Where’s The Line?

Every day I write YA, I struggle to straddle that fine line, between writing what is acceptable for YA, and what would be acceptable for a Kevin Smith film. After all, Kevin Smith is a big part of the reason I write today; I started working on more raunchy, Smith-esque, dialogue heavy screenplays before I turned back to writing novels. One of the best things I think I’ve written is a screenplay in that vein–all in all I wrote two complete screenplays, both of which I’m proud of, and both of which are currently rotting on my old busted hard drive and I need to recover.

When I started to write YA again, it was hard getting out of that mindset–toning down the raunch, paring down the dialogue and trying to get to the heart of the story. The thing about writing screenplays as opposed to novels is that there’s a little bit more  room for ambiguoity–you can leave a lot of stuff out, and there’s a LOT more room for pouring on the raunch and hoping it works.

In YA? Not so much.

My main character Fiona is something of a tomboy, and she certainly has a potty mouth. This is part of her character, and in general I feel like language in YA isn’t a that big a deal. Not to mention that her best friend is constantly scolding her for her bad language. But once again, I find myself struggling to find the line between “this is how teenagers talk and act” and “this belongs in a Judd Apatow movie”. It’s so akward for me to be writing a teenage, female, sexually active person and not feel as though I’m being slightly creepy while doing so, or feeling like people will think that.

In general, YA treats sex fairly well. There’s books like Twilight, which are nothing but huge, long allegories about not fucking and starting to pump out babies the second you get married. (Not that I’m biased or anything.) There’s books like Kendra by Coe Booth, or Lost It by Kristin Tracy or The Virginity Club, which handle it extremely well, leaving just enough there to get the idea, but not crossing the line on top of it. Even the much maligned Gossip Girl isn’t super descriptive about sex.

It’s the constant question of where the line is, between mature and appropriate for teenagers, and dipping over into adult content. For example, after being involved in some backseat shennigans with a boy, my MC Fiona shouted out “Ewww, you came all over my stomach!”

And suddenly, in my flurry of writing instead of working, I had to stop. Suddenly I asked “okay, is this over the line?”.  It’s not like I haven’t heard teenage girls use that terminology before. The argument that girls are pretty little angels who only giggle and talk innocently about sex is GREATLY exaggerated. As someone who sat with four VERY sexually active teenage girls in high school, I could tell you some stories that would make your brains ooze from you ear.

But I would never write those things down in a book. They’re way too much. I try to be aware of what will and won’t sell, and while this is probably a Bad Thing for upcoming author, I’m not sure I could put what those girls said in this novel, even in the context of it being somewhat centered around sex.

I try my best to find the line, and maybe walk a little left of center of it, but I never think I cross it. Until I got to that sentence. And that word, “came”, used in that context…for some reason, it stopped me cold. It was totally within the realm of something Fiona would say; she’s nothing if not blunt to a fault. But still, it felt a bit…whoa.

I had to step away from it and think, not would “adults be offended by this” (because let’s face it, adults are predisposed to be offended by EVERYTHING), but would potential readers be offended by it. The answer came back most of them wouldn’t but some would. Still, it worked, but something about the phrasing bugged me.

It’s that damned line. That line that I’ve been treading, ever since the idea “Girl who once had STI returns to school and tries to start sex-education club in her fundementally Christian town”. The line that I think most people that write what might be considered “edgy YA” walk and try desperately not to cross.

Or, maybe I just stress about it. As Coe Booth herself once told me, it’s probably me procrastinating–I just need to finish.

*sigh* I hate it when published authors are right.

*slinks off the keep writing*

Ideas Don’t Make Great Stories

I have a lot of ideas. Lots and lots of ideas. Some of these ideas are great ideas that would make great novels and others are great ideas that should remain ideas,because they simply can’t sustain themselves beyond the “this is a neat idea” phase. I think that’s something a lot of authors ask themselves–”Yes, this is a great idea, but would this make a great story?“. Ideas are like those nasty plotbunnies I wrote about in my first post; they pop up when you’re working on something else and then seek to force their way into your head space and whimper “WRITE ME, WRITE ME!”

I’m pretty good at ignoring these plotbunnies. After all, I’m pretty much working on two novels right now–my first novel, which I wrote for NaNoWriMo last year, and another idea that I started working on about four months ago. The place I don’t want to find myself in again is the one where I’m working on seven different ideas, and none of them get finished. When you’re working on a novel for a year, somtimes it’s hard to give it all your undivided attention. After all, t’s been a year, and all those fun little plotbunnies seem so darned entertaining!

Luckily, I’ve been able to curb my enthusiasm for dumping one story and moving on to the next simply because it’s easier to start something new than it is to keep working on he thing you’re working on. I will never abandon the wo things I’m working on now because they’re great stories, not great ideas. I used to write thirty-thousand words of a story, then come a screeching halt and the dreaded brickwall. I used to think there was something wrong with me, but then I realized that while I had great beginnings, and I ould envision good endings, I had no friggin’  middle. I had no way to tell the actual TALE.

The middle of the bookdon (or play or TV show or movie) is where actual STUFF happens. The beginnings are easy–the end can write itself. The middles? The middles are those tricky little bastards that don’t write themselves. The middles make you think.

I hate thinking.

So recently I’ve begun this practice–when a plotbunny pops up, and it grabs my attention away from something I’m writing, I don’t start writing it all at once. I actually think first–I sit there and let he idea marinate. I see if there’s an actual story to be had, or if I’m setting myself up to not finish yet another story.

If I can come up with things to happen in the middle, the idea is in pretty good shape. But it also has to make  sense with he rest of the story. I have to be able to get from point A to point B to point C clearly and without a bunch of tomfoolery.

I have to be able to actually see the idea in my head, playing kind of movie. If there starts to be jarring jumps in continuity or gaps in logic, and if they keep popping p continuiously, it’s time to dump the idea. If I find myself bored, or if it’s two people talking in an endless void, that needs more time to sit.

But what if an idea meets all those criteria? What if that idea is actually good, what if that idea would actually make  good, interesting story?

Well, then you end up in the situation I’m in now–with three friggin works in progress. As if my attention span wasn’t stretched thin enough. THREE.

Three great stories and only one me to write them. Why haven’t they invented a device that reads your mine and magically puts all your thoughts neatly into Word documents ready for publishing? Everything sounds better in my head anyway! GRRR!

This danged plotbunny has morphed itself into another novel. I can not work on three novels at once. It is not possible. On the other hand, I don’t want to shelve any of this ideas.It’s the Writer’s Conundrum–one me, one brain, and I don’t have six arms to type on three different computers.

Damn, damn, damn my ability to take the things around me and warp them into stories of some kind. It just isn’t fair, man! Not fair at all!

I have been wondering if maybe someone out there would be willing to give my first novel a look over. When I first wrote it, only one person ever saw it and gave me feedback on it–hence, while their feedback was helpful and they liked it, I’m still working on rewriting it blind, with only the prospective of me, that one person, and my friend who I shared the story with the entire time I was writing it. I well into writing the second draft, but a little perspective on what made the first draft great (and I feel like I’m losing something in the second draft, though I don’t know what).

Anyone to read the first draft of a novel that I’m very proud of/paranoid about it sucking? Anyone? Bueler? Bueler? (*sigh* just reminded myself John Hughes died).

Alright, the plotbunnies call yet again. Until next time

KC