why am i publishing it then

The most embarrassing thing in the world had to be this - waking up in a cold bathtub with an unfairly hot firefighter holding an oxygen mask over his face. Also shivering, because hey, cold tub, and it’s December and the window is open. 

Dean stared, dazed, into beautiful blue eyes. A voice like liquid sin encouraged him to take deep breaths of the oxygen flowing through the mask.

“…carbon monoxide leak, your whole building was compromised. A man name Sam said you weren’t answering your phone. I apologize for breaking down the door. You do need to go to the ER and get checked out.”

“Yeah,” Dean said dopily.

Blue eyes frowned. “You’re still affected.” He spoke into his radio. “The EMTS are on their way up. I’m going to drain the water.” The man reached into the tub - between Dean’s spread legs - to pull the plug. 

It suddenly occurred to Dean that he was naked. In a tub. With a hot firefighter staring at him as the water gurgled down the drain. He made an awful sounding whine and gripped the sides of the tub, trying to pull himself out. 

“No, none of that, you’re alright,” his fireman soothed, reaching for the towel on the bar. He gently spread it over Dean’s lap. “Better?”

Dean nodded. “Dean,” he said softly. 

Blue eyes smiled. “I know. Sam told us. I’m Cas.”

“Hi Cas.”

“Hello Dean.”

Ok so someone sent me this ask and I replied but apparently it doesn’t get published

My question to this person was why any of that is indicative of me being a lesbian?

I appreciate the female anatomy because I too am a female.

I also love photography and appreciate the way some people capture the female body.

I also support LGBT rights and reblog things of girls kissing cause it’s cute and I shouldn’t have to think it’s not cute just because I personally am not a lesbian.

There’s nothing indicative about any of it, people just draw the conclusions they want to see.

‪#‎BBMovesToNYC‬ 🗽

Hello, friends!!! Here’s my exciting news: I’ll be starting my career in publishing and working for Penguin Random House in 2016!!! 🎉

Check out my latest blog post for all the details on my move to the city – direct link below 😁

Thank you to P.S. Literary Agency for LOSING THE LIGHT by Andrea Dunlop (a very much anticipated read that releases in February 2016!) and Viking Books for WHY WE CAME TO THE CITY by Kristopher Jansma📖

Read my blog post here | like this on bookstagram | WHY WE CAME TO THE CITY amazon US | LOSING THE LIGHT amazon US

Why Am I Angry?

Where do we even start, y’all?

(Disclosure: I am Jewish. I have read the blurb and first chapter of the book. I refuse to read any more because I can’t stomach it. I have read reviews of the book. Many of them. I also have absolutely no patience anymore for what is happening.)

As you may have heard, there was a book published and nominated for lots of awards. Said book is a “romance” between a Jewish girl and the head of a concentration camp.

And people are still confused why we’re upset?

I don’t…understand how y’all are still confused why we’re furious.

Let me help y’all understand.

(Here are some other links about what’s been happening.)

Now, let’s break this down.

Exactly what are the things we’re angry about?


What is considered a romance? A consensual relationship.

What’s not considered a romance? A non-consensual relationship.

The head of a concentration camp could have killed a Jew at any time. Ever. Because he could. Why? Why not? The heads of the camps were not ever known for being “nice”. Or “compassionate”. Or pick any word that would positively describe someone.

There are stories that when the higher ups came to visit the camps, they would gather a room full of the prettiest Jewish girls they could find. (And yes. Many were blonde haired and blue eyed) And they would shuttle all these girls into the gas chambers, and let the higher up turn it on and watch the girls die.

The heads of the concentration camps were the things nightmares were made of. The regular soldiers in the camps were awful enough. The heads? The heads were monsters.

No Jewish girl would have fallen in love with someone who was in charge of a killing factory of her own people.

None of them. Ever.

The head of a concentration camp and a Jew would not be consensual anything. It would be rape. It would maybe be Stockholm Syndrome. But it would in no way, shape, or form, be consensual.

Did things like this happen? Where SS soldiers would rape Jewish women?

Yes. Multiple times.

There are people alive today that are the result of SS soldiers raping Jewish women.

It was never consensual.

Do you want to write a book about the head of a concentration camp and a Jewish girl? I don’t suggest you do, but if for some reason you decide it’s a good idea, please remind yourself that any relationship they have is not a consensual one, thereby, not a romance.


Apparently, “Jew converts to Christianity” is a trope in inspirational romance.

Pardon me while I go and vomit.

For Jewish people, converting is a big no no.

A very, very, very big no no.

Also, just a few key words for you to remember. The Crusades. The Spanish Inquisition.


I didn’t know, until last night, that that was something that happened in IR. I don’t spend much time there.

But let’s be real clear, shall we?

You may not use tragedies that we have suffered through as a vehicle for your religious agenda.

I tweeted about this last night, and I’m going to say it again here.

Jesus would not have helped anyone in the Holocaust. The Nazis were meticulous in their Jew hunting. If you were even an eighth Jewish, meaning that ONE grandparent was Jewish, you were sent to the camps.

You could have been the Christianest Christian, but if there was any Jewish blood in you, they didn’t care.

So don’t tell me Jesus would have saved me in the Holocaust. Jesus would have been in the concentration camp, too.

He was Middle Eastern and Jewish. He wouldn’t have lived.


There were uprisings in the concentration camps that nobody talks about. In Sobibor, they had a successful uprising, and many of the people in the camps were able to escape. Many lived.

But people don’t talk about uprisings. They don’t talk about the Jews who hid in forests the entire war, killing any Nazi they could.

Because it’s so much easier to look at Jews as helpless and useless. It makes us less human and more lambs to the slaughter.

And yes, there were people who went like lambs to the slaughter. They didn’t know. And yes, I’m sure it was, in some ways, easier for them, not knowing what was going to happen.

But most people knew exactly what was happening.

After living in ghettos.

After being crammed into train cars and watching the person next to you die.

After working in the concentration camp every day, and not know if you were going to live to see tomorrow.

But painting Jewish people like they were innocent little children dehumanizes them. 

They were rabbis and artists and farmers and carpenters and scientists and doctors and butchers and bankers and tailors and musicians.

They were not helpless little children who were suffering without Jesus before the Holocaust. Please stop painting them as such.


You know, until last night, I was willing to give KB the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she was just a terribly, terribly misguided evangelical Christian. (That wouldn’t have made things better at all. It just would have maybe explained how she was okay writing a book like this.)

But no.

When you use the gates of Auschwitz as promotional material, you go from being ‘perhaps misguided’ to blatantly anti-Semitic.

Filed under things I never in my wildest nightmares thought I would have to say: “Don’t use the gates of Auschwitz to promote your awful, non-consensual ‘romance novel’.”

And yet.

This is basically the definition of not okay.

1.1 MILLION Jews were killed in Auschwitz. 1 out of 6 Jews that died in the Holocaust were killed there.

It is a place where unspeakable horrors happened.

The name alone is triggering to many Jewish people.

She used the gates of Auschwitz.

“Arbeit macht frei”

Work will make you free.

Work did not make anyone in that concentration camp free.

She apparently also used Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, as promotion.

Quoted from her blog: “I’m happy to report a wonderful response to my recent newsletter book giveaway in honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day.” 


You don’t use genocide as a way to promote your anti-Semitic book.



Let’s start by saying, um, Kate. What version of the Book of Esther have you read? Is there another version I have never read or learned?

(Yes, there is. I have never read the Christian version of the Book of Esther. Was I wrong to assume it was basically the same? It seems so.)

I have learned the Book of Esther in depth. Many times. And so, when someone tries to claim that they wrote a ‘retelling’ of Esther when it is CLEARLY not, I feel the need to prove them wrong.

A few points:

*According to absolutely nobody did Esther ever ‘fall in love’ with Achashverosh. According to many people, she was married to Mordechai. So. Just FYI. (Oh, and? She never wanted to become Achashverosh’s wife.)

*Esther did not love Haman. Really, y’all. This did not need to be spelled out.

*Esther did not lose her Judaism when she was Queen. If anything, her Judaism strengthened.

*When Haman was killed, the Jews didn’t lean back and say, “Okay, we’re good now.” The decree to kill every Jew hadn’t been revoked, so there was a decree sent out that the Jews were able to fight back. (Esther 8:11)

*When the day came in Adar, the Jews fought back, and after the first day, Esther asked Achashverosh if the Jews in Shushan (the capital city) could have another day. (Esther 9:13) But they didn’t touch the spoils, as mentioned each time.

*The Jews of Shushan killed 500 “important people” the first day, and 300 the second day. The rest of the Jews in Achashverosh’s rule killed 75,000 people. They did not sit back and forgive the people who were still going to try to kill them. 

*Do you know why Jews dress up on Purim? One reason is because that day in Adar, when the Jews fought back, many people dressed up as Jewish people in order not to be killed.


You know what my favorite Holocaust-Purim story is?

In Esther (9:7-10), the ten sons of Haman are listed as being hung. And for some reason, the formatting of those specific sentences are very different than the rest of that of the Book of Esther.

The letters taf, shin, and zayin are smaller than the rest of letters. Any Hebrew copy of the Book of Esther is like that. It’s not an error.

In Hebrew, letters are all used as numbers.

Taf, shin, and zayin added together equal to 707.

When writing the Hebrew date, we don’t write the “5”, the first number. So this Hebrew year, 5775, is written in Hebrew as taf shin ayin hey.

The year 5707 was 1946.

What happened in the year 1946?

The Nuremberg Trials.

Ten people were killed. (Goerig had committed suicide while in prison.)

One of the people who were hanged was Julius Streicher, the publisher of the anti-Semitic newspaper, Der Sturmer, and noted Nazi.

When he was brought to be hung, at one point, he yelled the words “Purimfest 1946!”

But it wasn’t Purim time. It was October.

October 16th, which was Hoshanah Raba, the day in which God seals the verdicts of Rosh Hashanah for the following year.

Haman was a direct descendant of Amalek.

There are those who say that the Nazis were descendants of Amalek as well.

There are no coincidences in Judaism. 


 Please see point #2.


It was a top pick by RT Book Reviews. It got a star from the Library Journal. It was a finalist in the inspirational category at RWA, but it was also nominated for Best First Book.

As mentioned before.

A non-consensual romance is not, in fact, a romance.

Thereby ineligible to be part of the RITAs.

RWA released a statement, which was literal bullshit.

I rewrote it for them HERE.

Dear Kate Breslin,

What books did you read to do research for your book? Did you read Mein Kapf? The Protocols of the Elders of Zion? Every copy of Der Sturmer you could find? 

What books did you read?

You obviously never read The Diary of Anne Frank. Go, My Son. Tell The World. Maus. Night. Boy 30529. The Endless Steppe. Man’s Search For Meaning. Inside The Gas Chambers. Triumph of Hope. They Called Him Mike. 

You have obviously never visited any Holocaust Museum. 

Never heard the shaking voices giving testimony of the horrors they lived through.

Never saw the pictures the Nazis took. Pictures the American soldiers took. 

Never saw the bunk beds. The shoes. The piles of glasses. The faded yellow stars. The pictures of synagogues, burned. The crumpled baby clothing. 

You have never seen the numbers on faded arms.

You have never heard an eighty seven year old woman screaming in Yiddish for her mother not to die when you go visit a nursing home.

You have never seen the friends of this woman, who cry with her while she remembers.

You have never been told in a shaky voice, “Shaifalah, you look just like my sister did.”

You have never visited the nursing home week after week with your friends in elementary school. You have never seen the comfort of Holocaust survivors when you sit for hours and listen to them tell you stories about their lives before Hitler ripped it all away.

You have never had old women think you were their sister and cry to you, asking what they would do now that Mama and Papa were dead. You have never had to run your shaking eleven year old hand up and down their back, and tell them they were going to be okay, they would live, they would be okay, don’t cry, don’t cry as they leaned on you like you were the only anchor in a world gone to hell.

You have never had old men cry as you sat with them, remembering their wives being shot before them.

You have never been begged to not forget what happened to your people, to not let Hitler win, don’t let him don’t let him don’t let him win, honey. You keep living and you keep going and you remember what he did to me and what he did to your people remember remember remember over and over like a chant you can not stop singing, like a beat you can not stop marching to this is the life we live.

You have never sat sobbing after leaving a museum. You have never felt the bile rise in your mouth when you see a picture of the skeletal, naked bodies of your people. You have never felt punched in the face when you saw video footage of Nazi rallies. You have never experienced the terror in your heart from watching a video of Hitler.

You have never looked up the town your family is from, only to see a note saying that the entire town was destroyed by the Nazi, and hardly any Jews survived.

You have never had people throw the word “Auschwitz” at you like a joke and then ask why you weren’t laughing.

You have never seen the words “Heil Hitler” in your grandma’s yearbook and thought you were going to cry. You have never asked your grandmother, who was born in 1945 and converted to Judaism at 19, why people wrote that in her yearbook. You have never had to hear your grandmother say that in 1961, people thought writing “Heil Hitler” was FUNNY.

You have never grown up singing songs about the Holocaust. You have never lived as a Jewish child after the Holocaust.

What research did you do, Kate Breslin? What did you read that gave you permission to write something like this?


Why are we still angry?

Why are we still angry?


Why are you giving us reasons to still be angry?

Why are you telling us that it’s not that big a deal?

That we’re too “WHITE” to have ever been persecuted?

That we don’t have what to complain about?

When have you lived the life of a Jew in 2015? 

Have you realized yet that anti-semitism has never left? That it is more subtle now, that it’s ‘calm down, it wasn’t such a big deal’?

Why are we still angry?


We have never stopped being angry.

We will never stop being angry.

The 13th Zodiac Sign?

Every so often, I get bursts of questions about NASA’s “shift” in the zodiac wheel and the introduction of a 13th zodiac sign called Ophiuchus. This usually happens whenever a post or story on social media about this “new sign” is sort of published and shared. But I am here to tell you not to listen. 

There is no 13th zodiac sign. Ophiuchus is not a zodiac sign. And all learned western astrologers will say the same thing.

So why doesn’t it exist? I’ll give you some reasons.

First and most importantly, the zodiac wheel is not and has essentially never been directly correlated with the constellations. They are correlated with the seasons. The sun enters Aries the moment the sun crosses the celestial equator in March (the spring equinox). The sun enters Cancer the moment the sun reaches the Tropic of Cancer in July (the summer solstice). The sun enters Libra the moment the sun crosses the celestial equator in September (the fall equinox). The sun enters Capricorn the moment the sun reaches the Tropic of Capricorn in December (the winter solstice). There is no direct correlation between the constellations the sun in western astrology. If you don’t like this, consider looking into sidereal astrology.

Next, there is symbolism behind the number 12 that has existed since basically forever and cannot be ignored. Twelve is considered the number of cosmic order, which is basically what astrology is all about. There are 4 elements, 3 modalities, and 6 polarities in the zodiac. There is balance. It’s all about balance. There are 12 months. There are 12 astrological houses. There are 12 basic archetypes. There are 12 apostles. There are 12 animals in the Chinese zodiac. What is associated with the number 13 in terms of order and completion? Thirteen is an odd, prime number. It’s unbalanced. It’s disorderly. A 13th zodiac sign would basically mess everything up.

In addition, NASA didn’t “discover” anything when they ignorantly introduced a 13th zodiac sign. It has always been denied by astrologers, especially over the past few decades. There’s nothing new about all this.

And I’m sort of sick of non-astrologers thinking that they can define and “change” astrology without knowing what they’re talking about. NASA’s deal is science and astronomy. Astrology isn’t science or astronomy. Astrology is not within NASA’s jurisdiction.

So yeah. There is no 13th zodiac sign. Your “sign” didn’t change. Tell your friends. Make posts on your social media, explaining what I explained to you. Stop this 13th zodiac sign panic!


Happy Birthday, Philipp Lahm

  • Literally Anyone: *knows marginally less about any musical than I do*
  • Me: I am a theatre god. I should be publishing encyclopedias on this shit. I am the greatest Thespian mind ever to grace a stage. Truly there are no limits to my knowledge.
  • Literally Anyone: *knows marginally more about any musical than I do*
  • Me: Why did I pick this career? I barely know more than a handful of shows. I'm embarrassing myself even talking about this stuff. Everyone knows I'm a con. There is nothing for it but ot get a job at Burger King cleaning bathrooms and listening to children scream about chicken fries for the rest of my life.

the raven king countdown day eight

Favorite quote
what am I

I can’t tell you what my favorite quote is, because it’s the last line of the series.

The Raven King is my thirteenth published novel, and you’d think — I thought, anyway — that novel-writing would get easier with practice. But in reality, it feels like a magic trick. Every time.

It’s not that I don’t know now if I can finish a novel. That knowledge, grounded in repeated success, at least conveys from project-to-project. The rub is this: I am absolutely certain that I can get to an end of a book. I’m just never sure if I’m going to get to the end. 

Why are you writing this story? 

I have to know the answer to this question before I begin drafting. It’s my mission statement. My endpoint. It’s how I know I’m done: I’ve written the book I intended to write. It means I often have to write several other books that are not the real thing on the way to it. And it’s getting harder, not easier, now that I know more about building stories. Before, I would get stuck when my subconscious stabbed the brakes. I’d be forced to circle back and ask myself why I couldn’t move forward — oh, because you’re telling the wrong story, Stiefvater.

But now! Nice try, writer’s block. I can strong-arm a set of characters through a properly structured set of tasks to create a beginning, middle, and end. 

Just not the one I intended to. 

It’s a tough problem, because only I can diagnose it. I can send a draft to my critique partners and editors and they can sign off on it, but only I can decide if the novel I sent them was the one I set out to create. It becomes even more complex when looking at a project like the Raven Cycle — four novels written over nearly a decade, a series begun when I was a teenager. Back then, the story asked a question that I didn’t have an answer for. That was the why. 

what am I tell me what I am 

Which brings me to the last line of the Raven Cycle. From my fraught inbox, I know readers are looking forward to very different things in the conclusion of the series. They have dozens of different priorities for what constitutes a happy or satisfying or logical conclusion to the series, depending on what they believe the story is about, depending on what their priorities are for a good story. But for me, the why are you writing this story has always had a pretty simple answer, focused around that question that teenage me had no answer for. 

When I wrote the last line in the Raven Cycle, I knew I’d written the story I had intended to. I’d pulled off the magic trick again — whether it’s a trick that anyone else finds diverting is another thing. I wish I could hand a copy to teen-me. 

“Read this, you asshole,” I’d tell her, “it says everything you need to hear.”

She wouldn’t have believed me — I wasn’t big on believing in people back then — but she would’ve come around, I think. 

Good job, kiddo. We did it. Fist bump.

what she says: i’m fine

what she means: the more i think about cursed child, the more i am confused like on what drug JK Rowling must have been when she agreed to publish a script of her almost flawless series where voldemort had a child, where her hero orphan selfless boy tells his son that sometimes, he wished he was not his dad, where the child of hermione SPEW granger allows her daughter to bully the son of her best friend for some mysterious reasons, where draco malfoy has the same haircut as his father while he apparently dispises him very much, where ron weasley gave a love potion to the son of his best friend while he has himself been traumatized by a love potion he consumed during his sixth year, where apparently ron’s love for hermione was only due to viktor krum, where the purest hufflepuff boy turned to the dark side because he was humiliated, where lucius/draco malfoy had the possibilty to change the time and the fate of his family the whole time and they didn’t while they had th ebest redemption arc in the whole series, where hermione would have became cold/angry/mean person because she did not marry ron?????????????? i mean what kind of fanfiction did i read 

Many people seem to expect me to draw this comic forever. You’ve seen the amount of hate that I get for it. Anyone who googles my name will be terrified to even speak to me. Every bit of the person I am is being shred and crushed and mocked. It’s practically destroying my life and any hope that I do anything else in the future, as well as affecting me on physical and mental levels.

Now why am I still doing it? Part of it because making comics is everything I wanted in my life. I guess I could make comics that would make the majority feel good or that aren’t political, but that would feel like betraying my readers. Another part is because those readers are amazing and give me life. People have been sharing their stories with me in a way that would make any creator jealous.

The fact is that I am doing all of this by myself. I never got any help or support from publishers, editors, media, government or visible person of any kind. I’m putting everything in your hands. I trust my readers to keep this project alive. It might make my anxiety peak, as I know that as soon as you grow disinterested in my silly stories, I won’t have any other choice to survive than change my name and return to school.

So please, keep reblogging those stories, like them, comment on them. That’s the reasons why they’re out there. <3

To support me :

MMFD Fanfiction Masterpost

POST CLOSED!! (Exceptions: To update links)

This is a compilation of most of the fiction that was published from January ‘13 - April '14


A couple of weeks ago, @tinakegg brought to my attention that the links that used to work fine in the massive FF masterpost I made back in 2013? weren’t active, therefore it was impossible to use it anymore. I never thanked you @tinakegg because I’m an idiot, I’m so sorry, but you’re the best for letting me know!!!!

I tried to re-activate them but I kept getting this “post too long” warning and it wouldn’t let me modify anything. It turns out that tumblr put a limit to the number of links you can add to one post, and as you know, that one was heaaaavy on links.

NEW MASTERPOSTS  ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓

Links to the all the parts (writers in alphabetical order):

Masterpost P1 (A - Fa)

Masterpost P2 (Fi - I)

Masterpost P3 (J - M)

Masterpost P4 (N - Ra)

Masterpost P5 (Ra - Z)

Masterpost P6 (Writer’s own masterposts and weekly updates)

Don’t forget to visit @mmfdfanfic to get the latest updates in MMFD Fanfiction :)


For most of my life I wrote for myself. Actually, that is not the whole truth. I also wrote for someone - maybe a future grand-daughter; maybe a visitor to a little shop selling “antiques” and old books in the year 2115; maybe an alien from another galaxy who happened upon some dried-up crumbling yellow-paged notebooks in the remnants of a small house on the third rock from a minor star.

I wrote in my journal. I wrote about my day, my emotions, current events, the weather, the laundry, the birth of my children, the death of my mother, and I wrote about wanting to be a writer. In explanation as to why I kept a journal, scribbling in it daily, obsessively, I can only offer this: I needed to get what was in my head out of my head so I would have more room to put more stuff in my head.

I love my journals. Perhaps too much, and in that silly way we become enamored of “things.” My journals are a burden. They take up space and gather dust. I wonder how I would feel if they were somehow destroyed, by flood or fire, or a tornado whisking them away over the rainbow. Years of words erased. Who but I would care, or even know for that matter?

For a relatively short amount of time now, compared with the years of writing for myself and those mysterious, anonymous, future readers, I have been writing to be read by others. It was a journey that I am not going to detail here in this little meandering post, except to say I came to a place where I realized I wanted to create stories and poems and essays that would possibly be read by people living in the time and space I am currently inhabiting: my lifetime.

I struggled alone, had trouble even imagining sending any of my work out into the world in hopes it would be published. I felt overwhelmed by insecurities and by the very real WORK of submitting my writing. But I also knew that what I was writing was important to me, and I was being generous in my writing, sharing what I believed might touch another person in a way that made life less lonely and scary. (I type those words and think, “What hubris… so delusional” - always, the doubts…)

Then in 1998 I registered for a memoir writing workshop at the Hudson Valley Writers’ Center in Sleepy Hollow, New York. There, over several semesters, I learned to overcome my fears, and write, and work at that writing, and share that writing, and listen to critiques of my work, and rewrite, and share once again. I also learned to listen to others who were struggling to write, and to critique their work, and to help them find their way to a final draft.

It was in that workshop that I met three other writers who would become good friends and major players in my journey to come out of the closet as a writer and submit my work for publication. A year or so after the writing workshop ended, the four of us began meeting weekly to continue the work we had begun at the HVWC. Our little writing group has been meeting now for nine years. In that time we wrote a collaborative memoir about our mothers, and each of us has published short stories, poetry, or essays in literary journals. We continue to work on our separate projects and collectively celebrate when any one of us has work published.

As I was reading chapter 6 (Send) of the book On Being A Writer by Charity Singleton Craig and Ann Kroecker, one thought kept whispering to me. It was this: You still write for yourself, but now, when a piece gets published, it belongs to the reader.

What is written is mine. What has been read belongs to the person reading it. I find that thought to be so inspiring. In my hope that something I write and publish will be read and appreciated by another - that it will resonate within that reader and become something that they can use in a positive way - I find a reason to continue. So it seems, I still do write for myself; but now, those words strung together into a story or poem do not have to sit idly on a shelf collecting dust, waiting years for someone to take possession of them.

Writing is work. Submitting is work. But I am a writer, and that is my job. I am not always diligent or even good at either aspect of my job, but it’s “a journey, not a destination.”


(I have written about my reading of On Being A Writer by Ann Kroeker and Charity Singleton Craig in past posts - September 6, September 21, October 11, October 26, Novmeber 15, 2015. the experience has been quite enjoyable and enlightening.)

Why "Why Maddie Ziegler Matters to the Dance World" probably shouldn't have been published.

In case you haven’t seen this article yet, here’s the link: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alexandra-villarreal/why-maddie-ziegler-matter_b_6610384.html

And now, here’s my response:

Keep reading