Because you are open to fresh voices in middle grade fiction, I would love for you to consider my 55,000-word upper MG adventure, TRIPPLEHORN PARKER, HESITANT HEROINE EXTRAORDINAIRE.
Adventure-phobic 12-year-old Tripplehorn Parker is certain she’ll be dead by next week. It’s a definite possibility when leaving behind her debate club trophies to study 8,000-pound hippos with her researcher parents. It’s an even bigger possibility when she receives a message the night before leaving for
Warnings and symbols continue to appear in Tripp’s backpack, prompting her to team up with a clever Ugandan boy named Lutalo. The number of suspicious characters hanging around hippo territory rises each day, and the reason soon becomes clear. According to clues and local legend, there’s a golden idol hidden nearby with the power to control destiny--a prize worth killing for. With parents oblivious to anything without 12-inch tusks, Tripp and Lutalo must outwit a nasty herd of bad guys and keep the idol from harm. Oh yes, and avoid ending up in the belly of an African beastie. Her family’s survival and the fate of the world depend on it.
This is a standalone novel with series potential that may appeal to fans of RL LaFevers’s Theodosia series and Nancy Springer’s Enola Holmes mysteries. I am a member of SCBWI. The first page is included below.
Thank you for your time.
TRIPPLEHORN PARKER, H.H.E.
Slumping deeper into The Forum Coffee Emporium’s squishiest armchair, I imagined a number of gruesome and excruciating deaths for myself. It wasn’t hard to do. I could almost smell hopelessness in the air, mingling with the scent of coffee beans, brownies, and baklava bars. Tomorrow I would leave behind four-hundred and fifty-three days of perfect attendance at Winston Prep, one undefeated debate club record, eight stuffed animals, and zero friends, to possibly be torn apart by the most terrifying, murderous animal in the continent of
My eyes focused on a photograph of the savage beast. Raw gums glistened with saliva, and three ropes of drool tangled in the air while it charged. I’d torn it from a magazine in hopes of brainstorming possible defense techniques. None came to mind.
“Tripplehorn Parker, you sure drink a lot of coffee for an eleven-year-old girl,” said a low voice. “That can’t be good for you. Aren’t you British genius types supposed to be tea drinkers?”
Oh wonderful, shaggy-haired Benjamin of the coffee shop, I thought, taking comfort in the perfect mole above his lips. How I’ll miss you, especially if I die.
“I’ve adapted to your American ways,” I told him. “And you know it’s decaf. And you know I’m twelve. And this,” I pointed to the photo, “is something you don’t know. This fellow is about to become my closest acquaintance.”
Benjamin bent and winced. “Ouch. Hippos, huh. How long will you be gone?”
“Too long.” Five years to be exact.