Tiana Smith

The Wizarding World of Harry Potter

2013-05-07T13:06:00.001-06:00

I think it's pretty safe to say that I'm a Harry Potter nerd. A big one. So it may be an understatement to say that I was pretty excited to go see Harry Potter World with my hubby on our vacation.

There was butterbeer! A Hogwarts choir! Chocolate frogs! There were mechanical owls with fake owl poop decorating the rafters! (It doesn't get much more exciting than fake owl poop you guys...) I loved every minute of it. Walking down the streets of Hogsmeade was like seeing it all come to life.

It's amazing to me that all this started out as an idea in J.K. Rowling's head. She created a world that was so vivid it demanded to be realized. Everything about her idea was so detailed and involved that we could picture it just by reading it.

That also created a few problems though ...

Some of the details didn't add up. As I was walking around Harry Potter World, I started thinking about the little quirks that seemed contradictory.

For example, I think it's really strange that in the modern technological age of today, the wizards were quite fine with parchment and quills. I mean, really? If I were a young wizard, I'd be pretty upset if I had to hand over my laptop when I got sorted into my house. And on that note ... you can't tell me that wizards were too good for electricity. Come on folks, electricity has got to be better than all the lamps and candles they were forever toting around. Though they lived in our modern age, the wizarding world was a little behind in some areas.

There are also quite a few plot holes. In other words, I may LOVE the Harry Potter books, but there are some things about the premise that make me laugh a little.

Here's the thing though - I'm willing to look past those details. I'm willing to suspend my disbelief and go along with the fact that wizards use owls to communicate over long distances rather than email. Or the fact that three first-year wizards are able to break past the enchantments surrounding the sorcerer's stone even though it was supposed to be strong enough that the most powerful wizard of all time would be stumped. I enjoy Rowling's writing enough to put aside my misgivings.

My latest book is a middle grade fantasy. There are some things in there that are pretty hard to believe. I can only hope that I develop the characters, storyline and writing enough that I make readers care about the world and want to immerse themselves in it. I can only hope they'll forgive me if my dragons talk or my princess doesn't act very princess-like at times. I hope there's enough magic for them to forget their own world.

As I was walking around Harry Potter World, this was the main thing I kept coming back to - magic. There's something magical about Harry Potter, and I hope that one day, I'll be able to bottle up some of my own magic and share it with others.

Three cheers for J.K. Rowling! And Harry Potter! And butterbeer! (Which is really yummy by the way. Kind of a cross between rootbeer and cream soda). And vacations! And ... I'll just stop now.

The Appeal of Jane Austen

2013-03-21T15:51:00.001-06:00

So... I'll admit that I'm kind of in love with The Lizzie Bennet Diaries. I don't regularly watch TV or any kind of show really, but this one got me hooked. If you're not familiar with it, it's a series of videos on YouTube (you can start here, but I recommend you clear your schedule for the rest of the day) that depicts a modern adaptation of Pride and Prejudice in vlogging form. Since the series is wrapping up, *sniff, sniff*, I'm feeling a little lost. What will I do without Lizzie and Darcy in my life?

Okay, not really. I'm a big girl and I have a busy life. But still, it's been something that I've enjoyed watching. This isn't the only "remake" of Pride and Prejudice that I've loved, either. With books, I practically devour any Jane Austen adaptation. It doesn't have to be the Pride and Prejudice story line (though those are my favorite), since I'm pretty much enthralled no matter what Austen classic the author has decided to make over.

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What makes these stories so popular? In Hollywood, popular culture and especially publishing? Why do they resonate with such a large audience, enough so that we're all willing to read the same plot over and over and over without getting bored?

I have a few theories:

1. We know what to expect. Sure, it's the same story, but we like it. It's comforting. We know which characters are going to end up together and we like that the surprises are small. We enjoy seeing the subtle differences each author creates to make the story their own.

2. It's clean. Okay, so this is debatable, since some adaptations take quite a few liberties and often have their characters doing things that no respectable lady in the early 1800's would do. BUT, in the majority of cases, the 'purity' of the characters remains the same. It's a clean love story that we can all enjoy without feeling uncomfortable. We can tell our grandmother how much we liked the book without her (or anyone else) passing judgment on our reading decisions.

In relation to the previous point, but still separate enough to warrant another bullet point:

3. The love story is timeless. Because the sexual tension isn't ramped up like so many recently published books, I personally think it makes these love stories more lasting. We can believe that their love is based on more than just looks. It won't fade as soon as one of the characters gets fat. They love each other based on their personalities rather than for their looks.

4. We feel smart. When people start talking about the classics, we instantly feel like our IQ gets a boost when we say that we've read all of Austen's work. Also, if we're reading an adaptation, we feel smart simply because we can predict what's going to happen.

5. We all secretly love the costumes. Basically this rule only applies to the adaptations that still take place in the 1800s, but come on, who among us hasn't thought about how an empire-waist gown might hide our stomach flab, or how the men look so sophisticated in their coats and breeches? I mean, not that I have stomach flab or anything ... *cough, cough*

Am I the only one who loves Jane Austen and all the adaptations so much? (I doubt it, otherwise there wouldn't be that many adaptations).

Have any Austen adaptions that you'd recommend I watch or read? TELL ME. NOW.

Choose Your Critique Partners Wisely

2013-02-15T09:50:00.000-07:00

I'm one of those weird people who never lets my family or close friends read my books. They kind of hate me for it. (But in a good way, of course). I have my reasons though ...

*Why my mom is not my critique partner*

"Your book is okay, but that story you wrote in second grade was your best work. That one showed true creativity and was so imaginative. You were so cute back then, what happened?"

*Why my dad is not my critique partner*

"I rarely speak more than 10 words a day, and telling you everything you'd need to fix would use up my allotment for the year."

*Why my brother is not my critique partner*

"You know, I went to med school. Beat that, little sister."

*Why my other brother is not my critique partner*

"I went to law school. Beat that, little sister. Also, you need MOAR DRAGONS!"

*Why my sister is not my critique partner*

"I'm too nice to say anything bad, so ..." *looks around awkwardly*

*Why my college roommate is not my critique partner*

"I thought you said you were hoping to get published soon? Didn't you say that, like, five years ago?"

*Why my toddler is not my critique partner*

"Gah boo dee ma ba ba. Hi Hi! Yeah. Daddy. Daddy! DADDY DADDY DADDY!"

*Why my critique partners are who they are*

Because they are so helpful, so willing to reread any number of scenes, so encouraging, so nit-picky, so GENIUS, so wonderful that I wouldn't have it any other way. Love you guys and gals.

Image Source

P.S. To my family - you know I love you more than anything.

Do you share your work with family and friends? Why/why not?

Writing for a Reason

2012-12-05T19:45:00.000-07:00

When I was in the third grade, I had a teacher who was very ... practical. He loved math and science - the stuff that would give me nightmares at night. He would show us videos of space shuttle launches and I would try very hard not to let him see me falling asleep in the back row. He was all about reality and I was all about imagination.

We didn't get along too well.

One day, he asked each member of the class to write a story. I wrote a whimsical tale about a missing waterfall and the talking monkeys who went in search of it.

This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy. I was prone to over-exaggeration when I was younger, and I can't for sure say that I am remembering what really happened, or if rather (as I suspect) my emotions got the better of me and I fabricated a memory that seemed to fit better with the way I was feeling.

Regardless, in my probably-modified memory, my teacher called me back to his desk, showed me my story, and in very angry tones, berated me for having something as silly and nonsensical as talking monkeys.

"Monkeys don't talk in real life," he scolded. "This isn't a good story. Good writing is about what is real."

Then he tore up my paper before my eyes and threw it into a trash can that was spouting flames.

(See? I told you my memory wasn't to be trusted. In truth, he probably told me that I had misheard the assignment and that I was supposed to write a non-fiction piece. I guess I'll never know for sure.)

For our next assignment, I wrote about an orange. I made sure that EVERYTHING was real. I described the orange in perfect detail down to the bumpy exterior and vivid color against the table top. Nothing happened in my story (seriously, nothing), but I described the PULP out of that orange. I didn't think it was a very good story, but my teacher gave me an A.

That was when I first learned to change my writing for a particular audience. School taught me this very well, and I got pretty gosh darn good at writing exactly what the professors were wanting.

After I graduated from college I got a a few different jobs writing marketing copy for online businesses. I'd spend my days shelling out writing that was sub-par and better suited for the fire than it was for actual human consumption. Let me tell you, waxing poetic about the glorious features of such-and-such infomercial-quality product can really make you question why you ever wanted to be a writer. On the plus side, my clients would pay me a lot of money and they loved my work.

Now that I'm not in school anymore, and I'm no longer a full-time cubicle dweller, my writing has once more taken a turn. But this time, it's taken the turns *I* want it to take. I can finally write the stories that I've been wanting to write. In fact, I just finished my fourth novel (wahoo!), and I think it's my best one yet. I'm pretty biased, for sure, but I think it's good writing.

Why do I tell you all this?

Because good writing is subjective.

Whether something is *good* or not depends on your audience. It depends on your medium. It depends on your timing. In publishing, good writing is determined by readers, teachers, parents, publishing professionals and even your aunt Hildy (who has never read a book in her life) can have a say. It depends on what people are expecting, what they're aiming for, and even what side they got out of bed that morning. All these factors determine whether or not your writing will be up to snuff.

But just because someone says that your novel wasn't their cup of tea, it does not mean your writing is awful. You are the one who decides what you will write and how you will write it. You're the one who decides what kind of a writer you want to be. (Well, if you're a writer, which I'm guessing you are, since most of my blog readers are writers ... Anyway, I digress).

What I mean to say is this: Your "good writing" potential is not determined by the expectations of your third grade teacher.

I don't say this because I'm feeling like I've been rejected or because I'm depressed. On the contrary, I feel really good about my work right now (I'm still on the "I finished my novel" high). I say this because I know just how much we writers like to judge our writing based off other people's expectations. We're a pretty emotional bunch, and we tend to let our doubts get the best of us - hey, we're a lot like our characters, aren't we?

Wherever you're at in your journey, look back at what you have accomplished and take a moment to feel proud. If you've ever written even a paragraph, you've created something out of nothing. That's pretty amazing. And if I'm being honest, I think this outlook applies to a lot of things in life, whether you're a writer or not.

Now go forth, and conquer!

Utah Writer's Meet Up

2012-11-26T03:00:00.000-07:00

On Saturday night, the lovely Morgan Shamy and I hosted a little part-ay at my house with a bunch of crazy writer peeps. (Oh, you don't think we're all crazy? Spend a few hours in the same room as 13 of us, you'll see the truth soon enough...)

It was great to talk shop, compare writing journeys and get support from people who know exactly what you're going through when the voices in your head just won't shuddup!

We were miraculously able to keep my toddler son from destroying the clean house until all the guests had arrived, and he loved all the food - especially the chocolate (you should have seen his face after multiple Reese's cups). A big thank you to everyone who came, brought food, and shared in the laughs :)

Chad Morris (whose book comes out soon!) and Mary Campbell

Donna's husband Ed, Donna Weaver (who has a book coming out from Rhemalda Publishing), Laura (LT Elliot) and Julia King

David's wife Joanna, David Powers King, Shelly Brown

Laura (LT Elliot) and Carolyn Vawdry

Chad Morris, Me and Mary Campbell

Carolyn Vawdrey, David Powers King hiding behind the punch, Morgan Shamy (who just signed on with Karen Grencik of Red Fox Literary), Joanna

Me and Morgan Shamy

(My apologies for all the blurry-ish pictures. I'm the worst picture-taker ever, I swear...)

Thanks to all who came! We have such an amazing group of writer's in Utah. I had a great time and hopefully we'll do it all again sometime! (You know, if I didn't scare you away ...)

WRiTE CLUB 2012 Play-offs - Round 2 Bout 9

2012-11-09T03:30:00.000-07:00

Of the eighteen finalists, this is the last bout of the WRiTE CLUB play-offs! This is the last entry you'll read on my blog. In this round the contestants were allowed to edit/revise their submissions before being pitted against an opponent, though not everyone chose to do so. Regardless, the eighteen remaining writers have been matched off once again and like the first round, the nine bouts will be posted on Mon-Wed-Fri, on this and two other blogs. Here are the links to the blogs where the other bouts can be found.

DL Hammons @ Cruising Altitude 2.0

Julie Dao @ Silver Lining

Tiana Smith

Read the submission from each WRiTER below carefully and leave your vote for the sample that resonates with you the most. If you haven’t already done so in the preliminary rounds, offer some critique if you have time. Anyone reading this can vote (after signing up on this Linky List) so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to take part in the fun. You will have until noon on Sunday November 11th to vote on these bouts.

In round two...every vote counts. This is because the contestant who doesn't win their bout but garners the most votes amongst the losers, will become a wildcard winner and advance to round 3.

The nine winners will be posted on the afternoon of Nov. 11th and round 3 will kick off the following Monday with all new 500 word submissions at DL's blog.

Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

In this corner welcome back to the ring for at third time ... I Am Not Shakespeare

I should have cried but I didn’t. I think I was more concerned with what my father was going to do once he got home and realized my mother was no where to be found. That night my father walked through the door unaware that his wife had left him and as he walked by the kitchen, to his room, I silently counted, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four… I’d almost made it to the fourth Mississippi before his closet door slammed shut and bits of the ceiling dropped to my feet.

“What the hell is going on? Michala, where is your mother?"

He was going to figure it out soon enough. When he didn’t get any response he thundered down the steps, stopping short of the kitchen. His eyes bore into me like I’d just committed a crime, and in a way, I felt like I had. I didn’t fight hard enough to keep my mother there.

“Where’s your mother at?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged as convincingly as I could and shoved another scoop of Spaghetti O’s into my mouth.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Did she go to the grocery store?” I didn’t know where she was half the time as it was, and it was true this time, I really didn’t know where she was.

“No, I don’t think she’s at the grocery store. She threw all her clothes in a suitcase and said she had to go somewhere for a bit.”

His face turned the color of the sauce in my bowl, a muddled, reddish color and he started to shake. His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head, and I closed my eyes. This was what I’d been waiting for, the aftermath.

“I knew she would do something like this to me one day. I tried to give her everything she ever wanted and it still wasn’t good enough. And you." He looked down at me, the white of his eyes a stark contrast against his dark, angry eyes.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with you now?”

I stared at the mushy noodles in my bowl. He didn't want me either. I clenched my eyes shut. Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry.

The sound of his boots, heavy and loud on the vinyl floor, paced back and forth from the kitchen to the living room until he yanked open the refrigerator and took out the only thing that ever made him happy. The aluminum can crackled in his grip.

"I'm leaving and don’t you think about leaving this damn house. I want you in that chair when I get back. Do you hear me?"

He was so angry, and I prepared for it to be like the last time he yelled at me, so I covered my face and squeaked a "yes."

Instead of his heavy, hard hands around my neck like I was used to, he stormed out the back door and started his old Chevy truck. The trilling of the motor evaporated and I knew he'd be gone for a while so I finally released the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

************************************************************************

And in the other corner, also anxious to return to the ring, let me re-introduce ... Sedney of the Castonod

It’s not like the other cemetery. Well, it holds bodies. But not those fondly remembered.

It started as a single grave, after we learned barkers could die… sort of. Garret killed the first one. He’s always been quite the brute. Ma said any boy who sees barkers eat his parents would be that way.

We were beyond the wall collecting dogbane for rope when we found the barker. It must have fallen over a steep ledge. It was a bloody mess, wedged between sharp stones, legs broken. It didn’t bark when it saw us. It didn’t try to bite either. It just stared with black eyes. Never made a sound. Garret didn’t care. God, he was ruthless. He went to it with his machete. Its wide eyes held him as he swung again and again. I covered my ears and turned away. He laughed at me.

There wasn’t much left when he finally stopped. We collected it in a sack to show off in town. We’d never seen one so still. So convincingly dead. Its grimy skin wouldn’t take a flame so we buried it. Just inside the wall.

That night our blunder became obvious. It wasn’t the first time I’d awoken to screams. A trail of thick black blood connected the ruptured grave to Garret’s window. The barker must’ve remembered what he’d done to it. It left him in a similar way.

Dharman says he heard it barking just before it burst from the ground… but he crawls under the cherope tree to eat its fruit and stare, and argue with shadows.

“The grave wasn’t deep enough,” they say.

A mistake we made only once.

We grew angry… and bold. Regular parties hunt barkers as they once hunted us. One grave has become hundreds. They have outnumbered houses and so the cemetery creeps ever closer to my window, one silent stone at a time. I shouldn’t complain.

“With each new below is one less above.”

No one ventures inside the cemetery. A stone wall wouldn’t deter so effectively. Even if someone were willing to up keep the yard, it isn’t allowed.

“The more between them and us, the better.”

That’s why the headstones lie flat like great, cold blankets, rather than stand tall to be sought out and gazed upon.

This afternoon Dharman was hysterical. He wailed and shook and wouldn’t approach the cemetery even for precious cherope.

“They bark! We’re all doomed!”

I scoffed with the others until, drawing the shortest straw, I was sent to inspect.

I’d never been into the cemetery. Under a setting sun I stole through bristly grass under gnarled stone sentinels. I couldn’t grip my machete’s pommel tightly enough. The stones had withered and succumbed to grey lichen and were ground away by thorny vines. I arrived at the cemetery’s heart, from whence grew a blackened, impassable tangle. I sighed. Going farther was impossible.

Then I heard it.

Faint at first, but now inescapable. Barking. From under each stone.

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Don’t forget to visit the other two sites and vote for your favorite in those bouts as well! Remember the WRiTE CLUB motto, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!

WRiTE CLUB 2012 Play-offs - Round 2 Bout 6 - Revisited

2012-11-08T03:30:00.000-07:00

Sorry folks - it looks like there's been a little bit of a mix up. One of the entries from yesterday actually had a revised submission, but we posted the original one instead because we didn't know there was an update ... (Silly spam filters messing up everything!)

I've updated yesterday's post to have the new entry. However, if you voted yesterday, please consider going back and reading both entries to see if it changes your vote in any way. Thanks and sorry!

WRiTE CLUB 2012 Play-offs - Round 2 Bout 6

2012-11-07T03:30:00.000-07:00

We've narrowed the field down to eighteen and we're now in the middle of the second round of the WRiTE CLUB play-offs! This will be the last week that you'll be reading entries on my blog. In this round the contestants were allowed to edit/revise their submissions before being pitted against an opponent, though not everyone chose to do so. Regardless, the eighteen remaining writers have been matched off once again and like the first round, the nine bouts will be posted on Mon-Wed-Fri, on this and two other blogs. Here are the links to the blogs where the other bouts can be found.

DL Hammons @ Cruising Altitude 2.0

Julie Dao @ Silver Lining

Tiana Smith

My patience is wearing thin with you. You've been sitting on that bed for six days now, arms hugging your knees into your chest, whispering the same things:

"We are the light of a beautiful world."

"Logical thoughts are self-defeating."

You stare into the mirror where the TV used to be. These cheap motels insist on putting the television in prime bed-viewing position. I moved them before I rescued you, to free you from distractions. This room is your universe, little girl. You've lost yourself, and you'll stare into that mirror until you find yourself again.

No TV, no phone, no wake up calls, no chance of calling the other victims to rescue you.

You're only looking at the mirror. You aren't focusing. You used to be that girl the guys dreamed about: small town cheerleader, almost made prom queen, almost made homecoming queen. You even had a major role in the senior musical. Large schools don't have room for one person to fill so many roles, believe me. Hell, my graduating class was bigger than your whole town.

Damn. This isn't about me.

The room lets in the morning fog, but never lets it go. It hangs in the room, basting us with the heat of our own bodies. Look at yourself. Your bare arms glisten with sweat. You only eat once a day, and then just a few mouthfuls. You're starving yourself. Why?

The guru that seduced you made you eat nothing but rice, tofu, and peas. The smell of real food--burgers, fries, anything--should have woken you up.

"We are the light of a beautiful world."

Bullshit.

Since you didn't eat, I assaulted your ears. You didn't resist as I wrapped you up in the bed sheet, just like a mummy, pinning you down, pressure all over your body. I slipped the buds into your ears and plugged you into some of the worst music I could find. That part was easy, the world is full of it.

Your parents, when they hired me, didn't question me when I took your CDs and a few stuffed animals from your room. They haven't changed it, you know? You might have grown up, gone to college, but that room looks like a twelve-year-old lives there. What is it with girls and stuffed animals?

"Logical thoughts are self-defeating."

You're right. There's no logic in it. Like horses. I never understood the fascination and I studied these things. I majored in psychology and minored in brutality. The music you hated didn't drive you out, so I played you your favorite songs. All those anemic Disney crap pop anthems played one by one, and your lips continued the mantra.

Yeah, I read lips. It's useful in this line of work.

What does the mantra do? Does the phrase keep you locked away from the world? You're not the first, you know. I've rescued others from him before you ever heard of him.

************************************************************************

And in the other corner, also anxious to return to the ring, let me re-introduce ... D. Rose

For the longest time, I feel like I’m suspended or floating in darkness. I’m awake, but I see nothing. No Asher, no Jackson, no Kat, no instructors, not even a simple plain wall. Just black. Chills travel up and down my spine. Then, I drift downward and into a spiraling turn. I’m dizzy, but I don’t know how because I can’t see anything to know which end is up.

Warmth spreads from my toes to my head and a steady thump beats in my chest. I cough. It’s deep and crackles like I’ve had bronchitis. Wait. It’s not from me. It’s from someone else--my new body.

Light enters. I guess my new body is opening her eyes. Everything is blurry. I try to focus, but I can’t. Something is spinning on the ceiling. A ceiling fan? She reaches over and grabs something. Glasses. Once they’re on, everything is clear.

The walls are a dull yellow with a green haze, almost like puke. The comforter is some cheap material. God, is it polyester? The pattern is dots and flowers. Ugh. Little pinches pull in my gut. Is it my gut or this person’s gut? Can they feel it too? What do they look like?

My new body turns and stretches, then rises. As she passes her dresser, I notice small wooden letters that spell--Evelyn. She trudges into a hallway. Pictures line the walls, but I can’t focus on one. They seem generic like they came with the frame. Evelyn knocks on a white door.

“Hey dufus, I’m not done yet.” A guy’s voice yells from inside.

“C’mon. I have to pee.” Evelyn’s tone is soft and wimpy. Where did Asher put me? He said it was girl that I would like, and so far, I don’t.

The doorknob jingles and flies open. A tall, lanky sandy blonde guy steps out. His face is full of acne. Basically, huge craters populate his cheeks like the surface of the moon. Yuck. There’s a cream for that.

“Gotta pee chubs. Huh?” He stands in the doorway and pokes Evelyn’s sides.

“I’m not chubby,” she whimpers.

“Yes you are.” His hand grabs the bottom of her upper arm. “Flimpsy and flabby. I’m not even going to start about your hips.”

“Shut up. Let me in.” She tries to push him out of the way, but it’s like her arms are made of jelly. He barely flinches when she slaps him. She’s weak. Unlike me.

“Ralph, let her in and stop teasing.” A raspy woman’s voice hollers from down the hall.

“You’re lucky mom’s home.” He pushes me, her, against the wall and goes down the hall.

What an idiot.

I’m not in the right body. Asher messed up or something’s screwed up. This is all wrong. I can’t live like this for three months. It’s like I’m in a cage, waiting for my owner to take care of me. I have to remember how to control her to get out of here.

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WRiTE CLUB 2012 Play-offs - Round 2 Bout 3

2012-11-05T03:30:00.000-07:00

We've narrowed the field down to eighteen and now move into the second round of the WRiTE CLUB play-offs! This will be the last week that you'll be reading entries on my blog. In this round the contestants were allowed to edit/revise their submissions before being pitted against an opponent, though not everyone chose to do so. Regardless, the eighteen remaining writers have been matched off once again and like the first round, the nine bouts will be posted on Mon-Wed-Fri, on this and two other blogs. Here are the links to the blogs where the other bouts can be found.

DL Hammons @ Cruising Altitude 2.0

Julie Dao @ Silver Lining

Tiana Smith

I could see his jaws working, chewing on the toothpick.

“Nerve a’ him.”

He spat in the water.

Daylight was just spilling on the waves as we came into open waters. There among the red of my grandfather’s buoys were yellow ones indicating traps below; unwelcome traps set alongside my grandfather’s.

Many had seen Mark Macy as he arrived to register the “Cammy May”. His questions about the best places to set traps had gone unanswered. Who in his right mind would tell him that? Besides, if it was good, it was taken. Someone finally told him a possible location - not the best, not even a good one. It hadn’t been fished for the past five years for a reason. Macy’d have to earn and learn his way into good fishing, just like everyone else.

But now the newcomer to Springer’s cove had invaded Gramp’s traps. Somehow he must have “learned” that the other location was dry. Had he sensed their amusement? Had he overheard talk down at Hershel’s Bait?

My grandfather pulled his traps, edging his boat around the yellow infestation. The haul was good, but not as good as most days. Our live-tank was three quarters of the normal haul, enough to pay bills, I was pretty sure, but not enough to have some aside for winter.

Finished, Gramp steered homeward, moving fast, cutting through the caps. He was quiet, staring straight ahead, no familiar tune from his grim lips as we turned into the cove. The gutteral chugging of the slowing engine almost calmed my pounding heart. Pulling up alongside the pier, I spied light from the kitchen window. My grandmother would be setting the table for evening meal.

“Set his traps in mine,” was all he said as he sat down.

“What? Who? Who’d do that? Not the new guy?” Grandma’s face grayed.

“Ayuh. Macy.”

Picking at my food, I tried to make myself eat. I understood the seriousness of Macy’s actions, but at fourteen, I couldn’t think of anything helpful to say or do. After supper, I escaped to my room.

The sound of the phone gave me a jolt. Had I fallen asleep? Breakfast smells told me I had.

I heard my grandfather’s voice low and steady.

“You sure?”

Pause.

“No, don’t know.”

I tossed the covers back, slid into clothes and scrambled downstairs. With breakfast remains still on the table, Gramp was getting gear ready to go earlier than usual. I grabbed bacon and toast and followed him out to the pier. No words were exchanged as we untied the lines and shoved off.

Slicing silvery calm, we made our way out of the cove. Gramp’s face was emotionless, and I held my breath as we neared his spot.

No yellows. I exhaled slowly in relief.

“Been weeded,” was all he said, his blue eyes dancing like sunlight on waves.

Macy’s lines had been severed, leaving ghosts traps to rot on the ocean floor. But somewhere yellow buoys were floating free.

************************************************************************

And in the other corner, also anxious to return to the ring, let me re-introduce ... Ring Girl

There’s a “one who got away” in every girl’s life.

We doodled his name on our geometry notes. We sat behind him in study hall, where the only thing we studied was the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck.

For a lot of girls, this story is over on graduation day. The boy slides into a vintage Mercedes to spend the summer sailing in New England, never to be seen again. That’s where it usually ends.

But when you’re me, life pretends to continue on its merry way, then turns around and bitch slaps you, just for fun. And the “one who got away” becomes “the one who reappears when you look especially gross and haven’t had time to shower.”

Because when my plane landed on Anchor Island, the first person I saw was the one I had obsessed over for four years. Garrett Patrick, he of the artfully tousled hair and crisp linen shorts embroidered with tiny seahorses. His eyes widened when he saw me stumbling down the stairs with my enormous carry-ons.

“Alex! What are you doing here?”

God, he was perfect. But why, oh why did I have to run into him with unwashed hair and my rattiest t-shirt? I pinned my arms to my sides to hide the yellowed armpits.

“My mom. New fiancé… he lives here,” I babbled. Where the hell was my vocabulary when I needed it? I killed my AP English exam but still couldn’t talk to him? I took a deep breath. “They invited me to stay for the summer.”

“My family’s here for the summer, too,” he said politely. “I’m waiting for Sally’s plane.”

My stomach lurched. Of course Sally McKenna would go wherever Garrett went. No doubt her family owned a sprawling hundred-room “cottage” right next to his.

Before I could respond, a flashy white limo pulled up and a window rolled down to reveal my mother, pretty, blond, and windblown. “Alex!” she shouted. “Over here, honey!”

I gawked at her. What was my mother doing in a limo? Where was her beat-up Chevy? When my eyes flickered to Garrett, I detected a look of dawning amusement on his face. He looked as though he knew something I didn’t…

“Come over and meet your new stepdad-to-be!”

The limo belonged to her new fiancé? She hadn’t ever mentioned that he was loaded.

As I reached for my bags, I saw a man appear in the window beside her. Only five words in the world could describe him: Richard Simmons in a suit. For one heart-stopping moment, I really thought it was Richard Simmons until I realized that he was much too young, though he had a similar halo of ginger hair and sugary smile. He gave me a fluttering wave bedecked with gaudy rings.

Garrett was watching me with a grin. “Well, I’m sure I’ll see you around, Alex.”

************************************************************************

WRiTE CLUB 2012 Play-offs - Round 1 Bout 18

2012-11-02T03:00:00.000-06:00

It's the FINAL bout of Round 1 of the WRiTE CLUB play-offs! Woot woot! They will be posted on Mon-Wed-Fri, on this and two other blogs. Here are the links to the blogs where the other bouts can be found.

DL Hammons @ Cruising Altitude 2.0

Julie Dao @ Silver Lining

Tiana Smith

I have traveled over three hundred dusty, dangerous miles with Lubomir, but today may be the day I leave the fool behind.

“Please, Lubo. Get up.”

He smiles an idiot’s smile at me, all gums and milky blue eyes. He’s found a nest of giant carpenter ants and is plucking them out one by one, shoving them between his thick, wet lips.

“There’s another storm coming. We have to find shelter.” My voice is even. I don’t know if Lubo can hear the tension that pulls at my vocal chords, cracking the last syllable. If we’re out in the open when the storm hits, the rain will slough the skin right off our faces. But I can’t afford to send Lubo into a panic.

He plucks another fat black ant and offers it up to me like it’s a roast duck with crackling skin. Heavy clouds hang low and green in the sky behind him.

“No, I don’t want any. We have to leave now, or the rain will hurt us.”

A frown creases his fair brow. Does he still have memories of pain, before I came along and took him away from everything he knew? Does he remember what caused the scars that crisscross his back?

Losing patience, I seize his wrist and attempt to pull him to his feet. As if the iron will of a 90-pound girl could lift this mammoth. He yanks his arm back in surprise and sends me flying to my knees. The sharp burn tells me I’ve torn my trousers and my flesh.

“Lubo!” I scream in frustration, raising a fist. It takes every ounce of self-control to stop myself. I want to strike him, badly, but that wouldn’t be right. Not after all he’s been through. Not after all I’ve been through. I won’t be like them.

A crack of thunder rebounds through the valley. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’d rather leave him behind than lose my temper, so I rise to my feet. “Goodbye then. You can stay out here and feast on ants if you wish, but I’m not ready to die. Farewell, Lubo. Those must be awfully tasty ants. ”

On a lighter day, I would have laughed at the wild confusion written across his face. The expression is particularly charming. Instead I wheel around and march back up the road. We passed a rocky overhang a ways back that will serve my needs well enough. If I sprint, I may still make it in time.

He saved my life first. Then I saved his. We’re even. This is a clean break.

“Malin!” Tears well up in his eyes as he stumbles after me, breaking my heart. I am an evil, wicked girl.

I reach out with both arms. “Come on. We have to hurry.”

He may be a fool, but he’s the closest thing I have to a friend, and the only person in the world I can trust. He takes my hand, and we run.

************************************************************************

And in the other corner, also anxious to return to the ring, let me re-introduce.... Penelope Clearwater

She took another sip of hot chocolate, savoring the rich taste before letting it slide down her throat. It was almost gone. She would have to leave when it was. The waitress was already giving her dirty looks. This cup had lasted thirty five minutes. It wasn’t her record. A soda had once lasted two hours. Of course all the ice that melted had helped.

Rubbing a hand over her forehead she pulled the newspaper back towards her and perused the columns again. Everyone wanted experience. How could she get experience if she couldn’t get a job and she couldn’t get a job without experience? She folded the paper up and slipped it into her jacket. Tonight she would layer it under her thin jacket as insulation from the cold.

She took another sip. Long since room temperature it was still sweet, coating her mouth as she watched the people around her; men in suits and ties, women eating muffins and sandwiches that made her mouth salivate and her fingers twitch to grab them.

Turning her back to the room she gazed out the picture window. This wasn’t any better. Now she could see The World. The world she had longed to see only six months before. The world that now was altogether too familiar. A man hurried past, the collar of his thick jacket turned up against the wind. She fingered her jacket; even with the newspaper it would be cold tonight. And it was only October.

She followed the man in her mind. She imagined him getting on the subway, relaxing on a bench in the overheated compartment. Maybe he was going home, to a wife and children who would be happy to see him. In her mind’s eye the wife looked a little like her mother. She ached to follow him, to ask if she might stay with them, just one night. Just long enough for her to pretend she had a family again.

It wouldn’t work. Most likely he would call the cops thinking she wanted to rob them while they slept. And she couldn’t deal with the cops again.

She swallowed the last of the sludge. The waitress, Betty by her name tag, heaved a sigh of relief. Unless she bought something else, Betty could ask her to leave. And there was no money left. Wishing she had even a nickel tip, she fumbled through her pockets and pulled out her gloves. They had more holes than fabric and smelled of rotten cabbage but they were better than nothing.

She would try again tomorrow. She had heard someone was hiring over on Singer Ave. But it would be the same. No one wanted to hire someone with no phone or address. She walked towards the door, stumbling a little when the smell of fresh blueberry muffins reminded her she hadn’t eaten since yesterday. She pushed out the door and the cold pungent city air hit her like a brick.

She was home.

************************************************************************

WRiTE CLUB 2012 Play-offs - Round 1 Bout 15

2012-10-31T03:00:00.000-06:00

Happy Halloween! I'll be honest - this is my least favorite holiday - BUT! We're now in the middle of the second week of the WRiTE CLUB play-offs, and that's exciting, right? They will be posted on Mon-Wed-Fri, on this and two other blogs. Here are the links to the blogs where the other bouts can be found.

DL Hammons @ Cruising Altitude 2.0

Julie Dao @ Silver Lining

Tiana Smith

Your task is simple…read the submission from each WRiTER below carefully and leave your vote for the sample that resonates with you the most. If you haven’t already done so in the preliminary rounds, offer some critique if you have time. Anyone reading this can vote (after signing up on this Linky List) so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to take part in the fun. You will have until noon on Sunday November 4th to vote.

All eighteen winners from Round 1 will be posted on the afternoon of November 4th and the next round will kick off the following Monday with edited versions of the winning writing samples.

Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

In this corner welcome back to the ring.....Seaweed

I could see his jaws working, chewing the peg in his mouth.“Nerve a' him.”

He spat in the water.

The daylight was just spilling on the waves as we emerged into open waters. Intermingled and bobbing happily with the red and green of my grandfathers buoys were new yellow and white ones.

Everyone had seen Macy as he came into town to register the “Cammy May”. They had avoided answering, when heʼd asked where the best place to set traps was. Who in his right mind would tell him that? If it was good, it was already taken. Eventually someone told him of a spot: not the best spot, not even a good one. No one had even caught a lobster there in the past five years. Heʼd have to earn and learn his way into good fishing.

But now the newcomer to Springer's cove had invaded Gramp's set traps.

He must have “learned” that setting his traps in the other location was futile. Had he sensed their amusement? Had he heard talk down at Hershelʼs while filling his bait barrel?

My grandfather pulled his traps, edging his boat around the yellow infestation. The haul was good, but not as good as most days. Our live-tank was three quarters of the normal haul, enough to pay bills, I was pretty sure, but not enough to have some aside for winter.

Finished the haul, Gramp steered homeward, moving fast, cutting through the caps. He was quiet, staring straight ahead, no familiar tune from his grim lips as we turned into the cove. The gutteral chugging of the slowing engine calmed my pounding heart. Pulling up alongside the pier, I spied the light from the kitchen window. My grandmother would be setting the table for evening meal.

“Set his traps in mine,” was all he said as he sat down.

“What...who? Who'd do that? Not the new guy?” Grandma's face grayed.“Ayuh. Macy.”

The silence during supper gave me ample opportunity to worry, but none to speak. At fourteen, my words were an annoyance in times like these.

Quiet continued until morning broke.

The phone woke me. My grandfatherʼs voice was low.“You sure?”

Pause.

“No, donʼt know.”

I tossed the covers back, slid into clothes and scrambled downstairs to the kitchen.

With breakfast remains still on the table, my grandfather was getting his gear ready, apparently leaving earlier than usual. I grabbed bacon and toast and followed him down to the pier. No words were exchanged as we untied the lines and shoved off.

Slicing silvery calm, we made our way out of the cove. Gramp's face was emotionless as we neared his spot. I held my breath. The familiar red and green buoys bobbed and tugged, but there were no yellows to be seen.

“Been weeded,” was all he said, his blue eyes dancing like sunlight on waves.

Ghost traps and cemeteries make for good neighbors.

************************************************************************

And in the other corner, also anxious to return to the ring, let me re-introduce.... Camille Atwood

The minute Janet waddled from the lunchroom, my boss and her lackey admin whispered venomously about the carb heavy contents of her non-recyclable lunch container.

“Oh. My. God. Did you see what she was eating?” said my boss.

“She is poisoning that baby,” added the admin.

I watched as these two women assembled complex organic salads with measured portions of heart healthy proteins and little or no salad dressing. I took a bite from my ham and cheese sandwich, feeling anger bubbling inside of me like acid indigestion of the soul.

“No, she’s not,” I said with a mouthful of sodium infused deli meat and processed cheese.

“Well, if she wants her baby to be as fat as she is, whatever,” said the admin.

The two women huffed out of the room, clutching their salads to eat in the safety of their offices—alone.

There was no enjoyment in their choices—food was merely fuel for their hour-long daily workouts. And because of the tiny confines of our office space, their decisions unwittingly affected my own. Food was no longer enjoyable, it was political—what we ingested in front of our coworkers defined our placement in the hierarchy of office culture.

I don’t know how this happened. At first it was who makes healthy food choices? Healthy could mean an occasional salad or a sandwich on 9-grain bread. Then, the ante was upped—who eats healthy, buys
organic produce, and eats free range chicken? Ridiculously it elevated to who makes their own yogurt or cultures their own probiotic drinks at home? Many of my fellow office mates entered this unspoken competition to secure uneaten brownie points in our boss’s eyes. It sucked. Food and companionship in the lunchroom ended. Lunch time socialization was now an eating competition that was judged by not how fast we ate but by what we ingested.

When my boss had the snack machine removed because it “undermined the health standards of our company,” I’d had enough. With a defiant middle finger raised at our boss, one of my coworkers brought in a dozen donuts. The news traveled fast throughout the office. When my boss entered the crowded room, she admonished her admin who was eyeing the glazed and sprinkled treats.

“Don’t do it,” my boss warned. I quickly grabbed the only chocolate cake donut and wolfed it down in front of them.

“Om, nom, nom,” I purred between bites.

My boss looked at me like I’d just kicked a puppy and marched towards her office. The admin followed. I imagined them inside those closed doors doing three sets of crunches to repent for our gustatory sins. I felt sorry for them in that moment. Eating had once been a joyful act, but now it was intertwined with fear, guilt, and a superiority complex that they had to uphold. I didn’t want a second donut, but I took one anyway—I decided it was time that somebody took back the lunchroom.

************************************************************************

WRiTE CLUB 2012 Play-offs - Round 1 Bout 12

2012-10-29T03:00:00.000-06:00

We're now in the second week of the WRiTE CLUB Play-offs, and we finally get to announce the winners from last week!

Bout 1 - Alondra Larkin
Bout 2 - Snivvy Crank
Bout 3 – Raven Claw
Bout 4 - Sedney of the Castonod
Bout 5 - Rattle Yerdags
Bout 6 – Word Whittler
Bout 7 - Eleven
Bout 8 - Not Loretta Lynn
Bout 9 – Peanut Buttercup

Congratulations to the winning contestants! If you are one of the lucky few, get ready to send your revised submission. DL will need all of the revised submissions from the round one winners by 6 PM Sunday (Nov. 4th).

Let's get week two started! Today begins the last nine bouts that make up the initial round of the WRiTE CLUB play-offs. They will be posted on Mon-Wed-Fri, on this and two other blogs. Here are the links to the blogs where the other bouts can be found.

DL Hammons @ Cruising Altitude 2.0

Julie Dao @ Silver Lining

Tiana Smith

Your task is simple…read the submission from each WRiTER below carefully and leave your vote for the sample that resonates with you the most. If you haven’t already done so in the preliminary rounds, offer some critique if you have time. Anyone reading this can vote (after signing up on this Linky List) so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to take part in the fun. You will have until noon on Sunday November 4th to vote.

All eighteen winners from Round 1 will be posted on the afternoon of November 4th and the next round will kick off the following Monday with edited versions of the winning writing samples.

Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

In this corner welcome back to the ring.....Silver

Introspective. That’s what one becomes when faced with overwhelming odds. Not scared. Not worried. Not even resigned.

I’m staring across the battlefield at the hordes milling about in the enemy camp opposite ours and I’m not even wondering if I’ll die. Hell. I know I will. But I can’t acknowledge this knowledge with more emotion than resignation.

The thought of dying doesn’t get me.

The thought that I’ll die alone does.

It has me shaking in my armor.

It has me looking at myself and thinking. Well. You definitely fucked up your life.

I’m eighteen, the greatest magician in this world. Leader of a country, facing another nation’s king. But I have no magic. I have no idea what I’m doing.

And I have no friends.

I’m leading a force of forty thousand men and I’m completely alone.

How could I let this happen? How could I push my closest friends away? Betray them? Let harm come to them? What sort of person am I?

One who deserves to die.

In torture.

Exactly like the agony I allowed my best friend to go through. No wonder he won’t come help now, even though he could. Even though I said sorry.

It came to late.

My officers stare at me, faces pale to green. What do they want me to do? We decided on the plan. Our allies agreed it would be the best way.

Do they want me to say anything?

Oh shit. They do.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I try again, and words flutter from my lips, dry and meaningless as autumn leaves.

“Thank you… for fighting with me.”

They nod.

“’Ts bin an honor, son,” my finest general says, voice shaking with emotion. It’s an odd sound, coming from such a huge man, but it’s gratifying to know he still counts me as a friend.

I take his hand and slap his shoulder, then turn to the others. They expect me to say more. But Stor’s use of the past tense tells me now isn’t the time to soften my words.

I take a deep breath and strengthen my resolve. “Take as many of them with you as you can. Just make sure to leave them in hell before going upstairs.”

Stor and the others laugh. I smile a little and snap on my helmet, then slip outside.

My horse prances about, sensing my nerves, so I try to quell them, patting its cheek. It takes a bit longer, but at least the gelding is calmer when I do mount up. A horn blast sounds, summoning the soldiers to arms. My officers ride up to me and a sense of camaraderie warms my heart a little. Not enough to give me hope.

But at least I now know I won’t die alone.

************************************************************************

And in the other corner, also anxious to return to the ring, let me re-introduce.... D. Rose

For the longest time, I feel like I’m suspended or floating in darkness. I’m awake,but I see nothing. No Asher, no Jackson, no Kat, no instructors, not even a simple plain wall. Just black. Chills travel up and down my spine. Then, I drift downward and into a spiraling turn. I’m dizzy, but I don’t know how because I can’t see anything to know which end is up.

Warmth spreads from my toes to my head and a steady thump beats in my chest. I cough. It’s deep and crackles like I’ve had bronchitis. Wait. It’s not from me. It’s from someone else--my new body.

Light enters. I guess my new body is opening her eyes. Everything is blurry. I try to focus, but I can’t. Something is spinning on the ceiling. A ceiling fan? She reaches over and grabs something. Glasses. Once they’re on, everything is clear.

The walls are a dull yellow with a green haze, almost like puke. The comforter is some cheap material. God, is it polyester? The pattern is dots and flowers.Ugh. Little pinches pull in my gut. Is it my gut or this person’s gut? Can they feel it too? What do they look like?

My new body turns and stretches, then rises. As she passes her dresser, I notice small wooden letters that spell--Evelyn. She trudges into a hallway. Pictures line the walls, but I can’t focus on one. They seem generic like they came with the frame. She knocks on a white door.

“Hey dufus, I’m not done yet.” A guy’s voice yells from inside.

“C’mon.I have to pee.” Evelyn’s tone is soft and wimpy. Where did Asher put me? He said it was girl that I would like, and so far, I don’t.

The doorknob jingles and flies open. A tall, lanky sandy blonde guy steps out. His face is full of acne. Basically, huge craters populate his cheeks like the surface of the moon. Yuck. There’s a cream for that.

“Gotta pee chubs. Huh?” He stands in the doorway and pokes Evelyn’s sides.

“I’m not chubby,” she whimpers.

“Yes you are.” His hand grabs the bottom of her upper arm. “Flimpsy and flabby. I’m not even going to start about your hips.”

“Shut up. Let me in.” She tries to push him out of the way, but it’s like her arms are made of jelly. He barely flinches when she slaps him. She’s weak. Unlike me.

“Ralph, let her in and stop teasing.” A raspy woman’s voice hollers from down the hall.

“You’re lucky mom’s home.” He pushes me, her, against the wall and goes down the hall.

What an idiot.

I’m not in the right body. Asher messed up or something’s screwed up. This is all wrong. I can’t live like this for three months. It’s like I’m in a cage,waiting for my owner to take care of me. I have to remember how to control her to get out of here.

************************************************************************

WRiTE CLUB 2012 Play-offs - Round 1 Bout 9

2012-10-26T03:00:00.000-06:00

We're still in the first round of the WRiTE CLUB play offs, and now we're on bout 9. There will be eighteen bouts that will span the next two weeks, posted on Mon-Wed-Fri, on this and two other blogs. Here are the links to the blogs where the other bouts can be found.

DL Hammons @ Cruising Altitude 2.0

Julie Dao @ Silver Lining

Tiana Smith

Your task is simple…read the submission from each WRiTER below carefully and leave your vote for the sample that resonates with you the most. If you haven’t already done so in the preliminary rounds, offer some critique if you have time. Anyone reading this can vote (after signing up on this Linky List) so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to take part in the fun. You will have until noon on Sunday (Oct. 28th) to vote on the first nine bouts, then noon Sunday (Nov. 4th) for the second nine. Vote on as many bouts as you can get around to. Whether that is one bout, or all eighteen, how much you participate is up to you.

The eighteen winners will be posted on the afternoon of Nov. 4th and the next round will kick off the following Monday with edited versions of the winning writing samples.

Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

In this corner welcome back to the ring.....Avery Normandy

The curtain goes up and I stare back at a hundred pairs of eyes. Men, women, children, the young, and the old occupy every seat under the red tent this evening. I hear people passing outside the draped entry muttering about the hung posters promoting my show. Some are uninterested and keep walking, and others are intrigued. It’s the curious ones that support my family and me. The roar of the roller coaster sounds in the distance, followed by screams as it falls back to the ground. Inside the tent, the lights dim and the hum of a long single note begins, cutting the noise around me. The note grows louder and is joined by others, slowly building into a haunting rhythm. That’s my cue. I steal my attention from the audience and focus on the dead things surrounding me.

Three round tables are in front of me, each a platform for my lifeless subjects. I pick up the butterfly from the first table, and hold up the motionless insect by one of its delicate blue wings, and a soft powder coats my fingers. A few of my guests fidget in their seats, others are still, but all appear expectant and eager to see the phenomenon they paid their five bucks to witness. I imagine the banner that drew them here flashing in their minds: Inside: The Boy Who Awakens The Dead.

The anticipation in the room grows, and I sense their need to satisfy their morbid curiosities intensify with the music. In the front row, a plump woman eyes me with amusement. Her dress has risen and settled on her thighs, presenting me with a mortifying view of her thick calves stuffed into flesh colored socks. Hair dyed the color of dead leaves surrounds her fat, wrinkleless face, while new birth of white continues to creep out of her scalp. I watch a smirk unfold on her lips; an expression I’ve become used to. To her right, a boy about eight or nine sits as still as a cactus in the desert. His mouth hangs open as if I already performed my “trick.” The woman holds one of his hands in both of hers on her lap. She kneads her fingers over his, her movements animating the purple and yellow flowers on her dress.

It occurs to me the boy is the perfect assistant for tonight’s performance. “Youngman, may I please ask for your assistance?”

His mouth closes, and he points to his own chest, and mouths the word, “Me?”

“Yes. You, in the red shirt.”

He looks at his shirt, and then up to the fat woman. His head bounces up and down in quick bursts. A plea spreads over his freckled face, as if his dream to be a freak’s assistant has finally come true, and she’s the only one standing in his way.

Wordlessly, she gives him permission to accept my invitation, and hesitantly releases his hand.

************************************************************************

And in the other corner, also anxious to return to the ring, let me re-introduce.... Peanut Buttercup

I step up behind him, so close I can count the pores on the back of his hairless head, smell the sweat from the damp patches under his arms.

The rumble of the incoming train becomes a roar. Most Underground trains do not slow down on approaching a station. They come in at line speed, which can be up to fifty miles an hour.

My palms are clammy, my fingers twitch as adrenaline shoots through my arteries. I start to pant. Stanton must have felt me breathing down his neck. He turns, ruddy face etched in a frown, expressing his annoyance at the intrusion of personal space. Beads of perspiration dot his upper lip. The sweet, sharp odor of ethanol waft from his breath.

With my hood on, it takes him longer to recognize me.

His eyes widen just as the 1 MIN on the display board disappears.

The roar of the cave beast becomes a thunderous bellow, drowning out all other sounds, so loud it seems to be reverberating inside my skull.

Despite my heart thudding against my ribs, I force a smile. I plant both hands on Stanton’s barrel chest.

And push.

Stanton stumbles backward with a strangled cry. His foot teeters at the edge of the platform for a split second, pirouetting like an drunken, overweight ballerina.

Then he slips off.

Before he can fall onto the tracks, the train hits him with a hollow THUD. The impact throws him forward like a crash test dummy. His body rolls a few times along the track before disappearing beneath tonnes of metal, as the train rolls over him. Above the rumbling of the train, I hear the crunch of splintering bone, the wet ripping of soft tissue, the squelch of crushed organs. A high-pitched squeal splits the air, but I’m not sure if it came from the shriek of the train’s brakes, or from the shrill screams of terrified passengers.

Either way, I’m not sticking around long enough to find out.

I have my escape route all planned out. Taking advantage of the pandemonium around me, I slip away, fleeing into the twisting network of Underground passageways. The further I run, the more my tense edginess slides off me, giving way to an overwhelming sense of euphoria.

I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it.

As I jog, I start to laugh, my voice bouncing off the concrete and tiles, echoing down the winding tunnels, amplified by the empty silence around me. For the first time in my life, I feel the hot surge of power, like liquid fire coursing through my veins.

And it feels good.

I turn into yet another passage, but this one is unlit. I step into the darkness, melting into the shadows.

I am certain no one will find me here.

I am Minotaur, and this is my Labyrinth.

************************************************************************

WRiTE CLUB 2012 Play-offs - Round 1 Bout 6

2012-10-24T03:00:00.000-06:00

We kicked things off on Monday with the first round of the WRiTE CLUB play offs, and now we're on bout 6. There will be eighteen bouts that will span the next two weeks, posted on Mon-Wed-Fri, on this and two other blogs. Here are the links to the blogs where the other bouts can be found.

DL Hammons @ Cruising Altitude 2.0

Julie Dao @ Silver Lining

Tiana Smith

************************************************************************

And in the other corner, also anxious to return to the ring, let me re-introduce.... Word Whittler

“Oh my g - …” Julia breathed heavily and scrambled to Faith. “That thing – it’s a…”

“A dragon.” Faith said the word, but the beast towering over them looked nothing like the creatures from her dreams. Lacking scales and muscles, its grotesque form consisted of ligaments, tendons and bone. A pea green flame wove along its frame, fanning out to a thin web upon its unfurled wings. Its body filled the room, enforcing a pressure so intense Faith’s fingernails cut through to the padding beneath the carpet. Her arms trembled, fighting to regain her crouched position.

The skeletal dragon craned its neck down, bringing its skull close to the girls. Top points of its wings scraped the ceiling. A whimper escaped Julia’s lips. Faith’s throat constricted. Her heart drummed triple time.

It hissed through jagged teeth. “I am an infernal of Jie lieth. I seek the keys and girl of dragon chain.”

Its breath was like a blast of heat, singeing the round tops of Faith’s cheeks. Her ears tingled. Her eyes stuck open, all the moisture sapped away. She forced a dry swallow to free her voice.

“You, you, you have the wro-wrong place,” Faith stuttered. One empty eye socket, the size of her head, locked on to her. Not an eyeball to swivel, yet it glared down at her. With godlike speed, it thrust its claws forward, pinning Faith and Julia against the wall. Their feet dangled above the floor.

“It is one of you!” It pressed its skull even closer. “One of you has…” The creature turned its focus upon Julia then cackled. “…the dragon chain.”

Faith wondered what the beast found so funny. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a small chain around Julia’s neck. At the center of her chest rested a piece of silver reflecting the firelight…the shape, a dragon with a round belly.

The beast – its words - made sense to Faith, at least part of it. The silver dragon was a locket hand-made by her father, a gift from a time too long ago to remember. What could this thing want with me? She shuddered at a dawning truth. The creature had its sights set on Julia instead. The wrong girl.

Her apartment had been invaded, torn apart and set ablaze. Now the very same beast mistook Julia as the girl of dragon chain…and for what, some blasted keys she knew nothing about? A bitter cold swelled deep inside her belly. Her growing anger fueled it into her veins. The chill coursed to her fingertips and the soles of her feet. A violet glow shined between the spaces of the creature’s claw. And it noticed.

Shifting its focus back upon Faith, it rasped, “Ejule marks you, tarode! Such cannot be.”

Faith didn’t know a thing about ejules or tarodes, and really didn’t care. She opened her mouth to say just that but gasped, realizing she was the source of the glow.

************************************************************************

WRiTE CLUB 2012 Play-offs - Round 1 Bout 3

2012-10-22T03:00:00.000-06:00

Here we go! Today begins the first of eighteen bouts that will make up the initial round of the WRiTE CLUB play-offs. They will all span the next two weeks, posted on Mon-Wed-Fri, on this and two other blogs. Here are the links to the blogs where the other bouts can be found.

DL Hammons @ Cruising Altitude 2.0

Julie Dao @ Silver Lining

Tiana Smith

Your task is simple…read the submission from each WRiTER below carefully and leave your vote for the sample that resonates with you the most. If you haven’t already done so in the preliminary rounds, offer some critique if you have time. Anyone reading this can vote (after signing up on this Linky List) so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to take part in the fun. You will have until noon on Sunday (Oct. 28th) to vote on the first nine bouts, then noon Sunday (Nov. 4th) for the second nine. Vote on as many bouts as you can get around to. Whether that is one bout, or all eighteen, how much you participate is up to you.

The eighteen winners will be posted on the afternoon of Nov. 4th and the next round will kick off the following Monday with edited versions of the winning writing samples.

Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

In this corner welcome back to the ring.....Raven Claw

A dog barked next door and Cole flattened himself into the shadows along the back of the old lady's house. His breath was ragged from climbing over the rickety fence at the rear of the weed-filled yard. His lungs had been bothering him for weeks, and the stress only made things worse. He tightened a sweaty grip on his crowbar, silently cursing the dog's insistent yapping.

A door clattered open beyond the fence and a gruff voice yelled at the dog to shut the hell up and get its stupid ass inside. The dog stopped barking, the door slammed shut, and silence returned to the shabby neighborhood. Cole exhaled, gasping. He moved to the back entrance of the old broad's home, slid the crowbar into the jamb, and pried. The weathered wood gave easily and the door popped open with only a muffled crack.

He stepped inside to a tiny kitchen with appliances that might have been new when his grandfather was a boy. The room was tidy but dusty, showing little sign of use. There was a dim, flickering light coming from the next room and Cole crept towards it. There the woman lay sleeping on a sofa, curled up under a crocheted blanket. An ancient console TV flashed with the sound off.

Cole smiled. This was too easy.

He raised the crowbar and moved closer.

# # #

Kali heard the back door crack open and swore to herself. She should have moved on several days ago, after the neighbor kid said hello to her while she was on her porch. That had told her the warding spell was weakening.

But she'd been reluctant to leave. This was such a good spot. Here in the heart of the city's seediest neighborhood she could hunt at will; just an unnoticed old lady in a neglected house.

But no longer.

Now someone was stalking her.

She shifted under the blanket and pulled her sword close, feeling the heat radiating from it. The soft steps and ragged breath from the kitchen were clearly human, but her glowing blade signaled the presence of the Shu'leth. The man's heaving gasps likely meant he had the tendrils spreading within him, and might already be fully possessed.

He came next to the sofa and Kali sprang up, slashing out with the sword. A sharp sizzle of flesh was followed by a thud as the crowbar hit the floor, still clutched in the man's twitching hand. He shrieked and jumped back, grabbing the smoldering stump of his arm with his other hand.

She revoked the remnants of the warding spell and stood before the man in her natural form. She might be long removed from the childhood she'd spent in decayed neighborhoods much like this one, but it would still be many decades before she became the feeble crone she'd appeared to be. The man gaped at her.

Kali smiled. This would be a mercy.

She raised the sword and moved closer.

************************************************************************

And in the other corner, also anxious to return to the ring, let me re-introduce.... Midnight Muse

The hotel door has bars on it. Not a good sign. Inside, the night clerk sits at a counter behind bullet-proof glass. He’s slumped over, chin on his chest, eyes closed. He looks dead. Behind us, someone whistles from a passing car and follows it up with an obscene gesture. Cate’s fingers thread into mine and squeeze. We’re out of options. I yank open the door.

“Let me do the talking. Stay behind me.” I whisper. We can’t afford for her to be recognized, although in this part of town, I doubt anyone would notice anything but her diamond earrings. Cate nods faintly. Her eyes are glassy, her face blank. She shudders, but it isn’t from the cold. She’s cracking.

The loser behind the counter jerks up as we enter, almost falling off his stool. Close up, he looks strung out or maybe hung over. His pallid skin is damp, he’s got sweat stains under his arms, and his pants are unzipped a little. I avert my eyes to avoid his junk and spy a wrinkled Victoria’s Secret catalog on the counter. Nice.

“We need a room.” I try to look confident and eager. Not really a stretch. Despite dodging bullets an hour ago, I’m twitchy just thinking about spending the night in the same room with Cate.

Night clerk slowly closes the Victoria’s Secret catalog on the counter like it’s a copy of Scientific American and he’s Einstein. “Twenty for an hour. Forty for all night.”

That’s most of what I have on me. I toss two twenties into the metal tray set in the counter, thankful I don’t have to bargain.

Night clerk stuffs the bills in his pocket. He flips a keycard off a pegboard behind him and catches my eye. His gaze flicks from me to Cate. I watch his eyes slide over her designer clothes, linger on her earrings, and freeze on her face. I hold my breath.

“You both legal?” he asks.

I exhale. He doesn’t recognize her. I ignore the age question. “Give me the key.”I keep my voice even, commanding, like Agent Dade taught me during one of his goofy “what if” scenarios he plagued me with since Tampa. Dade’s lifeless body lingers in my head. A sick realization washes over me. Dade knew they would find us again. How?

Cate slips another twenty in the tray. “Give us the key and get back to your reading.”She does air quotes around reading like a true smartass. Her face, though still pale, is hard. Just when I think I know who she is, she surprises me. I stifle a laugh.

Night clerk is not as amused as I am. His face turns red. He leans back and the room key disappears into his sweaty armpit. Crap.

************************************************************************

On Blogging

2012-10-10T10:04:00.000-06:00

I've been blogging now for three and a half years. That a long time in bloggy land. The truth is, I sometimes feel a little burned out, or I don't know what to blog about, or I feel like I'm only adding to the noise.

(A wordle of all my blog posts ... Apparently I talk about kissing a lot ...)

I want to provide value, and I want to build connections with my readers. Hence - a poll! (If you're reading this in an RSS feed, please click through to participate:

Thanks guys, I really do appreciate the feedback. I plan on changing things up on my blog. I want to focus more on *you* and your achievements and helping out my bloggy buddies. I want to build genuine friendships and connect with other people who are feeling similarly about the whole publishing process that I do. I want to help out fellow writers who are trying to get the word out about their books, their events or their ... whatevers.

And with that said ... I'll be hosting some of the semi-final rounds of DL's WRiTE CLUB! Last year I was lucky enough to win (you can read my final entry here, or my preliminary entry here) and this year I'll be helping judge the final match (sooooo excited by the way).

If you don't know what WRiTE CLUB is all about - basically it's pitching writer against writer (or rather, writing sample against writing sample) and letting voters choose their favorite. This year, Don has gotten a TON of participation, and he's trying to spread the semi-final round across three blogs (his own, Julie Dao's, and mine). So over the next couple of weeks, you'll get to read some fabulous writing samples here on my blog and cast your vote. I really hope you'll participate! I'll be posting more than I regularly do while this is going on, but after a champion is crowned, it will be business as usual (with maybe a few changes, depending on the results of the above poll ...)

Please let me know what you think! I'd love to read your comments if you have any specific feedback on my blogging.

How to Write a Book

2012-09-13T13:35:00.000-06:00

Step 1: Put pajamas on.

Step 2: Open computer and uselessly bang on the keyboard for a full half hour.

Step 3: Go to YouTube and watch videos of cats.

Step 4: Go back to your document and delete everything you have written thus far.

Step 5: Go to Twitter. Spend two hours scrolling.

Step 6: Open document again. Write another sentence, but this time, experiment with all the pretty fonts and colors.

Step 7: Search online for pictures that look like your main character. Create a fake cover for your book using Paint.

Step 8: Email writer friends and complain about how hard it is to write a novel.

Step 9: Take a nap.

Step 10: Create a playlist for your novel to get in the right mood.

Step 11: Do the dishes.

Step 12: Glare at your computer, but otherwise ignore it for the rest of the evening.

Step 13: Go to sleep and dream about what it would be like to be a famous author.

Step 14: Repeat steps 1-13 until you have a passable novel. Throw in some editing for good measure.

Step 15: Celebrate it's completion by saying hello to the family you have ignored for several months. Beg their forgiveness and promise to never write again.

Step 16: Open up a fresh document the next day. Do it all again.

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My Awkward First {Almost} Kiss

2012-07-09T13:31:00.000-06:00

The only benefit of being socially awkward all my life is that I never run short of creative inspiration for my writing.

A while ago, I wrote a short cupid-as-a-teenager piece for the final round of DL's WRiTE CLUB (I used the pen name Casey Brooks). I'm getting closer and closer to finishing my current princess-kicking-some-trash book, so that's the next project in my queue. I can never focus on only one thing at a time, so of course I've already started brainstorming how I want the novel to go. I've decided to use my own life as inspiration for some of the more ... awkward moments.

Let me just get this out there: my first "real" kiss didn't happen until I was *gasp* 18 years old. Yeah, I know, I was a little late to the game. Whatever.

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I had held onto the idea of the "perfect first kiss" so tightly that I ran away from any guy that seemed like he might make the move before I was ready. Well, I say "ran away from" but what I mean is ... I ducked.

Let me back up a little bit.

My first boyfriend in college was a nice enough guy. We'll call him ... Steven. So, Steven and I had been dating for a little bit, and things were going well. I had held his hand already (oooOOOooh!) and I knew he was probably going to kiss me soon. (Side note: I was so nervous at the idea of kissing someone that I actually considered paying some random guy to kiss me just so that I could get the first kiss out of the way and get some practice in before kissing my boyfriend and having him think I was a bad kisser. I'm totally serious.)

Anyway. We were sitting in his car. I know, romantic right? We were avoiding my dorm, because my roommate at the time pretty much hated my guts, and my boyfriend still lived with his parents, so ... the car it was. We were sitting in his car and he instigated a tickle fight. Then, there was that moment where I thought "Aha! He's going to kiss me soon."

Steven looked deep into my eyes and said some corny line that I don't remember and then ... he leaned.

But see, here's the thing. When you're kissing someone who has never been kissed before, you have to be REALLY, REALLY obvious about it. Sure, Steven was leaning, but was he leaning enough?

My mind started analyzing things at a rapid pace. If I leaned in to kiss him, and he wasn't really going in for a kiss, then I might appear desperate! If I tried to kiss him, and let's just say he was really only leaning in order to get the optimal angle for a weak ticklish spot, well, then I would look like a fool! So, naive girl that I was, I just sat there.

So, we both sat there staring at each other.

Him leaning, me looking like a landed fish with my lips all puckered up.

We sat for a looooong time where nothing happened. We sat and we sat. I seriously cannot not emphasize enough just how long we sat there with absolutely nothing happening. A looooong time, people. I probably could have finished up a whole homework assignment in the time where we just sat there inches apart.

I saw his eyebrows crinkle in confusion, and then, he started to lean more.

Well, this probably would have been a good plan, except that by now, we had been sitting there for SO LONG that I had convinced myself that Steven wasn't really going in for a kiss. So of course, I did the logical thing.

I ducked.

I ducked right under his arm so that I was practically sitting on his lap, and then I started tickling his side - like that had been my goal the entire time. I think I even shouted something crazy like "HAWRAWR!"

Suffice to say, that ended the evening rather abruptly. He walked me to my door and politely said good night. I mentally kicked myself all the way up the stairs.

Now, you won't be surprised when I say it took him a long time to work up enough courage to try to kiss me again. Eventually, I got over my awkwardness and "Steven" was the first boy I really kissed.

What about you? Have any funny first kiss stories I could adapt for my Cupid story? ;) Or do you ever use real-life situations in your writing?

Beauty in Books

2012-05-10T20:52:00.000-06:00

We all know that magazines distort teen girls' perception of beauty, but lately I've been asking myself, do books do the same thing? After all, you can only read so many books about a blond bombshell before you start to wonder if blondes, in reality, have more fun.

It was time for an experiment.*

I tallied the physical characteristics of female protagonists in 50 bestselling YA books that came out in 2012**. (I was going to do 100, but wow did I underestimate how long this project would take! Just imagine the amount of research required to find out the eye color, hair color, hair length and ethnicity of girls in 50 different books... Yeah ...)

Just for giggles, I made an image of what your typical YA heroine would look like if you combined all the percentages.

Here's how it all broke down:

Hair length: ALL of the female protagonists had long hair except for 2. That's it folks. (Kudos to John Green who's Fault in Our Stars had a girl with short, black hair. Way to show diversity John!)

What surprised me? Only one, (ONE!) book had a female protagonist who was not white. I mean, wowzers people. (Not surprisingly? The author of that book was not white - see Prodigy by Marie Lu).

But here's where things got interesting.

Usually in books where the heroine was described as "ordinary looking", she was a brunette. In books where she was described as "beautiful" or "pretty" she was twice as likely to be blonde or a redhead - interesting, no? The exact same trend reared its ugly head when eye color was concerned. Brown eyes were reserved for ordinary characters, and pretty people had blue or green eyes. (One heroine even had violet eyes, ooh la la! Oh yeah, one character also had violet hair, and I couldn't figure out her natural color. Go figure.)

So, do authors contribute to the trend of stereotyping beauty? Short answer. Yes. Long answer. Ummm, still yes.

Blond, blue eyed beauties were quite common in YA bestsellers, while brunette girls with brown eyes were often regulated to "almost pretty". Ouch.

Why is this interesting to me? Teen girls come in all shapes, sizes and colors. To box our characters into neat stereotypical boxes does an injustice to the many wonderful people and nationalities that God has placed on this earth. I'm not saying you're a bad person if your story happens to be about a white girl with brown hair (Umm, yeah, the book I'm working on now is just this. I'm just as guilty as everyone else). I'm just saying that as writers, we should be celebrating differences and bringing attention to the issues faced by everyday teens everywhere. It's a little biased for authors to claim that amazing stories and adventures only happen to pretty people. What kind of a world would that be? Not one I'd want to live in. As a result of my study, I'm planning to add more diversity into my work and not contribute to such stereotypes of "brunette is average" and "blonde is beautiful".

Am I alone in thinking this or have you noticed this in your reading? I'm not sure if authors can take all the blame (several factors are determined when publishing a book) but what can we do about it?

*My methods weren't 100% scientific, I'm sure. I may have even made mistakes Feel free to hate on me for that.
** I took all books from a Goodreads list of 2012 bestsellers. To see which books I included in my survey, click here.

Giveaway Winner!

2012-04-27T06:00:00.000-06:00

I really wish I could have picked all of you. I'm dead serious. I loooove helping people with their blogs. Unfortunately, I just don't have the time in the day to set everyone up with a free blog makeover. :(

BUT! I hope you'll use this coupon code to get $8 off any purchase from my shop. You could get a new look with only $22. You spend more than that just going to dinner, so doesn't your online presence deserve it? * wink, wink* Just input "writerbuddies" upon checkout. You can share it with anyone!

Also, I added a two column version of the Dianna template and a static header version of the Alexis template (makes it cheaper) if any of you are interested in that. I added matching Twitter streams to each of my designs. I also added a whole new design! Welcome Julia to the ranks.

I plan to add new designs regularly, so if you like my style but haven't seen the perfect template for you yet, just keep coming back. You can also fill out my survey to tell me exactly what features you'd like on my future premade blog designs.

So, without further ado - drum roll please! The winner of my giveaway is:

YAY Jessica! Email me at theblogdecorator (@) gmail (.) com to get started on your free blog makeover!

How I Feel About Writing

2012-04-20T10:02:00.000-06:00

If it's been a while and I'm out of the groove:

When I can't make a sentence sound the way I want:

When I'm critiquing for a friend and their work is SO MUCH BETTER than mine:

After a killer brainstorming session:

When I get a sweet idea:

When I'm telling my hubby how excited I am about the new plot twist I just thought up:

If I can't figure out how to make a certain scene work:

When I get a new idea and I have to stay up late to just get it out:

When someone interrupts my writing groove:

When I write more in a day than I thought I could:

When my critique partners tell me it's just not working:

When my critique partners tell me how amazing it is:

When I write 'The End':

There's still time to enter my grand opening giveaway if you want to win a free blog makeover! Happy Friday everyone!

Grand Opening Giveaway!

2012-04-12T18:44:00.002-06:00

I've been rather quiet on the interwebz lately because I've been working on a TOP SEKRIT project. But now I can finally show you!

Ta-daa! Introducing, The Blog Decorator (Thanks DL for originally giving me the idea for the name):

That's right folks, I'm opening my very own blog design shop. What's more is that I'm hosting a giveaway! (There are a lot of exclamation points in this post. I don't care. I'm excited. Live with it.)

The rules:

Leave a comment telling me which of my premade blog templates you would want. That's it. There's only one rule. Simple, no? You can pick any of the blog designs - even the most expensive one. I'll also give you whatever extra customizations you want - for free!

Of course, if you want extra entries, just blog/tweet/FB/Pin/smoke signal or whatever else it is people are doing these days to share my giveaway. Let me know what you did in the comments and you'll get one extra entry for each thing you do to promote it.

The giveaway will be open for two weeks (until April 27th), at which point, I'll pick a winner and one lucky person will get a blog makeover. Woot!

Judging Books by their Covers

2012-02-16T12:34:00.005-07:00

Yeah, yeah, yeah. We're not supposed to do it.

But we do.

Or at least, I do. I judge books by their covers ALL. THE. TIME. Pretty much, that's the first thing on my list of things I look at (also the jacket copy ... Those two things are tied). I'm guessing I'm not alone. Studies show you have 12 seconds (in a bookstore) to turn a browser into a buyer. 12 seconds seem like an awfully short time if people aren't judging books by the covers.

With that in mind, I find the various covers on the market extremely interesting. ESPECIALLY when one book has multiple covers for different countries. I'm not sure what this says about the American market (do you like the American ones better?), but take the following books for example*. The books on the far left are the USA versions (and don't be fooled, sometimes they change the names on foreign book covers, but it's the same innards. I promise.)**

Graceling by Kristin Cashore:

The American version doesn't really do much for me in all honesty. It doesn't really tell me much about the book, but it does a good job of letting you know it deals heavily in fighting but also has an element of femininity. Personally, I like the one that is second from the left.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins:

It took me a long time to read The Hunger Games because I didn't like the cover. It seemed too masculine and I didn't get any idea of what the book was about. With the American version, I think they were trying to heavily market the male audience as well.

Paranormalcy by Kiersten White:

Paranormalcy - I love the USA cover, but I think I love the one on the far right more. I like how these covers seemed to show the emotion of the book, while the Flames 'n' Roses cover seemed much too ... happy for the book. The other one? Yeah, that one just scares me.

Before I Fall by Lauren Oliver:

I like the American version best of this one. What's interesting to me is that the covers on this book are drastically different. It's like they couldn't make up their mind in how to market this book.

Unearthly by Cynthia Hand:

In contrast to the previous one, Unearthly has very similar book covers. That's why it surprises me that they changed the cover at all. It's basically a different color scheme.

A Great and Terrible Beauty by Libba Brey:

The American version is very feminine, while the version on the right seems almost masculine in comparison. These covers also seem like they'd be placed in different genres.

Overall, I find that the American versions are slightly more ... generic than some of their counterparts. Usually us Americans are cool with it if you just throw a girl on the cover. We also tend to go for the slightly more feminine I've found. Why do you think they change the cover for various countries? Are we really that different in our tastes?

* I haven't read all these books, so don't take my placement of them here as an endorsement... Just sayin.
** All cover images taken from Goodreads.

A Rant on Relationships in YA Novels

2012-01-13T12:31:00.000-07:00

I've been doing A LOT of reading lately since having the baby. I read every time I'm feeding the little monkey, or whenever I'm rocking him. Usually I can tear through one book in two days. Our little guy is now 7 months old ... so you do the math (cuz I'm not good at it). We're only 13 days into the new year and I've already read 8 books. So, yeah. A lot of reading.

Here's the thing. The more books I read, the more certain things bother me. I'm not usually one to rant, but the love relationships in YA novels? Well, they're getting me all kinds of frustrated. Srsly folks. These things? These things make me want to throw a novel across the room and then hunt down the author with an unsanitized pitchfork. These things fall a little flat.

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1. Lopsided love triangles

It seems like every novel these days has to throw in a love triangle. But see, here's the thing. Most novels? THEY DON'T NEED THEM! You know the drill ... the story starts with a Heroine who meets boy A. Let's call him Adam. They fall madly, desperately, make-you-sick-just-by-reading-their-kissing-scenes in love. Then Heroine meets boy B (Bernie - not an attractive name, but you know she's going to end up with Adam anyway). Heroine gets all conflicted because Bernie loves her too. The novel then focuses entirely on the Heroine's FEELINGS, completely ignoring the rest of the plot while she vacillates back and forth between the two boys like a ping pong.

Some people might claim this adds conflict, but I say it just makes the Heroine seem flighty and stupid. The argument here is that it makes Couple A's love stronger and more meaningful in the end when they've triumphed over their obstacles (aka, Bernie). To me though, it just puts a time limit on their love because I don't really feel it's real anyway. When you love someone, you don't start looking at someone else.

2. Instant love at first sight

I get the fact that people can get crushes almost instantly. I get the fact that you can find someone attractive when you first see them. In fact, this happened with me and the hubby. I met him and I liked him. BUT. Those novels where Heroine meets Boy and they instantly feel a connection sooooo deep that NOTHING can shake it? I don't believe it. They fall so madly in love (after one conversation usually) that the Boy can tell her he's a werewolf/vampire/fairy/some-other-crazy-half-breed with something evil out to kill them, oh, and Heroine has to forsake her family and give up everything else that she loves all for the sake of Boy-She-Just-Met? Then the Heroine says "No problem! I love you sugar pie!" Yeah ... not working for me.

3. Good girl falls for bad boy, who of course, reforms for her

Why, oh why, are there so many YA novels about a girl reforming the bad boy??? There are so many "bad boys" in YA I think we could man a whole planet with them. In these books, the bad boy always finds there's something different about the Heroine that makes him want to get all gushy and change his bad boy ways. Just a hint all you teenage readers out there? THIS IS NOT THE GUY YOU WANT TO GET INVOLVED WITH. Not only is this a silly trend in YA, I think it's damaging for young readers who think it's true to real life. Stalkers are not cute. Not even vampire ones who spy on you at night through your window. Boys who love you so much they'll go into a rage and hurt others when you're having a fight are NOT GOOD BOYFRIENDS.

And, DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED on books where all three of these relationship elements are combined. (Heroine meets Boy A, who of course is a bad boy with abusive tendencies and instantaneously falls outrageously in love with him. Then she meets Boy B who is good for her, the guy she should choose, and then she gets conflicted. But of course, true love *don't make me gag* wins out in the end and Bad Boy A reforms and they live happily ever after). *Snorts*

I'm sure there are books where love triangles/love at first sight/bad boy reformations work. I'm not saying these things are always wrong. But, these are not plot elements to just throw into your novel to "spice things up". They have to be handled with care.

What ever happened to love stories where boy meets girl and they fall in love? Is it because there isn't enough conflict for it to be an interesting story? Is it possible to have a good love story without all the relationship drama mentioned above? I'm seriously curious.

Am I being too harsh? I dunno. I've rarely seen a book where these elements are pulled off well. I'd love to be proven wrong though. Are there any books where you think these things actually worked and added to the story?

Moving the Blog Furniture Around

2011-11-08T16:13:00.002-07:00

I sometimes make fun of my mom because she is *constantly* remodeling something. I think her upstairs bathroom has been in pieces for almost a year now ... (love you mom!). I don't have a house of my own yet, so when I catch that urge to remodel, I redesign my blog. Cuz that's how I roll folks. So, my blog needed a fresh coat of paint and some new furniture and I decided I'd tackle the whole design process myself and turn my blog into a blogsite. I'm cheap, so it's all still hosted on Blogger, but I played around with all the formatting, linking, etc. So please take a look around and tell me if anything is broken ...

Start with my homepage at http://www.tianasmith.com so you can see the pretty rotating pictures, then head over to my About the Author page to see a very. big. picture of me. I'm hosting my Blog on a different link now and I have a page where you can read all about what I'm writing now (complete with little mini scrollbars - cute!). Of course, I still have a Contact page that has all my Twitter and Goodreads info too. When you're done checking all that out, come back to this post and leave me a comment telling me what you think or if you think I should design something differently - I want your feedback :)