The drive to drive

High school kids don't drive in New York City. It's illegal. This has sent me on a big research dig for my book in progress, because my characters won't be IN the city for this particular summer. One will be working as a camp counselor, and the other staying with a grandparent. In rural Pennsylvania. Where there aren't subways and buses and taxis everywhere.

In order for the nearly-18-year-old to be driving, I'd need him to have already gone through the whole learner's permit and driver's ed hoops in Pennsylvania. How sketchy would it be for him to have done this the previous summer, using his family's vacation home as his Pennsylvania address?

Can my 17-year-old get a learner's permit using her grandfather's address? I think it might be pretty fun to make her take driving lessons with the crotchety old guy and be stuck schlepping him around all summer.

Do I have a legal leg to stand on, using part-time residency to help my fictional kids get wheels?

Who taught you to drive? How old were you?

~image from Colorado Association of School Resource Officers~

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Let's Talk Blogfest

Thanks to Roni of Fiction Groupie for hosting today's Let's Talk Blogfest. Stop on by her site to see the listing of all participants.

My offering for today's fest is from WIP-2, Clearing, a sequel to my first YA book. I've had three people help me with the few snippets of French and deeply empathize with my protagonist's sentiments about learning the language.

Context here...Dani, 17, and her mother are about to head to Paris in a few days. She's studying for finals with her boyfriend (and sometimes French tutor) Theo. Earlier in this chapter, Dani learned of possible complications to the trip while he was asleep and her mother was out.

==========

I reach for Theo’s shoulder, give him a little shake. Then a harder one. “Thebes?”

He lifts his heavy head off of me. His hazel eyes flutter open, more gold than green in the afternoon light. He groans. “Oh, Dani, I did it again, didn’t I? Jeez, I’m sorry. I’m just so tired all the time. Maybe I need to start drinking coffee like you do.”

I smile. “It would stunt your growth.”

“Little late for that, don’t you think?” He leans back, stretching, and his firm stomach peeks between his shirt hem and the waistband of his khakis. I look away, sit on my hands again before my hormones get the better of me.

“Mum wants to know if you can stay for supper.”

“Yeah?” he says, poking me in the ribs. “What about you?” Poke. “Do you want me?” Poke, poke, poke. “To stay?”

“Not if you’re gonna be a bully!”

“Moi?” He strikes a Miss Piggy pose.

“Non, ta jument méchante, qui ronfle comme un os endormi.”

Theo roars with laughter. “My evil what? Mare? Who snores like a sleepy bone?”

“I meant twin. Ju-something…else.”

“Ah. Jumeau, ma chérie. Jumeau méchant. Evil twin. And I do not snore. Especially not like a bone.”

I roll my eyes. “Bear. I wanted to say bear.”

“Ours, not os. Bien? Dis-le et répète, Danielle.”

Say it and repeat. Oh, brother.

I tip my head side to side as I chant, “Ours, ours, ours, ours, ours. Happy?”

“Cheer up, babe, you’ve improved a lot. Your grammar’s quite good. You used the feminine adjective with jument, which was great, even if it wasn’t the noun you wanted.”

“I’m never gonna get this. Parisians will bludgeon me with baguettes for crimes against the mother tongue.”

“You are getting it. Can’t you see that? You’ve picked up in six months what it took me three years to learn. Of course, I didn’t have a patient instructor completely dedicated to my success.”

“Come on, Thebes. You’ve got to be bored out of your mind teaching a dunce like me.”

“Dunce? Hardly. You are way too hard on yourself. So you made a mistake. Big deal. Who doesn’t? Heck, I’m learning here, too. Remember the flashcard fiasco?”

“I’d rather not.” Theo pounding the wall, purple-faced; me curled up in fetal position—not a scene I care to replay. Ever.

“Well, me neither. That was totally my bad. But I learned from it, right? I’ve had quite the adventure developing my cutting-edge teaching techniques.”

I snort.

“Yeah? You doubt me? I’m deeply insulted.”

“What’s so cutting edge about, ‘Dis-le et répète’?”

“How do you think you learned to draw, Dani? Practice. Lots of it. Years of filling sketch pad after sketch pad until your scribbles became shapes became art. Anyone who thinks they can get some new skill without practice is an idiot. So, ma chérie, after we get through tomorrow’s finals and my last regatta, we will répéter, en français all day, every day, until you go. Très bien?”

Mum strides into the living room, clenching the phone. I can almost smell the fury pulsing out of her, like fumes from a hot engine.

Pas bien. Mal. Très, très mal.

“There’s been a change of plans,” she says.

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Internal Conflict Blogfest

Today's fest is hosted by the Alliterative Allomorph and our fun, fun theme is internal conflict!

This piece is from my second book in progress, so it's basically a cleaned-up rough draft. (In revision, I need to thin out some figures of speech, or so my CPs say.)

I don't think this needs much explanation; it's the second scene in the first chapter. My MC is 17-yo Dani, an arty New Yorker who lost her British dad in a car crash two years prior; her widowed mother is an MFA student. Poppa is her maternal grandfather, Theo, her boyfriend.

=================

My hands start shaking so bad I can barely hold the paper scrap where I scrawled the hospital’s number. For all I know, Poppa will be dead in minutes if they don’t operate. But without Mum’s approval, they legally can’t.

I cannot believe my mother would leave Theo and me alone in the condo. She’s usually checking on us every ten minutes like clockwork, bugging us with incessant questions or roping Theo into chores like opening jars or pulling things off high shelves. She seems to have this bizarre fear that Theo and I are going to rip each other’s clothes off at any moment and make me the next teen pregnancy statistic. Yeah, right. That’s as likely as my being drafted as a linebacker for the Giants.

Mum can’t have gone far—probably just to the little market on Columbus to pick up dinner ingredients. Surely she’ll be back any minute. I should call the front desk, ask the guard if he saw her go out. Theo could hold down the fort while I look for her.

Gosh, I can just picture her standing in line at Rico’s, looking for all the world like a bohemian free spirit in her snug t-shirt, paint-spattered jeans, strappy sandals, gobs of gypsy jewelry, hair in long, loose layers. She’ll glance up from her basket of Thai basil and coconut milk, see my face and just know. Know that I’m about to hurl a bomb at her. Know that trouble’s found her yet again, like it always does.

How can I tell her? How? Especially after what happened to Dad.

I just wish I could make this all go away. In days we’re headed to Paris to spend golden mornings on the banks of the Seine, painting side-by-side on matching easels. The hot afternoons we’ll while away in the Louvre, communing with the masters. We’ll finally meet some of my mother’s long-lost French relatives. We’ll wear goofy hats and stuff ourselves with pastries and sleep well for a change. We’ll have time to just hang out, have fun, really talk. Create and dream. Pray and meditate. Rest. Finally heal. Six months we’ve been planning this, down to the daily café stops, a different one each day.

I see the hospital number in my hand again, and my mouth goes as dry as a day-old croissant. Poppa could have massive bleeding on the brain right now. I know exactly what that means—pressure building like floodwaters behind a levee, flattening everything. Cells, synapses, ganglion crushed, dying, dead.

My grand Paris dream starts to pull away, a face in a taxi window. Off toward Midtown. Off to find a more worthy recipient. Then a homeless drug addict steps in front of my metaphorical taxi and it stops. The coked-up guy stands there, fists on hips, chin jutted out, dark eyes flashing, as if daring the driver to flatten him in his frayed cords and Nietzsche T-shirt. He winks at me and scratches his head, which is suddenly bald. In a blink, the stoner philosopher I only vaguely remember transforms into the flannel-shirted craftsman I’ve come to love: Mum’s little brother, my uncle formerly known as DJ.

Of course. If there’s anyone who can make the Poppa problem disappear, it’s the prodigal son.

I carry the phone to my bedroom, hit #4 on speed dial.

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Ramblings of the IT Girl

The writer's meme has been circulating in the blogosphere for months now, so I knew it was only a matter of time till someone said "tag, you're IT!" That someone was Heather of The Secret Adventures of WriterGirl.

I'm sorry to say I got a bit long-winded on this one. You get me started talking writing and I just can't shut up.

1) What's the last thing you wrote? What's the first thing you wrote that you still have?
Most recently, I wrote new content for WIP-1 chapter 7. I'm determined to finish this rewrite by Easter.
My earliest work that survived a family house fire are several unfinished junior-high attempts at novel writing. All were written on those tablets the school supplied--you know, the 5"x9" unbleached, recycled paper with blue lines.

2) Write poetry?
Yes. Studying Ginsberg’s “Howl” as an undergrad was a watershed moment that exposed me to the raw power of the genre. In my 20s, I focused largely on writing and publishing poetry. I still credit poetry training for shaping my sense of rhythm, and love of alliteration, assonance, allusion and word play in my fiction. My major influences in poetry writing are Scott Cairns, Annie Dillard and David Citino.

3) Angsty poetry?
Oh, sure. I’ve certainly had my Emo moments, especially after prolonged exposure to Beat poetry.

4) Favorite genre of writing?
Young adult edgy inspirational

5) Most annoying character you've ever created?
Fletcher, a minor character (best friend of the love interest) is an geek who aspires to a life in politics: a teen middle-age-wannabe. Here’s how he interacts with other teens: “Speaking in a low, earnest voice, he shakes my hand while touching my shoulder—one of his typical politician gestures, like he’s president of everything.”

6) Best plot you've ever created.
WIP-1, which involves grieving, ghosts and family secrets. I’d rather not give more specifics, since I’m still trying to work out some plot kinks in the middle.

7) Coolest plot twist you've ever created?
All I can say is that it involves a creep who collects mannequins.

8) How often do you get writer's block?
Every few months. It’s just the nature of the process. You run and run, then need to take a breather.

9) Write fan fiction?
Does really derivative fantasy count?

10) Do you type or write by hand?
I do all note taking and much of my rough drafting in longhand. For the “smooth draft,” written in complete, grammatical sentences, I compose at the keyboard.

11) Do you save everything you write?
I save electronic copies of drafts and keep backups in e-mail. Even crummy rough drafts have bits that can be useful somewhere.

12) Do you ever go back to an idea after you've abandoned it?
Yes. Sometimes an idea that doesn’t work in one context works in another. And some ideas need to cook for years before one’s mind is ready to write them well.

13) What's your favorite thing you've ever written?
I really like the romantic subplot in WIP-1. The MC and love interest push each other’s buttons a fair amount, but they build a strong bond based on a caring friendship. Their conflicts arise because each wants to bring out the best in the other.

14) What's everyone else's favorite story you've written?
Of the pieces I’ve shown people, I’ve had strong positive responses to chapter 3 in WIP-1, and to a short story prequel to WIP-1 that’s currently out on submission.

15) Ever written romance or angsty teen drama?
I may someday resurrect a YA romantic comedy novel I started at 16. It explores the band geek subculture. I think my WIP novels would probably qualify as angsty teen drama, though my MC’s pain comes from real suffering, not merely adolescent ennui.

16) What's your favorite setting for your characters?
I have little first-hand experience with the 'burbs, so I prefer urban and rural contexts. My settings are based on actual places, real locations I’ve fictionally altered or well-researched fabrications. The small village in northeast England I created for WIP-1 was the most fun to research (yes, a trip abroad was involved).

17) How many writing projects are you working on right now?
Three: Two novels and a short story

18) Have you ever won an award for your writing?
I won a short story contest in junior high for a maudlin piece about a paraplegic girl. It was called “Christmas of Sorrows.” I currently have a story excerpt entered in Nathan Bransford's diary contest. I have no idea how it will fare. I'm only about 60% happy with it.

19) What are your five favorite words?
Murmur, hiss, sheepish, languid, glisten

20) What character have you created that is most like yourself?
The MC in my WIP short story (excerpted for Nathan's contest; to read the excerpt, see sidebar on this page, above the blog awards). It’s the first autobiographical piece I’ve written in ages.

21) Where do you get your ideas for your characters?
I usually start with a flicker of an idea of the person’s potential role and build from there in a series of “If…then” exercises. For example, I felt my MC’s best friend should be another outsider in the prep school, but one who’d initiate a relationship. If outgoing outsider, then quirky and into practical jokes. If into practical jokes, then from a big family. If from a big family, then a transplant from the South.

I suppose how those “if…then” cascades go a particular direction is a function of my own experiences, people I know or have observed, and characters I’ve been exposed to in books, films and TV.

22) Do you ever write based on your dreams?
In college I wrote a dream-based sci-fi short story. In it, people traveled using an elaborate system of translucent vacuum tubes (similar to the technology used at bank drive-throughs). It was kind of steampunk now that I think about it.

23) Do you favor happy endings?
I like redemptive endings in which characters confront the worst in themselves and take a tentative step toward change.

24) Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Not in rough draft. I usually jot disjointed fragments as fast as the ideas flow.

25) Does music help you write?
Definitely. It can be a great tool to set mood so I can jump into the emotion of a scene. Other times I just need familiar tunes to put me in a working groove.

26) Quote something you've written. Whatever pops in your head.
I look up from my notes to see familiar shop signs lining the street. City pigeons rip a discarded bagel. Eager dogs pull their owners toward Central Park. A pack of Columbia students jostle into a pizza joint. Soon I’ll be home, where Dad once walked, whistled and left wet towels on the bathroom floor. Will his voice still echo down the hall, hung floor to ceiling with his visions of beatific bag ladies and neon-lit Hasidic boys at the bus stop, longing for Zion? Saltiness drips onto my lips, tasting like the Marmite he used to feed me on thin triangles of toast. The world outside blurs. I slump against the cool glass, tired and hurting everywhere.

I'm tagging Amber at Musings of Amber Murphy. She named her MC Laurel, which makes me feel exceptionally cool.

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