Michelle Hauck's Blog, page 76
April 12, 2015
Team True Grit #4: REECE, YA Contemporary
Genre: YA/Contemporary
Title: REECE
Word Count: 51,000
Movie Genre: Comedy - Reece says, "My real life has had enough suspense, horror and drama. What I need is a good laugh. And maybe some romance, but as a fifteen-year-old, don't tell the guys I watch some RomCom now and then, ok?"
Pitch:
Biracial foster teen Reece's new home is Wickersley Academy. But, when a classmate is hospitalized because of a hate crime, Reece'll have to convince the whole school of what he witnessed before the perpetrator walks.
First 250:
The slow-moving crowd on the courtyard had me trapped. The sluggish pace could be explained by the lack of space or the August heat, but my money rested on boredom. There sure wasn’t anything here getting me excited about the coming year. “What about this one, Reece?” Holly asked.
My fists clenched as I pushed through the crowd to my social worker’s side. She held yet another brochure highlighting one of Wickersley Academy’s student groups.
I raised an eyebrow. “The debate team? I don’t think so.”
A smile spread across Holly’s face. “But you love to argue.”
“Yeah, well, you won’t have to argue with me for a while now that you are sticking me in this place.” The comment was unfair, but maybe being here wasn’t a good idea. Foster kids didn't go to boarding school.
Holly’s spine stiffened. “I’m not sticking you anywhere. You earned your spot here, remember?”
My shoulder brushed the rough bark of a nearby tree. Plucking a leaf from a low branch, I began the process of tearing the smooth, green part away from the tiny veins that ran through it.
Holly’s hand flitted to my arm. “I thought you were excited about being here.”
“I was, but come on, Holly. Get real! Look at those kids.” I pulled away, pointing to a group of students gathered around a fountain. “Look at their clothes. They look like they should be stepping out of some overly-priced store at the mall. I’m not gonna fit in here.”
Title: REECE
Word Count: 51,000
Movie Genre: Comedy - Reece says, "My real life has had enough suspense, horror and drama. What I need is a good laugh. And maybe some romance, but as a fifteen-year-old, don't tell the guys I watch some RomCom now and then, ok?"
Pitch:
Biracial foster teen Reece's new home is Wickersley Academy. But, when a classmate is hospitalized because of a hate crime, Reece'll have to convince the whole school of what he witnessed before the perpetrator walks.
First 250:
The slow-moving crowd on the courtyard had me trapped. The sluggish pace could be explained by the lack of space or the August heat, but my money rested on boredom. There sure wasn’t anything here getting me excited about the coming year. “What about this one, Reece?” Holly asked.
My fists clenched as I pushed through the crowd to my social worker’s side. She held yet another brochure highlighting one of Wickersley Academy’s student groups.
I raised an eyebrow. “The debate team? I don’t think so.”
A smile spread across Holly’s face. “But you love to argue.”
“Yeah, well, you won’t have to argue with me for a while now that you are sticking me in this place.” The comment was unfair, but maybe being here wasn’t a good idea. Foster kids didn't go to boarding school.
Holly’s spine stiffened. “I’m not sticking you anywhere. You earned your spot here, remember?”
My shoulder brushed the rough bark of a nearby tree. Plucking a leaf from a low branch, I began the process of tearing the smooth, green part away from the tiny veins that ran through it.
Holly’s hand flitted to my arm. “I thought you were excited about being here.”
“I was, but come on, Holly. Get real! Look at those kids.” I pulled away, pointing to a group of students gathered around a fountain. “Look at their clothes. They look like they should be stepping out of some overly-priced store at the mall. I’m not gonna fit in here.”
Team True Grit #3: WHERE I BELONG, YA Contemporary
Genre: YA ContemporaryTitle: Where I BelongWord Count: 80,000Genre of favorite movie: Pirate Movies
Pitch:
Straight-A student, Milagros Vargas immigrated illegally. When a Senate candidate mentions her in a speech, Milagros must decide if she’ll risk the danger the media attention brings in order to be a voice for immigrants.
250:
Who takes weekend trips to Cancun? My weekend consisted of babysitting my siblings. Charlie Wheeler, on the other hand, spent his weekend zip lining and kayaking. He sits in front of me in AP English and was jabbering about it when I walked in.
“Hi, Millie,” Charlie says, turning around.
Polite hellos—that’s as far as we usually go; both of us uncomfortable with how our lives intersect. My mom has been the Wheelers’ housekeeper for seven years.
Nearly every girl in school has had the obligatory Charlie Wheeler crush, and each one of them has subsequently realized that she is out of his league. I had my obligatory crush when I was twelve, and it only occasionally makes its reappearance when he flashes me that orthodontically-perfected smile.
“I’m having a pool party next Friday. It’s early dismissal,” he says.
“I can’t, but thanks.” Leave it to Charlie to not see the irony of his invitation. On early dismissal days, I babysit because my mother is babysitting his sister. Some of us have priorities we must put in front of pleasures.
“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.” He gives me a hopeful smile before turning around.
I try not to throw myself pity parties for missing out on standard teenage fare. When I do, Mami tells me of her nineteen-year-old uncle who was arrested for sympathizing with insurrectionists who opposed the Guatemalan dictator. Her teenage concerns were avoiding assault and theft.
Yeah, her teenage anxieties trump mine any day of the week.
Pitch:
Straight-A student, Milagros Vargas immigrated illegally. When a Senate candidate mentions her in a speech, Milagros must decide if she’ll risk the danger the media attention brings in order to be a voice for immigrants.
250:
Who takes weekend trips to Cancun? My weekend consisted of babysitting my siblings. Charlie Wheeler, on the other hand, spent his weekend zip lining and kayaking. He sits in front of me in AP English and was jabbering about it when I walked in.
“Hi, Millie,” Charlie says, turning around.
Polite hellos—that’s as far as we usually go; both of us uncomfortable with how our lives intersect. My mom has been the Wheelers’ housekeeper for seven years.
Nearly every girl in school has had the obligatory Charlie Wheeler crush, and each one of them has subsequently realized that she is out of his league. I had my obligatory crush when I was twelve, and it only occasionally makes its reappearance when he flashes me that orthodontically-perfected smile.
“I’m having a pool party next Friday. It’s early dismissal,” he says.
“I can’t, but thanks.” Leave it to Charlie to not see the irony of his invitation. On early dismissal days, I babysit because my mother is babysitting his sister. Some of us have priorities we must put in front of pleasures.
“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.” He gives me a hopeful smile before turning around.
I try not to throw myself pity parties for missing out on standard teenage fare. When I do, Mami tells me of her nineteen-year-old uncle who was arrested for sympathizing with insurrectionists who opposed the Guatemalan dictator. Her teenage concerns were avoiding assault and theft.
Yeah, her teenage anxieties trump mine any day of the week.
Team True Grit #2: QUEST FOR THE KALEVALA, MG Fantasy
Genre: MG FantasyTitle: QUEST FOR THE KALEVALAWord Count: 49,000
Genre: Henry knows there's nothing better than a comic book adaptation, but his nerdy sister Lauren prefers all those girlie Jane Austen remakes (bo-ring!).
Pitch:
When ten-year-old Henry discovers he’s descended from Finland’s mythological heroes, his first epic task involves stealing an ancient relic before power-hungry scientists, including his Dad, (mis)use it and inadvertently disrupt the Earth’s polarity.
First 250:
A gazillion white cardboard boxes block my escape route. I’m gonna have to unpack my way out of the kitchen. Picking a box at random, I slice the tape. Beside me, Mom unpacks like a maniac—paper flying over her shoulder as she works.
She flattens an empty box and says, “Oh, Hen, I forgot to tell you the good news. I found you a mowing job!”
“A job? Seriously?” I drop the pan in my hands with a clang. “Like moving to Finland wasn’t bad enough, now you’re putting me to work?”
“It’s not like I’m asking you to pick up forty hours a week.” She plops a wooden spoon onto the pile on the counter. “Just an hour helping out a nice elderly neighbor.”
“The creepy old Finnish lady?” I wipe my dusty hands on my basketball shorts. “Does she even speak English?”
“Henry James Rollins.” Mom narrows her eyes at me from her nest of papers. “Be nice! Mrs. Lönnrot speaks English as well as you do.”
I cringe. Why did Dad have to name me after some punk rock geezer? “Oh come on, Lawn-rot? Even her name creeps me out!”
“It’s a very old, non-creepy Finnish name,” she says, hazel eyes giving me her familiar “you’re one nudge from fouling out” stare.
“Have you ever seen her in the sunlight? Maybe she’s a vampire. No, no, I’ve got it—an evil enchantress!” I shudder dramatically. I can’t help it. That lady gives me a serious case of the squirms.
Genre: Henry knows there's nothing better than a comic book adaptation, but his nerdy sister Lauren prefers all those girlie Jane Austen remakes (bo-ring!).
Pitch:
When ten-year-old Henry discovers he’s descended from Finland’s mythological heroes, his first epic task involves stealing an ancient relic before power-hungry scientists, including his Dad, (mis)use it and inadvertently disrupt the Earth’s polarity.
First 250:
A gazillion white cardboard boxes block my escape route. I’m gonna have to unpack my way out of the kitchen. Picking a box at random, I slice the tape. Beside me, Mom unpacks like a maniac—paper flying over her shoulder as she works.
She flattens an empty box and says, “Oh, Hen, I forgot to tell you the good news. I found you a mowing job!”
“A job? Seriously?” I drop the pan in my hands with a clang. “Like moving to Finland wasn’t bad enough, now you’re putting me to work?”
“It’s not like I’m asking you to pick up forty hours a week.” She plops a wooden spoon onto the pile on the counter. “Just an hour helping out a nice elderly neighbor.”
“The creepy old Finnish lady?” I wipe my dusty hands on my basketball shorts. “Does she even speak English?”
“Henry James Rollins.” Mom narrows her eyes at me from her nest of papers. “Be nice! Mrs. Lönnrot speaks English as well as you do.”
I cringe. Why did Dad have to name me after some punk rock geezer? “Oh come on, Lawn-rot? Even her name creeps me out!”
“It’s a very old, non-creepy Finnish name,” she says, hazel eyes giving me her familiar “you’re one nudge from fouling out” stare.
“Have you ever seen her in the sunlight? Maybe she’s a vampire. No, no, I’ve got it—an evil enchantress!” I shudder dramatically. I can’t help it. That lady gives me a serious case of the squirms.
Team True Grit #1: XAVIER HOWELL and the CHAOS EFFECT, MG Science Fiction/Humor
Genre: MG Science-Fiction HumorTitle: Xavier Howell and the Chaos EffectWord Count: 42,000
Movie Genre: Xavier really likes cult science fiction and fantasy movies, the ones that are so lame they're funny. Like rolling-on-the-floor-can’t-breathe funny. He definitely never ever watches chick-flicks. Ever!
35 Word Pitch:
Twelve-year-old, havoc-prone Xavier Howell has an inactive microchip hidden in his brain containing his late mother’s super-secret AI research. Now, he must harness his knack for making things explode or, quite literally, lose his head.
250 Words:
I thought to myself: Self, that’s not supposed to happen—just as the second dung bomb exploded.
Watching the smelly, sticky, brownish-green substance fly through the air like shrapnel, I realized I'd made a slight miscalculation somewhere. Crouched in one of the wheat fields that surrounded the colony on Kevin 5, I took a moment to review the parameters of my little beetle catching science fair experiment.
Mr. Finch, the colony's bug guy, assured me the chemical I'd used in the traps would be poisonous to the black-bellied grain beetle. The heap of cow dung covering the trays of chemicals was meant to attract said beetles (again according to the illustrious Mr. Finch)—not blowup. Perhaps I should've consulted the colony chemist, too?
The third beetle-trap-turned-dung-bomb exploded.
That's when the smell first hit me. I tried very hard not to let any more air penetrate my nose or mouth. The endeavor was unsuccessful and so I gagged … repeatedly.
"Xavier Howell!"
I cringed. I didn't recognize the voice (the colony was not that small), but his tone was certainly familiar. My reputation had preceded me. Turning around slowly, I came face to knees with one of the grain farmers. I couldn't remember the man’s name, but I might've been distracted by the fact that he was covered—from head to toe—in dung.
It was difficult to talk without first inhaling the putrid air. "Yes, sir?"
"What in—" His angry reply was cut off by the fourth and final explosion.
Movie Genre: Xavier really likes cult science fiction and fantasy movies, the ones that are so lame they're funny. Like rolling-on-the-floor-can’t-breathe funny. He definitely never ever watches chick-flicks. Ever!
35 Word Pitch:
Twelve-year-old, havoc-prone Xavier Howell has an inactive microchip hidden in his brain containing his late mother’s super-secret AI research. Now, he must harness his knack for making things explode or, quite literally, lose his head.
250 Words:
I thought to myself: Self, that’s not supposed to happen—just as the second dung bomb exploded.
Watching the smelly, sticky, brownish-green substance fly through the air like shrapnel, I realized I'd made a slight miscalculation somewhere. Crouched in one of the wheat fields that surrounded the colony on Kevin 5, I took a moment to review the parameters of my little beetle catching science fair experiment.
Mr. Finch, the colony's bug guy, assured me the chemical I'd used in the traps would be poisonous to the black-bellied grain beetle. The heap of cow dung covering the trays of chemicals was meant to attract said beetles (again according to the illustrious Mr. Finch)—not blowup. Perhaps I should've consulted the colony chemist, too?
The third beetle-trap-turned-dung-bomb exploded.
That's when the smell first hit me. I tried very hard not to let any more air penetrate my nose or mouth. The endeavor was unsuccessful and so I gagged … repeatedly.
"Xavier Howell!"
I cringed. I didn't recognize the voice (the colony was not that small), but his tone was certainly familiar. My reputation had preceded me. Turning around slowly, I came face to knees with one of the grain farmers. I couldn't remember the man’s name, but I might've been distracted by the fact that he was covered—from head to toe—in dung.
It was difficult to talk without first inhaling the putrid air. "Yes, sir?"
"What in—" His angry reply was cut off by the fourth and final explosion.
Team True Grit #8: PEACE, LOVE, AND ROCK & ROLL, Adult Cont Romance
Genre: Adult Contemporary RomanceTitle: Peace, Love, and Rock & RollWord Count: 65,000
Genre: When they're watching movies together, my MCs are the type to go on Netflix try to watch all the "important" movies before Oscar night. But they'll often bail on that and watch a superhero flick instead.
Pitch: As teens, they're too young. In their twenties, she's engaged and he's on tour. At 40, Soviet-born rocker Nikolai tells Rolling Stone that Miranda's still his muse. Can she give first love a third try?
First 250 words:
I’m lost. I’m freezing, and I’m lost.
Miranda stared up at a street sign that she could no longer read. This had seemed like such a good idea a half hour ago – slipping the handlers and striking out on her own during this afternoon free period while the other kids were writing postcards home or listening to their Walkmans in their hotel rooms. She had a few months’ worth of Russian under her belt and a basic knowledge of the geography. She was a mature seventeen year old – practically a senior. How hard could it be to navigate the streets of Leningrad?
Pretty hard, actually. Her Russian was good enough to ace her language class back home and get her a spot on this cultural exchange trip, out here in the real world it sucked. Sure, she could read Cyrillic – sound out street signs and billboards. But that didn’t get her far when she didn’t know where she was, and all too soon panic set in. Letters started swimming together and reading comprehension flatlined. H sounds like N, she kept telling herself. C is an S, P is an R. T is still a T, right?
Miranda turned another corner and found a ghost town. Fire escapes corseted upper floors of high-rise apartment buildings. Blacked-out, boarded-up windows showed no signs of life. She felt like the only person for miles. There may as well have been a neon sign over her head, an arrow pointing down: AMERICAN. PLEASE MUG ME.
Genre: When they're watching movies together, my MCs are the type to go on Netflix try to watch all the "important" movies before Oscar night. But they'll often bail on that and watch a superhero flick instead.
Pitch: As teens, they're too young. In their twenties, she's engaged and he's on tour. At 40, Soviet-born rocker Nikolai tells Rolling Stone that Miranda's still his muse. Can she give first love a third try?
First 250 words:
I’m lost. I’m freezing, and I’m lost.
Miranda stared up at a street sign that she could no longer read. This had seemed like such a good idea a half hour ago – slipping the handlers and striking out on her own during this afternoon free period while the other kids were writing postcards home or listening to their Walkmans in their hotel rooms. She had a few months’ worth of Russian under her belt and a basic knowledge of the geography. She was a mature seventeen year old – practically a senior. How hard could it be to navigate the streets of Leningrad?
Pretty hard, actually. Her Russian was good enough to ace her language class back home and get her a spot on this cultural exchange trip, out here in the real world it sucked. Sure, she could read Cyrillic – sound out street signs and billboards. But that didn’t get her far when she didn’t know where she was, and all too soon panic set in. Letters started swimming together and reading comprehension flatlined. H sounds like N, she kept telling herself. C is an S, P is an R. T is still a T, right?
Miranda turned another corner and found a ghost town. Fire escapes corseted upper floors of high-rise apartment buildings. Blacked-out, boarded-up windows showed no signs of life. She felt like the only person for miles. There may as well have been a neon sign over her head, an arrow pointing down: AMERICAN. PLEASE MUG ME.
Team True Grit #7: THE EXORCIST'S ASSISTANT, Adult Paranormal Thriller
Genre: Adult Paranormal ThrillerTitle: THE EXORCIST’S ASSISTANTWord Count: 86,000
Genre: Scarlet loves historical films, especially ones about World War II. She never knew why until recently—she just discovered she lived in Nazi Germany in her previous life.
Pitch: In a previous life, Scarlet bargained with a demon to protect her son. Desperate to reclaim her soul, she locates an exorcist with his own sordid past. To succeed, she must help him find redemption.
First 250 words:
Scarlet would have killed for a glass of merlot.
Although the day stretched long behind her, she was still in her office reviewing a status report at seven on a Friday evening. “What’s this idiot project manager doing?” She rubbed her eyes. What was the guy’s name? She didn’t know. She didn’t care.
She was composing a scathing email detailing his point-by-point failings when a breeze rushed over her face carrying the stench of burnt human flesh.
“Aw, hell, no,” she blurted and then gagged.
It was back.
For one stomach-clenching, head-twisting, freezing-sweat moment, Scarlet was no longer an almost-fifty vice president of technology in a large bank. Instead, she was eight years old again, shivering under the bedcovers. Despite the glare of the overhead lights and the twilight glow coming through her window, midnight darkness blasted her skin with a chilly breeze.
The thing had been harassing her for days, coming and going as it pleased—assuming, of course, that she wasn’t suffering from some kind of psychosis. “Go away,” she said.
The words had no effect.
Pissed off—but whether at herself or the presence, she wasn’t sure—she threw her pen across the office. It bounced against the closed door and landed in her trash can.
Well, that did a lot of good.
Scarlet stood and peered out the small frosted window along the door frame to see what she expected: nothing.
Genre: Scarlet loves historical films, especially ones about World War II. She never knew why until recently—she just discovered she lived in Nazi Germany in her previous life.
Pitch: In a previous life, Scarlet bargained with a demon to protect her son. Desperate to reclaim her soul, she locates an exorcist with his own sordid past. To succeed, she must help him find redemption.
First 250 words:
Scarlet would have killed for a glass of merlot.
Although the day stretched long behind her, she was still in her office reviewing a status report at seven on a Friday evening. “What’s this idiot project manager doing?” She rubbed her eyes. What was the guy’s name? She didn’t know. She didn’t care.
She was composing a scathing email detailing his point-by-point failings when a breeze rushed over her face carrying the stench of burnt human flesh.
“Aw, hell, no,” she blurted and then gagged.
It was back.
For one stomach-clenching, head-twisting, freezing-sweat moment, Scarlet was no longer an almost-fifty vice president of technology in a large bank. Instead, she was eight years old again, shivering under the bedcovers. Despite the glare of the overhead lights and the twilight glow coming through her window, midnight darkness blasted her skin with a chilly breeze.
The thing had been harassing her for days, coming and going as it pleased—assuming, of course, that she wasn’t suffering from some kind of psychosis. “Go away,” she said.
The words had no effect.
Pissed off—but whether at herself or the presence, she wasn’t sure—she threw her pen across the office. It bounced against the closed door and landed in her trash can.
Well, that did a lot of good.
Scarlet stood and peered out the small frosted window along the door frame to see what she expected: nothing.
Team True Grit #6: EERIE, Adult Paranormal Thriller
Genre: Adult Paranormal ThrillerTitle: EERIE Word Count: 110,000
Genre: The huge geek she is, if Hailey had time to watch movies (she doesn't, what with the family pub and all), she'd love a mind-bending sci-fi flick. Like Inception. Basically any show involving messed up dreams, strange gadgets or fantastic applications in physics would make her feel a bit less like a weirdo.
Pitch: A Parascience freshman, Hailey goes from studying dreams to living a nightmare when she provokes the half-rotted, omnipotent gentleman that killed her family. Terrified, she must banish this Dream Creature before he murders her too.
First 250:
Preface
Hailey plunked her head on the desk and moaned. Why, why…why couldn’t she just tell Asher that she wanted out, that she was afraid—afraid of the others, afraid of dying, and even afraid of…of him. After all, he was planning to kill her. Only temporarily, but still.
She couldn’t believe she was even considering it, but she had no choice. If Asher didn’t kill her, one of the others would. Permanently.
And Asher protected her. He cared about her. He loved her, right? Asher—an emotionless creature. Hailey wasn’t sure if he was even capable of love.Oh, this made absolutely no sense. Kill her to save her? Was that love?
Groaning, she rolled her forehead on the desk. She simply had to pull on her big girl pants and tell him she was done.
That’s all.
Groaning again, she squeezed her eyes shut as a swarm of butterflies took flight in her stomach.
Lately, she felt an awful lot like Jekyll and Hyde: logical, rational ParaScience student by day—emotional monstrosity at night. Come to think of it, this was more like the Phantom of the Opera, and she was the naïve student who didn’t realize the secret and strange angel she’d come to know was actually a homicidal maniac…
“I’m not a maniac.”
Hailey jumped up. Did she say that out loud? She didn’t mean to.
Asher slid behind her, putting his lips next to her ear. “But I suppose I am homicidal,” he whispered.
Genre: The huge geek she is, if Hailey had time to watch movies (she doesn't, what with the family pub and all), she'd love a mind-bending sci-fi flick. Like Inception. Basically any show involving messed up dreams, strange gadgets or fantastic applications in physics would make her feel a bit less like a weirdo.
Pitch: A Parascience freshman, Hailey goes from studying dreams to living a nightmare when she provokes the half-rotted, omnipotent gentleman that killed her family. Terrified, she must banish this Dream Creature before he murders her too.
First 250:
Preface
Hailey plunked her head on the desk and moaned. Why, why…why couldn’t she just tell Asher that she wanted out, that she was afraid—afraid of the others, afraid of dying, and even afraid of…of him. After all, he was planning to kill her. Only temporarily, but still.
She couldn’t believe she was even considering it, but she had no choice. If Asher didn’t kill her, one of the others would. Permanently.
And Asher protected her. He cared about her. He loved her, right? Asher—an emotionless creature. Hailey wasn’t sure if he was even capable of love.Oh, this made absolutely no sense. Kill her to save her? Was that love?
Groaning, she rolled her forehead on the desk. She simply had to pull on her big girl pants and tell him she was done.
That’s all.
Groaning again, she squeezed her eyes shut as a swarm of butterflies took flight in her stomach.
Lately, she felt an awful lot like Jekyll and Hyde: logical, rational ParaScience student by day—emotional monstrosity at night. Come to think of it, this was more like the Phantom of the Opera, and she was the naïve student who didn’t realize the secret and strange angel she’d come to know was actually a homicidal maniac…
“I’m not a maniac.”
Hailey jumped up. Did she say that out loud? She didn’t mean to.
Asher slid behind her, putting his lips next to her ear. “But I suppose I am homicidal,” he whispered.
April 11, 2015
Writer's Block
I'm pretty good about churning out a chapter a week of new writing. That's when I have a work in progress I'm drafting. Nothing to write home about in the speed department. I don't do thousands of pages a day or get a lot of scenes done in a month. A solid four chapters that are clean and on point as far as the plot, stakes, and characters in a month is my goal. But I do it like clockwork.
Until the day when I don't.
Now I tend to also take breaks at times, especially when I hosting a contest or if there is something keeping me busy at home. Returning to work in August is always a killer of my writing until my schedule slows down. Going on vacation provides a nice break. I like to skip a week of writing every once in a while.
I'm not talking about just being lazy once in awhile.
It's the problem when you want to write, but something is stopping you. When nothing big is happening behind the scenes to occupy my mind, and I still can't get motivated, I know there's a problem.
Some writers get down about their work. Too many rejections, whether it be for query letters or from editors. Or maybe CP critiques make you lose your desire to create new content. That can stop me for a day or two. Though I do lose confidence in my writing, it usually wears off fairly quickly, so I can manage my chapter a week. I remind myself that I like the story even if no one else might.
People sometimes lose interest in their work in progress and want to move on to something else. That's not me either. I'm set that once I start something, I keep working on it until it's finished. Call me stubborn that way. I like to plow straight through from beginning to end.
No. When I have trouble sitting down to write on a project, it's a sign that something is wrong. Not with me (for a change), but with what I wrote. A tiny voice is nagging in my inner ear saying don't add to this project, something isn't working. A correction has to be done to a scene, or a chapter, or to the direction it's taking. What I wrote is tugging a place deep inside my gut and won't let me continue until a fix is made.
Writer's block for me is a message from my gut, letting me know the writing is off track. It can take a few days to catch. It can take longer to figure out the problem and fix. But it's a big whoa, slow down, and think about this sign from my instinct.
So how about you? Is writer's block a warning or a loss of confidence? How do you get past it?
Until the day when I don't.
Now I tend to also take breaks at times, especially when I hosting a contest or if there is something keeping me busy at home. Returning to work in August is always a killer of my writing until my schedule slows down. Going on vacation provides a nice break. I like to skip a week of writing every once in a while.
I'm not talking about just being lazy once in awhile.
It's the problem when you want to write, but something is stopping you. When nothing big is happening behind the scenes to occupy my mind, and I still can't get motivated, I know there's a problem.
Some writers get down about their work. Too many rejections, whether it be for query letters or from editors. Or maybe CP critiques make you lose your desire to create new content. That can stop me for a day or two. Though I do lose confidence in my writing, it usually wears off fairly quickly, so I can manage my chapter a week. I remind myself that I like the story even if no one else might.
People sometimes lose interest in their work in progress and want to move on to something else. That's not me either. I'm set that once I start something, I keep working on it until it's finished. Call me stubborn that way. I like to plow straight through from beginning to end.
No. When I have trouble sitting down to write on a project, it's a sign that something is wrong. Not with me (for a change), but with what I wrote. A tiny voice is nagging in my inner ear saying don't add to this project, something isn't working. A correction has to be done to a scene, or a chapter, or to the direction it's taking. What I wrote is tugging a place deep inside my gut and won't let me continue until a fix is made.
Writer's block for me is a message from my gut, letting me know the writing is off track. It can take a few days to catch. It can take longer to figure out the problem and fix. But it's a big whoa, slow down, and think about this sign from my instinct.
So how about you? Is writer's block a warning or a loss of confidence? How do you get past it?
April 10, 2015
Pitchslam Fun-- Entry Revenge
Fair is fair, so the Pitchslam crew are putting up their entries for your entertainment. Feel free to leave your critique. This little number is the manuscript that got me an agent, not from a contest but from the query.
Name: Michelle Hauck
Genre: MG Humor
Title: Pygmy Hazards
Word Count: 34,000
Movie Genre: Like any loyal military hamster, Tom would be fond of the Army hero Audie Murphy's movies.
Pitch:
Classroom hamster Tom escapes to avoid the pygmies dressing him as Strawberry Shortcake again. Now the principal wants him erased. To reach the woods, he’ll have to risk help from a grabby pygmy called Squeezer.250 Words:
Tom stared between the bars of his two-foot rectangular prison in the corner of the classroom. Close by, fellow prisoner Jerry the Third hunkered near their water bottle, chewing on a Kleenex box. There had been no brochure telling Tom what to expect when he was snapped up from the animal menagerie store two months ago. And if there was, he wouldn’t have believed it. Tom shook his head with a sigh, and then refocused on his guard duty. Across the room, the pygmies sat in a circle on the floor, their two legs bent crisscross applesauce, as they passed around a stuffed rabbit. The giant in the ugly brown and purple striped dress at their center had a look of patience plastered on her face.
One of the pygmies, Squeezer, held the rabbit. She gave it a shake so that its long ears flung in every direction. Tom winced and fingered his own neck. “Now that I’m seven, my mommy says I’m a big girl,” Squeezer said. “And when I’m eight, I’m going to marry Joey.”
The pygmy with red hair and freckles, sat up taller. “Not happening.”
“It’s my birthday. I’ve decided,” Squeezer hissed.
The giant cleared her throat. “Please pass Mr. Flopsey, Maggie. You’ve told us all about your birthday. Now your turn is over.”
Squeezer scowled, then threw the rabbit over.
Tom turned to whisper to Jerry. “When the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the three, we make a break for it, recruit.”
Also see:
Mary Ann
Laura
Caitlyn
Kimberly
Diana
Jamie
Name: Michelle Hauck
Genre: MG Humor
Title: Pygmy Hazards
Word Count: 34,000
Movie Genre: Like any loyal military hamster, Tom would be fond of the Army hero Audie Murphy's movies.
Pitch:
Classroom hamster Tom escapes to avoid the pygmies dressing him as Strawberry Shortcake again. Now the principal wants him erased. To reach the woods, he’ll have to risk help from a grabby pygmy called Squeezer.250 Words:
Tom stared between the bars of his two-foot rectangular prison in the corner of the classroom. Close by, fellow prisoner Jerry the Third hunkered near their water bottle, chewing on a Kleenex box. There had been no brochure telling Tom what to expect when he was snapped up from the animal menagerie store two months ago. And if there was, he wouldn’t have believed it. Tom shook his head with a sigh, and then refocused on his guard duty. Across the room, the pygmies sat in a circle on the floor, their two legs bent crisscross applesauce, as they passed around a stuffed rabbit. The giant in the ugly brown and purple striped dress at their center had a look of patience plastered on her face.
One of the pygmies, Squeezer, held the rabbit. She gave it a shake so that its long ears flung in every direction. Tom winced and fingered his own neck. “Now that I’m seven, my mommy says I’m a big girl,” Squeezer said. “And when I’m eight, I’m going to marry Joey.”
The pygmy with red hair and freckles, sat up taller. “Not happening.”
“It’s my birthday. I’ve decided,” Squeezer hissed.
The giant cleared her throat. “Please pass Mr. Flopsey, Maggie. You’ve told us all about your birthday. Now your turn is over.”
Squeezer scowled, then threw the rabbit over.
Tom turned to whisper to Jerry. “When the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the three, we make a break for it, recruit.”
Also see:
Mary Ann
Laura
Caitlyn
Kimberly
Diana
Jamie
Pitchslam Fun: Entry Revenge 2
And this is my latest finished manuscript, currently on submission.
Name: Michelle Hauck
Genre: YA Epic Fantasy
Title: Grudging
Word Count: 90,000
Movie Genre: Ramiro would approve of movies like Die Hard or Rocky. Stories that show real men earning their beards.
Pitch: Never wrote one. But it would say something about Ramiro's city being surrounding and him needing to find allies among their tradition enemies the witch women of the swamp. He has to get beyond the hate and go above his precepts or Colina Hermosa and everyone he loves will burn.
250:
Ramiro guided his horse to the waiting ranks of the pelotón, taking his position at the back of the long file of riders along the dusty road. Sweat slicked his palms inside his leather gloves. He maneuvered his mare, Sancha, sidestepping her into position among the other soldiers. In their rightful place, he laid the reins across his knee, signaling that he’d be using his legs, not the leather straps.
Ramiro wedged his feet in the stirrups as Alvito moved his mount alongside, pinning Ramiro between him and the next man. “Don’t look so pale,” Alvito said. “You’ll not earn your beard this day.” He stroked his own neatly sculpted black whiskers, adding a wink to cut the sting of his words. His beard was artwork, all straight lines and right angles, shaved to the edge of the jaw.
From Ramiro’s other side, Sergeant Gomez gave him a playful push with a fist the size of a ham. The force would have knocked Ramiro off his saddle if he hadn’t locked his legs. Gomez’s beard was a study in opposites from Alvito. A nest of brambles to his chest, his hair grew wherever it could sprout. “Rookie. You’ll stay the bisoño until we tell you otherwise.”
“Peach face,” someone said from the middle rank. A gentle ribbing to let Ramiro know they remembered this would be his first real ride.
First ride. First time as something other than a trainee squire brought along to clean armor or mind the warhorses.
Name: Michelle Hauck
Genre: YA Epic Fantasy
Title: Grudging
Word Count: 90,000
Movie Genre: Ramiro would approve of movies like Die Hard or Rocky. Stories that show real men earning their beards.
Pitch: Never wrote one. But it would say something about Ramiro's city being surrounding and him needing to find allies among their tradition enemies the witch women of the swamp. He has to get beyond the hate and go above his precepts or Colina Hermosa and everyone he loves will burn.
250:
Ramiro guided his horse to the waiting ranks of the pelotón, taking his position at the back of the long file of riders along the dusty road. Sweat slicked his palms inside his leather gloves. He maneuvered his mare, Sancha, sidestepping her into position among the other soldiers. In their rightful place, he laid the reins across his knee, signaling that he’d be using his legs, not the leather straps.
Ramiro wedged his feet in the stirrups as Alvito moved his mount alongside, pinning Ramiro between him and the next man. “Don’t look so pale,” Alvito said. “You’ll not earn your beard this day.” He stroked his own neatly sculpted black whiskers, adding a wink to cut the sting of his words. His beard was artwork, all straight lines and right angles, shaved to the edge of the jaw.
From Ramiro’s other side, Sergeant Gomez gave him a playful push with a fist the size of a ham. The force would have knocked Ramiro off his saddle if he hadn’t locked his legs. Gomez’s beard was a study in opposites from Alvito. A nest of brambles to his chest, his hair grew wherever it could sprout. “Rookie. You’ll stay the bisoño until we tell you otherwise.”
“Peach face,” someone said from the middle rank. A gentle ribbing to let Ramiro know they remembered this would be his first real ride.
First ride. First time as something other than a trainee squire brought along to clean armor or mind the warhorses.
