Get More Details: Cut (Paperback)
Product Description
From National Book Award finalist Patricia McCormick, a new demeanour for her entrance novel, that THE BOSTON GLOBE called "Riveting and hopeful, sweet, heartbreaking."
A chill arced opposite my scalp. The building sloping adult during me and my physique spiraled away. Then we was on a roof looking down, watchful to see what would occur next.
Callie cuts herself. Never too deep, never adequate to die. But adequate to feel a pain. Enough to feel a roar inside.
Now she's during Sea Pines, a "residential diagnosis facility" filled with girls struggling with problems of their own. Callie doesn't wish to have anything to do with them. She doe sn't wish to have anything to do with anyone. She won't even speak.
But Callie can usually stay wordless for so long....
A chill arced opposite my scalp. The building sloping adult during me and my physique spiraled away. Then we was on a roof looking down, watchful to see what would occur next.
Callie cuts herself. Never too deep, never adequate to die. But adequate to feel a pain. Enough to feel a roar inside.
Now she's during Sea Pines, a "residential diagnosis facility" filled with girls struggling with problems of their own. Callie doesn't wish to have anything to do with them. She doe sn't wish to have anything to do with anyone. She won't even speak.
But Callie can usually stay wordless for so long....
Product Details
- Amazon Sales Rank: #22616 in Books
- Published on: 2011-05-01
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: .50" h x 5.00" w x 6.90" l, .25 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 176 pages
Editorial Reviews
Review
An ALA Quick Pick for YA Readers
we entered a sealed sentinel with some trepidation. The girls on a other side of a doorway were all cramped there since of dangerous things they'd finished with pointy objects: shards of glass, box cutters, knives. Friends had questioned my preference to revisit a ward. But these girls weren't dangerous to others: they were spiteful themselves.
we was shaken since I'd created a publishing about a lady who cut herself - and I'm not a cutter. we was certain a girls would call me out as phony, as a poser, as someone who'd exploited their pain.
One by one, they approached me. With curiosity, with a excitability of their own. And one by one, they told me their stories. Stories of terrible assault - committed opposite themselves. But what changed me even some-more was a privacy and siege they suffered.
One girl, a flattering blond with fluent blue eyes, told me she'd ragged a turtleneck when she went to a beach with her family; no one asked why. Another girl, with an darling boyish hair cut and mischievous eyes, pronounced she kept going to a same hardware store to get bigger blades - wishing that a male behind a opposite would ask her what she was doing with them. And another lady described revelation her relatives pure lies about her cuts - blaming on them on a cat or 'falling on a coke bottle' - always anticipating they'd see by her stories.
Wh at we satisfied afterwards was that they wanted to be found out. They were held in a cycle of spiteful themselves, afterwards being terribly ashamed and fearful of what they'd done, feelings that would expostulate them to harm themselves again - any time, a small worse. They were most promotion what they were doing - since they didn't know how to stop.
Some told friends - afterwards begged their friends not to contend anything. Those friends
Since CUT was published I've listened from thousands of readers: girls who pronounced a book stirred them to get help, endangered friends and pare nts, teachers and therapists who wanted to know what a function that confused and fearful them.
Most moving, though, were a comments from a girls in that sealed ward. They all review my publishing - afterwards asked to see my scars. we told them, with some hesitation, that we done a story up, that we had never self-injured. 'But we told my story,' they any said. 'How could we know how it felt?' And it dawned on me, then, finally, since we identified with them, since I'd created a book in a initial place.
we was that lady in a book - a lady who was so lonely, so indignant and harm - and so confused that we couldn't put it all into words.
The girls during SAFE Alternatives gave me their blessing to tell a book. In fact, they were unequivocally gratified to see that their knowledge - something cloaked in privacy and contrition would be put into words. With their possess liberation underway, they hoped that others who were struggling with self-injury would feel reduction alone and get help. By giving Callie a voice, they said, a book was giving them a voice.
But it was those girls who gave me a biggest gift. They gave me a certainty to trust in a energy of a novella - to bond us some-more deeply, perhaps, than a contribution ever could.
A NYPL Book for a Teen Age
"First-timer McCormick tackles a side of mental illness that is frequency seen in young-adult novel in a plausible and supportive manner. . . .. A courteous demeanour during teenage mental illness and recovery." --KIRKUS REVIEWS, starred review
"Like E. L. Konigsburg's Silent to a Bone and Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak, Cut is another authentic-sounding n ovel in that elective mutism plays a part, this time with amusement creation a pain of adolescence left badly some-more bearable...an well-developed impression investigate of a immature lady and her sanatorium friends who onslaught with demons so serious that usually their bodies can confess." --BOOKLIST
From a Author
we entered a sealed sentinel with some trepidation. The girls on a other side of a doorway were all cramped there since of dangerous things they'd finished with pointy objects: shards of glass, box cutters, knives. Friends had questioned my preference to revisit a ward. But these girls weren't dangerous to others: they were spiteful themselves.
we was shaken since I'd created a publishing about a lady who cut herself - and I'm not a cutter. we was certain a girls would call me out as phony, as a poser, as someone who'd exploited their pain.
I'd spent some-more than dual years operative on a book - yet we was prepared to toss it a rubbish if these girls told me that we had no right to try to tell their story.
One by one, they approached me. With curiosity, with a excitability of their own. And one by one, they told me their stories. Stories of terrible assault - committed opposite themselves. But what changed me even some-more was a privacy and siege they suffered.
One girl, a flattering blond with fluent blue eyes, told me she'd ragged a turtleneck when she went to a beach with her family; no one asked why. Another girl, with an darling boyish hair cut and mischievous eyes, pronounced she kept going to a same hardware store to get bigger blades - wishing that a male behind a opposite would ask her what she was doing with them. And another lady described revelation her relatives pure lies about her cuts - blaming on them on a cat or 'falling on a coke bottle' - always anticipating they'd see by her stories.
Wh at we satisfied afterwards was that they wanted to be found out. They were held in a cycle of spiteful themselves, afterwards being terribly ashamed and fearful of what they'd done, feelings that would expostulate them to harm themselves again - any time, a small worse. They were most promotion what they were doing - since they didn't know how to stop.
Some told friends - afterwards begged their friends not to contend anything. Those friends
were afterwards pulled into a tip and struggled with their possess contrition and worry. But a lot of a girls during SAFE Alternatives, a core we visited, were there because of those friends. Friends who were peaceful put their loyalty on a line - by revelation a devoted adult - since they famous that it was a tip too dangerous to keep.
Since CUT was published I've listened from thousands of readers: girls who pronounced a book stirred them to get help, endangered friends and pare nts, teachers and therapists who wanted to know what a function that confused and fearful them.
Most moving, though, were a comments from a girls in that sealed ward. They all review my publishing - afterwards asked to see my scars. we told them, with some hesitation, that we done a story up, that we had never self-injured. 'But we told my story,' they any said. 'How could we know how it felt?' And it dawned on me, then, finally, since we identified with them, since I'd created a book in a initial place.
we was that lady in a book - a lady who was so lonely, so indignant and harm - and so confused that we couldn't put it all into words.
I remember all too good how alone we felt.
I did some self-destructive things - we consider we all do - and took on shortcoming and contrition for things that weren't unequivocally cave to shoulder.
The contribution of my life were opposite from theirs; a roma ntic law was a same.
The girls during SAFE Alternatives gave me their blessing to tell a book. In fact, they were unequivocally gratified to see that their knowledge - something cloaked in privacy and contrition would be put into words. With their possess liberation underway, they hoped that others who were struggling with self-injury would feel reduction alone and get help. By giving Callie a voice, they said, a book was giving them a voice.
But it was those girls who gave me a biggest gift. They gave me a certainty to trust in a energy of a novella - to bond us some-more deeply, perhaps, than a contribution ever could.
About a Author
Patricia McCormick, a finalist for a National Book Award, is a acclaimed author of CUT, MY BROTHER'S KEEPER, SOLD, and PURPLE HEART. Her entrance novel, CUT, was an ALA Quick Pick for YA Readers, an ALA Best Book for Teenagers, and a NYP L Book for a Teen Age. She lives in New York City.
By Patricia McCormick
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By Patricia McCormick
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