Dear Secret Agent,
Waking up with wads of gauze wrapped around your head and your mother
crying in the corner is pretty much a crappy way to start the
day—especially when you can’t remember why you’re sporting such
unattractive headwear. As seventeen-year-old Faith Daniels gradually
pieces together the events that landed her on the neurosurgeon’s
table, she becomes haunted by her past. Literally. And there’s nothing
worse than being stalked by a bunch of your dead classmates. Except
perhaps becoming one.
With the help of her psychologist, Faith eventually recalls the
horrific details of the catastrophe that lead to these unexpected and
ghostly class reunions. But when she remembers her brother's
involvement in the deaths of her friends, she must make a
heart-wrenching decision: hide the truth or betray her family.
My young adult novel, PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES, is complete at 55,000 words.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
***
Strange things go through your head when you’re having an MRI. And I’m
not just talking about the electromagnetic currents, although that
certainly does cause a flicker of scientific curiosity. I mean things
like if my hair will grow out right, or if my mother would let me get
my favorite band’s new CD, or who it might be that cleans the insides
of these machines, or if Adam and Eve had belly buttons.
That I’m thinking so clearly at all is a miracle, they tell me. The
number of patients who can function as well as I can after the type of
brain surgery I underwent is not an impressive figure. According to
them anyway. Maybe it’s just my amateur opinion, but when someone goes
poking metal objects into an organ as complicated as a brain, prodding
around in there as if dipping pieces of fruit into a chocolate fondue
pot, I’d be impressed if the person who’d been operated on didn’t come
out of surgery having attained the glorious functioning level of
drooling all over their fecal-stained hospital gown.
Of course, it’s not as if I came out of the operation scot-free. My
recovery has been only partially successful so far. Sometimes I forget
what I’m doing in the middle of doing it. Sometimes I forget names.
But worst of all, I can’t remember ever coming to the hospital to have
brain surgery.
Waking up with wads of gauze wrapped around your head and your mother
crying in the corner is pretty much a crappy way to start the
day—especially when you can’t remember why you’re sporting such
unattractive headwear. As seventeen-year-old Faith Daniels gradually
pieces together the events that landed her on the neurosurgeon’s
table, she becomes haunted by her past. Literally. And there’s nothing
worse than being stalked by a bunch of your dead classmates. Except
perhaps becoming one.
With the help of her psychologist, Faith eventually recalls the
horrific details of the catastrophe that lead to these unexpected and
ghostly class reunions. But when she remembers her brother's
involvement in the deaths of her friends, she must make a
heart-wrenching decision: hide the truth or betray her family.
My young adult novel, PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES, is complete at 55,000 words.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
***
Strange things go through your head when you’re having an MRI. And I’m
not just talking about the electromagnetic currents, although that
certainly does cause a flicker of scientific curiosity. I mean things
like if my hair will grow out right, or if my mother would let me get
my favorite band’s new CD, or who it might be that cleans the insides
of these machines, or if Adam and Eve had belly buttons.
That I’m thinking so clearly at all is a miracle, they tell me. The
number of patients who can function as well as I can after the type of
brain surgery I underwent is not an impressive figure. According to
them anyway. Maybe it’s just my amateur opinion, but when someone goes
poking metal objects into an organ as complicated as a brain, prodding
around in there as if dipping pieces of fruit into a chocolate fondue
pot, I’d be impressed if the person who’d been operated on didn’t come
out of surgery having attained the glorious functioning level of
drooling all over their fecal-stained hospital gown.
Of course, it’s not as if I came out of the operation scot-free. My
recovery has been only partially successful so far. Sometimes I forget
what I’m doing in the middle of doing it. Sometimes I forget names.
But worst of all, I can’t remember ever coming to the hospital to have
brain surgery.
