Yeah. My creativity for blog post titles is pretty much shot. And so this is me whining about getting ready to head to RWA’s National Conference in Orlando.
But Cam, RWA offers the most comprehensive, thoroughly thoughtful, celeb-author-studded workshops EVAH. What’s the deal with your incessant screeching?
Well, I’m glad you asked. In fact, I have a LIST for why I’m running around my house with virtually no hair, a few new zits, and clad in clothes I wore ALL WEEKEND LONG:
#1 I have not packed.
#2 I have not finished my laundry of things that I *think* I may or may not pack.
#3 I did not have time to get a manicure, pedicure, brow wax, lip wax, any other kind of wax, or haircut. I will be that hairy bushwoman standing in the corner with granny shoes because my feet will be the fugliest ones in Orlando.
#4 I have not finished polishing Life After Send.
#5 I just now got around to viewing and printing out the workshop schedule. My mind is spinning because I have about 5 too many time conflicts which means I will need to make a game-time decision and have I ever mentioned to you that I’m NOT GOOD at making game-time decisions? No? Gah! I hate prioritizing when they’re all priorities!
#6 I am not a morning person. There are several workshops and meetings that require me to wake up before my leisurely time of 7:45am. My sleep cycle is already screwed by this because for the past three nights, I’ve laid awake stressing out about how I won’t be able to wake up on time. Do you see my dilemma here, peeps?
#7 WHAT SHOES AM I GOING TO BRING????
#8 I have only practiced my Just-In-Case-An-Agent-Wants-Me-To-Pitch-Her-In-The-Bathroom-While-She’s-Asking-Me-For-Toilet-Paper pitch 372 times. I need to practice at least 12,841 times for it to not sound like I’m a royal tool with a bucket of marshmallows in my mouth.
#9 DID I MENTION I HAVEN’T PACKED YET?!?!
#10 I will miss Toddler Trouble. And BicycleDude. A lot.
But despite all my whining displayed in all its gloriousness, there are still a few super stellar, awesome, full-of-fantastic reasons why all this belly-aching stress will be worth it:
I will get to hang with cool peeps. I will get to learn until my poor little brain begs me to stop soaking it all in. I will get to see Authors of Awesome in person and hopefully meet them and get their Books of Awesome signed too. I will be in Orlando (I hear it’s the Happiest Place on Earth). I will get to pretend I’m singing karaoke. I will get to meet new cool peeps, like TWITSOM, who is already full of Awesome that I’m sure the two of us in the same room together will surely make it explode. I will be present in the face of inspiration (times, like, a few thousand) as the Swan & Dolphin Resort is infiltrated by mad talent.
YAFF Muse is a new weekly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we’ll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don’t forget to check out the other *YAFFers participating in this series (links below).
Photo Credit: Musical Burial by Official Twilamore
Small Fish, Big Pond
He had fisherman hands. Cracked. Hairy. And slippery enough to make it seem like his palms were really neoprene mitts in disguise. When he grabbed hold of my wrist, I remembered cringing at the contact.
“It’s easier if you don’t struggle.”
Somehow, I doubted this. I remembered all those stupid stories about females too naïve for their own good. Females who jumped at the chance to have a male smile at them and say something debonair like, “The boys in your school must go crazy when they see you.”
He didn’t say that to me. If he had, things might’ve turned out different. As it were, he yanked me over the dock and hissed a “stop thrashing, will ya?” as he pressed his fingers into the muscle between my neck and my shoulder. It stung and for one second, I froze and forgot to struggle.
My face kissed the sand when he tossed me. I expected softness, like the powdery stuff on the Gulf’s white beaches. But it wasn’t anything like that. It was gritty and mixed with what felt like leftover bits of the crumbling concrete pillar by the pier.
“Come on, I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
And just like that, the only thing left behind was the impression my cheek had made in the sand.
* * *
The water frothed by my stomach. I expected it to be as cold as everything else. But it felt like sun-ripened water after nine in the morning.
The surf swept up again. This time, it washed over my stomach and splashed my chest and my face. It was only a matter of time before those waves owned me. I ground my teeth and tried rolling the other way, toward the gritty—dry—sand. But as soon as I wiggled my hips, the trench my body had dug opened up and swallowed me into a deeper, wetter, colder hole. The sand turned into hardening cement. I couldn’t feel my lower half.
When the next wave rushed over me, my body slipped out of its skin. But something wasn’t right. The familiar tingling sensations in my extremities—like a deep stretch after a long nap or the arousing zip of salt water pumping through my veins—was absent.
I blinked. Bubbles swarmed my face and it took me a moment before I truly realized how bad this situation was for me.
Liquid filled my lungs. Instinct took over and I fought to keep my head above the surface, to guide my arms through the water and kick my legs in propulsion. But red seeped out of my limbs.
I stopped moving.
No. There were no limbs. Not anymore. I remembered now. He’d cut them off, thrown them into the ocean like worm guts or broken lures. And he’d left me here to die, to drown in my blood and in the unfulfilled dream of being something other than me.
(Author’s Note: So apparently when I see iPods on the sand, I think about torture and drowning. Sorry Steve Jobs. And because I think my concept is a little more subtle this week, I’ll clarify here: the narrator in my story was a fish. The guy was someone fishing who caught her and didn’t think the little swimmer he hooked had any big aspirations…but she did. She wanted to be anything but a fish. So there you go. Catch and release, peeps. Catch and release. )
*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:
On this hot day—and by hot, I really mean HOLY COW IF I DIDN’T HAVE A/C I’D BE STUFFING MYSELF INTO A FREEZER—I thought a nice, thoughtful topic would be:
BOOK COVERS
Let’s face it, we’ve all heard the old adage, “Don’t judge a book by it’s barcode.” I kid, I kid. You’re not supposed to get caught up on what’s on the outside because it might not be what you get in the inside, right? BUT, really. Who doesn’t judge a book by its cover? If covers weren’t important then we’d all be fine with grocery bag wrappings ala grade school textbook covers. Right?
Well. I have to say that despite those covers that have absolutely nothing to do with the story, there are some books that get it right. Covers that sing and flash neon arrows to their spot on the bookshelf because it’s just too pretty not to pick up.
So here are a few covers that have recently caught my eye. The ones that made my fingers itch to turn the book over and see what all the flashing arrows wanted me to read.
(NOTE: This list is all about the book covers and not necessarily the content inside. So retract your claws before you go ripping me about how such and such is a horrible writer or how what’s her name is duller than a door stop to read about for 500 pages. Glad we got that out of the way. <grin>)
Stolen by Lucy Christopher
(I love how this one evokes two emotions: sweet and sad. The butterfly provides a nice pop in color and conveys a kind of innocence…yet the black background and glass shattering/cobwebs touch on something darker. Plus with the additional ‘A letter to my captor’ under the already thought-provoking title, it makes you think this could be memoirish, giving it a sense of immediacy that really strikes a nerve.)
Candor by Pam Bachorz
(This is a book I’m waiting to see break out. It’s told from a male POV so it’s nice to see the boy on front — um, eyecandy anyone? — plus the earphones and the cookie-cutter houses AND the orange color all tie into the book. Wouldn’t this catch your eye on a bookshelf?)
Some Girls Are by Courtney Summers
(As covers go, this one isn’t extraordinary with the half-image of a girl leaning against a locker. BUT the body language strikes a melancholy and almost rebellious note, while the red of the locker is majorly significant to the story.)
All Unquiet Things by Anna Jarzab
(I haven’t read this one…but it’s on my TBR. This cover is haunting and makes me want to know all about this girl. Is she dead? Or does she just look dead? Why? Why? Why?)
Living Dead Girl by Elizabeth Scott
(I recommend this book to a lot of people. It’s a totally different tune than Scott’s other books, but this story stays with you long after you put it down. For me, the image does the same thing. The bow is whimsical and reminiscent of little girls and femininity. But the stark font and black background promise something more sinister and disturbing. And this works so well with what the book is actually about.)
Twisted by Laurie Halse Anderson
(I <3 L.H.A. like nobody’s business. And I think she’s been pretty blessed with the cover gods, so it was tough choosing one for this post. I like this cover because it conveys all the elements of the book you’re going to get: teen, imperfect, crazy, full of obstacles. Plus, I like how the position of the title reminds me of a roller coaster car about to go on a fast course. The book is also told from a male POV and there’s nothing girly about this cover.)
Lessons from a Dead Girl by Jo Knowles
(I haven’t read this yet, but I want to open that door. An image like this makes the reader wonder if we’re going to get something sad or scary on the other side, or a happy surprise. Either way, I’m sold.)
Torment by Lauren Kate
(This is the follow-up to Fallen–which I still haven’t read–but if I could draw the word torment, it’d be this. And I’m a sucker for images of backs.)
The Replacements by Brenna Yovanoff
(I’ve heard this upcoming debut by Yovanoff is supernatural and creepy. And I don’t know about you, but whenever I see sharp instruments of torture dangling above a baby carriage, I don’t think of vanilla pudding and Nilla wafers. Mmkay…maybe I’m always thinking of pudding and wafers. BUT I can guarantee I won’t be moving into this un-family-friendly neighborhood anytime soon!)
Sisters Red by Jackson Pearce
(Graphic design heaven. Red. Black. White. Girls. And wolves. Plus it reminds you of those images from the 90s where you see an old woman one way and then a bunny rabbit the other. I loved those…even if my eyes went a little cross and wonky at times. But to me, this cover is eye-popping in a good way and totally genius!)
Patient Zero by Jonathan Maberry (ok, not a YA but tell me this cover wouldn’t catch your eye on the shelf!)
(Creepy. Creepy. Creepy. This cover sets the tone for suspense, horror, and copious amounts of cringing. I haven’t read this book, but the disturbing side of my brain would like to devour it in one sitting.)
YAFF Muse is a new weekly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we’ll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don’t forget to check out the other *YAFFers participating in this series (links below).
Photo Credit: Autostop by Criswey
Sweet Louise
She slipped me a note after Wayne Shaw left class with his daily nosebleed.
I need a ride after school.
When I rumpled the paper into a ball, she dropped another note onto my desk.
I’ll owe you BIG TIME.
Normally I would’ve ignored her because nothing was this easy in Chickadee, Texas. But her ass looked like two giant cupcakes smooshed in jean shorts every time she sat in front of me. So, hell yeah I wanted in on that.
* * *
The drive she promised would only take five minutes really took forty-five. My poor car, Sweet Louise, sputtered and hissed the whole way. Sweet Louise was a three-stoplight-maximum girl, a safety-is-a-luxury girl, a steady-supply-of-water-jugs-in-the-trunk kind of girl. She wasn’t built for spontaneity. She wasn’t built for a road like Chickadee Lane. Or a girl like Noxie.
* * *
The first time I ever saw Noxie Ramsey I’d been pretending to sleep in Mr. Hermill’s geometry class. Something about isosceles triangles and acute angles or—I don’t know, anything with three sides is about as queer as a graceful stripper around here, so before I knew it, I had the bill of my hat pulled down until I only saw a one-millimeter band of light. I remembered someone had just farted. It rippled through the air, like a motorboat treading on bubble wrap. The other kids giggled. Freaking immature inbreds. But they shut the hell up as soon as the door opened.
When Noxie sat in the chair in front of me, my one-millimeter band of empty space filled up with the most beautiful derriere this side of Austin. Her jeans dipped just a bit in the back. And while everyone else protracted how many degrees this angle or that angle was, I spent the rest of the class period with my chin on my forearms so I could drool over that little peek-a-boo flash of hot pink silk.
* * *
“This isn’t happening.” Noxie paced between the border of old man Seymour’s wheat field and my car. “Are you sure you can’t fix it?” she asked.
I shook the empty water jug. “Sorry to break it to you, sugar, but I don’t think Sweet Louise is making it anywhere.”
She frowned. “Do you have a cell phone? Maybe I can call a tow truck or something.”
“Who? Fat Ted? It’s Friday. He’s off,” I said, tossing the jug into my trunk.
“What about a cab?”
I laughed. “Nearest cab company’s in Sonora. You’d be looking at a good hundred bucks or so. You have that kind of cash on you?”
“9-1-1?”
“You mean Martha Plantusky? She takes Fridays off, too.”
Noxie threw her hands into the air and screamed. “What kind of crap town is this?” Little clouds of dust rose from her feet as she kicked a pebble across the dirt road.
A fly buzzed by my ear. I slammed my trunk closed and ambled toward her. “Where were you making me take you anyway?” I asked, wiping my hands on the backs of my jeans. “There’s nothing out this way.”
She rolled her eyes and leaned against the driver’s door. “Please. I wasn’t making you do anything,” she said. “You practically drooled all over my shoe when I showed up at your car.”
Fair enough.
Thick black smudges lined her eyes, making them appear small and large at the same time. She glared at me as if I were nothing more than a ride on four wheels for her. I picked up a strand of strawberry-blonde hair that had escaped the ponytail she wore high on her head. Sifting the satiny tendril between my fingers, I said, “Okaaaay. Where was I voluntarily taking you on this fine Friday afternoon?”
She swatted at my hand. “Bus stop.” No need to tell her the bus didn’t run on Fridays either. “I need to get the hell out of this place. There’s a Greyhound that comes through every other week. It’s supposed to be coming today. I checked online. Figure I can hop off in Little Rock, then make my way to the East Coast by train,” she said.
I cocked my head and squinted. “Well, it’ll probably take some time before I make it back into town and get the parts I need for my car to start up again.” I rolled the hem of her collar, right where her carotid flickered under her skin. Her breath hitched. “So why don’t you start thumbing your way toward the bus stop now? Someone’s bound to drive along and pick you up,” I said.
Noxie would’ve taken a step back, but she had nowhere to go. Trapped between me and Sweet Louise. She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, maybe to see if I was serious. City girls always acted surprised with me. “You think someone will really drive by? No one’s passed us yet.”
“Pshaw. Of course. Chickadee’s the only road leading out of town.” Leaning closer, I lowered my voice until it was as low and smooth as Sweet Louise on fresh oil. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there ain’t nothing to do in town. Especially on a Friday night.”
She tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, no kidding. Everyone’s either showing off their shitty cars or tipping cows.” The muscle under my eye ticked and I thought maybe she noticed it. But then she laughed and dipped all the way through my open window—God have mercy on me—and snatched up her bag. When she whipped around, I acted real noble, like I was admiring Seymour’s wheat field. “But promise me something,” she said, getting close to my face.
Her breath smelled like oranges. It was real nice. And despite what I always told myself, I bottled it up in my memory to save for a summer drive. “Sure, Noxie. Anything.”
“Once you fix your car, do you think you could drive up the road just to make sure I’m not still stranded here?”
I exhaled. “Of course. But I don’t think you’ll have any trouble. Not in these parts.”
Noxie Ramsey smiled, raised up on her toes, and planted a kiss right on my cheek. I stood there, catching flies with my mouth wide open, as her round ass swished down Chickadee Lane, a cloud of dust hugging Every. Single. Curve.
Once she disappeared, I wiped my hand down my face and pulled out my pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Only one number was in the call log. When I heard the line pick up, I said, “Mile marker eight. ETA in two.”
The voice on the other end rattled and coughed. “Good.”
“When will I get my new engine? You said last time—”
The line went dead before I finished.
As I walked around my car to screw the distributor cap back on, I stroked Sweet Louise’s roof. “You’ll get your V8 soon, pretty baby. And then you’ll be purring like the big girls in no time.” She didn’t answer back—how could she? She was just a car—but I was real gentle when I closed her hood because she hated it when I was too rough.
After I lowered myself into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, a high-pitched scream shrieked down Chickadee and revved across the wheat field. It lasted two-point-six seconds before falling silent.
I nuzzled the steering wheel and sighed. “Soon, my Sweet Louise. Soon.”
(Author’s Note: When I look at this picture, I think of cows, muscle cars, and chainsaw-wielding serial killers. (I mean, who doesn’t, right?) And for some reason, Texas seemed the perfect backdrop even though I’ve never been there. Sorry to all you Lone Star residents!)
*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:
YAFF Muse is a new weekly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we’ll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don’t forget to check out the other *YAFFers participating in this series (links below).
Around the Streetmarket by Plamen Stoev
Black Summer Rain
“That black looks hot on your feet.” Gavin smiles at me. It’s the sort of smile he uses when he wants something.
“Not feet,” I say. “Toes.” I wiggle them to show him exactly what I mean. He plants his hands on the car’s hood on either side of me, and leans in, way in, until he fills my field of vision. “You’re going to make me spill polish all over your paint job if you don’t be careful.” Actually, it would get on the towel under my butt and not the paint job, but I give him a gentle nudge anyway.
“I don’t care,” he says, plucking the bottle from my fingers.
I’m not sure where he sets my Knocking On Death’s Door nail polish because he pushes me back until my spine kisses the curve of the hood. It was eighty-seven degrees at noon so the top of the car is warm—no, wait. Not warm. Warm is like apple pie after ten seconds in the microwave. The car is scorching and I wonder if my thin white shirt will melt off my body.
Gavin nuzzles my neck and angles his head so he can blow down my top, between my cleavage. He knows this drives me crazy.
“What do you want?” I ask, and my voice is a little breathy, a combo of the humidity and Gavin’s hard-on teasing the space between my legs.
There’s a naughty hint in his eye when he flicks his gaze at my mouth. It’s in the lazy way he blinks, like he’s trying to hypnotize me, and in the way his mouth puckers just a bit. I swallow hard because I know what he wants.
* * *
It’s one of those flash storms, the kind that catches you while you’re walking home from school or getting the mail or rolling a joint on the hood of your boyfriend’s car.
Gavin curses and grabs the rolling papers and baggie before he ducks toward his house. I laugh because summer rain is my favorite. Closing my eyes, I turn my head to the crying sky and open my mouth. Precipitation doesn’t taste as clean as it did when I was a little girl, but it’s not as bad as, say, drinking from the toilet.
My shirt is soaked through and I realize anyone who wanted to could look out their window and see my flimsy bra with the black stars as clear as if I wasn’t wearing anything.
The rain patters harder and it’s the only thing I let myself hear. Pure. Powerful. A shiatsu massage for your ear drums. When I turn, my breath hitches because Gavin’s an inch from my face. He holds an umbrella over his head, except one side dips at a forty-five-degree angle so a cascade of water pelts his shoulder. I don’t get why he bothers with it.
“Come inside,” he says. “I want to smoke before my parents get home.”
I glance at his car, then the street. When I turn back, he has a mixed expression on his face. I wink and say, “I have a better idea.”
* * *
I tell Gavin to slow down around the bend because I don’t want to burn myself. For once, he actually listens and we pass the street that takes you into the farmer’s market without any problem.
The rain has scared everyone off the road, so I place the lit joint between his lips and let my head fall back against the headrest. My eyelids flutter because it’s almost impossible to keep them open when so much smoke is trapped inside.
* * *
They say it wasn’t Gavin’s fault. That the driver coming from the opposite direction took his eyes off the road and didn’t see us in time. But that driver can’t really say anything, least of all the truth, and no one bothers to ask me.
I roll my eyes at an EMT whose face has turned a brilliant shade of albino. But she sees right through me like I’m not even there, like she doesn’t notice I’m plastered with rain. My star-spangled bra practically winks at every John, Dick, and Harry but no one gazes for more than a second. When a firefighter storms by, I wiggle my black-painted toes. But that gets zero reaction, too. And I find it odd no one asks where my shoes are or why we were driving in the first place.
If they did, I’d say, “Because summer rain is my favorite.” With drops so big they’ll wash you away.
(Author’s Note: The girl in the pic looks like a bit of a rebel, no? I mean, who runs barefoot in the rain? The street is just so…gross. Well, that small detail is what inspired me for this week’s story. It started with the simplest activity of painting toes and ended with a stoner-ghost. The mind works in mysterious ways!)
*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:
YAFF Muse is a new weekly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we’ll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don’t forget to check out the other *YAFFers participating in this series (links below).
Photo cred: "Summer Tea" by Valyeszter
Tea Cup Tornado
HIM
She came out of a flower. A tea cup of a flower, really.
At first, I rubbed my eyes because I’d smoked a cigarette—a Marlboro Red, serious nicotine for a serious smoker, which I was not. Not anymore. I’d quit six months ago, so the first inhale had stung. But the second…well, it was like going home and wrapping my lungs in the warmest cocoon. Like velvet or that furry blanket Ma used to hang over our couch to hide a ten-year-old chocolate milk stain.
But anyway, back to the cigarette. Yeah, I think it might’ve been laced with something. How else could I explain the girl? She looked so tiny climbing out of that blooming cup. I wanted to squish her to see if she was real.
HER
I’d never been so cold before. Every infant hair on my body screamed for sun. For heat. When I blinked, the world collided in an agonizing band of light. It took me a moment to gather my strength enough to stand. A reminder of why it wasn’t wise to do this a lot. But then my blood began to pump and my breaths fluttered through my body and I knew this had been the right choice. I was free.
HIM
She just stood there; teetering on the lip of a cupped blue flower like it was a completely natural thing to do. It wasn’t natural. Ma always told me if it didn’t look right, it probably wasn’t.
A breeze blew from the east and I thought: This is it. Maybe she’ll topple over and splat all over the gnarled tree roots. How awesome would that be? I sucked in a breath, tasted the stale ash on my tongue, and waited.
But she didn’t fall. She stretched her arms and blinked at me as if she could create tornadoes with her eyelashes. I sort of wanted to see her do it. Twisters always looked wicked cool in movies.
HER
I wanted to touch him. His face. His throat. The little bob that danced every time he swallowed. He swallowed a lot.
I tilted my head and licked my lips. Would his skin feel as warm as the air? If I reached out, would he crumble underneath my fingertips? Would it hurt?
I smiled. He smiled and leaned in like he wanted me to do it.
So I bent my knees, gripped my toes around the edge of the flower petal, and did it—I touched the tip of his nose with my finger.
In one blink, he was nothing but a cloud of ash.
And I was finally warm.
I’ve mentioned before how much I Love Love LOVE my YAFF (Young Adult Fiction Fanatics) crit group. They’ve saved me from jumping off many a cliffs. So I’m excited to say we have a really exciting collaborative blog series on its way!
I’m going to be a bit hush-hush for now, but stay tuned for our new series starting next Wednesday!!!
So I’ve been in the black hole of writing, otherwise known as the SEVEN CIRCLES (or DRAFTS) OF REVISION HE**, and I thought I’d take a quick break to spread the love about an awesome event that was just announced:
Several writers (Jamie Harrington, Elana Johnson, Casey McCormick, Shannon Messenger, Lisa and Laura Roecker) are organizing a free online workshop for writers of kidlit on Aug 10-12. They’re having fabulous people participate — like Steven Malk, Catherine Drayton, Michelle Andelman, Suzie Townsend, Mark McVeigh, Joanna Stampfel-Volpe, Kathleen Ortiz, Lindsay Eland, Dan Ehrehaft, Mandy Hubbard, Lindsey Leavitt, Josh Berk, Anica Rissi, and Jodi Meadows just to name a few — and the best part?
IT’S FREEEEEEEEEEE. That’s right. F to the R to the EEEEEE. Conferences are expensive, usually between $300-500 just to attend. On top of that, you’re looking at hotel, travel, and daily food costs which can easily bring the total price tag to well over $1000 (I’m looking at around $1300 to go to RWA’s conference in Orlando at the end of July). And I don’t know about you, but money certainly isn’t growing on any shrubbery near my house…
So that makes WriteOnCon a fantastic opportunity to learn, network, and have a good time with other writers. Since it’s all done online, you could even *attend* in your undies. Although I really suggest you not blab that around if that’s how you decide to roll…
Some of the ladies are running contests on their blogs to spread the word. Check them out here:
Jamie Harrington — giving away Josh Berk’s The Dark Days of Hamburger Halpin
Elana Johnson — giving away The Dark Days of Hamburger Halpin by Josh Berk, Scones and Sensibility by Lindsay Eland, Princess for Hire by Lindsey Leavitt
Casey McCormick — giving away winner’s choice of a kidlit book
This conference sounds super exciting, and with the amount of work these ladies have invested, I’m sure it’ll be a huge success! I know I’ve already blocked out my calendar for it! Oh — and don’t forget to visit the writer’s blogs and spread the WriteOnCon love!!!
Any writer, agent, or editor worth their salt will tell you that the one thing you absolutely ABSOLUTELY must have in order to get published is:
A Critique Partner/Group/Community
This is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo true I can’t even tell you how true it is. Except maybe I just did since I have a hundred o’s too many in there.
But let me tell you why.
A few months ago, I joined a new critique group that would be focused solely on YA. What’s this fantastic group called, you say? YA FICTION FANATICS. And let me tell you, the women in this group are not only talented, gracious, hilarious, and intelligent. But they’re also the most selfless, honest, loyal, and lovable writers (and women) I’ve ever “met.” I can’t even begin to sing my praises enough for how much this group has helped me shape LIFE AFTER SEND to make it the best it can be. Their feedback has been right-on, and I know — hear that, Universe? — I know I’ll find an agent to sell this puppy one day. And when I do, it’ll be because of these women (plus the guidance and wisdom of my AWESOME AWESOME MENTOR, WHO NO AMOUNT OF CUPCAKES WOULD EVER BE ENOUGH TO SAY HOW MUCH I ADORE HER).For reals, I am humbled to be a part of such a giving group.
I love the writing community. It rocks.
And memorize these names because one day, we’ll take over the world. One YA at a time:
Remember me? No? Yeah, I don’t blame you. I’ve been incognito for the past few weeks. Secret secret stuff, I tell ya.
Okay, not really.
Truth? My mom suffered three strokes at the end of April. THREE! That’s crazy. She’s doing better now, at the rehab center going on day number 19. She’s a strong, strong woman. Works hard in every therapy session. Even in her off time, she’s practicing her exercises so she can get better. There’s been lots of sweat, lots of laughs (mainly at the expense of her oh-so stylish hospital gowns), and lots of tears. LOTS of tears.
I asked Mom the other day, “Why don’t you rest for a little bit? Give yourself a break?”
Mom promptly replied with, “Because you don’t give up. Ever. And practice makes perfect. Always.”
Cliche? Yes.
True? Absofreakinglutely.
If there’s a lesson I’ve learned from my mother’s recent ordeal, it’s that you grind your teeth through the pain and Just. Do. It. (Sorry, Nike.) Why? Because the payoff will be worth it.
I’m taking this advice to heart right now as I embark on my WWIII battle with my enemy: REVISIONS. To put it more specifically: THE RED PEN. THE RED PEN hates me. Really.
Want to see what I mean? Take a look.
My worry is that I might be a little too thorough with my red pen. Am I stripping my voice out? Am I really making it better? What if it’s crappier now than it was to begin with?
Don’t get me wrong. I understand and believe in the importance of revising your work to make it as perfect as you can. But how do you know when you’re done? There are a whole slew of articles on the interwebs about revising. Here are a few that I’ve looked at:
I also have Elizabeth Lyon’s book, Manuscript Makeover, which has been helpful so far. It’s not one of those books where you have to read all the way through from cover to cover. She actually gives you permission to skip around and read the chapters that apply to the kind of revisions you’re doing. Pretty cool.
Seeing as how I’ve never really revised a novel before (I know, right?), I’m not going to give out tips since I have no tips yet. No, wait! I do have a tip. Oreos. And wine. I’ve found that eating Oreos and drinking wine (no dunking involved because eww!) have helped me keep my sanity. What’s left of it, that is.
What about you? Do you have any tips to add to the links I have above? I’m all ears.
Cambria Dillon - YA Writer
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(I haven’t read this one…but it’s on my TBR. This cover is haunting and makes me want to know all about this girl. Is she dead? Or does she just look dead? Why? Why? Why?)
