YA Paranormal: The Waiting Dark - Judge the Judges
35 Word Pitch: Sick of hiding from moronic fans of the TV movie about her life, sixteen-year-old Lena tackles an even tougher challenge: exorcising the ghost of her serial killer mother before Mommy Dearest finds new victims.
Every year, some of the Pitch Slam judges post their own "entries." Partly to give you a better sense of how to format yours for the final round (PLEASE make sure yours looks like the entry below), but mostly so you can try your hand at critiquing the people who critiqued you. It's a nice distraction as you process your feedback, or take a break from revisions. Please know that you are not supposed to be perfect at this. None of us are. And we'd feel kind of useless and annoyed if your entries didn't need our help. ;) Please join us on the #PitchSlam twitter feed for more words of encouragement, revision tips, and (during the final round) some teasers about our final picks. <3
Name: Kimberly Vanderhorst
Genre: YA Paranormal
Title: The Waiting Dark
Word Count: 75,000
If your main character could be any Star Wars character, who would they choose and why?: Han Solo, for sure. Lena knows exactly how it feels to have people dodging your every footstep, wanting more from you than you can possibly give. Life on the run kinda sucks sometimes, but with Dad as her slightly-less-hairy-than-Chewbacca traveling companion, it isn't so bad.
35 Word Pitch: Sick of hiding from moronic
fans of the TV Movie about her life, sixteen-year-old Lena
tackles an even tougher challenge: exorcising the ghost of her serial killer
mother before Mommy Dearest finds new victims.
First 250 Words: One of the worst things
about having a famous dead mom is looking like her.
I tug my baseball cap over my hair and tuck a few black wisps under the
brim, but it’s useless. The boobs my body gave me for my sixteenth birthday
look even bigger in the warped glass of the gas station’s bathroom mirror. No
amount of adjusting my oversized gray sweatshirt is going to hide them.
I wrinkle my nose and my reflection crumples like an empty gum wrapper.
Most girls get excited when stuff like this happens, but I didn’t have boobs
the day Mom died. My chest might as well be a blinking neon sign advertising
the fact she’s been gone for three years.
And that she's been haunting us for just as many.
I yank the hat off and chuck it at the overflowing garbage bin. Dad’s
not going to like it. People leave us alone when I pass for a boy, and Dad
loves being left alone. But the more I . . . develop, the more I look like my
dead-but-not-quite-departed-yet mother. We can hide from fame, but I can’t hide
from my own body, from the face that carries traces of hers.
The bathroom door groans as I heave it open. Rain slides along my
collarbone like a wet finger. Oregon was supposed to be warmer than Alaska. Dad
promised. But the wet sank into my bones when we arrived this morning, and I'm
basically a human ice floe now.