By Cam
For the next two weeks I’m going to do something that I think may actually kill me:
I’m going to FAST DRAFT.
If you’re not familiar with FD, it’s basically Candace Havens’ two-week writing boot camp where the main goal is to pledge to write 20 pages a day. 20 pages X 14 days = 280 pages = 70K. That’s a whole YA book for me.
Now…it’s sort of a known fact that a fast draft is always going to look like crap on paper after the two weeks is up. It’s even worse than a first draft, if you can believe that. (I didn’t think there was anything worse than a first draft…but apparently I’m wrong.) BUT — at least there will be words that can be revised into something more coherent.
I plan on working on my new WIP (the psychological contemporary YA that I’ve only told a few people about). This will be my first attempt to write first-person present tense with dual narratives. I think when this is done I’ll either be found wandering the streets with oily hair while muttering nursery rhymes to myself, or dead. It’s 50/50 at this point.
If you want to learn more about this session’s Fast Draft, check out Bria Quinlan’s post. (And if you don’t already follow Bria, you should. She has a lot of great ideas to help writers, plus she’s one of the sweetest writers I’ve met.) You’ll need to join Candace’s yahoo group loop (it’s free), but once you’ve joined, you can see how everything works here:
FD intro: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Write_Workshop/message/107
Getting ready: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Write_Workshop/message/108
How it works: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Write_Workshop/message/109 (cut and paste then find/delete the error messages for easy reading)
The rules and getting started: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Write_Workshop/message/110
Good luck to anyone who decides to participate!
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).
Picture: TREN by Phypet
You noticed the doll before I did. Which was strange because I thought I was the only one who studied the ground when we walked. In one jerky move, you plucked the doll up and held it between your fingers. Like it was covered in dog crap or worms. But from where I stood, the face seemed pretty clean even if the arms hung a bit limp. It looked soft. Cheerful. Loved.
It looked like mine.
Well, not mine anymore. Dolls were for babies. But it reminded me of a long time ago.
I sniffed and you gave me a weird look. I wasn’t crying or anything, but you said something under your breath. Do you remember that? It sounded like, “Christ.” I wanted to ask you why you’d say such a thing. The Lord’s name shouldn’t be taken in vain. Commandment number two and all that. But then you stuffed the doll in your back pocket and loped over the train tracks until we passed under the scary bridge. The one with all the people.
I know it sounds silly, but I swear there was a woman under there who looked exactly like how I’d imagined the witch from Snow White to look. Her eyes were red and crusty and she wore so many scarves I wondered how she didn’t choke herself. I must’ve stared too long because you snapped your fingers. The echo lingered behind me as I hurried to catch up to you.
You never stopped. Not even when the rocks got stuck in my sandals and slowed me down. I knew this made you mad. You pretended like it didn’t, but I heard you sigh every time I had to wiggle my fingers under the leather bands to fish out a pebble. My mom used to make that same sound whenever I snuck a box of fruit snacks into the grocery cart when I thought she wasn’t looking.
I don’t know how long we walked. Every time I asked how much further we had to go, you replied with a, “Just a ways up.” It was long enough for my stomach to trick my mind into thinking the broken glass along the tracks looked like rock candy. Or fruit snacks.
Do you remember when we came across that cow carcass by the abandoned engineer shed? The smell made me so dizzy I stumbled right through a cloud of flies. I felt them buzz along every opening on my face. Testing. Tasting. Invading. I almost threw up right there. You put your arm around me. The smell of your sweat wasn’t nearly as bad as the stink of rotting animal flesh. After that, you let me take a break. That was nice of you. You even gave me a sip from your water canteen. If you hadn’t snatched the container from me, I would’ve drunk the whole thing.
I lost count how many times I had to bite my dirty knuckles to keep from crying. But we stopped walking as soon as the sun kissed the horizon. You took off your shirt and used it to wipe the sweat off your face. The doll winked at me from your pocket. I had almost forgotten about her. My feet led me forward and my hand reached up to touch her. That was when you said, “Come out.”
Were you talking to me? I wasn’t sure but I answered, “Out where?” The only thing near us was an empty train car with smashed in windows. The sunlight was fading fast, but I saw years of rust painting the whole side of the train a deep, dried-blood color. A tree—or maybe a really tall weed—reached out from a hole in the roof, like it wanted to give the sun a farewell before the moon turned everything to black. I wondered how the tree-weed got there in the first place. How it managed to grow so tall in a metal box. It didn’t look strong enough to push through the roof. These things didn’t make sense to me.
A movement in the train caught my eye. I squinted. You stood off to my right and motioned with your hand like you were throwing a Frisbee into the air. But you didn’t have a Frisbee. I would’ve noticed if you did. Then a boy’s head popped up in the window. He blinked. His eyes looked too big for his face. Or maybe his face had shrunk. His glazed expression reminded me of those kids I saw on the Discovery Channel, the ones starving in third-world countries. I wondered what his stomach tricked his mind into thinking it could eat.
“Go on. Go to him,” you said.
I shook my head and took a step backward. I wasn’t scared of the boy. But I didn’t trust anyone who hung out in an empty train with a tree-weed growing in it.
“Christ,” you said under your breath.
“You shouldn’t say that.” I slapped my hands over my mouth too late.
You moved toward me and curled your hands into fists by your side. For a moment, I thought you were going to hit me. I even flexed all my muscles in preparation. Whenever I talked back to my mom, she would make me pick out a wooden spoon so she could smack my behind with it. But she never struck me with her fists.
I prayed for you to be quick. I prayed for surface wounds.
But you only sighed. “Come, Eve.”
You never asked me for my name. If you had, I would’ve told you it was Catherine.
“Adam, don’t be afraid.” You motioned again to the boy. “Eve will make everything better. You’ll see.” You smiled. Your teeth were straight. I didn’t know why but this surprised me.
The train creaked and I heard leaves rustle. Then the boy jumped down from the doorway and shuffled his way toward us. His clothes hung on him as if they were starving too, swallowing his body whole. He could’ve been fifteen. Or ten. I didn’t want to ask you how old he really was because you had a weird glint in your eyes. Like any minute you would grab our hands and swing us around in a circle while singing nursery rhymes.
This bothered me more than anything. I could handle your silent annoyance at me throughout the day. But joy? That emotion didn’t fit right on your face.
The boy hugged me. So tight I thought he cracked one of my ribs. I gasped for air and looked for a way out of his hold. But I found you instead.
“You have much to learn.” You offered the doll to me, cradling it in your palms like it was made out of wet tissue paper. “If you want, you can keep this until the time is right.”
Before I could ask you what you meant, I felt your hands on my forehead, my nose, my mouth. Heard you mumble promises in my ear. Never the boy. Always you. Your voice was the last thing I heard before my world slipped away.
© 2010 Cambria Dillon
(Author’s Note: This week’s story was a total experiment for me. I’ll admit it might be a little weird for some — it was for me — and I’m okay with that. I wanted to write 2nd person point-of-view since I’ve never done it before. And I also wanted this story to leave a lot of room for interpretation. When I saw the picture of the train, I immediately thought: Train = Journey. And what a crazy one it was! Not sure if I’ll do 2nd person POV again since I’m still not sure about this piece…but at least I can say I gave it a try!)
*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:
RM Gilbert
Min Buchanan
Rebekah Purdy
Vanessa Barger
By Cam
Let’s face it. Baltimore isn’t exactly known for its robust literary culture…but more for its Old Bay seasoning, blue crabs, Orioles, and this guy:
(Ray Lewis of the Baltimore Ravens)
BUT.
There was once this guy. A real Baltimorian (or Baltimoron for those of you playing at home). He was kind of eclectic. Totally mysterious. Probably a little scary.
He was also brilliant.
A poet.
A storyteller.
A gothic legend.
I’m talking about this guy:
(It’s Poe, yo.)
Edgar Allan Poe is the heart of Baltimore’s literary history. We named our football team after him — I mean, COME ON. How cool is that? And there’s also a film being made with John Cusack as Ed! WIN!
So it’s only natural the rest of the world has finally noticed the literary potential of B-more/B-town/Bawlmor/Hon-ville. To celebrate, the town is hosting a three-day event, the Baltimore Book Festival, at the end of the month. The event will be held downtown on Sept. 24-26 and will feature panels with such notable YA authors like:
Holly Black
Diana Peterfreund
Justine Larbalestier
Scott Westerfeld
Carrie Ryan
Elizabeth Scott
Ingrid Law
Amy Brecount White
Oh…and some guy named:
M.T. Anderson
ARE YOU HYPERVENTILATING YET? CAUSE I AM!
I can’t wait for this event! And you bet I’ll be taking notes and reporting back here about all the juicy gems of wisdom I’m hoping to learn (like what’s better: Unicorns or Zombies?).
(And if the kidlit superstars mentioned above aren’t sure to make you salivate, then how about knowing this guy will also be there? Yowzers!)
Cambria Dillon - YA Writer represented by Vickie Motter, Andrea Hurst Literary Management
