Second Time the Charm? (Or How Not to Reinvent the Sequel) by Tommy Greenwald

Tommy Greenwald, the author of the Charlie Joe Jackson guides (Charlie Joe Jackson's Guide to Not Reading and Charlie Joe Jackson's Guide to Extra Credit) is joining us today with Tommy Greenwald's Guide to Not Reinventing the Sequel. Just kidding. But he is here with some sage and humorous advice on what a sequel is and isn't. Along the way, he touches on voice, that all important element of saleable writing.  You can find Tommy and the book trailers and additional information for Charlie Joe Jackson's guides at http://tommygreenwald.com/.

He's also got copies of both books to give away. Just comment by August 30th to enter. We'll pick the winners next Friday, August 31st

.

SECOND TIME THE CHARM?

by Tommy Greenwald

Does anyone know who Carl Douglas is?

Anybody?

Carl Douglas sang “Kung Fu Fighting,” a number one song, a classic 70’s hit, and one of my favorite songs ever. “Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting? Those cats were fast as lightning?”

What a great song.

Sadly, that was it for ole Carl.

Never heard from again.

I want to talk a little bit about how I’m trying to not be the Carl Douglas of the children’s book world.

**

But first, let’s go back to the beginning. A year ago, my first book, CHARLIE JOE JACKSON’S GUIDE TO NOT READING came out. A lot of great things have happened since then. I don’t want to bore you with those, that would be obnoxious. I thought it would be more interesting to tell you some of the things that have NOT happened. Here’s a short list:

It was NOT a number one hit.

It has NOT been part of Al Roker’s Book Club for kids.

It has NOT received a movie deal.

It has NOT replaced the Bible as the best selling book of all time.

It has NOT been referred to as “The One Book I Wish I’d Written” by J.K. Rowling.

It has NOT been turned into a musical by the South Park guys.

It did NOT win a medal at the Olympics.

But despite all those non-happenings, I got very lucky. Kids seemed to like the book and educators seemed to tolerate it, especially considering it’s all about a boy who hates books so much that he bribes and blackmails his fellow middle-schoolers to do his reading for him.

Okay, great. That went well. Well enough that the publisher asked me to write another one.

Which is where the panicking began.

Think about it. Getting a first book published is a thrill. Getting to write a second book is scary as hell. Your mind starts to think weird thoughts. You start to put a list together of all the phrases dedicated to those who crashed and burned in the process. “Beginner’s luck.” “Sophomore slump.” “One-hit wonder.” “Total fluke,” “stroke of luck,” “flash in the pan” and my own personal favorite, “you should have quit while you were ahead, what on earth you were thinking, you ignorant fool.”

It’s true. Every person who’s ever created something knows what I’m talking about. Just do the math. You have your entire life to come up with that first idea, whether it’s an album, or a screenplay, or a book. It might take you a short time to actually do it, but it’s probably been gestating in your subconscious brain for years. Decades, even. I’m a perfect example of that: I had the idea for Charlie Joe Jackson’s Guide to Not Reading in 2009, or at least, I thought I did. But a couple of months ago, when I was cleaning out old files on my computer, I discovered a 50-word Microsoft word document called “The Non-Reader’s Guidebook” that was pretty much a blueprint of what the book turned out to be. It was from 2005! I had no memory of even writing it, but I guess the idea had been kicking around in my head all that time. So anyway, you have forever to have that first idea, and it happens. It’s awesome. Then all of sudden, Wham! You have to come up with the NEXT thing. Like, immediately. And also, p.s., if it’s not as good as the FIRST thing, then people will start to whisper that you’re one of THOSE guys. You know, the ones who did that one good thing and then could never do it again.

So yeah, that’s the kind of stuff that was running through my head when I sat down to write the second Charlie Joe Jackson book.

Naturally, the first thing I decided was that I really had to step it up. It had to be way, way better than the first book to even have a chance. And totally different from the first one too. So I wrote an entire manuscript that was much more complicated, had a bunch of different locations, a slew of new characters, and a plot that had nothing to do with Charlie Joe slacking and scheming in school. I was like the movie director who had a modest indie hit and announced, “My next movie is going to be a big budget blockbuster.” Well, we all know how that usually turns out.

Thank God my fantabulous editor Nancy took one look at the manuscript and said “yeah, no.”

There are some basic rules for writing a children’s book series, she told me. Those foolproof ways you can make a reader feel comfortable, and reassured that they’re back in familiar territory. For example:

The second book should have a similar environment to the first book – in this case, school.

Don’t abandon some of the characters from the first book that your readers hopefully got to know and like.

The plot should refer to the first book enough so that those who read it will enjoy the connection, but not so much that those who didn’t will feel left out or lost.

That was great advice. As I sat down to write again, I kept all that in mind. But I was still driving myself crazy, obsessing about making it better than the first book. It took one of the great sages of modern times to set me straight. I’m talking, of course, about Quentin Tarantino. As it happened, one night in the middle of struggling with this book, I flipped on the TV and his movie Reservoir Dogs was on. It’s a great movie, but a very violent movie, about as far from a children’s book as you can get. And there’s this one scene, where a guy is describing what it’s like to torture somebody, and it’s graphic and horrible, and then at the end he just says out of the blue, “I’m hungry. Let’s get a taco.” And I thought, this guy has it all figured out. He’s in a high-pressure business – the torturing and killing of others -- but he keeps it all in perspective. When he’s hungry, he goes and gets a taco. Meanwhile, all I’m doing is writing a book for kids. Why am I driving myself nuts? Why am I making myself miserable? Why am I torturing myself? When I’m hungry, I should just go get a taco. So I went and got a taco. Or, in my case, a large hot-fudge sundae with coffee ice cream. And I was able to relax. I suddenly realized I didn’t have to write Charlie Joe Jackson’s Guide to War and Peace. I just had to write a book that kids who liked the first book would read and say, “Hey, that was pretty good too.”

Because here’s the thing: no matter what happens with this second book, just the fact that I got to write it at all is a blessing. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a one-hit wonder, by the way. In fact, writers can get some unbelievable advice from the wisdom and brilliance of some of those one-hits. I’d like to share some of that with you now.

In the song TUBTHUMPING, Chumbawumba sings:

"I get knocked down, but I get up again

You're never gonna keep me down"

This speaks to the determination and resilience that all writers need in this brutal business. Keep working. Keep writing. Get up again.

**

In the song MAGIC, Pilot says:

"Never believe it's not so."

So true. The only one who needs to stick by you – is you.

**

In the song 867-5309, Tommy Tutone sings:

"Jenny don't change your number."

What Tutone is saying here is rife with symbolism and subtext, but his main point is: Don't try to write someone else's book, or write in someone else’s voice. Stay true to yourself.

**

In the song BILLY, DON’T BE A HERO, Paper Lace sings:

"Don't be a fool with your life."

If you have a story to tell, tell it. Otherwise you will spend your life wishing you did. That’s why I write. I have a day job, and believe me, I could easily come home and plop down in front of the TV, but I have these stories I want to tell, and it’s important to me to try and tell them. Unless MAD MEN or BREAKING BAD is on, in which case, to hell with the stories I want to tell.

**

In the song KUNG FU FIGHTING, Carl Douglas says:

"The sudden motion made me skip, now we’re into a brand new trip."

When you become a published author, it’s a brand new trip. Suddenly there are a lot more demands on your time. You have to establish a social network profile and promote yourself, even though your kids accuse you of constantly bragging on Facebook. You have to answer the flood of adoring emails that come in, sometimes as many as one a month. And you have to show up at bookstores and do readings for people who are too nice to not come, but who would probably rather be at a nice restaurant. My point is, you can’t let these distractions get to you. Keep your eyes on the prize: writing a good story. Because without the story, none of the other stuff ever happens.

**

In the song HOW LONG, ACE sings:

“Oh your friends with the fancy persuasion…”

Showing your work to other people is always nerve-wracking. There are times when I lose my nerve. But you've got to to be able to face your fears if you want to make it as a writer. I’ve gotten amazing feedback from friends, family and my editor. And some people don’t like what you write: that’s part of the deal. There are librarians out there who saw the title of my first book and hated it without even reading it. That’s fine. It’s important to keep it all in perspective. Those librarians are entitled to their opinions. No matter how wrong they might be.

**

In the song AT SEVENTEEN, Janice Ian sings:

So remember those who win the game

Lose the love they sought to gain

In debentures of quality and dubious integrity

I have no idea what she’s talking about. Moving on.

**

In the song RAPPER’S DELIGHT, The Sugar Hill Gang sings:

“I said a hip hop the hippie the hippie

to the hip hip hop, a you dont stop

the rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie

to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat…”

Writing is all about voice. A unique style that no one has seen before but everyone can relate to. But you can’t really teach voice, or learn voice, I don’t think. It’s got to come from a natural place, and be something you don’t really have to think about. People ask where I got Charlie Joe Jackson’s voice from, and the answer is, I’m not really sure, but I’m guessing it’s 10 percent me, 90 percent my kids. The kind and sweet part is me, the obnoxious, annoying parts are them.

**

In the song PLAY THAT FUNKY MUSIC, Wild Cherry sings:

"Lay down the boogie and play that funky music till you die"

This is probably the best advice of all. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Writers write. That’s what we do. And I’m going to keep on playing that funky music till I die.

WOW Wednesday: Zoraida Cordova on Breaking the Rules

Today's Wow guest is Zoraida Córdova, who was born in Guayaquil, Ecuador, where she learned to speak English by watching Disney’s The Little Mermaid and Michael Jackson’s Moonwalker on repeat. Her favorite things are sparkly like merdudes, Christmas, and New York City at night. She is currently working on The Savage Blue, the sequel to her debut The Vicious Deep available everywhere from Sourcebooks Fire. Find her online at her website, on goodreads, or on facebook.  

Break the Rules 

(Or, write what you don’t know.)

By Zoraida Cordova

I knew I wanted to be a writer when I was 13.

Our teacher had assigned a 3 page extra credit short story. Even then I “wrote what I knew.” It was a Dawson’s Creek-like drama based on my friends and aptly titled FINAL HEARTBREAK. Back then I chose my story titles based on my favorite songs and my favorite songs were by Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson.

FINAL HEARTBREAK went from 3 pages to 21. I didn’t even mean to do it. But the moment I set my hands on that keyboard, the worlds just kept flowing. I knew who my heroines were (my best friend and I). I knew who the love interests were (my best friend’s crush who had a girlfriend, and an imaginary boyfriend I created for myself).  I also knew who the villain was (my best friend’s crush’s girlfriend).

And I knew who was going to die at the end. (The crush love interest, killed by the villain with a pair of scissors in the back.) Yeah, don’t ask. I don’t even know.

In the end, Final Heartbreak got a check PLUS (the highest mark) (I know, I was robbed). But I was left with so much more—a purpose, a goal, a feat. I felt like fucking Hercules with this great challenge ahead of me! And that was to kill the hydra… I mean, TO WRITE A WHOLE ENTIRE NOVEL.

For those of you who don’t know me, I’m currently working on a trilogy about the return of the mermaids to Coney Island, and the young man championed to compete for the throne of the seas. Book 1, The Vicious Deep is out now wherever books and e-books are sold! I conquered my first Herculean task.

A long time after Final Heartbreak, my stories tended to focus around regular situations: friends and their troubles. The problem with that was that my friends and their troubles just weren’t interesting enough to carry a whole novel. I was no Sarah Dessen, who can take contemporary situations and make them awesome BTW.

Then, I discovered fantasy. Urban Fantasy to be exact. Holly Black and Charles DeLint and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I loved the combination of the real world, everyday characters that could very well be my friends, and then shoving them into this topsy turvery world of magic and demons and dreams.

When it came down to writing The Vicious Deep, I knew I wanted my hero, Tristan Hart, to come from a very normal world. Then, I wanted to strip him of his everyday comforts and let him try to survive in a magical new world parallel to his old one.

Sure, I’ve never actually been a merman, teenage boy, or a sea monster. I mean, I’ve never been a lot of things like a flight attendant, a pirate, P-I-M-P, half Greek, or half Ecuadorian (I am fully Ecuadorian). I probably won’t ever be any of those things. But that doesn’t mean I can’t write about them. My biggest problem with the phrase “write what you know” is that it is taken literally, and often to the point where your story is boring and about your friends hanging out after school. (Just as an example.)

In my unprofessional opinion, “write what you know” should be applied to the internal workings of our characters. Like I said, I’ve never been a teenage boy turned merman. But I am an immigrant. When I was six my family moved to New York. In a way, Tristan and I straddled two worlds during our adolescence and I sympathize with him because of that, I really do. When it comes to my characters, I mix in my old world with the new. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. After all, we’re writers! Writers write, not just words, but whole new worlds. Mix what you know with what you do for a new brand of awesome.

I encourage you all to step outside of your comfort zones and write about the unknown. You can always carry the Familiar with you, like a security blanket or a long time friend.

5 Reasons Why Your Opening Scene is Like a Blind Date

If you’ve ever been out on a blind date or watched a reality dating show, you know a lot can go wrong on a first date. The entire tone can change in the blink of an eye. That’s what makes crafting the beginning of your novel like going out on a first date. Where should you take your story? Should you be yourself, or try and be something you’re not? How much do you reveal about your past?

Let’s talk tips to avoid dating writing disaster.

Tip #1: First impressions do matter. That’s why the first lines of so many novels are famous. Lines like, “It was a dark and stormy night,” or “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much,” stay with the reader. Think about a powerful opening, but move into the scene. Put the reader in your world and into your protagonist’s shoes as quickly as you can. Keep in mind that the first line may be something you go back to craft when you’re story is entirely written.

Tip #2: Getting to know you, getting to know all about you. In the dating world, this means not airing all your dirty laundry on the first date (divorce, jail time, how you secretly want a unicorn, etc.). In the writing world, this means easing your reader in slowly. Once you lay down your first line(s), your reader needs time to orient themselves. Create a sense of normalcy for that character, even if normal is abnormal in their world. In Gary D. Schmidt’s Okay For Now, the protagonist’s home life is tense and abusive. But the reader is guided into that world with less-obvious clues. Schmidt saves the biggest “bang” of the abuse his protagonist has suffered until much later in the novel.

Tip #3: Land a second date. When you watch a dating reality show, you know the moment a train wreck has left the station. Don’t make your protag the train wreck. Sure, it’s not always easy to create a likable protagonist and you want them to have flaws. But avoid having them come off as mopey, whiny, angry, etc. Readers don’t want to read about an unlikable, self-pitying protagonist. Even if your character is a mean girl like Sam in Lauren Oliver’s Before I Fall, make the reader care enough to find out what happens next.

Tip #4: Keep some of your cards close to your chest. You might hesitate to meet a blind date at your favorite restaurant or plan something uber-elaborate. The same applies for our purposes. While you want a memorable first scene that makes the reader turn the page, be sure to create a level of energy that you can sustain. That is to say, if your first scene is action-packed and energetic, you’ve set that tone and your reader believes that’s what’s in store for much of the book. If you can’t maintain that level of energy, you’ll likely lose your reader.

Tip #5: Back-and-forth conversation. No one likes being talked at. Readers like a book where you’re laying down world-building and characterization crumbs without a giant info dump. Give them the benefit of the doubt. Readers are smart. They need time to wrestle with these clues and make their own meaning. Too much information, and you’ll scare them off. Too little and they won’t care. Give a little, take a little.

We’d love to hear your ideas for writing successful opening scenes. Chime in to comments. Bonus points if you can create a metaphor that relates to first dates :)

Happy writing,
Marissa

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Wise Rev 2

Julie Wise
Inside the Circle
Young Adult Contemporary

Jillian parks her Jeep at the side of the mountain road, down a little bit from Carter’s driveway, just in case his parents look out their window. A couple of other cars are scattered and parked in the moonlight shadows. The house is set into the side of the mountain. Carter’s dad is a golf-pro and a big game hunter, and the walls of every room are filled with stuffed heads with glass eyes and shelves of trophies. British Open cups, pictures of Augusta. It is after midnight. Carter’s parents are asleep on the other side of the house, and we walk quietly through the huge, dark room, past stretched tiger skins and water buffalo heads. Out in back, groups of people lay around on lounge chairs placed on the flagstone patio that overlooks the city. The last time I was here, Jillian was with Aaron, I was with Sean, and Allison was with Carter. Same scene, same players, different night.

Jillian and I walk onto the terraced patio carved into the side of the mountain. Jillian lounges on a chaise. Carter sits down next to her, crazy black hair, eyes barely open, jeans held onto his thin body with a thick black and silver belt. He’s lost a lot of weight lately, the sure sign of a hobby turned habit. Carter slams coke, among other things.

Carter graduated from Brophy Prep last year. He was planning on going to college to study music, but the fall semester came and went, and now, as far as I can tell, he lives off his parents and spends their money on drugs. I can’t believe that they don’t see what is happening to him; everything about Carter screams junkie. His dad is on the PGA Tour, so they’re gone a lot, but still, Carter is pale, and his eyes are dead. You’d have to be blind or just not care to ignore that Carter is chasing himself into his own grave. It’s sad, but everyone keeps getting high with him anyway.

I sit alone on the lounge chair across from Jillian and Carter, looking at the city lights. He leans in to tell us about his night.

“Yeah, I was lying in my room,” Carter slurs, “and Aaron came by after seeing the movie with some girls. It’s cool. My parents went down the street earlier, so they’re wasted and sleeping. We’re just hanging out now. I think a few more people are coming by. Jimmy and Joey just left with some Xavier girls.” He pauses for a moment, and then, to Jillian, hungrily, ”Have you got it?” She opens her huge silver purse, and takes out a small package. She hands it to Carter.

“Excellent,” Carter purrs. I guess that explains why we’re here. He pulls a different clear plastic bag from the table and expertly rolls a joint in a blue paper that seems to appear out of nowhere. It shakes me to see Jillian selling to Carter. Who is she working for? She looks at me out of the corner of her eyes, and she shakes her blond hair back from her face. She offers no explanations, and she knows that I won’t ask her what’s going on. There’s no point.

Jillian takes the joint from Carter and lights it with a monogrammed silver lighter that she stole from her mom, Marilyn. I was in their kitchen on Friday and heard Marilyn ask if Jillian had seen this lighter. Jillian shrugged. I knew she must have stolen it; I’ve seen her shrug that way a thousand times. Not an actual lie, not telling the truth either.

Her mother’s initials shine on the silver surface, reflected in the moonlight as Jillian takes a long drag. She snaps the lighter closed and half-smiles as she exhales, leaning forward and passing it to me. Like usual, I pass it on without smoking to the next person, who this night happens to be Carter. Then, Aaron stands next to Carter and Jillian, and he takes the joint from Carter. He smokes, and as he exhales, he sits on my lounge. He leans back into me, and his back presses against my chest. I stiffen and look quickly at Jillian. But her eyes are closed, and Carter has his hand far up her leg. I relax a little, and Aaron sinks into me.

“So what movie did you see?” I ask Aaron. He shrugs.

“Who knows.”

“You went with Carter?” I ask, and Aaron shakes his head, then nods over at the jacuzzi down one level of the patio. Two long-legged girls with hair shining in the moonlight sit with their feet in the water. One of them lays her head on the other’s shoulder. I don’t recognize the girls, but I can imagine their story.

“You met them at court?” Aaron’s dad is a lawyer and a juvenile court judge, and Aaron has fun at juvy court, shopping for girls who are in trouble for drinking, curfew. Stuff like that. Girl de jour. Aaron is beautiful and quiet and just the taste of the bad girls’ club.

“Yeah,” he drawls lazily. He’s high, who knows how high, but his hands are still, his fingers clasped on his strong chest, settling back into the chair, into me.

“Easy, Aaron,” I whisper forward, over his shoulder. “You know how she is.” And he turns and looks me in the eyes for the first time tonight.

“Yeah, I know.” And he’s suddenly strangely intense. “Don’t leave for a while, okay?” It is well after midnight, but it doesn’t matter tonight. I’m staying at Jillian’s. No one will notice when we get home.

“I came with Jill. It isn’t up to me,” I shrug, trying to stay casual to counter Aaron’s intensity. He laughs, low and ironic.

“She’s not going anywhere,” and we both see Jillian run her manicured fingers through Carter’s crazy hair. It is a non-committal gesture, like the casual shrug to her mother. Indifferent. Still, Aaron and I both know the games she plays. Even if Jillian were really into Carter, she’d never let anyone know about it, least of all, Carter. Jillian isn’t going to let anyone know how to hurt her. Plus, junkies aren’t boyfriend material for her. Too hard to control.

“Does that bother you, Carter and Jillian?” I ask Aaron, my eyes closing, leaning into the back of the chair.

“Not tonight,” he breathes, close to my face, and I feel his words pushing me backwards. I feel like I’m falling off the edge of the patio and into the shining city lights. I quickly open my eyes to catch myself. My heart is beating fast, and suddenly, Aaron is making me nervous. I look away from him and check out the other kids on the patio.

Besides Jillian and Carter, Aaron and I, and Aaron’s two girls by the Jacuzzi, three guys and a girl are sitting by a small glass-topped table on another small level of the patio. I know the girl from school; I don’t recognize the guys. Unfamiliar faces are unusual in small gatherings like this. The world is small, and paths cross in strange ways around users like Carter.

I turn to Carter to ask who they are, but he is taking Jillian’s hand. They stand, and he chuckles something in her ear. She takes her purse, and they go through the French doors into his bedroom.

I look back at the four by the table. Aaron is still leaning into me; his hand casually touches the inside of my arm. I shiver. One of the guys, the beautiful one with dark skin and curly hair is watching us from across the patio. I can’t see his eyes, but he faces us, not paying attention to his friends. He seems removed, different from the other three, although he is sitting close to them. His clothes are less casual, almost adult looking. I can’t stop looking at him. The way he sits, the way he smokes, everything about him is so confident.

“Aaron, who’s that guy sitting over there? Does he go to Brophy?” Aaron turns and looks over his shoulder.

“No, I met him earlier. He goes to Arizona State, but he’s from some other country. He has an accent.”

“Why is he here? Who does he know?” I ask Aaron.

“Um, probably Carter,” he replies, disinterested. He rolls his head around, taking in the whole scene, then, focuses on me. “Let’s take a walk,” he says, sitting up slowly. Music plays from a stereo somewhere, and I stand up with Aaron and glance at Carter’s French doors. No lights inside, except maybe the flicker of a candle, shadows.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Up.” He grabs the bag of pot and leads me up a winding metal staircase at the side of the patio to the roof.

The next morning, Jillian walks into her room through the patio doors around 7am. The sun is already up. Aaron dropped me off at her house before dawn. I pretend to sleep on the futon as I hear her strip off her clothes and fall into bed. My head is pounding, and I’m already trying to figure out what to say when she wakes. I’m exhausted, so I listen to the waterfall outside, clearing my mind enough to finally sleep.

1st Five Pages August Workshop - Panteleakos Final Rev

NOTE: This entry has few changes from last week because the comments from everyone suggested that she was done. Congrats Nicole!

Nicole Panteleakos
Anabel Mist Does Not Exist
Contemporary Upper Middle Grade Mystery

ANABEL MIST DOES NOT EXIST

Every time I’ve introduced myself to anyone, I’ve lied.

“Hi, my name is Anabel.” Lie.

“I’m twelve years old.” Lie.

“I just moved here from the West Coast.” Lie.

“My birthday is in March, my dad lives in Europe, and my mom’s name is Margo.”

All lies. A whole lifetime of lies.

The truth is I don’t know my real name. I’m not sure exactly how old I am, and I’m not from the West Coast. At least, I don’t think I am. My birthday changes with the seasons, I have no idea who my father is or where he lives, or if he’s even alive, and my Mom’s had so many different identities I couldn’t even begin to list them all.

Mom says it’s better this way. Safer. “Better safe than sorry,” she always says. But she won’t tell me why.

Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I stare at the ceiling and try to think back to when I was really little, my earliest memories. I’m like a detective looking for clues, but all I have to go on are flashes of recollection so short it’s like I’m clicking through channels and only stopping on each show long enough to hear a line or two. Not enough dialogue to actually tell me anything.

Last year in fifth grade health Mrs. Jimenez began a lesson on self-discovery. She said, “Girls, you’re pre-teens now, and it’s time you learn the truth: The next ten years will not be easy. Life will be full of ups and downs. You’ll be growing up and figuring out who you really are. It’s a very important time in the life of a young woman.”

I started to cry, which was not unusual for me, but it was beyond embarrassing, and of course Mrs. Jimenez noticed right away. Her eyes met mine and she opened her mouth, but what she planned to say I never did find out, because at that moment Sofia Mejia raised her hand and, without waiting to be called on, asked, “Are we gonna learn about sex now?”

That distracted everyone, including Mrs. Jimenez who got very red-faced, and by the time the lunch bell rang I’d managed to pull myself together.

That was a Friday. Two nights later I was sound asleep, dreaming about a big city building with lots of stairs, when Mom shook me awake.

“Audrey, they're coming!” she said. “I packed up everything. Get dressed. We don’t have much time.”

A week later, Mrs. Jimenez was over a thousand miles away.

And my name wasn’t Audrey anymore.

CHAPTER ONE

It happens as I’m exiting the bathroom.

One second, I’m upright and walking fine; the next, I’m on my hands and knees on the floor. I don’t hear my jeans rip, but I sure feel it.

I can’t believe I tripped over my own shoelaces like some clumsy first grader. I move into a sitting position and bend my right knee so I can re-tie my laces. Then I take a second to glare at my scabbed-up kneecap, poking through the large hole.

“You couldn’t have survived just a few more hours?” I whisper to my Salvation Army jeans because I know that they did this on purpose, just to embarrass me.

“What’s the matter, Anabel?” someone asks. I don’t have to look up to know that it’s Her Majesty, Lola Jean Wright, Queen of Sixth Grade. Of course she would be the one to stumble upon me, kneeling in the hall, jeans all torn up, tears in my eyes.

“Nothing,” I say, but she kneels down beside me and pats my shoulder like we’re friends.

“Aww, you poor thing! Just look at your pants. Don’t worry, it’s not like anybody will really notice. It’s the last day of school, and besides, no one cares what you look like! So don’t cry. There now. Feel better?”

I just stare at her. I never know what to say to Lola Jean. Lola Jean, with her expensive skinny jeans and perfectly-fitted tee-shirt. Lola Jean, with her curly hair pulled into the world’s neatest ponytail. Lola Jean, with teeth that would make Miss America jealous. How do I talk to someone like that?

“Hello, Anabel? Are you awake?” she knocks on my exposed kneecap and giggles.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

Her Majesty stands up and nudges me with the toe of her white and silver flat. “Come on, up we go. You’re fine. It’s not a big deal, Anabel. No one looks at you.”

She makes me want to scream.

“Go away, Lola Jean,” I say finally, but of course she just stands there giving me this pitying look. Maybe if I close my eyes, she’ll disappear.

“Tell you what? Consuela, my maid, said the other day that she needs to get rid of some of her daughters’ old clothes that don’t fit anymore. She could bring them to a thrift store, but why don’t I just have her drop them off at your house? That’ll save you and your mom a trip! Plus, then you guys don’t have to use all your welfare money to buy clothes. What do you say?”

“We’re not on welfare,” I say, but Lola Jean just laughs.

“Of course you’re not.” She winks at me like we’ve got a secret. For one wild moment I really want to bite her leg. I’m still crouched down; I could do it.

“We don’t need your maid’s old clothes,” I insist. “We’re fine.” With that, I do what I always do: stand up, turn around, and walk away.

“Let me know if you change your mind!” she calls after me. I bite my lip to keep from crying. If she hears me crying she will never let me forget it, the way she hasn’t let me forget the day I got a bloody nose in gym because I tripped over my own feet and fell flat on my face during a game of basketball. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay after school with me one day?” she asks all the time. “I can teach you to dribble so you won’t embarrass yourself again!”

Lucky for me, when I round the corner I almost walk right into the only person in sixth grade who thinks I’m fine just the way I am: Mei-Zhen Wu.

“Hey Anabel! What’s wrong?” M.Z. asks.

“The usual. My jeans ripped, then Lola Jean busted on me, but in that way she does where it sounds like she’s Mother Theresa if you tell a teacher about it, you know?”

“Who’s Mother Theresa?” she asks, twirling a strand of her long hair between her fingers.

“This nun who worked with lepers in India,” I explain.

“Oh. Well hey, maybe Lola Jean will work with lepers someday and end up losing her nose. Does it make me a bad person to say I’d laugh at her?"

“Yeah, kinda,” I say, smiling at her, but I know M.Z.’s just kidding… mostly.

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Pruitt-Goddard Rev 2

Author: Candyce Pruitt-Goddard
Genre: YA Dystopian
Title: Desiderium


If I had a dollar for every time I found myself wishing for more time, I might only have to work two jobs. Maybe then I'd actually have time for a life. As soon as the thought slips out, the temptation to let myself feel desire consumes me. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I can't want more time. I can't want anything. Not if I don't want to end up in jail.

A flickering yellow light catches my attention. My gaze fixates on the steel bracelet clinging to my wrist and I have to remind myself to breathe. I strategically place my jacket over the bracelet to conceal the yellow light, and double check to make sure no one noticed. I quicken my pace and try to focus on getting to Calculus on time. When I'm within a few steps of the classroom I take a subtle peek at my wrist and heave a sigh of relief when I find no sign of the desire I almost let myself feel.

I scurry through the door and slide into an empty seat in the back. Without glancing at the clock, I pull out my textbook to cram in a few extra seconds of studying. Before I have a chance to become fully engrossed in the dot product, someone taps my arm.

“Have you heard the rumors?” the girl next to me leans in and whispers.

“What are you talking about?” I narrow my eyes in confusion.

“They’re saying the Desiderium died yesterday.”

My heart skitters in my chest. A blank look takes over my face and I forget how to speak.

“They’re saying it was someone from Canada,” she elaborates, ignoring my blank stare.

My brain races to put all of the pieces together. There’s no telling what would happen if the rumors were true.

"Good morning, class," the professor interrupts. “Please put everything under your desks except for a pencil. For those of you who have just been added to the class, you will not be required to take the quiz but you will be responsible for the material. For everyone else, you have exactly ten minutes.”

Desperate to distract myself from obsessing over the rumor and everything it would mean, I scour the room for any new faces. Students are always adding and dropping courses in the first couple weeks of the quarter, but I always hold out hope that I’ll see somebody from the high school. There are at least a handful of us who take advantage of the Running Start program that lets high school students take college classes for free.

I recognize most of the faces from the first week of class, and am about to look away when a student a couple of seats to my right catches my attention. He brushes his curly amber hair out of his face to reveal startlingly deep blue eyes. He doesn’t look much older than me, but I haven’t seen him around the high school before. I definitely would have remembered him.

His eyes catch mine and all of the blood in my body seems to pool in my cheeks. He raises his eyebrows, adding a sense of mystery to his subtle smile, and time seems to slow down around us. A deep breath brings me back to my senses and casts a dark shadow on the silly thought. My lip twitches into a smile and I convince myself to look away.

Someone jabs me in the shoulder and shoves the stack of quizzes in my face. I slide one off the top and notice the new student doing the same. My pencil glides across the paper until all of the questions are answered. With two minutes to spare, I flip my paper over and lay my pencil on the desk. Everybody else is still scribbling away at their quizzes. Except the one person who didn’t even have to take the quiz.

He gazes at the clock and his face softens. I tuck my unruly hair behind my ear and smooth the wrinkles from my shirt. His eyes meet mine, forcing my stomach into a knot. A few seconds is all it takes to lose control. His gaze shifts to my wrist and he struggles to suppress a smile.

My bracelet blinks an annoying shade of yellow.

As soon as I realize what I’m doing, I fight to regain control of my thoughts. I force my hands into my lap where they're safely out of sight. Desperate for a distraction, I count the holes in the ceiling tiles. I only have a few seconds to squash the desire before the excess dopamine in my bloodstream turns the bracelet red. Once it’s red, it’ll only be a matter of minutes before the officials show up to arrest me. With everything I have going on in my life, that’s the last thing I need.

I long for the days when I’ll be old enough to not even be tempted by desire. I won’t have to worry so much about setting off the red light on my bracelet or letting the words want and desire slip out of my mouth. For now though, I just have to deal with it.

The door slams open behind me, forcing my head to whip around. Two police officers barge into the room trailing an official in a green uniform. The official passes the professor a respectful nod.

My heart races. My leg jiggles beneath the desk. With as much subtlety as I can manage, I glance down at my wrist. A heavy sigh escapes my lips when I’m unable to find the light. If it had turned red it would still be red, even if the excess dopamine was no longer in my bloodstream.

“Samantha Jones,” the official’s voice booms.

All eyes shift to a girl in the front of the room.

"Yes," she stutters.

The police officer slides out a pair of handcuffs.

“The levels of dopamine in your system have exceeded the legal limit. You are under arrest.”

The solid red light on her bracelet gives her away.

"No, you don’t understand,” her voice shakes.

The officer yanks her out of her seat.

She screams.

Before anyone can realize what’s happened, the girl’s elbow smashes into the police officer’s nose. Blood trickles down his face. The desk crashes to the ground. Everyone in the room averts their eyes and refuses to make eye contact with the girl as she makes a break for the door. The second police officer stumbles after her. Just a few feet from the door, the official reaches out, his face expressionless, and shoves a black object against the girl’s side.

Her body convulses as she tumbles to the ground. The official slides the Taser back into his pocket and waits for one of the police officers to slide the handcuffs onto her wrist. The officer jerks her up off the ground and a tear streams down her cheek.

“Sorry for the interruption,” the official passes another nod to the professor and everyone watches them lead her out of the room.

The professor nods in return. “Back to work everyone.”

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Zero Rev 2

Author: Chihuahua Zero
Genre: Young Adult Urban Fantasy
Title: Manifestation Files

Scout and I sat next to each other for the first time in several months. We were on my back porch, sipping Fitz’s Root Beer. Her headband, which had a stuffed chick sewn on it, was ridiculous. Yet, she wore it.

Of all the people that could calm my nerves, I invited her. Habits refused to stay buried—considering Mom was picking up Finn, the exchange student, from the airport.

“Once we meet Finn,” Scout asked, “can we go to my house?

I kept my eyes on my ring finger, which I tapped against the rim of the bottle. Condensation wettened my other hand. “Nah. One of my friends is going to get pizza for Finn and I tonight.”

“C’mon Bryan.” Scout leaned into the brick wall. “You haven’t been over to my place in the longest time.”

“For a good reason.”

Scout snapped the scrunchie binding her blonde ponytail and smirked. “Say…what evil plan do you have to assume complete control over your subject?”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s not my ‘subject’. Quit being a pervert all the time and I might invite you over again.”

“All right.” She looked beyond the fence. Sirens blared in a distance; a typical sound around the hospitals. “So, are you nervous?”

“Of course.” I took a long sip, smearing the frost surrounding the glass. The coldness calmed my jitteriness. I then lowered the root beer and looked her in the eye. “I prefer not having Mom and I host for an exchange student, but I feel like I can’t push this away. Mom expects me to look after him, and she would be disappointed otherwise.”

“Why did you agree in the first place?”

“I asked myself that for a while.” I took another sip. “It was after ‘The Owl’ went viral. She was in an artist high and I couldn’t be selfish.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Well, Mom’s attention is split between three different things. Also, I’m probably not going to like this Finn guy. He didn’t make any effort to answer the messages I sent through the student exchange program—although it’s likely Mom intercepted some of them and lost them in her studio.”

“Did you ask her about it?”

“Once. She dismissed it.” I sighed. “What do you suggest I should do?”

She tilted her head to the side and gazed off to the distance. But instead of her offering useful advice, she said, “I don’t understand you. A boy is finally living at your house for an entire semester, and you don’t even—?”

I flustered. “Drop it.”

“You showed me Finn’s picture. He doesn’t look too—“

“Strike two.”

“Hey, speaking of baseball, do you think he would make good catcher—?”

I stood and pulled her from her seat. “Get off my porch. Now.”

Scout kept her grip on her bottle. She sighed. “All right. You’re no longer fun anyways.” She slipped her arm from my grasp and opened the yard gate to the front.

I folded my arms. “You can’t tease me like that anymore, you know.”

“Well, if you want me driving you again…” She walked through the alley. A few seconds later, I could hear her new car driving away.

I entered the house, plenty of root beer left in the bottle.

I walked to the front and looked out the front window. Mom was driving into the spot Scout’s car was in.

I opened the door, stepped onto the front porch, and planted my feet into the brick, feet folded. Mom exited the car, drawing pad in hand. A couple of seconds later, the passenger door opened. Finn put one foot onto the sidewalk, while dragging a rolling suitcase. He fumbled with it before placing it onto the ground with a clatter.

I had seen a picture of him before. He was pale-skinned, with mouse brown hair side-swept with a comb. Beyond that, semi-formal clothes hanging off his scrawny frame, and a sheepish, awkward smile. Already, I could tell he wasn’t sure of himself.

Step by step, he walked up the stairs and pass the flower-sparse dirt garden, his suitcase bouncing. He kept his head aimed at his feet. Mom remained at the car, grinning at me—

Finn tripped and landed on his knees, leaving his suitcase to descend the steps like a rubber band ball.

Before Mom could move, I ran down the steps to help Finn. By the time I reached him he was already lifting himself, grimacing. When he stood, he was rubbed the back of his head with his palm, laughing nervously. “Sorry about that. I can be clumsy at times.” He was soft-spoken, with a British accent.

What a way to make a first impression.

Mom picked up his suitcase, walked up, and handed it to him. “Finn, this is my son Bryan. You guys will be getting to know each other quite well over the next few months.”

He detracted the handle, and held the case to his chest. A bandage covered his right forearm. He gazed off in the distance, his chest moving in and out. “O-okay.” He then made eye contact with me. “Okay.”

God, it was painful looking at him. Although he didn’t fit my worse-case-scenario—a surly, attitude-poisoned jerk—already I could tell he wasn’t the chatty kind. On the other hand…something about his eyes looked off. I usually didn’t notice eyes, but maybe it was the shade of gray, or the size of his irises, or that subtle absentmindedness?

Nah. I was looking too into it.

“Let’s go in.” I said. I led all three of us into the house. Another bout of sirens carried in the summer wind. It better not be an omen.



Once inside, Mom went straight to the third floor, where her studio was, leaving Finn and me alone.

I stared at Finn. He was fiddling with his suitcase’s upholstery, which reminded me of that expensive couch Dad had in his apartment. Hopefully, Finn wouldn’t ask about Dad.

“Um, Finn?”

He flinched. “Oh, am I supposed to do something?”

I gestured him over to the stairs. He followed, stepping across the carpet as if it was rough ground. “You’re from Oxford, right?” I asked. “The information the student exchange program gave Mom and I wasn’t clear.”

“Father had some trouble making arrangements.” Finn’s shoulder brushed against the stairway.

“So you weren’t able to send e-mails or anything?”

“I don’t have an e-mail.”

Once at the second floor, I opened the door to the guest bedroom, the one Finn was going to occupy. “You can put you suitcase in here. You can unpack later, once I show you everything.”

Finn walked in and circled aimlessly around the room. Due to money constraints, there was only a bed, an end desk with an old clock radio, and a desk and chair set recently bought in a garage sale. Finn slid opened the closet door, and gently pushed his suitcase in. He then went to the window and peeked through the curtains.

How long he was going to take?

He opened the bathroom door, peeked in, stepped out, and looked at me with a befuddled look.

“My bedroom is on the other side.” I said. “Be sure to knock every time.” I wasn’t too happy with the arrangement, but I wasn’t my house’s architect. And it wasn’t like anyone used the basement except to store milk gallons.

Finn scuttled out and followed me to the first floor.