July Workshop with Pitch Wars Mentors … Charlie Holmberg & Kate Karyus Quinn!
Jul10

July Workshop with Pitch Wars Mentors … Charlie Holmberg & Kate Karyus Quinn!

Welcome to the July Query & 1st Page Workshop with some of our PitchWars mentors. We selected many wonderful writers from a drawing held in June to participate in the workshop. Each mentor has graciously critiqued either a query or first page for two writers. The writers are anonymous and the titles/genres are hidden. Follow along all month to view the critiques. We welcome comments and further suggestions, but please keep them kind and respectful. Here are the next two mentors and their critiques …   Charlie Holmberg Website Twitter Homegrown in Salt Lake City, Charlie was raised a Trekkie with three sisters who also have boy names. She writes fantasy novels and does freelance editing on the side. She’s a proud BYU alumna, plays the ukulele, and owns too many pairs of glasses. Release date: September 1, 2014. Published with 47North. You can preorder it now! Amazon   Charlie’s critiques … Critique #13 – First Page: The only thing reeking worse than my mojo-bag was the team on the field, and that was sayin’ (I’m all for dialect, but limit it to dialogue.) something considering our rusted scrap-heap of a ‘football stadium’ (Note: only use single quotation marks if you’re quoting something within a quote.) sat in the middle of a salt marsh. Some called it ‘character,’ but Mama always said about Caledonia: she hadn’t seen so many half-collapsed and boarded-up buildings since she’d fled Tehran in ‘79. I wrestled my pecan-sized mojo-bag from my pocket and crinkled my nose. High John the Conqueror root, graveyard dirt, and powdered sulfur all wrapped up in a red flannel package and charged in whiskey. Nana said it was like bug spray against evil spirits, but it really warded off anyone with a nose. (Love the culture preview we get with this mojo bag!) The bleachers groaned as I stretched against the railing and debated letting my mojo-‘ball-and-chain’ slip right then and there (Behind the bleachers?). At the last second (The last second of his debate, or is he letting the charm precariously dangle from his fingers?), my younger brother, Nathan, reeled me back and snatched the charm away. “Adam! You can’t do that.” I frowned. “How am I supposed to keep my girlfriend if I smell like armpit and alcohol?” “You know it’s for protection.” He scratched his right arm the way he always did when overworking his geek braincells brain cells. Red lines ran like plant roots from his palm to his chest—a lasting memento from the time he’d been struck by lightning. (Interesting!) And while I knew he hadn’t been totally deep fried, he insisted that without Nana’s...

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