So first, here's the first page of BITTERSWEET MELODY, my 60k young adult paranormal romance:
One thing I can say for sure is I’m the only muse in history to ever have been grounded. I know this is true because my father told me. Well, more like screamed it at me while gripping the heck out of a lightning bolt, holding it over his head like a maniac. He totally over-reacted, of course. I mean, come on. Revoking my Inspiration License and grounding me for a hundred years? That completely sucks!
Sucks is a word I learned from my sister Calliope. She spends a lot of time with humans and picks up the best phrases. Whenever she comes home from a case she teaches them to me. Calliope’s a lot more fun than my other sisters—and there are many of us, not just three or nine like humans are misled to believe. And the only one who’s ever been suspended from inspiring? That’s right: me. It’s so unfair. My father says I had it coming, but I swear I’m not a trouble maker; I’m just misunderstood.
But that’s all over with now. I’ve served my time and I’m about to get my freedom back. Don’t get me wrong, Mount Olympus
The last step toward my ticket out of here is a meeting with my Inspiration Officer so I can get my license back. That’s where I am now: sitting in his little office of cloud-white walls, rocking back and forth on the hind legs of a rickety chair while I wait for him to show up.
“Good morning, Melody. It’s been a long time.”
And now for the comparison, the first page of PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES, my 60k young adult paranormal:
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.
“Try to keep still, Faith,” the mysterious doctor hidden safely behind the wall of glass says. Good thing he reminded me. I was just about to break out into a merengue to the beat of the knocking sounds the monster of the machine is making. Oh well, maybe later.
“So, how many people have thrown up in this thing?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, Faith. Do you feel nauseous?”
“No.”
“Is there an unpleasant smell?”
“No. Just wondering.”
So there you have it. What do you think?