The first ten pages
Hello!
Soon I’ll be leaving on an epic voyage to two writing conferences – the Melbourne Writers’ Festival and the CYA Later, Alligator Conference in Brisbane (CYA stands for Children and Young Adult). I’ll be connecting directly with Publishers C and I in Melbourne, plus attending the launch party of Going Down Swinging magazine’s 30th issue – an issue which I’m in.
At the CYA con I’ve paid for a face-to-face pitch with Publisher J, who will be reading the first ten pages and synopsis before we meet.
Which means it’s editing time, hurrah!
It’s great when a lot rides on just ten pages, because it means I can totally obsess over every plot point, paragraph, and word.
I’ll be sending “The Monster Apprentice” even though it’s still at Publisher B (everyone will be informed, and I’ll probably put off submitting the full book until Publisher B replies).
I just wandered down to the “modern C/YA” section of our books and picked the best four in the right age group so I can pick apart exactly how true geniuses hook young readers.
Here’s the books and some little samples – these are all G-rated, and HIGHLY recommended for your ten-year old (or 8 or 12 or whatever).
In no particular order:
“Dragonkeeper” by Aussie Carole Wilkinson (who I’ll be listening to at Melbourne)
“A bamboo bowl flew threw the air, aimed at the slave girl’s head. She ducked out of the way. . .”
Action and sympathy, plus the bamboo detail adds to the setting.
“Samurai Kids: White Crane” by Aussie Sandy Fussell
“‘Aye-eee-yah!’
I scissor kick high as I can and land on my right foot. I haven’t got another one. My name is Niya Moto and I’m the only one-legged samurai kid in Japan. Usually I miss my foot and land on my backside. Or flat on my face in the dirt.
I’m not good at exercises, but I’m great at standing on one leg. . .”
Action and sympathy again, plus some slapstick humour/sympathy, and humour about his pain, which makes us like him.
“Larklight” by Philip Reeve
“Later, while I was facing the Potter Moth, or fleeing for my life from the First Ones, or helping man a cannon aboard Jack Havock’s brig Sophronia, I would often think back to the way my life used to be, and to that last afternoon at Larklight, before all our misfortunes began.”
Full of mysterious promises (and sympathy) to come.
“Artemis Fowl” by Eoin Colfer
“Ho Chi Minh City in the summer. Sweltering by anyone’s standards. Needless to say, Artemis Fowl would not have been willing to put up with such discomfort if something extremely important had not been at stake. Important to the plan.”
Sensory setting details, and mysterious promises. And characterisation (interestingly NOT sympathetic).
So the best things to find in the opening paragraph/s are: action, sympathy, humour, and a clear goal (even if it’s not explicitly stated).
Here’s mine at the moment:
I awoke from a dead sleep. My bedroom was pitch black and silent, but my heart was racing. Then the sound came again – the sound of a man shouting at the top of his voice. It came from my front door.
Just action so far – but there’s setting/sensory detail, sympathy, characterisation (with mild humour), and a goal (to find out what’s going on) within the page. I’ll make sure I don’t lose any of those things as I edit.
I’m going to pause and read the first ten pages of each, and give you a quick synopsis and analysis.
“Dragonkeeper”
The slave girl is mistreated by her master. She feeds farm animals and two very old, dirty dragons that she rather dislikes. She scrounges and steals her dinner, then sneaks into the deserted palace to explore.
There’s a lot of setting detail, and a lot of reasons to feel sympathy for the girl. The dragons’ pathetic state is unique (and thus interesting), as is the girl’s dislike of them.
“Samurai Kids: White Crane”
Niya continues to train while filling in details of his past and how he came to train at the Cockroach school (all the other kids are unusual too – blind, albino, etc). Their teacher announces they’ll be competing in the Samurai Games and the kids all react unenthusiastically since they lost badly on previous years, and were teased. The teacher tells them a story about how mighty cockroaches are.
There’s a lot of humour and really nicely done characterisation. It’s good to know already exactly what the main plot is so early on.
“Larklight”
Art and his trying-to-be-ladylike sister Myrtle live in a lonely and ramshackle space house with their absent-minded father (their mother died on a voyage). They receive a delivery of the mail via spaceship.
This is very, very funny in almost every line. It’s also a wonderfully detailed and fun setting. Plus there’s delicately-written sympathy.
“Artemis Fowl”
Artemis, an unpleasant but terrifyingly intelligent son of a criminal mastermind, and his deadly (and very respectful) bodyguard, use technology, intelligence and threats to find a fairy, with whom they make a deal to see her Book.
Artemis may be unpleasant, but he is SO cool (there’s sympathy later). As is the combination of high-tech modern stuff and the fairy plot. There’s a lot of setting detail, and very good characterisation – all done through their words and actions. The best part is the originality.
In my own first ten pages, Dance eavesdrops on a conversation between her father (the village Elder of their isolated and unprotected island) and the village watchman, who has seen pirates approaching. She is determined to get caught up in the action, and is nominated as a runner to wake the village. She takes a dangerous shortcut over a rooftop populated with sky cows.
I want excitement and emotional involvement, so I’ll focus on that.
#175: Was it REALLY that bad?*
My brother is almost two years older than me. I have many childhood memories of sitting around bored, begging him to play “Risk” with me, and then enduring a long and torturous defeat. And then repeating the whole familiar pattern, over and over and over.
There are two curious things about these memories. First is the strange appeal of all those tiny pieces moving about on the pretty pretty board. Second is the sheer debilitating horror of drawn-out defeat.
Sadly, it’s the first part of my memories that stuck with me. So, after begging various people to play with me, CJ caved and said yes.
This is him reading the rules. (Is it fun yet???!!!)
This is him turning to drink (is it fun yet?!?!?!?!) before we actually started (my drink – who else would put a margerita ring of pink sugar on a frangelico and milk cocktail?)
And this is him (blue) conceding defeat to me (yellow). Is it fun NOW?!
No it is not!
Even though I won the game (very possibly for the first time ever; certainly for the first time in almost two decades), I still walked away sick to the stomach with despair.
What is it that’s so awful about Risk?
1. You never gain anything without the other person dying (unlike, say, Setters, in which you mostly just build stuff and say, “Yay”). Also, it’s surprisingly disheartening to lose an entire country and/or continent. Just ask Hitler.
2. Dice are mean. Life is arbitrarily awful enough without games to make us feel helpless to control our own fate.
3. And of course, the thing everyone remembers (even me, if I’m honest): The winner is decided pretty early on, and 90% of every game is spent slowly grinding one’s friend into the barren sands of defeat.
The unique geography of the board is also strangely off-putting.
It’s good to know my horrific memories of this depression-inducing game are 100% on the ball.
In happier news, Sawi has survived yesterday’s boar attack, and is probably looking at a view similar to this one, from Flickr.com:
Coming soon: Alphabet! Three-Ingredient Thursday! Go shopping in an antique shop in a small town! Silliness with a pirate ship! Other stuff!
*yes
#173: Love and Pirates
How many emails do you have in your inbox right now? I have three.
Yep, three.
Down from over four hundred. I only needed half a dozen folders (three just for writing – legal data, backups, and conversations with publishers).
I also discovered a few old favourites (now in the “sentimental” folder). Here’s a photo taken after a truck ran into my bathroom (fortunately no-one was sitting on the throne at the time):
And here’s another photo of my parents’ house, taken less than a month earlier (yay for insurance!) This was taken at the far end of the house from the actual fire. The “spiderwebs” are toxic solidified plastic from the burning microwave.
But the most sentimental email of all is the one I sent to my sister the night I met CJ (at a pirate ball – the photo on the right hand side of the blog was taken that night). Here it is (I have cut a lot out of the middle, changed names, and fixed spelling, but nothing has been added):
S#17: Midnight Snackage
I took the chance to have midnight snacks with my sister and her husband while they’re here in Canberra. Unfortunately, she’s pregnant and sleepy so the fondue I prepared so carefully needed to be served at nine before she passed out.
It was, however, the best serve of fruit EVER.
Thanks to the magic of the day, and the unpredictability of pregnant-lady energy swings, we did end up staying up until midnight after all. Luckily, my sister had also prepped some cheesecake. Which we ate right on twelve.
Midnight snacks are, and always will be, awesome.
DEFINITELY play along at home on this one.
Guess what! This is your very last bookshelfporn.com pic, since a new tale (and a new realm of pictures. . . you’ll see) begins tomorrow. This is someone’s private library.
#174: Visit a waterfall
Water + gravity = awesome.
Through a convoluted series of events, some of my family ended up at Fitzroy Falls last weekend. The falls are astonishingly well maintained and well run. Some of you antipodeans may have heard that it’s currently Winter, noun, the middle of. The falls were still worth seeing – arguably, more so than ever.
It was a peculiar day because we reached the falls around midday, but due to light rain and heavy cloud (and mountains), we found ourselves in a strange fantasy world of mist and moss and dripping water. The falls area has a lot of brilliant walking tracks, but we took the direct route to the waterfall viewing platform, which is so short and flat I could have done it with no legs while carrying a recalcitrant badger.
The short track is roughly parallel to the river, and surrounded by lush forest – all of which was glimmering with moisture as it had finished raining moments before.
I admit that even while admiring the rainforest I was beginning to wonder what I’d committed to – the river didn’t look that impressive. Very soon we could all hear the rushing water – but it didn’t sound especially impressive either, muffled as it was by trees and mist. I was horrified when we rounded a corner and saw the railing of the viewing platform – and a wall of white. Too much mist! But no-one else seemed to be screaming and cursing, so I walked up to the edge and – pow! Nothing but air below me for 81 metres (yep, I looked it up) of sheer cliff. We stood and gaped for a while, and then we gaped some more. The mist cleared a little to show the other side of the gorge – and these mountains (I swear they weren’t there before).
You can’t see the bottom of the falls here, but I assure you it was a long way down.
Clearly, geology was left unsupervised at some point in the past, and it decided to mess about.
Speaking of messing about, here’s my impression of Great Cthulhu (small children should look away now):
When Good Libraries Go Bad (complete tale)
1
A tentacle circled my neck, squeezing the life out of me with agonizing skill. “Steve!” came Terry’s voice. “Steve! Wake up!”
*
I opened my eyes to Terry, leaning over me. He looked scruffy without his mind-mage robes on. “Your cthulhu nightmares suck.”
“Sorry.”
*
We got up for breakfast. As the mind-mage, Terry got cereal. Phil the muscle-mage got steak. As air-mage, I got zip. And MY robe is puce.
2
“Oi, Steve, stop being nervous,” said Terry.
I said, “Shut up or I’ll CO2 you.”
Phil cracked a smile, exercising at least twenty muscles.
*
We hiked across the desert toward the Forbidden Library. Terry cleared his throat when we were still twenty miles away: “I sense something.”
*
Phil tensed, ready to attack. Terry shook his head: “It’s dead – but still radiating.”
“So. . . ?” I prompted.
Terry said: “It’s a cthulhu.”
3
Five miles away, and I tasted dead cthulhu on the air. Phil was sure he could make the corpse slither away, though, so that was reassuring.
*
At last we reached the three storey iron- and bone-bound doors of the outer library. I sensed breathable air inside. “After you, Phil.”
*
Phil focused, and the great doors cracked open, spraying chunks of blood-stained iron bigger than my house. “And now we wait,” said Terry.
4
We barely slept. I had nightmares, but Terry had his own to distract him. At dawn, we heard the rustling of pages. We waited back to back.
*
A pack of graphic novels emerged and sniffed at my feet. They smelled what I wanted them to smell – a friend. And so they imprinted on me.
*
When I judged my literature army to be big enough, we walked inside. A single giant tentacle lay across the threshold. I removed the stench.
5
More books joined me every hour – everything from gardening to war. I was dizzy with the smell of leather bindings and dust.
*
Phil wanted to move the tentacle, but Terry insisted we climb it. Some mountaineering books made steps for us, and it only took a few hours.
*
“There’s a problem,” Terry whispered.
I said, “What?”
“The cthulhu – it’s either a mother or a daughter. And I can’t tell which is alive.”
6
We ducked into a cobweb-strewn chamber and were attacked by a squad of how-to books. They pounded my head and I wasn’t able to focus.
*
Phil pushed me aside and tore apart the books with his mind. Terry was taken over by empathic rage and he punched me in the gut. I folded.
*
Ten books rushed Phil at once and I reached out with my mind and made him smell of oil just in time. They calmed down, and Terry did too.
7
“It’s Nix,” Terry told us at last.
I said, “The monster mage! No wonder WE were sent. We need to find his spell book – and destroy it.”
*
Phil coughed: “How will we do it?”
“1. Look, and 2. Live,” said Terry.
I said, “You know what a cthulhu’s weakness is? They’re too big.”
*
“How is size a disadvantage?” Phil asked.
I said, “Because hopefully they won’t notice us.”
“Right,” he whispered.
8
Terry shook me awake. “They took Phil!” I stood at once, but all my books were asleep and there were no others to be seen. Terry whimpered.
*
“Is that your fear or his?” I said.
Terry said, “His. Which means he’s still alive.”
“Good.” I sent a shelf of James Bonds to find Phil.
*
I asked, “Do you think it was Nix or the live cthulhu that took Phil?”
“Nix. I can feel him laughing. And he knows I can hear him.”
9
The Bond books returned with an illustrated series on the Moulin Rouge. I altered the air so they fled in disgrace.
*
I said, “We need a library book.”
“Err. . .” said Terry.
I said, “A book ABOUT libraries. One about this library could tell us everything.”
*
“Good! Can you make the other books find it?”
“The thing is,” I said, “books find by smell. And that book smells exactly like this library.”
10
I said, “Okay. Library smell minus stone smell should work.” As I altered the air, my horde of books shivered. Then they moved as one.
*
Terry and I followed my books in a spiral toward the library’s heart. I was beginning to relax when Terry screamed. He was on fire!
*
I threw firefighting books at the sudden inferno and they smothered the flames. Terry brushed ash from his clothes: “BBQ manuals. Huh.”
11
Keeping away from any unfamiliar books, we crept onward, following the library book’s trail. The air was heavy with rotting cthulhu.
*
Terry wept in his sleep, and I woke him, hoping to make it stop.
“It’s Phil,” he said, “and believe me, I’d rather channel Phil than C.S.”
*
“Who’s C.S.?” I asked.
Terry said, “The other cthulhu. The live one. It’s the baby, and it’s so hungry. It longs for fresh meat.”
12
Terry stopped dead. I did too. My books clamoured at the door before us. The one stained with human blood and torn pages. “Huh,” said Terry.
*
“I guess we’d better open it,” said Terry.
I said, “Yep.”
“Phil could have done it.”
“Yep.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Good question.”
13.
First I made the books hide. Then Terry. Then I lay down alongside the crack beneath the door, and I used my magic to smell like food.
*
A tentacle smashed through the iron door, sending bloody fragments flying. Then another tentacle, questing blindly along the floor. To me.
*
I rolled, frantically trying to smell of dust and stone. Terry reached down his hand and hauled me up, and we hid as C.S. squelched through.
14
C.S. finally floundered away and Terry and I climbed shakily through the smashed door into the library’s heart.
*
We gaped at soaring shelves and a stained glass roof. I saw the library book suspended over a pit, shimmering behind magical defenses.
15
We prepared all night, and Terry went first. He copied Nix’s mind in his, and the first barrier vanished. I smelled of Nix for the second.
*
Together we physically moved a third invisible boundary, and together stretched our hands out toward the prize. We touched it, and screamed.
*
We were hurtled through darkness, and the book was ripped from our burning hands. The burning filled my arms and chest, and I passed out.
16
I woke up in a cage. Terry lay beside me, still unconscious. Phil sat cross-legged. He said, “Let me guess. You’ve come to rescue me?”
*
Terry woke up. “Oh,” he said.
Phil said, “Yep. It’s a magic box. No magic in or out. And the bars are as strong as they look.”
*
“So. . .” I said, “how’ve you been?”
17
Nix appeared as if by – well, by magic – with a tentacle draped over his shoulder. “Good morning, ladies. I see you found my guest room.”
*
Terry leapt to his feet. “Remove these bars and see how smug you are without your mind!”
Nix fondled his spell book and smiled.
*
“I’ll return tomorrow,” he said, “and CS will eat one of you. Choose wisely, girls.”
18
One good thing: to feed us to CS, Nix had to open the box. Phil stood as our volunteer, and I prepared my mind to take Nix’s breath.
*
The door opened and CS’s tentacle snaked inside and caught Phil around the waist, pinning his arms. I stole Nix’s breath and he passed out.
*
CS thrashed, knocking over the cage and hurling books everywhere. I leapt onto CS and tried to climb up to Phil. CS fled, throwing me off.
19
Terry woke me, white-faced: “Phil’s gone. I felt his mind stop.”
I said, “We need to get out of here before we’re cthulhu food too.”
*
I send squads of my book minions ahead to check we were safe. Many of them were missing or covered in slime from CS’s explosive rage.
20
We passed another shattered door and Terry sensed CS was close. I saw the Library Book lying open and ripped on the floor.
*
“It’s a trap,” said Terry.
I said, “I have to try anyway. You get out – tell the other mages all you know. Tomorrow I’ll touch the book.”
*
I hoped Terry got out safely. In the next room, I heard slithering, and Nix’s gravelly voice. I curled up for my last night of freedom.
21
I touched the library book, smelling as friendly as I could. Nothing happened. One page curled around my hand. I picked it up.
*
The door opened as I stared, enthralled by the sorcery I held.
“Like it?” said Nix. “I wrote it. CS – dinnertime!” A tentacle snapped out—
*
–and a bookshelf crashed to the floor, crushing it. CS howled in rage. My new book fell open on a page with just one word: RUN. I ran.
22
I ran and hid and ran all night. My body ached but I was encouraged by thousands of rustling pages. The library wanted me to live.
*
A book on waterfalls dripped fresh (though slightly inky) water into my mouth, and a cookbook fed me something suspiciously like calamari.
*
A bookshelf hollowed itself out and filled itself in after me with books on history, war, revenge, and how to write a fairy tale ending.
23
I awoke refreshed, cushioned by home furnishing books. Judging by a distant explosion, Nix was far away. I began reading the Library Book.
*
The Library Book opened with a picture Nix had clearly painted of himself – except for the moustache of cthulhu slime scrawled across it.
*
I wished Terry was with me.
“But I am,” he said in my ear.
I jumped: “Is it really you? How did you find–”
He said, “Mind mage, remember?”
24
I read the book three times – it added more amusing Nix pictures each time. The last page remained the same: The librarian wins.
*
“Is the librarian the original author – Nix – or the current owner?” Terry asked.
I didn’t know either, and the book wasn’t telling.
*
“I think we should fight,” I said.
Terry pointed to a stack of tunnelling books and said, “Indeed. I read more than just minds, you know.”
25
We followed the books through long-broken air vents and the backs of three-storey bookshelves until we looked up and saw Nix’s book.
*
“We’re in the pit below it,” said Terry.
The Library Book folded into origami gauntlets. Then Terry boosted me up.
*
I grabbed Nix’s spell book, and was thrown into blackness. My hands and chest burned. But I didn’t let go – even when I fainted.
26
I awoke to the sound of burning, and cracked open my eyes to see Nix’s spell book on fire, unable to exist inside the anti-magic cage.
*
Nix rode into the chamber on a cresting wave of evil books – paranormal romance, if I’m not mistaken. He screamed in pain and rage.
*
I put my hands through the bars and held onto the lock as Nix tried feebly to open it. He writhed and died as the last page burned to ash.
27
I slept easily, certain Terry would rescue me. As I checked for any remaining unburnt spell pages, a tentacle coiled through the bars.
*
I screamed for help as more tentacles encircled my legs and squeezed. CS pressed its horrible wet maw against the bars and pulled me closer.
*
Suddenly CS turned aside and sucked Nix’s corpse up from the floor instead.
“Terry?” I croaked.
He said, “Good cthulhu. Eat it all up.”
28
We rode out of the library on CS’s broad head. From the library’s heart to the outside took only a few hours this time.
*
“You know,” Terry said reflectively, “it’s not such a bad place.”
“Except for the giant rotting cthulhu.”
“Well, yes. Except for that.”
29
CS sped us home. Her tentacles brought out the highlights in my puce robe. Other mind mages took over so Terry could rest at last.
*
Terry and I washed and ate before we were summoned by the council to take up our new posts as the library’s keepers.
*
“Bit of cleaning up to do,” said Terry, patting CS absently on the tentacle.
I grinned, “Yep.”
I never did see those James Bond books again.
THE END
New tale begins August 1.
Three-Ingredient Thursday: The Funny Scotsman
The Funny Scotsman woke me up three times last night (and he was rather lumpy toward the end too, if I’m perfectly honest).
1. Warm the milk.
2. Add melted chocolate to taste (and taste the rest). Save a bit to grate on top.
3. Mix in butterscotch schnapps to taste.
It’s insanely delicious, but quite hazardous. Do not drink it if you are pregnant (because there’s booze in it), going to drive anywhere (the combination of schnapps and hot milk is intensely soporific), or an insomniac (because there’s chocolate and thus caffeine in it).
Also, keep a sharp eye out for cthulhu. Today is the last day of the tale, and the last cthulhu picture. I’ll post the full story tomorrow. The new story starts on 1 August.
This picture turns out to be from alanbaxteronline.com. Alan Baxter is an excellent horror author (not YA, as previously advertised), and a genuinely excellent human being (or possibly a cthulhu in an even more excellent disguise). If you like cthulhu, you’ll like Alan Baxter (personally, I find his books gross and scary).
Special
This is part of an interview of a pibolar sufferer on Yes and Yes:
How old were you when you realized that you experienced life and emotions different than other people? When I was diagnosed and looking back at my life. For instance, when I was in kindergarten, my teacher had two favorite students, and would always tell them how sweet and smart they were. I remember consciously thinking, “Those kids think they’re so smart, but the things they know aren’t important things. The things I know are important, and I’ll show them when I grow up.” I was delusional. Sadly, I continued to feel this way until I was diagnosed. I really thought I was destined for amazing things, even after being a teenage mom, having 3 kids with 3 different dads, not continuing my education, working at Wal-Mart, and making all kinds of bad choices (I have some horrible tattoos).
This is a section of an application I (Felicity) wrote not so long ago:
My earliest memory as a writer is sitting in a Year Two classroom hearing the teacher praise two of the icky boys for writing their first punctuated stories. I scowled and said to myself, “I KNOW I’m better at writing than they are.”
——————
I don’t think I’m bipolar, but there’s a certain amount of evidence suggesting I’m inclined toward delusions (there’s one school of thought that says creative types need delusions or they’ll never get anywhere – which obviously has truth in it). I recently decided to reevaluate my life into something that doesn’t cause crushing disappointment quite as often. According to Ian Irvine, a writer needs to write for 10,000 hours before they’re good at writing. According to my own records, I’m halfway, and need to continue writing at my current rate for another five years before I get to 10K.
So I wrote a five-year plan, painting a picture for myself that might make the next few years bearable. The basic summary is:
Save money, have a kid, buy a house, have another kid, get published.
In that order.
So if I focus more on the non-writing aspects of my life (which I have considerably more control over – and which are easier in terms of making progress) then maybe I won’t need delusions as much. Maybe.
I won’t stop sending books to publishers, but I might slow down, and take longer on making improvements.
#5: Visit a lighthouse
I stole this idea from http://jandyslifeinwords.blogspot.com. Thanks!
As you know, my parents shouted all their descendents a trip to the coast last weekend, and I knew I had to seize my chance!
Lighthouses are intrinisically awesome. There’s the ocean right there, historic seafaring tales, shipwrecks, and of course I love the idea of a doughty solitary keeper slowly going mad as he spends years alone, saving the lives of people he never sees.
What’s not to love?
The Warden’s Head Lighthouse near Lake Burrell is nice and easy to get to (so no solitary keeper, sadly for my epic imagination – in fact it is quite clearly run by electricity, since there are power lines right next to it). You can literally drive right up to it (or crash into it, if you’re that way inclined).
There were other people there who said whales were passing, but I didn’t see any myself (my nephew said he did, but he sees a LOT of things I don’t). I didn’t see any cthulhu, either (not this time). Like pretty much anywhere next to water, it was a beautiful location. Ocean = win.
I hope the romantic ideal of the lighthouse sticks in my mind and eventually produces a tale. Pretty sure it will, and if I remember I’ll post it here.
And here’s another bite of awesome pie from bookshelfporn.com


























