Friday, April 23, 2010

Sneak Peeks

So, I've had the "Lulu" series planned out for months, but I have been trying to take it one book at a time in it's specific order. Yeah that didn't work out so well. So I've written bits an d pieces here and there. I've even written Lulu's first time "doing it". Well not so much "doing it", as the foreplay that led up to "it". Hello, I'm fourteen and have never kissed a guy, never mind gone farther. How would I know how to write a love scene when my own love life is so pathetic? That, and I'm writing a book for teens, not a porno.

So lets get back on track, I like to ramble a lot. Sorry, but bare with me. So books 1-4 are through Lulu's point of view. While book five is through Lulu's best friend Nikkie's point of view, book six is through Lulu's old high school enemy Kaela's point of view, and book seven is though Lulu's ancestor Catherine's point of view that will be conveyed though first person narratives and diary entries. Then finally book eight, the last novel, will be through alternating point of views that will be separated by parts. Lulu's, Nikkie's, Kaela's, and then Lulu's again. Also, the rest of the characters will get random chapters here and there though their points so i can tie up all loose strings.

As you can see I've got this all planned out. Well to a certain extent. Without further ado. I give you the following excerpts. The first from Nikkie's book, the second from Kaela's. (No I will not put the sex scene chapter up you perves!!!!)



Excerpt From Moonlight: Nikkie’s Story

I slid fifty cents into the slot, dialing a number that had become so familiar to me that I could concentrate on my surroundings as my finger moved swiftly over the numbers. That and being a vampire gave me some wicked reflexes. I tried to control my breathing as the other line began to ring.

Ring. One.

Ring. Two.

Ring. Three.

“Hello?” she said slightly on edge. My breath caught, the words bubbling to my throat but still being held captive. “Hello?” she asked again, ready to hang up on what she thought was a stupid crank caller.

“Lulu?” I cried.

“Who is this?” she asked suspiciously, a note of recondition hanging in her voice as if she was afraid to be wrong. I smiled at her quirk.

“It’s me Nikkie.”

“What?!?” she squeaked. I heard voices in the background asking her what was wrong before she apologized and said she had to handle something. More shuffling echoed through the phone as she left the room. Her doorknob squeaked, letting me know she was in her room now.

“Where the hell are you Nikkie? It’s been almost four days since you were last seem drunk and trailing after a Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. You know how much of a lead that is? None is the answer!” Lulu lectured me.

“I know, I’m so sorry, but I messed up. I messed up bad.” I cried, tears sliding down my cheeks.

Lulu sighed. “It can’t be that bad, whatever it is I’m here for you. Now what happened?”
“I’m dead.” I whispered.

“I understand that you will always love him – trust me I understand – but you have to move on, no matter how dead you feel.” Lulu began, thinking I meant dead inside.

“No Lulu, I’m really dead. I’m a vampire.” I whimpered.


Excerpt from Incandescent” Kaela’s Story

“So you never told me your name.” I teased, a small smile playing on lips, trying not to appear too interested – slightly bored even – when truthfully my heart was beating at a million miles per second.

“le Fay, Kellen le Fay.” He says naturally, but the gleam in his eyes lets me discern there is something special about his name. Something he finds funny.


“le Fay, huh? Like Morgan le Fay, King Arthur’s sister?” I asked circling the tree so that my back was now pressed against its rough bark, Kellen standing on the other side just out of my awaiting view.


“Close, but I like to think more along the lines of its meaning.” He said rounding the tree so now we were face to face, our noses almost touching.
“And what would that be?” my breath catches in my chest so that my words barely rise above a whisper. For the first time since I lost my virginity to Dustin Ryan in ninth grade, I was nervous around a guy.


Kellen’s face inched closer to mine so that we were now only breathes apart, his warm fresh scent swirling around me. Not a minty fresh scent that most guys have, as if they just finished swallowing a packet of Spearmint Tic Tacs. No. More like fresh cut grass. No, not grass; it’s more like he bottled spring. All the new life and greenery and somehow became spring itself so that it would exude from his every pore. “Faerie.”

Prologue: The Night It All Began…

The unusual thing about life is how effortlessly it can be altered in simply a blink of an eye. You can live the same way for your whole life without stepping outside of the ideal, flawless, little trivial box you’ve worked so hard to place yourself within. You can wake up every morning and perform the same routine, never varying from the most insignificant of details, and then one day destiny, karma, or some other unknown force can alter life as you know it. That’s what happened to me and my once average, comfortable life; destiny altered my course. That and a shadowy hidden previous lifetime which came back to haunt me …


A thin sheet of ice spread across the glass, the various cracks which it had formed were starting to tear the frost apart. I placed my warm palm upon the windowpane, a chill rising off the solid and icy glass forcing me to pull away. I’ve always loved the winter and the beauty that it brings to the world. Winter was the ultimate rebirth. All the plants sacrificed themselves for the new that will arrive come spring, replacing them but keeping their memory alive. There was something so poetic about it, something so beautifully tragic.

I sighed, sitting with my legs crossed in the middle of my bed as my mom, Helen Cohn, strode into my room. She sat across from me, feeling my forehead for a fever I did not have, all set to lecture for the next hour or so.

“Lulu-Pop, are you sure you don’t feel well?” she asked, using her pet name, not yet convinced.

“This is your sisters’ last high school performance since Mrs. Henderson had to be…admitted so there won’t be any spring musical.” Helen said. Well whose fault is that? Mrs. Henderson should have told someone about her irrational fear of clowns, maybe then Aaron would have known not to wear that black It shirt as stage crew, and she wouldn’t have had a mental breakdown.

“It won’t be the same without you there; you’ve been going to their performances since you were in a stroller! But it’s already seven and we are supposed to arrive by seven thirty, so if you’re coming you’re going to have to decide now.”

“Mom, I don’t feel well, please? Just this one time?” I begged.

“I know, I know, you feel sick so just please stay in bed and rest. Take a nap! The Lord and your pre-school through kindergarten teachers know you never did when you were little, why not start now? If you get hungry order pizza or something instead of trying to cook for yourself because I don’t want to come home to a burnt down house, no offense. I know you getting better at cooking but please wait to cook with your father or me here first, will you? Oh and I’ll leave the food money on the fridge, and-” Helen nervously rambled as we sat on my bed debating. Helen started talking so fast –reducing a paragraph of words into a sentence – that I tuned her out over the lack of comprehension. Helen always speed talked when she was on edge.

Suddenly Helen stopped in mid-sentence and interlocked my gaze, swiping my growing-out bangs–which I knew would be cut, since I never had the patience to grow out the bangs I’ve had since I was five–to the side for a clear view of my face. To say I resembled Helen would be a great understatement. We possessed the same blue-black hair, mine falling mid-back in soft undulating curls; hers cut into a chic and sophisticated bob which she took a flat iron to daily. Unlike my dad, Roger Cohn, Helen didn’t have one gray –though she didn’t color her hair like most of my friends’ parents do, she was just fascinatingly young when it comes to her personality and appearance. Rogers’s hair was described as salt and pepper. Helen aged better than Roger did; she appeared ten years younger than her true forty-two year old age. Much like most make-up commercials always insist they can achieve.

Helen gave me a pained but searching gaze, my eyes expressing a thousand unspoken questions. My favorite trait that Helen and I shared was our eyes. Helen, my sisters, and I all had one common feature, our violet shaded left eye. Helen never really gave us more of an explanation than that it ran in her family, but truthfully I didn’t want to know. My intuition kept sending me big flashing stop signs whenever I felt the erg to finally get a straight answer. Unfortunately, that is where the similarities between my family and I stopped. Helen, even in her forties, beat me in the looks department. Her skin was ivory, mine is alabaster. We might have had the same eyes–both our right eyes were the same shade of deep blue–but, hers are full of life and excitement, while mine are darker; dimmer. I resemble Roger too much, too plain.

“I know I’m rambling,” Helen sighed, finally speaking at her normal speed. “But it’s only because I love you Luna. You and your sisters are my world. You know I love your father of course, but did I carry him in my stomach for nine months and then had to experience thirty-two hours of labor? No! So I just want to make sure you’re safe and you feel better.” I gave her a forced smile. She had no clue that she was making me feel so guilty. I almost felt tempted to tell her the truth. Almost, but not quite.

The truth is that I had convinced everyone that I was sick. My lying “talents” knew that if I was going to pull this off, I would have to start “not feeling well” a couple days in advance. About two days in advance I started coughing and sneezing, going to bed at seven following dinner and a shower–that part I particularly hated but it had to be done for the greater good of free time–, and complaining about a headache. So when I didn’t feel up for seeing Rose and Karma perform in our school’s rendition of South Pacific, they of course believed me. I’m a great liar. If it wasn’t for the fact that our school put on musicals instead of plays, I would audition and probably get the lead. Sadly I’m as tone death as a hyena.

My older twin sisters Rose and Karma were two of the ten top actors at my school. Throw in that they could sing and dance and you have a triple threat to anyone attempting to make it in the world of show business. However, what made them a threat to the majority of the girls at our school was that they were both drop dead gorgeous and no one could hold a candle to that.

Rose had strawberry-blond hair that fell to her mid-back in soft wavy curls with natural tints of a honey-gold shine to it. She has a heart shaped face with a bright blue right eye and a light violet, almost lavender, left eye, rose pink baby doll lips, and rosy cheeks. Add in her unblemished ivory skin and you had a real life princess. Sweet, cheerful, and pure.

Then you had Karma. With her straight and shinny light brown hair with tints of auburn that curtained around her shoulders, sultry cherry Angelina Jolie plump lips that were glossed 24/7, and perfectly tanned skin. Ok, that was a product of the tanning salon but she still looked beautiful in her natural light olive complexion. She resembled an actress ready for the red carpet at all times. Throw in her alluring eyes, the right a hazel, and the left almost lavender like Rose’s, and everything about her just screamed hot. She was practically exotic.

As if that weren’t enough they were both geniuses. Their schedules are full of AP classes and they both have received admission to Ivy League schools; Rose, Harvard and Karma, Yale.

“Mom stop worrying, I’ll be OK. I’m almost sixteen; I can be left home alone without you worrying that I’m going to play with matches.” I whined in a scratchy voice to keep up my fa├žade.

Helen didn’t speak for a minute. She was weighing her options. She had three choices, she could either 1) leave me home and trust me, 2) drag me to the play and risk me becoming worse from the cold night air, or 3) stay home with me and disappoint Rose and Karma by missing their lat performance even though we all know I’m capable of staying home without a babysitter.

Finally she spoke, “Lulu-Pop, honey, are you sure you’ll be OK? It’s not that your dad and I don’t trust you, it’s just that we worry about you.” she said, her voice full of concern and melodrama. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Roger wasn’t worried at all. He saw that I’d grown up and matured and should be allowed to be left alone with out being checked on every five minutes. As much as I loved Helen, she could drive me nuts with her worrywart ways. Wasn’t she young once? That’s why Helen and Roger were a match made in heaven, she worried about everything and he worried about just about nothing. Together they made a good couple and parents. The only problem was that Roger was raised in a family with a mother who had a strong personality and even stronger death-stare if you dared question her. He pretty quickly learned from Grandpa Isaac to just back off and not to mess with women when they say they’re in charge. In this family, Helen wore the pants in her atypical soccer mom style. No doubt.

“Mom, I said to stop worrying; I’m gonna live to see morning, I promise. Again I must state that I’m almost sixteen; I’m not going to talk to strangers or burn the house down. And, though it will be hard, I’ll resist the urge to run with scissors.” I rolled my eyes as to get my point across. A faint smile crossed her lips as she in turn tried to roll her eyes but instead looked like she twitching. I laughed.

“Well if you’re sure…?” she hinted, hoping that I would tell her I couldn’t bare without my Mama and needed her to stay with me as if I were still seven. Helen was what you could call over protective. Ok, that is the biggest understatement ever; that’s like calling a 300 degree fire “warm”. She hated leaving anyone home alone, even Roger, as if she believed the bogeyman was about to appear out of nowhere and steal one of us away as a snack. According to her rules, there had to be at least two people home together at all times.

It can’t be boys, since at the age of fifteen, mid-sophomore year I must state with great despair, I didn’t know any guy whom liked me more than one-of-the-boys, much less want to kiss or date me. Mental check list to self: GET A DAMN BOYFRIEND! And if Karma and Rose ever brought a guy over –which I can’t verify or deny– I would never snitch on them. We established this four years ago when they first entered high school,. Sadly I'm starting to feel as if I received the short end of that romantic stick.

“If you’re sure–” Helen began.

“I already said I am.” I interrupted. She just continued as if I hadn’t spoken.

“If your positive than I guess I can’t change your mind, you have always been strongly opinioned.” Helen smiled, standing up from my bed, her favorite perfume surrounding the air around her. Chanel No.5, a classic. Just like her. She held my chin as if we would never see each other again, wanting to memorize how I appeared. “Luna,” she said, her voice no longer nervous or playful, her tone freezing over. “If anything happens, no matter if it’s something strange and unexplainable, I need you to call me right away. Promise me you will?” Helen demanded.

I was about to protest, tell her that she was sounding crazy and maybe she was the one who should be staying home, of course in a nicer way since she is my mom, when her eyes stopped me. There hidden deep within their depths was fear, anxiety and something more which I couldn’t quite put my finger on. There was something she was keeping from me that I felt as if it was better I didn’t know. I nodded, watching her shoulders relax a little.

She kissed both my cheeks, fretted over my hair as I tried to pull away, and just smiled, before walking down the stairs. I went to my bedroom window which faced the front of the house. As Helen locked the door behind her before entering my parents’ Volvo s80, I realized what else had been hidden in her eyes.

“Surrender.” I whispered to myself after watching the Volvo disappear at the end of our street.

I shook my head of my mindless unspoken chatter. I might have not been sick but I was tired. It was mid January and already I was counting down to the end of school. This summer we were returning to the Cape house. I planned to beg the sun to let me tan as I lay on my beach chair reading some steamy and hot romance novel while listening to my iPod. Truthfully, I would probably come home just as pale as I left. I don’t tan but at least I don’t burn, I just stayed the same shade of albino pale no matter how long I sat in the sun. I’m strange. And Irish.

Changing out of my jeans and t-shirt and into my favorite PJ–the purple silk shorts with matching spaghetti strap cami that Helen had given me for Christmas from Victoria’s Secret–I kicked off my slippers. I strode over to my large collection of CD’s, popping some Enya into my stereo on a medium volume before crawling into bed. I was listening to the soothing sounds as I slipped into a deep sleep. That was the first time I had the dream that literally and symbolically epitomized all that I held close crashing down around me.

I was standing on the side of the road, my hair up in an unkempt bun in the camisole and shorts that I had worn to bed. I rubbed my arms, the cold night air getting to me. The snow was still coming down, quick melting, leaving a residue on the ground.

I rubbed the sands from the corner of my eyes, trying to fully wake myself so I could figure out what the hell I was doing here. Was I still asleep? Did I sleepwalk out of my house and onto the side of a random street? I pinched myself and felt nothing. Yeah I must be asleep. I was about to wish for a young seventeen year old Leonardo DiCaprio – it’s my dream, I can wish for or do anything I want– when I saw the two cars approach.

On one side was my parents Volvo. Rose and Karma were half asleep in the back seat whereas Roger was remained vigilant, reciting passages from Shakespeare with the conviction of a Southern Baptist saying prayer. And then there was Helen. She was outright nervous, a reaction I hadn’t believed my always cool and collect mom was capable of.

On the other side was a black Mercedes, sleek and shinning in the moonligh, as it sped down the street, its windows tinted so I couldn’t decipher who was driving. All I knew was that it was speeding straight at the Volvo like it wasn’t even there.

“Watch out!” I screamed futilely.

Simultaneously my life fell apart. First, Helen looked up, seeing me on the side of the street. For a moment she was horror stricken before a look of realization swept across her face. She bit her lip, a bad habit I had inherited from her, before mouthing one word that felt like a punch in the gut. “Leave.”

She turned back around and screamed her head off just as the two cars collided, the impact of the collision tossing me to the ground.

I woke up screaming. I glanced at the clock: 12:00am. Sliding out of my bed, my feet groped around for my slippers. I turned off my stereo and retreated down the stairs for a bottle of water. The house was silent; I could have heard a pin fall from the second story. I was returning to my room when I stopped at Rose’s door. Just a peek, that’s all. I cracked open the door, nothing. The same went for Karma and my parent’s room. They did say they were going to be home late, they’ll be home soon, there’s no reason to worry.

I repeated that to myself as I climbed back into bed, hoping I would have a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

“Hmph.” I sulked angry that the sun was shinning through my baby-blue curtains and into my eyes. I really needed to order blackout curtains. The clock flashed ten in big red numbers. I was starting to wake up when I saw the water bottle sitting on my nightstand and remembered waking up the night before screaming.

“What was that about?” I asked myself, not remembering why I had woken up.

I hurried down the stairs expecting to find Roger making Sunday breakfast which consisted of pancakes, bacon, and sausage, Helen squeezing fresh orange juice, Rose coming in from her morning jog, and Karma finishing homework she had put off until Sunday since Helen wouldn’t let her out of the house later unless it was finished. This was the normal routine for my family on Sundays, not church.

Roger was half Jewish half Catholic, his parents, Zadie Isaac and Nana Barbra, never pushed religion on him since they believed it was his decision. Helen on the other hand was raised as a Catholic family, though she considers herself more spiritual than religious. We don’t break the law, God’s or the governments (except for keep holy the Sabbath day, and on occasions respect your mother and father), and we have a cross in our doorway. I think that's good enough.

I mulled it over as I glanced around my empty kitchen. Where the hell is my family?!? I ran up the stairs and into my parent’s room. Empty. The same went for both Karma’s and Rose’s.
I gradually descended the staircase, hesitantly taking each step, as I held on to the railing for dear life. I felt sick to my stomach; I knew I should be remembering something important but what? I needed to get a grip on myself!

I made a bowl of Special K cereal, not as tasty as pancakes, but I have the rare skill of burning water so cooking isn’t really an option. After finishing my breakfast, washing the bowl and placing it in the dryer, I went back to my room and glanced out the window. No cars were traveling the heavily snow covered streets.

“That's it, they were snowed in.” I assured myself, pretending that I didn’t know Helen would do anything to get home, even if our house was moved to Mars with me stuck in it for the ride, she would find a way.

I was ready to calm my nerves with reading- one of my favorite things to do, yes I’m a bookworm and proud of it- when the doorbell range. I ran down the stairs, hoping it was Rose and Karma who always needed me to open the door for them since they never remembered their keys.

Unfortunately, as I swung the door open it wasn’t then standing on the other side. Gulp!

“Hello, are you Lunetta Cohn?” asked a woman around Helen and Rogers age, her graying brown hair pulled back in a bun. Behind her stood a man in his late fifties to early sixties, his obviously once brown hair was now mainly gray and in some places turning white.

“Who are you?” I asked her right back. They definitely weren’t Karma or Rose.

“I’m Mrs. Jones.” said the brunette taking out her ID. “I’m with child services, and this is my friend Officer Marino from the Salem Police Department.” she motioned to the man behind her. He flashed me his badge. “Can we come in, we have to talk.”

I led the duo into my living room, my heart beating almost out of my chest. Anxiety paralyzing my body.

“Miss Cohn, do you know where your family is?” asked Mrs. Jones. I shook my head lightly, almost as if I thought it would fall off.

“They’re probably snowed in.” I stated in denial, even though I knew that couldn’t be true, Mrs. Jones and Officer Marino where here.

They exchanged a look before she spoke, confirming my fears. “Last night there was an accident. Your parents were driving home when they got into a head on collision. It seems the car was speeding in the opposite direction when the two met…”

Mrs. Jones kept talking but I drowned her out. As her words came spilling out last night’s dream hit me at full force. Roger driving, Rose and Karma sleeping, and Helen a nervous wreck, warning me to stay away. Like…like she knew what was going to happen.

“When? Where?” cried out a hoarse voice.

Mrs. Jones looked at me, making me realize that the voice had been mine. “The accident is estimated to have occurred around midnight, about a street over,” she said. That's why the street in my dreams had been familiar; I pass it everyday to school.

“Who was driving the other car?” I asked, remembering that the windows had been tinted. I received another how-are-we-supposed-to-explain-this look from them.

“That hasn’t been determined; the other driver somehow miraculously survived the crash and left the scene on foot. They left no blood or prints behind that we have been able to find, but the car is still being examined. It’s as if the car magically appeared!” Officer Marino confessed frustrated, forgetting himself for a moment until Mrs. Jones nudged him and shot him look to get a hold of himself.

This new info made my head whirl. Either 1) I just made up this dream and dreamt something completely different last night, which just happened to wake me up at the same time, 2) I’m still asleep and better pinch myself now, or 3) something freaky is going on here. I pinched myself and held back a yelp. Yeah, number two is out.

I knew that meant there was only one more question to ask. If they confirmed it then yeah, I did dream it. Right now I’d rather just assume myself to be crazy though.

“What type of car was it?” I questioned. This time they exchanged a what-the-hell-does-that-have-to-do-with-anything glance. I don’t know what my expression was, but with one look Marino decided to answer me.

Regrettably, I beat him to the punch. “A black Mercedes.”

This time around it was their turn to stare in disbelief. They glared at me with a how-the-hell look. Call it shock, call it sixteen years of always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but only one word seemed appropriate.

“CRAP!”

Editing Sucks


Greetings,
So I have written in a couple days. Well, more than a couple. Four days to be exact. Don't know why I wrote that, just felt like it I guess. Yeah, so lets get back on track.

So yesterday I experienced the writers lifestyle. By that I mean I wrote until 9am. Not so much wrote as edited, but that's not the point. The point is that I put all priorities aside (a.k.a sleep) and concentrated on writing. I gave my godmother, Claudia, my book about a month ago, and she has been slowly editing and reading it. By now all I've gotten back is the prologue and part of the first chapter. Yeah, my aunt is slow, but now that she finally found a job after being unemployed for a year, she doesn't have much time.

I wasn't really sure what the the point of this is, but I think i found it. Editing sucks. Really it's the worst. I pity all editors. Not enough that i don't want the them to take a chance on me. They must really really love their jobs to stick to it, because I never could. I can barley stand editing my own work, never mind other peoples. Well that's not totally true. I love reading over my friends work, I just don't like reading over other people's work. People I don't know. Like the people on inkpop.com. I only do it because they in turn will read mine.

So yeah, that basically it. I just wanted to spread my editing pain. It took me hours just to edit my prologue! You know what? (Of course you don't!) I'm going to post my prologue up. Why not? That and I'm going to post a small part of two future novels.

Monday, April 19, 2010

World War III: Lulu Cohn vs. Me

Dear Bloggie Readers,
So I'm utterly bored. Today was my first day of spring break, and you know what exciting things I did today! If you guessed traveling to California, then you're WRONG! What do I hear from the person sitting in the back of my imaginary audience? You said nothing? Well guess what? DING, DING, DING! You're right! But you win nothing.
Okay, on slightly saner news (and slightly is already pushing it) there are voices in my head. Not really voices, but more irking people. Wait! Before you call the men with the big needles and the white jacket for me, let me explain. You all know I wrote a book. Well it is called Becoming. Here's the summery:


Lulu Cohn never thought her dreams would come true – too bad they turned out to be a nightmare.

Lunetta Cohn, Lulu to most, lived a simple, middleclass life in Salem, Massachusetts for sixteen years until the night she had her first vision, one of her family’s death. It has now been a long and bizarre year since she awoke to find her dream had come true. Lulu, a sarcastic, clever, and strong willed about to be seventeen year old girl, has now discovered that a grandmother who she believed to be dead is still alive and living in a small Connecticut town. But just as she adjusts to her new life, one filled with friends and a potential love, deep buried family secrets start to unravel, dragging Lulu and the people she cares most about into a dark and mysterious world of magic and sorcery.

Becoming is the first in the The Immortals of the Night series which follows Lulu and her friends as they discover themselves and what they have become. Filled with romance, humor and friendship, they will have to wage an age old battle, stop history from repeating itself, and once and for all banish evil.

Yeah, it does sound interesting doesn't it? Yeah, that's the problem. I love the story, but I'm fourteen and how many agents and publishers would take a chance on a fourteen year old to write a eight book series? Count of hands anybody? Let's see...thats....zero hands. Yeah, that's what I thought.

So instead I told myself to write another book. One that was a stand alone or part of a small series. Well in theory that sounds all good and dandy, except Lulu won't leave me the hell alone. Every time I write, I start off all "I can do this!" then all of a sudden I stop. It's like I have writers block, even when I don't. I know the reason though; it's because my heart isn't in it. I put all my heart into Lulu. I wanted to write that book more than anything, but I got discouraged. Now I try to write other stuff and my heart just isn't in it. Truthfully I don't want to continue writing the other stories, I want to work on book number two of the Lulu series, Secrets. Here's it' summery:

Before she can change the future, she will have to discover the truth about the past.

Lulu Cohn is an average teenage girl – well she was until her parents died, she found out she’s a witch, and she fell in love with Jason Griffin, a sarcastic and charming witch hunter who dumped her after she almost got killed. Yeah, Lulu’s life is just peachy these days. But dark forces are lurking around the small town of Westerfeld, Connecticut and it’s up to Lulu to save the day. With the help of Stella Kennedy, the former Queen Bee who is too busy planning her revenge on her former clique to be bothered learning any spells, Soleil Rouge, who gets major headaches when she hangs around too many people because of her psychic abilities, and Ian Sinclair, who keeps hinting that he wants to cross the line of friendship when Lulu can’t stop thinking about Jason, Lulu will have dive deep into family secrets before it’s too late.

You see? It sounds interesting. But I'm scared. Stupid fear!!! Fear sucks. It ruins things.


~XOXO
Carrie

Monday, April 12, 2010

Afterlife



So I wrote this short story for a supernatural writing contest on one of my favorite sites inpop.com. I decided to also post it in my blog just for fun. Hope you like it.


Can you distinguish the dead from the living? Richelle Costa can’t.


All that crossed my foggy mind as I woke up was that my parents were going to kill me. My head was slumped against the steering wheel, glass shards from the windshield were scattered around my face. Surprisingly though my car looked like it belonged on a Hollywood set, I felt perfectly fine. I lifted my head and peered at the tree that my car had collided with, the hood was dented, smoke rising like a camp fire. That was defiantly the last time I swerve for birds who decided to cross the road at night.

I felt around the passenger seat for my purse, only to find that my cell phone had no service. Great, exactly what I needed. Not only had I crashed my new car to spare a birds life, but also I was stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to get help. I should have stayed at Lissa’s, but no! I wanted to be home tonight since Zeke would be home from college early tomorrow morning for Spring Break. I hadn’t seen him since Christmas, and let me tell you now; the long distance relationship thing was getting quite lonely.

I mean I see Lissa and Poppy with their boyfriends, all cute and cuddly, and what do I get? A boyfriend who attends college four hours away from me and whom I never get to see. But that was going to change. I had just received my acceptance letter from University of New Hampshire. Zeke would be so excited! After graduation I would be saying “Goodbye Connecticut, hello New Hampshire!”

I glanced around the forest. I had two choices, either stay in the car and wait until morning, hoping that my parents would notice that I was gone or that Lissa would find it weird that I never called to say I got home safely, or two try to find some help right now before the cold New England weather turned me into an icicle. I was always one for new experiences, so grabbing my purse I pushed the car door open and trudged down the empty road. I was nearly in complete darkness; the light from the full moon provided me with enough luminosity not to trip over my own feet.

I remembered passing by a diner just a couple miles up the road on my way to Lissa’s grandmother’s house. I wasn’t really familiar with this area; I’ve never really been out around here. Lissa wouldn’t even be living out in the middle of nowhere if her mom hadn’t decided to redecorate that house form top to bottom, leaving the family temporarily homeless. But she was my best friend, and if I didn’t visit her in social exile, what type of person would I be?
The sign read Goldberg’s Diner, though its neon glow was turned off. If it wasn’t for the lights being on inside, most people would have assumed it was closed. The door chimed as I walked in, an old fashion jukebox playing Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes, one of my grandparents’ favorits songs. Ok I’ll admit it, I love the song too.

The place was relatively empty, but then not many people went to diners around 1:00am. Well, most normal and sober people don’t. I slid into the first booth I saw, waiting for a sign of life. Finally I noticed that indeed there was another person nearby. An old lady around her late 80’s was sitting in the last booth in my row. She wore a long flowing house dress with pink rose pattern. Her hair was thinning and worn as a white puffball plopped onto of her head. She reminded me of great-grandma Margaret, except shorter, and sadly even with that rose frock she had better taste in clothes.

The old lady got up and walked toward me, using a cane to keep herself barely stable. I looked up and smiled as if I was trying to reassure her that I wasn’t a freak.
“Oh dear, you look lost.” she said barley over a whisper.

“Not really lost, more stranded. I crashed my car a couple miles down the road. I was wondering if I could use someone’s phone, put this place seems more abandoned than where I crashed. Where are the owners?”

“Oh, Jane just stepped out, she’ll be back soon. I don’t believe I properly introduced myself, I’m Gretel Fisher.”

“Richelle Costa.” I said shaking her cold and wrinkled hand. I could feel her veins and bones easily. My heart went out to her. She was so feeble and delicate; I was scared I might wound her.

She started telling about her family. She had a daughter named Fiona. She obviously loved Fiona a great deal, her eyes lit up at the sheer mention of her name. Fiona had a daughter of her own named Jane. Jane was the owner of the diner. Her inheritances after Fiona’s husband, her father, passed away. The last person but defiantly not the least was Jane’s son Stephen. I could see the pride in Gretel’s eyes when she mentioned her great-grandson. He was two and had been diagnosed with autism. Jane’s husband couldn’t take it so they broke up soon after Stephen’s birth. I could see that Gretel had great respect for Jane, raising Stephen as a single mom while taking on the family business almost completely by herself.

By the time it was my turn to speak I was no longer concerned when Jane was returning, Gretel was easy to talk to and understanding. I told her about my dad who was the typical business suite type on the surface, but underneath that suit and tie he was really an artist at heart. He could paint so brilliantly that you would presume it was a photo. My mother also seemed to be the classic stay at home type, but that was only because, like Gretel, I had an autistic family member. My little brother Danny had autism, something that used to be hard for me when I was younger. He’s twelve now, but my mother decided to home school him. If kids were cruel to me for being his sister in middle school I didn’t even want to imagine how they would treat him.

I had two best friends named Lissa and Poppy; we’ve known each other since our Teletubby days. Then there was the love of my life, Zeke Reed. We met when I was in sixth grade; he defended me when kids teased me about Stephen. He’s a year older so we’ve been skyping, calling, texting, emailing, and even writing letters when we feel like acting romantic during his freshman year before I come join him next year for college.

When I finished talking about Zeke I looked up and saw that Gretel was crying.
“What’s wrong? I’m sorry, did I say something?” I asked, worried.

“No honey, it’s not that. I’m…I’m the one who is sorry. I didn’t want to say anything. You seemed so scared. So lost. I thought it would be easier if we talked a little first, but now I see I might have made it worst, harder for you.” her sobs quickened. I could detect the word “sorry” being used over and over again, but the rest were mumbled.

“Sorry about what?” I began asking, but right before my eyes the impossible happened. She started fading. I jumped out of the booth frightened. The last thing I saw of her was her hand pointing to something behind me. I turned and noticed for the first time that it was morning. The diner was in full swing of Saturday breakfast rush. I spotted a petite woman ringing up some costumers at the cash register, before taking another costumers order. She had to be Jane; she looked exactly like Gretel except about fifty years younger.

My gaze swept around the now packed restaurant – trying to decipher how I didn’t notice the sudden crowding – when a news headline caught my attention on the small TV behind me. TEEN GIRL KILLED IN CRASH.

My stomach flopped, suddenly I didn’t want to be there, I wanted to be back by my car waiting for my parents to come get me and bring me home. I don’t know how I did it, but before I could blink I was magically transported near my car, which was now closed off with yellow crime scene tape. I didn’t understand what was going on until my parents’ car pulled up. My mother ran out crying “My baby! No, no, not my baby!”

My dad froze, holding the car for support as Poppy and Lissa pulled up in Lissa’s car, their eyes swollen and red. They held on to each other as they cried, must like my father holing onto the car. My mother was on the ground and hysterical, Zeke emerging from my parent’s car to help her up. She turned and cried on his shoulder. Zeke’s face was tear stricken like the rest. His eyes blood red, but no more tears could cascade. As if he had already shed every fluid in his body. I could hear his breathing, dry sobs controlling most of it.

I knew I shouldn’t have turned around, from my family and friends reactions I knew what I would find. But still I turned just in time to see the paramedics lift a body into a vehicle with the word “Coroner” on its side. A delicate hand slipped from under the white sheet exposing multicolored nails. I looked down at my own hands and found my manicure matched.

I Still Miss You....


So yesterday in class we were talking about symbolism and comparing the symbolism of a white umbrella in a short story we were reading, to the symbolism of a collection of glass pigs in the book The Pigman. The Umbrella stood for something we could not have. For material objects that as humans - and especially in American culture - we let control our lives as objects of love and affection. Think of it. I know I do the same thing, but I'd rather have designer things that I don't like and hurt me (shoes) than have comfy shoes that come from Walmart.

The pig collection stood for love that the old man in the story had for his recently deceased wife. They had collected one each year of their marriage, so in the end it represented his last physical link to her.

This in turn got me thinking about love and my own "pig collection". I have written and rewritten this paragraph, saying seven things that are my Pig collection, but it's not true. In reality I have three things that I would go into a burning building for. One is the last gift she gave me, a tea set. It got it for Easter of 3rd grade, after my aunt found it in my grandmother's closet. She had been saving it for my birthday. It's not fancy, probably didn't even coast $15, but it's the last thing she gave me, so I hold on to it. The second is a pink purse like wallet that she gave me at the beginning of 3rd grade, before the stroke. The last, and my most cherished is a little wooden box.

When we were going through my grandmother's stuff after she passed away, i found a little wooden box. My aunts didn't want it, so I was I got to keep it. Inside I put some of her jewelry, a picture of her parents (my great-grandparents), a picture of my mom and two aunts, a hand painted by my great-grandmother handkerchief, and most of all her wallet. It's old and made of leather. On the front is a hand painted face like the handkerchief, but I find it the most precious for some reason. There is about two dollars in coins inside, but I can not nor will I ever be able to spend it.

I still miss my grandmother even though it will be five years in December. I know it's not right, but I think I might have cared more for her than my mother. She was like a second mother to me, except she never nagged or yelled, she just cuddled and made me feel batter when I was upset. It's hard without her, my family sorta broke after she died. My aunt moved out after getting a job at Trinity college, and now at the University of New Hampshire. My other aunt, well I guess things are almost the same with her. My grandfather has a girlfriend now, but that's not really a bad thing, though my mom acts like it is. But I guess the biggest break was my relationship with my mom. After my grandmother's death things changed between us, and not for the better.

~XOXO
Carrie

Sunday, April 11, 2010

My Day With Angela Pearson, Georgia Nicholson, & Other Imaginary Friends


Hi guys!,
So I've decided to turn over a new leaf. No more drama. No more friend problems. No more bitches. It's time for me to live life to the fullest. I know it sounds weird and corny, but I'm just so tired of all of this. Of 8th grade. I can't wait for high school. I get to reinvent myself in a completely new environment. I get to totally be me and not have to worry that other people think I've changed. That's who I want to be. Not the person I became over time at my now school.

Now you all know how I love to write, so I decided to tell you some about my the newest novel I'm working on. It's a very flexible maybe series, because it's just fun. I love reading this series called Confessions of Georgia Nicholson By Louise Rennison because it's realistic. I mean I don't have half the boy drama she does (sadly I don't even have one hundredth) but her friends are so relatable. Like her friend Rosie is soooo much like Yoda/Cat. And now I see that Serena is soooo much like Wet Lindsay!

But back to the point. As I read the eleven book series I discovered that I could relate to Georgia in a way that I couldn't with many other characters. That's when I realized I need to write my own relatable tale. So that's how Confessions of an Optimistic Pessimist was invented. It's also in diary style and it follows our protagonist Angela Pearson as she graduates form eighth grade and has her first summer romance. She has five close friends: Catlyn (Cat) Flannery, Lindsea Anquillare, Kimberly (Kim) Pascal, Victeria (Vicie) Phan, and Renee James-Herald. Then they is her family: her mother Janet, her father Jonathan, her eldest brother Philip, and her other brother Nate (short for Jonathan).

I haven't totally figured everything out, but I have a good idea about this book. It will probably turn into a series, but it doesn't have to since it will have a happy-all-loose-ends-tied ending, unlike my last book where you needed to read the second book because you had so many questions, but I'm not working on a second book yet.

I'm excited and happy today, so I guess thats a turn of events. The sun is shinning, I'm writing, then I'm going to do some homework later after lunch. I'm cold though so it's not perfect, but that's New England. Earlier this week I was dying of heat, today I'm cold. :)

~XOXO,
Carrie


Saturday, April 10, 2010

Pandora's Box


So I never told you but Serena and I made up on March 8th. My friend Stephanie had her birthday party on the 6th and all of our friends made us talk. We talked out a lot of problems and in the end our main problem was that we had both so drastically changed that we weren't the same people who first became friends. She said what upset her the most was that she felt I was always trying to get attention and talking about my books, ect. I said what upset me the most was that she always told my secrets, like who I liked ect. So come Monday our friends made us sit together for lunch (only us) and we talked and laughed and things seemed good and back to normal. That didn't last long.


As the weeks went on I felt things were getting sorta weird again, but nothing major. Then on Tuesday my friend Corey told me that Serena had told him that I liked Luke. I got upset, but nothing much. All I wanted was an apology. That was Tuesday afternoon, last period of the school day. Today is Saturday, and still nothing. So I guess you can say we are on our third fight in four and a half months.

I have known her since third grade, but we weren't friends until the end of the year so, I'll count it as five and a half years of friendship. Four and half of those years we only got into two arguments. One was so small that all it involved was an apology to Corey and me after she kept saying we liked each other when we didn't in 6th grade. The second was because I was being controlling on a health project, and after when I saw she was really upset I apologized and promised not to be so controlling. That was lat year. Besides those fight we never really argued. This year it has been three big fights within a matter of months. The first lasted a week, the second two weeks, and this one has lasted four and a half days so far.

But you know what really bothers me? Not the fights but what happened yesterday. Yesterday Serena was writing a comic strip about this guy in our class named Regis. Well we always tease him about his dad being a creepy pedophile because he watches us at dances. He also likes one of my friends Angela. Well Serena put both in to her comic strip, and though I don't know what it said, I know it was perverted and upset Angela who read it. Well Serena got upset after Regis, Angela, and some of Angela's friends started to yell at her (in a normal voice but with pissed ofness in it) so she ran into the bathroom. Neena ran in after her to comfort her.

That was my job! I have been the one to talk to her when she cried, not Neena! That's the moment when I realized the total truth; we're not ever going to be best friends. I mean, if we make up we will be friends again, but we will never ever be best friends again. The second Serena said those things on Facebook, she opened a Pandora's box. There is no return. Things will never be the same no matter how much I want it to be.
That's what really hurts. Not our fights, but that our fights will never truely be resolved. When 8th grade ends we may talk on Facebook for a while, but by September things will be completely over. We will be one of those old friends who see each others' statuses on Facebook but don't comment because we aren't that close. We will be each other's "middle school friend" instead of life friends. I hate that this happened, but it did and there is nothing that can be done now.

Life was changed and now were both walking in different directions. Imagine if you want both of us standing in a room with two doors exactly across from each other. At first neither one of us did anything, we just stood there talking and laughing, but in 6th grade we finally noticed there were doors in the room. I walked to one door and Serena chose the other. We were right near each other in the beginning so we didn't notice the gap at first. Sometimes we caught a glimpse of it, but we never said anything until people started to fill in the gap. Then we were starting to get closer to other people. Finally I got upset about the gap so I took it out on a trivial problem, which in turn caused Serena to speak up about the gap, the facade that had been created tearing apart.

We tried to fix the gap, to go back, but like those escalators floor things, we were just running in place. When we graduate we will reach our doors, and by September we will have no choice but to open it and walk through.

~XOXO,
Carrie








Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Poser

Hola peeps,
Yeah “hola” basically covers all my knowledge of Spanish even though I’ve been taking it for three years. Sad. So my last post was kinda depressing about my non-relationship with my father, so I decided to blog about something good…
I got into The Greater Hartford Academy for the Arts! Yay me! I’m still sooo excited! It has an awesome writing program which is bound to help my future, now I just have to pass 8th grade….
So I was talking to Yoda today and I finally got to check out her blog. Her real name is Cat (yeah whatever, she won’t mind if I write her name) but I will probably still refer to her as Yoda since she is so wise. Whenever I have a problem I go to her for advice. She’s just that type of person. I wish she was going to the Art Academy with me; she would so be perfect there. I feel like such a poser. I’m trying to become friends with the artsy kids, but I’ve never classified myself as “artsy” in my whole life.

I mean I’m not super smart (i.e. I’m failing math, science, if not I’m at least on the verge of failing Spanish) , I’ve never been the popular girl, or the rich girl, or the pretty girl, or even the preppy girl (though I kinda want to be). I love rock but I can’t sing or play an instrument (I tried playing the flute but utterly failed even though I took four years of it, but more for my grandfathers sake than mine…anyway the flute isn’t a rocker instrument) so I’m not the rocker.

Now I’m chasing a dream of being the artsy girl. Hanging out at coffee shops and discussing literature while snapping my fingers to poem as I call people “cool cats” isn’t what I had in mind, but more along the lines that I would go to my friends dance recitals, plays, and concerts, and then they would come see me recite poetry or read my latest novel. I want to date a guy who will write a song about me and paint a portrait of me that looks ten times better than I do because that’s the way he sees me.

Yoda is the artsy type. She can play the guitar and want to start a band; she is a great artist, and her writing skills crush mine to smithereens. She’s something between rocker/punk/artsy/and smart. She should be going to an art school instead of some preppy one-step-away-from-boarding school. I feel like a poser. I don’t really fit in anywhere. I like being unique, but what are you when you’re the unique from the unique? When you don’t have a place?
~ Ciao,
Carrie