Looking forward to the results next week. It's exciting and daunting at the same time, dangling yourself out there.
Here's my 35-word pitch, exactly 35 words:
"A native man learns his stepfather was murdered and uncovers a plot to resurrect the Ojibwe God of Darkness. He must learn to use his spirit magic and reconcile his heritage to stop this menace."
Re-reading it now, I'm not sure I like the word menace. I liked ancient evil, but I think I needed to trim down the words.
Here's the 3-sentence pitch:
"When a young Métis man with emerging spirit magic powers discovers his stepfather’s murder was covered up, he sets out to find the killer. But there’s a cabal of sorcerers that will stop at nothing to resurrect Malsum, the Ojibwe god of darkness. Can he find his place among a secret society of Medicine Men, learn to control his spirit magic, and reconcile his native heritage in time to stop this ancient evil?"
And lastly, here are the first 250 words of the novel:
"Ashigan didn't fear death, but the thought of those pursuing beasts clawed at his soul.
"Ashigan didn't fear death, but the thought of those pursuing beasts clawed at his soul.
The road was still kilometers away and the river was his only option. The waheela were toying with him, chasing him through the forest, taking turns attacking, and wearing him down. He would have been impressed by their tactics had they not been hunting him.
The river was the first glimmer of hope Ashigan had since they started chasing him from Misajidamoo's hunting camp. Misajidamoo had left an abrupt phone message claiming a pack of these wolf-bear hybrids were stalking him. But Ashigan knew the waheela never ventured south of the Northwest Territories.
Ashigan had dropped by the camp to check in on his fellow Medicine Man and found the waheela waiting for him. He managed to escape, but they followed him. He had spent many fall days with Misajidamoo in these woods hunting deer and bear. Never would he have thought he'd be hunted in these same woods.
Stopping at the edge of the forest, Ashigan leaned against a tall birch tree that overlooked the river. His shallow breaths stung his lungs. Twenty years ago, this pursuit wouldn't have winded him. Now in its sixties, his body conspired against his efforts to flee.
The tree's spirit radiated out through its skeletal limbs that stretched high into the sky. Ashigan touched each of the white birch's thirty-seven winters and felt its deep root system. The tree acknowledged his presence and passed along a portion of its vitality."
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