Book-Tube-A-Thon Giveaway!!

My bestie, Christine (WHOSE HAIR I COVET ON A DAILY BASIS) has a fantastic vlog. If you haven't seen it yet, you should check it out. Every time I watch a new episode, I think two things: 1) I should start vlogging. 2) I should cut my hair like hers. And then I remember that I don't know how to vlog, and that my hair--thin and straight vs. her thick and curly--would hang limply by my ears, instead of being fantastic like hers.

I should stop talking about her hair, because I think it makes her slightly uneasy how obsessive I am about it.

But guys, it's AMAZING. Like, rivaled only by Ewan McGregor's hair in Jack the Giant Slayer.

This hair was my favorite part of the movie.

ANYWAY.

Christine has a vlog. And on that vlog she's having a giveaway, one that you want to enter and win, because oh man.

The pretty! The books! The pretty books!

But I'm not going to tell you what books, because you should really hop over there and check it out for yourself. But you want them. So go check it out.

And leave a comment about her amazing hair. She loves those.

Signs You're Not Ready to Query

Way back when I was riding on a high of finishing my first draft, aka ohmylandsthebeststoryEVER, I took the next obvious step and began researching agents.

Because, you know, I was ready. Heh.

I found an agent who was looking for my book. She didn't know it, but I had EXACTLY what she wanted. I planned to do a read-through, catch grammatical errors and misspellings, and send my manuscript on it's merry way to the bestsellers list.

Thankfully, at about the same time, I met my first critique partner, Christine. If you don't know her, go check her out NOW. My words can wait. She's brills for reals, guys. (I just made that up. Is it funny to anyone else?) More on the awesomeness that crit partners are later, but to sum up, after I sent her some of my perfect story, she very kindly but very firmly sent me back a "This isn't working." It wasn't ready yet. I had a lot of changes that needed to be made.

Since then, my first draft has been relegated to the File of No, where all first drafts belong. And even though it's painful to read now, I'm glad to be able to see all I've learned since I wrote it. Hopefully, I'll know when I'm ready to query for real someday.

So, compliments of my first draft (and a few other stories), here are signs your manuscript isn't ready to be queried:

• Your own mother doesn't even finish reading the entire draft.
• It starts with waking up.
• Your protagonist has to look in the mirror and reassess that she still has sparkling blue eyes just a shade darker than the Mediterranean, white-blonde, wavy hair with that one crazy kink by her right ear, and the slight dimple in her chin.
• The climax is a very earnest discussion with the antagonist where everyone politely agrees to disagree.

What are some ways you knew you weren't ready to query?

Oh, The Early Work Blogfest

*First off, if you feel so inclined, check out my post for the 2nd Campaign Challenge and throw me a vote! (I'm #171)Thanks!

Today's post is brought to you by Juliemybird's Oh, The Early Work blogfest/giveaway. There will be prizes! And lots of funny stories, so go check it out.

Also, dino love. 

Since I've already written about my first, psychotic, puppy-mutilating attempt at an epic story, I'm going to tell you about a different, but just as embarrassing, early writing experience.

There was a certain boy I pined for from third grade to eighth. He was, guys, SO cute. I can't describe him, or name names, because I'm still on speaking terms with his family and if he ever heard about this OHMYGOSHIWOULDDIE. Because I'm still twelve, apparently.

Nevertheless, I liked him a lot.

He inspired many a love-interest.

We actually almost became friends. We were within the same circle, capable of almost-not-awkward interaction, and--for one glorious month and a half--racing buddies when the bell rang to come in from recess. He was the one for me, I was positive.

And then, the worst thing possible happened: Junior High.

He was cute, and cuteness gets you popularity in junior high. I was not cute. I didn't get popularity.

Suddenly, my semi-friend-love couldn't bother himself to speak to me. No more racing. It was sad.

I channeled all my anguish and angst into a story about a girl who really liked a boy, and how they used to be best friends (slight exaggeration) but now he wouldn't even talk to her. She knew they were meant to be, and one day, he finally came to his senses, swept her off her feet, and they lived happily ever after.

I knew, I KNEW if he read it, he'd understand the pureness of my heart, that I wasn't just another spacey cheerleader after him for his rosy cheeks and curly dark hair. I saw to his soul.

So, I wrote him a casual note: "Hey, how's it going? How do you like seventh grade? What's your favorite class? Oh, by the way, I wrote a story and I was wondering if you would like to proofread it for me. Okay, let me know." I slipped it into his locker.

Lucky for me, he didn't answer. His avoidance of me became even more concentrated. And the bridge of our love was forever burned.

It's for the best, though. That story was totally lame.

What sort of gems did you write in your younger years? Link up at Julie's blog!

Imago Ed.

I sink lower in my seat. Dana tuts as she turns, smug. She’s always so smug.

“Relax, Luna,” she condescends. “The imago’s part of life. Why’re you acting like such a hatchling about this?”

Easy for her to say. She’s already shed four times. It’s whispered she’ll chrysalis any day now. Meanwhile, I’m waiting for skin shed number one. My body looks like a dandelion stem every time I check the mirror—green, smooth, flat. What I wouldn’t give for one fat roll, just one to make the boys oscitate. Dana has a lot; maybe she’d share.

My dread drifts up into the miasma of nervous titters filling the room. Dana says, “I don’t know why everyone’s acting weird. I can’t wait for the video. I mean,” she slurps the lacuna of her milkweed stem, “I’m so close myself, but I’ve never actually seen the metamorphosis. You know?”

Teacher gives her lecture. Imago is a natural and beautiful part of a caterpillar’s life. The changes in our body are not shameful. Blah.

She starts the video. The monarch emerges from the cocoon, rumpled, sticky.

Gross.

In beautiful synchronicity, Dana hits the floor in a dead faint.

It’s a good day.

**************************************

This piece of flash fiction was written for the 2nd Campaigner Challenge. The title had to include the word imago, and the story had to include the words lacuna, oscitate, miasma, and synchronicity. For extra challenge, reference a mirror (done) and make it exactly 200 words (done).

If you liked it, please go here and vote for it. I'm number 171 (ooh, my lucky number!). The story with the most votes wins!!

Music Inspiration

Ahh, unrequited love.

Doesn't it suck?

Don't we all remember that special boy we pined after from third grade to eighth, and even though you came close to being friends, he never saw past the thick glasses and braces and flat chest and second-hand clothes and impossible-to-style-into-popular-poofy-bangs hair and all-consuming talent for making all ordinary moments painfully awkward?

Or is that just me?

Anyhow, that pain of loving someone you simply can't have is a powerful hurt, and this song just throws it in your face. It makes my heart ache. And it really, really helps zero in on the emotions of one of my favorite characters, bless her pitiable little broken heart.

Give it a listen and see what you think.

You want whipped cream with that?

There is a charming little shop in my hometown called the Pie Hole. It immediately brought to mind thoughts of this show:

I may have squealed. A PIE HOLE?? Right here in my little town? Visions of bright colors, quirky waitresses, and cute pie-makers filled my imagination.

Cherry pie actually is my favorite! How did he know?

I drove past The Pie Hole several times and noticed that it was open until 5am. More romanticizing began. How awesome would it be, after all, to get a slice of pie in the middle of the night? There would be gingham! And dollops of ice cream! And I would probably get called "Hon", which I don't generally like, but seems to fit in a pie shop.

So for weeks I dreamed of having a reason to be up in the middle of the night and hungry for pie. I told my husband we should just go some night, just go like crazy teenagers in love who didn't care about proper nights sleep or indigestion.

He was totally down with that, but then we kept falling asleep too early.

Finally, my time came. In my town, there is also an awesome theater that has midnight movies for a dollar on the weekends. My husband and I decided to go, so of course we planned on a pie-eating stop on the way home.

The first thing I noticed as we pulled up in front of The Pie Hole was the drunk people. Lots of drunk people. And the place was bumpin', which didn't fit my fantasy of a romantic pie-for-two date.

Nevertheless, I was undaunted. I had primed my belly for pie, and by dang, I was GOING TO GET MY PIE.

We wove our way through who I assume was the entire starting lineup of the local college's football team, loitering on the front stoop of the shop, and stepped through the doors.

Loud music blasted our ears. Bright, graffiti-ed walls seared neon colors onto my retinas. The waitress, who was NOT wearing a gingham apron, was wearing a trucker hat with devil horns and sporting some very impressive cleavage. I looked at my husband. He said, "It smells like beer in here."

Beer and pie didn't make much sense to me, but whatever.

I pulled my husband through the shop to the counter and looked up at the menu, and then I realized...




...this was a pizza joint.

A PIZZA JOINT!!! Seriously?

I didn't want pizza in the middle of the night! Heartburn, people! I'm old now! I have to think of these things!

We left.

And I've been craving cherry pie ever since.

Moral of the story?

First off, seriously have a notebook with you at all times, because The Pie Hole would make an awesome setting in a story and I should have written down all the details.

Second, make sure the details in your story aren't too vague. I feel that you don't have to describe each room down to the brass knobs on the cupboards, but a few well-defined touches brings the whole place to life.

Beer, loud music, brightly painted skateboards doubling for the seat backs of booths, devil hat=obviously a pizza place.

Quirky china plates, gingham aprons, gleaming checkered floor, and sweet little bouquets at each table=my Pie Hole. Let your reader know where they are before they get confused. (Also, if they bothered to peek in the window before they actually went in, all the better for them.)

And third, a pepperoni pizza painted on a shop window can easily be misconstrued as a cherry pie. It's okay.  I won't make fun of you if you make that mistake. (Unlike my parents, who knew the truth about the Pie Hole and didn't tell me.)

Why don't you run up an alley and holler fish?

I was at the grocery store today. Since it's just a small store, there isn't a conveyor belt to put your groceries on, just a small platform about the size of two gallons of milk and a bag of Red Vines (standing on end.) That means that you have to wait until the person in front of you has been rung up before you can drop your groceries on the little ledge.

The man behind me had his arms full; he must be from the same camp as me, the I-only-need-milk-crap-I-also-need-eggs-oh-and-also-mayo-and-I-almost-forgot-bananas-are-those-Ding-Dongs-on-sale-I-don't-want-to-go-back-up-front-and-get-a-basket-dangit-hurryuphurryuphurryup-checker-outer-lady. As soon as my last can of nacho cheese had been cleared, he unloaded his food pile. He did it so quickly that the checker looked up, surprised and asked, "Is this all together, then?"

I, with my extraordinary ability to make all normal situations awkward, turned red and said, "No." Blush, blush, blush. Perhaps sensing my (not really, but seeming) embarrassment, the checker said, "Oh, okay...unless you WANT to pay for his, too."

"Hahaha" went the checker lady.

"Hahaha" went the overburdened man without a concrete grocery list.

"Hahaha...nooooo," said I in a weirdly sing-song, strangled voice that suggested I thought they really would make me pay for his groceries.

Then I stood there, marinating in the awkward silence I'd single-handedly created, wishing I could be more witty on my feet. Only as I walked away did I think of the comeback: "Only if he pays next time."

HAHAHA! ZING!

Okay, still not perfect, but better.

Anyway, it got me thinking about realistic dialogue in stories, and how much it bugs me when people get this witty banter back and forth and back and forth and backandforth, because yo, I never think of the right thing to say in front of people, much less the guy I'm crushing on. (My actual response one time when the cute guy in my class spoke directly to me: "Mehhrgplbbb." Followed by raucous laughter from the whole class.) Why can't we read more of that??

I'm pretty sure a whole book of two people hemming and hawing would get boring fast. And isn't it kind of therapeutic to get some snappy comebacks in when two of your characters are arguing?

There's an old Don Knotts movie called "The Ghost and Mister Chicken" that I love. Don Knotts plays, of course, a bumbling sort of guy and one of the things about him is that he's very tongue-tied when he gets nervous, which is pretty much the whole show. At one point, the mean guy yells, "Who do you think you are?" and he responds with, "Drop dead, that's who!" and then he storms off. I die laughing every time. He is also the mastermind behind, "Why don't you run up an alley and holler fish?"

I love that his character isn't putting the bad guys in their place. He's just a normal guy, trying to be brave but getting it all mixed up anyway. Making normal stuff awkward. My man. *fistbump*

So, the question is, how do you make sure your dialogue sounds realistic, without getting too ho-hum? Do you like it when characters are all quick and witty and snappy all the time?