Last week, I received my lovely feedback from my editor friend, Miranda Darrow. She offered good insight and suggestions on how to improve my short story to complete the final week for WriterinMotion’s summer season. She made some good interesting points for clarifying and other ways to cut down in the word count. I loved this little showdown in the water between Jillian and Logan for a future meet-cute scene somewhere down the road. I might consider picking Miranda as a editor choice for next year’s Revpit content when I have my current WIP, Falling For You, ready, and edited by then. And the prompt worked out wonderfully to fit it into well. Whether you can afford to hire an editor or enter a pitch contest like Pitch Wars, Author Mentor Match, and Revpit, these writer contests are great resources to receive free writing feedback for your work. Having multiple beta readers/critique partners and join a local or online writing group can be beneficial to your writing career.
Without further ado, here’s the final version of Smoke on the Water. Thank you for stopping by my blog. Hope to see you next season. I might return to regularly update my writing blog between now and then. Enjoy!
Smoke On the Water
On a clear spring morning, I walked along the long pier at Washington Park Beach, the waters of Lake Michigan lapped at the shore, Foamy waves carried a scattering of seashells to decorate the sand. I’d received a special assignment from the National Historical Society to design an overload appliqué for the annual BalloonFest in Astor Fields next month. They’d given me permission to tour the automated lighthouse. I swallowed hard and held my breath. Lighthouses had always fascinated me ever since I was a young girl. From my previous research on Michigan City Lighthouse & Pier, I’d gotten the gist of how tall and wide the beacon would be for the balloon. I pretended to faint. My pulse soared like a surfer riding a wave when the local newspaper mentioned my name in that article. At the entrance, I typed rough estimates for the pre-cut design. Instead of the usual red-and-white stripes, I etched a light composition on the canvas like an artist painting their seascape. My heartbeat slammed inside my chest as I’d worked on the design. When I finished, I unlocked the doors to the leading light with the master key. Inside the beacon, I climbed the spiral staircase to the elevated catwalk. Out-of-breath, I reached the top and glanced at the large windows facing Lake Michigan to marvel at the view. “Wow! I feel like I’m on top of the world…” I let out a soft chuckle and relaxed my shoulders. Nothing but a sunny sky, a couple puffs of smoke. What the hell? I moved closer to the railing. Something buoyed along the tide. Smoke on the water. I gasped at deflated hot air balloon that floated with broken suspension cords. “Someone call 9-1-1 ASAP!” I headed toward the pier as I waited for help. Why was that balloon here unless it was an aeronaut from the Balloonfest. I exited and sprinted toward the quiet beach. At the parking lot, I removed my sneakers and my jean shorts, and stashed them with my tablet and duffel bag in my car. As a former senior lifeguard, I was a strong swimmer trained to rescue people in the water. I bit my lower lip and guessed the basket was at least fifteen feet away. Sirens sounded in the distance. Like a buoy, somebody clutched onto the basket. I rushed toward the water’s edge before anyone could stop me. “Hey miss. You should leave it to the professionals. Didn’t you call for help?” I nodded and glanced at him. He dressed in a MCFD uniform. But I couldn’t tell what rank and name appeared on his backside. “Yes, I did. But this person needs our help. I’m a former lifeguard..” He scoffed. “Yeah, right. Please step back and let us do our job. We’ll get to the site faster without your interference.” I opened my mouth and closed it shut. I would love to prove him wrong. “Wanna bet….Officer.” “It’s Lieutenant O’Dowd. What’s your name? And you’re on.” He snickered. O’Dowd? Wait a minute here. One of my survival camp instructors last fall had been named O’Dowd? I smirked. “Logan, we meet again. It’s Jillian Ross. Meet you at the basket.” I ran toward the shallow end and dove straight into the chilly water. No doubt, he groaned behind me and accelerated the fire/rescue boat. I’d gotten the lead by a mere margin as I propelled myself forward with the freestyle stroke. I didn’t notice the chill, but more swirling smoke wafted into the air from the sinking basket as someone called for “help.” Logan sped on the waves. I splashed Logan when I approached the basket. This man inside sported a black hooded jacket. Smoke consumed his face as he blocked it with his hand. I did my best to shrug off the shivers.Fire engulfed the hot air balloon. A Coast Guard clipper doused the flame and tended to the injured man’s needs. A splash didn’t do much to smother this out-of-control blaze. He smirked and folded his arms. “Not so fast. You’ve proven your point, and we’ll take over from here. We don’t want you to catch a cold.” “I wanted to save a life… Lieutenant.” “Want a ride back to the beach?” He grabbed a towel and held it out for me when I climbed inside the boat to dry off. What a perfect gentleman. So gallant and chivalrous. My lips quivered. I frowned at the faded white, red, and blue colors from the hot air balloon. The fire smeared the design with a missing logo or emblem. I wrapped myself inside a warm towel as we sped past the clipper that gathered the balloon for evidence. “Satisfied,” Logan said. “But I don’t know what you were thinking or had to prove by swimming into cold water?” “Nothing. Just wanted to save a life. I guess I did in a way.” I remained quiet until we reached shore. “Thanks for the lift. See you around..Logan.” I jumped out and tossed him his towel. I sprinted toward my car in the parking lot. Ten minutes later, I drove away and headed toward my home in Valparaiso. A secret smirk crossed my face when I know we would meet again when our relationship would take flight like navigating a hot air balloon for the Balloonfest next month.
After you do multiple rounds in any piece of writing via self-edits, it’s time to give it to a beta reader, a critique partner, a writing group, or all of the above to give you feedback with helpful suggestions to improve your work. If one person offers one piece of advice, and two and more say the same thing, then it’s best to agree with them and see what magic you can do with them to make your short story or novel chapter better. With my three CPs, they mostly agreed on some parts while they differed on other sections. I’ve took everything under consideration and applied to it to make it look better and ready for the final version: the editorial feedback round. Thanks Dani, Megan, and Johanna, for your wonderful ideas. And I’m happy to see what my editor would have to say on my mini short story aka meet-cute scene for a future CR novel somewhere down the road.
The word count went from 1068 words to 1007 words in this newest version. Plus I’ve added some descriptions and changed the last line of the ending to give a hint of what’s to come between Jillian and Logan. Enjoy this newest version when things heats up between the two of them in Lake Michigan! Stay tuned for the final version this weekend!
Smoke On the Water
On a clear spring morning, I walked along the long pier at Washington Park Beach, the waters of Lake Michigan lapped at the shore, Foamy waves carried a scattering of seashells to decorate the sand. I’d received a special assignment from the National Historical Society to design an overload appliqué for the annual BalloonFest in Astor Fields next month. They’d given me permission to tour the automated lighthouse. Lucky for me, I wasn’t afraid of heights. Lighthouses had always fascinated me for ever since I was a young girl From my previous research on Michigan City Lighthouse & Pier, I’d gotten the gist of how tall and wide the lighthouse would be to apply on the nylon fabric for the balloon. I pretended to faint. My pulse soared like a surfer riding a wave when the local newspaper mentioned my name in that article. At the entrance, I typed rough estimates for the pre-cut design. Instead of the usual red-and-white stripes, I etched a light composition on the canvas like an artist painting their seascape. My heartbeat slammed inside my chest as I’d worked on the design. When I finished, I unlocked the doors to the lighthouse with the master key. Inside the lighthouse, I climbed the spiral staircase to the elevated catwalk. Out-of-breath, I reached the top and glanced at the large windows facing Lake Michigan to marvel at the view. “Wow! I feel like I’m on top of the world…” I let out a soft chuckle and relaxed my shoulders. Nothing but a sunny sky, a couple puffs of smoke. What the hell? I moved closer to the railing. Something buoyed along the tide. Smoke on the water. I gasped at deflated hot air balloon that floated with broken suspension cords. I dialed 9-1-1. ” 911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked. “A hot air balloon has fallen into Lake Michigan. It’s on fire.” “Where are you at?” “Michigan City East Lighthouse and Pier.” “I’m sending EMS, police, and fire over your way within ten minutes. Your name?” “Thank you. Jillian Ross.” I headed toward the pier as I waited for help. Time was of the essence. Why was that balloon here unless it was an aeronaut from the Balloonfest. I exited and sprinted toward the quiet beach. At the parking lot, I stashed my tablet inside my car and donned my wetsuit to stay warm from the chilly water. As a former senior lifeguard, I had phenomenal swimming and diving skills. It couldn’t hurt to have a head start. I hurried to the vacant lifeguard stand and borrowed a pair of binoculars. I bit my lower lip and guessed the basket was at least fifteen feet away. Sirens sounded in the distance. Like a buoy, somebody clutched onto the basket. I rushed toward the water’s edge before anyone could stop me. “Hey miss. You should leave it to the professionals. Didn’t you call for help?” I nodded and glanced at him. He dressed in a MCFD uniform. But I couldn’t tell what rank and name appeared on his backside. I took umbrage at what he said: lifeguards weren’t professionals. “Yes, I did. But this person needs our help. I’m a certified lifeguard and an all-star champion in collegiate swimming and diving….” I didn’t like to boost about my stellar athleticism which almost landed me a spot on the US Olympic team a dozen years ago. He scoffed. “Yeah, right. Please step back and let us do our job. We’ll get to the site faster without your interference.” I opened my mouth and closed it shut. I would love to prove him wrong. “Wanna bet….Officer.” “It’s Lieutenant O’Dowd, Miss Ross. And you’re on.” He snickered. O’Dowd? Wait a minute here. One of my survival camp instructors last fall had been named O’Dowd? I smirked. “Logan, we meet again. Meet you at the basket.” I ran toward the shallow end and dove straight into the chilly water. No doubt, he groaned behind me and accelerated the fire/rescue boat. I’d gotten the lead by a mere margin as I propelled myself forward with the freestyle stroke. I didn’t notice the chill, but more swirling smoke wafted into the air from the sinking basket as someone called for “help.” Logan sped on the waves. I splashed Logan when I approached the basket. This man inside sported a black hooded jacket. Smoke consumed his face as he blocked it with his hand. I did my best to shrug off the shivers.Fire engulfed the hot air balloon. A Coast Guard clipper doused the flame and tended to the injured man’s needs. A splash didn’t do much to smother this out-of-control blaze. He smirked and folded his arms. “Not so fast. You’ve proven your point, and we’ll take over from here. We don’t want you to catch a cold.” “I wanted to save a life… Lieutenant.” “Want a ride back to the beach?” He grabbed a towel and held it out for me when I climbed inside the boat to dry off. What a perfect gentleman. So gallant and chivalrous. My lips quivered. I frowned at the faded white, red, and blue colors from the hot air balloon. The fire smeared the design with a missing logo or emblem. I wrapped myself inside a warm towel as we sped past the clipper that gathered the balloon for evidence. “Satisfied,” Logan said. “But I don’t know what you were thinking or had to prove by swimming into cold water?” “Nothing. Just wanted to save a life. I guess I did in a way.” I remained quiet until we reached shore. “Thanks for the lift. See you around..Logan.” I jumped out and tossed him his towel. I sprinted toward my car in the parking lot. Ten minutes later, I drove away and headed toward my home in Valparaiso. A secret smirk crossed my face when I know we would meet again when our relationship would take flight like navigating a hot air balloon for the Balloonfest next month.
After you write a rough draft, you need to self-edit your short story or a novel chapter to where it’s perfected and ready for you to send to your beta readers and/or critique partners. It might take you a couple of rounds until you get it ready and right for another pair or eyes to look it over for you. For my 2010-word short story, it took me about six rounds to get down to 1074 words total in a span of a week. I had a very late start in the round due to being offline due to Internet/wifi for 4.5 days and made up for it remarkably in a great amount of time, however belatedly. I normally have a beta/CP per WIM season. This time, even if I had switched genres for this round, I have two fellow friends–Hey Dani and Megan–and one new CP-hey Joanna–to give me their input on my potential future meet-cute scene for my CR book series. And I’ll share that post toward this weekend.
I’ve cut a lot of information about the lighthouse in particular, and kept it focused on Jillian and Logan’s bantering for a very fun scene in this snippet. I do adore this semi-polished version more than my original rough draft. Enjoy!
Smoke On the Water
Smoke On the Water
On a clear spring morning, I walked along the long pier at Washington Park Beach. I received a special assignment from the National Historical Society to design a print for the annual BalloonFest in Astor Fields. They’ve given me permission to tour the automated lighthouse. Lucky for me, I wasn’t afraid of heights.
I glanced at Lake Michigan lapping at the shore. Lighthouses had always fascinated me ever since I was a young girl. In my right hand, I carried my tablet. From my previous research on Michigan City Lighthouse & Pier, I’ve gotten the gist of how tall and wide it would be for the nylon fabric. I pretended to faint. My name mentioned in the local newspaper for this newest milestone in my career.
At the entrance, I typed rough estimates for the pre-cut rough design. Instead the usual red-and-white stripes, I etched a light composite on the canvas like an artist painting their landscape or seascape. My feet dangled near the edge and not too close to the railing. My heartbeat slammed inside my chest. Unadulterated adrenaline rushed through me as I’ve worked on the design. When I finished, I unlocked the doors with the master keys.
Inside, I climbed the spiral staircase to the elevated catwalk. Out-of-breath, I reached the top and glanced at the large windows facing Lake Michigan to marvel at the view. “Wow! I feel like I’m on top of the world… “ I let out a soft chuckle and relaxed my shoulders.
Nothing but a sunny sky, a couple puffs of smoke. What the hell? I moved closer to the railing and looked for a sign. No passing sailboats or fishing boats to make waves. Something buoyed along the tide. Smoke on the water. I dialed 9-1-1. A wicker basket acted like a small boat, burning alive with a fiery flame. I gasped at the deflated hot air balloon that floated with broken suspension cords.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked.
“A hot air balloon had fallen in Lake Michigan. It’s on fire.”
“Where are you at?”
“Michigan City East Lighthouse and Pier.”
“I’m sending EMS, police, and fire over your way within ten minutes. Your name?”
“Thank you. Jillian Ross.” I headed toward the pier as I waited for help. Time was of the essence. Why was that balloon here?… unless it was for an emergency landing.
I exited and sprinted toward the quiet beach. Although it wasn’t swimming season, the water might not be warm enough for a rescue. I stashed my tablet inside my car and donned my wetsuit. As a senior lifeguard during my youth, I had phenomenal swimming and diving skills. It couldn’t hurt to have a headstart. I hurried to the vacant lifeguard stand and borrowed a pair of binoculars. I bit my lower lip and guessed the basket was at least fifteen miles away.
In the distance, sirens sounded off behind me with flashing red and blue lights. Like a buoy, somebody clutched onto the basket. I rushed into the water before anyone could stop me.
“Hey miss,” a tall male said. “You should leave it to the professionals. Didn’t you call for help?”
I nodded and glanced at him. He dressed in a MCFD fireman’s uniform. But I couldn’t tell what rank and name appeared on his backside. I took umbrage on what he said: lifeguards weren’t professionals. “Yes I did. But this person needs our help. I’m a certified lifeguard and an all-star champion in collegiate swimming and diving….” I didn’t like to boost about my stellar athleticism which almost landed me a spot on the US Olympic team a dozen years ago.
He scoffed. “Yeah, right. Please step back and let us do our job. We’ll get to the site faster without your interference.”
I opened my mouth and closed it shut. I would love to prove him wrong. “Wanna bet? Put your money where your mouth is… Officer.”
“It’s Lieutenant O’Dowd, Miss Ross. And you’re on.” He snickered.
O’Dowd? Wait a minute here. One of my survival camp instructors were named O’Dowd last fall? I smirked. “Logan, we meet again. Meet you at the basket.” I dove straight into the chilly water. No doubt, he groaned behind me and accelerated the Rescue Squad’s motorboat. I’ve gotten the lead by a mere margin as I propelled myself forward with the freestyle stroke. I didn’t notice the chill, but more swirling smoke wafted into the air as someone called for “help.”
Logan sped on the waves. I splashed him when I approached the basket. This man sported a black hooded jacket. Smoke consumed his face as he blocked it with his hand.
I did my best to shrug off the shivers. The fire engulfed the hot air balloon. A Coast Guard clipper doused the flame and tended to his needs. A splash didn’t do much to smother this out-of-control blaze.
He smirked and folded his arms. “Not so fast. You’ve proved your point, and we’ll take over from here. We don’t want you to catch a cold or get hypothermia or pneumonia…”
I haven’t gotten that far on what the prize would be, other than plain boasting and bragging rights. “I wanted to tend to that victim and take him safely to the shore… Lieutenant.”
“It’s already taken care of. Want a ride back to the beach?” He grabbed a towel and held it out for me. What a perfect gentleman. So gallant and chivalrous.
My lips quivered. I frowned at the faded white, red, and blue colors. The fire smeared the design with a missing logo or emblem. I extended my hand to O’Dowd when he helped me climb inside the boat. I wrapped myself in a warm towel as we sped past the other firemen that gathered the hot air balloon for evidence. But I’d recognized the letters for the BalloonFest.
“Satisfied,” Logan said. “But I didn’t know what you were thinking or had to prove by swimming into cold water?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to save a life. I guess I did in a way.” During the rest of the ride, I remained quiet until we reached shore. “Thanks for the lift. See you around..Logan.” I jumped out and tossed him his towel. I sprinted toward my car in the parking lot. Ten minutes later, I drove away and headed toward Emberly Heights, not knowing if I ever see him again.
Welcome to Writer in Motion Summer 2021. If you’re new to WIM, let me tell you what it’s all about. Come on over. The water’s fine. It started two years ago when a bunch of us writers wrote a short story based on a single photo prompt. During the five week blog series, we wrote a short story, self-edited it, turned it over to a CP/beta reader, and finally sent it to one of the lovely #revpit editors for our polished versions after their feedback. This is the fifth season I believe. Last year, we’ve welcomed marginalized writers to join us, when they received professional editorial feedback from Jeni Chappelle and the other editors. Now everyone’s getting a chance to receive a polished edited version from them this year. Our short stories had inspired many writers to turn it into a novel form from sharing and post a small scene from a chapter. It can be from any age market and genre, or can be a poem or in a scene in verse. Whether you prefer to post on the blog, on the forum, or both, feel free to share your work to get free feedback to inspire you to write future stories.
When the photo prompt was released this past weekend, I was stumped. I couldn’t think of anything to do with a black hooded man with smoke on his face. In the past, I’ve written short mysteries and thrillers. This year, I’m slightly changing my genre focus to contemporary romance. I might go back to mysteries and thrillers this fall or for next year’s WIM season. My personal thanks goes to @TMNStories and @SmallStonesTall for a firefighter romance idea. And I’ve came up with a potential meet-cute scene for my third contemporary romance novel I might write next year. The title was inspired by the classic Deep Purple’s lyrics in the chorus, “Smoke on the Water.”
Smoke on the Water
On a clear spring morning, I walked along the long, winding pier at Washington Park Beach in Michigan City. While I visited my cousin here, I received a special assignment from the National Historical Society to design a print for the annual hot air balloon festival in Astor Fields next month. They’ve given me an endowment to create an image of the Michigan City Lighthouse to go on the balloon. This was the first time the N.H.S., and the town of Astor Fields, had considered to enter their hot air balloon in the race. They’ve also had granted me permission to tour the lightkeeper’s cottage and to climb to the top of the watch tower. Lucky for me, I wasn’t afraid of heights.
As I strode along the pier, I glanced at the calm, blue-green water from Lake Michigan. With light foamy waves that lapped at the shore, the bright sun shone above me as I donned my tinted shades and viewed this magnificent scenery. Lighthouses had always fascinated me ever since I was a young girl. In my right hand, I carried my CAD-computer, a blank sketch pad, and assorted colored pens and pencils. From my previous research on Michigan City Lighthouse & Pier I’ve done the day before, I’ve gotten the gist of how tall and wide it would be for my print to go on the nylon fabric. So excited to see my name, Jillian Ross, graphic designer and fine artist, be mentioned in the papers and credit this achievement on my resumé and portfolio for future commissioned work.
I stopped at the front of the light house and plopped myself down in front of this national historical landmark. I opened my tablet and typed rough estimates for my pre-cut rough design. Instead of the usual red-and-white striped colors of the towers like barber shop poles, I grabbed my pencils, stencils, and etched a light composite on the canvas like an artist would before they’ve drawn, sketched, and painted their landscape or seascape with a wide range of colors. My feet dangled near the pavement’s edge and not too close to the railing. My heartbeat slammed inside my chest. A bolt of unadulterated adrenaline rushed through me. In no time, from the solar valve on top of the cupola, and then toward the massive concrete foundation, I’ve gotten down to work for the printed design for my rough sketch on my pad. Before I transferred it to my tablet, I’ve taken a break and headed to the entrance when I unlocked the doors with the master keys to the automated lighthouse and cottage.
As I stepped inside, I climbed the seventy-two step spiral staircase all the way to the elevated catwalk above the watch tower. I liked to call this research before I completed my drawing for the hot air balloon festival. Out of breath, I reached the top and glanced at the large windows that faced Lake Michigan. For a closer look, I headed to the catwalk and marveled at the amazing view. Wow! I feel like I’m on top of the world…sort-of. I let out a soft chuckle and relaxed my shoulders.
Nothing but a sunny blue sky, a couple puffs of smoke. What the hell? I moved closer to the railing and looked for a sign. No passing sailboats or fishing boats to make waves this morning. Something buoyed along the tide as more wisps of smoke floated in the air, when it caught on fire. Smoke on the water, maybe fifteen miles away from me. I whipped out my cell and dialed 9-1-1. A wicker basket acted like a small boat, burning alive with a fiery flame. I gasped and widened my eyes at the deflated hot air balloon that floated along with broken suspension cords.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked me.
“A hot air balloon had popped and fallen in Lake Michigan. It’s on fire.”
“Where are you at?”
“I’m at Michigan City East Lighthouse and Pier at Washington Park Beach. I see smoke on the water.”
“I’m sending EMS, police, and fire over your way. They’ll be there in ten minutes. If possible, stay on the line to give us more information. What’s your name?”
“Jillian Ross. I’ll try. I need to get a closer look from here and put you on hold as I head to the beach.” I paused my call and headed back inside to go downstairs toward the pier. I hurried as fast I could as I waited for help. I couldn’t see much from where I stood on the catwalk. Time was of the essence. What in the world why that balloon doing here?… unless it was for an emergency landing when it was possibly on fire.
I exited out of the lighthouse and sprinted along the pier and then veered across to Washington Park Beach. Although it wasn’t exactly swimming season that morning, the lake water might not be warm enough for swimming. That aeronaut must’ve gotten chilled with hypothermia by now. Other than knowing that help was seven minutes away, I knew I had to do something to save a life. I went to the parking lot to stash my lighthouse drawing inside and snatched my long wetsuit before I dove onto the chilling lake water. As a senior lifeguard during my youth, I had phenomenal swimming and diving skills. It couldn’t hurt to have a headstart. On that quiet beach, I rushed to the vacant lifeguard stand and borrowed a pair of binoculars. I bit my lower lip and guessed that the basket was at least fifteen miles away, toward the middle of the lake.
In the distance, sirens sounded off behind me , red and blue flashing strobe lights appeared in my purview. Like a buoy, somebody clutched on the basket with their dear life, while the inside continued to burn and spread toward the balloon’s envelope to a dark brown color. Was it entangled up and caught on the telephone wires or snagged by the trees? I couldn’t tell that much from where I stood.
Without much deliberation, I took a chance to rush into the water before anyone could stop me. I needed to reach that person before it might be way too late.
“Hey miss”, a tall male said to me. “You should leave it to the professionals. Weren’t you who called for help?”
I nodded and glanced at him. He dressed in a MCFD fireman’s uniform. But I couldn’t tell what rank and name appeared on his backside. I took umbrage that what he said: lifeguards weren’t professionals and this wasn’t a life-saving test. I quirked the corners of my mouth and raised my brows. “Yes I did. But this person needs our help. I’m a certified lifeguard and an all-star champion in collegiate swimming and diving….” I didn’t like to boost about my stellar athleticism which almost landed me a spot on the US Olympic team a dozen years ago.
He scoffed and stepped closer to the shoreline. “Yeah, right, miss. Please step back and let us do our job. We’ll get to the site faster without your interference.”
I opened my mouth and closed it shut. I might not be a local from Michigan City, but I would love to prove him wrong. “Wanna bet? Put your money where your mouth is… Officer.”
Everyone gathered around us and viewed the fire-burning scene. They cheered and clapped behind us like this was some sort of exhibition. “It’s Lieutenant O’Dowd, Miss Ross. And you’re on.” He snickered at me.
O’Dowd? Wait a minute here. One of my survival camp instructors were named O’Dowd last fall. What was his name? Any relation? I smirked. “Logan, we meet again. Meet you at the basket.” Since when he was a fireman and worked two jobs in the same camping season, unless he took time off to drive a forty-five minute commute from Emberly Heights. I rushed toward the water in my long-sleeved wetsuit and dove straight into the chilly water. No doubt, I could hear him groan straight behind me as he accelerated the MCFD’s Rescue Squad’s motorboat from shore. I’ve gotten the lead from a mere margin as I propelled myself forward to the burning hot air balloon with the front stroke to reach the victim faster. I didn’t notice the chill, but more swirls of smoke wafted into the air as someone called for “help.” I could’ve sworn he was a male.
As Logan took off in a boat on the waves with his colleagues, I kicked up some water and made waves to splash him when I approached the basket. This man sported a black hooded jacket. Smoke consumed his face as he blocked it with his hand.
I did my best to shrug off the shivers that emanated from the cold. The fire continued to engulf the hot air balloon in its entirety, grey smoke wafted in the air with soot and ash. A Coast Guard clipper arrived at the scene with fire hoses and extinguishers to douse the flames inside the basket and the sand bags. Not even a splash from the cold fresh water did much to smother this out-of-control fire. Arson? Explosives? Sabotaged burners that ran out of gas from a leak? Those thoughts swirled in my mind.
As I swam closer to the victim, the fireman in the boat stopped me with a smirk and folded his arms at his waist. “Not so fast. You’ve proved your point in the bet, and we’ll take it over from here. We don’t want you to catch a cold or get hypothermia or pneumonia…”
I haven’t gotten that far on what the prize would be, other than plain boasting and bragging rights. “I wanted to ten to that victim and see if he’s all right and take him safely to the shore… Lieutenant.”
He scoffed and glanced at the smoldered hot air balloon. Two fire fighters on his boat had managed to douse the flame. Two Coast Guard officers helped tend to the victim’s needs and take him to the nearest hospital back at the shore. “It’s already taken care of, Miss Ross. Want a ride back to the beach?” He grabbed a towel and held it out for me. What a perfect gentleman. So gallant and chivalrous.
My lips quivered from the cold. With a closer look, I peaked at the half-ruined hot air balloon’s envelope and frowned at the faded colors of white, red, and blue, that had now turned into a smeared design with a missing logo or emblem. On the clipper, they’ve taken him away at a fast pace. As I reached my hand toward O’Dowd, I extended it to him to help me climb inside the boat. I wrapped myself in a warm blanket as we sped past the other fire boat that gathered the hot air balloon to tow it away for evidence. But I knew I’d recognized it and the letters for the Astor Fields BalloonFest to do promotions for the big event two weeks away. Was he a participant? Did I know him? Dd someone want to take him out of the competition so early on, even if it as a crime?
“Satisfied, Miss Ross,” Logan said. “But I didn’t know what you were thinking or had to prove by swimming into cold waters?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to lend a hand and save a life. I guessed I did in a way.” During the rest of the ride, I remained quiet until we reached shore. “Thanks for the ride. See you around..Logan.” I jumped out of the boat and tossed him his towel. I sprinted toward the sand and then to my car in the parking lot. Ten minutes later, after I dried off and changed clothes, I drove away and headed toward Emberly Heights, not knowing if I ever see him again. Or the mystery on why that hot air balloon crash landed in Lake Michigan, or if it it was connected to one another.
Better late than never, we’re reaching the end of the #WriterinMotion blog experiment this weekend. These final weeks was devoted to editing our short stories from our second round of CPs (or editors) and posted our final drafts to the blog and forum. This past week, I had wonderful feedback from my two friends and CPs, @Dani_Is_Frank and @HM_Braverman, on how to make my short story stronger and tighter for a future scene in my domestic suspense novel later this fall.
This time around, they agreed on the same things and had questions about clarity to tighten it up. One of them had given me her edited version as I’ve incorporated new tidbits and information to flesh it out a bit more (even revealing my FMC’s real name too). My word count did go down to 250 words from my previous edited draft I’ve posted here.
Here’s the final version of Burn Baby Burn:
Madelyn Osgood struck a match to start an inferno. She jutted her chin and sneered. Adrenalin coursed through her veins as blood rushed in her ears as she lifted the metal garbage can’s lid. “What a lovely way to burn a disguise.” She dropped the match inside and shoved the lid on tight, then she walked quickly down the alley. Three, two, one; she waited for the explosion which would set the alley ablaze. Instead, the lid popped open with a small unsatisfying bang, and the garbage can fell to the ground, causing the flames to spread in a serpentine fashion along the ground. She must not have added enough nitrates to the latest mixture. She made note in her phone when a hot gust knocked her back and her ears rung from the boom. It needed more oxygen. She surveyed the fiery street, clapped her hands, and ran back to Stefan’s old Ford pick-up. She couldn’t help doing a slow drive-by one more time as she headed out of town. The flames shot across the side of one of the buildings, straining to lick the sky, like they had when she was little. The police couldn’t prove she or Stephan were at fault, so they had no choice but to rule it as arson. This fire was no accident. They didn’t call her “Mad Maddie” for nothing. In her brother’s borrowed pick-up, Madelyn drove to Dunstable’s outskirts and headed the mountain toward the brown concrete house hidden away at the top. She let the truck idle while she removed the dead brush she used to conceal the driveway. Her low-beam headlights illuminated the secret entrance . A lone silvery half-moon glowed on the autumn foliage decorating the green field. The house looked uninhabited and lonely, left to decay under predatory weeds. She preferred it that way, nature’s brutal persistence reminded her of herself; no matter how long it took, she would have revenge against those who trespassed against her. Her last attempt to murder Devon Harper – the current alias of her former best friend, Cassandra Stratton – had missed. But no matter, Devon would pay for both stealing her spot in the international harpist competition and sending her brother to prison. She parked the truck by the front door and entered the small building stockpiled with bombs, explosives, and dynamite. She checked through the window to make sure nobody had seen her. She clenched her jaw and ground her teeth as she spat at her name that echoed in the air. “Damn you!” Her guerrilla walkie-talkie squawked. She pressed the send button. “I’m here.” “Did you deliver the messages?” Stefan asked through a staticky reception. “Yes..” She’d wanted to do something more than deliver the black rose bouquet. Next time she would tuck a shard inside the dark-blue petals. That’s why she lit the fire across town. She needed that rush. But Stefan didn’t need to know that. And anyway, the police wouldn’t tie the fire and the bouquet together. “Perfect. How about the spotlight?” “It missed her by a few inches. She was definitely rattled.” “Good. The tormented fun had begun” He laughed. “Did anyone see you?” “Not a chance. I disappeared right after the final act and was long gone when it ended.” “Wonderful! Just warm her up for me.” He paused. “I’ll be there soon…” Was Stefan planning to escape from prison? She opened her mouth and clamped it shut, her eyes narrowed at Devon’s photo she’d taken during surveillance. She’d been smart to keep her face off the Boston Symphony Orchestra’s website and program. “When?” “You’ll see. What name is she going by now?” “Devon Harper.” She grabbed a lighter and flicked it, watching the orange-yellow flames dance and flicker. “Where is she living?” “I haven’t had a chance to follow her yet. She’s gotten smarter.” Her eyes brightened as she set the flame under the photograph, watching it be devoured by the fire. No matter how often Devon moved, or changed names and her looks, they had ways to find her, year after year,to do it via illegal channels. “Keep me posted. I’ll be in touch.” “Will do.” She pocketed her walkie-talkie and shut it off. Like a wildfire, the tiny sparking embers shot through the dark house, emitting a bright glow from fireflies communicating at night. The photograph turned into an ashen pile on the floor. “Burn baby burn.” She blew out the flame.
As for final thoughts, it was fun writing from a villain’s POV during this past month for WIM. It doesn’t hurt to have more than one beta or CP to give you feedback on your short story or novel chapter or even a poem or nonfiction article. Betas/CPs are always worth more in gold when you can’t afford to hire an editor. So go out and find your people online and in real life to make your work polished and shine. To everyone who participated this year, and to those who run it, a special shout-out goes to you all who’ve made WIM better than ever this year. Until then, WIM might be back this fall or next year See you then. And I’ll be back to hopefully regularly updating my blog later his fall.
For this week in the blog journey, it focused on getting feedback from your CPs and beta for any writing project you have and want to share. The rule of thumb is to find at least two to bounce ideas off with. You can find betas/CPS for various places online like #CPMatch or even from a pitch contest, on Facebook or Twitter. You can go find a local writing group and meet new friends there too. When you receive feedback from your betas/CPs, let it sit for a day or two before you dive right in. If they say the same thing, then you know you have a problem to fix or tweak. If it differs, it’s up to you if it resonates with you.
For example, when I received my feedback from my two new friends and CPs, @RJ_PerryAuthor and @HLWaltonAuthor, they both agreed on two small nits and enjoy Burn Baby Burn. RJ wanted me to move a graph up, add more why Maddie hated Devon and the relationship to her brother Stefan. Since my word count was in pretty good range, I’ve thought about it and added 50 words to my piece to flesh it out a bit at 950 words. (Thanks RJ and Helen for the wonderful feedback.) I’ve also a bit more emotional depth to it as well. This stand-alone scene would be perfect and fleshed out more for chapter 5 in Fatal Harmony next month.
With further ado, here’s my newly revised version. Next week, it goes to @HMBraverman and @Dani-Is-Frank, my two new friends I’ve met last year, as my 2nd round CPs. Enjoy!
Burn Baby Burn
Madelyn Osgood struck a match to start an inferno. She jutted her chin and sneered. Power coursed through her veins as blood rushed in her ears. She lifted the lid and stood in a wide stance to contain the burning blaze in the metal garbage can. “What a lovely way to burn.” Like the crackling sounds from a fireworks display, these firecrackers didn’t go boom.
Three, two, one. She walked away from the dead-end alley, waiting for it to erupt with an explosion. Seconds later, the lid popped open. The garbage can fell to the ground, causing the blaze to spread in a serpentine-like fashion. She surveyed the fiery street and clapped her hands as she disappeared from sight.
She loved playing with the flames and watching items burn. As a little girl, it had always fascinated her ever since she lost her parents in a house fire. Besides herself, her older brother Stefan remained unscathed. Rumors circulated she was a “trouble child” and caused her family home to go up in flames. No one proved it was her, Stefan, or both. Years ago, they closed the case, stating it was nothing but an arson. They both looked after each other ever since that fateful night and lived on their own as rebellious teenagers. Every time she lit a candle, she widened her eyes and rubbed her hands together. She experimented with different accelerants and played with it to suit her means.
In Stefan’s dark green Ford 4×4 pick-up she borrowed, she drove to Dunstable’s outskirts and headed toward the brown concrete cement house on the green field. No one knew about the secret driveway that led to a concealed entrance as she climbed to the mountain top. It looked uninhabited, decrepit, isolated from others, and lonely like an outsider. Those same words described her the best too. Time to exact her vengeful plans on Devon Harper. She couldn’t stand Devon Harper, her former childhood best friend, and bitter rival in the international harp competitions. She hated her with a burning passion ever since she sent her brother to prison and stolen her coveted spot while she handled the handiwork for him. Alone.
She parked the truck by the front door. She balled her fists and stomped on the stone path. “I’ve missed the mark.”e. Inside the desolate hut, she planned and schemed behind closed doors. She stockpiled bombs, explosives, and dynamite with plenty of TNT to destroy a home, a building, or a car on impact. They didn’t call her “Mad Maddie” for nothing. Madelyn slammed the door. She walked to the window and glanced at the trees, the puffy clouds, the birds flying above 500 feet from the earth. Far way from civilization, she preferred this private hideaway where no one should find her here.
Her cell rang right on cue. She answered after the second ring. “I’m here.”“Did you deliver the message?”Stefan asked. “I did. Just as you wanted me to.” She wanted to do something more than delivering that threatening black rose bouquet after stripping the thorns. Like tucking a shard inside the dark-blue petals and sandwich it between the prickly stems. Save it for next time. A wicked grin formed across her face, her fists clenched, when she raised them to the sky. She couldn’t wait to take that bitch down and set her on fire. She had it coming to her. Big-time!“Perfect. Did you get her on stage?” Madelyn growled and muttered. “No. The black spotlight missed her by a few inches to the far stage left.” She should’ve studied the orchestral layout more and with a better close up. She worked hard to angle it before she let it fall upon her. A warning. “No worries. We’re just warming up and getting started.” He laughed out loud. “Did anyone see you?” Lucky for her, she blended in with the crowd when no one be the wiser. “Not a chance. I disappeared right after the final act and was long gone when it ended.” “Wonderful! For now, you’ll start with the lighter stuff as I’ll pick up from there with the heavy work.” He paused for affect. “I’ll be coming out of hiding and be there soon…” She opened her mouth and clamped it shut, her eyes narrowed at the Devon Harper’s colored photo. The recent one she taken by herself, since there wasn’t a recent photo in the program, or on the Boston Symphony Orchestra’s website. She’d gotten it from the security camera’s footage and printed two still copies. Was Stefan planning to escape from prison? “When?” “You’ll see. What name is she going by now?” “Devon Harper.” No matter how often she moved, changed names, and her looks, they had ways to find her, year after year. Forget hiring their crooked PI—they opted to do it their way via illegal channels. She grabbed a lighter and flicked it twice with the fork, watching the orange-yellow flames dance and grow higher from the sparkwheel. “Interesting name. Where is she living now?” Her eyes brightened as she set the flame under the photograph, waiting for it to catch fire and burn. She spat at it when it spread straight down the middle in one line. “No idea. But I’ll follow her for you…” “Keep me posted. I’ll be in touch.” “Will do.” She closed her cell and pocketed it. Like a wildfire, the tiny sparking embers shot through the dark house, emitting a bright glow from fireflies communicating at night. The photograph turned black and fell into an ashen pile with soot on the floor. “Burn baby burn.” She blew out the flame.
Last week the prompt was revealed and the original drafts were released to the #WIM forum and to the Twitter feed for blogs. This week’s focus was on self-editing your own work before you send it to betas/CPs and later to professional editors if you wish to have it looked over.
Last year, my first original draft took me a week to cull since it was a little over 1K. This time around, I’ve dwindled my draft from 1K to 902 words. No over-writing and minimal descriptions were key for this central scene that might be Fatal Harmony’s chapter 5 later this month. I’ve mainly pruned some filter/passive words and tightened sentences to make the pacing faster and tenser without giving anything away. I still wanted to show how demented and crazy Maddie was as a pyromaniac and an arsonist too. It was fun to write from a villain’s POV for a change.
Enjoy this self-edited version. Next week, it’s off to my two newest friends and CPs– @RJPerryWriter and @HLWaltonAuthors–for their feedback on the first CP round.
Burn Baby Burn
Madelyn Osgood struck a match to start an inferno. She jutted her chin and smirked. Power coursed through her veins. She lifted the lid and stood in a wide stance to contain the burning blaze in the metal garbage can. “What a lovely way to burn.” Like the crackling sounds from a fireworks display, these firecrackers didn’t go boom. Three, two, one. She walked away from the dead alley, waiting for it to erupt with an explosion. Seconds later, the lid popped open. The garbage can fell to the ground, causing the blaze to spread in a serpentine-like fashion. She surveyed the fiery street and clapped her hands as she disappeared from sight. She loved playing with the flames and watching items burn. As a little girl, it had always fascinated her ever since she lost her parents in a house fire. Besides herself, her older brother Stefan remained unscathed. Rumors circulated she was a “trouble child” and caused her family home to go up in flames. No one proved it was her, Stefan, or both. Years ago, they closed the case, stating it was nothing but an accidental arson. Every time she lit a candle, she widened her eyes and grinned. She experimented with different accelerants and played with it to suit her means. In Stefan’s dark green Ford 4×4 pick-up she borrowed, she drove to Dunstable’s outskirts and headed toward the brown concrete cement house on the green field. No one knew about the secret driveway that led to a concealed entrance as she climbed to the mountain top. It looked inhabited, decrepit, isolated from others, and lonely like an outsider. Those same words described her the best too. Time to exact her vengeful plans. She parked the truck by the front door. She balled her fists, flared her nostrils, and stomped on the stone path. “I’ve missed the mark.” She couldn’t stand Devon Harper. She hated her with a burning passion. Ever since she sent her brother to prison, she handled the handiwork for him. Alone. Inside the desolate hut, she planned and schemed behind closed doors. She stockpiled bombs, explosives, and dynamite with plenty of TNT to destroy a home, a building, or a car on impact. They didn’t call her “Mad Maddie” for nothing. Madelyn slammed the door. She walked to the window and glanced at the trees, the puffy clouds, the birds flying above 500 feet from the earth. Far way from civilization, she preferred this private hideaway where no one should find her here. Her cell rang right on cue. She answered after the second ring. “I’m here.” “Did you deliver the message?” Stefan asked. “I did. Just as you wanted me to.” She wanted to do something more than delivering that threatening black rose bouquet after stripping the thorns. Like tucking a shard inside the dark-blue petals and sandwich it between the prickly stems. Save it for next time. A wicked grin formed across her face, her fists clenched, when she raised them to the sky. She couldn’t wait to take that bitch down and set her on fire. She had it coming to her. Big-time! “Perfect. Did you get her on stage?” Madelyn growled and muttered. “No. The black spotlight missed her by a few inches to the far stage left.” She should’ve studied the orchestral layout more and with a better close up. She worked hard to angle it before she let it fall upon her. A warning. “No worries. We’re just warming up and getting started.” He laughed out loud. “Did anyone see you?” Lucky for her, she blended in with the crowd when no one be the wiser. “Not a chance. I disappeared right after the final act and was long gone when it ended.” “Wonderful! For now, you’ll start with the lighter stuff as I’ll pick up from there with the heavy work.” He paused for affect. “I’ll be coming out of hiding and be there soon…” She opened her mouth and clamped it shut, her eyes narrowed at the Devon Harper’s colored photo. The recent one she taken by herself, since there wasn’t a recent photo in the program, or on the Boston Symphony Orchestra’s website. She’d gotten it from the security camera’s footage and printed two still copies. Was Stefan planning to escape from prison? “When?” “You’ll see. What name is she going by now?” “Devon Harper.” No matter how often she moved, changed names, and her looks, they had ways to find her, year after year. Forget hiring their crooked PI—they opted to do it their way via illegal channels. She grabbed a lighter and flicked it twice with the fork, watching the orange-yellow flames dance and grow higher from the sparkwheel. “Interesting name. Where is she living now?” Her eyes brightened as she set the flame under the photograph, waiting for it to catch fire and burn. She spat at it when it spread straight down the middle in one line. “No idea. But I’ll follow her for you…” “Keep me posted. I’ll be in touch.” “Will do.” She closed her cell and pocketed it. Like a wildfire, the tiny sparking embers shot through the dark house, emitting a bright glow from fireflies communicating at night. The photograph turned black and dropped into an ashen pile with soot on the floor. “Burn baby burn.” She blew out the flame.
#Writerinmotion is back for the third round! And it’s better and bigger than ever. For those who are new to #Writerinmotion (WIM), here’s an overview. It started a year ago when KJ Harrowick and Jeni Chapelle created this group experiment right after #Revpit for the first round. It started out small when I’ve met my group of best writerly friends who are the best as we always support each other. Shoutout goes to all of my #WIM friends! Then it returned last fall for round two with a bigger group. And yet again, I’ve made new friends from that expanded group as well. (Both of my short stories will be used as future scenes for my ms, Throw Down the Gauntlet, my heist-centric romantic thriller trilogy idea. When I wrote it, it was the opposite—a thriller with romantic elements. So I’m now doing a major overhaul to make it better and finish it by mid to late fall.) This five-week short story journey is for everyone who wants to be inspired by a photo prompt and write a short story from draft to final copy. What’s new this year? Editor spots goes to 24 lucky writers who are from marginalized groups in the final round. And we’ve gotten more participants this year than ever.
(Disclaimer: Like last year, I’ve seen people misuse the hashtag in the feed for anything that’s not related to the WIM experiment on Twitter. Please don’t use it if it’s for self-publishing or anything else! That’s not what it’s used for.)
{To all of my regular followers, I’m sorry I haven’t posted anything new since February this year. Besides writing, editing, light querying, revising, I’ve been busy. But I hope to post new updates next month.}
My thoughts for this prompt is that it’s a perfect place to hide someone or to hide certain things. Since I’ve started writing a new WIP earlier than Nano, my music-themed dark domestic suspense ms, Fatal Harmony, this will be used for a future scene, possibly chapter 5. Isolation, seclusion, revenge, and did I mention, fire!
Here’s my drafted original short story, tentatively titled, Burn Baby Burn.
Madelyn Osgood stroked a match from the matchbox and ignited a fire inside a metal garbage can. She jutted out her chin and smirked. Power coursed through her veins and shot through her blood. She lifted the lid to contain the burning blaze inside the barrel. “What a lovely way to burn.” In a wide stance, the crackling sounds reminded her of firecrackers displayed at night without the booms and the colorful fireworks. She counted to three, walked away from the dead alley, and waited for it to erupt with an explosion. When the coast was clear, the lid popped open and fell to the ground. The garbage can fell to the ground, causing the blaze to spread in a serpentine-like fashion. She surveyed the fiery street and clapped her hands as she sprinted down a block to disappear from sight. She loved playing with fire and watching things burn all around her. As a little girl, it had always fascinated her ever since she lost her parents in a house fire. Besides herself, her older brother Stefan remained unscathed. Rumors circulated she was a “trouble child” and caused her family home to go up in flames. No one proved it was her, Stefan, both of them. Years ago, they closed the case, stating it was nothing but an accidental arson. Every time she lit a candle, she widened her eyes and displayed a wicked grin. She experimented with different types of accelerants and played with it to suit her means. In Stefan’s dark green Ford 4×4 pick-up she borrowed, she drove to the outskirts of Dunstable and headed toward the brown concrete cement house on the green grassy field. No one knew about the secret driveway that led to a concealed entrance as she climbed up the mountain to the top. It looked inhabited, decrepit, isolated from others, and lonely like an outsider. That’s exactly how she’d felt among other things. Time to exact her plans of revenge. She flared her nostrils and shook her hands as she parked the truck by the front door. She balled her fists and stomped her feet on the stone path. “I’ve missed the mark.” She couldn’t stand Devon Harper. She hated her with a burning passion. Ever since she sent her brother to prison, she had to do the handiwork for him. Alone. Inside the desolate hut, this was where she did her planning and scheming. She kept a stockpile of bombs, explosives, and dynamite with plenty of TNT to destroy a home, a building, or a car on impact. They didn’t call her “Mad Maddie” for nothing. Madelyn shut the door behind her. She walked to the window and glanced at the trees, the puffy clouds, the birds flying above 500 feet from the ground. She preferred this private hideaway to be far away from civilization. No one could ever find her here. Her cell rang right on cue. She answered after the second ring. “I’m here, Stefan.” “Did you deliver the message?” he asked. “I did. Just as you wanted me to.” She wanted to do something more than that threatening black rode bouquet after than dethorning the flower. She would’ve preferred a shard tucked inside the dark-blue petals and sandwiched between the prickly stems. Maybe she would save it for next time. A wicked grin formed across her face, her fists clenched and balled when she raised them to the sky. She couldn’t wait to take that bitch down and set her on flames. She had it coming to her. Big-time! “Perfect. Did you get her on stage? Madelyn growled and muttered under her breath. “No. The black spotlight missed her by a few inches to the far stage right.” She should’ve studied the orchestral layout more and with a better close up. She worked so hard to get the right angle to let it fall upon her. She considered it a warning shot. “No worries. We’re just warming up and getting started.” He laughed out loud. “Did anyone see you?” Lucky for her, she blended it with the crowd when no one would be known the wiser. “Not a chance. I disappeared right after the final act and was long gone when it ended.” “Wonderful! For now, you’ll start with the lighter stuff as I’ll pick up from there with the heavy work.” He paused for affect. “I’ll be coming out of hiding and be there soon…” She opened her mouth and clamped it shut, her eyes narrowed at the colored photo of Devon Harper. The recent one she taken by herself, since there wasn’t a recent photo of her in the program or the Boston Symphony Orchestra’s website. She’d gotten it fro the security camera’s footage and printed out two still copies. Was Stefan planning to escape from prison for a crime he didn’t commit? “When?” “You’ll see. What name is she going by now?” “Devon Harper.” No matter how often she moved, changed names and her looks, they had ways to find her, year after year. Forget hiring their own crooked PI—they preferred to do it their way via illegal channels. She grabbed a lighter and flicked it a few times with the fork, watching the orange-yellow flame dance and grow higher from the sparkwheel. “Interesting name. Where is she living now?” Her eyes brightened as she placed the flame under the photo, waiting for it to catch fire and start a fiery burn. She spat at it when it started to spread straight down the middle in one line. “No idea. But I’ll follow her for you…” “Keep me posted. I’ll be in touch.” “Will do.” She closed her cell and pocketed it. Like a wildfire, the tiny sparking embers shot through the dark house, emitting a bright glow from fireflies communicating at night. Then the photograph burned black and turned into a pile of ash and soot on the floor. “Burn baby burn.” She blew out the flame.
I know I haven’t posted any new updates on my blog last year, except for the #AMM Mentee Hopeful Blog earlier this month. I wished I could share happy news to share like I landed an agent with an offer. Sadly, it didn’t happen. And yesterday afternoon, I’ve shelved Venom, my first heart baby, my eco-thriller I wrote, after 9.5 years of querying (and requerying.) I also retired it from entering pitch contests after 5.5 years ago. So this blog post is all about Venom and the history behind it in this decade-long journey before I put it to rest this weekend.
The idea of Venom had came to me in 2010 when I read an article in Writer’s Digest Magazine that eco-thrillers were making a comeback trend. Though this was my second novel I wrote for Nano, it was my first I wrote for Julno (aka Summer Camp Nano, when I didn’t know it was called at the time.) I’ve dreamt the concept that summer about Kylie Marx, who’s a herpetologist in Florida, and faces her own fears of snakes from a near-fatal snakebite 12 years ago. It was also inspired by Dr. Donald Schulze from Animal Planet’s short-lived series, Wild Recon, and the medical breakthrough on making artificial anti-venom in the UK a decade ago. The character of Dr. Aidan Rice was inspired by the late Steve Irwin, only as a snake charmer.
My late mother was the first person to read and critique Venom in its early stages with her most valuable feedback. And when she died, I’ve met and friend my consent beta on Facebook, Sandy Shocklee, who took over for her and supported me and Venom up until this point. I’’m so glad I’ve met her. I also shared it with my local critique group a couple of years ago, and then with my online critique list two years ago. And I’m also grateful for my friend and second beta, Kat Turner, who also loved and read Venom last year, who gave me feedback to tweak it. I’ve also had three close Facebook friends two years ago help me refine the first pages. I’ve refined it and edited it numerous times—the last time two years ago even by adding emotional depth.
And almost a year when I first wrote it and edited it, I’ve sent out my first queries in August 2011 via email and yes snail mail back in the day. And yes I received my first early full back then from Agent A as I’ll call her. In spite of a lot of hiccups between my heart surgery and my mother’s sickness and later health, she patiently waited for me and understood how life can get in the way. Later on, she passed. I’ve been querying agents on and off for numerous years since then. I even ventured to Canadian and UK agents for the past few years. I’ve gotten a couple of partials and fulls and even one R&R too. I came so close on landing an agent numerous times, even via #MSWL which had fallen short last year. I’ve also tried small pubs and had no luck to no avail either. If you want to know how many rejections I’ve gotten, I’ve lost count in 2013. Let’s say it’s over 1000+ and call it even.
As for contests, my beta Sandy encouraged me to try pitch contests like #pit2pub on Twitter and Pitch Wars six years ago. I did receive one full request for my first year I’ve entered Pitch Wars, but wasn’t picked to go to the mentee round. The only feedback I got was to polish my ms and my query from this mentor. And the second year I did Pitch Wars with a revised Venom, I got no requests. It did land some request via #pitmad and the now defunct #adpit. I did receive one small pub request via Savvy Authors two years ago, but I never heard back from that editor after numerous nudges to her before I closed her out. I’ve tried Revpit last year with Venom and got zip.
My first time I pitched it to a conference was from Muse Online Writers Conference also in 2010. I did pitch to agents and editors and got some requests. But It never went anywhere since it wasn’t ready and needed more polishing. And then I did live pitch to agents at the Cleveland Writing Workshop. One of my dream agents was there, though I wasn’t selected to pitch to her when I signed up. Though I did get a partial request from an agent, the first page got ripped apart by the panel (with my dream agent) during the first page critique workshop. And then I’ve found a local conference in my area (formerly paid before it went free) every year, but I never pitched it there since they didn’t have the first page critique workshops at the time. And when they did, I had pitched something else instead.
Before my late mother passed away six years ago, I made a promise to her that I would see my dream to get Venom agented and published some day. She knew how hard I’ve tried and struggled e ever since she passed away. I know I didn’t let her down at all. She knows this is the hardest thing I have to do besides saying goodbye to her.
So where do I go from here? I never given up on Venom before. I’ve been told I’m persistent, determined, resilient many times, since I’ve fought so hard to make my dreams come true. But now it’s time to let it go and put it on my backlist for the time being. It’s time to move on and put it to rest. If you’re on Wattpad, I might post it there this summer. If I do get lucky to land an agent and an editor someday, maybe it’ll be moved to the front burner again. Maybe I’ll self-publish it or try my luck with hybrid publishing in the near future. But for now, it’s best to move on.
During last month, my local writing group had a writing exercise about an author taking to a character. It prompted me to prepare saying goodbye to Venom. And I’m going to share it with you right now.
“Do you know who I am?” the person asked at the front of my bed.
“Yes.” I gulped. “You are my character, the one I’ve written about.”
“That’s correct.” My female lead character smiled.
“So why are you here?” I asked.
“To thank you for telling my story and setting me up with a sexy love interest named Aidan.”
I blushed. “You’re welcome. It’s all part of my job as a writer.” I never had a character thank me before. The same could be said for my Muse too. Then it dawned to me. Kylie! I was face-to-face with Kylie Marx from Venom, my first eco-thriller I wrote a decade ago.
“I also want you to tell you it’s okay to table my story after trying to get an agent for so many years. Maybe someday, it’ll be in print…one way or another. Don’t give up. It’ll find a home someday. Goodbye isn’t forever.”
“I won’t, Kylie. You’ll be shelved on my backlist in the meantime…”
In closing, I would like to thank all of my Facebook friends for your support. Big thanks to my 10.5K Twitter followers who commented and RTed it for various Twitter pitch contests. Big thanks to everyone who read and critiqued it at my local writing group and my online critique lists with your feedback) to make it better. To my good friends Cara Reinard and Jaime Hendricks, who’s been there for me, when they’ve told me it’s okay to shelve it. Special thanks to all of the mentors and editors who considered Venom in contests—the same could be said for all of the agents who considered Venom, to those who requested and later passed. I know it’s all subjective with the changing market in publishing. Whether it’s a form or personalized feedback, thanks for giving Venom a first, (second or a third) shot.
A special thanks to my mother who’s looking down at me with sadness. Maybe I can amend that promise to get agented/edited with another manuscript this year or in he future, because I’ll never stop trying and also keep writing. Big thanks to my father, cousin, and my brother, who’s been there for me and understands how hard it is to be a writer trying to make it. To my betas Kat and Sandy, thanks for loving Venom as much as I did.
Thank you for reading and viewing my ode to Venom in this blog post. If you’ve shelved a book, feel free to share your experience in my comments.
My name is Kristen Howe. I write adult thrillers and romantic suspense novels, though I would love to try writing a mystery someday. I’m originally from New Jersey and have been an Ohio resident for 20 years. I’m an unemployed and been a freelancer via Hub Pages and Upwork for a couple of works. I love to do yoga after a stressful day from writing, reading a good book, and snuggling with my 21-year-old cat adult senior male domesticated indoor cat Wylie. I’ve been entering contests for a couple of years like Pitch Wars and Revpit, but never picked with a mentor. I’ve entered Twitter pitch contests and gotten a few likes from time to time. Needless to say, I’ve been querying one novel for almost a decade and had gotten close of landing offers from various partial/fulls requests, but it never happened. I’ll be shelving that novel in March sadly. I’m also at ten-time Nano winner and also a winner for Camp Nano (both spring and summer) in the past couple of years too.
I’m also active on Facebook and Twitter and a book reviewer for Netgalley for a couple of years and really supportive of the #writingcommunity. I also have a blog for my writing/editing/querying adventures (though I haven’t updated it in a few months, except for #writerinmotion this past summer and fall) and now for AMM.
I write because I love reading and have more than a dozen in my head. I have so many stories to tell and would love to get them published (even my backlisted titles too.) I believe it’s my calling ever since I loved to read when I was a little girl. And I would love to make it my dream come true someday. I’ll make a great mentee because I’ll meet deadlines. I’m a hard worker, a fast learner, and can deal with constructive criticism, no matter if it’s negative, neutral, and positive. It would be a a great learning experience for me if I’m chosen as a mentee, if I landed an offer from an agent and then with an editor from a pub house , if when and how to work well with others. And to consolidate a great working relationship for future deals with them too. I just need a mentor to help me push through the final 5-10K to get to the desired word count for romance novels before it could be queried to agents and editors.
My pitch is Dead Heat, my sports-themed romantic suspense I came up with last year. Besides thrillers, I love romantic suspense and sports romance. And I’ve thought this would be a great genre mash-up between the two and place it with an alternate twist on the “Operation Varsity scandal” that’s set during the Winter X-Games. An author friend and my Muse told me this is what agents/editors are looking for when I came up with this idea and brainstormed with her. So I hope it would be a good fit for any mentor who would consider taking it on. I’ve got a Canva mood board aesthetic to set the scene.
Kristen's Writing Endeavors 