₦airaland Forum

@candylips.

Hi,

I do not have any horror scripts on hand. But if you could just make some clarifications as to your precise needs, I'll be happy to write you one.

Mail kessientus@gmail.com

@Boss bitch. Thanks for your comments.

@mushin. You can wrong. One can make money writing even right here in Nigeria. It's called freelancing.

You could post the story in bits.

Further research and an enlightening post by Joan4427 has show that strategic book publishing is a subsidy book publisher, and therefore should be avoided by all. To those who have acted upon my earlier misinformation, I apologise.

Thanks Joan for your post; it is indeed very enlightening. I came across the strategic book publishing website a while ago and have been innocently promoting the company on this forum, not knowing they belonged to the same old subsidy publishing group. They got me fooled with the 'traditional publisher' boldly written on their website.

To all those who have acted on my misinformation, I apologise.

@Lanre. Nope, not into publishing. Forgive the error in my post; what I intended to write was editor, not publisher.

Firstly before you go submitting your manuscript to agents and publishers, make sure it is at its absolute best state; written and rewritten over and over that you're certain you have nothing else to add, well formatted (proper fonts, double spaced and all), eye catching synopsis, proofread and professionally edited. This is compulsory if you want you and your book to be taken seriously. That's where you might want to get in touch with me or any other reliable publisher you know.

As for publishers in the U.S accepting works from African writers, I do know that they're quite apprensive for various reasons I'm sure Joan would be happy to elaborate upon. However, there is a U.S based publisher I know with a program for African authors.

Visit www.strategicpublishing.com/africa-about.html

Hope that helps.

Hi all, I came across a link to a publisher in New York, U.S.A, specifically accepting manuscript submissions from African Writers, and decided to share since I know many people would be interested.

Here's the link: www.strategicpublishing.com/africa-about.html

Please bear in mind that before you make your submissions, you manuscript must be properly edited and error free, else your work would be rejected.

To professionally edit, critique, proofread or to help with your synopsis, please contact me on 08065742507, or mail me at kessientus@yahoo.com.

I have over five years industry experience in freelance writing and editing, and I'm on the verge of setting up the very first Nigerian online editing and literary solutions company.

Hmm, there's so much to say about this work, but I'm afraid there aren't many positives to talk about. So brace up, will you? And please, no matter what I say here, do not be discouraged. You can still make your book fly if you're willing to put in the time and effort. Ready? Here we go:

Generally, your book has a certain obvious surrealism to it which makes it hard to relate to; the events seem to be happening in some far away place beyond the realms of natural human existence. Your story would only make sense as it is, if at some point your lead character wakes up and it had all been queer dream.

PLOT: The plot is poorly executed. It's all pace and no direction. We can see the action flying, but it all seems so disjointed and unreal for reasonable comprehension; the various chapters could have been talking about events months or years apart.

Also, you seem very reluctant to release pertinent information that could aid the reader in understanding the plot and characters, and making the events make sense as we go along. For example, why did we have to wait until the fourth chapter or thereabout, before we knew your lead character was a mere fifteen years old and your murderer a ridiculous twenty-one? Why did we have to wait till the fifth chapter before we knew your lead character was a girl? What exactly made her fall in love with the murderer (for crying out loud, this man killed her friends and family for no reason)? What kind of life had she had in the past and how did the death of her parents affect her present? Where did she grow up? What is her name? And why, please make us understand why she would be so willing to be involved in a life of crime with someone she never knew, especially if that someone was cruelly responsible for the death of her parents and friends. Was the lead character a criminal in a former life? Or perhaps she grew up among criminals and had always been fascinated by a life of crime. Please do let us know else your book would come across as a pathetic, unserious attempt at fiction.

SETTINGS AND DESCRIPTION: Five chapters in and we're yet to know where exactly in this big, wide world we are. America? Where exactly in America? A little description of the place would be in order. Some history wouldn't be bad. It would also be okay if you told us what time and season we find ourselves, what kind of clothes our character are wearing. Hell, we don't even know what our characters look like.

CHARACTERISATION: Characters are bland and unemotional, a little loose in the head, like they were extracted from some mental institution. Please, I mean puh-lease, do something about your charactirization.

OTHERS: Dialogue, punctuation, grammar, etc need improvement. There were also a couple of technical errors I discovered while going through your work. Of note is the scene where an AK-47 sub machine gun gets pulled out of the murderer's pocket. First, the weapon does not exist. And even the AK-47 rifle which is in existence would definitely not fit in a pocket. It'd have to be worn on a slinger or carried in a case.

RATING: On a scale of 1 through 10, I'd give the novel a 2. Hey, no matter, everyone's first try was horrible. Just keep at it no matter what, and I'm sure someday your book will fly.

Cheers!
SeyQua.

P.S: If you need professional editing, critique, proofreading, or other literary services mail me at kessientus@yahoo.com.

Uh, I think there's enough suspense in the author's work; as a matter of fact the suspense is perhaps the one true acheivement of the chapter.

I also think the information given out in the first chapter is not enough for proper visualizations of characters and settings. The author should be more descriptive.

@Bobi Joe. I left a comment there for you. Hopefully, that should be helpful.

Cheers!

A nice story, with a very good narrative voice, good humour, and a strong naija appeal. However, it could be better if you worked on your dialogue; what with the complete absence of inverted commas by which we're supposed to seperate one person's speech from another.

Also, your choice of vocabulary for the story seems limited, especially with the verbs.

Goodluck

@Joan4427. Thanks a lot for your nice comments.

Hello all, this is my very first contribution in the literature section of this forum, and I thought it fitting to begin my introductions by posting just a little excerpt of a work in progress. Please do leave comments and/or criticisms. They very much will be appreciated. Thank you.

OSIO


The rain that had started falling soon after dusk had finally come to a halt three hours past midnight, leaving in its wake at atmosphere that was windy and cold and a sky, moonlit, without any stars. She sat still across from me, her back glued to the bark of a huge oak tree, her knees drawn up to her chest, her head resting on them where they met, her arms wrapped around her legs in a tight, protective hug. She seemed oblivious to the eerie flashes of lightning that brightened the sky, the raucous cackle of thunder that made the earth tremble, and the cold droplets of water that fell intermittently on her from the leaves hanging above her head. She was in her own world, and I tried to be in mine, then realized strangely that I had none. All because of the woman I loved, the woman that was sitting across from me in a world of her own.
She lifted up her face and started to speak, then stopped as a fierce gust of wind blew past us, sending her long, black hair flying in every direction. With delicate finger, she parted the loose strands of hair that had fallen over her eyes and tucked them neatly behind her ears. Her big, brown eyes were sad and swollen, gazing pleadingly at my face like a child at the mercy of a father’s whip. I could not help but look away; I didn’t want to feel pity for her, didn’t want to understand—couldn’t understand really—for nothing made sense. She used to be a very innocent, very beautiful damsel, fair-skinned, firm breasts and all, but all she seemed now to me was an impressive composition of lies, betrayal, treachery and an unfathomable mystery that was sending my world to an early grave.
“I know there’s a lot you want to know,” she said softly, in whispers, almost fearfully, her body shivering ever so slightly from the cold.
“You…you…kn…” I paused, pressing my teeth firmly together to stop them from shattering. “You know where to start,” I finished with as much sinister calm as I could muster, not looking at her, not wanting to feel sorry for her.
“What if I tell you I love you? Will you believe me?”
I shot her an evil glance; it was all I could do not to reach out and slap her senseless.
“Are you out of your mind?” I thundered. “We’re in the middle of God-knows-where, running away from all that we know and own. For God’s sake I have had to kill a man because of you, and I’m wanted dead or alive by a thousand people, and you sit there talking about love? Are you out of…?”
I wanted to say more, but she had already started crying. Strange that it was at this point, in the midst of my boiling rage, that I felt sorry for her. Lord knows I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it; I was still in love with her. I wanted to reach out and hold her, and tell her that everything would be okay, like I had done so many times in the past, but I didn’t. I hated her too much to do so. When I remembered our child somewhere out there in the real world, alive or dead, a child I might never see again, I felt truly miserable and hopeless. But I did not cry. I was a man, a young man, but a man nonetheless.
“There’s just one thing I want to know, Miranda,” I said, my voice barely making it through the diverse sounds of her tears.
She sniffed thrice in quick succession, hiccupped, and wiped the tears off her face. “Let me tell you everything.”
“I don’t want to know everything,” I replied, trying hard to keep the acid in my heart from spilling onto my voice, and failing. “Just tell me what you were doing, sleeping with you father.”
She gulped and turned her face towards the ground. “I…I wasn’t sleeping with him. At least not when you came in.”
“But you were going to.”
“It’s not like…”
“Miranda, you were going to sleep with your father.”
“Please, Osio, under…”
“Answer me!”
“He is not my father!”
The sound of her voice startled me. It was a high-pitched piercing scream like the shrill blast of a referee’s whistle in an empty stadium. Her eyes shone with a new radiance, the kind that was achieved only when one's anger was intense and concentrated. The delirious rumble of thunder that occurred at that same exact moment was a perfect dramatic complement, sending all the wrong chills racing up and down my spine. I couldn’t understand a word she’d said; one doesn’t just wake up one morning, or sit in the jungle at odd nightly hours, and disown their father. This was the same man with whom she’d come visiting my little hinterland village back in the day. And when I’d rescued her from drowning, this was the same man that had promised me heaven and earth for saving his only child. When things had gone horribly wrong and she’d gotten pregnant during her stay, it was the same Chief Bibitie who had ordered her out of his home to face the world alone. I had received her into my arms, wiped the tears off her face, and borne all the responsibility upon myself. In the middle of the night, arm in arm, we’d ran, away from the sanity of our comfort zones, to trace the path of our lives along uncharted lines. And then suddenly one night, in the most unexpected of circumstances, with a gun in hand and a mask over my face, I see her in bed with her father.
He is not my father!
“Miranda,” I asked, perplexed, “how could the chief not be your father?”
She bit at her lower lips and looked genuinely pained.