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
“It’s hopeless,” I moaned to the windowpane.
Rain trickled down outside, like the glass was sobbing sympathetically. A small comfort, but I didn’t really want company in my misery. What I needed was time and inspiration. The window could give neither.
I’d tried using it for inspiration already, but there’s usually a severe lack of windows in dungeon cells.
The doorman of the Marriott Marquis drew the doors, revealing a grand crystal chandelier. I smoothed imaginary wrinkles from my royal blue cocktail dress—a far cry from my shabby barista’s apron.
I tucked a lock of my long, dark hair behind one ear. Just breathe. My black heels clicked unevenly across the threshold
Dear Writers, One of our Havok Hive (what we call our amazing volunteer staff) had this insight as she attended a recent virtual writers’ conference. She was finding the prospect of pitching her manuscript to agents and editors overwhelming. There are times when all of us can use a little perspective, so she agreed to
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