And now, for a little variation from the norm, something wholly new and unusual for me: a completely serious post.
After my last post, Anita asked me where I find the time and energy to do all the things I do. It's a valid question. I know to most people my schedule looks, well, insane.
Probably because it is, but that's neither here nor there.
A valid question deserved a valid response, and so I got to seriously thinking about why I am the way I am, do things the way I do, etc. There's not just one reason or explanation, I think, but I did draw some conclusions, and in a wholly typical fashion, I present my findings to you here, in another epically long winded Kalen post. Actually, this is long even for me.
(Let's just consider that 'my brand.')
I get up around 5 am, hit the gym for an hour and squeeze in a couple hours of writing before work. I average 1K an hour, 2K if its just dialogue. I have a flexible job that lets me leave in the middle of the day for an hour or so when I have auditions to make, and I stay at the office from 5-7 to get a couple more hours of writing in while I wait for rush hour traffic to die down. Then I go home or out with friends and relax for a few hours, and hopefully squeeze in another hour of writing before going to bed around midnight.
Days when I'm on set however, all of this goes completely out the window as an average work day on set for an actor are usually at LEAST twelve hours and can be up to sixteen hours. I've worked nineteen hour days on a Pepsi commercial, and expect many more days like that in my future as well. But there's a lot of down time on set and I usually have no trouble making my word count.
So yes, my average word count per day is anywhere from 5K to 8K, except on weekends when I can usually get to 10 or 12K. And I average about five hours of sleep a night.
Only two things make this possible. One, I love what I do. I freaking live for it. I will never EVER see creating worlds and characters and bringing other people's characters to life on camera as work. I'm never too tired for it, resentful of having to do it, or anything other than just looking forward to doing it. My kind of schedule just wouldn't be possible if I didn't honest to god live for what I do.
The other thing that makes it possible, is routine. So many people underestimate what the human mind is capable of. We grow up a certain way, we see life and work and people around us a certain way, and whatever we come to define as 'normal' becomes the bar by which we measure ourselves. And exceeding normal, going beyond the ordinary or the routine, that takes a toll. Because our minds, our bodies KNOW that its extra. It's us asking more of them than we usually do, and they begrudge us for it and makes us pay. The trick though, is in how you define normal.
For me, this kind of schedule, these kinds of self-expectations are completely normal. Have been since I was a kid. My siblings and I were raised as overachievers, as competitive, expected to view extraordinary (in the literal sense of the word, beyond the ordinary or normal) as our routine. From the time I was eight until I was eighteen, I can remember getting up at five every morning so that all four of us kids had a chance to practice an hour of piano every morning (yup, we're all classically trained pianists too, my kid sister played with the San Diego Orchestra when she was sixteen, etc). We all played Varsity sports, I did an hour of karate three days a week and had a black belt by the time I was fifteen - heavy, grueling activities that challenged our bodies as much as our minds. Ridiculous, right? Living off five hours of sleep a night for most of my life, filling my days with as much physical and mental activity as I do, by most logic I should have driven myself into the ground by now.
Except I get physicals, I go to the doctor, I'm very much in great shape, prime health, and expected to live a long and healthy life. I'm not actually wearing myself to the bone or taking out credit that my body will be forced to pay for later on in life. And its simply, honestly because to my body and mind, this is normal. This is routine. Forget what society dictates as standard, for as long as I can remember this has been my usual, and so I'm not asking anything of myself that I haven't been asking or expecting for most of my life.
The truly interesting thing to me is, I'm not some exceptionally unique genetic freak either. In the age old nature vs nurture debate, I know and firmly believe that nature is a large factor in how we ultimately develop. But in my personal experience, the role of 'nurture' can't be denied. See, I have three siblings. My older sister and I are our dad's biological children. My younger siblings are adopted. My younger sister is Vietnamese. My younger brother is Mexican. We literally share not a single speck of genetic family lineage.
And yet, all four of us are considered to be 'gifted pianists', to varying degrees. We've all won awards, competitions, etc. We all excelled at sports, making Varsity teams in our freshmen and sophomore years, though the specific sports varied. All of us were honor roll students, and while I don't put too much stock in IQs, and what having a 'genius IQ' actually means, all four of us test well into the gifted/genius IQ range. Not a single specific biological link between us (other than you know, being human), both of them adopted at birth and its not like our parents knew how to pick out the 'potential geniuses.' I firmly believe that while some people may be genetically predisposed to certain abilities or potential, that all of us are born inherently capable of the same things.
I am the way I am because this is my normal. Because I was never given any reason to believe I WASN'T capable of the things that I am. While I've struggled with my own insecurities and personal demons over the years, I simultaneously took for granted routines and skills that would stymie a lot of people, with an end result of mind over matter. Because I believed I was capable of certain things, because it was simply so ingrained in me that there was no question, no doubt - I was capable of those things.
Now as to the title of this post:
There's a quote I THINK from Sherlock Holmes. I could be wrong though. Roughly paraphrased, it says 'When you eliminate the impossible as an explanation, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be true.'
That always stuck with me, and over time I adapted it slightly.
'When you eliminate failure as an option, all that remains, no matter how improbable, is success.'
As I mentioned, we all have our own struggles, hurdles, and neurotic quirks, insecurities and setbacks unique to us. While I know I have a lot going for me, there's a reason I'm only actively seeking an agent and trying to break into publishing NOW, when I'm 27 instead of fresh out of college. When I have several completed manuscripts under my belt rather than straight off my first one. One of my particular problems that plagued me for YEARS was that I sucked at being decisive. I always had too many things I wanted to write, and none of them ended up getting written. Or at least not finished. I'd waste so much time wondering if this was a better story than that one, or if I liked this plot better and so on and so on.
Doing nothing: the greatest time waster of all.
What does this have to do with my adaptation of the Holmes quote? I finally solved my problem of not knowing what story to write, of deciding which idea was better, and actually started FINISHING things by making a very simple choice.
If I couldn't pick what to write, I'd simply have to write them all.
And so I just picked one. And started writing it. And it didn't matter which I picked, because I'd decided that even though the sheer volume of stuff I wanted to write was ludicrous, I was going to write them all anyways. I told myself that was the only solution to my problem, and instead of wasting more time listing all the reasons that wouldn't work and wasting yet more time STILL trying to decide what to write, I'd simply write.
And a funny thing happened. I started writing faster. And more, I started writing SMARTER. Where once I would rewrite a chapter ten times, now I was getting things right the first, second, third times. Oh, I still have to revise, edit, do more than one draft. Don't get me wrong. But nowhere near what I had to in the past. Because I decided I wasn't okay with any alternative. So I'd just have to get better until I could get it all done.
Incidentally, that's why I'm an actor too. I never could decide what I wanted to be when I grew up - I wanted to be too many things. Pilot, fire fighter, lawyer, doctor - I couldn't be them all, but I couldn't not be them all. So I'm an actor. I can be a little of everything.
Then people said you can't be a writer AND an actor. That's too much. It'll never work. But if I don't accept it not working, if I don't accept picking JUST actor or writer as a career, then there's no reason I CAN'T be both. Failure's unacceptable to me, so I guess I'll just have to find a way to make both work.
See where I'm going with this?
One thing acting and writing have in common, is that they're the two most empowering fields I know of. How does that work? Getting on TV, getting published, it depends on so many variables outside of us, right? Skill, talent, body of work, market trends, market conditions, economy, luck, casting directors, acquisition editors, etc, etc, ad nauseam.
Bullshit.
If you look at successful actors and successful writers, if you look at their work and read their interviews and see how they got to where they are today, there's a million different variables. No two got their start the same way, no two have the same level of talent. There are actors of all shapes, sizes, colors and degrees of attractiveness. There are writers of all genres, experience level, subject matter, and more. Some writers and actors got their agents by networking, some were scouted, some got their work in front of the right person at the right time simply by luck. Some only had to try for two months before landing their big break, some it took ten years. Some only came by it posthumously.
There is only one thing all successful writers and actors have in common. One common thread that binds them and separates them from failed actors and writers.
THEY DIDN'T QUIT UNTIL THEY MADE IT.
They didn't accept failure as an option.
That's it. That's their big secret to success. Mull that over for a second. That's ALL you have to do to realize your dreams. That's all you have to do to make it.
Just. Never. Stop.
Never stop trying, never stop growing, never stop learning, evolving, thinking outside the box. Never stop dreaming. When one door closes, find another one. When one manuscript isn't good enough, learn to write a better one. Hang a sign outside your door that says NO SOLICITORS, NO DISCOURAGEMENT. Be blind to all the reasons you CAN'T do this.
If you struggle to find time to write, cut down on time wasting by ceasing to second guess yourself and whether you're good enough. If you're not sure if the story you want to write is something agents would want to see or that publishers are willing to take a chance on, write it anyways. Maybe it won't land you that agent. Maybe it won't sell. It'll still be a finished novel, you'll still learn from it, and you won't have to waste time wondering what it could have been. You'll know. You'll grow. You'll move on to your next attempt.
Don't be afraid of failure. Every failed attempt is just one step closer to success, one less thing standing between you and success as you cross it off your list as something tried, learned from and on to the next approach.
The only true failure is being less than what you're capable of.
Want to be a writer? Hell, want to be an actor?
Just be stubborn. Be fearless. Be a risk taker, an opportunity maker, a problem solver and an eternal student. Don't write something off as impossible just because its never been done before. Don't be afraid to dream big, understanding that there's a world of difference between feeling you're OWED something and feeling you're CAPABLE of something.
I'm owed nothing. I'm capable of everything.
Know this. Believe this. Smile politely when someone rips your MS to shreds as amateurish and incompetent and say 'Thank you, I KNOW my story is worth telling, so I guess this just means I have to work a little harder to tell it.'
Do everything except quit, and you're more than just a writer.
You're a muthaf*ckin rockstar.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
In Which the Sky is Falling, and I Do Not Make a Good Chicken Little
*gasps and comes up for air all melodramatically*
HAI GUYS! DIDJA MISS ME?
Well okay, so I last posted last week so its entirely possible that nobody even noticed I was gone, since like, its all relative yo. But I felt like I was gone forever, because drama has an Einsteinian (sp? real word? whatever) effect on the time/space continuum and turns a week into
OMGFOREVERIFUNIVERSEDOESNTSTOPBEINGABITCHIMCOMMITTINGSEPPUKU.
Sorry. In case you haven't gathered yet, its been a long week.
So I have a ton of stuff to share, some exciting, some not so exciting, some positively reeking of mundanity. So we're going to space that out. First of all, my thanks to everyone who took a chance on my little CP Auction Blogfest, and I'm really sorry it didn't work out the way we hoped. I'll have another post on that later in the week, examining what I think I could have done differently and asking for input on how to tweak things and get more people involved for next time, because I'm totally going to try again. One wise soul suggested hosting it again right after NaNoWriMo, and I think she might be one of those freaky genius type people. Because holy smokes that's a good idea.
In other news, the last couple weeks have seen me absolutely swamped with auditions which I will never ever complain about. However, something to consider, and expect a writing related post on this later as well, as it applies there too - don't bite off more than you can chew. Which I umm, do a lot. So for instance, when I did four dance auditions in a span of two weeks (yeah I dance too, mostly hip hop, music videos stuff, got a little contemporary and jazz training too), its kinda me hedging my bets, because you never expect to land all of them. But when you land say, three of the four music videos and have back to back nonstop rehearsals and multi-day shoots on three music videos crammed into one week, the end result is a LOT OF PAIN. And sore muscles galore. And oh dear god, my feet, they may never work again. But they'll have to, because I also booked a major role in an indie movie shooting in two weeks and have been auditioning fairly regularly now for a producer of not one, but two major genre shows, and hoping that'll lead to something big so fingers crossed!
Also have cover art to show off for Anonymous - remember the Great Grassroots Novel Experiment I spoke of awhile back? Well it's still in the works, trying to work out the best time table for it as of course part of its purpose is figuring out how to best capitalize on web presence and build buzz, but I do have pretty pictures for it, and absolutely no will power whatsoever, so I'm most likely going to be caving and sharing that soon.
Now, as to the title of this post and the big reason for my absence and drama in the past week - I fear, dear friends, that I have fallen victim to the Great and Dreaded Writersbane. That which every author fears. The terror that lurks beneath every laptop.
Yes. I speak of....
THE COMPUTER VIRUS.
I can practically feel your hearts sink for me as you read those words, because like me, you all know what that means, and instantly imagine the worst. And oh, it was bad. It was very bad. I shelled out the money for a new computer pretty quickly once they determined it'd be cheaper than salvaging mine. But that was the easy part. (Hah!) Then came the part that makes us gnash our teeth and pull our hair.
Seeing what we lost.
Fortunately, this isn't my first encounter with the Great and Terrible Computer Death, so I was somewhat prepared. I had a lot backed up, and much else stored via emails and on various spots on the web. But not having a single central back up location online, I have spent the past week scurrying thither and hither about the vast internets, scouring old online journals, boards and email communications for the various drafts of my completed manuscripts and my many, MANY works in progress. It's still underway, and will take some major reconstructive surgery to match the most recent versions of each MS (I have half the final draft for this MS in this email for instance, and what I'm pretty sure is the last three chapters of the final draft of it on this LJ, etc), but it'll be okay, ultimately. It's the WIPs that suffered the most. I have so many, and am so neurotic about sending people stuff when I'm not sure it'll ultimately go anywhere, that some just never made it online, and I really don't know if I'll ever be able to recover them. Sigh. Oh well. The good ones live on in my head with enough urgency that I'll get around to them eventually, and the bad ones, well, if I can't remember them well enough to recover them, perhaps they aren't the best use of my time anyways? C'est la vie.
But in positive thinking mode, I did discover something about myself while wading through the nigh infinite amounts of crap I've written over the years. I'm a writer, y'all!
I know, you're all like, uh, no shit, genius.
But no, its like this! I'm not actually that stupid kid who writes shit thinking it'll never amount to anything and he'll never be as good as the stuff publishing in bookstores anymore. I'm REALLY neurotic about my old stuff, because frankly, I don't think its that good. Even a complete novel I queried with and think is a solid MS, polished as best I can make it, and tells a story worth telling - I hate showing that to people. Which is weird right? If I think its good enough to show an agent, I should have no problem showing it to people. But the thing is, while its the best I could write then, and the best I could polish it since then, its nothing compared to what I could write now - but short of rewriting it from scratch, that's not going to change. And even though it has agent interest as is, I might end up doing that ultimately anyways because otherwise I'll just never be happy with it. BUT I DIGRESS!
Point is, that was then. I was just shaping up a chapter of my current WIP, Midnight Oil (formerly called GILT) to send off to a CP, and I realized, huh. I really like this. I think its good. I actually can't WAIT to hear what she thinks about it!
....does this mean...have I GROWN?
I think it is entirely possible that I have. As a person, as a writer, both....I'm very bemused by it.
So some thoughts for you all, if you care to share:
Have you ever had that epiphany where you realized you've actually grown as a writer, in a visible, measureable way?
Or where were you when you realized hey, this might not just be a pipedream. I might actually be a writer who writes and y'know, does stuff with it.
And if you want to share your own horror stories of the COMPUTER VIRUS and reassure me that ITS NOT THAT BAD and REALLY, IT GETS BETTER, I would probably be most happy to hear them. Most happy.
And finally, along the lines of what I was talking about last week, before the sky fell and everything, anyone have any questions about the acting industry that they've always wondered about and would be interested in hearing me talk about? The audition process, stunt work, Are There Actually Fancy Parties Where You Schmooze with Agents and Famous People, or Tips on Making Out with a Total Stranger On Camera and Pretending This is Actually Sexy (But definitely not Porn!)....I'm actually a little curious to hear what people might be curious about, because all my friends are actors and industry people and we're distressingly jaded, so....make of that what you will.
And now I think I've vomited all over your Google Readers enough for one day, so back to my regularly scheduled tweeting!
OH YEAH! I TWEET NOW! FOLLOW ME AT @kalenodonnell AND I'LL TOTES FOLLOW YOU BACK.
Okay. Now I'm done.
HAI GUYS! DIDJA MISS ME?
Well okay, so I last posted last week so its entirely possible that nobody even noticed I was gone, since like, its all relative yo. But I felt like I was gone forever, because drama has an Einsteinian (sp? real word? whatever) effect on the time/space continuum and turns a week into
OMGFOREVERIFUNIVERSEDOESNTSTOPBEINGABITCHIMCOMMITTINGSEPPUKU.
Sorry. In case you haven't gathered yet, its been a long week.
So I have a ton of stuff to share, some exciting, some not so exciting, some positively reeking of mundanity. So we're going to space that out. First of all, my thanks to everyone who took a chance on my little CP Auction Blogfest, and I'm really sorry it didn't work out the way we hoped. I'll have another post on that later in the week, examining what I think I could have done differently and asking for input on how to tweak things and get more people involved for next time, because I'm totally going to try again. One wise soul suggested hosting it again right after NaNoWriMo, and I think she might be one of those freaky genius type people. Because holy smokes that's a good idea.
In other news, the last couple weeks have seen me absolutely swamped with auditions which I will never ever complain about. However, something to consider, and expect a writing related post on this later as well, as it applies there too - don't bite off more than you can chew. Which I umm, do a lot. So for instance, when I did four dance auditions in a span of two weeks (yeah I dance too, mostly hip hop, music videos stuff, got a little contemporary and jazz training too), its kinda me hedging my bets, because you never expect to land all of them. But when you land say, three of the four music videos and have back to back nonstop rehearsals and multi-day shoots on three music videos crammed into one week, the end result is a LOT OF PAIN. And sore muscles galore. And oh dear god, my feet, they may never work again. But they'll have to, because I also booked a major role in an indie movie shooting in two weeks and have been auditioning fairly regularly now for a producer of not one, but two major genre shows, and hoping that'll lead to something big so fingers crossed!
Also have cover art to show off for Anonymous - remember the Great Grassroots Novel Experiment I spoke of awhile back? Well it's still in the works, trying to work out the best time table for it as of course part of its purpose is figuring out how to best capitalize on web presence and build buzz, but I do have pretty pictures for it, and absolutely no will power whatsoever, so I'm most likely going to be caving and sharing that soon.
Now, as to the title of this post and the big reason for my absence and drama in the past week - I fear, dear friends, that I have fallen victim to the Great and Dreaded Writersbane. That which every author fears. The terror that lurks beneath every laptop.
Yes. I speak of....
THE COMPUTER VIRUS.
I can practically feel your hearts sink for me as you read those words, because like me, you all know what that means, and instantly imagine the worst. And oh, it was bad. It was very bad. I shelled out the money for a new computer pretty quickly once they determined it'd be cheaper than salvaging mine. But that was the easy part. (Hah!) Then came the part that makes us gnash our teeth and pull our hair.
Seeing what we lost.
Fortunately, this isn't my first encounter with the Great and Terrible Computer Death, so I was somewhat prepared. I had a lot backed up, and much else stored via emails and on various spots on the web. But not having a single central back up location online, I have spent the past week scurrying thither and hither about the vast internets, scouring old online journals, boards and email communications for the various drafts of my completed manuscripts and my many, MANY works in progress. It's still underway, and will take some major reconstructive surgery to match the most recent versions of each MS (I have half the final draft for this MS in this email for instance, and what I'm pretty sure is the last three chapters of the final draft of it on this LJ, etc), but it'll be okay, ultimately. It's the WIPs that suffered the most. I have so many, and am so neurotic about sending people stuff when I'm not sure it'll ultimately go anywhere, that some just never made it online, and I really don't know if I'll ever be able to recover them. Sigh. Oh well. The good ones live on in my head with enough urgency that I'll get around to them eventually, and the bad ones, well, if I can't remember them well enough to recover them, perhaps they aren't the best use of my time anyways? C'est la vie.
But in positive thinking mode, I did discover something about myself while wading through the nigh infinite amounts of crap I've written over the years. I'm a writer, y'all!
I know, you're all like, uh, no shit, genius.
But no, its like this! I'm not actually that stupid kid who writes shit thinking it'll never amount to anything and he'll never be as good as the stuff publishing in bookstores anymore. I'm REALLY neurotic about my old stuff, because frankly, I don't think its that good. Even a complete novel I queried with and think is a solid MS, polished as best I can make it, and tells a story worth telling - I hate showing that to people. Which is weird right? If I think its good enough to show an agent, I should have no problem showing it to people. But the thing is, while its the best I could write then, and the best I could polish it since then, its nothing compared to what I could write now - but short of rewriting it from scratch, that's not going to change. And even though it has agent interest as is, I might end up doing that ultimately anyways because otherwise I'll just never be happy with it. BUT I DIGRESS!
Point is, that was then. I was just shaping up a chapter of my current WIP, Midnight Oil (formerly called GILT) to send off to a CP, and I realized, huh. I really like this. I think its good. I actually can't WAIT to hear what she thinks about it!
....does this mean...have I GROWN?
I think it is entirely possible that I have. As a person, as a writer, both....I'm very bemused by it.
So some thoughts for you all, if you care to share:
Have you ever had that epiphany where you realized you've actually grown as a writer, in a visible, measureable way?
Or where were you when you realized hey, this might not just be a pipedream. I might actually be a writer who writes and y'know, does stuff with it.
And if you want to share your own horror stories of the COMPUTER VIRUS and reassure me that ITS NOT THAT BAD and REALLY, IT GETS BETTER, I would probably be most happy to hear them. Most happy.
And finally, along the lines of what I was talking about last week, before the sky fell and everything, anyone have any questions about the acting industry that they've always wondered about and would be interested in hearing me talk about? The audition process, stunt work, Are There Actually Fancy Parties Where You Schmooze with Agents and Famous People, or Tips on Making Out with a Total Stranger On Camera and Pretending This is Actually Sexy (But definitely not Porn!)....I'm actually a little curious to hear what people might be curious about, because all my friends are actors and industry people and we're distressingly jaded, so....make of that what you will.
And now I think I've vomited all over your Google Readers enough for one day, so back to my regularly scheduled tweeting!
OH YEAH! I TWEET NOW! FOLLOW ME AT @kalenodonnell AND I'LL TOTES FOLLOW YOU BACK.
Okay. Now I'm done.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Critique Partner Auction Entry #6
TITLE: I Hate Algebra
GENRE: YA Contemporary
STATUS: Complete
For as long as she can remember, freshman Nicki Miller has been obsessed with the prom. The junior prom would have to wait, though, and three years is like fifteen in teen calculations! Waiting turns out to be the least of her troubles when her father moves out, leaving her depressed and empty. Not even trips to the mall or her sweet tabby can fill the void, but when a handsome upperclassman extends an invitation, her dream is finally within reach. With her baby blue dress hanging in the closet, she is ready for the big day until her grade in algebra class plummets to an F. She then finds herself grounded – no phone, no computer, and her biggest crisis – no prom. Now, she has eight weeks to bring up her grade.
In the longest two months of her life, Nicki wrestles with the separation of her parents, the rudeness of the teacher’s pet, and the frustration of negative numbers. To pass algebra, it will not only take the help of an unexpectedly hot math tutor but also an abundance of determination. In addition to learning some real math lessons, Nicki uncovers some surprising truths about both her family and herself. On the road to accomplishing her goal, she’s about to learn the most valuable lesson - failure does not always equal tragedy.
*******
Chapter 1- The End
“Nicki, I want you to come live with me.”
All I could do was stare across the kitchen table at him as he fidgeted with the gold band on his ring finger. At that moment I felt hopeful to still see it there. The cup of coffee I’d made for him sat untouched between us as well as the waffles in front of me that looked anything but appetizing.
His baby blue eyes were mirror images of mine, only more bloodshot. With his lips tight in a line, he looked as weary as I felt, that familiar smile that had comforted me for all of my fourteen years was absent from his face. I couldn’t help but ask myself: who was he?
Daddy had been my confidante, my buddy, my advisor. He was the man whose feet mine rested upon as we’d waltzed around the living room while Mom’s black sparkly cocktail dress hung from my small body. For as long as I could remember, he’d sit with me and tried to appear interested as I pored over prom magazines, listening while I obsessed with Mom over gowns and hairdos and shoes. When I struggled with pre-algebra in eighth grade, Daddy had helped me through it. And when I graduated from middle school with honors two months ago, his face beamed as though I had won the Nobel Prize.
He was a stranger to me now. After that bomb my parents dropped on me and my little sister yesterday, here he was asking the unthinkable.
GENRE: YA Contemporary
STATUS: Complete
For as long as she can remember, freshman Nicki Miller has been obsessed with the prom. The junior prom would have to wait, though, and three years is like fifteen in teen calculations! Waiting turns out to be the least of her troubles when her father moves out, leaving her depressed and empty. Not even trips to the mall or her sweet tabby can fill the void, but when a handsome upperclassman extends an invitation, her dream is finally within reach. With her baby blue dress hanging in the closet, she is ready for the big day until her grade in algebra class plummets to an F. She then finds herself grounded – no phone, no computer, and her biggest crisis – no prom. Now, she has eight weeks to bring up her grade.
In the longest two months of her life, Nicki wrestles with the separation of her parents, the rudeness of the teacher’s pet, and the frustration of negative numbers. To pass algebra, it will not only take the help of an unexpectedly hot math tutor but also an abundance of determination. In addition to learning some real math lessons, Nicki uncovers some surprising truths about both her family and herself. On the road to accomplishing her goal, she’s about to learn the most valuable lesson - failure does not always equal tragedy.
*******
Chapter 1- The End
“Nicki, I want you to come live with me.”
All I could do was stare across the kitchen table at him as he fidgeted with the gold band on his ring finger. At that moment I felt hopeful to still see it there. The cup of coffee I’d made for him sat untouched between us as well as the waffles in front of me that looked anything but appetizing.
His baby blue eyes were mirror images of mine, only more bloodshot. With his lips tight in a line, he looked as weary as I felt, that familiar smile that had comforted me for all of my fourteen years was absent from his face. I couldn’t help but ask myself: who was he?
Daddy had been my confidante, my buddy, my advisor. He was the man whose feet mine rested upon as we’d waltzed around the living room while Mom’s black sparkly cocktail dress hung from my small body. For as long as I could remember, he’d sit with me and tried to appear interested as I pored over prom magazines, listening while I obsessed with Mom over gowns and hairdos and shoes. When I struggled with pre-algebra in eighth grade, Daddy had helped me through it. And when I graduated from middle school with honors two months ago, his face beamed as though I had won the Nobel Prize.
He was a stranger to me now. After that bomb my parents dropped on me and my little sister yesterday, here he was asking the unthinkable.
Critique Partner Auction Entry #5
Hang on guys, this thing might not be a total bust after all! More entries have started coming in!
TITLE: The Kelvieri's Boots
GENRE: YA Urban science fiction romance
STATUS: Complete
Dear Agent,
In order to save the planet Kelari and earth, Venus must help a
complete ass of a boy fall in love. This same boy, Ethan must find a
way to destroy Dervinius, the leader of The Order of Eternal Fire. All
of this must happen in one week, or Venus will die, Ethan will lose
his chance to love and Dervinius will rule both worlds.
On her sixteenth birthday, alien princess, Venus, is supposed to
complete her rite of passage and become a kelvieri, immortal. Instead,
she’s sent to earth and accused of blasphemous crimes against Ith and
Aetha, their world’s deities and charged with killing her irrihunter,
Kelari’s sacred creature. The deities won’t allow her to return to
Kelari, to prove her innocence, until she helps Ethan with his love
life. The stupidest thing she’s ever heard, but she has to try or else
she’ll die.
It is one helluva week. Ethan hates her right away, someone’s trying
to kill her and she’s dealing with all of these human emotions for
Zarus, her guardian and Ethan, the ass. Lust? Love? She doesn’t know.
Her planet doesn’t require the use of feelings.
But, she’d better figure it out quick or both planets will be ruled by
Dervinius, a kelvieri who wants humans and kelarians destroyed. In
their place, he and his followers plan to create a new
race—humieris—kelarian/human hybrids.
Venus and Ethan are in a race against time, for their lives and for
love, but both have no idea as to the real reason why. And Dervinius
wants to keep it that way.
CONNECTED: The Kelvieri’s Boots is a young adult, urban science
fiction romance. It’s complete at 75,000 words and the first in a
trilogy or can be written to stand alone.
I belong to my local and national RWA. I have a blog, A No. 2 Pencil
Stat, which I contribute to daily. I have my own author page on
Facebook and I’ve given lectures at a local elementary school on the
mechanics of writing a novel.
Thank you for your time. I look forward to hearing from you.
*****
Chapter 1
Heart and Soul—Venus
“Happy immortality to me. Happy immortality to me. Happy immortality,
happy immortality. Happy immortality to me,” I sang softly, to the
tune of a human song I’d learned from a professor. Alone for the first
time all day, I sat on the chair next to my vanity. Off to my left, in
four perfect rows, were fifteen crystal bottles. Inside, they held
different smelling perfumes. My mother had given me a new scent for
each of my birthdays. Carefully, I added number sixteen, the red
liquid within smelled like Rosithia flowers, tempered by our juicy
citrus fruit, oraney. Then I turned my attention to my feet. On them,
my most prized possession. The gift I’d been dreaming of
since—forever. The Kelvieri’s Boots. Now that I had my own pair, I
knew my life would finally begin.
Inside the heels of the boots were symbols . . . of my imperfections.
That probably seemed odd, that I’d be so excited to receive a present
filled with my weaknesses. But, they were so much more than that.
Receiving the boots meant I’d reached the age of maturity, the age
when age no longer mattered. Now I was more than just “Venus, the
little Alayeahian princess”, as our people always called me. I’d
become a woman.
Eager, I removed one of the boots, the material smooth, and held it
up to eye level. Light, coming from the glow of our suns, shone
through my window, outlining its shape. Within the boots’ heel, an
arrow blazed, shiny and bright. It floated in the dark blue blood of
our sacred animal. I shook it, like I’d seen humans do with a snow
globe.
TITLE: The Kelvieri's Boots
GENRE: YA Urban science fiction romance
STATUS: Complete
Dear Agent,
In order to save the planet Kelari and earth, Venus must help a
complete ass of a boy fall in love. This same boy, Ethan must find a
way to destroy Dervinius, the leader of The Order of Eternal Fire. All
of this must happen in one week, or Venus will die, Ethan will lose
his chance to love and Dervinius will rule both worlds.
On her sixteenth birthday, alien princess, Venus, is supposed to
complete her rite of passage and become a kelvieri, immortal. Instead,
she’s sent to earth and accused of blasphemous crimes against Ith and
Aetha, their world’s deities and charged with killing her irrihunter,
Kelari’s sacred creature. The deities won’t allow her to return to
Kelari, to prove her innocence, until she helps Ethan with his love
life. The stupidest thing she’s ever heard, but she has to try or else
she’ll die.
It is one helluva week. Ethan hates her right away, someone’s trying
to kill her and she’s dealing with all of these human emotions for
Zarus, her guardian and Ethan, the ass. Lust? Love? She doesn’t know.
Her planet doesn’t require the use of feelings.
But, she’d better figure it out quick or both planets will be ruled by
Dervinius, a kelvieri who wants humans and kelarians destroyed. In
their place, he and his followers plan to create a new
race—humieris—kelarian/human hybrids.
Venus and Ethan are in a race against time, for their lives and for
love, but both have no idea as to the real reason why. And Dervinius
wants to keep it that way.
CONNECTED: The Kelvieri’s Boots is a young adult, urban science
fiction romance. It’s complete at 75,000 words and the first in a
trilogy or can be written to stand alone.
I belong to my local and national RWA. I have a blog, A No. 2 Pencil
Stat, which I contribute to daily. I have my own author page on
Facebook and I’ve given lectures at a local elementary school on the
mechanics of writing a novel.
Thank you for your time. I look forward to hearing from you.
*****
Chapter 1
Heart and Soul—Venus
“Happy immortality to me. Happy immortality to me. Happy immortality,
happy immortality. Happy immortality to me,” I sang softly, to the
tune of a human song I’d learned from a professor. Alone for the first
time all day, I sat on the chair next to my vanity. Off to my left, in
four perfect rows, were fifteen crystal bottles. Inside, they held
different smelling perfumes. My mother had given me a new scent for
each of my birthdays. Carefully, I added number sixteen, the red
liquid within smelled like Rosithia flowers, tempered by our juicy
citrus fruit, oraney. Then I turned my attention to my feet. On them,
my most prized possession. The gift I’d been dreaming of
since—forever. The Kelvieri’s Boots. Now that I had my own pair, I
knew my life would finally begin.
Inside the heels of the boots were symbols . . . of my imperfections.
That probably seemed odd, that I’d be so excited to receive a present
filled with my weaknesses. But, they were so much more than that.
Receiving the boots meant I’d reached the age of maturity, the age
when age no longer mattered. Now I was more than just “Venus, the
little Alayeahian princess”, as our people always called me. I’d
become a woman.
Eager, I removed one of the boots, the material smooth, and held it
up to eye level. Light, coming from the glow of our suns, shone
through my window, outlining its shape. Within the boots’ heel, an
arrow blazed, shiny and bright. It floated in the dark blue blood of
our sacred animal. I shook it, like I’d seen humans do with a snow
globe.
Query Letter Blogfest
So uh - it appears my first blogfest isn't quite working out as I hoped. I do not know what to make of this, as the man I bought it from at the Idea Store (not to be confused with Ikea, though I'm told they're sister corporations) assured me it was flawless. I might have to invoke my money-back guarantee. Hmm.
Well my apologies to the participants on the err, lack of response. It is no lack on the part of your entries, but rather a mere lack of a wide enough audience for your amazing stories. I have failed you as a host! I am riddled with guilt! But since I have an unhealthy love for 'Galaxy Quest' and frequently invoke 'Never give up, never surrender!' as my mantra, I shall rectify this!
I will take part in this Query Letter Blogfest, in a sly, sneaky, wily AND TOTALLY SUBTLE attempt to direct more blog traffic my way and to your fabulous stories! I'M ONLY DOING IT FOR YOU!
I'm such a giver, y'all. It's crazy.
Anyways, here's the pitch portion of my query letter for Dust to Dust, which I have arbitrarily decided to begin querying with on Friday, because well, I'm arbitrary like that. Please hack it to shreds, because its way too long, and I'm not sure where to tighten. I suck at killing my darlings. Unless its characters. Those I can kill no sweat. So apparently, I'm only sociopathic when it comes to people, not words. Who knew?
*****
Well my apologies to the participants on the err, lack of response. It is no lack on the part of your entries, but rather a mere lack of a wide enough audience for your amazing stories. I have failed you as a host! I am riddled with guilt! But since I have an unhealthy love for 'Galaxy Quest' and frequently invoke 'Never give up, never surrender!' as my mantra, I shall rectify this!
I will take part in this Query Letter Blogfest, in a sly, sneaky, wily AND TOTALLY SUBTLE attempt to direct more blog traffic my way and to your fabulous stories! I'M ONLY DOING IT FOR YOU!
I'm such a giver, y'all. It's crazy.
Anyways, here's the pitch portion of my query letter for Dust to Dust, which I have arbitrarily decided to begin querying with on Friday, because well, I'm arbitrary like that. Please hack it to shreds, because its way too long, and I'm not sure where to tighten. I suck at killing my darlings. Unless its characters. Those I can kill no sweat. So apparently, I'm only sociopathic when it comes to people, not words. Who knew?
*****
All Micah wants for his sixteenth birthday is his family together to celebrate it with him. Easy in theory – until you factor in the curse that compels all nine Braddock children to try and kill each other on sight.
Once Micah would have laughed at the idea any of his brothers or sisters would ever hurt him. Sure, they had their squabbles. Trent was kind of an asshole. Alice always had her nose in everyone’s business, Serena thought she was better than everyone else, and Rowan never could figure out when his jokes weren’t funny and he needed to shut the hell up. But secrets bond kids tighter than mere blood ever could, and nothing makes for a better secret than growing up with magic.
They didn’t know where it came from, why it never worked the same way twice. Cam thought it was alive. They opened a door to let it out, and once it came through it did whatever it wanted. Each Braddock sibling opened the door with a different ‘key’ – Megan’s magic used fingerprints, Alice’s mirrors, the others shadows, blood, tears, echoes, coins, pictures and dust. Sometimes shadows made Trent invisible, other times they carried him halfway around the world. Sometimes Katey could make people hear voices that weren’t there, other times she was like a living echo, barely there herself. It was magic. It wasn’t supposed to make sense. So they let it be and just enjoyed the ride.
Then Katey came home broken one night two years ago. The first victim of the curse that led to them hunting each other across the globe in a deadly version of hide and go seek. But even as she shattered windows with the echoes of thunder, broke their mother’s sanity under the weight of a million whispered voices wailing for her ears alone, they looked for no further explanation. It’d been foolish of them to reap its rewards without thinking they’d ever pay a price, and now the magic had come to collect.
Micah would give anything to go back to the way things were, but two years on his own have taught him some things are too good to be true. Then Trent and Serena tell him there’s another family with the magic out there. Who view them as rivals, and unleashed this curse on them in hopes they’d take each other out. Who even stole their memories of their father and why they are the way they are. There are answers. A way to undo the curse and have their family back. An enemy they can fight. Vengeance. Absolution. A return to innocence.
And all it takes is trusting the family that’s spent the last two years trying to kill him.
Some things, not even magic can do.
A YA fantasy complete at 85,000 words, Dust to Dust is a story about growing up too fast, finding the strength to forgive, and loving your family even after they hurt you more than anyone else ever could.
*******
Now off to comment on other query letter entries, entries in Ebyss's contest, finish this chapter of Gilt so I can ship it off to Anne Marie before her fearsome shark icon swallows me whole in one big gulp, and do a million bajillion other things. Like, the six auditions I have this week. After the five I had last week. I don't know WHAT is going on there, btw, as pilot season is in full swing and there's not supposed to be anywhere NEAR this many roles casting right now, and its all very bizarre and I'm very confuzzled and a wee bit sick. And two of the auditions this week are dance auditions. This does not bode well. LOL. Oh well.
Speaking of, a couple of people were talking to me along those lines earlier, so I thought I'd throw it out there. What do you guys think? Do you like your writing blogs popping up in your google readers or what have you with actual writing content, or do you like some diversifying? I've been trying to keep the blog relatively free of the acting side of things since I didn't consider it relevant to what most of you are drifting around the blogosphere, but if there is actual interest in the random day to day crap that goes along with being an aspiring/semi-working actor, I'm happy to ramble along those lines as well. Particularly if anyone has any specific questions or areas they've ever wondered about how things work, or something like that.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Critique Partner Auction Entry 4
Title: Judas Pistol
Genre: Mystery
Status: 81% complete
Judas Pistol, a 70,000-word amateur sleuth novel, is set in the gun culture of Montana during two weeks of April 2001. Les is deaf from the service in the Gulf War. He can barely get by on army disability and prize money from shooting matches, so he investigates historical sites and is hired to prove a popular sheriff and a young tribal policeman didn’t go bad. D’arcy and Gunz have different occupations and challenges of their own but find themselves working with Les to solve a series of murders linked to a futuristic weapon handgun and treasures of the "Treasure State."
******
Toole County, Montana, April 14, 2001
Saturday, high noon
Les Huntsman leaned against recoil as if bucking gusts of headwind. Flash! His revolver jumped again, sending a second ounce of lead to topple another silhouette. His front sight found a third set of head and shoulders. Flash! Muzzle blaze and bounce were all he perceived--no roar, no splat of bullets hitting home, not a sound when heavy figures smacked into skiffs of snow.
Three more shots and empty. One hand swung the muzzle up to thumb the ejector. Hot casings fell to melt holes around his boots, while his other hand blurred up with a fresh speed-loader. Burnt nitrates stung his nostrils. Shockwaves meant his opponent was still shooting. Les slapped another half dozen rounds into battery. Six more jolts up his arms. Six more silhouettes down. At twenty-five meters, only a trio remained. One more reload, three quick flashes, and the last form sprawled on its backside.
To his front, the green light winked off. The red cease-fire lamp blazed in its place. Les had already caught three empty cases and three unfired .480s in his glove, his Ruger held up and open for inspection.
He felt a touch on his shoulder and turned his head. Arthur Burnside had a microphone clipped to his coat collar, but loudspeakers did Les no good. He focused on the range officer’s lips. "Duel goes to shooter on the right . . . Huntsman." Les waited. "Clear on the right. Good to see you back in action, Doc. Go ahead and holster your weapon."
Genre: Mystery
Status: 81% complete
Judas Pistol, a 70,000-word amateur sleuth novel, is set in the gun culture of Montana during two weeks of April 2001. Les is deaf from the service in the Gulf War. He can barely get by on army disability and prize money from shooting matches, so he investigates historical sites and is hired to prove a popular sheriff and a young tribal policeman didn’t go bad. D’arcy and Gunz have different occupations and challenges of their own but find themselves working with Les to solve a series of murders linked to a futuristic weapon handgun and treasures of the "Treasure State."
******
Toole County, Montana, April 14, 2001
Saturday, high noon
Les Huntsman leaned against recoil as if bucking gusts of headwind. Flash! His revolver jumped again, sending a second ounce of lead to topple another silhouette. His front sight found a third set of head and shoulders. Flash! Muzzle blaze and bounce were all he perceived--no roar, no splat of bullets hitting home, not a sound when heavy figures smacked into skiffs of snow.
Three more shots and empty. One hand swung the muzzle up to thumb the ejector. Hot casings fell to melt holes around his boots, while his other hand blurred up with a fresh speed-loader. Burnt nitrates stung his nostrils. Shockwaves meant his opponent was still shooting. Les slapped another half dozen rounds into battery. Six more jolts up his arms. Six more silhouettes down. At twenty-five meters, only a trio remained. One more reload, three quick flashes, and the last form sprawled on its backside.
To his front, the green light winked off. The red cease-fire lamp blazed in its place. Les had already caught three empty cases and three unfired .480s in his glove, his Ruger held up and open for inspection.
He felt a touch on his shoulder and turned his head. Arthur Burnside had a microphone clipped to his coat collar, but loudspeakers did Les no good. He focused on the range officer’s lips. "Duel goes to shooter on the right . . . Huntsman." Les waited. "Clear on the right. Good to see you back in action, Doc. Go ahead and holster your weapon."
Critique Partner Auction Entry 3
Title: Pictures of You
Genre: Romantic Suspense/commercial fiction
Status: Complete
While it is true that the course of true love doesn’t ever run smoothly, why must it be cluttered with stalkers, murders, and a rumor column edited by a student with a grudge? Vida Adamson thought that teaching at a small university would be the perfect place to recover from a bad and very public break up. She was wrong. She is not in the market for another man, until she meets Jack Hughes. The handsome dean of the school of arts and sciences is recovering from his own bitter marriage mistake. Even before the romance takes off, rumors and pictures begin flying around the campus. Privately they also discover that everyone has demons to overcome, some are within, and some come snarling via nasty text messages. With the demise of Jack’s soon to be ex father-in-law, the school’s president, followed by the death of Vida’s unpleasant ex, they see that their stalker is willing to pay any price to get what she wants. As the threats pile up Jack and Vida realize they must get the police to see the connections between the two deaths and the mysterious messages they are receiving before the final message becomes a deadly reality.
Carly Phillips’ fans would certainly enjoy PICTURES OF YOU, a sexy romantic suspense that will keep readers guessing until the end. The college setting was a natural choice for me, since I taught at small university in New Jersey for ten years.
PICTURES OF YOU, a single title, is complete at approximately 75,000 words.
*******
It was humiliating. Who was he talking to? She had spent hours getting ready: a new outfit, hair and nails done, even endured a Brazilian waxing, and now he was standing across the room talking to some unfamiliar girl. She felt her heart racing. She clenched and unclenched her fists a couple of times before walking across the room in slow, measured steps.
Her eyes gently grazed his face; her voice was composed as the words dripped out more for the girl’s benefit than his, “Your wife is looking for you.” Her gaze moved back and forth, narrowing as she focused on the girl in the David Bowie tee shirt. She turned to back to him, her face changing at lightening speed to a more conciliatory look. She felt her disgust level rising.
Still facing the girl, he let out small breath. “Well, good luck with your classes. Maybe I’ll see you around on the campus.” Once they made their way across the room, he snapped, “So where is she? What’s the emergency?” She stammered something about Johanna having just been there. “Well, go find her.” He watched the girl wade through the crowded room to a small group of professors that he recognized from the math department. She tugged at a guy’s jacket sleeve like a bored child and whispered something in his ear; he put his arm around her shoulders and continued talking. She folded herself into him. Again she whispered in his ear; he laughed and kissed the top of her head. He caught sight of them again as they made their way single-file out of the room. She walked behind him, holding onto the bottom of his jacket. He watched, feeling a little pang of disappointment.
Genre: Romantic Suspense/commercial fiction
Status: Complete
While it is true that the course of true love doesn’t ever run smoothly, why must it be cluttered with stalkers, murders, and a rumor column edited by a student with a grudge? Vida Adamson thought that teaching at a small university would be the perfect place to recover from a bad and very public break up. She was wrong. She is not in the market for another man, until she meets Jack Hughes. The handsome dean of the school of arts and sciences is recovering from his own bitter marriage mistake. Even before the romance takes off, rumors and pictures begin flying around the campus. Privately they also discover that everyone has demons to overcome, some are within, and some come snarling via nasty text messages. With the demise of Jack’s soon to be ex father-in-law, the school’s president, followed by the death of Vida’s unpleasant ex, they see that their stalker is willing to pay any price to get what she wants. As the threats pile up Jack and Vida realize they must get the police to see the connections between the two deaths and the mysterious messages they are receiving before the final message becomes a deadly reality.
Carly Phillips’ fans would certainly enjoy PICTURES OF YOU, a sexy romantic suspense that will keep readers guessing until the end. The college setting was a natural choice for me, since I taught at small university in New Jersey for ten years.
PICTURES OF YOU, a single title, is complete at approximately 75,000 words.
*******
It was humiliating. Who was he talking to? She had spent hours getting ready: a new outfit, hair and nails done, even endured a Brazilian waxing, and now he was standing across the room talking to some unfamiliar girl. She felt her heart racing. She clenched and unclenched her fists a couple of times before walking across the room in slow, measured steps.
Her eyes gently grazed his face; her voice was composed as the words dripped out more for the girl’s benefit than his, “Your wife is looking for you.” Her gaze moved back and forth, narrowing as she focused on the girl in the David Bowie tee shirt. She turned to back to him, her face changing at lightening speed to a more conciliatory look. She felt her disgust level rising.
Still facing the girl, he let out small breath. “Well, good luck with your classes. Maybe I’ll see you around on the campus.” Once they made their way across the room, he snapped, “So where is she? What’s the emergency?” She stammered something about Johanna having just been there. “Well, go find her.” He watched the girl wade through the crowded room to a small group of professors that he recognized from the math department. She tugged at a guy’s jacket sleeve like a bored child and whispered something in his ear; he put his arm around her shoulders and continued talking. She folded herself into him. Again she whispered in his ear; he laughed and kissed the top of her head. He caught sight of them again as they made their way single-file out of the room. She walked behind him, holding onto the bottom of his jacket. He watched, feeling a little pang of disappointment.
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