Sarah Remy's Blog

PitchWars banner with Poe camping and “I am a 2021 Adult Mentor” overhead.

A graphics-free, black on white version of my wishlist can be found HERE.

This is my third year as a PitchWars mentor. I’m incredibly excited to jump back in the trenches again. In 2018 I mentored the amazing Alexis Ames and helped find her heart-wrenching space opera a home at The Jennifer De Chiara Literary Agency. In 2019 I fell in love with Vaishnavi Patel‘s gorgeous feminist retelling of the Ramayana; Vaishnavi signed with Lucienne Diver at The Knight Agency. KAIKEYI hits the shelves this spring.

In 2020 I had to take time off for health reasons, and I’m SO ready to hop back into the PitchWars saddle.

I have a four book epic fantasy series with HarperVoyager, an urban fantasy out from NineStar Press, and short stories out in several anthologies. I self-publish LGBTQ+ fantasy and romance. My latest WIP is a queer Christmas romance, the second in a series.

My degree is in English Lit and Creative Writing, with a minor in James Joyce. I was a book buyer for Rizzoli Bookstore when they were still around as a chain. In college I interned first as a slush-pile screenplay reader, and later as an intern for a SoCal agent. Most recently I spent a year as Communications Officer at the Organization for Transformative Works, the parent of Hugo Award winner Ao3.

My pronouns are they/them.

As I’ve said in past years’ wishlists, my super secret power is words.

My 2021 Wishlist has not changed substantially, although this year I am not interested in plague-centric novels, for obvious reasons.

Fantasy. All the fantasy, all the subgenres. Epic, urban, paranormal, steampunk, gaslamp, etc.  Send them my way. Extra points for non-European settings, anti-heroes, likable villains, grit and heartbreak. Sci-Fi. I prefer character driven, ‘soft’ scifi. Think space operas, thrillers, or heists with sociological, anthropological or physiological elements. EX: The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell.Extra points for a super diverse cast.LGBTQ+. If you have a QUILTBAG MC, and your MS is not specifically a coming out story, it should definitely end up in my mailbox. If it’s Adult/NA fiction and it’s LGBTQ+, I need it.

A word about NA: 

I love the idea of New Adult but, although the genre has gained traction in the self-publishing world, it really hasn’t caught on in the traditional industry outside of, possibly, Romance. That being said, if your MS is NA, go ahead and submit, with the caveat that chances are I’ll suggest you rework it toward Adult.

I’m not looking for:

ANY instances of animal abuse, dubcon, rape, or child abuse.Stories about suicide or cancer.Sex is fine but I’m not looking for erotica. Dark is great, but make sure you’re not throwing gratuitous violence or gore my way.In general, I prefer manuscript word count that sticks close to industry standard over those that run long. This is a pretty good guideline, if you’re not sure about your industry standard.

Questions or concerns before submitting? Find me here on the PitchWars forums and ask me anything! 

Why me?

 I’ve been reading, writing, and selling in the industry for years. I’ve had my share of successes and made my share of mistakes. I’m familiar with life in the trenches. I also have a network of author friends, and while I’d never give up my sources, we do share with each other the ups and downs we’ve experienced in the industry during our disparate publishing journeys. I’ll do my best to steer you in the right direction, professionally. I do words. Did I say that already? I can’t finish an algebraic equation to save my life, but I know how to put together a good sentence, a great page, a fantastic chapter, and a solid book.World building. When it comes to your fictional universe, I can teach you how to show, not tell. No mentee of mine will suffer from the dreaded info-dump-itis.Voice. It’s my other super power. I’ll spot your voice in a jiffy and help you polish it until it shines through.

My mentoring style:

I’m an extremely busy person – I tend to overbook – and am often on the road, so Skyping or phoning it in are not usually practical for me.I’m attached to my phone by umbilical cord, and am possibly the world’s fastest thumb-typist, so you can expect quick responses via email, text, DM, etc. I have no qualms about giving out my phone number. You can text me all day if you like and I’ll answer quickly……except for when I’m asleep, which happens to be 9PM-5AM PST. Or when I’m on horseback, which is generally a few hours a day.I’m quite frank. In both of my edit letters and my line edits I’ll tell you exactly what I think, good and bad.If you disagree with a suggested change, I’ll explain why I think the change is necessary, but after that it’s your decision. Think of me as a guide rather than the end-all-be-all of writing advice. Because when it comes down to it, the story you’re telling isn’t mine.I’m full of squee, but I’m not an effusive, full-time cheerleader. If I pick your manuscript, you can be certain I believe in it. But if you need someone around to shore up your writerly insecurities 24 hours a day – I’m not that. And neither are most industry editors. I’m easy going. My feathers don’t get ruffled. We won’t have a falling out over semi-colon placement.I’m whimsical. I believe in ghosts, dessert for breakfast, mismatched socks, and crystal therapy. But I take writing – and by association PitchWars, very seriously. Deadlines are more important than sleep. I’m competitive. Most people who jump horses over fences in pursuit of blue ribbons are. If I take you on, I’ll be not so secretly hoping your MS gets THE MOST agent requests, and I’ll do what I can to help you toward that end.

What I’m looking for in a mentee:

Work hard and be kind. It’s a rule I try to stick to in life – both professionally and personally – and it’s what I expect of my mentee. If you feel you can put kindness first and hard work second in your life for at least the next five months, by all means submit to me!

Authors I love:

Robin HobbTamsyn MuirMaggie StiefvaterPatrick RothfussKaren Marie MoningBeth CatoS.A. ChakrabortyMackenzi LeeLynn FlewellingK.D. Edwards

Gif of a happy dachshund checking email on a rainbow background.

Pitch Wars is a mentoring program where published/agented authors, editors, or industry interns choose one writer each to spend three months with revising their manuscript. It ends in February with an Agent Showcase, where agents can read a pitch/first page and can request to read more.

Pitch Wars 2021 Adult Mentors’ Wish Lists

Anna Kaling (Accepts NA)Ian Barnes (Accepts NA)Jackson FordJake Nicholls (Accepts NA)Jesse Q. Sutanto and Grace ShimCharish Reid and Denise WilliamsSaara El-Arifi (Accepts NA)Rosie Danan and Ruby Barrett (Accepts NA)Carolyne TopdjianFalon Ballard and Brooke AbramsMary Keliikoa (Accepts NA)E.A. AymarAmanda Elliot (Accepts NA)Kelly SiskindVaishnavi Patel and Sarah Mughal (Accepts NA)Mary Ann Marlowe and Laura Elizabeth (Accepts NA)Mia P. Manansala (Accepts NA)Peggy Rothschild (Accepts NA)Natalka BurianCourtney Kae and Jenny L. Howe (Accepts NA)Rochelle Karina (Accepts NA)Swati Hegde (Accepts NA)Nanci Schwartz and LL MontezParis WyntersHudson LinSarah Remy (Accepts NA)AM Kvita (Accepts NA)Heather Van Fleet and Jessica Calla (Accepts NA)Melissa Colasanti (Accepts NA)J.A. Crawford (Accepts NA)Michella S. DomeniciYvette Yun and Marith Zoli (Accepts NA)Sari Coritz and Rosalie M Lin (Accepts NA)Stephenie Magister and Noreen (Accepts NA)Regina Black and Nikki Payne (Accepts NA)Farah Heron and Namrata PatelAlicia Thompson and Amy Lea (Accepts NA)Lyn Liao ButlerPreslaysa Williams (Accepts NA)Keena Roberts and Molly Steen (Accepts NA)Alexandria Bellefleur (Accepts NA)Samantha RajaramAshley WinsteadClay Harmon (Accepts NA)Rob HartCole Nagamatsu and Sequoia NagamatsuN.E. Davenport (Accepts NA)Katherine LimAlexia GordonCynthia Pelayo (Accepts NA)

Click here to view all Pitch Wars 2021 Mentors’ Wish Lists. To view the wish lists by genre, visit this link.

#TeamWhimsy

This is my second year as a PitchWars mentor, and I’m incredibly excited to jump back in the trenches again. I was a 2017  Mentee with my LGBTQ spec fic, EARNEST INK. In 2018 I mentored the amazing  Alexis Ames and helped find her beautiful and heart-wrenching SciFi novel a home at The Jennifer De Chiara Literary Agency. 

I have a four book epic fantasy series with HarperVoyager. I self-publish LGBTQ+ fantasy. EARNEST INK will be out in October from NineStar Press. I’ve also written SciFi for Edge/Tesseract. My latest WIP is a queer romance I’m writing on proposal.

My degree is in English Lit and Creative Writing, with a minor in James Joyce. I was a book buyer for Rizzoli Bookstore when they were still around as a chain. In college I interned first as a slush-pile screenplay reader, and later as an intern for a SoCal agent. Most recently I spent a year as Communications Officer at the Organization for Transformative Works, the parent of Hugo Award winner Ao3.

As I said in last year’s wishlist, my super secret power is words.

My 2019 Wishlist has not changed substantially from 2018’s. I’m not looking for horror this year, but creepy is still a ‘yes please’.

Fantasy. All the fantasy, all the subgenres. Epic, urban, paranormal, steampunk, gaslamp, etc.  Send them my way. Extra points for non-European settings, anti-heroes, likable villains, grit and #ownvoices. 
Sci-Fi. I prefer character driven, ‘soft’ scifi. Think space operas, thrillers, or heists with sociological, anthropological or physiological elements. EX: The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell. Extra points for a super diverse, #ownvoices cast.
LGBTQ+. If you have a QUILTBAG MC, and your MS is not specifically a coming out story, it should definitely end up in my mailbox. Doesn’t have to be Spec. If it’s Adult/NA fiction and it’s LGBTQ+, I need it!

A word about NA: 

I love the idea of New Adult but, although the genre has gained traction in the self-publishing world, it really hasn’t caught on in the traditional industry outside of, possibly, Romance. That being said, if your MS is NA, go ahead and submit, with the caveat that chances are I’ll suggest you rework it toward Adult.

I’m not looking for:

ANY instances of animal abuse, dubcon, rape, or child abuse.
Stories about suicide or cancer.
Sex is fine but I’m not looking for erotica. 
Dark is great, but make sure you’re not throwing gratuitous violence or gore my way.
In general, I prefer manuscript word count that sticks close to industry standard over those that run long. This is a pretty good guideline, if you’re not sure about your industry standard.

Why me?

 I’ve been reading, writing, and selling in the industry for years. I’ve had my share of successes and made my share of mistakes. I’m familiar with life in the trenches. I also have a network of author friends, and while I’d never give up my sources, we do share with each other the ups and downs we’ve experienced in the industry during our disparate publishing journeys. I’ll do my best to steer you in the right direction, professionally. 
I do words. Did I say that already? I can’t finish an algebraic equation to save my life, but I know how to put together a good sentence, a great page, a fantastic chapter, and a solid book.
World building. When it comes to your fictional universe, I can teach you how to show, not tell. No mentee of mine will suffer from the dreaded info-dump-itis.
Voice. It’s my other super power. I’ll spot your voice in a jiffy and help you polish it until it shines through.

My mentoring style:

I’m an extremely busy person – I tend to overbook – and am often on the road, so Skyping or phoning it in are not usually practical for me.
I’m attached to my phone by umbilical cord, and am possibly the world’s fastest thumb-typist, so you can expect quick responses via email, text, DM, etc. I have no qualms about giving out my phone number. You can text me all day if you like and I’ll answer quickly…
…except for when I’m asleep, which happens to be 9PM-5AM PST, or when I’m on horseback, which is generally about an hour a day.
I’m quite frank. In both of my edit letters and my line edits I’ll tell you exactly what I think, good and bad.
If you disagree with a suggested change, I’ll explain why I think the change is necessary, but after that it’s your decision. Think of me as a guide rather than the end-all-be-all of writing advice. Because when it comes down to it, the story you’re telling isn’t mine.
I’m full of squee, but I’m not an effusive, full-time cheerleader. If I pick your manuscript, you can be certain I believe in it. But if you need someone around to shore up your writerly insecurities 24 hours a day – I’m not that. And neither are most industry editors. 
I’m easy going. My feathers don’t get ruffled. We won’t have a falling out over semi-colon placement.
I’m whimsical. I believe in ghosts, dessert for breakfast, mismatched socks, and crystal therapy. But I take writing – and by association PitchWars, very seriously. Deadlines are more important than sleep. I’m competitive. Most people who jump horses over fences in pursuit of blue ribbons are. If I take you on, I’ll be not so secretly hoping your MS gets THE MOST agent requests, and I’ll do what I can to help you toward that end.

What I’m looking for in a mentee:

Work hard and be kind. It’s a rule I try to stick to in life – both professionally and personally – and it’s what I expect of my mentee. If you feel you can put kindness first and hard work second in your life for at least the next five months, #TeamWhimsy is the place for you.

 

Authors I love:

Robin Hobb
Maggie Stiefvater
Patrick Rothfuss
Karen Marie Moning
Beth Cato
S.A. Chakraborty
Mackenzi Lee
George R.R. Martin
Lynn Flewelling
J.D. Robb
K.D. Edwards
Judith Tarr

 

Pitch Wars 2019 Adult Mentors’ Wish Lists

Paris Wynters
Kathleen Barber (Accepts NA)
Ian Barnes
Mary Ann Marlowe (Accepts NA)
Elizabeth Little
Hayley Stone and Erin A. Tidwell
Gwynne Jackson (Accepts NA)
Maxym M. Martineau (Accepts NA)
Katie Golding (Accepts NA)
Ava Reid and Rachel Morris (Accepts NA)
Carolyne Topdjian
Natalka Burian
Tim Akers
Alex Segura
Michelle Hauck and Carrie Callaghan (Accepts NA)
Laura Brown (Accepts NA)
Mia P. Manansala and Kellye Garrett (Accepts NA)
Kerbie Addis and Ren Hutchings (Accepts NA)
Susan Bishop Crispell (Accepts NA)
Kelly Siskind and Heather Van Fleet (Accepts NA)
Janet Walden-West and Anne Raven (Accepts NA)
Kate Lansing (Accepts NA)
Kristen Lepionka and Ernie Chiara
Alexa Martin and Suzanne Park (Accepts NA)
Gia de Cadenet (Accepts NA)
Rob Hart
Layne Fargo and Halley Sutton
Michael Chorost (Accepts NA)
Sarah Remy (Accepts NA)
Nicole Glover (Accepts NA)
Farah Heron (Accepts NA)
Samantha Rajaram
Keena Roberts (Accepts NA)
Rebecca Enzor (Accepts NA)
Matthew Quinn Martin (Accepts NA)
Denny S. Bryce (Accepts NA)
Meryl Wilsner and Rosie Danan (Accepts NA)
P.J. Vernon and Kelly J. Ford (Accepts NA)
Gladys Quinn (Accepts NA)
Diana A. Hicks (Accepts NA)
Damyanti Biswas
Stephen Morgan (Accepts NA)

 

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Adult/New Adult* Mentor
Sarah Remy
#TeamWhimsy

Who I Am

This is my first year as a PitchWars mentor. Needless to say I’m super excited. I was a 2017 YA Mentee and had such an amazing experience, I wanted to pass some of the squee on.

I have a four book epic fantasy series with HarperVoyager. I self-publish LGBTQ+ fantasy. Last year’s PW manuscript – a speculative thriller with a trans main character – was picked up by NineStar Press. I’ve also written SciFi for Edge/Tesseract.

My degree is in English Lit and Creative Writing, with a minor in James Joyce. I was a book buyer for Rizzoli Bookstore when they were still around as a chain. In college I interned first as a slush-pile screenplay reader, and later as an intern for a SoCal agent. Most recently I spent a year as Communications Officer at the Organization for Transformative Works.

Basically, I do words.

 

What I’m Looking For in a Manuscript

Fantasy. All the fantasy, all the subgenres. Epic, urban, paranormal, steampunk, gaslamp, etc.  Send them my way. Extra points for non-European settings, anti-heroes, likable villains, grit and #ownvoices.
Sci-Fi. I prefer character driven, ‘soft’ scifi. Think space operas, thrillers, or heists with sociological, anthropological or physiological elements. EX: The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell. Extra points for a super diverse, #ownvoices cast. 
Other Spec. Horror. If it has supernatural or futuristic elements and you’ve got a new take on old tropes, I want to see it.
LGBTQ+. If you have a QUILTBAG MC, and your MS is not specifically a coming out story, it should definitely end up in my mailbox. Doesn’t have to be Spec. If it’s Adult/NA fiction and it’s LGBTQ+, I need it.

What I’m Not Looking For

ANY instances of animal abuse, dubcon, rape, or child abuse.
Stories about suicide or cancer.
Sex is fine but I’m not looking for erotica. 
Dark is great, but make sure you’re not throwing gratuitous violence or gore my way.
In general, I prefer manuscript word count that sticks close to industry standard over those that run long. This is a pretty good guideline, if you’re not sure about your industry standard.

My Strengths

 I’ve been reading, writing, and selling in the industry for years. I’ve had my share of successes and made my share of mistakes. I’m familiar with life in the trenches. I also have a network of author friends, and while I’d never give up my sources, we do share with each other the ups and downs we’ve experienced in the industry during our disparate publishing journeys. I’ll do my best to steer you in the right direction, professionally. 
I do words. Did I say that already? I can’t finish an algebraic equation to save my life, but I know how to put together a good sentence, a great page, a fantastic chapter, and a solid book.
World building. When it comes to your fictional universe, I can teach you how to show, not tell. No mentee of mine will suffer from the dreaded info-dump-itis.
Voice. It’s my super power. I’ll spot your voice in a jiffy and help you polish it until it shines through.

 

My Communication Style

I’m an extremely busy person – I tend to overbook – and am often on the road, so Skyping or phoning it in are not usually practical for me.
I’m attached to my phone by umbilical cord, and am possibly the world’s fastest thumb-typist, so you can expect quick responses via email, text, DM, etc. I have no qualms about giving up my phone number. You can text me all day if you like and I’ll answer quickly…
…except for when I’m asleep, which happens to be 9PM-5AM PST, or when I’m on horseback, which is generally about an hour a day.

What You Can Expect from Me as a Mentor

I’m quite frank. In both of my edit letters and my line edits I’ll tell you exactly what I think, good and bad.
If you disagree with a suggested change, I’ll explain why I think the change is necessary, but after that it’s your decision. Think of me as a guide rather than the end-all-be-all of writing advice. Because when it comes down to it, the story you’re telling isn’t mine.
I’m full of squee, but I’m not an effusive, full-time cheerleader. If I pick your manuscript, you can be certain I believe in it. But if you need someone around to shore up your writerly insecurities 24 hours a day – I’m not that. And neither are most industry editors. 
I’m easy going. My feathers don’t get ruffled. We won’t have a falling out over semi-colon placement.
I’m whimsical. I believe in ghosts, dessert for breakfast, mismatched socks, and crystal therapy. But I take writing – and by association PitchWars, very seriously. Deadlines are more important than sleep. I’m competitive. Most people who jump horses over fences in pursuit of blue ribbons are. If I take you on, I’ll be not so secretly hoping your MS gets THE MOST agent requests, and I’ll do what I can to help you toward that end.

 

What I’m Looking for in a Mentee

Work hard and be kind. It’s a rule I try to stick to in life – both professionally and personally – and it’s what I expect of my mentee. If you feel you can put kindness first and hard work second in your life for at least the next five months, #TeamWhimsy is the place for you.

Authors I Love 

Robin Hobb
Maggie Stiefvater
Patrick Rothfuss
Karen Marie Moning
Beth Cato
S.A. Chakraborty
Mackenzi Lee
George R.R. Martin
Lynn Flewelling
J.D. Robb
Judith Tarr

Shows I Binge-Watch 

Supernatural
Killing Eve
Game of Thrones
Orange is the New Black


Sherlock
Versailles
Hannibal
Million Dollar Listing NY
WestWorld
PREACHER
American Gods

Podcasts I Listen To

Pod Save America


Reply All
Someone Knows Something
My Favorite Murder
Generation Why
True Crime Garage
My Brother My Brother and Me
The Adventure Zone
Lore
Tanis
Lovett or Leave It
…and a hell of a lot more. 

By now you should have a good sense of who I am, but if you’re looking for further insight, feel free to poke around on my Media menu o r hit me up on Twitter. No question is too inconsequential.

I can’t wait to meet you, #TeamWhimsy. We’re going to kick ass.

 

 

*The NA Conundrum: I love NA. I read NA and I’ve written NA, but I haven’t placed NA. Some of us tried hard to make it a thing in the SFF community, but it never really caught on trade-wise. You’ll see NA in the Romance market,  but in my opinion if you’re looking to publish NA SFF, you’ll probably have to go indie. So. If you’ve got just a fantastic NA SFF MS, sure, go ahead and send it to me. But be aware: if it’s the story I fall in love with, I’ll come back to you with two options:

Up-tailor it as Adult, and we’ll pitch it as Adult. This will mean extra work, but isn’t as difficult as you think. I’ve just finished doing something similar with a MS of my own.
Just can’t let your NA vibe go? I’ll have to pass you up as mentee – even if I ADORE your story – but I’ll be more than willing to be your sounding board if you have questions about putting it out as indie.

 

1.

Alexa & Suzanne (Accepts NA)

2.

Alice

3.

Angel (Accepts NA)

4.

Carolyne

5.

Carrie

6.

Dan & Michael

7.

Diana (Accepts NA)

8.

Farah (Accepts NA)

9.

Gigi

10.

Heather & Lana (Accepts NA)

11.

Helen (Accepts NA)

12.

Ian & Laura (Accepts NA)

13.

Jason (Accepts NA)

14.

K.A. Doore

15.

Katrina

16.

Kristen L.

17.

Kristin R. (Accepts NA)

18.

Kristin W. (Accepts NA)

19.

L. D. Lewis

20.

Laura & Tif (Accepts NA)

21.

Layne

22.

Marty & Léonie (Accepts NA)

23.

Mary Ann (Accepts NA)

24.

Mia & Kellye (Accepts NA)

25.

Michelle (Accepts NA)

26.

Michelle & Katie (Accepts NA)

27.

Natasha

28.

Nikki (Accepts NA)

29.

Paris

30.

Rebecca (Accepts NA)

31.

Rheea

32.

Sarah (Accepts NA)

33.

Shari & Clarissa

34.

Susan (Accepts NA)

35.

T. Frohock

36.

Victoria & RF (Accepts NA)

37.

Wendy (Accepts NA)

Powered by… Mister Linky’s Magical Widgets.

 

 

 

 

It’s a post about climbing hills.

Once upon a time on the dry side of Washington State there lived an Adult SFF author who  – for a variety of FANTASTIC reasons – really wanted to try their hand at YA. Being an optimistic sort our author sat down and punched out a nice mid-sized manuscript chockablock full of magic, murder, Manhattan and…tattoos. Also some fun YA protags going head-to-head with a supernatural serial killer.

At this point our author – okay, fine, it’s me – hit a road block. I’d been writing in the Adult world, and most of my CPs and betas were of the Adult variety. I didn’t want to send Earnest Ink out into the world without some YA eyes-on. I needed guidance, some up front critique, someone who knew the YA market better than I did, and would help make this baby manuscript the best it could be. Yup, you guessed it. I needed a mentor.

Obi Wan wouldn’t return my calls but PitchWars was just opening up for 2017 submissions so I took a chance and entered EI. The Force must have been with me because my submission caught YA Mentor Leigh Mar’s eye and the game was on. Leigh saw the good, the bad, and the ugly plot holes in my MS that I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) recognize. With her help EI turned into a story I’m super proud of, and I can’t say that about everything I’ve written.

This is the query I sent to PWs:

Dear Mentors,

Hemingway is a trans boy making an excellent living as a tattoo artist in Hell’s Kitchen. Hemingway’s tattoos are special; even the President of the United States has Hemingway’s magical ink on her wrist. But it turns out being rich and famous isn’t always enough. 

But when Hemingway’s best friend, Grace, goes missing from her father’s apartment in Chelsea, the cops figure she’s the newest victim of the East River Ripper. Hemingway’s not willing to give Grace up as lost; he’s determined to find her and bring her home one way or another. But the East River has its own secrets and neither Hemingway’s peculiar brand of magic nor his stoic cop roommate may be enough to win Grace back. 

YA/NA fiction is my first love. I work with children; I see daily the challenges they face in this changing world. I’m also a true crime aficionado who can tell a creepy story. I write epic fantasy professionally for HarperVoyager, and LGBTQ+ fiction under my own label. I’d really like to focus long term on queer YA, beginning with Hemingway’s story, which I have brought to life with humor, tenderness, and the requisite amount of darkness.

At 65,000 words, EARNEST INK is my first foray into YA urban fantasy, and I could really use a mentor’s guidance. I want to do it right, and I want to do it well.

It hits most of the query ‘buttons’.

Who Hemingway is. (Trans, magical, tattoo artist, Manhattanite)
What Hemingway wants. (To save Grace)
What stands in his way. (Serial killer, his own magic)

It’s a fine query. I didn’t hate it, and neither did Leigh. But it wasn’t perfect. It needed more work. Quite a bit more work.

Leigh and I went back and forth for a few weeks, trying this and that, cutting here and adding there, polishing and tweaking. Leigh has the patience of a saint. THIS is the query that I put up for the 2017 PitchWars agent round:

While seventeen-year-old FTM Hemingway is making an excellent living as a tattoo artist in a near-future version of Hell’s Kitchen, the rest of the country is splintered and struggling in the wake of a war gone on for too long. Technology has collapsed, borders rise and fall overnight, and magic has awakened without rhyme, reason, or rule, turning average unwitting citizens into wielders of strange and specific strands of magic. 

Hemingway’s particular brand of magic has made him a household name. Not only is he a talented artist, but his work comes to life. Literally.

When NYC’s most infamous serial killer—the East River Ripper—abducts Hemingway’s best friend, Grace, he has only days to save her. Hemingway teams up with his stoic cop roommate to hunt for the killer and rescue Grace before she becomes the Ripper’s latest victim. But as the duo chase clues to the serial killer’s identity Hemingway begins to fear the magic he and the Ripper share might eventually corrupt him too.

Complete at 72,000 words, EARNEST INK is a Urban Fantasy with a noir flavor that will appeal to fans of VERONICA MARS and X-MEN. 

I write epic fantasy for HarperVoyager’s Impulse line, and publish LGBTQ fiction under my own small press label. You can find out more about me at www.sarahremy.com

You’ll notice my bio has been cut dramatically (hey, we all want to talk about ourselves, right?) to make room for story details, and the query is just generally more dynamic. Hemingway’s stakes are upped by bringing a taste of dystopian Manhattan into the mix. And upped yet again when the reader learns he has only days to save Grace.

The first version was fine. The second version is awesome. Needless to say, it earned me a juicy double handful of agent requests.

And almost every one of those agents came back to me with some version of: THIS IS GREAT BUT IT READS ADULT. The pacing is Adult. The verbiage is Adult. The stakes are Adult!

Actual footage of me reading agent responses:

I did warn you. This is not a post about writing queries. This is a post about walking uphill. Because that’s how I like to describe life as an author. It doesn’t matter if you’re at the top of the bestseller list, or submitting your MS to PitchWars, or sitting down in front of a keyboard for the first time ever with the beginnings of a story idea nipping at your thumbs. If you’re writing, you’re struggling forward, and at an uphill incline. Every once in a while, if you’re lucky, you get to stop, rest on your laurels, and enjoy the view. Most of the time you’re slipping on scree, taking three steps forward and one back. Some days that hill you’re climbing feels like a mountain.

What’s the goal, you ask? What’s the prize at the top of the hill? Can’t tell you, because it’s different for everyone. Often, for me, that seemingly unreachable dividend changes day by day. But I will say every successful writer I’ve met keeps climbing, even in the face of disappointment.

Which is what I did. I listened to the industry professionals. I stopped sulking, sat down in front of my computer, and addressed the sheer cliff wall that looked like my strengths and weaknesses. Then I rewrote Earnest Ink as Adult. I placed the manuscript with a few Adult CPs, ran it by a sensitivity reader, and sent it back out in the world.

It wasn’t the YA masterpiece I’d wanted to write. But it was the story I was uniquely qualified to tell. Oh, and I updated my query one last time, added an extra line:

This MS was selected for Pitch Wars 2017 in the YA category, but feedback suggested it would do better as an adult novel, so I’ve since rewritten with that direction in mind.

Sarah Remy/Alex Hall is a nonbinary, animal-loving, proud gamer Geek. Although Sarah reads widely across the Adult genre their passion is SFF (in all its forms, epic to urban, angst to fluff) and LGBTQ+ fiction.

Earnest Ink was picked up by NineStar Press shortly after it was rereleased into the wild as Adult Spec.

I’ve had sudden a sprouting (today’s update theme is ‘forest’) of mostly unexpected writing commitments in the last few months, which means my private projects either get pruned or pushed back. Spun‘s very close to ready, but I will be moving pub date from summer to fall. Until then, have a teaser! And if you haven’t yet been introduced to Corbin, David, Nell and Littleton’s beastly fiend, pick up a copy of book one: Beastly Manor.

The black forest in spring smelled heavily of the rich loam that made Littleton’s fields so fertile. Gigantic ferns grew in verdant clumps between tree and thorny briar, clogging the forest path with fronds the size of a small man. Purple hyacinth and silver-white Mary’s Stars blossomed bravely in between the ferns. The trees – ancient specimens with high, gnarled branches and leaves so green they were nearly black – were festooned with yellow vines. The vines reminded David uncomfortably of serpents complete with hungry, gaping mouths in the form of pink trumpet flowers.

Fat bumble bees flitted from flower to flower, buzzing industriously. Gray forest squirrels chattered in the canopy above, scolding human intrusion, while brightly colored birds flitted from branch to branch, calling alarm. David watched them all from flat on his back in the wagon, his leg propped on a pile of blankets, his head pillowed on Nell’s lap. Either the brandy was working on him at last or Nell’s soft singing was more witchery at work because the ferns, and the trees, and the forest creatures, and even Nell’s hard thigh, seemed very distant.  Although he knew his body was in distress, his brain felt muffled in layers of fog, indifferent.

“Opium and brandy is a dangerous mix,” he said, making the connection too late. He knew he should be furious, but all he felt was vague alarm. “You lied to me.”

“About emptying out your little vial and also about what was in your cup,” Nell agreed calmly. “I did intend to toss it, after I’d studied its effects for myself. Poppy juice is hard to come by, and I’m an inquisitive sort.” She paused before patting his brow. “Don’t fret. I watered the brandy down.”

David was not at all reassured. He started to scold Nell for being a thief – a dangerously uninformed one at that – when he was distracted by the abrupt appearance of Cat who dropped from the canopy above and landed in the wagon near David’s bandaged foot. Regarding David through narrow green-gold eyes, he began to purr.

“You know the Beast will pick his teeth with that animal’s bones if he catches him near the manor,” Corbin warned from where he walked alongside the mule at the head of the wagon.

Nell scoffed. “Cat goes where he likes. I’ve no say in the matter once he’s made up his mind. The Beast hasn’t taken him yet, and not for lack of trying.”

David, captured by Cat’s unblinking stare, was certain he saw the tom bare its fangs in a disturbingly human smirk.

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David had learned the principles of scrying at his uncle’s knee. He’d proved very poor it at, laughably unreliable. The things he glimpsed in the glass were impossibilities: towering buildings made of glass and iron, metal-skinned birds skimming high above even the uppermost roofline. An expansion of glass bridging a rift in red earth. Once, a giant clock face ticking atop a tower while figures swathed head-to-toe in white punted boats back and forth on a green river below.

“Imagination,” David’s uncle scolded him. “You have too much imagination. Steady your mind and try again!”

He was better at far-seeing than divination, but not by much. He could speak to a person through the mirror one room away, one house away, and on a good day one village over. While both his cousins, neither of whom had aspirations of joining the old magician on White Hill and spent more time practicing swordsmanship than the family business of poisons and potions, could scry Grand-mère in León.

“So much time spent admiring your pretty face!” They teased David as he glared into the glass. “Best hope the magician in his white château takes a shine to it as well, or he’ll never let you near his tower.”

David never met the old magician. He arrived at White Hill too late. Luckily Sir Thomas saw value in what he could do and did not judge him for what he could not.

“Use it sparingly,” he’d counseled as he’d admired the old mirror, a gift to David from his uncle – who thought himself very droll – on the day David had left Rouen for White Hill. “And for God’s sake always put yourself in a sacred circle first when you must. If you can’t control, do your best to contain.”

David did use the mirror sparingly, and while his technique improved with time, he never used it without first putting himself inside a protective circle.

He drew the circle now, limestone chalk on the cold stone floor. He didn’t need the light from the common room below. He could draw a sacred circle awake, asleep, blind and half-dead. Geometry and ritual he understand. Unlike far-seeing or divination, geometry and ritual were consistent, enduring and unchanging. The incantation fell from his lips without hesitation, his hand was steady as it moved across the floor. The chalk was a lodestone in his fist.

I keep a Keurig machine plugged into the wall by my mattress. While it brews – coffee, black, in my favorite travel mug – “Made in Boise” – I take my time  dressing for the day. It’s a ritual: boxer briefs and compression tank first, beneath a checked button-up and black denim jeans. It’s a becoming, as I rub a dollop of gel through my curls, styling by feel alone. The gel smells like vetiver, and was a Christmas gift from Thom. The little silver tube looks expensive, and although I don’t recognize the brand, I suspect she spent more for my vanity than any grunt surviving on government salary should.

I snag my steaming travel mug and take it with me into the loft. We share a bathroom. It’s not a problem. I only use the space to brush my teeth and shower and to take a shit or piss. Thom sometimes uses it as a retreat, when she needs privacy or time away from her murder wall. The bathroom’s got a lock. Thom sleeps on a futon in the main room, lives out of a closet near the kitchen. I can walk in on her any time. I think it must be like living in a fish bowl. She never complains, but on bad days she logs an hour or two straight behind the locked bathroom door.

At the moment, Thom’s a lump on the futon under a pile of mismatched quilts, blissfully unaware of the daylight creeping into the loft, puddling on our floor. The police scanner on the kitchen counter is silent, shut off. The perfume of freshly brewed coffee permeates the room, oozing from my apartment. It’s a peaceful scene, if I keep my back turned to the chalk map and polaroid photos on the north wall.

After I brush my teeth and use the toilet, I find my boots by the door where I left them and try to stamp them on without spilling coffee or waking my roommate. Then I tip toe out into the hallway, locking the bolt behind me. Thom’s not the vulnerable sort, but an unlocked door in the city, even in a secured building such as mine, is just asking for trouble.

It’s possible ‘zero draft’ is my favorite piece of write-speak. I hear it all the time from academics, and in the fan fiction community, and from my compatriots in various writing forums/coffee house clubs. In the world of plotsters and pantsters it’s an oft-repeated mantra by those of us who who prefer to just sit down in front of our keyboards and GO!, no outline required.

Yup, I love me some focused freewriting.

I also love to look back and see how my very rough ideas evolve from zero draft to first or second form. While the bones of the story usually remain the same – I always know from the beginning the tale I want to tell – settings, minor plot points, even characters may transform completely as I flesh out the final version.

You may have seen some of my earliest versions of Earnest Ink (zero draft was titled Sketchbook):

Bomb Blast
Sketchbook
Pink Jones

Compare those early ideas to draft two below and you can see how things have changed as Hemingway’s story has evolved. I’ve gone back and added in important pieces of plot, changed up some characters, and completely cut out minor background points in order to streamline the gist of the narrative.

The trick to wielding your zero draft wisely is to always remember it’s the barest of beginnings, a first attempt, the merest seed in the garden your novel will eventually become. Don’t let it constrain you. Rework, rewrite. Strike some pieces completely even as you polish others until they shine. A zero draft is unconscious creativity at its best. Draft one is where we pantsters face the nitty-gritty logistics of our craft.

Labor Day

The way I became famous is this: I was in Seattle on Labor Day when the bombs went off. In the middle of the resulting chaos someone snapped a photo of me giving CPR to a toddler wearing a gauzy purple tutu and tiny white Converse high-tops, and saved it to Twitter.

I wasn’t supposed to be in Seattle that weekend but at the last moment Don, my boss in Boise, decided to close Tank Tatts for the holiday. Outcast was playing Key Arena, and Don had two tickets burning a hole in his pocket – one recently unattached because his girlfriend had just dumped him when he refused to spend Labor Day floating the St. Joe river. I didn’t blame him; even in September St Joe’s is cold as fuck, and so, in my humble opinion, was his ex.

So, I had a buddy with a car and some extra cash in my pocket from some simple touch-up work I’d done beginning of the week, and a ticket to Outcast. We drove most of the night, taking shifts behind the wheel, and stopping twice at a Denny’s for pie and a piss, once in Coeur D’Alene and again in Cle Elum. We coasted out of the Cascades and into the Emerald City before morning rush hour.

As we were scoping a street spot to ditch Don’s ancient Honda Accord for the day, I watched the sun rise on the Space Needle. Sometimes I stop and think how I’m one of the last people who ever did see that.

We never made Key Arena but we did have coffee and bagels at Zeitgeist. After we hung around throwing bits of bread at the gulls in a nearby park. Around nine when the public market on Pike opened we wandered that way in search of distraction and cigarettes.

Later I learned that the seven devices were timed to go off all together at ten-thirty when downtown would be swarming with tourists and locals out for the morning, but the one buried in a trash can near Pike’s Seafood went off early.

There was no bang like you see in the movies or on television, just a blast of hot air and a rumble. The ground shook me off my feet and onto the damp pavement, newly hosed clean before market opening. I remember that the concrete was cold, and smelled like fish and lilies. After that everything was falling, pieces of glass and metal, fresh flowers and shellfish, people and bits of people. Part of a car tire, all shredded rubber split like two black-feathered wings, fell on my head from the sky. It hurt.

I remember that someone was screaming and I knew it wasn’t me because I was biting my lower lip so hard I could taste iron. It was an inhuman, despairing sort of howl and it frightened me badly so I crawled in the opposite direction, wanting to get away from the sound.

I ended up under an overturned table, surrounded by overturned florist buckets spilling water and bunches of candy-colored tulips. A man lay on his side next to me. I knew he was dead because where his chest should have been there was a mash of black and red gristle, and he sure as hell wasn’t breathing anymore. The little girl wearing the tutu was crumpled behind him in a puddle of water. She was on her stomach, head turned toward the man. Her eyes were wide open and the exact shade of mid-day Boise summer sky. The water and the pavement around her were turning pink.

My hands shook as I rolled her over. She wasn’t breathing either, but I couldn’t see any obvious reason she should be dead so I just did what we’d all learned in Mr. Miller’s first period high school health class and started kiddie CPR. Her mouth tasted of those cinnamon sugar donuts they used to sell from carts in the market.

I haven’t been able to stomach cinnamon sugar or donuts since.

That’s when the guy used his mobile to snap a photo. You can still find it online, obviously, and also in an antique frame on President Shannon’s desk. She showed me that herself, and said how she looks at it sometimes to remind herself that God works in mysterious, magical ways. I don’t believe in God, and I hate to see myself in photos even post-T, but by now I know better than to scoff at mystery.

The photo shows me bent over the girl, hands on her tiny breastbone, my ear to her mouth. She’s a fairy princess in purple tulle, her blonde hair plaited into a neat bun. Her white Converse were probably pristine when she put them on that morning, but in the photo the shoes are spattered with scarlet. It’s not her blood; it’s mostly mine. I’m bleeding from my nose where the tire hit me, and from the place in my thigh where a long shard of jagged metal sticks out like some sort of gruesome alien appendage.

In the shock, I didn’t feel the wound. I couldn’t hear anything because of the blast, so when the guy with the phone finally put down Twitter and scrambled across debris to help I didn’t get at first that he was trying to put pressure on my bleed. I would have punched him in the face for groping my thigh if I hadn’t been so busy saving the tiny ballerina’s life.

And I did, too. She started breathing again just before I passed out from blood loss. She’s a second grader in Bellevue now and at Christmas and on her birthday her mom sends me a card. The guy with the mobile phone who took the photo and then saved my life is called Greg. He’s a stockbroker who lost his wife, and dog, and luxury apartment in the attack when the five of the other six bombs went off ten minutes later as planned.

Don didn’t make it. His name is on the plaque at the Seattle Memorial. I bring him flowers and a pack of cigarettes every year on the anniversary of his death when the city flies me across country to read out the names of the dead from a podium in front of more cameras.

People come from all over the country, to hear my voice and see my face and, if they’re lucky enough to be able to afford a ticket, to watch me make magic.

 

Greg’s photo was everywhere for weeks after: on the internet, on the television, in print. My dad cut me out of the newspaper and threatened to hang the clipping on the wall near the TV but I convinced him that was probably in bad taste. Honest to shit I thought it would be my fifteen minutes of fame and then I could get back to everyday life in Boise, or at least as close to everyday life as anyone was allowed.

I was hardly the only Good Samaritan that Saturday. Five hundred and thirty-two people died in the bombing but many more escaped with their lives because someone stopped to help. I figured Greg’s photo would be forgotten when the next bit meme came around, and I could get busy trying to forget that one of the one hundred and sixty-one dead in Pike Place was my boss with the cold girlfriend and an extra Outcast ticket in his pocket.

But it didn’t happen that way at all. A few weeks after airspace was cleared again for domestic travel President Shannon rode Airforce One down to Boise and walked right into St. Luke’s where I was recovering from surgery and shook my hand. Then she asked me if I wouldn’t like to design a tattoo for remembrance and ink it myself on her left wrist where she could always see it. I was high on painkillers so of course I said yes.

Come New Year’s I was set up in the oval with my machine and more cameras all around, sick with nerves and hoping my fifteen minutes were about to time out. The tattoo I’d designed was simple, meant to go quickly, a minimalist tulip blossom and stem outline in black. I’m an artist – I’m good what I do – but when I finished up and scrubbed away Shannon’s blood with a wet gauze, it wasn’t my artistic talent that made everyone gasp.

It was the candy-hued flower rising in vibrant color above the outline I’d inked into the President’s wrist, a living snapshot hovering just above her dark flesh, attached and yet somehow separate. Startled, Shannon jerked away from my hand. The flower, drifting in full color above her wrist, went with her.

There, in the Oval office I smelled fish and lilies, and I tasted cinnamon sugar on my tongue. Everyone watching, from the members of the press corps, to the congressmen and senators and interns who’d popped in for the occasion, to the VP in his button up suit to President Shannon herself, understood something had changed in our world.

I only understood that and my fifteen minutes of fame weren’t clocking out any time soon.

 

 

Pink Jones

“Does it hurt?” the boy at my counter asks, biting his lip in concentration as he watches me work.

I’m perched on a swivel stool, disposable razor in hand. It’s too hot in my studio, even with the industrial fans whirling overhead and the door propped wide open. Evening light slants in through the door, and through the north-facing, floor-to-ceiling window panes that look out onto West 46. It’s a muggy, too warm for New York in September, and all of Hell’s Kitchen is wilting, including my client.

The girl in my chair is sweating down the crook of her jaw and under her chin. She’s got glitter paint on her eyelids and on her cheeks – a new fashion I just can’t quite get behind – and under my lights her perspiration looks like a smeared constellation.

I can’t remember the girl’s name, but that’s fine because customer relations isn’t my job. She wants a bee inked onto her collarbone, one of those tiny, fat winged bumblebees you find on good tequila bottles. It’s not her first tattoo – she has a rose on her ankle – but it’s her first from Earnest Ink and she’s eager, nervous, and a little drunk off the cheap wine she swallowed out of a belt flask before sitting in my chair.

Usually you’re not supposed to ink anyone who’s relied on liquid courage for balls, but this girl’s paid a lot of money for my services so I’m inclined to look the other way.

“Does it hurt?” the boy at my counter repeats with more emphasis. He’s leaning against the glass, leaving greasy fingerprints on the surface as he strains to get a better look at what I’m doing. I peek at him from under my eyelashes as I wipe sweat from my nose before I drip on the girl in my chair. He looks like one of the street kids that have taken to running in packs near the cruise terminals, sleeping in old, abandoned cargo containers and panhandling up and down the marina.

He’s skinny and small, hair dyed an unsettling violet and styled into spikes all over his head. He’s got a silver ring in his septum and more in his ears; his eyelashes are coated with purple mascara to match his hair and green glitter paint sparkles on his lids. His T shirt and jeans are torn and dirty and he’s got a pack of black market cigarettes rolled into one sleeve against his upper arm.

“No more than any other ink. Get off my counter, you’re leaving streaks.”

That’s Mandy, working customer relations from behind the shelter of our gigantic, old-school cash register. The register’s solid brass and fucking built like a tank and Mandy keeps pepper spray and a butterfly knife in the drawer with the cash in just in case. Mandy hates people in general, and Manhattanites in particular. She used to be a paralegal at a firm in Connecticut before she saw me on TV and decided she could make more money as my bodyguard and agent.

“Sorry.” The kid jerks away from the counter top as I lean back over the girl in my chair. He clears his throat. “I mean, I’ve never had a tattoo at all. Does it usually hurt?”

The girl in my chair twitches and giggles when I scrape the razor gently over her collarbone. A lazy breeze sneaks in through the open door, along with shouts and muffled laughter. It’s tourist season and outside Earnest Ink the sidewalks are busy with gawkers. Mostly they just take pictures under my sign or through the windows. If they’re stupid enough to come in without plenty of cash in hand Mandy chases them quickly out.

I’m guessing the street kid spent his last handful of dollars on the cigarettes rolled in his sleeve, so I’m not sure why Mandy’s letting him linger.

“Depends on the person, depends on where,” she drawls while I swab alcohol over flesh, disinfecting. The liquid’s cold and the girl in my chair shivers.

“Will that one hurt, the one he’s doing there?”

Mandy shifts restlessly behind her register. Bumblebee Girl is our last appointment of the day. It’s miserable hot and Mandy’s bored and probably hungry, and maybe that’s why she lets the kid stay, for entertainment. But she doesn’t really want to have a conversation. Probably she just likes the look of his hair and his eyes. Mandy’s forty-five and dresses like a grandmother in knitted cardigans and long skirts but she keeps up with the latest city fashions with an eagerness bordering on obsession.

“Yes,” I answer without looking up from my work. “On the collarbone, it will hurt.” I smile apologetically at my client but she only giggles more. Cheap wine has dyed her lips red. I test my machine, squeezing the trigger. It vibrates under pressure of my fingers.

“You him?” the kid asks eagerly. “Hemingway?”

I nod. Hemingway’s my surname, but it’s what I go by, have done for the last five years since I escaped Boise for the more forgiving big city.

“Huh.” He sounds reluctantly impressed. “Did you really do Artic Fox in their hotel room before their last show?”

Mandy snorts. Bee Girl blushes pink under her paint. I check my ink cup before ripping a pair of latex gloves from their box near my machine. I strip the gloves on one finger at a time, then check again to make sure they’re sound and sanitary.

“Matching ink, all five,” I agree. It hadn’t been a very exciting job. They’d been specific and unimaginative about what they wanted, and too stoned at the end to react much when the sailors’ swallows tethered to their biceps came spread their wings. “Photos in the red book, there. Take a look.”

I hear the kid open the book and flip through. I set my needle against Bee Girl’s collarbone and squeeze. The machine sends vibrations her bones and mine, together.

“How much?” the kid asks. “For a small one?”

“You’re not old enough,” Mandy retorts. “Come back in a few years and then we’ll talk.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Law’s eighteen on the island,” I say over the buzz of my machine. “I never break it.”

“It’s a stupid law,” the kid complains. “Are you sure you’re him? I expected someone…taller.”

“License is right there, in the window,” Mandy replies. “And rules are rules so fuck off and come back when you’ve grown pubes.”

Mandy can be a real bitch, but I don’t mind. Life can be a real bitch, too.

The kid takes her advice and fucks off, stomping his way out of the studio and into the stale afternoon. Under my needle the bumblebee begins to come to life.

 

We shut shop later than I’d planned. After Bumble Bee girl we get a walk-in, an Enlistee with a Platinum MasterCard in his wallet looking to celebrate turning forty. He wants his badge number done on his pectoral in typically gothic script. It’s the sort of thing I can easily freehand and it’s not every Enlistee who lives to see their fortieth birthday day so I nod Mandy’s way and she wipes his card. Like Bumblee Bee girl he sits quietly in my chair as I work, sweating. He flinches beneath my needle. His bare chest is muscular, the pale flesh pitted with small scars and dusted with freckles. He’s not large, but he’s solid after years in service. There’s gray in his close-clipped beard and sprinkled through his blonde buzz cut.

He closes his eyes. Mandy leaves her refuge behind the counter, crosses the studio, and firmly shuts the front door. A moment later I understand why; thunder rumbles, shaking our window panes. A gust of sudden wind blows a funnel of trash along the sidewalk. The muggy gray sky splits open and late evening becomes a twilight deluge. Pedestrians shout and scatter for cover. There are four more stories above Earnest Ink – old apartments now used mostly for storage – but I can hear the rattle of rain on the building’s roof through the radiator pipes we share.

“Summer in the city,” my client says, smiling grimly, as another bout of wind throws a spatter of rain against the windows. “Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

I refrain from pointing out we’re closer to fall than summer. Weather on the island in early autumn is always a crap shoot. And he’s not wrong – we wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The bell above the door jangles warning just before it cracks wide enough to allow the scent of wet city – old piss, cut grass, over-ripe produce and motor oil – into the studio. Grace slips in with the stink, wind-torn and half soaked, then pushed the door to and puts her back against it as to brace it against the storm.

“Jesus on a fucking stick,” she says over the buzz of my machine, “It’s like the fucking Amazon out there.”

The Enlistee in my chair muffles an amused noise, making me wonder if he’s seen the actual Amazon. It’s possible he has, probable even. The seven-digit badge number I’m etching into his skin begins with a 3, which means he’s been specially trained for off continent work, which explains how he’s got enough credit on his MasterCard to afford my services.

“Client,” Mandy warns Grace.

“Hemingway.” Grace groans. “Why are you still working? It’s Friday night. We’ve got a place to be. You promised.”

“Almost finished.” I pause and glance up, watching in amusement as she struggles to repair the damage wind and rain have done to her elaborate updo. She’s traded her day kit for a black T-shirt, purple tutu, rainbow tights and black tap shoes. Unsurprisingly, she’s got pink glitter paint on her mouth and on her cheeks.

Catching sight of my client, she arches one brow in silent surprise. I don’t blame her for astonishment. Most grunts would rather spend their reserve on sweets or a show, costly old-school comforts, escapism. The guy in my chair is maybe one of three Enlistees I’ve inked since I set up shop in Hell’s Kitchen. Either he’s an ascetic or someone in Washington really likes him.

“Don’t rush,” Grace says, meaning the opposite, before settling herself in the comfy red velvet settee I keep on hand for visitors and afternoon naps, and taking out her mobile. Thunder rumbles. Rain on the glass makes it seem like the studio is under water. “Not like Pink Jones will play Cleo’s again any time soon. Fuck me. Please God let the rain keep the paps away.”

I look down at my client. He stares back, eyes now open, concerned. His irises are so dark as to be almost black but for flecks of rust. He’s big enough, and strong enough, to crush me into chalk if he decides I’m taking advantage. There’s a lot of money between us and at this point there’s no going back.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I promise, smiling gentle reassurance. “At Earnest Ink, perfection happens in its own time.”

Bullshit, of course, but he buys it hook line and sinker.

 

By the time I’m finally finished and we’re cashed out and closed up it’s dark outside. Mandy waves a terse good-bye and makes for the subway at 52nd, head bowed against the wind. Grace is sulking loudly without making a sound but I’m immune to her dramatics. Grace and I used to have sex before we decided we were better off as friends without benefits; I know her moods better than my own.

Grace is a theater major at AADA when she’s not working her father’s Chelsea art gallery. She’d sell her soul for even the smallest a role off-Broadway but she’s lacks the subtlety needed for that lucky break. Grace over-acts everything, even her orgasms are a production. After a while it’s enough to wear a person out.

It rains on us all the way to Cleo’s but luckily the walk’s not far. Two blocks east of Earnest Ink we leave Hell’s Kitchen for the more massive city skyline near the lower end of Central Park. Here it feels like all of Manhattan is under construction, scaffolding and blue builder’s wrap covering many of the sky scrapers from top to bottom. It’s late enough in the evening that the nail guns and jack hammers and generators have gone quiet, but a flock of long-necked cranes loom in the rain, lit from the bottom by white security spotlights, casting strange shadows over the sidewalk.

The sidewalk on both sides of 8th Avenue are crowded with pedestrians heading home from work, or out for dinner or to market. The shops that used to stay open 24 hours a day close at 8, an hour before curfew stops the subway running. Yellow cabs inch north along the wet pavement, nose to tail. Their windows are mirrored for privacy; even close up I can’t see the drivers or their fares behind the silver glass but I can my own reflection staring back: short dark hair, pale eyes too large in a thin face. Rain drops are beading on my eyelashes, and on the over-sized, vintage Pink Jones hoodie I threw on hours earlier before leaving for work. The band’s logo – a long nosed, cartoonish armadillo smoking a large blunt – is reflected in reverse across my chest, one eye closed in a perpetual wink.

I glance away. Grace, a several steps ahead as usual, slows to grab my hand and tug me on, turning sideways to keep her tutu from getting squished in the crowd. She thinks I don’t know she’s wearing it because of me, a subtly gruesome reminder, her ballerina princess accessory against my brooding dark jeans and black boots. Grace might scoff out loud at paparazzi and autograph hounds, but she likes to show me off whenever we’re out because my fame usually gets her free drinks and free food.

Grace, for all her family’s old money, is broke as shit.

Cleo’s is midtown’s worst-kept secret. Located in the basement of The Plaza Hotel, recently renovated, the club’s so new it’s still shiny and clean in a blemished city. The club’s owner, a retired Los Angeles movie mogul, has enough clout to bring in acts from all over the country, interstate travel visas be damned. He must be greasing more than a few palms at the Port of Entry, but nobody on either end’s complaining and Cleo’s keeps landing all the best bands, Pink Jones being only the latest in a string of the club’s musical successes.

Back of The Plaza on 59th Manhattan’s pre-curfew crowd has turned into a well-behaved mob. Seems like half of midtown has turned out to catch a glimpse of Jones or her bandmates. Undeterred by the wind and rain people press up against temporary barriers put up outside the club’s entryway specifically to keep gawkers back. A handful of Enlisted linger, wary of trouble, but the looky-loos seem content to stand in the weather, mobiles in hand, taking snapshots of Cleo’s neon sign and breaking occasionally into snippets of the band’s latest hit.

Grace’s fingers tighten on mine. As I’m struggling to pull my hood one-handed up and disguise my face I catch a flash of violet out of the corner of my eye: it’s the street kid from earlier in the day, the one who left smears on Mandy’s counter while he made fun of my height. He’s crammed up against one of the concrete barriers, squeezed between a group of star-struck teens wearing head-to-toe faux leather and Pink Jones ribbons in their hair, and a tall woman with a press tag around her neck and a camera in her hands.

The boy shows me straight white teeth in a wide grin. The rain has done nothing to subdue the garish color in his hair.

“Hemingway!” he shouts, loud enough to be heard over the weather, the muted rumbling of the crowd, and the angry horns of yellow cabs one street over. “Are you here for work of to see the show? Hemingway! Are you gonna ink Jones?” He laughs.

Curious faces turn our direction. A dip my chin but too late. A hundred flash bulbs go off, turning rain drops into tiny stars. Dazzled, I blink. Someone else shouts my name. People in the crowd clap and tamp their feet. The Enlisted peer my direction, mouths and eyes flat beneath their visors.

“Who the fuck is that?” Grace wants to know as she pulls me hastily out of view, down several steps off street level toward the club’s recessed door. “Do you know him?”

“Just some street punk,” I hazard, baffled. “Never met him before today.”

 

 

 

It’s Friday, and time for my final Friendsgiving Feedback critique! Today’s entry also came in very close to perfect. Here is how THE PENDRAGON’S SON hit the Friendsgiving Feedback inbox:

Dear [Agent’s name]:

Seventeen-year-old Vael meets his long-lost brother, Mordred, for the first time, only to discover that their supposedly unchangeable fate is to become steadfast enemies.

After years with only swords and tomes as companions, Prince Vaeldhei finds his first true friendship with the arrival of his surly half-brother, Mordred—a boy even more familiar with rejection and loneliness than Vael. However, an ancient prophecy haunts Mordred’s footsteps―he is destined to kill their father, King Arthur, in a battle that will destroy Britain. Vael may not believe in fate’s power, but that means little to the superstitious kingdom seeking his older brother’s death.

Though Mordred’s sorceress mother attempts to use him as a pawn in her plot to obliterate Camelot, Vael vows to show Mordred that destinies can be chosen. Vael fights her and her manipulations at every turn, even resorting to enlisting her alluring but devious apprentice for aid. But the sorceress is no easy foe. If Vael cannot free Mordred from the sorceress’ twisted grasp, he will have to watch his father and Camelot fall or kill the only friend he’s ever had—his brother.

THE PENDRAGON’S SON is a standalone YA fantasy with series potential, complete at 90,200 words. An excerpt from this manuscript received the Superior Award from the Association of Christian Schools International (ACSI) Creative Writing Contest and the ACSI Regional Creative Writing Festival. I have a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a minor in literature from the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey. I live in Pennsylvania with my husband, my reptiles, and my books.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

And here it is, cleaned up and shiny:

Title: THE PENDRAGON’S SON

Genre: YA Fantasy

Word Count: 90,000

Dear [Agent’s name]:

Seventeen-year-old Vael meets his long-lost brother, Mordred, for the first time, and discovers that they are doomed to become steadfast enemies.

After years with only swords and tomes as companions, reclusive Prince Vaeldhei finds true friendship with the arrival of his surly half-brother, Mordred—a boy even more familiar with rejection and loneliness than Vael. But an ancient prophecy haunts Mordred’s footsteps―he is destined to kill their father, King Arthur, in a battle that will destroy Britain. Vael may not believe in fate, but that means little to the superstitious people of Camelot, most of whom wish Mordred dead.*

Mordred’s sorceress mother, Morgause,** means to use him as a pawn in her plot to obliterate King Arthur and Britain. Vael vows to prove to Mordred that destinies can be chosen. He battles Morgause and her manipulations at every turn, even enlisting the sorceress’s alluring but devious apprentice for aid. But Morgause is no easy foe. If Vael cannot free Mordred from her wicked influence, he will have to watch King Arthur and Camelot fall, or kill the only friend he’s ever had—his brother.

THE PENDRAGON’S SON is a standalone YA fantasy with series potential. An excerpt from this manuscript received the Superior Award from the Association of Christian Schools International (ACSI) Creative Writing Contest and the ACSI Regional Creative Writing Festival. I have a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a minor in literature from the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey. I live in Pennsylvania with my husband, my reptiles, and my books.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

*By bringing the people of Camelot into it from the beginning you leave me with questions. Do they know about the prophecy? Do they know Mordred has arrived? Do they torment Mordred? Are they afraid of Mordred? Does Vael have to protect Mordred? Do they want to kill Mordred? SO many questions. I capped off the sentence with my own guess, but you’ll want to adjust it to the story.
 
**I prefer to use epithets sparingly whenever possible. In giving Mordred’s mother a name your paragraph flows more naturally.
 
All in all very well done. I switched up a few words for clarity’s sake. Extra points for evil enchantresses, family drama, and reptile mention. Because I keep three tortoises myself.

For the other Friendsgiving Feedback critiques up to this point, visit:

Michelle Hauck, author of GRUDGING and FAITHFUL

Laura Heffernan, author of AMERICA’S NEXT REALITY STAR

Liana Brooks, author of HEROES AND VILLAINS series

Emily B. Martin, author of WOODWORKER and ASHES TO FIRE

And don’t forget our #FFCHATs on later today at 4pm and 8pm EST. I’ll be driving east of the Cascades during the first, but will attend the second on my mobile as I dash between Christmas parties. I can’t wait to talk writing and queries!