Michelle Hauck's Blog, page 82
February 9, 2015
SVS 6: THAT'S JUST FABULOUS, YA Contemporary
Title: THAT'S JUST FABULOUSGenre: YA ContemporaryWord Count: 70,000
My main character would prefer to live in:
Nell Summers doesn’t have time to lie around in the sun when there are newspaper articles to write and college applications breathing down her neck. But if a snow storm forced her to hole up with Patrick Campbell for a few days, she would be okay with that.
Query
Dear Contest Queens and Awesome Agents:
Seventeen-year-old Nell Summers only needs one thing to get the hell out of Oak Run, Virginia: A story that will land her first place in the High School Journalism Competition and the scholarship that goes with it. A scholarship means a chance to start over in New York, where no one will care if she has two moms. To win the competition, Nell has her sights set on a hot story about Prince Albert, the local punk band, and its lead singer—a boy with incredible talent and a dark past.
But Patrick Campbell has no interest in helping a preppy brat achieve her dreams. He thinks she has no idea what it’s like being different. She thinks he’s just as closed-minded as the rest of the town, Mohawk or no Mohawk. With annoying groupies and an absentee grandmother trying to make amends, Nell’s dreams are farther away than ever. Who knew getting the inside scoop on a simple story could be so hard?
And then there’s Patrick. The more she uncovers, the harder it is to keep hating him. Nell knows they are all wrong for each other, and this story can only end with a broken heart. But sometimes the hardest walls to knock down are the ones we build ourselves.
First 250 Words:
There are three reasons why dating the lead singer of a band is a stupendously bad idea.
One: Groupies. It’s a universally acknowledged truth that a boy being followed by hordes of screaming girls must be a gigantic ass. It’s not like he’s saying no. Do you really want to go where ten thousand girls have gone before?
Two: He’s an idiot. Why bother with things like grades when you’re going to be a rock star? Because of course a high school band from Oak Run, Virginia, is going to be the next big thing. Sure, they’re getting a lot of local gigs right now, but if their following ever extends past the Mississippi, I’ll be shocked.
Three: He’s an asshole. If my ex-boyfriend Rob is any indication, the lead singer is the type of guy who won’t play a supporting—or supportive—role in anything. He doesn’t play back up in the band, and he’s certainly not going to play back up to his girlfriend.
All good things to remember if you happen to find yourself at Rock-N-Bowl on a Saturday night.
Patrick Campbell dominates the mic to the thumping sounds of Prince Albert behind him. Punk music isn’t usually my thing, but I’m not here just to listen. Although they aren’t that bad, actually. The beat is pretty solid. I can appreciate the Irish influence, which makes the lyrics more thoughtful than raging. I also appreciate Patrick’s butt in those gray pinstriped pants.
Groupies, I remind myself. Hordes of screaming groupies.
My main character would prefer to live in:
Nell Summers doesn’t have time to lie around in the sun when there are newspaper articles to write and college applications breathing down her neck. But if a snow storm forced her to hole up with Patrick Campbell for a few days, she would be okay with that.
Query
Dear Contest Queens and Awesome Agents:
Seventeen-year-old Nell Summers only needs one thing to get the hell out of Oak Run, Virginia: A story that will land her first place in the High School Journalism Competition and the scholarship that goes with it. A scholarship means a chance to start over in New York, where no one will care if she has two moms. To win the competition, Nell has her sights set on a hot story about Prince Albert, the local punk band, and its lead singer—a boy with incredible talent and a dark past.
But Patrick Campbell has no interest in helping a preppy brat achieve her dreams. He thinks she has no idea what it’s like being different. She thinks he’s just as closed-minded as the rest of the town, Mohawk or no Mohawk. With annoying groupies and an absentee grandmother trying to make amends, Nell’s dreams are farther away than ever. Who knew getting the inside scoop on a simple story could be so hard?
And then there’s Patrick. The more she uncovers, the harder it is to keep hating him. Nell knows they are all wrong for each other, and this story can only end with a broken heart. But sometimes the hardest walls to knock down are the ones we build ourselves.
First 250 Words:
There are three reasons why dating the lead singer of a band is a stupendously bad idea.
One: Groupies. It’s a universally acknowledged truth that a boy being followed by hordes of screaming girls must be a gigantic ass. It’s not like he’s saying no. Do you really want to go where ten thousand girls have gone before?
Two: He’s an idiot. Why bother with things like grades when you’re going to be a rock star? Because of course a high school band from Oak Run, Virginia, is going to be the next big thing. Sure, they’re getting a lot of local gigs right now, but if their following ever extends past the Mississippi, I’ll be shocked.
Three: He’s an asshole. If my ex-boyfriend Rob is any indication, the lead singer is the type of guy who won’t play a supporting—or supportive—role in anything. He doesn’t play back up in the band, and he’s certainly not going to play back up to his girlfriend.
All good things to remember if you happen to find yourself at Rock-N-Bowl on a Saturday night.
Patrick Campbell dominates the mic to the thumping sounds of Prince Albert behind him. Punk music isn’t usually my thing, but I’m not here just to listen. Although they aren’t that bad, actually. The beat is pretty solid. I can appreciate the Irish influence, which makes the lyrics more thoughtful than raging. I also appreciate Patrick’s butt in those gray pinstriped pants.
Groupies, I remind myself. Hordes of screaming groupies.
SVS 7: SWIMMINGLY, YA Contemporary
Title: SWIMMINGLYGenre: YA contemporaryWord Count: 75,000
My Main Character would prefer to live in:
I don’t do heat. Do you know what penguins do when they get hot? They stick their feet in the sun and that cools them. Don’t ask me how it works because it makes no sense to me. Sticking my feet in the sun does shit. Grandma, though, thinks sweat is for inferior human beings, like she doesn’t have sweat glands. I bet she doesn’t. The woman is not human. And there is no way to get away from her in this madhouse aquarium. Give me a cold, deep, bottomless ocean and some gills and I’m gone.
Query:
Stealing drugs from your grandparents is bad. Stealing fish-drugs from your grandparents’ aquarium while high and then vomiting into the sea lion pool is worse. For sixteen-year-old Laura Sweetling, it was a Tuesday night.
Four months later and out of rehab, Laura sets her sights on the GED, convinced it’s her ticket out of her home life and abusive father. However, Laura’s mom and grandparents have other plans: summer school and a volunteer stint at the aquarium. Laura’s mom, newly single after kicking her dad out, is also employed at the aquarium—as Laura’s supervisor. Drowning in the sea lion pool seems like a better option than a summer with four Sweetlings under one roof, the shadow of her dad’s inevitable return hanging over her, and her mom’s empty promises that things will be different.
Despite the nasty farmer’s tan, Laura is at home among the animals. But when an anti-captivity protest destroys her perception of the family business, Laura must decide which current she’ll follow. The aquarium and its staff feel like a second home, but the grisly truths she uncovers about the removal of walrus tusks, animals dying in enclosures, and harsh breeding programs are impossible to ignore. While Laura struggles to stay sober and pass summer school, challenging the aquarium would ruin her family. However, when Laura realizes her mom’s still in contact with her dad, the choice might already be made for her.
First 250:
Nick promised it would last twelve hours. But now cloud nine is crashing into cloud six and the memories are coming back.
I repeat my mantra: I will not puke in this car. Losing it in a tsunami of greasy fast food garbage to the tune of a rap song would just be sad. Worse, Nick is trying—and failing—to sing along, blobs of spit spraying the windshield.
Shitballs, my head hurts. And my eyes. What did I take?
The robotic voice of the GPS orders a U-turn, jarring my thoughts. I sit up, straining against the seatbelt and say, “That’s not—”
Nick swerves into oncoming traffic, ignoring the double yellow lines. I don’t have my license and my vision is slightly hazy (only slightly), but even I know what that means. The idiot has a death wish. Headlights flash in every direction and the music is drowned out over the orchestra of blaring horns.
The car lurches to one side and then rights itself. Nick resumes rapping, like nothing ever happened.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I want to punch him, but then we’d swerve again and the odds of surviving a second time wouldn’t be in our favor.
“Same thing that’s wrong with you, Laura,” Nick says, miraculously keeping all his spit in his mouth.
Scowling, I jab my finger at the GPS. U-turn, my ass. No matter how whacked I am, I will always know how to get to that aquarium. “Evil, mutant—”
My Main Character would prefer to live in:
I don’t do heat. Do you know what penguins do when they get hot? They stick their feet in the sun and that cools them. Don’t ask me how it works because it makes no sense to me. Sticking my feet in the sun does shit. Grandma, though, thinks sweat is for inferior human beings, like she doesn’t have sweat glands. I bet she doesn’t. The woman is not human. And there is no way to get away from her in this madhouse aquarium. Give me a cold, deep, bottomless ocean and some gills and I’m gone.
Query:
Stealing drugs from your grandparents is bad. Stealing fish-drugs from your grandparents’ aquarium while high and then vomiting into the sea lion pool is worse. For sixteen-year-old Laura Sweetling, it was a Tuesday night.
Four months later and out of rehab, Laura sets her sights on the GED, convinced it’s her ticket out of her home life and abusive father. However, Laura’s mom and grandparents have other plans: summer school and a volunteer stint at the aquarium. Laura’s mom, newly single after kicking her dad out, is also employed at the aquarium—as Laura’s supervisor. Drowning in the sea lion pool seems like a better option than a summer with four Sweetlings under one roof, the shadow of her dad’s inevitable return hanging over her, and her mom’s empty promises that things will be different.
Despite the nasty farmer’s tan, Laura is at home among the animals. But when an anti-captivity protest destroys her perception of the family business, Laura must decide which current she’ll follow. The aquarium and its staff feel like a second home, but the grisly truths she uncovers about the removal of walrus tusks, animals dying in enclosures, and harsh breeding programs are impossible to ignore. While Laura struggles to stay sober and pass summer school, challenging the aquarium would ruin her family. However, when Laura realizes her mom’s still in contact with her dad, the choice might already be made for her.
First 250:
Nick promised it would last twelve hours. But now cloud nine is crashing into cloud six and the memories are coming back.
I repeat my mantra: I will not puke in this car. Losing it in a tsunami of greasy fast food garbage to the tune of a rap song would just be sad. Worse, Nick is trying—and failing—to sing along, blobs of spit spraying the windshield.
Shitballs, my head hurts. And my eyes. What did I take?
The robotic voice of the GPS orders a U-turn, jarring my thoughts. I sit up, straining against the seatbelt and say, “That’s not—”
Nick swerves into oncoming traffic, ignoring the double yellow lines. I don’t have my license and my vision is slightly hazy (only slightly), but even I know what that means. The idiot has a death wish. Headlights flash in every direction and the music is drowned out over the orchestra of blaring horns.
The car lurches to one side and then rights itself. Nick resumes rapping, like nothing ever happened.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I want to punch him, but then we’d swerve again and the odds of surviving a second time wouldn’t be in our favor.
“Same thing that’s wrong with you, Laura,” Nick says, miraculously keeping all his spit in his mouth.
Scowling, I jab my finger at the GPS. U-turn, my ass. No matter how whacked I am, I will always know how to get to that aquarium. “Evil, mutant—”
SVS 8: I HAVE NO NAME, YA Post-Apocalyptic
Title: I HAVE NO NAME
Genre: YA Post-ApocalypticWord Count: 96,000
My Main Character would prefer to live in:
My main character would choose sun. Snow means shoveling and chopping wood and clearing crusty white stuff off the solar panels. Not to mention all the food Nona has to prepare for winter. It's not like she can get away from it in Michigan, and there's zero chance she's willing to strike out on her own. She'd much rather have lived in Florida when the Black Flu wiped out the world. There's safety in staying with what you know, but damn all that Michigan snow!
Query:
Dear Amazing Agent:
At sixteen, Nona's best friends are a mannequin named Frank and a Ruger 9mm. That's all she has left since a virus swept humanity from the earth. Frank's the strong, silent type, but the Ruger keeps wild animals at bay. After two years alone in a remote Michigan town, survival is all that matters.
When a wandering band of people called the Community claims Nona's deserted town, she and the Ruger tell the trespassers to get lost, but they don't take the hint. Especially Joshua McKinnell, whose friendly banter isn't silenced by the sight of her gun. Joshua's grin and Nona's need for human contact whittle her resistance, and before she knows it, Nona has a friend. The Ruger remains strapped to her leg—old habits die hard—but poor Frank's abandoned to a run-down diner. He was never much of a conversationalist anyway.
Just as Nona accepts the Community, she's captured by the American Brotherhood. They're known for brainwashing child-soldiers and enslaving survivors, so Nona expects the worst until Will Kennedy, a friend from her past, claims her. Nona saved his life back when they first met. Of course he wouldn't have needed saving if she hadn't shot him, but still.
As Nona navigates the dangerous Brotherhood society, looking for a way to escape, she discovers Will has been finding good homes for survivors and requesting kids be assigned to his unit, all to protect the innocent. Friends don't hold friends hostage, but Nona can't help liking Will, though she's terrified of the rush she feels whenever he's near.
Before Nona can decipher her heart, Will and the Brotherhood are ordered to lay siege to the Community's stronghold. This is one situation the Ruger can't help. Nona must convince both sides to back down before full-scale fighting breaks out. If that fails, she'll need all her survival skills to protect Joshua and Will, the friends she never meant to make.
First 250 Words:
I watch them stroll down Main Street through the scope of my Winchester. Maybe men, maybe boys. Too hard to tell from here. There are two of them, and they wade through weeds and saplings clawing through the crumbling pavement, their boots crunching on broken bits of glass and brick and asphalt. A brown bottle passes between them, and they take long sips, laughing and talking, though they're too far away to make out words.
The sun burns my back as I hide behind the metal sign above the diner, barrel of my gun resting in the crook of the rusty "N." I don't think they'll see me. Not unless they look hard, and they aren't. Too interested in that bottle.
Sweat prickles my skin, and I wipe slick palms on my cargo pants. This stifling August heat doesn't help, but that's not why I'm flush and sweaty. Or why my heart beats like a trapped rabbit's. Haven't seen another living soul in two years, not since the Black Flu took the last ones. Part of me wants to run down the street screaming for joy, but mostly I want them to go away.
Aching muscles protest my vigil and I glance at my watch, inherited from Dad. Wide leather cuff and big silver face inset with moon and stars. Shifting my weight, broken glass from long-gone marquee lights grinds under me, so I stop. My heart stops too. I can't be heard. Dad warned me about men, and what they'll do to women.
Genre: YA Post-ApocalypticWord Count: 96,000
My Main Character would prefer to live in:
My main character would choose sun. Snow means shoveling and chopping wood and clearing crusty white stuff off the solar panels. Not to mention all the food Nona has to prepare for winter. It's not like she can get away from it in Michigan, and there's zero chance she's willing to strike out on her own. She'd much rather have lived in Florida when the Black Flu wiped out the world. There's safety in staying with what you know, but damn all that Michigan snow!
Query:
Dear Amazing Agent:
At sixteen, Nona's best friends are a mannequin named Frank and a Ruger 9mm. That's all she has left since a virus swept humanity from the earth. Frank's the strong, silent type, but the Ruger keeps wild animals at bay. After two years alone in a remote Michigan town, survival is all that matters.
When a wandering band of people called the Community claims Nona's deserted town, she and the Ruger tell the trespassers to get lost, but they don't take the hint. Especially Joshua McKinnell, whose friendly banter isn't silenced by the sight of her gun. Joshua's grin and Nona's need for human contact whittle her resistance, and before she knows it, Nona has a friend. The Ruger remains strapped to her leg—old habits die hard—but poor Frank's abandoned to a run-down diner. He was never much of a conversationalist anyway.
Just as Nona accepts the Community, she's captured by the American Brotherhood. They're known for brainwashing child-soldiers and enslaving survivors, so Nona expects the worst until Will Kennedy, a friend from her past, claims her. Nona saved his life back when they first met. Of course he wouldn't have needed saving if she hadn't shot him, but still.
As Nona navigates the dangerous Brotherhood society, looking for a way to escape, she discovers Will has been finding good homes for survivors and requesting kids be assigned to his unit, all to protect the innocent. Friends don't hold friends hostage, but Nona can't help liking Will, though she's terrified of the rush she feels whenever he's near.
Before Nona can decipher her heart, Will and the Brotherhood are ordered to lay siege to the Community's stronghold. This is one situation the Ruger can't help. Nona must convince both sides to back down before full-scale fighting breaks out. If that fails, she'll need all her survival skills to protect Joshua and Will, the friends she never meant to make.
First 250 Words:
I watch them stroll down Main Street through the scope of my Winchester. Maybe men, maybe boys. Too hard to tell from here. There are two of them, and they wade through weeds and saplings clawing through the crumbling pavement, their boots crunching on broken bits of glass and brick and asphalt. A brown bottle passes between them, and they take long sips, laughing and talking, though they're too far away to make out words.
The sun burns my back as I hide behind the metal sign above the diner, barrel of my gun resting in the crook of the rusty "N." I don't think they'll see me. Not unless they look hard, and they aren't. Too interested in that bottle.
Sweat prickles my skin, and I wipe slick palms on my cargo pants. This stifling August heat doesn't help, but that's not why I'm flush and sweaty. Or why my heart beats like a trapped rabbit's. Haven't seen another living soul in two years, not since the Black Flu took the last ones. Part of me wants to run down the street screaming for joy, but mostly I want them to go away.
Aching muscles protest my vigil and I glance at my watch, inherited from Dad. Wide leather cuff and big silver face inset with moon and stars. Shifting my weight, broken glass from long-gone marquee lights grinds under me, so I stop. My heart stops too. I can't be heard. Dad warned me about men, and what they'll do to women.
SVS 9: Silent Beauty, YA Contemporary
Title: SILENT BEAUTYGenre: YA ContemporaryWord Count: 56,000
My main character would prefer to live in:
As much as I hate snow and falling on my butt on ice, I hate winter less than summer. Summer means bathing suits and tank tops, along with short shorts and open backed t-shirts. It’s easier to see the scars on my back. I hate that more than snow. If I had to pick, I guess I’d live in the cold.
Query:
Dear Agent,
Struggling with Meniere’s disease and the death of her parents, Alanna is closed off to almost everyone. At seventeen, she should be worried about school dances or kissing boys, not about losing her hearing. The only thing normal in her life is her struggle to pass math.
Desperate not to flunk, Alanna agrees to get a tutor – Jared – who is the same kid she stood up for when a linebacker bullied him in the hallway. Jared is the first guy not to treat her differently because of her hearing aids. He makes an adorable effort at sign language and simplifies the hardest math questions for her. Even his obsession with Star Trek starts growing on Alanna. She wants to open up to him, but she’s afraid he’ll desert her if he learns about the accident that killed her parents, or her attempted suicide. Complicating matters is their shared bully, who knows the truth about Alanna’s attempted suicide since he was the one to pull her out of the car.
As Alanna finds herself falling for Jared, she wants to tell him everything. She must stop lying and accept herself or she’ll lose Jared and never be able to take control of her own life.
First 250 Words:
The ball collided with my head, knocking me to the waxed floor. Yeah, yelling at the hearing impaired girl to move as a ball came at her… not the best plan. I should’ve been watching the balls instead of day dreaming about cute shirtless celebrities.
“Sorry Alanna!” The boy’s mouth moved and I managed to figure out what he was saying. The sounds muffled and ran together, but I could hear without my aids in. The words just didn’t always make sense.
Sitting up, I rubbed the sore spot. I didn’t wear my hearing-aids during gym class because I didn’t want them broken if someone threw a ball at my head. I could’ve left them in, but I felt safer taking them out. No one came running to make sure I was okay. No big surprise there. I straightened my dark blue gym shorts and stood. My feet took me straight to the bench.
I assumed getting hit in the head meant I was “out.” The teacher, Mr. Carter, watched me with concern. I shrugged and waited. Whoever decided dodge ball was fun, never played with a competitive class of thirty-five students.
When I sat, the boy next to me moved three feet to the left. My fists clenched at my side. Hearing loss wasn’t a contagious disease, but everyone acted like it was.
I glanced at the caged clock above the basketball hoop. Sweat ran down my cheek, but I refused to push up my sleeves.
My main character would prefer to live in:
As much as I hate snow and falling on my butt on ice, I hate winter less than summer. Summer means bathing suits and tank tops, along with short shorts and open backed t-shirts. It’s easier to see the scars on my back. I hate that more than snow. If I had to pick, I guess I’d live in the cold.
Query:
Dear Agent,
Struggling with Meniere’s disease and the death of her parents, Alanna is closed off to almost everyone. At seventeen, she should be worried about school dances or kissing boys, not about losing her hearing. The only thing normal in her life is her struggle to pass math.
Desperate not to flunk, Alanna agrees to get a tutor – Jared – who is the same kid she stood up for when a linebacker bullied him in the hallway. Jared is the first guy not to treat her differently because of her hearing aids. He makes an adorable effort at sign language and simplifies the hardest math questions for her. Even his obsession with Star Trek starts growing on Alanna. She wants to open up to him, but she’s afraid he’ll desert her if he learns about the accident that killed her parents, or her attempted suicide. Complicating matters is their shared bully, who knows the truth about Alanna’s attempted suicide since he was the one to pull her out of the car.
As Alanna finds herself falling for Jared, she wants to tell him everything. She must stop lying and accept herself or she’ll lose Jared and never be able to take control of her own life.
First 250 Words:
The ball collided with my head, knocking me to the waxed floor. Yeah, yelling at the hearing impaired girl to move as a ball came at her… not the best plan. I should’ve been watching the balls instead of day dreaming about cute shirtless celebrities.
“Sorry Alanna!” The boy’s mouth moved and I managed to figure out what he was saying. The sounds muffled and ran together, but I could hear without my aids in. The words just didn’t always make sense.
Sitting up, I rubbed the sore spot. I didn’t wear my hearing-aids during gym class because I didn’t want them broken if someone threw a ball at my head. I could’ve left them in, but I felt safer taking them out. No one came running to make sure I was okay. No big surprise there. I straightened my dark blue gym shorts and stood. My feet took me straight to the bench.
I assumed getting hit in the head meant I was “out.” The teacher, Mr. Carter, watched me with concern. I shrugged and waited. Whoever decided dodge ball was fun, never played with a competitive class of thirty-five students.
When I sat, the boy next to me moved three feet to the left. My fists clenched at my side. Hearing loss wasn’t a contagious disease, but everyone acted like it was.
I glanced at the caged clock above the basketball hoop. Sweat ran down my cheek, but I refused to push up my sleeves.
February 6, 2015
Getting the Call with Sandra Painting
We haven't had a Indie press story lately. That's the way I got my start! Here's a lovely one from Sandra Painting that shows there are many options available to writers. Congrats on reaching your publishing dreams, Sandra!
My first book, About Last Summer, was published by Carina UK, a digital imprint of Harlequin a year ago. The story was originally requested by Harlequin Desire eight years prior, but three days after I submitted the completed manuscript the line changed guidelines so it wasn't even considered. I was devastated. I had such high hopes for that story. It was by far the best thing I'd ever written.
I shopped my story around on and off for a few years, but couldn't find a publisher that I felt would do my story justice. I had resigned myself to the fact that it would never be published. Then Harlequin opened some digital imprints and eventually I decided to submit About Last Summer to Carina UK. Truthfully I didn't expect much, but I was very surprised when a couple of weeks later they connected me about wanting to buy it.
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Bio - I'm a native Illinoisan. I'm married and have four children. When I was a child I used to tell people that when I grew up I wanted to write Nancy Drew books, but truthfully what I wanted to be was Nancy Drew. Although I outgrew my desire to become my favorite teenage crime fighter, I never outgrew my desire to write. Now days I spent my time writing, being a mom and waiting for the next Dancing With The Stars elimination.
About Last Summer - Kindle edition by Sandra Panting. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.About Last Summer - Kindle edition by Sandra Panting. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amaz...
About Last Summer - Kindle edition by Sandra Panting. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like bookmarks, note taking and highlighting while reading About Last Summer.View on www.amazon.comPreview by Yahoo
Sandy Panting (@SandraPanting1) | Twitter
My first book, About Last Summer, was published by Carina UK, a digital imprint of Harlequin a year ago. The story was originally requested by Harlequin Desire eight years prior, but three days after I submitted the completed manuscript the line changed guidelines so it wasn't even considered. I was devastated. I had such high hopes for that story. It was by far the best thing I'd ever written.
I shopped my story around on and off for a few years, but couldn't find a publisher that I felt would do my story justice. I had resigned myself to the fact that it would never be published. Then Harlequin opened some digital imprints and eventually I decided to submit About Last Summer to Carina UK. Truthfully I didn't expect much, but I was very surprised when a couple of weeks later they connected me about wanting to buy it.
---------------------------------------------------
Bio - I'm a native Illinoisan. I'm married and have four children. When I was a child I used to tell people that when I grew up I wanted to write Nancy Drew books, but truthfully what I wanted to be was Nancy Drew. Although I outgrew my desire to become my favorite teenage crime fighter, I never outgrew my desire to write. Now days I spent my time writing, being a mom and waiting for the next Dancing With The Stars elimination.
About Last Summer - Kindle edition by Sandra Panting. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.About Last Summer - Kindle edition by Sandra Panting. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amaz...
About Last Summer - Kindle edition by Sandra Panting. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like bookmarks, note taking and highlighting while reading About Last Summer.View on www.amazon.comPreview by Yahoo
Sandy Panting (@SandraPanting1) | Twitter
February 4, 2015
After Sun versus Snow 2015
Amy Trueblood and I will be hosting a critique opportunity for anyone interested after the Sun versus Snow agent round ends. Anyone can join. It's NOT necessary to have been entered in Sun versus Snow. It's also NOT necessary that your manuscript is finished and polished.
The idea is to shine up entries for future contests!
To play along you will need a query letter and first 250 words. You'll also need a blog. Doesn't matter if you've never had a blog before, this is a good reason to start one. Then on February 13th, that's right Friday the 13th, come back to our blogs and add your link to the linky link. You will be required to critique the ten people above and below your entry. (If you are at the end or beginning of the link list, you'll critique people at the opposite end once the link closes.)
There will be no agents involved. Just writers helping writers and sharing their experience. I'll try and drop by as many as I can to give my thoughts. There are lots of contests coming. Get ready for them, draw traffic to your blog, and learn/meet new writer friends.
See you Friday the 13th.
The idea is to shine up entries for future contests!
To play along you will need a query letter and first 250 words. You'll also need a blog. Doesn't matter if you've never had a blog before, this is a good reason to start one. Then on February 13th, that's right Friday the 13th, come back to our blogs and add your link to the linky link. You will be required to critique the ten people above and below your entry. (If you are at the end or beginning of the link list, you'll critique people at the opposite end once the link closes.)
There will be no agents involved. Just writers helping writers and sharing their experience. I'll try and drop by as many as I can to give my thoughts. There are lots of contests coming. Get ready for them, draw traffic to your blog, and learn/meet new writer friends.
See you Friday the 13th.
February 3, 2015
Getting the Call with Rena Olsen
I'm so glad contests helped Rena on her way. Always wonderful to have writers from my contests come back to share their success stories! Rena really show us it's all about learning the profession and doing things right. Word counts can be changed and queries made stronger. Congrats, Rena and thanks for sharing with us! Much success in the future!
I’m super excited to be able to share my call story on Michelle’s blog. I’ve been reading these stories for…well, a long time, and they always gave me hope. I hope that mine will do the same for others.
When I wrote my agent post for my personal blog, I sort of glossed over the rocky start to my querying journey. I want to share more of that this time, especially the part that so many other people played in my journey.
As most writers, I always enjoyed writing, but while I won some contests and took some classes when I was younger, I didn’t get serious about writing until a few years ago. Even then, I had no idea what it took to actually get a book from the seedling of an idea to a published book on a shelf. Ahhh, young Rena was so innocent… ;)
It took three years for me to write my first novel, though most of that was spent…well…not writing. When I finished, I wasn’t quite sure where to go next. My good friend, Jenny Moyer,bullied me into convinced me to enter my very first Twitter pitch contest, #PitMad. I had no idea what I was doing. None. I had barely even been on Twitter. Not surprisingly, I got zero stars that day. Next, she gave me some advice on how to write a query letter.
This time, I decided to do my research first. I looked up query letter examples, read agent blogs, and carefully crafted the most perfect of letters. It was sure to attract attention, and I knew I would be juggling more agent offers than I could count very soon.
Friends, my first query letter contained the phrase *deep breath* “fiction novel.”
I know. I don’t like to talk about it.
I didn’t query many agents with that first novel. I loved it. I still do, but it wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready.
My second novel was a much better experiment. This was when I discovered contests, and I entered like a madwoman. Though I got picked for few, I always made a ton of great connections. Pitch Madness is how I found my incredible critique partners, Margie and Tana. And I never left a contest without learning a lot about myself and the writing world. Almost a year ago, I made it into Michelle’s Sun vs Snow contest, and it was one of the best experiences I had.
Even as I was querying my second novel, I was working on another novel. My first foray into adult fiction, and a novel that was both extremely difficult and extremely rewarding to write. At the time it was titled REMEMBERING DIANA. I had a feeling about this one. When I shelved novel #2, I knew I was ready to send Diana out into the world. The response was immediate and positive. I sent several fulls out in the first couple weeks.
While waiting for responses, I decided to give Michelle’s “In With the New” contest a shot. I was sort of a contest junkie at this point, but had not yet entered Diana in anything. This contest ended up being a turning point of sorts.
I was attending the fantastic Midwest Writers’ Workshop when I got an email that made my heart flip. I was nearing the end of a workshop with William Kent Kruger, and sneaked a peek at my email. An agent from the contest, who had requested the full less than two days before, had already finished it. Couldn’t put it down. She didn’t really rep adult fiction but loved it that much. I showed it to my friend, Jamie, and we managed to make it through the final ten minutes of the workshop before squealing, though I think I got a bruise from where she hit me repeatedly on the arm in her excitement.
My first call wasn’t THE CALL, but a request for revisions, and rightly so. My adult novel clocked in at around 72,000 words. Not nearly long enough, and there was plenty to expand on. I was excited about the possibilities, and it only took a few weeks for me to add more than 20,000 more words.
There really is a lot of waiting in this business, so while I waited for a response to my revision from Agent A, as well as the updates I sent those who already had the full, I decided to enter another #PitMad, because why not? I had held off on Pitch Wars because of the revisions, and I was itching to throw Diana out there again. I got several stars that day, one from an agent who requested the full right off the bat.
A week or so later, Agent A emailed to request another call. Unfortunately, due to scheduling, we had to wait almost a WEEK to have it. I can’t even tell you what that week was like. Torture. Was it another revision? An offer? Was she turning me down, but nicely? My imagination became my worst enemy in those days.
Thankfully, it was an offer. My first offer of representation, and I was over the moon. I diligently emailed all the others with my work. Some passed, others requested the full, and the agent who had requested the full from PitMad wanted to talk. Two days later, I received my second offer of representation.
I spent the next week researching and talking to those in my inner circle who knew what was going on. It was an extremely difficult decision, but at the same time, a really easy one. When I look back, the answer was obvious the entire time. Though I am eternally grateful for the first agent who believed in my manuscript, and the help she gave me on making it even better, the right choice for me was the second agent, whose vision for my story matched mine, who was extremely easy to talk to, and whose Twitter timeline made me laugh out loud more than once.On October 22, 2014, I accepted an offer of representation from Sharon Pelletier of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management, and I haven’t regretted it for an instant. It took two full years, three manuscripts, and more rejections than I care to discuss, but in the end it has been the exact right match, and I don’t regret a minute of the journey that got me here.
---------------------------------------
Daughter of a wandering pastor, Rena Olsen never knew the answer to the question, “Where are you from?” While attending her third school by fourth grade, she found familiarity and comfort in reading, and when she figured out she could create her own stories, that was it. She hasn’t stopped writing since her first story, about an anthropomorphic tooth going on an adventure through a school, won the state of Iowa writing contest.
Now Rena is a writer of YA, NA, and adult fiction who believes in healthy amounts of pizza and sarcasm. When she’s not saving the lives of children as a school therapist, she’s exploring alternate realities on the page, filling the cheering section for friends, and pretending to be an adult. You can find her waxing poetic on Twitter at @originallyrena, musing (sometimes coherently) on her website and blog at http://renaolsen.com, or posting random memes and quotes on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/RenaOlsenWriter. ;Rena is represented by Sharon Pelletier of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management.
I’m super excited to be able to share my call story on Michelle’s blog. I’ve been reading these stories for…well, a long time, and they always gave me hope. I hope that mine will do the same for others.
When I wrote my agent post for my personal blog, I sort of glossed over the rocky start to my querying journey. I want to share more of that this time, especially the part that so many other people played in my journey.
As most writers, I always enjoyed writing, but while I won some contests and took some classes when I was younger, I didn’t get serious about writing until a few years ago. Even then, I had no idea what it took to actually get a book from the seedling of an idea to a published book on a shelf. Ahhh, young Rena was so innocent… ;)
It took three years for me to write my first novel, though most of that was spent…well…not writing. When I finished, I wasn’t quite sure where to go next. My good friend, Jenny Moyer,
This time, I decided to do my research first. I looked up query letter examples, read agent blogs, and carefully crafted the most perfect of letters. It was sure to attract attention, and I knew I would be juggling more agent offers than I could count very soon.
Friends, my first query letter contained the phrase *deep breath* “fiction novel.”
I know. I don’t like to talk about it.
I didn’t query many agents with that first novel. I loved it. I still do, but it wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready.
My second novel was a much better experiment. This was when I discovered contests, and I entered like a madwoman. Though I got picked for few, I always made a ton of great connections. Pitch Madness is how I found my incredible critique partners, Margie and Tana. And I never left a contest without learning a lot about myself and the writing world. Almost a year ago, I made it into Michelle’s Sun vs Snow contest, and it was one of the best experiences I had.
Even as I was querying my second novel, I was working on another novel. My first foray into adult fiction, and a novel that was both extremely difficult and extremely rewarding to write. At the time it was titled REMEMBERING DIANA. I had a feeling about this one. When I shelved novel #2, I knew I was ready to send Diana out into the world. The response was immediate and positive. I sent several fulls out in the first couple weeks.
While waiting for responses, I decided to give Michelle’s “In With the New” contest a shot. I was sort of a contest junkie at this point, but had not yet entered Diana in anything. This contest ended up being a turning point of sorts.
I was attending the fantastic Midwest Writers’ Workshop when I got an email that made my heart flip. I was nearing the end of a workshop with William Kent Kruger, and sneaked a peek at my email. An agent from the contest, who had requested the full less than two days before, had already finished it. Couldn’t put it down. She didn’t really rep adult fiction but loved it that much. I showed it to my friend, Jamie, and we managed to make it through the final ten minutes of the workshop before squealing, though I think I got a bruise from where she hit me repeatedly on the arm in her excitement.
My first call wasn’t THE CALL, but a request for revisions, and rightly so. My adult novel clocked in at around 72,000 words. Not nearly long enough, and there was plenty to expand on. I was excited about the possibilities, and it only took a few weeks for me to add more than 20,000 more words.
There really is a lot of waiting in this business, so while I waited for a response to my revision from Agent A, as well as the updates I sent those who already had the full, I decided to enter another #PitMad, because why not? I had held off on Pitch Wars because of the revisions, and I was itching to throw Diana out there again. I got several stars that day, one from an agent who requested the full right off the bat.
A week or so later, Agent A emailed to request another call. Unfortunately, due to scheduling, we had to wait almost a WEEK to have it. I can’t even tell you what that week was like. Torture. Was it another revision? An offer? Was she turning me down, but nicely? My imagination became my worst enemy in those days.
Thankfully, it was an offer. My first offer of representation, and I was over the moon. I diligently emailed all the others with my work. Some passed, others requested the full, and the agent who had requested the full from PitMad wanted to talk. Two days later, I received my second offer of representation.
I spent the next week researching and talking to those in my inner circle who knew what was going on. It was an extremely difficult decision, but at the same time, a really easy one. When I look back, the answer was obvious the entire time. Though I am eternally grateful for the first agent who believed in my manuscript, and the help she gave me on making it even better, the right choice for me was the second agent, whose vision for my story matched mine, who was extremely easy to talk to, and whose Twitter timeline made me laugh out loud more than once.On October 22, 2014, I accepted an offer of representation from Sharon Pelletier of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management, and I haven’t regretted it for an instant. It took two full years, three manuscripts, and more rejections than I care to discuss, but in the end it has been the exact right match, and I don’t regret a minute of the journey that got me here.
---------------------------------------
Daughter of a wandering pastor, Rena Olsen never knew the answer to the question, “Where are you from?” While attending her third school by fourth grade, she found familiarity and comfort in reading, and when she figured out she could create her own stories, that was it. She hasn’t stopped writing since her first story, about an anthropomorphic tooth going on an adventure through a school, won the state of Iowa writing contest.
Now Rena is a writer of YA, NA, and adult fiction who believes in healthy amounts of pizza and sarcasm. When she’s not saving the lives of children as a school therapist, she’s exploring alternate realities on the page, filling the cheering section for friends, and pretending to be an adult. You can find her waxing poetic on Twitter at @originallyrena, musing (sometimes coherently) on her website and blog at http://renaolsen.com, or posting random memes and quotes on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/RenaOlsenWriter. ;Rena is represented by Sharon Pelletier of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management.
February 2, 2015
Team Snow for 2015!
Welcome to the reveal for Team Snow! Be sure to also go to Amy Trueblood's blog to look at Team Sun. Everyone has a shot at two teams!
As I always do I want to say a few words about disappointment. I've felt that sting myself too many times to count. I only ever made one contest and it was a very small one just for picture books and MG.
My agent came from a query. In fact, that's the way most writers get their agents. Hang in there and keep coming back. That's the key. It took me four manuscripts, but I got there in the end.
This has been the best contest ever. I'm still overwhelmed that it got 200 entries in just six minutes! Amazing! And the twitter party has been a riot! Such fun! I can't wait until my next contest. (Keep your eyes open for Pitchslam coming from my friend Leatrice soon.)
Now here are the members of Team Snow in no particular order!
MG:
Mystery at Geek CampNinja Squirrels of the Hundred Acre WoodWyrdKarma Khullar's Mustache
YA:
A Murder of MagicTracker220SwimminglyThat's Just FabulousSilent Beauty
NA:
Getting Wyrd on Albion
Adult:
Boldly GoBirthday DisasterHanna Buys the FarmWhat the HellThe Stepping Stones
Anndddd! A special surprise! There is one extra pick for a total of sixteen frosty Team Snow members! This is the host save!
YA:
I Have No Name
If you are part of Team Snow, expect letters from your mentor soon. Each team member has one mentor. That mentor will help you fine tune your entry privately all this week.
Here's the important part:
Get your revised entry back to me by Friday, February 6th at 3:00 pm Eastern. That's so I have time to format those entries and have them ready to post for the agent round on Monday, February 9th. Mail your revised entry to the contest email Sunversussnow (at) yahoo (dot) com. Please use the exactly same format.
Then it will be up to the agents! Congrats and good luck!
A special hug to everyone walking away without an entry to the agent round. I wish I could do more, but know you have my support and good wishes. In the words of the immortal Galaxy Quest: Never give up, never surrender!
January 30, 2015
Getting Emotion into Writing with Aaron Bradford Starr
I'm happy to welcome a friend from my writing group to talk about getting emotion into your writing. Aaron does a masterful job of showing us how it's done! Thanks, Aaron!
Emotions in Writing
I felt the rush of air as the dart passed by my ear, and drew up straight, the wrench in my hand dropping into the snow. From just behind me, a mass fell at once, clouding the area with sparkling flakes as it plowed into the drifts. I took one look at the white-furred bulk, my breath coming in gasps, and then turned to where Michelle sat atop the fuselage of our downed plane.
“You cut that a bit close, didn't you?” I asked with a frown, my heart pounding within my parka, suddenly too warm. Michelle shrugged.
“You're the one who wanted to work in silence,” she pointed out. “I keep telling you they're afraid of the sound of our speech.”
Gripping the pages of the repair manual in my gloves, I gave them a shake. “Well these are pretty hard to follow,” I snapped. “What language is this, anyway?”
“Hindi,” Michelle said, “with a mix of Greek and Esperanto.”
“Who writes engine repair manuals in Esperanto?” I asked.
“Esperantans, I suppose,” she said, opening the breech of the air rifle and slipping in another bright red dart. Jacking it closed, she leaned back once more, crossing her boots. Fixing me with a stare of supreme unconcern, she sketched a yawn. “Better find that wrench before it gets dark, and you can't read any more.”
Pursing my lips, I dug around in the loose powder until I found the tool, and straightened with a sigh, my cheeks reddening under my scarf. “Alright, you win. You can fix the engine.”
With a delighted squeak, Michelle hopped from the wing, handed me the rifle, and plucked both manual and wrench from me. Humming to herself, she flipped trough the pages until she found the diagram of the engine, and began following it with her finger, nodding to herself and murmuring in Greek and what I assumed was Esperanto. I clamored up onto the wing, and leaned against the fuselage, quickly scanning the horizon. All around us, the mountains of the Himalayas glowed orange and pink with the setting sun.
“Before we crashed,” Michelle said from below, “you mentioned something about writing emotional scenes.”
I licked my lips, eyes sweeping the ridgelines for the movement of white on white. “Are you sure you can work and talk at the same time?” I asked. Beneath my goggles, my brow furrowed. She laughed and waved a dismissive hand at the engine.
“It's just an engine,” she said. “Either we talk, or I begin to sing.”
“I'll talk, I'll talk,” I muttered. With her classical training in opera, Michelle was as likely to bring down an untimely avalanche as scare away yeti.
“Good,” she answered, her voice muffled from within the engine housing. “You were talking about feelings.”
“No,” I corrected, glancing down at the open box of tranquilizer darts at my feet. The yeti on it was smiling, a night cap on his furry head. “I was talking about how people feel emotion. That's why we call them feelings. Emotions, after all, are a mental state with a physical sensation.”
“And that's what you need to record, as a writer,” she added. “The sensations associated with their emotions.”
“Yeah, exactly. Readers will feel what your characters do more often if you relate how their body reacts to their emotions, rather than simply recoding what those emotions are.” I frowned, lifting my goggles to swipe at my face, which was running with sweat. The glare was blinding, and I quickly slid them back into place, my eyes skittering around to surrounding vista, drawn by every stream of blowing snow off the drifts. “How long is this going to take to fix, anyway?”
“What, this?” Michelle asked, patting the engine housing with her head and shoulders well into the inner works. “This is no big deal. Just a few minutes more.”
I gave an involuntary bark of derisive laughter. The plane was perched atop a huge slope, teetering and groaning. Even with two running engines, it would be a miracle to get aloft again. I sighed, and glanced across to the charred stub where another engine had once hung beneath the opposite wing. I'd give anything to have two engines again.
“What about dialogue?” Michelle asked, startling me. I stammered, quickly glancing about the surroundings. How long had I been daydreaming?
“Uh, characters could become distracted,” I managed, bringing the rifle up and peering through the scope at a shifting movement in the distance. “You know, like losing their train of thought.”
“Retracted?” Michelle asked, her voice echoing within the engine housing, mixed with the clicking of a ratchet wrench.
“Distracted,” I snapped, more loudly than I'd intended. “And irritable. These are all things writers can do to show emotions like nervousness. How much longer?”
“Don't be such a baby,” Michelle said, beginning to wriggle from the innards of the engine. “I'm almost done here.”
About time, I thought, casting my eyes this way and that. Drawing in a quick breath, I peered at the ridgeline, through the glare of the setting sun. Raising the scope, I took a closer look, careful not to blind myself, and drew in a quick breath.
“We've got to go, right now!” I shouted, dropping the rifle to my side and leaping from the wing. Scooping the spare darts to my parka, I hauled open the door and threw both box and gun inside the plane's dark interior. Michelle looked from me to the distant edge of the ice field. A mass of movement gamboled across the flat expanse, white on white.
“Wow,” Michelle said, her voice placid. “Now that is a lot of yeti. I wonder what the plural of yeti is?”
“It's get the heck into the plane!” I shouted, jumping aboard and clamoring up the the cockpit.Michelle followed, shutting the door and sitting as I fired up our remaining engine. After a mechanical protest, it roared to life, and Michelle gripped the controls. With a fierce grin, she nodded to me.
“Hit it!” she shouted, and I triggered the detonators.
On the slopes far above, the dynamite broke the snowpack free, and I tightened up my straps as we waited for the leading edge, my eyes locked on the approaching yetis out the side window, and Michelle rolling her shoulders and cracking her knuckles.
“So how would you get your characters to establish-” she began, and then broke off as the plane lurched forward and up, driven by the sliding snow that roared around and beneath us from up the hill. “Oh, wait, here we go!”
The plane tipped forward off the ridge, plunging down the slope, my shriek and Michelle's laughter mixing with the roar of the lone engine, and the howls of the yeti left far behind or swept along beside us.
As we gathered speed, crashing and grinding echoing through the interior, Michelle leaned over and tugged my sleeve.
“So what do you think about showing internal conflict?” she asked.
I pointed out the window to where the cliffside streaked closer. “Are you nuts?” I bellowed.
We launched over the edge, and Michelle draped a wrist across the yoke, waving her hand in my direction. “Oh, fine,” she muttered, as the plane struggled for altitude, lone remaining engine screaming. I swept off my goggles and brushed back my hood, breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes.
“Are you crying?” she asked, incredulous.
“No I'm not crying,” I insisted, wiping my cheeks. “I'm just relieved, is all.”
Michelle shook her head. “What a big baby.”
------------------------------------------------------------------
Aaron Bradford Starr has published short stories in paintings, and interior art in Black Gate Magazine, Black Gate Online, Stupefying Stories, and Rampant Loon Press. He is a member of the writing group The Speculative Fiction Forum on Agent Query Connect. Find more about him on his blog, Imaginary Friend.
Emotions in Writing
I felt the rush of air as the dart passed by my ear, and drew up straight, the wrench in my hand dropping into the snow. From just behind me, a mass fell at once, clouding the area with sparkling flakes as it plowed into the drifts. I took one look at the white-furred bulk, my breath coming in gasps, and then turned to where Michelle sat atop the fuselage of our downed plane.
“You cut that a bit close, didn't you?” I asked with a frown, my heart pounding within my parka, suddenly too warm. Michelle shrugged.
“You're the one who wanted to work in silence,” she pointed out. “I keep telling you they're afraid of the sound of our speech.”
Gripping the pages of the repair manual in my gloves, I gave them a shake. “Well these are pretty hard to follow,” I snapped. “What language is this, anyway?”
“Hindi,” Michelle said, “with a mix of Greek and Esperanto.”
“Who writes engine repair manuals in Esperanto?” I asked.
“Esperantans, I suppose,” she said, opening the breech of the air rifle and slipping in another bright red dart. Jacking it closed, she leaned back once more, crossing her boots. Fixing me with a stare of supreme unconcern, she sketched a yawn. “Better find that wrench before it gets dark, and you can't read any more.”
Pursing my lips, I dug around in the loose powder until I found the tool, and straightened with a sigh, my cheeks reddening under my scarf. “Alright, you win. You can fix the engine.”
With a delighted squeak, Michelle hopped from the wing, handed me the rifle, and plucked both manual and wrench from me. Humming to herself, she flipped trough the pages until she found the diagram of the engine, and began following it with her finger, nodding to herself and murmuring in Greek and what I assumed was Esperanto. I clamored up onto the wing, and leaned against the fuselage, quickly scanning the horizon. All around us, the mountains of the Himalayas glowed orange and pink with the setting sun.
“Before we crashed,” Michelle said from below, “you mentioned something about writing emotional scenes.”
I licked my lips, eyes sweeping the ridgelines for the movement of white on white. “Are you sure you can work and talk at the same time?” I asked. Beneath my goggles, my brow furrowed. She laughed and waved a dismissive hand at the engine.
“It's just an engine,” she said. “Either we talk, or I begin to sing.”
“I'll talk, I'll talk,” I muttered. With her classical training in opera, Michelle was as likely to bring down an untimely avalanche as scare away yeti.
“Good,” she answered, her voice muffled from within the engine housing. “You were talking about feelings.”
“No,” I corrected, glancing down at the open box of tranquilizer darts at my feet. The yeti on it was smiling, a night cap on his furry head. “I was talking about how people feel emotion. That's why we call them feelings. Emotions, after all, are a mental state with a physical sensation.”
“And that's what you need to record, as a writer,” she added. “The sensations associated with their emotions.”
“Yeah, exactly. Readers will feel what your characters do more often if you relate how their body reacts to their emotions, rather than simply recoding what those emotions are.” I frowned, lifting my goggles to swipe at my face, which was running with sweat. The glare was blinding, and I quickly slid them back into place, my eyes skittering around to surrounding vista, drawn by every stream of blowing snow off the drifts. “How long is this going to take to fix, anyway?”
“What, this?” Michelle asked, patting the engine housing with her head and shoulders well into the inner works. “This is no big deal. Just a few minutes more.”
I gave an involuntary bark of derisive laughter. The plane was perched atop a huge slope, teetering and groaning. Even with two running engines, it would be a miracle to get aloft again. I sighed, and glanced across to the charred stub where another engine had once hung beneath the opposite wing. I'd give anything to have two engines again.
“What about dialogue?” Michelle asked, startling me. I stammered, quickly glancing about the surroundings. How long had I been daydreaming?
“Uh, characters could become distracted,” I managed, bringing the rifle up and peering through the scope at a shifting movement in the distance. “You know, like losing their train of thought.”
“Retracted?” Michelle asked, her voice echoing within the engine housing, mixed with the clicking of a ratchet wrench.
“Distracted,” I snapped, more loudly than I'd intended. “And irritable. These are all things writers can do to show emotions like nervousness. How much longer?”
“Don't be such a baby,” Michelle said, beginning to wriggle from the innards of the engine. “I'm almost done here.”
About time, I thought, casting my eyes this way and that. Drawing in a quick breath, I peered at the ridgeline, through the glare of the setting sun. Raising the scope, I took a closer look, careful not to blind myself, and drew in a quick breath.
“We've got to go, right now!” I shouted, dropping the rifle to my side and leaping from the wing. Scooping the spare darts to my parka, I hauled open the door and threw both box and gun inside the plane's dark interior. Michelle looked from me to the distant edge of the ice field. A mass of movement gamboled across the flat expanse, white on white.
“Wow,” Michelle said, her voice placid. “Now that is a lot of yeti. I wonder what the plural of yeti is?”
“It's get the heck into the plane!” I shouted, jumping aboard and clamoring up the the cockpit.Michelle followed, shutting the door and sitting as I fired up our remaining engine. After a mechanical protest, it roared to life, and Michelle gripped the controls. With a fierce grin, she nodded to me.
“Hit it!” she shouted, and I triggered the detonators.
On the slopes far above, the dynamite broke the snowpack free, and I tightened up my straps as we waited for the leading edge, my eyes locked on the approaching yetis out the side window, and Michelle rolling her shoulders and cracking her knuckles.
“So how would you get your characters to establish-” she began, and then broke off as the plane lurched forward and up, driven by the sliding snow that roared around and beneath us from up the hill. “Oh, wait, here we go!”
The plane tipped forward off the ridge, plunging down the slope, my shriek and Michelle's laughter mixing with the roar of the lone engine, and the howls of the yeti left far behind or swept along beside us.
As we gathered speed, crashing and grinding echoing through the interior, Michelle leaned over and tugged my sleeve.
“So what do you think about showing internal conflict?” she asked.
I pointed out the window to where the cliffside streaked closer. “Are you nuts?” I bellowed.
We launched over the edge, and Michelle draped a wrist across the yoke, waving her hand in my direction. “Oh, fine,” she muttered, as the plane struggled for altitude, lone remaining engine screaming. I swept off my goggles and brushed back my hood, breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes.
“Are you crying?” she asked, incredulous.
“No I'm not crying,” I insisted, wiping my cheeks. “I'm just relieved, is all.”
Michelle shook her head. “What a big baby.”
------------------------------------------------------------------
Aaron Bradford Starr has published short stories in paintings, and interior art in Black Gate Magazine, Black Gate Online, Stupefying Stories, and Rampant Loon Press. He is a member of the writing group The Speculative Fiction Forum on Agent Query Connect. Find more about him on his blog, Imaginary Friend.
January 29, 2015
Getting the Call with Kate Foster
Thick skin was always an expression until I became a writer. Writers soon learn just exactly that old adage entails. Kate Foster is here to share her inspiring story and teach us about thick skin.
Once upon a time, in a land where time stood still, there I sat, with Lauren Laptop, a lot of first drafts and even more rejections letters. My skin was thinning, my dream fading, my confidence washing away.
It starts out such fun: anticipation, excitement, and nerves, mixed in with a lot of screen refreshing. But there comes a point when a familiar looking subject line pops into your inbox and you dread opening the email. Been there, seen it, done it. And got a wardrobe full of goddamn t-shirts.
Despite the self doubt issues, however, I’m one hell of a trooper. Something I’m starting to realise most writers are, too!
I wasn’t prepared to crumble under the constant head shaking and avenue closures. So I cracked on; entering contests like Pitchmad and Pitchwars, where, I must add, I met some of my most awesome writer friends, so actually completely worth it despite the zero bites my pitches received. But I also sailed the trad route; subbing to agents and publishers. And, with a ridiculous amount of revising and editing, it’s been this route which finally roused interest in my writing.
In all honesty, I’ve had a fair few Getting the Call/Email experiences over the past couple of years. I’ve even had meetings and a handful of contracts. Straight up. Every one as much a buzz as the next. But, without pounding out every last detail, pear-shaped became the key word. Contracts I was told to avoid signing; publishers shutting their doors; relationships not quite working out. I asked my parents often if I’d been cursed as a small child perhaps, but no.
I could’ve either been a half empty girl, and wailed, ‘Poor me! Look how unlucky I am!’ or a half full girl and said, ‘Someone was watching over me, telling me not to sign.’ I now go with option two.
Because, in truth, as a trust-my-instincts type gal, my gut never settled throughout my run of offers. No real reason ever, but there was always a nagging doubt, plenty of easing off the gas pedal moments. I have a naturally worried soul, true, but this was something different. A strange magnetic backward pull.
But when the email came in from Jet Black, it felt right. I still hesitated; once bitten and all that, but there was a calmness, a focus and an energy that engulfed me each time I considered this new publishing house as the home for my middle grade novel. There was no ‘rewrite the ending and we’ll reconsider’ or ‘Sign the contract and we’ll discuss the changes you need to make’. There was no ‘This will be a bestseller’ or ‘We’ll see how it goes’. It was an enchanting symphony of ‘Your book made us feel like children again. Good job. We want to publish it’. OK, I’ll take two, please!
We bounced the contract back and forth, and they were so accommodating. We discussed ideas for the book, thoughts on areas for tweaking, marketing routes. I was involved from word go. I felt special and part of a secure and safe team of professionals.
The enthusiasm they offered, the patience, the optimism, the passion. It was overwhelming. And it brought home to me why I ever started writing in the first place. Enjoyment. Love. Need. Which I truly believe I lost sight of during those earlier years of submitting.
When I wrote my first words all those years ago, it wasn’t to be the world’s greatest author, or to make a mint from my books. I wrote because I had these stories interfering with my day to day concentration, characters pestering me with classic one-liners they desperately wanted to share, explosive, detailed scenes looking for a way out. So I obliged. And I loved it. I still do.
So, thanks to all the previous Calls, plenty of perseverance, hard work and dedication, a lot of incredible support from friends and family, and to Jet Black Publishing, in just a few short months I will be a published author. I want people to love my words. That’s all.
------------------------------------
Kate writes for children; from picture books to middle grade fiction. She is also a freelance editor with a growing list of clients. She volunteers her skills for Ink Pantry Publishing, part of The Open University in the UK, and writes a regular blog for YAtopia. Originally from Kent in the UK, she now lives on the Gold Coast in Australia with her family. Her debut novel, Winell Road, will be published by Jet Black in April 2015.
https://twitter.com/winellroadhttp://katejfoster.weebly.com/writing.htmlhttps://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100005575966724
Once upon a time, in a land where time stood still, there I sat, with Lauren Laptop, a lot of first drafts and even more rejections letters. My skin was thinning, my dream fading, my confidence washing away.
It starts out such fun: anticipation, excitement, and nerves, mixed in with a lot of screen refreshing. But there comes a point when a familiar looking subject line pops into your inbox and you dread opening the email. Been there, seen it, done it. And got a wardrobe full of goddamn t-shirts.
Despite the self doubt issues, however, I’m one hell of a trooper. Something I’m starting to realise most writers are, too!
I wasn’t prepared to crumble under the constant head shaking and avenue closures. So I cracked on; entering contests like Pitchmad and Pitchwars, where, I must add, I met some of my most awesome writer friends, so actually completely worth it despite the zero bites my pitches received. But I also sailed the trad route; subbing to agents and publishers. And, with a ridiculous amount of revising and editing, it’s been this route which finally roused interest in my writing.
In all honesty, I’ve had a fair few Getting the Call/Email experiences over the past couple of years. I’ve even had meetings and a handful of contracts. Straight up. Every one as much a buzz as the next. But, without pounding out every last detail, pear-shaped became the key word. Contracts I was told to avoid signing; publishers shutting their doors; relationships not quite working out. I asked my parents often if I’d been cursed as a small child perhaps, but no.
I could’ve either been a half empty girl, and wailed, ‘Poor me! Look how unlucky I am!’ or a half full girl and said, ‘Someone was watching over me, telling me not to sign.’ I now go with option two.
Because, in truth, as a trust-my-instincts type gal, my gut never settled throughout my run of offers. No real reason ever, but there was always a nagging doubt, plenty of easing off the gas pedal moments. I have a naturally worried soul, true, but this was something different. A strange magnetic backward pull.
But when the email came in from Jet Black, it felt right. I still hesitated; once bitten and all that, but there was a calmness, a focus and an energy that engulfed me each time I considered this new publishing house as the home for my middle grade novel. There was no ‘rewrite the ending and we’ll reconsider’ or ‘Sign the contract and we’ll discuss the changes you need to make’. There was no ‘This will be a bestseller’ or ‘We’ll see how it goes’. It was an enchanting symphony of ‘Your book made us feel like children again. Good job. We want to publish it’. OK, I’ll take two, please!
We bounced the contract back and forth, and they were so accommodating. We discussed ideas for the book, thoughts on areas for tweaking, marketing routes. I was involved from word go. I felt special and part of a secure and safe team of professionals.
The enthusiasm they offered, the patience, the optimism, the passion. It was overwhelming. And it brought home to me why I ever started writing in the first place. Enjoyment. Love. Need. Which I truly believe I lost sight of during those earlier years of submitting.
When I wrote my first words all those years ago, it wasn’t to be the world’s greatest author, or to make a mint from my books. I wrote because I had these stories interfering with my day to day concentration, characters pestering me with classic one-liners they desperately wanted to share, explosive, detailed scenes looking for a way out. So I obliged. And I loved it. I still do.
So, thanks to all the previous Calls, plenty of perseverance, hard work and dedication, a lot of incredible support from friends and family, and to Jet Black Publishing, in just a few short months I will be a published author. I want people to love my words. That’s all.
------------------------------------
Kate writes for children; from picture books to middle grade fiction. She is also a freelance editor with a growing list of clients. She volunteers her skills for Ink Pantry Publishing, part of The Open University in the UK, and writes a regular blog for YAtopia. Originally from Kent in the UK, she now lives on the Gold Coast in Australia with her family. Her debut novel, Winell Road, will be published by Jet Black in April 2015.
https://twitter.com/winellroadhttp://katejfoster.weebly.com/writing.htmlhttps://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100005575966724
