Dear Miss Snark,
I am seeking representation for my 80,000-word fantasy, PARANOID PSYCHIC.
Being psychic sucks.
Ingrid Ant was fine before she knew, but then this dark-spectacled guy--dressed like he just strutted out of the Matrix--finds her. He insists she can see the future and can help him prevent something terrible from happening in their town. Right. Like Ingrid is going to
believe that. If she could see the future, she wouldn't keep losing bets or stepping in gum.
And then some of her casual predictions start coming true, though not like they should. "Oh, I bet that guy drops his lunch," becomes, "Oh, that guy is dead because he dropped his lunch!" As if someone else being right isn't enough, Ingrid is forced to figure out how to work a
power that only shows bad things, and how to stop the future that comes straight from her paranoid thoughts.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
ok this is just weird enough to get my attention.
No obvious strike outs, so I'll read pages.
"Who writes a check for coffee?" The skinny guy squinted at me as he plucked the pale blue slip of paper off the counter.
I slapped my driver's license on the Formica countertop and waited for the guy to verify that I did in fact exist. And I wouldn't satisfy his boredom by offering an explanation for my lack of cash. Or plastic, but cards were super dangerous anyway.
"Ingrid." He looked up from underneath a bushy pair of eyebrows and smiled the way people did when they were trying not to laugh. "Ingrid Ant? I bet you got made fun of in school."
Rolling my eyes, I snatched the license back and tucked it away. I didn't feel like dealing with this jerk, especially not when there were other things--possibly more interesting--to do. I had to meet someone named Grem in about two minutes, and I didn't really know what
he looked like. Only that he was supposed to meet me outside Coffee Café, a place whose owners and employees didn't seem too bright. But over the 'net last night, he'd acted like I'd know. Uh-huh.
While caterpillar brows got my coffee--at last--I fixed my belongings in my back pocket and tried to look casual as I glanced over the crowd of caffeine addicts at their little round tables. Three sat hunched over laptops, glowing screens lighting their faces like ghosts. Others
curled their shoulders over paper notebooks, scribbling like they'd be the next bestseller if they could just read their handwriting when they were through. Certainly, with the dark curtains over the windows, they couldn't read it now.
None looked like Grem, or at least how he'd described himself in instant message last night: tall, dark, and handsome, just like the cliché, and he swore he wasn't joking. Not that I believed him, or anyone else when they described themselves on the 'net.
And everyone in the grand Coffee Café was pale, pasty, and squinty-eyed, hyped up on too much coffee--or coffee fumes. If Grem hadn't been lying about his looks, I supposed I would have spotted him right away, and he'd have been right about me just knowing. So I was
secretly glad I didn't see anyone matching that description.
"Miss Ant?" Caterpillar brows tapped my shoulder. He must have leaned really far over the counter to manage that. "Your coffee."
"Thanks." I grabbed the cardboard cup and turned on the heel of my pink Sketcher, taking a handful of sugars and creamers from the condiment area and depositing them in my jacket pocket. Heat seeped through the cup, warming my fingers as I sauntered toward the exit,
through a sea of people who acted like they'd never seen melanin before.
There was a guy outside the coffee shop, wearing a long black coat with his arms folded across his chest as he leaned on the window. Like most of the adult population of Earth, he was taller than me. Didn't really give me a good idea whether or not other people considered him
tall. He wore shades: the kind blind people wear, but not as round. And he didn't have a stick, either, so definitely not blind. He could be Grem, or he could have been a random dark and handsome guy. I walked by.
well, at least it isn't a dream.
You get me all thrilled about guys dropping dead and what do you serve up?? WAITING!
Miss Snark does not do Godot.
Drop us in the middle of the action, like the middle of the conversation with Grem (Grandmother Snark thought perhaps she was being featured, but alas, no) and Miss Ant when she casaully says something and it comes true. Yanno..like your query letter.
This doesn't suck completely but it needs more work than I'm willing to chaperone. This is a form rejection cause I think you're at least three to five drafts away from ready. I'm not signing up to read that many drafts and encouraging words tend to create pen pals.
You need that Junkyard Dog Critique group to really chew on this one for you.