I first posted the following in January, 2013. This was a popular post, garnering over 70 comments and touching a chord in many of you. (And, of course, you offered your trademark advice and encouragement, as always.) I've added updated comments at the end.
UTTER SILENCE
Perhaps if I talk about this, it will work itself out. And perhaps, if you're dealing with the same thing, things will work out for you, too.
It's the I-can't-write-this-plot-for-the-life-of-me syndrome. And it's VERY. BAD.
Here's the thing. We have to keep writing, keep going. Right? In those in between places, it's especially important--at least for me--to have something warm on my plate. ("Between" as in "between the other things that are going on". Anything from waiting to hear from crit partners on a recent revision, to waiting for the next sub round with editors, to waiting for anything you can possibly think of. Because at least fifty percent of a writer's life consists of waiting.)
So, in my "between place", I've been working on a YA SF. I've got characters I already like, a setting I'm happy with, and a premise that makes me think, Yeah. This is cool. This could really work. Good stuff, yes?
Alas. I can't plot it to save my life. I've worked it from every angle you can imagine -- raw beat-sheeting, logline, backstory scenes, scenes from the novel, trying to come up with an ending, planning a single chapter--I HAVE DONE IT ALL.
And I still don't have a story.
This has thrust me into a sort of writerly crisis. When I wake up and the day snaps into focus, I remember that I am unable to plot my story, and a sinkhole opens. As in, here we go again. I'll waste my writing time staring, checking Twitter, and typing admonishments to myself.
No, really. Want to see something straight out of my Scrivener notes?
(Okay. I'm bracing myself for a moment of raw transparency.)
Authoress's Notes to Self:
Know what? I don’t know. I don’t have the foggiest idea. I thought this war was about disputed space. Fine. Then what in the world would be so valuable that ISN’T space, that both sides would destroy the other for it? And why would EVELYN have it?
Did Evelyn steal it from someone? If so, who? Kyung-Soon’s friend-who-remains-nameless? The Quantum Corporal? Him?
If so, why did HE have it?
What IS the blasted thing?
In the end, I have no idea. In the end, I suck at plotting. SUCK. I’m great at developing characters and apparently I’ve got great pacing. But plots? No. This is so hard; so incredibly counter-intuitive for me. I don’t know why I ever started writing novels in the first place.
You're allowed to laugh. Or shake your head. Or cluck your tongue at me. But, yeah. This is real; it's where I am.
Well, at least it's where I am with this story. It's just...well, sucking the life from me. All the tried-and-true things....like taking a walk or staying completely away from the story to give it space...haven't worked.
Sometimes it's hard not to despair. Sometimes it's not hard to rethink everything. Like, why am I doing this to myself? I can do other things. There are actually other things in my life that I do. That I'm good at. That bring me pleasure.
But this writing thing? It won't go away. I need to write. I am never so bereft as when I am not in the midst of breathing life into a story.
What's a gal to do?
I don't know. What do you do? Pull out another story? I don't have those; I'm the one-idea-at-a-time type. Quit? I refuse. Take a break? Well, yeah....except when you haven't actually written anything, it's hard to justify a break. What, exactly, is a break from nothing?
So. There is it. Authoress's Science Fiction Crisis. Not even chocolate is helping.
Pouring time and energy into my clients' partials has been a godsend. It's invigorating to inject creative input into someone else's work--hopefully to his benefit. And it keeps my brain from atrophying.
But it's not writing. So the writing part of my brain is weeping.
Do you have an answer? Or are you hanging onto the flotsam along with me? I'm sure we can stay afloat--but I'm not sure when we'll find fresh water.
Please. Fresh water, someone?
-------
UPDATE
I wrote the novel, rewrote the novel, and it's now on submission. It is, to date, my strongest work. In fact, I love it with all my heart. So much, in fact, that when my contemporary dance teacher played a song in class that was from my playlist for this particular novel, I teared up. (And then I sent her the first chapter so she would understand the emotional connection. Fortunately, she loved it!)
Moral? Wait for it... (Tick. Tick. Tick.) Ready? JUST. KEEP. WRITING.
Yeah, you knew that. But sometimes it helps to see someone else's journey from frustration to fruition, if only to be reminded that it DOES make a difference when you don't give up. I remember the angst of trying to plot this novel. And you know what? I think that, just maybe, when something is REALLY biting our butts, it's because it has the potential to be really good. Not that it's good in the moment--not yet. But good stuff isn't easy, right? So maybe that thought will inspire you the next time you're feeling really overwhelmed by your latest project.
Anyway, it's certainly helping me right now, because THE NEVER-ENDING WIP STILL ISN'T FINISHED. Seriously. This is me, the 3-months-to-a-first-draft queen, still slogging through. But something in my guttiest of guts keeps urging me, "This is brain-suckingly hard because it has the potential to be fantastic. Suck it up!" So I keep going.
There you have it. From hand-wringing to tears in dance class. From mental mess to finished masterpiece. It happens. You can do it.
Now go write.
Miss Snark's First Victim
Pages
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Thursday, April 30, 2015
Friday, April 24, 2015
Friday Fricassee
It's my (big-deal-ends-in-zero) birthday, so I won't linger.
Just thought I'd take the opportunity to say thank you for being a gift to me. So many of you have offered thanks to me over the years, but you need to know that the giving works both ways. This community of writers has given me SO MUCH. There have been times when I've literally clasped my hand over my mouth as I've read certain words of affirmation or encouragement. Times when I've been surprised by heartfelt, personal emails sent for the sole purpose of offering me support, advise, or empathy.
Your words go deep into this gal's heart.
So THANK YOU. I really love my tribe. :)
And now I'm going to kick off my birthday with coffee and a practically perfect muffin from my favorite coffee shop. Because...sugar.
Have a glorious weekend!
Just thought I'd take the opportunity to say thank you for being a gift to me. So many of you have offered thanks to me over the years, but you need to know that the giving works both ways. This community of writers has given me SO MUCH. There have been times when I've literally clasped my hand over my mouth as I've read certain words of affirmation or encouragement. Times when I've been surprised by heartfelt, personal emails sent for the sole purpose of offering me support, advise, or empathy.
Your words go deep into this gal's heart.
So THANK YOU. I really love my tribe. :)
And now I'm going to kick off my birthday with coffee and a practically perfect muffin from my favorite coffee shop. Because...sugar.
Have a glorious weekend!
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
2nd Winner of a 5-page Critique
And the winner, by random drawing, is SUSSU!
Congratulations, Sussu! Please email me at authoress.edits(at)gmail.com for instructions.
Thank you, all critiquers, for your time and effort. I know the participating authors appreciate it!
Congratulations, Sussu! Please email me at authoress.edits(at)gmail.com for instructions.
Thank you, all critiquers, for your time and effort. I know the participating authors appreciate it!
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Yet Another Success Story
Another indirect success story, in the author's own words:
When I entered my MG manuscript DON'T FALL DOWN into the Baker's Dozen contest in the fall of 2012, I was just coming off the worst year of my life. I survived a really rare pregnancy-related cancer just a year before, and as a result, promised myself I'd keep trying with this writing thing until something finally stuck. So that year, I finished and revised DON'T FALL DOWN, and I queried the heck out of another MG (called EX-DRAMA QUEEN). I had several queries still out on EX-DRAMA QUEEN when I closed my eyes and pressed send on the contest entry for DON'T FALL DOWN. I didn't think I'd get picked. After all, the agent rejections on EX-DRAMA QUEEN were starting to pile up, and I felt a little dejected. Somehow, by all miracles, I made it into the contest!
The entries went up, and I'd managed to convince myself that no one would bid. I hadn't even queried this manuscript yet, and I didn't want to get my hopes up. It turns out I did get bids, but DON'T FALL DOWN definitely wasn't the most popular entry at the Baker's Dozen prom. Still, the bids? Huge ego boost! With writing, sometimes all we need is someone to say, "Hey, that sounds interesting. I'd read 50 pages." That's what happened to me with Baker's Dozen. It boosted my confidence, and I put all my effort behind querying DON'T FALL DOWN and entering it into more contests.
During a Twitter pitch party, not long after Baker's Dozen, an agent asked to see the manuscript. This same agent already had a full on EX-DRAMA QUEEN. So I sent DON'T FALL DOWN and then nibbled off all my fingernails for about a month. And then it happened -- she made me an offer of representation! After an agonizing two weeks of nudges and rejections and requests, I finally got to accept the offer from agent Julia Weber in February 2013 -- just two months after Baker's Dozen.
Fast forward to September 2013 (past revisions and rejections and an R&R on EX-DRAMA QUEEN) and I got The Best Email Ever from Julia -- we had an offer from an editor on DON'T FALL DOWN! I danced and cried and did just about everything you think you'd do when you get this news. Then the waiting started again -- waiting to hear back from other editors, waiting for negotiations, waiting for the all-clear to announce. On Halloween 2013, I got tell the world that DON'T FALL DOWN would be published by Aladdin/Simon and Schuster in 2015!
The title was changed to BREAKING THE ICE, and yup, the book came out in January of this year! I am an official published author! And things are looking pretty good -- my author friend Jen Malone and I have a co-written book, YOU'RE INVITED, coming out with Aladdin this May, with a sequel due next year. Not too long ago, I got to announce that Aladdin will publish my newest MG, called OUT OF TUNE, in the fall of 2016. And EX-DRAMA QUEEN? Is now a YA called EXIT STAGE LEFT, that'll be out through HarperTeen's Impulse line this summer!
I'm forever thankful to Authoress and the Baker's Dozen contest for giving me the boost I needed to push forward and keep putting myself out there. A little encouragement really goes a long way. Thank you!!!
Gail Nall
When I entered my MG manuscript DON'T FALL DOWN into the Baker's Dozen contest in the fall of 2012, I was just coming off the worst year of my life. I survived a really rare pregnancy-related cancer just a year before, and as a result, promised myself I'd keep trying with this writing thing until something finally stuck. So that year, I finished and revised DON'T FALL DOWN, and I queried the heck out of another MG (called EX-DRAMA QUEEN). I had several queries still out on EX-DRAMA QUEEN when I closed my eyes and pressed send on the contest entry for DON'T FALL DOWN. I didn't think I'd get picked. After all, the agent rejections on EX-DRAMA QUEEN were starting to pile up, and I felt a little dejected. Somehow, by all miracles, I made it into the contest!
The entries went up, and I'd managed to convince myself that no one would bid. I hadn't even queried this manuscript yet, and I didn't want to get my hopes up. It turns out I did get bids, but DON'T FALL DOWN definitely wasn't the most popular entry at the Baker's Dozen prom. Still, the bids? Huge ego boost! With writing, sometimes all we need is someone to say, "Hey, that sounds interesting. I'd read 50 pages." That's what happened to me with Baker's Dozen. It boosted my confidence, and I put all my effort behind querying DON'T FALL DOWN and entering it into more contests.
During a Twitter pitch party, not long after Baker's Dozen, an agent asked to see the manuscript. This same agent already had a full on EX-DRAMA QUEEN. So I sent DON'T FALL DOWN and then nibbled off all my fingernails for about a month. And then it happened -- she made me an offer of representation! After an agonizing two weeks of nudges and rejections and requests, I finally got to accept the offer from agent Julia Weber in February 2013 -- just two months after Baker's Dozen.
Fast forward to September 2013 (past revisions and rejections and an R&R on EX-DRAMA QUEEN) and I got The Best Email Ever from Julia -- we had an offer from an editor on DON'T FALL DOWN! I danced and cried and did just about everything you think you'd do when you get this news. Then the waiting started again -- waiting to hear back from other editors, waiting for negotiations, waiting for the all-clear to announce. On Halloween 2013, I got tell the world that DON'T FALL DOWN would be published by Aladdin/Simon and Schuster in 2015!
The title was changed to BREAKING THE ICE, and yup, the book came out in January of this year! I am an official published author! And things are looking pretty good -- my author friend Jen Malone and I have a co-written book, YOU'RE INVITED, coming out with Aladdin this May, with a sequel due next year. Not too long ago, I got to announce that Aladdin will publish my newest MG, called OUT OF TUNE, in the fall of 2016. And EX-DRAMA QUEEN? Is now a YA called EXIT STAGE LEFT, that'll be out through HarperTeen's Impulse line this summer!
I'm forever thankful to Authoress and the Baker's Dozen contest for giving me the boost I needed to push forward and keep putting myself out there. A little encouragement really goes a long way. Thank you!!!
Gail Nall
Friday, April 17, 2015
Friday Fricassee
Hello, Dear Ones.
I love to sit back and watch the energy flow among you as you give and receive critiques. Thank you for another round of loveliness. Entrants, I hope you're coming away with some solid gems to help you along your writing/revision path for these projects.
Word of advice that I should probably say more often: Let the comments marinate for a while before implementing anything. If you have a printer, print them out and tuck them away for a couple of days. Or swipe them into a document to read later. Responding swiftly to a critique may not yield the results you need.
I've got to tell you that I actually gushed about you during my job interview last Friday. As serendipity would have it, the gal who interviewed me was also a writer. As in, fiction. You can imagine the immediate connection that happened. When I began to explain my revelation about the relationship between "voice" (in novel writing) and copywriting, she nodded her head as I spoke. She's one of us--she gets it.
So she also understood me when I spoke of the writing community and how it's truly one of the best groups of folks I've ever been a part of--not only here, but in so many varied places across the Internet. I probably sound like some sort of bloated Mother Hen when I talk about you, but I can't help it. I'm proud of who you are, and I'm blessed to be among you.
I haven't heard anything this week, interview-wise. That could mean anything or it could mean nothing, but there you have it. I'm thinking it might mean that someone else floated to the top. But this whole process is so outside my daily experience that I really have no idea. (Anyone care to enlighten me?) At any rate, the next (final) step would be an interview with the CEO. Which would make me ten times more nervous than I was last Friday.
One thing I've noticed in my life in the past month or so is that I've been dropping balls. And I am NOT a ball dropper. Seriously forgetting things--like needing to bring something important with me, or remembering a scheduled meeting, or making an appointment. (Well, okay. I majorly procrastinate appointment-making as a general rule, so that one probably doesn't count.)
I'm hating this. I'm hating the feeling that I'm dropping things and leaving holes and presenting myself as scattered. I may be a tad hasty, but I'm not scattered. Not generally. Mr. A says it's because I have a lot on my mind. Well, other than the job thing, I'm not sure what "a lot" means.
There is my birthday a week from today, which is one of the ends-in-zero birthdays that makes you reevaluate your whole stinkin' life. So there's that. It's the birthday-I-hoped-to-be-published-before. And I'm not. So I've had to deal with that.
Probably I just need a lot more chocolate. Yeah, that must be it!
But it's all good. I've decided to celebrate my birthday for the entire weekend, which is a bit out of character for me, too. Life is such a gift, though, so I've decided to stay in my thankful place and simply rejoice that I'm here. That I live and breathe and have something to offer, no matter how small.
Also? Last night I hadmany several slices of a CARAMEL APPLE DIPPED IN WHITE CHOCOLATE. Oh. My. Stars. I'm not ashamed to admit that I licked every morsel of chocolate from the plate, once the slices were gone. Yes, I really did do that. Why waste perfectly good white chocolate?
Happy writing, happy weekend, and hugs to you all!
I love to sit back and watch the energy flow among you as you give and receive critiques. Thank you for another round of loveliness. Entrants, I hope you're coming away with some solid gems to help you along your writing/revision path for these projects.
Word of advice that I should probably say more often: Let the comments marinate for a while before implementing anything. If you have a printer, print them out and tuck them away for a couple of days. Or swipe them into a document to read later. Responding swiftly to a critique may not yield the results you need.
I've got to tell you that I actually gushed about you during my job interview last Friday. As serendipity would have it, the gal who interviewed me was also a writer. As in, fiction. You can imagine the immediate connection that happened. When I began to explain my revelation about the relationship between "voice" (in novel writing) and copywriting, she nodded her head as I spoke. She's one of us--she gets it.
So she also understood me when I spoke of the writing community and how it's truly one of the best groups of folks I've ever been a part of--not only here, but in so many varied places across the Internet. I probably sound like some sort of bloated Mother Hen when I talk about you, but I can't help it. I'm proud of who you are, and I'm blessed to be among you.
I haven't heard anything this week, interview-wise. That could mean anything or it could mean nothing, but there you have it. I'm thinking it might mean that someone else floated to the top. But this whole process is so outside my daily experience that I really have no idea. (Anyone care to enlighten me?) At any rate, the next (final) step would be an interview with the CEO. Which would make me ten times more nervous than I was last Friday.
One thing I've noticed in my life in the past month or so is that I've been dropping balls. And I am NOT a ball dropper. Seriously forgetting things--like needing to bring something important with me, or remembering a scheduled meeting, or making an appointment. (Well, okay. I majorly procrastinate appointment-making as a general rule, so that one probably doesn't count.)
I'm hating this. I'm hating the feeling that I'm dropping things and leaving holes and presenting myself as scattered. I may be a tad hasty, but I'm not scattered. Not generally. Mr. A says it's because I have a lot on my mind. Well, other than the job thing, I'm not sure what "a lot" means.
There is my birthday a week from today, which is one of the ends-in-zero birthdays that makes you reevaluate your whole stinkin' life. So there's that. It's the birthday-I-hoped-to-be-published-before. And I'm not. So I've had to deal with that.
Probably I just need a lot more chocolate. Yeah, that must be it!
But it's all good. I've decided to celebrate my birthday for the entire weekend, which is a bit out of character for me, too. Life is such a gift, though, so I've decided to stay in my thankful place and simply rejoice that I'm here. That I live and breathe and have something to offer, no matter how small.
Also? Last night I had
Happy writing, happy weekend, and hugs to you all!
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Name That Genre: Critique the Winners!
Here are the 300-word excerpts! Choose one or two that catch your eye, and offer your critique. Or grab a cuppa and critique them all! Whatever you have time for will be greatly appreciated.
Also? I'm offering another critique prize! Every critique you leave gets you one entry in another drawing for a 5-page line edit from Authoress Edits. 11 critiques = 11 chances to win.
Enjoy!
Also? I'm offering another critique prize! Every critique you leave gets you one entry in another drawing for a 5-page line edit from Authoress Edits. 11 critiques = 11 chances to win.
Enjoy!
Name That Genre: Critique Round #11
TITLE: Children of a Broken God
GENRE: YA Fantasy
The wood of the door fails to mute Jilana’s wrath. “Fragments, Mazani, why!”
After each yell comes a strained silence.
“That’s months of someone’s work you’ve ruined!”
I would not be brave enough to defy Master Jilana. But Mazani is. After each refusal to speak her mother roars louder. The weavers around me stare at their looms, hands frozen in mid-knot. My mother’s eyes dart between the door and me.
It was Mazani’s idea to lead us into battle. Her game, Jilana’s other prentices versus the novices next door.
“Why!”
Mazani’s victims retaliate, of course: knives mysteriously blunted. Dragon dung on the yarn. If a journeymen sits on a thorn meant for us, we take the blame to hide what we did to them.
But this is different. Mazani would never have tipped a loom.
“We have to pay for that!”
In the silence that follows I am reminded far too much of another day and another door. I had been the one inside. Mazani had pounded her knuckles bloody, screamed her voice rough, until the shopkeeper was forced to throw the bolt open, forced to accept Mazani’s apology, there, in front of witnesses.
Mazani had admitted to her mother beneath the shopkeeper’s glare that she had broken into his shop, she had led us in trespassing in our game of sleeve-the-apostate. I had been barefoot; I had stepped on the glass she had broke -- that’s why I’d been caught.
I could pound this door now -- let them know it was my fault.
I could do that.
But.
But -- it was an accident, the ruined rug.
But -- Mazani asked us to do these things.
But -- her mother won’t beat her. Not badly. Not like what the shopkeeper did to me.
I reach for a ball of yarn. Shame knots my stomach; the door stays closed.
GENRE: YA Fantasy
The wood of the door fails to mute Jilana’s wrath. “Fragments, Mazani, why!”
After each yell comes a strained silence.
“That’s months of someone’s work you’ve ruined!”
I would not be brave enough to defy Master Jilana. But Mazani is. After each refusal to speak her mother roars louder. The weavers around me stare at their looms, hands frozen in mid-knot. My mother’s eyes dart between the door and me.
It was Mazani’s idea to lead us into battle. Her game, Jilana’s other prentices versus the novices next door.
“Why!”
Mazani’s victims retaliate, of course: knives mysteriously blunted. Dragon dung on the yarn. If a journeymen sits on a thorn meant for us, we take the blame to hide what we did to them.
But this is different. Mazani would never have tipped a loom.
“We have to pay for that!”
In the silence that follows I am reminded far too much of another day and another door. I had been the one inside. Mazani had pounded her knuckles bloody, screamed her voice rough, until the shopkeeper was forced to throw the bolt open, forced to accept Mazani’s apology, there, in front of witnesses.
Mazani had admitted to her mother beneath the shopkeeper’s glare that she had broken into his shop, she had led us in trespassing in our game of sleeve-the-apostate. I had been barefoot; I had stepped on the glass she had broke -- that’s why I’d been caught.
I could pound this door now -- let them know it was my fault.
I could do that.
But.
But -- it was an accident, the ruined rug.
But -- Mazani asked us to do these things.
But -- her mother won’t beat her. Not badly. Not like what the shopkeeper did to me.
I reach for a ball of yarn. Shame knots my stomach; the door stays closed.
Name That Genre: Critique Round #10
TITLE: Fio
GENRE: Sci Fi
“There’s a funny thing about space,” Laura said, staring lazily over her red boots into the black, “and that’s that it’s big and black, until it’s not big and black, and then it kills you,”
“I’d argue, for those of us without metre thick steel hulls, that the big and black is more likely to be deadly than the… not big and black,” Fio replied, frowning across at her Captain. “I’d also argue that it’s not really that necessary to have so many others onboard. I mean, really, I thought this was going to be just you and me,”
Laura notched her glasses down, archaic things of plastic and glass that didn’t serve much purpose beyond ‘looking cool’ (though they served that purpose well) and raised an eyebrow at the Limb. “You thought that I, a starship Captain, would be carrying out this mission with naught but my ship at my side?”
Fio’s frown deepened and she looked down at her body, olive skin shining silvery in the dim light. “You know I have more than enough Limbs to accomplish the task,”
“I know, and they’re biomechanical wonders. But, to be honest, a Captain’s got to have people around to answer when she calls, and hearing your voice from every one would just get disconcerting,”
“I… I understand,” Fio replied, standing with a respectful nod and leaving the observation room. Laura watched the Limb go and saw another just like her walk by before turning back to the stars, knowing the ship was still watching.
“It’s not meant as an insult, you know,” Laura said, lifting a bottle to her lips and drinking deep.
“I know, Captain. I just… you know,” Fio’s voice filled the room from nowhere in particular, more artificial than when it had come come from her Limb.
GENRE: Sci Fi
“There’s a funny thing about space,” Laura said, staring lazily over her red boots into the black, “and that’s that it’s big and black, until it’s not big and black, and then it kills you,”
“I’d argue, for those of us without metre thick steel hulls, that the big and black is more likely to be deadly than the… not big and black,” Fio replied, frowning across at her Captain. “I’d also argue that it’s not really that necessary to have so many others onboard. I mean, really, I thought this was going to be just you and me,”
Laura notched her glasses down, archaic things of plastic and glass that didn’t serve much purpose beyond ‘looking cool’ (though they served that purpose well) and raised an eyebrow at the Limb. “You thought that I, a starship Captain, would be carrying out this mission with naught but my ship at my side?”
Fio’s frown deepened and she looked down at her body, olive skin shining silvery in the dim light. “You know I have more than enough Limbs to accomplish the task,”
“I know, and they’re biomechanical wonders. But, to be honest, a Captain’s got to have people around to answer when she calls, and hearing your voice from every one would just get disconcerting,”
“I… I understand,” Fio replied, standing with a respectful nod and leaving the observation room. Laura watched the Limb go and saw another just like her walk by before turning back to the stars, knowing the ship was still watching.
“It’s not meant as an insult, you know,” Laura said, lifting a bottle to her lips and drinking deep.
“I know, Captain. I just… you know,” Fio’s voice filled the room from nowhere in particular, more artificial than when it had come come from her Limb.
Name That Genre: Critique Round #9
TITLE: Friendzone
GENRE: YA Contemporary Romance
I was walking Cassidy Freeman home from the Fall dance. Cassidy freakin’ Freeman. I, Seth Waters, walking Cassidy Freeman home. Me, weird unsociable art freak, walking next to the most popular girl in school and she actually knew I was there! Dude, way to make yourself sound weirdly pathetic.
It’s not a big deal, I reminded myself. Which was true as Cassidy was crying because her (ex)boyfriend was at the dance with her (ex)best friend, which put a damper on my good mood. It was barely seven o’clock so the sun was still out and it wasn’t very romantic, not to mention I was holding her heels, because she kept tripping in them, and not her hand. But still. Cassidy freakin’ Freeman.
“You’re such a nice guy,” Cassidy said, in her slightly choked voice as she attempted to wipe tears from her cheeks. “What’s your name again?”
I felt myself slump over a bit in defeat because she still didn’t know my name. We’d been in the same class since third grade, our lockers had been next to each other since freshmen year, we’d talked nearly every day and she didn’t even know my name.
“Seth.” I forced myself to keep the disappointment from showing in my voice or on my face, as I grinned a tight grin, feeling shorter suddenly. That’s the power of beautiful girls, my mom would tell me, they can make you feel like the greatest hero who ever lived or less than two feet tall. Sometimes both at the same time, she’d add.
“Right. You’re so nice and just the best friend a girl could ask for.” She continued as we walked down the sidewalk, her leading while I followed along behind her like the love sick puppy I was.
GENRE: YA Contemporary Romance
I was walking Cassidy Freeman home from the Fall dance. Cassidy freakin’ Freeman. I, Seth Waters, walking Cassidy Freeman home. Me, weird unsociable art freak, walking next to the most popular girl in school and she actually knew I was there! Dude, way to make yourself sound weirdly pathetic.
It’s not a big deal, I reminded myself. Which was true as Cassidy was crying because her (ex)boyfriend was at the dance with her (ex)best friend, which put a damper on my good mood. It was barely seven o’clock so the sun was still out and it wasn’t very romantic, not to mention I was holding her heels, because she kept tripping in them, and not her hand. But still. Cassidy freakin’ Freeman.
“You’re such a nice guy,” Cassidy said, in her slightly choked voice as she attempted to wipe tears from her cheeks. “What’s your name again?”
I felt myself slump over a bit in defeat because she still didn’t know my name. We’d been in the same class since third grade, our lockers had been next to each other since freshmen year, we’d talked nearly every day and she didn’t even know my name.
“Seth.” I forced myself to keep the disappointment from showing in my voice or on my face, as I grinned a tight grin, feeling shorter suddenly. That’s the power of beautiful girls, my mom would tell me, they can make you feel like the greatest hero who ever lived or less than two feet tall. Sometimes both at the same time, she’d add.
“Right. You’re so nice and just the best friend a girl could ask for.” She continued as we walked down the sidewalk, her leading while I followed along behind her like the love sick puppy I was.
Name That Genre: Critique Round #8
TITLE: SKELETON KEY
GENRE: Mystery/Thriller
Foley stared at the name painted on the shop window: Manley and Munion Lock and Key. God, how she wished she could scrape off Allison Manley's name. But the way business was going, the point could be moot by the end of the month. Allison had made a mess of Foley's life, but her death still brought in some lookie-loos who turned into customers.
Inside, the small lobby felt colder than the parking lot. Foley shivered and nudged up the thermostat. Metal shavings from the key grinder dotted the floor. Sweeping the place could wait. She lifted the walk-through section of the counter and entered the workshop.
Something felt wrong.
Her work area looked fine, the bins of wire and alarm system components sat undisturbed. Nothing was out of place. She hurried to the safe, crouched and spun the dial. The lock clicked. She yanked the handle and pawed through the contents. Most important, her cash still lay bundled inside. Foley settled back on her heels, staring into the dark interior.
Money untouched. Schematics secure. She leaned forward to sniff the locking mechanism. No tell-tale odor of oil or graphite. So why the heebie-jeebies? Foley stood and took a slow turn. Everything looked normal. But something was off. What? She closed her eyes and breathed deep.
Oh no. That smell. Soft, but with a slight edge. Partagas. Her dad's favorite cigar. He smoked other brands, but when flush, Partagas -- at forty bucks a pop -- was what he bought, smoked and stored in his humidor. Whey did she smell it now? Her eyes opened and her heart started racing.
No, no, no.
He stepped out of the storeroom, unlit cigar in hand. "Thought you might be that kid who works for you."
"Dad." Foley's hand flew to her chest while she did parole math.
GENRE: Mystery/Thriller
Foley stared at the name painted on the shop window: Manley and Munion Lock and Key. God, how she wished she could scrape off Allison Manley's name. But the way business was going, the point could be moot by the end of the month. Allison had made a mess of Foley's life, but her death still brought in some lookie-loos who turned into customers.
Inside, the small lobby felt colder than the parking lot. Foley shivered and nudged up the thermostat. Metal shavings from the key grinder dotted the floor. Sweeping the place could wait. She lifted the walk-through section of the counter and entered the workshop.
Something felt wrong.
Her work area looked fine, the bins of wire and alarm system components sat undisturbed. Nothing was out of place. She hurried to the safe, crouched and spun the dial. The lock clicked. She yanked the handle and pawed through the contents. Most important, her cash still lay bundled inside. Foley settled back on her heels, staring into the dark interior.
Money untouched. Schematics secure. She leaned forward to sniff the locking mechanism. No tell-tale odor of oil or graphite. So why the heebie-jeebies? Foley stood and took a slow turn. Everything looked normal. But something was off. What? She closed her eyes and breathed deep.
Oh no. That smell. Soft, but with a slight edge. Partagas. Her dad's favorite cigar. He smoked other brands, but when flush, Partagas -- at forty bucks a pop -- was what he bought, smoked and stored in his humidor. Whey did she smell it now? Her eyes opened and her heart started racing.
No, no, no.
He stepped out of the storeroom, unlit cigar in hand. "Thought you might be that kid who works for you."
"Dad." Foley's hand flew to her chest while she did parole math.
Name That Genre: Critique Round #7
TITLE: THE HEARTSEASE DETECTIVE AGENCY
GENRE: Adult fantasy/noir
Late as usual, Ree flew past the patrol without them seeing her. Satisfied she didn’t get caught, she yanked open the back door to the club and ventured inside. She made her way through the jumbled mess of old club furniture, down the hall to her dressing room. The dim lighting made the lumps into an obstacle course but she circumvented them with ease. It was hard to stretch out her wings amid the boxes so she sprinted instead. The closer she got to her dressing room, the louder the music got.
The steady boom-boom of the music reverberated in Ree’s brain. God, she was tired. Too many late nights caught up to her. She needed to make an effort to get to bed right after her set. Alone. She grinned at her reflection as she peeled off her jacket, top and tee, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Her boots came off next. The sequined red dress draped over the chair mocked her and she stuck her tongue out at it. Childish but satisfying. Standing, she pulled it on, careful of her wings, then put on the red wig hanging on the back of the wooden chair missing one of its rungs. The least Joss could do was to get her some decent furniture. I’m the reason this ratty club stays open. She wrinkled her nose as the odor of mildew that permeated the walls from a leaky pipe last winter wafted over to her. She hopped on one foot then the other as she slipped on the four-inch shoes that made her close to six feet.
A knock at the door startled her. The door opened before she could say anything.
“Two minutes, Ree.”
“Stop coming in without knocking,” she said. “What if I’d been naked?”
GENRE: Adult fantasy/noir
Late as usual, Ree flew past the patrol without them seeing her. Satisfied she didn’t get caught, she yanked open the back door to the club and ventured inside. She made her way through the jumbled mess of old club furniture, down the hall to her dressing room. The dim lighting made the lumps into an obstacle course but she circumvented them with ease. It was hard to stretch out her wings amid the boxes so she sprinted instead. The closer she got to her dressing room, the louder the music got.
The steady boom-boom of the music reverberated in Ree’s brain. God, she was tired. Too many late nights caught up to her. She needed to make an effort to get to bed right after her set. Alone. She grinned at her reflection as she peeled off her jacket, top and tee, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Her boots came off next. The sequined red dress draped over the chair mocked her and she stuck her tongue out at it. Childish but satisfying. Standing, she pulled it on, careful of her wings, then put on the red wig hanging on the back of the wooden chair missing one of its rungs. The least Joss could do was to get her some decent furniture. I’m the reason this ratty club stays open. She wrinkled her nose as the odor of mildew that permeated the walls from a leaky pipe last winter wafted over to her. She hopped on one foot then the other as she slipped on the four-inch shoes that made her close to six feet.
A knock at the door startled her. The door opened before she could say anything.
“Two minutes, Ree.”
“Stop coming in without knocking,” she said. “What if I’d been naked?”
Name That Genre: Critique Round #6
TITLE: Live Free or Die Trying
GENRE: Science Fiction
There was no life support, gravity, or light. Even so, Captain Mark was not convinced this derelict ship they had boarded was truly dead. He reminded himself of The Three Bears and Goldilocks. In this situation he would be-- a little blond girl looking for some porridge? Not even, but casting the owners of this ship as the mythical hairy mammal with big teeth and a grumpy personality--that fit well. Also the door to the Bear's house had opened way too easily, just as the air locks on this ship gave way without effort. Didn't these people believe in locks? Wendy had simply applied suction to expose a small fissure at the door seal. While she held a pry bar at the ready to finish the job she didn't use it. The hatch popped its top like a ripe can of soda, laying out the welcome mat. Mark ducked as it flew past.
“That was lucky,” Wendy had said.
Lucky? Trouble with the Goldie comparison--Mark knew how that story ended.
“Something is wrong,” he said into his microphone. “Everything looks . . . staged.” He was dressed in full combat armor completely sealed against the cold void of space, and he carried a laser assault rifle of the old style, outdated but still rebel cool. He floated through the dark corridor, breathed through a tube attached to a tank, and cast a beam of light from his helmet to reflect off the alloy walls. The ship was quiet and cavernous, scary at best. Maybe Mark was simply having a case of nerves, but that was ridiculous. If he felt something, it was real. Right now he felt everything was just a little too perfect to be true-- like if some video producer had said let’s make a dead ship, this would be the theme park version.
GENRE: Science Fiction
There was no life support, gravity, or light. Even so, Captain Mark was not convinced this derelict ship they had boarded was truly dead. He reminded himself of The Three Bears and Goldilocks. In this situation he would be-- a little blond girl looking for some porridge? Not even, but casting the owners of this ship as the mythical hairy mammal with big teeth and a grumpy personality--that fit well. Also the door to the Bear's house had opened way too easily, just as the air locks on this ship gave way without effort. Didn't these people believe in locks? Wendy had simply applied suction to expose a small fissure at the door seal. While she held a pry bar at the ready to finish the job she didn't use it. The hatch popped its top like a ripe can of soda, laying out the welcome mat. Mark ducked as it flew past.
“That was lucky,” Wendy had said.
Lucky? Trouble with the Goldie comparison--Mark knew how that story ended.
“Something is wrong,” he said into his microphone. “Everything looks . . . staged.” He was dressed in full combat armor completely sealed against the cold void of space, and he carried a laser assault rifle of the old style, outdated but still rebel cool. He floated through the dark corridor, breathed through a tube attached to a tank, and cast a beam of light from his helmet to reflect off the alloy walls. The ship was quiet and cavernous, scary at best. Maybe Mark was simply having a case of nerves, but that was ridiculous. If he felt something, it was real. Right now he felt everything was just a little too perfect to be true-- like if some video producer had said let’s make a dead ship, this would be the theme park version.
Name That Genre: Critique Round #5
TITLE: The Ouija Thrower
GENRE: YA Paranormal Fantasy
At Misdemeanors Academy for Paranormals (MAP), or suck-it club for rich and spoiled brats, they called me Janna the psychic klutz . That's because the first time they asked me to control a Ouija, I blew a few someones across the room. Too bad MAP Academy didn’t have cheap furniture and modern decorations.
Gee, one week into the program, and I already owed them big, like millions in damage. So, when I was summoned to the library this morning to be handed the keys and put in charge of inventory, I thought someone had loosened the brains’ screws of the two men standing in front of me and sent the bolts away. Because that also made me responsible for the Ouija boards and for my parents’ future double mortgage. At sixteen, it was no way to start.
“You’re the girl,” said the superintendent, his eyes gleaming with malice, while the director shimmied his large frame through the door of the archaic library.
I tried to dial my parents’ number to warn them behind the superintendent’s back, but the snoopy little rogue cast a spell on it and it rang the dean’s office in Stanford, which was near, but not affiliated with MAP.
The superintendent slid his index fingers in his jeans pockets as if holstering his guns, and winked. Yes, winked!
I gulped. “You can’t put me in charge,” I said.
“Why not,” he asked, creasing his eyes, his spaghetti frame leaning backward.
“Unless... er… I’m being paid.”
His ogling dime-size eyes scrutinized me. “Why would you think we’re employing you? This isn’t Club Med.”
He pushed me toward the door and I stopped in the doorway. “I’m already up to my collar bone in debts. I mean, I sent students to the hospital, reduced walls to cinder, and made confetti out of antique vases.”
GENRE: YA Paranormal Fantasy
At Misdemeanors Academy for Paranormals (MAP), or suck-it club for rich and spoiled brats, they called me Janna the psychic klutz . That's because the first time they asked me to control a Ouija, I blew a few someones across the room. Too bad MAP Academy didn’t have cheap furniture and modern decorations.
Gee, one week into the program, and I already owed them big, like millions in damage. So, when I was summoned to the library this morning to be handed the keys and put in charge of inventory, I thought someone had loosened the brains’ screws of the two men standing in front of me and sent the bolts away. Because that also made me responsible for the Ouija boards and for my parents’ future double mortgage. At sixteen, it was no way to start.
“You’re the girl,” said the superintendent, his eyes gleaming with malice, while the director shimmied his large frame through the door of the archaic library.
I tried to dial my parents’ number to warn them behind the superintendent’s back, but the snoopy little rogue cast a spell on it and it rang the dean’s office in Stanford, which was near, but not affiliated with MAP.
The superintendent slid his index fingers in his jeans pockets as if holstering his guns, and winked. Yes, winked!
I gulped. “You can’t put me in charge,” I said.
“Why not,” he asked, creasing his eyes, his spaghetti frame leaning backward.
“Unless... er… I’m being paid.”
His ogling dime-size eyes scrutinized me. “Why would you think we’re employing you? This isn’t Club Med.”
He pushed me toward the door and I stopped in the doorway. “I’m already up to my collar bone in debts. I mean, I sent students to the hospital, reduced walls to cinder, and made confetti out of antique vases.”
Name That Genre: Critique Round #4
TITLE: A Flick of the Switch
GENRE: Women's commercial fiction
I have to stand by while a baby dies.
It’s lunchtime and the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit is buzzing with activity. If I grab a bite in the cafeteria, some overly friendly staffer is sure to try to talk to me, the newcomer. Not like I could eat today anyway. I duck into the bathroom instead.
Thick shoes clop on linoleum outside the door.
The door opens. I slide into a stall and sit. There's not enough time to lift my feet before someone recognizes my cheap brown loafers.
“Emily, is that you?”
It's Rosy, my only friend here at the hospital. We worked together at Memorial Hospital across town for years.
“Yeah, it’s me.” I curse the fact that I wear the same ugly shoes every day.
“I've been looking for you," she says. “Did you see all the protesters out front?”
“Yeah. Took fifteen minutes to find a parking spot.”
I flush the clean toilet. I can’t hide forever.
Rosy follows me to the sink. “Honey, you look greener than your scrubs.” She touches the side of my cheek. “And these bags—you’re still not sleeping. Makeup?”
“In my locker.” I avoid meeting her eyes.
Rosy rifles through her purse and hands me some powder, which I dab around the darkened corners of my eyes. She touches my shoulder. “You know, you don't have to be in with Baby M. I can go instead.”
“No. I’ve cared for him every day he’s been alive, with barely a visit from his so-called mother.”
GENRE: Women's commercial fiction
I have to stand by while a baby dies.
It’s lunchtime and the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit is buzzing with activity. If I grab a bite in the cafeteria, some overly friendly staffer is sure to try to talk to me, the newcomer. Not like I could eat today anyway. I duck into the bathroom instead.
Thick shoes clop on linoleum outside the door.
The door opens. I slide into a stall and sit. There's not enough time to lift my feet before someone recognizes my cheap brown loafers.
“Emily, is that you?”
It's Rosy, my only friend here at the hospital. We worked together at Memorial Hospital across town for years.
“Yeah, it’s me.” I curse the fact that I wear the same ugly shoes every day.
“I've been looking for you," she says. “Did you see all the protesters out front?”
“Yeah. Took fifteen minutes to find a parking spot.”
I flush the clean toilet. I can’t hide forever.
Rosy follows me to the sink. “Honey, you look greener than your scrubs.” She touches the side of my cheek. “And these bags—you’re still not sleeping. Makeup?”
“In my locker.” I avoid meeting her eyes.
Rosy rifles through her purse and hands me some powder, which I dab around the darkened corners of my eyes. She touches my shoulder. “You know, you don't have to be in with Baby M. I can go instead.”
“No. I’ve cared for him every day he’s been alive, with barely a visit from his so-called mother.”
Name That Genre: Critique Round #3
TITLE: Impossible Quests
GENRE: Young Adult Fantasy
Many things come to mind at the mention of a princess in a faraway kingdom, riches beyond one’s imagination, high towers to sit and watch over the kingdom, and handmaidens to cater to every whim. Princess Rosalinda knows of none of these. She is the sole heir to the throne of Axington, the poorest kingdom in all the land. The highest tower is a mere two stories tall, and her handmaiden acts as chef, stable girl, and herald leaving little time to tend to the princess.
What Princess Rosalinda has that the other kingdoms does not is stunning good looks, long, flowing auburn hair, the color of the midday sun, milky white skin, and a bosom the size of two newborn babies’ heads, which is the envy of every princess within a thousand miles. She also has every prince from the neighboring five kingdoms sniffing around as a mangy mutt sniffs the refuse bins.
Princess Rosalinda brushes her lush hair while sitting in the tower watching over the royal livestock, a malnourished cow, two goats, and a chicken that would be supper if not for her superior egg laying abilities.
“Let me get that.” Maria, the handmaiden, rushes into the room taking the brush out of the princess’ hand. She strokes the brush through the hair.
“You reek of the stables.” Princess Rosalinda scrunches up her nose.
“Sorry milady. I recently returned from the stables where I prepared the royal steed,” Maria says.
“I would rather stick bamboo shoots under my fingernails until each one pops off my fingertips one at a time, then ride that slow horse.” The royal steed is not slow in terms of speed, he can keep up with fastest horses in the kingdom, however mentally, he is challenged.
GENRE: Young Adult Fantasy
Many things come to mind at the mention of a princess in a faraway kingdom, riches beyond one’s imagination, high towers to sit and watch over the kingdom, and handmaidens to cater to every whim. Princess Rosalinda knows of none of these. She is the sole heir to the throne of Axington, the poorest kingdom in all the land. The highest tower is a mere two stories tall, and her handmaiden acts as chef, stable girl, and herald leaving little time to tend to the princess.
What Princess Rosalinda has that the other kingdoms does not is stunning good looks, long, flowing auburn hair, the color of the midday sun, milky white skin, and a bosom the size of two newborn babies’ heads, which is the envy of every princess within a thousand miles. She also has every prince from the neighboring five kingdoms sniffing around as a mangy mutt sniffs the refuse bins.
Princess Rosalinda brushes her lush hair while sitting in the tower watching over the royal livestock, a malnourished cow, two goats, and a chicken that would be supper if not for her superior egg laying abilities.
“Let me get that.” Maria, the handmaiden, rushes into the room taking the brush out of the princess’ hand. She strokes the brush through the hair.
“You reek of the stables.” Princess Rosalinda scrunches up her nose.
“Sorry milady. I recently returned from the stables where I prepared the royal steed,” Maria says.
“I would rather stick bamboo shoots under my fingernails until each one pops off my fingertips one at a time, then ride that slow horse.” The royal steed is not slow in terms of speed, he can keep up with fastest horses in the kingdom, however mentally, he is challenged.
Name That Genre: Critique Round #2
TITLE: The Mountain and the Fountain
GENRE: MG Fantasy
The Shanofen’s wings rose and fell in rhythm with a song playing in his head. Higher and higher he flew. Turning, he plunged back toward the Great Pond, far below. The warm summer air rushed by the bird’s body, pressing his colorful feathers toward the sky while he clutched his wings to his sides. Just as his beak was about to plunge into the waters of the Great Pond, the Shanofen spread his wings to soar up and out over the land. Below him, in the hamlet of Halliwell, villagers and visitors opened shop doors, arranged garlands of flowers and ribbons, and raised tents which would be filled with delightful things. The festive celebration was about to begin. Halliwell’s Fountain gushed with great enthusiasm at one end of the town Square. The Shanofen’s heart smiled, for he loved the village. He turned his gaze to the mountains, the fertile valleys and the thick, lush forests of Wiland as they caught the golden morning sun. The bird joined other Shanofens and birds of many sorts who flew in circles around the Mountain, being careful not to fly through the Light rising from the Mountain’s peak. Riding the breeze back toward the village, he drifted down to the cottages there, landing in one of his favorite windows.
“Wake up! Wake up! It’s Float Day!” sang the Shanofen, bobbing his bright green head. Josephine opened her sleepy eyes, pick up a small book and from her nightstand and threw it at the bird, barely missing it. The Shanofen laughed and flew away.
“Dumb bird,” Josephine grumbled as she rolled to press her face into the soft center of her pillow. Her eyes fluttered open. It was Float Day. There were only two Float Days each year, one at the first of summer and another at the end.
GENRE: MG Fantasy
The Shanofen’s wings rose and fell in rhythm with a song playing in his head. Higher and higher he flew. Turning, he plunged back toward the Great Pond, far below. The warm summer air rushed by the bird’s body, pressing his colorful feathers toward the sky while he clutched his wings to his sides. Just as his beak was about to plunge into the waters of the Great Pond, the Shanofen spread his wings to soar up and out over the land. Below him, in the hamlet of Halliwell, villagers and visitors opened shop doors, arranged garlands of flowers and ribbons, and raised tents which would be filled with delightful things. The festive celebration was about to begin. Halliwell’s Fountain gushed with great enthusiasm at one end of the town Square. The Shanofen’s heart smiled, for he loved the village. He turned his gaze to the mountains, the fertile valleys and the thick, lush forests of Wiland as they caught the golden morning sun. The bird joined other Shanofens and birds of many sorts who flew in circles around the Mountain, being careful not to fly through the Light rising from the Mountain’s peak. Riding the breeze back toward the village, he drifted down to the cottages there, landing in one of his favorite windows.
“Wake up! Wake up! It’s Float Day!” sang the Shanofen, bobbing his bright green head. Josephine opened her sleepy eyes, pick up a small book and from her nightstand and threw it at the bird, barely missing it. The Shanofen laughed and flew away.
“Dumb bird,” Josephine grumbled as she rolled to press her face into the soft center of her pillow. Her eyes fluttered open. It was Float Day. There were only two Float Days each year, one at the first of summer and another at the end.
Name That Genre: Critique Round #1
TITLE: Starling's Flight
GENRE: NA Contemporary
Starling twisted the pegs on the neck of her mandolin wondering how she should break her father’s heart. She’d never broken his heart before. Sure, he hadn’t liked all her boyfriends and he’d yelled at her few times about her grades but this was different. This was what he lived for and she was turning away from it.
“Check, check one, two,” her father adjusted his microphone as he spoke. His hair was thinner now, Starling thought but he’d worn the shirt she’d bought him last Christmas. It made him look slimmer. It also made her feel guiltier. Starling twisted another peg as her mom started tuning her fiddle. Her mom was probably the best musician of all of them, but it was her dad’s passion that kept them going.
“You almost ready?” the guy who ran the festival asked. He was a pot-bellied man in a cheap white shirt and expensive cowboy boots. His name was Jim, or James or something. Starling couldn’t quite remember even though she’d known him for years.
“Almost,” Starling’s mom replied. Her dad gave the sound man a thumbs up and looked at Starling. She nodded at him feeling guiltier than ever.
“Okay, you got about three minutes.” The emcee smiled and stepped off the little stage. It was really just a glorified trailer with a small plastic wall behind them. They’d played in a lot worse places though. Starling strummed her mandolin into the microphone in front of her. The sound man adjusted the levels until she nodded at him. She was ready to go. Her gaze wondered lazily over the crowd as her little brother took his turn at the microphone.
The crowd was small but it was early. They were the first band of the day as usual.
GENRE: NA Contemporary
Starling twisted the pegs on the neck of her mandolin wondering how she should break her father’s heart. She’d never broken his heart before. Sure, he hadn’t liked all her boyfriends and he’d yelled at her few times about her grades but this was different. This was what he lived for and she was turning away from it.
“Check, check one, two,” her father adjusted his microphone as he spoke. His hair was thinner now, Starling thought but he’d worn the shirt she’d bought him last Christmas. It made him look slimmer. It also made her feel guiltier. Starling twisted another peg as her mom started tuning her fiddle. Her mom was probably the best musician of all of them, but it was her dad’s passion that kept them going.
“You almost ready?” the guy who ran the festival asked. He was a pot-bellied man in a cheap white shirt and expensive cowboy boots. His name was Jim, or James or something. Starling couldn’t quite remember even though she’d known him for years.
“Almost,” Starling’s mom replied. Her dad gave the sound man a thumbs up and looked at Starling. She nodded at him feeling guiltier than ever.
“Okay, you got about three minutes.” The emcee smiled and stepped off the little stage. It was really just a glorified trailer with a small plastic wall behind them. They’d played in a lot worse places though. Starling strummed her mandolin into the microphone in front of her. The sound man adjusted the levels until she nodded at him. She was ready to go. Her gaze wondered lazily over the crowd as her little brother took his turn at the microphone.
The crowd was small but it was early. They were the first band of the day as usual.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Winner of the 5-page Critique
Congratulations to PEGGY ROTHSCHILD!
Peggy, please email me at authoress.edits(at)gmail.com. Please put "drawing winner" in your subject line. We'll take it from there.
Thank you to EVERYBODY who took the time to comment on our NAME THAT GENRE first round!
Peggy, please email me at authoress.edits(at)gmail.com. Please put "drawing winner" in your subject line. We'll take it from there.
Thank you to EVERYBODY who took the time to comment on our NAME THAT GENRE first round!
NAME THAT GENRE: Winners!
So I've tallied the votes, and here are the 11 entries (because the last 5 had 25 votes each, so I had to include them all) with the most correct guesses:
#2 Mystery/Thriller
#3 NA Contemporary
#17 YA SF
#18 YA Paranormal Fantasy
#19 MG Fantasy
#27 YA Fantasy
#30 YA Contemporary Romance
#31 SF
#32 YA Fantasy
#37 SF
#40 Fantasy/Noir
CONGRATULATIONS, AUTHORS! Please email me your first 300 words by 8:00 PM EDT on Tuesday, April 14. (If I don't receive your entry in time, it won't be included.) Please use the WEB FORM.
Note to all: Tallying the votes was kind of messy. Some of you did not honor my request to put your vote FIRST and your reasons second. This was to make it easier for me to scroll down and read the guesses quickly. The second problem was that Blogger decided to spit out double comments--a lot. That is NOT your fault. And, thirdly, sometimes the genres were sort of in a gray area, and I had to decide which guesses were okay.
At any rate, my decisions are final. I did my best. I promise!
The 11 winning entries will post on Wednesday.
#2 Mystery/Thriller
#3 NA Contemporary
#17 YA SF
#18 YA Paranormal Fantasy
#19 MG Fantasy
#27 YA Fantasy
#30 YA Contemporary Romance
#31 SF
#32 YA Fantasy
#37 SF
#40 Fantasy/Noir
CONGRATULATIONS, AUTHORS! Please email me your first 300 words by 8:00 PM EDT on Tuesday, April 14. (If I don't receive your entry in time, it won't be included.) Please use the WEB FORM.
Note to all: Tallying the votes was kind of messy. Some of you did not honor my request to put your vote FIRST and your reasons second. This was to make it easier for me to scroll down and read the guesses quickly. The second problem was that Blogger decided to spit out double comments--a lot. That is NOT your fault. And, thirdly, sometimes the genres were sort of in a gray area, and I had to decide which guesses were okay.
At any rate, my decisions are final. I did my best. I promise!
The 11 winning entries will post on Wednesday.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Friday Fricassee
Two quick things (incredibly busy day today)!
1. YAY! The response to NAME THAT GENRE has been terrific. You may continue to leave comments until 11:59 PM EDT tonight. At that time, comments will be officially closed. I'll choose the winner of the 5-page crit over the weekend and announce next week. I will also announce the TEN WINNERS of the NAME THAT GENRE round.
2. For those of you following along with the I-made-it-to-round-2 of a potential copywriting job: I've been notified that I'm a top contender for the position, and I have a video interview this afternoon. Which means, of course, that I'll be rushing home from ballet and throwing myself into a state of clean-and-hopefully-professional in time for the interview.
I'm pretty peaceful right now, but my stomach gets a little droppy every time I think about it. So now you all know, so it's like having a band of merry men or something, watching my back.
I'll let you know the outcome. Either way, I'm thrilled and affirmed to have made it this far. If they don't offer the job, it wasn't meant to be.
Okay, then! Onward with Friday, and blessings on your weekend.
1. YAY! The response to NAME THAT GENRE has been terrific. You may continue to leave comments until 11:59 PM EDT tonight. At that time, comments will be officially closed. I'll choose the winner of the 5-page crit over the weekend and announce next week. I will also announce the TEN WINNERS of the NAME THAT GENRE round.
2. For those of you following along with the I-made-it-to-round-2 of a potential copywriting job: I've been notified that I'm a top contender for the position, and I have a video interview this afternoon. Which means, of course, that I'll be rushing home from ballet and throwing myself into a state of clean-and-hopefully-professional in time for the interview.
I'm pretty peaceful right now, but my stomach gets a little droppy every time I think about it. So now you all know, so it's like having a band of merry men or something, watching my back.
I'll let you know the outcome. Either way, I'm thrilled and affirmed to have made it this far. If they don't offer the job, it wasn't meant to be.
Okay, then! Onward with Friday, and blessings on your weekend.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Name That Genre -- Guidelines
Welcome to our second-ever round of NAME THAT GENRE!
FOR THE CRITTERS
1. First, GUESS THE GENRE. Please be sure to write this FIRST in the comment box.
2. Then, briefly mention why you feel the excerpt is this particular genre.
3. There is no need to do a full critique on the entries!
EXAMPLE:
SCIENCE FICTION
It's obvious in the 2nd sentence that her husband is a cyborg, since she's reattaching his left leg. Also she mentions she'll miss the transplanetary shuttle if she doesn't hurry.
Note: If you can't guess, say so!
I CAN'T TELL
There is nothing in your opening paragraphs that gives me a sense of genre. At first I thought it was historical, but then you mentioned a skateboard and something about a dragon, so...
BONUS: Each comment you leave equals one entry in a drawing to win a free 5-page edit from Authoress Edits. There are 40 excerpts, so you have up to 40 chances to win!
FOR THE ENTRANTS
1. Yes, you may post guesses, too!
2. IMPORTANT: You must leave a comment ON YOUR OWN POST telling us what the genre is. DO NOT DO THIS UNTIL THE GUESSING PERIOD HAS ENDED. You will then have 24 hours to return to the blog and give us your answer.
IF YOU DON'T LET US KNOW WHAT THE GENRE IS, YOUR ENTRY WILL BE DISQUALIFIED. I can't count winning guesses if I don't know what you've written!
FOR EVERYONE
The guessing window will close at 11:59 PM EDT ON FRIDAY. Any guesses received after that time will not be counted toward the total.
Entrants, you will have until NOON EDT ON SUNDAY to let us know what your genre is. I will post the 10 winners next Monday.
Have fun!
FOR THE CRITTERS
1. First, GUESS THE GENRE. Please be sure to write this FIRST in the comment box.
2. Then, briefly mention why you feel the excerpt is this particular genre.
3. There is no need to do a full critique on the entries!
EXAMPLE:
SCIENCE FICTION
It's obvious in the 2nd sentence that her husband is a cyborg, since she's reattaching his left leg. Also she mentions she'll miss the transplanetary shuttle if she doesn't hurry.
Note: If you can't guess, say so!
I CAN'T TELL
There is nothing in your opening paragraphs that gives me a sense of genre. At first I thought it was historical, but then you mentioned a skateboard and something about a dragon, so...
BONUS: Each comment you leave equals one entry in a drawing to win a free 5-page edit from Authoress Edits. There are 40 excerpts, so you have up to 40 chances to win!
FOR THE ENTRANTS
1. Yes, you may post guesses, too!
2. IMPORTANT: You must leave a comment ON YOUR OWN POST telling us what the genre is. DO NOT DO THIS UNTIL THE GUESSING PERIOD HAS ENDED. You will then have 24 hours to return to the blog and give us your answer.
IF YOU DON'T LET US KNOW WHAT THE GENRE IS, YOUR ENTRY WILL BE DISQUALIFIED. I can't count winning guesses if I don't know what you've written!
FOR EVERYONE
The guessing window will close at 11:59 PM EDT ON FRIDAY. Any guesses received after that time will not be counted toward the total.
Entrants, you will have until NOON EDT ON SUNDAY to let us know what your genre is. I will post the 10 winners next Monday.
Have fun!
Name That Genre #40
TITLE: Adult
GENRE: Secret
Late as usual, Ree flew past the patrol without them seeing her. Satisfied she didn’t get caught, she yanked open the back door to the club and ventured inside. She made her way through the jumbled mess of old club furniture, down the hall to her dressing room. The dim lighting made the lumps into an obstacle course but she circumvented them with ease. It was hard to stretch out her wings amid the boxes so she sprinted instead. The closer she got to her dressing room, the louder the music got.
The steady boom-boom of the music reverberated in Ree’s brain. God, she was tired. Too many late nights caught up to her. She needed to make an effort to get to bed right after her set. Alone. She grinned at her reflection as she peeled off her jacket, top and tee, leaving them in a heap on the floor.
GENRE: Secret
Late as usual, Ree flew past the patrol without them seeing her. Satisfied she didn’t get caught, she yanked open the back door to the club and ventured inside. She made her way through the jumbled mess of old club furniture, down the hall to her dressing room. The dim lighting made the lumps into an obstacle course but she circumvented them with ease. It was hard to stretch out her wings amid the boxes so she sprinted instead. The closer she got to her dressing room, the louder the music got.
The steady boom-boom of the music reverberated in Ree’s brain. God, she was tired. Too many late nights caught up to her. She needed to make an effort to get to bed right after her set. Alone. She grinned at her reflection as she peeled off her jacket, top and tee, leaving them in a heap on the floor.
Name That Genre #39
TITLE: Adult
GENRE: Secret
My hands hovered over the keyboard, waiting for the creativity gods to jolt through my fingers. Three months to deliver the first draft of my memoir, and for the first time in my career, I’d missed my target date. The second loomed like a foreboding shadow. Brutus, my Rottweiler, slept at my feet. He didn’t care about agents or editors or deadlines.
He barked, and the hair on his back popped up like quills on a porcupine. He ran to the window. I pushed my chair back and followed. “What’s going on, boy?”
Pressing my forehead against the cool glass, I slid my fingertips across the privacy film. If I had my way, there’d be a film covering every window in our house. But my husband Matthew refused to enable my deliberate isolation. I wasn’t afraid of people; I just preferred to avoid those not living within my four walls.
GENRE: Secret
My hands hovered over the keyboard, waiting for the creativity gods to jolt through my fingers. Three months to deliver the first draft of my memoir, and for the first time in my career, I’d missed my target date. The second loomed like a foreboding shadow. Brutus, my Rottweiler, slept at my feet. He didn’t care about agents or editors or deadlines.
He barked, and the hair on his back popped up like quills on a porcupine. He ran to the window. I pushed my chair back and followed. “What’s going on, boy?”
Pressing my forehead against the cool glass, I slid my fingertips across the privacy film. If I had my way, there’d be a film covering every window in our house. But my husband Matthew refused to enable my deliberate isolation. I wasn’t afraid of people; I just preferred to avoid those not living within my four walls.
Name That Genre #38
TITLE: YA
GENRE: Secret
Gemma didn’t recognize the boy sitting at the table by the window, but Annalisa said he’d asked about her. He was cute, in a rough sort of way, his short cropped hair forming a rounded widow’s peak, his nose wide and mostly flat. He caught her watching him from the café doors and gave her a sharp-edged smile, his laser-beam eyes flashing.
With the force of a whirlwind, she was sucked back, reliving the worst moment of her life. The noise. People screaming and running. Panic. The gun, shockingly-black and grotesque, like an appendage growing out of Kyle’s hand. She closed her eyes and mentally shook herself, silently repeating the words as her therapist had instructed: I am safe. I am protected. This is not real.
Exhaling, she grabbed a white cotton apron from the wall peg and pushed through the swinging doors. Tying the strings around her waist, she approached his table.
GENRE: Secret
Gemma didn’t recognize the boy sitting at the table by the window, but Annalisa said he’d asked about her. He was cute, in a rough sort of way, his short cropped hair forming a rounded widow’s peak, his nose wide and mostly flat. He caught her watching him from the café doors and gave her a sharp-edged smile, his laser-beam eyes flashing.
With the force of a whirlwind, she was sucked back, reliving the worst moment of her life. The noise. People screaming and running. Panic. The gun, shockingly-black and grotesque, like an appendage growing out of Kyle’s hand. She closed her eyes and mentally shook herself, silently repeating the words as her therapist had instructed: I am safe. I am protected. This is not real.
Exhaling, she grabbed a white cotton apron from the wall peg and pushed through the swinging doors. Tying the strings around her waist, she approached his table.
Name That Genre #37
TITLE: ADULT
GENRE: SECRET
There was no life support, gravity, or light. Even so, Captain Mark was not convinced this derelict ship they had boarded was truly dead. He reminded himself of The Three Bears and Goldilocks. In this situation he woud be-- a little blond girl looking for some porridge? Not even, but casting the owners of this ship as the mythical hairy mammal with big teeth and a grumpy personality--that fit well. Also the door to the Bear's house had opened way too easily, just as the air locks on this ship gave way without effort. Didn't these people believe in locks? Wendy had simply applied suction to expose a small fissure at the door seal. While she held a pry bar at the ready to finish the job she didn't use it. The hatch popped its top like a ripe can of soda, laying out the welcome mat. Mark ducked as it flew past.
GENRE: SECRET
There was no life support, gravity, or light. Even so, Captain Mark was not convinced this derelict ship they had boarded was truly dead. He reminded himself of The Three Bears and Goldilocks. In this situation he woud be-- a little blond girl looking for some porridge? Not even, but casting the owners of this ship as the mythical hairy mammal with big teeth and a grumpy personality--that fit well. Also the door to the Bear's house had opened way too easily, just as the air locks on this ship gave way without effort. Didn't these people believe in locks? Wendy had simply applied suction to expose a small fissure at the door seal. While she held a pry bar at the ready to finish the job she didn't use it. The hatch popped its top like a ripe can of soda, laying out the welcome mat. Mark ducked as it flew past.
Name That Genre #36
TITLE: NA
GENRE: Secret
Nothing about this scenario looked anything like tooth collection. No fairy wings, pixie dust, or magic wands. More like breaking and entering. I followed the lead of Mary, a woman I had just met that evening. We pulled into a circular drive, parked in front of this huge contemporary-style house, and walked through a fancy wrought-iron gate into the backyard like we owned the place. Only we didn’t.
“Now pay attention,” Mary whispered. “And don’t touch anything,” she added before stepping into a flowerbed. Standing only inches away from a window, she turned her attention to her phone.
I looked down at my feet. I wore flip-flops, and the flowering groundcover tickled my toes. Had I known I’d be trudging through a stranger’s backyard, I would’ve worn different shoes. What shoes were appropriate for trespassing in the middle of the night?
This is just weird, said the little voice in my head.
GENRE: Secret
Nothing about this scenario looked anything like tooth collection. No fairy wings, pixie dust, or magic wands. More like breaking and entering. I followed the lead of Mary, a woman I had just met that evening. We pulled into a circular drive, parked in front of this huge contemporary-style house, and walked through a fancy wrought-iron gate into the backyard like we owned the place. Only we didn’t.
“Now pay attention,” Mary whispered. “And don’t touch anything,” she added before stepping into a flowerbed. Standing only inches away from a window, she turned her attention to her phone.
I looked down at my feet. I wore flip-flops, and the flowering groundcover tickled my toes. Had I known I’d be trudging through a stranger’s backyard, I would’ve worn different shoes. What shoes were appropriate for trespassing in the middle of the night?
This is just weird, said the little voice in my head.
Name That Genre #35
TITLE: MG
GENRE: Secret
So she wants me to talk about it. Well, okay. Talking isn’t impossible anymore. I’m almost back to my regular, motor-mouth self.
She (Linda) brought me this tape recorder, some cherry Kool-Aid and let me sit in her new mod spin-y chair. The microphone’s plugged in, the recorder’s on.
I’m R-E-A-D-Y.
First, my name. It’s Trudi. NOT Gertrude. That’s Trudi with an “I.”
Last year, in third grade, I always dotted the “I” in my name with a groovy flower or smiley face. Then, a few months ago, at the beginning of fourth grade, I stopped because I didn’t care about flowers anymore or feel like smiling about anything. That’s what Linda wants me to talk about: the weeks that got dark even when the sun blazed in the sky.
Here goes…
My story begins at the end of third grade, last spring. (I was nine then. I’m ten now.)
GENRE: Secret
So she wants me to talk about it. Well, okay. Talking isn’t impossible anymore. I’m almost back to my regular, motor-mouth self.
She (Linda) brought me this tape recorder, some cherry Kool-Aid and let me sit in her new mod spin-y chair. The microphone’s plugged in, the recorder’s on.
I’m R-E-A-D-Y.
First, my name. It’s Trudi. NOT Gertrude. That’s Trudi with an “I.”
Last year, in third grade, I always dotted the “I” in my name with a groovy flower or smiley face. Then, a few months ago, at the beginning of fourth grade, I stopped because I didn’t care about flowers anymore or feel like smiling about anything. That’s what Linda wants me to talk about: the weeks that got dark even when the sun blazed in the sky.
Here goes…
My story begins at the end of third grade, last spring. (I was nine then. I’m ten now.)
Name That Genre #34
TITLE: MG
GENRE: SECRET
The dreams, visions really, started the night Maggie and Henry’s father disappeared. Till then, life had been almost boring in the small town of Mayhew, Virginia.
It began at the carnival that had come to town when school let out for summer vacation. An overcast sky made it darker than usual but the lights from the rides and booths lit the night.
Henry followed his twin sister out of the arcade. “But if you give me some of your quarters I can demolish the Death Star.”
Maggie didn’t turn her head. “Dad would be so mad if he knew you blew your money on more stupid video games. Come on, let’s ride the Ferris wheel before we have to meet Mom and Dad.”
Henry stopped. “You know I hate heights.”
She turned towards him, hands on hips. “But you’ll ride the roller coaster?”
“That’s different. It’s living a video game.”
GENRE: SECRET
The dreams, visions really, started the night Maggie and Henry’s father disappeared. Till then, life had been almost boring in the small town of Mayhew, Virginia.
It began at the carnival that had come to town when school let out for summer vacation. An overcast sky made it darker than usual but the lights from the rides and booths lit the night.
Henry followed his twin sister out of the arcade. “But if you give me some of your quarters I can demolish the Death Star.”
Maggie didn’t turn her head. “Dad would be so mad if he knew you blew your money on more stupid video games. Come on, let’s ride the Ferris wheel before we have to meet Mom and Dad.”
Henry stopped. “You know I hate heights.”
She turned towards him, hands on hips. “But you’ll ride the roller coaster?”
“That’s different. It’s living a video game.”
Name That Genre #33
TITLE: MG
GENRE: Secret
Two enormous pine trees formed the entry to my new summer home. Between the trees, high overhead, hung a birch bark plank. It was like driving your car through a huge doorway. On the plank, Welcome to Paradise was spelled out with twigs. Beneath that, even smaller twigs spelled: Paradise Fine Arts Camp, estb 1903.
So my loved ones have abandoned me for the summer at a Fine Arts Camp? Does that mean we can make those beaded Indian Belts? Finger painting? Clay pots? I like art in school, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am stuck in this place. Mom doesn’t even know where I am. I don’t know exactly where I am.
Did I say loved ones? Yes, I love my mother, but she abandoned me to my aunt, which is like giving me to a stranger. And they don’t come much stranger than my aunt.
GENRE: Secret
Two enormous pine trees formed the entry to my new summer home. Between the trees, high overhead, hung a birch bark plank. It was like driving your car through a huge doorway. On the plank, Welcome to Paradise was spelled out with twigs. Beneath that, even smaller twigs spelled: Paradise Fine Arts Camp, estb 1903.
So my loved ones have abandoned me for the summer at a Fine Arts Camp? Does that mean we can make those beaded Indian Belts? Finger painting? Clay pots? I like art in school, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am stuck in this place. Mom doesn’t even know where I am. I don’t know exactly where I am.
Did I say loved ones? Yes, I love my mother, but she abandoned me to my aunt, which is like giving me to a stranger. And they don’t come much stranger than my aunt.
Name That Genre #32
TITLE: YA
GENRE: Secret
Many things come to mind at the mention of a princess in a faraway kingdom, riches beyond one’s imagination, high towers to sit and watch over the kingdom, and handmaidens to cater to every whim. Princess Rosalinda knows of none of these. She is the sole heir to the throne of Axington, the poorest kingdom in all the land. The highest tower is a mere two stories tall, and her handmaiden acts as chef, stable girl, and herald leaving little time to tend to the princess.
What Princess Rosalinda has that the other kingdoms does not is stunning good looks, long, flowing auburn hair, the color of the setting sun, milky white skin, and a bosom the size of two newborn babies’ heads, which is the envy of every princess within a thousand miles. She also has every prince from the neighboring five kingdoms sniffing around as a mangy mutt sniffs the refuse bins.
GENRE: Secret
Many things come to mind at the mention of a princess in a faraway kingdom, riches beyond one’s imagination, high towers to sit and watch over the kingdom, and handmaidens to cater to every whim. Princess Rosalinda knows of none of these. She is the sole heir to the throne of Axington, the poorest kingdom in all the land. The highest tower is a mere two stories tall, and her handmaiden acts as chef, stable girl, and herald leaving little time to tend to the princess.
What Princess Rosalinda has that the other kingdoms does not is stunning good looks, long, flowing auburn hair, the color of the setting sun, milky white skin, and a bosom the size of two newborn babies’ heads, which is the envy of every princess within a thousand miles. She also has every prince from the neighboring five kingdoms sniffing around as a mangy mutt sniffs the refuse bins.
Name That Genre #31
TITLE: Adult
GENRE: Secret
“There’s a funny thing about space,” Laura said, staring lazily over her red boots into the black, “and that’s that it’s big and black, until it’s not big and black, and then it kills you,”
“I’d argue, for those of us without metre thick steel hulls, that the big and black is more likely to be deadly than the… not big and black,” Fio replied, frowning across at her Captain. “I’d also argue that it’s not really that necessary to have so many others onboard. I mean, really, I thought this was going to be just you and me,”
Laura notched her glasses down, archaic things of plastic and glass that didn’t serve much purpose beyond ‘looking cool’ (though they served that purpose well) and raised an eyebrow at the Limb. “You thought that I, a starship Captain, would be carrying out this mission with naught but my ship at my side?”
GENRE: Secret
“There’s a funny thing about space,” Laura said, staring lazily over her red boots into the black, “and that’s that it’s big and black, until it’s not big and black, and then it kills you,”
“I’d argue, for those of us without metre thick steel hulls, that the big and black is more likely to be deadly than the… not big and black,” Fio replied, frowning across at her Captain. “I’d also argue that it’s not really that necessary to have so many others onboard. I mean, really, I thought this was going to be just you and me,”
Laura notched her glasses down, archaic things of plastic and glass that didn’t serve much purpose beyond ‘looking cool’ (though they served that purpose well) and raised an eyebrow at the Limb. “You thought that I, a starship Captain, would be carrying out this mission with naught but my ship at my side?”
Name That Genre #30
TITLE: YA
GENRE: Secret
I was walking Cassidy Freeman home from the Fall dance. Cassidy freakin’ Freeman. I, Seth Waters, walking Cassidy Freeman home. Me, weird unsociable art freak, walking next to the most popular girl in school and she actually knew I was there!
Dude, way to make yourself sound weird and pathetic.
It’s not a big deal, I reminded myself. Which was true as Cassidy was crying because her (ex)boyfriend was at the dance with her (ex)best friend, which put a damper on my good mood. It was barely seven o’clock so the sun was still out and it wasn’t very romantic, not to mention I was holding her heels, because she kept tripping in them, and not her hand. But still. Cassidy freakin’ Freeman.
“You’re such a nice guy,” Cassidy said, in her slightly choked voice as she attempted to wipe tears from her cheeks. “What’s your name again?”
GENRE: Secret
I was walking Cassidy Freeman home from the Fall dance. Cassidy freakin’ Freeman. I, Seth Waters, walking Cassidy Freeman home. Me, weird unsociable art freak, walking next to the most popular girl in school and she actually knew I was there!
Dude, way to make yourself sound weird and pathetic.
It’s not a big deal, I reminded myself. Which was true as Cassidy was crying because her (ex)boyfriend was at the dance with her (ex)best friend, which put a damper on my good mood. It was barely seven o’clock so the sun was still out and it wasn’t very romantic, not to mention I was holding her heels, because she kept tripping in them, and not her hand. But still. Cassidy freakin’ Freeman.
“You’re such a nice guy,” Cassidy said, in her slightly choked voice as she attempted to wipe tears from her cheeks. “What’s your name again?”
Name That Genre #29
TITLE: MG
GENRE: Secret
“Jane, please come up to my desk.” It was silent reading time, so everybody in the entire sixth grade heard me get called up. I knew what Mrs. Watson was going to say even before I got there, but I didn’t care.
“Jane, your name is spelled incorrectly on every paper in your Bicentennial packet. These are official documents more or less, and therefore require correct spelling.”
In my head I yelled that I ought to be able to spell my name any way I chose and there wasn’t anybody who could stop me, but I was only brave in my head. Out loud I said, “yes, ma’am,” and went back to my seat.
I heard Pamela snicker when I walked by. Pamela Latimer hated me and I hated her back, but I had a good reason. She didn’t.
GENRE: Secret
“Jane, please come up to my desk.” It was silent reading time, so everybody in the entire sixth grade heard me get called up. I knew what Mrs. Watson was going to say even before I got there, but I didn’t care.
“Jane, your name is spelled incorrectly on every paper in your Bicentennial packet. These are official documents more or less, and therefore require correct spelling.”
In my head I yelled that I ought to be able to spell my name any way I chose and there wasn’t anybody who could stop me, but I was only brave in my head. Out loud I said, “yes, ma’am,” and went back to my seat.
I heard Pamela snicker when I walked by. Pamela Latimer hated me and I hated her back, but I had a good reason. She didn’t.
Name That Genre #28
TITLE: Adult
GENRE: Secret
Storm-Chaser woke to an owl hooting. He rolled over to gather Leaping-Deer into his arms, but only found empty buffalo furs. He bolted upright, sweat beading across his forehead. His mind realizing the truth that he'd wrestled with for months. She was gone.
He cursed himself that he didn't make her stay behind that day. She was pregnant and just past the stage of all day nausea. Coped up for weeks because of her condition, he couldn't refuse her when her dark eyes held such hope of stretching her legs and running through the forest in her animal form.
"I'll be careful. Just a short run... prance then, so you don't scowl at me."
For a long time, he stayed in his wolf form and watched her from a distance. She nudged him away. Reluctantly, he left her to join a nearby wolf pack. Then the gun sounded. It echoed through him even now.
GENRE: Secret
Storm-Chaser woke to an owl hooting. He rolled over to gather Leaping-Deer into his arms, but only found empty buffalo furs. He bolted upright, sweat beading across his forehead. His mind realizing the truth that he'd wrestled with for months. She was gone.
He cursed himself that he didn't make her stay behind that day. She was pregnant and just past the stage of all day nausea. Coped up for weeks because of her condition, he couldn't refuse her when her dark eyes held such hope of stretching her legs and running through the forest in her animal form.
"I'll be careful. Just a short run... prance then, so you don't scowl at me."
For a long time, he stayed in his wolf form and watched her from a distance. She nudged him away. Reluctantly, he left her to join a nearby wolf pack. Then the gun sounded. It echoed through him even now.
Name That Genre #27
TITLE: YA
GENRE: SECRET
The wood of the door fails to mute Jilana’s wrath. “Fragments, Mazani, why!”
After each yell comes a strained silence.
“That’s months of someone’s work you’ve ruined!”
I would not be brave enough to defy Master Jilana. But Mazani is. After each refusal to speak her mother roars louder. The weavers around me stare at their looms, hands frozen in mid-knot. My mother’s eyes dart between the door and me.
It was Mazani’s idea to lead us into battle. Her game, us versus the novices from the competitor’s workshop. Jilana’s other prentices -- we just follow along, Mazani’s little posse.
“Why!”
Mazani’s victims retaliate, of course: knives mysteriously blunted. Dragon dung on the yarn. If a journeymen sits on a thorn meant for us, we take the blame to hide our own inciting pranks.
But this is different. This was an accident. Mazani would never have tipped a loom.
GENRE: SECRET
The wood of the door fails to mute Jilana’s wrath. “Fragments, Mazani, why!”
After each yell comes a strained silence.
“That’s months of someone’s work you’ve ruined!”
I would not be brave enough to defy Master Jilana. But Mazani is. After each refusal to speak her mother roars louder. The weavers around me stare at their looms, hands frozen in mid-knot. My mother’s eyes dart between the door and me.
It was Mazani’s idea to lead us into battle. Her game, us versus the novices from the competitor’s workshop. Jilana’s other prentices -- we just follow along, Mazani’s little posse.
“Why!”
Mazani’s victims retaliate, of course: knives mysteriously blunted. Dragon dung on the yarn. If a journeymen sits on a thorn meant for us, we take the blame to hide our own inciting pranks.
But this is different. This was an accident. Mazani would never have tipped a loom.
Name That Genre #26
TITLE: MG
GENRE: Secret
Denny ran out of the trees and into the front yard as rivulets of water streamed down his face. The wind pounded rain into him as he squished across the grass. It was an unusual storm for the Puget Sound, more like what you'd see around Thanksgiving, not like what you see in April. As he ran, Denny looked towards the old gothic mansion, it looked like something out of a horror movie. It was out of place in the twenty first century, even in a back woods place like Manchester, Washington.
Denny burst through the heavy oak door and stepped into the house and dripped onto the slate floor of the entryway. He pulled his wet coat off and hung it on the pike held by the suit of armor that guarded the door. He removed his squishy shoes and socks and set them next to the heat register to dry.
GENRE: Secret
Denny ran out of the trees and into the front yard as rivulets of water streamed down his face. The wind pounded rain into him as he squished across the grass. It was an unusual storm for the Puget Sound, more like what you'd see around Thanksgiving, not like what you see in April. As he ran, Denny looked towards the old gothic mansion, it looked like something out of a horror movie. It was out of place in the twenty first century, even in a back woods place like Manchester, Washington.
Denny burst through the heavy oak door and stepped into the house and dripped onto the slate floor of the entryway. He pulled his wet coat off and hung it on the pike held by the suit of armor that guarded the door. He removed his squishy shoes and socks and set them next to the heat register to dry.
Name That Genre #25
TITLE: Adult
GENRE: Secret
The phone rang at 4 A.M. No waking up was necessary. I knew where I was: Helmsley Medical Tower Hotel in New York City, eight hundred miles from home. Bob was in New York Presbyterian Hospital across the street. Bob, my life partner of more than twenty years, lover, friend, ex-smoker, hero of my life, and world-class packrat who filled our home with his collections. He was also a twelve year cancer survivor.
“Hello, Sandy.” It was Bob’s doctor. This couldn’t be good. “Bob’s coughed up a sink full of blood. We need to get him stabilized to stop the bleeding.” I grabbed a pencil to take notes, and tried to focus enough to listen.
“How is he?” I asked. Stupid question, Sandy. “Is he conscious?”
“He understands what we’re going to do and agrees to it,” the doctor told me. “He’s peaceful.”
GENRE: Secret
The phone rang at 4 A.M. No waking up was necessary. I knew where I was: Helmsley Medical Tower Hotel in New York City, eight hundred miles from home. Bob was in New York Presbyterian Hospital across the street. Bob, my life partner of more than twenty years, lover, friend, ex-smoker, hero of my life, and world-class packrat who filled our home with his collections. He was also a twelve year cancer survivor.
“Hello, Sandy.” It was Bob’s doctor. This couldn’t be good. “Bob’s coughed up a sink full of blood. We need to get him stabilized to stop the bleeding.” I grabbed a pencil to take notes, and tried to focus enough to listen.
“How is he?” I asked. Stupid question, Sandy. “Is he conscious?”
“He understands what we’re going to do and agrees to it,” the doctor told me. “He’s peaceful.”
Name That Genre #24
TITLE: YA
GENRE: Secret
Issabel was mine and I was hers, long before we entered the world on the same dim winter’s morning our mother went out of it. She bore us, like twin snow-bear cubs buried deep in the cold arms of hibernation, into the weak lamplight where we shut our new eyes and yowled at the alien brightness. We thrust our fists at the midwife and nuzzled our wet-nurse, our tiny bodies wrapped in deer skins striped in soot and charcoal, fit for gliding like ghosts through the leaf barren forest.
Instinctively, we knew the darkness was there to protect us. We suckled and grew fat, we crawled, and stood, and walked, and ran across a floor of deep slate between walls of red cedar. We peered through tiny windows of scraped, bleached hide and snow. We built towers with gnawed wolf bones and we banged walrus tusks against father’s copper shield like a drum.
GENRE: Secret
Issabel was mine and I was hers, long before we entered the world on the same dim winter’s morning our mother went out of it. She bore us, like twin snow-bear cubs buried deep in the cold arms of hibernation, into the weak lamplight where we shut our new eyes and yowled at the alien brightness. We thrust our fists at the midwife and nuzzled our wet-nurse, our tiny bodies wrapped in deer skins striped in soot and charcoal, fit for gliding like ghosts through the leaf barren forest.
Instinctively, we knew the darkness was there to protect us. We suckled and grew fat, we crawled, and stood, and walked, and ran across a floor of deep slate between walls of red cedar. We peered through tiny windows of scraped, bleached hide and snow. We built towers with gnawed wolf bones and we banged walrus tusks against father’s copper shield like a drum.
Name That Genre #23
TITLE: YA
GENRE: SECRET
It wasn’t the fastest way to escape, but at least I was finally moving in the right direction. Away from him, away from home. It was better than staring at him all summer while I tried to weasel my way out of the mess I'd made.
The ocean air tossed my hair behind me, tangling it into a mess I’d have to fix later. I didn’t mind. Freedom was worth a few knots. When the ground beneath my feet lurched, I pitched forward. Scrambling to grab the ferry railing, I missed and waited for my face to meet the deck. Instead, something dug into my side and I stopped falling.
“Whoa, that was close. You okay?” I looked up at the source of the voice, the guy connected to the hands that saved me from face planting. He brushed wavy dark hair behind his ear and peered at me, his eyes wide.
GENRE: SECRET
It wasn’t the fastest way to escape, but at least I was finally moving in the right direction. Away from him, away from home. It was better than staring at him all summer while I tried to weasel my way out of the mess I'd made.
The ocean air tossed my hair behind me, tangling it into a mess I’d have to fix later. I didn’t mind. Freedom was worth a few knots. When the ground beneath my feet lurched, I pitched forward. Scrambling to grab the ferry railing, I missed and waited for my face to meet the deck. Instead, something dug into my side and I stopped falling.
“Whoa, that was close. You okay?” I looked up at the source of the voice, the guy connected to the hands that saved me from face planting. He brushed wavy dark hair behind his ear and peered at me, his eyes wide.
Name That Genre #22
TITLE: Young Adult
GENRE: Secret
There is a difference in this calling—like the foreboding I had on the day my mother chose to leave. I was only a fledgling, but I still feel the pain of her decision. A dull ache in my chest that only flying can relieve.
Above me, a seagull spreads her wings wide and teases me with her lazy spiraling dive. I dare to glance to the side, letting my impatience break my rigid pose. The others balance along the cliff’s edge, a long line of Falco. The elite are farthest away from me, their positions defined by skill. The last in our class is beside me, even though I placed above him—and above many of them—in our competitions. I remain at the end of the line, my mixed heritage trumping any strength I possess.
Movement flashes in the periphery of my vision, but I remain still.
GENRE: Secret
There is a difference in this calling—like the foreboding I had on the day my mother chose to leave. I was only a fledgling, but I still feel the pain of her decision. A dull ache in my chest that only flying can relieve.
Above me, a seagull spreads her wings wide and teases me with her lazy spiraling dive. I dare to glance to the side, letting my impatience break my rigid pose. The others balance along the cliff’s edge, a long line of Falco. The elite are farthest away from me, their positions defined by skill. The last in our class is beside me, even though I placed above him—and above many of them—in our competitions. I remain at the end of the line, my mixed heritage trumping any strength I possess.
Movement flashes in the periphery of my vision, but I remain still.
Name That Genre #21
TITLE: YA
GENRE: secret
Amanda pulled on the door handle with one hand and gripped Bailey’s leash with the other. Ugh! A slight dizziness rocked her head. Her stomach still felt queasy. But at least she could function this morning…for what it was worth.
Her grandmother appeared at the top of the stairs. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.” But she wouldn’t. “I’m feeling better.” If only that were true. Although no longer in the death grip of that blasted migraine, she couldn’t shake the nagging, taunting voices in her head, which were far more troubling…and they wouldn’t be dismissed with medication.
“Okay, see you shortly.”
She set off with her yellow Lab for his morning walk. The September sun wove its brilliance through the leaves, enchanting the path to the beach. Falmouth, Massachusetts was gorgeous this time of year, a stunning palette of rich earth tones set off by the azure sea.
GENRE: secret
Amanda pulled on the door handle with one hand and gripped Bailey’s leash with the other. Ugh! A slight dizziness rocked her head. Her stomach still felt queasy. But at least she could function this morning…for what it was worth.
Her grandmother appeared at the top of the stairs. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.” But she wouldn’t. “I’m feeling better.” If only that were true. Although no longer in the death grip of that blasted migraine, she couldn’t shake the nagging, taunting voices in her head, which were far more troubling…and they wouldn’t be dismissed with medication.
“Okay, see you shortly.”
She set off with her yellow Lab for his morning walk. The September sun wove its brilliance through the leaves, enchanting the path to the beach. Falmouth, Massachusetts was gorgeous this time of year, a stunning palette of rich earth tones set off by the azure sea.
Name That Genre #20
TITLE: Adult
GENRE: Secret
The feeling of loneliness is almost palpable as I sit on my comfortable tufted carriage seat, gazing down upon an abandoned, dilapidated house by the river that at one time was my home. Home is not the correct word. House? Shelter? Sad little dwelling that I wished was a home, would be more precise, but who cares anymore, certainly not me. Not my family either. The mother and father who gladly gave me to a man twice my age, a man that they did not even know, for a couple of acres of bottom land, land which was fertile, land which could help feed their growing family, or at least make a few coins to keep the roof over their heads. Oh, well, this is not why I came back to Pennsylvania. It is time to leave this place of immense sadness, that I feel even now.
GENRE: Secret
The feeling of loneliness is almost palpable as I sit on my comfortable tufted carriage seat, gazing down upon an abandoned, dilapidated house by the river that at one time was my home. Home is not the correct word. House? Shelter? Sad little dwelling that I wished was a home, would be more precise, but who cares anymore, certainly not me. Not my family either. The mother and father who gladly gave me to a man twice my age, a man that they did not even know, for a couple of acres of bottom land, land which was fertile, land which could help feed their growing family, or at least make a few coins to keep the roof over their heads. Oh, well, this is not why I came back to Pennsylvania. It is time to leave this place of immense sadness, that I feel even now.
Name That Genre #19
TITLE: MG
GENRE: Secret
The Shanofen’s wings rose and fell in rhythm with a song playing in his head. Higher and higher he flew, and then, turning, he plunged back toward the Great Pond, far below. The warm summer air rushed by the bird’s body, pressing his colorful feathers toward the sky while he clutched his wings to his sides. Just as his beak was about to plunge into the waters of the Great Pond, the Shanofen spread his wings to soar up and out over the land.
Below him, in the hamlet of Halliwell, villagers and visitors hurried along as they noisily arranged shops and booths, hung flower garlands and prepared for a great celebration. Halliwell’s famous Fountain gushed with great enthusiasm at one end of the town Square. The Shanofen’s heart smiled, for he loved the village.
He turned his gaze to the mountains and the fertile valleys and thick lush forests...
GENRE: Secret
The Shanofen’s wings rose and fell in rhythm with a song playing in his head. Higher and higher he flew, and then, turning, he plunged back toward the Great Pond, far below. The warm summer air rushed by the bird’s body, pressing his colorful feathers toward the sky while he clutched his wings to his sides. Just as his beak was about to plunge into the waters of the Great Pond, the Shanofen spread his wings to soar up and out over the land.
Below him, in the hamlet of Halliwell, villagers and visitors hurried along as they noisily arranged shops and booths, hung flower garlands and prepared for a great celebration. Halliwell’s famous Fountain gushed with great enthusiasm at one end of the town Square. The Shanofen’s heart smiled, for he loved the village.
He turned his gaze to the mountains and the fertile valleys and thick lush forests...
Name That Genre #18
TITLE: YA
GENRE: Secret
At Misdemeanors Academy for Paranormals (MAP), or suck-it club for rich and spoiled brats, they called me Janna the psychic klutz. I earned my nickname on my first day because every time they asked me to control a Ouija, I blew someone across the room. Too bad MAP Academy didn’t have cheap furniture and modern decorations.
Gee, at least I had insurance. One week into the program, and I already owed them big, like millions in damage. So, when I was summoned to the library this morning to be handed the keys and put in charge of inventory, I thought someone had loosened the brains’ screws of the two men standing in front of me and sent the bolts away. Because that also put me in charge of the Ouija boards and made me virtually responsible for my parents’ future double mortgage. At sixteen, it was no way to start.
GENRE: Secret
At Misdemeanors Academy for Paranormals (MAP), or suck-it club for rich and spoiled brats, they called me Janna the psychic klutz. I earned my nickname on my first day because every time they asked me to control a Ouija, I blew someone across the room. Too bad MAP Academy didn’t have cheap furniture and modern decorations.
Gee, at least I had insurance. One week into the program, and I already owed them big, like millions in damage. So, when I was summoned to the library this morning to be handed the keys and put in charge of inventory, I thought someone had loosened the brains’ screws of the two men standing in front of me and sent the bolts away. Because that also put me in charge of the Ouija boards and made me virtually responsible for my parents’ future double mortgage. At sixteen, it was no way to start.
Name That Genre #17
TITLE: YA
GENRE: Secret
Sarah wrestled a radiation canopy over the dome’s Genesis terminal, the brim of her hat pulled low to protect her face from the sun's deadly rays. Outside, six more domes gleamed in the afternoon sun like giant bubbles rising out of the Earth. It was her favorite view of the Ark, her favorite place to try new programs, far away from her classmates' prying eyes.
“Are you really going to re-program our bangs?” Cassie asked as the radiation canopy clicked into place.
“Just watch me.” Sarah punched in her password, followed by several commands for new hairstyles. Luckily, she had anticipated Cassie’s request and had been creating Genesis programs all week.
“How about a little off the back?” She hit the exec button, and Cassie’s reddish-blonde hair shortened ten centimeters. “Then we’ll lengthen the front and pull it back with a barrette.”
Cassie’s eyes bugged as she touched her bare forehead.
GENRE: Secret
Sarah wrestled a radiation canopy over the dome’s Genesis terminal, the brim of her hat pulled low to protect her face from the sun's deadly rays. Outside, six more domes gleamed in the afternoon sun like giant bubbles rising out of the Earth. It was her favorite view of the Ark, her favorite place to try new programs, far away from her classmates' prying eyes.
“Are you really going to re-program our bangs?” Cassie asked as the radiation canopy clicked into place.
“Just watch me.” Sarah punched in her password, followed by several commands for new hairstyles. Luckily, she had anticipated Cassie’s request and had been creating Genesis programs all week.
“How about a little off the back?” She hit the exec button, and Cassie’s reddish-blonde hair shortened ten centimeters. “Then we’ll lengthen the front and pull it back with a barrette.”
Cassie’s eyes bugged as she touched her bare forehead.
Name That Genre #16
TITLE: YA
GENRE: secret
Why should it be the province of only men to explore and discover? An inferno smolders inside me that I cannot control, a burning to know what else there is of this world. Yet I shear ewes here in the middle of nowhere. There must be more to living than this.
The ewe squirms, her foreleg in my grasp. She must give up her wool so I can make yarn of it. Weaving is the only honest way a girl can earn money, but rows advance so slowly, one after another, always the same, building an endless horizon between done and not done. This must not be the pattern of my life.
The sheep pants while I clip. When released, she squirms away bleating, then grazes as if no one had made her suddenly naked.
I wrestle another ewe upside down.
“What of my love for this place?” I say to her face, as if
GENRE: secret
Why should it be the province of only men to explore and discover? An inferno smolders inside me that I cannot control, a burning to know what else there is of this world. Yet I shear ewes here in the middle of nowhere. There must be more to living than this.
The ewe squirms, her foreleg in my grasp. She must give up her wool so I can make yarn of it. Weaving is the only honest way a girl can earn money, but rows advance so slowly, one after another, always the same, building an endless horizon between done and not done. This must not be the pattern of my life.
The sheep pants while I clip. When released, she squirms away bleating, then grazes as if no one had made her suddenly naked.
I wrestle another ewe upside down.
“What of my love for this place?” I say to her face, as if
Name That Genre #15
TITLE: ADULT
GENRE: SECRET
Grace Rogers stubbed her cigarette in the sink, and ran water over the crushed Newport before grinding the butt in the garbage disposal. She shined a Maglite into the disposal to make sure the damn thing was gone, then lit a fresh Newport and retreated to her computer. Obsessive—sure. Compulsive—you bet.
A few mouse clicks later, and Grace was studying website source codes for the eateries near her office. Three Rivers Deli was the closest—but their corned beef was lousy, and the company used excellent encryption on their host server. Gyro Circus seemed an easy target; however, few people from her office ate there. The plan required a large audience.
Grace took a long drag of the Newport, and scanned the coding for the Daniel Island Café. “Gotcha,” she said. “You guys should put as much time into your firewalls as you do your crepe-of-the-day.”
GENRE: SECRET
Grace Rogers stubbed her cigarette in the sink, and ran water over the crushed Newport before grinding the butt in the garbage disposal. She shined a Maglite into the disposal to make sure the damn thing was gone, then lit a fresh Newport and retreated to her computer. Obsessive—sure. Compulsive—you bet.
A few mouse clicks later, and Grace was studying website source codes for the eateries near her office. Three Rivers Deli was the closest—but their corned beef was lousy, and the company used excellent encryption on their host server. Gyro Circus seemed an easy target; however, few people from her office ate there. The plan required a large audience.
Grace took a long drag of the Newport, and scanned the coding for the Daniel Island Café. “Gotcha,” she said. “You guys should put as much time into your firewalls as you do your crepe-of-the-day.”
Name That Genre #14
TITLE: MG
GENRE: SECRET
Few call me brave, but none call me foolhardy. Today, I have been both.
I was sitting across from Humphrey and between two of his fellow clarinetists in the middle school cafeteria on the second-to-last day of school before summer vacation. The conversation took a boring turn, when Hwan asked if anyone had noticed the loud squeak he'd made in the final movement of Armenian Dances during the band concert last night.
"My reed split!" he said. Nolan and Humphrey chuckled and shook their heads sympathetically, then launched into tales of "funny" band moments of their own.
I'm not in band, so I had nothing to say. Who listens to a conversation when there is no chance of jumping into it? Nobody.
I pushed the peas around my lunch tray and considered my options. Could I shoot a pea into Hump's mouth, right across the table from me?
GENRE: SECRET
Few call me brave, but none call me foolhardy. Today, I have been both.
I was sitting across from Humphrey and between two of his fellow clarinetists in the middle school cafeteria on the second-to-last day of school before summer vacation. The conversation took a boring turn, when Hwan asked if anyone had noticed the loud squeak he'd made in the final movement of Armenian Dances during the band concert last night.
"My reed split!" he said. Nolan and Humphrey chuckled and shook their heads sympathetically, then launched into tales of "funny" band moments of their own.
I'm not in band, so I had nothing to say. Who listens to a conversation when there is no chance of jumping into it? Nobody.
I pushed the peas around my lunch tray and considered my options. Could I shoot a pea into Hump's mouth, right across the table from me?
Name That Genre #13
TITLE: YA
GENRE: Secret
There should be some sort of school program—like the ones for super-smart students—that addresses the needs of the recently dumped. That way, the one who’s been dumped could ease back into single life without having everyone offering a running commentary or making up ridiculous reasons why the dumpage occurred in the first place. Plus, you'd get coaching on what to say when friends ask you why he broke things off when all he said was “it isn’t working between us”.
And no, this isn’t only about me. There must be others out there dealing with the same situation. It’s just that no one’s stepped forward to share the spotlight of humiliation yet.
Chester High’s cafeteria is the last place I want to be, but Dana and Sherry insist this small act of bravery will prevent the stories of my junior-year breakup from reaching new levels of ultimate embarrassment.
GENRE: Secret
There should be some sort of school program—like the ones for super-smart students—that addresses the needs of the recently dumped. That way, the one who’s been dumped could ease back into single life without having everyone offering a running commentary or making up ridiculous reasons why the dumpage occurred in the first place. Plus, you'd get coaching on what to say when friends ask you why he broke things off when all he said was “it isn’t working between us”.
And no, this isn’t only about me. There must be others out there dealing with the same situation. It’s just that no one’s stepped forward to share the spotlight of humiliation yet.
Chester High’s cafeteria is the last place I want to be, but Dana and Sherry insist this small act of bravery will prevent the stories of my junior-year breakup from reaching new levels of ultimate embarrassment.
Name That Genre #12
TITLE: Adult
GENRE: Secret
The sky peeked into the window, turning from the pale blue of the bright day, to an unnatural forest green. Mela swore, turning her back to the infirmary overcrowded with potential corpses.
Her assistant lingered in the aisle, carrying a bucket of vomit and mumbling about the short supply of beds. “With all these children moaning about, we had to put the babies on the floor. And the elderly—well, time was coming for them one way or another, right?” She looked up to find Mela frozen, and frowned deeply. “What is it now?”
“The spirits are talking.”
Ratu dropped the bucket on the ground, allowing little discolored chunks to splatter onto the hem of her dress. “Well, must we listen? After all they’ve done?”
“They might mean to give us a cure.”
“Or they’re doing what they always do: provoking us.”
GENRE: Secret
The sky peeked into the window, turning from the pale blue of the bright day, to an unnatural forest green. Mela swore, turning her back to the infirmary overcrowded with potential corpses.
Her assistant lingered in the aisle, carrying a bucket of vomit and mumbling about the short supply of beds. “With all these children moaning about, we had to put the babies on the floor. And the elderly—well, time was coming for them one way or another, right?” She looked up to find Mela frozen, and frowned deeply. “What is it now?”
“The spirits are talking.”
Ratu dropped the bucket on the ground, allowing little discolored chunks to splatter onto the hem of her dress. “Well, must we listen? After all they’ve done?”
“They might mean to give us a cure.”
“Or they’re doing what they always do: provoking us.”
Name That Genre #11
TITLE: YA
GENRE: Secret
Some Timekeepers saw the Schedules as a rigid set of rules never to be broken, but I always figured a little bit of creative interpretation never hurt anyone.
The dust was thick in the air and heavy on my tongue as I inhaled. With every breath, history took root in my lungs. A flowery perfume tried to hide the musty scent, but the smell of years long gone still lived on in the antique store.
“Change of plans,” I said as my assignment partner rounded the corner of the aisle. He jumped out of the way to avoid sending a teetering pile of old magazines crashing to the floor.
“Mik, you always do this.” Trent closed his eyes and sighed. “What was wrong with the original plan?”
“Too simple for a guy like that.” My gaze drifted over towards our target. “We’ll need something a little more drastic to get through his thick skull.”
GENRE: Secret
Some Timekeepers saw the Schedules as a rigid set of rules never to be broken, but I always figured a little bit of creative interpretation never hurt anyone.
The dust was thick in the air and heavy on my tongue as I inhaled. With every breath, history took root in my lungs. A flowery perfume tried to hide the musty scent, but the smell of years long gone still lived on in the antique store.
“Change of plans,” I said as my assignment partner rounded the corner of the aisle. He jumped out of the way to avoid sending a teetering pile of old magazines crashing to the floor.
“Mik, you always do this.” Trent closed his eyes and sighed. “What was wrong with the original plan?”
“Too simple for a guy like that.” My gaze drifted over towards our target. “We’ll need something a little more drastic to get through his thick skull.”
Name That Genre #10
TITLE: MG
GENRE: SECRET
It began with the fireflies, as magic often does. Jenny was in the field behind her grandparents’ house with her younger brother, chasing fireflies. She spied a good one, low-flying and lackadaisical, and followed it past the shed and into the darkening woods.
“Jen-ny,” Billy’s voice echoed through the trees. Jenny smiled. He was worse than Gran. That night, though, Jenny wouldn’t be bothered about Billy and his fretting. Or about her grumpy grandparents and their boring old house, or her always arguing parents a million miles away in Evanston. She scanned the woods like a prowling jaguar. She wanted that flashing light, and she was going to get it.
The light flared to her left. Jenny crept up to it. She had her blue jar, the one her dad gave her right before she left, tight in her hands. She lunged for the firefly, but it darted past a thin beech.
GENRE: SECRET
It began with the fireflies, as magic often does. Jenny was in the field behind her grandparents’ house with her younger brother, chasing fireflies. She spied a good one, low-flying and lackadaisical, and followed it past the shed and into the darkening woods.
“Jen-ny,” Billy’s voice echoed through the trees. Jenny smiled. He was worse than Gran. That night, though, Jenny wouldn’t be bothered about Billy and his fretting. Or about her grumpy grandparents and their boring old house, or her always arguing parents a million miles away in Evanston. She scanned the woods like a prowling jaguar. She wanted that flashing light, and she was going to get it.
The light flared to her left. Jenny crept up to it. She had her blue jar, the one her dad gave her right before she left, tight in her hands. She lunged for the firefly, but it darted past a thin beech.
Name That Genre #9
TITLE:
GENRE: Secret
Quinn tested the bookend’s weight. It has potential, she decided.
She launched it across the room, her frustration fueling the throw. The bookend connected with the floor- to- ceiling mirror. A solid hit. Shards of glass splintered from the point of impact, but none fell to the floor.
Quinn bunched her fists. She could feel her molars grinding together. This was not what she had been hoping for. A weapon of some sort would have been nice but the Facility wouldn’t allow her to escape, not again.
“Wonderful,” she muttered to the room. “Can’t even let us throw a tantrum properly. Just great.” She raised her hands to the security camera dangling in the corner. “WHAT? AFRAID WE’LL OFF OURSELVES BEFORE YOU GET THE CHANCE? IS THAT IT?”
No response.
Not that she expected one. The next person she would see was her escort . And, oh buddy, that wasn't going to be a joyful interaction.
GENRE: Secret
Quinn tested the bookend’s weight. It has potential, she decided.
She launched it across the room, her frustration fueling the throw. The bookend connected with the floor- to- ceiling mirror. A solid hit. Shards of glass splintered from the point of impact, but none fell to the floor.
Quinn bunched her fists. She could feel her molars grinding together. This was not what she had been hoping for. A weapon of some sort would have been nice but the Facility wouldn’t allow her to escape, not again.
“Wonderful,” she muttered to the room. “Can’t even let us throw a tantrum properly. Just great.” She raised her hands to the security camera dangling in the corner. “WHAT? AFRAID WE’LL OFF OURSELVES BEFORE YOU GET THE CHANCE? IS THAT IT?”
No response.
Not that she expected one. The next person she would see was her escort . And, oh buddy, that wasn't going to be a joyful interaction.
Name That Genre #8
TITLE: ADULT
GENRE: SECRET
When the car hit her, she landed twenty-one feet away. The impact with the car didn’t kill her. The fall - specifically the meeting of head and pavement - did.
I learned about the twenty-one feet, and the specific cause of death, from the police report. But it provided only slight refinement of information I already had.
The police report also mentioned that the lone witness hadn’t gotten the license plate number.
I’d been busy limping toward her, trying to reach her, ten steps behind just like I’d been for the past week. Only this time the ten steps were literal as well as metaphoric. The police report didn’t speculate on whether those ten steps made a difference, whether the witness might somehow have pulled her to safety, might even have caught her like some enormous fly ball settling into a second baseman’s glove.
I knew the truth, though....
GENRE: SECRET
When the car hit her, she landed twenty-one feet away. The impact with the car didn’t kill her. The fall - specifically the meeting of head and pavement - did.
I learned about the twenty-one feet, and the specific cause of death, from the police report. But it provided only slight refinement of information I already had.
The police report also mentioned that the lone witness hadn’t gotten the license plate number.
I’d been busy limping toward her, trying to reach her, ten steps behind just like I’d been for the past week. Only this time the ten steps were literal as well as metaphoric. The police report didn’t speculate on whether those ten steps made a difference, whether the witness might somehow have pulled her to safety, might even have caught her like some enormous fly ball settling into a second baseman’s glove.
I knew the truth, though....
Name That Genre #7
TITLE:
GENRE: Secret
The day after her grandmother died, Ivy Jane sat alone in the back yard breathing in the unexpected lilacs. The scent was jarring. Lilacs weren’t supposed to bloom in August, when it was too hot to move and the sky was just a blank space overhead.
“Dude, you trying to get a suntan or something?”
Ivy rolled her eyes at the Q-tip shaped shadow of her favorite cousin.
“Ha ha. Yeah. Cause I need one so bad. And since when did you start calling people ‘dude’?”
“Since I hardly ever see you, I guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me anymore.”
“What do you mean, ‘hardly ever see you.’ Wasn’t I with you yesterday?”
“You know what I mean.”
Hunter was right, thought Ivy sadly. He – and all the rest of her cousins – had changed a lot since she’d last visited, including the fact that he was now much taller than she was
GENRE: Secret
The day after her grandmother died, Ivy Jane sat alone in the back yard breathing in the unexpected lilacs. The scent was jarring. Lilacs weren’t supposed to bloom in August, when it was too hot to move and the sky was just a blank space overhead.
“Dude, you trying to get a suntan or something?”
Ivy rolled her eyes at the Q-tip shaped shadow of her favorite cousin.
“Ha ha. Yeah. Cause I need one so bad. And since when did you start calling people ‘dude’?”
“Since I hardly ever see you, I guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me anymore.”
“What do you mean, ‘hardly ever see you.’ Wasn’t I with you yesterday?”
“You know what I mean.”
Hunter was right, thought Ivy sadly. He – and all the rest of her cousins – had changed a lot since she’d last visited, including the fact that he was now much taller than she was
Name That Genre #6
TITLE: YA
GENRE: SECRET
Uncle William had returned over an hour ago, yet no summons had come.
Sage tugged her fingers as she paced the dark hallway, the rustle of her full skirt covering her footsteps. She’d seen the smugness on his face as he rode through the manor house gate and tossed the reins to the hostler. The look of having finally solved a vexing problem. Her lips twisted with satisfaction. An entire summer of pleading, obeying without complaint, being on her best behavior… all worth it today. They would finally be free of each other.
Someone in the village would need an apprentice— the herb shop or the candlemakers or weavers maybe. She’d sweep floors for the blacksmith if she had to. And she could keep her earnings. Most girls who worked had to support a convent orphanage or family, but the Broadmoors didn’t need the money, and Sage more than earned her keep as a tutor.
GENRE: SECRET
Uncle William had returned over an hour ago, yet no summons had come.
Sage tugged her fingers as she paced the dark hallway, the rustle of her full skirt covering her footsteps. She’d seen the smugness on his face as he rode through the manor house gate and tossed the reins to the hostler. The look of having finally solved a vexing problem. Her lips twisted with satisfaction. An entire summer of pleading, obeying without complaint, being on her best behavior… all worth it today. They would finally be free of each other.
Someone in the village would need an apprentice— the herb shop or the candlemakers or weavers maybe. She’d sweep floors for the blacksmith if she had to. And she could keep her earnings. Most girls who worked had to support a convent orphanage or family, but the Broadmoors didn’t need the money, and Sage more than earned her keep as a tutor.
Name That Genre #5
TITLE: Adult
GENRE: Secret
The silver cutter advanced on the dock in the half-light of early morning that bleached all color from the landscape. Dirty-white seabirds wheeled overhead, their squawks lost in the screaming wind. As the cutter filled the narrow passage between docks and breakwater, it churned water into steep waves that spilled over the decking and sloshed onto my sneakers. It hardly mattered. I was already soaked, and my hair had come loose from the ponytail and was whipping around my face. I jammed a handful of loose hair behind an ear and waited. A grinding noise. The cutter's captain had gone into reverse; its powerful twin thrusters churned, but still the cutter waltzed forward. Closer to the granite blocks that marked the end of the channel.
Coming into view behind the cutter was the abandoned yacht they'd found in the ocean off Spanish Cay and taken in tow. The yacht—fifteen tons and no working engine—surged ahead.
GENRE: Secret
The silver cutter advanced on the dock in the half-light of early morning that bleached all color from the landscape. Dirty-white seabirds wheeled overhead, their squawks lost in the screaming wind. As the cutter filled the narrow passage between docks and breakwater, it churned water into steep waves that spilled over the decking and sloshed onto my sneakers. It hardly mattered. I was already soaked, and my hair had come loose from the ponytail and was whipping around my face. I jammed a handful of loose hair behind an ear and waited. A grinding noise. The cutter's captain had gone into reverse; its powerful twin thrusters churned, but still the cutter waltzed forward. Closer to the granite blocks that marked the end of the channel.
Coming into view behind the cutter was the abandoned yacht they'd found in the ocean off Spanish Cay and taken in tow. The yacht—fifteen tons and no working engine—surged ahead.
Name That Genre #4
TITLE: YA
GENRE: Secret
Thierry stumbled, and slipped on the steep path leading from the forest. The iced gravel scuffed his bare knees and hands as he tried to break his fall. There was snow, why then did he wear some kind of weird shorts and a - tunic?!
He looked back the way he had come but had no memory of he came here or where he was. His heart drummed an allegro and a weird humming that appeared to come from the trail resonated in his ears. He had dropped a folded slip of paper on which was written a number. A man and two children dressed in winter outfits appeared below him. Thierry scrambled up and towards them.
"Could you please help me and call this number?" Thierry held out the paper, squashed now and blurred from the ice.
GENRE: Secret
Thierry stumbled, and slipped on the steep path leading from the forest. The iced gravel scuffed his bare knees and hands as he tried to break his fall. There was snow, why then did he wear some kind of weird shorts and a - tunic?!
He looked back the way he had come but had no memory of he came here or where he was. His heart drummed an allegro and a weird humming that appeared to come from the trail resonated in his ears. He had dropped a folded slip of paper on which was written a number. A man and two children dressed in winter outfits appeared below him. Thierry scrambled up and towards them.
"Could you please help me and call this number?" Thierry held out the paper, squashed now and blurred from the ice.
Name That Genre #3
TITLE: NA
GENRE: Secret
Starling twisted the pegs on the neck of her mandolin wondering how she should break her father’s heart. She’d never broken his heart before. Sure, he hadn’t liked all her boyfriends and he’d yelled at her few times about her grades but this was different. This was what he lived for and she was turning away from it.
“Check, check one, two,” her father adjusted his microphone as he spoke. His hair was thinner now, Starling thought but he’d worn the shirt she’d bought him last Christmas. It made him look slimmer. It also made her feel guiltier. Starling twisted another peg as her mom started tuning her fiddle. Her mom was probably the best musician of all of them, but it was her dad’s passion that kept them going.
“You almost ready?” the guy who ran the festival asked. He was a pot-bellied man in a cheap white shirt.
GENRE: Secret
Starling twisted the pegs on the neck of her mandolin wondering how she should break her father’s heart. She’d never broken his heart before. Sure, he hadn’t liked all her boyfriends and he’d yelled at her few times about her grades but this was different. This was what he lived for and she was turning away from it.
“Check, check one, two,” her father adjusted his microphone as he spoke. His hair was thinner now, Starling thought but he’d worn the shirt she’d bought him last Christmas. It made him look slimmer. It also made her feel guiltier. Starling twisted another peg as her mom started tuning her fiddle. Her mom was probably the best musician of all of them, but it was her dad’s passion that kept them going.
“You almost ready?” the guy who ran the festival asked. He was a pot-bellied man in a cheap white shirt.
Name That Genre #2
TITLE: Adult
GENRE: Secret
Foley stared at the name painted on the shop window: Manley and Munion Lock and Key. God how she wished she could scrape off Allison Manley's name. But the way business was going, the point could be moot by the end of the month. Allison had made of mess of Foley's life, but her death still brought in a number of lookie-loos who turned into customers.
Inside, the small lobby felt colder than the parking lot. Foley shivered and nudged up the thermostat. Metal shavings from the key grinder dotted the floor. Sweeping the place could wait. She lifted the walk-through section of the counter and entered the workshop.
Something felt wrong.
Her work area looked find. The bins of wire and alarm system components sat undisturbed. Nothing was out of place. She hurried to the safe, crouched and spun the dial. The lock clicked. She yanked the handle and pawed through the contents.
GENRE: Secret
Foley stared at the name painted on the shop window: Manley and Munion Lock and Key. God how she wished she could scrape off Allison Manley's name. But the way business was going, the point could be moot by the end of the month. Allison had made of mess of Foley's life, but her death still brought in a number of lookie-loos who turned into customers.
Inside, the small lobby felt colder than the parking lot. Foley shivered and nudged up the thermostat. Metal shavings from the key grinder dotted the floor. Sweeping the place could wait. She lifted the walk-through section of the counter and entered the workshop.
Something felt wrong.
Her work area looked find. The bins of wire and alarm system components sat undisturbed. Nothing was out of place. She hurried to the safe, crouched and spun the dial. The lock clicked. She yanked the handle and pawed through the contents.
Name That Genre #1
TITLE: YA
GENRE: Secret
“Elizabeth, are you ready to go?” I hear Mother call from the kitchen.
“Yes, I’ll be right there,” I lie, still not dressed. It's Sunday and I'm late, as usual. I grab the first dress I see. It doesn’t seem to matter much when my choices are the black dress, the dark black dress, or the other black dress. Shall I wear the one with the hole, the one with two holes, or the one the mouse chewed through?
“Elizabeth! We are going to be late, we need to leave,” I hear Mother call again, this time with a hint of impatience.
“I’ll be right there!”
After exchanging my white nightdress for the dark black dress that the mouse chewed through, I tie a white apron around my waist, attempting to hide the hole. I am nearly out the door when I realize I have forgotten my cap.
GENRE: Secret
“Elizabeth, are you ready to go?” I hear Mother call from the kitchen.
“Yes, I’ll be right there,” I lie, still not dressed. It's Sunday and I'm late, as usual. I grab the first dress I see. It doesn’t seem to matter much when my choices are the black dress, the dark black dress, or the other black dress. Shall I wear the one with the hole, the one with two holes, or the one the mouse chewed through?
“Elizabeth! We are going to be late, we need to leave,” I hear Mother call again, this time with a hint of impatience.
“I’ll be right there!”
After exchanging my white nightdress for the dark black dress that the mouse chewed through, I tie a white apron around my waist, attempting to hide the hole. I am nearly out the door when I realize I have forgotten my cap.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Another Success Story
In the author's own words:
Hi Authoress,
I’m writing with one of those indirect success stories. You've been a part of my writing journey for more than five years (and through FIVE different manuscripts). During those years, I've had three manuscripts accepted into your Baker’s Dozen contest and two into the Secret Agent contest. The feedback from all was invaluable.
In February 2013, my YA novel, FACING FIRE, was a winner in the Secret Agent Contest. While I wasn't offered representation after that contest, it was the impetus for a rewrite that garnered my agent, JL Stermer, a few months later. The novel is now called BURN GIRL and debuts September 1 from Albert Whitman and Company.
So, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for all you've done for aspiring authors. The list of beneficiaries is endless -- far more than those of us who've signed with agents or had books published. I smile to think of the ripple effects in the writing community to this day.
I want to remind writers to keep writing – sometimes it take two, three or more books before we land on the right one. And to keep sane throughout the process, I encourage them to take part in supportive writing communities like the one you so generously created.
Mandy Mikulencak (DurangoWriter)
Hi Authoress,
I’m writing with one of those indirect success stories. You've been a part of my writing journey for more than five years (and through FIVE different manuscripts). During those years, I've had three manuscripts accepted into your Baker’s Dozen contest and two into the Secret Agent contest. The feedback from all was invaluable.
In February 2013, my YA novel, FACING FIRE, was a winner in the Secret Agent Contest. While I wasn't offered representation after that contest, it was the impetus for a rewrite that garnered my agent, JL Stermer, a few months later. The novel is now called BURN GIRL and debuts September 1 from Albert Whitman and Company.
So, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for all you've done for aspiring authors. The list of beneficiaries is endless -- far more than those of us who've signed with agents or had books published. I smile to think of the ripple effects in the writing community to this day.
I want to remind writers to keep writing – sometimes it take two, three or more books before we land on the right one. And to keep sane throughout the process, I encourage them to take part in supportive writing communities like the one you so generously created.
Mandy Mikulencak (DurangoWriter)
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Name That Genre--Call For Submissions
(Note: The instructions below are DIFFERENT FROM NORMAL. Please read carefully!)
WILL YOUR READERS KNOW WHAT YOUR GENRE IS IN THE FIRST 150 WORDS OF YOUR STORY?
Think about it. Settings can be created with the most subtle touch. A mention of 3 moons in the night sky screams science fiction. A woman spilling coffee on her blouse while waiting to meet the handsome new lawyer in the firm strongly suggests women's fiction. Pa coming in from the fields because it's begun to hail hints that we're probably in 19th-century America.
Do your first 150 words paint the picture? Want to find out?
HERE'S HOW IT WORKS:
1. Use the web form to submit your first 150 words. IMPORTANT: Under "TITLE", ONLY LEAVE THE CATEGORY. That means ADULT, NA, YA, or MG. NO TITLE! Under "GENRE", TYPE "SECRET".
2. Got that? TITLE = CATEGORY ONLY. GENRE = "SECRET".
3. All genres are welcomed EXCEPT erotica or erotic romance.
4. Submission will open at noon EDT TODAY (Tuesday) and will close at 8 PM EDT.
5. THIS WILL BE A LOTTERY. The Bot will choose 40 entries to post on the blog.
6. Winning entries will post on Thursday, April 9.
THE FEEDBACK PART:
1. The first line of your feedback should be YOUR GENRE GUESS. After you guess, you can leave any additional comments that you think may be helpful. NOTE: These comments should focus on THE WORLDBUILDING/SETTING OF EACH EXCERPT. Full-blown critiques ARE NOT NECESSARY.
2. Feedback/guessing may continue through the weekend. THE TEN ENTRIES WITH THE MOST CORRECT GUESSES will be invited to submit their first 300 words for public critique on the blog (next week).
BONUS:
3. Each time you leave feedback for one of the 10 winning entries, you will be entered in a drawing to receive a FREE 3-page critique from Authoress Edits. That means you've got a maximum of TEN chances to win!
Questions? Post them below!
WILL YOUR READERS KNOW WHAT YOUR GENRE IS IN THE FIRST 150 WORDS OF YOUR STORY?
Think about it. Settings can be created with the most subtle touch. A mention of 3 moons in the night sky screams science fiction. A woman spilling coffee on her blouse while waiting to meet the handsome new lawyer in the firm strongly suggests women's fiction. Pa coming in from the fields because it's begun to hail hints that we're probably in 19th-century America.
Do your first 150 words paint the picture? Want to find out?
HERE'S HOW IT WORKS:
1. Use the web form to submit your first 150 words. IMPORTANT: Under "TITLE", ONLY LEAVE THE CATEGORY. That means ADULT, NA, YA, or MG. NO TITLE! Under "GENRE", TYPE "SECRET".
2. Got that? TITLE = CATEGORY ONLY. GENRE = "SECRET".
3. All genres are welcomed EXCEPT erotica or erotic romance.
4. Submission will open at noon EDT TODAY (Tuesday) and will close at 8 PM EDT.
5. THIS WILL BE A LOTTERY. The Bot will choose 40 entries to post on the blog.
6. Winning entries will post on Thursday, April 9.
THE FEEDBACK PART:
1. The first line of your feedback should be YOUR GENRE GUESS. After you guess, you can leave any additional comments that you think may be helpful. NOTE: These comments should focus on THE WORLDBUILDING/SETTING OF EACH EXCERPT. Full-blown critiques ARE NOT NECESSARY.
2. Feedback/guessing may continue through the weekend. THE TEN ENTRIES WITH THE MOST CORRECT GUESSES will be invited to submit their first 300 words for public critique on the blog (next week).
BONUS:
3. Each time you leave feedback for one of the 10 winning entries, you will be entered in a drawing to receive a FREE 3-page critique from Authoress Edits. That means you've got a maximum of TEN chances to win!
Questions? Post them below!
Monday, April 6, 2015
Happy Birthday MSFV!
Miss Snark's First Victim turned 7 on April 4. The hard-to-believe-ness of that doesn't bear repeating.
This blog post from 2 years ago, though, does. For our fifth birthday, I compiled a collection of memorable posts from the first 5 years of this blog. So here they are again, for your enjoyment:
READ MEMORABLE BLOG POSTS HERE
And here are a few of my favorites from the 2 past years:
Why I'm Not Self-Publishing (right now)
MSFV Success Story Authors at EMLA
Our Genre Mash-up Group Story
Also: HEADS UP! Tomorrow I will announce submissions for this week's critique round: NAME THAT GENRE!
(Read about our last round HERE. Fresh submission guidelines will post tomorrow.)
This blog post from 2 years ago, though, does. For our fifth birthday, I compiled a collection of memorable posts from the first 5 years of this blog. So here they are again, for your enjoyment:
READ MEMORABLE BLOG POSTS HERE
And here are a few of my favorites from the 2 past years:
Why I'm Not Self-Publishing (right now)
MSFV Success Story Authors at EMLA
Our Genre Mash-up Group Story
Also: HEADS UP! Tomorrow I will announce submissions for this week's critique round: NAME THAT GENRE!
(Read about our last round HERE. Fresh submission guidelines will post tomorrow.)
Friday, April 3, 2015
Friday Fricassee
Happy First Friday of April!
April = spring
April = blog anniversary (7 years next week!)
April = my birthday (I've decided to celebrate for an entire weekend this year. Absolutely.)
So, first things first: I want to thank each one of you who took the time to offer your advice and encouragement last Friday. At first, I started to swim through the comments, meaning to respond to each one individually. But that didn't quite work for me. So please accept this public post as my heartfelt thank you to EACH OF YOU.
You offered me clarity. You helped me to see possibilities I couldn't see. I am so grateful.
I don't have an update for you. I'm supposed to know by the end of today whether or not I've made it to the next step, which I assume will be an interview. No matter what happens, though, I feel incredibly peaceful about it. What a precious gift you've given me!
Anyway. Let's talk about writing stuff. Specifically, QUERYING.
I admittedly haven't chatted about queries much recently. This week on Twitter, though, there was a small kerfuffle over a query letter sent by some hapless writer who apparently copied every agent in the Northern Hemisphere on the same email. Some of the agents, in their rejection emails, started to "reply to all", so it became a monstrous thing for a short while, much to the chagrin of the affected agents.
I'm absolutely certain that nobody HERE sent that query letter. For real.
I do want to throw a couple things out there, though, to those of you who are preparing to embark on your first--or subsequent--round of queries:
1. If nobody else has read your manuscript, PLEASE DO NOT QUERY AGENTS. It has surprised me to sometimes receive submissions for my editing business in which the authors inform me that I'm the first person to read the manuscript, and that they're planning on querying after receiving my feedback.
No. First of all, we all need critique partners. And that word is plural because we need to receive feedback from different people. "Different people" doesn't mean Mom or our fifth grade English teacher or our best friend. It means WRITERS WE CLICK WITH AND TRUST.
Please don't give your manuscript a once-through and then send it out. Please don't hire an editor--even if it's me--as your one-step-before-querying. Give your manuscript the time and attention it deserves. Make sure it REALLY SPARKLES before you send it out there.
2. Please carefully research agents before you send your queries. I'm sure this is a no-brainer for most of you, but when things like this week's query-to-thousands hit the internet, it reminds me that, yes, there are folks out there who are just beginning to navigate the scary waters.
It's easier than ever to research agents nowadays! When I first started querying (shortly after the discovery of fire), agents were just taking baby steps toward accepting e-queries. Agent Kristin Nelson actually had a list on her blog of agents who accepted email, and I remember being absolutely thrilled by this. Now, a decade later, it's hard to find an agent who will still accept snail mail. And it's also hard to beg the excuse that you don't know how to go about finding out which agents represent your genre. Almost all agencies and/or individual agents have web sites. Many have blogs. There are wonderful web sites like QueryTracker that offer easy-to-navigate agent information in one, convenient place. And, yes, there's Twitter (which is NOT for accosting/querying/harassing agents--but that's another post altogether).
So do your homework, please. Represent yourself professionally and thoughtfully, and you will have a fighting chance of rising to the top.
If you're in the midst of querying right now, give a shout out in the comment box. That way, we can cheer you on and offer a few high fives and fist bumps and probably something alcoholic.
Have a fabulous weekend, everyone! And thanks again for being wonderful.
April = spring
April = blog anniversary (7 years next week!)
April = my birthday (I've decided to celebrate for an entire weekend this year. Absolutely.)
So, first things first: I want to thank each one of you who took the time to offer your advice and encouragement last Friday. At first, I started to swim through the comments, meaning to respond to each one individually. But that didn't quite work for me. So please accept this public post as my heartfelt thank you to EACH OF YOU.
You offered me clarity. You helped me to see possibilities I couldn't see. I am so grateful.
I don't have an update for you. I'm supposed to know by the end of today whether or not I've made it to the next step, which I assume will be an interview. No matter what happens, though, I feel incredibly peaceful about it. What a precious gift you've given me!
Anyway. Let's talk about writing stuff. Specifically, QUERYING.
I admittedly haven't chatted about queries much recently. This week on Twitter, though, there was a small kerfuffle over a query letter sent by some hapless writer who apparently copied every agent in the Northern Hemisphere on the same email. Some of the agents, in their rejection emails, started to "reply to all", so it became a monstrous thing for a short while, much to the chagrin of the affected agents.
I'm absolutely certain that nobody HERE sent that query letter. For real.
I do want to throw a couple things out there, though, to those of you who are preparing to embark on your first--or subsequent--round of queries:
1. If nobody else has read your manuscript, PLEASE DO NOT QUERY AGENTS. It has surprised me to sometimes receive submissions for my editing business in which the authors inform me that I'm the first person to read the manuscript, and that they're planning on querying after receiving my feedback.
No. First of all, we all need critique partners. And that word is plural because we need to receive feedback from different people. "Different people" doesn't mean Mom or our fifth grade English teacher or our best friend. It means WRITERS WE CLICK WITH AND TRUST.
Please don't give your manuscript a once-through and then send it out. Please don't hire an editor--even if it's me--as your one-step-before-querying. Give your manuscript the time and attention it deserves. Make sure it REALLY SPARKLES before you send it out there.
2. Please carefully research agents before you send your queries. I'm sure this is a no-brainer for most of you, but when things like this week's query-to-thousands hit the internet, it reminds me that, yes, there are folks out there who are just beginning to navigate the scary waters.
It's easier than ever to research agents nowadays! When I first started querying (shortly after the discovery of fire), agents were just taking baby steps toward accepting e-queries. Agent Kristin Nelson actually had a list on her blog of agents who accepted email, and I remember being absolutely thrilled by this. Now, a decade later, it's hard to find an agent who will still accept snail mail. And it's also hard to beg the excuse that you don't know how to go about finding out which agents represent your genre. Almost all agencies and/or individual agents have web sites. Many have blogs. There are wonderful web sites like QueryTracker that offer easy-to-navigate agent information in one, convenient place. And, yes, there's Twitter (which is NOT for accosting/querying/harassing agents--but that's another post altogether).
So do your homework, please. Represent yourself professionally and thoughtfully, and you will have a fighting chance of rising to the top.
If you're in the midst of querying right now, give a shout out in the comment box. That way, we can cheer you on and offer a few high fives and fist bumps and probably something alcoholic.
Have a fabulous weekend, everyone! And thanks again for being wonderful.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
MSFV Published Authors
Sometimes I forget that our newer readers may not be aware of the number of success stories directly related to this blog's contests/auctions. Peter Salomon has just finished updating our PUBLISHED AUTHOR PAGE, on which you will find 36 (yes! 36!) published authors whose journeys to publication were either directly or indirectly related to their participation on Miss Snark's First Victim.
Take a minute or two to BROWSE THROUGH THIS LIST OF 36 AUTHORS. (Which, by the way, you can always find by clicking on the "SUCCESS STORIES" tab above.)
And thank you, Peter, for championing our success stories! (And for being my creeptastic crit partner. Of course.)
Take a minute or two to BROWSE THROUGH THIS LIST OF 36 AUTHORS. (Which, by the way, you can always find by clicking on the "SUCCESS STORIES" tab above.)
And thank you, Peter, for championing our success stories! (And for being my creeptastic crit partner. Of course.)
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Reposting the Ode
I'm still digesting your collective wisdom and advise from last week's Friday Fricassee. "Blown away" doesn't adequately express it (and is clichéd, at any rate).
So here's a reposting of the Ode I first wrote in 2009. It still applies--perhaps even more so.
Enjoy. And I'll move things back to some semblance of normal around here. I promise. :)
Ode To My Readers
Oh writers all, who browse this blog
And read its rambling prose,
Who share with me the ups and downs
Of writers' joys and woes;
I raise my feathered hat to you
For all that you have shared --
Your thoughts, your hearts, your manuscripts
(For those of you who've dared).
You've bared your souls and shared your dreams
And asked your questions, too;
I count myself so fortunate
To walk this path with you.
For writing is a solitary,
Lonely sort of thing,
Despite the satisfaction
And the pleasure it may bring.
So reaching out across the miles
Of crowded cyberspace
To touch the lives of other scribes
With neither voice nor face
Is something that we dearly need,
To keep our muses fed,
To offer up encouragement
When hope is nearly dead,
To shout "Hooray!" at each success
And "Boo!" when things go wrong,
To lovingly point out that excess
Adverbs don't belong.
So join me while I celebrate
The gift of knowing you,
And thank you all for coming here
And doing what you do.
You're strong, you're brave, you're talented --
Keep going, never doubt!
For living life with passion
Is what life is all about.
So here's a reposting of the Ode I first wrote in 2009. It still applies--perhaps even more so.
Enjoy. And I'll move things back to some semblance of normal around here. I promise. :)
Ode To My Readers
Oh writers all, who browse this blog
And read its rambling prose,
Who share with me the ups and downs
Of writers' joys and woes;
I raise my feathered hat to you
For all that you have shared --
Your thoughts, your hearts, your manuscripts
(For those of you who've dared).
You've bared your souls and shared your dreams
And asked your questions, too;
I count myself so fortunate
To walk this path with you.
For writing is a solitary,
Lonely sort of thing,
Despite the satisfaction
And the pleasure it may bring.
So reaching out across the miles
Of crowded cyberspace
To touch the lives of other scribes
With neither voice nor face
Is something that we dearly need,
To keep our muses fed,
To offer up encouragement
When hope is nearly dead,
To shout "Hooray!" at each success
And "Boo!" when things go wrong,
To lovingly point out that excess
Adverbs don't belong.
So join me while I celebrate
The gift of knowing you,
And thank you all for coming here
And doing what you do.
You're strong, you're brave, you're talented --
Keep going, never doubt!
For living life with passion
Is what life is all about.