YA Scavenger Hunt
Welcome to YA Scavenger Hunt! This is my first year participating as an author in this event. I'm just a little bit excited!
This bi-annual event was first organized by author Colleen Houck as a way to give readers a chance to gain access to exclusive bonus material from their favorite authors...and a chance to win some awesome prizes!
At this hunt, you not only get access to exclusive content from each author, you also get a clue for the hunt. Add up the clues, and you can enter for our prize--one lucky winner will receive one book from each participating author! But play fast: this contest (and all the exclusive bonus material) will only be online for 72 hours!
Go to the YA Scavenger Hunt page to find out all about the hunt. There are SIX contests going on simultaneously, and you can enter one or all! I am a part of TEAM Purple!
There are also blue, gold, green, orange, pink, red, and teal teams. Visit each team during the hunt for a chance to win a whole different set of signed books!
If you'd like to find out more about the hunt, see links to all the authors participating, and see the full list of prizes up for grabs, then you should start your hunt at the YA Scavenger Hunt page.
SCAVENGER HUNT PUZZLE
Directions: In this post, I've listed my favorite number. Collect the favorite numbers of all the authors on the awesome PURPLE TEAM, and then add them up (don't worry, you can use a calculator!).
Entry Form: Once you've added up all the numbers, make sure you fill out the form here to officially qualify for the grand prize. Only entries that have the correct number will qualify.
Rules: Open internationally, anyone below the age of 18 should have a parent or guardian's permission to enter. To be eligible for the grand prize, you must submit the completed entry form by October 4* (which just happens to be my secret number), at noon Pacific Time. Entries sent without the correct number or without contact information will not be considered.
And now…
Please welcome my special TEAM PURPLE guest, Kathryn Holmes.
Kathryn Holmes grew up in Maryville, Tennessee, where she was an avid reader and an aspiring writer from an early age. She now lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and piles upon piles of books. A graduate of The New School’s MFA in Creative Writing program, Kathryn works as a freelance dance journalist, among other writing gigs. She's the author of THE DISTANCE BETWEEN LOST AND FOUND (out now) and HOW IT FEELS TO FLY (coming June 2016).
Find out more information by checking out the author website or find more about the author's book here!
Website: http://kathrynholmes.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Kathryn_Holmes
Ever since the night of the incident with Luke Willis, the preacher’s son, sophomore Hallelujah Calhoun has been silent. When the rumors swirled around school, she was silent. When her parents grounded her, she was silent. When her friends abandoned her…silent.
Now, six months later, on a youth group retreat in the Smoky Mountains, Hallie still can’t find a voice to answer the taunting. Shame and embarrassment haunt her, while Luke keeps coming up with new ways to humiliate her. Not even meeting Rachel, an outgoing newcomer who isn’t aware of her past, can pull Hallie out of her shell. Being on the defensive for so long has left her raw, and she doesn’t know who to trust.
On a group hike, the incessant bullying pushes Hallie to her limit. When Hallie, Rachel, and Hallie’s former friend Jonah get separated from the rest of the group, the situation quickly turns dire. Stranded in the wilderness, the three have no choice but to band together.
With past betrayals and harrowing obstacles in their way, Hallie fears they’ll never reach safety. Could speaking up about the night that changed everything close the distance between being lost and found? Or has she traveled too far to come back?
Now, six months later, on a youth group retreat in the Smoky Mountains, Hallie still can’t find a voice to answer the taunting. Shame and embarrassment haunt her, while Luke keeps coming up with new ways to humiliate her. Not even meeting Rachel, an outgoing newcomer who isn’t aware of her past, can pull Hallie out of her shell. Being on the defensive for so long has left her raw, and she doesn’t know who to trust.
On a group hike, the incessant bullying pushes Hallie to her limit. When Hallie, Rachel, and Hallie’s former friend Jonah get separated from the rest of the group, the situation quickly turns dire. Stranded in the wilderness, the three have no choice but to band together.
With past betrayals and harrowing obstacles in their way, Hallie fears they’ll never reach safety. Could speaking up about the night that changed everything close the distance between being lost and found? Or has she traveled too far to come back?
Exclusive Content
Hello, Intrepid YA Scavenger Hunters!
Ever wonder how much books change from
first draft to publication? (The short answer is: a LOT.) Since I don’t have very many deleted scenes from The Distance Between Lost and Found that
aren’t huge plot spoilers, I thought instead I’d share the original opening
scene, followed by the final, published version. In between these two passages:
more than two years and seven (give or take) revisions. And yes, it is a little
nerve-wracking to put this early version on the Internet—thanks for asking. J
If you like what you read here, you can
find The Distance Between Lost and Found
on
Amazon, Barnes & Noble,
or at your local independent bookstore.
Happy Hunting!
~Kathryn
**********************************************
THE DISTANCE BETWEEN LOST AND FOUND OPENING, FIRST DRAFT:
Someone is looking at her. Directly across, but furthest away. Back row, leaning forward. Dark eyes flickering in the campfire light. Mouth closed; not singing, but smiling. Smirking? No—just smiling.
The wood shifts below. The fire sends up a thick rush of smoke, obscuring all of the faces across the fire pit. It makes her eyes water behind her glasses.
When the smoke clears, she is still being looked at. Studied. For a second, everything else fades into the background: the group’s singing, the cicadas in the trees outside, the crackling of the fire, the contrast between the warmth on her face and the chill at her back. They study each other.
The other girl winks.
Hallelujah sits back, spell broken.
She’s not used to being stared at. Not by people she doesn’t know. And she doesn’t know this girl. They came with different groups, and it’s the first night of the trip. The first activity. Exit the van, dump your backpack in the lodge, meet at the campfire. Talk about the week ahead. Sing hymns and praise songs, led by a skinny, zit-faced youth-minister-in-training with a reedy tenor and a pitch pipe.
Hallelujah doesn’t sing, but she listens. She listens to the voices around her, on key and off, singing and humming and whispering. She listens for melodies and harmonies. And she listens for her name, braces herself when they begin a song that includes it, waits for the giggles and the eyes darting in her direction, and in Jake Willis’s direction.
And then this girl—three seated stairsteps down, eight or so feet through the fire, and three seated stairsteps up. Why is she still staring? Does she know? Is she waiting, too?
The song leader plays his pitch pipe and hums a chord. He begins “Jesus is Lord.”
Hallelujah groans. She steels herself. She tries to look impervious to ridicule.
If only.
She used to love this song. The way the women’s voices echo the men’s, repeating the words but embellishing with harmony. The bass and tenor undertone a firm, solid ground to stand on; the alto and soprano starting soft and low, rising until, inevitably, the notes leap into the air, catch on the wind, soar high above. She used to sing loudly, her young, pure soprano able to reach even the highest notes in the descant with ease. She let the music wash over her and around her and she felt at home.
Hallelujah focuses on the fire. She watches the embers glow and the sparks float up. She inhales the burnt air. She waits for the fourth verse.
And it begins, the boys singing “Hallelujah, hallelujah” over and over, a chant as the girls weave up and around in the descant. She hears the snorts to her right, and knows Jake Willis has begun, too.
Even though she knows she shouldn’t, Hallelujah glances over. Jake has his arms stretched in her direction, as if he’s pleading with her. He sees her looking, and he places one hand on his heart, closes his eyes. “Hallelujah, hallelujah!” He squints one eye open to see if she’s still paying attention. He contorts his face like the words are being pulled out of him, like he’s in anguish. Like he’s desperately in love. Or something. He wraps his arms around his body, swaying from side to side with the melody.
Hallelujah looks away. She’s seen it before. Other songs, other settings. Other people sometimes, though Jake started it.
But even looking away, she can still hear him. He raises his voice and finishes the last “Hallelujah” in the song with a deep moan of satisfaction, which makes all the boys snort with laughter.
The song leader looks confused. He must’ve missed most of the action, just caught the payoff.
Jake’s good like that.
Hallelujah feels eyes on her. She tries to be invisible. But the eyes remain, so she glances up. The girl’s watching again. But now, her dark eyes are curious. She raises an eyebrow, like, You okay?
Hallelujah looks from right to left, uncertain, and then back at the girl. She shrugs. It’s a shrug that’s supposed to say, I’m used to it. I deal. It’s not so bad.
THE DISTANCE BETWEEN LOST AND FOUND OPENING, FINAL
VERSION:
The laughter starts as a low murmur. Hallelujah might not have even noticed it if it wasn’t coming from a few seats down. From where he’s sitting. But she hears the laughs, hears them spreading, and she knows. She’s not surprised. She expects this. Still, she feels anxiety blossom.
She just wants to be invisible. He can’t even let her have that.
And so she folds in on herself. She stares at the fire pit. She watches the embers glow and the sparks float up with the smoke through the opening in the gazebo ceiling. She inhales the burnt air.
She waits.
And then something hits the side of her head. It bounces off her shoulder and lands on the wooden bench next to her. She glances down. A tiny twig.
A few seconds pass, and then another twig hits her. This time, on her cheek. She ignores the muffled laughter. Refuses to look over. Tries not to react. Because that’s what Luke wants.
Directly across the fire pit, their youth group director, Rich, is oblivious. He’s leading campfire songs, strumming an acoustic guitar, eyes closed.
The next twig bounces off the top of Hallelujah’s head. The one after that gets stuck in her hair, right by her forehead. She thinks about which is worse: brushing it away or leaving it. Then she pulls the twig loose and drops it on the ground. Her cheeks burn.
She knows she shouldn’t let Luke get to her. But flicking twigs at her is just the beginning. Luke’s got the other kids’ attention. Next: the rumors spread. The real mocking starts. It’s a chain of events he’s been repeating for almost six months, a chain she doesn’t know how to break.
So she does the only thing she knows how to do: she sets her face to stone and keeps her eyes on the fire.
The group keeps singing. Campfire standards. A few hymns. They all blur together in her ears, just notes and notes and notes. Singing used to be her life. She would stand in the choir room at school, in the church auditorium during Sunday services, in her backyard, in her shower, and let her pure soprano sail up to the highest notes. Music used to burst from her. She couldn’t contain it.
She doesn’t sing anymore. She can barely stand to listen.
When she’s pretty sure Luke is done launching twigs at her, she lifts her eyes and lets her gaze travel around the circle, wooden bench to wooden bench. There are kids from her church. Kids from other churches who she knows from past youth group events, or from school. Kids she’s never met before. They’re all clapping. Singing. Smiling. She doesn’t join in. She can’t.
She doesn’t want to be here, anyway. She doesn’t belong here.
She closes her eyes and sees herself the way she used to be. She sees herself a year ago, on a retreat just like this one, except on a college campus instead of in the Smoky Mountains. She sees herself sitting with a group of friends. Singing every song. Cracking jokes. And then she opens her eyes, and she’s back in this new version of her life, where she’s alone and silent, and where she is the joke.
She just wants to be invisible. He can’t even let her have that.
And so she folds in on herself. She stares at the fire pit. She watches the embers glow and the sparks float up with the smoke through the opening in the gazebo ceiling. She inhales the burnt air.
She waits.
And then something hits the side of her head. It bounces off her shoulder and lands on the wooden bench next to her. She glances down. A tiny twig.
A few seconds pass, and then another twig hits her. This time, on her cheek. She ignores the muffled laughter. Refuses to look over. Tries not to react. Because that’s what Luke wants.
Directly across the fire pit, their youth group director, Rich, is oblivious. He’s leading campfire songs, strumming an acoustic guitar, eyes closed.
The next twig bounces off the top of Hallelujah’s head. The one after that gets stuck in her hair, right by her forehead. She thinks about which is worse: brushing it away or leaving it. Then she pulls the twig loose and drops it on the ground. Her cheeks burn.
She knows she shouldn’t let Luke get to her. But flicking twigs at her is just the beginning. Luke’s got the other kids’ attention. Next: the rumors spread. The real mocking starts. It’s a chain of events he’s been repeating for almost six months, a chain she doesn’t know how to break.
So she does the only thing she knows how to do: she sets her face to stone and keeps her eyes on the fire.
The group keeps singing. Campfire standards. A few hymns. They all blur together in her ears, just notes and notes and notes. Singing used to be her life. She would stand in the choir room at school, in the church auditorium during Sunday services, in her backyard, in her shower, and let her pure soprano sail up to the highest notes. Music used to burst from her. She couldn’t contain it.
She doesn’t sing anymore. She can barely stand to listen.
When she’s pretty sure Luke is done launching twigs at her, she lifts her eyes and lets her gaze travel around the circle, wooden bench to wooden bench. There are kids from her church. Kids from other churches who she knows from past youth group events, or from school. Kids she’s never met before. They’re all clapping. Singing. Smiling. She doesn’t join in. She can’t.
She doesn’t want to be here, anyway. She doesn’t belong here.
She closes her eyes and sees herself the way she used to be. She sees herself a year ago, on a retreat just like this one, except on a college campus instead of in the Smoky Mountains. She sees herself sitting with a group of friends. Singing every song. Cracking jokes. And then she opens her eyes, and she’s back in this new version of her life, where she’s alone and silent, and where she is the joke.
**********************************************
Thank you, Kathryn for sharing this with us today. It takes true bravery to share old drafts like this. But it's also helpful to see the power of revision and craft.
Time to head out to gather more secret numbers, hunters! To enter the contest for a chance to win books from all the participating purple team authors, including me, you need to know that my favorite number is 4.
Add up all the favorite numbers of the authors on the purple team and you'll have all the secret code to enter for the grand prize!
CONTINUE THE HUNT
To keep going on your quest for the hunt, you need to check out the next author! Visit Mary Weber author of the Storm Siren Trilogy to collect more exclusive content and secret numbers!
Happy Hunting!
Bonus giveaway!
If you're on Twitter, give me a shout out for a chance to win a signed LOVE AND OTHER UNKNOWN VARIABLES bookmark and swag pack (US only*). Tweet @shanlalexander and use the #YASHTeamPurple hashtag!
*International friends—I hate to not include you, but shipping can be nuts. Please say hello on Twitter using the same info above. If you also sign up for my newsletter, I'll be sending a digital bookmark you can print at home, wherever that may be!
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