Giving Thanks

Before I go out last-minute food shopping and disappear beneath mounds and mounds of potatoes, I wanted to hit the pause button for a moment (PAUSE, Nanowrimo!) and take this fitting morning to say thanks.

Thank you, fanfiction readers (and I PROMISE that I will finished that 140k fic). Without you, I would have never realized that I could write a novel.

Thank you, Deviantart. Without you, I would have lost touch with my artsy peers and likewise lost my source of inspiration. 

Thank you, Suzanne Collins and Lauren Destefano. Without you, I would have never discovered the beauty of first person present POV. 

NaNoWriMo 2013: The Prelude

Before I begin doing the heavy-lifting myself, I'd like to share this blog post with all of you because I'm pretty sure I couldn't have better worded my views on Nanowrimo.

In the upcoming days and the coming month, I hope to document my own experiences with Nano and keep you updated throughout the month because it's so important to remember that you are not alone. Nano is that one time of the year that you know for sure that everyone is head-bashing on their laptops/typewriters/notebooks just like you are.

Let's begin with the ultimate question: will I be Nanoing this year?

First line drama

I love writing the first line of a novel because you have all this unused shine bottled up in you that is just bursting to make it onto the page. If I ever find myself NOT excited to begin a novel, I have to question if the idea is ready to be written.

I also hate writing the first line because it can so easily sound forced. I've read many a first line that almost seems to scream I'M A FIRST LINE, I NEED TO GRAB YOUR ATTENTION WITH HEART-POUNDING CONFLICT AND TENSION AND INTRICATE STYLE AND OH, WHILE WE'RE AT IT LET'S THROW IN SOME WORD-BUILDING.

And let's not forget the really short first lines, the one-worders, because they act toward the same effect: STOP. I'M AN IMPORTANT STANDALONE. I GRAB YOUR ATTENTION. LOOK AT ME.

Idea is not enough

The Idea is not enough to carry an entire novel, as I have always known and just recently found applied to my current WIP.

Right now, I'm struggling working through my WIP, THE SERENDIPITY LABS. And I love the idea. Agents and fellow writers seem to, too. But what originally made me put down the piece in favor of working on my NA manuscript is coming back to haunt me, and now I'm remembering all the reasons why I decided to drop it the first time around.

Writer's block happens. If I gave up every single time that I encountered writer's block, I wouldn't have the two relatively polished manuscripts that I do. But, for me at least, there's a distinct difference between writer's block and writer's fear. The fear is a deep, gut-feeling that makes me reluctant to write, alerting me to the fact that something is wrong with the manuscript, something that isn't as easy to fix as a flat scene or a chunk of awkward dialogue.

Short Story Time! (Part 4--finale)

Check out parts 1, 2, and 3 here, here, and here.

And here we have it, the last part! If you are reading this, thanks for sticking with it thus far :) Enjoy!

And So They Proceeded* 

Part 4

Short Story Time! (Part 3)

Check out parts 1 and 2 here and here

The Dealers of Justice/The Procession

annnd I thought of another title option: And so They Proceeded

part 3

In the forest, the system was not so easily enforced. Bandits and cults still roamed, exacting grief upon those unlucky enough to cross their paths. And so they left in the moist of dawn the next day.

Holding the map, Three leaned close to Five and whispered that they had a choice: skirt around the circumference of the woods or cut through. He didn’t feel the need to elaborate on the consequences of either.

Five had a funny look to his face as he turned his face forward. “The faster route,” he said.

Because Five’s decisions were usually not easily doubted, Three hesitated before speaking. “The faster route—”

“The faster route,” he said before walking ahead.

Later, One caught up to Three and said, “Do you think he’s in a mood?”

Three studied the slight but straight line of Five’s back as it cut through the woods in front of them. “Not a mood. Something else.”

One nodded. “The girl.”

“The girl” had been awake at their departure, and Three had wondered if she’d slept at all. Her footsteps fell soft behind them, but not as softly as yesterday.

“What about the girl?” he asked.

One blinked. “Don’t you feel it?” He started to open his mouth, then shut it. “Forget it.”

It was none too difficult a task, and before long Three had completely retracted into his thoughts. He didn’t need to consult the map to know where they were; it was a gift of his to know everyone’s exact location. And yet strangely, he frequently didn’t know where he was. Now he could only see the moss beneath his feet and the dense stalks of foliage and trunk before his eyes. All around him, the silence of the dead leaves crowded into his mind.  

So when the shots rang out all around them, Three only barely heard before the fire burst through his gut. He felt himself sway, lose his balance. Someone whom he thought to be Four caught him under the arm as he fell. From the periphery he saw the lithe blur that was Five hurtle toward Two and the girl. The distinctive pops of Five’s rifle, joined by One’s, punctuated the cacophony. Gradually, the noise diminished until the dead leaves, trembling, hung in silence once more.

Three’s hand moved by its own accord to his stomach, where fabric slick to the touch met his fingers. In his daze, he realized he was going to die. He felt it, a warm truth in his veins. It stained his hands and seeped into the ground.

He sensed the presence of Five at his side. “Bandages,” the boy spoke calmly, but one disadvantage of knowing Five so well was also knowing that he was most calm when most scared.

Someone left his side to fetch them as another crouched down.

“I can help.” The newcomer’s voice held a different quality from the rest.

“That won’t be necessary,” Five said coldly.

“Why don’t you let her?” shouted One—Three guessed it was One because only One ever shouted. “Do you want to watch him die?”

Five didn’t answer.

“Calm yourself,” said Four said, presumably to One.

“Well, do you?”

            “He’s not going to die,” said the strange voice again.

It was the girl, Three discerned. Somehow, she was making Five act strangely. Whatever One had suggested…

“He’s not going to die,” she was saying, “but you have to trust me.”

“Step aside,” Four said quietly.

At last, Five did.

She worked deftly, hands flying over him, instructing the others, except for Five, who had disappeared, on what to do. At one point Three felt his mind sigh and loosen its strangling latch on his thoughts. His thoughts, freed, floated white and amorphous from his parted mouth. They curled before his closed eyes, familiar specters, thinning, disappearing. With his thoughts, Three felt as if he might disappear, too.

But when he opened his eyes, he saw her. It was the brown of her hair, the arch of her brows, those images cruel and forbidden that hooked onto the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of the white lake right before it flooded over his nose.

His throat struggled to choke out the syllable. “Di…”

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s delirious.”

“He’s okay,” said the girl. “The worst is over.”

They continued to bustle around him after that, placing cold things, hot things on his skin, moving him about. All the while, he saw black. Except for when the sun set. Then, his eyelids bled.

At night, when the others had finally given to exhaustion and Three himself was battling the fire that still writhed in his gut, Five returned to his side. He was whispering something too hushed for Three to make out at first, but soon the words became clear.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Five was saying over and over again in his ear. “I should have listened to you. I should have taken us on the longer route.”

Why didn’t you Three imagined himself asking.

But as Five repeated the words, Three picked up on a pain in his voice too raw to be concern over a peer’s well being.

In an uncharacteristic slip of heart, Five took Three’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“You know what One keeps on saying?” he asked, obviously not expecting a reply. Three wished he could.

“Do you think the girl…” He trailed off. After a long moment: “Never mind. Hang in. We’re almost there.”

The last few words sounded too strained to be comforting. Five squeezed Three’s hand again, this time a little too tightly. 

Thanks for reading! The last part will be posted tomorrow! Once again, let me know of your thoughts/comments. 

Short Story Time! (Part 2)

Check out Part 1 HERE

The Dealers of Justice/The Procession

part 2

The land came and went easily under their feet despite the wind. When the last slant of light slithered from the earth back to the sun, Five stopped them by a twisted grove of trees that marked the beginning of the forest. Without a word, One set down the lantern on the flattest patch of soil as Four set out to scout the next leg ahead of them. Three sat on the ground and stretched out his limbs, then pulled out a small wooden flute and began cleaning the notches in its side.

On the fringe of light cast by the lantern, Two walked the girl to the fresh remnants of a fallen tree. There he offered her his canteen of water. She made no motion to accept it, leaving him to awkwardly take a swig himself. Afterwards, he passed his end of the rope to the girth of the tree, tying it firm. He checked the rope around her wrists in turn, adjusting the knot so that it was tight but did not cut into her skin.

Two hoped that she would say something. By now, he was certain that any expression that could color her eyes would ground this girl as a convicted in his charge, because in this world there was a need for Two who guarded the desperate, the indignant, the cruel, Two who soothed and shushed and comforted the wretched. There was no Two for the emotionless. 

“We continue in the morning,” he said finally.

She stared at the tree before her, not so much stirring at his words.

Farther off in the grove, One leaned against the warped trunk of a tree. “So what are your guesses?”

Four grunted in question.

“You know, why she’d kill the man.”

“Not any man,” the larger boy corrected carefully. “Her husband.”

“And you’d think she’d actually kill the man?” One rubbed his jaw with a hand.

Behind them, the underbrush crackled. Both boys turned to Two emerging from the shadows.

“What’s your guess?” asked One.

“Nice girl,” Two murmured, and Four murmured his consent.

“Yeah,” agreed One. “Usually the Killings make a dash for it, don’t they? Think she’s deaf?”

“Why would you say that?” asked Two.

“Perhaps she didn’t hear the sentence,” Four said.

A glance passed between the three as the thought registered.

“No,” said Two quietly. “She hears alright.”

“Think she could have killed him?” pressed One, returning to his curiosity.

Two shifted his weight. “Dunno. Maybe.”

Four reached into his satchel. “Let’s read the report.”

“Yeah, read it out loud.”

Four cleared his throat, then spoke only loud enough for those in proximity to hear: “Male, 21. Blow to the temple. Cause of death: bleeding from the artery. 

One whistled. “Pretty brutal for a pretty girl.”

“It’s not about the looks,” Two suddenly snapped, flushing when he became aware of his outburst.

One frowned, turning to Three as he joined them. “What about you? What do you think of the girl killing her husband? Doesn’t look it to me.”

“Does it matter?” The others watched as Three began whittle the flute with his knife. Once, it had been as long as his arm, but over the course of a year it had shrunk to the length of a hand.

“No, really.” Swiftly, One snatched the knife. “Don’t you go into your shell now. This is important. What if she isn’t guilty?”

The words slammed Two into silence and stole what conjecture Four had been brewing in his mind. But when they reached Three, they slowed to trudge through the mud in his mind.

He tried to force himself to think but found that all he could think of in the moment was his childhood friend, Di. She was a great girl—a great climber, too. They used to climb all fruit trees in her farm. Sometimes, they picked fruit, but more often they just sat behind the foliage in a content silence.

They had plans. Small plans, like going down to the creek to fish, but big plans, too. When Three turned sixteen and she fifteen, they had planned to get married.

The past winter, Di’s father fell gravely ill, and so she married the cogworker’s son for his inheritance in order to pay for the healer’s visits. 

Two’s voice pushed through the fog and clung feebly to the sides of his skull. “Do you think it could be true?”

“What do you think, Three? Doesn’t look it to be me.”

“You don’t think she could have killed him, right?”

“Think it could be true?”

“She probably killed him for inheritance.”

Two outright gaped while Four eyed Three in concern.

Three didn’t care for their reactions. He took the chance to snatch his knife back from One’s slack hand.

The ground was hard and the wind was harsh and the trees made rustling sounds and he couldn’t fall asleep. But Five was a reflective boy, a specimen of human that spent a good amount of time looking inwards, turning over objects and searching for some sort of truth or definition that he knew he would never find. As a result of the searching, he knew himself well. Now, he knew that the ground, the wind, the trees were constants. What was actually keeping him awake was the soft shape that sat at the edge of the log.

He had been watching her for most of the night—not that he wanted to watch her. It was part of his job. They always tried to make a run for it at night, when the darkness seemed more forgiving to sin.

At first, he had watched her with scrutiny. For the most part, she sat still and upright. When she moved, it was a hand or a boot or a piece of hair, and even then she didn’t move much.

The more he watched, however, the more Five imagined that he knew her. Her life seemed to flash like leaves in the moonlight before his eyes, and he saw her as a young girl who sewed dolls and perhaps watched from behind her parents’ trousers and skirts as the procession cut through their town. Perhaps she had seen the previous Five and had admired him for his wit and decisiveness.

Blinking, Five tried to shutter out the images of the life of a girl he didn’t know.  The night weighed heavy on his mind, a powerful but unobtrusive presence. It steeped into his blood, made his senses sharper.

He suddenly considered getting up and walking over to that log. He played the scene through his head. He would sit down a far distance from her, and they would sit in silence. Then, when the time was right, he’d say:

Tell me what happened.

Not why, because he knew better than that. They would come flooding—the excuses, the tears, the pleas of set me free.

Or not. From where he sat against the tree, he studied her again. She was the quiet type to the marrow, if he had deduced correctly (and Five might have been the leader because he often deduced correctly).

He played the scene again. He would get up, walk over, sit down, wait in silence, then he’d ask:

Why.

She would turn to him, eyes quiet and solemn, and whisper set me free. No pleas, no tears.

Maybe she’d say nothing.

 As he watched her, she slowly moved. Increment by increment, she wrapped her arms around herself. So small a motion that he almost missed it, she shivered.

He’d walk over to her and untie her wrists.

He’d say:

Go.

Tell me what happened was bad enough.

Once again, thanks for reading and let me know of your thoughts!

Short Story Time!*

*Because I'm in a novel-rut/I haven't had time to write anything except for tacking sentences onto a story that has been lying on my on desktop since last year.

And so you have it :) The title has yet to be finalized (in fact, please let me know which one of the two--or if you have a completely different suggestion--you prefer when you are done). I'll be posting this in a few chunks, probably 3-4, because the entire thing ended up clocking in at 3.9k. I also wouldn't dare to call myself an awesome short story writer because while I used to write predominately in that category, of the late noveling has stolen my energies. Okay, enough talking! Enjoy!

The Dealers of Justice/The Procession

The witnesses stood around in a broken egg-shaped circle, mouths agape, brown skirt hems and muddy trouser bottoms swaying. An old woman’s cap flew off her head and landed on the tall grass several feet away. The wispy cloud of white atop her scalp quivered in the wind.

She could have run. She could have easily pushed the woman aside and burst out from the circle. She could have run—and she would have gotten far. Instead she stood, boots planted shoulder-width apart. For the longest time, the only sound came from the gale as it skimmed over the blades of glass.

Then the baby started to cry. It struggled in her arms, grabbing at the air. So she walked up to a rotund lady with a kind face and deposited the bundle into her arms.

“Her name is Rowan.”

The lady with the baby opened her mouth as if to call the mother back, but no words came out.

She walked to the opening in the broken circle. The tall grass pressing against her knees and skirt flying back behind her, it seemed then that she might make one last dash for it.

But the men came dressed in uniform, and she went without a fight.

***

There were specific consequences for specific wrongdoings, all dictated by necessity. The lowly thief paid for his crime in coins. The rambunctious assaulter paid for his crime in freedom. Likewise, the sly murderer paid for his crime in blood.

Origin of the system was an unquestioned mystery, though all knew that it did not stem from an eye for an eye nature. Some said that the creator of the code found distasteful the visceral, direct retaliation of the involved parties. Some said that the creator desired a law unique to his name. Regardless of theories, the process remained constant. After being read the accusation and the penalty, the convicted would be led to the center of the land. The journey could last anywhere from an hour to a month. Watching the procession was a pastime, and people would crowd into the square to see its culmination.

Those carrying it out were the agents of justice. They felt the responsibility dully yet pressingly, like a knife-wound that throbbed with numbness. At least, they told themselves that, they the impassive ones. They were the men who had come to collect the girl. Not really men, despite their uniform and rifles slung across their backs. Not really men (their faces, clean shaven for those who could shave, were soft and whole).

If they knew it, they did not show it. They hid their youth. Not sewn on their sleeves like the row of brass buttons, not askance on their heads like the required cap. Their anger, their grief, their love for one another, for their families and—they kept that all inside when accompanying a convict. They dealt the hand justice, and justice was aloof to all.

They were five because five was a good number. One, a gangly lad who walked with a rhythm, carried the lantern. Two, the youngest at sixteen and one month, carried the ropes. Three was a dreamer who wished to someday leave the job behind. While he was on the job, though, he held the position of messenger and held it well.

By appearances, Four served the purpose of brawn. But One, Two, Three, and Five knew he had the softest heart of the three.

Five was the leader. He was the oldest, a boy of eighteen—and some speculated that was why he was leader. He was the most levelheaded, a boy of cool disposition—and perhaps that was why he was leader. Above all, he was skilled with the rifle—probably why he was leader.

Today, they had pinned down their caps guard themselves from the wind. Two brought the rope to tie the convict’s hands, but when the girl held out her wrists, face turned to the side, the boy faltered.

“Give me that,” said Five curtly, and took the rope himself. He tied her wrists, gave the other end of the rope to Two, and pulled out the sentence scroll from the inside of his coat. The parchment crackled as he unrolled it, but it could hardly compete with the howl of the wind. Five began to read:

“The spoken word of Ribar of Bluewillow has been corroborated by physical evidence.”

The villagers absorbed his calm words in silence.

“The taken shall repent through death by firing squad at the center of the land on the fifth day of the new quarter.”

Five looked up from the parchment in his hands. He swept his gaze around the curve of the circle, its circumference trembling in the squall. “We are the dealers of justice,” he announced.

“We are the accomplices of justice,” the men and women in brown murmured in return.

Two tugged lightly at the rope to gesture to the girl of their departure. “It’s a long walk,” he warned, seeking her face for a shred of fear.

Her eyes, colorless yet dark, flitted to his face before dropping to her boots.

One swung his lantern to point north, but not before flashing a grin at the young ladies in the circle. Three joined One on his right, the two of them close on the heels of Five, who rolled up the parchment. Two and the girl, connected by the trembling loop of rope that hung between them and braved the wind, followed One and Three. Four brought in the rear.
At the sound of Four’s solid footsteps, Five turned around and gave his men a brief glance, making sure that all, including their subject, were accounted for. Beyond the strong line of Four’s shoulder his eyes went on, absorbing the townspeople. Small and ordinary they stood, quivering, as fleeting and frail as the hundreds of other townspeople in hundreds of other towns. Yet he swept them all in, passing over the old lady with the flyaway white hair, a breath of color against all that brown. His eyes landed on the bundle in the kind-faced woman’s arms.

Unknowingly, the woman shifted her stance. A corner of the blanket slipped from its tented fold and, disturbed by the wind, was left fluttering, creased under the soft moon of the baby’s cheek.

At that moment, the porcelain creature opened its eyes, breathtakingly colorless like its mother’s.

Five turned around. “Let’s go,” he muttered beneath his breath.

They began to move, then as the lash of the wind began to leech the feeling from their faces, they picked up pace. The long, shriveled grass paved the path before them while the baby’s cries paved the path behind.

Thanks for reading! All comments/feedback are greatly appreciated! And I'm also open to questions :) Lastly, sorry for being absent recently from this blog/the blog-world. I have a lot of catching up to do and I'm expecting that I'll be less busy come October.

Retreat From the Query Trenches--Round 1

If you've been following this blog, then you probably remember me dropping the name of my second completed manuscript every now and then. INGENICIDE, a YA light scifi (and yes, you can find all the info under my NOVELS tab :) ) was my savior. Seriously. I procrastinated from highly stressful real life activities to write it. I thought about it every second of the day. I dreamed about it. I'm pretty sure I annoyed the crap out of my friends talking about it.

INGENICIDE was also my teacher. It taught me how to revise (MS#1 couldn't and is still gathering dust in the drawer). It urged me to find critique partners. It pushed me into the critique forums, to revise, revise, revise my query. And revise again.

Yes, it forced me to write the dreaded synopsis. Post on that later, because oh do I loathe the synopsis.

Just last week, I received a rejection on a full that I was feeling sort of good on. Which is okay, because that's happened before and I was prepared. I closed the email and marched right to QueryTracker to prepare another round of queries. Apparently, I cope with rejections by sending more queries.

I can't use QueryTracker without Carissa Taylor's handy dandy compilation of YA agents, so I pulled that up, too. As I was marking down agents and heading over to websites, I suddenly realized something:

I was no longer excited to query.

That may not sound weird, but it was to me. I wouldn't say that querying is fun, exactly, but it is exciting and exhilarating and nerve-wracking to do so. I liked querying. And now I didn't.

Why wasn't I excited? I tried to find the reason.

It turns out that I'd exhausted my list of agents that I'd love to work with and was beginning to just "settle." The search process was becoming increasingly like this: Agent reps YA? Onto the list. 

At first, I didn't see anything wrong with this. In fact, I was more scared of not querying every single agent that I possibly could, in case I missed some opportunity. But sitting there at my desk and staring at the agent compilation list, it dawned on me that I'm NOT just seeking representation for INGENICIDE. I'm seeking representation for myself as an author. I'm seeking representation for this work and many more to come.

I couldn't just "settle."

So now I announce my decision: I will be retreating with INGENICIDE from the querying trenches. Currently, I still have queries, partials, and fulls out, and I will wait to hear back on those. However, I will not be actively querying anymore for this manuscript. If you were curious, here are my stats:

79 queries

4 partials

5 fulls

And more rejections than I can count. 

While this may seem like a sad post, it really isn't. MS#1 was my training wheels. MS#2 was the bike that took me on many adventures and taught me so many lessons. Ultimately, it didn't deposit me at my destination, but what does that matter? If anything, I'm now armed with experiences that not even rejection can take away from me.

On another positive note, I wrote IF LIFE WERE FAIR while querying INGENICIDE so that my inbox wouldn't drive me insane. Turns out that insanity prevention methods are quite rewarding because now I can prepare to dive back into the trenches soon. If I had to choose ONE piece of advice from this whole learning process, it is this: Write. And keep writing. Write when you are querying, because it'll really make the time fly by faster and at the end, you'll have a brand new MS to flourish (before getting dirty in revisions, that is). You are a writer before you are an author. 

Have you ever had to "shelve" a novel and if so, what made you decide to? Thanks for reading guys! It's funny thinking back to when I first started this blog, when INGENICIDE was still fresh off my fingers. I say this again and again, but the writing community is seriously the best of the best of the creative folks. 

My Favorite (YA) Books

Still seeking readers for my NA Contemporary, IF LIFE WERE FAIR.

For some reason, I don't have this post up when it was actually when of the first post ideas I had come up with. And so I (UBER-EXCITEDLY--who doesn't love books?) present to you:

MY FAVORITE (YA) BOOKS

Disclaimers: *I won't be including any of the mega popular books (Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, Twilight, you get the gist). If you really want to know, Harry Potter is REALLY up there on my fantasy list, The Hunger Games is one of my favorite dystopians, and Twilight is...okay. It did introduce me to paranormal before the fever set in, so I'll give it that. 

**I'll be trying to post only genres that I've read at least semi-widely in so that I can provide an educated nomination.

***Some genres might have multiple nominations because who said that there has to be limits on cream of the crop?

****There will be NO SUMMARIES. Or else this post will eat your computer. I recommend Goodreads if you're interested in learning more!

*****MOST IMPORTANTLY, all of the following are purely base on my opinion! Please don't take personal offense if I don't nominate one of your favorite books in a genre--instead, comment below and tell me what you think should have been nominated! A 60% chance I've probably read the book.

Fantasy - Urban

PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS series (MELTING POT)

BY RICK RIORDAN

MG or YA--I don't care because what can I say? The dialogue, the snarking characters, the humor, the mythology (and really, if I want completely accurate mythology, I'll go read a textbook) all come together into something that is utterly un-put-downable. 

THE SPACE BETWEEN (BEST VIBE+ORIGINALITY)

BY BRENNA YOVANOFF

I said I wasn't going to give summaries but I can't help but pitch this: the daughter of Satan and Lilith comes down to Earth and with the help of a suicidal boy, tries to find her brother. Really, I've never read anything REMOTELY like this, not in plot nor tone nor character. The Space Between is an indulgent mix of horror, mystery, fantasy, and romance.

Fantasy - Hardcore

THE PRINCESS ACADEMY (BEST COMING OF AGE)

BY SHANNON HALE

Don't be deceived by the pretty cover! Or the title! This book has a beautifully crafted plot and complex characters that will stick with you for ages (I read first read this in 5th grade and I still remember EVERYTHING that happens). The main character is 14, so I guess it could also be shelved as middle grade, but I my opinion it's a YA coming-of-age story with a fantastical world and customs that resonate with you. 

Scifi - Dystopian

UNWIND (WINNING CONCEPT)

BY NEAL SHUSTERMAN

Holy-moly. The concept of this! Instead of the option of abortion, parents can have their children "unwound" (which basically equals each and every body part and organ getting shipped off to someone in need) at age thirteen? At first glance, this sounds ludicrous, but once you think about it, you can start to see the argument for WHY "unwinding" is better than abortion. Doesn't mean you have to agree with it! But that's what's great about the book--it really, really makes you think. 

BIRTHMARKED trilogy (WINNING AURA + MALE CHARACTER)

BY CARAGH O'BRIEN

EXTREMELY underrated series. First off, sort of unrelated, but Caragh is one of the FRIENDLIEST authors I have ever met. Not just for emails--comment on her blog and she'll be SURE to reply back with an insightful response! But onto the books. The world-building is solid, the writing is full of life and color (really well-done 3rd POV!), but what really steals the show is Leon, the romantic interest. Seriously, I don't think I've ever read a character this fleshed out, so flawed and yet so redeemable. 

CHEMICAL GARDEN trilogy (WINNING AURA + WRITING)

BY LAUREN DESTEFANO

Now, in the book world, The Chemical Garden trilogy is one of those series where you either love it or hate it. For me, I understand that there are world-building flaws and that there are some weak characters (just as there are strong ones). But this series continues to steal a soft spot in my heart simply because of the aura--or mood--that it's lyrical, breathtaking yet humble, writing creates. I can FEEL the gloom of this futuristic world, even with some world-building holes. I can taste the saccharine opulence, smell the smoke. Lauren DeStefano is an author whom I will follow simply for her writing. 

Scifi - Hardcore

ENDER'S GAME (PERFECT MIX OF CHARACTER + PLOT-DRIVEN)

BY ORSON SCOTT CARD

Here's a book that I think deserves to be on school reading lists. Here's a book that I think that everyone should have in their repertoires, author personal-beliefs aside. Sure, it's a great read for those hardcore scifi lovers out there (space, aliens, battle-training school--what more is there to have?), but it goes deeper than that. Ender's Game, as straightforward as the writing is and as interesting but simple as the plot is, offers a deep, psychological perspective on childhood, growing up, and relationships. Think of it as a spice. The undertones are all there. 

Speculative - Post-apocalyptic 

HOW I LIVE NOW (POSSIBLY MY FAVORITE BOOK OF ALL TIME)

BY MEG ROSOFF 

Proves my theory on how shorter books (Of Mice and Men, The Great Gatsby) are often mind-shockingly brilliant. I picked this up from my decrepit library two summers ago and still get shivers when I think about it. It really is a simple story. Girl goes to countryside England to live with her cousins, World War ??? breaks out. But the characters...oh the characters. And not even that. This book is like chocolate. It's sweet and bitter, and yet there's so much more to its flavor than that, flavor that I just can't describe. 

LIFE AS WE KNEW IT (MOST REALISTIC/BEST DIARY-STYLE)

BY SUSAN BETH PFEFFER

A little less underrated than How I Live Now, but still underrated :( Seriously, this is one of the best post-apocalyptic survival tales out there because it's SO real. Yes, despite its inciting incident being that the moon blows up in our faces, the characters and their struggles were tangible. This is also one of the best diary-style books that I've ever read. Miranda, our narrator, isn't really likable, but you have to admire her for the hell that goes down in this story. 

Paranormal

A CERTAIN SLANT OF LIGHT (BEST GHOST STORY)

BY LAURA WHITCOMB 

I've read all the walks of paranormal (super/psychic powers, angels, demons, vamps, trolls, faeries, as so the list goes) and many ghost stories. The problem is that a lot of them blend into each other and then I can't remember any of their plots with much distinction. But A Certain Slant of Light? Oh, I wish it never ended. Theme-wise, it's more contemporary than paranormal, but that's really what makes it so great. The romance...possibly the best couple in the universe of paranormal. And the writing is a treat. In fact, this is one of the most literary YA's (not even just within the paranormal genre) that I've ever read. 

Contemporary

HOW TO SAVE A LIFE (BEST SLICE OF LIFE)

BY SARA ZARR

Now, of all the genres, I had the hardest time picking my favorite for Contemporary because for me, at least, Contemporaries are quiet, thoughtful sort of books. From John Green to Sarah Dessen, they leave me sort of depressed (in a good way!) after reading because they all leave a mark. However, my FAVORITE of all the Contemporary authors is Sara Zarr. Her writing is fantastic, her characters are real, and her plot conflicts are twisty but still fathomable. How to Save a Life is no exception. 

Historical 

BETWEEN SHADES OF GRAY (BEST STORY + SIDE-CHARACTERS)

BY RUTA SEPETYS

I mentioned this title once and someone confused it with FIFTY SHADES OF GRAY. Probably the worst mix-up in the world. Between Shades of Gray is one of the most moving tales of human compassion and strength, based on the events of the deportations of the Baltic States orchestrated by the Soviets during WWII. Yes, a new angle on all the atrocities of WWII! I saved this for last because I THINK that my favorite genre might be historical fiction, but sadly there just isn't that much out there in the YA world. However, keeping in mind that less can be more sometimes, I am wholly satisfied with gems like Between Shades of Gray to represent the YA Historical Fiction sector!

This is one of my harder posts just because there are SO many awesome books in each of the aforementioned genres that I would love to nominate. However, keeping in mind that reading (and writing) is such a subjective business, a lot of these nominations are based on the gut feeling I have when I think about these books. Just as I had fun writing this, I hope you had fun reading! I'd LOVE to hear of your (dis)agreements/nominations, so please comment below!

Call for readers (and I will accept my limits)

***BEFORE YOU READ, DISCLAIMER!!! I am not breaking up with any existing or pre-promised partnerships. So no fear!***

Back when I was young and editing INGENICIDE (haha, just kidding!), I honestly wondered how the heck was I supposed to get people to read my MS? Therefore, whenever anyone offered, it felt just as exhilarating as...getting a full request. So in order to show my appreciation, I'd offer to swap, because why should I expect someone to read my MS without giving something back in return?

Slowly, it's beginning to dawn on me that I can't do that anymore. Between life, reading the works of my critique group, writing my own stuff, and trying to catch up on those MS's that I'd promised to crit, I have to come out honestly and say that I've bitten off more than I can chew. As much as I try to be an infallible, generous critter, I've realized that I can't continue to let this image get in the way of my actual abilities. Not only is that stressful for me (because I want to be able to read all the MS's in the world and I want to crit every single one), more importantly it's not fair to those whom I have promised a critique swap, who have to wait months and months without any feedback.

No longer can I promise to keep to the critique for a critique system. And I apologize profusely for that. I wish that I didn't have these limits because I owe so much to each and every person who takes the time to read my writing. Because without all of you, I wouldn't have improved as much as I have.

Because of my respect for all of you, I can't keep on overestimating the extent of my abilities.

Thinking all of this through has helped me come to terms with the fact that I can't maintain a critique partnership with everyone (although I'd really, really love to), that I have to accept the fact that there are simply readers out there who just want to enjoy the MS and do not expect a critique in return.

And so I now I post my call for all beta readers interested in reading and providing oh-so-helpful feedback on the second pass of my newly finished MS, IF LIFE WERE FAIR.

Genre: Upper YA/NA Contemporary (with medium romantic element)
Word Count: 58,000
Status: Complete--version 2
Query:

Idle from her gap year before college and cynical from running the hamster wheel of binge eating and exercising, eighteen-year-old Bernie Lisel receives an ultimatum from her mother: get a job or lose the credit card. 

Easier said than done.

Waitressing at the fancy French bistro in Manhattan is just what Bernie doesn’t need on her plate. But in the name of money to supply her binges, she’ll take it. Even if that means installing an edit button on her perpetually snarking mouth and trying not to mix up vanilla cream and tartar sauce. Gradually, Bernie learns the ropes and begins to bond with a crew of optimistic and quirky coworkers. And then there’s Luke Wells, assistant chef and a sophomore at Columbia. Selfless and diligent to a fault, he might also be the best listener to people's problems in the entire universe. Perhaps that’s why Bernie feels equal parts exposed and guarded around him.

But when Luke is diagnosed with stage III stomach cancer and refuses treatment, Bernie suddenly discovers that she’s not the only one with a secret to keep. Putting aside her eating disorder to help Luke with a turbulent family past, she orchestrates a journey to his home state of Montana. As the 2,400 miles whittle down, the last question on Bernie’s mind is of her own recovery. She only wonders if she can accomplish for Luke what she never could for herself—breaking the self-fulfilling cycle of resignation.

If you are interested, please comment with your email OR email me at joanart6 AT gmail DOT com. And if I haven't said this already, seriously, you guys are the best. I'm sorry for this being such a downer post. If you do decide that you'd like to be a beta for ILWF, I really appreciate it. I completely understand how busy everyone is, which is why the writing community continues to surprise me with its awesomeness. 

Post-manuscript completion thoughts

After two months of flying through the beginning, waddling around the sticky middle, and sprinting full-speed to the finish line, I have finally completed MS #3!!* For the super rough blurb, check out the my NOVELS tab and scroll to IF LIFE WERE FAIR. 

This was me post-completion. Don't you love my alter persona? 

I had a lot of fun writing this one because the main character had a very strong personality and naturally I spent a lot of time in her head as the novel is from first person POV. Surprisingly, the the writing process was different from MS #2, INGENICIDE. I know you're thinking well, Joan, you're writing a different novel for one, not to mention in a different genre. Of course the process is going to be different. And I understand that, but at the same time I had thought that the overall feel would be more or less the same, given the method I used for INGENICIDE was successful, as in I actually finished it and thought to myself: hey, this doesn't suck too badly!

Now in retrospect, I can see how writing IF LIFE WERE FAIR turned out to be a different experience than INGENICIDE. Firstly, I wrote INGENICIDE (65k) over the course of four months at the pace of a consistent plod. That means I had more time to afford non-writing days, days when I'd wait for some inspiration to strike (guilty!). In contrast, IF LIFE WERE FAIR (58k) is the product of a two month writing frenzy (which is still is far from the Nano pace, but it was a lot of me--I'm a slowish worker :). Why? Well, I still feel kind of sad for missing the dystopian bandwagon for INGENICIDE  so this me trying to catch the wagon for upper YA/NA before I miss it and fall face-flat in the dust.** But that's beside the point. The point is that I didn't have the luxury of losing too many writing days with IF LIFE WERE FAIR.  Which is probably why there were points in the story where I practically had to force myself to muscle through, not so much because they boring, but because I only have so much juice in me for a day. I've always been able to squeeze out some juice, but this was wringing. 

Secondly, I wrote in a completely different style for IF LIFE WERE FAIR as compared to INGENICIDE.  My CP's noticed this, and I, too, was aware. Bernadette, the MC in IF LIFE WERE FAIR has a lot of emotional baggage and is trying to rescue a personality that has been warped by her eating disorder. As a result, the syntax, word choice, and tone of every sentence in IF LIFE WERE FAIR were stark contrasts to the minimalistic and artistic voice of Sibyl, the MC from INGENICIDE. I had no idea how much this would influence the writing process! There were days when Bernie, oh-so-moody, just wouldn't speak to me. 

And lastly, writing the ending to IF LIFE WERE FAIR was just as exhilarating, but more taxing, than writing the ending to INGENICIDE  This is probably due to the fact that I worked myself into a last leg writing sprint and whipped out 8k in one night. The emotional impact of watching all of the story simmer down before my eyes in the matter of hours was unbelievably thrilling and sad.*** The reason why I was able to write this much at once for the end of IF LIFE WERE FAIR and not for INGENICIDE is because I had a clear idea of how I wanted IF LIFE WERE FAIR to end even before the halfway point of the story. That made the road leading up to the finale much easier to navigate.

All in all, writing IF LIFE WERE FAIR was neither easier nor harder than writing INGENICIDE, even though I had more experience under my belt. Regardless, I had a blast watching my characters come to life and weaving a theme and voice throughout the novel. Currently, I'm letting it rest for a bit before diving into revisions. Meanwhile, I'm so excited to start on this shiny new idea that popped to me during the sticky middle of IF LIFE WERE FAIR  A post will be up for that soon, and I'll be adding it to the NOVELS tab.

For those of you who have written more than one MS, did you find the general "writing experience" changed (outside of genre related differences) from one MS to the other? 

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*I think I might have carpal tunnel? I have an ache going from my right pinky down the side of my palm?!

**I don't believe in write the next trend. I DO believe in timing. If it just so happens that what you are currently writing might be garnering interest in the publishing world, well, why not try to seize the opportunity?

***I went to bed at 2AM and couldn't fall asleep for an hour because my head was buzzing with the story-residue. Plus, it was thundering like the end of the world. I had planned to brew myself a massive cup of coffee the next morning, but we lost power :( Needless to say, I was a zombie for the rest of the day until my awesome friend supplied me with chocolate and gingersnaps. Who says sugar isn't a remedy?