Hello,
I'm looking for a mentor / critique partner with solid experience in YA fiction who can commit to regular meetings (fortnightly to begin with, then monthly) where we:
- give constructive feedback on each other's manuscripts
- assist with setting goals based on the feedback given
- provide creative support to each other
- help develop each other as writers
- act as a sounding board for ideas
- eventually help prepare each other's manuscripts for submission
Hmm, what is there to say about me? Well, I'm a 33 year old female author based in Sydney, Australia and I've been writing since I was old enough to hold a pen. My favourite authors include Lauren Oliver, JK Rowling, Gillian Flynn, Robin Hobb, Hugh Howey, and George R R Martin. I'm committed to making a full time career out of writing and I'm currently working on my third manuscript SALACIA. This is a YA Sci-Fi which will be approximately 75k-80k words when complete. I've written just over 37k so I'm about halfway there. I've already obtained feedback from professional manuscript assessors, but I feel like a more personal mentoring relationship will help me stay motivated. Ideally I'd prefer someone who has gone through the process of being published and can help me navigate this when the times comes, but I'm also open to partnering up with talented unpublished authors who are as dedicated to their craft as I am. I've had two critique partners in the past and enjoyed the experience immensely, but I'm looking for someone who will push me to achieve more.
Below is the first chapter of SALACIA to give you an indicator of my current level of ability, and help you decide if this is an arrangement you'd be interested in. If you think we'd be a good fit, feel free to email me directly at [email protected] with a bit of background on your writing experience and (if you're working on a manuscript) the first chapter of your work.
Thank you for your consideration.
Chapter 1
The glorious underwater city of Salacia is the last remaining human settlement on Earth. Spanning an area of 277 square nautical miles, Salacia is roughly the same size as the ancient city of New York. According to the Underwater Census Bureau, the population of Salacia was 8,109,424 on the 1st of Galene 315 AC. The city is powered by heliocite, a naturally occurring mineral found along fault lines in the ocean floor.
From “Geography of Salacia” Encyclopaedia Oceanus 28th edition
I miss the sun. It’s strange, missing something you’ve never actually seen, but I do. In my dreams it’s this beautiful golden orb, radiating warmth and bathing the world in soft yellow light. We have artificial sunlight, of course. The first thing they did when they began building underwater cities was create ‘Solaris,’ a program designed to mimic natural weather patterns. We have sunny days and cloudy days, sometimes we even have rain, but it never feels right. At least, not to me. Despite all the technology designed to make us believe we’re on land, I can never forget the fact I’m at the bottom of the ocean.
Today is the twenty eighth of Melite - my birthday. I should be excited about turning seventeen, yet all I feel is a growing sense of dread. Every tick of the clock brings me closer to a future that’s been chosen for me, the days plotted out in a neat line like way points on a map – prosaic and predictable. I used to find it comforting. Now? It terrifies me.
Outside my bedroom, the synthetic sky shifts from midnight blue to pre-dawn silver. I don’t have long, maybe an hour and a half tops. The sheets rustle as I slide out of bed, a whispered protest against my night time activities. I discard the embarrassing, frilly nightgown my mother bought for me, shoving it under a cushion. Underneath I’m wearing my favourite piece of clothing: sleek, black diving skins.
Every cell in my body is buzzing with anticipation. The fact that I shouldn’t be doing this only adds to the excitement. I scrape my long, dark hair into a messy ponytail, tucking the loose strands behind my ears. Time to go. On silent feet I dart over to the window and scan the courtyard below. It’s empty - perfect. Taking a deep breath, I speak the command, “Open window.”
There’s a soft whoosh as the glass slides sideways, disappearing into the wall. I’m already vaulting through the gap before it’s fully open. Swinging my legs over the side, I find a toe hold on the decorative moulding above the ground floor. Now for the tricky part. Cheek pressed to the wall, I shimmy along the tiny ledge towards the drainpipe. It’s only a couple of metres, but it feels longer when you’re clinging to a wall like a barnacle. There’s nothing to hold onto. One slip and it’s over. I know I’m taking an insane risk. It’s reckless and stupid and completely irresponsible, but I’ve never felt more alive.
When I reach the drainpipe I grip it between my legs and drop to the ground. The courtyard rushes towards me, air whipping my face. I feel it then - a flicker of fear. Maybe this time I’ll fall, crashing to earth like a meteor. But the fear passes and I land lightly on the balls of my feet, grinning like a kid on a carnival ride.
Crouching in the shadows, I glance at my watch. The glowing blue numbers tell me it’s 4.54am. In exactly six minutes the guard stationed at the front gate will do his hourly patrol of the grounds and anyone with an access code can slip through undetected. From there it’s a clear run to the ruins.
To my left is a large glazed pot studded with sea shells. After making sure nobody is watching, I reach inside and retrieve the bag containing the rest of my gear: torch; helmet; breather pack; gravity belt; diving shoes and gloves. Hitching it over my shoulder, I set off across the lawn at a run. Overhead, tiny fibre optic stars twinkle in the night sky. I sprint all the way through the manicured gardens until my lungs hurt and pain pricks my calves.
The wharf looms up ahead, a formidable building with enough room to house a small fleet of submersibles. To call it a shed doesn’t quite do it justice. It’s enormous, featuring ten generous-sized berths all with their very own power and water supply. In comparison the guard hut looks like a child’s playhouse. A deep channel connects the wharf to the front gate which is hidden below the surface of the water.
Another quick time check reveals that it’s 5.00am. I hunker down behind a large statue of a sea horse and wait. Right on schedule, the guard appears in the doorway. He yawns and rubs his eyes as if he’s just woken from a nap - which he probably has. Can’t say I blame him. Staring at a bunch of monitors for hours and hours would put me to sleep too. He flicks on his daylight glasses – what I’d give to get my hands on a pair of those – and begins his routine patrol. I’ve got a grand total of ten minutes until he gets back, longer if he has to investigate anything.
I avoid the guard hut, heading straight for the wharf. Stark white walls tower above me, cold and uninviting. One side of the wharf is completely open so vessels can glide straight up the channel and into their berths, but this side is protected by motion sensors. If triggered, the lights will come on, an alarm will sound and the security system will go into lock down mode. Not exactly what you’d call discreet. Lucky for me, I don’t have to worry about any of that. On the other side of the building is a set of opaque glass doors with a luminous security panel, which is where I’ll be sneaking in.
There’s nothing but open ground between my hiding spot and the entrance. No trees, no statues, not a single thing I can use for cover. The only way to do it is to run. I bolt from behind the statue and cover the distance to the wharf in a burst of speed. With shaking hands, I punch in the security code. It feels like an eternity before the doors slide open to admit me. When they finally do I almost cry with relief. Heart hammering, I step into the gloom.
The second I cross the threshold the doors snap shut, sealing me in. It’s pitch black inside. I fumble around in my bag until I find the torch – no point turning on all the lights and telling everyone I’m here. The pale blue beam cuts through the darkness, reflecting off the glassy surface of the water. I squint in the sudden glare. Spots dance in my vision and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Keeping the torch pointed down, I head deeper into the building.
Gleaming submersibles bob in the water like gigantic metal fish. Their hulls are embellished with names like ‘Tide Runner’ and ‘Ocean Blade’ written in large, elegant script. They don’t interest me though. What I want is a lot faster and a lot more dangerous. There it is, in the very last berth. The mako.
Everything about it - from the twin thrusters mounted on the stern to the sleek, titanium alloy body - screams fast. Below the surface two stabilising fins curve away from the hull in a graceful arc, like a pair of silver daggers. It’s as streamlined and lethal as the shark it was named after, capable of reaching speeds of up to eighty knots. Best of all, you don’t sail it. You ride it.
I dump my bag on the floor and start throwing on the rest of my gear. The boots and gloves are easy, but I have to wait a few infuriating seconds for the breather pack to run through its self-testing programme. I suppose I should be thankful. A few seconds is a small price to pay to make sure you’re not going to run out of air. When the indicator light goes green I shove my arms through the straps and clip the gravity belt into place. By the time I place the silver helmet band on my head I can barely contain my excitement. In just a few minutes I’ll be blasting my way across the ocean floor – if I make it through the gates unseen.
Stepping onto the pontoon, I turn off the electromagnetic current anchoring the mako in place. It drifts towards me, bumping gently against the fenders lining the wharf. I discard the torch along with my bag. Freedom is so close I can almost taste it. Out there I don’t have to worry about rules and etiquette and living up to anyone’s expectations. Out there I can be… me.
The panels of my helmet unfold with a series of metallic clicks and a robotic female voice announces that the atmospheric control system is now on. In other words: don’t worry, you’re not going to die. I swing onto the mako and straddle the curved seat. I place the heliocite key in the ignition and the powerful hydrogen engine hums to life. A digital scan of my surroundings appears as the mako syncs with my helmet, outlining everything in blue.
Leaning forward, I grab onto the handlebars and slide my legs back until I’m lying flush against the contoured body. The mako is solid beneath me as I steer it towards the channel. It responds to the slightest shift of my weight, diving below the surface like a silent predator. The water envelopes me like a cocoon, warm and welcoming. Sitting astride the magnificent watercraft, I’m no longer Lady Nissandra Valois of de Chambord House. I’m simply Nissa.
The gravity belt glues me in place as the mako descends all the way to the bottom. At this depth I can glide right up to the main entrance without causing a ripple. Still, my insides are tied in knots as we coast along the channel. The gate opens automatically when I’m a few feet away, drawing back like a pair of giant metal jaws. By now the guard should be at the opposite end of the estate – too far away to notice any ripples caused by my exit. Darkness swallows me whole as I pass through into the pressure lock chamber. The faint blue glow from the instrument panel is my only source of illumination; I dare not risk turning on the headlight until I’m well clear of the estate.
There’s a slight jolt as the electromagnets in the chamber activate, securing the mako to the floor. Once the inside gate is sealed, the calm water turns to whitewash as the pumps kick in, increasing the pressure in the chamber until it matches that of the outside. It pours in, an unstoppable tide. Churning rapids swirl around me like liquid clouds, blown across the sky by a raging wind. Once the pressure equalises the hatch opens and the mako is released. A flick of my wrist and it’s launched into the ocean like a torpedo.
The shimmering dome of our estate fades from view as the mako carries me away. Dozens of identical domes stretch out before me like a field of flowers, their geodesic blossoms supported by slender metal stems. When I’ve put a safe amount of distance between myself and civilisation, I pause to switch on the headlight. I’ve done it. I’m free. Laughter bubbles up inside me and I can’t wipe the grin off my face. I’m still giggling like an idiot as I wheel the mako around and steer it in the direction of the ruins.
I fly across the ocean floor, dodging reefs and weaving through giant kelp forests. Fish scatter as I approach, scales flashing in the makos blue headlights. A stingray kicks up a cloud of sand as it stirs from the sea bed, its pectoral fins beating like a pair of wings. Everything is beautiful and alive and real. I revel in the chaos of it all, wishing I could somehow bottle it.
I’m so captivated by the savage landscape I don’t even notice I’m being followed until a black shape cuts in front of me. Before I can register what’s going on, they have me pinned in their headlights. I freeze. A deep, authoritative voice blares through the speaker in my helmet.
“Citizen, identify yourself!”
I'm looking for a mentor / critique partner with solid experience in YA fiction who can commit to regular meetings (fortnightly to begin with, then monthly) where we:
- give constructive feedback on each other's manuscripts
- assist with setting goals based on the feedback given
- provide creative support to each other
- help develop each other as writers
- act as a sounding board for ideas
- eventually help prepare each other's manuscripts for submission
Hmm, what is there to say about me? Well, I'm a 33 year old female author based in Sydney, Australia and I've been writing since I was old enough to hold a pen. My favourite authors include Lauren Oliver, JK Rowling, Gillian Flynn, Robin Hobb, Hugh Howey, and George R R Martin. I'm committed to making a full time career out of writing and I'm currently working on my third manuscript SALACIA. This is a YA Sci-Fi which will be approximately 75k-80k words when complete. I've written just over 37k so I'm about halfway there. I've already obtained feedback from professional manuscript assessors, but I feel like a more personal mentoring relationship will help me stay motivated. Ideally I'd prefer someone who has gone through the process of being published and can help me navigate this when the times comes, but I'm also open to partnering up with talented unpublished authors who are as dedicated to their craft as I am. I've had two critique partners in the past and enjoyed the experience immensely, but I'm looking for someone who will push me to achieve more.
Below is the first chapter of SALACIA to give you an indicator of my current level of ability, and help you decide if this is an arrangement you'd be interested in. If you think we'd be a good fit, feel free to email me directly at [email protected] with a bit of background on your writing experience and (if you're working on a manuscript) the first chapter of your work.
Thank you for your consideration.
Chapter 1
The glorious underwater city of Salacia is the last remaining human settlement on Earth. Spanning an area of 277 square nautical miles, Salacia is roughly the same size as the ancient city of New York. According to the Underwater Census Bureau, the population of Salacia was 8,109,424 on the 1st of Galene 315 AC. The city is powered by heliocite, a naturally occurring mineral found along fault lines in the ocean floor.
From “Geography of Salacia” Encyclopaedia Oceanus 28th edition
I miss the sun. It’s strange, missing something you’ve never actually seen, but I do. In my dreams it’s this beautiful golden orb, radiating warmth and bathing the world in soft yellow light. We have artificial sunlight, of course. The first thing they did when they began building underwater cities was create ‘Solaris,’ a program designed to mimic natural weather patterns. We have sunny days and cloudy days, sometimes we even have rain, but it never feels right. At least, not to me. Despite all the technology designed to make us believe we’re on land, I can never forget the fact I’m at the bottom of the ocean.
Today is the twenty eighth of Melite - my birthday. I should be excited about turning seventeen, yet all I feel is a growing sense of dread. Every tick of the clock brings me closer to a future that’s been chosen for me, the days plotted out in a neat line like way points on a map – prosaic and predictable. I used to find it comforting. Now? It terrifies me.
Outside my bedroom, the synthetic sky shifts from midnight blue to pre-dawn silver. I don’t have long, maybe an hour and a half tops. The sheets rustle as I slide out of bed, a whispered protest against my night time activities. I discard the embarrassing, frilly nightgown my mother bought for me, shoving it under a cushion. Underneath I’m wearing my favourite piece of clothing: sleek, black diving skins.
Every cell in my body is buzzing with anticipation. The fact that I shouldn’t be doing this only adds to the excitement. I scrape my long, dark hair into a messy ponytail, tucking the loose strands behind my ears. Time to go. On silent feet I dart over to the window and scan the courtyard below. It’s empty - perfect. Taking a deep breath, I speak the command, “Open window.”
There’s a soft whoosh as the glass slides sideways, disappearing into the wall. I’m already vaulting through the gap before it’s fully open. Swinging my legs over the side, I find a toe hold on the decorative moulding above the ground floor. Now for the tricky part. Cheek pressed to the wall, I shimmy along the tiny ledge towards the drainpipe. It’s only a couple of metres, but it feels longer when you’re clinging to a wall like a barnacle. There’s nothing to hold onto. One slip and it’s over. I know I’m taking an insane risk. It’s reckless and stupid and completely irresponsible, but I’ve never felt more alive.
When I reach the drainpipe I grip it between my legs and drop to the ground. The courtyard rushes towards me, air whipping my face. I feel it then - a flicker of fear. Maybe this time I’ll fall, crashing to earth like a meteor. But the fear passes and I land lightly on the balls of my feet, grinning like a kid on a carnival ride.
Crouching in the shadows, I glance at my watch. The glowing blue numbers tell me it’s 4.54am. In exactly six minutes the guard stationed at the front gate will do his hourly patrol of the grounds and anyone with an access code can slip through undetected. From there it’s a clear run to the ruins.
To my left is a large glazed pot studded with sea shells. After making sure nobody is watching, I reach inside and retrieve the bag containing the rest of my gear: torch; helmet; breather pack; gravity belt; diving shoes and gloves. Hitching it over my shoulder, I set off across the lawn at a run. Overhead, tiny fibre optic stars twinkle in the night sky. I sprint all the way through the manicured gardens until my lungs hurt and pain pricks my calves.
The wharf looms up ahead, a formidable building with enough room to house a small fleet of submersibles. To call it a shed doesn’t quite do it justice. It’s enormous, featuring ten generous-sized berths all with their very own power and water supply. In comparison the guard hut looks like a child’s playhouse. A deep channel connects the wharf to the front gate which is hidden below the surface of the water.
Another quick time check reveals that it’s 5.00am. I hunker down behind a large statue of a sea horse and wait. Right on schedule, the guard appears in the doorway. He yawns and rubs his eyes as if he’s just woken from a nap - which he probably has. Can’t say I blame him. Staring at a bunch of monitors for hours and hours would put me to sleep too. He flicks on his daylight glasses – what I’d give to get my hands on a pair of those – and begins his routine patrol. I’ve got a grand total of ten minutes until he gets back, longer if he has to investigate anything.
I avoid the guard hut, heading straight for the wharf. Stark white walls tower above me, cold and uninviting. One side of the wharf is completely open so vessels can glide straight up the channel and into their berths, but this side is protected by motion sensors. If triggered, the lights will come on, an alarm will sound and the security system will go into lock down mode. Not exactly what you’d call discreet. Lucky for me, I don’t have to worry about any of that. On the other side of the building is a set of opaque glass doors with a luminous security panel, which is where I’ll be sneaking in.
There’s nothing but open ground between my hiding spot and the entrance. No trees, no statues, not a single thing I can use for cover. The only way to do it is to run. I bolt from behind the statue and cover the distance to the wharf in a burst of speed. With shaking hands, I punch in the security code. It feels like an eternity before the doors slide open to admit me. When they finally do I almost cry with relief. Heart hammering, I step into the gloom.
The second I cross the threshold the doors snap shut, sealing me in. It’s pitch black inside. I fumble around in my bag until I find the torch – no point turning on all the lights and telling everyone I’m here. The pale blue beam cuts through the darkness, reflecting off the glassy surface of the water. I squint in the sudden glare. Spots dance in my vision and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Keeping the torch pointed down, I head deeper into the building.
Gleaming submersibles bob in the water like gigantic metal fish. Their hulls are embellished with names like ‘Tide Runner’ and ‘Ocean Blade’ written in large, elegant script. They don’t interest me though. What I want is a lot faster and a lot more dangerous. There it is, in the very last berth. The mako.
Everything about it - from the twin thrusters mounted on the stern to the sleek, titanium alloy body - screams fast. Below the surface two stabilising fins curve away from the hull in a graceful arc, like a pair of silver daggers. It’s as streamlined and lethal as the shark it was named after, capable of reaching speeds of up to eighty knots. Best of all, you don’t sail it. You ride it.
I dump my bag on the floor and start throwing on the rest of my gear. The boots and gloves are easy, but I have to wait a few infuriating seconds for the breather pack to run through its self-testing programme. I suppose I should be thankful. A few seconds is a small price to pay to make sure you’re not going to run out of air. When the indicator light goes green I shove my arms through the straps and clip the gravity belt into place. By the time I place the silver helmet band on my head I can barely contain my excitement. In just a few minutes I’ll be blasting my way across the ocean floor – if I make it through the gates unseen.
Stepping onto the pontoon, I turn off the electromagnetic current anchoring the mako in place. It drifts towards me, bumping gently against the fenders lining the wharf. I discard the torch along with my bag. Freedom is so close I can almost taste it. Out there I don’t have to worry about rules and etiquette and living up to anyone’s expectations. Out there I can be… me.
The panels of my helmet unfold with a series of metallic clicks and a robotic female voice announces that the atmospheric control system is now on. In other words: don’t worry, you’re not going to die. I swing onto the mako and straddle the curved seat. I place the heliocite key in the ignition and the powerful hydrogen engine hums to life. A digital scan of my surroundings appears as the mako syncs with my helmet, outlining everything in blue.
Leaning forward, I grab onto the handlebars and slide my legs back until I’m lying flush against the contoured body. The mako is solid beneath me as I steer it towards the channel. It responds to the slightest shift of my weight, diving below the surface like a silent predator. The water envelopes me like a cocoon, warm and welcoming. Sitting astride the magnificent watercraft, I’m no longer Lady Nissandra Valois of de Chambord House. I’m simply Nissa.
The gravity belt glues me in place as the mako descends all the way to the bottom. At this depth I can glide right up to the main entrance without causing a ripple. Still, my insides are tied in knots as we coast along the channel. The gate opens automatically when I’m a few feet away, drawing back like a pair of giant metal jaws. By now the guard should be at the opposite end of the estate – too far away to notice any ripples caused by my exit. Darkness swallows me whole as I pass through into the pressure lock chamber. The faint blue glow from the instrument panel is my only source of illumination; I dare not risk turning on the headlight until I’m well clear of the estate.
There’s a slight jolt as the electromagnets in the chamber activate, securing the mako to the floor. Once the inside gate is sealed, the calm water turns to whitewash as the pumps kick in, increasing the pressure in the chamber until it matches that of the outside. It pours in, an unstoppable tide. Churning rapids swirl around me like liquid clouds, blown across the sky by a raging wind. Once the pressure equalises the hatch opens and the mako is released. A flick of my wrist and it’s launched into the ocean like a torpedo.
The shimmering dome of our estate fades from view as the mako carries me away. Dozens of identical domes stretch out before me like a field of flowers, their geodesic blossoms supported by slender metal stems. When I’ve put a safe amount of distance between myself and civilisation, I pause to switch on the headlight. I’ve done it. I’m free. Laughter bubbles up inside me and I can’t wipe the grin off my face. I’m still giggling like an idiot as I wheel the mako around and steer it in the direction of the ruins.
I fly across the ocean floor, dodging reefs and weaving through giant kelp forests. Fish scatter as I approach, scales flashing in the makos blue headlights. A stingray kicks up a cloud of sand as it stirs from the sea bed, its pectoral fins beating like a pair of wings. Everything is beautiful and alive and real. I revel in the chaos of it all, wishing I could somehow bottle it.
I’m so captivated by the savage landscape I don’t even notice I’m being followed until a black shape cuts in front of me. Before I can register what’s going on, they have me pinned in their headlights. I freeze. A deep, authoritative voice blares through the speaker in my helmet.
“Citizen, identify yourself!”