Teaser Tuesday

From the Illusionist’s Field Guide (yes, I keep flip flopping on Illusionists’ vs Illusionist’s).

Ben’s avoiding Colt. I’ll be coy and not tell you why. I do so love Colt. He’s probably one of my favorite characters.

I had successfully dodged Colt most of the morning. Lunch was a problem. My best bet was to eat in the science hall, back up against the lockers, battered paperback in hand. Pocket protector territory.

It didn’t work.

“Are you avoiding me?”

For two days in a row, but that’s not what I say. I look up. From my position on the floor, his height is intimidating, even if the expression on his face isn’t. “What would make you think that?” I ask.

Colt shrugs and gestures at the floor, asking permission for a square of brown hallway tile I don’t own. I nod and he slides down the bank of lockers, cotton skimming metal. He’s weirdly graceful for such a tall guy. He rests his forearms on his knees. “I thought maybe I freaked you out with the Youth Group invite.”

Right. The flyer. The library. Two days ago and a million miles from the moment my world went askew. It’s an easy excuse and I take it.

“Nah,” I say and I infuse my voice with just the right amount of hesitation and pull to make it sound like I’m lying.

Colt doesn’t push. He’s good that way. It’s hard to believe he’s the reason most people think Lexa killed herself. Even harder to believe because they’re not entirely crazy to think that.

Faking it and Making It…

Other titles in the unpublished spoof series:

Agents Just Aren’t That Into You: The No Excuses Truth to Understanding Form Rejections

Agents are from Mars — Unfortunately, You’re From a Whole Other Galaxy

The Secret (There Really Isn’t One)

Blink (No, Your Inbox did Not Refresh)

Random Admiration

As someone who loves dance and My Fair Lady, the above performance pretty much rocked.

Veronica Mars

I completely missed Veronica Mars during its original network run. I can’t help but think that I might have saved it if I had made more of an effort to find and watch it. Some people like to say that one vote doesn’t really matter, but maybe one more viewer would have gotten Veronica Mars that elusive fourth season.

Alas I didn’t actually watch it until December when I finally caved to the demands of three fellow YA writers and picked up the first season. It didn’t take me long to pick up seasons two and three, or to watch more than sixty episodes.

I could tell you about the snappy dialogue, the witty pop culture references, the fact that someone who picked out the music liked Stereophonics, or that Logan bears a stunning resemblance to everything I want one of my own characters to be. I could, but I won’t.

Instead, I’d like to draw your attention to the opening credits of Season One because they are, in a word, genius. And they are genius for one particular reason: seconds 18 & 19. Every time I’ve watched an episode from the first season, I’ve been blown away by the producer’s sly addition of these two seconds of film. Tinted in blue, they show Veronica pre-season one.

With long hair and a sweet, shy smile, this isn’t the Veronica we’re greeted with in each episode. It’s the ghost of Veronica’s past. She’s not jaded and street smart; she’s sweet and a little naïve. She’s six months away from having her world collapse.

The theme song for the opening is “We Used to Be Friends” by the Dandy Warhols and the inclusion of those two seconds drives one point home: Veronica didn’t just lose Lily or Duncan or her place at the center table in the cafeteria. The girl she used to be is a stranger to her now, a friend she left behind in the past.

Then again, it’s possible that they just needed two more seconds of credits and I’m reading entirely too much into things. It wouldn’t be the first time.

You drive and I’ll steer

One thing to realize about being an unpublished (and social media savvy) writer is that you are hooked into a whole network of people who are experiencing dizzying highs and crashing lows on a daily basis – it’s like the stock market on a week when a mortgage crisis looms and an economic stimulus package is announced.

A partial request has someone up; a reject has thirty people down; and the news has come—once again—that the sky is falling.

Remember those Zoloft commercials for people who are depressed or who suffer from social anxiety? Forget them. The real money is in targeting hopeful writers and the people waiting in line to audition for American Idol (because, let’s face it, some days the odds seem about the same).

You may be thinking this is a bitter post. It’s actually not. I had a great week and spent much of the weekend reading two fabulous books by two dear friends. I’m a chipper camper.

But Monday is coming. And with Monday, my slightly unhealthy relationship with my gmail will commence again.

But it’s alright. I know you’re there with me. We’re all in this leaky boat together.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/herby_fr/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Time Lord Rock

My mind is officially blown. By awesomeness. An entire song devoted to the awesomeness that is the series three episode “Blink”.

This is slightly embarrassing

I can’t skate. I’ve only ever played street hockey. Badly. I don’t enjoy watching hockey. I did once watch a friend try out for the girls’ hockey team. I did not enjoy it. I was being supportive. Have I mentioned that I can’t skate?

That makes my reaction to the above advertisement all the more embarrassing. Yes,I tear up. At an ad for Coke. I don’t even like Coke. Or hockey.

But every time that ad comes on I feel like kicking a little butt and painting my face.

Well done.

Teaser Tuesday

He rummages in his backpack—probably looking for one of those photocopied Youth Group flyers he periodically slips me. It’s weird. Back in Seattle, I wouldn’t be hanging around with a guy like Colt.

But this isn’t Seattle.

And I’m not Ben. At least not Seattle Ben.

Everyone else in Middleton seems to pick up on that, somehow. They all keep their distance. It’s like they know I’m damaged and are cutting me off from the rest of the herd before the damage can spread. I sigh and reach for the paper Colt has finally scrounged up. “What time?”

He beams—a perfect Stepford smile. “7:00 PM.”

Another Canadian Songstress

A little Molly Johnson to get your weekend off to a good start.

I recently started putting together a new iTunes playlist for the barest shadow of an idea I had and, even though it was darker than most of my ideas, it ended up having a lot of lighthearted Molly Johnson songs on it.

The playlist for Hemlock featured one Molly Johnson song: a heartbreaking cover of Streets of Philadelphia. The original (Bruce Springsteen) version is one of my favorite songs* and it took me months after buying Molly Johnson’s Messing Around album to listen to that particular track. When I did, it was instant love.

* And am I the only one who things Street’s of Philadelphia by Bruce Springsteen is the perfect song for Sirius Black?

So Long and Thanks for All the Fish

“What is it?” His voice sounded so serious on the phone that I rushed right over after class.

“Nothing, just… Come on inside.” He leads me downstairs and I sit on the couch, tense and unnerved. Jeremy almost never worries – certainly not about me – and I think it must be something truly horrible for him to be watching me with such care.

He takes a seat across the room and rubs his forehead. “Douglas Adams is dead.”

My jaw drops. Words come out. Lots of incoherent syllables and, then, “No. Can’t be. It has to be a mistake.”

“Hun, he died of a heart attack.” Jeremy stands up, takes a half step towards me, and then changes his mind. He doesn’t like emotion and my face is full of it.

“But – but he’s only 49. It’s gotta be a different Douglas Adams.” The note of desperation, small and trembling, in my voice is slightly pathetic. Jeremy shakes his head. “He’s really dead?”

Jeremy nods and I burst into tears.

After awhile, after the torrent subsides, Jeremy lets me sit on his lap as I scroll through a news story he bookmarked for me. A black and white photograph of Douglas smiles up at me and my heart feels like it’s breaking a little bit. “There’ll never be another book,” I whisper and the words feel heavy.*

There will never be a line I haven’t read before – something new to underline and memorize. Douglas Adams is dead and all I can do is stare at the screen in disbelief.

—

In the interest of disclosure: this post was written before the announcement of And Another Thing’s publication. I recalled it this morning –walking along and wondering if I’d ever be able to read a Hitchhiker’s book not penned by Douglas Adams–and decided to repost it here.