Inside the Pod

Guest Pod: Writer Blog by J. G. Walker

2012-03-06T06:00:00.000-06:00

The Peas love talking about reading and books as much as (and sometimes more) than writing them. Delving into the topic of what books turn readers on and why we became readers is something we spend a lot of time thinking about and discussing. It's fascinating to learn the origins of how people we know come to reading and what compels them to pick up that next book. We asked our honorary pea, G (A.K.A. J. G. Walker), to write a little about why he reads what he reads. Pull up a cushy corner of the pod and relax as he gives you his take.

I don’t remember learning how to read.
Well, you might say, maybe the process was traumatic enough that I somehow relegated it to the dark recesses of my mind. I should point out, though, that I absolutely remember learning how to swim, and that experience is one I’d gladly forget. No, I think the reason I don’t remember is learning to read is that it happened so early.

My mother was a budding kindergarten teacher when I was young, so that could help explain why reading came so early. My dad says I used to sound out the words on billboards when we took him to work at Fort Rucker, Alabama. I have no recollection of this, since I’d only have been about two or three at the time, but it seems likely, since I still have a compulsion for reading billboards today. Now I make stupid jokes about them, of course.

Whatever its origins, reading became enough of a reflex for me that not much in the way of books escaped my attention. As I got taller, I grew more selective, out of necessity more so than anything else. There was only so much time, after all, and lending libraries then weren’t what they are today. I didn’t read much mainstream fiction or non-fiction as a kid, either, having decided in my ultimate wisdom that it was too ordinary (Spoiler alert: I got better).

What I would read, however, was anything out of the ordinary --science fiction, horror, fantasy--and if I found someone I liked, I’d devote myself to slavishly devouring that author’s entire canon. (It’s also worth noting that this was also when I discovered I was quite the night owl.) Isaac Asimov, Madeleine L’Engle, Robert A. Heinlein, Ursula K. Le Guin--these and many more writers succumbed to many late-night reading binges.

Later, high school came along, and I moved on to slightly darker fare. Stephen King, Anne Rice, H.P. Lovecraft, Dean Koontz, and Clive Barker were my go-to scribes in those days. The classics? Not so much. I was still a snob, and the thought that I would eventually go on to get three degrees in English would have rendered me downright apoplectic.

One day, however, I read a book that would change my life. It was the first mainstream, perhaps even Literary-with-a-capital-‘L’-novel, I’d read that had such a drastic effect on me. Yes, it was ‘realistic,’ in the sense that it was about normal people living plausible lives in an authentic world, but it was nothing even approaching ordinary. The book was John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meaney, and it’s still one of my favorite novels. It also has the distinction of being the work that made me want to become a writer and give up the idea forever, both at the same time. It was that good.

This caused a drastic shift in my perspective. Maybe, I reasoned, some of those classics and other mainstream novels I’d snubbed were worth a try as well. And they were. My horizons broadened, new genres opened themselves to me, and I realized there was no way in hell I’d ever be able to read everything I wanted. There are worse problems to have, I know.

But what about my exacting, snobby standards? The truth is they remained the same. The only change that occurred was the new realization that when looking for new things to read, I now had a lot more places to search.

What do I read now? That’s pretty simple. It should be something new, it should be interesting, and the author should be attempting to tell a unique story. That’s really all there is to it. Oh, and it should be well-written, but that sort of lines up with the uniqueness.

If a story tells me something I don’t already know, or even if it tells me something I’m familiar with but does so in a new and unique way, I’m on it. There are only so many tales, as the saying goes, the trick being to tell them in new ways. It may be fiction, non-fiction, horror, humor, fan-fiction, dark or light.

Whether a story is about a borderline-sociopathic Victorian detective, a kid with a wrecked voice, a pair of comic book creators living in New York City in the 1940s, a vampire (okay, maybe not a sparkly one, but that’s just me), a time-traveling World War II soldier, people climbing Mount Everest, an orphaned boy wizard, a haunted hotel, or a possessed Plymouth Fury, if it’s exceptional in some way, then it’s up my alley.

And the story doesn’t have to be set in a far-flung galactic empire, an alternate history, or be populated by furry critters, geometric shapes, or homicidal telepaths, either. Although those can be pretty nifty, too.

J.G. Walker is a writer, editor, and writing coach who lives with his wife in Colorado Springs, Colorado. His fiction and nonfiction have been featured in such publications as Oracle Fine Arts Review, Lullwater Review, and Aoife’s Kiss. Walker is currently trying to create the impression that he is at work on his third novel, Visitation: A Novel of Death and Inconvenience. To find out more, check him out at www.courtstreetliterary.com or www.jgwalker.net

Next week, more impromptu flash fiction! We love to write it and you seem to love to read it. Let's hope you still feel the same after next Tuesday. Peas out.

Book Review: This Glittering World

2012-02-28T08:00:00.000-06:00

A few months back, I popped into Kmart for some random stuff, and, as always, my route detoured through the small aisle dedicated to books {because sometimes you find a gem somewhere other than the big book chains}. That particular day, planted in the young adult section, was this beautiful, peaceful, snowy cover that drew my attention for two reasons. One, I missed snow {and this was the only way I was going to get any}. Two, it had a really pretty bird on it {Yes. I'm that easy to please}. So I picked it up.

"Please let this sound half as interesting as the cover is pretty," I muttered as I flipped to the inside cover copy.

And you know what? It did. Just the first little intro, "T. Greenwood, acclaimed author of Two Rivers and The Hungry Season, crafts a moving, lyrical story of loss, atonement, and promises kept," had me hooked. {To be fair, I'm sort of a sucker for books that hold any promise of making me cry}.

I didn't get to it right away {had another couple books ahead of it in the queue} but I kept passing it on my bookshelf, fingering it's spine and promising it, "you next." Eventually, I made good on my promise. And I finished it in a total of maybe five hours.

About this book I can now say two things:
It was in the wrong section. -and- Covers can be deceiving.

This Glittering World, by T. Greenwood, gripped my heart in a stranglehold and left me reeling.

You know those giant, hand-inked bibles with parchment-thick pages you find in ancient monasteries? Well, that was the weight of this 10 oz. book on my chest when I closed its covers. {Yes, I actually weighed it}. It was heavy.

The story follows Ben, a part-time History professor, as he struggles through the aftermath of finding Ricky, a Navajo teen beaten to death and frozen under a blanket of freshly fallen snow in his front yard. Because of a past filled with loss, which he's buried deep in the corners of his heart, Ben can't seem to let this incident go. Then he meets Shadi, Ricky's older sister, and their shared experience of loss opens a channel to Ben's buried past and gives him a reason not to let it go. The authorities chalk up Ricky's death as alcohol-related, despite the obvious foul-play. So Ben, in hopes of filling the cracks his past has left in his heart, begins searching for the truth about Ricky's death - searching for justice. At the same time, Ben begins to look inward - to question everything about his life, including his fiancé, Sara.

Now, I have to tell you, Ben didn't get much of my sympathy. In fact, most of the time, I pretty much just wanted to smack him. Or hit him with my car...
He's so deadset on dealing justice for Ricky's death, and fulfilling his own desires, that he lets himself overlook the injustices he's inflicting upon Sara {and later, upon Shadi and himself as well}.
He's a selfish man and an unlikeable character. He does nothing to change himself or the situation {that he caused}. He admits to himself that Sara deserves better, but he won't better himself, nor will he man up and leave her so that she might find someone better. Hardly any of his other choices {or lack therof} are any better. And the ones that are come too late.
He is, without a doubt, a tragic hero. He makes one bad decision after another, and never learns from his mistakes.

Which is part of why I very quickly found myself empathizing with Sara. At first, I felt as though it was some individual quirk of mine that I identified better with her. She is often sullen, guarded, angry, and suspicious, after all. But Ben's own explanations for her attitude and behavior, despite his best efforts to convince me otherwise, justifies her. Sure, the girl has flaws. She loves Ben {or maybe the idea of him} to a fault. And she's constantly jumping to the negative in every situation, unable to find a way to make herself happy. But I get it. Her reactions may not be the best, but they aren't invalid.

Then there's Shadi. As someone with "card-carrying" Native American relatives, and just enough Native blood to be considered one myself, I liked Shadi right away. In fact, by the end of the book, despite her role as "the other woman," I respected her the most of any of the main characters. She was wise, strong, and reacted the way I would hope any woman who caught my husband's affection would when she found out Ben was {engaged to be} married: She backed the hell off and called him out for being a "selfish asshole" {her words}. She was, at times, the only voice of reason in this book.

But even Shadi's words of wisdom weren't enough to save Ben from himself. Especially because he didn't listen to them. And so, at the end of this book, I was left uttering one {vast and heart-breaking} question: "...at what cost?"

And that is why, despite a five-day struggle to get my words in order, I chose to review this book. It was not only beautifully written, but here I am, so worked up by these characters actions that I've taken days picking through all the things I had to say about them in order to write this. Days, I might add, which I refused to pick up another book {I have a very large to-read pile screaming my name} until I could write out my feelings about this one. If you want characters who jump off the page, whether you like them or hate them, This Glittering World has them.

Am I saying this is an easy, happy read? Hell no. {Sure, it was a quick read... But only because I couldn't bare to put it down without knowing what happened to these people.}

What I'm saying is this book meets my criteria {previously mentioned in What I Read vs What I Write: Alexis's Take} for a good read. I was invested. Completely. It gripped me, it kept me thinking on it days after I'd finished, and it had at least one character I wanted to do physical harm to.

A note of caution: If you have been through any tough or life-changing situation that you're still emotionally dealing with {which may or may not appear in the pages} this story may make you spiral into a place you don't want to be - that you might have worked hard to get out of. BUT it may be extremely cathartic, pulling you out of the last of whatever it is you're going through. {Okay. Now I can at least say, "Don't say I didn't warn you."}

One Pea Short of a Pod: Part Three -- the finale

2012-02-27T06:00:00.000-06:00

A weekend at Oak Alley with J and M... the last hoorah! Yeah, I'm a lot later than I promised on getting this posted. Hopefully it'll be worth the wait -- and if not. Don't tell me. I'm fragile. *grin*

Day Three:

The iron fence post in the cemetery.

I love trees -- the bigger and older the better. There’s something ethereal about really old large trees. Something tugs at the center of my chest and steals my breath away when I stand under their vast branches. I’ve heard people talk about this same feeling when they’ve walked into a centuries old cathedral or experienced some sort of spiritual awakening or baptism. That’s what trees do for me. Trees are the cathedrals that God makes. And in that moment I take pause to think of all they’ve seen, my own eyes widen with wonder. It’s like a tiny baptism for me. And we just chop them down to pave roads and erect strip malls in their place.

I think that’s why Oak Alley is so amazing. The caretakers of this property know the value of trees. The mansion is impressive, the history is undeniably valuable, but it’s the trees that people spend the most time with and will travel thousands of miles to see.

So I wasn’t surprised when we sat at breakfast that morning and a caravan of buses and RVs rolled into the parking lot. By all accounts, it should’ve been a slow Monday morning. But I understand the need to see the trees. And I’m glad of it. Because as long as the people come, their long lives are protected -- at least from us.

The external-path canopies of tree branches were breathtaking.

Monday was our designated workday. We’d done the tour, taken a million and half photos and (let’s be honest), with nine tour buses and more campers that we cared to count, our cottage was looking mighty appealing. Neither Jeannie nor I are big on crowds.

Leaving the café we had the best conversation that two writers reclaiming their Mojo could have with the hostess. She asked if we’d enjoyed our visit and if we’d seen the mansion. We said we had and we were planning on a quiet day of writing in our cottage. Her eyes brightened and she said, “You’re writers! That’s so exciting. I love books! What do you write?” We each beamed. Then Jeannie and I each rattled off out interests and projects in Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Romance and YA. The hostess’s smile dimmed and she replied, “Oh.” Then, she frowned. “I don’t ever read fiction.”

Awkward. Here’s that slice of humble pie you didn’t ask for (but probably needed). Please and thanks.

So, we ducked into the gift shop, licking our wounds. Jeannie might have bought another voodoo doll. I can’t be sure.

Meta-photography. Jeannie framed in oaks and portico.

We spent the afternoon holed up in the cottage with our laptops, bird sandwiches, broccoli soup, and lots of coffee and tea. I think the best thing about being with another writer on a retreat like this is there’s never awkward silence. There were clicking waves of feverish typing from time to time… but then there was always a measure of silence. And even when all that ever happens is silence, and we find ourselves staring at a blank screen, we understand the need to be inside of our own heads. Especially right then. And there’s no judgment. No expectations. Most of all, there’s no request to look for the shoes that have vanished but magically reappeared the moment your butt leaves your office chair and, incidentally, are right where you told your husband you’d seen them last. The magic of being with a fellow Pea is she knows where her shoes are and even if she doesn’t, she wouldn’t expect you stop writing to look for them. Peas find their own shoes.

We did take a couple of breaks. And we did talk. It wasn’t all silence. There was some mumbling to voodoo dolls in the kitchen. I hoped it was J. I couldn’t ever prove it wasn’t. I also took some time to fill out a bunch of postcards and send them away. It’s sort of my thing. Postcards. Most everyone I know has received a postcard from me at least once. Or will, eventually. (I need to work on my segues.)

But the best part of our laid back afternoon at the cottage was Cam II. Last year, at the cabin in the woods, Alexis was bed mates with a lizard. Literally. (That isn’t some crazy metaphor or secret code.) There was a lizard hibernating atop a calendar, which was hung on a bunk-bed post. I guess he wanted to make sure he didn’t oversleep. At any rate, he stayed with us the entire Pea-treat. So you can imagine my excitement when I saw Cam II sitting tucked between the blinds behind a sheer curtain. It was like an omen, a blessing, a symbol of our returning inspiration embodied in the length of a garden lizard. Cam the Chameleon had reincarnated and appeared to us. Come to us in the form of a tiny reptile, our Mojo had returned. The clouds opened, the wordsmith angels sung. We would live to write another day.

Cam

We gaped. We awed. We relished in the chameleon. And then, I said, “Damn that lizard looks skinny.”

J replied, “Yup, that’s a skinny lizard.”

“Do you think he needs to eat?” I asked.

“How would I know whether he needs to eat, M?”

“I dunno.” I shrugged and peered closer at our emaciated symbol of hope. “It’s warm again. Maybe I’ll put him outside.”

“Whatever,” J sighed.

I looked at J with wide eyes. “I mean, what if he dies in here? We can’t let a chameleon die in here. What would Cam say?”

“You realize,” J said, raising an eyebrow at me. “It’s not a chameleon. And neither was Cam. They are called anoles.”

“Whatever,” I scoffed.

Peeling away the sheer curtain, I reached between the slats of blinds to recover our little chameleon-anole friend. He’d woken from a dead sleep, his green blinking eyes flashed with fear. And then, he leaped at my face like a rabid spider monkey. I shrieked like a banshee and flicked him off onto the couch before realizing my folly. I heard J’s voice, distant and unimpressed, as she said, “I don’t think he likes that.” But I ignored her, thinking only of what would happen to us if our emaciated hope died! Oh, the insanity! So, I dove into the couch cushions after him. He shimmied to the floor, and I knocked over the coffee table as I scampered on hands and knees across the hardwood to recover him. Finally, squishing his lizard face against the edge of the carpet, I panted and bellowed, “Gotcha!” (*Note: this scene has been dramatized for your entertainment.)

With Cam II clutched between my hands, I brought him outside. I walked into the nearby field. The sun beamed down and I opened my hands. His little reptile face brightened as his skin warmed. He blinked as if to say, “Thank you.” I released him into the cool green grass.

J appeared behind me and said, “Do you feel better?”
“Yes,” I replied as we turned and walked back to the cottage. “He can eat and grow strong.”
“Or get eaten by a raven,” J said. “There was a lot of them at the edge of the field today.”
I gasped and I ran in the direction of Cam II screaming, “Oh, gods! I’m so sorry!”

I spent the next ten minutes chasing after the tiny lizard in the grass until I re-caught him. Panting, with grass-stained knees and my heart beating wildly against my ribcage, I put him in a bush right next to the cottage where there were plenty of bugs. I had to do right by Cam II. The guilt would have ruined me.

Tree love.

After an uneventful dinner, J and I decided to do the one thing we were most excited about. We grabbed our flashlights and headed out onto the grounds after dark. This was definitely my favorite part of the trip. Why? It was all about the trees.

We hiked across the large field between the cottages and the estate. It was warmer than it had been the previous two nights, and we were the only guests on the property. We had the whole place to ourselves and we relished in it.

After skirting around the mansion and trying to peek into the windows in hopes of having a paranormal encounter (not that either of us really thought a ghost would press its face against the window to stare back at us -- but we could hope), we strolled down the path.

Flashlights off, feeling the immensity of the branches that hung overhead in the crushing darkness, we sat on a bench. Looking at the stars through those earthly skylights of leaf and branch, we imagined. We imagined the characters and stories we could tell. We imagined the histories we could create. We did what we as writers love more than the air we breathe (it is the air we breathe) -- we gave the reigns of our mind over to our imaginations. And we flourished.

Mansion in evening light. The new oaks view.

In the end, it wasn’t the cottage, a ghost, or a skinny lizard that rescued us. It was the possibility held within the branches of those oaks, the quiet darkness, and each other. And that, in the end, is what a Pea-treat is all about.

Tomorrow, Alexis attempts to wrap her brain around a book she's read and shares it with The World. *cue ominous music*

One Pea Short of a Pod: Part Two

2012-02-21T07:00:00.000-06:00

A Weekend at Oak Alley with J and M… continued

Day Two:

The mansion and oaks -- stunning.

There’s a certain kind of quiet one will experience whilst sleeping in an old quarter-house situated alongside the pastoral landscape of the Mississippi River Road. And at its heart, Oak Alley A.K.A. Bon Séjour -- even in all her glorious grandeur -- is merely a not-so-small country home. I’d forgotten how eerily quiet a country home could be.

I woke with a start in the middle of the night to a mysterious creak coming from the next room. The living eyes of the child’s portrait -- dusted in the sick yellow glow of a nearby security light -- hung over my bed and glared down on me. I shivered. The fractured images of the dozens of people that must’ve died on the grounds over the estate’s long life flickered through my mind. I heard another creak. My palms sweated. My heart raced against an inexplicable mounting fear.

The child's photo over my bed.

Then, with a hiss of breath whispering from the next room, I remembered the mysterious voodoo dolls J had acquired the day before. I felt my body grow cold, rigid.

Not really.

The truth? J’s bed was incredibly squeaky and it caused me to giggle like a child at a sleepover every time she adjusted herself under the covers. And… it was crazy cold! I think our first night in Cottage 6 might’ve been the coldest January night in Valcherie, LA (sound familiar). As you may recall, we did have central heat and air, but M wasn’t getting out of bed to crank up the thermostat at 3am. Brr.

A few hours later, as daylight broke, I heard another creak, a frantic rustle of fabric, and a low groan. I peered around the door to spy J, shuffling off to the kitchen with a sheet over her head and mumbling something that sounded a bit like, “Goffeeeee...”

That was my only undead sighting of the Pea-treat.
J wakes early for a voodoo-doll-wielding-vampire.

We followed through with our plans to tour the mansion. Off to breakfast we ambled -- knowing more coffee (ie: liquid life) awaited us at the cafe. We were seated near a few tables of excited travelers, snowbirds from the north, and J and I did what we do best. We eavesdropped while noshing on our eggs and crispy bacon


Old typewriting in Cottage 6 -- fitting

After breakfast, we toured the house. With the clang of the bell, the doors opened and a period dressed lady met us. We went room by room, learning the history of the former residents since 1839 – the Romans, the Stewarts, and what little is known of those that came in between. Afterward, standing on the portico of the mansion, we sipped our icy lemonades as the winter wind whipped around us. We said to one another, “I don’t know about reclaiming our Mojo but this iced drink thing was a pretty ridiculous plan.” So we bundled our frostbite phalanges into the pockets of our coats and headed to the cottage for hot tea, lunch, and an afternoon of writing.

Having consumed a lovely broccoli cheese soup and sandwiches, which we cobbled together in our cottage kitchen, J set up her voodoo dolls and laptop at the bar. I settled onto the couch where I promptly emailed J -- formally requesting her participation in an interview for Court Street Literary Collective. (grin) “Really?” she said to me, unamused.

By late afternoon we’d consumed liters of tea and coffee, and were in need of an outing. Out the door we went -- but this time I had my fancy camera in tow. We wandering the grounds until after the tours closed for the night, snapping dozens of photos. Only the two of us and one other passive-aggressive photographer -- who we couldn’t decide whether he followed us because he wanted us to leave or he was frightened to be alone but too shy to say as much. Either way, the miraculous method in which he juggled his large camera whilst talking on his mobile will forever be remembered and may, or may not, be recorded for all time as a character trait in some future story.

Sunset reflections in a sugar kettle at Oak Alley

By dark, we were hungry and we headed back to the cottage where I offered to cook and promptly tried to burn the building to the ground. (Perhaps, a mild exaggeration?) Well, see… what had happened was… I left the Panko crusted fish under the broiler for a tad bit longer than intended. As I tried to rectify my folly, J entered the kitchen and said, “Um… Chel. It’s kinda smoky in here.” Not bothering to look at her, because I was fiercely scraping the burned bits off the top of the fish, I replied, “Yeah, I know. I know. The fish was a tad over broiled-” Silence. Then J said with a sternness that I’d not ever experienced before, “No! You don’t understand. It’s smoky in here…look!” So I did. As I looked above me, into the fifteen-foot ceilings of our quarter-house, I saw thick black smoke blotting out the ceiling light like an eclipse. Then, I watched it roil under the door casings into the adjacent dining and living areas like an evil Louisiana swamp fog. We looked at one another and promptly darted in opposite direction to open all the windows and doors before the fire alarm went off.

It was a crisis averted, until I sat down with my fish and inhaled its Panko crust into my lungs. The sting of fresh burnt Japanese breadcrumbs raked against my organ walls with each breath I took and I realized it was time to lick my wounds, curl under the covers, and call it a night. The fish was determined to get me one-way or another. I was convinced. Before the lights switched off, J said to me, “Maybe we need to go back to the gift shop and buy you one of those health warding voodoo dolls...”

One of the newer oaks by twilight.

Touché.

Tomorrow, one final installment of One Pea short of a Pod and my love affair with old trees exposed. I promise... it's almost over. I've fallen into a mire of gluttonous overwriting. It can't possibly last much longer. Better here than my manuscript. (grin)

Then, on our next featured Tuesday, Alexis will be a Pea in the Pages with some suggested reading and perhaps a review or two. She's been mad reading these days and I can't wait to see what books she's had her nose tucked into.

Valentine's Day Book Recommendations

2012-02-14T12:08:00.001-06:00

What better way to celebrate Valentine's Day than with a good book? Okay, yes, there are actual better ways to spend it... especially if you have a certain someone to spend it with... but the topic of love is going to be floating around everywhere today, so we Peas decided to contribute by giving you recommendations for our favorite books of love! Now, love comes in many forms, so these won't be Romance novel exclusive {though I have a feeling there will be some in there}. These are simply our favorite love stories... in any genre! Enjoy!

Since I'm the Pink Pea, and the closest Pea, in personality, to a Disney Princess, it's fitting that I start this off.

My first recommendation, of course {because I own 9 copies; one in French and one in Italian, thanks to my sister} is:

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

A classic. I love the innocence of this romance. I also love that they spend the entire book getting in their own way. The characters are so real in their faults, and the dialogue is, believe it or not, really witty! And of course {as there must be for me to fall in love with a book} there's at least one character I want to do some kind of physical harm to.

The Symphony of Ages Series by Elizabeth Haydon

High Fantasy. Epic Romance. You know those movies where you get more info than the main characters, and so you scream at the TV in frustrated suspense as they miss clues or walk right into obvious {to you} danger? A story that crosses the planes of time, this series has that same effect in its romance. You know well before the main characters do what's going on and you can't read fast enough for them to put it together... before it's too late. It's your classic "boy goes back in time, meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy gets sucked back to future without girl, girl unwittingly finds her way to the future years later, but neither recognize each other" story. I have never wanted a character to figure out something so badly in my life. Except for maybe this next book...

The Way of Shadows {Trilogy} by Brent Weeks

This is decidedly not a love story... on the outset. It's more like... ninja assassins with magic powers. But the love story that blooms inside these three books was, to use the word again, Epic. I nearly cried when I finished the last book because I didn't want the story to end. {Though it ended fantastically}. I am ever grateful to Michelle for suggesting these.

Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen

One of the few true romances I own, this story was beautifully told. And the plot was cleverly set up. Though I cringe at stories of love blooming from adulterous situations, factor in the time period and setting, add a scarily abusive husband/antagonist, and I can let it slide. Definitely one worth turning into a movie.

J's Black-Hearted Almost Love Stories

A thinks her list is the shortest. Nope! That would be mine. Unlike the Pink Princess and Dr. Buttons over there with her "touchy-feely" addiction, I don't read a lot of romance. If a love story pops up as the natural progression of a death and despair story, I'll read it and often enjoy it...as long as it's believable. So here are a few of my favorite "almost" love stories.

The Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins

I love the natural progression of the "romance" between Katniss and Peeta. It fits the story, the time, the place, and the characters...and it's not over-the-top-sappy.

Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion

R is Dead. Julie is Living. Their world is changing. This is not your typical boy-meets-girl story and it has a great twist on the zombie myth. Plus, it's the first novel for the author.

The Rachel Morgan series by Kim Harrison

I love this series. Love the characters and the various love stories are real, affectionate, heart-breaking, and seamlessly blend with the action.

My list might be the most expected (and unexpected -- in some ways). My romance reading chops started young with a very large box of some fifty Harlequin romances handed over to me by a family friend at age thirteen. Though I believe every story has a romance at it heart -- these are a few "hardcore" romances that still hold special places on my bookshelves and in my heart.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
It's no secret that Jane Eyre is my favorite romance and book, ever. I own twenty-one copies and my collection grows each year. Classic, Gothic, full of tension and missteps -- Rochester is the ultimate almost bad boy and Jane is the heroine that you want to see overcome it all in the name of love.

Jane by April Linder
A great companion read to the classic is the retelling by April Linder, Jane. I love this book as much as the original. It's a fresh up-to-date retelling of a romantic tale that shows how this story stands the test of time. I might even love Nico Rathburn a little more than Rochester -- because who doesn't love the idea of falling for a musician.

If you like a nice light romantic read I have two favorites that I dust off and reread once in a while.

Jemima J by Jane Green
This is a fantastically fun Chic-Lit novel about an ugly duckling journalist that learns love isn't always about looking like a swan. It's a fun, fast, and light read with a lot of heart and humor.

Megan Meade's Guide to the McGowan Boys by Kate Brian
This is a YA favorite of mine. Thrust into a household with seven boys, what's a single and only child like Megan to do? If you want to reclaim that boy crazy and young love feeling you remember at thirteen -- this is the book for you.

Both Megan and Jemima are heroines you can champion because they learn that love isn't always what you expect and sometimes we find love (and love finds us) in unexpected ways.

Lastly, Fire and Ice by Catherine Hart
If you want something a little (a lot) steamier and enjoy a fun Historical Romance, this is a classic of the genre. Pirates, a feisty Irish heroine with a couple tricks up her sleeve for rogue Captain Reed Taylor, and a lush old southern Savannah landscape -- couldn't ask for more.

Have a {sweet/romantic/sexy/steamy/fun/chocolatey/delightful/wonderful} (circle one... or more) Valentine's Day!! See you next week for part two of all the fun I missed! -A

One Pea Short of a Pod: Part One

2012-02-07T10:01:00.001-06:00

A Weekend at Oak Alley Plantation with J & M

Jan. 29th, 2012 -- 9pm

The trees did not disappoint.

This isn’t the first pseudo writing and inspirational retreat the Ninja Peas have undertaken. It is, however, the first one with central heating and wifi. Last year, I had the hair-brained idea to gather the Peas for a night in an Escatawpa River fishing cabin on what might’ve been the coldest February night in South Mississippi. We managed to keep warm by the fire, played word games, plotted, schemed, and laughed until we cried. But the best bit? We truly reinforced our friendship through a shared passion of writing (and a heartfelt desire to survive the night as armies of woodland mice took up arms against us). It was an unforgettable thirty-six hours and we vowed to do it again.

A bug's eye view of the mansion.

Sadly, this particular weekend at Oak Alley, we are one pea short of a pod. This Pea-treat was truly meant as a retreat. Both J and I were desperate to reclaim our mojo after a hectic holiday season and some productivity stumbling blocks. Plus, with one husband home sick and another just home all the time, it was time to remember why we’d taken our marriage vows many years ago. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder -- and a Pea-treat is the first defense against too much “quality time” with one’s significant other. So, J and I planned a spontaneous (in the span of four text messages) trip to reclaim our sanity. We were booked and ready to go to the haunted plantation of our dreams before either of us thought twice about whether it was actually a good idea (or really cleared it with our husbands…oops). Thus was the origination of a Pea-treat at Oak Alley.

Since our third pea is not so flexible with impulse trips, she will be missed and will be here with us in spirit. But worry not! We have a three-pea adventure brewing for the spring (and we promise to share the madness with you).

Day One:

We left Saturday morning with excitement roiling through our veins. Nothing could stop us! J and I had always dreamed of visiting Oak Alley (rumored to be haunted and film home of Louis from Interview with a Vampire). J was thrilled by the promise of a plantation estate filled with southern gothic flare and dark storytelling inspiration. Me? It was big, big trees and a chance to walk on the same ground as Brad Pitt’s stunt horse. Of course I was excited! Alas, this feverish anticipation was quickly subdued when we’d driven all of four minutes and I said, “Sh*t! I forgot my camera.”

Around we turned then tried again.

I'm so glad we didn't leave my camera behind.

Finally on our way, we rolled west on Interstate 10 toward the Mississippi River. It quickly became clear that the GPS my husband insisted we take (note: I just wanted to bring a map) was confused and bewildered by our decision to retrieve the camera. As I drove eighty miles an hour down the interstate, screaming at the tiny box suction-cupped to my windshield, I tried to reprogram the (cocky) taunting box. Meanwhile, J sat in the passenger seat, giggling, because my interaction with the box went a little something like this: “Yes! That destination. No, wait, that’s wrong. Yes! No. Yes? No! Wait... Yes! No. Yes!” and so on. What I learned from this experience? GPS… no. Map… yes.

After the argument with the tiny (cocky) box was settled, we had a relatively uneventful two and a half hour morning drive with great weather and light traffic. We had plenty of time to chat about what we both needed to accomplish on our pending projects, our hopes for new projects, and how we intended to divvy our time between work and play until our Tuesday morning departure. Ten miles from our exit traffic came to a standstill (as is typical of any drive on a several-mile long bridge over Louisiana swampland). After imagining and talking through several really, really horrible scenarios, we determined vampire alligators would be too sleepy this time of year to scale the bridge. So we were safe… for now. We did learn (if you can call wild speculation “learning”) our near one-hour delay was merely a little old lady and her purse puppy peeing on the side of the road (we can’t be sure who was doing the peeing).

Bridge over the mighty Mississippi.

Finally, we exited and headed toward our destination. We squeed with more excitement than any mere mortal should experience. So much so, I maniacally squeed and snapped photos whilst driving over the Mississippi River Bridge. J took a moment to cover her eyes and pray -- the river’s awesomeness just too much to bear. In retrospect, J’s reaction probably had more to do with my hands not being on the steering wheel and her water phobia than the greatness of the Mighty Mississippi. But, either way, it was pretty awesome.

We drove for the longest seven miles EVER… then we squeed! Again.

Our first impression of the plantation was one of elation (and copious amounts of squeeing). We jumped out of the car at the bottom of the levee and stood, gazing down the alley of oaks from the roadside. Mouths gaping, we stood in the middle of the road, tour buses driving around us, and J said to me, “Oh, yeah. We are so coming back here with Alexis next year.”

I agreed, diving out of the way of a fast-moving vehicle and into the gravel.

Cottage 6 was perfect.

We had lunch at the plantation’s restaurant then moved into our cottage -- but not before J did what she touted was the first and most important thing of the trip. She bought a small collection of voodoo dolls from the gift shop. (Should I be frightened?) After entering the cottage with the B&B attendant (as a murder of crows crept up from the sugar cane fields and flanked the cottage… seriously…) we were each handed a flashlight and told, quite seriously, “You must have these with you if you walk the grounds after dark.”

J’s response: (maniacal laugh) “S-weet!”

M’s response: (eyes J suspiciously, eyes voodoo dolls, eyes flashlight helplessly, and scans room for anything that could be used as a wooden stake)

Perusing the cottage, we found creepy dolls and an even creepier old portrait. But, all in all, the space was wonderful and had plenty of outlets. As J said to me after dinner (stroking the heads of her voodoo dolls and shuffling to her bedroom), “This is gonna be perfect!”

Sunset over the road our first night.

Our first night at Oak Alley ended with a sunset walk around the grounds, a quiet dinner in our lovely cottage, and inspiration teeming all around us. Mojo? I think we’ve stirred it with a single mouse dropping found in the back of the cabinet by the saucepan. It wouldn’t be a Pea-treat without at least one. After all, we’re staying in an old quarter house in the middle of a sugar cane field.

Next time? The conclusion to One Pea Short of A Pod: Weekend in Oak Alley with J and M. I know, I know. The anticipation might just be too much.

Game Pod: Creation -- Six Word Inspired Flash Fiction

2012-01-31T06:00:00.000-06:00

This week's Game Pod is taken from a little game Alexis and her mom used to play on long road trips. Each Pea was tasked with contributing two words. The Peas then created a story using all six of the words at least once (in three-hundred words or less). And this is what happened:

Princess Iguana Cartography Sanguine Horizon Hoarding

Island Vacation

Lacy stared at the iguana sitting on her hotel bed.

Her mother expressed her fears about her vacationing alone in St. Thomas. She doubted this was the worst of them.

Flicking her keycard at it, the iguana blinked, taunting her with its sanguine expression. It was as if the reptilian beast enjoyed the attention.

“Shoo!” She waved her fingers at it. “This is the fourth night in a row!”

She gazed toward the burnt orange and pink horizon. It was paradise. Just what she’d imagined, sans wildlife. She had to admit, the view was stunning.

She hated feeling like a helpless princess and prided herself on self-sufficiency. When she’d called the concierge last night he’d treated it like business as usual. “Yes, miss. Of course, miss. I’ll send someone over.”

The maintenance man, Jacamo, had suppressed his laughter the first night when he found her in the hallway with her pepper-spray at the ready.

“You have to be assertive,” he’d said last night, rustling the lizard out with a broom. “They’re like dogs. You have to show him who is the boss.”

“I didn’t come here to tame the local wildlife,” she’d told him. “I just wanted come to an island, have a nice guy buy me a drink, and enjoy the beach. This…” she jabbed her thumb at the intruder “…is not part of my resort package.”

She sighed and eyed the iguana. Be brave.

She imagined herself hoarding bravery like coins against her chest. She tried to think of someone who was adventurous. Lewis and Clark were the first to pop into her head. This wasn’t exactly continental cartography she was facing, but certainly they’d overcome wildlife on their adventures.

“Get out, Mr. Iguana.” She glared at it and pointed at the doorway. “I mean it.”

The lizard cocked its head then blinked each eye. It opened its mouth, exposing its fleshy tongue. She shuddered. It took one step and she ran out into the hallway and let the door slam behind her.

Jacamo was there with two unopened beers. He smiled, offering her a bottle. “Tonight’s my night off. Forget him. Let’s take a walk.”

Lacy took the beer and smiled.

(word count 364) by Michelle

The Care and Feeding of Dave

Princess Sidhemana hated cartography. Studying musty old charts and maps made little sense when newer versions were available on microreaders. Yet her father insisted she know how to read the stellar graphs their ancestors had used when they settled on Delta Plantation 9, a planet five star systems removed from their home world of Earth.

Sighing, she gazed out the window at the northern horizon. Epsom and Colga, DP9’s smallest and largest moons respectively, shimmered along the spiny back of distant mountains. Their combined light cast a sanguine glow on the vast altine fields.

Sidhemana longed to lose herself among their indigo stalks and tubular white blossoms. She closed her eyes and imagined the thick sweetness of their fragrance. A rich earthiness undercut with a slight sulfuric bitterness would coat her tongue if she tasted the nectar dripping from the flowers.

Angry voices outside the literacy chamber shattered her daydream. Mother was yelling at Tarken again. Sidhemana rolled her eyes and focused on the tattered map spread on a wide slate table.

“But, Mother,” Tarken’s whine pierced the outer doors. “Dave needs the beetles! He’s a growing iguana and--”

“I understand, but why do you insist on hoarding gosha beetles?”

“They’re Dave’s favorite.”

“Tarken, gosha beetles are disgusting, not to mention dangerous,” Mother lectured. “If they escape, they’ll eat this entire home in less than a week.”

“If they get out, I’ll unleash Dave. He’ll track them.”

“Tarken...”

“Truly, Mother, you shouldn’t worry.” His voice faded as though he were slowly retreating. “You’re starting to get a crease between your eyes.”

“Tarken!”

Quick footsteps reverberated through the literacy chamber as Tarken fled their Mother’s disapproval, pulling peals of laughter from Sidhemana.

(word count 288) by Jeannie

*under word count award

Princess and the Pea

Princess took a sure-footed leap across the gap between dilapidated rooftops and settled himself in a sit, his back against a crumbling chimney. He gazed at the vast glittering castle and its verdant grounds. The sun, slipping below the horizon, cast everything in a cherry-gold glow that reflected his unusually sanguine mood. For once, his life was perfect.

He made a clicking noise with his tongue, coaxing a pea-green iguana from the depths of his oversized jacket. The lizard sauntered to his shoulder and shot him a proud, ill-humored glare.

"Our work has paid off, Pea," Princess said, beaming. "The shit ends for us today."

Pea blinked.

"Aren't you excited?" Princess inquired. "No longer will we be treated like vermin on the street! No longer will we have to beg for the food we missed out on because of the other orphans and their greedy hands!" No longer would they taunt him, either, for the clerical mishap that was his name.

Pea stared. Then burped.

"Pea! We want to remember this moment forever. Don't ruin it."

Pea curled his tail into a question mark as if to say, "So?"

Princess shook his head. "Soon, you will have your own room. And you can stop hoarding shiny objects in the pocket of my jacket. Doesn't that make you happy?"

Pea cocked his head.

"And I'll no longer answer to Princess Boy Noname, Pea," he declared. "I will be: PB Nomer, Master of Cartography for the Royal Family." This he said with a grand flourish of his arms.

Then he grinned and snatched the iguana from his shoulders, holding him close to his face. "At least until I get into the map room and use the key you stole to get that treasure."

Pea scrunched his face.

"You do have the key, don't you, Pea?"

The iguana gave him a tiny nod. Then shook his head.

The grin slipped off Princess's face. "Well where is it, then? You had it when we stole dinner."

Pea's stomach grumbled. His face turned uncomfortably.

Princess narrowed his eyes. "Peeeeea?"

The lizard's stomach rumbled again.

"Pea! You ate it?!"

The iguana burped, his breath carrying a distinctly metallic scent.

Princess rolled his eyes and glared at the castle. "Great." He sighed heavily and set the iguana down. "Well, the shit ends for us tomorrow, then."

(word count 409 {yeah, yeah I went over -- but it's my birthday so I can! Ha!}) by Alexis

*funniest/most clever award

Next week...well...we're not quite sure. It'll be a surprise. *grin*

Judging a Book by its Cover: Michelle's Take

2012-01-24T21:10:00.000-06:00

After rereading Jeannie and Alexis’s posts on this bookcover business, one thing became clear to me…

Book covers (like books) function and satisfy in a multitudeof ways.

Books! Books! So Many Books!

Perhaps that sounds a little like a copped-out response. But, whatmore could I possibly say on the subject? The passion and the reason have bothbeen addressed by each of my pod partners. Let’s see if I can peel away at thesubject from another angle. Romance.

Personally, as book buyers go, I’m beginning to believe I’ma specimen of a dying breed. With sales of e-readers and tablets rising and thedoom and gloom of the future of publishing looming overhead (all of thispartnered with the supposed empire-altering-power of e-publishing), I’m notsure what to think of the way I buy books -- especially in our currentpublishing market. Every one I know owns and raves about their Kindle or Nook.I’ve had mine for three years and have (maybe) fifteen books downloaded ontoit. (My husband can attest that I have bought near ten times that, annually, inactual books). In my mid-30’s, I’m already one of those people saying stufflike, “Back in my day if I wanted to read a book, I had to flip pages. ActuallyFLIP pages.” There’s no romance, no nostalgia, in digital files.

I’m nostalgic about books. I like the feel of a book; thelook of it in my hand. And even though I know I shouldn’t (in our world ofrenew, reuse, and recycle)… gods do I love the smell of paper! Both the gluey,inky scent of newly printed as well as the slightly mildewy, dusty odor ofpre-owned. (The latter isn’t probably healthy for me, but man, it’s sodelicious!) Bottom line, I’m the kind of book buyer who frequents the two bigbox bookstores in my region (because all the independent stores have sinceclosed). And I visit my local library’s swap bin every three weeks, looking forthat gem in the sand. In both cases, I peruse the bindings, cover by cover, andfill my arms until I’ve found the tomes that make the cut.

How do they make the cut?

A lot of it has to do with book covers.

"Which one will give me that come hither look?"

First, I pick up the books that attract me. Books covers area first impression, after all. You should know that I prefer hardbacks becausethey look substantial. They make me feel they are dependable. But book covers areultimately a tall, dark drink of water that one desires to get to know a littlebetter. Often the attractive ones showcase the promise of a twist of darkness,mystery, and high stakes. How do I know? Symbolism, color choices, and enoughvagueness to make me feel like there’s a little risk involved. But mostly… Iread the back of the book. Then I read the inside jacket-flaps. And finally, Iread the first three to five pages. On a rare occasion I’ll considersuper-famous-author-X’s one-liner in my decision-making process (if thatone-liner is flirty enough, yet transparent enough, to put me at ease). And onan even rarer occasion I’ve been known to “date” a book, see it more than once,or maybe buy it a cup of coffee and fondle it a little before taking it home.But, I digress.

My point? With so many books to read, if I’m not at leastmildly intrigued by the premise and the writing before I buy it, I don’t havethe time to make a ten to fifteen hour commitment. And my time is precious tome.

But, let’s back up for a second. What is the initial factorthat makes me reach for a book?

I had to think hard about this – really hard. As a writerand reader I’d thought this would be a no-brainer. But I found myself stumped.I even talked to my thirteen-year-old niece, a formidable book consumer,because I realized I hadn’t ever thought really hard about why a bookcover entices me.

She said to me, “I hate it when books put people’s faces onthe front cover. I don’t want toknow how they see the characters. I want to imagine them the way Iwant to.”

Sound familiar? (see Alexis’s post on Jan 10)

Some of My Favorite YA Covers

So, I went to my YA bookcases (because those are at hand inmy dining room) and I quickly hand-selected books that I remembered that Iloved the covers of and...something interesting appeared before me.

No faces.

It seems that I, too, don’t like to be told how to imagine acharacter. I’m an adult after all, and I can decide with whom I want to spendmy time. Without you spelling it out to me.

It’s like the whole Harry Potter/Daniel Radcliffe conundrum.After being inundated with the visual bombardment of the movies and mediafrenzy I can’t -- even in my mind’s eye -- recall the Harry I imagined and fell in love with when I first readthe books. And I felt the same heart-stricken woe Alexis did when Behemoth was released. I totally get it!

A Selection of Other Favorite Covers

So I looked a little harder. I went into my office. I foundthis goes for my “adult” bookshelves, too. I pulled out some of those. Myfindings? I lean toward simplicity, suggestion, mood, what feels likeoriginality to me, and above all, promise.

But, wait. Let’s talk Cheetos for a moment. (see Jeannie’sblog on Jan 17)

Yes, those scarily orange crunchy salty empty carbohydrateswe pretend not to love but secretly stuff in our underwear drawer and eat inthe middle of the night when no one is watching. I’m referring to whatever youfind pleasure reading, escapist fiction, genre fiction, A.K.A., pretty muchanything that has a clear label on a bookstore shelf and you buybecause you expect it to make you think and feel a certain way.) Some of us hidethese treats. But, some of us know that the tried and true bag of snack food ismeant to be passed along to our friends like a bad case of mono, because we knowthere’s something so sinful, possibly shameful, and utterly delicious in them.We don’t want to be alone with our guilty pleasures. And because on somedeep-seeded level we know eating Cheetos, in the dark, is a one-way path to alonely addiction. No one wants to be a lonely addict -- we want friends tovalidate and enable us! After all, only those who drink alone are alcoholics,right? Again, I digress.

What I’m saying is… book covers are at their core, labels.And (as Jeannie said) these are the kinds of labels we as consumers don’t like to besurprised by.

Switch gears. Let’s think about blockbuster films. A vastmajority of us would have a bit of a problem if the trailer or poster for the next Piratesof the Caribbean movie promised another swash-buckling pirate adventure but we find these promises are images pulled from flashbacks of previous films. Reallythe movie is about how Jack Sparrow falls into a time machine that lands him inthe year 3027 and he must peril, hopelessly, through a scorchedpost-apocalyptic earth. In the end, the film is nothing more than Jack walking,endlessly, as he feeds the only stray dog on the planet portions of his ownflesh to psychotically hold on to his own humanity. Then, he dies. Most of uswould be a little put out. (Though, I admit, if any actor were capable of pullingoff that twist, my money's on Johnny).

So what I’mtrying to say is… I get it!

Readers like Cheetos. Publishers like Cheetos. Marketingdepartments like Cheetos. Booksellers love Cheetos! And most importantly… I loveCheetos! Processed, branded book covers are as sure a thing as a nice big bag of Cheetos. Admittedly, I do like a certain amount of risk. But I also relishin the security of knowing I don’t have to take a risk. I can take the safe bet.

So where does that leave me? (With a really long ramblingblog entry that basically says what both Jeannie and Alexis already did. So “good on you!” those who have stuck it out this far.) Let mesee if I can wrangle this monster of a topic the ground… and put it out ofyour misery (and mine).

In the immortal words of Inigo Montoya, "No. There is too much. Let me sum up..."

So PRETTY!

I collect certain kinds of books for certain reasons. Andit’s largely due to the cover. So, in a sense, I collect book covers. Ihave a growing collection of fine bound books. Collectible books. Many are timelessclassic titles in leather, cloth, or are limited release and art cover editions.These books are only about the cover. Personally, I think Folio Society does agreat job with moderately affordable fine editions and I love those editions solely for how they look and feel (and smell). They are simple, elegant, and hold the promise of something wonderful between their covers. Then, acouple of years ago, I passed through an airport and spied my firstCorelie Bickford-Smith Penguin Edition. It’s the kind of book cover I covet,pet adoringly, and snuggle with at night because it’s an aesthetically pleasingspecimen for my book collection whilst being truly affordable. The titles are classics so they're somewhatvetted. But let’s be honest -- owning them is all about the pretty cloth cover.

Then there's the old books. Sometimes they come from usedbookshops, thrift stores, libraries, and antique shops. I like those to looklike old books should look. Old. Crafted. Lasting. They should look like artpieces that have stood the test of time. And if there's a mysterious inscription on the inside of the cover from someone in the 1880's... awesome!

Timeless, Don't You Think?

In our digital age, buying actual physical books is romantic. It evokes asort of nostalgia. Book covers are potential lovers and friends. When Ibuy a book and read it, it then becomes something entirely different. It becomes an artifact from a past relationship. It becomesan experience I’ve had, a memory I’ve collected, a story that evolved meemotionally and/or intellectually in some significant way. It’s not all about arapid download of information before I move onto the next file. And atthe end of my life, I like to imagine I will take comfort knowing when I lose my sight I canput my hands on that artifact, smell it, feel it, and stillflip through all those pages.

Book covers evoke a sense of romance. And like any romance,when you take the time to examine it, it can quickly become complicated, layered, and even controversial. Someof us go on blind dates because our friends set us up. Or we have a measure offaith that internet-dating sites do actually weed out some of the undesirables. Not everyone is looking for the same thing. But in the end, I know I will always be a book shopper because I love to scrutinize their covers.

So basically... yeah... what Alexis and Jeannie said. *grin*

Next week? Something far more interesting and entertaining than this. And shorter. Promise.

Peas Out.

Judging a Book by its Cover: Jeannie's take

2012-01-17T08:03:00.000-06:00

Book Covers

First, let me say that I agree with everything Alexis said last week. Publishers will say they want "fresh" material and yet are willing to slap variations of the same cover on dozens of books. Why? The simple answer is because those covers sell. Little will change until those covers stop selling.

Let's step back for a moment and not view a book as a book or covers as art. Let's look at both for what they truly are to publishers: packaging and product.

Think of your favorite snack food. Personally, I like Cheetos--crunchy, twisted, and covered in a neon orange powdery cheese-like substance guaranteed to stain fingers for hours, if not days. I know exactly what I'm going to get when I pick up that orange bag of Cheetos with the grinning, shades-wearing cheetah. It that consistency that appeals to me as a consumer. If we take this same logic and apply it to books, then the reasons for the sameness that Alexis lamented become obvious.

Publishers like to present consistency to readers. They want to send a message that their authors are among the best. The problem is that every publisher is trying to send the same message so when a cover style strikes a chord with readers and sells books, publishers run with it. Unfortunately, this logic creates a sensory overload of sameness after a while. But, as I said, until the sales reflect a significant change in these covers' appeal to readers the Cheetos will stay orange instead of changing to red, green, or blue.

Of course there are other factors that go into the design of a cover, certain conventions based on genre. Take the urban fantasy genre for example. How many female characters (often redheaded women) have you seen wearing leather (regardless of whether or not the character actually wears leather in the book), standing or crouching in partial shadow, and holding a weapon? Probably too many to count. Another trend from a few years ago was to show a female protagonist from the back, never seeing her face, but highlighting the often tribal style tattoo inked on the small of her back. How many of these heroines actually possessed that tattoo? I don't think there were as many as the covers led readers to believe.

Curious bit of trivia... If you pick up a book and aren't sure if it's a paranormal romance or urban fantasy, remember this: if the character on the front cover is female, it's most likely UF but if the character is male and shirtless, it's most likely paranormal romance. Why? I have no idea, but spend some time checking these two genres in your local bookstore. I'm sure you'll find it an interesting experiment. But I digress...

Another reason for the gluttony of similar covers: cost. It's literally cheaper to pull a stock photo from a graphic design file, tweak it a bit, add some eye-catching font for the title and author's name, and limit the color palette to four or five colors for a book that will be printed thousands of times than it is to commission an artist to create a unique work for that same book. That's not to say that it doesn't happen. But think about it. When was the last time you saw the silhouette of a running man on the cover of the thriller and asked yourself if you hadn't seen that same image on a different book from a different author? This also illustrates my point about conventions based on genre. Thrillers have running men. Mysteries often have magnifying glasses. Fantasies will sport dragons, swords, and/or glowing magical objects. These are the Cheetos of the publishing world.

My ultimate point is that there are reasons for the blandness and sameness of covers presented to readers. Do I agree with them? Not always. Do I long for something that's truly new and different? Yes. Do I get excited when I see a cover that is different? Absolutely! Do I pass over potentially outstanding books that unfortunately suffer from an indescribable blandness or an excessive sameness of cover? Yes.

Do I think any of these is likely to change in the foreseeable future? No, and that truly saddens me but as a reader and as a author.

Tune in next week to read Michelle's take. Until then...

Peas out.

Judging a Book by its Cover: Alexis's take

2012-01-10T08:00:00.000-06:00

Book Covers

These two simple words inspire a passion of opinion and eagerness to discuss that you'll rarely see from me. Maybe it's my graphic design background, or my creative spirit. But honestly, I think it's just common sense -- aesthetically speaking -- regardless of my profession or hobbies.

It's been hammered into our skulls to "never judge a book by its cover" and as true as that is {for there are several books I absolutely loved which I refused to read in public without first taking off the dust cover and hiding that sucker} they have the saying for a reason. Because we do judge books by their covers. If we didn't, the publishers wouldn't spend so much time and money on cover art and artists to begin with. Covers matter. Plain and simple. They're signposts to the masses, beacons to individuals, tiny billboards working hard to get your attention.

But like billboards, and anything in advertising, not all covers are equal. {Why else would vanity presses and special edition covers do so well?} If the book's cover doesn't grab you, you won't grab the book. It gets passed by. Worse, if the cover turns you away, well... the book is being turned away as well.

Now, I'm not saying that the cover will make or break a book {my experience with Westerfeld's Leviathan/ Behemoth/ Goliath hardcover-dustjacket-redesign-midway-through-the-series-debacle is proof of that}... {I'll get to that later... possibly*}. I believe the title holds a fair percent of the initial pull, your loyalty to a story or author is another consideration, and then, if those things do their job, the back cover copy and the inside flap.

What I'm saying is that book covers get the coveted "first impression" moment. And for a reader {well, a reader like me... and most of the readers I know} that's a big moment.

The problem, lately, especially in YA, is that I'm starting to get a lot of bad first impressions. I'm being turned away. The publishers, who think they've hit gold plastering actual photos of actual people who may or may not look anything like the actual characters or have anything to do with the actual story, are instantly turning away an entire set of customers; those who hate to have images planted in our minds for us {hence why we read the books before we see the movies -- though "movie versions" of book covers are not my target}. It's almost insulting. We, the readers, the cultivators of imagination, are being told how we should imagine. We are, essentially, having to take creative direction on our own creativity.

Where before I'd be drawn to a beautiful, interesting, or original cover -- something that evoked the feel of the book and drew me in {which I have always prided the YA genre as doing} and maybe even inspired me as an artist -- I'm now overwhelmed, dismayed, and put off by the ceaseless sameness that seems to have pervaded the shelves. I skip entire sections... because they're all the same cover. Just a different title. Maybe a different shade of black or a different splash of color {I'm starting to wonder if maybe there's a shortage in cover artists and the YA publishers are just sharing the same person}.

So we have a problem. Luckily, there's a solution. {No, my suggested solution will never be "just switch to digital books and ignore the covers entirely," thankyouverymuch}.

Publishers need to stop regurgitating designs because they're afraid to take risks, constantly going to what's "safe" and what's "working"-- terms I've found they really enjoy. For one, there's no growth in that. Sure, it's working. For now. Just like Twilight-inspired wanna-be stories are "working." {Forgive me for the reference. I feel nauseous using it}. But eventually, safe becomes same and the market over-saturates. At that point, everything becomes a fad. There's no art in that.

Now, I'm not published. But one day I will be. And I certainly don't want the book cover equivalent of 80's hair or parachute pants holding a place of honor on my bookshelf -- with my name on it. I want a reflection of my work and thus a reflection of myself. How can you do anything but be original in your cover design if you focus on the individual in that way? If you stay true to the art? Art is risk. Art is outer expression of the inner. Art is rebellion against sameness and embracing the unique and creative. And book covers are art.

So for the love of the written word... somebody tell those publishers to let their artists create art again.

*for my opinion on this, visit the comments {I'm like, the 12th post. My "name" is Alexis} of a great little article I read the other day about book covers in YA (paranormal romance)... CLICK HERE :)

Pick a Pea: Michelle - Advice, Playgrounds, and an Invisible Giraffe Named Pete

2012-01-03T11:07:00.001-06:00

Happy New Year from the Ninja Peas...

     We have an exciting year of blog topics, interviews, and games planned for you in 2012. Thanks for sticking it out in 2011 as we got our feet wet and hands dirty in this new joint blogging effort. We hope it's been as fun for you as it has for us. As we continue on this strange, random, and sometimes amusing journey, we look forward to sharing it with all our loyal readers (and maybe we'll gather a few some new ones along the way). Thanks for showing up! We'll continue to try to make it worth your while.

     Since we're spending the next week or two reconfiguring the blog schedule for the new year, here's an old post from an old blog of mine to pass the time. I hope you enjoy.

     Until next week...

Advice, Playgrounds, and an Invisible Giraffe Named Pete
(originally posted 3/3/11 at Under the Influence)

     I’ve heard a lot of advice about writing and the road to “authordom.” I listen to a lot, ignore a little, and manipulate the rest to suit my needs. But the truest and most helpful piece of advice I’ve ever heard was: surround yourself with the people you most want to be like.

     Seems like a no-brainer, right? I want to write and publish books. Therefore, I must surround myself with people who write and publish books. It’s easy in theory but when you spend too much time over-thinking it--like me--it becomes a little more difficult to execute.

     I should tell you that this one tiny piece of advice altered my worldview. (I know! Drastic, huh?) But when I finally understood it, I figured out what the difference between wanting to become a writer and becoming a writer meant. It’s kind of like recess in grade school. Wannabes stand on the outskirts and say, “I can do that!", "He’s doing it wrong!", "Oh, maybe I can’t do that after all...", "Maybe I’m not good enough.” But the real deals? Those are the kids that stop watching, stop over-thinking and jump into the mix, take risks, scrape their knees, and make grandiose plans for tomorrow’s recess.

     When I realized this, my first thought was, “Where do I find these people?” My second thought was, “Oh, crap! This is going to require me talking to people I don’t know.”

     Suddenly, it sounded like the worst advice I’d ever heard.

     Why? I hated recess. I was the kid sitting on the wall, alone, mumbling to myself while the other kids picked teams, made alliances, and subsequently turned on each other like rabid dogs during the chaos of an impromptu tether ball tournament organized by an eleven-year-old third grader named Spike. ::shudder:: Scary.

     Even as an adult I find social interactions stressful, difficult, and (often times) downright terrifying. One on one, I’m not too bad. But get me in a room full of people without a 12-pack of beer and I’m a wreck (and with the 12-pack, I’m a sloppy drunk. It’s a lose-lose situation). Being around people, interacting with them, well, it’s not my first choice of how to spend my day. I’d much rather write, read, or pluck the cat hair out of my living room rug. Those activities are safe--because there’s no risk of humiliation involved (until you post it in a blog or tweet it, but that’s a subject for another day). These activities require no filters between my brain and my mouth. Therefore, my blood pressure stays nice and low. I acknowledge that this sounds antisocial and completely mad. Well, that’s because it is. But I like it that way. I’m stress-free that way. (Now whether or not it’s good for me psychologically? That’s for a therapist to figure out.)

     What am I getting at? I’ve been an introvert since birth--it's true (and somewhat ironic). I was the little loner girl who had imaginary friends (yes, plural) that lived in the many nooks and crannies of the attic, the basement, and backyard. Various gnomes, fairies, unicorns, and a giraffe named Pete kept me company and kept my family in a constant state of confusion (especially when I insisted, night after night, that thirty-six extra place settings were required at the dinner table). My imagination has been my best friend these last three-plus decades, and it has never failed me, smacked me in the head and dubbed me the kooties-monster, or knocked over my science fair project whilst laughing maniacally. I embrace my propensity toward introversion and I believe most writers do to some extent. It’s why writers, especially fiction writers, acknowledge the voices of their adult imaginations without fear or a self-misdiagnosis of schizophrenia via Web M.D.

     My point? Surrounding myself with the people I most want to be like has been, and continues to be, the most difficult--yet rewarding--step I’ve made as a writer. It means putting myself out there in workshops, at conferences, and into conversations with people I don’t know. But the thing I didn’t acknowledge before is: these are my people (and they probably also have...um...had imaginary friends). These people just happened to realize, before I did, that you don’t get picked for a team if you don’t stand in line. Since then, I’ve made myself get off the wall--even when the bile rises in my throat because I think I’m going to say something stupid and everyone on the playground will think I’m weird and laugh at me. It’s right then that I force myself in line. And, in line, I get to hear the stories of the people who have been on the road to “authordom” (or in some cases paved the road to “authordom”) and who have traveled it with success and failure. Their stories make the whole game seem a little less scary. I get to learn from those who know the game. I endeavor to build friendships with them. They tell me how to best appease Spike. And I don’t feel that stab of loneliness when I realize I’ve been talking to a fourteen-foot tall invisible giraffe named Pete.

     Don’t misunderstand; people still terrify me. And I still love Pete. But the thing is, on the playground, the kids are playing the same game I want to play. And they're damn good at it. I want to be like them so why wouldn’t I jump in the middle of it all? The best advice is the advice that puts me on the right playground, with the right kids, and in the right game. And on this playground I hear all the best advice about game rules and improving my skills. That means I’m one step closer to finally getting picked.

Free Range Peas: Holiday Word Association

2011-12-27T07:00:00.001-06:00

Due to the holiday week, we're doing something a little wild, a little random, a little non-committal, but mostly we're feeling the freedom of Pea-dom. Enjoy the little word association we passed around during a recent critique group meeting and behold the first installment of Free Range Peas. Can you guess the order we went in?

tea, cookies, monster, mash, potatoes, gravy, train, thought, memory, board, game, sport, bottle, blonde, hair, band, mate, sex, hair, razor, sharp, thing, animal, magnetism, earth, shaker, salt, Angelia Jolie, lips, Rocky Horror Picture Show, fishnet stockings, A Christmas Story, BB gun, ouch, Band-Aid, hospital, gown, ball, bounce, dryer sheet, laundry, work, book, ninja peas

Happy Holidays to all! And have a terrific New Year. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming in January.

Guest Pod: Reader Interview - Andrea Beard

2011-12-20T10:00:00.000-06:00

Andrea Beard, 20 year old Junior at Mizzou, majoring in Accounting.

Hi all!! I'm back! {and butting in front of M this week to post}.
For our first reader interview, I chose my sister. While she and I have many differences, we have one very important thing in common {aside from our DNA}: our love of books.

Now, as a writer it might be obvious why I would foster a love for the written word. But what about an accounting major deep in the college experience? What number-loving party-goer has time for such a solitary {and right-brained} activity as reading? Well, I've always said that my sister was smart. And while sometimes I'm referring to her being a smart ass, there's no denying the girl is intelligent. So, in my personal opinion, the fact that she's smart is why she's a reader. And I don't mean nerdy smart. In fact, I think you'd put her in the category of "cool" smart. As in, she'll put you in your place without the "popular girl" snobbery, but rather by saying something clever that illustrates how much smarter she is than you. And more often than not, illustrates how much more she's read than you, too. But that's just my opinion. So, read on, and form one for yourself. {But I'm right}.

Okay, Andi. We'll start off simple. What do you read?
Books. Obviously.
*laughs*... *deadpans*... now seriously.
Oh, fine. *grins* I read mostly Young Adult or Sci-Fi. But I really like things based on true stories and real people. I don't know if they're actually factual, but... *shrugs*... And I read whatever you say is good, too. {By you she means me}. And books from lists of what to read before I die -- just to say I've read them.
Good reasoning! *laughs* So... why do you read?
Because I'm not illiterate. *chuckles* Even though I can't spell *she adds under her breath*
Funny! ...And true *I add under my breath*
Now the non-smartass answer, please? Why do you read -- what do you want from a book you choose?
I want a completely different reality. I want to be transported to different worlds but have it all still be completely possible. I want a book I'm going to still think about, years after reading it, for no reason.
I like that. That's a good reason. So then, what are your favorite books of all time? The ones you still find yourself thinking about afterward?
I really like the Maze Runner, Narnia, the 7 Realms, Stephen King's Everything's Eventual, and His Dark Materials. But I love the Hunger Games trilogy, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and my very favorite book(s) of all time: Harry Potter!
*nods in approval* Okay, so what makes Harry Potter your favorite ever?
More than any other book, I can enter my own world and completely feel the emotions of each character.
I know exactly what you mean! I also take on the emotions of the characters of the books I read.
Yeah. And by the way, DON'T try and talk to me while I'm reading the Order of the Phoenix. I get really defiant and pissy!
*chuckles knowingly*
Hard to imagine, I know. No really -- more than usual. Someone should warn my boyfriend.
*laughs* Order of the Phoenix is my favorite book in the series. And I get the same way! {Thankfully, I've learned to control it when real life butts in while I'm reading}.
I miss those books. I think it's time for me to read them again... again. Ha. How many times would you say you've re-read the Harry Potter series?
The first four, well over ten times. The last three, probably eight or nine times.
So when you do decide to venture out and find something new to read, where do you go? What route -- if one were to lose you in the bookstore -- would you say you generally take?
YA first, which is usually by the Children's section, so sometimes I'll go look for authors I know there. Then, over to the books on war, then usually over to the Sci-Fi/ Fantasy section. After that I wander around and look for really pretty books.
*laughs* That sounds like mine! Minus the section on war. Though, I usually get distracted by the discount/gifty books at the front first! ...*looks at word count*... well, I should wrap this up. I'll leave our audience with my favorite question: How important is reading in your life?
Reading is my life. I can't imagine life without reading. That would be a very boring life indeed.***
Well said! Thanks very much for agreeing to be interviewed! {Not that you could say no. I'm your sister, after all *wink*}

Next week... well, I'm not actually sure... so... get ready for a surprise! In the meantime, have a happy holidays!! Peas out!

***I received the following text from my sister post-posting, and I told her I'd add it to the interview, so here it is {with autocorrect accidents fixed, because I'm a nice sister}:

"Looking back at your questions I realized I didn't fully answer the last one. Where reading ranks in my life, somewhere between water and food. I would rather read than eat but they tell me I wouldn't survive without eating. And the why {which I edited out because she didn't answer it... to be fair, I texted her early tuesday morning - right before posting - for the last question, knowing she would be sleeping in...} would be because the real world isn't nearly as exciting as the ones I create in my head and I can live the lives of other people, know their thoughts and emotions, and know that real or fictional I'm not the only one to think or feel those things."

Pick a Pea: Jeannie - What is Urban Fantasy?

2011-12-13T08:01:00.003-06:00

We're one Pea short this week and next. (No, that isn't a euphemism to say we're insane...although it could be.) A is off visiting family so M and I are picking up the slack and hosting Pick A Pea posts! Basically, this is when we get to post anything and everything about whatever topic we choose. Recycling old posts from other blogs is also fair game. I mention this because that's precisely what I'm doing this week: recycling.

I posted the following articles "What is Urban Fantasy?" about a year ago on my personal blog, Wayward Muses and Shiny Objects, which is no longer being updated but has tons of posts on a variety of subjects so feel free to check out the archives. If you're familiar with the urban fantasy genre, you know it isn't easy to define. Everyone has their own opinions of what makes urban fantasy and what kicks a book over to the paranormal romance aisle or horror or mystery or whatever. Here is my take on the subject:

What is urban fantasy?

Urban fantasy is often defined as having supernatural/paranormal elements layered over our recognizable modern or near-future world. The setting is a large city such as Los Angeles, New Orleans, or St. Louis. Often the main character is female and the story is told in first person point of view. The story can have elements pulled from other genres such as science fiction, mystery, horror, and romance and woven together in a cohesive manner with varying degrees of emphasis placed on each of these genre elements. Primarily, the plot will consist of a mystery to be solved or a problem to be corrected before some great calamity strikes. Romance, if present, is usually a secondary plot. Character and story arcs often carry for multiple books. These are "The Rules" of urban fantasy.

We could spend hours if not days debating the finer points of what is or isn't urban fantasy. That is time we could spend doing more productive things, like writing the next book in a series or even the first book in a new series. For me, the definition hinges on the romance and if it's the main focus of the story or not because it's the easiest way to separate urban fantasy from its cousin, paranormal romance.

Where did it begin?

Most "experts" will point to the initial release of Laurell K. Hamilton's GUILTY PLEASURES (Book 1 in the Anita Blake series) in the early 1990s as the beginning of the genre's mass appeal to readers. However, I believe Anne Rice's INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE would also qualify as an early example of urban fantasy, even though the point of view character is male and much of the story is told as Louis's memories, the actual "interview" takes place modern times.

However, one could make a strong argument for finding urban fantasy's roots in the Romantic Movement in works such as Mary Shelley's FRANKENSTEIN, Bram Stoker's DRACULA, Charles Dickens's A CHRISTMAS CAROL, and Edgar Allan Poe's MASK OF THE RED DEATH, to name a few. You're probably thinking to yourself "But these are classics! How can they be urban fantasy?" The answer is simple: At the time they were written, they were set in the modern era, in urban centers, and carried an element of the supernatural. Time moves forward but the written word doesn't. It's fixed on the page.

Pinpointing the start of urban fantasy is difficult and open for debate. Suffice it to say the genre has steadily gained popularity is now one of the most widely read genres because of its broad appeal to readers of other genres.

What are some common elements?

The most common element is the supernatural. Whether the supernatural takes the form of vampires, werewolves, fairies, zombies, aliens, shapeshifters, or something else isn't set in stone. Nearly any creature can make an appearance in urban fantasy.

What is the difference between urban fantasy and paranormal romance?

The two share 90% of their genre DNA. However, the main differences are this: Urban fantasy focuses on an issue outside of a romantic relationship between two characters. Paranormal romance focuses on a romantic relationship between two characters and how outside forces affect that relationship. The best litmus test to determine if a story is urban fantasy or paranormal romance is to ask the following question: "If the romance between Character A and Character B were removed, would the plot still stand as a viable storyline?" If the answer is "yes," chances are good it's urban fantasy. If the answer is "no," it's most likely paranormal romance.

Okay, so that covers the basics of urban fantasy. Are we clear on what is and isn't urban fantasy? We've all got "The Rules" firmly fixed in our minds? Good.

Now forget everything I just said.

Why?

Because it's fiction. When Mary Shelley wrote FRANKENSTEIN, she wasn't concerned with a genre. She wanted to write a ghost story. She wanted to write fiction.

You want to write urban fantasy with a male protagonist? Do it. The "rule" that says you must have a female protagonist hasn't stopped Jim Butcher, nor did it stop Mary Shelley.

You want to write urban fantasy set in a post-apocalyptic world? Do it. Stacia Kane's Downside Ghosts series is a wonderful example of the broken "rule" that says it has to be a modern day or near future setting. You can even write a story set in the past. Edgar Allan Poe did. THE MASK OF THE RED DEATH uses the backdrop of the Black Plague for its setting even though Poe was writing in the 1800s, long after the plague had all but disappeared.

You want to write urban fantasy set in a small town? Do it. Look no further than the popularity of Charlaine Harris's Sookie Stackhouse series to see that small towns can be just as intriguing as large metropolitan areas. Charles Dickens's London wasn't the sprawling urban center it is today. Yes, it was still a large city but reading that story has the feel of being set in a smaller London.

You want to write urban fantasy with multiple character view points? Do it. Faith Hunter's Rogue Mage series began with BLOODRING and featured both first and third person points of view. Bram Stoker's DRACULA has multiple points of view and each is necessary to convey the story. This is important: The story dictates its needs. If it can be told from one character's point of view, great. However, if more than one is required, don't sweat it. There is no actual "rule" that says you can't have more than one.

My point is this: Urban fantasy is a label used to identify where a book falls in the publishing spectrum. At the end of the day, it's fiction. Aside from the basic rules of writing, such as grammar, spelling, and the structure of story, there are no rules. Some of the best fiction ever written has broken "The Rules." Urban fantasy as a genre has broken rules from Day One and it will continue to do so. In fact it'll be necessary for the next generation of urban fantasy writers to break even more rules.

Will we see urban fantasy set on distance worlds and trekking through the stars? I think so.

Will we see urban fantasy set in the Roman era with gladiators battling werewolves for the entertainment of thousands? It's possible.

This is fiction and in fiction, anything is possible.

Tune in next week for M's Pick A Pea! Until then...

Peas out.

Game Pod: Dissection - Manuscript Edits Revealed

2011-12-05T22:53:00.001-06:00

Editing a manuscript is hard work, even more so than writing the first draft. When you’re writing that first draft, you’re in the creative zone. Ideas are popping up left and right. Things are happening and you’re watching the events of the book unfold before your eyes. It’s fun.

But as much fun as the first draft can be, editing can be a nightmare. You’re literally taking apart this beautiful, perfect (in your eyes) creation and cobbling it back together like some kind of freakish Frankenstein’s monster. Will it be hideous or will some rich, handsome movie star want to take it out as his latest arm candy? These questions will plague your mind, your dreams, and eventually consume every ounce of your thought processes until you are left drained like last week’s special at the zombie all-you-can-eat buffet.

To illustrate the hell that can be editing (and to show how those quirky little typos can slip in the final product), I’m offering up a sample of BLOOD LAW. I’ve given a passage to Alexis and Michelle, and they have edited it as if it were a new project. (And, yes, we are this thorough and brutally honest every week when we meet.) They’re providing their overall comments and any additional notes can be found on the actual pages.

ORIGINALS

{click images to view larger}

From March 2009, when BLOOD LAW was still titled “Crimson Swan” and the editing process had just started. This version {above} isn’t the first first draft but it’s pretty darn close.

ALEXIS'S EDITS

{click images to view larger}

Most of my overall comments are generally short. I say what I liked, what was working for me, and what wasn't working if there's any overarching issues I don't address in my edits. Otherwise, the margin notes pretty much explain any concerns. As you can see, I write whatever I'm thinking at the time of the edit, so I mostly reserve overall comments for the more positive feedback. Unless Jeannie has specifically asked for feedback on something {plot, emotions, action, whatever}. My overall comments for this would be: "Great start! Really intriguing relationship. Varik has some minor POV issues at the start but otherwise he felt believable. Alex seems like she is trying to be stronger than she is. I like that. Reminds me of me. The banter is great between them, too! Can't wait to read more!"

MICHELLE'S EDITS

{click images to view larger}

Overall comments:
I really like the character development and conflict shown in these pages. This section does a lot for cultivating some great tension between Varik and Alex. However, there are some places where I felt too distanced from Varik's internal thought. This section is in his POV -- therefore needs to be grounded there every step of the way. I showed places where internal thought, reactions, or a bit more description of what Varik is seeing and thinking that could really pull this into sharper focus. I also felt there were a few places that paragraph breaks could speed up the pacing of the dialog and internal thought. People tend to digest more quickly what they're reading with visual cues. I think this could help in these pages. Lastly, there were some environmental, spacial details that seemed extraneous. I struck these out. Sometimes too many specific details can get your reader trying to figure out where everyone is standing versus what's actually happening in the scene. Overall, great passage and makes me want to know why Varik and Alex are so feisty toward each other.

While Alexis and Michelle were not actually included in this stage of this book, they have been in other works. You won't necessarily see their advice/edits taken into consideration, therefore, in the coming section. But know that this is where they would have been involved, and have been involved in other works.

I’m providing edited versions of the same scene from various points along the publication road. The first being from March 2009, shown above.

After my editor provided feedback, comments, and suggestions, I made some changes and resubmitted it to her. She came back with more comments and suggestions. I sent my changes in August. A few weeks later, my editor asked for a few minor tweaks and my final revision was submitted in October.

At this point, I’d finished the major revision and now it was time for the copyeditor to step in and make everything cohesive and coherent. Copyeditors are lifesavers. They catch the small typos, the plot holes that may have been overlooked due to the extensive revisions, and make everything pretty. Of course, the pages may not look so pretty during this process, but believe me, it’s for the good of all.

Once the copyeditor is done, the first pass of typeset page proofs are sent for author review. Small changes can be made, such as correcting typos, omitted or added words, etc. This is when the manuscript starts to look like an actual book. It’s also the last chance the author has to make changes.

The final stage, or second pass, is the last chance the publisher (not the author) has to make very minor changes before everything goes to print. If it’s not fixed at this point, well…that’s when readers get to play Spot the Typo.

And that, dear readers, is how the Ninja Peas operate as a writing group and how a manuscript becomes a book. It’s a long, arduous journey and before the book reaches the shelf, authors are often wondering why they chose to start the journey. But then once the book is in the hands of readers and we hear from people across the globe that they enjoyed the words we committed to the page, that makes all the pain go away.

Peas out.

Peas in the Pages: Neal Shusterman's Unwind

2011-11-29T00:15:00.006-06:00

Unwind by Neal Shusterman

     This is one of those books that reached me via word of mouth, borrowed from a friend. If I'd seen it on the shelves of the chain-bookstores, the memory didn't stick. But there's no unsticking Unwind from your memory once you've read it. And here's why: To put it plainly... the premise is awesome.
     The idea that a child can be unwound -- "retroactively aborted" so not "technically" ending life {the explanation of all that is quite something} -- at any time between the ages of thirteen and eighteen... It was fascinating and horrifying. {Not the only bit of fascinatingly horrifying concepts to crop up in this book, either... *the Clappers, she references with a shiver*}.
The three main characters, Connor, Risa and Lev, all have widely different journeys to take through this book, yet the cause for those journeys is the same: the Unwinding. The characters add greatly to the book's already rich depth. Their stories: as unique and individual as the characters themselves. The plot: weaving, twisting, and downright enthralling. The directions Shusterman takes you are unexpected and breath-caught-in-your-throat exciting. It is, in this voracious reader's opinion, a standout. One that sticks with you long after you've put it down. It's easily one of my favorite and oft-recommended {in the same breath as Hunger Games} books.
     Next time you're perusing the bookshelves, take notice. Pick it up. Read the first chapter. I dare you to put it down and be able to forget it.
     {But not actually. Read the whole thing. It's worth it. Besides, you won't be able to put it down}.

Unwind by Neal Shusterman is a book that took me by surprise. It is a high stakes dystopic adventure that left me wanting to inform everyone I know that they have to read this book. Shusterman paints a picture of a post pro-life and pro-choice society where parents not only abandon unwanted children at birth, but they sign their rights away to children who are troubled or troublesome and tithe their tenth born children as a gesture of faith. Published in 2007, Unwind remains a fresh voice in the current over-crowded dystopic market. To say it is a favorite young adult book would be understating the point. It is one of my top five favorite books of any genre and of all time.

The protagonist Conner is an immediately empathetic character--a runaway set to be unwound by his own parents in this not-so-distant alternate future where, by law, parents may retroactively abort their children between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. Those contracted for unwinding will have their body parts and organs bought and/or distributed. Conner's strong narrative is intertwined with the voices of Risa and Lev, kids from very different circumstances than Conner's own. Risa doesn't exhibit the extraordinary skills required of the perfection-seeking adoptive parent pool at the orphanage. Lev was born to his family with the intent of being unwound as a tithe. Running from the authority, Conner's life intersects with Risa's and Lev's during a highway accident that propels the three of them on an thrilling, page-turning, and thought-provoking adventure. In a stroke of genius by Shusterman (and my favorite element of the book) thier stories are joined by an incredibly effective floating fourth point-of-view that represents the collective--informing, entertaining, allowing the reader to experience unwinding, and resonating far after the last page is turned.

I can't stay objective or rave enough about Unwind. And I'm over word count so I'll just say one last thing, read it.

This will come as no surprise, and if it does then you don't know me very well, but I love to read. I'm not an elitist when it comes to books. I'm a card-toting omnivore. I'm willing to read anything that can grab and hold my attention for more than twenty pages. (Yes, I said twenty pages. If a story hasn't given me some kernel of "Wow, this could be really good" by then, I usually drop it for the next book in line. Sad, but true.) There are books I can remember reading from years ago with the same sort of fondness that one has for cupcakes. You know what I mean, the Warm Fuzzies, the "Oh, yeah. That was good. Wish I could find that again" kind of feeling.
But there are few books that stick with me for very long. Most fade over a few days or even months. Only a handful lingers like ghosts in an attic. Books such as Mary Shelley's FRANKENSTEIN, Oscar Wilde's THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY, Elizabeth George Speare's THE WITCH OF BLACKBIRD POND, and most recently, Neal Shusterman's UNWIND.

I'm not going to give you a rundown of UNWIND's plot. That can easily be found on countless sites around the internet. No, I want to tell you why this book has earned a place on my Keeper shelf. (And, by the way, I own two copies of it--one in e-book form, which I read originally, and a hardcover edition for the actual Keeper shelf. Only a handful of books receive this multiple copy honor, but that's a different matter. Moving on...)
     Aside from the great storytelling, masterful character arcs, and thought-provoking plot, UNWIND has something few books today can claim: resonance. A deep, rich, yet subtle element that draws the reader closer, lulls them with a siren's song, and while they're distracted, it worms its way into their brains and carves out a forever home. Resonance in fiction tears at your heart, makes you rethink your world, makes you identify with each character and every plot shift. Shusterman does that beautifully in UNWIND.
     When I finished reading--no, devouring the story of Connor, Risa, and Lev, I felt as though I'd been with these teens every step of their journey. I identified with their isolation, their desperation, their desires, their triumphs and sacrifices. Whether I'd personally dealt with similar feelings was irrelevant. Shusterman made me feel theirs and their emotions became mine.
     This is resonance.
     This is the indefinable element that every author strives to capture, concentrate, and weave through their stories.
     This is why I always recommend UNWIND to anyone who asks me "Have you read any good books lately?" Yes, I've read others since reading UNWIND, but none have made a forever home on my Keeper shelf.

   Next week, another joint pea effort. Game Pod: Destruction...er...I mean...Dissection. *grin* What does that mean? You'll have to return next week to see!

Peas Out.

Guest Pod: Writer Blog - J. G. Walker

2011-11-22T07:34:00.000-06:00

Honorary Pea J. G. Walker has the floor.

Welcome him beloved imaginary readers... open thy arms with Pea Love!

     Being part of a writing group can be a harrowing experience. No matter how seasoned a writer you are, it’s already difficult to put your work out there, whether it’s with people you know or complete strangers, and knowing that you’re likely going to hear things you won’t like doesn’t make it any easier.
     Sometimes, people can be downright brutal with others’ work. I’m not talking firm, constructive criticism here; you can get used to that, and frankly, as a writer, you need to. No, this is blood and guts, take no prisoners behavior. These folks say nasty, mean things. Whether it’s because they shouldn’t be awake past six p.m., they received one too many rejection slips from The New Yorker, or that they subsist on the tears of distraught critique victims, it’s hard to say. But it hurts.
     In creative writing programs they call this phenomenon the “shark tank,” and it can make you want to hide your head in a bucket. It’s not quite as bad when it happens in “real world” writing groups, since you can leap from your chair and run for the hills, but it’s still tough.
     However, despite everything I’ve just written, I will add that taking part in a writing group can also be the best experience of your writing life. It can help you gain new perspective on your work, see it through someone else’s eyes, and give you that most valuable gift of all: honest feedback from people who speak a similar language. Even a bad group can help you, but when you find people you can really relate to, who seem to know your writing as well as you do, then you have it made.

Alexis, Gary, Jeannie and Michelle's cup of coffee

That was my experience with the Ninja Peas—Jeannie, Michelle, and Alexis. I discovered this was a group of people who not only knew their craft but actually enjoyed it. And when it came time to discuss work, I also found out that each of them came at critiquing from a slightly different angle. One might zero in on plot issues, for example, while another might point out issues with choreography, the physical space of the story. This is one of the best things that can happen, by the way, and if you’re lucky, you can add your own dimension to the mix.

We’d all been through writing programs, so that helped, but it also didn’t hurt that we shared eclectic reading and writing interests. Bring up a book or author and chances were good someone else—if not everyone—had read it. Capital L literature, science fiction, mysteries, fantasy, young adult…you get the idea.

Then I did something selfish and uncalled for by moving to Colorado. Sure, we still keep up through social media and e-mail, but it’s not the same. I don’t get to hang out with the Peas at Panera, laugh at the jokes, listen to writing conference stories, compare books, and overdose on Dr. Pepper. Well, I suppose I could still do that last one, but what would be the point? People would stare.

I predict that one day I’ll be the Pete Best of the Ninja Peas. Sure, they didn’t kick me out like the Beatles did Best. No, I left of my own accord. But I’ve no doubt I’ll one day pick up a newspaper and find out that those three have done something really awesome, like getting a sweet HBO miniseries deal for the novel they co-wrote.

Why did I leave? I’ll ask myself.

And I’ll tell people that I used to be a Ninja Pea.

But you know they won’t believe me.

Your own writing group experience can go any of a thousand directions, but there’s no way to find out other than jumping in. Sure, you can sit on the sidelines, watch other people get the critique, but until you actually ante up and put your baby on the table, you’ll never know.

And here’s the thing: if you don’t try, there’s no telling what you’ll miss.

From a practical standpoint, it will help your writing, which in turn improves your chances of publication. But if you’re one who writes first of all for the sheer joy of creating something new, and you run across a group of people who share that sentiment—or even just one person, for that matter—you can’t afford to let it go.

J.G. Walker is a writer, editor, and writing coach who lives with his wife in Colorado Springs, Colorado. His fiction and nonfiction have been featured in such publications as Oracle Fine Arts Review, Lullwater Review, and Aoife’s Kiss. Walker is currently trying to create the impression that he is at work on his third novel, Visitation: A Novel of Death and Inconvenience. To find out more, check him out at www.courtstreetliterary.com or www.jgwalker.net

Next week, all three Peas will be In The Pages with their first book club book review. You've been warned!

Game Pod: Creation - Photo Flash Fiction

2011-11-15T11:00:00.000-06:00

This week we have a writing game. From the photo below {thanks to the super-talented & gracious Marcus, aka @architectm on Instagram, for letting us borrow!} each Pea will write a 300 word story.
{300, M. 300. Actually, for you: 250. That should keep you at 325}. **

    Darby stepped onto the brick road, taking one final lookback. The stables beyond the fence were as she’d left them. The scent ofhorses, hay, and his cologne clung to her flannel shirt, both comforting andtorturing. She quelled her tears. He didn’t deserve them. Nor would he care ifshe shed any.

    The world before her today held too much beauty. It wasn’tfair.

    She’d loved the idea of it--the world he’d built them. Now,with him gone, there was nothing left for her. He’d told her they’d grow old together--raisea family. Instead, he left her with his dream. When he walked away, she foundshe didn’t want any of it.

    Darby blinked him away in one angry flash. Yet somethinginside her searched for a reason to stay. It wouldn’t last. Nothing lasted.

    Looking down the hill from where she’d come, she found theview too idyllic. The verdant pasture held too much promise. Rusting gold,the trees were dressed in a beauty that was meant to fade. The scent of decaylingered and would only thicken in the crisp autumn air.

    Illusion stood outside the stable yard nipping at the tallgrass--oblivious to all that had changed. For a brief moment Darby felt a pangof guilt. But she’d left everything in order. Illusion would learn to livewithout her.

    She thought about how she’d caught them. The smudge oflipstick on his collar; the smell of perfume she'd left in their bed. The lies.Darby had been blind. Finding her husband’s and sister’s intertwined naked bodiesbehind hay bales was simply too cliché.

    She turned, facing the road. No tears--not for them.

    Darby placed the gun barrel to her head andpulled the trigger a third time.

    {294 words, thank you very much!}

The Wall

    All he saw was gray.

    He strode along the path to the field and wondered what it must be like to live in a world of color. Would the sourness of the breeze blowing past the barn instead smell sweet? Would the grass yield to his step instead of crunch beneath his boots? Would the faint sunlight poking through the iron-like clouds burn?

    A lone horse stared at him with dull eyes. He climbed the fence surrounding the field. The clouds shifted and a tree’s shadow darkened his vision, making him shiver. He reached the Wall.

    Rough bricks scraped his fingers and palms as he climbed. His boots slipped and his knees shrieked their bloody misery. He pulled himself over the edge and dropped to the ground.

    Grass soundlessly fell beneath his step. Sweetness drifted on the wind. Sunshine burned his cheeks. He looked to the sky.

    All he saw was gray.

Leap of Faith

     I stare, transfixed by the vivid countryside. Every detail, palpable. The one place They haven't found -- haven't ruined. My escape.

    Ramshackle barns -- benign, welcoming -- peek over trees in autumn bloom. The scent of damp wood. The chill of the wind a promise of winter approaching. Yet the lush, vibrant grass somehow retains summer's warmth. It calls to me.

    I steady my feet on the worn brick ledge, ready to thrust myself into freedom.

    "Come," it whispers. "Sink your feet into my blades."

    I rock backward, my heart in my throat, as the countryside jerks, sputters. The landscape tears away, revealing a world leached of softness and color, consumed by sticky warmth.

    The sky goes black. Gleaming metal replaces foliage. Soft edges sharpen, razor thin. Hard edges hum, lethal, electrified. The tang of metal, sweat, blood saturates the still, heavy air. If I step off now I'll meet with the bite of the blades -- skin giving way, warm blood gushing, tissue parting, bones splitting...

    I scream.

     The sound morphs into the twitter of a bird, fleeing the fields that are suddenly back in front of me. Everything is once again soft, bright...

     But not safe.

    They found a way in. My mind is Theirs now.

    I slump. How foolish I was to believe -- to hope of escaping the pain. It is a part of me. They made sure of that.

    They're good, letting me get this far, leaving me to teeter on the precipice while They dig ever further -- twisting memories, dredging pain, associating experiences, feelings, memory with something malignant. I'm weak. Malleable. Under Their control...

     Unless I jump.

    I won't survive. Wherever I am, it isn't here, inches from freedom. I see what They let me see. This ledge... it's no gentle drop. I'll freefall. Plunge to my death...

     But it would be freedom, even if painful in the end. The fall would be something, at least.

     With a grating scream of metal the world shifts again -- hot, sharp, dangerous.

    I push off.

    The air flexes. Time drags. I close my eyes and breathe in a life free of pain. Free of Them.

     I hit ground.

     I stumble, but land -- on my feet -- in a virescent field. The pain lingers, faintly. I drop to my knees and look to the peaceful sky, watching the storm clouds recede.

**{This is where I stick my foot in my mouth. Because I'm the only one who went over the allotted word count. 396. Luckily, we stayed under the group total, so thanks for picking up my slack, J & M!}

Having flashed readers with our fiction, one might then ask, what could possibly be in store for readers next week? Guest Pod with honorary pea Gary Walker! It has been assured that he will make words. Those words will undoubtedly be glorious. Until then. Peas out.

What I read vs What I Write: Alexis's Take

2011-11-08T08:00:00.000-06:00

What I Read vs. What I Write

I am about as random as it gets... in pretty much all aspects of my life. In high school I was a golfer, cheerleader, top-of-the-class art student, and the kid who slacked off at school by reading. Yes, reading. Half my peers were surprised when I'd show up dressed for whichever role I was playing that day, and inevitably... Every. Single. Time... someone would say, "I didn't know you were an {insert stereotype here}. I wouldn't have guessed that at all."

So, naturally, I'm also a random - aka varied - reader. My absolute favorite books include, but are NOT limited to {seriously. I can't even fit them all in one picture}: a science-fiction thriller, an 1800's romance classic, a children's fantasy series, a 1950's crime novel, a YA dystopian trilogy, a Shakespearean comedy, a children's science-fiction novel, a high-fantasy trilogy {it's not what you think it is}, a humorous middle-grade-reader mystery series, a psychological horror suspense, and a memoir I was convinced was non-fiction until the very last page.

Random.
And I like it that way.

That's the thing about me. I'm open to anything. I have a rule {usually for food, but I think it works for this, too}: I will try anything once. {And if I like it, I latch on like a terrapin}. If a story piques my interest, I'm going to take a chance on it. If M or J says, "This was great. You've gotta read it!" I will. Cover to cover without knowing more about it than what they've told me. It doesn't matter what section of the bookstore it comes from. I trust my friends. They know I won't hesitate to branch out and try something new. All I want is to be entertained by a compelling story. Sure, I have a comfort zone. I read a lot from it. But I take a lot of risks as a reader, too. And more often than not, I'm rewarded.

All I ask from what I read is this: a good story.

I want stories that make me feel something for the characters - whose actions evoke visceral reactions from me. I want to own the merchandise {i.e. time-turner necklace} so that I might for a moment feel as though I held a piece of the world I was lost in between the covers. I want stories that make me tear through the pages like my life hangs in the balance, only to leave me with a gaping hole of loss when I realize the story is over and the world is nothing but a memory... and real life rushes back around me, chaotic and unbalanced and, for a while, somehow lacking in depth or meaning.

Which brings me to why I write.

Nothing {aside from my husband, my family, my friends} has ever affected me so deeply as the written word. Authors - people I don't even know - constantly influencing me, inspiring me, forcing me to think or allowing me to escape... all writers who simply had a story they wanted to share. Authors - writers - are brave. I admire them. They bare their very imagination for the world to see - and voice an opinion about - their deepest thoughts and feelings {disguised as characters and places and plots}. But the greatest thing these authors have done is spread their love of the written word, feed the voracious appetite we have as readers, and create new readers who fell in love with a story and want that feeling again and again. That's what I want. I want to take the stories in my head and share them with the world. I'm willing to face criticism and the inevitable swings of depression and elation we must journey through in the writing process in order to do that. I want readers to be as affected by my stories as I was by the ones I've read. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be good influence enough to turn a few non-readers into bookworms, too.

But this is supposed to be about what I write, not why.

So here's the answer:
I write what I want to read. I write what influences me. I write places in the world I long to see, so that I can experience them before I find the money {and vacation time} to visit them for real. I have an unruly imagination. So I write what doesn't exist so it will come alive in the world I create {like dragonflies the way I pictured them as a child}. *see illustration*

And all of that falls into place best in YA.... where my somewhat innocent disposition can flourish in the same place where almost anything goes, and the only genre distinction is the age of the reader {though let's face it, even this is arbitrary, since more than half the adults I know are hardcore fans of books in YA}. This is where I belong, as a writer; in the section of the bookstore that most closely reflects me: Open to anything. Willing to take risks. And of course - completely, awesomely - random.

A

Next week, get ready for our first Game Pod {creation mode}: We'll each be writing a mini-story based on an image I've chosen, so you can get a taste of the creative side of our writer minds!

What I Read vs What I Write: Jeannie's Take

2011-11-01T08:03:00.004-05:00

What Do I Write vs What Do I Read?

As the Resident Evil of the Ninja Pea Pod, I'm sure a lot of you picture my bookshelves crammed with books in the horror and dark fantasy genres. You would be correct. I do enjoy reading the likes of Jonathan Maberry, Brian Keene, Stephen King, Joe Hill, Deborah LeBlanc, and my person favorite, Edgar Allan Poe. There are others as well, but this post isn't about name-dropping. It's about why I write dark fiction and why I choose to read the books I do.

Now I've mentioned that I read books and authors similar to my own writing sensibilities. Yes, I write about dark subjects like murder. I make no secret of the fact that I'm a firm believer in torturing my characters. I've also been known to advocate shooting them when they become unruly, but that's beside the point here. Why do I write this stuff? Because it fascinates me. Why does it fascinate me? Because I'm a pacifist at heart and the thought of intentionally harming a living soul (human or animal) in real life sickens me. Writing about psychotic serial killers provides a safe environment for me to explore the mysteries behind truly heinous acts of violence and try to understand how someone could be capable of those acts.

And I don't limit myself to just the horror or dark fantasy genres. I also read thrillers, mysteries, suspense, steampunk, science fiction, young adult (Thanks to M and A for pushing me into that section of the bookstore), romance (Yes, you read that correctly), comedy, general/literary fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. Basically, if it has words, I'll read it. I even find dictionaries and thesauruses interesting. I don't discriminate with my reading. If it catches and holds my attention, then it's worth reading because I usually learn something in the process. Maybe it's something as broad as a concept or a story structure and maybe it's as mundane as a new word that sends me scrambling for a dictionary.

I just like to read. It keeps me occupied. I get in trouble when left to my own devices (just ask my husband about the recent pumpkin obsession that's taken over our kitchen). And if I don't write then I also get in trouble (see aforementioned pumpkin obsession). Reading or writing, I have an insatiable need to understand the world around me and that's why I'm here.

Now...if I can just figure out what to do with all this leftover pumpkin. While I do that, be sure to check out M's guest spot at the Court Street Literary Collective blog and prepare yourself for A's Pea Prompt post next week. I'm sure she'll giving a guided tour of the pod. Just watch out for the zombie peas hiding in the corner...

One more thing: The Ninja Peas have a theme song -- an awesome original jazz arrangement from a talented artist, C Tann Starr! Thanks, CT!!!!!

What I Read vs What I Write: Michelle's Take

2011-10-25T08:51:00.000-05:00

What Do I Read Versus What Do I Write?

Not the most finely crafted writing prompt *glances at prompt skeptically* but it suits our needs. Knowing me, I may not even answer it. I’m certain I won’t answer it directly. But in this early getting-to-know-you phase of Inside the Pod, we peas thought it would be helpful to give our imaginary readers a glimpse into who we are as writers and readers, what turns us on, and why we make the choices we do. After spending an afternoon together pitching blog topics to each other over bird sandwiches this seemed like the natural place to start. So it begins.

So what does M read versus what does M write?

Five years ago I would’ve given you a different answer. I was a college undergrad reading assigned Literature (yes, with a big L) and selecting titles off ten years of Booker Prize and National Book Award lists for my next bedtime read. My how things change.

The more demanding my course load became…(ie: that infamous semester I mistakenly took 20^th Century American Novel, Shakespeare’s Tragedies, 19^th Century British Novel, two upper level philosophy classes, and a writing workshop—all together totaling thirty-eight assigned books in one semester)…the more I wanted to read something “not hard” (I will qualify that in a moment). I didn’t read much outside class assignments during the semester, but when I did, I learned to love a $6.99 paperback romance or paranormal thriller from the spinny-rack at the bookstore (you know the ones serious Literature students and college professors rarely admit to colleagues they read? those). Those books were easy—like salve to my brain—evoking no impulse to write a fifteen-page reflection or map out how it might correlate to Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man in some obscure way.

A Few of My Favorite Reads. Photo Copyright M. Ladner

Also during those early university years, in the writing workshops, I was hell-bent on writing the book of my life—a book about growing up Asian American and how my existence seemed lost in translation. I wanted it to be The Joy Luck Club meets Kaftka’s Metamorphoses. Multiple drafts emerged where I fictionalized my mother in short fiction and novel starts, before starting a memoir project melding excerpts of my mother’s writing with essays of my perception of her; all very deep, heart on sleeve stuff (and I wanted desperately to write a meta-fictional postmodern mess).

With all those classes and all that weighty subject matter, I started reading “not hard” books—something not hard intellectually; something not hard emotionally. I found myself drawn to authors of popular fiction (or genre books), which were often fun, fast reads. Books for pleasure, yet books not so deep or thought provoking that I was emotionally and intellectually taxed. My professors assigned plenty of that kind of book (you know the ones where the authors find le mot juste and Lit professors discuss the eighty-two possible meanings and six philosophers’ writings that give a five line passage two hundred pages of subtext? those).

Part of me loved those—in class.

At home, I loathed them. I wanted fast, tight, page-turners. Stories I could lose myself in and not have to think about what the author might have meant or feel compelled to write a paper on it. “Not hard” books, you know the kind, the ones that suck you in and you read them in their entirety in one night because you read like a reader instead of a writer or critic. Like J.K. Rowling’s body of work—where you go to a store at midnight to buy the book on release day, read through the morning until you collapse on the last page, and then, have to reread it before the next book releases because you didn’t think about it, you just read.

That was why I started reading YA fantasy and romance.

I could read one YA Paranormal Romance (because, as a rule, they were shorter than the adult variety) on a Saturday afternoon and still have the evening with my husband, leaving Sunday to rough out my literature and philosophy papers for the week. I wanted more and more “not hard”—because I wanted to turn off my critical brain. Not that YA doesn’t engage that in a reader, but YA (of any variety) has an intrinsic ability to bring me back to my childhood. Not only because YA has a young identifiable protagonist and bildungsroman element that reminded me of a younger me. It was that long lost ability to read away my afternoon with no thought of responsibilities hanging overhead.

An interesting thing happened.

I set aside the book of my life.

I couldn’t even pinpoint the “aha” moment if you asked. It was such a natural progression for me as a writer. I wanted to write what I was reading. I saw something in those authors that I admired. The reader in me began to let go and the writer wanted to learn how it was done.

Manuscript Edits for My Current WIP. Photo Copyright M. Ladner

In the last year of my undergrad, I wrote an eighty-page literature thesis project whilst imagining my first YA paranormal romance.

Because I flew through these “not hard” books and loved that consumable quality in them—the writing student in me had to ask, why? What magic are these authors (YA authors, popular genre authors, commercial bestsellers) wielding on readers that I didn’t see? That I don’t possess? (And, incidentally, Dickens doesn’t possess—gods knows Nicholas Nickleby is not your average one sitting read, despite its “popular fiction” status in 1839).

Somewhere during those first two years of university courses, the flood of “not hard” escapist books, and the mentorship of Carolyn Haines, I learned to seek a well-told story versus a perfectly calculated turn of phrase. I could write a pretty sentence and even string a few together, making layers of subtext. But the magic of storytelling (the kind that sleep-deprives) eluded me. The power of a writer to keep someone awake reading five hundred pages while making them believe they can’t risk laying it down is immense. It changed the reader I am, and the writer I am.

These days, I read fantasy and romance YA novels for craft. I read slower, analyze them—ask myself why it works, map turning points and plot devices, and try to intuit why the author made the choices he or she made. But, I often still take a Saturday to read for entertainment.

Frankly, I read as a reader for the love of a well-told story. I read as a writer to learn all I can about the craft. Most people read for multiple reasons. Many read multiple genres. It’s the nature of reading—pleasure and information exchange. But ask me why I write what I write? I guess it’s because one day I hope to find an audience of readers like me—and, honestly, I want to keep them turning pages until morning.

Next Tuesday J answers Pea Prompt #1.

I anticipate at least one brief reference to apocalyptic zombies.

Peas out,

A Brief History and Explanation

2011-10-18T08:00:00.001-05:00

(Well, as brief as we can make it...)

During the spring of ~~1907~~ 2007, three mismatched misfits (university students who fancied themselves writers and reincarnates of a secret immortal ninja order) wandered into a graduate level writing workshop on a Wednesday at 6pm. They each selected one of a dozen coveted black rolling-chairs, sat, and stared blankly at each other from across the dull, dirty surface of a circa 1960 Formica conference table. Little did these ladies know – five years later – they would still be meeting every Wednesday, margaritas and cheese dip at hand, pushing each other to become better writers.

Needless to say, after that historic semester ended, relationships were forged. (And sacrifices were made...)

But it wasn’t as easy at that.

The misfits eventually graduated college, one by one. Lost to each other in the post workshop milieus, they tried to move on. One earned a book contract, one moved to Montana, and one wandered around the South, aimlessly, with no other purpose but to keep writing.

The absence of a formal writing course (if it could be called formal) gave way to lunch dates, emails, letters, and Internet chats. Lo and behold, the writing workshop didn’t cease. And even less interesting than that, communications between the three held a common theme: as writers how do we use each other to better our writing? (Note the aforementioned sacrifices...)

So, after a book release, a couple of moves in and out of Mississippi, and a lot of manuscript page origami, the three misfits found their way back to the same table together. In a mad twist of fate, they became members of the same critique group, once again work-shopping each others’ pages. Alas, these things never last. (Or do they?) After a lot of tough love, loads of ink-scribbled pages, and a few near suicidal moments ending in tears – the critique group dismantled in its initial incarnation. Three remained.

(Well, actually four remained. He recently moved. But the story works better this way. Sorry, G.)

The origin of the name "Ninja Peas"
Original t-shirt design "Unstealthiest Ninja" by DoOomcat
Sold by shirt.woot.com
Image modified by the Ninja Peas

So, three remained.

Thus was the birth of the Ninja Peas. (Cue ominous music...)

Three peas in a pod – three writers in a ferocious, unyielding partnership consumed with a desire to just keep writing. Each distinctly different in style and strength, yet, all three bound by perseverance and a love of storytelling (and bird sandwiches...but we’ll get to that part later).

Since that fateful spring day in ~~1907~~ 2007 a lot has happened. One became a published author of two internationally distributed vampire books. (Ooooh... Aaaah...) One rewrote a YA adventure fantasy more than a half a dozen times while masquerading as a graphic designer (reincarnate secret immortal ninja powers come in handy). One discovered hard-boiled eggs explode in the microwave (again with the sacrifices...). But still each strives (with minimal hair-pulling and gnashing of teeth) to be the one who will produce the next published novel. All while up-keeping a weekly Blog – a Blog about being writers, readers, and members of a working critique group.

A writer’s path can be a lonely disheartening endeavor. The road is long and bramble-filled. The climb is steep(ish) and sometimes suffocating. But it is a path easier hacked through with trusted friends by your side. Peas are friends who have a common goal and who possess equal determination – a determination that puts their passion to write first. (Unless the zombie apocalypse arrives, in which case, Peas are the first to trip one another in an effort to save themselves. All is fair in Pea Love and zombie apocalypses...) But, mostly, Peas are the kinds of friends who challenge, inspire, and inform each other of when their bad grammar and clarity issues are showing – or when one of us has cheese dip on our chin...

That is what the Ninja Peas are – and this is a glimpse Inside the Pod.

J: Who are you people and why are you in my pod?

M: *snuggles J’s shoulder* It’s cozy in here, Sensei.

J: *pushes M* Get off me. You know I’m not a touchy-feely Pea. *yawns* I need coffee.

M: Where’s Tour Guide Barbie?

A: Wha? Oh hi! I was... busy...

M: *snickers* Right, because you actually have a … *makes air quotes* … Job.

A: No, no. *reveals bucket of hot pink paint from behind back*... busy painting my corner of the pod! *giggle*

J: Is that... OMG–It’s PINK!!!!!! *runs screaming to the far corner* Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! Kill it! Restrain it! Medicate it! Stop it before it spreads! *uses M as a human shield* Make her stop...

M: It’s only one bucket. *pats J’s hand gingerly* We talked about this. Remember... letting everyone share in a piece of the pod.

A: Don’t worry! I’m done with the pink. Now I’m going to draw out my entire story, scene by scene, so everything matches up when I read it! *grabs pen* *hunches over pink section of floor* *begins drawing* *looks up* I’ll do yours next, M.

M: Um. Thanks? So... what’s the plan with this Pod Blog, gals?

J: *echoing voice* To fill the world with awesomeness beyond compare!

A: And bare our nerdiness to the entirety of its inhabitants! *wink*

M: So basically the plan is to randomly transmit awesomeness and nerdiness into the world? *pauses* *grins* Sweet.

J: Well, that and give a little insight into a working writers’ critique group.

A: And maybe take a page from our book (not literally -- that’s plagiarism) and remember not to take themselves too seriously.

J: Not every group is like ours but what we have works. Maybe others can find some inspiration from our nerdy awesomeness.

M: *chuckles* I think J has a soft spot for us, A. Underneath that dark outer shell lies a squishy sweet filling. *grins*

J: Don’t push your luck...

A: *giggle* Too late.