First Review

Dissected has received its first review. I'm super excited. It's only been placed in the hands of about here.
six bloggers so far, the first, posting their review today,

Now admittedly, I've known the Watery Tart for a few years now, but as writers, we don't tend to blow smoke up each other's butts. Normally if I read a friend's book and I'm not a particular fan, I won't review it. She seemed to genuinely like Sydney's story and I know Hart likes gritty YA.

 Go check out the review and I urge you to read more of the Water Tarts blog posts. She is witty and awesome. She also writes cozy mysteries. Oh, and she's a nudist, did I mention that? Go now.

Monday Morning Blahg: YA Too Dark?

Many of you have probably already seen the Wall Street Journal article about the darkness in YA literature.  I hate to give this article any more attention, but the article irked me royal.  The writer of the article talks about how all the books are dark and gruesome, full of violence, abuse, self mutilation, profanity, addiction, yadda yadda yadda.

You know what I was reading when I was thirteen?  Stephen King.  Firestarter, Dead Zone, The Stand, Cujo.  Full of foul language and sex and violence.  Was this my only option?  No, but it's what I liked reading.

Teens are reading.  Isn't that a good thing?  These days, teens are reading topics that interest them, topics they can relate to, topics that deal with the problems they deal with.  The author mentions a few books that she says, "don't end well."  Life is not all butterflies and rainbows.  Teens these days face some really horrific realities-homophobia, depression, violence, suicide.  Most of these books they're reading do offer hope in the end.  It's not all gloom and doom.  And many teens feel these books help them deal.  If you don't believe me, check out Twitter #yasaves. 

And yes, the fantasy books are full of the same stuff the realistic books are: violence, death, profanity.  Again, this is not anything they're not exposed to in their every day life, but also offers a form of escape into a world other than they're own.

I wonder if the adults that have a problem with YA let their kids play violent video games, or watch movies or TV shows full of sex and violence. Kids are exposed to this kind of stuff every day, whether through media or reality.  Why should we shield them from their own actualities?

I've spoken my peace.

Writing Wednesday: Sad

    A little snippet.  I'm getting close to being done.  Have to flesh it out a bit and add some elements.  Tell me what you think.

 

     David and I decided that if we were going to be ready together, and the night was to be perfect, we’d have to plan it.

     “Prom night,” David said shoveling some fries in his face at Baldy’s, our new favorite hangout.

      “That’s pretty cliché,” I said.

      “No, it’s not, because we’re not going to prom.”

      I stopped mid fry and looked in his eyes.  “We aren’t?”

     “No, prom is for the superficial and desperate.  We’re skipping it.”  He took a sip of his mega-pop that had to be at least eighty-five ounces.

     “What if I don’t want to skip it?” I said, finally finishing my fry.

     David gaped at me like he couldn’t comprehend what I was saying, as if I was speaking a foreign language.

     “What?”  I said.

     He pointed a French fry at me and said, “What sounds better?  Wearing uncomfortable clothes and conforming to the conventional, phony social rituals of a misguided youth?  Listening to banal music created by mama’s boys wearing guyliner whose hearts have been broken into a million pieces? Witnessing the doldrums of fake ceremonious elections for elitist snob kings and queens while everyone else’s hopes and dreams are scattered all over the floor with the leftover streamers?” He took a breath.  “Or, would you rather have a romantic evening in a beautiful hotel suite with the love of your life, feeding each other chocolate covered strawberries and drinking champagne, while giving completely and profoundly of yourself, and then tangling up together and falling asleep in each other’s arms?”

     “Well, when you put it that way—”

Writing Wednesday: A blog and some Sad

First off, I blogged for The Class of 2k11 this morning, check it out here.

Secondly. Here is a snippet from the book formerly known as Sad, which for now I'm changing to FML.  It is unedited, R rated, and not for the faint of heart.  You may leave comments if you wish.

     Speak of the devil.  Tammy walked in humming some sickingly sweet love song, looking way to peppy for my tastes.  Instead of punching her in the face I only glare in her general direction.  She stops in her tracks, looks over at me and lets out a little yelp.  I can’t help but giggle.  “Jesus, Syd, you scared the shit out of me.  What the hell are you doing home?”

     “Brooding,” I said and went back to looking out the window.

     “What are you brooding over?” 

     I looked back at her.  She didn’t give a shit, that much was certain.  She stood there with her stupid messy blond ponytail, hand on her jutted out hip, her legs shooting out of her boxers like sticks.  She made me sick.  “Fuck off, Tammy,” I said.

    “Jesus, you kiss mom with that mouth?  I’m trying to be nice here.”

    “Go be nice somewhere else?  What are you even doing here?  Out of places to bed hop?”

     Her face fell.  I’d hit her where it hurt.  But everyone knew she was a slut.  She rarely spent a night at home.  Still, I’m sure she wasn’t proud of it, and I felt guilty.  I shouldn’t take my frustrations concerning David and Haley out on Tammy.  Even if she was a major bitch.   “Hey, Tammy, I’m sorry.  It’s just . . . David and I broke up.”

     She gave me a puzzled look and then asked, “Who’s David?” 

     And this was why I hated her.  She cared nothing about the world around her.  All she cared about was how she looked and who she was going to lay.  I went from remorse to rage in two seconds flat.  “My boyfriend.”

     She stared at me as if I was speaking a foreign language.  Then she said, “You have a boyfriend?”  as if it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard.

      “Had,” I said.  I stood up, bumped into her as I passed, nearly knocking her against the wall, and went to my room.

     She called after me, “How the hell was I supposed to know?”

     “Open your eyes,” I yelled back right before slamming my door so hard it knocked my framed picture of me and Haley off my wall.  It crashed to the wooden floor, which was fine with me.  I walked over to it, grabbed the frame and threw it in my trash can.  I started picking up the big chunks of glass when one sliced into my finger.    I automatically dropped the glass, but then just stared at my finger, mesmerized.  Why?  I’m not sure.

     Watching the blood as it dripped from my finger to my wrist, down to my elbow and then to the floor, was serene in a strange way, like sitting on the edge of a stream of blood, watching as it twists and turns over the terrain of my arm.  And I felt this release as if everything that had happened the last couple days was oozing out of me, becoming nothing but a pool of heartbreak on my bedroom floor that I could wipe up and throw away.

  For the first time in the last twenty four hours I felt . . . a kind of peace.  I also felt like I was going to pass out.

F³A: Stupid snow and writerly things.

Thing Three (my niece) and Thing One

So, it snowed here the last couple days.  Lots.  Annoying thing is that they didn't cancel school.  I almost got into three accidents yesterday getting my kids to school and then to work.  And it's because people think they can just drive like regular when it's snowy and icy out.  And they're in a hurry.  And their time is more important than anyone else's.  And they're dumb.  So, since they didn't cancel school again today, I did it for them.  I'm sorry, I'm not going to drive on a grid of ice sheets risking life and limb to get my kids to school.  And I'm skipping work today too.  Meh.  Nothing to do today that can't be done Monday.

Okay, enough about that.

My editor got my first pass pages yesterday, and so hopefully they're on their way to me.  I'm psyched!!  If you don't know what first pass pages, it is basically the pages of your book, in the form they will look when they're finally in book form, fonts, etc.  I decided to grab some random pages off of the internet to show you and it just so happens one of the first pics to pop up was Tess Hilmo's, With a Name Like Love.  Tess and I were 2k11ers together, so hopefully she won't mind me using hers.

This is what first pass pages look like.

This is a very important stage of the process because it is basically the last time you can make edits.  So I will be going over these pages with a fine tooth comb to make sure every word is correct, every period in its place.

Also going over my option book with my agent.  I've been working on three novels, Withered, Taking Zoey, and Sad.  I think we're going to go with Sad.  She didn't really like Taking Zoey, and I've got more on Sad than Withered.  She liked Withered also, so after Sad, and my dystopian, and maybe an edit on a superhero series I've written, I'll probably finish that one.

I suppose that's it for today.  Except for the Friday Weekly stuff.

Random iPod shuffle song: The Underdog by Spoon

Book of the Week: XVI by Julia Karr.  I'm about half way through and really enjoying it.

Movie of the Week: The Housebunny.  My daughter has watched it every night this week.  She's insane.  It is funny though.

Quote of the Week: "A lot of people like snow.  I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water."  ~Carl Reiner

Writing Wednesday: Sad

     Just a warning, this is an R-rated excerpt.  Oh, it's also unedited, keep that in mind.  Oh, one more thing, my poem, Me, will be posted on Cari's Book Blog today.  Cari is a rockin' review blogger and all around great girl.

 

      There was a silent pause.  “Well, Jordie won’t be here until around six.”  Jordie Hicks, Haleys’s new boyfriend.  Didn’t really see it myself.  He was a jock.  A tennis player to be exact.  Short, blond, and freckled.  Haley probably could have had any guy she wanted if she tried. But she didn’t.  Try that is.  She was perfectly complacent following David and I around, getting the occasional drunken mash, not going for what she really wanted (which unfortunately was my brother, Bryce, which I totally didn’t get since he was a freshman to our juniors), and just dating any schmuck who’d ask.

     She was really pretty too, and I’d tell her all the time, but I don’t think she believed me.  She was tall and thin.  I envied her hair, long dark loose curls.  I think she had no confidence in her looks and herself in general because she lived in a house of assholes.  Her step-mom was the most superficial phony bitch on the face of the planet.  To her, everyone is worthless unless, that is, you made bank and looked like you came straight out of an Ambercrombie catalog.   Elitist bitch.  Every time I go to their house, she sizes me up, as if I might have improved since the time before.  And she never says, hello, it’s always just, “Sydney,”  making me sound like something disgusting she can’t wait to spit from her tongue.

     Haley’s dad was a workaholic and pretty much lived at his office or his girlfriends.  I didn’t even know Haley had a dad until about two years into our friendship.  We were sitting around doing homework when this dude walks in without a word and opens the fridge.  I was sitting there staring, wondering, WTF?  I looked at Haley, but she didn’t seem concerned, so I said, “Who is that?” 

     She glanced up for a split second and said, “My dad,” then went right back to her homework.  He grabbed something from the fridge and left.  He didn’t say anything to Haley.  Not hi or how was school or who’s your friend.  Nothing.   I speculated once if he just hated his existence outside of the office and slutty bartender he was fucking, or if he was actually mute.

     And then there were her brothers, four to be exact, one step, from the bitch’s first failed marriage, and three half, the product of the union between her dad and step mom.  The older one was a complete waste of oxygen.  He blew up his girlfriend and their two year old son in their meth lab a couple years earlier.  Now he’s coming down from the addiction, and spends his days on the ‘rent’s couch crying, watching reality shows, smoking cigarettes, and drinking a bottle of Jack a day.  Prick is too lazy to even buy us booze when we need it.

      Not much to say about the three younger brothers, except they’re so hyped up on sugar, video games, and inattention that they’d have to make up a new acronym for whatever their diagnosis would be.  And all three think Haley is a disease.  It’s no wonder Haley always wanted to hang out at my house.  Well, all that and of course the fact that my brother lived there.

Writing Wednesday: Never Eighteen

Yep, Since I've shared my cover (er, twice now this week.  Oops make that three times. Guess I'm a little excited)  I thought I would share the opening paragraphs.

Day One . . .

     I had the dream again.  The one where I’m running.  I don’t know what from or where to, but I’m scared—terrified, really.  I wake,  drenched in sweat.  Jumping out of bed, I immediately head to my computer.

      I need to get some things done this weekend, and I’m running out of time.  God, I hope Kaylee can help.  What if she asks what I’m doing?  I can’t tell her, can I?  No.  She’d try to stop me, I’m sure of it.  Shit, I hope she doesn’t have to work.  I should have checked.  Without her Mustang, I may not be able to do this, and I want to, I need to.  Otherwise, things may just continue as they always have: painful, motionless.  Like treading water.  You stay afloat, but you never really get anywhere.  A flash, a flicker of life, that’s all I want.  I don’t think it’s too much to ask. 

Monday Morning Blahg

First off, I have a cover and I'm psyched.  Ready . . . wait for it . . . ta-da!!

Second of all it's Monday and like most Mondays, things have not gone according to plan.  So that's all I'm posting.

Going back to bed until tomorrow.

~Megan

Writing Wednesday: Sad

Unedited of course.

We never said a word to each other until we both found ourselves at Lacy McKenna’s kegger.  The best cure for shyness is a couple pints of beer.  I remember just sitting there in the corner by myself, Haley, that’s my best friend, was off getting us a couple more beers.  David came up and said, “You’re the girl that shits behind me in English.” 

     I couldn’t help but laugh at the way he slurred sit to sound like shit.  “Yeah, that’s me.”

     He sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders.  “I’ve seen you looking at me.  Why you always doin’ that?”

     I looked at him and said, “Because I find you interesting.”

     “Why?”

     “You’re so quiet and always look like you’re deep in thought.  I sometimes wonder what you’re thinking about.”

     “Really?”

     “Yeah, really.”

     “That’s kind of cool.”

     An awkward silence lingered between us, and I figured it couldn’t get any more awkward so I said, “I heard about your dad.  Sorry.”

     He looked at me and said, “You want to go talk somewhere?  Quieter I mean?”

     “Sure.” 

     He grabbed my hand and led me through the living room.  Haley was heading back with my beer, so snatched it from her and said, “Be back in a bit.”  Knowing how much I crushed on David, she gave me the thumbs up then went on her way. 

     David took me up a staircase, and opened the first door on the right, which he immediately closed back up saying, “Oops, sorry.”  He turned and gave me an embarrassed look.  I giggled.

     Door number three seemed to be the charm.  He led me to the bed where we sat in silence for a minute sipping our beers while he eyed me cautiously.  Finally he said, “I’ve never really talked about it and no one up to this point has ever asked.”

     “About your dad?”

     “Yeah?”

     “That’s because people trip over their tongues when it comes to talking about the hard facts of life.”

Writing Wednesday: Taking Zoey

  Small unedited bit from my current WIP.  Let me know what you think.

     I slept though it was fitful.  I had nightmares I couldn’t really remember.  I only remember waking ever so often in a cold sweat although my closet was cold as my captor had not provided me with a blanket and I hadn’t bothered to put my clothes back on.

      I woke to him entering my prison, saying nothing.  He put a lamp on the floor and ran an extension cord out to the rec room.  He turned it on and stared at me for a moment.  He threw a bag to me and said, “Here.”  Then he scanned my quarters and said, “I’m going to work, clean this mess up while I’m gone.  And don’t try anything stupid.  Champ is here just waiting for the chance to attack.”    Then he closed the door, locked it, and left.

     I looked in the bag.  Inside were a pair of pink sweats, some slipper socks, and underwear.  I pulled the underwear out and inspected the package.  He bought the largest size he could find in the girls department.  They were pristine white some with flowers, some striped.  I tossed them aside.  No way in hell was I going to wear those and give in to his perverted fantasies.  I slipped the sweats and slippers on, then started picking up pieces of glass and porcelain and placing it in the now empty bag.

     There were some good sized chunks among the debris.  I began carefully inspecting each piece one by one, searching for the perfect weapon.  I finally found it in a big hunk of glass, curved and broken into a perfect point.  I slid it under my mattress and picked up the remaining fragments.  I put my own clothes inside the bag, never wanting to set eyes on them again, and tied a knot at the top and placed it in the corner by the door.

      I sat for a minute looking around the room now that it was light.  I didn’t really get a look at it when I was tossed in the night before.  I had a wall to my back, a wall across.  Inverted stairs made up my sloped ceiling.  The stairs never meet the floor, it ends in a small crawl space.  There was enough room to lie down in, but not enough to sit up and there was a door around the corner at the end.  I wriggled toward it.  There was no handle, just another crawl space.  I tried to get my fingers between the door and wall and pry it open, but it wouldn’t budge.

     Staring at it for a while, I imagined what was beyond.  Maybe shoe boxes full of photos of him and his daughter in happier times.  Her stuffed animals and clothing packed away in neat obsessive little boxes, tied up with string.   Her dead body.