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Title: Welcome to Springfield: An American Walkabout Author: John Smith Manuscript Length: 105000 Summary Description: At 25 years old, the author found himself drifting into a lukewarm life, tediously working in a high-tech/dead-end job, driving a wimpy commuter car, nearly engaged to the wrong girlfriend, living in a decaying house, and worst of all, utterly unchallenged by life. Answering a direct challenge from God to do something, he quit his job, sold his car, broke up with his girlfriend, moved out of his house and bought a rusty old van to drive around the country. He pressed the RESET button of life before it was too late. His odd plan would take him to each Springfield in the United States, where he carefully and respectfully investigated each city and its residents. The author was often invited to stay in the home of a Springfield resident, where he witnessed firsthand a wide array of American life. When unable to stay in Springfield homes, the author camped in backyards, front yards, barnyards, graveyards, junkyards, national parks, alleyways, abandoned shacks, sand dunes, and other interesting places. He would meet heroes and villains in both biker bars and church revival meetings. He would establish lifelong friendships and lose a dear companion along the way. His journey would bring him face-to-face with his own greatest fears and reveal a series of startling, wonderful truths. Meticulously researched and mapped, the project took over six months and 19,000 miles to complete. The author interviewed 34 people on a wide range of American life -- their beliefs, customs, habits, places of refuge, and occasionally the deepest secrets that only perfect strangers can trade in confidence. The result is a unique blend of Americana, a humorous and touching snapshot of the nation's spiritual pulse. AUTHOR PROFILE: Author's Name: John Smith Email Address: johnsmith@booksandmanuscripts.com Address: 123 West Main Street Springfield, OR, 97000 Phone Number: 503-555-1234 Fax Number: Previous Publications: no Present Occupation: Writer, Traveler Educational Background: BA English Literature, Any City College (now Any City University). Additional Bio: I like traveling, except when I play basketball. MANUSCRIPT BLURB: This is a series of short stories taking place in each of the USA's towns named Springfield. MANUSCRIPT OUTLINE: Welcome to Springfield: An American Walkabout PROLOGUE: At the Shore of the Red Sea Part I: Little Red Balloons Chapter 1. You're Either In or You're Out Chapter 2. Bethel A/G (the thump-thump story). Springfield, Oregon Chapter 3. Finding Springfield, California Chapter 4. Theoguments: Turtles in the Desert, Catholicism, Eternal Security, and Other Oddities. Joshua Tree National Park, California Chapter 5. Jornada de Muerta, Las Vegas, Nevada Chapter 6. Americans Did This, Gila River Indian Reservation, Arizona Part II: The Long Stretch of Shadows in the Flatlands Chapter 7. Poe Ballard, Prairie Artist, Springfield, Colorado Chapter 8. Duke Kelly and the Buzzin' Dozen, Springfield, Missouri Chapter 9. Speaking in Tongues, Springfield, Missouri Chapter 10. Ain't no libary 'round heah, Springfield, Arkansas Chapter 11. Lee Harvey Oswald's Perspective, Dallas, Texas Chapter 12. Little Girl Kidnapped Twice, Springfield, Texas Part III: Strangers and Secrets Chapter 13. The Last Slave of Springfield, Springfield Plantation, Mississippi Chapter 14. Mistakes in the Bayou, Springfield, Louisiana Chapter 15. Spring Break is Off the Hook Yo, Springfield, Florida Chapter 16. We're Just a Bedroom Community, Springfield, Alabama Chapter 17. Ski and the Twelve Chicks, Atlanta, Georgia Chapter 18. The Play at the Plate, Springfield, Georgia Part IV: Hopes and Dreams in Tobacco Country Chapter 19. The Country Music Star, Springfield, South Carolina Chapter 20. The Springfield Where Nothing Happened, Springfield, North Carolina Chapter 21. A Dream Deferred is Dashed, Nashville, Tennessee Chapter 22. Plantations and the Piggly Wiggly Parking Lot, Springfield, Tennessee Chapter 23. Scooby's Gonna Be a Famous Dog, Springfield, Indiana Part V: The Hound in Hot Pursuit Chapter 24. Down the Arches of the Years, Springfield, Kentucky Chapter 25. Standing Like a Stone Wall, Springfield, West Virginia Chapter 26. It Is, Well, With My Soul, Springfield, Virginia Chapter 27. There is a Springfield in Maryland Chapter 28. Death of the Springfield Project, Springfield, Pennsylvania Part VI: And Why Are You Confused? There is No Third Road Chapter 29. Under Suspicion in Springfield, New Jersey Chapter 30. Cinco de Mayo in Springfield, Massachusetts Chapter 31. We Need a Revolution, Springfield, Maine Chapter 32. Live Free or Die, Sucka! Springfield, New Hampshire Chapter 33. 'Oregon Visitor Rates Vermont Machine Town Tops,' Springfield, Vermont Part VII: Pleas and Thank Yous Chapter 34. The Fight Against a Lukewarm Life, Springfield, New York Chapter 35. Taking on the Rich Young Rulers, Springfield, Ohio Chapter 36. Surrounded by Cereal City, Springfield, Michigan Chapter 37. The Greenest City in America, Springfield, Wisconsin Chapter 38. The Land of Lincoln, Springfield, Illinois Chapter 39. Hiding Under a Bushel, Springfield, Nebraska Part VIII: Heritage and Heretics Chapter 40. The Bridge From Nowhere to Nowhere; Springfield, South Dakota Chapter 41. Take Me With You, Springfield, Minnesota Chapter 40. Heritage Points, Lignite, North Dakota Chapter 42. An Intervention on the Farm, Conrad, Montana Chapter 43. He Must Have Loved That Stupid Dog, Yellowstone, Wyoming Chapter 44. The Most Amazing Fishing Hole, Springfield, Idaho Chapter 45. The Loneliest Road in America, Brothers, Oregon Part IX. Epilogue Part X. Notes WRITING SAMPLE: CHAPTER 2 (part a) Bethel Assembly of God, Springfield, Oregon Don't ask me if I'm religious. I would say no, even if I were religious. First, I hate the term. It is the fastest way to get pigeonholed by people who have no or little faith. If they hear you mention God or Jesus or church, they wrinkle their faces and say, "Oh, are you, like, religious?" What they mean is, "So, you're retarded?" Second, the term represents everything I don't like about spiritual fluff. Most religious people would rather be called Believers, or Followers of Christ, or even Seekers. It's faith, we say proudly, not organized religion. People don't rail against Organized Faith, but they sure do hate Organized Religion. But any religion, if it's a religion at all, has some organization to it. The freewheeling, anything-goes, all-roads-to-heaven stuff is worse than heavy-handed orthodoxy that focuses on tradition and ceremony. At least religious people believe something consistently. I love to love Jesus. Most people don't have a problem with that. People look skyward and say with confidence, "Oh yeah, Jesus, he's the man." Many self-professing believers will claim a close relationship with Christ, even when they keep on lying, keep on stealing, keep on devouring. The thing is, Jesus asks a whole lot from you if you're going to follow him. In fact, he asks you to come and die with him. It's worse for me because I know this firsthand and yet I waffle with it. I love myself very much, and that's the main problem. True Christian faith requires putting your old self to death, and raising a new self in Christ. The new self has nothing to do with the old self or its love affair with the world. But I still like my old self; I worked hard at making a really good person. I believe in learning from my old mistakes and growing through them. I wanted to experience everything the world has to offer first so I could turn my back on it and warn others not to sin like I have. That's absolutely ridiculous, and I know it. But I can't help myself. Somewhere in the depths of my soul I believe that my "trials and tribulations" (read: wild times easily forgiven later) are actually vital to healthy spiritual growth because I will know of the dangers personally, therefore becoming a better witness against the very sins I committed (and yes, even enjoyed). I remember reading St Augustine's famous words: "Make me chaste, Lord, but just not yet!" and immediately recognizing the feeling. It must be terribly easy for married people to look back over the single fence and rebuke those people living in sexual sin. Beware the judgment factor, oh ye who have since turned your back on sin. Beware the quiet moments when you relive the sin, not with shame, but with silent satisfaction. It's so easy to achieve when grace is cheap. And there's my dilemma -- I know grace isn't cheap but I revel in receiving it. The real battle is claiming the expensive grace, because it costs you your life. * * * * * * * This is what I was thinking as I stood in the Bethel Assembly of God church in Springfield, Oregon. This is the same small church that my parents pastored twenty-five years ago as a young married couple with three small children. The Sunday night service is sparsely populated, and we are singing "The Old Rugged Cross." I was trying to fight off the Sunday Night Blues, even though I had nothing to do the next day. Every churchgoing child remembers this familiar feeling; it crept into our hearts like a demonic spirit around 4pm. It's enough that we attended Sunday School and regular Sunday Service; we also had to stop playing whiffle ball to get dressed again to endure the worst part of our week. Not only was Monday morning and its horrors closing in quickly -- we had to spend two more hours in church. My father is a large man with a booming voice, and I remember many of his sermons, like the one on Romans 12, which admonishes believers to "present your bodies a living sacrifice; holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service." I had no clue what this really meant, except that the rest of the congregation should get their act in order, and fast. I was still whistle-clean -- a perfect living sacrifice. We lived in a small house on the corner of 17th Street. We had a chain-smoking neighbor named Ronald Hodges, whose daughter was a devoted attendee of our church, but Ronald wouldn't darken the doorway of a church even if fire and brimstone rained down on his duplex and the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse camped out on his lawn. He liked to golf, though, and my father would go with him occasionally. Ronald laid down the limits of their relationship early, stating, "I enjoy golfing with you, Bill, but I'm not coming to your church." "Fair enough," my dad said. Ronald was helping to raise his 9 year-old grandson, who had a history of lighting fires and acting out in strange ways. The child once spread three full cans of new paint all over their tiny lawn and then played slip-n-slide in the mess. One of my earliest memories was watching my brothers running into the house, nervously laughing about what was happening next door. I walked out of the house to see Ronald lifting his grandson off the ground by the arm, cursing. One day, as my father and Ronald were finishing a round at the tiny 9-hole McKenzie River Golf Course, Ronald said, "Oh, I guess I'll come to your church, if you?ll stop bugging me about it." My dad laughed and encouraged him to come. "There are a lot of great people in our fellowship, Ronald. We'd love to have you." The next Sunday, Ronald entered the foyer, nervously fidgeting and looking slightly out of place in his dirty blue jeans and cowboy boots. One of the deacons assigned to greet the flock approached Ronald and welcomed him with a hearty handshake. Then he noticed a pack of cigarettes in Ronald's shirt pocket and reached up and flicked them with his finger: thump, thump. He said, "We don't smoke them things in here, friend." Ronald turned on his heels and left, and he never came back. When my father found out about it, he was livid. He called the deacon into his office and they had a ten-minute screaming match. The deacon held his ground, saying he wasn't trying to be offensive, just honest. My father couldn't believe one of his deacons would behave so insensitively and wanted him to apologize to our neighbor. The deacon refused, and an eternal impasse was born. * * * * * * * I stood in the back of my parents' old church and seethed with anger. It's people like that, I thought, who will tumble into hell, baffled at where they went wrong. An old gray-haired lady stood in the same pew as I, warbling along to "Great is Thy Faithfulness," and I wondered where she was on the day Ronald cemented his hatred of Christians and their self-righteousness. I felt like standing up in front of them all and rebuking them like Jesus did to the money-changers in the Temple. Then the pastor, a stocky ex-marine with a barrel chest and a bad tie, stood up and greeted the congregation. He asked everyone to greet each with the love of Christ. In my experience, this usually meant turning to your little brother and saying, "You sing like a girl." The old gray-haired lady tottered over to me and offered both her hands. I took them in mine and whispered a hello. She grinned and peered at me through her thick glasses. "God bless you son," she said shakily. "Are you new here?" I almost replied that my parents used to pastor her church, that I was a healthy Believer, thank you very much, and not to waste any prayers on an already converted soul. Instead, I nodded that I was. "Well Jesus just loves you so much," she said. "And I'm just tickled to death that you would come visit our little congregation here tonight." The pastor had started to talk again, something about the upcoming Vacation Bible School, but the old lady kept at it. "What's your name?" she asked, still holding my hand. "John," I said quietly, and I felt very small. My hatred had evaporated. "Oh, that's just a wonderful name, now, isn't it?" she cried, patting my arm. "My name is Evelyn. Would you mind if I sat with you? Usually I have a friend or two here with me but they must not be feeling too well." I indicated that it would be fine to have the company. We sat down when the rest of the people did and Evelyn shivered and drew her shawl tightly around her shoulders. The pastor launched into his sermon but I wasn't listening. I felt like Judas. So this was the congregation I felt like scolding for an act of insensitivity twenty years earlier? Evelyn smiled at me often during the sermon. I smiled back, in the same way you smile to old ladies when you hold a door open for them at Safeway, but I wanted to leave the church as soon as possible. I felt like a spotlight was on the back of my head; that Jesus himself stood in the dimly lit foyer, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. I was the one who was earning a fantastic tumble into hell, totally clueless as to how my sins had ensnared me. Enough; this isn't about me, I thought. Like hell it isn't, came the voice. It's all about you. It always has been. The sermon wasn't quite over, but I excused myself to Evelyn and sneaked into the foyer. It was a relief to push open the doors and slip into the cool black evening. |
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