Kiss Me

Today is a special day, folks. It has been declared Official Kissing Day Blogfest. How could I not participate?

(btw: I am loving all these unofficially official holidays people have been coming up with!)

So I suppose I should post (one of) my favorite kissing scene from one of my books, yes?

Hmm. So many, many to choose from...

Okay. Considering I have decided that no matter how amazing White Like Ashes becomes it will never be one of my hopefully-someday-published books, I will post my absolute favorite kissing scene from it. It's slightly PG-13 though, so be forewarned. In it, Evan has just had a rather jarring encounter with Jesse, her ex-boyfriend, and is running to her current boyfriend, Robbie. The rest is pretty self-explanatory.

Robbie pulled the door open after two knocks. “Something wrong?”

I ran my fingers through my hair to hide how they trembled. “The usual. I just – need you.”

A slow smile spread across his face. He stepped back, letting me in, and closed the door behind me. I dropped my coat and keys beside the TV, trying my hardest not to look at him. It wasn’t just a release for him. It was – real. The eagerness on his face, the happiness – god, it almost killed me.

Eyes closed, I threw myself into his arms and kissed him. His hands slid under my shirt, tracing my back, outlining each rib. My bra snapped open and his hands dove upward.

“Evan,” he whispered. The way he said it – I forced my lips over his and pushed him toward his futon.

I pulled Robbie down on top of me, pulled off his zip-up sweater, put everything into drowning in him. He undid my belt, moaning, his lips hovering over mine. Any other girl would’ve been overcome with it all. Any other girl would’ve disappeared beneath him, become a part of it. But as he tugged my jeans down, I didn’t disappear.

Jesse.

Faster, harder. Leave me alone!

Jesse.

I threw my legs around Robbie’s waist. Block it out. Make it stop.

Jesse.

Jesse was in my room. God, he was so sexy, standing there in his boxers, smiling at me, mischievous and eager, excited and terrified. He walked toward me. Took my hands. Kissed my forehead, my nose, my throat. The spot on my collar bone just above my tank top. His hands around my waist, pushing me down onto my bed. Kisses, all over my stomach, my thighs, my lips. Then in so deep I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. Pain yet ecstasy pounding through my body, and his body on mine, his arms, the muscles in his arms, tracing them. God, he was so sexy. I wanted him, all of him, all over me, forever. I wanted him. I wanted him.

I wanted him to come when he said he would come. I wanted him to make sure I was okay after my dad’s funeral. I wanted him to stop by like he said he would. I wanted him to hold me with those arms, let me trace the lines of his muscles, let me cry. I wanted him. I wanted him.

Robbie exhaled, smiled, tucked his boxers back around his waist. He kissed me on the forehead, but the kiss didn’t echo at all. Just skin pressing against skin. He said something about getting ready for work. I nodded and pulled a tattered quilt over my body, watching him gather his factory uniform and slip it on.

“I gotta get going,” he said, bending down next to me. “The walk’s twice as long in the snow. Be here when I get back?”

I’m using you, Robbie. You shouldn’t want me here. “Okay.”

Robbie smiled and kissed me again, long and sweet. His hand lingered on my thigh, one of his fingers slipping through a hole in the fabric, and he moaned again. He stood, grabbed his work badge, and left.

I turned over and buried my face in his futon.

Take a Right on Memory Lane

I got bored today (I forgot how nice boredom can feel...) and started sorting through old stuff I'd written. I stumbled across some things that made me get the sappy-happy glow of "God, I'm good." Thus, I must share a few.

This one is -- well, I'm not really sure. A jumble of song lines and bursts of emotion inspired by the book/movie He's Just Not That Into You. I wrote this quite awhile ago; a bit of truth, a bit of fiction (emphasis on the fiction -- really, this isn't how I feel anymore. By a long, long way), but a lot of stuff that makes me go "Oooo."

The italicized lines are the songs. Ten points to whoever can guess what songs I used.

I wish that we could give it a go. See if we could be something.

It’ll be different, this time. This one. This breath. It’ll be pure, this time. This one. This breath. It won’t hurt.

Suppose I never ever let you kiss me so sweet, and so soft.

It’s nice, this time. It fits, this one. But the remnants of the past jab into my chest every time you press your body against mine. All those shards of broken hearts still litter my thoughts, still dangle from my skin like the thorny stems of roses. They were beautiful, once. They were whole, once. They looked like you, once.

Some of it’s just really dumb. But I love it when you sing to me, and you could sing me anything.

So quickly, this time. That’s how it happens, isn’t it? That’s what they all say it feels like. But the voice in my head, the shards in my skin, they all say that it’s not. That it hurts. That it will always only hurt, and I will always end up where I always was before. That I should see beyond the smiles and touches, the gentleness and the happiness. So I close off, and with each word you echo and with each action you imitate, I shrink farther and farther away from you. From them. It’s all the same.

I wish that without me your heart would break.

I wish you weren’t like them. I wish so badly my heart burns and my chest hardens and a part of me is constantly weeping. I wish you would prove me wrong, I wish one of you would prove me wrong, just once. I beg of you, plead of you, but the begging and pleading never become more than a thought in my head, and you walk on by, and the voice in my head and the shards in my skin are right.

I hear in my mind all of this music and it breaks my heart.

I’m tired of waiting on you. I’m tired of being disappointed. I won't be disappointed anymore. I’m tired of wondering and waiting and wishing, all because you’re in control. Don’t do too much or rush too quickly or initiate too soon, you’ll scare him away. Are you really that skittish? Are you really that weak? I must be the one in pain so you don’t run. Is it even worth it? Is it? I’m tired, I’m so tired. No. It isn’t worth it.

Basically, I wish that you loved me.

Unofficially Official Agent Day!

Firstly, may I point out that today is the uber-fantastic Mariah Irvin's 200th blog post! Congrats, Mariah!

Secondly, in case you haven't seen any of the other many awesome posts floating around today, Kody Keplinger dubbed today the brilliant Unofficially Official Agent Day, a day in which we clients tip our hats to the sheer extraordinariness that is our agents. My agent is particularly extraordinary, and in true Sara-like fashion, I shall tell you why in acronym form using a word that is frequently associated with Agent Kate.






S: Supportive. Agent Kate believes, heart and soul, in her clients. That was one of the things that first appealed to me during our preliminary chats -- she BELIEVED in Stream Pirate. She saw the potential in my little piratic world. I will never be able to fully thank her for taking a chance on Yazoo and Lu.

H: Helpful. From her suggestions on how to better polish Stream Pirate to her advice in walking through the submission process, Agent Kate is exactly the kind of agent every author hopes to have.

O: Organized. I knew it was a match made in agent-author heaven when I could put "Agent: Kate Schafer Testerman, Daphne Unfeasible, or kt literary" in my little sidebar thingy. How many agents have THREE NAMES, people? And considering my obsession with neatly putting things into groups of three's, well, it was perfect.

E: Exciting. kt literary is just an all around exciting place to be. The authors are phenomenal, the news is always good and happy and thrilling. Agent Kate has created a fantastic atmosphere to be a part of; I always get bubbly-excited when I get to talk to people about my agent. She makes bragging oh so easy!

S: SHOES. I know it's cheating to use the acronym word in the acronym, but today is UNOFFICIALLY Official, so I don't have to follow any rules. And I needed to draw some attention to the freakishly amazing BOOK SHOES, pictured above, which I hereby dedicate to Agent Kate. To sum up: Agent Kate, you rock.

Holiday Incoherence, Take 2

Incoherent Chunk The First: Food, no matter what it is, always tastes better after 1AM. I swear I could down an entire bag of brussels sprouts right now.

Incoherent Chunk The Second: This past week has helped me realize something. Well, it was something I already knew, but it was something nonetheless: I'm really bad at multi-tasking. I'm talking big things. I could juggle three different papers and two tests, and not bat an eye. But when it comes to juggling different areas of my life at once? Fail. For instance, my writing-life has gotten smushed to the back-burner the past few days whilst another area of my life has taken center-stage. Thus, I have a question to ask all of you multi-tasking writer peoples:

HOW DO YOU DO IT?

Don't take this as me complaining. Because I'm not. At all. I totally love that I'm suddenly super duper busy in another area of my life other than writing. That doesn't usually happen, and I love it. I just need to know how to find a balance. I'm horrible at balancing.

Incoherent Chunk The Third: Blast. I know there was something else I was going to blog about...a contest or something...grr. My apologies to whoever I'm forgetting. I blame the 1AM brussels sprout binge. Oi vey.

Holiday Incoherence, Take 1

I've decided the month of December will be full of sporadic and incoherent blog posts. Yay? Nay? All righty then.

Incoherent Chunk The First: Despite the massive migraine that is editing, the end result is always worth it. Those hours of mind-melting, blank-stare-giving editing paid off with what I consider a pretty kick-butt story. Gotta wait to hear back from my betas, but I don't at all regret the hours I spent rocking back and forth, wishing I'd wanted to be a pastry chef instead of a writer. At least pastry chefs get to eat yummy fluffy chocolate concoctions.

Incoherent Chunk The Second: There are altogether too many awesome-looking movies coming out in the next few months. I plan a series of lengthy trailer-showings very soon. Fear not.

Incoherent Chunk The Third: Trading Yesterday is officially my new favorite band. Specifically for this song and this song. Feel free to swoon.