I’ve been posting snippets on Facebook, rather than here on the blog, but I don’t want you to feel left out, so here is a bit of the current Work In Progress, working title While I Was Out:
.
Our yard was long and narrow with a small stand of trees in one corner, set behind the shed my mom had painted to look like a little cottage. When my mom was in her gardening phase, she’d made paths and a gazebofacing the picturesque little copse, with a bench hanging from its ceiling. It was a relaxing place to sit, swinging in the evenings, and it offered a bit of privacy from the house as well. If I was on house arrest, I needed a bit of escape.
I stepped out onto the back porch and inhaled the scented breeze. Mr. Hoskin’s lilacs were thick with scent. It wafted past my nose with a declaration of spring and a promise of summer.
I headed down the steps toward the swing, and then caught sight of a movement in the trees behind the shed. My heart sped up.
It was probably Mr. Hoskin’s ginger cat.
“Marmalade! Pss-pss-pss!” She was a friendly cat, and usually was content to join me on the swing if it meant a thorough patting. She liked hunting in our copse, though. If she had caught the scent of a mouse, she’d be less likely to come. “Come on, Marmalade.”
A stick crunched with a snap. There was no way that was Marmalade. It was unlikely to have been anything much smaller than a bear. The leaves rustled.
“Who’s there?” I asked, fighting to sound [aggressive, brave, confident, assured]. I leaned down to pick up a small brick from the border of the path. Just in case. “You’re on private property! Come out of there!”
A figure stepped out of the trees.
My heart was pounding so fast I could hardly breathe.
He took another step forward and I recognized him. “Carl?”
He stepped out of the shadows. It seemed as if it had been ages since I’d last seen him. At the party he was laughing and confident, like usual. This evening, he looked drawn and slightly haggard. His usually immaculate hair was tangled. There were dark circles under his eyes.
“What are you doing hiding back there? Is something wrong?”
He just looked at me.
“What?” glancing down at myself. I didn’t think I looked so terrible. My bruises were mostly covered, and the ones I could see were fading from their initial vivid purple into a sort of mottled blue-green.
His lips tightened and he looked at the ground. I watched him scuff a foot on the grass as he avoided my gaze. After an age, he blinked up at me. His eyes were brimming with tears. He muttered, “I’m sorry.”
.
First let me say that I LOVE the cover of this book. I thought it was absolutely fantastic, and although I’m still trying to figure out exactly what the symbolism is (I get the green dress- but why the bubble?), I think it is a very powerful image.
Shawn L. Bird 
on being a teen when your birthday says you’re not November 11, 2012
Tags: high, school, teens, writing, YA, young adult, youth
I was just reading a blog post by a writer who was pondering the complications of writing from the narrative perspective of a 16 year old girl. Here are my thoughts about writing as a teen, when one is actually years or even decades past the teen years.
It’s been a few decades since my own high school graduation, but I am lucky. I write for teens, I am with teens all day long, and I never grew up (this means that I actually gave birth to children who are older than I am). I have a unique perspective on the life of the average teen, and access to them. I watch, listen, and absorb what I can in the hallways of the high schools where I teach . I hear about the latest vocabulary, music, games, movies, and books. At the same time, I am no longer a teen, despite not having grown up, so I’m not really in the club. Then again, I wasn’t in the club when I was actually a teen, either. That’s not such an uncommon scenario.
Many things haven’t changed much.
There are the kids who party. There are the jocks. There are the kids who escape their troubles (real or imagined) with substance abuse, with music, art, writing, mechanics or with academic excellence. There are the kids who are motivated and going far. There are the kids who don’t have a lot going for them, and don’t have big dreams. There are enthusiastic kids. There are depressed kids.
Teens are a snap shot of society, though in a time of striving for identity, they are inclined to extremes now, just like they were then.
If you’re writing as a teen in the present, the biggest change in modern teen life compared to life as a teen in the 60s, 70s or 80s is that the ubiquitous cell phone must be part of the action. Cell phones are umbili for social survival for teens today. They require constant connection like The Borg. It’s quite a fascinating thing to observe, especially when the paradox of feeling ‘different’ creates the fundamental paradox: connected and outside simultaneously. That’s the nature of being a teen today.
The most important things remain the same. They still want to change the world. Many still believe, rightly, that they can. That optimism is also an essential component of youth, and the one I like the best.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here I am at Hallowe’en with some of the people who make me happy to get up and drive to work each day, my Acting class. Can you find me? 🙂
NaNoWriMo Day 11: 1100 words (Total 15,000)
Share this:
Like this: