Manuscript Title: Present Imperfect
Manuscript Genre: Adult Contemporary Romance (rom-com)
Manuscript Word Count: Projected: 84,000
Is your manuscript finished?: No
Any trigger warnings? The protagonist's mom was a drug addict and has some dark stuff in her past, but there's nothing that happens on-page that should be troubling. This is 80% comedy, 20% drama.
Hook:
Rose Puleo is in the throes of a Quarter Life Crisis. A year after the breakup that torpedoed her plans and dreams, she’s back in her New England home town, trying to rebuild a relationship with her recovering addict mom, and struggling to salvage the second half of her twenties.
Then Sebastian “Basher” Greenhill, her ex’s best friend, invades Rose’s life: moving to her town, befriending her friends, and even subletting an apartment in her building. The only silver lining to her breakup was never having to see Basher again. He’s the son of a rock star, a spoiled, infuriating pest with the fashion sense of a roadie for a 70’s glam rock band. The only way to keep Basher contained is to give him a little of what he wants: Rose. As their friendship deepens and then ignites, Rose’s imperfect present threatens to derail her perfectly planned future.
First 750 words:
I knew as soon as I turned on to Three Mile Lane that my perfect unicorn cake was doomed.
It sat on the passenger seat beside me, and when the car hit the first bump, I flung out my arm like I was was trying to save a toddler from going through the windshield. Back home, I’d rigged an inverted washtub over the cake platter to help preserve the decorations. Now I slammed one hand on top of the tub to keep the cake from bouncing right off the seat. My other hand jerked the steering wheel, very slowly swerving the 1987 Buick Skylark around the potholes, which were as deep and plentiful as one might expect from a three mile long dirt road in southern Vermont.
So things were already less than ideal before I careened around a corner like a drunken lunatic— albeit one going fifteen miles an hour— and nearly plowed into a brown and white cow. I slammed on the brakes, and the cake lurched forward on the seat, nearly toppling into the footwell. I grabbed the platter with my fingernails before it went over, but I could sense the frosting getting mutilated as I dragged it back.
I almost cried. If you’re judging me for that, if you’re thinking, “Oh, boo-hoo, Rose. There is truly nothing sadder than a damaged unicorn cake,” you have to understand that human babies have been brought into the world with less effort than I put into that cake. Also, I had some heartbreak-related problems that I may have been avoiding dealing with by hyper-focusing on party planning. As one does.
I honked the car horn to shoo the runaway cow out of the road. She gave me a dirty look and resumed munching the weeds by the roadside.
I cursed her in Italian as I inched past. I try to only use esoteric Italian swears, like my grandma inadvertently taught me. Her theory was that God only listens to the things you say in the language of the country you’re currently in.
The turn-off was marked with a mud-splattered sign.
Fortunately for the cake, the gravel driveway was much smoother than the road. I pulled into the parking lot of the public area of the farm; a gate barred the way up the hill, where the farmhouse watched over the apple orchard. To my right lay the cornfields, the ears not yet quite as high as an elephant’s eye. In a few weeks, the cornfield maze would be mowed, and then this parking lot would be full of people who braved the knee-deep potholes and rogue livestock of Three Mile Lane to pick apples, take photos of their kids in the maze, and buy home-baked goods in the tiny shack of a store opposite the party barn. Agritainment at its finest.
The party barn was so called to distinguish it from the slightly smaller and much smellier animal barn. The party barn had a mural of blue skies and puffy clouds on one exterior wall— as well electricity and running water— and was, as the sign promised, available for rent.
But we didn’t have to pay a dime for it, which was 95% of the reason we were having the Quarter Life Crisis party there and not at a much more conveniently located bar.
I hopped out of the car and took a moment to steel myself for the worst before lifting the washtub.
It wasn’t the worst, but Lord, it wasn’t good. “Tette del diavolo.”
“Rose Puleo! Language.” Zoe Daft, one-third of Team Quarter Life Crisis, threw her arms around my neck and planted a glossy kiss on my cheek. Her hair was twisted into two high pigtails cascading over her shoulders in fuschia and burgundy waves, and she was wearing a sports bra with what looked like a pair of men’s boxer briefs and knee-high rainbow-striped socks. “Just kidding. You know I love it when you swear like the Italian grandmother you will inevitably become.” She looked over my shoulder at the cake and squealed, “It’s even more magical than I dreamed!”
What do you look for in a beta?
Ideally, I'd like someone who reads and likes Contemporary Romance. At this stage, I'm mostly interested in big-picture stuff. How are my characters coming off? Are parts dragging or going too quickly? What's making you roll your eyes?
One of my characters has struggled with depression in the past; it's not a major part of the story, but if a beta has personal experience with mental health struggles I would love some feedback on this aspect.
I'll be finished with the draft sometime in August, and wouldn't need crits back until October. Note that this is a (pretty clean) first draft, so I'm technically looking for more of an alpha reader.
Manuscript Genre: Adult Contemporary Romance (rom-com)
Manuscript Word Count: Projected: 84,000
Is your manuscript finished?: No
Any trigger warnings? The protagonist's mom was a drug addict and has some dark stuff in her past, but there's nothing that happens on-page that should be troubling. This is 80% comedy, 20% drama.
Hook:
Rose Puleo is in the throes of a Quarter Life Crisis. A year after the breakup that torpedoed her plans and dreams, she’s back in her New England home town, trying to rebuild a relationship with her recovering addict mom, and struggling to salvage the second half of her twenties.
Then Sebastian “Basher” Greenhill, her ex’s best friend, invades Rose’s life: moving to her town, befriending her friends, and even subletting an apartment in her building. The only silver lining to her breakup was never having to see Basher again. He’s the son of a rock star, a spoiled, infuriating pest with the fashion sense of a roadie for a 70’s glam rock band. The only way to keep Basher contained is to give him a little of what he wants: Rose. As their friendship deepens and then ignites, Rose’s imperfect present threatens to derail her perfectly planned future.
First 750 words:
I knew as soon as I turned on to Three Mile Lane that my perfect unicorn cake was doomed.
It sat on the passenger seat beside me, and when the car hit the first bump, I flung out my arm like I was was trying to save a toddler from going through the windshield. Back home, I’d rigged an inverted washtub over the cake platter to help preserve the decorations. Now I slammed one hand on top of the tub to keep the cake from bouncing right off the seat. My other hand jerked the steering wheel, very slowly swerving the 1987 Buick Skylark around the potholes, which were as deep and plentiful as one might expect from a three mile long dirt road in southern Vermont.
So things were already less than ideal before I careened around a corner like a drunken lunatic— albeit one going fifteen miles an hour— and nearly plowed into a brown and white cow. I slammed on the brakes, and the cake lurched forward on the seat, nearly toppling into the footwell. I grabbed the platter with my fingernails before it went over, but I could sense the frosting getting mutilated as I dragged it back.
I almost cried. If you’re judging me for that, if you’re thinking, “Oh, boo-hoo, Rose. There is truly nothing sadder than a damaged unicorn cake,” you have to understand that human babies have been brought into the world with less effort than I put into that cake. Also, I had some heartbreak-related problems that I may have been avoiding dealing with by hyper-focusing on party planning. As one does.
I honked the car horn to shoo the runaway cow out of the road. She gave me a dirty look and resumed munching the weeds by the roadside.
I cursed her in Italian as I inched past. I try to only use esoteric Italian swears, like my grandma inadvertently taught me. Her theory was that God only listens to the things you say in the language of the country you’re currently in.
The turn-off was marked with a mud-splattered sign.
MOTLEY MEADOW FARM
Vegetables & Fresh Eggs
Maple Syrup
Apple Picking
Pumpkin Patch
Corn Maze
Barn for Rent
Vegetables & Fresh Eggs
Maple Syrup
Apple Picking
Pumpkin Patch
Corn Maze
Barn for Rent
Fortunately for the cake, the gravel driveway was much smoother than the road. I pulled into the parking lot of the public area of the farm; a gate barred the way up the hill, where the farmhouse watched over the apple orchard. To my right lay the cornfields, the ears not yet quite as high as an elephant’s eye. In a few weeks, the cornfield maze would be mowed, and then this parking lot would be full of people who braved the knee-deep potholes and rogue livestock of Three Mile Lane to pick apples, take photos of their kids in the maze, and buy home-baked goods in the tiny shack of a store opposite the party barn. Agritainment at its finest.
The party barn was so called to distinguish it from the slightly smaller and much smellier animal barn. The party barn had a mural of blue skies and puffy clouds on one exterior wall— as well electricity and running water— and was, as the sign promised, available for rent.
But we didn’t have to pay a dime for it, which was 95% of the reason we were having the Quarter Life Crisis party there and not at a much more conveniently located bar.
I hopped out of the car and took a moment to steel myself for the worst before lifting the washtub.
It wasn’t the worst, but Lord, it wasn’t good. “Tette del diavolo.”
“Rose Puleo! Language.” Zoe Daft, one-third of Team Quarter Life Crisis, threw her arms around my neck and planted a glossy kiss on my cheek. Her hair was twisted into two high pigtails cascading over her shoulders in fuschia and burgundy waves, and she was wearing a sports bra with what looked like a pair of men’s boxer briefs and knee-high rainbow-striped socks. “Just kidding. You know I love it when you swear like the Italian grandmother you will inevitably become.” She looked over my shoulder at the cake and squealed, “It’s even more magical than I dreamed!”
What do you look for in a beta?
Ideally, I'd like someone who reads and likes Contemporary Romance. At this stage, I'm mostly interested in big-picture stuff. How are my characters coming off? Are parts dragging or going too quickly? What's making you roll your eyes?
One of my characters has struggled with depression in the past; it's not a major part of the story, but if a beta has personal experience with mental health struggles I would love some feedback on this aspect.
I'll be finished with the draft sometime in August, and wouldn't need crits back until October. Note that this is a (pretty clean) first draft, so I'm technically looking for more of an alpha reader.
