New Beginning 173

I hate driving to work in the morning, especially when there’s ice on my windshield (which, with my car, is anytime the temperature drops below seventy-five), because I lost my ice scraper, so I have to use a cassette tape to scrape the ice. The only tape I have in my car is Ave Maria: The Sacred Songs of Christmas, by Jimmy Dean, which has rounded edges and does a lousy scrape job, so I usually end up spitting on the windshield and using my fingernails to scrape the ice. Which is better than just licking the windshield--and I should know, having once missed half a day of work waiting for the sun to melt the ice and unstick my tongue. Anyway, I end up with a 2-inch-wide, saliva-smeared circular hole to peer through until my defroster kicks in, which it usually does about the time I’m pulling into the parking lot at work.

I also hate driving to work when it rains. My windshield wipers are old and rotten, and leave streaks of water behind. I've tried wrapping them in paper towels, but before I reach the end of the block, I'm trying to peer around soggy bits of shredded paper all over the glass. I've also tried wrapping the wipers in plastic bags, but they don't absorb any water. And the highly absorbent paper grocery bags are really distracting moving up and down on the windshield. I have to keep moving my head to see around them.

My friend Benny’s car has a CD player, but a CD’s no good for clearing the ice. CDs are round, see, so only a little bit of the edge makes contact and you end up just drawing lines across the windshield like you’re setting up for a game of tic-tac-toe. So that’s another reason why CDs suck. And you can’t get The Sacred Songs of Christmas on CD. You can maybe get Jimmy Dean’s Christmas Card but that doesn’t have my favorites on it. You can get Jimmy Dean - Greatest Hits. I guess that one’s pretty good. It has "Big Bad John." Momma always said, “Life is like a Jimmy Dean record. You need do other things before you get the sausage out.” Momma never did make much sense.

Anyway, today was an ice day, and I was about to give up and call Yellow Cab, when I noticed Schlep, the neighbor’s bulldog hiking his leg on my left front tire. So I quickly grabbed him and tossed him on the windshield to put his steamy organic windshield cleaning fluid to good use. Today’s drive into work was an entirely new visual experience, looking through yellow rivulets between tundras of ice with the sun glaring through, Jimmy belting out "Jingle Bells" on the tape player . . . Psychedelic, man. I made a note to leave Schlep a big bowl of water tomorrow.


Opening: EE.....Continuation: Bunnygirl, ril, anonymous

Face-Lift 243

Guess the Plot

Sari's Ashes

1. Two sexy archaeologists defy taboo and dig into the volcanic ash below Mt. Sari in search of buried temples -- until the angry mountain god awakes, determined to destroy them all.

2. In the world of Sari's Ashes, no one can break his word once he's given it. Needless to say, this world sucks, so a wizard tries to find a spell that will reverse the untenable situation.

3. The women's rights movement in the USA saw women burning their bras in protest. When women in India rise up and burn their saris, they cause quite a different kind of stir.

4. When a masked burglar steals the cookie tin filled with their pet's cremated remains, 11 year old twins Tim and Tom make a pact to get them back -- no matter what.

5. When they burned the ritual cloth, the smell was bad enough. But having to deal with the aftermath meant unleashing the Charwomen of Doom, wielding their deadly scrub brushes.

6. A buffoonish Boring-on-End cab driver unwittingly causes a twelve car pileup in front of the airport. Who could have predicted the chain of events he set in motion when the embers of his flicked cigarette blew into eyes of a doughty spinster in a primrose Jaguar?


Original Version

Dear Agent,

I am looking for representation for my fantasy novel, Sari’s Ashes. The manuscript is complete at 71,000 words, and I have a first draft of a sequel, Sari’s Tears. [Later will come Sari's Saliva, Sari's Urine, and Sari's Toenail Clippings.]

In some ways, an oath is a kind of magic, a prophecy we make and intend to fulfill. Our promises reach through time to snag some part of our future selves and compel our actions. Even then there is an element of choice, a decision we make to either hold to our oath or to break it. [Evil Editor once swore an oath never to eat pizza again; he has broken the oath at least once a week for the past thirty years.]

But what if we did not have that choice? In the world of Sari’s Ashes, swearing an oath is truly magic. The gods themselves force you to fulfill that oath, no matter the good or evil that might come of it. [At what point do the gods step in? Does your phone call to Domino's get redirected to Overeaters Anonymous? Do thieves hold up the delivery guy and take your pizza? Or do you get to see and smell the pizza before being compelled to stuff it down the garbage disposal? Are you allowed to scrape off the toppings and just eat them?]

Long ago the wizard Faulk made a rash oath to a master that pushed him to commit many vile deeds. [He vowed to become a used car salesman.] When his master died, Faulk dedicated his life to finding a spell that would once again allow people to choose whether to keep their word. [And thus was born the trillion-dollar divorce industry.] But when he severs the link between his world and the gods, he also cuts the ties that hold society together.

As a result, Niall, the assassin that failed to stop him, and Ilyena, the wizard’s daughter, [I would mention Niall's assassination attempt in the previous paragraph; then you can just call him Niall in this paragraph.] struggle with their new freedoms and choices in a world that is falling apart. As what they loved is destroyed, will they find the strength to build something new?

I have enclosed the first fifty pages and a complete synopsis of Sari’s Ashes. I hope this sample encourages you to read the rest of the manuscript.

Thank you for considering my request.

Sincerely,


Notes

Who or what is Sari?

I'd prefer less of the metaphysical/philosophical basis behind the story (and the vagueness), and more concrete facts about what happens. What was Faulk's rash oath? What vile deeds did he commit? How about an example or two of how the world is falling apart thanks to the new order.

Fifty pages is a lot to send on an initial contact. Presumably that's how much they ask that you send?

Miss Pettipants Mystery 3

Miss Amelia Pettipants was out for her morning constitutional when the rains came. She started to open her brolly, only to realize she'd brought her cane. Rain hadn't been in the forecast. As she scurried toward home, Mrs. Azalea Owlsby passed in her Bentley, no offer of a ride. Didn't even slow down.

I'll just wait it out in the church, Miss Pettipants thought. But the rain fell harder, and she realized that to keep from getting fully drenched, she would have to duck into the phone booth. She pulled open the fogged-up door. And out flopped a body, face down into a mud puddle. My goodness, she thought, must this happen every time I use this phone booth?

At least she had access to a phone, and lost no time dialing the police. Then she struggled to flip over the body--no easy task with the lower half still inside the booth. She eventually succeeded, and let the rain wash the mud from the victim's face. It was Jeremy Owlsby, Azalea's son, and the village idiot.

Amelia considered dialing up Mrs. Owlsby, but at that moment Jefferson Davis Coatesworth-Hayes, a cop who had just turned 30 yesterday, came running across the road from the police station. "

Nice day," he said to Miss Pettipants. "What've we got 'ere?"

"It's Jeremy," she answered. "He was dead in the phone booth."

"This phone booth has seen more murders than the mystery section at the library. It was murder? Or was the booth struck by lightning? Hello. What's this in 'is 'and?" He pulled a sheet of paper from Jeremy's hand. "Maybe it's a suicide note," he said, unfolding it. But the heavy rain made the ink run, and by the time Coatesworth-Hayes reached the paper into the dry phone booth, there was nothing left except the letters "Dr."

Perhaps he had an errand at the dry cleaners," the policeman said.

"Maybe he was naming his killer," Miss Pettipants offered. "Maybe this is all that remains of the name Drusilla Heatherington-Smythe Blatherstrop."

"Or Perinilla Drew."

"Or Dr. Bensonhurst-Whyte. There may be a clue in his pockets. Let's get him back in the phone booth." They lifted him up and stood him inside the booth, then crammed in with him, barely managing to close the door. "Can you reach his pockets?" Miss Pettipants asked.

"Think so. Hello. That's odd." Struggling in the confined space, the policeman showed Miss Pettipants what he had found in Owlsby’s pocket: a thin strip of leather with a buckle and a bell attached.

"Hmm, that is interesting," Miss Pettipants said, thoughtfully. "That strap appears to match these marks around his neck."

"My goodness, you’re right. He was strangled with this pet collar!"

"And what do you notice about his trousers, Constable?"

"I see what you mean," Coatesworth-Hayes said, looking down at Owlsby’s light coloured slacks. "They’re covered in fine, dark hairs."

"Cat hairs. What else?"

Coatesworth-Hayes grunted as he repositioned himself to get a better look at the trousers. "How odd. He’s wearing bicycle clips. But where’s his bike?"

"Precisely. I think everything is clear, now."

"Clear, Miss Pettipants? To me it’s as clear as mud."

"Interesting you should say that, Constable," and Coatesworth-Hayes recognized the familiar gleam in Miss Pettipants’s eyes. "When I found young Jeremy here, his face was covered in a dull, red mud."

"But the earth around here is mostly grey clay."

"Correct, officer. Except near the murky pond, where the soil is more sandy; and if memory serves me correctly, there is a seldom-used bicycle trail in the vicinity of the pond."

Coatesworth-Hayes’s eyes widened. "You don't mean--"

"Yes, constable. We’re dealing with a cycle path."



"You said everything was clear, Miss Pettipants," Coatesworth-Hayes said. "Including the killer's identity?"

"Yes. You see, Jeremy Owlsby has long coveted Binky Hardacre’s pussy."

"Haven't we all!"

"I'm referring to her pedigree cat, constable."

"Ah, yes, of course."

"Seven times district champion at the Snicketton Cat Show. Jeremy was jealous of her success. So he obtained a kitten just like hers and lavished it with every attention to make it look exactly like Binky’s Fluffina. And sure enough, this year, he won; and Fluffina came in second."

"But," Coatesworth-Hayes said, "if they looked exactly the same, why wasn’t it a draw?"

"The strength of the pedigree, Constable. Owlsby’s cat had a stronger family line. Very important for a Devon Rex."

The young policeman gasped. "Devon Rex? D. R.?"

"Exactly, Constable." Miss Pettipants held up the paper they had found in Owlsby’s hand. "This paper is the pedigree certificate for a Devon Rex cat. But the ink has washed away. It’s a forgery."

"And Miss Hardacre found out that Owlsby had cheated."

"Indeed. I suspect that Jeremy cycled to Binky’s house to gloat. She looked at the pedigree certificate and realized that it was a fake. In a fit of rage, she strangled Owlsby with Fluffina’s collar, then drove him into town and stuffed him in the phone booth."

Just then the phone booth door opened; the body flopped to the ground once more. Constable Tom Hardbottom was standing outside in the dwindling rain, a quizzical look on his face. "What’s going on 'ere, then?" he asked.

"It’s amazing," Coatesworth-Hayes replied. "Miss Pettipants here has just solved a copycat murder!"


Opening: Evil Editor.....Conclusion: Anonymous

Miss Pettipants Mystery 2

"More tea, Vicar?" Slender, lace-cuffed hands lifted the stained and worn cozy--a souvenir of Paignton--from the pot. It was an unacknowledged invitation. "No, perhaps not."

The Vicar remained slumped in his chair, his head resting on the table where blood slowly pooled around him like warm plumberry jam on freshly toasted toast. His hand may have twitched, just a little, as the last few crumbs of life were swept from the tablecloth of his existence. A cast-iron crumpet skirdler lay strangely out of place by his feet.

Slender hands returned the cozy to the pot, once more covering the ever-popular Old Country Roses design.

A straight-backed chair opposite the Vicar protested slightly under new weight, the cushion gently flatulent as ample cheeks deformed its vinyl skin. "Now, shall we discuss once more this Nativity play of yours . . . ?" Narrow, soulless eyes turned their gaze toward the butter curler: a final humiliation. "No, I suppose not."


A robin gently lighted on the wall of Amelia Pettipants’ cottage as she pruned back the rose bushes in preparation for the coming winter. It wouldn’t be too long now before the first frost, and that would signal the end of the gardening season for this year. Amelia put down her secateurs and smiled. "No digging today, I’m afraid, Robbie. You’ll have to find your own earthworms, this time." The little bird cocked its head to one side as though listening.

Then, carried on the light autumnal breeze, Amelia thought she heard the insistent tones of a siren. With a gentle grunt, she pushed her delicate frame to standing and listened, the angle of her head mirroring that of the robin. Yes indeed: a siren. Within minutes, Constable Hardbottom went flashing by on his bicycle, his legs pumping like newlyweds.

"How interesting," Amelia said to her passerine visitor. She untied her nylon gardening apron, tossed it to the ground, and headed out onto the lane. Already, she could see a small crowd forming in the distance as she strode to catch up with Hardbottom. Her eyes widened in surprise as she realized where the constable had parked his bicycle.

Oh, how splendid, she thought. It looks like it is going to be a normal Sunday after all!


The small crowd of villagers instinctively parted as Miss Pettipants approached the entrance to The Village Tea House, and a low murmur of anticipation followed her inside. She examined the scene with a certain glee: this was the first time a body had been found in the Tea House.

Constable Tom Hardbottom was leant over a body slumped at one of the tables, making notes in his small, black bobby's notebook while his deputy, Fred, was on hands and knees examining the floor.

"Miss Pettipants," Hardbottom boomed upon seeing her. "How nice to see you. The Vicar, I'm afraid. Someone tied 'im to that chair, boffed him on the 'ead with that there crumpet skirdler, then stuck the butter curler in 'is mouth." The Constable then nodded in the direction of Timmy and Wesley, the proprietors, who were sitting in the corner, pale and shaking. "They found 'im 'ere this morning when they came to open up. The only other thing is this sheet of Christmas carols. This one's got us quite stumped, I must say."

"I don't know why, Constable," Miss Pettipants replied, her gaze sweeping the interior. "Just look around you. This room is as good as a signed confession."

"Well stone me!" Hardbottom exclaimed. "Perhaps you'd care to explain?"

"Timmy." Miss Pettipants walked over to the co-owner of the Tea House. "The crumpet skirdler belongs to you?"

"Well, yes it does, Miss Amelia. But it's purely decorative. We buy all our crumpets pre-skirdled from Safeway."

"So where do you normally keep it?"

Wesley pointed at a light silhouette on the wall. "It normally hangs up there."

"Quite high up . . . And is that tea cozy also yours?" Timmy looked at the teapot cover and his eyes widened in surprise. "Why . . . no," he said. "I've never seen it before. But--?"

"You see, Constable Hardbottom," Miss Pettipants said, turning back to the policeman, "that cozy is the key: a souvenir from Paignton, where the Vicar has holidayed for the past fifteen years."

"A very popular place, Miss Pettipants. Young Emma Blatherstrop went there with a few of the Gymkhana girls this year."

"Did she, Constable? The same Emma Blatherstrop who has been rehearsing for the Nativity play, perhaps?"

"Is there another?"

"No, Constable. There isn't. And the rumour within the ladies' circle is that thanks to the vicar, Miss Blatherstrop is no longer qualified to play the Virgin Mary. No doubt it was a matter of great displeasure to her father, Lord Geoffrey Blatherstrop, a tall man who would have no trouble reaching down that decorative skirdler."

"And the butter curler?"

"Perhaps a message, Constable. To say that butter would melt in the Vicar's mouth."

"Deputy Constable Fred," Hardbottom said, turning to his colleague. "Please ask Lord Blatherstrop to assist in our inquiries. Miss Pettipants," he continued, "you've done it again. Without you, we could never have solved this . . . cozy mystery."


Opening: ril.....Conclusion: Anonymous

Face-Lift 242

Guess the Plot

Jumping the Stream

1. After a crackdown on cockfighting, a new gambling craze sweeps the country, one that involves trained crickets, drunks, and urinals. But it isn't long before PETI gets wind of what's going on.

2. Inspired by the great Evel Knievel, hunky Bobby Ray is determined to jump the Snake River. When he falls in love with hot rocket tech Sandra, he must decide whether to go ahead with the pay-per-view event or scrap the jump for a week with her and her bisexual girlfriends camping in the wilderness. Also, a werewolf.

3. A team of daredevils is auditioning new recruits. Mae Wong can't wait to defy her parents and race her motorbike down the riverside runway and off the launch ramp. Will that begin an exciting new career? Or just another unpleasant swim?

4. After her boyfriend cheats on her, 35-year-old Katie takes her great aunt's advice and "jumps the stream," becoming a lesbian.

5. Enchanted trout live in the waters of Inqwinq, near the tower where Princess Punzellini awaits her prince. But when the handsome one arrives, will he rush to kiss her? Or will he be unable to resist . . . the call of the trout?

6. A heartwarming coming-of-age story of two boys in the Blue Ridge Mountains who challenge each other to jump across the narrow but deep gorge cut by Cooker's Creek. Also, dueling banjos.


Original Version

Dear Mr. Editor:

In Jumping The Stream, Katie Grant loses her best friend, her boyfriend, and her job, but she gains a house, a heritage, and a new perspective. After unexpectedly inheriting a Connecticut colonial from a great-aunt she barely remembers, Katie catches her boyfriend, Todd, in bed with her best friend, Lauren. Eager to get away from her mediocre, stagnant life, thirty-five year old Katie quits her beat reporter job, leaves her cruddy apartment, and moves across the county [Does quitting your job and moving across the country count as losing your job?] to the old house, expecting nothing more than a fresh start. [Wimp. Any other woman would have sold the house and used the money to hire a hit man to take out Todd and Lauren.]

She finds the house steeped in history. When she discovers the private journals of her great-great-something grandmother, revolutionary war widow Libby Hutchins, Katie dives in. [Hoping the journals haven't been ruined by being stored at the bottom of the swimming pool.] But the journals only point out how inadequate Katie is compared to Libby, a courageous, vibrant woman who faced war, rape, and even murder. [I think we can safely assume Libby would have had the guts to murder Todd and Lauren.] Katie feels the long line of ancestors who lived in the house evaluating her, and the verdict isn't good. [New paragraph.] As Christmas approaches, Katie’s loneliness and dejection deepen until she finds herself walking into Christmas Eve service for the first time in nearly two decades. Her salvation doesn't come from the minister, though; it sits down next to her in the form of the minister’s sister, Jean Walsh. As Jean pulls Katie out of the emotional whirlwind that’s been beating her down, Katie comes to realize that Jean has become much more than a friend, and that all her life Katie has been looking for love the wrong way. [Way to go, Katie. Even Libby wouldn't have had the cojones for this.] [The minister's sister? That's like the time Evil Editor was feeling depressed and troubled, so I went to a psychiatrist, and before I even talked to him, his male receptionist tried to convince me I was gay. I think that's what he was doing, anyway; why else would he tell me he liked my shirt?]

I've enclosed the complete synopsis and first three chapters of Jumping The Stream* according to the guidelines on your web site; [Change to: In accordance with your submission guidelines, I've enclosed etc.] I hope you enjoy them, and I would be glad to send you the complete manuscript (79,000 words) at your request.

My fiction has appeared or been accepted for publication in The First Line, Thereby Hangs A Tale, and THEMA; my nonfiction has appeared in EE Times [EE Times? How many books, magazines, and blogs am I going to let use my name to trick people into buying stuff I have nothing to do with before I start suing people right and left?] and on Scout.com.

I look forward to your reply. Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

[*The dead great-aunt leaves Katie a letter with the advice that she must "have the courage to cross the stream to know what's on the other side." Thus the title.]


Notes

In the event EE has misinterpreted the Katie/Jean relationship, he won't be the only one, so you may want to make it clear.

Not that your book isn't brilliant, but as Libby's "vibrant, courageous" life puts Katie's "mediocre, stagnant" life to shame, have you considered that Libby's private journals would make a far more fascinating book?

Miss Pettipants Mystery 1

Miss Amelia Pettipants looked out her front window. There seemed to be some commotion in front of the Bed and Breakfast across the street. She picked up her cane and her purse and went to investigate.

Deputy Constable Fred was guarding the door. "Morning, Miss Pettipants," he greeted her. "Lovely 'at."

"Thank you. Is Constable Hardbottom inside?" She moved to enter the B & B, but Fred stepped in front of her. "Sorry, crime scene, Ms. P."

Miss Pettipants winced at being called "Ms. P."

"I've orders not to let anyone pass," Fred said authoritatively.

"Is that Amelia Pettipants?" Tom Hardbottom's voice boomed from the interior. "Let 'er by, Fred."

Amelia smiled sweetly at Fred as she elbowed past him.

"Morning, Tom," she said. "What's all the fuss?"

"The usual," he said. "Murder."

"Again? Sometimes I wonder that there's anyone left alive to kill."

"Victim was a guest 'ere. Supposedly 'ere for the flower show. He's in the dining room; come take a look." They went up two steps and through the doorway into the dining room. The victim was still seated, his face lying in a plate of rarebit. "Poisoned," Hardbottom said.

Miss Pettipants took in the scene. A half-filled cup of coffee, two emptied sugar packets, a paperback book . . . "How did he get into the dining room?" she asked.

"Why . . . I assume he walked," Hardbottom replied.

"Then would you explain why he's sitting in a wheelchair?"

Hardbottom looked at the chair as if it had just appeared from thin air. "You constantly amaze me, Miss Pettipants," he said.

"I believe if you'll roll up the man's left sleeve," Miss Pettipants declared, "you'll find a tattoo of a musk ox."

"You talk like you've solved the crime already," Hardbottom said, rolling up the victim's sleeve. His jaw dropped; the tattoo was there, just as Miss Pettipants had predicted.

"I have," she told him.

After a brief pause, Hardbottom, slightly irritated, in that peculiarly English way, by the playful gleam in Miss Pettipants’s eye, prompted her to continue.

"Well, it’s really quite simple," she said. "Just look at the facts. Firstly, he was drinking coffee rather than tea; that might suggest one of our American friends. However, he was also reading a book, leading me to suspect that he was, in fact, Canadian."

"Well that’s 'ardly proof positive, Miss Pettipants--drinking coffee and reading a book. I mean, he could have been an MFA student or something."

"Perhaps, Constable, but the wheelchair: It is a well-known fact that as Canada is such a boring place, its citizens will gnaw their own legs off at a very early age."

"True enough," Hardbottom responded, thoughtfully.

"The tattoo, of course, was the final confirmation, for, as you know, Tom . . . "

" . . . All Canadians acquire Musk Ox tattoos specifically to separate themselves from their American neighbours. Of course. But who poisoned him, and why?"

"The clue is in the breakfast, Constable." Hardbottom gave a quizzical look as Miss Pettipants continued her revelations. "If you’ll look: The gentleman's rarebit is untouched, as is his 'full English'. He has consumed only the bowl of cornflakes in addition to the coffee . . . "

"Go on . . . "

"I suggest the poison was in the milk used on the cornflakes. You see, I have it on good authority that this gentleman was here to promote healthy breakfast alternatives. Something that would sound the death knell for our good old English breakfast, and those businesses that supply its many and varied ingredients. Not least, our very own Meadow Lane Farm, for instance . . . "

"I see what you're getting at, Miss Pettipants," Hardbottom exclaimed, as he removed his helmet to scratch his head. "You’re suggesting the gentleman was poisoned with 'is corn flakes, and that Farmer Giles--"

"Yes. That is exactly what I am suggesting, Tom. Farmer Giles is a cereal killer."


Opening: Evil Editor.....Conclusion: Anonymous

New Beginning 172

"Ready to swim, Bortis?"

Bortis grinned at the figure swathed in psiscan equipment and finished shouldering the Ops room door open, trying not to drop the box overflowing his arms. He sidled in cautiously, but still clipped the door jam and barely caught the box with his knee.

Bortis tapped the door shut behind him with a heel, grinned. "Hi Harry. Ready for me to save your drowning ass?"

He plopped down his box between the command chairs; it filled the space. "Jeez, my back."

Harry made obvious eye gestures between Bortis and the box. Bort grinned, jerked a thumb at the occupant of the other chair, whose head was still swathed in the the mirrored dome of the diving rig, wires and leads jacked into the psi diver's dual skull ports. "I promised Jeno my next successful synthcat, for," he waggled his brows, "services rendered."

They both laughed. Jeno, still deep in the Web, didn't react physically, but Bortis watched Harry blink at the sudden imagery they both received from Jeno. None accurate, all embarrassing.

"I hope you don't show everyone in Ops that info, Jeno. People would believe it."

Again laughter, this time over the audio, a canned laugh from an old vid show.

Jeno extracted herself from the psi-diving rig and gave the two men a withering stare. “Remember we have to download those reports in time for the briefing.”

“Sure, Jen,” Bortis said as she left the room.

“Okay,” Harry said. “What’s really in the box?”

Bortis lifted off the blanket that was covering two large circuit boards and a vid-pod. “Here,” he said. “Patch this into the memory core while I hook up these boards.”

Harry squinted at the tiny writing on the side of the pod. “Playboy Confidential, 2213? What...?”
Bortis gave Harry a sly wink. “Who says geeks like us can’t get the hot chicks?”

Harry broke into a wide grin. “All right! Me first.”

When Harry was hooked up and ready, Bortis booted up the rig.

Harry seemed to be enjoying himself at first, but then, after a few minutes, he screamed, “No... No... No... Nooooooooo...!”

Bortis hit the emergency power down and helped Harry stagger out of the rig. “What happened?”

“You idiot,” Harry shouted. “You got the polarity wrong! I’ve just been psi-violated by a synth-Hugh Hefner.”


Opening: Writtenwyrdd.....Continuation: Anonymous

The Final Face-Lift?

There are no more query letters waiting.

Evil Editor is feeling unwanted.

Face-Lift 241

Guess the Plot

Dead Woman's Pass

1. After mild-mannered Amelia Pettipants is hit by a bus, dies, and returns as a zombie, Dallas Cowboys' scout Fierce Weeney discovers her uncanny arm strength. Now it's fourth and long in the NFC championship game. Can Pettipants hit T.O. on a post-pattern to get her team to the Super Bowl?

2. Separated from her parents during a train crash in a blizzard, twelve-year-old Samantha Bright has done everything she can to survive. Can she hold out until the St. Bernard with the hot cocoa arrives? Or will she feast on the remains of her governess?

3. Waitresses Betty Jean Pettijean and Hetty Lou Pettigrew lucked out when a pass to the opening of the new Wax Museum was found in the tip jar. But one of the exhibits looks strangely like their boss, Nettie Dawn Pettijohn.

4. Sophronia Ilkes does NOT want to be known as the Virgin Zombie. But all the zombie males have lost the urge, and most even the equipment. Is Ronie brazen enough to entice a living man to devirginate her? More to the point, is she fresh enough?

5. Village snoop Amelia Pettipants discovers the body of Lady Bulgrim stuffed into the red phone box at the end of the lane, a Eurorail Pass flattened across her nose. Both the village doctor and Miss Nasale, the French teacher, have disappeared. Will the busybody sleuth discover the murderer before the next train to Calais?

6. To escape the serial killer who's after her, Annie flees Connecticut for the safest place she can think of: Dead Woman's Pass, the highest point on the Inca Trail to Machu Pichu in the Peruvian Andes (approx.13,650 feet). But the killer is one step ahead of her.


Original Version

Dear Agent,

I am seeking representation for my 88,000-word suspense novel which takes place in Cuzco, Peru, and Connecticut’s Gold Coast. Because of your interest in suspense and women’s fiction, I think Dead Woman’s Pass will be a good fit for your agency.

A young, socially naive veterinarian lands the job of her dreams in the emergency department of the local veterinary teaching hospital. After she suffers a brutal rape, the police tell her what she can barely comprehend—her assailant is wanted in a string of murders across the South. In order to survive, she must disappear. [How is it known the killer will obsessively come after her, rather than leave the area and choose another random victim?]

Plunging her car into a swollen river on a moonless night, she buries what’s left of her life in the silt deposits of the Tennessee River. Her old life and identity are dead. Annie Elliott flees to the safest place she can think of—the sacred sanctuary of the Incas, tucked in a remote rainforest high in the Andes. [Are you kidding? That's the first place he'll look for her.] [Shouldn't she have driven her car to the airport instead of into the river? I assume she takes a plane to Peru. They're going to want to see her driver's license a few hundred times at airport security. Did she bury that part of her identity in the silt deposits?] But she doesn’t feel safe at all. [Hey, if you don't feel safe in the sacred sanctuary of the Incas, you're never gonna feel safe.]

All Rick Helms wants is a family of his own. But when his pregnant wife, Lanie, succumbs to acute leukemia just months after the wedding, that dream dies along with her. On a much-needed vacation to Cuzco—a trip that Lanie had planned before her death—Rick is forced to confront his grief. [Annie choosing to hide in Peru seemed preposterous. The death seems awfully fast. That Lanie had planned another major trip so soon after their honeymoon seems odd. And that Rick goes on the trip alone while grieving strikes me as implausible. I certainly hope nothing else far-fetched happens in the next couple lines.]

On a train high in the Peruvian Andes, their worlds collide when Annie saves Rick from gun-toting guerillas by yanking him from a moving train. Stranded miles from Cuzco, there’s nowhere to run and only one way out—an arduous trek along the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. [There should be at least two ways out: the direction the train was going, and the direction it was coming from.] Dead Woman’s Pass weaves a bittersweet tale of friendship between a man and a woman whose lives have been ripped apart—and a serial killer who will stop at nothing to fulfill his mission. [Still not sure why this is his mission. He goes from a random killing spree across the South to a single-minded hunt to the ends of the Earth for one specific person?]

I’m a Connecticut native, veterinarian and writer, with a passion for suspense novels. I’ve lived in Peru, hiked the Inca Trail, and the country and its people hold a special place in my heart. [Wait a minute. Are you saying this whole thing is autobiographical?] I am currently working on my next novel. [In it, an Ohio woman goes on one blind date and later finds she can't get rid of the nerdish guy, so she burns down her house and moves to Outer Mongolia.]

I have enclosed a synopsis for your consideration. If you’d like to see more, I’d be happy to send the completed manuscript. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,


Notes

Can't Annie go to Peru for some reason other than to escape a serial killer? Like a vacation? Then she and Rick can run from the gun-toting guerillas instead of the serial killer. What serial killer in his right mind is going to drop everything to follow someone to Machu Picchu? I realize Hannibal Lecter tracked down his warden somewhere, but that was different. He was craving a specific cut of human flesh, one that would complement his favorite Chianti.

How do you get yanked from a moving train? I mean, you're sitting on a moving train, enjoying the view of the ravines below, and suddenly gun-toting guerillas burst into your car. It looks like you're a goner--and then someone unexpectedly yanks you off the train?

No doubt you've made all of this believable in the book, but in the query it sounds forced. If this is an adventure story in which Rick and Annie become a romantic item, I'd skip the heavy stuff like the rape and the serial killer and Lanie, make Rick a bachelor, and set the whole thing in Peru. Also, change the guerillas to gorillas, and change the title to Gorillas on a Train.

New Beginning 171

Dehl picked up the glasses and plunked them into the lukewarm water of the wash barrel. Have to add a bit of hot soon, he reflected, and began rinsing the earthenware, absently rubbing his thumb and finger around the rim to remove the lip grease. Damn foul stuff those Zahorians smeared on themselves to stop lips cracking in the cold; it smelled like bile and his local customers complained that it made the ale sour if they tasted it on the mugs.

Of course, he reflected, the townsfolk always complained that his home brew was sour. But, as he was more fond of money than he disliked washing the mugs, Dehl kept them clean enough to satisfy that lot.

He eyed the line of boots upended on a spindly rack beside the fire. They gave the place an odor Dehl would have preferred to forgo, but the traderfolk insisted, and wouldn't go where they couldn't take proper care of their gear and their feet, as they put it.

Dehl put the last of the glasses on the drying rack and moved over to the stove to check on the stew. Perhaps more pepper. The Zahorians always insisted on this margwarbler meat; rich in fat to keep them warm on the tundra, but a stink like rotting flesh when it’s cooking. And the effect it has on their digestion: flatulence that could melt your eyeball right off its stalk. No wonder they say, If you want to find a Zahorian, just follow your noses.

“Is that stew ready yet?” Dehl spun around and sent a cloud of Olian pepper billowing into the air. A violent sneeze ejected great gobs of vile-smelling phlegm over the counter and into the stewpot. "Get those boots polished before my men come to!" the Zahorian ordered.

Polishing Zahorian boots and clipping their yellowed toenails wasn't what Dehl went to culinary school for, but it was a lot better than his last three jobs, and it would do until he could get off this stinking planet. Plus, all that sour ale made a good salad dressing.


Opening: Writtenwyrdd.....Continuation: ril, Kate Thornton

The Amelia Pettipants Mysteries

Miss Amelia Pettipants is ready. Ready to star in her own series of mysteries. If you'd like to contribute to her legend, you'll want to know as much about the lady as possible. Here are a few of the basics:

She's been described as nosy, plucky, persnickety, a busybody, doughty, and perky.

She's a spinster, a detective, and she does some baking.

She lives in a tiny cottage in quaint and charming Boring-on-End.

For the full bio, click here. Note that there is also a link to Miss Pettipant's bio in the sidebar. Visit the bio page to see how you can contribute to the legend that is Amelia Pettipants.

Things that drive EE crazy

Thanks for the new thread on your blog. The other stuff was getting boring and this new stuff is just hysterical.


Scrap this entire idea. This is a good blog, I hope you don't ruin it with this folly.

Face-Lift 240

Guess the Plot

Personal Demons

1. In a world of witchcraft, zombies, and therapy clinics run by soul-sucking creatures, a psychic therapist's life is in the hands of three demons named Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud.

2. In an attempt to distinguish their store from all the rest, a Fifth Avenue boutique does away with personal shoppers and brings in Personal Demons. Hilarity ensues when the evil ones try to coordinate Dolce and Gabbano.

3. Becoming a demon master wasn't on the agenda for bridge night, but it's in the cards when intrepid Amelia Pettipants finds a gateway to Hell burgeoning in her basement. Will the bridge mix hold up to the heat?

4. Tom McClintock is put in a bad situation when his personals ad is accidentally truncated and his invitation to enjoy a "personal demonstration" draws interest from more than just the girls.

5. Janet Jones has given up cigarettes, beer, overeating, overspending, fast driving, worthless boyfriends, loud music, skimpy outfits, and blue eyeshadow, but can she surrender the ultimate demon--her cell phone?

6. Seeing a niche with self-serving baby boomers, Satan secretly modifies thousands of laptop computers by adding chips that disable the consciences of their users. Also, a rodeo clown!


Original Version

Dear Agent Wonderful,

PERSONAL DEMONS is a sexy urban fantasy novel. It is approximately 94,000 words long.

Therapist Megan Chase keeps her psychic abilities secret, but finds they come in handy in her work. When she's offered a job as host of her own radio show, Personal Demons, she's pleased to help people who never would have been able to become her patients before.

But her radio program puts Megan's life in serious danger. Personal demons really exist, and they believe the show's "slay your demons" concept is a threat. They plan to kill her, but not before terrorizing her a little first for fun. Knowing this, a mysterious man— [Mysterious man? Is this the mysterious man who lives on Miss Pettipants's street?] who is either a vicious demon, the hero Megan's been waiting for all her life, or possibly both—steps in. He wants to help her, but gaining the use of her powers in order to take over his demon "family" is a bonus he's counting on, too. Aside from trying his hardest to spend the night, he assigns her three demon bodyguards—Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud, all of whom have a little trouble adjusting to this 'helping people' gig. On top of it all, the publicity has put her practice in jeopardy, [The publicity of having a radio show? Why, her practice should have tripled in size.] and she's being shadowed by a reporter with psychic abilities of his own— [Is there anyone in this book who doesn't belong in the X-Men?] and a very strong conviction that Megan is flirting with the wrong side of the Good vs. Evil battle. His questions force Megan to re-examine a tragedy she thought she left in her past—the death of a homeless man, who Megan was wrongfully suspected of murdering.

As Megan discovers a world she never knew existed—a world of demons who really sit on people's shoulders and convince them to do bad things, a world of witchcraft, zombies, [Zombies! Send me the complete manuscript, FedEx overnight.] and therapy clinics run by soul-sucking creatures of unspeakable evil, [She's psychic. Shouldn't she have known at least some of these things existed? Zombies and demons all around her, and she's using her powers to guess whether some card has a cross or wavy lines on it.] she must face not only the threat to her life but some of her own personal demons. Maybe those radio paychecks aren't big enough, after all.

PERSONAL DEMONS is a stand-alone novel, but I do have ideas for several more books using these characters [, especially Spud, who I see breaking out with his own self-help series and a cookbook,] and different characters in this universe. Under my pen name, [redacted], I've published three erotic romance short stories [Send me those, too. We don't publish them, but I need to get a handle on your body. Of work.] and a soon-to-be-released novel with [small publisher]. Another novel, a historical romance, was released by [medium publisher] and I recently sold an erotic romance novel to [fairly big publisher], as well.

Sincerely,


Revised Version

Dear Agent Wonderful,

PERSONAL DEMONS is a sexy urban fantasy novel. It is approximately 94,000 words long.

Therapist Megan Chase hosts a radio call-in show called Personal Demons, helping people who otherwise could never be her patients. But when it turns out that personal demons actually exist, and that they see the program's "slay your demons" catchphrase as a threat, Megan's life is suddenly in danger.

But Megan has a protector, a mysterious man who just might be the hero she's been waiting for all her life. He assigns her three klutzy demon bodyguards—Malleus, Maleficarum, and Spud—all of whom have trouble adjusting to their "helping people" gig. Megan isn't sure she'll survive their kind of help. And making matters worse, she begins to suspect that her hero may have his own self-serving motives for coming to her aid.

As Megan discovers a world she never knew existed—a world in which demons really sit on people's shoulders and convince them to lie, cheat and steal, she must deal with the threat to her life, with a reporter who insists on delving into her past, and with a few of her own personal demons. Maybe those radio paychecks aren't worth the price she's paying, after all.

PERSONAL DEMONS is a stand-alone novel, but I'm planning additional books using many of the same characters. Under my pen name, [redacted], I've published ________, a historical romance ([medium publisher]), and have sold two as-yet-unpublished novels to [fairly big publisher] and [small publisher]. Thank you.

Sincerely,


Notes

There were a few awkward sentences I was going to attempt to fix, but eliminating them was easier.

While I'm sure it's perfectly logical in the book that Megan is suspected of murdering a homeless guy, it seems far-fetched in the query, and it seemed to be out on an island by itself anyway. I also didn't see the need to bring up psychic powers. An editor might want to believe there's someone normal in the book. Of course the toughest decision was taking out the zombies. It killed me to take out the zombies. Are you sure there are zombies in the book? You didn't just throw them into the query to make Evil Editor happy?

Petti_____ Part 2

I emailed Michael Mallory, author of the Amelia Pettigrew (Watson) mysteries, which have been published over a period of at least six years to ascertain whether he would be bothered by the minions producing Amelia Pettipants stories. His response:

Dear Evil:

From Kate's and your description of the character, she doesn't sound much like my Amelia (mine, for instance, is not a spinster; in fact, her original "hook" was the identity of her spouse), and I don't have a copyright on the name "Amelia," so I don't see a problem. (For the record, I took the name from an old television film, "There's Something About Amelia.") You may, however, want to be aware of the Elizabeth Peters (Barbara Michaels) character "Amelia Peabody," since she is much more visible in the marketplace.

Best,
M2


And, as reported by Kate, Mr. Mallory has publicly bragged about having inspired Amelia Pettipants. I believe we're cleared for takeoff, and I hope anyone who was previously concerned will now join the fun.

Map

New Beginning 170

When they pulled into Leroy’s driveway, Ritchie knew something was wrong. Leroy’s flimsy screen door was banging in the light breeze. “Looks like someone’s been here ahead of us.” Ritchie jumped out of the truck and helped Quepnal from the passenger side. They sprinted to the front door.

Ritchie looked into the dark carport and saw Leroy’s old Chevy pick-up parked there like a silent ghost. “Leroy?” he called out.

Quepnal pushed the screen aside and turned the handle to the front door. It opened immediately. Ritchie flipped the switch to the hall overhead. A trail of blood led from the entry to the family room. Ritchie followed it into the kitchen, Quepnal behind him.

Ritchie saw the signs of a struggle--chairs overturned, plates broken. A small pool of fresh blood gleamed on the white tile floor.

"Big John," Quepnal whispered, his eyes wide. He pointed behind the table, where Leroy's contorted, lifeless body lay.

Richie closed his eyes. He didn't know which was worse: finding Leroy dead and naked in a pool of blood, or finally learning why Quepnal had given him that nickname.


Opening: ILS.....Continuation: acd

Face-Lift 239

Guess the Plot

Snake & Freaky John Kick Ass

1. After many close calls and hare-brained escapades as they ride the rails from Boston to Los Angeles, Snake and Freaky John win the National Hobo Poetry contest.

2. Snake and Freaky John are cowboys lost in Death Valley with a bag of gold and one surviving steed: Harold, the talking donkey. Can these three amigos read the map and make it to Reno?

3. Snake & Freaky John Kick Ass . . . at preaching the Gospel! Follow the adventures of Preacher "Freaky John" James and the snake from the Garden of Eden in this collection of updated Bible stories for a new generation.

4. Snake and Freaky John, tech-geeky high school seniors, use their science project time machine to go into the future to steal exam papers, selling the questions to cashed-up students while rote learning the best answers. They graduate top of the class, with enough cash to spend on the wildest post-exam party anyone has ever seen.

5. Snake works in the butterfly-raising business, and Freaky John is trying to get into law school. Together these pot-smoking hippies from Hoboken team up to take on a ring of Manhattan art thieves.

6. Snake is an all time loser who gets nothing but contempt from those around him. Freaky John claims he lost his left leg in a shark attack in Buffalo. A mad struggle for superiority ensues when they both sign up for the National Ass Kicking Championships.


Original Version

Dear Prospective Literary Agent:

Snake Rivers and Jonathan "Freaky John" Frekenberg are two guys in their mid-thirties who smoke an awful lot of pot. [The name Freaky John Frekenberg is suspiciously close to Fat Freddy Freekowtski, one of the pot-smoking Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers from the underground comics.] Snake lives with his brother, helping out with the family butterfly business in lieu of rent,

[Brother: Rent's due, Snake.
Snake: I'm a little short.
Brother: Again? Okay, how about misting the chrysalises.
Snake: Is that what those were? I ate 'em all. Munchies.]

and Freaky John has spent the last several years trying to get his act together and go back to law school.

[Admissions Officer: We expelled you from law school because you were were constantly high and never showed up for class. Now you stand before me with a plastic bag of marijuana hanging out of your pocket, reeking of smoke, bloodshot eyes--
Freaky John: Excuse me, are you gonna eat that last doughnut?]

They've been friends since kindergarten and still reside in the same neighborhood where they grew up. Freak's neighbor, Margaret Milton, is the assistant director of a prominent gallery in Manhattan, and while they're all good friends, [Nothing improves your standing in the fine art community like maintaining friendships with a couple unemployed stoners.] Margaret has a secret or two up her sleeve.

One night, Snake and Freaky John are kicking back and smoking when they see Margaret on the news. It turns out she's been framed for an art theft at the gallery where she works, and she's lost her job.

[Katie Couric: Turning to national news, Margaret Milton has lost her job in a small Manhattan art gallery.
Viewer: Is it just me, or has the evening news lost its edge since Katie took over as anchor?]

In the course of trying to help her restore her good name and find new employment, the guys find themselves drinking poisoned wine, [I'm happy to do whatever it takes to help a friend find a job, within reason, but drinking poison is asking a bit much.] confronting ex-girlfriends, resisting a cartoonist's attempt at brainwashing, being doused with a fire extinguisher and getting into a screaming match with a psychotic art dealer. Meanwhile, the elderly neighbor Freak cares for is quickly deteriorating into senility, and Snake's supposed to help Margaret get a new job — which would be easier if [he hadn't been poisoned and] Margaret weren't disappearing at odd hours for meetings with a certain undisclosed someone. To top it all off, there are seven crates of stolen "watches" hidden away in the garage at Snake's brother's butterfly farm. [I don't care about the "watches." If you're going to "top it all off," top it off with hot fudge and a cherry, not a piece of melba toast.] Sure, everything's going to hell in a handbasket, but that's the natural state of the universe, man, and Snake and Freaky John are here to kick some ass and save the day.

As you've probably guessed, I'm seeking representation for Snake & Freaky John Kick Ass, a 75,000-word comedic novel set in Manhattan and Hoboken, New Jersey. Enclosed are a one-page synopsis of the manuscript and the first four chapters for your review, as well as a SASE. [Your query letter is longer than your synopsis. Whether it's longer than your first four chapters remains to be seen.]

The characters were developed in a series of flash fictions written over the last two and a half years [Two and a half years? I'm not sure you've grasped the concept of "flash" fiction.] during the course of my previous writing project. Afterward, I liked Snake and Freaky John so much that they got their own novel. [You're aware that they aren't real people, right? Just checking.] As mentioned above, the book's plot involves Snake and Freak [Yes, I believe that's been made clear.] and their involvement in the lives of all the people they care about: family, friends and neighbors alike. When they find out Margaret's in trouble, the guys do their best to help. [Rehashing what's been said previously doesn't help the cause.] On realizing that elderly Mr. Hersch may have Alzheimer's, they try to help him keep his life on track. When Mr. Hersch's daughter reveals her husband's infidelity, they're on hand with caring advice. Snake and Freaky John aren't always effectual (or even coherent), but they give a shit, and that's more than you can say for most people.

While there is (considerable) drug use [by the characters, and especially by the author,] and drug humor, this is not Cheech & Chong. [For it also has drug pathos.] [Suddenly "Cheech" and "Chong" sound like normal names.] Snake and Freaky John live in a world where there are real-life responsibilities and consequences for their actions. They have a lot of fun, but life doesn't always turn out in a satisfactory way. In fact, sometimes life just sucks. Still, with good friends and the right attitude, Snake and Freaky John manage to come out on top. [You're rambling. Go eat a chocolate cake and a bag of corn chips.] Maybe they're not the kind of people you'd want to meet in a dark alley, but they're absolutely the kind of friends you'd want to watch your back.

I look forward to your response.


Notes

If there's anything in the last two long paragraphs you feel must be in the query, work it into the earlier paragraphs. Most of it is repetitive or boring or unimportant in the big picture.

A minor character who's always high can add comic relief, but when it's your main characters, I fear it will become tiresome to many readers. I could be wrong, of course.

Q & A 93

I received my copies of NOVEL DEVIATIONS today. The story pieces (made-up of beginnings and continuations) are so funny all in one book!

Okay, that wasn't a question, but it could have been. It could have said, Why do the story pieces seem so much funnier when collected into a book?

It could have said, How did you manage to get this book out in three months, when other publishers take two years to put out a book, and their books aren't even funny?

It could have said, Hey, how come you spelled my name wrong?

New Beginning 169

A warm rain is pounding on the cobblestones when the mulecar stops in The Balfun's Square. Shipman steps off the footboard, while wagons and horse carriages rattle past on steel-rimmed wheels. He hurries to the sheltered sidewalk at the edge of the square. A hand-painted sign, dimly lit against the overcast by a pair of covered gas lanterns, displays a license number and the image of a bright blue door standing ajar to reveal a pastoral landscape.

Shipman recognizes the sign. By local standards, the tavern looks from the sidewalk to be clean and well-kept, but he thinks the local standards are downright medieval. He fully expects to find the bartender wearing an eyepatch and speaking in a bizarre and incomprehensible pidgin-- and not just for dramatic effect.

Inside, Shipman finds the tavern as he expected: a rough-hewn place, full of the smells of fieldwork. The men are in good humor though, swigging from giant tankards as they laugh and sing.

Shipman strides forward and gains the attention of the barkeep. “A pint of your most popular ale, if you please,” he says.

The barkeep fills a tankard and presents it to Shipman. “This is our finest. We brew it ourselves.”

Shipman takes a draft, and immediately sprays the mouthful across the bar. “Good God, man,” he exclaims. “Do you brew this? Or do you merely cask it directly from the piss-tubes of those mules outside?”

The tavern falls silent. Turning toward a hulking beast of a man who has just walked up from the cellar, a firkin hefted under each arm, the barkeep says, “There’s a gentleman ’ere would like a word with you, Mr. Budweiser.”


Opening: j h woodyatt.....Continuation: Anonymous

Face-Lift 238

Guess the Plot

Oak and Stone

1. The Vicar's wife's interpretation of doughty spinster Amelia Pettipants' cake recipe stresses natural ingredients. But will the plucky sleuth be blamed for gastric distress or will she explain her cake is supposed to be heavy?

2. When you're busy fighting crime in Boring-on-End, you don't have time to perfect your baking. But Miss Amelia Pettipants is bound and determined to find out who is calling her "oaten scones" by a different name.

3. In this Socratic dialogue between an oak tree and a large rock, the main characters discuss the nature of man and his effects on the environment.

4. Noah and his brother Hirschel can never agree on anything -- not a good thing when the boatbuilders are in financial straits. One ark of oak, the other of stone, and control of the family business is riding on the flotation test.

5. Hot times are had by all when Lord Dinford starts working with Dame Katherine to update Lingus Castle -- until they remove a cracked wall, revealing the secret passage to the hidden chamber where the vampire dwells.

6. Spared from a massacre, a young man travels the world inspiring people to throw off the shackles of oppression and fight for freedom. Also, a mysterious archer.


Original Version

Dear­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ Evil Editor

I read on your website that your company represents authors in the fantasy genre, and I thought my book might appeal to you. I am seeking representation for my completed novel, "Oak and Stone", a 186,000-word fantasy adventure [in which an elf and a fairy play "Oak and Stone," a simplified version of Rock, Paper, Scissors, in which stone beats oak.] [How can a game of Oak and Stone last 186,000 pages? Easy. The elf and the fairy both keep going with stone.

Excerpt from Chapter 94

Kookah the elf decided to try a different strategy. "Look, he said, we've had three thousand consecutive ties with stone. Just for a little variety, how about we both go with oak?"

"Why not?" Hex Gobfilter agreed. "My hand is tired of making stones."

Kookah called, "One, two, three, go," and they both threw . . . stone.


Excerpt from Chapter 402

After 20,000 ties Kookah had finally grown tired of the game. Screw this, he thought, I'll throw oak, just to get it over with. Then I can go find that cute smurf I met at the lawn dart game.

"One, two, three, go!" he said, and formed the oak. But the fairy, Hex Gobfilter, had had the same idea, and they tied again. They laughed uncontrollably for several minutes. Then they resumed the game, both choosing stone 2000 times in a row.]

Tam's untroubled life with the merchant caravans ends in a bloody glen when invading warriors massacre his company. [I hate to tell you this, but you're one sentence into your plot and I already find myself wanting to get back to Kookah and Hex Gobfilter.]

[Excerpt from Chapter 541

"I think I see the problem," Kookah said. "We need something that beats stone."

"How about oak?" Hex Gobfilter suggested.

"Perfect," Kookah said, after which they both threw oak 3000 times.]

Saved from the slaughter by a mysterious archer, Tam travels a besieged land, clinging to hope he'll find some peace or refuge. But instead, he collides with the brutal [eunuchs of the Gohr prison planet Lycus IV, and must contend with the] realities of the conquerors' unjust rule. [Did you see how much more compelling that sentence became when I added a few pieces of specific information?] Thus follows the tale of a seemingly ordinary young man who inspires ordinary people to rise together in a desperate fight for freedom. In so doing, he stirs forgotten powers rooted in his kinship to the centuries-dead High Kings: powers linked to the very land he walks. In the final confrontation with their oppressors, king and country hang in the balance as Tam faces the price of his legacy: an ancient duty to defend his people at all costs - for a victory he may not live to see. [Those last three sentences are pretty general. I have to guess what they mean.] [Is the "ancient duty" his legacy, or the price of his legacy?]

I have been writing for over ten years, but this is my first novel for publication. [Actually, judging by its length, I'd say it's your first two or three novels for publication.] I am well along with a second, unrelated fantasy novel, as well as pursuing shorter projects. Previously I have had non-fiction articles published in genealogical newsletters, and two short stories and a handful of poems in small publications. [Your credits are no more specific than your plot summary.] I am a horsewoman, [AKA a female centaur.] border collie trainer, and self-taught longbow archer residing in rural northern Nevada. [Aren't all longbow archers self-taught? Or are there people who make their living teaching longbow archery? That's it, now pull back the arrow and . . . Release!]

Would you like to see "Oak and Stone"? Per your website instructions, I am enclosing a synopsis for your perusal, and I have included an SASE for your convenience. This is a multiple submission, but I will of course give you exclusive reading should you request further material. Thank you for the opportunity to submit my work to you. I look forward to your response. [Get rid of two or three of these sentences. The query is over; no need to prolong it ad nauseum.]

Respectfully,


Notes

Shortening the last two paragraphs would add space to make the plot more specific. Where does this take place? When? Who are the oppressors? How do the good guys plan to defeat them? Is the archer Tam's partner throughout, or does he vanish after saving him?

New Beginning 168

I had been invisible for nearly forty minutes and I was in pretty bad shape. My hands were shaking. I was starving and parched. My back hurt from trying to sit still but I couldn’t risk shifting position because the receptionist had returned and was sitting about five feet away and she would have heard the chair creaking under my weight. I probably shouldn’t have sat down in the first place but when I finally got to the General’s door and found it locked, I wasn’t sure what else to do but wait and hope he’d be back soon.

Worst of all, I was sweating copiously, my naked body slick with unseen droplets, and I think maybe she could smell me. Every now and then she seemed to wrinkle her nose and glance around the room, at the trash can near the hallway door and the potted plant in the corner, before returning her attention to the document displayed on her computer screen.

I tried to keep my breathing shallow. Other than the tapping of her keyboard and the hum of the PC fan, the room was quiet, and the slightest noise could draw attention to me. After a couple of minutes, the intercom on the receptionist’s desk buzzed, and a sharp click introduced the General’s voice. “Is the Marseille report ready yet?” So . . . he'd been there all along.

“Almost done," the receptionist replied. "I’ll have it to you in five minutes.” She paused for a moment. “By the way, there’s someone waiting to see you.” I looked around the room with a rising feeling of panic.

“Oh,” the General’s reply came back over the speaker. “Is it Private Smallcox?”

The receptionist looked directly at me, her gaze running up and down my body. “Yes,” she replied, “I would say it is.”

I crossed my legs, vowing to have words with the guy who sold me the invisibility spray.


Opening: Joe Mosher.....Continuation: ril

Face-Lift 237

Guess the Plot

Broken Wing

1. A starling fractures a wing after crashing into a three-volume directory of overused metaphors.

2. Born with a withered and deformed left arm, his Hopi family named him Broken Wing. Broken Wing embarks on the shaman's journey, and discovers an ancient prophecy in the ancestral cave that suggests he might be the savior of the Seven Tribes.

3. In spite of his wooden leg, Handand Glover is determined to be a better tapdancer than his brother. Can his signature move, the Broken Wing, replace the old buck and wing?

4. The Winged Victory of Samothrace has once again been vandalized. Can religious symbology expert Dr. Robert Longwun stop the insanity before the vandal takes a crack at all the Rolls Royce radiators?

5. Stunt pilot and suffragette Fanny Blossom borrowed Colonel P. T. Bogey's bi-plane for the Village Air Show while he was on a trekking vacation in the Highlands. Now the plane and the girl are missing. Can perky spinster Amelia Pettipants find them before Colonel Bogey's march ends?

6. Raised in a brothel, Gabriel is fluent in sex, but knows nothing of love. When he takes a young boy under his wing, who will teach whom what?


Original Version

Dear Evil Editor:

I would like to submit my manuscript Broken Wing for your consideration.

Broken Wing is a single title 100,000 word mainstream historical, with strong romantic and sensual elements. Gritty and edgy in tone, it deals with serious, at times intense psychological themes involving the developing relationship between a man who has suffered from childhood abuse and battlefield trauma, and the woman who loves him. It may appeal to readers of adventure, historical fiction, and romance readers who enjoy the kind of stories told by Laura Kinsale, Anne Stuart, Laura Leone, and Mary Jo Putney.

Gabriel St Croix was abandoned as a child and raised in a brothel. [Why don't things like that ever happen to Evil Editor? I was raised in a swamp by two gay otters.] Having never known tenderness, friendship, or affection, he is fluent in sex, but knows nothing of love. [A house full of women, and none of them gives the kid any affection or friendship? I don't think so. I have enough experience to know that most prostitutes have hearts of gold . . . experience I gained watching movies, that is.] His only relationship is with a young boy [Uh oh.] he’s spent the last five years protecting. [Not crazy about declaring Gabriel fluent in sex, and then saying his only relationship is with a young boy.] All that is about to change, the boy’s family have found him and are coming to take him home. [When did they find him, and why didn't they take him home then?] Sarah Munroe blames herself for her brother’s disappearance. When he is found, safe and unharmed, she vows to help the man that rescued and protected him in anyway [any way]she can. Sarah helps Gabriel face his demons, and teaches him to trust in friendship and in love, [While he teaches her to be fluent in sex.] but when the past catches up with him, he must face it on his own. [Explain.]

In a story of love and hate, healing and redemption, Gabriel will become a mercenary, a pirate, and a professional gambler[, a pawn, and a king]. He will travel to London, France, and the Barbary Coast, to find Sarah again, and all he knows of love. On the way, he will discover that the most dangerous journey, and the greatest gamble of all, is within the darkest reaches of his own heart.

I am a member of the RWA and the RWAC, a history buff, and hold a graduate degree in psychology. I am including the manuscript and synopsis as per your submission guidelines. Thank you for your time. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely


Revised Version

I would like to submit my manuscript Broken Wing for your consideration.

Broken Wing is a single-title 100,000-word mainstream historical, involving the developing relationship between a man who has suffered from childhood abuse and battlefield trauma, and the woman who loves him. It should appeal to readers of adventure, historical fiction, and romance.

Abandoned as a child and raised in a brothel, Gabriel St. Croix has never known friendship or affection or love. His only relationship is with a lost young boy he’s taken under his wing. All that is about to change, however; the boy’s family have learned where he is, and are coming to take him home.

Sarah Munroe blames herself for her brother’s disappearance. When he is found, safe and unharmed, she determines to help the man who protected him. Sarah does help Gabriel to face his demons; but can she also teach him to trust in her friendship and in love? In a story of healing and redemption, Gabriel will take his most dangerous journey within the darkest reaches of his own heart.

I am a member of the RWA and the RWAC, a history buff, and hold a graduate degree in psychology. I am including the manuscript and synopsis as per your submission guidelines. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,


Notes

There should be something in there about Gabriel's age. Is he nineteen? Forty?

Also, a historical novel's setting and time period would seem to be worth mentioning. We know three places Gabriel travels to, but not where he starts out. We know he suffers from battlefield trauma, but was that from the Napoleonic Wars? The Civil War?

Does the young boy have a name?

In short, more specificity please. Using the revised verson, but naming the boy, saying he was raised in a New Orleans brothel, mentioning some war to give a time period will improve it without adding much length.

New Beginning 167

Tira closed her eyes and let the stings of the rising, tittering crowd flow away over the gold leaf that surrounded her. Lifting her head and hands from the corrected lace ribbons running through Tsibi’s hair, she looked to see what had set the selection day crowd aloft.

It was easy to find the girl. The golden fabric of a Feernon was rolled up so that it dangled mere inches below the teeth in which she clinched it. Tira watched her, hoping to see her body shaking, hoping to see that she was a girl taking a risk for her family. But the young one’s utter calm betrayed the fact that she believed. She was here to reveal the greatness of Lord Karil, who was now raising his crossbow towards her, whose perfect hands could never miss.

It had not been long since the wide-hipped blonde had muffled a scream when her outstretched arm was pierced by Gandim near the wrist, but this time it was only the outsiders who gave a cry when the shaft landed in the girl’s throat. Was death intended to be like this?


Question 34.

This question is worth 50 points and tests your reading comprehension. Answer each section as fully as possible, and support your answers.

a. What does the description of one of the women as a “wide-hipped blonde” tell us about the status of, and attitude toward, the female gender in the society depicted in this passage? (10 pts.)

b. Who would win an archery contest between Lord Karil and Robin Hood? (10 pts.)

c. Was death intended to be like this? Discuss. (20 pts.)

d. Describe and provide five uses of a Feernon. (10 pts.)


Opening: Pacatrue.....Continuation: ril

Face-Lift 236

Guess the Plot

Wind Weaver

1. The new boutique in town, Zephyrus, has made a big hit with clothes that are lighter than air. But when her best friend is blown off a cliff by her new skirt, Ariadne sets out to find the source of the fabric--and discovers a secret that will rock the climatology community to its core.

2. Bubba Herman and five of his buddies have been booted from the varsity football team for too much partying. But will the school principal let them on the field at half-time during the big game to demonstrate their precision farting routine?

3. A sentient pirate ship named Wind Weaver sails through enemy territory, desperately searching for a new captain.

4. A shocking exposé of the appalling conditions in the textile mill where the fabric for the emperor's new clothes is manufactured, narrated by an seven-year-old thread cutting gnome named Smick.

5. Colonel Huffelrump's insatiable appetite for spicy curry has led to digestive problems, but it's his daughter, Lady Martita Gasbag, who is found in poisoned gastric distress. Before expiring, she leaves a cryptic clue. The air is thick with suspicion and it is up to nosy spinster Amelia Pettipants to sniff out the culprit.

6. A bashful seamstress eats one too many helpings of bean-kabob at lunch. When she returns to her loom on the factory floor, flatulent hilarity ensues! Also, a farting dragon!


Original Version

Dear Mr Evil,

Wind Weaver is a Fantasy novel, complete at 120,000 words.

Sentient pirate ship Wind Weaver delights in chasing down her prey, but when Captain Grace Hallery dies, the Weaver must run a different race -- to find Grace's only surviving son before the ship fades and dies.

A sentient ship fades within weeks of losing its captain, and only a close blood relative will serve as a replacement. The Weaver must risk a voyage through enemy territory [Isn't everywhere enemy territory when you're a pirate?] to find the baby abandoned fifteen years before. Nobody on board knows his name, or what happened to him, yet the Weaver is adamant they will be reunited. [So, your main character is . . . a boat? After it figures out where the kid is, does it send a sentient rickshaw to pick him up and bring him down to the docks?]

Nate is a fifteen year old servant boy on the run. Caught between smugglers out to kill him, and an elfman who might eat him and whose round-eyed mate claims his ship talks, Nate chooses the less immediate threat. [Less immediate because the elfman marinates you overnight before killing you.]

Which is how Nate finds himself captain of an opinionated pirate ship, [I see the ship as a combination of Foghorn Leghorn and Krusty the Clown: "Swab, Ah say swab my decks, boys, and someone get those barnacles off my aft, they're killing me. Oy."] manned by a crew that doesn't care for him. Satyrical first mate Henry resents a boy usurping the command that should be his. When an accident strands Nate onshore, his beloved Weaver is forced up the coast, and beached. ["Get, Ah say get me off this reef before Ah get tubeworms! Hello? Have any of you schmucks ever even heard of biofouling? Oy, it's the crew from hell."] Separated from her captain, she will soon fade, and Henry can claim her wooden carcass for his own. [Not clear what "fades" means. Becomes transparent? Vanishes? What does the carcass consist of? Does Henry know there'll be nothing left but a carcass if he takes over?] Those still faithful to the Weaver need to reunite her with Nate before she dies. [Ah, Ah say, Ah'm fading. Where's that shmegegi of an elfman with my new captain? You can't get good help nowadays, even when you threaten to keelhaul 'em."] Then all Nate has to do is confront the man he fears most, and win over the ship and the rest of her crew.

I am a editor and slush reader for ---------- Magazine, and I've had a couple of short stories published in science fiction and fantasy magazines. In writing Wind Weaver, I have drawn on some of the experience I've gained while crewing on the [sentient] brig ---------.

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

Yours sincerely,


Notes

It's clearly written, and I suspect those who can accept a talking pirate ship will want to check it out. Though it seems a bit long for a book about a talking pirate ship.

Wind Weaver is a decent name for a ship, but calling it The Weaver isn't so impressive. I doubt the crews of the Golden Hind and the Titanic referred to their ships as the hind and the tit.

New Beginning 166

The firelight flickered in the eyes of the tall, lean man as watched the faces of his two associates. They shivered in the evening chill and stared as the flames danced hypnotically, sending their shadows into frenzied convulsions among the twisted oaks.

Raymond, a lanky man with stringy blond hair and hollow cheeks, looked across the fire. “So, Silver, when do we go after the treasure? It’s getting late. Shouldn’t we be getting started?”

The tall one, Silver, met his gaze. He was looking for something in Raymond’s eyes. Something he’d seen earlier, in the daylight.

“Soon,” he said. Long black hair framed his face, and his deep-set eyes revealed nothing.

He scanned the perimeter of the small clearing but the darkness was impervious to the firelight and hung like a black curtain just beyond the first line of trees. The forest felt alive but completely still, as if resting or lying in wait, and the droning cicadas provided a phonic pulse. A pocket of sap in one of the logs popped suddenly and the two men flinched.

“I don’t see what’s the point of just sitting around...” Raymond stared at the flames, holding back his irritation. There it was again, just as Silver had seen it before. A thirst for adventure, a hunger; but also a hollow emptiness, a tragic void.

“All in good time. We have a long journey ahead, but I assure you, you’ll find tonight’s quest very rewarding.” Silver glanced at the other man, who smiled enigmatically. “But first . . . we must understand what brought us here--”

“Whoa...” Raymond held up a hand. Something else flickered across his eyes: a sudden realization. “There . . . ain’t any real treasure is there? It’s, like, metaphorical? We’re just gonna sit round this fire all night talking?!” Raymond flung his arms out in despair. “Crap. I shoulda known. This is literary, isn’t it?”


Opening: Grasshopper.....Continuation: ril

About those Books

Some of you will receive copies of Novel Deviations in the next day or two. Here are a few answers to questions you may have.

In the front of the book, it says copyright 2007. Although the odds are against it, it's possible the book could get reviewed in some magazine--but the big-name reviewers want the book at least three months before it hits the bookstores. So this book has an official publication date of March 2007. It won't be available in bookstores until then. I've made it available on the blog so the authors could get copies in advance of the publication date (and in advance of the holidays). If a few other people have taken advantage of this, so be it.

If the only pieces you care about are your own, you'll find a list of contributors in the back, along with the story numbers to which each contributed. It might even be fairly accurate.

The order in which the pieces appear is not indicative of anything. I divided them into groups of ten, and put a few of my favorites into each group. My favorites may not be yours, however.

If you haven't ordered a copy, you may be wondering what you get that isn't available on the blog. Not much. Two opening authors didn't want their pieces used, but were kind enough to allow Evil Editor to massively edit them, maintaining the tone and content but not the words. Three continuations were replaced with better ones, but in one or two of these, the replacement was made on the blog as well. Several of the earlier New Beginnings didn't have continuations, but now do, and some of those made the book. And there's a brief introduction. In short, the main advantage of the book is not extra material, but the convenience of not having to scroll through eight months of posts to read the better New Beginnings. Or as a gift for those who read books but not blogs. I do think that for those who "get it," this is one of the funnier books you'll read.

Face-Lift 235

Guess the Plot

Semi-Sentient Soap Scum on the Prowl

1. With the cancellation of If I Did It, O.J. Simpson's ghostwriter comes forward to tell his own story.

2. A pharmaceutical genius tries to turn millions of men with hair loss problems into zombies with his brain-sucking Rogaine shampoo.

3. Investigating an attempt on his life, an overworked--but very clean--private eye is drawn into political intrigue when a spacewoman crashes to Earth.

4. At the 2007 Housewares Show, Mike Hawker demonstrates the latest in dishwashing technology: nano soap! But things get out of hand when an unsuspecting book editor, mistaking it for popcorn, swallows a whole bag.

5. When Marge Norge bought her long-abandoned mid-century modern House of the Future, she envisioned a Jetsons life, with herself as Jane in an apron. But the Kitchen of the Future has other plans.

6. Persnickety spinster Amelia Pettipants returns to Boring-on-End to discover her tiny cottage in a mess. Partridge, her char, has disappeared, leaving only a dirty mop bucket as a cryptic message. Can the busybody sleuth find her maid before the Vicar's visit? Or will dust and spotty teacups once again spell murder?


Original Version

Attention Evil Editor:

For Marlowe, an over-worked and oft worked over private eye, resurrection is just the start of another long day where nothing can be taken for granted. Not the bar of soap that just murdered him, not the vacuous-looking dog on the corner that has attained a ranking of chess Grandmaster, [As nothing can be taken for granted, could you clarify whether it's the dog or the corner that's a Grandmaster?] and certainly not the flock of colorful birds that control the city's largest crime syndicate. [This should be a cartoon. The crime boss will be a bird who talks like Edward G. Robinson. Get it? ROBINson.] In the dark streets, underground lairs, and seedy salons of a city rebelling against the tyranny of gravity, Marlowe has his work cut out for him. He has to track down the homicidal soap that killed him so he can find out who hired it and why, [Whom do you ask whether they've seen any suspicious-looking soap? A snitch washcloth?] all while being dragged into the political intrigue that erupts when a spacewoman crashes to earth smack dab in the middle of his investigation.

Semi-Sentient Soap Scum on the Prowl is a 98,000 word novel set in the near future of an alternate reality. [When you're in an alternate reality, how do you know whether it's the past, present or future?] In Marlowe's world, the unbelievable is true, the believable a deception, [So if Marlowe doesn't believe soap murdered him, it did, but if he believes soap murdered him, it's a deception. It sounds like one of those logic riddles where one person always lies and the other person always tells the truth and you have to think of a question to ask that will reveal which is which.] and the absurd commonplace. It is a dark noir science fiction novel with humor in the vein of Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series [It, too, has an amusing title. Any other similarities should be left to the reader to discover.] and Isidore Haiblum's Tom Dunjer novels.

Thank you for your time. If you are interested, I would be happy to send my manuscript for your consideration. I have enclosed an S.A.S.E. for your convenience.


Notes

The dog and birds are examples of the world's absurdity, but their role in the plot, if any, isn't made clear. I'm sure there's more here than a series of absurdities. Tell us what happens in the book. All we have for plot is the last sentence of the first paragraph.

New Beginning 165

Joey Suzuki spent the three weeks after she learned she was dead in detention. They kept her in a small, heavily reinforced room, only hauling her out for tests every other day or so. She spent very little time thinking about the revelation of her untimely demise, instead thinking through methods of escape. She didn't try to escape. She was fairly certain that wouldn't work. Her captors had never bothered to hide the security they had in plain sight, but she had no recollection of arriving at the place, so she didn't know the way out.

Since she felt none of the every day vibrations or heard none of the city sounds she had been accustomed to she felt certain that she was no where near civilization. She imagined there was something terrible cliché about that.

Joey spent some of her time pondering her rights. She took for granted that her captors had more than just a body with her fingerprints to prove she was dead. And if the body was hers, then who was she? She thought she was Josephine Izumi Suzuki, part time blogger, full time web comic artist. Nothing about her sense of self suggested otherwise, so she couldn't imagine that there was some other identity hiding beneath a façade.


It would have been too much of a shock, so Jeanie and Dale Krebnitz didn't inform Joey Suzuki that she was really Josephine Spruggs of Westchester. Nor did they tell her she wasn't really dead. They did tell little Newton Krebnitz he was in big trouble. He had been through twelve babysitters in the last month, but this was the first one he had managed to imprison in his X-Box.


Opening: Anonymous.....Continuation: Kate Thornton

New Beginning 164

Laura stared down at the hand... Slim, neatly manicured… with a pale spot, where the wedding band used to be. "It’s not him."

"Mrs Long," detective Ripkus wiped the sweat of his brow, "I understand how you must feel, but…"

"Do you?"

"Mrs Long," Ripkus lowered his eyes, fighting the urge to slap her. "Please, try to be reasonable. You’ve recognized the wedding band."

"Can it Jack," Laura snapped, "I’m telling you, its not Alex's hand."

"How can you be so certain? All we have is the hand!" Jack Ripkus summoned all his inner strength, just to keep his voice down.

"The ring was his," Laura hissed, "Not the hand."

"Mrs Long, the ring was on his hand, so obviously…"

"It’s not his hand!"

"Maybe we should call his parents, instead," Jessy Joy, Ripkus' partner whispered.

"You think I don’t know my own husband?"

"But It’s A Hand," Ripkus stomped his foot, then howled in pain, as he stubbed his toe, on the evidence table.

"Jack, calm down," Jessy gripped the detective’s shoulder. "Now, Mrs Long--"

"I will not calm down! This woman is insane . . . " The detective banged his fist on the table, sending the bloody hand in flight.

"Am I free to go yet," Laura reached for the doorknob.

Ripkus was about to protest, but Jessy held him back as she left. “Leave it, Jack. With no way to prove it’s his hand, there’s nothing we can do.”

“I know, Jessy. But she's driving me nuts. This is the fourth time. She got his shoes, but the feet were too big to be his. She took his earring, but his ears were flatter than that.” Ripkus put the hand back in the carton with the other pieces. “You know what she said when she came in for his jock strap . . . ”

“Listen, Jack. We both know it’s him; and she knows it too. She’s clever. She’s stayed one step ahead of us so far, but we’ve got to keep calm. We’ll get her. Sooner or later . . . she's gonna want his hat.”


Opening: Ann Onymous....Continuation: ril