Summary: Macmillan editor Melissa Warten joins extremely brave and awesome writer Brooke Urban to go over her first page on the air. With a focus on the line between mysterious and vague (when are you giving your reader enough information? When are you giving them so much that it takes away all narrative tension?), the 25-word descriptions that can ground your reader, and why (most) everyone hates prologues, we go over universal lessons of keeping an agent reading. Please see below to follow along with Brooke's page. To view Melissa's live event on Monday, July 29, 8:30pm EDT, please visit ManuscriptAcademy.com/live. Tickets are $9.99, or the cost of a Kindle e-book. You can also schedule your own consultation with Melissa here: https://manuscriptacademy.com/10-minutes-with-an-expert You can see more of Brooke's work at http://annelutzauthor.com (Anne Lutz is her pen name). * Brooke's page: Preface My mother always painted the Wicked Ones with black eyes--deep, heavy, soulless black. Everyone knew the Wickeds were evil, but my mom claimed it was more than that. She said the Wickeds were demons trapped in human corpses, just waiting to burn the world to ash. It wasn’t until years after my mother died that the world did burn. But the Wickeds didn’t set the fire. I did. Chapter One Tonight will be spectacular--it has to be. I tighten my ponytail and stare between the curtains. People filter in through the admissions gate and find seats on the curved stands that lie on either side of the arena. There are young families and elderly couples and lovey-dovey teens. But the number of attendees is dismal at best. “How’s it look?” asks Alder. He knocks into my shoulder as he pushes his way in front of me. His lanky body blocks the tiny sliver of audience. After a moment, he twists to frown at me. “That’s not good.” “I know,” I say. “But there’s still time. It’s not even seven yet.” “It’s six-fifty, Nova,” says Alder. He sticks his nose up when he speaks, as though being right is more important than being optimistic. “There’s still time,” I repeat. But honestly, this is what we expected. Or maybe not everyone expected this. They at least feared this, held the thought somewhere in the back of their mind. Alder scrunches his face at me. His features are pointed and suspicious, like he’s a rat, waiting to steal my last bite of cheese.
