Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

:)

- gae

or, you know, if you're author Bettina Restrepo, a telenovela.

(which just means soap opera in Spanish).

And she's here today with just that:ÌýaÌýsneak peek of her work in progress, Telenovela.

But first,Ìýa brief word from our sponsor:

Here I am, upside down,
after an up and down week.
Er.

That would be me.

Word.

Ok, fine, more words: in honor of the countdown to the release of her debut YA (Katherine Tegen Books March 8, 2011), Bettina is hosting a giveaway on her . Further instructions to enter and win a signed copy of Illegal at the bottom of this post!


Oh, and fyi, this is BettinaÌý

ask her if she really types
her books on this thing.

and this is Nora's story, Illegal:




About Illegal (from Amazon):

A promise.
²Ï³Ü¾±²Ô³¦±ð²¹Ã‘±ð°ù²¹.
A promise that we would be together on my fifteenth birthday . . .

Instead, Nora is on a desperate journey far away from home. When her father leaves their beloved Mexico in search of work, Nora stays behind. She fights to make sense of her loss while living in poverty—waiting for her father's return and a better day. When the letters and money stop coming, Nora decides that she and her mother must look for him in Texas. After a frightening experience crossing the border, the two are all alone in a strange place. Now, Nora must find the strength to survive while aching for small comforts: friends, a new school, and her precious quinceaÑera.

Bettina Restrepo's gripping, deeply hopeful debut novel captures the challenges of one girl's unique yet universal immigrant experience.

Doesnt that sound beautiful and intense? But of course Bettina's not here for that today. She's here to put her new work up for some feedback, and to offer some in return if you'd like. YouÌýknow the rules:

1. If it's the first few paragraphs of a novel � today it IS � tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?

2. What works for you, draws you into the piece, and why?

3. What doesn't work for you (if something doesn't) and why?

If you want the same feedback, please post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tellÌýus what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem, etc...). Please post no more than 3 paragraphs. If there's more, we may not read it.ÌýIf you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such because we like to know.
Telenovela

Bogota, Colombia


"I wish this was all different," I said to myself.

I stuck my face against the pane of glass and stared down 7th street toward the tall building with shiny glass. Buses screeched to a stop as bicyclists darted in and out of traffic, risking life and limb.

At 5 o'clock, the phone rang, as usual. "Mercedes how are you?" asked my mother in her automatic, check on your daughter to see if she if she's doing her homework, kind of way.

I watched the taxis stampede like buffalos around the corner, jockeying for position at the next light. "I'm fine," I said, pushing my math book aside and not really feeling fine at all.

Trucks pushed themselves into the small parking lot at Olympicia, trying to get their grocery store deliveries off quickly before Bogota rush hour brought everything to a complete halt.

Mother sounded like she was typing at the computer. "I'm working late this evening."

"Again? Is it work or him?" I said, trying not to roll my eyes.

I heard her huff into the phone. "Valentino called me. He's showing the big apartment overlooking the park. If he sells that apartment it would mean a huge commission for all of us. I need to put down the deposit for you at school next year."

I looked around our fancy apartment. Beautiful antiques, a stunning view of Carrera 7 and the lovely view of the distant mountains. None of it reflected the zero balance at the bank. As far as I knew, we were mostly broke.

"Maybe you could ask AndreÅ› to pay my tuition? That's his job," I said sullenly.

She paused. I could tell my comments made her angry. "You are my job. If he wants to give a little gift, fine, but I'm not asking him for anything."

AndreÅ› was the constant 'he' in our apartment. He was my father. He was married to someone else. He was who my mother loved. As far as I was concerned, he was just a sperm donor.

Then, I heard a stapler. "How was school today?" she asked. Again, I could hear things shifting on her desk. The subject of 'he' closed.

"Good," I said, trying to change up my adjectives. My life existed around poised white lies. It's not like I could explain how my loneliness grew when she was busy trying to get the attention of a man who didn't love either one of us.

I didn't have friends either, unless you consider Maruja, our maid. I longed for someone my own age who wouldn't consider me poisonous. "I'll tell Maruja to save dinner tonight for you."

I exhaled and said the words she wanted to hear. "Really, it's okay. Everything is fine."

My mother chirped, "I promise not to be so late. Ciou!"

What if one day I wouldn't say it? How long would she wait?

Maruja, stuck her head into the room. "Let me guess, your mother and uncle are running late."

I nodded. I bet mother would sit in her office all night waiting for my father to call.
----

( How to enter to win a signed copy of Illegal : Because Illegal deals with the issue of illegal immigrants, Bettina is interested in knowing whether this is an issue where you live: Does your area of the country have issues with illegal immigrants? Answer in your comment, along with your name and city and stateÌýto be elligible to win one of fiveÌýsigned copiesÌýof Illegal, winner to be announced on on or about April 1, 2011. Please visit her website for more details. And good luck!).

�
Read my sign.
Do notÌýquestion the sign.ï»�
This is me. I am popular.

(If you say it, is it so?)

(If you aren't, does it matter?)

What does it mean to be popular?

Today's super guest star may or may not know. She is , author of , Flux, May 8, 2011.

THIS is Alissa. The signs were her idea:

A sign doesn't lie.See? She is also popular.

And this is her book.

Here's what her website has to say about Popular: Meet the clique that rules Fidelity High: Olivia, Zelda, Nordica, and Shelly, each one handpicked by uber-popular Hamilton Best. You know you're "in" when you make the guest list for one of Hamilton's parties. And in the thralls of senior year, everyone wants to get noticed by Hamilton. But Hamilton's elite entourage is coming apart at the seams. . . . Lies and secrets are ripping away the careful ties that have kept them together for years.ÌýAnd Hamilton has the biggest secret of all, one that only her boyfriend Alex knows. If the truth got out, it would shock everyone and destroy Hamilton's fragile worldâ€� she'll do anything to protect it and keep her clique together.

But of course, that's not why Alissa is here today.

Today, she is hereÌýin the hot seat.



Er. Wait, sorry. Not that hot.

*blows out Alissa's chair.*

Alissa is giving us a sneak peek at the opening to her upper YA WIP bearing the working title Fan Club Presidents. You guys know theÌýrules (if you don't and want more detail, go ):


1. If it's the first few paragraphs of a novel � today it IS � tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?

2. What works for you, draws you into the piece, and why?

3. What doesn't work for you (if something doesn't) and why?

If you'd like the same feedback, please post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tell me what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem, etc...). Please post no more than 3Ìýparagraphs, 5 if they're short. If there's more, I may not read it. If the comment gets too long, feel free to reply in two separate comments. If you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such (and take a bow). If not, take a bow anyway.ÌýAnd be brave. I blew out the chair. :)



Fan Club Presidents
ÌýÌýÌýÌý I wanted to begin this story like a Dicaprio song. The perfect mix of guitar and drum beat would grab hold of you and pull you in. Then the first verse would take your breath away, and like that you would be hooked. I know all the words to every song that Dicaprio ever recorded. Yes, I was one of those obsessed girls that knows things like J.J.'s favorite flavor Pop Tarts (strawberry milkshake) or that The Urge lost the tip of his right ring finger in an eighth grade shop class accident. I used to play my favorite songs again and again, escaping into the music. I wanted my life to be like a Dicaprio song and knew that if it was, I would never be unhappy again. Life is way more complicated than a three and a half minute song, and that's
probably for the best.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý In the autumn that followed my high school graduation, I found myself living in that limbo world between childhood and the rest of my life smack dab in the suburban hell that was Valerie, New Jersey. A series
of events, but mostly my own apathy, had kept me from enrolling in college. So, now as a newly minted nineteen year old living in the house she had always lived in with the family she had always lived
with, I was playing at being a grown up.

***

this is the "usual" me
upside down.Welcome to
Friday Feedback.

I've rounded up another volunteer
this week, so go ahead and get your feedback-thinking caps on.Ìý

ÌýYou know, the pretty silver ones that look like this:
Ìý
ugly-cute dog feedback cap
scary cat feedback capGood. Excellent. Those look veryÌýnice on you.

Okay, speaking of dogs (oh, hush, who cares about the cat?!), aimÌýyourÌýantennae, and say hi to today's super guest star (who is donning a different sort of cap).

This is ,Ìýauthor of Dogsled Dreams, with some of her beautiful dogs (not that the darling creature above isn't *ahem* beautiful):

Terry Lynn with her beautiful
dog and normal dog-lady capDogsled Dreams (now available at a near you!) is a middle grade novel in the tradition of Gary Paulsen's adventure books,Ìýand follows 12-year-old Rebecca, an inventive but self-doubting "musher" who dreams of becoming a famous sled dog racer. She tackles blinding blizzards, wild animal attacks, puppy training, and flying poo missiles, challengesÌýwhich all seem easier than living up to the dogs' trust in her abilities....Ìý



SO, that's , butÌýTerry is here in the hot seat today, with a piece of her new WIP which bears the working title Wolf Ridge.

You guys know the rules:
1. If it is the first few paragraphs of a novel � today it IS � tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?

2. What works for you, draws you into the piece, and why?

3. What doesn't work for you (if something doesn't) and why?

If you'd like the same feedback on a piece of your own work, please post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tell me what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem, etc...). Please post no more than 3 paragraphs, 5 if they'reÌýreally short. If the comment gets too long, feel free to reply in two separate comments. If you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such (and take a bow). If not, take a bow anyway. Here we go!

Wolf Ridge
By Terry Lynn Johnson

Chapter One

"Look down there," Bud yells through my headset into my ear. "A moose! See it?"

The pilot pokes a thick finger toward my side of the Turbo Beaver. The hair on his arm is so dense, it looks like I'm sharing the plane with a mammal that needs to hibernate for the winter. His ball cap announces that rehab is for quitters.

He tilts the plane's wings and we begin to circle. The pitch of the engines switch from a drone to a whine. I peer down through the window and see a black animal in the middle of a swamp. It appears to be ignoring the noisy thing circling above it.

I get another wave of nausea as I look at the trees around the swamp. Nothing but trees, and lakes, and more trees since we left Wolf Ridge Park's main office forty minutes ago. And I probably look about the same color as those trees.

I feel beads of sweat burst out of every pore. My shirt clings to me, showing too much and I pull it away from myself.

"I think he's lying down in the water. Must be trying to git out of the bugs. Look at that rack!" The plane continues to circle as Bud cranes his neck to get a better look. "Man, this is a great place to be for the summer. You're a lucky girl, you know."

My hands clench at his words. If you call being abandoned by both your parents lucky. If being forced to stay with your crazy Aunt Chrystal for the summer in a ranger cabin with no electricity or cell phones is lucky, then I guess I'm the luckiest girl alive. I'd tell him this too, but I'm afraid to open my mouth. It suddenly fills with spit.

"Oh, there he goes. Man, he's big. See him, Sweetheart? Toad is it? What kind of a name is Toad for a pretty little thing like you?" Bud takes his cap off, scratches his balding head with one finger, and then replaces the cap.

I try a small smile to acknowledge the compliment, and then wipe at the damp curls sticking to my forehead. Despite my attempts at straightening this morning with the last bit of electricity available to me, my hair is beginning to show signs of stress.

I pull the mic on my mouthpiece closer to my lips and yell into it, "Long story."

- Terry Lynn Johnson

this is still me.
just a different-seeming me. Welcome to Friday Feedback.

Hey peepos.

It's just me today because, well, because I don't want you to forget me with all the awesomeness that has abounded here lately with the ol' guest stars poppin' inÌý(I have another one next Friday, so no worries).

So, here we are. You, and me, and our pieces o' work. Let's get to it.

At the request of some of my darling and devoted regulars, I'm going to give you a good chunk of the opening of In Sight of Stars, my Work In Progress (*a roar of cheers erupts in the crowd.*) Er. Okay. Maybe not a roar.

*fyi, this is an explicit language warning. This piece is geared toward upper YA, and especially in my first drafts I tend not to pull the language back. It might happen in a later revision, as I also *try* to be judicious. Please don't read on if this is not appropriate for you.

Are you still reading? Okay, well then you know the RULES: (If you want more detail, go ,Ìýor, just follow along).

1. If it is the first few paragraphs of a novel � today it IS � tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?

2. What works for you, draws you into the piece, and why?

3. What doesn't work for you (if something doesn't) and why?

If you'd like the same feedback, please post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tell me what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem...). Please post no more than 3 -5 paragraphs. If there's more, I will only read the first 3 -5. If the comment gets too long, feel free to reply in two separate comments. If you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such.
----



Week One.

1.

Dad and I are walking through Soho. The day is bright and brisk. As we talk, our breath puffs out in front of us like steam from the street vents.

We pass the familiar streets of the village � Broome, Spring, Prince � as we head quickly north on West Broadway. The sky turns dusky gray. Now, Sarah is there with me, snow falling; the Empire State building comes into view in all its wintery, pink-red glory. She twirls toward me and smiles. Snowflakes catch in her black hair, white stars that melt away.

Dad laughs at something, and Sarah takes my hand, and everything is perfect.

Except, no. That's not right. We're not in Soho or uptown.

There's no Empire State Building.

And Dad's not there at all.

No one is there.

I scratch my ear.

"Try not to do that," she says.

What?

I look up. The familiar woman watches me. Middle aged. Dark, frizzy hair. A little overweight.

Dr. Andersen.

No, that's not right either.

Alvarez. Dr. Alvarez.

Shit. Why can't I hold onto anything?

Art, I say, I met Sarah in art class. Is that what you asked me? I seriously can't get my thoughts to stay put.

Dr. Alvarez nods and I stare at the print on her wall. It's a Van Gogh. Daubigny's Garden, 1890. I think that's why I'm willing to talk. Because of that print on her wall. If it had been anything else � a Monet, a Renoir � forget it. But it's not. It's Van Gogh.

"Tell me more about that," she says.

Van Gogh? I pull at my ear again. I try not to, but it itches. She looks at me strange.

My eyes go back to the print. The frame is wrong, too modern, and matted. You don't really matte a Van Gogh. His paintings are expansive. The color should go right to the frame. I close my eyes and breathe. My throat feels too choked to swallow.

"No, Klee, tell me about Sarah. How things got started. How you ended up here. You started to tell me yesterday."

Right. I was here yesterday.

"Klee?"

She calls me Klee again, with the long e sound. I'm sure I corrected her already. I grip my fingers together so I leave my ear alone. She reaches across to the table next to her, opens a drawer, and tosses a small purple stress ball at me. It lands in my lap. Normally, I would have caught it. My reflexes feel off.

The ball is one of those freebie sales-giveaways. Or maybe she ordered it. It's sand on the inside, purple rubber on the outside like a balloon, with white lettering that says, Imovane 5 (Zopiclone 5mg) and below that, Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. � Sigmund Freud.

I must laugh or something because she says, "If you like it, you can keep it. I have plenty more." I nod. "So, you were telling me about Sarah." When she says her name it feels like she kicks me inside which makes it hard to breathe.

I met her in art class, I say, but I think I've said that already.

Art is the one thing that matters to me. Art is the one thing I still have.

"So, will you? Will you tell me how you met her?" Dr. Alvarez taps her clipboard and watches me. I'm confused because I keep thinking I've said things aloud and then it seems like I haven't. Her fingernails make a clicking sound on the metal clip at the top of the board. I didn't know people used them anymore. I had one in elementary school that I covered in Wacky Packages stickers. I remember my favorite had a brown candy bar with stink coming out of it and was called Sneakers which I thought was hilarious back then.

Dr. Alvarez is watching me again. My train of thought keeps derailing. I need to straighten things out in my head. I'm supposed to talk in here to solve things and get better. Here is the North Haven Children's Psychiatric Inpatient Treatment Center. This is my second meeting with Dr. Alvarez. The afternoon before that, mom drove me here.

"Yes, that's right," she says. "You got here late Sunday. We met briefly yesterday. It's Tuesday now. Are you having a hard time remembering?"

Fuck, wait. I didn't mean to say that part aloud.

My mother drove me because I wasn't allowed to drive myself. Because I'm a danger to self and others.

I nod my head to answer her question. My head feels blurry, my lips feel parched, my tongue heavy. Words come when I don't want them to, and don't come when I think I said them out loud. I'm having a hard time keeping things straight.

"It may be the medication. I'll talk to Dr. Ram, see if things should be adjusted." My eyes go to her. "In the meantime, there's no rush. Just take your time, okay?"

I need to get a drink from the fountain, I say.

"Sure. Go ahead."

The hallway is white and sterile except for the cartoonishly-bad fish mural that stretches across one wall. It looks like it was done by kindergarteners, except you know it was done by some untalented adult who was aiming to make it look cheerful. Or, maybe not. Maybe it really was done by kindergarteners. Either way, it hurts my eyes to look at it.

The fountain is at the end of the hall. My legs give me a hard time like someone has tethered them. When I reach it, I stand and drink for a long time. It seems like I will never stop drinking.


- gae

I'm half writing,
half procrastinating,
hopped up on hazelnut coffee.

You?

This is me. You remember me?
Guess what, peepos?

I've got another super exciting guest star on tap today, putting his bravery on the line for Friday Feedback. FellowÌý, and all around amazing writer, .
This is not me, it is Randy.
I know, the blue cap fooled you.
(If you click on his name, it will take you to his very cool, new fangled website which I love!)



Here's a true story: In prepping for today's Friday Feedback, Randy sent me four different excerpts to choose from, and one after another, I read them hyperventilating. I finally made him choose because I couldn't (and one was so awesome, I was afraid to reveal it on my blog).

Trust me on this: Randy is an author to follow.

Anyway, enough gushing. More business.

Randy's YA debut, , comes out from Harper Teen, June 21, 2011.
According to some smart person at Harper Collins, Dead Rules can be described as follows,

"…Romeo and Juliet meets Heathers in this darkly comedic paranormal romance."

Yep. You wanna read that, right?

All I know is the protagonist dies in a freak bowling accident, so, seriously, people, sell me no more.


This is a photo of a button.
If you want this button, ask Randy!
(I do. I want this button!)


But,Ìýwhere was I? Oh yeah.

Today, forÌýFriday FEEDBACKÌýRandy is giving you a sneak peek at his sequel to , which is still a larval work in progress. The working title is Deadication or, hmmm,ÌýDead Girl Blues, I can't decide which I like better, you?

Okay, here we go, after a brief recap of the RULES:


(If you want more details, read this blog post here: ) otherwise, just follow along).

1. If it is the first few paragraphs of a novel â€� today it IS, yay!!Ìýâ€� tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?

2. What works for you, draws you into the piece, and why?

3. What doesn't work for you (if something doesn't) and why?

If you would like the same feedback on your own piece, please post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tell me what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem, etc...). Please post no more than 3 -5 paragraphs, 5 if they're short, 3 if they are long. If there's more, I will only read the first 3 -5. If the comment gets too long, feel free to reply in two separate comments. If you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such (and take a bow).

Okay, here's Randy's work:


Chapter One


Her face red from exertion, Carla Cassel worked her bicycle along a ridge road above the French Broad River at the edge of Buncombe City, North Carolina. There was no city here, just a string of older houses under the mountain pines. The houses were spaced far apart on level with the paved road. Carla was looking for her sister.

Where are you?

Her right pedal began to squeak on each down push as Carla rode past a small clapboard church with a white steeple. The church had been in her dream. She was on the right road. A little later, a small black dog barked from behind a front-yard fence. That had been in her dream, too.

With each circling push of the pedals, Carla's bicycle seemed to be saying her thoughts.

Where are you? Where are you?

The ridge road straightened to pass through a small plateau on the hillside. The houses appeared in uniform blocks now, three streets deep on Carla's left.

A single row of buildings, including the cinderblock laundromat that had been in her dream, was on her right with a steep rise of mountain directly behind. The mountain was a blanket of green hung in the sky behind the buildings. Wild laurel and rhododendron thickets filled the spaces between the pine trees.

Where are you?

Then Carla saw what she was looking for. An abandoned public school building of red brick was just like the building in her dream, centered in an expansive weedy lot, surrounded by a tall chain link fence. Carla leaned her bicycle against the fence. The gate in front was chained and padlocked. A metal sign said No Trespassing. The school had been closed for years.

Her sister was hiding inside, hiding from the man who had abducted and killed her the night before. Carla walked the perimeter of the property until she found a hole in the fence big enough to slip through.
Ìý
---
Ìý
(seriously, my heart is pounding just rereading this excerpt! There's my feedback for you right there!)
Ìý
- gae

This is me. You know me.Welcome to Friday Feedback.

Guess what?

I have a super fantastico guest star putting his bravery on the line
for feedback today. I asked him if he wanted to and this is what he answered:

"What you want me to do? I do it!"

(You see how fantastico he is?!).

Who is he, you ask?

This is Geoff, not me. Fellow Class of 2K11'er, "El Nacho Dip," .Ìý
(yep, that's Geoff over there on the right. Isn't he Nacho-y?)


Geoff's book, Stupid Fast, comes out from Sourcebooks Fire thisÌýJune.

According to Geoff's website, Stupid Fast is,


"…about a boy. It's about sports. It's about being a serious dork. It's about a paper route. It's about bullying and the opposite. It's about a girl. It's about hair growth. It's about a little brother. It's about piano. It's about a depressed mother. It's about learning to be who you are."

All I know is if it came from Geoff, I want to read it.

But, guess what? Geoff is giving you a sneak peek at his sequel to Stupid Fast today. It's actuallyÌýstill a work in progress but just sold anyway this week to Sourcebooks Fire (*throws a pound of confetti at Geoff!* er.) The working title is The Whole Warm World which I really like (you?).

Okay, before we start, a brief recap of the RULES:

(If you want more details, read this blog post : ) otherwise, just follow along).

1. If it is the first few paragraphs of a novel � today it is NOT, so skip to #2. � tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?

2. What works for you, and why?

3. What doesn't work for you (if something doesn't) and why?

If you would like the same feedback for your own work, please post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tell me what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem, etc...). Please post no more than 3 -5 paragraphs, 5 if they're short, 3 if they are long. If there's more, I will only read the first 3 -5. If the comment gets too long, feel free to reply in two separate comments. If you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such. If not, let me know how you found me. Ok, here we go!



From The Whole Warm World:

In May, three months ago, I realized that I am not like my father or brother, Felton. This gene did not transfer. I am not a mammoth athlete, and, I'm serious, I won't ever be.

This, of course, is the least of my troubles.

It really bothered me, which is dumb, because I've never wanted to play sports.

What's sort of funny about this situation is that my classmates wanted me to play sports very badly, EXTREMELY, because my older brother, Felton, is an amazing football player. My high school class isn't that athletic. I suppose they thought I'd save their sweaty sports buns, but I can't. What isn't funny about this situation is that back then, before, in April, I was really happy.

I turned sixteen and Grandma Berba purchased me a used Toyota Celica and I was free. My girlfriend, Bony Emily, and I would drive up and down Bluffton, Wisconsin's Main Street laughing at the drunk and angry college kids. Sometimes Emily would yell funny things at them, like: "Learn to walk, Drunkie McDrunkbottom!" that made them even more angry, but they couldn't catch us, because they were on foot and couldn't walk very well due to their drunkenness and we were in my car. Then we'd drive into the country and go into county parks at night, which was scary. Sometimes we'd drive to Dubuque, Iowa to see decent movies. This was a good life and I didn't worry.
----

Thanks to Geoff for doing this with me. Hopefully he'll be back to enjoy all the feedback. Now, you know, do your thing.

-gae

Forgive the few-and-far-between postings, mostly Friday Feedbacks, but it's been a bit of a crazy time for me.

I started a WIP in late October (sort of a half-assed Nanowrimo -- meaning I wasn't officially entered in Nano because 1. I'm not sure I believe in trying to push yourself to 50K words just for the sake of pushing and 2. no matter how I try, I am not a writer who can write without editing, so 50K in a month is not really doable for me, but I used it as an inspiration to focus better and just write which i did completing about 30K in that month's time and continuing on with it thereafter).

Anyway, for some various reasons not worth going into, I did something I NEVER do -- showed a very rough first 120 pages to my editor and (139 pages to my) agent and they both went nuts for it, so I've been trying to finish it up. Then of course there are some mediations and my kids in there and burpees, elliptical and swimming, so, yeah,Ìýmy blogs have totally suffered. Not to mention the "leg work" for which is slowly starting to pick up - got a first early and awesome review from (she's actually a pretty important and influential person in the YA Lit World!),Ìýand, I've guest presented in 5 high school classes who just finished reading Of Mice and Men, which is totally fun -- i adore it!

So, all this is to say, I haven't quite organized my thoughts but decided to come here anyway to (brag about and) feature a feature on another blog: .

Click on that link. You know you want to. :)

Ìýis a YA book review blog run by the wonderful Sarah Andersen, a high school literature teacher from MichiganÌý(you know, the kind in movies that you'd die to have as YOUR teacher?!). Anyway, she was running this blog and she and I got to chatting, and she was enthusiastically telling me how much her kids inspire her with the way they take to reading and I said to her, why aren't THEY asking questions on your blog? She loved the idea, I hooked her up with some very enthusiastic debut YA writers, and her students have gone mad! Today's interview is with , author of , out any day now.

The students' questions are interesting and thought provoking (for example, read about how he arrived at his title!) and the bottom line is that they and Sarah rock.

They'll be back next week with their Students Want to Know featureÌý(I think) so follow the blog and enjoy.

- gae

How is it Friday again? Well it is, which means it is time for --dumdedadum! --ÌýFriday Feedback.

:)

YouÌýknow the RULES, right?

Ok, fine, just in case, hereÌýthey are again. There are only 3:


(If you want more details, read this blog post here: otherwise, just follow along.

I would like the following feedback (and will offer the same to you if you post an excerpt for me to read in the comments):

#Uno (that's 1 in Spanish): If it is the first few paragraphs of a novel � today it is NOT, so skip to dos (Spanish again, for 2) -- tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?

#2 (well, I already gave away the Spanish): What works for you, draws you into the pieceÌýand why? (this is called the flattery part ;))

and,

#Trois (yep, switched to French. It's late and I'm punchy):ÌýWhat doesn't work for you and why? (ouch, this is called the constructive, sting-y part).

When you are done giving feedback, if you want some of the same multi-lingual feedback from me (or my readers!?)Ìýplease post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tell me what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem, etc...). Please post no more than 3 -5 paragraphs, 5 if they're short, 3 if they are long. If there's more, I will only read the first 3 -5. If the comment gets too long, feel free to reply in two separate comments. If you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such. If not, let me know how you found me.

Today, I am posting another piece from my young adult work in progressÌýIn Sight of Stars narrated by a 17-yr old boy who has a nervous breakdown after the recent death of his father. This piece is from p. 97 of about 155. Still very rough. But it's okay, have at it.
---



ÌýÌýÌýÌý On Thursday, we arrange for my mother to come in. Dr. Alvarez thinks I need to confront her, tell her what I know and how I feel about it. All of it. Even if it means she sees how angry I am. Even if it means that I end up hating her. Or she ends up hating me. "You can't keep walking around with it, Klee, keeping it all bottled inside."

ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýI don't feel great. Sick to my stomach. My jaw is clenched and my head hurts. I'm glad Dr. A. will be there.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý When I reach her office,ÌýDr. A. is already in there,Ìýsitting with the Van Gogh book open on her lap. She turns and looks up at me, then taps the page with her finger. Beneath it, a cheerful, lavender sky swirls above a golden field. Dark green fir trees reach to the sky.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý "Wheat Field with Cypresses," I say, sitting, "1889."

ÌýÌýÌýÌý "I love this one," she says, placing it down on theÌýtable between us. "It's very airy and hopeful. You can smell the trees and feel the wheat blowing." I study it with her. "The thing I didn't realize," she continues, "is how many different styles he had. You think of Van Gogh and you think of his sunflowers or Starry Night, and even those two are quite different. But, now I see that some of his paintings had a strong Japanese influence, magnificent cherry blossoms and peach trees, and incredible color. Yet others are dark and brooding, like his illustrations, or the Potato Eaters, which I'd never heard of but is obviously very famous."

ÌýÌýÌýÌý I nod.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý "What fascinates me is how we presume to know so much when we so often know so little. I'm glad you made me look at his work. It seems very worth knowing."

ÌýÌýÌýÌý "My Dad loved him," I say. "As long as I can remember, he would always talk to me about Van Gogh. And not just Van Gogh, all the masters. But especially Van Gogh."

ÌýÌýÌýÌý "Well, I'm glad he did. And I'm glad you held onto it. And that you've passed it on to me." She slides the book off to the side a little but leaves it open to that page. I'm grateful for that. I understand that she leaves it there intentionally.

ÌýÌýÌýÌý There's a knock on the door. My mother. Her eyes go to me. "People have all different sides," she reminds me.

***