Click here to search through the prior sample pages and queries.
*Special note- I'm trying something different. This is actually my second chapter. It might be a better starting place???? I am struggling with this more than any other part of the novel. Any first chapter experts out there that have some advice I'd love to hear it.
"Mr. Anderson! I was worried you weren't coming." The frantic history teacher Mr. Epstein spoke loudly as I walked into his classroom a few minutes late.
I nodded mumbling a sorry and slipped into the desk closest to the door.
"Anyway," he continued, "I was just telling everyone that I think we have a real chance to win the state competition and maybe even the national competition this year. Last year we just missed qualifying to nationals, but the team is stronger than ever." He nodded toward me.
Six heads turned in my direction. The last thing I wanted was to be singled out – although most valuable member of the 'geek squad' had to be the worst title in high school.
It could be good – maybe a goal I would work toward.
"Alex, I'd like you to take Dan and Claire through last year's state questions from the card box. The rest of you can do the same with the other box. Try to finish as many as you can." Mr. Epstein rubbed his hands together, oozing with excitement.
Alex Jenkins waved at me – I recognized him from my German class. Geek wasn't a strong enough word for this guy, but he was seemed decent enough.
But he shared my love of Star Wars.
I walked over to his side of the room and noticed a girl with light brown wavy hair and . . . well let's just say she didn't fit in here. I couldn't remember ever seeing her before.
I had at least one class with everyone else on the team.
"I don't think we've met? I'm Claire Ramsey." She stuck out her hand.
I shook it politely.
"Dan Anderson," I said. Then I sat down in one of the desks next to Alex and she did the same.
"I'm going to get the cards." Alex got up to walk over to Mr. Epstein.
"Just so you know," Claire whispered, leaning in close to me, letting me smell her perfume, "I'm only here because Mr. Epstein is my brother in-law and my father practically forced him to let me on the team to help with my college applications. We've never had seven players before, usually it's just three backups, not four." She rolled her eyes.
I scooted my desk away from her a little and leaned back crossing my arms to my chest.
"Too much for your reputation?" I looked her over curiously.
"God no! Nothing like that, I'm not a snob!"
She sounded a little offended, which surprised me, and girls didn't surprise me very often. They were even more predictable than shrinks.
"But I'm not smart enough to actually make the team. I was just giving you a warning before we go head-to-head today."
"Sorry, it's a natural reaction- years of being called a dweeb are bound to leave some scarring," I looked right into her eyes- a really unusual shade of green. Green eyes have always fascinated me. Mostly because of the genetic improbability.
She raised her eyebrows as Alex returned with our box of cards.
"Years of being a dweeb, huh?" Her tone left me hanging.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I was a little offended myself that she wouldn't stop talking to me, and looking at me.
This was already more words than I had spoken to any student in over two months.
Damn, I was slipping!
"Nothing," she said quickly, her cheeks blushing a little, "I think Alex is ready to quiz us," she turned her eyes on him and he pulled the first card out of the box.
"What is the only novel Harper Lee has ever written?" Alex asked.
Claire looked at me and I sighed thinking I better live up to my reputation. Things were so different now.
"To Kill a Mocking Bird," I answered and Alex nodded.
"What is the native language of Brazil?" Alex asked.
I gave Claire a minute to answer.
"Portuguese," I said when Claire made it obvious she wasn't going to speak up.
"Nice!" Alex said, "Against what opposing team did Babe Ruth hit his first home run?"
"The Yankees," I said.
Alex looked excited and started firing at rapid speed.
"What is the most common element in the human body?"
"Oxygen." I made the mistake of looking at Claire while I answered.
For some reason I didn't tone it down for her. I usually made intentional pauses or missed a few on purpose. I think I was trying to scare her off- nobody likes a freak.
"What illness accounted for more than forty percent of U.S. casualties during World War I?"
"Influenza."
The rest of the practice went the same – Claire never opened her mouth once and I started to feel guilty about making her look stupid.
I was the first one out the door when Epstein dismissed us and I hurried down the hall toward the front doors. I heard footsteps following behind and then Claire was there at my side.
"You were really good." She turned her smile on me.
Her face was interesting, so full of secrets and depth – I couldn't help wanting to know more about her. But that was asking for trouble and it was pleasure I didn't deserve.
"Thanks." I looked at the ground and sped up my pace. "See you tomorrow." I headed through the door and let it shut before she could follow. I felt like such an ass. But it was better this way.
"Hey Steve," I said quietly, when I walked in the door to my uncle's house.
He was sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of papers and a red pen.
"How was practice? I heard the team's looking strong this year. I thought about stopping in to see for myself."
"I thought you were running detention?" Steve is my German teacher. It's his third year teaching.
Oddly enough he's only nine years older than me. That's always seemed so strange. He's halfway between peer and parent- but he's cool. I couldn't pick a better person to live with.
"Yeah, I was stuck with detention. Is pizza alright for dinner? I'm totally beat," he asked.
"Sounds good." I sat down at the table and took the first few papers off the stack and started marking the first test.
"How was your session with Dr. Stevens?" he asked tentatively, when we were eating pizza in front of the T.V. watching Monday night football.
"Don't you mean the Dr. Phil wannabe? Do I really need to keep seeing him?" I was hoping he might understand.
He looked at me more serious now. "Do you need to keep seeing him?"
"It's not like it changes anything."
"Your parents want you to. It was part of the agreement. But if you won't really talk to him, it seems like a waste of money. Of course they don't care, they just want to say they're doing something." His voice was filled with a bitter edge, very rare for Steve.
He had issues with wasting money. It wasn't easy living on a teacher's salary in the north suburbs of Chicago.
"I'll talk to them again." He didn't sound very hopeful that he could make any more progress than I had.
"Thanks anyway."
"If you don't mind me asking, do you really like the trivia bowl team? It just seems so different for you. And you're not playing basketball?" He immediately looked worried he might have gone too deep.
"That's sort-of the goal."
"I understand you're avoiding certain crowds, it's just that you aren't being yourself. Doesn't that bother you?"
This was the most he'd ever tried to get out of me and if I was going to talk to anyone it would probably be Steve, but I didn't want to talk. What if he made me doubt my decision, tried to make me feel less guilty?
"I'll make the most of it, I promise. In fact I was planning on taking the team out for a beer on Friday night. I thought we could hit the clubs maybe pick up a few college girls."
He laughed probably visualizing Alex Jenkins in his Dark Vader costume – that I knew he secretly had hanging in his closet- slam dancing with a cocktail in one hand.
"Claire Ramsey's on the team this year, isn't she?"
"Yeah, but not on merit." I immediately felt guilty betraying her secret. But Steve was a teacher I'm sure he already knew this.
"She's a nice girl." He gave me a look that added to my guilt.
"I wouldn't know, she hardly spoke a word." I grabbed my books and headed to my room, turned on the computer to write my essay on Hamlet-it would take less than thirty minutes.
I woke up to the same nightmare. My eyes flew open, my breathing heavy, it was still dark. I turned my head to look at the clock and groaned when I saw it was only four in the morning.
I used to be able to sleep in till noon, of course I was out partying until two or three. I picked up another book to read and stayed in bed until five, not wanting Steve to think something was wrong with me – that's the last thing I needed.
I turned on the computer to check the weather and groaned again when I saw it was only sixteen degrees. I've been running every morning since I moved to Chicago in June. But fuck that! I'm not training for a winter marathon.
It would have to be the school field house today and possibly several months.
I walked in the empty field house at six and started my run, with my IPOD turned up as loud as it would go. It's really strange how much I love running now because I used to hate it.
I did three sports all three years of high school- football, basketball, and baseball – very stereotypical jock. The most we ever had to run all at once was two or three miles. I clocked in at least six to eight miles every day now, of course I wasn't playing any sports.
I focused on the music, something loud with a good beat. The rhythm of my feet hitting the track – a steady consistent pace, calmed me better than any therapy session. It was the most peace I would have all day.
I continued lap after lap allowing my surroundings- the red padded walls, to melt and spin in front of me like bloody water swirling down the drain of the bathroom sink. I jumped when I felt a cold hand on my cheek pulling one of the head phones out of my ear.
"Dan," It was Claire in her P.E. uniform jogging next to me.
I focused my eyes taking notice of my surroundings and realized about thirty kids in uniform were sharing the track with me.
"Fuck! Did I miss this first period?" I asked her frantically and she laughed.
"Don't worry, it's early bird P.E.- before school at 6:45." She smiled at my confusion, "Are you really that out of it when you run?" Her speed picked up to match mine.
"I guess I am today." I wiped sweat from my face with the bottom of my t-shirt.
"Hey Ramsey?" Jason Elliot came up behind Claire and poked her in the side.
I didn't know him personally, but from what I've heard he was the senior star of the basketball team and on his way to the University of Illinois next year with a scholarship.
We didn't have any classes together, but that's only because I was in all the 'smartest' classes now and he fell more in to the 'smart' category – along with Claire.
"Who's your friend?" He nodded toward me.
"This is Dan, he's a senior too. We're on the trivia team together, except Dan's actually going to play where as I am going to sit and look pretty." She laughed again.
I loved her laugh, it was so real. Everything about her was real.
"I'm sure you'll be great at that," Jason joked, looking her over.
I thought she seemed a little uncomfortable being checked out – not that I hadn't done the same.
But at least I was discrete enough to wait until she wasn't looking before checking out her long and very sexy legs, among other outstanding qualities.
Claire was a pretty tall girl, maybe five six or five seven – I'm six one, so I've always liked taller girls.
"Are you on the wrestling team, Dan?" Jason peeled his eyes from Claire to look at me.
I needed to get out of this conversation and away from this girl.
"God no!" I shook my head, "Just watching my weight, I used to be a fat ass- over three hundred pounds." I looked him straight in the eye.
His eyes widened. "No shit!"
Claire looked down at the track, smiling. She guessed I was joking.
"How did you lose that much weight?" He sounded truly amazed.
"Jenny Craig." I ran ahead, away from both of them.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Am I Worth It. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Am I Worth It. Sort by date Show all posts
Sep 24, 2009
Query- AM I WORTH IT? - young adult- attempt #2
Click here to read the original query.
**Thanks for all your great feedback on the first attempt! I knew I would need those first impressions to see if it needed to be toned down a little. word count is 330, is that too much???
Seventeen-year-old Dan has never been punished for what he did to Hannah last spring while drunk and high at a party. He barely knew Hannah and now her life is ruined and no one will listen to Dan, not the judge or the four shrinks he's seen since that night.They all say the same thing, "It's not your fault." It's up to him to create his own miserable existence – to make sure he's punished, but he's too much of a coward to do what he should.
Instead, he leaves behind his comfortable California life, his high-profile parents, and every ounce of joy, to move to the north suburbs of Chicago, before his senior year. Dan has a brilliant mind and a gift for music. He also has a carefully crafted plan to remain in his unhappy existence – number one on his list: commit social suicide by going from cute, popular jock to most valuable member of the Trivia bowl Team. Only now, for the first time he isn't hiding his good side- he's finding it.
His plan is failing. He's surrounded with people who care for him, maybe even love him. And he can't help thinking about Claire – beautiful, kind, funny and looking at him in a way he doesn't deserve. When she leans in to kiss him, he sees Hannah's face. His mind swims with the memory of that night and he can't breathe.
Dan's slowly walking a plank and buying time in purgatory until the decision is made - either forgive himself or drown. He's knows what he deserves, but everything is off-balance now. He may have someone amazing like Claire trying to pull him from his miserable life sentence, but he can't stop asking, "Am I worth it?"
AM I WORTH IT is a 60,000 word young adult novel telling the story of a boy's ability to emerge from a sea of guilt and come out a better man.
**Thanks for all your great feedback on the first attempt! I knew I would need those first impressions to see if it needed to be toned down a little. word count is 330, is that too much???
Seventeen-year-old Dan has never been punished for what he did to Hannah last spring while drunk and high at a party. He barely knew Hannah and now her life is ruined and no one will listen to Dan, not the judge or the four shrinks he's seen since that night.They all say the same thing, "It's not your fault." It's up to him to create his own miserable existence – to make sure he's punished, but he's too much of a coward to do what he should.
Instead, he leaves behind his comfortable California life, his high-profile parents, and every ounce of joy, to move to the north suburbs of Chicago, before his senior year. Dan has a brilliant mind and a gift for music. He also has a carefully crafted plan to remain in his unhappy existence – number one on his list: commit social suicide by going from cute, popular jock to most valuable member of the Trivia bowl Team. Only now, for the first time he isn't hiding his good side- he's finding it.
His plan is failing. He's surrounded with people who care for him, maybe even love him. And he can't help thinking about Claire – beautiful, kind, funny and looking at him in a way he doesn't deserve. When she leans in to kiss him, he sees Hannah's face. His mind swims with the memory of that night and he can't breathe.
Dan's slowly walking a plank and buying time in purgatory until the decision is made - either forgive himself or drown. He's knows what he deserves, but everything is off-balance now. He may have someone amazing like Claire trying to pull him from his miserable life sentence, but he can't stop asking, "Am I worth it?"
AM I WORTH IT is a 60,000 word young adult novel telling the story of a boy's ability to emerge from a sea of guilt and come out a better man.
Sample pages- AM I WORTH IT? - young adult
Chapter 1 – "Best Seller in the Making"
I had a song for every mood, for every moment of my life. I could use and artists's or songwriters words and piece them into my day like a puzzle or a map. What's my soug right now? Rescue Me!
"Have you made any connections yet," he asked me, leaning over his desk and pushing his over-priced black rimmed glasses up on his nose- they had to be fake. I took a deep breath letting it out slowly, searching for an ounce of patience. I really wasn't in the mood for his shit today. I reached forward and opened the glass jar on his desk and pulled out a handful of candy, popping one of the little pellets of pure sugar in my mouth.
"Connections?" I asked playing dumb, scanning the rows of bookshelves. I'd spent so many hours here, I had them practically memorized. Right between 'Healing Post Traumatic Stress' and 'Signs Your Child Is Socially Challenged', he sighed heavily, his subtle way of telling me I was being a pain in the ass, yet again. But it's not like he wasn't getting a big fat check every hour we spent together. His eyes zipped to the page of notes in front of him and when he looked up at me again – it was 'return of the concerned and helpful therapist'.
"Your uncle says you've joined the jazz band, and made the team for the school trivia bowl?" He asked narrowing his eyes at me. I threw a couple more pieces of candy in my mouth and chewed slowly. I loved leaving him in that uncomfortable silence, watching him squirm in his chair. It was so fucking funny- about the only entertainment I got these days.
"Yep, I'm aiming for extreme popularity. Can you tell?" I said tossing one of the candies in the air and catching it in my mouth. His face relaxed into an expression I knew all too well – he was trying to get intimate again. Discuss the dark side of Dan, pour out our hearts and souls until we're weeping uncontrollably in each other's arms. It was so touching I thought I might vomit on his spotless white carpet.
"Dan," oh here it comes, the tight ass therapist is going to tell me he loves me and I'm not alone. If I'm lucky he'll hold my hand. They're all so predictable. I could've saved him a hell of a lot of money on that stupid piece of paper hanging on the wall. I almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost, if he wasn't so freakin' annoying. I groaned and rolled my eyes.
"Dan," he said again, "you've been at your new school for two months now. Haven't you made any friends?" No, thank God!
"A few," I lied. He narrowed his eyes at me. He was smart enough to at least know I was full of shit. But then why even ask?
"What about girls?" He asked ignoring my lie.
"You're kidding right?" I said exasperated he would even bring that up, "Is this some kind of test?" He ignored my sarcasm.
"You're a smart, good looking guy. There must be someone you've thought about asking out?" I shook my head in disbelief.
"It's a curse I wish I didn't have," I muttered then immediately regretted letting the words slip out. He now looked honestly concerned.
"When you say things like that, I think you want to talk, but you never do. What did you mean by that – why do you think being smart or good looks are a curse? I don't know any seventeen-year-old boy who would wish that."
"You just don't get it," I said, no one did, "I can guarantee both intelligence and being physically attractive to the opposite sex can be a curse." This was what I did best- give him little snippets of information or just a half second glance in to my mind and then I slam the door in his face. He was frustrated now. So was I. But who gives a damn if I'm frustrated as long as I behave? It's not like I didn't deserve some kind of punishment.
"Look, Dr. Stevens," I said hoping to calm him down a little. I hated to admit this, but the time I spent with him was the only time I did anything out of impulse or acted like I used to – though it was for good reason, it still felt nice having a glimpse of some of that normal teenage rebellion. Like seeing an old friend after a summer apart, "I know what you're trying to do, it's the same plan that all three shrinks tried on me in California. I'm not ready for any of that – I don't think I'll ever be ready, so lay-off. I do everything I'm supposed to. I'm the model teen. Any parent would love to have me." Any parent but my own. He raised his eyebrows probably guessing what I was thinking – damn shrinks! Just when you think they're complete idiots they go and read your mind.
"Have you talked to your parents lately?" He asked
"They sent a check, a credit card and a note asking me if I was working on my college applications," I said mechanically.
"Well, that's good they're communicating with you," he said, though he frowned like he was disappointed – maybe he thought they should do more? Interesting. I assumed he was all about the money. He probably has a 'ladder of healing' I need to climb for his achievements – maybe a book deal? If I'm not healed and perfect in a few months he won't have shit to write about. Whatever. This was so pointless.
"Can we finish a little early? I've got my first practice for the trivia bowl in twenty minutes," I said leaning back and putting my hands over my eyes. He looked a little sad, which surprised me, but I didn't have the energy to analyze his behavior, besides I didn't care.
"Fine," he said pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes, "I'll see you Thursday afternoon." I nodded and grabbed my bag and keys and pulled the book I was reading in the waiting room out from underneath my chair.
"What's that you're reading?" He asked me before I could leave. I flashed the cover in front of him. "War and Peace," he said raising his eyebrows. I smiled not being able to help myself.
"Do you honestly think I could go from popular jock to geek without having something of substance between my ears?" I asked laughing a little at the irony. I used to hide books from my friends, not wanting them to see me reading classics like Tolstoy.
"So I've heard," he said shaking his head and writing it all down in that notebook of ingredients for a bestseller to cure crazy kids- and make millions in the process. I didn't want to smash his life's work or anything, but he had a long way to go before he was Dr. Phil. I walked out into the cold November air. I hated cold and Chicago had more cold days than anything else.
Honestly the weather here was so fucking unpredictable. In San Jose, where I spent most of my life, until a few months ago, you get between sixty and eighty degrees most days. Today it was twenty-two, yesterday it was sixty-five.
I sat in my car pulling out my hundredth draft of the letter I may never finish and made yet another attempt.
Dear Hannah,
I know I'm probably the last person you ever want to open a piece of mail from. I'll understand completely if you tear this to shreds the moment you receive it. There's not a day that goes by that I don't think of you – think of that night. I wake up seeing your face, horrified and it hurts so much, I think I'll never breathe again. I'll never forgive myself for what I did, but it doesn't compare to your suffering. I'm so sorry –
"Stupid idiot!" I said banging my head against the steering wheel a few times. I tore up the letter, throwing the pieces on to the floor. Who was I kidding, I hardly knew this girl and besides it would never be enough. But I had to try, didn't I?
I put the car in gear and headed back to school for trivia bowl practice, AKA – social suicide. If it was my choice I'd go to class and nothing more, but when I thought of my Uncle Steve worrying about me being alone and, well. . . miserable, I had to show some sign of life. He had done so much for me- sometimes I wished he was ashamed of me like parents. It would make my descision much easier.
Right now, my life balanced somewhere between purgatory and Hell. It's exactly where I needed to be, I didn't deserve anything better.
I had a song for every mood, for every moment of my life. I could use and artists's or songwriters words and piece them into my day like a puzzle or a map. What's my soug right now? Rescue Me!
"Have you made any connections yet," he asked me, leaning over his desk and pushing his over-priced black rimmed glasses up on his nose- they had to be fake. I took a deep breath letting it out slowly, searching for an ounce of patience. I really wasn't in the mood for his shit today. I reached forward and opened the glass jar on his desk and pulled out a handful of candy, popping one of the little pellets of pure sugar in my mouth.
"Connections?" I asked playing dumb, scanning the rows of bookshelves. I'd spent so many hours here, I had them practically memorized. Right between 'Healing Post Traumatic Stress' and 'Signs Your Child Is Socially Challenged', he sighed heavily, his subtle way of telling me I was being a pain in the ass, yet again. But it's not like he wasn't getting a big fat check every hour we spent together. His eyes zipped to the page of notes in front of him and when he looked up at me again – it was 'return of the concerned and helpful therapist'.
"Your uncle says you've joined the jazz band, and made the team for the school trivia bowl?" He asked narrowing his eyes at me. I threw a couple more pieces of candy in my mouth and chewed slowly. I loved leaving him in that uncomfortable silence, watching him squirm in his chair. It was so fucking funny- about the only entertainment I got these days.
"Yep, I'm aiming for extreme popularity. Can you tell?" I said tossing one of the candies in the air and catching it in my mouth. His face relaxed into an expression I knew all too well – he was trying to get intimate again. Discuss the dark side of Dan, pour out our hearts and souls until we're weeping uncontrollably in each other's arms. It was so touching I thought I might vomit on his spotless white carpet.
"Dan," oh here it comes, the tight ass therapist is going to tell me he loves me and I'm not alone. If I'm lucky he'll hold my hand. They're all so predictable. I could've saved him a hell of a lot of money on that stupid piece of paper hanging on the wall. I almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost, if he wasn't so freakin' annoying. I groaned and rolled my eyes.
"Dan," he said again, "you've been at your new school for two months now. Haven't you made any friends?" No, thank God!
"A few," I lied. He narrowed his eyes at me. He was smart enough to at least know I was full of shit. But then why even ask?
"What about girls?" He asked ignoring my lie.
"You're kidding right?" I said exasperated he would even bring that up, "Is this some kind of test?" He ignored my sarcasm.
"You're a smart, good looking guy. There must be someone you've thought about asking out?" I shook my head in disbelief.
"It's a curse I wish I didn't have," I muttered then immediately regretted letting the words slip out. He now looked honestly concerned.
"When you say things like that, I think you want to talk, but you never do. What did you mean by that – why do you think being smart or good looks are a curse? I don't know any seventeen-year-old boy who would wish that."
"You just don't get it," I said, no one did, "I can guarantee both intelligence and being physically attractive to the opposite sex can be a curse." This was what I did best- give him little snippets of information or just a half second glance in to my mind and then I slam the door in his face. He was frustrated now. So was I. But who gives a damn if I'm frustrated as long as I behave? It's not like I didn't deserve some kind of punishment.
"Look, Dr. Stevens," I said hoping to calm him down a little. I hated to admit this, but the time I spent with him was the only time I did anything out of impulse or acted like I used to – though it was for good reason, it still felt nice having a glimpse of some of that normal teenage rebellion. Like seeing an old friend after a summer apart, "I know what you're trying to do, it's the same plan that all three shrinks tried on me in California. I'm not ready for any of that – I don't think I'll ever be ready, so lay-off. I do everything I'm supposed to. I'm the model teen. Any parent would love to have me." Any parent but my own. He raised his eyebrows probably guessing what I was thinking – damn shrinks! Just when you think they're complete idiots they go and read your mind.
"Have you talked to your parents lately?" He asked
"They sent a check, a credit card and a note asking me if I was working on my college applications," I said mechanically.
"Well, that's good they're communicating with you," he said, though he frowned like he was disappointed – maybe he thought they should do more? Interesting. I assumed he was all about the money. He probably has a 'ladder of healing' I need to climb for his achievements – maybe a book deal? If I'm not healed and perfect in a few months he won't have shit to write about. Whatever. This was so pointless.
"Can we finish a little early? I've got my first practice for the trivia bowl in twenty minutes," I said leaning back and putting my hands over my eyes. He looked a little sad, which surprised me, but I didn't have the energy to analyze his behavior, besides I didn't care.
"Fine," he said pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes, "I'll see you Thursday afternoon." I nodded and grabbed my bag and keys and pulled the book I was reading in the waiting room out from underneath my chair.
"What's that you're reading?" He asked me before I could leave. I flashed the cover in front of him. "War and Peace," he said raising his eyebrows. I smiled not being able to help myself.
"Do you honestly think I could go from popular jock to geek without having something of substance between my ears?" I asked laughing a little at the irony. I used to hide books from my friends, not wanting them to see me reading classics like Tolstoy.
"So I've heard," he said shaking his head and writing it all down in that notebook of ingredients for a bestseller to cure crazy kids- and make millions in the process. I didn't want to smash his life's work or anything, but he had a long way to go before he was Dr. Phil. I walked out into the cold November air. I hated cold and Chicago had more cold days than anything else.
Honestly the weather here was so fucking unpredictable. In San Jose, where I spent most of my life, until a few months ago, you get between sixty and eighty degrees most days. Today it was twenty-two, yesterday it was sixty-five.
I sat in my car pulling out my hundredth draft of the letter I may never finish and made yet another attempt.
Dear Hannah,
I know I'm probably the last person you ever want to open a piece of mail from. I'll understand completely if you tear this to shreds the moment you receive it. There's not a day that goes by that I don't think of you – think of that night. I wake up seeing your face, horrified and it hurts so much, I think I'll never breathe again. I'll never forgive myself for what I did, but it doesn't compare to your suffering. I'm so sorry –
"Stupid idiot!" I said banging my head against the steering wheel a few times. I tore up the letter, throwing the pieces on to the floor. Who was I kidding, I hardly knew this girl and besides it would never be enough. But I had to try, didn't I?
I put the car in gear and headed back to school for trivia bowl practice, AKA – social suicide. If it was my choice I'd go to class and nothing more, but when I thought of my Uncle Steve worrying about me being alone and, well. . . miserable, I had to show some sign of life. He had done so much for me- sometimes I wished he was ashamed of me like parents. It would make my descision much easier.
Right now, my life balanced somewhere between purgatory and Hell. It's exactly where I needed to be, I didn't deserve anything better.
Oct 2, 2009
AM I WORTH IT? sample pages- attempt # 2
Click here to read the first sample page submission.
Click here to read the most recent query.
He's only learned one thing from this experience. One lesson to carry him forward in his desolate life- getting off easy is the worst punishment possible.
He can't sit in silence for longer than a minute. His eyes close and he sees everything again. No one knows about the entire bottle of vodka he drank and tried to wash down with thirty Vicodin.
He was too much of a coward to do it, but everyone knows cowards get off easy. Now he can't go a week without being engulfed in the less than comforting words of a mental health professional.
It won't help. Nothing will help because nothing will change what he did.
"Have you made any progress yet?"
Shrink number four attempted to pull me from another session of mentally writing my memoir- it was just one of many creative methods to make it through the hour sentence.
"Progress?" I played dumb letting the minutes pass without an ounce of effort. My eyes scanned the rows of bookshelves. Countless hours here and I had them all memorized.
Right between 'Healing Post Traumatic Stress' and 'Signs Your Child Is Socially Challenged', he sighed heavily, his wordless way of telling me I was being a pain in the ass. Don't pity him- he's getting a big fat check every hour we spent together- three hundred dollars to be exact.
His eyes zipped to the page of notes in front of him and when he looked up at me again, it was return of the concerned-and-helpful-therapist.
"Your uncle says you've joined the jazz band, and made the team for the school trivia bowl?"
I threw a couple pieces of candy in my mouth and chewed slowly, leaving him in that uncomfortable silence, watching him squirm in his chair. It was so fucking funny- about the only entertainment I got lately.
"Yep, I'm aiming for extreme popularity. Can you tell?" I tossed one of the candies in the air and caught it in my mouth. His face relaxed forming the look I knew all too well – he was trying to get intimate again. Discuss the dark side of Dan- pour out our hearts and souls until we're weeping uncontrollably in each other's arms.
"Dan."
Oh here it comes, the tight-ass-therapist is going to tell me he loves me and I'm not alone. If I'm lucky he'll hold my hand. They're all so predictable.
I almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost- if he wasn't so freakin' annoying. I groaned and rolled my eyes.
"Dan, you've been at your new school for two months now. Haven't you made any friends?"
No, thank God!
"A few," I lied.
He narrowed his eyes at me. He knew I was full of shit. But then why even ask?
"What about girls?"
"You're kidding right?" How could he even bring that up?
He ignored my sarcasm, "You're a smart, good looking guy. There must be someone you've thought about asking out?"
I shook my head in disbelief, "It's a curse I wish I didn't have." I immediately regretted letting the words slip out. Now he looked confused which meant I had to explain myself further.
Nah, I'll just fuck with him a little.
Luckily I knew exactly how much I could screw with his head before I would be sent on to shrink number five and maybe eventually declared insane. Which might be true- who the hell knows?
"When you say things like that, I think you want to talk, but you never do. What did you mean by that – why do you think being smart or good looks are a curse? I don't know any seventeen-year-old boy who would think that."
"I'm just thinking of nearly every vampire book or movie- the sadistic creature is always some super-stud able to lure the beautiful girl into a grave yard late at night. And if you throw in a little brains with the face- now you've got a pretty-boy who can quote Shakespeare."
"But how is that a curse for the vampire? It's the girl lured into the graveyard who's dealt the bad hand."
"Exactly." I narrowed my eyes, looking dark and mysterious.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat while I worked hard not to laugh- it was too damn easy! I sent him in a different direction every time- picking a symptom from a psychological disorder and hinting at it.
Thursday, I'm planning a sexual identity crisis- maybe a dream about the guy who washes our PE uniforms in the locker room. It would be perfect, 'Dr. Stevens what does this mean? I'm so confused!'
I needed to think about what act would best follow that one? Hallucinations about an alien abduction? Might be too over the top.
"Are you saying you're dangerous?" He was trying to sound calm, but he wasn't.
He was worried he missed something important- slipped in his diagnosis. In a couple days he'll be feeling sorry for my struggle to come-out-of-the-closet.
"I was disproving your theory. If you're only talking of me specifically, you shouldn't generalize your questions to include the entire population of Seventeen-year-old boys."
I knew exactly which buttons to push- give him little snippets of information or just a half second glance in to my mind and then I slam the door in his face. He was frustrated now. So was I. But who gives a damn if I'm frustrated as long as I behave?
Sometimes I felt guilty for screwing with him so much. But it was the only time I did anything rebellious or acting out of impulse, like I used to. It was like seeing an old friend after a summer apart. But I had no desire to move on to shrink number five.
"Look, Dr. Stevens, I know what you're trying to do, it's the same plan that all three shrinks tried on me in California. I'm not ready for any of that – I don't think I'll ever be ready, so lay-off. I do everything I'm supposed to. I'm the model teen. Any parent would love to have me."
Any parent but my own.
He raised his eyebrows probably guessing what I was thinking – damn shrinks! Just when you think they're complete idiots they go and read your mind.
"Have you talked to your parents lately?"
"They sent a check and a credit card last week."
"Well, that's good they're communicating with you." He frowned like he was disappointed.
Sometimes I wondered if I was the subject for a future bestseller. I could totally see him on Oprah crying and telling the world how he saved me from myself. Maybe he's disappointed because I'm not progressing like I should- probably has a 'ladder of healing' I need to climb for his achievements?
If I'm not healed and perfect in a few months he won't have shit to write about. It was a pointless attempt on his part- obviously he was too much of an idiot to see that. It wasn't my job to tell him.
"Your parents sent me your SAT scores- have you seen them?"
I hadn't seen them but I didn't need to. I shook my head. He glanced down at his notes again.
"You got five perfect scores on the subject tests – German, French, Spanish, Physics, and Biology. How does someone your age speak three languages proficiently enough to get a perfect score?"
I couldn't help smiling, "Because I cheated and you're not allowed to tell anyone- doctor patient confidentiality." He didn't look surprised- he already made this assumption.
"You're right, I'm not at liberty to tell anyone, but they're going to ask you to re-test."
"I'll take the test again. It's a shame I'm so emotionally disturbed now- I'm sure I won't do as well. And I have records from four shrink to prove how fucked up I am."
"How did you cheat and why wouldn't you miss a few questions to keep from getting noticed."
I was amused by his change in tone- he actually sounded like a normal person. He also sounded honestly curious how I pulled off this stunt.
"Money is how I cheated- lots of it and some friends in low places. And maybe I wanted to be noticed? Doesn't everyone want their moment in the spotlight- even in your profession I sure you can re-late? Look at Dr. Phil."
Now I had just become an attention seeking, spoiled brat. Possibly a pathological liar?
"Interesting." He shook his head and wrote it all down in that notebook of ingredients for a bestseller to cure crazy kids- and make millions in the process.
I didn't want to smash his life's work or anything, but he had a long way to go before he was Dr. Phil.
"Can we finish a little early? I've got my first practice for the trivia bowl in twenty minutes." I leaned back and put my hands over my eyes.
"Fine, I'll see you Thursday afternoon."
I nodded and grabbed my bag and key and walked out into the cold November air. I hated cold and Chicago had more cold days than anything else. Honestly the weather here was so fucking unpredictable.
In San Jose, where I spent most of my life, until a few months ago, you get between sixty and eighty degrees almost year round. Today it's twenty-two degrees. Yesterday afternoon it was sixty-five. What the hell!
I sat in my car pulling out my hundredth draft of the letter I may never finish and made yet another attempt.
Dear Hannah,
I know I'm probably the last person you ever want to open a piece of mail from. I'll understand completely if you tear this to shreds the moment you receive it.
"Damn!" I banged my head against the steering wheel a few times. I'd never get it right. I tore up the letter, throwing the pieces on to the floor.
Who was I kidding, I hardly knew this girl and besides it would never be enough.
But I had to try, didn't I? I put the car in gear and headed back to school for trivia bowl practice, AKA – social suicide. It's exactly where I needed to be right now, I didn't deserve anything better.
Click here to read the most recent query.
He's only learned one thing from this experience. One lesson to carry him forward in his desolate life- getting off easy is the worst punishment possible.
He can't sit in silence for longer than a minute. His eyes close and he sees everything again. No one knows about the entire bottle of vodka he drank and tried to wash down with thirty Vicodin.
He was too much of a coward to do it, but everyone knows cowards get off easy. Now he can't go a week without being engulfed in the less than comforting words of a mental health professional.
It won't help. Nothing will help because nothing will change what he did.
"Have you made any progress yet?"
Shrink number four attempted to pull me from another session of mentally writing my memoir- it was just one of many creative methods to make it through the hour sentence.
"Progress?" I played dumb letting the minutes pass without an ounce of effort. My eyes scanned the rows of bookshelves. Countless hours here and I had them all memorized.
Right between 'Healing Post Traumatic Stress' and 'Signs Your Child Is Socially Challenged', he sighed heavily, his wordless way of telling me I was being a pain in the ass. Don't pity him- he's getting a big fat check every hour we spent together- three hundred dollars to be exact.
His eyes zipped to the page of notes in front of him and when he looked up at me again, it was return of the concerned-and-helpful-therapist.
"Your uncle says you've joined the jazz band, and made the team for the school trivia bowl?"
I threw a couple pieces of candy in my mouth and chewed slowly, leaving him in that uncomfortable silence, watching him squirm in his chair. It was so fucking funny- about the only entertainment I got lately.
"Yep, I'm aiming for extreme popularity. Can you tell?" I tossed one of the candies in the air and caught it in my mouth. His face relaxed forming the look I knew all too well – he was trying to get intimate again. Discuss the dark side of Dan- pour out our hearts and souls until we're weeping uncontrollably in each other's arms.
"Dan."
Oh here it comes, the tight-ass-therapist is going to tell me he loves me and I'm not alone. If I'm lucky he'll hold my hand. They're all so predictable.
I almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost- if he wasn't so freakin' annoying. I groaned and rolled my eyes.
"Dan, you've been at your new school for two months now. Haven't you made any friends?"
No, thank God!
"A few," I lied.
He narrowed his eyes at me. He knew I was full of shit. But then why even ask?
"What about girls?"
"You're kidding right?" How could he even bring that up?
He ignored my sarcasm, "You're a smart, good looking guy. There must be someone you've thought about asking out?"
I shook my head in disbelief, "It's a curse I wish I didn't have." I immediately regretted letting the words slip out. Now he looked confused which meant I had to explain myself further.
Nah, I'll just fuck with him a little.
Luckily I knew exactly how much I could screw with his head before I would be sent on to shrink number five and maybe eventually declared insane. Which might be true- who the hell knows?
"When you say things like that, I think you want to talk, but you never do. What did you mean by that – why do you think being smart or good looks are a curse? I don't know any seventeen-year-old boy who would think that."
"I'm just thinking of nearly every vampire book or movie- the sadistic creature is always some super-stud able to lure the beautiful girl into a grave yard late at night. And if you throw in a little brains with the face- now you've got a pretty-boy who can quote Shakespeare."
"But how is that a curse for the vampire? It's the girl lured into the graveyard who's dealt the bad hand."
"Exactly." I narrowed my eyes, looking dark and mysterious.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat while I worked hard not to laugh- it was too damn easy! I sent him in a different direction every time- picking a symptom from a psychological disorder and hinting at it.
Thursday, I'm planning a sexual identity crisis- maybe a dream about the guy who washes our PE uniforms in the locker room. It would be perfect, 'Dr. Stevens what does this mean? I'm so confused!'
I needed to think about what act would best follow that one? Hallucinations about an alien abduction? Might be too over the top.
"Are you saying you're dangerous?" He was trying to sound calm, but he wasn't.
He was worried he missed something important- slipped in his diagnosis. In a couple days he'll be feeling sorry for my struggle to come-out-of-the-closet.
"I was disproving your theory. If you're only talking of me specifically, you shouldn't generalize your questions to include the entire population of Seventeen-year-old boys."
I knew exactly which buttons to push- give him little snippets of information or just a half second glance in to my mind and then I slam the door in his face. He was frustrated now. So was I. But who gives a damn if I'm frustrated as long as I behave?
Sometimes I felt guilty for screwing with him so much. But it was the only time I did anything rebellious or acting out of impulse, like I used to. It was like seeing an old friend after a summer apart. But I had no desire to move on to shrink number five.
"Look, Dr. Stevens, I know what you're trying to do, it's the same plan that all three shrinks tried on me in California. I'm not ready for any of that – I don't think I'll ever be ready, so lay-off. I do everything I'm supposed to. I'm the model teen. Any parent would love to have me."
Any parent but my own.
He raised his eyebrows probably guessing what I was thinking – damn shrinks! Just when you think they're complete idiots they go and read your mind.
"Have you talked to your parents lately?"
"They sent a check and a credit card last week."
"Well, that's good they're communicating with you." He frowned like he was disappointed.
Sometimes I wondered if I was the subject for a future bestseller. I could totally see him on Oprah crying and telling the world how he saved me from myself. Maybe he's disappointed because I'm not progressing like I should- probably has a 'ladder of healing' I need to climb for his achievements?
If I'm not healed and perfect in a few months he won't have shit to write about. It was a pointless attempt on his part- obviously he was too much of an idiot to see that. It wasn't my job to tell him.
"Your parents sent me your SAT scores- have you seen them?"
I hadn't seen them but I didn't need to. I shook my head. He glanced down at his notes again.
"You got five perfect scores on the subject tests – German, French, Spanish, Physics, and Biology. How does someone your age speak three languages proficiently enough to get a perfect score?"
I couldn't help smiling, "Because I cheated and you're not allowed to tell anyone- doctor patient confidentiality." He didn't look surprised- he already made this assumption.
"You're right, I'm not at liberty to tell anyone, but they're going to ask you to re-test."
"I'll take the test again. It's a shame I'm so emotionally disturbed now- I'm sure I won't do as well. And I have records from four shrink to prove how fucked up I am."
"How did you cheat and why wouldn't you miss a few questions to keep from getting noticed."
I was amused by his change in tone- he actually sounded like a normal person. He also sounded honestly curious how I pulled off this stunt.
"Money is how I cheated- lots of it and some friends in low places. And maybe I wanted to be noticed? Doesn't everyone want their moment in the spotlight- even in your profession I sure you can re-late? Look at Dr. Phil."
Now I had just become an attention seeking, spoiled brat. Possibly a pathological liar?
"Interesting." He shook his head and wrote it all down in that notebook of ingredients for a bestseller to cure crazy kids- and make millions in the process.
I didn't want to smash his life's work or anything, but he had a long way to go before he was Dr. Phil.
"Can we finish a little early? I've got my first practice for the trivia bowl in twenty minutes." I leaned back and put my hands over my eyes.
"Fine, I'll see you Thursday afternoon."
I nodded and grabbed my bag and key and walked out into the cold November air. I hated cold and Chicago had more cold days than anything else. Honestly the weather here was so fucking unpredictable.
In San Jose, where I spent most of my life, until a few months ago, you get between sixty and eighty degrees almost year round. Today it's twenty-two degrees. Yesterday afternoon it was sixty-five. What the hell!
I sat in my car pulling out my hundredth draft of the letter I may never finish and made yet another attempt.
Dear Hannah,
I know I'm probably the last person you ever want to open a piece of mail from. I'll understand completely if you tear this to shreds the moment you receive it.
"Damn!" I banged my head against the steering wheel a few times. I'd never get it right. I tore up the letter, throwing the pieces on to the floor.
Who was I kidding, I hardly knew this girl and besides it would never be enough.
But I had to try, didn't I? I put the car in gear and headed back to school for trivia bowl practice, AKA – social suicide. It's exactly where I needed to be right now, I didn't deserve anything better.
Feb 7, 2010
Sample Pages- AM I WORTH IT?
Click here to read the first sample page submission.
Click here to read the second sample page submission.
Click here to read the most recent query.
*** Just a side note - its been a few months since I posted a revision of this story because I got really frustrated trying to revise what already existed. Finally I decided to tone down the MC and give him a little more mystery in the first chapter. I still don't know if its the right place to start but at least I'm no longer stuck.
I attempted suicide exactly once a day. Twice would be excessive. It would lose its value. I was starting to think it already had and I was starting to like it here.
Enjoying a blistering cold November in Chicago after spending my entire seventeen years in California was not part of my plan. I should hate my life right now, but I didn’t.
And it was so wrong for me to be happy.
I made my usual climb up the rocky wall. My hands numb from the cold wind, but the feeling was exhilarating. I couldn’t deny that. San Jose had such mild weather compared to this. The way the bitter cold steals your breathe, stings the tips of your fingers and toe. It was fascinating.
When I reached the top of the mound of giant rocks, I looked out at Lake Michigan spread before my eyes. It wasn’t California, but damn, it was beautiful. Even with the bite of a cold winter.
I closed my eyes and I was there again, with her. The girl I was sentenced to spend a lifetime with.
“Every weekend it’s the same fucking thing, get drunk and party, maybe hook up with some random girl. Don’t you ever get tired of it?” I glanced over at my friend, he wasn’t even listening. He was watching a group of girls dancing.
“Hey Dan, someone’s checking you out,” Trenton sang.
He handed me another shot glass of whiskey and pointed at a short girl with dark hair across the room.
“What’s her name, Hailey or something?”I asked.
Trenton laughed and shook his head.”How many shots have you had? You never forget anyone’s name.”
“Six shots . . .Hannah,” I remembered.
He moved beside me leaning against the counter. “What do you say? I don’t think you’d have any trouble getting in that girls’ pants. She totally wants you.”
I laughed and my head spun even more. “You’re such an ass, Trent. If I were a chick there would be a warning label tattooed across your forehead, I’d make sure of that.”
“We can’t all be as God damn charming as you,” he said.
I rested my head in my hands massaging my temples, wishing I hadn’t drank so much. Exactly thirty seconds later, I got a whiff of perfume.
“Hannah Fuentes,” I said, without lifting my head.
“Dan Anderson,” she answered, giggling.
One strike against her already. Giggling girls were a little bit of a turn off for me, or maybe they just seemed fake, rehearsed.
“So you remember me?” she asked.
I lifted my head meeting her brown eyes. “Yes, we had Biology Freshman year. You sat in the third table on the window side of the room next to Byron Silverman.”
Her face lit up with a look of excitement- possibilities.
I cursed myself silently. Now she was going to think I spent the past two years dreaming about watching her bend over to pull a pencil out of her bag or something.
“See what I mean? God damn charming,” Trent muttered, as he walked away.
“You want to dance?” she asked.
Damn! Why didn’t I go home early like a good little Senator’s son? “Okay.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the middle of the giant living room with the rest of the drunken upper classman. The music was fast and loud, the beat, the lights, my spinning head, none of it allowed me to think clearly and I knew this wouldn’t end well.
Then she was kissing me, her tongue dancing around in my mouth. It wasn’t a bad kiss, but it wasn’t love.
And it should be.
The vibration coming from my pocket shook me out of this morning ritual. My pounding heart slowed just a little before I flipped open the phone.
“Hi Steve.”
“Dan, where are you? I got up at five thirty and you were gone. Did you go out last night?” he asked, putting on his concerned uncle hat.
“Do I ever go out?”
“No . . .well anyway, I have a favor to ask.”
I groaned more out of habit than real distress.
“It’ll get you out of first period,” he taunted.
“Alright.”
I sighed and start to climb down.
Not today. I was still a fucking coward. Again.
***
I walked in to the audio visual room a few minutes late. A blond haired woman stood in front of the T.V. with a notebook and a pen. She was the only one in the room.
“Are you Christian?” I asked.
She continued to stare at the T.V. “No, I’m atheist. My parents are Catholic.”
I laughed. “Okay, and you don’t have a French accent either.”
“Nope sorry, but I could give it a shot.”
I walked over and stood beside her, looking at the T.V.
“Damn, I thought we had it locked up.” She shook her head at the giant robot still intact and gloating after demolishing the other one in the ring.
I examined the screen a little more closely. “What materials are you using on the outside?”
She didn’t get to answer because a girl came skidding in the room, flustered and pink in the face. “Are you Christian?”
The woman next to me laughed. “This is still the audio visual room, isn’t it?”
The frantic girl put her hands in her face and moaned. “Oh God! He’s probably wandering around the school without a clue where to go.”
“You must be Claire Ramsey. The girl who’s battery died,” I said.
She looked up at me and I found myself staring a little too long at her green eyes. The genetic improbability of green eyes was so fascinating. Plus, she was gorgeous and something about her was different . . . honest maybe.
A virgin. She had to be a virgin.
“How did you know my name?” she asked.
“I was supposed to be your replacement, but if you’re here then my work is done.” I started to walk toward the door and she grabbed my arm.
"Wait, I’m not sure I can do this?” She bit her lower lip nervously.
“Do what?” I asked smiling because it wasn’t surgery or anything life or death.
“Translate.” She shook her head. “What if he uses slang or something not in my third year text book?”
The honest concern that filled her voice was so endearing. “Okay, I’ll stick around.”
This is bad Dan, resist the guilty pleasure. You’re already living with a girl. When I looked at Claire’s face again, I knew I couldn’t be an ass and leave her hanging, but I wouldn’t get personal either. Ever again. I committed myself for life to someone else. It was marriage in the worst sense.
Click here to read the second sample page submission.
Click here to read the most recent query.
*** Just a side note - its been a few months since I posted a revision of this story because I got really frustrated trying to revise what already existed. Finally I decided to tone down the MC and give him a little more mystery in the first chapter. I still don't know if its the right place to start but at least I'm no longer stuck.
I attempted suicide exactly once a day. Twice would be excessive. It would lose its value. I was starting to think it already had and I was starting to like it here.
Enjoying a blistering cold November in Chicago after spending my entire seventeen years in California was not part of my plan. I should hate my life right now, but I didn’t.
And it was so wrong for me to be happy.
I made my usual climb up the rocky wall. My hands numb from the cold wind, but the feeling was exhilarating. I couldn’t deny that. San Jose had such mild weather compared to this. The way the bitter cold steals your breathe, stings the tips of your fingers and toe. It was fascinating.
When I reached the top of the mound of giant rocks, I looked out at Lake Michigan spread before my eyes. It wasn’t California, but damn, it was beautiful. Even with the bite of a cold winter.
I closed my eyes and I was there again, with her. The girl I was sentenced to spend a lifetime with.
“Every weekend it’s the same fucking thing, get drunk and party, maybe hook up with some random girl. Don’t you ever get tired of it?” I glanced over at my friend, he wasn’t even listening. He was watching a group of girls dancing.
“Hey Dan, someone’s checking you out,” Trenton sang.
He handed me another shot glass of whiskey and pointed at a short girl with dark hair across the room.
“What’s her name, Hailey or something?”I asked.
Trenton laughed and shook his head.”How many shots have you had? You never forget anyone’s name.”
“Six shots . . .Hannah,” I remembered.
He moved beside me leaning against the counter. “What do you say? I don’t think you’d have any trouble getting in that girls’ pants. She totally wants you.”
I laughed and my head spun even more. “You’re such an ass, Trent. If I were a chick there would be a warning label tattooed across your forehead, I’d make sure of that.”
“We can’t all be as God damn charming as you,” he said.
I rested my head in my hands massaging my temples, wishing I hadn’t drank so much. Exactly thirty seconds later, I got a whiff of perfume.
“Hannah Fuentes,” I said, without lifting my head.
“Dan Anderson,” she answered, giggling.
One strike against her already. Giggling girls were a little bit of a turn off for me, or maybe they just seemed fake, rehearsed.
“So you remember me?” she asked.
I lifted my head meeting her brown eyes. “Yes, we had Biology Freshman year. You sat in the third table on the window side of the room next to Byron Silverman.”
Her face lit up with a look of excitement- possibilities.
I cursed myself silently. Now she was going to think I spent the past two years dreaming about watching her bend over to pull a pencil out of her bag or something.
“See what I mean? God damn charming,” Trent muttered, as he walked away.
“You want to dance?” she asked.
Damn! Why didn’t I go home early like a good little Senator’s son? “Okay.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the middle of the giant living room with the rest of the drunken upper classman. The music was fast and loud, the beat, the lights, my spinning head, none of it allowed me to think clearly and I knew this wouldn’t end well.
Then she was kissing me, her tongue dancing around in my mouth. It wasn’t a bad kiss, but it wasn’t love.
And it should be.
The vibration coming from my pocket shook me out of this morning ritual. My pounding heart slowed just a little before I flipped open the phone.
“Hi Steve.”
“Dan, where are you? I got up at five thirty and you were gone. Did you go out last night?” he asked, putting on his concerned uncle hat.
“Do I ever go out?”
“No . . .well anyway, I have a favor to ask.”
I groaned more out of habit than real distress.
“It’ll get you out of first period,” he taunted.
“Alright.”
I sighed and start to climb down.
Not today. I was still a fucking coward. Again.
***
I walked in to the audio visual room a few minutes late. A blond haired woman stood in front of the T.V. with a notebook and a pen. She was the only one in the room.
“Are you Christian?” I asked.
She continued to stare at the T.V. “No, I’m atheist. My parents are Catholic.”
I laughed. “Okay, and you don’t have a French accent either.”
“Nope sorry, but I could give it a shot.”
I walked over and stood beside her, looking at the T.V.
“Damn, I thought we had it locked up.” She shook her head at the giant robot still intact and gloating after demolishing the other one in the ring.
I examined the screen a little more closely. “What materials are you using on the outside?”
She didn’t get to answer because a girl came skidding in the room, flustered and pink in the face. “Are you Christian?”
The woman next to me laughed. “This is still the audio visual room, isn’t it?”
The frantic girl put her hands in her face and moaned. “Oh God! He’s probably wandering around the school without a clue where to go.”
“You must be Claire Ramsey. The girl who’s battery died,” I said.
She looked up at me and I found myself staring a little too long at her green eyes. The genetic improbability of green eyes was so fascinating. Plus, she was gorgeous and something about her was different . . . honest maybe.
A virgin. She had to be a virgin.
“How did you know my name?” she asked.
“I was supposed to be your replacement, but if you’re here then my work is done.” I started to walk toward the door and she grabbed my arm.
"Wait, I’m not sure I can do this?” She bit her lower lip nervously.
“Do what?” I asked smiling because it wasn’t surgery or anything life or death.
“Translate.” She shook her head. “What if he uses slang or something not in my third year text book?”
The honest concern that filled her voice was so endearing. “Okay, I’ll stick around.”
This is bad Dan, resist the guilty pleasure. You’re already living with a girl. When I looked at Claire’s face again, I knew I couldn’t be an ass and leave her hanging, but I wouldn’t get personal either. Ever again. I committed myself for life to someone else. It was marriage in the worst sense.
Sep 20, 2009
Query - AM I WORTH IT? - young adult
Seventeen-year-old Dan has never been punished for what he did to Hannah last spring while drunk and high at a party. He barely knew Hannah and now her life is ruined and no one will listen to Dan, not the judge or the four shrinks he's seen since that night. It's up to him to create his own miserable existence – to make sure he's punished, but he's too much of a coward to do what he should.
Instead, he leaves behind his comfortable California life, his high profile parents, and every ounce of joy, to move to the North Suburbs of Chicago, before his senior year. Dan has a brilliant mind and a gift for music. He also has a carefully crafted plan to remain in his unhappy existence – number one on his list: commit social suicide by going from cute, popular, Jock to most valuable member of the Trivia bowl Team. Only now, for the first time he isn't hiding his good side, he's finding it.
His plan is failing. He's surrounded with people who care for him, maybe even love him. And he can't help thinking about Claire – beautiful, kind, funny and looking at him in a way he doesn't deserve. When she leans in to kiss him, he sees Hannah's face, terrified and streaked with tears and hears her voice screaming for him to stop, and he can't breathe. His greatest fear is he'll hurt someone else, and he's not getting close enough to find out.
Dan's slowly walking a plank and buying time in purgatory until the decision is made - either forgive himself or drown. He's knows what he deserves, but everything is off-balance now. He may have someone amazing like Claire trying to pull him from his miserable life sentence, but he can't stop asking, "Am I worth it?"
AM I WORTH IT is a 60,000 word young adult novel telling the story of a boy's ability to emerge from a sea of guilt and come out a better man.
Instead, he leaves behind his comfortable California life, his high profile parents, and every ounce of joy, to move to the North Suburbs of Chicago, before his senior year. Dan has a brilliant mind and a gift for music. He also has a carefully crafted plan to remain in his unhappy existence – number one on his list: commit social suicide by going from cute, popular, Jock to most valuable member of the Trivia bowl Team. Only now, for the first time he isn't hiding his good side, he's finding it.
His plan is failing. He's surrounded with people who care for him, maybe even love him. And he can't help thinking about Claire – beautiful, kind, funny and looking at him in a way he doesn't deserve. When she leans in to kiss him, he sees Hannah's face, terrified and streaked with tears and hears her voice screaming for him to stop, and he can't breathe. His greatest fear is he'll hurt someone else, and he's not getting close enough to find out.
Dan's slowly walking a plank and buying time in purgatory until the decision is made - either forgive himself or drown. He's knows what he deserves, but everything is off-balance now. He may have someone amazing like Claire trying to pull him from his miserable life sentence, but he can't stop asking, "Am I worth it?"
AM I WORTH IT is a 60,000 word young adult novel telling the story of a boy's ability to emerge from a sea of guilt and come out a better man.
Oct 19, 2009
IRON THIRST - SAMPLE PAGES (REVISED)
Click here for a search string on IRON THIRST. There are queries and sample pages available.
I redid the beginning, and added a chapter before. It is told from another POV, someone that is aware of the danger that lurks. Let me know what you guys think. Especially of the POV switch in chapter 2. The rest of the story is told in Felicity's POV. Thanks-
Chapter 1
*/ /*
*/Adam Bristow/*
It is merely the beginning of the night when Gabriel decides upon his first victim. He locks his sights on her the moment she steps into the bar. The curvaceous blonde lass will be in is bed in under an hour, and shortly after her blood will be in his veins. She doesn't stand a chance.
Thursday night at DragonCon is when most of the guests check into their hotel and start the weekend with a drink in hand. My hand is empty. The first night of Con is when I begin to patrol, as the out-of-towners descend upon our town. I'm not worried about the geeks, the costumed
fans, or the party animals. My concern is very specific--those who are removing their disguises. Vamps get this weekend to be themselves, but there are rules, and this bloodsucker is dangerously close to breaking the first one--aggravating me.
His fangs are protruding, turned on by the blue-eyed soon-to-be donor. She doesn't blink as she gravitates towards him. What irks me is that she is an unwilling donor. There will be plenty of those, but I ain't going to sit on my arse and watch. She may be walking to him on her own
two feet, but the brain in her head currently belongs to him.
What a lovely time to buy my dear old pal a drink?
"Gabriel," I call out as I step in front of her path, breaking their eye contact and the hold he has over her. Bastard snarls at me. "Run along, love," I tell the blonde.
She blinks a few times with that expression of confusion. Lost at why she is standing here, she lets out a heavy sigh and scurries along looking for her friends.
When I look back, Gabriel has painted a smile on his face. He leans in close to me so others can't hear. "Bristow, if you continue to run off my dinner then I will be forced to believe that you are volunteering. Although you're not my taste, your blood is much too bitter."
No one likes a clever vampire. I pull the unlit pipe from my lips, and raise an eyebrow at him. "You are not threatening me now, are ya?"
His smile vanishes. "I was not harming anyone, nor am I breaking any of your precious rules."
"That's debatable, and I am not really up to the debate. So, just behave yourself and you'll live, well exist, to see your two hundredth birthday."
"Ahh, you flatter me. I am not nearly that old."
"But I am," adds a smooth Arabian voice from behind me.
I am a rather smart bloke. I wouldn't still be alive if I wasn't. So allowing a thousand year old vamp to sneak up on me is just piss poor form. I turn to see the dark-skinned vampire, fangs extended, staring back at me. I haven't seen Zamir in nearly ten years, and if I am being
honest, I ain't thrilled at seeing him now.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, rubbing my palm over the prickly stubble that is my hair. /More importantly, when are you leaving?/
I could take out Gabriel and three fledglings all by myself. But this bloody bastard shooting holes through my skin, I ain't so sure of. I avert my eyes to a spot above his slick black hair. Looking at the floor would give the appearance of weakness, and I ain't weak and even less stupid.
"Ah, my dearest Bristow, you do not seem happy to see me. No matter. Many of my progenies look expectantly upon this weekend, and I find myself wondering what all the chatter is about. Thought I would come and see for myself."
Rubbish, I'm sure. "I'm on my early rounds making sure everyone keeps it copasetic. We want all the humans' hearts beating and the secret safe. We got rules in this area. So, keep it peaceful."
As I turn to walk away, Zamir says, "We are aware of your so-called rules. Maybe you should run along and check the more recent additions to our world. The ones that actually care."
I hate the way his words crawl over my skin. I glance at Gabriel's smug face, grinning like he's getting away with something. I'd love nothing more than to knock him arse over elbow, but starting a fight on the first night over something as silly as pride would not be my best move.
Not without back up. Currently, the rest of my team is doing the exact same thing all through the other three hotels.
If the humans knew what was swarming DragonCon, they might have just stayed home behind locked doors. Not that a flimsy door would keep the monsters out.
Chapter 2
*/Felicity Johnson/*
Who knew two tiny fangs could be so hard to find? I bought the pair nearly five months ago, and I specifically remember thinking to put them somewhere that I could find them. My room is a complete and utter disaster. I have been through every drawer, emptying the contents onto
my bed in search for the last thing needed to complete my costume. I can't be a vampire without fangs.
I plop down on the bed, and close my eyes. /Where did I put them?/
"Bathroom, second drawer, along with the red contacts," I say aloud to the ceiling.
I leap from the bed. Christian will be here any minute, and I want him to see the complete look. I slide open the drawer, and there they sit. I can't believe I forgot the contacts too. That set me back nearly a hundred bucks.
I insert the teeth, and begin trying to attach the colored plastic to my eyeballs. I should have waited on the eye makeup. I run back to my closet to grab shoes, zipping up the knee-high leather boots.
I stop by the mirror for one last look. The struggle was well worth it. My eyes glow a bright crimson with black around the edges, as if the fire inside has burnt the curved periphery. I bounce my palm off the spikes of my black pixie wig. The menacing grin is complete with two
sharp fangs over my scarlet red lips that look poised to wreak havoc amongst the unsuspecting city of Atlanta, Georgia.
Well, the town won't be that unsuspecting considering the rest of the people at DragonCon will also be dressed in costumes ranging from Star Trek to Night of the Living Dead.
As I darken the shadows under my eyes to give myself the true undead look, the doorbell rings. I slide down the banister to get to the door. Safer than taking the stairs in these boots.
I fling the door open, and there he stands. We both let out a scream and begin cackling at each other. Christian is a yicky-ucky zombie, complete with a tattered, stained, once-white shirt, suspenders, and pants that look as if they had been buried. His normally perfect hair is dirty and
a total mess. His skin has been painted a weird grayish green, and his mouth is bloodstained. No one would recognize this scary critter as my clean-cut best buddy.
"Felicity Johnson, you look a-freakin-mazing. I would have never thought that you, of all people, could pull this off."
I should be offended, but he is quite right. Everyday "me" is not sexy, not scary, and definitely not a vampire.
"Well, hello Pot, I must be the kettle," I say with a laugh while opening the door wide. "Hey, listen to this," I say, letting out my version of a snarl. "I've been practicing."
"Um, keep practicing. You sound like a drowning kitten."
I stick out my pouty lip. I at least sound like an angry kitten, not a completely helpless one.
"Hey, Fee… I…I…," Christian stutters. He looks down and starts to fiddle with his shirt sleeves, pulling them longer. "I may have kinda invited Mike."
"Why, in the name of everything holy, would you do that?" I ask as I look down, fretting over the red tank top with three holes sliced across the front and the black leather miniskirt. It's one thing to look this way in front of Christian and tens of thousands of random strangers, but
Mike will never let me hear the end of it.
"He swears that he will be good, and he is excited about meeting some of the celebrities, and /he/ is even dressing up."
"Is he meeting us there?"
Christian walks over to the couch and plops down. He tugs again on the sleeves. They can't stretch any further. "No, he is meeting us here."
"Are you telling me that you gave Mr. Grabass my address? What were you thinking?"
He stops jerking on his clothes, and looks up at me. "You are totally over-reacting. Just calm down. He's not that bad."
My eyes roll like dice. Mike Fletcher is Christian's best guy friend who is nothing like him. More like his alter-ego. Where Christian is sweet, understanding, and everything a girl looks for in a best friend, Mike is a chauvinistic, egocentric, pig-headed jerk. They were fraternity brothers at UGA, home of the Bulldogs, and I've been stuck with him ever since. Lucky me.
The door bell rings, and I jump ten feet in the air. Just wonderful. I don't have time to tone down the outfit. I am stuck dressed like this with only a piece of wood separating me from my nemesis. I take a deep breath, and then open the door.
"Hey sexy lady, where's Felicity?" Mike says with a wink. I start to walk away, when he adds, "What's eating her? Wish it was…" I turn on my heels, and playfully punch him in the stomach before he can finish that thought.
"Dude, you said you would behave," Christian states.
"Man, that's before I knew she was going as Sexy Fee." He looks at me and tries to turn on the charm, softening his voice and flashing a smile. "Felicity, I am just kidding. I think it's cool you got all dressed up. You look really nice and very realistic. Can I lick your fangs?"
He almost had me believing that for a minute.
I redid the beginning, and added a chapter before. It is told from another POV, someone that is aware of the danger that lurks. Let me know what you guys think. Especially of the POV switch in chapter 2. The rest of the story is told in Felicity's POV. Thanks-
Chapter 1
*/ /*
*/Adam Bristow/*
It is merely the beginning of the night when Gabriel decides upon his first victim. He locks his sights on her the moment she steps into the bar. The curvaceous blonde lass will be in is bed in under an hour, and shortly after her blood will be in his veins. She doesn't stand a chance.
Thursday night at DragonCon is when most of the guests check into their hotel and start the weekend with a drink in hand. My hand is empty. The first night of Con is when I begin to patrol, as the out-of-towners descend upon our town. I'm not worried about the geeks, the costumed
fans, or the party animals. My concern is very specific--those who are removing their disguises. Vamps get this weekend to be themselves, but there are rules, and this bloodsucker is dangerously close to breaking the first one--aggravating me.
His fangs are protruding, turned on by the blue-eyed soon-to-be donor. She doesn't blink as she gravitates towards him. What irks me is that she is an unwilling donor. There will be plenty of those, but I ain't going to sit on my arse and watch. She may be walking to him on her own
two feet, but the brain in her head currently belongs to him.
What a lovely time to buy my dear old pal a drink?
"Gabriel," I call out as I step in front of her path, breaking their eye contact and the hold he has over her. Bastard snarls at me. "Run along, love," I tell the blonde.
She blinks a few times with that expression of confusion. Lost at why she is standing here, she lets out a heavy sigh and scurries along looking for her friends.
When I look back, Gabriel has painted a smile on his face. He leans in close to me so others can't hear. "Bristow, if you continue to run off my dinner then I will be forced to believe that you are volunteering. Although you're not my taste, your blood is much too bitter."
No one likes a clever vampire. I pull the unlit pipe from my lips, and raise an eyebrow at him. "You are not threatening me now, are ya?"
His smile vanishes. "I was not harming anyone, nor am I breaking any of your precious rules."
"That's debatable, and I am not really up to the debate. So, just behave yourself and you'll live, well exist, to see your two hundredth birthday."
"Ahh, you flatter me. I am not nearly that old."
"But I am," adds a smooth Arabian voice from behind me.
I am a rather smart bloke. I wouldn't still be alive if I wasn't. So allowing a thousand year old vamp to sneak up on me is just piss poor form. I turn to see the dark-skinned vampire, fangs extended, staring back at me. I haven't seen Zamir in nearly ten years, and if I am being
honest, I ain't thrilled at seeing him now.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, rubbing my palm over the prickly stubble that is my hair. /More importantly, when are you leaving?/
I could take out Gabriel and three fledglings all by myself. But this bloody bastard shooting holes through my skin, I ain't so sure of. I avert my eyes to a spot above his slick black hair. Looking at the floor would give the appearance of weakness, and I ain't weak and even less stupid.
"Ah, my dearest Bristow, you do not seem happy to see me. No matter. Many of my progenies look expectantly upon this weekend, and I find myself wondering what all the chatter is about. Thought I would come and see for myself."
Rubbish, I'm sure. "I'm on my early rounds making sure everyone keeps it copasetic. We want all the humans' hearts beating and the secret safe. We got rules in this area. So, keep it peaceful."
As I turn to walk away, Zamir says, "We are aware of your so-called rules. Maybe you should run along and check the more recent additions to our world. The ones that actually care."
I hate the way his words crawl over my skin. I glance at Gabriel's smug face, grinning like he's getting away with something. I'd love nothing more than to knock him arse over elbow, but starting a fight on the first night over something as silly as pride would not be my best move.
Not without back up. Currently, the rest of my team is doing the exact same thing all through the other three hotels.
If the humans knew what was swarming DragonCon, they might have just stayed home behind locked doors. Not that a flimsy door would keep the monsters out.
Chapter 2
*/Felicity Johnson/*
Who knew two tiny fangs could be so hard to find? I bought the pair nearly five months ago, and I specifically remember thinking to put them somewhere that I could find them. My room is a complete and utter disaster. I have been through every drawer, emptying the contents onto
my bed in search for the last thing needed to complete my costume. I can't be a vampire without fangs.
I plop down on the bed, and close my eyes. /Where did I put them?/
"Bathroom, second drawer, along with the red contacts," I say aloud to the ceiling.
I leap from the bed. Christian will be here any minute, and I want him to see the complete look. I slide open the drawer, and there they sit. I can't believe I forgot the contacts too. That set me back nearly a hundred bucks.
I insert the teeth, and begin trying to attach the colored plastic to my eyeballs. I should have waited on the eye makeup. I run back to my closet to grab shoes, zipping up the knee-high leather boots.
I stop by the mirror for one last look. The struggle was well worth it. My eyes glow a bright crimson with black around the edges, as if the fire inside has burnt the curved periphery. I bounce my palm off the spikes of my black pixie wig. The menacing grin is complete with two
sharp fangs over my scarlet red lips that look poised to wreak havoc amongst the unsuspecting city of Atlanta, Georgia.
Well, the town won't be that unsuspecting considering the rest of the people at DragonCon will also be dressed in costumes ranging from Star Trek to Night of the Living Dead.
As I darken the shadows under my eyes to give myself the true undead look, the doorbell rings. I slide down the banister to get to the door. Safer than taking the stairs in these boots.
I fling the door open, and there he stands. We both let out a scream and begin cackling at each other. Christian is a yicky-ucky zombie, complete with a tattered, stained, once-white shirt, suspenders, and pants that look as if they had been buried. His normally perfect hair is dirty and
a total mess. His skin has been painted a weird grayish green, and his mouth is bloodstained. No one would recognize this scary critter as my clean-cut best buddy.
"Felicity Johnson, you look a-freakin-mazing. I would have never thought that you, of all people, could pull this off."
I should be offended, but he is quite right. Everyday "me" is not sexy, not scary, and definitely not a vampire.
"Well, hello Pot, I must be the kettle," I say with a laugh while opening the door wide. "Hey, listen to this," I say, letting out my version of a snarl. "I've been practicing."
"Um, keep practicing. You sound like a drowning kitten."
I stick out my pouty lip. I at least sound like an angry kitten, not a completely helpless one.
"Hey, Fee… I…I…," Christian stutters. He looks down and starts to fiddle with his shirt sleeves, pulling them longer. "I may have kinda invited Mike."
"Why, in the name of everything holy, would you do that?" I ask as I look down, fretting over the red tank top with three holes sliced across the front and the black leather miniskirt. It's one thing to look this way in front of Christian and tens of thousands of random strangers, but
Mike will never let me hear the end of it.
"He swears that he will be good, and he is excited about meeting some of the celebrities, and /he/ is even dressing up."
"Is he meeting us there?"
Christian walks over to the couch and plops down. He tugs again on the sleeves. They can't stretch any further. "No, he is meeting us here."
"Are you telling me that you gave Mr. Grabass my address? What were you thinking?"
He stops jerking on his clothes, and looks up at me. "You are totally over-reacting. Just calm down. He's not that bad."
My eyes roll like dice. Mike Fletcher is Christian's best guy friend who is nothing like him. More like his alter-ego. Where Christian is sweet, understanding, and everything a girl looks for in a best friend, Mike is a chauvinistic, egocentric, pig-headed jerk. They were fraternity brothers at UGA, home of the Bulldogs, and I've been stuck with him ever since. Lucky me.
The door bell rings, and I jump ten feet in the air. Just wonderful. I don't have time to tone down the outfit. I am stuck dressed like this with only a piece of wood separating me from my nemesis. I take a deep breath, and then open the door.
"Hey sexy lady, where's Felicity?" Mike says with a wink. I start to walk away, when he adds, "What's eating her? Wish it was…" I turn on my heels, and playfully punch him in the stomach before he can finish that thought.
"Dude, you said you would behave," Christian states.
"Man, that's before I knew she was going as Sexy Fee." He looks at me and tries to turn on the charm, softening his voice and flashing a smile. "Felicity, I am just kidding. I think it's cool you got all dressed up. You look really nice and very realistic. Can I lick your fangs?"
He almost had me believing that for a minute.
May 31, 2010
Query Me This... The Spy I Loved
Click here for the discussion thread.
Dear Mr. Agent,
I am seeking representation for my 75,000 word alternate history novel, The Spy I Loved. Set in the days just before World War II, it follows a lowly MI6 secretary who learns that her country is being lured into war with America in order to weaken it before the coming German invasion.
Playing Girl Friday to Britain's most clandestine secret agent isn't exactly the glamorous life Dilys Griffin hoped for. Most days, she spends more time locating cuff links than saving the world. But Dilys wouldn't trade her job for anything. After all, she's serving queen and country, as any Briton should. And there are those times when she's almost sure that Agent Maxwell Lloyd is looking at her with more than professional interest.
When Max disappears while on assignment, Dilys defies MI6 protocol to go after him. She follows him to India, where she learns he was killed. Heartbroken, Dilys recovers the last dead drop Max made before his death: photographs showing America mounting an invasion force to wrest India from the British Empire.
Pursued throughout the back alleys of Bangalore, Dilys will have to use every trick she ever learned from Max to complete his last mission and bring the photographs to light. But everything is not what it appears to be. The photographs are doctored. The invasion is a lie. And the spy Dilys loves is not only not dead--he's not even British!
The Spy I Loved could function as a standalone novel, or could anchor a series in which Dilys serves her government as a spy throughout the events of World War II. Previously I was a story writer for the popular online game City of Heroes, known for its intricate plot lines. I studied writing at Florida State University.
Thank you for your consideration,
Me
"Good evening, Mr. Lloyd. It is indeed an honor to finally make your acquaintance."
Dilys smiled and nodded to herself. The sound from Max's bug was coming in just fine. She could make out the nasal tones of the French ambassador's voice almost as clearly as if she was in the next room.
She wasn't, of course. While the ambassador and his entourage were wined and dined at the Everett Club with the better part of London's social elite, Dilys was halfway across town at MI6 headquarters, hunched over a notepad with a pair of ten pound headphones flattening her hair. It was about ten times more exciting than her usual office routine, which generally involved filing, dictation, and brewing about six hundred pots of tea. Still, she longed to be at the ball herself, wearing a blue satin dress, or maybe even a red one. Sipping champagne, and trading ever-so-careful repartee with dangerous men.
"The pleasure is all mine, ambassador." That was Max. Dilys found her smile deepening at the sound of his voice. Her pencil scratched lightly over the notepad in front of her. She had long ago perfected the art of dictation, and since the Akron Affair, the Director had decided to put her talents to good use. Akron wasn't the first time someone had tried to kill Max before he made it back to MI6 with his findings, but it was the first time someone had nearly succeeded. And so the bug had been developed. Concealed in Max's clothing, it transmitted a radio signal powerful enough for Dilys to pick up at MI6. Even if Max were killed in the line of duty, nothing that was said would be lost.
She had it down to a science now. Three pencils: the second in case the first one broke, and the third in case the second one wound up worn to a nub by the end of the evening. A comfortable chair. And absolutely no tea. She couldn't afford to miss a bit of vital intelligence because she had to pop off to the loo.
"Quelle est la durée de votre séjour?" Max asked. He had switched to French, a pretty compliment to the ambassador. Dilys had never liked French, with its over reliance on Q's and X's. But at least she could understand it.
"Duex semaines."
Dilys's pencil paused in mid-scribble. Did she hear that right? She read over the words she had just written. Duex semaines. Suddenly her heart was racing. Surely Max had noticed?
No, he hadn't. Max was going on pleasantly, as thought the French ambassador hadn't just revealed that he wasn't French at all.
Dilys leapt to her feet. The headphone cord snapped taught, and she jerked back into her seat. The men's small talk continued to rattle on in her ears, but Dilys was no longer transcribing. Her mind was churning over a single, burning question: how could she warn Max?
The radio signal on the bug was strictly one way. She could telephone the Everett Club, but she knew the staff would be running their feet off tonight; there was no guarantee someone would deliver her message. There was no help for it. She would have to go warn Max herself.
She looked down at her attire: a brown tweed skirt, a simple white blouse, and sensible shoes. There was no way she was getting into the Everett Club in sensible shoes.
Dilys took a deep breath and removed the headphones from her ears. There was only one place she knew where she could get all kitted out in less than an hour. She hated to have to go there. But it was a matter of life and death.
Exactly seven minutes later, Dilys stood on the stoop of her sister's house, ringing the bell. She had a stitch in her side from running most of the way.
A face Dilys didn't recognize swept aside the curtain covering the window beside the door. The face was male, and mustached, and sleepy-looking. It squinted at her.
"Who're you?" said the man inside her sister's house.
"I'm Mabel's sister."
The man's brows drew together. "Who's Mabel?"
At that moment her sister's face appeared behind the man. Mabel was wearing a red robe that had some sort of Oriental stitching on it in gold. She peered out over the man's shoulder, and when she saw Dilys her eyes lit up. "I'm Mabel, darling. Be a love and let my sister in?"
The man did as she asked, and Dilys discovered that he was wearing even fewer clothes than Mabel. Just a towel, fastened around his waist (and none too securely, it seemed). Dilys quickly averted her eyes, a trick that was difficult to pull off when the person in front of you seemed keen on introducing himself.
"Nice to meet you," he said. "Name's Bill Atherton. Any sister of Belle's is a friend of mine."
"Pleasure," said Dilys, staring hard at the ceiling.
The merry notes of her sister's laughter filled the room. "Come on inside, Dilly. Don't just stand there gaping at my ceiling as though the face of God was staring down at you. Bill, go get some clothes on. Can't you see you make my sister nervous?"
Dilys felt her cheeks redden at these words, but she was nonetheless grateful when Bill withdrew to Mabel's bedroom.
Mabel opened up her arms for a hug. "I'm going by Belle now. Much more fashionable, don't you think?" Mabel squeezed her hard and then went to the sidebar and began fixing herself a drink. "Silly Dilly, you've always got just the worst sense of timing! It's been far too long. Tell me, what are you doing here?"
Even in a threadbare robe, with her hair all a tangle and her calloused feet bare, Mabel seemed to pull all the light in the room to herself. Dilys felt shabby just standing near her, even though she had spent a good ten dollars on her skirt. She cleared her throat. "I need a dress," she said.
Mabel's eyes lit up. "Oh? Going out with someone special, are we?"
"Sort of," said Dilys. She pushed her hair back over her ears. "Actually, Mabel, I need it right away. It's a bit of an emergency."
Mabel took a sip from her glass and regarded Dilys thoughtfully over the rim. "An emergency? All right, if you say so. But this is beginning to sound a lot less like a hot date."
Mabel opened the door to her bedroom. "Out, Bill. Make us some omlettes. There's everything you need in the kitchen."
Bill, thankfully fully clad this time, obeyed without complaint. Mabel flung open her closet. "Now then, Dilly. What sort of dress did you have in mind?"
Dilys took in a breath. "The red satin," she said.
Mabel's eyebrows went up. "Oh? That one? Maybe I was wrong. This is a hot date after all." She pulled the dress off the rod. It was a gorgeous thing, sleeveless and scarlet, with rivers of glittering sequins emphasizing it's every curve. Mabel regarded it lovingly for a moment. Then she held it out to Dilys. "We'll have to pad the bust."
Dilys had already thought of that. As quickly as she could, she shucked her work clothes and slithered into the dress.
Then she looked at herself in the mirror.
"Oh." The fabric clung to her body like a well worn glove. Against the bright red, her skin looked as pale and delicate as a fresh laid egg. And her hair--her dull, black, boring hair seemed to have taken on new luster. It curled around her bare shoulders like a living thing.
"You look like a dream, Dilly. As long as you don't forget these." Mabel stuffed a handful of socks into Dilys's bosom. "Or these." She rooted around her closet and came up with a pair of crimson heels.
"Thanks, Mabel." Dilys slipped the shoes onto her feet. They pinched.
"Thank me by going out there and grabbing a man," Mabel said.
Yes, thought Dilys, that's exactly what I intend to do.
She arrived at the Everett Club slightly out of breath and scanned the ballroom for Max. There he was, still chatting amiably with the faux-French ambassador.
Seeing Max before he saw her was a new experience for Dilys. Usually he took her unawares, coming up behind her desk while she was deep in some routine office task and startling her. He liked to see her jump.
But this time she had the advantage. She took a moment to admire him.
It was worth it, she thought. The hard work, and the low pay, and the lack of recognition -- worth it, because she could be of help to him. Any woman would want to do that Only she could.
As though he felt her eyes on him, Max turned his head in her direction. Their eyes met. He scowled.
Click here for the discussion thread.
Dear Mr. Agent,
I am seeking representation for my 75,000 word alternate history novel, The Spy I Loved. Set in the days just before World War II, it follows a lowly MI6 secretary who learns that her country is being lured into war with America in order to weaken it before the coming German invasion.
Playing Girl Friday to Britain's most clandestine secret agent isn't exactly the glamorous life Dilys Griffin hoped for. Most days, she spends more time locating cuff links than saving the world. But Dilys wouldn't trade her job for anything. After all, she's serving queen and country, as any Briton should. And there are those times when she's almost sure that Agent Maxwell Lloyd is looking at her with more than professional interest.
When Max disappears while on assignment, Dilys defies MI6 protocol to go after him. She follows him to India, where she learns he was killed. Heartbroken, Dilys recovers the last dead drop Max made before his death: photographs showing America mounting an invasion force to wrest India from the British Empire.
Pursued throughout the back alleys of Bangalore, Dilys will have to use every trick she ever learned from Max to complete his last mission and bring the photographs to light. But everything is not what it appears to be. The photographs are doctored. The invasion is a lie. And the spy Dilys loves is not only not dead--he's not even British!
The Spy I Loved could function as a standalone novel, or could anchor a series in which Dilys serves her government as a spy throughout the events of World War II. Previously I was a story writer for the popular online game City of Heroes, known for its intricate plot lines. I studied writing at Florida State University.
Thank you for your consideration,
Me
"Good evening, Mr. Lloyd. It is indeed an honor to finally make your acquaintance."
Dilys smiled and nodded to herself. The sound from Max's bug was coming in just fine. She could make out the nasal tones of the French ambassador's voice almost as clearly as if she was in the next room.
She wasn't, of course. While the ambassador and his entourage were wined and dined at the Everett Club with the better part of London's social elite, Dilys was halfway across town at MI6 headquarters, hunched over a notepad with a pair of ten pound headphones flattening her hair. It was about ten times more exciting than her usual office routine, which generally involved filing, dictation, and brewing about six hundred pots of tea. Still, she longed to be at the ball herself, wearing a blue satin dress, or maybe even a red one. Sipping champagne, and trading ever-so-careful repartee with dangerous men.
"The pleasure is all mine, ambassador." That was Max. Dilys found her smile deepening at the sound of his voice. Her pencil scratched lightly over the notepad in front of her. She had long ago perfected the art of dictation, and since the Akron Affair, the Director had decided to put her talents to good use. Akron wasn't the first time someone had tried to kill Max before he made it back to MI6 with his findings, but it was the first time someone had nearly succeeded. And so the bug had been developed. Concealed in Max's clothing, it transmitted a radio signal powerful enough for Dilys to pick up at MI6. Even if Max were killed in the line of duty, nothing that was said would be lost.
She had it down to a science now. Three pencils: the second in case the first one broke, and the third in case the second one wound up worn to a nub by the end of the evening. A comfortable chair. And absolutely no tea. She couldn't afford to miss a bit of vital intelligence because she had to pop off to the loo.
"Quelle est la durée de votre séjour?" Max asked. He had switched to French, a pretty compliment to the ambassador. Dilys had never liked French, with its over reliance on Q's and X's. But at least she could understand it.
"Duex semaines."
Dilys's pencil paused in mid-scribble. Did she hear that right? She read over the words she had just written. Duex semaines. Suddenly her heart was racing. Surely Max had noticed?
No, he hadn't. Max was going on pleasantly, as thought the French ambassador hadn't just revealed that he wasn't French at all.
Dilys leapt to her feet. The headphone cord snapped taught, and she jerked back into her seat. The men's small talk continued to rattle on in her ears, but Dilys was no longer transcribing. Her mind was churning over a single, burning question: how could she warn Max?
The radio signal on the bug was strictly one way. She could telephone the Everett Club, but she knew the staff would be running their feet off tonight; there was no guarantee someone would deliver her message. There was no help for it. She would have to go warn Max herself.
She looked down at her attire: a brown tweed skirt, a simple white blouse, and sensible shoes. There was no way she was getting into the Everett Club in sensible shoes.
Dilys took a deep breath and removed the headphones from her ears. There was only one place she knew where she could get all kitted out in less than an hour. She hated to have to go there. But it was a matter of life and death.
Exactly seven minutes later, Dilys stood on the stoop of her sister's house, ringing the bell. She had a stitch in her side from running most of the way.
A face Dilys didn't recognize swept aside the curtain covering the window beside the door. The face was male, and mustached, and sleepy-looking. It squinted at her.
"Who're you?" said the man inside her sister's house.
"I'm Mabel's sister."
The man's brows drew together. "Who's Mabel?"
At that moment her sister's face appeared behind the man. Mabel was wearing a red robe that had some sort of Oriental stitching on it in gold. She peered out over the man's shoulder, and when she saw Dilys her eyes lit up. "I'm Mabel, darling. Be a love and let my sister in?"
The man did as she asked, and Dilys discovered that he was wearing even fewer clothes than Mabel. Just a towel, fastened around his waist (and none too securely, it seemed). Dilys quickly averted her eyes, a trick that was difficult to pull off when the person in front of you seemed keen on introducing himself.
"Nice to meet you," he said. "Name's Bill Atherton. Any sister of Belle's is a friend of mine."
"Pleasure," said Dilys, staring hard at the ceiling.
The merry notes of her sister's laughter filled the room. "Come on inside, Dilly. Don't just stand there gaping at my ceiling as though the face of God was staring down at you. Bill, go get some clothes on. Can't you see you make my sister nervous?"
Dilys felt her cheeks redden at these words, but she was nonetheless grateful when Bill withdrew to Mabel's bedroom.
Mabel opened up her arms for a hug. "I'm going by Belle now. Much more fashionable, don't you think?" Mabel squeezed her hard and then went to the sidebar and began fixing herself a drink. "Silly Dilly, you've always got just the worst sense of timing! It's been far too long. Tell me, what are you doing here?"
Even in a threadbare robe, with her hair all a tangle and her calloused feet bare, Mabel seemed to pull all the light in the room to herself. Dilys felt shabby just standing near her, even though she had spent a good ten dollars on her skirt. She cleared her throat. "I need a dress," she said.
Mabel's eyes lit up. "Oh? Going out with someone special, are we?"
"Sort of," said Dilys. She pushed her hair back over her ears. "Actually, Mabel, I need it right away. It's a bit of an emergency."
Mabel took a sip from her glass and regarded Dilys thoughtfully over the rim. "An emergency? All right, if you say so. But this is beginning to sound a lot less like a hot date."
Mabel opened the door to her bedroom. "Out, Bill. Make us some omlettes. There's everything you need in the kitchen."
Bill, thankfully fully clad this time, obeyed without complaint. Mabel flung open her closet. "Now then, Dilly. What sort of dress did you have in mind?"
Dilys took in a breath. "The red satin," she said.
Mabel's eyebrows went up. "Oh? That one? Maybe I was wrong. This is a hot date after all." She pulled the dress off the rod. It was a gorgeous thing, sleeveless and scarlet, with rivers of glittering sequins emphasizing it's every curve. Mabel regarded it lovingly for a moment. Then she held it out to Dilys. "We'll have to pad the bust."
Dilys had already thought of that. As quickly as she could, she shucked her work clothes and slithered into the dress.
Then she looked at herself in the mirror.
"Oh." The fabric clung to her body like a well worn glove. Against the bright red, her skin looked as pale and delicate as a fresh laid egg. And her hair--her dull, black, boring hair seemed to have taken on new luster. It curled around her bare shoulders like a living thing.
"You look like a dream, Dilly. As long as you don't forget these." Mabel stuffed a handful of socks into Dilys's bosom. "Or these." She rooted around her closet and came up with a pair of crimson heels.
"Thanks, Mabel." Dilys slipped the shoes onto her feet. They pinched.
"Thank me by going out there and grabbing a man," Mabel said.
Yes, thought Dilys, that's exactly what I intend to do.
She arrived at the Everett Club slightly out of breath and scanned the ballroom for Max. There he was, still chatting amiably with the faux-French ambassador.
Seeing Max before he saw her was a new experience for Dilys. Usually he took her unawares, coming up behind her desk while she was deep in some routine office task and startling her. He liked to see her jump.
But this time she had the advantage. She took a moment to admire him.
It was worth it, she thought. The hard work, and the low pay, and the lack of recognition -- worth it, because she could be of help to him. Any woman would want to do that Only she could.
As though he felt her eyes on him, Max turned his head in her direction. Their eyes met. He scowled.
Click here for the discussion thread.
Sep 29, 2009
Introductions- A Comment Worth Sharing (not a query)
This came through as a comment gj left on a query. I'm re-posting it here because it was really intended for the readership at large and I think there are many good points. - Rick
I'm doing this as a separate comment, because it isn't particularly addressed to this author, but to the world at large:
I've been seeing the "let me introduce you" line for the past year or so, which makes me wonder if some expert somewhere has suggested it as a nice way to start the query, something different from the standard, "I am seeking representation for ...." line.
Now, I'm not an agent, so I could be entirely wrong about this, but the "let me introduce you" line just sets my nerves on edge.
Two reasons. First -- you're going to do it, whether I want you to or not, so it's sort of repeating the query itself, which is the SHOWING version of TELLING that you're going to introduce the story. Simply saying you're seeking representation is, in theory, redundant, but it doesn't make the agent (the person receiving the letter) complicit in your action, it doesn't seek permission for you to seek representation.
That's not the big issue for me, though. I think it's that "I'm seeking representation ...." becomes invisible after you've seen it a few hundred/thousand times. All you need to pay attention to in that sentence is the title, genre and word count. It's a little like "said" as a dialogue tag: it does its job, and does it invisibly, so unless the author is doing something really wrong with it, you don't even notice it. For a person reading dozens, perhaps hundreds, of these in a week, every little bit of simplification helps.
OTOH, when you start with something different, the individual words suddenly become visible. The reader has to work at comprehending the whole sentence, not just get to what the reader cares about (title, genre, word count).
There's a time and a place for creativity and thought-provoking phrases. In fact, one school of thought suggests just jumping straight into the story and skipping the "I'm seeking ..." line, which you can reserve until the end. But if you're going to start with the title/genre/etc., that opening sentence is not a good place to be creative.
I think.
Again, I'm not an agent, just someone who's read a lot of queries in the past few years, and can imagine what it's like to get a hundred of them a week. Wow them with your story, not the mundane parts of the query.
In my opinion, the best ways to begin the query (after a professional Dear Mr./Ms AgentSurname), is a) your hook and description of your story, or b) "I chose to query you because..." with a brief and relevant personal note that demonstrates your diligence. The next paragraph should be your hook and description of your story. - Rick
I'm doing this as a separate comment, because it isn't particularly addressed to this author, but to the world at large:
I've been seeing the "let me introduce you" line for the past year or so, which makes me wonder if some expert somewhere has suggested it as a nice way to start the query, something different from the standard, "I am seeking representation for ...." line.
Now, I'm not an agent, so I could be entirely wrong about this, but the "let me introduce you" line just sets my nerves on edge.
Two reasons. First -- you're going to do it, whether I want you to or not, so it's sort of repeating the query itself, which is the SHOWING version of TELLING that you're going to introduce the story. Simply saying you're seeking representation is, in theory, redundant, but it doesn't make the agent (the person receiving the letter) complicit in your action, it doesn't seek permission for you to seek representation.
That's not the big issue for me, though. I think it's that "I'm seeking representation ...." becomes invisible after you've seen it a few hundred/thousand times. All you need to pay attention to in that sentence is the title, genre and word count. It's a little like "said" as a dialogue tag: it does its job, and does it invisibly, so unless the author is doing something really wrong with it, you don't even notice it. For a person reading dozens, perhaps hundreds, of these in a week, every little bit of simplification helps.
OTOH, when you start with something different, the individual words suddenly become visible. The reader has to work at comprehending the whole sentence, not just get to what the reader cares about (title, genre, word count).
There's a time and a place for creativity and thought-provoking phrases. In fact, one school of thought suggests just jumping straight into the story and skipping the "I'm seeking ..." line, which you can reserve until the end. But if you're going to start with the title/genre/etc., that opening sentence is not a good place to be creative.
I think.
Again, I'm not an agent, just someone who's read a lot of queries in the past few years, and can imagine what it's like to get a hundred of them a week. Wow them with your story, not the mundane parts of the query.
In my opinion, the best ways to begin the query (after a professional Dear Mr./Ms AgentSurname), is a) your hook and description of your story, or b) "I chose to query you because..." with a brief and relevant personal note that demonstrates your diligence. The next paragraph should be your hook and description of your story. - Rick
May 31, 2010
Query Me This...THIRD DAUGHTER
Click here for the discussion thread.
Dear Agent Awesome,
I am querying you because you represent young adult novels and have expressed interest in Steampunk on your blog.
As the third daughter of the queen, seventeen-year-old Aniri is consigned to a life of elegant teas, diplomatic dinners, and an arranged marriage when she comes of age. She consoles herself by peering through her aetherscope and sneaking visits to Sasha, a charming courtesan from the rival queendom of Samir.
Rumors of a powerful flying machine push Aniri’s country toward war with the barbarians to the north. When a barbarian prince proposes a peace-brokering marriage to Aniri, duty requires her to turn her back on Sasha, a boy she has no right to love. But when Sasha reveals that the weapon is a ruse, intended to distract her country while the Samirians invade, Aniri fears she may be marrying into a trap that will bring war, not peace.
As mysterious accidents threaten her life, Aniri dodges her would-be assassin and searches for the truth about the secret weapon. But when she discovers Sasha is lovers with the Samirian ambassador, Aniri must decide who she can trust and whether refusing her arranged marriage will trigger the very war she is trying to prevent.
THIRD DAUGHTER is a 95,000 word young adult novel filled with political intrigue, steampunk weaponry, and courtesans trained in the arts of love, etiquette, and deception.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Regards,
Susan Kaye Quinn
{Contact Info}
THIRD DAUGHTER
The cloudless night whispered sweet promises to Aniri. She pressed the soft leather eye cups to her face and peered through her night glasses. A gentle breeze rustled the forested hunting grounds below, and lights flickered in the distant embassy windows. But otherwise the night was as still as the stone rooftop beneath her feet.
The clear skies gave her the perfect excuse to be at her observatory, gazing through her aetherscope, should she be caught. Chances were slim that anyone would visit her private retreat, and she shouldn't be missed from her room. But before she ventured any further, she had to be sure.
She slowly turned the brass knobs on each eyepiece. The new barrel coating had eliminated the ghostly echoes of light that had been haunting the glasses. She could just discern the broken edges of the river and a beaten stone bridge in the distance. A moving black shape slipped into view and then disappeared into the shadows under the bridge.
Time to go.
Aniri set the night glasses on the edge of the balcony and checked below for stragglers from the Queen's dinner party. No one should be outside unescorted at this hour, but there was no sense being caught by someone who broke protocol with a nighttime stroll. Opening the leather satchel at her feet, she uncoiled the sheet she had twisted into a rope and checked the knots. It would cause quite a stir if she plummeted to her death while climbing down the palace wall.
She looped the rope around the massive stone lion that guarded the parapet and lowered herself down, hand over hand, as her silk slippers pawed uselessly against the mossy wall. She dropped the final two feet to the landing below and scampered down the labyrinthine of steps of the complex. If she hadn't taken up residence in the diplomacy wing of the palace, she would never have slipped away so easily into the encroaching forest. Then again, she wouldn't need to.
She leapt over the manicured hedgerows as if she had fled the palace grounds a hundred times before. Her unbound dark hair flapped behind her, and the cool night breeze fluttered her black silk nightclothes against her skin like a thousand butterfly wings. Aniri wondered why she had not tried this sooner.
She slowed her pace and picked through the darkened brambles catching at her legs. Had she worn any normal attire—starched cotton with layers upon layers of silk—she would have stuck to the needled branches like a royal pincushion. She smiled and slipped through the forest like a phantom, black on black, silent and stealthy. When she broke out of the forest, her slippered feet stumbled on the wet rocks bordering the river. She made a mental note to find more secure footwear, should there be a second time.
Her eyes darted to the footbridge ahead, an ancient sentinel over the constantly new chatter of the river. She hesitated when she saw no sign of movement. Had she been mistaken? Was she too late? But then Sasha stepped out from the shadows, showing his face to the moon as if he had nothing to hide.
She skittered over the pebbled and sandy creekside and flew into his arms.
"Aniri," he said, but she was uninterested in wasting precious moments with words. They couldn't convey the heart-pounding rush she felt whenever she saw his bronzed cheeks or dark, humor-filled eyes. She shut him up with her lips, pressed fiercely to his. She knew he was well trained in all forms of entertainment, but the artistry of his lips moving slow yet urgent against hers made her forget her own name.
He was still dressed in his diplomat's attire, tightly wrapped in silk and starch. Her hands glided over the smooth shoulders of his jacket, and its gold buttons turned silver in the moonlight when she broke their kiss.
His smile sent a shiver through her as his eyes and hands lingered on her.
"You look . . . enticing this evening."
She flushed and smoothed her loose nightshirt. He had never seen her in her nightclothes before and probably never would again. "I could hardly retire to my room dressed for tea."
"I suppose." His smile grew. "I didn't know if you would come. Sneaking out of the palace grounds has to be a dangerous business."
"No more than sending a note through the hand maiden. What if she read it?"
His smile crooked at the corner. "I'm sure that she did. But what could she make of a poem declaring your beauty in the moonlight? I imagine she thought it quite romantic."
"Your little message could have easily been understood. You took a risk." She tried to put admonishment in her voice, but it came out weak. She had no heart for it tonight.
"A moment with you, even stolen, is worth the risk." He pulled her close again, and his hand brushed back her hair as the wild strands tangled with the evening breeze. "Did you think it romantic?" His voice teased her.
Words swelled up in her throat, and she had to swallow them back down. She put a small, empty space between them. "Romance is for fools and naive little girls."
He frowned and let his hand fall to his side. She cleared her throat and forced the words out before she lost her nerve. "I have news. I am to be married."
His eyebrows shot up. "What?" Anger pushed on the corners of his eyes. She knew this day would come. She could never marry a courtesan, no matter how entrancing, but she had hoped they could pretend a little longer. And that she would marry someone better than a dirt-grubbing Jangali. "Prince Malik has made an offer of peace. For my hand."
He sucked in a quick breath. "No!"
"I know. It's a horror almost beyond imagining."
"But . . . but you're not of age." He seemed to be casting about for reasons to keep her, which made her words even more difficult to say.
"I will be eighteen soon enough. This day was inevitable, Sasha."
His eyebrows pulled into a dark line of concern. "But . . . . please tell me this is not your wish."
"Of course not! How can you ask that?” she said. “Do you think I want to marry a barbarian? It's these cursed troubles in the north, and the rumors of that new Jungali flying machine. This is the only way to bring peace."
His eyes went wide, and he grabbed her shoulders. "Aniri, listen to me. You must refuse him."
"Sasha, my love." She winced at the strength of his grip. "It's my duty."
"Please . . ."
"Your Highness?" The gruff voice came from behind her, and she jerked out of Sasha's grasp in surprise. She recognized the owner only when she whirled to see his scarred and angular face.
"Queens breath!" she exclaimed. "Janak don't startle me like that."
"It is my job, m'lady."
"Your job is to protect me, not frighten me halfway to my grave."
His hardened face was impassive except for the small lift of one eyebrow. "Sometimes one requires the other, your Most Royal Highness."
She glared at him and turned back to Sasha, who had retreated a pace from her, restoring a proper distance between them.
"My lady." Sasha gave her a small bow, all proper etiquette returning, as though they had not just been caught in each other’s arms. "If it pleases you, I would have a word in private."
She sighed and longed to have his hands on her again, even in that rough embrace. His fear of losing her reassured her that maybe she was not alone in loving him beyond reason.
She threw a daggered look to Janak. "Wait for me. Over there." She gestured with a single raised eyebrow of her own that he should stand apart by the bridge. He inclined his head and took several steps backwards, his eyes glued to Sasha’s properly attentive form. She closed the distance between them with a step and dropped her voice to a whisper.
"Don't worry about Janak."
"I worry about you, Aniri." Sasha’s hushed voice stayed between them. "I must speak to you," he glanced at the glaring figure of Janak, "alone."
"We are alone.” Janak could surely overhear them, but he could be trusted.
“Not here,” he said. “I'll explain later, but you must refuse Malik's offer. Will you be at the Queen's Tea tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Can you meet me," he glanced at Janak again, "in the place we once discussed?" When they first met, they argued the merits of the Queen’s favorite tea garden.
"Yes." What he could possibly have to say, that he couldn't tell her in front of Janak? He stepped back from her again.
"Very well," he said. "I bid you a gentle night, m'lady." He bowed deeply in farewell and turned to slip away into the darkness. She watched after him, the shadows swallowing him and her last chance of a carefree life before duty called. When she had composed her face, she turned and marched with slippered feet to Janak.
"You'll not speak of this." She brushed past without favoring him with a look.
"Of course, Princess Aniri." He shadowed her back to the palace, as though he expected her to bolt for freedom and disappear into the dark after Sasha. She only wished that were possible.
Click here for the discussion thread.
Dear Agent Awesome,
I am querying you because you represent young adult novels and have expressed interest in Steampunk on your blog.
As the third daughter of the queen, seventeen-year-old Aniri is consigned to a life of elegant teas, diplomatic dinners, and an arranged marriage when she comes of age. She consoles herself by peering through her aetherscope and sneaking visits to Sasha, a charming courtesan from the rival queendom of Samir.
Rumors of a powerful flying machine push Aniri’s country toward war with the barbarians to the north. When a barbarian prince proposes a peace-brokering marriage to Aniri, duty requires her to turn her back on Sasha, a boy she has no right to love. But when Sasha reveals that the weapon is a ruse, intended to distract her country while the Samirians invade, Aniri fears she may be marrying into a trap that will bring war, not peace.
As mysterious accidents threaten her life, Aniri dodges her would-be assassin and searches for the truth about the secret weapon. But when she discovers Sasha is lovers with the Samirian ambassador, Aniri must decide who she can trust and whether refusing her arranged marriage will trigger the very war she is trying to prevent.
THIRD DAUGHTER is a 95,000 word young adult novel filled with political intrigue, steampunk weaponry, and courtesans trained in the arts of love, etiquette, and deception.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Regards,
Susan Kaye Quinn
{Contact Info}
THIRD DAUGHTER
The cloudless night whispered sweet promises to Aniri. She pressed the soft leather eye cups to her face and peered through her night glasses. A gentle breeze rustled the forested hunting grounds below, and lights flickered in the distant embassy windows. But otherwise the night was as still as the stone rooftop beneath her feet.
The clear skies gave her the perfect excuse to be at her observatory, gazing through her aetherscope, should she be caught. Chances were slim that anyone would visit her private retreat, and she shouldn't be missed from her room. But before she ventured any further, she had to be sure.
She slowly turned the brass knobs on each eyepiece. The new barrel coating had eliminated the ghostly echoes of light that had been haunting the glasses. She could just discern the broken edges of the river and a beaten stone bridge in the distance. A moving black shape slipped into view and then disappeared into the shadows under the bridge.
Time to go.
Aniri set the night glasses on the edge of the balcony and checked below for stragglers from the Queen's dinner party. No one should be outside unescorted at this hour, but there was no sense being caught by someone who broke protocol with a nighttime stroll. Opening the leather satchel at her feet, she uncoiled the sheet she had twisted into a rope and checked the knots. It would cause quite a stir if she plummeted to her death while climbing down the palace wall.
She looped the rope around the massive stone lion that guarded the parapet and lowered herself down, hand over hand, as her silk slippers pawed uselessly against the mossy wall. She dropped the final two feet to the landing below and scampered down the labyrinthine of steps of the complex. If she hadn't taken up residence in the diplomacy wing of the palace, she would never have slipped away so easily into the encroaching forest. Then again, she wouldn't need to.
She leapt over the manicured hedgerows as if she had fled the palace grounds a hundred times before. Her unbound dark hair flapped behind her, and the cool night breeze fluttered her black silk nightclothes against her skin like a thousand butterfly wings. Aniri wondered why she had not tried this sooner.
She slowed her pace and picked through the darkened brambles catching at her legs. Had she worn any normal attire—starched cotton with layers upon layers of silk—she would have stuck to the needled branches like a royal pincushion. She smiled and slipped through the forest like a phantom, black on black, silent and stealthy. When she broke out of the forest, her slippered feet stumbled on the wet rocks bordering the river. She made a mental note to find more secure footwear, should there be a second time.
Her eyes darted to the footbridge ahead, an ancient sentinel over the constantly new chatter of the river. She hesitated when she saw no sign of movement. Had she been mistaken? Was she too late? But then Sasha stepped out from the shadows, showing his face to the moon as if he had nothing to hide.
She skittered over the pebbled and sandy creekside and flew into his arms.
"Aniri," he said, but she was uninterested in wasting precious moments with words. They couldn't convey the heart-pounding rush she felt whenever she saw his bronzed cheeks or dark, humor-filled eyes. She shut him up with her lips, pressed fiercely to his. She knew he was well trained in all forms of entertainment, but the artistry of his lips moving slow yet urgent against hers made her forget her own name.
He was still dressed in his diplomat's attire, tightly wrapped in silk and starch. Her hands glided over the smooth shoulders of his jacket, and its gold buttons turned silver in the moonlight when she broke their kiss.
His smile sent a shiver through her as his eyes and hands lingered on her.
"You look . . . enticing this evening."
She flushed and smoothed her loose nightshirt. He had never seen her in her nightclothes before and probably never would again. "I could hardly retire to my room dressed for tea."
"I suppose." His smile grew. "I didn't know if you would come. Sneaking out of the palace grounds has to be a dangerous business."
"No more than sending a note through the hand maiden. What if she read it?"
His smile crooked at the corner. "I'm sure that she did. But what could she make of a poem declaring your beauty in the moonlight? I imagine she thought it quite romantic."
"Your little message could have easily been understood. You took a risk." She tried to put admonishment in her voice, but it came out weak. She had no heart for it tonight.
"A moment with you, even stolen, is worth the risk." He pulled her close again, and his hand brushed back her hair as the wild strands tangled with the evening breeze. "Did you think it romantic?" His voice teased her.
Words swelled up in her throat, and she had to swallow them back down. She put a small, empty space between them. "Romance is for fools and naive little girls."
He frowned and let his hand fall to his side. She cleared her throat and forced the words out before she lost her nerve. "I have news. I am to be married."
His eyebrows shot up. "What?" Anger pushed on the corners of his eyes. She knew this day would come. She could never marry a courtesan, no matter how entrancing, but she had hoped they could pretend a little longer. And that she would marry someone better than a dirt-grubbing Jangali. "Prince Malik has made an offer of peace. For my hand."
He sucked in a quick breath. "No!"
"I know. It's a horror almost beyond imagining."
"But . . . but you're not of age." He seemed to be casting about for reasons to keep her, which made her words even more difficult to say.
"I will be eighteen soon enough. This day was inevitable, Sasha."
His eyebrows pulled into a dark line of concern. "But . . . . please tell me this is not your wish."
"Of course not! How can you ask that?” she said. “Do you think I want to marry a barbarian? It's these cursed troubles in the north, and the rumors of that new Jungali flying machine. This is the only way to bring peace."
His eyes went wide, and he grabbed her shoulders. "Aniri, listen to me. You must refuse him."
"Sasha, my love." She winced at the strength of his grip. "It's my duty."
"Please . . ."
"Your Highness?" The gruff voice came from behind her, and she jerked out of Sasha's grasp in surprise. She recognized the owner only when she whirled to see his scarred and angular face.
"Queens breath!" she exclaimed. "Janak don't startle me like that."
"It is my job, m'lady."
"Your job is to protect me, not frighten me halfway to my grave."
His hardened face was impassive except for the small lift of one eyebrow. "Sometimes one requires the other, your Most Royal Highness."
She glared at him and turned back to Sasha, who had retreated a pace from her, restoring a proper distance between them.
"My lady." Sasha gave her a small bow, all proper etiquette returning, as though they had not just been caught in each other’s arms. "If it pleases you, I would have a word in private."
She sighed and longed to have his hands on her again, even in that rough embrace. His fear of losing her reassured her that maybe she was not alone in loving him beyond reason.
She threw a daggered look to Janak. "Wait for me. Over there." She gestured with a single raised eyebrow of her own that he should stand apart by the bridge. He inclined his head and took several steps backwards, his eyes glued to Sasha’s properly attentive form. She closed the distance between them with a step and dropped her voice to a whisper.
"Don't worry about Janak."
"I worry about you, Aniri." Sasha’s hushed voice stayed between them. "I must speak to you," he glanced at the glaring figure of Janak, "alone."
"We are alone.” Janak could surely overhear them, but he could be trusted.
“Not here,” he said. “I'll explain later, but you must refuse Malik's offer. Will you be at the Queen's Tea tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Can you meet me," he glanced at Janak again, "in the place we once discussed?" When they first met, they argued the merits of the Queen’s favorite tea garden.
"Yes." What he could possibly have to say, that he couldn't tell her in front of Janak? He stepped back from her again.
"Very well," he said. "I bid you a gentle night, m'lady." He bowed deeply in farewell and turned to slip away into the darkness. She watched after him, the shadows swallowing him and her last chance of a carefree life before duty called. When she had composed her face, she turned and marched with slippered feet to Janak.
"You'll not speak of this." She brushed past without favoring him with a look.
"Of course, Princess Aniri." He shadowed her back to the palace, as though he expected her to bolt for freedom and disappear into the dark after Sasha. She only wished that were possible.
Click here for the discussion thread.
Aug 6, 2009
Query: The Jackpot (Thriller)
Great site here. Below is a version of my query that initially worked like gangbusters (6 requests out of 12 submissions). Then the bottom dropped out, and I received 30+ form rejections in a row. Would love to get a sense of whether this was a good query, or whether I just got lucky at the beginning.
Dear Agent:
I am seeking representation for The Jackpot, my 95,000-word dark comic thriller about Samantha Obeid, a Lebanese-American attorney facing a personal crisis, and her new client's gigantic winning lottery ticket, which threatens to destroy Samantha's life when her desperate boss decides to steal it.
After spending eight soul-reaving years "helping really big and rich companies get a little bigger and richer" (as she wistfully puts it), Samantha Obeid is crushed when her law firm passes her over for partner. So when the firm's janitor, Julius Mitchell, approaches her for advice about a winning lottery ticket worth nearly half a billion dollars, she sees an opportunity to salvage her career with a wealthy new client for the firm. She introduces Julius and his ticket to her boss, Hunter Pierce, hoping to revive her dreams of a financially secure future for herself and her struggling parents. But Pierce, a man riddled with more problems than he can count, devises his own plan for the ticket - to steal it.
Following a violent confrontation that leaves Julius dead, Samantha finds herself holding the ticket and risking her life to deliver it to Julius' only heir - his estranged son. But as a nothing-to-lose Hunter Pierce closes in on her, Samantha becomes increasingly drawn to the ticket and its promise of unimaginable wealth. The really bad news? Neither Hunter nor the temptation to keep the ticket for herself is Samantha's biggest problem: a homicidal mercenary with a unique take on Charles Darwin's theory of evolution has been hired to hunt down the ticket, and he will stop at nothing to find it.
I am an attorney living in XXX, and my writing credits include two short stories published in online magazines (names of stories and mags). I hope you will find that the novel’s darkly comic tone and Samantha's background provide interesting spins on popular lawyer-in-trouble thriller.
Thank you for considering my query, and I look forward to your response.
Sincerely,
David
Dear Agent:
I am seeking representation for The Jackpot, my 95,000-word dark comic thriller about Samantha Obeid, a Lebanese-American attorney facing a personal crisis, and her new client's gigantic winning lottery ticket, which threatens to destroy Samantha's life when her desperate boss decides to steal it.
After spending eight soul-reaving years "helping really big and rich companies get a little bigger and richer" (as she wistfully puts it), Samantha Obeid is crushed when her law firm passes her over for partner. So when the firm's janitor, Julius Mitchell, approaches her for advice about a winning lottery ticket worth nearly half a billion dollars, she sees an opportunity to salvage her career with a wealthy new client for the firm. She introduces Julius and his ticket to her boss, Hunter Pierce, hoping to revive her dreams of a financially secure future for herself and her struggling parents. But Pierce, a man riddled with more problems than he can count, devises his own plan for the ticket - to steal it.
Following a violent confrontation that leaves Julius dead, Samantha finds herself holding the ticket and risking her life to deliver it to Julius' only heir - his estranged son. But as a nothing-to-lose Hunter Pierce closes in on her, Samantha becomes increasingly drawn to the ticket and its promise of unimaginable wealth. The really bad news? Neither Hunter nor the temptation to keep the ticket for herself is Samantha's biggest problem: a homicidal mercenary with a unique take on Charles Darwin's theory of evolution has been hired to hunt down the ticket, and he will stop at nothing to find it.
I am an attorney living in XXX, and my writing credits include two short stories published in online magazines (names of stories and mags). I hope you will find that the novel’s darkly comic tone and Samantha's background provide interesting spins on popular lawyer-in-trouble thriller.
Thank you for considering my query, and I look forward to your response.
Sincerely,
David
Aug 16, 2009
Query- Near Edgware (Revision 1)
Click here to read the original query.
Dear Agent,
I would like to introduce you to my novel, Near Edgware.
16 year-old Jess Trainer returns to a school that has changed in everyway except geographically. The Head doesn’t tolerate deviation from his code, and the rules. Jess is glad to be back, she just wants to spend time with her friends. Despite her determination to avoid trouble she can’t fight the lure of Caleb Ridgeway. She can see him, tell the difference, to her he is more than one of the matching set of boys who came with the new Headteacher.
This attraction draws Jess inside the world of those born Were. Only after she is attacked by feral Were does Jess discover that Caleb’s secret, exciting to speculate about, is bitingly real. Given the choice between keeping his secret or losing Caleb for good Jess decides their love is worth the risk. When the feral Were attempt to destroy the younger members of the pack – specifically Caleb – they have help on the inside who nearly make that happen.
The task of saving them all falls on Jess which is ironic given the other secret that permeates the book. Her parents keep from her why she senses when people are more than they seem, why she is fast and strong, why her visual memory was bred in her; they want to end a way of life built on hatred and annihilation. They leave it to fate to see what happens when the last born Hunter meets the Alpha-to-be. An unscrupulous Were could see Jess’ ignorance as the perfect opportunity for revenge. It’s a good job Caleb fights for more than the right to love.
Near Edgware is complete at 75,000 words. It has been written as a stand alone novel. But it could be so much more. Once characters have been established they have been known to develop a loyal following. I have planned the outlines for five, or infact six, further linked stories elements of each have been woven into the book. The first three chapters of Book 2 are already written and could be ready for perusal with the more polished manuscript described above.
I am a teacher and use Social and Emotional Aspect of Learning (SEAL) as the cornerstone of my work. I also have a counselling qualification. I bring these skills to my writing.
Thank you for your time. I hope to hear from you soon.
Yours sincerely
Dear Agent,
I would like to introduce you to my novel, Near Edgware.
16 year-old Jess Trainer returns to a school that has changed in everyway except geographically. The Head doesn’t tolerate deviation from his code, and the rules. Jess is glad to be back, she just wants to spend time with her friends. Despite her determination to avoid trouble she can’t fight the lure of Caleb Ridgeway. She can see him, tell the difference, to her he is more than one of the matching set of boys who came with the new Headteacher.
This attraction draws Jess inside the world of those born Were. Only after she is attacked by feral Were does Jess discover that Caleb’s secret, exciting to speculate about, is bitingly real. Given the choice between keeping his secret or losing Caleb for good Jess decides their love is worth the risk. When the feral Were attempt to destroy the younger members of the pack – specifically Caleb – they have help on the inside who nearly make that happen.
The task of saving them all falls on Jess which is ironic given the other secret that permeates the book. Her parents keep from her why she senses when people are more than they seem, why she is fast and strong, why her visual memory was bred in her; they want to end a way of life built on hatred and annihilation. They leave it to fate to see what happens when the last born Hunter meets the Alpha-to-be. An unscrupulous Were could see Jess’ ignorance as the perfect opportunity for revenge. It’s a good job Caleb fights for more than the right to love.
Near Edgware is complete at 75,000 words. It has been written as a stand alone novel. But it could be so much more. Once characters have been established they have been known to develop a loyal following. I have planned the outlines for five, or infact six, further linked stories elements of each have been woven into the book. The first three chapters of Book 2 are already written and could be ready for perusal with the more polished manuscript described above.
I am a teacher and use Social and Emotional Aspect of Learning (SEAL) as the cornerstone of my work. I also have a counselling qualification. I bring these skills to my writing.
Thank you for your time. I hope to hear from you soon.
Yours sincerely
Jul 16, 2009
QUERY- UNTITLED
Click here to read the sample pages.
A revision of this query has been posted, click here to read it.
I can handle large amounts of criticism. I'm just starting out writing and i am almost finished with my first novel. I have no ending paragraphs to my letter because I don't have any credentials or degree to mention - not sure what I should do with that?
Dear Mr. Agent,
I fell in love with your blog in my desperate need to learn as much as possible about writing a gold medal query letter. I am currently seeking representation for my Young Adult novel, UNTITLED, complete at 100,000 words.
Holly Flynn is a well respected English teacher and aspiring novelist married to her wonderful and attentive high school boyfriend. Her life is exactly as she always planned. That is until an old friend shows up at her door step handing over an item she hasn’t seen in ten years, her journal. Her eighteen year old self preserved in the form of a pink velvet notebook. As she opens the book, a photograph falls to the floor. A picture of herself embracing a mysterious boy who's face happens to be identical to the boy from her novel. A face she thought only existed in her fictional world. A face she’s devoted over 300 pages to.
After reading the journal she discovers her own written words tell a story different from the one she knows. Holly must decide to stay in the life she’s always known or to take a chance and leave everything behind. Is true love worth the pain? Her discoveries bring the conclusion that the world is much bigger than she ever imagined and the mystery surrounding the boy she loves is almost too much for any human to accept. The power to change the past is like playing God in a battle where right and wrong are not the only two sides competing.
A revision of this query has been posted, click here to read it.
I can handle large amounts of criticism. I'm just starting out writing and i am almost finished with my first novel. I have no ending paragraphs to my letter because I don't have any credentials or degree to mention - not sure what I should do with that?
Dear Mr. Agent,
I fell in love with your blog in my desperate need to learn as much as possible about writing a gold medal query letter. I am currently seeking representation for my Young Adult novel, UNTITLED, complete at 100,000 words.
Holly Flynn is a well respected English teacher and aspiring novelist married to her wonderful and attentive high school boyfriend. Her life is exactly as she always planned. That is until an old friend shows up at her door step handing over an item she hasn’t seen in ten years, her journal. Her eighteen year old self preserved in the form of a pink velvet notebook. As she opens the book, a photograph falls to the floor. A picture of herself embracing a mysterious boy who's face happens to be identical to the boy from her novel. A face she thought only existed in her fictional world. A face she’s devoted over 300 pages to.
After reading the journal she discovers her own written words tell a story different from the one she knows. Holly must decide to stay in the life she’s always known or to take a chance and leave everything behind. Is true love worth the pain? Her discoveries bring the conclusion that the world is much bigger than she ever imagined and the mystery surrounding the boy she loves is almost too much for any human to accept. The power to change the past is like playing God in a battle where right and wrong are not the only two sides competing.
Oct 24, 2010
QUERY: THE ODD I SEE (second revision)
Click here to read the original query.
Click here to read the first revision.
Dear Agent,
Please consider representing my novel THE ODD I SEE, a 71,000-word work of slipstream fiction.
After a falling out with her favorite hallucination, a half-assed stay in the loony bin, and entry into the “real world” by way of college graduation, Fifi wants to know why she ought to bother existing.
Twenty-two year old Fifi works an underachiever’s dream job while struggling to reconcile her surrealistic worldview with modern middle-class American living. Her maybe-imaginary vampire lover tries to convince her that she'll become part of a constellation if she kills herself. On the other hand, her real-life boyfriend (whom she met while having an adventure in the art of pretending to be a prostitute) seems a solid case for divine intervention in a world Fifi deems just shy of apocalypse. Unsure of her continued interest in the business of existence, Fifi uses blue (and sometimes black) humor to systematically reason her way through the meaning of life and into a decision about whether the act of living is worth the effort.
I am writing to you because I connected with your interview on Guide to Literary Agents, your submission guidelines, and (novel you represented). An excerpt of this novel was published in the spring 2009 edition of the Newport Review literary magazine. A separate excerpt was published in the 2006 edition of Loyola University Chicago’s annual literary journal, Cadence. I can be reached by phone at ### ### ####, by email at bre@jamstage.net, or by postal mail at 123 XYZ St.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Best regards,
Bre Kidman
----------------------------------------
SIDEBAR: This is a small revision, I guess, but I'm having trouble packing more info into such a small space. Eep!
Also, a question: When an agent asks for a certain number of sample pages, should one take the number of pages, multiply by 250, and include that number of words? Is it safe to take that number of pages out of a Word document and include those? How does one calculate the length of a ten page excerpt?
Thanks for reading!!!
Click here to read the first revision.
Dear Agent,
Please consider representing my novel THE ODD I SEE, a 71,000-word work of slipstream fiction.
After a falling out with her favorite hallucination, a half-assed stay in the loony bin, and entry into the “real world” by way of college graduation, Fifi wants to know why she ought to bother existing.
Twenty-two year old Fifi works an underachiever’s dream job while struggling to reconcile her surrealistic worldview with modern middle-class American living. Her maybe-imaginary vampire lover tries to convince her that she'll become part of a constellation if she kills herself. On the other hand, her real-life boyfriend (whom she met while having an adventure in the art of pretending to be a prostitute) seems a solid case for divine intervention in a world Fifi deems just shy of apocalypse. Unsure of her continued interest in the business of existence, Fifi uses blue (and sometimes black) humor to systematically reason her way through the meaning of life and into a decision about whether the act of living is worth the effort.
I am writing to you because I connected with your interview on Guide to Literary Agents, your submission guidelines, and (novel you represented). An excerpt of this novel was published in the spring 2009 edition of the Newport Review literary magazine. A separate excerpt was published in the 2006 edition of Loyola University Chicago’s annual literary journal, Cadence. I can be reached by phone at ### ### ####, by email at bre@jamstage.net, or by postal mail at 123 XYZ St.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Best regards,
Bre Kidman
----------------------------------------
SIDEBAR: This is a small revision, I guess, but I'm having trouble packing more info into such a small space. Eep!
Also, a question: When an agent asks for a certain number of sample pages, should one take the number of pages, multiply by 250, and include that number of words? Is it safe to take that number of pages out of a Word document and include those? How does one calculate the length of a ten page excerpt?
Thanks for reading!!!
Jan 9, 2010
QUERY- THE UNCOMMON ONE (third revision)
Click here to read the original query.
Click here to read the first revision.
Click here to read the second revision
Click here to read the sample pages.
I've taken everyone's comments into consideration (and read a lot of the Query Shark). I hope this one does the trick. I'm ready for your worst!
Dear [Agent Name]
When Sarah Daugherty is grabbed and knocked unconscious in the parking garage of her work, she wakes up in the safety of her car unaware of how she got there. The next day she agrees to a night out with a friend just so she won’t be alone.
Sarah catches the bartender, John Pennington, staring at her and she becomes nervous. When her ex-husband shows up unexpectedly and interrupts her evening, John comes to her aid and intervenes. He impresses her with his kindness and looks good to boot, looking perfect in every way. She boldly asks him out.
What Sarah doesn’t know is that John is a vampire.
Since the night he saved her from the serial killer, John is drawn to her so he agrees to the date. Then he discovers he can’t wipe her mind and breaks it off. She tries to convince him to reconsider and he gives the only excuse he can think of: he’s allergic to the sun.
When Sarah admits defeat and leaves, John feels incomplete without her and decides she’s worth the risk. However, someone isn’t happy they are dating and expresses their opinion in a malicious way.
Sarah’s car is vandalized, her apartment is trashed, and she suspects someone is following her. John suspects it may be Maddie, a friend of his, and he feels guilty.
When Maddie reveals to Sarah that John is a vampire and proves it, her world is shaken. Sarah runs away. However, her life is miserable without him and she comes back. Since her return, there are two attempts to kidnap her. John is determined to find the perpetrator before she is taken away from him forever.
THE UNCOMMON ONE is a paranormal romance novel complete at 109,000 words. I am a member of Romance Writers of America. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Stacy McKitrick
Click here to read the first revision.
Click here to read the second revision
Click here to read the sample pages.
I've taken everyone's comments into consideration (and read a lot of the Query Shark). I hope this one does the trick. I'm ready for your worst!
Dear [Agent Name]
When Sarah Daugherty is grabbed and knocked unconscious in the parking garage of her work, she wakes up in the safety of her car unaware of how she got there. The next day she agrees to a night out with a friend just so she won’t be alone.
Sarah catches the bartender, John Pennington, staring at her and she becomes nervous. When her ex-husband shows up unexpectedly and interrupts her evening, John comes to her aid and intervenes. He impresses her with his kindness and looks good to boot, looking perfect in every way. She boldly asks him out.
What Sarah doesn’t know is that John is a vampire.
Since the night he saved her from the serial killer, John is drawn to her so he agrees to the date. Then he discovers he can’t wipe her mind and breaks it off. She tries to convince him to reconsider and he gives the only excuse he can think of: he’s allergic to the sun.
When Sarah admits defeat and leaves, John feels incomplete without her and decides she’s worth the risk. However, someone isn’t happy they are dating and expresses their opinion in a malicious way.
Sarah’s car is vandalized, her apartment is trashed, and she suspects someone is following her. John suspects it may be Maddie, a friend of his, and he feels guilty.
When Maddie reveals to Sarah that John is a vampire and proves it, her world is shaken. Sarah runs away. However, her life is miserable without him and she comes back. Since her return, there are two attempts to kidnap her. John is determined to find the perpetrator before she is taken away from him forever.
THE UNCOMMON ONE is a paranormal romance novel complete at 109,000 words. I am a member of Romance Writers of America. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Stacy McKitrick
Sep 21, 2009
Short Story Writing Contest: "Rain Stories"
NOTE: This came through the submissions queue. I am not affiliated with the BookRix site. Technically I'm not affiliated with The Literary Lab either, but I comment there almost every day so I posted the Genre Wars contest link out of kinship. End of disclaimer.
- September 15th 2009 to October 15th 2009 -
Summer is about to end? Autumn is knocking at the door? Stormy weather and rain predicted? It is time to read a book or even write one. Take advantage of the unpleasant rainy weather and enter the latest BookRix Short Story Writing Contest for free: Tell us your rain story, turn your wordsmith powers into positive cashflow and fame. Write a story that has anything to do with rain, or Mr. Rain, or a dog named Rain, whatever.
Key Facts:
* Anyone registered at our BookRix.com website can join the contest (except citizens of Germany, Austria and Switzerland).
* Authors and readers can enter the competition for free and win cash money.
* Enter a book about rain that you have already written and published or write a new rain story.
Prizes for authors:
First Prize: $1000
Second Prize: $500
Third Prize: $300
Prizes for readers:
10 Amazon vouchers each worth $20 will be raffled for free among all readers taking part in the voting process.
* No entry fee is required
http://www.bookrix.com/precontest.html?lang=en&show=BX_1252680162
Good luck to all!
- September 15th 2009 to October 15th 2009 -
Summer is about to end? Autumn is knocking at the door? Stormy weather and rain predicted? It is time to read a book or even write one. Take advantage of the unpleasant rainy weather and enter the latest BookRix Short Story Writing Contest for free: Tell us your rain story, turn your wordsmith powers into positive cashflow and fame. Write a story that has anything to do with rain, or Mr. Rain, or a dog named Rain, whatever.
Key Facts:
* Anyone registered at our BookRix.com website can join the contest (except citizens of Germany, Austria and Switzerland).
* Authors and readers can enter the competition for free and win cash money.
* Enter a book about rain that you have already written and published or write a new rain story.
Prizes for authors:
First Prize: $1000
Second Prize: $500
Third Prize: $300
Prizes for readers:
10 Amazon vouchers each worth $20 will be raffled for free among all readers taking part in the voting process.
* No entry fee is required
http://www.bookrix.com/precontest.html?lang=en&show=BX_1252680162
Good luck to all!
Jul 3, 2010
Query: The Silver Strand
Dear [Agent],
Fourteen year old ISABELLE JOHNS never dreamed her mind was capable of shooting feathers into a dartboard, let alone unlocking a prison cell.
Isabelle didn't think giving up her love of drawing would switch off her imagination, yet six months later, she struggles at school and is unable to draw. Now she must trust two complete strangers to help awaken her lost ability. Yet these are no ordinary strangers - each has a glowing silver strand of hair and can manipulate energy using their mind.
Restoring her imagination proves trickier than just completing three tests. No told her she’d dodge death and challenge a dragon. When things don’t go according to plan, Isabelle and her mentors are imprisoned as enemies of the hollow earth. Now she faces her most important test and must use her imagination to escape. In a world drenched with magic and the unexpected, Isabelle must decide if the risks are worth the destiny awaiting her in the underground city.
The Silver Strand is a 60,000 word young adult fantasy novel, filled with fairy-tale twists, a strange new world and unexpected challenges. It follows Isabelle's adventurous journey to conquer the wounds of her past, and to reawaken the magic in her mind. I am currently working on a second book about Isabelle and her study at Mastermind Academy within the hollow earth.
As per your submission guidelines, you will find X pages below. Thank you for your time, I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Fourteen year old ISABELLE JOHNS never dreamed her mind was capable of shooting feathers into a dartboard, let alone unlocking a prison cell.
Isabelle didn't think giving up her love of drawing would switch off her imagination, yet six months later, she struggles at school and is unable to draw. Now she must trust two complete strangers to help awaken her lost ability. Yet these are no ordinary strangers - each has a glowing silver strand of hair and can manipulate energy using their mind.
Restoring her imagination proves trickier than just completing three tests. No told her she’d dodge death and challenge a dragon. When things don’t go according to plan, Isabelle and her mentors are imprisoned as enemies of the hollow earth. Now she faces her most important test and must use her imagination to escape. In a world drenched with magic and the unexpected, Isabelle must decide if the risks are worth the destiny awaiting her in the underground city.
The Silver Strand is a 60,000 word young adult fantasy novel, filled with fairy-tale twists, a strange new world and unexpected challenges. It follows Isabelle's adventurous journey to conquer the wounds of her past, and to reawaken the magic in her mind. I am currently working on a second book about Isabelle and her study at Mastermind Academy within the hollow earth.
As per your submission guidelines, you will find X pages below. Thank you for your time, I look forward to hearing from you soon.
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