Hello, Blogosphere, and good morning.
In less than twenty-four hours, I will have sent out a query letter.
THE query letter.
The query letter which will be sent to an agent, imploring her to please-oh-please take my novel on and, hopefully, get it published.
So, in that spirit, here’s an Inspiration Monday concerning a certain concept that has been a driving force behind this book–the foster care system. The prompt for this week was Psychic Paper.
* * * * *
She skimmed over the paper, wishing she had saved a mint or two to deal with the coffee aftertaste.
Destinee Farwell–14 years old–5’3–117 lbs–brown hair–green eyes
She sighed, skipping past the menial bits and flipping a few pages to the real, meaty parts of it.
Parents arrested 1:41 A.M., August 29, 2014 on charges of child abuse. Child was found tied to a bedpost, and later reported having been confined as such for the two days prior with limited water and no access to food. Under questioning, parents stated the imprisonment had been as a result of missed curfew, a repeated offense, leading investigators to believe this was not an isolated incident. Child has been assigned a case worker and will proceed into State care and temporary housing.
The woman put aside the papers, pushing other documents and pens and paper away from the center of her desk.
She chewed on the end of her pen. Noted, yet again, that she should really stop doing that, what with the chemicals and all.
The knock came at her door.
She did, all fourteen years and 117 pounds and five-feet-three-ounces of her. All the numbers, And the green eyes, the biting, piercing, ice-cold green eyes, the eyes that positively dripped with venom. The eyes that, the woman knew, would have been much happier living out the rest of her childhood chained to a bedpost than having to go through the ordeal before them.
The woman knew before she even talked to the girl what she would get as a response. The short little sentences, the eventual outburst about leaving-well-enough-alone, the huffiness as she was told where she would be living. Because the woman would have to do it like that, have to tell this one rather than working with her. But the ultimate goal was survival, not creature comforts, and as such the woman would have to carry on with the proceedings.
And the woman knew, too, what awaited the girl. The foster parents were good, but not quite good enough, not good enough to shake her out of the anger, or the fear that would eventually overtake her, the loneliness, the depression. Not good enough to stop her from that first sip of vodka a year later, the first time she looked at the knife and realized that it could make things okay. Not good enough to keep her from running away two months after.
Not good enough that anyone, ever, would see her again.
And as Destinee Farwell walked into her office the woman knew there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to prevent that.
* * * * *
May you remain existential,