Attention all YA authors!

The Guide to Literary Agents blog is having a contest.  Deadline is Nov. 3rd, so if you have a completed YA novel, make sure to enter.

Winner!

Props to all of you for such deliciously awful tags!  You brightened my cubicle-filled day here at the office, so thank you for participating...

But there can be only ONE winner, unless some of you want to fight Tyrolancer for that 15 bucks.  I will offer an array of blow torches and samurai swords for those wishing to commence duels.

Oh, wait?  Did I just slip in the winner's name!  Yes!

It's TYROLANCER, for this post:

"I designed this sex museum," he erected.

Tyrolancer, your gift card has been sent to your gmail address.  Please confirm that you found it waiting in your inbox, or we'll sue Amazon together.

Please check out Lancer's blog here, and wish him a belated birthday (10/25).  Thanks all for your participation.  Contests make me giddy, so perhaps there will be more in the future...

Any ideas for what kind of contest you want to see? 

Contest!

One day only.  Ending at midnight EST tonight, post the best tag you can think of in the comments of my Tag. You're It post.

Winner is gettin' $15 bucks to spend at Amazon!  Some of you have already unknowingly entered *(but if you want to change your post, feel free!).  Tell your friends, tell your dog.  Tell that creepy guy with the comb-over who always sits next to you on the bus.

Tag. You're It.

"There was so much I wanted to do," he died.
*
*
"I'll tell you what I'm going to do about it," she synopsized.
*
*
"You know, I just have a feeling the aliens are coming for us soon," she apocalypsed.
*
*
"I believe that was MY chalupa!" he fattened.
*
*
"I just had the best idea!" she writered.


Got any tags?

I Write and I Run.

How running is like writing:

You start out.  Pace is good.  It's a nice day.  Your legs are pumpin', your heart rate's steady.  Wow, you should have done this a long time ago.  It's not as strenuous as you thought.

You're passin' roads you never thought you'd run to so fast!  Man, you're like a jet engine!

Then you receive your first critique: "Hey, fatty, nice jogging outfit!"

Pace slows.  Arms fall at your sides.

Damn, that stung.  Okay, you gotta keep going.  Let's get up that pace again.

But it's not going so quick this time.  You're trying to run the trail you had your heart set on, but it's just not feeling as good as before.

Time to start a new trail.  Maybe that's it.

All right.  New trail.  Feelin' good about this.  Heart rate's good.  Legs aren't too tired.  I got this.  I know where I'm goin'.

"Hey, fatty!  You call that running?"

"Stuff it!" you yell back.  All right, nice.  That felt good.  That lady doesn't know a thing about running. She should try it sometime.

Time to take a break, get a drink, think about the run, do some evaluation.  Run is good.  Pace is good.  Nothing to it but to keep goin'.

Except the sun's going down.  You're gonna need another trail back if you want to get home by the deadline.

All right, let's map it out.  Takes some time, but you've got it figured out.  You know where you're going.

Set out again.  Legs are tired, and the road is rockier, but you're almost at the end now.  You can it.

You pull a muscle, face-plant.  You're never gonna make it now.  It's over.  The sun is almost gone.

Then you find your first running partner, the person who lifts you up, brushes the dirt off and says, "Don't worry.  I'll show you how to get home.  All you need to do is this."

And you follow them for a bit until you get your stride back.  Your muscle doesn't hurt anymore.  It's going to be okay.

And you finish.  You stretch out.  You feel like you've done some good work.

"So, what next?" You ask your new partner.

"Now you just have to do that every day for the rest of the your life," they say.

Better tighten those shoelaces.

(Edits.)

(Editing) Edits (were like) (was like) are like (as if) (your mind) (your vortex) the abyss of you’re your thoughts are is being (spread) (scattered) targeted from a by an a evil dastardly (alien) (extra-tarrestrial) extra-terrestrial (death-ray) (photon) laser thats that’s (determined) (set) intent (for) (to) upon making yourself you look appear as if as though (writing) (composing) threading words together (were) (is not) fails to be one of you’re your (bestest) (better) laudable (skills) talents (?).  

Vlog-torious! Q meets A.

YouTube link here.

Thanks to everyone for your excellent questions!  Hope you enjoy.

Q me.

I'm stealing this idea from Steph Sinkhorn over at maybe genius.  

Post questions for me in the comments and I'll do an Answer vlog later this week.

Make 'em random, make 'em weird.  Put me to the test!

Clicks.

First day at a new school.  I was a manuscript without a genre.  With any luck, I'd be accepted by one before the end of the day.

I surveyed the cafeteria.

"You the new kid?"  A Contemporary Literature I shared English class with clapped me on the shoulder.

"Yeah," I answered.

"Eatin' adverbs for lunch?  Nice choice, but skip the adjective sauce.  It'll give you hives."

"Uh, thanks."

"Lookin' for a place to sit?"

"Yep."

He looked me up and down.  "Well, you've got some teen angst in you, but you gotta be careful if you want to be a part of the Young Adult clique."

"Why?"

"Well, there's been a split in that genre, ever since Twilight came about and the YA Fantasies and Paranormals got too good for the Contemp Young Adults.  Massive civil war.  Blood was shed.  Hair products were used.  Fangs were ripped from their sockets.  Not pretty."

"I'll bet."

"I see you've got some over-arching romance.  Hmm, you do have a forty-year-old banker as your MC.  Could be Contemporary Literature, like me.  But your perfume smells like Chick Lit, bunch of high-heeled, glossy-lipped - "

"Hey, be nice," I said.

"Sorry.  Chick-Litters get on my nerves.  Let's see...are there any petticoats in you?"

"Not that I recall."

"So you're not an Austen-ite.  All right.  No spaceships or alien abductions?"

"Just the one."

"Damn, you're tricky."

"Is there a clique of Spec Fic-Contemp-Romance-YA-Urban-Dystopia?"

He clicked his fingers.  "Right-hand corner.  Avoid the Horror table.  Seriously.  Walk the left-hand side of the cafeteria and make sure you avoid the Self-Helpers - they'll try to convert you.  Take a right at the Chris-Fics."

"Huh?"

"Christian Fiction."

"Oh."

"Then you want to skirt around the Kid-Lit - avoid the marbles and toys all over the floor - and head straight back, you'll find your genre.  Enjoy."

"Thanks so much."

With a frown, he said, "Don't talk to me you Spec Fic-Contemp-Romance-YA-Urban-Dystopia piece of crap."  He slammed my lunch tray to the ground and lifted his arms.  "CONTEMPS RULE!"

A cheer from the Contemp table. 

It was a good first day.

I did not die.

First of all, THANKS for all of your kind get-well wishes.  They skyrocketed me through my convalescence and here I am on the other side, (almost) all better.  I have been the worst blogger the past few weeks, so I'm sorry if I have not stopped by your blog recently and made comments - that will be corrected this week!

I have also received a couple of awards a while back which I never acknowledged, so now is the time:

Quinn over at seeing, dreaming...writing has graciously presented me with TWO awards, the Lovely Blog Award and the Sweet Friends Award.  Custom is to present the awards to other bloggers, which I will be doing later this week after I'm all caught-up on the internets.

Donna Hole also presented me with the Versatile Blogger award, as well as Ellie Garratt.

Thanks to all three of you for passing this on (which is much preferred over getting the flu)!  I am consistently thankful for this wonderful blogging community.  RSBP (Regularly Scheduled Blog Posts) will resume tomorrow.  Thank you for your patience, folks.

Out of Order.

Blog temporarily on hiatus due to flu.

Today is the Animal Writes Blogfest.  Enter and check out the other entries here.

Mate.

Here at Lit-Love, we know how hard it is to find the perfect match.

Tired of the bar scene?  Going home with an author just before final call and realizing in the morning that they were just into you for your slim narrative?

Bored of long-term relationships that only end in shelved manuscripts and an author with a drinking problem?

Ready to stop worrying about your author cheating on you with the hot YA paranormal down the street?

Eager for an author that's committed to daily communication?

Are you willing to move on from the punctuation-abuse, adverb over-usage, and the authors that don't even ask you how your characters are this morning?

Lit-Love is the place for you!

Lit-Love was designed specifically for novels in need of a true partner: the writer that they can finally settle down with.  Here at Lit-Love, we understand that the road to publishing isn't easy, and we're here to give novels the extra boost they need in order to find the author that's right for them.

After taking a short personality quiz about your genre, plot, characters, theme, and size, Lit-Love will search our extensive database of authors to find the scribe that's a perfect match!  If you're not completely satisfied with your literary matches, we'll even throw in an additional ten matches for free!

So go ahead, try Lit-Love.  The writer of your life is waiting for you just around the bend.

We guarantee it.

Linkage.

The latest book in the Shiver trilogy, Forever, is out July 12th, 2011, and you can order a pre-signed copy here.  Spread the word for author Maggie Stiefvater, and make sure to enter her contest to win awesome prizes.

Quinn over at seeing...dreaming...writing has already surpassed his 100-follower mark, so he's holding a giveaway to celebrate!  Make sure you check out the contest (and follow his excellent blog!) here.

Make sure you sign up to Sommer Leigh's October Goodie Box Giveaway here.  I'm a regular reader of Sommer's blog - definitely give her a peruse!

And, as always, thanks to everyone for your comments and lurkage on this here bloggie.  You are forever appreciated.

Please see my query. (Attached)

Dear INSERT AGENT’S NAME

MAIN CHARACTER (Rebecca? Anne? Ethel? Okay, I’ll go with Maybe-Ethel) is seventeen (sixteen? Fifteen? Forty-five-year-old mental patient who thinks she’s seventeen?) in a cruel world. Her BLANK is now BLANK and it’s caused her BLANK to INSERT CONFLICT HERE.

Now that Maybe-Ethel is INSERT LIFE CHANGE HERE, she must INSERT GOAL HERE (note: make sure to add that her hair color is red, shows her passionate side). But ANTAGONIST (guy with a moustache? a LONG moustache, and he’s got eyes that glitter) wants INSERT EVIL GOAL HERE (make sure it’s really evil, like he wants to kill puppies or something and Maybe-Ethel really doesn’t want him to kill puppies because puppies are cute), and MOUSTACHE-ANTAGONIST will stop at nothing to do it.

Only Maybe-Ethel can stop him, but INSERT MORE CONFLICT HERE (WITH STRAWBERRIES ON TOP, like Maybe-Ethel is actually Moustache-Antagonist’s DAUGHTER ((oh my god, and she has a moustache too?? clue the reader early on)). Maybe-Ethel must decide between THIS THING SHE WANTS and THAT THING SHE WANTS THAT GOES AGAINST THE OTHER THING THAT SHE WANTS.


What will she decide?


(Note: FIGURE OUT WHAT SHE DECIDES)


I think this book will appeal to anyone named Ethel and anyone, male or female, who has had a moustache, and/or anyone who loves puppies and/or really hates puppies. I have read Shakespeare and the works of John Grisham, so I know this genre like the back of my hand.

When I’m done writing the first draft, I think it’ll be around 100-hundred pages, so I’ll hope you’ll think to consider this among your other books that you are currently representing at this time.


And thank you for being you. You are awesome. I have also attached an e-card thank you note, and please accept my Friend request on Facebook, because I think we’d really hit it off.


I have also attached what I have so far, so you can look at it and tell me what you think. I’m also sending this to all the other agents at your office to make sure that everyone knows about it.


Thanks,


INSERT AUTHOR’S NAME

The States of Being Finished.

1. Finished
First Draft is done.

2. Finished Part 2
Second Draft is done.

3. First Edit Finished
First edits on Second Draft are done.

4. More Finished Than Before
Third Draft is done.

5. I'll Be Finished Sometime Soon
Third Draft large edits are done.

6. Sort-Of Close to Finished Now
Third Draft small edits are done.

7. Okay, Nearly at the Finished Part
Fourth Draft read-through is done.

8. One More Read-Through and I'll Be Finished
Line Edits are done.

9. I Think I'm Finished, Better Start to Query
Fifth Draft is done.

10. Agent Revision Finished
Okay, just going to take DREAM AGENT's suggestions.

11. Ready to Sell Finished
Come on, editors, pick this baby up and give me green!

12. Nearing Publication Finished
I can smell the hardcover already.

13. Shelf Finished
Book is out.  There's nothing you can do about it now.  Move on.

No, really, move on!  No more editing.  Write something else.


Really?  You're still here?  Leave it be!  Be gone with you! 


I said GO!

What I Dream About.

Before I get started, I want to thank everyone for stopping by the blog over the weekend and leaving your comments - they are all read and appreciated!  I haven't been able to stop by the other Bad News Blogfest entries, but will be doing so this week...

Secondly, I'm a finalist in S.E. Sinkhorn's Mashup Blogfest!  Vote for your favorites here.  Thanks again to  Stephanie for hosting, it was a lot of fun.

I've added a category cloud at the bottom of the page - check it out.

And now - for the main event!


What I Dream About In My Sleep


DREAM AGENT offers me representation.
I say, "But I haven't queried you yet!  How did you - "
Dream Agent puts a finger to my lips and answers, "I just knew."


J.K. ROWLING picks me to write Harry Potter #8.  Blimey.


THE NEW YORK TIMES raves that Snooki's novel is the tome of the decade.  I wake up in a cold sweat.


I discover that I'm an adept sleep-writer, but the novels I write in my sleep are so good that they keep me up at night...thus ending my career as a sleep-writer.


DREAM AGENT reads through my manuscript and announces: "It's too close to Snooki's novel.  That girl could write a book in her sleep.  You should try it."

Bad News Blogfest

Francine is hosting the Bad News Blogfest as of yesterday (extended to today).  You can find the other entries here.  The only rules are to write a scene in which someone is given bad news.  See mine below:


"Hello, class.  Today we have a special guest, novelist Elena Solodow!  Let's welcome her!"

clapping


"Thanks, everyone.  As you'll see we've put the boys in a separate room for this.  The principal has asked me to come today to share some news with you, and unfortunately, it's bad news.

I know you're all young, but it's important that you understand the truth before it's too late.  Otherwise, you might have some very wrong expectations a few years from now, when you're in your teens.

What I came to tell you today is that vampires aren't real."

collective gasp from the group of twelve-year-old girls


"Yes, I know.  It comes as a shock.  They're written so well, and I know so many of you were hoping to grow up and fall in love with a tall, pale, wavy-haired, muscular, and rich vampire with brooding eyes, but I'm also here to tell you that in the same way you girls all look different from one another, when you're older, men are going to come in the same shapes and sizes.  Not all men can sparkle all the time."

sobbing and various fist-banging on the desktops


"And unfortunately, those men are going to have interests and goals that have nothing to do with you.  Because they're alive."

cries of "why god why!?"


"I know it's astonishing, but believe me, when you're older, you're going to realize that you don't want someone to devote their entire lives to your existence.  That leads to unemployment and beer guts.  Trust me.  If a man every tells you that you're his everything, that means your paycheck and all of your free is his everything too.  And give me a show of hands, has anyone ever been bitten by a dog?"

a few hands go up


"Did you enjoy it?"

shake their heads


"Well, it's not going to hurt any less on your neck, and imagine having to wear turtlenecks for the rest of your life.  That's more horrifying that a thousand of the undead.  And forget about ever going to the beach again.  Ever.  And no more cupcakes for you."

more crying


"All right, class, let's thank Miss Solodow," the teacher says.

"Now I just have to explain pro-wrestling to the boys next door," I tell her.

They're People Too BLOGFEST!

Tessa and her Blurb are having a fest of personification today!  All entries can be found here.  I'll leave Tessa to explain the rules:

• pick a more or less abstract concept... hate, love, weather, clouds,  death, life, anything you can think of
• write a monologue/dialogue/scene featuring said personified concept as the MC

I won't reveal what mine is. Take your guess in the comments, and make sure to read all the other entries or else I'll personify you to death...

People run out of me so quickly, they say.  “I’m out, I’m out!”  They don’t realize that life happens when you forget I exist.  I’m not in the laughter or the love, the companionship, the memories.

Sure, you need me to count the days, get to work, cook your pasta.  You need me to lift the sun and buff the moon.  But humans forget so easily that I’m immortal and they’re not.  So many moments obsessing over me only quickens my effect.

I don’t call the cancer on.  I don’t choose who gets me and who doesn’t, how long and how precious.  I’m only the framework to your life and your death.  If I could wrap myself in a bow and present an equal amount of myself to every person on the planet, it still wouldn’t be enough.

You’d use me up, and again you’d say, “I’m out!  I’m out!”

And you think I know everything.  You see my footsteps in history and the present, and anticipate my mark on the future, and you beg me, “Please, just tell me what’s going to happen.”

And you plan, and you stress, and wish you had more and more of me.  I’m the one holding you back, aren’t I?

But no.  I’m the one that makes every moment essential.  I’m the one to make your actions important, the small and the large.  I am your measuring stick, your binoculars.  You look through my lens and you can see the length of the world, and then you’ll know the meaning if you think hard on it.  You’ll understand that it’s not me who shapes the world.

It’s you.  All of you.  So waste no more of me.  The clock’s ticking.

I would know.

Mash-Up Blogfest.

Coming late in the day, but still on time!  S.E. Sinkhorn, over at Maybe Genius (no maybe about it - she's a genius), is hosting her first blogfest here.  The goal is to combine two genres not normally written together in less than 1,000 words.  Make sure to check out the other entries, and read my Cookbook/Horror below:

“Sautee.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Sautee,” the man hissed.

His mouth was a black hole bordered by empty gums.  Purple cysts like jelly beans dotted their slick surface.

“You sautee the flesh,” he told me, pointing to my bag. 

That’s when I realized that blood had seeped through the bottom of the paper, staining my skirt.  With a curse, I lifted the groceries away and set them on the bus-stop floor.  The London Broil I’d bought must be the culprit.

The man chuckled.  “Little bit of oil,” he whispered.  “Pinch of thyme.”

I slid away from him on the bench.  He smelled of gasoline and whiskey.  My stomach turned.  Pus from his ear had commuted and dried down his cheek.

“Slice the meat thin,” he said.  “Bit of pepper.”

My phone rang – a welcome diversion.

“Yes?” I said.

“Hi, hon, when are you getting home?”  My fiancée. 

“Just waiting for the bus.”

“Half a cup of onions.  Fry in the oil.” 

“Are you making dinner?” my fiancée asked.

“Yes.  We’re having steak.”

“Slice the potatoes.” 

“Sounds good, babe.”

“See you soon,” I said.

“All right.  Bye.”

“Rub them in oil and salt."

I shut my phone, slipped it back into my purse.  Where was the bus?

“Pre-heat the oven.”

I focused on the lettuce leaves poking from the top of my bag.  I’d make a good salad, with olives and feta cheese.

“Steam the broccoli."

His eyes were on me, rust-brown bolts surrounded by jaundiced white.

“Butter and lemon.”

He leaned close.  His skin perched on his bones like hung laundry. 

“Tenderize the meat.”

“Please,” I said.

No bus.  No witnesses.  The sun setting.

His fingernails – claws – encircled my wrist very slowly, as if testing the strength.

I looked at his face again to find ivory spikes had protruded from the cysts on his gums.  His approaching mouth was like barbed wire. 

“Season to taste,” he said, right before he bit me.