by booksoverlookedblog

My Experience with the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge

This year I entered NYC Midnight’s Short Story Challenge. I’d heard about NYC Midnight before, but I’d never entered any of their writing contests. The entry fee is pretty steep, and they’re really competitive. But with a little bullying encouragement from my mom, I decided to enter.

Before we go any futher: I am not sponsored by NYC Midnight, or anyone. (Pilot Pens, HMU. I will shill for the Juice Up 04 until the day I die.) I just wanted to share my experience with this contest.

The entry fee $69, the highest I’ve seen for a writing contest. On the flip side, the 1st place for 2026 is $8,500, which I think is also the highest prize amount I’ve ever seen. Two percent of your entry fee goes to charity, and you could choose between Doctors Without Borders, Little Free Library, the Natural Resources Defense Council, Save the Children, and World Central Kitchen.

NYC Midnight doesn’t work like most writing contests. There are multiple rounds, and you can’t submit just anything. You’re given an assignment, which determines your genre. Your assignment also includes an object and a character that has to play a significant role in the story. For the first round, assigned genre was fairytale, my object was “donation,” and my character was a tastemaker.

At first I thought I’d lucked out with the genre. I love fairytales and other forms of traditional literature — folklore, fables, myths, legends, the stories that get passed down from generation to generation. Fairytales also have a rigid structure. It was a good start to the contest for me. However, I wasn’t sure what to do with a “donation” and a “tastemaker.”

I only had a week to figure it out and turn it into a workable story. My first step was mind mapping. Mind maps are really great tools that I’ve used for a lot of things. I really recommend it for creative writers. I did three mind maps: one for the genre, one for the object, and one for the character. After my paper was filled up, I decided which bubble on the map felt right, and started connecting them. Once I had that, I wrote a couple paragraphs outlining the story.

My outline had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and included everything that was required. Even so, I knew it was missing something. I reviewed it with my friend Liz, who is an artist, writer, and fairytale aficionado. She helped me figure out what I was missing: the harsh lesson where the main character learns the error of her ways.

Once I had the plot mostly figured out, it was time to write. I finished a draft, read it over, and re-wrote it. Finished a second draft. I won’t say that I was “happy” with it, but I was satisfied.

However, I started hating the story. Everything about it was wrong, weak, terrible. There was no way this was going to win. It was awful. I had only seven days to complete Round 1, and I was pounding away on this story through lunch breaks and after dinner. It was the worst thing that I’d ever written, and needed to be thrown into a well.

But that’s not really the truth. The truth was that I had written it in a short amount of time, and I had no time to let it rest after drafting it. When I finish writing something, I usually let it rest for 2 -6 weeks before I edit. That way, I can come back to it with fresh eyes and less self-loathing. I didn’t have that luxury with this story. I was spending all my free time with it, writing and re-writing, to make the plot stronger while trimming down the word count. Finally, on the last day, I formatted the story and was ready to submit.

Before I did, though, I double-checked the submission rules to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. And I had missed something big. I’d thought the word limit was 2,500. It was actually 2,000. Oh dear God. I was 100 words over the limit. I’d be disqualified on the spot.

I spent the next two hours poring over every word on the page, analyzing every word to decide which ones could be exorcised. I re-wrote entire passages, then re-wrote those re-writes. Every author deals with a certain amount of writing-related hardship, whether it’s a deadline or an editor. But this was an exercise in creative misery like none I’ve ever experienced before.

When I finally—finally—had my word count down to a little less than 2,000, I submitted my story. I threw out all my notes for it because I couldn’t bear to look at them anymore, took a shot of whisky, and swore I wasn’t going to write for a whole week.

I made it about five days of not writing. And they were FABULOUS.

Round 1 had 5,004 contestants, so it took a long time to judge. I wasn’t competing against 5,000 other people, though. I was only competing against the 30ish people who had the same fairytale assignment as I did. If I made it to the Top 5 in my group, I would move on to Round 2.

I didn’t get the results for Round 1 until early April. I was fine with that. I never wanted to look at this story again.

When April rolled around, I stayed up until midnight to see the results. I told myself to be prepared for disappointment. Since I began submitting stories for publication, I’ve received way, way more rejection letters than acceptances.

But I wasn’t rejected. I had made the cut. Not only that — I had placed first in my group! I was ecstatic. It made every hour spent laboring over this story absolutely worth it. I had written something good. I was a good writer. I won because I was a good writer.

I have been telling stories for as long as I can remember. In fifth grade, I discovered poetry. In seventh grade, I discovered fanfiction. In eighth grade, I started thinking about writing as a career. But every writer (except the worst ones, it seems) is plagued by doubts: is this original? Is this the right word? Is this any good, or am I just fooling myself?

To win first place in such a big contest, even if it was only in round 1, was one of the most validating experiences I’ve ever had as a writer.

And then the Round 2 assignments were given out. Once again, I stayed up until midnight to receive mine. I knew it was unlikely that I’d get that lucky with a genre I was so familiar with again.

And I was right. My genre was thriller.

Here’s the thing about thrillers: I don’t read them.

Okay, I have read a handful, two of which you can read about on this blog. While I know what a thriller should look like, it’s not a genre I know the ins and outs of, like fairytales. I also had to include a breaking point and a card player.

I decided to write a YA story, because that’s what I know well. YA stories have to be fast-paced, but they also leave room for overwrought emotions and characters making questionable decisions. I needed both for my story to work.

I went to mind-mapping again, but it wasn’t as helpful as it was before. I was too worried about the genre, and the very short amount of time I had to plan, write, and edit.1 I figured out the role the card players (yes, there were multiple ones now) would have, and decided that the “breaking point” would be literal. I didn’t make an outline, but started with the opening image, and hoped that the rest would come to me as I wrote.

Almost none of this made it into the final version of the story. The only thing that did was the main character’s name.

But I thought it was a good opener, and that it’s a shame to let it waste away, unread, on a forgotten file somewhere. So here is the original intro scene.

If it’s you versus Newton, Newton always wins. That’s the first lesson I learned in archery. As I release the arrow from my bow, I wonder what Isaac Newton would think of me using my physics test as target practice. My arrow skewers the paper and sinks into the bag with a satisfying thunk. I smile, and nock another arrow.

I shoot five more, each further shredding the test. When Kody and I go to retrieve the arrows, the papers fall apart. “Damn, Amber,” he says, nudging a scrap with his foot. “You really hated that test.”

Kody lives out in the boonies, so it’s not a big deal if there’s litter on the ground, but we pick up the papers anyway. I make sure to snag the piece where my score is still partially intact – a whopping 32% – before he can guess what my final grade was.

“Don’t even get me started.” I move the target a few feet up for him, which he rolls his eyes at. I started taking archery classes when I was ten. I thought it was a beautiful sport, graceful and powerful all at once. Kody doesn’t see it that way. A couple years ago he got an idea in his head that he had to be a bad-ass, and so he started practicing with me. To be honest, his attitude is annoying.

In the final version, there’s no Kody, there’s no failed test, and there’s no archery.

As I wrote, things started to take shape. I decided to tell the story non-linearly, which was either a genius or a terrible idea. But the writing was painful. Remember when I said that Round 1 was one of the most validating experiences I’d had as a writer? Round 2 was the opposite. I was back to questioning every word, hating everything I put on the page, and generally feeling like I was the worst writer ever.

If you decided to do this contest, I have two pieces of advice. Use mind maps, and don’t go it alone. Obviously, you’ll be doing the writing by yourself, but I wouldn’t have been able to complete this story without my friends, my husband, and my sister. While my husband and sister helped by leaving me alone and making sure I ate and slept, two friends in particular helped me reach the finish line.

The first was Audrey, who was brave enough to read the raw, unedited first draft. It was 700 words over the limit with a plot hole you could drive a truck through. But heaven-sent Audrey told me she liked it, and really liked the non-linear timeline. From the depths of my despair, I could see the light. I don’t know if I could have found it in my to continue working on the story without that pep talk.

The other was Chanelle, whom I’ve interviewed about her job as an audio describer here. Chanelle is a certified Cool Person who helped me so much with the “breaking point” – now a broken fencing foil rather than an arrow tip. Her fencing experience was invaluable, and she helped edit one of the most critical scenes in the story.

It was a very long, stressful weekend, especially because I work on Sundays. I decided that if I make it to the final round, I might have to call in sick to work. I gave the story one last editing pass on Saturday night, then submitted it around 10 PM.

Then I had a well-deserved cocktail.

Round 2 was a lot harder. While the shortened time frame and smaller word count were the biggest stressors, my first attempts at writing this story didn’t feel like me. But by the time I submitted the story, I had found my voice. Despite everything, the story still felt like something I – and only I – could have written.

The judging was also going to be harder. Some of this is just odds. The people who went over the word limit, didn’t make the deadline, or strayed too far from their assigned genres would have already been eliminated in Round 1. There would be no easy eliminations in Round 2.

The results for Round 2 wouldn’t come out until June, so I had plenty of time to distract myself with work and other projects.

I got the results on June 3. I placed second in my group.

My first reaction should have been joy and excitement. Instead it was a quiet, “oh shit.” I was already anticipating the two days of writing hell that awaited me, but I had an extra challenge that would make writing over the weekend even harder: preparing to sell my house. My house didn’t need to just be clean for photos. It needed to be look like no one lived there at all. Between the contest and the cleaning and packing, there was a real possibility that I would implode from all the stress.

Which is why I was so grateful that I got a straightforward genre for Round 3: romantic comedy.

I’ve watched plenty of rom-coms, so I know the formula pretty well: meet-cute, fall in love, misunderstanding, big romantic gesture, big damn kiss. Keep it light and cute. The assignments are announced at midnight, so I was pretty tired, but I jotted down some dialogue and even the first joke before I went to bed. When I woke up, the joke still made me laugh, so I knew I was on to something.

I still did my mind maps, but they didn’t feel as needed this time. They did help me figure out what I thought was going to be the main conflict between the couple. As I wrote, that changed, but it gave me some direction during the beginning stages of writing.

The stories for the first two rounds were very stressful for me to write, but working on my rom-com became the most relaxing part of my weekend. My husband, Mom, and I spent the weekend furiously cleaning and packing to get my house on the market by the end of the following week. Writing became my escape from the hard, emotional work. I am very grateful to my mom and my husband for respecting my writing time and giving me the time and space I needed to complete the story. I am also grateful that I got a straight-forward genre.

I sent my first draft to my friend Audrey to look at, asking what she liked and if there were any gaps that she saw. Her feedback was helpful, and though her suggestion only added one sentence to the story, it was an important sentence.

I edited, re-edited, and finally gave the story one last look-over before submitting. It felt good to get it in. But it also felt strange. Unlike my first two entries, I didn’t loathe this story with every fiber of my being. In fact, I…kind of liked it? I didn’t even feel the need to take a break from writing after it was in.

This worried me a little bit. I hated my fairytale when I submitted. I still don’t like my thriller, even though I wrote it months ago. But both of those stories got me through the previous rounds. What if writing a story that I liked meant that I wouldn’t succeed in making it to the final round? I know that sounds silly, but are you ever more superstitious than when you’re in a competition?

The results for round 3 were announced in July, and I’d placed fourth in my group. Not as high as I hoped, but I’d still made it to the final round. This was huge. I had started this competition with over 5,000 other writers, and now, there were only 35 left. Including me. To be totally honest, I didn’t think I would make it this far. Of course I hoped that I would, but that felt like a dream.

The final round is different from the previous three. It’s open genre, which means that you can write whatever genre you want, or even blend them, which was discouraged in previous rounds. Everyone got the same subject and character. This year, it was overindulgence, and an ingrate. It’s also the shortest round: I had 24 hours to write and edit the story, and a word limit of 1,250. This blog post is already 1,000 words over that limit. Things had to be tight.

I stayed up til midnight to see the assignment when it came out, then went to bed already mulling over ideas. I had a concept I liked, set in the real world with a sci-fi slant.

I woke up, decided the character I had thought of the night before wouldn’t be a cop, she’d be a social worker. No, she’d be CPS. Called my mom. No, stick with social worker. I wrote the opening scene. Too long, made editing notes.

Who was the ingrate? I still didn’t know.

My idea did not work. If I had more time, or more words, I think I could have turned it into something. Instead, I had to file that story idea away for another time. I made mind maps again, and discovered the opening line: “I can say no.”

That became the basis of the story. It morphed from what I thought would be a story about addiction to a story of emotional abuse and manipulation. It is one of the most personal and vulnerable fiction pieces I’ve ever written because of my own experiences with emotional abuse.**2 (Don’t worry, I’m fine now!)

I was fortunate to have no distractions. I spent most of the day alone, focusing on my writing. At noon, my sister surprised me by sending a DoorDash order to my house for lunch. I took a lunch break, and shortly after, had the first draft completed. I called my friend Audrey, talked her through the story, and she assured me that it was not hot garbage. She read over my second draft later, gave me a few ideas and some grammatical corrections, and once again reassured me that what I’d written was not shit.3

Despite all this, I felt strangely relaxed throughout the process. Maybe it was because I used the day before to utterly spoil myself, but I think it’s in a large part because I’d reached the finish line. Anything I wrote would place, or it would not place. All I could do was my best, and then it was out of my hands. After making some final changes and running the story through a wordcount checker twice, I submitted it around 10 PM.

Of course I worried that my story was cliché, or that it wasn’t subtle. The next day, I thought of a hundred better story ideas, or at least that’s what it felt like.

Of course I dreamed of winning, but I didn’t think my story had what it took to win. I hoped I would place.

But if I didn’t, that was okay. I was proud of what I’d achieved and that I’d made it to the final round of such a big contest. It felt like I already won.

If you enjoyed this post, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi!

  1. One of my friends suggested to read summaries of Freida McFadden books, and my reflexive response was “Fuck Freida McFadden!” ↩︎
  2. Visit loveisrespect.org to learn more about healthy and unhealthy relationships and find resources and support. ↩︎
  3. At this point, I think I could have a best-selling novel with a 30-city tour and I’d still be calling her before every book signing. And she would assure me every time. Girls, get yourself a friend like this. She is the BEST. ↩︎

by booksoverlookedblog

Indie Book Review: Rattz on the Prowl

I’m a Reedsy Discovery reviewer! I received a free ARC of Rattz on the Prowl by Robert F. Glahe for this review.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

A routine mission turns deadly when Sgt. Sludge Dragoon and his squad are attacked by Rattz, the vicious hybrid aliens that even the toughest space marine fears. No human, including Sludge’s squad mates, has ever survived a Rattz attack. Unluckily for Sludge, he’s about to be the first. Saving humanity from this vermin infestation won’t be easy. Sludge will need to delve into the bowels of a space station, travel to a malodorous planet, and even go into the void of space.

Sludge shines as the protagonist. An aging space marine, his narration is clear and strong throughout the novel. Though the entire book is funny, Sludge’s snark provides some of the biggest laughs. His unique curse words add an extra layer of fun. You may find yourself saying “crud-nicks!” the next time something goes wrong in your life, too.

Sludge is an entertaining character, but he never appears to mourn for his friends, despite his obvious closeness with them. The tone shift from their deaths to our hospital-gown glad hero making quips about smoothies is jarring. The narration also treats most of the female characters as eye candy, though this improves by the end of the book.

At times the dialogue can slow down the action, but it always serves the purpose of moving the story forward, or adding to the worldbuilding. The worldbuilding is doled out to readers throughout the book, never becoming overwhelming or making the readers feel like they’re missing something. The action scenes are all a lot of fun to read, especially when they involve improvised weaponry.

The descriptions, particularly of the settings, could be stronger. There are several places in the book where it’s hard to get a sense of place and elapsed time. The two alien species in the book don’t have detailed descriptions until a chapter or two after they’re introduced, which makes them hard to picture from the start.

Overall, Rattz on the Prowl is a rollicking novel with plenty of sequel hooks that will have readers looking forward to Sludge’s next misadventure. It will appeal to adult satire and science fiction fans, especially those who don’t mind poking fun at the genre. It’s also a great entry point for anyone who is interested in the sci-fi genre.

by booksoverlookedblog

Banned Book: All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

Content warning: this post discusses sexual abuse of a minor.

All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson, a “memoir-manifesto” of growing up queer and Black, was published in April 2020. In the six years since its publication, it has been one of the most frequently banned and challenged books in the United States. It ranked in the top 10 most frequently challenged books in 2022, 2023, 2024, and 2025. It also got rave reviews from professional book review magazines, was a New York Times best seller, and received many accolades from various media outlets.

The book was challenged, banned, and removed from multiple schools and libraries across the U.S. for containing LGBTQ+ content and for being sexually explicit. This isn’t surprising, unfortunately. In the past 10 years, the overwhelming majority of books that have been challenged and banned are because of LGBTQ+ or sexual content, as well as discussions of race, prejudice, and discrimination.

So, I sat down to read it.

All Boys Aren’t Blue is the story of Johnson’s life, beginning in kindergarten and ending with his college graduation. It has a violent start: Johnson gets his teeth kicked in when he and his cousins were jumped walking home from school. With that kind of start, I expected a trauma-laced memoir. However, All Boys Aren’t Blue is much sweeter than I anticipated

The book is divided into four sections: A Different Kid, Family, Teenagers, and Friends. “A Different Kid” is about Johnson’s early childhood. Johnson was effeminate and sassy from a young age, which made him stand out from the other children. While he might not have understood that he was gay yet, he did understand that he wasn’t like the other kids. Much of this section is about his experience growing up as a Black boy. One chapter I really liked was “‘Honest Abe’ Lied to Me.” It talked about the importance of teaching Black history, but also how Black history has been whitewashed in schools. The chapter title comes from the prevailing narrative that Abraham Lincoln freed enslaved people because he was a Good White Man, when the truth is more complicated.

He also takes on the thought-terminating cliché “it was the norm” when it comes to justifying enslavement. The book Cultish: The Langauge of Fanaticism by Amanda Montell introduced me to the term “thought-terminating cliché.” A thought-terminating cliché is a pithy phrase usually used to stop a conversation or dismiss an argument. You’ve probably heard and used dozens of these: it is what it is; everything happens for a reason; pray on it; it was the norm. A thought-terminating cliché discourages you from diving deeper into a topic. I don’t think all thought-terminating clichés are necessarily bad. Sometimes you really do just need to say “c’est la vie” and move on with your life. But when you become aware of thought-terminating clichés, you can ask yourself what the purpose of using it might be.

Johnson writes,

You’ll find that people often use the excuse ‘it was the norm’ when discussing racism, homophobia, and anything else in our history they are trying to absolve themselves of. Saying that something was ‘a norm’ of the past is a way not to have to deal with its ripple effects in the present. It removes the fact that hate doesn’t just stop because a law or the time changed. Folks use this excuse because they are often unwilling to accept how full of phobias and -isms they are themselves—or at least how they benefit from social structures that privilege them.

While most of the first section is about Johnson growing up as a Black boy, he also shares his early experiences of anti-queer sentiment. This is most notable in the chapters “Honeychild” and “F**s Play Football, Too.” Both of these chapters center around masculinity, and how Johnson’s peers perceive him for not conforming to their expectations of what boys should act like.

“Part 2: Family” is where we start getting into some of the controversery surrounding this book. Yet it’s also full of such tender stories of family love. It opens with a letter to Johnson’s younger brother, sharing memories of growing up together and looking towards the future. Later, there’s a loving letter to Johnson’s mother. Johnson explores his relationship with his father, and how they had a hard time connecting, until Johnson’s dad discovered their common interest in football.

The first section of this memoir didn’t mean much to me, but I’m also not the target demographic. This is where it started to resonate with me. Johnson and I are close in age, and I think our dads share the same characteristics of many men of their generation. They’re not always great at expressing emotion, but they show their love in other ways. For both of our dads, that means gifts and acts of service. While Johnson and his dad used sports as a way to connect, my dad and I used nature. He may not be a talkative person, but the way he always makes sure we’re prepared for a hike and does more than he needs to whenever I need a hand says it all.

Another sweet chapter is “Nanny: The Caregiver, the Hustler, My Best Friend.” Johnson talks about the ways his grandmother shaped his life, teaching him how to hustle at flea markets, and helping him start his own “business” selling candy. As he looks back on all the things Nanny did with him, he realizes that Nanny loved him in exactly the way that he needed.

It took me until the end of high school to realize what she was doing with all of this hustling. It wasn’t simply because she thought I was smart and should learn how to create income. It wasn’t simply because she wanted me to be a caring person who gave back to the community. She wanted me to be all those things, yes, but most importantly, she didn’t want me to be alone. [. . .] I was becoming isolated around the age of ten, and she saw it. [. . .] Like the natural born caregiver she was, my grandmother frequently placed me before herself. Even if that meant she was carrying a young child with her everywhere, she wasn’t going to let me be alone. Nanny decided that she would be my circle.

Every child should be so lucky as to have a grandmother like Nanny.

The chapter “Losing Hope” is where I expected most of the controversy to lie. Hope was Johnson’s cousin, a trans woman. Some of the controversy comes from the inclusion of a trans person, which is enough to get many books challenged today. It doesn’t matter that nothing salacious happens in the chapter, only that Hope exists and her family loves and supports her. That’s enough to challenge a book.

But another part of the controversy comes from the language Johnson uses. At the start of the chapter he uses Hope’s deadname and calls her a boy. At the very beginning, Johnson writes “I’m going to write this in the only language I knew at the time—in my adolescent years before I had a full understanding of transphobia and the actions that feed into it.”

This chapter is full of love and admiration for Hope. She helped Johnson understand that he was queer, and that the LGBTQ+ community exists. At the beginning of the chapter Johnson and Nanny learn that Hope is transitioning. Johnson refers to Hope by her chosen name throughout the chapter, though initially the other members of his family use her deadname. The whole family eventually starts calling Hope by her name and using the correct pronouns. Johnson is still young, and he’s learning about gender identity along with his family. As they do, their language changes.

As a cis person, I didn’t have a problem with this. If Johnson had kept calling Hope by her deadname or continued using the wrong pronouns, it would have been an issue for me. Johnson learned and changed his language when he was a kid; the way he’s written this chapter reflects that evolution. It makes narrative sense. Yet, I think critiques of this chapter for the language Johnson uses are totally valid as well.

A couple years ago I went to BAM! – Books, Art, Music Festival in West Palm Beach, FL. There are some big name authors at the event every year, running panels and signing books.1 George M. Johnson was a featured author one a panel about YA books and metal health. At the panel, the authors were asked if there was anything in their books that they would write differently now, and Johnson mentioned this chapter. He wasn’t certain if he would or should change it for future reprints. So if you’re waffling on your feelings on this chapter, don’t worry: Johnson is too.

That brings us to “Part 3: Teenagers.”

This is also the section of the book where Johnson writes about experiencing sexual abuse. If you’d rather not read this, skip down to “Part 4: Friends” in bold letters.

Johnson was sexually abused by an older male cousin. In plain text, Johnson details what this cousin did to him. It’s graphic and deeply uncomfortable to read. This chapter is also commonly cited as a justification for this book’s removal from schools and libraries. To be honest, I understand this reasoning. Johnson lived through a horrible thing, and of course I want to shield young people from it.

However, this isn’t a novel. This is a memoir, and it is something a real person survived. This event is ugly and disgusting, but it’s still part of Johnson’s story. Sexual abuse is also a part of many, many people’s real life stories.2 Survivors should be able to talk about their experiences. Sharing them can be healing, empowering, and can give comfort and guidance to others. If you can live through it, you should be allowed to read about it.

Many challenges to All Boys Aren’t Blue call this chapter pornographic. It is explicit, but I don’t find it pornographic. Pornography is hard to define, but I think the creator’s intention really matters. In my opinion, pornography is something that is purposefully created to arouse the audience. Sexual assault, especially when it involves a minor, should not be conflated with pornography. Even our language around sexual acts involving minors has changed in recent years. What was once commonly known as “child porn” is now referred to as child sex abuse material, or CSAM. That’s exactly what it is: abuse.

This chapter was the most troubling for me to read, for many reasons. It was one of the rare times when I understood the complaints leveled at this book. It made me question who the intended audience is. While I believe that kids can and should read about hard things, should they read about it with this level of detail? If I were handing this book to someone in the library, what would I say?

I also want to talk about how the chapter ends. After he grew up, Johnson realized that his cousin had likely been sexually abused as well. He understands the probable reasons his cousin abused him. Johnson’s final note about this event in his life is really important:

This story is complicated, but I don’t want it to be confusing. I was an adult when I found empathy for my cousin, a choice I made in processing all that happened that night. I want to reiterate his actions were wrong, and I was a victim. It is not a requirement that you ever find empathy for an abuser. Make it a requirement to hold your abuser accountable.

The rest of this section is stories of high school and starting college, and what it was like for Johnson to hide his sexuality. There’s nothing as shocking as what we just read in this section, or in the rest of the book, for that matter.

Part 4: Friends

“Part 4: Friends” has another controversial chapter, entitled “Losing My Virginity Twice” which recounts Johnson’s first consensual sexual experiences. There are straightforward details, like before, but the descriptions of sex are short. Because it’s between two consenting adults, it’s also not nearly as uncomfortable to read. He also makes that point that sex should be pleasurable, and you should be able to tell your partner when something doesn’t feel good — a lesson that everyone should take to heart, no matter their gender or orientation.

Finally, the book concludes with the unexpected death of one of Johnson’s frat brothers, college graduation, and an afterword from Johnson. In it, he writes,

Whether this book is a bestseller or a flop, if one person is helped by my story, then it was all worth it.

Then I had to figure out how I felt about it.

I guess the first thing that I would say about the book is that it’s fine. The prose isn’t bad, but it’s not stellar. Many of Johnson’s stories are very sweet. I didn’t get much out of it as a reader. That’s okay. I’m not the target audience. I’m sure that this book has been deeply meaningful to many people; I’m just not one of them.

When I read a challenging book like this, I ask myself, “as a librarian, who would I hand this to?”

With All Boys Aren’t Blue, that’s a really difficult question. Not because I think it should be removed, but because the sexual content gives me pause. As much as I want young queer and BIPOC individuals to be able to see themselves in their books, I wouldn’t hand this to a child or young teen. I would recommend this to someone 16 or older, which is prime time for figuring out who you are. While I have mixed feelings on trigger warnings, I would also recommend that this hypothetical reader read the author’s note at the start of the book, since the memoir goes into some sensitive territory.

My library does not have a separate call number for teen non-fiction. All non-fiction is shelved either in the children’s or adult sections. All Boys Aren’t Blue is shelved in the adult section, and I think that’s the right choice. While I don’t think this book is appropriate for elementary or middle school libraries, I’d argue that it does belong in high school libraries.

I will leave you with Johnson’s words from a letter he wrote at in defense of All Boys Aren’t Blue, which was facing a book ban in New Jersey. You can read more about this library board meeting at PEN America or Buzzfeed.

So in this hunt to protect teens, does it ever cross your mind that removing or restricting this life-saving story for LGBTQ students only harms them more or how removing this life-saving story for Black teens harms them? Or do you not care? That’s really what this fight is over — removing LGBTQ stories and Black stories.

National Sexual Assault Hotline (US): 1-800-656-4673
Online chat Available

National Domestic Abuse Hotline (US)
1−800−787−3224
1-800-787-3224 (TTY)
En Espanol

Rape, Abuse, Incest National Network (RAINN)

List of Domestic Abuse Hotlines (Worldwide)

Rape Crisis Network Europe
+44 (0)141 331 4180
info@rapecrisisscotland.org.uk

National Child Abuse Hotline (US)
Call: 1-800-422-4453
Text: 1-800-422-4453

GLAAD Resource List
The Trevor Project
Lifeline: 1-866-488-7386
Text: START to 678-678
Online chat available
National Center for Transgender Equality
Parents, Family & Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG)
Trans Peer Support Lifeline (US): 877-565-8860
Q Chat Space
Mermaids Helpline (UK): 0844 334 0550
Asexuality Visibility and Education Network (AVEN)

  1. I also meet Elliot Schreffer there, author of The Darkness Outside Us. As he signed my book I told him he needed to apologize for making me cry at work. He refused. ↩︎
  2. According to a study from the United States Health and Human Servies, between the years 2009-2013, 63,000 children annually experience sexual abuse. Read more at RAINN.com: Facts and Statistics: The Scope of the Problem ↩︎

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 26: The End

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! Due to a lot of reasons, I wasn’t able to write a story every day this month, and that’s okay. I always like my last flash fic to be some kind of reflection on the month, so here’s this year’s. Now I’m going to take a well-earned nap.

It was agreed on by all: a strange summer.

The poet did her best. Yet her beloved husband was on one side of the river, scouting new territories. She remained on the other, writing and educating youth on their civic duties.

The writing was difficult. Those bursts of passion and creativity that came to her each summer were few and far between. She was alone, and at times struggling, and some days no words came at all.

She learned that she could not take on all the responsibilities of the world by herself. Sometimes she had to rest.

Sometimes there would be no words, and that things would not fall apart because there were no words.

As summer drew to a close, and the poet wished the youth good luck in their futures, she looked North, toward the river.

She had not written as much as she thought she would, but she was satisfied.

She was ready to cross the river.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 25: Valjean Suite

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. 

Many apologies to Victor Hugo.

what have i done sweet Jesus what have i done

One day more.

Jean Valjean was ready.

“I did not live until today,” Marius crooned. “How can I live when we are parted?”

Valjean swooped in between the young couple. “You don’t even know her! You met, like, two songs ago, and now you’re just going to DIE because we’re moving?”

He socked Marius in the nose.

Eponine looked to the sky. “One more day on my own…”

Valjean put his hands on Eponine’s shoulders. “GIRL. He doesn’t love you. You need to move on. You absolutely do NOT need to die on the barricades for this man.”

“You’re one of my dearest friends,” Marius started.

Eponine punched him, saving Valjean the trouble.

Valjean sat Enjolras down. “KEEP YOUR FUCKING POWDER DRY.” He held up a massive fist. “Or the army will be the least of your problems!”

The Thénardiers schemed.

Valjean kicked in a grate to the Paris sewers. “I’m using my considerable wealth to send your kids to London so they don’t die on the barricade.”

He threateningly held up a stale baguette. “But I’ve been wanting to do this for years.”

The bread thrashing would follow the Thénardiers for the rest of their miserable lives.

Somewhere on a bridge in Paris, Inspector Javert looked at the stars.

A revolution in the air. A fugitive running.

Valjean materialized behind Javert. “IT HAS BEEN TWENTY FUCKING YEARS. You could have done so much in that time. Find a nice girl and settle down. Write a novel. Start a hobby. But you didn’t. And this ends now.”

“You know nothing of Javert,” the inspector warned.

“I’m the stronger man by far,” Valjean countered.

They fought.

But not for long.

With a cry of “I’M JEAN FUCKING VALJEAN,” Valjean roundhouse kicked that motherfucker into the Seine.

The audience watched in horror as “One Day More,” one of the most beloved songs from an already beloved musical turned into…this.

Many audience members went to complain.

Their complaints were silenced as Valjean’s actor appeared behind them.

Wielding two baguettes.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 24: Knight and Doc

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Story dedicated to my friend Sam, the inspiration for Patches, and one of my oldest and best friends.

Battlefield clean-up was far from glorious. Lady Rune Lostsabre and the medic she was bound to protect, Patches, were some of the few figures standing among the dead and wounded. Rune had been prepared for gore and destruction — in the past she’d caused plenty of it herself — but you never got used to the smell. Even with the smear of ocimea oil under her nose, the reek of death still stung her nostrils.

Patches primed the scanner. A grid of blue light settled over roughly one quarter of the battlefield that was his to monitor. Rune circled him, eyes sharp, shield raised. Medics weren’t permitted to carry weapons; their protector had only shields. Rune had forgone the standard lightweight energy shields most soldiers preferred. Hers was enhanced, of course — she wasn’t stupid — but she preferred the heft of a real metal shield.

Patches’s scanner chirped, indicating that it was ready to start scanning the area. Gray light filtered over the dead bodies. Blue marked wounded allies and red marked wounded enemies. The light trickled over the area: gray, gray, gray.

Green.

Green meant alive, unhurt, and neither friend nor enemy. The rarest color in clean-up. But it was tucked underneath a pile of gray.

“Careful,” Rune warned the doc. She’d known Patches half her life now. They’d both started in Basic together. He was prone to running headlong into things without thinking of the consequences. Admittedly, Rune was similar, but it was her sworn duty to keep him alive. “Scene isn’t safe.”

“It’s never safe,” Patches said, and moved toward the green mark. Rune matched his stride, but let him roll over the dead body on top of Green.

Greens were usually civilians, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. They usually were panicked or in shock, and grateful to see anyone who wasn’t pointing a weapon at them. Underneath the dead body, Green was alert. “Damn!”

He leaped to his feet. Rune had only a second to assess. Chainmail boots. Bits of armor stolen from both armies. Beads in knotted hair that were actually small explosives, and a push knife in either hand. A war scavenger. Nasty, dangerous business, but a lucrative one.

Green charged toward Patches. He thrust one of the knife points towards Patches’s neck.

Rune intercepted the scavenger in a second. Her heater shield went up, blocking Green’s first blow, then the next. Rune flicked on the dial to burn mode.

Green ran at Patches again. Rune swung her shield, bashing Green in the side of his head. He staggered, his flesh already reddening. Rune tilted the shield back and jabbed its pointed end into Green’s throat.

He fell, stunned and whimpering in pain.

Green’s color marker changed to purple. Wounded non-combatant.

“Thanks for that,” Patches said, shaking his head.

“No worries. You want me to arrest him first, or you wanna fix him up first?”

“Arrest him. Once he’s immobile we can triage the rest.”

Rune set about cuffing the scavenger, and Patches looked over the battlefield. He was duty bound to heal all he could, even the enemy. And Rune was sworn to protect him, with only a shield.

It was an ugly job. A hard one.

Rune finished with the scavenger. “You good?”

Patches sighed. “Not really.”

Rune squeezed his shoulder. “You know, when I was transferred to Med Corps. I was pissed. Then I found out you were the doc I got assigned to. And I thought, ‘Great, the trouble twins are together again.'” Patches smiled at their old nickname from Basic. “But I was glad. ‘Cause I knew you’d have my back.”

“And your blood,” Patches added with a small laugh.

Rune punched him lightly in the shoulder. She may have been a universal human donor — and living blood bag in a pinch — but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“I was glad too,” Patches said. “Cause I’d knew you’d have my back.”

“Right. Let’s do this.”

Knight and Doc went into the battlefield, fire-forged friends.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 22-23: My name is Jean Valjean

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. I had to take a few days off FFM. It’s been difficult to write this year, but with a little encouragement from the FFM Discord, I found enough inspiration to write two very different Les Mis fanfictions. The first is just a fan theory of mine, and the second  is…well, you’ll see. Remixes of the latter story are highly encouraged.

Painless

Jean Valjean does not feel pain. Not in Toulon, where he slept in chains. Not down in the mud of Montreuil-sur-Mer, lifting a wagon with his back. Not even when he branded himself with a red hot poker.

His strength is that of an oridnary man’s. He simply cannot feel the pain of his deeds.

Until Cosette cries. She is his light, and everything he has done since she came into his life was all for her.

That is a pain that he cannot bear.

And if he must go to the barricades to soothe that pain, so be it.

Jean Valjean Beats Up Everyone

2

“Your time is up and your parole’s begun. You know what that means.” Inspector Javert snarled down at the convict.

Jean Valjean socked him in the mouth with a cross jab.

4


“Let’s not haggle for darling Cosette,” crooned Thénardier.

Valjean swung a mean right hook into Thénaedier’s kidneys.

6

Eponine’s scream rang out. Valjean raced outside and uppercut the nearest would-be-thief.

0

Valjean would have hidden Cosette away from all the ugliness of the world if he could. But now her happiness hung with Marius’s survival. Valjean would see that Marius lived, no matter the cost.

1


For decades Javert and Valjean circled each other, knives drawn. Javert had always known that Valjean was a monster. Valjean had tried for most of his life to believe that he was not. Now, the man who had dogged him his entire life was tied up and fully at Valjean’s mercy.

Valjean was living proof that a man could change. He could rise above the sins of the past. He could do the one thing that Javert could never do.

Jean Valjean could forgive.

He punched Javert in the face.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 21: Well-Wishers

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July.

It’s just gotten really hard to write lately. Too many life changes, too much stress, not enough self-care. It’s like the well’s gone empty.

Metaphorically. Because of the heads. I don’t take them out of the well.

I know it sounds gruesome, but hear me out. First of all, the heads are well-preserved and don’t harm the water quality at all. Second, some of them predict the future. Four of them, actually. One speaks in riddles, one forecasts the weather, one is actually helpful, and one is still mentally stuck in the 700s and can only make predictions up to the year 1500. But it’s the future for him.

The other three provide me with wisdom. Except for the one who only speaks in thought-terminating clichés. But whenever I bring that up she just says, “let people enjoy things.”

I guess there are a couple heads in there that I don’t need, but those are the heads of my enemies. They’ve earned an eternity of humiliation.

Actually, they’ve taught me a few creative swears. So they can stay, too.

Point is, one of the wisdom heads says that I need to take care of myself and not put too much pressure to write a story every day in July. Things are tough right now and it’s okay to relax take breaks when I can.

The thought-terminating cliché head says that “happiness is a choice.” Maybe I should get rid of that one.

My other future head says that horseshoes are going to be a big hit, so look forward to that.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 20: Not Quite A Glow-Up

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Today’s story is a 369er, 3 separate but related stories, each using only 69 words.

Solar Ivybell’s phone pinged with the news that she’d been waiting to receive for 33 years: Eris’s Comet to Make Earth Fly-By September 8. Solar had been 16 when it last came to Earth, carrying Eridians that had fed on Earthlings’ memories and implanted false ones. Thankfully, Solar had discovered the magical power to hurl them back into space, as long as she had her beloved, equally magical friends.

Angel Moonwater and Lotus Fallenbloom hadn’t talked to Solar in years. Not since Solar had made a drunken maid of honor speech at their wedding, made the day all about her, and used her sacred magic to literally shine on the dance floor. “Do we really need to team up with her?” Lotus groaned. “Eridians are bad, but she’s a sparkly disaster. I’d almost prefer the Eridians invade instead.”

Angel and Lotus found an Eridian scout before the main force arrived. Angel interrupted its declaration of revenge. “We’re not going to hurt you. Instead, we have a request.” The Eridian snapped its pincers, curious. “Can you eat the memories from our wedding and implant a new one? Something happy.” The Eridian obliged. When Solar texted them about the impeding invasion, they happily reunited to kick some alien butt.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 19: Maize Maze

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

“We’ll never find it.” Janine and I had been in the corn maze for hours. The sun was getting low and the sky was already turning pink. We’d already found the exit, but had doubled back to the center of the maze when Janine realized she’d left her phone in the center of the maze. “And the place is gonna close soon. Can we please just let someone know and head home? I’m sure someone’ll find it and call you in the morning.”

“On what phone, Hillary?” Janine snapped. Even though her earbuds weren’t connected to anything, Janine still had them in. She’d been listening to music the whole time we were in the maze.

“Give them your mom’s number. Or mine. But it’s getting seriously creepy here.” The corny Halloween decorations—plastic skeletons and scarecrows with pumpkin heads—strewn throughout the maze hadn’t bothered me in the full daylight. But in the setting sun they cast long shadows that kept making me do double-takes. The beautiful October afternoon had turned chilly and windy. I shivered. “Let’s just go.”

“My whole life is on that phone. I’m not leaving without it.”

I knew how she felt. Janine had years of photos saved on it, a ton of apps, not to mention the phone number of everyone who mattered (and a few people who didn’t). She hated to be apart from it. Even in class, when she was forced to put it away, she would put her hand in her pocket every few minutes like she was making sure it was still there.

A gust of wind blew through the stalks. Dry leaves rustled against one another. It sounded like the field whispering.

“Please.” I shivered. “Let’s go. You know this place closes at sunset.” I glanced up at the bruise-colored sky. “Which is about ten minutes from now. We need to find the exit.”

As if on cue, the PA system that had been playing “Monster Mash” shut off. All I could hear was the wind, crickets, and Janine’s angry, “No!” She stomped deeper into the maze.

“Janine, please!” I grabbed the sleeve of her sweater. “We’ve gotta go!”

The sun disappeared below the horizon. A crackly voice on the PA system announced that Barley Farms would be closing in five minutes. That wasn’t enough time to get out.

Somewhere behind a row of corn I heard footsteps. Probably staff.

Maybe staff.

I hoped staff.

“Let go!” Janine tugged her arm out of my grip. She squinted in the dying light. “Where’s your phone? We need a flashlight.”

“I didn’t bring it.”

“You what?” Her voice rose into a squeak.

“Because I wanted to spend time with you for a change! Not you and your stupid phone!”

Janine opened her mouth to yell when a low howling sound floated over the maze. It sounded like a wolf, then turned into a mournful moan. “The hell is that?” Janine grabbed on to my arm.

A distorted man’s voice rolled over us:

And in the death
As the last few corpses lay rotting on the slimy thoroughfare
The shutters lifted an inch in temperance building, high on Poacher’s Hill

Janine’s breath caught. “What is that?”

“I told you we had to leave before dark!” I tugged arm back towards where I thought the exit lay. “Weird shit happens here!”

And red mutant eyes gazed down on Hunger City
No more big wheels
Fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats

This time Janine didn’t fight me. We jogged down the paths while the man kept speaking.

And ten thousand peoploids split into small tribes
Coveting the highest of the sterile skyscrapers
Like packs of dogs assaulting the glass fronts of Love-Me Avenue

In the dark, we didn’t see the roots sticking out of the ground. Roots that I would swear hadn’t been there when we walked in the maze hours before. Janine face-planted, jaw smashing against the hard ground.

“Are you okay?” I asked. She started to get up, blood falling down her chin.

She screamed. “Oh my God something just touched my ankle! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—”

We ran. I didn’t know where we were going. I could barely see anything but the stalks in front of me.

“I can hear music!” Janine said with panting breaths. “It’s just a song!”

“‘This ain’t rock and roll!'” The man called out. “‘This is genocide!'”

We both screamed.

I don’t know how we found our way out of the maze. By the time we did, we were breathless and clinging to each other. We finally got back to Janine’s car. She locked the door as soon as we got in.

“God.” I ran a shaky hand through my bangs. “The haunted corn maze was actually haunted.”

“M-maybe.” She looked at the holder connected to her air vent where her phone normally sat. “It’s okay. I know how to get home from here.”

I noticed then that she didn’t have her air pods. They must have fallen out during our mad dash for the exit. “Damn. And you lost your earbuds too.”

“Huh?” Janine touched her empty ears. “I guess they’re gone forever.”

That was not the reaction Janine would have had a few hours ago. “You don’t want to go back and look tomorrow?”

She shook her head furiously. “Never again.”

“It’s all junk anyway,” I said.

“Yeah.” Janine started the car. “It’s all junk.”

It’s my favorite challenge: David Bowie Day! Celebrating the 40th anniversary of the movie Labyrinth, which was my introduction to David Bowie.

ELEMENT 1: Your story must take place in a labyrinth. Easy, right? Too easy? Well, since you were all begging for more Bowie…

OPTIONAL ADD-ON ELEMENTS:

♫ UNDERGROUND: Include a reference to the movie Labyrinth in some way, shape or form. I really wanted to have a reference to the worm, but “it’s all junk!” worked better.

♫ DANCE, MAGIC DANCE: Someone in the story must be listening to a song from our David Bowie song randomizer. I got “Future Legend” and “Janine.” “Future Legend” is so spooky~

♫ AS THE WORLD FALLS DOWN: Include something forgotten. Janine forgets her phone in the maze.