There are perks to being a wallflower?

For the longest time, I balked any time someone would call me shy. I still don't think I'm shy. I'm an introvert. Unfortunately, I'm an introvert to the point where it's sometimes socially crippling. Good-meaning people tell me I must practice being social, that the more I socialize with people the better at it I will become. It hasn't happened yet, so I'm beginning to wonder in my over-think-everything way if it's me.

Some things about me:

1.) During social engagements, I usually go to the bathroom for the sole purpose of locking myself behind a door long enough to feel human again. If it's longer, it's usually because I can't breathe. After I leave a party, I need a solid hour alone, preferably in a turn-into-boiled-lobster shower. If I don't, I generally fold into myself. If I'm at a party too long, by the time I get home I'll cry.

2.) People misinterpret my comments as overly educated or snobby. Okay, so maybe I'm a little educated. So maybe I try to speak properly and that comes across as educated or snobby. I don't know. The truth is, I'm so afraid that what I say will be misinterpreted (few understand my jokes) or that what I say will be boring, that I don't say anything. I don't want people to think I think I'm something special. I'm not. I'm just one of billions of people out there. My thoughts aren't unique. Unfortunately, I guess that's snobbery.

3.) By the time I think of something to add to the conversation, the conversation has usually moved on. I have to internalize everything first. If I don't think through my words, I have this horrible tendency to stumble over my words because I can't find the right ones to articulate my thoughts when the pressure's on. Then everyone's staring at me and I can't handle it, and then I get embarrassed and can't remember what words I was looking for until all eyes are off me again.

Sometimes I wish things were a little more like (some) fiction--where the introverted wallflower finds a friend who picks her up and introduces her into the world of fast-moving friendliness, where the conflict comes quickly and is gone overnight.  Not the one where she builds her walls higher and higher, hoping someone will see the mountain and choose to climb.

Rejection and Fantasy

Update on rejection: I received a very nice tweet informing me I should not post about rejection in any form. I understand the concept behind it. Someone might mistakenly believe I don't got the goods ;) if she reads my manuscript has already been rejected. I can't say I like it--writing is a lonely place, and I find solace in blogging about my triumphs and struggles--but I understand it. No more posts about rejection. Cross my heart. :)

On a completely different note, I recently noticed I spend a lot of time dreaming up opening lines to books I'll never write. I don't intend to write them. I just want to write their first lines. It happens in those in-between moments when I'm drifting into sleep or driving to work, times when I'm free to think about nothing. In my "nothing" times, I fantasize about writing. How about that?

On Rejection

I've finally begun querying, and like everyone else who's in this stage, I received my first rejection letter. I thought I'd be more upset about it. But I'm not. Actually, I'm not upset about the rejection at all. Actually, I'm shocked with myself that I'm not bothered by it. Seriously.  When that letter came in my inbox a few nights ago, I had to dig through my mental file cabinets just to make sure I wasn't lying to myself. I'm not. It doesn't bother me. Wow.

I don't know why it doesn't bother me.  Maybe I've done a sufficient job convincing myself that rejection is part of the job, which it is. Maybe it's because I've been turned down through so many writing and pitch contests that I'm beginning to become desensitized to rejection. Maybe it's because it wasn't a form rejection. I'm searching through those file cabinets and I can't pinpoint the reason. Huh.  Go figure.

It's like I almost want to be upset, and I'm trying to find a reason to be upset but can't. This isn't me. I worry. I overthink. I get upset. Except not this time. Who are you, and what have you done to April?

So that was my first response--or lack of response. My second response was: YAY! I mean, how cool is that? I've joined the same club all my favorite authors have joined. And yeah, I'm kind of official now. I'm not just playing around at being a writer anymore. I'm out there, making the make, doing the do.

And so, along with this YAY! was a, how cool is it that, out of all the rejection letters for me to first receive, it wasn't a form rejection? This agent took time out of her busy life to reply to me! Kudos to awesome agent Suzie Townsend. So, you won't be my agent, but that's okay. You rock. You didn't tell me my query letter was crummy. You didn't even tell me that you didn't think my novel wasn't a good fit for you. You told me you didn't think LitD would sell given the current market. And that's cool. You've got to make a living. That is something I can totally respect. So a great big huge sincere thanks. You're awesome. :)

So yeah. I'm overly pleased with this whole thing. It doesn't make sense, but I am.

I'm actually floating on some sort of weird distorted cloud. The cloud should be cliche, because everyone floats on clouds, but it's not because I shouldn't feel this way about rejection.

So yeah. That's all I've got right now.

Don't tell me that character isn't real

It seems there's been a lot of chatter in the blog world about girls. Not too long ago, the lovely Zoe Marriott wrote a post called Real Girls, Fake Girls, Everybody Hates Girls.Then there was the post written by Sophia McDougall called I hate Strong Female Characters, which I'll admit I didn't read in it's entirety, but I especially like the last five or so lines. Veronica Roth, author of my beloved "Divergent," answers the fan question, "Does a YA female protagonist have to be strong?" So this started me thinking.

Then, I read a review about "The 5th Wave" that finally helped me formulate my thoughts. A Goodreads user refers to the novel as "bastardized sci-fi for the Twilight crowd...[with a] cringe worthy young adult 'romance' (which [he] never would have expected from a male author...)." In one sentence, this reviewer refers to MC Cassie as melodramatic, whining, clueless, and naive. 

I'm trying to work my way through this one. First, I didn't find Cassie melodramatic, whining, clueless, or naive. Second, so what if she were? You can't tell me you've never met someone who owned these adjectives? Just because you don't like a character doesn't mean she isn't real.

Granted, I'm unpublished. I don't have an MFA or any other fancy writing-related degree, so I'm really no professional, but I do hate it when people comment on characters in novels and say those characters aren't real. Let's get this straight: there are all types of people out there.

I am a high school teacher. I have taught hundreds of students. So when I say, there are all types of people out there, I mean there are all types of people out there. I'm qualified to say that. Authors, many of us base our characters on people we know or have met.

Which is why I get a little perturbed when people refer to other characters as whining, clueless, naive, melodramatic, fake, stilted, or any other adjective, and they do so in a negative way. Because, hello, there are all types of people out there.

Just because you have never met someone who sings everything, doesn't mean that person isn't out there.* Just because you have never met someone who carefully places her prepositions within her sentences, doesn't mean she isn't out there. Just because you have never met someone who pulls his hair out when he's nervous, doesn't mean he isn't out there.

It's okay if you don't connect with a character, because, let's face it, we don't connect with everyone out there. But please, don't ever tell me a character isn't real. There are a lot of real people out there. And those real people do a lot of strange things. Maybe the character isn't your typical teenage girl. But really, did you pick up that book because you wanted to read the same characters you always read?

*For the record, my second year teaching, I had a student who sang EVERYTHING. From "May I please go to the bathroom? I really need to pee," to "Subtract x from both sides, then divide," she sang it. All. Year. Long.

My Question for you:
I know there are times when you don't connect with a character. What are they?

End-of-summer Update

I'll be off blogging for a little while again. Back to the Appalachian Mountains for me! It's my last crazy hurrah before the school-year begins and I once again teach statistics and algebra to a hundred eager minds.

Just a brief update of what I've been up to.
1.) I entered the Pitch+250 contest over at Adventures in YA Publishing.
2.) I entered the Secret Agent contest over at Miss Snark's First Victim.
3.) There was also the Agent Greeting contest (just for fun) at Michelle4Laughs.
4.) And I've been spending a whole heck of a lot of time at the WriteOnCon forum in preparation for the conference next week.

What is real?

Yikes! I haven't blogged for nearly half a month. I can't believe I let the time slip by like that. If it makes you feel any better (and there's no reason why it would--or why it would change how you feel in any way), I was very busy:
1.) Potty training my 2 year old (I got peed on and bruised a bone in the process).
2.) Finishing the 5th draft of LitD (which I did this morning).
3.) Camping in the Appalachian Mountains.

Today's post is my response to Rachelle Gardner's latest post "Are You Afraid to Tell the Truth? In it, she writes:

"What if you were able to let go of your need to show the world only your best side? Your shiny, polished and edited side? What if you were to tell the truth about your humanness — those moments of selfishness and greed, those flashes of insecurity, the envy that overtakes you at odd moments? What if you were able to portray the world as it really is?"

And it got me thinking. About myself. Because, after all, isn't that the way the world really is? I've decided to reply with very little filter. My only blinking neon sign is that I mean no disrespect. To anyone. In the world. Ever.

So here we go...

I live in a world that is utterly focused around myself. I am the center of the universe--my universe. As much as I try not to be so egocentric, it's true. That's who I am. This is my world. Welcome. You're in it. You revolve around me.

The more I try to deny this, the unhappier I become. I try really really hard to make other people my center. I insist on making dinner, serving it, eating last (or not eating at all if there isn't enough time or food), and then cleaning up afterwards. It's because I don't want to appear selfish.  And then I get tired. And then I become deflated. And then, if I'm not careful, I get depressed.

The fact is: I am selfish. I am egotistical. I am sometimes falsely modest. This is the world as it really is.

Sometimes I screw with my universe just to see if the things in the universe will notice me.* But isn't that what I want? Don't I want my universe to notice me? Don't I want confirmation that I'm important enough for the universe to take notice of? But because I'm the center of my universe, it doesn't notice me.** And then I get tired. And then I become deflated. And then, if I'm not careful, I get depressed.

I disagree with one thing Rachelle says in her post. She writes:

"The deeper you dig down, the more you refuse to sugarcoat — the better you will resonate with your readers."

I don't know this is true. If you (I) tell the bare truth, people think there's something wrong with you (me). I had a friend tell me over coffee once how she hates getting together with this other friend. Said other friend "complains. And I want to tell her to get over it." But wasn't this other friend just telling it as she saw it--as it is in her universe?

And do people really want you to tell the truth? I don't think so. I don't know that it actually helps me resonate with readers more.

How many times have I read a blog--agent, editor, author, book reviewer--that says, "Sorry, this character is too snarky. This one is too whiny. This one isn't flawed enough. This one is too flawed for readers to resonate with." Shock. Some people are snarky, whiny, perfect, or flawed. There are all types of people out there. But readers don't want to read about some of them.

We want people to tell us what we want to hear. You're doing a great job. Don't worry. You're a great mom/writer/teacher/person/keeper of the universe. My addled brain wants to hear these words. But it also translates them as: I don't care that you don't think you're doing a great job. Get over yourself. Your fears are unfounded. You're not the center of the universe.

But I want to know my fears are valid. I want to know I'm important enough that my fears have merit. I want this too. I want both. I want it all.

So yeah, if I tell the truth about my humanness, I get called pretentious or a complainer. But does anyone call me real?

Maybe that's why I cry every darned time I read The Velveteen Rabbit. What is real?

*I'm hiding something here, because that's what I do. I only provide you with an edited version.
**Oooh, conundrum. I am the universe and I want the universe to notice me.

So, really. I want you to tell me:
What is real?

RTW - What song would you love to see a book based on?

Road Trip Wednesday is a ‘Blog Carnival,’ where YA Highway's contributors post a weekly writing- or reading-related question that begs to be answered. In the comments, you can hop from destination to destination and get everybody's unique take on the topic.

This Week's Topic: What song would you love to see a book based on?

My Answer: "Objects in the Rearview Mirror May Appear Closer than They Are" by Meatloaf
I have been saying since I was a teenager that I wanted this song written as a book.  It was my teenage angst song, and somehow fit perfectly into everything I was going through as a kid and made me feel like somewhere out there, someone understood me.  I'm not saying that I lost my best friend or made love to an angel in the back seat of a car.  It's just...this song spoke to me unlike any other.

Then, I decided I wanted to write the story, so at 4 o'clock this morning, I sat down and wrote.  A couple of things you should know:
1.) I switched genders.  I'm still not comfortable writing male perspectives.
2.) Isaac is the angel.
3.) Ginny is Kenny.
4.) I know "Bat Out of Hell" came out in the seventies and that OitRvMMACtTA came out in the nineties.  It's just Meatloaf will always be eighties to me.

I don't know if you want to read the lyrics, listen to the song, or read what I've written, so I've included all of it.  The video and lyrics are at the end. Here's my story:

"And when the sun descended and the night arose, I heard my father cursing everyone he knows. He was dangerous and drunk and defeated and corroded by failure and envy and hate. There were endless winters, and the dreams would freeze. Nowhere to hide and no leaves on the trees, and my father’s eyes were blank as he hit me again and again and again."

Even though I knew I had nowhere to go, I ran.  Mom sat there and let me. 

But he came.  Maybe the bruises weren’t enough.  Maybe losing Ginny was too much and he didn’t want to lose me too.  I’d like to think the last is true, but really, I don’t know.

I slipped on the stairs and fell.  He reached me then, but the ice was too thick and the snow too thin, and he fell too.  I got up and nearly dropped again, my knee slamming into the walkway.  I scrambled to my feet, but he had my hair and pulled me down again.

He said something then, but the wind or my pulse was too thick, so I didn’t hear it.

This time, I was lucky he was drunk.  I wrenched myself away, leaving behind a fistful of hair, but I didn’t care. I just had to get away.

I ran to the shed and grabbed my bike.  I didn’t look to see if he was still sprawled on the ground. My foot hit the pedal and I was gone.

The snow whipped my face and made it impossible to see. I was still on the road because my bike almost skidded out a couple times—it wouldn’t have done that on the grass—but even so, the bottom of the hill was steep.  Bicycles aren’t meant to be ridden in the snow.  I couldn’t stop.

The back tire slid from under me, and I skidded across the T-intersection.  It was the tree that finally stopped me.  Rather, it was my head against the tree that stopped me.  I lay in the darkness in a ditch across from my street, more stunned than anything else.

That’s when I saw the light.  And when it crested the top of the hill, I saw them.  The 1992 Mazda headlights.  He had come after me.

I was too tired.

He was driving faster than weather permitted.  Actually, if it had been summertime, he would have still been driving too fast.  Now the same weather that had made it impossible for us to leave the hill the day I was supposed to get my license prevented him from leaving it too.

When the Mazda started to spin, the back tires fishtailed first.  And then the truck was coming straight towards me.

I couldn’t get to my feet.  I scrambled into the woods, putting a tree between me and him.

There weren’t any screeching tires or loud bangs.  There wasn’t a moment of clarity, and the world did not slow. I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes.  Maybe that’s because I wasn’t going to die.

I felt the impact of the truck.  It didn’t hit me.  It didn’t even hit my tree, just a nearby tree. I waited for him to get out, but he didn’t.  I just stood there and waited.  And waited and waited and waited.  But there was nothing.

I should have walked to the cab, but I couldn’t.  I was rooted in the ground like the tree that maybe killed my father.

Finally, I reached into my pocket and took out my cell phone. Its screen lit up the ditch. I brushed the snow away on my jeans and then dialed.

“Hi, Isaac. It’s Caroline. I know it’s late, but can you come pick me up?”

I told him where to find me, and then I tucked my cell phone into my pocket and climbed from the ditch. I stood at the edge of the road and waited.

Exactly two cars passed before the third slowed.  Despite the darkness, I knew it was Isaac’s car.  He hadn’t brushed the snow off yet.

He had already rolled down the passenger window by the time he stopped, but I was in his car before he could say anything through it.

“Jesus, Caroline—”

“Just drive.  Isaac, please.  Just drive.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Just go, already.  Please.”

So he did, and I told him what happened. I didn’t cry. I just spoke.

By the time I was done, the roads were getting bad.  Real bad. He pulled his car into the parking lot of the old motel and shut it off, and we just sat there under the streetlight in silence for a while.

The snow covered the windshield again.  Pretty soon we were both in shadow.

I stared out the window, not that I could see anything.  The snow covered that too. I shivered.

“Jesus, Caroline,” Isaac said again.

I looked at him. He took his jacket off and put it around my shoulders, covering my sodden pajamas.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

He leaned over me and rummaged through his glove compartment. He dabbed my face with the napkin. I looked down.  There were dark stains on it.

“Can you grab the kit from under your seat?” he asked me.  I did.

He cleaned up most of the blood and then covered the largest gash with gauze. We didn’t say anything for a long time after that. I stared unseeingly out the window.

“You look a lot like her,” he finally said.

I looked at him. He was right. I did look a lot like Ginny. I always have.

He touched my cheek and tilted my face towards him. I shivered.  He dropped his hand and restarted the car.  The dashboard flickered on and music started playing.  In a few minutes, heat came pouring from the vents.

“Thank you,” I said. I handed him his jacket.

He shook his head, so I draped it over me again.

“Do you miss her?” I asked.

“Every day.”

“Me too.”

It was a silly question. Everyone misses Ginny. You can’t be that beautiful a person without being missed. But I still felt a pang of regret.  Then I felt a pang of jealousy—jealousy over my dead sister.

He touched the back of my hand. I didn’t look up.

“Caroline,” he said.

Then I did look up, and his lips were on mine. I froze.  Then I kissed him back.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this was wrong. It didn’t matter how long I loved Isaac.  Ginny loved him first.  And I knew he wasn’t kissing me.  He was kissing Ginny.

And then, I didn’t care anymore.

I wound my fingers through his hair and pulled him deeper into the kiss.  He came willingly. He unbuckled his seatbelt, and soon the back of my seat had been lowered and he was on top of me.

A song drifted over the stereo.  “And I think somebody somewhere must be tolling a bell. And the last thing I see is my heart, still beating.”

Because Isaac would listen to eighties music.

“Breaking out of my body and flying away.”

Isaac’s tongue crashed into my mouth, and I was gone.

"She used her body just like a bandage. She used my body just like a wound. I’ll probably never know where she disappeared, but I can see her rising up out of the back seat now, just like an angel rising up from a tomb."

Here's a link to the lyrics.

Here's the video:

Your turn:  What's your teenage angst song--the one that you feel sings to you and was written especially for you?