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: I Turned Around by Inessa Emilia
Don’t
Don’t.
Such a simple word, really. And not even a full one, but rather two words that meant the exact opposite—do and not—smashed together like they had no choice.
It was a teasing word.
Maybe that was why I licked her tears from my lips again. Why my fingers prodded just a tiny bit harder into the soft flesh of her neck. Just to hear her say the half-assed word one more time:
“Don’t.”
Yes.
Her eyelids fluttered. In between each slowing blink, I saw the whites of her eyes twitch. Like bingo balls settling down after that last, lucky call.
I waited ten seconds. Twenty. After a full minute I heaved myself off of her. I did the pull and tuck, and then zipped my jeans. A grass stain bled onto my knees. I licked my thumb and tried wiping it away but—like her—it was a lost cause.
Twigs cracked behind me. My attention shifted to the campsite a hundred feet away. The glow of the fire flickered and then burst with renewed life, sending a fresh wave of sparks and smoke to billow up into the trees. There were three of them now, their silhouettes ghosted back and forth behind the tree line. They had no idea.
The sound of laughter filled the woods. Then applause.
Why thank you. I bowed to the patch of wild mushrooms a foot away. Would you like an encore? I smiled.
Encores were my specialty.
A bird flew through the canopy, a rustle of leaves so loud I was sure it’d give me away. I held my breath and crouched, steadying my weight on the balls of my feet just in case one of the campers got too nosey. When it seemed no one cared, I sighed and gave one final, appraising look to my latest achievement.
Her name had been Marianne. That’s what the tall, skinny boy had called her. It suited her well. A Trista or a Nikki or a Samantha would’ve fought back. I brushed Marianne’s hair off her forehead. She was beautiful in this kind of slipping light. The shadows made her cheekbones really pop. Given more time, she could’ve been a model.
I smoothed her sweater across her stomach and pulled the knit-cable down over her hips. I thought about pulling her leggings back up, but she looked more fun this way. A real party.
I stood up and loosened my shoulders, then loped around the far side of the camp site toward the water. Everywhere I looked, exposed tree roots suffocated in soggy dirt. It made foot placement crucial. I’d have to remember to wipe down my boots later. Maybe it’d be best to set them—
“Alex!”
—on fire.
“Alex!”
I turned, slowly, so as not to disrupt the woodland critters in their natural habitat. I’d felt their eyes on me earlier and it made me uncomfortable. The tall, skinny boy waved me over. When I didn’t move, he huffed and kicked through the leaves and fallen branches to get to where I stood. He was beyond loud.
He braced his hands on his knees and wheezed. “Hey. Why didn’t you answer me?”
I shrugged.
“Have you seen Marianne? She went to go pee a while ago but hasn’t come back yet.”
I stroked my chin and studied his wide-eyed expression, his red and sweaty face. “I haven’t. But I’ll keep my eyes open.”
He narrowed his gaze on me and I thought maybe he knew. Maybe he saw everything in my eyes. Maybe he saw too much. I wiggled my fingers by my side. There was a flat rock five inches to the left of my foot. It wouldn’t take much. The kid was so skinny he’d likely break in one swing.
But he just nodded. Smart boy. “Okay. Thanks. If you see her, will you let her know her hot dog is ready?”
“Sure thing.” I smiled. “But if she doesn’t eat her hot dog soon, do you mind if I eat it? I’m starving.”
© 2010 Cambria Dillon
(Author’s Note: I love this picture. I love the sadness. I love the muted tones. I also love camping. Or I did, when I was young. Nowadays I’m more likely to spend the night in a fluffy bed than the unknown of the wilderness. And once again, another psycho teen weasels his way into my head.)
*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:
RM Gilbert
Min Buchanan
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger
By Cam
First order of business — I promise I’ll be posting a recap of RWA Orlando. I’ve written half of it but admit I sort of just want to post pictures of all the fabulousness. But I realize posting pics isn’t really all that informative, so you might have to wait a few more days because…
I have NEWS! And it needs my undivided attention! I won’t go into specifics except to say that if there was ever an incentive to finish the spit-polish on my MS, it’s this.
Which brings me to my Two Week Goal. I’m giving myself two weeks — 14 days/336 hours/20,160 minutes — to REVISE and QUERY. Why two weeks? Well, I’m almost there. All I need is a little push, a reasonable deadline (that I can be accountable for), to get me closer to the next step. But there’s always a bit of a risk when you’re about to send out that first batch of queries. What if *gasp* you think it’s ready but it’s really not? For me, that means my MS runs the risk of fatal Too-Soon-itis. And we all know how that goes.
So let me take you on a little journey to illustrate how querying too soon is like taking a trip to the ER:
- You make the obvious decision to go to the hospital because you have a broken arm/volatile stomach/third eye/no eye/other grotesque injury.
- You see a sign on the hospital door that says STOP! FALLING BRICKS ABOVE!
- You shrug because it’s a HOSPITAL and you’re SICK and no bricks are falling on your head. Stupid sign.
- You check in with the gum-smacking receptionist and take a seat in the germ-infested waiting area.
- You realize how bad waiting is going to suck because all you want to do is get through Triage and see a dang doctor for your broken arm/volatile stomach/third eye/no eye/other grotesque injury. But you’re stuck waiting it out in an area that’s too small, too packed, and too smelly for comfort.
- To pass the time until someone calls out your name, you decide to: read a magazine/suck at Sudoku/moan/cry for your Momma/play Hangman without the paper or pencil/plant your ass at the reception desk and tap your finger on the counter until someone pays attention to you. (I don’t suggest this last option because chances are good the guard standing by the sliding glass door is bored out of his mind and is itching–ITCHING–to throw a sucker to the curb.)
- FINALLY your name is called (and with minimal butchering of your last name) after just ten hours of waiting!
- You drag your tired and cranky and now-smelly body to Registration where you give every pertinent detail of your life and promise your first-born child/cat/dog/cupcake to a woman who eyes the small-hand on the clock like she’s getting paid to do that instead of processing your info.
- Twenty-one hours later and a nurse with a glowing halo above her head and a parade of silky white doves following her every step, calls you back.
- You say a silent prayer and hope it’s really you she’s talking to.
- You gleefully tell the ER Doctor (who’s none too pleased at having drawn the short straw) all about your broken arm/volatile stomach/third eye/no eye/other grotesque injury. No detail is too small to leave out. This is your LIFE we’re talking about here.
- ER Doctor jabs you in parts you didn’t think you could get jabbed.
- After thirty seconds, she tells you your ailment was all in your head and if you just take this discharge sheet and follow the security guard outside, he’ll make sure you get to your car alright (and put you on the Never Allowed Back To The Hospital Again list).
- You drive home, stare at the wall for a few days/weeks/months, then Eureeka! You realize maybe that ER Doctor was onto something. Maybe you just had a case of the Too-Soons and a good scour or ten in the shower was all you needed to bypass the ER waiting room in the first place.
Obviously, I’ve taken some liberties with this analogy. I mean c’mon — a third eye??? Regardless of how many orbital outlets someone does or doesn’t have, the point is that if you query too soon, your subconscious probably already knows this but you’ll most likely ignore it anyway and submit. And you know what? You might even get a request from Dream Agent’s assistant. Take that stupid subconscious! But if you queried too soon and are lucky enough to get past the slush reader, chances are pretty dang good you’ll get a big, fat “Not for me” from your Dream Agent. And when that happens, you’re pretty much SOL on querying that particular MS to Dream Agent again.
Why take the chance of ignoring sound advice when all you need is a rigorous scrub or two? Scrubbing is good, peeps. Use whatever you can — loofahs, that body wash with the exfoliating beads, good old-fashioned washcloth — just make sure you wash behind your ears and get between your toes. Your Dream Agent will thank you for it.
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
By Cam
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:
Nathan Bransford – Revision Checklist
Holly Lisle – How to Revise a Novel
Darcy Pattison – Novel Diagnosis series
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.
By Cam
I have to admit I’m not a good short story writer. I think this is because I’m naturally long-winded. I mean, have you seen my previous posts? I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a talker. But where short stories are involved, I wish I could tell a complete story in so few words.
Like these ladies: Merry Sisters of Fate–comprised of Maggie Stiefvater, Brenna Yovanoff, and Tessa Gratton. Even though these authors are published and soon-to-be-published, they still find the time (and inspiration) to post weekly short stories. That ROCK.
Here are a few examples of my favorite MSoF short stories:
Rain Maker by Maggie Stiefvater — Dystopian goodness!
All Fall Down by Brenna Yovanoff — If you like zombies, this one’s for you!
Mad Signs by Tessa Gratton — Creepy fairies!
The MSoF are running a contest right now to celebrate their upcoming New Orleans trip where they’ll run into other authors (like Jackson Pearce and Carrie Ryan). You should check out their contest. And I have no doubt shenanigans and other mayhem will transpire, but will New Orleans be able to hold all that awesome writer mojo in one single weekend?
By Cam
I am seriously considering getting inked.
Maybe something like this:
Because it’s the coolest feeling to stamp THE END on something you loved writing. I’m proud of my first-draft LIFE AFTER SEND baby.
Ending first draft count: 83K
By Cam
This is monumental, you guys. I anticipate typing T-H-E E-N-D today. Like, for reals. I’m at 78K and will most likely be a tad over 80K after I get my writing in for the day. And that means next week, I’ll dive into revisions. Let me rephrase. I’m going to start REVISIONS. I’m so freaking excited I can’t stand myself right now.
This is me excited: @#*&*?$%^$!=?*&#.
Why am I so excited to start revising? Because this will be a first for me. I’ve never (and I’m totally embarrassed to admit this) EVER done a second draft before. I’m a chronic first-draft heart-breaker.
Here’s how my story relationships usually go down:
Day One:
Me: I <333333 YOU SHINY NEW IDEA!!!!! I CAN’T WAIT TO WRITE YOU!!! Wanna go steady? Like, right now? You + Me = 4EVAH.
Shiny New Idea: Duh, silly! I <3 you too! I’ve been trying to get your attention, for like, WEEKS! Took you long enough to notice my shinyness.
Week Two:
Me: I don’t understand what happened between us. The spark…I mean, things were going so fast. So deliciously fast. And now…well, you’re just so weird sometimes. I don’t get you anymore. You’ve changed, Shiny New Idea.
Shiny New Idea: What do you mean??? This has always been me. Maybe YOU’VE changed. Have you thought about that?
One Month Later:
Me: Um…so I’ve been meaning to talk to you…this “thing” between us? Yeah, I’m not so sure it’s working out. The chemistry…I don’t think it’s there anymore.
Not So Shiny New Idea: But…but…you’re right. It WAS me. I changed. A little. But I didn’t think you’d notice. I’ll go back to how it was. I’ll be shiny again. PROMISE. Just…just…give me another chance. PLEEEEEASE.
Me: I’ll think about it.
One Month + One Day Later:
Me: Okay…one more week. ONE.
Not So Shiny New Idea: You won’t regret this. Pinky swear.
One Month + One Week Later:
Me: Sooooooo. It’s been a week. And…it just wasn’t as good for me as I thought it would be. You’ll always have a place in my heart, Not So Shiny New Idea. But I really think we should take a break. Like, the permanent kind. I might even *gasp* move you into my No-Go First Draft folder.
Not So Shiny New Idea: Wh-wh-what???????????? I’ll change again. I just need a little more time. Just give me—
Me: Sorry, Not So Shiny New Idea. But there’s someone else.
So you see, my first draft relationships have been kind of flat. But not so with NOT THAT GIRL LIFE AFTER SEND (oops, I keep forgetting I had to change the title because of a title snafu that made me think I might as well nip that in the butt from the get-go, know what I mean?). Because LIFE AFTER SEND is my loverly. I <3 it. A lot. And my fellow YAFFers seem to like it, too. I’m working with my mentor on the synopsis right now. I do not like the synopsis. I now realize why everyone calls it sucknopsis. Because it does. Suck.
I’ll post tomorrow…hopefully with the news that I finished LIFE AFTER SEND.
By Cam
So if you couldn’t guess by my post title, I’m busy. Writing. My goal is to finish this Contemporary YA by April 6. I’m a day behind where I need to be. And that means neglecting some stuff.
Like cooking dinner (what’s wrong with Hungry Man?). Cleaning the house (cobwebs don’t bother me in the least). Paying attention to family and friends (although I don’t neglect diaper-changing duties. For obvious ick reasons). Blogging. Yes, sadly this blog is in much need of TLC. But that will have to wait. Until after April 6 <–I’m determined to finish by this date. De-termined.
So I’m going to leave you blog readers (if you’re still there, that is) with one of Inkygirl‘s charming and oh-so-true comics that depicts the writerly writing life of a writer. This particular comic sums up my situation to a tee. (And if you haven’t checked her out, you must.)
Cambria Dillon - YA Writer
