Dear Miss Snark:
I have written an 80,000 word commercial fiction novel based on my experience in the Hollywood rock music scene in the early ‘90s, entitled “Bottumz Up”.
Aspiring rock star Dee Jones leaves his home at 19 and moves to Hollywood, against the wishes of his parents. Once there he realizes he is but one of hundreds attempting the same impossible feat. Amidst conflict with his best friend, Dee joins a promising rock band, who soon performs at famous clubs like The Whisky and The Roxy. However, with success just around the corner, the band is rocked with internal strife.
While I have found nothing quite like “Bottumz Up”, it is similar to Anne Thomas Soffee’s “Nerd Girl Rocks Paradise City” and the movie “Rock Star”.
I have spent six years working on the manuscript, (leave this out) and I would be happy to send it to you. Thank you for your consideration.
Just cause things happen to you or your hero, doesn't mean you have a plot.
You don't as far as I can tell.
Are you writing this to make sense of your experience?
Valuable tool, writing...but what I need is something I can sell.
Prologue – March, 1988
The music blared through the PA speakers, assualting his ears like a sonic wave. On the shadowy stage, twenty feet in front of where he stood, five musicians jammed a raucous tune. Dee knew the leather-clad, long-haired musicians from magazines and the tapes he owned. He timidly joined the impenetrable crowd of seasoned concert-goers, men and women alike, as they cheered on their heroes. The thick audience prevented him from getting any closer, but it wasn’t from lack of trying. Instead, he contented himself by standing along the periphery. At least his vantage point gave him a moderate view of the backstage proceedings.
Half a dozen groupies, in short skirts and fishnet stockings, stood off to the side of the stage. Periodically a musician wandered their way and flashed a knowing grin. The lucky young lady puckered her lips expectantly as her competition looked on enviously.
Ponytailed men, in shorts or jeans, flittered about during the performance, dispensing cups of water or otherwise catering to the musicians’ needs. Roadies, Dee assumed.
Dee’s companion nudged him and said something, but Dee couldn’t make it out over the music. He leaned his ear towards him. “Awesome show, dude.” He said. Dee nodded and cheered loudly, pumping his fist into the air. A loud roar erupted as a black lace bra flew on stage. The singer stooped to pick it up and casually wrapped it around his neck.
The concert didn’t end until after midnight. The crowd gradually left the smoky, stuffy club to the crisp spring air outside. Dee and his companion followed the others out, keeping an eye out for his Dad’s pickup. Three girls caught his eye, two he recognized from their high school. The other was a bit older, probably one of their sisters. Dee nudged his companion as his stomach tightened. “Let’s go say hi,” Dee’s friend said. Before Dee could refuse, he was dragged along by the other young man.
The older girl saw them approach, and quickly turned around, towards her parked car. The younger girls waved hello but were right on her tail. Dee and his friend were left standing alone on the sidewalk as they drove off. “So much for that,” Dee’s friend mumbled in disappointment.
Minutes later his Dad showed up, and they climbed into the pickup. “Thanks for getting us,” Dee said as politely as he could. It was weird talking while his ears were ringing so loudly from the concert. He hoped he wasn’t shouting.
His Dad, weary from a long day of work, simply grunted in response. Dee glanced at the ring on his Dad’s finger, his 1974 Oregon State University class ring. The only ring he wore on either hand.
Dee peered out the window at the city lights behind him, dreaming of the day he would be on stage. No matter what, he vowed silently, I have to do that.
“Damn rock music,” he heard his dad mutter as he swerved to avoid a speeding driver next to him. “No son of mine is going to waste his life away doing that. The comment stung Dee like a razor. He knew his parents weren’t fond of his passion for music, but never heard such a blunt
“What if I could make a good living doing it?” Dee said meekly, keeping his stare out the window.
His father chuckled in disdain. “More than likely you’ll end up pumping gas.” Dee’s cheeks burned, and he felt two feet tall.
There's no energy and excitement here.
No sense of the crowd, no taste, or smell. I'm going to require you pay for adjectives piecemeal instead of by the pound so we can have some restraint here.
This is pass at page one.