Chapter 4: The Conundrum Council

Ghost and the Daemon is a serialized young adult fiction work I’m posting here, chapter by chapter, as I write it, along with my occasional doodles.

Fize_C4_webrev“Scum!” Black sand flew. “Snee’s spit!” Thunder rolled. “You will not deceive me,” Fize snarled.

Nix gave the signal anyway and Lo-Ket coaxed a pale red spark from Freyja’s hearth fire just before Fize’s minion, Sooxa, scratched a green one out of a pane of sea glass nearby.

Freyja shook with a brief chuckle and stirred the fire.

“Once more,” spat Fize. “Winner takes all.”

“Thank you, but no,” said Nix. “Between Lo-Ket’s animas seeds and Sooxa’s, my minion will have enough to carry her through another lifetime.”

As Nix turned to leave, he heard a piece of driftwood shatter against the cliff face. The clatter wasn’t loud enough to drown out Fize’s curse, much less Sooxa’s banshee howl.

A giant dripping with kelp and and studded with barnacles and clams materialized from the wisps of chalk and charcoal fog crawling across the beach. The man joined Nix on his stroll. Drifting tendrils of fog caught on the curl of the giant’s massive green beard as they moved.

“Why do you play with Fize when you know it will only inflame his anger?” asked Meer.

“It’s only a game,” said Nix.

“But you know it’s more than that to him. And to you.”

Nix tossed out his hand. Lo-Ket vaulted off his wrist and flew into the smoky day to roam and hunt. He watched her go as he said, “It’s not my responsibility to keep the peace with Fize.”

“But it is your responsibility to attend the gatherings,” said Meer. When Nix tensed but said nothing, Meer fell to the task that had been asked of him. “You’ve become distant recently. Even more so than before.”

“You’re always over-analyzing things,” said Nix.

“I’m not the only one who has noticed. We all notice. Tristus asked me to speak with you about your absence.”

“Tristus did?”

Meer nodded. Not good, thought Nix.

“The circle is unaware of your activities, but I can guess where your time is spent.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Meer. If they want me to be more active—to ride infinity on the back of petty arguments with the rest of them, so be it. But I’m not interested in discussing what I do in my private time,” said Nix.

“You exist behind the curtain, not beyond it, and yet you waste yourself in that other world,” said Meer.

“If my hobby gives me even some small amount of joy, how is it a waste?”

Meer sighed. “You’ve let your friendships go to seed. You have made no home for yourself. The rare occasions you are physically here, your mind is elsewhere. Or, worse, you are off picking fights and generally trying to show everyone how much you dislike your own world and kind, which is by now unnecessary as you have proven your point many times over.”

“We’re the same as we’ve always been. I’ve made my memories. This place is unchanging, don’t you see?” Nix searched Meer’s face but found only disappointment in the lines there.

“You still live in those memories. You need to let them go,” said Meer, but Nix was already walking away.

**

Conundrum-Council_C4_webrev“This meeting is now called to order,” Parker whistled through the gap in his front teeth.

Ghost plopped down on one of the floor pillows she’d brought from home. By now it proudly bore a fine layer of dry earth. Darla made her way around the shack with a spray can of insect repellant as she did every time they hung out in the makeshift clubhouse. Jo-Jo, cradling a heavy book, made himself comfortable in his low beach chair next to Ghost.

Pip was quarantined in the chicken coop they’d brought in from outside the shack. Mrs. Pumpernickel had insisted that Darla bring him along after he made a strike with his toy car and some bowling pins that were actually his mother’s souvenir wine glasses. In the coop, he made clucking noises in between bites of black licorice.

“We’re not even a real club,” said Ghost.

“First order of business,” shouted Parker. “Come up with a club name.”

Darla gave the last floorboard crack a shot of acrid fumes and joined the others at the center of the square space. Old wood paneling and not much else surrounded them. Ghost had broken the lock after her new friends showed her the shack in the woods a short walk outside of town. The windows had been blacked out and the walls were covered in scratched words and symbols, but it didn’t frighten Ghost who was used to more foreboding signs.

The worse they found inside was a dead opossum. It’s sour odor was now obliterated by a few weeks of absence and Darla’s chemical warfare. They’d all had a hand in cleaning the space until it was suitable enough to be called their clubhouse.

“I was supposed to start a horror club with my friend, Poojah, back in my old town,” said Ghost.

Darla frowned at her. “Nobody else likes horror. Besides, that was your old town and your old friend. This is your new town and we need a new club idea,” she said. “We could solve mysteries or something. Truth Seekers Anonymous.”

“Too clunky,” Ghost said with a shrill note of irritation.

Parker squinted into space and stuck a finger up one nostril while he considered the challenge. “How about the Mystery Society?”

“Bet that’s been done a million times before,” said Darla.

They sat in silence and cool resentment.

“The Conundrum Council,” someone said. Everyone looked at Jo-Jo, who had only glanced up from his book to make the suggestion and had already returned to its pages.

“The good old CC,” said Parker.

“It’s settled then,” said Darla. “We’ll solve mysteries and learn every secret in this town. We’re already off to a good start with the clubhouse.”

“Secrets? Ha!” said Parker. “I’ve lived here all my life–nothing interesting ever happens.”

“Every town has secrets, Parker. Maybe you’re just too dumb to figure them out,” said Darla.

“Hey,” said Ghost. “I think I have a mystery we can solve.”

The others were all ears (even Jo-Jo though who could tell).

**

Ghost waved her goodbye to Darla as she headed homeward on her own. They’d spent most of the day at the clubhouse, making CC plans and planting a little garden with seeds Ghost’s mother had bought them after Ghost said she wanted to show Darla how to grow plants from scratch. She had consciously failed to mention that the seedlings would be planted around an abandoned shack in the woods but, Ghost guiltily repeated to herself once in a while, it wasn’t exactly a lie.

“What a sorry group.”

Ghost jumped a few inches off the ground. Nix was walking beside her.

“You scared me,” she said with a frown, but she was actually glad to see him. She had almost begun to question her sanity again.

“Making new friends, I see.”

“Oh. Yeah, they’re the best,” said Ghost.

“Strange choice of words,” said Nix. “They’re kind of off, aren’t they?”

“What do you mean, off?” asked Ghost, knowing exactly what he meant.

But Nix shrugged. “Nothing. I’m surprised you didn’t offer up my sighting as a mystery.”

“You’ve been spying,” said Ghost. She crossed her arms. “I didn’t tell them about it because you could be nothing more than a hallucination. My doctors said I might experience symptoms like that.”

“You’re right. I could be an illusion—that was a good decision.”

Ghost slowed. “You don’t have any way to prove that you’re real? Can you at least tell me about the place you come from, or is that secret?

“It’s a big place. That would take forever, and you would be bored,” said Nix.

“So you can’t tell me anything? That’s no fun.”

Nix looked at Ghost who stared back expectantly.

“Well. I can tell you about things that have happened over there.” Nix looked off at the reddening sky. “I can tell you a story.”

Lo-Ket_C4_webrev

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Chapter 3: New Friends (and a Pest)

Ghost and the Daemon is a serialized young adult fiction work I’m posting here, chapter by chapter, as I write it, along with my occasional doodles.


Down a narrow hallway, an open door gave way to a few steps and then to a blind descent. Someone whispered indistinguishable words on the other side of the heavy basement door where a frail light puttered nervously between life and death.

Soft-ShoeThe chanting stopped as the door creaked open. Ghost poked her head out of the room and then ducked back in. False alarm.

If her mother caught her at the center of a circle drawn with an entire box of Kosher salt, she would have to come up with quantifiable proof that finding a demonic entity was worth every penny of the two bucks spent on the basement floor. But first, she would actually have to find said entity. Her dad’s Latin phrasebook fell back open and Ghost chose a random, meaningful-sounding string of words off the thin pages to speak aloud. The book was one of many relics her father’s recent spurt of spontaneous hobbies had materialized into, and like the other relics it was kept around long after the hobby was abandoned. Just in case.

Rocking back and forth on her heels like she’d seen in a documentary about spiritual trances, Ghost closed her eyes and fell to chanting. But honestly faith was a difficult thing to muster in a mold-scented basement on the hard floor with nothing but cottonmouth to show for thirty minutes’ exertion.

“What could you possibly be doing?”

Ghost started. Her eyes snapped open to find the demon before her, giving her the same quizzical look she’d received that first night.

“It worked,” she said.

“What did?”

“The spell,” Ghost said, showing him the Latin textbook. “I summoned you.”

“This may come as a surprise, but I don’t make an entrance every time someone asks for directions to the bathroom. Although, if you’d asked one more time, it’s possible I would have lost my mind.”

Ghost gently laid the book behind her. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Too long,” said the demon, delicately kicking the salt ring with the tip of his shoe.

“You can’t get past that,” Ghost stated. She watched his one foot do a little soft shoe. “Can you?”

The shoe stopped. “What exactly do you think I am?” he asked.

“You said you were a demon.”

The demon looked at her awhile. “A demon. A creature entombed in fire and brimstone, you mean.”

Ghost began to sense that she’d misunderstood something so she bought time by squinting thoughtfully.

“I’m a daemon with an ‘e.’ Or an ‘i.’ A demigod.”

“Something like a guardian angel then?” Ghost asked and was swiftly answered with a spat laugh.

“God no. There’s a fool’s trade for you. People do just as they please in the end. Why bother?” The daemon frowned at Ghost. “No. I have nothing to do with you or the course of your life. But I do stop by to see what you’re up to from time to time.”

“Why?” asked Ghost.

The daemon shrugged. “Being a daemon these days is like being someone born into wealth. You don’t need a job. Nobody expects anything of you. So you find ways to amuse yourself. I find oddballs and browse their lives for entertainment.”

Ghost rose to her feet. “I’m not an oddball.”

“Oh,” sighed the daemon, raising an eyebrow, “yes you are. Just look at you.” He nudged his chin at her helpfully. “Also,” he paused. “My curiosity was naturally peaked when I heard rumor that you managed to escape Death.”

“I didn’t escape anything. I just survived an accident.”

“If you say so.”

Ghost was old enough now to despise attempts to convince her that she knew nothing about herself.

“I’m guessing you know my name. What’s yours?”

“Nix.”

“Well, Nix. Nice to meet you and all, but I’m going to get back to my day now.” Ghost turned away from the daemon and walked out of the room without looking back.

**

Darlas-HouseGhost alternated between the shade of the big walnut tree and the warm sun by rolling back and forth on the grass. From the open kitchen window, behind the annoyed rustle of grass, came the voice of her mother asking her father to help find the Kosher salt. Ghost stopped just long enough to hear their search interrupted by the doorbell before returning to her activity.

It had proven too difficult to be indoors around her parents with the improbable and spectacular development named Nix to consider. And she had walked away from him like nothing. Yes, knowing that Nix could materialize right now if he wanted, but still.

Now she wondered if he ever would again and felt an odd pang like missing Poojah, but Poojah he certainly wasn’t.

“Ghost,” her mother called from the back door. Ghost turned to find wary excitement on her mother’s face and knew what she would say next. “You have a visitor.”

Darla would have been exceptionally pretty if not for her nose. It was turned up and smooshed in. Like a pig’s snout.

“My mother made me come over,” she explained, niceties out of the way before they’d begun.

“Okay,” said Ghost.

“She told me I should introduce you to my friends.”

After an awkward few seconds of silence passed, Darla said, “Alright, come on then.”

Ghost obediently followed Darla down the street and out of the cul-de-sac to a gastric pink gingerbread home. Three kids sat in a blasted circle on the lawn, drinking a bright red beverage out of glass cowboy boot steins.

New-Friends“This is Parker,” Darla said at a boy with tightly-curled orange hair and a mouth to match. “He’s got ADD or something but he’s alright.”

“This is Jo-Jo,” she pointed to a morose-looking kid—Ghost couldn’t immediately tell whether Jo-Jo was a boy or girl. Jo-Jo had long eyelashes and delicate features but carried his or her weight like a boy. “He doesn’t talk much, but once he starts, he can’t stop.”

Lastly, Darla motioned toward a minuscule, tow-headed boy with red all over his face and down the front of his shirt. “This is Pip. My little brother,” she said. “And he can beat it.”

Pip stuck his tongue out at Darla and marched away, sloshing his drink up the incline to the house.

A giant of a woman ruffled Pip’s hair at the threshold as she stepped through the front door.

“This the new girl, Darla?” she called out.

Darla’s mother wore a Cheshire smile beneath a wild growth of frazzled blond hair. She drawled when she spoke.

“How you doing, girl? You like your new home? Good good. I’m Mrs. Pumpernickel.”

Ghost couldn’t figure out how Mrs. Pumpernickel managed to speak so slowly while giving a person no time to respond.

“You just enjoy yourself with the kids now. You want a drink? Let me get you something, child. You look in need of something that’s for sure.”

Mrs. Pumpernickel ambled back up to the house, fanning at the sweat on her face.

“Where’d you come from?” Parker asked through a congested nose.

“Just another town,” Ghost shrugged. “Nowhere special.”

“Like this town?” he asked.

Ghost considered her surroundings. The straight trees and the wide streets. The sleepy silence.

“No.”

“You won’t like it here,” Darla said. The statement was offered in the same way a person might reassure an ailing friend that they’ll get better.

Darla sat, so Ghost followed the native customs. But not so far as to gulp the acrid red liquid Mrs. Pumpernickel delivered to her.

“Hey, d’your mom let you dye your hair white?” asked Parker.

“No. I got electrocuted and it just grew out that way,” said Ghost. Get it out of the way.

But Parker just showed his buckteeth and nodded.

“How old are you all?” Ghost asked, setting aside her boot.

“Same age as you,” said Darla. “My mom got to talking with your mom at the market and found out you were our age. That’s why she made me come over and say hi.”

“You’re going to the public junior high?” asked Ghost.

Darla scrunched her face at the sun and nodded.

“How do you think it’ll be?”

“Bad.”

“Darla hates everything,” said Parker, throwing torn blades of grass in the direction of Darla’s face.

“Do not,” said the unflinching Darla. “I just call it like I see it. I see it’ll be just like Rosewood. We’ll sit in the corner all bored while everyone else has a blast.”

“What do you think, Jo-Jo?” asked Parker.

Jo-Jo’s throat said, “I don’t know,” but his mouth didn’t open.

Ghost sat back and stretched her legs out on the grass. She looked from Darla to Parker to Jo-Jo with something between a frown and a smile and sensed that she belonged.

Chapter 2: Curious Beginnings

Ghost and the Daemon is a serialized young adult fiction work I’m posting here, chapter by chapter, as I write it, along with my occasional doodles.


pancakes-1-242x300Ghost awoke buzzing with that innate recognition of the first morning of summer break.

She couldn’t decide whether the full boxes and the barren rooms burdened or lightened the skip in her step, but she was certain that the scent of pancakes and bacon masked the sorrows of moving. For now.

A golden brown disc performed a perfect flip before landing in the hot greased pan. “Ha!” Ghost’s dad shouted at the pancake.

At the old oaky kitchen table, Ghost’s mom set down the book she’d been reading and perched her sandaled feet on a mostly unpacked box of books labeled “Pots and Pans.”

“Exploring today?” she asked Ghost.

“Nah,” said Ghost. “I thought maybe you’d work on the garden.”

“You don’t have to stick around here if there are other things you’d prefer to do.”

Ghost toyed with the edge of the book, staring intently at the cover. “Yeah. I mean, it’d be nice to just hang out in the backyard.”

Ghost felt the full weight of her mom’s eyes, then, “That actually does sound like a nice way to spend the day—gardening,” said her mom. “Alright. Let’s do that.”

“I think I left my drill behind somehow,” said Ghost’s dad as he delivered a platter of pancakes. “I need to walk to the Ghost Reads-272x300hardware store in town anyway. We’ll have to part ways after breakfast.”

“Walk into town?” asked Ghost.

“Yeah, it’s only about a mile away.” He shrugged off Ghost’s confusion. “It’s a small town. But don’t worry—there’s a small serving of urban sprawl only an hour away,” he said, beaming at her helpfully.

**

A bright fleck of orange swung into the wind, dancing across the sidewalk and into the road. Ghost remembered something. A man darker than the night.

Ghost stepped back, watching another ember make its way across the street from the willow-veiled yard next door. A shadow rose from a crouch beyond the wispy branches and moved toward the sidewalk. Clawed fingers held fire and smoke. The woman raised her eyebrows at Ghost. Tiger and fawn held a stare.

“Ready, hun?” asked Ghost’s mom, appearing from the house with her keys. She looked up the street. “Oh. Hello there,” she said, walking toward the woman with a wave that tried too hard.

Ghost expected the woman to dissipate in an impressive display of thunder and cloud, but she smiled back at her mom and said, “Hello,” in a silky baritone.

“Sabrina,” said Ghost’s mom, shaking the woman’s free hand. “Is that sage? Smells wonderful.”

Matilda-287x300The woman nodded. “Matilda,” she said. “You just moved in.”

“That, we did.” Ghost watched her mother inanely gesture at the moving van still parked in the drive. “Me, my husband, Lucas, and my daughter here,” she beckoned Ghost.

Ghost’s legs stiffened as she approached the awkward interaction to stand beside her mother.

Matilda’s slitted violet eyes peered at her behind their thick black lashes. They moved across her face and hair.

“And your name is?”

“Ghost.”

Matilda nodded. Whether approvingly or apathetically Ghost couldn’t tell, but she was determined to find even a trace of the former.

“We’re off to run some errands,” said Ghost’s mom. “But we’d love to have you over for dinner once we’re settled in.”

“That would be lovely. And please,” Matilda slanted her eyes at Ghost again, “my door is open if you ever need help.”

**

“I could not get comfortable around that woman,” Ghost’s mom said once the car doors were securely closed and the windows rolled up. “There was something,” she wrinkled her nose, “witchy about her.”

Ghost pretended to look out the window while her mom darted a glance in her direction.

“That was a terrible thing to say, wasn’t it?” asked Ghost’s mom as they drove past town only a minute later.

A handful of khakis, some pale summer dresses, crisp shorts, and navy shirts dotted the streets in front of pristine gingerbread stores. Even now people pushed their chins forward to see into the unfamiliar car.

“I thought you liked witches,” said Ghost.

“I do. I like witches in books and movies. I like people who own one too many cats and set up altars cluttered with interesting things in their living rooms.” The tires rolled over loose gravel as they pulled into a nursery’s parking lot. “But she was, oh I don’t know. Too intense.”

An elderly woman with purple-tinted hair gave Ghost a look as they walked through a verdant trellis into a wonderland of black plastic pots and dwarf citrus varietals.

“Anyway,” Ghost’s mom concluded, rolling a platform truck to her, “she’s probably a very nice woman.” She stood behind her own cart. “Ready?”

fizzle fingers-243x300Whenever they moved to a house with a garden, the rule was that Ghost could choose ten plants, and her mom could choose ten. They would continue on in that fashion for a number of trips to the nursery until they had a discordantly glorious garden. By now, Ghost knew her mom’s batch would include fragrant lilies, bright sunflowers, and white hydrangeas. Ghost would gravitate toward the crawling jasmine, irises, snapdragons, and strawberries before seeking out something new. The two parted in a competitive flurry, but Ghost quickly found herself daydreaming into the silly face of a snapdragon.

She’d given it some thought and decided that the man had in fact been real and not a figment of her imagination. The memory of the encounter had by now returned in full. But for all the danger implicit in that brief meeting, Ghost wondered if she had made some mistake. In the early afternoon warmth with the scent of jasmines beckoning, he appeared again in her mind’s eye as a curious neighbor. Not unlike Matilda.

The only detail she couldn’t reconcile was their conversation. What had he meant about being able to see and hear him?

Ghost frowned at the orange snapdragon. She could swear it had been yellow seconds ago. But now the color deepened to crimson, then with a blue stem. A cloud gathered over the tray of flowers. Ghost looked up to find the man himself looking down on her.

“I wish you wouldn’t gape like that. I’m not a spectacle.”

Ghost closed her mouth. “Sorry. I,” Ghost faltered, “I think we’re neighbors. My name is Ghost.”

“I know who you are. But we aren’t neighbors.”

Ghost looked around the nursery for her mother, but the entire place seemed to have cleared out while she’d been daydreaming.

“I should get back to my mom.”

The man crossed his arms and shrugged his shoulders. Ghost turned to go, but stopped. “Well then who are you? Why were you sitting on the street?”

“Free country. Isn’t that what people say?”

“Okay. Then why are you following me around?”

The man uncrossed his arms and smiled wryly. “There’s the question.”

“Well?”

“Because you can see me,” he said.

“Of course I can.”

“That’s the thing. You shouldn’t be able to see me.”

“I don’t get it,” said Ghost. “It’s not like you’re invisible.”

“Yes. I am.” He rested his hand atop the head of a snapdragon. It fizzled like a sparkler before disintegrating. “You’re gaping again.”

“What are you?” asked Ghost.

“I’m a daemon.”

A demon, thought Ghost.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

“I want to know why you can see me. And I’m not going away until I find out,” said the daemon.

“That’s it?”

Ghost spun around to find her mom surveying the one bucket of jasmines on her cart.

“Only one plant?” her mom continued.

Ghost turned around again, but just as she expected, the daemon was gone.

Chapter 1: Embers in the Wind

Ghost and the Daemon is a serialized young adult fiction work I’m posting here, chapter by chapter, as I write it, along with my occasional doodles.


Constance-1Once upon a time, Ghost’s name was Constance. But when she electrocuted herself on the exposed cord from a string of jack-o-lantern lights and was pronounced dead before coming back to life five minutes later, her parents changed her legal name to Ghost. Ghost called the white skunk trail falling over her long, black hair her Bride of Frankenstein streak.

She tugged at the streak when she felt anxious. As she did on her last day of elementary school. Poojah didn’t have a streak to pull so she cried instead.

“But why are you moving now?” Poojah wailed. Ghost gave her streak two tugs and wondered how Poojah could get any words out of her scrunched face.

“My parents wanted to move sooner. They decided to wait until I had to go to a new school anyway,” mumbled Ghost.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ghost shrugged. “I’ve only known a little while. And I didn’t want you to be upset during graduation.”

“What about the summer? We were gonna start a horror movie club and sneak into the fun house at the fair.”

Poojah’s overbite was exaggerated by her open-mouthed misery. Ghost used to imagine that a train puffed along the tracks of her braces when she smiled. She’d never be able to do that again because this was the last time she’d see Poojah. That’s just how things happened when you moved. Ghost knew this from experience.Poojah-C1-3

“I know,” Ghost said. “Hey, I gotta go. My parents are waiting–they wanted to head out to the new place right after the ceremony. We’ll keep in touch?”

Poojah nodded furiously. “Forever.”

Ghost smiled. Poojah didn’t know she was lying yet, and her best friend’s earnestness was one of Ghost’s favorite things. She hugged her goodbye and turned away. As soon as she did, she felt better.

**

Ghost stuck her head out of the window and wondered what breed of dog she would be if she was reborn into the species. A blue whippet, she decided as the green hills and tall wind farms rolled against sky and cumulonimbus. She imagined her spindly whippet self flying over the grasses, going wherever.

“Are you excited about the new place?” asked her mom.

A response didn’t come right away. Hesitance was part of Ghost’s answer, but it was hard to be bothered and angry in the summer, with the warm sun and cool wind on her face. They always moved during the break and by the time her spirits could match the icy weather, it was too late. By that time, Ghost either already had a friend or had found a secret place in the new neighborhood. By then, her old friends were awash in a milky haze, and she’d feel too guilty about it to use them as ammunition.

“I guess.”

**

The sun hung low in the sky as the car pulled into a tidy driveway.

“We’re here,” announced Ghost’s dad. He gave Ghost a tired smile and shook her knee. She didn’t know whether to be aggravated or amused so she grunted without any real objective.

The houses got better each time and this one was no different. It was spacious with an innocent charm. Ghost felt like Anne Shirley on Prince Edward Island, and then immediately felt stupid for having that thought.

She almost expected the person who would become her new best friend to show up on the driveway with a plate of cookies and something quirky and memorable to say. But they unloaded the moving truck and nobody showed up.

Ghost’s room was a pretty space with a tall window facing the backyard. It came with a garish powder blue and floral window seat from which she could stare down at a half-hearted rose garden that her mother would almost certainly uproot and replant with strange tulips and vivid wildflowers. Tall trees hid the neighbor’s backyard from view.

Her mother might want to work on the yard all day tomorrow and then Ghost could sit outside with a book and not think about anything or meet anyone new.

Ghost’s dad finished putting her bed back together and smiled down at his handiwork before looking up.

“You okay there?” he asked.

“Hm?” Ghost turned away from the window. “Yeah, fine dad.”

Going-Wherever-C1-2-243x300“Me and mom thought you might like pizza for dinner. We can set up the television and watch some bad horror movies tonight if you’d like.”

“Sounds good,” said Ghost.

His quiet gaze rested on her face for a few long seconds, but then he nodded and stepped out of the room.

“Who’s next?” he bellowed into the empty hall. “You’re in for it now, breakfast table.”

**

Ghost liked the protagonist so she was relieved the girl escaped the cannibal demons from the mental ward. She didn’t mind that everyone else in the movie died though. She turned around to test a half-formed, possibly flawed comparison between “Death Ward” and Shakespeare’s Hamlet on her parents only to find them asleep on the couch.

“Horror, Inc.” was up next in the queue. She lifted off the floor cushion to stretch her legs and grab a slice of jalapeño and anchovy. One o’clock glared at her from the stove’s dashboard. But she wasn’t tired at all. It was in the moments when everyone else slept and the world was silent and dark that Ghost felt most alive.

She walked her pizza slice to the window and looked out at the empty street. A hot evening breeze blew into the house as Ghost opened the door and stepped out onto the cobbled walk. It was lined with white alyssum, which she couldn’t help but think smelled like alley pee.

Ghost knew better than to walk out of the house unsupervised at night in certain neighborhoods her family had lived in, but this was a suburban cul-de-sac of the buttoned-down variety. She was trying to remember a mean but funny movie quote about people who lived on cul-de-sacs when she noticed the man.

He wore a black turtle neck, gray jeans, and dress shoes. He looked around the same age as her parents—mid-30s maybe—but he smoked a tobacco pipe. Like an old person. Or, Ghost corrected herself, like someone putting on airs. He puffed on it now, sitting on the curb, massaging the scalp buried beneath a pile of black hair.

The man noticed Ghost just as she began backing up. She was on the verge of running for it but the expression on the man’s face stopped her. He tucked his chin into his neck, frowned, squinted one eye, and beetled his brow. He looked at her like she was the crazy one.

Orange embers drifted out of the pipe and into the wind as he stood up and walked toward her, cocking his head. Now he squinted both eyes, his face hardening. That was enough to send Ghost scurrying into the house. She didn’t want to wake her parents and start a commotion, so she closed the door as softly as she could without losing too much time. Every lock clicked into place.

Ghost crouched by the door. Silence.

Then. “Can you see me?” came an even voice from the other side.

Ghost bit her lip to shut herself up, but here it came anyway. “Yes.”

“Then you can hear me too.”

Ghost said nothing this time.

“But that can’t be,” said the man.

Ghost counted to twenty. Nothing more. She stood up. Slowly…slowly. And put her ear to the door. She flinched against nothing more than the prediction of a violent rap, but all was silent. Ghost took a terrible chance. She unlocked the door and cracked it open. And then more. Until nothing stood between her and the empty street.

Dems da Rules: Adverbs

A few days ago while revising my young adult novel in progress, I needed a little reminder of good narration so I flipped through Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I landed on a page of dialogue and was about to move on elsewhere when I noticed something. That most sinister of writing faux pas: the adverb. And not just one. On a single page, I found the following adverbs (many modifying “said”, heavens to Betsy): grumpily, suspiciously, truthfully, unpleasantly.

After the initial shock abated, I thought about the usage of these words. I read this book and I know for a fact that not once did I think, there’s no way I can enjoy this story for all the adverbs. I never thought about adverbs at all while reading any of the Harry Potter books. Then again, I didn’t know about the adverb rule when I read the book.

I only learned that adverbs are bad a couple years ago and I was shocked. And ashamed–my own writing was peppered with them. After hearing the admonition the first time, I saw fingers wagging at adverbs everywhere. And now I notice them and tut-tut at their presence with the collective.

Writers get pretty passionate about adverbs and I swear I’m not trying to be a muckraker, but are we really so turned off by them or do we train ourselves to be? And if adverbs are a crutch for lazy writers, does it matter if readers enjoy the story just the same?

More on adverbs:

“Seriously, What’s So Bad About Adverbs?” (io9)

Really, adverbs aren’t bad in themselves. They’re a part of speech, fundamentally no different than any other. Basically, an adverb modifies a verb or adjective to tell you how someone did something. The main problem is, unfortunately, people tend to overuse adverbs. And they’re the part of speech most likely to clutter your sentence pointlessly.

WRITERS ON WRITING; Easy on the Adverbs, Exclamation Points and Especially Hooptedoodle (New York Times)

4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb ”said” . . .

. . . he admonished gravely. To use an adverb this way (or almost any way) is a mortal sin. The writer is now exposing himself in earnest, using a word that distracts and can interrupt the rhythm of the exchange. I have a character in one of my books tell how she used to write historical romances ”full of rape and adverbs.”

How to Eliminate Adverbs (Grammar Girl)

No one likes feeling useless, but adverbs might justifiably feel that way. Adverbs find themselves much maligned because they’re often redundant or awkwardly placed.

Judy Blume at the L.A. Times FOB

(Got the second post in today, with two minutes to spare, haha!)

I get a little lump in my throat every time I think about the Judy Blume panel at the L.A. Times Festival of Books. And I’m not the only one. A number of the Q&A participants teared up as they thanked her for bringing her work into the world.

What is it about Judy Blume’s books that makes such a deep impact? That the memory of reading them is etched into our minds long after the last page is turned?

We might never have had the chance to read Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great or the Fudge books if Blume hadn’t hearkened to that niggling sensation telling her something was missing. She decided to take a class on writing for children at New York University, she told the audience at the sold out panel.

And lucky for her future readers, she had a teacher who was encouraging and she kept submitting to publishers even after the rejections arrived in the mail.

“There’s no art without rejection,” Blume said. “It’s painful stuff and I can’t say I ever got over it.”

When an acceptance letter finally did come, Blume recounted how she and the mailman (who had delivered so many rejections) literally danced across the front lawn.

Blume discussed aspects of the writing process. “I hate first drafts. It’s torture; it’s painful,” she said.

On revising, Blume said she doesn’t allow herself to backtrack on revisions–she works from beginning to end without looking back. She went through twenty-three drafts before finishing Summer Sisters (which made me feel infinitely better about being on my fourth MS draft, knowing I have many more ahead before I can consider it ready for submission).

She also gave some advice to parents tempted to share books they loved as youths with their children. Rather than approaching the child, carrying on about how much you loved the book and think your child will love it too, shoving your beat-up copy into their little hands, Blume suggested investing in a new copy of the book with an updated cover, leaving it around the house and, when the child picks up the book, telling them, “you’re not ready for that.”

She also advised parents not to be judgmental about whatever their children want to read, and declared her distaste for the phrase, “That’s below your reading level.”

Blume has taken on topics that could be considered risqué. She wrote Forever for her daughter, Amanda. Her daughter had noticed that, in all of the books she read, terrible things happened to young women who gave in to sex. Blume felt that young adult books disallowed sexual gratification for women, so she wrote a story where sex didn’t spur a young girl’s downfall. Due to the content, her publisher marketed Forever as an adult novel, though it was not intended to be classified as one.

Taking on tricky topics doesn’t bother Blume. After admitting that many of Sheila’s fears were her own, she added, “The only place I wasn’t afraid of anything was when I was writing.”

From the start, Blume wanted to tell the truth from what she knew. And there were no books about family that made her feel like her own family was okay, she said.

And that’s what stuck with me and what was expressed by the thankful Q&A participants. Blume gave her readers a sense of understanding through her stories. We saw ourselves and our families and our own stories through an honest lens and we were told that it was okay to be who we were, with all of our flaws and eccentricities; we were told that our struggles and questions were normal and nothing to be ashamed of. We didn’t have to strive to be someone else–we could be the heroes of our own stories.

“Writing changed everything for me,” Blume said. I believe it changed everything for her readers as well.

Writing Young Adult Fiction

Firstly, I realize that I failed to deliver Wednesday’s Los Angeles Times Festival of Books panel recap, so you get two panels for the price of one today! Starting with words on writing Young Adult fiction from the delightful risk-taker Libba Bray and this year’s L.A. Times Book Prize winner for YA Literature Pete Hautman.

Bray, author of A Great and Terrible Beauty, and Hautman, author of The Big Crunch, talked characters, community, challenges and social media as they relate to the genre.

Most Young Adult fiction authors have long left young adulthood behind. When asked about writing characters that appeal to all readers and keeping the inner adult out, both authors agreed that while they do write for a younger audience they also write for themselves. It’s almost a necessity when writing about a teen protagonist to write for both young Pete and old Pete, Hautman said. “An adult reading the book isn’t reading the same book a teen’s reading.”

After all the recent drama about adults reading YA Fic (stemming from that trolling article I won’t even link to here), I had to smile at that statement. I think it rung true for much of the panel’s audience, enthusiasts ranging from senior to infant.

On keeping the inner adult out of stories, Bray said she maintains the little details about her own young adult experience that allow her to write relatable young characters and stories. “You never stop coming of age,” she said.

I called Bray a risk-taker earlier in this post because she called herself a “leaper” during the panel, and also because she went from writing a series of fantasy novels occurring in the late 19th century with the Gemma Doyle trilogy to writing about the experiences of a high school kid suffering from mad cow disease in Going Bovine.

“I always want to go where the story is,” Bray said on taking risks. She then shared the origins of her truth-seeking compulsions with the audience. At fourteen, Bray’s dad came out to her family. In her mind, it created a schism between what was presented and what was actually happening. “[The event] made me prize honesty and authenticity,” she said. It also helped her develop a closer relationship with her father.

It seems the topic of social media comes up when discussing anything these days and Hautman admitted to committing a crime of which many social media savvy writers are guilty (including myself): losing precious writing time to the many meta folds of the web. “One minute I’m writing a chapter,” Hautman said, “and the next thing I know, I’ve been on Facebook for half an hour.”

Bray, on the other hand, said she tends to go underground when writing. I wish I had that kind of discipline.

Hautman and Bray discussed the evolution of the genre and the publishing industry, and Bray brought up a big issue in both worlds: diversity. Bray said the community needs to make more strides in diversifying the genre. Hautman added that in order to get from here to there in diversity, the change must be driven by the educational system. Bray noted that there aren’t a lot of people of color in publishing and is hopeful that this generation will blow diversity wide open.

A Judy Blume panel recap will follow later today!