*****

My Grandmother – and it’s always Grandmother with a capital G –made me learn many things as a child. Once, when I complained about learning to sew, she told me there was a good reason. She was tipsy on a bit too much Rumtopf and Christmas cheer, or she wouldn’t have indulged me at all.

“Your parents died because your mother didn’t pay attention to these lessons.”

I turned to stone as she stared, focused on something beyond this reality. I tucked my needle through the layers of fabric, but my eyes were on her. Sadness lingered in her gaze with the reflected light from the Christmas tree’s strange glass and wooden ornaments. Then she shook her head.

“They died, Ivy, because they didn’t listen. They didn’t want to learn of old things. They didn’t…”

I waited. When the silence stretched too long, I whispered, “Didn’t what?”

“Believe.”

For a long time I didn’t understand what she meant. But her lessons and words stuck with me. So I learned all those old-fashioned tasks that feminism frowned on. And I wrote it off finally as the mutterings of a bitter old woman.

Until now.

***

My butt would freeze off before I could get home. The old mustang sputtered, the engine giving a loud cough and shuddering to a halt. With difficulty, I yanked the steering wheel to the right, drifting to the shoulder of the road and then jerked it into park.

Great. Just what I needed. Stacked in the back of the car were the candies and cupcakes for my best friend’s eighteenth birthday party, and I wasn’t going to make it. If I survived the night, she’d kill me when she saw me.

I punched the clock button the radio, and the dial lit. Nine fifteen. They’d be out of the movies soon. I punched the speed dial on my cell and let it ring. It cut straight to voicemail.

“Hey, Cindy. It’s Ivy. I’m having some car trouble, and I’m stuck out on 50 just after Elkins. If you get this, and I’m not back yet, please don’t freak out. Just send someone to come and get me. Breathe. It will be fine. I’ll call and leave another message when I’m on the road again. Bye.”

I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Everyone I could contact was already at the party, and no one was expecting me to even think of calling for another two hours.

“I knew I should have left earlier,” I muttered, swiping the touch screen on my phone again. Immediately it let out an annoyed beep and the battery light started to blink. I frowned, real panic rising. I’d just charged it before getting in the car. No way had it already run out.

I wanted to chuck the thing at the door. Instead, I squeezed it in my hands and muttered some good curse words. Grandmother would have my hide when I called to ask her for help. Of course, that would be after I walked back about two miles to the house I’d passed earlier.

On cue, snow began falling in big white flakes through the swath of my headlights. The night just got better and better.

With an oath, I grabbed my leather gloves from the seat next to me and pulled my wallet from my purse, shoving it into one of the deep pockets of my coat. I flipped off the lights, turned off the car and got out, slamming the locks down and closing the door with more force than necessary. I winced as the sound ricocheted around the woods like gunshot. It was darker than I thought out here, and no headlights were visible in either direction.

“I just had to take the short cut.” I grumbled, wiggling my fingers into the gloves and wrapping the scarf over my nose. At least the snow seemed to be illuminating the road, slowly, like a white ribbon simmering in the dark.

As I trudged up the hill, the atmosphere changed. The woods around me seemed darker and thicker. They pressed in on me and I had to fight to keep my steps even. The hair on my arms stood on end. My pace quickened.

Just get to the top of the hill. You’ll see that house from there.

Over and over, I repeated the words to myself. But a sense of dread grew in my gut, swelling with each panting breath. After about five minutes, when I was puffing from climbing the incline and vowing to go to the gym more often, I reached the top of the hill. I hadn’t remembered it being so steep in the car, but I attributed that to my sense of unease. A few more steps and I looked down the slope of the road, to the spot farther down the valley to the house. There was only darkness.

No house.

I’m supposed to tell you 8 things about myself. I think I can manage that.

1. Currently, my students have managed to give me whatever creeping crud they’ve been passing around. I’m so thrilled they decided to share over the holidays.

2. I love aquariums. I will go out of my way on a roadtrip to stay somewhere with one I want to see.

3. I am nearly thirty and I still sleepwalk. This is proven because I wake up with strange bruises and things like the door to my room being shut. When I was in college, my roommate once woke to find her desk chair pushed in under her lofted bed. Creepy, right?

4. I just bought a motorcycle. My friends are all convinced I will now find the love of my life in a biker bar and his name will be Larry or Crusher. They want to take me out and outfit me in leather for the occasion.

Yup. That’s my new motorcycle. Pretty, yes?

5. I will watch any retelling of any fairy tale, no matter how bad the movie. And believe me, I’ve seen some REALLY bad ones.

6. I want to write horror, when in reality horror movies/books scare the crap out of me. I know I’m on the right track when my own imagination gives me the heebie-jeebies.

7. I have the most awesome crit group in the world.

8. I recently went and took the exam to get an extra endorsement on my teaching license. I passed the test with a 194/200. I was pretty psyched. (Not that I intend to give up my current job anytime soon. But its good to have a backup, especially when you teach an elective.)

Traci has already given the award to the eight people I’d give it to. So I shall leave it at that and thank her, and the YAFF ladies, again! You’re awesome!

In so many YA novels, the love triangle is inescapable. The first couple times, this is okay. You pick a “team” and hope for the best. (Or, like some books which shall not be named, its pretty obvious who the winner is all along despite the hype.) But its getting to the point where I dread opening a book and finding the triangle. First of all, if it isn’t well done, it makes the heroine look wishy-washy. But most of the time, its the same stereotypes over and over again.

I’m to the point where I’d rather read a story where the MC picks a person and then deals with the complications of that choice.

What about you, readers? Do you love the triangle? Hate it? Have a favorite example?

So, I’m combining Monday’s excerpt with today’s About Me Blog MAYbe entry.

I’m not sure what to tell you about me. We’ve talked plotter and punster. I’ve answered silly questions. I refuse to discuss politics or religion. I get enough work talk at work.

So ask me anything. I’ll stop by throughout the day and try to answer your questions. We’ll see where that gets us. What do you want to know about me?

And, since I missed yesterday, here’s the excerpt from my current WIP (the WWII historical)

*****

I relax back against the grass, the cool night air sliding against my skin.  Beside me, David turns a small wireless on, the music as low and soft as the night.

“I should be at the house getting things done,” I say.

David props himself up on one elbow. There’s still enough light to see the slight smile that curves his lips. “Even the Lord took a break, you know.”

“Yes, well, he never had ration books and doodlebugs and —” I force myself to stop and bite my lip. “Sorry.”

David curls his rough fingers around mine and gives a gentle squeeze. A strange thrill runs through me at the contact, then disappears when he releases my hand. He sits back, stretching out a few feet away. “You don’t have to apologize. We all need to let it out sometimes. You can say whatever you want. Only me and the night will hear it.”

I can’t help but think of Anthony and his speech about doing my duty with a stiff upper lip. I shift, and release a long breath. “You always know just what I need, David. How do you do that?”

He chuckles. “It’s a gift, I guess. That and your eyes change color when you’re stressed. I can always tell.”

“What?” He pays attention to my eyes?

“I’ll prove it to you sometime. It’s a bit dark out to try now, don’t you think?”

I give his shoulder a slight slap, then roll back to stare at the stars. In the distance, a low hum begins. My body tenses.

David hand engulfs mine. “Don’t worry. They’ll skip us tonight. Besides, those are ours.”

There’s so much confidence in his voice. “How can you do that?”

“Psychic, remember?”

Tears burn the corner of my eyes. “No. The optimism. Always seeing the best. I can’t do that anymore. Every time I open my eyes, I can only see the problems—every possible disaster that might happen.”

He is silent for a moment. “As I recall, that wasn’t always the case.”

“If you’re going to yell at me, I can tell you it isn’t going to work like it did on you.”

David laughs, but his voice is serious. “Can you change what will happen?”

“Of course not.” My voice shakes.

“Then why worry?”

“Because—“

He waits, then rolls to his side. It’s too dark now to see his face. It makes it easier, I think. “Let it go, Ruth.”

“I’m terrified. Of everything.” I wipe at the tears I can’t keep from flowing down my cheeks. “Of when the money will run out, or the ration stamps, or what could come falling from the skies. Everything. I don’t know how to fix it.”

I press my hands to my eyes, stress and frustration mixing with my fear until I feel swamped by everything. A sob rips from my throat, and I sit up. David’s arms slide around my shoulders, and I bury my face against his chest.

*****

I fell off the wagon a little this week. Sorry. We have four weeks left until school gets out and things are becoming a little….hectic. But I’m going to get back on track! Honest!

I struggled what to ask you this week. Something about your favorite movie? Nah, I watch too many as it is. Your favorite book? I already asked something about books. I wanted to be different.

So I’m going to ask you, “ARE YOU PSYCHIC?”

As in, has anything ever happened that you believe was paranormal, you had deja vu that wouldn’t quit, etc?

I can’t carry a cell phone on me or wear watches for a long time because I block almost all cell signal and drain the batteries of both. I know when the phone will ring sometimes. And sometimes who’s calling. I think I’ve seen a ghost. On more than one occasion. Lots of things like that. Psychic? Who knows?

How about you?

Enjoy! Let me know what you think!

****

The inside of the sleek stretch limo was empty. I should have known she wouldn’t be there. Still, when I’d seen Henry drive up, I hoped.

“Cheer up, Master Rory. She said she’d meet you at home for dinner tomorrow.” Henry’s smile was genuine, but there was sympathy in his eyes.

I sighed. “Yeah, until some state dinner calls her away or someone more important calls. And quit calling me Master. I feel like I need to start wearing a cape or sewing bodies together when you do that.”

Henry winked, walking over to my huge duffel bag with an exaggerated limp. “Yesss, Massster.”

I laughed, and then climbed inside at his nod. The car bounced as he shoved my stuff into the trunk and closed the lid. I unscrewed the top of the soda waiting inside for me and took a swig. Henry ducked inside.

“Ready to go?”

I nodded, and Henry closed the door, got in the driver’s seat and started the car. Outside my window, the ivy covered stones of Worthington Academy grew smaller. Six boarding schools down, a million more to go.

Sagging back against the seat, I sighed. I didn’t even try to get kicked out. I didn’t fight, always did my homework, and tried to be polite. But my mother seemed to have ears everywhere. The moment she found out about any bullying or shoving, I was shuttled to another place. Everyone called me a pansy and a mama’s boy.

I wished.

That seemed to be the only outward sign of affection at all. Each time I came home, she’d hug me, tell me the next place would be better, and disappear into her office again. Sometimes, I wondered if she even knew I existed outside the reports she got.

Briefly, I allowed myself the fantasy of ripping through her office, flinging stacks of papers and computer parts around until it looked like a bomb had gone off. A smile curled my lips. That would be so awesome.

I’d be so dead when it was over though.

I propped my chin on one hand and stared at the passing scenery. Where would I go this time? Europe? Africa? Maybe a boarding school in Asia. We hadn’t tried that continent yet. It didn’t matter, not really.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out, sliding my finger over the touchscreen. My older brother, Jameson, flashed across the screen and I grinned.

“Hey! Where are you at this time?”

The connection was fuzzy, and some of Jameson’s laughter got lost. “Morocco.”

“And how it is?”

“Hot. Sandy. Lots of camels.”

Pictures from encyclopedias and internet searches danced through my head. “Sounds awesome.”

More fuzz, and then a chuckle. “You would probably know more about the things I’m seeing than I do. Listen, I can’t talk long. Phone’s not happy with all this sand. I just wanted to check in. I heard you’re being brought home again.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe this time will be better.”

I loved my brother, but sometimes he was really dense. “Dude, we both know it’ll suck. You don’t have to pretend for me. Mom does enough for both of us.”

He laughed. “All right then, I hope it doesn’t suck as much.”

“You know something.” I accused.

“Who me?” I could just see him pretending to be innocent. “Let’s just say if the rumors are true, things are definitely looking up.”

Anticipation mixed with the anger and disappointment in my stomach. “You better hope so. If I get there and she’s put me in some school in Antarctica, I’m coming after you.”

“Sure thing, bro. I gotta go. Call me when you get your next assignment.”

I rolled my eyes. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Jameson laughed, said goodbye again and the line went silent.

Sometimes I envied Jameson his adventures. I told myself that someday when I was nineteen, I’d have even more. Right now, though, it seemed like I was more likely to be sent to a school in the Alps and eaten by a Yeti.

I sighed and slid the phone back in my pocket. Nothing to do now but wait.

*****

Have a fabulous Monday!

Its Wednesday again! That means I need you to chime in and tell me what you’re thinking! (Okay, maybe not EVERYTHING your thinking. This is the internet after all.)

Today, I’m wondering about where you want to see a story play out. Certain locations are extremely popular in fiction (for good reason!). London, New York, Paris, etc. And don’t get me wrong – I love reading things set in those places. But sometimes it would be cool to have the heroine get off the plane somewhere totally different. Whether that means in a cornfield or a Tibetan temple.

So what place would you like to read about as a backdrop for a young adult story? Can be a city, country, universe…..

Well, I figured I might as well get the inevitable post about panster vs. plotter out of the way. You knew it would come up eventually, right?

I think its one of the most debated things amongst writers. I also think its one of the least important.

Some of you might have gasped. A few of you might be waving fists at me. (I hope not, but its early. Someone pre-coffee might be having a bad reaction.) But its true.

Personally, I use a little of both, but when it comes to plotting, I suck. I mean, if there are points that need to be gotten to, I jot them down. If the story has elements of mystery that I know MUST be revealed in a certain way or order, yes. I will plot that. But outlining the whole thing? I’ve done it once. The book never got past 20 pages. In my head, I’d already written it. It was boring, so I was finished. Even though not even a quarter of it was actually on paper.

Besides. My characters are far too annoying to ever follow the rules.

So my point for today is this. As a writer, everyone has their own process. Some people like music. Some people need silence. Some write in coffee shops, lunch hours, the car. Plotting is the same thing. Some people use it. Some people live by it. Some of us run screaming at the mere mention of an outline.

I don’t of anyone who used an outline and never, ever deviated from that first one. The journey is different for everyone. If it were all the same, it wouldn’t be as much fun.

As long as the end result is what you want, and what your readers enjoy, then I don’t think it matters so much. What do you think? Does it matter?

Well, I figured that this week, I’d post a small sneak peak of the World War II Historical I’m writing. The plot line started out small. The longer it goes, the more complicated it becomes, and the more characters begin to weave themselves in. I’m still a long way from being done, but I’m so proud that I’m almost to 10,000 words, after having a really hard time getting the beginning underway (thank you to Barb and Penn and Rebekah for all the encouragement – I appreciate it!). Now, I must admit this is one of those stories that pieces are coming from all over the place. So there are a lot of 2-3k chunks written waiting to be strung together. They may get deleted, or altered massively when I get there, but I’ve given up on trying to make it all come in a normal, linear fashion.

Anyway, here’s a clip of a scene where my MC, Ruth, is having it out with her friend. He’s been wounded and sent to Kellerton Manor (which they’ve opened as a convalescent home). At first things were going well. Now, though, tensions are at the breaking point.

(Please excuse any weirdness. This is unedited for the most part.)

*****

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You think you have any idea of what I’ve been through? Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch your friends die around you? Do you?” His hands are fisted on the sides of the chair, so tight his knuckles are white.

“I don’t. But I know you aren’t the only one in the house who’s lost something.”

David jerks on the wheel and rollscloser to me. The tips of his toes under the blanket brush my leg. “How dare you stand there and lecture me. You think you’re some sort of hero, opening up Kellerton? We both know your reasons aren’t noble. So don’t even try to tell me what I should do when you can’t get your own life in order.”

The words hurt, as he means them to.

“You want me to argue? Forget it. I opened the house because I’m going to lose it either way. Maybe it was my own pride that had me opening it to the wounded. Fine. Either way, I’m making an attempt to fix my situation, what are you doing?”

“Go to hell. Nancy, get her out of here. I need to get in bed.”

Nancy makes a move toward us, but I hold up a hand. “You stay out of the way. David wants to have it out and throw himself a pity party, that’s just fine. But he’s doing it alone.”

“She’s my nurse. You can’t boss her around.” He spits.

“Watch me. You think you have it hard? All right then, sit there and whine. I can’t imagine what you went through. And if I could, I wouldn’t want to. But don’t you dare presume to think you’re the only one who’s had a rough time. Mother is going mad, the estate is going under, and I have to keep it all together. In the meantime, my father is dead, and you’re sitting here telling me how horrible I am because I expect you to try and live. Forgive me for trying to help. Believe me, now that I know it isn’t welcome, I won’t make the mistake again.”

“Help? You call this helping?” He’s shouting now. “Nancy helps, you’re just here. Wandering around and pretending to jump in here and there. Acting like you’re a bloody saint. She has done more for me than you ever could.”

“Nancy is in love with you! Or are you so focused on yourself that you missed that part?”

In the corner, Nancy makes a noise, and a pang of guilt shoots through me. But it’s the truth. “I’m not a saint. Most days I want to hide in bed, but I get up anyway. Nancy may pander to you, but I won’t. In fact, you won’t have to worry about my sainted arse wandering in here again. You want to wallow around in your own self-pity? Go ahead. Drown in it. One less person to worry about.”

David sputters, and I turn away.

“One more thing,” I say, tears burning my eyes. “You should think hard about what those other guys in your unit would think of you, knowing you lived and they died. What would they say if they saw what you’ve chosen to do with your second chance?”

*****

I hope you enjoyed it, and I’d love to hear what you think.  J

And I totally just noticed I named her Nurse Nancy *snicker* I might need to change that….