In terms of each submission, we were asked to sum up our novel in 35 words for our pitch logline, and then include the first 250 words of our manuscript (rounding to the end of the sentence if word 250 fell mid-sentence).
Constructive criticism always welcome! And link to your submission in the comments, too, if you have one!
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Title: HOPE CREEK: SINGLE
Genre: YA Contemporary Romance
Word Count: 76,000
Pitch:
Claire thinks friends are forever until she introduces her best friend Rayna to her crush, Graham. What Claire doesn’t realize is that best friends are only a kiss away from becoming the worst of enemies.
Excerpt:
The office door burst open with a howl and a swirl of dried-up old bits of leaves. I jolted in surprise, leaping nearly a foot out of the chair I’d been sitting in while I ate my lunch and flipped through horse show prize lists. Hardly anyone entered the barn through the office, especially in the middle of the day. A guy who distinctly resembled Malibu Ken hurried inside and struggled to close the door against another protest of the wind.
The sudden gust whipped a chunk of my frizzy brown hair across my eyes and what felt like halfway down my throat. At that same moment, I found myself mid-swallow of a shamefully gigantic bite of sandwich that I’d been practically--and now, literally--inhaling. Soundlessly, I considered my options. I needed my body to make more of an effort to either swallow or spit out the wedge of BLT holding steady in my esophagus like the Hoover Dam.
Malibu Ken didn‘t wait for an invitation, rushing to my side like Prince Charming sans magnificent white steed. Blame it on the sudden oxygen deprivation or whatever, but now I was seriously considering that it might be a lot less humiliating to choke to death rather than face whoever had come to my aid.
It barely registered with me that he had moved from the doorway into a crouched position in front of my chair. With my body curling up into the fetal position, I’m sure it was easier said than done to bring his face to my eye level.
The sudden gust whipped a chunk of my frizzy brown hair across my eyes and what felt like halfway down my throat. At that same moment, I found myself mid-swallow of a shamefully gigantic bite of sandwich that I’d been practically--and now, literally--inhaling. Soundlessly, I considered my options. I needed my body to make more of an effort to either swallow or spit out the wedge of BLT holding steady in my esophagus like the Hoover Dam.
Malibu Ken didn‘t wait for an invitation, rushing to my side like Prince Charming sans magnificent white steed. Blame it on the sudden oxygen deprivation or whatever, but now I was seriously considering that it might be a lot less humiliating to choke to death rather than face whoever had come to my aid.
It barely registered with me that he had moved from the doorway into a crouched position in front of my chair. With my body curling up into the fetal position, I’m sure it was easier said than done to bring his face to my eye level.
