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graywillow
07-19-2011, 10:05 AM
Hello! I've been mulling this over, and it's a bit of a long shot, but since there's a forum here on AW, thought I'd give this a go.

I've been writing forever and ever and ever, and have completed many projects, but the last time I queried one was eight years ago. I'm working on two YA projects right now, a sci-fi and a mystery, both with literary undertones, and I love both.

For a long time, though, I've wanted to try co-writing something -- a sci-fi, a mystery or thriller, contemporary or not, perhaps even a romance.

Is there anyone out there who'd be interested in giving it a go?

I write in a very particular style, I've been told (I've pasted the prologue for my mystery below), and would need to find someone who's writing style matches mine.

Feel free to PM me, or to post here.

Gracias! :)

////

Rose sneaks out past midnight, her only-what’s-necessary belongings stashed in her backpack: wallet; clothes; make-up; plastic baggies of walnuts; laptop; phone; pre-purchased bus ticket to San Francisco; Mom’s rosary, not for purposes of prayer (though, if times get tough, possibly); pearls, for beauty; and a dog-eared copy of Carlos Ruis Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind, words underlined and circled, a budding writer’s diary. She wears her favorite set of earrings, beaded by hand; a worn t-shirt supporting a local high school band beneath her hoodie, new, dark gray; patched jeans; red Converses.

She’s planned to meet her best friend at the nearest major intersection—major for a suburb, that is—so she slinks through the near black and tries not to think of how creepy it is to be the only one moving past tens of sleeping bodies.

Here Rose is a ghost. Invisible, invincible.

She doesn’t look either way before she j-walks the empty, four-lane street, into the parking lot of the elementary school, and then toward the baseball fields and playground where the pebbles rattle loud enough to wake the dogs. There she will wait for Amie.

Beyond, across another four-laner, the McDonalds’ M flashes dim and bland. A lone van passes under a street lamp, and she wonders whether the driver is stoned, considering it’s past three. She looks away. Despite the cover of black and elementary innocence, she is certain that if that driver looked up, stoned or not, and looked to his right, he would see her and wonder what the hell she's doing out so late.

It’s there, on that playground swing set, that Rose swings alone until her knees crack an unhealthy amount of times and the birds begin their pre-dawn orchestra and the sun colors the world an impossible shade: whatever color allows gray and orange and yellow to co-exist, like rainbow-colored dust motes, alighting an empty road on which no best friend ever comes walking.



When Rose thinks about it now, that night seems fit for a gritty film drama, all dark and melancholy while an acoustic accompa-niment climaxes then decrescendos into silence; until the scene appears from a distance, the world artificially lit, the lone charac-ter’s profile in shadow, the viewers’ hearts beat-beat-beating as they realize, Oh, shit, this can’t be good.

rosebyname
08-11-2011, 06:21 AM
Hi, just wondering if you've found your co-writer yet. I have an idea for a paranormal YA but have not written any in the past. I'd like to give it a try though. Let mek now.