The Legendary Mo Seto – Book Excerpt

Happy Thursday, friend! Welcome to an interview with author A.Y. Chan about her debut Middle Grade novel, The Legendary Mo Seto. Let’s welcome A.Y. and learn more about this book!

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Get to know the author: A.Y. Chan

Hi A.Y.! Welcome to Armed with A Book. Tell me and my readers a bit about yourself!

Hi, Kriti and readers of Armed with a Book! I am overjoyed to be able to share a bit about myself and my book, THE LEGENDARY MO SETO, with you all! I always find talking about myself challenging—that’s probably the introvert in me coming out. I think that’s why I gravitated toward reading. From a young age, I would hide away in my room for hours at a time. I read so much my parents couldn’t keep up with my library visits, and soon I was pestering them to take me to Goodwill so that I could buy books to keep forever. I still remember the giddy excitement I felt standing in front of those overflowing bookshelves and the weight of paperbacks piled high in my arms. Books were 25 cents each, and I went bananas. I discovered some of my favorite authors during those visits, such as L.M. Montgomery, Gordon Korman, Judy Blume, and many others. And now, decades later, I am filled with gratitude at the prospect of a young reader hiding out in their room…and reading my book!

What inspired you to write this book?

I started Taekwondo when I was six and, growing up, I longed to read books about kick-butt girls doing kick-butt things, but there really weren’t as many as I had hoped for. As a Canadian and with our lovely eight months (or more!) of winter, there was not much else to do but read—and to think about books I’d love to read. Since then, the idea for THE LEGENDARY MO SETO has been percolating in my head. 

What makes your story unique?

The merging of martial arts and movies and a fierce young protagonist! I love the thrill of martial arts movies and action movies; I love the way the action sequences make you leap out of your seat, the sound effects of the punches and kicks finding their mark, the look of victory on the main character’s face when they’ve defeated the big bad… And I wanted to write a story that mimics that cinematic excitement.

Who would enjoy reading your book? 

Hopefully everyone! I set out to write a story to inspire kids not only to be brave and never give up, but also to love themselves—every inch of themselves. I also wanted to make this a fun read for both kids and parents alike (as I’m an avid MG book reader myself despite being far from the target age!).

Did you bring any of your experiences into this book?

Yes! I have a black belt in Taekwondo, and I have dabbled with other martial arts, such as Hapkido, Muay Thai, Capoeira, Karate, and Wing Chun. I love learning the philosophies behind each of these forms and how they are effective in their own ways. I used my knowledge and experience to create a new type of martial art form, that plays a prominent role in my story and helps my protagonist Mo connect with her roots and find her way.

What’s something you hope readers would take away from it?

I would love if readers came away from my story feeling a rush of excitement, hope, and joy—much like the thrill you might feel at the cinema, after the credits start rolling, and you are dazed by the whirlwind adventure you had just experienced. I want readers to know that they are brave and fierce and perfect just the way they are.

Do you have a favourite quote or scene in the book that you find yourself going back to?

I really enjoyed writing the scene where Mo finds out about the auditions for the new Cody Kwok movie. Her joy is so pure, and her excitement is contagious. She is determined to win the part—not only because Cody Kwok is her favorite movie hero since forever, but also because she feels this will make her dad proud of her again. 

What is something you have learned on your author journey so far?

Writing a book is hard, but what comes after it is even harder! The hundreds of revisions after a first draft are enough to make one’s head spin, not to mention figuring out publishing, promotions, publicity, etc. Writing, like visual arts, is subjective, and not everyone will enjoy every piece of work. All we can do is try our best, and continue learning, growing, and improving!

What’s the best piece of advice you have received related to writing?

I’ve learned so much! But the one piece of advice that recently helped me out of a writing slump is this: Focus on (or create) your ticking clock. A ticking clock is a narrative device that inserts a sense of urgency and suspense into the story and keeps the reader on their toes. It might be a big deadline our heroes need to make, or an event they need to get to…or it could be a literal bomb. The countdown is exciting and heightens the tension, providing many opportunities for our heroes to run into obstacles and make decisions under pressure, leading to high stakes challenges and opportunities for growth. 

If you could give a shout out to someone(s) who has helped in your writer journey, please feel free to mention them below!

My agent, Jennifer March Soloway, has been my anchor throughout my whole publishing journey. We connected through a shared love of martial arts movies (of all things!) and I am eternally grateful for her never-ending enthusiasm and support…and for just being a truly wonderful human being. 

She is also a vessel of valuable information about reading and writing and all things books, and I encourage everyone to follow her on social media (X): @marchsoloway   

Where can readers find you on the Internet?

X: @aychanwrites

Website: www.aychanwrites.com

Instagram: @aychanwrites

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Book Excerpt from
The Legendary Mo Seto

Chapter 1

I Am Fierce

I may be small, but I am fierce. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. Over and over again. Fierce.

“Charyeot,” the taekwondo tournament referee says in Korean. Attention.

I snap my arms to my sides.

“Kyeong-nae,”the ref says. Bow.

I turn to face my opponent, Dax Washington. His dark skin glistens with sweat. We dip our heads.

I look up to see Dax towering over me, his eyes stormy.

It suddenly occurs to me how much “fierce” sounds like “fears.” Not that I’m scared or anything. I’m not.

“Sijak!” The ref throws up his hand. Begin! Immediately Dax’s large fists hammer down like a hailstorm.

Well, maybe I’m a little worried.

Dax lunges. I block his front kick with my forearm. I flinch and reel back. The ref blows his whistle, but Dax doesn’t stop. I barely have time to move before—oof—another kick nails me in the elbow.

Okay, fine. I’m totally panicking.

What would Cody Kwok do? My martial arts hero would never show any sign of weakness. And neither will I.

I quickly rearrange my face to neutral.

I kick and punch, and strike and shift. We volley back and forth, each landing some blows, blocking others. Dax’s heel smashes into my elbow, and I let out an involuntary shriek.

The whistle blows, twice this time. Finally Dax falls back. If I were refereeing, I’d give him a penalty. But all this ref says is, “Excessive force warning, Mr. Washington. Remember to use control.”

At least he gives Dax a You should know better look.

And Dax should know better. He’s been in my tae kwon do class twice a week, every week, since we were five. And now that we’re twelve and junior black belts, he really has no excuse.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Dax smiles at the ref and bows his apology. He sounds sincere, but I know his phony voice.

And when the ref looks down to reset his scoring box, Dax pulls a Jekyll-and-Hyde, his smile turning into a sneer.

“You’re so gonna lose,” he says, low enough that only I can hear. “’Cause . . .”

He bends his knees so he’s several inches shorter—though even in this position, he towers over me.

I feel a tiny rip in my chest, like when a balloon is pinched but doesn’t pop, that slow leak of air—hisss.

Dax knows how to hit where it hurts. Junior-level sparring is based on age and belt level, not on size. Even after vitamins, and broccoli, and jumping jacks for a year, I’m still only four-foot-six-and-a-half. Mom says the women in her family are late bloomers, but she’s barely four-foot-nine, so I’m not holding my breath.

Why do I have to be so small? The familiar thought bursts through like a weed after a rainstorm. I used to destroy Dax all the time, but ever since his growth spurt at the end of last summer, he’s beat me in the fall, winter, and spring tournaments.

That’s three. Three tourneys.

Silver is great too. Variety is the spice of life, Dad would say, as if losing gold isn’t a big deal. But in the days and weeks after, he’d be more subdued and make me train twice as long every day. Kick harder, Mouse. You must beat him next time, Mouse. Because being the best really does matter to him. A lot.

It matters to me, too. Today’s tourney, the Dost Valley Cali-wide Mid-Year Tae Kwon Do Championship, takes place right at the start of summer, and it is the biggest one of the year. I’ll show Dax.

And—I glance at the bleachers—I’ll show Dad.

“Get him, Mouse.” Dad’s ringing voice reaches my ears. There he is in the front row, as usual, standing out in his bright red polo shirt, dancing his embarrassing dad-dance shuffle thing, hollering his nickname for me. Mouse. Short for “Mousey,” which is what I called myself back when pronouncing my name, Modesty, was impossible for a toddler. He’s been traveling a lot for work the past few months, but he promised he’d be here for my big tournament, and he is.

“Bop,” Dad yells. “Pow.” He throws what looks like an awkward boxer’s jab and nearly topples over onto my mom, sitting, prim and proper, in her flowery dress, clutching my squirming two-year-old brother, Justis. I wince, but I also can’t help smiling.

Dad’s a jokester. With his thick hair and round, clean-shaven face, he looks much younger than thirty-nine. He’s not a tall guy, but he’s broad shouldered with a bit of a belly, and he has a boomingly loud voice, so he tends to stand out.

He’s also my greatest fan.

The ref calls us to attention. “Score is tied. Next point wins. Clean strikes.” He looks pointedly at Dax. Dax scowls, but nods.

The spectators, the sounds, everything around me fades away. It’s just me and my opponent. I pound my gloves softly together like I’m giving them fist bumps. The leather is torn and indented from years of heavy use, but I would never dream of replacing them. Don’t let me down, old friends.

I need to attack first, attack fast, attack with everything I’ve got.

I’m fierce.

The ref drops his hand. Dax lunges at me straightaway, an eclipse blotting out the sun.

I leap to the side, avoiding a flurry of fists. My heart pounds into my rib cage. I launch a roundhouse combination kick, but Dax brushes it away. No points.

Dax advances slowly and steadily, a snake stalking its prey. I stare into his eyes. A flicker to the left could give away a left axe kick a moment before it’s launched. Or a bead of sweat falling into his eye might divert attention long enough for me to attack.

And there it is! Dax glances at something to his side.

I’m just about to spring, when I hear it.

Frenzied music punctuated by a series of doggy yelps. I recognize it instantly. The theme song to my favorite Cody Kwok movie, Shih Tzu Ninjutsu. (What happens when the most feared ninja assassins in the world are actually a group of shih tzu puppies, and the only warrior skilled enough to outsmart them is severely allergic to dogs?)

Dad’s ringtone.

My foot freezes, and it all rushes back to me. The hundreds of people packed into the bleachers. The kiyahs from fighters in other matches. The sharp scent of sweat.

I turn slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad, phone against his ear. He says something to Mom before striding quickly to the nearest exit.

“Yaaaaaah,” Dax hollers, leaping into a push kick. The force sends me stumbling. I try to step around him, but he’s too big, too wide. He corners me, forcing me to the very edge of the ring. I have nowhere to go.

Fears.

My eyes flicker to Dad just as he walks through the gym door. He doesn’t look back.

What was that old Chinese proverb he used to say whenever I felt scared?

When backed against a wall, a tiger learns to fly.

Is Dad backed against a wall like I am now? Is that why he’s leaving? He promised he’d watch my fight. . . . Under my toes I feel the plastic tape outlining the ring.

Fly, Mo!

But my feet remain rooted to the ground.

The next thing I see is Dax’s fist tearing toward my face.

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