C.L. Lynch's Blog, page 3

My Book Trailer is Up!

Check it out! Beware – it contains swearing, silliness, and kick-assitude.

It’s REAL!

I can’t describe how exciting it was to get my box of ARC’s in the mail. I was running around like crazy going “Look!! It’s a REAL BOOK! Like REAL AUTHORS WRITE!”

If I publish a million books, and win a zillion awards, I don’t think I will ever, ever get over the feeling of awe when something I have written looks like a REAL BOOK.

I kept carrying it around and caressing it and posting pictures of it, like it was a newborn baby.

Holy crap, I’m an author. This is so boss.

Excerpt from Chapter 3

I sat down next to him reluctantly and opened my mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I closed my mouth.

“I’m really sorry I bothered you,” he elaborated. “I made you uncomfortable, even after you asked me to stop, and that was wrong.” His face looked earnest, but his soft voice was very calm. “Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Howie. It’s nice to meet you.” He held out his hand and smiled shyly. That smile changed his whole look. Dimples appeared in his cheeks, and he looked almost cute, in a nerdy, wears-glasses kind of way.

“Stella.” I shook his hand cautiously. It was dry and cool to the touch, not all sweaty the way I would have imagined it to be. “I shouldn’t have kicked you.”

“I deserved it. Where are you from?” he asked in his strange monotone, leaning forward in his chair slightly as if he expected a fascinating answer, like “Khartoum” or “Rio” or “Candyland”.

“Nova Scotia…”

“I’ve never been there. Did you like it there?” It was like being interviewed by a robot. A somewhat cute robot.

“I guess. It was home.”

“What brings you out to Vancouver?”

“…My mom got offered her dream job, so we moved.”

“I’m sorry you got uprooted. But that’s neat about your mother getting a new job. What is it?”

“She does viral marketing, and she made this video that got millions of hits, maybe you’ve seen it…”

Just then the teacher stood up. Howie winked, put his finger to his lips, and turned around smartly in his seat. It was like a totally different guy. Instead of being sluggish and dozy, he was alert and responsive.

“We’ll be doing an experiment today. Howard, it looks like you have a partner… if you can manage to keep your eyes on the experiment.”

Howie just nodded and smiled sheepishly, showing his dimples again.

The teacher faced the class. “Today we will performing two esterifications on the same substance: salicylic acid, a toxic irritant. One of these esterifications will result in oil of wintergreen. The other results in something completely different: aspirin. This experiment is excellent at demonstrating how a simple change in chemical reactions can create two entirely different results. Before we begin, I have a pre-lab assignment. I want you to look at the two equations involved, and draw the resulting esters, and then calculate how many moles of each substance we will be using, and calculate the theoretical yield.”

I groaned when I looked at the sheet. Judging by Howard’s inability to answer the teacher’s questions last week, we were going to be Dumb and Dumber.

“What’s wrong?” asked Howie, looking seriously concerned.

“We hadn’t started organic chemistry back home yet,” I said. “I did some reading on the weekend, but I have no idea what esterification is. I didn’t get that far.”

He brightened up. “I can help you. You’re smart, you’ll catch on in no time.”

On what was he basing his confidence in my intelligence, exactly? Not that he was wrong, but he didn’t know me in the slightest.

Then he took out his pencil and gave me the clearest chemistry lesson I have ever received. Within five minutes I felt like I could have written a test on this, no problem. It was more like dealing with a teacher than a fellow student.

“I see you’re back, Howard,” said the teacher dryly, glancing at our paper. “Carry on.”

“You’re good at this,” I said.

Howie glanced at the ground again, looking embarrassed. “It’s one of my best subjects,” he said in his bland, husky way. “My dad is a scientist.”

“What kind of scientist?”

“He’s a virologist at Simon Fraser University. Look, I know I acted strange on Thursday. I get kind of stupid when I’m hungry.”

“You were… hungry? Like, low blood sugar?”

“Like that. It’s… a kind of medical condition. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“And that’s why you were staring off into space?” I tried to say it tactfully, but he looked right at me and I felt stupid for tiptoeing around the subject.

“I wasn’t staring off into space,” he said quietly. “I was staring at you. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I just think you’re completely beautiful, and you took me by surprise.”

I felt my cheeks begin to burn and I became obtrusively aware of my own heart beat. I mean, what do you say when someone says something like that right to your face?

Random people don’t pay me compliments. I am tall and heavy set, and in a society where tiny girls with thigh gaps still prance around complaining about being fat, that puts me well outside the accepted standard of beauty. It used to bother me a lot. I first got into kung fu because I figured it would help me with bullies and make me lose weight at the same time. But while it worked for the former, it didn’t do much for the latter. I came to terms with that a while ago. I looked at a lot of Renoir and Rubens paintings, read some fat acceptance blogs, and realized that I could still be pretty without conforming to the anorexics in mainstream advertising. Now I was fairly happy with what I saw in the mirror. I have good hair, nice skin, big eyes, and full lips… If I wear the right clothes, I even have an hourglass figure.

So why did this come as such a shock? Why shouldn’t he think I’m beautiful?

Because no one outside of your immediate friends and family ever has.

He was still looking at me.

“I… don’t know how to respond to that.”

“I’m making you uncomfortable again.” He was so monotone that I couldn’t tell if he was asking a question or stating an accepted fact.

“Yes.”

He looked away. “Then I won’t bring it up any more. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Let’s do some science.”

Confession: I Love Editing

I belong to a lot of writing groups, and I see a lot of grumbling about editing. People share stuff like this:

I totally understand, but I am the complete opposite. Reverse the order of those two pictures, and you’ll have my writing process. If I didn’t write my stories during NaNoWriMo, they wouldn’t get written. As soon as I start writing my inner voice starts telling me what garbage it is.

“Did you just add a dialogue tag that ends in ly? You’re a hack. An utter hack.”

“You know that this conversation has no relevance to the plot, right?”

“Is this really the best way to demonstrate your character’s growth?”

All of this negative self talk makes it really hard to create something. I love NaNoWriMo because the whole point is just to write as many words as you can, even if it is complete garbage. Then I can tell my inner voice, “Shut up. It adds to the word count,” every time it criticizes me.

My point is, writing is a struggle.

But then comes editing.

OH, HOW I LOVE EDITING.

First of all, most people go back and read their writing and realize how terrible they are. But I’m always so convinced that the writing was terrible right off the bat that it’s actually a relief to go back and read and find the occasional spot that isn’t actually all that bad. Then – and this is my favourite part – I get to go in and make it better. Once I have something to work with, I can prune and trim and add and turn it into something that I am proud of. That negative voice becomes useful – my harshest critic.

I wrote most of Chemistry during NaNoWriMo in 2012. I filled in the gaps and had a complete novel by 2013. I have been editing the damn thing ever since. The ending wasn’t good enough. It went through four different iterations. The characters weren’t developed enough. The plot wasn’t complex enough. The dialogue tags were awful. I sent it to beta readers, took their feedback, improved it, and sent it out again… and again.

I don’t know if I will ever be satisfied with it. I am in the process of trying to finish it off and get it formatted for print but I keep going in and tweaking things.

What frustrates me is knowing that I will publish the thing, open it up, and see something that I want to change.

I guess that’s what second editions are for.

The bright side is, I’m almost done filling in the rough draft for the sequel, History. So at least I’ll have something new to edit.

Creepy, or Romantic?

“He doesn’t blame you for ruining a potentially romantic moment? This may be a boy to hold on to.”

“Okay, who says the moment was romantic? Does “tell me what to do, I’ll do anything for you” sound romantic? OR CREEPY?”

“Creepy,” admitted Dad.

“Romantic,” said Mom.

“Seriously, Mom?”

“Look, for tens of thousands of years women have been trying to wrest control from men,” said Mom. “Ever since men figured out the connection between sex and babies, they have tried to control women’s choices. We’ve had to fight for every right we have, from being counted as human beings to working in any job we choose to perform. When a man hands you the power rather than trying to control you? That’s romantic in my book.”

“Is that why Dad’s home cooking dinner while you’re out working your dream job?”

“Hey, I have an interview for Monday,” said Dad in an injured tone of voice.

“No, but I doubt I would have married him if he wasn’t the kind of man who would do that for me,” said Mom coolly.

When I was a teenager, I was in love with Rochester from Jane Eyre. I still am, a little bit. I loved how forceful and passionate he was, and I admired Jane for her ability to stand up to him. I still love Jane for that, but I can’t see Rochester quite the same way any more. He’s a liar, he treats Jane like a possession, and he toys with her emotions for his own ends.  Yes, she teaches him a lesson, and so I still love the book, but I don’t think it’s a good model for romance. I have come to prefer Darcy from Pride and Prejudice.

The Byronic hero is still popular today, especially in Young Adult fiction. Edward Cullen, Christian Grey… People even go nuts for Severus Snape!  I guess girls love the passionate man, the one who is desperate to get the girl at any cost. We want to be adored, and pursued, and to feel confident in his affections. Luke-warm “yeah, I guess you’re all right” love doesn’t get our motors running in the same way.

But seriously, that doesn’t mean that the guy has to be a jerk. 

Rochester tries to marry Jane under false pretenses, knowing she would refuse if she knew how things really stood. Edward Cullen constantly ignores Bella’s demands. He tries to stop her from seeing her best friend. Christian Grey… well… I don’t think I even need to say any more. Can’t we have more heroes who adore passionately, but respect boundaries? More love interests who listen to the word “no”? Can’t we have a romance where the man passively allows the woman to make a choice, while worshipping from afar? We need more men like Fitzwilliam Darcy, who makes a proposal, accepts it, and then backs off and gives the girl some space.

I wanted to make a book like that.

Enter Howard Mullins.

Howard, or Howie as he prefers to be called, is a zombie. He isn’t like those vampire lovers, who want to hunt and capture and penetrate. Howie is more of the patiently-waiting type of heroes. Howie just really, really likes Stella’s mind. He wants to be with her, but he backs off when he is told. He worships her, but he respects her decisions. He cooks. He cleans. He wants to make her happy by serving her.

The decision, ultimately, is up to Stella.

A Different Kind Of Heroine

There aren’t many fat heroines out there, and when you do see a fat heroine, chances are she isn’t an action heroine.

Enter Stella Blunt.

Stella is a big girl, with a big presence, and a brown belt in Kung Fu. She prefers to lash out first, make apologies never, and woe betide anyone who gets in her way.

Society has very fixed ideas about what a “fit” woman looks like. When you have a bold, active type of woman in a story, she isn’t usually overweight. Overweight girls in story books are often lazy, clumsy, and unsure of themselves. They lose weight as they gain confidence and energy.

So what are we telling teen girls about how they should think about themselves? Everyone has days when they “feel fat”, which really means “feel unattractive”. When you “feel fat” you don’t want to wear revealing clothes, or go out and do active things with your body. “Feeling fat” is a feeling of body shame.

I wanted to show someone different – someone who doesn’t let her weight stop her, or define her. Someone who doesn’t try to change how she looks, or wish she was someone else.

That’s not to say that Stella doesn’t need to come to terms with her weight. Specifically, she needs to come to terms with how others might perceive her. Years of bullying and teasing at school has left her with a big chip on her shoulder. She expects prejudice. She expects to be hurt. She makes fat jokes about herself before others have the chance.

Stella has some things to learn before she can truly feel comfortable in her own skin. But one thing is for sure – she is going to kick a lot of zombie ass along the way.

Where’s The Zombie Love?

People think vampires are so sexy, and I’ve never really understood why. Maybe it’s the whole penetration aspect? I don’t know. Anyway. I decided that other kinds of undead deserve a little love, too. What’s wrong with zombies?

Oh, sure, people point out that vampires are sentient while zombies are not. In fact, that’s the whole point of zombies. Plus they are gross and rotting, whereas vampires are just supernaturally strong and attractive and (depending on who you are reading) may sparkle.

But what if a zombie wasn’t completely zombified yet? What if he was only half-dead, in the way that a vampire is only half-dead? He wouldn’t come swooping in your window at night, or sweep you off your feet with his Byronic temperament, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. A lot of the things that vampires do are… well… creepy. Thirsting for your blood, watching you sleep… Plus, I personally wouldn’t be happy in a relationship where I could be physically overpowered.

A zombie, now… a zombie would probably be happy to follow your lead. He would love you for your brains. He would be a willing and adoring follower.

It has been done – I’m sure Warm Bodies is the first thing that comes to mind – but I don’t think it is done often enough.

And so I conceived of Howard Mullins, the anti-vampire. In my feminist retelling of the classic boy-meets-girl, the woman is the strong one, the leader, the decision maker, and he really loves her brains.

…Plus I get to make rigor mortis jokes.

To read excerpts from my not-too-serious zombie romance, click here.

Excerpt From Chapter Two

The boy didn’t seem to take any notes or even really pay the slightest attention to the teacher. This would have seemed normal if he had been sneaking texts on his cell phone under his desk or picking zits or something, but he wasn’t. He was gazing at me. Like, chin on one hand, content to sit like this forever, might as well be gazing out the window kind of staring.

So there I was, trying to focus on Chemistry, with those glazed eyes boring into my brain. And the thing that really sucks about coming into the semester when it’s already underway is that the teacher was talking about stuff they learned yesterday and I wasn’t there yesterday.

The class was learning organic chemistry, and my class back home had been learning molarity stuff. So instead of talking about things that would have made sense to me, like stoichiometrical equations, he spoke gobbledegook about cis and trans bonds.

Then he drew a picture of a molecule on the board and ask us to name it. Someone volunteered that it was obviously named 2-methylpropan-1-ol and I was like “HOW THE ACTUAL FUCK” and it was hard to try and figure any of it out with Stare Boy giving me the heaving heebie jeebies.

Of course the teacher called on this guy a couple of times, since he was blatantly not paying attention.

“..so how many lines would we draw to indicate this bond? Anyone? Howard? Howard? HOWARD?”

Apparently Stare Boy’s name was Howard, which meant that he had problems on multiple levels of his life. A good-looking guy behind Stare Boy – I mean, Howard – kicked his seat. “Yo, wake up, Genius,” said the kicker, and the class tittered like a laugh track. The kick seemed to wake Howard.

“Hmm?” he said, tearing his eyes away from my face and turning toward the teacher.

“Howard, I realize the presence of a new student among us is a novel event in an otherwise lacklustre week, but could I trouble you to try and pay attention to me? It would make me feel so useful,” said the teacher, whose name I didn’t know because teachers don’t walk into classes that they’ve been teaching for a month and say “hello, class, my name is still Mr. Repetitive.”

Stare Boy smiled awkwardly. A minute later he had lapsed back into his bizarre reverie, and now, thanks to the teacher’s intervention, the whole class was noticing it and consequently noticing me.

“HOWARD,” said the teacher, “EYES TO THE FRONT, PLEASE, OR I WILL ASK YOU TO EXCUSE YOURSELF. Can you tell me what change I would need to make to turn this into an ester?”

Howard looked blank. Or, I should say, continued to do so.

“Well, I suggest you figure out where you have stashed your brain and dust it off, because it appears to be growing cobwebs,” said the teacher dryly. “And please face forward. You’re making the young lady self-conscious.”

There were some hoots, and the chair kicker said, “Howard’s a chubby chaser.”

“You got bad taste, man,” said another voice in the class. There was more laughter.

Have you ever felt like you were going to spontaneously combust through sheer shame? I was having violent fantasies about everyone in the room, especially Howard. And so, with that in mind, I spoke to a fellow student for the first time at my new school.

“If you don’t quit staring at me and leave me alone, I swear to God I will end you,” I snarled softly. He glanced down at his shoes, but he didn’t speak. When the bell rang, the teacher came up to me and asked me where I had been in my old chemistry class, and said he’d put together some notes for me so I could catch up.

Stare Boy didn’t file out with the rest of the students. He just stood there, holding his stuff. At least he was staring at his sneakers now, instead of my face. I cast him a dirty look and got the hell out of there. For a minute I thought he had followed me, but I blasted through the crowd and when I took a second to glance back, there was no one I recognized behind me.

Read more excerpts from Chemistry by clicking here.

(Is the word “excerpt” losing all meaning to you? No? Just me?)

Excerpt From Chapter One

The world was ending. Actually, it wasn’t, but that’s how it felt at the time. Looking back on it, I can see how stupid it was to feel that way, because I’ve come a lot closer to a literal “end of the world” since then. But when you’re just a teenager and you’ve spent your entire life in one place, and your parents decide to uproot you and move to the other end of the country with only a few weeks notice, it really feels like the end of the world. If anything, I think I handled the real thing a lot better than I handled the news that we were moving.

“I’m not moving to a whole new school! I’ll be eaten alive!”

“They’re human beings, not ravening wolves, Stella,” said Dad. “You will adjust.”

“Adjust! It took me over a decade to ‘adjust’ here! Do you remember my first day at kindergarten? They said I looked like a Weeble! They kept trying to push me over in the playground to see if I would fall down!”

“But now you know Kung Fu,” Dad pointed out.

“Besides, we aren’t sending you back to kindergarten,” my mother said. “Although you’re certainly acting like a five year old.”

“I have a right to be ANGRY when you just pluck me out of school in the middle of the school year with VIRTUALLY NO WARNING.”

“This could end up being a good thing, Stella. When you move to a new place, you get to start out fresh! You can start a whole new look, a whole new attitude!” said my mother.

“What’s wrong with my FUCKING ATTITUDE?”

“Do you want the short list or the unexpurgated version?” snapped Dad.

“Listen,” I said with folded arms, “I don’t care if they offered you a golden fucking Cadillac and a mansion on a hill. I’m NOT going. I’m not starting over. I’m not going through ALL OF THAT AGAIN. You were there! Don’t pretend I’ve had it easy! And now, when I’m FINALLY starting to fit in…”

My mother started to cry. My father just pointed up the stairs. I stomped up to my room and slammed my door. Feeling unsatisfied, I slammed it several more times. For some reason that didn’t magically convince my parents to reverse their carefully thought out decision.

I sat on my bed and hyperventilated with anger and fear. School had been a nightmare for so many years, but lately, I felt like I finaly had it under control. I took martial arts classes and no one pushed me around any more. People started to tolerate me in class projects, because I actually understood the material. They started wanting me on their team in gym, because I could blast a volleyball across the room.

Most kids still didn’t like me, and I didn’t like them, but they left me alone. I even had friends now. Only two, but how many does a person really need, anyway?

Now my parents wanted me to start all over. Friendless again, fresh fodder for bullies, back to having to be paired up with the teacher because no one wanted to partner with me, back to being the only person not invited to so-and-so’s birthday. I couldn’t do it all over again. I just couldn’t.

There was a knock at my door.

“Go away! I’m busy trying to figure out how to become an emancipated minor!”

“Let me in, Stella.” Dad’s voice had an uncharacteristically ominous tone.

I dragged my feet to the door and yanked it open.

“I don’t want to talk about it any more, Dad.”

“Good,” he said sharply, “Maybe that means that you’ll listen.” He sat on my bed and studied me seriously for a moment. Dad doesn’t look like himself when he’s not smiling. I found it unnerving.

“Your mother getting this job… it’s a really big deal.”

“I know,” I said.

“It’s her dream job, and it’s a big raise from what she’s making now.”

“I know.”

“You can go to high school anywhere. I can be an accountant anywhere. But your mother has a lot of talent which is going to waste where she is. It’s a near miracle that she got chosen over the competition in Vancouver but she did because she is THAT good.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know.”

“So, we are picking up our lives and dragging them over the Rocky Mountains, because if we didn’t, your mother would probably regret it forever. You may have trouble settling in, but the world will not end. Even if it’s terrible, you’ll be graduating and going to university in a couple of years anyway.” Dad clapped his hands together. “So. You have two options. You can stomp and swear and make our lives miserable, and still end up in Vancouver. Or you can put on your big girl pants and spare your mother’s feelings a little.”

“Dad. I’m a size 18. All my pants are big girl pants.”

“I am speaking figuratively and YOU KNOW IT. Look. We can drag you there kicking and screaming, or you can feign a little bit of grace and keep your mouth shut. It’s your choice. But either way, we’re going.”

We were quiet for a long time while I stared at the wall. Then I nodded.

“I know.”

“That’s my girl. Now, go and apologize to your mother. For some reason she’s crying on MY pillow, and if you don’t stop her, it’s going to be a damp night for me.”

I did, and then I started keeping my mouth shut. I kept my mouth shut when they put our home up for sale. I kept my mouth shut when my parents told me to cull half of my possessions and sell them on Kijiji or donate them to the Diabetes Association. I even kept my mouth shut when they assured me that I would do fine in a new school, which was optimistic to the point of sheer idiocy.

My parents tackled our move to Vancouver with the indecent enthusiasm that they brought to most of their endeavours. They researched the hell out of the city and planned everything in excruciating detail. But I couldn’t share in their excitement. All I could do was suppress my hatred of the whole affair, and I did that by keeping my mouth shut.

Usually our house was full of playful banter and lively debate, but now our family dynamic took on the solemn atmosphere of a viewing at a funeral parlour. It really started to bother them. Dad spent the interminably long plane ride to Vancouver trying to get me to talk.

“Stella, where do you think the white goes when the snow melts?”

Shrug.

“I’m thinking of boycotting shampoo. I think we should demand the real poo.”

Nod.

“I’ve decided that I want to become a professional male escort with my own reality show, but I’ll need you both to change your names to Darlene.”

“Sounds nice.”

On the layover at Edmonton Airport, Dad smacked his thighs irritably. “Stella, I appreciate that you’re trying not to make our lives miserable, and I love you for it, I do, but this sullen silence is not actually any better. Can’t you find some middle ground?”

“Nope.” I turned the page of my book.

“Something. Anything. You’re freaking us out.”

“Look,” I said. “You say ‘move’ and I move. I can try not to piss and moan out loud, but if you want me to smile and act thrilled to be moving to the Yoga Pants capital of Canada, you’re asking too much. There’s a fine line between accepting your fate with dignity and being a fucking Pollyanna, and that line is a fake smile.”

“Then piss and moan,” said my mother suddenly.

“What?”

“I mean that I would rather you gripe at us than sit there all mute and sulky. It feels weird. We’re just not used to it. We’re used to you complaining.”

“Thanks, Mom… That makes me feel so beloved.”

“Look, we’re not asking you to be someone you’re not. We’re just asking that you try not to be mean in your misery. And this stubborn muteness is not actually all that less mean. It makes us feel guilty. So go ahead and complain so that we can argue with you a bit and feel a little more righteous and a little less like murderers.”

“Fine. I’ll try to complain. As a favour to you.”

“That’s my girl.”

“But my life is still over,” I said.

“I’m sure it is, honey, I’m sure it is,” Dad said cheerfully, reopening his book. “As long as you’re unhappy about it.”

Want to read more excerpts from Chemistry? Click here.

 

Chemistry Sample: Preface

I used to fear imaginary things: monsters, ghosts, mummies, and things that go bump in the night. When I got older, I focused on more realistic threats: rape, car accidents, social humiliation, conservative world leaders…

Now here I was facing attack from the kind of horror that I long ago relegated to childish nightmares.

Except that I was awake, and this was real, and I could very well be killed in a disgustingly gory way.

Maybe I should have gained some comfort from the fact that I was loved. Adored. Worshipped, even. When you are in love, you are supposed to hold hands, and face death with serene acceptance.

Maybe we could share a dramatic kiss as we died in the tradition of star crossed lovers everywhere.

“Fuck that shit,” I said as my chainsaw sputtered to life and began to roar. “Let’s slice off some heads.”

 Click here to read more excerpts from Chemistry