Thursday's Children 3/14/13

A weekly blog hop

where writers come together

to talk about whatever inspires them.

The last several weeks I have enjoyed reading EM Castellan's "Project Reveal." I found it inspiring in getting re-inspired in my currently neglected WIP and decided to share my original inspiration for writing this story. Hahaha! Yes. I find myself amusing.

Well before I finished writing my first book, I started getting these various scenes stuck in my head. I would write them down and put them aside. I've always been fascinated with ghost stories, so I wasn't surprised when that was the recurring theme. My ghost had a name, Molly Weeds. I even know how she died and who killed her.

Molly Weeds

The title for this book came early for me. It may change, but for now...

Killing Weeds

I live near Ithaca, New York, and the gorges and old buildings are the perfect setting for a ghost story.

   

However, my ghost is not the main character of my story. I'm writing this in first person from the POV of Veronica "Ronnie." My first book was written in third, so this is new for me. Btw, I write YA.

Ronnie

The first time I met Ronnie was in a scene that I had in my head when I woke up one morning. It was very visual, and I'm not sure where it really came from. I felt a lot of emotion coming from her when I wrote it. And I feel strongly that it remains the first chapter. It's only 172 words, but I think it sets the tone that I'm looking for with this book -- which is completely different from my first.

I kind of want to share it.

Would you like to see it?

Nah, I shouldn't...

Ok. If you insist.

The pewter cup sat in the stone cubby, looking like a trophy. Like a reminder of a proud moment in your life, when you were the best at something. I couldn’t look at it. I didn’t feel proud. I felt sad and empty. I imagined myself whipping it out of there and rubbing its side like a magic lamp, resulting in a hail of smoke that would bring my mother back. But I knew better. She wouldn’t be coming back.

The pastor said his final ceremonial words, and then turned to my father. “You’re welcome to stay while the vault is sealed.”

I can’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that my mother has been reduced to ash, and now sits in that pewter cup. Or what’d he call it … an urn? I can’t watch them lock her in there. I turned to my father. “Can I go now?”

“Yeah,” he answered, not looking at me.

That was the beginning of endless months of him not looking at me. That was the beginning of my downward spiral.

I'd love to hear what you think.

PS - I just joined Pinterest. That's where I got the pictures and started putting together an inspiration board.