Ginger Scott's Blog - Posts Tagged "chicago"

Thank you, Ponyboy

As I write this, I'm counting down the hours with a nervous tummy for the release of Wicked Restless - the second book in the Harper Boys novels. I'm nervous because I always am on release eve. Heck, I'm nervous until the book has been out for weeks, and I find something new to be nervous about. These books are little pieces of me, and I want them to find readers' hearts so very badly. I know I'm not alone in wanting that - it's something I share with many author friends of mine. We talk often about how we hope there are more lovers than haters, but in the end, we wouldn't have written it any differently.

And that's the case with Andrew Harper's story for me.

I wrote Wild Reckless, Owen's story, without any idea that there would be a second book. Owen's story has its own beginning, middle and end. But after it was released, and the threads of his story--the things that happened in his life to make him the way he was--began to touch readers, I realized those same threads were what made his younger brother Andrew so alive in the story. It only took one email from a reader asking for Andrew's story to clinch it for me. There were too many things that happened in Wild that had to leave a mark on Andrew, and then I started thinking about all of the things yet to come in his young life.

And then I tested him.

As I sent out the advance copies of Wicked to a few reviewers, one who I have come to know and value so very deeply sent me a note--"this story has that Outsiders feel," she said. I read that statement over and over. It hit me--right in the chest.

Yes. Yes!

There are books that I have read that are definitely influences in my writing style. I think I will always be chasing Sittenfeld and Fitzgerald. I like to dabble in tragedy and the bleak side of life. But I also like to find my way out. I like to see heroes and heroines overcome adversity.

And thanks to SE Hinton, I think I'm always chasing Ponyboy, too. If you haven't read The Outsiders, then one: how did you get through eighth grade without having to? And two: you should. Everyone really should. There's a reason it's on the academic must-read roster--it's important. Whereas a lot of my classmates when I was a young, awkward, 13-year-old rolled their eyes and despised having to write the essay on the greasers and the socs, I swam in it.

For me, The Outsiders wasn't a story about class. It wasn't about rebelling or sex or the angst of wanting a girl outside of your circle. Well, no...it was. But that wasn't what hit home, what resonated to the point that I cranked out six pages of essay in an hour-long class (note: that is a lot of scribbling for an eighth grader who probably also had half of her brain focused on the cute boy two rows over and one desk up). It was a story about family. I wrote about loyalty, disappointment, longing and what happens when young people have to step into the holes left behind when someone dies.

So how do these rambling thoughts come together? Well, as I mentioned--I get stupid sick to my stomach on release night because I want my baby to be loved. I close my eyes and throw pennies and blow lashes into the wind hoping. But for once, this, my ninth book, I feel just a little less nervous. Because of Ponyboy, and the fact that my story made someone think of him, just a little. I'm smiling as I type those words. I'm smiling because as much as I put Andrew Harper through in Wicked, I'm glad I did. I wouldn't change a thing. And that Outsiders feel--well damn, that one word review alone is good enough for me.

I hope you all enjoy.
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Bred Goes Live!

In case I haven't been obnoxious enough shouting about this book in all corners of my digital universe...BRED is about to go live or already is depending on where you are and what time you're reading this!

I'm so in love with this story. And I have to admit, writing it scared the ever-loving crap out of me. At its heart, Bred is a coming-of-age love story inspired by Great Expectations. The Dickens classic happens to be one of my favorite books of all-time. Add this formula up and you get gut-unsettling fear.

But I didn't want to let intimidation stand in my way. This was a scary thing I wanted to tackle--one that I wanted to slay. And I am so very proud of how BRED came out. It's a unique story, but classical as well. There are small nods (and a few bigger ones) woven into the story to pay homage, but there's also a lot of me.

Dark and wonderful. That's what someone told me after an early read. That small review made my heart feel full, and I hope this story does the same for you.

In case you're still waiting for it to go live (it will be on Amazon and Free in KU by the way!), here's a small taste. I wanted to share a short excerpt just to give you an idea of what's to come.

Enjoy! And if you read on and enjoy Bred, I would love your review.

Find BRED here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07RKK8P4L

Excerpt from BRED by Ginger Scott
(copyright Ginger Scott - 2019)

“Lily, I love watching you play. I really do. And you’re getting so good. You’re better than me now. God, that first day! Remember how I played the piano?”

“I thought you were amazing,” I say, the goofy grin tickling my cheeks.

“You just thought I was cute,” he says with a tilt of his head. Arrogant and adorable. “I was awful. I know, like…six chords.”

He takes my hands, urging me to my knees in front of him as he places my hands on his chest. He spreads my fingers out and looks down.

“You can play Chopin.” He runs his thumbs over my knuckles, and I fan my fingers along his chest, then play what I remember of the most recent piece I’ve tried. I’m not nearly as good as he says, but he seems so convinced and that makes me think maybe I’m better than I say.

My fingers drum along his chest while his hands hover just above them with the occasional light, feather touch.
“What is this called?”

His lashes are like deep flecks of gold as he looks down at his chest. I love looking at him from this angle, the playful tinge on his lips and new stubble aging his young cheeks. He smells like aftershave sometimes when we’re up here on the rooftop. I like it.

“Polonaise-Fantaisie,” I say, drawing the word out with a curl to my tongue. Henry’s face lifts and his eyes glimmer, narrowing on my lips first, then lifting to my gaze.

“Can you play that for real?”

I move my hands to the right along his body for a run, then lift briefly and move back to the center to tap, just as I would on the keys. My teeth grip my top lip and I shrug.

“I’m working on it. I’m not smooth yet, but it’s getting better.”

I keep thrumming my fingers on his body as I stare at him, but eventually his gaze begins to make me flush, so I look back to my hands. His cover mine when I do, flattening them against his chest and bringing them together so he can hold on with his right hand and move his left to my chin.

“I’d like to hear it tomorrow.” His eyes penetrate, and while I know he truly would, I also know that he isn’t thinking about the piano anymore.
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