Oct 2, 2009


Click here to read the original query. (Originally posted as Vanishing Iron)
Click here to read the first three pages.

Dear agent,

When Felicity Johnson disguises herself as a sexy vampire when she and her friends attend DragonCon, the convention in Atlanta that celebrates everything sci-fi and fantasy, she attracts two men: Blake, the rugged attorney that turns poor Felicity into a lovesick bumbling idiot, and Gabriel, the undisclosed vampire who would much rather just turn her and keep her as a pet.

Felicity is thrilled to be spending some alone time with Blake, but when Christian, her best friend, doesn’t show up at the planned meeting spot, she decides to search for him. She stumbles into a crime scene, and at the center is the last person seen with Christian--dead. Once the initial shock wears off, her only question is “Where is Christian?” No one else believes he is in danger, but to Felicity it is as obvious as the blood on the pavement. The one person she can depend on is the one person she can’t find: now she must save him, although she doesn’t have a clue how or from what.

She begins to falls for Blake as he and his team work overtime trying to find Christian and to keep Felicity safe. Gabriel has different plans in mind, leading Felicity to the most difficult choice of all. The desperate search for her best friend puts Felicity in danger of two things, death and love, neither of which she has time for.

IRON THIRST is a suspenseful urban fantasy novel complete at 80,000 words, and is the first in an open ended series. I am a member of Sisters in Crime and Atlanta Writer’s Club.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.



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.


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.


While every journey must come to an end, very few end- or begin for that matter- in a psych ward. My literary novel, STORIES ENDING, does both. I wrote STORIES ENDING because, after having a manic experience in my early twenties, I really wanted to really spell out manic thought process to show that it is not an instantaneous transformation, but instead reflects internal and external pressures leading up to the experience.

On September 11th 2001, while the rest of the world mourns a tragedy, twenty one year old Livie Sivadier is admitted to a psych ward. Earlier that spring, she has no idea that she is heading down a path to madness. All she knows was that she wants to escape- from both the confines of her home town, Irvine, and the depression that’s hung over her since her fiancĂ© dumped her two months before in a crowded coffee shop. After an argument with her controlling parents, Livie travels up the coast of California to seek out her estranged sister Darlene and winds up on the doorstep of a mansion. While living at the hippie, communal “Lake House”, Darlene and her creative friends inspire Livie to pursue her lifelong dream of writing, but the dream turns nightmare when the lines between fiction and reality begin to blur. Eventually, she comes to believe that her own protagonist is real and that the precarious balance of her own reality will crumble if she does not do something drastic.

Complete at 90,000 words, STORIES ENDING explores the dark potential of the human mind, but also its remarkable potential to heal. I am proposing my book to several agents, but I still appreciate very much the time you have taken to read this letter and I hope to hear from you at your earliest convenience.