How To Find An Agent

It was nearly a year ago that I signed with my agent, Marlene Stringer of The Stringer Literary Agency, www.stringerlit.com.  She is a fantastic, hardworking, dedicated advocate for my books, and I realize how fortunate I am to have her on my team. Since last year, many people have asked me how I found Marlene, and I have to admit it was a combination of preparedness, research, and pure, dumb luck.  I can’t help you with the dumb luck part, but I can share with you what I have learned about the process.

For me, this journey began in September of 2011, when I began looking for an agent to represent my first book, AMAZONS.  I wanted an agent, because I had learned very early on that publishers are far more likely to look at a book represented by an agent than a random unsolicited manuscript rotting away in their slush pile.  It’s very simple.  If an agent sees something in that manuscript worthy of representation, the publisher is more willing to give it their attention.  Also, agents work very hard to cultivate long term relationships with publishers.  They know what different publishers are looking for, and try to provide it.  Someone once told me it is harder to get an agent than it is to get published.  I don’t know if that is true or not, but I was sure I didn’t want to go through the complicated and overwhelming publishing process on my own.  I needed help.  I needed an agent.  And so my search began. 

I knew nothing at all about finding an agent, so I read everything I could on the subject.  I bought books and magazines.  I listened to what more experienced authors told me.  Finally, I felt I was ready, and I began sending out my book.  In the course of a few months, ten agents asked to see my full manuscript for AMAZONS, but I had not signed with anyone yet.  During this time, I finished my second book, SO PRETTY, and began sending out queries for that book as well.  Ten days after I started, I signed with Marlene.

My story is not typical.  For some writers it takes a lot more time and effort to get to where I am today.  I still have a great deal to learn, but there are some things I would like to pass on to those people just starting out.

1.         Don’t send out a manuscript until it has been edited, revised, reread, and made into the best possible version of your story that you can create.  Have others take a look at it, too.  I have a trusted friend, Andrea, who has painstakingly gone through each page of my books for typos and inconsistencies.  I have rewarded her occasionally with lunch, flowers, or chocolate, which is far, far less than she deserves.  Find a friend like Andrea.  I also use my children (shamelessly) to judge if a story line I am playing with is really working on not.  If I catch their interest, I have a chance of catching the reader’s interest.  If my twelve year old sees holes in my plot, then my manuscript is definitely not ready for submission.

2.         Learn how to write a query letter.  This is really, really (can I stress it one more time?), REALLY important.  If your query letter sucks (excuse my French), then there is a very good chance the agent will not even look at your story.  I bought books on writing good query letters.  I researched it online.  I looked for examples of winning query letters so that I could see what worked and what didn’t.  Your manuscript must be as good as you can possibly make it, but your query letter must be perfect - no typos, no spelling errors, and no grammar mistakes. Don’t misspell the agent’s name.  Don’t send out mass emails and expect a personal reply.  Don’t brag about how great your book is, show how wonderful it is by writing a fantastic, and yet concise, description of it.  Imagine you are writing the paragraph that will be used on the back of your book to entice readers.  This is what you should put in your query letter.  Write about your book, let the agent know if you’ve been published before, and, perhaps, list any professional affiliations you might have.  The query letter is not about you, it is about your book.  Don’t lose sight of that.

3.         Research agents carefully.  You can buy books with information about agents, but these are usually not up to date, and you have to buy new editions every year.  Instead, I used a site called www.querytracker.net.  This was extremely useful and also free for basic service.  You can be very specific with this site, and the more specific you are, the better chance you will have of finding the agent who is right for you.  For SO PRETTY, I looked for agents currently representing Young Adult (YA) and Science Fiction, and that is how I found Marlene.

4.         Research the agency as well.  Once you find an agent, don’t stop there.  Go online and look into the agency.  Each agency has different submission guidelines.  Follow them exactly.  Some agencies want to see the first ten pages of your manuscript, others want the first chapter.  Take the time to give them what they ask for, and be certain you are sending a query to the right agent inside the right agency. You will be happy that you did, and so will they.  Rejection is not fun.

5.         Get used to rejection.  This is the central truth to being a writer.  Don’t take it personally.  Not every story is a match for every agent, or every publisher.  It might have nothing at all to do with your story, or your talent as a writer, or your worth as a human being in general.  Finding the right person for your book is as much as matter of luck as it is skill, but if you don’t have the skills to back it up, you don’t have a chance at being lucky. 

6.         If the agent likes your query, the agent will ask to see a full manuscript.  This is the reason for suggestion number one on my list (aka make sure your full manuscript is ready).  If an agent likes the first chapter of your manuscript, and wants to see a full manuscript, they will not be happy to hear that is all you have written so far.  Just to give you an idea about how hard it is to get to this point, I was so excited about the first request I had for a full manuscript that I immediately Googled the agent to see what else I could learn about him.  I found an interview in which he said he got about 400 query letters each month.  Out of those, he sent out about 3 or 4 requests for a full manuscript.  From those, he signed with about 5 or 6 new writers a year.  Those are not good numbers, but I tried to see it in a positive light.  I was one of those lucky 4 out of 400 writers who sent in query letters that month, and that is pretty amazing.  The good news is, if I could do it, so can you.

 

7.         If the agent likes your manuscript, they may ask to represent you.  Oh, glorious day!  But before you sign on that dotted line, make sure you are a good fit for your agent, and that your agent is a good fit for you.  Once you sign with them, your agent will represent your full body of work (not just the book you are currently submitting, but your other books, as well).  Make sure that person is someone you want to be working with for the long haul.

The most important advice I can give you as a writer, is to keep writing, keep learning, and keep trying.  It isn’t easy, but it isn’t impossible either.  I’ve encountered so much negativity from other writers, many of whom told me with definitive authority that I would never get to where I am today.  I think this is the same mentality that makes some women tell expectant mothers horror stories about their own childbirth experiences.  Just because it was bad for them, doesn’t mean it will be bad for everyone (although going through the publishing process can feel like giving birth to a ten pound baby over and over and over again, trust me, I know).  But just like childbirth, the rewards are well worth the time and effort you put into it.  Yes, you are sending your newborn off to be judged, criticized and probably rejected right after it is born, but there is a chance you might be sending it off to be cherished, nurtured, and maybe even loved.  You’ll never know, unless you try.  And Andrea, please let me know if there are any typos in this.  I’ll owe you some chocolate.

 

 

 

Happy Birthday, Dr. Seuss!

 

Theodor Seuss Geisel was born on March 2, 1904.  My oldest son was born on the very same day, exactly ninety years later.  Now my son is all grown up, a college student with a hairy face and a busy schedule, but every year on his birthday, I think of Dr. Seuss, too.  I remember the days of holding a warm, little body next to mine and reading about wockets in pockets and fox in socks.  The colorful pictures, the silly prose, the rhyming nonsense words are something universally appealing to young children, but there is more to it than that.  It doesn’t matter how old the books are, children still worry about what problems the Cat in the Hat will cause, and if Horton will hear the Who, and how the Grinch will be able to save Christmas. 

I read those books over and over again to my first son, and then my second, and finally to my third.  I enjoyed the rhythm and cadence to the words, and by the time my youngest child was born, I had several of the books memorized and we owned a complete collection.  I loved watching my children’s faces light up when we’d get to their favorite parts, the anticipation and the excitement.  I would pause, just for a second, to enjoy the expressions on their little faces a bit longer.  Soon, during those pauses, they were filling in the words for me.  Before long, they were reading the books on their own.

It was a sad day for me when my youngest son grew too big for the sweet silliness of Dr. Seuss.  I moved the books from his room, to a bookshelf in our family room (hoping that one of my nephews or nieces or a random stranger would ask me to read them), and then to another in our basement.  Finally, I packed them up in a box labeled, “Books To Keep,” and put them in our storage room.  I try to donate most of our old books to family and friends, but there are certain ones that are simply too precious to part with.  Maurice Sendak, Shel Silverstein, Margaret Wise Brown, Eric Carle, Graeme Base, and Chris Van Allsburg are a few of the authors featured in that box, along with every book we have ever owned, no matter how battered or worn, by the incomparable, irreplaceable and completely magical Dr. Seuss.

The Next Big Thing – Blog Tag

Writer Teresa Frohock (author of MISERERE, www.teresafrohock.com) tagged me in “The Next Big Thing – Blog Tag.”  She answered ten questions about her work in progress, and now I’m answering the same ten questions about my book.  I’ve tagged a few of my writer friends – check out what they are working on, too!

What is the working title of your book?

The title of my book is SO PRETTY.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

This was originally a short story that won third place in a science fiction contest for Writers’ Journal magazine.  The idea came to me when I saw a family once in the park.  The mother was a full figured lady wearing short shorts, bright colors, and several unrelated floral and animal prints.  Her hair was in a high ponytail on the side of her head, and she had tucked a big flower behind her ear.  What struck me about this woman was that she really seemed to be confident about her body and obviously enjoyed how she looked.  She had one daughter who looked and dressed just like her, but standing off to the side was another girl.  This girl was thin and pretty and wore tailored, monochromatic clothing.  I’m not sure if the other girl was her daughter or not, but it made me wonder – what if she was?  That, combined with my son’s experience of being the only male member of the high school cheer squad (he was the mascot for two years), fused the idea for this book in my head.

What genre does your book fall under?

My book is science fiction for young adults.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I’d love to see someone like Jennifer Lawrence play the main character, Starr Valentine.  For two of my male main characters, I’d like to aim big and suggest either Taylor Lautner or Josh Hutcheson for Julian, and Hunter Parrish for Adrian.

What is the one sentence synopsis for your book?

Beautiful and popular, Starr Valentine has a perfect life; until she finds out her parents are from another planet with a very different standard of beauty and she has to learn to live in a place where she is no longer pretty.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I am represented by Marlene Stringer of The Stringer Literary Agency.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I wrote SO PRETTY in about ten weeks.

What other books would your compare this story to within your genre?

SO PRETTY isn’t dark or scary.  There are no vampires or werewolves.  It’s light and funny and addresses the question of beauty and our own perceptions about beauty.   I realize these aren’t books, but my character Starr does remind me a bit of Cher from the movie Clueless and Elle from Legally Blonde.  Just imagine Cher or Elle trapped on another planet where no one thinks they are pretty -  very traumatic.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

While I lived abroad, I learned that the ideal of feminine beauty was very different in different places.  In one country, the woman all struggled to be pale, while in another country having light colored eyes was important.  My friend who lived in Africa told me that where she lived it was said a bride should have a bottom “as big as the wedding table.”  I wrote SO PRETTY so that girls could understand that the idea of beauty is not something that can be put into one narrow definition.  I think there is so much pressure on teenaged girls today regarding how they should look, and I want girls to ignore this and find their own beauty.

What else about this book might pique the reader’s interest?

SO PRETTY is funny and light, and yet it holds a serious message.  How can a person who has defined themselves by their beauty go on when they are no longer beautiful?  Starr had to lose her beauty to find herself, and in doing so became a better and happier person.  She also defeated bad guys with some killer cheer leader moves, saved her family, and preserved the political stability of her entire planet.  Not bad for a prom queen from Ohio.

 

Tag – you are “it” to:

Kate Studer (www.katepawsonstuder.com) 

Beth Orsoff (www.bethorsoff.com).
Kristy Baxter (http://kristybaxter.com/blog/)

Here's another ghost story for October.  I wrote this a few years ago, and it won an Honorable Mention in a contest for Writers' Journal Magazine.  The contest required the story begin with the prompt, "Hey, what are you...".  This story grew from that prompt.

My friends in Beaver will probably recognize the town in this story, including the gazebo, the river, and the bakery (I was thinking of Kretchmar's - yum!).  Nutsy Bob was also a real person, or at least that was what my Nunny called him.  I can remember sitting on her front porch on warm summer evenings in Beaver Falls when I was very small.  She'd see him walking down the street, roll her eyes and say, "Oh, great.  Here comes Nutsy Bob." I didn't realize that wasn't his actual name until I was nearly eight years old. She had a name for everyone in the neighborhood, and most of them were hilarious.

I strongly encourage anyone interested in writing to enter contests, and also to stretch their writing skills by attempting things outside of their own chosen genre.  Any practice is good practice, and the results may surprise you!

Red Sky

            “Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked the little girl standing next to me on the doorstep.

            “I think you know, Maggie,” she answered in a singsong voice, a small smile playing on the corners of her lips.  Her eyes, as blue as the sky on a cloudless summer day, were focused on the horizon as if she could see the sun about to rise.  “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.  Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.”        

“Lucy, what are you trying to tell me?” I asked, kneeling down so that my dark head was level with her small blonde one.

            “I’m not trying to tell you anything,” she said, her voice completely devoid of emotion.  “I’m trying to warn you.”

            I reached out to touch her, but before my hand could make contact with her skin, she disappeared, like fog evaporating in the morning light.  I sighed, sitting down on the damp cement.  The cold entered my body through my thin running pants, but I didn’t get up.  I rubbed my face with my hands, wishing I could begin this day again.  Seeing the ghost of my dead little sister before I’d even had my morning coffee was not a good start.

            I looked up and watched a bright fuchsia color stain the eastern sky as the sun slowly began its ascent.  It had been nearly twenty years since Lucy had died, but I still couldn’t seem to move on with my life.

My parents had forgiven me long ago.  They blamed themselves for allowing a teenager to watch an eight year old on the crowded shores of a lake.  Grief had eventually made them hate each other, but not me.  It made me feel even worse, because I knew the truth.  I was to blame.

“Are you going to sit there all day or are we going to run?” asked my best friend, Christie, taking me out of my reverie.  Her pale hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and she jogged in place as she waited for me.  I stood up and joined her, the cold moisture from the step still clinging to my skin. 

We ran slowly through the town, down tree-lined streets and past rows of elegant Victorian houses.  My thoughts were still on Lucy, but soon the rhythmic sound of our feet hitting the pavement calmed me.  People were just beginning to wake up, and several called out a greeting to us as we passed.  We were fixtures in this place, as regular as clockwork.  Christie and I had lived here our whole lives, except for brief attempts to live in the city right after college.  We were known here, and we were as much a part of this town as the river that ran along its border.  We couldn’t escape it, and, at this point, we really didn’t want to.

We stopped, as we always did, at the bakery for coffee and a donut, completely negating the efforts of our run.  As we walked back, warm coffees clutched in our hands and the sugary feel of the donuts still on our tongues, we saw Nutsy Bob out walking his dog, Clementine.

Nutsy Bob was another fixture in our town, like the bell over the courthouse or the gazebo in the park.  Something had happened to him during the war, and he wasn’t quite right in the head, but he was harmless and sweet.  Clementine, on the other hand, was another story.  She was a nasty little Yorkie who liked to chomp on my ankles whenever she had a chance.

Nutsy greeted us as he always did.  “Howdy do, howdy do,” he said, a giant smile plastered on his face and a completely vacant look in his eyes.  His dark hair was slicked back with some sort of cream and his black, horn-rimmed glasses were wider than his face.  He wore a plaid shirt, impeccably ironed, as always, and jeans that had been ironed as well.  I looked down at my wrinkled and stained t-shirt.  I hadn’t come close to an iron in years.

Clementine snarled and moved to attack me.  I jumped away, nearly tripping on her leash.  I heard Christie smother a giggle and I glared at her.  Nutsy Bob reached down to soothe the irate little dog.

“It’s okay, Miss Clementine,” he murmured, and the vicious demon dog licked his hand lovingly.  I moved to apologize, but the dog immediately started to growl so I backed off.

“That dog really hates you,” said Christie, taking a sip of her coffee as we walked away.  I could hear the smile in her voice.  She was enjoying this too much.

“The feeling is mutual, trust me,” I said.  “She almost got my ankle this time. Maybe that was what the warning was about.”

“What warning?” asked Christie.

“It was nothing,” I said, feeling my cheeks get hot.  Christie stopped in her tracks, her eyes huge in her face.

“It was Lucy again, wasn’t it?” she asked.  I didn’t say anything and she groaned.  “Maggie, you have to start taking this seriously.  You need to talk to someone.”

“If I tell anyone, they’ll think I’m crazy,” I said, “and they would probably be right.”

“You aren’t crazy, Maggie,” Christie said softly.  “We have to figure this out.  Every time she has come to you, it’s been for a reason.”

“I know,” I said, throwing my empty coffee cup into a garbage can.  I pictured Lucy’s face from this morning, her sweet little eight-year-old face, and sighed.  “I don’t know why she would try to help me.  I don’t deserve it.”

Christie touched my arm, but didn’t say anything.  She knew how I felt.  Two minutes of distraction and selfishness had cost the life of my sister and my family as well.  The last words I’d said to Lucy were to tell her to stop bugging me so that I could hang out with my friends.  I wasn’t paying attention when she waded into the lake, leaving her little pink bucket in the sand, and, because of me, she’d died.

I walked Christie to her house, and tried to ignore the look of concern on her face as I waved goodbye.  I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket and walked aimlessly, not realizing where my feet were taking me until I reached the banks of the river.  I sank down onto a wooden bench and watched the dark, muddy water flow past me.  The river, swollen because of recent rain, looked powerful and threatening.  Usually this was my favorite place to relax, but somehow the force and speed of the water made me anxious today and unsettled.  I got up to leave, just as a dark cloud covered up the sun and the morning suddenly felt like the edge of night. 

I shivered.  A prickly sensation on the back of my neck made me think someone was watching me, but no one was near.  It looked like it was about to rain, and sensible people were safe inside their houses, not out wandering next to dangerously high rivers.  I shook my head, getting annoyed with myself, and decided to be sensible as well.  I took one last glance at the river as I left, and that is when I saw it. 

Something was in the river.  At first I thought it was a log, but then I realized it was a person, clinging to a fallen tree in the water and waving feebly.  I ran down to the side of the river, and saw Nutsy Bob, holding Clementine and trying to keep her head above water.  She looked like a bedraggled rat and he didn’t look much better.  I could tell he didn’t have much time.  His face was pale and gray and he seemed to be losing his grip. 

I dug into my pocket for my cell phone, calling for help as I grabbed a long tree branch that had washed ashore and waded into the river as far as I dared.  The icy water pounded against my legs, and the thick mud pulled at my shoes, making each step difficult.  After a few terrifying moments, I got the branch out far enough that Nutsy could reach it and pulled him slowly to shore.  Clementine, shivering in his arms, growled at me halfheartedly as the skies opened and it began to rain.

The ambulance and firemen arrived moments later and put Nutsy on a stretcher. “He must have slipped off the path and fallen in,” said one of the paramedics, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders.  “It’s a good thing you were here.”

Nutsy was mumbling something through chattering teeth, and when I leaned down to hear him, his words made my heart stop in my chest.  “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,” he said, over and over again as they wheeled him slowly away.

Writing Lessons - Part One

As I prepare to teach another summer session at the Young Writers' Institute, I find myself thinking about the process of writing and what I have learned - and how I have learned it.  I'm posting this for all of my writer friends out there, as well as my creative and artistic friends since the same lessons apply to all of us.  Happy writing!

Whenever I read something I wrote a few years ago, I feel horrified and embarrassed.  I am painfully aware of each glaring mistake and flaw, but being able to see those things is actually a gift - proof of how much I am learning and growing as a writer. 

I remember very clearly the day I learned a fabulous and yet very simple secret - to write forward, and write that way with wild abandon.  What this means is to stop analyzing every word.  Let yourself be free.  I’d been shackled before, spending so much time on the first sentence of the first page of the first chapter that I never got anywhere.  When I finally let myself go, I wrote three chapters in one day.  Most of it was garbage, definitely, and ended up being cut out of my final edit, but I needed to write that garbage first in order to figure out where my story really started.  Editing is the time you fix mistakes, but I had been editing the whole time I was writing.  Once I stopped doing that, it was so much easier, and more enjoyable.  I was able to focus on the story, and not minor details.

Making mistakes is part of the process.  Editing is the time you address those mistakes.  Embrace imperfection as part of being a writer, and a human being.  Save all of those things you have written in the past, not in order to torture yourself, but so you can realize exactly how far you have come. 

I advise all of my writer friends out there to try this simple exercise.  Set your timer for five minutes.  Light a candle, if you’d like (it’s not mandatory, but it can help!), and start writing.  Don’t try to have a direction.  Don’t overthink it or worry about making mistakes.  Just give yourself five minutes to go where the muse leads you.  You might be very pleasantly surprised.

The Survivor - First place winner in Writers' Journal.

I wrote this when we were in the middle of the worst snow storm we'd had in years, labeled 'Snowarmageddon' by the news media.  It ended up winning the 'Write To Win' contest in the Sept/Oct 2010 edition of Writers' Journal Magazine.  Since Writers' Journal just folded up, I thought I'd share this with you here. This was the first story I ever had published, and caused a great deal of screaming and dancing around the kitchen at my house.

            The lights went out and Amy held her breath, waiting for the emergency generator to work.  It started, with a shudder and a horrific crunching noise, but at least it continued to function. 

Amy closed her eyes, feeling the fear in her chest ease when she heard the comforting sound of the humming engine.  She couldn’t bear the thought of being left cold and alone in the dark.

            She pulled her ragged wool cardigan tightly across her body and walked over to the window to take a peek outside, waiting for the sun to come up.  She continued to stare out of the window, long after it rose into the sky, although she didn’t know why she bothered.  There was nothing to see outside except the same white expanse she’d seen every day for the last five lonely months.

Amy opened the door to grab some wood from the pile for her fire, her body flinching from the chill of the icy wind.  She had enough wood to last a few more weeks, and then she’d have to make the dangerous trip into the forest to chop some more.  She dreaded it, but not as much as she dreaded living without the generator.  If she rationed carefully, she’d have enough fuel for another month, but she wasn’t sure what she’d do after that.  She hadn’t planned on being stranded for such a long time.  Spring should have arrived almost two months ago.

            She blinked in surprise when she saw a figure moving towards her house, struggling in the waist deep snow.  Amy squinted against the harsh sunlight reflecting off of the white landscape, trying to make out if the approaching form were human or animal, friend or foe, but she could see very little at this distance.  She stumbled back into her warm little house and reached for her heavy coat.  She quickly slipped on her snowshoes before grabbing her gun, a nervous sense of excitement building inside of her.  If it were a person, it would be the first human being she’d seen in months.  If it were an animal, she’d shoot it and have food for a week.  And if it were one of the strange ones, the creatures that were no longer human, but yet not completely animal, she’d kill it without remorse and leave it’s carcass for the hungry bears to find.

            She waited on her front porch, her gun ready, as it came closer.  It looked human, bundled under layers of heavy clothing, but she wasn’t taking any chances. 

            “Who are you?” she shouted, and her voice echoed oddly in the quiet wilderness.

            The figure stopped moving, and looked directly at Amy.  She could see a dark beard covering the skin exposed beneath protective ski goggles.  It was a man.  “My name is Ben,” he said, he voice sounding scratchy and weak.  “I saw the smoke from your fire.  Can I come in and warm up?” he asked.

Amy paused for a moment.  He seemed human enough, but she knew she was taking a great risk.  He could steal her food, hurt her, or take her fuel.  She weighed her options quickly.  Loneliness won out over caution, but she wasn’t stupid.  She kept her gun clenched tightly in her hands as she waved him into her house.

Ben was so tall he had to bend over to enter the cabin.  Amy walked in behind him, shutting the door.  Ben looked around as he removed layer after layer of clothing, starting with the heavy tinted ski goggles.  When he was down to a warm sweater and jeans, he turned to face Amy.

“Are you all alone up here?” he asked incredulously.  Amy didn’t say anything.  She just tightened her grip on her gun and stared coldly into his bright blue eyes.  He shook his head.  “I’m sorry.  You don’t have to answer that.  I was just surprised.  I haven’t seen another person in months, not even in Richmond.”

Amy blinked in shock.  “There aren’t any people in Richmond?” she asked.  Richmond was nearly fifty miles away, the closest town.  She’d thought about going there to look for help and supplies.

Ben held out his reddened hands to the fire, a sad expression on his face.  “Richmond was a ghost town,” he said.  “Unless you count the crazy ones.”  He let out a dry chuckle that was more like a sob.  “I always thought that having cabin fever just meant you were bored.  I never knew it could be an actual sickness; that being trapped in the ice and snow could make a person crazy.”  He gave Amy a long assessing look, his eyes lingering on the gun she still held in her hands.  “What is your name?” he asked softly.

“Amy,” she said.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Amy,” he said, his voice gentle.  She slowly lowered the gun, putting the safety on before she set it aside.  “How long have you been here?” he asked, turning back to the fire and sitting down.

Amy took off her coat and brushed the hair out of her eyes.  It had grown, and the light brown strands nearly reached the middle of her back.   

“I’ve been here since before Christmas,” she said.  “I was on break from university and my parents and brother were going to meet me here.  They didn’t make it.” 

Ben nodded in understanding.  “The storm of the century,” he murmured.  “Well, that is what they called it until they figured out we’d just entered into another ice age.” 

Amy sat down in her rocking chair, only a few feet away from him, and leaned forward.  “Can you tell me what is going on?” she asked, hearing the desperation in her own voice.  “I don’t have a television here.”

Ben ran a hand through his hair and Amy was surprised to realize he wasn’t much older than she was.  She hadn’t noticed it because of the shaggy beard and the haggard look on his face.  As she waited for him to speak, she poured some hot water into a cup and made him some of her precious tea.  The coffee had run out long ago.  He reached for the cup gratefully and took a long sip.

“There is no television anymore,” he said.  “It’s a mess out there.  Roads are impassable.  People are starving.  The government is in ruins.  Half the people are crazy from cabin fever.  Scientists say it’s an actual illness, a bacterial infection of the brain, but I don’t know.  Have you seen any people like that around here?” he asked.

“Once,” she said.  “A man came here.  He acted like an animal.  He couldn’t speak.  He was filthy and sick.  He died right outside my door.”  She didn’t bother explaining that a bullet from her gun had been what had killed him.

Ben glanced at Amy.  “How on earth did you manage to make it on your own this long?” he asked.

“My dad taught survival training to soldiers,” she said.  “He made sure my brother and I could take care of ourselves.”

Ben nodded and took another sip of tea.  “He taught you well.  I grew up in Alaska, so this is nothing new for me,” he said, with a small smile.  “Snow, snow and more snow.  I moved south thinking I was getting away from it.  No such luck.”

“What will you do now?” asked Amy, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Ben sighed.  “I don’t know.  I think the best option is to keep heading south.  I’ve heard there are some settlements along the Mexican border.  Do you want to come with me?” he asked.  “I’m so tired of being alone,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper.

The air in the cabin felt still as he waited for her response.  Amy looked up at him in surprise, but his eyes were on the fire.  “But I’m safe here,” she said. 

“For how long?” he asked.  “You are going to need more supplies eventually.  How are you going to get them on your own?”

Amy winced at the thought of facing the wilderness and the beasts alone.  She was tired of facing everything alone, but she didn’t know if she could trust this stranger.  “The first rule of survival is to find shelter and stay in one place until someone can rescue you,” she said, repeating the words her father had taught her long ago.

“But what if there is no one left to rescue you?” he asked.  He touched her arm and Amy jumped.  She had completely forgotten how good human contact felt.  “Surviving isn’t living,” he said.

Amy knew then what she had to do.  “I’m tired of surviving.  I ready to start living again,” she said, and Ben gave her a slow smile that made her feel warm for the first time in months. 

      

              

Kalypso

This is the first chapter of the young adult fiction novel I've been working on.  I wrote the original manuscript in third person, but now I'm rewriting it in first - a much more arduous process than I anticipated.  Hope you like it!

                                                 You ought not to practice childish things

since you are no longer that age.

- Homer, The Odyssey

                       

CHAPTER ONE

                     

On the day my mother died, I made her a promise. She was lying on the sterile white sheets of the hospital bed we had set up near the large bay window in our living room.  From there she had the best view of the blue waters of the Atlantic that sparkled just outside our door on the Isle of Palms.  She would stare out at the ocean for hours, watching and waiting.  It was the only thing that gave her comfort.

“Kalypso,” she called to me, her voice thin and soft.

I dropped my crayons and coloring book on the floor and ran over to stand next to her bed, holding up the picture I had made for her in kindergarten that day.  She smiled when she looked at it, tears shimmering in her eyes.

“Is that a fish?” she asked, her thin, graceful fingers gently tracing over my childish drawing.

I had shaken my head, frowning at her.  “Mommy, it’s a dolphin, and dolphins are mammals, not fish.”

She’d grinned at me then, and I’d seen the shadow of the vibrant women she had once been shine inside her eyes.  “You are so like your father,” she said, brushing a hand over my red, curly hair. Even at that early age, I already despised it.  I looked longingly at her dark, straight hair, her chocolate colored eyes, and her skin without a single freckle on it, sad that I had not inherited even a bit of her exotic beauty. 

“I wish I was like you,” I said.

She’d brought my hand to her mouth and kissed my palm before folding my pudgy little five-year-old fingers over the spot she’d kissed.  It was our ritual, what she did every time she had to go away, and she was going away now.  I just didn’t realize it yet.  She was saying goodbye.

She reached over to open the drawer in her nightstand and pulled out a silver box.  I could see the effort it took for her to do even such a small task.  I knew this was important.  I stood on my tiptoes to see it, leaning against the metal bars on the side of her bed.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Something for you,” she said.  She pulled out a silver necklace and placed it carefully over my head.

“It’s beautiful,” I’d said, staring down at the very grown up necklace.  It glittered in the sunlight, and at five years old I coveted anything that sparkled.  I think I was part squirrel at that age.  “I love it.”

“And I love you,” she’d said, leaning back against her pillows, her face as white as the sheets.  Her eyes closed, and I thought she’d gone to sleep, but when I realized she was whispering to me I leaned in closer to hear her.

“This necklace is a part of me that you can always have with you, but you must promise me one thing,” she said, her eyes fluttering open.

“What?” I asked, looking down at the necklace, not realizing the importance of this moment.

“Never wear it in the water.  Can you promise me that?  Can you be a big girl for me and swear you will never wear it in the water?” she asked.  Her dark eyes looked huge and haunted in her face.

I nodded.

“Say the words, Kalypso,” she said, her face pinched with pain.

“I promise,” I said, throwing my arms across her thin body.  “I promise.”

She kissed the top of my head, “Remember this, Kaly, remember me,” she said, and then shut her eyes for the last time.

When my father came into the room a few minutes later, I was sitting next to my mother on her bed, watching the water like she had for the last few agonizing months.  I barely heard his screams when he realized she was gone.  I already knew.  But I also knew that I’d found a way to comfort her.  I’d made her a promise, and I fully intended to keep that promise for the rest of my life. 

I lied.