AGENT SHOP ~ ATTENDING AGENT

Bitch Track: So why is it that people can’t put the carts back at Wal-Mart? If nothing else, why leave them in the MIDDLE of the parking space, so that no one can park there???

Bliss Track: Wow, it can’t get much better than a drizzly sunday morning, curled up in bed with two sweet little boys tucked into bed next with me, while we read the Chronicles of Narnia…

Hope this finds everyone well and meeting their writing goals!

 

AGENT SHOP date: October 4th 2009 @ 10:00 am E.S.T.

 

Our attending agent for this month’s ‘Agent Shop’ day will be:

Jill Marsal of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.

Here is what her bio on the website states:

On the fiction front, Jill looks for mysteries, romantic suspense, and thrillers that keep the pages turning and have an original hook. She is also looking for general commercial fiction and welcomes a dramatic storyline and compelling characters in interesting situations or relationships. If you have a novel that has a highly original concept or voice, Jill would love to see it.

Marsal Lyon Agency Website

AND, on go day, we’ll have one of Jill’s authors here.

Dakota Banks will be in the Author Spotlight with her recent release:

Dark Time: Mortal Path Book One

She’ll be giving away an autographed copy of her novel to TWO lucky visitors/comments!

 

 

 

 

So make sure you have your pitches ready on Sunday and stop by to leave Dakota a comment.

 

<Insert shameless plug here…> Check out the first chapter of my novel ‘STAY’ below. It’s entered in Dorchester’s Next Best Celler contest, and if you like what you read, please stop by to vote! I welcome comments as well.

See you all Sunday!

STAY almost at 400 votes!!!!

In celebration of ‘STAY’ at #1 (for now) and it’s continued climb to the top, I’m posting the first ‘chapter’ TextNovel style, in the hopes that you’ll be hooked enough to stop by TextNovel and read on. Of course voting would be great as well >grin< but certainly not required.

I love comments as well. The good, the bad, and the ugly!

So here it is, the first ‘bite sized’ chapter of my contemporary romance, ‘STAY’:

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Sitka, Alaska 2007

“You know protocol, Burke. Stay in the damn boat.”

“That man’s going to drown, Captain. To hell with protocol!” Coast Guard Lieutenant Abby Burke screamed to be heard over the helicopter hovering above their small rescue boat. “Requesting permission to dive, Captain?”

“Denied.” Rain coursed over Sam Jordan’s hardened features. He held tight to the safety handle as the swells smashed into the raft with relentless force. “Stay on.”

Abby turned back. She squinted through the stinging spray of icy water at the man less than thirty feet away. His panicked face, pale and wide-eyed, dropped below the surface of the turbulent water. Lightening illuminated the sky, framing his desperate features in sharp contrast. Each violent wave took him further out of reach, longer to resurface. Hypothermia would sap his strength. It wouldn’t be long.

“How long till the other rescue boat is clear?”

Sam signaled the helicopter to back down. “Soon.”

Christ. Soon wasn’t going to be good enough. The other boat was far enough off to negate the need to wait another minute. Unnecessary caution would end the fisherman’s life.

She threw a life ring into the water.

The man’s arms pushed through the violent torrents of rain and sea, reaching for the source of solace with desperate exhaustion. Impotence crushed her chest.

“You’re almost there,” she yelled. Then he went under.

She stood, scanning the water’s mercurial surface with her flashlight, the strain against her shoulders from the tight survival suit more pronounced, mimicking her tension. “He’s not coming up, sir.”

“Damn it, Burke. Don’t -” Wind whipped violently against the boat, whisking his command away.

“I need permission, sir.” The man in the water still hadn’t resurfaced.

Sam shook his head, the set of his sharp eyes held no tolerance. “Denied.”

His answer followed her over the side of the boat. An icy crush of water enveloped her, freezing the breath in her lungs. Deep black replaced the meager light from above and she closed her eyes to center herself, the shock of the frigid water sharpening her senses. She knew this ocean, knew its bitter temperatures. She’d ridden the variegated currents whipped up by numerous storms and trained for every improbable scenario.

She’d jumped in – against orders. Now it was time to prove she’d made the right decision.

Her eyes opened and she streaked toward the surface, willing her limbs to follow orders. Breaking the surface, she followed the line of the life ring. The man drifted along the swells, a lifeless blob, tossed and turned at the storm’s bidding. Her heart drummed and she fought the strength of the water to reach his side.

The life ring clutched in the crook of his arm did little to keep his face above the water and she struggled to roll him over to his back. She glanced back at her boat. Sam yelled, his eyes wide as he pointed in her direction.

She nodded and looped the life ring around the sailor. “You’ll be okay now.”

Lethargy slowed the man’s response, his nod almost imperceptible. Giving Sam the thumbs up to haul the man in, she allowed a quick smile. One more life saved. Nothing could compare.

Salty spray crossed her lips, stinging her eyes as she glanced around. Like an ominous warning, a wall of water built before her. The sheer height of the swell blocked the lights from the low flying helicopter. From behind, loud enough to muffle the roar of the wind, a chilling groan rumbled through the water. She gave the sailor a hard push toward the rescue boat and turned.

The damaged fishing vessel had given its last grasp at remaining afloat. Its bow swung up into the air, bobbing on the waves as scattered lights from the lower deck slowly disappeared beneath the water. Splintering fiberglass accompanied mesmeric arcs of electrical units as they cracked and sizzled to eerie silence. Huge plumes of air billowed up in a cauldron like foam from the ship’s abdomen, spewing debris yards out in every direction. The long metal arms of the fishing vessel, used to haul in the days catch, swung wide in a broad sweep, like wings unfurling from a morphed butterfly to crash down into the ocean.

Mesmerized by the deadly dance, Abby jerked back too late, crying out when one of the metal arms crashed down on her legs. A sharp pain ripped through her right leg. The agony increased until the sickening sensation of bone being snapped churned through her stomach. Pain and disbelief engulfed her conscious in a dizzy miasma. Immune to her lethargic struggle, the ocean sucked her beneath its turbulent depths.

She tumbled in meaningless motion. The massive weight of the metal beam dragging her lower. Lights from the boats above sparkled in faint patches over the water. Agonizing pain coursed from her leg into her thigh and for once, she was happy with the numbing cold of the ocean’s embrace.

Strange, the peaceful silence just below the disaster above.

A life saved – water filled her lungs in a deep prickling ache – a life lost.

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Want more? Want to vote, comment, maybe read more stories?

Go to:  www.textnovel.com

Thanks to everyone who’s voted so far.

Be sure to stop back tomorrow to find out who our visiting agent will be!

Have a great day!

Special Delivery

Song of the Day: Don’t Want to Close My Eyes by Aerosmith

 

Today, instead of offering up my special brand of writing advice, I’m going to stray and blog about my new debut. No, I didn’t secretly contract a book deal since my last post. Something far better.

 

Many of you may already know that on 9/09/09 I gave birth to my second child, a gorgeous baby girl. And true to my colors, I had a bit of drama surround this blessed event. It seems that nothing I do comes easy or normal – not that squeezing large, wrinkly produce out through a crazy straw is easy.

 

As an example, I’ll quickly revisit the arrival of my first born.

 

Water broke at 3AM. Got up, showered, shaved (hey – don’t want impede delivery with friction or scar anyone with unkempt legs). Packed up the all-important labor bag and skittish hubby. Drove 40 minutes and stopping not once, but twice, to pay toll. Arrived at the hospital at 6 AM only to find it closed. (Yes, closed. It had been the day after the September 11th terror attacks.) Then there was the little IV mishap that left massive bruising on my right arm and had me cursing up a terribly nasty storm. Nurse, be gone! Give me the damned anesthesiologist! When the doctor finally put that precious gift in my arms, the only words I could mutter were “Now what?” Not the glamorous, Hollywood-style birth you see on TV.

 

Fast forward eight years to September 9^th.   9:30 AM in my doctor’s office. Time to give my urine sample to the nurse. Oops. That’s a lot more than a sample. My water broke! Or at least that’s what I thought. The doc said, ‘close but no cigar’. Adding, ‘It isn’t amniotic. Go on about your day as usual.’ Oookay. Who am I to question the doctor?

 

Three hours later my water broke again – in Kroger’s! A major rupture in the dam, if you will. Clean up on aisle 3. So, with my basket full of groceries, I headed for the check-out lane.  No way was I going to put back my favorite ice cream that was on sale. In hopes to speed things along, I casually mentioned my dilemma to the checker, who promptly became wide-eyed and twitchy. The sacker, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the urgency of packing up my victuals and provisions. The dam has broken, people. Move! Move! Move! What could possibly make this experience even more unpleasant? How about a torrential downpour – this time from the skies? <sigh>

 

I get home soaking wet, unpack the sopping groceries, make my phone calls, wait for DH, and my water breaks AGAIN! Jiminy Cricket! How many “waters” can I break? I’m like a bull in a china shop.

 

We check into the hospital at 1:30PM and my water breaks again. I’m wondering if the 33 lbs I gained was completely in water. I get giddy at the thought. Surely I’ve lost 15 lbs in water alone.

 

All is now going as planned. Textbook. Until…

 

Until the dreaded IV. Because I tested positive for Group B Strep and this could be fatal for a newborn, I had to be given a double shot of penicillin. Normally, I would welcome any double shot. Let the warming take effect and throw inhibitions out the door. Whoo Hoo! Writers Gone Wild! As the nurse opened up the IV drip, she said that I would feel a little burn. BLAZES AND THUNDER! My arm caught fire!! The pain was so fierce I thrashed about screaming and gasping for air between uncontrollable sobs. This all while having painful contractions coming faster and lasting longer. What the heck. Let’s top it off with my PUPPPs kicking into high gear.

 

PUPPPs, for those unaware, is a condition brought on by pregnancy causing severe itching. Who knew you could actually be allergic to your baby? For me, the scratching usually leads to a see-saw between weeping and maniacal laughter, with just a hint of self-mutilation. There is no cure other than birth and relief varies, if you are lucky – which I am not.

 

At this point, another patient had to undergo an emergency C-section. My nurse and the anesthesiologist were in the next room while I suffered in sheer torture spawned from the bowels of Hades for nearly a half hour. From all the screaming and grunting, I don’t think anyone could tell which room the baby was being delivered in. Even after the pain meds and the epidural were given - all hail the anesthesiologist! – the PUPPPs raged on. I bruised myself so badly from the clawing and striking that my hubby worried someone would slip me a domestic violence pamphlet.

 

It wasn’t long before I could feel the baby crowning. Freaky, man, f-r-e-a-k-y!

 

Nine – that’s right – only nine pushes later, and Bristol was born. Healthy, happy and amazingly beautiful. Not at all like a shriveled piece of produce.

Was it all worth it? No doubt about it. Would I do it again? HA! Can you say vasectomy?

Introducing the Ruby-Slippered Sisterhood

The 2009 Golden Heart® finalists have banded together to present a brand new blog. Launching at the same time as the opening of the RWA Golden Heart® contest registration, this blog boasts of over 50 authors bringing their expertise, thoughts, advice and opinions to writers and readers alike. Oh, and there are chances to win fab prizes, too.

Click on the banner below to stop by and get acquainted with the Ruby-Slippered Sisterhood.

Jenn!

BLOG TOUR – STOP 2

Sex without romance…
is like a cookie without milk…
that Ahh…Sensation is Missing

Monica Burns’ brilliant tagline. And a huge shout out for Monica’s EPPIE win with MIRAGE!

Join me there today at:

Monica & Her Muse

for my second stop on the Textnovel blog tour.

‘Got IMPACT?’ …in your writing that is?

Stop by an find out.

I’ve got a fun little challenge for you.

 

Candi Wall

BLOG TOUR BEGINS!!!!

Stop by Jessica Nelson’s BookingIt Blog if you get a chance and say hi. Jessica is one of the first people I met when I decided to start writing for publication. She’s a great writer, a great friend and a real inspiration to me and many others.

I’m blogging there today…

BOOKINGIT

Hope to see you there!

A Labor of Love…

Anything I’ve done up till May 27th 1999 was kind of an illusion, existing without living. My daughter, the birth of my daughter, gave me life. –Johnny Depp

 

 

Huff – huff – huff – Blow!

Huff – huff – huff – Blow!

Huff – huff – huff – Blow!

Okay… relax.

Ah, the fond memories of my first outing as head coach for the home team.  Well … actually a labor coach in a hospital’s maternity ward, but a coach nonetheless.

Sure it was a small team, my wife the only player. But, hey, it was thrilling. An NFL-like experience – studying film, analyzing charts, working strategy. There were pep-talks, conditioning, two-a-day practices, and of course, the whistle. I really liked the whistle…until my wife insisted I blow it out my @$$–  But we were ready for the big game, and what a game it was — physical, sweaty, and cursing. Lots of cursing.  

And here we go again… We [Candi, Marie-Claude, and me -- John] wanted to announce how pumped and proud we are with the anticipated arrival of a new member to our MuseTracks family. If you haven’t heard, our talented writing partner and special friend, Jennifer Bray-Webber and her real-life hero, Mark, are soon-to-be parents for the second time ‘round. A new and highly anticipated chapter about to be written after a prefatorial, nine-month prologue. Exciting, isn’t it? Can’t wait for the big day…err, no pun intended. And like a typical dad, myself, I can still remember game day, holding the trophy and counting its fingers and toes. But…

Is it weird for a guy to gush over the little booger’s arrival? From the quote above, perhaps Jonny Depp and I have shared a common past – a living illusion.

Maybe it’s a guy thing. I’ve got no reservation now, but once upon a time, after the wife and I slipped on the ‘burning rings of fire,’ I was a little timid about family building and the baby thing. Sure, for friends and relatives, I’d come to the hospital, followed protocol, and armed myself with a stuffed bunny for THEIR new addition. And of course, I’d efforted a glance at the little critter while trying something perfunctory like, “Hey, cool! What kind is it?”

The game plan here, I instinctively knew, was maintain a safe distance and come prepared with a quick exit strategy should the mother get that telltale glint in her eye just before she asks – Hey, you wanna hold it?

Have you ever seen our kind? The ones with that dazed look in our eyes when a child is thrust into our arms.

Panic-stricken, I realize I’ve got to take the handoff lest I be penalized for delay of game. But, my God, how do you hold those things? By an arm? A leg? How will I know if my grip is too tight?   

I tried my best to seem delighted with this little alien, held at arm’s length, while I wondered. Is this a trick? Some kind of test? Really, what lessons are to be learned? 

Then it hits me. This is how they infect you. Ah-ha! My suspicions confirmed as I look around the hospital room, and the knowing glances and crafty smiles shared between my wife and the other women. Jeez! How fair is that…they communicate telepathically.

Spores. It’s got to be the spores. Invasions always begin with spores. I’d read it in a book –  Dean Koontz, I think. But how do these little aliens release them. And with that thought, a smile spreads across the cherub’s lips, its eyes pinch, and a quaggy flutter rips its diaper. That smell, my God! It’s begun. The invasion. To late. Can’t breath…

And infected, I’d become. But suddenly it all became clear when a child, one of my own, was beamed into my world. Gone was the awkwardness when they placed her in my arms. I held her — cradled her — sheltered her, this new and wondrous creation. Without forethought or fear, I pulled her close to my heart.

I looked at my wife and in that one moment as a new father, I’d become all kinds of philosophical. An expanding sphere of understanding, an epiphany of life, love, and all things beautiful. I stood at the window and held my child in the glow of a new day.

It seemed all my perceptions had changed: the distant song of a bird, the gentle sway of treetops, the happy buzz of a bee that danced among flowers, lured by the sweet scent of nectar drifting on the breeze.

Life abounds. And I realize that this child I hold in my arms is a much larger part of some greater design. She’d come so far. Traveled billions of years across an evolving universe, and gathered to herself the elements of life. Then, one day, she crosses the threshold into our world – the first spark of mortality, spirit, and then self-awareness. And as she grows within the miracle of her mother’s womb, she listens to the tales of her ancient ancestors whose names have long become forgotten, but who are here with her in the shape of her mouth, the color of her eyes, and the sound of her voice. How had this child found us…how are we worthy.

Of all the people in the world, Bristol has chosen you, Jenn — someone who’s as much a miracle as you are. What a lucky child. We’re so excited and happy for you and your family. And, hey…Labor Day is Monday, but you do know  that you don’t have to take it literally, right? And if Mark needs it, I think I can dig out my coach’s whistle around here someplace.

Order in the Court

Song of the Day: Listen Like Thieves By INXS

 

Here on MuseTracks, we’ve discussed a lot about contests. We know it’s all about love and hate. Er . . . no, I mean, subjectivity. We learn from feedback, embrace what we agree with or ignore what doesn’t work, trawl for overall opinions, and toughen up our skins like leathery old sailors.

 

We’ve discussed the benefits of contests. We root out problem areas, recognize our strengths, polish the craft, and aim for a coveted spot in front of agents and editors should lady luck smile upon us with a final.  The latter often leads to scaring household pets as we jump from our chairs and perform ritualistic happy dancing.

 

Whether fumbling through the first mazes of the writing and publishing community or seasoned to taste with years of experience, all-in-all, contests are great tools in bettering ourselves as writers.

 

But it’s not just in entering contests that we can profit from. There is another way, an even greater gain that writers can greedily snatch up. Become a judge. Sounds like a message from a public broadcast, doesn’t it? “You too, can prevent forest fires.”

 

Becoming a judge for a contest yields many advantages. Not only are you giving back to a unique kinship of people -  people who instead of stuffing out competition like a spent stogie, strive to lift one another up, stoking fellow writers’ dreams into  fiery blazes – you are helping yourself.

 

How? You’d be amazed at what you can learn from reading contest entries. Mistakes made, from simple spelling errors to major swirling, black plot holes, are easier to spot on someone else’s work than in your own masterpiece. This, in turn, makes you more likely to avoid making the same faux pas.

 

So what, you may say. I can do this with my critique group. True, but with contests, you are encouraged to elaborate and be constructive in an unbiased enviroment when explaining why you give the scores you think an entry deserves. Golly Molly, just why did you score a 3 instead of a 4? By backing up your claims, you are forcing yourself into a deeper insight into your assertion. You give yourself an honest understanding of not only the craft but of your own writing style.

 

As a judge, you will read entries that are complete messes, bless their hearts, and entries that are polished to an ungodly gleam. There is something to be gained from them and all those entries that fall in between. One may be completely written in a passive yawn. Here is your chance to gently guide the author to the right path, pat them on the shoulder and wave them on their way. You wouldn’t leave a comrade hemorrhaging on the battlefield, would you? There is a communal instinct to help. After all, someone probably once helped you when you needed it, right? All for one and one for all! Yip! Yip!  Then there’s the manuscript that leaves you to wondering why you haven’t seen it in the bookstores. Surely they are already on the Best Seller List. Take note of what this author did right and see if you can apply it to your own writing.

 

Contest judging isn’t necessarily easy, though. If you decide to give judging a try, here are a few tips.

 

Judge in the same category you write. This will allow you to experience what others are writing in your chosen genre. A touchy-feely way to explore what works and what doesn’t.

 

Judge in a category you don’t write in but enjoy reading. Maybe you write contemporary single titles but love curling up with Regency historicals. By doing this, you may pick up on strengths and weaknesses easier, ones that you might be prone to miss in your genre. Therefore, you can translate what you learn into your writing.

 

Pass on categories or entries that you may find moral or ethic issues with. For instance, if you are an inspirational writer, you probably shouldn’t judge erotica or paranormal manuscripts that could rattle or offend you, or make you want to scrub your skin raw in the shower. Likewise, if romantic suspense gives you heebee geebies, provoking nightmares, steer clear.

 

Remain open-minded and respectful.  Just as you covet, nurture and protect the stories you weave like a mother bear, so do the entrants. They, too, have put in enormous amounts of effort, time and love into their cubs.

 

Be fair. Judge tales based on what the contest score sheet is asking, not on what you think it should be asking. I’ve read manuscripts with multiple, cringe-worthy errors but still gave them average or better scores based on the score sheet questions. That said, I point out these blemishes in hopes to help the author fruitfully. And remember, comments should always remain productive.

 

Don’t get hung up on crafting rules. Many score sheets will ask about mechanics. Score accordingly. However, don’t make the entry suffer overall because you have a pet peeve over improper comma usage. Sometimes, it’s more about the entertainment value.

 

Explain every score, including the high ones. Don’t just point out the flaws; give the entrant reason to rejoice their strengths.  

 

Always be kind. Telling someone they need to retake 2^nd grade English is a no-no. Most of us who’ve entered contests have come across a nasty judge or two. Ugliness is not constructive and a superiority complex will not take you far.

 

Don’t be too critical or too nice. The point is not to give false hope or to squash dreams. It is to follow contest score sheet guidelines and justly fulfill the expectations of the entrant.

 

By nature, judging is subjective. Each judge has their likes and dislikes and own beliefs. And of course, this will invariably affect an entry’s score. The key is to remain honest and fair.

 

Bottom line, being a judge can train us to become better writers in both what we perceive and what we achieve.

 

Have you ever judged? Do you have judging tips? What is your opinion of judging? Let me hear from you.