By Cam
I HAVE AN AGENT!!!!!!!!!
Whew. I’ve been waiting to say that since Friday. But today, I can officially announce that I’m represented by Vickie Motter at Andrea Hurst Literary Management.
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!
I’ll post a separate entry on my road to getting an agent later this week because right now? It’s still sinking in. I mean, I have an AGENT?!?! Like, a REAL one?
Yeah. I can’t stop shaking my head and checking my glass for suspicious liquids.
In the meantime I’m going to start revising LIFE AFTER SEND (for my agent) (really????). My plan is to read through the whole thing by Sunday, while notating general areas I might want to change, and then layering in the things Vickie and I discussed. I think that process will probably take a couple of weeks. Then I’ll read through again. Tweak. Rinse. Repeat. And then send off for comments and line edits.
Holy moly this is INSANE. I have an agent. Who will be reading my MSS. And pitching my MSS. And then editors will be reading my MSS (hopefully). And tear it apart. Or love it. Or love to tear it apart. I don’t know. This is a total dream. I mean, not to have my poor MSS potentially be viewed and ripped apart over and over, but THIS–this whole journey is a dream.
Pinch. Pinch. Pinch. Pinch.
Yup. A total dream.
By Cam
So I haven’t posted here in weeks and when I do, I do it on a Saturday?!? Yeah, that makes no sense to me either…but I’ve been crazy busy. Here’s a quick rundown of what I’ve been up to over the past few weeks:
- Attended SCBWI NY for the first time — The content of the breakout sessions was so-so, but I hung with wonderful people, and listened to keynotes by the ever-inspirational Lois Lowry, R.L. Stine, Jane Yolen, and Mark Teague. I even had a sentimental moment when I had keepsake books autographed for my daughter. I hope she loves them as much as I do.
- Writing the first draft of my new contemporary YA (told in dual narratives), tentatively titled GRIP
- Writing short stories to submit to online journals and literary publications so I can build up my cred and earn a little $ on the side
- Dealing with a 2 1/2-year-old who is DEFINITELY acting her age Every. Second. Of. The. Day
- Grinning from ear-to-ear about AWESOME news I can’t share yet
So that’s what I’ve been doing. Yeah. It may not seem like a lot, but Toddler Trouble is giving me a run for my money.
Here are some pics from SCBWI to tide you over. I only had my iPhone, so some of these I borrowed from Martina Boone and Carol Barreyre.
Enjoy!
Me and Cici Ramirez on the train to NYC!
Me and Carol Barreyre listening to R.L. Stine
Dinner out at SCBWI NY
Me, Marissa, and Cici at dinner
Ara Burkland & Martina
Carol & Debra Rossi
R.L. Stine's keynote!
A genius at work, signing
Please adopt me, Bob?
THE Lois Lowry. Literary Brilliance in the flesh. (Notice the half-eaten piece of chocolate to the left? A true writer.)
My daughter's fave book signed by Jane Yolen & Mark Teague!
By Cam
I’ve been quite absent from the blog lately. I’d like to say it was because my NaNo-drunk mind was furiously concocting worlds of literary genius…but, alas. That would be a total fib. I had every intention of doing NaNo this year — signed up, managed to get 3,000 words written in the first two days, tracked and cheered my fellow NaNo buddies — but a funny thing happened in my writing process. I succumbed to something I thought only existed in the minds of fairy-tale-telling writers.
I got hit by the shower.
Now, it might be a combination of the sinus meds I took the night before, or the washing away of 24-hours worth of sick-toddler stress, or maybe my new shampoo really is that good — regardless what magical hands were at work during my morning shower, I was struck with the biggest plot revelation that, so far, answers many of the kinks I had in my NaNo story.
It also raises its fair share of questions, too. But these questions are ones I think I can find… through research.
So that’s where I am now. Instead of churning out 50K, I’m going to focus my efforts this month on making sure I understand how a real person in my character’s shoes would act. Medically and psychologically. It’s much easier to start building the foundation of my story with bricks made of real life nuggets, than with crap that holds no weight. Yes?
That doesn’t mean I’m not going to take liberties, but with this particular plot string in my WIP, I really need to weave in the authentic details and that starts with studying up. College-style. I’ve reserved a whole slew of reference materials from my library, rented movies that seem to have the atmosphere and character mannerisms I’m looking for, and created separate playlists to channel my characters’ energy. And I have more than enough leftover Halloween candy, coffee, and tea to aid in the process.
What about you? What kind of research do you do, if any, to make your story more believable? Do you do it prior to writing the first draft or during revisions to tweak the details?
By Cam
Okay, so I didn’t have time to post my completed assignment yesterday. But I did it. And it’s longer than a couple paragraphs. And it’s rough. And it’s really hard to do when your two-year old insists on replaying Dinosaur Train all. Day. Long.
So, without further adieu, here are my attempts at taking the same basic premise–a first kiss–and applying three different layers of mood: sad, uncomfortable, and dreamy.
Can you tell which is which?
#1
He sways a little and if I close my eyes, I hear wind chimes. Not the laughter of forty kids outside the door, or the collective singing of every girl in my eighth grade class belting it to Lady Gaga, not even Sally Treverton’s shrill call that it’s time to open her birthday presents. No, it’s a delicate breeze of sound. A soft announcement that this is the moment I’ve waited for my whole life.
And it’s only for me and Kenny.
In this room there are shelves of boxes. I don’t know what’s in them but they all lean toward us as if they know what’s about to happen, too. Kenny’s eyes are closed but I keep mine open. I want to freeze this moment, press it into my palm and never let go. Even the aroma of garlic butter—so strong it clings to the cotton of his shirt—is so deliciously warm that I hug my arms around my body to trap it inside. To make my skin never forget how this feels.
He leans closer and I stare at his mouth. It’s a perfect mouth. A mouth I know will match up to my mine like tabs of Velcro or magnets that have no business being apart from one another. “So pizza…” I say, taking the smallest step forward. “With garlic and butter…” I close my eyes and wait, giving him the opportunity to finish my thought.
He sighs, turning the delicate breeze of tinkling sound into a vortex of thunder that’s too loud for this room. “Look, I just wanted to make Lori jealous.”
I open my eyes and see him standing there. The wall of boxes swells with the knowledge that they’ve just witnessed a crushing blow no amount of aid will ever repair.
“But if this is going to be too weird, then I’ll go ask Jessica. It doesn’t really matter to me anyway.”
I don’t even have time to ask him why he’s being so silly because a box from the top shelf crashes down, spilling silver, red, and green all over Kenny.
#2
I don’t know why Kenny chose me, but it’s quiet in this room and I like that. There’s not a pink-packaged gift anywhere in sight. Just brown, dusty boxes bloated with Sally Treverton’s past.
Kenny closes his eyes. I don’t ask him what he’s doing because the sooner he does whatever he’s planning on doing, the sooner I can hide—by myself—from everything screaming “Happy Birthday!,” and the sooner I can forget that yet another year has crapped all over me.
But Kenny leans forward. All I smell is the garlic butter that came with the dozen pizzas that somehow ran out before I had a chance to get a slice. Marty Greene had five slices of pizza stacked onto his plate. Five. He laughed when he saw me place my empty plate back onto the table.
Kenny leans forward. I think maybe he wants to give me my first kiss. Maybe he knows Sally’s birthday isn’t the only one today. Maybe he actually likes me. But I’m sweating and he’s really close and I stammer out with, “So pizza, huh?” I lick my lips. They’ve never felt so flaky before. If he does kiss me and can tell my lips are chapped, will he tell everyone? Will they all make fun of me? On my birthday? He’s still standing there and I think maybe he’s expecting me to say something else. Conversation is not my best attribute. Nothing’s really my best attribute, but I manage to ask, “With garlic and…uh, butter?”
He opens his eyes. Scoots back as far away from me as the walls of shelves will allow. “Look, I just wanted to make Lori jealous.” Of course. That’s how it always goes. “But if this is going to be too weird, then I’ll go ask Jessica. It doesn’t really matter to me anyway.”
I wrap my arms around myself and watch, frozen, as one of the dusty, old boxes high up on a shelf tumbles down and lands on Kenny’s head. Christmas spills out all over the floor. And a card—yellowed with age, corners bent—stares me in the face. It reads: Happy Birthday Lisa.
Better late than never.
#3
A box of Christmas decorations is about to crash onto Kenny’s head. If he were to jump four inches, it’d be all over. But he doesn’t jump because he’s too busy leaning toward me with his eyes closed and air wheezing out of his nose. I think he might’ve spilled garlic butter on his shirt somewhere because I’m tempted to hand him a mint or a stick of gum or a toothbrush (if I had one…which I don’t because let’s face it, kids who carry around travel-sized dental kits are just asking for it).
My back is pressed against the wall and at the moment when I think—this is it—my first kiss will be with a wheezing, stinking boy who doodles boobs in the margins of his notebook, the only thing that really bangs around my head is that I forgot to wear a bra. Who forgets to put on their undergarments for Sally Treverton’s fourteenth birthday party—the biggest mashup of cool and uncool in one place without threat of extra homework or a phone call home?
I am the genetic equivalent to a salted slug.
I cross my arms in an effort to add an extra layer between me and Kenny. Even though his lids are still glued shut, I’m convinced he has some sort of x-ray vision. He tips forward.
“So pizza, huh?” I ask. “With garlic and…uh, butter?” I want to slap my forehead but I can’t. My arms are armor and no way am I leaving myself open for an easy kill.
Kenny’s eyes pop open. He purses his lips and looks like he wants to mash me between his molars and spit me out onto Sally’s three-tiered cake of pink sugar. “Look, I just wanted to make Lori jealous.” He shrinks several inches and I see that the decorations box is a mile away from his head now. “But if this is going to be too weird, then I’ll go ask Jessica. It doesn’t really matter to me anyway.”
And as if by some magical cosmic hand, the box sitting high on top of the shelf—with Christmas wreaths and red, silver, and green bows—sails over the ledge and plummets onto Kenny’s head.
So there you go. My three mood exercises. If anyone played along and you feel comfortable sharing, post in the comments or put a link where we can read your mood writing!
By Cam
So yesterday I left off with why mood is important not only in your whole story, but also in your opening. So that begs the question:
How do you capture the mood in the opening?
My tips:
- Pay attention to your character. What are they doing in the beginning? How do they feel? Are their actions in sync with these feelings? Observe other people in various states of mood and see how they differ, how their steps change, how their voice changes, how their face falls flat or lights up. STUDY.
- Pay attention to what your story is ABOUT. Not the plot, not the inciting incident happening in the next page or whatever. What is the takeaway you want your readers to stuff in their pocket and keep forever?
- Write. Revise.
- Repeat. This is a really important step — don’t underestimate numerous revisions and waiting periods to see if your perception changes of what you’re trying to color your story with.
- Share it with your critique partner/group. Ask them what they think the mood is and see if it matches up with your intentions. If it doesn’t…
- Write and revise again. (See? IMPORTANT STEP!) If you feel like you’re still not getting it right, maybe you need to see more visual examples of how the mood can layer in with the story. Watch a movie that evokes the kind of tone you’re looking to portray. Observe the details–setting, characters, dialogue–and see what’s done right to give you the experience you expect as the audience.
I think I went through twenty versions of my first five pages for LIFE AFTER SEND. Is it perfect? Probably not. Will it change if I find an agent and/or editor? Maybe. But does it evoke the hopeful excitement and nervous regret that I want my readers to feel? I think so.
Since mood is something that is utterly impossibly to explain in terms of mechanics, I wanted to show some examples of opening paragraphs that I think capture the overall tone of the story. Just remember—these are the first paragraphs. To really see what I mean, you should buy the books and read them so you can see how the mood plays out over the course of the whole.
Whatever mood you want to evoke in your reader, it needs to start here:
From Courtney Summers’ Some Girls Are:
Everyone is wasted.
Anna is wasted. Josh is wasted. Marta is wasted. Jeanette is wasted. Bruce is wasted. Donnie’s always wasted. I’m not wasted. I had my turn at the last party, called shotgun in Anna’s Benz after it was over. My head out the window, the world spinning. I puked my guts out. It wasn’t fun, but it’s not like there was anything else to do. Tonight, there’s even less to do than that. Tonight, I’m the designated driver.
In this opening, you get a sense that the protagonist is annoyed. That she still has to follow the rules even though she doesn’t like it because that’s how it is in her group of drunken friends. The clipped sentences add into the ‘everything spiraling out of control’ feeling. This tone carries throughout the rest of the book as the protagonist, Regina, loses top-rank in her school’s social scene.
From Jennifer Echols’ Going Too Far:
“That’s the worst idea I ever heard,” I told Eric. Then I took another sip of beer and swallowed. “Let’s do it.”
“Meg,” Tiffany called after me. But I was already out the door of Eric’s Beamer. My beer sloshed onto the gravel as I led the way across the dark clearing to the railroad bridge.
Do you get a sense of Meg’s rebellious nature? The mood is spontaneous with no regard for consequences. That’s true of Meg’s personality too, and it also becomes her greatest enemy throughout the book.
From Dia Reeves’ Bleeding Violet:
The truck driver left me off on Lamartine, on the odd side of the street. I felt odd too, standing in the town where my mother lived. For the first seven years of my life, we hadn’t even lived on the same continent, and now she waited only a few houses away.
Unreal.
Words like ‘odd’ and ‘unreal’ capture the mood of Bleeding Violet. There are so many of these moments woven throughout that at times you wonder if it’s real at all. It’s tone is mysterious and leaves the reader curious just like the protagonist is curious.
From Walter Dean Myers’ Lockdown:
“I hope you mess this up! I hope you blow it big-time! You’re supposed to be smart. You think you’re smart, right?”
“Sir…”
“Shut up, worm!” Mr. Pugh looked over his shoulder at me. “If you had any smarts, you’d be out on the streets. But you’re in jail, ain’t you? Ain’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you know this work program is bullshit. Just more work for me and the staff. But I’m counting on you, worm. All you got to do is walk away when nobody’s looking. When they catch you, I’m going to put you in a hole so deep, you won’t even remember what daylight looks like.”
I don’t know about you, but reading this opening jars me out of my happy existence. It makes me feel defensive and lost, like I don’t belong there listening to someone talk to me like that. This fish-out-of-water feeling is layered within the story as Reese tries to find his place while working in a senior home through a program to get out of juvie.
From Nina LaCour’s Hold Still:
I watch drops of water fall from the ends of my hair. They streak down my towel, puddle on the sofa cushion. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my ears.
“Sweetheart. Listen.”
Mom says Ingrid’s name and I start to hum, not the melody to a song, just one drawn-out note. I know it makes me seem crazy, I know it won’t make anything change, but it’s better than crying, it’s better than screaming, it’s better than listening to what they’re telling me.
The mood of this opening is pretty obvious, isn’t it? It’s full of loss, melancholy, pain…but there’s also a bit of hope too. Without having read this book (even though it’s on my TBR list), I know what I’ll get just from the first couple of paragraphs.
So there you have it. Mood. Tone. Flavor. Whatever you want to call it. Your opening needs it to ground the reader in the story. To give them that sense of relief that they’re getting what they ordered.
Before I end this already encyclopedia-length post, here’s an assignment: Pick three moods and write a short passage (no more than a paragraph or two) all dealing with the same topic—a first kiss. The players, settings, results should all be the same, but see how different your passages end up when you write with a different mood in mind.
Here are my moods: uncomfortable, dreamy, sad. I’ll try to post the results tomorrow.
Any players?
By Cam
The first bite of a to-die-for pumpkin cheesecake after you skipped lunch. The opening drive of a rival football game with fifty-thousand fans booing in surround sound. Foreplay.
What do these things have in common?
They are beginnings.
The beginning is a moment full of…stuff. And you thought I was going to be poetic, right? Heh heh. But in all honesty, openings really are full of stuff, the—“this could be great!” or “this could suck!”—kind of stuff. Basically openings are just FULL. The beginning of a story is when you have the FULLEST attention of your reader. It’s not the first taste they’ll get of your story because presumably, they would’ve already read the back cover blurb or at least have some inkling of what your story is about. BUT. Your opening is their first real, hearty, bite of your story. It’s the moment when they decide if they’ll put up with your stinky morning breath for the duration of your relationship, or the moment they decide no amount of Listerine will solve your foul, gingivitis-tainted essence.
Sorry for that analogy. But it’s the truth.
That’s why your opening word/line/paragraph/page/chapter is so important. It’s your PLEASE LOVE ME! chance. Your “Hey, I’m on Amazon and I’m clicking through to the first page!” chance. You only get one per book so it needs to count, right?
Now, there are a ton of posts on opening paragraphs. Wonderful examples of what works, what doesn’t. Dissections of why and why not. How to Write Openings for Dummies. How to Teach Your Dog to Write Openings.
I’m not an expert in this subject, but I’m a big reader and I know what I like to read. I know that I like to get a sense of who the character is, where they are, what predicament they’re in, and more importantly (for me), what mood they’re in. What mood am I going to be in while I read this? Am I going to be sad, hopeful, thoughtful, motivated, lost?
But Cam! Is mood really that important in the first line/paragraph/page/chapter?
YES! If you really want your reader to take away the biggest bite of your story’s essence, then you need to open your story with the right mood. Only you, as the writer, will know what that is (or should be). If your story is one of a serious nature—let’s say, death or abuse or something equally grave—then that tone will be lost on the reader if you open with a very comical image. I’m not saying it can’t work and like everything in writing, there are no hard and fast rules, but you may end up distancing your reader from what your story is really about while you’re making that crucial first impression. (Maggie Stiefvater has an awesome post on mood and how she revises for it. Read it and thank me later.)
Here’s my take on mood (or tone):
It’s the sprinkling of seasoning while you cook. It’s the salt or pepper or hot pepper or soy sauce or sugar that, applied to the same content, will drastically change the taste of your story. Some readers like it sweet, some like it salty, or a mixture of both. That doesn’t really matter. But a reader’s palate will know from the moment their teeth sink into that first word whether or not they’ll enjoy the whole four-course meal, or whether they’ll spit the rest into a napkin. They’ll know when the six-layer lasagna they ordered off the menu tastes more like tuna tacos and they’ll send it back.
There’s nothing wrong with tuna tacos—but there is if it’s not what they thought they were getting.
I originally wanted to make this one post, but then it ended up really, really, really long. So I broke it up into two parts. You’re welcome for sparing you today. I’ll post the finale tomorrow with examples of how to capture mood. Plus homework! It’ll be fun!
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.
Cambria Dillon - YA Writer represented by Vickie Motter, Andrea Hurst Literary Management
