Do you or one of your friends suffer from addiction? Amy, the protagonist of Cinnamon Girls, suffers from Bulemia (although she didn’t know there was a name for it.) The good news is, help is available, and it is free through these organizations:
Archive for the ‘Bookish’ Category
Girl addiction
In Bookish on October 22, 2009 at 6:43 pmChapter 1
In Bookish on March 11, 2009 at 4:42 am
I flung the Marlboro Lights onto the dashboard. They skittered across the faded green vinyl then wedged up against the windshield. My shiny metal key slipped snugly into the ignition. The hulking International Scout shook to life, its engine hoarse and raw. It sounded as if metal were eating metal and the whole thing was about to blow.
“Whoa, Tess! It’s gotten louder,” Lisa said.
“You think?” I bellowed.
Our black Labrador-poodle backed away in the driveway, a ridge of fur pricking up on his curly back. The Scout’s commotion swallowed up his scolding barks.
“It’s okay, Robber. Don’t freak,” I called out to the dog.
It was probably against the law for any vehicle to be as loud as the Scout. And decibel level wasn’t the only thing illegal about the boxy, rusted-out jeep. With its five-years’ expired registration and my learner’s permit, requiring an adult to be present whenever I drove, Lisa and I were outlaws on the dirt roads of Crested Butte. This only added to the goose bumps percolating on my forearms. Being at the wheel of my own car — at least for the summer – was a thrill. If we made it out of town without getting busted, we were home free. Read the rest of this entry »
Townies
In Bookish on January 22, 2009 at 10:40 pmTucker McBride and his sidekick Andy Gonzales pulled up alongside us with an expert squeal of the tires. Tucker puffed with pride at the wheel of his father’s tan pickup truck. He was obviously planning to have an epic summer now that he finally had his license. Andy threw open the passenger door, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
“About time you showed up, Patterson,” Andy said.
He nudged my shoulder with his knuckles.
“Ow,” I protested.
Lisa and I looked at each other. We tried to maintain but we couldn’t help it: we giggled. Andy flicked his nut-brown bangs, which immediately slid back toward his eyes. The toast-colored skin of his face and arms was buttery smooth against a navy blue down vest. A silver amulet hung from a leather cord around his neck, his black eyes flickering with curiosity. Because I lived in Boulder, 240 miles away, and only spent summers and an occasional ski weekend here, my arrival in town signaled the official start of the summer party season. I hadn’t seen Andy for months. He had definitely gotten cuter.
“When did you get here?” he asked.
“Three days ago. She showed up today,” I said, nodding toward Lisa.
Andy looked right past me, studying Lisa. The sensation of being invisible standing next to her was all too familiar. But I was used to it by now – we’d been best friends for years. Lisa met his gaze, then looked away. I was startled by her indifference. If there was any question as to whether Andy was sexy, the few times I’d allowed him to steal a kiss had put the matter to rest. Andy’s Hispanic father was a pilot for Delta Airlines and the Gonzales clan exuded the pride of successful assimilation. Andy didn’t give out his affection lightly.
I shivered. Crested Butte was too cold – even in early June — to stand still for long.
“Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?” Andy asked.
“Oh, right. This is Lisa Kipling,” I said.
I started to hop from sneaker to sneaker.
“Hi,” Lisa said, monotone.
She seemed to be refusing to take the bait. Producing his most heart-stopping smile, Andy shook her hand.
“Andy Gonzales,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows at Tucker. Since when did Andy shake a girl’s hand?
Tucker’s white teeth, gold hair and puka shells flashed in the dwindling light. Andy must have already known I was back. I’d seen Tucker twice, and news traveled fast in Crested Butte, where the town’s teenagers could be counted on two hands.
“Amy’s been laying low. Maybe she’s too good for us,” Tucker said.
He shot me his trademark Cheshire cat grin. This smile always seemed to imply, ‘I dig you. But that’s not going to stop me from hassling you as much as I can.’ The look pissed me off, but also stirred a tremor in my gut. If Tucker weren’t so delicious and tall — if his arms didn’t sport firm avocados of bicep, if his kisses weren’t so expertly delivered – it would be easy to walk away when he was being a dick. But I always stuck around, amazed to be going out with the best-looking guy in town.
Tucker leaned over Andy’s shoulder, extending his hand.
“Tucker.”
“I know.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Tucker said. “You ladies need a ride?”
“To where?” I asked.
“Cruising Main. Then up to Gibson’s Ridge,” Tucker said.
“But this is Elk Avenue,” Lisa said, pointing to the street sign.
“That don’t stop people from calling it ‘Main,’” Andy said.
“Doesn’t stop people,” Tucker corrected.
“Whatever,” Andy hissed.
“You guys are cold. Get in,” Tucker said.
We wedged in between them on the front seat. Tucker hit the gas and we rumbled away. Andy turned to Lisa.
“What do you think of the Butte?”
“The mountains are a rush. I haven’t seen much of town yet, though,” Lisa said.
“We’ll have to fix that.”
High above it all in the big-wheeled truck, I glanced down at my legs. On the seat, my thighs looked like mini Sequoias next to Lisa’s. Actually, I was labeled thin, being 5’9” with stick-like arms and a concave stomach. But I was convinced my thighs were chubby. Just because no one else agreed with me didn’t make it any less true. People often called me striking, probably because I was your proverbial tall blonde. But the only feature I prized was my skin, which kept its peaches-and-cream glow no matter how much I trashed my body.
Tucker pulled up on a side street in view of the Mountain Spirits liquor store, an old-time storefront like most of the buildings on ‘Main Street’. Outdoorsy locals strolled the street, en route to the town’s overflowing restaurants and bars. Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” filtered into the night air from the Grubsteak Bar’s open door.
“I love this song,” I said.
“Yeah, but ’Go Your Own Way’ is my favorite,” Lisa said.
“Harsh!” Andy said, studying Lisa’s profile.
Tucker motioned to a bearded man in his 30s standing outside the liquor store.
Tucker extended a $5 bill over to Andy. “You going to get us some liquor or what?”
“Why do I have to do it?” Andy asked.
“I got the wheels.”
“But you look older.”
“Pussy,” Tucker said, laughing.
“Up yours.”
Andy hopped out and approached the man and spoke to him confidentially, indicating the liquor store. The man stepped back and looked around for a moment. Andy smiled and shook his hand, then handed the man a bill and he disappeared inside. Andy turned and gave us thumbs up. The man returned, covertly passing a brown paper bag to Andy. Andy’s face was flushed as he jumped in.
He handed the brown paper bag to Lisa.
“Would you like to do the honors?” he smiled.
“I guess,” Lisa replied.
Lisa wasn’t a big drinker, but she was a sucker for a dare. She slid the fifth of Seagram’s 7 out of the bag. Andy grabbed for it but she yanked it out of his reach. She twisted off the gold top and took a swig. Andy wrested it from her hand and swigged.
“Maintain, airheads,” Tucker hissed. You want to get us busted?”
Tucker turned onto a side street.
“Tucker’s freaked,” Andy explained. “One more ticket and they’ll take his license. Then he’ll have to stay home and play checkers with mom.”
“Eat me, Gonzales,” Tucker smiled.
“No thanks,” Andy replied.
Oh Be Joyful
In Bookish on January 12, 2009 at 12:35 amI pressed the accelerator and we rattled on down Slate River Road. We braked at the green and white sign for Oh Be Joyful Canyon.
“This is where we turn.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“What?”
“That’s the name?” Lisa asked.
“No lie,” I said.
I pointed to the heavily eroded jeep trail that plunged down to our left.
“Might not be so joyful.”
I cranked the wheel hard left and the Scout jolted downward, S-curving several times before the trail dead-ended at the river. The creek was about five yards across and its crystalline current churned up white spouts across its length. Tall cottonwoods leaned precariously over shale-ledged banks. We sat in silence, contemplating the deep water.
“The road picks up on the other side,” I said, pointing.
I had been down this way a week earlier, when my dad and a few men erected the tipi. The river wasn’t quite as high today as it had been, but this time I was driving.
“Fuckin’ A,” I murmured.
Lisa got out and peered at the river. Beneath the ties of Lisa’s halter-top, goose bumps pricked her arms. She lit a Marlboro, taking a deep drag.
“It’s at least three feet deep in the middle. Maybe more,” she said.
She reached a finger out and touched the icy current.
“With enough speed we might get across,” she continued.
Lisa climbed back in the car. Her family had lived in the mountains surrounding Boulder on roads that were little more than deer paths, whereas my family’s idea of navigating a river was inner tubing down the concrete irrigation ditch that ran through our front yard.
“I’m sure this tank has crossed worse,” I said with false bravado. “Hang on.”
I cranked the shifter into reverse, backed up five yards, then roared towards the river. The current slapped against us as if the truck, nudging us off course. I gripped the wheel like a life preserver and gunned it. Half way across, the water coursed up to the doors. For a moment we began to drift.
“No fucking way!” Lisa yelled.
My own voice was crammed way up in my throat somewhere and all that came out of my mouth was a high-pitched croak. The Scout’s wheels gripped the gray rocks of the riverbed and yanked us forward. Water splashed all the up to the windshield as we forged through to the other side, bucked up out of the water and bounced up the opposite bank. The two of us sat still for a moment, listening to the water drip off the sheet metal.
“What a rush,” Lisa croaked.
“Totally,” I said.
I parked the Scout under a tall Ponderosa pine and killed the engine. I wanted to hug Lisa but thought better of it. Being alone deep in the mountains was enough togetherness for now.
“The road picks up on the other side,” I said, pointing.
I had been down this way a week earlier, when my dad and a few men erected the tipi. The river wasn’t quite as high today as it had been, but this time I was driving.
“Fuckin’ A,” I murmured.
Lisa got out and peered at the river. Beneath the ties of Lisa’s halter-top, goose bumps pricked her arms. She lit a Marlboro, taking a deep drag.
“It’s at least three feet deep in the middle. Maybe more,” she said.
She reached a finger out and touched the icy current.
“With enough speed we might get across,” she continued.
Lisa climbed back in the car. Her family had lived in the mountains surrounding Boulder on roads that were little more than deer paths, whereas my family’s idea of navigating a river was inner tubing down the concrete irrigation ditch that ran through our front yard.
“I’m sure this tank has crossed worse,” I said with false bravado. “Hang on.”
I cranked the shifter into reverse, backed up five yards, then roared towards the river. The current slapped against us as if the truck, nudging us off course. I gripped the wheel like a life preserver and gunned it. Half way across, the water coursed up to the doors. For a moment we began to drift.
“No fucking way!” Lisa yelled.
My own voice was crammed way up in my throat somewhere and all that came out of my mouth was a high-pitched croak. The Scout’s wheels gripped the gray rocks of the riverbed and yanked us forward. Water splashed all the up to the windshield as we forged through to the other side, bucked up out of the water and bounced up the opposite bank. The two of us sat still for a moment, listening to the water drip off the sheet metal.
“What a rush,” Lisa croaked.
“Totally,” I said.
I parked the Scout under a tall Ponderosa pine and killed the engine. I wanted to hug Lisa but thought better of it. Being alone deep in the mountains was enough togetherness for now.
Writing Cinnamon Girl
In Bookish on January 9, 2009 at 1:53 amI worked hard to spill my guts when I wrote the Young Adult memoir “Wild Life,” determined not to hold back on the topics of my teenage obsessions including boys, booze, binging and purging and, of course, my gorgeous best friend Lisa. What came out wasn’t always pretty but I summoned the courage to tell the truth about my impassioned and self destructive self at 15. It’s a book about best-friendship between girls at the brink of womanhood. In my opinion, romantic relationships pale in comparison, at least for sheer emotional intensity.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the book, and how you relate to the issues it brings up. Click on the “Comments” box below and type away.
It seems excessively self-indulgent to have a blog. I wanted it to be about what other people thought and now I see that your comments are buried in the tiny comment box. So I guess it’s going to be, “enough about me… let’s talk about me.” But please, do help save me from this quagmire of self absorbtion by writing a comment. Even a nasty comment will be a ray of sunshine, and an indicator that this blog will be more than my book’s stunted second cousin half removed…
Thanks for coming. And have a wild life.
-Amy Scripps
Reader Critiques
In Bookish on January 9, 2009 at 1:44 amJenny from my small SCBW critique group finished the manuscript and wrote:
Related to your story on many fronts, as I grew up in the same time period, spent a lot of time in colorado and my heavily drinking mother died of cancer, etc…
Entertainment Executive/Producer Donna Roth wrote:
I just finished Wild Life,(space between words) and I had such a great time reading it. Wow…what a life…you must be the bravest person that I know. You write with a wonderful combination of poignancy and humor, and I can see that you lived your life in the same way…vulnerable and tough at the same time. I was very moved by it, and pretty enthralled as well.
My first publishing biz critique came from Ken Salicoff, who for many years has read manuscripts for Scott Rudin, helping to choose properties for the blockbuster producer to turn into films. Here is one of his comments on the book:
“Amy’s descriptions of the natural world rival those of Jon Krakauer’s ‘Into the Wild’ for their spectacular beauty.”
Weighing in next was publishing siren Alexandra Machinist:
“As promised, your story is fascinating, engaging and heart-wrenching. You do an incredible job of delving into this part of your 16-year old psyche without being at all self-indulgent with it in the process.”
Editor Susie Carrington wrote:
“Wild Life is a treasure to read and rich with emotional detail and beautiful descriptions, some of which I have singled out in my notes on your manuscript. The writing is taut, with no wasted words, and shows a keen depth of thinking about life and relationships.
“You have a great beginning to the book. It really draws the reader i to the story ahead. Frankly, I couldn’t put it down once I began. I kept wanting to know what adventures would befall the two female characters at the tepee, and later inthe story what events would lead them back to their summer retreat and what secrets eventually would be revealed.”
Entertainment executive Laurie Hansen states:
“This affecting, redemptive story traces a teen’s search for self amid abusive dependence on alcohol, drugs and food, set largely against an awe-inspiring natural landscape. It has prmising potential as s well as a film, combining the risk-filled, coming of age territory explored in “Thirteen” set against a wild backdrop reminiscent of “Into the Wild”. Amy’s quest to discover who she is and what she stands for, despite a pathetic lack of guidance, takes on the resonance of a Hero’s Journey.”
Sarah Pinder writes:
“I thought the book was a great read, and a fascinating look into adolescent independence in the 70s. It was a great story about two girls, who had bonded over their similar life circumstances and for each I think the tipi represented a way to escape those sad situations. Also, it is a testament to how low a young girl can spiral into her own world, hating herself and those around her. Each person along the way has abandoned her.
“The story of what you guys did that summer is amazing, especially since when I look at the picture, you’re SO young. I love that it’s not a runaway story, but a tale of making a new home and a very poignant one. Everything that happens in the book is believable. Sometimes, even when you read a true story, you can find yourself not believing what is happening. I think you do a nice job of making it all seem real and very touching.”
