Wednesday, October 21, 2015

Pitches from the Pensieve

I'm new to Pitch Slam, and I'm so excited to be on Kimberly VanderHorst's Team Hufflepuff as a prefect! It's been so much fun to see all the entries come in. There's an incredible amount of talent, but as we all know, an insane amount of hard work goes into writing. So I'll put myself out there and share my pitch and first 250 of my most recent project. Neither of these  have been critiqued yet, so please bear with me! But I'll show my support for you all by sharing something from the depths of my computer. Good luck, Pitch Slammers!



Name:Rebecca Blevins

Genre: Paranormal Chick Lit

Working Title: Zombie Girl in Manhattan

Word Count: Incomplete (as I just started this one last week)

Hogwarts House: Esmeralda is a Hufflepuff. She has smarts and is driven to see the world, but she's not ambitious. Mostly, she wants to found out who she is--even though being a zombie strain of human makes it difficult to figure out where her place is in the real world and the supernatural one.

35 Word Pitch: Ezzie Mortivivant, zombie, dreams of escaping small-town Arkansas. When Great-Aunt Gertie's will sends her to Manhattan for a year, it's all Louboutins and bagels until she discovers what her aunt hid—and expects—from her.

First 250:


I came home from my job at the Guzzle, collapsed in the old puke-green recliner, and kicked off my slip-resistant shoes. “Esmeralda!” Mom yelled from the kitchen, “I can smell your feet from here!”

“Seriously, Mom?” I hollered back. “What do you expect? I’ve been on them all day!”

She grumbled something I couldn’t hear, then clomped into the living room and stood on the burnt-orange carpet, her flowered dress screaming at me way more loudly than her voice ever did. Purple begonias and yellow daffodils belonged outside, in the ground. Not on fabric. Then again, our house decor was stuck in the seventies, so Mom wasn’t the most up-to-date on fashion.

“I have news.” She waited for my reaction, hands on hips. All the fingers on her right hand were bandaged.

“Goodness, Mom. What did you do this time?” About the only thing I inherited from my mother was her clumsiness, so at least we bonded over that.

“Oven door. They got a little toasted before I could fish them out, so it’s going to take some time for them to reattach. But that’s not my news.”

I shook my head. “You really should wear some mitts.”

“Whatever. The only Mitt I want to wear is Romney.” Some women fangirl over rock stars, some over actors. My mom has the hots for good-looking politicians, regardless of their affiliation. “But what I want to tell you, if you’d listen to me for half a second, is that Great-Aunt Gertie died.”