I am thinking that, when Ari Park is completed to my satisfaction, I may forego the agent thing and digitally self publish. If (and when) the book develops a reputation, I can always enlist Kimberley's help in selling rights and negotiating that chilling Netflix series.
In the meantime, why not go for broke? Nobody seems to care much and that is another way of saying I am free.
Which is not to say it is an easy task. Here is my reworking of the first few paragraphs, bold face where the significant surgery has occurred (compare that to the existing version, up for the moment on the book website).
"Eve had the distinct sensation that her head was separate from her body. A taste of whiskey lingered and at first she thought it was the result of another late night drinking. Yet there was a profound sense of dislocation that a hangover could not explain––it was as if she had left the earth and was hovering somewhere without signpost or recollection. She felt a sandpaper itch across her throat as she tried to swallow, a dry rasp to her breathing as the room went in and out of focus.
In the pitch darkness, Eve came to sudden awareness of blockage, a weight pressing deeply into thighs in pulse after truncated pulse. She tried to move her legs and got only the faintest response. Feeling to a place below her hips where the numbness began, her fingers brushed up against something heavy and unmovable. Panicked, she twisted unreponsive legs, straining to roll out from whatever was pinning her to the bed. The weight finally gave, sliding an inch before lurching off in a tremble of mass and gravity. There was a finality to the reverberation on sound-dampened carpet that contradicted the sense of corporeal give. Human and yet––there was no semi-coherent groan, no drunken half-awareness of hitting rock bottom––no movement or life.
Relieved to be free, still Eve’s panic did not subside. Calm yourself, she thought, reaching back to a submerged recollection of last night. Ken. The love hotel.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, nerves exploding in a sharply painful reawakening as they hit the floor. Waiting for the jagged edges to subside, she peered out, working to bring focus to the pale shape on the floor. Leaning nearer, she felt her knees flatten and buckle and dropped against the carpet. The texture of the fibers was synthetic and springy on her cheek, with a perfumed, antiseptic quality. She grasped for the bed frame behind her and, finding a hard edge, brought herself achingly into a seated position."
SEO Alert - Damon Shulenberger (aka Endurancewriter) is a writer of few accomplishments and some repute.