My novel is a masterpiece, like a Picasso painting except it’s like he used words instead of colors and punctuation instead of lines. Oh, and I wrote it, not him.
The plot races forward like a cheetah going after a wounded gazelle, except this has nothing to do with animals, it’s about people and ghosts. But the ghosts aren’t your standard ghosts at all. Instead of having spooky ghosts that scare you like a trip to the dentist, these ghosts are trapped souls that are in a roach motel but they can’t escape, and there’s no poison, so it’s not like a roach motel at all. Maybe a roach motel where the poison is all gone, and there’s one big ass roach in there who ate the poison and it didn’t kill him and now he’s going to eat the other roaches.
And then my protagonist is trying to live his life and raise his family but his fate has death written all over it like your phone number on the bathroom walls, and he has to die so he can escape and be reincarnated or the ghost will suck him in like a bottle of scotch in front of an agent at a bar.
And then the climax comes like a . . . sorry can’t think of anything. Then the climax arrives like a jet landing on an aircraft carrier, all super-fast and then stopping real quick and you’re like “Holy shit, that was awesome!”
It’s going to sell like waffles. I mean pancakes. No, hotcakes, that’s it. Sell like hotcakes. And we’ll all be so rich that we’ll be calling Bill Gates and Warren Buffet “the po’ boys.”
So now you’re a green light for this project, right?