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FIRST LOOK PANELS
Saturday, October 7. No fee to participate. Manuscripts and digital images of illustrations must be received via email by midnight August 26, 2017.
FIRST LOOK WRITING GUIDELINES
SAMPLE FOLLOWS BELOW
PLEASE READ THE GUIDELINES BELOW. WE WILL EXCLUDE SUBMISSIONS THAT FAIL TO FOLLOW THE GUIDELINES.
PAGE FORMAT: ONE PAGE
GENRE LISTED IN UPPER RIGHT OF PAGE
WORDS: MAXIMUM OF 200 WORDS
MUST END IN A COMPLETE SENTENCE SO ADJUST ENTRY ACCORDINGLY
SUBMISSION: email to Vicki Sansum at: email@example.com by midnight, August 26, 2017
FIRST LOOK ART GUIDELINES
ONE ILLUSTRATION; jpg or pdf format; RGB mode
SIZED to fit either vertically or horizontally on an 8.5” x 11” page at 100%
SCAN at 300 dpi if possible
SIGNATURE must NOT be visible: crop or mask out
Please note: Artwork will be viewed as part of a PowerPoint presentation on a screen at the conference; the Illustrator Coordinator will size and compile the slides, but will make no other adjustments. Be aware that the viewing environment may affect the relative intensity of color and/or sharpness of detail, but that this is an unavoidable consequence of the medium, and one that the art director will take into account in commenting on your work.
As ATTACHMENT via email to:
Diandra Mae, Illustrator Coordinator, at: firstname.lastname@example.org
Put FIRST LOOK in the subject line.
August 26, 2017
(Check the appropriate option on the registration form if you plan to participate.)
Questions or concerns: contact Illustrator Coordinator Diandra Mae at: email@example.com
SAMPLE First Look Writing Submission
Excerpt reprinted by permission froM The Nine Pound Hammer, by John Claude Bemis, Random House, 2009
MIDDLE GRADE FICTION
WORD COUNT 198
He was being hunted.
The man sank to his knees in black water. The night air pulsed with the reverberations of a multitude of insects, punctuated by bullfrog croaks and the occasional splash of something leaving the muddy banks for the safety of the swamp water.
Before him, two others struggled through the marsh.
“Go!” he cried. Dragging his legs through the muck, he pulled himself up on cypress knees to the slippery embankment. Free of the mire, he ran. The palmettos and the spiny bracken tore his trousers as he ripped away low-hanging limbs and spirals of Spanish moss.
Some distance behind, a hound bayed.
The other two stopped before a large pond. One was girl with wide eyes as fierce as lightning flashes. Scratches crisscrossed her pale arms, and a gash on her cheek bled freely.
Her lips trembled. By her side stood a man with long dark hair streaked with sliver; it fell about his face and covered his eyes. He held the girl’s arm with one hand. In the other he held a sparkling silver pistol.
The girl pulled toward the pond.
“No,” the gunman said. “We need another way.”
“But…the hound!” she cried.