Dear Ms. Snark:
Please forgive me if Ms. Snark is not the way you prefer to be addressed. I considered the formal Her Snarkness and the casual Yo, Snarko. After much deliberation, I selected the middle ground. (yea well, the middle ground isn't always the right choice is it?--here's your snarl)
Dear Ms. Agent: (snarl)
Wry and utterly confident, Mason LaCroix must choose between wit and weapon when his semi-estranged wife and her mother are kidnapped—on the same day—by different thugs—for different reasons.
LaCroix transports valuable or sentimental items for wealthy clients. Life turns sour when a detective tries to relieve him of $1 million in bearer bonds he is delivering to a wealthy widow’s sister. What is already sour, curdles quickly when he agrees to locate the man who stole business plans worth a glittering ransom from his wife’s billionaire brother.
LaCroix is in a race where waves of adrenalin and fear may be the tsunami which destroys his customary confidence.
I'm adrift in an ocean of adjectives. Perhaps you'd care to send a life raft.
Complete at 79,000 words, Double Take, blends suspense, humor, strong female characters, and a quirky romance.
My humor columns appear in eight XXXX-area community newspapers.
Thank you for your consideration. May I send you the complete manuscript? (no-but you can ask me to read the enclosed pages)
The distinctive sound of a nearby gunshot splintering wood made me jerk. The second round jolted me fully awake and wary. After the adrenaline rush subsided, I realized I had left the television on in my hotel room. It was playing an old Clint Eastwood spaghetti.
I don’t brood about having been shot before, so my reaction surprised me. Caught myself absently rubbing the scar on my neck and wondered whether Caroline’s oft-expressed fears were in the back of my mind. The few scars I’ve accumulated nourish the root of her discontent. Which is why we now live in separate houses even though we’re married. I don’t like being apart, and I’m not sure she does either. But that’s where we are.
Shoved myself up on my elbows. Clock revealed it was 5:30 a.m. Reality wormed its way back in. Last night I had driven down from Seattle to Eugene. This morning my job was to pick up a million in bearer bonds from a wealthy middle-aged widow named Susan Allardyce. My task, mundane as it seemed, was to deliver them to her sister in Coeur d’Alene. (that's in Idaho for those of you looking in your Rand McNally)
The remaining slurry of adrenalin working its way through my system meant I wasn’t going back to sleep.
After my morning ablutions I donned my usuals, pale-blue oxford shirt tucked into khaki Dockers, and a navy sport jacket. I walked up Coburg Road to the intimate 24/7 plastic-and-chrome place where I’d had dinner the night before. Breakfast consisted of tea and rye toast, please, and don’t even think about pouring any orange juice from the pitcher in your hand, thank you. While chewing the toast, I gnawed on Dieter Lange’s comment that his client had sounded tense when she called to arrange transportation for the bonds.
Yawn yawn yawn.
Why you think it's a good idea to open with someone sleeping absolutely eludes me.
You're telling everything, showing nothing.
The premise of this novel wouldn't fly.
This is a form rejection.