No More Time to Think or Work on my WIP

I'm writing this post for Thursday, which means I'll be back in the trenches with no more time to think. That may not be a bad thing after the last two Thursday posts. I had a wonderful and relaxing Spring Break, spending much of my time either at the dog park with my best friends or writing. 

Although I've written five novels, there is one that is dearest to my heart, and I keep coming back to her after seven years. That baby has seen more rejection than Rodney Dangerfield; she's been around the block more times that Miley Cyrus, and she's received the reception of a president during a depression.  However, I think I've finally tweaked her to a new level . . . or I'm setting myself up for a huge disappointment. 

Last fall, I attended the SCBWI conference in Nashville. At the conference, I met a book editor who had a way of ticking everyone off with her quick NOs to our first pages. By the end of the conference, I was so angry that I didn't even bother to write down her submission requirements. But now that I've had time to cool and think, I realize that she gave me some of the most valuable information I'd ever gotten. I'd like to thank her.

I attended her session on dialogue. I always felt like dialogue was my strength, and maybe it is, but perhaps I have looked at dialogue all wrong. This editor told us that dialogue should not be what's moving the story. In fact, one should be able to remove the dialogue completely and still have a solid plot in place that the reader can follow. So, dialogue's job is to enhance what is already on the page. With that in mind, I revisited my baby looking for ways to tell Ben's story without too much dialogue. What I've noticed is a much deeper voice with a true insight as to what's in his head.

I believe this has taken my book to a new level and has given me the confidence to fork

over $30 to the Claymore Award competition. As a rule, I typically only enter free contests, so that when I lose, I chip away at my pride and not my pocketbook. However, I've taken a leap of faith. What makes this contest so appealing is knowing that those reading my first fifty pages are junkies of my genre. Furthermore, one does not have to win to win with Claymore. Any manuscript deemed ready for publication, winner or not, will be suggested to an appropriate editor. So, I hope someone sees what I see in my work. 

Now that I've passed my manuscript on, I've gone back to revising book two. Yes, I have a completed sequel to my book that's never been published and half of a third book. I quit working on these after someone suggested that writers not work on sequels to unpublished books.

For those who are interested, here is my first paragraph to that book that will one day become a best seller and a major motion picture. Oh, how I wish.

            I tried to focus on Ms. Link’s history review, but it was pointless once I’d spotted the fat guy outside my classroom window. He had stood under a tree less than twenty feet away for the past half-hour with his bug eyes aimed straight at me. I rubbed my hand over my stiff neck and noticed that my shoulders had inched upwards. Knowing I had to stop this stare down, I got out of my chair and headed toward the window. Maybe if I closed the smudged thing, he wouldn’t be able to see inside.

WeWriWa - Slater to the Rescue

Weekend Writing Warriors

Check this fun hop out at: 

http://www.wewriwa.com/

Those who tuned in last week learned about my little guy being blamed for Slater's fart in class. Things weren't as glum as they looked because Slater came to Knob's rescue.

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“I confess!” He [Slater] dramatically flung his hands in the air and then slapped his head on both sides. Ignoring Ms. Benson’s squinting eyes, he said, “It was me and those Country Bean’s sausages my mom cooks. Completely nutritious and delicious, but oh, the consequences of eating them.”

Everyone broke out laughing. Even Ms. Benson cracked a slight smile for a moment before returning to her business-like tone. “Slater, class time.”

“Sorry, Ms. Benson. I promise not to eat any more sausages before school.” 

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Wewriwa on the Last Weekend of September

Welcome to another addition of the 

Weekend Writing Warriors

Hop on over to the main page and check out the wonderful snippets from a variety of genres.

http://www.wewriwa.com/

Last week I abandoned my YA manuscript and gave my dear readers a middle grade snippet. Here is another sample from MRS. ZIMMERMAN'S DONUTS. Since the manuscript is unpublished, feel free to put on your "Evil Editor" hats and give me some honest yet constructive feedback. I can take it! 

I've struggled to write my metaphor without using words that take the reader off the page. This has been a challenge. To quote Mark Twain, "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightening bug." Please help me to strike lightning as I introduce this kid.

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My thoughts and everything else rattled as the door flung open and smashed into the wall. Slater Slatker, the new kid, burst into the room followed by papers flying off desks and swirling into an air dance before settling onto the floor. With a smile that reached from ear to ear, he blew a whirlwind of charm toward my class, and within two minutes, knew them better than I had after five years. Obviously, Slater was used to spinning dirt while making his tornadic path, which meant life wouldn't be the same in the wake of his destruction. His brown Mohawk spiked on top of his head into a stiffly gelled shark fin. He wore faded red shorts and a sleeveless skateboarding T-shirt on that chilly October morning. The entire class turned toward him as he stomped his monstrous Nikes onto the gray tiles. That kid had the biggest darn feet I’d ever seen, and a mouth to match.

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Weekend Writing Warriors, September 6

Weekend Writing Warriors

Another week is beginning, which means it's time to share

 writing snippets at:  http://www.wewriwa.com

Here is the continuation from last week. 

You know a fight is imminent!

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Bryson threw a punch, but I ducked and then body-slammed him into the wall.

            “Way to go, Benito!” The stranger outside the window cheered and clapped.

            I let go of Bryson and stared at the man outside. Is he talking to me? My heart sped up as his bug eyes tore through me.
            “Benito?” Bryson laughed. “Is your name Be-ni-to?

            “No. I’m Ben.” I stared out the window and shook my head as though I could clear away all of my confusing thoughts with a quick shake. "Just Ben." 

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