Or what I want to call the, “Hook ‘em Dano!” Competition!
Hey all! Last week we talked about what makes a great HOOK – using the SHARP elements (Stakes, Hero/Heroine Identification/Anchoring/on the Run/Problem or Story Question.)
I hope you’ve been honing all your hooks last week – if not, head over to Voices, and Rachel has started a HOOK discussion loop to post our hooks and work on them.
THEN, when you’re ready, post your entry HOOK here, in the comments section. Deadline is SUNDAY at Midnight. You can enter as many different HOOKS as you’d like. (But only once per hook!)
FYI: A hook consists of the first sentence, or the first FIVE sentences of the first paragraph, whatever is stronger. We (as in the MBT team, as well as a select group of published authors and editors) will be judging on the SHARP elements, as well as simply the HOOK factor. (ie: what makes us jump in and want to read the story, now!)
The winner will receive a $25 gift certificate to Amazon.com (to buy writing books, of course!)
The WINNER, and five runner ups (who will probably get something cool, too, we just haven’t decided what that will be yet) will be announced and showcased on MONDAY, March 24th HERE at MBT.
LET THE “Hook ‘em Dano!” Competition begin!
Comments 27
Nobody’s entered yet. I hesitate to enter mine since I already used it several times here. Maybe I’ll look at an old WIP and work on the SHARP elements.
Okay, got a question. You say a hook is one to three sentences, but in your HOOK EM example you have many more sentences to show your SHARP. I’m assuming the first three is a hard rule, I just wanted to clarify since it seems impossible to get all the SHARP elements in those three sentences.
oh, that’s a really good point, Gina. Okay — because I used 5 lines, we’ll do the first FIVE sentences. *g*
and, because I a VOICE too, here’s my current wip hook:
There are some men who should have the word “Trouble” tattooed on their foreheads. These are the men whose desperado smile can turn a girl’s common sense to liquid, sweeten dangerous words into syrup, and cajole her into climbing onto the back of his black as night Kawasaki and disappearing into the wind.
It might a lifetime for a girl to find her way back home.
Boone Buckam was such a boy, and he turned his blue-eyed aim on PJ Sugar during their junior year of high school, striking true and scouring out wounds that could still make her gasp, ten year later.
Especially ten years later — because, standing barefoot in the Kellogg town jail, PJ knew she would never escape Trouble.
Here’s mine from my WIP, The Dark Room (suspense)
Dingy white tiles blurred past the windows as the rhythmic hum of the subway drowned out Michael Versaci’s inner voice. Warnings, once clear and tangible, drifted away in a sea of white noise.
Michael rolled his shoulders, releasing the tension he had carried for days. Why had he been afraid to return to Manhattan? It all seemed ridiculous now.
And my momlit: Making the Grade
I read somewhere that homeschooling brought families closer together while allowing the children to explore their individuality in a safe and nurturing environment. Whoever said that must have been high, on Elmer’s Glue.
The smell of nail polish remover wafted toward the quiet room, previously known as the formal living room, where I sat nursing six-month-old Timmy. Who needed a formal living room? There was nothing formal about the Campbell family with piles of laundry strewn through the house and dishes piled to kingdom come.
Riley Waters stared at her hands, clasped knuckle-white on her black linen dress as she sat, waiting her turn to speak. Why had she felt the need to follow any fashion protocol and wear black at her dear friend’s funeral? Miss Velma would have dressed in yellow or a bold floral pattern, given the choice. Lifting one hand, Riley fingered the strand of creamy pearls she wore, given to her by Velma McCracken. If only she could hold onto the lightness, the brightness of Velma’s life–otherwise, without her, Riley was afraid her own life would revert back to blackness…just like her dress.
Riley Waters stared at her hands, clasped knuckle-white on her black linen dress as she sat, waiting her turn to speak. Why had she felt the need to follow any fashion protocol and wear black at her dear friend’s funeral? Miss Velma would have dressed in yellow or a bold floral pattern, given the choice. Lifting one hand, Riley fingered the strand of creamy pearls she wore, given to her by Velma McCracken. If only she could hold onto the lightness, the brightness of Velma’s life–otherwise, without her, Riley was afraid her own life would revert back to blackness…just like her dress.
Life is a series of choices—beginning with simple ones like choosing to stop sucking your thumb, to choosing which boy to smile at in fifth grade and eventually choosing how many children to bear. Some choices should never have to be made. At my baby-boomer age of fifty-three, I shouldn’t be forced to choose between watching my eighty-four year-old father die in a nursing home or my seventy-eight year-old mother die from caring for him.Two years ago, my mother made the difficult decision to place my father in a nursing home after he fell into a confused state. With over fifteen physical conditions and a diagnosis of dementia, he was certain to spend the remainder of his life in a stranger’s care. But in three days, my father is leaving the facility to return to the home he insists is his alone. Instead of preparing for his homecoming—I’m helping my mother leave him.
If pride comes before a fall like her mama always said, Scarlet prayed her daddy’s was coming soon. If it didn’t, Scarlet wasn’t sure she’d be alive to see where he took them next. Heck, another three days stuck in his rig, Daddy might not make it to the next stop. If truth be told, Scarlet wished he’d leave her behind in this God-forsaken junkyard too. But more mileage, more road, meant one more chance they’d find Mama.
A scream erupts from the abyss of my soul and echoes through the canyon walls until all that remains is a gutteral groan. I collapse in a heap onto the cold granite rock that juts out like a diving board over the gorge below. Icy drizzle baptizes my head and dribbles into a puddle around my huddled mass.
“What do you mean, ‘She’s dead?'” Sarah pressed the phone closer to her ear.
“You heard me–dead–like not living. Thank God.” Josie told her sister.
“Don’t be so hateful. She was our mother.”
“Mother? Are you kidding? She didn’t know what the word mother meant.”
A whimper slipped from her lips. Words began to form into a whispered chant, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m…” then faded into silence.
Lydia knelt, as if in prayer, on the hardwood floor. He slender fingers caressed the tuft of blond down on the baby’s head. Embracing the lifeless body, she clutched it to her breast.
“Sawyer! Sawyer! No! No! Sawyer, help
me! Please help me! Sawyer! No! No!” Dani screamed
“Freckles! It’s all right honey, I’m here!” Sawyer shouted
in his cell phone as he listened to Dani screaming for him in the background
“No! No! Sawyer! No!” Dani
shouted, trying to be heard over the summer thunder storm raging on around them, when she saw the look in his bright azure eyes. “Don’t even think about it, Sawyer! You fight!” But he was giving up. She watched as Sawyer loosened his grip around their captors slick neck, letting him go.
“Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.” I hated that saying …especially since it described me. By the tenth grade, I’d gained the reputation of being the shyest girl in our class. If a boy even glanced my way, I wilted in my chair like week-old flowers.
As my sixteenth birthday approached, I prayed for my status to change like the leaves at fall. Girls I’d hung with for years now dated and ran in different social groups. A whole new league formed while I sat on the bench. I’d give anything for a boy to ask me to a football game or even walk me home after school. Instead, they asked me to help them finish their homework.
C’mon Zoe, don’t stop now. You can’t fight what you refuse to see.
Years of arduous therapy spurred her on. She chose a charcoal highlighter from her canvas case. The man sat at the front of the railroad car facing her, hat pulled low, the newspaper a mere prop in his hands. Zoe Turner slid her finger down the page of her sketchbook, her skin smudging colored lines on the textured rag. The tip of the charcoal pencil trembled in her hand and she pressed harder.
Rachel Hill reduced the volume of the music flowing through her headset from the waistbelt MP3 player. With a resigned sigh, she flicked off the power and cheered with the rest of the crowd. Silly of her to think she could do anything but concentrate on the event. This Rapid City crowd sure loved their rodeo.
So did she. Even at twenty-eight years old, rodeo events still sent her blood racing.
“Oh Lord, help us!”
Diana Woodmore ignored Rita and cranked the steering wheel hard sending the rear of her vintage pickup truck into a spin. With her back wheel angled down in the ditch, the vehicle slid sideways along the embankment until a charred tree stump in their path caught her front bumper and stopped the entire truck from skidding down the hillside.
“Cool, Mom! This is better than camp any day.” Jason Woodmore wiggled beside her in true nine-year-old fashion and peered over the dashboard. “Look! Smoke and everything!”
I felt nothing as I sighted my M-4 rifle on a distant point and maintained position, despite getting sandblasted by a putrid desert wind. Or maybe I felt too much to acknowledge any of it. Only two days into my deployment, and already everything inside had locked down. It wasn’t the mission; I knew I was on the right side. But a fierce evil lurked in every corner and culvert, whispering that if I couldn’t defeat it, I would be forced to join it.
The cold salt air did little to cool Kendra’s aching rage, but gave her an excuse to hide her face from passersby as she hurried away from Sea Otter Cove’s police station. She shivered without her scarf, but there was no way she was going back for it after Chief Davison treated her concern about Mallory’s home with criminal injustice.
Twenty-five years ago, a drunk cop had made Kendra an orphan at age ten, and although she’d eventually eked out a decent moral respect for the law, the FBI’s failure to pursue the people who’d arranged her husband’s murder ripped the heart out of that respect last month. But today…when the police failed to protect a defenseless child like Mallory, they abdicated their role of servants of the law and guardians of the people. They didn’t know what a privilege it was to give up health, life, and maybe even soul to be Mallory’s guardian against all evil.
It wasn’t easy ignoring the soft skin that surrounded the brunette’s bullet wound, especially since she was unconscious on his table, but giving medical care in his kitchen sure as hell beat the enemy occupied desert of his past. And it was safer than taking Cat—or whatever her real name was—to Tucson Medical. The bastard who’d ambushed them like Rambo on meth was still looking for her. Mike’s own blood oozed down his knee as he cleaned parking lot nastiness out of Cat’s side. He really needed to stick to blondes; brunettes were always trouble.
Edie Baxter shucked off her scrubs for the last time. Outside her bedroom window, wind whistled through the bare tree branches. She tugged on thick plaid pants and an oversized Clemson shirt, then pinned her golden-brown ponytail into a tight knot at her neck. Even though Daddy wasn’t home yet, she glanced over her shoulder, then lifted the mattress and drew out the framed wedding photograph of Mom. She held the picture against her and closed her eyes; it’d been too long already—she had to tell Daddy tonight.
Miguel Amaro kicked the tire of the dilapidated Buick and cursed. He was desperately lost and he had no one to blame but himself. Two hundred miles from the home he was no longer welcome in; stranded, estranged and alone in the dead of night with nothing but extinguished hopes, and now he had nowhere to run.
Aaysha Field pulled at her head scarf attempting to conceal the tears that trickled down her face as she gazed out the tiny window of seat 17A. Kyle, her husband of two weeks, stood behind the fence at the edge of the tarmac, hot sand blowing against his crisply pressed fatigues while he touched his fingers to his lips in a tender farewell kiss. She knew her tough US Marine was praying fervently for her, even now as her stomach clenched with the fear of moving to a strange country alone. If only it had been safe to remain close to him.
They’d never understand.
Tabitha Anderson swallowed hard as she hung up the telephone receiver. With a simple phone call, she’d just closed the door on the brilliant career she’d geared her entire life toward. Four years of college and hundreds of hours of hard work had been exchanged for a pocket full of magic beans; at least that’s what her family and friends would say.
He couldn’t believe he was considering this; he was a rational man after all. Storm Tyler rifled a hand through his hair as he surveyed the stacks of back issues from The Journal of Paleontology, Evolution, and Paleobiology amassed across the table. It wasn’t going to be easy coming up with a dynamic thesis for his Ph.D., especially today when his concentration had been abducted by the brunette with devastating blue eyes who sat twisting her silver cross and fish necklace behind the librarian’s desk. All he could think about was getting up the nerve to ask her out – and what a disaster it would be if she accepted.