SHORT STORY: Hey Death

This is a very short but nevertheless intense story I wrote some years ago (I think my junior year of high school) for a contest. It's not as fully realized nor developed as some of my other short stories due to the word limit I was given. Nevertheless, it represented a huge experimental turn in my style. I hate first person present-tense, and yet here it is in a very colloquial (and male) voice. Enjoy! *SPOILER* This is not a happy story.


HEY DEATH

Listen. This is the story of Bobby MacFarlane, the Walker.

           

            “That’s a sight if I ever saw one,” Darby says, her horse jolting her syllables. “Makes me feel alive. Like I’m gonna live, love and fly.”

            She tries to pass me. Always does. I pull my sweat-brimmed hat over my eyes and nudge Shot to tear dust up faster. Darby puffs air through her lips, little bit of female sass she’s got left, but doesn’t try it again.

            A grin plays with the corners of my sand-salted mouth as up-down-up-down I go on Shot’s back, looking up at dying sky she mentioned past my hat.

            I like it when my hat cuts off half my view with leather silhouette. Makes me feel more mysterious. I like it when Darby fails trying to pass me. Makes me feel a little more like the boss I’m supposed to be on this dadgum trek to the City.

            “Y’all talkin’ ‘bout the sunset?” asks Daniel. He don’t care who’s in front. He knows he’s got the most baggage anyway.

            “Yeah, brother,” crows Darby. “Dust catches in the pink. Sparkles like pixies.”

            “Ain’t gonna be no more pixies or sunsets if y’all don’t shut up and ride,” I mutter.

            Don’t know why I feel cross. Maybe it’s got something to do with Daniel’s extra baggage. He shouldn’t have it. It was Marty’s and Doris’ until the sand dragon happened.

            All my hours, my mind taunts me with a hazy image of Marty’s mare wandering away crying ‘cuz we couldn’t take her with us. It makes my heart squeeze sick feelings into my stomach. No doubt that mare’ll return to Homestead and shatter the world of Marty’s parents and little sisters. If the Living Sand don’t get her first.

            I hope to heaven it don’t.

            “You’re a sourpuss leader, Bobby MacFarlane,” says Darby, sort of whining.

            I don’t argue. First, she’s right. Second, don’t want Darby breaking down. Doris is her sister.

            Was, not is.

            Past tense is sometimes the hardest thing to say.

            “Good leaders don’t crack jokes all the time,” I say.   But I know what she means.

            Mama always says, “Bobby, you gotta pretty smile when you crack one. Stop pretendin’ to be like all them dead heroes you always readin’ about. Wrong kinda attitude.”

            Except my “wrong kinda attitude” got me this job. Leader, Emergency Youth Messanger Squad of Homestead. People call us Emmies. I wanted the position, still kinda do, minus the fact Doris and Marty are dead. Marty’s mama’s probably gonna kill me if we ever get back.

            Homestead’s ain’t the only town sending out Emmies. I know that ‘cuz ways back we found a dead horse with the Emmie brand on its sun-leathered side. Sand dragon probably got that Emmie.

            That same day the dragon came. Marty unloaded all his lead in panic when its shadow flitted over us. Doris’ horse threw her and the dragon swooped down. Marty tried to save Doris.

            Danged fool brave thing to do. Dragon got ‘em both. Now Marty’s horse is wanderin’ the desert, somewhere between Homestead and Death.

            When you’re kids, them banjo-pickin’ story-telling bards come from where they come from say Death is some tragic end to failed means, something romantic to take for your lady.

            Death ain’t like that. Marty tried that heroic thing. Didn’t help anyone.

            Death is Living Sand.

            It’s sweltering, bending vision from a distance, pale gold, beautiful, horrid. Eats everything, leaves more sand. Swallowed up all of Ladybird Town. Left Homestead alone stranded.

            Only way we know is ‘cuz some bard come up from Ladybird Town. Said she’s got some sorta immunity to Sand and knows if someone else does too. I remember standing in the square with Marty, Daniel, my girl Kate, staring past sun glare and the brim of my hat at that woman, her glass of sand in her fist.

            “Ah know whose safe, and Ah know who ain’t,” she shrilled, hot air thinning what voice she got left. “The Sand is coming. Y’all gonna die, y’hear?”

            Die, die, Y’HEAR? chorused the silence. Then she’d pointed right at me, Daniel and Marty.

            My life officially changed.

            I try to whistle an old song ‘bout some guy leavin’ his girl behind to find his fortune, but my throat’s choked. Whistle withers on my dry lips. I wanna marry Kate. Never told her that. Now I’m an Emmie, got what I want, but didn’t.

            Don’t wish on a star. Might lose what you’ve already got.

            “Hey Darbs,” I say weakly. “Water?”

            “You watchin’ the horizon, Bobby?” Darby whispered. I realized how silent she’d been.

            I look up, well aware what I’m about to see. Yup, air’s bending. Crooked stripes of sunset and hot. I run a hand over my face’s attempt at stubble and let a breath settle in my heavy bones as I pull up Shot. Grim’s a good word to describe that feeling. Shot shifts nervously under my legs, ears flicking.

            “Living Sand’s probs right over that hill,” Darby breathes.

            “Are we trapped, Bobby?” Daniel asks.

            Darby shoots him a look, like he’s being too loud.

            I don’t answer. Maybe I’m just dramatic. Don’t care. I spur Shot towards the brushy hill, heat smacking my cheeks. Shot’s every step is reluctantly thick. I can hear Darby and Daniel following.

            Hill evens out, and I stare Death in the face. Miles around of pale gold sand, no end in sight.

            DEATH, screams the heat.

            Something hateful makes me smile. Makes me feel alive.

            “Hey Death,” I say.

            Daniel whistles fearfully behind me.  

            According to that old witchy woman, the Living Sand won’t swallow us three up. That’s why we’re Emmies, heading north to the City. But the horses don’t got no immunity gift, and whole lotta good immunity’s gonna do us if we ain’t got water or food out in a lifeless desert. Lifeless minus the…

            “Sand Dragon!” shrieks Darby.

            Duh. Dumb girl.

            Shadow swoops from behind us. Shot panics and rears. My hat drops off as I cling on, breath yanked out my throat as my eyes are flooded with light.

            Daniel shoots like a moron. Shoulda learned by now guns don’t work on the beasts and freak horses out. Shot tries to throw me. My teeth crack on his neck, stars, pain, world whirling.

            “Daniel, you idiot!” I scream as I slide off Shot’s back, hands slipping off his neck. No.

            NO.

            If I fall, I’m trampled.

            The shadow darkens, concentrates. Wings rush hair off my forehead as I hit earth and roll away from Shot’s kicking hooves, pain stomping jigs down my arm, nails dragging backwards in my lungs.

            Daniel’s emptying his gun, Darby’s crying. Her horse threw her, too. I flip to my back just in time to gawk at sandy scales and scream as claws scrape me off the ground, leaving my stomach somewhere down.

            “Auuuuuuugh!”

            It’s all I know what to say. You wanna know how I felt right then, there it is, capsulated in that wordless piece of human fear.

            Think I blacked out, because I remember waking up.

                                                                        *

            Voices.

            “He’s an Emmie, put him down as Homestead.”

            “Emmie?”

            “Emergency-Youth-Messanger-Squad of Enter-Name-In-the-Blank, this case Homestead. Fancy name for cattle kids they send to the City hopin’ to stop the Sand. In fact they’re probs all Emmies.”

            When my brains registered the dude’s words and that I was alive between sheets in the dark, I opened my eyes. I was lookin’ at two shadows. One turns towards me. Waves.

            “You hear me?”

            They’ll probably tell me to “lay quiet” if I do “hear me,” so I groan and let my eyes close.

            “Dazed. If he wakes up don’t tell him about Homestead.”

            Homestead.

            HOMESTEAD.

            I jerk upright, shedding sheets, ignoring my pounding head. “Homestead? The Sand got them?”

            Both shadow dudes slump. One reaches up and lights an oil lamp I didn’t see, revealing a guy my age and another my dad’s.

            Older Guy sets his lip, says seriously, “Weren’t supposed to hear that, son. Take it easy. I’m sorry.”

            No yes, no no.

            I know the answer.

            I fall back on the cot. Not shocked, not sad. Dazed. Ghost faces flash in my mind’s eye. Mama, Daddy, Darbs’ and Daniel’s families. Kate.

            Moments like these Love really is a four-letter word.

            “Go back to sleep, kid,” says Older Dude. Younger Dude just looks awkward.

            “No.”

            “All right, your name?”

            “Bobby. MacFarlane.”

            “Your friends’?”

            “Friends?” I sit up on my elbows. Sure enough across me is another cot. Daniel. Guess Darby’s in another room.

            “Daniel Jackson, Darby Pickens.”

            Suddenly their names feel like the best things I ever said in my life. They’re all I’ve got left. “What happened?”

            “You okay enough to be fed info?” asks Older Dude. “Wes, get ‘im some water.”

            Wes goes scurrying off while Older Dude sinks on my cot. Know he’s a dad by the way his weight bounces the mattress. Not ‘cuz he’s heavy, but because life is. How he spreads his knees and looks at me, the wrinkles in his skin haloed in the lantern light.

            “Sorry for freaking you out with Lyd’s dragon. We call ourselves Sand Devils. Go around rescuing folks stranded by the Living Sand with our dragons.”

            “You train Sand Dragons?”

            “Some of ‘em. Wild ones you still wanna avoid. You an Emmie, Bobby?”

            “Yeah.”

             Wish I wasn’t. Wish I died. Or maybe I just wanna wish to die. Maybe got too much fight to wanna die. One thing’s for sure, though.

            Life will hurt.

            “Old witchy woman said we’re immunes.”

            Older Dude snorts. “No such thing as immunes.”

            Knew it.

            “Just don’t touch the sand, and you won’t die. Simple as that. Y’all going to the City? I can tell you for a fact they don’t know what to do any more than any of us. In fact, they’re running outta the city.”

            “No,” I say in disbelief. “So… it’s hopeless?”

            “You alive? There’s hope.”

            Not sure about that. Pretty sure I’m watching my life and hope slip through my fingers like sand.

            “Where they running to?”

            “Well,” says Older Dude, just as Wes returns and hands me a chipped glass of water. I let it cool my skin, don’t drink. Just drinking in his words. “They say there’s a hermit in the Northern Kingdom who can fix everything. They’re trying to go up there and find him. But I’m afraid most’ve ‘em get caught by the Sand before they can even reach the border.”

            “Hermit?” I furrow my brow.

            “Yeah.” Older Dude gestures to Wes on the floor, who pulls shriveled paper out of a pocket and hands it to me. It’s a sketch of a blue rock.

            “He lives in there. We’re about to send a team of Sand Devils to go find him.”

            “Send me,” I blurt, crunching paper.

            “Ever ride a dragon?”

            “Can’t be worse than a bronco.”

            Older Dude grins, splitting his grizzled face. “I’d tell you to stay here, but guess you’d just run off anyway.”

            I probably wouldn’t, but I don’t argue.

            “I’ll have you ride with Lyd,” he says.

           

                                                                        *         

            Moment later I’m tied on a Sand Dragon behind a dark girl. Calls herself Lyd and me “boy” though I’m not much younger. Makes me miss when I’d sit in front of Kate on Shot and make her scream by galloping.

            Around us are other riders and Dragons. The world spreads before us, mostly Sand, and behind us is all our friends, mine being Daniel and Darby. Daniel’s got one arm slinged, the other round Darby. Silly part of me wants to see them like that always.

            “Bye Bobby!” screams Darby.

            “Hey World,” says Lyd, smirking like she’s something.

            “Hey Death,” I say under my breath. 

            The Dragon’s wings swoop, smacking wind in my ears and eyes as the ground leaves us and the sky surrounds us with hot heat. I grab Lyd’s shoulders in spite of myself, grinding my teeth and squeezing my eyes shut. Air roars past. Thud-thud-thud go the Dragon wings as the shadow of the Devils’ Mountain fades behind us.

            Hours become minutes and minutes become hours till I’m not sure which is which and don’t care. At one point Lyd shakes me.

            “There’s the City,” she says. “Barely no one there now.”

            I don’t have to look down. Skeleton towers of the City brush sky full of gritty wind. The wind sounds hollow tunneled down hollow streets.

            But after we pass the city, we began to soar over snakes of road darkened with fleeing life. These roads are surrounded by weak green. Life, life, life. I swallow dryness and blink at it.

            “You alive? There’s hope,” Older Dude had said.

            Hey Death.

            I thought we’d stop for the night. Instead I end up sleeping while flying, adrenaline sickening my veins with the fear of falling. ‘Course, I don’t. Tied down. But when the sun rises again, instead of flat we’re looking at bubbled land, all scarlet and rose under new daylight.

            “What’re those?” I ask Lyd, too curious to pretend to know.

            “Big rocks.”

            Gee, thanks.

            “Gotta find the one where the hermit dude is,” she adds.

            “Blue one.”

            “Right.”

            I notice the other Dragons are gone, that it’s just us. Lyd says it’s ‘cuz they’ve split to look around. Words are half out of her mouth when I see it, sapphire sore thumb.

            Down we swoop, blue rock growing as we get closer till it’s all we see and the Dragon thuds to earth. In front of us is a big open gate like a gaping mouth, wooden, painted teeth jagging down from its frame.

            “Weird,” says Lyd, hand drifting to her pistol.

            I yank my kerchief off my face and squint up. The air is stiller than still, that still that makes it and you feel alive.

            “Guess we go in?” I ask as she ties down her sleepy dragon.

            Lyd’s braids shrug with her shoulders. “Reckon so.”

            But then a grating voice howls out the mouth, “Come forth! You have reached the Gates of Life.”

            We share a glance and start crunching across dry earth towards them Gates of Life. Look more like Gates of Death with that mouth.

            The shadow of its innards flits over us as we duck in, find ourselves looking at hundreds of people working in lush gardens, a waterfall pouring white from a deep blue wall in the center. They all turned and shouted in one reverberating voice, “Peace, Chosen Ones!”

            Lydia’s face lights up. I just shift my weight.

            Both the waterfall and the people parted in a wave, clearing for a tall lady, gold crown on her head and a smile on her dark face. Lyd sighs and drops on her knees, something I didn’t place right with her, though the Lady was pretty impressive. Shift my weight to the other leg and tip a hat that isn’t there to her.

            She spreads her hands and says, “Welcome. You are of the 500,000.”

            Pictures not in my head suddenly are. See a community in this blue rock, of people chosen by the Hermit Lady to survive The Purge, meaning the Sand, until it passed and life returned to the Colonies. And Lyd and I are two of them.

            “Uh, what about our friends?” I ask abruptly, slicing away the silky vision. Lyd gives me an irritated look.

            Hermit Lady lets her lids drift closed, thinks a moment and inhales. The pictures come back, revolving round the Devils’ Mountain. See Darby’s face, Older Dude, Wes, bunch of other people I don’t know. Don’t see Daniel. I point this out to Hermit Lady.

            “Then he has not been chosen,” she says. “I am sorry. Come.”

            I blink and stumble after her and Lyd. All I can see is Daniel’s arm around Darby, his innocent grin. But it fades. These gardens are amazing. The waterfall sings and the people smile. The blue is beautiful. Some sort of sensation settles in my bones.

            Peace. That’s what it is, I realize.

            “Here,” says the Hermit Lady as she leads Lyd and me towards the waterfall. “You will rest.”

            Rest. I smile. Rest would be nice. As we walk on, I feel unnecessary guilt about Marty and Doris slip away. Sadness for Kate’s still there, but it’s calmer, more retrospective, I guess.          The sort that a guy writes songs about.

            We’re standing on the slippery, glistening rock in front of the waterfall, its pure water sloshing my ankles as I peer into the darkness beyond its gate, the gate that opened for the Lady. She gestures.

            “If you pass through these waters, you will be safe from the sand forever.”

            I feel its moisture kiss my face. I wanna run in and drown in it, feel free, alive forever.

            But I think of Daniel again. My jaw sets in indecision, and I glance at the mouth gate, the glaring heat beyond. All the pain of the outside pricks my heart again, fear of dragons, strangle of sand. But even as it floods over into my watering eyes, I say it. Can’t believe it, but I do.

            “Hey Lady, I appreciate it, but I’m gonna let my friend take my place.”

            For a moment utter silence drops. I turn and face her, repeat my words.

            “Are you certain?” she asks, brow frowning.

            Already my bitter sorrow for Kate is biting back. I smear dusty tears off my cheeks and nod my head. Can’t talk, it hurts that bad. But I can’t shake that picture of Daniel.

            Lady smiles, lifts my chin to her eyes, kisses my forehead.

            “Bobby MacFarlane, may you walk long,” she says. 

            I tip my invisible hat again, then pivot, march down the lighted path outside. Back into heat, back into light, back into darkness. I squint at the blazing fields.

            Don’t know how long it’ll be till the Sand gets me. Think I’ll walk the Colonies, warn the Chosen. Then what? Who knows. Least I know Daniel’s safe.

            “Hey Death,” I whisper to the Sand, and I walk out into the world without looking back.

New vlog!! WHAT SHE WROTE Episode #010: How to Create Your Own Fandom-Worthy Story

Hey everyone, long time no see!

In today's vlog, I discuss how to create a story that will develop into a fandom once you get published, both using your own favorite fandoms as a guide and by creating iconic story elements. Enjoy, and don't forget to subscribe to my channel and my blog! Feel free to ask questions in the comments. I'm always happy to answer :)

-Rachel

I'm Taking an Indefinite Break

Hi everyone,

I'm sorry to announce that when I finally get around to completing my historical fantasy novel THE DARK AND THE SAPPHIRE (sequel to THE RED AND THE SCARLET), I will be taking an indefinite break from writing. This may mean for good, it may not, hence indefinite. I will probably still blog here, as I'm happy to share the loads of advice I've gathered and hunted down over nearly eight years of writing, but I myself will not be writing. This includes dropping my pursuit of getting published and continuing on my unfinished projects other than TDATS and a story my sister and I hope to get around to co-writing. Before y'all protest, there's a number of factors in my decision.


1. College

I simply don't have time for anything these days beyond occasionally decompressing with my friends in the library or over a movie, and that usually involves homework anyway. I'm projected to have close to twenty credits every semester except when student teaching, and y'all who have student taught know how much time that leaves you. I tried to reboot my writing habits (I went from writing a thousand words a day to maybe ten words a month) with Camp NaNoWriMo, but it's just not working. I ended up losing sleep trying to catch up with the word count goal. I'm too busy.

2. Lack of Interest

I've written nine novels, queried three, and out of them all, THE RED AND THE SCARLET is the finest thing I've ever written. Normally, every time you write something new, it becomes the finest thing you've ever written, but my recent works, though polished and possibly more advanced technically, are just not working for me at all and do not have the depth and development of TRATS. Knowing my limits, I doubt I'll be able to top the TRATS and TDATS duology. As it is, I'm struggling to keep the end of TDATS up to par with the rest of the work. That said, I've been querying TRATS and though it fits the market beautifully (diversity, female POC lead, historical fantasy in a non-European setting, upper YA, siblings and pirates and revolution and politics and slow-burning romance), I essentially have been told the same thing about fifty times: "This is amazing, but I don't want it. But don't give up on it! I KNOW someone else will love it!"

Unfortunately, despite the gatekeepers' promises, no one else wants it.

I've revised TRATS and edited the heck out of it according to people's advice, and I dare not go further trying to groom it for the market. It's as marketable as anything (I always get plenty of favorites in pitch contests and plenty of requests), and I've combed it over a span of three years now for what exactly is wrong with it, and I've found my answer: nothing. It's just not my time to get published, apparently, or it may be that it's just not in my future at all. As hard as it is, especially with people encouraging me that I'm destined to get published, it's time to come to grips with the reality that it's just not happening.

That said, it's exciting seeing everyone who has helped me out and vice versa get picked up by agents and publishers. A good deal, if not all, of my #YayYA friends, fellow contest entrants, and pitch swappers have signed deals, and I'll gladly stand on the sidelines to offer feedback and wave pompoms for those of you still looking for a bite. Personally, though, for me, it's time to hang up the towel. I do still have a couple queries out there in the blue, and if I was to suddenly get an offer on TRATS, I'd undoubtedly pick up the pen again, but otherwise I am not planning on continuing to query.

3. Next Stage

Yes, yes, I know, I'm young. But I think this moving on is just an unfortunate part of growing up. I've been writing in chapter form since I was 5 and hoping to get published almost just as long, but there's a difference between being an excellent teen writer in a world of excellent adult writers and getting attention for that and then being another adult writer in a overcrowded market. It's kind of like going from being the most top-notch student at your high school to being just another scholarship winner at your college full of other former best-in-their-school kids. Sometimes being a prodigy doesn't mean success later in life, and it seems this is the direction my talent in writing is going.



That all said, I just want to make a couple things clear :)

1. No, I'm not considering self-publishing 

2. I will still be blogging on both of my blogs

3. I will still hold #YayYAs in the future

4. I'm still happy to read your work before you sub to contests/agents

5. I'm immensely grateful to everyone to put their time and effort into me and my work and trying to help me. Your efforts were not in vain. They just helped in ways unrelated to publishing (I now have a wonderful community of online friends!)

Thanks everyone, again! If you have questions, I'm happy to answer.

Happy Writing! I'll enjoy hearing about how you all are progressing with your own writing journey.

Mine is seemingly drawing to a close.

Rethinking YA and MG: An Alternative to Gap Books

Today in the writer Twitterverse, author Shannon Hale (Princess Academy, Austenland), asked a simple question: where are the books for 12-14 year olds who are too old for MG, but are too young to feel a connection to the 17-18 year old characters of YA fiction?

This question resonated with a lot of writers on Twitter. Hale suggested, with resounding agreement from others, that there should be a new age category, or, as she calls it, "gap books." Books that, like middle school, bridge the hole between fiction oriented toward those below fourth grade and those in high school.

While this is certainly an option, I disagree. I think, rather, we need to rethink what we're doing with the MG and especially the YA age categories.

Let's look at MG. Generally, with the exception of upper MG fantasy which has a higher reading level and a wider age-range appeal (it also crosses over a lot, e.g. Ranger's Apprentice, Harry Potter, Ashton Burials, Redwall), MG is usually humor or historical on a third grade level. Upper MG tends to go into the more awkward middle school topics a little, which is a thin line to walk. If you step too far, you find yourself in YA. But I would argue that YA, not MG, is the problem here.

I remember when I was in that exact dilemma that Hale poses. I was frustrated because I had read through the MG section at my library, including all the Nancy Drew books and the entire Redwall series, but when I wandered over to the YA section, all I found was sex, drugs, language and alcohol, with the only alternative being the then wildly popular and terribly written, terribly unrelatable Twilight. And this is increasingly the case. YA fiction is basically gratuitous adult fiction, but with older teenage characters. So my solution for the problem posed by Ms. Hale is not a new age category, but a reshelving of the current age categories.

MG is designed for 8-12. So far, we're doing a good job at feeding that audience, even if it's a smaller market than YA. There's books that appeal to both the younger and older spectrum.

YA is designed for ages 13-19. I'm afraid the 13-15 half of that audience is suffering at the hands of fiction that is too adult for them to relate to it. I find there's increased pressure on YA authors to discuss and delve into fictional relationships beyond the puppy love crushes that 13-15 year olds typically experience and straight into full out sexual relationships. It's hard for me to find books in the YA section that don't feel the need to cross this line, especially among new releases. Also, characters are driving, drinking, going to prom, searching colleges, and doing other things that younger teens can't typically relate to. In my personal experience, this is why teens in the 13-15 age group gravitate toward fantasy. Fantasy worlds don't have all of these milestones that separate them from older teens and appeal to the sense of adventure they want in their stories, but beyond the Boxcar Children simplicity of their primary school reads.

This is my suggestion. Considering the strong desire among agents and writers to see the New Adult age category go beyond a trend and break out of the "hot college romance" genre, let's move some of these "upper YA" reads to NA, and refocus YA on the middle age group in YA, the 15/16 year olds. YA used to be focused on this age group, as evidenced in the age of protagonists at the time, such as Eragon. These days, YA is actually written about adults, 18/19 year olds. You lose your 13-15 year olds here when you only delve into racier topics only relevant to college freshmen, topics that are better on the NA shelf in the first place.

This benefits everyone. It allows some upper MG back into its rightful place as younger YA, expands the NA market, and makes YA more relatable to its realistically younger audience. And all it requires is some shelf-switching.

I Love the Unlikable Character

"I just couldn't connect with your main character."

I've been told this a lot by people who have read only the first ten to twenty pages of two of my works. These two works happen to be my favorite, and it dismays me a little when people dislike it because they don't like the main character. Even the people who love it and have read much farther into the story tend to latch onto my supporting cast before backing up my main characters.

Why?

These characters are those that fall into the category of the Unlikable Character.

What makes them Unlikable? What makes them difficult to connect to?

It's not that they aren't human. It's not that they aren't sympathetic. My readers tell me that. They just. Don't. Like. Them.

Because in the beginning of Rachel's novels, they're mean. They're rude. They're selfish. They're brats. They're wretched. Often without circumstances to really excuse them.

They're basically Eustace Scrubb.

I guess people don't like reading about people like this. They prefer people like Maggie Stiefvater's Gansey, who she gave, as she put it, "Everything I could pull out of my drawer of heroic characteristics."

They prefer Sam Gamgee. They prefer Westley. They prefer the heroic kind I often myself gravitate toward in books.

I do have other main characters like that fit this more popular mold. But I'm not as fascinated by them.

I love characters like Mr. Darcy and Han Solo and Pierre Bezukhov and Jean Valjean and Edmund Pevensie who start off terribly unlikeable, borderline irredeemable, but turn out to be your favorite.

The thing is though, these three aforementioned gentlemen all either possess or quickly come to possess a certain charm that almost excuses their wrongdoings and faults. My unlikeable characters often don't. They're hardly eye candy and they say cruel things to other people and they stubbornly shove them down for their own goals.

But then as the story progresses, they begin to change.

Something I'm tired of is the whole "embrace your faults" movement that plagues especially literature. It had a good purpose but now it's gone beyond "accept your flaws and failures" to "just don't put any effort into becoming a better person because you're awesome even if you're nasty to other people."

I punish my characters for their awfulness. I let them suffer for their blunders. But then they learn to peel away their awfulness and to be kind to others. To put them first. They learn to become the heroic type. They learn how to be a Sam Gamgee.

They're basically Eustace Scrubb.

I think what I find so intriguing about said unlikeable characters is, as they develop, watching their transformation from wretchedness to heroism. Seeing their redemption, almost. Watching them painfully shed their downfalls as opposed to simply accepting them. Because I don't know about you, but I prefer reading about characters who start out awful with faults I myself can relate to in some way and then change into something better, as opposed to just reading about characters who already are something better.

Perhaps I can find a way to have my cake and eat it, too. To have such unlikeable characters who are nevertheless liked by readers. In the meantime, I'll probably always be writing them.

Why We Don't Need Any More Loner Characters... Especially in YA

 Ah, the loner. The lone ranger, the self-appointed outcast, the dark and brooding mysterious scavenger-warrior who wanders and waits for their time to come and more oft than not, refuses assistance except perhaps from one trusted friend. Such figures fill literature and film, and we recognize them immediately. Aragorn, Gandalf, Han Solo, Yoda, Halt, Batman, James Bond, Rey, Captain Jack Sparrow, the list could go on. Antagonists frequently fit into this category as well. Protagonist or antagonist, the point is, this character archetype frequents writing. While I used to find such a character appealing to read and to write, I'm now a little more cautious to use them in my work and in recommending using them to other writers. Why? In this social day and age, I would say the loner who chooses to be a loner is no longer a romantic ideal that readers, especially teen readers, find appealing.

I was watching The Maze Runner film last night for the first time and was trying to figure out what made the main character, Thomas, so different from other YA blockbuster stars. He is a type of outcast in the Maze, as he turns out to be the Special Snowflake and the other resent him for it, but it wasn't the same. Eventually, I laid my finger on it. In the past, I have said I preferred Maze Runner to Hunger Games because in Hunger Games, it's starving teen against starving teen, but in Maze Runner, it's Pack of Survivors against the Outside World. There's a brotherhood, a lack of individualism and a focus on friendship that Maze Runner has that its competitors lack. Instead of Me, it's Us. And Thomas, with a lot of help from Newt and his other friends, pushes for this group dynamic. He tries to bring the Gladers together, as opposed to fighting on his rebellious lonesome. Now some might argue that other Loner characters such as Katniss do bring people together, but what's lacking is a social friendship dynamic.

I think we need more characters like Thomas, who strive for interactive relationships with those around them, than loners in fiction, especially YA. We live in a social world where we interact constantly. Characters who find that unattractive and would rather live in an empty world without friends (except one or two friends they choose, which basically makes them social jerks [#sorrynotsorry]) are not as relatable. I know this for a fact because in my own work, The Red and the Scarlet, all of my betas found my main character Fyr, who starts out as one of these Loners, unrelatable and annoying, even, and gravitated toward my more social supporting characters. But as the story progresses and Fyr starts to reach out to those around her in an attempt to befriend people out of empathy as opposed to self-interest, my betas started rooting hard for her. For teens especially, the character reaching for friendship (whether successfully or unsuccessfully) as opposed to choosing to shut themselves out is more relatable.