So you’re thinking, what does Slice of Cherry even mean? Well, the murderous sisters in the story have a grandcestor named Cherry who had abilities like theirs, so they are “slices” of Cherry. Also they like to cut people. Also cherry has other, you know, nonfruit meanings. So, as all the best titles do, it works on a bunch of different levels. But to all of y’all who tried to help me out, thanks a lot. Even the lame titles–I’m looking at you Kay–were really fun. xD

Now as far as writing advice goes, this article got me to thinking about my own responses. The two things I tell people when they ask for advice are a variation of the following:

Just write it; you don’t have to ask for permission. If you do have to ask for permission, then the answer is no because if you’re that timid, you shouldn’t be writing anyway.

Believe in yourself and your work–but prepare to have your heart broken.

And that’s it. So if you’re thinking about asking me for writing advice, there you go and happy birthday. Why ask me for advice anyway? I’m a rookie, remember, not a rock star. Yet. ;p But not even the rock stars can tell you how to write. Every writer has to find his or her own way through that particular mindfield.

From Brightly Woven:

I let myself admit that he had a roguish charm about him. Some hint of softness in his eyes, at least. No, he wasn’t a soldier, but he was still a stranger, a vagabond, maybe. Even if I hadn’t seen his face, his worn boots and torn cloak would have told his story. The pressure of his hand on my arm became nearly unbearable, yet it wasn’t until I let out a gasp of pain that he released me.

I can already tell I’m gonna like this book. I haven’t read a good old-fashioned fantasy novel in forever.

From Strange Fruit:

Claudine Street looked as though it had been unzipped, bricks scattered everywhere. Cars and trucks were flipped over or teetering at weird angles as hard white water from a burst hydrant swept past the sisters’ tires in a flood.

The sisters pedaled onto the dry, deserted sidewalk and parked their bikes at the nearest bike rail. Then Kit took Fancy’s hand and lead her up the street, deftly maneuvering around the pools of blood on the sidewalk.

“What do you think did all this?” Fancy asked, clinging to Kit’s hand, passing shop windows where wide-eyed people watched them go past.

Kit only shrugged. That was the problem with living in Portero—it could have been anything.

“After we kill Franken,” said Kit as she and Fancy set the table, “I’m gone put his tongue in a jar too. Just like that old man’s. I’ll start a collection!”

“I hope you hid that thing real good,” Fancy hissed when Madda came back into the kitchen. “Last thing we need is Madda finding it.”

“She won’t.”

“And we are not gone kill Franken. How many times I gotta tell you?”

“You don’t even like Franken. All you do is complain about him. You can’t still be worried about the police.” Kit pinched Fancy’s cheek. “Not after what you did to that old man.”

Fancy slapped her hand away. “That was different.”

“What’re you girls whispering about?” asked Madda, eyeing her daughters expectantly as she fried the tomatoes.

“Nothing,” the sisters trilled in unison, smiling their brightest good-girl smiles.

And because I’m nice, here’s a teaser from BLEEDING VIOLET:

I wriggled free of the queen, covered in goo and trying not to stumble in the loose piles of animal bones, wet rock, and mounds of hardhead eggs. Wyatt bounded over to me, dodging long pillars of color where the stalagmites and stalactites had grown together.

“So how was it?” he asked.

I puked.

Wyatt and Shoko laughed.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s intense, right?”

Shoko swatted me on the back. “Especially once you get past that first stomach.”

Kit is the oldest (17) and Fancy is her little sister (15). Fancy keeps a dream diary, and here’s one of the dreams she has:

Kit was running ahead of me through the woods on a path made of pink glass. I tried to keep up but my legs weren’t as swift as hers and the glass broke under the weight of my feet, bloodying them, but Kit still wouldn’t slow down. When I fell, the glass shattered all around me and cut me into seventeen pieces.

Each chapter of Strange Fruit starts with one of Fancy’s dreams. The story is told from her point of view, and the dreams are a way to delve into her emotional landscape, which is usually…let’s call it eccentric.