Query and First 250 Words

Query:

Dear Mr./Ms. XXXX,

Fifteen year old Rosemary has arrived in Nice, France, with one goal in mind:  to escape the strict confinement of her former life and carve out a place for herself as a new member of the host family she’s purposefully selected.   Her mother believes Rosemary is in Arizona, while her best friend thinks she’s in Paris.  Her host parents think she came to study art and learn the French language.  Only Rosemary knows the truth.  Once summer ends, she has no intention of returning home. 

Rosemary soon finds that living her carefully crafted new life is harder than she ever thought, as she tries to hide her lack of artistic talent and the one thing about herself she hates the most: the communication disorder that keeps her from speaking clearly.  While dealing with her far-too perceptive host mother and a guy who can’t seem to leave her alone as she juggles her many lies, Rosemary soon uncovers secrets that threaten to destroy her only chance for success.  She is so desperate not to expose who she really is that she may tell the biggest lie of all to stay, even if that lie could destroy the life of someone who cares for her.

My contemporary young-adult novel, The French Impressionist, is complete at 60,000 words.  I have been a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators since 2009.  I’ve been a speech-language pathologist for thirteen years, a profession that continues to increase my love for children’s literature.

I appreciate your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Bischoff

 

 

First 250 Words:

 

 

THE FRENCH IMPRESSIONIST

by Rebecca Bischoff

 

CHAPTER ONE

I’m here because I lied. 

I know it was wrong.  My heart stings inside me; but I don’t care.  I got away.  I’m the only fifteen year-old I know who has never been alone with a friend.  I’ve never been to the mall, never been on a date, never walked half a block by myself.  But all that is about to change, thanks to my lie.

The world is no longer black and white.  Outside is a crayon box-full of colors; with the blues melting together into a perfect painting of sea and sky.   Through the open shop door I smell the freshness of the orange and bergamot trees that quiver outside in the soft Mediterranean breeze, along with the scents of hot sun on sand, salty ocean, and a puff of sweet vanilla air exhaled from a nearby bakery.   A tram whirs by and clangs its bell.  Voices pass the shop, murmuring in the unfamiliar cadences of a foreign language, leaving behind a cloud of gentle laughter.  I start to laugh, too.  I take in my freedom like a drowning person gulps the air.  No matter how many more half-truths or fibs I have to tell, or how much bold-faced BS I have to spew, I’ll do it. 

I won’t go back home.