Never as the crow flies

Calling all Ladies

2011-08-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

Sexism is a social disease. - Author Unknown

I recently read a blog post by one of my absolute favorite authors, Tamora Pierce. She takes the entertainment industry to task for their take "past" sexism and then points out some pretty immediate and current stuff still going on today. Seriously, check it out.

In reading Ms. Pierce's wise rant, I started thinking about the special responsibility (or maybe not) placed on young adult (YA) writers. Sure, adults read YA. And sure, most of us can look at a YA book with a love-struck heroine... er... damsel in distress, and know the difference between that and "real" life. And who's to say that tweens/teens don't see that? (except for those frequenting several Twilight forums on Goodreads.com)

Now, I'm not advocating for censored writing. But Ms. Pierce can come at this social commentary about sexism being a disease in our society (all the while lecturing the geniuses behind such gems as The Playboy Club) from the pristine perspective of a writer, who has in almost in all cases stood her feminism ground. And proudly. Her characters ooze girl-power. They value self-identity and actualization before falling head over heels. That's not to say that Pierce's characters don't fall in love - they do. But it's after the grand adventure of learning who they are.

Isn't that refreshing? It is for me. But is it as refreshing for young girls reading the stories? Or are they flipping through pages to get to the romance? So often I feel like books from my childhood and young adult years had more heroines like in Ms. Pierce's books. Sure, Anne Shirley became Anne Blythe at the end of her many-books (or middle, if you count the Anne of later series with her as mom), but she was a fierce little thing with a fire in her belly that burned with independence. Anne knew who she was before she married her true love, Gilbert.

How many YA books do that now? It seems like so many are warapped in the romance that girl-power has taken a backseat. There are exceptions, I know. (Thank you Katniss & Suzanne Collins for putting her first) But that style does not seem to be the rule anymore. With so many YA books focusing on the romance aspect, what is the message for young girls?

Is there a larger overarching responsibility we have as YA writers to deliver stronger female leads? What say you?

"Dragon Space Battles and Barbarian Bodice Ripping" Not This Fantasy Novel

2011-06-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

Check out my pal Jared's review of Patrick Rothfuss' The Wise Man's Fear.

(l) The MAN, Patrick Rothfuss, (r) His biggest fan, Jared (Side note: we waited in line to see Rock Star Rothfuss for something like four hours! Totally worth it though.)

For a very long time, fantasy and science fiction has wallowed in cheap paperback mediocrity. Each time I read another rehashing of L.H Stranslibads ‘Return of the Dragolord golems’ or ‘The Magisters of the Thradenfellian Space Demons’ I feel like the genre is moving towards its demise. We stand on the precipice of a grim future, where gratuitous dragon space battles and barbarian bodice ripping are all that comprise the smoking turd that has become the fantasy sci-fi genre. The genre itself needs an iconoclastic hero of an author.

Even with the risk of sounding like a dewy-eyed, praise-singing minstrel, Patrick Rothfuss is such a man. I firmly believe that he is the man who will pull the genre out of the pit of masturbatory fantasy and pugnacious but predictably compassionate anti-heroes.

For those of you not familiar with the author, Patrick Rothfuss is a Wisconsin born scholar who spent nine years undeclared in college. After his book was rejected by a series of publishers, he entered a part of it in a short story contest, which he won, attracting the attention of Daw publishing. His first novel, The Name of The Wind was the result. After that, Patrick went into hiding, leaving only his blog as a sort of altar for his worshippers to look briefly upon his genius.

Finally, after nearly five years spent enjoying his fame and occasionally writing, Patrick released ‘The Wise Man’s Fear’ to the rabid masses.

While ‘The Wise Man’s Fear’ is certainly a masterpiece, it was not what I was expecting. Rothfuss’s trademark prose and humor is certainly present throughout, the writing style has definitely matured. Not just the writing style, but the content as well. While Kvothe’s journey in the second book is a great deal more exciting, it is also more philosophical, with long periods of very little dialogue or action. When Kvothe travels to the country of Adem, for instance, he spends a lot of time contemplating their eastern influenced philosophy of life. Such passages are more numerous in the second book than in the first, and Rothfuss uses them to flesh out his character and setting even further.

The second book touches many elements that the first book was missing. Mainly, fighting and women. Part of me was excited to finally see Kvothe in action, but another part was worried that Patrick would fall into the trap of making his character into a god-like action hero. I need not have worried. While Patrick certainly conveys the depths of Kvothe’s badassitude, we don’t constantly read about his rockin’ abs and grizzled but attractive appearance. And while Kvothe does sleep with quite a few women in the book, bodice ripping and member pulsing are thankfully absent.

One thing that I found upsetting in the beginning was how long it took to finally start learning the answers to the innumerable questions left in the first book. The first few chapters are entertaining and funny, but they are extremely anti-climactic, considering how long I spent dreaming about the book, frothing at the mouth, and making sacrifices to Cthulu so I could only know what happens next! However, the book eventually picks up the pace, and if you somehow restrain yourself from skipping to the first chapter with the words ‘Felurian’ or ‘Chandrian’ it’s very rewarding.

The best part of the book was Rothfuss’s incredible originality. The fantasy genre has become a tired old plot algorithm, despite the fact that it was once the most creative genre in the industry. While Patrick uses some tropes for forms sake, he is constantly innovating with his characters, setting, and writing style. There are moments that will astonish and surprise, but they aren’t there just for the sake of being shocking. Every twist and turn only strengthens the realism of characters and draws the reader further and further into the world. Nothing ever feels stale or over-used.

Rothfuss is not just a fantasy writer. His book is a true literary work of art. While it's easily lovable by fantasy buffs, it doesn't exclude readers of more high-brow tastes. Rothfuss uses the fantasy template to question morality, explore human interaction, and make the reader think, while still keeping all the things that the nerds know and love.

In lieu of a lengthy conclusion, and at the risk of angering off my English teacher, I will simply say this. If you were a fan of the first book buy the sequel and learn the secrets! It will be well worth the time and money.

Postscript: If Patrick Rothfuss ever reads this; Write FASTER!

Thank you Jared for an awesome review of a fabulous book. Stop by anytime you want to review another book, or just talk about books.

What? What? That's Not the End?

2011-06-03T07:53:00.000-07:00

So many times I've gotten to the end of a book and realized there's another one coming and I'm left with an agonizing wait. Other times, I've read books that have a satisfying ending and found out months later (or weeks, depending on how slow I am on the uptake) that there is a second book. I'm left thinking, did I have any questions at the end of the first one? Should I read the second if I was pleased with how the first one ended?

The same sort of goes for movies. In light of movies like The Hangover II, I'm left wondering, did I have questions about what happened to everyone at the end of the first movie? Am I moved or interested enough to care what happens to them in the next? Currently, I'm still undecided and will probably wait for video. (Video!?! Am I dating myself here?)

But back to books. I recently read an excellent adult fiction book by the fabulous debut author, Deborah Harkness called A Discovery of Witches. Okay, she's not debut as in she's never published a book before, but her other books were non-fiction history books so I think she sort of counts as debut fiction author. Anyway, as I got to the third act and realized that for as much as she put in play in the previous two acts, there was no way she was summing everything up in such a paltry amount of remaining pages. Sure enough it's a trilogy. And I'm left waiting and wondering. Did I say waiting?

On the other hand, one of my all time favorite authors, Katherine Neville wrote one of my all time favorite books, The Eight. And to be honest, when I read it, I didn't have any questions at the end. I was satisfied. But a decade later, The Fire, a sequel featuring the daughter of a MC from The Eight was released. I was excited to read it, because well, it was the first book Ms. Neville put out in a long time. It could have been a book about the life of gnats and I would have read it.

As a reader, if I know it's a trilogy I often think more seriously about my purchase because it's not just the investment of that one book, it's the commitment that I will likely buy the next two or three or four.

So what's your take on sequels or trilogies? Does there need to be a cliffhanger at the end to get you to the next book? If you liked the characters and author enough would you read a second or third book even if you were satisfied at the end of the first?

Faith, huh?

2011-05-15T23:07:00.000-07:00

What is it about writers that makes us constant self doubters? Is it some deep psychological malfunction? Are self doubt and creativity mutually exclusive or are they somehow wrapped up in the very fibers of what makes us writers?

I don't think I've met a writer yet (and introduce yourself if you're one of them!) that manages to get through an entire MS, or subsequent edits without a little (or in some cases, a lot) of self doubt. I know I've experienced it. In fact I've experienced it more in these last two months than I have since I started writing seriously two years ago.

My current WIP has a lot of death in it. I started it before I started my new job. Which I love, but if I'm being honest, working in a world where life is such a precious commodity has altered my previous somewhat hardened perspective. Most of you, or at least those of you who have been reading my blog for a while, know I work in public health. And that means a lot of different things to a lot of people and, trust me, the field is expansive. But to lay it all out there, I work with cancer patients. More to the point, I work with cancer patients that are in the prime of their lives -- adolescents and young adults.

These people shouldn't have cancer, right? Cancer only happens to kids and the elderly. False. While I'll save you the PSA, I won't skirt around how working with these amazing survivors has softened and humbled me. It's a change I didn't expect (sneaky change!) and one that I would never give back.

This new me looked at my WIP with fresh eyes and had to wonder, should I keep going? Shouldn't I clip the death? My MC is, in a lot of ways, ruthless and I thought maybe I should abandon her and write something with more of a message, more heart, more... something. But regardless of what I needed more of, I felt I needed less death.

So I did what any logical writer might. I stalled. I stopped writing that story, somewhere around the 50,000 word mark. And there it sat. Staring at me from a little white .doc file on my desktop. I doubted my ability to continue with the story because I couldn't reconcile the new me with the old perspective.

And maybe in the end, I wasn't suppose to. I recently went back through and reread every page of my WIP. And somewhere along that journey with my MC, the new, softer me found a connection with the old. I began to have faith that I could take those newly found emotions for the people I serve and weave them into my MC, creating an even deeper and more developed character than before. It wasn't my perspective that needed changing, it was learning to have faith in myself. Faith that I could take what I've learned in the real world and inject life into my fictional one.

I can't say I'll never doubt myself again. And I can't say that some change down the road won't send me into another tailspin. But what I can say, is that no matter what, I will find a way to keep the faith.

How do you learn to push past the doubt and harness the faith?

Tending the Muse

2011-05-05T21:20:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've done an actual blog post. I was driving in to work the other day and listening to NPR when I heard an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love. I'm not sure when the interview was from (and I appologize that I can't find the link so you too may hear the story), but she spent some time talking about, well, talking to her Muse. That's right. as if it was a person or a thing that she could have a reasonable discussion with. Like, hey Muse, I need to finish these edits right now but I promise I'll get the project you're pulling me to work on when I'm done. She spoke of the sense of empowerment and authority it brought her over her writing.

As I struggle to find time to write (new job, ya know) and crit and, well, do anything besides work, I think back to this interview and wonder if I could talk to my Muse. Sit her down and have a heart to heart. Like, why do you always want to give me an idea while I'm driving, or in the middle of trying to write for work?

Through this thought process of can I or can't I speak to my Muse, I've realized that what I really need to do is tend it. Like a Muse Garden!

How do you tend your Muse? Do you have rituals, or spaces of time sectioned out during your day for spending time with her? How do you fit it all in?

YAFF Muse: Dance Class

2011-05-04T18:23:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: MirrorMirror by kakisky (morguefile.com)

After shoving Ani’s pink bag under the plastic chair, I sit back and try not to be noticed. It’s not that I’m not social. But there’s nothing worse than being cooed at by less than hot cougars. Okay, there’s one thing that’s worse, and it’s not-hot cougar pity.

Ani’s squeal rises above the other girls at the dance class as she twirls around holding the princess hat. Mrs. Shelton, their teacher, gives out the hat every lesson. It’s a different girl each time, and that girl gets to be the lead dancer that day.

She stops spinning enough to look at me and point at the hat. I give her a thumbs-up and she spins around to face the class again. I shake my head. Sometimes she’s so much like her mom. A flash of Celia’s dark eyes assaults my memory sending a pang of sadness to my heart and I chase it away by concentrating on the magazine in front of me. Some things have to be forgotten, but Ani sure makes that hard.

A shadow crosses my pages, but I refuse to look up, afraid of Celia’s ghost.

“Hi.”

I look up to see a redheaded girl, about my age, stands over me. My mouth curves into a smile. Jesus, she’s gorgeous. “Hi.”

“You’re in my seat.”

Not what I was expecting. Of course, staring at her is my response.

“Did you hear me?” She narrows her gaze.

“Oh, um. Sorry. I didn’t know it was assigned seating.”

“It’s not. But I have to sit ten seats from the door.” Her pale freckled arm motions along the line of chairs.

I swallow, then glance around her to see Ani bonking another girl on the head with a ribbon wand. “Hey. Ani.” She doesn’t pay attention. Getting up I take a few steps in her direction. “Ani Flowers, you stop that right now.” I say, bringing out my authoritative voice.

She stops mid smack, allowing the other girl to escape her. But her eyes tell me she’s angry I yelled at her, so I shake my head while Mrs. Shelton makes her way through the sea of little girls to her.

I return to my seat finding the redhead sitting in it, wide smile on her full lips. How long has it been since I kissed lips like that? Too long. Visions of her lips against mine, her freckled hands running down my torso, and the feel of her breasts under my palm cause a momentary and not to mention inappropriate bulge in my pants. I rush to take the chair next to her.

Why did I do that? There are at least five other vacancies. As I glance around willing the swell to go away, the other chairs become more undesirable when I notice the predatory grins from the cougars. That helps.

“Are you all right?” the redhead asks.

Not really. No. I just got a raging boner at a little girl’s dance class, all because you’re so hot and I haven’t been laid in-- God how long has it been? At least since Ani…

“Earth to strange boy,” she says.

“Sorry. Um, yeah. I’m fine.”

She snorts. “You don’t look it.”

I turn to her. “Who are you?”

“Xena. Who are you?” Her eyebrows shoot up, a smirk plays against those damn lips.

I clear my throat. “Blake.”

“Well, Blake, your sister is a bit of a trouble maker, isn’t she?” Xena points at Ani, who is again thumping another little girl.

“Damn it.” I move to fetch her.

Xena’s hand wraps around my forearm. “Just wait. Mrs. Shelton will deal with it.” She motions to the girls. “See. Everything’s fine.”

“Yeah, guess so.” I settle back. “She wasn’t hitting yours was she?”

“Mine?”

“Yeah, whoever you brought here?” I’m used to talking to the cougars who all refer to their children as ‘yours’ or ‘mine’.

Her laugh echoes through the dance hall. “None of them are ‘mine’. I’m a teacher here. Well, teacher in training. It’s my observation day.”

“Then what’s with the ‘my seat’ thing?”

She meets my gaze. “I have O.C.D.”

“Now it all makes sense.” My eyes do the elevator move on her, even though I’m silently willing them not to. She’s got a fine dancer’s body.

Xena shifts in her chair. “Your sister has good balance.”

I drag my attention back to the class. “Yeah, I know. She got that from her mom.”

Ani twirls in place faster than any of the other girls, then stops without even a wobble. I smile at her and can hear her giggle in the middle of all the other giggles.

“Anyway, she’s not my sister.”

“Oh.” She sighs.

What the hell. This girl seems a little crazy. “Ani is my daughter.”

“Cool. Do you want some Junior Mints?”

Cool? Junior Mints? What the?

She shakes the box at me, and I hold out my hand as she pours a few chocolate candies into it.

“Out with it. I know what you want to say." I change my voice to that of the Cougars. "But you look too young? Where’s her mommy?’”

Around a mouthful of mints she says, “Obviously you’re a good dad. You take your daughter to dance class. Who cares how old you are?” She glances around at the moms. "Well, maybe they do." Then says, "Jailbait." under her breath.

“Jesus. I’m eighteen. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

We watch the class in silence.

“So you got a girl knocked up at what, fourteen?”

“Yeah.” I shift my gaze back to the class. Back to Ani.

“Heavy.” She pours more candy into my hand. “Listen. I’ve got to go, but do you want to hang out sometime?”

“After what I told you, you want to hang out?”

“I like your story, Blake. You seem like someone I might be able to get along with. Oh.” She frowns. “Unless the mom is still—”

“No. She died.”

“Boy you’ve had a bit of a rough patch.”

I catch Ani twirling with her princess hat on. “Not really.”

***

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:

Rebekah L. Purdy

YAFF Muse: The Reaper

2011-04-13T05:27:00.000-07:00

YAFF Muse is a weekly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we'll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don't forget to check out the other YAFFers participating in this series (links below).

This week the Muse is inspired by the song "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult. I didn't use that version, instead I listened non-stop to the Alana Davis cover. Now, I just want to preface this video with the fact that while it's the right audio clip, it's COMPLETELY weird video of Disney Princesses spliced into other Disney video of Hades. So pay no attention to the video, only listen to the clip of the wonderful Alana's version of this sorta creepy song.

The wheat stalks scratch at my legs as I trudge through the field toward him. Toward Sam. With the sun sinking behind him, he leans against a weathered fence post. His black hoodie obscures the piercing gaze I know lays beneath.

One foot in front of the next, I pick up the pace. The tip of my ponytail tickles the base of my neck as it sweeps side to side. My eyes narrow as he raises his head, meeting my stare.

“Go away, Sam. It’s not time yet.” I cringe at the rough scratch to my voice.

“Stop,” he says.

“You know I won’t.” I pause at the now familiar frigid air that despite the sweltering heat hangs like a halo around him. It won’t last.

He pushes from the post and stands tall, like a stretched shadow on a wall. “It’s time Frances. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

The scent of funeral lilies cuts he air between us. The saccharine smell stings my eyes and burns my throat. I wince at the pain in my palm where my nails have left crescents in the soft skin. With my jaw clenched, I move forward.

“Please, stop,” he says, so quiet I think it could be the rustle of wheat at my knees.

“Sam.” As I grow closer, the coldness shakes from my skin and the stench of flowers evaporates. I knew it would. Death rages around him, but like the center of a storm he is the quiet center. “You’ve taken everyone I love. Everyone. You can’t have Evie too.”

He hangs his head, the black hood casts dark shadows across his face. “I have to. I’d give anything not to do this to you.” He takes a step back, fists balled.

I’m too close to him. The stale cold caresses my back and shoulders. But it doesn’t stop me as I take another step in his direction, into the warmth again. “How can the Fates take her too?”

“It’s their will, I’m sorry.”

“Why did you come here? You could have crept into the night and taken her without me knowing. Just like you did Mom and Dad. You came to give me a choice, I now you did.”

“I had… I had to see you.”

“So I have a choice?” My heart thuds in my ears. I’d die for Evie.

“No.” His eyes meet mine, anger blurring out their usual blue hue. “I came here when I took Ben, Theda and Morris. You did not have a choice then.”

My pulse quickens. “But she’s the last of my family. That’s why I have a choice now. Sam, please. Take me instead.”

“Never.” His jaw tightens.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it? I’ll stay with you if you leave her.”

“Even if I wanted—” He turns and his fist connects with the fence post, sending it flying across the field.

Startled, I step back, the cold embraces me once more.

He whips around, eyes blazing. “I can’t make that choice. It’s her time. Souls can’t be traded.”

Moving forward, into the circle of his warmth, I say, “I’ve asked to save every soul you’ve taken since we met. You’ve always told me that you’ve got to take a soul. Why not mine?”

In two swift steps Sam is so close his hoodie string brushes my upper arm. He leans down, smelling of musk, not death, his breath cool against my cheek. “I’ve broken every rule to speak to you. The Fates have a plan and I’ve been warned not to interfere.” His breathing is measured but his lips move quickly touching the skin near my ear. “They would tear me apart if I took your soul. I would not be safe, neither would you.”

Without thinking, my fingers close around his hand and I squeeze. “I’m ready to embrace it.” The Fates have never been shy with alluding to my destiny. “I’m not afraid.”

“You should be. A death more permanent than me awaits us both if we’re caught.”

“Will it save my sister?” The wind picks up, mingling the scent of wheatgrass and spice.

He lifts his other hand, brushing a stray hair from my face. “For now. The war here will go on for another year in human time. I can’t make a promise she’ll survive it.”

His face has softened, and I know he’ll give in to me. I shift my gaze to the wheat. The thought of Evie having a chance to run in these fields, to live, even if it would only be for one more day, makes it worth it. “Good enough.”

Sam’s fingers lace through my and his grip tightens. “This will hurt.” His eyes turn black and his lips crease into a thin line.

The panic slides through my veins and the urge to wiggle from his grip is overwhelming. A ball of fire sits in my chest and begins spread until every inch of me is white hot. I shift my focus to my feet, and concentrate on staying still until I darkness claims me.

The distant sound of crickets wake me and as I open my eyes, it is from beneath a black velvet hood. Like Sam, I, am a Reaper.

***

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same song (well sort of):
Vanessa Barger

Book Contest & Blog Bling

2011-03-10T11:59:00.000-08:00

First, let me tell you about a fab contest that ends on Sunday. Over at Totally4YA they are giving away a copy of FALLEN by Lauren Kate.

Second, I got some blog bling from the wonderful Cambria Dillon. And not just any bling, it's bling for style! Heh heh. That's right broomstick skirts and colorful scarves are back! Er, well maybe it's just for my blog style?

Well either way the rules say I've got to thank and link back to the person who sent it (done), tell you seven things about myself and then pass on the stylish award to ten recently discovered then tell them about the fabulous award they just won!

Okay, so here it goes...
1. I have a (some would say irrational) fear of buffets. You will never, ever catch me eating at one. Or any communal food really. Yes, I do the office potlucks. But I have to be first, and I only eat food made by the people whose houses I've been too and can verify the cleanliness of their kitchens.

2. I eat pizza with a knife and fork. As a kid, I had braces and you pretty much never get to bite into anything. I just sort of stuck with it after that. I still don't bite into apples either. Pretty much all fruit gets cut up first.

3. When I met Neil Gaiman at the premier of Coraline, I just stood there gooey-eyed with my copy of The Graveyard Book clutched to my chest. My friend had to pry it out of my hands and offer it to him saying, "I thinks she wants you to sign this." ((still blushing))

4. I need my coffee in the mornings. My naturopath tried to get me off of it, but my co-workers emailed her (we're all friends - so it's not weird they'd be emailing my doctor) to say that she had to cease and assist.

5. I've always wanted to either shave my head or wear dreads but am pretty sure I could pull off neither and instead continue to admire women who can. Perhaps one of my characters will sometime.

6. When my sister and I were kids, our dad hated to fly so we took nearly every summer vacation in a motorhome. To this day we both have an affinity for this method of travel, yet neither of us have been able to convince our husbands the four of us in a small space would be fun.

7. I believe in ghosts, because as freaky or weird as it seems, I've seen a lot of them. (but then agian, I have a writer's mind, so who knows what I've been seeing!)

NOW on to the fun part... The awards!
1. The Xanax Diary
2. Read Now Sleep Later
3. Jennifer Fischetto
4. On Beyond Words & Pictures
5. Joey Nichols
6. Totally4YA
7. Rebekah Purdy
8. Kit Forbes
9. Kelbian Noel
10. The First Cut

Congrats to all the wonderful blog bling winners! LOL And thanks again to the lovely Cambria!

Six Sentence Sunday #3

2011-03-06T06:00:00.000-08:00

It's Six Sentence Sunday! Go and visit the other participants!

This SSS is an excerpt from another YAFF Muse short called THE JOURNEY. It's another magical realism this week, but not for YA. The dialogue is between a couple standing at a train depot on the verge of a major change in the relationship as well as their last journey together. You can see the full short story here.

“When we laugh, the train will go faster though we wish it wouldn’t. When we cry, it will slow though we wish it speed. We will scale mountains and plummet down the other side, but we will be together.”

“What if it breaks down?” I asked, tears cresting the corners of my eyes.

“Ah, and it might, but what’s a journey without a few breakdowns?”

Thanks for stopping by & I hope you enjoyed it!

Win a Book!!!

2011-02-28T09:34:00.000-08:00

I have to give a huge shout out to my friend and fellow YAFF'er Vanessa Barger! Her new book INTO THE ETHER comes out tomorrow and you can win a copy on her blog.

I've had the pleasure of reading INTO THE ETHER and have to say it is an extremely enjoyable read. So what are you waiting for? Go on over there (yes, I'm giving you permission to leave my blog) and win your loot!

Six Sentence Sunday - #2

2011-02-27T06:00:00.000-08:00

Six Sentence Sunday is a blog ring (no, not a chain letter - remember those?) founded and kept up by the Six Sentence Sunday blogger. Check it out, and visit the other participants!

This is the first paragraph of my YA magical realism short story from a YAFF Muse called ANOTHER TURN. You can see the full post here.

I thought I tucked the insult safe inside my mouth. Still, on exhale the words escaped, the last slipping past my lips before I could catch my breath. Three syllables hung in the air, they snapped and crackled with all the anger and pain that had propelled them forward. I hate you. I wanted to take it back, but pride isn’t pretty. Instead I allowed them to gain substance in the silence and walked away.

Thanks for stopping by and I hope you enjoyed it.

Six Sentence Sunday - First Go Around

2011-02-20T06:00:00.000-08:00

Six Sentence Sunday is a blog ring (no, not a chain letter - remember those?) founded and kept up by the Six Sentence Sunday blogger. Check it out, and visit the other participants!

My first post will be from my work in progress, YA dystopian/teenage assassin manuscript, LACED.

Images of the boy on the platform, of Andy, and the man in the tweed jacket play against my eyelids and I’m forced to open them again. By now the man is slouched over on a train to New-New York. No one will notice he’s dead until they stop, and round up the passengers up like cattle to force them through the security check point. By tomorrow the reports will say Chancellor Adkins died of a massive heart attack. No one will question the media, no one will think of me bumping into him, no one will wonder how a man of thirty-five died so young. It’s the beauty of the job, I guess.

That's it. Hope you enjoyed it.

YAFF MUSE: Another Turn

2011-02-16T06:00:00.000-08:00

Photo Credit: manicmorff at Morguefile.com

Another Turn

YESTERDAY
I thought I tucked the insult safe inside my mouth. Still, on exhale the words escaped, the last slipping past my lips before I could catch my breath. Three syllables hung in the air, they snapped and crackled with all the anger and pain that had propelled them forward. I hate you. I wanted to take it back, but pride isn’t pretty. Instead I allowed them to gain substance in the silence and walked away.

TODAY
Like Hester and her red letter, I walk the halls of our house a branded outcast. Dad glares across the breakfast table as he shovels hot cereal into his mouth. My sister, Flora, shakes her head at me. What does she know? She’s only twelve and has no idea the shackles the ‘rents put on you when you’re old enough to want freedom. I narrow my eyes at her, but shame remains a constant companion.

The scent of cinnamon rolls and lavender wafts through the air in iridescent clouds as Mom walks in. My gaze finds the floor. I could repair this now. I could tell her I’m sorry.

The stink of pride curdles her essence. She sighs and the staleness disappears for a moment, but discontent is more pungent. She pivots then heads down the hall.

Dad lets out an uncomfortable cough that vibrates the table and echoes, You shouldn’t have said that, Sable. The scrape of Flora’s spoon across the bottom of her bowl seems to second the sentiment.

TOMORROW
From down the road the blare of the sirens will crack our windows. The Jones’ dog, Rambo, will bark as red and blue illuminates the neighborhood casting a nightclub glow through the surrounding fog.

Violent plumes of smoke will invade the fissures in the glass, melting and singeing everything between she and I. And I will follow the tendril of cinnamon rolls and lavender. Shoeless, dressed in thin cotton, I will walk through the manicured yards, past Old Mr. Dankard’s pool house and down the alley to where she is.

When I find her, I will hear nothing but the sound of boulders crashing upon themselves as I watch the men with glowing yellow letters on their jackets. At the very moment the teeth of the zipper close around her face, the fog will deepen, growing so dense I will be forced to my knees, bloodying them. And the sharp scent of burnt copper will forever replace the smell of her.

TODAY – AGAIN
Flora’s footfalls stop at my bedroom door. She knocks. “Sable, you’ve got a package.”

I open the door, pry it from her hands, then close it in her face. My fingers tear at the plain brown paper around the box. As soon as I touch the note inside, the sound of violins envelope the room and I know who sent it.

Sable, you may want this one-day. It can only be used once a decade, so make sure it is for the right reason then pass it on. Love, Aunt Hilde

The clock she sent is heavy in my hand as I appraise it. Seems normal. But on closer inspection, near the dial at the back it reads: Worth Another Turn. The dial beneath that says: Days. And the one beneath them both pinpoints: Hours. That’s when I notice tick points around each of the lower dials.

I sit the clock on my desk. Weird Aunt Hilde. This thing can’t even tell time.

TOMORROW – AGAIN
Blackness will rule my vision and images will become murky. Somehow I will find my way back to the house, marred by the oily residue of shame and regret. The three words that set off this horror will wrap themselves around my ankle and I will drag them. Their clanking behind me will be a constant reminder of the last thing I said to her.

I will sit on the end of my bed, praying for another go around. I will promise to slay pride. Though I will not hear my prayers answered directly, the sound of violins will make its way through the darkness and I will be reminded of Aunt Hilde’s clock.

YESTERDAY – AGAIN
I wanted to tell her I hated her. I wanted to tell her this so bad that a noxious bubble of fury boiled at the back of my throat. But somewhere violins played and I kept my mouth shut to listen.

***

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:

Rebekah Purdy

Traci Kenworth

A Huge Congrats!

2011-02-10T09:44:00.000-08:00

I have to give out big a round of applause, scream of congratulations, throwing of hats, releasing of balloons, and some Tom Cruise jumping up and down to my friend and fellow writer, Cambria Dillon. Cam's amazing manuscript, LIFE AFTER SEND, has landed her an agent! (As we all knew it would) Also, it wouldn't be a proper congrats without a shirtless guy, right? So here ya go, lady!

CONGRATULATIONS!

Finally, I can have chocolate cake - Happy Birthday Never as the Crow Flies!

2011-02-07T11:11:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay. So I'm a few days late on wishing my blog a happy birthday. One year and four days ago, I sent my first thoughts out into the great wide web. I started with one lovely follower, who happened to also be my mother, and now I've got 26 of you! Thank you all so much for following me on this crazy, yet completely wonderful journey.

So, what have I learned from blogging in this last year? Number one is, I should probably blog more often and that, even the limited amount takes a lot of time. You can't just put any 'ol thing out there... well, you can, but not without making an ass of yourself. Which is fine and dandy, but if you've got a goal with your blog, maybe you shouldn't. At least not on purpose. Here are my lessons learned through one year of blogging:

Read other blogs first, decide what works.
No, I'm not advocating for you to go out and copy other's blogs. What I am advocating is finding blogs you love (Fiction Groupie, Totally4YA, Pat Rothfuss, Read Now Sleep Later) and really think about why you love them. What do they do that makes you want to tune in each week? Are they professional? Are their blogs a tool, or do they have a goal (such as getting published, promoting their books) or are they help oriented (such as Guide to Literary Agents)? Which do you want your blog to reflect? Do you have lots of information to share with your community? Do you want to show off your voice and promote yourself as a writer/photographer/artist?

Reading other blogs can help you define what you'd like to put out into the world. I wished I had paid more attention to other blogs before starting my own. Not that mine went all scary or anything, or I made really horrible mistake of venting about the industry, but I didn't have a direction. I struggled with what to write, feeling nothing really was interesting enough.

Find a theme and stick with it.
Okay, I'm not saying you can't change your background... every once in a while. But know that as you get more readers, the background and theme of your blog becomes a comfort. Weekly readers become used to the look of your blog and there is something to be said for consistency.

When I go to goodreads I know where everything is. I know what to expect when I click on a button. And as a user, I like that. The same goes for a blog. When I visit one of my favorite blogs, I know where the comment buttons are. I know that if I pull up my email and my browser is behind that, I can see the edges of the blog I was reading/exploring and am quicker about getting back to it.

I used to change my background to match the pictures for the YAFF Muse series. Each week I had a new one. Sure, my buttons stayed in the same locations, but after a while, I realized that it wasn't staying with my central theme of the blog. The changes didn't fit with the blog identity.

Of course every once in a while it's okay to change something about your blog, make it better. For instance, I changed my blog and website so that the background color was white with dark letters. Having worked in PR and spent time designing pamphlets, websites, etc, I should have known better anyway - anything else is too hard to read. Nevertheless, I had a black background and white letters.

Comment & connect with other bloggers.
One thing I was very slow about was connecting with other bloggers. (hence the very first suggestion) But I found once I started commenting and engaging with other bloggers, it helped direct traffic to mine. (okay, I know 26 doesn't seem like a ton of traffic, but I love each and every one of you, and for my first year, seems pretty darn good)

Overall, you'll thank yourself for getting involved and talking to others.

Blog about something important/interesting or skate by on your funny.
Yeah, yeah, I know I don't always adhere to this sentiment either. But, I'm working on it (see... hints/tips on what I learned right now!). If you can engage your readers, you'll gain more traffic. People will talk/type, refer to your blog. It's either that, or be super, super funny. The best blogs, have both of course.

What doesn't work is random ramblings (yikes!) that have no clear direction or purpose. When I read these types of blogs, I tune out and turn the "channel" never getting halfway through. You've got to hold your reader's attention (um, are you guys still with me? hope so or this would be pretty embarrassing... er... you're not here so I guess it's not - see!?! who wants to read that?).

Do something that gets you to blog at least once a week.
Try to post at least once a week. I know, sometimes it might feel like you're blogging for/to no one. But that doesn't matter. Keep doing it. If you blog it, they will come. LOL sorry! For me, that's the YAFF Muse series. Sure, I post last minute on Wednesdays (which especially seems like the case because I'm west coast compared to almost all of my east coast/middle partners) but it's worth it. Plus, for you writer types it's a fun way to exercise your short story muscles and step outside your comfort zone. Though, I think there's a lot of debate among the industry-set that maybe you shouldn't post your work online because, agents/editors will go and check out your blog and you wouldn't want to embarrass yourself, right? Well, that might be. But it's still your blog and if posting a short story now and then gets you to post something during the week, then so be it. Just make sure you do spell check, 'kay?

If you aren't into short stories, then post something you learned recently. Been to a conference lately? Read something in the news or on another blog that made you think? Pose a question to your audience, engage them. And make sure to refer back to whatever your inspiration is too (especially if it's another blog).

Maybe you didn't learn anything this week (that's sad), but you did just finish a book. Write a review. Or maybe you're not too much of a reader (though if you're a writer, you should be) and you watch more T.V. Why don't you write a review on the latest episode of your favorite show? Crushing on Castle? Great title, huh? You can use it. Provided you watch Castle.

And the most important lesson ever? Have fun!
That's right. We all know that writing, editing, cutting, writing, and editing some more can be both fun and difficult. But we love it anyway. Look at your blog the same way. You might have to give some thought to what you want to blog about this week, and it might cause some sweat and or tears, but do it anyway. After a while it gets easier. Or at least it has in my case.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me, my lovely followers and Never as the Crow Flies!

New Book by My Fellow YAFF'er!

2011-02-01T12:43:00.000-08:00

My good friend and fellow critique group partner (YA Fiction Fanatics) has a new book out today! I haven't gotten to read this one yet, but I can tell you, from having read her other work, I CAN'T wait!! So go and check out this awesome debut book here.

YAFF MUSE: Seeing

2011-01-26T20:03:00.000-08:00

His steel-toed work boots thud against the hallway. She turns her face toward the window, the waning moon casts a sliver of light onto the floor. The stale scent of cigarettes and Jack Daniels hangs in the air.

***

My throat constricts against the residual smell of him.

“Sade, are you okay?” Detective Brown asks.

I nod and unscrew the top of my water bottle. The cool liquid sooths my choking.

“What did you see?” The girl’s mom sits opposite me, clinging to the red t-shirt. Her hair hangs loose, silver veins catching the light of the meditation room.

My gaze flicks to the detective, his dark eyes focus on mine. The twitch of his jaw tells me I shouldn’t say. I look back at the mom.

“Please.” Her knuckles are white as she strangles the shirt.

“It’s been a long time, Ms. Sanfrey. Sade can’t always get a read,” he says to her.

“Thanks Zach.” I turn to her once more. “What Detective Brown is saying is sometimes I’m not able to get enough of an impression when so much time has passed.”

Tears make muddy lines in her heavy make-up. “Please, you’re my last hope.”

“It’s been fifteen years.” Zach covers her fisted hands, and she relaxes her grip.

She shakes her head. “I know she’s not alive, that’s not what I’m asking for.”

The truth is, I don’t want to see the horrors that befell this girl. I don’t want to be in her head. The people, like Ms. Sanfrey, don’t know the cost of seeing such things. But when I look at this crumpled woman, perhaps I don’t know the cost of what she’s lost.

“Okay.” I sniff. “I’ll try again.”

“Sade, you don’t—"

“I know, Zach. But she deserves to know what happened. And if you can catch the asshole in the process, it’s worth it. Right?” My hand slides across the table; she wastes no time in giving me the shirt.

***

The girl’s heart falls in time with his footfalls, beating slower, disengaging. I try to open her eyes, see the room and the man that is most certainly coming this way, but she blocks me. Her spirit is strong and I feel her hand slip down between the covers. The rough cotton string of sweatpants burns against her, my, stomach as she cinches them.

I pray my body isn’t acting this out in front of Zach and Ms. Sanfrey.

He’s closer, his labored breathing is familiar to her and sends whirls of nausea through her gut. The creak of the door echoes through the room.

Open your eyes, let me see him.

He stands beside her bed, but she keeps her eyes sealed tight. Hope rises in her chest, maybe he’s too wasted. Maybe the string will hold.

His boots thump one by one as they come off. The chill of night air touches her skin as he throws off the quilt.

Come on, Sal. Open your eyes!

The springs of the bed echo her inner hate and shame as they wail against the weight of him.

The string does not hold.

***

I wake in the meditation room, face wet from tears and gasping for air.

“You saw. Where is she?” Ms. Sanfrey snags the shirt, though I gladly relinquish it.

My heart beats out a wild rhythm against my rib cage.

“Sade, did you?”

“No. I… She wouldn’t open her eyes.” There’s no sense in telling anyone. Like all the horrors I’ve seen and felt in the last year, they’re scars I bear alone. Well, almost. Somewhere, Ms. Sanfrey’s daughter bore it.

She shoves the shirt back at me. “Try again.”

“I can’t control where I go. I’m sorry.”

Zach leans in. “Sometimes, with this much time and an item that is less personal—”

“No! She saw something, I know you did.” Her nails scratch the table. “Look again.”

Tension is thick in the small space and I glance at Zach. He shakes his head. So many cases we’ve worked together, so many late nights, he knows better than any that what I see can’t be taken back. Sometimes I think he’s like a father to me, but he’s too young for that.

“Do it,” she screams as Zach begins to pull her to her feet.

“Come on Ms. Sanfrey, she tried. I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

Before I have a chance to say my apology, she throws a yellow bouncy ball at me. The moment I catch it, I’m pulled back. Back into Sal.

***

It’s cold. Oh God, so cold. I’m, she’s wet, hands tied behind her.

Look Sal. Look.

Her eyes pop open and for the first time I can see. It’s green. Green trees through the window, green car. It’s stopped, and as soon as his shadow darkens her view, she shuts him out.

No. Look. Open them. Please open them.

He mumbles something and the sound of the door opening has her holding her breath.

The pressure of his weight constricts her lungs even more, but nothing dulls out the sting of the rope pressed against her throat. She kicks but doesn’t fight much, he’s kept her weak.

Her spirit lets go. Slipping out of her, me along with it.

Open your eyes, damn it.

When she does, I’m, we’re standing behind him and he pushes himself onto her further. He doesn’t know she’s gone.

The sound of ripping splits the air and I’m not with her anymore. I look around the car and the woods. She’s not here.

Two hard knots, or fists maybe, thrust me forward and I fall through the man and back into Sal.

I can’t feel her pain, but at last, I open her eyes.
(c) 2011, MB
Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
Vanessa Barger
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth

A Literary Assistant, Two Debut Authors, and One Hell of a Contest

2011-01-25T08:59:00.000-08:00

Writing the dreaded query? Do you look like this:

If you're an author who has already, or is about to shop your MS to agents, there are seven (read again SEVEN) chances to win a critique of your query over at Fiction Groupie. Seirously, awesomeness happess on that blog. And even if you don't win, you should be reading it.

Getting Real

2011-01-20T09:10:00.000-08:00

All my hard work, sweat and tears has gone into a blog over at Totally4YA today. Check out my candid interview with Jared, a fourteen-year-old high school freshman who is both an old soul and a spirited teen.

YAFF MUSE: The Trouble with Poetry

2011-01-19T10:18:00.000-08:00

Photo credit: earl35 from Morguefile.com

Sitting at my desk, I grip my head. The kickback of a stolen bottle of liquid courage pounds around like an angry upstairs neighbor as I remember last night. The beat of my heart quickens and I open my laptop. Please say I didn’t do what I think I did. Please.

Stasha groans, her perfect manicured toes poking out from beneath the covers. Too bad she’s got vomit in her hair.

“Stash. Hey. Wake up.”

She rubs her eyes then opens one. “It’s too early. Back to sleep.”

The lazy laptop flickers. “It’s after… Oh my God.”

She bounds out of bed and runs up, her grip on the chair shaking me. “Holy shit, Jayne.”

In the blinding light of the screen is the proof. I, Jayne Arbor, posted a poem on Rhys – Prince of Stampfer High – Adler’s Facebook page. And it’s not even good poetry.

Stasha giggles. “Jay, you are such a turbo-nerd.”

“I’m deleting it. Besides, no one saw it, right?”

“There’s like two-hundred comments already.”

The arrow hovers over the “x” in the corner.

***

I let the music drown Mom’s voice out. It’s only five, dinner can wait. But soon, her heavy footfalls stop outside my door. “Jayne. I’ve been calling you. There’s a Mr. Adler on the phone for you.”

I knew I should’ve deleted it. Wasn’t it bad enough that for the past week the entire school chanted, ‘In a hot air balloon, I’ll have you undressed soon’? Now, Mr. Adler, Rhys’ dad wants to talk to me.

Mom’s brows rise into near perfect arrows above her eyes. “Dinner soon, Jayne. Don’t be too long.”

I grab the phone from her. “Thanks Mom.”

She lingers, but I shut the door.

“Hello?”

The line is dead.

“Hello?”

Still nothing.

“I’m hanging up.”

“Wait.”

My heart jumps into my throat. It’s not Rhys’ dad. “If you’re calling to harass me, don’t waist your breath.”

“I’m not, I swear.”

“Then what?” Acid creeps into my tone.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me on Saturday.”

No freakin’ way.

“Come off it. I’ve seen the movies. This is a trick.”

“It’s not.”

***

He’s late.

I sit at my desk, forced into a skirt and make-up by Stasha. With a sigh I flick on my laptop. If he’s going to stand me up, I’m gonna post something real nasty on his page. We’ll see who laughs then.

I go right to Facebook and to my surprise, there is a post from Rhys.

I’ve had a crush on you 
Since we’ve been in grade schoo’ 
I know I’m late 
For our important date
But grab your keys 
And I’ll show you something no one else sees
Drive out to Millers’ Field 
Because your interest is what I hope to yield

And I thought my poetry was bad.

“Dad? Can I have the car keys?” I ask, out of breath, as I bolt downstairs.

“Sure sugar-pie. I thought you had a date?”

“I did, er, I do. I’m going to meet him instead.” Please don’t be a hoax.

I grab the keys from the basket and head outside and into the car. The Subaru purrs, beneath the calming sounds of The Decemberists, as I head out to Millers’ Field.

A brightly colored hot air balloon sits at the center of a sea of green. Rhys stands by the basket, waiting.

I rush to his side. “I thought you were tricking me.”

He laughs, his blue eyes sparkle in the afternoon light. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I almost didn’t.”

The wind kicks up his black hair whipping it around his face. He grabs my hand as the pilot opens the basket. We step on and he turns to me, “Thanks for the poem.”

“If you think I’m undressing you here or anywhere, you’re mistaken.”

His lips curve into a wicked smile. “Enjoy the view, Jayne.” He wraps his arms around me and I turn, pressing my back against his chest as we watch the town slip away beneath us.
(c) 2011, MB
Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
Joey Nichols
Traci Kenworth

YAFF MUSE: The Escape

2011-01-12T09:05:00.000-08:00

Photo Credit: Raygun by Wintersixfour

“Madness runs in the family. Erin, you know that,” Aunt Celia says.

Mom wipes her eyes, stained red with hours of tears. Her gray cardigan hangs loose around a too-thin frame. “I know.” She looks and me and tries the ‘I’m going to buck up’ smile, but it’s not reassuring.

The woman behind the desk gives a very unconvincing turn as a bored secretary. She hasn’t turned the page of her magazine in the last thirty minutes we’ve been here. The guard at my back grunts then shifts his weight.

Aunt Celia continues to coo at Mom, giving nervous glances in my direction. Like because Angus and I are twins, we share the crazy gene.

The door flies open and a guard escorts my brother from the shrink’s office, shackled, and sporting a garish shade of orange jumper.

“Iggy, they know.” His words aren’t said aloud, but through our psychic connection.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” My heart races and I catch his wild stare.

“Run!” he shouts and my ears ring from the inside out.

“Ingrid? What’s going on?” Mom asks her gaze slides between Angus and I.

The shrink stands behind Angus. “Ms. Templeton, could I see you a moment?”

“It’s a trap,” Angus says. “Disappear, Iggy. Don’t ever come back.”

“What about you?”

“Ms. Templeton. A word, please.” The shrink waves a hand and the guards drag Angus out of the way.

“Ingrid, go with the doctor,” Aunt Celia says.

“Disappear, Iggy. The Others are almost here.”

Fear coils in my stomach and I look at mom through watery eyes then glance at the shrink. Swallowing hard, I begin to fade.

Mom’s screams are distant as my atoms separate and flit out of the room. Away from my family, away from the shrink, away from The Others with their mind seizing guns, and away from my brother.

When I materialize I send a message to him. “I’m home A. Tell mom I love her.”

“No matter what you hear, don't come back,” he says. “And remember, never stop running, Iggy.”

Cold shock fills my system and for the first time in my life I feel alone. Really, alone. “Angus?”

Nothing.

I grab my escape bag, and bolt into Angus’ room and grab his. “I’ll get your mind back, brother.”

(c) 2011, MB

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
Rachel Marie Pratt
Rebekah L. Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger

Five Books I'm Looking Forward to in 2011

2011-01-03T12:34:00.000-08:00

I have to admit that this last year I was kinda lax on reading. Mostly because I was writing and it's harder for me to read when I'm head-full into writing. Oh, and I had grad school reading to do to boot. Which is always extra fun. I've decided to list the five books I'm most looking forward to reading this year. Also, this is for paper-published books, look for a post coming soon all about the eBooks I'm looking forward to (several from my crit group!).

#1 The Wise Man' Fear by Patrick Rothfuss - Expected Release Date: March 1, 2011
This is the sequel to The Name of the Wind (a book that blew my fantasy-lovin' mind in 2009) and I've been waiting for it for a long time. (Side note - if you get a chance to Check out Patrick Rothfuss' blog, do. It's awesome.)

# 2 Wither by Lauren DeStefano - Expected Release Date: March 22, 2011
With a logline like "What if you knew exactly when you would die?" how can this not be one of the most anticipated books of the year? Not to mention the gorgeous cover.

#3 City of Fallen Angels by Cassandra Clare - Expected Release Date: April 3, 2011
I admit it. I've been sucked in to Clary & Jace's world. Even if I didn't especially care for The Clockwork Angel. But I'm almost vibrating with excitement to see Clary's story continue.

#4 The Republic of Theives by Scott Lynch - Expected Release Date: February 22, 2011
This is the third book in the Gentleman Bastard Series. (In order, The Lies of Locke Lamora and Red Seas Under Red Skies) The only way I can describe Lynch's genius is an even better and more brilliant version of Ocean's 11 meets the Renaissance. They are long books, but more than worth the read (if you're like my friend Jared, you'll read it 15 times or more!).

#5 Bitterblue by Kristin Cashore - Expected Release Date: April 1, 2011 (maybe??)
I loved Graceling, but was disappointed with Fire. However, I'm really looking forward to Bitterblue, as I liked the glimse into her character in Graceling. Not to mention I'm looking forward to more Katsa and Po.
Sadly there is no picture yet... which leads me to believe the release date may not be correct, but we will see! I'll be looking forward to it, no matter when it comes out.

Which books are you looking forward to in the New Year?

New Year, Thank You's and other stuff

2010-12-31T15:18:00.000-08:00

Photo credit: Neil Hayes

2010 how I loved thee, but I'm looking forward to 2011.

I don't know about everyone else, but 2010 was a good year for me (the even years always are). I got to see Paris, joined a fabulous critique group (YAFF), my mom moved home to Oregon after being gone for eight years, and I got through my first term of grad school.

I'd like to take the opportunity to thank everyone who has been a part of this wonderful year.

I must thank my awesome husband who is unfailingly supportive of me and who I can share the dream of being a writer with. Also, thank you for all the things you do for me. Your thoughtfulness does not go unnoticed, I promise. Especially thanks for all the dinners and lunches, without which, I'd probably eat out of boxes.

I must thank my family. Especially my mom, who has been a cheerleader for me my entire life. I'm so thrilled to have you home and I love that we can bump into one another at Fred Meyer. It's a weird but awesome feeling.

I must thank my friends who I have confided the big secret of my writing. They have surprised me in more ways than one with their support and encouragement. It's a hard thing (at least for me) to say it out loud. Especially to those who have never known that sort of creative side to me. I am grateful to have been able to share this side of myself with you all.

I must thank my fabulous critique group. Without these ladies' insight, help, encouragement and support, I would never have grown as a writer. There is nothing else in the world like being part of a group of people that share the same goal. Thank you for sharing your writing with me and thanks for allowing me to share mine. I am glad to call you all friends.

And finally, I must thank then entire community of writers out there. From YALITCHAT, to blogs like Fiction Groupie, Adventures in Children's Publishing, to Read Now Sleep Later. The wealth of information and good spirits helped keep me alfoat during periods of self doubt and writer's block.

I welcome the new year and can't wait to see what it brings. I hope everyone has a safe and happy one!

YAFF MUSE: Sweetest Fruit

2010-12-15T13:14:00.000-08:00

Photo Credit: Foggy Sunlight by Wallyir

Sweetest Fruit

Sneaking in past Auntie El was no small task. The woman could detect a field mouse stealing from the barn stores from the kitchen.

Laura giggled, vomit crusted into the cracks at the side of her prefect lips.

“Shhh. Do you want her to hear us?” I said.

Her eyes went wide as she heaved and bent over, spilling another round of hot sick into El’s roses. I pulled her tangle of blond curls, holding them until she’d expelled what had to be the last of an entire fifth of vodka.

“Shit, Laura. Why do you have to do this every damn weekend?” I asked, but mostly to myself.

She let out a low groan.

“Real ladylike.” I shook my head and half carried her to the back door of the old farmhouse.

“Lizzie,” she said, her voice like crackling paper. “Lizzie, I think I gave Marcus a handy behind—”

The kitchen light flicked on above us.

“Uh oh,” said Laura.

Auntie El stood in the doorway, flannel nightgown dusting the floor and arms crossed. Her long gray hair set in two pig-tail like braids down either shoulder, making her, at least from far away, look a lot nicer than she really was in this state.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I said. Who was I kidding? It was exactly what it looked like.

***

Jeanie stumbled on a clump of turned up grass. Her thoughts grew thick and lazy as she tried to focus on the hem of her dark jeans, now caked in red mud. She’d spent every weekend partying in the field near Thomson’s Creek, but this was the drunkest she’d been yet.

The beat of her heart quickened as she remembered the party, somehow different from the others. No Rick Jones, jock of the year, posturing near the usual keg standing at an angle on the old oak stump. No perfect Laura Winterborne drunk and stoned out of her cheerleader brain making an ass out of herself. No emo boys nestled together with their cigs. No Lizzie, wonderful best friend, always on the look out for her, Lizzie. No loud music.

She lingered on this last thought. Music. But, there was music.

Strange otherworldly music, like fiddles and squawks and chirps. Music that reminded her of a long lost children’s story.

Her legs had grown numb and despite the short distance to home, she couldn’t go on. A frigid morning breeze swept her hair into her face, the ends matted and stained violet. She ran her fingers through the sticky mess, then, not understanding why, pulled the strand into her mouth.

As her tongue connected with the sweet, wild juices, she remembered. Little men, they sang to her. With heads of birds and toads and fish, they sang. They danced too, and then they… they fed her fruit?

With her mind lost to the memories of the night, Jeanine fell, her pale cheek pressed against the wet grass of a cow field, and a strand of purple hair between her lips.

***

A distant buzzing woke me, and I reached for my cell. Through the haze of sleep I recognized the number as Jeanie’s home. She never called from there.

“Hey, where were you last night?” I asked.

“Lizzie? This is Annette.”

“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Darling. What, um, what’s up?”

“I thought Jeanie might be with you, but I guess not. You don’t know where she is?”

Crap. She was probably over at Marcus’ but I couldn’t tell her mom that. Jeanie’s parents were super strict religious types. “I, um, I bet she’s at Sarah’s.”

“No. I’ve already tried there.” Annette began to cry. “She’s never not-come home.”

“I’m sorry. I—”

The line went dead.

“Laura, wake up. We need to go and find Jeanie,” I said to my snoring sister, still all vomty from the night before.

She rolled onto her side, opening her eyes with clearly a lot of effort. “Want to sleep. Go away.” Here lids slipped closed again.

“It’s your fault she ran off. Get your sorry hungover-ass up and come help me look for her.”

“Girls? What’s going on,” Auntie El called from the other side of our door.

“Nothing, Laura is just getting up to come and help me look for a friend.” I rummaged around the room, finding a pair of jeans and a sweater, realizing too late the sweater was Laura’s and a bit on the small side. “Get up.” I pulled her stupid pink comforter off. God I wished we had our own rooms. I hated frills.

The door creaked open and Aunt El threw me my coat. “Let her sleep, Liz. She’s going to need her rest for the punishment she’s got coming this afternoon. I’ll help you.”

I left the comforter on the ground out of spite.

The two of us slogged through the damp grass, occasionally coming across a stranded beer bottle or can, in the direction of last night’s party.

“Oh dear God, is that her?” Aunt El asked as we quickened our pace toward a lump in the field between Jeanie’s house and ours.

“Jeannie!” She didn’t move. It wasn’t like her to drink so much. But Laura had been beyond cruel to her.

When we reached her, she smelled of rotten fruit. Jungle Juice, maybe? But where did she get it? There wasn’t any at the Thompson’s Creek party.

“Lizzie, stop!” El said in a strangled voice, her hand a vice around my wrist.
I tried to pull away, but she was stronger than any eighty-plus woman had the right to be.

“Auntie, she’s drunk. We need to get her home.”

“No, child. Get your phone out and call the police. She’s dead.” Tears welled and she released me.

Her hand moved to cover her lips and though her next words were barely a whisper, they shook inside my head as if she’d shouted them.

“They’re back. The Goblin Men are back.”

(c) 2010, MB

** This YAFF Muse has been based on a re-telling of the ever eloquent Christina Rossetti's poem The Goblin Market.

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
Rachel Marie Pratt
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger

Book by Book - Vote Now!

2010-12-02T09:35:00.000-08:00

Most of you probably don't know that I used to work in the non-profit world. Sure, it was a Chamber of Commerce, and it didn't really sit inline with my hippie views. But, working with a shoestring budget and trying to create services for the population you serve is still the goal. I'm posting today to creat awareness about a Pepsi (sigh... I know big corporation, just look away fellow Librals and acknowledge that there might be some good out of it.) giving out a grant fo 250K to a non-profit. But, people have to go and vote for the idea to reach the rank of #1 or #2. The organization I'm urging you to vote for was brought to my attention by a fellow Goodreader and blogger, Alethea (read her fabulous blog here). There's a million reasons why it's a good idea to go and vote for Book by Book, but it's probably better if I just share the link and you can take a look for yourself. There's even a video and a great breakdown of who the grant money will be used.

If you're reading this blog, it's because you either love reading or are a writer or both. At least that's what I assume is why you read this blog. So remember that moment in the library when you were a kid and how excited you got to pick out a slick dust covered book. Remember not being able to wait until you got home to crack it open and let your imagination roam free. Remember reading it on the bus, and almost missing your stop because you were engrossed and engaged. Remember there are kids out there in schools with crippled libraries that haven't made that memory yet.

It's hard working in non-profit, and for once this one isn't begging for money, just votes. You can vote every day until December 31st. Help Book by Book make it to the top with your vote.

CLICK HERE TO VOTE

Give money to a good cause and maybe get some loot!

2010-11-13T17:13:00.000-08:00

So one of my all time favorite authors, Patrick Rothfuss, just posted a HUGE and I mean HUGE contest on his blog. One of his favorite charities happens to also be one of my favorite charities. Heifer International folks! It's awesome. I mean how many charities can boast a basket of chicks? huh? Exactly. Not many. Anyway, pop on over to Pat's blog and donate some cash and maybe win some truly awesome prizes. It will make ya feel good, plus it's a tax write-off. Happy donating/winning!

YAFF MUSE: Dealing Dreams

2010-11-10T00:25:00.000-08:00

Photo credit: hotblack at Morguefile.com

Dealing Dreams
The cab smells like feet, dirty stinky, human feet. A rarity in this sterile world.

The driver gives me a glance from the rearview mirror. “Where. To. Miss-us?” he says. His Mac voice is good, but not that good.

“You’re human, aren’t you?” I say settling in against the cool vinyl.

“I. Am. Mach-ine. Miss-us. Where. To?” He moves in a stilted, disjointed manner, like the Macs do.

“Princes Street,” I say.

If I thought for one second he wasn’t human, I would’ve given my own best Mac voice. But, the stench in this cab gives him away and if he’s worried about being harvested, he shouldn’t. He’s too old.

Through the window of the moving car, dark gray tattered buildings rush by in a blur. Machines, or Macs, don’t need pretty things. But they like to dream of them. Only, they don’t have imagination. That’s what they use us for. Few of us are free anymore, and if we’re caught we’ll be harvested. Well, the young ones, the ones that can still produce dreams.

“Prin-ces. Stree-t. Miss-us,” the cabby says as the high pitch wail of metal on metal brakes screech through the air and the car stops.

The money crinkles as I push it through the payment box. But instead of getting out of the cab, I wait. I want him to say something, admit he’s human just like me. But acting the part of a Mac he sits straight ahead, as if he’s been turned off until his next pick up.

Through the window, I see the Macs I’m looking for. Leaning forward, I say, “Listen, I know you’re not one of them so why don’t you cut the shit and give me a break. I’ve got to meet some tweakers and there’s another twenty in it for you if you stay until I’m done.”

He continues to stare straight ahead, but I catch the twitch in his left eye and know that I stand a good chance of him hanging around.

“I’m Leo by the way,” I say watching the pupils of his eyes widen with surprise. “So you’ve heard of me? Guess you didn’t think I’d be a girl, eh?”

The metal is cold beneath my palm, like everything in the Macs’ world, as I open the door, settling into my Mac persona. “Re-mem-ber. Ex-tra. Twen-ty. For. You,” I say, slow and stilted. Damn, I hate Mac language.

In hard but quick disjointed movements I make my way to the three Macs standing in the shade of the park overgrowth. They turn to me, gears twitching beneath their silicone skin – there’s nothing freakier than a Mac strung out.

“You-rre. Laate,” one says.

“Shut. Up. And. Show. Me. The. Bills,” I say.

His hand slides into a coat pocket to reveal the corners of two hundred-dollar bills. Old, before the war currency, not used by the Macs, but still used in the underground human settlements. His gears click as he shoves the bills back.

Getting caught would be bad for us both. It would mean a trip to the harvester for me, and deactivation for him and his pals.

“Card-s. Pl-ease,” he says.

With a stiff glance over my shoulder, I check that the cab is still there. Huh, guess he’s not as gutless as he seemed. My elbow straightens and I hold out the palmed cards. Four tiny metallic disks, each filled with enough dreams to last these tweakers until next week.

The gears in the Macs’ hand shake as he takes them from me and I grab the bills. “Nice. To. Do. Bus-in-ness. With. You,” I say and turn back toward the cab.

I don’t look back, I don’t care; I just keep walking the Mac walk back to the car. They’ll be there next week, unless one of them gets caught dazed out on illegal dreams.

When I slide into the seat once more, the cabby says, “Where. To. Miss-us?”

“Pickens Lane, South Burg,” I say. “You know, this isn’t going to work if you don’t come clean, man. I can smell the life on you.”

His shoulders relax and I realize he’s been holding them tight against his neck since I first climbed in. “I don’t want to get caught,” he says. “I’ve got a little girl.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

He stares at me through the mirror. “Dreyfus.”

“Well, Dreyfus. I have a feeling a cabby might be useful in my line of work. How would you like to make some bills on a more permanent basis?” I stuff one of the hundreds through the payment box.

“I can’t get caught,” he says, placing the car into gear. I can tell by the new beads of sweat on his brow he knows what I am, that I survived the harvesting and escaped the Machines.

“Stick with me and you won’t have to,” I whisper.
(c) 2010, MB
Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
Vanessa Barger
Traci Kenworth
Rebekah Purdy

A Fox, Wolves, Some Caribou, Buffalo, Moose and a Badger Crossing. My adventures in the Wilderness that is the AlCan Highway

2010-10-26T10:28:00.000-07:00

Most of you know (from the previous post) that my mom moved her from AK. As part of the fabulous journey, the good daughter, err, great daughter I am, I flew all the way up to AK (in a middle seat on a full flight with a delayed layover - did I mention what a wonderful daughter I am?) to drive with my mom down the AlCan HWY.

It started off fine. iPod plugged in? Check. Dog & cat? Check. Snacks? Check. GPS, lovingly named Ruby? Check. Maps in case Ruby doesn't work/dies, etc? Check. Beautiful Alaska landscape (especially leaving)? Check.

Here is a picture taken from (all taken with my phone from the car) of the insert long consonant heavy name here pass. It was lovely.

Around this time (and it was curvy) the dog seemed fine. I took this picture, turned back to take a picture of him (he's a little Havanese named Stewie) to find him covered in yellow vomit.

But not to worry! Mom saved the day with lemony scented wet wipes.

On we went. Further through the dips and valleys and glacier fields.

To snow! Now look carefully but we are actually NOT in the mountains here. Yep. No snow in the mountain curves, but get down to the valley floor and it's all over the road.

Also, if you look even closer, it's ONLY on the road.

(shakes head)

Sometimes things just don't make sense in AK (but more on that later).

Luckily, mom's got 4-wheel drive and we headed (safely) straight for that next mountain in the distance.

Hmmm. That snow is getting mighty thick here and Mom's knuckles are about the same color as it. Come on 4-Wheel drive.

Okay. Lots of snow AND a downhill road. Did I mention that to the left it goes straight down?

Okay, this has to be one of the dumbest things I've seen. Now, I don't know why it bothered me so much, but it did. These two mountains are flanking the highway. They are almost exactly the same elevation and equal distance from the road. (pay no attention to the one on the right looking farther away. It was the angle I took the picture at (ya know, iPhone in car isn't the greatest) Anyway, why does one have snow and the other not? Hmm? Weird, huh? Anyway, let me just say there's a story brewing in these mountains.

And this is documentation of the scariest part of our trip. You can't quite see it here, but underneath all that fat snow is black, black, black ice. And in case you can't tell, that's a steep incline to boot.

12 miles in second gear and a set of headlights behind us that disappeared (no there were no driveways it's full on wilderness out there) later and we arrived at a fancy little berg called Haines Junction. Really, it was a one-pump gas station, a decent hotel and a run down you'll probably find Norman standing in the shower type motel.

Now, thanks to the awesome roads conditions this far, it took us 14 hours instead of the anticipated 12 to get there. Mom goes in to the nice hotel, asks for a room and the guys says "We've got one no-pet room left." My mom isn't the greatest of liars. Which overall is a fab trait. But when you've been on the road for as long as we had, seen disappearing lights and a slippery hill of black ice, I wish she were. She didn't say anything but the guy could read her face and said, "Got a pet, a?" (how do they spell that Canadian "A"??) Of course she told the truth, and that was that. He sent us on our way. He said we could check the flea-bag motel up the road. (The Bates one - yeah, no).

This ends the picture section of the blog. Basically, Mom had enough driving and was about ready to pass out. We both had to use the little girls' but of course there was nothing in the "junction" so we got gas (it was a self serve thingy no bathrooms) and drove up the road (which was thankfully snow/iceless)

We pulled over, a dark 10 miles in either direction on a straight stretch and used the loo. In hindsight, Mom was smart. She just dropped trou directly behind the car. But being Miss Modesty, I hiked down the incline to the left, ya know, near the trees. Why? Why would I do that? Well, it was late and I can probably blame delerium. Anyway, I took over driving from here on (hence no more pictures... well, one more but that's later). So about a half-mile down the road, a wolf crosses in front of us. And where there's one... needless to say, I was a little disturbed by how close my bathroom excursion was to a pack of wolves! I could have been eaten!

The distance between Haines Junction and the next town, Whitehorse, is about two hours or a little over 100 miles. Despite some douche bag blinding me by refusing to turn his brights down and very large Caribou legs flashing in front of my headlights (because the legs were all I could see with his brights in my eyes) we made it and found ourselves safely tucked away in a hotel.

I wish I'd had my phone with me to take a picture of this store we stopped at somewhere around the Yukon Territory and BC border. It was pretty nice inside (a lot of places you go in and come out smelling like some horrible combo of grease, stale cigarettes and old lady perfume). In the bathroom, there was a sign above the sink that said, "Boil water before drinking." Okay, I'm cool with boiling water before drinking. But WHO drinks from public bathroom sinks? Maybe I don't want to know who. If you're one of them, don't tell me because I will be sad to find out.

The twelve and thirteen hour days blurred together. Pretty countryside that goes on for so long you actually stop caring and believe it to be the most boring thing you've seen in your life, a bear, moose, some buffalo (Oh! I have a picture of that!) and a badger crossing.

I know it looks like I'm taking the picture from the dirver's seat. But I'm not. I swear. Mom took this one. Animals in the road are one of the main reasons the AlCan is one of the scariest places to drive. They are big, fast, and come out of nowhere. (Well these didn't, but ya know what I'm sayin')

We were so happy to get into civilization once we got past the last mountain range near the border. We got through customs, drove through a little country town, happy to have mile signs again and was a whole two miles from I-5 (which on the west coast is THE freeway going from the bottom of CA to the top of WA), when this happened:

Yep, that'd be Mom's car all broken down. Who knew that an alternator can go out WHILE you're driving? I sure as heck didn't. This was a busy road too. I was lucky to pull off when I did (just before the car died).

We got to wait an hour for the tow, then get to the mechancis (who were awesome) before we could finish our trip. We were thrilled it was something that could be fixed so easily, but who wants that at the end of the trip? Although, at least it didn't happen on one of those middle-of-nowhere places in Canada. So bright side, right?

We got home late evening on the fourth day of our journey. All intact, and hardly worse for the wear, save for some serious exhaustion.

This is my second trip through the AlCan with my Mom, and she better not decide to go back because I'm not doing it again. (Okay, who am I kidding, like I'd let her go alone.)

I'm glad to be back to the land of the living (aka civilization) and back to my house, pets and husband.

How would you like your change? Slow and steady, please.

2010-10-17T23:07:00.000-07:00

Doesn't fall seem like a good time of year for change? It's my favorite season and it seems way better than New Year's. I mean, everything is dormant and cold. Okay, spring is the obvious choice for change, I know. But fall is just as good, I swear.

Then again, when change hits and it's unexpected, it is hard to process no matter the time of year. Of course, I'm talking about change affecting us, rather than the reverse of us affecting change. It's much better when we can choose the change, right? Don't worry though folks, I'm not going to wax philosophic today. I know no one wants to read the chicken/egg loop for an entire post. I'm just saying I prefer my change slow and steady instead of a "surprise!" moment. Planned change, yeah, that's the ticket.

In the last couple months there have been some major changes in my life, or rather, there will be. One, I just started grad school, and boy is it a lot more work than I planned on. Two, my mom (who has for the last eight years been living in Alaksa - sorry peeps, but that place is another world and I don't mean that in the magical has fairies and cool stuff way.... okay to vacation it's pretty cool, but you couldn't pay me enough to live there... oh yeah back to change) is moving to Portland. Whoo hoo! I mean, seriously. Before she moved to Alaska, I moved to Los Angeles (another armpit of the west coast, but I won't go into that now) so we've lived apart for the last decade. It's hard to believe it's been that long. But my mom, sister and I have always been close and we're all looking forward to having her close.

See, those changes don't seem too bad. Learn time management, enjoy mom being back. Good.

But. There are two changes in my writing life that I have to say make me a little bummed. Two of the wonderful ladies from my critique group Young Adult Fiction Fanatics are movin' on. Change comes for everyone in different ways, and sometimes we have to move things around to make them work in our lives. While I know, or at least truly hope, we'll all be able to keep in contact, I want to take the opportunity to thank them both for the fantastic contributions they've brought to the group.

Both of them are fabulous writers and I'm sure someday we'll see them on the shelves.

Cam - you introduced me to the "Show-me" police, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your insight, spirit, and humor infused comments have brightened my writing in ways I cannot even describe. I will miss you on the boards, but fear not, I'll be stalking your blog. And anyone who wants join me can do so here.

Clara - I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed reading your MS. On the boards, you've been a true cheerleader for us all, and your constant positive attitude is truly appreciated and will be missed. I'll see you on FB and I'll also be stalking you on your blog. And anyone who wants to join me can do so here.

I just want to give a big THANK YOU to you both for bringing such positive elements to both my writing and my life.

So even though I prefer my change slow and steady, sometimes it gives you just the opportunity you need to reflect and remember the good things that can come of it.

YAFF MUSE: Lost Language

2010-10-12T22:37:00.000-07:00

Photo credit: Vanessa Barger (pssst... she's our very own YAFFer!)

Lost Language

Don’t scream and we’ll let you live. That’s what they said. Two days ago.

I wonder if Father will do what they want. If he even knows I’m gone. He spends so much of his time running from meeting to meeting I barely know we live in the same house. When he is home, he prefers to lock himself in his office scribbling at his desk, big silver headphones on his ears. Drowning out the world to concentrate on work. Drowning out his only daughter. His only family since Mom died.

A thin slice of light blinds me as the door slides open and I wrap my arms tighter around my knees where I sit.

“Get up,” A woman says. She’s the same one who took me. Dark curls, wide brown eyes, heart-shaped face. That's one thing Father taught me, pay attention to detail, it might save your life one day.

“I said get up.” She opens the door wider and begins to enter.

I scramble to my feet, legs shaky beneath me. “Did my Father do what you wanted?”

“Let’s go,” she says.

I follow her down the manila corridor, through doorways with large broken doors hanging from bent hinges. The cool air and burnt scent draws my attention to the walls, etched with deep grooves of black that cast outlines of where people or furniture might have stood, like a reverse shadow.

“Where are we?” I ask through cracked lips.

“These were supposed to be blast-proof, you know,” she says and runs her finger in a line along the soot.

The frigid cold reaches me before we enter the expansive room. Its far wall and three stories above have been blown away and I understand where we are. A place no New Yorker goes anymore. A place bombed like the rest of the island twenty-five years ago, ten years before I was even born.

The woman grabs me back from the main chamber. Away from the wreckage of chairs, tables and exposed cables long dead from carrying electricity. Away, from the man struggling against two larger men at the center of it all.

“Daddy!” I scream and try to get out from her grasp, but she holds me tight.

“What did I tell you about screaming?” she whispers into my ear, her curls tickle my cheek.

“Please,” I say.

But she drags me away, through a doorway and up a narrow flight of stairs. We enter another small room, this one with glass at its center and a view of the huge room beneath. She lets me go and leans against the exit.

On top of a desk, covered in years of dust, are computers, papers, and headphones that look similar to Father’s.

“What is this place? Please, I need to go to my Father. I’m sure he’s given you what you want.” I peak over the desk and cringe as one of the men slap him in the face. Before I know it, my hand pounds against the window. “Daddy!”

“They can’t hear you,” she says.

When I turn to her, she seems to be pinching her ear. “Leon, let him know.” Her eyes find mine and she says, “Now give Daddy a show. Look out the window.”

I follow her commands, but wish I didn’t as I watch one of them men direct my father’s gaze toward me. His eyes go wide, and even from where I stand the fear is evident. My hand aches as I pound on the glass once more. “Daddy!”

“Do it,” the woman says from behind me.

Seconds later, their large fists crash into his temples as booted feet send him to the floor in a crumpled mass.

“No!” I scream and the rusted gate that’s held my secret for so long crumbles to dust as a string of words in my mother tongue fly out of my mouth. Realizing what I’ve done, I clamp my hand over my lips.

“She’s the one,” the woman says. “Let the father go.”

My heart soars and sinks at once as the men drag Father through another exit and out into the night.

“He wouldn’t tell us, you know.”

I turn to her.

“Too loyal to the President, I guess. But you. You’re the true gem.”

“Wha—what do you want from me?” I ask, tears burn as they slide down my face.

“President Smith has coded documents we need deciphered, written in your lost language, of course. And I had a feeling your dad wasn't the only speaker. We need your help.”

“Why do you think I’ll help you? You’re terrorists,” I say. “You must be, or else you wouldn’t do this.”

Her laughter is high pitched, like bells on Christmas and it echoes through the room. “Things are more complicated than that, and trust me, your precious government has done far worse. Tell me, have you heard of The Free Children?”

“No.”

“Well, come with me and let’s get acquainted.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you promise me he’ll be safe.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, and root my feet to the ground.

“Oh, he’ll be safe for as long as you cooperate. You have my word.” She smiles.

“Like that means so much,” I say.

“You won’t get any other offers, and the alternative is less the desirable, I assure you.” She moves out of the doorway, leaving room for me to join her. “Come on, Deva, the deal won’t stay on the table forever and I can bring him back with a word.”

For him, I follow her.

***

Some of you may recognize a main character from my current WIP, Laced. But I hope you enjoyed it even if you haven't been reading Laced as it goes along.

***

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:

Vanessa Barger
Traci Kenworth

YAFF MUSE: In Dreams

2010-10-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: MorgueFile.com

This story is stand alone, but has recurring characters introduced in The Lake of Swans.

In Dreams

The high-pitched screech of my pager wakes me, and before I know it, Mom and I are rushing down to the station - me still in blue polka-dot boxers and a stained Micky Mouse t-shirt from '05.

Ten kids in six months, and every time, I'm too late.

I know she won't be there, but I glance to the detective's desk. It's been almost a month since she died, and even though she used to cross herself to ward me off, I miss her in a weird way.

"Come along, Darla." Mom stands in the midst of the sea of other empty desks, a hand at her hip, garishly manicured nails tapping in irritation. "Darla," she hisses, her bright red lips twist into a sneer
.

"Sorry, Mom," I say, catching up with her in two long strides. At least I don't have to walk through the usual mind-chatter.

When we reach Chief Blackstone's office, my skin erupts in goose bumps. "Wait."

"What?" Her hand pauses on the doorknob and she looks over her shoulder at me.

"There's someone else in his office."

"Of course there is, Darla. Why do you think we're here?" She begins to turn the handle.

"I don't know who, or what he has in there, but I'm not going." My feet fuse to the floor, arms cross in front of me.

Like a coiled snake she lunges at me, orange claws dig into the flesh above my elbows. "You're going in, Missy." She drags me forward and I struggle to hold my ground.

The door opens.

"Is everything alright out here?" the Chief asks, smoothing the edges of his mustache.

I get a flash of where he's been and try to close out the vision of naked bodies grinding on poles. But the image persists and as my eyes meet his, a slow crimson spreads across his cheeks.

"We're ready for you Ms. Holiday," he says, opening the door wider, revealing the toe end of a sneaker. "I'm afraid we don't have much time, I'd like to get started."

The taste of blood coats my mouth and I realize I've been biting my lower lip. "Who's in there?" I ask, still refusing to budge.

The Chiefs gray eyebrows shoot up and he chuckles.

"Please forgive my daughter.' Mom's grip on my arm tightens.

"Why don't you come in and meet him?" he suggests.

The decision is made for me when the owner of the shoe steps out of the office. A guy around my age, 16 or maybe a little older, with caramel skin and dark dreads tied loose at the nape of his neck. Untangling myself from Mom, I wrap my arms tight around my torso, wishing she'd allowed me time to change.

"Hi," he says, green eyes glinting with excitement, he stretches out a hand.

I"m temped to take it, to shove off the warning bells my senses sent out when he was still behind the door. But like a snuff film, dark images flicker in my mind.

Fresh blood spilled across delicate white tiles, a girl about twelve with her throat slit like a gruesome smile beneath her chin. The scent of death hangs thick in the air and I'm no longer in the station. There are no doors in this room, no windows, but knowing my body did not come with me, I shift through the walls.

The brick cabin stands alone in a white wasteland, my feet grow cold but they shouldn't. This is only a vision.

I close my eyes tight and will my consciousness to go back to my body, back to the station. And as I feel myself lift into the air with the promise of home, I peek, catching movement in a tree that has popped up next to the cabin. Where a lifeless body swings from a noose.

"Darla!" Mom's screams reach my ears and I open my eyes.

"It's not what you think," the boy says.

My hand moves to my nose and comes away bloody. I scoot away from Mom and the rest of them, my spine pressing against the cool metal of a desk.

"What happened?" I ask.

"This here," the Chief clasps the boy on the shoulder. "He works up images to trap 'em." He hands me a white cotton handkerchief. "But he needs you to find 'em first. You see?"

"That's what you saw. it's not real," the boy says, holding out a white business card.

What's in his head if he can conjure up such horrible images to tempt a witch? And how did he pull me into it?

I take the card, and just like mine in black letters it reads:

JULIAN SPENCE

DREAMSCAPE MAKER

YAFF MUSE: Sleep

2010-09-22T06:00:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: The Room By trubluboy

DAY 25 - 1:00 AM
I still can’t sleep. The doctors prescribed heavy-duty drugs, but it only makes my handwriting shitty. It’s warm and I’ve opened and closed the window five times already. Maybe I should open it again.

DAY 35 – 2:30 AM
Someone followed me home from school today. I don’t know them. I told mom, but she said I must have been imagining things.

DAY 82 – 4:00 AM
No one believes me anymore. They’ve sent me to shrink after shrink and still they say it’s all in my head. But the people, I know there’s someone after me. I can feel them watching, always watching. Oh God, why can’t I sleep?

DAY 120 – 3:00 AM
They’ve pulled me out of school. Good. I’m glad. Yes, I’m glad. There are monsters in school. They lurk in the hallways, in the shadows. Mom is telling me to turn my light out, to go to sleep. But doesn’t she know? I can’t sleep. The shadows will get me if I sleep. I’m keeping my lights on. I don’t care what she says.

DAY 144 – 5:20 AM
I haven’t slept in eight days. Not even an hour. Not even a minute. I used to get at least an hour. But now, nothing. Wait. There’s something in the walls. A scratching. I call to mom but she doesn’t come. I think she’s starving me too. I haven’t been out of the room… there’s a scratching again. I call again, but she still doesn’t come. My hipbones hurt.

DAY 250 – 2:00 AM
My tongue is thick. I can’t talk anymore, who am I? What happened to me? Where did my mom go? I hear footsteps but I can’t remember how to walk. My eyes won’t close. They come in and put drops in them, but I can’t blink.

DAY 300 – 5:30 AM
Sleep comes.
(c) 2010, MB

***

As we’re gearing up for the creepy fall, horror is on my mind. And usually, I don’t give a reason behind the muse, but this week’s is inspired not only by the picture, but also the most terrifying thing I can imagine – not sleeping. A few years ago I read a book by D.T. Max called The Family That Couldn’t Sleep. It’s about a genetic disease causing a malformed protein or Prion (like Mad Cow) that causes the victim to not sleep for anywhere from seven months to a full year or longer. Things bumping in the night can’t hold a candle to that kind of horror – at least for me.

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
R.M. Gilbert
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger
Jenn Fischetto

YAFF MUSE: The Journey

2010-09-15T06:00:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: "Tren" by Phypet

The Journey

The scent of grit and oil permeated the air around us. Our friends and family gathered close, their voices drowned by the sound of squealing brakes and waiting passengers.

“It’s time,” he said, handing me two thick tickets.

“I don’t want to go,” I said. My heart filled with lead and my feet rooted to the ground.

His eyes were tired, but the darkened blue I’d loved since the day we met sparkled through. “We must, my love. But let me tell you something about this journey.” He pulled me to his chest and kissed the top of my head.

“When we laugh, the train will go faster though we wish it wouldn’t. When we cry, it will slow though we wish it speed. We will scale mountains and plummet down the other side. But we will be together.”

“What if it breaks down?” I asked, tears cresting the corners of my eyes.

“Ah, and it might. But what’s a journey without a few breakdowns?”

“I don’t want a journey. I want to just get there and let it be over with.” I held tight to him, knowing I’d do anything to avoid this destination.

He caressed my cheek then drew my chin up to face him. “My love, it’s the journey that’s important. It’s what we will remember, what you will remember.”

“Can’t we just run away?” I asked, burying my face into the crook of his neck.

“All paths would only lead us back. You know that.”

And I did. I knew that no one escaped the train of fate. As I glanced around at the busy station I noticed the many passengers getting ready to take a similar trip.

A tall skinny man held tight to a shorter thick woman. Their train arrived, candy apple red paint glinting in the light of the afternoon. Though they didn’t seem the type, their train exuded lust and thoughts of many passionate nights.

Another couple, old and grizzled walked hand in hand to their train, a battered blackened thing that looked as if it had traveled through a war zone.

To our left stood a gorgeous couple, oozing confidence and money. They held hands, but a chill hung in the air around them. A gasp escaped my lips when their train arrived. It clunked along at a snail’s pace, seizing every few feet then sputtered back to life with a wheeze.

When the train meant for us arrived, my leaden heart lightened. Strong puffs of crisp white steam rose from the stacks and the sleek sides, while sporting a few dents, were clean and shined. It was a Herculean thing made to plow through any obstacle with ease. A thing of true beauty made by our love, and meant to carry us on this journey.

“We cannot delay any longer, my love,” he said.

Grasping his hand, I faced forward with him. As we stepped onto our sturdy train, I gave a last glance to our friends and family waiving their goodbyes. They would not come with us this time, but I knew they’d be there when I returned.

My mind filled with all the lovely things still left to do and see. Excitement burned in my chest, I was finally ready to enjoy the journey.
(c) 2010, MB

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
RM Gilbert
Rebekah Purdy
Vanessa Barger
Cambria Dillon

Reading, writing, and well, not so much arithmetic

2010-09-04T17:16:00.000-07:00

Most of you who read my blog, know that I'm in grad school. It's been about six months since I've had to take a serious (nose to the grindstone) kinda class. One of the things I noticed while doing edits on my finished MS (The Last Elemental) is that there are places, whole chapters really, that my writing gets a little stilted, or formal. Then there are others where my writing is much more, well, me.

I'm assuming this happens because of all the research papers school forces me to write (the nerve!). Unfortunately, I'm not doing a masters in anything would help my writing, like creative writing. Instead my upcoming days will be filled with public health theories and practices. But that kind of research and teen assassins (my WIP, Laced) don't really gel. Or at least not for me. I have a very difficult time separating writing styles.

I know that many writers write fiction or personal stuff and also write for publications. I wonder how or if that is really any different than what I do with research papers. How do they/you keep it separate? Is there a process for this? Some kind of exercise maybe? Or should I plow through my WIP and get it done (at least up to the Beta phase) by September 28th?

I'd love to hear some perspectives on this.

YAFF MUSE: The Place Where Beauty Lies

2010-09-01T01:49:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: playingguitar2 by:trublueboy

The warm scent of Jasmine hung in the dense air the night he came. Grains of sand seemed to move in slow motion around his feet. His dark hair and eyes were black against the light of the moon. A song played in the distance, but the wind’s tongue deceived me and I could not understand.

Iz-za ostrova na strezhen’, Na prostor rechnoy volny, Vyplyvayut raspisnye, osterogrudye chelny.

“I have won my prize, my bride,” he said. His large outstretched hands ripped me from my only home.

Na perednem Sten’ka Razin, Obnyavshis’, sidit s knyazhnoy, Svad’bu novuyu spravlyaet, Sam veselyi I khmel’noy.

The cool water splashed through my sandals as I walked the creaky length of wood onto the ship. Great men covered in thick furs and beards as dark as shadows stood, weapons ready at their hips.

Pozadi ikh slyschen ropot: Nas na babu promenyal! Tol’ko noch’s nej provozilsja, Sam nautro baboy stal…

The rush of water beneath the ship was the only hush against the men’s laughter. The arm of the man who calls me his bride encircled my waist. Jasmine clung to the air around me, but we sailed so far, it's unable to hold on. Spices I do not recognize replaced the scent of home. Yet still the wind sang its song.

Etot ropot I nasmeshki, Slyshet groznyi ataman, I mogucheju rukoju, Obnjal persijanki stan.

He pulled me tight, wrapped me in furs. His breath was hot and stunk of death as he pressed his lips to mine. I squirmed beneath his grip and he pressed down harder.

Brovi Chornye soshlisya, Nadvigaetsya groza. Buynoy krov’yu nalilisya, Atamanovy glaza.

Commotion on the deck drew his attention back to his men. The boat rushed on, cutting a line in the deep cold water blow. I sat huddled in a corner, bow at my back shivering in furs, wishing for the sweet scent of jasmine.

“Nichevo ne pozhaleyu, Bujnu golovu otdam!” – Razdayotsya golos vlastnyi, Po okrestnym bergam.

The men began to argue, their swords drawn, gleamed in the moonlight. Their voices a danger to the wind’s ghostly song. My arms burned when he grabbed me from beneath the warmth of the furs.

“Volga, Volga, mat’ rodnaya, Volga, russkaya reka, Ne vidala ty podarka, Ot donskovo kazka!

He yelled to the men, fist to the sky, me at his side. The freezing air cut at my exposed skin.

Shtoby neb lo razdora, Mezhdu vol’nymi ljud’mi, Volga, Volga, mat’ rodnaja, Na, krasavitsu voz’mi!

My bones rattled beneath my flesh as he shook me. With one hand my feet left the solid ground of the boat and flew into the air, suspended above him. The men cheered but their delight was dampened by the wind’s song.

Moshchnym vzmakhom podnimaet, On krasavitsu knyazhnu, I z abort eyo brosaet V nabezhavshuyu volnu.

Weightless I flew into the depths of the river below. The bite of freezing water cut through my center like a sharpened scimitar. I gasped for air but my lungs burned with the crush of ice. Darkness crept into my vision, though I did not struggle when I smelled the jasmine.

“Ssto zh vy, bratsy, priunyli? Ej, ty, Fil’ka, chert, pljashi! Grjanem pesnyu udaluyu, Na pomin ee dushil..

Blackness retreats as I gasp to a cold slap of water to the face.

“Amira, wake up.” Cinda’s panicked voice reaches my ears and I realize it’s her hands violently shaking me.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m here,” I say opening my eyes to my friend’s concerned look.

“What happened to you? One minute you were ordering a pop at the bar and the next, you’re out like a light.”

“I…”

“Iz-za ostrova na strezhen’, Na prostor recnoy volny, Vyplyvajut raspisnye, Ostrogrudiye chelny.”

“That song…”

“Yeah, Sebastian Razin is a damn hottie. So hot you passed out?”

“I guess so.” I glance from my friend to the stage where a young guy sits. His lips pressed against the mic, a shadow beneath the hazy green lights of the coffee shop.

“Thank you,” Sebastian says, in a thick Russian accent then steps down from the platform, heading toward the bar. And us.

“Don’t you remember anything? He asked you to have a pop with him after the concert?”

“I remember, now go away,” I say, turning and wiping of the water she drizzled on my face.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I swear. I’m fine.”

“Okaaaay. But I’ll be right over here, if you need—”

“Hi,” Sebastian says, his black hair partially concealed beneath a ball cap.

“Hi,” I say.

“Did you like my song?”

“It was in Russian, right?”

Thick fingers clasp onto the cap as he lifts it, running his other hand through his hair.

“Um, what is it about?” I ask.

The brown of his eyes deepen. “A sailor who takes a Persian princess as his bride only to have his crew ridicule him for giving up country for the love of a woman. To prove his allegiance to his homeland, he throws her overboard into the River Volga.”

My skin erupts in goose bumps and I blow out a lungful of air. “Tragic.”

“Nyet,” he says grasping my chin between his index and thumb.

“I… um…”

“Not to worry, Amira, my princess. Song is meant to be romance.” He presses his lips against mine. The scent of death finds me once more.

Lyric credit: Stenka Razin - traditional Russian Folk Song written by Dimitri Sadovnikov circa 1883

I normally don't give a reason behind the inspiration, but this week I think it needs it.

Traditionally, this song is based on a folk hero who falls in love with a Persian princess and marries her. But his crew teases him about having found a woman and then turning into one himself. He says he'd give up everything, including his own head for his homeland and as a testiment to his loyalty, throws his new bride overboard into the River Volga.

For some reason this song popped to mind for me when I saw this picture and I started to consider what the Persian princess might have thought of the whole situation. She wouldn't have spoken Russian, and would likely have been frightened by the all male crew, being a prize and then being thrown into the river. Amira means princess in Persian. So I thought it was a fitting name for her.

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:

RM Gilbert

Rebekah Purdy

Vanessa Barger

YAFF MUSE: The Lake of Swans

2010-08-18T19:03:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: I Turned Around by Inessa Emilia

The Lake of Swans
The stainless steel is cool and I fidget in my seat. My mom gives me ‘the eye’ but I stare back at her. If it weren’t for my abilities, I’d be just like her. Dressed to the nines, orange spray tan and tarantula lashes. Though, right now, I think I’d make that trade.

“Ms. Holiday, we’re ready for her,” says a portly officer dressed in blues.

“Come on, Dear.” Mom’s red lacquered nails tug against the knit of my sweater.

I follow her in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 through the rows of officers that give furtive glances as we pass. Thanks to Mom, I used to take a similar walk, only instead of police stations it was a runway. God I hated pageant life.

A detective with a dark brown ponytail clutches the cross at her neck. The roller balls wail in protest as she scoots her chair back. I’d give her a dirty look or maybe even twirl my finger at her a little if I didn’t already know she has breast cancer.

Five more months. I’ve seen her kids cry, so I try not to hold her superstitions against her.

On second thought, maybe I hate this life more.

“Afternoon, Ms. Holiday,” The Chief says, his gray mustache is overgrown and I get a flash of him living in a hotel.

“Chief Blackstone, it is good to see you. I take it the wife and kids are well?” Mom asks.

The Chief’s eyes flick to me for a brief second. I give him a half smile.

“They’re great, Lotty. Thanks for asking,” he says.

I hold back my snort. Part of knowing everyone’s secrets is keeping them.

“And Darla, how are you doing today?” the Chief asks me, but doesn’t shake my hand as he did my mom.

“I’m good Chief. Thanks,” I say, taking my usual seat.

“Great,” he says and settles down behind his desk. “So, have ‘ya got anything for us today?”

I swallow against the dryness creeping into my throat. “I guess we’ll see.”

“Of course she does, Chief,” Mom says. “Of course you do, don’t you, Sweetie?” Her nails dig into my thigh.

“Yes, I’m sure I do,” I say. Your meal ticket always has something for the nice officer. I want to say it, but I never do.

The Chief gives me the go-ahead hand signal and Mom ties my feet and hands to my chair. The rope burns and I give her a sideways glare.

“It’s for the best, Dear.” She makes it even tighter.

With the ropes in place I close my eyes and walk back into my mind. Then I climb. I climb until I’m out of my body completely, above the Chief and Mom, above the detective with cancer, above the police station, above the horrible little town of Stayton.

There’s a song on the wind, one that only children can hear and I know it’s her. If I had a heart it would be racing as I glide toward the sound, passing rivers, houses and fields of sheep. The air vibrates around me.

There.

I hover above like a mist, then float down behind her. She’s staring into a lake, and if my body were here, I’d be shivering. She continues to sing, the sweet song, the children’s song.

Oh God. Along the tree line are two children coming to her song. I want to scream out. I want to stop them, but I’m helpless.

The song pauses and she turns, facing me. Her eyes are liquid silver, her mouth spreads into a wide smile. She lunges at me, but I’m only air and I lift back into the sky.

Settling back into my body, I wish I hadn’t. Blood trickles from both my ears and the ropes have burned gouges into my ankles and wrists.

Mom unties me and hands me a washcloth.

“It was her wasn’t it? Where is she?” the Chief asks.

My voices cracks, and Mom offers a glass of water. After a few big swallows, I look into the Chief’s eyes. There’s fear. And there should be.

“Yes, it was her. She’s at the Lake of Swans near the coast,” I croak.

The Chief grabs his phone and begins to bark orders.

I shake my head. “She had two children on the hook. She won’t be there when you find them.” She’s never looked at me before, and I know I should tell them, but some secrets are for me alone.

The Chief settles back into his chair. “Damn it. We need to catch her earlier next time.”

I nod.

“We will, Chief. I’ll have her here earlier next month,” Mom says.

“Good. Well, in the meantime, I’ve got these for you. The station wanted to do something nice for you. You know, in case you ever make it into the big leagues.”

He hands Mom a small cardboard box. Her nails scrape against it as she lifts the lid. “They’re lovely, Chief,” she says and hands me a white business card.

In plain neat letters it says:

DARLA HOLIDAY
WITCHFINDER

Super Duper Contest

2010-08-05T09:35:00.000-07:00

If you read an earlier post "beautiful blogger" you would find one of the ladies I named is Roni Griffin. I am truly amazed at how much she manages to blog! And not only that, she's created a one-stop community for writers on that blog. She has recently been to a conference and with fellow blogger Julie Cross and the two of them are offering a laundry list of prizes. If you are a fellow writer, go visit her contest, enter to win some prizes, and enjoy her positive energy and excellent blog.

Roni & Julie's Epic Summer Contest!

YAFF MUSE: Lost

2010-08-04T06:00:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: kozarevets story 2by ~pstoev

My hand drags along the rough surface of the white plastic table. Everything is white here. The floors, chairs, walls, even the paper cups they bring that remind me of the ones I used to dip my fries into. But instead of ketchup these hold three little pills.

“Meds, Meg,” the nurse, dressed in white scrubs, says to me.

I don’t bother looking at her; she’s faceless like the rest of them. Instead I grab my pills and the other white cup containing two swallows of lukewarm tap water. I don’t mind the blue pills. They keep me calm. But I cheek the other two. The dreams will come again and I know they’re the key to understanding. To remembering.

There is movement outside on the lawn and my eyes struggle to focus through the dingy windows. It looks like the staff organized a game or something. Finally the meds nurse turns away from me and I spit out the two pills into my hand then press the chalky wet mess into my pocket.

“Wanna dance?” Ashlyn asks. Her bright red hair is striking against the sea of white.

“Uh, no thanks,” I say, but realize she wasn’t talking to me in the first place.

She scoots along the common room floor, twirling and singing to herself, a Raggedy Anne doll in her outstretched hands makes the perfect dance partner. I’m not sure why she’s here, but she’s pretty damaged.

We all are, I guess. But I wonder if any of them did it to themselves, or if someone did it to them. And I wonder which one of those categories I fall into.

I wish. It doesn’t matter what I wish anymore. But sometimes, no, all the time, I wish I hadn’t gone that day. Josh invited me over after school. He told me to be there at four. I was crushing on him for months before he finally asked.

I remember how the old bike wailed against the pressure of my feet pumping the petals as I raced toward the house. His house. It’d been raining all day and the damp air promised another bout of it. I wanted to get there before it started again.

After propping the bike against an outbuilding, I walked over and knocked. There weren’t footsteps coming from the other side of the door, more like scraping then a rattling, like a snake.

Then my world went blank, white, like this room. I don’t remember who answered the door. In fact, I don’t remember anything after I knocked. I woke up days later in the hospital. Mom said someone found me walking my bike down the middle of the freeway talking gibberish.

“Time to go back to your room, Meg,” Another nurse in white tells me.

I leave the table and the commons, heading in a group back to our rooms. I sit on my bed and know that the nightmares will come, hoping that this time I’ll remember.
(c) 2010, MB

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
RM Gilbert
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger
Jennifer Fischetto
Cambria Dillon

YAFF MUSE: Goodbye

2010-07-28T09:48:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: Grass Kiss by Criswey

Swamp coolers roared in the background and I wondered why a gallery would allow so much damp air in the room. My parents dragged me to the opening. The artist was some son of some power couple they knew. As if it wasn’t bad enough being stuck at a snooty damp art show it was made worse by their trying to pair me up. Ever since Max died its all they ever tried to do.

“Hey,” said a dark haired boy about my age. With his hands shoved deep into his expensive tailored suit pockets he seemed bashful and out of place.

“Hey back,” I said, right finger twirling in the silk cord of my purse. Why the hell was I nervous?

“You like the show?” he asked.

I turned to the wall of abstract paintings, overhead lights zeroed in on each piece. The one in front of us had broad strokes of tans with sage and yellow like the sun had just come across a field of wheat. My heart broke all over again. The months and months of trying to forget came undone as instead of a painting a memory played before my eyes.

“Are you okay?” the boy asked, a warm hand on my shoulder.

I blinked and the vision of Max and I in our field disappeared.

“Um, are you—”

“I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m… It’s a beautiful piece.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, his hand still on my shoulder.

“Let me guess. You’re Calvin, as in the artist.”

“Something like that.” Pride laced his voice.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Juliana.”

“I know.”

I shook my head, my gaze sliding to the ground. “Of course. I suppose your parents sent you on some mercy mission to come talk to me.”

“No.”

“Whatever, don’t bother. I’m not interested." I bit my lip and looked up at the painting once more. It threatened to melt into my memory again. "I'm still..."

“Missing me?”

My eyes met his. “Max?”

“Mmm. Hmmm. But just for tonight.”

“How?”

He pulled me into his arms, his breath warm against my ear. “Because I never got to say goodbye.”

(c) 2010, MB
Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
R.M Gilbert
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger

Beautiful Blogger Award

2010-07-27T10:43:00.000-07:00

Thanks to R.M. Gilbert & Rebekah, my fellow YAFFers for this lovely blog award.

So I'm supposed to post seven beautiful boggers here:
1. Roni Griffin - Fiction Groupie She always has useful information and is now doing a huge contest. Plus I have to admire her ability to blog EVERYDAY.
2. Vanessa Barger - Slightly Skewed A fellow YAFFer that always has a great sense of humor and positive attitude.
3. Jennifer Fischetto - Writer Also a fellow YAFFer that doesn't always know how awesome she really is. But she should, because she is pretty darn awesome.
4. Penny Randall - Writer Another YAFFer who is also awesome and a lucky-ducky on vacation in Greece.
5. Traci Kenworth - Writer Yes, another YAFFer. Traci never ceases to amaze me with her ability to write with the creep-factor.
6. Alethea - Read Now Sleep Later A fantastic blogger and goodreads.com buddy with an amazing passion for reading.
7. Kristen Lippert-Martin - A Rock in My Pocket She never fails to make me laugh out loud with her observations on writing, reading and all quirky things in life.

Now, I'm supposed to tell you all seven things about myself. Hmmm.
1. I'm pescetarian, though I don't eat shellfish.
2. I grew up on a farm and had a pet raccoon that lived in our house and slept in my bed. His name, in all its childlike unoriginal glory, was Rocky.
3. I learned Russian just so I could read fairy/folktales in their original language.
4. I don't like fried food. At all. In fact I'd go as far to say that I loathe even the smell of it.
5. I have a black thumb - even airplants die in my possession.
6. I'm a coffee snob. I won't drink Starbucks, Seattles Best, or anything that comes from a can. I prefer my local coffee roasters Stumptown.
7. I'm a writer still in the closet - save for two or three - none of my friends outside of my crit group know I write.

Okay. I think that's it. Even though I didn't list R.M. & Rebekah in my list of beautiful bloggers, it goes without saying that each of them fall into that category. Plus, since they gave me the award to begin with, I wasn't sure I should send it back. Anyway, they are both awesome ladies, and thank you to you both.

YAFF MUSE: Mission 28

2010-07-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: Musical Burial by OfficialTwilamore

Mission 28

My hands are careful as the syringe pops through the rubber center of the bottle marked Oxyuranus microlepidotus. The plunger drags against the pressure of the liquid as it fills the plastic tube. I leave the needle submerged and my thumb presses down until the body reads point-ten milligrams. It’s more than I need.

The scrape of the door almost sends the bottle and syringe clattering to the ground. Thankfully, I haven’t pulled the needle from the top yet, and they fall into my lap.

“What are you doing?” Shin asks as he enters my room.

“Knock much? You almost freakin’ killed me. If that needle had been out . . .” I scramble to set the stuff on the table, press the plunger down and remove all the captured liquid. I’ll have to start over again.

“Whatever, my reflexes would have caught it before it pricked that perfect skin of yours.”

My head pops up to glare at him, but he’s inches away. A ghost in the flesh, he crossed the distance to me without a sound. His spicy scent and proximity has me momentarily tongue-tied.

“Besides, I did knock.” His index finger glides along my cheekbone.

“No you did—” I stop myself and his eyebrows rise. “Making noise isn’t the same as knocking, you know.” I want to pull back from him. To scoot my stool across the room, but his stare keeps me fixed.

“Exactly,” he says then backs away, almond eyes skidding across the room. “The General sent me to see if you’re ready. The target will be in the location at 1600 sharp.”

I bite my lip. It never gets easier, and unlike my teammates I’m not a sociopath. But it’s better than what my life could have been if the General left me in the orphanage.

“Saeth? Hop to it. We’ve got twenty before we need to be there.” Shin’s lips curve into a wicked smile.

“I would’ve been done if you hadn’t scared the living shit out of me just a second ago. I need fifteen,” I say then turn back to my desk.

“You’ve got ten,” he whispers in my ear.

I turn to catch him, but the room is empty and the door is once again shut. I hate ninjas.

***

The wind stings my cheeks as Arash and I walk to the beach. He’s lanky but built, and the contents of the hidden compartments within his swim trunks make him the second deadliest thing walking the sand today. What’s sewn into my suit proves I’m number one. He grabs my hand as we approach the counter terrorist checkpoint. Just two teens out for a day at the ocean.

The guard checks our ID’s against our fingerprints when we place them to his hand scanner. “Have a good day,” he says and ushers us through.

Out of the guard’s sight, we break apart. Shin is somewhere behind us, and he won’t be going through the guard to get in. Knowing him, he’s probably already here.

“There she is,” Arash says. “Do your worst.”

My heart thrums in my chest. The target is younger than my usual, probably twenty or twenty-one. I unravel my beach towel next to hers. Her blond head bobs up and down to the music in her ears. Good. It’s better if I don’t have to talk to them. I catch my reflection in her large black sunglasses.

The towel is already warm from the heat of the sand by the time I lay out on it. Carefully, my left hand reaches down and finds the syringe stitched into a hidden pocket of my bathing suit. The threads come away without much effort and then I palm it to my other hand.

Without getting up, I uncap it one-handed, and hope it’s laced with enough lidocaine. By the time she feels it, it’ll be too late. With a soft prick into the meaty part of her thigh, my thumb dispenses the euphoric concoction first.

She sighs heavily and her head-bobbing slows. The General hates my process, but I prefer my targets to be blissful and unaware. Next, the plunger threatens to break against the thick polymer gel that separates the euphoria from the poison, but eventually it slides through.

Within seconds of removing the needle her heart will stop. I don’t need to check, she’s point-eight mills over what it takes to kill a man twice her size.

I lay there for another ten minutes, nausea rolling in my stomach, before recapping the sharp and getting up. “Hey can you watch my stuff?” I ask the target. She doesn’t respond, but this part is for show anyway. “Great. Thanks. I gotta pee,” I say and head toward the restrooms.

Once inside, I repeatedly vomit into the toilet, flushing every few seconds to eliminate the sour stench. Strong arms pull me up from my hunched position.

“Get your ass up, Saeth,” Shin says, yanking me to my feet.

“Sorry.”

“Here.” He hands me a piece of gum, and by the time it’s unwrapped and in my mouth, he’s gone again.

Arash leans next to the door. “It’s done I take it,” he says.

“Mmmm hmmm.”

We trudge through the sand to the beach exit.

“Someday you’ll get a stomach for it.”

I nod in agreement, but somehow I doubt it.

(c) 2010, MB
Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
Vanessa Barger
Cambria Dillon
RM Gilbert
Traci Kenworth
Rebekah Purdy

Idea Intruders

2010-07-19T10:37:00.000-07:00

I just need to pose this question to the creative universe. Why, when I'm trying to work on edits for a completed MS, does the Muse strike? All I want is to get it out the door. But all my brain wants to think about is this other fancy, shiny, new idea.

Should I abandon edits for the thrill of a new story? Should I knuckle down and just jot the idea to come back at a later date? Oh why is discipline so difficult!?! Do I have time for both? What could I sacrifice in order to work on each? Sleep? Eating? Reading? True Blood?

I have to admit, (though I've always loved it) I came to writing because I was avoiding something... epidemiology homework. I usually bake when avoiding things as well. Perhaps it's just something in my make-up that encourages avoidance. Edits are tough. My mind must be racing to find something to distract me from having to do them. Even right now, I'm writing this blog post instead of doing my edits.

Well, creative universe, I expect some answers.

YAFF MUSE: Beautiful Beltane

2010-07-15T14:16:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: Gold by Kizuna Chan

Gwinn
The bonfire illuminates the dancers’ painted bodies as they sway in time with the flames. Their bare feet kick clouds of dirt into the air that mix with the hazy smoke.

The skin I wear is both familiar and foreign. Many seasons have passed since I have known this form. My chance will not come again and I leave my hiding place in search of her.

Theda
“Are you going to dance this year?” Becca asks.

“Hell yeah,” I say, braiding flowers into her long blond hair. “Aren’t you?”

“Nah. Mom said I’m not old enough yet.”

“That’s crap. It’s not like anything happens out there. She should know, she’s been dancing the Beltane for years.” I wipe my hands against my jeans, trying to get rid of the sticky flower residue.

“I know. But there’s just something weird about dancing nearly naked in the same circle as your mom,” she says and inspects my handiwork with a small mirror hung from the branch of an old oak.

I chuckle. “I guess that’s true. But I'll be there and I'll protect you from the horror of your mom's nearly nakedness.”

“Shut up.” She lunges at me, and then giggles as I give way to chase.

“You’ll ruin your hair,” I call back to her. The brush crushing beneath my shoeless strides, I dash between elder trees.

“Gottcha!” Becca’s fingers capture my wrist.

“Okay, okay. You win,” I say and we tumble to the ground laughing. “You did ruin your hair.”

She pats it blindly. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

My hand trembles as I tuck a stray beneath a bobby pin. “There. Now it’s fine.” I fear her rejection if she knew my true feelings and my gaze slides to my hands.

A deep pink spreads across her freckled cheeks. “Come on. They’ve already started, let’s go get you painted up for the dance.”

Gwinn
I glimpse my freedom through the flames. Strawberry curls wrapped up in a crown of Ivy and Marigolds, her curves exposed and painted in swirling patterns of orange and red. My heart quickens and at once the length and strength of these legs, my legs, become comfortable again. The rhythm beats beneath my skin and I enter the sway of the Beltane bonfire.

Theda
The subtle scent of the earth sweetens the spice of ripe bodies. My skin afire, I move with the pounding of the drums. On the other side of the blaze, a girl I’ve never seen watches me. Her long black hair shines with an iridescent emerald and stands out painted in hues of blue, green and gold. The intricate paisley pattern shimmers in the light of the flames.

She catches me staring back at her and begins to dance toward me. Suddenly, my body paint is thin and I shiver with the embarrassment of exposure.

“Hello,” she says, her voice the music of the earth and my secret crush on Becca becomes a distant memory.

“I’m Theda.”

“Gwinn.” She’s inches away, in time with the tempo of the drums. I join her.

Gwinn
My hands find their way to her hair then down her neck and shoulders. My hips and stomach brush against hers and I know freedom is close.

She is the one.

“Theda,” I whisper.

Theda
Tendrils of swirling silver is magic in the air when she says my name. Her skin is cool despite the heat around us and she leaves blue fingerprints atop the dark red of my shoulders. The pulse of the night brings me closer. My arms encircle her, tracing the line of her spine and still we dance. I suck in deep breathes of warm air.

She pulls away, her eyes catch mine and sadness radiates within them. “I am sorry, Theda.”
A blush rushes to my cheeks and I’m thankful for my crimson paint. “Don’t be,” I say, reaching for her.

She backs away, and my outstretched hand freezes in front of me. My Beltane red replaced by the same patterns Gwinn wears. Cold dread fills my heart as I watch her sink away from the fire, painted in reds and oranges.

I go after her, into the darkness of the forest.

Gwinn
She chases me. I knew she would, but I remain out of her grasp and as the sun crests in the east, I know I am safe. Free after a century, I stop running and return to the Beltane camp.

“Theda! Where have you been?” A blond girl asks me.

“Dancing,” I say.

Her fine brows knit together. “The dance has been over for hours.” She shakes her head. “Never mind. It’s time to go, everyone’s waiting.”

I follow the girl to a truck as a high pitch squawk pierces the morning air.

“What was that?” she asks.

My lips curve into a slow smile. “A peacock,” I say.

We drive out of camp, and the girl points through the window. “There it is! It was a peacock. Wow. It’s a pretty one too.”

“Yes, the very prettiest,” I say.

Theda
Trapped in a body that is not my own, I open my mouth to scream, to beg them to return to me but all I hear is a harsh, ugly cry. I see her – me – staring from the rear window. She raises a hand to her mouth and blows me a kiss.

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
RM Gilbert
Rebekah Purdy
Tracy Kenworth
Vanessa Barger

YAFF MUSE: The Sounds of Violins

2010-07-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

The Sound of Violins

      My eyes shut tight against it. Against him. Against the stale scent of cologne mixed with cigarettes and the bristle of his cheek along my neck and jaw. I don’t hear his grunting. I don’t feel his weight. Instead I hear music. Memories of running through the village with my sister play beneath my lids. When I open them again, I’m alone.
      He is my third customer today, but I need one more to make the quota. Another girl, Wei, screams from the other side of the silk curtain that separates our mats. My fists clench but I close my eyes to her too.
      Rain is coming. The aroma of cooked fish cuts through the humid air. Hunger rolls in my stomach. I crawl and my knees scrape along the dry clay floor as I make my way to the window at the back. The creak of the opening pane is drowned out by the sounds of customers.
      Clouds darken the alley as I skirt through crates of spoiled food and garbage out into the market. For a minute the bustle of the sellers and people overwhelm my senses, and dizziness takes hold. I close my eyes, violins play and calm returns. I step into the sea of shoppers.
      The old lady with the fish cart gives me salted Carp. If I can’t get my fourth customer, it will be the only meal I get today. When I can, I bring food back for the other girls. None are as small as me, and they won’t fit through the window.
      I think of Wei, and ask the cart lady for an extra piece. She shakes her head. No, not today. I swallow my mouthful of salty meat and pocket what remains for Wei. It’s not much, but the customer making her scream is not enough for her to make quota. She will not eat.
      My mouth waters at the smell of sweet bread. Though I have no money, I walk in a trance toward the vendor. Hope fills my chest. It’s not the toothless bald man tending the cart; it’s his son, Bao.
      I smooth my hair down, and run my hands across my threadbare black dress. He smiles as I approach the cart, then presses his finger to his lips. A blush rushes to my cheeks. He is not like the customers. No, he’s a shining star in my dark life since my brother sold me to the Mangda.
      “This is for you,” he says and palms me a sweet roll.
      “Thank you,” I say.
      The scuffle of feet let us know his father is coming. He cringes and I notice the black bruises around his cheek lead up to a bloodshot eye. I nod in understanding, and then fall into the swarm of the crowd working my way back to the alley. Thunder rattles in the distance and the rain muffles the busy market. Fat drops pelt my head and shoulders.
      I rest against the cool stone wall near my escape window. The downpour washes the fragrance of the market carts from the air leaving the stink of hot, wet garbage to hang in the alley. I open my cupped hands, the sweet dough still warm between them.
      Underneath, edges of stiff paper graze my palm. A card. Just like the ones the customers in suits carry in their pockets. The bright pink name of a teashop is crossed off. On the other side is a hand written note.
      I read it over and over again. The words on repeat through my mind.
      Meet me by the train station.
      Tonight, we hear music.
      Tonight, we run.

*******

Worldwide, there are an estimated 2.5 million people in forced labor (including sexual exploitation) at any given time as a result of trafficking.* The majority of trafficking victims are between 18 and 24 years of age.**
If you would like to know how you can make a difference check out these organizations:

Global Fund for Women

Human Trafficking.org

Vital Voices

Freedom Center

***Sources***

(*) International Labour Organization, Forced Labour Statistics Factsheet (2007)
(**) International Organization for Migration, Counter-Trafficking Database, 78 Countries, 1999-2006 (1999)

*******

Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
RM Gilbert
Rebekah Purdy
Cambria Dillon
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger
Penny Randall

NEW SERIES: YAFF MUSE

2010-06-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

YAFF Muse is a new weakly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we'll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don't forget to check out the other YAFFers participating in this series (links below).

Photo credit: "Summer Tea" By Valyeszter

The Wishing Tree

              Wishes come true in the town of Foster. Austin Blake once wished for a goldfish in first grade. The next day, he woke up to a bright orange fish in a bowl. Sara Hendrickson wished for her son to come back from the war. And what do you think she found the next morning? Yep. Her son Alex on her doorstep, safe and sound.
               There’s magic in the wind. That’s what people say anyway. I’m not so sure. The trouble with wishes are, sometimes they don’t always work out. Sissy Tucker wished for a husband. She got one, but maybe she didn’t ask for the right kind. He was a pig. Beat her so black and blue that Officer Dunkle didn’t even recognize her.
               That night though, the night Sissy’s husband beat her, a tornado ripped through Main Street. The only thing it touched was the tiniest teacup hung high upon a branch of the Wishing Tree. The very cup Sissy whispered her wish into only a year before. Then, as if the cyclone had never touched ground, it disappeared into the sky along with the teacup.
               Sissy’s husband was never seen again. Some say the tornado swept him away. Others claim he ran off after what he’d done, leaving a trail of broken women behind him. Grandpa says the tornado stole Sissy’s wish and that’s what took care of the asshole.
               The people of Foster all say the same thing—the wish has to come from the heart. If it doesn’t, the wind will lift your china from the branch and send it crashing to the ground. The grass beneath the tree is littered with the ruins of shattered wishes.
               The other problem with a wish is that they can be tricky. Sometimes the wind doesn’t crash your wish to the ground. Sometimes it gives you what you asked for, just not the way you thought. Robbie, the butcher, once wished for a million dollars. The next day he woke up to a million sand dollars on his doorstep. If you walk by his house, you can still catch the salty smell of the sea.
               As I stand here under the Wishing Tree, its leafless arms stretching into the blue sky, I wonder if my wish will come true. Suspended china bowls, teacups, and even a gravy boat tink in the breeze.
                I whisper my wish, the only wish I’ve ever had, into my teacup. Forgotten wishes and broken dreams crunch beneath my feet as I approach. My fingers tremble as I thread the fine handle through the branch. My heart’s desire dangles, a test against the wind.

***

Below are links to my fellow YAFFers' blogs and stories based on the same photo:
RM Gilbert
Rebekah Purdy
Cambria Dillon
Tracy Kenworth
Vanessa Barger

A Fresh Take on Charles Perrault

2010-06-17T12:24:00.000-07:00

I love folktales. Truly, wholeheartedly LOVE them. Sometimes I wish I would have done that in school instead of Public Health. But Public Health has a better paycheck.

Anyway, one of my favorite folktales is Little Red Riding Hood by Charles Perrault. (Who happened to pen one of my other all time favs, Bluebeard) So you can imagine my thrill at seeing a fresh retelling of the story. And so far, it does not disappoint. I haven't finished yet, only about halfway through, but I had to get it out there. If you love folktales, pick up Sisters Red by Jackson Pearce.

Betas out the door!

2010-06-07T15:00:00.000-07:00

Who knew writing was so much work? Oh, wait, ALL writers know how much work it is.

Before writing turned into something I wanted to do it was easy. Actually, starting a story still feels easy. I sit down, spill words across my computer screen and then I immerse myself in another world. It's great. But, once those words have been put to paper . . . er . . . screen, it's a lot of work to get them shaped up.

It's taken me weeks to apply all the edits I have from my critique group (Young Adult Fiction Fanatics). But thanks to them, I've whipped those words into shape. Or at least I hope so. Now I sit, having finished all my edits, sent out my MS to a group of beta readers, I've got nothing to do but wait. Well, that's not true, I have a story or two milling around the empty space in my head.

Of course in one to two weeks I'll have a whole fresh round of edits to apply from my awesome beta readers. I guess I'll never be bored with writing. There's always something new to do and no limit to the imagination. No matter what, the amazing feeling of being creative and getting words down is worth all the work in the world.

White Cat - Holly Black

2010-05-24T22:32:00.000-07:00

Oh Holly Black, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I'm just kiddin' I'm not going to post a love poem to H.B.

However, being completely impressed with Ms. Black's new book, I have to put this out there. I don't think very many thirty-something women can write a teenage male in first person. Or at least not well. Holly Black has made my short list of women who do.

That's it... short post, I know. But I've got to get back to reading!

Check out White Cat!

Kindred Spririts

2010-05-17T09:51:00.000-07:00

About ten months ago, I joined an online writer's group called YALITCHAT. (See first post about taking my toys and going home) If someone would have told me that in less than a year I'd be flying halfway around the globe to meet a lady I met online, I probably would have laughed in their face. I'm not that person. I'm not someone who meets online friends.

I'm glad no one told me because it may have just ruined the wonderful surprise and journey of meeting a kindred spirit such as my friend, Penny. We traded manuscripts and hit it off, finding many things in common outside of our writer's world. Fast forward a few months, both of us joining a crit group with a bunch of equally awesome ladies, and an it had to be in the cards surprise trip to Paris with a train ride to England and you've got the perfect mix for friendship to flourish.

Now, to be honest, my little sister was a bit worried about me heading off to a foreign country to visit a lady I'd only met online. She said, "If you wake up in an ice-bath missing a kidney, don't say I didn't warn you." Point taken. I'm glad to say I came back with both kidneys intact. Not to mention had a wonderful time with Penny and her lovely family.

Meeting someone through their writing is more than just meeting someone online in a chat group. Writers pour their heart and creative energy into their work and no matter what the story is about, a piece of them will always remain. I didn't think I got into these online groups and crit group to make new friends. Yet at the end of the day, you just have to be open to friendship no matter where it comes from. I'm certainly glad I was. Thanks to these new friends I've learned a heap about writing, the industry and ultimately myself.

Like always, I've taken the scenic route to this realization. Next up on the agenda will be learning how to mingle these two worlds of mine - the writers and the rest of my life. Stay tuned for more adventures along the winding road to doing the things the long way.

Next on my list to read

2010-04-07T16:12:00.000-07:00

Today I was lost in the mile-high stacks of my favorite local bookstore, Powell's (got to give a shout out!) and came across a book I'd previously failed to see on goodreads, or hear about, or whatever. I can't imagine how this book as escaped my attention. It's SO right up my alley. I haven't started it yet. Mostly because as a bad Powell's customer, I wanted to find out if it was on the Kindle, which is way cheaper than a new book at Powell's. Oh, and I didn't buy it. (sorry Powell's - you know I love you, but I also love shoes, purses, and Anthropologie, and a girl's got to pick her battles)

There is a Kindle version, but, I should have bought the book at Powell's anyway. Because now I sit here and want nothing more than to have that book in my hands. What was I thinking? I don't even own a Kindle! I'm an idiot. I'll probably have to go buy the book tomorrow. Or beg the iPad off my husband. Which is unlikely to happen because he needs it for work. I swear he does. (Hubby's Site - better give a shout out to him too!)

So here's the book: The Boy with the Cukoo-Clock Heart by Mathias Malzieu

A fantastical novel, a wildly inventive tale—by turns poignant and funny, lusty and wrenching—about love and heartbreak.

Edinburgh, 1874: born with a frozen heart, Jack is near dead when his mother abandons him to the care of Dr. Madeleine—witch doctor, midwife, protector of orphans—who saves Jack by placing a cuckoo clock in his chest. It is in her orphanage that Jack grows up, amid tear-filled flasks, eggs containing memories, a man with a musical spine.

As Jack gets older, Dr. Madeleine warns him that his heart is too fragile for strong emotions: he must never, ever fall in love. And, of course, he does: on his tenth birthday and with head-over-heels abandon. The object of his ardor is Miss Acacia—a bespectacled young street performer with a soul-stirring voice. But it’s not only Jack’s heart that’s at risk, it’s his very life—and doubly so when he injures the school bully in a fight for the affections of the beautiful singer.

Now begins a wild journey, of escape and pursuit, from Edinburgh to Paris to Miss Acacia’s home in Andalusia, where Jack will finally learn the great joys, and ultimately the greater costs, of owning a fully formed heart.

So, as you can imagine, I'll probably be back at Powell's tomorrow, securing this probably fantastic book.

Sticky Notes

2010-03-22T16:03:00.000-07:00

I love sticky notes. I mean, what's not to love about them, right? They're so handy. I'm going to use my favorite little gooey paper products to remind myself of the several things I need to think about when doing future revisions. I've found (many thanks to my crit group!) that aside from my addiction to adverbs, I also have addictions to the words/phrases: assume, a bit, looked, confuse (all variations - "ed" "ing" "sion"), found myself, and sucked in. There are more, but I'm forgetting them.

So. It's my plan to put these words on a little sticky note. I'll place the note in my workspace and hopefully it will help me. I'm going to try and avoid using these words/phrases too much. This endeavor may or may not result in new found addictions. But it's worth a shot. At least I'll be changing it up for my crit group, right? Right.

Dressed for Success

2010-03-09T09:37:00.000-08:00

This is the first time I've ever received blog bling. I didn't even know what it was. So thank you Rachel for sending me some bling for my blog! I guess I have some directions to follow (cross your fingers) so here it goes.

I'm supposed to write ten things that make me happy. Hmmm. I don't think it's asking for them in any particular order.

1. The beginning of spring

2. Even numbers

3. My dogs' greeting when I get home

4. An unlikely find at an antique shop

5. A good book

6. When my husband helps me with a video game

7. Kayaking on a sunny day

8. A good sense of humor

9. Making playlists

10. Living in Portland, OR

Now somehow I'm supposed to post this and link this and stuff I have no idea how to do. But I'm giving it a go. Also, I guess there are some rules....

Here are The Official Rules:
1. Copy the award image into a post.
2. List 10 things that make you happy.
3. Tag 10 bloggers who brighten your day.
4. Link to their blogs.
5. Notify the award recipients.
6. Award recipients link back to sender’s blog.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winners. I think I need to list some winners too.

The Xanax Kitchen

A Rock in My Pocket

Writer Adrift (though you may already have it... I don't know that many other blogs!)

Okay, so I guess that's all I need to do. I now feel my blog is dressed for success, if it could only find the perfect pair of earrings...

Oh wait! I also need to link back to Rachel's blog...

A New Addiction & My Unhealthy Relationship with Adverbs

2010-03-03T11:18:00.000-08:00

I have to admit, I've never been one to take criticism well. In fact, I'd categorize myself in the "just smile and nod at her" column. But writing and putting yourself up for the pure purpose of it has given me a new perspective. I love it. Even if it seems harsh at first, and trust me, it does.

I post something in my crit group and then can't wait for someone to go in there and break it apart.

Is there something wrong with me? Am I a masochist? I doubt it. I do go in and edit my chapters to the best of my ability before posting. It's just I'm SO close to it. I can't see all of the things that need work.

One of the things is my unhealthy relationship with adverbs. I guess they're a killer in fiction. I hadn't thought about it much before. Looking back at my MS, you'd think I was getting paid by adverb. I can barely (see!) help myself. I love the sound of "ly" before a verb.

But thanks to a couple of fantastic adverb-haters, I'm learning . . . slowly (crap!). Seriously though (shit! I've got no control), I mean to cut adverbs out of my life. Those of you who know me, and get regular emails from me, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE give me crap every time you catch me. I need to be the reverse Pavlov's Dog here. If you could shock me with an cattle prod, all the better.

A Million Thanks

2010-03-02T10:31:00.000-08:00

I am in an excellent mood today. Spring is coming and my favorite dogwoods are in full bloom. Oregon is always green, but spring is pretty fantastic. It was one of things that I missed living in that dust bowl, a.k.a. Los Angeles. Who knew there could be infinite shades of green?

Because my mood is so happy, I want to give out my thanks to all of my crit partners on YA Fiction Fanatics, Penny Randall (who isn't on my blog, but who was my first full MS crit partner and I hope it gets back to her), my mom, Ron Stoppable, Ken Tastic, Danny, and Mike. The latter few of this group are close friends who without their encouragement (if not lack of negative feedback) pushed me to persue something I really love doing.

Okay, mushiness over. Now back to my normal self. Spring... it makes you do and say things out of character.

Dear Lucky Agent Contest

2010-03-01T09:04:00.001-08:00

Now, this would probably have more "ooomph" if I actually had a bunch of followers. But here it is regardless.

Guide to Literary Agents blog is having a contest. Here is the info for anyone interested in getting a crit of their completed YA/Adult urban fantasy, paranormal romance.

"Dear Lucky Agent" Contest:

Urban Fantasy & Paranormal Romance

Welcome to the third "Dear Lucky Agent" Contest on the GLA blog. This will be a recurring online contest with agent judges and super-cool prizes. Here's the deal: With every contest, the details are essentially the same, but the niche itself changes—meaning each contest is focused around a specific category or two. So if you're writing a novel-length work of urban fantasy or paranormal romance, this third contest is for you!

HOW TO SUBMIT

E-mail entries to thirdagentcontest@gmail.com. Please paste everything. No attachments. (Also note that I do not check this account. Only the agent does. Looking back over old e-mails, some people have wrote to say hi to me, or perhaps ask a question. Contact me at literaryagent@fwmedia.com.)

WHAT TO SUBMIT

The first 150-200 words of your unpublished, book-length work of urban fantasy or paranormal romance (adult or YA - both accepted).

Joanna says: "Please keep it to these two subgenres specifically. While you can incorporate a variety of fantasy elements, they still have to fall under these two categories. For those of you who are unsure, keep in mind that both urban fantasy and paranormal romance have a strong base in a real world setting (like Jim Butcher's Dresden Files or J.R. Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood or Richelle Mead's Vampire Academy). So no stories that take place solely on another planet or world!"

Find the rest of the info/stuff at:
http://www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog/Dear+Lucky+Agent+Contest+Urban+Fantasy+And+Paranormal+Romance+For+Both+Teens+And+Adults.aspx

Min

Muddy Dogs and Revision Hell

2010-02-23T11:37:00.000-08:00

I'm learning, slowly. Revisions are a necessary evil in writing. After glowing reviews from friends and family, I honestly thought I did not have to do much. I hate revisions. Revisions are work. And all in all, I like to avoid extra work. But the people who are actually willing to tell me I need to do them, are correct. My first, second, third, and maybe even fourth draft are rubbish. I must do revisions. I must find a way to get it done.

I live in Oregon. I don't know if that's evident in my "complete profile" and I am not tech savvy enough to spend the time to figure it out. In any case, if you don't know, Oregon is probably one of the wettest states in the US.

I've been spending a lot of time just writing, looking out the window, and writing some more. Also, I must police my two German Shepherds. When I'm home, nothing less than 50 trips in and out of the backyard will satisfy. They act as if their bladders cannot possibly hold it for more than twenty minutes at a time. I know this not to be true. When I work a ten hour shift, I come home to dry floors.

I believe getting muddy is their singular goal in life. As rainy as Oregon is, I tend to let them out separately. This creates extra work for myself - standing there, waiting for one, then putting the next one out and waiting again - but really in the end it saves me from having two completely muddy dogs.

It has been uncharacteristically dry these past few days and I decided the dogs deserved to romp around the big back yard. An hour later, I was jarred out of my revision time on my MS by the sound of thumping and romping on the deck. I looked out the glass door to see my mostly white dog was now mostly brown, and I couldn't really assess the mud damage on the mostly black dog. Though, her usually tan stockings were now as black as her backside, so I assumed the worst.

Where had they found the mud? Did they just get their feet wet then tromp around in the dirt? Where had they found the water? These are things I must wonder about. If you've never tried to wrangle two 80 pound dogs, downstairs and into a bathtub, you're missing out in life. They almost prance with pride . . . until they understand where they're going.

As I sit now with two clean dogs, exhausted from their mud play and baths, it occurrs to me, if they can find a way, on a dry day, to get muddy, then perhaps I shouldn't so easily give up revisions. I suppose there is some truth to "if there is a will, there is a way." Then again, perhaps I am just reaching for any inspiration I can find to keep plugging along.

Hello blogosphere

2010-02-03T18:59:00.000-08:00

Please note the blog title. . . clearly I'm always a little late to the party. I suppose I've just assumed you need to have kids, a crazy job, heroic battle against illness or something equally funny or inspiring to be a blogger. Then I thought maybe not. I'm guessing super-nerds have been blogging alone in their bathrobes for years.

I'm not a parent. I have a semi-crazy job (which I can't discuss for fear of being sacked - thanks HIPAA). I've never battled an illness worse than the flu, nor am I a super-nerd in a bathrobe. I don't even own a bathrobe. I suppose it is for these reasons I have not felt myself worthy of the blog.

Indeed, I've been slow to join the intertron (no I do not mean "internet" please see Mystery Science Theater for reference) bandwagon. I've only been on Face Book for about a year. I have a small profile on Goodreads.com (book nerds unite!) and that's about it. It was procrastination that eventually set me on the path to blogdom . . .

I was trying to avoid epidemiology homework. Well actually, I was trying to avoid something worse than epidemiology homework (yes there is a such a thing). I was attempting to avoid a crazy-ass partner who self identified as a "Type A personality" and preceded to tell me she'd do all the work; mostly because she was confident in the fact that I was a moron. Like I'd pin my "A" on some still wearing a banana clip in 2009 lunatic woman, claiming (but only to the cute boys at the front of the class - never mind being old enough to be their mother if not grandmother) to have been a homeless hooker. You might be wondering what kind of school I attend... I assure you it is one of Oregon's finest universities.

Anyway. I wrote this story and, feeling inspired, started a writing group with my other author hopeful friends. Everyone loved it. Of course, they're my friends. They wouldn't be my friends if they didn't love everything my creative heart put forth. Well that's great. They prodded and pushed until I bit the bullet and sent out some queries - horrible, awful things, not fit for reading.

Defeat, irritation and ultimately hard headedness (see blog title) sent me on the path to research how to get published. Oh, I was shy at first and the rejection stung. I joined an online lit critique group and it took me nearly two weeks before I'd post anything. When I finally did, I was slaughtered. They weren’t really mean. (I reasoned only after I allowed myself to sleep on it and did not post my initially planned hateful reply - taking my toys and going home) Instead, I took the critiques and improved my work. I had to take the long way to learn it, but constructive criticism is an amazing motivator.

So here I am. Creating what all the "people" in the industry say is a "must" - a blog. Though, what really frustrates me, in this age of unlimited access to information, for every "expert" telling me to have a blog, there is another who says it's not needed. What to do? What to do? I guess go with a blog . . . hope it doesn't just become a platform for ranting and maybe make some sense of this insane industry.