Monster Hunter International now on Amazon for presale
Larry Correia’s Monster Hunter International is now available for presale on Amazon.com.
I have the pre-Baen version (which is now a collectable). It’s an outstanding debut genre-stretching novel. One could classify it as military urban fantasy, or near-future science fiction. I loved it thoroughly. Loved loved loved.
The novel has a great voice and the characters are wonderfully developed and three-dimensional. I could go on, but just buy the thing.
Give the gift this year in books. Anyone who likes the great contemporary monster story, this is the cat’s meow.
Buy it. Now. And then wait, knowing that a lucky few got a POD version before Baen found this gem.
Heeeeeee.
75%
I have a 75% change of surviving a Zombie Apocalypse.
Living in a rural area as a trained marksman with my share of firearms gives me a distinct advantage.
Literary Agents in New York, however, do not fair as well.
Sunday Reflections, 11
“Where men are the most sure and arrogant, they are commonly the most mistaken, and have there given reins to passion, without that proper deliberation and suspense, which can alone secure them from the grossest absurdities.”
Telepathic Thirteen Year-Olds Boot Reigning Hearts Champion
This year the teens (my friend’s daughter and her cousin) were enticed to play hearts with us.
There is something about teen girls: I swear they communicate telepathically. I went down in flames with getting the wrong cards passed to me, dealt to me, played before my turn, etc. It was a plot! An evil plot I swear!
Then they would distract the other players by singing Monty Python songs in harmony.
Too cute. I lost in cuteness and sarcastic comments.
I am sad.
I ended the night with a bazillion points. Nevertheless, I did manage to run a hand, and give everyone 26 points. Neener, neener.
…must…stop…eating…pie…
So much pie. Pie Palooza! Pie pie pie pie!
Oh and Turkey. And the wine! I opened a magnum of the 1995 Quilceda Creek Cabernet Sauvignon, and it was EPIC. After decanting, it was an intense bottle of wine. Hats off to the vintner for making a Washington wine that ages in spectacular fashion.
Meanwhile, I’ve lost another game of Settlers. However, I seem to be the reigning Hearts champion.
The San Juan Islands are truly beautiful even in the early winter. As I sit here in front of the bay window overlooking the Puget Sound, I feel truly blessed and very thankful.
Hope everyone in the states had a nice Thanksgiving holiday!
Have a Happy BAZZZZORRRMMMM Thanksgiving!
This Thanksgiving, I am thankful that I am not on the wrong end of the Wave Motion Gun.
In this clip, we have an important lesson in power dynamics.
How not to wash your hands
I admit I like to blog about non-writing subjects just to mix it up. There is only so much the unpublished writer can blog about, and I do not think you want to hear how that Service Level Agreement I wrote today at work sparkled with dry wit.
Since I have not been to the neighborhood coffee shop in several days, I cannot blog about the baristas (sorry Kiersten).
I can, however, relate just how much of a dork I can really be.
Monday was a real long day at work and it is boy’s night out (steak and games). I am on my way to my friend David’s house, in which we will consume said steaks and commence with a thoroughly nerdy session of Dungeons and Dragons.
On the way, I stop and get an espresso at the Starbucks (no, this is not the infamous coffee shop referenced above). I set my espresso down to get some cream, and notice I have placed my hand on someone’s dirty napkin that they neglected to throw away.
First, I detest poor manners in public. Second, I am sure at this point I have the Ebola virus. I curse myself for not spotting the offending germ spreader.
Off to the 4×4 I go, where I keep a Costco sized hand sanitizer container. I sit down, pop the top and squirt a generous glob on my hand.
Except, my hand isn’t getting any gel.
I have missed. Did I mention it was dark already? So I turn on the inside lights.
I look down. There is this gynormous pile of gel on my pants. Well crap, that was stupid. I scrape it up and clean my hands. Thankfully it is mostly alcohol and I am sure it will not stain my slacks.
No sooner did I think this then the alcohol that already seeped through my pants starts to burn. Not only has it gone through my slacks, it has gone through my underwear. And now—
OH MY GOD MY CROTCH IS ON FIRE! I HAVE NAPALM BURNING ME!
OMG OMG OMG OUCH OUCH OUCH OUCH OMG OMG OMG!
So I turn on the air conditioner and point the vent at my now BURNING crotch. I crank the fan on full, but it is not enough to sooth the sensation that I am on FIRE. So I thrust the offending area of my body completely off the seat as close to the vent as I can get.
OUCH OUCH OUCH Oooooohhhh Ahhhhhhhhhh. Much better! The cool air feels so good, contrasted with the prior BURNING, that I let out a big sigh.
Then I notice that there two women looking at me in the parking lot, with eyes as huge as saucers.
I put the 4×4 in drive and leave in a hurry.
Somewhat quickly.
Okay, more than quickly.
Did I mention I am a walking disaster?
Anyone want to go to lunch?
(heeeee)
I have been told the theme for this holiday break is…
PIE!
Oh my gosh, pie. Pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie!
Back by popular demand!
PIE!
You know, I got in trouble posting that search term the first go around, but in actuality, I am just the messenger. Do not hate the blogger, hate the searcher!
I have just sat down for the first time today to do whatever on my craptop. It has been go-go-go-go all day as I wrapped up numerous lose threads so I could take tomorrow off. It is nice to sit here doing NOTHING. Which is all my poor brain can handle at this point.
On a serious note, we are leaving for Friday Harbor to visit the sick friend I mentioned earlier. I will put on a good front for the kids, because that is what men do.
On the inside, I am certain, I will lose it.
The Pixie’s Song
Sometimes, when I write, music runs around in my head to the scene I am describing in raw, un-soundtrack-like fashion. Occasionally it is something I heard long ago, sometimes it is a recent memory. Other times it is even raw music I am composing in my head at the same time I am writing (although that usually results in my brain overloading).
Then, the opposite can occur: I hear a song, and I envision not a video, but a story in my mind. Consider the following example:
I recently heard this song again and immediately thought of a pixie, her human paladin lover, and his disapproving guardian. Why? I have been reading too much Pixie Warrior lately, I guess. But I think there is something else, something primitive about the way this song, contrasted by two singers, speaks about love, potential loss, and malevolence.
Stay
Lyrics by Shakespears Sister
~
If this world is wearing thin
And you’re thinking of escape
I’ll go anywhere with you
Just wrap me up in chains
But if you try to go out alone
Don’t think I’ll understand
Stay with me
Stay with me
In the silence of your room
In the darkness of your dreams
You must only think of me
There can be no in between
When your pride is on the floor
I’ll make you beg for more
Stay with me
Stay with me
You’d better hope and pray
That you make it safe
Back to your own world
You’d better hope and pray
That you’ll wake one day
In your own world
‘Cause when you sleep at night
They don’t hear your cries
In your own world
Only time will tell
If you can break the spell
Back in your own world
Stay with me
Stay with me
Stay, stay with me
Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay
Stay with me…
Dancing with Setting
Bunny Trouble is near-future science fiction book set on the northern Washington Coast. It takes little description on my part to describe the scenery. In fact, if I told you this novel takes place in a small town on the wild and rocky Washington Coast, a town with a lighthouse and a river harbor, bordering the Olympic National Rainforest—I bet in your mind you have a really good idea of what it looks like. It might not match my idea, but when all is said and done, the picture in your mind is going to be better than anything I can describe to you.
Imagine that! I assume you’re a smart person!
The Baby Dancers is neither a contemporary nor a near-future science fiction book. It is Young Adult Fantasy that moves around to different environments, some of them quite different than the world we live in today.
This transition was not easy for me; it was a struggle, actually.
Yesterday I wrote 2,500 words in one of these environments. It felt good, as if I fell into a rhythm. I added a bit of tension, and a whole lot of action. I felt like the scenery description added a nice flare to the atmosphere and resultant action, neither understated nor overdone.
This bodes well. It was really fun, and a joy to write.
Nom!
Unwind by Neal Shusterman
My book reviews are targeted towards novelists (my prior book review can be found here).
Neal Shusterman’s Unwind is a near-future science fiction horror tale that can be summed up in one word: delicious. Quite simply, Shusterman goes where few dare to tread. If you have a love of edgy Young Adult fiction, then look no further. This book belongs on your shelf for several reasons, one of which is the intense questions that get asked, each one more thought-provoking then the last.
For an older gentleman like me, Neal Shuterman’s Unwind can be compared to a John Christopher novel written by Steven King.
The plot goes like this: abortion is illegal… on unborn children. During their teen years, parents can decide to send their child away to be “unwound” where 99.44% of their body is harvested.
The book centers on three teens that are now “unwinds”:
- Connor, chosen to be unwound because he is a rebellious teen
- Lev, who was born to be unwound based on his parents religious beliefs of tithing
- Risa, chosen by the state to be unwound simply because they decided that they could not afford to keep her alive
These three escape their fates in a fortuitous freeway pile-up. Now all they need to do is survive until they are eighteen, when they no longer can be unwound. Capture means not death (so they say), because all the parts are reused, the unwind is divided into parts for a cheerfully waiting populous where the art of doctoring is rare but surgeons rule the health scene.
Sound positively hellish? Well it is. The undercurrent of unstated horror is relentless in Unwind and then BAM! It goes from the unstated to the all too real like a punch in the gut. Literally, I felt vaguely ill at the end of the novel. The subtleness of the cruelties with smiles suffered on these children builds to an epic crescendo that cumulates in one of the most terrible bits of sheer creep that I have ever read.
If you care to write edgy fiction, then look to this horror novel because that is what it is. There is little gore in Unwind worth mentioning, oh no. Like a Japanese horror movie, there is a sense of malevolence running through this sick and twisted society that looks so much like our own—yet is so different.
Or is it?
Consider if you will, the teens that were dumped at Nebraska’s hospitals. The mirrored reflection is not a dark twin of our light. Far from it, the parallels in this dystopia are sometimes all too familiar, and all too normal. And that is what makes it a chilling read for teens and adults.
For the Young Adult novelist, this study of unrelenting intensity warrants your attention. There is more here to scrutinize, than just pacing, atmosphere and plotting.
Unwind asks tough questions rarely found in a book targeted for teens. What is the beginning of life? When exactly does life end? What is the nature of consciousness? What are the consequences of anarchy when the law is so very flawed? In a world of villains, who is the true villain?
What are the ethics of compromise?
This, my friends, is a book that never talks down to the audience it was designed for, as the questions posed above compose a heady literary wine. You will be hard-pressed to find an action-packed book filled with such teen reflective goodness.
Another important part of this book is the voicing. Written in the third-person present tense, the word-smiting lends a flare not often encountered. The way the book is crafted lends itself to a sense of urgency; I was dubious going into it, but Shusterman pulls it off with his screenwriting experience shinning through.
If it seems like I am gushing, I guess I am. I do have some minor faults and quibbles with the novel, none really I feel necessary to drag out for the sake of being fair and balanced. If you write Young Adult fiction, it’s a must read simply because it does something rare: For the reluctant teen reader, it is a novel that will draw him in and leave him wanting to read more—because the type of entertainment given by Unwind can be found nowhere else. For the already fan of outstanding Young Adult fiction, it is euphoric lifeblood for the mind. There is not a bit of fluff betwixt its pages.
That’s a win-win combination of awesomeness that deserves your purchase and study. For what better result could there be for an author of Young Adult speculative fiction?
Sunday Reflections, 10
Does how we negotiate reflect or shape our character, or both? Does choosing to negotiate have moral implications? What are the ethical and moral implications of making the assumption that negotiation is inappropriate?
—Kevin Gibson in Ethics and Morality in Negotiation
Coming Soon: a look at Neal Shusterman’s UNWIND
It’s time for another writer’s based book review, a thoroughly delicious—and horrifically chilling—novel by Neal Shusterman, Unwind.
This book review is somewhat timely which to me speaks mounds of creepy horror. Think of the teens dumped in Nebraska’s hospitals because they are unwanted. In Shusterman’s world, unwanted teens are unwound.
Tune in tomorrow. Or maybe Monday. Unwind as a Young Adult novel is contemporary, thought-provoking and an outstanding novel.
Why Men Are Not Women
Before We Had Kids (The infamous BWHK years), The Wife Unit and I lived in a large house, which we bought in anticipation of filling it up with rugrats, pets, and the occasional party.
One kid’s bedroom used to be a guest room, which had a nice bed in it, that was all comfy and everything. This soon became the sick room, the room I or the Wife Unit would sleep in while coughing and wheezing or what have you. No need to let the other spousal unit suffer through the night along with you.
One day I got sick, a raging throat infection, some rare virus my doctor explained to me but I have since forgotten for reasons you will soon find out below. Anyway, this was a particularly nasty virus. Breathing was painful. Sitting doing nothing was painful. Eating or drinking liquids was out of the question.
I become dehydrated. I must start drinking liquids or I will be admitted to the hospital so they can stick an IV in me. The doctor gives me hydrocodone, and I torture myself for what seems like hours swallowing the pills.
Only, come to find out, I am allergic to hydrocodone. I will spare you the details of dry-heaving for an hour while it feels like someone is taking a cheese grater and ramming it down your throat repeatedly.
Okay that was a detail but I digress.
Anyway, back to the doctor I go. My doctor is ten years younger than I and does not mess around. He sympathizes with the hydrocodone episode and stamps my file with DON’T GIVE THIS PERSON CODEINE, EVER. Then he prescribes Stadol from an inhaler.
Stadol is an opiate like codeine. It is a drug sometimes given to pregnant women in labor who are having severe pain… AND HORSES.
So I snort the Stadol as soon as the wife comes home with the prescription.
And let me tell you. In a MINUTE I was not feeling any pain at all. None. Zip. Zero Nada. Pain Level Zed.
I drink… something… the wife gives me. I feel soooo much better getting hydrated. I smile at the wife and let her know how much I love her.
“I love you LambChop!”
“I love you too. I think you should try to get some sleep.”
“I love you! Want to have sex?”
“Um, no.”
“But I am feeling so much… where am I, anyway?”
“You’re at home.”
“I thought we were going to the movies?”
“Ooookay let me help you upstairs.”
I wake up to pain. And, it is dark.
PAIN! INHALER! SQUIRT! Ahhhh… … … …
…Oh my God my bladder… Off to the guest bathroom.
Time to wash the hands. Only, where is the bar of soap? Huh. Oh there it is. Who put the soap in a tube? And why does it smell like mint? Oh well. Wash wash wash.
Back in bed. Hmmm this feels nice. Oooo a glass of water on the nightstand. Slurp slurp slurp. Opps. Now there is ice on my pillow. Oh well. Crunch crunch. Bleh. Fuzzy ice.
Lying down again.
Hmmmm, it’s cold.
Okkkay, it’s cold because it’s snowing in the guest bedroom. Soon the duvet is covered in snow.
I’m not exactly a big snow fan, and I hate being cold. So I go downstairs and look at the thermostat. 68 degrees F. Well, that isn’t nearly warm enough. Let me crank that sucker to, oh, I don’t know, 80!
Back up stairs, only it took me a long time to make it up there.
Mmmmm… sleep.
I wake up again. I am sweating. It is hot. My pillow is wet. Why is it so hot?
I crawl downstairs. Standing up makes me a little dizzy, so I crawl to the office, and manage to get into the office chair which conveniently has wheels. And the downstairs conveniently has hardwood. Zooom!
Zooom! Living room window! Let’s open that sucker.
Zooom! Living room window number two!
Zooom! Office window, oh hey I forgot about that one. Let’s open that one too!
Oh, I bet I can turn down the heat. Roll roll roll roll.
Uh. Can’t. Reach. Thermostat.
Um… think think think think… hey I wonder if the wife wants to have sex yet?
Think think think… boobies…
Think think think… why am I in the hallway? Oh, that’s right, the thermostat! AH-HA! I know!
Roll roll roll roll, toilet plunger, roll roll roll roll.
I whack the thermostat with the plunger, weakly, several times. This does not turn off the heat. I do not know why.
Screw this, I’m going to bed.
Roll roll roll roll.
Stairs. That’s a loooooooong way up. How on Earth am I going to get this chair up there?
I flop off the chair and manage, through a Herculean effort, to get it on the landing.
SCREW THIS. If I keep this up I will have NO energy for sex.
Crawling up the stairs isn’t so bad, although I am sure zooming up them with the chair would have been faster.
Okay, halfway there.
Hello kitty cat. Move.
Please move.
OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MOVE YOUR FURRY ASS BEFORE I FALL DOWN THESE STAIRS.
Thank you.
Okay, this is not the bedroom, this is the bonus room. Dork.
Okay now this is the future baby’s room. Dork.
OOoo Baby! You first have sex with the wife, and then the baby comes! NOW WHERE IS THE BEDROOM?
Ooooooo I found a bed.
With a wet pillow.
Why do my knees hurt so much?
Ummm, pain. Oh that’s right, I have something for pain and it is right here.
SQUIRT… Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh…
So what movie are we going to see again?
LambChop?
Pookey?
…
…
…
I am sure my wife found it annoying that the guest bathroom had toothpaste all over it. I wonder what she thought when she also found the furnace was running full blast with the windows open down stairs, the toilet plunger in the middle of the hall and the office chair on the landing?
But she never said anything, only smiled and brought me more water in the morning.
Several years later I was talking to a woman and she mentioned her labor was particularly harsh.
“They gave me Stadol and it didn’t do anything for me.”
Stadol. They sometimes give it to women in labor…
AND HORSES.
Aw man…
Yes, I really love calling a awesome guy up and telling him the lucrative contract we had lined up has just been obliterated in the clients re-org because the client now has more people than they know what to do with.
Yes, that just MAKES my day.
How does that song go?
No body loves me
Everybody hates me
I guess I will just eat
WORMS!
Answer me these questions three
Mighty Kiersten asks:
What’s the recipe for Awesomesauce?
Answer:
Awesomesauce is subjective, and how it is used depends on the context. The answer, of course, is simply found via Google.
Kiersten the Great asks:
My husband was commenting on my comments the other day, and said, “And who’s that guy, the one who relates everything to girls and dating?”
To which I laughed and told him you’re a married father of two in your late thirties.
So, my question is, what does The Wife Unit think of stuff like that? I’d like to think I’d be cool with it, but in all honesty, it’d probably hurt my feelings if Hot Stuff was posting on the Barista girls.
(And this isn’t critical–I’m genuinely curious what The Wife Unit thinks, because obviously she has to be cool to be married to you in the first place.)
Answer:
Ah ah ah, just because you cherry pick which posts to reply to does not equate to me relating everything to girls and dating!
This definitely is the wrong place to go for topics about dating. I’ve been married longer than I have dated. Way longer. I can just see the Hack Writer Dating Advice post:
Hey Anthony, can I get some dating advice?
Sure. Is she nice?
Yes, but what I want to know is…
Do you think she is pretty?
Well ya she’s hot but…
Do you think she would make a good mother to your children?
Of course but that isn’t…
WELL THEN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR? You don’t need dating advice you need to get your HEAD out of your ASS and marry the woman!
Okay that’s pretty funny. Sorry, that whole dating comment had me laughing.
Now it is true I talk about girls and women. That’s because this is a blog about writing and the discovery process through writing. Since I deplore political correctness, if some 17 year-old bra-less nubile tart is flirting with me at the coffee shop (true story), I am going to so blog about that because that is so going in a book. A whimsical book scene for $1.90 (plus tip). I win!
The Wife Unit on the other hand, keeps me in line. She likes romantic fiction with the occasional juicy, sensual scene, and lo, I can write that. To be able to write that I have to be able to explore human sensuality. That she lets me do this is a testament to her confidence in me. I am thoroughly smitten with her even after all these years; I adore the woman.
Without her support and encouragement, my writing is nothing.
Kiersten, the Only Blog Reader Who Loves Me, asks:
[...] what is your first memory? And is it *actually* your first memory, or have you fabricated it based on pictures, video, or stories from your parents/relatives?
How can you be sure?
Answer:
I have researched the subject of memory and keep current with the latest findings, studies and theories. This was necessary to write Bunny Trouble but also in part because I have an extraordinarily gifted long-term memory. I can remember as far back as when I was a toddler.
“Memory fabrication” is a simplification of recall and emotional states. We all have a memory filter that can be unconsciously modified or, in some circumstances, intentionally set aside to get at the raw data. In times of stress, our perception of events can (and almost always will) narrow, and then when we attempt to recall those events our mind fills in the blanks. It is an extraordinary complex system and utterly fascinating.
Is that a fabrication when that happens? I do not believe so. It’s just how the mind works. There are ways one can examine a memory to see if it is something true or something you wish to be true. One way to do this is to think about the other senses rather than sight. What is your recollection of the sounds you are hearing? A key focus is what you smell. If you can remember something with an associated smell, that is a powerful memory. It’s probably about as true as you can get.
With all that said, I am not going to answer your question—unless you really want me to. I am very sure of my first memories, and I am very sure they are not fabricated. They are unpleasant and raw and it has been my experience talking about it makes people sad and depressed. On the other hand I am perfectly willing to talk about what I can recall. When all is said and done, I saw much worse later. Much worse.
There ya go. Now Kiersten can go to the other 7.3 readers and go “Ptththththtt! Your NaNoWriting made you miss the Hack Writer Q&A. No “A” for you. You come back in 300 posts!”
Post #201: Dawn of the New, um, post-200 posts… or something
I feel somewhat silly that I squandered post 200 feeling sorry for myself, but hey tomorrow was another day.
Oh, I think someone just killed a baby kitten for the grammar in that sentence. Ha.
Anyway, to rip a page out of Kiersten’s playbook (heeee), what would you all like to see me talk about? Questions? thoughts? Want me to rant? Would you like to know which ammo supplier I use?
Click on ye ole comment button to this post with your blogging desire. For today only, offer ends at 11:59 PM, which is past my bedtime but there is always lunch tomorrow.
Johnny Cash – Hurt
Hurt
Lyrics by Trent Reznor
~
I hurt myself today
to see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
the only thing that’s real
the needle tears a hole
the old familiar sting
try to kill it all away
but I remember everything
what have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
you could have it all
my empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
I wear my crown of thorns
on my liar’s chair
full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
beneath the stain of time
the feeling disappears
you are someone else
I am still right here
what have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
you could have it all
my empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
if I could start again
a million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way
Max Leone: My Hero!
Max writes in a letter dripping in awesomesauce:
“I am of that population segment that is constantly derided as “not reading anymore,” and is therefore treated by publishing companies as a vast, mysterious demographic that’s seemingly impossible to please. Kind of like the way teenage boys think of girls. The reason we read so little in our free time is partially because of the literary choices available to teenagers these days. The selection of teen literature is even more barren now that the two great dynasties, Harry Potter and Artemis Fowl, have released their final installments. Those two massive successes blended great characters, humor and action in a way that few other books manage. When they went for laughs, they were genuinely funny, and their dramatic scenes were still heart-poundingly tense, even after I’d read them dozens of times.”
Let’s review shall we:
The reason we read so little in our free time is partially because of the literary choices available to teenagers these days.
Sound familiar? It should.
Max goes on further to state:
Finally, here is what I consider the cardinal rule of writing for young adults: Do Not Underestimate Your Audience.
Oh man, Max’s letter just goes from great to, well spectacular as Max hits a lot of people with a clue-by-four.
And the best thing about his post it ties directly into what Courtney was saying. DIRECTLY. See, I told you Courtney was smart. And here is proof! PROOF I SAY!
Max, this is my plege to you: My YA Fantasy novel will be as you say. I call it the Max Leone YA Novel – Winter Pledge 2008. Who’s with me?
If it gets published or not is something else entirely. I promise to give you and your friends what you are looking for. I promise to play my part, it remains seen if others will step up to the plate and deliver.
How Not to Endear Yourself to the Den Mommy Collective
Den Mommy Leader (The Wife Unit): Today, Cub Scouts, we are going on a scavenger hunt for…
Anthony: Ice cream!
Cub Scout #1: Yeah!
Cub Scout #2: Ice cream!
Cub Scout #3: Yummy!
…
Den Mommy Leader: (dagger dagger dagger glare)
Den Mommy #2: (dagger dagger dagger glare)
Den Mommy #3: (dagger dagger dagger glare)
Anthony: (Retreats to his home office, bleeding)
Anthony: (hides under desk)
If this blog goes dark, look for the fresh lump of dirt in the backyard.
Why do I do these things?
I have no idea. I can’t help myself.
Courtney Palooza!
I have already plugged Courtney Summers before but I will do so again, even at the risk of my wife thinking I have a crush on the poor girl.
Well I do, it is a writer’s crush, very similar to the “Publisher’s Crush” that Kiertsten (the awesomely great!) talked about a few posts back. I read the first two chapters of Courtney’s book Cracked Up to Be (which, as you read this, the sample chapters are being voted as the Massive Best Tease of 2008 by Hyper Teen Girl Magazine (“We’re not just girls, we’re HYPER!”)). I loved her deliciously flawed Parker in an instant.
I can’t have a real crush on Courtney, of course (and not just because I am happily married), because, as her vblog entry shows, she is clearly thirteen. And having a crush on thirteen year-old at my age, let us just say I might as well rename myself “Humbert” and pick up my copy of Internet Stalking for Dummies at Half-Priced Books.
Anyway, I digress.
Courtney has a wonderful guest blog on The Swivet. She talks about four prevalent myths about writing Young Adult fiction. I will now pause while you, my cherished 8.3 readers, go off and read this tasty bit of guest blogging.
Pause.
Done yet? No?
Pause.
Oh man, that is a topic dear and true to my heart. I was just talking about Young Adult fiction with a writer friend this weekend and BAM! Courtney’s post. It’s like Christmas came early, but, um since it’s only November 17 I guess it did not.
Anyway. Courtney asks a good series of questions at the end of her guest blog:
Are YA writers responsible for their readers? Should they worry about unduly influencing them? If you write YA, do these things concern you?
My answers: Yes, no, yes.
Are YA writers responsible for their readers?
I feel, in my heart, that Young Adult novel writers are responsible for being honest. When I write, that is not just my pledge, but a mantra. Even escapism books, for me, have to be a reflection of the theme that is real. I can spot a contrived and dishonestly built character a mile away. A plot circumstance that is trying to tell me a morality tale that is forced causes me to take the book and recycle it. Literally, I will throw it in the recycle bin so as not to foster some other poor soul with the literary equivalent of projection.
Here’s an example: You don’t want your little girl to grow up and have sex before she is married. So you write in a character that is slutty, winds up with a STD, pregnant, hit by a car, abducted by aliens and has her hair dyed green after being branded with a sparkly “A”. I’m only exaggerating a little bit here folks.
I personally know women who, as teens, humped their boyfriends silly and are today successful artists, business women and mothers (one all three!), without getting pregnant, abducted by aliens and probed.
Should they worry about unduly influencing them?
These types of worries leak into writing and I have been guilty of it, I admit. If you stay true to your character as you are true to your friends and family, this is less of a worry. This sneaky question is directly related to the one above. If you think you can sneak some moral lesson into your book because you are smarter than your Young Adult audience, guess again. This goes back to honesty. A morality tale is all fine and good as long the novel described the situation in a real way.
To answer this question: You can only influence your teen readers if you are honest about it.
If you write YA, do these things concern you?
I’ve mentioned before, I am a demanding reader. I want to be both entertained and I want reflection. I want the enjoyment that makes me think. I want to escape but not necessarily escape to somewhere two-dimensional. I want a character that is real to me even if she rides a unicorn over a rainbow to work with the munchkins.
Young Adults want the same thing. I believe, dear 8.3 readers, they want more of it, I assert they spot the fake much better than you and I and while there may be dreck on the bookstore shelf, a proper Young Adult novel will live forever.
Of course, I am the unpublished Hack Writer, so take my answers to Courtney’s questions as you will.
How about you? How would you go about answering Courtney’s questions?
That Courtney, she’s pretty smart for a thirteen year-old!
Misty for Me
I told Thing One to bring his music to the piano recital on Saturday.
“I’m not going to need it,” he says.
“Bring it anyway, just in case,” I reply. After all, I have been in piano recitals before as a beginning player. Plus, that’s what the teacher recommends.
At his turn, he marches up there leaving his music on his chair, plays his piece beautifully, bows and sits back down looking so very smug.
There must have been something in my eye. It was misty.
Only the piano teacher was able to play her piece at the very end of the recital without her music.
All the students played beautifully, music or no. Her advanced students played with skill and passion, a testament to her teaching ability.
More importantly, however, there were twenty children and young adults who, in this day of watching too much TV, yapping on the phone and sending text messages, took the time to learn a very advanced acoustical musical instrument. In fact, they spent time to not only learn to play music, but to play it for us, the audience.
How inspiring!
Sunday Reflections, 9
Show me the person you honor, for I know better by that the kind of person you are. For you show me what your idea of humanity is.
