Over the weekend, I received a rejection for Rock Gods & Scary Monsters that kind of inspired me. I've been kicking around a new YA idea (well, vamping some of my old ideas into something new, anyway), and said rejecting agent suggested he/she might be interested in seeing my next "thing".
But my problem: plot development...namely development of subplots.
This, I believe, is where short story writing hurts. My longer work is too focused (at least too focused to be commercial, I guess). My WIP is character development for the new novel. I've written a few thousand words, too.
And then I had another "must write" short story idea.
(but...it's a winner...really)
So, from the as yet unnamed YA novel (in which there are ghosts, sort of):
After he describes the other "weirdos" in his senior seminar...
And who was left? The lone ranger in the circle of the damned? The only sane member of LeClaire’s inner cabal?
Me. Six feet nothing, piggy-tail corkscrew hair in brown, like some uber-happy six-year-old found the acrylic and went Van Gogh on my head. If you straightened my hair, it might have been half a foot long. Curled up, it poked out about three-quarters of an inch. I wore a pair of fat-rimmed glasses with lenses wide enough to ignite an ant hill on a cloudy day, a baggy, black t-shirt, and jeans. The hole-free variety.
And then "Shovel Man" (the dastardly short story):
“The others are coming, and I want to be ready. I’ll need your help.”
The word others stoked the sliver of fear lodged in the boy’s chest, but he moved to the ladder, dropped his pail and started to climb. He climbed because the stranger’s voice, like the exotic smell, carried a sweetness to it, benevolent and intoxicating. The wood rungs groaned as the boy’s weight shifted and fell on one after the other, step by step.
I'm playing around with not naming the characters in this one, giving them a "fairy tale" quality. Rest assured, it's a Grimm's fairy tale. The truth is...I think I'm more of a short story writer.
Whew. I said it.
Have a lovely Wednesday.