#8 DISCOVERING ISAAC (MG contemporary)

Dear Agents,

Eleven-year-old Isaac Sanchez has never belonged anywhere or mattered to anyone. But he’s only a little bitter—like dark chocolate, not like Brussels sprouts. When the mom who abandoned him as a baby comes back and asks for another chance, Isaac struggles to adapt to a whole new life with a whole new family.

Then Isaac receives his father’s old copy of Isaac Newton's Principia Mathematica and discovers that he has more in common with the greatest scientist in history than just first names: a father who died before he was born (check), a mother who left him with his grandparents and started another family (check), and a crummy history of being the smallest, most picked-on kid in the neighborhood (check and check). All of the things that made him feel insignificant now convince Isaac that, like Newton, he is destined to become super rich, rock-star famous, and one of the greatest geniuses of all time.

Isaac decides to follow in Newton’s footsteps. He gets pet mice, wears red every day, shuns his new family, tries to spook the neighbors by flying glowing kites after dark, and uses Newton's favorite fruit (apples, of course) for a projectile experiment that goes horribly wrong. He even solves the secret code his dad wrote in the margins of Principia. But his most surprising discovery of all is that he may be able to forgive his mom and care about his sisters, and they might care about him too. When Isaac's scientific pursuits cause a life-threatening accident, he must decide whether his "destiny" is worth the price. Who really wants to turn out like Newton anyway?

DISCOVERING ISAAC is a 42,000-word contemporary middle grade novel that contains sneaky bits of physics, history, and biology. My previous publications include a story in the children’s magazine The Friend (February 2011) and an essay in The Moms’ Club Diaries (Spring Creek Book Company, 2008). I am also the lead author of several scientific papers in some of the nation’s top chemistry journals, which are every bit as riveting as you’d imagine. I currently teach chemistry at Southern Utah University and am a member of SCBWI.

Thank you for your time and your consideration. 

Sincerely,

Elaine Vickers
thinkingthroughourfingers.blogspot.com
@ElaineBVickers

DISCOVERING ISAAC

Isaac Newton: “For the natural days are truly unequal, though they are commonly considered as equal, and used for a measure of time…”

Isaac Sanchez: Every day has 24 hours, but that doesn't mean they're equal. On some days, it seems like about 24 hours too many.

 It all started with baseball.

 I hated baseball.

 I would’ve rather yanked my own nose hairs out one by one in front of the whole sixth grade while wearing only yesterday’s underwear than play a baseball game. But every year, my grandma made me play. I had no choice. (The worst thing about torture is that it’s not optional.)

 So there I was, ten minutes before the first pitch of the season, willing to give up my whole life savings (four dollars) if I could just find my mitt.

 I could hear Grandma calling my name from the front door. It was past time to go, and Grandma hated to be late. I dumped out my junk drawer. No mitt. I heard her climbing the stairs as I chucked the shoes from my closet floor. No mitt. She opened the door without knocking and stared down at me as I scooped an armload of dirty clothes and secondhand comic books from underneath my bed. No mitt.

 Grandma frowned at the mess I had made.

 “No mitt,” I said, holding out my empty hands. I felt a little hope rising in my chest. “We could just skip it.”

 “I don’t raise quitters, Isaac. Pretending to lose your mitt won’t get you out of this. Now get in the car.” As I trudged down the stairs, she marched herself up to the attic.             

 Five minutes later, I was the proud owner of a 30-year-old mitt with my dad’s name magic markered inside. Grandma hates being late so much that she broke her own rule of pretending like my dad never existed.

 My dad’s old mitt was three sizes too big and smelled like the pet store where I used to hang out while Grandma was at work, but I thanked her and shut my mouth. She turned on her classical music radio station and we drove away.

 I put my forehead on the glass and stared out the window. I pushed my lips together to keep from saying it out loud.

 I hate baseball.

 I hated the white pants and the heavy helmets. I hated the way the bat almost ripped my arms out of their sockets when I swung and missed. I hated the cold fear that snaked through my body because I was scared of being hit by every single pitch. I hated the fact that I had to special-order my uniform every year because Sports Den didn’t stock extra smalls. I hated that, season after season, the coach looked right at me when he said, “If any of you still need help paying your fees, just call the recreation office.” He might as well have just pointed to me and said, “This is the poor kid on the team. His grandma hasn’t paid yet.”

#9 THE QUIET CITY (adult commercial)

Dear Agents,

THE QUIET CITY is an adult commercial novel, complete at 112,000 words.

Hezed is a poor, fatherless farmer in the ancient city of Jabesh-gilead, a place so beaten by years of conquest that its people cannot greet a traveler with more than a whisper. Hezed’s chief interest is winning the love of Anna until he joins the army of Saul and is swept into a world of religion and violence. Saul proclaims himself King of the Tribes, but his champion, David, rebels to set up his own kingdom. Having fought under David’s command, Hezed is a collaborator in the eyes of his own people, and they drive him and his family away into the wilderness. Labeled a traitor to Saul—his greatest hero—Hezed flees with Anna to the only refuge left: David’s band of rebels. Hezed must choose between his love for David and his loyalty to Saul, risking the love and safety of his beloved Anna. He searches the minds of the gods for answers, gods who demand obedience without guidance, and his decisions lead to unbearable tragedy. But in the end Hezed gives voice to his people in the Quiet City and finds redemption through the love of his kidnapped slave.

In the spirit of Anita Diamant’s "The Red Tent," THE QUIET CITY skirts well-known biblical characters, but it’s about the failure and fight of an ancient nobody, a hero as tough as William Wallace, but with the sensitivity and self-doubt of Frodo Baggins.

I have a B.A. in history and I work in the museum field. Thank you for taking the time to consider my work.

Ben Gammell



My father was a stranger to me, a muscular, bronze body robed in blackish-brown hair like a bear, grunting and sweating in the fields as he heaved a giant bronze hoe into the earth or slashed a sickle blade through a field of brittle, golden barley. I toiled behind him every day, matching his strokes with my puny tools and grunting and wiping my biceps across my forehead. In the evening I watched him eat my mother’s barley bread and drink the goat’s milk. I chewed my olives three at a time the way he did.

“You’ll turn into an olive tree,” he’d say.   

Each night after dinner my mother would take me and my sisters to the roof where we laid our reed mats on the dry mud and timbers and pointed at the stars. The two girls would whisper and giggle and wonder aloud why the gods lived so high up, until they yawned and drifted to sleep. But I would lay awake and watch the stranger’s bear-figure sitting on the corner of the roof, black against the stars, staring out into the abysmal sky. During the day his movements were slow and tired, but here at night he languished into deeper stillness, a sleeping clay idol overlooking the courtyard. The hot morning sun always followed behind his quiet, gentle nudging for me to get up and prepare for the fields.

When the Ammonites came in the midst of the spring festival, it was my father’s low grunt that raised my head from the barley stalks I was bundling and told me to run home. I would have hoisted a bale on my back first, but he snatched me up by the shoulder and began to run himself, dragging me like a dead dog. And a dead dog I would have been. Out of the stalks behind us rose strange men, not bare-chested nor girded with linen loincloths for cutting barley in the heat of the day, but clothed in leather tunics and belts and carrying long, pointed shafts. I watched one of these strangers plunge his spear into the head of a farmer who’d tripped and sprawled out on the path we’d just trampled through. His skull cracked like an egg on stone and he squeaked once, reminding me of a mouse. Then true screams began to fill the air. I opened my mouth too, but my lungs had sucked themselves tight. All this happened as I ran, stumbled, was dragged to the gates. I held my father’s arm with both of mine as we jostled through the bodies trying to get through the bottleneck of panicked people. His arm was like the solid hind leg of a bull marching boldly through a flock of goats, and I hung on, my feet barely scraping the dirt. We flung ourselves past the city walls. Our men of Jabesh barred the gates against the invaders and forbade anyone to break the seal.

#10 COVETED (YA urban fantasy) REDACTED!

Because Leatrice McKinney has an agent now! YES!

#11 A LEGACY OF FROST AND FIRE (MG sff)

Dear Agents,

Twelve-year-old Justin shouldn’t be up late playing computer games, but he wants to blast monsters into digital goo. He definitely doesn’t expect a real dragon to hurtle out a portal by his front door and set a neighbor’s house on fire. Before the firefighters arrive, the dragon disappears. Nobody believes Justin’s story, and then a sphinx masquerading as a police
inspector accuses him of arson.

Looking for a way to clear his name, Justin digs through the rubble of the ruined house. He finds what the dragon hid there – his mate’s egg. The sphinx texts Justin, “Practical Lessons for Dragon Egg Maintenance. Sign up now or choose what to pack for your trip to Juvenile Hall, button-downs or hoodies.” Going for the lessons, Justin accepts a quest from the sphinx
to return the egg to its mother.

He steps through the sphinx’s portal into another world where dragons are intelligent but near extinction and the egg in Justin’s hands is their last hope. Pursued by a dragon desperate to recapture the egg even though it would doom his kind, Justin must interpret the sphinx’s texted clues to find the mother. But if he can’t reach her in time, dragons will be gone
forever and Justin will never see home again, not even Juvenile Hall.

Complete at 46,000 words, A LEGACY OF FROST AND FIRE is an upper middle grade science fiction/fantasy. While standalone, it does have series potential. The adventures are informed by my work as an evolutionary ecologist (also known as bug-napper, mud expert and swallow wrangler) and experience as a sailor and pilot.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Heather Hawke
@Heather_Hawke
http://heatherhawke.com/ 

I crouched under the covers so Dad couldn’t see the glow from my cell phone. He’d flip if he caught me awake after midnight. I texted, “Beat game. Blew everything up.”

My parents wouldn’t understand I needed to relax by playing video games, what with pre-algebra homework every day and yet another book report due for language studies. If I didn’t get decent grades, my computer ‘privileges’ dried up.

My phone buzzed with a new message, but it wasn’t from one of my buddies. It read, “Justin. Do not skip this class: Practical Lessons for Frost Dragon Egg Maintenance. All Lab. No Lecture.”

Some loser must’ve got my number and this was his idea of a hilarious joke.

But maybe the message was an ad for a new computer game. I checked again. The screen name of the person who sent it was “Sphinx.” The game was probably fantasy. I might buy it. Sounded sweet.

I yawned so the corners of my jaw cracked. Maybe I should go to sleep. My dad would peel the covers off me before the sun rose in the morning, even if it was a Saturday. He’d drag me on some hike, or bike ride, or kayak trip. Just once, I wished he’d let me do what I wanted.

I fluffed up the covers so I could see better and tapped in another message, “Can’t make gaming party.” No, instead of bringing my laptop to a friend’s house, I’d be discovering a whole new world of blisters.

A light flicked on in my room so I stuffed my phone under the pillow. I was busted. Trying to think of an excuse, I pushed aside my old plaid camping blanket. But Dad wasn't there.

From the window, electric bright light rippled across the wall. The light shaded into pink and turned burning red.

A noise from outside roared like a freeway at rush hour and an enormous thump shook the bed. Adrenaline surging through my legs, I ran to the window, threw it open and leaned outside. My mouth fell open. Frozen lightning hung in front of my house, stretching from the lawn up to the roof. It looked like a cracked-open door with a spotlight behind it.

Across the narrow street, red haze swirled around a hulking animal the size of a backhoe. It cast about, as if looking for something.

Smoke drifted into my room, making me cough. The animal snapped its head up. It gazed directly at me with golden eyes big as my fist. The pupils thinned to narrow vertical lines.

I jumped back from the window. Stumbling further away across the room, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Then my head hit the opposite wall with a bang that made my ears ring. The creature’s stare pinned me like a bug.

The door crashed open beside me and Dad charged through. “Justin! There’s a fire!”

#12 SING TO THE WIND (YA contemporary)

Dear Agents,

Amber Vaughn is looking for a way out of Sevenmile, North Carolina. With Mama determined to keep her tucked in the confining bosom of small town church, Daddy's affairs threatening their family’s foundation, and her sister's husband dealing drugs from the backyard trailer, Amber turns to boys. Each one different, each one feeding a part of the fantasy that she’s unique. But what people are figuring out, while Amber is making out, is that she has a singing voice. A legit voice that might actually take her places. And what Amber is figuring out, is one of those boys makes her feel just as free as when she's singing.

When a representative from NC-Arts - a school for talented high school juniors and seniors - invites her to an audition, Amber convinces her mother to let her try out. But her skeevy brother-in-law has other plans. He knows about Amber’s extra-curricular activities and gives her a choice. Help him steal prescription drugs or he’ll tell her Mama the only angelic thing about Amber is her voice. Whatever she chooses, she's going to lose - either the something she’s been dreaming about, the someone who’s found his way to her heart, or her reputation, where it matters most. At home.

This edgy, Southern 71k young adult contemporary should appeal to fans of THE DUFF and STORY OF A GIRL.

I’m a member of SCBWI, an active participant in Verla Kay’s Blue Boards, and take courses with Joy Neaves (formerly of Front Street Press) through the Great Smokies Writing Program.  I've had an essay published in the national horse periodical, THE TRAIL LESS TRAVELED.  When not writing, I teach high school art. I can be found on the web at jayerobinbrown.com and @jayerobinbrown. 

Thank you, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Jaye (Jro) Brown

Chapter 1

 The man talking on the local news has it out for me. Through the screen door, I watch Mama, remote control in hand, mouth gasping like a banked fish with each new tale of murder and woe. Every single day, morning and evening, she convinces herself the world beyond our doorstep is a Very Bad Place. I’ve managed to sneak off in plain sight most of the summer, but I never know when she might decide an ax murderer is lurking in the woods and keep me home.

  

Devon’s Jeep barrels around the curve in the road. I stand up, wiping the dust off my jean shorts. He parks and makes his way across our overgrown yard, guitar slung over his shoulder, foil-wrapped plate in his hand.

 “Ready?” I say. “Mama’s working herself into a scare.”

 He peers past me into the house. “Hey, Mrs. Vaughn.”

 “Hello, young’un.” 

 I groan as Mama walks toward the screen door.

 “You’ve got your cell phones? You won’t be out too late now, will you?” Mama has her hand on the door pull but doesn’t open it. “Devon, you look after Amber, sometimes there are hikers from who knows where out on those trails.” She looks at the plate and his guitar. “What? No salamander hunting today? Y’all meeting somebody?”

 “No ma’am,” I lie. “Just us, going to go sing up on the overlook, and we may try and find us a Hellbender or two.”

 That’s been our story. That we’re on the hunt for the elusive Hellbender salamander. That we spend our long teenage hours in the woods, alone, digging under rocks, trying to find a slimy amphibian that’s about as hard to find as a kernel of truth is in my family. The reality is we’re headed to the hiker barn. Again.

  

A twinge of guilt burbles in my gut. If Mama knew what I was up to it’d destroy her. But the thing is, Mama only sees what she wants to see. Even when I come home bra-less, lips swollen, with stars in my eyes and a hickey on my neck, she’ll look at me all maternal and say, “Did you have a nice time, sugar?”  She’s as clueless about me as she is about my backyard sister and her drug-dealing husband. Or about Daddy and his overtime. I wonder if the faithful are meant to be so blind. 

 I’m beginning to wonder if she even cares about us at all.

 Devon and I tell her goodbye, assuring her six ways to Sunday we’ll call if we run into trouble, and cut across the back pasture toward the trail.

  

We traipse past my sister, Whitney’s, faded grey trailer and head for the tree line. 

  

Devon whistles his latest Gaga download as we walk. 

  

He’s funny. Smart enough. He moved to town right when Whitney abandoned me for Sammy and we clung to each other like rabbits in a storm. Unfortunately, Devon’s not into girls. 

#13 BLISTERS (YA urban fantasy)

Dear Agents,

Pain. Sweat. Blood: The minimum expected to be a member of the corps de ballet for the Coleman Arts Conservatory.

When Dawn Humphrey is accepted to the Summer Intensive at the most prestigious school in New York, she suffers more than just blisters from her pointe shoes. Aside from the director insulting her weight and publicly showing his distaste for her dancing, Dawn falls hard and fast for the director’s son, Griffin Coleman, who can’t seem to keep his hands (or lips) off the other girls in the company.

The Conservatory is renowned for its technique and precision, but something is off with the girls. Not only are they too perfect on stage, but they’re burning out too quickly. It isn’t until the company announces they’re doing Giselle for the summer showcase that Dawn realizes the parallels between the haunted ghost story and the lives around her. And she could be next. Dawn must find a way to free the girls from dancing to their deaths before she succumbs and becomes a ghost herself.

BLISTERS, complete at 57,000 words, is a YA Urban Fantasy novel that is the first book in the proposed BLISTERS series, where each book mirrors a different ballet. I am a freelance writer and editor. Active member of SCBWI. Number one top-pick Inkpop winner. I danced with a professional company for seven years and was a ballet teacher for fourteen.

Thank you for your generous time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Morgan Shamy

http://www.morganshamy.blogspot.com/

---------------

 I lift my leg higher, wincing at the burn in my lower back. Shoulders down. Stomach pulled in. Head tilted. I bring my leg around, focusing on my standing hip, until my working leg is in front of me, inches from my face. With an excruciating push that I am all too familiar with, I stretch my limb higher until I descend it to the ground.

The music tinkles to a stop and I lower my arms, finished. My heart hammers in my ears and sweat clings to the inside of my leotard. An itch bristles in the middle of my back, but I hold frozen, waiting for permission to move. The judges scribble behind their clipboards, the sound grating along my bones.

 I slide my eyes over to Beth. She nailed it. Just like me. Her eyes stay fixed in front of her, but the corner of her mouth twitches so I know she’s aware of me. Dozens of other girls stand alongside us, not including the hundreds that have auditioned across the country.

 “That will be all,” the director of The Conservatory says. His dark, thick-framed glasses look more like an accessory than for actual use. Kind of like the pencil behind his ear.

 The room seems to breathe at once as we quietly head over to the sides of the studio where our bags are located. Pointe shoes click on the Marley floor and the air is hot and sticky on my skin. None of the judges watch us depart, like we’re not human beings who would cut off a limb to be part of their program. If we didn’t need the limb to dance in the first place.

 We are only clinical objects to them. How long are your legs? How defined is your arch? Can you add an extra turn to your pirouette? Or most important: How much do you weigh?

 I unclasp the number safety-pinned to the front of my leotard, grab my bag, and head into the hallway so I can freak out with Beth. I follow along the other long-legged girls like skinny cattle and fresh air tickles the back of my neck. Parents stand connected at the hip outside, their faces a jumble of nerves, anticipation, and worry.

 Conversations erupt and I drag Beth down the hall so I can release the scream that has been trapped in my throat since before the audition began.

 “Did you see me nail that adagio?” I run a hand over my slicked-back hair. It probably looks black instead of red from all the hairspray. “And your fouettes were amazing, Beth. I can’t believe you pulled a triple at the end there. How long until we hear, do you think?”

 Beth’s face seems extra pale against her dark hair. “I don’t know, Dawn. Rejection letters usually come after the positive. If we don’t hear within the next two weeks, then I’d say it’s a pass.”

 Two weeks.

 I can't wait two weeks. I can't wait two seconds.

#14 THE SNOW GLOBE (YA fantasy)

Dear Agents,

Sixteen-year-old Sondrine Quint is an Elementalist, able to weave fire, water, and air into both inanimate objects and living creatures. By day she works at Cimmerian’s Curio Emporium, her aunt’s apothecary and antique shop. When a hooded stranger offers Sondrine a snow globe in trade for medicinal herbs, she accepts, enchanted by the castle, forest, and sea encapsulated under the glass.

Her enchantment fades, however, when her deceitful aunt betroths her to one of London ’s wealthiest men—a complete stranger. Determined to escape the marriage, Sondrine trades her corset for trousers and decides to run away. With one foot out the door, she falls down a veritable rabbit hole into Winterhaven, the haunting world inside the snow globe.

Sondrine soon discovers her arrival in Winterhaven is no accident. There, she meets Shan, a man who broods more than the darkened sky above. Turns out Shan is not to be trusted. Not only is he the man who sold Sondrine the snow globe, he is a bounty hunter employed by the king. The beginnings of a sovereign war have been set in motion and an Immortal queen, one who uses fire as a weapon, is set on destroying Winterhaven. Because of her Elemental gifts, only Sondrine has the means to stop the queen. If Sondrine refuses the king’s request, he will behead her. If she rises to the challenge of killing the Immortal queen, her death is just as imminent. After all, surely an Immortal queen cannot be killed.

Or can she?

THE SNOW GLOBE is an 85,000 word YA Fantasy with a strong element of mystery and a hint of romance. If you would like to consider THE SNOW GLOBE, I would be happy to send the manuscript.

Thank you for your time and consideration on this project.

Jenna Nelson

~1~

 Lavender and anise coalesced through the air inside Cimmerian’s Curio Emporium, a hint of black pepper, calendula, perhaps, underneath. Mahogany shelves stretched floor to ceiling along the far wall behind the counter, each bursting with remedies for various ailments and abnormalities. On the top shelf, a line of glass jars held medicinal powders in a rainbow of hues. Metal canisters below housed fibrous roots, dried herbs, and exotic spices from rainforests halfway around the world. Located in the very center, tucked inside the oval glass cabinet, were long-necked bottles and oblong tins filled with healing salves, oils, creams, and liniments, all emblazoned with Cimmerian’s distinctive seal.

 Sondrine Quint sat behind the counter of the shop, chin on folded hands, concentrating on the large block of ice set before her. A flush of candlelight fell across the surface, vapor whispered around the edges. Straight lines softened and the cube relaxed into a cylindrical shape. Starting from both ends, wide vertical grooves burrowed through the surface leaving slivers of fractured ice in their wakes. On one side the grooves converged and spiraled into a deep burl in the center. Pieces on top thinned into long needles, twining left, right, and straight up, forming an icy tangle of gnarled branches.

Aside from the sound of Sondrine’s anxious breathing, and the shifting gears from the Aeriscloque—the unique timepiece draped around her neck—the room fell silent. A cocoon sprouted from one of the extended branches where Sondrine touched it with her fingertip. Before long the pod expanded and twitched, a lengthwise crack traveling up the middle.

 “Don’t be afraid,” Sondrine whispered.

 The head of a butterfly poked through the opening, and a set of feelers tested the air. After a few minutes, the butterfly pulled the rest of its body free from the cocoon. One frosted wing unfolded, followed by the other. The insect flapped once, then again, over and over, until the wings beat back and forth in a silvery blur. When water began to drip from them, Sondrine pushed the candle farther away.

“You can do it,” she said in an excited whisper. “Fly once around the shop and return to me.” The delicate butterfly rose into the air, hovering for a moment, right before Sondrine’s eyes.

Three strident knocks struck the emporium’s front door, breaking Sondrine’s concentration. Before she could reach out to catch the butterfly, it fell to the counter and shattered into irreparable pieces. The stab of disappointment felt sharp as the ice shards that she swept into the trash bin. Wiping her hands on her dress, Sondrine walked around the counter to the front door of the shop. She pulled up the carnelian tasseled shade, allowing the afternoon sun to devour the shadows, there just moments ago.

A man in a brown leather cloak stood on the other side of the door, fist raised in the air, about to knock again. Aside from his strong jaw, the folds of the cloak’s long hood obstructed his face.

#15 THE MONKEY CHARM (upmarket women's fiction)

Dear Agents:

In THE MONKEY CHARM, an upmarket women’s novel of 62 000 words, Anne Ramone believes that if she protects a young family from domestic abuse, her husband will be cured of his brain injury.

Anne knows it’s strange that she watches over the Singhs, a mother and two girls recently immigrated from India. She is the anonymous benefactor who mails them grocery money, pays for the girls’ summer camp and follows their coming and goings from school. Seeing Lela skip alongside her older sister comprises the few happy moments of Anne's day.

Meanwhile, her own family is falling apart. Bob, Anne’s husband of twenty-five years, suffered a catastrophic stroke three months ago and now the outgoing, athletic cop lies unresponsive in a hospital bed. The crisis is compounded by the destructive reactions of their two daughters. But how can Anne deal with her children’s distress when Bob’s needs are so overwhelming? Unless Bob communicates soon, he will be transferred to a chronic care facility where he’ll be parked in a hallway, waiting to die.

Anne searches for a solution, a catalyst to Bob's healing. She realises that the more she supports the Singhs, the more Bob improves. Then Anne spies the abusive father lurking around the Singh home, despite his restraining order. It is up to Anne to stop him, not only for the Singh females, but for Bob’s recovery as well.

I was awarded two Ontario Arts Council grants and a Toronto Arts Council grant for THE MONKEY CHARM. My writing has appeared in literary journals, newspapers and on national radio. I am a graduate of the Humber School for Writers and have a M.A. in English. You can read more about me and my writing here.

Thank you for considering THE MONKEY CHARM. I look forward to your response.

Sincerely,
Dianne Scott


THE MONKEY CHARM

Chapter 1

“He is very mad,” Devanshi Singh said from the witness box beside the judge. She looked down at her hands, twisting a thin copper bracelet around her wrist.

“What happened next?” Crown attorney May MacQuillan asked as she approached her.

Anne Ramone leaned across her desk in front of the judge and tapped the volume button on her cassette recorder. Mrs. Singh’s voice was whispery, infused with a heavy Indian accent. Anne didn’t want any problems transcribing the tape later in her office.

“He come into kitchen,” Mrs. Singh said. “He push chair over.” She made a shoving motion with her arms. “The children are at table. They stop eating.”

“Yes,” said May, moving closer, blocking Mrs. Singh’s view of her scowling husband sitting at the defence table.

“He take plates of children, the dishes. He throw plates on floor.” Mrs. Singh paused, looking down at her lap. She took the tail end of her blue sari and wiped a tear from the edge of her eye.

Domestics were tough, Anne thought, especially on the women with children.

“Do you want some water?” May asked.

Mrs. Singh shook her head. “He say I am bad wife. House dirty. Like animals live here.”

“And then?” May asked gently.

Mrs. Singh stared at the back wall, ignoring the spectators in the gallery. “I tell children go to rooms. Then I clean. I pick up food, dishes from floor. But Ahkilesh is still mad.” Her lower lip trembled.

May caught her gaze and held eye contact as she continued.

“He throw plates at me, bowl, knife, fork. I go like this.” Mrs. Singh spread her fingers over her face to demonstrate, the bangles on her wrist jangling. “I am on floor. He say names, bad names, bad words. I hear children screaming. I ask him stop.”

“He hit here,” Mrs. Singh said, pointing to the back of her head. “I sleep.”

“You mean you were unconscious,” May said.

“Yes, unconscious,” Mrs. Singh said, nodding.

“Police come,” she said,  looking down. “I am on floor in kitchen. They say not move. There is blood. From head. Marushka, neighbour, comes, say she has Sunita and Lela.  Ambulance come. I go to hospital.”

A man in a trench coat walked into the court and turned up the aisle between the defence and crown’s tables. He stopped in front of Judge Bailey’s bench.

It was Staff Sergeant David Cooper, Anne realised. He worked at 51 Division with her husband Bob. What did he have to do with the Singh case?

Anne felt a touch on her shoulder. She turned. It was Carol, her fellow court monitor, standing beside her: “You have to go. I’ll take over.”

“What’s going on?” Anne asked.

She froze as David Cooper walked toward her. For over twenty years, she had worried about The Phone Call. She wondered when Bob left for a shift, if he would come back.

And now it wasn’t a phone call after all.

WINNERS!

Other interesting stuff follows, but nobody wants to read that until they've seen names, right? So HERE ARE MY WINNERS!! (in no particular order).

Chase Baldwin: Spectacle (YA contemporary)

Elli Woollard: Princess Petunia's Pet (children's picture book)

Summer Heacock: With a Shake of her Hair (women's fiction)

Margie Senechal: Son of a Hired Gun (YA contemporary)

                                                Tonja Drecker: Music Boxes (MG fantasy)

                                                Linda McLaren: The Sound Catchers (YA ghostly mystery/thriller)

                                               

                                                Lois Brown: Disobediance (YA historical)

                                                Elain Vickers: Discovering Isaac (MG contemporary)

                                                Ben Gammell: The Quiet City (adult commercial)

                                                Leatrice McKinney: Coveted (YA urban fantasy)

                                                Heather Hawke: A Legacy of Frost and Fire (MG SFF)

                                                Jaye Robin Brown: Sing to the Wind (YA contemporary)

                                                Morgan Shamy: Blisters (YA contemporary)

                                                Jenna Nelson: The Snow Globe (YA fantasy)

                                                Diane Scott: The Monkey Charm (adult literary)

                                                

   You guys also asked for an honourable mention list, so here it is! Bear with me, it's long. It's long because I saw merit in ALL of these entries. I know it drives some people nuts when agents says 'unfortunately I just didn't love this enough', but that's genuinely how it is in many cases. I don't know if it helps but I want all the people on the list to know that I wavered A LOT over this first set of mentions:

Laura Renegar, Emily Skrutskie, Jessica Lawson, Derrick Camardo, Erica Chapman, Valerie Lawson, Jamie Grey, Kip Wilson, Artemis Grey and Rena Rockford.

Here are some other people whose stories appealed to me and stuck in my mind:

Ella Schwartz, Caitlyn Young, Emily Cushing, Kimberly Miller, Raluca Balasa, MaryKate Connelly, Joshua Legg, Rebecca Sutton, Jemi Fraser, Lori Tussey, Mandi Silberstein, Jenn Brisendine, Katie Slivensky, Sarah Nelson, Gail Nall, Triona Murphy and Rachel Russell.

I liked all of these entries. Please keep writing!


OTHER IMPORTANT STUFF: When the winners go live on the 18th, could we ask you to save your comments, if you have any, until the end of the week until after the agents have made their requests. After that you can go cheerleader nuts if you want to. 

And now for some stats!

Total entries: 351
Adult: 96 (of which 2 were NA)
YA: 201
MG: 38
PB: 16

Never before have I found a practical application for a block graph, but MAN I wish I could make one right now. Ooh, no a pie chart would be better! I can't believe I'm excited about maths. THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE.

K, this is one long ass post now, so congrats to the winners! Emails are on the way to you! If you want to stalk take a professional interest in the rest of the proceedings, posts will be up from the 18th.  
                              

THE SUBMISSION WINDOW IS OPEN!

 THIS CONTEST IS NOW CLOSED!


If you're late to the party, here are posts one, two and three on #XmasinJuly.

The submission window is open 6am to 3pm EST and you'll receive an auto response to let you know we received your entry. If you don't get one, leave a comment and I'll fish it out of the spam : )

The email address is lottiehumphries14(at)yahoo(dot)co(dot)uk

Format it as if you're sending to an agent: Query and then first 500 words in the body of the email. Put your name, the name of the ms, and the genre in the subject line please. It should look like this:

Ruth Lauren Steven: THE CRACKS IN EVERYTHING (YA contemporary)

You can address your query 'Dear Agents' - as long as you promise to NEVER, EVER do this in an actual query to an agent!

You won't be ignored/disqualified/paraded through the streets in shame if you were at work or something and didn't see this post. If you get the auto response, we have your entry and we promise to read it.

Another thing you need to know is that if you're one of our 30 and Judith Engracia makes a request for your work PLEASE SEND IT STRAIGHT AWAY! (I know, that's going to be tough, right?) She's coming over to London on the 20th and wants her Kindle loaded up with the material beforehand. (On a related note HOW COOL IS THAT?!)

Good luck all. See you on the other side of the slushpile!

Christmas in July: AGENTS REVEALED!

 If you're stumbling around wondering what's going on because you googled 'Fondant Fancies' and ended up here, then I'm sorry, but this isn't for you. Also, are you just one person who really likes Fondant Fancies and has short-term memory loss, or are there lots of you? The stats page of my blog tells me you're out there, Fondant Fancy googler, but who are you? I must know!

K, enough of that. If you really are wondering what's going on, the first post about this contest is here and the second is here.

So now that you know...


It's time to reveal the agents!

Adriann Ranta of Wolf Literary Services

Julia Churchill of The Greenhouse Literary Agency

Vickie Motter of Andrea Hurst & Associates

Judith Engracia of Liza Dawson Associates Literary Agency

Carly Watters of P.S. Literary Agency

Stephen Barr of Writers House

Becky Vinter of Fine Print Literary Management

Melissa Sarver of The Elizabeth Kaplan Literary Agency
                                     
Molly Jaffa of Folio Literary Management

Lucy Carson of The Friedrich Literary Agency


                                                      LOOK AT THAT LINE-UP!


A quick post telling you how to format your entry will go up when the submission window opens, and then you are free to flood our inbox with all kinds of wonderful. Good luck!

Christmas in July: A few more details

As you know, Michelle Krys is co-hosting Christmas in July with me, and today we have a few more details for you.

First of all, if you missed the first post, you can find it here.

Now for the exciting bits :) We already told you you'd need a query letter and the first 500 words of your completed ms to enter. We'll both be reading ALL the entries (and possibly fighting over our favourites.) I'm kidding (I'm not, and I'm pretty sure I have the weight advantage).

Anyway, once we've come to a dignified and amicable decision (seriously, I fight dirty), we're going to help you edit your entry until it is a many spendoured thing. Not that you HAVE to take our advice - it's your work. But the advice will be there :)

So because we'll need time to read all the entries and you might need to time to polish them up after our suggestions, the timeline is going to look like this:

Next post - 2nd July. This one will reveal our ten agents!

Submission window - 9th July between 6am and 3pm EST. Submissions should be sent to lottiehumphries14(at)yahoo(dot)co(dot)uk. I'll set up an auto response so you'll know we've received your submission.

13th July - the 30 writers chosen by us will be posted and notified.

18th July - after polishing, the entries go live on our blogs for the entire week and requests will be made!!

Don't forget to use the hastag #XmasinJuly on Twitter!

Christmas in July: Agent-judged competition announcement!!

It's time to announce a HUGE agent-judged competition that's so big it's going to need two blogs to contain all the awesome. No prizes for guessing that my co-host is Michelle Krys. So if you don't follow her already, then you'll be wanting to (also, what is wrong with you?)

As you can see, we're calling it Christmas in July!

And here's the tagline:

                  30 pitches, 10 agents, 1 week. 


Yep, we'll be choosing 15 entries each to post on our blogs. The entries will be up for a whole week, and there will be ten, yes 10 agents dropping by to make requests!

This is where it gets even more exciting.

Because there are 10 agents (did I mention that?) there's a wide scope for genre here. Which means that we'll be accepting Children's picture books, MG and YA (all genres), and Adult submissions of ALL GENRES (except erotica)!!

You'll need a query letter and the first 500 words of a completed manuscript to enter.

You don't have to follow my blog to enter, but I'd like it if you did. I'd also like it if you'd check out my previous post. It's about a great book!

More details on the submission window and what we'd like to do with the entries before they go live to follow in the next post, which will be on the 25th June. In the meantime, we're using the hashtag #XmasinJuly to talk about it, hook up on Twitter and TELL EVERYONE : D

The Weight of Water by Sarah Crossan

The Weight of Water by Sarah Crossan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

View all my reviews

Here's the blurb from Goodreads:

 Armed with a suitcase and an old laundry bag filled with clothes, Kasienka and her mother leave Poland and head for the UK to find her father. Life is lonely for Kasienka. At home her mother's heart is breaking and at school Kasienka finds it impossible to make new friends. While the search continues, Kasienka is kept afloat by William, a boy she meets at the local pool who understands what it means to lose someone and who swims with Kasienka towards her new life.

I find that kind of lacking actually. Here's the blurb from Amazon instead:

 Armed with a suitcase and an old laundry bag filled with clothes, Kasienka and her mother head for England. Life is lonely for Kasienka. At home her mother's heart is breaking and at school friends are scarce. But when someone special swims into her life, Kasienka learns that there might be more than one way for her to stay afloat. The Weight of Water is a startlingly original piece of fiction; most simply a brilliant coming of age story, it also tackles the alienation experienced by many young immigrants. Moving, unsentimental and utterly page-turning, we meet and share the experiences of a remarkable girl who shows us how quiet courage prevails.

Yeah, that one's better, because this book is utterly lovely. Poignant without being sentimental and incredibly relatable. Easy to read and beautifully written. As a writer I'm jealous, as a reader consider my thought provoked. It's written in verse, but if you think that bothers you, get over it. This is a great read!

Why you might need more than one crit partner, or why online critique sites rock. But no porn today.

In my last post I told you all why it's essential that I have a critique partner, and by extension why you should have one too. Also, there was crying and mention of porn. Anyhoo, I couldn't leave out all the other people who are reasons that I get to have a go at writing books instead of, you know, working and stuff.

I'm not an in-person type of person. Online works best for me. The place that I use for this is Scribophile, and not just because there are periodic discussions of how the hell you say its name. I sent my first book through the mill there and was lucky enough to pick up some loyal and wonderful readers who read the whole thing. What's more, they didn't laugh. They even came back and read my second novel. So it's down to them, in part, that I sent that novel out and gots me an agent.

Some of them have blogs: J. D. Field, Amaleen Ison, Kristine Goodfellow. Some of them (I'm looking at you, Kinkaid!) neglect their blogs (they die if you don't look after them you know. Just sayin'). These nice people, plus others - like Mr Mark Stone - discussed with me the relative evils of the word 'was' and the possibility that the world would implode if we used too many adverbs. They read the unfocused waffle that was my first draft, and they helped me make it better. 

And here's the important bit - they had different ideas about what I needed to do to fix issues with my writing.

This is why it's important to surround yourself with people whose opinions you can trust. When you have a group of people willing and able to give intelligent comments on your work, it's also important to know when to excercise your own judgement entirely, and when to listen to other people. Having lots of people read your work is great, but you also have to know when something is a true issue with your story and when something is an opinion - maybe a valid opinion, and something that could work, but an opinion nonetheless. 

Look for issues that are mentioned by more than one person. Listen to your own gut when it comes to your story, but don't ignore the more objective opinions of others if they're identifying the same problem.

So what do you think? Do you have crit partners? What's your optimum number?

Why you need a crit partner. Also, porn.

Writerly friend Amy Christine Parker  recently wrote a post about how wonderful her crit partners are and suggested her readers do a similar post. So Michelle Krys did. And it sounds like she has this one critique partner that's particularly spectacular. I think her name is Ruth, or something.

I did a google image search under 'big headed' to find this pic. I recommend that you don't do that if you like your eyes because sometimes the interwebz are a bad place, kids. Also, in related advice, do NOT google Puss in Boots while on teaching placement. In front of kids. Yeah, I've never clicked 'close' faster in my life. Ok, back to the point.

So this is my post in the same vein (with added advice on avoiding porn. Or finding it. Whatever).

This is Michelle Krys. You got that, right?

 I've talked about how I met Michelle before. And I know she's going to be thrilled I dug that post out again. And if you don't already know who she is, then you must never have been to my blog before because I kind of never shut up about her. You know those girls who wear the same jeans and drink the same drink and go to the little girl's room together? I think that's us. Except I've never done any of those things in real life with anybody, and also she looks better in those jeans than I do (curse my Hobbit lineage).

Anyhoo, it's my new life mission to make her cry with this post, so get your mac out because you're going to get covered in sap otherwise.

Reasons you should get a crit partner as great as Michelle (but not her. She's busy reading my crappy first drafts).

1) She's read everything I've ever written. And that means my overwrought, craptacular first novel, my endless and obsessive draftings of various query letters (approx seven billion separate critiques. I wish that was an exaggeration) and my self-doubting, whingy, ungrateful and melodramatic emails regarding such subjects as 'I hate my book', 'I hate myself',  and 'Ugh'.

2) She's responded to every single one of those neurotic re-draftings of query letters and emails, often right away (even though she works full-time and has a kid) with stellar advice. She makes me a better writer. And she doesn't judge me for not being a better person.

3) She's a nurse. I can't even drive near the hospital without freaking out and she works there, saving babies lives. I can't fathom how she does it, but I have the utmost admiration for the fact that she does. I've never met her in person, but I'm kind of proud of the fact she does that job (wtf is that about? I have no idea).

4) She's honest about my writing in the most encouraging way you've ever seen. Seriously, it's a skill. How she manages to be that peppy about the fourteenth draft of a pitch for a book I haven't even started yet, I don't know. But she does.

5) Michelle's a great critique partner, but she's also my friend. I don't have to pretend I feel a certain way if I don't. I don't have to hide any part of me as a person (and there are some less than desirable parts), and I don't have to worry that any of my writing ideas aren't good enough or ready enough to show her.

Ok, if you're not in diabetic shock from all that syrup then wth is wrong with you? Is your heart made of coal??

There are other people who have helped me tremendously since I started writing - but they're going to get their own post : ) Michelle gets the whole post to herself for being my bestest critique partner/internet bff. THAT's how much I <3 her. Just sayin'.