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  1. #21
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    Re: Page One -- Genre: speculative/urban fantasy

    I don't stress over rejection letters, especially personal ones as it means I am doing something right.

    In this case, she was not rejecting my ability to write but rather the genre; which is cool. The fact that she asked for any other work I may have which fits into what she is currently looking for is a good sign. She actually said she was 'well invested in the sample 10 pages I sent her' but that is is not the specific genre she wanted. I have written a historical-fantasy and her bio said fantasy but she is now looking for much more specific being urban-fantasy and non-fiction.

    In my eyes, anything that is not a form rejection is a good thing

    I replied to her thanking her for the personalised nature of the reply and also letting her know I have nothing 'in the works' close to what she is currently look for however, (I added), I will keep an eye on her preferences in the future and when I am ready with my second or third MS, I will look to approach her again.

    Given this will be years from now, she will forget who I am in a matter of weeks, BUT the email history will remain and may help should I need it, down the track

    I may have sent you 2x PM's
    I am sure I sent you one but there was no history of it.......... so just in case I sent a second ! lol

    Look forward to hearing what you think
    if the wine is sour – throw it out

    SatyricalRaven



  2. #22
    Senior Member Zoe Saadia's Avatar
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    Re: Page One -- Genre: speculative/urban fantasy

    You know what, I've re-read it. I think the "landing" bit has confused me

    The re-read, again, made me want to read more (tu)
    Pre-Columbian North America

    http://blog.zoesaadia.com/

  3. #23
    Senior Member Zoe Saadia's Avatar
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    Re: Page One -- Genre: speculative/urban fantasy

    Nah, a person can dream. I know exactly how I want to end up - a next James Clavell, no more no less (ah, what the hell, why not more? lol)
    A person can dream
    Pre-Columbian North America

    http://blog.zoesaadia.com/

  4. #24
    Senior Member Zoe Saadia's Avatar
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    Re: Page One -- Genre: speculative/urban fantasy

    Hey Raven, sorry to hear!!!
    Hope you query more than one agent, as I'm sure one will see the potential (from reading the many-QL-attempts I know I would definitely read your novel(tu))
    Pre-Columbian North America

    http://blog.zoesaadia.com/

  5. #25
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    Re: Page One -- Genre: speculative/urban fantasy

    Thanks Zoe,

    it's all good. Part of my internship

    And thanks for the support.
    if the wine is sour – throw it out

    SatyricalRaven

  6. #26
    Senior Member Zoe Saadia's Avatar
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    Re: Page One -- Genre: speculative/urban fantasy

    I can sympathize. I'll be there soon enough, now that the QL is beginning to take shape.
    I'm not sure I'll be able to deal with the rejections in any dignified manner
    Pre-Columbian North America

    http://blog.zoesaadia.com/

  7. #27
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    Re: Page One -- Genre: speculative/urban fantasy

    .

  8. #28
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    Re: Page One -- Genre: speculative/urban fantasy

    Well, I'm bored and indulging my narcissism. Here's the remainder of Chapter One's opening scene. Crit. Enjoy. Discuss as you see fit. Thanks, everyone.

    Aliens? Original. If youth was the future of the planet, it was doomed.

    “Where--” Weeks without using his vocal chords made stringing words together tough. Not painful, frustrating. “How far am I from Seaside?”

    “You’re in Oceanside. Seaside’s about fifty miles that way.” Ron pointed north but held his attention on Theo. “Is that where you’re meeting the mother ship?”

    Fifty miles? Well done, Theo. He still had a short journey to the cave he’d stored his gear in. Options were limited. Naked and empty-handed, he’d not get far on the road. He could get there in under an hour, running straight up the beach. But witnesses reporting a multicolored blur charging along the Oregon coastline might attract The Board’s agents. Plus, without his supplies the poisonous environment would hinder his abilities. And soon.

    Theo observed the ocean. “Okay, then.” He walked back toward the breaking waves.

    The peach-fuzzed kid who hadn’t talked fell in at his side. “Mister, I don’t think you’re an alien. My friends are douche bags.”

    “You’re right, kid, on both points.” Theo raised his eyebrows. “What exactly do you think I am, then? Merman?”

    “I’m not an idiot. Don’t believe in fairytales. Don’t believe in anything unless I see it.”

    “And what do you see?” He stopped. Looking at the boy broke his heart. Such potential.

    “A guy who showed up in the ocean, out of nowhere. And I’ve been sitting on this beach for over an hour. So, please don’t patronize me and tell me you just went in and I didn’t notice.” The boy’s purity reminded Theo exactly why he’d chosen this impossible task.

    “All right. What else?”

    “I see a guy about to disappear right back into the ocean. What should I make of that?”

    The hunger for the truth glistened in the kid's eyes; if only it was that simple, feeding it to him. Then again, what was the harm? He needed to practice talking anyway.

    “I live in there, off and on, three months out of the year.”

    “Really. Awful long time to hold your breath.”

    “I don’t have to. I just have to believe. The human mind can accomplish a lot with that.”

    “Sure, and you can fly too, right?”

    “No.”

    “Well why not?”

    Sarcasm: belief’s archenemy. “Because, I haven’t been able to convince myself of that one.”

    The boy remained quiet, contemplating, then laughed. “If you live out there, how come your skin isn’t all prunified?”

    “Same reason I can breathe water.” This was growing tiresome. They always refused to accept what they wanted most. The world wasn’t ready for the truth.

    Yet.

    “Forget it, kid. I’m insane. I escaped from a nuthouse. And now--” Theo waived his hands, clucked like a chicken, and shoved the boy to the sand. “I’m going to drown myself. Call the cops.”

    He marched into the water, stopped shoulder-deep and took a last glance at his audience. The other two gathered around the one he’d pushed. One of them tried helping the kid up, and the other dialed on his cell phone. The fallen boy stared. The sadness on his face was unhampered. And it strengthened Theo’s vow.

    Hang in there. The proof you need is coming. I promise. He sank, allowing the ocean to swallow him whole.

    Readjusting his lungs before darting north, he walked along the sea floor, pondering the next name on the list of potential threats. Was David Sullivan the one? Something in Sullivan’s file had piqued Theo’s hope, so much that he’d spent seven years prepping for this encounter. Tapping into his mind would’ve simplified things, but Sullivan’s was likely monitored. Yeah, They were watching.

    The Board of Knowledge was always watching.

    With telepathy out, Theo had to devise plans: landward two weeks early; sterilize everything--from the van’s interior, to the loft‘s every square foot; fly in the crew; study traffic patterns and pore over weather reports. In a city such as Portland, Oregon, where rain fell seven months a year, sunshine had an adverse effect on traffic. Factoring details were crucial in this game. Particularly time.

    He smiled, shooting bubbles upward. Timing is everything--his founding-father-ancestor’s strict family doctrine. Nostalgia kicked around in Theo’s head as it always did prior to a job. When his father told his brother Jonathan he’d maintain the family tradition, Theo had hidden in the den’s oak chest. Peeking through the keyhole, he hadn’t believed what he saw. He still smelled the lacquer, felt the enveloping darkness, heard his father’s words.

    Believe wholeheartedly, son, or the gifts that lie within will never come to light.

    Theo fled from home that day at thirteen-years-old. He never returned. After nearly twenty-three years his family still pursued him, not wishing for a heartfelt reunion, to dispose of him.

    Enough reminiscing. His body melded with the ocean’s weight, completing the transition. He centered himself and barreled in the direction of change.

    #

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