Sunday, November 22, 2015

Two Years Later, And Definitions of Success

(This is a post brought to you by a girl who should be working on her NaNo WIP but can't focus.)
The two year anniversary for the publication of HEART BREATHS was earlier this month, and for various and sundry reasons, I didn't end up posting anything.
For some reason, this morning, I decided to pick up my paper copy and read.I haven't read it since it was published, and it was, to be very honest, a bizarre experience.
I mean, I know I wrote it. I remember writing it. I remember the revising, revising, revising, reading it over and over and over until the words blurred together and the story didn't mean anything to me anymore.
By the time I published it, I was a little sick of it. I mean, I loved the characters and the story, but I was so ready to talk about literally anything else. Even though I hadn't necessarily talked about it with other people, I had spent so much time in my own head with the story that I was just done with it. 
I think that might be why promoting is always difficult for me- I'm so tired of thinking about the book by the time it's finished.Two years has definitely given me space and objectivity.

So. Here are my thoughts about HEART BREATHS, as someone who has finally found objectivity.
I...liked it?
It's so weird to say.
But I liked it.
I ship me some Maddie & Gabe, in all their complicated and emotional baggage, and watching them fall for each other, and learn to trust each other made my heart happy. I loved me some Noie, and some Grandma Ev. I adored Sam, ME, Hannah, and Mrs. Mendez. All the song references made me smile, because they're songs I love.The end made me a little teary eyed.
And then I read the acknowledgements, and realized how much has changed, and how little has changed.
I started writing as a kid to have stories that I wanted to read but I couldn't find.I kept writing as an adult to have stories that I wanted to read but I couldn't find.
The past two years, I've spent a lot of time thinking about the concept of success, and what exactly it should mean to me in the context of writing and as an author. I have spent way too much time worrying about things that I shouldn't have worried about. Things that weren't in my control, things that had absolutely nothing to do with me, things that didn't matter, no matter how much I was convinced they were.
It's hard to go into something like writing without having a concrete definition of what success means, especially when everyone else's definition would be different than mine.
I tried to adopt other people's definitions for myself, and they never worked. The only thing that happened was I disappointed myself. I hadn't sold x number of books. I hadn't hit any lists. I hadn't ever done an in person signing. I hadn't, I didn't, I'd never...
The only thing that I did was hurt myself. Berate myself for not being the success I wanted to be. 
Even though success should not have been the same for me as it was for someone else. Our lives weren't the same. Our responsibilities weren't the same. Our faiths weren't the same. 
I had no right to take anyone else's definition of success without living the life they did.
And so, by default of not living the life of someone else, I let myself down when I did not reach their expectations.
Rereading HEART BREATHS today made me realize that my definition of success is the same thing it's been since I was five, when I wrote an essay about my blanket. 
It's the same thing it's been since I was eight and writing stories about boarding schools and tree houses.
It's the same thing it's been since I was thirteen, writing about road trips and friendships and solving ridiculous crimes.
It's the same thing it's been since I was twenty one, and had finally started writing again after too many years of not writing, when I wrote about teenagers and college students and people falling in and out of love and figuring out who they were and who they weren't.
It's still the same, now, with six stories published, and a seventh one coming next month.
I just forgot.
I write stories that I want to read and I can't find.
I write stories to make myself happy.
I write stories to work through things that have happened to me with a little more objectivity than I'm capable of for my own life.
I write stories to understand myself, to understand the world, to understand who I am, who I was, and who I want to be.
Having other people read stories I wrote and love them like I did, back when they were just ideas I couldn’t stop thinking about is great. Having someone tell you your book made them cry, made them feel, made them think, is amazing.
But my definition of success should be something that I am in control of. I don’t want to rely on other people for my version of success. I want success to be something that I can do on my own. 
It's very hard to see yourself or your work objectively, as you sit in the middle of your life and the middle of your work in progress, and it is very hard to give yourself credit for something you do not think you've done well.
Two years after pressing publish on my first book, two years of a little too much stress about who I should be or what I should be, things slid into place.
My definition of my own success has always been being able to read a story that I wrote, knowing that it's something I want to read, and something I created. 
Two years after publishing my first book, I have realized something supremely cool.
I'm a success.

(Reference point: this book)

Monday, August 31, 2015

Get It Together, Girl!

It's been quite a while, hasn't it?

When Lexi emailed me about joining the blog hop, I was ALL IN. Mostly because I love when people blog about their planners and productivity and all the things.

I am a shameless yenta.

While this blog post could be about approximately eighty seven bazillion different things, I decided to concentrate on my one true love: list making.

Am I one of those people who writes things down on her to do list just so I can cross it off?

Obviously. Come on, y'all. What did you think?

I work a 40 hour work week, I'm in graduate school, and  I write. It's a lot to juggle, and it means I need to be super organized about all the things. Especially deadlines.

To keep track of what I have to do, I use the following:
-my paper planner (Erin Condren)
-Google Calendar (all of Google Drive, really)
-Sticky Notes (an app on my laptop)
-approximately all of the Post-Its

(For pictures, check my Instagram.)

All hail the planner. I use both the month-at-a-glance as well as the weekly.
I use the sticker method, which I learned about from Victoria Schwab. And as a teacher, I appreciate and understand the magic of stickers. I use little labeling circle stickers- nothing fancy.
One sticker is equal to 1000 words written (if pink, yellow, or orange), or a half an hour of exercise (if green). I chose 1000 words as a sticker marker, because I do 1000 word sprints, and it's easiest to count this way. I keep track of the precise amount of words by that day in the weekly part of the calendar. The stickers make for a great overview and approximation of how many words I wrote a day.

The stickers I use on the planner can all be moved around, which makes for a cleaner planner. It also means I actually use the stickers.

I use little post its on the weekly pages. I'll break up my lesson plan into activities and books that I'll use, and post it them all on the day I'll be using them. If I decided to switch things around, it's painless and clean.

I also use post its to meal plan, because if I don't meal plan, I will inevitably forget to make lunch and that never ends well.

Most deadlines that I put in my paper planner, I'll put on Google Calendar, too. And set all of the alarms for everything. Work, school, and writing are all color coded, as are subtopics in the three. Cover reveal will be a different color than Deadline will be, but they'll be in the same color family.
I have access to my Google calendar on my phone, so I can add things in as soon as I know about them. It also means that I'll get notifications not only via email, but on my phone, as well.

Sticky Notes is a magical app that came with my laptop. It's basically virtual Post-Its, which are just excellent.
I have four main Sticky Notes on my desktop: one for writing, one for work, one for school, and one for miscellaneous things. Those four main Sticky Notes I use as a never ending to do list. I'll write down all the things I need to do (and break them down into manageable tasks), and when I'm finished with a task, I'll change the task to italics. Every few days, I'll go through the list and delete all the things I've finished.

I have Post-Its everywhere. On my planner, in my notebook, on my walls, on my laptop....anywhere where you can have a Post-It, I probably have one. I'll write down short term to do lists on lined Post Its, and stick them where I know I'll be seeing it. Sometimes that's in my planner, sometimes it's just on the screen of my laptop, so I can't avoid it. As I mentioned before, I use little post its to write down different activities or deadlines and shift them around if necessary. I flag pages in my notebook with little post its if I know I'm going to be needing something specific that I've written down, and use them in textbooks to keep my place on the page.

There's plenty more in the 'How Does KK Attempt To Keep Her Life Mostly Together' blog post, but this seems enough for today. If you want me to blog about any other part of HDKKATKHLMT, let me know, and I will.

(Or I'll post pictures on Instagram. Because YAY Instagram!)

Make sure to check out everyone else's posts over the next few days, and make sure to enter the giveaway!

Have a wonderful Monday!


a Rafflecopter giveaway

Monday, June 22, 2015

I'm Not Even Sorry.

This post has been a long time coming.
*collapses in a heap*


Eighty seven billion dollars.
One dead New York business mogul.
No heirs.
No wives.
No relatives.

Eighty seven billion dollars.
Not hers yet.
He doesn’t deserve them.
He doesn’t know what to do with them.
She does.
She always has.

Eighty seven billion dollars.
He’s overwhelmed.
She’s prepared.
That will should have had her name.
Not his.

Eighty seven billion dollars.
His looks are a bonus.
Her looks are her weapon.
He’s fighting a losing battle against his heart.
He doesn’t know it yet.

Eighty seven billion dollars.
She gets everything she wants.
He’s what she wants.
Love has nothing to do with it.
To get to where you’re going, sometimes you need to step on a few people to get there.
Good thing her heels are sharp.


*tosses confetti* *pops open the champagne* *makes a general nuisance*

If you've read any of my books or have hung out with me on Twitter or Facebook or anywhere, you know that this book is a bit of a departure from the 'usual' KK books. Which has made for quite an interesting writing experience.

And while this book was probably the hardest book for me to write, it has been the most fulfilling, because thinking you can totally switch your writing style and plot is one thing, but actually doing it? It's pretty cool.

And yes, sometimes my brain is this twisted.

So I'm sending off my little nightmare dressed like a daydream, flinging it up and hoping it will fly.

Some Things To Know About BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FOOL: 
1. This is a short book- around 50,000 words.
2. It is best if you go in blind. It makes the story better. If you review BLF, I ask for you please not to spoil much, as it would take away the pleasure from other readers.


Don't trust anyone.
Don't trust anything.
Don't assume anything.
Don't hope too hard.
You may be disappointed.
Good luck reading.

Don't ask me to apologize for any of it.
I won't mean it.

(Please let me know what you think! You loved it? Awesome. You hated it? Fabulous. I'd love to hear from y'all!)

Have a lovely Monday!
Much love,

Thursday, April 23, 2015

That Time I Decided To Do Something Fun (And Also, Coincidentally, Book NEWS!)


First of all, Beautiful Little Fool comes out in 26 days.
I'm totally not freaking out.
(I lied. I am.)

Second of all, it is spring, and that alone should be cause for celebration and happiness and general merrymaking.

Today I get to tell you one of the many, many, manyyyyyy things I have hiding up my sleeve.
*bounces around*

It's not like I didn't have enough books to be writing or anything. But I have been toying with the idea of writing a serial and releasing it through my newsletter exclusively. Because fun times, yes? Fluff, yes? Ridiculousness and awkwardness, yes?

And then recently, the idea crash landed into my brain and has not left.
I am slightly in love.
Only a little bit. :)
One guy.
One girl.
Two exes.
One crazy plan.

Meet Coco, the secret (figurative) love child of Albert Einstein and Marilyn Monroe. Her ex-boyfriend dumped her and is now banging her next door neighbor.

Meet Boston, the secret (also figurative) love child of Captain America and William Shakespeare. His ex-girlfriend has dumped him and is now banging some geeky science nerd.

Two drinks too many.
One crazy plan to either win back their exes, or doing the world's greatest job of forgetting said exes ever existed.

This is either the smartest idea, or the dumbest.
118 Ways To Get Over You will be available only by subscribing to the newsletter, and episodes will be sent out every Wednesday afternoon, starting MAY 27th. 

You can sign up for it right here!

I'll be updating y'all on that when it's closer to May 27th. :)
Each installment will be around 1000-3000 words. Here's the thing. I know what happens in the story. I know where the story goes.
But my characters have a terrible habit of ignoring me.
So who knows what's going to happen?
Not me...
So if you're into things like sass and ridiculous shenanigans and a science geek and an English nerd and also a bunch of other fabulous people, make sure you're signed up to my newsletter. :)
And if you know anyone who would appreciate any of those things, let them know about it!
*bounces everywhere*

Hope you're having a fabulous day! 

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

That Time Of The Month, Aunt Flo, Shark Week, Exclamation Points, And Other Things People Don't Like To Talk About

I was eleven years old when I got my period.
Getting your period was a big stinking deal when you were eleven. It meant you were one of the first ones to get your period, making you infinitely cooler than everyone else.
It meant your friends would ask you questions in hushed whispers at recess or in lab or at sleepovers. Like, “does it hurt?” “do you feel different?”
No, and no.
Well, back then it was no and no. Now it’s yes and no.
My mom bought me pads, and I hid them in the furthest corner in the bathroom closet so nobody could see them.
Minus the annoyance of bleeding for four days a month, I didn’t really see the big deal in getting my period. Wasn’t like I was going to be having any babies anytime soon.

An all-girls sleepaway camp in the Catskills.
If you were cool, you left your pads in the bathroom.
If you were EXTRA cool, you left your tampons in the bathroom and taught your friends how to use them.
If you weren’t cool, you hid your pads in the bottom of your suitcase and made excuses as to why you suddenly didn’t want to go swimming.
There was at least one girl in my bunk who pretended she had her period, and really didn’t. She wore pads for a few days and didn’t go swimming then.
I wonder what happened to her.
We nearly suffocated under the weight of the excess estrogen, but somehow managed to survive.

I read my first romance novel in seventh grade.
I was twelve.
It was by accident, but I was hooked.
I don’t think my parents were really all that thrilled.
Okay, I lied. I know they weren’t.
There was a pregnancy scare in the book, and her getting her period was a relief.
I read more romance novels.
And more.
And a few more.
Nobody in any of those books ever had their period.
Or shaved their legs, or waxed, or had cramps.
Maybe that was a thing that went away when you got older. Maybe if you shaved your legs enough all the hair would just stop growing.
Maybe your period just stopped when you were twenty one or something, because all those ladies in the books were over twenty one.

One Saturday night, eighth grade. Staying over at my best friend’s house.
After we went to Blockbuster (RIP), we walked over to CVS to get a bunch of things.
She needed more pads.
Her mom wasn’t around that night, and I hadn’t brought any with me.
But heaven forbid should she actually buy pads, because then people would know.
I didn’t think that was all that strange, because even though at some point, I *knew* that all ladies got their periods, it was still embarrassing.
I honestly don’t even remember what ended up happening that time, but that scenario happened far more than once.
Eventually, I would be the one checking out instead of her because I was less embarrassed of buying pads. But only if it was a girl cashier. If it was a guy cashier… well, I don’t know. It depended.

More romance novels.
Still no body hair.
Still no cramps.
Still no uteruses mentioned unless it was in relation to someone getting pregnant.
A lot of happily ever afters.
A bunch of babies.
But no periods.

High School.
All girl’s high school.
Small class.
“Ugh, I have my period early. Who has a pad?”
Pad critiquing.
Discussing tampons and TSS.
Whining about cramps.
An emergency chocolate stash.
But only in the classroom- never in another class.

More romance novels.
Starting to notice how all heroines have mysteriously perfect bodies.
I don’t.
Why don’t they have cramps? Buy pads?
I wish I could identify with them, but it’s getting harder and harder to.
Unlike romance novel heroines, my period keeps on showing up.
I’m better at buying pads now.

After High School.
Live in a dorm with over 100 girls for two years.
Shit gets REAL.
Pads, tampons, cups, Advil, Tylenol, Motrin, and heating pads are everywhere.
We revel in our femininity.
I still feel weird about buying pads.
I still read romance novels.
They still don’t have their period outside of pregnancy scares.

I am not ashamed of my body.
I am not ashamed of getting my period.
It takes me a long time to get to this point.
I’m not always there.

I wonder why having your period is like some dirty secret.
It’s not like people don’t know you get your period.
Most females get theirs.
It’s not like I was the only one who does.

I read more romance novels.
I still look for periods and cramps.
I wonder why we gloss over the things that make us female.
I wonder why we are ashamed of the potential of creating life.
I wonder why we have let ourselves become ashamed of who we are.
I wonder why we let parts of ourselves be erased in the books we read.
I wonder why it makes me so angry.
I wonder why I’m sometimes still ashamed.

I start writing romance novels.
I realize I like to write ones that don’t feel like pipe dreams.
So I don’t write pipe dreams.
I write messy.
I write heartbreak.
I write periods and cramps and body hair and awkward flirting.
I write happily ever after.

I’m on my way to meet a friend.
I’m bent over on the train from cramps, and have no pads on me.
There’s a little bodega at the corner on the way to the restaurant.
The guy working there is super friendly.
I look around for pads, and realize they’re behind the counter.
Which means not only do I have to buy pads from him, I have to ask him to get me some.
I ask.
I am not ashamed.
He asks me what kind I want.
I tell him.
I am not ashamed.
I buy the pads.
I buy some Advil.
I am not ashamed.

I read another romance novel.
There still aren’t any periods mentioned.
I write another period scene.

I am not ashamed.
I am not ashamed.
I am not ashamed.

Monday, March 16, 2015

A Letter From An Angry Fat Girl

To Everyone Who Has Called Me Fat As An Insult,
You can stuff the word down your throat and choke on it. Fat is a word that describes me, like tall, like loud, like gives good hugs, like drives her sisters crazy.
I’m not insulted. I’m just mad.

To That Sales Lady In A Store That Only Sold Clothing For Plus-Sized Women And Tried To Offer Me Diet Advice,
What the hell is wrong with you? No, seriously. Were you not paying attention to anything when they trained you into the job?

To That Medical Professional Who Wasn’t My Doctor Who Tried To Insinuate That I Was Sick Because I Was Fat,
Nope. I was sick because of germs. Who the hell gave you a medical degree? Your mom?

To The Random Asshole Who Yelled, ‘Hey! Fatass!”
I don’t actually have much of a butt at all. If you wanted to make sure I knew you were yelling at me, you should have yelled something that actually described me.

To The Lady In The Changing Room Who Told Me The Shirt Wasn’t Flattering (And Would Be If I Lost Some Weight),
Did you hear me asking for your opinion? Because I don’t ever remember asking for it.

To The Lady Who Told Me I Probably Wouldn’t Get Married Because Of My Size,
Do I even know you? No.
Also, if marriage makes me walk over to random strangers and say things like that to them, I’ll stay single forever, thanks.

To The Former Coworker Who Told Me I’d Look Great If I Lost Twenty Pounds,
I did loose twenty pounds while working with you. And you never noticed.

To The Same Former Coworker, Who Suggested I Get Surgery Because My Shoulders Were Too Big,
What on earth were you smoking?

To All Those Books And Articles On Dressing For Your Body Shape,
Thanks for nothing. “Curvy” is not an umbrella of all fat girls, and I don’t think I look attractive in “Flowing shirts and flowing skirts” because an empty bag of flour look but in all black and nasty chiffon (as you insist looks nice) is not actually flattering on anyone.

To Every Store That Has “Women’s” or “Plus-Sized” Sections Hiding In The Back Like Some Dirty Secret,
Just because it takes up more fabric to make me a dress, it doesn’t make me less of a person. I am not your dirty secret to hide.

To Every Person Who Thinks They Can Comment On My Body Because I Weigh More Than Conventional Society Has Dictated,
My body is not public property. My body is not yours to comment on, or yours to change. If I want your opinion or advice, I would ask for it. But I didn’t.

To Every Person Who Thinks They Can Comment On My Body Because I Weigh More Than Conventional Society Has Dictated,

To Every Person Who Has Had Others Comment On Their Body Because They Weigh More Than Society Has Dictated,
I'm sorry the world sucks sometimes. I'm sorry people are rude. I'm sorry that there have been days that the world has made you hate a body as beautiful as yours. I'm sorry for every time someone has said something that made you cry. I'm sorry for all of the people who have dared to criticize the perfection that is you.

To Every Person Who Has Had Others Comment On Their Body Because They Weigh More Than Society Has Dictated,
You are gorgeous. You are beautiful. You are a damn work of art. You are magnificent, you are perfect, and fuck all the people who tell you otherwise.
Take up the space you were given. Take up the space you need. There is nobody on Earth who has the right to stop you.

To everyone who buys THIS MUCH SPACE:
Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Olivia is Anna Wintour’s worst nightmare, and she doesn’t give a shit. She’s wanted to go into fashion design her whole life, and nothing is going to stop her fabulous plus sized self. Not even her boss from hell, or the fact that she’s the fat Cinderella of the most exclusive lingerie store in Bushwick, Ohio. She’s sworn off dating, because she is focused, dammit, and will not get distracted by anyone in college. She has shit to do and places to go, be it on her own with the clothing she makes, or with the girls in Twelve Beats In A Bar, the all-female a cappella group she’s part of.

Why do group projects always have to ruin everything?

Thierry Acosta has it all. Shortstop on Bushwick University’s baseball team, amazing grades in college, everything he could want. When he gets paired with Olivia for a group project, things are only getting better. And then his dad loses his job, and Thierry’s life falls apart. He can’t manage to get himself to practice, to class… anywhere. He’s got the scars on his wrists to prove that this has happened before, but he thought he was better. He thought he could deal with something like this. The cuts on his thighs say otherwise.

Before they know it, Olivia and Thierry's relationship has gone from casual project partners to not-so-casual more-than-friends. But when things take a turn for the worse, can they face the growing reality of a relationship that's become much more serious than either of them expected- or wanted?

Add to Goodreads
Buy on Amazon
Buy on B&N

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

That Time I Had Words With Taylor Swift (And Plus BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FOOL'S cover!)












(Except the cover, which the lovely Hafsah designed for me. BUT EVERYTHING ELSE IS YOUR FAULT)


 Beautiful Little Fool 

Eighty seven billion dollars. 
One dead New York business mogul. 
No heirs. 
No wives. 
No relatives. 
Eighty seven billion dollars. 
Not hers yet. 
He doesn’t deserve them. 
He doesn’t know what to do with them. 
She does. 
She always has. 
Eighty seven billion dollars. 
He’s overwhelmed. 
She’s prepared. 
That will should have had her name. 
Not his. 
Eighty seven billion dollars. 
His looks are a bonus. 
Her looks are her weapon. 
He’s fighting a losing battle against his heart. 
He doesn’t know it yet. 
Eighty seven billion dollars. 
She gets everything she wants. 
He’s what she wants. 
Love has nothing to do with it. 
To get to where you’re going, sometimes you need to step on a few people to get there.  
Good thing her heels are sharp. 


Cedar had gotten the phone call at six in the morning, hours before she normally woke up. She was at home, as always, even though she had been out the night before with Lawrence, who was still trying to get her to make things more permanent. And even though he was a Foster-Herrington, he wasn’t worth the trouble that would come along with a relationship. Not to mention he wasn’t nearly good enough in bed to make up for having to date him. 
Her private line rang as she was headed toward her gym. Her private line, a number that only five people had.
It was Mr. Morris. Which could only mean one thing, because Mr. Morris never called. Ever.
“No,” Cedar whispered, her voice still hoarse from waking up.
“I’m sorry.”
“He passed away fifteen minutes ago. I called you as soon as I could.”
“Dammit.” Cedar clutched the phone tightly. “How could he?”
“I know.”
But he didn’t know, the idiot. How could he?
“He left instructions for a funeral,” Mr. Morris continued, his voice rough from a lack of sleep. He was Harold Feingold’s lawyer, which was more of a full time job than he had ever imagined it would be. The old bastard was dead, and he was still working around the clock. “He wanted you to arrange it.”
“He mentioned it to me,” Cedar said. “Earlier this week.” Dammit, why did he have to die today? Could the timing possibly be more inconvenient than it was now? Harold never gave a shit about inconveniencing others, but neither did Cedar. It was one of the reasons she liked him—genuinely liked him, and didn’t just tolerate her for where she got because of him.
“Excellent. Are you going to be at work today?”
“Of course.” Cedar headed to the gym. There was no point in throwing her schedule off entirely because someone died. 
“I’ll send over the information for the funeral arrangements he wanted you to take care of.” 
“Of course.” Cedar programmed the treadmill and started to walk. 
“I’m sorry for your loss, Cedar,” he said awkwardly.
“I’m sorry for yours,” she replied, and almost meant it. 

Monday, March 9, 2015

15 Things To Know About THIS MUCH SPACE

THIS MUCH SPACE is coming out in ONE WEEK from today.
Cue the panic....
*runs around screaming*

So here we go... 15 random facts about THIS MUCH SPACE....
1. Olivia is actually fat. Not size 12 fat. Actually fat.
2. Thierry's dad is from Brazil, and his mom is from Japan. He probably looks something like Hideo Maouraka. (You're welcome.)
3. Olivia has been known to knit a scarf for the outfit she's wearing because she didn't like any of the scarves she's previously made.
4. Thierry is the shortstop on the Bushwick Racers.
5. If you don't know Lonely Island songs, you may learn a bit more while reading TMS.
6. The f word is there around 200 times. (Sorry, Mom.)
7. Underage drinking.
8. So many bras.
9. Elvis.
10. There's a book dress.
11. Songs from High School Musical may get stuck in your head at some point of the book.
12. The Bushwick library is inspired by the Hunter College library in NYC, and the Hebrew University library in Jerusalem, where I've spent many many hours.
13. The opening scene is partially based on a conversation I overheard in a lingerie shop. (Yes, really.)
14. The Jackson Isador Zimmer building is still there, and continues to amuse me, because I am mature like that.
15. The scene where Olivia and Thierry meet might be my favorite meet cute I have ever written.

And some pictures from Pinterest...

If you'd like to have a sneak peak, a whole bunch of bloggers have posted a bit from THIS MUCH SPACE.
And if you haven't added it to your TBR list on Goodreads, do so soon! I'll be tallying up the number of adds next Monday for a donation for TWLOHA.

(And far all of you who have recently read and reviewed COME BACK TO TEXAS and A DIFFERENT KIND OF FIEN, you are amazing. <3)

Stick around y'all, because Wednesday comes the very fabulous cover for BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FOOL, which you definitely are going to want to see.

Happiest of Mondays!

Thursday, February 12, 2015

That Time I Got All Sappy And THIS MUCH SPACE Had A Gorgeous Cover

I know, I know. I haven't posted in a million years. (Okay, a couple of months.) I shall endeavor to fix that ASAP and HEY! I DID because I'm blogging now. *pats self on the back*


Emotional Backstory:
One of the many reasons I wrote THIS MUCH SPACE was because I was sick and tired of having fat heroines who were A. not actually fat, B. hated themselves, or C. didn't get the guy until they lost all the weight. PFFFFTTTT. It's almost like people think that fat, fabulous, confident girls don't end up getting the guy. Which annoyed me to no end, because it happens. It most definitely happens. 
Olivia may be my favorite character I've ever written, and her and Thierry together make me squee. When it came to designing the cover, I wanted the girl on the cover to be an accurate reflection of what Olivia looks like. Trying to find that on stock photo websites was harder than finding a unicorn. (I'm pretty sure I spotted one or two actual unicorns in my search.) I was getting a little (read, a lot) nervous, when I had an epiphany.
I followed Becca on Tumblr!
Becca, for those of you who don't follow her on Tumblr, is a fabulous fat fashion blogger. Her outfits are amazing, her hair is gorgeous, and she's an absolute doll. 
And so I thought super happy thoughts and sent her an email asking her if she wanted to be the cover model for THIS MUCH SPACE.
And she said yes. And it's possible I screamed so loud I scared the neighbors.

When we picked the final image for the cover, it all finally hit me. There's a fat girl on the cover of my book. A gorgeous, kick ass, wonderful fat girl, who loves herself and loves her body and gets the HEA that she (and everyone else) deserves. And I cried, because teenaged KK would have given just about anything to pick up a book with a cover like this. I'm crying a little bit now, writing about this.

While I love all my book covers, this one holds a special place in my heart. It's a lot of years of work, a lot of years of unlearning how to hate my body, of years and years until I realized that I'm exactly who I need to be now, looks included.

That I take up this much space, and that's more than okay.

And so, on that sappy note, kindly join me in squeeing about the absolute gorgeousness that is the cover of THIS MUCH SPACE, coming to ebook retailers near you March 16th. (Then, go tell Hafsah that she's a genius. Because she is.)




Olivia is Anna Wintour’s worst nightmare, and she doesn’t give a shit. She’s wanted to go into fashion design her whole life, and nothing is going to stop her fabulous plus sized self. Not even her boss from hell, or the fact that she’s the fat Cinderella of the most exclusive lingerie store in Bushwick, Ohio. She’s sworn off dating, because she is focused, dammit, and will not get distracted by anyone in college. She has shit to do and places to go, be it on her own with the clothing she makes, or with the girls in Twelve Beats In A Bar, the all-female a cappella group she’s part of. 

 Why do group projects always have to ruin everything? 

 Thierry Acosta has it all. Shortstop on Bushwick University’s baseball team, amazing grades in college, everything he could want. When he gets paired with Olivia for a group project, things are only getting better. And then his dad loses his job, and Thierry’s life falls apart. He can’t manage to get himself to practice, to class… anywhere. He’s got the scars on his wrists to prove that this has happened before, but he thought he was better. He thought he could deal with something like this. The cuts on his thighs say otherwise.

Before they know it, Olivia and Thierry’s relationship has gone from casual project partners to not-so-casual more-than-friends. But when things take a turn for the worse, can they face the growing reality of a relationship that’s become much serious than either of them expected - or wanted?


And as with CBTT and ADKOF, I'm going to be donating money to a charity based on the number of Goodreads adds.

(The official) AUTHOR NOTE:

 Authors have a funny relationship with their characters. We spend so many hours inside their heads, so many hours just thinking about the characters we write. We do hours of research to make sure the characters we write are honest and correctly portray the kind of person we want them to.

After spending hours and hours with my characters, and doing research about people going through the same situations as they are, I'm always left wanting to do something. Writing the book is a way to bring attention to different issues, but it never feels like enough for me.

While writing THIS MUCH SPACE, I spent a lot of time researching depression and self-harm, and while I will always and forever link to organizations that can help people struggling, and will offer whatever emotional support I can....I wanted to do more.

To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire, and invest directly into treatment and recovery. You can find out more about them at I am thrilled to announce that for every Goodreads add of THIS MUCH SPACE, I will donate money to TWLOHA.

I hope that THIS MUCH SPACE will help you look at those who are suffering with compassion and love, and I'm so excited for you to meet Olivia and Thierry.

Much Love,


a Rafflecopter giveaway

About the Author (spoiler: it's me):

KK Hendin’s real life ambition is to become a pink fluffy unicorn who dances with rainbows. But the schooling for that is all sorts of complicated, so until that gets sorted out, she’ll just write. Preferably things with angst and love. And things that require chocolate. She’s the author of the NA contemporaries HEART BREATHS and ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG. THIS MUCH SPACE is the second book in her new series, TWELVE BEATS IN A BAR. KK spends way too much time on Twitter (where she can be found as @kkhendin), and rambles on occasion over at


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