While THIS song is one I love every time I hear it:

 
Anyone?  Cuz I’m really drawing a blank. I mean, both are dance songs, both totally about bootay shakin’, but the Tootsee Roll one make me roll my eyes, and Rumpshaker makes me, well, shake my rump. Even if the main chorus is “All I wanna do is zooma zoom zoom and boom boom.” Or maybe because of it. I honestly don’t know.

Wait—you mean our characters have to be deep? Um…

Joking, of course. Characters need to have layers, and almost more importantly for me—they need to have flaws. I’m sorry, but being that I’m about a bazillion degrees away from perfect myself (shocking, I know), it’s really hard for me to relate to flawless characters. You know, the ones that are beautiful, rich, have superpowers, get the guy, and gosh darn it, are just flat-out nice. All. The. Time.

All that and she bakes, too? Kill me now.

Barf.

In fact, I’ll even go a step further. I would much rather read about a deeply flawed character than one without any imperfections. Why? Because the deeply flawed character is a heckuva lot more interesting.

If you don’t believe me, check out Justine Larbalestier’s novel Liar, where her MC Micah is a pathological liar, or Courtney Summer’s Regina in Some Girls Are. As a former high school bully, Regina was hard to relate to at times, and had some major issues. Heck, I didn’t even really *like* her half the time. That said, I finished that book in one sitting and still teared up at least three times.

When I think of some of the most memorable film characters—from Scarlett O’Hara to Forrest Gump to Hans Solo—I can see that they all have flaws. Perfection just isn’t exciting. But character flaws, and how they deal with conflict IN SPITE of them, is.

Smokin'.

So, a complex character is one who has both strengths and flaws, good and bad. Just like a real person—except when it comes to our characters, we get to torture them. Legally.

Ah, torture. That brings us to the book I’m reading, Plot & Structure, and what it has to say on character. Because you can create the most interesting character in the world, but the reader will never know unless you make that character struggle—and change as a result. The character arc, so to speak.

When James Scott Bell talks about characters, he has this to say:
What makes a plot truly memorable is not all of the action, but what the action does to the character. We respond to the character who changes.

To him, I think the heart of a complex character is the ability to change.

Time for the second week of Corrine Jackson’s writing process series on how writers do it. Today’s topic? Getting Into the Zone: What goes into the creative process of writing a novel? (i.e. Author’s mindset, the writer’s environment, etc.)

Lots and lots of junk food…whoa, what? Who said that? Actually, I don’t know if I’ve upped my junk food intake so much as I’ve maxed out on caffeine—one of the hazards of writing at Starbucks/Boudin.

Yeah, I’m one of those weird writers who doesn’t get much writing done at home unless it’s late at night. (read: kidlets are all locked up straight-jacketed asleep in their beds, and dogs are valiumed dozing on the couch). During the day, the house just distracts me. There’s always so much that needs to be done around here—and unless I want my MC seething with guilt over three-week-old dirty clothes piles or toilets that could be breeding the next super-bug, I tend to vamoose.

And then of course, if I sit all day at a coffee shop, it would be wrong not to buy drinks. Wrong, I tell you! Hence the caffeine.

caffeine yum

Weirdly enough, I typically can’t listen to music when I write, but I can tune out conversations, background music, etc. I think I *love* my music sooooo much, that all I want to do when I hear it is sing along. I do brainstorm up a bunch of new scenes while I listen to my iPod and run, though. And I just totally digressed there, didn’t I?

Let’s see. So far, we’ve got caffeine and Starbucks. What else goes into the creative process for me? Tons and tons of desire. I mean, there are so many distractions and other things begging to be done, you’ve really got to have that fire. For me, I have to want, no, NEED, to get my story down on paper in order to make time to do it. And the best way to make that happen is to both a) start writing the darn thing and see what comes (which sounds slightly contradictory to what I just said but trust me, it makes sense) and b) think about my story/characters A LOT.

What doesn’t go into my creative process? Outlining. I’m a total pantser. One who is trying to reform but will probably fail miserably, given how I repel all things organizationally-related.

James Scott Bell doesn’t really talk about the creative mindset so much in Plot and Structure, but he does suggest ways to brainstorm Shiny New Ideas. Examples include:

- making up a cool title and then dreaming up a story to go with it

-list mental pictures from your past and come up with little stories to describe them

-listen to music and come up with a story for the song

- scour the obituaries and recreate an original character from the biographies (As Cordelia might say–morbid much?)

-write an opening line and go from there

-mind-mapping (Something to do with writing down a word/concept that intrigues you, then doing free association to come up with a bunch of words/ideas to go with it. Honestly, it kinda scares me.)

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, there’s a small section in the book on how NOT to get ideas:

Drugs, alcohol and stress

Drugs and writing = badness...unless you're Stephen King

I know, I know—what a major killjoy! But note the conspicuous absence of caffeine from that list. Which obviously means it’s okay to tank up (hey, I had to tie this post together somehow!)

So, that’s my creative process in a nutshell—caffeine, somewhere that’s not home, and desire. What’s your creative process like?

Back in January, I received an email from Taylor Martindale, a new agent with the Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency. Her colleague, Natalie Fischer, found the awesome Karla Calalang’s query after poking around on Absolute Write (the best writing site ever!) and thought it sounded like a great story. Karla, in turn, referred her to some of her fellow YA writers’ blogs. Apparently, Taylor enjoyed my teasers on The Demon Guard and invited me to email her the first 50 pages. At that point, I was still finishing up, so I told her it might be a little wait. Just from those initial email interactions, though, I could tell she was friendly, approachable, and super nice. In fact, everyone I knew from AW who interacted with her was very impressed.

When I finally finished DG in February, I sent the first 50 pages to Taylor.

She checked in a couple weeks later to let me know she was looking forward to reading my material that week. On Thursday, she emailed me in the morning to tell me she’d finished my pages, and that she loved them, and would I please send her the full?

Four hours later, my cell phone rang. I saw the call was from Del Mar but didn’t think much about it, until the person on the other end said, “Hello? May I speak to Debra? This is Taylor Martindale, from the Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency.”

Gulp.

I think the rest of our conversation went something like this:

Me: Um?

Taylor: Is this Debra?

Me: *almost chokes on own tongue* Yes?

Taylor: Hi Debra, how are you?

Me: Um, fine. *panics* Before you say anything else—can you please just tell me one thing? You aren’t calling to say my book sucks, right? Because I think I would cry.

Taylor: *laughs, probably wonders if writer she is talking to is a crazy person* No. Actually, the opposite. I was calling to tell you how much I love The Demon Guard, and to offer you representation.

Me: *mumbles something incoherent, tries not to faint* Really? *laughs like a crazy person* Wow! You totally caught me off-guard.

Taylor: *laughs like a normal person* I’m sorry—I was afraid that might happen.

Me: *mumbles something even more incoherent* Wait—did you finish reading it yet?

Taylor: Not yet, no.

Me: *ponders, tells herself not to say something stupid. Says something stupid anyway* But, are you sure? What if you, I don’t know, totally hate the rest?

Taylor *laughs, probably now convinced writer she is talking to is indeed a crazy person, probably eyes phone like it’s a ticking bomb* I’m sure I won’t.

I can’t really remember the rest—just little bits about how she used to intern at Bliss Agency, where she worked with other authors like Hannah Moskowitz, writer of the amazing YA novel Break. I think I selectively blacked out all the parts where I sounded especially lame—essentially, most of the conversation.

On the following Tuesday, I got to tour the office and meet Taylor in person. She finished my book, and believe it or not, didn’t hate it (YAY) and even better—she GOT it. She really, really GOT my vision for Demon Guard. I can’t even tell you how huge that is.

I float out of the room a short while later—minutes? Hours? I have no clue. I’m glowing, glowing. My fingers skim the walls, graze the nubby texture, the air. I laugh and the sound floats around me, hovers. I’ve got more energy than I can fucking stand. I feel like I could explode out of my own skin, race a few hundred laps around the neighborhood, and not even have to stop for air. But most of all, I feel like I’m going to burst if I don’t find someone to talk to. I need people around me.

I take another step and stumble. Underneath my buzz, something slinks into my consciousness, something dark and dirty.

I brush my fingers against my lips, brush away the taste. Then shake my head. My hair whips at warp speed and I see black dots and lights. I welcome the distraction and do it again. And again.
Then I stumble out toward the comforting chaos of the party.

The laughter, the voices—they cover me like warm fog, fill every corner of my brain. I shove my way into the first group of people I see, just craving that feeling of connection. Shane’s telling some story about a practical joke they played on their coach, and I start laughing hysterically. The sound roars around me. Musical. Free.

Shane grins and ruffles my hair. “Gee, I wonder what you’ve been doing? I can’t believe anyone ever thought you were such a goody-goody. Slacker.”

Of course, if you know me at all, you’re not buying that for a second.

All right, fine, I’ll ‘fess up. I mean, querying blunders–everyone makes them. We’ve all heard the story about the overeager writer who called the agent’s office for a status check on his query(cringe!) or sent a package of live hamsters to go along with that cute hamster picture book she was pitching (Okay, I might have made that one up—but I wouldn’t be surprised if it had happened. Because, you know, nothing says represent my book like a box of dead rodents).

Seriously, though—if you’ve made a querying/writing oopsie, you’re not alone. And to prove it, I’m gonna share some of my more special moments with you.

1) I might have cold-emailed this author my first chapter and asked for her input. No, I’m not making this up. In my defense—at the time, I had no idea such behavior was frowned upon. I’d just read about her on an agent’s blog and thought she sounded really cool. And the author, lovely lady that she was, actually responded with a crit! Unbelievable, really, how awesomely supportive so many fellow writers are. Of course, when I sent her ten thousand follow-up questions, she ran far, far away, but that’s another story.

2) I might have sent a different writer I read about on the same blog my query letter to critique. Again, I didn’t know her, and again, she totally responded. I’m thinking maybe she suspected I needed medical help.

3) I sent out about 15 queries for my first manuscript without having any other writers read it. Just a few friends and my mom—yep, I’m *that* girl. On the plus side, I did not mention that my mom liked it in the query letter. But that’s probably just because I didn’t think about it.

4) When I got two full requests from those queries, I did not attach a title page. I suppose it could have been worse—I could have sent that box of hamsters.

5) I decorated my query letter envelope with puffy paints and stickers, and enclosed a photo of myself. Yeah, okay—I totally made that part up. But I bet *somebody* did it!

And now for our first topic:

Writers as Artists: How do you define yourself as a writer? Are genre writers artists?

Oh, wait, I know this one! Is it–I write therefore I am? No? Curses! Gee, Cory, way to toss us a softball to start with! This isn’t one of those profound, put on your tweed blazer, drink herbal tea and ponder the universe type questions, is it? Because I’m an epic fail at those. OMG, do you remember the “what is the meaning of beauty” essays in your college philosophy classes? MEEP!

Um, we had a topic, didn’t we? Sorry. Writers as artists, check. The answer for me is kind of two-sided, actually. On the one hand, yes, I consider the majority of writers, whether they are published, attempting-to-be-published, genre or literary, to be artists. I mean, they’re all creating something, right? And isn’t the end result of creating = to art? But then, if you were to ask me if *I* consider myself an artist, I would probably spit tea all over your shirt. There’s just something so pretentious sounding about that term when you apply it to your own writing. Or maybe it’s just me—I’m weird that way.

But yes, I do view genre writers as artists. In fact, in some ways, I think it’s harder to be a genre writer. There are more rules to follow while *creating*, which lends itself to a unique set of challenges that pure “literary” writers don’t always have to address.

Let’s try another way of looking at it. Painters create all types of pictures, from beautiful landscapes to portraits to OMG, what the heck *is* that crazy-looking thing?, and yet we rarely question if painting is art. I think it should be the same with writing. It’s just that one author might create lovely, evocative, thought-provoking imagery, and another creates kick-ass action sequences, quick-witted, realistic dialogue, or heart-tugging love scenes. One author might spend pages telling us how the ocean is a metaphor for death, and another shows us how the Evil Octo-flounder Monster causes death by injecting toxic ink into beachgoers big toes. Whether you value one above the other is pretty personal–the whole “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” thing.

Also, since writers didn’t traditionally fall under the term “artist” at all—it was reserved more for the visual and musical arts—I thought I’d ask two YA writers who *are* traditional artists about their take on writers as artists.

From Cindy Pon, author of Silver Phoenix and creator of lovely Chinese brush art:

“writing is definitely a creative endeavor.
we weave stories, paint images with our words.
and stories can elicit emotion, just as music or
paintings or sculpture–any form of art can.”

From Gretchen McNeil of YARebels awesomeness, a former opera singer represented by Ginger Clark:

You see, writing is all about craft… (sorry Gretchen—couldn’t resist) No, here’s what she really said:

“I think of art in two distinct categories: creative and interpretive. Most people disagree with me here, but opera, classical musicians, actors – I consider them to be interpretive artists, meaning that they are interpreting someone else’s work. Still hard. Still requires a shit ton of dedication and practice, but different than the creative artists – the writer, poet, painter, composer – who is creating something from nothing.”

Okay, and now comes the part where I tie everything neatly into the book I’m reading, Plot and Structure by James Scott Bell…um, yeah, it really doesn’t tie in at all. But even the process he describes of brainstorming the ideas, getting them on paper, and creating an entire, compelling book out of them carries the implication that the writer is an artist. Because, what it all boils down to is this: we create.

Well, I think that’s about all the time we have for this post! (See what I did there? I distracted you with pretty quotes and authors and books, and totally evaded the first question. Maybe Cory won’t notice….)

And please, check out what the other participants had to say on the topic (undoubtedly something way, way more profound than the random brain spew I just subjected you to!)

It’s fairly rough, so bear with me. This story is about a girl who used to have everything together, a girl who was totally under her parents’ control. And then one day she exploded. This isn’t from the beginning, but somewhere in first third.

“Where’s Jake?” I stumble into the table and hit my hip, almost drop my beer. No pain. No pain, no gain. I giggle, even though I have no idea why that’s funny. The laughter freezes in my throat a second later, though. My hip might not hurt, but inside, I’m dying for a fix. Just a little something to boost me back up. No big deal. Anything will do, anything at all. I’m not picky these days.

Sarah laughs and tries to bounce a quarter into a cup. “You’re so obvious. Jake had to bail for awhile. Jones is here, though—in the bedroom. He can hook you up for a price.”

A price? Shit. I drain the beer in my cup, but it’s doing nothing for me, not anymore. I might as well be drinking Evian. “I’m broke. Will he take an IOU?”

Sarah’s laughter explodes like a bullhorn this time, forceful and way too loud. I wince as the sound splinters in my ears. “You’re shitting me, right?” she says.

Am I? I don’t think so. Maybe I’m missing something here, but I’m too restless to figure it out. I jiggle the cup on the table, jiggle my leg. I can’t stop moving.

Sarah sighs. “Just go back there. I’m sure you can work something out.”

Joy blooms in my chest. Work it out, that’s it. I’ll work it out. As I turn to leave, Delissa collars my wrist with her hand, throws an angry look at Sarah. “Hey, that’s not cool—the girl is wasted. Look, Kaylin, I think you should just wait here for Jake. He’ll be back soon.”

Yeah, but that’s the thing—I’m not wasted. Not wasted enough. I jerk free and stumble away in search of Jones.

Past the group of guys smoking in the family room. Past the couple making out in the hall. The closer I get to the bedroom, the faster my heart beats. Anticipation curls my fingers, writhes likes frantic worms in my gut. I’m almost there. It takes three or four grabs for the doorknob before I finally manage to turn it.

Comments welcome, as always!

When I walk down the stairs, Mom’s smile is the same one she’s been wearing for the past four months—perky, wide. Strained.

Then she gives me a once over, and the smile fades. It’s not long before she’s hovering, which makes even our condo-sized kitchen feel claustrophobic, and I can see her biting her lip. She’s trying not to say anything about my new look. But I know her. Former Miss Chester County won’t be able to help herself.

Sure enough, one last graze of lasered-white teeth against perfectly applied Chanel lip-color later, she says, “Hon, are you sure that’s what you want to wear on your first day of school?”

I look down. I’m wearing a frayed t-shirt, an old pair of jeans that had probably worn out their coolness years ago, and a pair of scuffed up sneakers. Not as awful as I’d like, to be honest. I completely procrastinated on my mission to stock up on school clothes at the local discount store. But my blond hair is pulled back into a haphazard braid that makes me look about twelve, and instead of contacts, I’m wearing my ancient square glasses—the ones my brother used to tease me were only fit for one-hundred year old librarians. Or asexual men.

“Yes, this is exactly what I want to wear.”

Mom opens her mouth as if to protest, but appears to think the better of it. “Okay, hon. Just remember, everything will be fine.” She’s using that soft, soothing voice I hate, the one that says she thinks I’m a wild, injured animal that needs to be approached with extra care. And I know she’s not finished; we’ve been here before. Soothing voice is always followed by some false platitude about how I’m really such a nice girl.

Wait for it. Wait for it. “You’re a good person—whether you believe it or not.”

But she can’t hold my gaze when she says it, she never can; instead, she turns to fuss with the already perfect place setting.

We both know she’s lying.

I don’t reply, but my silence speaks volumes. I grab a single piece of toast off a plate groaning with pancakes, eggs, the works. Because it’s a universal mom fact that food will solve everything that’s wrong in the world. I sling my backpack over my shoulder.

“You have to eat more than that before your first day,” she frets.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks though,” I add, leaning down to give her a peck on the cheek. After all, it’s not her fault. “Besides, I need to get going if I’m going to walk.”

Mom frowns. “I still don’t know why you’re planning on walking. You have a perfectly good car.”

Too good—that was the problem. I didn’t want to show up for the first day at my new school in a Lexus convertible. “Haven’t you heard? Exercise is good for you.”

“Funny.”

I try to smile, but my mouth fumbles over how to form one. It feels like decades have passed since I’ve activated those particular muscles. In reality, it’s only been a few months. “See ya later.”

Comments appreciated, as always!

I walk through campus and take in all the buildings, the quad, the school I’ve attended for the past three years. My eyes seek a tangible clue, a scrap of evidence that things have changed.

But I find…nothing. The familiar stucco walls are still the color of butterscotch, the grass in the senior courtyard the same vibrant shade of green. Even the old oak sprawling proudly through the middle of campus appears to have the same number of leaves. The kids laughing and gossiping their way past me in huddles are talking about the same meaningless topics as always…parties, dates, homework.

I turn to cut through the corridor toward homeroom, when I spot him.

James.

My heart slams to a halt in my chest. Then, it kick-starts into an unsteady gait, like an athlete’s first limping step after an injury.

As I watch him lean into a curvy dark-haired girl, his arm loosely draped across her shoulders, I finally pinpoint what’s different. It’s not the school, or the students, or anything that I can touch. It’s my hold on James. Always tenuous at best, my slippery claim to him has faded along with the intensity of the summer sun.