Saturday, April 28, 2012

FLASH FACTORY FRIDAY #1 - WINNER!

FLASH FACTORY FRIDAY #1 - WINNER!

Those were all awesome!  I especially loved the apple references, and the comparisons to personal bruising. So good!  Thank you all for entering the very first FLASH FACTORY contest! 


It was hard to pick a winner, especially because I had friends enter!  I'm happy to pass the torch to someone else to judge the next one.  ;-) 


So, after reading all of the entries I have picked my winner!  

THE WINNER IS: 
Rebekah Postupak! 

It lay limply in her hand, the mangled apple. 

Funny, she hadn't thought it could bruise so easily. It had sparkled so beautifully on its branch, looked so crisp and sweet, a glowing piece of the full spectrum of reds splashed across the orchard. 

In his hand it had still glowed, as he gripped it and began to wind his arm.

She hadn’t thought she could bruise so easily either.

Congratulations, and thank you for entering!  

You'll get to pick the three word prompt for next week's challenge, AND be the judge!   

*I think I'll even do a little questionnaire each week so we can get to know the judges and a little bit about their writing style.  Sound good? 

Friday, April 27, 2012

FLASH FACTORY FRIDAY #1


FLASH FACTORY FRIDAY #1
4/27/12

3 Word PROMPT:

bruise, spectrum, wind







Ready ... set ... FLASH!  




To Review:
3 word prompt
50 word minimum / 350 word limit
24 hours
The full rules are HERE


GO!


*Remember, post your entry right here in the comments, please!  Don't forget word count and Twitter handle!  (Or another way for me to reach the winner!) 

FLASH FACTORY FRIDAYS!


INTRODUCING ....

FLASH FACTORY FRIDAY!!!

As you all may know, I'm pretty hooked on the flash fiction challenges you all host!  I love them!  Its such a fun way to pull out of writing/editing/revising your WIP's and stray down another wordy path.  I love it!   

So, for fun, I think I'll host my own!  *squeeeeeee*

Every Friday from now on, I will host FLASH FACTORY FRIDAY!  #FlashFactory

Woohoo, right!?  I know!  *And I came up with the title all on my own!  I'm craayzzayyyyy like that. ;-)

I'm just so excited to give my fellow flash fiction addicts one more little exercise to flex their writing muscles! *cracks knuckles* 

DETAILS:
Each week, you will be given THREE WORDS as a prompt.  You must have no LESS than 50 and no MORE than 350 words in your fiction piece.  EACH of the three words MUST be in your fiction piece, but do NOT have to be used in any order (unless otherwise specified).  

JUDGING:
For this first week, I WILL BE THE JUDGE (woohoo!), but after that, the winner of each challenge will get to judge the competition for the next challenge.  (This means, obviously, that they won't get to enter that next week).  The winner will ALSO get to pick the three words for the next week!  FUN!

PRIZES: 
Um, your prize is the gift of knowing how awesome you are!!!  lol!  But I'm serious.  Bragging rights.  Good old fashioned bragging rights. 
Note: There are no monetary rewards because  like many of you, I am just a starving artist.  heehee

TIME FRAME:
You will have 24 hours to post your entries, starting when I post the challenge! 


To review:
  • Every Friday
  • 3 word prompt
  • 350 word limit
  • 24 hours

#FridayPictureShow WEEK 25 - Contest Entry


HAPPY Friday!

Today I participated in another little picture contest - you know I can't resist those picture prompts!  I'm such a visual person.  Its very fitting because this weekend we're going on a ghost tour - one of my favorite things!  I'm super excited about it.

The contest, #FridayPictureShow, is held over at Jen DeSantis' WEBSITE.

You have to write a piece that is EXACTLY 100 words, to go with a picture prompt.

Here's the picture:








And here's my piece:

Dark eggplant bruises cover his body.  He winces as he tries to move, readjust. His shoulders slump over.  His hands, like hers, are tied behind the tree by twine.  It scratches when he tries to wriggle his wrists free of the binding.  His back aches from his hunched position.  He wonders how long they’ve been here, how long they’ve been in this nightmare. 
Broken and bruised, he is far from defeated.  Looking up at her now, he’s surprised to see a twinkle of hope in her crystal blue eyes.  
She knows he will save them both.  
And so he will.



Thursday, April 26, 2012

THE CINDER PRINCESS - Contest Entry #ouatwriting

Here's my entry for the ONCE UPON A TIME Contest!

Theme: Unexpected Fairytales


*THE CINDER PRINCESS*
Word Count: 350


The cinder girl watched him, his brooding darkness so typical, and yet, so intriguing.  She kindled the fire absently, unable to focus on the task. 

The Prince was unhappy.  She could see it in his expression, the tightness in his shoulders.  He'd been this way for weeks.  She watched through thick lashes, avoiding looking at him directly - she wouldn't risk being removed from his staff. 

"My Lord,” asked the soldier, “does your kingdom not find you well taken care of?" 

"Indeed." 

"Do your servants not tend to your every whim?" 

"Hmph.  Indeed."  

"Then what, sire?  What has you tortured so?”

The Prince rounded on him, anger pulling his face. 

"Is it too much to ask that I rule my kingdom with beauty by my side?! The human girls keep dying!" 

The cinder girl's head shot up.   The Prince wanted ... love?  Of all things!  It was preposterous.  

And yet ... something inside of her sparked.  A feeling of ... no, it couldn't be ... hope?  She hadn’t felt anything for so long. The girl found herself standing up, her body moving without permission, and she, unable to stop it.  

The soldier’s voice was deafening.  “How dare you approach the Prince!?"  

The Prince turned to her, his face softening unexpectedly.  When his gaze met hers, she felt weak with the heat of it.   Had she still been in possession of a heart, it would have beat rapidly. 

He looked at her, not with anger, but with curiosity.  Would he strike her?  Would she be removed from his charge? 

A woman entered the room, unlike any she’d ever seen.  All three sets of eyes settled on the intruder, her glistening skin and glowing aura impossible to ignore. 

“I see it’s too late.  You won’t be requiring my services after all.” She spoke directly to the girl, completely ignoring the presence of the Prince.  

Noting the confusion on the girl’s face, she added indignantly, “I’m your Fairy Godmother.  But it seems he’s finally seen you.  My services you no longer need.”

“But ..." the cinder girl said timidly, "... vampires don't have Fairy Godmothers." 




Theme: Unexpected Fairy Tales Length: 350 words or less. Details: yearningforwonderland.blogspot.com & www.sjiholliday.com Timetable: Contest open from April 4 till midnight, April 29th Twitter: @ruanna3 & @sjiholliday & #ouatwriting

Do you want some PEER critique?

OOOH!  PEER CRITIQUES?  YES PLEASE!

I know a few of my friends and writing buddies would like some critique and or thoughts regarding their manuscripts, queries, first 250, etc.  I figured I'd give you all a place to put that info.

Please leave a link to your blog/website with what you are looking for (ie: brutal critique or just happy thoughts) and I will add it to the ongoing list above.

Cool?

Cool.

So to begin the process, because, let's face it, no one likes to be the first one out to the dance floor, I'll go first.

Since I finally kicked my query's butt into submission (a submissive butt? um ...) I would love your thoughts on the first 250 words of EVER.

Paste your info in the comments, and I'll add it to my list!


PLEASE HEAD TO THE PEER CRITIQUE PAGE ABOVE FOR THE UPDATED LIST.







Wednesday, April 25, 2012

55 Word Challenge ENTRY

Here's my little entry for 55 Word Challenge over at Jezri's Nightmares!  This week had a letter prompt AND a photo prompt.  (In case you can't tell from the title, it has to be 55 words.) 

LETTER:
V  (I went with VAGABOND

PHOTO:



*VAGABOND*

That vagabond cat sits outside again, watching me with his knowing eyes. I hiss at him. He doesn’t even flinch.

I close the blinds again.

He knows the secrets I keep, the spells I’ve butchered.

He remembers when I turned him into a cat.

I hadn’t meant to do it. But he refuses to forgive.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Drum roll please ... INTRODUCING the new and improved ... *dreaded* query!

Hey all!

With the help of my critique partner, Tamara (Feaky Snucker), some VERY useful critiques from Liz Norris and Kristi Helvig, and a LOT of wonderful help from our little peer query critique group, I've revised my query to death. Rest in peace, little query.  Rest in peace.

I've completely obliterated the old query and now present you with something totally different and new and hopefully MUCH better. (*You may notice that the storyline has changed a bit too, which obviously changes the query, so I hope you're not too confused.) 

PLEASE tell me what you think.  I love hearing all of your opinions and suggestions, and I love that we decided to do our little makeshift query clinic!

PS.  Liz's debut novel comes out today, so go show her some book birthday love and buy a copy of UNRAVELING!  Now!  Hurry!  Before its too late!  ;-)

And without further ado, here's my new query:

Dear Agent:

Ever Van Ruysdael has a choice: continue pining for the ghost of her dead best friend, Frankie, whom she’s secretly loved as long as she can remember, or move on to her sexy new neighbor, Toby – who unbeknownst to Ever, is a soul collector.  Make the wrong choice, and she’ll learn that more than just her heart is on the line.

Seventeen-year-old Ever’s love life has been in purgatory for the past two years.  Since the car accident that took Frankie’s life, but spared her, she’s had to wake up every day to his ghost, making it impossible to mourn him or move forward.  That all changes when Toby moves in next door.  Easy to fall for, Toby’s relaxed confidence and honest interest in her makes Ever feel like the only person in the world.  Torn between an exciting new relationship with Toby, or the deep, comfortable love she feels for Frankie, Ever must make a decision. 

As she falls harder for Toby, Toby gets closer to Frankie.  Soon, Ever will learn that the price of her new romance isn’t just her heart, but Frankie’s soul. 

EVER is a YA romance with a ghostly twist, complete at 83,000 words.  I wear many hats, but I’m usually rocking a ponytail and a pompadour.  My qualifications for writing EVER stem from being a teenager in love at one point in my life.  It was a long time ago, yes, but my heart still thinks it lives in the body of a sixteen year-old girl, and I try not to argue.   

Thank you for your time and consideration. 

Sincerely,
Jessa Russo


Monday, April 23, 2012

Had I been a finalist ...

Since the top nine finalists of Janet Reid's LIZ NORRIS PAY IT FORWARD CONTEST have been announced (CONGRATS EVERYONE!) I've decided to share my answers to the finalist questions for fun! Why not, right?  I mean, I took the time to answer them, make sure they came in under 25 words, and I even watched West Side Story in its entirety. 

Ugh.  What a feat.

Sorry, but that movie was slow and boring.  I'll take my musical theater with man-eating plants or transvestites from Transexual Transylvania over that ANY DAY.  Mhmm.

FEED ME Seymour.  Feed me alllll night long.. 

Anyway, here are my answers:


Tell us about your book:
Ever is a girl in a love triangle – just not your average love triangle.  One guy isn’t even alive and the other is a soul collector. 


Why do you want to attend backspace?
Truthfully?  I’m terrified of conferences and putting myself out there. Winning Backspace tickets from Janet Reid would force me to conquer my silly fears.   


Are you afraid to eat lunch with a shark?
Absolutely not.  Although, I’ll most likely stay on the yacht eating people food, while the shark stays in the water eating … well, people


West Side Story: Jets or Sharks?
Neither.  I’m Team Tony and Maria.  They just wanted to be together, plain and simple.  Darn that Montague/Capulet feud.  Oh, whoops, wrong movie. 


If you could save the life of any one fictional character who would it be and why?
I don’t think I would.  Every life, death, tragedy and joy has meaning and reason in each story.  Changing anything would forever alter the storyline. 


Is there a book that makes you think "If I could write one thing like that, I’d die happy?"
There are many. But truthfully, I want to keep writing the stories in my head.  Their completion makes me proud of myself like nothing else. 


What's the most terrifying thing you've lived through?  
The premature birth of my daughter at just 24 weeks.  She weighed less than 2 pounds, and spent the next 110 days in the NICU. 

When you're published, what will you do to Pay It Forward?  
Anything and everything I possibly can!  But most of all, I’d really love to help my writing friends obtain their publishing dreams if I can. 

Friday, April 20, 2012

#FridayPictureShow WEEK 24 - Contest Entry

Hi All!  HAPPY Friday! 

Today I participated in another little picture contest - you know I can't resist those picture prompts!  I'm such a visual person.  Its very fitting because this weekend we're going on a ghost tour - one of my favorite things!  I'm super excited about it. 

The contest, #FridayPictureShow, is held over at Jen DeSantis' WEBSITE.

You have to write a piece that is EXACTLY 100 words.  *Um, let me just tell you, that is a difficult task! 

Here's the picture:


And here is my take on it:

The familiar whistle sounds down the track. Finally.  Her favorite time of year.   The circus will magically appear overnight.  The air will fill with the unique sounds and scents that only a circus can create. 

When the crowd settles inside the tent, Lily will creep into her favorite place – the train car with sequins and costumes, makeup and jewels.  The perfect place for a performer. 

She’ll stand before the toy piano, and imagine herself one of them. 

No one will see the little girl playing. 

But for just a moment, if the wind is right, they’ll hear her phantom song. 



Thanks for this great picture prompt, Jen!  I had fun!

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

#5MinuteFiction, Week 96!

I participated in a little flash fiction over on Nicole Wolverton's BLOG again! 

Its so exciting to get your brain working with such a small time frame, and I'm shaking again just like last week!  LOL!  Unfortunately, in my haste and panic, I have a little typo in my story, but ah well!  You win some, you lose some!

The prompt this week was "the act of a derelict" ... Not to be confused with DERELICTE from Zoolander, though that was an awesome fashion show, Mr. Mugatu.

Focus, Jessa.

Anyway, here's my little entry.  Let's play find the mistake, shall we?  Do you see it?  No?  How about now?  Its right there.  Keeeeeeeep looking.  Ah.  Yes.  There it is.  Mr. Greenburg had a brief identity crisis halfway through, changed his name, and forgot to make sure all instances of his name change had been updated throughout the story.  Damn. 


Joey walked outside, his head hung low.  His heart felt shattered, and his face was bruising.  He could feel the blood pulsating in his cheek, right underneath his swollen left eye. 

As he carried the heavy can of paint and the old weathered paint brush the two miles to Mr. Berman's home, he couldn't get his father's words out of his head.  They pounded viciously at his brain. 

He hadn't meant to do it.  Not really.  He'd been so caught up in wanting to fit in.  Wanting to be a part of something he'd never been a part of before.  A group.  A circle of friends. 

"... racist ..."

He remembered looking down at the can of spray paint in his hands, turning it over and over, knowing he should resist but unable to do so. 

Victor had taunted him, teased him until he'd done it. 

He'd painted the word on the side of old Mr. Greenburg's house, with tears silently streaming down his face.  When he turned around, the guys were all gone.  Only Mr. Berman remained. 

Joey had braced himself for the anger that he was sure would come to him, only to see hurt from Mr. Berman instead.  He hadn’t yelled.  He hadn’t screamed or chased Joey home.  He’d just sighed and stared at the word as if Joey wasn’t even there. 

He'd walked home that day, tears streaming down his face, preparing to tell his father what he'd done.  He knew he had to, because Mr. Berman was sure to tell on him eventually.

His father had raged.  His father had screamed.  His words had hurt Joseph.  His fist had hurt worse. 

But the worst pain of all was to come.

When Mr. Berman covered for him. 

“It was the act of a derelict,” he’d said.
    

DARCI COLE'S WRITING CONTEST

I found another writing contest from a fellow blogging friend, Darci Cole!

The prize for this one is an edit of your ENTIRE manuscript!   I want! I want!

Ok, so the rules from Darci's blog are as follows:  

RULES: 
-I give you a topic and a photo, you write something incorporating both. 
-Keep the word count under 500, k? 
-Genre is your choice - poetry included. 
-Post your entry on your blog, then link to it here in the comments below. 
-Deadline for entry is Friday April 20th at midnight (Arizona time - we're the same as Pacific Daylight). 
-Winner will be chosen based on level of creativity and how well written it is. 
-Winner will be announced Monday April 23rd. 
-THE PRIZE: a full Freelance Edit of your ENTIRE manuscript by me! 
(Note: go to my Edit page for details about what I cover, if you're curious.) 

 Ready for it? 

Topic: Relationships in general, or a specific relationship (i.e. boy/girl, family, friends, etc.) 

Here's the photo:


And now, for your reading enjoyment (I hope), my entry about the aftermath of a relationship fallout, and the stupidity that can sometimes accompany that aftermath.  Heehee. 


FATE'S FOOL
Word Count:494 



In hindsight, Adam could see where he’d gone wrong. 

His intentions had been good, of that he was sure.  But Fate, she is quite the comedian.

It had been three weeks since Adam had laid eyes on Rochelle.  She’d broken up with him after some very poor decision making on his part.  She’d since stopped returning his calls, was ignoring his texts. She refused to see him.  Tips of vibrant flower petals mocked him from the trash can in the corner of his office – their final resting place after being returned to him, ignored. 

Sure, he’d made a few mistakes, but she’d come around. 

Being the brilliant sonnet ninja that he was, he’d created a song for her.  It wasn’t just any song, and wasn’t even the first in his arsenal of Rochelle dedications, but it was by far the best. 

Preparing for his debut, he adjusted the strings of his cello.  He sang a few scales, warming up his vocal chords; jumped in the shower, sang a few more.  He was ready.  Standing in front of his mirror, the idea hit him like a ton of bricks.  The perfect way to perform his piece with no distractions was staring right back at him.  It would just be Rochelle, Adam, and his instrument.  Plain and simple.  He nodded to himself, proud of what a genius idea it was, pleased with himself beyond natural confidence. 

He drove to her vacation home, sure she was still there, and parked a short distance away so as not to be seen until the ideal moment.  He crept down to the dock and unfolded his chair, pulled his beautiful instrument out of the safe confines of its case, took a deep breath … and waited. 

When Rochelle walked outside, her face clearly showing her surprise, he was elated.  His heart raced at the sight of her.  It had been far too long since she’d said goodbye. 

Or, well, her parting words hadn’t been quite as polite as that, but it didn’t matter anymore. 

A small gasp alerted Adam to Rochelle’s parents’ approach.  They stopped dead in their tracks a short distance from the dock; just a few short feet away from Adam and his ... instrument.  

He stood there for a few seconds too long, absorbing the shock of the situation.  It was the first time he realized there may have been an unforeseen glitch in his plan. 

He should have reconsidered the naked part of his performance. 

When he hit the water, he realized one more little glitch in what was turning out to be a terrible cosmic joke:  he should have let go of his cello before jumping.   Now they both floated in the cold water, ruined.  The wood of the cello ruined on impact, and Adam’s foolish pride ruined the longer they stared. 

When Rochelle came closer, a vindictive smile on her face, he thought it just couldn’t get much worse. 

Then she snapped the picture. 
 

Monday, April 16, 2012

Chuck Wendig's FLASH FICTION Contest

This is my entry for Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Contest over at TERRIBLEMINDS.

Here are the details of the contest:

Today we’re talking about death.

The Big “D.”

Demise. Dirt-Nap. Stick a fork in me, I’m done.

You have 1000 words to write a short story that prominently features death. What that means is up to you, of course. And genre is also in your court.

But a death — or the concept of death, or an exploration of death — must be front and center.


And here is my little piece:

WHEN SHADOWS CALL
Word Count: 999


The body on the floor shook uncontrollably; the muscles tightening and releasing with each convulsion. Foamy spittle oozed out of the girl’s slack mouth. Her eyelids fluttered rapidly as each spasm tore through her. Urine pooled on the floor around her as her body released everything stored inside of it.

Landry had never seen anyone die before. She watched the chaos ensue as her friends reacted to the death unfolding in front of them. Susan was slapping the face of the girl on the floor, tears streaking her cheeks. Large sobs were wracking Bobby, his body trembling with each one. Ronin was passed out on the bed, the butt of a cigarette still smoldering in his yellowed fingers.

Susan cried out, shaking the shoulders of the girl on the floor, “Wake up! Wake up!”

Tearing her eyes away from the turmoil in front of her, Landry looked around the dirty hotel room. Dark shadows lined the floor of the room. She tried to ignore them, but she knew they were growing, spreading. Mold spots littered the ceiling and a few of the walls, as if someone had broken a black pen and sprayed the ink onto the interior of the room. The avocado green and brown floral wallpaper looked like it hadn’t been changed since it had first been installed – in an era way before Landry’s time. A light rectangle on the wall indicated the place where a picture used to hang, protecting that spot from years of tobacco smoke and god only knows what else. Rust stains crept down from one corner of the ceiling, like spindly fingers making their way into the room.

Stains discolored the pillow next to Ronin’s open mouth.

Landry wondered why the disgusting hotel room hadn’t bothered her before.

Bobby ran to the phone on the nightstand and tried to call for help. Landry’s attention was snapped back to her friends as she focused on Bobby’s trembling hands. It took him three times to get the short number combination correct through the shaking of his fingers.

“No! Bobby, stop! What are you doing!?” Susan shrieked the words, terror distorting her once-pretty face. “You can’t call 911!”

“What!?”

Bobby held the phone suspended in midair. Landry could vaguely hear the nasally voice of the operator on the other end of the line.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

Bobby’s face slackened as he tried to make sense of Susan’s words. His eyes darted from Susan’s face, to the heroine on the small dining table, to the body of his friend on the floor, and back to the telephone gripped tightly in his hands.

“But she’s dying, Susan.” His voice was a mere whisper.

“No, no, no! We can save her! Just help me get her into the tub. The cold water will shock her system! Ronin! Goddammit Ronin, wake up!”

Bobby replaced the receiver. He stood with his back to Susan; purposely turned away from the tragedy unfolding behind him. Landry watched as his shoulders slumped, and he accepted defeat. She knew the cops would come to the hotel. She knew you couldn’t just hang up on 911 and hope they’d ignore the phone call. But she was obviously the only one thinking clearly.

She turned and looked out onto the twinkling lights of the Sunset strip, wishing again that she, Bobby and Susan had stayed in Oklahoma. Los Angeles wasn’t what they’d imagined at all.

The City of Angels was claiming one more.

She glanced over to the shadows lining the walls of the room. They were growing. Soon, she knew, she’d be unable to ignore them.

“Bobby! Snap out of it!” Susan’s voice was shrill, panicked.

Bobby turned around and slowly walked the short distance to where Susan huddled over the body on the floor. A painful sob escaped his lips as he leaned down to put his arms under the legs of his friend. The two of them heaved, burdened with the dead weight of the body.

“Ronin!”

Nothing. Just light snores from a man who would be knocked out for at least a few more hours. Landry wondered what he’d think when he came to. Wondered if he would regret anything. Looking at him now, she couldn’t even see what had so drawn her to him all those weeks ago. He wasn’t a real rock star, just a guy with a guitar and an attitude problem. But she’d been unable to stay away.

“The voice of an angel,” he’d said to her.

“I can make you a star,” he’d promised.

Now, she saw him for what he was. A useless drug addict. A vagabond, disguising himself with ambitions and dreams. He’d lured her in with empty promises of fame and adoration.

Turning away from Ronin, Landry watched her friends struggle to lift her body. It was already too late. Not even 911 could save her now.

As they carried her to the bathroom, Landry noticed something fall to the floor.

She walked over to it, remorse and sadness washing over her as she figured out what it was.

The empty needle lay at her feet. A tiny vessel of death.

She heard the water turn on, and Susan’s crying get louder as she accepted defeat. The water wouldn’t save her friend. Bobby was screaming. Ronin was snoring.

The shadows were growing and morphing, closing in all around her.

“It’s too late,” Landry whispered to her friends.

Along the edges of the room, the dark shadows continued to form. They crawled out from under the bed, seeping out of the seams of the walls, the ceiling. They writhed and twisted, a dense black fog, closing in around her. They welcomed her, called to her. Their grotesque fingers curled and beckoned her to come.

It was time.

The darkness, moist and heavy with substance, circled Landry. It teased at her face, her skin.

She looked longingly into the bathroom one last time, wishing she could stay.

But the shadows overtook her.

It was time.






By Jessa Russo
(C) Copyright Jessa Russo 2012. All rights reserved.

Personal Growth

Well, if you've been following my blog at all, you'll realize I'm sharing my personal milestones and hiccups with you as I go along in my writing journey. Maybe you care, maybe you don't, but here I am anyways, baring my soul.

Janet posted the first finalist of the LIZ NORRIS PAY IT FORWARD CONTEST yesterday morning. She posted the answers to the finalist questions, and it gives me the impression that they've all been contacted. You can tell by the comments that I'm not the only one who has come to this conclusion, as everyone is trying to be both happy and cheerful for the finalists, but the tone of their disappointment is there in between the lines.

(Now, we could all be wrong of course, because knowing Janet, she's contacting each person individually before posting their name so that she can make everyone sweat a little longer. But who knows!?)
*UPDATE 4/17:  We now know that at least one of the finalists has known for a week.  This is both good and bad.  Good, because we can stop pressing refresh on Janet's blog every five seconds, or like me, rushing online at 6am to see the next post.  Bad, because well, if you were wondering if you were a finalist, welp, no such luck.*

Nursing my disappointment, I tried to make my heart accept what my brain already knew. I wouldn't be a finalist. I knew it going into the contest, and simply wanted to enter because I was so dang proud of myself for having completed my manuscript. But, alas, there was that little glimmer of hope - the innocent voice of the sweet, naive Jessa inside of me - and I just can't shut her up! ;-)

Anyway, I realized something yesterday.

I've NEVER really tried at anything.

EVER.


I never played sports. Never pursued music. Never competed in anything, active or otherwise. Wanted to sing, but didn't push it. Wanted to model, but told myself I was ugly. Wanted to write, but never submitted my poetry to anything for fear someone would laugh at my personal feelings.

I never try, so I don't have to lose.


I called my mom as I came to this shocking revelation, and she confirmed never wanting to push me because I've always had my heart on my sleeve, and she didn't want to see me heartbroken.

She was protecting me, as mothers do. The downside to that protection is that now I'm 32 years old and I have zero coping skills when it comes to disappointment.

But guess what? That's ok. You know why?

I realized something else yesterday.

I discovered that I am resilient. I bounce back. I persevere like a MOFO.

After I had my little meltdown yesterday, accepting the fact that I wasn't a finalist, an emailing my critique partner for her words of wisdom and guidance, I was fine. The initial disappointment was still there, of course, as it will be for all the 400+ contestants that only made it to 10th place. But I wasn't defeated.

I looked at my husband and said, "Wow. This actually makes me want to write MORE."

So, protecting me or not, my mother raised me with resilience, fortitude, and a stubborn streak you don't want to mess with!

So BRAVO, Mama!

I'm going to conquer this mountain. I'm going to get thicker skin.

It's going to be awesome. I'll have the skin of a crocodile before I'm done!

Yes, folks, crocodile skin!

*But not literally, because eeeeew.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

PITY PARTY for ONE, your table is ready!

I had a huge pity party yesterday. I didn't invite anyone, so please don't be offended. The food wasn't that great and there was no band, no disco ball. There wasn't even any booze. *gasp!*

I am SO BEYOND EMBARRASSED about my query letter.

I posted it before, thinking, 'eh, why not?' Then, I posted it again yesterday, trying to participate in our little makeshift query critique group.

In reading all of your queries, I grew more and more embarrassed about mine. Seriously, yours are all so good! Mine is about three pages too long, though I have NO idea how it happened. At one point, I had it down to 250 like a good little query writer. I seriously spiraled out of control, and I blame it on reserach. Turns out, there IS such a thing as TOO MUCH RESERACH. Who knew!?

Anyway, I made myself crazy over this stupid thing, and now you've all seen the truth. THAT is embarrassing.

Ugh. That's all. Just getting it off my chest. I am SO disappointed that I queried before I was ready. Agents must have me pinned up on a wall of Query Suicide Examples.

Putting my baby on the shelf is a hard and bitter pill to swallow.

BUT, alas, ONWARD AND UPWARD! Right!?

The good news? I'm truly excited to be making so many connections with all of you. Janet's (AND Liz's!) Pay It Forward contest has brought a lot of us together, and for that I am thankful.

*hugs*

Friday, April 13, 2012

Tonight, for your dining pleasure, MY QUERY:

Ok, sharky-wannabes, have a bite. You know you want to.

*In my defense, this is like the millionth version of my query. I have had it down to around 250 words, and then I don't know what happened. My friend asked me today, "What happened to the one we worked on together?!" And all I could say was "I don't know! Its like I spun out of control!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" And then I ran away screaming.


Dear Agent:

Two years ago, the only aspect of seventeen-year-old Ever Van Ruysdael’s life that could be deemed unusual was her homeschool education. But that was before her house became an intersection for the dead. Not only was Ever forced to accept the very existence of ghosts, but she had to learn to share her most intimate spaces with the few that were unable to cross over. Taking it a step further, Ever has fallen hopelessly in love with Frankie: an eighteen year old who has been dead since the late 1950's. Unbeknownst to Ever, Frankie is in love with her as well, and has been since long before she even knew he existed. Frustrated and hopeless, both friends keep their growing love for one another a secret. The fact that their undeclared love is physically impossible remains a painful unspoken truth between them.

Desperate for a normal, attainable connection and trying to get over her futureless feelings for Frankie, Ever pursues a relationship with Toby, who moves into the house next door. Good-looking and charismatic, Toby inserts himself into Ever’s life – and the position Frankie has longed for – with little effort.

With the sudden appearance of nightmares, gripping fear begins to consume Ever’s nights. She awakes drenched with sweat, tangled in her sheets, and calling out for Frankie; remembering only a desperate need to find him. Responding to her cries, Frankie begins coming into her room at night, his compassion and concern for her adding fuel to the fire in her heart.

Ever spends her days in a seemingly "normal" relationship with Toby. Her nights spent in secret with Frankie. All the while, her heart continues to be torn in two different directions.

Ever will soon discover that falling in love with Toby meant putting Frankie’s soul in danger. Thrown into a situation larger than she even realizes, Ever must choose between the two boys, knowing that the consequences could be catastrophic for all involved. Innocently or not, she has started something that must be finished, regardless of whose soul gets lost in the process.

EVER is a paranormal YA novel, complete at just over 71,000 words. It is the first in a potential series. As EVER is the first manuscript I have sent out for consideration, I don't have any prior publishing credentials to provide you with. I feel that there is an honest and raw vulnerability in YA that is lacking in much of the mainstream adult fiction. I am striving to write YA in a voice that is not condescending to the YA reader; a voice that is open and truthful.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
Jessa Russo

Thursday, April 12, 2012

STORYTELLER WRITING CHALLENGE

I found this awesome writing challenge today and just couldn't help myself!

The Storyteller Writing Challenge is brought to you by Shah Wharton, over on her blog Words in Sync.

You can choose to write your piece based on a word prompt or a photo prompt.

I chose the photo:


Here is my entry:

CHANGING TIDE
Word Count: 480


Standing at the crossroads of my life, I face my future and my past with pride. I have managed the impossible. I have rearranged the stars of my destiny. Changed my tide.

I will not go back to what was.

There is nothing for me there.

My life in modern day New Orleans turned out just the way my parents said it would. I was destitute. Alone. A grotesque scar on the face of the great city I once loved. Fighting the mangy strays for scraps of discarded food and stealing from hapless tourists along the way.

A worthless gutter punk in the city of dreams. My dreams. Or, what once were my dreams.

I can not go back to that.

When I found the keys, I can assure you I had no idea where they might fit. An old, musty attic in a carriage house up on St. Charles. Or a chest in the living room of an elegant antebellum mansion I’d only ever dream of entering. They were beautiful and ancient, tinged with patina from years of humidity.

When I found the keys, I can assure you I had no intention of keeping them. Why would I? My belongings were few. Living on the streets meant what you kept, was what you could carry. I had nothing of value left. My money had been spent long ago. My pictures and mementos bartered, stolen, or lost. My dreams shattered and destroyed.

When I found the keys, I knew not that they would alter my life, my destiny, my truth. I knew not that every belief I’d ever held true would be turned up on end. Up became down. Truth was now fiction.

The keys catapulted me through time, bringing me to a New Orleans I’d only heard about, or read about in history books.

On the cusp of the Industrial Revolution, I met him. He saw through the dirt and the piercings, the hair dye and the scowl of a broken girl. He saw through what most people just looked past.

He picked me up, took me in. We’ve made a life together here.

I will not go back to what was.

Heaven’s vultures fly overhead now, waiting for me to choose. Waiting for me to set things back. Coming here has destroyed some shred of time and space, affected the future in ways I have yet to learn; may never understand.

But I have chosen my path.

A slow smile forms on my face as I gaze up at them. I slowly shake my head, as my fingers release the only chance I have of ever going back. With a splash barely audible over the roaring chaos of the sea, the keys fall down, deep into the depths of forever.

I will not return to what was.

I will not be your street trash, your bane.

I will not.



By Jessa Russo
(C) Copyright Jessa Russo 2012. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Turns out I have faults. *What?!*

Who knew, right? I know! I'm as shocked as you are.

I was having a little comment-convo with my favorite stranger-turned-online-friend, FEAKY SNUCKER, and I realized something ...

Does that ever happen to you?



Haha, ok, you want to know what I realized, don't you? Fine. I'll elaborate.

Here goes.

I think VERY highly of myself. VERY.

I've always been this way, though. (If I'm being honest, which I should be.)

I've always thought I was way more witty than I actually am. Way skinnier than I am. Way prettier than I actually am. Younger-looking. Smarter. Funnier. More popular. ETC. The list goes on.

Ugh, it pains me to say this, but why not bare my soul to you some more? As if my naked query post wasn't brutal enough?

I am not nearly as funny as I think I am. This is obvious when my jokes leave people scratching their heads. Whoops.

I am not as pretty, skinny, or young as I think I am. This is apparent in pictures. *Oy! Darn those blasted picture-taking machines!*

I am not witty. Well, maybe I am. Am I? I dunno. But surely not as much as I think I am. This is apparent when people find me rude instead of witty. Or pompous. Or offensive. "But I thought I was soooooo witty!"

Now, now, PLEASE don't think I'm having a pity party, because I'm not. I'm actually just learning something about myself through my writing journey and I thought I'd share it with all of you (and by all, I mean, all five). Maybe one of you feels the same way. Maybe you'll just think I'm even less witty. Who knows?

Recently, and much to my dismay, I've realized that my INFLATED SENSE OF SELF may have leaked over into my journey as an aspiring author. (Well, heck, I hate the word 'aspiring' so, aspiring PUBLISHED author? Does that work? Because though I currently write, and therefore I also 'author,' aspiring doesn't work in that sense. I DO however, aspire to be published. Yeah, that works. Doesn't it? DOESN'T IT?)

Damn, I'm off topic. SQUIRREL!

So, in my 'inflated sense of self' journey as a writer, I have had to realize and accept how deluded my ideas were going into this.

When I started, I was so proud of finishing my first manuscript. I polished and revised it. I accepted critiques from smarter and wittier friends. I felt the world was at my fingertips.

I had NO idea walking into this that agents would reject me. I'm serious, I had NO idea. I'm not exaggerating. I've ALWAYS lived in an imaginary world where bad things just don't happen. For real. (Its almost crippling to me when bad things DO happen.)

I did my research. (A LOT of research on both agencies and individual agents)

I compiled my Excel spreadsheet. (Its awesome - all colorful and pretty)

I made a list of the agents who I thought would "really love" my book.

I queried.

I waited.

And THEN?

I got knocked off my high horse.

Literally. i was pushed off my horse by a man in a jousting outfit. His jousting sword (stick?) went right through my innocent and naive little heart.

And then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

And then I killed myself.


WHAT!?!? ARE YOU WRITING THIS FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE?


No, sorry, that last part was me being funny. See what I mean?

But in all seriousness, I keep going. Some days I have this intense feeling that ITS GOING TO HAPPEN TODAY. (It obviously hasn't or we wouldn't be talking about this.) And some days I have this intense desire to give up. To throw in the towel (read: stop writing).

But I don't do it. I keep writing.

So what if only my mom and my close friends think I'm amazing? I can live with that.
*Well, truly I do want more, but that knowledge will get me through the query process that is much like a jousting match - in which I forgot my jousting tool/stick/sword.


So, to myself and to YOU, I say:

GET BACK ON THAT DAMN HORSE!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

#5MinuteFiction, Week 95!

I participated and I'm super stoked that I did! *big grin*

It was totally nerve wracking and by the end of it I was shaking (because I'm that much of a freak), but I did it. Yay! The guest judge this week is Liz Norris, who has her already-super-famous debut, UNRAVELING, coming out in just two weeks! So exciting! I can't wait to read it!

Anyway, you can check out Nicole Wolverton's blog HERE. You can read a little more about what #5MinuteFiction is, where it started, how to play along, etc. You can also read all the wonderful entries, because I know you're not biased and aren't only interested in mine.

In the meantime, I'll share my entry with you. I know you're just dying to read it, right? DYING.

Ok, ok, simmer down. I'm getting to it.

The prompt was this: "The delights of knowing the end," and it had to be the START of the writing piece. And, as you may have figured out by the title, you have only 5 minutes to submit your work. {Read: 15 minutes)

So, without further ado, my submission:


The delights of knowing the end, have come at a terrible price.

Had I continued on my wonderful path of ignorance, I would have lived forever blissful. Forever content in the unknown. I would have lived with the careless mindset of the young, never knowing that yes, it can happen to me. My imaginary bubble of goodness would never have popped. I would never have had to face the ugly truth of my disease.

The delights of knowing the end have brought me nothing but sorrow and pain.

“But, now you know,” they say. “Now you can mend fences and rebuild bridges. You can tie up loose ends.”

I have no nails to mend fences. No planks for building bridges. I have no string with which to tie up loose ends.

My decisions have left me alone. Utterly forgettable. Easily forgotten.

Each brief encounter that led me here, a distant memory on the pillow of a stranger’s bed.

I spend day after day in treatment. Medications tinge the color of my skin, the scent of my breath. Chemicals flow through my body the way youth once coursed through my veins. My beauty has been destroyed, both on the outside and inwardly as well. For the beauty of my soul, the spark of life that once drove me through life with reckless abandon has been extinguished.

There is no abandon now. There is no carefree existence.

It is just me. And the disease.

Yes, I know the end. I know the HOW of my death. I even know the WHY.

My disease is the how. The reckless abandon I spoke of? The cause.

As I tore through life, loving and relishing in every moment of blissful stupidity, I threw caution to the wind.

There is no delight in knowing the end.

It changes nothing.

All I have left is this: Its just me. And the disease.

There is no delight.


By Jessa Russo
(C) Copyright Jessa Russo 2012. All rights reserved.

Monday, April 2, 2012

EXPOSING MYSELF

(aka My Biggest Regret as a Newbie Writer / aka The LONGEST Blog Post EVER)

Oh mah goodness! You actually thought I was going to expose myself didn't you? Perv. You should be ashamed of yourself.

I'm going to expose my shame and my biggest regret in my journey as a writer.

I've been writing for a few years now, but my first few ideas were put aside when EVER came to me. I think that when the idea strikes, you have to go with it or you risk losing it.

And so it was with EVER. I finished EVER in under a year, including the monstrous amount of editing and revising I had to do, thanks to my good friend the English major/teacher/librarian. It was brutal. It was awesome.

A few weeks ago I had to come to grips with the fact that my query is the worst thing ever. I've sent it to Query Shark, but Ms. Shark herself (Janet Reid) has been busy with The Liz Norris Pay It Forward Contest (in which I entered my baby, EVER - just to say I did it!) so she hasn't been fervently attacking any queries lately. Click on the link to stay up to date with details on the contest. Even if you didn't enter, I'm sure you will find some sick pleasure from watching all of us entrants get torn to shreds over all of our MANY mistakes. And there are MANY. *sheepish grin*

In my review of the steps I've taken thus far, and my painful look back at what queries I've sent to which agents, I've completely depressed myself.

It is PAINFULLY clear that I'm in desperate need of the vehement beating that only the Query Shark can provide. I should have waited until it happened before I started querying.

Damn you, hindsight.

I am learning so much every day. Seriously, SO MUCH. Through talking to other writers, following many agents and writers on Twitter, reading various writing blogs and agent websites, I'm already growing and maturing as a writer, and I haven't even published yet! It's exciting, and I love it.

Now, I am not one for regrets. I just don't believe in them. A friend's boyfriend once told her this: "Everything I've done has brought me to you." It stuck with me because its true. Very true. Everything I've done, in ANY aspect of my life, has made me who I am today, so I try not to dwell on the less-than-awesome things I've done.

But, alas, I've realized something in this writing process.

I have found that I do have one regret.

I should not have begun sending queries when I did. The agents that received the worst version of my query letter will never know if my writing is any good, and I'll never know if they like my story. They probably never even got past the pathetic excuse for a query. So I failed in that sense. I did NOT put my best foot forward, or make the best first impression I could have. But I'm not giving up, and I've given my query the best makeover I possibly can with what I know, what I've read, and what my smartypants friends think. Is it the best query ever? Heck no. Does it reflect my writing ability? Double heck no.

BUT. And there is a BUT.

I have decided to stop making myself crazy for a while and focus on my writing, not my query.

So, I have shelved my beloved first novel, my story of EVER. The queries have all been sent. I set a query goal for myself with how many queries I would send (my secret to keep), and I obtained it. The rest is in the hands of the agents. If they pull me out of the slush pile, I will be MORE than ecstatic. If no one does, I will be highly disappointed, but I will continue to write. I know that I will get better with each word I type. My characters will grow, my stories will morph and change, and eventually, I WILL write the story that just has to be heard [read]. I'm striving to be better in every aspect of my life - it's what we are supposed to do as humans, and especially as adults - so why not also strive for maturity and growth in my writing? It seems like a no-brainer.

So. You want to know if I'm exaggerating about how awful my queries are, don't you?

Well, you're in luck. I'm posting my queries for you. It's a good way to inflict pain on myself, and I'm kind of a masochist .... no, no, I'm kidding. I'm not really a masochist. (Well, we all are a little bit as writers, aren't we? Why else would we put our cherished writing out there for the world to critique?)

But seriously, why not show you the mess of query writing I've been through? Why not expose my worst qualities now? Maybe I'll help someone in the future by doing so. Maybe you'll read my queries and see that you've made a similar mistake and I'll inspire you to REVISE REVISE REVISE!

So, for you, my faithful reader (yes, leaving that singular was the point), I will share two versions of my query for EVER - the first and last drafts. ***Please note that though there have been many changes and revisions along the way, and many faces of this query between point A and point B, I will only post the first and last. Posting them all would take an insane amount of time, and possibly run the risk of boring you to death; leaving me with not even one faithful reader.***

And so I present my FIRST query:

Dear Agent,

Ever Van Ruysdael knows firsthand just how finicky impossible can be.

The existence of ghosts. Impossible. Until she sees them with her own eyes.

Falling in love with a ghost. Impossible. Until she falls in love with Frankie.

But Ever pushes those feelings aside, because really, what kind of level-headed teenager falls in love with a ghost?

When Toby moves in next door, Ever is drawn to him inexplicably, and for someone who’s mastered the art of ignoring feelings, she finds she is absolutely helpless when it comes to ignoring him.

Now Ever is in love with two very different guys, only one of them who is actually alive, and if that in itself isn’t complex enough, she begins receiving cryptic warnings to stay away from Toby, while having frequent nightmares that threaten the safety of Frankie.

Confounding things further, Toby’s gorgeous and conniving ex-girlfriend shows up, hell-bent on getting Toby back, and willing to stop at nothing to do so.

Ever discovers how impossibly far Toby’s ex-girlfriend is willing to go to get what she wants, and in the end, what happens to Frankie has impossible staring Ever straight in the face.

EVER is a YA paranormal novel, complete at just over 74,100 words.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Jessa Russo


And now, the most recent query. The last query. The "good" query. (YIKES!)

Dear Agent:

Two years ago, the only aspect of seventeen-year-old Ever Van Ruysdael’s life that could be deemed unusual was her homeschool education. But that was before her house became a crossroads for the dead. Not only was Ever forced to accept the very existence of ghosts, but she had to learn to share her most intimate spaces with the few that were unable to leave. Taking it a step further, Ever has fallen hopelessly in love with Frankie: an eighteen year old who has been dead since the late 1950's. Unbeknownst to Ever, Frankie is in love with her as well, and has been since long before she even knew he existed. Frustrated and hopeless, both friends keep their growing love for one another a secret. The fact that their undeclared love is physically impossible remains a painful unspoken truth between them.

Desperate for a normal, attainable connection and trying to get over her futureless feelings for Frankie, Ever pursues a relationship with Toby, who moves into the house next door. Good looking and charismatic, Toby inserts himself into Ever’s life – and the position Frankie has longed for – with little effort.

With the sudden appearance of nightmares, gripping fear begins to consume Ever’s nights. She awakes drenched with sweat, tangled in her sheets, and calling out for Frankie; remembering only a desperate need to find him. Responding to her cries, Frankie begins coming into her room at night, his compassion and concern for her adding fuel to the fire in her heart. She spends her days in a seemingly normal relationship with Toby. Her nights in secret with Frankie. All the while, her heart continues to be torn in two different directions.

Unbeknownst to Ever, falling in love with Toby meant putting Frankie’s soul in danger. Thrown into a situation bigger than she realized, Ever must choose between the two boys, knowing that the consequences could be catastrophic for all involved. Innocently or not, she has started something that must be finished, regardless of whose soul gets lost in the process.

EVER is a paranormal YA novel, complete at just over 71,000 words. As EVER is the first manuscript I have queried, I don't have any prior publishing credentials to provide you with. I feel that there is an honest and raw vulnerability in YA that is lacking in much of the mainstream adult fiction. I am striving to write YA in a voice that is not condescending to the YA reader; a voice that is open and truthful.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Jessa Russo



ARE YOU EMBARRASSED FOR ME YET??????

You'll notice that my queries are not very personalized. I went with a TEENY bit of personalization in the most recent one, but with no fancy degrees and no prior publishing credentials, its kind of hard to church yourself up. I DID send a personalized query letter to a few agents who asked for funny, personalized and witty, and I'm KICKING MYSELF for it now. Those agents must have laughed their agenting rumps off. Seriously. Its that bad. TOTAL crap.

I've decided to stick with a formal, more professional approach from here on out.

And no, I absolutely WILL NOT share my "personalized" query letter with you. EVER. Don't even ask.