Critique of Chastdel Flashback: Burden of History

(My comments will be in Purple. Words and punctuation that need to be deleted are in Red. Words and punctuation I added are in Purple. At the end I will have general comments about the passage.)

Keil Las’Demar, Shadow Warrior of Darnok Terien, stood alone in a secluded chamber within the upper level of Darnok S’Ludos, the Citadel of Shadow, home and heart to the outcast elves of Darnok Terien. He stared out a large, faceless window that overlooked the desert spread before him, rolling on and on as far as the eye could see. The fading day’s heat danced upon the faraway dunes in waves of menace and oppression.

The young elf looked down at the stone around him. Darnok S’Ludos, a massive spherical dome that took had taken the painstaking labor of more than three hundred human slaves to shape and erect, had stood here, in the heart of the Spurna’else, desert for more than a thousand years. Across from the window he now stood by, he could see one of the four soaring sentinel towers, each of them shaped in the likeness of robed and hooded elves.

A breeze came from the desert to whisper through his long locks of silver hair, stinging his face with beads of hot sand. So thick was the silence in the ancient fortress that the wind made an echo around him, eerie and imploring, as if warning of death to come. Once that wind would have been drowned in the noise of gathering elves, of battles between Shadow Warriors waged in the arena below, of lectures and diatribes hosted by venerable sages and masters of the Order. Very nice job of setting atmosphere!

Now only the silence of looming death lingered, brought here as if by the harsh desert wind, a creeping storm beseeched by the human Meithcael’s ascendancy to supreme power within the Order. Meithcael, Keil’s mentor, his Kressil, revered teacher and sponsor in this, the coterie that elves of Shanakri had deemed to be called Darnok Terien, the Cult of Shadow.

Keil’s faint, crystalline blue eyes continued to stare out into the desert, as if attempting to thrust his vision through the blurred waves the desert lifted in defiance to beings of flesh and water. Somewhere across that vast, empty distance was Meithcael, Master of Darnok Terien, the Lord of Shadow.

Meithcael would come, he knew. The human’s patience was not eternal, and he would expect Keil, his honed and trained assassin, to have completed his assigned task of decimating the Order’s last voice of significance.

“Keil.” Her voice was a caress upon his pointed ears, soft but strong, possessing of a power he himself felt forever deprived of. He turned to look at her from over his shoulder, watching as she approached him. She walked with a grace that defied time, the fabric of her swishing, gray robes pouring from her body like the cascading water of an Amastrian waterfall. As she drew near to him, he temporarily lost his breath in awe of the dance of sunlight upon her crimson tresses. From beneath that veil of red hair, brilliant eyes of emerald stared up at him, the corners of which were ever so slightly sharpened and defined by elvish age. “What are you doing here? We have lessons that must be covered.”

He looked from her and to the desert beyond the exposed window. “I was trying to find time,” he murmured in a tone that mixed rebellious scorn and boundless sorrow.

The combination brought a brief look of pain into her eyes, but she quickly pushed it aside, regaining an air of composed superiority. “We haven’t the time for you to find more. Meithcael—”

“He would have expected me to have killed you by now,” the Shadow Warrior coolly interrupted. “This has been my argument since you began to teach me without his knowing. You are always the one insisting that Meithcael would not anticipate my victory over you to be a quick one.” He turned to her, his eyes adopting the chilling quality of ice that had made him so feared in the arena back in the time before Meithcael’s ascension, back when Darnok Terien was more than a step from ruin. “Why the sudden change of mind, Serena?”

Serena V’Lakan, Voice of the Order’s Inner Circle, turned away from him. “The heat must make you delirious to speak to me so,” she said evenly, a notable edge in her words.

He instantly regretted his callous attitude. Thoughts of Meithcael had wrought an anger in him, especially when coupled by the secret truths Serena had been sharing with him during their brief time together, time which the Shadow Lord suspected was being used for his puppet assassin to battle and kill the female elf. Time that Serena had reshaped as a period of enlightenment and revelation to the young Shadow Warrior. With such ease had she convinced him to lower his blades, to hear her voice, and to know truths which Meithcael would forever keep him blind to. Serena was his true Kressil now, though not a soul could ever know.

“Serena,” he started in an apologetic manner, but she whirled on him, her green eyes full of that strong passion that had first captivated him, that had seduced him into making her his first and, at this point, only lover. The experiences shared with Serena were something that he hadn’t been able to enjoy with his precious Ayanala Elasrinan, who had been murdered long before Darnok Terien had issued its calling to him.

General comments:
This is a very nice passage! The writer has done an excellent job of setting the atmosphere and blending the flashbacks with the present. I especially want to call your attention to the attributions, however, because this is something that many writers have a hard time with. I've colored all the attributions in blue, and also repeated them below:

Her voice was a caress upon his pointed ears, soft but strong, possessing of a power he himself felt forever deprived of.

he murmured in a tone that mixed rebellious scorn and boundless sorrow.

she quickly pushed it aside, regaining an air of composed superiority

the Shadow Warrior coolly interrupted

she said evenly, a notable edge in her words

he started in an apologetic manner

Notice that the author manages to use an attribution with every bit of dialogue, but it is done so smoothly that the reader doesn't even notice it. The word "said" is used once, synonyms of "said" ("interrupted" and "murmurred") are used twice, and the other two attributives are descriptive passages that also identify the speaker. Notice how much we learn about the characters just through the attributions alone: She is powerful; he is sorrowful. He is rebelling against her, against his training; she is trying to maintain control over him.

We haven't had an exercise this week so let's do an exercise in attributions. Below is a snippet of dialogue. Make up three attributions to go along with the dialogue.

1. With the first attribution, use the word "said."
2. With the second attribution, use a synonym for the word "said."
3. With the third attribution, use a descriptive passage that identifies the speaker.

Dialogue:

"Liar! You insinuate yourself into the Temple under false pretenses. Even now our leader lies ill, dying. What did you do to her?"

Send your exercise to me at dindy@swimmingkangaroo.com with "Dialogue Exercise" in the Subject Heading, or post it to this blog as a comment. Everyone who participates will be entered in a drawing to win a free eBook from Swimming Kangaroo Books.

Critique of The Secret of the Beat

(My comments will be in Purple. Words and punctuation that need to be deleted are in Red. Words and punctuation I added are in Purple. At the end I will have general comments about the passage.)

When I was seven, my father tried to teach me the secret of the beat.

The results were a disaster, and the fact that I chose to recall the lesson on that particular day, nine years later, should have been a warning to me.

Timing is everything, Trace.

I heard my father’s voice in my head as I pulled the book of matches from my back pocket and opened the cover.

First, there’s the set up.

Inside, the matches were short and flimsy. I tore off two to be on the safe side, uncertain that I would have the courage to strike another should the first one fail.

The set up is the straight line.

I closed the cover of the matchbook and flipped it over in my hand. Taking a deep breath, I held the matches close together and slid them along the narrow rough strip on the back of the matchbook.

Now, this is the important part.

One match sparked to life a second before the other, and then they both flared up together. I cupped my hand around the flame to protect it from the slight wind blowing from the west.

After the straight line comes the beat.

The flame burned quickly toward my fingers, giving me little time to waste on further contemplation of what I was about to do. I bent down and reached for the frayed end of the fuse not more than an inch or two from my foot.

The beat is the pause before the punch line.

At first, the thin strands of the fuse caught fire and quickly fizzled out. Then two strands burned together toward a third and the fuse smoked and hissed as the fire crept slowly away from me.

The trick is getting the beat just right.

I had measured the length of the fuse down to the last inch, practicing with foot long segments to count out the speed of the burn. I knew it would take the fuse at least 90 seconds to reach its destination, plenty of time to take cover. I ran and crouched behind the rusted shell of the old car and waited.

If the beat is too long or too short, you won’t get the maximum laugh.

I waited with my hands over my head for the blast to send debris sailing through the air. I counted slowly to ninety, and then to ninety again. And, still I waited. Then, like a kid with a dud firecracker on the fourth of July, I gave in to the irresistible urge to get up and go see what the problem was.

Get the beat wrong, and you’ll bomb.

Looking back, I realize that I didn’t factor in the effect of all the different surfaces the fuse would have to burn across, a mistake Simon never would have made had he been there. But, I didn’t think of that till much later, after the blast had picked me up and thrown me back on top of the hood of the old car. I twisted in agony, rolling myself off the hood and on to the rocks on the other side.

I landed just inches from my empty backpack and the rifle that I had taken to carrying with me everywhere. I reached out and pulled them both to me, seeking comfort or protection or maybe just the feel of something familiar. The world had been knocked out from under me, and I struggled just to draw air into my lungs.

Eventually, the pain gave way to numbness and I was overcome with fear at the thought that I might have broken my back. I tried to sit up, but the pain quickly returned. I waited for the numbness to set in again, and then tried to roll on my side, but my torso flatly refused to follow my flailing arms.

Finally, I lay still and watched the sun drift slowly across the cloudless sky. Around mid-day I heard a rustling from the trees beyond the meadow. Something snorted impatiently, as if my presence were a damned inconvenience on plans already made.

I shouted out my own frustration in a stream of profanity, and the rustling retreated back into the woods, clearly offended at the vulgarity of my vocabulary. Sweat trickled down my face from the effort my outburst had taken. I flicked my tongue out as the moisture made its way across my lips, suddenly aware of how thirsty I had become. But, all I got was a damp taste of dirt and salt.

I slept fitfully, waking in late afternoon and again at sunset. As the darkness grew around me, I slid the backpack under my head and gripped my rifle tighter. Stars came out, brighter and more bountiful than anything you’d ever see in the city, and I remembered lying on my back with my father further up the hill, and trying to count them all.

Suddenly, I was overcome with despair at the way everything had turned out. Why had I come here? What in the hell did I think I would find in this desolate, forgotten place? How would I ever get out of this?

I drew my rifle up tight and pointed it at the night sky.

See that, Trace?

My father was back in my head again.

That’s Polaris, the North Star.

“Is it really, dad?” I shouted back at him across the void. “How the hell would you know? You’re just a two-bit failed actor who couldn’t even make it as a pickle, and now you’ve run off and you’re either dead or working as a motivational speaker or a porn star in Los Angeles, and I’ve never even been able to figure out which would bother me more if at all.” This is a rather lengthy speech for her to throw out in anger at her father. It would be equally effective, if not more effective, if the writer cut it off after the word 'pickle.' That aside, however, notice the curveball that the writer throws at us here. Up until now, I had been having all kinds of warm, fuzzy thoughts about Trace's relationship with her father. Suddenly the mental picture I have comes crashing down as we learn that things are not exactly peachy keen in that relationship. The writer held off on this information for a bit, setting the reader up for a shock by juxtaposing the contrasting images of Trace's dad. Very nicely done.

I aimed the rifle straight up and pulled the trigger repeatedly. I lost count of how many times I fired as the shots echoed though the valley, but by the time I finished I was waving the gun wildly, like a madman, trying to shoot all the stars out of the sky.

When there were no more shots left to fire, I tossed the rifle aside and lay on my back trying to catch my breath. I had just started to come to my senses, when something whizzed past my head and struck a rock behind me.

“Shit!” I yelled, “Could I be any more stupid?”

Firing a rifle straight into the air above me was not the smartest move I had ever made. I cringed, waiting for the bullet that could come streaking down at any minute to put me out of my misery.

But, it never came. Instead, a sharp cry rose from deep in the trees behind me, followed by more rustling and then a confused whimper.

I lay awake until sunrise, wondering what lay beyond the woods, and how my life had come to this.

Comments:
This is a very nice piece of writing. Notice at the beginning how the writer weaves the lesson from the father into Trace's lighting of the fuse, carefully detailing every step in the process but not belaboring any of them. The author also has a very deft hand with setting the atmospher- she has masterfully descriptive phrases but, again, does not overdo it.

When Trace is lying, injured, after the blast, it's easy to feel her pain, her discomfort and frustration. This is a writer who has clearly mastered the concept of "less is more." She gives just enough description to establish the atmosphere but not enough to smother the passage. This contributes to the bleak feeling of hopelessness that arises when reading through this. Trace is in a stark, barren world, which is reflected in the way the story plays out. At first glance, it appears that there is not much description in this passage, but that's because the writer does such a good job of weaving it into the flow of the words. Not all description has to be obvious! So you can see what I mean, I have colored text where the writer adds to the atmosphere in blue.

The writer also does a terrific job of drawing the reader's interest and raising questions. Where is Trace? What kind of world does she live in? Why is she setting off explosives and firing rifles? Why does no one come to look for her when she is injured? These are all questions that the reader will have, but the writer wisely holds off on answering these questions, instead saving them for later in the story where they will flow out naturally.

A less experienced writer would be tempted to throw all of this information into the first few paragraphs and it would detract from the feeling of the passage. Kudos to the writer for knowing how to hold on to the information until she can work it naturally into her story.

Critique of Football Player Story

(My comments will be in Purple. Words and punctuation that need to be deleted are in Red. Words and punctuation I added are in Purple. At the end I will have general comments about the passage.)

The red convertible cut a path through the moonlight, its headlights dancing along the arched limbs of the trees above the road.

“Oh, Matt, it’s such a beautiful night,” Stacey declared with a sigh. “I'm going to miss you when you leave tomorrow.”

Matt reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “I'll miss you too, but if I don't report on time, I'm in trouble with the coach.”

“That’s what I get for falling in love with a pro football player,” Stacey teased, her blonde hair turned to frosted silver by the light of the full moon above them.

Matt squeezed the hand that wore his engagement ring. “It’s too late to back out now,” he intoned with mock seriousness. “You're mine.”

“Mmm, do I like the sound of that!”

The car rounded a curve and without warning a deer bounded across the road. Matt braked sharply to avoid the animal, but the tires slid on a patch of loose gravel in the road and he lost control of the convertible. It fishtailed and started to spin in the road. Matt made a tremendous effort to correct the slide, but it was useless. The car turned around once more and skidded backwards for a short distance before it slid off the road, jumping a steep ditch and going airborne. All Matt could see was a blur of trees and darkness as the car careened into the woods. It made a lazy turn in the air and came to rest bottom side up.

The last thing he remembered was the sound of Stacey’s screams.

The above intro does not serve this story well. The writer establishes three things: Matt is a pro football player, he and Stacey are engaged, and there is a car crash. However, there is no need to give all this information at once-- it is all important information but it is given too quickly. The dialogue's sole purpose is to provide the info that Matt is a pro football player and that he and Stacey are engaged. It does not move the story along and seems trite and, to be blunt, kind of hokey.

My suggestion would be to cut the beginning paragraphs and open directly with Matt's parents sitting with Stacey in the hospital. All of the information that is conveyed in the first section can be given much more effectively in the next section. This is where you want to slowly provide information to the reader-- it builds up the suspense, heightens the tension, and increases interest in the story. You need to give the reader a reason to keep reading.

*****

Rod and Marilyn McCallum waited for several hours before anyone came out of the operating room to talk to them. The nurses had been kindness itself, offering coffee, encouragement, and pats on the back every time they passed through the waiting room, but nothing helped. Their older son, the first born child of their love, lay gravely injured, and they had no idea what the outcome of this night would be. They sat quietly, holding hands and offering prayers for the safety of their son.

In the hard, uncomfortable chair beside Marilyn, Stacey Thomas, Matt’s fiancée, sat with her head buried in her hands. This wasn't the way the night was supposed to end. These should be your first two sentences. They will grab the reader in very powerfully. She knew that their parents wouldn't approve, but she and Matt had gone to Greenville and checked into a luxury hotel that morning. They had spent his last day of freedom in bed together, and it had been wonderful. Matt was a good lover, and he had pleased her greatly. She started to cry again as she considered what injuries he might have sustained. Never mind the sex; the remainder of this paragraph wold be better as a flashback-- a short flashback.

A tall man in sweat-stained surgical scrubs approached them. “Mr. and Mrs. McCallum?” The doctor’s voice brought all three of them to their feet.

“How is he?” demanded Marilyn, her eyes anxious, wide, and staring in her white face.

“Better than I expected,” the doctor admitted. “His left leg was mangled from the knee down. It took a long time, but we worked really hard on it, and I think we've saved it. He has four screws and two plates, and he'll undoubtedly have a limp for the rest of his life, but we did save his leg.” This is incongruous with the doctor's later statement that Matt's right leg was amputated. For one thing, Matt's going to have a heck of a limp because of the amputation, and for another, he gives the parents a false sense of hope when he tells them that the left leg was saved, only to later on knock the chair out from under them when he tells them that the right leg had to be amputated.

“He kicks with his right leg anyway,” Rod muttered.

“Ah, well, that’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. I'm sorry Mr. McCallum. I saw him play last year, and I know he had a wonderful career in front of him, but in spite of everything we did, his right leg was hurt too bad to save. We had to amputate right above his knee.”

“At least he’s alive,” This is rather abrupt. She's just heard that her son's leg was amputated. Give her a chance to digest this information. Marilyn sobbed as she rhythmically shredded a tissue. “I don't care about his leg; I just want my son to live.”

“I can almost promise you that he will,” the doctor comforted her. “Barring unforeseen complications, he’s going to be fine, and as soon as his leg heals we'll fit a prosthesis on him and teach him how to walk again.”

“When can we see him?” Marilyn demanded demanded seems to be a rather strong attributive as she wiped away her tears.

“He’s in recovery now, and we plan to put him in ICU for a day or so. The last thing we need is an infection, and we can watch him better there. We'll let you know as soon as he gets there, and you can see him for a minute.”

Rod groped for the sofa and fell backwards onto the miserable thing. “The best kicker in thirty years,” he whispered, quoting what a sports announcer had said on TV only hours earlier. “The best kicker in thirty years, and now they have to teach him to walk again.” Nice. This packs a punch.

Abruptly, he stood up. “I'm going home, Marilyn. Are you coming?”

Surprised, Marilyn shook her head. “No, of course not. I'm not leaving until I've seen him.”
“Stacey?”

“I… I'll… go with you. I need to tell my parents what’s happened and that I'm alright.” They've been at the hospital for several hours and she's not called her parents yet? They must be worried sick- they had to have heard about the crash.

General Comments:

In this passage, the writer is trying to convey a very emotional and traumatic scene, however, the structure of the passage needs to be reworked to provide the punch the writer wants. There are several points that need to be conveyed:

• Matt is a pro football player- a kicker with great potential.
• Matt and Stacey are engaged.
• Matt and Stacey are in a car crash.
• As a result of his injuries in the crash, Matt's leg is amputated.

At the same time, the reader does not need to be hit over the head with the info. The information should be given subtly, teasingly, slowly provided to the reader.

• Some things that are unclear from the above passage but are hinted at:
• Rod will have a difficult time accepting what has happened to his son.
• Stacey may also have a hard time accepting what has happened.
• Rod and Marilyn may blame Stacey for the crash.

First, let's look at the beginning-- what can be done to grab the reader and pull him/her into the story?

In the hard, uncomfortable, hospital chair Stacey Thomas sat with her head buried in her hands. This wasn't the way the night was supposed to end. She and Matt had spent a wonderful day together, a perfect day together, a day brought to a crashing halt when that deer jumped out in front of Matt's car as he and Stacey were driving back to town.

Beside her sat Matt's mother and father, Marilyn and Rod, holding hands and praying for the life of their son. Stacey's head throbbed from the stitches she had received in the emergency room several hours before. Her shirt was covered with blood, hers and Matt's. As long as she lived, she didn't think she would ever forget the horrible sensation of Matt's car careening off the road, twisting in the air, flip-flopping, along with her stomach, until it came to rest upside down in the woods.

This lets the reader know about the accident and sets the scene for later. It also puts some emotion into the car crash. Next, let's give Mom and Dad the bad news:

"Mr. and Mrs. McCallum?" a soft, authoritative voice fell into the silence. Marilyn gave a slight gasp and she and Rod both stood, clutching each other and turning to face the surgeon. Stacey stood up as well, unconsciously twisting her engagement ring on her finger.

"Our son?" Marilyn spoke hesitantly, her eyes wide and anxious. "Will he be okay?"

"He'll live," the doctor said, untying his surgical mask from around his neck and sticking it into his pocket. "We were able to save his left leg. It was mangled from the knee down, but it will be okay. He has four screws and two plates, but we did save it." The doctor hesitated, his eyes sweeping over Matt's parents.

“He kicks with his right leg anyway,” Rod muttered.

Stacey saw a shadow cross the doctor's face. He reached out and took Marilyn's hand in his. "I'm sorry," he said simply. "We couldn't save the right leg. It was too badly damaged."

Rod and Marilyn froze. Marilyn looked at the doctor in disbelief. "You mean you-" she faltered, unable to say the words.

"We had to amputate his right leg," the doctor repeated gently. "But he's going to be okay. That's the important thing. Your son will live."

Marilyn looked down at her hand, which was still held within the doctor's grasp. She pulled it away and then straightened her shoulders. She looked evenly at the doctor. "Yes, you're right," she said softly, with no quiver at all in her voice although her knuckles were white as she clutched her tissue. "Thank you Doctor. When can we see him?"

“He’s in recovery now, and we plan to put him in ICU for a day or so. The last thing we need is an infection, and we can watch him better there. We'll let you know as soon as he gets there, and you can see him for a minute.”

This establishes that Marilyn's chief concern is that her son is alive. She's a strong woman; she's going to focus on taking care of her son and she will be okay. The mention of the engagement ring establishes the relationship between Stacey and Matt, and Rod's statement about kicking with his right leg starts to set up what happens next with Rod. The information about therapy and prosthesis can be given later; it's not important at this point.

They watched as the doctor left the room. Then Rod groped for the chair and fell backwards onto the miserable thing. “The best kicker in thirty years,” he whispered, quoting what a sports announcer had said on TV only hours earlier. “The best kicker in thirty years, and now they have to teach him to walk again.”

I love this paragraph because it wonderfully sets up some tension. Rod is going to have a hard time dealing with his son's injury.

"But he's alive," Marilyn reminded him, her jaw set with determination.

Abruptly, Rod stood up. “I'm going home, Marilyn. Are you coming?”

Surprised, Marilyn shook her head. “No, of course not. I'm not leaving until I've seen him.”

"Call me when you're ready to come home," Rod pulled his car keys out of his pocket.

This sets up some conflict between Rod and Marilyn and is a chink in the united front they presented earlier. Marilyn is going to stay with her son, she is switching into Mom mode, whereas Dad can't deal with what has happened and needs to get away.

"Excuse me," Stacey said.

They both turned and looked at her in surprise. "Oh Stacey," Marilyn said. "You poor thing! I forgot you were still here."

"If you're going home can you drop me off at my house?" Stacey asked Rod, her voice trembling. "That way I don't have to call my parents to pick me up."

"Don't you want to stay and see Matt?" Marilyn asked.

Inwardly Stacey shuddered. She couldn't get her last sight of Matt, his legs twisted and bleeding, out of her mind. "I-I'll see him later. You're his mother. He should see you first."

Rod cleared his throat. "All right. Come along then." He put an arm on Stacey's shoulder to steer her out of the room.

This sets things up for whatever happens next with Stacey. Like Rod, she is also unable to deal with what has happened and needs to get away.

This passage has given us an opportunity to analyze structure. Writers have a lot of information to provide to their readers and many times they rush to get as much of it out at the beginning of the story as possible. When you are sitting down to write out a scene, first jot down the information you want to convey. Then plan how you can work that information into the scene without having to create artificial situations or dialogue to convey the informaiton.

Critique of Come Out, Come Out Wherever You Are

(My comments will be in Purple. Words and punctuation that need to be deleted are in Red. Words and punctuation I added are in Purple. At the end I will have general comments about the passage.)

Come out, come out, wherever you are...

The flashlight in Ginger’s hand died, plunging her into pitch-black darkness. Great.

She slapped the plastic cylinder against her palm a few times until the bulb flickered back to life, bathing the room around her in a sickly yellow glow.

Wavering shadows and the skeletal remains of what were once a series of ornate cupboards took shape in the murky gloom. Ginger was back in Sagebrush Manor’s kitchen. Again. Nice description.

The exhausted light blinked once -- twice-- then faded away, this time for good. Nice description of the flashlight as being "exhausted."

Dammit. Four full house hours of searching the entire two storey, eighteen-nineteen 1819 manor house, twice over, and she hadn’t encountered a single sign of spiritual activity. What kind of haunted house was this anyway?

This sucks. At this rate, she thought, I’m never going to get my own weekly ghost-hunting program on the air. I need the presence of at least one ghost, preferably one with no reservations to showing itself in front of a camera. It doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. Ginger gave her flashlight a shake; it stayed dead. The writer is establishing motivation for the character.

Ooh, wonderful, she thought, now I have to try to make my way back through the rambling maze of rooms and corridors, in total darkness. What a night.

With hands outstretched to feel for the surface of a wall, Ginger inched to her left. The sticky silk of a dangling cobweb grazed her cheek and crossed over her lips. She brushed it away hastily, grimacing in the dark. Could this night get any worse? Apparently it could. A sound similar to a heavy footstep thudded suddenly in the next room. This is nice-- but it could be expanded upon a bit more. What does the cobweb feel like when it grazes her cheek? Moist? Slimy? Cold? Does it leave a feeling behind after she brushes it away. When she hears the noise in the next room what is her reaction? Is there any vibration accompanying the heavy noise? What about smell? Old houses have a distinctive, musty smell that adds to the creepiness. What does this house smell like?

Ginger froze, her ears perked to pick up further sounds. That damn well better be paranormal, she thought, because the alternative was far more frightening – a live human being in a place where none should be. Why is her first thought that the noise is from a live human rather than a ghost? She's there to hunt for ghosts. Why does she instantly think that what she heard might be live instead of dead?

Squinting, she peered into the darkness around her. Nothing. She could see nothing.

Her earlier inspection of the kitchen, conducted while the sun had still been well above the horizon, had revealed that there was only one way in, and one way out – through the dining room. The back door, along with almost every one of the first floor windows, had been thoroughly boarded up and nailed shut from both the inside and out. Very effective for keeping prowlers out, she thought, and keeping me in.

Something or someone made a muffled bump in the next room. The hairs on Ginger’s head stood on end. If it is a ghost, and she's a ghost hunter, there deliberately to look for ghosts, why is she so nervous? What gives her the idea that this is a live person rather than a ghost?

Who are you? She scanned her mind for any sense of a supernatural being. Most often, she would feel a presence; an unseen energy would flow through her, heightening her senses and making her body tingle. Now, finally, we are getting an inkling of why Ginger thinks this might be a human instead of a ghost. This comes two paragraphs too late.

Sometimes the spirits would touch her, caressing her softly, leaving welts or scratches or inflicting harsh blows. Other times they’d speak to her in muted murmurs or mumbles, and sometimes, in complete, coherent sentences. At this moment though, she sensed absolutely nothing, and it was starting to get irritating.

God-dammit, what the hell are you? Her mind ran through a list of likely suspects. A Mmouse? A Rrat? No, not a rat, not unless the Sagebrush was home to some kind of king-sized rodent; the tone of that footstep, if that’s what it had been, had sounded like it came from something larger – much larger. Something like a full grown man.

Ginger shuddered. It’s not a person, it can’t be. I locked the front door behind me. Didn’t I? Oh, shit, I don’t even remember closing it.

Drawing a deep, calming breath, Ginger pushed down her panic. Of course I closed the door. And locked it. There’s nothing here in this house with me but a spiritual entity, she told herself. It may be a particularly elusive one, but it’s still just a ghost nonetheless. And that’s the whole reason I’m here, stop being a crazy freak, do your job and investigate the bloody thing before it tires of you and goes back into obscurity.

General Comments:
The author does a nice job in this passage of building suspense. She teases the reader slowly, letting us have snippets of information. Every sentence moves the story forward, extablishes the atmosphere and the setting or gives us insight into Ginger's state of mind.

The quibble I have, and it's a slight one, is Ginger's instant assumption that the noise she hears is from a live person rather than a ghost. She's there to hunt for ghosts, so the noise really shouldn't surprise her that much. Yet her mind automatically makes the assumption that what she hears is not a ghost but is alive. The writer finally explains that Ginger does not get any of the normal feelings she does when sensing a ghost-- but this explanation comes a little too late. Some re-ordering might be in line and help keep the character's motivation and personality consistent:

With hands outstretched to feel for the surface of a wall, Ginger inched to her left. The sticky silk of a dangling cobweb grazed her cheek and crossed over her lips. She brushed it away hastily, grimacing in the dark. Could this night get any worse? Apparently it could. A sound similar to a heavy footstep thudded suddenly in the next room.

Ginger froze, her ears perked to pick up further sounds. Could this be what she had been waiting for? She closed her eyes to concentrate; normally she would feel a presence; an unseen energy would flow through her, heightening her senses and making her body tingle.

Sometimes the spirits would touch her, caressing her softly, leaving welts or scratches or inflicting harsh blows. Other times they’d speak to her in muted murmurs or mumbles, and sometimes, in complete, coherent sentences. This time, however, she sensed nothing in her mind, heard no ghostly whispers, felt no ghostly touches.

Something or someone made a muffled bump in the next room. The hairs on Ginger’s head stood on end, but not from the presence of any ghostly being. She felt no such presence in her mind.

God-dammit, what the hell are you? Her mind ran through a list of likely suspects. A mouse? A rat? No, not a rat, not unless the Sagebrush was home to some kind of king-sized rodent; the tone of that footstep, if that’s what it had been, had sounded like it came from something larger – much larger. Something like a full grown man.

Squinting, she peered into the darkness around her. Nothing. She could see nothing. Her earlier inspection of the kitchen, conducted while the sun had still been well above the horizon, had revealed that there was only one way in, and one way out – through the dining room. The back door, along with almost every one of the first floor windows, had been thoroughly boarded up and nailed shut from both the inside and out. Very effective for keeping prowlers out, she thought, and keeping me in.

Ginger shuddered. It’s not a person, it can’t be. I locked the front door behind me. Didn’t I? Oh, shit, I don’t even remember closing it.

Critique of For Love or Money

(My comments will be in Purple. Words and punctuation that need to be deleted are in Red. Words and punctuation I added are in Purple.) At the end I will have general comments about the passage.

Claire stared at the envelope in her lap and touched the crisp edges that had yellowed with age. Even the rough hand-writing that spelled her name had faded to a milky blue. When had her father written it? Probably not long after he'd abandoned their family for the United States fifteen years ago. And now he was dead. Lovely description!

The man sitting in the armchair opposite hers waved a hand at the envelope he'd traveled across the country to deliver. "Aren't you going to open it?" Peabody Henry asked. "Your father wanted you to know—"

"I don't care what my father wanted," Claire said, her gaze still glued to the letter. His words would just be lies anyway.

Mr. Henry lifted a burly grey eyebrow and nodded. "Sure. No problem." But he didn't look like he meant it. He scowled and heaved a sigh that would have cracked the rib of a smaller man. Henry was enormous, tall and broad-shouldered, his face weathered like a map of more years on the road than she'd lived her entire life. "You take your time, dear," he said. "I'm in no hurry." Lovely description!

She flapped the letter against her palm. "What does it say?" Notice how the writer blends her descriptions into her attributions. There's no doubt about who is speaking, but at the same time, we get a good sense of the atmosphere of the story.

Peabody Henry shifted in the hotel lobby chair, causing the naugahyde to creak. He leaned forward, thick elbows on even thicker knees, and pinned her with a serious stare. "It's okay to ask me questions about your father."

Claire pushed her back against the cushion behind her, increasing the distance between her and the big lawyer. She glanced down at his over-sized feet and noticed one of his laces was untied. "Thanks, but I don't have any questions."

"I was more than your dad's lawyer," Henry confided. "I was his best friend."

She nodded. It was easy to see how this gentle giant might befriend almost anyone, even her deadbeat dad. Henry spoke soft and deep, his kind eyes turning up at the corners when he smiled. Dressed in wrinkled khaki pants, an untucked flannel shirt and wearing an old pair of suede hiking boots, the guy looked more like a homeless transient than a lawyer. At least he was clean. He smelled like juniper trees.

He cleared his throat and slid a manilla folder from a scuffed leather portfolio. "I have those papers for you."

She frowned. "The insurance papers?"

"I've already transferred the funds to your Bank of the Cascades account, but you'll want to move them into something more high yield. That's way too much money to keep in a checking account."

Staring at his untied shoe, she said, "The money should have gone to my mother."

Henry slipped a pen from his breast pocket. "Your father knew you'd take care of her and your sister."

Claire tightened her grip on the letter and felt the paper tear. "Kind of late for that."

"Neither of us knew about the accident."

She shrugged. "Nothing can be done for Celleste, but my mom's still breathing." Not that breathing always meant living, at least in her mother's case. After the car hit the median and rolled, her mother's injuries left her in a coma and her sister without a pulse. The pickled state of Mom's inebriated brain might have been responsible. Or the leaky breaklines.(sp) Whichever, the result was the same.

Why the hell didn't Henry tie his shoe? She gestured toward his feet. "Mr. Henry, your shoe –"

"I asked you to call me Peabody." He smiled that kind-uncle smile again. He didn't even look at his shoe. "She's comfortable? Your mother?"

"As comfortable as anyone unconscious could be. She's in hospice care."

"The money from your dad's policy will take care of all her medical needs from now on."

Claire didn't hide her sigh of relief. She'd already taken out a second mortgage on the trailer to pay for her mother's care. Selling it was the next step, but then where would she live?

General Comments and Observations: This is a very well written passage. Observe all the things that the reader learns about Claire and Peabody during this section:

Claire's father walked out on Claire and her mother 15 years ago and she's not heard rom him since.

Claire's mother was a drinker.

Claire's mother is in a coma after a car crash.

Claire's sister was killed in the same crash.

Claire doesn't have much money. She put a second mortgage on her trailer to pay for her mother's medical care.

Claire harbors a long standing resentment towards her father.

Peabody was best friends with Claire's father.

Peabody is an attorney.

Claire is receiving a significant bequest from her father in his will.

However, what is also important in this passage is the descriptions that allow us to feel what Claire is feeling. As an opening scene, this is a very well written scene-- it's going to be next to impossible for someone to NOT want to continue reading this.

The Devil is in the Details

I can remember the awful old days sitting at my Smith Corona Electra 120, typing away at manuscripts with carbon paper, and cursing whenever I made a typo because then I'd have to type the whole darned page over again. I tried using white-out and correction tape, which was okay for small typos, but white-out clots and correction tape doesn't work for the really complex letters such as "g" and "f" because if I was replacing them with a letter that did not go above or below the line, the outline of the first letter could always be seen.

Thank goodness those days are gone. Now we have computers-- no more carbon paper; it's easy to correct typos; and toner seems to last somewhat longer than my typewriter ribbon ever did. But the heavy use of computers has brought its own problems so here are some things to keep in mind when you are submitting a manuscript:

• Spell check does not catch everything. I wish it did. I wish that it could catch the mistakes I made when I type one thing but am actually thinking about something else. But it doesn't. It's a tool, a useful tool, but proofing your manuscript means actually going through and reading every single word of it yourself.
  
• Computers have all kinds of beautiful fonts and it is so easy to change colors and use fancy curlique type. In a word, don't. If the editor has to work too hard to read your manuscript, s/he is not likely to bother. Choose one font, a simple one (I personally prefer Arial, but Times, Courier, Helvetica and Geneva are others that are easily readable.) Use the same font for all of your manuscript, use 12 point font and remember the KISS mantra. (Keep It Simple Simon.) (Yes, I know the last "S" does NOT stand for "Simon!")
  
• If you scan your manuscript into the computer, you may not realize that the header of your manuscript does not automatically become a header in the Word document. Instead, it goes into the body of the manuscript, and if you reformat the manuscript in a way that alters the pagination, then your header is going to end up in weird places throughout your manuscript. For example:
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------

"fascinating story this is the best thing i've ever read in my life where can I see more of this she's a brilliant writer this will be on the bestseller list for sure i think it will win a pulitzer or a Hugo or an Edgar and Spielberg is probably going to want the rights

Robinson 3

I can see this being a box office hit and they will probably want a sequel I should probably set up a special phoneline for all the calls I'm going to get."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Now, if you, the writer do not go through and manually remove all those lovely little header lines and bring the text together the way it is supposed to be...

---------------------------------------------------------------------

"fascinating story this is the best thing i've ever read in my life where can I see more of this she's a brilliant writer this will be on the bestseller list for sure i think it will win a pulitzer or a Hugo or an Edgar and Spielberg is probably going to want the rights I can see this being a box office hit and they will probably want a sequel I should probably set up a special phoneline for all the calls I'm going to get."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

...then guess who is going to have to do so? Assuming the acquisitions editor doesn't reject the manuscript right off the bat, some poor editor is going to have to do it, and that editor will NOT be happy about it. We have a manuscript right now where the writer did not go through and manually remove all the headers when she scanned her manuscript in. We also receive manuscripts which have even more typos than the ones I deliberately left in the passage above. Those do NOT make a good impression on us!

• Read your manuscript. Please. After you finish putting that last word on the page, set it aside for a week, then go back and read it. Believe me, you will find mistakes that need to be corrected. You only have one shot at making a first impression on a publisher, so make it the best you possibly can. Hopefully you wouldn't show up at a job interview with dirty, wrinkled clothes, mismatched shoes and traces of your lunch stuck in your teeth. The same principle applies to submitting your manuscript.

• Look at the publisher's guidelines before you submit. Some publishers are very particular about how manuscripts should be submitted to them. I've seen some that specify the exact font, margins, and header content. Sadly, some writers operate under the assumption that those guidelines don't apply to them. Please remember that you NEED the publisher's good will, so why would you start right off the bat by alienating them?

• Know your publisher. I don't mean to find out what your publsher does in his/her spare time but spend some time looking at the publisher's web page and getting to know the kinds of books they take. Why waste your time sending your children's book to a publisher who clearly says "No children's books?"

The first impression the publisher has of you is the first page of your submission. If I receive an email from a writer who has obviously not got a clue about Swimming Kangaroo Books, I carry that impression with me into my evaluation of the manuscript. There is one author who has submitted the same book to us 4 times. Each time he has submitted the complete manuscript, even though we request a query, synopsis and sample pages. Each time he has addressed his submission to "Dear Publisher." And each time, he has included the names of all the other publishers to whom he is submitting in the To: line of his email. Is it any surprise that we have rejected his work four times in a row with a standard, form email?

One of our very first submissions was from someone who had spent some time on our page and who addressed her email directly to me. She complimented us on our webpage and asked us to look over her synopsis and sample pages. Before we even looked at her manuscript, we knew we liked her personally, and we kept that in mind as we evaluated her submission. (And congratulations, Larriane Wills, on the release of your first book, THE KNOWING, and the upcoming release of your second book, LOOKING GLASS PORTAL!)

Critique of Excerpt from Barton Creek Bridge

(My comments will be in Purple. Words and punctuation that need to be deleted are in Red. Words and punctuation I added are in Purple.) At the end I will have general comments about the passage and a writing exercise.

“Do you think we’ll be home before 10?”

Gavin shifted in the back seat of the car. He acted more nervous than normal with the youth pastor. I wondered what was up with that, but said nothing. I pulled my feet up closer under me and leaned on my pillow. I had my eyes shut, but I was wide-awake. I didn’t want anyone to know I was listening to everything in the car.

The trip to camp had started out like any other. The youth pastor was a big guy, outweighed anyone I knew and was taller than everyone but Grandpa. He wasn’t very old, but I wasn’t sure how old that was. At 11, I wasn’t yet a good judge of age. Are they going to camp or returning home?

“I don’t know. The way this car is running, it might be morning. I called your parents to let them know.” Maynard Conner sat tall in the front seat. His straggly hair and scrawny beard made him look even more unkempt than usual. He filled up the seat behind the wheel, and I thought he looked a little menacing.

The car kept moving toward home, but it chugged more than it had earlier. It was long after dark when it finally chugged the last slow energy-draining chug and died. I looked at the lighted clock on the dash and saw it was only 8:30 but we were still a ways from home. Repetition of the word "chug."

Maynard pulled the car safely to the right, just off the shoulder of the highway. He picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. “Julia, it’s dead. I’m just east of Barton. Are you on the road?”

Maynard paused and listened to the person on the other end of the phone. I knew he was talking to my mom; her name was Julia.

“You picked up Dudley?” he asked. The conversation wasn’t going to be a long one. “Thanks, I’ll be here, the kids are sleeping. Most of them.”

I sat there with my eyes closed pretending to be one of the sleeping kids. I didn’t know why I was pretending, but it continued to feel like the thing to do.

“Okay, Julia, we’re just east of the Barton Creek Bridge, on the south side of the road.”

Maynard closed the cell phone and put it back in his pocket. The car was off the shoulder of the road, almost in the ditch, leaning hard to the right. I heard water rushing somewhere and realized it was Barton Creek. It wasn’t a big river, but this was melt down season, so the river ran higher than normal.

“Guess we won’t be home by 10, Gavin,” The youth pastor commented in a low tone, almost under his breath.

I could hear Dillon and Summer in the back seat snoring away. Gavin was the only one awake and talking. He never stopped talking about something. So far Gavin has only said one sentence.

Oh, did I mention that I’m Gavin Ruskin’s little brother Neill? He’s 13 and I’m 11. We’re not very old, but we’re both real smart, but I probably don’t have to tell you. You’ll figure it out soon enough. You can tell us apart because Gavin wears his hair butched. I prefer mine long in back so my curls show. Mom likes to play with my curls, but I don’t mind too much. I just like having curls and looking different from Gavin. You've already established that the narrator is 11 years old in the 3rd paragraph.

“I’m going to get out and look under the hood.” Maynard said out loud, to nobody in particular. I moaned something, like I’d heard him, but didn’t open my eyes. He probably didn’t believe I was asleep. I didn’t care. I just didn’t want to participate in this event. I was tired from camp.

“What are you looking for?” I heard Gavin ask a few seconds after his door slammed shut. The driver’s window was down, and I could listen to them talking in front of the car. Maynard muttered something I didn’t hear, and Gavin chuckled. I took a chance to open my eyes and look around.

The red rock cliff behind me was part of the same formations that provided a foundation for our home on Breken Ridge. We were only about 50 miles from home. The red rocks in the mesas weren’t common in this part of the country, but they ran along the valley for most of 80 miles.

Barton Creek was a tributary of Breken River joined at the fork about thirty miles away. Barton Creek was usually a dry stream, except for summer run off times. Then it could be a rushing river for a while. Breken River flowed from the mountains past our home and right into the Bird’s Eye Gulch Dam at the lower end of the valley. I always thought it was pretty awesome that Mom built our home right there on the Ridge north of the river, so we could see all the way to the dam. That dam was more than twenty miles from our home, but in the winter, when the trees were bare, we could look right through the dried limbs to the big concrete slab that spanned the river bottom. Lovely description.

Dillon changed positions in the back seat, and I heard Summer moan. I wondered why his parents had named him Summer.

Traffic rushed by, nobody stopped to help. The night was black when cars weren’t passing. So, I closed my eyes again and dreamed about what I’d do after I got home.

Mom was is a writer. She often wrote writes mystery novels about things that really happened, turning them into fiction by using different characters and only touching on the actual event. The most interesting parts appear in her stories, and she changes the rest. I wondered if this event would make a novel at some point. I figured it would. How does this tie in to Neill dreaming about what he will do when he gets home?

I have two sisters, Morgan and Emily. Morgan went away to college, and I miss her terribly. She’s studying criminal justice. Emily turned sixteen a while back, and she drives Gavin and I every place we want to go. Well, at least when Mom lets her. Ditto.

Summer kicked the back of my seat and I could hear him stretching. “Where are we?”

“Barton Creek, just east of Barton. We broke down again.” There doesn't seem to be any real purpose to this exchange. You've already established that they are broken down and that they are by Barton Creek, east of Barton.

I answered him without opening my eyes. I knew I sounded bored and perturbed. I felt that way. Camp had been a lot of fun, but I wanted to get home.

“How far are we from Breken?” Still no purpose to this. You've already established that they are 50 miles from Breken.

“About an hour. Mom and Dudley are coming to get us.” No purpose. You've already established this.

“Okay.”

Summer drifted off to sleep again, and before long I could hear him snoring. I imagined a warm pan of oatmeal raisin cookies coming out of the oven and was seriously considering a raid on the backpack in the trunk for some yummy vittles. About the time I’d decided it was worth the effort to go get them, I heard Gavin talking to Emily.

“What are you doing all broken down?”

“The engine just quit. Sounded like it gave up and died, breathed it’s last, and needed to be just put out of it’s misery.” Gavin gave a way bigger description than the event deserved. This has already been described.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out of the car. I had a long step. On my side of the car was a ditch about two feet deep that ran along the face of the cliff beside the road. The wide pullout was flat and graded, like a dirt road, but the ditch was deep, lined with wildflowers and grasses. Again, lovely description.

Mom’s voice was soft and far away, I looked up and realized she and Dudley were untying the straps on the trailer and lugging ramps to the back of it. Dudley was almost as big as the youth pastor, and a little more muscled. He’d been a hard worker. His age was less obvious, I often wondered if he wasn’t closer to Mom’s age, but he said he was the same age as the youth pastor.You've mentioned Dudley a lot but never actually identified who he is.

I stepped over beside Emily and quickly gave her a one armed hug. I was glad to see her, but I didn’t want to be too obvious,; the guys might be watching.

Emily squeezed me with one arm and ruffled my hair. I looked up and smiled,; I was happy. My sister and my mom were there. I hadn’t seen them in over a week; definitely time to go home.

“Let’s get it loaded,” Maynard called out. He probably hoped he’d awakened the two in the back seat. But he didn’t. They kept snoring.

He finally went around to the side of the car and opened their door, to get them awake. It took a while, and even then they kind of fell out of the car and staggered to the truck and got in. They were sound asleep before the door closed. I thought that was pretty funny.

“Emily you get in and steer the car, we’ll push. Gavin, you and Neill watch the ramps, there… Make sure we are lined up.” Mom always took charge in situations like this, even when the guys could probably handle it. She just knew what she was doing and did it. I took the flashlight and aimed it at the ramp, and watched the car roll slowly up to the end of it. It was lined up.

Mom and Dudley were directly behind the car; Maynard was a bit to the side. I watched them push, thinking it was a bit of a transition, to push the van up on the trailer from flat ground. Then I realized mMom had parked the trailer in a dip, that’s why they had to push the car so far forward.

“Brakes Em!” Dudley called out from the back bumper as the car topped the back of the trailer and settled almost against the front ramp. Dudley grabbed a ramp and shoved it forward under the car into place ahead of the back axle. Gavin reached under and pulled the strap back to lock it in place. Dudley pushed the second ramp into place.

Maynard tied down the front end of the car and helped Emily down from the trailer. I heard brakes behind us and looked back to see two cars coming our direction.

One hit the railing on the bridge and bounced back. When the front bumper collided with the other car, the rear bumper came around and sent both vehicles into a spin. I felt frozen. My feet refused to move. You have spent about 40 paragraphs describing the location in infinite detail, discussing the breakdown of the car and detailing Neill's family, but you only give one small paragraph to what is probably the most important paragraph in the passage. Here is where you need details-- the sound of the cars coming toward them, the crunch of them hitting the guard rail, the
rush of air from the collision.

“Neill, look out!”

General comments:

This is what I call a "kitchen sink" passage in that the writer throws in everything, including the kitchen sink. In this passage we learn the following:

1. The narrator's name is Neill.
2. He is 11 years old.
3. He is returning from church camp in a car driven by the youth pastor, whose name is Maynard.
4. We get a description of Maynard.
5. The car breaks down.
6. It is about 8:30 PM.
7. They are 50 miles from home.
8. Neill's older brother, Gavin, is 13 and is also in the car.
9. Two other kids are in the car, Summer and Dillon.
10. Dillon and Summer are asleep.
11. Gavin wears his hair in a crew cut while Neill keeps his long.
12. Neill's mom writes mysteries.
13. Neill has two older sisters, Emily and Morgan.
14. Morgan is at college studyiung criminal justice, and Neill misses her.
15. Emily is 16 and drives.
16. Mom is a take-charge type of person.
17. We learn Dudley's description but don't know who he is, exactly.
18. Neill's mom had their house built on a ridge overseeing the river with a view of the dam.
19. Two cars crash into the railing after Dudley, Mom, Emily and Maynard get the car loaded onto a trailer.

The writer spends a great deal of time setting the scene-- too long. As I was reading through this, I kept wondering when something was going to happen. She makes reference to Gavin being nervous with the youth minister and the minister looking scraggly and unkempt. So my first thought when the car broke down was that the minister had rigged it and was going to kidnap the children and molest them.

The paragraphs where they are waiting for rescue just seem to drag on forever without purpose and the intricate details as to loading the car onto the trailer also drag.

It's important to determine the goal of a passage- where is the writer trying to get to? My assumption in this is that the writer is trying to get to the crash. Everything that comes before the crash should lead to this. What are the salient points that need to be covered before the car crash?

1. The fact that they are stranded by the roadside.
2. The car has been loaded onto the trailer.
3. Neill is standing in the way of the oncoming cars.

Everything else is incidental and nonessential- it can be included, but only if it doesn't detract from moving the story forward. The other info- the stuff about Neill's sisters and their house and their hair- can all be worked into the story later if it is important.

Exercise: Rewrite this passage. Tighten it up and focus on moving the story forward to the crash. You should be able to condense this passage into no more than 8 paragraphs- and remember, a substantial part of those paragraphs needs to deal with the crash.

You can either post your passage as a comment or email it to me at dindy@swimmingkangaroo.com If you email it to me, please put "Barton Creek Exercise" in the heading.

Next week I will post one way to rewrite this passage.

If any of you have questions or comments for the author or for me, please post them. Let's give the author as much constructive feedback as possible.

Thanks!

Dindy

Critique of Excerpt from DreamKeeper

(My comments will be in Purple. Words and punctuation that need to be deleted are in red. Words and punctuation I added are in purple.) At the end I will have general comments about the passage.

Chapter One: INNOCENSCE INTERRUPTED

One cloudy night, five-inch Asima flew down gently onto Calley’s quilted bed. With a voice like whispering children she said, “This is your third nightmare this week, my dear.” nice description!

The thirteen-year-old girl with long, dusty-blond hair tossed, mumbled, and sighed in her sleep.

“You must believe in yourself and allow others to get to know you,” said Asima. Children like Calley touched a special place in Asima’s heart. It was hard for them to understand a world without rules, fairness, love, and swift justice.

Calley rolled onto her right side and then back again. “No,” she mumbled in her sleep. “Please. . .that’s not it.” Sweat dotted her forehead, collected into a drizzle, and then slid into her hair. Again, nice description!

Asima rose from the girl’s bed and then backed a few feet away; the time had come; more coaxing would be required for this one. It had for several lately; times changed. She’d already dealt with several stubborn and difficult nightmares tonight. The petite fairy’s body felt heavy. A tightness pulled her back taunt as strings on a violin. Asima concentrated on transforming.

“You must be the DreamKeeper,” a bass voice hissed from the depths of Calley’s body.

Surprised, then irritated, Asima narrowed her eyes. She didn’t recognize this one.

“The others told me to be wary of you.”

She’d hoped to fight fatigue a bit longer, but Asima’s concentration shattered. Too many Class Three nightmares night after night, one after another, along with a hollow loneliness.

“Why don’t you save us both time and yourself the embarrassment and leave?” Asima told him.

A deep, husky breathing vibrated out from the girl’s abdomen, and grew louder before beginning again. “I will leave when I’m ready and not before.”

Asima clicked her tongue and then released a long sigh. “Your friends forgot to inform you what I’ve done to them, especially the defiant ones.”

All at once, a blast of hot, sulfur-air exploded at Asima, nearly knocking her off her feet. A dark-green head rose from Calley’s chest, oozing shades of black and sickly-pale slime that slid together and dribbled down from it. “The others are weak; both in power and in attitude. You are the one to leave. This girl child is mine.”Nice!

Asima shook her head. “If we must go through this then so be it.” She’d have to use the rest of her energy. How she’d hoped this was the last nightmare tonight. Is she concerned that she might not be able to handle this demon- that he make take the last of her strength so she will be unable to handle other nightmares?

The DreamKeeper turned first in slow circles, and then in quicker ones. In moments she blurred.

Thunder rumbled outside and through a slightly opened window, where a flash stabbed through the blanket of darkness. A loud clap of thunder followed before another flash. This one emulated emanated from within the bedroom through starting a thick mist to crawl around Calley’s bed. Asima materialized from it into her human-size form.

“This child is not yours,” she stated. “Leave now!” She stared into the reddened eyes of the demon and added, “Are you sure you know of me?” "Stated" seems to be a weak attributive. She is making a declarative stand against a nightmare. This warrants a stronger attributive. The entire paragraph seems weak in contrast to the rest of the passage.

The demon shot a return look with half a smile. It’s face distorted, turned a deep shade of ebony; black as the most hideous sin.

General comments:
Aaah! You left me hanging! I'm dying to know what comes next!

This is a well done passage. A few grammatical errors and word choice issues, but those would undoubtedly be taken care of in the final edit. Your opening grabs the reader, pulls him into the story and establishes the scene. Nice job.

For our exercise, let's look at the following paragraph:

“This child is not yours,” she stated. “Leave now!” She stared into the reddened eyes of the demon and added, “Are you sure you know of me?”

The attributive, "stated" is weak considering the context, and the overall tone of the paragraph seems subdued compared to the rest of the passage. So your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to rewrite this paragraph. Use a stronger attributive, and change the tone to make it fit the rest of the passage-- Asima is tired, she is being threatened by a demon she's never seen before, and she evidently has a reputation. What is she going to say to the demon?

You can either post your rewrites as comments are email them to me at dindy@swimmingkangaroo.com

If you email your rewrite to me, please put the following in the subject line "Paragraph Rewrite."

Of course, if you have general questions or comments about this passage or about writing in general, please post them. Give our writer as much constructive feedback as possible!

Dindy

Free Writing Class

Jennifer Crusic and Bob Mayer are offering a free class on novel writing. Between the two authors, they’ve written about 45 novels……..best-sellers, to boot.

Here’s what they plan:
This is the course Syllabus for the CrusieMayer.com 2007 Online Writing Workshop if you want to get an idea of what will be coming up:
The Heart of the Story (January)
1. The One Sentence Idea: He Wrote, She Wrote Back
2. Situational vs. Character Ideas
3. Protagonist & Antagonist
4. The Central Question & Conflict Box
5. Outlining

Point of View (February)
6. The Camera
7. First Person
8. Third Limited Person
9. Third Omniscient

Character (March & April)
10. Character Types
11. Character Archetypes
12. Internal & External Goals
13. Levels of Motivation
14. Character Flaws
15. Ficelles & Foils
16. Dialogue
17. Community
18. Relationships

Plot (May, June & early July)
19. Narrative Structure
20. Turning Points
21. Climaxes
22. Beginnings
23. Foreshadowing
24. Tightening the Story
25. Subplots26. Exposition
27. Action Scenes: Sex
28. Action Scenes: Violence

(Semester interlude to focus on the publishing business and being an author as the authors’ new collaborative novel is released and they go on book tour and travel to Australia and New Zealand to present at conferences)

Business (July & August)
29. Collaborating
30. Publishing
31. Agents
32. Editors
33. Bookselling
34. Marketing Internet
35. Marketing Bricks & Mortar

Unity (September & October)
36. Unity
37. Goals & MacGuffins
38. Beginnings and Endings
39. Plot Arcs
40. Character Arcs
41. Setting
42. Metaphors & Symbols
43. Repetition and Motif
44. Theme

Editing (November & December)
45. Story Editing
46. Collage
47. Structure as Meaning
48. Beta Readers
49. The Editorial Letter
0. Copy Editing
51. Being an Author
52. Conclusion

Life is Real. Write Real.

Readers today are increasingly more and more sophisticated, and they expect the same sophistication out of the books they read. Consequently, the old adage, "Write what you know" has never been more true. As a former kindergarten teacher, I can tell you that it drives me batty to read books or stories about kindergarten teachers because most of the time it is very obvious that the writer has NEVER spent any time in a kindergarten classroom. Likewise it drives me nuts to read stories with female protagonists in which the woman never has to worry about picking her children up from day care on time or finding child care at the last minute when the little boy is too sick to go to school. It seems that most books with female protagonists also have a convenient neighbor who is always happy to look after the kids no matter what time of day or night, or a live-in parent so the woman doesn't ever have to worry about it.

My point is that as a writer, you need to get real and understand the nuts and bolts of your topic, as well as the nitty gritty of your characters' daily existence.

A couple of pet peeves I have:
1. Precocious kids. The world of fiction is full of kids who are geniuses. Let's face it, much as we parents hate to admit it, although all kids are unique, most of them are also pretty average.

2. Characters who forget their cell phones. Folks, this is the year 2007. Our cell phones are practically glued to our ears. It is a lazy plot device to have your character be unable to call for help because she (and it's almost always a she) left her cell phone on the kitchen table. (This is usually a weak plot device used to get the female character into a situation where she can't call for help and needs to be rescued.)

3. Gourmet cooks. Detectives seem to fall into one of two categories-- those who are gourmet cooks and those who don't cook at all. The ones who are gourmet cooks generally stop by the grocery store on their way home, carefully select their ingredients, prepare every single menu item from scratch and lounge luxuriously in front of the fireplace with a glass of wine before going off to bed where they usually make extremely passionate love with their companion (usually several times a night).

Let's look at real life a second: Detective drags home at 8:00 PM after a thirteen hour day. Husband is asleep in front of the TV, snoring, when she walks through the door, a can of beer at his side. Detective goes and stands in front of the fridge, hoping that the refrigerator fairies will have miraculously filled it with delicious food while she was at work. Finding nothing but limp lettuce from her last trip to the grocery store about nine days ago, she pops a bag of microwave popcorn, eats it while watching the news on TV, then stumbles off to bed. Husband wakes up and climbs into bed beside her; they aim kisses in each other's general direction.

I absolutely adore Lee Martin's Deb Ralston mystery series because she does such a terrific job of realistically depicting the daily life of a female homicide detective. Unless you are writing a fantasy of some type, allow your characters to have real lives. They don't have to be perfect to make us fall in love with them. We just need to be able to relate to them, and it's much easier to do that if they seem like REAL PEOPLE.

What Do We Mean by Show, Not Tell?

One of the first stories I wrote was about a family who dropped out of the rat race of the city and went to live in a cabin in the Rocky Mountains and how much happier they all were. Not so coincidentally, John Denver was my favorite singer at the time, and Apple's Way was one of my favorite TV shows (yes, I am dating myself.)

Not only was my plot completely unoriginal, but the story was about 5 pages long. Double spaced. 12 point font. I wish I still had it because it is the quintessential example of "telling" instead of "showing" the story. Here this family went through a major life change, and I managed to complete the story about it in about 1250 words. Not only that, but I didn't even have any dialogue!

For some reason, none of the magazines to which I submitted this story were interested. Nevertheless, I doggedly kept sending it back out, until after about a year, I actually sat down and read it again and was mortified to think that I had been sending such a piece of junk out for other people to read.

No, I didn't rewrite the story because the plot was just so unoriginal, but I did learn a major lesson about the difference between telling a story and showing a story. When you are telling a story, what you basically have is an outline of the things that happen in the story or book. You cover a great amount of ground in a very few pages, or even paragraphs. When you are showing the story, you are coloring in between the lines. Compare the richness of a coloring book outline to a Monet or Van Gogh painting, and you will see the huge difference between telling and writing.

We once received a manuscript in which there was an accident in which three people were killed. The police arrived at the scene and asked if any of the bystanders could identify the men. A conveniently placed woman not only was able to identify the three men, but gave their entire life histories to the police in about two pages. She talked without any interruption at all by the police or anybody else. Needless to say, we rejected that manuscript.

So how can you tell if you are telling instead of showing? One good way is to go through your manuscript and count the major plot points that happen and compare them to the number of pages. If you are writing a short story and you count more than 4 or 5 major plot points, then you probably have a problem.

Another way to tell if you are showing and not telling is by the amount of action you have that happens off scene. If you find that you tend to have major events happening off scene to be dispensed with in a few words later in the narrative, then you have a problem. Take the Harry Potter books, for instance. In the first book, Harry continuously receives admission letters to Hogwarts Academy. The Durselys try boarding up the mailbox and chimney to no avail-- the
letters keep arriving. They finally get in their car and drive to the ocean where they rent a boat that carries them out to an island with a lighthouse, where they spend the night. Their sleep, however, is interrupted by the arrival of Hagrid who comes to take Harry to Hogwarts.

All of this is shown in meticulous detail as Harry's uncle gets more and more frustrated with the constant letters. Imagine how less satisfying it would have been if J.K. Rowling had simply said, "Hogwarts Academy sent many letters of acceptance to Harry,(1) but the Durseleys would not let him have the letters.(2) They finally fled to a desert island in an attempt to evade the letters,(3) but Hagrid found them and took Harry away.(4)" The numbers in parentheses indicate the major events-- notice that paragraph has 4 major events. Does it tell what happened? Of course it does. But does it show us what happened? No!

Inside of you there is a rich story that is demanding to be put on paper (or on the computer). Show all of your story, not just the bare outlines.

Writing Exercise:
Now it's time for all of you to dust off your keyboard and do a little exercise. Look at the sentence below:

"A middle-aged man opened the door."

This is a very common type of sentence, and there's nothing wrong with it. However, it could be made so much more descriptive if the writer approached it in a different way. HOW does the narrator know that the man is middle-aged? WHAT identifies him as such?

The writer could rewrite the sentence to say something like, "The man who opened the door was balding and had a slight paunch. However, his eyes twinkled brightly behind his bifocal lenses and the lines around his mouth testified to many years of ready smiles."

Both sentences say the same thing, but the latter sentence gives the reader a much better feel for the man.

So here is your exercise. Take the following sentence:

"Joe left angrily."

and rewrite it so that it SHOWS us Joe's anger. HOW does the narrator know that Joe is angry?

You can post your sentences below or email them to me at dindy@swimmingkangaroo.com. (Use the phrase "Blog Exercise" in the subject header.)

I hope to hear from you soon!