Dear Ms. Meadows,
My middle grade fantasy novel, A PRINCE FOR DENNIWIG COUNTY, is complete at 41,000 words.
The easiest ways to become a prince are to be the son of a king or marry a princess. Neither of those options are available for 12-year old Timothy, a miserable orphan at The Reformatory Home for Unwanted Boys.
Timothy spends his days scrubbing sewers and cleaning grimy toilets with his toothbrush. Becoming a prince is an impossibility he does not even consider until he stumbles into Denniwig County, a magical land filled with goblins, castles, and wizards. Timothy inadvertently enters a competition to become Denniwig County’s new prince. Timothy has to prove his worthiness by completing a series of increasingly difficult challenges. In between those challenges, Timothy must contend with the jealous son of a Duke, a suspicious headmistress, and the mystery of the previous prince’s disappearance. Timothy has no idea how he could possibly succeed, but that is not going to stop him from trying.
I’d welcome the opportunity to send you a larger sample of my work. Thank you for your time and consideration.
A brown, gooey substance sat on the plate in front of Timothy. He poked it with his spoon. The entire pile quivered. He scooped the tiniest of bites onto his spoon and inched it towards his mouth. His stomach knotted as the disgusting stuff got closer.
A bug wriggled out of the goo and a fit of nausea shook Timothy. He dropped his spoon. It clanged against his plate, an enormous racket in the otherwise silent dining hall. His dinner sprayed across the table.
Everyone in the room stopped eating and waited for disaster to unfold.
The click-clack of shoes smacking against the rickety wood floor let Timothy know the noise had been noticed by the worst of the worst, the awful headmistress, Ms. Pritchard. She stopped right behind his chair and Timothy felt her angry breath on his neck.
“Apparently, Timothy thinks he’s too good to eat his turnip stew like everyone else. He’d rather sling it all over the table like a messy little baby,” Ms. Pritchard said in a horribly shrill voice that sounded like nails scraping across a chalk board. Timothy cringed.
There was a smattering of nervous laughter from the other boys in the dining hall. They were afraid to not laugh when Ms. Pritchard ridiculed someone else.
“There was...” Timothy started to defend himself. Ms. Pritchard flicked his ear to silence him.
“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” she snapped.
The headmistress’s hand reached out, quick as a snake, and snatched his plate.