Kickstarter

Glimmer Girls is the story of Clara, a woman of two worlds, land and water. She must choose which world, which man, which life. 

While the story is largely finished, this Kickstart will help me hire the professionals I need to fine tune, revise and launch e-book and paper back versions.

Here is the first page:

At twenty-four, tired of talk show hosts and gawking audiences, Clara DeLamare followed in the footsteps of many self-respecting women faced with unwelcome attention. She left town. Which pissed her mother off to no end, but then what didn’t?

“You’re ruining my life!” Phyllis ran crying down the platform.

“You’ll be fine, mother, you really will.” Considering the settlement she’d wrangled when Clara was born, she’d be more than good. But try telling that to a wailing stage mother.

Clara handed off her bicycle to the conductor, threw her backpack over her shoulder and pulled herself onto the rail car. Cameras flashed, the train started moving, and Phyllis collapsed on the cement. Clara ducked into a seat and pretended to have nothing to do with the performance at the station. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that show.

Clara’s bicycle bounced to a stop and she looked up at the building. The Wander Inn was housed in a haphazard brick monstrosity that leaned alarmingly. Clara eyed the jumble of buildings lining the street down to the bay. Many appeared to be teetering over the cobblestones.

"It's amazing the whole place hasn't tumbled into the harbor like a stack of dominos,” she said aloud.

"The local belief is that Mabble is held together by spider webs."

Clara jumped and scanned the wide porch for the source of the voice. A woman sat on a bench in the shadows. Clara pulled her bicycle out of the road and leaned it against the building.

"Sorry, things tend to come out of my mouth that shouldn't. It's a lovely town."

"I like it. Do you need a room?" The woman stood and went to the door, the light from the hotel revealing a smiling blond in her early thirties, a brown skirt swirling around her ankles. Clara followed her through the door, dropping her backpack on the floor in front of a long wooden bar that served as the registration desk. Clara rested one boot on the brass foot rail, leaned her elbows on the polished wood top and watched the Innkeep flip through her reservation book.