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Excerpt from Porucpine (Continued)

car. Not down the street for a long way, just a few yards. And I’m waving, yelling at the top of my lungs, “Good-bye! Love you, Dad! Good-bye! Safe journey! Love you!” And so then Simon does it too. Comes out on the street with me, the two of us waving, dancing a silly good-bye dance, like we are on a string. All elbows and knees and flat, waving palms. “Bye, Dad! Love you! Bye, Dad!” And we’ve got big smiles on our faces, and Dad is smiling too. Can see his face turned around in the front seat of the car. I’m smiling, but there’s a tightness in my chest, because Dad’s going to Afghanistan, and I’ve seen what happens there. Seen the scary news on TV.

But when I told Dad my fears, he just laughed at me and said, “Don’t worry. It’s fine there now. We’re a peacekeeping unit, we’re not going to war. This is the Canadian Armed Forces we’re talking about, not the U.S. Army. We’re just going to Afghanistan to keep the peace, that’s all. I’m not

going to Iraq, honey. So there’s no problem. Chin up, Jack, chin up. Don’t look so sad. Give me a smile. That’s my girl.”

We wave until the car turns the corner and disappears. Then Simon and I go back up to the porch where Mom is standing with her arm around Tessa. I slip Simon under Mom’s other arm and we go inside, arm in arm. We have to go in sideways so we can all fit through the door. Mom doesn’t cook tonight. We go to A&W for a special treat. And we toast Dad with frosty ice-cold, foaming mugs of root beer, and we send him our love and say a prayer for his speedy and safe return home.

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Excerpt from Porucpine (Continued)

though I’m smiling. He holds me tight against his chest, I can feel his lips in my hair. My dad kissing me good-bye. I hear his voice, gruff, breaking slightly.

“Ah, Jack,” he says. “What am I going to do with you?” I feel his scratchy cheek scrape mine. Feel his warm breath, his soft, rumbly voice in my ear. “Take care of your mom. Look after your brother and sister while I’m away. Will you do that for me?”

And I say, “Yes, Dad … yes, I will.” Rubbing the tears from eyes with my fist, scrunched tight up against Dad’s chest. I feel him slip something into my hand, and I wrap my fingers around it tight. It’s the warm metal and leather of his watch. “Keep it safe for me,” he whispers in my ear. “I don’t want it to get all beat up, running around in the bush out there.” And I don’t know why he’s giving me his watch. He’s been away many times but has never done this before. I start crying even harder

because it’s like he’s saying good-bye for good. “Chin up,” Dad says. “That’s my girl,” and so I straighten myself up, put a smile on my face, pull away like nothing happened, like I don’t have his watch still warm from his wrist clutched in my fist.

“Okay, guys,” Dad says, all jokey and boisterous, like he’s a comedian on TV. “I’m off. Don’t forget to write.” And I wish Big Mike would drive around the block a few times, go get himself a coffee, come back later, but he doesn’t. He’s just sitting in his car, waiting for Dad, engine running. Dad gives Mom another quick kiss and hug. The one-armed kind like he gave Simon, his other arm scooping up his bag.

“See you soon! Love you all!” Dad says, head turned toward us as he runs down the steps, his duffel bag bouncing slightly, banging against his back.

At first we all stand on the porch like we always do, waving good-bye. But then as the car pulls out of the driveway, something breaks and I find myself running down the steps, the walkway, out into the street after the

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Excerpt from Porucpine

It’s time for Dad to go. Came so fast. It’s funny. We knew it was going to happen. I mean, we’ve had a couple weeks to prepare. Seemed like so much time to get the heart ready. But, all of a sudden it’s time for him to leave. No more putting it off. Big Mike’s car has just pulled into the driveway.

“I’ve got to go,” Dad says, getting to his feet, glancing at his watch.

“Bob,” Mom says. She doesn’t move, just sits still on the sofa like a statue, her hands limp in her lap. But my dad, he’s a man of action. “Come on, Fran, up you get,” and so she does. We all do.

Dad grabs his duffel bag leaning against the door and then we traipse out to the front porch. Dad’s acting all lighthearted, has a big no-problem-here smile on his face. Hugs and kisses all around. Mom’s first. Long and sweet. Full of I love you’s. When he lets go and pushes back her hair, I can see Mom’s trying not to cry.

“Don’t worry,” Dad says, but there’s a sadness in his face too, just for a second. Then he turns to us kids and it’s gone. He scoops Tessa up like she’s lighter than a feather, that’s how strong he is.

Gives her a kiss and a hug. Calls her Princess, his pet name for her. “Be a comfort to your mother,” he says.

“I will,” Tessa promises, with this really sappy look on her face, like nothing but honey ever comes out of her mouth, when we all know that’s just not true.

“Good girl,” he says, putting her down.

It’s Simon’s turn now. Dad pretends to throw a few punches at him. A one-two combination, like that, a little fancy footwork. Simon smiles shyly at him, doesn’t pretend to box back, though. Don’t know why he’s so bashful around Dad. Dad wouldn’t hurt a flea. “Take care, son,” he says, kneeling down, ruffling Simon’s hair, pulling him in for a one-armed hug, squashing Simon’s face against his chest.

It’s my turn now, and I think my heart is going to break, but I’ve got a no-problem-here smile on my face too. Just like Dad. And while Dad’s looking at me, his expression gets serious. I see deep into him, and tears come even

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Foreword from Singing Songs (Continued)

I went out that afternoon, bought a Smith Corona typewriter and taught myself to type.  It took me three days to type around ten pages, double-spaced.  But I did it, and with a lurching stomach, sent my scraps of writing off in  FedEx pouch.

Four days later my phone rang.  It was Charlotte.  "You're a writer," she said.  "Write more and send it to me." And so I did.  Four years later my short stories had become my first novel, Singing Songs.

I sold it to the world not just as fiction, but as springing entirely from my imagination, completely alien to my own experience.  Because I was scared to admit the truth.  That this dirty little scrappy kid could have been me.  I wasn't ready to publicly acknowledge that abuse scarred my own childhood.  Didn't want to let people that close.

Well, I’m older now, hopefully wiser, braver,

still scared, but that's okay.  With this new edition of Singing Songs, I feel that it is important for me to claim my connection to these stories, for myself and others who have had a past like mine.  Because if we continue to hide, to play the pristine, perfect, everything's a picnic soundtrack, we do the world a disservice.

I hope you enjoy my book, born out of my memories as a child, my hopes, hardships and fears. And read it with a warmth in your belly, because in many ways Anna's spirit mirrors mine, and I am certain that she, just like me, went on to have a wonderful, blessed, very lucky life

Best wishes,

Meg Tilly

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Excerpt from Singing Songs (Continued)

but once she was in, she'd stay there for hours.  A curled up shaking ball of fur.  We figured she was shaking cause she was cold and missed her mama.  So Katie gave Abby Road her blanket The one she'd had since she was a baby.  And we made Abby Road a little nest.  And after a couple of days she stopped shaking.

At first we fed her with a baby bottle.  We cut a big hole in the nipple so she could get milk out more easily. Powdered milk, but we mixed it a lot stronger than we made ours.  Thicker, so she'd get lots of nutrients. And she liked it.  She'd follow me around the kitchen while I fixed it.  Skidding on her little spindly legs.  Butting me with her head to make me hurry up.

When I fed her, I had to hold on to the bottle with both hands, cause she'd pull and tug on it.  Sucking so vigorously that if I accidentally let go she'd probably swallow the thing whole.  Slurping on the bottle, big sloppy sucks, milk escaping her

greedy mouth, running in little trickles down her neck.  And all the while, she'd gaze up at me with her big grateful eyes.

When she got old enough to eat grass, we started using a bowl for milk instead.  Milk three times a day. And then gradually we weaned her down to one, cause milk's pretty expensive. But sometimes when Daddy wasn't looking, we'd sneak her more.

She liked her milk, but best of all she liked Life Savers.  She wasn't picky, any flavor would do, but she was specially partial to wintergreen.  She would do anything for a wintergreen. Anything.  Even walk on her hind legs.  And if you tried to sneak one when she was anywhere near, she'd smell it on your breath and nuzzle and butt you with her head until you gave her one.  And she wouldn't take no for an answer, so if you had only one, you'd have to eat it real far away and then rinse your mouth out.  Either that, or bite it in half and share it.

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Excerpt from Gemma (Continued)

"This is Hazen," Buddy says, pushin me forward, givin me a slap on the ass. Like he owns me, like I’m a donkey or somethin.  And this guy, this Hazen guy, steppin forward, smilin big for a mouth that looks like it's not used to smilin much.

"Hey there, little girl…" which kind of offends me, cause I'm not little, I'm twelve for Christsake. Would correct him on his assumption, but I don't want to be rude.

"Hi," I say. I'm feelin funny, don't know why. Don't like the way this Hazen guy is lookin at me all greasy, oily-like.  Freakin me out.

"Well, what do you think?" Buddy asks, me standin there, just standin there.

"Good. She'll do, she'll do real nice," says Hazen smilin. Runs his forefinger down my arm, does it slow, like he's brandin me. Don't like it. Try to step back, but there's nowhere to go. Buddy's stepped in right behind me, right up close, crowdin me in. Nowhere to go, and I kinda suffer from

claustrophobia, you know like panic spells when people crowd me too close. I get dizzy, everything kinda slows down, rushes by, blurry like.  Standin there in Denny's. Buddy pressin up against my back, this Hazen guy right in front, table, chairs, cuttin out my air. I can here the kitchen noises, dishes, cutlery clinkin loud.  Real loud, like they're amplified, and yet voices muffled, foggy, like they're talkin through a vacuum hose. And they laugh, Buddy and Hazen, they both laugh, tunnel laugh, and then Hazen takes out his wallet, gets it outta his back pocket starts countin out money. "Twenty … forty … sixty … eighty … and … one hundred dollars." Gives the money, the hundred dollars to Buddy. And I'm wonderin what this has to do with my waitressin job.

But Buddy doesn't explain.  Just pockets the money, give my ass a feel, the stuff my hand into this Hazen guy's sweaty, clammy one. His soft, pulpy, soggy hand, that feels like mashed, spit-out bananas. "She's all yours, man," Buddy says, smilin still. Smilin big. Then he makes a

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Excerpt from Gemma (Continued)

noise like a train whistle. "Whoohoo!" he says, pumpin his fist up and down in the air. "Go to town."

And while Hazen's puttin away his wallet, Buddy leans over me, smile gone now. No smile now, eyes like ice picks, chop right through me. "You be good," he says, hand slid under my hair, squeezin the back of my neck. Squeezin it hard, real hard, making my eyes fill up.  "Hazen's boss now, you hear? You do whatever he says, you hear? Whatever he says. He'll bring you home when he's done, and I don't want to hear about you giving him any flak. You hear me?"

And I'm tryin to keep my head upright, tryin not to let on how much it's hurtin.  How humiliatin it is, for him to be doin this kind of thing in public. "You hear?" Gives me a shake, speakin low, through his teeth, nobody but me, me and Hazen can hear him.

"I hear you," I say. "I hear you." And he gives me one last shake for emphasis, then lets me go,

and his friend Hazen is laughin, shakin his head. "You got her trained good," he says admiringly, like I'm a dog or somethin. "You got her trained real good."

Next thing I know, Buddy's gone. Didn't fill out no application for no waitressin job. Don't know how to get home from here. Got no idea. Stuck with Hazen, not sure why. Not sure, but I got a feelin. I got a sick kinda feelin in my belly. Stuck here with this Hazen guy, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna cry.

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Excerpt from Gemma (Continued)

around the mug, like it's still hot, drinkable, sits there, like he has every right.  Takes a sip, something to do. Waiting for Buddy, just on the off chance, pretty sure actually, that he's not going to show. But he's waiting just in case.

The waitress with the blue mascara slides by, fresh pot of steaming coffee. Hazen gestures her over.  Not that he wants more.  Stuff tastes like shit.  Badly brewed. Already feeling jittery, drunk two cups of the stuff, but what the hell, he'll give buddy ten more minutes and then call it a day.  What a bullshitter.

Just getting ready to leave, settling up his bill, the waitress smelling like cheap talcum powder and last night's sex. Settling up his bill, when Buddy waltzes in, thirty minutes late.  Hazen had thought he'd been stood up, played for a fool. The fucker was just blowing smoke up his ass. Telling him all about this Gemma chick he was banging. Saying what a great lay she was.

"You've never had it good until you've tried some of this," Buddy'd say. "The kids twelve, talk about tight, best lay this side of the Rockies, and beautiful, too. A regular little Lolita. Insatiable. Can't get enough, begs for the cock, twenty-four, seven." Said it with the satisfied smirk on his face that made Hazen want to call his bluff.

Hazen thought Buddy was just blowing smoke up his ass, but then in he walks, the kid in tow, and she is perfect.  Absolutely perfect.  Long blonde hair, pale blonde, the color of summer grass along the highway, a natural blonde, and Hazen Wood wonders about her heritage. Swedish ancestors? Danish perhaps? Beautiful blonde hair, a natural. Yes sir, she is perfect, just how Buddy had described her.  High tight ass perched on lanky colt legs, legs not quite filled out.  No tits, none visible anyway. Maybe just little buds, little swollen buds hiding beneath her T-shirt the nipples just starting to swell. Absolutely perfect. Well worth it, the wait, the money.

* * *

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About the Writing of Gemma (Continued)

view, without judgment. Immediately, my step-father’s face flashed into my mind, followed by my mother’s ex-boyfriend of twelve years who was also a violent man and a pedophile, then my step-grandfather who molested me when I was five, and another family member who forced me to perform a sex act when I was seven. Everyone was writing, I could hear their pens scrambling across the page, everyone but me. I sat there paralyzed. Memories of these abusers stealing my air, making my face run hot and cold. I couldn’t write. Just sat there shaking. I wasn’t able to get one word on the page.

Luckily for me, the class ran over and I didn’t have to read my nothing. It was after eleven o’clock at night by the time I got home. I was too agitated to go to bed, so I went into my writing room and tried to write. Finally around two o’clock, something broke, and Hazen’s voice dropped in. He wanted to tell me about the first

time he had sex with Gemma. I was shaking when I was finished writing the piece. Felt slightly nauseous, coated in him somehow, needed to take a shower. Gemma’s voice took longer to find. I actually didn’t even know I was looking for it. Just knew that I didn’t, couldn’t make this short story into the novel that my agent, Charlotte Sheedy was insisting I write. Then one day, Gemma started talking to me and I thought, “Ah… Now I can finally write this book.”

ALSO: In an Interview on Bookslut, I talk more about writing Gemma with Amanda Witherell. Read more

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About the Writing of Gemma

People have asked me how I managed to get inside the mind of Hazen Wood, the thirty-six year old pedophile in my new novel Gemma? How I was able to make his thought process so realistic? Figure out what his motivations were? They want to know how it felt to write him. Was it hard for me, given my background with this type of predator?

The answer is a complex one. Yes, I had an enormous amount of resistance to writing anything from this man’s point of view, let alone, a novel where he is one of two principal characters. I don’t think I ever would have voluntarily chosen to spend even fifteen minutes of my adult life in his company.

The Hazen in my book first came into being in 1999. After Singing Songs was published by Dutton in 1994, I became severely blocked. The reaction from my family to the fact that I had not only written, but even worse, published my memories as a child was…to put it lightly…not pleased.

I hadn’t thought it through, realized how violent their rejection of me was going to be. I

figured since the rest of the world thought it was fiction, why would they care?

The writing that had once flowed out so happily, slammed shut. I staggered around for a couple of years, totally bereft, and then at some schmoozy party, somebody mentioned that they belonged to a writers group and was going into raptures about it. It seemed kind of dumb to me, the idea of sitting in a room with a bunch of people writing. I’d always enjoyed the quiet solitude of diving into the word on my own. But at this point, what did I have to lose? I was writing squat. I promptly joined, not one, but two writers groups, both meeting once a week to try to combat this blockage.

The exercise that brought Hazen about came to me around three years into my groups. We were instructed to write from the voice of the other. Someone the polar opposite of oneself. Male, if one was female, and visa versa. Someone whose mind, their way of thinking, you could never imagine understanding. We were to put ourselves into their shoes and write a piece from their point of

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Excerpt from Singing Songs

Abby Road

I like this house pretty much.  Mama and Daddy got the bedroom, the boys got the woodshed, and all us girls get to sleep in the attic cause it's really big.  We divided it out into sections.  Then we played one-potato-two-potato, and I won. So I got the window!

The house is brown. Not painted brown, it just is, cause that's the color of the wood.  And it has a silver roof like a barn.  And a fish pond and an old stagecoach and mistletoe trees. And Sprague River, the closest town, is around thirty miles away!  So no more social workers! They wouldn't even think to drive out this far.

But the very best thing about this house is that Daddy bought us a baby deer.  He found it when he was driving home.  His car hit the mama deer and killed it, and the baby deer wouldn't leave its mama.  Just stayed in the middle of the road.  And Daddy was scared that someone would come along and kill it, so he picked it up and brought it home.

It was a baby girl deer. Real cute. Brown with

cream colored polka dots all over her back. Big, big eyes, tiny black hooves and a wet black nose.

We named her Abby Road and made her a home in

the bathroom. She seemed to like that room the best.  Maybe she liked it cause of the linoleum, cause she could slip-slide all over it like an ice skating rink. Sometimes she would wobble, slide and then lose her balance completely, and splat! Flat on the floor, like one of those fancy rugs you see.

There was a big white old bathtub in the bathroom.  It had metal claw feet. And she liked living in the space between the bathtub and the wall.  She had to squeeze a bit to get in,

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Foreword from Singing Songs

It was the winter, January 1990. I was living in a log cabin, in the woods outside of Whonnock. A rural community with an elementary school, hardware store, small grocery store and a post office the size of a small bathroom.  That was the extent of the town.

My two children, Emily and David, were five and three at the time, and I'd just become pregnant with my youngest child, Will.  I was alone a lot that year, and I found myself writing, for the first time in my life.  Writing became my companion, a friend.  Someone to talk to after I'd tucked the children into their beds.  Someone to share my stories, my life with.

I needed to.  Snippets of my childhood, memories of my life were flooding back to me, unbidden, triggered by my children, an expression, a phrase, a tilt of the head.  My children, looking at me, and then me as a child as a colored filter lying on top as an overlay.  My child's face, my eyes, shape of my mouth, reflected in theirs.

And watching them grow, blossom, was stirring up my shoved aside past.  Calling it to the forefront of my mind, my heart.  The real childhood I experienced, not the made up one that I pretended  to the world.  There was no holding the memories back, they were busting the doors of me out, open wide.

So I wrote.  I picked up a pen and wrote.  Doghouse was the first piece, followed by Buckerfield's, and then the next one came, and the next and the next.  It was like once I started writing, I couldn't stop.  The stories were fictional, but the germinated from my real life. It was a relief to write the stories down, not to have to carry these secrets bottled up inside me anymore.

When I had written five pieces, I contacted Charlotte Sheedy, a literary agent.  "Will you read them?" I said. "And tell me what you think." She agreed to read them, but only if I was prepared t hear the brutal honest truth.  "I  won't make it so you'll never walk again," she growled. "But I'm not going to waste your time or mine if your writing's not good."

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Praise and Reviews for Singing Songs

“A believable child's voice is the most difficult of all a writer can undertake. Meg Tilly has accomplished that voice powerfully in Singing Songs.”
— Dorothy Allison, author of Bastard Out of Carolina

“When Meg Tilly opened her heart and wrote this tender wrenching novel of girlhood, she joined Kay Gibbons and Dorothy Allison as a clear eyed and fierce poet of pain.” — Sandra Scofield, author of Beyond Deserving

“Sometimes creativity blesses twice: Tilly, an actress best known for her portrayal of Chloe, the luminous young lover of the recent suicide in The Big Chill, has written an impressive first novel.”
— Publishers Weekly

“A book of considerable quality…Ms. Tilly has managed to meet some literary challenges with instinctive flair…Her believably brave, unsentimental young narrator manages to persuade the reader to care about yet another family in crisis.”— New York Times Book Review

“A triumph…Meg Tilly’s Anna is absolutely believable, completely irresistible, and she takes the reader with her into her own world.”
— Chicago Sun-Times

“Tilly has done a fine job capturing her young heroine’s quick mind, plangent voice, and the vibrant spirit that helps her survive her rocky upbringing.”
— Christian Science Monitor

“An exquisite first novel about a young girl’s coming-of-age in a dysfunctional family in the Pacific Northwest.”
— Harper’s Bazaar

“Compelling, moving, chilling…Tilly writes of the dark places of childhood…in a fresh, convincing voice.”
— Baltimore Sun

“A masterful novel…a literary debut of major proportions. A great American family saga of rootlessness and ravishment in the tradition of John Steinbeck and Erskine Caldwell.”
— Philadelphia Inquirer

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Excerpt from Gemma

VERY IMPORTANT: This book is not appropriate for anyone under the age of 15.

"I got you a job," he says.

"A job?" I keep my voice causal, keep the eagerness out, just in case I heard him wrong. Could be his idea of a joke or somethin.

"You got me a job?" I say, and I'm sorta nervous, but, to be honest, this is kinda excitin too. I wouldn't mind a job, make a little money. The kids at school would be jealous. Don't know anybody my age that's got a job. Usually you gotta be fifteen, sixteen.  Which is kinda a dumb rule, cause I'm a real hard worker. Shouldn't matter the age, they'd get their money's worth outta me.

"Yeah..." he says. " I got you a job." He looks at me. "And you'll want to do well at this job, right?"

And I say, "Yeah. Yeah!" I smile big so he'll know I mean it. Don't know why he's bein so nice all of a sudden. But a job would be cool. Really cool.

"Don't want to mess up, right? He says, and I shake my head so he'll know I'm sincere, he keeps talkin.  "Cause if you mess up, I'm gonna be real pissed. And you don't want to get me pissed,

isn't that right?"

"Uh... huh..." And I nod my head. I don't know why, but my heart's poundin and my mouth is real dry. I mean, I'm glad to have a job, but I'm kind of scared, too.  Buddy's not much fun when you mess up. "What ... what do I gotta do?" I ask.

But he doesn't answer me. Not really, just laughs, not a nice laugh, not a friendly one, and says, "Sugar, you just do what you do best." And he's still laughin about that one as he jerks the steerin wheel hard, cross two lanes of traffic, and there we are, pullin into a Denny's parkin lot. And I think, "Oh, Denny's, maybe I'm gonna get to be a waitress."

I'd like that. That would be nice.  Maybe I'd get a uniform and everything!

* * *

Hazen is sitting in Denny's restaurant. Got himself a booth in the corner, back against the wall, good vantage point of the door.  Hands sweaty, the dregs of his coffee gone cold, got that tie-die thing going with the sugar, the cream. He swirls it slowly, both hands wrapped

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Praise and Reviews for Gemma

“Even with all my experience prosecuting these cases, Gemma affected me so much that I can’t get it out of my mind. The night I read the first chapter, I had nightmares about it and I never have nightmares. This is a truly magnificent work.”
— Judge Ken Freeman and former district attorney

“Never had I read a book on this subject that so effectively captures both the psychology of the abusive relationship along with the social systems that work both to help and hinder the victim.”
— Susan Sarandon

“Page by page, Meg Tilly holds you captive while portraying every parent’s worst nightmare.”
— Barbara Snider, case director, Missing Children Society of Canada

“Tilly achieves moments of raw beauty and genuine fierceness…”
— Booklist

“Tilly… successfully captures Gemma’s wounded voice. The story is told from the point of view of both Gemma and her captor, and Tilly is equally proficient at conjuring up a revolting and consummately villain.”
— Kirkus Reviews

“A gripping book that is a must-read. Meg Tilly gives the reader a chance to experience firsthand the horrors children endure when they are sexually abused.”
— Carla Van Dam, Ph.D., forensic psychologist and author of The Socially Skilled Child Molester and Identifying Child Molesters

“Stunning and scalding, hypnotic and horrifying, Meg Tilly's Gemma, a novel about child abuse, pulls no punches. ... As a warning and a testament, Gemma is remarkable.”
— Susan Fromberg Schaeffer, Author of Poison

Review in the San Francisco Bay Guardian: "A novel by Meg Tilly turns the Lolita tale on its head"

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About the Writing of Porcupine (Continued)

started talking to me. She wanted to tell me about a swing she and her dad built. And that’s how Porcupine started.

I love this book. There is such a sweetness that runs through it’s core, even though the children battle through such difficult times. I borrowed bits of me. I too had a pet chicken named Coconut Zigzag who hatched a duck egg for me. The shoveling out the chicken house is a direct lift from my life except I would go into the woods and collect moss from the woods to spread on the floor because we couldn’t afford the hay. The fishing story and the rattlesnake section both were lifted from my life, as was the porcupine piece. Obviously there are small changes as the characters are fictional as is the setting. We did the cooking in our house, whereas in Porcupine, their Gran does.

(I’m being obscure here, because I don’t want to give away parts of the story) I know what it’s like to get up in the dark and milk the cow and I

wanted to give the reader a chance to experience the hard work and warmth, the smells and grit of life on a farm. I wanted to show how nature was a balm that soothes and comforted me in difficult times. And if you enjoy reading Porcupine one eighth as much as I enjoyed the writing of it, then the time and love I put into this book was well worth it!

One last thing. I know it says for readers 9-12 on the back of the book. However, this book really is meant to be enjoyed for people of all ages!

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About the Writing of Porcupine

When my agent was trying to sell Gemma she sent it to Doug Pepper at McCleeland & Stewart. He read it and then gave it to Kathy Lowinger at Tundra, the children’s branch of their publishing house. She felt that Gemma was most emphatically not appropriate for teens, but approached me to see if I would be interested in attempting to write a novel for young adults.

I was.

We were raised without TV. Money was very tight with so many children in the family and only my mother working, so purchasing the great quantities of books that us children consumed was not an option. However, the library was! We lived for library day, when we would take the ferry over to the mainland, load up on a weeks worth of groceries and a weeks worth of books. And with so many brothers and sisters, we were able to check out a massive amount of books. In many ways I always felt that books saved me as a child.

They gave me windows into other peoples lives, showed me there were other ways of doing things,

other people who survived hardships and how they coped. They showed me what was possible. Or there were the comforting books of normal everyday life with a mother and a father and warm cookies after school. I also loved the historical books that would take dried up, dusty old history and make it real, tangible, engrossing. There were magical books that filled my heart with hopes and dreams, of fairy tales and escape and maybe someday it would happen to me. The library and the books it supplied was a great source of comfort to me as a child and young adult.

So, when I received the letter from Kathy Lowinger suggesting that I try writing for Young Adult, it was an incredibly exciting idea to me. It was like I was being handed an opportunity to speak to myself when I was young. I wanted to write the kind of book that I would have enjoyed. A book that would have helped me. Made me feel seen, heard, my experience validated.

I had several ideas rolling around in my head, then one day, Jack, a 12 year old girl,

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Praise and Reviews for Porcupine

"Jack's unwavering determination to keep up the spirits of her spoiled younger sister and her learning-disabled younger brother will move readers, and her gradual recognition of her mother's self-centeredness and her great-grandmother's love is realistic....The story has depth..."
— Publishers Weekly

"...this novel expands the meaning of family. There is no sentimentality in Jack's first-person narrative; she's honest about her anger, her sadness and disappointment, and her need....A solid YA offering by the author of several adult books."
— Booklist

"..behind [Jack Cooper's] rough tongue and no-nonsense story lies a real poet. That is one of this novel's greatest strengths: the lovely language and the moments reflecting on simple sights and senses that strike deep beneath Jack's hard shell as she proves herself to be as capable as any adult."
— Vancouver Sun

"Porcupine is a heart-wrenching story....The characters are beautifully drawn. They all have strengths and flaws, just like real people, and as a result, the reader's heart bleeds for them all....Meg Tilly...is not a Hollywood star using her fame to get published; she is a talented writer who has only recently begun sharing her stories. Highly Recommended."
— CM Magazine

"Reminiscent of Cynthia Voigt's "Tillerman" stories (S & S), this novel has a similarly determined, responsible, but still appealing protagonist and a similarly strong sense of place: in this case, the prairies of Alberta, Canada. In her fierce efforts to make everything OK for her younger brother and sister, Jack becomes almost as prickly as her great-grandmother, and readers will appreciate how her school-slow little brother can help her reveal the softness inside. A very satisfying read.
— School Library Journal (starred review)

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Singing Songs

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Originally published in 1994, Meg Tilly's debut novel, Singing Songs, still resonates as a profound statement about the secrets families keep from the rest of the world, as Anna, the resilient young narrator, journeys through childhood, trapped in a fragmented family caught in a cycle of abuse, denial, and neglect. This new edition of Singing Songs includes a foreword by the author, reflecting on how memories from her own childhood inspired her to write this novel.

Praise and Reviews for Singing Songs

"A believable child's voice is the most difficult of all a writer can undertake. Meg Tilly has accomplished that voice powerfully in Singing Songs."
— Dorothy Allison, author of Bastard Out of Carolina
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Read the book's foreword

Read Meg's foreword to the book. Read more

Excerpt

I chose this excerpt from Singing Songs because it was such a happy memory and the picture my mum sent to me where I'm hugging Tilly-two (aka Abby Road) went so well with the piece. Read more

Click here to buy the Singing Songs audio book.

Gemma

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After Hazen Wood kidnaps twelve-year-old Gemma Sullivan, the two embark upon a cross-country journey that tests the limits of Gemma's endurance. In graphic scenes of physical and sexual violence, Hazen tries to destroy the young girl's will. Gemma's childlike resilience and fertile imagination protects her from the worst of the trauma she suffers. It is only the healing power of unconditional love that gives Gemma the courage to speak out against her abuser at last.

Praise and Reviews for Gemma

"A gripping book that is a must-read." — Carla Van Dam, Ph.D., forensic psychologist
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About the Writing of Gemma

People have asked me how I managed to get inside the mind of the pedophile in Gemma? Read more

Excerpt

I've chosen this excerpt because it gives you a flavor of both Hazen and Gemma's voices. We start with Gemma. She is in Buddy, her mother's boyfriend's truck. He has picked her up unexpectedly from school and is taking her somewhere. Read more

VERY IMPORTANT: This book is not appropriate for anyone under the age of 15.

I donate a large percentage of my royalties from Gemma to organizations that help girls who are trapped in difficult situations, like Gemma was. So when you buy my novel Gemma, or the audio recording of Gemma, you are part of the solution. (So far I have been able to donate over 22,600 dollars Canadian!)

Click here to buy the Gemma audio book.

Porcupine

Buy the book
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I believe in supporting our neighbourhood book stores. Whenever possible, please try to shop there first. If that's inconvenient for you, use these options to purchase online.

About the writing of Porcupine

When I received the letter from Kathy Lowinger suggesting that I try writing for Young Adult, it was an incredibly exciting idea to me... Read more

Excerpt

There were so many excerpts I wanted to choose for this book, but I decided to go with this one because it's close to the begining of the story and won't give away what's going to happen. Read more

Praise and Reviews

Read praise for Porcupine from Booklist and Publishers Weekly.

War-torn Afghanistan could not seem farther from Newfoundland, but it is about to change twelve-year-old tomboy Jack Cooper (or Jacqueline, as her mother insists on calling her) forever. When her father is killed in the war, she watches helplessly as her mother crumbles under sorrow and depression. Jack and her younger sister and brother, Tessa and Simon, end up across the country, living on a run-down farm in a small town on the Prairies with a great-grandmother they didn't know existed. Worried that they will be abandoned again if Gran moves into a retirement home, Jack puts on a brave face and encourages Tessa and Simon to take on the challenges of their new life. In the process, she learns that families come in many different forms and that love, trust, and faith can build a home anywhere.

Porcupine

A young girl deals with the loss of her father who was the center of her heart. Click here to read more.

Gemma

Gemma, a 12-year-old girl is kidnaped by Hazen Wood, a violent 36-year-old pedophile. Click here to read more.

Singing Songs

These are my memories of growing up. These stories do not represent the experience of my whole family. We are each entitled to our own truth. I speak these stories from my heart and my gut to help other people who have grown up like me know that they aren't alone. Click here to read more.