Can You Guess the Age of My Character.

Hello and Welcome Blog-hoppers!

This is my entry from the "Can We Guess Your Character's Age?" contest on Brenda Drake Writes! Thank you, Brenda for these fun contests! Here we go -

Red and blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror, setting Nox Sumner's teeth on edge. She shot a glance at her best friend, Billy, in the driver's seat. "What did you do now?"

"Hell if I know. I wasn't speeding; my lights all work. Can't I just go home and drown my math test blues in biscuits and gravy. Is that too much to ask?"

"You don't have any bodies in the trunk or anything do you? Because I still have time to hop out the window and make a break for it." She grabbed the window crank, trying to disguise her tight fingers and clenched jaw.

"Very funny." Billy sighed, coasting to the curb. The wipers thwapped wetly back and forth as he put the car in park. 

"Guess who it is." The side-view mirror revealed Sergeant Carris bumbling around inside the cruiser, doing whatever it is cops do while people wait, hearts pounding to find out what they had done wrong.

Flashing lights and sirens made her heart pound for a different reason. Her first encounter with the Sarge, he'd told her and Haden their parents were dead.

"No," Billy groaned. "Why do I always get pulled over by Dad's old buddies?"  His Dad had been the Sarge's roommate at Kent State and Billy had yet to get a speeding ticket without his parents finding out. He turned hopeful, cocoa-brown puppy-dog-eyes on her. "Since you two are all buddy-buddy, tell him not to give me a ticket?"

"Not gonna happen. I don't ask Sarge for favors, so whatever you got yourself into, you get yourself out of. "

Breaking More Than Dawn

So, there's been a lot of hating on Twilight, and I'll admit it's an easy bandwagon to jump on - drives real slow and circles back a couple times just to see if you're ready to get on it yet.

And I'm not.

Now just bear with me a little before you go fitting me for a straight-jacket and crying "Internalized misogynistic tendencies!"  I will be the first to admit I think Lestat could kick Edwards broody butt.

That said, there have been some particularly brutal and -- dare I say, unbalanced -- reviews of Breaking Dawn out there. And I feel I need to throw my two cents in. Let's start with this - I'm not talking about the movie (I haven't seen it yet), but I am going to complain about the movie reviews. Don't blame Hollywood for the content, because as far as I can tell, the larger critique is actually about the content of the book itself. So let me take a few minutes to stick up for Stephanie Meyer.

1. Stop hating Twilight because pre-teen girls everywhere love it. It's almost as popular to hate Twilight as it is to love it, and I don't think we should dismiss anything just because pre-teen females love it. Let's face it, folks - they are a very large, lavishly enthusiastic and relentlessly devoted fanbase and market. Fickle as the teenager may be, we are largely a society of fair-weather fans liking whatever's trendiest at the moment -- or disliking it out of some college-born need to be "indie" and above it all. Not me. I won't like things just because others do, but I also won't hate them for the same reason. I DO WHAT I WANT! (ahem, sorry, that was my pre-adolescent-screw-you-if-you-don't-like-it self. I'll try to hush her up, but it won't be easy.)

2. If you're going to diss the book for not giving good messages to young girls, what kind of message does making fun of their taste send? That their likes, tastes and opinions are irrelevant and silly? That the instant they like something, no one else should have respect for it? Shame on you! They know what they like -- and they like it a lot. And good for them.

3.It's not like I don't have issues with Bella's character. She's occasionally insipid, largely unremarkable and somewhat Mary-Sue-esque in that every guy who glimpses her wants her, and she's got extra-special talent, etc, And of course - she's bookish! All paranormal romance female protagonists are bookish, I keep hearing from people pointing at the author all "Aha! Found you out! She's based on you!!"

Put that finger away. Of course, of course, OF COURSE a bookish female character is somewhat based on a bookish female author. When we write, we pour ourselves into every word. And often that kind of writing is what really shines. So yeah - a bit of ourselves ends up in every character. And I'll skip the writerly "we" and own up to it myself. There is a lot of ME in my book. So there!

But let's take this a step further. Who is the target audience for a YA paranormal romance novel? A tough tomboy with bad grammar and a love of soccer? Our a bookish adolescent female? Don't throw soccer balls at me, I realize you can be tomboy without bad grammar, I realize you can play soccer and love to read - that's my point. Inside every avid female reader is a "bookish girl", and we want our readers to identify with the protagonist. Also, inside every avid female reader of paranormal novels, is a bright imagination daring to believe in adventure and the impossible. That she could be extraordinary and extraordinary people will love her. While a large population of readers may need to be saved from nefarious situations of varieties I shudder to think about, a lot of us wished to be saved from cynical, mundane reality we are forced to live in. And that's what essentially happens in a paranormal novel.

4. All that said, let's consider what people have a problem with in the movie concerning Bella. She prances around in lingerie begging Edward to sleep with her, while he laughs off her pathetic seduction attempts. How humiliating. Ouch. But, Edward doesn't want to have sex with her over  a sincere desire to protect her and to not hurt her himself. If you could potentially kill your mate by accident, would you not be cautious? If Bella were your daughter, would you not praise her husband for considering her welfare before his own physical needs?

 A lot of people have claimed this whole scenario is WRONG in the name of feminism. I respectfully disagree. I think its perfectly fine for a young, virginal woman to be the sexual aggressor in a relationship. I think Edward's insistence that they be married first shows a man respecting the decision to wait for marriage. I find it a very interesting role reversal for genders and am constantly amazed at how people perceive it as chauvinistic and demeaning to Bella.

But let's trade places shall we? E. wants to wait for marriage to have sex, even though she's a vampire. Having fallen in love with the brutally handsome B., she is constantly tempted to have sex with B, and B, is very sexually aggressive. Even though they are in a committed relationship, B doesn't want to marry E because he doesn't believe in marriage. His parents got divorced and he doesn't want his freedom curtailed by that. Finally, he is beaten down and tricked into marriage with the leverage of losing E if he doesn't submit to the marital ties. E has sex with B, and it's a bad, frightening experience. Too bad. B wants more and will use any kind of manipulation he can find to force E to have sex again. Poor E!

Except, here all we did was change their genders. Now the tale reeks of misogyny and chauvinism and a lot of other dirty -isms that are UNTHINKABLE!! Just saying.

5. Next claim: Bella doesn't care enough for her own life, She's willing to sacrifice herself for other people all the time and won't even listen to the other people who are making a lot of common sense and telling her what to do with her life!

A - she tends to sacrifice herself for her family. Charlie, her husband (or future husband), -in laws, her extended family (Jacob, wolves, etc.) -- all family, not to mention the life of her child. And how often is sacrifice called for on the part of a protagonist -- putting aside their own wants and desires for the welfare of others. If it were a male character, we'd call him Batman and think about how noble it is. But a WOMAN CAN'T DO THAT!

Oh contraire, mes amis! How many of you women out there have made significant sacrifices for families? How many of you have mothers who gave up dreams and freedom and god knows what else for her family? Because I know quite a few.

B - Are we really going to be upset at Bella for not listening to common sense when it comes to saving the life of her child. Really? In the name of feminism, you're going to object to her maternal instincts overriding every other damn thing anybody has to say about her kid dying? Come on. I'm not going to get into it about abortion, what I'm talking about is the primal urge to save the life of your off-spring.

People of the internet, let me tell you something. My mom would die for me. I know it. Deep in the marrow of my bones, in every corner of my DNA, in every hair follicle, I know that if the choice were her or me she would choose me every time, and screw what anybody - ANYBODY - else has to say on the matter. Screw the amount of pain she'd endure in the process. There is something essentially, strong and beautiful and respectable about that. And if you don't think so, you can kiss my  @$$.

Also, how can you criticize her for refusing to obey anyone else's wishes, including the people she loves most - the people she's been willing to sacrifice herself for, her beloved Edward -- to do what she thinks is right? Even if you don't agree with her choice, I think that smacks of strength in her character. So you can't call her weak and wishy-washy and then say she should give in, hipocrite-a-potamuses!

A couple final words before this blog post gets any longer. (Which is why I'm trying to stick to Breaking Dawn - don't get me started on the rest of the books). Breaking Dawn is too brutal and gruesome for you? Then fork over your tickets for Hunger Games. Parents can't sacrifice themselves for their children? Turn in your Harry Potter gear! 

And one last thing, if you're worried about what messages we send young women, maybe you should take another look at The Little Mermaid and it's Disney-i-fication, which completely robs the story of its moral. Ariel falls in love with a guy she's never even talked to, then gives up everything to be with him. She gives up her home, family and status, PHYSICALLY ALTERS her body and then gives up her voice, just for good measure. For a guy who's going to run off with the first pretty singer he comes across and never even notice poor Ariel. In the original, Ariel dies when she can't kill the Prince and becomes sea foam for the rest of the eternity, a karmic comeuppance for not respecting who you are and where you came from. But in the Disney version, she weds the prince and it's all happy ever after.

Just goes to show you. Throw in some singing, dancing animated animals and it's all okay. Maybe the wolves should dance and sing in Part 2 to mollify the naysayers.

Ups and Downs

The quest for publication is hard. As with everything in life there are soaring highs and gut-wrenching lows. Kind of like a roller coaster. You paid to get in, you waited in line, and once you're on the ride, you're exhilaration and terrified. You're screaming and laughing and holding your breath.

So here's my advice, writers. The lows come after the highs, and the highs come after the lows. When you're down, always look up. When you're up, never look down.

But always, always, always keep riding. 

Warm Fuzzies!

I am participating in Juliana Brandt's Blogfest this week!
Here are the details!
"This week, we'll cater to those of us who are completely possessive over our WIPs and don't want to give anything too telling away. Instead of posting something intimate about our writing, post a picture or piece of music that describes your WIP."

Now - I'm not all *that* possessive over my book. (Just ask the dozens of people I've implored to read and critique. Sometimes I just walk up to people in the targeted audience's demographics and beg. Well, no. Not really. That would be shameless. Speaking of which - any of *you* want to read it? Pretty please?? lol.)

My main inspiration comes from music. I create soundtracks for characters, novels, moods, scenes - I use the lyrics and the sounds to create an atmosphere in my brain where I am transported to the world I am writing about. And it works really well - kind of like an auditory TARDIS.

Sometimes my friends and family talk to me while I'm writing and it's like I'm looking at them through a haze, their words sounding hollowed out and far away, like constantly getting yanked out of a dream. I only take in about 30% of what's going on around me - though I do take in that 30%! - and occasionally toss in random responses to outside stimuli. Occasionally.

One of my faves for HARD NOX? This:

But - in case you haven't noticed - I do love pictures and find that artwork can inspire me as well. Sometimes I sketch anime versions of my characters as I try to get into their head. Or sometimes I google pics like these and stare at other people's drawings. *Note - only drawings and nature pictures. Pictures of actual people always fail to inspire. Don't know why. Here are a few of my favorites:

Which reaper do you like best? Which one jumps out as the saddest? Or the most playful? Because in my head, my MC is both. :)

Happy Blogging, y'all! 

Can You Leave Us Breathless?

So, I will be participating in Brenda Drake's Halloween blogfest: Can you leave us breathless?

Why? Because Spooky little girl was my theme song. Because Halloween is the best holiday ever. Because I love contests. And mostly, because my story is at heart, an old fashioned ghost story.













So, here's my excerpt, 300 words from my completed YA Paranormal, HARD NOX:

"You feel cold."

"I'm dead." He looked down at himself. "A ghost, sort of."

"Sort of? What does that mean? How are you here? How can you hug me?" She clutched at his arms, afraid to let go, staring up into his face. Upon closer inspection, his skin appeared translucent gray like the little boy in her dream had been. His skin chilled hers, but was solid, tangible. "What's going on?"

"It's kind of hard to explain. I'm sort of stuck here, but I can't stay forever." He pulled her into another hug. "I'm so sorry I had to leave you!"

"It's not your fault." Tears blurred her vision. "I know it's not your fault. I just … it's just … it's so good to see you, touch you — are you okay? Are you hurt or do you …" she trailed off. "I don't understand."

"Perhaps I can shed some light on the matter." A Haden doppelganger in a black hoodie stood next to her dead brother, his intonation eerily familiar.

She blinked, blood icing. "H-haden? There are two of you …"

"No, there isn't," Haden said, pointing to the smirking man next to him. "Look closely."

She met the eyes of the figure from her nightmare. He looked a lot like Haden. But he wasn't, not at all. Her voice dropped with her stomach. "Who's your friend, Haden?"

But she knew.  He was Death.

How she recognized him, she couldn't say, but she was absolutely certain, down in her marrow. Completely black irises were indistinguishable from the pupils, sucking her in, drowning her. Catastrophe and inevitability swirled in those eyes, the depth and permanency frightening.

"You can call me Grim." Death spoke slow and easy as a muddy river speckled with driftwood. "It's so good to see you again, Nox."

Bio Paragraph Critique!

Did you hear? Fantabulous Agent Courtney Miller-Callihan critiqued my bio paragraph!

Call me a happy, snippy-snake!



Here's the link if you want to see what she said.  And she was really kind - said I was quirky, humorous and knew my genre.

(YESSSSS!!)

Here's my revised version. (Personal info not included!)

HARD NOX is a 77,000-word YA Paranormal set in River Styx, Ohio near my childhood hometown and my debut novel.  Appalachian ghost stories (handed down my family-tree with my grandma's biscuit recipe) have influenced my writing since my days as editor of my high school's literary journal.  I blog at Witty Repartee (http://sarcasm-shoot-out.blogspot.com/) and am a member of several critique groups and online writing communities, such as the RWClist run by Ms. Charlotte Dillon. Should you wish to read more, I would be delighted to send you sample chapters or a full manuscript.

She suggested adding another quirky, personal detail. Hmmm. <taps chin>

This could take awhile. Couldn't I just bribe agents with hot hand-made biscuits and from-scratch gravy?

Huh? Huh? You know you want some ...

Ok, so maybe not.

 Back to the drawing board then.

The Best Money I Ever Spent

So, fantastic Agent Courtney is running a contest for a critique of your bio paragraph. And since I asked the question that sparked the blog post that sparked the contest (there's a wart on the bump on the frog on the log on the bottom of the sea ...), I had to enter, right? Right!

So here we go - and I didn't mean for it to be this long, but once I started, I couldn't stop. :)

The Best Money I Ever Spent:

I remembered, just a little too late.

Writing a check for twenty five cents is humiliating. But then, when you don't even have a quarter in your pocket, buying things you don't need to bring your total to a respectable price isn't really an option either.

Gritting my teeth as I scrawled my name across the miniature line, I steadfastly ignored the are-you-kidding-me­ look on the bookstore clerk's face. I snatched my blue exam book from the counter, flashed a nasty smile in response to his smirk and with as much dignity as a college freshman could muster, booked it for my final.

I did alright – taking standardized tests happens to be a strong suit for me. Guess it really is okay to write a check for twenty-five cents provided a good enough reason. Turns out, not recording it in your checking book is not.

So, here I am, once more facing off with a smirking clerk behind a counter – this time at the bank.

"I can't be over-drafted forty five dollars. I don't buy anything that expensive." Impatiently tossing my bangs out of my face one more time, I focused on keeping my voice at a reasonable level. Behind me, a laundry line of irritated customers waited for their turn to brave the bank's brand of over the counter condescension. Well, they could keep waiting. This was the difference between eating ramen tonight and … well, not eating at all.

"Let me see." Click-clack-clack. Her precise nails snapped across the keyboard, each letter punctuating the hopelessness of my situation. "Your account number again."

"Oh for the love of –" I choked off the stream of expletives dying to escape, bit my lip hard enough to warrant a piercing and very-very-very slowly repeated the numbers. Again.

"It says you're overdrafted forty five dollars, Miss."

And I was done. Completely out of patience, while Ms. Boutique-bought-blue-suit-better-than-you did the Mexican Hat Dance all around the sombrero of my last nerve.

"Really? You're kidding! I had no idea. Oh, no – hold up a minute. I did know that. Hence me starting out interaction this fine afternoon by saying, 'Excuse me, my account seems to be overdrafted by forty five dollars, and I need to know why.' Which resulted in me telling you my account number five times." I stepped closer to the shiny, clean counter, clutching my purse like some kind of club and trying to convince myself bloodshed was uncalled for. "Now is the part where you are supposed to tell me why."

"Um, well … let's look at your transaction history."

Swear to god, if she asks for my account number one more time, I will not be held responsible for my actions.

"What's your pin?"

I counted to ten, then repeated it. "Ma'am, is there someone else I can talk to? A manager, maybe?"

"Manager's on break. He won't be back for an hour."

Maybe my next question should be how to get a job here. It apparently required no skill at mentally retaining numbers, no finesse at customer service and came with hour long breaks and reserved parking.

"Here it is. You bounced a check."

"I did not!" I would never do such a thing! I have great respect for my little paper checks and the money I have – or do not have, as the case may be – in my account. No way I did that."

"Yes, you did!" She pointed at the screen like it was a mugger trying to snatch her bag. "Check number 3721 for …" Her face split into the widest smirk yet. I could see every one of her professionally whitened teeth. She better hope I didn't find out her last name. My family was full of expert grudge-holders."Twenty-five cents."

"Yes, I did." I did that. I wrote a check for twenty five cents. And apparently, it bounced. I ignored the ripple of snickers in the line behind me. "Can you explain how an over-draft of a quarter becomes forty five dollars?"

"Well, first they try to resubmit the check twice. There is a fifteen dollar fee for every time a check bounces." Her cherry-red lips twitched with amusement. "Then, there is another fifteen dollar fee assessed for a negative account balance. Daily."

"You charge fees because I don't have enough money?" Sigh. Of course they did. My last sixty dollars had become a huge, gaping, negative forty-five hole in the ground. Blood-sucking, bottom-feeding, money-hoarding vulture of an institution – that's what a bank was. "Doesn't that seem counterproductive to getting my account back to a positive balance?"

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Funny – that was the question I was about to ask her. "There's no way to fix it?"

"Pay forty-five dollars."

"I didn't know it was over-drafted. It was a mistake." All haughty anger draining from my spine, I fought the urge to beg. I was hungry. I was broke. My parents were on vacation in the outback. In other words? I was royally and utterly twigged. I croaked out desperately, "I need there to be more money in this account."

"Well, miss. So do we.  Have a nice day." She turned to the next customer in line with the finality of a nails driven into a coffin. I was done.

I slunk back outside, proverbial tail between my legs and settled on the curb next to my car. Without the money I had expected to be in my account, I couldn't afford the gas to get home. I covered my eyes with one hand, searching my bag for my last smoke with the other. I plucked it from the box, set it in my lips and realized my lighter was out of juice. I was going to buy a lighter at the gas station on the way home.

I fell back on the cracked concrete, messy hair spilling across the blacktop. "Oh, fuck me."

"Well, if you're offering …" The honey-whiskey vibrato swept over my ears like the first warm breath in your house on a cold day.

I looked up at six feet of leanly muscled perfection.  Espresso brown eyes, gilded skin and cocoa-colored hair falling in an artfully disheveled manner over the most beautifully sculpted face I had ever laid eyes on outside of a museum. My mouth hung open, but for the life of me I couldn't begin to think of anything to say.

Tall, dark and oh-my-god sat down next to me. "Having a rough day, sweetheart?"

"Like sandpaper TP." My cheeks heated. The quaint little colloquialism was courtesy of my Appalachian father. But when trying not to look like you're poorer than dirt, Appalachian lingo didn't tend to improve people's opinion.

"Me, too." He chuckled and pulled out a lighter. Rolling it across his designer distressed denim-clad knee, he lit the zippo and offered the flame.

"Thanks, Prometheus." I lit the cigarette, grateful for anything to do with my face and hands that was less awkward than drooling over him.

For a second, surprise flashed across his chiseled face but he quickly disguised it. "My car broke down."

"Sorry to hear that. What's wrong with it?"  I knew a lot about cars. I grew up next to a mechanic shop and every friend I had worked there.

"Hell if I know." He took my cigarette, inhaled, and handed it back to me. His mouth was so beautiful exhaling the smoke, it didn't occur to me to mind. "But I could give you some gas money, if you'll give me a ride home."

"Okay." I swallowed a lump of humiliation rising in my throat. "But I'm going to have to put it directly in the tank before I can take you anywhere."

"No problem." He stood and offered me a hand. When he pulled me to my feet, it didn't occur to me to let go. He didn't seem to mind.

He held my hand up to his lips, brushing the soft, velvet pair across my knuckles. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Maggie. Maggie Hatfield."

He smiled ruefully. "Boyd McCoy."

I grinned. "Well, that's one way to settle a feud, ain't it?"

So he bought me gas and I took him home. He made us dinner and I gave him my number. I fixed his car, he showed me how to balance a checkbook. Five years down the road, we were married. And that was the day I ended the Hatfield-McCoy feud, for the price of twenty five cents.

Best money I ever spent.


**Author tidbit: I am actually a direct descendant of the Hatfield clan. And in case you're wondering - the Hatfield temper isn't just a legend. Trust me. :)

10 Things I learned from Dr. Who

10. The Universe is a beautiful, scary place.
9. Humans survive.
8. People, like blue boxes, tend to be bigger on the inside.
7. When you meet someone new, compliment their name.
6. Words have power.
5. There are some things you just can't change.
4. A screwdriver is more useful than a gun.
3. Being clever is better than being strong.
2. Never give up.
1. There is no such thing as an ordinary human.

*Also, whenever you think:
It can't be ... it's usually a Dalek.

It's Not a Hoax!

Desiring to be a writer means desiring people to read what I take the time to write down. Turns out that's true in my professiona life as well. We are in the middle of residence hall move out. Nobody likes to move. I don't even like to watch people move. We all want to be doing something else. I would rather be finishing my novel, and I'm sure the students would rather be home tucking into some of mom's homecooking.

However, since we're all stuck in this together, it would really make my life easier if all of these bright, intelligent and seemingly literate college students could learn to read a sign. Unfortunately, good customer service prevents me from responding to the questions I receive because they REFUSE to read sign in the way in which I would like.

Contrary to popular belief, there IS such a thing as a stupid question.
So, here's a new series for you. Stupid Questions & Answers I Wish I Could Give:
(Please keep in mind there is a sign on my door that says: TO CHECK OUT OF YOUR ROOM CALL the RA on DUTY (555-555-5555)

1. Do we have to check out before we leave?

No - the flyers, hall meetings, RA meetings, bulletin boards, emails and 16 Facebook posts were all part of an elaborate hoax by Res Life to make your life difficult during finals. Because you know, we have TONS of free time on our hands in May.

2. Do I need to get my stuff out of my room before I check out.

No. Leave your stuff in there. Of course, once you check out I'm taking your key and locking the door, so you'll never see that stuff again. Unless you visit the pawn shop across the street.

3. (This question is from a student with his hand ON MY SIGN) Who do I call to check out?

Lift your hand. Look down. Learn to read. Have questions? Call Hooked on Phonics.

4. Where do I get trashbags to throw my trash away?

I don't know - the dollar store? I recommend wherever you've been buying trashbags for the whole year.

5. Can you check me out?

NO. Call the RA on Duty.

6. How do I call the RA on Duty?

Pull out your phone. Punch in the numbers on the sign (under your hand) and hit talk. Regular service charges apply.

And I could do a whole other post on how a lot of people I love and adore must have left their brains in their other pants. But I'll save that for another day.

Witty Repartee

I've never been a blogger before, so please be gentle - it's my first time. The purpose of this blog? To engage in rich, funny dialogue and remind myself there are people who can carry conversations or at least keep up. Also, to log my journey to becoming a published author of paranormal romance.

While online, I find it best to seek out the "book people". You know who I'm talking about. The authors, agents, editors, characters and the Well-Read. So the blogs I follow, and likely a good chunk of the content to be contained here-in, will deal with book people. And my various passions. (AKA obsessions, addictions - whatev.) The reason being? If you can't engage in witty repartee, or simply have an e-membership to Crazy Town, I'm not interested.

Pet peeve for this week - Microsoft word does not list synonyms for the word "euphuism". If you don't find that funny, this is not the blog for you.