The Writer's Voice Entry: THE LEGEND OF LONESOME FALLS

Okay. So. First of all, welcome to my blog! Welcome again, if you've been here before. I usually like to hand out snacks, so please help yourself to the candy dish and don't hesitate to ask for a beverage.

Ah, The Writer's Voice! If you're here for that, please continue below to read my query and first 250 words. If you're not here for that, well-- the candy's on the house, the writing is free of charge, and you don't have to pay for my rants and rambles, either.

Without further ado:

Query:

The town of Lonesome Falls has lost its legend, and seventeen-year-old Lyddie Belle Jones is determined to get him back.

Thirty years ago, Boone Tucker showed up out of the desert, an orphaned seven-year-old boy with more than the usual amount of human abilities. He dug up the mountain that shaded Lonesome Falls, planted the forest that fed it, and sprung the river that watered it. He even drove Solomon Slade and his band of outlaws out of town—and then disappeared.

It’s been twenty years since anyone’s seen Boone Tucker. But all the good he did is beginning to unravel. The people of Lonesome Falls grow desperate as the river dries up, the forest dies, and the mountain starts to rumble. To make things even worse, Solomon Slade has found his way back.

When Lyddie's father goes missing while on a quest to save the town, she decides to find their lost legend, bring him back, and make him fix it all. But the biggest flaw in her plan, one that might destroy her town—and her heart—is something she’d never considered: Boone Tucker wants nothing to do with Lonesome Falls.

THE LEGEND OF LONESOME FALLS is a 75,000-word young adult western fantasy told in the vein of the great American tall tale. 

First 250 Words:

A Confession

They said it was seven breaths from the top of Lonesome Falls to the tumble of boulders at the bottom. I figured most people who went this way only used one.

The wind up here was fierce. My skirts whipped around my legs, plastering them together. I leaned into it just to stay upright, though I kind of wished it would blow me away altogether. What waited at my back wasn’t any better than what waited in front.

"Go on,” Slade said, waving his pistol at me.

I teetered closer to the edge. Just behind me and to the left, the Lonesome River used to spring from a thick cut in the rock that ran deep into the heart of the mountain. It was dry now, but I couldn’t help wondering if I would have had a chance. If the water would have broken my fall.

            

I was about six feet from the edge. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. Mrs. Haversham would have had a conniption if this were one of the novels we were studying in school. But this was very, very real. As real as the rock beneath my bare feet, the wind biting at my face, the roar of the empty space where the water used to flow behind, next to, and before me.

            

Three steps, six feet, seven breaths.

            

You’ll have to forgive a girl for getting a tad philosophical in a situation like this.

            

I glanced at Slade. He stayed put, under the shelter of the cliff wall adjacent to the old spring. 

2013, or, the Year I Felt Like a Sham

It's really no secret that 2013 wasn't a great year for me.

In fact, I had a hard time hiding how terrible last year was. Lots of professional, personal, and social disappointment made me cranky at best and otherwise morose at worst. I tried to stay away from social media once I realized how whiny I'd become even there, but I also didn't want to be silent, so I still visited now and then.

That could have been a mistake of its own. 

I won't list everything that happened in 2013, even here in this post, because frankly, most of it you don't have any context for, and the rest of it you don't want to know. There are a few highlights I'll mention though, because together they show why, exactly, 2013 was the year that made me feel like I didn't know what I was doing, wasn't worth much, and would never amount to anything.

They also show why, despite all that, I have hope for 2014 and won't ever give up, and why you shouldn't, either.

In January of 2013, the agent round of Pitch Wars happened. (Go check out the blog post tag #PitchWars in the sidebar to understand what I'm talking about). I'd been lucky enough to be picked for the contest in December 2012 by not one but two mentors, and after choosing Cupid-- a truly delightful lady-- we worked hard to get my neolithic Romeo and Juliet manuscript into shape. In my head, I really thought this was it-- my time had come. Two mentors had wanted me so much they hadn't been able to let me go, surely the agents would feel the same way!

Except they didn't. I got a couple of requests from awesome agents, but was mostly ignored. I felt horrible. I'd chosen Cupid, she'd gushed over my work and went above and beyond my expectations to fix it. She'd worked her butt off to help me-- and still did, long after the contest was over, I might add-- and I'd let her down. My lovely, kind mentor.

After Pitch Wars, I entered a different YA manuscript into another contest in April/ May, called The Writer's Voice. I was absolutely stunned when I was once again chosen by more than one mentor and again had to pick. This time I chose Monica Bustamante Wagner. Monica is one of the sweetest people I've had the fortune to work with. She helped me whip my MS and query into shape and once again I headed for the agent round with my head full of stars and my heart full of hope. 

Only to have the Exact. Same. Thing. Happen. Again.

I let Monica down, too. My lovely, kind mentor. 

At this point, I sort of began thinking I was cursed. I mean, come on. But I'm not a terribly superstitious person-- though I do believe in a good story-- so I was a bit frustrated, too. 

I didn't write a lot of new words in 2013 (with one big exception). I spent most of my time re-working and editing my old MSs, mostly because I truly believed in each and every one of those books. Perhaps that was my mistake. 

Perhaps my mistake was deciding I was a bit fed up with waiting and losing patience and breaking the rules by querying more than one MS at a time. Perhaps my mistake was caring so much and not having enough distance from my work to realize that the market was wrong, or the story was wrong, or the voice was wrong, or the category was wrong, or yada yada yada. The feedback I did get varied widely and directly contradicted itself, telling me either everything was wrong with my work or something intangible was wrong with my work.

In my real life profession, I faced many similar situations trying to secure a better position at my zoo. Phone calls, interviews, hope, wonder, joy-- disappointment. Perhaps my mistake was that I could get into the race but not finish it. 

Whatever the deal is/ was, there's no one to flat out tell me what I'm doing wrong. Sometimes, there isn't anything wrong with me or you, per se. Sometimes, there are just better options out there. For all of 2013, I was not the best option. 

But someday I will be. Even if I have to make myself the best option. I have other things I can focus on-- a big change is heading my way this year. I can self-publish and take control of my writing life. I can start my own horse-training business and forget worrying about advancing at the zoo. I have pretty good building blocks in my life already: my husband, my pets, my friends, my family, and most of all, I still have writing. 

I think that needs to stand out: I still have writing. 

At the end of the day, I write for one person. Me. Sure, I'd love to share my work with the world through a large publisher and see my book on the shelves at B&N, but the most joy I get out of writing is just DOING it. I still love all my books because I wrote them because I loved them. 

So no, I won't quit writing even though I feel like a failure. A fake. A sham. Forget that. I'm going to keep writing.

And you should, too. 

The Writer's Voice Entry: SEVEN LITTLE DEADLIES

I'm doing something a bit strange today, friends. Basically, if you're here from the dark creeping crevices of the internet (or, you know, the bright and sunny ones), feel free to ignore this post. If you're here from The Writer's Voice contest, and especially if you're a JUDGE for said contest, why, hello there!

*offers comfy seat*

*passes cookie*

*pours fizzy pink lemonade*

Okay, okay. The rest of you can have cookies and lemonade, too. Here you go.

Without further ado, my entry, SEVEN LITTLE DEADLIES, a young adult supernatural romance.

Query:

Rachel and her boyfriend, Ryan, each have their own reasons for running. For Rachel, it's the morphing of her normally annoying-but-genial stepdad into a violent monster. For Ryan, it's his past-- one that he's not too fond of sharing.

The night Rachel's stepdad tries to kill her, the teens decide to leave their small Tennessee town and strike out for California in Ryan's '68 Camaro. But the further they get from home, the more strange things Rachel sees—like a leather-clad woman who has a thing for classic cars, and can apparently change the weather—and the more she begins to wonder about her boyfriend.

Despite their best efforts, their freedom is short-lived. Not long after they make it to California, Rachel's stepdad catches up to them, ending Ryan's life and changing Rachel's forever.  But things only get stranger after Rachel returns home. First, there are the hints that Ryan might not be dead after all. Then, there's the mysterious package that shows up at her door, containing a dagger she last saw buried in her stepdad's back. Something evil is brewing, and Rachel—and the car Ryan left behind—are in the middle of the storm.

SEVEN LITTLE DEADLIES is a young adult supernatural romance complete at 87,000 words.


First 250 words:


Chapter 1
July: New Mexico

 The cop car stayed behind us for forty miles.

Ryan's brow creased every time he glanced in the rearview mirror, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"Do you think he's running our plates or something?" I tried to keep my voice steady--panicking wouldn't help keep Ryan calm—but my throat clenched around the last word and squeaked into the silence around us.

"I don't know, Rachel. He could just be following us." He sighed, and unclenched one hand long enough to run it through his curly black hair. "But he's been back there for an awful long time."

"Maybe we should pull over." I didn't want to tell Ryan, but the tension was ready to burst out of me. If we didn't get away from the cop soon, I was going to have a meltdown.

"Pull over where?" He waved one arm across the dashboard, gesturing at the empty plains on either side of the cracked four-lane highway, rimmed by unending barbed-wire fences on either side.

Defeated, I wrapped my arms tighter around my midriff and sank further into my seat, the cop car dropping out of sight in the side mirror.

"I hate New Mexico." I muttered to myself. Ryan overheard, as usual. He grabbed my left elbow and tugged on my arm until I looked over at him.

"Hey," he said. His dimples peeked out of his cheeks, which meant the grin there was real. "We're almost there."