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!

Who Tells Your Story?

Okay, so this past week I had the chance to go to a bookstore. This shouldn't be, like, a planned outing, but in our household it totally is. See, my hubby and I are both teachers and we both adore books. And we're poor--mostly because of spending too much money on books. So a trip to an actual bookstore is a rare activity just on principle alone.

I always carry a notebook with me, and this day at the bookstore was no different. I usually jot down titles I want so I can research them more or put them on hold at the library or whatever.

This particular trip, however, something struck me. Who's telling the story? Who tells the story has always interested me, so much that I've read over my notes from writing conferences on this very subject.

I'm very comfortable writing in first person (three novels done in first person), and I absolutely adore present tense (one in third person, present tense). But I'm trying to stretch myself both as a reader and a writer. Well, maybe not too much stretchage. I still pretty much only read (and write) YA paranormal / fantasty / science fiction.

So here are the novels I was considering and I jotted down who's telling the story. I'm calling this market research instead of Elana-is-the-biggest-geek-on-the-planet. So stick with that, okay?

1. The Forest of Hands and Teeth by Carrie Ryan: First person / present

2. City of Bones by Cassandra Clare: Third person / past (multiple narrators)

3. The Dust of 100 Dogs by A.S. King: Third person / past

4. Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson: First person / present

5. I.Q. by Roland Smith: First person / past

6. SilverFin by Charlie Higson: Third person / past

7. The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins: First person / present

8. Need by Carrie Jones: First person / present

9. The Last Days by Scott Westerfeld: First person / present

10. Feed by M.T. Anderson: First person / past and present (Can I just say that I l-o-v-e this approach? I can, cuz it's my blog. And this is what I do in Control Issues. Looove it. ETA: And you can see what I mean by this by clicking here. Not a link clicker? Well, that's the announcement saying I won a runner-up prize in MSFV's secret agent contest! Then you can click on mine and read the first 250 words that [literary agent] Ms. Kate Schafer Testerman liked enough to request to see the first five chapters! It's now a Squeeeee! day!)


Market Research Findings:

• Out of these ten YA novels, which I know is an extremely small sample size, 7 of them are written in first person, 3 in third person. That's a wow-moment right there.
  
  
• 5 (and part of a sixth) of them are written in present tense. Hmm...is this a new trend? I can think of a few other books that are present tense (A Great and Terrible Beauty, for one) or first person (The Hollow).
  
  
• I have actually only read 1 1/2 of these books, I merely flipped them open and read the first page or so to see who was telling the story. My husband sets a time limit when we go to the bookstore. No, really. He does.

So, since my "market research" I'm seriously considering who's going to tell my next story. I'm leaning toward a first person / present tense story, but that won't work with the sequel to Control Issues. So I may be going all chick lit on you, which sort of seems to lend itself to first person / present tense. Who knows?

But here is a question you should know the answer to: Who tells your story? How do they do it? Why did you choose them?

Blog Chain - Write...Wait. What?

Okay, so for this chain of madness, Jessica Verday actually had the gall to challenge us to write something. Pshaw.

I was suddenly so happy to go at the end. And then as the chain progressed, I wished I could have gone first. I mean, I can't compete with Avon-calling knights and the emotion of a ballad.

Nevertheless, I did what I always do. I pressed forward. Wrote something. Couldn't figure out how to put the heart in it. You see, the loverly Ms. Verday said this: Ready? This week's topic is going to make all your writers out there have to...WRITE! I want a short story people. 100 words, 300 words, 500 words, 1,000 words - whatever you're comfortable with! The only requirement I have is that the theme of the story have something to do with HEARTS. Someone stealing someone else's heart. Someone pining away for true love. A thief of hearts... Go wild!!

Yeah, wild all right. Her inspiration came from a poem Kate posted on her blog a while back.

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter-bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

-Stephen Crane

I have to say that I am not the world's biggest poetry fan. But when Kate posted that, I printed it. So I can see where Jess got the inspiration. Abi posted before me, and Terri will be dazzling us with her hearts tomorrow.

So on to my story. I tried to write something light and funny and quirky and YA. Yeah, that didn't work. It sounded so forced. Sometimes the quirk just doesn't flow from my fingertips. Other times, I'm a hoot without even trying.

It must have been a dark day, cuz this is what I ended up with. It's 465 words, which I must say is a new record for me. I don't think I've ever written anything under 500 words before. Not even a blog post! LOL.

A Single Moment

He leans against the door. Waiting. Always waiting. For the most part, he’s gotten used to the waiting. The hypnotic scent of popcorn wafts down the hall. Every office should have a popcorn maker. He congratulates himself for suggesting it. Wishes they could have more time to use it. Really enjoy it.

Rich yellow light bathes him, the color of golden honey, the color of surprise and joy at a birthday party, the color of the popcorn. She’s coming.

He hears her heartbeat before the door opens. Tastes it. Breathes it into his soul.

He craves it.

If only the delicious woman in the crisp business suit didn’t have to die.

He waits across the hall. Watches.

She eats popcorn. Laughs.

The yellow light blazes to orange and he knows he won’t have to wait much longer.

Still, he hates to end her life. Surely she has a family, people who care about her, things she wants to do before she dies.

They all do.

And so he waits. His heart doesn't twitch.

Her heart beats with life, with ignorance.

He’s jealous.

And she’s going to die.

People pass, blurs of color that don't blend with the pulsing tangerine light. Only minutes now.

He’s running through a list of possible explanations for her death when it happens.

The sound is loud, even to him. Especially to him. Enough to set the little hairs on the back of his neck on end. Screeching metal, like that train wreck he waited through last week. Shattering, then moaning of wood, glass and steel.

It all comes from behind the closed break room door.

Screams cover the trembling walls. Phones are dialed. Tears fall. The door won't open. Smoke curls up from the gap at the bottom, and he breathes it in, recognizing the greasy calmness of machinery.

He abandons his post across the hall. Her pulse is thready now, barely strumming in his senses.

He needs it. Wants it. Through the oily smoke and honey-colored light, the soothing blanket of her heartbeat fades.

He passes through the wall and finds her on the floor. Thick, wet smears of red drown her. As does the car that has plowed through the side of the building. Un-popped popcorn kernels float in the oily river issuing across the hardwood, spilled from the now-mangled maker.

He kneels. Reaches down. Cradles her soul, enveloping it in the golden warmth of her pulsing heart.

It calms him. Becomes part of him. Welcomes him.

As she relinquishes her hold over life, he sends her home, his heart full and alive and beating for a single moment.

Later that afternoon, the aroma of fresh-cut grass drifts on a lilting breeze. On the park bench, his senses painted green and lush, he's waiting. Always waiting.

So...whaddya think? Tell me anything, but don't tell me you don't like present tense. It is my new love. I *heart* writing in present tense.