#8 Weekend Writing Warriors Blog Hop - Get's Musical

I'm glad to be a part of the Weekend Writing Warriors.

Weekend Writing Warriors / #8 Sunday / 07/06/14
www.wewriwa.com

A weekly festival of writers sharing excerpts from their work.  

Many different genres; something for everybody. 

     Here is a passage from my unpublished young adult manuscript called BEING BENITO CARLEFFA. I've included a short description below the passage to give background information if wanted. 

¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡

     “Here’s the deal, kid.” Carsa leaned close, brushed the handle of the strap down my jawbone, and used it to move my face so that I met his eyes and could almost taste his sour breath. The cold plastic grip dug into my cheek while its leather tail gently danced against my ribcage in a cruel tease. Once again, Carsa’s pupils widened with a three-second crazed expression then dwindled back to normal size as if drugs had returned him from his psychotic trip. 

    “You will not leave this room unscathed,” Carsa continued, “however a little cooperation could help.” He cracked the air beside me. Every muscle in my body tightened as a shiver shot down my spine. “Did your dad say two or three,” he grinned while stroking his torture device, “or was it five or six? Just can’t remember.” 

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My teenage character had been kidnapped earlier in the day by employees of a mob boss father who he didn't know existed. The scene takes place in a dark study after Ben broke his father's Waterford lamp and used a glass shard as a weapon against Dad while cussing him out. Not that Ben's a bad kid, he's actually quite good, but he just learned that this scum bag killed his mom, and you can't blame him for being just a little ticked. Of course his father never does the dirty work. Why should he when he's got Carsa to wear the mud?

Compliments are great, but what I'm really looking for is the constructive criticism to take the passage to a new level. 

Thanks!
Joyce


Sorry I almost missed Musical Monday Moves Me. I'm vacationing in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Here's a quick musical addition to go with my writing.

Come join Music Monday and share your songs with us. Rules are simple. Leave ONLY the ACTUAL LINK POST here and grab the code below and place it at your blog entry. You can grab this code at LadyJava’s Lounge Please note these links are STRICTLY for Music Monday participants only. All others will be deleted without prejudice.




PS: Because of spamming purposes, the linky will be closed on Thursday of each week at midnight, Malaysian Time. Thank you!

#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.

#GBE2: Two Perspectives of My Mob Story

This week's challenge is to write two separate, but related pieces. I have chosen a scene from my unpublished young adult manuscript, BEING BOMPSY CARLETTA. For those who don't know, I started this blog because I am an aspiring author. I've written five novels but haven't published any of them. Time to send out some queries.

My first passage is from Fiso Carleffa’s point of view. Fiso is the mob boss father who had recently been united with his fifteen-year-old son after twelve years of believing the kid and his mother had died in a car wreck. The story was originally written in Ben Smith's, aka Bompsy Carleffa’s, first person point of view.

 

          Bompsy's eyes widened then a bewildered expression covered his face. What had his mom been feeding him all these years? Mac and cheese? He didn’t look malnourished, but he certainly wasn’t used to eating gourmet either. “Do you like the gazpacho?” I asked.

            He dropped his spoon and looked at me like I was feeding him poison.

            “Eat it. It’s good for you.” I twirled my spoon in a circular motion until he finally took another sip. That's when I realized my own son was afraid of me. I guess I'd screwed up when I ordered his beating, but what else could I have done after he cursed and punched me? I’m his own father and the kid didn’t even know me, nor at least respect me.

            Gil brought us our pallet cleansers and once again Bompsy scrunched his brows together while staring at the sherbet.

            “You look confused.” I pointed to Bompsy's plate. “That’s a palate cleanser.”

            He clearly didn’t understand.

             “Your mom sure didn’t show you the finer things in life.” How will I ever make this boy feel at home? Maybe I should apologize for the whipping.

             “Can I be excused?” he said.

            “Now? You haven’t had dinner.”

            “I’m not up to eating.” He stared at his hands. Poor kid had chewed his nails off completely. I wanted to spend more time with him, but he obviously couldn’t wait to get away from me.

            “Very well, but learn to call this home. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll even love me like I love you.” If that boy’s mom lives, it won’t be for long.

Brent Turner

This is how I picture my character Ben/Bompsy, so this young actor can play him if he doesn't have gray hair by the time my book gets published and becomes a movie. The next bit of text is the original wording from my novel. Please read the same scene told from Ben/Bompsy's point of view and hopefully you'll see the humor in it that Fiso didn't catch.

           When I sipped the soup, I was shocked. Cold soup? All this money, and these people couldn’t heat the soup.

            “Do you like the gazpacho?” Fiso asked.

            I dropped my spoon on the table. Why would he mention the Gestapo? What was he, a modern day Nazi? Sure, doesn’t everyone like murderers? Sick. This guy’s really sick!

            “Eat it. It’s good for you.” Fiso twirled his spoon in a circular motion.

            Not wanting another beating, I forced the soup down my throat. I was a spineless wimp doing whatever that Nazi demanded. The soup left a spicy, hot taste in my mouth so I drank more water. Gil put a small scoop of sherbet in front of me. I stared at the lime mound. Dinner must’ve been over since he’d already brought dessert.

            “You look confused.” Fiso pointed to my plate. “That’s a palate cleanser.”

            I didn’t get it.

           “Your mom sure didn’t show you the finer things in life.”

            How was this a finer thing? What was I supposed to do with the light green lump? I lifted a small sample to my tongue and choked the sweet, icy food down. My full mind didn’t want to feed my empty stomach. “Can I be excused?”

            “Now? You haven’t had dinner.”

            “I’m not up to eating.” I lowered my head and stared at my fingers. I wasn’t a nail biter, yet somehow had chewed my nails down to the pink on the way to St. Louis.

            “Very well, but learn to call this home. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll even love me like I love you.”

            Love? How could that monster talk about love? He had his brother kidnap me, Mom killed, and my back scarred, but I was supposed to love him?

 

If any agents or editors are visiting my blog, BEING BOMPSY CARLEFFA is available for publication, and I will send it to legitimate agencies upon request. I have also written a sequel to this novel and three other original works for children and/or teens, as well as a published story in AppleSeeds magazine. Furthermore, I am an active member of SCBWI and have completed course work at the Institute for Children's Literature.

#GBE2: Bucket List

GBE2's topic for the week is "Bucket List," which means things you want to do before you "kick the bucket." My desires are short but mine.

(1) I want to publish a novel. Although my third manuscript is strong, it's been rejected by a few–okay a lot–of agents, but that's their mistake. I mean, who wouldn't want to be engrossed in a story about a teenager running from mob dudes?

My fifth book is also strong, but I have yet to quit polishing it and send it out. It's difficult for an author to drop her hands from the keyboard and say, "This is as good as it's gonna get." Plus, after meeting Linda Sue Park, I'm determined to make every detail and object in the novel count–including the blue bucket. I'm just not there yet; but when I am, hopefully the world will enjoy meeting Knob.

(2) I want to travel to New Zealand and visit Rhonder. I've never been to NZ, Australia, Fiji Islands, or anywhere else in that corner of the world. Unfortunately, we are college poor as we work to educate our young. But one day, I will sell my award winning novel and hop on a plane across the world. Please God, let it not be a Delta flight!

As far as bucket lists go, is there such a thing as an anti-bucket list, aka - things I DON'T want to do? We can call this the mop list since mops take care of what falls out of the bucket... and it's usually a mess to clean up.

I don't want to sky dive. Rhonder did, and it almost killed her.

I don't roller coaster or thrill ride. I even wet my pants on the little log flume at Six Flags.

I have no desire to visit the moon, the bottom of the ocean, or war torn countries.

Call me no fun, but I'm a gal who likes her feet on the ground. Now socially, I have no filter and have been prone to say what comes out of my mouth! If that doesn't make sense, you don't know me. ;-)