Last week was so exciting for me. I queried agents and FOUND an amazing agent in the span of about six days. Total whirlwind. Last night I signed the contract, and today I put it in the mail, so now I can officially tell you all.

*drumroll*

I am now represented by Sarah Davies, of The Greenhouse Agency. Sarah is also the agent for fellow muse, Talia Vance. We have featured her before here on Follow Friday, but many of you have joined us since that last post.

So check out The Greenhouse and follow Sarah on Twitter @sarahgreenhouse.

Interrupting this week's writing prompt theme to make a giveaway announcement!  On Tuesday, June 7, I will be interviewing author extraordinaire Tara Hudson on the Apocalypsies blog.  Tara's debut YA novel, HEREAFTER will be on bookstore shelves that day.  Here's a taste:

Can there truly be love after death?

Drifting in the dark waters of a mysterious river, the only thing Amelia knows for sure is that she's dead. With no recollection of her past life—or her actual death—she's trapped alone in a nightmarish existence. All of this changes when she tries to rescue a boy, Joshua, from drowning in her river. As a ghost, she can do nothing but will him to live. Yet in an unforgettable moment of connection, she helps him survive.

Amelia and Joshua grow ever closer as they begin to uncover the strange circumstances of her death and the secrets of the dark river that held her captive for so long. But even while they struggle to keep their bond hidden from the living world, a frightening spirit named Eli is doing everything in his power to destroy their newfound happiness and drag Amelia back into the ghost world . . . forever.

-- from Goodreads

Now, Tara is not only a talented writer, she is also a generous one.  And she has sent me a signed ARC of HEREAFTER to give away here on the YA Muses blog.  

To be eligible, just comment  here or on any of our posts AND/OR Tweet about us or Tara using the @yamuses mention (so we can see it!) before Tuesday, May 31st, when I will announce the recipient at the end of my usual post.

This contest is open internationally.

This week we're doing a writing exercise based on the following writing prompt:

At a used book sale, you purchase a leather-bound volume.  At home, you thumb through the pages and an old letter tumbles out.  What does the letter say?  Write the letter.

Writing prompts are great ways to exercise your creative muscles.  It's fun to start writing and see what comes out when you take away the pressures of writing for publication.  I look at writing prompts as a chance to exercise the purely instinctive, creative side of the brain.  Admittedly, any thing we write here is going to be more filtered, because we know that someone is going to see it, but I think writing prompts like this one can be a great story starter, a way of introducing yourself to themes or subjects that are hovering right on the tip of your subconscious.  So go ahead, try it.  Leave a comment with an impromptu paragraph or two, or just do it on your own. Who is your letter from?  Who is it to?  Who left in the book- the sender or the recipient?  Does it matter?

San Diego, CA- June 1988

Craig,

I should say something.

I know this letter is the closest I'll ever come to saying it, but even now, I'm not sure if I'll ever give it to you.  If you're reading this it means I've done the bravest and dumbest thing I'll ever do in my entire life.  That, or you're snooping in my things where you don't belong.

Or do you? Because if you're snooping and you found this, it means you're in my room, and if you're in my room, then maybe it's because you actually belong here.  Maybe I told you after all.  Maybe it means something.

My timing is screwed, I know.  It's not like you even think about me anymore.  You think about her.  It's okay, I get it.  It's not like I expected you to spend the rest of your life pining for me. Or maybe I did.  Can you blame me? 

By tomorrow night it won't matter.  I'll smile and hug you and wish you well, and then I'll pelt you with handfuls of dried rice.  You'll laugh and scoop some off the ground and throw it back at me, and when our eyes meet there will be that spark of something that makes my stomach do a little flip.  But then you'll turn that smile on her, and I'll remember that spark isn't meant for me at all.

Or is it?

I guess we'll never know.

Unless I say something.

Mark

This week we take a little break from all the conference prep, contests, synopsis writing, querying, and plotting to write something JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT. We invite you to join us in a little writing exercise because sometimes we all need to remember that joy of creating with no strings or pressure attached. Each of the Muses will respond to the same writing prompt below. Please feel free to join in and post your responses here. I think we'll all be amazed at the different perspectives to the exact same prompt. Enjoy!

At a used book sale, you purchase a leather-bound volume. At home, you thumb through the pages and an old letter tumbles out.


What does it say? Write the letter.

Lake Jackson
May 30, 1912

Dear Sheriff Danville,

I know who killed Greenville Jackson. I know as sure as I saw his body fall dead into the lake last Friday evening. The moon was just rising when I came upon them arguing in the woods. They were carrying on something fierce, and I was right surprised, because I couldn't think why Greenville Jackson would be down here by the lake at this time of night. It was almost time for dinner up at that big white house of his and nobody should have been on this path. I crouched down behind a mulberry bush and waited. If I waited long enough, I thought, they would surely head on back up the hill. But they just got louder and louder and then it happened.

I didn't even see the gun at first, but then the moon hit it just right. I clapped my hand over my mouth hard to keep any sound from escaping. My heart was right up into my throat and pouding so hard I was sure they were bound to hear. Greenville saw the gun the same time I did, because he started to change the way he was talking. He kept saying he was sorry, but it didn't matter. It was too late to matter. The gun went off and in that flash of light I saw the murderer as clear as day. I couldn't move and I couldn't scream. I just stared, even though I didn't want to see. And then I saw that murderer throw the gun down on the dirt and run back up toward the house. But the thing I remember most, was Greenville Jackson's dying eyes staring right into mine as he fell back into the swampy waters of Jackson Lake.

I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell everyone. But all I did was watch. Watch as you carried an innocent man off to jail. I should have been shouting out to everyone that would listen, “I know William Wood Jackson did not kill his brother.” But I didn’t say anything. I can never say anything.

A Witness