W.A 3. -- Final Draft

Dear Tamora Pierce,
I wasn't drawn to your books by the covers, or because I liked fantasy--my brother pushed them on me. Over Winter Break one year, Andrew grew tired of me asking to borrow a book, so he gave me my Christmas present early. I read the first Alanna book in two hours. I couldn't put it down; she was the heroine I'd longed for. After The First Adventure, I read all of Alanna's books, followed by the Circle books, and then even Trickster's Choice and Queen. Your writing is incredible, in that you flow so easily from character descriptions to plot and back again. In Alanna's first adventure, you describe the twin relationship Thom and Alanna have in such incredible detail that I almost feel I have a twin. They interact with their father so little, that we can immediately tell their relationship is awkward and strained. A major selling point of your novels is that your strongest characters are females (not enough writers are willing to take on the genre at all, let alone with independent and headstrong women). Your novels inspired me to stand up for myself, the same way Rosethorn and Sandry do, when doubters refuse to accept their circle, or Beka, when she tracked a cove for six months. All your heroines have time after time. I admire Numair's perseverance with teaching Daine how to heal, and Daja's courage in the face of being an outcast gives me hope. After the Trickster series, I got caught up in school work and lost a lot of free time, but I'm going to pick up where I left off with your books. With the coming release of Bloodhound, and the recent release of Melting Stones, I'm anxiously awaiting more from you.

Sincerely yours,Amanda Roland

W.A. 3 -- Draft 2

Dear Tamora Pierce,
I wasn't drawn to your books by the covers, or because I liked fantasy--my brother pushed them on me. Over Winter Break one year, Andrew grew tired of me asking to borrow a book, so he gave me my Christmas present early. I read the first Alanna book in two hours. I couldn't put it down; she was the heroine I'd longed for. After The First Adventure, I read all of Alanna's books, followed by the Circle books, and then even Trickster's Choice and Queen. Your writing is incredible, in that you flow so easily from character descriptions to plot and back again. In Alanna's first adventure, you describe the twin relationship Thom and Alanna have in such incredible detail that I almost feel I have a twin. They interact with their father so little, that we can immediately tell their relationship is awkward and strained. A major selling point of your novels is that your strongest characters are females (not enough writers are willing to take on the genre at all, let alone with independent and headstrong women). Your novels inspired me to stand up for myself, the same way Rosethorn, Sandry, Beka, and all your heroines have time after time. I admire Numair's perseverance with Dane, and Daja's courage gives me hope. After the Trickster series, I got caught up in school work and lost a lot of free time, but I'm going to pick up where I left off with your books. With the coming release of Bloodhound, and the recent release of Melting Stones, I'm anxiously awaiting more from you.

Sincerely yours,
Amanda Roland

W.A. 3 -- Draft 1

Dear Tamora Pierce,
I wasn't drawn to your books by the covers, or because I liked fantasy--my brother pushed them on me. He was tired of me asking for a book to read, and so he gave me my Christmas present early. I read the first Alanna book in two hours. I couldn't put it down; she was the heroine I'd longed for. After The First Adventure , I read all of those books, followed by the Circle books, and then even Trickster's Choice/Queen. Your writing is incredible, in that you flow so easily from character descriptions to plot and back again. I love that your strongest characters are females (not enough writers are willing to take on the genre at all, let alone with independent and headstrong women). After the Trickster series, I got caught up in school work and lost a lot of free time, but I'm going to pick up where I left off with your books. They're incredible, wonderful, and inspiring to everyone who reads them.

Sincerely yours,
Amanda Roland.

W.A. 2 -- Final Draft (3)

Sarah and Paul cautiously creep in to the fourth apartment of the day. It’s horrid, awful, absolutely terrible. The floors creak with every step they take, and mice scurry quietly behind the walls. Looking for something worthwhile, they hope for something they can claim to love in yet another cheerful lie. Nothing. Sarah can’t stand it anymore; she rushes from the house and into the car, sheltering herself from the misery of the world for just one solitary moment. Depression settles over Paul as he slinks down the steps, and into the dreary drizzle of another dark day.
Driving to the next street, they get lost. Pounding on the steering wheel, Paul slumps into his seat. Refusing to ask for directions, he begins to shout, trying to make Sarah shoulder some of the blame he’s felt all afternoon.
“Jesus! Can’t you see I’m trying here! Oh, hell. Quit crying, will you? It’s only another hour. Please, I’m sorry. It’s just… been a lot. Really, love, I’m sorry.”
He tries to be strong for her, knowing she needs him now more than ever. Sarah dries her eyes, and takes Paul’s hand, pleading him with her eyes to just drive them away from the sadness. Instead, he finds the street, and makes a quick turn, wanting to just escape this awful nightmare of a day.
Wearily, slowly, the pair trudges up the next set of steps. Their imminent failure looms just beyond the horizon, and the couple’s been pushed to their limits one too many times. Needless to say, it’s not been the best day. It’s Paul’s first year teaching, and though Sarah’s design job pays well, the baby’s on the way, and money’s looking tight again.
Sarah’s back aches with the weight of the baby, and Paul tenderly escorts her up the slick steps. The rain beats furiously down upon their backs, pounding home their misery as they stare skyward, dreaming maybe God will help them survive the oppression for just one more hour.
Nervously, Paul points towards the door, gesturing for Sarah to enter. Mustering all the hope she has left, she walks in, and removes her slick rain hood to a dismal sight.
Green mold clings to the walls, squeezing out any hope the two had left of a warm, dry hall. Peeling paint gracefully flakes to the floor, lining the dusty baseboards with a dandruff-like snow. A narrow, rough staircase winds off to the left into the dark upstairs.
Sarah sighs, her dreams ever sinking lower.
“Paul... Really? Let’s just come back. I can’t do this anymore; it's all so horrible.”
“There is no later, our lease is over in a week. Where we are now is just too expensive for us, and this is the last prospect. C’mon, do it for me.”
Deflated, they start towards the apartment. Climbing the stairs, they hear several artful creaks, as though the stairs are heralding their arrival to the world.
Sarah takes a deep breath, as Paul fumbles in his pockets for the keys from the owner. She looks at him, amused, as Paul fidgets, but then notices a petite fleur-de-lis carved just above the doorknob. As she slowly traces the pad of her finger over it, Paul gives one last wriggle, triumphantly pulling the keys from his pocket. Pausing for dramatic effect, he glances back at Sarah, then unlocks the door, gripping her hand firmly in his.
“After you.”
Pushing the door open, Sarah wanders into the most gorgeous space she’s ever seen. Ever.
Dusk is falling, but large amounts of light fall lovingly across the hall. The rain drums on the roof above, but the double bay windows have an unobstructed view of San Francisco’s lights. The gorgeous hardwood floors are smooth under their feet, as each thinks their own thoughts silently—Paul of sock-sliding on an early Sunday morning, Sarah of her beloved rugs that would look perfect positioned just so.
Sleek, leather, modern furniture dots the rooms, a sharp corner to the apartment’s curves. Photographs of the owner’s family are strategically placed all around, and Sarah rests her hands on her stomach, wistfully dreaming of the day when they can own such a home.
Interrupting, Paul whispers, “I told you so.” Sarah swats at him, grinning all the while.
“Isn’t this perfect?”
“Absolutely” Sarah murmurs, feeling so diminutive next to the apartment’s hulking beauty. “Welcome home.”

W.A. 2 -- Draft 2

Sarah and Paul cautiously creep in to the fourth apartment of the day. It’s horrid, awful, absolutely terrible. The floors creak with every step they take, and mice scurry quietly behind the walls. Looking for something worthwhile, they hope for something they can claim to love in yet another cheerful lie. Nothing. Depression settles over them as they slink down the steps, and into the dreary drizzle of another dark day.
Driving to the next street, they get lost. Pounding on the steering wheel, Paul slumps into his seat. Refusing to ask for directions, he begins to shout, trying to make Sarah shoulder some of the blame he’s felt all afternoon.
“Jesus! Can’t you see I’m trying here! Oh, hell. Quit crying, will you? It’s only another hour. Please, I’m sorry. It’s just… been a lot. Really, love, I’m sorry.”
He tries to be strong for her, knowing she needs him now more than ever. Sarah dries her eyes, and takes Paul’s hand, pleading him with her eyes to just drive them away from the sadness. Instead, he finds the street, and makes a quick turn, wanting to just escape this awful nightmare of a day.
Wearily, slowly, the pair trudges up the next set of steps. Their imminent failure looms just beyond the horizon, and the couple’s been pushed to their limits one too many times. Needless to say, it’s not been the best day. It’s Paul’s first year teaching, and though Sarah’s design job pays well, the baby’s on the way, and money’s looking tight again.
Sarah’s back aches with the weight of the baby, and Paul tenderly escorts her up the slick steps. The rain beats furiously down upon their backs, pounding home their misery as they stare skyward, dreaming maybe God will help them survive the oppression for just one more hour.
Nervously, Paul points towards the door, gesturing for Sarah to enter. Mustering all the hope she has left, she walks in, and removes her slick rain hood to a dismal sight.
Green mold clings to the walls, squeezing out any hope the two had left of a warm, dry hall. Peeling paint gracefully flakes to the floor, lining the dusty baseboards with a dandruff-like snow. A narrow, rough staircase winds off to the left into the dark upstairs.
Sarah sighs, her dreams ever sinking lower.
“Paul... Really? Let’s just come back. I can’t do this anymore; it's all so horrible.”
“There is no later, our lease is over in a week. Where we are now is just too expensive for us, and this is the last prospect. C’mon, do it for me.”
Deflated, they start towards the apartment. Climbing the stairs, they hear several artful creaks, as though the stairs are heralding their arrival to the world.
Sarah takes a deep breath, as Paul fumbles in his pockets for the keys from the owner. She looks at him, amused, as Paul fidgets, but then notices a petite fleur-de-lis carved just above the doorknob. As she slowly traces the pad of her finger over it, Paul gives one last wriggle, triumphantly pulling the keys from his pocket. Pausing for dramatic effect, he glances back at Sarah, then unlocks the door, gripping her hand firmly in his.
“After you.”
Pushing the door open, Sarah wanders into the most gorgeous space she’s ever seen. Ever.
Dusk is falling, but large amounts of light fall lovingly across the hall. The rain drums on the roof above, but the double bay windows have an unobstructed view of San Francisco’s lights. The gorgeous hardwood floors are smooth under their feet, as each thinks their own thoughts silently—Paul of sock-sliding on an early Sunday morning, Sarah of her beloved rugs that would look perfect positioned just so.
Sleek, leather, modern furniture dots the rooms, a sharp corner to the apartment’s curves. Photographs of the owner’s family are strategically placed all around, and Sarah rests her hands on her stomach, wistfully dreaming of the day when they can own such a home.
Interrupting, Paul whispers, “I told you so.” Sarah swats at him, grinning all the while.
“Isn’t this perfect?”
“Absolutely” Sarah murmurs, feeling so diminutive next to the apartment’s hulking beauty. “Welcome home.”

W.A. 2 -- Draft 1

Wearily, slowly, the pair trudges up the steps. With no success in finding an apartment, and their imminent failure looming just beyond the horizon… needless to say, it’s not been the best day. It’s Paul’s first year teaching, and though Sarah’s design job pays well, the baby’s on the way, and money’s looking tight.
Sarah’s back aches with the weight of the baby, and Paul tenderly escorts her up the slick steps. The rain beats furiously down upon their backs, pounding home their misery as they stare skyward, dreaming maybe God will help them survive the oppression for just one more hour.
Nervously, Paul points towards the door, gesturing for Sarah to enter. Mustering all the hope she has left, she walks in, and removes her slick rain hood to a dismal sight.
Green mold clings to the walls, squeezing out any hope the two had left of a warm, dry hall. Peeling paint gracefully flakes to the floor, lining the dusty baseboards with a dandruff-like snow. A narrow, rough staircase winds off to the left into the dark upstairs.
Sarah sighs, her dreams ever sinking lower.
“Paul... Really? Let’s just come back. I can’t do this anymore; it's all so horrible.”
“There is no later, our lease is over in a week. Where we are now is just too expensive for us, and this is the last prospect. C’mon, do it for me.”
Deflated, they start towards the apartment. Climbing the stairs, they hear several artful creaks, as though the stairs are heralding their arrival to the world.
Sarah takes a deep breath, as Paul fumbles in his pockets for the keys from the owner. She looks at him, amused, as Paul fidgets, but then notices a petite fleur-de-lis carved just above the doorknob. As she slowly traces the pad of her finger over it, Paul gives one last wriggle, triumphantly pulling the keys from his pocket. Pausing for dramatic effect, he glances back at Sarah, then unlocks the door, gripping her hand firmly in his.
“After you.”
Pushing the door open, Sarah wanders into the most gorgeous space she’s ever seen. Ever.
Dusk is falling, but large amounts of light fall lovingly across the smooth hardwood floors. The rain drums on the roof above, but the double bay windows have an unobstructed view of San Francisco’s lights. The gorgeous hardwood floors are smooth under their feet, as each thinks their own thoughts silently—Paul thinks of sock-sliding on an early Sunday morning, Sarah of her beloved rugs that would look perfect positioned just so.
Sleek, leather, modern furniture dots the rooms, a sharp corner to the apartment’s curves. Photographs of the owner’s family are strategically placed all around, and Sarah rests her hands on her stomach, wistfully dreaming of the day when they can own such a home.
Interrupting, Paul whispers, “I told you so.” Sarah swats at him, grinning all the while. “Isn’t this perfect?”
“Absolutely” Sarah murmurs, feeling so diminutive next to the apartment’s hulking beauty. “Welcome home.”

W.A. --- Final Draft

When I was in third grade, I was a total tomboy. I mean, it was bad. I was completely into building forts, and pushing the girls, pulling their hair, Pokemon, the works. I won't name names, but there was another girl in my school who was just like me. She loved with the same intensity and passion, and she loved the same things I did, even more so. We were as close as sisters--Literally, I think I spent more time at her house than at my own. She was my best friend.
Just a few weeks into 5th grade, we had a massive blowout. I was "growing up", "maturing", turning into a "girl", whatever you want to use. I wore pink, and giggled about boys behind my hands with new friends. She didn't understand; I wasn't the same, and though I wanted her to change with me, so we experience it all together, it just wasn't the same. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest when she told me that I wasn't her best friend anymore; that she didn't want to see me, that she'd just forget about me. That was the worst; how can someone you know so well completely fade out of your mind? I cried for hours, just lying on my bed, pounding my fist into my pillow. It was the hardest I've ever cried, just sobbing my anger and frustration out. Nothing could cheer me up. My parents tried their hardest, telling me we'd make up the next day... or the next week... Or maybe I should just wait a little while, and everything would be right again. I kept putting myself out there, hoping she'd recognize my efforts as an apology and we could move past it. I called her, sat with her on the bus, everything. Not a peep, a nod, nothing.
We didn't talk for almost three months, and then once we did, it was still so awkward that we both just stopped trying. To this day I still think about her, and what she would say if I told her X, or Y. I miss her more than anything in this world, and I don't know how to fix it. She has new friends now, and so do I, but nothing even comes close to her... and probably never will.

W.A. 1-- Draft 2

When I was in third grade, I was a total tomboy. I mean, it was bad. I was completely into building forts, and pushing the girls, pulling their hair, Pokemon, the works. I won't name names, but there was another girl in my school who was just like me. She loved with the same intensity and passion, and she loved the same things. We were as close as sisters--Literally, I think I spent more time at her house than at my own. She was my best friend.
Just a few weeks into 5th grade, we had a huge major blowout. I was "growing up", "maturing", turning into a "girl", whatever you want to use. I wore pink, and giggled about boys behind my hands with new friends. She didn't understand; I wasn't the same, and though I wanted her to change with me, so we experience it all together, it just wasn't the same. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest when she told me that I wasn't her best friend anymore; that she didn't want to see me, that she'd just forget about me. That was the worst; how can someone you know so well completely fade out of your mind? I cried for hours, just lying on my bed, pounding my fist into my pillow. It was the hardest I've ever cried, just sobbing my anger and frustration out. Nothing could cheer me up. My parents tried their hardest, telling me we'd make up the next day... or the next week... Or maybe I should just wait a little while, and everything would be right again. I kept putting myself out there, hoping she'd recognize my efforts as an apology and we could move past it. I called her, sat with her on the bus, everything. Not a peep, a nod, nothing.
We didn't talk for almost three months, and then once we did, it was still so awkward that we both just stopped trying. To this day I still think about her, and what she would say if I told her X, or Y. I miss her more than anything in this world, and I don't know how to fix it. She has new friends now, and so do I, but nothing even comes close to her... and probably never will.

W.A. 1 -- Emotional Release

When I was in third grade, I was a total tomboy. I mean, it was bad. I was completely into building forts, and pushing the girls, pulling their hair, Pokemon, the works. I won't name names, but there was another girl in my school who was just like me. She loved the same way, and the same things. We were as close as sisters--Literally, I think I spent more time at her house than at my own. She was my best friend.
Just a few weeks into 5th grade, we had a huge major blowout. I was "growing up", "maturing", turning into a "girl", whatever you want to use. I wore pink, and giggled about boys behind my hands with friends. She didn't understand; I wasn't the same, and though I wanted her to change with me, so we experience it all together, none of it was the same. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest when she told me that I wasn't her best friend anymore; that she didn't want to see me; that she'd just forget about me. That was the worst, how can someone you know so well completely fade out of your mind? I cried for hours, just lying on my bed, pounding my fist into my pillow. It was the hardest I've ever cried, just sobbing. Nothing could cheer me up. I tried calling her, I sat with her on the bus, apologizing and trying to make it right.
We didn't talk for almost three months, and then once we did, it was still so awkward that we both just stopped trying. To this day I still think about her, and what she would say if I told her X, or Y. I miss her more than anything in this world, and I don't know how to fix it. She has new friends now, and so do I, but nothing even comes close to her.