|Mentee Name||Title of Manuscript||Mentor Name||Age Category||Genre(s)||Total word count (approx.)|
|Kim Crisci||All the Time in the World||Kathryn Kettle||YA||Speculative||101000|
Seventeen-year-old Derek Lyttle knows damn well what he wants in life. He’s going to play professional baseball, marry his best friend, Corinne, and live as far from Oregon as possible. As Astoria High’s star second baseman, he’s on track towards achieving that dream. But Derek is thrown a curveball when he meets two stranded children with a big secret: they’re his future son and daughter. To make matters worse, Derek learns he doesn’t marry Corinne, but his shrewd, overachieving classmate, Michelle, and their marriage is falling apart.
A reluctant Derek and Michelle must work together to balance life as teenager and parent, all while searching for a way to send their children home. While Derek initially struggles with the changes, he slowly embraces fatherhood, finding more joy in holding his daughter than holding a bat.
And when he realizes he’s in love with both Corinne and Michelle, Derek finds himself torn between the life he envisioned and the life he never saw coming. If he chooses Michelle, he’ll lose his soulmate. If he chooses Corinne, he’ll lose his children. The clock is ticking and Derek better choose one now, before he loses both.
My novel, ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD, is a speculative YA that marries the emotional complexities of Emily Wibberley’s TIME OF OUR LIVES with the character driven tension of Lexa Hillyer’s PROOF OF FOREVER. It is complete at 101,000 words.
I hold two BAs in journalism and political science from the University of Nevada. My work in voter turnout has served to remind young adults the power of choice, and the importance in appreciating one’s future.
Time is a valuable resource. Thank you for spending yours considering my work.
Dad used to say there was never a bad time to pick up a bat. So get out there and play like you own the numbers on the clock.
Derek grips the neck of his father’s Louisville Slugger, scrapes his sneaker against the makeshift plate, his brother’s deflated Slip-n-Slide. Feet apart, knees bent, eyes straight ahead, he raises the bat over his shoulder.
It’s seven a.m. in Astoria. An April drizzle coats the ground, changing dirt into backyard mud, grass into flattened mush. Cold beads form on his skin, rolling down his arm, dripping off his elbow.
The pitching machine launches a baseball and he swings, the crack of impact thundering through the low-hanging clouds blanketing his coastal town. The ball is a meteor against the grey, destined to land in the Columbia River with a muted splash. Except the practice net catches it first, repelling the ball back to the ground.
Derek whistles, bobbing on the heels of his feet. “Another duck to the pond,” he says, lips curling to a smirk. “How do you like that one, college scouts?”
“Derek!” His mother shouts from the living room window. “Get inside. You’re going to be late!”
He swings again. The bat whooshes through the air. Strike. He takes off his Giants hat, allowing the rain to wash the sweat on his neck. Derek walks over to the pitching machine, flicks the switch to off, and heads for the back door.
Right away, he hears Mom pacing from room to room, heels clicking against the hardwood, abruptly muffled when she moves onto carpet. She’s talking on the phone, or rather, berating someone for allowing someone else to change an inspection date. She wants it moved back. That someone will comply. No one says no to Kathryn Lyttle.
The front door is open; her luggage waits by the window, neatly stacked, and every thirty seconds, a man in a suit steps inside, takes a couple bags and wheels them to his car.
Derek’s brother, Oliver, sits at the kitchen table, double-handing a peanut butter and honey sandwich. He’s still wearing his pajamas, the ones with Tonka trucks on the pants, and the matching shirt that reads “NOT DIGGING BEDTIME”, which Mom assured didn’t make him look like a thirteen-year-old toddler.
As he passes, Derek grinds his knuckles into Oliver’s hair.
“Ow—hey!” Oliver shrugs, ducking away. “You’re going to crush my food.”
It’s Oliver’s favorite meal. He usually puts too much peanut butter inside, so the mix oozes out the ends as he takes a bite, coating his fingers in a tan, gelatinous goo which he disgustingly licks up.
Derek opens the pantry and pulls out a box of Pop-Tarts. “I thought you stopped eating dog food.”
“It’s not dog food,” Oliver replies, smacking his lips. “Dirt Pie is the breakfast of champions.”