Brooding YA Hero Read online

  Text copyright © 2017 by Carrie Ann DiRisio

  Illustrations by Linnea Gear

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

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  www.creativelycarrie.com

  www.thebroodingyahero.tumblr.com

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available on file.

  Jacket illustration by Linnea Gear

  Jacket design by Sammy Yuen

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-2666-6

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-2671-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  Interior design by Joshua L. Barnaby

  To everyone who’s ever wanted to be the star of their own story. Here’s a spoiler: you already are.

  And to my family, full of storytellers and comedians, who taught me to laugh and love.

  What’s in a name? That which we call a main character

  By any other name would be as awesome.

  (But they wouldn’t be on the cover of the book.)

  See? Doesn’t that Shakespeare quote make me look super-literary and very talented?

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  A Brief History of the Life of Me, Broody McHottiepants, More Commonly Known as Brooding YA Hero

  Narrative Interlude: Evil Appears!

  The Interlude Continues: Go to Sleep, Plot is Coming!

  1. Becoming a Main Character

  Narrative Interlude: While Our Brave Hero Contemplates His Abs, Evil Lurks

  A Note from Someone Who is Not a Main Character

  2. Broody Explains It All

  A Note from Someone Who Is Not Broody

  Narrative Interlude: While Our Wise Hero Wanders, Evil Ponders

  3. How Will You Achieve Main Character Status?

  Narrative Interlude: While Our Handsome Hero Befriends, Evil Behaves

  4. Finding True Love

  A Note from Someone Who Isn’t in Love

  5. Even More about Love

  Narrative Interlude: While Our Heroic Hero Cowers, Evil Laughs

  6. What If Someone Stops You from Achieving Your Destiny?

  Narrative Interlude: While Our Dazzling Hero Dreams, Evil Takes a Well-Deserved Break

  7. Putting All the Parts Together

  Narrative Interlude: While Our Brilliant Hero Broods, Evil Takes the Stage

  8. You’re a Main Character … Now What?

  THE END

  Is It Still an Interlude If There’s Nothing After?

  PROLOGUE

  Alone in his room, Broody McHottiepants contemplated his future. He was the best of all fictional characters ever created—that he knew. His phone never stopped ringing (playing his theme song, from his latest hit movie adaptation, of course) with Authors begging him to star in their latest novels. An endlessly talented man, he’d been everything from a vampire to a quarterback. Into each novel, he brought his incredibly adjective-filled beauty; his gemstone-colored gaze; his strong, strong arms; and his potent blend of wish fulfillment and slightly toxic masculinity.

  And each time, people swooned.

  Everyone loved him. He’d recently opened a Twitter account, and there, loyal fans waited for him to speak his beautiful, vivid, wondrous wisdom. As the hero of so many stories, he was uniquely qualified to share the brilliant advice everyone adored:

  Sure, he’d had movie and TV deals, too. Even comic books. He’d overthrown evil dystopian governments, won the state championship in sportsball, and always, always found true love.

  And yet, something wasn’t right. Not today. It wasn’t a usual day in New Story City, the place where all character archetypes, from the wisest, oldest mentors to the youngest, annoying-est siblings, waited for Authors to draft them into new stories.

  Most mornings, Broody woke to a summons from an Author. Depending on the type of story, it might arrive by text message, or by carrier pigeon. Reality shifted easily in New Story City.

  But it had been two weeks, and still no Author had contacted him.

  Two whole weeks without saving the world, or sulking in the middle of a dramatic landscape, or trading sarcastic barbs with a villain. Sure, New Story City offered some minor distractions—other characters to talk to, gyms where he could work on his flawless abs—but life was so boring when he wasn’t starring in a book.

  So Broody did what any frustrated fictional character might do when in need of some screen time and adoring fans.

  He complained to everyone he knew.

  Finally, after sending over thirteen mopey tweets, blasting whiny music, and sighing dramatically whenever anyone said hi, Broody’s phone rang.

  His phone was a rather amorphous object, as writers could never keep up with how quickly technology changed, but the important thing was that it worked.

  “Yo,” he said, and then cursed his unfortunate habit of relying on outdated slang. Publishing was a slow business, and sometimes a character’s dialogue paid the price.

  The voice on the other end of the line crackled, and Broody felt a very unlike-him shiver race down his spine. He was a hero. He didn’t shiver. That stuff was for girls. But when the voice spoke, he was right to be afraid. For it was the most powerful, the most dangerous, of all beings.

  It was an Author.

  “Broody,” the Author said. “We need to talk.”

  And Broody, who lived in fear of all direct communication, and most especially that specific phrase, felt the world swim around him.

  The Author’s words turned to a dull echo in Broody’s brain, reverberating around the rather empty space in there.

  But he comprehended enough.

  Broody was being … dumped.

  “You see, it’s just …” The Author paused. “There are so many other stories to tell, Broody. You don’t need to star in all of them.”

  “But I’m the best.”

  “You are … You are something, Broody.”

  “Did I do something wrong?” Well. That was a given. He usually did at least fifteen things wrong per book, but only in a swoony, romantic way, where all could be fixed when he took off his shirt.

  The Author took a deep breath. “It’s not you, Broody. It’s me.”

  “I knew it!” He beamed, triumphant. “See. It’s all your fault. A different Author could have written such masterpieces with my magnificent manly self.”

  “You know what? I lied. It is you, not me, Broody.”

  The phone went silent.

  Broody was too heartbroken to even come up with some amazing turn of phrase about how its silent emptiness mirrored that which lay deep in his soul.

  # # #

  Broody had done nothing, not even brooded or sulked, for hours. Time passed, and outside, in his city full of other characters, life happened. Heroes would be summoned to stories. Villains would plot. Love interest
s would swoon. Adorable street-rat orphans would pick pockets.

  But Broody would do … nothing.

  No more stories?

  For how long?

  What could he do?

  Broody was very good at moping, and even better at brooding. But eventually, even for him, that grew boring.

  What were his other talents? Smirking while defeating evil forces? Clenching his jaw dramatically while threatened by said evil forces? Ignoring love interests until page 201?

  Well, yes. All of those things. He was very talented.

  But certainly, he also had great skill with narrative, and an amazing degree of creativity. Adjectives and adverbs abounded in his interior monologue, and he mixed metaphors like a DJ.

  With all that in mind … why, he didn’t need an Author! He was Broody McHottiepants. He could write his own book.

  Writing had always seemed … well … Book writing, like painting, dancing, and having empathy, was a hobby best left to his love interests.

  But why not? Why shouldn’t he record his memoirs so that everyone could bask in his brilliance? Wouldn’t it show the Author how vital he was if he, Broody McHottiepants, wrote and starred in his own book?

  How hard could it be? Authors wrote books about him all the time.

  So, Broody sat down and began to write.

  A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF ME, BROODY McHOTTIEPANTS, MORE COMMONLY KNOWN AS BROODING YA HERO

  Hello, dear reader, and thank you for gazing into my beautiful, crisp, linen-soft, sweetly scented pages. The swoon-producing effect they will have on you is far milder than the impact of one second spent entranced by my steely, azure-tinged emerald orbs but, alas, it will have to do.

  In these pages, I will attempt to reveal to you all my secrets. From my favorite recipe to my least favorite plot device, I will tell you everything your desperate heart desires.

  Provided your heart desires only me.

  It does, right?

  Look, I’m not going to spend the whole book wondering if I’m in a love triangle. I’m way too important for that. Please check the below box with your answer to this question:

  Are you deeply in love with me?

  Yes

  Mostly yes

  Always and forever

  At least until the sequel

  Good. That was the right answer. I permit you to keep reading.

  I’d like to tell you a bit about myself. Apparently, some “Authors” put an About Me at the end of the book. That’s totally stupid. Obviously, everyone is only reading this book to learn all about me, including how many adjectives have been used to describe my eye color (12,887), just how strong my arms are (so, so strong), and my favorite food (the homemade cookies you’ll make for me to prove how much you love me). (P.S. I may even give you my favorite cookie recipe in this book.)

  So, ahem. More about me. I am the brooding hero found in all your favorite books, from that lush, dramatic fantasy trilogy you adored, to the contemporary, swoony romance that made you giggle. I come from a long line of brooding heroes—Romeo’s little brother (as poor, dear, dead Great-Great-Uncle Romy had some … uh, bad luck with plot twists) on my mother’s side, and Fitzwilliam Darcy on my father’s. We still sometimes summer at Pemberley, when I remember to be very British. (Not English, mind you. My Author isn’t aware there’s a difference.)

  Perhaps this is already confusing to you. How could I be both your British boyfriend and your all-American football star? Well, you see, as a brooding hero character archetype, I can recall every story I’ve ever been in. Whenever an Author creates a character that fits my personality, the Author is actually directly summoning me, and I awaken inside the story. This same phenomenon occurs with other characters, like my evil ex-girlfriend, Blondie DeMeani, but let’s keep our focus on the most important topic.

  Me.

  While starring in so many stories and inhabiting so many fictional worlds, I’ve learned a great deal. I’ve ruled kingdoms and toppled dystopian regimes, won sportsball championships and starred in musicals. Every single time, my main character attributes—my beautiful, intense gaze; my manly clenched jawline; and my rather oddly attractive arrogance—has won over the hearts of readers everywhere. And winning readers’ hearts is the number one best thing to do if you want a sequel.

  So, why should you keep reading this book? Haven’t you ever wanted to know what it feels like to be a character inside your favorite stories? Or wanted to learn how to survive and thrive in sequels? Or how to identify an antagonist from a hundred yards away? At the very least, don’t you want to spend more time with me when you’re awake and not just when I’m romantically/creepily/obsessively watching you slumber from outside your window?

  As I’ve already said but will say again, I’ve been in quite a few stories, and I know everything about them. By reading this fantastic, brilliant book about me and my life, why, I’m sure you’ll improve your own, at least a smidgen.

  In fact, I’ve had the most genius idea. Why don’t I just interview myself!

  Broody:

  Well, Mr. McHottiepants, your résumé is certainly impressive. Have you really been in all of these stories?

  Me:

  Absolutely. In fact, I’ve been in all their film adaptations, plus plenty of TV shows and movies that didn’t begin as books. One might even venture to say I’ve existed as far back as the earliest known stories, although I refuse to talk about that since I made some unfortunate choices about wardrobe and girlfriends …

  Broody (a.k.a. Me):

  What’s your favorite role?

  Also Me:

  Being the hero, of course. But, no. I shall never name my favorite book. I can’t have armies of love interests from my billions of starring roles band together to jealously hunt me down. Thank goodness they’re all “not like other girls” and, thus, will always refuse to work with other women.

  Me:

  Let’s go back to the more basic questions, shall we?

  Also Me:

  Brilliant idea, Broody.

  Me:

  Why, thank you. I’ve been known to have a few.

  Also Me:

  What’s your name?

  Me:

  Broody McHottiepants. Occasionally, I am Prince Broody, Rather-too-young-to-be-a-military-leader Broody, or Master Mage and Sassmaster Broody.

  Oh, and I was either named after my father (who I dislike greatly) or was given a very fitting epitaph that my Author found in a baby name dictionary.

  Or a noun. Sometimes I’m named after a manly, sexy noun. Jet. Blaze. Hunter. Smoke. Trout.

  Also Me:

  When were you born?

  Me:

  Before you, duh. I’m always older. And taller.

  Also Me:

  Favorite color?

  Me:

  The black darkness of my heart. Or the fiery red of my passion.

  Also Me:

  Where do you live?

  Me:

  Anywhere—from the finest palace to the roughest dystopian cave. No matter where I find myself, however, I have access to an excellent barber and top-notch dental care. This tousled mane and blazing smile don’t maintain themselves, you know.

  Also Me:

  Hobbies?

  Me:

  Fighting. Sulking. Causing drama by lying to people I care about. I’m also ridiculously good at anything I attempt, including fencing, poker, playing all musical instruments, insulting girls in a way they will find complimentary, sportsball, fixing cars, fixing a girl’s emotional distress (oftentimes caused by me—also a great hobby), overthrowing governments, and throwing masquerade balls.

  Oh, and smirking. Can’t forget the smirking.

  One thing I don’t do? Read. That’s for main female characters only.

  Also Me:

  Favorite subject in school?

  Me:

  Really? You’re asking me that? I thought you knew me, self. I thought we had a connection. I’m not even going to honor that with a
response.

  Also Me:

  What are you afraid of?

  Me:

  Absolutely nothing.

  Okay … Maybe once in a while I have a nightmare that I’ll lose a love triangle, or worse, that my book will never get a sequel, but I’m pretty darn confident those are just nightmares, and not the sort of dream that foretells exactly what will happen in my fictional future.

  Also Me:

  Zodiac sign?

  Me:

  After hours and hours of careful consideration (which definitely had nothing to do with deadline-based procrastination, thank you very much), my Author has decided I am a Scorpio. This is because Scorpios are the perfect fit for any broody hero: passionate, deadly, and totally overused in fiction.

  However, my Author is still researching my Chinese zodiac sign, my Myers-Briggs personality type, my ideal tarot card, my blood type, and my Hogwarts house. These are all 100 percent vital to the development of any main character. So if you, too, aspire to achieve main character status, be sure to complete as many online quizzes as possible while you wait for your destiny to make itself apparent.

  Also Me:

  What do you want to be when you grow up?

  Me:

  The husband of a main character.

  Also, a very rich rock star/king/vampire lord/artist/athlete. I’m pretty flexible. As long as I end the book as the most important guy in the whole world, I’ll settle for any career, really. But you know who I hope I never become? My father. He’s the worst. He thinks everything is always about him and has no sympathy for anyone else, especially not me. Granted, he’s also ridiculously wealthy and very handsome, but he’s a jerk. So, I just want to be way better than him.

  Also Me:

  Favorite movie?

  Me:

  Something from the ’80s. Probably with John Cusack in it.