I'm participating in a fun little birthday party event from the ever-so-awesome Gabriela Lessa (Happy Birthday!) from my critique group. Not only are we celebrating her, she wants everyone in on her party! Yes, she's that cool. She asked authors and writers alike to post the first 312 words of their manuscript on his or her blog. Today she'll review by going to each participant's blog. The top 12 winners get critiques from an awesome agent: Lora Rivera of Claire Gerus Literary Agency!!! How exciting, right? So below is the first 312 words of my manuscript Wanted: Groom for my $100K Wedding. No less. No more. For everyone else, let me know if I have you hooked or if you're ready to take a snooze.
Title: Wanted: Groom for My $100K Wedding
Genre: Women's Fiction/Contemporary Romance
Status: Completed and querying!
First 312 words below....
Eyes fixate on the eighteen of us the moment we stumble in, frozen and sober. I force a cough. Anything is better than the glares tallying at record speed on the hundreds of guests’ faces. Their overwhelming reaction transforms the hairs on the back of my neck into cactus needles, and the experience serves to emphasize what I’ve been feeling most of the day: singled out. Empty beer bottles spill over the open bar and a handful of servers slouch in the corner of the grand hall, defeated. To a degree, I’m okay with the ring bearer wailing at the top of his lungs. Can’t the DJ play some music?
If only I had my BlackBerry, I could tweet instead…
A quick glance over my shoulder, with a clear shot of the narrow hallway, I spot an escape route—restrooms. Since our grand entrance no one appears near or around my safety net. And it’s only a matter of time before guests circle the bride and groom and start asking questions.
Frostbite manifests over my skin thanks to the short, cobalt blue bridesmaid dress and slingback heels I’ve been forced to wear in January. I continue coughing and dodge away quietly for cover.
Every muscle from my curvy backside pushes the lavish, oak door shut and I rest my head against it, inhaling freedom. The scents of fresh ivory and sweet pea fills the air and awakens memories of being a little girl, twirling in a wedding gown ten sizes too big in Gram’s pink powder room, my best friend Tony drowning in Gramps’ blue suit. And the promise he made.
The sound of a woman’s voice causes me to jump. “Who allows a caterer to run out of food at a wedding?”
As I make my way over to the vanity, three sets of shoes shuffle within the row of stalls.