Writer's Digest International Self-Published Book Award

A wife, mother, and grandma, Yvonne Anderson lives in rural Ohio. She's a former legal secretary, currently a professional Virtual Assistant, and writes a daily Bible study blog. She creates fiction just for fun, but sometimes entertains fantasies about real remuneration.






Okay, so you've been reading these posts about writing contests. You know your novel is at least as good as some of the winners. You stick out your lip in a pout and tell your long-suffering sweetie, "I can't enter any of those because I self published. Discrimination! Think the ACLU will take my case?"

Put down the phone and quit your whining. You're not being discriminated against -- you're just baying up the wrong elm. The raccoon's up the Writer's Digest tree, you flop-eared hound!

You smack your furry forehead – duh! I knew that! Every wannabe writer subscribes to the magazine, so you've seen the announcements. Sure, the Writer's Digest International Self-Published Book Award is no Nobel, but it ain't chopped liver, either. Wait, maybe that's a bad analogy. If you're a hound dog, you'd gobble up chopped liver in a big, slurpy flash.

Let me rephrase. Sure, it's not Nobel, but you can buy a lot of chopped liver with the $3000 Grand Prize. While you're licking your chops, you can see your name in Writer's Digest and Publishers Weekly; ten copies of your prize-winning book will be submitted to major review houses; you'll receive marketing advice from self-publishing expert Dan Poynter; and you'll get a box of these mouth-watering treats:

one-year membership in Publishers Marketing Association, guaranteed distribution of your book to bookstores and libraries through Baker & Taylor, a review in Midwest Book Review, six hours of coaching from a Poynter Book Shepherd, a customized Book MarketMap Directory, and an all-day PublishingGame.com workshop.

Sound good? Keep your tail wagging, because there's more kibble where that came from. Nine first-place winners receive $1000 and promotion in Writer's Digest, a review in Midwest Book Review, and book-jacket seals announcing the award-winning status of their book, among other things. The best part is, every entrant gets tossed a bone or two in the form of a brief judge's commentary and a listing with a link to his or her book on the Writer's Digest website.

Wanna know how to enter? Quit running around in circles and pay attention. The contest is open to all English-language self-published books in the following categories: Mainstream/Literary Fiction, Genre Fiction, Nonfiction, Inspirational, Life Stories (biographies, memoirs, etc.), Children's Picture Books, Middle-Grade/Young Adult, Reference, or Poetry. (Sorry, no category for art books such as self-published collections of paw prints.)

By the way, "self-published" is defined as a book for which the author has paid the full cost of publication or the cost of printing has been paid for by a grant or as part of a prize.

You must submit a bound and printed copy of the book. Preferably one you haven't chewed, because although entrants are judged primarily for content and writing quality, appearance counts too. They don't require that your book have an ISBN number, but they do demand an Official Entry Form, along with a fee of $100. If you're a prolific puppy, you can enter multiple books in multiple categories, but each needs its own entry form. The fee for each additional book is $50.

Oh, yeah. If your book has already won any sort of award from Writer's Digest, you can't enter it. Go publish something else.

Only old dogs need apply – 112 years or more, in dog years. (If you're a people, you only have to be sixteen.)

I sniffed around a little and found that the folks at Writer's Digest have had over two thousand entrants some years, so there is some competition. The judges are all humans who are involved in the publishing industry. Usually agents or editors. But none from the self-publishing world, to avoid problems with personal bias. It doesn't matter what category you enter, because all are equally eligible to win. A recent grand prize winner was a nonfiction entry on travel photography (PhotoSecrets San Diego, by Andrew Hudson), and a Young Adult book (Peace I Ask of Thee, O River, by Lyda Phillips) took a First Place.

This year's contest is already over, but if you run off a copy of your latest poodle romance, you might be able to get it in for next year.

So now we've thrown you the Frisbee – go fetch!

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Announcing Our Speculative Fiction Winner

Hard to believe, but we're nearing the end of this year's edition of Novel Rocket's LAUNCH PAD Contest, Boosting You Out of the Slush Pile.

Today, we announce the winner of our sixth and last category. Next, we'll let the Final Round judges go to work reviewing all the year's genre winners. They'll have the tough job of determining which of those talented writers should be the winner of the crystal rocket trophy. Finally, in December, we'll announce who wins Grand Prize: not just a trophy, but an opportunity to place his or her winning entry on the desk of a specially-selected agent or editor, bypassing the slush pile.

Making that choice will be a challenge. This month, however, the judges had no difficulty choosing a winner for the Speculative Fiction category.

"Creating a believable narrative in a novel is challenging," said one judge. "Creating one in a speculative novel is even more arduous. This entry accomplishes this, and more. I was drawn in by the compelling characters and a richly layered plot that left me wanting to read the rest of the story."

The other judge agreed. "This entry had fantastic movement and compelling characters. It’s a rare treat in a contest to find an entry that makes you forget you’re judging and supposed to be commenting. The author has done their work in honing their craft! Very imaginative and fun! Well done!"

I guess they liked it. And we're happy to present to you this month's winning entry, Wyrmholes by Amelia Grimstad of Richland Hills, Texas.

Wyrmholes

by

Amelia Grimstad

Precipice

 

   The firedrop from the pommel of Tambre’s sword flew a good stride and a half and hissed into the Melimilak River.

     Lovely.

     Steam rose as the flame-colored gem that allowed her to take on physical form sank. Ripples reproached Tambre from three different locations on the surface. Oh firmament above, had it skipped?

     Some steadfast and stalwart Interraphym she was. No wonder her sovereign had not yet assigned her a ward. She fled when startled.

     The only thing that could make this more embarrassing would be having to manifest underwater.

      She looked past the shimmering silver mist of her involuntary dispersal to where Ovryn stood, half-concealed in the shrubbery along the island’s shoreline. His shoulders shook with silent laughter while the echoes of his triumphant, inarticulate cry raced across the water.

     “Beloved?” he finally managed. “Tambre, are you all right?”

     Was she all right?

     Was she all right?

     He was lucky he was immortal.

     She wrapped her essence around him and leaned in. Come on, honey. Pick up the stone. I dare you.

     He swallowed.

     Ovryn stepped into the gentle current, retrieved her touchstone, and with his burden extended in a way that suggested she was getting better at projecting, returned to the rocky shore.  He held the glowing firedrop out between his thumb and index finger, and she reached for it, materializing one hand that cupped the rounded bottom of the stone and another that gripped the sword hilt that flowed upward as soon as her essence touched the physical anchor.

     The rutilated quartz hilt felt cool beneath her fingers, even as its needle-thin gold inclusions blazed and flames licked the edge of the forming blade. As she continued to manifest, she focused on sheathing the sword so she would not have to meet Ovryn’s eyes. She had trusted foolishly, and she was not sure with whom she was madder.

     He sleeked the silver-tipped feathers that bristled at the apex of one of her folded wings. “Beloved, are you—?”

     “You should flee now.” She loved him with the ferocity only an Interraphym was truly capable of, but right now, she hated him just as intensely.

     “Tambre, I—”

     Her fingernails dug into her palms. “Now.”

     He nodded and took flight, skimming over the water toward the western shore. Good choice. Her mate had more experience in the human lands than she did. He just might be able to avoid her until she calmed down.

     A slow count of five was all the head start her fury would allow, and she touched down on the shore right behind him. Ovryn had retained his neutral form—visually similar to a human—but had modified his wings to resemble a cloak. Tambre compressed her being into that shape as well, rather than a grizzly or a snow lion—something with good speed and nice, sharp claws.

     Time settled over her, thick and viscous, and in the moment she took to adjust to being fully mired in time and trapped in one shape, Ovryn ran. His usual good sense must have fled in the other direction, because he grinned and called over his shoulder, “Catch me if you can!”

     Brilliant. Her mate was simply brilliant. And it was too late to choose the snow lion form. She settled for a human growl and sprinted after him.

     Faint strains of late summer’s lullaby crooned to her as she passed. Slow down. Rest. All is coming to fruition…

     Yes, it surely was. Fruition and harvest. Too bad her mate had not sown more carefully.

     She lost a pace on him as she veered around the tiny sparks of life flaring from a field mouse nest. He gained another pace when he fluttered his wings to avoid trampling an oak sapling that would shelter a human couple’s picnic in four generations. However, when he glanced over his shoulder and flashed her an expression of unbridled delight, she put her head down and found a new level of speed.

     She kept her sword sheathed—she didn’t want to hurt him; not really—but as she tackled and pinned him to the ground, she figured any bruises he took were only justice. Break a promise to her, would he? Insufferable male.

     He twisted beneath her until they lay chest to chest and she could see the mirth still dancing in his eyes. “Oh, beloved, you should have seen the look on your face.” He paused to giggle—giggle—like a human child. “You haven’t looked like that in—”

     “In twenty generations? Since the last time you startled me, and I promised to never forgive you if you did it again?”

     His smile fell a little.

     She gaped. He hadn’t remembered. The Creator did not make mistakes, but why, oh why, had He made females’ memories so much better than males’?

     “I’m sorry,” he said, meeting her eyes briefly. “I simply—” He snorted and made suspiciously laughter-like noises again. “Could not help it...”

     Could not help it.

     Right.

     She considered demonstrating that she could not help a fist to his gut, but he knew as well as she did when an act of the will was involved. If his prank had been inevitable, she would have foreseen him jumping out at her like sunrise on the day after the feast of Ceadamhain. If she could not help retaliating, he would be poised to block the punch she wanted to throw.

     Sometimes she wondered if free will might not be too great a responsibility.

[Click here to continue reading.]

When she's not coordinating the Launch Pad contest, Yvonne Anderson writes fiction that takes you out of this world. 

Looking for a fun fiction getaway? Fly through the Gateway to Gannah series for some serious sci-fi adventure! 

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A Spec Fic Win

It doesn’t seem possible we’ve come this far, but here we are announcing the winner of the Speculative Fiction category of this year’s Launch Pad Contest. The last category of the year!

Though a couple of the entries were good enough that the judges had to discuss which should be the winner, they did decide on one that satisfied everyone. 

One judge said, “I immediately bonded with the heroine, her relationship with her father, and her plight. Her survival in a horrific tragedy was real. How does one deal with the supernatural? How does it impact a character’s life?” The other judge agreed that the protagonist was easy to relate to and also was impressed with the writer's skill as a storyteller.

We’re happy to announce that the last category winner of our contest this year is My Soul to Keep by Melissa Solis of Spring, Texas. She, along with the year’s previous category winners, will move into the final round. A separate panel of judges will choose our Grand Prize winner from among those entries. That prize will include a custom made blown glass rocket trophy similar to the one shown above (the one in the picture was 2012's trophy), as well as a custom made match-up with an agent or acquisitions editor.

We’ll announce the Grand Prize winner in December. Meanwhile, please enjoy the winning Speculative Fiction entry...

My Soul to Keep

by

Melissa Solis

Hot tears streaming down my cool face awakens me. I sweep them away with my fingers and slowly make my way out of bed. It’s early morning, and the birds are already serenading the dawn. Still half-asleep, I trudge to my bathroom and wash my tear-stained face. Every night for seven years, I’ve had the same nightmare. If only it were a dream. If only I could forget that it ever happened. I close my

eyes, and try to force the memory of the stranger’s face, but nothing comes. He is only a mist, a shadow here, a blur there.


I turn on the shower and allow the warm steam to envelop me and melt my headache away. Most of my mornings start on this somber note. What I wouldn’t give just once to wake up all sunshine and butterflies. Heck, I’d even settle for misty and moths.

My dream always begins with the same crystal clarity. It’s the first day of my summer vacation. I am ten years old and leaving my home in San Diego for Dallas to spend the summer with my mother, as I always did after their divorce. I often dreaded the trip for weeks leading up to it, and that year was no different. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my mother but I had grown accustomed to our estranged relationship. The dream always starts with my leaving my bedroom that morning.

~ I cling to my crystal doorknob for a moment before pulling it shut. I listen as the waves outside break methodically along the shoreline. I inhale the scent of maple syrup, bacon mixed with the salty sea air, for the last time. This dulcet scent is the smell of home, and I want to savor it for just one second longer.

“Brennen,” my dad yells from the car while honking out the obnoxious melody of “Shave and a Haircut.” The man lives to embarrass me. What can I say?

Coming, Dad—keep your panties on!” I sling my leather bag over my shoulder and pull my long

blond mane out from under the strap. I stomp out of the front door, slamming it good and hard to announce my frustration to the neighborhood, namely my dad. I’ll miss this house and the beach so much this summer. My dad stands by the car smirking at me. As I glare at him, I think to myself how much I will miss him more than anything. He is a large, well-built machine of a man. At over six feet tall, he towers next to the small V.W. bug. His surfer’s tan and his balding head give him a distinguished yet approachable look.

“What?” he yells playfully while grinning, helpless against my temper. I pause at the open car door and take a mental snapshot of my beach — our beach — before I slump down in the car.

“This sucks you know.” I cross my arms and throw on a serious scowl.

“Aw, you want some cheese with that whine?” he quips yet another one of his outdated, overused clichés. I retaliate with an eye roll. Good-byes weren’t something either of us did well. I would think I’d be used to it by now, but in ten years, it hasn’t gotten any easier.

We arrive at the gate, and my dad kneels down beside me as I kiss the top of his bare head.

“Bye, old man!”

He wraps his gigantic arms around me into a bear hug that could crush a hippo. He is leaving next week for a classified three-month Navy Special Forces operation. As always, I am worried about him. I know his job is dangerous—deadly even—but he always makes light of it for my sake.

“I’m gonna miss you, baby girl.”

“Can’t breathe, need air,” I squeak out. He sighs and kisses my cheek.

“Fine, later daughter-o-mine,” he says with a dubious Irish accent.

“Love you.” I squirm out of his tactical hold.

“Love you too.”

I board the plane as if walking the plank, one desultory step at a time. I’m guided to my seat by one cheerful young blond-haired, blue-eyed attendant, the epitome of a Cali girl if I’ve ever met one.

“Can I get you anything, Ms. Hale?” Her voice is sincere and syrupy, just shy of nauseating.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” I reply in my own sweet tone. I plop into my window seat and pass the time by people watching. A woman with a young baby boy sits in front of me. I can tell she is worried about how he’ll do. Trust me: we’re all worried about how he’ll do. Two elderly ladies are sit in my row; they introduce themselves as May and Evelyn. They chat about visiting their great-grandchildren. I get the impression they’re sisters. Both wear the same teased football helmet coif my grandmother does. Lots of men in slacks and ties, each looking as if he did this all too frequently.

A group of high school boys come down the aisle. They could fill up the whole rear section—a soccer team perhaps? They’re rowdy and obnoxiously brazen, whistling catcalls to the attendants like middle-aged construction workers. Their chaperone is a rail-thin speck of a woman, who looks like she would blow over if the wind rose above stagnant. Her feeble attempt to quiet the brats has loosened her already frazzled bun. An equally chubby couple takes a seat in my row. I gather from their conversation that she’s afraid to fly and her husband points me out.

“See, even that little girl isn’t afraid. There is nothing to worry about, honey.” He gives me a wink. I feel obliged to help in some way. She did look like she was sweating bullets after all.

“Yes, ma’am—I fly this way every summer and that old pilot keeps getting better at it every time,” I manage to say with a straight face. She titters and flags down the first attendant she sees and orders a rum and coke. I get cozy in my seat and pull out the book my dad gave me to read, The Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King. It captures my attention right away.

Click here to continue reading.

When not overseeing the Launch Pad Contest, Yvonne Anderson writes fiction that takes you out of this world. The fourth and final title in her Gateway to Gannah sci-fi series takes off later this month. You won't want to miss it!

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ANNOUNCING: A New Writing Contest

As you may have noticed, once a month we do a column about writing awards. Starting in 2010, we’ll try something new: instead of talking about other contests, we’ll conduct one of our own.


Out of the Slush Pile: The Novel Journey Fifteen Minutes of Fame Contest

Here’s how it will work:
•Beginning in January, 2010, we’ll have twelve monthly mini-contests. See schedule below.
•Each month’s winning entry will be published in this column on the 2nd Monday of the month.
•In January, 2011 we’ll announce the Grand Prize for Best of the Year. The winning entry will be submitted to a panel of agents and editors, and the author will receive an original Muse created especially for the winner.
• No money will exchange hands; no entry fee is required, and no monetary prize will be awarded. This is simply an opportunity for unpublished writers to bring attention to their work. If agents or editors reading these entries want to see more, they can contact us and we will get them in touch with the winning author.

Who can enter?
Any unpublished novelist not affiliated with Novel Journey who has a completed manuscript ready to pitch.

How does an interested writer enter? Download the entry form here. Fill it out and email it, along with your complete first chapter and a synopsis, to NovelJourneyContest@gmail.com. Please do not send the entire manuscript; only the first chapter and synopsis will be read. However, we do ask that the manuscript be complete, so if an agent or editor is interested, you will be prepared to provide it.

What categories will we have to choose from?
• Historical Fiction (WWII era and before) – this includes all historical fiction, including romance
• Suspense/Crime/Mystery/Cozy Mysteries
• Contemporary Fiction/Women’s Fiction (from 1950 to the present)
• Middle Grade/Young Adult Fiction
• Contemporary Romance (NOT historical)
• Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror

Can I enter in more than one category?
Yes, if it’s a different novel. You may enter a novel only once – a story may not be submitted in two different categories (that is, you cannot submit the same story as both Mystery and Contemporary Romance); and it may not be submitted again in the same category later in the year.

Why are you taking entries for each category twice?
To give writers a chance to complete their WIPs. If you miss your category the first time around, you’ve got six more months to catch the second deadline.

I’m ready now! When can we enter?
You may submit at any time – yes, even today. However, it's not first come-first serve, so there’s no big hurry.

Here is the schedule for entry deadlines and the announcement of winners:
In January, we’ll judge the first round of Historical Fiction (WWII era and before). Entries must be received by December 10, 2009; winner will be announced on January 11, 2010.

In February, we’ll judge the first round of Suspense/Crime/Mystery/Cozy Mysteries. Entries must be received by January 10, 2010; winner will be announced on February 8, 2010.

In March, we’ll judge the first round of Contemporary Fiction/Women’s Fiction (1950 to the present). Entries must be received by February 10, 2010; winner will be announced on March 8, 2010.

In April, we’ll judge the first round of Middle Grade/Young Adult Fiction. Entries must be received by March 10, 2010; winner will be announced April 12, 2010.

In May, we’ll judge the first round of Contemporary Romance. Entries must be received by April 10, 2010; winner will be announced May 10, 2010.

In June, we’ll judge the first round of Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror. Entries must be received by May 10, 2010; winner will be announced June 14, 2010.

In July, we’ll start over with Historicals. Entries must be received by June 10; winner will be announced on July 12.

August: Suspense/Crime/Mystery/Cozies. Entries must be received by July 10; winner announced on August 9.

September: Contemporary Fiction/Women’s Fiction. Entries must be received by August 10; winner announced on September 13.

October: Middle Grade/Young Adult Fiction. Entries must be received by September 10; winner announced October 11.

November: Contemporary Romance. Entries must be received by October 10; winner announced November 8.

December: Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror. Entries must be received by November 10; winner announced December 13.

January, 2011: Grand Prize: Best of the Year. Winner will be selected from the previous winners and will be announced on January 10, 2011.

Who are the judges?
The Novel Journey staff.

Can I bribe them?
Though chocolate will never be rejected, it won’t put your entry at the top of the heap. It will only make us fat and happy.

Suppose I’m a winner. How many people are likely to see my chapter when it’s posted? Do you have a lot of agents and editors in your readership?
We can't give you an exact figure, but we can tell you that a lot of people in the business read this blog. So whatever the numbers, you can be assured that winning entries will get exposure. Moreover, the Grand Prize winner will be guaranteed review by a panel of agents and editors. So this is a free opportunity to get your name and your work out there where it will be seen by industry professionals.

I drafted a novel some time back and I think it might have potential. Should I make revisions, polish it up and get it ready to submit?
What are you waiting for? Sit! Write! Send!

We’re looking forward to seeing your entries. And don’t forget the chocolate.

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Announcing This Year's Romance Winner

Breaking news from the Novel Rocket LAUNCH PAD Contest, Boosting You Out of the Slush Pile: we have a winner in the Romance category.

But first, we should remind you that the contest is winding down for a close. There's still one category open for submission, and that's Speculative Fiction. But the deadline is TOMORROW, September 10, so if you have an entry you've been thinking of sending it, you'd better jump to it, because you have no time to waste.

The winners of each of the six categories (Suspense/Crime/Mystery/Thriller; General Fiction; Nonfiction; Middle Grade/Young Adult; Romance; and Speculative Fiction) will be eligible to move on to the finals. In December, we'll announce our Grand Prize winner. That lucky writer will win a trophy much like the one pictured here, and will have his or her winning entry taken out of the slush pile and put on the top of the stack on an appropriate agent or editor's desk. I'm talking personal attention here. No guarantees of publication, but much juicy opportunity.

The winning submission in the Romance category caught the attention of both of our judges this month. Once you read the entry, you'll see why. Not intended for the CBA market, the descriptions are a bit sensual at times; but that's not a problem for a secular romance. Despite prose that tends to be a little "purple" (in one judge's words), it's skillfully written, has the romantic element required for this category, a good handle on point of view, and a synopsis that promises a well woven story.

We're pleased, therefore, to congratulate Catherine Lawrence of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for her story, The Duel.

The Duel

 by 

Catherine Lawrence

Cambridge, 1733

Chapter One

What did a man wear, when he might die before sunrise? 

Crossing to the clothes press, Thomas Caldwell pulled out a crisp linen shirt and thrust his head into it. 

He could smell the spring green bushes where it had dried and been sun-bleached after laundering. He drew on his waistcoat, the indigo one, with silk-embroidered buttons, sewn in Spitalfields. Not his finest but well-fitted, dark enough to blend into the early morning shadows, loose enough to raise his pistol-arm swiftly. Handsome enough to meet his Maker–but no! 

Blood wouldn’t mar this dashing swoop of cravat today, nor any another, God willing. 

Knife, slipped in his boot. Dagger, sheathed in his belt.

Hands–clenched and unclenched, awakening reluctantly, readying themselves. 

He shrugged into his favorite coat and rubbed the thick nap, dark brown like his hair. His fingers combed through stubborn curls and tied them back in an efficient queue. 

Candlelight flickered in the mirror. Yes, he cut a fine figure. 

Fine, fine. Two French pistols in their case. 

Alexander’s.

He slung his brother’s satchel on his shoulder and cantered down the dark stairs.

Robin’s desultory lantern lit the mews. 

“Come on, lad!”

The boy rode hard with him past the Cock-and-Bull Tavern, past the Colleges. The morning star gleamed above a church spire as they galloped by. 

A sign? Tom said a prayer, several. 

Eight hoofs on cobblestones beat a tattoo in his head. Their horses careened between carts headed to market on the bridge arching over the Cam. Farmers, too, up before the sun in market-day rituals. This Saturday of nearly-spring was dawning fair.

They were the first to the fields outside town. Dismounting, they walked through the tall grass that stretched across the meadow and rustled in the March wind, their footfalls quiet from sinking in soft mud. The last snows had only just melted into the earth.

It was a good day for a duel. It had been too chilly to practice in the snow and ice. Tom’s nose was still sorely chapped from the interminable cold that plagued him for weeks every winter.

He coughed. No good, that. He feared it would distract him. 

Fear would distract him. 

Must concentrate.

The sharp chill of dawn heightened all his senses. He could almost hear the Earl’s stallions whinnying in the distance and charging across the fens. He was fortunate this wasn’t a joust, since he could never match the Earl’s horsemanship. 

But he had finesse with flintlock and cartridge. Robin held the case open. 

Tom claimed his weapon and hefted the long, slim gilded gun in his hand. The metal was bracingly cold. His leather gloves were warm and supple, so no matter.

The matter was this: Turn, pace, count. Turn. Fire.

His arm rose steady. His mind was clear of everything but the heavy, fulsome, all-consuming need for vengeance. His heart would take satisfaction in the shot, whatever the outcome. When his finger jerked, his ears rang with the report. 

Breathe. 

The sun rose at last, glinting in his eyes. 

Why was he facing east? That was a mistake. He would know better next time.

“Good shot, sir!” Robin waved to him as swirls of smoke blew away. 

Together they paced back to the makeshift, life-size puppet, wool-felt hung upon wood, standing in for the challenger. The cloth gaped, torn in the center and smoldering where the bullet had whizzed through. Jagged fibers exposed the board cracked beneath. 

His chest tightened. 

Thus do I, gentleman-scholar and barrister-at-law, unwilling heir to a barony in the Borderlands, complete the first of my trials.

The biting stench of black powder lingered in the air, drifted across the valley, and wafted to the sky, where high above his brother must be looking down upon him. Was Alex smiling now? Tom could not. His anger at himself thrummed too strongly, despite the gratifying pleasure some small part of him took in the accuracy of his aim. 

He would perfect this ritual. Spring made travel possible. He’d go to London, to Edinburgh, whatever it required. And before summer was out, he would kill the Earl of Roxburgh.

[To continue reading, click here.]

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Character Emotions by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

Create Character Emotions That Resonate with Readers

In disgust . . . with delight . . . of discouragement—useful language in our powerful prose, right? We can tack these little prepositional phrases onto our sentences and make sure our reader knows exactly what our character is feeling at any given moment. All very nice and tidy, except for one big thing—these kinds of phrases turn our writing telling and flat when we are shooting for vibrant and poignant.

If I have to tell the reader my characters’ emotion by adding these little prepositional tags, I haven’t made effective use of body language, inner monologue, or dialogue. The prepositional “tell” can be a lazy way out of mastering these vital aspects of craft. Not only do we shortchange our reader in the emotional resonance department, we cheat ourselves of valuable skills.

During the editorial process for Reluctant Burglar, my first novel in the To Catch a Thief series, my editor extraordinaire, Karen Ball, opened my eyes to this common blooper and its often ridiculously simple fix. The lesson has stood me in good stead through subsequent novels, Reluctant Runaway and Reluctant Smuggler. Let me show you what I mean. Example is an excellent teacher.

The following are “before editing” and “after editing” snippets from that initial manuscript.

BEFORE:

Desi’s skin prickled with pleasant excitement.

AFTER (in context):

Shadows loomed. The place reeked of ancient secrets. Desi’s skin prickled. She stifled a laugh. The “ancient secrets” she smelled were cleaning solutions used to preserve the priceless art the museum displayed.

The latter version lets the reader feel the amused excitement, as well as a hint of intrigue, right along with the main character. So much more potent than outright telling the reader what Desi is feeling.

BEFORE:

He took his place behind the desk, and then folded his hands across his paunch with a condescending smile.

AFTER:

He took his place behind the desk and folded his hands across his paunch. A smile widened his cheeks but stopped below his nose.

Doesn’t the after version hit you in the gut? You can feel the false welcome without being a condescending writer who must explain everything to the reader.

BEFORE:

She narrowed her eyes in comprehension.

AFTER:

“What gives, girl? You don’t often get that look on your face. Like a cross between a mule and a bronco. Last time was when that hot Italian agent came around and . . . ohhhh . . .” She narrowed cat-green eyes, then laughed. “Tall, dark, and intense musta been hangin’ around again. And he missed you? What a hoot!”

This is an example of dialogue doing all the explaining necessary. The context makes the character’s comprehension obvious in a way that’s fun and memorable for the reader.

We want our stories full of the subtle grace that lives on in readers’ hearts long after they’ve closed the book. In order to hit that high mark, we must learn to respect their intelligence and exercise our own to create characters so lifelike that their emotions drip from the page without the necessity of announcing them as if we are writing an instruction manual.

Do a search and destroy for those nasty, niggling prepositional tells. Root them out. Be ruthless! You’ll be glad you did . . . and so will your reader.

Reluctant Smuggler
by Jill Elizabeth Nelson
Waterbrook Multnomah Publishing Group
January 2008
ISBN: 1590526880

They say keep your friends close and your enemies closer, but what if you can’t tell the difference?

How is a vicious gang of slaver traders involved with missing Mayan antiquities? Museum security expert Desiree Jacobs and FBI agent Tony Lucano must find the truth that will save their lives and liberate innocents caught in the snare of calculating evil.

"Jill Elizabeth Nelson has crafted an amazing tale of international intrigue, pulse-pounding drama, and sacrificial love, as well as an exceptional story line. Reluctant Smuggler is a great read and highly recommended!"
~Mark Mynheir, homicide detective and author of The Void

Visit Jill's website , where you can enter a monthly contest for a signed book, discover breaking art theft news, read book excerpts, listen to her read the first chapter of Reluctant Smuggler, and stay abreast of her appearance schedule.

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First Choice for General Fiction Winner

This month we have the privilege of announcing the second category winner of our Launch Pad Contest: Boosting You Out of the Slush Pile.

The category is General Fiction, but there was nothing mundane about the entries. We had several excellent ones, and the judges had to get very picky in order to choose a winner.

After going through each submission with a fine-toothed comb, the judges came to the conclusion that there is, in fact, one that stands out from the crowd.

The winning entry this month seemed to both judges to be ready for publication just as it is. The story has depth and is well developed. The characters are three-dimensional. The action sucks in the reader immediately and the plot is layered with subtext. This is just plain good writing!

It's our pleasure, therefore, to announce the winner of the General Fiction category: The Last Resort by Kerry Ann Morgan of Altamonte Springs, Florida.

You'll find Kerry's submission below. One thing I should mention: the manuscript isn't targeted for a Christian audience, but this blog is read primarily by Christians. In the opening scene, the protagonist is under a lot of stress and responds in a believable, natural way. Because of the makeup of our audience, however, we were concerned that the language in a couple of places might turn off some readers; so we've taken the liberty of changing a word here and there. We're not suggesting the author change the manuscript; we're merely editing it for publication on this blog.

That said, we're sure you'll be impressed with the first chapter. Enjoy!

The Last Resort

by

Kerry Ann Morgan

One year, three months, and two days ago my husband wrapped his BMW around a tree trunk, forcing me into the role of an underage widow and single mom. Though at times my heart still wrenched inside-out missing him, most days I yearned for him to drive back into my life so I could kill him myself. This morning, as I ripped the final foreclosure notice from our hand-carved mahogany front door, I dreamed of slipping cyanide into his single malt scotch.

            Sweat trickled down my dusty face as I plotted how I'd maneuver the hefty boxes inside the three-car garage into the storage trailer clogging the driveway.  If we'd moved two years ago, the front yard would have been filled with a team of movers and a couple of eighteen wheelers. Now, except for the small stash of plastic bins and suitcases  lingering in the foyer, the remnants of our life could fit into a single twelve-foot box.

            Maybe I should have waited for my brother to handle the heaviest lifting, but Dave wasn't off until Saturday, and the bank ordered me out by Friday at five. My parents offered to drive cross-country to help, but I couldn't allow my dad to throw his back out cleaning up my mess. Mom would have chatted about their travels while labeling boxes, her Jean Nate perfume scenting everything she touched. I wanted my mom. I wanted to rewind my life.

            Squeezing my eyes shut,  I pictured Mom, feather duster in hand, belting out “I Am Woman” in her version of '70s housewife karaoke. Yes, I could do this. Since I sang like a goat, I hummed while I hoisted an oversized stack of boxes from the ground and sidestepped towards the trailer. I could do anything. I was strong. I was invincible. I was— caught on a weed rising between the pavers. Before I could spit out a swear, I toppled face first to the ground.
            Technically, I crashed box first.
            “Cuss!” I pushed myself up, careful not to place my hand on any fragments of my great-grandmother's china, now decorating the driveway with sprays of delicate roses and gold leaf. My grandma had bestowed this set upon me at my bridal shower. While I'd sold our fancy Wedgwood to catch up on the electric bill, I'd dreamed of eating turkey dinners with my own grandkids off this set someday. Not anymore. As I lifted a busted box corner, a dozen smashed dinner plates spilled from their tissue wrappings to the ground. I cradled a teapot, now resembling a cracked egg. A gallon of superglue couldn’t put it back together again.

            Spinning away from the annihilation, I diverted my fury towards a boxwood topiary edging the drive. “Consarn it all.” I kicked at the shrub with my calloused food, savoring the adrenaline surge each time it snapped back like a punching bag. “Must. Every. Thing. I. Love. Be. Destroyed!” Each word was punctuated with a kick worthy of a Tae Bo instructor's praise.  Realizing I wasn't going to knockout the bush anytime soon, I whipped back around, flinging the ruined teapot hard enough to decapitate a lawn gnome. The crash granted me an all too brief release before I realized I'd created yet another mess to clean up.

            My glare tempered as I glanced towards to the front windows. No cherubic child's face stared at me in shock, thank God. My six-year-old son, Brady, must still be plunked in front of my laptop watching a Wild Thornberrys DVD, unable to hear a thing over the cacophony of cartoon animals. Not that it would have been the first time he'd watched me melt down, but I was supposed to be past this anger phase and accepting my new reality. And he could do without the swearing.

            As I stomped back towards the garage to fetch the broom and dustpan, I spotted Melinda Rogers― reigning Magnolia Creek Country Club Queen Bee―with chunks of china at her feet.  Melinda wiped the astonishment from her face and picked her way through the debris. I longed to melt  between the driveway pavers.
            “Ivy, honey―any particular reason you're slinging tea sets at me?” As Melinda placed her hand on her hip, the glare from her diamond ring flashed like heat lightning.

             Everyone had expected me to channel Jackie Kennedy's elegant facade of mourning and moving on. Instead I'd gone the Courtney Love route, and emotional exhaustion and financial ruin proved far from flattering. My so-called friends disappeared before the last sympathy bouquet wilted. Melinda and I had shuttled our kids to swim lessons and story times together, even escaped for girl-time cocktails at the club faithfully. Yet I'd heard from her once in the last six months. I couldn’t let her get the best of me.

“Why I do apologize, Melinda,” I drawled. “It seems my aim is off today.” Yes, I should have nailed her. “Just loading up a few boxes. Care to lend a hand?”

            She snorted like a pig―a petite, pampered pet walked on a leash, of course. “Now there's that sense of humor we've all missed. Sorry, but I've got a tennis match in ten, and I need all my stamina to knock Tish Jones on her bulimic behind. Plus, I don't think they'd let me through the club gates all mussed up.” Melinda blatantly assessed my hot mess style. “Well—at least you're thin.”
            I wiped the sweat from my upper lip, smearing a dirt mustache across my pale skin. My frizzy ponytail sprouted from a NASCAR cap I'd dug out of the garage. Dirt striped my tank top and my cut-offs sported a glaring hole in the rear. I hadn't bothered with  makeup or razor blades for weeks, and blood oozed from my stubbly knee.
            “Yeah, well, forget the Divorce Diet. The weight of widowhood can whittle any woman down to the nub.”

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