Monday, March 15, 2010

My story is about....

a lawyer, a unicorn and a potato...

Ha ha ha, if only.

No seriously, there are some lawyers in Heritage Fields.

Sadly, I do not turn into that "I'm on a horse" guy from the Old Spice commercials when people ask me to 'splain what the book is about.

"Ummmm there's a guy and his cousin is like uh... lost and then a ghost shows up."

Good grief.

Yup, that's what I sounded like on Saturday. I think the agent asked me to submit material out of pity after I stumbled all over myself.

As Boromir said, "One does not simply walk into Mordor."

Without writing, there is no book to sell. But you still have to get up and sell your work.

So much of the business is about the marketing aspect. This is a product we are talking about. While it throws muh brain off, I have to think like a marketer.

I learned that when someone says "You have a great product" in regards to your writing, that is a good thing.

This is a short version of my pitch. If only it came out of my face the same way:

Heritage Fields is an urban paranormal thriller about the men and women who use magic to force the weight of mortal guilt on the shoulders of the dead.

The story is set in a fictional town where present day locals cling to a haunted legacy of American freedom won through treachery. Randall Toussaint scours the town when his cousin, a social activist and street magician, disappears from Hapsburg's slums.

Randall hates magic and ghosts as well as the trouble both brought his family.

A history of moonshine running, knife fights and dark magic chased the Toussaints from the wards of New Orleans to Hapsburg. Now Randall must uncover the secrets the town and his family want kept hidden.

There, that's the short version of the pitch. Needs work as does my in-person delivery.

A lot of agents want to hear comparisons with other works they can recognize. "My book is like A+B-C" or some other literary equation.

THAT is something I haven't figured out just yet.

Then again my story just might be about a lawyer and a unicorn, hold the potato.

Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away