Thursday, 17 May 2012

Upping the Emotional Level of Your Work with THE EMOTION THESAURUS

Have you seen the Random Acts of Kindness Blitz going on all over the blogosphere this week? It would be hard to miss, but the backstory behind it is a little harder to find. And that's deliberate because the creators of this wonderful movement are crazy modest! Their original idea was to do something to celebrate the release of their book THE EMOTION THESAURUS, but there was a whole lot more promotion for every other writer on the planet than for themselves. So, in case you missed the book's release, let me shout it from the rooftops. THE EMOTION THESAURUS is an amazing book based on the popular tool that Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi had as a regular feature on the Bookshelf Muse, their wonderful blog. I had the good fortune to beta this for them, so I know it is a fantastic tool, and I highly recommend it. Want to know more? Read on!


What is The Emotion Thesaurus?

ANGELA: It’s a tool to help writers show, not tell, emotion. Formatted similar to a thesaurus, the ET explores 75 different emotions, and lists out possible body language cues, visceral sensations (like shivering, a flush of heat or adrenaline, tightness in the throat, etc.) and thoughts a character might experience for each. The result is a brainstorming guide to reference when a writer is struggling with a fresh way to show the reader what a character is feeling.

What prompted you to create the Emotion Thesaurus?

BECCA: Back in 2004, the stars aligned, God smiled, and Angela and I hooked up with the same group of writers at Critique Circle. One of the first things I realized when I started seriously examining my writing was that my characters were always shifting their feet, narrowing their eyes, and fidgeting. To come up with new ways to show emotions, I started a list of physical indicators that I had seen in books, observations I had made, and phrases I had experimented with myself. Right about then, Angela opined that her characters were always biting their lips, nodding, and smiling or frowning. She began a discussion in our critique group about how to convey emotions through different indicators. When everyone responded that they struggled with the same thing, I shared my bare-bones list of emotional indicators. We agreed to contribute to the list and Angela kept a master copy.

That was how the idea started. It grew when we began The Bookshelf Muse and decided to open with a series of blog posts that covered this material. The information was pretty well received and people started telling us they’d love to have it all in a nifty book format. And...vóila! An Emotion Thesaurus was born.

How did the Emotion Thesaurus change your own writing?

ANGELA: well as Becca mentioned, it got us out of the eye rolling/shrugging/smiling camp, but for me, that was only the start. Overall, it forced me to really understand what telling was, a lesson I could apply to all aspects of description. I began thinking more about how the words I used and the descriptions I chose could create an emotional response in the reader. After all, that’s the goal--connect with the reader and make them FEEL.

Every aspect of the writing process comes back to emotion: character, storyline, description, theme, etc. Our goal is to use empathy to connect the character and his struggles to the reader. We write to offer them an emotional experience, hopefully one that will remain past the last page because it holds a personal meaning to their own life journey. It is in our nature to hunger for meaning, and to search for answers. So when an author writes emotion well, not only does a window open into the character’s world, one opens within the reader as well.

What are three common mistakes you see writers make when writing emotion?

BECCA:

Not enough emotion. Readers need to feel what the character’s feeling. Yet I see so many characters who don’t seem to feel much of anything. Ways to effectively convey emotion: 1) Don’t name the emotion (She was overcome with sadness); show it (She rubbed at her chest, where a gnawing void seemed to have swallowed her heart). 2) Always show a character’s physical response to any event or conversation that elicits emotion; don’t rely on dialogue alone to get the point across. 3) Make sure events in your story are dramatic enough to elicit true emotion; if they’re not, you need to add some conflict and tension to the mix.


Weak emotional range. Humans have the capacity to experience dozens of different emotions, yet many writers tend to focus on the most obvious ones. Characters who only express happiness, sadness, and anger fall flat after awhile. To avoid this problem: For each scene, look at your character’s goal and the conflict that keeps him from achieving it. Then ask yourself: What does my character feel as a result of this roadblock? If the answer is always the same, try varying those roadblocks or throwing in a new conflict to broaden his emotional experiences.


Repetitive emotional description. We created The Emotion Thesaurus because we found this problem to be a nearly universal struggle among writers. We’re all a bit stymied when it comes to writing emotion because we only notice and retain the really obvious cues, and we tend to rely on them. But any repetition weakens the writing. To avoid this problem: 1) Note the cues that you overuse, then search and destroy when editing. 2) Observe, watch movies, and jot down physical responses to different feelings. 3) Practice expressing old cues in fresh new ways (he clenched his fists becomes his fingers curled into trembling fists of knuckle and bone), and 4) use The Emotion Thesaurus to brainstorm new ways to express emotion.

The Emotion Thesaurus is available in ebook, PDF & print...which is better? 

All three are awesome! LOL, no, really it's all about what the writer needs. The print book is handy because each entry is a 2 page spread like an open sandwich, meaning you can see the whole entry at once. Ereaders are smaller, so you can't do this, but the digital copies have handy-dandy links so a writer can move from entry to entry easily. 

Angela Ackerman & Becca Puglisi are possibly twins separated at birth, living in different countries. The Bookshelf Muse blog duo are co-authors of The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer's Guide to Character Expression. Listing the body language, visceral reactions and thoughts associated with 75 different emotions, this brainstorming guide is a valuable tool for showing, not telling, emotion.

Wednesday, 16 May 2012

WOW Wednesday: Katherine Longshore on Not Writing Alone

Today's Wow guest is Katherine Longshore, who in the course of her life, has worked as a dishwasher, lingerie seller, coffee barista, cake decorator, ship's steward, video rental clerk, freelance journalist, travel agent, waitress, contracts manager, bookseller and Montessori preschool teacher. But in writing for teens, she has finally found her calling. Through writing, she is able to encompass all her loves. Becoming a character made of words, exploring new worlds,and living history. Her debut novel, GILT, is a fascinating young adult novel set in the court of Henry VIII.

Not Writing Alone

By Katherine Longshore

Thank you so much, Martina and Marissa for having me on the blog. You offer so much to aspiring, soon-to-be-published and already-published authors in the world of children’s literature. It’s an honor to be here.

Writing is a lonely business. We writers spend a lot of time sitting at our desks staring at a computer screen. At least I do. It hurts the most when the screen is completely blank. When I have that dreadful feeling that the words will not come. This is the first draft feeling. It can happen in revision, too, only the page is already full of words. They’re just not the right ones. That’s when I feel truly lonely.

Like I’m the only writer who has ever felt this. The only writer whose characters are suddenly wooden and mouth clichéd platitudes or worse, sit around like a bunch of talking heads doing nothing. Being nowhere.

Like I’m the only writer in the world. And all those other books out there have sprung fully-formed from the minds of geniuses and my sprawling, flailing attempts will never be destined for anything but “delete”.

That’s when I go on Twitter. Now, this isn’t some kind of infomercial for the joys of social networking, how important it is to a writer’s career and marketing potential or how I found my agent in 140 characters or less. My agent isn’t even on Twitter.

No, this is an infomercial for shared experience. And Twitter is simply the conduit through which these experiences can sometimes flow. Because on Twitter I find other writers – writers that I admire, with brilliant ideas and delectable turns of phrase. Writers who are published, who are soon-to-be published, who are pre-published. And I discover we are all in the same boat here.

Sometimes, I get the feeling that I’m trapped in the Police song “Message in a Bottle” and we are the hundred million castaways sending out our little missives, hoping someone will find us. Sometimes.
But the rest of the time, I look and I see another author struggling to get through a particularly difficult scene. Or I see a writer who has just written the perfect kiss. Or I see a writer who just had to post that she loves what she does and can’t imagine a better way of life.

I don’t always respond. When I’m having a difficult writing day, I often don’t post anything on Twitter at all. It just makes me feel better to know I’m not alone.

The circuitous path through the process of writing a novel is difficult enough. Some days, I love first drafts. Some days I hate them. Some days I thank any powers that be for revision so I can make this book better and more evocative and just plain right. Sometimes I think revision is really Dante’s eighth circle of hell and I’m down there in the gilded lead cloak of a hypocrite.

But I’m not alone.

I mention Twitter specifically because it’s easily accessible, immediate, and I can lurk without being seen if I so wish. When I have have writer’s block, I don’t really want someone to notice my presence (so obvious on Facebook). I just want to feel like I’m not alone.

There are many devices out there that can serve a similar purpose with varying degrees of visibility. Facebook is one. There are discussion boards – Verla Kay’s blueboard is probably the most popular and is full of conversations about everything related to children’s literature. Blogs are wonderful. Many, many writers blog about their hopes, dreams, hurts, downfalls, lives, processes. I am part of two writer collectives, the Apocalypsies and the Class of 2k12 – both limited to debut authors for the year of 2012, but who’s to say you can’t form your own? We share each other’s dark moments and celebrate each small victory. It’s like a big extended family.

And that, I think, is the most important lesson I’ve learned since I got up the courage to take my writing seriously and found others (my agent, my editor) who did so, too. This is what has made the greatest difference in my life after the sale of my book. I now have colleagues, co-conspirators, friends I’ve never met and may never get a chance to in person. But that doesn’t make them less important to me. I have people who understand what I’m going through. They understand what it takes to sit down day after day and stare at the blank page. They understand how it feels to get stuck on a single word, or a single comment from a critique. They know the joy of typing the words, “The End”. Even if, like me, they never actually type them. We all think them.

The greatest thing about this is that it could have happened at any time. I didn’t need a book deal to meet other writers. I didn’t need a contract to get onto Twitter and see that someone else pulls his hair out over a character who suddenly begins to do something unplanned. I didn’t need an agent to point me toward the blog of another writer who also hears the “I Suck Playlist” looping continuously through her mind.

You can do it, too. Other writers are out there, putting that hopeful little message in a bottle.

You are not alone.

Tuesday, 15 May 2012

Lisa Burstein on Writing Naked


All I have wanted my whole life was to be a published author. Sure, I wanted other things, but this dream was the main dream. The one I saw as proof that I had "made" it. Well being on the other side has changed that thinking a bit. I don't want you to think I'm one of those ungrateful authors that is going to say, be careful what you wish for, but here is what I didn't expect being published would feel like:

1. Writing is work now- I used to use writing as my escape. Now that I have been published it is a job and it HAS to be good, or at least what my editor and agent thinks is good.

2. I am out there- I have opened myself up to criticism, to people either liking, loving or hating me and that is scary, damn scary.
3. I am obsessed with numbers- Twitter followers, Goodreads shelf-ads, sales. This book that is art, that is a part of me, my deepest most real feelings, is now a commodity and that is damn scary.
4. I have deadlines- I am working on a new book and it needs to be done by a certain date. I have to write everyday whether I feel like it or not.

Of course, there are things that are great about being published. Really great things:
1. I finally know I am doing something right. When you are writing for years and years and years in obscurity like I was, it is impossible to know if what you are doing is working. Being given the opportunity to be published lets me know it is.
2. People are actually reading my work and enjoying it. I have fans. I have people who I am touching. There is probably nothing better than this.
3. I get to see my book- as an actual book and not just a word document.
4. I am now a published author and no one can ever take that away from me.

I am probably being too honest about the bad things, and I am definitely forgetting some of the good, but that is the way I am. Would I go back to being unpublished? Probably not, but I do miss the freedom of just writing without thinking about the end goal. About whether it will sell. About whether people will like it or hate it as much as the first book. About whether being published will finally be a cure for obscurity and insecurity. I am unsure if those feelings ever go away, whether you are published or not.

Just like I learned to write, I am learning to be an author. It is a completely different experience. I have told my husband it feels like I am naked on the internet waiting for people to like me. Before I was just sitting in my office writing furiously waiting for people to like me. Before I had a door I could close, a blanket I could wrap around myself. But now I am inviting people in and it is terrifying and exhilarating. Lisa Burstein


Monday, 14 May 2012

1st 5 Pages May Workshop First Revisions Are Up

Curious to see what the workshop participants have done with the advice they received on the first round? Me too.

Come let us know what you think!

Happy reading,

Martina and Lisa

1st 5 Pages May Workshop - Soontornvat Rev 1


Author: Christina Soontornvat
Genre: MG Fantasy
Title: Izzy Doyle and the Changelings of the Edgewood



The cashier leaned over the conveyor belt. Two of his bottom teeth were missing. “That neighbor of yours is a witch, or I’m a bull toad.”

Izzy swiveled around from the stand where she and her younger sister eyed the candy. She tried not to look too eager as she shuffled closer to the counter.

Izzy’s mom put on a polite smile and zipped up her purse. “I beg your pardon?”

The cashier narrowed his eyes. “You wanna know what she came in here and bought last week?”

“I can’t ima – “

Beef tongue. Now I ask you, what kind of person buys that? Put it in a potion or something, I bet.

Izzy’s mom smirked and started lifting the sacks into her cart. “I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Malloy yet.”

“Oh it ain’t Mrs. You think anyone would marry her? Shoot, no. Marian Malloy would sooner put a curse on a man than say hello. Mind, I’m only tellin’ you this ‘cause you’re new to Everton.”

Izzy leaned over to whisper in her sister’s ear. “Hen, tell Mom you need to go to the bathroom.”

“But I don’t,” Hen said.

“I know that! It’s just a stalling tactic.”

“So why don’t you do it?”

“Because I’m listening! I want to hear more about the witch.”

This was without a doubt the most interesting thing that had happened since they moved to Everton. The possibility of having a witch for a neighbor just might be enough to make up for living in a town with no movie theater, no swimming pools, and – worst of all – no library. 

But Izzy’s mom didn’t share her interest, and hurried them out of the store to the parking lot. “Can you believe that nonsense?” she said as they helped load the bags into the car. “I don’t know why this has to be the only grocery store in town!”

Izzy stood next to the open car door, and looked over her shoulder at the fadedPiggly Wiggly sign. From the amount of groceries her mom bought, she could tell they wouldn’t be coming back for at least a week.

“Hey mom, I think I left something in there…” She started to jog back across the parking lot toward the store.

“What? Sweetie, what did you leave?”

“Um – my lucky bookmark! I’ll be right back!”

The sliding doors whooshed open, and Izzy trotted up to the cash register. The cashier’s face was hidden behind a cheap tabloid newspaper with a cover that read, Elvis spotted at Monteagle Waffle House.

Izzy stood on tiptoe at the counter. “Excuse me?”

“Whatcha need, sugar?” he replied, without putting his paper down.  

“Was everything you said really true? About our neighbor being a witch, I mean.”

The cashier crumpled the tabloid and leaned towards her. “Oh it’s the truth, all right. And you little girls need to watch yourselves out there.”

Izzy bristled. At twelve, she hardly considered herself a little girl. But she could ignore the insult if it meant getting more information. “Why? What could happen to us?”

The cashier’s voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes scanned side to side. “Anything goes near her house, it disappears. Dogs. Pigs. She says the fairies take ‘em, but I’ll bet you they all end up in a big, black kettle.”

The front doors of the store slid open. “Izzy, did you find it?” asked her mom, her hands on her hips. “Let’s get going before the ice cream melts.”

Reluctantly, Izzy followed her mom back out to the car. She took one last look at the rundown store, and then they started the long, pot-hole-riddled drive out to their new, old house.

#

Three drizzly, cooped-up days passed that left Izzy and Hen with nothing to do but help unpack boxes. The worst part was that all but five of Izzy’s precious books were travelling by flat-rate post, and wouldn’t arrive for at least another week. She read and reread those five until she had memorized every sentence. Just when the boredom reached a level that made her think she’d rather go to school than spend another day with nothing happening – something happened.

“It’s her, Izzy! It’s the witch!” Hen pressed her nose against the window that looked down onto the driveway, and bounced on her toes.

Izzy squeezed in beside her sister so she could see out the window. She couldn’t believe their good luck.

But when the old woman climbed out of her pickup truck, Hen’s face fell in disappointment. “She doesn’t really look like a witch to me...”

 The woman walking up their porch steps looked more like a farmer than anything else. Her work clothes were stained with mud, and her short, white hair peeked out from under a crumpled men’s hat. The only thing remotely witchy about her was that even though her wrinkles meant she must be at least seventy, she walked fast and didn’t stoop the way most old people did.   

“You can’t tell anything about her just by looking,” said Izzy. She tried to sound hopeful, but so far things didn’t seem very promising.

Marian Malloy didn’t have any of the standard witch traits. And Izzy should know. It was safe to say that she had read every fairy or folktale concerning witches. In fact, she was almost sure she had read every fairytale in existence, and the nine boxes of books in route to their house were proof. She knew that witches came in one of two varieties: hunchbacked hag, or cruelly beautiful sorceress. That’s just the way things were.

“Izzy! Hen!” their mother called from downstairs. “Girls, come down here, please. We have a visitor!”

The sisters exchanged quick looks, and then hurried out of their room and down the stairs. The old woman stood at the front door, dripping muddy water onto the rug.

“Marian, these are my girls, Izzy and Hen,” their mom said brightly.

Marian kept her hands in her pockets and nodded at them.

“Won’t you come sit down?” said their mom, leading the way toward the kitchen. “I’ve just made a pot of tea. “My husband works late at his new job with the county, and I’m not used to living so far from any other neighbors. It will be nice to have another adult to talk to.”

 “Humph,” said Marian, sitting down at the table. “Far as I’m concerned, the best thing about living way out here is not having folks to talk to.” 

Izzy’s mom laughed as if Marian had made a joke. “And you are certainly welcome to join us for dinner, if you like.”

Hen’s eyes grew wide as ­­­pancakes at this suggestion.

One corner of Marian’s mouth turned up a little before returning to a scowl. “No, I’ve got to get home to my own supper. I only came over because I was driving past your house, which I normally don’t do. I think it’s best that neighbors meet face to face. Prevents problems later on.”

Izzy and Hen pulled out chairs for themselves on the opposite side of the table. Izzy looked at the old woman’s fingernails, and wondered if they were stained green from pulling weeds or making potions.

“So, you girls got an opinion about Everton yet?” said Marian.

“We haven’t really seen much of it,” said Izzy. “It’s been raining since we got here.”

Her mom came to the table carrying a teapot and two cups. “The girls have been so helpful unpacking things for the house. Once spring break is over next week, they’ll be starting school.”

Marian drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Everton Elementary is riddled with asbestos,” she grumbled.

“What’s asbestos?” Hen asked loudly.

Their mom cleared her throat and slid a teacup toward Marian. “Actually, Izzy will be at the Middle School. Sixth grade.”  

The old woman took the cup, and scanned Izzy up and down. “Sixth grade? You’re no bigger than a chipmunk.”

“My Izzy’s always been petite,” said her mom.
Izzy cringed. So what if she stood only an inch taller than her eight-year old sister? She hated the word petite. It made her feel like a small dessert.

1st 5 Pages May Workshop - Hawke Rev 1


Author: Heather Hawke
Genre: MG SF/fantasy
Title: THE LEGACY OF FROST AND FIRE


I crouched under the covers so Dad couldn’t see the glow from my cell phone. He’d flip if he caught me awake after midnight. I texted, “Beat game. Blew everything up.”



My phone buzzed with a new message, but it wasn’t from one of my buddies. It read, “Justin. Do not skip this class: Essential Lessons for Frost Dragon Egg Maintenance. All Lab. No Lecture.”



Like I’d want an extra class when I had pre-algebra homework every day and yet another book report due for language studies. Some loser must’ve got my number and this was his idea of a hilarious joke.



But maybe the message was an ad for a new computer game. I checked again. “The screen name of the person who sent it was “Sphinx.” The game sounded like fantasy. Not likely I’d buy it since I preferred hardcore.



I yawned so the corners of my jaw cracked. Maybe I should go to sleep. My dad would peel the covers off me before the sun rose in the morning, even if it was a Saturday. He’d drag me on some hike, or bike ride, or kayak trip. Just once, I wished he’d let me do what I wanted.



I fluffed up the covers so I could see better and tapped in another message, “Can’t make LAN party.” No, instead of bringing my laptop to a friend’s house for an all-nighter, I’d be discovering a whole new world of blisters.



A light flicked on in my room. By reflex, I stuffed my phone under the pillow. I was so busted. Trying to think of an excuse, I pushed aside my plaid camping blanket. But Dad wasn't there.



From the window, electric bright light rippled across my old Chuck Norris poster. The light shaded into pink and then turned burning red.



A noise from outside roared like a freeway at rush hour and then an enormous thump shook the bed. Adrenaline surging through my legs, I ran to the window, threw it open and leaned outside. My mouth fell open. Frozen lightning hung in front of my house, stretching from the lawn up to the roof. Across the narrow street, red haze swirled around a hulking animal the size of a backhoe. It cast about, as if looking for something.



Smoke drifted into my room, making me cough. The animal snapped its head up. It gazed directly at me with golden eyes big as my fist. The pupils thinned to narrow vertical lines.



I jumped back from the window. “Ahhh…” Stumbling further away across the room, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Then my head hit the opposite wall with a thump that made my ears ring. The creature’s gaze pinned me there like a bug.



The door crashed open beside me and Dad charged through. “Justin! There’s a fire!”



I pointed to the monster outside and tried to say something, but my voice was no louder than a gasping goldfish.



Dad didn’t look towards the window, only grabbed the back of my pajamas and hustled me out onto the landing. Mom just stood there, her hands clasped in front of her heart. Dad took her arm and helped her downstairs while I clomped after them.



They headed straight for the front door. That huge animal was out there like a monster from a nightmare. My tongue stumbled over itself. I couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “Wait! Don’t go outside.”



My mom and dad rushed out the front door anyway. I hovered on my toes at the end of the hallway.



But as they stood on the shadowed step, they didn’t scream or recoil. I edged out next to Dad, glad I hadn’t just become an orphan. Beyond, there was no giant beast. The silver thread and red haze were gone too.



How could something that big have gotten away so fast? I craned my neck to look up and down the street. “Did you see a big animal run away?”



Dad’s voice was distracted. “You probably saw a dog. Scared by the fire.”



That was no dog.



Flames exploded from the roof of the small house across the street with a shower of sparks.



I clutched my dad’s sleeve. “Amber is in there!” She used to be my best friend, back when we were little kids. She and her mom lived in that house alone.



Dad took a step forward. “I’m going in after them. Justin, take care of your mother.”



She threw her arms around him. “No! You already called the fire department.”



But what if they didn’t come in time to save Amber and her mom?



Just then, Mrs. Yao ran from behind the burning house, hand-in-hand with Amber. They must’ve escaped out their back door. I didn’t realize how hard my heart had been pounding against my ribs until it slowed.



Crossing to our side of the street, the two stopped and held onto each other. Amber’s bare feet stuck out the bottom of her sweatpants.



I squinted as far as I could see into the darkness for the monster. Maybe it really had been just an animal. It was pretty late and I’d been staring at a computer screen for hours. I jogged down the sidewalk to Amber. Her eyes looked almost black in the reflected firelight. “Are you okay?”



She glanced up at me, opened her mouth, then closed it with a little shake of her head.



Mrs. Yao drew Amber in close under her arm. “It must have been an earthquake.” She chewed her lip as she watched fire engulf their home. “Maybe it broke a gas line.”



But there hadn’t been an earthquake. “Maybe the gas line was hit by….” I trailed off. I couldn’t tell them about a monster. Even a giant animal sounded crazy.



Sirens blared, getting closer.



Amber’s hair, curly like her mother’s but black instead of blond, flew about her face. She leaned into her mom, eyes wide and shocked. “All my things, my clothes, my….”



I remembered her room had been filled with stuffed animals. They even spilled from a hammock strung across the ceiling like fluffy guardian angels.



I tried to sound reassuring. “It’s okay. It’s just stuff.”



She stiffened and cast me a cold look. “Easy for you to say. You’d think differently if it were your precious computer.”



A fire truck and an ambulance rounded the corner, lights strobing. I slunk back to my parents. I’d only been trying to help.



Firefighters attached a hose to a fire hydrant and water gushed through the looping coils. The water made clouds of smoke and steam erupt through the broken windows.



It felt like I’d opened an oven door as I squinted against the heat. Right under my feet, wisps of smoke curled up from our lawn. A wide blackened trail led across the street and to the burning house. It was almost like an arrow pointing from my house to Amber’s.



After a while, Amber’s dad showed up. She threw herself at him and hugged him around the middle. He stood stiff, arms raised. I hadn’t seen him in years. My mom told me he’d gone home to Shanghai, but he was back now.



He pushed Amber away and held her in front of him with his hands on her shoulders. He and her mom looked like they were arguing, but I couldn’t hear over the noise.


1st 5 Pages May Workshop - Amabel Rev 1


Author: Katherine Amabel
Genre: YA Fantasy
Title: The Hourglass Bridge

Di couldn’t decide whether to tiptoe away or start running. Regrettably, being paralyzed with fear made it difficult to do either.

There’s someone in my house! The realization slammed into her again. She stared at the miniature, wooden hourglass on the bookshelf, trying to convince herself she was overreacting. After all it didn’t look that scary, standing on a lace doily next to a bowl of potpourri, but those things had been there when she walked past a minute ago.

The hourglass hadn’t.

Coby?She grasped at a desperate hope as the silvery grains of sand tumbled through the rough, glass shell.  No. Her oblivious twin brother was upstairs, doing his absolute best not to get ready for school, while she was alone with a potential robber, axe murderer or raving lunatic for company.

Or even a living army of home-invading knock-knacks, she chided herself, searching for a better explanation. The hourglass must have been there all along, no doubt left by her parents on their way to work, she decided. Her passing footsteps probably shook out a blockage of sand, allowing it to pour as if it had only just been turned. No big deal.

Satisfied with her theory but anxious to get back on schedule Di checked her watch – and the sight woke her faster than being drenched in a bucket of ice water. How could it be that late already? Ironing Coby’s shirt had stuffed up her routine a bit, but by this much? The bus would be there any minute.

She rushed upstairs to the apocalyptic mess Coby called his room. His scruffy brown hair, stained uniform and grubby trainers were like camouflage amidst the chaos.

“Who lost my schoolbag?” he whined, kicking aside piles of dirty laundry and untouched textbooks.

“No-one. But can you hurry up? Please?”

Coby muttered something, probably rude, but at least he wasn’t making last minute fridge raids or playing living-room obstacle football. And if he complained again about face washing and teeth cleaning and other things fifteen-year-old boys say are a waste of time, she might just disown him altogether.

Like that’s ever going to happen. Di sighed. Despite Coby’s unflinching belief that she was adopted, their identical brown eyes said they were as close as family could get. So to their mutual annoyance, she felt compelled to fuss.

“Fine,” Di said. “I’ll find the bag. You get ready.”

“Right.” Coby finger-combed his hair as he dashed out, but he still looked like he’d been mugged. By a cyclone.

You’re welcome. I was running on time until… you.  Di grabbed her own bag from her room and hurried back downstairs, silently composing the lecture she would never have the heart to deliver.  When she stepped down from the landing she checked the bookshelf and froze.

The hourglass was gone.

Oh my god. Di pressed herself against the hallway wall to cover her back, throwing panicked glances up the corridor in both directions. If she went upstairs to warn her brother, she’d cut off any means of escape. But if she tried searching for the intruder, she couldn’t move anywhere without leaving the rest of the house open for them to sneak around.

Di locked her eyes on the hallway phone. And something crashed to the floor above her.

Coby!She dived back around the corner, without considering who she’d meet or how she might defend herself, and found Coby on the top step with his hands raised in surrender.

“Before you go mental,” he said as a cricket ball rolled out behind him, “that vase was ugly anyway.”

“Uh-huh.” Di waved his words away. “Did you see an hourglass here? There was a little antique one, like, a second ago.”

“Oookay.” Coby raised his eyebrows. “Forget the vase, you’re mental already.”

“Am not.” Di checked all over the bookshelf but she knew the search was pointless. Even from Coby’s room it had been in her peripheral vision the whole time. No one moved the hourglass, because it never existed.

“Let me know if you find a pot of gold while you’re at it,” Coby said, kicking the tennis ball back into his room and disappearing after it.

Ignore him. Sure he’d caught her creeping through the house with a butcher’s knife two weeks ago, looking for what turned out to be just a mouse in the pantry, but that didn’t make her crazy and neither did this.  No it was a trick of the light, made worse by tired eyes after last nights’ study cut into her scheduled seven and a quarter hours’ sleep.

Yeah, right, Di thought, until an involuntary yawn set her eyes watering enough to blur out everything around her. She blinked it away and found herself staring at the grandfather clock beside the bookshelf.

From the glass case, two solemn figures stared back.

What the—? Di spun around, searching for the source of the reflection, but the stairs were empty. Gripping the banister in case her legs gave way, she started to turn back again. Every incremental movement was stiff enough to make her neck creak but she didn’t have the courage to go any faster. Eventually her gaze reached the base of the clock. She raised her head.

“Found it!” Coby thundered downstairs, slinging his backpack over his shoulder while Di tried not to faint with shock.

“It was under my bed. The ball rolled right next to it,” Coby said, pushing past her to the front door. She didn’t move.

“You coming?” He paused. Di looked back at the clock. The faces had gone.

Tired. Plain, sane and tired, she told herself, refusing to believe anything else. She brushed the creases from her uniform, ran a hand over her ponytail to ensure there wasn’t a hair out of place, and followed Coby outside.

The bus passed their stop just as Di locked the front door. Coby couldn’t resist a race as the bus dragged itself up the hill and Di chased after him, dying of embarrassment; with her overstuffed schoolbag bouncing on her back, she felt like a giant, uncoordinated turtle.

At least it won’t make me any less cool, she reasoned as she caught up and climbed on board. Coby headed straight for the back seat, leaving Di, with her rank on the social ladder of about five rungs underground, to that most fiercely coveted of spots: smack-bang behind the driver. Waiting for her as always was her slightly freckly, slightly lanky, best-friend-ever, Josh.

“Since when do you have to run to get here on time?” He gaped at her as she joined him. “What happened, did every watch in the world stop working?”

“Yeah… I mean no… Coby was taking forever.” Di shook her head.

“You okay though? You seem stressed.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Were you up all night reading again?”

“Maybe,” Di admitted. Josh feigned disappointment.

“You need a life,” he teased. He was joking, but the honesty in his hazel eyes hit a painful nerve.

Di turned away, fiddling with her neatly trimmed nails to avoid his gaze. Josh was right; her life was about as exciting as leftover Brussels sprouts.

“Maybe you… you could… come out sometime,” he said quietly. Di jerked her head up and saw, to her astonishment, a hint of colour creeping up from his cheeks to the roots of his dusty blonde hair.

He met her eye, went completely red and turned to the rain streaked window…