sitting here thinking of Marina naked. Metaphorically or otherwise.

I stuff my book into my bag and toss my forgotten coffee into the trash. The purple-haired barista waves to me as I leave. “See you tomorrow!” she says.

God I hope not.

Marina’s headed in the direction of Central Park, and I follow her. I stay back a safe distance, making sure to keep other people between us on the sidewalk in case she should look behind her, but she doesn’t seem to notice much of anything. Any moment now I’ll catch up to her and say something, but we walk two blocks and then five and still I hang back watching her.

So, basically, I’ve graduated from pining to full-on stalking.

“What do you want, Finn?”

I hear her voice in my head as clearly as I did the day she snapped those words at me nine months ago. We had just watched James Shaw’s body being lowered into the ground. He was my best friend and hers, but neither of us had any idea why he’d driven to his family’s abandoned house on the Chesapeake and put a gun to his head four days earlier. Marina had never liked me, but she held onto my hand so tightly as the casket dipped below the rim of the earth that my fingers went numb.

Then, less than a minute after arriving at the Shaw house for the wake, Marina turned and walked out. I saw it because my eyes hadn’t left her from the moment she’d entered. I handed my dad my plate of finger sandwiches and went after her. I knew it would only piss her off, but it was like I had no choice. Like there was an invisible string that ran from her to me, and when she walked away, she pulled me along after her.

“What do you want, Finn?” she said after spotting me over her shoulder. She walked straight past her house, next door to James’s, and continued down the street that was choked with cars and dirty gray snow.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Then stop following me.”

“I can’t.”

I tried to catch up to her, but she just walked faster. She moved like a person driven forward, with fearful momentum, up to her ankles in slush. I caught her arm just before she stepped into the cross street. A car horn wailed as it passed her by mere feet, and she spun, eyes on fire, and hit my chest with a loose fist.

“Leave me alone!” she cried.

“To walk into traffic? Forget it!”

“What do you care? You don’t even like me!”

I grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Don’t be stupid!”

For some reason, that calmed her. Her fists fell to her sides and her chin dropped to her chest. After I moment, I let her go.

“I’m so furious at him,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said. “Me too.”

Tears clung heavily to the edges of her eyelids when she looked up at me. “I don’t think I can live without him. He’s the only person who really loved me.”

“That’s not true,” I said.

Slowly her head fell forward. I just stood there, unmoving, as it landed on my shoulder and she started to cry. I raised one careful hand, and then the other, to her back, like if I moved too fast I might startle her away. She turned her face into my neck, and I held her close, her breath and tears hot against my cold skin. At some point, I started to cry too.

Ahead of me, Marina crosses 97th Street at a diagonal, a little less reckless around cars than she was the day of the funeral but just barely. With a quick look both ways, I follow her. I swear I’m about to make my move when she suddenly stops walking, staring into a shop window. I look at it too and see my reflection there and her wide eyes looking at me. I freeze, standing in the gutter. She whips around to face me, and for a long moment we just stare at each other.

“What are you doing here?” she says. Her tone is accusatory, like my presence offends her. It’s not exactly the reception I was hoping for from the girl who actually hugged me, her slender hands curling into the fabric of my coat, the day she left DC.

Some insane part of my brain answers I came here for you, but thank God what I actually say is, “I — uh — I go to NYU now.” I can even live with how stupid it sounds, because at least it’s not completely nuts.

She crosses her arms across her chest. “Oh.”

“Is… um…” This is a disaster. I pray for spontaneous human combustion.

“How do you like Spence?”

She looks at me sharply. “Have you been spying on me?”

Yes.

“You’re wearing the uniform,” I say.

“Oh.” She looks down at herself, like she had forgotten, and touches the gold crest on her sweater with her fingertips. “It’s okay, I guess. Whatever.”

“Right,” I say softly. She still has that After look, just like the one she had the day she moved away, only weeks after James died. “How are you doing?”

I can see her lips twisting to form some sarcastic retort, the kind we used to trade Before when she didn’t like me and we had James to fight over. But then the hard expression melts away, and I’m left looking at a Marina who just seems young and sad.

“Not too good,” she says. “I guess you’re one of the only ones who gets it, aren’t you?”

“I guess so.” I take a step towards her, wondering if our broken edges would match up if we stood really close.

That’s when it happens. She starts to look down at the pavement, but her gaze snags on the messenger bag resting against my side. The world moves in slow motion as I watch the crease form between her eyebrows and I remember — with total, gut-turning horror — the half-dozen red stickers from the coffee shop by Spence that are stuck there. She raises her eyes, which are suddenly wide, to mine, and I know I need to think up some explanation, no matter how far-fetched, but my mind is a blank.

“I…” I say, hoping words will follow, but none do.

Then the weirdest thing happens. She smiles. It’s just a tiny thing, weak and uncertain around the edges of her lips, but I swear it’s there.

“Walk me home?” she says.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. And I smile too, because I suddenly know that everything’s about to change. Tomorrow is finally here.

rudesby:

BURT MACKLIN: STARLORD.

actual lol

bookaddictsguide:

cristinterrill:

bookaddictsguide:

Reading #allouryesterdays and, ummmm. That’s not how you spell fourteen…. Seriously questioned myself for a minute. And not like this is an ARC. I bought the hardcover. Whoops.

Yeeeeeah. For the record, I DO know how to spell “fourteen” correctly, this is just one of those weird random errors that sometimes sneaks into a book!

What was particularly funny to me about this to me is that a) it’s a young adult novel so it’s “for teen” and b) I deliberately worked the number four into the novel anywhere I could as a little nod to the fourth dimension, aka time.

And, you know, it’s a typo that is LITERALLY GIGANTIC because it’s in like sixty point font.

There’s actually a second error related to the number four, although it’s much subtler. Has anyone spotted it yet??

Wasn’t blaming you, Cristin! Straaaange things happen - I always get surprised when I see errors in finished copies! Somehow no one caught that.

Also yes! The four on the clock? There are arguments for both sides — I guess the most commonly know way is IV but in some ways IIII is okay too? (Especially for clocks??)

http://www.ubr.com/clocks/frequently-asked-questions-faq/faq-roman-iiii-vs-iv-on-clock-dials.aspx

Oh I know you weren’t blaming me! My understanding is they decided to change the font of the title headings right before it went to print and after all the proofreading had been done, and that’s when the error was introduced.

And yes! The other error I was talking about was the number four being written as “IIII” instead of “IV” in the clock on the cover and spine. But I didn’t know IIII is an accepted alternative for clock faces! So maybe not an error after all. :)

I’m sure he was going for “Risk Taker” but what it SAYS is “Risk Tater” so I can’t stop picturing a bad-ass potato behind the wheel and laughing hysterically.

I’ve been writing this post in my head for a couple of months now, but I’m still not sure how to start it. So… I guess I’ll just start at the beginning.

When I sold ALL OUR YESTERDAYS, it was as a standalone with series potential. I was happy for ALL OUR YESTERDAYS to remain a single, self-contained book, but I had an idea for a sequel that I really liked and thought would make a great bookend to the story. I gave that idea to my publisher, and they loved it and asked me to write it. So I did.

Well, I tried.

My first draft was terrible. But that’s okay, because all first drafts are terrible. But then my second draft, which was a big enough change to be considered a rewrite, also didn’t work. Neither did version #3, another rewrite, or version #4. No matter what I changed, the book just wouldn’t come together. Throughout the process I worked with people much smarter and more talented than me, and we all had faith up until the end that it could be fixed.

But it couldn’t. It turns out my sequel idea – as much as I did and do love it – just wasn’t meant to be a book, no matter how hard I tried to mash it into book form.

So, there will be no sequel to ALL OUR YESTERDAYS.

This has been one of the hardest experiences of my life, on a lot of different levels. I feel like I’ve let down a tremendous number of people during this process, from my agent to my editor to my publisher, but the idea of letting you guys down is the worst. But, at the end of the day, I would rather let you down with no sequel than with a bad sequel. ALL OUR YESTERDAYS, its characters, and you all are too important to me to ruin with a book that I don’t feel is the best book I can write.

But that’s not to say I’m completely done with this universe or these characters. I’m planning to release an ALL OUR YESTERDAYS e-novella in the fall, and there will be lots of short stories and outtakes around here in the coming months. I still have lots of stories to tell.

But for now I just want to thank you all for being so patient with me, for not getting mad at me for ignoring your many tweets and asks about the sequel, and for sticking with me for this long. And I do genuinely apologize to everyone who was looking forward to ALL OUR YESTERDAYS #2 and hope you’ll forgive me for not being able to follow through with an awesome sequel. If I couldn’t give you one truly awesome, I’d rather not give you one at all, and I hope you understand.

bookaddictsguide:

Reading #allouryesterdays and, ummmm. That’s not how you spell fourteen…. Seriously questioned myself for a minute. And not like this is an ARC. I bought the hardcover. Whoops.

Yeeeeeah. For the record, I DO know how to spell “fourteen” correctly, this is just one of those weird random errors that sometimes sneaks into a book!

What was particularly funny to me about this to me is that a) it’s a young adult novel so it’s “for teen” and b) I deliberately worked the number four into the novel anywhere I could as a little nod to the fourth dimension, aka time.

And, you know, it’s a typo that is LITERALLY GIGANTIC because it’s in like sixty point font.

There’s actually a second error related to the number four, although it’s much subtler. Has anyone spotted it yet??

Eli’s favorite toy is one of my hair ands and somehow he always manages to get it stuck around his leg. (Five seconds after I stopped filming, he accidentally rolled off the bed.)

The Painted Lady Victorian in downtown Winchester that @mamaskj and I always dreamed of buying after we took over camp. Sadly obscured now by over-ambitious shrubbery.

Um, somehow the referee/lifeguard — who, let me reiterate, DOES NOT WORK FOR OUR CAMP — had become quarterback.

Touch football on the beach. One of the state park’s lifeguards decided to act as referee.

Back at the beach at Cacapon State Park.