Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Writing For Young Adults

I’ve just started another YA book, which caused me to contemplate why most often I choose this category.

I will never give up writing in a variety of genres. I like new challenges, I get bored with one kind of literature, and I think switching it out now and then keeps my stories fresh. After all, I grew up on hard sci-fi and horror, so no matter how many fantasies I write underneath beats the black heart of some blood sucking alien, moohaha.

I started out with romance, in part because I thought that would be easier to market. Wrong. Everyone and their brother believe they can write a romance, so there are lots of them floating around. I think mine are good, but in the end it’s a romance, and a romance is a romance is a romance, more or less.

So I decided to focus on age group rather than subject matter. I first tried children’s stories. Again, hard to compete in that market. Even Madonna writes kid books. Next I tried young adult, usually written for the teen set. I had some success with a couple of YA books, Hagitha’s Chronicles (a detective witch), and Changeling (a Celtic sprite who comes to America). Although all is not lighthearted, the overall feeling of these endeavors was sweet. People liked them. I should correct that. Adults who liked light fantasy enjoyed them. Moms liked them. Young adults as a group, I’m sorry to say, did not.

I did much thinking and more research on YA literature after that. I discovered that young adults don’t want books about “kids” their age, they want books starring older teens and early twenties. They also want scary. Forbidden. Exciting. Something to take them out of their supposedly humdrum life. Altogether now… they want Twilight.

Today’s youth are immersed in society in a way I never was. I don’t believe this is better or worse than the way I grew up, just different. The fourteen year old targeted by the young adult market in 2010 is street smart, savvy, and has a low bullshit threshold. Which means if you’re going to write about something like death, incest, or bullying, it had better be real. For me, that’s sometimes hard to do, but I know it’s necessary if I want young readers to pick up my books. Er, Kindle. Ipod. Whatever.

Overall I love writing for this age group. I enjoy being around young people. I see them as hard working, enlightened socially, free, and open minded. Of course, being young isn’t always easy. Little problems seem monstrous. Big problems seem life ending. I take seriously that I can touch readers with my stories. If I can help one struggling teen understand there will be a better tomorrow, I feel like I’ve contributed far more than an entertaining tale.

I think to write young adults books one must be able to tap into that long ago version of themselves. I too loved anything exciting and dangerous and I dreamed of adventure. I have never forgotten that longing. The stories that kept me up all night were filled with characters such as Ursula K. Le Guin’s Tenar in Earthsea or C.L. Moore’s Jirel of Jory in Black God's Kiss; works that highlighted a young woman’s struggle against powerful dark forces.

I also remember watching my parents live their lives thinking oh no, not me. I will never lead such a boring life. I will live on the edge. I will do great things. I will live somewhere strange and beautiful and marry an exotic man. I’m only here now because I have to be.

Youth is a wonderful and uncomfortable time, all rolled into one. There was a song in the 80s titled Cruel Summer; a catchy tune, but sung in a flat monotone by three young women in slightly minor key. The words say it all; I’m bored being alone. But more than that, I’m afraid of being with my own thoughts. And of course, no one understands.

At that age thinking too much can be scary. Books allowed me to disappear into exciting worlds. But somewhere in the back of my mind I knew would never be Jirel or Tenar. So I kept reading. And reading and reading and reading…

But that’s OK. Realizing you will probably be ordinary is something done slowly. Because it is only as adults that we understand “ordinary” can be another word for peace, contentment, and happiness. I live twenty minutes from where I was born. I don’t know if anyone would call my life exciting. But I am married to the love of my life. I’m healthy. I enjoy my hobbies, profession, and my family and friends. Would I really want to be Jirel?

No. But it’s still fun to think about. And I hope it always will be.



Hot summer streets and the pavements are burning I sit around
Trying to smile but the air is so heavy and dry
Strange voices are saying…
What did they say?
Things I can't understand
It's too close for comfort this heat has got right out of hand

It's a cruel cruel summer
Leaving me here on my own
It's a cruel cruel summer
Now you've gone
You're not the only one

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Kukla and the Professor

Those are not their real names. Neither is "Petunia." And of course, my story is a story. The bones are true; Kukla really did meet her lovely face in the way described, but much of the prose, e.g., the description of her family life and other details were my construction.

I say all of that because Kukla has allowed me to post pictures of herself and her husband! She is also still creating many wonderful works of art, and so I have also included her website.

Looking at these images I'm not sure Kukla is entirely human. She's some kind of magical creature, don't you think?

Enjoy.

www.paulascottfrantz.com.




Sunday, February 14, 2010

Happy Valentine's Day



The following story is based on a true telling during a “how we met” game at a Valentine’s Day party Gary and I attended over the weekend. This couple met and married during a time when interracial dating and marriage were thought of in the same way many people think of same sex marriage today. When I heard her tell her tale it inspired me, and my hope that someday all love will be treasured by everyone.

The Lovely Face

Petunia held her breath as she rounded the last corner before reaching the art gallery. With a last final burst she ran to her painting and burst into tears. She hadn’t really expected to win. And most artists would be happy to win any award. But the first place ribbon only served to say that once again she had not won the overall prize.

She sighed. Her self portrait had been the flower of her name, beautifully rendered in flowing purples and blues, lightly dusted with silver stars. She smiled slyly. No one had said a self portrait had to be strictly representational. Petunia flipped back a colorful scarf over her neon pink sweater. Perhaps going against the grain did have its price.

She looked around and hurriedly swiped her face. Petunia wouldn't be caught dead crying in public. If her mother had told her twice she’d told her a million times that crying was for the weak; to make it in today’s world girls needed to be tough.

Especially poor black girls.

Petunia squared her shoulders. The strong action would be to congratulate the winning painter. She held back tears. The right thing to do.

Fortunately a crowd had gathered in front of the grand prize winner. She slipped in between the wine sipping patrons and came face to face with the painting. Instantly her body felt as if it had wings. She swayed and a young woman caught her.

“Are you all right?”

Petunia nodded, unable to speak.

“It’s very good, don’t you think?” the woman added.

Petunia stared at the painting. Technically the work was excellent, but the content was what had caused her heart to soar; wise green eyes set into a pale face gazed back at her. Somehow she knew this person, although she could not say how.

“Where is the artist?” Petunia managed.

“Not here,” the woman answered. “He doesn’t often come to his own displays.”

Petunia smiled at the woman and slithered back through the crowd. Her thoughts were with the strange green-eyed man all the way home. She drifted through the front door, letting it accidentally bang shut.

“How many times have I told you not to let that door slam? We don’t have the money to replace it,” came a stern voice front the kitchen.

But Petunia was far away.

“Petunia! Did you not hear what I said? What are you dreaming about, anyway?”

Petunia jumped; her mother was standing in front of her, hands on her hips. She looked tired.

“I’m sorry.”

Her mother’s eyes softened. “I know.” She patted Petunia’s shoulder. “What were you thinking about?”

A smile crept across Petunia’s face. “The loveliest face I have ever seen.”

Her mother frowned. “Some boy you met? We’ve talked about that. No dates. You’re too young. I want you to go to school.” She tucked errant curls back under her work scarf. “I want you to get a college degree.”

Petunia shook her head. “A painting.”

“Oh,” her mother said, relaxing.

Petunia’s eyes glazed over. “It was loveliest face, mama. He had the most wonderful green eyes.”

The cigarette her mother had been smoking blazed and then fell from her mouth. “Green eyes?”

“Uh huh.”

Her mother sighed. “Why does beauty have to be a white face, Petunia?”

Petunia frowned. “What?”

“Never mind,” her mother said, walking back towards the kitchen. “Do your homework. And don’t stare out the window.”

Petunia ambled towards her bedroom. That face could have been striped for all she cared. It didn’t matter what color it was. It was lovely. She sat on her favorite bench and stared outside. The spring leaves were just starting to turn a deep green. She threw open the window. The scent of honeysuckle filled the room.

Petunia sighed and started her homework. She never really expected to find the boy in the portrait, but unlike her mother, her grandmother had always encouraged her belief in enchantment. “Petunia,” her gran had said right before she died, “you and I, child, we’ve got the pixie blood in us. Don’t ever forget it.”

Petunia never did.

Many years later Petunia sat across from a handsome young man on their first date. He had green eyes, of course. Petunia always dated men with green eyes. The day was perfect; a warm breeze played through the green leaves, high overhead. The sweet smell of honeysuckle was on the wind. Petunia had worn her favorite gypsy dress, adorned with multicolor ribbons and tiny bells that tinkled when ever she crossed or uncrossed her legs. The young man noted every time she moved.

The bells played often. Petunia was very aware of his interest; she knew a woman cast her own spells. She shifted her shoulders. The young man also eyed that area. “Show me your portfolio,” she said softly, looking up under dark lashes.

He grinned. “You first.”

Petunia opened her well-worn leather satchel. Brilliantly colored paintings spilled out into the bright sunlight.

The young man studied each one by one. “You’re a fabulous painter.”

She dipped her head demurely. “Thanks. Let me see yours.”

He took a deep breath. “Mine aren’t as good as yours, but…here they are.” He drew out a stack of drawings. As he spread them on the ground, Petunia realized most were black and white. But a flash of green caught her attention. Without permission she grabbed the colorful work. Her heart stopped.

There, staring back at her, was the lovely face.

She dropped the painting. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’ve loved you since I was fourteen,” she whispered.

A puzzled look swept across the young man’s face. Petunia told him the story in a halting voice, suddenly afraid of her declaration. You see what happens when you are too fanciful, she could hear her mother say.

When she stopped, the young man cleared his throat. “Well. That’s very interesting.”

Petunia’s face fell. “Interesting” was not the word she’d been looking for. But at least he hadn’t run off.

“No no no,” the man said, taking her hands. “I think it’s cool.” He hesitated. “I have a double major…the other is physics.”

“Physics?”

He smiled. “Sure. That’s why your story is so fascinating. Maybe we've met somewhere in an alternate universe. You know, quantum physic? String theory? Black holes? How about fractals?” he added hopefully.

She smiled and he took her into his arms. The wind whipped up and blew a crown of leaves into her wild curls. He could think whatever he liked.

Petunia knew it was magic.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Valentine Vintage Postcards

You didn't think I'd forget my fetish for vintage postcards in February? How could I? Valentine's day was THE time to send them. Still is, although most lovers today don't send postcards. Can't say I mind envelopes...I don't think I'd want to over declare myself on something the mailman could read.

Right now in Indiana there's about two feet of snow on the ground. Maybe not quite that much, but enough to make these ocean views very appealing. The poor cupid dangling his legs on the edge of the pier looks lonely. And just what are the wild waves saying?? More than that verse, I'm guessing.



This one was rather Halloween-ish with the black cat. I think she's casting a valentine spell...



A tipsy looking cupid on a mushroom. Now that's funny.



Even better, a hot pants cupid, heh heh.

This one is so magical. I think she is a love-lorn fairy, asking cupid for a special valentine wish.



And finally, a modern valentine image. Very spooky. I wouldn't squeeze him too hard. :-)