WIP It Blogfest: SOULLESS

Hello friendlies! Today is

Join up and hop around with us, learning about all the amazing project people are working on right now. This one is mine (*Note, all images/blurbs are in the works, and I'm open to suggestions for how to improve them.): 

WIP Title: SOULLESS, book 2 to MOONLESS (Release date to be announced shortly)

Word Count: 33K, goal: 90K

Genre: YA Historical Fantasy

How long have you been working on it?: ...Do I count when I jotted down the first notes and page one, or when I actually started working on it? This one's been sitting in a folder and added to periodically for about 5 years, but is under serious construction as of March. 

Elevator Pitch: Alexia saved the man she loves, but lost her sister to red-eyed wraiths. Discovering the power to reverse time, she faces a terrible choice: keep her happily ever after, or save her sister and countless others from the Soulless.

Brief Synopsis: 

Alexia only wants to be with the man she loves, but at the cost of hundreds of lives?

Alexia saved Kiren, but lost her sister to red-eyed wraiths known as the Soulless. She has lived with that truth, supporting Kiren while he protects the rest of the world from these predators. When she discovers her ability to reverse time, Alexia faces a terrible choice: keep her happily ever after and ensure the future safety of her kind, or say goodbye forever and leave to prevent the Soulless from existing. 

She may make things better. She may make them worse. The only certainty is, she will never be able to come back.

Are you looking for a Critique Partner?: Always. Anyone who has written AT LEAST 2 complete novels, has 5 to 10+ years writing experience, and reads all the time, shoot me a first chapter. I'll send you one back and we'll decide if our critique styles/likes are compatible. I tend to be very positive, pushing toward the very best writing, but incredibly invasive. If you're seeking someone to pat you on the back and tell you this is the best story since baked bread, I am NOT the partner for you. If, however, you are looking to grow as a writer, and seek a partner who is constantly reading industry books and applying their advice to her own (and critique partners) writing, we may just be a match. I read all genre's, but am not particularly drawn to hard core sci-fi, detective stories, contemporary, memoir, or erotica. Anything with a paranormal, fantasy, or horror twist? I'm so in. 

Are you looking for a Beta Reader?: I am always looking for beta readers. Always. To become one, sign up for my newsletter and you'll receive the call as soon as I'm ready. (As well as other cheesy/exciting opportunities.)

That's it for today--now tell me where I can improve my pitch, eh? (It's so brand spanking new!) And what are you working on? 

Be sure to check out some of these awesome blogs: 

Death, a Book Release and Giveaway

Kerri Cuevas's DEADLY KISSES is out TODAY! Awesome, right? But, there's always an interesting story behind the story, so Kerri kindly agreed to answer a few questions for us. 

First of all, thanks for being here Kerri.

Thanks Crystal! I hope everyone enjoys reading Deadly Kisses as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it for you all. 

(She's a little enthused. I blame it on the cheese basket sitting in her lap.)

So Kerri, what inspired you to write Deadly Kisses?

Halloween!

The best holiday ever! (Says this sugar addict.) I wonder if we can talk someone into creating a holiday like Halloween, but where people have to give you free cheese...

(Kerri's smiling like I might be a lunatic...)

Ahem! I ADORE your main character, Aiden. Where did he come from? 

After I had the idea to write about Grim Reapers, Aiden kind of just appeared out of the blue. He insisted on being in this story, and I really didn’t want to be on his bad side, seeing he has a sharp scythe.

Pointy instruments are always a good motivator. So, um, because I'm seriously in love with this boy (don't tell my hubby), I'm wondering who you would cast to play Aiden?  

Evan Peters from American Horror Story.

My mental version of Aiden is cuter. ; ) But back to the story, what was your favorite chapter or scene to write? 

My answer changes all the time on this question. Right now, the last chapter. I anxiously await what readers think of the ending.

Well I, for one, loved it. And lest I should start gushing and give something away, let's move on, shall we? 

Who has had the most influence on your writing? 

Carrie Ryan, Cassandra Clare, and Stephen King.

Are you a panster or plotter?

Total panster! Yup, no denying it.

Yeah, I think that's why we hit it off. Birds of a feather... When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer? 

In third grade. I still have all my stories. They should be published—crayon drawings and all. LOL!

Hee hee. We should collaborate and I'll toss in some of my 2nd and 3rd grade atrocities. 

How long does it take you to write a book? 

It depends on the story, and plotline. Deadly Kisses took me a month to write, but book 2 of the Deadly Kisses series took me a year. I blame it on my panster ways.

What writing advice would you give other writers out there? 

Follow your dreams, and don’t give up.

Chase the pretty unicorns until you catch them, eh? LOL.

If you could only have one cheese for the rest of your life, what would it be?

As a person who makes their own cheese with milk straight from the cow or goat, I find this a very evil question.

(I'm laughing wickedly.)

Alas, I guess it would have to be Monterey Jack. But I’m sneaky, and I’ll say my favorite brand is Cabot and Grafton Village Cheese.

Well, yeah, it's a cheat, but maybe we'll let it slide--just this once because it's a special day. So that's pretty much it. Anything you'd like to add, Kerri?

Thanks, Crystal. You guys rock! Feel free to ask me any questions, and I’d be glad to answer them for you.

Thank you, Kerri.

You hear her, folks. Ask away! --And while you're at it, enter to win some free stuff below! (Because nothing's better than FREE.)

Aiden Grant is seventeen, has a killer kiss, and a boss who used to be President, back in the old days. You see, Aiden is a grim reaper and his kiss welcomes the newly dead. But Aiden’s pleasant grim reaper lifestyle is in jeopardy. And it’s not only because Honest Abe keeps throwing out history lessons with reaping assignments, just to confuse him. It’s because Aiden’s next assignment is to reap the soul of Bee, the only girl he has ever loved.

When Aiden’s kiss of death fails, intertwining their souls, Bee is still very much alive and they are both in trouble. The ancients want Bee, who has special powers of her own, and they’ll do anything to get her.

Some rules are meant to be broken—even if that means Aiden must bargain with his own soul to save Bee. Who knew the afterlife could get so complicated?

Author Kerri Cuevas was born and raised in Rhode Island. She moved to New Hampshire with her husband, three kids, cats and a rabbit named Hercules in 2005. When she's not writing, she's chasing chickens on her small farm or searching for the ultimate mac-a-cheese recipe.

Kerri went to college for Early Childhood Education but now writes books for young adults full-time. Her storytelling stems from watching too many horror flicks as a teen, but she no longer needs to sleep with the lights on.

You can find Kerri at: http://www.kerricuevasbooks.com

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Halloween Horror

Flash fiction for Halloween. Enjoy!

An Interview with Death

The reporter fed a paper into his typewriter with trembling hands. “I can’t believe you’ve agreed to do this!” He shook almost as badly as the paper.

“What can I say? I’m a softie for last requests.” I settled into a comfy armchair across from his desk, resting my scythe against the wall.

“I love the sneakers by the way.” He sat.

I glanced down at the old Converse. “They’re a lot more comfortable than my human-skin boots.”

He paled.

I laughed. 

He paled further. 

I sighed. Why did no one get that Death has a sense of humor? I mean, death is a rather hilarious thing—Jack Daniels died from a toe infection after kicking his safe in anger, and one dictator offed himself on too much Viagra… People are funny creatures.

“So, uh, Mister…Grim Reaper-”

“Death,” I corrected. “I’m not grim, and ‘Reaper’ is so derogatory. I mean, I’m one of the four horsemen—you know, as in there’s four in all of existence?”

He stared, jaw hanging.

I pointed at the typewriter, then tapped my wrist.

“So, Mister Death-”

“Just Death.”

“Death then, how did you come to this…magnanimous position?”

I blinked back my astonishment. Wasn’t that obvious? “I and my brothers work for the big cheese. You know, the guy behind destiny? Don’t tell me you’re an atheist.”

He froze, swallowed, and started typing a little less steadily. “You say you’re one of the four horsemen, but I don’t see a horse.”

I chuckled. “That’s because Donavan is invisible.” Turning my head, I clucked, “Aren’t you, Donny?”

The reporter studied the empty space with wide eyes.

I shook my head. “Who needs a horse when you’ve got mass transit? Busses, taxis, the subway…”

“You use mass transit?”

“When I can.”

He hesitated.

“Go ahead,” I encouraged. “You’re dead anyway.”

“What happens to the people sitting next to you?”

I shrugged. “They drink their coffee and read their papers.”

“Sitting next to you doesn't kill them?”

“Um, no.”

He sat back. “How do you do it then? Mass transit can’t possibly be fast enough for the thousands of deaths every minute-”

“Approximately 107 to be correct.” I cracked my knuckles. “Time isn’t a consideration when you can hop in and out of dimensions. I mean what kind of guy would I be if I never stopped to eat a doughnut or smell a rose?”

His jaw again dropped. “Dimension travel? There are multiple…dimensions?”

Oh these logical ones who thought they knew how the whole universe operated! “Time. I can step in and out of time. Kind of knocks you mortals over the head, but it doesn’t exist for me.”

“And that’s why people don’t see you coming.”

“No, it’s because of my super cool invisibility cloak—like Harry Potter.”

He stared, blankly. I think he was starting to get my sarcasm.

“Okay fine, I don’t have an invisibility cloak,” I admitted. “I’m made of finer matter than your eyes can perceive, unless I want you to see me.”

“Like when we’re about to die?”

“Or are already dead.”

“What?”

I pointed to his paper. “What you got there? Read it back to me.”

He looked at the paper, squinted, then frowned. “I, I don’t understand. How can it be blank?”

Picking up my scythe, I rose, all twelve feet. “Sorry, Robert.”

“But I was typing…”

“Yeah…no you weren’t.”

He turned around saw his body lying in the hallway, spilled whisky glass staining the carpet.

“So are you ready to head out now?” I asked.

He let out a long sigh, then looked up at me. “You’re actually a pretty nice guy.”

“That’s what I keep telling people.” I pulled out my keys and the door to the other side materialized. “Enjoy the free bagles on the other side.”

He paused in front of the door, eyes brightening. “We can eat on the other side?”

“No.” I would have smiled if Death could smile. “But it's so fun watching you try.”


And for the Halloween Hop: 
Scariest book: Fear Nothing by Dean Koontz
Movie: (Okay, I'm not such a fan of scary.) Army of Darkness or House 2
Costume: Mime (Been an "enchantress" or "sorceress" the last 9 years. Change is good.) 

A WINNER! And a Bout of Flash Fiction...

One HUGE

 

to everyone who submitted ideas for the Music Video contest. There were so many awesome ideas that we had a difficult time choosing. It came down to a team vote, and our winner is... (*drum roll*)

Kay Em Evans! 

For the picture frame idea. 

And now for the second Crusader Writing Challenge: parameters, 100 words (not including title). 

That Kind of Day 

The goldfish bowl teetered and crashed to the linoleum. Water coursed around my sneakers, orange bodies flopping helplessly through deadly shards.

A gun cocked.

“You can’t kill me.” I stepped around floundering bodies toward the wide-eyed man, hoping he wouldn’t try.

He looked down the barrel of his revolver. “Oh yeah?”

The gun fired.

A bullet smacked me between the eyes. Ouch.

“You can however seriously piss me off.” I speared him through with my scythe and lifted his squirming soul away. “Now I’m going to have to dig that thing out...! Say hello to your fishes, in Hell.”  

(From my short stories collection: Death Goes to Hell. Read more here: http://angiesdiary.com/stories/shortstory/death-goes-to-hell/ )

The Anywhere's 2: Disappearance

The delivery wasn’t what she expected.

Kaitlyn dropped the box, spilling packing peanuts all over the front entry. Dropping to one knee she carefully pulled out a bundle of bubble wrap.

“Oh my gosh!” Peeling back the protective layers, she found cracked leather and ancient paper. “Mom?”

No response. After so kindly pointing out the package, her parent had disappeared into the kitchen, and was undoubtedly sampling her “cooking” wine while Kaitlyn’s back was turned.

“It’s worth a fortune,” she mumbled, transported to utter bliss by the eighteenth century stamp-press ink. Most fifteen-year-olds wouldn’t know or care what this was, but Kaitlyn had been dying to own an early US edition of the poems of Ossian—ever since her father read one to her, right before he disappeared. Original full marbled sheep; spine with simple gilt rules and with a red lettering piece, gilt… Oh she could die this instant happy!

But this couldn’t be the very copy he read to her?

Carefully turning back the cover, she gasped. Old fountain ink pen read, “To my dearest Charles”.

It was the same! The very same! The rarest book in his collection, the one that disappeared around the same time he did, a final puzzle piece the cops never tracked down.

No return label on the box.

She scowled at the package, dying to know as she hadn’t in ten years what happened to her father, and why he simply vanished from the face of the earth.

“You’re going to be late,” Mom reminded from the kitchen.

Late? Right!

Off to piano, then Karate, then Biology study group. She groaned and kicked the box aside, throwing her life-sustaining backpack over both shoulders, and cradling this new jewel. She stepped out.

“See you at nine, Mom. Ahhh!” She tripped through the door of her New York-style townhouse, somersaulting down five steps, and landing with a whomp on her stomach.

“Ugh.” How many people saw that one? Ballet the last seven years hadn’t been enough to graceful-ize her, but maybe, just maybe Karate would? Mom might have actually come to the rescue after that crash if she wasn’t so used to Kaitlyn.

At the top of the steps, a hose stretched from the adjoining townhouse’s railing to hers.

There could only be one explanation: Brett Michals, neighbor and annoyance extraordinaire. Grr. She still couldn’t believe Mom had the audacity to suggest he liked her—that his constant pranks were a sign of affection. Dumb boys.

“All else fails, look first,” she grumbled, newly acquired treasure still clasped safely in her arms. Her Karate uniform and carefully packed dinner sprawled across the sidewalk. A ruby apple rolled to a stop at a glistening black dress shoe.

She looked up, then up some more.

“Can I help you young one?” The mutant-ly tall man offered a hand.

“Are you from England?”

He reminded her of a reaper, drawn, gray, aged as he began gathering up her things. “Perhaps once upon a time, Kaitlyn Strom. Where are you from?”

He really shouldn’t know her name. Did she do something dorky like wear a name tag today? Nope. No name tag. Oh wait, Karate uniform. Yup. Purple permanent marker and her forever label.

“Who are you?” She got to her feet, pulling wild brown curls out of her eyes.

“Oh, no One.” His attention turned to the still open door, and the brown package.

Okay, Mr. Strange, she thought. “You here to see my mom?”

“Hm? No. Are you a collector?” He pointed to her book.

“Maybe.”

“In that case, there is a special symposium at the Museum of Art tonight. Rare artistic opportunity, invitation only.”

“Well see, I don’t have an invitation.”

“Then you are in luck.” He offered an off-white envelope.

Don’t take gifts from strangers! her head screamed, but she couldn’t refuse the crimson wax seal and high quality parchment.

“Nine sharp.” He smiled.

“But the museum closes at 8.” And she would know. She went twice a week if she could manage.

“Special events require special treatment.”

Pulling the ineffective clip out of her hair, she lifted the seal without cracking it. A glimmer of light dropped to the pavement.

“What the…” A key no larger than the tip of her pinkie blinked up at her. “Um, mister-”

He was gone. Just like that, gone. Weird.

The tiny key gleamed up at her. Numbers were engraved across the top: 0097. Some kind of locker key?

Faux and the Inner Fire: Never Giving Up

I recently participated in a facebook discussion on an abundance of “unfinished” works. A fellow writer talked about putting away the works she doesn’t think she’ll ever finish—essentially banishing them from mind and heart.

Ouch.

It got me thinking. See, I’ve got this hang up. After an inspiring dream or a new idea hits, I’m on fire. Can’t stop thinking about the possibilities. Can’t stop planning. Can’t stop the character’s conversations in my head. The computer is my best friend, and the pillow is my outlining board. For a few weeks it’s the only thing I want to do—writing that story. For a few weeks. Eighty pages in my foot gets caught in the web of editing, and it’s all over.

 I recently read an article by David S. Goyer, the screenwriter of The Dark Knight, Batman Begins, Blade, and many many other big box shows. He says anyone can write a great first act. To quote Goyer:

“The trick is moving past Act One into the inevitable, sagging Act Two. Many writers bottom out in the middle of their scripts – the point where they actually have to start weaving the various storylines together. They get depressed, they procrastinate, they flounder. I do it as well. Even now, I frequently find myself questioning the merit of any given project when I’m in the middle of it.

“But it’s important to resist the temptation to jump back to Act One and begin endlessly rewriting it. Rewriting Act One before plowing through Act Two is just an elaborate form of procrastination. More often than not, fine-tuning Act One will simply result in further demoralizing you. And honestly, how can you be revising Act One when you haven’t even finished the rest of the draft?”

 Way to go Mr. Goyer.

SO, here I go, back to a story I started in 2005. For the next couple months I’ll be writing 1,000 to 2,000 words a day until I can slam that first draft on the desk and say, “Ha!” My official WIP is:


Faux Pas

Ugly, socially inept Faux (Fox) never hoped for more than a boyfriend by the time her seventeenth birthday rolled around. Alone—abandoned by both career-parents on her special day, she lit the candle. “Make a wish!” She sighed, blew out the cake, and exploded, literally.

Seems there’s one or two things mom and dad hadn’t been telling her—like the freaky way she could imitate the human torch, or the reaper-like creatures on her trail, or the two opposingly steamy misfits working to psychologically win her over. Now uncovering the truth about her past is the only thing that may save her from the monsters on her trail—all of them.



What do you have sitting in the attic, earning dust?