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 Since the manuscript is unpublished, feel free to put on your "Evil Editor" hats and give me some honest yet constructive feedback.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 Warrior Writer's - Middle Grade

Weekend Writing Warriors

Check this fun hop out at: 

http://www.wewriwa.com

After attending an SCBWI conference, it looks like middle grade is what's selling, so I'm going to switch focus to another unpublished manuscript, MRS. ZIMMERMAN'S DONUTS. It's the story of a fifth grade outcast taken under the mismatched wings of a new boy in town. Is that cruel not to answer the door from last week? Sorry.

Here are my first eight lines. Please tell me if you'd keep reading––actually that may not be the right question since many of you write dirty romance novels and wouldn't turn the page of any kid's book, but humor me. I'm looking for an honest critique that will help me bring my work up to the publication level. Thanks!

CHAPTER ONE

 

            Randy slammed into my shoulder with a “Move it, Will,” on his way to Harrison Zimmerman’s desk. Telling me to move was better than putting an /L/ in on my forehead and getting the class to chant loser until Ms. Benson's face turned red. The kid bounced on his toes while kissing up to Harrison, who had the power to share glazed, creamy, chocolaty, or powdery treats. 

“Keaton told me your mom’s making a new kind of donut.”

            Harrison’s tongue swept across his upper lip like a fat frog grabbing his fly––not the zipper. “It's called The S’More––Chocolate, marshmallows, and gram crackers.” His beaming meant­ his stupid end-of-the-week party with the The S’More as the guest of honor. On Monday guys will boast about Mrs. Zimmerman's homemade donuts dipped in chocolate sauce or gooey cherry filling.

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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Weekend Writing Warriors 8/31/14

It's time for another Weekend Writing Warriors!

Check out eight line snippets at: http://www.wewriwa.

Here's another snippet from my YA manuscript, BEING BENITO CARLEFFA.

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I swung my backpack over one shoulder and then noticed Bryson shoving Austin. The big guy towered a full foot over little Austin and could have easily fit his victim into one of his pant legs.

“Leave him alone, Bryson.” I stepped close enough to see three blackheads surrounding a red splotch on Bryson’s cheek. He must have picked something open, again.

            Bryson’s chest rose and fell as he curled his hands into tight fists. “Always snooping in other people’s business, aren’t you, tool?”

            “Just looking out for my friend, douche.” 

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Weekend Writing Warriors / 08/17/14

Weekend Writing Warriors

8/17/14

http://www.wewriwa.com

Here are seven lines from my unpublished manuscript. Advice is always accepted.      

      

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     Pinging came from a flag hook tapping its pole outside the open window. Thinking about soccer, I checked for storm clouds when I spotted a bug-eyed, fat guy leaning on a Cadillac. He fixed his gaze my way causing a tingle to creep up the back of my neck. Even though the guy was just a random stranger, my heart raced at the mere sight of him standing under the ominous clouds. My shoulders inched upward as tension filled my core. Taking a deep breath, I turned to Sara. “Let’s go.”

Weekend Writing Warriors 07/27/14

        Weekend Writing Warriors / #8sunday / 07/27/14

http://www.wewriwa.com

As a follower of the hero's journey, I always start my novels in the normal world before inviting the freak on board. Here is the beginning of my unpublished manuscript BEING BENITO CARLEFFA, before they beat Ben, killed his mom, or even served him "Gestapo" soup. Without the drama, would you keep reading after these first eight sentences? Why or why not? If not, what would you suggest? Please be honest. I can take it.

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      The last bell ended my teacher’s talk on the robber barons, famous dead guys who ripped dudes off to get rich, so I stuffed Our Great Nation into my backpack. Those who didn’t want to get squashed hung under a poster of the presidents, while everyone else bolted for the door. Someone had marked up Washington with horns, earrings, and a Hitler mustache; more proof that I didn’t fit in with freshmen. 

      “You’re quiet,” Sara said. 

      I pointed at the crappy artwork. “Did you see that?” 

      “That’s hysterical!” She laughed as if something was actually funny and then wrapped her fingers around my arm. 

#GBE2: No Comfort in My Fictional World

Although impoverished, fifteen-year-old Ben enjoys his loving mother, good friends, and the comfort of his rundown home; however, his world topples when a balding weirdo storms into his apartment, shoots his mom, and kidnaps him. He rides five hours up a rain-slicked highway to a lush mansion with sculptured bushes, the scent of blossoms from the yard, and historic paintings each overhung by a fancy light.

Although his new home says, "Enjoy comfort," Ben carries anger toward a mob father who is as cold as his apartment the day the heater broke. When Ben's temper flares, he strikes the villain and then finds himself pinned to wooden paneling while being whipped. 

From then on, Ben obeys with a passive aggression until he is tricked into performing a horrendous deed. He escapes into adventures that only a few of my friends know about because no agent has been willing to read my manuscript. Comfort is a foreign concept for my book characters.

Writer's Post: Ghosts of Halloweens Past

Once upon a Halloween, I was a kid who didn't need parents to escort me from door to door, nor did I wear expensive store-bought costumes. After someone brought me a poncho from Mexico, I was a Mexican Hat Dancer for three years. Of course being a hat dancer meant planning a routine because someone would always ask me for a trick. 

Get it? "Trick or Treat." In the St. Louis of the 1960s that expression meant exactly what it said. Kids rang the doorbell, said "Trick or Treat," and gave the homeowner a choice: Give candy immediately or ask for a trick. As a Mexican Hat Dancer, I did a dance. In other years, I wandered the neighborhood with a joke to tell. 

When I mention this tradition around Memphis, people look at me cross-eyed. That's not the only Halloween culture clash from moving 300 miles south. The first time my husband left to take our son trick-or-treating, he came home and asked, "Did you give out a candy?"

My kids: Halloween 1995

I said, "Sure. I gave out lots of candy. One to this kid, another to that."

He said, "But did you give out a candy?"

I hadn't a clue that he was trying to find out whether or not we had candy left. Go figure. We've yet to give out a candy, except for the year that the neighbors threw a huge party with gazillion kids, but didn't tell anyone they were coming.

Another Halloween memory of mine was Mrs. Zimmerman's Donuts. Every year, David's mom made homemade donuts that she'd give to all the children. I never ate one. 

Kids can be quite literal, and that I was when Mom always said, "Never eat anything unwrapped." So year after year I'd skip those sweet smelling snacks that all the kids would go out of their way for. If I could go back in time, I'd eat one of her donuts on Halloween; but, it's not all bad. The memory of skipping donuts inspired my latest novel. I wonder if this manuscript would even exist if I'd eaten a donut. I also wonder if her son, who grew up to be a chef, bakes these donuts on Halloween. If he does, I just might have to go to St. Louis and ring his bell.