A fan wrote me today with a bunch of excellent questions, and posting my answers here is easier than, you know, actually blogging.

Hi, Mr. Westerfeld/Scott (whichever you prefer). I really like your Midnighters books. I plan to be an author someday, so could you answer me a few questions?

Yes, I can. And I prefer Scott, except when people are trying to sell me something. (Then, “Mr. Westerfeld” will do.)

1. What is the hardest part of being a writer?

The vast emptiness of the blank page. You start to think about a story, “So there’s this girl with a dog . . . ” And a voice pops up and says, “Wait! What’s her name? Age? What year is this? What country? Is she poor? Rich? Middle class? Does she like monkeys, or just dogs? What about cheese? Is there magic in this world? What kind? Can the dog smell the magic? Hey, what kind of dog is it, anyway?”

See what I mean? There are so many different things you can write about. It gives me a headache sometimes.

Also, writing is kind of lonely profession. You’re all alone with that computer screen all day, unless you’re very clever and marry another writer.

2. What is the easiest part of being a writer?

The all-important writing uniform. Pajamas are comfortable and easy to put on. Socks, optional.

3. Do ideas come to you easily?

Yes. Ideas are easy, words are hard.

4. Is it hard to be published?

Yes and no.

On the one hand, there are millions (no really, millions) of people out there who want to be published. Every publishing house in the world has mighty stacks of manuscripts waiting sadly to be read. Every literary agent gets dozens (at least) of query letters a day, all begging for their attention. Everywhere you go, you’ll meet lots of people wanting to be writers.

On the other hand, a lot of those people are totally hopeless. Half of them don’t ever write anything. And half of them that do never send their stuff anywhere. Then subtract all the ones who can’t spell, can’t type, or who just can’t tell a story. And suddenly . . . there’s a lot more breathing room.

But persistence is required. (Imagine if you asked someone for a date, and they didn’t get back to you for six months, and then said no. And then imagining asking them again for a date. That’s publishing.)

5. How long did it take you to write your first book?

I started it on Mother’s Day, 1992. I spent more than a year on it, put it away for a few more years, then worked on it some more. It was first sent to an agent in 1996. (But after that, it all went pretty fast, and the book, Polymorph, was published in 1997.)

6. Do you receive a lot of fan mail?

Two today, which seems about average. (Not all of them are as complicated as yours, though. Not that I’m complaining.)

7. When did you decide that author was the right job for you?

Before I was one.

For me, there’s nothing more fascinating than novels. Most are created by only one person, even though they’re one of the most complicated things that humans do. Authors have to be the architect who draws the overall plan, the foreman who makes sure the work gets done, and the welder who puts in every bolt and rivet. (And then you have to research whether welders actually put in rivets or not, or some piss-ant will write you a letter about it.)

And as a science fiction writer, it’s even crazier. In the same day, I’ve had to decide the fate of humanity’s future and then had to check if “scumbag” has a hyphen or not. (It doesn’t.)

8. What book was the funnest to write?

Probably So Yesterday. I wrote it after living in Sydney for a year and a half. I had just come back to New York City, so it was a sort of love letter to a place I’d lived in for 16 years but was seeing anew. The story just flowed out of me. It’s also the most comedic of my novels, and it occasionally slew me.

9. Do you know other famous authors, being one yourself?

Ahem, you are too sweet. But I’m not sure if I’m exactly “famous” at this stage in my career . . . I will leave that for my biographers to decide.

But I do know many wonderful writers, and seem to be meeting more all the time. Hanging out at publisher’s parties at conventions and book expos is an excellent way to meet your childhood idols, which is quite a fringe benefit.

10. Do you have any children?

Nope. (They might tell me my kid-slang is wrong, after all.)

11. Does writing ever get in the way of family?

Fortunately, I’m married to an author, so writing is the family business. We talk about our books all the time, go to visit publishers and to conventions together, and read our work to each other at night.

“The family that writes together, smites together.”

Something I get asked a lot is: “Why do you write more for teens than adults?” I’ve tried a few times, but I’m not sure I’ve ever given the truly kick-ass answer that the question deserves.

Fortunately, writer and secret agent Gwenda Bond, who runs one of my favorite lit-blogs, has come to the rescue on this one. On top of being recently and stunningly re-coiffeured, she links today to a great essay by Lauren Mechling, about why it’s better to write teen fiction than the other kinds:

Teen fiction is undergoing a remarkable transformation — the Wakefield twins of Sweet Valley High have had to step aside for new characters that are both believable and cool. The days of nice-enough, blonde-enough, B-plus-enough heroines are over. The new kids on the block have moxie and magical powers and, dare I say it, soul.

It’s not just the world of teen fiction that’s cast a spell on me; it’s also the people I’m writing for. Teenage-hood fascinates me — it makes me giddy and breaks my heart at once. Same goes for teenagers. Teens don’t get their due credit. They’re not unformed creatures, wobbling toward sentience; rather, they’re super-formed, super-sensitive, super-perceptive. They pay attention. They stay on their toes. They get it.

(Click here for the rest.)

All very true. And of course there’s also the other things that make being a YA writer better:
a) More and cooler fan mail (with more “!!!” marks);
b) Staying on the shelves and in print a lot longer;
c) Being hand-sold with great enthusiasm in stores and personally recommended by librarians;
d) And best of all, switching from fantasy to sf to realism without agents predicting career-death (unlike much of the adult world, where readers demand the same book again and again–how sad is that?).

So, has anyone read Mechling’s book: The Rise and Fall of a 10th Grade Social Climber?

The most common question I get asked is, “Where do you get your ideas?”

In the 1950s, science fiction writers had a standing joke of answering, “Schenectady.” Probably because it’s fun to say.

But I would never do anything so immature. So in answer to your questions about where did I got the idea for Midnighters, I would have to say . . . Lake Titikaka.

(I slay me.)

Actually, I’m not sure exactly how I got the basic idea for Midnighters. I’ve always read a lot of science fiction, and frozen time is a pretty old idea. Of course, in most sf and fantasy, a machine or magical device freezes time. But I liked the idea of time interrupted as a daily event, something that’s part of the fabric of the universe.

And then I realized that something had to live inside that frozen time–something scary and evil and conflict-providing. The darklings come out of my fascination with early human history. I often wonder what it would be like to have lived way back before agriculture and the wheel and iPods. Especially the getting chased and eaten part.

If you look at animals that are prey (like, say, squirrels) you’ll probably notice that they’re very nervous all the time. That’s because at any moment another creature can appear out of nowhere and take them off and EAT THEM. This would clearly make life very different. You’d never be bored.

My only glimpse into this world-view was on a trip I took to Africa. I went on a walking tour (with a guide) into a nature preserve where a couple of mature lions lived. We spotted a few springboks (a sort of gazelle, the lion’s usual lunchmeat) and lion tracks, and even some lion spoor (ex-springboks). Then we heard one of the lions roar in the distance, which set off all sort of alarm bells in my body that have never gone off before.

Walking around that day was incredibly strange and intense. On the one hand, the preserve was really beautiful, and on the other hand, a big part of my brain was thinking ONLY about the maybe-getting-eaten part. Which, in a weird way, made the beauty all the more intense.

So I wanted the darklings to be sort of like wild animals: unpredictable, hidden predators that take us back to when we were basically squirrels. I was trying to capture some of that intense beauty I experienced on the African veldt. Of course, darklings also have a weird kind of intelligence (and even some phobias) to make them a bit more like us. Because that’s even scarier.