I’m in a position to once again be writing query letters. I can honestly say I did not miss the process of trying to condense a 100,000 word book into two, short, mind-bogglingly terrific paragraphs that will make the biggest agents in New York sit up and take notice, but what can I say? I must be masochistic to have put myself here again or smart. I’ll let you know when the jury comes in with the verdict.I had forgotten how obsessive I can get when writing a query letter. Go ahead and think about Anne Bancroft from Mommy Dearest as she is screaming in the wire hanger scene. That’s me if someone dares to interrupt me when I’m working on my query. “No more interruptions I say! No talking for five hours. Don’t breathe. Forget dinner. You want to go out? I said, sit there!” All joking aside, I have mentioned in the past I’m type A, haven’t I? I don’t really carry on like Anne, but I do get twitchy if you interrupt my creative flow.
I’ve also noticed that I do go at the query like a dog goes at a good bone. I attack it. Repeatedly. Until the darn thing is done, and done well. I feel really bad for my critique partners. I hit them again and again with my newest restructured query. I ask for their suggestions, take them in, restructure, and then start all over again. Right now I’m about at the ‘almost done’ stage, but starting version two of ‘almost done’ query. That’s right folks; I like to have two final versions to beat everyone over the head with. I will then poll every person unfortunate enough to answer my e-mail to see which version of the two shiny, but vastly different queries, they like. Then, I will take a breath and start to send them out. Cross your fingers for me. May this be the book and the query that takes me straight into talks with Columbia Tristar Motion Picture Group.
And here’s a sneak peek at the book that I’m making myself loopy writing the query for. This is the first time my heroine meets my hero. The book is entitled ECHOES IN THE SILENCE and is book one in The Siren Saga.I blinked as a deep voice brought me back to the present. The voice, so unlike my father’s, made me want to cry with relief. A perfect stranger stood there. I was back, but I had no idea how long this stranger had been on the elevator with me. The thought made me jumpy, his intense indigo gaze made me even edgier. I could handle this. I was practiced at ignoring men’s admiring stares in order to protect myself and them.
I tried not to look at the stranger, but he was no ordinary man. He was breathtaking to behold, and his scent of lemongrass and patchouli made breathing steadily an effort. He smelled pure, like the waters from Angel Falls in Venezuela. Every time I took a breath, his essence filled my lungs and left me dizzy. The only men I had ever met that smelled this way had not been mortal men. They had been Cordisi. There are times when you meet someone and you know, without a doubt, no matter how much incredible, instantaneous attraction you feel, you should run away from that person as fast as you can.
This man, this too beautiful a creature, could not be human. A whisper ran through my head, growing louder each second. Cordisi, Cordisi. I wished I had hazy visions of the future as my mother sometimes did, but all I had was this whisper that had come to me a few times in my life, hissing in my inner ear as if to impart a warning.
Fresh sweat trickled down my sides. If I was right, it was more vital than ever before that I appear human, unaware of the invisible thread of desire trying to pull us together and bind us for worse and never better. I shivered, and those eyes, those impossibly violet-blue eyes flicked open a centimeter more in concentrated observation.
Julie Johnstone, the Marchioness of Mayhem