She’s a Little Bit Country…..

…and I’m a little bit Rock & Roll!  I’ll bet money that you can't guess the theme of this post from its title…or the first line.  Let’s see if I collect.

There’s something that I’ve always wondered about novelists…or more specifically, the craft of writing a novel…and that is the dualism involved.  I’ve read authors who command the written word so beautifully that it takes my breath away, but their plots are so thin it’s a wonder they could support the weight of an entire book. On the other hand I’ve also read books by authors with intricately devised plots, but the writing itself bordered on pedestrian. I’m going to call the writers who excel in prose…Country…and the delightfully torturous plotters…Rock & Roll.  Now do you see where I’m headed with this?

In my mind, the ability to paint a picture with words that intoxicate a reader, and the capacity to develop a compelling storyline that both engages the reader and keeps them wondering what comes next, are two different skill-sets.  As I pointed out above, writers can definitely demonstrate strength with one particular skill over another, but both can (and should) be cultivated or improved. But whether your own writing style leans towards Country…or Rock & Roll…doesn’t really matter because reader’s tastes follow the same proclivity, so there is a market for both.

Does that mean the perfect balance of the two ensures success? Is a duet between a country singer with laryngitis and a tone deaf rock star something you’d want to listen to?  Quality still supersedes everything else!

Which skill do you think is harder to develop? Here's a better question -- which skill is holding you back from obtaining your goals? I’m aware there are many more elements involved in crafting a solid manuscript worthy of publication, but to me, these two are cornerstones of the whole process.  I will offer an observation.  I can definitely state that my own strengths are more Rock & Roll (plot) than Country (prose), and the authors I read regularly are also so inclined. What I have noticed over time is that the prose of these authors has remained fairly constant, but certain books of theirs suffer dramatically in the plot department.  For me, Stephen King is a prime example. It’s almost as if he phoned in his effort on a few of his books.  So, what does that say about the two skill-sets? Food for thought and interesting debate-fodder. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

So, do I collect on my bet?  Are you Country? Rock & Roll? Rockabilly? Care to share?

WRiTE CLUB - Skirmish #4

Here I am again to offer a chance in the ring for the writers who submitted an anonymous sample of their work to WRiTE CLUB 2012, but weren’t lucky enough to be chosen to compete. There are no prizes to be won, or further advancement beyond this one bout, but as all of the other contestants have discovered before them -- there is still plenty to be gained…and learned. I will post one of these skirmishes each week until I run out of contestants.


In the near corner, weighing in at 498 words, is KateMarie.


The bottles clinked brightly when she sat down on the bed. The first two she drank as she continued reading, absent-mindedly fingering her bruised knee. Biking had made it worse, not better. She put down the book and leaned back on her headboard with the third beer, staring out the window at the darkening sky.

The little girl at the shelter had clung so tightly to her mother. Watching them had made something in her throat go tight. She was jealous of them, even though they were homeless.

Ava slid off the bed and jerked her curtain shut. She didn’t expect her father to remember it was her birthday, and she didn’t expect him to care. If he was home, she would want him to leave. She just wanted him to want to be home. No. Not him; just someone. She wanted someone, anyone, to want to be home.

She wanted her mom to have lived. She rubbed the ridges of the burn scar on her finger with her thumb. Pictures of her mom growing up had hung in her grandparents’ house; she took one when she left. Her mother held her so carefully- a red, pinched-looking baby in a polka-dot sweater. Cassandra and Ava, the back said.

She figured her mother was twenty-two at the time. Her dad never discussed her, so she didn’t know for sure. She had soft brown hair and the kindest eyes Ava had ever seen. Blue eyes. Ava had stared into them so much she could see them smiling at her even though the picture was in the drawer of the nightstand.

Her own eyes were not blue. They were brown, like her father’s, and she hated them. The beer washed down her throat bitterly, forcing her eyes to water and filling her head with yeasty vapors.

She finished the third beer. Other kids got birthday cakes. They got to make a wish list for gifts. Friends came. Parents said things like, “I love you, happy birthday.” She twisted the top off the fourth bottle.

She couldn’t remember most of the year she turned eight. She remembered her grandfather’s death- his white face and cold hand. She remembered her grandmother’s desolate eyes, and how she had grown more tired every day after his death. Then, on a Sunday, the rocking chair that always held her grandmother and a storybook for Ava sat, motionless, in the sunlight from the window.

She clearly remembered moving back to her father. Isolated instances over the next few months were sharp as glass, but she knew there were gaps. The rest of that year was blank. Looking back, she wasn’t surprised she had imaginary childhood friends.

Those friends hadn’t stayed long. When she turned nine, she told the dragonfly creatures they weren’t real, and she was very sorry, but they couldn’t visit her anymore. Sending them away hurt, but she thought not pretending was best.
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And in the far corner, boasting 499 words, is Qwerty.  

I followed the girl with the pink doe eyes and white hair home.

I probably didn't need to. I'd already memorized her earthy scent, but I hid behind the staircase and waited anyway. I didn't have to wait long. A total of eight seconds went by before she ran from the kitchen, right past me, and out the door.

The cloying scent of tears made my nostrils flare.

Without thinking twice about what I was doing, I rolled the gold coin in my mouth from one cheek to the other and followed at my own leisurely pace. I knew I'd hear from Ever later. But whatever. Sometimes he took his Guardian post a little too seriously.

Outside, I was glad I'd decided not to let her out of my sights. The air reeked of vomit and piss. I might have been able to pick up her scent again, but I would have wasted too much time doing it.

Disgusting humans. Did they have any clue how much they stank?

I bit down on my coin and swallowed the juices. The metal overwhelmed my taste buds. It was enough to let me think past the haze of stench. I walked to the end of the driveway. The girl had already made it halfway down the road, but I could see her just as well as if she stood two feet in front of me. She had one arm wrapped around her chest, her hand clenched against the broken shirt strap.

I licked my bottom lip. With no one around, I didn't need to hide what I was really doing, but habit had a way of taking over. Cotton and earth buzzed against my tongue; the girl's scent. I sniffed, both confirming and solidifying the scent into my senses.

I followed her, careful to stay far behind. I didn't want to dwell on what her scent meant, but I couldn't ignore it either. Humans smelled like cheap metal, potent and nauseating. Only certain types of four-legged animals carried a scent like hers.

And everyone in my clan had been warned to look out for that scent. My own father had spent the last thousand years praying he'd never smell it again.

The girl's pace picked up and a warm, intoxicating scent filled the air. My mouth moistened and I clenched my fists as my muscles tensed. The smell made my head swim and before I knew it I'd halved the distance between the girl and me. I forced my legs to freeze and I prayed for a cool wind. Anything to clean the air of her fear.

The girl looked over her shoulder and wide, terrified eyes roamed the tree line where I stood. Sweet, warm fear oozed around me, enveloping me. I closed my eyes and held my breath. But it was too late. Her fear was on my tongue, her terror clinging to my nostrils.

My tongue flicked out against my will and I moaned.

And then I lunged.
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Now it’s time for you to tell us the one that resonates with you the most in the comments, along with a brief critique if you have time.


Thank you for taking the time to help these writers out. See you again next week. :)

A to Z Challenge - 2013

April is just around the bend and that means the 2013 version of the A to Z Challenge is almost here.  Arlee Bird, the incomparable mastermind behind the challenge has come up with another stellar cast of co-hosts to help organize this year’s event which I’d like to introduce to you today.  Isn’t our shiny new badge at the top of this post cute?  Last year was the first time I participated in the challenge and in addition to thoroughly enjoying the experience, it also proved to be an excellent writing exercise.  Go figure!

Don’t know what I’m talking about?  Let me take moment to ‘splain -- adding your name to the linky list located on the A to Z site (which won’t become active until the end of January) means you’ll be signing up to blog every day (except Sundays) during the month of April.  There are 26 days in April after you subtract the Sundays, which corresponds to the 26 letters of the alphabet, and therefore 26 blog posts.  Blog posts about what, you ask?  Any topic themed around the letter of the alphabet corresponding to that day.  Day 1 = A, Day 2 = B, Day 3 = C, and so on until you finish on April 30th with the theme based on the letter Z.  It doesn't even have to be a word--it can be a proper noun, the letter used as a symbol, or the letter itself.  Some participants choose an over-arching theme to tie all of their 26 posts around, but others (like me) just wing it.  Whichever way you decide to go, its an exhilarating experience and one that shouldn't be missed.

Here is a list of this year’s awesome co-hosts, many of which work year round to support the challenge.  I am honored to stand alongside them in organizing this challenge!

Co-Hosts:

Arlee Bird @ Tossing It Out

Damyanti Biswas @ Amlokiblogs

Alex J. Cavanaugh @ Alex J. Cavanaugh

Tina Downey @ Life is Good

DL Hammons @ Cruising Altitude 2.0

Jeremy Hawkins @ Retro-Zombie

Shannon Lawrence @ The Warrior Muse

Matthew MacNish @ The QQQE

Konstanz Silverbow @ No Thought 2 Small

Stephen Tremp @ Breakthrough Blogs

Livia Peterson @ Leave it to Livia

L. Diane Wolfe @ Spunk on a Stick

Nicole @ The Madlab Post

Remember, registration doesn’t start until January 30^th  but time to start spreading the word begins today.  How about it?  Are you up for a challenge?  Who wants to come out and play in April?

PS. I’m also doing a guest-post at Cassie Mae’s blog today where I discuss what equestrian footwear and explosive devices have in common. Why don’t you drop by?  :)

WRiTE CLUB - Skirmish #3

Here I am again to offer a chance in the ring for the writers who submitted an anonymous sample of their work to WRiTE CLUB 2012, but weren’t lucky enough to be chosen to compete.  There are no prizes to be won, or further advancement beyond this one bout, but as all of the other contestants have discovered before them -- there is still plenty to be gained…and learned. I will post one of these skirmishes each week until I run out of contestants.

In the near corner…weighing in at 495 words…I give you…Little Dragon.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the flat wet stones that marked the path, grass grown long between them. Kaida stepped lightly, pulling her hood up before she stepped into the dark of the wood, letting it swallow her. The ground slanted down sharply, the smooth flat stones turning into heavy into blocks that angled down to the river and a stone wharf. It was one of many the royal family maintained. This one, however, had been forgotten.

Or so she’d been told.

It didn’t look forgotten, she thought, catching bright glimpses of it each time the lightning flashed. No mold, no leaves skittering about, no debris at all. Everything neat as a pin. Wooden stairs descended to the river and the long stone wharf where a single boat rocked lightly at the dock.

Kaida paused and sniffed the air, scanned the shadowy tangle of wood and bramble ten times at least before the smallest of movements caught her eye. 

Her hands went to her knives. “Show yourself,” she said, pitching her voice low.

A moment later a light flared, and she let go an inaudible sigh and relaxed her hands, dropping to one knee.

“Master,” she said.

“I am glad to see you have not grown soft and forgetful…” he said, “Court life can dull the senses, I’m told.”

He stepped out from the trees and the dark, coming to meet her at the top of the stairs. He reached out and took her hand.

At once the rain ceased above them. It still fell hard and fast, splattering against stone, filling cracks, hitting leaf and branch. But not a drop touched their heads.

Kaida didn’t ask how, only envied the trick and wondered how long until she learned it.

“Soon,” he said with a small smile, sensing her thoughts, “But first, the matter at hand, the reason you were sent here.”

She looked up at him, hope fluttering in her chest. Had the time come at last?

“Are you ready?”

Kaida stood up straight, shoulders back. “I am ready, Master.”

He nodded and withdrew something from his robes: a small wooden box.

“It’s a puzzle box,” he said, handing it to her. “Inside you will find two scrolls and a few ingredients I know you will find useful. Remember your training.”

Kaida went to kneel again but he stopped her. “Complete this task and you will be an Adept, Kaida; you will bow to no one.”

She swallowed hard.

This was what she’d been hoping for, working toward. All she had to do now was succeed.

“Thank-you, my Master,” she said, taking the box and folding her shawl over it.

“Go then, and be careful,” he said, adding, “And if you run you might not get wet!”

He let go her hand and passed his hand over her head. Immediately she felt it, the invisible umbrella, shielding her.

She ran, hearing his laugh follow, a taunt to test her.

 

It was time to kill the King.
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And in the far corner, boasting 421 words, let me introduce to you…Caffeine Queen. 

I was prepared for the flashbacks of my life, but watching the experiences of my children…I just don’t know how I could have prepared for that. I watched as Jack arrived at a door, made sure the box holding the diamond ring was tucked deep in his coat pocket, tapped on the door twice and opened it.  “Megan?” 

His entrance startled a kissing couple. 

“Jack!” The girl was surprised to see Jack. And nervous. Not the good kind. “Hey…I didn’t know you were coming.”  Jack was silent, staring at the girl in front of him.

“Hey hun, who’s this?”  The man wrapped his arm around her shoulders. 

“This is Jack.” She bit her lip and took a deep breath, “Jack, this is my…” Oh no.

The man took his arms from across her shoulders and extended his hand. “Fiancé – Paul. She probably just hadn’t thought about saying it before. We’ve only been engaged for a few hours. Funny how the holidays bring out the romance, you know?”  Oh, my Jack.

Jack nodded his head once, shaking the hand but looking beyond the owner. “Seems to be the case.  Nice to meet you Paul.”  Jack was quiet, his gaze locked. “I…just…” He cleared his throat, looked at the floor and continued, “stopped by to let you know that I got accepted to the University of Washington’s Medical school.  I…was thinking about taking the summer off, but…” He looked at the girl in front of him.  “I just wanted to tell you in person.”

I wanted to jump into the past, tell little Megan dearest that girls don’t do this to great guys like Jack when Granny spoke.

“Nora, you can’t change it. Your only option is to watch and understand. Stay focused.” I nodded.  Looking on the replica of Jack, the hurt he was trying to hide, I had to put my hand over my mouth to hear the rest of the conversation

Paul was still all smiles.“That’s great news, man,” He looked at Megan. “Isn’t that great hun?”  Megan stood silent.  Paul looked between Jack and Megan, clearly confused.  I wondered if he ever found out the truth.

“Congrats on the engagement you two,” Jack turned to the door. “I hope you are happy.” Jack’s departure was the start of his life filled with what had been uncharacteristic silence. In silence, he pulled the door closed. In silence, he walked down the stairs. His silence even became an act of dismissal when he refused to turn as Megan called his name.

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Now it’s time for you to tell us the one that resonates with you the most in the comments, along with a brief critique if you have time.

Thank you for taking the time to help these writers out.  See you again next week. :)

Making Good

A couple of months ago when I was up to my ears with WRiTE CLUB business, I happened to be tagged by some fellow bloggers (Melissa Hurst, Amanda Borenstadt) for the Be Inspired Meme. I was appreciative of the recognition of course, but had to delay posting my follow up until things settled down a bit.  I always try to make good on my promises, so guess what…today's that day!

Being the habitual rule breaker that I am, I’m going to answer the ten questions that are part of the meme involving my book, but I’ll forgo passing it along to anyone else. Is that a collective sigh I just heard? :) But if any of you are inspired to pick up the torch and run with it, by all means consider yourself tagged.

1. What is the name of your book?  I have one book (Mystery/Thriller) that I’m actively querying, but for this meme I’m going to focus on my YA Paranormal book that is in the revision stage. The tentative name of that book is MOVING FEAR.

2. Where did the idea for your book come from? Oddly enough, an offhanded Facebook post by one of my blogging buddies.  *waves at Summer*

3. In what genre would you classify your book? YA Paranormal, age range 13+.

4. If you had to pick actors to play your characters in a movie rendition, which would you choose? Ever heard of Pinterest? I have a Pinterest board specifically dedicated to my book where I’ve tagged the actors who fit the profile I was aiming for.  You can find that board HERE.

5. Give us a one sentence synopsis of your book. Sixteen year old Chace Gidden and his family have relocated for the last time, but now a terrifying presence has moved in with them, something ancient, evil...and determined to toy with them until it fulfills the outcome that has remained unchanged throughout time. Death! (okay…so I cheated a bit.)

6. Is your book already published? Not even close.  I have at least one major revision to take it through before I even let my critique partners see it.

7. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? My goal is to land an agent with this book, but I’m not against self-publication if that what it takes.

8. How long did it take you to write your book?  It took two months to outline it, then another four months to write it.  I’m guessing it will take another 8-12 months before its ready to be queried.

9. What other books in the same genre would you compare it to?  I see my book as an amalgamation of any Hardy Boys book and Stephen Kings IT and/or CHRISTINE.

10. Tell us anything that might pique our interest in your book. In order to save his family, Chace must shed the loner mentality he built up after so many military relocation's and befriend both the socially challenged nerd next door whose nickname at school is 'Villain', and the cute but strong-willed tom-boy that watches over him.  Together the three of them race to figure out the secrets of a mysterious black box before it's terrible legacy is fulfilled yet again.