Torg's Shorts: Peter the Postman

This was a story I did for Gina Denny's blog series based on Dr. Seuss's Oh The Thinks You Can Think. It's a pretty awesome idea. You can read about it here Gina's Blog. On the side of the page you can find links to all the stories, which are varied and awesome.

But, here's mine. Mine was inspired by the page of Peter The Postman...

Peter the Postman crosses the ice,
Once every day
And on Saturdays twice

This is all I was given. And this is the short I came up with. Get your Kleenex ready.

Peter the Postman

Peter woke up Thursday morning with his face on the floor. A deep throb radiated from where his flesh touched the rough burber. The rest of him, still on the bed in an unfortunate upside down position, was partially covered still with the wool blanket. He didn't know where he was or how he’d gotten there. He just knew if he didn't get up right now, the rest of his body would not be far behind.

Shoving his hands in front of him, Peter pushed off the floor and the pain from the fall immediately lessened. He flopped his head onto the pillow and faintly touched the goose egg forming on his forehead.

Looking around, he half expected something to look familiar: an article of clothing, a portrait, some random knick knack on a shelf—something—to give him a clue to his location. Instead, his brown eyes scanned the room and not one thing stood out as something he recognized. Nothing.

He turned over and looked at the clock. Almost noon. Man, it’s late. He rolled to his side noticing for the first time the blue and red plaid flannel pajamas he wore. Where was he?

Confused and concerned, Peter threw the blankets off, the chill of the morning waking him up a bit. He sat up, arched his back and yawned. With his large, leathery hands, he tried unsuccessfully to rub the sleep from his eyes. He whipped his head to and fro, as if to dislodge not only sleep, but some sort of memory as to what he was doing in some random house wearing clothes he couldn't  distinguish.

He searched his mind for the last thing he remembered. A rose. That was his last memory. Well that’s helpful. One single red rose. Wasn't much to go on. Hell, he didn't even know if it was a memory. For all he knew, it was from something he was making up in his mind, a sort of association game he was playing with himself. Rose:red. Red:love. Love:hate. Hate:death. Death:Peter.

Wait.

That last association, that one freaked Peter out a bit. Why would he put those two words together? Goosebumps covered Peter’s arms. He shivered. Peter slapped his cheeks lightly with his hands. Maybe if he got some coffee, maybe that would help clear the fog which cut him off from the world he was in.

Peter pulled himself to his feet; the pain in his head returning for a moment, and then fading. He gazed out the window, noticing only  a sea of white, some evergreen tree limbs weighted down by mounds of snow, and a few tracks in the road left by a snowmobile.

Peter got lost in the dreaminess of the white, and a memory fluttered through his mind, briefly, like the trace a dragonfly’s wings make on the surface of the water or a wisp of smoke trailing on a breeze.

A young girl, a soft giggle, and then it disappeared.

To his right, placed on a small wooden end table next to the head of the bed, laid a brown leather bound journal. Sticking out from among the closed pages, a yellow post it caught Peter’s attention. The words “Start reading from here, Peter” were scrawled in messy cursive. Something stood out as familiar about the penmanship.  

Peter shrugged, picked up the journal, tucked it under his arm and headed down a long hall. Light poured in from the end of the hallway illuminating a number of framed pictures hung on the wall at the far end. As he neared them, he noticed one in particular: a young woman holding hands with an elderly couple. Dark brown tendrils of hair framed her face. And that smile, for some reason Peter couldn’t quite grasp, that smile tugged at his heart. Peter stopped in front of the picture, taking it in. She looked happy. And the elderly couple, they had huge smiles plastered on their faces. The older man shared the same smile and one dimple as the young woman.

As Peter continued into what was now obviously a living room, he noticed the kitchen to the left. That’s where he headed. He’d get a cup of coffee, read whatever he was supposed to read in this journal, and figure out where the hell he was.

The kitchen was a cozy space. Oak cabinets framed by warm golden walls surrounded him.  A coffee pot sat on the beige Formica counter top, next to a stainless steel toaster. There were still crumbs from someone making toast. Peter shuffled his feet against the cold tile floor and made his way to the small oval table in the nook. The light from outside, made even brighter by the reflection of the sun off the snow, lit the entire room.

He placed the journal on the table then rummaged through the cabinets to find ingredients and supplies to brew a pot of coffee. After measuring the grounds and starting the automatic drip, Peter found a mug and put a few tablespoons of powdered flavored creamer into it.  Lacking patience to wait until the entire carafe was full, he poured some coffee into his mug, then set the pot back into the coffee maker and took a sip.  It didn't go unnoticed that although everything Peter was doing seemed very normal, his situation was anything but. After all, it felt more than a little strange to be making himself at home in someone else’s. But whoever invited him here obviously didn't mind.  

On the contrary, Peter couldn't get over the feeling he almost belonged here. But that couldn't be. Certainly he’d remember if he was here all the time. There’d be some recognition somewhere. But even still, now that he was a little more awake, there was nothing but emptiness where there should be something…not empty.

But maybe reading that journal would give him some answers. It had to.

Peter scooted the chair out, the wood scraping against the tile, then sat down, making himself comfortable. He took a sip of the sweetened coffee, vanilla almond, and settled in to read.

Opening to the post it, he began reading.

February 6, 2014.

Hey Pete,

It’s me. Pete. I mean you.

I know. You have no idea what the hell is going on right now. That’s ok. Trust me. We go through this daily. Take my word for it; it never gets any easier, or any clearer. By the time you understand what I’m about to say, you won’t remember it.

Peter’s heart rate picked up. He closed the book and shoved it away. What the hell. Was this some kind of sick joke? He ran his hand through his hair, touching the goose egg, setting off a flare of pain. He stood up, paced around the kitchen unsure what to do. Should he go back and read the rest? That seemed insane. Someone was playing some kind of gag on him and he didn't think it was very funny. But the question was…why? Who?

Peter walked briskly back to the living room and looked around. On the mantle were some pictures. Making a beeline to get a look at them, he wasn't watching where he was going until his foot slammed against the leg of a wooden coffee table. Peter winced. A flash of something else flickered through his thoughts. A doctor’s office. The smell of hand sanitizer and rubbing alcohol assaulted his senses so keenly, for a moment, Peter really believed he was there. But in an instant, the smell was gone and the only the pain remained.

Walking and still feeling the throb in his foot, he continued to the fireplace and picked up a picture. The same young woman from the hallway sat on a swing, holding her very pregnant belly. Peter was struck with a strong urge to cry, but fought the brimming tears back. What was it about this woman that struck him so? Without even realizing it, Peter stroked the picture with his thumb, his eyes focused on her hand, on the belly. One tear escaped.

Shaking it off, Peter put the picture back. He turned his head toward the kitchen, toward the table, toward those pages that scared the hell out of him, toward the unknown.  He needed to go back and read the pages. Joke or not, he was supposed to read it, and something deep inside him told him in within the scribbles and words, he would find truth. He swallowed hard and with slow steps, trudged back into the kitchen.

He settled back into the chair, dragged the journal close, flipped open the pages and read.

February 6, 2014.

Hey Pete,

It’s me. Pete. I mean you.

I know. You have no idea what the hell is going on right now. That’s ok. Trust me. We go through this daily. Take my word for it; it never gets any easier, or any clearer. By the time you understand what happened to you, you won’t remember it.

You have a bit of a memory problem. Well, it’s more than a problem. It’s more like you have virtually no memory. And although things seem pretty bad at times, things are getting better every day.

For instance, you know that coffee shop up on Main? The one with your favorite cinnamon rolls the size of your head? Anyway, the waitress there, Layla, she likes you. And well, you've developed quite the crush on her. Matter of fact, you asked her out today. You two crazy kids will be going on a date here next week. She’s cute. She’s no Felicia or anything, but no one is.

And today, was a pretty decent day. After you finally figured out what caused the memory loss. Because that always blows. You visited Felicia’s mom and dad for a bit. Felicia’s mom, Beverly, made you apple cobbler. Even put your favorite vanilla bean ice cream on top just the way Flea used to. You and Frank watched some basketball.

And Jim, your old boss from the post office, he’s throwing you a surprise birthday party. Which I wasn't supposed to tell you about, but seeing as you’ll forget anyway, I figured no harm done. That’s tomorrow by the way. Your birthday. February 8.

You’ll be forty. Wow. You’re getting old, man.

You visited Flea and Lucy.

So, what else do you need to know? You need to pay your mortgage today. And go to the store. You need milk and more coffee. Buy the stuff in the red can. Also get yourself some frozen meals. You’re not eating enough. You have to take care of yourself. No one else is going to.

Take your blood pressure and cholesterol meds.

And DON’T FORGET TO WRITE YOURSELF BEFORE YOU GO TO BED. Just give yourself an idea of how your day went.

Anyway, have a good day, Pete.

Pete

P.S. If you want to remember what happened, why you’re like this, look on the coffee table in the living room. (watch out for the table leg. You always bump into that damn thing)

Find the green album. Answers are in there. But my advice is —don’t. All you need to remember is you’re here. And you have to live. She would've wanted you to.

P.S.S. Pete and Repeat are on a boat. Pete falls off. Who’s left?

That one always makes you laugh.  

And it did. Peter tried to suppress a chuckle.

He took a deep breath, closed the journal and stared out the window. Did he want to know why he was like this? What happened?

Watching an eagle off in the distance, he experienced a twinge of jealousy. The eagle had a direction, a decided destination, something Peter did not. The eagle knew what it was.

He made his decision. Peter walked with purpose into the living room, careful not to run into the table leg like he did before; it still ached every so often. Sitting on the couch, he saw the green vinyl covered photo album. “Our Memories” was scripted in gold on the front. He recognized the irony.

Peter opened the front cover gingerly, as if the memories themselves might spill on the floor. The very first picture was the same woman, cascades of dark curls falling over her bare shoulders. She wore a white beaded gown; a crystal encrusted tiara was anchored in her hair. Next to this woman, who happened to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, was a man of about twenty-five. Brown hair brushed neatly to the side and smiling as only one in love does, he recognized the man’s hands. He looked at his own hands. The same.

Written in cursive, it said: Peter and Felicia Montgomery: forever united.

“Felicia,” Peter whispered. “Flea.” It was a nickname he now realized he made up for her.

He flipped page after page, his eyes taking in every image of the couple. Of them. Of him and his wife. Some were on a beach in Florida. Some were taken from inside the Coliseum in Rome. Some were taken next to a snowman. Peter’s heart leapt at the memories. Like opening a treasure chest, as soon as he saw the photographs, a dream like image danced in his mind. And his heart burst with love.

Toward the middle of the album, pages were filled with Felicia, obviously pregnant, and an assortment of hospital ultrasounds. Underneath one, were the words: “Baby Flea at twenty weeks.” Another showcased Felicia in a hospital bed, hair matted and sweaty, face flushed, wearing an enormous toothy smile. In her arms slept a pink infant, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. Felicia and Lucy Harper Montgomery.

Peter’s heart almost stopped. He remembered the journal entry. “You visited Flea and Lucy.” Cold spread throughout Peter’s body and his muscles went rigid. The beating of his heart and the echo of blood rushing through his body resonated. He may not have remembered everything with his mind, but his body remembered everything.

Peter’s hands began to shake. Even though he knew whatever information residing on the next pages was necessary for him to see, to understand, something deep down wanted to resist turning the page. His mind needed to know, but his body begged for him to stop.

With a quivering finger, he flipped to the next page. His eyes widened and all the air left his lungs in one moment of panic. It was as if the whole world stopped. His eyes froze on the words in black and white, emblazoned on the well-worn yellowed newsprint.

Postal Worker Wakes Up From Coma After Tragic Accident

Peter’s stomach churned. His mouth dry, he tried to swallow back the bile rising up from his stomach. He kept reading.

Postal worker Peter Montgomery is finally awake after a week long coma following a tragic accident involving multiple cars on the Highway near Hope Lake. Montgomery’s car was hit from behind as he and his family drove home from a family outing earlier that day. Montgomery’s car spun out of control, falling down the embankment into the frozen water. Unfortunately, only Peter Montgomery was rescued. The bodies of his wife and child could not be recovered. Investigation into the cause of the accident is ongoing. Authorities have been waiting for Montgomery’s recovery in order to learn more about the incident.

Like a flood breaking through a dam, a torrent of images bombarded Peter. Felicia and Lucy singing in the car, the sound of metal upon metal and Peter lurching back then thrown forward, the world spinning in a white blur, and the pain of a thousand knives cutting into his forehead as his face met the glass. Frozen water enveloped him, his breath hitching as the water filled the car. Quickly, Peter unlatched his seat belt and turned to see Felicia, bloody and pale. Trying his hardest to unbuckle her from her seat, all the while screaming her name, he realized the seat belt was stuck. Water was now to his shoulders. He didn't have enough time. Over the rush of water, he heard Lucy screaming. He needed to save her. Fighting the current which was now pushing him towards the window shield, he climbed into the back, trying to calm Lucy down. His hands were so numb, and the shivering was so violent, he was unable to feel around in the icy water to find the buckles to the car seat.

Water was now at his neck. Peter cried out. He looked toward the front of the car, toward Felicia. Her face was underwater. In another second, Lucy’s would be too. He couldn't save both of them. He had to choose. He fought the tears, and clawed at Lucy’s car seat buckles. He yelled. He screamed. He cursed. He pulled and pulled, but his hands had lost all feeling and he was now completely underwater, as was Lucy.

He wailed, fighting the silence of the lake. He watched as life left Lucy’s eyes. He would stay here. He would die and welcome it. What else did he have to live for? Then everything went black.

Another memory: a funeral. Peter put one single red rose on Felicia’s closed casket. Then he placed another on Lucy’s. Pain gripped Peter from every part of him, inside and out. It was like being inside of a pressure cooker about to blow. The room closed in on him.

He closed the album. The words “Our Memories” stared back at him. He should have listened to his own warning. He should have just gone on with his day, blissfully unaware. He shouldn't have pushed so hard to remember. For what are memories to the dead? And Peter realized even though he was breathing, he was not living. He merely existed. Peter Montgomery and everything he was, died that day in the frozen lake.

***

Peter stood at the edge of the frozen water staring into the icy grave. Tears rolled off his cheek, falling onto his wool jacket. The wind whistled through the trees and Peter could have sworn he heard Felicia and Lucy’s voices, singing.

***

February 7, 2014

Hey Pete. It’s me, Pete. You.

Hope today you didn’t wake up on the floor like you did yesterday. You probably still have a bruise on your head. Sometimes your dreams are so real, you find yourself in some pretty strange positions the next morning. But considering what happened, it’s understandable.

What can I tell you…well, I guess I’ll start by saying you write to yourself daily. Helps you keep track of things. I know what you’re thinking. Where the hell am I? Why can’t I remember anything? This is your house and you can’t remember because a few years ago, some pretty horrific things happened. You almost died. So, a part of your brain isn’t functioning right. That’s really all you need to know. Trust me.

No, this isn’t a joke and you’re not crazy.

Anyway, you have to write things down in order to know what to do daily. So here’s your to do list:

• Get some coffee
• Eat breakfast. The little diner on Main is your favorite. Those cinnamon rolls are amazing. Size of your head. Plus, there’s Layla. Tell her she looks pretty. She loves it when you tell her that.
• Take your blood pressure and cholesterol pills
• Call Beverly and Frank, they like to know you’re okay

Let’s see, yesterday was great. You visited Flea and Lucy. Then walked down to the store and bought some food. They had that rotisserie chicken you love. Made a meal with it and cooked up some garlic mashed potatoes. You’re not a half bad cook when you put your mind to it.

Caught a movie with your old boss, Jim. Wolf of Wall Street. Not bad. That Leo DiCaprio is a pretty amazing actor.

Oh yeah, it’s your birthday today. You’re forty! Happy birthday, Pete. Get out and celebrate.

Anyway, I think that’s about it. Don’t forget to write yourself before you go to bed.

Have a great birthday.

Pete

P.S. If you really want to know what happened to you and why you’re like this, you can read the green album in the living room. But I don’t recommend it. Some things are better left forgotten. Just know you had a family. You loved them and they loved you. Don’t dwell. Felicia wouldn’t have wanted it.

Also, watch out for that damn coffee table leg.

P.S.S. Pete and Repeat were on a boat. Pete jumped off. Who’s left?

That one always makes you laugh.

Pete put down the pen, marked the page with a sticky note and turned off the light. He rolled over and went to sleep, his memories like icicles, dripping and vanishing into the vast unknown. 

Peter woke up Friday morning in a strange bed.

What a strong woman is...and what is it not.

There’s a lot of woman rage going on lately. For a variety of reasons. And I have some feels about it all, but don’t want to go on a twitter or heaven forbid, Facebook tirade on the whole thing. So I’m doing what I do when I want to get it all out.

Posting it on my blog, so if people choose to read it, they can. If they choose to comment, they can. And, I know, this is unheard of in today’s age of insta-rage and emo-tweetage, disagree with me and that's okay too.

First, I want to state it publicly here, I am a woman. I know. Groundbreaking. Second, I have a lot of opinions. Another huge surprise. Some, may even call me strong. And on some days, I agree with them. Others, not so much. I cry into my bag of Doritos as much as the next person. I love Doritos, by the way.

But there’s this attitude, which is permeating social media and thus other media, seeping into the consciousness of America. That somehow, being a strong woman means I have to agree with everything other women say. And if, for some strange reason I don’t, I may be labeled as a woman hater, or an anti-feminist, like I’m anti-woman. Like somehow, I am the problem with America.

I call bullshit on that.

A strong woman is not someone who goes around naked on a street corner proclaiming “SEE ME!”

A strong woman is not someone who doesn't need a man or anyone else for that matter.

A strong woman is not someone who has the loudest voice, carries the largest stick, or bullies her way into conversations because she thinks the other person is being objectified or being made to be submissive.

A strong woman is not someone who calls attention to herself and then is mad when people take notice.

A strong woman is not someone whose tongue is barbed and lethal.

Somewhere along the road of woman empowerment, people have gotten the idea that being a strong woman means demeaning others, hurting feelings and offending anyone who disagrees so they can further their own agenda.

So what IS a strong woman?

A strong woman knows when to speak out, and when to hold her tongue.

A strong woman knows that knowledge and opinion is fluid, and whenever you think you understand a situation, that’s when you really don’t.

A strong woman can admit her mistakes, take responsibility and say I’m sorry.

A strong woman knows everyone has a story that is as important as her own. No one is better than anyone else.

A strong woman knows that there are more opinions than stars, and hers is only a flash in the universe of ideas.

A strong woman is one who takes care of others, nurtures, supports, and forgives, even when the other person isn't asking for any of those things.

A strong woman is not one to point fingers at the world. She understands things happen, and she can’t control everything, and trying to would be like Sisyphus and the boulder.

A strong woman knows having others by her side, asking for help, or leaning on others is not a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of her strength.

And I will not apologize for being a strong woman.  Ever. And another strong woman would never ask me to. 

Torg's Tips for Queries: Vlog-errific

Hi guys, since it has been a year since I have vlogged, longer actually. I thought I would try out my new laptop and media program and experiment. This is my first try and I totally messed up the tips. Originally there were four. But I kept forgetting the fourth. So I cut it to three. Figured that would be the magic number...at least that's what Blind Melon said. And after recording about thirty versions, I decided I didn't care and knew you would all be forgiving. You will be, right? RIGHT?

So here it is...me. And my vlog. And my THREE tips for writing queries. I hope you like it. Feel free to share! 

Anymore tips? Feel free to comment and share!

Confessions of an ADD rea -oooh-SHINY

Hi readers. Summer is finally here (well, academically speaking) and now I hope to be able to blog a little more. I will say, as a writer, having days off in which to do all the things you want/need to do is quite wonderful. So if someone could just find it in their heart to pay me to write, that would be wonderful. Get on that.

So, clearly my recommendations for top books is faltering. I have ideas. It's not that I don't have favorites, I do. I was thinking about how I should do another blog, the one about my top YA books I promised you all a zillion years ago, and I realized something. OK, realize isn't exactly the word because I've always known it, I just never wanted to admit it. I need to read a lot more books. Especially YA. OK, that isn't exactly accurate either. I need to FINISH all the YA books I start before I can honestly give my reasons for loving my top ten. And if that doesn't make sense, let me explain this way. I don't feel I am quite qualified to say which YA books are better than others because I only FINISH the ones I love. Which gave me an idea for this blog post.

And now we have come full circle.

I have long thought I was mildly ADD, I am not even kidding. My lack of ability to multitask. My constant fidgeting. The fact that I start so many things, and finish few. Hallmark ADD, right?

And as a writer you are told to READ READ READ!! And I'm all "OK, I WILL! I LOVE BOOKS!" And it's true. I do love them. But I think I love the IDEA of them more than I actually love them. For instance, I can spend hours in a bookstore, I spend HUNDREDS on books. I get them home, I ogle and fondle them like a boyfriend and place them on my really cute Cost Plus and Pier One bookshelves and I look at them. See how pretty they are? Look at those bindings. Those covers. Ooh...Pretty.

And they stay there for like...a LONG time. Looking pretty. Maybe on occasion, I'll pull a book out, get comfy on my couch, a blanket, some snacks, maybe some wine, often some coffee or tea, light candles...there is an ambiance for reading, you know what I mean? And I think, "this is gonna be awesome. I can't wait to read." And after about ten pages, I'm all "meh...what can I do now?"

And it made me finally realize, I am the best and worst reader you will ever know. Because I am what every agent, editor, submission reader is, I am the PERFECT reader. Because trying to get a book lover to read and finish a book, piece of cake. Trying to get ME to read and finish a book, you better be a damn good writer, have a damn good opener, and you better not let me down.


And so I was thinking about as a writer, this has helped me, though I never really knew it. Here is a look at me, as a reader.

1 Cover is EVERYTHING. That dumb cliche about it not being important is a load of crap. It needs to be pretty. And I don't want half naked people on it. As in I will not even pick UP a book with two people in a heated embrace, almost kissing and half naked. Same if they have teeth with blood dripping or a half naked woman clutching some object. No.

I like clean covers, with graphic detail, I pretty much try to stay away from anything with people, really. There are always exceptions, but mostly, NO.

2. From the first page, first paragraph, I need to be hooked. I am not the kind of reader who will give it a while until it gets interesting. No. I have a lot of things to do, I have a lot of books I would LOVE to fall in LOVE with, I do not have time to see if it gets better. Hook me now. While you have me. Because if I get past page one and it doesn't seem interesting, you've lost me. Lucky for all the YA writers out there I'm a teacher, so I buy books for them even if they don't seem appealing. But really, when I'm in a bookstore, I read a page or two and put it down if it doesn't grab me. Sorry, but that is the truth.

And that's why books like Fault in Our Stars, Eleanor and Park, or Hunger Games appeal to the masses. Because from page 1, they have you hooked. (and no photos of people on the cover...SEE?)  I don't want back story, or set up or to read about how normal someone's life is. I need a reason to read. And even if I have read the back copy and know the reason is in there somewhere, I don't want to have to wait until page 20 or 50 to get to it. It bores me and I don't have the time.

This is why that first line is so damn important. And the first page. My advice, start with a line that is so absurd or strange or weird or funny, you can't not read on. For example, I happen to think I'm pretty damn good at first lines. And I've always been told as much. Here are some of mine that I think illustrate my point.

From the soon to be published Princess Paradox:

I wish I had the guts to tell my best friend I'd rather gouge out my eyes with a cocktail weenie than attend her wedding. 

I think it works because it's funny and it makes you question things. A) Why wouldn't she want to go to her bestie's wedding? B) Of all the things you could gouge your eyes out with, why a cocktail weenie? (this tells the reader there will be sarcasm and humor, this is not literary prose)

Or there is this from a work in progress Becoming Shane Kelly:

Shakespeare was an idiot.

Ok this one works because of the obvious question. WHUUU??? I mean people who don't even like Shakespeare still give him props as a storyteller. So then it makes you consider why this narrator dislikes Shakespeare. By making a strong statement about something that is widely known or accepted, it creates questions in the reader's mind. This is a good thing for ADD readers like me. Because questions make me turn the page. It is when I don't have questions or when I have forgotten to care about the answers to questions I once had, that you've lost me as a reader. 

And EVERY TIME YOU ANSWER A QUESTION, YOU NEED TO GET YOUR READER TO ASK ANOTHER ONE!

And if your first line doesn't have one, your first paragraph better.

Here is another paragraph I LOVE and have gotten really great response on. It's another WIP titled The Thief.

Nervous energy is pervasive. Some people get nervous about first dates. Some are put off by having to present a simple science project in front of their class. Some people just get nervous about being nervous. Not me. As a matter of fact, it excites me. There's nothing quite like the feeling you get just before you’re doing something dangerous. The feeling bubbles inside you like a tide churning, palms sweaty and cold, heart racing a million miles a minute, and the overwhelming sensation that whatever it is you're doing…there's a great chance you'll get caught; the feeling of committing a crime, because that is precisely what I'm doing.

This works because as a whole, the reader gets a lot of info about our narrator. We know they are probably a teen, given the examples they give of nerves. We also know this is contemporary because of the language and reference again to the science class. We also know they are doing something illegal. So then, as a reader, the question is what kind of crime? Are we talking serious criminal activity or a petty crime?


I read somewhere that these following questions should be answered for the reader in the first 5 pages, and it was spot on.
1. Who is narrating? (age, name, background)
2. Where are they? (place, time of year, day, era)
3. What is the problem? (can be a minor one that will relate to the main conflict later)
4. What is happening?

And these all need to be done with zero back story or info-dump. It may not seem like much, but it is necessary.
Here is an example from a pro: Sophie Kinsella's first pages of I've Got Your Number.

How many of the above questions can be answered? IN TWO PAGES. WITH NO INFO DUMP, and HELL YA I WANT TO READ THE REST! (I did, actually, it was fantastic)


3. As a reader, I need to either laugh, cry, be shocked, or surprised in the first page or pages. What can I say? I need to care enough about something before I can become invested. So when I read for the umpteenth time about your "normal teen" who is "average", "shy", or "a misfit" in school, I glaze over and decide plucking each hair out of my eyebrow is more enjoyable than reading about them.

I need original characters with original things happening to them or I am not going to keep reading. Instead I am like this:

4. OK. You've successfully hooked me. I love the narrator, I love the action, I love the tension and I have a billion questions. BRAVO. Chapter 1 was a complete and utter success. WOOOOO!

This is important. You have established you can write. NOW DON'T DISAPPOINT ME! I have read a lot of great first chapters. All those pretty books I told you I have? Read all the first chapters. Then I started reading CH 2 and you know what. FLATLINE.

You built up this amazing hook, then comes the boring back story. Or the "now we are at school and things are normal" or "here is where you learn about my friends or family or my dog Joe." I DONT CARE ANYMORE. You have lost me.Which is a damn shame because I may never pick up your book again. No matter what. Even if you do this:

Remember, I have other things to do. If you can't MAKE me continue asking questions or keep me laughing, surprised, shocked or reacting, I will not continue. And if by chance, I give you the benefit of the doubt, hey, maybe it's just a transition chapter, you better AMAZE me in CH 3. Because I won't keep turning those chapters if they continue to not live up to CH 1.

As a writer, I find myself at every chapter thinking...ok...if my reader thought "how could it get worse?" I need to answer that and give them even more than they thought it could be. Each chapter should increase the tension, propel the characters into reacting, deciding, then choosing a course of action. And when they decide their recourse...it should inevitably be THE WRONG CHOICE.  Somehow. That's what makes me keep going. I want to be yelling at your character, asking them "WHAT ARE YOU THINKING YOU IDIOT!!!" Because that's when I'm invested.

Think of it this way, no one wants to spend good money, wait in line for hours for the front seat of a roller coaster, just to be taken up that big hill, race down and then the track is flat for the next three minutes. You want twists and turns and more up and down and loopty loops. You PAID for those DAMN LOOPS AND HILLS! If you AREN'T MAKING ME SICK AND CRAZY EXCITED AT THE SAME TIME YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG!

OK. Sorry. I got a little carried away. But basically it's this. When agents, agent assistants, editors, publishers are reading your words, they want that roller coaster. They are expecting Space Mountain or the Matterhorn. Don't give them Dumbo. Because they're trying to get readers like ME to read those books. They want readers like ME to finish those books, then pay more money to see the movie and even more money for the next book by said author because I've liked what they've created thus far. This is how you establish a readership. There is no Emily Giffen, Sophie Kinsella, Becca Fitzpatrick, John Green, or Rainbow Rowell book that I won't buy. Because as a reader, I LOVE to finish those books. I laugh, I cry, I think WAIT THAT IS ME!

5. Happy Endings are boring. I like books with real endings, tragic endings, heart breaking endings. Hell, I WRITE books with those. Thing is, life doesn't wrap up in a tidy little bow. And everything that ends, does so with sorrow. Otherwise it wouldn't be an end.

Anyway, this was my rant. I realize I write as the reader I am. I write the books I want to read. I think that is the key. But at the same time, I've learned that I'm fickle and picky and I'm not going to FORCE myself to read a book I don't care much about. There's too much else in life to do. So, as you write, keep in mind, you want your reader to NEVER want to put down the book. EVER. You want your reader to constantly feel like this:

When I was at BEA, I listened to a panel about writing YA, and I think Kresley Cole had the best advice:

When you write, write to make your reader HAVE to turn the page. 

And that my fellow writers is sage advice.

What makes YOU turn the page?

One Step Closer

 The life of a writer is really insane. At times, I feel like other parts of my life have suffered greatly for the sake of my work. I sometimes have not been the best mom, daughter, friend or teacher. There have been things that have been swept under the rug for the sake of a few moments on my laptop.

Often, I wondered if it ever really mattered. What was I doing it all for? When people ask me why I write or if I want to be the next Rowling, I say “Of course!” I mean it would be nice, right? But that’s not why I write.

I write because it helps me work out the things that are on my mind. I write because I have stories in my head that I want to tell. I write because I know that out there are other people just like me who have the same fears, wants, desires, insecurities, and they could appreciate the worlds I craft.

And though it would be great to make a ton of money doing it, I don’t DO it for the money. I do because I feel a need to. I do it because it's who I am. And I would love to one day hold a book in my hand with "written by Carey Torgesen" on the cover.

Like most of us, for a long time, I’ve been trying to make that dream come true. But things don’t always come as easy as you want them to, and sometimes the road you thought you were going to take veers off in a different direction. It’s not always easy, taking that path less traveled. It’s downright scary because you’re left wondering if it’s the right way, or if you've gotten yourself lost. Will you end up at your final destination or will you find you have to set up camp where you are?

Well, I don’t know the answer to that yet, but I can say that it’s all part of the journey, right?

With that said, after querying for over a year, shelving and unshelving my women’s fiction manuscript, sending and resending partials, fulls, and receiving all kinds of feedback from agents, editors, and small presses, I can finally say:

In about 9 months I am going to be able to hold my book, THE PRINCESS PARADOX, in my hand.

I'm going to be published by a small press! I’ll have an actual book that will be in independent bookstores locally in Seattle, available on amazon in both print and e-book format, and I will have editors and cover artists, and all kinds of wonderful hard working people that will help me make my dream of being a published author come true.

And it makes me want to do this:

 

After having to decide between two amazing offers of contract, I've decided to go with Cliffhanger Press, a new press but one I have complete confidence in. Do I have an agent yet? No. Am I still looking for one? You bet. I won’t stop until I have one and I won’t give up writing until I have no more stories to tell. This is not the path I originally intended on finding, but it is one I am happy to be on. And I’m certain that I made the right decision for me.

I will be in fierce editing and revising mode and I am both scared and excited at how much work it’s going to be, but I know in the end, it will be completely worth it.

I thank all of my beta readers, my CPs, and everyone who has ever helped me get this story out there. It’s my baby. I love Nora and Aidan and Finn and can't wait to have their story out there. It’s really the story of me and the journey I have been on in the last few years. And I hope, once it’s out there, you will all celebrate with me!

I LOVE YOU GUYS!

I will update with more information as I go!

(not the actual cover, just something I created) :)

Torg's Top MUST READ books: Middle Grade Fiction

Ok. I haven’t blogged in a while, and I have read some top ten book list blogs lately, and it has me inspired to do my own. So, each week, I will feature a different genre and highlight my favorite books in that genre.

So here we go! Today’s genre:

Torg’s Top Middle Grade fiction

As a teacher of middle school, this is where in the past, I have done the most of my reading to prepare for teaching my students. I have taught 6^th grade, 7^th grade, and now I am currently teaching 8^th grade. In that time, some of these books I have had to read because I teach them, and some I have come across in trying to find age appropriate books that will pull reluctant readers in and engage them. So, in no particular order, are the top middle grade books everyone should read.

1.       Freak the Mighty by Rodman Philbruck

 

 “I never had a brain until Freak came along and let me borrow his for a while, and that’s the truth, the whole truth. The unvanquished truth.”

In a world where bullying and people feel left out and disconnected from others, this book, even though it was published in 2001, still resonates in a way that in undeniable. This is a book that makes even the most reluctant “I don’t like reading and never will, it’s boring” reader turn the page for more. And if you already like reading, then you’ll fall more in love with books.

For anyone who thinks all middle grade books are full of snot picking and fart humor, this book will introduce you to a whole new world, one where middle grade fiction can be full of heart and humor, and weighty issues such as pre-judgment, overcoming obstacles, how the disabled and handicapped are treated, and death.

The narrator, Max Kane, is the classic school bully doomed to a life in special education classes. At over 6 feet at only 12, he’s managed to use his physical presence to get by. He’s been told his whole life how dumb he is and he believes it. So he uses brute force and his absentee father’s reputation as a convicted killer to shrink away from anyone who would ever come close to him.

The real heart of the book is when Max meets Kevin, aka Freak. At first, Max wants nothing to do with Freak, but soon Freak breaks through Max’s defense because he is the first one to see Max as something other than a bully, he sees Max as an equal. Together, with Max’s brawn and Freak’s brain, they become one whole unit as Freak the Mighty, slayer of dragons, rescuer of fair maidens, and believer in all things. Together they take on school bullies, a flawed education system, and eventually Killer Kane himself.

Even as I type this, I get misty thinking about this book. The story unfolds in a beautiful way, and we see how these two misfits who don’t seem to fit in anywhere, find each other. The way Philbrick crafts this book is a study in character creation. Yes, the plot moves the story, but seen through the eyes of Max and Freak together, we see how much they need each other and how each of them completes the other. They are perfect foils to use a literary term.

Suffice it to say, if you haven’t read this book, I do not care how old you are, get it NOW. And while you’re out, get some tissues. You’re gonna need them.

This one has a tissue index of: how many tissues are in a box?

2.       Feathers by Jacqueline Woodson

 

"Maybe there's a little bit of Jesus inside of all of us. Maybe Jesus is just that something good or something sad or something...something that stays with us and makes us do stuff like help Trevor up, even though he's busy cursing us out. Or maybe...maybe Jesus is just that thing you had when the Jesus Boy first got here, Samantha. Maybe Jesus is the hope that you were feeling."

A sixth grade girl is changed forever when a new kid arrives one day. Frannie, the narrator, becomes a tad obsessed with the new kid, nicknamed “Jesus boy” because he is white and has long hair. In an all-black community in the 1970’s, it wasn’t everyday a new white kid joined the class. Jesus boy seems to be not only odd, but soon Frannie’s bestie (a preacher’s daughter) starts believing he actually IS Jesus. With his calm manner and his avoidance of conflict, Frannie begins to believe it too.

Woodson tackles issues like bullying, prejudice, and disability with beauty and elegance without ever getting preachy about it. And Frannie as a character, who has endured a lot of pain, poverty, and judgment about her older deaf brother, never loses hope that things will be better. Frannie is an inspirational character who is a great example that a strong heroine doesn’t have to be about muscles. Quiet strength and faith are just as much of a force to be reckoned with.

Frannie’s grandmother is always there to give her advice about the world and her place in it. Though it is simple, the story hits hard with lessons about doing the right thing, even when it isn’t easy.

This is a quick read and can be done in a night. This is a great one to read with your kids because it will inevitably bring up questions and discussions about faith, hope, and how to treat others.

Torg’s tissue index:  two

 

3.       Harry Potter series by JK Rowling

“It is our choices...that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

What is there really to say about this book? So much that it is hard to pare down. As a teacher of literature one thing I will go on record saying is that Harry Potter will, like it or not, will stand the test of time as a classic. Rowling pretty much wrote this generations’ Star Wars.

I am the first one to admit I am not a fan of fantasy. I really don’t read it because I don’t relate. Even when I was a kid and everyone around me fantasized about living in a castle and riding unicorns, I was wondering what it would be like to travel through time and live in space. Still, to this day, if I had a choice to read about the renaissance or modern day history, I will always choose the modern. It’s in my blood. Which is why Harry Potter is all the better of a book.

Because if you can make me, a self-professed non fantasy reader, read and enjoy fantasy, you are doing something right.

It is the classic tale of an everyman who ends up finding out he is the one meant to save everyone, at least Muggles anyway. The thing I love about Harry Potter is that even though there is attention paid to building the world of Hogwart’s, readers are not drowned in a sea of fantastical jargon and otherworldly creatures. Are they in there? Sure. But they aren’t what drives the story.

Classism, family, and friendships are what the story is about. Everything else is a side note. So, I am able to believe in this world and love these characters as if they were my friends because I know them inside and out. I know their interests, personalities, quirks, and their entire families. Rowling weaves a tale so strongly bound by family and relationships that rather than me thinking “here we go with trolls and dragons”, I think “Is someone going to get hurt? Will they go back for Harry?” These are the things that pull me through the pages.

Not to mention, I love how Rowling takes cues from Greek and Roman mythology rather than relying on just the typical “fantasy” type beings. Cerberus, a phoenix, and a bit of Pandora ’s Box all make appearances.

It is a book series that will stand the test of time as not only great world building, wonderful craft and structure, and damn entertaining storytelling.

This one has a tissue index of: one to ten depending on which book you are reading.

4.       The Giver by Lois Lowry

 

“The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.”

The Giver was my first dystopian novel I ever read aimed directly at teens. Before then my experience in science fiction dsytopic worlds were always for adults; the classics like Brave New World or 1984. Those books were my favorite in school. And still, when I think about them, I think about how amazing they still are. They continue to fuel my imagination as a writer.

But what Lois Lowry did was what I would call nothing short of amazing. She made dystopia reachable to teenagers. She asked the big questions all dsytopic writers ask: “What if?” And every year, as I teach this novel, I fall in love with it all over. It is simply put, one of the best books ever written, period. And it is the best book for teens specifically.

The plot is simple. Jonas lives in a utopian society where everything is wonderful. No poverty. No greed. No hunger. No war. Everyone is happy. Until Jonas receives his Assignment and meets his mentor and trainer, The Giver. Soon, the perfect world he lives in is uncovered bit by bit to be dark, twisted, and horrifying.

Lowry’s prose is gorgeous, her descriptions poignant, and the way she delivers one twist after another, it awes me. She pulls me into this futuristic world by making me think it is one thing, then as we figure out the rules for the world, she pulls the curtain back, revealing the darkness behind each rule.

The book is an easy read for most middle schoolers, but the content and ideas should be discussed. She uses symbols, allusions, character foils and it’s only as you get further into the book, you realized the things you thought you read, were never there.

Lowry is a master at her craft. And the ending? It is my favorite part. Though it is a bit polarizing, it leaves the reader without a clear resolution. The ending is interpretive and it is for each reader to understand for themselves. It was a bold move, and I think it worked.

If you have never read it, you must. Again, a short read, only 180 pages. You won’t regret it.

This one has a tissue index of: five tissues

 

5.       Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech

 

“It seems to me that we can’t explain all the truly awful things in the world like war and murder and brain tumors, and we can’t fix these things, so we look at the frightening things that are closer to us and we magnify them until they burst open. Inside is something that we can manage, something that isn’t as awful as it had a first seemed. It is a relief to discover that although there might be axe murderers and kidnappers in the world, most people seem a lot like us: sometimes afraid and sometimes brave, sometimes cruel and sometimes kind.”

This is a perfect instance where you cannot judge a book by its cover. I wish the folks who did the cover would get off their butts and change it though, because this is a book I never wanted to pick up. It just looked “boring.” I have never been more wrong in my life.

This book is everything a book should be: meaningful, poetic, rich in character and in verse, story, humor, just everything.

This story is actually a story within a story within a story. It literally has three levels and completely different story strings in it. The first, on the surface, is about a girl, Salamanca Tree Hiddle, who goes on a cross country adventure with her grandparents using the same journey her mother disappeared on many years ago. As she is traveling and stopping at destinations like the Mt. Rushmore and Yellowstone, she entertains her grandparents with a story about some of her friends, one Phoebe Winterbottom who shares the experience of a missing mom. As she tells the story of Phoebe’s mom, it begins to mirror her own search. At the same time, Sal’s grandparents tell Sal about how her grandparents met, then about her mom’s childhood and life.

Because the stories interweave, readers are always left wanting more of the story they were hearing, thus keeping them turning the page. At the end, you realized nothing is what you thought and every prediction you made was wrong.

Every character from Sal, to Phoebe, to the grandparents, to the lady with the red hair, comically named Ms. Cadaver, are so rich and developed. Creech writes with beauty and wit and wisdom, but crafts it from a tween’s point of view so effortlessly. Past and present is entwined in a mosaic of words and images that are flawless. It is books like these that make me want to be a better writer. If you have ever wanted to write multiple narratives into one book, you need to read this to see how it is done well.

This book is so much beyond a coming of age story. Again, it is about family bonds, friendships, and garnering the strength to move on even when all you want to do is bury your head in the sand. It is deep and moving. And it is one of the best middle grade books ever written.

Oh yeah…this one has a tissue index of: A WHOLE DAMN BOX.

6.       Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli

 

“She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of a cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl. We did not know what to make of her. In our minds we tried to pin her to a cork board like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew.”

This is one of the few middle grade stories that are told with a male protagonist, which is why this is a great book for both males and females. Though Leo is 16 and in high school, this book reads like a middle grade book because of its easy flow and nice pace. It takes the view of Leo, who is curious all people are, about the new girl in school. Susan, who goes by the name of Stargirl, is someone who marches to her own beat.

Stargirl knows everyone’s birthday, dances in the rain, sets her desk up with a tablecloth and flowers in a vase,  and cheers for the opposing basketball teams. At first, people shun her, but soon they begin to appreciate her new ways of approaching life.

However, as time goes by, what people used to love about Stargirl when she was new become the things they make fun of her for now.  Leo, however, continues to see something in her that he can’t let go. But when Leo and Stargirl get close, he asks her to become like everyone else. She obliges, but the light she once had begins to fade. Leo gets stuck between being happy or letting Stargirl go and learns a powerful lesson about acceptance and the cost of individuality.

With a lightness and touch of humor, as usual with Spinelli, we experience how hard it is to be in high school and we relearn the lessons we all know so well. Spinelli is a wizard at creating contemporary novels with characters who live on the fringe of society and his constant message is that we need to look at these people who seem so different from us, and learn from them, perhaps becoming our own version of strange.

After reading Stargirl, you’ll want your very own Stargirl singing songs on the ukulele and buying you your own version of a porcupine necktie. Oh, and you’ll find yourself talking to Mr. Saguaro too.

Tissue rating: 1-2 tissues

 

7.       Hurt Go Happy by Ginny Rorby

 

This was a difficult decision for me, whether to put this on the list or not. I decided to put it on here because not of the great storytelling, although it is decent. I put it here for the characterization of a deaf girl who because of her mother’s own fears keep her isolated emotionally and socially from her peers by not letting her daughter learn how to read and understand sign language.

The other reason I put it on this list was for the amazing story of a friendship between animal and human. The story is loosely based in reality.

Joey is a 13 year old deaf girl struggling to fit into a hearing world. Joey was not born deaf, but came to it due to a tragedy that I won’t go into as I don’t want to spoil it. Let’s just say she struggles with her mom because her mother is so afraid of anything else happening to her and feels guilty. While it is hard to believe a parent would do such a thing, learning the reason why helps a bit.

But the strongest part of the story is when Joey meets a local scientist who is teaching a chimp how to sign. Through the friendship that forms between Joey and Sukari, Joey begins to learn how to communicate. About midway through the book, the story slides into a slightly different narrative. The story soon changes when Charlie, the scientist, suffers a heart attack and dies, thus leaving Sukari homeless. And without the means or the legal authority to take care of a “wild animal” Sukari has to be taken to a research facility.

There are some pretty horrific scenes not for the faint of heart. I literally cried out loud as I read this section. As an animal lover, it is hard to read. And the fallout is pretty traumatic. Though the bias and slant of this book is pretty evident, it doesn’t take away from the power of the book.

The continual piece threaded throughout the text is that Joey struggles to find her place in a world not made for her, and her trial mirrors Sukari’s search for a safe place of her own. In order to help Sukari, both Joey and her mother must face their fears.

It’s a powerful story of triumph, courage, strength, and forgiveness.

I give it a tissue rating of 5.

So that’s it for now. I may add to this later as I read more books. Middle grade fiction is a tricky thing. You want a book to be not too heavy but to stand the test of time, it needs to hit all the right notes. For me, every single one of these do that, yet all in different ways.

If you read one of these, let me know what you think.

If you have any other recommendations for middle grade must reads, please leave them in the comments below!

Next week: my picks for the top YA books. J