"Award-winning" MASTER OF EMOTION!

MASTER OF EMOTION won 3rd Place in the ANWA Beginning of Book Contest (Young Adult Category)! Here is my entry if you want to read it.

 

 

Chapter 1 – “Sorry.”

It was the same feeling every time. My legs wouldn’t move.

He stood at the end of the crowded middle school hallway, his lifeless eyes boring a hole into me. Eyes of the walking dead. Body of any other pre-teenager. Everyone around us hurried and bustled, completely unaware of him.

He staggered toward me, his head hung low and the hood of his sweatshirt now shrouding his face. Methodically, his feet dragged with every step, as if he forced them on, using perpetual motion to push down the hall. He walked like a pallbearer carries the casket of his dead mother.

I wanted to run, to hide, to get as far away from the school as I could, but my feet had sunk down into the tiles of the hallway as if I wore cement shoes. They wouldn’t even budge. Not even a single crack.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack as we passed. I stood there, unable to move, as the boy’s exposed hand brushed against my bare shoulder. The touch only lasted a millisecond, but it hit me with the force of a collision that ripped through me and doubled me over.

My chest was imploding. Darkness filled my head and my limbs, the pit of my stomach, and choked down my throat.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as passed.

The hallway pushed in on me, squeezing me like a python suffocating its prey, but the world felt distant, like all its inhabitants had turned their back on me. The darkness consumed me, seeped through my skin like thick, cold tar. It filled me with uncontrollable grief and isolation that weighed down my whole frame and soul. I could feel my eyes drying, cracking, from the months of crying the boy had endured. My whole body wanted to escape itself.

I couldn’t live like this. There had to be a way out. I would do anything to make this feeling stop.

I clutched my chest, holding my insides in.

Anything.

I sat up in bed, panting, my shirt soaked with sweat. The nightmare seemed as real as that evening, six years ago, when my twin brother found me curled up in the corner of an abandoned classroom, still sobbing and wanting to die.

But I was alive. He had found me in time.

Unlike the boy from the hallway, who they found the next morning, sprawled on his bathroom floor with his stomach full of pills from his mother’s medicine cabinet.

Me? I haven’t touched anyone since.

Can there ever be too much Romance in the world?

In honor of Valentine's Day and all things romantic, my e-book "MASTER OF EMOTION" will be available for only $.99 on Smashwords and Amazon during the month of February.

I love romance! I love it in my novels, my movies, my own writing, and especially in my marriage;) I'm a huge fan.

But as writers, it's a fine line we walk between "appropriate" and "titillating." We want our romantic scenes to be attention-getting. We want to emotionally engage our readers.

I'm often torn between pleasing a mother who wants me to "make the kissing scenes good" and keeping the scenes appropriate for my 12-year-old friends and 15-year-old daughter. So how much is too much?

Too much information can produce a physical response, a thrill that runs from your lips to your toes. At times, my temperature has significantly risen as I've finished reading a romantic scene from a "clean" novel. Although the feeling is pleasurable, do I want my young daughter to have the same response? And is it really appropriate for me either?

I've appreciated guidance lately from new guidelines from "For the Strength of Youth" on "Entertainment and Media," "Sexual Purity," and "Dating."

https://www.lds.org/youth/for-the-strength-of-youth/entertainment-and-media?lang=eng

https://www.lds.org/youth/for-the-strength-of-youth/sexual-purity?lang=eng

https://www.lds.org/youth/for-the-strength-of-youth/dating?lang=eng

As I edited my new e-book "MASTER OF EMOTION" for final publishing, I actually cut a few scenes and moments that might have approached my line between"appropriate" and "titillating." Better safe than sorry, I decided. But my line might be different from someone else's. So what do you think? How did I do? If you haven't read "MASTER OF EMOTION," yet, you might want to take advantage of the $.99 price this month.

So, to you other "clean" writers out there: Where do you draw your line between "appropriate" and "titillating?" How do you balance creating an emotional response and a physical response?

I would love to hear your thoughts and comments.

Win a free e-book "Master of Emotion!

One of my favorite blogs, Mormon Mommy Writers at:

http://www.mormonmommywriters.blogspot.com/2012/01/when-writing-meets.html
is giving away a free copy of my e-book "Master of Emotion" on Monday, January 9th. If you become a follower, you can earn the chance to win a free copy in your format of choice. I'm hoping I'll win one of the many prizes.  Check them out!

The Official Announcement

I did it! I announced the release of my debut novel, Master of Emotion, last night. I think everyone who writes should e-publish at least one book, just for the learning experience. So here's the press release:

Beau’s getting loads of attention lately. Whether he wants it or not. Even if it’s his worst nightmare.

Announcing the release of Master of Emotion, a YA paranormal romance by D. Ogden Huff.

When a reclusive teen with the enhanced ability to read others’ emotions finds more teens with similar powers, he must confront his fears before a budding romance and his twin brother’s life fall into the hands of the devious doctor who created them all.

 For a longer summary of the novel, go to the following sites:

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/111566

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Master-of-Emotion-ebook/dp/B006JNAX2M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1323787380&sr=8-1

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13223883-master-of-emotion

All proceeds of this novel (after taxes and tithing) will be donated to a tax deductible charity benefiting my nephew who has a severe, often life-threatening, form of Celiac Disease. See his story at http://prayformarky.blogspot.com/ . You can also go into any America First branch (in Utah) to make a Tax Free donation. The account is listed as, "Mark Jeanes Charitable Donations Account".

If you want it free, review it for me on your blog, Amazon, or Goodreads. When you send me the post to huff_house@yahoo.com, I’ll send you a coupon code for a free book. (Unless, of course, you want to make the charitable donation to my nephew’s charityJ)

This is the same novel that was a Quarterfinalist in the 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards under the previous name of “Walls.”

Here’s another reason to read it—check out my experiment. Movies have soundtracks. Why not novels?

Within the text of the novel, when you find something that looks like this:

“(Listen to the unofficial Master of Emotion Soundtrack –

“Song Title” from Secondhand Serenade’s “Album Title” album at http://www.myspace.com/secondhandserenade/music/songs/song title-#)”

 I invite you to go follow the link and go to the internet and listen to one of Secondhand Serenade’s songs that fit the emotion of that moment in the novel. I’ve included a website address or two where you might be able to listen to the full song.

Here’s a short preview of the novel, but if you go to the Smashwords site at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/111566 you can read 20% of my book.

Chapter 1 – “Sorry.”

 It was the same feeling every time. My legs wouldn’t move.

He stood at the end of the crowded middle school hallway, his lifeless eyes boring a hole into me. Eyes of the walking dead. Body of any other pre-teenager. Everyone around us hurried and bustled, completely unaware of him.

He staggered toward me, his head hung low and the hood of his sweatshirt now shrouding his face. Methodically, his feet dragged with every step, as if he forced them on, using perpetual motion to push down the hall. He walked like a pallbearer carries the casket of his dead mother.

I wanted to run, to hide, to get as far away from the school as I could, but my feet had sunk down into the tiles of the hallway as if I wore cement shoes. They wouldn’t even budge. Not even a single crack.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack as we passed. I stood there, unable to move, as the boy’s exposed hand brushed against my bare shoulder. The touch only lasted a millisecond, but it hit me with the force of a collision that ripped through me and doubled me over.

My chest was imploding. Darkness filled my head and my limbs, the pit of my stomach, and choked down my throat.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as passed.

The hallway pushed in on me, squeezing me like a python suffocating its prey, but the world felt distant, like all its inhabitants had turned their back on me.  The darkness consumed me, seeped through my skin like thick, cold tar. It filled me with uncontrollable grief and isolation that weighed down my whole frame and soul. I could feel my eyes drying, cracking, from the months of crying the boy had endured. My whole body wanted to escape itself.

I couldn’t live like this. There had to be a way out. I would do anything to make this feeling stop.

I clutched my chest, holding my insides in.

Anything.

I sat up in bed, panting, my shirt soaked with sweat. The nightmare seemed as real as that evening, six years ago, when my twin brother found me curled up in the corner of an abandoned classroom, still sobbing and wanting to die.

But I was alive. He had found me in time.

Unlike the boy from the hallway, who they found the next morning, sprawled on his bathroom floor with his stomach full of pills from his mother’s medicine cabinet.

Me? I haven’t touched anyone since.

I hope you enjoy the novel!

DeAnn Ogden Huff

Master of Emotion (Book 1) (release date 12/8/11)

Supreme Chancellor of Stupidity (Book 2) (expected release date January, 2012)
Once Upon a Tour (expected release date February, 2012)
http://d-ogden-huff.blogspot.com/
http://writeobsession.blogspot.com/

Master of Emotion

Chapter 1 –
“Sorry.”

It was the same feeling every time. My legs wouldn’t move.

He stood at the end of the crowded middle school hallway, his lifeless eyes boring a hole into me. Eyes of the walking dead. Body of any other pre-teenager. Everyone around us hurried and bustled, completely unaware of him.

He staggered toward me, his head hung low and the hood of his sweatshirt now shrouding his face. Methodically, his feet dragged with every step, as if he forced them on, using perpetual motion to push him down the hall. He walked like a pallbearer carries the casket of his dead mother.

I wanted to run, to hide, to get as far away from the school as I could, but my feet had sunk down into the tiles of the hallway as if I wore cement shoes. They wouldn’t even budge. Not even a single crack.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack as we passed. I stood there, unable to move, as the boy’s exposed hand brushed against my bare shoulder. The touch only lasted a millisecond, but it hit me with the force of a collision that ripped through me and doubled me over.

My chest was imploding. Darkness filled my head and my limbs, the pit of my stomach, and choked down my throat.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as passed.

The hallway pushed in on me, squeezing me like a python suffocating its prey, but the world felt distant, like all its inhabitants had turned their back on me. The darkness consumed me, seeped through my skin like thick, cold tar. It filled me with uncontrollable grief and isolation that weighed down my whole frame and soul. I could feel my eyes drying, cracking, from the months of crying the boy had endured. My whole body wanted to escape itself.

I couldn’t live like this. There had to be a way out. I would do anything to make this feeling stop.

I clutched my chest, holding my insides in.

Anything.


I sat up in bed, panting, my shirt soaked with sweat. I reminded myself that my twin brother had found me that evening six years ago, curled up in the corner of an abandoned classroom, still sobbing and wanting to die. But I was alive. He had found me in time.

Unlike the boy from the hallway, who they found the next morning, sprawled on his bathroom floor with his stomach full of pills from his mother’s medicine cabinet.

Me? I haven’t touched anyone since.

Obsession

ob·ses·sion
[uhb-sesh-uhn]
–noun
1. the domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, desire, etc.
2. the idea, image, desire, feeling, etc., itself.
3. the state of being obsessed.


WRITING REQUIRES OBSESSION. LIFE REQUIRES OBSESSION.


The trade of authorship is a violent and indestructible obsession.
George Sand

The work is a calling. It demands that type of obsession.
John Pomfret

The creative habit is like a drug. The particular obsession changes, but the excitement, the thrill of your creation lasts.
Henry Moore

The obsession required to see a feature through from concept to release is not a rational thing to do with your brief time on this planet. Nor is it something to which an intelligent person should aspire.
Yahoo Serious

What moves those of genius, what inspires their work is not new ideas, but their obsession with the idea that what has already been said is still not enough.
Eugene Delacroix

Obsession led me to write. It's been that way with every book I've ever written. I become completely consumed by a theme, by characters, by a desire to meet a challenge.
Anne Rice

The first four months of writing the book, my mental image is scratching with my hands through granite. My other image is pushing a train up the mountain, and it’s icy, and I’m in bare feet.
Mary Higgins Clark

People can get obsessed with romance, they can get obsessed with political paranoia, they can get obsessed with horror. It's isn't the fault of the subject matter that creates the obsession, I don't think.
Adam Arkin

Without obsession, life is nothing.
John Waters

Cure for an obsession: get another one.
Mason Cooley

Obsession is an attractive thing. People who are really, really interested and good at one thing and smart are attractive, if they're men.
Meryl Streep

Love is an obsession. It has that quality to it. But there are healthy obsessions, and mine is one of them.
Pamela Stephenson

Just make sure your obsession is the Write ... Oops ... I mean Right One.
DeAnn Ogden Huff