Dear Miss Snark,
I would like to submit to your Crapometer my novel, SG, with the hope you will find it suitable for representation. The story fits within the paranormal genre, totals some 100,000 words in length (is 100,000 words) and tells the story of Samuel Watson, a librarian with an ambition to retire wealthy, and of Professor Romulus Crowe, an arrogant, self-centered, skeptical parapsychologist who is forced to confront his own psychic abilities. (can you say all that out loud without taking a breath? Run on sentences are malodorous) Romulus is pressed into engineering the disposal of a demon the unfortunate Samuel has released, and in whose existence the Professor does not, initially, believe.
I have previously had a number of short stories published, both online and in print, and have written the ‘Horror’ articles for XYZ as ‘nom de plume’ since November 2003. This is my first full-length novel, although another novel, ‘Norman’s House’, also featuring Romulus Crowe is complete as a first draft. Another, firmly in the Horror genre, entitled ‘Victor’s Will’ is nearing first-draft completion; a collaborative SF story entitled ‘IO’ is currently in final revision, and a novella entitled ‘JT’ has been submitted elsewhere for consideration.
I make no secret of the fact that I consider myself more ‘mercenary’ than ‘artiste’. I intend to make a success of writing, and will promote my work as far as is required to achieve this.
I add, below, the opening paragraphs of ‘Samuel’s Girl’. I hope you find it worthy of further consideration.
The query letter pretty much sux.
Samuel Watson's fingers twisted, interlocked and separated. He wiped his palms on the sides of his trousers and glanced across the main room of Marchway Library towards the unoccupied issues desk. Not for the first time this evening, he wondered what kind of brain-fit had induced him to agree to have this party here.
“Hey, Mr. Watson, have some more wine.” The junior assistant, Robert Moran, grinned at him, his eyes showing the beginnings of an alcohol glaze. He held out a glass of white wine, which Samuel accepted with muttered thanks.
The little party had started when the library closed for the evening, and was due to finish by nine o’clock. Samuel glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes. He noted with relief that nothing had been spilled. After tonight, the library became his responsibility. He would rather not have it smelling of stale booze.
Samuel sipped at the glass of wine in his hand; it was cheap plonk at room temperature. He shuddered and moved to a table where he could put the glass down and pretend he had forgotten it. The red wine had been passable, but it had run out, and Samuel had more important things on his mind than drink.
Donna Parfitt, one of the long-serving staff, intercepted him as he approached the table. Samuel instinctively took a deep breath before she reached him, hoping to avoid inhaling too much of the overpowering perfume she wore. He sometimes wondered if she bathed in the stuff. She stopped in front of him, swayed a little, and smiled a lopsided smile. Samuel responded with a tight, rapid twitch of his lips.
“It’s time to give Mr. Attlee his present, Sammy.” Donna poked her finger into his waist. “It's okay if I call you Sammy, isn't it? We're not working now.” She blinked, her blue eyes slightly askew.
“We're not working, but we're at work.” Samuel sighed and put his glass on the table. “Well, I suppose, just this once. It is a special occasion. I'd prefer Samuel to Sammy though—and it's back to Mr. Watson on Monday.” He gave her a mock-fierce glare, which made her shriek with laughter. Samuel watched the wine in her glass with growing alarm as it swirled ever closer to the rim, and resolved not to make Donna laugh again this evening. This would be the last party in the library as long as he was in charge. His nerves would never stand another one.
Samuel turned his gaze to where John Legg and Nathaniel Attlee stood talking. Robert leaned on the nearby table where the drinks and snacks had been arranged. His red hair drooped into his eyes. There was probably more alcohol in Robert's bloodstream than was left on the table. Samuel hoped Robert wasn't going to throw up.
The five of them constituted Nathaniel Attlee's retirement party. Donna, John and Robert planned to continue in a pub, probably more than one, but Samuel had already made it clear he would not be joining them.
Well, here it is, the crappy queries and the good writing.
I don't see much to grab my attention, but if this showed up here, I'd read on.