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Reading turn-ons: Dude. Great characters and great prose. Biggest example is Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld, my favorite book of all times. Not much of a plot there, but Curtis Sittenfeld's prose is flawless and her character, Lee Fiora, is very relatable. <3> Awesome! Okay, so as you know, we love the crazy handles book reviewers come up with—tell us how you came up with yours!

The original name of my blog was X-Rated Reviews. I created the name Reviewer X to give my blog's name some ambiguity. (I love ambiguity.) See, it could be just another meaninglessly chosen name—X-Rated Reviews; but it also could mean reviews rated by someone named X. I ultimately changed the name because I hated it, so now my blog is just the self-titled Reviewer X entity.


LOL. And maybe people might think you reviewed something other than YA books, eh? So how did you get into the book review biz?

I wanted to talk to authors. I wanted to interview them. So I created a blog, emailed Lauren Baratz-Logsted (lovely lady, by the way) and she got back to me within hours agreeing to do an interview. I sent off the questions, she sent them back the next day, and bam, blog was finally started. From there on out I have started several other features, like Young Adult Weekly, Reviewer Profiles, and Author Weeks. All of it brings me a wider crowd and what can I say, it's a blast talking to you beautiful author people!

Aw, thanks, we love doing interviews and talking to book lovers! What we don't like is not knowing if 4 stars is a great accomplishment or means we need to take up tennis. Describe your grading system and how that translates to the reader?

I've been back and forth on my grading system, from a 5 star scale to a 1-10 grade and now I'm at letter grades, which I love and have decided to stick to. The official key reads something like this:


A: Dude, this is incredible.
B: Great read.
C: Meh...
D: Tanks, but doesn't fully suck.
F: Are you kidding me?

You can also translate this into a star system—A is five stars, B is four stars, and so on.

The letter grades are very appropriate for YA and MG novels, just like being back at school! Okay, so how do you pick the books you review? Or are they picked for you? Do you ever read books that wouldn't normally interest you—and if so have you ever been surprised by what you've read?

As a reviewer, I receive quite a few books from authors and publishers, so that puts the whole "picking what books you read" thing into perspective. I love the variety of books I've been receiving, though, and it's probably good that I don't choose all books I get. This way, receiving a lot of books I probably wouldn't have picked up if they hadn't been sent to me, my knowledge of the YA field grows exponentially. Whoever complained about an expanded horizon?

What are the best ways to find new books? Any advice for authors about getting their book noticed by reviewers?


Whoa, hold up—you guys worry about attracting our attention? Really? It seems to me it's the other way around. Honestly, a simple email to the reviewer will do—we love receiving free stuff! 'Cause if piquing our interest is what you're worried about, you've got no problems—email, email, email!

Now, my question to you guys is: Does it bother you when reviewers email you asking for ARCs or review copies?

(Would this be the place to add in here that I am dying to read so many of the Class of 2k8's books and if anyone wants to send an ARC or something to me, I'd jump on you and scream in delight?)


LOL. Hold on while I hop up into the hot seat... Yowzer--it really is hot up here! Okay, forgive the politically correct answer--but it just depends. As the letterhead states, we're a diverse group of debut authors so the answer varies depending on the author and more importantly the book's publisher. But I don't think any of us like to say no, especially when a reviewer is dying to read our books and would jump and scream in delight. :-)

Okay, back in the hot seat X. If you really aren't feeling a book—will you make the ultimate sacrifice and finish it for the sake of the review?

If it won't cause me any internal bleeding then sure, why not. However, my health comes first and if a book is radioactive waste, it gets tossed aside and reviewed from a partial read because number one rule of writing is not damaging your readers' insides.

If you really love a book, will you read it again? If so—what are some of the books you just had to read more than once?

Hell yes I will! I love revisiting books, whether I hated them or not. (It's funny to see if my opinion changes given time.) As for what books I've loved and reread, well, the list is quite long, but here's an abridged version:

Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld (Best. Book. Ever.)
A Great and Terrible Beauty, Rebel Angels, and The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
Sloppy Firsts and Second Helpings by Megan McCafferty
Looking for Alibrandi (On The Jellicoe Road, which I just finished, will probably be reread many a time—and I also have Saving Francesca up next to read, which I expect will be fantastic) by Melina Marchetta
The Year of My Miraculous Reappearance by Catherine Ryan Hyde
However, the book that I've reread the most is:
The Boys Next Door by Jennifer Echols. Love its everything.

Quite a diverse collection of greatness! I bet it is easy to review books you love and would re-read. Do you have a basic philosophy on what should be included in a review—or does it depend on the book itself?

My basic philosophy for reviewing is: The author wrote a book, right? That took a lot of work. (Queries, agents, editors, copy editors, booksellers, professional reviewers, the readership—all of it is tons of stress, work and pressure.) The least I could do is try to give as thoughtful and detailed a review as possible, whether positive or negative. What I mention in each review (aside from the characters, which I always touch on) depends on each book, but I really do try to give a full account of all my thoughts and reactions to each book I read. This often results in long-winded reviews that probably bore people to tears, but to hell with it. If I get a book to review, I do go through that entire process.

That said, some books do, from time to time, provoke me in such a manner that they cause me to lose the control to my snarky side. Hence a category on my blog called Reviewer X Goes All X. I can get pretty sardonic. (But always with substantiated evidence!)

No need to Go All X! Let's talk about the good times, when was the last time your jaw dropped open, you laughed, or you cried while reading a book?


This wasn't the last book I read, but I thought it might interest you, Class of 2k8 authors, to know that I cried while reading Undone by Brooke Taylor. I remember it distinctly: I was having one of my usual insomnia episodes and grabbed Undone from my TBR pile to read. At 1:30AM or so, I got to a really sad passage and began crying. I got up and went to my laptop to email Brooke about it, actually—at 1:30AM, folks. It was that compelling. (And I proceeded to sleep at 3AM or so, for those interested!)

Last book I read was On The Jellicoe Road by Melina Marchetta (and I do love me some Marchetta books)—it was great. I got all of those reactions mentioned above from it and more.

Is there any character in a book that you wish would come to life? Or any place you wish existed?

I really want to meet Jessica Darling from Megan McCafferty's books. I think we'd have a lot to talk about because she and I are much the same.


You and Not So, eh? That Marcus wouldn't be bad to meet either. So what books do you find yourself recommending over and over and why?

I always recommend any books by Curtis Sittenfeld, Libba Bray, Megan McCafferty, Melina Marchetta, and Jodi Picoult. (Though, for Jodi Picoult, I'd stay away from any books before The Pact.) Why? Great voice, great characters, great writing, great plots, great messages, great authors, and great books.

Okay Reviewer X, we can't avoid it any longer, it is time for the Extra Scandalous Question—


I love scandalous ordeals!

Then here we go... really bad reviews—do you ever fear giving them? Ever had an author get upset with you? (It's okay—you can tell us, just don't name names!) And what advice do you have for authors who get a bad review?

No fear. I've given my share of negative reviews so far, and the turnout has been great—people take your opinion more seriously when you offer a balanced perspective. (Or so the people who have emailed have said!) Also, no hate mail thus far, though I am curious! Feel free to tell me what I can do with my blog if I give your book a bad review ;)

As for advice on how to take a negative review, first thing to remember is, it's only an opinion. Yeah, it sucks that you didn't conquer all who read your novel with its brilliancy, but remember, someone's always bound to all-out love it and, like all things in life, someone else is bound to think the exact opposite. Take comfort in that because reviews (especially blog reviews, as much as it pains me to say so) are not know-all-and-end-all. Also, if you're a glass-half-full kind of person, you might to extract something from that negative review to help you strengthen your writing. (And this is considering the review is actually well written and founded—some negative reviews suck, and if that's the case, it's not your problem but the reviewer's. Ignore.)

Good point! Thanks for all the great answers! One last question: if they aren't scared off by all that bad review talks and an author would like you to review her book, what should she do?

I'll start by saying that the review isn't the first thing you should be scared about; my response to your offering your book is. You might be met with an abundance of exclamation points and capital letters; it's only my usual acute psychosis, really, but it's still frightening. (If you don't believe me, ask Christina Meldrum how I replied to her when she offered up Madapple.) If you can handle my enthused hairball response, and the possibility of a negative (and possibly snarkastic) review, then shoot off an email to reviewerx (at) gmail.com


Okay, readers are you like Reviewer X and love to get offered free books? Simply leave a comment and you'll be entered to win an ARC of Undone. Reviewer X hasn't written her review yet, but here's what another reviewer is saying about Brooke Taylor's debut novel:


"(Undone) totally grabbed me in and wouldn’t release its grasp until the very last page. The story took twists and turns that I never suspected in the least. I think that half the time I was reading my mouth was hanging open in shock of what had just happened. My only complaint is the book ended!" And Another Book Read

(Click here for more great Hot Seat interviews)

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Sheryl Luna was born and raised in El Paso, Texas. Her collection of poetry Pity the Drowned Horses won the first Andres Montoya Poetry Prize sponsored by the Institute of Latino Studies and the creative writing department of the University of Notre Dame. The judge was Robert Vasquez. The collection was profiled in "18 Debut Poets who Made their Mark in 2005" by Poets and Writers Magazine. A graduate of Texas Tech University, she earned a doctorate in contemporary literature from the University of North Texas and a M.F.A. from the University of Texas at El Paso. She also holds a M.A. in English from Texas Woman's University. Her work has appeared in Feminist Studies, Notre Dame Review, Georgia Review, American Literary Review, and many other nationally acclaimed journals. She's received scholarships from the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center and the Napa Valley Writer's Conference. Pity the Drowned Horses was a finalist for the National Poetry Series and the 2006 Colorado Book awards. Her second manuscript of poems, titled 7, was recently runner-up for the Ernest Sandeen Poetry Prize sponsored by University of Notre Dame. She currently teaches at the University of Colorado in Boulder, Colorado.

Bones

Once, as a girl, she saw a woman shrink

inside herself, gray-headed and dwarf-sized,

as if her small spine collapsed. Age

and collapse were something unreal, like war

and loss. That image of an old woman sitting

in a café booth, folding in on herself, was forgotten

until her own bones thinned and hollowed,

music-less, un-fluted, empty.

She says she takes shark cartilage before she sleeps,

a tablet or two to secure flexibility and forgets

that pain is living and living is pain.

And time moves like a slow rusty train

through the desert of weeds, and the low-riders

bounce like teenagers young and forgiving

in her night’s dream. She was sleek in a red dress

with red pumps, the boys with slick hair, tight jeans.

She tells me about 100-pound canisters of lard

and beans, how she could dance despite her fifth

child, despite being beaten and left

in the desert for days, how she saw an angel

or saint glimmer blonde above her, how she rose

and walked into the red horizon despite

her husband’s sin.

I’m thinking how the women

in my family move with a sway, with a hip

ache, and how they each have a disk

slip. The sky seems sullen, gray, and few birds

whisk. It’s how the muse is lost

in an endless stream of commercials, how people

forget to speak to one another as our ending skulks

arthritically into our bones, and the dust

of a thousand years blows across the plain,

and the last few hares sprint across a bloodied

highway. Here in the desert southwest, loss

is living and it comes with chapped lips,

long bumpy bus rides and the smog of some man’s

factory trap. And there are women everywhere

who have half-lost their souls

in sewing needles and vacuum- cleaner parts.

In maquiladoras there grows a slow poem,

a poem that may only live a moment sharply

in an old woman’s soul, like a sudden broken hip.

And yet, each October, this old woman rises

like the blue sky, rises like the fat turkey vultures

that make death something beautiful, something

towards flight, something that circles in a group

and knows it is best not to approach death alone.

Each October she dances, the mariachis yelp

and holler her back to that strange, flexible youth,

back to smoky rancheras and cumbias, songs

rolling in the shadows along the bare Mexican hills.

She tells me, “It’s in the music, where I’ll always

live.” And somehow, I see her jaw relax,

her eyes squint to a slow blindness

as if she can see something I can’t.

And I remember that it is good to be born of dust,

born amid cardboard shanties of sweet gloom.

I remember that the bare cemetery stones

in El Paso and Juarez hold the music, and each spring

when the winds carry the dust of loss there is a howl,

a surge of something unbelievable, like death,

like the collapse of language, like the frail bones

of Mexican grandmothers singing.

Ambition

Danny Lopez was so dark that some thought he was black.

His eyes were wide and wild.

When he ran, his short frame’s stride heated the streets.

Sweat trickled down his bony face, and his throat

lumped with desire, the race, the win.

We used to sit on the hood of my parents’ car,

gaze at the stars. He would win state,

dash through the flagged shoot in Austin,

get a scholarship to Auburn, escape the tumbleweeds,

the dirt floors of his pink adobe home, his father’s rage.

We were runners.

Our thin bodies warmed with sweat, and the moon round

with dreams of release. We lived a mile from the border;

the Tigua Indian drums could be heard in the cool evenings.

Our rhythmic hopes pounded dusty roads, and cholos

with slicked hair, low-riders, were only a mirage.

We drove across the border, heavy voices, drunk

with dreams, tequila, and hollow fears. We ran

trans-mountain road, shadows cast cold shivers

down our backs in the hundred-degree sun.

Danny ran twenty miles, finished, arms raised

with manic exultation.

The grassy course felt different beneath his spikes,

and the gun’s smoke forgotten in the rampage of runners,

his gold cross pounding his chest to triumph, his legs

heedless to pain, his guts burning.

Neither of us return to the cement underpasses,

graffiti, and dry grass, though I know

the drums still beat when we look at the stars,

and our eyes flicker with ambition.

Brown children in tattered shorts still beg for pesos,

steal pomegranates and melons.

Young men with sweaty chests and muddy pants

ask my mother for work, food,

passage to that distant win

somewhere on the other side of Texas.

Today the green trees are wet with rain,

and I am too lazy to run. The desire to run my fingers

down an abdomen tight with ambition, is shaky, starved.

It’s been too long since I’ve crossed that border,

drunk tequila, screamed victorious

at the mountain. The stars seem small tonight,

they don’t burst over the sky like they did back then.

These poems, these books don’t ravish me

the way Danny could, the way the race could.

His accented English, broken on the wind, and his run,

his lean darkness, drove exhaustion to consummation.

The wind seems too humid in this preferred place,

and when I hear throaty Spanish spoken in the lushness,

I long for the grimy heat,

the Rio Grande’s shallow passage,

the blue desert, and the slick legs of runners

along the smoggy highway.

The Cordova Bridge

I’m not writing delicate silver birds or some Southwest

aubade. I am rough in a pebbled and stickered dead sea.

And here, crazy-sad among the flowerless places

I sweat my way through the dirge of horns and radio

blues. Smog- filled air. Sweaty dark-dirty children hang

on my car. Their paper cups hold out a coinless surrender.

El Pasoan’s call them scam-gangs. Bumper to bumper

as a rainbow smears the sky, window-washers beg for dimes.

The streets narrow in Juarez. Gaudy green hand-painted

school buses block signs. The poor wait. A bright scholar

described las ciudades hermanas as unmoving. Blue hills,

the river’s banks deceiving us to see one-sided, blind. Juarez,

me later driving in circles, cursing the mad stops, the move-over

hurriedness. El Paso’s streets are wide, people erect chain-

link fences, bars over windows. They love their small plots

of land, their jalopy cars. A poet once sang a maid’s daily

dread over Cordova. I think I see her sweating away.

I once drew a breath of lush serenity, words danced

as small breaths, gilded beads. But you see, I was cursed

in this dust, crystallized among charcoal frowns and smiles.

At times, anger is an unnamed cry. Must one sing lichen,

lagoons, a glint of sky, creamy white breasts? Here, men

and women living bare dance among crumbling things. A man

without a leg has hopped that bridge for thirty years eyeing

shiny red Firebirds. What was a bird of red-fire to him?

Do we all rise phoenix-like from our tumbleweeds? Rain-

wash twirls about brown knees, rolled jeans, bare feet.

Popsicle-sellers close tiny carts, cigarette boys cover

damp cartons. And I am dry as an American can be.

• ISBN-10: 0268033749
• ISBN-13: 978-0268033743

Lisa Alvarado

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