Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award Contest

So, I don't even know if I mentioned that I entered this contest again. This is the...wait, I need to count...1,2,3,4,5...6th time I've entered the ABNA contest. The first time I went to to the semi-finals. After the first year, they changed the way they did things drastically. The 2-4 time I got past the pitch phase. If you make it that far, you received reviews from the first round of reviewers, I think in the 2nd year it was Publisher's Weekly, but since, it's been Amazon Vine reviewers. The 5th year, I didn't make it anywhere.

I was trying to locate the reviews I received, but alas, could not, except for the scathing one I received in year 4. You see, although I was ousted in year 2, both my reviews were good. Year 3, the reviewers like my writing, but not the subject matter (school shooting, graphic violence, meh).

However, year 4...oy. I don't even remember my 2nd review (though I think it was pretty good) because this one blew my mind. If there was every a person that didn't "get" my writing, or the voice, it was this guy. And I only say guy because that's the vibe I got from the review. I will add that the reviewer though I was a teenager,

which I take as a compliment to the voice of my character being spot on, although he didn't get that.  But this is also a sad statement because if I had been a teenager, this person probably would have made me quit writing forever. The following is not constructive criticism. It is an attack and would do no writer any good. I will also add that by the time I entered this contest, I already had my book contract for Never Eighteen.

 Here are a few of my favorite lines from that review.

"Unfortunately you have failed to pay attention in the one class required to be able to write well - English."

Um, really? I think Houghton Mifflin Harcourt would disagree.


"It's a shame that you didn't write anything that hasn't been written hundreds of times already this year."


Yes, because in 2010 I'd seen tons of book out there about girls who wanted to play high school football to gain the attention of their estranged father. O.o

"If this was a school paper, I'd have to give it an 'F'."



Well thank god it wasn't!

"It is way too easy today for people to get published and sincerely hope you do not see that as an option. Frankly this is no where good enough to be called a "book" and you to be called an "author.""

First of all, really? It's too easy to get published today? What alternate reality are you living in? And um, you think I'm like 16 and you're going to say something like that to me. Yeah, way to dash the hopes and dreams of tomorrow's future. I'll think I'll go shave my head, put on some black clothing, read some Plath and cut into my thighs. Sheesh.

In a word, this guy(woman, whatever) was a douche. I've learned to handle bad

reviews and criticism, but I was like, bewildered. *Blink Blink* Did I really just read that?

So anyway, I digress. The point of writing this blog was to tell you that I have made it to the quarter finals of the ABNA contest for the first time since the first year I entered and with the same book I entered that received this scathing review.  Girl in Motion - football book. So, there you have it.

Happy Thanksgiving

Our Thanksgiving always includes going to my moms. She makes the turkey, my dad makes the stuffing and the rest of us fill everything else in. It's always carbtastic.

We start by a few of us playing cribbage while watching football and rooting for anyone but the Steelers and Cowboys (sorry PIT and DAL fans). We fill our bellies with cheeses my brother has brought from Pike Place Market while waiting for dinner.

The plan is always to eat by 4, but that never seems to happen. It's usually more like 5 by the time everything is ready and put in it's place on the counter to be served up.

We stuff our faces until our bellies are about to burst (my goal is actually to NOT do that this year). Sometimes a couple of us will go for a walk after dinner while others chat. I usually help with the clean up so Mom doesn't have to lift a finger.

We used to play games, but my family is big and Italian and loud and loves to kibitz and it always took 4 hours to play a 1 hour game, so that tradition has kind of gone down the toilet. Now we talk about work and politics and movies and books and music and whatever the hell we feel like, because we like a good debate.

Then we eat pie. I can never believe people have room for pie after all that.

I usually head to the ocean the next day with my friend Heidi, but this year we'll be heading to see Pearl Jam in Portland, then to the ocean on Saturday.

What are your Thanksgiving traditions?

Also a reminder, Dissected will be free on Amazon for your Kindle tomorrow only. Enjoy the Black Friday deal. If you read it, getting a review would be awesome. Reviews truly do help little tiny authors like myself. :)

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. Enjoy the day, no matter what you do.

30 days of thanks: day 19

This is one of those days in which I'm finding it hard to be thankful. I've been sleeping like crap. My nose has been stuffed up for days and my mood has been up and down due to many factors in my life.

But, I've been determined to always find something to be thankful for, every day.

Hot wings may be at the top of my list today. Too shallow?

Okay, well, you may think this is shallow too, but I'm going for it anyway...

My Seattle Seahawks. Yep, I went there.

I've been a football fan since I was about 10. My dad has had season tickets since the very first year the Seahawks have been a team. I believe that was 1976. He would take to me at least one game a year.

As I got older, I got more into football and I didn't care if they won or lost, I love my Hawks. I started to go to more games. As many as I could. Whenever he had extra tickets I would say, "Me, me!!"

Eventually, my dad ended up giving his tickets to his law office and if the Hawks were good, I didn't really get to go, but if they had a bad season, me and my husband (this was when I was married of course) ended up going to at least 3 or 4 games a year.

When Hasselbeck came on board, they started getting good again, and the Kingdome came down and Qwest Field went up and we decided to buy our own season tickets.

We were there when the won the NFC Championship. That was exciting!!

Tickets got too expensive, so we gave them up. Then of course I got divorced. Now I'm back to only going to one game a year.

Now we have a good team again and it's been exciting to watch players like Russell Wilson, Richard Sherman and Marshawn Lynch on the field.  10-1!! I truly think we are Superbowl bound this year. If not, at least we had a great season.

Wednesday WIP: Girl in Motion (book formerly known as Cheesy)

Chelsea Reed's dad signs her up for Powder Puff football, even though he knows she's been playing with, and wants to continue playing with the boys at her high school. Little does he know, much of her desire to play football stems from her estranged relationship with him and her longing to strengthen their relationship. 
 

The rest of the week was like time standing still because my first football game caused me 

anxiety. I tossed and turned the night before, barely getting any sleep. In the morning, I trudged down to the kitchen. My dad sat at the kitchen table, reading the paper.

“I need coffee,” I said to no one in particular.

     He peeked at me over the top of his newspaper like I was crazy and said, “Coffee?  You’re a little young for coffee aren’t you?”

 “You are aware that high school kids pretty much live on coffee, pizza, chips, and gum, right?”

     “Hmph,” he said. Seriously, do people really say hmph?

     I poured a cup of coffee, leaving enough room for about half a cup of creamer. I hated the taste of regular coffee. I preferred Starbucks, but I needed the jolt and my only option was the slop in Dad's coffee pot. While I drank my coffee I made myself a breakfast full of good carbs and went and got my uniform on.

     My stomach fluttered, and not in the good way, like when Tommy said nice things to me, but in the bad way like when I’m about to throw up. I sat down on my bed and took a few deep breaths. I pulled on my socks, put my hair in a ponytail, and grabbed my cleats.

     As I walked toward the garage, I stopped at the kitchen table where my dad still sat. I stood for a moment which caught his attention. He glanced up from his paper and said, “What is it?”

     “Um—” I couldn’t ask, knowing the answer would disappoint me.

     “Well, what is it?”

     I stared him square in the eyes and asked, “Are you coming to my game?”

     His gaze immediately shifted back to his newspaper. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

     “Oh, okay.” I admit, even though I knew what the answer would be, it still  disappointed me. I mean, he signed me up for the stupid team with their stupid ugly players and dumb skirts and he didn't even plan to see me play?

Writing Wednesday: An Unbalanced Line

Tell me what you think.

He glanced at me again. “You should back up, stay out of the way.”

“Yes, sir.”  I saluted, watched for a minute or two then asked, “Dad, why do you practice in Spring, anyway?”

“What?” He turned, an expression of irritation across his face. “Because there’s only a few months left until the season,” he snapped. “Now hush up, girl. I can’t sit here and entertain you. I’ve got a job to do.”

I went back and leaned against the wall, watching the team scrimmage. I never really understood the appeal of the game. The Center—would hike the ball and the Quarterback, who always wore a red shirt so he wouldn’t get tackled, would catch it. Then the Quarterback would throw it, hand it off, pitch it, or run it himself. All the while, his opponents would lunge at him, trying to get through his offensive line.  The other defenders ran down field, chasing after the receivers. I thought it seemed like a simple game. As I watched though, I realized how many plays needed to be memorized, and how you always had to be watching and be on your toes, how you needed to be inside the head of your opponents, figuring out and beating them to their next move.  There was more to it than meets the eye.    

    “Hey, Dad, is there something I can do to help?”

     He gave me a quick glance. “Uh, not really, just keep a safe distance.” And so I did and kept watching, keeping a special eye on the quarterback, who was mesmerizing. He seemed to have the most difficult job on the field. He had to be fast and strong, and have good reflexes. He had to be able to see everything, in front of him, coming up next to him. He had to have eyes in the back of his head.  He had to be quick and accurate, graceful, yet tough. He was the leader, the captain, the hero. I was in awe of the responsibility he held. If he failed, the team was sure to fail.  And the quarterback was also the player my dad paid the most attention to. It didn’t suck that he was totally hot, either.

     During one play, the quarterback—Brady Briggs— who I immediately crushed over—threw a beautiful pass down the field. The receiver went up for the ball, but he tipped it off his fingers, popping it up in the air and out of bounds. It landed at my feet. I bent down and picked it up, flipped it end over end a few times. As I turned that ball over and over in my hands, I got an idea. One that would help me and my dad get along, to become like a real father and daughter.

     My dad came and snatched the ball away from me and tossed it back out to the quarterback. I looked up at him and smiled, knowing in my heart that this would bring us together.  My dad looked at me funny and said, “You look like you’re up to something.”

     “Chu—no.” He still looked at me suspiciously.

     I nodded and went back to watching the practice, plotting in my head all the while.

Wednesday Writing: An Unbalanced Line

From my rewrite and now round of revisions. I'm typing them up right now. This is toward the beginning when my protagonist, Chelsea, loses her mom to cancer. Tell me what you think.

By the time the doctors found the cancer, it was already widespread so the attempts at chemo and radiation proved to be futile. They gave her four to six months. We had no family to speak of. Mom’s parents were long dead, having been taken from this earth by a crackhead mugger. I had no aunts and uncles on my mom’s side, as she was an only child. My parents divorced when I was six and my dad lived a couple states away along with his sister and my Grandma Frankie—that’s short for Francesa. My mom had lots of friends though, and they took turns coming in and helping out, along with hospice, but mostly my mom’s best friend, Suki,.

I felt so helpless as I sat by her side and watched her hair fall out, as she disintegrated in her own bed, as her body grew weaker and more frail by the day, then finally as she silently slipped out of consciousness. Her already labored breath would catch, and her chest would heave when it became too painful even to breathe. I slept when she finally died after just three months, and I was glad for it. I wouldn’t want to have watched her take her last breath.

     Upon waking that morning, I went downstairs to find Suki and an odd pair of undertakers in my living room. The first undertaker was just like the ones you see in the movies. His name was George and he was very tall and pale with dark hair and a deep voice. The other’s name was George too. I know, too weird. He was the comic relief. It was almost like watching a vaudeville act instead of the men who were going to take my dead mom’s body out of my house forever.

     I stared, numb and feeling as if I was watching a movie instead of standing there in my own life. Suki paid attention as the undertakers delivered their monologues and then went about their duties. I stood there for a long time and Suki just let me, staying quiet, occasionally walking by and patting my arm or rubbing my shoulder between phone calls and cleaning and such.  I finally sat down when the undertakers rolled my mom out on a stretcher in a big black plastic bag with a zipper down the front. They handed Suki some pamphlets as they left. I went to the door, peeked out the peephole and ran my hand against the smooth oak. I watched them load up the plastic bag that held my mom’s body. I watched the Georges climb into their death mobile and drive away, then went to my mom’s room. The air was suffocating and musty. The scent of decay lingered.

Liking What You Write

Doesn't it make you feel good? I took a couple days away from my novel after finishing, and now I'm at the point where I'm reading it aloud, and I must say, I like it.

I did a lot of research, which a lot of people would probably say I'm crazy, but I  like to get even the littlest details accurate. Of course this one took me on a google road trip from Jackson, MS to Abilene, TX, trying to find pit stops on the way. It was no easy task.

I also did a lot of football research. I mean, I know a lot about football, which is why I wrote a football story in the first place, but I didn't know names of passes, or anything about Powder Puff, or what a college coach does in the off season.

I like my characters voice, she's southern, but I don't use too much dialect to distract from the story. She's a bit feisty, she has kind of an attitude, which I hope doesn't make her unlikeable to others, but we'll see.

I already know there are things I have to add and cut, I figured many of those things out while rewriting the story. So I'm going to do my read, to revisions, then send it out to beta readers.

But really, so far I like it. It's always scary writing a book and wondering, is it good or is it crap.

Writing Wednesday

Yep, thought I'd get back to the Writing Wednesday and share a little of my crap, I mean my brilliance with you. Today, since I've been diligently working on my rewrite of An Unbalanced Line formerly known as Cheesy, I thought I'd share a bit with you.

I started up my mom’s car—an angel blue convertible BMW.  I backed out of the driveway and sat there in front of my house. My house that I’d never step foot in again, Suki standing out front weeping and waving. I waved back then headed down the street, through the neighborhood. I pass the cemetery and the Northpark Mall, toward I-55. After that it’s nothing but trees and pavement, trees and pavement, until I reach I-220. I’d swear there was about a church a mile as I continued south. I guess it wasn’t called the Bible Belt for nothing. We weren’t particularly religious people, but we did have a faith to us that may not be explainable in words and others may not understand. My mom was a deeply faithful person, but when it came to the aspects of religion that came from man himself, like the churches and the unwritten rules and such, well, I guess she was a bit of a rebel, which is why we didn’t belong to any denomination to speak of.

 I-220 meets I-20 at the Metrocenter. I enter the highway that would take me all the way to Southpaw and my new life. I pass more trees, shopping centers, a few hotels.  Before I hit the bridge that will take me over the Mississippi and into a different state altogether, I leave the highway for a short break, to grab a snack, to stretch my legs. I stop at the Kangaroo Express, buy a bottle of water and bag of Nacho Cheese Flavor Doritos, about the only kind of chips I can stand. I hop back into the Beemer and decide to take a short stroll through Riverside Park.

I park the car, grab my chips and head toward the river. Forgetting my jacket in the car, goose bumps break out as the cool spring breeze brushes across the surface of my skin. I wrap my arms around myself to keep warm. I follow the trail to the water. I tear open my bag and crunch into a chip as the water rushes past. The river’s not so different from time. When you look at it from a distance it almost seems to stand still, but the closer you are, the faster and more violent it rolls by, an unstoppable force. You couldn’t slow it if you tried.

Time seemed to stand still when mom first got sick, but then when the cancer raged full force, and she suddenly got worse, it was like fast forward. Suddenly she was dead. It still didn’t feel real—yet there I was driving my mom’s car across three states, chomping on Doritos, standing in front of the Mississippi River. In Mississippi. My home. Correction: former home. I breathed in the river and cotton, magnolias and the blues, and all things Mississippi, not knowing if I’d ever be back again.

When the Doritos were nothing but crumbs at the bottom of the bag and my fingertips were stained nacho-cheese-orange, I made my way back to the car, which at that moment I decided needed a name, climbed in, got back on I-20, and crossed the Mississippi River Bridge.