Rough Draft

By Michala Hampton

Dion isn’t yet twenty-four hours old, and he’s causing more problems in real life than he does in my story.

The six-foot-six holographic Atlantean warrior snorts, scanning the conference crowd. “These posers reek of weak character arcs and chosen-one tropes.”

“That’s rude,” I whisper.

“This place is crawling with tropes.” Dion points at people around us. “Mustache-twirling villain. Wise, old mentor. Orphan, orphan—hey, a giant rabbit.” He playfully elbows me. “Think it’s a plot bunny?”

Several attendees’ heads turn our direction, and eyebrows raise.

I grit my teeth. “Keep your voice down.”

We navigate the groups of aspiring authors and their living creations. Most of the writers here had participated in an annual fifty-thousand-word writing challenge in November and were gathered to celebrate at a national conference. This particular event instituted a new parameter for pitching: Bring your character.

When I had uploaded my manuscript into my university’s Holographic Generator, I had to choose which character to accompany me. My protagonist mirrors too many of my insecurities. But Dion, my MC’s sidekick, oozes confidence, which is what I need to convince—

“Check out that rack.” Dion gestures to a woman. “She was definitely written by a man.”

The woman in question gasps. Her petite hand flies to her enormous breasts. She’s linking arms with a man who I assume is her creator. His eyes narrow at us.

I clear my throat and shove Dion forward.

“Maybe you could suggest a collab. Or better, a crossover! I wouldn’t mind that.” The scales surrounding Dion’s vibrant gold-and-blue eyes shimmer as he waggles his brow.

“She’s not in your genre,” I hiss.

“Are you saying she’s out of my league?”

“Hurry!” I frantically tap my watch. “Our appointment’s in five minutes.”

Holding out his crystal dory, Dion stops me from walking. “You’re edgy.”

“I’m nervous about pitching.”

“’Cause I’m your book baby and you’re afraid of this agent rejecting me?” Dion smirks.

I grimace. “That sounds so wrong, but… yeah.”

“Enough with the impostor syndrome. Someone will see your potential. We’ll do great.”

I take a deep breath.

As we reach the appointment room, two girls burst through the door.

“It’s your fault he won’t represent us,” accuses the first, whose hair is flashing different colors. “You’re inconsistent. I’m a redhead in chapter one, a blonde in eight, and by the end of the book my hair is blue.”

“Sorry I missed the minor details,” the second girl scoffs.

“Minor details? I look like a traffic light!”

Dion sniggers.

I pull him inside as the girls spit obscenities at him.

About two dozen tables line the room’s walls, all occupied with agents, writers, and characters meeting together. We locate Barb McKinley, one of the top literary agents representing the sci-fi market.

She nods politely as we sit across from her. “Greetings. Tell me about yourself.”

“My name is Eirini Pappas, and this is—”

“Dion Galanis, Guardian of Atlantis. It rhymes.” Dion clicks his tongue.

“That was first-draft you,” I murmur. “I changed your surname.”

He lowers his voice. “You forgot to save.”

I shift in my chair.

Barb McKinley blinks. Her gaze trails down Dion’s muscular, half-clothed frame, analyzing the various patches of scales covering his tan skin. “Are you a merman?”

“Absolutely not! It’s my gifting as a Guardian to dwell underwater and onshore. No curse necessary.” He winks.

I cringe and wonder if Dion was the right character choice.

Barb McKinley’s thin, penciled eyebrows rise. “Tell me about your story.”

I straighten. “It’s a middle-grade novel about a girl looking for her father who disappears while searching for archaeological evidence of Atlantis. Along the way she meets—”

“Me!” Dion’s voice cuts through the hubbub of the busy room. “Soldier, sidekick, comic relief. I also love whore movies and make a killer moussaka.”

An awkward silence hangs in the air.

Barb McKinley’s eyes bulge. “Did you say whore movies?”

“No, he didn’t!” I grab Dion’s arm. “No, you like horror movies.”

He shakes his head. “Uh-uh.”

Everyone gapes at us.

“Autocorrect strikes again,” someone says.

Heat spreads in my cheeks, but I resist rubbing them.

“It seems you brought a very rough draft.” Barb McKinley side-eyes Dion. “Your character is too crass for middle grade. Besides, I’ve heard similar plotlines. I don’t think your story stands a chance.”

My breath catches. Her words echo what I’ve heard most of my life.

Not good enough.

“Enjoy the conference.” She nods curtly.

Through my tears, I see a storm gather in Dion’s darkening eyes.

“Do not disrespect her,” he growls.

Barb McKinley frowns. “I beg your pardon?”

“Please, Dion,” I beg.

He shoots to his feet, muscles tensed. “Every story starts as a rough draft. You don’t know what Eirini’s capable of. Wrath of the gods, her writing has more heart than you.”

Gasps erupt around us.

“You’re out of line, hologram,” Barb McKinley snaps.

“I’m a Guardian.” Dion lifts his chin. “I protect my own.”

Dion’s words suffocate my shame. I marvel at his boldness. At his defense of me.

He grabs my hand and guides me out to the hallway.

I wipe away my tears. “Thanks for defending me.”

“It’s what I do,” he says. “Sorry if I embarrassed you.”

I sniffle. “Everyone has flaws.”

We chuckle.

“Wait!” A man rushes toward us, waving. “I’m Don Perez. I represent Azure Literary Agency. Believe it or not, most writers I meet revise their characters so they’re more appealing to agents. I can spot the fake ones, but this guy”—he motions to Dion—“he has heart.”

My eyes widen as he hands me a business card.

“If you’re interested, I would like to review your manuscript. After you edit it, of course.”

Dion nudges me, and I nod.

Smiling, Don Perez dips his head and walks away.

“A classic save by deus ex machina.” Dion snorts.

I laugh, hold the card to my chest, and grin at him.

He winks. “See? I told you someone would see your potential.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michala Hampton is an author and daydreamer caught between the worlds she brings to life in her stories and the one called reality. When she’s not writing, Michala is searching for opportunities to satisfy her wanderlust, trying new foods to appease her Hobbit appetite, and gathering inspiration for her stories. She is not-so-patiently waiting for Gandalf to show up at her front door and invite her on an adventure.

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