Hi all! So I’m in the midst of querying agents (that’s where you write query letters to agents about your book, and hopefully they ask to read it). In the spirit of sharing my work, allow me to re-direct your attention to the top right portion of your screen.
Go on, look up. There you go.
See all those links? Forsaken- Excerpt / Bleached – Excerpt / Rift – Excerpt
Yup, those ones. Those are first chapters of my last three (un) published books! You should read them!
Here’s a sample of the manuscript I’m querying now:
New Victoria, 2170 AD
Chapter 1 – Disobedience is the true foundation of Liberty. The obedient must be slaves – Harry David Thoreau
I don’t have a name. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I’m called something, but it’s not a name. Invisibles don’t get names. I go by Thirteen, just like the number tattooed on my inner wrist. The Headmaster of the Purposing Rooms put it there the day I was bought by Mr. Avery five years ago. I am the thirteenth member of his staff of Invisibles.
The wrinkly and decrepit Naturals say it’s bad luck and won’t take food from my trays at parties, which is obnoxious, because that means less points on their tabs. Unfortunately they all seem to love Victoria. Pretending to live in Victorian England reminds them of the books they used to read in Old America about Ancient Britain. I personally don’t get their fascination, but hey, what do I know? I’m just a slave.
“Thirteen, run and get me a hot iron. Hurry up!” Anika snaps. Born here seventeen years ago, Anika Avery is one of the main attractions for the rich tourists here at Avery Manor. She’s also a complete bitch. Spoiled beyond belief, Anika loves nothing more than to take points from me. Especially in front of the guests. But I’m her maid, and I do what I’m told. It’s either that, or be repurposed for parts.
“Do you think that this will do, my lady?” I ask in my mock-British accent. She snatches the hot iron before I can stop her, and burns her hand. She drops it on the carpet, sending up little swirls of smoke. Great. If she just let me do her hair with a simulator, this would all get done a lot quicker. It’s the only way I’m able to style my hair like the pictures in the protocol books.
“Oh dear, you’ve burned me! I ought to take a few points away from you,” she mutters, sucking on her thumb. Of course. I calmly pick up the iron with a towel, and start doing her hair myself. She eyes me in the mirror. “I suppose you’re almost to your points limit, then?”
I smile, and this is a real smile. It’s true. I’ve almost reached my points limit. But why does she care? I choose my words carefully.
“Yes, my lady. I should be at my limit by the end of next year, if not by Spring.” I finish the last curl and step back to examine my work. It’s spectacular – her pile of honey-gold curls and sparkling aqua eyes are a perfect match to her pale blue dress. She looks even better than the images she pulled from the historical docs this morning on her DigiCom. She doesn’t seem to mind that little piece of technology. I try not to roll my eyes.
“I guess that will have to do. Hopefully no one looks at it too closely.” She stands up and is about to head for the door before stopping. She turns back, a creepy smile pulling at her cheeks.
“Hold out your wrist.” The smirk doesn’t reach her eyes, and my heart shudders. I step forward and hold out my wrist, the black 13 facing up. She presses her thumb to the darkened flesh and says, “Five point deduction for burning my hand and not apologizing. You should be more careful, slave.” She says the last word with a quiet relish, knowing that it was never to be uttered in polite company. Technically, it was best to avoid referring to me at all.
As I listen to her period-accurate lace-up boots echo down the hall, I bite my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.