Official Kissing Day

Okay, so everyone should be all over this. I read about it last week on Katie Ganshert's blog. I guess you're supposed to post a kissing scene from something you wrote. If you're not a writer (gasp!), post your favorite kissing scene.

See why I like this? I mean, kissing. Ahem.

So here's a scene from a novel I wrote this year. It's called Dying to Live. And see this girl, she can feel death. Usually hers. But this time, she thinks it's her "boyfriend's" (they're really just Servant partners masquerading as a couple) turn to kick it. So she's been bawling. And now she's in the bathroom with her bf's "sister."

A knock at the door has us both jumping. She throws me a glance before opening it.

Blake stands in the hall, a dark storm cloud I want to wrap my arms around. “Hey, Cheryl. When did you get here?” He looks at Nora—right in her eyes.

“Just a few minutes ago. Nora was helping me with my makeup. How do I look?”

Blake hesitates, still watching Nora. She’s stuffing jars of makeup in a black case and won’t meet his eye.

“You look beautiful,” he finally says. He reaches toward me and I gladly slip my fingers between his. He plants a kiss on my temple. “Are you ready?” He studies me closer. “Have you been crying?”

The answer to both questions is yes, but I don’t want to say it.

“Nora, I need to talk to Cheryl for a minute. Tell Mom we’ll be right there, will you?”

“Don’t take too long. She’s freaking that we haven’t left yet.”

“You’re the one camped out in the bathroom doing your makeup.”

Nora flounces down the hall without a reply. Blake pulls me  into his bedroom. I’ve been in here a lot, so it’s nothing romantic or anything. His bed is made. His clothes are hung neatly in the closet. The desk practically has chalk outlines for where things belong. Mr. Organized.

“So tell me why you’ve been crying.” He hasn’t let go of my hand yet.

“Just something with my host family,” I say, trying to shrug it off.

He waits for more. He’s not going to get it.

“I can read the report when I file it,” he threatens.

“Okay.” If he knows about the looming appointment with my dad, he doesn’t spill. If he knows how much I want to kiss him, he doesn’t let it show on his face. “Let’s just go, okay? I don’t want your mom mad at me.”

“Can you still feel it?” he asks, his mouth barely moving.

In a bold gesture, I run my finger up his forearm, imagining I can feel the thin scars from his past life. I clasp my hands behind his neck at the same time he puts his hands on my waist. This is how we danced at Homecoming last week. This is how I always want him to hold me.

“Yeah, I can still feel it. It’s stronger here. It’s so loud. I’m…”

“What?”

“Scared.”

He pauses, and we’re breathing the same air again. In and out, in and out.

“I’ll protect you,” he says.

I want to tell him that it’s not me, it’s him, but I don’t have the chance.

Because he’s closing the distance between us and then we’re kissing kissing kissing.

I hope you participate! If you do, leave me a link so I can go read your mistletoe-inspired post on Kissing Day!

Work In Progress Wednesday

Okay, so I've taken a few weeks off of reporting on the WiP. So sue me. I think I've voiced my strong feelings about this topic in the past. Um, yeah.

I don't always feel like that, for the record. It just happened to get to me and well, you had to be the sounding box for that. So thanks!

I'm feeling better about the whole WiP thing. It's not haunting me anymore. Thankfully.

So here's the low-down:

1. I finished revisions on Control Issues and sent it out to agents. Bring on the waiting! I actually love waiting. It's one of my favorite things to do. I also like watching Cialis commercials, going to the gym and being annihilated on the tennis court. Oooh! Did you see the Roddick/Federer match on Sunday? Brilliant. Bloody brilliant. Hey, I just turned British!

Ahem.

2. I have been attempting to write on my WiP. I think I've probably done a couple thousand words over the past few weeks. Not stellar, but it's something. And anything is better than nothing, at least that's what I tell myself. Over and over.

3. I finished writing the e-book, From the Query to the Call. And after much research (*shudders*), I have decided to pay someone smarter than me to get it into publishable e-book format. I designed the layout, the colors, the fonts, made my own 3D cover, everything. But even I am not a genius. Shocking, I know. *wink, wink*

I wrote the thing, solicited shamelessly for examples and permission from my query-writing friends, and really did everything I could do. If I wanted to compile the document with HTML codes that would preserve all my bookmarks, links, and clickables, I'd be 95 before it was done. And I can pay $20 and have it done in like, no time at all.

So who's smarter? The girl who is determined to do it herself (and would have to buy a $295 program to do it) or the one who's willing to give some small piece of control to someone else? Well, for a control-freak like me, it might be the determined girl. But I really think I'll be better off in the long run if I just shell out the $20. My kids will thank me, I'm sure.

I did make my own cover. This is the flat one, the one that's on the inside title page of the book. You like? It's okay if you don't. After the number of rejections I've received, I don't have feelings anymore.


How have you been doing on your writing ambitions? Lay it on me. Lay it on thick.

Don't Hate Me, But...

...I like writing query letters!

I really do. I've been reading a lot of blogs lately. Okay, not just lately, but all the time. (It was worth a try.) And I've noticed something: it seems that most people don't like writing a query letter.

I just don't have the same dislike.

In fact, I quite like writing my queries. I usually have the query letter done before the manuscript is completely written. It's not like I have to know how the book ends to write the query. Right?

I'm going to share a query letter I wrote for a novel that currently has 6000 words penned. And they are all made of "teh suck" and need to be deleted. In fact, I have a goal to write this book by hand, and I'm going to start over completely. Oh, and some of you will get a kick out of this: it's the same novel that I "outlined" a few weeks ago. Ha ha!

Here's the query for that "outline", for a book I haven't even really started on yet.

Sixteen-year-old Penelopie Baker has died 67 times can feel death approaching like you can feel rain falling on your skin. Penny thinks her 68th death will get her one step closer to being able to reclaim her lost life, but she’s dead (lol) wrong.

Because the death she feels is not her own, but that of a friend. Everyone thinks the drowning was an accident--until another classmate croaks under mysterious conditions. In order to get her years of service counted for this 68th life, Penny and her Servant partner, Blake, set out to find the true cause for two suspicious teenage deaths so close to home.

What they find makes all the bloody deaths they’ve experienced seem like pinpricks. They must find a way to bring the true murderer to justice or their next death will be permanent.

DYING TO LIVE is a young adult mystery, complete at 70,000 words.

I'm not saying this is, like, perfect or anything. I'd like to think it's pretty good, and that you could tell what the novel is about from it. Yes? No?

Like I said, I like writing the query letter almost as much, or more, than writing the novel. So much, that in this case, I wrote the query FIRST. What kind of crazy pills am I on? Or is this just another distraction tactic? You tell me.

I mean, you could try this guy's method, but I wouldn't recommend it. (But isn't that pic hilarious?)


So, of course, me being a human of the curious kind, I want to know WHY 99% of writers out there don't like writing the query. What's so bad about it?

WIPpet, WIPpet Good

Yeah, I totally stole that term. Lisa and Laura always have the hippest terms. "Hip" is probably outdated. You see, I still wear clothes from like the 90s and all that. I think I have some T's from high school. No, really. I'm not what you would call fashionable in any way. Maybe my hair...

Anyway, so they posted a WIPpet last week. It's basically a snippet of writing on a Wednesday. See how that makes a WIPpet? Work In Progress + snippet = WIPpet. Yeah, I like new words and stuff like that. Word equations are also high on my list of Simple Things That Make Me Happy.

So anyhow, this is from my WIP (obviously or it wouldn't be a WIPpet *rolls eyes*) Dying To Live. My MC is in social dance class with this guy who's been assigned to be her trig tutor, but she doesn't want him...yeah, just read it.


“Can I dance with her today?” another guy asked. I turned around to see pretty-boy, red-polo Landon Wilson. He grinned, revealing an orthodontically-induced set of white teeth.

“Sure, man,” Brian said, turning to Sarah. They moved out into the middle of the room where Mrs. Bowman was yelling instructions.

I stood staring up at Landon’s too-happy face. At least he was taller than me.

“I won’t bite,” he said, reaching for my hand.

I stepped toward the dance floor just before he touched me. He followed and we positioned ourselves the way Mrs. Bowman demonstrated. His hand felt hot on my back, but the skin where we were touching felt cold.

“Look,” I said. “I’m gonna need some help after all. Can you come over this weekend?” I looked at Mrs. Bowman so I wouldn’t have to see the victory in his eyes.

Landon moved like he’d been taking private dance lessons his entire life. I stepped on his foot and cringed.

“Sure, no problem. When? I can come over after school today…if you want.”

I didn’t want, but I didn’t have a choice. “Okay. Maybe like, four o’clock?” That would give me time to do my other homework and get the house cleaned up a little bit. As an added bonus, Michael usually took a short nap around four.

“I can, um, give you a ride home after school. If that would help.”

Now he was the one looking anywhere but at me. The music started and Landon twirled me through the steps easily. I let him toss me and push me where I was supposed to go, wondering how to answer.

“Wonderful, Mr. Wilson,” Mrs. Bowman praised. “Ah, Bristol, glad you’re here today.” She smiled and moved to the next couple, who were all tangled up in each other’s arms.

I stepped away from Landon. “No, I don’t need a ride.” He was way out of my league; he had a car and could make his own schedule. Not to mention the fancy-pants jeans and professional hair cut. I hacked at my own every few months to keep the split ends at bay.

He did the annoying throat clearing. “Okay. I can come at four. I can’t tomorrow, because the soccer team is having a senior send-off, but I can come on Saturday.”

I knew it. Soccer. “Are you a senior?” It sounded like an accusation.

“Yes.” He answered like it was a defense.

“What about Sunday?” I asked. Dad always went to church on Sunday. Maybe I could keep my failing grades in trig a secret—as well as my new, senior-soccer tutor.

“Sunday works for me. What time?”

“Eleven-ish. Is that okay?”

Landon grinned. “Anything is okay. See you at four.” He moved through the crowd to a group of senior boys I recognized from the soccer team. He wasn’t the tallest, or the best-looking, the loudest or the quietest. He probably was the smartest, but I never would have known. They’d signed up for the “social” part, just like Brian, because a few girls sat with them, all smiles and short skirts.


Did I WIPpet good? Or do I need to address "teh suck"?