For me, it's so easy to tumble head-first into a new story, a new cast of characters and live with them for the months it takes to write their book. But it's so difficult to make the pitch: to package the idea in a tidy, crisp presentation.
Excerpt from Keep You
The wind hit her like a slap,
snatching her hair over her shoulder, pulling the breath out of her lungs. The
air had a bite to it, a few stinging drops of rain, and with only the light of
the streetlamp at the end of the drive, she could still tell that the clouds
ahead were a roiling dark mass. Crisp, brown leaves tumbled across the pavement
with loud scraping sounds, the boughs that shaded the drive tossed together,
creaking, groaning. It felt like one of those magically cool, chaotic nights
that always seemed to bring people closer together in movies.
Tam drove an old sky-blue Chevy
Malibu that he said was his mother’s – it was the only thing he’d ever said
about his mother – and he was climbing into it, sitting
down behind the wheel and closing his door with one of those heavy, solid metal
thunks old cars made. Jo clutched the
bag of cookies to her chest and jogged toward him. As the engine turned over
with a roar, she pulled open the passenger door and slipped inside. When she
shut the door, all the noise – the wind, the blowing leaves, the tree limbs,
even the rumble of the car – faded, and then all she could hear was her own
breathing. Tam didn’t seem surprised to see her. He turned toward her, one hand braced casually on the wheel, and in the glow of the dash lights, she saw that he wore a small, amused smile. “I feel like the poor unsuspecting shmuck at a gas station who just had a beautiful bank robber jump in my car with a bag of stolen money. You thinking Canada or Mexico?”
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