Carrie Harris is having a seriously awesome auction going on right now with agent critiques/phone calls, books, swag and MORE! Go check it out! http://t.co/sp5eu6Z
From Carrie's website:
"BAD TASTE IN BOYS lurched onto shelves on July 12th! To celebrate, I’m running an online event called Night of the Giving Dead to benefit the kids of C.S. Mott Children’s Hospital! Bid on over 80 items, including signed books, ARCs, and critiques. Participants can enter to win one of two grand prizes: a Kindle or a six month writing mentorship. The event runs from July 11 through July 27th."
And the bids are low - I mean $150 for a FULL ms crit & a 30 min phonecall with Suzie Townsend? Ridiculous! Go bid NOW!
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
First Pages Contest with Agent Judge Victoria Marini
First off, congratulations to everyone who entered my first page contest with literary agent Victoria Marini. We were absolutely amazed by the amount of talent that you all had! Victoria wanted me to express her gratitude to all of you for entering her contest. You made her job picking the winners a very, very difficult one! From her pool of semi-finalists, she selected the winners based on a combination of how strongly she felt about the voice and style, and how badly she wanted to keep reading.
THE WINNER OF THE FULL MANUSCRIPT REQUEST WITH CRITIQUE IS....
(Please email your query and full manuscript to Ms. Marini at victoria.gsliterary (at) gmail.com. Be sure to indicate your winner status of this contest in the subject line )
I used to imagine that confessing to murder would take some of the guilt away, make the act easier to live with. I was wrong.
I realize now that it doesn’t really make much difference whether I confessed or kept the secret. The man was dead and I could not bring him back. Not that I’d want to, I mean the world is no worse off without him. I can say that perhaps it shouldn’t have been my decision to make the world better in that respect. Yes, I’m pretty sure I should have let God make that move.
But it doesn’t matter now. The man’s dead and my confessing certainly didn’t bring him back. It only put me behind bars and left other lives vulnerable to the decisions I’ve made about who should live and who should die.
That’s why you should know that I’ve decided to leave this place.
Playing God is not just a game anymore.
Sincerely,
Inmate 54763
Jenna Adamson
Detective Tambri Carlson slapped the letter atop a jumbled pile of reports and lifted her black desk phone. Within seconds she had juvenile detention on the phone. A siren blared in the background and voices screamed over the intercom making it nearly impossible to hear the man who answered.
“We were just about to call,” he admitted when she identified herself. “We think we’ve lost one of your girls.”
“Lost?” Tambri glared at the letter on her desk.
“We’re not exactly sure yet.”
Tambri’s fingers lost feeling on the handset. “Jenna Adamson escaped. She did not get lost.”
FIRST RUNNER UP - FULL MANUSCRIPT REQUEST (NO CRITIQUE):
(Please email your query and full manuscript to Ms. Marini at victoria.gsliterary (at) gmail.com. Be sure to indicate your winner status of this contest in the subject line )
"You shouldn’t do that.” The Boy narrowed his eyes and glared with all the indignation called for in such a situation.
"Do what?" The target of his fury, a girl no older than he, swung her legs back and forth.
At twelve and not old enough for a title, the Boy kept his focus on himself, but he had stopped his daily walk through the cemetery at a sight even he could not ignore.
The girl had brown eyes, but as for her other features, he had not taken the time to notice them. He found something else far more interesting. "What you’re doing, sitting on that headstone there!"
"And why shouldn’t I?" Her question seemed genuine, but the Boy could not fathom how she could not see the issue with her actions.
"Because. Someone died there."
The Brown-Eyed Girl brushed an orange leaf from the headstone. "No they didn’t. Not one of these people died here. They all died at home in their beds, or abroad in the world, or wherever it suited the world best to have them die."
The Boy paused in surprise at her response, but could not deny she was right. "Well, I’m sure that person doesn’t want you sitting on his headstone.”
"Oh, I’m quite certain she doesn’t mind."
The Boy jolted. Who did she think she was? He puffed up his chest. "And how can you be so certain?"
She ran her fingers through her hair and shook it loose. "Because,” she said, “this headstone is mine.”
SECOND RUNNERS UP (2): PARTIAL MANUSCRIPT REQUESTS (NO CRITIQUE):
(Please email your query and first half of your manuscript to Ms. Marini at victoria.gsliterary (at) gmail.com. Be sure to indicate your winner status of this contest in the subject line )
Weightlessness is a funny thing.
One moment ago, Dean and I were joking about the stupid, lime-green dress his ex-girlfriend wore to prom. His cheeks dimpled when he laughed.
Now his car skids over the embankment. Our bodies are a blur of pink satin and black tuxedo. My insides lurch and jerk, like knots trying to untie themselves. Dean’s face is a blank sheet of confusion and me, well, I don’t know how I look but I’m sure it isn’t pretty.
The free fall ends when we hit the tree. All that remains is pain and panic. And noise. All kinds of noise. Screams, creaks, and cracks from all sides. I can’t feel my legs or arms, but I’m standing and screaming and tugging at the crumpled car door.
Dean’s stuck. I have to get him out.
Gas fumes sting my nose and burn my chest. I tear the door off the car and nearly tear Dean’s arm off, too. He tumbles out and I drag him toward the field. The car explodes, flames consuming it in a burst of red and orange. The force throws us back from the wreck. I sit in the long grass in my tattered cocktail dress, barely aware of the hot metal in my hands or Dean unconscious at my side.
I can’t tear my eyes away from my left arm.
It’s ruined.
The skin is ripped open, gaping from wrist to elbow, but I hardly bleed.
Shock is an understatement.
Why am I not bleeding? I try to make sense of it, but my arm isn’t right. Something more is wrong than just the wound . . . .
Everything is a lie––their faces, their words, their clothes, the books on their desks. It's a barrier as fragile as the surface of a bubble.
Underneath it, I see their fears, their secrets, the feelings they hide. I know their loneliness; it emanates from their minds, building from a whisper to a murmur to a scream that ricochets around in my skull.
One of those shrieking souls is my own. On the inside, we're all screaming.
But I've learned that I'm different from them. I accept the scathing mess of words their minds throw at me: freak, girl, freak, witch, goth, freak.
I don't care what they think, as long as they never know the truth. They can think I chose to dye my hair blood-red, that my reflective eyes are contacts. They can think I wear long sleeves because I cut myself, even though I'm hiding something very different from the furious red slashes they'd expect.
I don't blame them. It’s human to make judgments. If I had a choice, I would make them, too.
Instead, I know every detail about everyone––who hates who, who's sleeping with who, who's doing drugs, whose parents hit them. Thoughts and dreams and memories and fears burst inside my head like fireworks … and someday, I won't be able to take it anymore.
I never asked for this. I sure as hell never wanted it. My whole life, I've kept it inside. And it's killing me, crawling through my veins like a disease.
How long before it takes over––before it takes me, like it took my mother?
HONORABLE MENTIONS:
(Honorable mention winners - Please query Ms. Marini directly, be sure to include your status as an honorable mention in my contest to ensure a personal response. Be sure to include your first three chapters along with your query.)
Thank you again to everyone who entered the contest. Hopefully you enjoyed the critique portion and used that as an opportunity to hone and polish your manuscript! I'm humbled at the level of talent I have seen entering these contests. You all are amazing.
If you didn't win this contest, Victoria invites you to query her following her submission guidelines.
THE WINNER OF THE FULL MANUSCRIPT REQUEST WITH CRITIQUE IS....
(Please email your query and full manuscript to Ms. Marini at victoria.gsliterary (at) gmail.com. Be sure to indicate your winner status of this contest in the subject line )
Premeditated (YA - 90k Words) by Ryan Hunter
I used to imagine that confessing to murder would take some of the guilt away, make the act easier to live with. I was wrong.
I realize now that it doesn’t really make much difference whether I confessed or kept the secret. The man was dead and I could not bring him back. Not that I’d want to, I mean the world is no worse off without him. I can say that perhaps it shouldn’t have been my decision to make the world better in that respect. Yes, I’m pretty sure I should have let God make that move.
But it doesn’t matter now. The man’s dead and my confessing certainly didn’t bring him back. It only put me behind bars and left other lives vulnerable to the decisions I’ve made about who should live and who should die.
That’s why you should know that I’ve decided to leave this place.
Playing God is not just a game anymore.
Sincerely,
Inmate 54763
Jenna Adamson
Detective Tambri Carlson slapped the letter atop a jumbled pile of reports and lifted her black desk phone. Within seconds she had juvenile detention on the phone. A siren blared in the background and voices screamed over the intercom making it nearly impossible to hear the man who answered.
“We were just about to call,” he admitted when she identified herself. “We think we’ve lost one of your girls.”
“Lost?” Tambri glared at the letter on her desk.
“We’re not exactly sure yet.”
Tambri’s fingers lost feeling on the handset. “Jenna Adamson escaped. She did not get lost.”
FIRST RUNNER UP - FULL MANUSCRIPT REQUEST (NO CRITIQUE):
(Please email your query and full manuscript to Ms. Marini at victoria.gsliterary (at) gmail.com. Be sure to indicate your winner status of this contest in the subject line )
The Girl With Brown Eyes (YA Fantasy 84k words) by Tracy
"You shouldn’t do that.” The Boy narrowed his eyes and glared with all the indignation called for in such a situation.
"Do what?" The target of his fury, a girl no older than he, swung her legs back and forth.
At twelve and not old enough for a title, the Boy kept his focus on himself, but he had stopped his daily walk through the cemetery at a sight even he could not ignore.
The girl had brown eyes, but as for her other features, he had not taken the time to notice them. He found something else far more interesting. "What you’re doing, sitting on that headstone there!"
"And why shouldn’t I?" Her question seemed genuine, but the Boy could not fathom how she could not see the issue with her actions.
"Because. Someone died there."
The Brown-Eyed Girl brushed an orange leaf from the headstone. "No they didn’t. Not one of these people died here. They all died at home in their beds, or abroad in the world, or wherever it suited the world best to have them die."
The Boy paused in surprise at her response, but could not deny she was right. "Well, I’m sure that person doesn’t want you sitting on his headstone.”
"Oh, I’m quite certain she doesn’t mind."
The Boy jolted. Who did she think she was? He puffed up his chest. "And how can you be so certain?"
She ran her fingers through her hair and shook it loose. "Because,” she said, “this headstone is mine.”
SECOND RUNNERS UP (2): PARTIAL MANUSCRIPT REQUESTS (NO CRITIQUE):
(Please email your query and first half of your manuscript to Ms. Marini at victoria.gsliterary (at) gmail.com. Be sure to indicate your winner status of this contest in the subject line )
Confessions of a Teenage Cyborg (YA Sci-Fi 71k words) by Marcy Kate
Weightlessness is a funny thing.
One moment ago, Dean and I were joking about the stupid, lime-green dress his ex-girlfriend wore to prom. His cheeks dimpled when he laughed.
Now his car skids over the embankment. Our bodies are a blur of pink satin and black tuxedo. My insides lurch and jerk, like knots trying to untie themselves. Dean’s face is a blank sheet of confusion and me, well, I don’t know how I look but I’m sure it isn’t pretty.
The free fall ends when we hit the tree. All that remains is pain and panic. And noise. All kinds of noise. Screams, creaks, and cracks from all sides. I can’t feel my legs or arms, but I’m standing and screaming and tugging at the crumpled car door.
Dean’s stuck. I have to get him out.
Gas fumes sting my nose and burn my chest. I tear the door off the car and nearly tear Dean’s arm off, too. He tumbles out and I drag him toward the field. The car explodes, flames consuming it in a burst of red and orange. The force throws us back from the wreck. I sit in the long grass in my tattered cocktail dress, barely aware of the hot metal in my hands or Dean unconscious at my side.
I can’t tear my eyes away from my left arm.
It’s ruined.
The skin is ripped open, gaping from wrist to elbow, but I hardly bleed.
Shock is an understatement.
Why am I not bleeding? I try to make sense of it, but my arm isn’t right. Something more is wrong than just the wound . . . .
Walking Shadow (YA Fantasy 98k words) by Brigid Gorry-Hines
Everything is a lie––their faces, their words, their clothes, the books on their desks. It's a barrier as fragile as the surface of a bubble.
Underneath it, I see their fears, their secrets, the feelings they hide. I know their loneliness; it emanates from their minds, building from a whisper to a murmur to a scream that ricochets around in my skull.
One of those shrieking souls is my own. On the inside, we're all screaming.
But I've learned that I'm different from them. I accept the scathing mess of words their minds throw at me: freak, girl, freak, witch, goth, freak.
I don't care what they think, as long as they never know the truth. They can think I chose to dye my hair blood-red, that my reflective eyes are contacts. They can think I wear long sleeves because I cut myself, even though I'm hiding something very different from the furious red slashes they'd expect.
I don't blame them. It’s human to make judgments. If I had a choice, I would make them, too.
Instead, I know every detail about everyone––who hates who, who's sleeping with who, who's doing drugs, whose parents hit them. Thoughts and dreams and memories and fears burst inside my head like fireworks … and someday, I won't be able to take it anymore.
I never asked for this. I sure as hell never wanted it. My whole life, I've kept it inside. And it's killing me, crawling through my veins like a disease.
How long before it takes over––before it takes me, like it took my mother?
HONORABLE MENTIONS:
(Honorable mention winners - Please query Ms. Marini directly, be sure to include your status as an honorable mention in my contest to ensure a personal response. Be sure to include your first three chapters along with your query.)
Whispers of the Pines by Colleen (theartgirl)
Figment by Tricia Clasen
Naked Eye by Theresa Milstein
Drop Dead, Gorgeous by Audrey
Regarding Resurrection by Sleeplessblog
Thank you again to everyone who entered the contest. Hopefully you enjoyed the critique portion and used that as an opportunity to hone and polish your manuscript! I'm humbled at the level of talent I have seen entering these contests. You all are amazing.
If you didn't win this contest, Victoria invites you to query her following her submission guidelines.
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