Flogometer for Kenyon: would you keep reading?

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

Dad was driving drunk. He'd had one too many rounds of excitement, and I guess there was reason; no more me, for an entire year.

It's not as if I hadn't earned a bit of punishment, but this was crossing the line. I'd said as much, but my begging fell on deaf ears. Dad wanted me gone, so he could have time with Alicia -- the newest twenty-something girl Dad would tell me to call "mom" until their imminent divorce seven or eight months down the line. It was round four, and by now Dad had mastered the art of a prenuptial agreement.

Alicia was staring out the dirty window, trying hard not to look at either one of us. She probably couldn't wait for me to leave either, so she could take all of Dad's money. At least she had ambition.

"We're getting closer," Dad said, sounding like a Bond villain.

Lying across the back seat, Nikes against the window, I sat up to see for myself. The landscape of trees and empty highway was transforming into a small suburban area with mild traffic. Two-storied houses, white-picket fences and clean sidewalks marked my demise.

I sat back down, making sure to rub my foot against the window and cause the loudest screech as possible. Both demons in the front winced at the sound.

I turned the page
I liked the voice and attitude of this character, and wondered where he was being taken and why. The lines have plenty of conflict, too -- kid against father, kid against step mother. There's implied jeopardy for the kid -- he/she's clearly not headed someplace that he/she thinks is good. I wished I'd had a name and a clue to the gender. There's a way to do that, and I'll suggest it in my notes. Good writing, too.

Dad was driving drunk. He'd had one too many rounds of excitement, and I guess there was reason; no more me, for an entire year. (There's a little ambiguity here that could cause confusion. Is he drunk with booze, or drunk with excitement? I read it the first way one time, the other the second time. I suggest this be more clear.)

It's not as if I hadn't earned a bit of punishment, but this was crossing the line. I'd said as much, but my begging fell on deaf ears. Dad wanted me gone, so he could have time with Alicia -- the newest twenty-something girl Dad would tell me to call "mom" until their imminent divorce seven or eight months down the line. It was round four, and by now Dad had mastered the art of a prenuptial agreement. (Colored with resentment as it is, this was a nice way to slip in just enough backstory quickly to help us understand the kid's attitude.)

Alicia was staring out the dirty window, trying hard not to look at either one of us. She probably couldn't wait for me to leave either, so she could take all of Dad's money. At least she had ambition. (I cut the "trying hard" part because it's a little slip in point of view. And why include it? It raises a question -- why is she trying to avoid looking at them? -- that doesn't get answered.)

"We're getting closer," Dad said, sounding like a Bond villain. (Here's where name and gender could come in. What if this were added: He glanced over his shoulder. Louder, he said, "Robby. We're here." Something such as this helps show the dad's irritation, and it gives us a name and a gender.)

Lying across the back seat, Nikes against the window, I sat up to see for myself. The landscape of trees and empty highway was transforming into a small suburban area with mild traffic. Two-storied houses, white-picket fences and clean sidewalks marked my demise. ("small" is a relative term. In this case, how do we visualize what a "small" area is? I think it works for the reader to fill in the scene without this vague clue.)

I sat lay back down, making sure to rub my foot against the window and cause the loudest screech as possible. Both demons in the front winced at the sound.

For me, this promised some reading fun ahead. Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Send author a comment on this post

Flogometer for Danielle: would you keep reading?

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

I had always suspected that I was a coward.

As I sat on the ledge of an ornate arch, gazing out across the pristine lawns of the University of Sydney's quadrangle, that suspicion was undeniably confirmed. The elaborately carved gargoyles seemed to be glaring a challenge at me; the imposing sandstone corridors made me feel completely out of my depth in every way. While other students milled about in their impenetrable phalanxes, pretending not to be overawed as they laughed and revelled in their first day of uni, I felt like curling up into a little ball and rocking back and forth in the shadows. All my friends from school had gone to different universities; there was no familiar face to help me through, no familiarity at all - just a sense of strangeness, of not belonging.

This experience could have been so different. If only Emily was still here … it should have been me who died in that car accident. Why had I survived, just to be a miserable, neurotic screw-up?

My heart pounded in my chest as the memory of that night came back to haunt me; my hands trembled like leaves, and suddenly I found it hard to breathe. I could recognize an impending panic attack from a mile away; after all, I'd experienced so many in the last few months it was almost a constant state of existence for me. That was pretty much me in a nutshell since the accident - Maddie Taylor, 18 years old, nervous wreck. Hardly an ideal situation, but hey, that (snip>

I loved the first line, but. . .
The opening sentence suggested an interesting character, but she devolved into someone feeling sorry for herself who delivers backstory and exposition. In this opening, the only suggestion of jeopardy is a possible panic attack. Otherwise, it's just musing. Yes, there's sadness, and an unhappy young woman, but that does not a story make.

I read on as a part of administering a flogging. Beside a cliché (a cookie crumbled), the writing is clean and solid. The heroine sees a stunningly beautiful young man, but then he leaves. She tries to draw and paint, but her depression is too much for her. And for me; while I understand that this is her status quo and that, hopefully, the story is about something that changes things for her, in terms of story she feels sad and hopeless, and then goes home and feels sad and hopeless. Some notes:

I had always suspected that I was a coward.

As I sat on the ledge of an ornate arch, gazing out across the pristine lawns of the University of Sydney's quadrangle, that suspicion was undeniably confirmed. The elaborately carved gargoyles seemed to be glaring a challenge at me; the imposing sandstone corridors made me feel completely out of my depth in every way. While other students milled about in their impenetrable phalanxes, pretending not to be overawed as they laughed and revelled reveled in their first day of uni, I felt like curling up into a little ball and rocking back and forth in the shadows. All my friends from school had gone to different universities; there was no familiar face to help me through, no familiarity at all - just a sense of strangeness, of not belonging. (Doesn't the description of being on a ledge of an arch suggest being up high? It did to me, but it turns out that she's not. I was confused later on. What challenge do the gargoyles seem to be issuing? Can you be specific? The last part, about no friends and strangeness, is a common enough feeling for a new student away from familiar territory, so there's not a lot special about that.)

This experience could have been so different. If only Emily was still here … it should have been me who died in that car accident. Why had I survived, just to be a miserable, neurotic screw-up? (The sentence cut felt like "telling," and didn't contribute a lot. There's a little bit of overwriting here, and for this reader meandering musing does not a story evoke. I'm sorry if that sounds harsh, but I want a story!)

My heart pounded in my chest as the memory of that night came back to haunt me; my hands trembled like leaves, and suddenly I found it hard to breathe. I could recognize an impending panic attack from a mile away; after all, I'd experienced so many in the last few months it was almost a constant state of existence for me. That was pretty much me in a nutshell since the accident - Maddie Taylor, 18 years old, nervous wreck. Hardly an ideal situation, but hey, that (snip> (The "in my chest" is something I've picked on before as a sign of overwriting -- where else would it pound? Would we not understand if those words were removed? Trembling like leaves wasn't really needed, and a bit of a clichéd expression.)

I think Danielle needs to start closer to her inciting incident, to the event that knocks Maddie's life out of whack, the thing that creates a need or a desire that she must have, but becomes harder and harder to get. See the Story as River article. Her self pity continued for the rest of the chapter, and while I felt sorry for the girl, I didn't want to read any more of it. As I said, I wanted the story, not the set-up.

A caveat: I'm male, and this opening might be more involving for women. I'd be interested in hearing from our female readers on this.

There's good writing here, and that opening line promised an interesting character and an interesting story -- start with that, Danielle, and fill in this information as needed, or do it much more quickly. Thanks for sending your work, and good luck.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Send author a comment on this post

Flogometer for Jan: would you keep reading?

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

'Dammit, Jackson, we can't keep ignoring this.' Lachlan Ridgeway shook that morning's Chicago Trib across his desk toward Bill Jackson, his corporate counsel, and Susan Holliman, lead chemist. The headline, "Diet Drug Deals Death", screamed the tragedy courtesy of Ridgeway Pharmaceuticals. The second paper he held up was no better, announcing "Another Teenager Dies". Lachlan slung the accusing stories into the wastebasket next to his desk.

Jackson's face reddened, contrasting with the white shock of hair, every strand oiled in place. 'We're not ignoring it, but we can't give in without a fight. I've been contacted by three separate personal injury attorneys in the last 24 hours. They're baying for blood, Lachlan. And with the press all over it…'

Lachlan breathed deeply and expelled it slowly. 'I know what the press is saying.' He turned to the scientist. 'Susan, SuperSlimmer is your project. How did you miss this effect?'

Before she could answer, Bill came to her defense.' It wasn't her doing. Braithwaite got us into this shit before you came on board.'

Lachlan cringed at the mention of the Vice President for Product Development, who had raced in to run the company after Father's unexpected relinquishment of the reins. The guy probably meant well when he made the decision. Helping people lose weight was worth (snip)

Didn't quite get me there
I liked the way this opens with a scene, and good story questions are raised, but there were signs of storytelling and craft issues ahead. Putting on the hat of a bleary-eyed agent (and the real me at 5:30 in the morning), that held this from reaching the compelling level for this reader. Notes:

'Dammit, Jackson, we can't keep ignoring this.' Lachlan Ridgeway shook that morning's Chicago Trib across his desk toward at Bill Jackson, his corporate counsel, and Susan Holliman, lead chemist. The headline, "Diet Drug Deals Death", screamed the tragedy courtesy of Ridgeway Pharmaceuticals. The second paper he held up was no better, announcing New York Times said, "Another Teenager Dies". Lachlan slung the accusing stories into the wastebasket next to his desk. (There are signs of overwriting and "telling" here. I found the staging of shaking a paper "across" a desk confusing, though I think it's supposed to let us know that the people were across the desk. But a simple "at" does the job and keeps things moving. The reference to the second paper being no better feels like telling to me, and didn't seem needed. Finally, using specifics, such as The New York Times, adds credibility and helps the reader see what's happening. In this case, having the Times blaring the story is much more significant than a "second paper.")

Jackson's face reddened, contrasting with the his white shock of hair, every strand oiled in place. 'We're not ignoring it, but we can't give in without a fight. I've been contacted by three separate personal injury attorneys in the last 24 hours. They're baying for blood, Lachlan. And with the press all over it…'

Lachlan breathed deeply and expelled it slowly. 'I know what the press is saying.' He turned to the scientist. 'Susan, SuperSlimmer is your project. How did you miss this effect?' (While the breathing deeply is okay, I don't see that it contributes -- it could have been crisper, as in took a deep breath. We know he knows what the press is saying because he just quoted it, and so does Jackson, who just heard him quote the press, so that bit is quite unneeded.)

Before she could answer, Bill came to her defense. Bill cut in. ' It wasn't her doing. Braithwaite got us into this shit before you came on board.' (The first phrases I cut were both telling. The one I added is showing, and we didn't need to be told he was defending her because his dialog shows him doing that.)

Lachlan cringed at the mention of the Vice President for Product Development, who had raced in to run the company after Father's unexpected relinquishment of the reins. The guy probably meant well when he made the decision. Helping people lose weight was worth (snip) (I cut all of this because it's a step into backstory and a momentum killer. We may need to know this later, but not now. Now is the time to hook us with the terrible trouble that Lachlan faces. It would have been nice if he was troubled by people dying, but that may be an aspect of the character that plays a part in his arc.)

There's plenty of promise here -- a contemporary kind of problem, a drug company doing bad things to we consumers, which can provide meaty issues. But the things I indicated bogged this reader down. Keep at it, Jan. Slip inside Lachlan's head and give us the scene as he feels and experiences it, and stay away from backstory as much as possible. You'll get there.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Send author a comment on this post

Flogometer for Pat: would you keep reading?

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

The second pop Prent Porter heard was louder than the first, like a firecracker set off in the hallway outside the junior high cafeteria. At the sound of the scream, Prent whirled, heart pounding.

The next scream followed on the crescendo of the first, but the next after that didn't wait for such a cue. A tumult of shouts and cries followed, the sound of a roller coaster in its first dive, punctuated by another pop. Students spilled from the stairwell outside the doorway, a tangled, scrambling mess, bawling, shrieking, eyes wide as they all clawed past one another, over one another.

Prent stood, bewildered. Somehow, he was rooted to the floor, unable to move from the linoleum as he saw the confusion, kids he knew and didn't know clambering for the glass doors to the commons, tearing past the cafeteria lines into the kitchen itself, racing for any door, any escape.

Another pop, louder, closer, a bang really, and the mass of fleeing kids surged, vomiting into the cafeteria in a another wave of desperate, blind terror, screams and shouts swelling again as the stampede rose in another curl of panic.

The crowd in the doorway trailed off suddenly, but the uproar worsened, an impenetrable clamor as the first bloodied kid staggered in, clutching at his neck, his collar and shoulder bright (snip)

This is a tough one
I did want to turn the page because of the dramatic action, and yet I didn't because of some of the writing. I suspect I was influenced by what Pat had told be about other reactions, too. Deciding that wavering was a precursor to a no, I didn't turn the page. But I did read on, of course, as part of doing what I do, and I think I see what the agents are reacting to. There are, for me, some voice problems, and some overwriting. First, some notes:

The second pop Prent Porter heard was louder than the first, like a firecracker set off in the hallway outside the junior high cafeteria. At the sound of the scream, Prent whirled, heart pounding. (I don't quite buy that his heart was instantly pounding. In a junior high, a scream of some sort would not be uncommon, especially when the place is full of kids on lunch hour. Would that, plus a firecracker [as far as he knows, that's what it is] be enough to set his heart pounding? This created a first bit of doubt, a small lack of credibility, and lessened confidence in the writing to come [for me; this is terribly picky and subjective].)

The next scream followed on the crescendo of the first, but the next after that didn't wait for such a cue. A tumult of shouts and cries followed, the sound of a roller coaster in its first dive, punctuated by another pop. Students spilled from the stairwell outside the doorway, a tangled, scrambling mess, bawling, shrieking, eyes wide as they all clawed past one another, over one another. (I cut the first sentence for a couple of reasons. First is voice. Things like "crescendo" and "wait for such a cue" don't seem to me to be the voice of a junior-high kid. But we're very close inside his point of view. To have such adult language keeps us at arms length because we know that it's not really the kid telling this story. A second reason is that this is an action scene. Action plays much better with short, crisp sentences and with clear, direct language. This sentence offers neither. This, perhaps, is a symptom of the "writing that didn't pull me through." Also, the staging isn't clear. The boy is in the lunchroom, yet the action is people spilling from a stairway outside the door. A needless complication, to me, in what we're supposed to be seeing.)

Prent stood, bewildered. Somehow, he was rooted to the floor., unable to move from the linoleum as he saw the confusion, kKids he knew and didn't know clambereding for the glass doors to the commons, tearing past the cafeteria lines into the kitchen itself, racing for any door, any escape. (I've tried to show here how this very dramatic action is much more active without the extra information. Another staging issue: I can deduce that now the kids are pouring into the cafeteria, but the narrative doesn't actually tell me that. We need to be seeing that, I think.)

Another pop, louder, closer, a bang really, and the mass of fleeing kids surged, vomiting into the cafeteria in a another wave of desperate, blind terror, screams and shouts swelling again as the stampede rose in another curl of panic. (I think this sentence, much reduced, should precede the paragraph above to show the kids coming into the cafeteria. Although I appreciate the use of "vomit," I'd consider staying with "surge" only because the striking use of the word takes me out of the action just a little. The reference to the stampede at the last is really telling us what the narrative has been showing, so isn't really needed, IMO.)

The crowd in the doorway trailed off suddenly, but the uproar worsened, an impenetrable clamor as the first when a bloodied kid staggered in, clutching at his neck, his collar and shoulder bright (snip) (Using "impenetrable clamor" is another "voice violation" to my ear, another use of language that 1) a kid wouldn't use and 2) perhaps no one would use at such a time of extreme panic. Again, shorter sentences with crisp, active language creates a sense of action, over-description bogs it down.)

I read on, and the writing was as foreshadowed by the first page. It's good writing, in many ways, but (for me) often too much of it. We go deeper into the boy's mind and reactions and it becomes almost stream-of-consciousness, which is at times dense and a little tangled. Yes, a panicked mind would tangle things -- but let an untangled narrative show that.

Pat's ability to vividly imagine this scene was good, but I'll concur with the agents on voice and writing. He needs to be inside this middle-schooler's head and let the narrative be shaped by the way he would think and would say things if there's to be a sense of authenticity here. Perhaps if he does that, some of the excess narrative will go away. If not, he needs to find fresh eyes to help him see what is excess and what is not, a critique group, an editor, or another writer with good narrative skills.

But he should definitely keep at it. Put the manuscript aside for a good while and come back to it. Try reading it aloud and see if the narrative seems to sag. And thanks for sending your work.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Send author a comment on this post

Flogometer for Erin: would you keep reading?

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

"I've tried just jumping right into the action as it appears on page two, but it didn't feel right without offering some background into how the protagonist ended up in this situation."

She wants to know which approach is best, so we'll look at both. The first first 16 lines of a literary novel:

He lies broken before me, much like my sister's favorite doll I dismembered as a boyhood amusement. A ghastly impulse, I admit, but one that delighted me with the fury it provoked in her. Only I cannot be blamed for the atrocities committed against Michael O'Rorke -- not for the two prosthetic legs balanced against the nightstand, the mechanical extension to his forearm resting on the tabletop above. No, the wounds I inflicted upon Michael were emotional in nature. My words, my self-righteous attitude had cut him more deeply than a sword slicing through flesh. I have prolonged his agony. Me, the man he entrusted with his secrets.

More than a year has passed since federal agents freed Michael from a hole dug deep within a Virginia woods. Kidnapped and brutally mistreated, he had somehow mustered the will to survive his nine-month ordeal. "A Legend Reborn," the cover of one weekly news magazine had proclaimed. The editor must have found irony in the headline: Michael emerging from his earthen womb to start life anew. His reputation as immortal is now indisputable.

He had slipped into his captors' grip with alarming ease -- this former U.S. President, a thirty-year veteran of the FBI -- taken during the night from his Washington, D.C. town house while his security detail stood guard outside. No one realized he was missing until morning. The crime had been perfectly executed, so mysterious, it seemed more like a television cliffhanger than (snip)

Good clean writing, hardly a nit to pick. But there's "telling." And backstory. And summary. It sounds like an interesting story, but we're not in the story yet, are we? The second 16 lines:

I'd nearly lost hope the president would be found. That was when I was lured into a trap, a deception I had unwittingly instigated. I had lent my skills as a journalist to further the investigation into Michael O'Rourke's disappearance by writing a series of articles for my newspaper. In addition to re-igniting the public's interest, the articles had also generated dozens of leads. All were dead ends, it disheartened me to learn, but the telephone call I received on the first of March proved too enticing to ignore.

"Jack Brydges?" a man's voice on the opposite end of the line had asked me.

"This is Brydges. Who's this?"

"I have information, Mr. Brydges. I may be able to shed some light on the whereabouts of President O'Rorke. Is this line secure?"

"Yes, yes," I said with a sigh. So many of these calls began with cryptic introductions that I wondered if my readers indulged in spy-novel fantasies. "What information would you care to share with me?"

"Not over the phone. We must meet in person. Perhaps…"

"In a parking garage near the Watergate?" I interrupted him. "Around three in the morning? You'll be the one lurking in the shadows, wearing the trench coat."

Well, for me the second set has much more pull. This page I would definitely turn. It still smacks of the past, but there's action with intriguing story questions raised. And there's one little nit I can pick at. The "said with" syndrome.

"Yes, yes," I said with a sigh. So many of these calls began with cryptic introductions that I wondered if my readers indulged in spy-novel fantasies. "What information would you care to share with me?"

I don't care for the "said with" construction, as you can see if you visit my post on don't say it with with. While, in this instance, the dialogue could be delivered in a sighing manner, that's not what the narrative says. I suggest separating the sigh from the dialog, and perhaps motivating the sigh before it happens rather than after, i.e.

I sighed. So many of these calls began with cryptic introductions that I wondered if my readers indulged in spy-novel fantasies. "Yes, yes. What information would you care to share with me?"

Nice work, Erin. In reading ahead, I discovered that the protagonist is shot. I don't know what happens after that -- and I wanted to.

Tip for Erin: you have the protagonist hearing "the metallic click of a gun trigger." The man is hooded and, in my experience, there isn't a metallic click when a trigger is pulled.

I also think, because of the hood and because this guy is a reporter, that it's unlikely that he would recognize such a sound, even if it existed. Just sayin'.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 200

Send author a comment on this post

Book review: The Silver Swan
originally posted: August 15, 2008

I want to thank all the commenters (I couldn't find either "commenters" or "commentors" in my online dictionary, so I'm going with this) to FtQ, typified by the sensitive and constructive comments for Kenan's work and effort in the last post. You guys rock.

The Silver Swan is, I suggest, a literary mystery. Set in Dublin, Ireland in the 1950s, I found it to be dark but fascinating. The characters stayed in my mind for a considerable time after I read it, and the writing was often exceptional. It is by Booker Prize winner John Banville, published under the pseudonym of Benjamin Black.

Here at FtQ we spend a lot of time looking at the first 16 lines of narrative and deciding whether or not we would read on. Here are the first 16 lines of The Silver Swan as they would be in a manuscript:

Quirke did not recognize the name. It seemed familiar but he could not put a face to it. Occasionally it happened that way, someone would float up without warning out of his past, his drinking past, someone he had forgotten, asking for a loan or offering to let him in on a sure thing or just wanting to make contact, out of loneliness, or only to know that he was still alive and that the drink had not done for him. Mostly he put them off, mumbling about pressure of work and the like. This one should have been easy, since it was just a name and a telephone number left with the hospital receptionist, and he could have conveniently lost the piece of paper or simply thrown it away. Something caught his attention, however. He had an impression of urgency, or unease, which he could not account for and which troubled him.

Billy Hunt.

What was it the name sparked in him? Was it a lost memory or, more worryingly, a premonition?

He put the scrap of paper on a corner of his desk and tried to ignore it. At the dead center of summer the day was hot and muggy, and in the streets the barely breathable air was laden with a thin pall of mauve smoke, and he was glad of the cool and quiet of his windowless basement office in the pathology department. He hung his suit jacket on the back of his chair and pulled off his tie without undoing the knot and opened two buttons of his shirt and sat down at the cluttered (snip)

This opening was plenty compelling for me. Good plot story questions were raised, and I also found the character very interesting because of the hints of his dark past. Quirke is a pathologist with insatiable curiosity.

The name "Billy Hunt" was that of an old schoolmate of Quirke's whose wife has been found dead in a river, and the story has to do with her murder, and plenty more. I won't get more into the actual story, though I will say that the interweaving of characters' stories was well done and kept me involved. The plot is not a breakneck thriller in style -- as I said, it is literary, and builds from rich, troubled characters.

An interesting technique

The story of the woman who is dead could have been told in the ordinary manner, through discovery of backstory via the protagonist's investigation, but the author does it differently, and well. He leaves the "current" story at times and tells hers as if it were happening in the now. We see the events of her life and what leads to her death in parallel with the investigator's discovery of the people and events that may -- or may not -- reveal the truth to him. As a result, I came to care about her, as I did many of the other often sad characters in The Silver Swan.

Description at its best

If not for the story, this book worth reading for the way the author has with description. He uses the technique I espouse of "experiential" description, of filtering description through the lens of a character's point of view. But he does it far more elegantly than I would, and I found it to be very effective.

Here's a sample from the point of view of a woman as she watches a man she is interested in.

What a lovely loose way he had of walking, leaning down a little way to one side and then the other at each long, loping stride he took, his shoulders dipping in rhythm with his steps and his head sliding backwards and forwards gently on its tall stalk of neck, like the head of some marvelous, exotic wading bird.

Don't you just see this man?

Here's another example, this one from the main protagonist's point of view. He's just left a meeting that has affected his mood, and we see it reflected in the description of the scene.

The trees along the canal seemed to lean lower now, exhausted in the heat of the day, yet to Quirke the sunlight was dimmed, as if a fine dust had sifted into the air, thickening and sullying it.

Bottom line, as an editor, a writer, and a reader, I recommend The Silver Swan. If you read it, let me know your thoughts.

For what it's worth,

Ray

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

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Flogometer for Kenan: would you keep reading?
originally posted: August 13, 2008

Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

Sharistar Duerdall was up before dawn. The previous nights adventures was exciting; and allowed her to rid herself of some long pent up frustration. That was something she definitely needed. It took only a few moments to dress, occasionally fumbling with her clothes in the light of half lit candles. The rest of her things lay on the table in the middle of the room. She runs her finger along the Duroh runes in the armor that lay on the table. Shar could feel their power course through her body, and that made her feel comfortable. The power was something to remind her of her homeland, as she was a stranger here.

Though her people were of elven blood; they had a nasty reputation amongst the surface world. Shar was born of the Duroh'keskura; one of their many names, but also commonly known as a dark elf. Thoughts of her home are shattered as her roommate was not yet awake and obviously still in the embrace of old memories. The coos and muffled moans were a clue as to what memories she was embraced by. Shar looks through her pack knowing that as soon as Yunari woke up they would begin their travels again. "Never would I have imagined myself paired with a elf." Shar thought to herself while looking at a small glass bottle of blood leech spawn. Shar taps the glass with her fingertip causing the spawn to pulsate. She allows herself a quick smile as this was another reminder of her homeland.

Too many problems
Even though Kenan seems to have imagined a rich and detailed fantasy world, there were too many basic writing, craft, and storytelling problems to move this reader on, and there are grammar problems that Kenan must deal with before submitting this.

Verb tenses flip from past to present to past again, which is a real stopper, and semi-colons appear instead of commas. The reference to a previous adventure with no hint of what it was end up meaning nothing -- it's just "telling." There's more telling, and a few clarity issues. Notes -- I'm going to assume the intent is past tense:

Sharistar Duerdall was up before dawn. The previous night's adventures was had been exciting; and had allowed her to rid herself of some long pent up frustration. That was something she definitely needed. It took only a few moments to dress, occasionally fumbling with her clothes in the light of half-lit candles. The rest of her things lay on the table in the middle of the room. She runs ran her finger along the Duroh runes in the her armor that lay on the table. Shar could feel their power course through her body, and that made her feel comfortable. The power was something to remind her of her homeland, as she was a stranger here. (A mix of grammar problems, telling, and overwriting hurt this paragraph. Note the repeat of "lay on the table." This sentence, Shar could feel their power course through her body, and that made her feel comfortable. could be much tighter, i.e. Their power coursed through her, and she was comforted. The last mention of being a stranger is telling, not showing.)

Though her people were of elven blood;, they had a nasty reputation amongst the surface world. Shar was born of the Duroh'keskura; one of their many names, but also commonly known as a dark elf. Thoughts of her home are were shattered as her roommate was not yet awake and obviously still in the embrace of old memories. The coos and muffled moans were a clue as to what memories she was embraced by. Shar looks looked through her pack, knowing that as soon as Yunari woke up they would begin their travels again. "Never would I have imagined myself paired with a elf." Shar thought to herself while looking at a small glass bottle of blood leech spawn. Shar taps tapped the glass with her fingertip, causing the spawn to pulsate. She allows allowed herself a quick smile as at this was another reminder of her homeland. (This paragraph opens with telling and backstory, two sure momentum killers. We can wait to learn all this. The shattering of her thoughts was unmotivated -- there's nothing to shatter them, no sound, no action. I'm guessing the coos and moans were what did that, but they come after the shattering, so this is far from clear. I felt "as to what memories she was embraced by" was convoluted and passive. For example, how about "to the memories that embraced her." Same goes for "causing the spawn to pulsate." Turn that around and it's more active, i.e. "The spawn pulsated when she tapped the glass.)

I didn't address everything, but you get the idea. There's certainly interesting stuff here, and focusing on grammar and tightening the prose will help. You're at the front end of the learning curve, Kenan, but keep at it. It can all be learned.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

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I am loving your blog! I read every entry and it's reminding me of important things about fiction writing. Keep up the great work.
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I was at once impressed, delighted and amused. Your insights into the writing process are dead on! Steven Gillis (author of Walter Falls and The Weight of Nothing)

I've been enjoying your sharp-tongued exploration of minced and mangled words. I'm a fan. Good stuff every time.
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Have you ever thought of writing a book on writing from a freelance editor's point of view? The last two blog entries alone would be worth the cost of the book -- I've never come across that information before and I've read extensively on the subject.
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You are a wealth of information and it is easy to read.
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Thought your post was clever and inspirational. Thanks for the help.
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I think your blog is a tremendous service to humanity (or at least the handful of aspiring authors I know.)
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I'm a novelist/freelance editor. Member of Editorial Freelancers Assoc. and Northwest Independent Editors Guild. Most clients are first-time novelists. I've written 5 novels, had one literary agent (am looking for a new one).