A week or so ago I stumbled upon an excerpt from a book written by the amazing Leigh Bardugo. I was immediately enthralled (this should be no surprise) by the story she was sharing and shared the excerpt everywhere, and then looked up the book that this empowering story would be a part of. I’m excited to share a snippet of the full excerpt and share a giveaway, but first the book details!Last Night A Superhero Saved My Life Published by Thomas Dunne on June 7, 2016
Genres: Anthologies (multiple authors), Graphic Novel, NonFiction, Writing and Essays
As broad as our exponentially growing cultural fascination with caped crusaders is, it runs just as deep as this long awaited anthology underscores. Liesa Mignogna the VP, Editorial Director at Simon Pulse and editor of this anthology can expound on the virtues of Batman (her wedding was even Batman-themed) but it's her retelling of incredibly harrowing yet ultimately inspiring encounters with The Dark Knight over the years, as she struggled to coexist with the supervillains in her own family that birthed this collection.
Last Night, A Superhero Saved My Life gives readers the chance to connect to their beloved authors, while those same authors connect to their beloved superheroes, and within that feedback loop of respect and admiration lies a stellar, and phenomenally accessible, anthology full of thrills, chills, and spills.
Contributors include New York Times bestsellers Christopher Golden, Leigh Bardugo, Brad Meltzer, Neil Gaiman, Carrie Vaughn, Jodi Picoult, and Jamie Ford, as well as award-winners and mainstays like Joe R. Lansdale, Karina Cooper, and Ron Currie, Jr among many others. Last Night, A Superhero Saved My Life's authors share their most hilarious and most heart wrenching experiences with their chosen defender to explain why superheroes matter, what they tell us about who we are, and what they mean for our future.
WE ARE NOT AMAZONS by Leigh Bardugo
It began with a bustier. You can call it a breastplate if you like, but it began as a bustier—Vargas girl lingerie decked out in stars and stripes, a piece of clothing that gives new meaning to suspension of disbelief.
As a kid, eating bowls of cereal and watching Super Friends, I didn’t question how Wonder Woman ran in heels or how she kept that red bustier from sneaking south. I put on my Wondy Underoos, made bulletproof bracelets from construction paper, and took to the backyard to twirl with abandon, utterly transformed. When two girls showed up at a swim party in Wonder Woman bathing suits—as they invariably did—we didn’t fret over the practicalities of fighting crime in your skivvies. We just argued over who got to be Wonder Woman and which poor sucker got stuck being Wonder Girl.
I lived on superhero stories in Saturday morning cartoons. I learned to spell with the
Super Friends dictionary. I adored Firestar in her skintight, flame-emblazoned onesie. In the evenings, I worshipped Lynda Carter as Wonder Woman, down to the rich click of her boots on whatever pavement she happened to be pounding. My favorite episode? The origin story of course, when Diana donned a blond wig and competed in secret to journey to the world of men. I graduated to comics, to Black Canary in fishnets and bolero, to Storm in her Mohawk and midriff-baring leathers. They were power and beauty, and when I was watching or flipping the pages, I walked among them as an equal.
Then, when I was ten, my camp counselor took me aside. Her name was Jill and, though she couldn’t have been twenty, at the time she seemed wise, experienced, infinitely cool. She had red hair to her waist and drove a convertible. I didn’t worry about being in trouble when Jill sat me down at a picnic table at the end of the day. I was a high-achieving kid, eager to please. I just assumed I was being singled out for something special.
“Listen,” she said, voice gentle, raspberry gum cracking. “We think you need to have a talk with your mom about getting some new bras.”
I didn’t really take in her meaning at first. I just remember a full body cringe at hearing my mother and bras mentioned in the same sentence. Only later would I think on the awfulness of that “we,” humiliation hitting in waves that never seemed to lose their force.
The idea of Jill and her friends trying to figure out a tactful way to raise the issue, deciding who would face the task of discussing it with me, all those older, cooler, effortless girls embarrassed on my behalf.
“Something with an underwire,” she continued. Then she gestured vaguely at my chest. “This is kind of out of control.”
I wish my body had actually been out of control. Then I might have thrown up on her shoes or peed on the picnic table or spat my teeth out at her. Instead I just nodded, croaked, “Sure,” and spent the rest of the day hunched over, desperate to be home, cursing the thin cotton of my rainbow T-shirt, wondering who was looking at me and what they saw. I rode the bus home with my knees drawn up to my chest, feeling every jounce in the road, every damning jiggle.
Out of control.
Apparently, my breasts required something more than a training bra to keep them in check. They were out of training. They had run amok and taken to the field.
To read the full story head over to Mashable!
Thanks to the amazing people over at St. Martins I have a copy to give away! – US ONLY