Sourcebooks was kind enough to send us a copy of Jeff Herman's Guide to Book Publishers, Editors & Literary Agents 2010. Every writer needs this book--at a cover price of $29.99, it will make an invaluable addition to your library. And now, it can be yours for free!!
As I mentioned yesterday, we purchased the book last fall, so.....we have a copy to give away to one of you lucky readers! All you have to do is answer the following question and you will be registered to win the book. (A random number generator will make the final decision.)
Here's the question: Pretend you are the author of the hottest new novel of the year. What is this novel's first line?
So let yourself go--your "novel" can be about anyone or anything. Only one entry can win the book, but the most interesting "first lines" will be featured in this blog. Deadline for submissions is Friday, January 22. Post your entry in our "comments section."
2 days ago
34 comments:
It was the end of the world as she knew it, and Kate Carmichael felt something short of fine.
Acacia Levine’s new heart was on the way.
Everyone jokes about the little devil and angel on their shoulders; my problem is that I actually have them.
The body of Helen Parrish was pulled from the freezing water of Calfkiller River in the late afternoon of January 30th, 1962.
Darkness..... well, I guess opening my eyes would be a good start here.
I squeezed the trigger, the noise of the gun deafening in the confined space of the elevator.
Every time the women got together the conversation turned to ovaries and Oprah.
Lindy Wilson had come to the horrible conclusion she was likely going to hell.
HollyD
I never counted on the purple smoke.
Nausea bubbled to the tip of my tongue as I caught my girlfriend kissing another guy, my fingers unclenching themselves from the engagement ring I was about to surprise her with.
Nobody died today.
Adult novel:
Being called a bitch was the least of my concerns.
YA novel:
If Purgatory is between Heaven and Hell, my seat in Advanced Chem was Purgatory Central.
I’m not supposed to get cold. Eliza shrank into the dark corner of her living room. Her immortal body was free from disease and uncomfortable temperatures, but she felt colder every time the horrible sounds continued.
I was standing there naked when a dead man sauntered into my bathroom.
My best friend Pinch was murdered while I slept.
Lyn
The money was gone.
Becca
“What do you mean, he’s still alive?” Shannon asked.
He had almost gone home after his weekly visit to the cemetery.
One by one, fifty-six children climbed out of the coal-black train that rolled into Leek.
When I was eight, I thought I'd be a ballerina or a scuba diver, so I never dreamed that at age 38, I’d be working as an audiologist in Omaha, single, childless, with no boyfriend, or even a dog.
She sucked the air in through her nostrils, lifted her sternum the way she'd learned to in ballet, decided to clear her mind of the particular things she was thinking about, and stepped out.
As her daddy held her in his sheltering arms in the aftermath of a nightmare, five year old Meghan leaned in and whispered a sentence into his one good ear that would forever change their lives: "I saw you kill Mommy."
The rookie had to die, no way around it, the stranger told himself.
"And then," she looked up from her monologue and her ragged cuticles and caught me glancing at my watch, "and then I killed her."
Driving towards such a desolate area near the waterfront where there’s never been an outbreak before made my hair stand on end.
As I scurried down the narrow sidewalk, I saw my mother by my side, clipping along in her high heels, her lips a bright red, her hair pulled back in a severe bun--but then the image of her disintegrated as I turned the corner of Rue Benjamin Delessert.
The tip of my tongue flicked the pointed edge of the thumbtack clamped between my teeth.
Leslie awoke in a cold sweat with blood stained hands and knew the beast had returned.
The rain fell down in a torrent--A staccato drip and splash were indicative of the the overflowing gutter right above the window.
I reminded myself you don't call them midgets anymore (they're 'little people' now) because this one had a gun.
Winnifred Rose Buresh had been married and divorced twice, widowed once, arrested three time, been the defendant in four lawsuits (five, if you count the appeal), and was seventy-eight years old before she decided she needed to start carrying a gun.
Ender, my lover I had a fling with seven months ago, just told me she was pregnant with my child, a pretty neat trick considering I’m a woman.
Rebecca awakened, thinking her cat Malachi had unfurled himself along her spine, only to find an angel hiding out from God.
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