So far, I've read 60 of the 107 queries that graced my submission box last Thursday. And I'd like to say a few things!
1. I'm honored that each of you made the decision to submit. It means two things--that you see value in this contest/exercise, and that you trust me. Neither of these is small, and I don't take that value and trust for granted. So allow me right now to say THANK YOU to each of you who entered.
2. There are an awful lot of THOUGHTFUL, SERIOUS writers who sent in their queries. Some of you hold MFAs or have published short stories. Others of you are stay-at-home moms (or dads!) or graduate students or are working full time outside of the writing world. Many of you took the time to research Danielle's tastes/what she represents, and most of you (so far) know exactly what you write and where it belongs on bookshelves (this is sort of a big deal).
I'm impressed. And, again, I feel fortunate that each of you entrusted your queries to me.
3. Of course, regardless of all this goodness, my "no" pile grew quickly from the beginning. I know you've all heard a hundred times how agents will read just so much and know right away whether or not they want to read more, and you scratch your collective heads wondering what, exactly, this means. After having done years of contests here on the blog, I finally get this. And reading actual query letters has made it even clearer to me. When you know what you're looking for and you know what you feel "good writing" looks like, the "nos" come quickly.
The "maybes", which everything else falls into during the first pass, are a little trickier. Once I get through all 107 queries, I will have to go back to my "maybe" list and cull my 5 winners. I think there's only been one entry so far that I'm pretty sure is going to be a "yes".
It's quite a process. And I really (really really really really) don't know how agents do this all. The. Time. (I certainly can see why they save it for last, since taking care of their clients' needs has to come first!) I'm absolutely certain that I could never be an agent. :)
4. For the record: I am not "Miss Snark". (Yep. Lots of queries addressed to Miss Snark.) I am Authoress. The story of this blog's title (i.e., why I call myself Miss Snark's first VICTIM) can be found HERE.
Here's where I tell you what you've also heard before: IT ONLY TAKES ONE YES. I know you know this, but somehow, it helps to hear it a lot. Because rejection is hard. And you can't pursue a career as an author without getting REALLY GOOD at being rejected.
So please bear that in mind when I post the winning entries next week. And please also know that I will not be able to offer you reasons for my rejection of your entry. I'm doing my best to choose queries and (especially) first pages that are strong, and that Danielle will find appealing. If yours isn't one of them, KEEP QUERYING WIDELY.
(Also, if Danielle is on your to-be-queried list, please do still send your query to her if yours isn't chosen for Query Quagmire. While I do have a good idea of her tastes and what she's looking for, I'm certainly not going to get it 100 percent right. So don't cross her off--she's an amazing agent and you deserve a chance for her to see your work.)
Again, THANK YOU FOR ENTERING! I feel so connected to each one of you as I read your entries. We are all of us, as always, in this journey together.
Onward we go!
Miss Snark's First Victim
Showing posts with label Query Contest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Query Contest. Show all posts
Monday, September 11, 2017
Monday, September 4, 2017
Call For Submissions: QUERY QUAGMIRE
You asked for it -- you're getting it!
Over the years, I've stayed away from query critiques, for the reasons stated in this post from 2009, with the notable exception of the 2009 Query Contest with Jodi Meadows. (If you'll click on that link and look at the list of winners from that contest, you'll notice one of them is #15, A LONG WAY HOME. That is none other than an early, pre-published, pre-agented version of Beth Revis's ACROSS THE UNIVERSE. True story! But I digress.)
I've had numerous requests, though, so I've finally decided to go with it, mostly because I have a WONDERFUL AGENT WHO IS WILLING AND EAGER TO TAKE PART.
Here's how it works:
1. On Thursday, September 7, at noon EDT, submissions will open for your ONE-PAGE QUERY LETTER (single-spaced) plus the first 250 words of your manuscript (double-spaced). THE FOLLOWING GENRES WILL BE ACCEPTED:
Over the years, I've stayed away from query critiques, for the reasons stated in this post from 2009, with the notable exception of the 2009 Query Contest with Jodi Meadows. (If you'll click on that link and look at the list of winners from that contest, you'll notice one of them is #15, A LONG WAY HOME. That is none other than an early, pre-published, pre-agented version of Beth Revis's ACROSS THE UNIVERSE. True story! But I digress.)
I've had numerous requests, though, so I've finally decided to go with it, mostly because I have a WONDERFUL AGENT WHO IS WILLING AND EAGER TO TAKE PART.
Here's how it works:
1. On Thursday, September 7, at noon EDT, submissions will open for your ONE-PAGE QUERY LETTER (single-spaced) plus the first 250 words of your manuscript (double-spaced). THE FOLLOWING GENRES WILL BE ACCEPTED:
- YA -- all genres
- MG -- all genres
- Women's Fiction
- Mystery
2. The submission window will remain open for 24 hours. I WILL ACCEPT ALL SUBMISSIONS THAT COME IN DURING THIS TIME. THERE WILL BE NO LOTTERY.
3. From these submissions, I will choose FIVE queries that I think will capture my agent's interest.
4. I will post the 5 winning queries on TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19. At this time, the entries will be open to public critique, and my lovely agent will be reading and critiquing each one, to let the author know why she would or would not want to read more.
5. Note: YOUR MANUSCRIPT MUST BE COMPLETE AND QUERY-READY. No incomplete manuscripts. No first drafts.
6. This contest is open to non-agented writers only.
This is an excellent learning opportunity for all aspiring authors, even if you don't have an entry in the contest! It's always a blessing to get a peek inside an agent's head during the querying process. I'm hoping that, by vetting the entries ahead of time, I will come up with 5 plausible query-reading scenarios, so that the agent feedback received isn't "I don't represent this genre", but will actually be more specific and helpful.
All-righty, then! Polish your queries and proofread your first pages. And if you have any questions, leave them in the comment box below, or accost me on Twitter!
All-righty, then! Polish your queries and proofread your first pages. And if you have any questions, leave them in the comment box below, or accost me on Twitter!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Some Clarification, With Love
Rest assured that, once my brandnewshiny blog is up and running next year, all the information you need will be at your cute lil' fingertips. In the meantime, I'm going to answer a couple of questions that were posed to me via email, since the answers are something you'll all benefit by hearing.
1. Concerning the 1000-Word critiques: I don't understand why people should redact and then resubmit, if entering the secret agent contests. Could you explain.
Yep. It isn't about agents or "getting discovered" or Authoress deciding to make life difficult. It's about time and effort sacrificed by the critters. And it's also about getting feedback on the same writing, twice. Close together.
When you enter your work into ANYTHING on this blog--contest or non-contest--you are receiving (hopefully valuable) feedback. If you enter a Secret Agent contest, get feedback, and then very next week the SAME WORK is posted in the 1000-word critique (albeit a slightly longer version), several things may happen:
Well, it might be. Or it might not. The policy stands. In all things (and I really mean this) I strive for fairness. We ALL want our work read. We ALL crave helpful feedback. And with the limited slots available, we need to be gracious and patient and all that warm fuzzy stuff, for the sake of allowing as many folks as possible the opportunity for public critique.
2. You had a query contest, which basically focused on the query, the 250 were tacked on I believe for the agent's pleasure if she wanted to read more. Many of us aren't used to or need critique help with their queries and therefore entered hoping to learn from the process (I did). Basically, I don't see the logical correlation to the secret agent contests.
When did I promise to be logical? *grin*
Honestly, I've had lots of questions, via email and comment box, concerning the rules of re-submitting (for those of you who were in the query contest). My decisions have been based, once again, on fairness, and also on the genres represented by specific Secret Agents. The reason I restricted entry during the Ginger Clark round is because she represents fantasy and science fiction, which SCADS of you are writing. Uber-scads, even. And I wanted to make it a tiny bit easier for some new SF/F blood to get in the game.
This time around, we're dealing with a non-SF/F agent. Therefore, if you were in the query contest with Jodi Meadows and you would like to submit your work to next week's Secret Agent contest, you may do so.
In future, there will be no delineation between a Secret Agent contest and a Query contest (if I ever host another one). It's important for folks to step back so that others can step forward. Like a dance. Or a fencing match.
My closing remarks (and please don't take them amiss): The rules are the rules. They're given lots of thought, I promise. It's all about equity. And I don't mind clarifying things or reading suggestions from time to time. But in the end? The rules are the rules. I need you to honor them, abide by them. It will make everybody's ride that much smoother.
And if it makes you feel better? I have to follow them, too. Not that I could submit my work in a fair manner at this point! No, I've been sitting back WRITHING in my seat, dying to enter. Imagine the pain of missing out on comments from Ginger Clark (fantasy! sci/fi!) and KNOWING my loss. Imagine sitting on my hands while Lauren MacLeod (I LOVE this agent!) left her wonderful critiques.
I'm not whining. I'm just...saying. I strive for integrity. And I want all of you to have the best experience possible here.
That's it, really. That, and the fact that you're a stinkin' awesome group of writers. But I've told you that before.
1. Concerning the 1000-Word critiques: I don't understand why people should redact and then resubmit, if entering the secret agent contests. Could you explain.
Yep. It isn't about agents or "getting discovered" or Authoress deciding to make life difficult. It's about time and effort sacrificed by the critters. And it's also about getting feedback on the same writing, twice. Close together.
When you enter your work into ANYTHING on this blog--contest or non-contest--you are receiving (hopefully valuable) feedback. If you enter a Secret Agent contest, get feedback, and then very next week the SAME WORK is posted in the 1000-word critique (albeit a slightly longer version), several things may happen:
- The same critters will leave the same feedback, which is useless to you as a writer.
- The critters will recognize the work and feel annoyed, and not leave any feedback, which is equally useless.
- The feedback you received during the Secret Agent contest will lead you to changes that will take longer to accomplish than the few days that will pass before your "number" comes up in the 1000-word critique.
- You are allowing another aspiring author who has NOT had recent feedback to receive some.
- You are allowing YOURSELF time to make edits in your work, so that the feedback you eventually receive in the 1000-word critique is more relevant.
Well, it might be. Or it might not. The policy stands. In all things (and I really mean this) I strive for fairness. We ALL want our work read. We ALL crave helpful feedback. And with the limited slots available, we need to be gracious and patient and all that warm fuzzy stuff, for the sake of allowing as many folks as possible the opportunity for public critique.
2. You had a query contest, which basically focused on the query, the 250 were tacked on I believe for the agent's pleasure if she wanted to read more. Many of us aren't used to or need critique help with their queries and therefore entered hoping to learn from the process (I did). Basically, I don't see the logical correlation to the secret agent contests.
When did I promise to be logical? *grin*
Honestly, I've had lots of questions, via email and comment box, concerning the rules of re-submitting (for those of you who were in the query contest). My decisions have been based, once again, on fairness, and also on the genres represented by specific Secret Agents. The reason I restricted entry during the Ginger Clark round is because she represents fantasy and science fiction, which SCADS of you are writing. Uber-scads, even. And I wanted to make it a tiny bit easier for some new SF/F blood to get in the game.
This time around, we're dealing with a non-SF/F agent. Therefore, if you were in the query contest with Jodi Meadows and you would like to submit your work to next week's Secret Agent contest, you may do so.
In future, there will be no delineation between a Secret Agent contest and a Query contest (if I ever host another one). It's important for folks to step back so that others can step forward. Like a dance. Or a fencing match.
My closing remarks (and please don't take them amiss): The rules are the rules. They're given lots of thought, I promise. It's all about equity. And I don't mind clarifying things or reading suggestions from time to time. But in the end? The rules are the rules. I need you to honor them, abide by them. It will make everybody's ride that much smoother.
And if it makes you feel better? I have to follow them, too. Not that I could submit my work in a fair manner at this point! No, I've been sitting back WRITHING in my seat, dying to enter. Imagine the pain of missing out on comments from Ginger Clark (fantasy! sci/fi!) and KNOWING my loss. Imagine sitting on my hands while Lauren MacLeod (I LOVE this agent!) left her wonderful critiques.
I'm not whining. I'm just...saying. I strive for integrity. And I want all of you to have the best experience possible here.
That's it, really. That, and the fact that you're a stinkin' awesome group of writers. But I've told you that before.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Query Contest Winners
Well, the overflow of positive response to our first Query Contest has been AMAZING. Many thanks to those of you who have poked me in the ribs over the past year or so about hosting one.
Without further banter, here are the "winning queries," chosen by the illustrious Jodi Meadows:
MS. MEADOWS WOULD LIKE TO READ A PARTIAL FROM THE FOLLOWING ENTRIES:
#9 NORMAL
#14 TRANSSIBERIAN
#15 LONG WAY HOME
#26 BETWEEN HELL AND OHIO
#50 FISSURED
Winners, please email me at facelesswords(at)gmail.com for submission instructions.
MS. MEADOWS WOULD LIKE TO READ THE FULL FROM THE FOLLOWING:
#43 A SOUL FOR TROUBLE
Again, please email me for submission instructions.
Congratulations! And an enthusiastic public THANK YOU to Jodi, who is a true delight.
My apologies for not creating link-ables in this post; I've got a busy morning. Coming tomorrow: Really Big News from a reader!
Without further banter, here are the "winning queries," chosen by the illustrious Jodi Meadows:
MS. MEADOWS WOULD LIKE TO READ A PARTIAL FROM THE FOLLOWING ENTRIES:
#9 NORMAL
#14 TRANSSIBERIAN
#15 LONG WAY HOME
#26 BETWEEN HELL AND OHIO
#50 FISSURED
Winners, please email me at facelesswords(at)gmail.com for submission instructions.
MS. MEADOWS WOULD LIKE TO READ THE FULL FROM THE FOLLOWING:
#43 A SOUL FOR TROUBLE
Again, please email me for submission instructions.
Congratulations! And an enthusiastic public THANK YOU to Jodi, who is a true delight.
My apologies for not creating link-ables in this post; I've got a busy morning. Coming tomorrow: Really Big News from a reader!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
58 Query Contest
"Refuge" is an 83,000 word women’s/mainstream novel about a man who must reconcile his adult life with an impulsive teenage decision. When shy Wes Darino is pressured by his parents to find a girlfriend for his impending graduation festivities he announces he is gay. It is a claim they cannot tolerate and Wes uses their rejection as an excuse to move out. For a decade he lives alone except for his four canine companions, training and exhibiting them at dog shows and obedience trials. When repeated attacks from an unknown source are made on his dogs and home the police recommend he find other accommodation for the duration of the investigation, so he takes refuge working at a remote northern fishing lodge. There he encounters new dangers as well as the unexpected possibility of romance. As he contends with both he learns that not all decisions are irrevocable, and who he is means more than who he was.
An optional section at the end of the book includes several of the protagonist's favorite wilderness-cooking recipes.
I am a member of the Federation of B.C. Writers and the Langley Writers' Guild and for the past ten years have been writing for various Canadian magazines. Two of my non-fiction pieces were shortlisted as finalists in recent Surrey International Conference writing contests. My experience working with purebred dogs and owning a dog show business, plus years of wilderness living provide both background information for the story and exposure to a potential audience.
I look forward to your response.
Warm regards,
[Contact Info]
CHAPTER 1
A premonition would have helped — some kind of warning that death was within arm's reach. Then when I found the broken padlock I might have been better prepared for what happened next. But there was nothing. Of course there wasn’t. My life is never that simple.
*
Darcy’s whining reminds me of the three other dogs. As the geriatric member of our Doberman clan he has the privilege of sleeping in my bedroom but the garage doubles as a makeshift kennel for the others. Most mornings our usual routine is to let them out first thing. Instead, this morning I started a quick shovelling of the mounds of crusted wet snow on the back patio.
“Not yet, Darcy. I’ve gotta get rid of this before the others stampede around in it.”
In the dim pre-dawn light I ram the shovel into the heavy snow and force it ahead of me, pushing until the mass is piled into the back corner of the yard. That’s when I notice the back gate is standing slightly ajar.
“What the heck!” Not only is the gate open, but there are two different sets of tracks in the snow, one of footprints alongside another of tire treads, leading from the gate to the garage’s side door. And there on the concrete stair I find the discarded padlock.
“Ah, shit! Why didn’t the dogs--?” Suddenly I’m struggling to breathe. I remember the barking last night; remember ignoring it, thinking the dogs were complaining about a prowling coyote.
An optional section at the end of the book includes several of the protagonist's favorite wilderness-cooking recipes.
I am a member of the Federation of B.C. Writers and the Langley Writers' Guild and for the past ten years have been writing for various Canadian magazines. Two of my non-fiction pieces were shortlisted as finalists in recent Surrey International Conference writing contests. My experience working with purebred dogs and owning a dog show business, plus years of wilderness living provide both background information for the story and exposure to a potential audience.
I look forward to your response.
Warm regards,
[Contact Info]
CHAPTER 1
A premonition would have helped — some kind of warning that death was within arm's reach. Then when I found the broken padlock I might have been better prepared for what happened next. But there was nothing. Of course there wasn’t. My life is never that simple.
*
Darcy’s whining reminds me of the three other dogs. As the geriatric member of our Doberman clan he has the privilege of sleeping in my bedroom but the garage doubles as a makeshift kennel for the others. Most mornings our usual routine is to let them out first thing. Instead, this morning I started a quick shovelling of the mounds of crusted wet snow on the back patio.
“Not yet, Darcy. I’ve gotta get rid of this before the others stampede around in it.”
In the dim pre-dawn light I ram the shovel into the heavy snow and force it ahead of me, pushing until the mass is piled into the back corner of the yard. That’s when I notice the back gate is standing slightly ajar.
“What the heck!” Not only is the gate open, but there are two different sets of tracks in the snow, one of footprints alongside another of tire treads, leading from the gate to the garage’s side door. And there on the concrete stair I find the discarded padlock.
“Ah, shit! Why didn’t the dogs--?” Suddenly I’m struggling to breathe. I remember the barking last night; remember ignoring it, thinking the dogs were complaining about a prowling coyote.
57 Query Contest
Dear [agent],
I am seeking representation for my 70,000-word urban fantasy, THE INFERNAL FAMILY.
Like all half-demon infernals, Johann Stark is barred from churches, the name of God burns his tongue and his killing instincts kick in at the least provocation. Unlike his murderous kin, Johann is determined to stay human: his rag-tag family of infernal fosterlings depend on his protection. As long as his family are happy and safe, Johann can believe he’s risen above his infernal heritage to become a good person.
Then a pissed-off angel crashes his territory on a mission to annihilate all infernals. He sets Johann an ultimatum. Hand over his eleven-year-old foster daughter, whose powers the angel can use to ID and toast infernals, or the angel will butcher his way through Johann’s family and take her anyway.
When Johann hands over his daughter he makes himself a promise. He’s coming back to save her. Whatever the cost. He’ll kill angels, deal with his hated demonic father and sacrifice what’s left of his humanity to put his family back together.
But if he ever saves his daughter, he may no longer be human enough to be the father his family needs.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
[name/details]
Flash.
It was just sunlight, Johann told himself. He didn’t jump at flashes any more.
He tossed the cards on the kitchen counter in an arc of white. “You’re cheating. The kids are young and impressionable, you could lure them into a life of crime.”
Kate bit the corner of one card, her smile a half-glimpsed curve like the sun. Johann suspected she nibbled cards to track them as she dealt, unless aces were disproportionately delicious. “My Alix is an angel. I blame your miscreant son for any crime.”
The open window framed a cluttered city skyline burning in the summer sun. Johann liked Bristol -- the steep streets and green places, even the deluges making roads rivers and windows waterfalls. Rain on the roof was the sound of home.
Best of all, nobody had tried to snatch Kate’s daughter Alix. It’d been months since the hunters last struck.
Flash. The mirror was reflecting a glitter from across the street. Like gunmetal.
Johann angled his chair to watch the mirror. Kate was close enough to touch, television babbling in the background. He wasn’t going to scare her over nothing.
It was just -- last time’d been quick. He’d been watching the lights of Portland harbour at dusk, tiny Alix leaning into him for warmth. They’d hit from the road: three men to snatch her, a van to bail out. If Johann’d been tired or drinking or distracted, if he’d left her to walk along the beach, if they’d had five clear seconds --
Flash.
I am seeking representation for my 70,000-word urban fantasy, THE INFERNAL FAMILY.
Like all half-demon infernals, Johann Stark is barred from churches, the name of God burns his tongue and his killing instincts kick in at the least provocation. Unlike his murderous kin, Johann is determined to stay human: his rag-tag family of infernal fosterlings depend on his protection. As long as his family are happy and safe, Johann can believe he’s risen above his infernal heritage to become a good person.
Then a pissed-off angel crashes his territory on a mission to annihilate all infernals. He sets Johann an ultimatum. Hand over his eleven-year-old foster daughter, whose powers the angel can use to ID and toast infernals, or the angel will butcher his way through Johann’s family and take her anyway.
When Johann hands over his daughter he makes himself a promise. He’s coming back to save her. Whatever the cost. He’ll kill angels, deal with his hated demonic father and sacrifice what’s left of his humanity to put his family back together.
But if he ever saves his daughter, he may no longer be human enough to be the father his family needs.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
[name/details]
Flash.
It was just sunlight, Johann told himself. He didn’t jump at flashes any more.
He tossed the cards on the kitchen counter in an arc of white. “You’re cheating. The kids are young and impressionable, you could lure them into a life of crime.”
Kate bit the corner of one card, her smile a half-glimpsed curve like the sun. Johann suspected she nibbled cards to track them as she dealt, unless aces were disproportionately delicious. “My Alix is an angel. I blame your miscreant son for any crime.”
The open window framed a cluttered city skyline burning in the summer sun. Johann liked Bristol -- the steep streets and green places, even the deluges making roads rivers and windows waterfalls. Rain on the roof was the sound of home.
Best of all, nobody had tried to snatch Kate’s daughter Alix. It’d been months since the hunters last struck.
Flash. The mirror was reflecting a glitter from across the street. Like gunmetal.
Johann angled his chair to watch the mirror. Kate was close enough to touch, television babbling in the background. He wasn’t going to scare her over nothing.
It was just -- last time’d been quick. He’d been watching the lights of Portland harbour at dusk, tiny Alix leaning into him for warmth. They’d hit from the road: three men to snatch her, a van to bail out. If Johann’d been tired or drinking or distracted, if he’d left her to walk along the beach, if they’d had five clear seconds --
Flash.
56 Query Contest
Greetings, Ms. Meadows:
My name is ---- . I would sincerely appreciate it if you would give the following query a moment of your time:
She was the best of the best: Captain of Temple City’s Guard, lover to an influential political figure, hand-picked envoy to a foreign nation.
Jennavaise had it all.
And then it was taken from her.
Broken, bound, and near death. That was how she was found at low tide, a continent away from everything she had known. Bereft of belongings, her past, even her name, she woke lacking anything to explain what had befallen her.
She was not alone.
Love took root in her shattered heart through the hands of her saviour, the beautiful healer, Arissa.
Friendship blossomed at the ready smile of Arissa’s apprentice, Sugan.
Intrigue spun its web in the graceful machinations of Bautain, the lovely and deadly Committee member who sought to win her from Arissa.
With their help, she pieced together her missing past, discovered how she had cheated the Hag of an early death. Memories returned like small tokens, precious in their scarcity.
But they were dark, hinting at blood and pain, at terrible loss. She had been a pawn in the hands of those she’d trusted. Having expected to be received as an envoy of peace to the foreign ruler known as the Konig, she had instead been delivered as a war-bride: the opening move of a treasonous plot by one of her own. Abandoned to the hands of this tyrannical ruler, her troops were murdered and Jenna herself was tortured and enslaved.
Five long years had passed at the hands of the Konig. Frustrated by the many pieces still missing to the mystery, Jenna turned her back on the past, believing that part of her life to be over. She was wrong. Little could she have guessed at the monstrous chain of events she put into motion by wedding the fate of her new friends to her own.
On the horizon, beyond the ocean known as the Sorrows, the avaricious reach of an old enemy threatens this new life. With the help of his Red Priest, the Konig had put his mark on her once already, leaving scars that run more than skin deep. Now his greed for conquest imperils the entire nation of her People.
By the vow on her sword, Jenna had once pledged herself to be a protector of the Faith. Now the Mother calls on her to finish what her near death left undone.
She must decide which she values more: the love she discovered on the Blessed Coat, half a world away from all she had once known, or the need to answer Her call.
But will the Goddess allow Jenna to make that choice, or will She make it for her?
JENNA’S SONG is a completed epic fantasy novel. It is the first in a planned trilogy, but can stand on its own.
Previous to this, I completed two short stories as well as a science fiction novel.
Inspiration and research for JENNA'S SONG has been part hobby, part invention. I am a member of a group that recreates realistic, full-contact medieval combat. Sword fighting is well-known to me; I use that knowledge to make combat scenes as realistic as possible. Three years of Reserve Officer Training in college also assists in understanding the relationship between a military commander and her troops.
I would be happy to send you partial or full manuscript of JENNA’S SONG at your request.
Your time and consideration are sincerely appreciated.
You can reach me at: myrebellion@hotmail.com
Thank you,
PREFACE
It was the death of summer, a season which the People called the Mother’s Dance. Languorous warmth gave way to chill, blustery days and the occasional coastal storm, both heralds of winter, the Dance of the Crone.
One roaring example of just such a storm had swept through the prosperous port town of Sisafer the night before Festival, leaving in its wake a tangle of smashed fishing boats and debris. Nets were found strewn across neighbors’ rooftops, missing sheep and goats had to be searched out among the scrubby inland cliffs. What should have been a time of preparation for the coming festivities was spent instead in repairs, cleaning, and the whispered suggestions of omens.
Out on the storm-littered beach, a strange bit of flotsam bobbed gently against the outgoing tide. Cold currents swirled and nudged, tucking the limp body into the boulders as neatly as a doting parent before retreating for deeper ocean. A scavenger crab, questing for tidbits, investigated closer. There was no resistance from the still form, yet something made the tiny creature scuttle away as if stung. In its wake came two strolling humans, incongruous against the lowering brood of sunrise.
‘Foul time for this,’ Sugan complained aloud. The gusting breezes muffled his normally jolly baritone. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be inside with a cup of something hot?’
There was no immediate response from the slender figure ahead. Seemingly oblivious, Arissa continued to walk, stooping every so often to dig in the sand before tossing a wet, wriggling prize into a bag at her waist.
My name is ---- . I would sincerely appreciate it if you would give the following query a moment of your time:
She was the best of the best: Captain of Temple City’s Guard, lover to an influential political figure, hand-picked envoy to a foreign nation.
Jennavaise had it all.
And then it was taken from her.
Broken, bound, and near death. That was how she was found at low tide, a continent away from everything she had known. Bereft of belongings, her past, even her name, she woke lacking anything to explain what had befallen her.
She was not alone.
Love took root in her shattered heart through the hands of her saviour, the beautiful healer, Arissa.
Friendship blossomed at the ready smile of Arissa’s apprentice, Sugan.
Intrigue spun its web in the graceful machinations of Bautain, the lovely and deadly Committee member who sought to win her from Arissa.
With their help, she pieced together her missing past, discovered how she had cheated the Hag of an early death. Memories returned like small tokens, precious in their scarcity.
But they were dark, hinting at blood and pain, at terrible loss. She had been a pawn in the hands of those she’d trusted. Having expected to be received as an envoy of peace to the foreign ruler known as the Konig, she had instead been delivered as a war-bride: the opening move of a treasonous plot by one of her own. Abandoned to the hands of this tyrannical ruler, her troops were murdered and Jenna herself was tortured and enslaved.
Five long years had passed at the hands of the Konig. Frustrated by the many pieces still missing to the mystery, Jenna turned her back on the past, believing that part of her life to be over. She was wrong. Little could she have guessed at the monstrous chain of events she put into motion by wedding the fate of her new friends to her own.
On the horizon, beyond the ocean known as the Sorrows, the avaricious reach of an old enemy threatens this new life. With the help of his Red Priest, the Konig had put his mark on her once already, leaving scars that run more than skin deep. Now his greed for conquest imperils the entire nation of her People.
By the vow on her sword, Jenna had once pledged herself to be a protector of the Faith. Now the Mother calls on her to finish what her near death left undone.
She must decide which she values more: the love she discovered on the Blessed Coat, half a world away from all she had once known, or the need to answer Her call.
But will the Goddess allow Jenna to make that choice, or will She make it for her?
JENNA’S SONG is a completed epic fantasy novel. It is the first in a planned trilogy, but can stand on its own.
Previous to this, I completed two short stories as well as a science fiction novel.
Inspiration and research for JENNA'S SONG has been part hobby, part invention. I am a member of a group that recreates realistic, full-contact medieval combat. Sword fighting is well-known to me; I use that knowledge to make combat scenes as realistic as possible. Three years of Reserve Officer Training in college also assists in understanding the relationship between a military commander and her troops.
I would be happy to send you partial or full manuscript of JENNA’S SONG at your request.
Your time and consideration are sincerely appreciated.
You can reach me at: myrebellion@hotmail.com
Thank you,
PREFACE
It was the death of summer, a season which the People called the Mother’s Dance. Languorous warmth gave way to chill, blustery days and the occasional coastal storm, both heralds of winter, the Dance of the Crone.
One roaring example of just such a storm had swept through the prosperous port town of Sisafer the night before Festival, leaving in its wake a tangle of smashed fishing boats and debris. Nets were found strewn across neighbors’ rooftops, missing sheep and goats had to be searched out among the scrubby inland cliffs. What should have been a time of preparation for the coming festivities was spent instead in repairs, cleaning, and the whispered suggestions of omens.
Out on the storm-littered beach, a strange bit of flotsam bobbed gently against the outgoing tide. Cold currents swirled and nudged, tucking the limp body into the boulders as neatly as a doting parent before retreating for deeper ocean. A scavenger crab, questing for tidbits, investigated closer. There was no resistance from the still form, yet something made the tiny creature scuttle away as if stung. In its wake came two strolling humans, incongruous against the lowering brood of sunrise.
‘Foul time for this,’ Sugan complained aloud. The gusting breezes muffled his normally jolly baritone. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be inside with a cup of something hot?’
There was no immediate response from the slender figure ahead. Seemingly oblivious, Arissa continued to walk, stooping every so often to dig in the sand before tossing a wet, wriggling prize into a bag at her waist.
55 Query Contest
I am seeking representation for my 55,000 word Series Romance, Love In The Spotlight. I’m targeting the Silhouette Special Edition line. I know many authors submit directly to Harlequin, but I believe an agent would be able to help me better guide my career.
When the paparazzi follow Hollywood bad boy Teague Reynolds to sleepy Willowbrook, he hires Kate Riley to pose as his girlfriend for the summer so no one will know why he’s really there. Kate’s desperate for cash to pay off her stepfather’s tax bill. Otherwise, he goes to jail, and her pregnant teenage stepsister is left with no one to care for her but Kate. So Kate reluctantly makes a deal with the handsome devil and flies off to L.A. with the movie star heartthrob. Kate’s determined not to fall for Teague, a gorgeous womanizer like her stepfather. Her mother may be dead, but Kate will never forget the pain he caused her.
Teague is intrigued by beautiful, funny Kate; but he didn’t earn his nickname T-Rex for his romantic ways. He’s left a trail of broken hearts across tinsel town. Teague has worked hard to keep anyone from getting close to his heart. Hell, his own mother gave him up for adoption when he was just one year old. That’s a lifetime of hurt he’ll never get over.
But this jet-setting farce he’s created with Kate is the perfect setup for two wary hearts to find love—until Teague’s secret back in Willowbrook threatens to ruin everything.
I am a member of RWA and my local writer’s group. I’ve had thirty romantic short stories published in the True Confessional magazines in the past two years. Woman’s World magazine published my romantic short story “Picture This” in June 2009.
I’ve attached the first 250 words of my manuscript. Thanks for your time and consideration.
Kate Riley parked her Jeep in front of the restaurant and glared at the old brick building. This is where she’d be spending her summer. Normally, the break from her job as middle school nurse meant a breather from moody tweens and time for a few hot books at the beach. Not this year.
“Thanks for the ride,” Dina said, hopping out, nearly tumbling forward from the weight of her baby belly. “I can find a lift home.”
“Maybe from the baby’s father?” Kate asked. “Ready to tell us who that is?”
Dina rubbed her stomach and shook her head.
“Can your father drive you home?”
“George was gone when I got up.”
Kate’s stepfather was so unreliable. “Out getting a job?”
“Doubt it.” Dina paused. “The boss is in, if you want to ask about that waitress position. It’ll be filled if you wait.”
That’s what Kate was hoping. Working with her step-sister Dina and a bunch of surly teens just might kill her. But Kate did the mental math again. She needed an extra twelve thousand dollars by summer’s end to help a man she couldn’t stand. Why, why, why did she make that promise to her mother before she died?
She leaned against her car, willing herself to go inside and fill out the application. But she was distracted by a tall, handsome man hurrying toward her. He grinned in a practiced way that undoubtedly made women swoon. Dumb women, anyway. “Can you give me a ride?”
When the paparazzi follow Hollywood bad boy Teague Reynolds to sleepy Willowbrook, he hires Kate Riley to pose as his girlfriend for the summer so no one will know why he’s really there. Kate’s desperate for cash to pay off her stepfather’s tax bill. Otherwise, he goes to jail, and her pregnant teenage stepsister is left with no one to care for her but Kate. So Kate reluctantly makes a deal with the handsome devil and flies off to L.A. with the movie star heartthrob. Kate’s determined not to fall for Teague, a gorgeous womanizer like her stepfather. Her mother may be dead, but Kate will never forget the pain he caused her.
Teague is intrigued by beautiful, funny Kate; but he didn’t earn his nickname T-Rex for his romantic ways. He’s left a trail of broken hearts across tinsel town. Teague has worked hard to keep anyone from getting close to his heart. Hell, his own mother gave him up for adoption when he was just one year old. That’s a lifetime of hurt he’ll never get over.
But this jet-setting farce he’s created with Kate is the perfect setup for two wary hearts to find love—until Teague’s secret back in Willowbrook threatens to ruin everything.
I am a member of RWA and my local writer’s group. I’ve had thirty romantic short stories published in the True Confessional magazines in the past two years. Woman’s World magazine published my romantic short story “Picture This” in June 2009.
I’ve attached the first 250 words of my manuscript. Thanks for your time and consideration.
Kate Riley parked her Jeep in front of the restaurant and glared at the old brick building. This is where she’d be spending her summer. Normally, the break from her job as middle school nurse meant a breather from moody tweens and time for a few hot books at the beach. Not this year.
“Thanks for the ride,” Dina said, hopping out, nearly tumbling forward from the weight of her baby belly. “I can find a lift home.”
“Maybe from the baby’s father?” Kate asked. “Ready to tell us who that is?”
Dina rubbed her stomach and shook her head.
“Can your father drive you home?”
“George was gone when I got up.”
Kate’s stepfather was so unreliable. “Out getting a job?”
“Doubt it.” Dina paused. “The boss is in, if you want to ask about that waitress position. It’ll be filled if you wait.”
That’s what Kate was hoping. Working with her step-sister Dina and a bunch of surly teens just might kill her. But Kate did the mental math again. She needed an extra twelve thousand dollars by summer’s end to help a man she couldn’t stand. Why, why, why did she make that promise to her mother before she died?
She leaned against her car, willing herself to go inside and fill out the application. But she was distracted by a tall, handsome man hurrying toward her. He grinned in a practiced way that undoubtedly made women swoon. Dumb women, anyway. “Can you give me a ride?”
54 Query Contest
Dear Ms. Meadows,
Do you remember that house at the end of your block, the one your friends dared you to enter and your parents warned you to stay away from?
Maybe it was a stately mansion haunted by the ghostly victims of a murderous caretaker. Or maybe it was an abandoned hunting cabin tucked away beyond the treeline, housing some deranged killer. Perhaps it was a sand-blasted beach house where the spirits of sailors past still walked upon the foggy shoreline. Whatever the building, every neighborhood has that house upon the hill, a house of mystery and murder. “Crawl” is the tale of one such house in a community not unlike your own.
“Crawl” stands apart from the same-old horror story by giving readers intimate access to the observations and thoughts of the title character, a primitive monster in contemporary times. She roams the close, dark spaces between the walls of a dilapidated Victorian era house, with nothing to keep her company but the vermin she hunts for food and a pile of dusty bones she calls Mother. She is alone in the dark, until one day a young family comes knocking.
Will the creature’s horrific origin be revealed? Will the not-so-wholesome suburban family bring Crawl out into the light or join her down in the darkness? The answers will leave you not only stunned, but questioning the assumptions you’ve harbored all along.
I am currently seeking representation for my debut novel “Crawl,” a horror tale complete at approximately 70,000 words and a recent quarter-finalist submission in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. The subject material in “Crawl” is nearly as dark as the hidden spaces she calls home, so this particular novel is best suited for adult readers.
Thank you for your time and I hope to hear from you soon!
Sincerely,
Her first memory was of Mother. So still, Mother. Always staring, always smiling. Quiet Mother.
She could also remember hearing muffled noises from the Others outside. Screams mostly, sometimes crying. But that was long ago. After a while the sounds had stopped, leaving just her and silent Mother. That was fine. More food for the two of them.
Her room was small and cold and very dark. No windows, no doors she could open. One way in and one way out. The flies and spiders found other ways, yes, but through paths too small even for her.
She had learned to be quicker than those she stalked. Starvation through failure, survival through success. The eight-legged weavers taught her patience. The winged ones preached quickness and vigilance. The hard-backed scavengers showed her that a meal can always be found when you really need it. The creatures of the dark were her teachers, her friends, her food. She turned on them in order to survive.
She grabbed them before they could scurry back into the shadows, back through the cracks in the wall. The spiders, grown fat on flies, squished soft and spindly in her mouth. The flies themselves, helplessly wrapped in silky coats, easily plucked from their captors’ webs. Beetle shells crunched between her teeth. Worms slithered down her throat. They were her prey, she was the hunter. She had no name. Mother had not given her one, silent Mother. If she had a name, it would be for what she did best. It would be for the way she moved on the hunt, the only way she knew how to survive.
If she had a name, it would be Crawl.
Do you remember that house at the end of your block, the one your friends dared you to enter and your parents warned you to stay away from?
Maybe it was a stately mansion haunted by the ghostly victims of a murderous caretaker. Or maybe it was an abandoned hunting cabin tucked away beyond the treeline, housing some deranged killer. Perhaps it was a sand-blasted beach house where the spirits of sailors past still walked upon the foggy shoreline. Whatever the building, every neighborhood has that house upon the hill, a house of mystery and murder. “Crawl” is the tale of one such house in a community not unlike your own.
“Crawl” stands apart from the same-old horror story by giving readers intimate access to the observations and thoughts of the title character, a primitive monster in contemporary times. She roams the close, dark spaces between the walls of a dilapidated Victorian era house, with nothing to keep her company but the vermin she hunts for food and a pile of dusty bones she calls Mother. She is alone in the dark, until one day a young family comes knocking.
Will the creature’s horrific origin be revealed? Will the not-so-wholesome suburban family bring Crawl out into the light or join her down in the darkness? The answers will leave you not only stunned, but questioning the assumptions you’ve harbored all along.
I am currently seeking representation for my debut novel “Crawl,” a horror tale complete at approximately 70,000 words and a recent quarter-finalist submission in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. The subject material in “Crawl” is nearly as dark as the hidden spaces she calls home, so this particular novel is best suited for adult readers.
Thank you for your time and I hope to hear from you soon!
Sincerely,
Her first memory was of Mother. So still, Mother. Always staring, always smiling. Quiet Mother.
She could also remember hearing muffled noises from the Others outside. Screams mostly, sometimes crying. But that was long ago. After a while the sounds had stopped, leaving just her and silent Mother. That was fine. More food for the two of them.
Her room was small and cold and very dark. No windows, no doors she could open. One way in and one way out. The flies and spiders found other ways, yes, but through paths too small even for her.
She had learned to be quicker than those she stalked. Starvation through failure, survival through success. The eight-legged weavers taught her patience. The winged ones preached quickness and vigilance. The hard-backed scavengers showed her that a meal can always be found when you really need it. The creatures of the dark were her teachers, her friends, her food. She turned on them in order to survive.
She grabbed them before they could scurry back into the shadows, back through the cracks in the wall. The spiders, grown fat on flies, squished soft and spindly in her mouth. The flies themselves, helplessly wrapped in silky coats, easily plucked from their captors’ webs. Beetle shells crunched between her teeth. Worms slithered down her throat. They were her prey, she was the hunter. She had no name. Mother had not given her one, silent Mother. If she had a name, it would be for what she did best. It would be for the way she moved on the hunt, the only way she knew how to survive.
If she had a name, it would be Crawl.
53 Query Contest
XXXX X XXXX,
I contacted you after your interview with mediabistro, and I assume you are enjoying the role of agent vs. XXXXXX--given how often your name ticks up on PublishersMarketPlace.com. At that time, you kindly suggested I send you a query when I completed my young adult manuscript. I’m hopeful that Roman Magic, a DaVinci Code style mystery/suspense with magic will perk your interest and passion. The characters can easily adapt into a series format—all involving magical mysteries with clues, history, exotic locations, and mystery style twists. I am submitting with multiple agents.
XXX XXXXXXXX, author/teacher /editor at Balzer and Bray graciously offered that I mention her name. I wrote this manuscript from start to finish in her mediabistro.com class and then worked with an editor who is a graduate of IA Writer’s Program.
Fifteen-year-old Eve and her eleven-year-old brother Kai arrive in Rome to find that their parents are missing. Meanwhile, people are dying in ritual sacrifices within the famous sites of Rome. Randon, a seventeen-year-old boy whose father has also disappeared, joins Eve and Kai as they follow clues left by their parents in an attempt to unravel the mysterious killings and reunite their families.
Eve also discovers that her parents, rather than being anthropologists, as she has always believed, are secretly paranormal investigators with magical powers. Their most recent case involved the ghoul Erichtho, who has captured them in order to exploit their powers for her murderous rituals. As Erichtho’s rituals become more powerful and the sacrifices more horrific, the clock pushes the intense action to the final confrontation.
Eve’s must use her wit and tenacity to solve the clues left by her parents and find new ones at Rome’s famous sites. She will need her new magical powers too, once she learns how to use them. Her efforts culminate in a final battle at the Pantheon, where she is joined by Randon and Kai, two spirit guides—Randon’s mystical wolf and her own dove, the goddesses Isis and Minerva, and the angel St. Michael from Castl Sant d’Angelo. Michelangelo’s Pieta comes to life, ghostly Christian martyrs rise from their graves, and an army of gladiators and lions from the Coliseum all come to Eve’s aid in the climactic Narnia type battle scene. In the end, however it comes down to Eve’s ability to fit the pieces together and make the difficult choice.
Total manuscript is 54,133 words in length and pages can reach you with a click. Isn't technology amazing?
Recent biography:
XXX XXXXXX, author, young adult mediabistro.com class Jan-April.09
AZ State's Desert Nights, Rising Stars writers workshop, Michael A Stackpole, author, small group instructor Feb.09
Univ of IA's Summer Writing Workshops, weekend event with Brett Anthony Johnston, author and currently with Harvard and a National Book Award winner July.09
Mediabistro class with Nicole Bokat, author, nominated for a Hemingway/PEN award and Janet Heidinger Kofka Prize for Fiction award. 2008
Roman Magic
Forward Flash – Chapter 20
Dec. 20th - Santa Maria of the Angels and God’s Martyrs
Rome, Italy
“Kai, stay here.” Eve’s brother wore his obstinate face that said, “Don’t mess with me.”
“Mom and Dad are in there being used in some kind of ritual that kills people. I’m not waiting out here.”
Randon, two years older with one year of magic under his belt said, “He’ll just follow us in.”
Eve bit her lip and nodded. They crept into the dark church. Luminous blue light arched over a ritual circle, increasing in size and intensity as it fed on those within.
Fodder for the feeding, and bound with vines, Eve’s parents and Randon’s father slumped at equidistant points inside the circle. Wicked, sharp thorns sprouted from the vines, piercing their parents’ bodies. They convulsed with agony. The nightmare scene froze Eve in place.
Inside the circle stood a tall, pallid, grotesque ghoul, supporting in her powerful arms an older man. As Eve watched, his baldhead fell back. He blinked and stared at her. Blood dripped from a fresh cut across his neck, staining his suit, trailing down and mixing with the blood her parents shed.
Eve’s stomach heaved at the disgusting scene and the enormity of her task. She forced it to stay down—Eve didn’t have time to get sick. She’d just found out about magic, and she’d just found out that her parents were wizard investigators of the paranormal.
I contacted you after your interview with mediabistro, and I assume you are enjoying the role of agent vs. XXXXXX--given how often your name ticks up on PublishersMarketPlace.com. At that time, you kindly suggested I send you a query when I completed my young adult manuscript. I’m hopeful that Roman Magic, a DaVinci Code style mystery/suspense with magic will perk your interest and passion. The characters can easily adapt into a series format—all involving magical mysteries with clues, history, exotic locations, and mystery style twists. I am submitting with multiple agents.
XXX XXXXXXXX, author/teacher /editor at Balzer and Bray graciously offered that I mention her name. I wrote this manuscript from start to finish in her mediabistro.com class and then worked with an editor who is a graduate of IA Writer’s Program.
Fifteen-year-old Eve and her eleven-year-old brother Kai arrive in Rome to find that their parents are missing. Meanwhile, people are dying in ritual sacrifices within the famous sites of Rome. Randon, a seventeen-year-old boy whose father has also disappeared, joins Eve and Kai as they follow clues left by their parents in an attempt to unravel the mysterious killings and reunite their families.
Eve also discovers that her parents, rather than being anthropologists, as she has always believed, are secretly paranormal investigators with magical powers. Their most recent case involved the ghoul Erichtho, who has captured them in order to exploit their powers for her murderous rituals. As Erichtho’s rituals become more powerful and the sacrifices more horrific, the clock pushes the intense action to the final confrontation.
Eve’s must use her wit and tenacity to solve the clues left by her parents and find new ones at Rome’s famous sites. She will need her new magical powers too, once she learns how to use them. Her efforts culminate in a final battle at the Pantheon, where she is joined by Randon and Kai, two spirit guides—Randon’s mystical wolf and her own dove, the goddesses Isis and Minerva, and the angel St. Michael from Castl Sant d’Angelo. Michelangelo’s Pieta comes to life, ghostly Christian martyrs rise from their graves, and an army of gladiators and lions from the Coliseum all come to Eve’s aid in the climactic Narnia type battle scene. In the end, however it comes down to Eve’s ability to fit the pieces together and make the difficult choice.
Total manuscript is 54,133 words in length and pages can reach you with a click. Isn't technology amazing?
Recent biography:
XXX XXXXXX, author, young adult mediabistro.com class Jan-April.09
AZ State's Desert Nights, Rising Stars writers workshop, Michael A Stackpole, author, small group instructor Feb.09
Univ of IA's Summer Writing Workshops, weekend event with Brett Anthony Johnston, author and currently with Harvard and a National Book Award winner July.09
Mediabistro class with Nicole Bokat, author, nominated for a Hemingway/PEN award and Janet Heidinger Kofka Prize for Fiction award. 2008
Roman Magic
Forward Flash – Chapter 20
Dec. 20th - Santa Maria of the Angels and God’s Martyrs
Rome, Italy
“Kai, stay here.” Eve’s brother wore his obstinate face that said, “Don’t mess with me.”
“Mom and Dad are in there being used in some kind of ritual that kills people. I’m not waiting out here.”
Randon, two years older with one year of magic under his belt said, “He’ll just follow us in.”
Eve bit her lip and nodded. They crept into the dark church. Luminous blue light arched over a ritual circle, increasing in size and intensity as it fed on those within.
Fodder for the feeding, and bound with vines, Eve’s parents and Randon’s father slumped at equidistant points inside the circle. Wicked, sharp thorns sprouted from the vines, piercing their parents’ bodies. They convulsed with agony. The nightmare scene froze Eve in place.
Inside the circle stood a tall, pallid, grotesque ghoul, supporting in her powerful arms an older man. As Eve watched, his baldhead fell back. He blinked and stared at her. Blood dripped from a fresh cut across his neck, staining his suit, trailing down and mixing with the blood her parents shed.
Eve’s stomach heaved at the disgusting scene and the enormity of her task. She forced it to stay down—Eve didn’t have time to get sick. She’d just found out about magic, and she’d just found out that her parents were wizard investigators of the paranormal.
52 Query Contest
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.
Best Regards,
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.
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.
Best Regards,
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.
51 Query Contest
Dear Ms. Meadows,
Stone Kissed, an 85,000 word paranormal romance, tells the story of how a witch who brings statues to life finds love with a treasure hunter who has a heart of stone.
Delia Forrest talks to statues--and they talk back. She is forced to abandon her business in restoration, cleaning and placement of marble and granite statuary when her ancestral home is damaged by arson, with her father inside. The Forrests can't afford to pay for either his medical care or the reparations to the historic house. When Delia's childhood fantasy returns as very real man with an offer to buy Steward House, he seems like her only hope. Delia's heart and power are seated in the house. To this dismay of the stone faces, marble busts and granite graveyard statues that make up her adoptive family, Delia commits herself to do anything she can to keep the estate--anything Grant Wolverton wants.
Wolverton has a knack for finding the rough diamonds and the treasures in the trash heap. He has built his family's antiques concern into one of the largest auction houses in the country. In Steward House Grant sees a haven for his younger sister and him to retire and find stability. The eccentric and innocent Delia Forrest is an added bonus: To gain her love and trust, he simply must pretend to believe her outrageous claims that the statues of Stewardsville are coming to life--walking in the night, singing in chorus and even making love.
Grant and Delia aren't the only ones vying for control of the Steward Estate. Delia's distant cousin Cecily has dark powers of her own. The succubus will lie, cheat, seduce and steal to possess the Steward Estate, hoping its unlimited powers will remove her need to seduce men to death.
In 1995, I completed the coursework for an M.F.A. in fiction at the University of Arizona. Since then I have been writing professionally: In addition to grants and other contract work, I write fitness and wellness articles for my own business, Radiant Fitness. Through my membership in the Ohio Valley chapter of Romance Writers of America, however, I have found the support and education to tell stories of the power of love.
"Yes. Right there, again, please!” The marble satyr moaned his pleasure as Delia gently scraped away bits of lichen from the groove of his outer thigh.
“Just shut up,” she said, smiling as she reached for her boar’s hair paintbrush. She had been cleaning the lewd little flirt for two hours now, and he was relentless--as were most statues, she had found. This satyr was four feet tall with beautiful lines. He had been sculpted mid-leap, his arms outstretched for the nymph who stood on her own pedestal five yards further around the turn in Mrs. Hansdorf’s garden maze. He was doomed to chase the nymph forever, and her voice taunting him through the hedge didn’t help matters.
“Hurry, Delia. I’ve got an itch,” the nymph called back, forever giggling over her right shoulder.
“You shut up, too,” Delia laughed and returned to the task at hand. The enormous task: from what she could remember of sex, this fellow was disproportionately large. Where Mrs. Hansdorf had found these particular reproductions she didn’t know, but Delia suspected she had commissioned them privately. They were less than forty years old, but already showing the signs of damage from the elements. She knew it would ruin the lines of the maze, but she simply had to convince Mrs. H. either to move them indoors or to build a pergola to shelter them. Delia could get most of the streaks off, but the silver-gray marble was more fragile than it looked.
When her cell phone rang out Mozart’s “Minuet in G” it took Delia a moment to answer.
Stone Kissed, an 85,000 word paranormal romance, tells the story of how a witch who brings statues to life finds love with a treasure hunter who has a heart of stone.
Delia Forrest talks to statues--and they talk back. She is forced to abandon her business in restoration, cleaning and placement of marble and granite statuary when her ancestral home is damaged by arson, with her father inside. The Forrests can't afford to pay for either his medical care or the reparations to the historic house. When Delia's childhood fantasy returns as very real man with an offer to buy Steward House, he seems like her only hope. Delia's heart and power are seated in the house. To this dismay of the stone faces, marble busts and granite graveyard statues that make up her adoptive family, Delia commits herself to do anything she can to keep the estate--anything Grant Wolverton wants.
Wolverton has a knack for finding the rough diamonds and the treasures in the trash heap. He has built his family's antiques concern into one of the largest auction houses in the country. In Steward House Grant sees a haven for his younger sister and him to retire and find stability. The eccentric and innocent Delia Forrest is an added bonus: To gain her love and trust, he simply must pretend to believe her outrageous claims that the statues of Stewardsville are coming to life--walking in the night, singing in chorus and even making love.
Grant and Delia aren't the only ones vying for control of the Steward Estate. Delia's distant cousin Cecily has dark powers of her own. The succubus will lie, cheat, seduce and steal to possess the Steward Estate, hoping its unlimited powers will remove her need to seduce men to death.
In 1995, I completed the coursework for an M.F.A. in fiction at the University of Arizona. Since then I have been writing professionally: In addition to grants and other contract work, I write fitness and wellness articles for my own business, Radiant Fitness. Through my membership in the Ohio Valley chapter of Romance Writers of America, however, I have found the support and education to tell stories of the power of love.
"Yes. Right there, again, please!” The marble satyr moaned his pleasure as Delia gently scraped away bits of lichen from the groove of his outer thigh.
“Just shut up,” she said, smiling as she reached for her boar’s hair paintbrush. She had been cleaning the lewd little flirt for two hours now, and he was relentless--as were most statues, she had found. This satyr was four feet tall with beautiful lines. He had been sculpted mid-leap, his arms outstretched for the nymph who stood on her own pedestal five yards further around the turn in Mrs. Hansdorf’s garden maze. He was doomed to chase the nymph forever, and her voice taunting him through the hedge didn’t help matters.
“Hurry, Delia. I’ve got an itch,” the nymph called back, forever giggling over her right shoulder.
“You shut up, too,” Delia laughed and returned to the task at hand. The enormous task: from what she could remember of sex, this fellow was disproportionately large. Where Mrs. Hansdorf had found these particular reproductions she didn’t know, but Delia suspected she had commissioned them privately. They were less than forty years old, but already showing the signs of damage from the elements. She knew it would ruin the lines of the maze, but she simply had to convince Mrs. H. either to move them indoors or to build a pergola to shelter them. Delia could get most of the streaks off, but the silver-gray marble was more fragile than it looked.
When her cell phone rang out Mozart’s “Minuet in G” it took Delia a moment to answer.
50 Query Contest
Dear Jodi Fabulous,
Some humans can see the fae. McKenzie Lewis can track them.
Ever since the fae discovered her talent ten years ago, McKenzie has fought to balance her normal life with her life as the Court’s best shadow-reader. She has things almost under control until she’s abducted from her college campus by Aren, a charismatic and dangerously attractive fae who’s set on overthrowing the king.
Aren's determined to make McKenzie help him. She’s determined to stay loyal to the Court. After all, this is the man responsible for importing the human technology which has damaged the fae’s magic and led to a bloody civil war. Or so she’s been told.
Aren’s methods of coercion – and his devilish smiles – rattle McKenzie’s faith. Instead of hurting or threatening her, he teaches her his language and claims the Court has told her lies. Now, McKenzie must decide if she can trust the fae she’s falling for or if his seduction is part of a strategy to lure her to his side of the war.
FISSURED is a paranormal romance novel complete at 95,000 words. As per the guidelines on Miss Snark’s First Victim, I’ve pasted the first 250 words below. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Me
My skin tingles a moment before a slash of white light flashes at the front of the lecture hall. I clench my teeth and keep my eyes locked on my scantron, refusing to acknowledge the fae entering my world through that fissure. I don’t give a damn if it’s the king himself, I will pass this test tonight.
I darken in C on my answer sheet then read the next question.
“McKenzie.”
My heart clenches at the familiar voice. It’s Kyol. Why the hell is he here? I’d made it clear I never wanted to see him again.
“McKenzie,” he says. “We must go.” No one else can hear or see him, not even my professor who stands less than two feet to his left. All the other students remain bowed over their desks, completely focused on their final exams. I grip my pencil and bubble in another circle.
Kyol climbs the steps to my fifth row seat. Still not meeting his eyes, I shake my head. Never mind that I’m pissed at him, I’d told him – I’d told all of them – not to call on me this week, but none of the fae understand why I need this degree, not when the Court takes care of all my needs. I’ve tried to explain that I’m human, that I have human dreams and need a human life and that it shouldn’t take anyone eight years to earn a Bachelor of Arts in English. They hadn’t listened. At least, Kyol hadn’t.
Some humans can see the fae. McKenzie Lewis can track them.
Ever since the fae discovered her talent ten years ago, McKenzie has fought to balance her normal life with her life as the Court’s best shadow-reader. She has things almost under control until she’s abducted from her college campus by Aren, a charismatic and dangerously attractive fae who’s set on overthrowing the king.
Aren's determined to make McKenzie help him. She’s determined to stay loyal to the Court. After all, this is the man responsible for importing the human technology which has damaged the fae’s magic and led to a bloody civil war. Or so she’s been told.
Aren’s methods of coercion – and his devilish smiles – rattle McKenzie’s faith. Instead of hurting or threatening her, he teaches her his language and claims the Court has told her lies. Now, McKenzie must decide if she can trust the fae she’s falling for or if his seduction is part of a strategy to lure her to his side of the war.
FISSURED is a paranormal romance novel complete at 95,000 words. As per the guidelines on Miss Snark’s First Victim, I’ve pasted the first 250 words below. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Me
My skin tingles a moment before a slash of white light flashes at the front of the lecture hall. I clench my teeth and keep my eyes locked on my scantron, refusing to acknowledge the fae entering my world through that fissure. I don’t give a damn if it’s the king himself, I will pass this test tonight.
I darken in C on my answer sheet then read the next question.
“McKenzie.”
My heart clenches at the familiar voice. It’s Kyol. Why the hell is he here? I’d made it clear I never wanted to see him again.
“McKenzie,” he says. “We must go.” No one else can hear or see him, not even my professor who stands less than two feet to his left. All the other students remain bowed over their desks, completely focused on their final exams. I grip my pencil and bubble in another circle.
Kyol climbs the steps to my fifth row seat. Still not meeting his eyes, I shake my head. Never mind that I’m pissed at him, I’d told him – I’d told all of them – not to call on me this week, but none of the fae understand why I need this degree, not when the Court takes care of all my needs. I’ve tried to explain that I’m human, that I have human dreams and need a human life and that it shouldn’t take anyone eight years to earn a Bachelor of Arts in English. They hadn’t listened. At least, Kyol hadn’t.
49 Query Contest
Dear Ms. Meadows,
Nikki’s lost her mother and sister to the aliens who massacred all humanity except her hidden, defenseless world. Marooned two hundred years out of her time when a mission at relativistic speeds goes wrong, branded a berserker for refusing to accept defeat, she volunteers for an experimental program that rates to maim or kill her. If she survives, she'll spend the rest of her days alone in a small ship, hoping to find and map the enemy’s worlds before she perishes. A grim destiny, but hate is all that keeps Nikki going--until love tricks her.
Together with her man, Nikki sets off on her mission with a new hope for life. When they are discovered, she may have a chance to escape alone, yet, even if she returns to her lover from a black hole's rim, can they, and humanity, build a future?
Complete at 130,000 words, Return from Eternity spans one woman's time-dilated lifetime of total war and love. Two separate chapters were selected as Editor's Choice at Online Writing Workshop of Science-Fiction, Fantasy and Horror.
Thanks for your consideration,
Sincerely,
Author’s full name
Nikki strained to see through the tangle of leaves. A highway of wood spread ahead, branches the size of Earth trees jutting everywhere. More than thirty yards above, a final swath of purplish bark straightened its canopy against a teal sky darkening with the dusk. She'd better hurry.
Her sneakers gripped the rough bark well, and the vertical shoots provided convenient handholds. Nikki raced down her branch, slowed only by the ankle-twisting unevenness of the rough cracks. Far ahead, small triangular leaves glinted brighter, marking the path to Stella's setting. A sunset bonus. _Take_ that, _traitor Kallia!_
The giant branch split and Nikki took the southern fork, hesitating where it narrowed to three feet wide. At home that would've been easy, but up here the third of a mile drop yawned like a scary mouth.
She wasn't going to give up now, not after hours of climbing. Nikki swung the strap so the binoculars rested on her back, and crawled along the narrow section, gripping her handholds and avoiding looking down. Falling would bang Dad's binoculars, and she'd really catch it then.
Ahead, her way widened again, and the leaves finally thinned. Nikki crept the few yards to the final knotting. _Yes!_ The wood sloped downward, ending in a big bushy tuft. To the South, the Rim Mountains glowed gold in the sunset, distant water glinting through the break called the Splice, gateway to winter storms. There, after dark, she hoped to catch Earth’s dim sun peeking over the horizon.
Nikki’s lost her mother and sister to the aliens who massacred all humanity except her hidden, defenseless world. Marooned two hundred years out of her time when a mission at relativistic speeds goes wrong, branded a berserker for refusing to accept defeat, she volunteers for an experimental program that rates to maim or kill her. If she survives, she'll spend the rest of her days alone in a small ship, hoping to find and map the enemy’s worlds before she perishes. A grim destiny, but hate is all that keeps Nikki going--until love tricks her.
Together with her man, Nikki sets off on her mission with a new hope for life. When they are discovered, she may have a chance to escape alone, yet, even if she returns to her lover from a black hole's rim, can they, and humanity, build a future?
Complete at 130,000 words, Return from Eternity spans one woman's time-dilated lifetime of total war and love. Two separate chapters were selected as Editor's Choice at Online Writing Workshop of Science-Fiction, Fantasy and Horror.
Thanks for your consideration,
Sincerely,
Author’s full name
Nikki strained to see through the tangle of leaves. A highway of wood spread ahead, branches the size of Earth trees jutting everywhere. More than thirty yards above, a final swath of purplish bark straightened its canopy against a teal sky darkening with the dusk. She'd better hurry.
Her sneakers gripped the rough bark well, and the vertical shoots provided convenient handholds. Nikki raced down her branch, slowed only by the ankle-twisting unevenness of the rough cracks. Far ahead, small triangular leaves glinted brighter, marking the path to Stella's setting. A sunset bonus. _Take_ that, _traitor Kallia!_
The giant branch split and Nikki took the southern fork, hesitating where it narrowed to three feet wide. At home that would've been easy, but up here the third of a mile drop yawned like a scary mouth.
She wasn't going to give up now, not after hours of climbing. Nikki swung the strap so the binoculars rested on her back, and crawled along the narrow section, gripping her handholds and avoiding looking down. Falling would bang Dad's binoculars, and she'd really catch it then.
Ahead, her way widened again, and the leaves finally thinned. Nikki crept the few yards to the final knotting. _Yes!_ The wood sloped downward, ending in a big bushy tuft. To the South, the Rim Mountains glowed gold in the sunset, distant water glinting through the break called the Splice, gateway to winter storms. There, after dark, she hoped to catch Earth’s dim sun peeking over the horizon.
48 Query Contest
BOOBS OVER HOLLYWOOD is the whacky story of Lena’s journey from working on a cheesy reality TV show to becoming a cellist with the L.A. Philharmonic. If Nora Ephron and Carl Hiassen, in some parallel universe, decided to collaborate, this book might be the result.
Lena Carmichael, 34, has dreamed of becoming a cellist with the Los Angeles Phil for as long as she can remember. While she waits for her big break, she works as a “go-fer” on the wildly-successful reality TV show The McBoob News Hour, where big-haired, big-busted women vie for a news anchor position. “Think Barbara Walters, but with really big titties,” quips Tony, her idiotic boss. Her husband, Max, who is opening a chain of Chinese-Mexican fusion restaurants in Southeast Asia, urges her to forget the cello concentrate on the TV show, because “that’s where the money is.” What keeps her going is her up-coming recital, which could be her big chance to impress representatives of the L.A. Phil. At the recital, a fistfight erupts between Lena’s father and Casey O’Casey, her mother’s new lover, a little troll of a man who just happens to be the world-distributor of garden gnomes. The recital ends up looking like a hockey match with wardrobe by Dolce & Gabbana. When O’Casey later mysteriously dies, Lena and her entire family are placed under an “umbrella of suspicion.” Lena manages to untangle herself from O’Casey’s death, a failing marriage and her all-consuming job. Finally, there is the tiniest hint of harmony in her life. And maybe a little romance with the handsome detective who bears an uncanny resemblance to Al Pacino in SERPICO.
I am the recipient of an EMMY and a Writers Guild of America Award, working in television for over twenty-years. Sadly, my portrayal of TV isn’t that far off the mark. I am also the co–author of Letters from Cleo and Tyrone (St. Martin’s Press, 2000).
With all the cheesy reality shows out there, the timing seems perfect for BOOBS OVER HOLLYWOOD. Isn’t it about time for something a little goofy, a little absurd, a little satirical -- and a lot funny?
Thank you for your time, and I would be thrilled to send you a portion or the completed 72,000 word manuscript. I look forward to hearing from you.
CHAPTER ONE
The kitchen timer buzzed, a jangly, discordant contrast to the strains of theBarber Cello Concerto. Startled by the ugly, instrusive noise, Lena’s fingers fell off the cello’s B-Flat, resulting in a painful howl from the instrument. She quickly shut off the timer and set the cello down gently, then glanced down at her flannel Garfield-inspired PJ’s and frog-shaped slippers and considered -- for about the bazillionth time -- that this was not what she imagined the life of an aspiring cellist to be. She looked at the wall clock. 8:53. Running late. As usual. Time to forget Bach. Time to forget Beethoven. Time to forget Barber. Time to scurry off to work. Time to deal with boobs.
***
Winded and sweaty from her long trek from the peon parking lot, Lena flew into Building Three, the home of Tony Brewer’s production company, Pilfered Projects Productions. The reception area was starkly modern. Black and glass and chrome with all the warmth and charm of a bus station urinal. She grimaced, as she always did, when she spotted the posters of Tony’s many successful TV reality shows lining the walls: American Icon, Prancing with the Stars, The Incredible Marathon and Endurer: Topeka. Geez, she thought, if you’re going to rip off other shows, couldn’t the titles at least be original?
In her usual uncoordinated style, Lena skidded across the shiny, slippery marble floor toward the reception desk, her long arms and legs flailing in all directions.
Bitsy, the reluctant receptionist, was at her desk watching Lena’s acrobatics through disapproving and decidedly uncharitable eyes. Bitsy was overweight, wildly gothic with dyed black hair and a smorgasbord of body piercings and tattoos.
Lena Carmichael, 34, has dreamed of becoming a cellist with the Los Angeles Phil for as long as she can remember. While she waits for her big break, she works as a “go-fer” on the wildly-successful reality TV show The McBoob News Hour, where big-haired, big-busted women vie for a news anchor position. “Think Barbara Walters, but with really big titties,” quips Tony, her idiotic boss. Her husband, Max, who is opening a chain of Chinese-Mexican fusion restaurants in Southeast Asia, urges her to forget the cello concentrate on the TV show, because “that’s where the money is.” What keeps her going is her up-coming recital, which could be her big chance to impress representatives of the L.A. Phil. At the recital, a fistfight erupts between Lena’s father and Casey O’Casey, her mother’s new lover, a little troll of a man who just happens to be the world-distributor of garden gnomes. The recital ends up looking like a hockey match with wardrobe by Dolce & Gabbana. When O’Casey later mysteriously dies, Lena and her entire family are placed under an “umbrella of suspicion.” Lena manages to untangle herself from O’Casey’s death, a failing marriage and her all-consuming job. Finally, there is the tiniest hint of harmony in her life. And maybe a little romance with the handsome detective who bears an uncanny resemblance to Al Pacino in SERPICO.
I am the recipient of an EMMY and a Writers Guild of America Award, working in television for over twenty-years. Sadly, my portrayal of TV isn’t that far off the mark. I am also the co–author of Letters from Cleo and Tyrone (St. Martin’s Press, 2000).
With all the cheesy reality shows out there, the timing seems perfect for BOOBS OVER HOLLYWOOD. Isn’t it about time for something a little goofy, a little absurd, a little satirical -- and a lot funny?
Thank you for your time, and I would be thrilled to send you a portion or the completed 72,000 word manuscript. I look forward to hearing from you.
CHAPTER ONE
The kitchen timer buzzed, a jangly, discordant contrast to the strains of theBarber Cello Concerto. Startled by the ugly, instrusive noise, Lena’s fingers fell off the cello’s B-Flat, resulting in a painful howl from the instrument. She quickly shut off the timer and set the cello down gently, then glanced down at her flannel Garfield-inspired PJ’s and frog-shaped slippers and considered -- for about the bazillionth time -- that this was not what she imagined the life of an aspiring cellist to be. She looked at the wall clock. 8:53. Running late. As usual. Time to forget Bach. Time to forget Beethoven. Time to forget Barber. Time to scurry off to work. Time to deal with boobs.
***
Winded and sweaty from her long trek from the peon parking lot, Lena flew into Building Three, the home of Tony Brewer’s production company, Pilfered Projects Productions. The reception area was starkly modern. Black and glass and chrome with all the warmth and charm of a bus station urinal. She grimaced, as she always did, when she spotted the posters of Tony’s many successful TV reality shows lining the walls: American Icon, Prancing with the Stars, The Incredible Marathon and Endurer: Topeka. Geez, she thought, if you’re going to rip off other shows, couldn’t the titles at least be original?
In her usual uncoordinated style, Lena skidded across the shiny, slippery marble floor toward the reception desk, her long arms and legs flailing in all directions.
Bitsy, the reluctant receptionist, was at her desk watching Lena’s acrobatics through disapproving and decidedly uncharitable eyes. Bitsy was overweight, wildly gothic with dyed black hair and a smorgasbord of body piercings and tattoos.
47 Query Contest
If Claudia’s best friend, Selma, had never accidentally revealed that she could talk to plants, then she never would’ve been arrested. Claudia wouldn’t have had to go after her or be imprisoned herself. She wouldn’t have met Erik, escaped from the fire that killed the prison guards and supposedly both of the king’s sons – Erik being one of them.
If Claudia hadn’t discovered that she too had a special ability – to persuade people with words – they wouldn’t have survived the fire, the king wouldn’t have committed suicide, and the power-hungry council wouldn’t have had the opportunity to steal the throne and plunge the world into another century of oppression.
But Selma did accidentally reveal that she could talk to plants, and the effects of the discovery are bigger than the two teenagers could imagine.
Andra is a 75,000 word young adult fantasy. Thank you for your consideration and I look forward to hearing from you.
The first moon, Aikia, was already in the sky when I left school that night. Soon Aikia’s sister, Ladia, would appear and it would be after curfew. Here in Sicyon curfew is not something to be ignored on a whim or even a need. The scars on my back are proof enough of that.
The kids pushed and shoved as they poured out around me, all anxious to get home with their tattered clothes and government-issued school books. None of them were willing to be late and be the latest punching bag for the Bevak, the law keepers of our world often got out of hand with their punishments.
I glanced around for my best friend, Selma, and finally caught sight of her walking away with her head down. She too wore clothes sewn by her mother, though hers and mine were a little better made on account of both our mothers worked as seamstresses in a clothing factory.
“Hey wait up!” I called, running after her. She paused, not looking at me. Her black hair shone like a polished piece of onyx in the moonlight and her features were cast into shadow. Selma had always been a pretty girl, but never returned the affections of any of the boys around our school. We’d been through thick and thin together, friends since the cradle as our mothers often said.
“Hey,” she mumbled not looking at me.
If Claudia hadn’t discovered that she too had a special ability – to persuade people with words – they wouldn’t have survived the fire, the king wouldn’t have committed suicide, and the power-hungry council wouldn’t have had the opportunity to steal the throne and plunge the world into another century of oppression.
But Selma did accidentally reveal that she could talk to plants, and the effects of the discovery are bigger than the two teenagers could imagine.
Andra is a 75,000 word young adult fantasy. Thank you for your consideration and I look forward to hearing from you.
The first moon, Aikia, was already in the sky when I left school that night. Soon Aikia’s sister, Ladia, would appear and it would be after curfew. Here in Sicyon curfew is not something to be ignored on a whim or even a need. The scars on my back are proof enough of that.
The kids pushed and shoved as they poured out around me, all anxious to get home with their tattered clothes and government-issued school books. None of them were willing to be late and be the latest punching bag for the Bevak, the law keepers of our world often got out of hand with their punishments.
I glanced around for my best friend, Selma, and finally caught sight of her walking away with her head down. She too wore clothes sewn by her mother, though hers and mine were a little better made on account of both our mothers worked as seamstresses in a clothing factory.
“Hey wait up!” I called, running after her. She paused, not looking at me. Her black hair shone like a polished piece of onyx in the moonlight and her features were cast into shadow. Selma had always been a pretty girl, but never returned the affections of any of the boys around our school. We’d been through thick and thin together, friends since the cradle as our mothers often said.
“Hey,” she mumbled not looking at me.
46 Query Contest
Dear ms. Meadows,
My completed 110,000 word soft sf novel THE WAN is about a failing human colony marooned on a distant world ruled by the Wan, many-formed fungus-based creatures that communicate by feeding each other bits of their own flesh. It’s similar to the surreal imagination of Cory Doctorow's work, it has the easy reading and engagement level of Stephanie Meyer's the Host.
Ing, former biologist, was infected by the alien Wan fungus many centuries ago, when she first arrived from Earth. To save the humans from extinction, she wants to convert every man, woman, and child into a deathless Wan. Firdaus, deposed ruler of White City and devoted father of ten, desires nothing more than to be reunited with his children, but feels compelled to thwart Ing's coldly logical plans. Slavegirl Frog, used, maimed, and discarded by Ing, vows to save Firdaus and avenge herself on Ing.
The alien fungus turns out to be less tame than Ing thought: the Wan's once-in-a-millenium nature of reproduction threatens to destroy all human life on the planet. Firdaus has to choose between transforming his beloved family and people into cadaverous toadstools, or watching them all die in a planetary holocaust– unless he can come up with a third solution.
In December 2008, I won Best New Writer and Best Overall Short Story in the annual Paul Harland Contest with my story Satyricon.
I'm a long-time member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Online Workshop and founded a private novel workshop.
Below you find the first 5 pages of The Wan. I'd be happy to send you the complete manuscript.
Thank you for your consideration and time,
Regards,
Chapter 1
Ing licked the sheen of moisture seeping down the cave wall. It tasted of slick obsidian with a coating of sour chalk and brine. The exact place she marked yesterday.
Her companions shuffled their feet and whispered to each other, apparently unaware of the importance of the occasion - and not doing what she'd told them to a dozen times before. She wanted to ream out their sorry asses, but she knew that would only make things worse. How did it go again? Praise first, then reinforce the commands.
"Good work so far, guys. They saw you, they sent out a hunting party. You remember what to do next?" she asked.
Harpa nodded, but she didn't quite believe him. A man of many promises and few results. Tembo shrugged. In spite of the highly reflective whiteness of his face, she couldn't see his expression well enough in the cave's semi-darkness. With a sigh, she broke off two ringfingers – again – and fed them one each. Their stances righted as the knowledge sped through their bodies.
"I lead him off," Harpa said.
"I lure the others away from the leader when he follows Harpa."
Finally. "Good," she said. "Now off you go. I can smell the hunters coming."
They loped off, two dancing white outlines in the gloom.
She groped along the rough stone of the cave wall until she found the smooth track through the thicket of stalagmites, a natural path between the stony teeth on the cave floor. The perfect spot for an ambush.
My completed 110,000 word soft sf novel THE WAN is about a failing human colony marooned on a distant world ruled by the Wan, many-formed fungus-based creatures that communicate by feeding each other bits of their own flesh. It’s similar to the surreal imagination of Cory Doctorow's work, it has the easy reading and engagement level of Stephanie Meyer's the Host.
Ing, former biologist, was infected by the alien Wan fungus many centuries ago, when she first arrived from Earth. To save the humans from extinction, she wants to convert every man, woman, and child into a deathless Wan. Firdaus, deposed ruler of White City and devoted father of ten, desires nothing more than to be reunited with his children, but feels compelled to thwart Ing's coldly logical plans. Slavegirl Frog, used, maimed, and discarded by Ing, vows to save Firdaus and avenge herself on Ing.
The alien fungus turns out to be less tame than Ing thought: the Wan's once-in-a-millenium nature of reproduction threatens to destroy all human life on the planet. Firdaus has to choose between transforming his beloved family and people into cadaverous toadstools, or watching them all die in a planetary holocaust– unless he can come up with a third solution.
In December 2008, I won Best New Writer and Best Overall Short Story in the annual Paul Harland Contest with my story Satyricon.
I'm a long-time member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Online Workshop and founded a private novel workshop.
Below you find the first 5 pages of The Wan. I'd be happy to send you the complete manuscript.
Thank you for your consideration and time,
Regards,
Chapter 1
Ing licked the sheen of moisture seeping down the cave wall. It tasted of slick obsidian with a coating of sour chalk and brine. The exact place she marked yesterday.
Her companions shuffled their feet and whispered to each other, apparently unaware of the importance of the occasion - and not doing what she'd told them to a dozen times before. She wanted to ream out their sorry asses, but she knew that would only make things worse. How did it go again? Praise first, then reinforce the commands.
"Good work so far, guys. They saw you, they sent out a hunting party. You remember what to do next?" she asked.
Harpa nodded, but she didn't quite believe him. A man of many promises and few results. Tembo shrugged. In spite of the highly reflective whiteness of his face, she couldn't see his expression well enough in the cave's semi-darkness. With a sigh, she broke off two ringfingers – again – and fed them one each. Their stances righted as the knowledge sped through their bodies.
"I lead him off," Harpa said.
"I lure the others away from the leader when he follows Harpa."
Finally. "Good," she said. "Now off you go. I can smell the hunters coming."
They loped off, two dancing white outlines in the gloom.
She groped along the rough stone of the cave wall until she found the smooth track through the thicket of stalagmites, a natural path between the stony teeth on the cave floor. The perfect spot for an ambush.
45 Query Contest
Good Morning Ms. Rappaport
I am seeking representation for my science fiction novel, XLI. Based on your genre and character interests as listed in the contest guidelines, I think you might like the novel. I would like to invite you to review the manuscript and hope you will consider representing me.
Monk and warrior, knight-errant and priest, policeman and philosopher, Bertram Do'Shire (Tram) is a Protector of Astori. He will give everything he has and is to save his people from the pirates who have conquered them. Nomads and storytellers, refugees and dream weavers, The People of the Ships will do anything to escape the ancient threat that has pursued them since the dawn of their history. Assassin and hedonist, Tenly is the self proclaimed most feared woman in known space. She would do anyone, pirates and ancient threats included, for a decent cheese steak.
XLI is the story of Tram, a Protector from the world of Astori, who has come to the world of Penance, where anything can be had for a price, seeking mercenaries to liberate his world from a brutal band of pirates. While on Penance, he is manipulated into hiring Tenly, an assassin, thinking that she is a mercenary captain. Tenly insists on Tram himself as part of her price for liberating Penance, a price to which he reluctantly agrees. During the voyage back to Astori, Tram begins to notice unusual things about Tenly and begins to have a series of strange dreams. On their return to Astori, they gather the dregs of Astori society and form them into a force to defeat the invaders.
XLI is written as an action adventure, but the technical elements contained in the book are based (at least loosely) on current scientific theory, and the future history has been plotted out from the present time to the time at which the story starts. In short, it's hard science fiction candy with a swashbuckling chocolate coating and a creamy nougat center of romance and just a bit of nutty philosophy. XLI is a complete 136 KWord novel intended to be the first in a five book series. While XLI is my first novel, I have already received very positive feedback from Pamela Uphoff at Baen books, who recommended I rewrite it with specific edits and find an agent. The rewrite completed, I am now looking for an agent. She also said very plainly that she wouldn't mind seeing the novel again, but hinted that it might stand a better chance if represented by a professional agent.
I've come to writing via a long and checkered career as a student (seven majors over ten years, culminating with a B.S. in Biology) and a professional (General Contractor, Lab technician, IT Consultant, Project Manager). I read voraciously, mostly science fiction, fantasy, technical / scientific journals, and socio-political commentary, but also everything I can find about the craft of writing itself.
I'd be glad to send you a complete copy of the manuscript for review. Thank you for your time, and I hope to hear from you soon.
Chapter One
Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.
Mahatma Gandhi
Tram closed his eyes leaned his head back against the smooth, cool tiles of the wall. The tile felt strange against his close cropped sandy hair, strange because of the unfamiliar lack of texture in the ceramic, but mainly strange from most of his hair being gone. He rolled his head gently back and forth, the chill easing the ache even as the motion and the gentle bumping caused a faint nausea.
After a few moments, he opened his eyes and looked toward the receptionist. By that gentleman's collar tab's insignia, Tram supposed the man had a job title that sounded a bit grander and far more militant, but to Tram, anyone sitting at a waiting room desk greeting visitors was, by definition, a receptionist. Tram took himself to task briefly for allowing his thoughts to wander, then realized that the middle-aged man behind the desk was trying, subtly, to get his attention.
Tram made eye contact, then glanced at the man's hands, which had been raised above the desk as if he were about to rest his chin on them. One finger pointed to the timepiece on his wrist, then the opposite hand flashed three fingers then clenched. A ghost of a smile, a ghost of a nod, and the man behind the desk went back to being a study in attentive non-communication.
I am seeking representation for my science fiction novel, XLI. Based on your genre and character interests as listed in the contest guidelines, I think you might like the novel. I would like to invite you to review the manuscript and hope you will consider representing me.
Monk and warrior, knight-errant and priest, policeman and philosopher, Bertram Do'Shire (Tram) is a Protector of Astori. He will give everything he has and is to save his people from the pirates who have conquered them. Nomads and storytellers, refugees and dream weavers, The People of the Ships will do anything to escape the ancient threat that has pursued them since the dawn of their history. Assassin and hedonist, Tenly is the self proclaimed most feared woman in known space. She would do anyone, pirates and ancient threats included, for a decent cheese steak.
XLI is the story of Tram, a Protector from the world of Astori, who has come to the world of Penance, where anything can be had for a price, seeking mercenaries to liberate his world from a brutal band of pirates. While on Penance, he is manipulated into hiring Tenly, an assassin, thinking that she is a mercenary captain. Tenly insists on Tram himself as part of her price for liberating Penance, a price to which he reluctantly agrees. During the voyage back to Astori, Tram begins to notice unusual things about Tenly and begins to have a series of strange dreams. On their return to Astori, they gather the dregs of Astori society and form them into a force to defeat the invaders.
XLI is written as an action adventure, but the technical elements contained in the book are based (at least loosely) on current scientific theory, and the future history has been plotted out from the present time to the time at which the story starts. In short, it's hard science fiction candy with a swashbuckling chocolate coating and a creamy nougat center of romance and just a bit of nutty philosophy. XLI is a complete 136 KWord novel intended to be the first in a five book series. While XLI is my first novel, I have already received very positive feedback from Pamela Uphoff at Baen books, who recommended I rewrite it with specific edits and find an agent. The rewrite completed, I am now looking for an agent. She also said very plainly that she wouldn't mind seeing the novel again, but hinted that it might stand a better chance if represented by a professional agent.
I've come to writing via a long and checkered career as a student (seven majors over ten years, culminating with a B.S. in Biology) and a professional (General Contractor, Lab technician, IT Consultant, Project Manager). I read voraciously, mostly science fiction, fantasy, technical / scientific journals, and socio-political commentary, but also everything I can find about the craft of writing itself.
I'd be glad to send you a complete copy of the manuscript for review. Thank you for your time, and I hope to hear from you soon.
Chapter One
Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.
Mahatma Gandhi
Tram closed his eyes leaned his head back against the smooth, cool tiles of the wall. The tile felt strange against his close cropped sandy hair, strange because of the unfamiliar lack of texture in the ceramic, but mainly strange from most of his hair being gone. He rolled his head gently back and forth, the chill easing the ache even as the motion and the gentle bumping caused a faint nausea.
After a few moments, he opened his eyes and looked toward the receptionist. By that gentleman's collar tab's insignia, Tram supposed the man had a job title that sounded a bit grander and far more militant, but to Tram, anyone sitting at a waiting room desk greeting visitors was, by definition, a receptionist. Tram took himself to task briefly for allowing his thoughts to wander, then realized that the middle-aged man behind the desk was trying, subtly, to get his attention.
Tram made eye contact, then glanced at the man's hands, which had been raised above the desk as if he were about to rest his chin on them. One finger pointed to the timepiece on his wrist, then the opposite hand flashed three fingers then clenched. A ghost of a smile, a ghost of a nod, and the man behind the desk went back to being a study in attentive non-communication.
44 Query Contest
Dear Ms. Meadows,
Always Kiss Me Goodnight is an 88,000 word contemporary romance. This is a personal journey of strength, pluck, and adventure portrayed by a captivating fictional cast. Morgan Reynolds found her world stripped bare in twenty-four days. She slipped Ben’s wedding ring off. No longer the same person, she leaned over and kissed him, then turned and walked out of the room, not looking back. Waking up in a foreign land, she didn’t speak the language. The part of him that was part of her was gone. Only questions that had no answers remained. Death, guilt, passion, sex, and deceit challenge Morgan’s future.
Vulnerable and alone she opens her heart to second chance love. The love doomed from the start by a master manipulating man sparked Morgan’s fury. Trapped in the wake of a killer hurricane with no means of escape Drake Taylor's touch ignites a liquid fervor her body can’t deny. Linked by the passionate sensual fire he awakened in her she challenges his womanizing. She becomes her own rival in her quest to settle the score of a broken heart.
Morgan’s journey takes her full circle when Drake agrees to meet the other woman at the Beau Rivage casino on the Gulf coast in Biloxi, Mississippi. A touch of humor, a splash of comedy, an abundance of confidence, lots of sass and once again we find the game of love is a spine-tingling gamble with an unsuspecting grand prizewinner.
Always Kiss Me Goodnight, my first novel, is inspired by personal experiences and challenges. Thank you for reviewing my work. I'm look forward to hearing from you and would appreciate your guidance and expertise.
Sincerely,
Her heart raced, the normal rhythm now erratic, pounded in fierce uneven beats. She sucked for air, and tried to get a breath. Beads of hot, sticky perspiration drenched her clothes. Clenched fists turned her knuckles white, she grasped her trembling knees, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
The intercom speaker crackled and vibrated, a voice told her to brace. Morgan Reynolds squeezed her eyelids tight, afraid to look. Her body throbbed and pulsated with fear. She tucked her head low on her lap.
The silver jumbo jet engines were silent. The wide wings baffled by turbulence, fought to find balance. The plane buffered from side to side, then descended; slow at first, then more rapidly. Morgan glanced out the window, and dropped her face low. Treetops snapped, swiftly extinguishing the emerald green forest below them.
Wind gushed, the sound deafening, her ears rang with the shrill whistling reverberation. Morgan braced and rocked in her seat. Her arms quivered trying to hold her legs tight. She anticipated the final collision. They were about to crash. Fear gripped her; beads of sweat covered her forehead. She froze in the moment. Seized by terror she waited for impact.
The metal shrieked. The fuselage scraped and tore as they bounced up, then down. The plane swayed and pitched as it scuffled with the ground. The motion stopped. Lights went off. The plane was dark – swallowed in blackness.
*
Morgan stirred and reached for Ben. Her hand shook on his chest. She waited, trying to feel movement. Please breathe!
Always Kiss Me Goodnight is an 88,000 word contemporary romance. This is a personal journey of strength, pluck, and adventure portrayed by a captivating fictional cast. Morgan Reynolds found her world stripped bare in twenty-four days. She slipped Ben’s wedding ring off. No longer the same person, she leaned over and kissed him, then turned and walked out of the room, not looking back. Waking up in a foreign land, she didn’t speak the language. The part of him that was part of her was gone. Only questions that had no answers remained. Death, guilt, passion, sex, and deceit challenge Morgan’s future.
Vulnerable and alone she opens her heart to second chance love. The love doomed from the start by a master manipulating man sparked Morgan’s fury. Trapped in the wake of a killer hurricane with no means of escape Drake Taylor's touch ignites a liquid fervor her body can’t deny. Linked by the passionate sensual fire he awakened in her she challenges his womanizing. She becomes her own rival in her quest to settle the score of a broken heart.
Morgan’s journey takes her full circle when Drake agrees to meet the other woman at the Beau Rivage casino on the Gulf coast in Biloxi, Mississippi. A touch of humor, a splash of comedy, an abundance of confidence, lots of sass and once again we find the game of love is a spine-tingling gamble with an unsuspecting grand prizewinner.
Always Kiss Me Goodnight, my first novel, is inspired by personal experiences and challenges. Thank you for reviewing my work. I'm look forward to hearing from you and would appreciate your guidance and expertise.
Sincerely,
Her heart raced, the normal rhythm now erratic, pounded in fierce uneven beats. She sucked for air, and tried to get a breath. Beads of hot, sticky perspiration drenched her clothes. Clenched fists turned her knuckles white, she grasped her trembling knees, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
The intercom speaker crackled and vibrated, a voice told her to brace. Morgan Reynolds squeezed her eyelids tight, afraid to look. Her body throbbed and pulsated with fear. She tucked her head low on her lap.
The silver jumbo jet engines were silent. The wide wings baffled by turbulence, fought to find balance. The plane buffered from side to side, then descended; slow at first, then more rapidly. Morgan glanced out the window, and dropped her face low. Treetops snapped, swiftly extinguishing the emerald green forest below them.
Wind gushed, the sound deafening, her ears rang with the shrill whistling reverberation. Morgan braced and rocked in her seat. Her arms quivered trying to hold her legs tight. She anticipated the final collision. They were about to crash. Fear gripped her; beads of sweat covered her forehead. She froze in the moment. Seized by terror she waited for impact.
The metal shrieked. The fuselage scraped and tore as they bounced up, then down. The plane swayed and pitched as it scuffled with the ground. The motion stopped. Lights went off. The plane was dark – swallowed in blackness.
*
Morgan stirred and reached for Ben. Her hand shook on his chest. She waited, trying to feel movement. Please breathe!
43 Query Contest
Dear Agent,
When you’re a witch named Trouble, chaos follows.
Arden Lesstymine (known to everyone as Trouble) likes attention as much as the next girl, but this is getting ridiculous. When an insane stranger is murdered in the inn where she works, Trouble becomes the next Soulbearer for the disembodied god of chaos, Loku. Yes, it comes with the ability to channel the god’s limitless power, but at the cost of her sanity -- literally. Now she has a sexy but cynical knight claiming to be her protector, a prince trying to seduce to his cause (and his bed), and a snarky chaos god who offers a play-by-play commentary on it all, whether she wants to hear it or not. To make matters worse, a necromancer wants to capture the soul of Loku for his own dark purposes, and the only way he can get it is by killing her first.
A SOUL FOR TROUBLE is a 100,000 word is a fantasy romance targeted for Ace, Tor, Lovespell, and other fantasy lines with a large female audience and would appeal to fans of Lisa Shearin and Dawn Cook.
I’m an active member of the RWA (PRO), the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, Romance Divas, and AbsoluteWrite. I currently have several shorter works contracted to be published later this year by Phaze Books and by Liquid Silver Books.
I look forward to hearing from you, and I appreciate your time and consideration of my novel.
Sincerely,
Author
______________________
“Hey, Trouble, it looks like your usual clientele just sat down at one of your tables,” Hal said as soon as he entered the kitchen.
Arden Lesstymine, known to everyone in the village as Trouble, wrapped up her meager meal of bread and cheese in a cloth. “Please don’t let it be Conn again; my ass is still sore from his pinching.” She peered out of the cracked door, praying the lecherous blacksmith wasn’t sitting in the main room.
“No, this one’s a stranger, and a real kook at that.” The beefy inn-keeper leaned against the door frame and pointed him out. “You must be some kind of magnet for the crazies.”
“Why do you think I ended up here?” she replied with a smirk. She smoothed her apron and shoved the swinging door open.
Arden approached the table and studied the new customer. His frail body trembled like the last leaves on the branches outside, and his snow-white hair stuck out in every direction. What troubled her the most, though, was his constant muttering. She waited for a lull in his private conversation with no one, but when it never came, she cleared her throat. “Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
His body jerked at the sound of her voice, and he lifted his head. Feverish bright blue eyes ringed by a yellow-green halo stared back at her so intensely, she took a step back. Yep, definitely crazy. And definitely a foreigner with his coloring.
When you’re a witch named Trouble, chaos follows.
Arden Lesstymine (known to everyone as Trouble) likes attention as much as the next girl, but this is getting ridiculous. When an insane stranger is murdered in the inn where she works, Trouble becomes the next Soulbearer for the disembodied god of chaos, Loku. Yes, it comes with the ability to channel the god’s limitless power, but at the cost of her sanity -- literally. Now she has a sexy but cynical knight claiming to be her protector, a prince trying to seduce to his cause (and his bed), and a snarky chaos god who offers a play-by-play commentary on it all, whether she wants to hear it or not. To make matters worse, a necromancer wants to capture the soul of Loku for his own dark purposes, and the only way he can get it is by killing her first.
A SOUL FOR TROUBLE is a 100,000 word is a fantasy romance targeted for Ace, Tor, Lovespell, and other fantasy lines with a large female audience and would appeal to fans of Lisa Shearin and Dawn Cook.
I’m an active member of the RWA (PRO), the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, Romance Divas, and AbsoluteWrite. I currently have several shorter works contracted to be published later this year by Phaze Books and by Liquid Silver Books.
I look forward to hearing from you, and I appreciate your time and consideration of my novel.
Sincerely,
Author
______________________
“Hey, Trouble, it looks like your usual clientele just sat down at one of your tables,” Hal said as soon as he entered the kitchen.
Arden Lesstymine, known to everyone in the village as Trouble, wrapped up her meager meal of bread and cheese in a cloth. “Please don’t let it be Conn again; my ass is still sore from his pinching.” She peered out of the cracked door, praying the lecherous blacksmith wasn’t sitting in the main room.
“No, this one’s a stranger, and a real kook at that.” The beefy inn-keeper leaned against the door frame and pointed him out. “You must be some kind of magnet for the crazies.”
“Why do you think I ended up here?” she replied with a smirk. She smoothed her apron and shoved the swinging door open.
Arden approached the table and studied the new customer. His frail body trembled like the last leaves on the branches outside, and his snow-white hair stuck out in every direction. What troubled her the most, though, was his constant muttering. She waited for a lull in his private conversation with no one, but when it never came, she cleared her throat. “Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
His body jerked at the sound of her voice, and he lifted his head. Feverish bright blue eyes ringed by a yellow-green halo stared back at her so intensely, she took a step back. Yep, definitely crazy. And definitely a foreigner with his coloring.
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