After centering your story on a region where the plot takes shape, you must be aware of not only the temperament and the idiosyncrasies of the nearby habitants but also their diction - their accent.
You DO know where your story is based at, don’t you?
Okay, let’s go back. A writer has to know where the story takes place, even (especially) if your characters will be moving to different places. In fantasy, a writer can get away with a lot simply by creating the world from scratch. Science fiction is also a genre with an easy out with the characters zooming through outer space visiting strange new worlds based purely on the writer’s imagination.
Yet for standard fiction, the plot line has to begin at some region unless you plan to have your characters out swimming in the open ocean. In that case, equip them with scuba tanks and teach them sign language.
If the setting takes place in a foreign country, then there must be people communicating in their native tongue. If the plot takes place in a certain region of your own country, as in mine - the United States, then the characters have to adopt those present characteristics of the area. Rural? Inner city? Suburb? Ghetto? Everybody talks and acts in their own funny, strange way. This is true in real life. If you want readers to relate to your story, mimic this true life.
Here is an example from my finished ms, The Stone Man. The setting takes place at the rural outskirts of a small town in Pennsylvania.
***
The cattle scattered as Graham navigated around the dark cow pies and neared the house. Both dogs trotted out the barn, took one look at the intruder, and barked madly. The farmer came out and gave a curious stare. Graham never knew what Cotter’s first name was and never asked whenever he snuck into the henhouse at night for a chicken dinner.
“Aye, help y’all with something? Um,” Cotter thoughts stumbled for Graham’s name. The farmer recognized the face enough where he felt comfortable with seeing the man on his property.
“Baxter,” Graham said with a shrug. He’d take the situation friendly, like two honest men having a conversation before they conducted their business. He’d ease into it while bringing up the subject offhandedly. “Where’s my dog?”
“Dog?” The farmer took out his plaid handkerchief and rubbed at the sweat on his neck. “Only dogs ‘round here are those two sheperds right there. Petey! Zeus! Quiet. In the barn.”
Both dogs released low growls and then slunk away. They stretched bodies on the loose hay at the barn’s entrance with their eyes still fastened on Graham.
Graham lowered the bat and leaned against it. “Miter. Bloodhound. He’s gone missing. Was in my trailer, sleeping on the bed. I heard a strange noise. Doors locked but the window open. He’s too old a dog for a jump out. Bad legs.” Graham’s hand pointed at the henhouse. “Both of us know about things when involving your roasters, yeah?”
The tone in Cotter’s voice turned cooler. “Yea, I know about y’all. Have that sick boy in the hospital. Wife ran off. Makes due with what y’all gets at the quarry. Sheriff Becken’s always heckling me into filing a report about the hens. Never did it. Saw no need, not with what y’all do for the kids and the owners at the fort. I saw the carvings done for free. Good work. Even trade for a lost hen now and then. Think I took y’all dog?”
“I don’t think you did it. But maybe one of your boys did as a prank? Don’t want to accuse you. But no one else I can think of who could’ve. Everything happened too fast.” Graham felt stupid for carrying the bat. Always thought people wanted a fight and he’d get in his licks first. This was partly his fault for the ban at the hospital.
He felt the moisture along his eyes. The farmer had taken him off balance with those words. Graham wasn’t expecting such understanding or compliments. He held the tears in with all his strength. “Bloodhound is all I got now.”
Cotter nodded. He shouted at the house. “EDDIE. GEORGE.”
They heard the running footsteps inside as the farmer’s sons came out and jogged toward them. When they caught a look at Graham, both boys turned meek. They held hands behind their backs. Their eyes gazed at scuffing feet against the dirt.
Cotter caught their expressions and glowered. “Y’all knows this man? Living down Hanna Mill? Does all them statues for the fort?”
Both boys shrugged.
Cotter cleared his throat. “Was y’all near his property messing ‘round? Did anything y’all shouldn’t be doing? ‘Cause if y’all lies and I find out the truth from someone else . . .”
“George gone and done it! I just followed him,” the younger boy spoke and received a jab in the side by his brother’s elbow. Yet once the squealing started, nobody could stop Eddie in claiming his innocence. “I just carry the tools. He went crawling under the man’s truck. ‘Fix him up right for stealing our hens,’ George said. He was under there for a good two hours. Did something. Don’t know what though. That ‘fore it up on those cement blocks.”
This took both Cotter and Graham by surprise. Someone had tampered with the truck? Yet it made sense to Graham. It’d felt strange when he and Tony went along the dirt bike course. The truck had responded sluggishly whenever Graham turned the steering wheel and pressed on the brake. He figured the bumps did it. Then the truck had slammed down off the big hill and the front axle cracked. He had the truck towed off the track. He’d figured he caused all the damage.
Graham had figured wrong.
The farmer’s face turned a deeper tomato red than one of his prized vegetables for the county fair. He grabbed both boys by their shirt collars and knocked their heads together. “Y’all can go get someone killed like that! Ain’t any bird in the world worth it. His doings in the henhouse are my concern. Ain’t up to the younglings to go meddling with a grown man’s affairs or stepping into their pop’s shoes.” He pulled his sons forward, knocked their noggins again for good measure, and then pushed them away.
Eddie and George fell backward, smacking their rumps hard against the ground. Both rubbed backsides and hung heads. The younger one started crying. George sat there in silence. His sight stayed glued on his shoes, the boy too mad at his brother’s tattling.
Cotter shifted around toward Graham. The farmer’s face filled with remorse. “First I heard about them with your truck, Baxter. I pay the damages my boys gone done. Was y’all in an accident ‘cause of it? Hands cut.” He pointed at Graham’s palms. “Anyone else hurt ‘cause I make good for their medical bills too?”
Graham shook his head. “Cuts on my hands are from handling some barbed wire. As for the truck, I drove it off a hill and messed up the front axle. Nobody got hurt. Only damage is to the truck beside what they might’ve tampered with under it. Don’t know for sure what though.”
“Finds out. Finds out good and I pay for it.” Cotter undid the belt buckle. He left the leather strap still through the jean hoops as he glared down at his sons. “What ‘bout this man’s dog? Bloodhound. Named Miter. Y’all go steals him today? Snuck into the trailer and take the dog this noon?”
“No, sir.” Both boys scrambled backward a few feet when seeing their father unclasp the belt buckle. George pointed one shaky finger at the house. “Go asks Ma. She tells you. We’ve been up in our room all day playing video games.”
“Where y’all shouldn’t have been with all the farmwork we need done outside,” the farmer grumped. He sauntered toward them, and they cowered to the sides as he walked past. The porch door banged after he went inside, leaving Graham near the farmer’s sitting sons. Eddie sniffled and wiped at his wet face. He kept his body tense while ready for the run of his life whenever the door reopened. With features a mask of rage and loathing, George had his eyes focused on Graham.
George muttered, “Your fault for getting us in trouble. Your fault for stealing our hens.”
“Your pop’s right though. No bird is worth killing someone over, and no boy’s business in bloodying his hands with a man’s life,” Graham remarked.
***
And there you have it. Know the dialect. Know the region where the story takes place. Most important, write what you know and research what you don’t know. It’s as simple as that.
Basing your story scenes on actual places
- He rubbed at the beaded water while imaging the train whistle and the whoosh of steam from the pipe. The closest railroad crossing ran along the other end of Hanna Mill Road, past the dairy farm and old fort -
No, I write fiction. But this doesn’t mean I can’t use an actual location to build a fictional story around. It gives the story a solid foundation, a starting point that you can see and walk around and experience for yourself. When you develop real-life memories and incorporate them into your stories, those stories will become more real for your readers. They can relate to your writing.
The first two sentences in this post are from my finished manuscript, THE STONE MAN. I mentioned a place called “Hanna Mill Road.” The road is real, although I changed a bit of its name: Hannastown Road.
Along Hannastown Road are many dairy farms. You can smell the fresh cow manure a mile away. And yes, there is also a fort along the other end of the road - a fort I visited as a child during an elementary school trip.
I can close my eyes and remember the colonial wax makers, the bakers, and the blacksmiths. I remember the fairs and the flea markets and the hot air balloon competitions held in the nearby field.
I mentioned all these things in my story. A part of me lies among those pages. I recreated the smells, tastes, sights, and sounds for the readers to now experience.
There is nothing wrong with creating an entire fictional world. But if you have the opportunity to use an actual place to bring a realness to your story, use it. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain by giving your imagination a little extra help by using a real-life place.
No, I write fiction. But this doesn’t mean I can’t use an actual location to build a fictional story around. It gives the story a solid foundation, a starting point that you can see and walk around and experience for yourself. When you develop real-life memories and incorporate them into your stories, those stories will become more real for your readers. They can relate to your writing.
The first two sentences in this post are from my finished manuscript, THE STONE MAN. I mentioned a place called “Hanna Mill Road.” The road is real, although I changed a bit of its name: Hannastown Road.
Along Hannastown Road are many dairy farms. You can smell the fresh cow manure a mile away. And yes, there is also a fort along the other end of the road - a fort I visited as a child during an elementary school trip.
I can close my eyes and remember the colonial wax makers, the bakers, and the blacksmiths. I remember the fairs and the flea markets and the hot air balloon competitions held in the nearby field.
I mentioned all these things in my story. A part of me lies among those pages. I recreated the smells, tastes, sights, and sounds for the readers to now experience.
There is nothing wrong with creating an entire fictional world. But if you have the opportunity to use an actual place to bring a realness to your story, use it. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain by giving your imagination a little extra help by using a real-life place.
Walmart’s “Writer’s First-aid Kit.” Get it while it lasts!
I’ve finished my next manuscript, the Stone Man. I would like to say it was grueling and an emotional roller coaster for me.
It wasn’t.
I would like to say it will need major work to fix plot errors and leaps in logic.
I don’t think it will during the revision stage. I’ve got the main story along with the plot arcs to how I wanted them during the first write-through. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I can find all the minor discrepancies and they will be easy fixes.
My major problems involve wordiness and fixing up transitional scenes to make the overall writing flow smoother. And I need to work on my voice to make the story interesting enough for people to want to read it. Those are the sticklers irritating my sides: wordiness and voice. I don’t know why I have these problems, or maybe my “mind’s eye” simply doesn’t catch the problem while I’m typing. I would never make the claim that a first draft should be free of all typos and grammar errors. You won’t ever hear me utter the words that it is a masterpiece ready to be sent out without revisions and editing.
If that were true, I would already be a published author.
I suppose every would-be author wishes these tasks were as simple as stopping by the local Walmart and picking up the “Writer’s First-aid Kit” in the stationery aisle. We could pop open the box, and tiny elves whom the jolly Christmas fat man laid off due to downsizing would sprinkle their dust over the pages and the sentences would rearrange themselves into a saleable book.
Oh, how the imagination can sometimes twist the dagger into the heart!
Yet since this will never become true (Gawk!), I’m hoping the limited knowledge I have will be enough to fix and tweak this story to a readable quality. I have finished the manuscript, but I still have a long solitary road ahead. It’s time for me to lace up my shoes and head out.
Maybe Sam’s Club sells those writers’ kits, in bulk. Or I can find one of those elves to work for me in exchange for gingerbread cookies.
It wasn’t.
I would like to say it will need major work to fix plot errors and leaps in logic.
I don’t think it will during the revision stage. I’ve got the main story along with the plot arcs to how I wanted them during the first write-through. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I can find all the minor discrepancies and they will be easy fixes.
My major problems involve wordiness and fixing up transitional scenes to make the overall writing flow smoother. And I need to work on my voice to make the story interesting enough for people to want to read it. Those are the sticklers irritating my sides: wordiness and voice. I don’t know why I have these problems, or maybe my “mind’s eye” simply doesn’t catch the problem while I’m typing. I would never make the claim that a first draft should be free of all typos and grammar errors. You won’t ever hear me utter the words that it is a masterpiece ready to be sent out without revisions and editing.
If that were true, I would already be a published author.
I suppose every would-be author wishes these tasks were as simple as stopping by the local Walmart and picking up the “Writer’s First-aid Kit” in the stationery aisle. We could pop open the box, and tiny elves whom the jolly Christmas fat man laid off due to downsizing would sprinkle their dust over the pages and the sentences would rearrange themselves into a saleable book.
Oh, how the imagination can sometimes twist the dagger into the heart!
Yet since this will never become true (Gawk!), I’m hoping the limited knowledge I have will be enough to fix and tweak this story to a readable quality. I have finished the manuscript, but I still have a long solitary road ahead. It’s time for me to lace up my shoes and head out.
Maybe Sam’s Club sells those writers’ kits, in bulk. Or I can find one of those elves to work for me in exchange for gingerbread cookies.
Becoming your character - or our characters becoming us
I’ve begun to notice a strange trend happening while I write. Whenever I have my character sighing, I sigh to imitate their current emotion.
Is this normal?
I can understand why this may happen. We spend so much time perfecting our characters, bringing out their personalities for months or even years. It’s no wonder that we will sometimes take on their characteristics, if only to focus our own thoughts on the particular scene we are writing.
An itch scratched on the character’s leg becomes the writer’s scratch on the head wondering where the plot goes next. A wince of eyes for them at the terrible accident becomes a wince for us wondering if we should tone things down. A tear shed from their eyes signifies the sorrow in our hearts for a tragedy that may have personally affected us and seemed best to add to the story.
Am I imitating my character, or am I writing to make the character imitate me?
Has it come down to having his life as really mine that I wished to live, an alternate reality that can soothe me when I missed out on such comfort?
Have I carbon copied my life with the emotions I should have had for the situation yet can redeem myself in my character’s eyes?
Fiction in reality, or reality turned into fiction? Either way, I plan to make the best of the story.
Is this normal?
I can understand why this may happen. We spend so much time perfecting our characters, bringing out their personalities for months or even years. It’s no wonder that we will sometimes take on their characteristics, if only to focus our own thoughts on the particular scene we are writing.
An itch scratched on the character’s leg becomes the writer’s scratch on the head wondering where the plot goes next. A wince of eyes for them at the terrible accident becomes a wince for us wondering if we should tone things down. A tear shed from their eyes signifies the sorrow in our hearts for a tragedy that may have personally affected us and seemed best to add to the story.
Am I imitating my character, or am I writing to make the character imitate me?
Has it come down to having his life as really mine that I wished to live, an alternate reality that can soothe me when I missed out on such comfort?
Have I carbon copied my life with the emotions I should have had for the situation yet can redeem myself in my character’s eyes?
Fiction in reality, or reality turned into fiction? Either way, I plan to make the best of the story.
An update and a question
It’s been awhile since I made a post here. I want to inform everyone of the progress I made in my mini Nano WriMo in April. I had set a personal goal to be finished with my current manuscript in one month. With only a few days left, I am proud to say that I am sooooo not going to complete this manuscript when the clock strikes midnight on April 30.
AHHHHHH!
I think I’m handling this revelation pretty well, don’t you?
Anyhow, lots of things happened to cause major distractions in my life. But you will be happy to know that I have gotten 14 chapters written (will have number 15 done by tonight) - with four of those chapters revised and edited. I averaged about 1 chapter a day, or 13 to 17 pages a day.
That is a lot written if I do say so myself, which I just did. 196 pages written with an estimated 168 pages left to go.
Okay . . .
Of course this has nothing to do with the title of this post. I discovered that the characters in this story have unique and disturbing personalities. I believe this may be the reason that I’m working so fast on this manuscript. I’m excited to find out what is going to happen next. This brings up an important question in my mind.
If the plot consumes your attention completely, does this make it a good story?
I have been wondering about this. Sometimes I will work fast on a project to get it out of the way, leaving minor errors and not caring a flip about it. I would hate to think that I am deluding myself wit the false belief that I am only writing for the laurels of having written something and not for the story itself.
So, where is the line between when you work fast just so you can brag about having another project finished, and when you work fast because the project has so engrossed you that basic needs such as eating, sleeping, and bathing become meaningless?
Hmm . . . makes me wonder.
Now, if you will excuse me, I really need to take a shower.
AHHHHHH!
I think I’m handling this revelation pretty well, don’t you?
Anyhow, lots of things happened to cause major distractions in my life. But you will be happy to know that I have gotten 14 chapters written (will have number 15 done by tonight) - with four of those chapters revised and edited. I averaged about 1 chapter a day, or 13 to 17 pages a day.
That is a lot written if I do say so myself, which I just did. 196 pages written with an estimated 168 pages left to go.
Okay . . .
Of course this has nothing to do with the title of this post. I discovered that the characters in this story have unique and disturbing personalities. I believe this may be the reason that I’m working so fast on this manuscript. I’m excited to find out what is going to happen next. This brings up an important question in my mind.
If the plot consumes your attention completely, does this make it a good story?
I have been wondering about this. Sometimes I will work fast on a project to get it out of the way, leaving minor errors and not caring a flip about it. I would hate to think that I am deluding myself wit the false belief that I am only writing for the laurels of having written something and not for the story itself.
So, where is the line between when you work fast just so you can brag about having another project finished, and when you work fast because the project has so engrossed you that basic needs such as eating, sleeping, and bathing become meaningless?
Hmm . . . makes me wonder.
Now, if you will excuse me, I really need to take a shower.
Switching POVs
While waiting to hear back from the agents over the requested material for my manuscript, “Our Perfect Thorn,” I have started my new project, “The Stoneman.” I’m already up to chapter 5, and I’m going to push myself into finishing this story by the end of April. I’m giving myself a month’s time of work - like a NANO WRIMO in April. An estimated 25 chapters to finish in four weeks.
I have no idea if I can do it.
But I’ll try. I’m really enjoying this story even more than the others. The more I write, the better I get - at least this is my belief (hope). And I feel more in touch with these characters than any of the other stories. Here’s why:
I once did a manuscript in third-person narrative. I won’t say it was a total disaster. I did finish the story, which is an accomplishment in itself. Yet I never connected with the characters. I never ‘became’ them enough to give everyone unique, individual, personalities. In essence, I was a mere observer in the room giving a clinical detachment to the patients of my story.
This lessened the experience. In fact, every time I pick it up telling myself to do revisions, I grow disgusted with the story and the time I waste on it.
So I switched over to using first-person narrative for my next manuscript. I connected with the character, fully. She had personality. She had spunk. I’m hoping an agent will like it enough to take on the project.
But . . .
I still felt I could have done more to flesh out the storyline. “Our Perfect Thorn” is a simple suspense/murder mystery. Since there are only a few characters in it, staying within the main character’s head was fine. Yet it turned out to be a short book because I stayed with one character.
I want to expand myself.
So I began writing “The Stoneman.” It has everything I could have wanted. Suspense. Multiple characters to create several plot arcs. A flawed main character who has liveliness and surliness and ‘realness’ as he goes through his struggles. Also, there is a wonderful unexpected ending that (I hope) will leave people going back to the beginning and reading the story often.
But which point of view should I take?
I began with first-person so I could get in touch with the main character. It worked, with even greater depth than I could have imagined. Yet I had other characters that I could also develop - other personalities to add their own spice to the story. They would allow me to create a longer, and intense, manuscript.
So I changed it to third-person.
Now I sat on the outside looking in again, afraid to lose something in the process. I’m afraid of losing faith in this story. I tossed and turned at night, wondering what to do. How do I make the characters come alive for the reader while I can still stay in touch with my own writing?
My decision: Switch between POVs.
My first draft for each chapter is first-person. I type in which character the chapter is about right at the top of the page. Then I become the character and write from his/her point of view. Once corrections are done, I go back in and switch it to third-person.
Sounds weird, doesn’t it? Yet this process is working for me. I don’t mind the extra time it takes to switch from first to third. I’m happy with the results. I’m experiencing the main character’s angst. I’m conniving like the money-grubbing fiancé. I’m tense like the distraught, naive mother. I’m calculating like the sheriff. I’m even losing a bit of my sanity like the crazy aunt. I’m experiencing them all without staying in one person’s head.
I’m enjoying myself, and isn’t that what writing really means?
I have no idea if I can do it.
But I’ll try. I’m really enjoying this story even more than the others. The more I write, the better I get - at least this is my belief (hope). And I feel more in touch with these characters than any of the other stories. Here’s why:
I once did a manuscript in third-person narrative. I won’t say it was a total disaster. I did finish the story, which is an accomplishment in itself. Yet I never connected with the characters. I never ‘became’ them enough to give everyone unique, individual, personalities. In essence, I was a mere observer in the room giving a clinical detachment to the patients of my story.
This lessened the experience. In fact, every time I pick it up telling myself to do revisions, I grow disgusted with the story and the time I waste on it.
So I switched over to using first-person narrative for my next manuscript. I connected with the character, fully. She had personality. She had spunk. I’m hoping an agent will like it enough to take on the project.
But . . .
I still felt I could have done more to flesh out the storyline. “Our Perfect Thorn” is a simple suspense/murder mystery. Since there are only a few characters in it, staying within the main character’s head was fine. Yet it turned out to be a short book because I stayed with one character.
I want to expand myself.
So I began writing “The Stoneman.” It has everything I could have wanted. Suspense. Multiple characters to create several plot arcs. A flawed main character who has liveliness and surliness and ‘realness’ as he goes through his struggles. Also, there is a wonderful unexpected ending that (I hope) will leave people going back to the beginning and reading the story often.
But which point of view should I take?
I began with first-person so I could get in touch with the main character. It worked, with even greater depth than I could have imagined. Yet I had other characters that I could also develop - other personalities to add their own spice to the story. They would allow me to create a longer, and intense, manuscript.
So I changed it to third-person.
Now I sat on the outside looking in again, afraid to lose something in the process. I’m afraid of losing faith in this story. I tossed and turned at night, wondering what to do. How do I make the characters come alive for the reader while I can still stay in touch with my own writing?
My decision: Switch between POVs.
My first draft for each chapter is first-person. I type in which character the chapter is about right at the top of the page. Then I become the character and write from his/her point of view. Once corrections are done, I go back in and switch it to third-person.
Sounds weird, doesn’t it? Yet this process is working for me. I don’t mind the extra time it takes to switch from first to third. I’m happy with the results. I’m experiencing the main character’s angst. I’m conniving like the money-grubbing fiancé. I’m tense like the distraught, naive mother. I’m calculating like the sheriff. I’m even losing a bit of my sanity like the crazy aunt. I’m experiencing them all without staying in one person’s head.
I’m enjoying myself, and isn’t that what writing really means?
Query Letter 4B - an appraisal
I'm back posting this to create a link in my sidebar. This is the original query getting partial and full manuscript requests.
***********************
"Why, Grandmother, what big teeth you have?"
"The better to eat you with, my dear."
There are times when the wolf disguises itself in the clothing of an innocent grandmother. Then there are times when the wolf has always lurked inside the old woman's mind.
Twenty-one-year-old Jena Polsen feels she has stepped into a fairy tale world as she journeys toward Clare's house so she can take care of her sick grandmother. The trail, her life, up to this point has not been a peaceful one during her stay in the drug rehabilitation clinic after stealing the mayor's car. Still, Jena hopes this opportunity will prove that she can pursue a law-abiding life. Unfortunately, several people have gone missing in the neighborhood including a young man related to her new parole officer. It does not take long for the accusations against Jena because of her criminal record. At the discovery of a bone and a journal at the house, she wonders if something strange has happened inside her grandmother.
An inner guilt over a past incident has created a dark personality in Clare after her recent collapse from a mild stroke. Only on those blood-specked journal pages does Jena soon learn about the beast wearing the mask of her grandmother.
***********************
"Why, Grandmother, what big teeth you have?"
"The better to eat you with, my dear."
There are times when the wolf disguises itself in the clothing of an innocent grandmother. Then there are times when the wolf has always lurked inside the old woman's mind.
Twenty-one-year-old Jena Polsen feels she has stepped into a fairy tale world as she journeys toward Clare's house so she can take care of her sick grandmother. The trail, her life, up to this point has not been a peaceful one during her stay in the drug rehabilitation clinic after stealing the mayor's car. Still, Jena hopes this opportunity will prove that she can pursue a law-abiding life. Unfortunately, several people have gone missing in the neighborhood including a young man related to her new parole officer. It does not take long for the accusations against Jena because of her criminal record. At the discovery of a bone and a journal at the house, she wonders if something strange has happened inside her grandmother.
An inner guilt over a past incident has created a dark personality in Clare after her recent collapse from a mild stroke. Only on those blood-specked journal pages does Jena soon learn about the beast wearing the mask of her grandmother.
Query letter 4B
For those readers who are new to this blog or haven’t stopped by my more active site, The Surly Writer, then you may not know that I am currently going through the submission process for my manuscript, “Our Perfect Thorn.” The process had been a slow one as I perfected my dreaded nemesis: the query letter. I had gone through many drafts and received the standard form letter, or no response at all. Then Query Letter 4B appeared.
I love this letter. Once I switched over to using this one, I’ve gotten responses even from agencies where they have said in their submission guidelines that they don’t respond to queries they have no interest in. I have even read a rejection where although they could not handle my current manuscript, they encouraged me to send them other projects in the future.
Anyway, I am eagerly sending out my query letters. I am still receiving so many encouraging rejection letters . . .
It seems like a paradox. An encouraging rejection letter? It’s like having the dentist say he is going to give you a painless root canal. Yet I believe this is the reason I haven’t gotten upset over the rejections. When I keep getting the same “Although your premise/story/project/idea is fascinating/interesting/fascinating/interesting . . .” or “your work shows promise,” I can’t really get upset over the letter. I believe the best one was, “I found your writing shows promise. Unfortunately, with the state of publishing today, I must concentrate on projects in which I feel deeply passionate about . . . ”
Taste is subjective. I realize this. I would not want an agent who does not feel passionate enough to take on my project. So I nodded my head, understanding her position concerning my manuscript, and moved onto querying the next person.
I have gotten requests for three-chapter partials and for the full manuscript.
This has my nerves in a tizzy, especially when they ask for an exclusive. I never quite know how to respond. Do I give the simple “Thank you - here it is?” Or do I put more into the letter? What should I include that hasn’t already been discussed in the original query? I’ve mainly kept the emails short, hoping they believe jitters have me being unintentionally abrupt. This is half true. I get the shakes when I read, “Thank you for your query. I/We would be happy to look at your project.” My heart starts thumping faster. My mind is running in circles as I read their requirements on submitting. My body wants to drop on all fours as I make low growling noises for no reason at all.
What to do? Does anybody have advice on this? An article? A link? Or maybe share what you have done? I’m kind of lost on this part.
I love this letter. Once I switched over to using this one, I’ve gotten responses even from agencies where they have said in their submission guidelines that they don’t respond to queries they have no interest in. I have even read a rejection where although they could not handle my current manuscript, they encouraged me to send them other projects in the future.
Anyway, I am eagerly sending out my query letters. I am still receiving so many encouraging rejection letters . . .
It seems like a paradox. An encouraging rejection letter? It’s like having the dentist say he is going to give you a painless root canal. Yet I believe this is the reason I haven’t gotten upset over the rejections. When I keep getting the same “Although your premise/story/project/idea is fascinating/interesting/fascinating/interesting . . .” or “your work shows promise,” I can’t really get upset over the letter. I believe the best one was, “I found your writing shows promise. Unfortunately, with the state of publishing today, I must concentrate on projects in which I feel deeply passionate about . . . ”
Taste is subjective. I realize this. I would not want an agent who does not feel passionate enough to take on my project. So I nodded my head, understanding her position concerning my manuscript, and moved onto querying the next person.
I have gotten requests for three-chapter partials and for the full manuscript.
This has my nerves in a tizzy, especially when they ask for an exclusive. I never quite know how to respond. Do I give the simple “Thank you - here it is?” Or do I put more into the letter? What should I include that hasn’t already been discussed in the original query? I’ve mainly kept the emails short, hoping they believe jitters have me being unintentionally abrupt. This is half true. I get the shakes when I read, “Thank you for your query. I/We would be happy to look at your project.” My heart starts thumping faster. My mind is running in circles as I read their requirements on submitting. My body wants to drop on all fours as I make low growling noises for no reason at all.
What to do? Does anybody have advice on this? An article? A link? Or maybe share what you have done? I’m kind of lost on this part.
Idea Page
I would steal Marty away.
The doctors laughed about my ideas. Laughed about my stone while my son moaned in pain with all the plastic tubes attached to his vital organs. Marty has spent months with these so-called ‘great minds of medicine’ as they had prodded and poked and conducted research papers about his condition. My son reduced to a shriveled lab rat in a white-walled cage as those witch doctors had attended their seminars and preached about their latest findings while hoping to become nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. I asked them again what they were doing to help my son.
“There is nothing we can do but make him comfortable during his last days.”
“Even with all of our technological advances, we’re discovering new diseases daily that are beyond our knowledge.”
HACKS! LIARS! CHARLATANS!
They wanted him to die. They asked, twice, if I would sign over Marty’s remains for study. I bloodied my knuckles on both doctors overeager faces. They filed restraining orders. They complained about my erratic behavior with my exwife Pam, suggesting my presence might be detrimental to Marty’s well-being.
Pam had called me today. I had told her about my stone. She had said she had agreed to the doctors/butchers’ suggestions. She had threatened, “Graham Baxter. If I see you anywhere near that hospital, I will call the police!”
Why won’t anybody believe me? The stone made dead flowers blossom. It gave my old dog Miter the use of his bad leg. It has even brought statues to life. The hospital staff has seen it work. I had strutted through the corridors and shouted for the nurses to come witness the miracle. I had placed the stone on Marty’s chest. He had opened his eyes for the first time in two weeks. Giggled. Then he had slipped back into his dreamless black void when I snatched the stone from the covers and struggled with the guards. I had run away before the sheriff showed up.
I figured out how the stone worked. It transferred life from one object to another. The first time I had bled over the stone, cut my hands on the barbed fence when I had snuck into ol’ man Sumter’s junkyard searching for the streak of light that fell out of the sky. Drunk and a little high, I had stumbled down Hanna Mill Road with the glowing stone I had found in the rusted carburetor. I had laid the stone in the flowerpot, drank one last beer, and took a nap on the kitchen linoleum. When I woke up the next day, a flower had sat inside the pot. A freaking flower from a black thumb gardener! I could not even grow weeds around my double-wide trailer.
If I gave a little life to the stone, a little life it gave to someone else.
There was something else that I needed to tell you. Something else Pam had said in the phone call. The medical insurance was running out on Marty’s life support. She had to buy the cheap-ass stuff. Neither of us could afford to pay the bills from our own pockets. Hell, Pam worked two dead end jobs while living with her parents, and her family was still getting evicted by the landlord. Me? I worked under-the-table. Not a decent job around for a man convicted of beating his exwife’s lover into a body cast. Three times.
Pam had told me that when the insurance ran out, she would have the doctors turn off the life support.
I would take my son away tonight. But first I needed to give life to the stone. It could not be mine, because I needed my strength to carry Marty from the hospital.
The life would have to come from someone else.
**********************
What you have just read was an idea page. This is one of the many processes I use to understand a story I want to work on. Basically, I sat at the computer and focused my mind on nothing except this one thought:
A moral choice based on whether you would save one person by killing another, and have something involving the supernatural with walking statues.
Think of the idea page as a conversation I had with my main character. I wanted to know what his life was like. He told me the very basic elements of how he was feeling, what dilemmas he faced, and a course of action he was going to commit. In this process I also learned his special voice, his driving force in the story, and other characters. Often, I will use this page as a foundation to build a story. Here is another example. For the manuscript I am currently shopping around for publication, I used these thoughts as a base for the storyline.
What if I took the fairytale, “Little Red Riding Hood,” and broke down the plot? A wolf disguises itself in the clothes of a grandmother. But what if I modernized this? What would happen if the wolf were more metaphorical? It could be the beast of our vices: greed, jealousy, lust, and obsession. The characters could even take on the beast’s personalities: foaming at the mouth when giving in to a drug addiction, a gang laughing like hyenas when they surround a victim, and the grandmother’s glowing yellow eyes when she hides dark secrets . . . etc.
The idea page might be longer than a page, or might even be shorter. It could come from a random short story, a dream, or something I might have seen or heard. It could consist of only the main character, or multiple characters. It could be anything that gets the main story out of the head. Since I have the idea page ready involving Graham Baxter and his stone, here is the expansion of the story so far. I’m not so much worried about grammar and punctuation. All I want is a beginning I can work with.
******************
“Burp! Koff-koff.”
The cold night made the warm beer taste better, as I stared at the can’s picture of rounded snowy mountains and the rushing train speeding off as if those metal wheels aimed for my drunk ass. Doubted anyone would miss me if I died. I, sure as hell, knew my exwife Pam would not shell out a dime for the funeral. I might even be doing the world a favor. There would be less of me to place in the pine box.
Yet what about Marty?
I took a last swig before crushing the empty can against my forehead. Then I threw the crushed aluminum against the tree on Gary’s property as it rebounded into the pile of cans my neighbor saved to collect his nickels down at the recycling plant. My fingers reached under the lounging lawn chair. The next beer pulled out the plastic ring and fizzed when I ripped off the tab. My thumb rubbed against the water beaded on the can as I imagined the train whistle and the whoosh of steam from the pipe. The closest railroad crossing was at the other end of Hanna Mill Road, near to the dairy farm and old fort. Wondered if any trains would be running this late at night? Wondered if I should smoke another bowl of weed before going over there and laying down on the wooden ties? I could lay down and close my eyes and not feel a thing.
Think about how Marty would feel.
Yeah, I could not forget him. I could not take that route of wanting to escape my problems on those rusted tracks. He needed me. Marty had no one else now after his own mother signed those permission papers. Damn her!
The phone rang. I could hear its beeps through the open kitchen window. I placed my hands on the armrest and lifted up to spy the time on the microwave. 12:15am. All of my drinking buddies would be down at Sumter’s Pub and Junkyard too wasted to dial my number. Pam. Her shift ended at midnight at the all-night diner. She had wanted to talk with me about something for the past week. Not really caring what she had to say to me now as the answering machine switched on.
“Hello? Graham? Are you there? Pick up the line. I know you’re there. I have to talk with you.” Two minutes of silence came through the line. “Fine. Be an arrogant prick. And you wonder what happened to our marriage--” Beep.
The machine always cut her off before she could go into her full rant as my arm pulled back and then swung out over my head. The full beer sailed above the double-wide trailer to smack something with a ping on the other side. Probably hit the truck on concrete blocks. I messed up the front axle when Gary and I went off-roading down at the track designed for the dirt bike races. For the past week I was angry with myself over that, and I was angry with Pam over those papers.
Damn the doctors! They were the ones who pressured Pam to do it. Claimed it would be for ‘the good of all humanity and the medical world’ crap if she gave her permission for Marty’s body to become dissected for research study. MY BOY WAS NOT EVEN DEAD YET! But those butchers had already made up their minds. He was a shell of a seven-year-old with an illness causing his organs to “hiccup in spasms until sections failed to receive needed blood and began to die off.” Or so the doctors had attempted to dumb down the explanation for us country hicks. I might not have a degree in medicine. Yet when I see my son strapped to the hospital bed, bouncing in and out of comas, with the monitoring machines fastening their octopus arms of tiny plastic tubes and wires to his body, I could not give a rat’s ass what was wrong. All I wanted to know was what they could do to make things right inside my boy.
“There is nothing we can do but make him comfortable during his final days.”
“Even with all of our technological advances, we’re discovering new diseases daily that are beyond our knowledge.”
They could shove that bull at someone else. If I were a billionaire, they would be falling at my feet trying to help my son in the hopes I would hand over a large donation to open another hospital wing. Dirt poor guaranteed the lowest, cheapest care given that would keep the medical staff from getting sued for malpractice. I fell into the latter category.
My fists pounded on my legs. “HACKS! LIARS!”
Scratching paws sounded against the door along with one plaintive whine. My shout must have woken old Miter. I unwrapped the baling twine from around the armrest and tugged, pulling the other end tied to the trailer door. It opened wide and I waited, listening to his clomps of aged feet. My eyes watched his shadow created from the moth encrusted outdoor light as the bloodhound dragged himself down onto the porch. He had arthritis in all his bones, but worse in the right front leg. The joints stiffened harder than any of my sculpted statues.
Old Miter shuffled sore legs over to the second lounge chair beside me and flopped to the side to get in it. His breath huffed and watery eyes closed. His chest rattled when he breathed, stuttered in short wet rasps as his tongue licked his runny nose in an unconscious habit even during sleep.
Too old. The dog got too old too fast. I could still see him romping through the yard with Marty two years ago, trying to nip at the frisbee my boy held in his teeth in teasing, as I had sat in the bed of my pickup and whacked at the large rock slab taken from the job site. My chisel had hacked off the large chunks. My sandpaper had smoothed the rough areas. Whack! Pam had lounged on the same chair Miter curled in now, as she sipped her Gatorade and flipped through those stupid celebrity magazines. Out the corner of my eye, I had caught her lifting the magazine at me and scrunching her face as she imagined her surroundings dwelled on that glossy page: the mansion, the intellectual athletic son already flocked by admirers, and her sugar daddy who already signed her name as the sole beneficiary on the will. Never mattered to me if she imagined her husband as a movie star. If it made her moan in bed, then so much the better for my sex life.
Lights flashed along the road. Gary never left Sumter’s P&J before closing time, and even then he usually slept on the bar floor until the old man rolled Gary out onto the sidewalk in the morning. The headlights aimed my way. Damn. Was it Sheriff Penghal? Last time the stupid prick drove up here, he had heard about a fight at the convenience store. Figured I had to be the culprit. He was wrong, but it did not stop him for busting me for disorderly conduct on my own property when breaking glass bottles with Marty’s baseball bat.
I sniffed at my clothes and my hands. The weed still smelled strong in the air. There was no way I could hide it from him this time.
The wheels squealed down the ruts along the road, bouncing mercilessly and not caring about the occupants inside. It could not be the police cruiser. I had never made the sheriff that pissed at me, not even when that son-of-a-bitch Mike Larsen stole my wife away. Speaking of sons-of bitches, I now recognized Larsen’s beat-up blue car doing its jiggle shakes toward the trailer. It pulled within the pool of light, Larsen’s face screwed into a mask of anger as he gripped the steering wheel and swung his junk around so the car faced the road back out. When making the turn, I caught Pam’s expression as she sat in the driver’s seat clutching the door and dash to keep from slamming her face into the side window. Annoyance, worry, and maybe a touch of fear dwelled on her lined brow.
What did she do now?
***********
The doctors laughed about my ideas. Laughed about my stone while my son moaned in pain with all the plastic tubes attached to his vital organs. Marty has spent months with these so-called ‘great minds of medicine’ as they had prodded and poked and conducted research papers about his condition. My son reduced to a shriveled lab rat in a white-walled cage as those witch doctors had attended their seminars and preached about their latest findings while hoping to become nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. I asked them again what they were doing to help my son.
“There is nothing we can do but make him comfortable during his last days.”
“Even with all of our technological advances, we’re discovering new diseases daily that are beyond our knowledge.”
HACKS! LIARS! CHARLATANS!
They wanted him to die. They asked, twice, if I would sign over Marty’s remains for study. I bloodied my knuckles on both doctors overeager faces. They filed restraining orders. They complained about my erratic behavior with my exwife Pam, suggesting my presence might be detrimental to Marty’s well-being.
Pam had called me today. I had told her about my stone. She had said she had agreed to the doctors/butchers’ suggestions. She had threatened, “Graham Baxter. If I see you anywhere near that hospital, I will call the police!”
Why won’t anybody believe me? The stone made dead flowers blossom. It gave my old dog Miter the use of his bad leg. It has even brought statues to life. The hospital staff has seen it work. I had strutted through the corridors and shouted for the nurses to come witness the miracle. I had placed the stone on Marty’s chest. He had opened his eyes for the first time in two weeks. Giggled. Then he had slipped back into his dreamless black void when I snatched the stone from the covers and struggled with the guards. I had run away before the sheriff showed up.
I figured out how the stone worked. It transferred life from one object to another. The first time I had bled over the stone, cut my hands on the barbed fence when I had snuck into ol’ man Sumter’s junkyard searching for the streak of light that fell out of the sky. Drunk and a little high, I had stumbled down Hanna Mill Road with the glowing stone I had found in the rusted carburetor. I had laid the stone in the flowerpot, drank one last beer, and took a nap on the kitchen linoleum. When I woke up the next day, a flower had sat inside the pot. A freaking flower from a black thumb gardener! I could not even grow weeds around my double-wide trailer.
If I gave a little life to the stone, a little life it gave to someone else.
There was something else that I needed to tell you. Something else Pam had said in the phone call. The medical insurance was running out on Marty’s life support. She had to buy the cheap-ass stuff. Neither of us could afford to pay the bills from our own pockets. Hell, Pam worked two dead end jobs while living with her parents, and her family was still getting evicted by the landlord. Me? I worked under-the-table. Not a decent job around for a man convicted of beating his exwife’s lover into a body cast. Three times.
Pam had told me that when the insurance ran out, she would have the doctors turn off the life support.
I would take my son away tonight. But first I needed to give life to the stone. It could not be mine, because I needed my strength to carry Marty from the hospital.
The life would have to come from someone else.
**********************
What you have just read was an idea page. This is one of the many processes I use to understand a story I want to work on. Basically, I sat at the computer and focused my mind on nothing except this one thought:
A moral choice based on whether you would save one person by killing another, and have something involving the supernatural with walking statues.
Think of the idea page as a conversation I had with my main character. I wanted to know what his life was like. He told me the very basic elements of how he was feeling, what dilemmas he faced, and a course of action he was going to commit. In this process I also learned his special voice, his driving force in the story, and other characters. Often, I will use this page as a foundation to build a story. Here is another example. For the manuscript I am currently shopping around for publication, I used these thoughts as a base for the storyline.
What if I took the fairytale, “Little Red Riding Hood,” and broke down the plot? A wolf disguises itself in the clothes of a grandmother. But what if I modernized this? What would happen if the wolf were more metaphorical? It could be the beast of our vices: greed, jealousy, lust, and obsession. The characters could even take on the beast’s personalities: foaming at the mouth when giving in to a drug addiction, a gang laughing like hyenas when they surround a victim, and the grandmother’s glowing yellow eyes when she hides dark secrets . . . etc.
The idea page might be longer than a page, or might even be shorter. It could come from a random short story, a dream, or something I might have seen or heard. It could consist of only the main character, or multiple characters. It could be anything that gets the main story out of the head. Since I have the idea page ready involving Graham Baxter and his stone, here is the expansion of the story so far. I’m not so much worried about grammar and punctuation. All I want is a beginning I can work with.
******************
“Burp! Koff-koff.”
The cold night made the warm beer taste better, as I stared at the can’s picture of rounded snowy mountains and the rushing train speeding off as if those metal wheels aimed for my drunk ass. Doubted anyone would miss me if I died. I, sure as hell, knew my exwife Pam would not shell out a dime for the funeral. I might even be doing the world a favor. There would be less of me to place in the pine box.
Yet what about Marty?
I took a last swig before crushing the empty can against my forehead. Then I threw the crushed aluminum against the tree on Gary’s property as it rebounded into the pile of cans my neighbor saved to collect his nickels down at the recycling plant. My fingers reached under the lounging lawn chair. The next beer pulled out the plastic ring and fizzed when I ripped off the tab. My thumb rubbed against the water beaded on the can as I imagined the train whistle and the whoosh of steam from the pipe. The closest railroad crossing was at the other end of Hanna Mill Road, near to the dairy farm and old fort. Wondered if any trains would be running this late at night? Wondered if I should smoke another bowl of weed before going over there and laying down on the wooden ties? I could lay down and close my eyes and not feel a thing.
Think about how Marty would feel.
Yeah, I could not forget him. I could not take that route of wanting to escape my problems on those rusted tracks. He needed me. Marty had no one else now after his own mother signed those permission papers. Damn her!
The phone rang. I could hear its beeps through the open kitchen window. I placed my hands on the armrest and lifted up to spy the time on the microwave. 12:15am. All of my drinking buddies would be down at Sumter’s Pub and Junkyard too wasted to dial my number. Pam. Her shift ended at midnight at the all-night diner. She had wanted to talk with me about something for the past week. Not really caring what she had to say to me now as the answering machine switched on.
“Hello? Graham? Are you there? Pick up the line. I know you’re there. I have to talk with you.” Two minutes of silence came through the line. “Fine. Be an arrogant prick. And you wonder what happened to our marriage--” Beep.
The machine always cut her off before she could go into her full rant as my arm pulled back and then swung out over my head. The full beer sailed above the double-wide trailer to smack something with a ping on the other side. Probably hit the truck on concrete blocks. I messed up the front axle when Gary and I went off-roading down at the track designed for the dirt bike races. For the past week I was angry with myself over that, and I was angry with Pam over those papers.
Damn the doctors! They were the ones who pressured Pam to do it. Claimed it would be for ‘the good of all humanity and the medical world’ crap if she gave her permission for Marty’s body to become dissected for research study. MY BOY WAS NOT EVEN DEAD YET! But those butchers had already made up their minds. He was a shell of a seven-year-old with an illness causing his organs to “hiccup in spasms until sections failed to receive needed blood and began to die off.” Or so the doctors had attempted to dumb down the explanation for us country hicks. I might not have a degree in medicine. Yet when I see my son strapped to the hospital bed, bouncing in and out of comas, with the monitoring machines fastening their octopus arms of tiny plastic tubes and wires to his body, I could not give a rat’s ass what was wrong. All I wanted to know was what they could do to make things right inside my boy.
“There is nothing we can do but make him comfortable during his final days.”
“Even with all of our technological advances, we’re discovering new diseases daily that are beyond our knowledge.”
They could shove that bull at someone else. If I were a billionaire, they would be falling at my feet trying to help my son in the hopes I would hand over a large donation to open another hospital wing. Dirt poor guaranteed the lowest, cheapest care given that would keep the medical staff from getting sued for malpractice. I fell into the latter category.
My fists pounded on my legs. “HACKS! LIARS!”
Scratching paws sounded against the door along with one plaintive whine. My shout must have woken old Miter. I unwrapped the baling twine from around the armrest and tugged, pulling the other end tied to the trailer door. It opened wide and I waited, listening to his clomps of aged feet. My eyes watched his shadow created from the moth encrusted outdoor light as the bloodhound dragged himself down onto the porch. He had arthritis in all his bones, but worse in the right front leg. The joints stiffened harder than any of my sculpted statues.
Old Miter shuffled sore legs over to the second lounge chair beside me and flopped to the side to get in it. His breath huffed and watery eyes closed. His chest rattled when he breathed, stuttered in short wet rasps as his tongue licked his runny nose in an unconscious habit even during sleep.
Too old. The dog got too old too fast. I could still see him romping through the yard with Marty two years ago, trying to nip at the frisbee my boy held in his teeth in teasing, as I had sat in the bed of my pickup and whacked at the large rock slab taken from the job site. My chisel had hacked off the large chunks. My sandpaper had smoothed the rough areas. Whack! Pam had lounged on the same chair Miter curled in now, as she sipped her Gatorade and flipped through those stupid celebrity magazines. Out the corner of my eye, I had caught her lifting the magazine at me and scrunching her face as she imagined her surroundings dwelled on that glossy page: the mansion, the intellectual athletic son already flocked by admirers, and her sugar daddy who already signed her name as the sole beneficiary on the will. Never mattered to me if she imagined her husband as a movie star. If it made her moan in bed, then so much the better for my sex life.
Lights flashed along the road. Gary never left Sumter’s P&J before closing time, and even then he usually slept on the bar floor until the old man rolled Gary out onto the sidewalk in the morning. The headlights aimed my way. Damn. Was it Sheriff Penghal? Last time the stupid prick drove up here, he had heard about a fight at the convenience store. Figured I had to be the culprit. He was wrong, but it did not stop him for busting me for disorderly conduct on my own property when breaking glass bottles with Marty’s baseball bat.
I sniffed at my clothes and my hands. The weed still smelled strong in the air. There was no way I could hide it from him this time.
The wheels squealed down the ruts along the road, bouncing mercilessly and not caring about the occupants inside. It could not be the police cruiser. I had never made the sheriff that pissed at me, not even when that son-of-a-bitch Mike Larsen stole my wife away. Speaking of sons-of bitches, I now recognized Larsen’s beat-up blue car doing its jiggle shakes toward the trailer. It pulled within the pool of light, Larsen’s face screwed into a mask of anger as he gripped the steering wheel and swung his junk around so the car faced the road back out. When making the turn, I caught Pam’s expression as she sat in the driver’s seat clutching the door and dash to keep from slamming her face into the side window. Annoyance, worry, and maybe a touch of fear dwelled on her lined brow.
What did she do now?
***********
Pitch Paragraph Contest - Theme is Luck
The good people hosting the Book Roast blog are having a pitch paragraph session on Tuesday, March 17. Since it is the official St. Patrick’s Day . . . uh . . . day, the theme is Luck.
That’s right. Craft a pitch paragraph (real or for fun) within 75 words featuring this theme and post it over there. The judges are several blogging editors who will choose their favorites among the entries. Share in the day of fun from 7am to 7pm Eastern Standard Time. Then, afterward, go out and get your drunk on.
Hm? Yes, I do plan to submit a pitch. I just don’t know which one. I spent the whole weekend making reserve posts for my more active blog, The Surly Writer. Then I spent the rest of the time coming up with pitches. I did not want to change the pitch for the manuscript that I am currently submitting to agents just to fit these guidelines. So I am freestyling with several works-in-progress.
Anyway, I have several pitch paragraphs that I must choose from and I will post them here for everyone to see. Come Tuesday, I will make my decision.
**************
Pitch paragraph 1: Stanza - 78 words (need to cut out three words)
Blue Triage: Being a fan of this band can kill you, but at least you’ll die famous.
Trevor dreams of becoming an idolized rock star. He buys picture frames for the paparazzi photos of him lying in the toilet next to a whiskey bottle. Suffering from writer’s block, his luck changes when a lyrical roadie overdoses - leaving behind hit songs. Overcome with greed, Trevor begins killing other musicians. Yet his band mates become suspicious of their sudden fame.
**************
Pitch paragraph 2: The Stoneman - 75 words
Graham has found good fortune not within a four-leaf clover, but inside a stone. He lifted his Coors beer at the heavens in prayer and the glowing rock came down. It is a miracle for his critically-ill son since the stone gives life to anything it touches, although someone else’s life has to end for it to work. A life for a life is the moral choice Graham must make in this suspense, The Stoneman.
**************
Pitch paragraph 3: Scary Darling - 75 words
George has the greatest job. He works near the Broadway star, Mabel Durhan: a temperamental singer at odds with a rival actress. When Mabel wants her competition to disappear, it is his lucky day as he demands for her undying love in reward for his help. Yet Mabel marries a Broadway producer instead. So George has to remind her that it is a bad idea to renege on a deal made with the Grim Reaper.
***************
Pitch paragraph 4: The Tragedy of Paul Gruyna - 75 words
Monique cannot believe her luck when Jeff agrees to have all-night sex with her. The opportunity to murder the man who killed her sister is making Monique all giddy inside. Yet when wiping the blood away from his tattoo, she realizes that she had killed the wrong man. Instead, this is Jeff’s twin brother, Paul. Now Monique must hide her secret from Jeff who begins to fall in love with her during his investigations.
That’s right. Craft a pitch paragraph (real or for fun) within 75 words featuring this theme and post it over there. The judges are several blogging editors who will choose their favorites among the entries. Share in the day of fun from 7am to 7pm Eastern Standard Time. Then, afterward, go out and get your drunk on.
Hm? Yes, I do plan to submit a pitch. I just don’t know which one. I spent the whole weekend making reserve posts for my more active blog, The Surly Writer. Then I spent the rest of the time coming up with pitches. I did not want to change the pitch for the manuscript that I am currently submitting to agents just to fit these guidelines. So I am freestyling with several works-in-progress.
Anyway, I have several pitch paragraphs that I must choose from and I will post them here for everyone to see. Come Tuesday, I will make my decision.
**************
Pitch paragraph 1: Stanza - 78 words (need to cut out three words)
Blue Triage: Being a fan of this band can kill you, but at least you’ll die famous.
Trevor dreams of becoming an idolized rock star. He buys picture frames for the paparazzi photos of him lying in the toilet next to a whiskey bottle. Suffering from writer’s block, his luck changes when a lyrical roadie overdoses - leaving behind hit songs. Overcome with greed, Trevor begins killing other musicians. Yet his band mates become suspicious of their sudden fame.
**************
Pitch paragraph 2: The Stoneman - 75 words
Graham has found good fortune not within a four-leaf clover, but inside a stone. He lifted his Coors beer at the heavens in prayer and the glowing rock came down. It is a miracle for his critically-ill son since the stone gives life to anything it touches, although someone else’s life has to end for it to work. A life for a life is the moral choice Graham must make in this suspense, The Stoneman.
**************
Pitch paragraph 3: Scary Darling - 75 words
George has the greatest job. He works near the Broadway star, Mabel Durhan: a temperamental singer at odds with a rival actress. When Mabel wants her competition to disappear, it is his lucky day as he demands for her undying love in reward for his help. Yet Mabel marries a Broadway producer instead. So George has to remind her that it is a bad idea to renege on a deal made with the Grim Reaper.
***************
Pitch paragraph 4: The Tragedy of Paul Gruyna - 75 words
Monique cannot believe her luck when Jeff agrees to have all-night sex with her. The opportunity to murder the man who killed her sister is making Monique all giddy inside. Yet when wiping the blood away from his tattoo, she realizes that she had killed the wrong man. Instead, this is Jeff’s twin brother, Paul. Now Monique must hide her secret from Jeff who begins to fall in love with her during his investigations.
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