Beth Hull

Maverick – Instrument of My Destruction

Posted on January 11, 2012 by Beth Hull

I don’t want to complain.

Why is it that whenever someone says that, they follow it with a lot of complaining?

So let’s talk, instead, of the third trimester of a woman’s pregnancy. The third trimester has a firm, distinct purpose, and it isn’t what doctors may tell you, some scientific mumbo-jumbo about the baby growing and developing. No. The purpose of the third trimester is to put the mother (or “host,” rather) through so much discomfort that she actually begins to look forward to, and happily anticipate, the painful ordeal of childbirth.

Welcome to the third trimester, sucka.

Two nights ago, when I tried to heave myself over in bed like the large sea mammal I am beginning to resemble, I felt a very intense pain in my pelvis. Later that morning, I had a conversation with Homes:

Ever-Suffering Mother: Homes, I feel like someone took a hammer to my pelvis last night while I slept.

Snarky Husband: I didn’t think you’d notice.

Ever-Suffering Mother: And then they pieced the bones back together with screws.

Snarky Husband: I used the tiny ones.

The pain could have been a hammer-and-screw-wielding Snarky Husband, or it could have been my new Just Dance 3 game. But more likely, it was Maverick.

About Maverick. We like to give our unborn children nicknames in this family. Before we learned Z was a girl, we called her Perry. Short for “Parasite.” And even though we know this one’s a boy, we still haven’t decided on a name. So for the time being, I’m calling him Maverick.

(Cue jet engine sound effects.)

Highway to the danger zone!

But after the broken pelvis incident he gets a subtitle. Now he’s Maverick: Instrument of My Destruction.

(It’s either that, or Renesmee, after the famous literary half-vampire baby freak who famously tore apart her own ever-suffering mother.)

Gilt by Katherine Longshore

Posted on January 9, 2012 by Beth Hull

First, disclaimer: Katherine and I are friends in real life. Second: even if I weren’t friends with her, I’d be reviewing this book anyway because it totally rocks. Like, stay-up-way-past-bedtime-reading rocks. And I’m not usually drawn to historical fiction.

The set-up: The year is 1539. Kitty Tylney and Catherine (Cat) Howard are best friends…or as close as best friends can be when one is kind of a jerk, like Cat.

Main character’s goals: At first, Kitty just wants to go to Court, and wear fine clothes and be somebody. But then her goals change, and I don’t want to risk spoilers, so I’ll just say maybe these new goals have to do with a dude, and maybe the new goals have to do with Cat’s marriage to the king, and maybe both. Or, you know, neither.

My reaction: The writing is so pretty! When the book comes out and I read it again (because I’ll have my own sparkly copy with its beautiful cover…probably signed by the author, hint, hint) I’m going to do a better job of savoring the beautiful prose. On the first read, savoring was nearly impossible because I just wanted to freaking find out what happened already. It was tense, and dangerous, and sexy, and just all around marvy. If I could write historical fiction (as in, stomach the research involved), I’d want this to be my book. As it is, Katherine enjoys research (see her interview here) so she gets to do it for me.

A second reaction: sometimes in historical fiction, I don’t feel entirely “there” in the setting. But in Gilt, I was there, and I was loving it.

Of interest to writers: When Katherine wrote this book, historical YA was not a big thing at all. In fact, many agents weren’t even interested in it. I keep coming back to the advice she gave in her interview: “Don’t second-guess whether or not your concept will sell. If a story and character come to you, write them down. That passion will come through in your writing…Passion sells. And in the long run, writing what you love is the ultimate reward.”

Bottom line: Beautiful story, believable and compelling characters – it’s a total win. I’m just sorry you have to wait until the May 15th release date to read it!

Reminds me of: Grave Mercy by Robin LaFevers (Gilt takes place a century later, but life-and-death court intrigue is still a focal point).

For more on Gilt and Katherine Longshore, you can visit her personal blog here, and her blog with the YA Muses here.

Friday Five

Posted on January 6, 2012 by Beth Hull

And more randomness!

1. Poll: How would you feel reading a book in which the main character’s name is Areola (as in, yes, part of the breast)? Would it make you uncomfortable? Would it be funny? Would it make you uncomfortable but it’d be okay if she were nicknamed Ari and went by that for the majority of the story? Would you read a book with her name in the title? Should I just change her name to Ariana and avoid all the awkwardness? Her mom’s a stripper, though, and the story’s pretty whacky, so keep that in mind.

2. When I returned to Wednesday’s post to respond to a comment, Z happened to walk by and see my lovely illustration (which I will put here as well, because I am rather fond of it), and she said, “Oh NO! The Whoofle!” I couldn’t stop laughing, because she wasn’t afraid, just…awed by it, I guess. She later told me that the picture in the computer was a dinosaur because the Whoofle isn’t that big. It turns out the Whoofle is about the size of our cat. It’s brown in the day time and turns black at night.

3. My belly button is still an Innie.

4. I’m having quite a bit of success with Deborah Underwood’s recommendation (given at an SCBWI event in December) to write first, then do email/blog/Facebook/Twitter/other business afterward. My success could also have something to do with FINALLY HAVING THE HOUSE TO MYSELF AGAIN HUZZAH, but it is nice to start writing time off with a clear head, no disappointments or excitements clouding the creative thoughts (and there have been disappointments. A short story “came close” according to the zine editor. Is this better or worse than a flat rejection? I have no answer). Added benefit: on Wednesday I was so excited about all the work I’d gotten done in the morning, that after email/blog business, I turned the computer off and did more writing – finishing the day with ten pages instead of the five that had been my goal.

5. This weekend I get to celebrate Christmas II with my family up in the mountains. It feels strange having it so late, but it gives me a little extra procrastination time for the “homemade” gifts we’re supposed to be doing this year. I admit my “homemade” is really stretching the term, but what’s a little linguistic leeway in the name of Christmas?

Don’t forget to answer the poll in #1. I’m curious what people think.

The Whoofles (pl.)

Posted on January 4, 2012 by Beth Hull

The Whoofle (singular) looks a little like an armadillo, according to Z. She is, thus far, the only one to have any knowledge of the Whoofle. She’s quite afraid of it. She worries about it eating her toys, and even eating her (so glad I hid that “Travels of Babar” book with the cannibals). It’s sad that we’ve worked so hard to keep her from scary things, that she’s resorted to creating scary things out of her imagination. We have to prop up Z’s giant stuffed triceratops, Penelope, to stand guard at night. And she has Mr. Fox to hold, as well. And her turtle star night light.

The Whoofles (plural) look a lot like your average group of four-, five- and six-year-old girls. The Whoofles travel together in packs during the day, and don’t include everyone in their fun. They are, I think, far scarier than the Whoofle (sing.).

Dropping Z off at school yesterday, I was a mixture of jubilation and uncertainty. I was looking forward to some quality writing time, but unsure how she’d handle her first day back after two weeks off of school. But she was so excited about going back and playing “Princess Beauty” (a new game – I think it may have come from a Disney princess book her cousin shared with her).

But when we dropped her off, the other girls didn’t flock to engage her in play, and she stood there, bouncing and excited, by herself. Before walking across the street to our car, we spied her on the playground and watched as one of these little girls basically told her she couldn’t play with them (we couldn’t hear the conversation, but the body language and Z’s resultant lack of bouyancy were clear enough).

I came home and it was hard not to cry into my breakfast.

I didn’t recognize any of the girls, so I’m pretty sure their moms aren’t reading this. So I can easily give way to angry venting and vilify these little three-to-six-year-olds to my heart’s content.

Jerks.

That’s all the venting I’m willing to do, because I’m sure once upon a time I was a Whoofles, and Z may someday be a Whoofles too, although I will do everything in my power to teach her compassion & inclusiveness (is that even a word?). And I want to show her it’s possible to a) make friends who aren’t cruel and b) have fun by oneself. And while I’m at it, I’d like to somehow get her to figure out how to solve all the world’s problems and also make enough money to set Husband and myself up in a nice retirement home someday. Maybe in a warm place, by the ocean. Surrounded by our non-Whoofles friends.