Archive for May, 2013


I DID IT.

I DID THE THING.

THAT THING.

THAT THING WHERE I SENT OFF THE FIRST 50 PAGES OF SEIZE THE DAY TO CHRISTOPHER BUEHLMAN FOR HIM TO COLD READ IT AND GIVE ME FEEDBACK.

And this was his glorious response:

I received your manuscript and look forward to reading it! I’m just now packing the car and preparing to drive cross-country. I’ll end up in New York State around July 7, and I hope to start reading soon after that.

I’ll know in two months whether I should just give up or not. 😉

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Forgoing the picture today because I wanna. 

LJ Idol is doing intersections again and my wife decided she wanted to partner up with me (did I mention she was doing it, too? Because she is). I brainstormed a few ideas with my bff Sarah, sent said ideas to the Wife, and she liked them so much she came up with her own take on it. She’ll be writing Mitchel’s POV this week while I get to play with Jazz’s side of the story. The start of my half is posted below:

 

I can’t fucking believe this.

I love you, Jazz. Mitchel said that to me. Mitchel. You gotta be fucking kidding me. There’s no way. There’s no way Mitchel actually fucking loves me and there’s just no way he’s not manipulating me now, just like he always has. Just like he always will. I wrap my arms around myself and bite my lip, trying to keep the tears at bay as I fly down the steps leading away from Mitchel’s apartment.

He sounded sincere.

He’s always sounded sincere, though, even back when we were seeing each other — back before Savin and I —

Oh.

Oh fuck. I can’t go home. There’s no way — Savin’ll flip his shit. Savin’ll know, and I can’t — I can’t stand the idea of losing him. I can’t stand the idea of telling him what happened, what Mitchel said, what we did. I can’t breathe and I find myself stopping in my tracks, putting my face in my hands. I just — how the hell am I gonna fix this?

I want to scream. I want to fucking tear my hair out and cry and never take a step back inside my own apartment but I can’t. Instead, I collapse against the steps and sit down at the edge of them, cradling my head in my hands. I can cry. I’m allowed to cry.

But the tears don’t want to come. I rake my fingers through my hair, pushing it out of my eyes. I wish I had my cap. Wish I could just hide my eyes with it, have it pulled so low no one recognizes my face. But I don’t have it. I don’t have it and I can’t call Ryin, either, he’s probably asleep or on Hooba or on Mirk and fuck, I need to call someone for advice because — because I can’t just go home. Not when I can still feel Mitchel’s hands on me — not when I can see the softness in his eyes I’ve wanted to see since I’ve known the bastard, and —

I cut that thought off, shaking my head violently. I force myself to breathe, make each one longer than the last and close my eyes.

“I thought you were heading home.”

“Leave me alone, Mitchel,” I groan. “I don’t wanna talk to you.”

Mitchel sits down beside me, impeccably dressed as always. His hair is disheveled, which I guess says a lot. He doesn’t look at me, and instead focuses his eyes forward, a slight frown on his face. “You’re still going to marry him, aren’t you?”

“What kind of fucking question is that?” I snap, turning to face him entirely. I scoot as close to the railing as I can, putting greater distance between us. “Of course I’m still gonna marry him.”

Mitchel nods and smooths back his hair. “Clearly, I took too long to act –”

“You shouldn’t have ‘acted’ at all,” I growl, tightening my arms over my chest. “The fuck did you think was gonna happen? That I would sleep with you and drop Savin, just like that? I love him, Mitchel. I wouldn’t have fucking asked him to marry me if I — if I didn’t.”

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You know what, fuck it, today was a good day for a Wednesday. Added 300 words to Seize the Day and finished chapter 8 before going to therapy. Came home and finished reading for the LJ Idol, which lead to me realizing I was too mentally spent to really write anything of value. 

So I wracked up the rest of my 750 words writing pure, unadulterated smut. Because why not? Snippet of said smut below…

 

Fuck the script. Fuck how long we should stretch this out. Mitchel doesn’t say anything — doesn’t stop us as I grab Jazz’s chin with my free hand and rub his crotch with the other. Our lips meet in an almost desperate kiss. Have to remember to make it showy for the audience — though with the way Jazz’s tongue runs along my own, I totally don’t think I need to worry about that.

The kiss is fucking electrifying. The kid totally knows what he’s doing, and I’m hard again in an instant and aching to have that wonderful mouth of his around me. If he’s this good with his tongue now, I can only imagine how it’d feel along my cock.

Jazz’s hands trail over my shoulders and along my chest, just as I imagined they would. They even move down my clothed stomach, landing on the zipper of my pants. The whole time, we’re still making out, both of us running out of breath quickly.

Jazz is the one to break the kiss first. Those blue eyes of his twinkle mischievously as he unzips my fly. He even licks his lips as he pulls me free. Even though I know I’m supposed to keep talking at this point, I’m not sure my planned line even makes it to my lips as his wrap around me. I almost forget Mitchel is filming us until the camera moves in closer, watching Jazz’s every move as I bury my fingers in his hair.

Christ, each showy bob of his head is almost too much. I wonder if Mitchel’ll let me come twice on film — we can make a film that long, right? I wanna come all over Jazz’s pretty face — and I’m sure the audience would love that, too. I flick my eyes over to Mitchel and give him a questioning look.

The bastard smirks at me and it looks like he’s just gonna shake his head for a moment, but then he gives me a slight nod. I throw my head back, moaning a little louder and tightening my grip on Jazz’s hair. I mutter something dirty to him, spur him to suck me harder. Except the kid just teases my tip with his tongue. It’s driving me absolutely nuts.

Two can play at that game.

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Still writing, don’t know how to stop. Don’t even feel like I know what I’m doing anymore. Story vomming isn’t happening at as frequent a rate, so that’s good. Means I can fill in my outline a little more and play around with things that happen post-Danni’s death. 

And now, for something completely different…

 

Jazz hissed in pain as the strap to his bag slid down his arm. A feeling of liquid fire filled his whole arm and shoulder, radiating into his chest. No doubt, that stupid bullet wound was infected. Maybe the bullet was still in there. Either way, he didn’t have the stomach to look. Didn’t have the ability to will the pain away long enough to change the makeshift bandage — a bandage he wasn’t sure could be removed, anymore.

He moved at night, and only at night. Dangerous in its own ways, but less stressful. Less people to spot him as he wandered down the streets — though he knew the NBEA never slept and kept their eyes open at all times. He hadn’t heard any shots fired in the past two weeks — at least, he thought it had been that long. Difficult to tell, when his vision would sometimes swim and he’d find it nearly impossible to keep them open. He rested when he needed to — which was far too often. As it was, he hardly covered any ground — hadn’t gotten any closer to the alleyway where he and Ryin had first gone their separate ways.

He needed to stop. To find an abandoned building and just rest. But all he could hear was Ryin’s voice in his ears, reminding him of how dangerous this city was. It may have housed their greatest ally, but the NBEA existed here in droves. They really did seem to be everywhere.

It was a wonder Jazz hadn’t managed to get shot again. As slow as he was? He made an easy target. Looking up towards the sky, Jazz noticed the sun was setting. In another hour, he’d have to move again. Maybe cover another five miles. Ryin had to be out there. Ryin had to be waiting for him. He just had to.

He couldn’t let down his best friend. Couldn’t let this stupid infection beat him. But without antibiotics — without any sort of medical attention, it might. It just might. Shivering, Jazz pulled his shirt tighter around his body, tugging his cap down past eye level. He needed to survive this. Just for a little while longer. Just until Ryin found him — or he found Ryin, whichever happened first. Another painful throb wracked his arm as he reached for the first rung on the fire escape. Higher ground. When really fucking lost, find higher ground. Ryin’s voice over and over in his mind. Jazz hated heights.

But he had to. Even if it meant putting himself through excruciating pain, he had to. Had to listen to Ryin’s advice, just this once. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find his way through the city — find his way around the NBEA hidden in pockets at various points throughout the area. The climb sapped him of his energy, but he found himself at the top. Rolled over the raised edge of the roof, careful of both his ankle and of his upper arm. It amazed him, how much pain he could actually endure. He certainly felt as though he had experienced enough to last him a lifetime. Hell, maybe all that time spent under “observation” at the Orphanage had come in handy — gave him a tolerance for pain that most didn’t.

He didn’t want to think about that, though. Not now. Not when he still had to figure out where, exactly, he was, and where it was he needed to go.

Story-vomit: (n) Plot lines and other planned events for your novel/short story/series that is spewed forth from your mouth/fingertips without any warning
(v) story-vomiting, story-vomitted The act of spewing new plots and storylines to your friends and family without the ability to stop no matter how hard you try.
Also see: story vom, brainstorming

Seriously, I can’t stop. SO MANY CHANGES TO BOOK ONE. HOW WILL THEY AFFECT BOOKS 2 AND 3. Ahhhhhhhhhh.