The Writer’s Voice entry #185 – SUBHUMAN, Adrien-Luc Sanders

(Hey guys, I’m participating in The Writer’s Voice blogfest, and one of the requirements is that I post my query/plot summary and first 250 words here. So wish me luck!)

Plot Summary: SUBHUMAN (YA, SF, post-apocalyptic)
17-year-old Kensington Randall has always felt invisible – until she becomes a moving target, and the prize in a devastating global war between mankind and their alien progenitors. When arctic drilling unearths an alien ship, the discovery sets off a chain of events that leaves the Earth scorched and twisted, and steals six years of Ken’s life in an instant. Six years in which her family, her friends, and her world move on without her.

As the military hunts her, her family rejects her, and her friends betray her, Ken has nowhere left to go save into the arms of Roman McKinley, another altered human and a confusing enigma who may damage Ken more than the aliens ever could. Together they discover the darker purpose behind their transformation – a purpose that makes them enemies to their own species, and living weapons who will, one way or another, bring the war to a shattering end.

First 250 words:
Kensington Randall would always remember the first time she saw Earth from space—and the last time she saw Brian smile.

He leaned against the railing on the outer observation deck of Hancomb International Lunar Station, smiling that strange, inward-turning smile that always made him seem so far away. Far from the world around them. Far from her. Unreachable, even when he stood so close their hands touched.

Below, the Earth was a disk of color and shadow rising past the ashen gray horizon of lunar craters. Darkness cupped the outer curve of the planet. Sunlight gilt the illuminated edge, until she could have plucked the red-gold ring from space and slid it onto her finger. A dense storm system unfurled its arms to grip the northern hemisphere, and she caught her breath as lightness filled her.

Brian took her hand, and his fingers curled cool and pale against her dusky skin. He’d held her hand so many times, over the years. Years of petty worries and family fights and high school squabbling. Years that would never look the same. Not now. Not ever.

When she looked back on that moment—a memory forever colored by the chill taste of recycled air, and the haunting blue of artificial light—she would always wonder if she could have changed things. If she’d left with Brian, or convinced him to stay. If she’d reached him sooner. If she’d died. If so many other things had been different.

Always if.

So, yeah. I’m dancing.

I might as well get right on out and say it:

My novella, From the Ashes, just sold to Entangled Publishing as part of their 2012 superhero anthology. Not only that, but I’ve been recruited as Senior Editor for Entangled’s Flirt and Ever After lines.

So, yeah. I’m dancing like a fool.

image by MeiTang on sxc.hu

It’s kind of funny how things happen, really. Back in January, Savvy Authors ran their EditPalooza writers’ workshop; back then I was working as an editor for Lyrical Press, and when Liz Pelletier asked for participating editors from various publishers, I joined in. EditPalooza was a lot of fun; I got to meet some really cool authors, and got to work with Liz, who turned out to be pretty awesome.

Then life went back to normal. I took a break from editing for a while; I needed to simplify my life and destress, as I’d managed to work myself to the edge of a nervous breakdown fueled by the fact that I wasn’t coping with my grandmother’s death as well as I thought. Things calmed down, I settled back into my daily routine in the day job as a freelance business writer, and got back into the habit of writing fiction on the side. I’m not sure what chain of links led me to Entangled’s website, though I’m pretty sure it had something to do with Twitter. It always has something to do with Twitter. Twitter will be responsible for the downfall of the western world.

Well, no. But it’s pretty much destroyed my attention span.

Anyway. I ran across the Entangled website, recognized the folks from Savvy Authors, and thought what they were doing was pretty cool. I also noticed the submissions call for their superhero anthology.

A week before the final submission date.

Meaning I had four days to churn out a 30k story if I wanted time to let a few beta readers hack it apart.

I don’t know how I did it. I do know I didn’t sleep, but that’s not news. Somehow From the Ashes made it out the door in time, and so help me but I’d have embarrassed myself if not for my friend Amanda, who is just about the best editor in the world and who caught my more cringe-worthy mistakes. I wasn’t expecting to hear anything for a few weeks, so when I saw an email from Liz the very next day, I think I died a little inside. Wow, I thought. That was fast. My story must’ve been really bad.

But it wasn’t a rejection. It was a note from Liz asking if I remembered her from Editpalooza, and asking if I was interested in joining the Entangled Publishing editing team.

So. After I picked myself up off the floor, I sent back the coolest, most composed email ever, stating my interest. Yeah. Stop laughing. You know I was shrieking and squealing and grinning like an idiot even in text, but let me have my illusions. Liz said great, and I took the editing test to see if my editing style and skill level were a good match for Entangled’s needs.

Let me tell you something: everything you know about the agony of waiting for a response to a submission is compounded exponentially when you’re waiting for a response not only to a submission, but a job application – with the same people. I bit my nails down to the quick. I refreshed my email obsessively. I think I sprouted a few more grey hairs. I drove my husband out of his mind, constantly asking if he thought I should have made the story hetero instead of LGBT, if they’d hate the story but love my editing, hate my editing but love the story, or absolutely despise both and wonder how I ever ended up involved in publishing the first place.

It was more a “none of the above” situation. I’m pretty sure I deafened an entire city block when the email came. I had to reread it six or seven times to convince myself it was real, and yes, they wanted the story and wanted me. I’m 99.9% certain I made a rambly, awkward jackass out of myself on introductory phone calls with Liz, the inestimable Heather Howland, and K.L. Grady, the walking epitome of awesomeness who’ll be my editor on From the Ashes.

But jackass or not, there it is. I’m happy. I think “happy” may be the biggest understatement of the year, actually, but it’s a start. I’m really looking forward to working with the Entangled team, both as an editor and as an author, and I think 2012 promises to be an amazing year all around.

But right now, well…

…I have a slush box to clean out. ~flees~

No, it’s really not a choice.

It’s been a while. I’ve been busy — working, beta reading, writing. The latest project I’ve been working on is a 30k novella submission for an anthology call. In fact, I just sent in my query and submission a few minutes ago. I almost didn’t. I almost told myself it would get rejected right off the bat and I shouldn’t bother, because my hero is gay.

Don’t be silly, I told myself. This is a progressive new e-publisher that accepts LGBT submissions, and they didn’t specify no LGBT for this anthology. But I couldn’t help being paranoid. It was the same paranoia that haunted me throughout the story, that told me maybe I should turn Tobias into Tabatha, or Sean into Sarah, and make it a heterosexual relationship. My paranoia said that even though they accept LGBT, they won’t consider my story for the anthology because it won’t match the tone of the other stories, and might turn off potential buyers who only want to read heterosexual stories. I nearly talked myself out of submitting because I was convinced my submission would be judged not on the merit (or lack thereof) of my writing, but just because the characters are gay.

That paranoia isn’t without foundation. For decades stories of open homosexuality have been either rejected, or “straight-washed” before acceptance; Publisher’s Weekly posted a great blog about the topic, and the outpouring of vocal support from editors and agents who actively want LGBT submissions was phenomenal. Read the comments; there are some amazing and very well-known people speaking up to say “send me your stories. Send me your characters as they are.” They don’t care if they’re gay, straight, bisexual, or transgendered. They want good storytelling regardless of sexual orientation or gender identity, and it’s the writing that matters. Some of the comments there will really brighten your day.

It wasn’t always that way, though. As I said, there’s been a stigma against stories with open homosexuals as anything more than secondary and tertiary characters, and even as acceptance grows that stigma lingers. It haunts writers, makes us cautious, makes us edgy, makes us paranoid. We can’t stop thinking about it. I thought about it while I was writing From the Ashes, and while struggling with the dilemma of my gay protagonist. I thought about how despite the acceptance and support shown in that one blog post, despite the personal support I’ve received from friends, we still don’t see that much LGBT fiction being published in the mainstream, rather than as niche fiction or through smaller e-publishers alone. It happens, but very rarely. It’s easy to put the blame on the publishers, and say we aren’t seeing it because they aren’t accepting it.

I can’t help but think, though, that we aren’t seeing it because we aren’t submitting it.

I think, out of fear of rejection, we’re straight-washing ourselves. Just as people in the LGBT community stay in the closet out of fear of homophobic and transphobic reactions, we straighten out our stories even though they’re not really the stories we want to tell. And sometimes, our books suffer for it. We don’t invest ourselves fully because we aren’t wholly behind the new, sexuality-switched or gender-reversed identities we’ve given these characters, and it feels like a lie–so we don’t give our all to writing it.

So many of us do it for different reasons. Maybe we’ve heard horror stories about agents and publishers rejecting stories based on the sexuality of the characters alone. Maybe we’ve had our own experiences with those rejections, or with being asked to straight-wash our stories. Either way, that fear hovers over us and affects the choices we make regarding what we write, and what we choose to submit — the same way the fear of being outed can affect how we behave, and the choices we make in our lives.

The thing is, while we’re beating this metaphor to death…being LGBT, whichever one or two of those letters you might fall under, isn’t a choice. Not for us. Not for me. So while we have the flexibility to shape our characters and make them into whatever little people we’d like them to be, in some ways their sexuality isn’t a choice, either. If it’s part of who they are, part of their story, then there’s really no choice about letting it be what it is — and there’s really no choice about whether you or I should continue to submit our LGBT stories.

The publishers are out there. More and more are opening their arms to LGBT novels; what they need to see now is more of them. More of us. More of our stories to show that they’re valid, they’re mainstream, they’re as compelling as every other story out there. Our stories may be part of the LGBT spectrum, but LGBT is part of the spectrum of life as a whole. Including our stories isn’t really a choice.

So don’t let it be a choice whether or not you’ll write them, or submit them. Write what you feel, whether it’s gay, straight, bi, tri, whatever. Write what you know, write what you love. Write through the fear of rejection, and trust that there are people out there who will judge your writing solely on its own merit and not for the characters’ sexuality alone. Write…and send it in.

I wrote my story. I sent it. Tobias is Tobias, Sean is Sean, and to hell with it. They’re in love. And if the story’s not good enough for the anthology, then I’m going to have faith — in this one publisher, and in every publisher I decided to submit to — that it’ll be because of a flaw in my writing***, not just because loving Sean helps make Tobias who he is. I’ll keep writing past that. I’ll keep improving. And I’ll keep submitting my stories, no matter the sexuality of my protagonists.

After all, they can’t accept it if you don’t submit it. If you don’t, you aren’t giving them much of a choice at all.

 

 

 
***Or, y’know, because I accidentally sent from my work email address and not my default email address. ~shakes fist at Thunderbird~

Hi there.

Psst. Hey, you. Yes, you. I’m talking to you. The aspiring author sitting there struggling over your query letter. The guy or gal wondering just how to approach an editor, an agent, whomever. The one trying to decide on business formality or sass, beautiful prose or wit, eye-catching originality or appreciable directness. The writer trying to figure out just the right way to walk up to this person who could hold the key to your career as a published author and say “hi.”

Well, hi.

No, seriously. It’s as simple as that. Just say hi.

Yes, you’ll need to tell me about your book. A little about yourself, too, though don’t overwhelm me. But really, just to start off with, say hi. Smile. Be polite, be friendly, and give me your message. It’s just like making friends.

And just like making friends, it requires a little tact.

Tact means not complaining about how you don’t like the submission format. Tact means not trash-talking other writers. Tact means not whining about how stupid you think the publisher or agent’s requirements are. Tact means not deriding the other agents and editors who rejected you. Tact means not proclaiming yourself the One True Savior who understands the truth of the publishing industry and will show us all the light of your genius.

Tact also means keeping your crazy quite firmly under your belt where I can’t see it.

You wouldn’t let it all hang out like that when making a new friend. Don’t let it hang out with me. There’s time enough to show me how quirky-awesome you are, when I know you well enough to appreciate it. On that first meeting, what I need to know is that you’re sane, you write well, your story engages me, and you’re capable of understanding the business aspect of this entire crazy machine.

So just say hi, and hope we hit it off well enough for your book and my editing schedule to be friends.

We won’t be friends. We can’t be. I can’t be your friend and do my job. I can’t worry about hurting your feelings when I’m chopping apart incorrect modifiers or urging you to drop the passive voice and use more active verbs. I can’t be your friend when trying to train you out of your little bad writing habits, even if I’m doing it in your best interests so your talent can shine through and showcase the good writing habits that made me love your story in the first place. I won’t be your friend, because friends can’t be honest with friends about their writing.

But we’ll be friendly. We’ll learn to love each other and hate each other–but more than that, we’ll learn to depend on each other through revisions and deadlines, galleys and proofs, cover art quibbles and panicked last-minute changes. We’ll learn each others’ senses of humor and share inside jokes swapped via tweets and MS Word comment boxes. We’ll tease each other about quirks, find out strange little things about each other, and know each other in ways that often, friends don’t. Writing reveals a lot about a person. So does editing. So do those moments at three o’clock in the morning, when we’re both ready to tear our hair out trying to fix that one last sentence before the book’s due in to production the next day.

And when your book releases I’ll share a drink with you in celebration, although I’ll never come to your kids’ birthday parties or help you shop for Christmas. I don’t care about photos of your dog in sunglasses or slideshows of your vacation to Redondo Beach, and please don’t tell me about your hot date last night or the guy you found your wife in bed with. I don’t want to know. I’d rather not picture you that way, and it’s really not my business.

So no, we won’t be friends. But we will be establishing a unique relationship that, if all goes well, could last for many years and through many books. You wouldn’t start a friendship by approaching a stranger and criticizing their choice of those shoes with those slacks. You wouldn’t walk up to someone in a bar and, without even saying hello, begin a spiel of negativity about every person who ever hurt you in the past.

So why would you start a relationship with an editor or agent by antagonizing them?

Harbls, or What Not to Include in Your Query

“Interesting” is a strange word, with so many positive and negative connotations in modern vernacular it’s a wonder anyone can be sure what you mean when you use it. It can mean fascinating, disturbing, intriguing, annoying, fantastic, or “oh god, the horror, the horror! Mine virgin eyes; what has been seen can never be unseen!” There’s also the Chinese context, my favorite proverb of “may you live in interesting times” – which basically boils down to a polite way of saying “I hope you die in a fire.”

Trust me when I say I’ve used it in all these contexts after nearly a month of digging through the Lyrical slush pile.

I’ve seen some great queries. Compelling writing, clear plot summaries, professional address and presentation. I’ve also seen sloppy, poorly-written queries, bland queries, queries that aren’t queries at all…and some delightful gems bordering on sheer cracked-out insanity. These wanderers off the beaten path have informed us of everything from their life stories to their sexual fetishes to the weight of their dogs’ testicles in precisely measured ounces, which is key to the accuracy of the were-sex in their paranormal romance. (The latter two are thankfully not linked. Um. I hope.)

What were these writers thinking? Sure, these facts are…interesting. Informative. Sometimes unique. But they’re also far too strange and intimate, and vastly off-topic from what your query letter should be about: your book, your previous publishing credentials (if any), and why you chose this publisher or this agent. I doubt anyone would feel their precious Rover’s harbls were an appropriate topic of discussion in an official letter to a business partner – so what’s the logic of mentioning it in a query?

To start with, let’s take a look at the erroneous assumption that your query is wholly private. It’s a special secret between you and the agent or publisher, a little locked diary entry with a single key that you share between you, making moon eyes at each other as you pass it back and forth and hold it to your pulsating hearts (which, naturally, beat as one when you love someone – thank you, this has been your 80s flashback for the day). You poured your heart into it, your soul, and included every quirky, offbeat detail that you hope will make you unique and endearing – no matter how inappropriate those details might be. And when the day’s done you’ve made a special connection, because of this private thing you’ve shared with that precious someone.

Wrong.

First off, it’s possible you’re sending your super special query to an intern who’ll take one look at it, make a face I won’t even try to describe, and toss it in the trash. Second, if it makes it to the agent or to your chosen contact at the publishing house, it’s quite possible they’ll pass it around to everyone else at the establishment. Not to be malicious, no, but for one of three reasons: 1. they’re interested in the project and want counsel from their peers, 2. they’re not interested but think someone else might be, or 3. you sent a query with pictures of cats doing the nasty as relevant to the theme of your supernatural shifter story, and they want to be sure everyone knows your name in case you come across their desks with a fresh pile of crazy.

Do they do this out of spite? No. But industry professionals do talk, they do look out for each other, and at the end of the day memorable queries do sometimes come up. “Memorable” is a word like “interesting;” it can mean something awesome, or it can mean you’ll go down in infamy as the Cat Smut Dog Harbls writer.

Recently literary agent Michelle Wolfson got dragged into a bit of intarwebz drama on Twitter. She posts #queryquotes as she reads queries, with 140 characters of insight into things that make her go “hmmm.” (And “ech.” And “what is this i don’t even.”) Although she makes sure the quotes are anonymous and removes any identifying details of the stories, this sparked an argument with a published author who felt she was demeaning writers for the sake of her own cruel amusement. Many writers, editors, and literary agents jumped to her defense (although it proved pointless; it’s hard to argue with someone who’s fencing with a Nerf bat yet is convinced he’s holding a rapier). They pointed out that #queryquotes is meant to be humorously helpful, not hurtful. Yet many detractors were less worried about what she said, and more worried that she posted excerpts publicly. Was Michelle violating writers’ privacy by publicly posting lines from their queries?

No. Not just no, but hell no.

Step back and look at this with a little perspective. You’ve written a book, and now you’re letting that little bugger out into the world. Fly, little pages, fly, and hope that one day you’ll be read and appreciated by thousands or even millions of people. When you’re actively seeking publicity, you have no right to privacy as far as those words are concerned. People will read your book, they’ll talk about it, they’ll quote you, and sometimes they’ll say not-so-nice things – and you can’t do a damned thing about it other than wear yourself out flailing about. You can’t even cite copyright law, as long as they’re only quoting a few lines. Fair use is a bitch when it’s used against you, but it’s still fair use.

Your query is an extension of your book. You’re sending it out into the woolly wild hoping to find that one person who’ll love it enough to launch your publishing career. If you aren’t prepared to have your query seen publicly, then you aren’t prepared to deal with the ups and downs of making a published book available to the widely diverse and highly opinionated world at large.

So here’s a rule of thumb when crafting a good query: if you’ve written something you’d be embarrassed to see on #queryquotes, read to your mother, or have flashed on the big screen during the Superbowl halftime show, stop and take a closer look at your query. Ask yourself why that section is embarrassing you, then delete it. Keep deleting until you have something you’d be proud to place on public display. Rover will thank you. So will all the agents and editors whose minds you saved from irreparable scarring via TMI.

Because if it’s too embarrassing to be seen by the general populace, it doesn’t have a place in your query.

Why I Said No: One Editor’s First Experience With the Slush Pile

So as I said in my last post, I’m now a traitor (if you ask Kerry, Michelle, Janet, and Jeffe, anyway – I see ya’ll over there). I’ve crossed over to the other side, and am now an editor for a small publisher. I not only work on refining accepted manuscripts, but also review submitted manuscripts waiting in the publisher’s slush pile. We’re always looking for great new manuscripts in the submissions pool, and it’s part of my job to throw in my two cents on acceptance or rejection.

That’s right, I said it. The R word. Dreaded, hateful, but inevitable, it’s something I’ve dealt with often enough from a writer’s perspective. It’s a little strange from the other side of the desk, and frankly it sheds an interesting light on the entire process when I think of sending my own books out to agents or publishers. When I look at my own work I now try to see it as another editor would, weighing its merits and seeking out its flaws with a more detached eye. Honestly, I think it would do most writers good to spend just a month reading through the slush pile at a publishing house or literary agency to really hone your critical perceptions.

But since not everyone can do that, I thought I’d share my first week of wading through the slush. Not to be cruel to the authors, or to embarrass them; any identifying specifics have been removed so not even the authors themselves could tell if any of these refer to them, and this is just a small sample from the overall submissions pool so it’s a bit of a roulette as far as which ones I chose. Despite a tendency towards overt honesty and tactless dissection, I don’t want to hurt or humiliate anyone; I’m just offering a glimpse of what goes through my head as I review, and an idea of what factors led to my final vote – not just the negative comments, but the positive ones as well.

The process:
For every submission I read the query, the synopsis, and the first and last chapters. Generally I can tell about halfway through the synopsis if a story’s just not for me, if it’s not right for the publisher (Lyrical publishes genre fiction, primarily with romantic or erotic themes), if it’s starting to fall apart, or if the story and writing suffer from problems that just can’t be blamed on the fact that synopses exist to torture authors, editors, and agents alike. Still, the chapter review gives them a chance to surprise me – to grip me so thoroughly I don’t want to put the story down. If the first and last chapters look solid and the synopsis offers hope of a well-constructed plot, I skim through the rest from beginning to end to look for major deal-breakers and mentally note any issues that could make me lean toward no, but aren’t killing it yet.

Only if it passes that trial do I stop and make the time for an in-depth read from beginning to end, in the hopes of saying yes.

I haven’t said yes yet – but here’s my commentary from ten instances where I had to say no.

The Rejections:

1. Interesting premise, but feels contrived and a bit unfinished; the synopsis indicates that some plot threads are closed off messily or simply as an afterthought when they’re no longer convenient. Writing is fairly solid in technical construction, but lacks style or an engaging voice. Could be workable, but would require a great deal of author/editor collaboration to tighten up the prose and give it a decent hook. As a whole, it didn’t really pull me in.

2. Bill Engvall calls himself “15 degrees off cool.” I love him anyway. This author’s story is 15 degrees off right, but I kind of like the idea anyway. It has promise, although I admit I was fairly lukewarm on the idea and probably would have skipped reading a sample if not for a good hook. The synopsis starts off strong, but doesn’t deliver on its promises; the plot seems to get lost with characters whose behavior erases any chance of empathizing with them. Looking through the first chapter, there’s a strong voice, good characterization, but very poor technical execution and sloppy prose (and some painful comma abuse), as well as a tendency to use words that aren’t quite what the author means. Overall it just doesn’t work, but I wish it did. The idea really interested me, but I think the author should have done some major paring, rewriting, and strengthening before submitting.

3. Keep wavering between hot and cold on this one. I love this genre, so that caught me…but just reading the quick outline made me say “And…? Is that all?” (Which could be a good thing or a bad thing, as it did leave me wanting more.) Unfortunately the synopsis did the same. Although it clears up some questions, it feels lacking in substance and impetus once it nears the end – as if the author got close to the end and said “screw it, let’s just be done with it.” Which is a shame, as I think the concept is strong enough to hold up when written well – although it is a little derivative and the conclusion seems to come too easily. The writing’s mechanical, but can be fixed with variations in structure. There’s a lot of potential, but there’s also a chance it’ll fizzle badly and require a lot of work, especially in the latter half.

4. It drew me, but something’s rather off about it. I couldn’t help but wonder why the author chose this perspective. I’m honestly not sure what to make of the style. It’s very literary and atmospheric, but suffers from poorly fleshed-out characters. I’m…puzzled by the story, to say the least. Very intrigued, yet at the same time a bit put off. It seems a bit stereotypical, and the main characters seem detached from from the conflict. And even though it’s interesting, I don’t think Lyrical’s the right market.

5. I’m already shaking my head before even opening the docs. Heavy, heavy, heavy. I love a weighty story with some good meat and a penchant for subtlety in conflict rather than outright slap-dash action, but this just takes it too far. It’s dry, very dry. Too much navel-gazing, not enough actual story. It’s too bad, because the prose is good, the voice strong, though it’s repetitive – and I think the author is a little shaky on perspective. Entirely not suited for Lyrical.

6. So derivative of other published novels that it borders on generic and wanders dangerously close to plagiarism. Plus the plot seems to peter out in the last third; an attempt to create tangled threads just makes a muddle that loses my interest. I rather enjoyed the writing style, though; it’s clear and fairly well-paced, and with editing could make for a tight, strong voice. I’d be willing to take a look at a more original revision.

7. Couldn’t get past the first page. The technical problems hinted at in the query and the synopsis just exploded in the story itself, along with a much larger dose of Mary Sue than I can generally handle. Too much backstory, and no appeal whatsoever. Might work for someone who really loves the concept, but it’s not for me.

8. Strong voice, compelling, an entertaining and funny homage to its genre. I haven’t had time to read through the whole thing so I can’t say for certain without a synopsis, but if the rest of the book lives up to the promise in the first and last few chapters I’d say yes – although there are some issues in the last few chapters that need clearing up, as this is another one that peters out towards the end. Too much exposition, not enough action, and the wrap-up is a bit inconclusive. Really would need to see the synopsis to give a solid stamp of approval.

(Note: yes, this is still a no. If I don’t see a synopsis to tell me there’s something worth reading in the meat of the book, I don’t have hours to spend digging to find out. Not everyone uses synopses, but when they’re the only thing standing between you and a full they’re evil, maddening little lifesavers. Sometimes I might be able to set aside time for a full read before a submission rotates out, but when I’ve got production schedule deadlines looming that won’t always be the case. I won’t always have time to give people the benefit of the doubt without the synopsis to justify the effort.)

9. The setup picked me up, gave me hope, then dropped me on my face. All this buildup to gloss over the central plot? Don’t do that to me; my fragile heart can’t handle it.

There are stereotypes that could easily alienate readers. The author can write, but can’t tell a story. There’s no plot here; just events. The symbolism is much too overwrought, a flimsy skeleton that can barely support a story that didn’t have much meat to start with. I’d pass.

10.Totally the wrong genre. MG or YA pitched as adult, when the voice and storyline aren’t even remotely suitable. The synopsis spatters events together with little connection, yet for such a busy story nothing of significance to the plot seems to happen very often. The writing takes a lot of risks, but lacks the technical ability and style to support any boldness.

Pass.

Well, hope that’s been enlightening (or that you at least found my sad attempts at humor somewhat amusing). Who knows, I might do this again at some point – but for now I’m signing off, and hoping that next time I dive into the slush pile I’ll find something that makes me say “yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”

Disclaimer: This post does not represent the opinions or commentary of other Lyrical Press editors or employees. These comments are my opinions only; the comments of other editors are private and confidential, and should not be inferred from my statements. In other words, we’re different people with different thoughts on why stories do and do not work, so don’t assume that my decision to publicize my thoughts means my comrades in slush would say the same things.