An Agent's Inbox #12

Dear Ms. Sarver,

I'm seeking representation for my contemporary YA ghost story, NO SUCH THING.

It’s easy to overlook an old house being reclaimed by the woods; it’s a common sight near Candor, North Carolina, where seventeen-year-old Virginia “Dare” Cleaster lives with her family. But on a sweaty summer night, Dare and her ex-boyfriend Bobby unintentionally wake something sinister that’s been dormant in the crumbling Waters residence for years, and it refuses to be ignored.

Dare doesn’t believe in ghosts, but the tragic spirit of Atheleen Waters appearing to her all over town quickly changes her mind. As Dare and her friends are drawn into the mystery surrounding Atheleen’s life and untimely death, it soon becomes clear that she isn’t a troubled apparition seeking closure. She’s a twisted killer driven mad by love, and death hasn’t made her the least bit remorseful for her crimes.

Now Dare must figure out how to lay her powerful spirit to rest before Atheleen can add to the body count she began over a hundred and fifty years ago.

NO SUCH THING is complete at 60,000 words. It’s a blend of Saundra Mitchell’s Shadowed Summer and Susan Hill's The Woman in Black, and will appeal to older teen readers who enjoy ghost stories.

Per the submission guidelines, the first 250 words of NO SUCH THING are below this letter. I’d be delighted to send you a partial excerpt or the full manuscript on request.

Thank you kindly for your time and consideration!

Best regards,
S.M.


NO SUCH THING

When I was little, I believed in everything. I thought aliens, Bigfoot, the Tooth Fairy, and even the cartoon mascots from cereal boxes were out in the world somewhere, driving cars and wearing suits to work like men I saw on TV.

I had a big imagination because I lived in a small town where most of the men I knew didn’t even own a suit.

The two men sharing a booth in the old café were as well-dressed as they came in Candor. Nothing too fancy, but at least they wore neatly pressed uniforms.

As I watched from behind the counter, wiping crumbs from the surface with my rag, the sheriff stared down at his untouched plate of bacon and eggs. He poked them with his fork as if expecting them to spring to life and attack him at any moment.

“Somethin’ wrong with your food, sir?” I said. My voice carried across the empty room. The sheriff and his deputy were pushing the limits of common courtesy by keeping us open past eleven-thirty on a Friday night.

“Huh?” Sheriff Thompson grunted, looking up.

I weaved between tables with practiced ease to reach their window-side booth in a flash.

“Look. I know the bacon’s probably too crisp for most folks’ taste. But if you don’t want it, I’ll eat it. Mr. Forrester’d be happy to make you somethin’ else.”

I gave them a smile and tugged my apron down. It stopped several inches above my knees, but it was still longer than the skimpy cutoffs I’d worn to my shift.

An Agent's Inbox #11

Dear Ms. Sarver,

I currently have a request for a full read of my manuscript from senior editor Tom Colgan at Penguin Books and I hope to secure representation before I submit. It’s a 76,000 word YA high concept project entitled The Wives of Lucifer and I am confident it can cross into commercial women’s fiction as well.

As an author I ask teens to seriously reflect on their religious beliefs and consider alternate theories regarding the existence of a god-figure who rewards or punishes them for their behaviors. I have studied many religions over the years as well as astrology and reincarnation and I believe the more teens question established tenets the more responsible they will be for their own actions and the more compassionate they will be toward others.

At the age of seventeen, Olivia Miller is dead, again, and stuck on the dismal Astral Plane to await rebirth. Disenchanted with the never-ending cycle of life and death she’s thrilled when the almighty Scepters free her from another stint in purgatory and enlist her in their elite legion of soul-savers known as The Travelers. As a newly minted soldier in the City of the Sun, Olivia is charged with carrying out the Scepters’ mission to rescue mortals from unscheduled deaths and prevent them from falling prey to Lucifer’s minions. Now she’s immortal, with an exciting future, powerful magic, and a new love. It soon becomes apparent Olivia cannot control her new powers and has the uncanny knack for summoning lightning, a talent possessed solely by The Prince of Darkness. This mysterious tie to Lucifer not only worries Olivia but the Scepters as well. But Lucifer’s two evil wives, the flame-haired Lilith, and Ravana, The Immortal Queen of Witchcraft, have no intention of embracing another sister-wife, fully intent on preventing the suddenly omnipotent Olivia from getting anywhere near their husband. Besides, they have big plans, plans that will bring both the Scepters and Lucifer to their knees. Meanwhile, Michael, the Ruling Scepter protects a dark secret about Olivia’s true identity and fears the consequences if she ever discovers the truth. He’s waited a thousand years to harness her magnificent aura and will do everything in his power to keep Olivia from falling victim to the Underworld. For both sides know, Olivia holds enough latent power to either enslave or destroy them all.

My background as a science teacher allowed me to incorporate scientific dogma into creating magical powers for my characters and created a deep well of ideas to draw upon in crafting an inimitable vision of the Afterlife. As a high school assistant principal for twenty years I spent endless hours with troubled teens and believe I truly understand their angst as they struggle to become happy and productive adults in our society.

Thank you for your consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.

Best,

C.M.M.


THE WIVES OF LUCIFER

Prelude to the Storm
April 30, 1802

The body of the boy floated in the inky water, his vacant eyes black as the sea. She was too late to save him. The wood pilings creaked, shifting under her feet. The stinging rain slapped at her. The needle-like droplets pelted the threadbare patch at the nape of her neck, her naked hand, her frozen cheek; slapped at her like her sister. She wanted to cry, not for herself, but for the boy.

Olivia faced her twin sister, their matching dark eyes flared with anger, their chestnut-colored hair whipping wildly in the howling wind. Today was their tenth birthday, but their father, the town drunk, couldn’t care less. Their mother died in childbirth and most nights the neighbors took pity on them throwing them a few scraps of food. Their father had threatened to sell them into servitude nearly every day for the last three years and Olivia thought that might actually be an improvement.

Spying the bloody knife in her sister’s hand, Olivia screamed. “You killed him?”

Her sister’s face looked scary angry. “I did! And I’d do it again!”

“But, why?”

Once, she’d caught her sister killing a cat and tried to stop her. They got into a fistfight and a street merchant separated them and sent them home. Olivia considered her sister just plain evil and this only served to confirm her suspicions.

“Because he annoyed me. He always annoys me. And you always take his side!”

Before Olivia could say anything, she saw her sister’s gaze shift to something behind her and turned to see a tall figure, his eyes blue fire. He wore the clothing of a rich man and radiated such intense heat she took a step backward.

An Agent's Inbox #10

Dear Ms. Sarver:

Thank you for considering my 54K YA magical realism, PLAY FOR PANIC.

15-year-old Sami does not know her extraordinary piano skill stems from her belonging to a rare pedigree of elite artists…until she takes a magic potion to become good at something else.

Transplanted from NYC to Mom’s boring hometown, Sami goes to a new school where sports = popularity. Too bad Sami’s a music girl above all and a klutz overall. So she takes Aquamarine--a magical sports drink--to make the volleyball team. But when she sits behind the keys after acing the serve and spike, she discovers Aquamarine has obliterated her artistic skill.

Will she honor her bloodline and reclaim her music? Or will she continue taking Aquamarine and rule the school--winning more games, more friends, and more fun? The right choice is unclear, and could bring traumatic aftershocks to her family.

Turns out, Mom’s “boring” hometown is plagued by an ancient rivalry with a deadly past. After learning a shocking family secret, she realizes Mom had an ulterior motive for moving back home. How far back do the secrets go?

PLAY FOR PANIC stands alone, but with series potential. As a former high school teacher, I hope to inspire young readers to be themselves, fearlessly. My novel CATCHER’S KEEPER is now a quarter-finalist for the 2013 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award.

Thank you so much for your time.

Sincerely,
J.D.S.


PLAY FOR PANIC

When Mom moved us from Manhattan--my heart’s pulse--to her tiny hometown of Whitehall, I promised myself that would be the last decision someone else made for me.

The dreaded day begins in a haze of grey stillness. Where’s my vibrant soundtrack of honking cabs and rumbling busses? As I force down some oatmeal, the squish thunders in my ears. The mountain breeze sings through the drafty window, while outside a lark chirps free-style jazz.

Mom skips into the kitchen in her flannel nightgown. “Oh, Sami! Your first day as a Railroader!”

There goes my appetite. After rinsing my bowl, I pull on my backpack--while Mom chirps on like that maddening lark. I endure it, but dig my heels in my black Uggs when she offers to walk me to the bus stop.

“Mom, I’ve been on public transportation since birth. Remember? I can find my way anywhere in NYC by subway. By myself.”

“Yes, sweetie. But you’ve never been on a school bus.”

This is true.

“I think I can handle the bus stop,” I say thickly.

But outside, confronted by cool air that smells like newly fallen leaves, I question whether I can handle anything about this town. Nothing makes sense. The corner where Dad told me to wait is just a sorry pad of crumbling cement. This is no bus stop. Where’s the bright signage? Where is everyone?

Then--a tap on my shoulder. I spin around, a gasp in my throat.

An Agent's Inbox #9

Dear Ms. Sarver,

The day before she died, Nora Clark danced with her husband of thirty years. When she wakes up in what appears to be a cheap hotel room of the afterlife, Nora doesn’t know how she got there or where her husband and sons are. Her confusion grows when, out of all the arrivals in the afterlife that day, she is the only one who doesn’t receive a new responsibility.

After frustrating meetings with a not-so-heavenly psychiatrist and seeing people floating while she is planted firmly on the floor, Nora accidentally discovers she can interact with strangers still living. She knows she should have approval before interacting, but her contact is helping both the strangers and her family. Finally assigned as a guardian for her husband, Charlie, and their sons, Nora is determined to keep the previously established connections.

When one of Nora’s connections reveals his powerful return to alcoholism, she is convinced her previous life experience is the best guide. She remains determined despite her best friend confessing a love for Charlie and him agreeing. But the rules of heaven still have consequences, and Nora’s actions could jeopardize not only her family’s happiness, but her own place in heaven as well.

TRANSCEND, women’s fiction with magic realism, is complete at 86,000 words and would appeal to readers of Susanna Kearsley and Alice Hoffman. I currently teach high school English.

Sincerely,
T.S.


TRANSCEND

The day before I died, Charlie and I danced to B.B. King.

My sons, both taller than me for several years now, were mimicking us, alternating which one was a woman with pouty lips and batting eyelashes.

I sighed. “I thought by this point, they would be showing up at these kinds of things with their own dates instead of still pretending to be each others.”

Charlie just shook his head. “They’ll figure it out someday. At least they are friends again.” Charlie put his hand on the small of my back and pulled me closer, redirecting all my attention to just him. “I love you Nora,” he whispered. As the song ended, Charlie took my face in both his hands and kissed me amid the applause.

I’m not sure what I expected from life after life, maybe a big golden gate, a bearded man in a white robe demanding names, verifying quality of character and dates of death on some sort of massive database, ushering in lines of people.

I did not expect to wake up in a bedroom.

Blinking awake, I sat up and noticed I was on a bedspread complete with a big floral pattern with a color combination that would only be seen inside a cheap hotel. The corners of every strip of wallpaper were turned up and the light fixtures were probably intended to look gold. Then, I felt a peace start in my heart, slowly spreading from within me with a just-right warmth.

An Agent's Inbox #8

Dear Ms. Melissa Sarver:

Fifteen-year-old Marissa Martin dreads the day her telepathic powers develop...until Hurricane Katrina slams the coast and drowns New Orleans. Now stuck miles away from her dad who refused to evacuate, Marissa waits anxiously for him to contact her through telepathy. Just her luck, the only voice she finally hears crying for help isn’t his: it’s a woman who somehow knows her name.

Then to add to the crazy that has become her life, Marissa bumps into Jake. Not only does he have intense blue eyes that bore into her, but he’s also a telepath with a direct link to her dad’s thoughts--and to hers. Even though that terrifies her, she needs Jake to help rescue her dad. Together, they race back to New Orleans and the crushing reality of her post-Katrina home, a warzone they’ll be lucky to survive. They must dodge dangers Marissa never imagined while confronting the shocking discovery that her dad stayed behind to save her mother, the woman who walked out on them years ago. The same woman Marissa has been hearing in her head. Now, Marissa has to learn to trust the mother who abandoned her, the woman who couldn’t handle her own telepathic powers, before she loses both of her parents for good.

Complete at 72,000 words, CRAZY DEEP combines a real-world disaster with a bit of telepathic romance to create a unique contemporary story.

Originally from Louisiana, I now live in central Pennsylvania where I teach composition and American literature courses at Lycoming College. Writing has become my way of returning home through such publications as Becoming Cajun, Becoming American: The Acadian in American Literature from Longfellow to James Lee Burke (LSU Press, 2009) and a more recent article on post-Katrina New Orleans detective fiction published in Clues: A Journal of Detection. I am an active member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.

Thank you for your time and consideration of this submission. If you are interested, I would be delighted to send additional chapters for your perusal.

Sincerely,
M.H.-L.


CRAZY DEEP

Robert Frost was wrong. My world didn’t end in fire or in ice; it ended in water. It still covers streets, houses, the playground near my house. Even the massive oaks that line City Park are broken. Damaged, all of it. Lost in the muddy cesspool that taunts me on the TV screen as I sit safe in my aunt’s living room, hundreds of miles away.

“Eighty percent of New Orleans has been inundated with water since the levees broke four days ago,” the news anchor announces from his Atlanta newsroom. He’s perfected his disturbed look--eyes slightly crinkled, head bent a touch to the right.

The image on the screen shifts from him to the city that used to be home. The camera inches closer. Closer. I catch my breath, wait. It stops just short of Vicksburg, my street. But I no longer have to see it to make it real. That’s not why I lean in, hope for a glimpse of my house. As much as witnessing the damage leaves a hollow crater in my chest, none of it compares to the most important thing I’ve lost: Dad. He may still be in that house, the one standing in ten feet of stagnant water.

Panic squeezes my throat closed. Because even if I could go back there and look for him, “there” is gone.

An Agent's Inbox #7

Dear Ms. Sarver,

Please consider representing my Young Adult historical adventure. BEYOND THE CASTLE WALLS is set in late twelfth century England and is complete at 71,000 words.

Fifteen-year-old Marguerite de Courcy believes she is her parents' only daughter, but when her father is murdered her mother reveals the existence of Marguerite's twin, Marie. Torn between pity for the sister who was exiled from her family and jealousy of the stranger who may usurp her place, she rides to Canterbury to bring Marie home. But Marie isn't there. Marguerite must follow her to London, and the perils of the road increase when she discovers she's being hunted by her former betrothed, the Earl of Felgor, the man whose treachery caused her father's death.

I took courses in medieval language, literature, and history at Indiana University. A grant from Culture Works, a local arts agency, allowed me to visit Canterbury and London a few years ago. I'm an active member of SCBWI and a reviewer for childrenslit.com, a subscription website for teachers and librarians. My story "The Fairy Godmother's Trial" appeared online in the September 2011 issue of Enchanted Conversation and a medieval story, "John's Bluff," took eighth place in the Children's and Young Adult category of the 2011 Writer's Digest competition.

Many thanks for your time and consideration. I love Jessa's voice in INSTRUCTIONS FOR A BROKEN HEART and the intriguing concept and fine detail of THE LOST GIRL. I'm enclosing the first 250 words of my novel, and I look forward to hearing your response.

Sincerely,
J.D.


BEYOND THE CASTLE WALLS

Silburn Castle, Kent
July 26, 1199

Marguerite de Courcy pressed her forehead against the trunk of the tallest apple tree and beat her fists against the bark. I am not ready. I’ll never be ready.

All too soon her father and her brother Hugh would ride back from the siege of Winham Castle. With them would ride Robert Severin, Earl of Felgor. And when he arrived, her freedom would end forever.

From the top of the tree she’d be able to see if he was coming. She pulled off her shoes, her stockings, and the gauzy veil that covered her long, red-gold braid. The last time she’d climbed, she’d torn her stockings on a dead twig and suffered Hertha’s fury.

She hitched up her skirts and tied them with the silk cord that circled her waist. If only all she need worry about was the housekeeper’s anger. Being married to Earl Robert would be torment of a far worse kind.

She caught hold of the lowest limb with both hands. The familiar feel of rough bark between her fingers spurred her on, and she wedged her bare right foot into the space between trunk and limb. From there she climbed, making sure to keep her skirts away from ragged wood, moving easily from branch to branch till she reached the last one she trusted to hold her weight.

The sun shone high above, illuminating the western road before it wound up a hill and lost itself in the distant forest.

An Agent's Inbox #6

Dear Ms. Sarver,

Fat girls can't be in beauty pageants--unless they have to save their best friends.

All thirteen-year-old PHOEBE FRANZ needs is her best friend LACEY, an extra-large T-shirt, and a carton of her favorite Black Sludge ice cream, which tastes better than it sounds. But when mean girl STELLA SILVERS lures Lacey away to enter a beauty pageant, Phoebe freaks out. To save her friendship, Phoebe joins the competition. But dresses don’t fit, her father hates the idea, and Phoebe has a major fear of public appearances. She must learn to believe in herself. And that means conquering the stage and standing up, once and for all, to Stella.

I invite you to join Phoebe as she swims with her clothes on, masters the art of yo-yoing, and allows her obese, chip-loving father to escort her on pageant night.

I am a graduate of the advanced novel-writing course of the Institute of Children’s Literature, and have attended the Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers Conference in Salt Lake City, Utah, for the past three years. I am published in my church’s youth magazine, and won second place in a contest for YA personal experiences sponsored by the Children’s Newsletter.

I am excited for the opportunity to submit the first 250 words of my 35,000-word, middle-grade contemporary novel, PHOEBE FRANZ CAN--and I'm especially excited to hear that you are now seeking MG fiction.

Thank you for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Regards,

E.D.

 

 

PHOEBE FRANZ CAN

 

Fat girls can’t be in beauty pageants.

That’s why the bright pink sign over my locker was such a joke:

Enter the Three Corners Princess Pageant! Open to Girls Grades 6-8. $500 Grand Prize!

The sign was also in my way. I couldn’t even get to my locker because a clump of girls stared at it with heads up, mouths open.

Fabulous. Now I’d be late for class.

“Excuse me.” I slid around a retro blue-and-brown polka-dotted backpack and moved toward my locker, only to have a zebra-striped backpack block my path.

Double fabulous. I needed the poster in my locker for my geography presentation next period.

“Excuse me,” I said again, and stuck an elbow into the crowd, trying to find a hole I could slide through.

Zebra-backpack Girl moved, like, two inches.

At this rate, I’d be giving my geography presentation in high school next year.

Lucky for me, the warning bell rang, and the crowd hurried to their own lockers, leaving behind a jumble of flowery-spicy scents. I rubbed my nose. Give me good old Irish Spring soap, any day.

“Feebs! Isn’t this so exciting?” Two hands waved in front of my face.

Lacey. I spun around. My best friend bounced on the balls of her feet.

A geography presentation, exciting?

I took her wrists. “Down, girl. I’m only doing the Four Corners Monument, not Fiji.”

She rolled her eyes, something she’s good at because of her farting, burping four brothers. “Not your presentation. The pageant!”

An Agent's Inbox #5

Dear Ms. Sarver:

Amanda Smith’s grandpapa had never been the type to invite trouble or stand out in any way. Yet, his refusal to talk about the scars on his face and shoulder spoke loudly. Determined to find answers, Amanda leaves her home in Texas for the city her grandpapa grew up in, Pécs, Hungary.

Captured by the beauty and history of the walled city without cultural borders, Amanda embraces all of its aspects, including the people ostracized by racial barriers--Romani, known to many as Gypsies. Excitement flutters inside her when Luca, a Romani dancer, moves his hips in rhythmic precision. And she yearns to know him more when she observes him caring for his dying sister. After a short, summer fling she agrees to an odd marriage proposal.

Before the wedding, her grandpapa’s brother visits. He exposes the real reason his brother fled Hungary for America. Secrets open old wounds and reveal a connection with Luca’s clan. The Romani family rejects Amanda, and even her fiancé walks away because of clan loyalties. Now she questions everything she knew about her beloved grandpapa and must repair the wounds she didn’t intend to open.

WITHOUT BORDERS is multicultural/women’s fiction set in Pécs, Hungary. It is complete at 80,000 words.

I am a regular attendee of DFW Writers’ Conference and have recently spent time in Pécs, exploring the city and its culture.

Included are the first page per the contest guidelines.

Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,
L.K.


WITHOUT BORDERS

Amanda sat on the steps of the monument for Europe’s great plague. Behind her stood the mosque that had been later converted into a Catholic church. The only feature that set it apart from the only true mosque in the city was the cross that had been stuck on top of the crescent moon. She had been walking through the section that was partly enclosed by the ancient wall, gazing up at the well-kept buildings and reading their plaques. Now she sat on the steps studying a tourist map.

The county hall was closer than she had realized. The plaque on the four-story white building to her right had identified it as a national association of colleges during the late forties. She stood and looked at it wondering if the information she sought would be there or in the courthouse. Amanda stuffed the map into her backpack and headed toward the county hall. She doubted anything about her grandpapa’s earlier years could be in either building. A birth certificate but nothing more. Grandpapa had never been the type to invite trouble or stand out in any way. Yet, his refusal to talk about the scars on his face and left shoulder spoke loudly. She only needed to learn the language of his silence. Even if she couldn’t find his past buried among the documents of the official buildings, maybe a clue would lead in the right direction.

The rhythmic pounding of a drum echoed behind her, which was soon accompanied by other instruments.