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for July, 2010.
By Cam
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.
And these reasons trump all.
RWA 2010 will be THE BEST TIME EVERRRRRRRRR!
By Cam
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.
© 2010 Cambria Dillon
(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:
RM Gilbert
Min Buchanan
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger
By Cam
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.)
So what do you think? Would you pick up any of these books in a bookstore? What covers make you go hmmmm? And for more analysis of book covers, check out Jacket Whys, Jacket Knack, Uncover, Book Covers Anonymous, and The Book Designers.
By Cam
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.”
© 2010 Cambria Dillon
(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:
RM Gilbert
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Cambria Dillon - YA Writer
