Oh yeah…
I had forgotten all about the cool Wordle tool until a visitor recently commented on this old post with Capritare’s word cloud: https://johnlucashargis.wordpress.com/2012/01/16/novel-word-cloud/
That made me think, I never created one for Freeborn.
So I did.
And, I also got all curious about what the rough draft of Phreak Show would look like.
I scratched that itch, too.
So there you have it; two of my novels in their visual nutshells.
What do yours look like?
It’s been a while since I posted an excerpt. I figured, Why the hell not?
[Hopefully, the administration still gives me my hard-earned diploma even though I used that dirty, little word.]
From Chapter 2:
Katia interrupted. “Hold on. What the hell kind of name is Mom?Or Adam even? I’ve met a hundred other Katias, Gastons, and all the normal names. Mom and Adam aren’t on the list.”
Adam grinned.
“Mom—Nana—will explain all that. She likes telling the story.”
Before she could object, Adam reentered docent mode. “Now, as I was saying before being so rudely interrupted by Katia-2198-04, these are the private quarters.”
He pointed out his own room, Gaston’s, and those belonging to the other residents. Twelve in all. Only one remained vacant. He explained that the fifth floor contained the rec room and lounge areas where the clones spent most of their time. Katia, aching for a hit of Ambrosia, asked to skip that part of the tour. Adam shrugged, and they descended one story to the third floor. It was laid out the same as the fourth, except the exam room was subdivided into four separate dwellings.
Inside one of them, a wrinkly old man rubbed lotion on his stomach. While the skin stretched taut across it, the rest of him sagged with age. A pair of the infected exited their adjacent rooms. They were identical in appearance down to every last detail: hairline, lush lips, posture, bundled parasites cradled in their arms. The longer Katia looked, the more their subtle differences stood out. One was a man, the other a woman.
Adam explained. “They’re the only clones I’ve ever seen who actually look alike. Usually there’s no issue telling clones apart. That pair is from a batch of duodectuplets. We only have two of the twelve. Some experiment the Surgeons tried with one of the crops. They played around with creating six males and six females with 98% identical genes. The one on the left is Dash-C. Dash-J is on the right.”
Katia kept staring. Not so much at the clone-copies, as at the squirming blankets in their arms. Perhaps there was something to the whole safehouse thing. The parasites were rumored to kill their victims, but this pair of previously infected clones looked alive and well. They even seemed to be doting on the living tumors.
After a slew of revisions using input from both sides of my brain, CPs, betas, and even a pair of agents, this is the [current] opening for FREEBORN.
Katia shuffled down the busy sidewalk in her geriatric shoes. Shoulders and sharp elbows rocked the old woman as the mindless clones around her scurried to some appointment or another. The pulse in Katia’s temples thumped four times faster than the clacking of her copper cane. Wary of the surveillance cameras, even in the crowd, she slowed to a stop and adjusted the scarf securing her gray wig. Though her granny disguise was fake, her Infection was all too real.
Every face that passed wore a government-issued prevention mask. Every set of eyes above those masks posed a threat to Katia’s dangerous ruse. Even though she had taken every precaution—done every prescribed step to prevent it—the dreaded sickness had wormed its way into her blood. Red-hot fear and a hungry, deadly parasite now squirmed together in her gut.
She chanced a peek at the pair of militant Doctors blocking her direct route to the building. Their chrome assault rifles glinted in the sun like surgical blades. Katia had seen the Doctors in action many times: kicking the infected, mocking them, toying with the victims before dragging them kicking and begging to a quarantine center. A single prick from one of the detectors clipped to their belts would immediately unravel her disguise.
Her status would instantly downgrade from a harmless, healthy clone to a diseased punching bag.
Katia hunched extra low. Her lungs burned with stale, recycled breath as she worked her way through the masses and shambled along behind the Doctors. Their gruff laughter bounced off her humped back as she passed. Caught up in some dirty joke, they paid no mind to the rickety, old granny mounting the steps to the ten-story structure.
The woman in Suite 940 held Katia’s last scrap of hope. While the pirate forums referred to the woman as a witch, Katia didn’t believe in such things. The mysterious Ilythia, supposedly, possessed the secret knowledge needed to help the infected survive the horrific final stages of the Infection. With the world slathered in deception, it could be a trap. But Katia’s symptoms intensified with every passing day. Her stomach was already visibly swollen with the bastard parasite eating her alive from the inside out. Soon, she would no longer be able to hide her sickness from the ever-watching eyes.
Fear jabbed her insides as she approached the GeneTag scanner. ID cards, fingerprints, and retina scans were obsolete. This new technology now guarded entry to any building. Katia thought the method suspicious. Stupid, really. With the airborne virus so contagious, why had the idiots in the skyscrapers designed an ID system that required removal of the protective masks?
She slid hers off.
A couple exited the building, swinging wide around the threat of her exposed face. Katia stuck out her tongue and confronted the polished steel panel inset in the wall. Her ragged, fake-old-lady reflection disappeared as the door slid upward and out of sight, revealing the angry mechanized armature. It was like a cyborg’s arm severed from its body, all the flesh boiled away. Clinical and demanding. Rods, hinges and tubing with a singular, selfish mission: to prick.
The hoses plumped, and the hydraulic arm emerged from the wall. Bent at the elbow, wrist maneuvering into position, it aimed itself at Katia’s open mouth like a cobra ready to strike. But it didn’t have a pair of fangs; it only had one—a four inch needle looming shiny and sharp.
Katia squeezed her eyes shut to brace against the coming pain. With a sickening pop she couldn’t get used to, the needle plunged into her tongue. Pain erupted. Hot serum injected. Tangy. Bittersweet. Like molten glass flooding her mouth. The siphon engaged, reversing the flow, and the syringe sucked its rancid fluid back out.
Sirens blared. Strobes flashed.
Infection Detected! Infection Detected! Infection Detected!
I am quite thrilled to say that the agent/publisher response to my third novel, FREEBORN, has been far and away better than for my first two novels. That tells me I am learning more of what it takes to grab and hold their attention through pitching and actual writing craft.
That last statement sounds like agents & publishers are my market, my audience. They are not. The buying public is.
But agents are pivotal in the process of getting my words to that market. Agents are partners and advocates. They’re often called gatekeepers–those who hold the keys to the magic portal through which a manuscript must pass in order to become a book. (I’ve noticed some agents don’t like that term for some reason???)
That thought dredges up a random song from the depths of my lyric-infested head. An old Schoolhouse Rock tune. Sing its catchy educational glory with me.
I’m just a bill.
Yes, I’m only a bill.
And I’m sitting here on Capitol Hill.
Well, it’s a long, long journey
To the capital city.
It’s a long, long wait
While I’m sitting in committee,
But I know I’ll be a law someday
At least I hope and pray that I will,
But today I am still just a bill.
In this sense, I suppose agents are a lot like Congress. My manuscript will remain just a bill until an agent decides it is worthy to become a law.
Since I’m having more fun than you can imagine with this analogy…I suppose that would make the head of each agency the Senate. Even if Congresswoman Agent likes my manuscript, she will have to pass it through Senator Agency Head for a second approval. If all is a go, then my lowly manuscript will be on its way to becoming a full-fledged book.
It’s a long, long wait while I’m sitting in committee.
Then there is President Publisher towering over the paperwork with a veto stamp in hand. My poor little bill can get rubber-stamped, kicked back, and remain an unrealized idea. Damn bureaucracy!
Like Bill, I’m sitting here on Capitol Hill.
I know I’ll be an author someday
At least I hope and pray that I will,
But today I am still just a bill.
With complete contrition for getting this song stuck in your head for at least a day, here is the YouTube link to help you dig out the earworm.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=7266360872513258185
Be sure to check out all the Grammar Rock subgenre of videos, too. Chalk it up as “an online writing course”.
What is it about Schoolhouse Rock? I just dig it. Yes, part of it is the artwork, but mainly it’s the songs. Let me tell you about one of my favorite musicians. Mike Doughty. He is solo now, but I was initially introduced to him when his old band Soul Coughing opened for Dave Matthews waaaaay back there in the past. My frinds hate him: his voice, anunciation, music–all of it. Too bad. Suck it up. BTW, he has a remake of Schoolhouse Rock’s “Three is a Magic Number”. When I’m feeling capricious, I can put that song on and just watch the shoulders tense as eyes roll with disdain in there sockets. Not that I would ever be capricious…
Query – FREEBORN – YA Sci-Fi (With pregnant dudes? What!?)
Dear John,Thank you for your query. I thought this was a really creepy, interesting concept and that you executed it very well. The writing was super compelling and the pace was great. However, I’m afraid that I don’t do all that much with Sci-Fi, as I’m not a big sci-fi reader and don’t feel I know the market well enough. I wish you all the best and encourage you to submit your query to other agencies. Thank you for thinking of me!Best,Agent with Vague Profile
So many creative possibilities to draw from for a post today. It’s funny though. When a health concern pops up, everything else turns into scatter noise on the radar. Yes, I’m nervous about something. Yes, I am being intentionally vague. This is a public blog, not a private journal.
Now that I have gotten that out of my system…
I have two new full requests for Freeborn to announce!
– Jo Fletcher books upgraded from 3 chapters to a Full
– Entangled Publishing requested a full via Brenda Drake’s ‘Entangle an Editor’ contest
That’s as much excitement as I can muster at the moment. Stay tuned, though. I’ll be back on track soon enough.
Here are the *new* current stats for contest entries, requests, and queries. [Accurate as of 4:00pm]
Contests – Entered: 6 Outstanding: 1 Wins: 3 Losses: 2 [I can tie it up!]
Requests – Submitted: 6 Outstanding: 6
Queries – Submitted: 3 Outstanding: 2 Requests: 1 Rejections: 0
“Do not try to bend the spoon. That’s impossible. Instead, only try to realize the truth.”
“What truth?”
“There is no spoon.”
“There is no spoon?”
“Then you’ll see it is not the spoon that bends; it is only yourself.”
Most of the time, it sure feels like there is a spoon to bend–a massive titanium spoon with a stubborn streak. And that sucker wants to remain as it is. Unbent. Then there are the times when said spoon seems to actually morph, bow, twist, and submit. But, according to Spoon Boy, it’s not the spoon which is bending; it is me.
Two more Pitch contests have come and gone. The stubborn spoons of 3-2-1 and Super Intern are still marvelously straight. I won’t toss them into the garbage disposal, though. Instead, I’ll tuck them away in my silverware drawer of attempts made.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, here are the current stats for contest entries, requests, and queries:
Contests – Entered: 6 Outstanding: 1 Wins: 3 Losses: 2 [I can tie it up!]
Requests – Submitted: 5 Outstanding: 5
Queries – Submitted: 3 Outstanding: 3
So, my calculations bring the total number of Outstanding opportunities to 9. [Please, double-check my math for me.] I do indeed believe these are “Outstanding Opportunities” in the best sense of the phrase.
The truth of the matter is that–in order to be successful in my writing endeavors–it is I who must bend.
Freeborn’s pitch has been tweaked and honed at every stage of feedback. The manuscript has gone through multiple revisions, 2 critique partners, and 6+ beta readers. I am anticipating feedback from the requesting agents with the possibilities of either “I want you!” or “Please revise & resubmit using my amazingly specific comments as a guide.” I refuse to accept the idea of form rejections.
After all, there is no damn spoon.
I am always a little wary of using ‘profanity’ in a post. Anywhere online, really. There are folks from early epochs of my life who [I’m sure] are appalled by my use of ANY profanity. We change over time. This is fact. Funny how folks from your past–people you never interact with anymore, people who have no authority over you–can still cast their heavy shadow over your life. I’m trying to shake it off. But sometimes I still feel like a kid caught smoking behind the barn.
I like that little checkmark!
The committed Erica Chapman finally sliced and hacked her way through all 30 randomly selected pitches & first 250 words in the Super Intern Contest. Being a lover o’ math & calculatory functions of a complex nature, I had to run some simple stats on the contest. Erica was gracious enough to clarify a few responses I couldn’t quite nail down as a Yes or a No.
Disclaimer #1: This is totally my own doing because, well, I wanted to.
Disclaimer #2: I interpreted each of Erica’s comments. Where she was ‘on the fence’ I either asked for a clarifying verdict, or took the overall tone of the feedback to polarize her comments into a Yes or a No.
Here are how things turned out:
70% “No, I wouldn’t read more”
30% “Yes, I would read more.”
I’m not sure how those numbers compare to the usual slush pile ratio, but those are the stats for this contest.
At least two of my online writerly friends also made the randomized cut. Of the two, 1 received a Yes, and the other received a No. The full details, entries, and comments can be found here: http://brenleedrake.blogspot.com/. For your onsite reading enjoyment, my entry and Comments are posted below.
Super Intern Contest – FREEBORN
Genre: YA Sci-Fi
Word count: 79,000
Query letter:
Dear Mr./Mrs. Uber-Agent,
The Surgeon Generals are liars. The lives squirming inside the guts of Katia and the other clones aren’t parasites. They’re Freeborns.
The squirming in Katia’s gut means two things: she is infected with the dreaded parasite, and her boring life as a sixteen-year-old clone is over. Despite her precautions, the infection—which attacks regardless of gender or age—has implanted a living tumor inside her. Katia knows she should obey the Surgeon Generals and submit to their so-called treatment, but claustrophobia has a way of pushing her to do crazy things. Trapped, with nowhere to run, she accepts Adam’s offer of asylum in a safe house full of infected rebels.
As Katia’s stomach swells, she experiences feelings she has never known, discovers the truth about the life wriggling inside her, and joins the rebels in their insane plan to shift the power. The militant Doctors and assassin Candystripers are proficient at ending the little uprisings which threaten their illusion of peace. Only, they have never faced a threat like the plot Katia and Adam are involved in.
The rebels plan to infect every man, woman, and child on the planet with the Freeborn parasite the leaders are seeking to destroy. Not only do they have the guts to do it, but they also have the means. Katia’s fear of tight places is nothing compared to her fear of what will happen to every clone in the world, herself included, if she and the other rebels should fail—or even more so if they actually succeed.
Freeborn is the 79,000 word YA Sci-Fi offspring of The Hunger Games and Contagion.
I am a writer, poet, and visual artist. With published short stories, articles, poetry, and illustrations, Freeborn is my second full-length novel. As I seek an agent, the concept for the sequel is in the works.
Thank you for considering Freeborn.
250-word excerpt:
Katia shuffled down the busy sidewalk, hunching over her cane. Mindful of the surveillance cameras, she periodically stopped to adjust the scarf securing her gray wig. Though her old lady disguise was fake, her Infection was real.
Every face that passed wore a government-issued prevention mask. The virus did not discriminate, but attacked regardless of gender or age. None were immune. Even though Katia had taken every precaution, the sickness had wormed its way into her blood. The parasite now squirmed in her gut.
A pair of Doctors brandishing chrome assault rifles blocked her direct route to the building. One tiny prick from their portable infection detector would immediately unravel her disguise. They often slammed the infected to the ground—just for kicks—before hauling them off to a quarantine center. That was their role: abuse their authority, mess with the rabble, keep the streets clear of the infected, and toy with them along the way.
Katia held her breath and shuffled behind the Doctors. Their voices turned towards her as she passed, but they didn’t address her as she mounted the steps to the ten-story structure. Like most corporate buildings, this one had been converted to housing to accommodate the rising population caused by the Infection.
The woman in Suite 940 was her last hope. While most people referred to the woman as a witch, she called herself Ilythia. Katia’s friend—one she almost trusted—had passed on the information; Ilythia possessed the ability to help the infected through the horrific final stages.
***********
COMMENTS
erica m. chapman said…
QUERY
I remember this. And I really liked it before. This is good. I really like this premise and the way you’ve set up everything in this. I’m confused as to why they would want to infect everyone with the parasite? Isn’t that a bad thing? You may want to make that more clear. Also, comparing your story to the Hunger Games is not something I would recommend. This is good. You have me intrigued.
250
This is intriguing. I like what you’re setting up. I get an idea of the surroundings and the world we’re in. Letting us in on the infection early on is a good idea. I would read more of this.John Lucas Hargis said…
Thanks for hacking through all these pitches for us, Erica. You’re a gem.
1. Nix the Hunger Games reference. Done!
2. So, the ambiguity about ‘why’ the rebels would want to infect everyone: I thought that might be a perk-up moment in the Pitch to get the agent to want to find out. Guess not…lol FAIL!
So stoked that you’d read more. Gives me a happy face. See —> 🙂erica m. chapman said…
My pleasure!! Ah, it’s always better to be more direct, I think. Just my opinion ;o) Glad i could help!
***********
The next phase of the contest entails 3 of the pitches being escalated for a 10-page critique. While I would love to receive that bonus prize to give Freeborn a little boost, I am already appreciative for the feedback on my first 250. I have been having success with the Pitch, but it is nice to finally get a bit of feedback on [at least the opening of!] the writing itself. It gives me hope. Much hope.
Note: My feet are a little bigger than that^
My mind may be shrinking. I hope not. All I know for sure is that it currently feels like a too-small blanket.
I remember this one winter night when I crashed at a friend’s place. The amazing party and afterglow were followed by folks hunkering down and sleeping it off ’til morning. The hosts were [are] the magnificently odd artist-types that I love. You know–they forego creatures comforts like ‘heat’ in the Ohio wintertime so they can live solely on the income from their artistic endeavors. Once again, amazing folk, extending hospitality. (Within a freezing cold midwest loft.)
Curled up in a recliner with an electric lap blanket wrapped around me, I had the best accomodations. But you can only sleep in the fetal position for so long. Enter: the effort to stretch out. Bad idea. That poor little 3′ square blanket was cranked up to High and giving all it had to give. It wasn’t the little guy’s fault that I was twice as tall as it was long. Cramping and kinked, the too-short blanket saved me from frost-bite and hypothermia. As long as I kept myself wound into a tightly wrapped ball, my core body temp remained above freezing. That too-short blanket was my savior.
My mind is having a tough time wrapping around the things going on with Freeborn right now. It seems like, just yesterday, I was scribbling down those first few chapters. Now, after a small amount of well-placed effort, here are the current standings:
LUCAS HARGIS 