It's NaNo Time

I've decided again to try my hand at NaNoWriMo again. This will be my 7th year. I've only "won" two times. The pattern appears to be the lack of time since being divorced. I've been close. I think I got up to 30k one year, but I decided to put that book aside when I found out fairy tale retellings were all the rage (which seemed to happen while I was writing that one).

I'm pretty determined this year. I've not finished a book for a while (and by a while I mean 3 or so years,  I mean, I haven't even written a blog in two months). I would like to get one completed project under my belt. Maybe that will get me more motivated to write more.

I've also decided to sway from Young Adult and write a women's lit novel.  It's kind of about a middle aged woman struggling to find where she fits in the world while battling severe depression. So, not really a far stretch from what I normally write, but I think it will be fun to be a little more free with my words.

So far I have just over 3,600 words.

Who's doing NaNoWriMo this year? What are you writing?

Good luck to those of you participating.

My writing process blog tour!

I’ve been invited to participate in a blog tour about the writing process, started by Maya Rock.  Maya used to be a literary agent at Writer's House. I know this because I queried her a couple times because she seemed totally cool and like someone I'd like to work with, but we all now how the query process is and, well, that didn't pan out. Now she's an editor and writer and the one who started this blog hop. Go check out her website. Her first YA novel comes out next year. Yay Maya!!

So this blog hop is an ongoing opportunity to get to know something about how writers see their processes (um, processes? are there such things as processes?) It's kind of like playing tag. Today I'm it. I was chosen by Facebook friend and fellow YA author, Stephanie Feuer (see how her name is a link? click on that and go check her out). You will see who I've tagged and will be posting a week from today at the end of this post.


Let's get started shall we. I'm supposed to answer four questions. Let's see...where did those damn questions get too...(pushes side sticky notes, grabs legal pads with scribbles on them) oh yes. Here we go...

1. What am I working on?

 Oh I just this very second tweeted about this. Would you like to read my tweet?

When you tell your kids the plot of the MS you're writing & they say, "What's wrong with you?" & "You're sick" #yalit #contemporaryfiction

 Yes. Contemporary YA. For some reason I'm drawn to it. The plot is this: A teenage boy, who is quite the douchebag (womanizer, homophobe, racist, treats his mother, his girlfriend, pretty much everyone like shit), finds tornado debris in his front yard. His mom makes him help clean it up much to his dismay. Among the debris is a notebook, a journal if you will. He begins to read it and finds the words of a troubled teenage girl. A girl whose mom is an alcoholic, whose stepfather is abusive, who is bullied at school, basically whose life is a miserable mess.

Because he's such a douche, he thinks it's funny at first. But the more he reads into this girl's life, the more he starts to feel for her. He also starts to see parallels into his own life and his own faults are coming to the surface. When it comes down to the end of the journal, and the girl wanting nothing more than to die, he sets out to find her and stop her before that happens, to show her that at least there is one person out there that cares about her. But will he be too late? It's currently titled, A Tattered Life, but I'm not sold on the title.  

You can read an excerpt here.

I'm also working on revising a novel I want to put out this fall titled Girl in Motion. So there's that to contend with. Also still trying to market Dissected. Not too good at the multi-tasking stuffs. Oy. Working on it though.

That seemed like a really long drawn out answer.

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Tough one.  I think I take risks other authors aren't willing to take. I write about hard things other authors won't write about and some people, yeah, they won't publish it. I write about the ugly truths, the not-so-happily-ever-afters.  The fact is that the good people don't always survive, and the boy doesn't always get the girl in the end, and some people don't always want to read about how perfect life is because it's not.

Sometimes life is hard and dark and painful. Sometimes we need THOSE characters to relate to. Sometimes we need to read about people who hurt like us and feel like us and not just the people who lead exciting existences and get what they want and you know in the end everything is going to be all right.

And I may not always end on the happily-ever-after, but I do end on the everthing-will-be-okay. I always end on a ray of hope. I don't write beautiful stories, but I think I write stories that need to be told. I don't know who said it, but there's a quote that really resonates with me, and I write it in my book, Dissected when I sign it.

"But without the dark, we'd never see the stars."

3. Why do I write what I do?

I think I sort of answered this above. The hard stories, the dark stories, for some reason I am just drawn to them. I think they're important and need to be written and that I'm one of the writers that needs to write them. 

I suppose it's because of my experiences too. I've seen a lot and suffered through some and that makes it easier to write this contemporary fiction that is so emotionally raw like an exposed nerve. It also makes it easier to put myself in my characters shoes and bring out their most inner feelings, fears and dreams.

I do want to write other things. I have different stories in different genres started, but I keep getting drawn back here to this place. Too many stories, too little time...


4. How does your writing process work?

And here is the hardest question to answer. I'm not sure what I do is a "process" per se. 

As far as the when and where...time seems to be fleeting these days. I write whenever I can. I have a day job, so I try to write in the afternoon. If I get up early enough, I write before work. I sit at my kitchen table in front of my sliding glass door, it's the place in my house where the most sunlight comes in. 

I also write in many notebooks whenever I'm out and about. I have notebooks scattered all over. At times I gather them all up in a central location and find where I've written everything. I counted the last time I did it, there are about 20 notebooks around my house, car and in various bags laying around.

As far as the how, I sit down, I write. That's what I do. While I'm writing, I research. Probably to a fault. I think I get a little overzealous when it comes to authenticity.

Anyway, so I write and I research and I get a 1st draft down and it's crap and way too short (when I write the first draft is always way too short and always way too crappy)

So I do a next draft and flesh it out. I add details about people, places, make the prose prettier. Sometimes I have to add characters, pets. I usually find after a first draft that everyone is an only child, has one dead parent, and no one has pets.

I do a next draft, get Beta readers to give me feedback, give it to a couple editors, do another  _________rewrites (changes with every novel). Then I worry about how horrible it is for the rest of its days, no matter its future, published or sucked into the abyss of a word file for the rest of its existence.

So, for next week, here are the next three contestants...
Hart Johnson, Angel Young, and S.D. Skye. They will be posting on April 14.

First up, Hart Johnson...

Hart Johnson writes books from her bathtub. A social scientist by day, Hart spends her evenings plotting grand conspiracies and murdering people on paper. She is author via pen name (Alyse Carlson) of the Garden Society Mysteries and is serially publishing an apocalyptic flu conspiracy tale called A Shot in the Light.
  


 For her post next week, visit her blog, Confessions of a Watery Tart 

You can buy her books here. (they didn't tell us to do that, but I'm awesome like that)


Next, Angel Young...

Angel Young is a bit eccentric by nature. She's a writer, photographer, artist, dreamer, and all around weirdo. She cut teeth on vampire movies and carried around a beloved Wolfman doll as a child (appropriately named 'Wolfy'), pretended she was the Caped Crusader, and waited for her letter to Hogwarts. Not much has changed. She's a 23 year old girl battling an autoimmune disease, Sjogrens, with a lot of dreams, adventures, and a firm belief in nurturing her inner child. While her creative outlets are always being added to, writing will always be her favorite passion. To sum it up: A Batman-addicted weirdo covered in tattoos, almost always in Converse, running around in her own La-La Land.

Visit Angel's blog, Misadventures of a Misfit on Monday. (see what I did there?)

S.D. Skye, author of the J.J. McCall series, is an award-winning author and former FBI counterintelligence analyst. She's a native Washingtonian (D.C.) and professed nerd-girl who loves all things Star Trek, Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and Big Bang Theory. She's a member of Romance Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, the Maryland Writers Association, and Sisters in Crime and lives to write novels, especially those involving 3-letter agencies and Beltway intrigue. She's hard at work on the next installment of the series. 

You'll find Ms. Skye's blog, here. 

Until next time...

Writing Wednesday: A Tattered Life

This is from my WIP, A Tattered Life. I wrote most of this section last night. First draft. Leave comments if you wish.

When I course up the driveway, gravel crackling beneath my over-sized tires, Mama glances up, only for a second, then gets right back to cleaning up the tornado debris from our yard. She’s pissed, I can tell. I put the truck in park and sit, conjuring up an excuse for being late.

She doesn’t speak to me as I pass her to put my backpack in the house, but I feel her eyes on me, boring a hole straight to my soul. I toss my coat on the couch, run into my room, throw on some shorts, grab a garbage bag and my gloves from the morning, which are right where I left them by the front door.

I run to Mama, grab her by the shoulders and kiss her cheek. “Sorry I’m late, I got detention.”

Her head whips up at me. “Again? What for this time?”

“I towel whipped Duncan Price’s bare ass in the locker room.”

She stares at me for a moment in a state of disbelief, but that usually doesn’t last long, because nothing I do ever surprises her anymore, so I can pretty much tell her anything to get out of trouble. Funny, I’m making up getting in trouble to get out of trouble.

“Very well, but you better leave that boy alone. He could be your boss someday.”

I start picking up garbage. “Mama, are you kidding me? I’m going pro. Duncan may be lots of people’s bosses someday, but he ain’t gonna me mine.”

She stoops over to join me in the garbage collecting. “If you’re going pro you better keep those grades up, make sure you don’t get injured, and stop towel whipping boys in the locker room.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

We work in silence. I don’t dare stop working until Mama gives me a sign that we’re done.

“You hungry?”

“Starved.”

She hands me her bag of garbage, then pulls her gloves off and puts them in my bag. Stretching her spine out, hands on the small of her back, she says, “You take care of those, I’ll start supper.”

I do as she tells me, then go clean up. “Start your homework, Jaden!” Mama calls from the kitchen. A breeze comes through, carrying a trace of fried chicken with it. That meant mashed potatoes or home fries too, and I smell garlic, which Mama always adds to her mashed potatoes. Don’t know if she picked that up in Italy or what, but made them damn good. I hope she doesn’t make brussel sprouts. No matter how big a fit I threw, Mama always made me eat them. Still tells me they’ll make me grow big and strong. I’m 6’2 and 210. How much more big and strong do I need to be?

I grab my backpack, fully intending to do as Mama says and start my homework, but I’m distracted by the crazy chick’s notebook staring at me as soon as I unzip it. I pull it out, lay on my bed, and turn to the next entry.

Wednesday Writing: A Tattered Life

I've not had much time to work on this, but it's my new WIP, based on the 2011 tornadoes that tore through the south. Jock Jaden who doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself, is having a fling with white trash, Payton behind his cheerleader girlfriend's back. He's supposed to be home with his mom picking up tornado debris from his yard. 

He has a lot to learn. 

Feel free to leave comments, but don't forget, it's a first draft.

We fling our seat belts off, move in and reposition our bodies so we’re as close as possible. My hands immediately make my way up Payton’s skirt, hers to my hair. Our desperate lips press together, having missed the forbidden taste of the others for the last twenty-four hours. She climbs up and straddles me, hands moving from my hair to my face. I don’t know why, but I love when she cradles my face in her hands. It feels very…intimate, which sounds stupid coming from me, because I’m not one of those overly sentimental guys. The rest of the gory details I save for Eli.

We sit quiet as we always do when it’s over, for a few minutes anyway. “I should take you home.”

“The bus.”

“Right. The bus.” She shot me a glare. Payton never lets me take her home. Not all the way anyway. It was the bus, or back to the diner, or back to school, or a few blocks away from home. Never just home. One day I think I’ll follow her and find out why.

I pull up to the bus stop, glance around to make no one is looking, then lean in and give Payton a peck on the cheek. She slides out of the truck and grabs her backpack. Before shutting the door she leans in as says, “Jaden, I—,” but stops short. She looks at her feet and stays quiet.

“What is it girl? I gotta get home. My mama’s gonna have my hide as it is.”

Looking back up she flashes a sad smile and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, babe.” I watch her step back from the truck and stand next to the bus stop. I shake my head. For sure, that girl and I have little in common, but there is something between us, I’m just not sure what it is.

WIP Wednesday: Triggered

This is the new title of the novel I once called Lockdown. I can thank J. Anderson Coats for that. I wrote this book a few years back, in fact, I think I wrote it for NaNoWriMo 2009, so it's rough, really rough. I've decided to do a major overhaul on it and perhaps put it out as my next indie project after Dissected. We'll see. Anyway, here's a snippet, keep in mind, it's rough. Setting the scene, it's a book about a school shooting, these kids are on their bus on the way to school.

Cameron, a junior, was absolutely gorgeous.  His skin was like dark chocolate and he had these bright penetrating hazel eyes.  With a tall, muscular, lean body, he was a perfect fit on the basketball team.  A ready made star.  Only he didn’t play basketball, he played the drums.  Instead of being on the court, he was in the stands, in my opinion, a likeable choice.  He seemed like a cool guy, friendly with everyone, always cracking jokes and acting goofy.   He and Brady were best friends.  He sat with Kimberly across from Brady and Kat.  Cameron and Kimberly’s sister were a couple, another thing for her to be jealous of.

     “Hey Brady,” Cameron said.

     “Yeah.”

     “Why do men find it difficult to make eye contact?”

     “I don’t know, why?”

     “Because tits don't have eyes.”  Brady just shook his head.  He probably wanted to laugh, but dared not with Kat sitting right next to him. Cameron laughed at his own joke; a few giggles broke out throughout the bus.  “I have another one.  What did the blonde say when she opened the box of Cheerios?”

     Kat, being a blonde, shot Cameron a dirty look.  “I don’t know, what did she say,” Brady asked.

     “Oh look! Doughnut seeds!"  Cameron again laughed like a lunatic.

     “Cameron,” Kat said.

     “Uh-oh, I’m in trouble, huh,” Cameron said.

     “Kat ignored the question, “Why are blonde jokes always so short?”

     “I don’t know, why,” Cameron asked.

     “So guys can remember them.”

     “That’s a good one.”

     “ You know the problem with most men, Cameron?”

     “No, what?”

     “The problem is they’re assholes.  The problem with most women is that they put up with those assholes.  Cher said that.” 

     “Ooh, Cher’s smart.  You got served,” Kimberly said to Cameron.

     “So I did.  But who’s Cher?” 

     “You’re not serious,” Kat said.

     “What?”

     They all laughed together, happy little group.

     So many of the kids on the bus don’t even seem real, like they are imitations of one another, plastic and trying to be something other than what is real, a character in the teen movie of the week, a stereotype, a caricature of who they’re trying to portray.  In some ways, I suppose it’s expected, on other ways, it’s just pathetic.

     The bus driver closed the doors and began rolling down the street.  Angel was missing, Cameron’s girlfriend, Kimberly’s little sister.  She was my favorite to watch because she moved with this smooth elegance you only see on catwalks.  In fact, it was smoother than that even; it’s as if she glided.  She was beautiful enough to walk down a catwalk one day, with her long shiny black hair, her flawless brown skin, her deep brown eyes, and tall, slender frame.  Her name was fitting, as she was not only beautiful, but also soulful and kind.  If I were to have a friend, I’d want it to be Angel.   At first I was sad not to have seen her that day, but realized soon enough, she was one of the lucky ones.