So, not to sound like I was a snotty loser, when Cecile had first told me about Jake, the man I assumed was her new boyfriend, I said he was too good to be true.
He’d been sent to Australia to work in a branch of his father’s company as a learning experience on the way to bigger and better things. He was just the sort of man she thought she wanted, not the slow and steady wins the race type, but someone who would, and literally did, sweep her off her feet.
Our last conversation, when she told me I was not the man of her dreams, she didn’t exactly identify him, but I knew who she was talking about. She had fobbed me off several times, so I followed her and lo and behold, there was the man himself.
All she had to do was tell me we were done, but she didn’t, and exactly why she hadn’t remained a mystery.
That he had led her down a very dangerous path, well, I might have carried a grudge, but we had been together since childhood, and my feelings for her were not easily extinguished, not to the point I would take her back, but I would find her, and save her if she wanted to be saved. After that, I would be the tourist for a while before going home.
Or if I got the travel bug, tour Europe for a while.
From the moment I’d told Emily about our separation, she had gone quiet. Had she known about it? If she knew that we were no longer together, why did she think I would come with her on this mission? Get us back together? We were going to have to talk about this, and the fact Cecile and I were done, and sooner rather than later, in case she got the wrong idea.
I was not the knight in shining armour, not anymore.
As for this Jake character, just who the hell was her. If he was not who he said he was, and his parents were bot the people she was expecting, was he just some cheap imposter, after he money. Her parents were wealthy, yes, but not overly so, and certainly not the sort who could pay a hefty ransom.
All of this would make sense if he was a conman. And if that was the case, perhaps the man in the pin stripe suit was his accomplice. I would call him soon once we were resettled in another hotel.
In the meantime, we had to make sure we were not being followed.
After spending an hour confusing even ourselves where we were, we stopped at a café. Coffee and a rest, along with a consultation with the map, and an internet search of small hotels, on the other side of town, one that required a few changes of train and/or bus.
We had said little except to agree or disagree which way to go, until now. I could see that revelation about Cecile and her new boyfriend had struck her, and I began to believe that Cecile had neither told her, or told anyone else about Jake.
That made sense too, if he didn’t want her to tell anyone ‘Just yet’, until they got home. For a girl with so much common sense, how could she have been so easily led astray?
After the coffee and a cake was delivered to the table, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“Dragging you here on this odyssey. If I’d known you two had split up, I would not have been so insensitive. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought she had.”
“Do you know who this Jake is?”
“Only saw him once, and he was devilishly handsome. Adonis would have had trouble competing with him.”
Did that sound like sour grapes? Probably. The first time I saw him, I knew I had no chance.
“That’s not her type.”
“Apparently it is now.”
She took a moment, eyed the cake, and mentally calculated the number of calories it contained, in exactly the manner he elder sister did, then asked, “Why did you come?”
“I still care about her, and what happens to her.”
“Even after she dumped you?”
I had forgotten Emily could be quite blunt sometimes, and now that she had learned of our split, she wasn’t taking it well. That may have had something to do with the fact she took the credit for us getting together, all those years ago, when I might add, she was about five.
I’d been part of the furniture for almost all of her life, so I guess it was hard to take.
“Well, when we find her, I’m going to give her a very stern bollocking.”
If, and/or when, we found her.
We still had to find a new hotel, get our luggage from the airport, Figure how to find our way to Jakes last known address, and make a call to a man called Sid Jackson, though he didn’t look like a Sid to me.
An idea occurred to me, and rather than having to rely on public transport, not that in London it wasn’t far better than anything we had at home, I remembered seeing a rent-a-car place not too far back. A car might just be the thing, and in one respect, just the move they might not be expecting.
Something else had just occurred to me too. Why had Cecile left this trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow, when she had made it quite clear she didn’t want to be with me anymore?
I guess it was a question I’d have to ask when we finally found her.
More about my story – the Commissioner of Police, Delacrat
…
Beneath the Uniform: The Quiet Rebellion in a Tyrant’s Shadow
In a world suffocated by the heavy hand of dictatorship, where every whisper is monitored and every shadow holds a threat, true heroism often wears a disguise. It doesn’t always roar from the barricades; sometimes, it sits in silence, biding its time, hidden in plain sight.
Meet Chief Superintendent Delacrat. On the surface, he is the unwavering head of the nation’s regular police department, a pillar of the system. He upholds the law, maintains order, and presents an image of stern, unyielding authority. But behind the impeccable uniform and the steady gaze lies a burning secret: Delacrat is a profoundly fair and honest man, a moral compass tragically misaligned with the corrupt regime he serves.
His days are a constant torment. He sees the reports, hears the whispers, and feels the tremors of fear that ripple through the populace. He knows all too well the true architects of this fear: the Secret Police. A shadowy organization, led by a truly monstrous figure, their ranks are filled with brutal ex-soldiers, perfectly trained in the art of terror. They perpetrate unspeakable crimes against their own people – disappearances, torture, summary executions – all in the name of “state security.” Delacrat knows every single atrocity, every injustice, and the helplessness to intervene eats at his very soul. Yet.
That “yet” is the silent promise of a coming dawn. For Chief Superintendent Delacrat is not merely an observer of injustice; he is a quiet architect of change. Deep in the shadows, he has forged a perilous alliance with the revolutionary forces, the very people the regime seeks to crush. He moves with calculated precision, gathering intelligence, making strategic delays, and preparing for the inevitable. When the day of reckoning arrives, when the fight to reclaim their country explodes into the open, Delacrat has a specific, vital role to play – a role that only a man in his unique position could execute, a role that could tip the scales of destiny.
And then, there’s Willoughby. An outsider, he arrives in this subjugated nation for reasons entirely unrelated to its internal turmoil. Perhaps he’s an academic, an engineer, or a diplomat with a seemingly innocuous mission. But in the grand, dangerous chess game unfolding, Willoughby’s arrival proves to be an unexpected boon. With a skill set or an uncanny knack for navigating the complex web of power and resistance, he is quickly identified as a useful assistant, an unwitting (or perhaps eventually very willing) pawn who can help get the job done.
The fuse is lit. The pieces are moving into place. In the heart of a broken country, a good man in a bad uniform, an unexpected visitor, and a desperate revolution are converging. The question isn’t if the storm will break, but when, and what will remain when the dust settles, when justice finally demands its due.
More about my story – the Commissioner of Police, Delacrat
…
Beneath the Uniform: The Quiet Rebellion in a Tyrant’s Shadow
In a world suffocated by the heavy hand of dictatorship, where every whisper is monitored and every shadow holds a threat, true heroism often wears a disguise. It doesn’t always roar from the barricades; sometimes, it sits in silence, biding its time, hidden in plain sight.
Meet Chief Superintendent Delacrat. On the surface, he is the unwavering head of the nation’s regular police department, a pillar of the system. He upholds the law, maintains order, and presents an image of stern, unyielding authority. But behind the impeccable uniform and the steady gaze lies a burning secret: Delacrat is a profoundly fair and honest man, a moral compass tragically misaligned with the corrupt regime he serves.
His days are a constant torment. He sees the reports, hears the whispers, and feels the tremors of fear that ripple through the populace. He knows all too well the true architects of this fear: the Secret Police. A shadowy organization, led by a truly monstrous figure, their ranks are filled with brutal ex-soldiers, perfectly trained in the art of terror. They perpetrate unspeakable crimes against their own people – disappearances, torture, summary executions – all in the name of “state security.” Delacrat knows every single atrocity, every injustice, and the helplessness to intervene eats at his very soul. Yet.
That “yet” is the silent promise of a coming dawn. For Chief Superintendent Delacrat is not merely an observer of injustice; he is a quiet architect of change. Deep in the shadows, he has forged a perilous alliance with the revolutionary forces, the very people the regime seeks to crush. He moves with calculated precision, gathering intelligence, making strategic delays, and preparing for the inevitable. When the day of reckoning arrives, when the fight to reclaim their country explodes into the open, Delacrat has a specific, vital role to play – a role that only a man in his unique position could execute, a role that could tip the scales of destiny.
And then, there’s Willoughby. An outsider, he arrives in this subjugated nation for reasons entirely unrelated to its internal turmoil. Perhaps he’s an academic, an engineer, or a diplomat with a seemingly innocuous mission. But in the grand, dangerous chess game unfolding, Willoughby’s arrival proves to be an unexpected boon. With a skill set or an uncanny knack for navigating the complex web of power and resistance, he is quickly identified as a useful assistant, an unwitting (or perhaps eventually very willing) pawn who can help get the job done.
The fuse is lit. The pieces are moving into place. In the heart of a broken country, a good man in a bad uniform, an unexpected visitor, and a desperate revolution are converging. The question isn’t if the storm will break, but when, and what will remain when the dust settles, when justice finally demands its due.
This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 71 this year.
Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.
Why, you might ask.
Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne
At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.
I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.
Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them
Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.
I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.
Damn!
So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years
I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.
It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.
Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.
So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.
Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.
It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.
And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.
But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.
As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life
If only I’d come from such a background!
And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.
I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.
One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.
Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.
It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.
If I had deliberately wanted to flush out the people following us, and eventually lose them, I would never have thought of renting a car at a suburban shop. I had to wonder what James Bond would have done in similar circumstances.
But it worked.
Driving out of the carpark onto the main street, it wasn’t difficult to see several people caught unawares. And on their cell phones making calls.
And it was Emily’s last-minute brainwave to cover the car’s registration plates so if they were to take a photo, they would not be able to track it. Well, not straight away. It was she who said London had a lot of CCTV cameras, but on the way to the carpark, she had checked out where they were, those that she could readily identify, and we could avoid.
Something I learned about Emily that I didn’t know; she was a computer nerd, and a hacker of sorts, not one of those dark web experts, but she knew enough to dig around in places most people wouldn’t go looking.
That skill might just come in useful.
And, for a few minutes, maybe an hour, we revelled in the thought we may have outwitted them, whoever ‘them’ was.
It was late afternoon when we finally found a hotel with a carpark, a long way from Cecile’s flat in Earl’s Court, and on the other side of the Greater London region in Mile End Road, not very far from Stepney Green underground station, the result of Emily searching the web for a hotel with a carpark, and near public transport.
She also had our luggage delivered from the airport a little less than two hours from the moment she made the call. I think I may have remarked that I might just employ her as my travel agent when I started my European odyssey, but she had fallen asleep, way past exhausted.
I wasn’t far behind her. We had a long day tomorrow if today was anything to go by.
I woke to the smell of coffee and that more interesting aroma of burnt toast.
There were shopping bags on the table, and it looked as though Emily had been up and around for a while.
I looked at my watch, it was not much past seven, and not an hour I found myself up back home. I had an apartment in the city, and it was a ten-minute walk to the office, so early rising was not a necessity. My parents lived in the suburbs, and more than an hour by public transport, and two by car. It was the reason I moved. I didn’t want to spend a quarter of my life travelling to and from work.
Of course, London was so much larger than where I came from, and definitely not a place I would want to live, or work, despite the advantages that Cecile had tried to impress upon me. And don’t get me get started on driving around London. Yesterday had been harrowing, and left me, at times, shaken.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.”
Emily put a coffee plunger on the table, two cups, a plate of toast, bowls, and the cereal that was my favourite, though how she knew was anyone’s guess.
“You’ve been busy.”
“I like to get some exercise every morning, so I combined it with a shopping expedition
I had not attended this type of domesticity in a long time, at least not since I left home. I had grown accustomed to being on my own, and that might have contributed to Cecile and I drifting apart. It probably also had a lot to do with my awkwardness with girls, and rather than try to get over it, I just avoided them.
But, somehow, Emily was different, perhaps because she was younger and hadn’t been blunted by the vicissitudes of life. She had finished school, and as far as I was aware, didn’t have a real job, preferring to spend her time pottering in her father’s office.
I had thought, much like in an 18th century romance novel, she was waiting for the right man to marry, but there were not too many of those running around these days.
Something else I just realised; how well I seemed to like being at ease in her company, much more so than when I was with Cecile, always on my guard not to say or do the wrong thing.
“I find going to a grocery store a trial, which is why I eat out a lot.”
She shook her head. “You’re just lazy, like everyone else your age. Convenience over practicality. And you should think about doing some exercise.”
I could feel the eyes of the appraiser upon me and shivered. It was good that I could not read her thoughts, but if I could, perhaps some might be considering those extra pounds that had found their way onto my frame after I stopped playing tennis and squash.
“I promise I’ll think about it.”
“Better still, I don’t think it’s all that safe to be jogging the streets in this neighbourhood early in the morning, so you can come with me as my protector.”
She saw my look of disdain, or was it the thought of having to exercise.
“Cheer up, I don’t go very fast.”
The sound of the phone vibrating on the table interrupted that thought, and conversation.
It was a private number, so I assumed it was the man from the day before.
“Yes?”
“Trafalgar Square, by the column, 12:30 pm today.”
It was the man’s voice.
“We’ll see you there.”
The call was disconnected. Short and to the point.
“We have a lunch date.”
Before I could reach out to pick up my cup of coffee, the phone rang again.
Also a private number, I assumed it was the man ringing back with a change of plans.
“Yes?”
“We need to talk.”
A woman’s voice this time, not one that was familiar.
“About what?” I was surprised and didn’t have time to work on a better comeback.
“Your Cecile. She is over her head.”
Aside from stating the obvious, who was this woman, how did she know about Cecile, and more importantly, how did she know my cell number?
“Who the hell are you?”
“The London end of the team that recruited her. Time is of the essence, so we’ll come to you. We’ll be there in half an hour.”
That line went dead before I could ask another pertinent question, how did she know where we were?
“Who was that?” Emily had been oblivious to the turmoil I was feeling.
“Someone else who wants to talk about Cecile.”
“Who?”
“No idea, but the word reruited popped up, whatever that might mean.”
“Here? No one knows we’re here.”
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps we should leave, like, right now.”
“No. I have a feeling that we might find out what Cecile is up to.”
And, in the back of my mind, several small, associated details clicked into place. At the time they didn’t make any sense, but now, in a bigger context, and given the circumstances, I think I knew now why she had come.
And, more importantly, I realised she had been dropping breadcrumbs for me to follow long before she had left.
From Spark to Submission: Unearthing Your Story’s Soul & Crafting the Perfect Publisher Pitch
You did it. You poured your heart, soul, and countless hours onto the page. You wrestled with characters, built worlds, shaped narratives, and perhaps, finally, typed “The End.” That’s a monumental achievement in itself. But for many writers, the real work, or at least the most daunting, begins after the last word is written: the journey from manuscript to published book.
This journey often involves two critical questions:
What is your story really about?
How do you pitch it to a publisher (or agent)?
Let’s dive in.
What is Your Story Really About? Beyond the Plot
This might seem like a simple question. “It’s about a wizard who goes on a quest!” or “It’s a memoir about overcoming a difficult childhood.” But a publisher (or agent) wants to know more than just the surface plot. They want to understand the heart, the hook, the unique selling proposition of your book.
Think of it as distilling your entire manuscript into a potent, irresistible essence.
Here’s how to dig deeper:
The Core Conflict & Stakes: What is the central problem your protagonist faces? What will they lose if they fail? What will they gain if they succeed? The higher the stakes, the more compelling the story.
Example: Instead of “A wizard goes on a quest,” try: “A reluctant wizard must retrieve a mythical artifact to prevent a shadow realm from consuming his world, even if it means confronting the darkness within himself.”
The “So What?” (Theme & Message): Beyond the events, what is your story saying? Is it about resilience, love, the corrupting nature of power, the complexities of family, the search for identity? This is the underlying universal truth that will resonate with readers long after they’ve turned the final page.
Ask yourself: What do I want readers to feel or think about after reading my book?
The Character’s Arc: How does your protagonist change or grow throughout the story? What emotional journey do they undertake? Readers connect with characters, and compelling character arcs are the backbone of great narratives.
The Unique Hook: What makes your story stand out from the thousands of others? Is it a fresh take on an old trope? A never-before-seen world? A voice unlike any other? A surprising twist? This is what will make an agent pause.
The “Elevator Pitch” (Logline): Can you summarize your entire book in 1-2 sentences? This is a crucial exercise. It forces you to identify the core concept, protagonist, conflict, and stakes. Practice saying it out loud. If it doesn’t immediately grab attention, refine it.
Template Idea: “When [inciting incident happens to protagonist], [protagonist] must [goal/quest] before [stakes/consequences].”
Why is this important for pitching? Because an agent or editor needs to quickly grasp what your book is, why it matters, and who it’s for. If you can articulate this clearly, you’re halfway there.
Mastering the Publisher Pitch: Your Gateway Document (The Query Letter)
For fiction, and often for memoirs, the primary tool for pitching is the query letter. For non-fiction (like self-help, business, cookbooks), you’ll typically need a more extensive book proposal. Here, we’ll focus on the query letter, which serves as your book’s literary dating profile.
The Goal: To intrigue an agent (who will then pitch your book to publishers) or a publisher directly (if they accept unagented submissions) enough to request more of your manuscript.
Key Components of a Killer Query Letter:
Personalization (The Research is Key):
Address the agent by name: “Dear Ms. Smith” or “Dear Mr. Jones.” Never “To Whom It May Concern.”
State why you’re contacting them: Mention a specific book they represented that resonates with yours, an interview where they expressed interest in your genre, or a conference where you heard them speak. This shows you’ve done your homework and aren’t just spamming everyone.
The Hook (Your Logline in Action):
Start immediately with your compelling 1-2 sentence logline. This is your chance to grab their attention within the first few seconds. Make it punchy, intriguing, and hint at the core conflict.
The Brief Synopsis (2-3 paragraphs):
This is not a chapter-by-chapter breakdown. It’s a concise, engaging summary of your book’s main plot points, character arc, and central conflict.
Introduce your protagonist, their world, and the inciting incident.
Detail the main rising action and the core struggles.
Crucially, do NOT reveal the ending. End on a suspenseful note that makes them want to read more. What is the climax the protagonist must face? What’s at stake?
About the Author (The Credentials):
Keep this brief and relevant. Mention anything that lends credibility to your writing (previous publications, awards, relevant professional experience that informs the book).
If you have a significant author platform (large social media following, relevant professional network, speaking engagements), mention it, especially for non-fiction.
If you have no prior publications, that’s okay! Be honest and professional. Focus on your passion and the book itself.
Comparable Titles (The “Comps”):
Suggest 2-3 recently published books (within the last 3-5 years) that are similar to yours in genre, tone, or target audience.
DO NOT compare your book to bestsellers like “The next Harry Potter” or classics like “War and Peace.”
Choose books that agents sold successfully. This shows you understand the current market and where your book fits.
Example: “My novel will appeal to readers who enjoyed the intricate world-building of [Book A] combined with the emotional depth of [Book B].”
Word Count & Genre:
State your manuscript’s exact word count (e.g., “This standalone novel is complete at 85,000 words.”)
Clearly state its genre (e.g., “Young Adult Contemporary,” “Historical Fantasy,” “Literary Fiction”).
The Professional Close:
Thank them for their time and consideration.
Reiterate that you’ve attached/included the requested materials (e.g., “Per your submission guidelines, I have included the first ten pages of my manuscript below.”).
“Sincerely,” or “All best,” followed by your full name.
Include your contact information (email, phone).
Common Pitfalls to Avoid:
Typos and Grammatical Errors: Proofread endlessly. Get others to proofread. This is your first impression.
Being Overly Familiar or Demanding: Maintain a professional and courteous tone.
Pitching an Unfinished Manuscript (for Fiction): Unless specifically requested, your fiction manuscript must be complete and polished before querying.
Revealing the Entire Plot/Ending: You want to entice, not summarize everything.
Too Long: A query letter should ideally be one page, 300-500 words maximum. Every word counts.
Begging or Desperation: Confidence in your work, not desperation, is attractive.
Not Following Guidelines: Every agent has specific submission guidelines (e.g., paste into email, attach as PDF, query form). Follow them exactly. Not doing so is an instant rejection.
The Road Ahead
Getting published is a marathon, not a sprint. It requires patience, resilience, and a thick skin. Expect rejections – they are a universal part of the process. Use them as motivation to refine your pitch, improve your manuscript, and keep learning.
Your story deserves to be heard. By understanding its true essence and mastering the art of the pitch, you’re giving it the best possible chance to find its way from your heart to a reader’s hands.
Now, tell us: What’s the very core of your story? And what’s one thing you’re most nervous about when it comes to pitching? Share in the comments below!
From Spark to Submission: Unearthing Your Story’s Soul & Crafting the Perfect Publisher Pitch
You did it. You poured your heart, soul, and countless hours onto the page. You wrestled with characters, built worlds, shaped narratives, and perhaps, finally, typed “The End.” That’s a monumental achievement in itself. But for many writers, the real work, or at least the most daunting, begins after the last word is written: the journey from manuscript to published book.
This journey often involves two critical questions:
What is your story really about?
How do you pitch it to a publisher (or agent)?
Let’s dive in.
What is Your Story Really About? Beyond the Plot
This might seem like a simple question. “It’s about a wizard who goes on a quest!” or “It’s a memoir about overcoming a difficult childhood.” But a publisher (or agent) wants to know more than just the surface plot. They want to understand the heart, the hook, the unique selling proposition of your book.
Think of it as distilling your entire manuscript into a potent, irresistible essence.
Here’s how to dig deeper:
The Core Conflict & Stakes: What is the central problem your protagonist faces? What will they lose if they fail? What will they gain if they succeed? The higher the stakes, the more compelling the story.
Example: Instead of “A wizard goes on a quest,” try: “A reluctant wizard must retrieve a mythical artifact to prevent a shadow realm from consuming his world, even if it means confronting the darkness within himself.”
The “So What?” (Theme & Message): Beyond the events, what is your story saying? Is it about resilience, love, the corrupting nature of power, the complexities of family, the search for identity? This is the underlying universal truth that will resonate with readers long after they’ve turned the final page.
Ask yourself: What do I want readers to feel or think about after reading my book?
The Character’s Arc: How does your protagonist change or grow throughout the story? What emotional journey do they undertake? Readers connect with characters, and compelling character arcs are the backbone of great narratives.
The Unique Hook: What makes your story stand out from the thousands of others? Is it a fresh take on an old trope? A never-before-seen world? A voice unlike any other? A surprising twist? This is what will make an agent pause.
The “Elevator Pitch” (Logline): Can you summarize your entire book in 1-2 sentences? This is a crucial exercise. It forces you to identify the core concept, protagonist, conflict, and stakes. Practice saying it out loud. If it doesn’t immediately grab attention, refine it.
Template Idea: “When [inciting incident happens to protagonist], [protagonist] must [goal/quest] before [stakes/consequences].”
Why is this important for pitching? Because an agent or editor needs to quickly grasp what your book is, why it matters, and who it’s for. If you can articulate this clearly, you’re halfway there.
Mastering the Publisher Pitch: Your Gateway Document (The Query Letter)
For fiction, and often for memoirs, the primary tool for pitching is the query letter. For non-fiction (like self-help, business, cookbooks), you’ll typically need a more extensive book proposal. Here, we’ll focus on the query letter, which serves as your book’s literary dating profile.
The Goal: To intrigue an agent (who will then pitch your book to publishers) or a publisher directly (if they accept unagented submissions) enough to request more of your manuscript.
Key Components of a Killer Query Letter:
Personalization (The Research is Key):
Address the agent by name: “Dear Ms. Smith” or “Dear Mr. Jones.” Never “To Whom It May Concern.”
State why you’re contacting them: Mention a specific book they represented that resonates with yours, an interview where they expressed interest in your genre, or a conference where you heard them speak. This shows you’ve done your homework and aren’t just spamming everyone.
The Hook (Your Logline in Action):
Start immediately with your compelling 1-2 sentence logline. This is your chance to grab their attention within the first few seconds. Make it punchy, intriguing, and hint at the core conflict.
The Brief Synopsis (2-3 paragraphs):
This is not a chapter-by-chapter breakdown. It’s a concise, engaging summary of your book’s main plot points, character arc, and central conflict.
Introduce your protagonist, their world, and the inciting incident.
Detail the main rising action and the core struggles.
Crucially, do NOT reveal the ending. End on a suspenseful note that makes them want to read more. What is the climax the protagonist must face? What’s at stake?
About the Author (The Credentials):
Keep this brief and relevant. Mention anything that lends credibility to your writing (previous publications, awards, relevant professional experience that informs the book).
If you have a significant author platform (large social media following, relevant professional network, speaking engagements), mention it, especially for non-fiction.
If you have no prior publications, that’s okay! Be honest and professional. Focus on your passion and the book itself.
Comparable Titles (The “Comps”):
Suggest 2-3 recently published books (within the last 3-5 years) that are similar to yours in genre, tone, or target audience.
DO NOT compare your book to bestsellers like “The next Harry Potter” or classics like “War and Peace.”
Choose books that agents sold successfully. This shows you understand the current market and where your book fits.
Example: “My novel will appeal to readers who enjoyed the intricate world-building of [Book A] combined with the emotional depth of [Book B].”
Word Count & Genre:
State your manuscript’s exact word count (e.g., “This standalone novel is complete at 85,000 words.”)
Clearly state its genre (e.g., “Young Adult Contemporary,” “Historical Fantasy,” “Literary Fiction”).
The Professional Close:
Thank them for their time and consideration.
Reiterate that you’ve attached/included the requested materials (e.g., “Per your submission guidelines, I have included the first ten pages of my manuscript below.”).
“Sincerely,” or “All best,” followed by your full name.
Include your contact information (email, phone).
Common Pitfalls to Avoid:
Typos and Grammatical Errors: Proofread endlessly. Get others to proofread. This is your first impression.
Being Overly Familiar or Demanding: Maintain a professional and courteous tone.
Pitching an Unfinished Manuscript (for Fiction): Unless specifically requested, your fiction manuscript must be complete and polished before querying.
Revealing the Entire Plot/Ending: You want to entice, not summarize everything.
Too Long: A query letter should ideally be one page, 300-500 words maximum. Every word counts.
Begging or Desperation: Confidence in your work, not desperation, is attractive.
Not Following Guidelines: Every agent has specific submission guidelines (e.g., paste into email, attach as PDF, query form). Follow them exactly. Not doing so is an instant rejection.
The Road Ahead
Getting published is a marathon, not a sprint. It requires patience, resilience, and a thick skin. Expect rejections – they are a universal part of the process. Use them as motivation to refine your pitch, improve your manuscript, and keep learning.
Your story deserves to be heard. By understanding its true essence and mastering the art of the pitch, you’re giving it the best possible chance to find its way from your heart to a reader’s hands.
Now, tell us: What’s the very core of your story? And what’s one thing you’re most nervous about when it comes to pitching? Share in the comments below!
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
I was about to tell Emily not to open the door but for some reason, I simply stood there unable to do anything. It was not shock or fear, but a hesitation.
Emily looked at me, perhaps for approval, then looked through the peephole in the door.
“Who is it,” I asked, finally finding a voice.
“I can’t see him clearly but it looks like the man in the pin-striped suit, that chap who got in the elevator with us.”
Why wasn’t I surprised.
“What should I do?” she asked when I hadn’t said anything.
I was not sure what to think, but from first appearances, he didn’t look like an assassin, or very dangerous, but what did I know about assassins? Or dangerous people? “Let me answer the door. You stand just out of sight until we find out his intentions.”
“You don’t think…”
“I’m trying not to think right now, but please, just stand out of sight of the door, and have your phone set to call emergency, just in case.”
Another knock on the door, not impatient but nonetheless insistent, motivated her to do as I’d asked, and I took her place at the door. When she was in place, I took a deep breath, exhaled, and then opened the door.
It was, indeed, the man from the elevator. I decided attack was the best form of defence. “You were in the elevator. Give me one reason why you couldn’t speak to us then?” It came out exactly as I’d intended, a harsh tone from someone who was annoyed.
“Forgive me, but I wasn’t sure that I had the right person.” A placatory tone.
“How did you know what room to come to?” He hadn’t followed us, or at least I didn’t think so, but he could have discreetly kept an eye on us.
“I was told you would be here.”
“By whom?” The only person who knew we would be here was Cecile, though she could not know when.
“Your friend said you would be here.”
“Which friend?”
I could see that he was now getting impatient, his expression changing from genial to annoyance.
“We should not be discussing this in the hotel corridor.”
“Perhaps not, but I don’t trust you, and until you tell me what this is about, the hotel corridor is where you’re staying. I’ll ask again, which friend?”
“Cecile Battersby of course.”
Right name, but it could still be a bluff. Her name would be in the hotel computer system, information that could be bought by a clever adversary.
“Describe her.”
“Alas, I have not met her. I have been sent as an intermediary. This is a rather delicate matter, and not one that I wish to discuss in the hotel corridor.”
“Then I suggest you call me when you are in the open in plain view with other people place, but it will not be here, in this room until I’m satisfied I can trust you.”
I could tell by his expression it was not the answer he was looking for.
He took out his cell phone. “I assure you, you are in no danger from me, but if you insist.”
I gave him my number and he put it into his phone.
“You will be hearing from me soon. Let’s hope she does not suffer because of this.”
With that cryptic remark, he left, and I closed the door.
“What do you think he meant by saying she might suffer? Suffer what?”
“It’s just a means to try and scare us into doing something we might regret. We have no idea who he was, or what he wanted, and I was certainly not going to let him into the room. I’m sure we’ll soon find out.”
He might have been a public servant. Don’t they wear pin-striped suits and carry umbrellas?
A stereotype, I thought, that everyone had of the British, but this one was lacking the third element, a bowler hat.
“Let’s wait and see. But, in the meantime, since whoever he represents knows where we are, let’s get out of here, just in case.”
Her face registered the exact same fear level I was feeling.
Once again, I found myself asking the impossible question, what had she got herself mixed up in?
I looked through the peep hole and saw that our section of the passage was clear. I was taking a gamble that he’d left, and if the coast was clear, we would be leaving via the fire escape, just in case he had the elevators monitored.
I opened the door and looked up and down the corridor. Clear.
Then there is the rest of us, those who need to write.
Morning, noon, night, very late at night, on scraps of paper, on cafe napkins, in notebooks, on note apps on the phone, there is this very strange compulsion to get words on paper.
I feel it, it’s like a bug.
It’s like being in the shower and an idea hits you, when you try to think of what is going to happen next and can’t. You’re sitting there, pen in hand, gingers hovering over the keyboard, waiting, waiting, for that inspiration, and there’s nothing.
Don’t you just hate it?
All the time in the world. The writing room is sitting there, waiting for you. The cat, or the dog, has settled down on the floor and is pretending to sleep, like they know you need this moment to get the next plot line.
And dammit, nothing comes. It’s a complete blank.
You’re thinking of that motorbike screaming up the road, or the car whose gearbox is going to explode if they don’t change into second or third, or the rubbish truck is collecting the rubbish, or two people are walking past your window, talking loudly about some obscure subject.
You strain to hear, and then think someone is rummaging up the other end of the house, and, easily distracted, go and find the cat has slunk away and is playing with your slippers.
Or the dog is tearing them apart.
Damn.
Then, finally giving up, go and have a shower, and under that soothing, water massaging head, the relaxation of the mind suddenly pops an idea into your head.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 