Author vs Manuscript

Currently in the ring: Me vs First Draft (aka top secret MG novel). First Draft is winning.

Whew, this is much harder than I anticipated. Got to keep fighting . . .

The Raven and the Hawk - Episode 4

Malcolm

Malcolm Trent walked swiftly down the hallway, his shiny black shoes echoing like gunshots in the empty passage. He tugged on the sleeves of his suit, pulling out nonexistent wrinkles, then did the same to the hem of his jacket. He smoothed his hair. He despised this place. Despised the white walls, despised the glaring lights, and despised the smell of bleach that always hung thickly in the air. It gave him a headache.

The hallway ended at a metal door. Malcolm slid his hand into the black identifier attached to the wall next to the door. He waited for the familiar prick as it drew blood for analyzation. After series of beeps and blurts a green light shone, confirming his DNA for identification purposes and that he was currently disease and virus free. The lock clicked and groaned. Malcolm pulled the door open and entered the quarantine room. The bacteria killing vapor enveloped him. Worthless. A waist of money. Nothing he carried on his clothes could harm her.

His heart beat fast at the thought of her, and a nervous sweat sprung up on his skin. Soon, he thought. Soon, she would realize why she belonged with him.

Soon.

Feeling Proud

In trying to decide the best route to take to edit the first draft of my novel, I decided to print it out and read through it that way. This turned out to be a great idea. I've been working on this book for approximately two years, writing usually only on weekends. Just seeing text on the computer screen in no way prepared me for what it looked like printed out. I mean, seriously, this look like a real book. With lots of pages! I am suddenly awestruck by my accomplishment. Sure it needs work, maybe a lot, but look. Look!

The Raven and The Hawk - Episode 3

Hawk

Hawk hummed the new song he was creating as he dusted his bookshelves. The tune was soft, haunting. And he could not get it out of his head. Later, he would try out the tune with his guitar. But first, he had to finish cleaning the apartment. He had started an hour ago and he was only on the third shelf. He was getting distracted by the books, pulling them out one by one and rereading some of his favorite scenes.

Hawk did not even realize Michelle was in the apartment until she tapped his shoulder.

"Hey, what's up?" He replaced Anne Rice's Interview with the Vampire onto the shelf.

"I knocked three times."

"Oh. I guess I was concentrating too hard." He yawned, running a hand through his messy hair.

"What are you doing?" Michelle asked.

"Dusting."

She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I missed you yesterday."

Hawk stood up, stretching. A dull ache was creeping through his bones. Maybe he was coming down with something. Hawk had the worst immune system. He seemed to catch every single virus going around.

"So. What did you do?" Michelle asked, following Hawk into the kitchen.

"When?"

"Yesterday," she sighed audibly.

He shrugged, thinking back to yesterday. What had he done? "Oh yeah, I started a new song." As he reached into the cupboard for the coffee grounds, Michelle hugged him, smacking a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Hawk tensed and squirmed out of her grasp. He held up the coffee pot to her. "Do you want some?"

Michelle shook her head, making a 'yuck' face. Hawk yawned again. He needed the caffeine more than he'd thought.

"So, what's the new song about?"

"A girl."

"Really?" Michelle swayed on her feet grinning at him. "Anyone we know?"

"No."

Her smile froze. Too late, Hawk realized she had hoped the song was about her. He looked away from her face and glared at the coffee pot, willing it to brew faster.

"It's about Becky, isn't it!"

"What makes you say that?" Hawk was stunned by her accusation.

She shot him a cold look. "What am I supposed to think, Hawk? You never want to spend time with me anymore. And Becky . . . well, you know her. She'd do anything to get you back!"

"Michelle, I swear, I'm not getting back together with Becky. I haven't even seen her for months!"

"Just admit it! You don't want to be with me!" She turned away, her blonde hair falling over her face. The dark roots were beginning to show. She should dye it back to her natural color. He shifted from one foot to the other, the right thing to say lost to him.

"I care about you, Hawk." Her voice was quiet. She faced him again.

Hawk was surprised at the tears on her cheeks. Michelle never cried.

"But I'm worried. You never want to go out anymore. I thought . . . I mean . . . is it me? You don't want to spend time with me?"

"No. No, that's not it," Hawk held his hands to her. She just stared at his palms, scrutinizing them it seemed. "It's just that I value my time alone," he said lamely.

Michelle sighed. "But you are always alone. I like to be with you. I like to go out, not stay cooped up in this apartment all the time. And it would be nice if you actually invited me over, rather than just wait for me to show up."

Hawk fell onto the couch and ran his hand through his hair. His mind was whirring. He couldn't think of the right words to say to her.

"Hawk?" Michelle sat cross legged on the couch, facing him. She ran her hand down the left side of his face. Her hand was warm and soft. Hawk breathed deeply, savoring her touch. But why couldn't he tell her that? Why did words fail him? Because he knew that one day she would leave, and then . . .

"Do you know how much I adore you?" Michelle whispered, tugging at his hair.

He dared to look her in the eyes.

She smiled and shook her head in amazement. "You need a hair cut. But the shagginess suits you." She sighed again, her smile sad. "Why do I put up with you?"

Hawk shrugged and leaned in to kiss her.

FINISHED

Guess what?????

Yep, I just finished the first draft of my MG novel. Yes I said FINISHED. I'm stunned. I'm in shock. I think I want to cry. There is no way I'm going to sleep tonight. Oh my goodness. Breathe, breathe.

Oh my goodness.

FOREVER by maggie stiefvater

Isn't it amazing? If you haven't seen her previous trailers you should check them out at her website. Besides being a fab writer, Maggie is also an artist and musician. Everything in the trailer is hers. She is scheduled to come to Little Shop of Stories in Decatur August 1st and I am super excited. I'm looking forward to reading FOREVER, especially after the way she ended LINGER. And if you are like me and covet signed books, here is where you can buy an autographed copy of FOREVER when it comes out July 12, 2011.

The Raven and the Hawk - Episode 2

Raven turned off the light in the bathroom and tiptoed downstairs to her studio. Early in childhood, Raven exhibited an exceptional talent in the arts. She could transform a blank canvas into another world. Her parents converted the basement to a private studio when she was ten years old. As she closed the door behind her, the comforting scent of oil paint surrounded her. All the anxiety left her as she moved about her sanctuary, stepping over canvases, her bare feet sticking to drops of paint on the floor. For Raven, painting was a mental and physical experience that demanded privacy. With the door closed, no one would bother her. She turned on the portable speakers and chose a rock playlist on her iPod. The music helped her move out of herself and into the artist.
She slopped a generous amount of red, blue, and yellow on the palette and used her fingers to mix until a rich red resulted. She prepared for the first stroke. The brush hovered over the white canvas for a brief moment. Then her hand moved with the first, and hardest stroke, leaving a reddish orange curve. Raven lost herself. As she painted, the rest of the world disappeared.
Finally, hours later, she stepped back to survey her work. She stood before a desert at sunrise. A red desert, with velvety red mountains and a storm brewing in the distance.

The Raven and the Hawk - Episode 1

Episode 1

5.7.11

Raven

She stood among the desert life, lost. Home swirled in a black hole of a lost memory. In spite of the heavy heat seeping from the soil, cold tears froze on her face. The desert was ablaze with a deep red heavenly fire. Cacti stood, silent, like ancient soldiers awaiting a war. Or maybe the end of time. They flourished in the ancient dirt, the tiny sediments from millions of years past, eroded from the surrounding red mountains. The mountains themselves caught the sunset rays, absorbed them and emitted the light to the surrounding desert.

A whispering called from far away, from the mountain shaped like a giant bell. She paused, listening, straining to understand. The sound reminded her of millions of insect legs scuttling across rock . . . rushing deliberately towards her. In an instant, the whispering turned to a ferocious wind that battered dirt and rocks against her skin. It tore her clothing, got tangled in her hair. It would bury her. She would become part of the desert forever, lost.

She hugged herself tightly, weeping.

And suddenly, a light shone down through the dust storm and she realized that this was not a sunset at all. It was a sunrise. The light touched her toes and traveled to the top of her head, bathing her in the warm rays. But it burned! Her pale skin turned red and blistered. Run! She thought, desperately. Run! Find darkness! She turned to the towering mountains and ran. The wind tugged her backwards, grabbing her with grainy fingers.

Then he was there. Too far away to see clearly, but close enough to feel . . .

Raven awoke from the dream confused. Her throat was filled with sand and something was holding her so she could not move. It took her a few panicky seconds to realize she was only tangled in her own bedsheets. The sand in her throat was just a plain old sore throat from her cold. Perspiration dripped off her skin and her heart was racing dangerously fast. Raven held her pounding head, closed her eyes, and waited for her breathing and heart to slow. The darkness of her bedroom was cool and comforting after the intense heat in her dream.

Even as she thought about it, the dream faded away until all she could grasp was the fear. Nothing more. Disgusted, she threw her comforter aside and got out of bed. The clock read 4:00 am. She was beyond sleep now. And hot. Why was it so hot?

Raven pushed open her window. The humid air was heavy and still a little too warm fall. She held her hand out into the night, letting the foggy humidity flow between her fingers. As she inhaled the night's perfume she convulsed into a coughing fit. After it passed, she threw on a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt and crept into the hallway. The grandfather clock ticked annoyingly, too loud in the quiet house. She passed the clock and paused at the door on the left. She quietly pushed the door open a little and peeked in on Scout. He was sleeping in a tight ball, his blond hair falling over his face. Raven smiled as she watched her brother. He was special, a surprise really. Raven had been adopted when she was six years old. Her parents had tried for many years to conceive a child, without success. No one expected Raven to be anything except an only child. But then Christopher Aaron came along, a biological baby for her mom and dad and the sibling Raven had always hoped for.

"Raven? What's wrong?" Scout sat up and rubbed his eyes. Raven had given him the nickname, Scout, after reading To Kill a Mockingbird.

Raven approached his bedside and hugged him. "Nothing. I can't sleep."

He yawned. "I had a nightmare."

"You did? What was it about?"

"People were taking you away."

"What people?"

His blue eyes widened as he stared into her face. "People like you."

"What do you mean?"

But Scout had already fallen back to sleep. She kissed his cheek and tucked him in.

She wiped a film of sweat off of her forehead. Maybe a cold shower would help.

In the shower, Raven stood under the cold water until she was shivering. The water whispered as it shot out of the shower head. Whispered . . . like insects . . .

An image of her dream overpowered the harsh white tiles in the shower, and Raven stumbled. The dizziness swept over her so quickly, she collapsed.

A desert. A red desert. A feverish heat brought a renewed layer of sweat to her already damp skin. She closed her eyes and the vision washed away in a blur of red. Slowly, the dizziness passed. Raven turned off the water and wrapped herself in a fluffy towel, which still held the fresh scent of fabric softener.

After she dressed she stood in front of the mirror, brushing her long black hair. As she gazed at her face, she felt troubled. Maybe it was remnants of the dream, but she was suddenly acutely aware of how odd she looked compared to her brother. In contrast to the tan skin and fair hair of her family, Raven was bone white pale with large dark brown eyes speckled with red. The older she got, the redder her eyes became. Compared to her family, Raven looked exotic. Being from a closed adoption, Raven did not have any information of her heritage, and she suspected it was not American.

The house creaked and settled, leaving her in silence again.

Too quiet.

Much too quiet. She could hear the clock again.

And so it begins

In an effort to break through the binding fear of sharing my stories, I've decided to start this little experiment. On this blog I will periodically post small sections of one of my novels. I wrote this particular book back in 1996. Is it any good? I have no idea. But the characters are alive in these words, and they are still very real for me, even today. Regardless whether the book is good or bad, maybe just the act of putting these words out in the world for anyone to read will help me conquer my fears.

I've been writing since the fourth grade. I have spiral notebooks full of these scribblings that span years and years and years. Now, at the age of 36 (ugh! almost 37) I'm wondering how I've let so much time pass without even once querying for publication. Seriously, if I want to keep calling myself a writer it's time to live up to that title. Oh, I have tons of excuses. My high-pressure-full time-corporate-artist-job, the hours I spend each day commuting in traffic jams, I'm not good enough, I'm tired, and on and on and on.

I can't promise you the best grammar, punctuation, technical stuff like that. The purpose is just to share what I have and hopefully make some friends along the way. So stay tuned. The experiment will commence shortly.