Teenreads.com – a great site for all things YA – just published my essay Teenager At Heart: The Story Behind Getting Published and I wanted to share it here, too. It’s more like the family history of my first book, How to Raise Your Parents, but you’ll see what I mean…

It was raining the day my agent called to say Chronicle Books wanted to publish my first book. I remember, because immediately after she called, I found myself standing on a busy street in downtown New York City, shivering and dialing my parents’ house in Salt Lake. They were my first call–the book is titled HOW TO RAISE YOUR PARENTS: A Teen Girl’s Survival Guide, after all.

As luck would have it, my mom was just back from running errands and my dad had stopped home for lunch, so they were both on the phone when I broke the big news. It was fitting actually, considering the idea for this book was hatched while I was having a talk with my parents. Only this time, I wasn’t a teenager — and I wasn’t in trouble.

“Just don’t tell the world what bad parents we are,” my mom said, laughing, but I could hear the hesitation in her voice.

A few days later I got an e-mail from my dad, “This made me laugh and think of you. Love, Dad.” Attached was a Dan Piraro cartoon of two ragged parents at their author/daughter’s book signing. The bubble above their heads couldn’t have said it better: “Look, we’re SORRY. If we had known you were going to be a writer, we’d have been better parents!”

That settled it. My parents were terrified.

I imagine that most parents, even the most nearly perfect among them, would feel the same way. The thought of your family’s dirty laundry being aired in front of the world à la Augusten Burroughs probably isn’t what most parents have in mind when they think of leaving their history behind for posterity. Lucky for my mom and dad, my book isn’t that kind of book. It’s a parent-friendly advice book for teens, not a personal tell-all. For all our quirks, my family just doesn’t have enough dirt to make a good memoir. But try telling my parents that.

The fact that I conceived this book as a sixteen year old while being lectured about curfews probably didn’t help ease their minds. Yes, I was more than an hour late that night, but I couldn’t very well sit there quietly after I noticed the open parenting book on my mom’s nightstand — broken curfew or not, they were as clueless I was!

I figured the best way to convince them that my book wasn’t actually based on their parenting was to fill them in on the writing process. After finishing each new chapter, I would call home and casually slip what I thought were reassuring references to “the book” into our conversations.

“I finished the dating chapter today and it reminded me of that time I rented a movie with that guy and dad sat by us on the couch for the entire thing. Remember that?”

Pause.

“What about the first time I drove to the mall with you in the car? I thought you were going to hyperventilate!”

Pause. Pause.

“You guys really shouldn’t be worried. You know me better than anyone. Have I ever done anything to embarrass you?”

At this point the pauses were so long I could have driven the 2,174 miles home and arrived before either one of them offered a real response. My let’s-all-have-a-good-laugh-together theory wasn’t working. Maybe I had been a worse teenager than I remembered. Maybe the thought of reliving my teenage years was just that scary for them. I racked my brain trying to think if I’d ever come close to burning the house down.

And then the advance copies arrived.

For a new writer, holding your first book in your hands is a near-religious experience. I didn’t want to let it go, just in case the publisher changed its mind and this early copy was the only one ever printed; but at the same time, I was dying to share it with my mom and dad. I nearly choked when the woman behind the counter at the post office said the total for overnight delivery was $40. I could buy the complete series of “My So-Called Life” for that! But I forked over the cash after imagining waiting one more day for my parents’ final verdict.

Sure enough, the next afternoon, my cell phone rang and “Home” popped up on the caller ID. This was it. The moment of truth.

I shut my office door and clicked the green button. “Hi!” (Was I being overly cheery?)

My mom didn’t even offer a greeting before she launched in. I could hear my dad talking in the background.

“We were just laughing remembering that time the entire school showed up for your small birthday party and practically turned our basement into a mosh pit.”

(For the record, I remember that too, and the party was hardly reminiscent of a mosh pit, but my parents would say that’s my “teen interpretation.”)

“But you like it?”

“We love it. We’re so proud of you…”

There had to be more.

“And we can’t wait until you have teenagers.”

I didn’t say that at least my teenagers will have a copy of my book on hand. One thing I definitely learned as a teenager is knowing when to keep my mouth shut.