've told y'all I can get compulsive, and stalkerish over submissions. The best way for me to avoid those tendencies is distraction. Well, I've been questing through the archives of WIPs looking for one that sings. WIP after WIP, nothing. No arias, no choirs of angels. But, one constant whisper, a soft 'pick me! pick me!' A concept I've been dragging around and chewing on since 2008.
It is NOT paranormal. *gasp* No vampires, no werewolves or other mythical creatures. This one is almost sci-fi, with medical disorders, different dimensions and physics. For example, these definitions are in the front of the book:
[sin-uhs-thee-zhuh, -zhee-uh, -zee-uh]
A condition in which one type of stimulation evokes the sensation of another, as when the hearing of a sound produces th
e visualization of a color.
The state of a system in which an abnormally large vibration is produced in response to an external stimulus, occurring when the frequency of the stimulus is the same, or nearly the same, as the natural vibration frequency of the system.
Right about now, you're probably thinking, 'but AE, that doesn't sound interesting.' Trust me, if I could pour everything in my brain out for you right now, y'all would love it. Magic, dimensional shifts, intrigue, romance, secrets and family heritage...
Still doubting? How about a sample to whet your appetites?
EXCERPT from RESONANCE:
I sat deep in the shadows of the auditorium, wishing I could throttle Shaina Weston.
Razor straight blond hair, ice blue eyes and, worst of all, Shaina had a pitch perfect voice. Despite my monster case of jealousy that she was singing with my boyfriend, I had to admit she deserved lead soprano in High Street honors choir. Something in the tone of Shaina and
“Look at them,” I whispered to my co-rehearsal crasher and best friend. “They’ve got to be hooking up off stage.”
“No way.” Autumn shook her head, then thumped my shoulder. “He’s totally into you.”
“I used to think so.”
“What do you mean, ‘used to’?” She waved a hand at
Singing like angels together, I thought miserably. Music and I aren’t on speaking terms.
Unlike most guys at Concord Senior High, music was my boyfriend
“Two left feet and can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” my mom used to say.
Pushing back into the padded seat, I waved Autumn closer. She inclined her auburn curls until we were inches apart and I was choking on her heavily applied peaches-and-cream body spray. I tried to point out the shimmery evidence I saw floating between Shaina and
Autumn turned, eyebrows tipped and rising over her nose when she looked me in the eyes and said, “I see you need two Tylenol and a good night’s sleep.” Her tone said, ‘I see you need to put on a straight jacket and check into the rubber room at the psych ward.’
She sank back into her seat, watching the choir rehearse for Regionals, the three-state wide competition on Saturday. Occasionally, Autumn’s gaze shifted to me, eyes shadowed, brows pinched like she questioned my sanity. Honestly, I wondered, too. The longer