Anyone who has read this blog more than three times is painfully aware that I am NOT a patient person. Turns out most of us writers aren't. (Prolly not the best career choice but...whatever. #crazy)
I'm neck-deep in the submission process right now, and contrary to what I hoped, it involves just as much patience as the searching-for-an-agent game I was struggling through last year. Needless to say, I've been praying for patience. A LOT. Some days are better than others, thanks largely to my top-notch support team (holla!), but there are definitely down days, too.
I was having one of those particularly down days last week. I'd just returned from a family outing to Disneyland. Don't get me wrong, the Mouse House is always great fun, but vacations are hard for me, too. As crazy as it sounds, I feel more secure being in the familiar trenches of my own worry than relishing in distraction of roller coasters and women far too large to be wearing Lycra. I like my routine--even if it's...depressing.
Anyway, back to the story: It was 2:30 a.m., and I' just had an I-had-to-pee-and-now-I-can't-go-back-to-sleep-so-I'll-just-keep-thinking-about-how-crappy-my-life-is moment when I remembered a clip from this movie, Evan Almighty
After my brain hamster wheeled around on that a few minutes, I realized that Morgan Freem...er, God, was absolutely right. Patience may not arrive on my doorstep every morning like a freshly printed USA Today, but I am afforded many opportunities to grow it. MANY!
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Writing the Love Interest--The Jake Ryan Complex
I hadn't planned on re-posting anything just yet (this blog still has new car smell) but in reviewing my "stats" I discovered that this particular post gets a lot of attention. I couldn't figure out why...so I reread it. Now I know. It's BEAST, YO! (Hey, I'm a YA writer...I gotta relate to my peeps)
So, because I am a lazy girl, eagerly awaiting a spring break trip to Disneyland, I am go to re-post for the first time ever. Hope you enjoy. (Again)
(Originally posted July 17, 2011)
They say that inspiration comes from the most unlikely of places. In the case of today's post that sentiment couldn't be more true.
Let me set the scene: It's about 6 am Thursday morning. I'm blowing my hair dry in preparation for a day of work, praying for an epiphany as to what my next blog post will be. My husband stumbles into the bathroom, eyes narrowed to pinch out the morning light, and that mysterious nighttime crust is wedged in the corners of his mouth like he'd been making out with a glue stick. (Hands off, ladies, he's taken!) He drops down onto the toilet seat and begins lacing up his running shoes, grumbling about the stupid dog not caring whether he gets walked or not, and that's when it happens...INSPIRATION STRIKES!
With as much maturity as a four-year-old boy who licks mailboxes and chews on his own toenails, my husband discovers he has a little booger dangling from his nose. Rather than depositing said snot rocket into a tissue or square of toilet paper like a civilized person, he determines that an appropriate relocation would be to smear the little sucker on the leg of my pajama pants. Under different circumstances I would have thrown a royal fit, going all blond-afro-girl on his disgusting arse, but I opted not to because he'd just given me my next blog topic, and therefore I was extremely grateful.
For those of you who don't know who Jake Ryan is, (Cherie!) please pull your head from beneath the rock you're buried under and rent SIXTEEN CANDLES. It's this movie that absolutely ruined the realistic love interest for any teenage girl.
You see, Jake Ryan was really a thirty-year-old man trapped in an eighteen-year-old boy's body. He didn't care that he drove a zippy red Porsche when all the other kids drove hand-me-down Honda's. He was the most popular guy on campus, dating a gorgeous cheerleader with big dairy pillows, but it was of absolutely no consequence to him. Jake wanted more than a good time. He wanted depth. He wanted sincerity. He wanted Samantha Baker, the flat-chested sophomore who took a sex quiz in Independent Study and, stupidly, answered honestly!
"I don't know, Rook," you say skeptically. "This guy sounds too good to be true."
Brilliant deduction my underpaid fan club. He is! HE'S TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE! Which is why we love him so much!
As YA authors it's our job to create a desirable 17-20 year old boy that any girl would be thrilled to tongue tangle with. He shall be good looking, mature for his age, loyal, funny, smart and be willing to walk through fire, slay dragons, stake vampires, publicly humiliate snobby cheerleaders, or put an abusive father in his place on his girl's behalf, all within forty-eight hours of meeting her.
Is he realistic? HECK NO! But who wants to read about a pimple-faced kid who lights his own farts for entertainment? Our job is to create the ideal boyfriend who says all the right things and makes our tummy quiver with just a glance. Is it misleading to our young readers? Yep. But if we had our Jake Ryan moment it only seems fair that they should have theirs, too. After all, in fifteen short years they'll look down and find a booger stuck to their cotton jammies.
So, because I am a lazy girl, eagerly awaiting a spring break trip to Disneyland, I am go to re-post for the first time ever. Hope you enjoy. (Again)
(Originally posted July 17, 2011)
They say that inspiration comes from the most unlikely of places. In the case of today's post that sentiment couldn't be more true.
Let me set the scene: It's about 6 am Thursday morning. I'm blowing my hair dry in preparation for a day of work, praying for an epiphany as to what my next blog post will be. My husband stumbles into the bathroom, eyes narrowed to pinch out the morning light, and that mysterious nighttime crust is wedged in the corners of his mouth like he'd been making out with a glue stick. (Hands off, ladies, he's taken!) He drops down onto the toilet seat and begins lacing up his running shoes, grumbling about the stupid dog not caring whether he gets walked or not, and that's when it happens...INSPIRATION STRIKES!
With as much maturity as a four-year-old boy who licks mailboxes and chews on his own toenails, my husband discovers he has a little booger dangling from his nose. Rather than depositing said snot rocket into a tissue or square of toilet paper like a civilized person, he determines that an appropriate relocation would be to smear the little sucker on the leg of my pajama pants. Under different circumstances I would have thrown a royal fit, going all blond-afro-girl on his disgusting arse, but I opted not to because he'd just given me my next blog topic, and therefore I was extremely grateful.
It's what I refer to as: THE JAKE RYAN COMPLEX
For those of you who don't know who Jake Ryan is, (Cherie!) please pull your head from beneath the rock you're buried under and rent SIXTEEN CANDLES. It's this movie that absolutely ruined the realistic love interest for any teenage girl.
You see, Jake Ryan was really a thirty-year-old man trapped in an eighteen-year-old boy's body. He didn't care that he drove a zippy red Porsche when all the other kids drove hand-me-down Honda's. He was the most popular guy on campus, dating a gorgeous cheerleader with big dairy pillows, but it was of absolutely no consequence to him. Jake wanted more than a good time. He wanted depth. He wanted sincerity. He wanted Samantha Baker, the flat-chested sophomore who took a sex quiz in Independent Study and, stupidly, answered honestly!
"I don't know, Rook," you say skeptically. "This guy sounds too good to be true."
Brilliant deduction my underpaid fan club. He is! HE'S TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE! Which is why we love him so much!
As YA authors it's our job to create a desirable 17-20 year old boy that any girl would be thrilled to tongue tangle with. He shall be good looking, mature for his age, loyal, funny, smart and be willing to walk through fire, slay dragons, stake vampires, publicly humiliate snobby cheerleaders, or put an abusive father in his place on his girl's behalf, all within forty-eight hours of meeting her.
Is he realistic? HECK NO! But who wants to read about a pimple-faced kid who lights his own farts for entertainment? Our job is to create the ideal boyfriend who says all the right things and makes our tummy quiver with just a glance. Is it misleading to our young readers? Yep. But if we had our Jake Ryan moment it only seems fair that they should have theirs, too. After all, in fifteen short years they'll look down and find a booger stuck to their cotton jammies.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
The Great Cliche: An Evolution of Acceptance (Courtesy John Hughes)
Any of you who have followed my blog for more than a few months, know that I struggled with the description one agent (during my days of query) saddled my baby...er, manuscript, with. She called it "cliche." OUCH!
My initial response was to fire back an email proclaiming the authenticity of my book, and demand she resign from the literary world because her twenty-five years of experience had obviously left her lacking in the ability to properly access a story as "cliche" or "non-cliche." But after a few calming breaths (and a firm "DO NOT DO THAT!" email from a writer friend) I realized that wasn't in my best interest. Instead, I thanked her for her consideration and settled on Google Earth-ing her place of business so I could fantasize about toilet papering her building and leaving chalk outlines on her front porch. (Relax, Frances. Not dead body outlines, more like sad faces and elephants wearing hats. I draw those really well.)
The great cliche has sort of haunted me since then.
True, I did sign with an agent who believes wholeheartedly in the originality of my book, and the "cliche" word hasn't come up at all during our submission process, but up until this last weekend I always considered "cliche" as something negative. (Like when my 7th grade teacher used my favorite word: AUDACITY, like it was the plague instead of an attribute). That is until I was flipping through channels and came across Pretty In Pink. *blissful sigh* With one glimpse of Molly Ringwald in her hideous, hand-made outfit I was instantly transported from a laundry-induced stupor where cliche was a bad word, to a relaxing nirvana where slightly-predictable story lines were familiar and welcoming, and Duckie wasn't just the second-rate actor standing beside Ashton Kutcher.
What I've come to accept is that writing a "cliche" story isn't a bad thing at all. It works! Just ask John Hughes...er...his estate? Anyway, It's the characters that make a predicable story unique. We all knew that Andie and Blane were going to end up together, just like we knew that Jake *swoon* would bring Samantha her undies, and that Keith would give Watts the diamond earrings. There's a reason we love the plot lines we do. On some level we know how the story is going to end--it's the journey that gets us there that makes it exciting!
My initial response was to fire back an email proclaiming the authenticity of my book, and demand she resign from the literary world because her twenty-five years of experience had obviously left her lacking in the ability to properly access a story as "cliche" or "non-cliche." But after a few calming breaths (and a firm "DO NOT DO THAT!" email from a writer friend) I realized that wasn't in my best interest. Instead, I thanked her for her consideration and settled on Google Earth-ing her place of business so I could fantasize about toilet papering her building and leaving chalk outlines on her front porch. (Relax, Frances. Not dead body outlines, more like sad faces and elephants wearing hats. I draw those really well.)
The great cliche has sort of haunted me since then.
True, I did sign with an agent who believes wholeheartedly in the originality of my book, and the "cliche" word hasn't come up at all during our submission process, but up until this last weekend I always considered "cliche" as something negative. (Like when my 7th grade teacher used my favorite word: AUDACITY, like it was the plague instead of an attribute). That is until I was flipping through channels and came across Pretty In Pink. *blissful sigh* With one glimpse of Molly Ringwald in her hideous, hand-made outfit I was instantly transported from a laundry-induced stupor where cliche was a bad word, to a relaxing nirvana where slightly-predictable story lines were familiar and welcoming, and Duckie wasn't just the second-rate actor standing beside Ashton Kutcher.
What I've come to accept is that writing a "cliche" story isn't a bad thing at all. It works! Just ask John Hughes...er...his estate? Anyway, It's the characters that make a predicable story unique. We all knew that Andie and Blane were going to end up together, just like we knew that Jake *swoon* would bring Samantha her undies, and that Keith would give Watts the diamond earrings. There's a reason we love the plot lines we do. On some level we know how the story is going to end--it's the journey that gets us there that makes it exciting!
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Lights, Camera, ACTION!
Faithful fan club, today I am thrilled to present to you
the trailer of my novel, Summer on the Short Bus.
As I describe over there ------>
Summer on the Short Bus is an irreverent and sarcastic look
at what happens when you're stripped of your comfort zone
and left to face reality head on,
despite how uncomfortable it might be.
There's no "message" behind this book--not an intentional one anyway.
In fact, it's about as non-p.c. as you can get.
It's meant to entertain.
Period.
If you get something else from it, good on ya!
the trailer of my novel, Summer on the Short Bus.
As I describe over there ------>
Summer on the Short Bus is an irreverent and sarcastic look
at what happens when you're stripped of your comfort zone
and left to face reality head on,
despite how uncomfortable it might be.
There's no "message" behind this book--not an intentional one anyway.
In fact, it's about as non-p.c. as you can get.
It's meant to entertain.
Period.
If you get something else from it, good on ya!
And now, the trailer...
(And yes, that was Zac Efron. *swipes dibble from chin*
The heart throb in this tale bares a striking resemblance to Zac,
a fact that's incorporated into the story)
*Special thanks to A.G. Howard, whose talents befuddle me on a daily basis*
(And yes, that was Zac Efron. *swipes dibble from chin*
The heart throb in this tale bares a striking resemblance to Zac,
a fact that's incorporated into the story)
*Special thanks to A.G. Howard, whose talents befuddle me on a daily basis*
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
A goat. A meme.
The air was crisp enough to see a hint of breath hanging in front of me, the earth looking fresh after the cleansing rainfall it endured the night before. Book in hand, bundled in my favorite sweatshirt, I stepped, slipper-footed, onto the cold landing outside my kitchen door and proceeded down the steps to the patio. The flock of wild, lime green parrots that live somewhere nearby passed overhead, shrieking in a language I didn’t understand but loved to listen to, while the personal-space challenged Labrador I’d come to love tip-toed beside me, matching my stride step for step. A beautiful winter morning in San Diego. Or so I thought...
“Somebody’s up bright and early.”
Eh? The sudden interruption forced my attention from the lush patio furniture beckoning me and to the corner of the yard.
I extinguished a heavy sigh. “Good morning, Nigel.”
“Good morning, love. What brings outside on such a crisp morning?”
“Oh...you know, just thought I’d get in a little reading before the girls woke up.” I raised my copy of Miss Peregrine’s for evidence, but quickly tucked it back into the safety of my arms. The paper used for the printing of this book was particularly high quality. If Nigel came within a foot of a delicacy like that, I’d find myself on Amazon ordering a replacement book for Anita.
“Well, isn’t that a grand idea,” he said, elongating his pronunciation of the word grand in case I’d forgotten he was English. He dropped his head to the ground, taking one last nibble of dew-ridden grass, before approaching me with a loping gate Heidi Klum would kill for. “What else have you on your schedule for today?”
I settled Indian-style into the corner of the wicker couch, tucking the red throw pillow on my lap and thought about the day that lie ahead. Groceries, a little laundry, date night with my husband...
“Oh,” I groaned, suddenly remembering the task I’d unwillingly been assigned. “My friend Cherie tagged me with this meme a couple of weeks ago. I hate those things but...you know, I love her to bits so I guess I have to do it.”
“You’re not fond of the memes then?”
I glanced up at him, his beady eyes intent on me. “No,” I said. “They’re too...dogmatic for my taste.”
“Well that’s a shame,” he said, shooing the dog away with a gentle kick of his hind hoof. Chance, the wonder mutt with Bambi eyes, whimpered before venturing into the depths of the yard in search of his own grass to chew. “Say, I’ve got a brilliant idea,” Nigel said in a surprisingly chipper tone. “Why don’t you let me take care of the meme? I’m quite sure I’d do a smashing job–given my English heritage and propensity for wooing lady-folk.” I had a momentary flashback to the panty meme last summer and felt my cheeks flush. “Cherie wouldn’t mind, would she? As I recall she was quite fond of me...”
My teeth sunk into my bottom lip, as I considered the possible ramifications of such an agreement. I’m in the middle of submissions with my book, trying to present myself as a serious, professional writer–if Nigel took the reigns, what would I be subjecting myself and my caree–
“Sure!” I agreed, broad smile threatening to rip through my skin. “You know my Gmail password, right?”
“Indeed, I do,” he said behind an unsettling smirk. “Indeed I do.”
And now...Nigel’s meme:
1. What is your dream vacation? It’s quite simple really. An open field with rich, decadent grasses that I could graze on for days. Somewhere in the countryside–perhaps outside of Darlington or Middlesborough...though if I’m dreaming I should say I’d prefer the grasses in Ireland. Unfortunately the Irish are a very daft audience, so I should stick to my homeland. Something befitting a nobleman like myself.
2. Are you spontaneous or do you like to plan ahead?
Spontaneity is for the lower-classes. These suits don’t iron themselves, you know...
3. Tell us one thing you want to do but don’t dare to do.
Oh heavens, I think I should love to run nude through the streets, kicking up my hooves and wiggling my dingly danglies, but a gentleman would never do such a thing.
4. What’s your biggest phobia?
That the Beckham’s should split. David and Victoria are quite possibly the most beautiful, well-groomed humans on the planet. If their union were ever to dissolve, I fear it would be the end of a fairytale I've only begun to enjoy reading about.
5. If you were stranded on a desert island, what 3 things would you want with you (not including your laptop, or family).
Well now...you are a naughty thing for asking such a question, aren’t you? I suppose I’d start with an endless supply of 24 lb. bond paper. Not only does it taste like a tiny slice of Heaven on Earth, but it keeps my nethers running in a timely fashion. Secondly, I dare say I’d bring along Daisy. She’s not the most elegant of my admirers,
but she’s quite entertaining when she’s had a few drinks. If we’re on a deserted island, I might as well cut loose, right? Lastly, I would bring my manicure kit. Without my regularly scheduled spa visits, I fear I might look a bit ghastly if I didn’t at least maintain my hooves. Can you imagine...the horror of a chipped nail!
6. Name three blessings in your life.
The neighbor’s clothesline
My ability to make Americans feel inferior simply by speaking in my native brogue
My ass in a thong
7. What was your nickname in high school?
Dearest, I’m a goat. I skipped high school and went straight to university. There I was known only as, The Great Ramming Horn.
8. If you could meet the President of the United States, what would you say to him? Where do you get your suits?
9. If you could be any literary character for a day, who would you be?
Bella Swan, for obvious reasons.
10. What is your favorite quote?
“Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can't help but cry. I mean I'd love to be skinny like that but not with all those flies and death and stuff.” - Mariah Carey. She’s such a visionary...
As I understand, meme rules dictate I should pass this task along to seven other bloggers, however, I cannot see how anyone could possibly improve upon my response so I think we shall consider this memo officially retired. Why mess with a good thing, after all.
Until next time, my beloved fan club.
Cheers, Nigel
“Somebody’s up bright and early.”
Eh? The sudden interruption forced my attention from the lush patio furniture beckoning me and to the corner of the yard.
I extinguished a heavy sigh. “Good morning, Nigel.”
“Good morning, love. What brings outside on such a crisp morning?”
“Oh...you know, just thought I’d get in a little reading before the girls woke up.” I raised my copy of Miss Peregrine’s for evidence, but quickly tucked it back into the safety of my arms. The paper used for the printing of this book was particularly high quality. If Nigel came within a foot of a delicacy like that, I’d find myself on Amazon ordering a replacement book for Anita.
“Well, isn’t that a grand idea,” he said, elongating his pronunciation of the word grand in case I’d forgotten he was English. He dropped his head to the ground, taking one last nibble of dew-ridden grass, before approaching me with a loping gate Heidi Klum would kill for. “What else have you on your schedule for today?”
I settled Indian-style into the corner of the wicker couch, tucking the red throw pillow on my lap and thought about the day that lie ahead. Groceries, a little laundry, date night with my husband...
“Oh,” I groaned, suddenly remembering the task I’d unwillingly been assigned. “My friend Cherie tagged me with this meme a couple of weeks ago. I hate those things but...you know, I love her to bits so I guess I have to do it.”
“You’re not fond of the memes then?”
I glanced up at him, his beady eyes intent on me. “No,” I said. “They’re too...dogmatic for my taste.”
“Well that’s a shame,” he said, shooing the dog away with a gentle kick of his hind hoof. Chance, the wonder mutt with Bambi eyes, whimpered before venturing into the depths of the yard in search of his own grass to chew. “Say, I’ve got a brilliant idea,” Nigel said in a surprisingly chipper tone. “Why don’t you let me take care of the meme? I’m quite sure I’d do a smashing job–given my English heritage and propensity for wooing lady-folk.” I had a momentary flashback to the panty meme last summer and felt my cheeks flush. “Cherie wouldn’t mind, would she? As I recall she was quite fond of me...”
My teeth sunk into my bottom lip, as I considered the possible ramifications of such an agreement. I’m in the middle of submissions with my book, trying to present myself as a serious, professional writer–if Nigel took the reigns, what would I be subjecting myself and my caree–
“Sure!” I agreed, broad smile threatening to rip through my skin. “You know my Gmail password, right?”
“Indeed, I do,” he said behind an unsettling smirk. “Indeed I do.”
And now...Nigel’s meme:
1. What is your dream vacation? It’s quite simple really. An open field with rich, decadent grasses that I could graze on for days. Somewhere in the countryside–perhaps outside of Darlington or Middlesborough...though if I’m dreaming I should say I’d prefer the grasses in Ireland. Unfortunately the Irish are a very daft audience, so I should stick to my homeland. Something befitting a nobleman like myself.
2. Are you spontaneous or do you like to plan ahead?
Spontaneity is for the lower-classes. These suits don’t iron themselves, you know...
3. Tell us one thing you want to do but don’t dare to do.
Oh heavens, I think I should love to run nude through the streets, kicking up my hooves and wiggling my dingly danglies, but a gentleman would never do such a thing.
4. What’s your biggest phobia?
That the Beckham’s should split. David and Victoria are quite possibly the most beautiful, well-groomed humans on the planet. If their union were ever to dissolve, I fear it would be the end of a fairytale I've only begun to enjoy reading about.
5. If you were stranded on a desert island, what 3 things would you want with you (not including your laptop, or family).
Well now...you are a naughty thing for asking such a question, aren’t you? I suppose I’d start with an endless supply of 24 lb. bond paper. Not only does it taste like a tiny slice of Heaven on Earth, but it keeps my nethers running in a timely fashion. Secondly, I dare say I’d bring along Daisy. She’s not the most elegant of my admirers,
but she’s quite entertaining when she’s had a few drinks. If we’re on a deserted island, I might as well cut loose, right? Lastly, I would bring my manicure kit. Without my regularly scheduled spa visits, I fear I might look a bit ghastly if I didn’t at least maintain my hooves. Can you imagine...the horror of a chipped nail!6. Name three blessings in your life.
The neighbor’s clothesline
My ability to make Americans feel inferior simply by speaking in my native brogue
My ass in a thong
7. What was your nickname in high school?
Dearest, I’m a goat. I skipped high school and went straight to university. There I was known only as, The Great Ramming Horn.
8. If you could meet the President of the United States, what would you say to him? Where do you get your suits?
9. If you could be any literary character for a day, who would you be?
Bella Swan, for obvious reasons.
10. What is your favorite quote?
“Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can't help but cry. I mean I'd love to be skinny like that but not with all those flies and death and stuff.” - Mariah Carey. She’s such a visionary...
As I understand, meme rules dictate I should pass this task along to seven other bloggers, however, I cannot see how anyone could possibly improve upon my response so I think we shall consider this memo officially retired. Why mess with a good thing, after all.
Until next time, my beloved fan club.
Cheers, Nigel
Friday, February 24, 2012
Gratuitous cuteness in lieu of legitimate creativity...
What's a writer to blog about when they are feeling exceptionally lazy and so contented with their recently completed WIP that their brain hamster is in a constant state of hung over?
Baby animals, of course!
Baby animals, of course!
Have a great day!! I'll do a legit blog post again soon. Maybe...
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Not quite ready for public viewing...
Hip, Hip, HOORAY!
I have finally completed the first draft of my next book! (I'm refusing to call it rough because I edit as I go--if anything it's course, like margarita salt. Besides, rough sounds very X-Rated).
After just over nine months, I have 77,962 words that I think make a pretty good story. It's got some high-stakes drama, gut-wrenching emotion, potentially inappropriate humor, and of course some make-your-toes-tingle love scenes to round things out. It's a wonderful story and I'm truly proud of it...But here's the kicker: IT'S NOT READY FOR PUBLIC VIEWING!
*Ugh* Rookie clutches her cheek, still aching from the reality slap.
As beautiful as my story is in my head, it needs a lot of work to get purdy enough to share with the world. I don't know about you guys, but that's a hard pillow for this author to swallow. I want this book to be READY. DONE. POLISHED AND SHINY! But the truth is it takes a long, long time to get a manuscript to that point.
So...here I am. Scrub brush in hand, fingers poised on the keyboard, bound and determined to make this book as amazing as I know it can be. Will it take a long time? YOU BET. But sending something out into the world before it's ready is just foolish. Don't believe me?! Just ask these chicks...
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