“DEAR LUCKY AGENT” JANUARY CONTEST
OFFICIAL RULES
NO PURCHASE NECESSARY TO ENTER OR WIN.
A PURCHASE WILL NOT INCREASE YOUR CHANCES OF WINNING.
OFFERED ONLY TO LEGAL RESIDENTS OF THE 50 UNITED STATES AND THE DISTRICT OF

COLUMBIA (“ U.S. ”).

1. ELIGIBILITY: Open to all ages. Employees, officers and directors of F+W Media, Inc. (“Sponsor”) , its subsidiaries, affiliates, advertising and promotion agencies (collectively, “Sponsor and its agents”) and immediate family members (spouses and siblings, children and parents and their spouses, regardless of where they live) or members of the same households (whether related or not) of such individuals are not eligible. Void where prohibited.

2. TO ENTER: To participate, you have two options. You can leave your entry in the comments section of this post, or e-mail it to JanuaryAgentContest@gmail.com. You must include your full, real name and e-mail. The contest ends at 11:59, Sunday, Jan. 31, 2010, EST.

3. PRIZE/ODDS OF WINNING: First prize (grand prize): A 25-page critique from the agent judge as well as two free books from Writer's Digest Books (I will give you choices and you pick two you want). The two runners up will receive a 10-page critique from the agent judge and one free book from Writer's Digest Books (I will give you choices and you pick one you want). Odds of winning will be determined by the number of eligible entries received. No prize transfer or cash redemption permitted. No prize substitution, in whole or in part, except by Sponsor due to prize unavailability, safety or security considerations, or any other reason as solely determined by Sponsor in which case a prize of comparable or greater value will be awarded. Winner will be notified by phone, email, postal mail or express mail at Sponsor's sole discretion. Return of a prize notification or other documentation as undeliverable will result in disqualification and an alternate winner will be selected.

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First, for eligibility, I posted on my Facebook and Twitter accounts:
http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#/everettmaroon?ref=profile
http://twitter.com/4evermore
Second, I put your blog on my blogroll on my blog:
http://evmaroon.wordpress.com/
Title of ms: Bumbling into Body Hair: Tales of a Klutz's Sex Change
Logline: When I decided to have a sex change to become a man, I figured it would be difficult and rewarding, but I had no idea, however, that total absurdity would come along for the ride.

I have had better ideas than this.
I notice the sharp stench of fresh plastic in my nostrils, and it shocks me enough to take stock of my situation—from my own doing, I’m covered in a roll of cellophane, my fingers bleeding from their one-sided flirtation with the razor strip on the box, all while sweat oozes out of my temples and armpits. On the floor next to my feet is the once-white, disfigured bra I removed ten minutes ago.
I’m generally thinking this is a mistake. It’s what my friend calls an AFGO—Another Fucking Growth Opportunity. Perhaps people learn better when they’re in pain, anyway. Surely the Sisters of Mercy at my grammar school in New Jersey felt that way, what with their predilection to corporal punishment. I briefly consider attempting to learn quantum physics while my hands continue to throb. But that would entail movement and with my torso basically suffocating, making any progress to a reference book seems overly challenging.
From the corner of the bedroom, where I’ve made this foray into futility, my two cats watch me in what is either indifference or amusement, but being felines, they give nothing away in their expressions.

Great idea for a new series and of course I LOVE the genre!

And once I saw who the agent was -- I really enjoyed Sands' Making the Perfect Pitch -- I thought, I'll have to enter!

But alas, you caught me with the line about how the manuscript's gotta be complete. I've got one more round of revisions ahead of me. One more month and I'll be ready!

Looking forward to reading some entries.

I'm not participating in this round because I don't write it, but I do have a few questions for you.

Does posting a link count if it's to a forum or some other place where you need to make an account to view things?
The additional rules had all these things about 'taxes;' do the two prizes have enough value that we really need to worry about it?

Does that mean she's writing 25 pages of critique--or critiquing 25 manuscript pages?

Debra Ann Elliott
anngrayelliott1960@gmail.com

Posted on FB & Twitter
Title: Ashes Ashes I Fell Down
Logline: After experiencing a forced abortion at the age of sixteen my life took a wild out of control spin and I spend most of my adult life trying to find the real me.

“Roe v. Wade” changed my life forever. That critical decision made January 22nd 1973,opened up many different pathways for many women from all walks of life; myself included.

I had never thought about what the decision really meant, at the time I was only twelve, but almost four years later I would experience it first hand.

The year was 1977. The month and day: November 4th. I was fifteen. That was the year “Roe v. Wade changed my life indelibly. The painful, horrific memories are forever seared in my mind, thoughts, and soul.

I was sixteen, technically a teenager; but still a child. I made several unforgivable mistakes(in my mind anyway) that led to that fateful day over thirty years ago.

I wasn't getting the Christian love that I needed and so desperately wanted. I was vulnerable; letting anyone talk me into anything.

I turned to drugs and sex for love and attention. I got plenty of both and got pregnant.

I was petrified and turned to my mother for help. That aspect was a mistake. My mother was an alcoholic and she and her boyfriend mistreated me. She was forced to turn me over to the state.

Turning Point

It was time. The last item was in the last box. My little blue truck had acquired its rental trailer that morning. Andy went outside to check the connections, to make sure the brake lights worked, to see that the emergency chain was securely fastened.
I stepped out onto the porch to take a breather, and he glanced up at me, smiling. All must be well, I thought. Nothing to slow down my leaving. No wonder he’s pleased.
I felt myself smiling back in spite of myself. It was uncomfortable, yes, but better to plaster what my oldest nephew used to call a simel on my face than to get in another row. I went back inside, stepping over the first round of boxes.
Putting the rest of my earthly possessions into the trailer was going to be like working a giant jigsaw puzzle. The truck was already full. Andy, who, oddly enough, had been known to actually enjoy this part of the process of moving, gestured at my desk sitting ignominiously on the sidewalk and called out, “I need some help here.”

I posted this on face book, with a link to this blog.
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?ref=profile&id=1119045472

Tag line: After 24 years as a Registered Nurse I could no longer justify being part of a profession with apparent evil intent

The headlines report murder, theft, abuse, drug dealings and forgery. These are the stories most people read about nurses. Other headlines report breakdowns in negotiations
between unions and health organizations, with threats of strike action. Still more stories revolve around patients appearing at hospital doors unable to make it inside without help, yet being told to call 911 for assistance. The public are being shown nurses who seem cruel, indifferent, greedy, lazy and power hungry. Nurses are the largest body of health care professionals in North America and in most other countries as well. They are the backbone of every health care system. Such news stories however create a very ugly picture of the profession. I read the on-line comments to these stories, most of which are harsh, but justified. Media rarely presents all sides of the story, just those that seem most news worthy. Controversy makes for great headlines and ratings. Personally, as a retired Registered Nurse, I am disgusted at what I'm reading and don't believe there could be any proper justification, even if I did listen to the nurse’s side of the story.

I submitted my 200 words by e-mail, but just want to mention that I've advertised the contest on SheWrites.com in the Memoir group. I've also posted the contest on my Facebook page! Good luck everyone!

You're on my blog roll here http://blog.simonhay.com.au/
Competition link is on my facebook and twitter.
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#/simonhay.soulhealer?ref=name
https://twitter.com/SimonHayHealer

Title: The Disciple
Tag line: Two thousand years ago I was the disciple Judas, today I'm a plumber with a family and a ute, and the past has caught up with me.

Blood drips onto my upturned face, the drops, falling in slow motion, striking one after the other, like rain taking its time, frame by frame, on a Discovery Channel documentary. The image is only in my mind, but my body reacts to the slithering explosions of blood landing on my skin. I’m unable to open my eyes, and the lids, defiant, strain to identify the insects I’m certain are crawling over me.

I’m lying on my back, and the hands of the spiritual healer who is working on me vibrate against my sternum. One finger is tapping, as if the healer is sending Morse code: ‘Relax, Simon. Don’t be afraid.’ When I reach for the swirling clouds raining blood above me, she places her hands on top of mine. I don’t remember asking my hands to move, and now, without my consent, they twitch in time with the convulsions that have possessed my legs. The healer moves her hand to one of my thighs, and the convulsions subside. The hand, child-sized and warm, soothes, and the demons living in my legs depart.

Slowly, anorexic, brittle, and bare-chested, an old lady materialises from the shadows of my psychic vision.

Thursday, January 21, 2010
Posted a link to the contest on Facebook and Linkedin

Title: Love and Abuse: On Forty Acres
Tag line: I was widowed after 32 years. Two years later I married a
man from the Internet. He turned out to be an abuser.

"Mom," Lynn yells, "Keep your cell phone and go pack a bag."
Lanny, my husband, jerked my purse out of my arms and almost knocked me down.
"You're not going anywhere," he screamed while getting my keys.
"Now hang up the phone. Something's wrong with you, you're not acting right."
"Just go around to the back door and get out," Lynn said, but Lanny won't let me.
"That's enough," Lynn said, "I'm calling Trevor."
"Please don't." I said, because I didn't want my son to know about the abuse. She's calling him anyway.
"He's on his way mom," Lynn said, "and he'll be there in about 20 minutes."
I spot the headlights as Trevor pulls in and screeches to a stop.
Lanny wraps his arms tightly around me. He's hurting me and won't let go.
Trevor rushes around the corner. "You let me mom go," he said, "or I'll put a bullet right between your eyes."
Lanny's arms drop immediately.
I tell Lanny between sobs, "You get some help, then I'll be back."

I've tweeted about this -- http://twitter.com/eastfarandnear -- and added you to my blogroll: http://witzl.blogspot.com/

Title: English Broken Here

Logline: I've been teaching English most of my life to support my language-learning habit.

I teach EFL. I spend my life drilling the rudiments of English syntax, spelling, and grammar. I’m a serial language learner too. I can hold rudimentary conversations in French, order food in Spanish, sing the Turkish national anthem (two whole stanzas), and speak, read and write Japanese. Next year, I’m thinking of taking up Korean. I’m a glutton for punishment.

Today we tested our students’ reading, writing, listening comprehension and speaking ability. We might as well have skinned them alive and simmered them in boiling oil.

"Don't worry," I whispered to a white-faced girl waiting outside the classroom. She gave me a watery smile. "Teacher, very excite," whispered the boy next to her. "Very nervous." He thumped his fist against his chest.

"I know how you feel," I told him and the girl, but they didn’t hear me.

My students seem to feel that teachers are born into this world wise and fully-knowledgeable. That they've never suffered through sleepless nights shuffling through notes, wearing their eyes out. That they've never woken up on examination day with a sick feeling in their guts. Never sat there shivering with a pounding pulse, waiting to take a test, their blood 90-proof caffeine.

Logline: "Til death do us part" didn't include the death of our daughter.

I held the razor to my throat, hesitant. So much heartbreak and pain, the many memories I would rather forget, all could be undone with just one flick of the blade.

I thought about how my wife would respond. How my daughter would react. In the end I decided I didn’t care.

I jerked down hard on the razor, watching it slice along my throat.

My wife Rachel came in the bathroom and froze, her eyes widened in disbelief.

“You’re shaving your beard?”

“Yes," I murmured. "It’s time. It’s beyond time.”

I emerged from the bathroom, a towel around my neck for wiping the excess shaving cream from my face. I paused for a moment at the charcoal sketch above Rachel’s dresser. It was of Rachel and me holding our daughter, Ruthanne, in the hospital.

My hair was shorter then, and shaving gave me a completely different appearance. Rachel had cut her hair, and bore no resemblance to the woman in the sketch. The drawings brought tears to my eyes. What could have been a beautiful family became instead a tragic story. That family, what they could have been, was now just a figment of my imagination.

Title: Pray and Bring Chocolate
Logline: Be careful what you wish for

In my 20s and 30s, I made a vow to turn 40 kicking and screaming. It’s not that I had any particular prejudice against people in their 40s but it seemed to me that it was a turn in the road which signified a point of no return. If you hadn’t already ‘made it’, odds were not in your favor. Too far gone to start over, beginning to look seriously at retirement (whatever that is) and the perceived security of Social Security.

Everyone who knew me knew my personal list of goals. Albeit rather self-indulgent, I jokingly stated my three wishes: to be the bald chick on Star Trek (I thought she was sooooo cool), to get a boob job (I was never what you would call perky), and to have a tattoo (James Dean and my inner rebel are soul mates).

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What a FANTASTIC idea! I am re-posting for you. My book (about the 10 years I was an exotic dancer in the late 80's, early 90's) is not complete, or I would be all over this!

Thanks Chuck. This is a wonderful idea.

xxoo

Dear Lucky Agent...
sounds good.....

Slide! Duck! Shut your mouth rocketed through my brain as I watched his ham hock of a hand swing towards my face in the back seat of the car. I always knew to the millimeter how far to be out of his reach.
"Don't hit Jeanete. She's pregnant," my mother said with the weight of a sledge hammer. "Don't you dare." Why hadn't mom use that tone, that weight before? Daddy had hit me since i can remember. He hadn't hit mom. He hadn't even hit our dog. He only hit me. Just me.
I didn't have a clue what I had said. I'd answered some question that consequently pissed him off. It had been four years since he last hit me. I had just turned tweny. Being a college student I was totally dependent on my parents, I didn't have any fincancial power to control my life.
To swing his hand around to slap me, daddy had to straighten his legs. One of those legs was on the gas peddle. That sped up our car. The make sure he got my face, he had to take his eyes off the road. Our car was recklessly swerving into the ditch

I forgt to post a tag line.
Knock-Up Knocked-Down
1968 I surrendered my daughter at Our Lady of Perpetucal Sorrow Unwed Mothers Home.
1999 I found my daughter who had survived rape and abuse of her adoptive father. How she and I connect dispiter her being Bi-polar

Blog posted on Twitter & Facebook & added to blogroll: http://www.allthingsstone.jordanclary.com

ON MY 50th BIRTHDAY I woke up in a yak pasture in outer Mongolia. Mark, my husband of 18 years, and I had taken the train from Beijing to Ulan Batar, Mongolia’s capital. We wanted to explore the countryside, but because the national festival, Nadaam, had just ended, all the buses were full. So we stood on the side of the road until we caught a ride.
For the next day and a half we rode, sometimes on roads that only the driver seemed to see, until he finally deposited us in the small village of Khrogo. Tucked into a valley of the Tarvagatian Nuruu Mountain Range in the northern part of the country, Khrogo consisted of a row of wooden structures and a cluster of gers, the round yurts-or tents-made from skins or canvas that most of the people in the countryside lived in. Our last ride, a four person Russian jeep that we shared with twelve Mongolians had dropped us off in the moonless pre-dawn. My feet had fallen asleep, and my legs contorted in ways I never dreamed possible. If it hadn’t been for the homemade vodka I would have been in tears.

TITLE: Red Ticket
TAG: Two years after the fall of the Soviet Union most Russians were desperate to get out of their impoverished, violent country. I was desperate to get in.


“If I jumped from this height, I’d definitely kill myself.” It was the third time in an hour I’d had this thought, and I looked up at the vapid Orlando sky to dispel it as I rubbed my palms on the thighs of my jeans.

Moving to Moscow by myself had seemed like a fantastic idea when I’d been stuck dusting Gator souvenirs back at the bookstore. But now that it was here, I was scared. Who moves to Moscow in January? I leaned on the railing of the hotel balcony, peering at the reedy man-made pond 15 stories below. The sun glinted off the giant swans on the resort across the way, extruded plastic winking.

Unable to bear the pastel hotel room, our family had fled to a nearby Shoney’s. Now we stared at each other grimly, inserting French fries into our cottony mouths. I looked around the restaurant at the dusty hanging baskets, the steaming breakfast bar, the sunburned tourists sticking to their booths as they shoveled in biscuits and gravy. I became inexplicably maudlin; sentimental, the way people in books do before setting off on epic journeys. What was I doing? How could I leave this behind?


Linked to contest + added to blogroll on my blog: http://potemkin.blogspot.com/

http://possumtracks.blogspot.com/2010/01/guide-to-literary-agents-dear-lucky.html
http://www.facebook.com/linda.bittle?ref=nf#/linda.bittle?ref=profile

Tracking Elephants in Snow
Memoirs of a Bad-Ass Tracker Chick
By Linda Bittle


The carved leopard head mounted above the door of the rustic shelter seemed to snarl at me as I reached out to push aside the heavy canvas curtain. Going through that doorway would be my biggest mistake or the smartest thing I’d ever done. I was betting heavily on the later. I’d cashed in my retirement fund to be here. I’d turned in my resignation at a job I’d held for over 20 years and moved 2000 miles for the opportunity. Half my friends thought I was crazy. The other half said I was brave. The truth? I was committing an act of desperation.

The bird calls in the temperate rain forest surrounding me were so unlike the ones I knew from Missouri forests. The trees were different, and dripping with mosses and lichens. I wondered what animals traveled the paths here…what kind of tracks I’d find in the mud around the pond at the bottom of the trail. I wanted to learn about all these things. I only hesitated a moment before ducking into the dark interior of Malalo Ya Chui -The Lair of the Leopard.

I posted contest links on facebook and twitter. http://twitter.com/writermrsamanda
http://www.facebook.com/ (Amanda LP)

Title: LOSING DAD

Tagline: An intial battle with cancer causes Joseph (my dad) to descend into psychosis and extreme paranoia, a trip that involves four continents, thirty countries, thirteen wives, and a lost fortune.

First 196 words:

Joseph walked through the tall grass and listened to the flowing river. Then, through the darkness, he saw his wife. But where soft brown hues once smiled at him, blood-red eyes now glowed. "Do I run and hide or confront this terror?" The yellow porch light betrayed his position. Glued to the ground and unable to move, Joseph turned his face towards the back door. His jaw dropped open and he silently screamed as steam-funnels spewed forth from her ears. A horrifying rumble erupted from her contorted mouth. Horror-stricken, Joseph stared in disbelief.

Then, he did what he had to do—what any rational person would do. No other choice.

As the chilly air blew in from the lake and stung his face, Joseph pulled his gray sweatshirt hood down over his ears and slid his gloved fingers into his coat pockets. Cursing to himself, he stepped out of a puddle of melted snow that had fallen too early to stick. These wet shoes were no good for a Chicago winter, and he instantly thought about finding a way to get a new pair, maybe of fine black leather. If he could get money, that is.

Thanks for the opportunity to get feedback on my memoir; I appreciate you taking the time to run this contest.


Evidence of mentioning free memoir writing contest:

1. www.twitter.com/mariannearini

2. newsfeed at http://www.facebook.com/mariannearini#/profile.php?ref=profile&id=1222624230

First 184 words of Confessions of an Ex-Fundamentalist. Logline: The story of one woman's recovery from Christian fundamentalism.

I am not supposed to tell you this story. You are an outsider, one of the “unsaved,” and my telling is considered taboo. To do so, is breaking the unspoken code of acceptable behavior and speech. In the Christian fundamentalist community I was raised in, we have preprogrammed thoughts, perspectives, literalist interpretations of the Bible, and political opinions that are thought out by religious leaders and memorized by the “flock” who, consciously or unconsciously, masquerade them as their own.

For example, we are told not to read books like this one, books that expose Christian fundamentalist propaganda. When one of our fundamentalist leaders gets wind of such a book, he may or may not read it all the way through, but he will pull quotes out of context and spin them to sound “evil.” After sending the word out, it spreads like wild fire from one Christian fundamentalist church to the next. Even innocuous books like the Harry Potter series are spun as dangerous. Once banned, the members of the flock never crack the book to read it for themselves because it is forbidden.

This is so cool!! Thanks!

Eligibility Requirements: http://twitter.com/onwardhoe AND http://www.facebook.com/besufern
Book Title: My Husband Ride Me
Chapter Title: Grammargasm

I know it makes me a big fat dork, and that this is probably the reason why I'm not married, but I freaking love grammar. I love the tiny little things that cause huge differences in meaning, and I love explaining it to my students. I love the challenge of finding new and even mildly interesting ways to make the English language more understandable and rich for a non-native speaker. And I love being able to witness that moment when they finally grasp a new concept, when they realize that they've just gotten all the answers right, and especially when they tell me a story that has all the details in place. "I went to the store yesterday, and as I was driving, I hit a construction barrel that had fallen over into the street."

It's beautiful, I tell you, but it's rare. More often, this is the story I get: "I went to the store yesterday, and during I am drive, I hitted a (pause for intermission while student looks up 'barrel' in the dictionary) cylinder construction it fell over in a street." Sigh.

Contest link posted on:
facebook.com/profile.php?ref=profile&id=1788945667
Twitter.com/Kelley_allen

Title: Nikki and Me
Tagline: In 1982, a lonely 16-year-old girl struggles to help her 14-year-old friend survive a cross-country search for love.


I stopped searching for signs of love from my parents after what everyone calls 'the incident', nearly two years ago. I stopped listening or caring. I like to think my heart turned to granite, but sometimes chips break off so it's probably closer to shale. Either way, I buried the cold, chipped core of me deep inside and looked forward to the day I could walk out the front door of my parents house and into the rest of my life.

But they knew.

They brought me to court, signed custody of me over to New York State and left before seeing me escorted to the first police cruiser I'd ever been in. I became a Person in Need of Supervision. A PINS.

Now, I sleep where the judge tells me to sleep, eat what the staff tells me to eat and try to follow the rules of the Clifton School for Troubled Girls. I have what they call a bad attitude because I still think my own thoughts, but I've decided they can't have my thoughts. They are mine.

Social Media Links:

http://twitter.com/shirleyhs

http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#/shirley.showalter?ref=profile


Synopsis: As a Mennonite farmer’s daughter in the 1950’s, I grew up with my nose pressed against the window of the world. A product of opposites, I challenged the limits prescribed for me and broke free--without losing the path home.

Introduction: A Twinkle in Their Eyes (1944-48)


He was tall.
She was short.
He kept a ledger.
She kept a diary.
He loved his ’39 Buick.
She loved compliments and pretty clothes.
He loved the feel of good soil and the look of contoured fields.
She starred in several high school plays.
He was an undiagnosed dyslexic and struggled in school.
She loved to read and played first violin in the orchestra and organ in the parlor.
He focused on the task.
She dreamed while she worked.
He leaned on his mother’s love like a shield against his father’s wrath.
She was treasured by her mother but grew up in a family of boys, craving a sister.
He arranged numbers in rows.
She wrote a story that would shape her own life and the lives of all her children to come.
He joined the church effortlessly when called.
She struggled, then submitted.
He was totally tone deaf.
She trilled a lovely clear soprano.
He slept in church.
She heard God’s voice in her own ears.

They were my parents, Richard and Barbara Ann Hess Hershey, and the combustion of their opposite passions unleashed currents that confused, fascinated, and frightened me--until I learned the secret.


Message for Katharine Sands:

You may remember meeting me at the Santa Barbara Writer’s conference in 2007. I was in Marla Miller’s marketing class and asked if you had ever met a Mennonite before. I shook your hand to let you know you now have met one. When Mennonite in a Little Black Dress made such a splash this fall, I wondered if you remembered that brief encounter. My review of that book is here: http://www.100memoirs.com/2009/11/mennonite-in-a-little-black-dress-an-old-mennonite-review/

I do not have a completed manuscript which I think makes me ineligible to enter the contest. In addition to this introduction, I have four published stories (all of them winners of literary awards) and four or five more in draft form. My aspiration is to write three volumes based roughly on the model of Jill Kerr Conway’s memoirs written and published over twenty years that begin with her childhood on a sheep ranch and end with her ten years as president of Smith College (The Road from Coorain, True North, and A Woman’s Education). My own story starts on a dairy farm and continues to college, then high school teaching, graduate school, college professor, and college president (1996-2004). I am now a foundation executive (since 2004) and blogger (since 2008).

A small publisher affiliated with our denomination is interested in the book. I’d love to know whether you would encourage me to go that route or to press forward with the search for a New York agent/publisher. Thank you.

Widow in a Speedo
A memoir
A young woman’s race to find love after loss
By Allison Ellis
Allison.e.ellis@gmail.com
http://widowinaspeedo.com

Contest mentions: http://twitter.com/Allison_Ellis
http://widowinaspeedo.com
http://www.shewrites.com/profile/AllisonEllis
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A better husband would greet his wife at the ferry landing I think, as I attempt to push a stroller laden with a 25 pound baby with one hand and lift an oversized car seat, purse and heavy tote bag with the other. It’s a long walk down the pier. In the distance, past idling Subarus waiting their turn to load, seagulls perched on pilings and the gentle slish slosh of Puget Sound waves lapping underneath my feet, I see him next to our car in the tiny Park and Ride lot. Just standing there.

“Do you need a hand?” An attractive, long legged man gives a sideways glance as he walks beside me. It’s a look that I will soon come to recognize, accept and anticipate. The look says: where on earth is your husband? Why are you attempting to do this alone?
“Oh, thank you,” I smile through clenched teeth, trying to appear genuine. “But no, I’ve got it.”
“Are you sure? You’ve got quite a load.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I say. “It’s all—“ I yank up on the side of the car seat and firmly place it on my hip. “It’s all balanced,” I lie. “See?”