The 2017 Writer's Digest Conference in NYC is four days away and coming fast! With all of the Pitchwars prep, and the wedding, I feel like I blinked and suddenly it's here, looming in the not-so-distant future and waving at me. It's my first writing conference, and I'm going at it alone. Not only that, but I'm pushing out of my comfort zone and trying out the Pitch Slam. For those not familiar, the Pitch Slam is speed dating with agents and editors. You get three minutes to sit down and tell the agent/editor why they should be interested in your work, and then they get to ask you questions. So how did I pick the agents I want to pitch to? Well, I started by narrowing it down to agents that wanted Young Adult Fantasy. No sense pitching to an agent who isn't interested in the genre you write, right? Well, that still left me with about thirty agents. It's like the real world of querying, but on a smaller scale. There's lots of options, but only a handful will be able to provide you and your MS what you need. So how do you figure out what you really need? I decided to think about what was most important to me in an agent. What did I want in the person who was going to be representing me and my manuscript to the big world of publishing? God I miss Bernie... ANYWAY: Diversity! I want an agent who actively seeks diverse works by marginalized authors about marginalized characters. Especially given the place the United States is in today. This country is trying to strip POC and LGBTQ+ voices, and I want an agent who will hold up a megaphone and let marginalized people scream through that silence. To me, if an agent lists that they're seeking writers of color, and LGBTQ+ writers, that means that the diversity in my story will be celebrated rather than washed. That, for me, is the most important thing an agent can offer me. NOW, I am in no way implying that an agent does not value diversity if it is not directly listed in their MSWL or bio. To know if an agent is right for you requires a ton of research. It means:
That's the takeaway here, folks. When it comes to picking agents to query, or Pitchwars mentors to sub to, or who to pitch to at a writing conference, find the most important piece of your MS. Boil it down to its essence. Is it about disability? Overcoming adversity? Love? Joy? Conquering fear? Find the theme in your story that would leave your words empty if you stripped it, and then find an agent who will nurture that. Sure, I don't have representation yet, so maybe it's not perfect advice, but I feel as though I've never been closer once I realized that. Don't settle for any agent that offers representation. This manuscript is your baby, so find someone who will love it just like you do. Have any other advice on how to narrow down if an agent is right for you? Leave it in the comments!
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Here’s my honest review from Goodreads. I stumbled upon this book by accident. I was scrolling through Twitter and saw a tweet offering an ARC of Mask of Shadows to the first NB/Genderfluid reader that replied. I was intrigued, having known nothing about this book beforehand, so I replied just for fun, and by some strange stroke of luck, I won! Fast-forward and it’s in my mailbox. I didn’t intend to read it right away. I was getting married in a few weeks, and Pitchwars was looming—I needed to prioritize. That ‘prioritizing’ nonsense shot straight out the window when I read the back cover. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the book, here’s all you need to know:
Needless to say, seeing that Sal was a genderfluid character jumped me into overdrive. I’ve never read a book with a genderfluid character, let alone one that wasn’t centered around them coming out. Nope. Couldn’t wait. This demanded to be read, and I would happily obey. I went in wary, and came out overjoyed. It’s cliché to say that it made me laugh out loud and then cry a page later, but it did. I can’t even lie. Sal was endearing and flawed. They were spunky, full of fight, but had moments of vulnerability that anyone could connect with. And while I started reading for Sal, I kept reading for all of the other characters. I came to care deeply for all of them, which is a bad move in a book about assassins killing each other, if you were wondering. I’m all for a good book that kills characters, but I hate when they’re killed just for shock value. There was none of that to be had in Miller’s story. I could curse the moon over why she killed the characters she did, but it was right—necessary, and poignant, and right. And the romance of it. I knew who the love interest would be from the start, but not because it was a cliché meet-cute—anything but. I knew because of the instant chemistry between the characters, especially given their unorthodox meeting. It develops naturally without hindering the plot, and ultimately raises the stakes of the conflict. And it’s really damn cute. Like, I-need-to-put-this-down-for-a-second-and-roll-around-on-the-bed cute. Finally, the most important part of this review: how Sal’s gender was handled. While genderfluid comes in many forms, Sal’s identity and pronouns shift with how they choose to present that day. If they dress masculine, use he/him. If they dress feminine, use she/her. If they’re presenting androgynous, they/them. Sal’s apprehension about being misgendered feels real and relatable. They defend themselves against those who choose to misgender them, but still show how difficult that can be to do. On top of that, the characters who choose to misgender Sal do it as an act of aggression and disrespect. You know the people who do it are assholes, for lack of a better word, and even when Sal isn’t in a position to defend their identity, you can be sure that one of the other characters won’t tolerate it. Despite it being a fantasy setting, the difficulties Sal faces because of their gender identity are realistic and handled tactfully. It comes down to this: Linsey Miller’s Mask of Shadows is fun, poignant, exciting, and important. I came out of reading that inspired. I connected with a character in a way I’ve never done before. Sal’s gender was never a joke or a punchline. It was never something that held them back, or something they needed to overcome. It was just another facet of exploring the beautiful complexity of a character driven by revenge, and the desire for something more than life has yet to offer. I would scream about this book from the mountain tops if I had easy access to a mountain.
Put this book on your TBR shelf on Goodreads. Pre-order it. Spread the word, especially to people in the trans and non-binary communities. Show the publishing world that there needs to be more books like this by supporting the crap out of this. Have more specific questions about how the book handled gender? Read it and want to talk about how you felt about it? Comment below, or message me on Twitter/Facebook! Life has settled for me. The wedding band is firmly on my finger. My Pitchwars entry has been submitted. My apartment could use a good scrub, but that's a project for another day. I thought I would enjoy the nothingness of not being able to work on DUODECIM, but all of the constant working and scrambling the last few months affected me more than I thought it would. I'm bored. So what are my options?
So that's where I'm at. I called this blog Adventures in Writing, so I'm going to document those adventures, big and small. Stay tuned or don't! I'll still be here.
Hello! My name is Mads, and welcome to the blog I'm going to get better at using. If you're here, it probably means you found this link pinned to the top of my twitter. If that's not how you wound up here, then keep the mystery alive. Either way, welcome! This is my bio for the lovely Brenda Drake's Pitchwars where I'm hoping to be the lucky mentee of one of the many fantastic mentors participating this year. I'm a first time mentee, so I've been learning something new every day, and in the end, isn't that really the point? Who am I? I suppose the best place to start would be talking about who I am. How else will you know if I'm the mentee of your dreams? First things first, I'm pansexual and genderfluid, and my pronouns are they/them. If you slip up and use her/hers or him/his, that's okay! I'll pretty much look up and respond to anything. I list those identities first because they play a huge role in why I write. I read everything under the sun as a little kid, but I never quite resonated with the main characters. They were all missing something. I didn't realize I wasn't straight/cis until I met my partner, and once I did, it felt like my entire life made sense, as did why I never saw myself in the books I read. I wonder every day if I would have discovered myself sooner if I read a book about someone who was pansexual, or genderqueer, or both. I don't want future LGBTQ+ kids to spend their lives wondering either, which is why I started writing. I'm now a sort-of adult with a BA in English from SUNY Cortland, living on Long Island with my cat Zack, and my inspirational (and shiny new) life partner. Perks of picking me as a mentee? I'll send you lots of pictures of this little dragon: (I'm not above bribery. You'll get a cute picture every day if you pick me!) That's enough about me. Time to get to the good stuff. What's the book about? So glad you asked! DUODECIM is a YA Diverse Fantasy coming in at 87,000 words. To save on space, you can click HERE for a blurb about the plot and HERE for a breakdown of my characters. What I want to do is give you a run through of all the things that makes my MS unique and special that don't fit neatly into a query letter. Reading DUODECIM, you can expect to find:
You will NOT find:
A few more things:
Mentoring me means having a mentee who will work tirelessly and endlessly to improve their MS. I know tht you're all mentors for a reason. You've done your work and earned your way to where you are, and I want to learn from your experiences. I'm open to feedback and criticism, and while I cry at the drop of a hat, I'm never going to quit! Here's few more things that make me me outside of being a writer:
“What have you done?” the older man asked, eyes usually bright from smiling and lined in the corners now shining with tears.
“Please don’t be mad, grandpa,” Mina said gently, reaching out to wipe away one of the wet trails down her grandfather’s lined face. “Your legs…sweetheart, what have you done? What did you give up? How could you be so reckless?” he lamented, sniffing and making no move to hide his grief and fears from his granddaughter. He pulled off his delicately framed glasses—they were useless anyway with the tears catching in the bottoms of the frames. “I knew what I was doing. I’m okay,” Mina pleaded again, taking the glasses from him and reaching out to settle them on the table beside the couch, legs motionless beneath her skirts. Her throat was thick with tears, and her hands trembled a bit, but her smile and the set of her face said she was certain. The old man shook his head, insistent. “You’re not okay, love. You’re not. You were so gifted already—you’ve never been a greedy child, so I don’t understand.” “This isn’t about greed, grandpa,” Mina said gently, struggling to pull herself closer to her grandfather without the use of her lower body. “I did it for the cause. He will come to us—I know it. He will find his way to us and between your gifts of the mind, and now all of my circles, we can make him more ready than we ever could before.” The old man paled, all of the color draining from his usually warm cheeks. “ ‘All’ of your circles…?” he asked, lips parting. “You mean you unlocked more than one?” he breathed. Mina looked down, the corner of her lips turning up. “I unlocked three,” she replied. “I can use all four elemental circles.” Silence hung in the air, and Mina could tell her grandfather was warring between the two halves of himself. ‘The Professor,” one of the most powerful men in the circle of Mind, the man responsible for successfully unlocking the Knowledge in more people than anyone else—that man was fascinated, bubbling with questions. But the part of himself that was simply Mina’s grandfather; the man who’d almost lost Mina once before, who’d lost so many—that man could only think of how much of a sacrifice such an act would have required. “Your legs and what else?” he asked, tears he didn’t care to wipe away catching in his beard. Mina did not look at her grandfather. The smile of her achievement fell from her lips. She’d had no hesitation about what she’d given away for these gifts, and no doubt in her heart, but loss was still loss. “A quarter of my lifespan,” she whispered, wincing as the man choked a sob. “Please don’t grieve,” she pleaded, forcing her gaze up, pushing her mousey black hair behind her ears and taking her grandfather’s hand. “I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere. We know the prophet will be of age in the next few years. This seems like a tragedy, but it’s a beautiful gift, I promise.” “I’m sorry, Mina, but I can’t see how this could possibly be a beautiful gift. You cannot walk. You used to dance so wonderfully…” the man frowned. Watching the man a moment, Mina reached out to the potted plant in on the table beside her, fingertips grazing the edge of the pot. The air around the plant heated up, and the moisture in the air condensed into a little cloud over the pot, rain dribbling down. From the soil beside the plant’s original residence, a new one began to slowly creep out of the dirt, growing at a record pace until it was full and tall. “I can create beautiful things. And I can still dance,” she murmured, pulling the air in a little whirlwind around the plants, making them blow and wave. “I just do it a little differently now.” The Professor stared at the plant for a long moment before moving to sit beside Mina, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “I just want you to be okay and happy. Please promise me you’re happy. Promise you have no regrets. Yours is not my life to live, but I want to see only joy for you in your life.” Mina smiled. “This life is beautiful,” she promised. “It doesn’t have to be long to be full and well-lived. I have no regrets.” Prompt: "I don't know if I have ever met two people who are more suited to one another than you two." "Two weeks? He must be the most presumptuous, arrogant--," Kyden growled out, pacing back and forth between the bunks.
"I know. Get it all out," Maemi sighed. Kyden was still jacked up from his conflict with Tarin earlier, and all of this on top of it wasn't helping to cool his mood. "Total asshole. No training. Just thinks he can swoop in here, expect us to teach him all the circles in two goddamn weeks. What the fuck?" Kyden snapped, raising a fist to punch the concrete wall when his hand froze. Maemi looked unamused, their own hand lifted and clenched in a fist, using their gifts to keep Kyden from acting on his own stupidity. "You're going to bust your knuckles, and then you'll have to explain to Shatki why she needs to spend her energy fixing you. Sit down." Kyden's face fell flat as he glanced at Maemi. "Fine," he huffed after a long moment, knowing he could never really be mad at the kid. Huffing, he fell into the opposite bunk, crossing his arms petulantly. Maemi braced their chin in their hands, watching Kyden quietly, feeling the heat radiating off of Kyden from across the small space. "I know it's gonna be rough. We can't train him on a few of the circles, but hopefully he can at least learn the ones that matter the most for what we need. And I mean...he has the mark. Why would the prophecy be about him if he couldn't do it?" Maemi reasoned. "Bullshit. We all assumed the prophet was out training somewhere safe and hidden, getting powerful enough to take all of the Elites on. But what was he doing? Nothing. He's been unlocked less than a week, and we're all supposed to sacrifice ourselves for him?" Kyden scoffed. "Not me. No way." "You can't assume we're all gonna die," Maemi said quietly, frowning at Kyden. The boy softened at the look and shook his head. "I know, kid. I know...it's just...there's no way we all survive this, especially if we're the ones helping the idiot right to the gates." Kyden flopped back on the mattress, misjudging how far he was from the wall and clunking his head against the concrete. Spitting out curses, he grabbed his head and rolled onto his side, clutching his messy bottle-red hair. "You know, you probably deserved that," Maemi snorted, grinning over at Kyden. "You'll be staying in here, Blake," a voice called from outside, making Kyden sit right up, still holding the back of his head. "No. No way. I am not bunking with him!" he called right back. Maemi just watched their best friend with a knowing smile. "I don't know if I have ever met two people who are more suited to one another than you two," they murmured, quiet enough that Kyden couldn't hear them over his own complaining. PROMPT: "Paranoia’s simply a word for seeing things as they are." –Momus It was blinding. His parents told him this would be painless; that if he had the Knowledge, he would awaken, and they would help him find his circle. It would feel like waking up with clearer vision, and an even clearer mind. But everything was too bright, and too terrifying all at once. The boy’s eyes flashed around the room to his mother, his father, and finally his sister, Shatki. It was like seeing three monsters wearing his family’s skins. “Chetan?” his monster-mother called gently, stepping forward. Chetan scrambled back, afraid. There looked like there was a hole in her chest–in all of their chests. A white, glowing orb, dripping in black tar, and he knew, though he could not say how, that the tar was evil, manifested. Get back! he opened his mouth to say, but the words would not come. “Chetan, breathe, okay?” monster-Shatki murmured, guiding their mother-monster a few steps back. Their monster-father only watched on, a hand over his mouth and eyes grave and sad. Chetan’s chest felt tight. “Can you tell me what you see? What is it you are afraid of?” monster-Shatki pressed. Ever since he was a child, Chetan had a sense for people. He could tell if a person was a good person or a bad one. He just…knew. Shatki always told him he had a gift for intuition; that she would always trust his judgement because he had never been wrong. When he sensed a person was bad, he avoided them at any and all costs. A wall went up, and he would go quiet, and he would hope and wait for the person to leave so he knew he was safe again. His mother chastised him for being paranoid. His father said he wondered if Chetan was alright in the head, though only when they thought he couldn’t hear. Shatki understood him. A special sense for each other through their twin connection. Their souls were connected, she would say, smile warm and eyes like chocolate melted in the sun. But this was not his Shatki. This was monster-Shatki, and while the white orb in her chest was brighter and whiter than of his monster-parents, there were still ink-spills of black. Seeing that sticky blackness smothering the light gave him that same sense of dread he got around bad people–paranoia, like his mother called it–only it was tenfold, choking the air out of his lungs and killing his in his throat. “Chetan,” monster-Shatki murmured, kneeling down and carefully laying out twelve books, the covers worn, and the leather in the corners curling up with age. “We can help you if we know what circle you are, okay? I won’t come any closer, and you do not have to speak. Can you point to the book whose cover you can read?” she prompted. Trembling all over, watching his monster-sister to make sure she didn’t come closer, he eventually turned his gaze to the book covers, eyes scanning over the runes on the front of each, one by one. Each was as unintelligible than the last. Maybe he was broken? Maybe he was unlocked wrong, and his brain was too weak to handle the strain. Shatki had done well when their mother unlocked her. She woke up, looking normal. She looked over the books and grinned when she found she could read one of the covers. Circle of Body, their parents said. Shatki had always helped him when he was hurt, and she tried to save every life–big and small. Body seemed appropriate. But why had he gone so wrong? Chetan’s eyes skittered to the last book and stopped. He thought his heart might do the same. Soul, the cover read. The Circle of Soul. Those orbs…they were… “Soul?” monster-Shatki asked, noticing Chetan’s body language change. Though she couldn’t read the rune, she knew where it fell in the order. “Is there something that you’re seeing? Is that what is scaring you?” It was not paranoia like his mother said. He wasn’t crazy, as his father implied. He was sensing people’s souls. And now his sense was stronger than ever, and his eyes burned with tears. Even the people he thought were good–his mother, his father…Shatki–none of them were. There was evil in their souls. And if his sweet Shatki had evil, everyone had evil. Nowhere was safe. Chetan hugged his knees to his chest, pressing his knees to his eyes to try and push away the images burned into his mind. In that moment, he knew he would never be safe. His voice was lost in his throat, and he didn’t think he’d ever get it back. In that moment, Chetan knew he would never say another word. In the process of reading article after article on how to appeal to an agent, I’ve come across some very conflicting articles where prologues are concerned. Some articles argue that if you wrote a prologue, when querying an agent, that you should include it if it’s where you want the story to begin. Others say that most agents have read too many bad prologues and will often skip past them.
So which is it? I do have a prologue to my book which is less than a page. It is a small snippet of the end which I intended to draw readers in and show what is truly at stake. I enjoy it, and I think it’s useful, but I know I’m too close to my own work to judge if it’s really necessary at all. I haven’t been sending it to agents because I worry that they will read the word “Prologue” and lose interest immediately. Is that a bit of an extreme worry? Probably, but it’s been enough to keep me from sending it. Tell me your thoughts: Should I start including it in queries? Is it better to leave them out? Is there a purpose to a prologue like mine at all? Let’s discuss in the comments! PROMPT: “Honestly, you’re kinda weird.” “Took you long enough to find that out.” “Honestly, you’re kind of weird,” Tarin mused, staring up from his coffee cup at the boy who had invited himself to sit at his table without any explanation. “Took you long enough to find that out,” the stranger grinned, wide and open as he bounced a little in his seat, sandy curls hanging around his eyes and sticking up like he hadn’t brushed his hair that morning. Which he hadn’t. Tarin raised an eyebrow. “It’s been five minutes, so I think I pieced it together quickly enough. I’m sorry, was there something I could do for you?” “Most people get there after two, but I’m flattered it took so long,” the blond teased back. “And no, I just like talking to interesting people and you looked like an interesting people. Person. You’re a person,” he rambled on, each word almost tripping into the next. “I saw you sitting here and you were doing this thing that you would start lifting your coffee up to your mouth and then your eye would catch on something in your phone, and it would just hover there until you put it down like you thought you took a sip and you didn’t and–,” “–Wow…” Tarin interjected, staring at the other boy in front of him. “That was a–,” “A lot?” he replied, finishing the stranger’s sentence. “Yeah, I sometime talk and I forget that I’m talking. Sometimes I get on these tangents because I think it’s happening in my head, but it’s coming out of my mouth. It’s why a lot of people think I’m weird.” Tarin’s lip quirked up in the corner, the environmental study he’d been reading on his phone forgotten as the screen had long since gone black. “I don’t think that’s why you’re weird,” he replied. “I think you’re weird because–,” The blond’s eyes flashed bright as he leaned in closer, making the faint freckles on his sun-kissed cheeks more noticeable. “Because I keep finishing your sentences,” he said, like a kid whispering conspiratorially about something he shouldn’t be doing. Tarin would have been lying if he said the odd twenty-something in front of him wasn’t intriguing. He wasn’t one for socializing, and he quite enjoyed not being bothered in public, but he couldn’t look away from the man in front of him. “Among other things,” he admitted. The stranger’s eyebrows twitched together a little bit. “What other things?” he asked. Tarin finally set his phone down, pushing one of his locs behind his ear. “Your shirt is on backwards,” he murmured. The lanky blond blinked, looking surprised a moment before he broke out in a loud, infectious, giggle, drawing the eyes of a few annoyed coffee-shop patrons. “Like I said, I’m an airhead sometimes,” he smiled, and damn if he didn’t make Tarin smile too. “I like you, Tarin. You’re fun.” Tarin opened his mouth to reply, but stopped, leaning back a little. “Did…I ever tell you my name?” he asked tentatively. The stranger shrugged and smiled, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Your coffee cup,” he murmured. Tarin snorted, shaking his head. “Fair enough.” As abruptly as he had sat down, the boy with the inside-out shirt was on his feet, fiddling with the hem a little bit. “I should let you get back to what you were doing, but I wanted to say hi because like I said, you’re interesting, and I like talking to interesting people, and I’m sorry for bothering you, but I’m glad I did.” Tarin frowned, surprised that he was sad to see the stranger go. “Wait,” he said, standing up quickly and turning, hip knocking against the table. As the coffee began to spill, Tarin grabbed the table and the table, the wood almost seeming to reach up and grab the base of the cup, righting it. It was almost too fast to see–anyone would think it was a trick of the eyes. Or, most anyone. The stranger paused, staring blankly at Tarin a moment before he stepped in closer, eyes wide and excited. “You are unlocked,” He whispered. “Circle of Earth, right? That’s so cool and that was an awesome trick and like…wow, I mean I thought you might, but I couldn’t be sure, and it’s not like you can /ask/,” he snorted. Tarin froze. Of course he knew other people were unlocked, but he’d never actually met someone else before. “You…you never told me your name,” he said quietly. “Hugh,” he smiled, biting his bottom lip. “Well, Hugh…I’d like to talk about this more,” Tarin murmured. “Perhaps we can get a drink tonight?” he asked tentatively. Hugh bounced a little excitedly, grabbing Tarin’s hand. “I’ll make sure my shirt isn’t inside out,” he promised. “I wouldn’t mind it if you did,” Tarin chuckled. Winking, Hugh reached up, pressing a finger to Tarin’s forehead. “You know my number now,” he murmured. “Call me.” And with that, he turned and left. “Mind,” Tarin murmured, watching Hugh practically skip out of the coffee shop. Sitting back down, Tarin unlocked his phone, eyeing the environmental study he’d been reading before pressing the home button and opening his texts. Opening a new text, he typed in ten digits instinctively. Hey weirdo. Hope I got the number right. Tarin lifted his coffee to take a sip when his phone buzzed. Where am I meeting you tonight? I was thinking about this place off of 50th? It’s tiny and kinda dark, and they have weird pictures of cats on the wall, and some of them are wearing bow-ties and… Tarin grinned, coffee cup still lingering close to his lips. Reading it over twice, he set the cup back down and set about replying. Sounds perfect. |
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