Full warning, this is just gonna be one of those posts. You know, the kind that seems to ramble, reiterating things you already know? Don’t worry, I’ll be brief and if you stick through it, there may even be a prize at the end.
Yet again, I would like to apologize. Not saying anything everyone doesn’t already know, but sometimes life is hard (yes, being a writer is hard too), but life in general is just hard. There’s work, bills, family, and if you somehow have the energy to spare, hobbies, the elusive “free-time” no one ever has enough of. Needless to say, I have not had the energy; all of it has been going towards the mundane day-to-day life tasks that are unavoidable.
In happier news, thanks to a virtual pitch contest through ARWA, I received a partial-request from an editor. For those of you who have literally no idea what that means, a publisher that saw the first 500 words of a book I wrote and its corresponding blurb, actually requested to see a little more. (Emphasis on the little, thus the “partial” aspect). But still, that is a huge win. Logically I’m trying hard not to put the cart before the horse–again, just a partial–but does that mean I shouldn’t have any hope at all?
Today’s world seems so full of all of the negative, it almost feels dangerous to believe, even for a second that something might actually go your way. So secretly I nurture this tiny flame of optimism and hope that if the answer isn’t “Please, sell us your book now; You’re the most aspiring writer we’ve seen in ages”, it won’t go out altogether. Because I am good and my stories do deserve to told. If I don’t write them, who will?
Anyway, enough borderline depression and begging for forgiveness. I believe you were in this for a prize. I give you, exactly what I submitted to receive the request: the blurb for Sara’s Moon (which you hopefully have already read by now) and literally the first 500 words sent to the publishing company.
Book Title: Sara’s Moon
Book Genre: Paranormal Fantasy, Mystery
Sara Sheppard should be dead.
She has no idea how she survived the brutal attack and wants nothing more than to get back to her normal, boring life. But something—someone—is after her and she fears it will return to finish what it started. Now she is faced with an impossible decision: live the rest of her short life in fear, or trust in a man defined by secrets. He appears to hold all the answers, yet those answers are even more unbelievable than her miraculous recovery.
Werewolves aren’t real.
Or at least they weren’t until she was bitten.
“Sheppard! Where is my coffee?” My boss’s voice bellowed out of the small speaker of the phone. I cringed at the absurd request.
“I am not your secretary. Get it yourself,” I grumbled.
“Sheppard! Can you hear me?” The insistent voice came again. I groaned inwardly before pressing the button that would allow him to hear my response.
“I’ll get right on that, Bob,” I said trying my best not to grind my teeth. The button released with a click. This is not my job.
I made to push away from my desk when my gaze fell on a folder sitting to the left my keyboard. The red file’s confines may have only held a few pages, but they were a PR nightmare. It was supposed to be my job to put together a pitch that would show the prospective client that Raleigh Marketing Solutions held the answer to all of their problems.
My fingers drifted over the glossy portfolio. The Sanderson Report. College, job, promotion; that’s how it worked. Or at least that’s how it was supposed to work. I’d been here almost two years and what did I have to show for it?
A crackle came through the speaker jolting me out of my musings. I quickly shot out of my chair before he could demand something else, or worse, discover I hadn’t even left yet.
One of these days I’m going to tell him to get his own damn coffee. I spun around to exit my gray cubicle and nearly ran smack into someone.
“Hey doll.” A happy voice full of southern cheer greeted me. “What’s with the sour face?”
I frowned at my friend with her gorgeous red hair pinned up in precise waves. My hand rose subconsciously to my own sad ponytail. It’s not even fair. Where she had volume, I had frizz, which was currently being held at bay with no small amount of mousse.
When I didn’t answer, she offered her own guess. “Is someone being a boar again?” She indicated the closed door directly behind her. I looked away from her smiling face and all too knowing gaze. “Sara, I don’t know why you don’t just tell him to shove it.”
“Is that sanctioned advice from HR?” I asked with no small amount of sass.
She rolled her eyes. “Consider it a personal recommendation. But seriously, what does he have you doing now?”
“Coffee run. Want anything?” I asked meaning it. She gave me a sad look.
“Tell him you’re not his secretary anymore,” she beseeched me.
“For the record, I never was. And I have,” I said pushing past her into the hall.
“Tell him again,” she insisted following me.
“I will. Eventually,” I added. Charline scowled. How could someone like her ever understand? It’s not that easy.
Why not? A voice inside asked. I let out a sigh. If I knew the answer to that, then I wouldn’t need the Sanderson Report.