You've been warned

ETASH

Bleach. That’s the first thing I register. The smell of bleach and dry, recycled air.

“Etash? You awake now?”

My mother’s thick Indian accent tickles my consciousness, urges me to open my eyes, to calm the worry lacing her voice.  But I can’t.  They feel heavy. Locked shut.

Feeling comes trickling down to my fingertips first, then to my toes. Each muscle registers its own unique ache.

I try to sit up in the blackness, but a wave of nausea overwhelms me as red hot daggers lick the left side of my face. Instinctively, I reach up to it only to discover the reason for my blindness. Bandages. Thick and soaked with what I can only assume is my blood. They cover the remains of what used to be my adolescent face.

And it all comes back.

I jumped out of the car.

While it was moving.

For her.

Her. I almost killed myself to see a girl I wasn’t sure even existed.

Flowers die

Maybe a box of chocolates for your sweat heart?

You know where chocolate ends up, right?

No, what you need, dear reader, is a gift that stays with you forever.  A testament to your love.  And what better way to do that than with the written word?

Buy Pulled, THE ultimate love story.

The book that say's I LOVE YOU.

Happy Valentines Day all!

I want to thank R.J. Keller for all her support...

Today won’t be such a post, because I’ll be honest, those types of posts take some thought and creativity, and frankly today, I’m too sick to do any of those things.  I won’t bore you with what ails me, because the list is too stinking long at the moment, but I will say that it’s MESSING UP MY CREATIVE FLOW. Me no likey.

I did have enough energy to tweak the blog’s appearance. What do we think? Love it or hate it? Can you even tell those are Swedish Fish in the background?

All I can say is that this ‘sickness’ better be over by Saturday. I have a date with some curly fries and my friend Kari, and we are not postponing it AGAIN. Got that stomach!

You-Me-Saturday. Bring some ketchup.

(This is a entry that happens a few years BEFORE the novel begins for anyone who has read it)

I talked to someone today. A boy, if you can believe it. My therapist will be thrilled.  I’m sure she’ll pat herself on the back with the progress I’ve made. I said two words. I don’t exactly call that progress. On the other hand, I did say those two words to Seth Falconer, a Junior Varsity Running Back. That’s gotta count for something, right?

The truth is, I didn’t even mean to talk to him. The words just kind of slipped out. It was during gym, the one remaining class where the teacher still avoided me. Where the others had moved on, he remained unsure as how to treat the new orphan. Me? I was more than happy to mentally check-out for fifty minutes as the others in my class feigned interest in the ever popular sport: indoor volleyball.

It was while I was sitting on the bench, trying to lose myself in the shine of the floor, that said football player saved me from imminent death. Or at least a Marsha Brady nose. Milliseconds before my face was pummeled by a rouge volley ball, Seth stepped in front of me and took the blow in my place.

“My hero,” I said, in my best Scarlett O’Hara voice. The look on his face told me he had no idea who that was, but he smiled just the same.

“Anytime,” he said.

Yeah, right. Anytime. He’d acted purely on instinct. If he had known it was me he was saving, he probably would have let the ball cream me.

Then again, he did go out of his way to hold the door for me when the bell rang.Not to mention all of the times I caught him looking at me after that. Hmmmmm. Maybe he would be my hero after all?

Well, that’s enough delusion for one day, Scarlett.

Thank God no one reads this but me.

-Naya

Take cover!

or stand, or sneeze, or talk, or breath

Loading up on muscle relaxers in a feeble attempt to be able to actually walk to the event tomorrow. Yes, I did it again. I’ve thrown my back out. This is day three of my recovery so I SHOULD be able to walk without extreme pain by tomorrow. But to be safe, I’m taking it easy by staying in bed today and resting.

To most people, this would be heaven, to be given a bed rest mandate. But I, however, am not the type of person who likes to be idle.  I am a woman in constant motion and this sitting around all day is driving me nuts. (I am enjoying how much my dear hubby is helping out around the house, though).

The day is not a total loss, however.  During non-drug induced moments, I’m working on my sequel. I’m also catching up on reading over other writer’s materials. (I’m looking at you, Amy). I can still be productive on my big butt!

So to all those ready to support me at the signing tomorrow, my cane and I will be there!

They only accept 5,000 entries then narrow that down to 1000 based ONLY on your ‘Pitch’ (your 300 max description of your book).

'nuff said

Another author friend, Amy Miles, and she and I worked on our pitches all day. Here’s mine.  Let me know what ya think.

Naya Adams has given up on feeling loved. A walking cliché, Naya lost her parents in a freak car accident at thirteen and has been living with her detached foster ‘adults’ ever since. When Naya enrolls in one of the most respected theatre programs in New England, she is more than eager to trade in her pain for the spotlight. College would finally be the fresh start she’d longed for.

Unfortunately for Naya, her high school boyfriend, and abuser, Seth, tags along–trapping her in the cycle of tarnished love.

Accustomed to emotional numbness, Naya enters her first acting class, unaware of what was waiting on the other side of the door: her Twin Flame. Rarer and more intense than soul mates, Twin Flames search for centuries looking for their other half. It is in another student, an olive-skinned and terribly scarred sophomore named Etash, that Naya will discover what being loved really means.

Although they both try to resist each other, their bond is ultimately too strong. Together they’ll learn that this is not the first time they have been pulled together, nor will it be their last.

But how will her abuser react to Naya’s new flame?

Pulled is told in both Naya’s and Etash’s points of view and is a 61,000 word-count mature young adult novel that explores self-worth. Although it is one of several novels in the master plan, it easily stands alone as its own story.

WHY is my main character behaving so rebelliously, you ask?

‘Cause she’s right and I’m wrong. Obviously.

I keep trying to shove thoughts into her head when she doesn’t want to think them, or say them, or feel them. Instead she digs her feet into the dirt and won’t budge until I get it right. She has a better idea, you see.  She just hasn’t told me what that master plan is yet. So what’s a writer to do?

Wait. Impatiently, until she’s ready.

Are you ready now? How about now? Now?

Now, I know this about my writing. I know that my characters WILL put up a fight if I try to force feed the story, but still I try it time and again hoping this time, maybe I’d sneak one by them. They’re not stupid, however. They see through me every time.It’s pathetic, really.

Fine. Have it your way.  While you, dear main character, ponder your next move, I’ll be tackling the laundry.

]]> http://daniellebannister.wordpress.com/2012/01/19/when-your-characters-wont-cooperate/feed/ 2 grandchawhe girl waiting http://daniellebannister.wordpress.com/2012/01/17/one-more-week/ http://daniellebannister.wordpress.com/2012/01/17/one-more-week/#comments Tue, 17 Jan 2012 12:34:26 +0000 Danielle Bannister http://daniellebannister.wordpress.com/?p=220 ]]> I am a writer. There. I said it.  However, when I hear that someone is a writer, I envision them in their pj’s, a cup of hot coffee in hand and crumpled paper thrown about their house as they fight the muse all day long to get the words on to the page. This sort of lifestyle (one I think would be WONDERFUL) is not something that I can currently afford to live. Bills still need to be paid. Tires need to be replaced. Kids need to go to school. So, I must work a REAL job. Several, as it turns out.

Most days, I find at least a few hours a day to write.  I work from home 20-30 hours a week as the Director of Religious Exploration for the Unitarian Universalist Church of Belfast, after I’ve shipped the children off to school.  Normally, my best writing time is right after they’ve left and the house echos with silence.  I’d get a few hours in, break for brunch then work my paid job. This was a system that was working fabulously well. Then I agreed to cover for someone at the job I used to have as a secretary. For two weeks.  Two weeks. This is the second week of working and let me just say, it had better be the last.

During this time, nothing is getting done. Not the laundry. Not the dishes. Not the sweeping, and regrettably, not the writing. And it’s stressing me out.  My characters are screaming at me, haunting my dreams at night, begging to come out and play. One more week, I tell them. One more week.

WOOT! WOOT!

I may be a tad excited.

PLUS I just got back from an interview with The Village Soup, and will post their article when it goes to print here for you all to see.

I also wanted to let fans know that I AM hard at work on the sequel, but book writing is not a quick process, especially for a working mom, but I am hard at work on it as my beta readers can tell you.  So far their feedback has been positive, so be patient. It will be worth the wait (I hope!)

-From Chapter 6 of  ‘Pulled’

As soon as I’m inside, I close and lock the door and lean against it, as if I’m holding it closed from an unwanted intruder.

In the dimness of my room, I still feel terribly uneasy—shaky, panicky. I need my meds. Now. Scrambling, I find my bag and start rifling inside searching for one of the bottles, but I can’t seem to find it, which only makes me panic more.

Stars begin dancing across my eyes, and my heart is already sprinting. Shit! It’s coming too fast for them to work now. I can already tell that I won’t be allowed the easy way out. I won’t be fortunate enough to simply pass out until the panic passes. No, tonight I am to be tortured.

The only thing to do now is wait for it to be over. But not here. It’s not dark enough here. Not safe enough, yet.

With trembling hands, I open my closet door and close it behind me, and the darkness welcomes me back like an old friend. As though I can’t trust the door to stay closed, I hold the handle firmly shut with one hand while the other hand wraps around my chest, trying to control the shaking that’s starting to consume me. The shaking will give way to the moaning, which will quickly turn into screams, so I pull down a few shirts from the clothes rack and cram them into my mouth to stifle the impending hysteria. As though waiting for me to be ready, my long caged tears begin to fall.

I cry out for my parents, out of humiliation, out of regret, but most of all, I cry out of wanting. A want so desperately basic and pure, and yet devastatingly unattainable: to be allowed to feel something other than the numbness. I want to remember being loved and to able to give that love back.

Curling up into a ball, I let the depression devour me, ravish me, doing absolutely nothing to stand in its way.