Thursday, July 29, 2010

Okay. I'm employing the lazy method of updating.

1. I'm on my first round of editing for Red December Skies. And can I just say that if I see another 'finally' or 'wondered' again, I will cry? I know many authors use certain words way too many times, and mine are apparently those two (and a whole lot more). I definitely relied too much on adverbs when I was working on December. But I know better now, and I am cutting out the deadwood. Adelante!

2. I've finally decided to read the Wake series by Lisa McMann. I was sort of hesitant initially because it's written in a sort of third-person diary form (with distracting times and dates) and the writing style was sort of disjointed and curt. For example:

January 1, 2006, 1:31 a.m.

Janie sprints through the snowy yards from two streets away and slips quietly through the front door of her house.

And then.

Everything goes black.

She grips her head, cursing her mother under her breath as the whirling kaleidoscope of colors builds and throws her off balance. She bumps against the wall and holds on, and then slowly lowers herself blindly to the floor as her fingers go numb. The last thing she needs is to crack her head open. Again.

She's too tired to fight it right now. Too tired to pull herself out of it. Plants her cheek on the cold tile floor. Gathers her strength so she can try later, in case the dream doesn't end quickly.

Breathes.

Watches.


It makes for easy reading, and I know she's trying to create immediacy, but the curt sentences can get a little annoying after a while. Still, that's not the main point.

I'm reading Fade now, the second of the Wake series, because I couldn't find the first one in the library today. And my heart plummeted after I learnt what the book is about. Because its premise sounds like my Dream-catchers. In fact, the main character in the series is a dream-catcher. Oh, they're different of course, McMann's dream-catcher and mine, but the idea is still there. I realised that dreams are not an uncommon theme for fantasy fiction. Take Inception, for example. Dream-hacking. And Wake: ditto. Mine doesn't really dabble in crime/thriller like those two, but the idea is still there. I don't want people to think I copied their ideas or anything.

Anyway, I decided to read McMann's series. Because one of the most common advice literary agents and editors give to writers is to read widely in your genre and out of your genre. Know what books and ideas are out there so that you can come up with something entirely original and fresh. So call this market research. That said, I'm enjoying Fade so far.

School's starting next week, by the way! Does it make me a geek to be excited about the things I'm going to learn this coming semester?

Oh, who am I kidding. I am a geek.

Friday, July 23, 2010

So close!

Dear Joyce,

Thanks for sending Red December Skies. Your writing is excellent and we love the premise. However, it seems that the voice in Ethel's and Jerry's chapters sound too similar. We also felt that the beginning could use more tension and a faster pace. We're going to have to pass on offering representation, but we're sure other agents will feel differently. Also, if you decide to revise or if you have other manuscripts in the future, we'd be willing to consider those as well. Thanks again for querying and best of luck placing your work.

Sincerely,
Judith

--
Judith Engracia
Literary Assistant
Liza Dawson Associates


Thanks, Judith, for the feedback! Will work on it.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Here come the rejections

[Dear Joyce,]

Many thanks for writing. You have an interesting idea for a book, and there's a lot to like about your approach. But in the end I'm afraid that I didn't come away quite fully convinced it was something I'd be able to represent successfully. I'm sorry not to be more enthusiastic but I'm grateful for the chance to review it nonetheless, and best of luck to you in finding it the right home.

Best,
Farley Chase

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

'Hate List' by Jennifer Brown

Every day at lunch, Mrs Tate would grill me about my future plans.

"Valerie, it's still not too late to grab a scholarship to one of the community colleges," she'd say, looking pained.

I'd shake my head. "No."

"What are you going to do?" she'd asked me one day as we ate lunch together.

I'd considered this, believe me. What would I do once graduation was over? Where would I go? How would I live? Would I stay at home and wait for Mom and Mel to possibly get married? Would I move in with Dad and Briley and Frankie and try to repair the relationship that I was pretty sure Dad didn't want anyway? Would I move out and get a job? Get a roommate? Fall in love?

"Recover," I'd said. And I'd meant it. I needed some time to simply recover. I'd consider my future later, when Garvin High had slipped off me like a heavy coat in a hot room and I'd begun to forget the faces of my classmates. Of Troy. Of Nick. When I'd begun to forget the smell of gunpowder and blood. If I ever could.

That excerpt is the best I found that can convey what the gist of Hate List (by Jennifer Brown) is about.

Valerie Leftman is left bewildered, betrayed and vilified after her boyfriend goes on a shooting rampage and kills people off their Hate List. She struggles to remember the Nick she fell in love with and convince herself that she is not guilty, even though she played a part in coming up with the seemingly-innocuous Hate List. Some label her a hero for stopping Nick (and earning a gunshot wound to her thigh as a result, but saving Jessica Campbell, Queen Bitch, as well). Some think she ought to kill herself like Nick did. With her parents' deteriorating marriage to deal with apart from all that, Valerie is left struggling to understand what she stands for and who she really is and can become.

While the plot might portend a predictable narration (how Valerie, deals with the aftermath of her boyfriend's shooting of the school, and learns to move on with her life and understand that it isn't her fault), Brown's firm grasp of the narrator's voice was what made me read on. And the more I read, the more I empathised with the protagonist. Brown considered every aspect of the shooting, from the parents to the girlfriend to the survivors. What I enjoy most, though, are the conversations Valerie has with her therapist. Brown has made her protagonist very introspective. You can tell the author herself thought through every facet of the shooting and its ramifications. It's not just some superficial oh-woe-is-me-my-boyfriend-went-nuts-and-I-don't-know-what-to-do-anymore narration. Brown draws out the quiet tensions and shifting dynamics between characters throughout the story, without dragging its pace. This is, in my opinion, very skilful narration and grasp of the character's voice.

Hate List is Brown's debut novel and already it has won the Michigan Library Association Thumbs Up Award, and is nominated for the 2011 New Hampshire Flume Award.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Short Story - Playmates

The movers came before I could do anything about it.

They started with the old mahogany table where my grandfather used to sit, playing Solitaire. There was a big hole in the middle of the basement after the table was gone. That thing weighed a ton. I know because I tried moving it before. But it only took four beefcakes to haul it into the truck.

The table left behind four circles where the legs had been. Four unblemished spots in the flooring. I stood in the middle of it, feeling the absence of its weight in the ground, like when someone gets up from the seat on the bus after sitting there for practically the whole journey.

“Puffer hates the new house. She’s not coming with us because she hates it.”

This was the fifth time that day I’d said that. While Mom had muttered, “Good,” the previous few times, now she didn’t even bother pretending to pay attention anymore, just went about checking to see if we’d left anything out from the packing. I was a hindrance to her now, a shadow in the corner of her eye.

I headed out to the backyard, where Puffer was sitting on the wooden swing, legs dangling. I don’t think I’d ever get used to how tiny she was. Or how pretty her raven hair looked when it fell over her dark wide eyes. She was more graceful than I could ever dream of being.

I joined her on the swing and sank my chin into my hands, elbowed perched on my knees. “I hate this.”

“You’ll grow to like it.” Her voice rang out, sweet and clear, like a field of lavender. “Your kind is adaptable. They change themselves to suit their environment. Soon, you’ll forget I ever existed.”

“Never. I’ll never forget you, Puffer. ” I stuck my chin out, daring her to disagree.

She only gave me a smile that couldn’t reach her eyes.

“Why can’t you come with us, Puffer? I don’t understand.” I was being stubborn, asking the same question over and over, but to hell with it.

Puffer entertained me more than Mom did. “I told you, love. I’m bound to this tree. Where this tree is, there I’ll be. I can’t leave even if I want to.”

I hopped off the swing to survey the tree. It didn’t look any different from the last time I checked. Just a big old tree with a canopy that spanned across half the backyard. It had a huge blackened hole in the middle of the trunk, like someone had burned it away. Nothing lay in there but dirt and insects. Sometimes, Puffer would peer out from it, her pale face illuminated by the moonlight, just to kick me out of my skin.

She now blew on my ear, making several loose strands of my hair dance. Her breath was cold, as always. “We can run away.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d suggested that. A cold trail slithered down my back that had nothing to do with Puffer’s breath. It didn’t make sense. I had never really feared Puffer. She had been my friend since my father died. If anyone could fear Puffer (apart from Mom), they’d have to be a big pansy. She was about the most harmless person I’d ever known.

That’s what I told myself, even as Puffer trailed a thin cold finger down my cheek. Her dark gaze held on to mine as a sliver of smile crept across her face.

“Think about it, Katie. We could stay together forever. Didn’t you say you don’t want to leave me? I’m offering you an alternative. We could even find your father. You told me he’d love me. We could live together, always.”

“What about Mom?”

She shrugged, setting loose a tumble of soft locks down her pale shoulders. “She’ll join us soon enough.”

“But how can we run? You said it yourself – you’re tied to this tree.”

“I’ve showed you how. Remember that dream you had?”

When Puffer first told me she could make me dream of her, I’d assumed she meant it figuratively. It wasn’t until I saw her in my dreams for three nights running that I began to understand what she meant.

In my dreams, she had showed things. Like how she had been tied to the tree, blood pouring from the wound in her chest, staining her dress like juice had dribbled down her front. She’d lain there like a bloodied faery, staring up at the sky until she no longer saw it. In my dreams, she showed me how she crept around the edges of a person, dark eyes gleaming, until she slipped into them, became a part of them. In my dreams, she showed me how the people she entered slit their wrists and waited to die.

I couldn’t do anything about the shudder that ripped through me. My voice tore out of my throat. “You want me to kill myself?”

Her lips thinned into a curve. “How else did you think we could be together? You’re twelve, Katie. Learn something already.”

“When you said I could join you, I thought you meant sit here with you until Mom caved in. Or find a way to release you from this tree. Not …”

She stared into my face, smirking. “Scared, Katie? It’s just blood, you know.”

I bit on my trembling lower lip. “Why can’t you come into me? I could take you away.”

“Do you want me to?”

I nodded. “I do.” The words made me feel more certain than I had been.

She zipped to the other side of me and perched her head on my shoulder. “If I become a part of you, you won’t be just Katie. You’ll be Katie-and-Puffer.”

I nodded.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded again.

“Now?” Her eyes were wider than before.

I turned to glance at Mom, still scurrying around the house while talking to one of the movers. Tufts of hair had freed themselves from her ponytail. She wouldn’t know – she wouldn’t care – if I wasn’t just Katie anymore.

“Just do it,” I told Puffer.

Puffer’s grin was the widest I had ever seen it.

A blink, and she was gone. Only a trail of smoke danced around me, like an elusive dragonfly. It collected itself into a mass of dark grey cloud, then pulled apart into a scattered, patterned web. Came together, pulled apart. Came together, pulled apart. All that time it whirled around me, silent and calculating.

It took me a while to realize she had entered me. She slid into every crevice of me like she knew her way around. I didn’t feel any heavier, but charged, like energy was crackling through me, spinning around my head, in my chest, right down to my toes.

This is lovely.

Now I had to get used to not seeing Puffer around, but hearing her in my head. I could hear her sighing happily as I stared down at myself, checking if I remained the same.

I looked around, went through the back doors, back into the empty basement. Everything remained the same, but I wasn’t. I was Katie-and-Puffer now, and I didn’t have to shed any blood to make that compromise.

My reflection in the basement mirror confirmed that I was still Katie, in the flesh. My eyes were darker than before, wider too, like Puffer’s. They flashed with doubled vitality.

But if Mom noticed anything different about me, she didn’t say anything. Instead, she sighed. “Katie, look at you. What a mess you are. And didn’t I ask you to pack? I have a million things to do today. Can’t you make me worry less about you?”

A mess? Was that all she saw when she looked at me?

I saw my reflection in the penknife that lay atop the carton of paraphernalia. My eyes were dark, wild, like my hair. It wasn’t a mess; I thought it was beautiful. The real ugliness lay in the things around. It seeped into me, crawled under my skin, a tumor that took root and grew. It carved lines in my mother’s face, twisted her features.

I didn’t think. All I heard was the voice in my head.

We deserve more than this.

The blade was cold to the touch.

Friday, July 09, 2010

'Ordinary Ghosts' by Eireann Corrigan


I recently read Ordinary Ghosts by Eireann Corrigan and am now googling her other books, because Ordinary Ghosts really blew me away.

The story isn't really heavy on the plot, but the character's voice carried me through the entire story, and not once did I tire of it. It's about a boy Emil Simon, whose star brother Ethan ran away after the death of their mother. Emil has always looked up to his brother and the story now chronicles the days after his brother's departure and his mother's death. With half of the family left, Emil and his father are trying their best not to tailspin. But normalcy is elusive, and the tension between Emil and his father is almost palpable, as they navigate their way through life.


Emil finds that Ethan left him the key to Ainsley Academy, the all-boy prep school they study in. As per Ainsley tradition, the key-bearer has to lay the greatest prank of all time on the school, in secrecy.

Emil's nighttime forays in the school compounds leads him to a girl (the daughter of his ex-teacher) whome he falls in love with, and eventually accompanies him on the search for his brother.

Ordinary Ghosts is about a boy coming of age in his own messy way, the way we all do, and I suppose that's what makes the narrator so compelling. He's funny, he's a wuss, he gets big-headed and insecure, and he's perfectly flawed. He's human, and I see a lot of myself in Emil, even though he's a boy. I think Corrigan really grasped his voice well, and her effort to make sure his voice stays consistent throughout the story is evident. The story flows in a Salinger-esque way, and I was pretty sorry when I got to the end, just like I had been when I'd reached the end of The Catcher in the Rye. Like Holden Caulfield, Emil Simon is an anti-hero you'd cheer for.

Thursday, July 08, 2010

Writer Nicola Morgan has some compiled an invaluable non-exhaustive list of questions to ask your characters:

What is your worst fear? And your second worst? (Likely to be part of the conflict and tension.)

What would you most like people to know about you? (Make sure it's obvious, then.)

What would you most like to hide? (Every hero has a flaw.)

What would you most like to change about your life? (Could be part of the conflict and motivation; could be sub-plot.)

Why should we care about you? (Because if we don't, we won't read on.)

What were you doing before this story started? (This informs your back-story.)

Do people understand you? If not, what do they get wrong? (Makes your character more real because it informs interaction with other characters.)

If I met you for the first time, would I immediately know what you were like or would it take a while to get to know you? (As above.)

What sort of people like you? Do adults like you? Do boys like you? Do girls like you? Why? Or why not? (Helps place your character within the real world instead of just on the page. It may also inspire some ideas for painting your character richly but subtly.)

Are you happy on your own? (As above.)

What are you going to achieve in my story? (Crucial for plot, since character drives action.)

What trivial but annoying habit do you have? (Makes character more real. Character can show this habit when angry / sad / stressed - helps you show without telling emotion too much.))

What trivial but annoying habits do you dislike in other people? (As above.)

What four (or three or five) adjectives best sum you up? (Helps you remember traits to paint most strongly.)

Are you going to die in this story?** Should you? (Informs plot and interacts with reader's engagement.)



And on her blog, writer Nik Perring chips in too:

It is really, really, really hard work. And exhausting. I mean, writing the thing’s difficult enough (and that’s after all that time spent learning how to write well, after all those stories we’ve given up on) and then the submitting, the editing. But once you’ve signed that contract it’s as though, to a point, you’re starting from the beginning again. You have to work hard to promote your book. Your publisher will do what they can but, really, the hard work’s down to you.

Don’t expect any favours. From friends or from reviewers. Of course some are lovely and only too pleased to have a look at your book and tell their readers what they think of it ... but I’ve heard from people I’d not heard from in years and years and, in contrast, some of the people I’d have thought would have been the most pleased for me have shown little or no interest at all. And, I suppose, why should they? As a writer, published or none, you’re not owed anything.

Be hopeful but be self-critical. It’s a high standard you have to reach and make no mistake, you ARE competing with the best in the business. And what makes it harder is that they’re known – by readers who buy their books and by publishers who know they’ll sell the books. But they were unpublished writers too once, you know! And they got to be where they are now by working very hard and by not giving up. And probably, by trying and failing a few times too. Remember: nothing’s lost.

My last piece of advice though, is this: enjoy your writing. It won’t be fun all the time, but you should do it because you enjoy it.

Monday, July 05, 2010

Short Story - Conversations with Death



I scrabbled around, but only collected dirt under my nails. This was the second time they had tried to bury me.

You’d think they would’ve gotten it into their heads by now. Nothing was going to destroy me. No amount of burials or sending my corpse up in flames was going to do the trick, because a part of my corpse was missing. My left thumb, to be absolutely specific.

So until they found that dry little piece of relic, I wasn’t about to go anywhere. These amateurs, they thought they knew everything. Well, I was like them once. It wasn’t until I was writhing from a well-delivered blow to my chest that I realized what I had to do if I wanted to stay alive (well, okay, not alive, technically – existent, maybe) long enough to finish up what I needed to do.

And let me just say, even though I was half unconscious from my chest wound, slicing off my thumb hurt like a bitch. I thought I wouldn’t have the strength to cut through the bone, but I don’t – didn’t – sharpen my knife for my health.

Being dead was a pain in the ass, for sure. But it was a job hazard; I understood that when I signed on to this job. Now, if only there was a way to be alive again.

But the good thing about being buried at a cemetery was that I didn’t have to spend too much effort trying to hunt down those creatures. Where the stench of death lingered was where the beasts would show up, right along with their masters – mini Grim Reapers, I called them, except they didn’t have scythes.

With any luck, no one would stop me before I managed to fry them all. It was the only way I know to cheat Death. No grim-reaper, no bloodhounds, no one to collect the bodies, no one would die.

Of course, that sounded nobler than it really was. The truth? I didn’t want to die. Not yet. Not before I’d killed Tessa’s murderer. Not before I found out the truth about who I was.

I smelled the hounds before I heard them. I’d heard that the undead smelt them whenever they came within a ten-meter radius of them, but that didn’t prepare me for the actual stench. Their breaths were hot and rotting, like burning flesh. I would know – I’d smelt rotting flesh more times than I would’ve liked.

The three beasts stood a foot away from me, growling like angry engines. Their black coats rippled, and drool hung off their jagged peaks of teeth. Definitely not the ones to piss off.

The three figures behind the beasts each held up a hand, immediately silencing the growls. They were partially obscured by darkness, so all I could make out was their silhouettes. They were neither gods nor ghosts, and I’d never had an opinion about them as long as they didn’t get involved in my line of work. But it seemed that was about to change now.

I held my hands up. “Not now, guys. I’m on a pretty important mission.”

One of them raised a withered finger at me. “This is the second time we are here, nomad.” Its voice was too raspy for me to discern its gender. “You cheated the Grim Reaper.”

I smirked. I couldn’t help it – it wasn’t everyday someone came along to cheat Death. “Guilty. And I’m going to keep at this until someone offs me properly, or until I get the answers I’m looking for.” I shrugged. “Whichever comes first.”

“In death, no answer is relevant.”

“That’s a tempting thought, but…” I shook my head. “It doesn’t work for me.”

None of them replied. The cemetery was silent save for the heavy rattled breathing of the hounds.

“So I’m half-dead. You can’t claim me yet. What are you doing here?” I looked at each one of them. I would’ve taken a step closer for a better look, were it not for their bloodthirsty pets sitting between on their haunches.

“We are not here for you.”

That was when I noticed the silvery glow behind them. I craned my neck, but couldn’t catch his or her face. Shrugging, I smoothened my shirt. “Well, then. I’d best be on my way.”

“Not yet.”

The Collector glided towards me, but I still couldn’t see its face. It pointed at my chest.

“What?”

It didn’t say anything, but kept its finger pointed at my chest.

My amulet. The bone-constructed pendant with real rubies for eyes. I wouldn’t sell it for any price.

I toyed with the pendant. “What, this?”

The Collector dropped his hand. “You are living on borrowed time, nomad. It is time to let go of that talisman.”

“I’m not done hunting yet. And hey” – I shrugged – “it’s not my fault if those jokers did a shoddy job of burying my remains. Plus, I’m the good guy. You shouldn’t be spending so much energy on me. I’ll go gently into the good night once my business is done, okay?”

“Everyone dances with the Grim Reaper, good or bad.”

“Is that from a song? Sounds like a line from a song.”

“Hand it over, nomad.”

“No, I don’t think so.” I took a step back, dropping my gaze to the beasts, who had risen from their haunches and were starting to growl again. Their eyes flashed red – so quickly that I would’ve missed it if I didn’t know better.

I took another step back. And that was when the Collectors – or should I say, the imposters – gave chase.

“That was a pretty neat trick,” I called over my shoulder. “I almost fell for it.”

The hoods of their robes had fallen off now that they knew I’d seen through their ploy. Their distorted faces flickered the way spirits usually did. I used to have nightmares when I first started out.

“Seriously, though,” I went on. “Dressing up as Collectors? Taking things a step too far, don’t you think? I’d start to think you guys were getting desperate.”

I was at a disadvantage here, because while all those spirits had to do was glide, I had to do the actual running, which involved avoiding mini obstacles like pebbles and uneven ground. I had to get to the car – assuming someone hadn’t had it towed away already, or stolen my arsenal. All I needed was my silver dagger crusted with salt. I didn’t just want to dispel those spirits; I wanted them gone. For good.

Thing is, that worked both ways.

I took care not to let them come an inch near me. I’d been possessed by those filthy things too many times to learn how they worked. The trick was to get them before they got you. Easier said than done.

Especially with those amateur hunters on my ass.

For the third time in a week, I found myself pitching into a hole six feet deep, a bed made of earth. For a bunch of amateurs, they sure don’t take chances.

“No, wait! There are spirits are on my tail! You have to let me out. I have to get rid of them!” I clawed at earth. It’s harder to get out of a damn pit when you’re panicking.

The woman knelt by my grave, smiling. “We know.”

When I saw the stake in her hand, I understood it all.

They weren’t hunters. No, they weren’t out to help rid the world of bloodthirsty spirits who possessed people for the sake of living again.

“We’re just here to finish our job, hunter. Send Death our regards.” Her eyes flashed red.