Rachel Thompson

Jack Canon's American Destiny

Friday, October 25, 2013

Why Did a Major NY Literary Agent Agree to Represent an Unknown Author? – Michael J. Webb @mjwebbooks

Why Did a Major NY Literary Agent Agree to Represent an Unknown Author?
A couple of years ago, I was finishing up my fifth novel, wondering if I would ever make it as a full-time writer, when I received an invite to a writer’s conference being held in Denver, CO and decided to attend.

Don Maass was doing a pre-conference seminar: Writing the Break-Out Novel.  I had no idea who he was, but the day-long seminar sounded interesting, so I signed up, along with over 500 other writers.  I’d brought the novel I was working on, Infernal Gates, and made furious notes for eight hours.  Whew!  That was the BEST money I’d ever spent toward polishing my craft.
At the opening dinner, I sat two tables away from Don and other guest speakers, wondering how I could get a few minutes of his very valuable time. Amazingly, after dinner, as the room emptied out, Don was sitting alone at the table, having coffee.  I didn’t need a prompt to go over and introduce myself.

(During the break I’d checked him out on the Internet and discovered that he was a well-known NY Literary Agent who divided his time between representing authors like James Scott Bell, writing, and teaching his seminar, Writing the Break-Out Novel.  He’d just published a new book entitled The Fire in Fiction, which I immediately ordered online.)

Now I was telling him about my vision for writing and asking lots of questions.  Turns out, he was interested in my take on Fallen Angels, also known as Nephilim.  I was more than a little shocked at that!  I pitched my storyline to him, and he told me to send him the synopsis and first chapter when it was finished.  I got his card, gave him mine, and we parted company.

Over the next two days I’d scheduled appoints with a total of seven agents and publishers, all Christian focused.  I met each of them for fifteen minutes and did my best to get them “hooked.” I’d done my homework, called in a few favors from other writers who knew some of the agents and publishers personally, and expected that I would not leave the conference without at least a couple of them asking for more of my novel.

Out of seven, five seemed very interested.  I was more encouraged than I had been in over a decade.  I returned home, sent out the requested information–and waited.  Something I had grown accustomed to over my long years in the writing “desert.”€

Three months later, I’d added another five rejections to the dozens I’d accumulated over the years, well on my way to a Ph.D. in Rejection.

Then, I remembered what Don Maass had offered.  Without much hope of success, I sent off my synopsis and the first chapter of Infernal Gates . Don really liked the novel, and seven months later, exactly one year to the day after we’d met and talked at that dinner table in Denver, I signed a contract with him.

Infernal Gates
Ethan Freeman, ex-Special Forces Ranger, wakes up to discover he is the sole survivor of a fiery commercial airline crash that killed his entire family. His nightmare is only beginning when he becomes the FBI’s prime suspect. Only Ethan knows he’s not a cold-hearted murderer, but he has no idea what happened to him–and why he alone survived.

He finds an unlikely ally in Sam Weaver, the NTSB Chief Investigator. An ex-military pilot, Sam senses Ethan is innocent. She tries to remain dispassionate in her investigation of the crash even as she finds herself attracted to the man who may be America=s worst homegrown mass-murderer.
Neither Ethan nor Sam realize that shadowy spiritual forces are at work which will alter their lives forever.

A monstrous evil, imprisoned since the time of the Pharaohs, has been released by The Nine, a sinister group of powerful men and women who believe they are the direct descendants of the Anunnaki, ancient Sumerian gods. The demon they have unleashed intends to free The Destroyer from The Abyss, the angelic prison referred to in the Book of Revelation, and unleash a worldwide reign of terror and annihilation.

Facing impossible odds, time is running out for Ethan and all of humanity as he is drawn into an ever-deeper conspiracy–millennia in the making–and learns that he is the key to stopping The Nine. Will he overcome his deepest fears and find reserves of strength he never knew he had as he confronts pure evil in order to save himself and an unsuspecting world?

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Genre – Christian Thriller, Fantasy, Adventure
Rating – PG-13
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GIVEAWAY
The author is giving away the following prizes -- mailed directly to the winner’s email address from Amazon.com.
PRIZES:
5 Kindle copies of Infernal Gates http://amzn.to/18HrDjY
5 Kindle copies of The Oldest Enemy http://amzn.to/RWyv4c
5 Kindle copies of The Master’s Quilt http://amzn.to/Z2SJQS









The Photo Traveler (The Photo Traveler Series) by Arthur J. Gonzalez

CHAPTER ONE

I can’t ask for a better day to be out shooting. Man, what a view. Something about how the sun’s rays press against the faint distant outline of the mountains. Sick! If it can seem so dominating from all the way over here, I can only imagine what it must feel like up close. I don’t know. It just always kind of does something to me.

I know, I know. Lame, right? But trust me, if you lived in the hellhole I live in, anytime alone is sacred. You start to appreciate all these little not-so-particular things. Yeah—even the outline of the mountains.

Carefully, I focus the lens on my Canon 7D to capture the effect of the clouds drifting across the peaks of Mt. Rose and get my shot. A few seconds later, the sunlight dims. I hadn’t realized it was so late. I glance at my watch, wondering what’s taking Melinda so long. She promised to pick me up by five, even though I knew that would mean five-thirty. It’s five-forty-five.

I call her on my cell. It rings four times, then goes to voicemail. “Come on, Mel!” I mutter. “It’s getting late!”

I’ve had a good day so far, probably because I’ve been alone for most of it, and I really don’t want another confrontation with Jet. I can still taste the faint copper tinge of blood at the corner of my mouth where he split my lip the last time around. Two days ago.

I hit redial. Straight to voicemail. “Dammit, Mel!”

I tell myself to breathe, but my anxiety is really starting to kick in. Sweat is beading on my forehead and my heart is jolting in my chest. Why does she always have to be so impossible? I don’t get it.

The moment I hear the loud thrum of an engine roaring up the dirt road, I jump up from the boulder I’ve been perched on. It’s about damn time!

She screeches up to me in her new, cherry-red Mini Cooper and slams on the brakes. I dodge around to the passenger side. Grab the door handle. It’s locked.

“Mel!” I shout. “Open up!”

But she’s sitting behind the wheel pretending not to hear me. Eyes glued to her phone, purple nails tapping out a text message. With a tiny smirk on her glossed-up lips.

I hit the window with my fist. “Stop messing around! Jet’s gonna be pissed!”

She finishes her text, sends it … and adjusts the rearview mirror so she can check out the jet-black curls at her temples. She still hasn’t given me one look. Is she really serious right now?

I pound at the window again, as hard as I can. “Open up, dammit!” My anxiety is turning into rage. And rage is something Jet’s modeled for me only too well over the years, ever since he and his first wife, Leyla, took me in as a foster kid. Mel was just six at the time, but “my sister,” which she became after they finally adopted me, was a full-fledged brat from Day One, and she’s only gotten worse.

My fist hurts. I’m afraid of what Jet will do when we get back, since he ordered me to be home by six so I can start dinner.

But as far as Mel’s concerned, I might as well not be there. I can’t control it any longer. I take a step back, lift my knee, and kick the passenger door with all my strength. The hollow metal frame vibrates against the sole of my shoe. Mel’s prized car now has a six-inch dent right in the middle of the passenger door.

I guess that got her attention. Her mouth is hanging open. For a moment, she’s so astonished that she can’t speak. She swings her door open and charges around to the passenger side.

“MY CAR!” she screams, staring at the dent. “Are you crazy?!”

“Why couldn’t you just open up?” I yell back.

“Gavin, you’re an asshole! I was just messing with you! You’re never gonna learn to use your head, are you?”

“Go to hell!”

She goes still, then raises her eyebrows with an “Oh, really?” expression. Then she hauls off and slams her fist into the right side of my face. All I can feel is the large stone of her ring jabbing into my cheek. She stalks back to the driver’s side with a wicked smirk creasing her lips and snaps, “You can walk home!”

She slides behind the wheel, slams the door, and peels off so hard and fast that the car kicks up a stinging cloud of gravel and asphalt dust all over me.

She can’t be serious. But as the Mini disappears around the first bend in the road, I realize that she is.

* * *

Photo Traveler

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Genre - Young Adult Science Fiction

Rating – PG

More details about the author and the book

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Website http://www.arthurjgonzalez.com/