Sarah Remy's Blog, page 2

Friendsgiving Critique

 

It’s my turn on the Friendsgiving Feedback rotation! Because it’s Friday, and I’m feeling generous, I’ve chosen two queries, both of which grabbed me with their emphasis on female characters and STEM.

First up is NILE, an #ownvoices entry. Here is the query in its original form, a brand new baby in the FF inbox, so full of promise:

Dear [AGENT]

I would be thrilled if you would consider my YA Fantasy, NILE. It features a strong-willed female MC (Spanish-American) whose interest in STEM fields leads her to re-discover herself and live a series of unforeseen events. Complete at 99,000 words, NILE blends science with a tinge of magic and History:

With her father still mourning the death of her long-gone mother, Nile has spent her life in the exile of her loneliness. When she travels to Egypt to study Physics, a mishap with white holes and motorboats renders her half-dead. Stranded in a multiverse, she’s thrust into the arms of Arem, a young Pharaoh in a far-away world. He takes her back to his kingdom and agrees to help her find her way home –but Nile is not eager to accept the assistance of an overconfident emperor; she can fend for herself!

And yet, the more she learns about Arem’s culture, the more she wants to stay. Arem’s realm is beautiful and welcoming, and for the first time in her life, she finds a home.

Suspicious of Nile and Arem’s bond, Arem’s betrothed enlists the help of Raeki, a feared universe jumper, to get rid of Nile. Raeki is charming, Machiavellian, and his motivations are questionable. But when Raeki discovers Nile is also a universe jumper, he sees her for what she really is: an equal. He offers Nile a chance to join him in his intentions to take over Arem’s realm, and if there’s something Nile loves more than anything, that’s power, a chance to leave an unprecedented mark in History.

In this game of queens and kings, Nile must choose between protecting the people she loves, or saving herself, no matter who she destroys in the process.

NILE stands alone but has series potential. It will appeal to readers who enjoyed Sabaa Tahir’s AN EMBER IN THE ASHES, the voice in Sarah J. Mass’ THRONE OF GLASS, or characters in the vein of Arya -A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE.

[BIO]

Thank you for your time and consideration!!

In all honesty, this is a pretty fantastic query. It could probably go out almost ‘as-is’, but as a graduate of the old ‘say more with less’ school of querying, I’ve tightened it up just a bit:

Title: NILE

Genre: YA Fantasy

Word Count: 99,000

Dear [AGENT],

With her father still mourning the death of her long-gone mother, Nile has spent her life in the exile of her loneliness. When she travels to Egypt to study Physics, a mishap with white holes and motorboats renders her half-dead. Stranded in a multiverse, she’s forced to rely on the kindness of Arem*, a young Pharaoh in a far-away world. Arem takes her back to his kingdom and agrees to help her find her way home –but Nile is not eager to accept the assistance of an overconfident emperor; she can fend for herself!

But the more Nile learns about Arem’s culture, the more she wants to stay. Arem’s realm is beautiful and welcoming, and for the first time in her life, Nile finds family**.

Suspicious of Nile and Arem’s growing bond, Arem’s betrothed enlists the help of Raeki, a feared universe jumper, to get rid of Nile. Raeki is charming but his motivations are questionable. When Raeki discovers Nile is also a universe jumper, he sees her for an equal and offers her a chance to join him in his bid to take over Arem’s realm.***

In the resultant game of queens and kings, Nile must choose between protecting the people she loves, or saving herself, no matter whom she destroys in the process.

I would be thrilled if you would consider my YA Fantasy, NILE. It features a strong-willed, Spanish-American main character whose interest in STEM fields leads her to re-discover herself and live a series of unforeseen events. NILE blends science with a tinge of magic and history, and will appeal to readers who enjoyed Sabaa Tahir’s AN EMBER IN THE ASHES, the voice in Sarah J. Mass’ THRONE OF GLASS, or characters in the vein of Arya -A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE.

Thank you for your time and consideration,****

Other than tightening, I switched up a few important things:

* ‘thrust into the arms of Arem’. I see what you’re getting at here, but I envision Nile dropping into the alternate universe and stumbling out of nowhere into Arem’s arms. Maybe with an invisible hand on the back, thrusting her forward plot-wise. I think you address their relationship better and more subtly later on in the query through Arem’s betrothed.

** If Nile’s decision is between protecting the people she loves or saving herself, I think this needs to be reinforced early on. She was lonely before she fell through the white hole, but now she’s found a place she belongs.

*** This feels a bit out of left field. Up until this point we know Nile’s been lonely and neglected, she’s smart and independent, and she can jump multiverses. Is it also important we know she’s power hungry? And if so, is her choice truly between saving herself or protecting the people she loves, or between a power grab and protecting the people she loves? I went with option A. You can go with option B if that’s more in character, but I think you need to choose one singular motivation and not muddy the waters too much.

**** NO double exclamation marks!!!! …seriously, though, you want your query to look as professional as possible, no matter how excited you are about your fantastic story. A comma will do very nicely.

All in all a great query and an excellent story premise. Extra points for physics, white holes and pharaohs. 

Query #2 is PIXIE AND THE KNIGHT. This is how PIXIE’s query came into our inbox.

Pixie has one skill that can make her any real money. Programming AIs, and doing it better than anyone else around. Nobody else can make them have a sense of humor. Nobody else can make them think creatively. Nobody else can make them feel emotions. And yet, Pixie can’t get any respect piloting her Frame, her homemade, ten-foot-tall robot fighter known as “The Knight”. Whether it’s because she’s only about 20 years old, because she’s only about 5’1”, or because she’s a woman, she’s not sure. Trying to win respect and credibility without the backing of a gang or a Corporation is the hardest way to go, but signing up with anyone would mean someone else holds her leash. That is definitely not Pixie’s style. Instead, she intends to make everyone pay attention.

Pixie has managed to claw her way up the unofficial rankings of Frame pilots in the grimy, Domed-off world of the Megasprawl. She’s got a fight against the guy seen as brightest up-and-coming star. If she wins, she makes money, but more importantly, will instantly be a name. But her opponent, Osgood, happens to be on the shortlist to provide his AI programming skills for a pet project for the CEO of the biggest and most powerful Corporation in the ‘Sprawl, Solomon Benedict of Atmos.

In a bid to achieve the previously unachieved goal of uploading his mind into a computer permanently, Solomon needs the best AI programmer going, and when she beats Osgood, she’s positioned herself as the prime candidate to succeed in this impossible task. Unfortunately, Solomon’s not willing to give Pixie a choice in the matter. Her mentor, Johnny Tates, taught Pixie a very important Rule #1. Never work with a Corp. But Solomon can literally shut off the flow of air to people and places that do not do as he says. The entire economy revolves around his Corporation. His word is law. It’s going to take a lot of work to win herself free from Solomon’s interest.

THE PIXIE AND THE KNIGHT is a high-technology science fiction story and has a wordcount of 117,714 words. While I am obviously trying to follow in the footsteps of big names like Neal Stephenson (Snow Crash, The Diamond Age) and William Gibson (Neuromancer, Pattern Recognition), this flavor of science fiction has been enjoying some quality books as of late, such as K.C. Alexander’s NecroTech, or Max Barry’s Jennifer Government. Too often, AI stand for Terminator and Matrix-style villainy. I hope to show AI as a tool, or possibly just another sort of person. With such TV shows as Westworld and video games such as Deus Ex: Mankind Divided, or the upcoming Ghost in the Shell film making waves, I believe that THE PIXIE AND THE KNIGHT will stand amongst all these pieces of media, and add something to the conversation.

My name is (redacted). Currently, I work as a bench chemist in the shoreline of Connecticut for a company that produces chemical standards. I’m a graduate of the University of Vermont’s Rubenstein School of Natural Resources, with a B.S. in Fisheries Ecology. I’ve studied what ecologists think will happen in the next hundred years, and think that one path that may be taken could lead us to a world like that in THE PIXIE AND THE KNIGHT. Of course, if that’s the path we’ve taken, we’ve messed up somewhere along the line.

I have included the opening chapter of THE PIXIE AND THE KNIGHT for your consideration. If you’d like to see more, please feel free to let me know via email.

Thank you for your time and consideration,

And this is how PIXIE looks after I went to work:

Title: THE PIXIE AND THE KNIGHT

Genre: Science Fiction

Word Count: 100,000

Frame pilot Pixie has one important skill: she can program AIs better than anyone else in the grimy, Domed-off Megasprawl she calls home. Pixie’s AIs have a sense of humor. Pixie’s AIs can think creatively. Pixie’s AIs feel emotions.

Pixie’s AIs are as good as human.

Pixie and The Knight – her homemade, ten-foot-tall AI robot – have battled their way up the Megaprawl’s unofficial Frame pilot rankings and in doing so have unexpectedly caught the attention of Solomon Benedict, CEO of the biggest and most powerful Corporation on planet.

In a bid to achieve the previously unachieved goal of uploading his mind into a computer permanently, Solomon requires the best AI programmer around, and he’s decided Pixie is it. Pixie knows better than to work with a Corp, but Solomon doesn’t intend to give her a choice in the matter.

Pixie and her Knight are the best Frame-pilot duo under the Dome, but they’ve yet to face a foe as dangerous as Solomon. Unless she finds a way to escape the Corp’s influence in time, everything Pixie values most, including her life and The Knight’s, could be lost.

Like Westworld or Ghost in the Shell, THE PIXIE AND THE KNIGHT explores the role of AI in the not-so-distant future.

I have included the opening chapter of THE PIXIE AND THE KNIGHT for your consideration. If you’d like to see more, please feel free to let me know via email.

Thank you for your time and consideration,

It’s decisively shorter. There’s a lot going on in the original query. I haven’t read the manuscript so I had to do some guessing but my intent was to boil down the story to bare bones. (A)Who is Pixie? (B)What makes her interesting? (C)What are her motivations? (D)Where is the conflict?

(A)Pixie’s a Frame pilot with a homemade fighter robot and a talent for programming AIs. 

(B) Pixie and her Frame pilot, The Knight, are winners under the Dome.

D) Pixie attracts the attention of (probable) Corp baddie Solomon. Pixie won’t work with Corp. 

C) Survival.

As a publisher (and, honestly, also as a reader) these are the plot points I want to know. The rest, even Osgood and Johnny Tates, both of whom sound like interesting and important side characters, can wait for the synopsis. 

I’ve cut out the bio because PIXIE’s query is specific to AI and robot tech. While I’m guessing ecology has a ton to do with the story (my first clue was the Dome!) it has nothing at all to do with the mini-hook-story you’re introducing in the query. But this is a personal preference. If you’re reluctant to cut it completely, I would trim it just a little:

My name is (redacted). Currently, I work as a bench chemist on the shoreline of Connecticut for a company that produces chemical standards. As an ecologist in the field I can clearly imagine how the mistakes we as a people have made could lead to a world where cities are Domed, survival is uncertain, and technologies triumph. PIXIE AND THE KNIGHT is as much a cautionary tale as it is an adventure story.

PIXIE sounds like an engrossing, multifaceted story with the sort of intelligent and bamf protagonist I prefer. Points for fighting robots, the Megasprawl (just the name sounds deliciously gritty) and a female AI tech. 

The trick is to showcase the main storyline, and that requires some pruning. All in all I think you’ve very much on the right track.

For the other Friendsgiving Feedback critiques up to this point, see:

Michelle Hauck, author of GRUDGING and FAITHFUL

Laura Heffernan, author of AMERICA’S NEXT REALITY STAR

Liana Brooks, author of HEROES AND VILLAINS series

Emily B. Martin, author of WOODWORKER and ASHES TO FIRE

And don’t forget our #FFCHATs on Friday, December 2 at 4pm and 8pm EST.

Friendsgiving Feedback

 

Among so much bad news, we are all in need of a ray of light. I figured the least I could do is put together a short critique workshop to raise spirits and maybe help some writers. 



So a small group of five published authors has come together to offer query critiques for the next two weeks to culminate in two twitter chats about querying, publishing, and just any questions we might be able to help you with.



We will do a query critique every day starting on November 21st and plan to give first priority to marginalized writers, “own voices” stories, and stories with diverse characters, worlds, and challenges.



Your manuscript does not have to be completed. You just need a completed query letter. A large group of winners will be randomly drawn from the rafflecopter and their query letters requested. Then each of our participating authors will choose from the available entries and post their critique on their blog or on mine along with their feedback.



Hopefully we can all learn more about the writing process from the breakdowns of these query letters. 



Our twitter chat will be December 2nd at 4:00 pm EST and 8:00 pm EST under the hashtag #FFChat and will last an hour. We’d love you to post some questions ahead of time down in the comment section. 



There’s not much time so enter the Rafflecopter giveaway quickly. And please help us spread the word under #FFChat. Links to the finished critiques will be given under that hashtag also.



Here is who we are:

Emily B. Martin

Park ranger by summer, stay-at-home mom the rest of the year, Emily B. Martin is also a freelance artist and illustrator. An avid hiker and explorer, her experiences as a ranger helped inform the character of Mae and the world of Woodwalker. When not patrolling places like Yellowstone, the Great Smoky Mountains, or Philmont Scout Ranch, she lives in South Carolina with her husband, Will, and two daughters, Lucy and Amelia.


Blog

Twitter

 

Liana Brooks

Liana Brooks writes science fiction and sci-fi romance for people who like fast ships, big guns, witty one-liners, and happy endings. She lives in Alaska with her husband, four kids, and giant mastiff puppy. When she isn’t writing she enjoys hiking the Chugach Range, climbing glaciers, and watching whales.


You can find Liana on the web at www.lianabrooks.com or on Twitter as @LianaBrooks. Goodreads Author Page.


























Laura Heffernan









Laura Heffernan is living proof that watching too much TV can pay off: AMERICA’S NEXT REALITY STAR, the first book in the REALITY STAR series, is coming from Kensington’s Lyrical Press in March 2017. When not watching total strangers participate in arranged marriages, drag racing queens, or cooking competitions, Laura enjoys travel, baking, board games, helping with writing contests, and seeking new experiences. She lives in the northeast with her amazing husband and two furry little beasts.



Some of Laura’s favorite things include goat cheese, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Battlestar Galactica, the Oxford comma, and ice cream. Not all together. The best place to find her is usually on Twitter, where she spends far too much time tweeting about writing, Canadian chocolate, and reality TV. Follow her @LH_Writes. Laura is represented by Michelle Richter at Fuse Literary.



 








Sarah Remy



Sarah likes her fantasy worlds gritty, her characters diverse and fallible, and she doesn’t believe every protagonist deserves a happy ending.


 Before joining the Harper Voyager family, she published with EDGE, Reuts, and Madison Place Press.
 Sarah lives in Washington State with plenty of animals and people, both. In her limited spare time she rides horses, rehabs her old home, and supervises a chaotic household. She can talk to you endlessly about Sherlock Holmes, World of Warcraft, and backyard chicken husbandry, and she’s been a member of one of Robin Hobb’s longest-running online fan clubs since 2002.
 Find Sarah on Twitter @sarahremywrites and her Blog








Michelle Hauck

 

Michelle Hauck lives in the bustling metropolis of northern Indiana with her hubby and two kids in college.  Besides working with special needs children by day, she writes all sorts of fantasy, giving her imagination free range. A book worm, she passes up the darker vices in favor of chocolate and looks for any excuse to reward herself. Bio finished? Time for a sweet snack.


She is a co-host of the yearly contests Query Kombat and Nightmare on Query Street, and Sun versus Snow.

Her Birth of Saints trilogy from Harper Voyager starts with Grudging and Faithful.  She’s repped by Marisa Corvisiero of Corvisiero Literary.

Twitter

Facebook page

Blog

Drem

I’m enjoying the evolution of my lesser sidhe and their impact on my mortal characters. Drem, the archetype, was always meant to be an important character. But the ‘barrowmen’, from when they first appear as predators in Stonehill –

A small troop of white-skinned monsters guarded the bones. They held notched swords or sharpened sticks in long-fingered hands, and showed fangs as Mal approached.

Siobahn stood among them, smiling.

Two of the creatures separated from their brothers. They wore animal pelt and silk, and their long hair was knotted and greasy, their round eyes shadowed.

Liam hung between them. The lad had stopped screaming. When the monsters dropped him at Siobahn’s feet, he lay unmoving.

– and again in AtLS –

When the barrowman grabbed, it came not from the ground, but from the wall. The warding cant flashed, silver light burning bright enough to sting Avani’s eyes, and illuminated the tunnel and her foe.

No larger than a child, little more than a bundle of fur and claw and fang, the barrowman screeched as though burnt, and pressed back against the tunnel wall. It had flat, black eyes. Those eyes reflected back the silver of the ward even as it snarled.

“Get back!” Avani warned. “Stay away!”

The creature flexed sinew and claw, but didn’t shift from the wall. Avani glanced up and down the tunnel, but saw no sign of any other sidhe. She was wracked by a horrified certainty that an army of the creatures lurked just beyond her silver light, ready to swarm, and tear, and bite.

She thought she might vomit, but she kept her face still, the point of her sword aimed at the barrowman’s heart. If it were only one, she thought she could cut it down, perhaps even take it through the chest.

If it were only one.

“Go,” she ordered, and was distantly amazed to find her words were steady as her blade. “Go, and I won’t kill you. Now!” She flicked her sword. Silver light caught on the tip.

To her surprise, the creature turned and fled. It stumbled back up the tunnel toward higher ground. Just as it disappeared into the black beyond the spark of Avani’s warding, she caught its scent: ripe fish, and old soil, and rot.

– and an increasing role in Bone Cave –

Everin turned. Faolan stood tall in the lantern-light, the storm raging still at his back. The lesser sidhe drew close, flame reflected in flat black irises. Everin’s skin prickled. He knew them for what they were, little more than feral children, and he’d never hated the barrowmen as the flatlanders did, but he was wise enough to fear them.

“Near Beltane, Bail and its sibling Drem brought me word of two theists roaming east of the river. Priests from your walled city,” explained the aes si. “I thought nothing of it, at first. The priests travel occasionally, between the keeps, up and down the river. As I expected these men did not stay long in the scrubland: a night, mayhap two, camped in the brush. As far as Bail and Drem could see, they kept to themselves. When eventually they broke camp and made their way back to the King’s Highway, we dismissed them from our care.”

“They came back,” said Bail’s companion. Mud dulled its colorful motley. “More, many more.”

“Six,” said Faolan, “is not many. But Drem is right. Six is more than two, and now I had reason to be concerned. They were poking their noses near ways and means we prefer to keep hidden, and in fact came quite near one of our oldest gates. A few steps more in the wrong direction and they’d be serving the elders below.”

“Sweet meat,” added Drem, gnashing its teeth. It looked at Everin as it did so, and he was certain he saw a glint of humor in the dark stare.

 – and finally in Book Four  –

Everin waited a day in Skerrit’s Pass, studying the desert from top of his grandfather’s watchtower, trying to learn the army camped below while daylight painted the eastern side of the mountain white, and yellow, and gold. He knew a few things from time spent in service on the white sand, and so the legion in the wasteland alarmed him.

He knew, for instance, that the sand snakes were a proud and independent people, distrustful of change. Fiercely loyal to family and godhead, rarely did they stay long under a single lord’s banner, preferring to wander the vast badlands in small, unruly tribes, trading amongst themselves, enrolling in service only when coin was in short supply.

No lord sought to press a warrior into lifelong service. Desert existence was a nomadic reality. One champion moved on once his coin pouch was full up, and another with an empty purse stepped up in his place. For all its inhospitable temper, the desert was a crowded place.

“Are there cities?” Drem asked. The lesser sidhe had not attempted to hurry Everin in his contemplation, instead spending hours rooting about in the rocky cauldron that was Skerrit’s Pass, and nosing around the depths of the old tower. It wore still the form of a desert woman – long-limbed, dark skinned, and yellow-eyed. Everin, despite his own desert heritage, found the facade disconcerting.

“Aye. Cities of canvas, tent post, and brick. Up for a generation, moved on the next. A lord reigns where her banner flies, sooner or later she will grow bored of the same sun and moon and move on to the next place.”

Drem propped its elbows atop the tower battlements. Midday sun gilded the sand, obscuring the desert floor in a haze.

“And now they wish to see the sun and moon from the other side of the mountain,” Drem predicted.

“It happens,” Everin squinted thoughtfully. “The last time was in my grandfather’s age – ” he scuffed his foot meaningfully against tower stone ” – the time before that sidhe still walked above ground and helped beat them back. That was in advance of Wilhaiim’s white walls; flatlanders were farm folk, more intent on surviving than laying claim. Or so I was taught in my youth. You don’t remember?”

Drem shook its head. “I am not so old as that,” it said. “Faolan might recall. The elders certainly would, should they ever stir themselves to care.”

“Time, and time past, the sand snakes have tried and failed. Roused, routed, and returned to the sand.” Everin pursed his lips. “There were not so many of them, before.”

“Once there were not so many of you,” Drem retorted. “Mortals breed like rabbits.”

It stalked off, kilt swinging, bare feet slapping angrily on stone. Everin hoped it retained enough of Faolan’s magic to conjure sandals before they braved the burning desert sands.

– where I expect them to teach us a important lesson about the monster in every human heart:

Avani paused in undoing (the woman’s) splints. “She’s to stay here, in your chambers?”

“Until she fights off the fever, this is the safest place for her. If what Faolan told me is at all true, we’d best keep her a secret from the temple a while longer.”

“The barrowman was in no better shape,” said Avani, baffled. “In fact, nearly identical. But you kept it in a catacomb cell from the very beginning, and gave it only a thin blanket for warmth.”

Mal’s fine dark brows rose in confusion.

“A barrowman is not human, Avani,” he said. He held the taper over the woman to better see her face. “She may be our enemy, but as of yet we cannot assume she is a monster.”

Mythical Beast

“Passion.”

I’ve got a therapist. These days, who doesn’t? Her name is Ellis and she could be my grandmother if my grandmother lived in Brooklyn and rode a Harley into the city. I started seeing her early on because Grace thought a therapist would make transitioning easier. Its been a few years and these days Ellis and I mostly talk about my food issues, Tom’s obsession with his serial killer, and sometimes the reoccurring dream I have about drowning in the Salish Sea.

I never miss a scheduled appointment, even if it means getting up at the butt crack of dawn on a Saturday morning before con opens and meeting Ellis for coffee at a florist-cum-café around the block from my apartment.

I sip my dark roast and squint sleepily at the forest of potted orchids on shelves surrounding our table while Ellis butters her croissant and mulls over the story of Jeremiah and his charcoal buildings.

“Passion’s sort of a mythical beast, isn’t it?” she suggests. Her long grey hair is braided down her back and she’s wearing a knit scarf the color of my coffee against the rainy morning. I’ve dutifully eaten the fruit cup she ordered for me before I arrived, but I’m sternly ignoring the cream cheese muffin. “Hard to pin down but you know it when you see it, I suppose.”

I blink at seventy-year-old Ellis over the rim of my coffee cup, thinking that with the wind apples in her cheeks, the colorful sea horse I inked on her shoulder blade just last year, and the motorcycle helmet hung over the rail of her chair in anticipations of an afternoon cruising, she’s the living embodiment of a mythical beast.

“I don’t know,” I hedge. “Maybe.”

Hemingway’s story is a mutable thing, changing often as I write it. I’ll be handing out free ‘Hemingway samples’ – plus other goodies – at NYC Comic Con, so come and find me October 5-10.

 

Panel (6.a)

Friday evening I have my first panel of the weekend. It’s an old standard, one my publicist slots me onto every year: DARE2DRAW – Show Us What You’ve Got. It’s the sort of panel I like to do, because it’s more a conversation than a presentation, audience participation mandatory.

There are five of us sat up on stage on folding chairs behind a temporary table. We’ve each of us got microphones, bottles of water, and felt-tips for signing programs or art after. I’m usually called upon to sign body parts so I carry my own favorite Sharp marker. It just works better and it’s non-toxic on skin. Anyway the sort who ask me for an arm or back or face doodle are usually planning to make it permanent, and Sharp works much better under the needles than regular felt-tip.

There’s also a camera on a tripod set up at the back of the room behind the audience. This year we’ve got Bob Brooks on the panel so we’re a big deal and they’ll be streaming us live. Bob’s a fucking legend in comic land ever since an entire first edition, 10 book set of his Farley Mouse set sold at Christie’s for almost a million dollars. Bob’s been doing pencil and ink for DC since before I was born. He’s always been an icon, but two years ago he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s and now people treat him like he’s Andy Warhol. I bet it pisses him off.

I usually choose the left-most chair at the table because I’m claustrophobic and the moderator’s podium is usually set up right. This year it’s the moderator, then the overhead projector, then Bob. Next to Bob is Michelle Meyers. Michelle’s a fan favorite with the LGBTQ crowd for her web comic about two gay speed skaters competing at Sochi. She calls it Olympic Trials, which I think is maybe just a little too clever, and she’s up for a GLAAD award this year – huge deal. She winks at me over Bob’s head as she sits down. We’re not really tight but we know each other enough to say hi because we haunt some of the same queer-safe spaces east side, and I literally cried over the art in her last Trials update, so there’s that.

Ricky Dylan’s between me and Michelle. Ricky paints some of the most beautiful Scifi/Fantasy book covers you’ll ever see. I used to collect his posters when I started the con circuit, before I moved in with Tom and began hanging my own canvases on my walls of other people’s work. If I could do color like Ricky does color I’d never come out of my studio because I’d have an orgasm every time I painted a moon rise.

“Hello, Hemmingway,” Ricky says. The folding chair next to me groans when he collapses into it. Ricky’s a big fucker. He’s got hands like bear paws and I have no idea how he manages to work a stylus so elegantly. “Nice crowd for a Friday night.”

I’ve been trying not to notice our audience. It’s ten minutes till start and the room’s already full. I know from experience every single person sitting in the crowd has a portfolio or tablet on their lap and dreams of making it big in their heart. I also know from experience the difference between the four of us on the dais and the 155 of them in the audience isn’t scope of talent but just dumb luck.

 

Mirrors (5.b)

I leave the club just before 2AM after making sure Grace is safely in a cab – on my dollar – and I catch the train out of Hudson Yards. Alcohol is my best friend tonight. I love how soft it makes me feel. I adore the wobble in my step as I climb out of the earth at Bleeker Street and weave my way home. Everyone is my friend, even the little old lady walking her Chihuahua who gives me a dirty look as I stagger past.

My three-bedroom, fifth-floor apartment’s recently been gutted and rebuilt on the inside, which is why I chose it. It’s clean and modern and bright, which was important, it looks east over Alphabet City, and the building has both a doorman and a rooftop garden. It didn’t come cheap, which is why I have a roommate to share the space and the rent.

I chose my roommate like I chose the apartment – he’s clean, modern, and bright. He’s also the craziest person I know, and that’s saying a lot.

Our night doorman’s called Gabriel. He grins at me as he lets me into the lobby.

“Good night, Hemingway?”

“The best,” I promise, and waltz my way into the elevator. It’s got carpet on the floor and mirrors on the wall. I used to hate mirrors, used to close my eyes when I brushed my teeth, squint when I put on mascara and lipstick. The woman in the reflection wasn’t me and when I wasn’t afraid of her I wished her dead. Now I can handle mirrors a little peek at a time, especially when I’m sauced.

I stand in the elevator as it rises, rocking slightly on my heels, whistling Pink Jones and stealing glances at the guy whistling back from the elevator walls. He’s not bad looking, despite the sweater and the sandals. I like his eyes: they’re kind. I like his hair and the sparse stubble on his cheeks and the wider shoulders above the mostly narrow waist.

I pass okay. Mostly no one ever looks twice. That girl from Twin Falls is gone but not dead and I don’t close my eyes when I brush my teeth any more.

I drop my keys in front of 534 twice. Third try at the lock and I’ve almost got it when Tom yanks open the door. I fall across the threshold, catch myself on the wall, and laugh like a loon. Tom backs up. He’s a doesn’t like to touch people; he’s afraid of germs.

“Jesus, Hemingway,” he complains. “You’ll wake Ms. Harcourt.”

“I won’t.” Tom’s always promising but nothing ever wakes our downstairs neighbor. Ms. Harcourt sleeps like a rock. “How’s The Project?”

It’s my standard greeting because it’s the one Tom responds to best. Say ‘hello’ or ‘good morning’ or ‘what’s for dinner?’ and he tunes you out. Ask him about the web of string and paper tacked to our living room wall and he livens right up.

“Nothing tonight,” he reports as I shut and lock the door. The apartment smells like Chinese, which means he’s ordered in. My stomach growls hopefully. “Things have been mostly quiet.”

He means the police scanner he keeps on our kitchen counter. Tom’s forensics at the NYPD, their young rising star. He’s good at what he does because it’s all he does, even at 2AM on a Friday morning. The crime scene wall above our foldout sofa is his private project. Like me and The Photo, The Project defines Tom, makes him who he is whether he likes it or not.

It’s been ‘mostly quiet’ for three weeks, now, which is apparently a long time in serial killer land.

“Maybe he’s done and quit,” I offer as I always do when things are slow. I root out a plate from our mostly empty cabinets and dump leftover Chinese out of a carton. The world’s still slightly off kilter and I’m very pleased with myself for no reason other than I’ve found greasy food. I’d give Tom a hug, but that sort of close contact would probably give him a heart attack.

“Nope,” Tom replies, glum. “Fifteen murders. That I know of. He’s not the sort that quits.”

“Maybe he’s dead,” I suggest, pleased with the idea. I take my plate over to the sofa, collapse, and pick out bits of chicken from rice with my fork, one small morsel at a time. If I chew each bite 100 times, I’ll feel less hungry when it’s over. “Maybe he’s gone and fallen into the Hudson. Maybe his latest prey turned out to be some sort of lady bodybuilder who fought back and broke his neck and dumped him in the nearest garden park.”

“Shut up.” The sofa bounces when Tom sits down a safe 24 inches distant. He’s a tall guy, all planes and angles. At thirty he’s greying prematurely and no one in his old money, bankers-lot family will talk to him because he prefers murder puzzles to normal things like dating or cocaine. “You’re stupid when you’re drunk.”

I grunt agreement. He’s not wrong.

We sit together and stare out the window at the rain. Tom’s a good guy. We do okay together. He doesn’t care that I’m still finding my wings as a phoenix out of the ashes and I don’t care that he’s obsessed with a man who’s strangled and dismembered 15 prostitutes.

I eat until my stomach stops growling and then head for bed. Tom doesn’t notice when I leave the living room for my studio. I have a key for that door, too. I had a lock put in. It’s my private place and not even my affable roommate is allowed in.

It’s by far the best room in the apartment, 12 by 12 with ten-foot ceilings and southern exposure. There’s a mattress on the floor for sleeping, one of those roll away portable hanging bars for my clothes, a bin for shoes, three more for paint. Canvases stacked everywhere on the floor, most of them virginal. The ones on the wall are finished; cityscapes and studies of birds and trees and people in the park. When Tom goes rambling about the city on his off hours, I sometimes accompany him, sketchbook and pencils in hand. He’s looking for murder clues. I’m looking at the way afternoon light falls across a person’s face as they stare out across a sea of yellow cabs, or the dimples on a sycamore trunk, bark like grey silk where it doesn’t fold over into darker lumps.

Painting’s different than inking flesh. Not better, or even harder. Just different. No one but Tom knows I dabble, and he never says a word. Tom and I, we both have our secrets.

 

Pink Jones (5.a)

It rains on us all the way to Cleo’s, but luckily the walk’s not far. Across from the convention hall everything’s under construction, chain link fence and scaffolding wrapping around buildings for blocks. The nail guns and jack hammers are quiet this time of night, but the cranes cast strange shadows over the sidewalk. It’s October, and after 10pm, so the sun’s gone down. I don’t mind. We didn’t really see it all day, anyway.

The sidewalks are crowded with con-goers heading home or out for a late dinner. More than a few are going us on our way toward Cleo’s. It’s always busy but Danny, one of the bartenders, spent the afternoon passing out fliers in the Exhibitors Hall – “Martini Blast – Shake it up – Half Price Power Hour 11 to Midnight” – so it’s bound to be packed tonight, groin to groin.

I think sadly of my lost beer and bedtime as I watch Grace try to keep her tutu from getting squished between pedestrians. She thinks I don’t know she wears it because of me; her own gruesome version of subtle cosplay, her ballerina girl accessory to what she styles as my brooding Byronic demeanor. Grace might make an ugly noise about paparazzi and autographs, but she likes to put me in the spotlight whenever we’re out because if she plays her cards right that usually means free drinks and free food. Grace, for all her father’s money, is broke as shit.

Her ploy usually works the first hour if she’s lucky. Once I get a few drinks in me I’m a laughing ping pong ball on the dance floor, hardly brooding, plus I’m positive Lord Byron never wore ugly-ass sweaters. In the dark people forget I’m supposed to be a tragic hero, and Grace remembers that dancing in a crowded club a tutu is just fucking annoying and tosses all that pink tulle into a corner.

The entrance to Cleo’s is clogged. We stand in the rain, wait our turn. Grace takes my hand and swings it back and forth. There are a few brave news idiots with cameras, mostly taking pictures of people still in cosplay. A cop car wails buy, lights flashing. I look up at the sky as we wait, getting rain in my eyes. There are no stars above Manhattan, only high rise windows flickering bright or dark.

When we finally scrape up to the front I don’t recognize the bouncer. He doesn’t know me, either, though he comments on my ink. Grace stands at my side, fuming as he checks our IDs and then stamps our hands. Cleo’s is very vintage. No colored paper bracelets; glow in the dark butterfly stamps are more fun.

Inside it would be pitch except for the blue-light strobes and flashing disco balls and a eight-armed octopus chandelier hanging over the bar. The DJ, up on his pedestal, is playing a fine Artic Fox/Pink Jones mash-up. The floor is so tight it’s like one giant people-ameba wiggling back and forth. Everyone’s laughing and shouting and basically coming down or going up after a long Thursday.

Grace heads straight for the dance floor. I make for the bar. It’s a cluster fuck of thirsty people but I squeeze my way in. Danny’s working the left corner and two gay boys I know by face but not by name are tending middle and right. When at last I’m up I order three shots of Patron Silver straight up, no salt or lime, and slam all three straight back.

The person guarding a stool against my elbow and nursing a glass of red wine purrs in appreciation.

“Oh, honey,” they warn, shouting over the thump of Pink Jones’ trademark bass. “You’ll be feeling that in no time.”

“Not me.” I lean in close so they can see my grin and hear my secret. “Tequila and I have a very friendly relationship.”

They’re dressed head to toe in tight black leather except for the striped scarf hung loosely over their shoulders. Black, white, grey and purple; they’re ace. Also cute as hell in an Eartha Kitt sort of way, all long legs and stacked heels. When they slide off the stool I’m betting they’ll be at least a foot taller than me.

They laugh before finishing their wine in one elegant swallow.

“Your sweater’s atrocious, and your sandals are just a fuck-you to the entire fashion industry,” they say, smiling wide enough to crack a few hearts. “I like your style. My name’s Rose. Care to dance?”

I’m in the middle of finalizing NYCC plans. SKETCHBOOK will be there in some form on my vendor’s table, along with my other books. Can’t wait! SO SO can’t wait!

Also, if I were talented enough to pull together a band, I’d totally name it Pink Jones.

 

Pink Jones 5.a

It rains on us all the way to Cleo’s, but luckily the walk’s not far. Across from the convention hall everything’s under construction, chain link fence and scaffolding wrapping around buildings for blocks. The nail guns and jack hammers are quiet this time of night, but the cranes cast strange shadows over the sidewalk. It’s October, and after 10pm, so the sun’s gone down. I don’t mind. We didn’t really see it all day, anyway.

The sidewalks are crowded with con-goers heading home or out for a late dinner. More than a few are going us on our way toward Cleo’s. It’s always busy but Danny, one of the bartenders, spent the afternoon passing out fliers in the Exhibitors Hall – “Martini Blast – Shake it up – Half Price Power Hour 11 to Midnight” – so it’s bound to be packed tonight, groin to groin.

I think sadly of my lost beer and bedtime as I watch Grace try to keep her tutu from getting squished between pedestrians. She thinks I don’t know she wears it because of me; her own gruesome version of subtle cosplay, her ballerina girl accessory to what she styles as my brooding Byronic demeanor. Grace might make an ugly noise about paparazzi and autographs, but she likes to put me in the spotlight whenever we’re out because if she plays her cards right that usually means free drinks and free food. Grace, for all her father’s money, is broke as shit.

Her ploy usually works the first hour if she’s lucky. Once I get a few drinks in me I’m a laughing ping pong ball on the dance floor, hardly brooding, plus I’m positive Lord Byron never wore ugly-ass sweaters. In the dark people forget I’m supposed to be a tragic hero, and Grace remembers that dancing in a crowded club a tutu is just fucking annoying and tosses all that pink tulle into a corner.

The entrance to Cleo’s is clogged. We stand in the rain, wait our turn. Grace takes my hand and swings it back and forth. There are a few brave news idiots with cameras, mostly taking pictures of people still in cosplay. A cop car wails buy, lights flashing. I look up at the sky as we wait, getting rain in my eyes. There are no stars above Manhattan, only high rise windows flickering bright or dark.

When we finally scrape up to the front I don’t recognize the bouncer. He doesn’t know me, either, though he comments on my ink. Grace stands at my side, fuming as he checks our IDs and then stamps our hands. Cleo’s is very vintage. No colored paper bracelets; glow in the dark butterfly stamps are more fun.

Inside it would be pitch except for the blue-light strobes and flashing disco balls and a eight-armed octopus chandelier hanging over the bar. The DJ, up on his pedestal, is playing a fine Artic Fox/Pink Jones mash-up. The floor is so tight it’s like one giant people-ameba wiggling back and forth. Everyone’s laughing and shouting and basically coming down or going up after a long Thursday.

Grace heads straight for the dance floor. I make for the bar. It’s a cluster fuck of thirsty people but I squeeze my way in. Danny’s working the left corner and two gay boys I know by face but not by name are tending middle and right. When at last I’m up I order three shots of Patron Silver straight up, no salt or lime, and slam all three straight back.

The person guarding a stool against my elbow and nursing a glass of red wine purrs in appreciation.

“Oh, honey,” they warn, shouting over the thump of Pink Jones’ trademark bass. “You’ll be feeling that in no time.”

“Not me.” I lean in close so they can see my grin and hear my secret. “Tequila and I have a very friendly relationship.”

They’re dressed head to toe in tight black leather except for the striped scarf hung loosely over their shoulders. Black, white, grey and purple; they’re ace. Also cute as hell in an Eartha Kitt sort of way, all long legs and stacked heels. When they slide off the stool I’m betting they’ll be at least a foot taller than me.

They laugh before finishing their wine in one elegant swallow.

“Your sweater’s atrocious, and your sandals are just a fuck-you to the entire fashion industry,” they say, smiling wide enough to crack a few hearts. “I like your style. My name’s Rose. Care to dance?”

I’m in the middle of finalizing NYCC plans. SKETCHBOOK will be there in some form on my vendor’s table, along with my other books. Can’t wait! SO SO can’t wait!

Also, if I were talented enough to pull together a band, I’d totally name it Pink Jones.

 

Bomb Blast (4)

Today’s SKETCHBOOK post comes with a trigger warning for violence, terrorism, death, and gore. 

4.

The way I became famous is this: I was in Seattle on Labor Day when the bombs went off, and in the middle of the chaos someone snapped a picture of me giving CPR to a toddler in a pink tutu and tiny white Converse hightops.

I wasn’t supposed to be in Seattle that weekend but at the last moment Don decided to close Tank for the holiday, and I had a buddy with a car and some extra cash in his pocket, and Outcast was playing Key Arena so we thought maybe we’d snag a couple of tickets in the parking lot and have a good time. We drove all night, stopping only in Spokane for a piss and a smoke, and hit The Emerald City before morning traffic.

I saw the sun rise on The Space Needle as we were scoping a street spot to ditch the car for a while. Sometimes I stop and think how I’m one of the last people who ever did see that.

We never made it to Key Arena but we did have coffee and bagels at Zeitgeist. We hung around throwing bits of bread at the ravens in a nearby park. At around 9 when the Public Market opened we wandered that way in search of distraction.

Later I learned that the seven devices were timed to go off all together at noon when downtown would be swarming with tourists and locals out for the weekend, but the one buried in a trash can near Pike’s Seafood went off early. There was no bang or anything like you see on tv. The ground shook me off my feet before there was a blast of hot air, and after that everything was falling, pieces of glass and metal, fresh flowers and shellfish, people and bits of people.

I ended up under an overturned florist’s table surrounded by display buckets spilling water and tulips. There was an old man lying on his side next to me. I knew he was dead because where his chest should have been there was a mash of black and red gristle, and he sure as hell wasn’t breathing any more. The little girl wearing the tutu was on her face in a puddle of water near my knee. The water and the pavement around her were turning red.

I turned her over. Her eyes were open and staring and she wasn’t breathing either but I couldn’t see any obvious reason she should be dead, so I just did what I learned in Mr. Miller’s first period high school health and started kiddie CPR.

That’s when a guy used his mobile to snap a picture. The Photo shows me bent over the girl, fingers on her tiny breastbone, my ear to her mouth. She looks like a fairy ballerina in frilly pink tulle and a blond bun. Her white Converse were probably pristine when she put them on that morning, but in The Photo they’re spattered with scarlet. It’s not her blood: it’s mostly mine. I’m bleeding from my nose, and a nasty scrape on my chin, and from the place in my thigh were a long shard of jagged metal sticks out like some sort of gruesome robot appendage.

In the shock I didn’t feel it. I couldn’t hear anything either because of the blast, so when the guy with the phone finally put down Twitter and crawled across debris to help I didn’t get at first that he was trying to put pressure on my bleed. I would have punched him in the face for groping my thigh if I hadn’t been so busy saving the ballerina’s life.

I did, too. She started breathing again just before I passed out from shock and blood loss. She’s a second grader in Bellevue and every Christmas and birthday her mom sends me a card. The guy with the mobile who took The Photo and then saved my life is called Greg. He’s a stockbroker who lost his wife and dog and luxury apartment to the bombing. We only see each other on the anniversary of the attack, at the Seattle Memorial, and only then because the press flies us out to say a few words.

Greg’s photo was everywhere for weeks after: on the internet, on the television, in print. My dad enlarged it and threatened to hang it on the wall near the TV but I convinced him that was probably in really bad taste. Honest to God I thought The Photo would be my 15 mins of fame and then I could get back to everyday life in Twin Falls. I was hardly the only Good Samaritan that Saturday. Five hundred thirty-two people died but many more escaped with their lives, and that’s because someone else stopped to help. I figured The Photo would be old news in a few months and I could get busy trying to forget one of the one hundred sixty-one people dead in Pike Place was my buddy with the car and the extra cash in his pocket.

It didn’t happen that way. Once air space was cleared again the President flew Airforce One down to Twin Falls and walked right into St. Luke’s where I was recovering just to shake my hand. And she asked me if I wouldn’t like to design her a tattoo for remembrance and ink it on her left wrist where she could always see it, and I was high on pain killers so of course I said yes.

Come New Year’s I was set up in the Oval with my machine and there were more cameras and it didn’t look like my 15 mins would be over any time soon. President Hawkins made sitting for ink a photo op, I was trending again, and pretty soon all sorts of odd ducks were showing up at Tank’s, Twin Falls, wanting a Hemingway original and willing to pay real money to sit in my chair.

That’s the way I became famous – because some white supremacists decided to blow Seattle all to hell and I was in the wrong place at the right time.

Earnest Ink (3)

3.

For con work I use pre-fab stencils: swords, unicorns, superheroes, flowers, dragons. They’re small, super easy work. Most of them I can get done in below thirty minutes. I charge sixty dollars a pop. That’s a lot of con money. Every once in a while Mandy makes a noise about raising prices, but she doesn’t really mean it. We’d be stupid to price ourselves out of the venue. Besides, ten hours of steadily streaming work at 120 an hour times four days in the booth…

Do the math. It’s not just a job, it’s a living.

When I started as an apprentice at Tattoo Tank in Twin Falls I was basically living on the streets, and that with a night shift at McDonald’s. Back then I did more grunt work than ink work. Someone had to keep the Tank sterile, and that someone was me with a Costco-brand-size bottle of bleach. The autoclave was my best friend. But I learned a fuck ton in the meantime. Don, the Tank’s head artist, gave me a Moleskin sketchbook and a set of Fineline pens for my seventeenth birthday, and told me the best tattooists are always doodling.

I still have that original Moleskin, plus the sixteen others I’ve filled since. I still use Finelines when I doodle. I’ve got my own studio: Earnest Ink. Mandy bleaches the floor and counters, but the autoclave will always be my best friend.

 

We start packing the booth twenty minutes before hall close. Everything has to be wiped down, and my equipment stored away in lockboxes on wheels for the trip back to Earnest. I shove the binders full of stencils into a bin under the client chair. Once everyone’s out con security will lock the hall for the night. I’ve had binders stolen before, but it feels stupid to lock them up. Most of the stencils aren’t original anyway; they’re clip art pulled off the web.

Mandy’s bleaching the client chair and I’m counting the take when Grace shows. She’s not in cosplay anymore; she’s traded Deadpool for a black wife-beater, a pink tutu, rainbow tights and tap shoes. She’s ready to dance. My feet hurt just thinking about it.

“Hi, Mandy,” she says, squeezing against the outside of our booth to let a guy wheeling a stack of comic crates past. “You coming tonight?”

“No.” I give Grace the stink-eye. Mandy’s started back up again at BMCC – third time’s a charm – and she needs to not be out all hours of the night when she should be doing course work. “Mandy’s hitting the books.”

“Fuck that.” Grace plucks at the black curtains around the base of our table. “It’s Friday.”

“Fuck you,” I retort sweetly. “Mandy and I’ve got a deal.”

“Mandy’s got a date,” my business manager says, giving us both a bright smile. “Nice boy I met at my uncle’s wedding this summer finally called. We had coffee. We hit it off. Tonight we’re going for a movie.”

Before I could protest she wags the canister of disinfecting wipes in my direction. “Don’t whine, Hem. It’s handled. I’m on top of it.”

She’s said it a million times before, and dropped community college twice, but this time I think she means it. She’d better. Because this time I’m paying her fees.

“Don’t wait up,” she tells me. “He’s cute and he’s sweet and I may end up at his place tonight.”

“Score.” To Grace’s credit, she looks genuinely enthused. “Text me later. I want to hear everything.”

“I don’t.” I groan, and stretch, and grab my sweater from under the table, pull it over my head. Grace and Mandy both roll their eyes at the garish Union Jack splashed across the front, but I don’t care. The sweater’s soft, and warm. I found it in a vintage upscale not far from Grace’s dad’s gallery, and it still smells faintly of someone else’s cologne.

“God,” Grace says. “Let’s hope the rain has kept the paps away. You just can’t do Jagger, Hemingway. You’re too…not.”

“Be nice.” Mandy’s finished swabbing. She grabs her purse and an equipment lockbox, ready to make a break for it. “At least he’s wearing decent shoes.” Which is a joke, because I’m wearing my usual sandals, which is very much not on, especially in the rain. “Night, kids. Stay out of trouble.”

We both watch her leave the hall. Grace makes a little sound of regret.

“Jesus, she’s got thighs like pistons. Fucking gorgeous. Are you sure she’s not – ”

“Not,” I say, grabbing up my own bag. “Definitely not.”

“Because I heard she used to hang out a lot at Gomer‘s, and everyone knows –

“Straight,” I interrupt, before Grace can wander into the world of queer dining clichés. “She’s definitely straight. Likes cock. Don’t pout, darling. Ready?”

“Always.” Mercurial Grace switches from glum to jazzed in a heartbeat. She switches up her moods like I switch up my sweaters: as often as possible.

Life’s too short for tedium.

I leave the booth, she takes my arm, and we head for Cleo’s.

SKETCHBOOK’s become a writing warm-up, a brain exercise, a palette cleanser over coffee between wake-up and real work. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.