This is the week a blogger is opening her site to 13 agents to bid on manuscripts. The only info they will have for judging is a log line (which we discussed previously) and the first 250 words of the book. So what do you think we will be talking about today?
The chances of getting through the first round is slim. Not because of the competition (although it will be stiff) but because of logistics. She is accepting 50 submissions during two separate times. Once when I will be in my car driving to work and the other at a time I will surely be distracted by one my co-workers. If you make it down to the final 25, then you are put on the block to be auctioned.
Why am I telling you this? Because I need you! I need you to read the first 250 words and tell me if you would read on? If not, why? Most of the starts are intense drama like “There was a breeze blowing the hanging body in the wind.” Well, of course you want to know who it is, how the body got up there, and why did someone do it. This is what I will be up against. Can this 250 words hold up next to that?
You’ve read the log line, now here is the beginning of “Spite.” Please, please, please tell me your opinion.
Five years is a long time to wait for revenge. People say it’s a dish best served cold, like it’s a choice or something. If I reacted in the moment, it could’ve been dismissed with other high school memories. Instead, with my hate chilled to the bone, tonight’s going to leave a mark.
A production assistant with a combed hairdo reminiscent of a fifth grader’s class picture pokes his head behind the white wood door of my dressing room.
“You’re on in ten, Ms. Stryker,” he says.
My hand waves above my head in a non-verbal commitment while I watch the assistant’s head bounce up and down in my mirror’s reflection. The appearance of a nonchalant rock star keeps blood thirsty media sharks ravenous for anything they can get. Any sign of weakness is like a bucketful of chum thrown into the waters.
Trish, my make-up artist, brushes a puff of bronze over my forehead to keep down the shine. A mirror enveloped in bright lights reflects a flawlessly painted face punctuated by classic cat eyes drawn in black liner. My hair flows down my back like a rich chocolate river with shimmering waves from the lights above. It’s all too perfect, like a dream you aren’t sure is real.
“Can you believe you are going to be on the Kurt Davis show? This is the biggest thing in late night,” says Trish. The bristles of the brush poke lightly against the tip of my nose in her downward swipe.