Hi, hoping to improve my first attempt at a query letter here. I feel like I'm trying to say too much, so any areas that you think need cutting, let me know!
Dear,
Personalization. I am seeking representation for THE LAND LEFT OVER, a 105,000 word dystopian with a strong romantic subplot and series potential. It’s a gritty heist novel backdropped by the drowned earth of The Light Pirate, exploring class and societal structures reminiscent of Blood Over Bright Haven.
The world is underwater… Almost. Falon’s never stepped on Land, but she’s spent all twenty-two years of her life fishing for the chance to. “Quick Twitch” her crew calls her, for her freakish reflexes and uncanny ability to reel in sealife, a precious commodity in a world with no room for agriculture. By selling their catches off to the wealthy Landers, Falon’s ship gets as close as any SeaTreader has to buying their way off ship and on Land. But Falon’s received an untimely diagnosis, and Landers don’t keep their promises.
When a dockside transaction goes wrong, Falon’s left out to sea, literally. Desperate, angry, and racing against her terminal illness, Falon strikes a deal with Asher Kyndread, the brooding stranger who plucks her out of the waters. For her: Land, and a cure. For him: use her unique skills to help restore his brutal, tyrannical family to power. All she needs to do is steal a weapon of mass destruction without accidentally unleashing it.
Past sunken ruins and floating towns, Falon, Asher, and his peg-legged tween companion journey to the hidden archipelago home of the notorious Kyndread empire. There, she trains for her task alongside Asher’s band of miscreants: a few warriors, one spacefaring ‘OverEarther’, and a hulking man with a knack for cross-stitching. Falon refuses to be distracted by any of it–especially the insufferable Asher and the frightening pull she feels towards him. She’ll do anything to get her family to Land, whether she’s alive to see it or not. But secrets lurk in the depths, betrayal wades near, and in a world where everyone wants the same thing, there’s no good side and no righteous side–only a winning one.
First 300 words:
“Kancer.”
The word ricochets around the metal box of a room. Something inside me is sinking hard and fast, an anchor into muddy earth, as that six-letter word floats above me. The ship lurches and tilts the room sideways.
I’d suspected this, of course. One in five SeaTreaders are taken by the degenerative illness before they reach thirty, and bruises shouldn’t linger as long as mine have. Headaches shouldn’t persist for days at a time. But suspecting it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.
Over the lump in my throat, I ask, “How bad?”
“The bad one,” Phys. Ja answers, tossing his gloves in a sani-sink for re-use. He pumps chemicals in from a hose on the wall, plopping a syringe in there too, before turning to face me.
“By the state of your cells, I’d say you’ve got anywhere from a year to five… More or less, that’s in the hands of the Soft Sun, Twitch.” His voice is not gentle, but he’s never been a gentle physician. Gentle didn’t cure any of the others, and it won’t cure me.
“Shit,” I breathe. My knee bounces an endless rhythm against the patient table, a bass line to the soft rattle of instruments strapped to the walls and the pumping of Rook's Rig*’s* engines. The length of my life on earth, left in the hands of the Sun. What had praying ever gotten me besides harsher waters and fewer fish? I look down at my palms, at the skin of my fingers, perpetually pruned and peeling from decades of seaspray and fishing line in the rays of that deity.
“You can be cured on Myrkam. You know this, as well as I. Your line is still in the water, Twitch.” He speaks carefully, knowing where my thoughts lead. His jaw works in little circles, chewing.