Background came from this design.
Genre: Upmarket Fiction
Word Count: 100,000
Pitch:
With a talent for self sabotage, the charming but aimless Max gets himself hired, fired, and evicted in quick succession. While waiting in line at a fast-food drive-thru, the twenty-nine-year-old is carjacked at gunpoint. Forced on a weekend-long journey with this stranger, an older rounder, more desperate version of himself, Max walks away with a black eye, a crush on a feisty bartender, and the truth that the unfazed grin he’s been honing hasn’t been fooling anyone, least of all himself.
First 250:
"You gotta go, Bro." Scott's hand was on the door jamb blocking Max Walker's entry to the one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment the two had shared for the past year — and shared intimately. The shotgun layout didn't allow for much privacy.
Through the doorway currently being obstructed by Scott's armpit was the living room with the futon that was Max's bed. At the opposite end of the apartment was Scott's bedroom, roughly equal in size to where Max slept. That Scott's bedroom had a door and the only bathroom wasn't a source of conflict until Scott's new girlfriend arrived. She resolved things by discovering the bedroom door had a lock, which Scott never used, but she did. Often.
Fortunately, the flirtatious repartee Max had cultivated with the barista at the café on the corner had rendered the "customers only" bathroom always open to him. Problem solved.
Max shifted his grocery bag to his other hand. His six-foot-two height allowed him to see over Scott's head and into the galley kitchen. There she was. Tara. The girlfriend. She was leaning against the short fridge with her arms folded across her chest. Though Tara's was not an unusual position in Max's presence, Scott's was.
Stifling Max's sense of humor around tension was like trying to stop a sneeze. "Guess I should be grateful you're 'sexiling' me in person instead of using that ratty wool hat," Max said.
Maybe the nod to their shared history would lower the gate that was Scott's arm.
With a talent for self sabotage, the charming but aimless Max gets himself hired, fired, and evicted in quick succession. While waiting in line at a fast-food drive-thru, the twenty-nine-year-old is carjacked at gunpoint. Forced on a weekend-long journey with this stranger, an older rounder, more desperate version of himself, Max walks away with a black eye, a crush on a feisty bartender, and the truth that the unfazed grin he’s been honing hasn’t been fooling anyone, least of all himself.
First 250:
"You gotta go, Bro." Scott's hand was on the door jamb blocking Max Walker's entry to the one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment the two had shared for the past year — and shared intimately. The shotgun layout didn't allow for much privacy.
Through the doorway currently being obstructed by Scott's armpit was the living room with the futon that was Max's bed. At the opposite end of the apartment was Scott's bedroom, roughly equal in size to where Max slept. That Scott's bedroom had a door and the only bathroom wasn't a source of conflict until Scott's new girlfriend arrived. She resolved things by discovering the bedroom door had a lock, which Scott never used, but she did. Often.
Fortunately, the flirtatious repartee Max had cultivated with the barista at the café on the corner had rendered the "customers only" bathroom always open to him. Problem solved.
Max shifted his grocery bag to his other hand. His six-foot-two height allowed him to see over Scott's head and into the galley kitchen. There she was. Tara. The girlfriend. She was leaning against the short fridge with her arms folded across her chest. Though Tara's was not an unusual position in Max's presence, Scott's was.
Stifling Max's sense of humor around tension was like trying to stop a sneeze. "Guess I should be grateful you're 'sexiling' me in person instead of using that ratty wool hat," Max said.
Maybe the nod to their shared history would lower the gate that was Scott's arm.
