Just Teasing

Tip of the Day: Remember, you have until midnight tonight to enter the giveaway for The First Time Anthology. Comment HERE. Winner announced tomorrow.

Right now I'm in the middle of revisions on my latest book, THE PAPARAZZI PROJECT. The teaser I'm including is from Chapter 2 when the main character, Livvie, is reading tabloids for an assignment in her Interpersonal Communication Class and notices the cute guy next to her.

I find the page and oh man, it’s true! It’s totally Shaz A.M.! Nasty, nasty, nasty! Man, she had to be scraping his denture cream off the back of her tonsils after this make out session. I flip the page for more pics. “Ok, seriously,” I say to the cute guy in the desk next to me in class, “you’ve gotta see this.” I hold up the magazine for him to see. “She’s going to make ol’ dude break a hip in that position, right?”

The cute guy laughs and his hair shakes out of his eyes. “That’s just wrong.”

I take a longer look at him. Wow. Why haven’t I noticed him before? Serious hotness. He’s got these crazy dark eyes and even darker hair. If he wasn’t dressed so preppy he’d almost look kind of goth. Not that I’m into goth. I myself don’t have any super interesting style. I’m your average whatever looks cute yet is still comfy kind of girl. Hence the worn-out jeans, tee, and converse I’m sporting today. I really want to talk to this big cup of cuteness some more though. “What are you reading?” I ask.

He holds up a National Enquirer. “Botched plastic surgery,” he says. “See, this one’s bottom lip looks like it ate her top lip.” He points to a picture of a woman who looks more feline than female.

I lean over for a closer look. “Whoa! You’re right!” I say. “I bet she wishes she could hit undo on that.”

He smiles. “My name’s Chas Montgomery.”

“Cool name, Chas,” I say, sitting back in my seat. I bet on the weekends he likes to kick back with a nice cigar after a rousing polo match with his buddies, Thurston and Chadwick.

“And you are?” he asks, holding a hand out like he just pointed to a letter on Wheel of Fortune.

“Livvie Peterson,” I reply. “Livvie’s short for Olivia. But I’m sure you already guessed that. Not much else it could be short for, right? Maybe Olive. But who would name their kid Olive? Outside of Popeye’s girlfriend’s mom. About a million and a half years ago. ‘I yam what I yam’, right? But, I babble. Yeah, anyway, it’s Livvie.” Wow. I am all kinds of smoothness here. I don’t know how he’s keeping his hands off me right now.

Kristina, Miss Author in Action

NaNoREMo Teaser (or Public Viewing, Take One!)

Tip of the Day: There is still time to bid on some great kidlit writer items in Jean Reidy's Light up the Library Auction!

I am still plugging away at my revision to meet my goal this month. As I read through earlier chapters that have been in existence the longest, I find myself tweaking just words, so I know it is close! In the later chapters, I need to make some detail changes to the "science" part of the book, but I see how it is going to all come together.

My teaser is from the very beginning of the novel, BLACKOUT. The book is told in alternating povs, Leo and his younger sister Jenny. Chapter One starts with Leo's pov:

Dad and Jenny hugged goodbye. It was like they thought they’d never see each other again or something. I watched their silhouettes from the living room window. Like an outsider.

I never got that close to them. And they never got that close to me.

I shoved my duffle bag and portable amp into the back seat of the SUV, unzipped my guitar case, and strapped the Strat over my shoulder. I could compose an alt-rock hook in the time it’d take for my sister and Dad to say adios. The two of them could go on about solar cells or neutrons or whatever for days. They had gone on about it for days.

Leaning against the car’s door, I played around with a heavier riff. Dad had no neighbors to complain about the noise. Not for miles. For five days I’d been stuck with two people who didn’t know a bass guitar from a violin and didn’t care if they ever learned.

Mom’s side of the family had music going for it, but it also had an aunt who went nuts when she was 17. Like me. The age, not the crazy part. Not yet.

I didn’t fit in with Dad’s side of the family, and wasn’t sure I wanted to fit in with Mom’s.
###

Deena, Miss Subbing for Pubbing

Tip of the Day: At least watch Step 1 on "How do I Plot a Novel." Then, if you have time, watch the next 27 (I'm not done yet!).

In honor of my latest WIP that I'm excited about, I'm posting a teaser. Enjoy!

The Forgotten Night

Chapter 1
Leo

My body ached like it had been crushed under an entire football team. Except I hadn’t played ball in three years. Screw anything that could break my fingers and stop me from playing my Gibson.

Speaking of that, I slowly flexed my fingers. Thank god they bent without trouble.

Wait, why would there be trouble?

I popped my eyes open. I was in my car.

Why?

A pounding head, nausea, and dizziness joined my body aches. The rising sun’s rays cut like razors in my eyes. “Jesus,” I muttered.

A moan came from beside me. My sister, Jenny. “You OK?” I grunted.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice rough.

I felt my head for gaping wounds. My fingers slicked up with sweat but no blood.

“Leo? What happened?”

As if I had a clue.

“You crashed, didn’t you?” Jenny clutched her head and cringed. “I can’t believe it. Why do you have to drive like such a maniac?”

“I didn’t crash.” My own voice hurt my head. I reached to the back seat and groped around for my water bottle, then drank. I didn’t remember crashing, but didn’t remember not crashing. From the crooked position of the car, I had run into a shallow ditch. Dammit.

“Do you remember what happened or don’t you?” Jenny demanded, her voice rising. Not that I blamed her. Inside I felt the same panic.

“Leo!”

“I’ll figure it out,” I said, a better answer than admitting that my thoughts from last night were as blank as a corrupted hard drive. I rolled out of the car. The motion made me gag but nothing came up. I leaned onto the cool, dewy hood and scoped out the scene.

The road was empty, the sky was still. I sucked in some fresh air and recognized the two-lane country road that we took to and from Dad’s. Route 522 in Pennsylvania. To the west, long field grasses lined the way until the elevation soared into the tree-covered Appalachian Mountains.

Jenny’s door creaked open. “Did we hit a deer? Or take down a tree or something?” she asked from her seat.

The overgrown grasses buzzed with insects but that was it. Jenny and I were alone. I circled the car in measured steps looking for any sign of damage, trying to keep my posture tall so Jenny wouldn’t know how bad the spinning was in my head and gut.

###

Wednesday WIP (or Please Be Gentle -- It's a First Fast Draft!)

Tip of the Day: When you see gas prices drop, check out flight prices -- they've probably dropped, too -- and head south while the winter world around you is in single digit degrees!

JanNoWriMo word count as of Monday, Jan. 19: 22,582

Right now I am South. On a beach. In Mexico. Soaking in the sun. Ahhhhhh. Yes, the vitamin D is jump-starting my brain and hopefully getting the creativity juices sparked.

I am writing while here, crafting quick scenes in a notebook with old fashioned pen and paper while laying on the beach or sitting in the airport. It's a really good trick, simple as it seems. For some reason I feel less pressured writing with pen and paper than typing directly into my document. Then when I DO move my words to the doc, I am impressed with how much I wrote, so I keep writing. It is a TRUE jump start to my word count.

To prove that I am fast drafting my Vietnam/Mafia YA this month, I am sharing a snippet below. Please note that the reason this is proof is because it is clearly in an unpolished, unedited state. How else could I have written something this First Drafty if I hadn't been Fast Drafting all month? Point proven. Enjoy!

Working title: A Walk From Vietnam

Stella, the MC, just ran into Russell, a man she met at the diner, while following someone who she thought was her boyfriend at the town's Fourth of July Parade.

A dozen clowns in tiny cars honked. Each horn blow rattled my skull. The parade was so annoying. How had I let my parents talk me into coming here year after year?

Russ lightly rubbed my back. “They have the right papers to get him discharged.”

Eyes bored into the back of my neck. From the ice cream shop, two faces watched Russell, watched me. His family. They wanted their Cokes. Or they wanted to know what he was up to. Who were these guys?

“I…I don’t know,” I said.

“He doesn’t want to be involved though, does he?” Russ asked.

I shook my head. No. He was a runner. A son. A boyfriend. A college entrant. Not a killer.

“You could help him for a small price,” Russ said.

A solo snare drum rapped a soldier’s marching beat.

It was illegal, what Russ was offering. He didn’t name the price and I didn’t want to know. “I…I can’t,” I whispered. He may not have heard me.

Ranks of boys and men in camos and army uniforms led the drummer through the streets. Watchers clapped and cheered.

And some booed.

“Go back to ‘Nam!”

“Murderers!”

“Get out of town!”

Russ’s hand froze on my back. My breath caught in my throat. Lots of these men had been sent to Vietnam against their wishes – how dare others judge them and yell at them in public!

“Go kill some more civilians!”

“Child murderers!”

The voices came from everywhere. I couldn’t pinpoint who was targeting the vets, some of who, as they got closer, revealed a missing hand, a prosthetic foot, a pronounced limp. Who knew how much hidden shrapnel lay buried in their skin. Beneath their caps, many of these boys were too young to be injured like that. The horrible memories and visions from their service were hidden from us all. It wasn’t fair to torment them.

Nothing about it was fair.

Grant would come back to the U.S. after a stint in Vietnam, and be like these men: tortured inside and out. He was such a good guy. Such a sweet boyfriend. He didn’t deserve to be treated that way.

But I could get him out. Maybe even have him sent home before he stepped on Vietnamese soil. Spare him the torture that was to come. He wasn’t like my brother, obnoxious and blood-thirsty. People like Danny deserved to be taunted in public, during their heroes' walk. Good guys like Grant did not.

The vets marched out of sight and the calls drifted off with them.

Russ patted my back before reaching into his pocket and jingling his change. “We can get him out.” Then he turned to the vendor and ordered Cokes for his family. As easy as that.
###

How's everyone else doing on their January Drafts?

Deena, Miss Subbing for Pubbing