Posted by: Kathy Temean | May 29, 2020

Agent of the Month – First Page Results

I AM SENDING THIS OUT AGAIN. I had some problems with copying all of Nora’s wonderful comments and it resulted with typos in the post. Obviously, they were my mistakes and not Nora’s. Also a few people asked for me to add the first pages without the comments to make it easier for everyone to read, so I added that, too. Don’t miss Nora’s comments. She did a great job.

AGENT OF THE MONTH, NORA LONG AT WRITERS HOUSE. ENJOY!

NORA LONG: Junior Agent at Writers House

Nora primarily is interested in YA and adult fiction, as well as the stories that occupy the murky borderland in between. She thinks there’s a grand underexplored space for twenty-something coming-of-age novels, and she’d love to see more stories that deliberately appeal to the readers who are too old for YA but still end up reading YA because it feels more engaging. Everything she says below about genre applies more-or-less equally to YA and adult.  She is also open to some middle grade as well.

Click here to read what Nora likes to receive.

BELOW ARE THE FOUR FIRST PAGES NORA CRITIQUED:

PLEASE NOTE: I have Nora’s thoughts and comments in red and the bolded black text refers to what she commenting on.

The Parris Letters –YA – Luan Pitsch

The uniformed officers stood in our furniture-crowded living room, all nerves and black sorrow, staring more at Mom’s paintings on the walls than at us. And if I was asked, I’d say that was the moment our lives fell into Twilight Zone crazy.

My eyes were narrowed against the excruciating agony of what their presence meant—and that’s when those two muddy-green uniformed soldiers blurred into gigantic toads. Mom flitted around them like a juicy dragonfly in her paint-flecked shirt and winged-black hair as they unfurled their long sticky tongues and probed at her with the words, “Your son, Parris,” and “Vietnam,” and “Missing-in-Action.”

I slumped against the archway separating the living and dining rooms, unable to grasp what those croaking men were saying about jungles, a helicopter, and death. I could only tell it wasn’t enough to gobble Mom whole. Instead, it stripped away all of her hippie love, leaving no speck of kindness for those hapless representatives of the U.S. Army.

“You murderers sent him to that killing field.” Her buzzing tone beat at them. “He shouldn’t have been forced to go. He never wanted to go.”

A fingernail found its way between my teeth. Should I say something about Parris’ choice to join the army?  But that was a secret, and as my life was filled with more lies than truth it was difficult to know what was best.

Fortunately, with a wave of her hand, Mom dismissed their news. “Parris isn’t dead anyway. I feel his heartbeat like it’s my own.”

My breath released slow and silent. If Parris was alive I needn’t clear up any misconceptions. The military men shifted and I saw the suffering in the taut lines of lip and

HERE IS NORA:

The Parris Letters –YA – Luan Pitsch

The uniformed officers stood in our furniture-crowded living room (Why is “furniture-crowded” the one detail of the living room worth highlighting here?) , all nerves and black sorrow, (This turn of phrase really sparks for me, both the energy of it and the strangeness of the officers being the ones who are nervous.) staring more at Mom’s paintings on the walls than at us. And if I was asked, I’d say that (I think that by narrating this story, implicitly the character has been asked for their opinions. The qualifier here just slows down the sentence.) was the moment our lives fell into Twilight Zone crazy.

My eyes were narrowed (This is nit-picky, but I would say “I narrowed my eyes” instead of “my eyes were narrowed”—the active voice helps keep the momentum.) against the excruciating agony of what their presence meant—and that’s when (This is another turn of phrase that feels just a little too wordy. Could just be “and then.”) those two muddy-green uniformed soldiers blurred into gigantic toads.(I think if I were picking this up as a book, I’d have some sense from the genre whether the soldiers literally turned into toads (as indicated by the Twilight Zone line) or if this is a metaphor/perception. But it is probably worth building in a few more context clues. Mom is only “like” a dragonfly, so I assume she at least didn’t transform.) Mom flitted around them like a juicy dragonfly in her paint-flecked shirt and winged-black (This is a cool turn of phrase but I’m not sure what it means. Does her hair look like wings? How so?) hair as they unfurled their long sticky tongues and probed at her (Assuming that this is a metaphor, toads don’t really “probe at” a dragonfly with their tongues—they try to catch and eat it. And I’m not sure probing is the right word in any case; they’re not trying to find anything out from Mom, right? They’re just giving her the news that Parris is MIA?) with the words, “Your son, Parris,” and “Vietnam,” and “Missing-in-Action.”

I slumped against the archway separating the living and dining rooms, unable to grasp what those croaking men were saying about jungles, a helicopter, and death. (Nice. I like the dazed feeling of all this.) I could only tell it wasn’t enough to gobble Mom whole. Instead, it stripped away all of her hippie love, leaving no speck of kindness for those hapless representatives of the U.S. Army. (This is perhaps just a pet peeve of mine, but it bugs me when a narrative feels like it’s trying to refer to a person or people a little differently every time—as “the uniformed officers,” “those two muddy-green uniformed soldiers,” “those two hapless representatives of the U.S. Army,” “the military men.” It draws more of my attention to how they’re referred to, rather than who they are. I suspect in this case the sentence could just end with “leaving no speck of kindness.”)

“You murderers sent him to that killing field.” Her buzzing tone beat at them. “He shouldn’t have been forced to go. He never wanted to go.”

A fingernail found its way between my teeth. (This phrasing is a little odd—makes it sound like the narrator’s finger had a mind of its own.) Should I say something about Parris’ choice to join the army?  But that was a secret, and as my life was filled with more lies than truth it was difficult to know what was best.

Fortunately, with a wave of her hand, Mom dismissed their news. “Parris isn’t dead anyway. I feel his heartbeat like it’s my own.”

My breath released slow and silent. If Parris was alive I needn’t clear up any misconceptions. The military men shifted and I saw the suffering in the taut lines of lip and

Overall: There are some nice images here. I like the language, I like the surreal mood being set for the delivery of bad news, and there’s a good hint of conflict to come, that the narrator is keeping not only the secret of their brother’s enlistment but also “more lies than truth.” I don’t necessarily think we even need the foreshadowing that the announcement was what made their lives Twilight Zone crazy; it’s momentous enough on its own. I do hope that the narrator enters the scene before too long—it can be tough keeping up momentum when the narrator is a passive observer.

*******

WELLS SPRING by Suzanne Morrone YA

Knowing someone isn’t coming back doesn’t mean you ever stop waiting. I’ve been holding my breath for over six years, and now it’s time I come up for air. If I don’t, I’ll drown. But, like any seal in the arctic already knows, breathing can be dangerous. They stick their nose out, and wham! Polar Bear breakfast.

Lucky me, at least I’m not in the arctic. I shove the front door open, battling the weeks worth of mail on the floor. Colors from the square stained glass panels in our old door rainbow the wall. Down the hall, Dad’s study door is shut. Like usual. I growl and mutter to myself. Why can’t he come out and pick up the mail, at least part of the time? It would pile up into Mt. Everest if it were up to him. up into Mt. Everest if it were up to him. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do, though I admit blowing off midterms did free up some time. I dump my books on the hall table, and kick at the pile, fanning the mess across the entry, wishing it would disappear with my best why do I have to do everything? sigh. But I have no audience. A heavy ivory colored envelope with an engraved return address is lurking among the thicket of bills and flyers. Goosebumps pop up on my arms. Dad’s lawyer. I slit the envelope: Filing date, court date. Deadlines. I smirk-laugh at the pun. He’s petitioning the court to make it official. I run my hand over the words, touch the sharp edge. The paper gives a satisfying crumpling sound as I wad it up.

No way Mom is dead.

There’s a whole archeological dig of layers when you have no idea, not one, about what happened to someone you love. Excavating down though the strata takes years. I guess that’s why you have to wait so long to declare someone dead.

My hand hurts with the strain of squeezing the lawyer’s letter so hard, it’s probably turned into a diamond by now.

I check, disappointed it’s still paper, and toss it in the garbage.

HERE IS NORA:

WELLS SPRING by Suzanne Morrone YA

Knowing someone isn’t coming back doesn’t mean you ever stop waiting.  (I like this as a first sentence—but then I’d rather it were immediately followed up with the specific, what it means that the character’s been waiting. That they’re holding off deciding where to go to college because they want Mom’s input. That they still sometimes automatically set her a place at the dinner table, or turn toward Mom’s room to say goodnight, or just have a constant unsettled feeling in their gut like they’ve forgotten something, but the thing they’ve forgotten is Mom. The generality followed by the “coming up for air” metaphor keeps it a little too distant for my taste.) I’ve been holding my breath for over six years, and now it’s time to come up for air. (Part of the reason this reads oddly to me is that instead of grounding me in the character’s waiting, it immediately adds another layer—that now is the moment to stop waiting—and then a third—that when they do stop waiting something bad will happen. Why do they think the six-year mark is the right moment to “come up for air?” And why is the “coming up for air” in itself dangerous? I do like the seal image but it’s a lot to pack into a first paragraph. If the first paragraph focused on the waiting, then we could get the scene of the character discarding the letter and then afterward they could meditate on how they, like their dad, probably does need to let go of the mystery of Mom and let go, and then bring forward the seal metaphor to explain why they’re not actually going to do that.) If I don’t, I’ll drown. But, like any seal in the arctic already knows, breathing can be dangerous. They stick their nose out, and wham! Polar Bear breakfast.

Lucky me, at least I’m not in the arctic. (This transition feels a little forced to me.) I shove the front door open, battling the weeks worth of mail on the floor. (This is a nice way to let me know the character hasn’t been home in a long time and Dad hasn’t been taking care of things in their absence. I don’t think it’s necessary to then say outright that Dad doesn’t pick up the mail.) Colors from the square stained glass panels in our old door rainbow the wall. Down the hall, Dad’s study door is shut. Like usual. I growl and mutter to myself. Why can’t he come out and pick up the mail, at least part of the time? It would pile up into Mt. Everest if it were up to him.   up into Mt. Everest if it were up to him. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do, though I admit blowing off midterms did free up some time. (This feels a little clunky, as a way to reveal this information. I would stay a little closer in the moment, with the character’s actions, and reveal backstory as it becomes relevant.) I dump my books on the hall table, and kick at the pile, fanning the mess across the entry, wishing it would disappear with my best why do I have to do everything? sigh. (The sentence feels a little long. I think it could end with “fanning the mess across the entry;” less is more with the character’s interior aggrieved monologue since their state of mind is clearly demonstrated in their actions.) But I have no audience. A heavy ivory colored envelope (I would put a paragraph break here, to let the reader take a breath and emphasize the importance of spotting the envelope.) with an engraved return address is lurking among the thicket of bills and flyers. Goosebumps pop up on my arms. Dad’s lawyer. I slit the envelope: Filing date, court date. Deadlines. I smirk-laugh at the pun. He’s petitioning the court to make it official. I run my hand over the words, touch the sharp edge. The paper gives a satisfying crumpling sound as I wad it up. (I like the specificity of this, the focus on sound as a way to emphasize the catharsis of crumpling the letter. You have a lot of really good sensory details here—I almost feel like it’s too many. Like the touch detail in the previous sentence means the sound detail here stands out less. Remember that sense details are only one tool at your disposal. You want to stretch the moment between reading the letter and the punctuation of crumpling it, well, in that time the character can drift into thought about what it will mean if Mom is declared dead, or have some bodily reaction to the idea, or there can just be another paragraph break to indicate a lack of thought between reading and crumpling.)

No way Mom is dead.

There’s a whole archeological dig of layers (Layers of what? Questions? Bureaucracy? Avenues of investigation?) when you have no idea, not one, about what happened to someone you love. Excavating down though the strata takes years. I guess that’s why you have to wait so long to declare someone dead.

My hand hurts with the strain of squeezing the lawyer’s letter so hard, it’s probably turned into a diamond by now. I check, disappointed it’s still paper, (This is the second time(first was the Arctic) that the character has taken their own metaphors literally. I think, again, it’s intended as a transition more than anything else, but it feels like it’s taking unnecessary space.) , and toss it in the garbage

Overall: What I know at the end of this page is that the character’s mother is missing-presumed-dead, their father isn’t coping well, and they aren’t ready to move forward and admit that she’s dead. That’s not a bad starting point—I think the language can just be simplified a touch. The image of the sea of letters just inside the door, one letter immediately standing out, the character reading and then crumpling that, is powerful on its own and could probably be conveyed a little faster.

*******

Jim Nicosia: The Jenny Beaufort Papers (YA novel)  1: The Exhibition at Ketcham Hall

The north stairway at Ketcham Hall has these huge, circular windows at every landing. They’re at least five feet wide and three feet deep. At each landing you can look out and see the whole Freemont campus, the surrounding towns and, on a clear day, straight through to Boston.

Nobody takes the north stairs in Ketcham Hall. The east and west entrances have speedy new elevators, and the stairways there are wide-open and spacious. So you can understand why I was surprised when Jenny asked me to meet her on the landing of Ketcham’s enclosed north stairway. I shouldn’t have been. Jenny knows every nook and cranny of this place. That’s how she introduced me to the freight elevator at Barton Hall, the basement of the music building and the glass-blowing furnace in the industrial arts building. But the stairway, that was unexpected.

I should have taken the elevator up, shot to the north, and walked the stairs down. But I wasn’t sure which floor Jenny said to meet her on, so I went right to the stairs, started climbing.

That’s the first time I noticed those windows. I also noticed that each of them had been repaired with spackle. That was strange, since Ketcham Hall was new and pristine and perfect. When I stopped to catch my breath between the third and fourth floors, I realized how far you could see out those massive windows. It was actually pretty amazing to see the grids of streets, offset and sometimes obscured by the abundant green of trees. New England looked quiet from there, and it seemed a shame no one took these stairs. They were missing something special.

I climbed, thinking of the earth below, amazed at how heavy my legs felt, when I heard her voice. “Hello, sailor. About time you got here.”

Like I said before, it shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. She was lying there in the window, on her back, her head halfway up the arc at one end, her legs partially up the other curve. It had to be at least a little uncomfortable.

Oh, and, of course, she was naked.

HERE IS NORA:

Jim Nicosia: The Jenny Beaufort Papers (YA novel)  1: The Exhibition at Ketcham Hall

The north stairway at Ketcham Hall has these huge, circular windows at every landing. They’re at least five feet wide and three feet deep. At each landing you can look out and see the whole Freemont campus, the surrounding towns and, on a clear day, straight through to Boston.

Nobody takes the north stairs in Ketcham Hall. (My suggestion would be to start the novel with this sentence. It’s short, punchy, immediately begs the follow-up question “well, why not?” I’m less immediately intrigued by the current opening sentence stating that the stairway has cool windows. And the progression right now is tripping me up, from “the stairway has cool windows” to “nobody takes the stairway and it’s weird that Jenny asked me to” and then back to the character noticing the windows a few paragraphs later. I’m not sure why the detail of the windows deserves that double-back emphasis.) The east and west entrances have speedy new elevators, and the stairways there are wide-open and spacious. So you can understand (I will always suggest that authors be very sure they want to use direct second-person address in a novel. It can work well—if the plan is for the reader to be somehow a character in the book, or if the narrator is striking a super-casual, conversational tone. But here, I’m not seeing any clear reason not to just say “So I was surprised…”) why I was surprised when Jenny asked me to meet her on the landing of Ketcham’s enclosed north stairway. I shouldn’t have been. Jenny knows every nook and cranny of this place. (I thought briefly that “this place” just meant Ketcham Hall—partly that’s me not being a careful reader and picking up the Freemont mention in the first paragraph, but it’d be easy enough, and more specific, to say “Jenny knows every nook and cranny for every building on campus,” or similar.) That’s how (I think I could use a time reference here, to ground me in how well the narrator knows Jenny. Like, “Over the past X years Jenny’s proposed meeting up in…”) she introduced me to the freight elevator at Barton Hall, the basement of the music building and the glass-blowing furnace in the industrial arts building. But the stairway, that was unexpected. (Is the stairway more unexpected than these other places? Why? The glassblowing furnace sounds more interesting/unexpected to me.)

I should have taken the elevator up, shot to the north, and walked the stairs down. But I wasn’t sure which floor Jenny said to meet her on, so I went right to the stairs, started climbing.

That’s the first time I noticed those windows. I also noticed that each of them had been repaired with spackle. That was strange, since Ketcham Hall was new and pristine and perfect. (Nice detail—I always like when my attention is drawn to something strange.)When I stopped to catch my breath between the third and fourth floors, I realized how far you could see out those massive windows. It was actually pretty amazing to see the grids of streets, offset and sometimes obscured by the abundant green of trees. New England looked quiet from there, and it seemed a shame no one took these stairs. They were missing something special. (None of this is bad, but I wish it were more idiosyncratic to the character. Anyone could notice that the area looks “quiet”; whereas if the character zeroes in on specific details that tells us something about what they value.)

I climbed, (Should be “was climbing,” methinks. Little things like verb tense can be disproportionately important in a first page.) thinking of the earth below, amazed at how heavy my legs felt, when I heard her voice. “Hello, sailor. About time you got here.”

Like I said before, (This again feels like an unnecessary bit of direct address. And the character said before that they shouldn’t have been surprised that Jenny chose the staircase as a meeting place; whereas now, they’re thinking they shouldn’t be surprised that she’s lying in the window specifically.) it shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. She was lying there in the window, on her back, her head halfway up the arc at one end, her legs partially up the other curve. It had to be at least a little uncomfortable. (Love the specificity here—I can picture the position clearly, though of course I’m assuming that Jenny is clothed. And I know a little about our narrator because their first thought is about the discomfort rather than the nudity.)

Oh, and, of course, she was naked.

Overall: I think this is a pretty solid beginning. I’m strongly grounded in the setting, I’m starting to know a little about the character, and the surprise of Jenny being naked in the window is a clear hook. The only thing I’d say is that the details could be even more vivid—the spackle on the windows is interesting, and it’s interesting that the character knows it. Whereas adjectives like “amazing” and “special” don’t tell me as much, either about the setting or about the character’s experience of it.

*******

Susan Milano: THE EYE OF THE TIGLON, middle grade

I wore my jacket with the big pockets. You could carry all kinds of good stuff in them, like my marbles, jackknife, and two-inch salutes, which are nice firecrackers. They’re bigger than the standard Chinese kind and come wrapped in cardboard instead of paper. But I’d change before I met up with the guys. Big pockets were a sure-fire way to get caught.

My bike leaned up against the garage. Mom had one errand for me to do. I had just enough time to make it down to the docks and back before the guys would need my help. I couldn’t be late. I rode quickly and quietly. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself and risk getting stopped or waved over for a talk, so I concentrated on the road and kept my head down. Normally on a Saturday, I’d go over to Wolf’s Delicatessen and Bakery on Campbell Avenue to get some rolls and baked ham for sandwiches, but not today. Things had changed.  Our town had a different feel—like all of the fun had been sucked out of it.

War raged all around the world. Tens of thousands of men had joined the military and were overseas battling it out. Women were working in the factories to keep the war effort going. And almost all of the major league baseball players were gone—signed up—even Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio. The 1943 season was in trouble before it had even begun.

I took a right onto 1st Avenue. There were no new cars on the streets or in the driveways along my route, not with the shortages of steel and gasoline. And you better not get a flat tire; there was no rubber to get a new one. We might not be facing nightly bombing raids, but signs of war were everywhere. Even the Saturday Matinee monster movies started with newsreels which showed fierce fighting in the Atlantic and the Pacific.  As I rode by the local recruiter’s office, I could see the line already starting to form. Sometimes I’d stand with the men who were waiting to sign up. Someday I’d be in that line for real. I was itching to do my part. We all were. The older boys had already gone. So had a lot of the people I had grown up with. When my uncle left

HERE IS NORA:

Susan Milano: THE EYE OF THE TIGLON, middle grade

I wore my jacket with the big pockets. (I’m of two minds about this first sentence. On the one hand, I do like when books open with the specific—it’s easier to connect to a character deciding to wear a specific jacket than if it’d started with a generalization like the later “war raged all around the world.” But it also feels a little abrupt—like, there’s a context for why the character needs to choose a jacket, why they’re choosing one with big pockets now but will change out of it later so as not to “get caught,” whatever getting caught means in this situation. I think there are enough question marks that I feel more off balance than drawn in. You could carry all kinds of good stuff in them, like my marbles, jackknife, and two-inch salutes, which are nice firecrackers. They’re bigger than the standard Chinese kind and come wrapped in cardboard instead of paper. (Some nice specific detail here. Gives us a first hint of character, that they have opinions about different kinds of firecrackers and like to carry some around.) But I’d change before I met up with the guys. Big pockets were a sure-fire way to get caught.

My bike leaned up against the garage. Mom had one errand for me to do. (Again, in the name of making sure the reader stays on the same page as the character, I don’t think there’s a downside to telling us what the errand is. It doesn’t take many more words to say “Mom had asked me to go down to the docks and buy us some fish for dinner,” or whatever the case may be. Unless the point is that the errand itself is a surprise.)  I had just enough time to make it down to the docks and back before the guys would need my help. I couldn’t be late. I rode quickly and quietly. (I’m definitely not anti-adverb as a blanket policy, but this is a case where I think you could get more evocative language without the adverbs—either just “I rode,” to get the full punch of the short sentence, or get into the sense details of the character pressing all their weight into the pedals, trying to keep the motion smooth so the gears won’t grind and attract attention.) I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself and risk getting stopped or waved over for a talk, (Does this mean there are people the character knows out on the street, people who would normally want to chat with the character when they’re out on their bike? Is the character ducking away from meeting old Mrs. Johnson’s eye lest she start up a long conversation about her rheumatism? It’s an interesting concern to have, even better if grounded in specifics. But also, this paints a small-town-friendliness picture at odds with the later assessment that all the fun has been sucked away)  so I concentrated on the road and kept my head down. Normally on a Saturday, I’d go over to Wolf’s Delicatessen and Bakery on Campbell Avenue to get some rolls and baked ham for sandwiches, but not today. Things had changed.  Our town had a different feel—like all of the fun had been sucked out of it. (I’m not sure how the not-fun vibe is demonstrated in not being able to go get sandwich supplies. Is the bakery closed because of rationing, maybe?)

War raged all around the world. Tens of thousands of men had joined the military and were overseas battling it out. Women were working in the factories to keep the war effort going. And almost all of the major league baseball players were gone—signed up—even Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio. The 1943 season was in trouble before it had even begun. (I like this addition—suggests to me that our character is a baseball fan and that’s the main thing they’re concerned about when they think of the war. There have been a ton of books set during WWII—as much as you can make it about this one person, this one town’s experience of the war rather than an overview of the war as a whole, the better.)

   I took a right onto 1st Avenue. (I don’t live here (or, probably not. I don’t yet know where “here” is). Why do I need to know what road the character is on? What’s distinctive about 1st Avenue, either in terms of a landmark on the character’s route (“I turned onto 1st Avenue, which marked the halfway point to the docks”) or in terms of significance to the character (“I hung a right on 1st Avenue, and as always glanced over at my buddy John’s house on the corner to see if I could catch a glimpse of him through the window”). The driving directions by themselves don’t mean much to me.)There were no new cars on the streets or in the driveways along my route, not with the shortages of steel and gasoline. And you better not get a flat tire; there was no rubber to get a new one. (I like this—an insight into the character’s world that’s very directly tied to what they see as they’re biking along.) We might not be facing nightly bombing raids, but signs of war were everywhere. Even the Saturday Matinee monster movies started with newsreels which showed fierce fighting in the Atlantic and the Pacific. (This is more good worldbuilding, but since it’s not tied to anything the character is seeing, I’d perhaps save it for a bit lest it come off as pure exposition.) As I rode by the local recruiter’s office, I could see the line already starting to form. Sometimes I’d stand with the men who were waiting to sign up. Someday I’d be in that line for real. I was itching to do my part. We all were. The older boys had already gone. So had a lot of the people I had grown up with. (This is quite a few short sentences in a row—I’m not sure the choppiness is necessarily serving you.) When my uncle left

Overall: The page does a good job putting me into the character’s WWII-era town, starting to show what life in wartime is like for the character. I don’t know much about the character, though—I’m not really getting a distinctive voice from him yet. I feel like ideally, even before we know the character’s name and gender, every action and thought should feel like it has to come from a specific kind of person, someone I’m curious to learn more about. The two details that stand out to me are the fireworks and the concern about Joe DiMaggio. It’s a hard page to judge without context, and if I were looking at it with the grounding of a query letter telling me what to expect I might feel differently. But I do find myself wishing for a slightly sharper hook to tell me right away why I’m coming along with this specific child on this specific bike ride.

Nora, great job. Thank you for sharing your time and expertise with us. All your hard work is really appreciated. So nice working with you.

Talk tomorrow,

Kathy


Responses

  1. I love First Page critique days! Thank you Kathy for having them. Thank you to all the agents who have given their time, energy, and keen insights to these projects, Nora in particular today. And thank you to all the brave authors who put their babies out there as examples for us to learn and grow from. Kudos all around! (P.S. *clap-clap* Suzanne Morrone)

    Like

  2. Thank you so much, Nora. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your comments. You are so thorough and in-depth with your critique. All of your comments are thoughtful and insightful. Your clients are very lucky. You did good! No, you did great– not just with mine, but with everyone’s critique.

    And thank you very much, Kathy. I’m sure this took a lot of work on your part. This is a wonderful forum!

    All the best,
    Susan

    Like


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