Megan Bostic's Blog, page 69

Writing Wednesday: Taking Zoey

     This is a bit from my new edgy YA novel, Taking Zoey.  I was inspired to write it after reading an article in the paper of an Australian girl's bones being found on a river bank.  Her name was Zahara.  How terrifying would it be to be taken like that, and if you were held for any amount of time before death, how desolate and hopeless you would feel.
Warning, this section would be rated PG-13 or R by the motion pictures association.  Consider yourself warned.
He practically threw me back in the closet.  He grabbed the lamp, my plate from the night before, and he took my clothes and left leaving me wet, cold, and in darkness.  I crawled to the little door at the end of my closet, opened it up and went through.  I continued toward the vent around the corner.  Though I was freezing, I unwrapped myself from my towel, and dropped it to the floor, then I slithered my way up into the vent.  Without clothes on, I had more room to wriggle around, but still got caught up at the hips.  Another few days of not eating would probably do it though.      I squirmed my way back out, and was about to grab my towel when I heard my abductor coming down the stairs.  I quickly grabbed my towel and crawled as quickly as I could back to the door, went through it, and had just sat down on my mattress when my door opened.       "Why are you panting?" he asked.     I had to come up with something fast, but what?  "I was just crying."     "Oh."  He looked uncomfortable, which struck me as odd.  Maybe in his warped way he was actually starting to like me?  To feel for me?  To think of me as a human being instead of an object?  As a daughter figure even?  I mean, though he was a sick fuck and damaged his kid for life he must have loved her in his way?  Shown her some kind of normal affection at times.  He handed me a pair of sweats, boxer shorts and socks.     "Thank you," I said taking them from him.  I slid everything on immediately having been naked and freezing.   He turned to go and I said, "Are you ever going to let me go?"     He never turned back to me and all he said was, "I've asked Georgia to marry me.  She'll be moving in soon.  She doesn't know I have a child."  Then he left, locking me in behind him.     So that was it.  He was going to kill me.

2fer Tuesday: Yeah, there's a Santa Claus (by Maxwell Cynn)

My friend Max has graciously written us a holiday story for my 2fer blog.  He's a great guy, the writer of novels as well as short stories. Enjoy.
Bobby Naughton was fifteen; next Thursday. He didn't believe in Santa any more, if he ever really had. Two men in his building played Santa. They were both drunks, and one bugged him. It was the way the man looked at him when no one else was looking. His mom had said the guy was probably just gay, but Mr. Tarlton was gay, and he didn't make Bobby uncomfortable.Christmas around Bobby's place was just another day when the heat didn't work and his mother didn't come home. He got a few days out of school, but Bobby liked school. He had friends there, and he ate a good breakfast and lunch every day. There wasn't much to eat at home. Christmas was just a week without food as far as Bobby was concerned.He had a real Christmas once, when he was seven. He was living in a foster home while his mom was in jail. The people he stayed with had a tree, wrapped presents, and everything. They cooked a big special dinner on Christmas and people came over with more presents. It was pretty cool. Bobby figured Christmas was for rich people. They spent a lot of money, bought a lot of stuff, and gave it to each other. It was just another excuse for them to buy stuff.Bobby left and walked toward the corner store. He didn't have any money, but he was hopeful. He was getting a little old for the sad-lost-child ploy, but the student-who-lost-his-bus-fare had been working out pretty good. Walking toward him down the sidewalk was another of those fake Santas. His suit looked a lot nicer than the ones he had seen. He must work at one of the expensive stores. "Ho, ho, ho." the fake Santa rumbled. "Merry Christmas.""Knock it off," Bobby jeered. "Save it for the kiddie crowd.""A cynical young lad," Santa said jovially. "And a Scrooge.""Scrooge was a rich guy. I'm no rich guy.""So you are familiar with the old miser.""I read the book, in the library. Not a bad read.""So what would you like for Christmas, young Cratchit?""I'll just take a couple of bucks now, if you can spare it.""I generally deliver presents on Christmas Eve. I don't think I have anything on me.""Of course not. Santa doesn't visit poor kids anyway.""Of course he does. In the very early days I dropped coins down the chimney into poor childrens' stockings. The poor are most important at Christmas.""I asked my mom once why Santa never came to our apartment and she said because we don't have a chimney.""How old are you, young Cratchit?""Fifteen, why? Gonna say I'm too old now?""No. I just don't know how you never got on my list."  Santa rubbed his beard."If you could have anything in the world, anything at all, what would it be?""Why? I won't get it.""Humor me. I feel I owe you fifteen Christmases."Bobby thought for a moment."A ticket to New York.""Odd request. What is in New York? A very wonderful city, but very dangerous for a young man all alone.""It's not for me. It's for Heather.""Heather?""She's my, ah, friend. She lives about a block from me. We're in art class together.""So why does Heather need a ticket to New York?""She applied to art school there, but she has to go to an interview and show them her work. Her mom can't afford the bus ticket. So she can't go. That bus ticket would be her ticket out of here. She's good, man, real good. All she needs is a break and she'll be famous some day."Bobby stopped himself. He didn't know why he was opening up to this Santa-want-a-be. The whole thing with Heather had been eating him up. He'd sell body-parts if he could to get the money, but there wasn't much hope. Heather was the coolest girl he had ever known. He just wanted her to be happy, and get out of this trash-dump of a neighborhood
."I'll see what I can do, young man. A noble request deserves serious consideration.""Yeah, right. Whatever. Merry Christmas, man."Bobby walked on past and down the street. He was feeling a lump in his throat and he wasn't going to lose it in front of the supermarket Santa. Life really sucked when someone as talented as Heather was going to lose her big break because her mom couldn't afford a lousy bus ticket to New York City. This Christmas was going to be worse than usual.Bobby spent the next couple of days mostly at home, hungry and bored.  Heather hadn't come around and he was starting to get worried.   On Christmas Eve, someone knocked on the door. Maybe it was the police looking for his mom again. He went to the door and opened it cautiously. It was Heather."Hey, Bobby." "Heather! Where have you been? I went by your place and no one was there.""I've been in New York, with my mom.""New York? How did you manage that?""Some old guy came by the other day and handed me tickets and enough money for a hotel. Mom went with me, and they accepted me, Bobby! Were moving to New York in a couple of weeks. Mom found a job while we were there and everything. Can you believe it? I'm going to art school!"She wrapped her arms around Bobby's neck and kissed him square on the mouth. He was stunned to say the least. "But I haven't told you the best part. Remember that old camera you found and gave me for Christmas last year?""Yeah.""I took pictures of all the stuff you painted in the ally behind my building, in case someone painted over it. I showed them the pictures and they want you to apply. You've got better grades than me, Bobby. They are sure to accept you. They already like your work. They said as long as your grades were good, they would give you a full scholarship."The sound of Christmas bells rang out from the old church on the corner. Bobby didn't know what to say. Then it hit him."God Bless Us Every One."

2fer Tuesday: Yeah, there's a Santa Clause (by Maxwell Cynn)

My friend Max has graciously written us a holiday story for my 2fer blog.  He's a great guy, the writer of novels as well as short stories. Enjoy.
Bobby Naughton was fifteen; next Thursday. He didn't believe in Santa any more, if he ever really had. Two men in his building played Santa. They were both drunks, and one bugged him. It was the way the man looked at him when no one else was looking. His mom had said the guy was probably just gay, but Mr. Tarlton was gay, and he didn't make Bobby uncomfortable.
Christmas around Bobby's place was just another day when the heat didn't work and his mother didn't come home. He got a few days out of school, but Bobby liked school. He had friends there, and he ate a good breakfast and lunch every day. There wasn't much to eat at home. Christmas was just a week without food as far as Bobby was concerned.
He had a real Christmas once, when he was seven. He was living in a foster home while his mom was in jail. The people he stayed with had a tree, wrapped presents, and everything. They cooked a big special dinner on Christmas and people came over with more presents. It was pretty cool. Bobby figured Christmas was for rich people. They spent a lot of money, bought a lot of stuff, and gave it to each other. It was just another excuse for them to buy stuff.
Bobby left and walked toward the corner store. He didn't have any money, but he was hopeful. He was getting a little old for the sad-lost-child ploy, but the student-who-lost-his-bus-fare had been working out pretty good. Walking toward him down the sidewalk was another of those fake Santas. His suit looked a lot nicer than the ones he had seen. He must work at one of the expensive stores.
"Ho, ho, ho." the fake Santa rumbled. "Merry Christmas."
"Knock it off," Bobby jeered. "Save it for the kiddie crowd."
"A cynical young lad," Santa said jovially. "And a Scrooge."
"Scrooge was a rich guy. I'm no rich guy."
"So you are familiar with the old miser."
"I read the book, in the library. Not a bad read."
"So what would you like for Christmas, young Cratchit?"
"I'll just take a couple of bucks now, if you can spare it."
"I generally deliver presents on Christmas Eve. I don't think I have anything on me."
"Of course not. Santa doesn't visit poor kids anyway."
"Of course he does. In the very early days I dropped coins down the chimney into poor childrens' stockings. The poor are most important at Christmas."
"I asked my mom once why Santa never came to our apartment and she said because we don't have a chimney."
"How old are you, young Cratchit?"
"Fifteen, why? Gonna say I'm too old now?"
"No. I just don't know how you never got on my list."  Santa rubbed his beard."If you could have anything in the world, anything at all, what would it be?"
"Why? I won't get it."
"Humor me. I feel I owe you fifteen Christmases."
Bobby thought for a moment.
"A ticket to New York."
"Odd request. What is in New York? A very wonderful city, but very dangerous for a young man all alone."
"It's not for me. It's for Heather."
"Heather?"
"She's my, ah, friend. She lives about a block from me. We're in art class together."
"So why does Heather need a ticket to New York?"
"She applied to art school there, but she has to go to an interview and show them her work. Her mom can't afford the bus ticket. So she can't go. That bus ticket would be her ticket out of here. She's good, man, real good. All she needs is a break and she'll be famous some day."
Bobby stopped himself. He didn't know why he was opening up to this Santa-want-a-be. The whole thing with Heather had been eating him up. He'd sell body-parts if he could to get the money, but there wasn't much hope. Heather was the coolest girl he had ever known. He just wanted her to be happy, and get out of this trash-dump of a neighborhood
."I'll see what I can do, young man. A noble request deserves serious consideration."
"Yeah, right. Whatever. Merry Christmas, man."
Bobby walked on past and down the street. He was feeling a lump in his throat and he wasn't going to lose it in front of the supermarket Santa. Life really sucked when someone as talented as Heather was going to lose her big break because her mom couldn't afford a lousy bus ticket to New York City. This Christmas was going to be worse than usual.
Bobby spent the next couple of days mostly at home, hungry and bored.  Heather hadn't come around and he was starting to get worried.   On Christmas Eve, someone knocked on the door. Maybe it was the police looking for his mom again. He went to the door and opened it cautiously. It was Heather.
"Hey, Bobby." 
"Heather! Where have you been? I went by your place and no one was there."
"I've been in New York, with my mom."
"New York? How did you manage that?"
"Some old guy came by the other day and handed me tickets and enough money for a hotel. Mom went with me, and they accepted me, Bobby! Were moving to New York in a couple of weeks. Mom found a job while we were there and everything. Can you believe it? I'm going to art school!"
She wrapped her arms around Bobby's neck and kissed him square on the mouth. He was stunned to say the least. 
"But I haven't told you the best part. Remember that old camera you found and gave me for Christmas last year?"
"Yeah."
"I took pictures of all the stuff you painted in the ally behind my building, in case someone painted over it. I showed them the pictures and they want you to apply. You've got better grades than me, Bobby. They are sure to accept you. They already like your work. They said as long as your grades were good, they would give you a full scholarship."The sound of Christmas bells rang out from the old church on the corner. Bobby didn't know what to say. Then it hit him.
"God Bless Us Every One."

Manic Monday: People who suck and other pretentious bi%*es

So Saturday night was the office Christmas party (was a blast up til 4 am. yikes).  The party is always held at a hotel, and we always spend the night.  Sunday morning rolls around, me and the girls, including my niece Gina, are waiting for my brother, whom I'm giving a ride home.  So while he checks out I decide to pull the car around so me and the girls can load up.  I pull to the front of the hotel, two cars immediately pull in behind me, which I think nothing of.  I get out, open my trunk, and I go back into the lobby.  The girls and I gather our stuff, which is right inside the door, go out and start loading up.


As I'm loading stuff into the back, this woman approaches the van and asks the girls, "Do you know who is driving this van?"  Number one, dumb question you idiot.  I don't think three teenage girls would climb into the van of a stranger.

I say, "I am," as I continue to load bags in the back.

She says, "Well, we need to pull our car up so we can load our bags."

I hope the look on my face said it all, I have no idea.  My first inclination was to bitch slap her.  But you can get arrested for that these days.  So I just said, "um, I'm loading my car."  What I wanted to say was, oh, sorry, I didn't realize you were the only and most important patron at this hotel you pretentious $&#^()(@%&#*(#*^.

And then I stewed and stewed and stewed.  If you're reading this, country- club- snob- at- the -Inn- at -Gig Harbor, you suck.

That is all.  Thanks for reading.

Megan

Friend or Foe Friday

I've been inspired by so many lately, tis the season I suppose, I can't possibly name one person today.  There are my email writing friends who make me laugh every day and are always there when I need a sounding board.
 
There's my 2K11 group, basically we're all in this crazy rollercoaster that is the publishing biz together.  It's nice to have that kind of support.

Some of the people in my office went to the Red Cross Real Heroes Breakfast this morning.  I didn't go this time, but have in the past.  The people honored there are those who go out of their way or risk their lives to help someone else, a stranger even.  If that's not inspiring, I don't know what it.

Rusty also has been inspiring me to keep  my chin up and look at the good all around me.  If you read my post yesterday, he's the one who told me when I'm feeling down to think about what I'm thankful for and why.

Basically I'm surrounded by goodness, and people who have my back, and support me, and that makes me want to be that kind of person too.  Not just during the holiday season, but all year round.  Emerson has a wonderful quote.  "Scatter joy!"  That's what I want to do.  I don't always want to be the angsty writer, but the scatterer of joy, the sprinkler of bliss, the caster of rapture.

It's a choice.  We all have it.  I choose it. 


~Megan

Thought Provoking Thursday: Cancer

I read a blog the other day about what Elizabeth Edward's death and what it might mean to people.  At first I thought, why would it mean much to me?  But upon further reading, I realized what the blog author was saying.  Cancer death.  It speaks to people.  For those with cancer,  it may bring thoughts of their own personal battle with the disease.  They may reflect on their own life, their own mortality.

The good thing is, as the blog author states, there are no two cases alike.  And Elizabeth Edward's fate will not be every cancer patient's fate.  While it's inevitable some will pass, others will prevail, survive, and have long lives ahead of them.

For those of us who have lost a loved one to cancer, we think about all the others out there struggling with the disease.  I'm reminded of my mother-in-law and her last days and how I wish they would just find a damn cure so no one else has to suffer like that.

I also wonder what I'd do if I contracted the disease.  I know I would try to make the most of every single day I had left.  Here's another thought, we should be doing that already, because you never know where life will take you.  Maybe you will get cancer, maybe you'll get hit by a bus.  You're not guaranteed a long and healthy life.

This is why I wrote Never Eighteen (This blog is soooo not about my book, but it organically led me there, bear with me).  It's a reminder that you only get one shot at life, so take advantage of it.  I admit, I don't always do it.  There are days in which I brood, days that I feel sorry for myself.  Days I'm lonely, days I'm frustrated.  I need to start taking the advice of my own novel and just enjoy the time I have left here.

The other day I was in quite a dark state of mind.  A friend said, don't think about all the bad things in life, think about all the things you're thankful for and why.  Your mood will turn around. 

So, here's a challenge, join me if you will.  Whenever I'm feeling sorry for myself I will 1) Think about something I'm thankful for.  2) Do something, big or small, that if I died today, would leave me without regret not having done it (yes, that's not a well formed sentence, but in the scheme of things, it doesn't really matter, does it?)

Wow, this blog ended up way longer than I intended.  I digressed a bit, but it's all connected.

Thanks for reading.  Catch you on the flip side.

~Megan

Writing Wednesday: Lockdown

Since my friend Caron Guillo edited this novel for me (and she's really good, mine you), I've been excited about doing revisions on it (no time yet, but it will come).  Here's an excerpt:


     We got off the bus, and Brady and I headed to our lockers, which were right next to each other.  That's how we met.  I remember the first time I laid eyes on him I nearly melted.  He has these sexy blonde curls that shine like the rays of the sun, a nice smile with perfectly straight white teeth, the cutest dimples you'll ever see, and eyes so blue they'll break your heart.        I'd try to talk to him all the time, small talk, about the weather or school, or movies.  He wouldn't say much.   I thought he wasn't interested.   Then one day he walked right up to me and said, "Kat, I think you're the cutest most interesting girl at this school." My heart pounded loudly in my ears, and I could feel all the blood inside me rush up to my cheeks.  We've been pretty much inseparable since then.     The day in question, I remember, I was leaning up against my locker and he whispered in my ear.  I can't remember now what he said, but I remember his words tickled, sent shivers down my spine and caused a break out of goose bumps down my arms and legs.     Matt's locker was on the other side of mine.  Whenever I saw him, I made it a point to say hello, to connect with him.  We were friends once, best friends, really, all the way from kindergarten until about sixth or seventh grade.  He lived across the street from me.    We were the kind of friends that had our very own secret hideout, unknown and hidden from the rest of the world.  The kind of friends that made pacts in blood, and the friends that promised each other if we were still single by thirty, we'd marry.  But things change.  People change.  We began liking different things, hanging out in different groups, drifting apart.  It happens.     I tried to reach out to him because I worried about the path he was heading down.  His parents?  They fought all the time, always have.  I don't know the why's or how's about it, but sometimes they were so loud I could hear them through my bedroom window.  Matt turned to pot and video games to drown out their voices, to escape it.  I don't think they knew or cared very much, so who could blame him?  I can't imagine what it would be like to live with two people that hated each other, that seemed to hate their own child. 

2fer Tuesday: Val Conrad

Blogging.  I learned a great deal about the history of blogs (short for Web Logs) and other Internet marvels in a Jeffrey Deaver audio book while driving south across Texas to a Christmas Festival where my publisher is featuring some of its authors.  In case you've never driven across Texas, imagine going from New York City to Atlanta, Chicago to Oklahoma City, or Portland, Oregon, to San Francisco – minus most of the traffic. Megan now resides in one of my favorite places in the country in the Pacific Northwest (because I now live in West Texas, where there are about as many trees and hills as your dining table), and I'm not-so-secretly jealous of her for that.  I miss green.  I even miss the rain.  And I miss there being something visible above the flat horizon – but hey, in my part of Texas, we do have some fantastic skyscapes and sunsets.  Geography aside, back to Mr. Deaver.  With the first book of his I read, I was hooked on how subtle he was in leading the reader to think something happened that did not.  Kinda like how you watched the whole movie The Sixth Sense, believing that Bruce Willis's character was alive and trying hard to be helpful.  Praying for Sleep (1994) was what I considered to be the ultimate in suspense.  So I opened a file and started typing one day in 1995, hoping to find that breathtaking feeling in my own novel.  I had no idea writing it would take me ten years, and getting it published with an independent press another five, but it is now a book.  (And here's there shameless self-promotion that it's available through Amazon.com , and its sequel should be listed there mere days from now.)  My first scene isn't even in the book now when 180,000 words got whittled back to about 110,000. And I realized, explaining the story to another legendary author – Jodi Thomas – that I've known my protagonist longer than I've known my husband.  I don't know if Megan's had characters rattling around in her head that long, or if she's ever had one tap her on the shoulder and say, "Nope, I won't do THAT."  Apparently this seems absurd to my friends who don't write, but those who do write understand.  I'm not really suffering from schizophrenia. The world in my novels is fictional and it's all in my head, but it's real to me. Most of the time, I even know the difference.  Now if I could just find a way to imagine I was back living in the Northwest...   
Thanks!
val

Val Conrad, RN, BS, BSN
Author:  Blood of Like Souls
...and coming soon - Tears of Like Souls
www.valconrad.com

I met Val a couple years ago through a mutual friend.  She's right about the Pacific Northwest you know, I wouldn't live any where else (well, I might like to take a few weeks in AZ in the winter).
And yes, my characters are constantly rattling around in my head telling me what comes next, almost to the point of annoyance because many times I am so far away from my computer (work, driving, hell, okay, maybe not that last one) I can't get it down.

Thanks Val for being part of my Tfer Tuesday.  Check out her book, Blood Like Souls, paperback or Kindle, it sounds great (haven't read it, going to order it today) it's got some fantabulous reviews. 

Oh, look, and here's the sequel. 

Thanks for reading.

Catch you on the flip side.

~Megan

Tfer Tuesday: Val Conrad

Blogging.  I learned a great deal about the history of blogs (short for Web Logs) and other Internet marvels in a Jeffrey Deaver audio book while driving south across Texas to a Christmas Festival where my publisher is featuring some of its authors.  In case you've never driven across Texas, imagine going from New York City to Atlanta, Chicago to Oklahoma City, or Portland, Oregon, to San Francisco – minus most of the traffic. Megan now resides in one of my favorite places in the country in the Pacific Northwest (because I now live in West Texas, where there are about as many trees and hills as your dining table), and I'm not-so-secretly jealous of her for that.  I miss green.  I even miss the rain.  And I miss there being something visible above the flat horizon – but hey, in my part of Texas, we do have some fantastic skyscapes and sunsets.  Geography aside, back to Mr. Deaver.  With the first book of his I read, I was hooked on how subtle he was in leading the reader to think something happened that did not.  Kinda like how you watched the whole movie The Sixth Sense, believing that Bruce Willis's character was alive and trying hard to be helpful.  Praying for Sleep (1994) was what I considered to be the ultimate in suspense.  So I opened a file and started typing one day in 1995, hoping to find that breathtaking feeling in my own novel.  I had no idea writing it would take me ten years, and getting it published with an independent press another five, but it is now a book.  (And here's there shameless self-promotion that it's available through Amazon.com , and its sequel should be listed there mere days from now.)  My first scene isn't even in the book now when 180,000 words got whittled back to about 110,000. And I realized, explaining the story to another legendary author – Jodi Thomas – that I've known my protagonist longer than I've known my husband.  I don't know if Megan's had characters rattling around in her head that long, or if she's ever had one tap her on the shoulder and say, "Nope, I won't do THAT."  Apparently this seems absurd to my friends who don't write, but those who do write understand.  I'm not really suffering from schizophrenia. The world in my novels is fictional and it's all in my head, but it's real to me. Most of the time, I even know the difference.  Now if I could just find a way to imagine I was back living in the Northwest...   
Thanks!
val

Val Conrad, RN, BS, BSN
Author:  Blood of Like Souls
...and coming soon - Tears of Like Souls
www.valconrad.com

I met Val a couple years ago through a mutual friend.  She's right about the Pacific Northwest you know, I wouldn't live any where else (well, I might like to take a few weeks in AZ in the winter).
And yes, my characters are constantly rattling around in my head telling me what comes next, almost to the point of annoyance because many times I am so far away from my computer (work, driving, hell, okay, maybe not that last one) I can't get it down.

Thanks Val for being part of my Tfer Tuesday.  Check out her book, Blood Like Souls, paperback or Kindle, it sounds great (haven't read it, going to order it today) it's got some fantabulous reviews. 

Oh, look, and here's the sequel. 

Thanks for reading.

Catch you on the flip side.

~Megan

Manic Monday

More like Panic Monday.  I went to a book release party the other night for the charming Holly Cupala.  As I stood watching a video she and her husband put together, and seeing the name Ellen Hopkins pop up on the screen saying how wonderful Holly's novel is, I started to panic.  Just sitting here writing it I'm starting to panic again.

I started thinking about my novel, Never Eighteen.  Wondering if anyone would say nice things about it, like Ms. Hopkins did for Holly.  Wondering if I would get an author to blurb it for me.  Wondering if people would love it or hate it.  

I have to step back from the ledge and realize, some people will not like it.  It's just a fact.  As far as blurbing?  I hope I get blurbs from authors, but if I don't, maybe it's not the end of the world?

Okay, enough panicking. 

Now I'll just lament.  Looks like I lost a blog follower. :(  Such is life.

Tomorrow's Twofer Tuesday will feature author, Val Conrad, so be sure to come check it out.

Be great today everyone.

~Megan