Tooting the Horn Tuesday: Interview with Julia Karr

 I had the pleasure of interviewing Julia Karr, author of XVI and member of The Class of 2k11.  First, for those of you who haven't read it, here's what it's about.

"In the year 2150, being a girl isn’t necessarily a good thing, especially when your sixteenth (read sex-teenth) birthday is fast approaching. That in itself would be enough to make anyone more than a little nuts, what with the tattoo and all – but Nina Oberon’s life has taken a definite turn for the worse. Her mother is brutally stabbed and left for dead. Before dying, she entrusts a secret book to Nina, telling her to deliver it to Nina's father. But, first Nina has to find him; since for fifteen years he's been officially dead. Complications arise when she rescues Sal, a mysterious, and ultra hot guy. He seems to like Nina, but also seems to know more about her father than he’s letting on. Then there’s that murderous ex-government agent who’s stalking her, and just happens to be her little sister’s dad."

Here's our intereview:

Dystopian novels are really hot right now.  Was it the market that inspired you to write dystopian, or did you have other reasons?

When I wrote XVI (in 2005), dystopian was not hot. (The Hunger Games came out in 2008.) XVI evolved into dystopia as I was writing it. 

Do you write in other genres as well?

I have books I am working on in other genres, namely, Contemporary, Mystery, Fantasy, and Historical Fiction. Whew! That sounds like a lot of writing. I'd better get on it! :)

What writers influence or inspire you?

I get inspired by pretty much every good book I read! As far as influence - I didn't read any dystopian fiction as I writing XVI and the sequel, because I didn't want to be influenced by another writer's style. 

With the way society is influenced by media, do you see the world in XVI as a foreseeable future?

I sure do. I honestly think if people don't wake up and see what's happening in the way young women and girls are portrayed in media, that women will have a hard time ever truly reaching "equal rights." As if the photo spread in the January issue of French Vogue wasn't enough to creep me out (http://live.drjays.com/index.php/2011/01/06/has-french-vogue-taken-child-models-too-far/) - just today I read an article about padded bikini bras for 8-yr-olds! Gah! What is wrong with people? Anyway… yes - unfortunately I do see a version of XVI as a possible future.

Of the characters in the novel, which one do you relate most to and why?

 Probably Nina, because I spent so much time with her!

Have you known people like Nina’s horrible step father in real life?  If so, how did you deal with that?

I have never known anybody that disgusting in real life - thank heavens. If I had, they would be in jail now! I have peripherally known some people who were overbearing jerks - and borderline abusive - but not anyone with Ed's sicko bent.

Was there any time in writing the book that Derek was going to be Nina’s love interest?

Nope. He wanted to be, but that was not going to happen - ever.

What’s the one book you wish you would have written?

Dickens' A Christmas Carol

What book are you currently reading?

What Can't Wait by Ashley Hope Perez

Are you planning a sequel?  If not, what are you working on?

Yes. I'm working on the sequel. The title is TRUTH.

Thanks so much for interviewing me!

About Julia Karr:

Julia Karr was born in Indiana, and moved to Chicago when she was fifteen. After the initial culture shock of going from quiet, small town living to Carl Sandburg’s, “stormy, husky, brawling,” metropolis, she fell madly in love with the city. Her schooling in the art of writing came from reading, voraciously. While students were being forced to read the classics, Julia was busy going on author binges. As a young mother, reading books to, and eventually with, her daughters, she fell head-over-heels for children’s literature. Not a far stretch for someone who has loved reading since the age of three. While still working a nine-to-five job, after hours Julia can be found at home, sitting on the couch tapping out stories on her laptop, with one of several cats draped behind her and her dogs sleeping nearby.

Writing Wednesday: Untitled

     This is from the untitled dystopic novel I'm writing, which is currently on the back burner, but soon to be picked up again.  Let me know your thoughts.

     The door across the hall is closed and it’s a room I’ve not entered.  For a split second I feared another body would be found, but remembered the man had already investigated the entire house before letting us enter.  I opened the door slowly still, not wanting any surprises.  I’m not sure what I expected, a sewing room, storage maybe, but not what I found.  Bookshelves, a desk, a window seat, this room seemed out of place in this big country house.  On the desk sat a laptop computer and scattered farming paperwork. 

     Seeing that computer made me think of my own and how I would spend time connecting on Facebook, downloading music on iTunes, or learning something new from Wikipedia.  Back in the day, I would have said I could probably not survive without the internet, my cell phone, but now, I hardly miss that technology.  We had to adapt, and it was easier than I would have ever thought it would be.

     The window seat behind the desk was covered in a lush burgundy fabric, which went well with the mahogany furniture.  A mug with a picture of a kitten sat abandoned next to the window, half full of moldy coffee.  Next to it, open and face down lay a copy of Jane Eyre, a surprising choice for a farmer’s wife.  Curious, I moved toward the bookshelf to see what else she might have read.  More classics than I would have guessed, some contemporary fiction, and tons of romances, which was more what I would have expected.  This room must have been an escape for her, a place where she could unwind and forget about the bills, her aching back, and the dirt beneath her fingernails, a place for dreaming up other places, other times, other lives. 

     Exiting, I strolled down the hall to another door and opened it, a linen closet.  The next door led to a bathroom.  It was filthy, caked thick with grime and mold.  Mystery fluids, more than likely blood and vomit were splashed across the walls, and the floor.  I opened the cabinet below the sink and found Lysol, disinfectant wipes, glass cleaner, tile cleaner, a sponge, and paper towels.  I wiped everything down, spotless, threw the garbage on the floor, and walked across to the last room.  The girl’s room.

     I approached the soiled bed and removed the rest of the bedding.  I went downstairs, through the mudroom, and the back door, I dropped the sheets to the ground.  Entering the barn, I looked around for something to put water in.  Most of the tools were old and peeling.  After scouring shelves, and bins, I found a bucket.  One of the old metal kind, with a rusted and squeaky handle.  It was quite a walk down to the pond, and having to navigate through the overgrown grass and brush made it no easier.  Once at the pond, I stopped and admired the scenery.  It was quite beautiful country.  Tall cedars surrounded the property, standing guard like wooden sentries, blue sky hanging over like a canopy.      

     I squatted beside the pond and I filled the bucket.  Staring into the murky brown mass, I wondered if we’d ever have running water again.  I missed running water, doing dishes in them, showering.  I was tired of pool water, and pond water, and rainwater.  Tired of boiling it until it was okay to wash in, to drink.  I rose and carried the bucket to the house, it sloshed and splashed all the way, splattering my legs, my shoes.

     I put the bucket down outside the back door, went in and retrieved the propane stove, a stockpot, and boiled the water.  I had some cleaning to do.  Once the water boiled and cooled, I poured half of it back in the bucket followed by some laundry detergent.  Then I grabbed the sponge from the bathroom, and went into the little girl’s room.  I poured a generous amount of water onto the mattress and began scrubbing.  I don’t know how long I scrubbed, it could have been five minutes, an hour, but the stains persisted, lingering like a scar in the flesh.  A reminder of what once used to be, a family, a life, and now death.

     I ended up using bleach, while most the stains receded, the outer edge remained, dark red, the only bloodline left of this family.  I took the mattress from the bed, stood it up against a wall, and sprayed it with Lysol.  I opened the windows in hopes that the breeze might dry it before night fell, else I’d be sleeping on the couch.