Nathan Bransford’s Surprisingly Essential First Page Challenge

Oh, Bente… Have I told you lately that I love you? Hmm?

So, yeah. Yesterday I got an email from an Aussie/Canadian friend o’ mine, Bente, regarding a literary agent dude by the name of Bransford. Nathan Bransford. Apparently, said literary agent dude opened a contest looking for up-to-500-word submissions of a person’s manuscript’s first page. Right?! RIGHT?! Dude, I’m SAYING. I mean, limiting myself to 500 words? HARD.

However, hundreds and hundreds of aspiring writers had already bombarded the blog by the time I heard about this contest, so it is fortunate that said literary agent dude had the prescience to solicit the assistance of a co-judge– a non-publishing-industry type by the name of Holly Burns (author of the Nothing But Bonfires blog)– who, incidentally, has a British accent, but not like Gwyneth’s or Madonna’s or Britney’s, but a REAL British accent, having been born English and whatnot.

Wait. What?

Oh! Contest! Shut up. I’m totally focused.

So, without much more than a cursory glimpse at Bransford’s– Nathan Bransford’s– website, I proclaimed him legit, threw caution to the wind, took my chances, threw myself in headfirst, pinned my hopes on a cloud, took the leap, jumped in with both feet, grabbed the bull by the horns and freaking wrassled that sucker to the GROUND… er, okay, I’m out.

I submitted an entry.

Yay! *sarcastic jazz hands*

What can I tell you? I’m a crazy person. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. CRAZY. PERSON.

And now? NOW? Well, I’m all aquiver with anxiety and self-doubt.

So thanks for that, Bente. No, really.

(No, really.)

Take a peek at my 498-word-entry (and feel free to critique) after the cut:

“Ju-u-u-u-u-u-li-et?”

The multi-syllabic question of my name set my teeth on edge, because it was a sure-fire indicator that the speaker sprawled on my passenger seat was completely and spectacularly drunk.

I set my mouth in what I could only assume was a highly unattractive grim line and focused my eyes with hyper-precision on the road ahead.

Relax. Count to ten…

“Aw, c’mon Jules. What about love?”

As God is my witness, when I get home I am going to find out which idiot left a Love Songs of the Eighties CD in my car, and there will be hell to pay. Oh, yes. Heads will roll.

We rolled along the highway on the outskirts of town, approaching Ferndale. As we crested a hill, the Ferndale skyline appeared in the valley below, the bright lights of the city illuminating the sky.

Ignore him, I scolded myself as I consciously eased my grip on the steering wheel. Just concentrate on getting Dean and the Wilson sisters home in one piece. I set my eyes straight ahead again, resolved not to let Dean or his questionable taste in music affect me.

Sporadic giggles and a few slurred “What about love, love, love, yeah’s!” later, I couldn’t take it anymore, resolve be damned. The eighties love songs were going down.

“No more music for you,” I singsonged as I reached to flip off the power. One of Dean’s hands dodged and snaked stealthily around mine to—oh lord, no—crank up the volume, while the other caught my hand midway to the radio knob.

I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was surprisingly strong. Honestly, I can barely walk a straight line after two beers, yet Dean was somehow more coordinated after an evening spent keg-standing and smoking pot. In what universe is that fair?

“Dean!” I said in a no-nonsense voice. “Let. GO.”

Then… oh, he did not just squeeze my hand.

Except he absolutely did.

Alarmed, I jerked my hand from his, which in retrospect was not the smartest choice as the abrupt move resulted in my car swerving dangerously close to the median. The near-collision was just enough to startle him into letting go, however, so I convinced myself it was worth it. Willing my heart to find its way out of my stomach, I reached toward the radio knob again, but quick as lightening Mr. Handsy McDrunkenpants swatted my hand away.

That was the final straw.

I swatted back, then the two of us fell into a bit of undignified girly hand-slapping, which was all the more embarrassing when Dean actually won the battle. Clearly, I could have taken him if keeping my eyes on the road weren’t such a high priority, and if I had been able to use two hands instead of just one. Safety first, that’s all I’m saying.

“Damn the eighties,” I muttered as Dean leaned back and happily hummed along with the music. This was going to be a long drive.

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