Category Archives: Writing

Literary Heritage or Irrelevancy?

Posted on by

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne



A couple of weeks ago there was what you might call a mini literary dust-up here in Australia following the revelation that over a third of the winners of Australia’s most prestigious literary prize (the Miles Franklin Award) are now out of print. 


This prize was only awarded as of 1957 so we’re not talking about ancient tomes, but rather a body of literature that some people at least regard as critical. In lamenting this situation, the director of the Melbourne Writers Festival said (and I quote) “the best writing is timeless, and without some recognition and understanding of our literary history, we’re forever focused on the new – as if history, knowledge and culture don’t play a part in our understanding of ourselves.”


In recent months there has been a lot of finger pointing about how people are losing touch with their literary heritage. This includes a lengthy debate over the failure of Australian universities to teach Australian literature and the generally shabby way in which our so-called literary darlings have been treated. 


I recently attended a lecture intent on helping revive interest in some of the so-called Australian classics and I have to admit I did start to wonder – should we really be worried about such dire pronouncements about our so called literary heritage? Or does the fact that no-one is reading these novels only point to the fact that they aren’t really classics that have withstood the passage of time. Maybe (dare I say it) they are just too dull to survive?


Now don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of amazing books out there that are no longer in print. There are also classics, however, that continue to be as popular as ever (people are still reading Dickens and Jane Austen after all). 


Should we really be force-feeding kids with books simply in the name of preserving ‘literary heritage’ (and to be honest I’m not sure I even know what this even means!) 


Likewise I feel passionate that we shouldn’t neglect our literary past or ignore well-written books in order to merely pander to popular taste but the study of literature is (I hope) about much more than either of these things….


And yet…


What does this say about the relevance of so-called ‘classics’ to readers today? Should we be forced to feel some collective guilt over what may just be a natural evolutionary process (whereby the torpid and the dull don’t survive?)


What do you think? No matter whether you live (and I’m assuming Australia isn’t alone in it’s predicament – although if it is, that might be even more telling!) do you think we should be concerned about our so-called literary heritage? Should we be worried about keeping the winners of prestigious writing awards in print – or should we just let history (and the readers) decide?

Here, there and nowhere …much.

Posted on by

   John Ramsey Miller


MISSING PIECES


It was dark in the room, barely lit by the porch light filtering through red bedroom curtains, so Max was further stunned when he realized that a banging on his front door is what actually startled him awake. Who on Earth could be here at…4:17am? He attempted staying as still as possible, hoping the visitor had yet to hear anything from within. I mean really, it could be anybody! Anything!
Max peered through darkness of the bedroom doorway and into the corner of the living room. He attempted leaning over just enough to view the vehicle of the unwanted visitor, realizing they probably parked on the opposite side. Max didn’t receive visitors often.
Three more alarming strikes against the metal screen door that never closed quite correctly, clanging incessantly through his head. He could hear a voice, but the sound of that CLANG-CLANG-CLANG! was overwhelming his every thought, seeming to fill every corner of his mind and soul. 
“–please, Max, just answer the door! It’s Jill, just open the damn door already!” Oh. It sounds like my sister. Well, it could be my sister. He began feeling frantic, unsure who or what to believe anymore. Lately, people were no longer who they said there were. He knew how crazy it sounded in his mind and tried keeping these sort of ideas to himself, but it was getting more and more difficult by the day, yet he knew beyond a doubt it was Truth.
Max gradually stood up straight without moving his feet, worried the creaking of his knees was as loud as it seemed. He slowly took a step toward the door, thinking he could possibly escape to the back of the house, but instead slipping on one of his countless piles of notebooks. The entire pile fell to the floor, scantly missing another larger pile.
“Max, I can hear you in there, will you please just talk to me? You’ve got to talk to somebody. We used to talk so much.” He knew that much was true, but wasn’t sure if the Visitors could know so much.
Missing Pieces seems the perfect title for this submission. It’s like the whole piece was a tissue left in a pocket and found after being run through the dryer. Now it’s everywhere and yet nowhere.

First paragraph:
How can he be “more” stunned if he was sleeping and we didn’t see him stunned the first time? I might do something like this, “It was dark, but no darker than it had been on other occasions in the dead of night. Thank God the porch light was on and illuminating the bedroom (?) through a curtain redly. THE CLOCK!!! Dear Lord is that the time???”  Or not.

So in reading this I’m not at all sure if it is dark or light? Is he is in bed or hanging from the ceiling? So… how does Max know what time it is? Wouldn’t the clock light the room somewhat? Or did the mad hatter tell him what time it is? How does he move without lifting his feet? When did he get out of bed? Did he leave the bed or is he astro-traveling? He is looking out of windows without getting out of bed!  Is the driveway empty?

Okay, author.  First of all, put yourself in Max’s house and maybe even in his bedroom. Imagine what is happening and what the reader is seeing, as you tell the story and slow down. Allow Max to actually do things as he goes from point A to… well you get the drift. Here is Max and this is what he’d doing. Don’t jump from his mind to the voice at the door. Is this about Max’s insanity? Or is everybody else is insane? Is this about Pod people? Would I read deeper into this? Of course I would. It’s hilarious. It isn’t very good, but I think it could be if it is fully thought through before being committed to paper.

For God’s sake go back and try again. And then you may have to try again after that. This can take years and hard work. This is a tough line of work and the righter you do it, the harder it is.  Think hard before you write. Remember: if this is easy you are doing it wrong. “See” what you are saying. Don’t write what you have not seen like it actually happened. Tell me what you are seeing and feeling and smelling and tasting.  Put me there. You may know what Max is thinking, feeling, doing, but I have to know what you know and see what you are seeing. Otherwise you are just playing at lining up words. I got nothing from reading this opening that I’m curious enough about to justify investing more time.

When I write, I am almost telling myself a story and typing it as I go. But I only write after I have thought all the way around and through the scene. In my opinion (and that is all it is) this piece is more sloppy scribbling than storytelling.

So go back at it and don’t quit if you know you can do better. If you don’t think you can, then get out now.

Please, for Christ’s sake… take the narration away from Max before he hurts someone and give it to his sister… At least she’s safely outside the house.

Critique of VANGUARD RISING

Posted on by


Today I’m offering a critique of an excerpt from VANGUARD RISING. I believe it serves as a great example of unexpected openings. Read on, and you’ll see why…
    
 The darkness was all encompassing. Dan could turn in any direction and save for the glow from the radio in the dashboard[,] there was only black. It was very fitting, it matched his mood. He had been feeling the black, emptiness since he woke up this morning. It was getting late. He looked at the clock on the radio faceplate. It had just turned ten.
     The glowing radio dial meant there was noise coming from the speakers in back. He didn’t hear any of it. He only heard the storm in his mind. You don’t amount to anything. You’re a failure. Nothing you do is right. He pictured every mistake he had ever made. Every embarrassing moment he had ever experienced was brought to the surface, magnified tenfold.
     When he was up he didn’t think about those things. But he was down right now. Way down. And he had been this way for days. He couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted it to stop.
     Dan knew this personal trial well. He would put himself through it almost routinely. This time was different. The void he felt in his belly would be silenced this time. For good. 
     He reached over and opened the glove box, allowing the door [to] drop freely. He sat and stared for a moment at his savior nestled inside. One of the many things he had inherited from his father after his death. The cold blackness of its six inch barrel seemed soothing to him somehow. It was a statement of ultimate control in his world.
     He reached in and grabbed the checkered walnut grip. It seemed heavier than [it] was only a few hours earlier. In the dim light of the radio he read the barrel, Colt Python .357 Magnum. For some reason, maybe because she knew it had value, she had kept it instead of selling it to one of his father’s friends.
     He had found the last of the ammunition in the house. His mother had thrown out all of it she could find after the funeral. It seemed fitting that he came across it this morning in the garage by accident. Eight rounds in the bottom of a toolbox drawer.
     He needed something to give him a feeling of control. Knowing he had it was burning at the back of his mind all day. He had a gun, and now he had bullets to go with it. They were even the right ones, 145 grain Winchester Silver Tip hollow points. More than enough to do job.
     He unlocked the cylinder and swung it open. Six rounds. He only needed one. With a quick flick of his wrist the cylinder and its lethal cargo snapped back into place. He pulled the hammer back quickly with his thumb. The trigger moved rearward in its housing. It was in single action mode. Just another four pounds of pressure and it would be over.
     He raised the revolver up and placed the barrel under his chin. Four more pounds of pressure. The top of his head would most likely be blown off. The bullet would probably put a hole in the roof of the car. Four more pounds is all it would take. His index finger rested on the trigger hesitantly. Is this what he wanted? Four more pounds. With a squeeze of the trigger he answered.
     Then came the blinding white light out of the darkness, and everything was once again black.

All in all,  I think this is a very strong beginning. As I said at the outset, losing a character on the first page of a book is unexpected, and can do a lot to draw a reader in. I’m curious to find out why Dan was feeling depressed enough to kill himself, and to know who said those terrible things to him. Clearly he’s lost his father relatively recently–could that alone have been the impetus? I would definitely keep reading to find out more.

A few technical points. I inserted edits in brackets, where a word was needed to clarify what was happening. I also think that since he was given a name, it should be used more frequently: “Dan” in place of “he” in several more spots. 

The language could also be trimmed some, which would help with clarity and would additionally serve to drive the reader toward the conclusion more rapidly. For example, “His mother had thrown out all of it she could find after the funeral” is a bit wordy. Better to say, “She’d thrown it all out after the funeral–except for the eight rounds in the bottom of a toolbox drawer. It seemed fitting when he’d come across them in the garage this morning.”

Also, there are a few places where punctuation could be used to strengthen the impact of a sentence. “With a squeeze of the trigger he answered,” might be better served by inserting a comma, “With a squeeze of the trigger, he answered.” I’d advise the writer to go back through this passage and carefully examine all the punctuation choices to make sure that they add to the narrative flow.

The final sentence could be tightened up. Rather than: “Then came the blinding white light out of the darkness, and everything was once again black;” I would  say, “A blinding white flash, then darkness fell again.” A small change, but in the end that can be what makes the difference.
What do you all think of today’s submission? 

Setting things up

Posted on by

Today’s critique is for the first page of THE SET UP. My thoughts follow.

THE SET UP    

    While I wait in line to pass through airport security, I check my pockets.  Just my wallet, cell phone, and a ticket stub for the parking garage.  And the envelope.  No car keys.  No knife.  No gun.
    I left my girlfriend, Carly, in Vlad’s Lexus with her iPad and orders to put the windows down if she smokes.  Vlad is real particular about his car.
    A ticket to Philly is in my hand, but I’m not going on any airplane ride.  I just have it in case the TSA agent asks.  I do this kind of thing all the time, but a trickle of sweat runs down under my shirt collar and I flinch.
    They send me through the cattle gate, then wand me, and I grab the plastic tub with my stuff.  Except the envelope.  That’s still in my jacket pocket, damp with sweat.  They stop an old lady ahead of me and give her the choice of getting groped or getting radiation sickness.  She must be ninety.
    It’s almost eleven o’clock, and it’s tough getting around all the moms with baby strollers and the stressed-out business types.  I could use my size to push through, but I look at them and see the exhaustion on their faces and forget using my elbows and just walk.
    I find Gate D11 and slow down to look for the men’s room.  The setup is pretty standard.  You pick an airport and name a gate that’s inside security, that way both parties have to go unarmed.  Meet in the bathroom, make the exchange.  Simple.
    It’s a different Mexican every time, but we’ve done three trades with them so far and it’s gone fine.  I see a stubby guy with a shaved head pop up from his seat, but then he goes to the window and gets on his phone.  Not my guy.
    10:59.  I pat the envelope for the tenth time and go to the bathroom door.  There’s a folding yellow sign in front, with a picture of a guy slipping and falling.  I smile and go around it. 
    The bathroom is big and cold.  …
* * * 

My comments:

I was drawn in by this first page, after stumbling a bit on the title. (The noun version of “to set up” should be “setup” or “set-up”.) I like the narrator’s straightforward, present-tense voice. Present tense and first-person POV are tricky to handle, but this worked well for me.

I thought the idea of having crooks meet at the TSA-controlled airport was fresh.  I did wonder how the narrator had pulled this rendezvous off repeatedly, what with no-fly lists, and the fact that by now he must be on record for buying tickets he didn’t use. If nothing else, I’d think he’d be nervous about that aspect of it. He’s described as being generally nervous, but the more specific his fear, the better.


Overall, the setup of THE SET UP was handled efficiently and well. I did object to the use of generics (“Vlad” and “Mexican”) was too broad-brush for me, leading me to expect that I’m about to get a familiar Russian mafia vs. Mexican drug ring tale. I think it could use some compelling detail here to bring the reader more into the situation. 

I got confused by the action flow. On the first read-through, when I read “I see a stubby guy with a shaved head pop up from his seat,” I assumed the narrator was already in the bathroom, and the guy was popping out of a stall. Later I wondered why the author described the bathroom as “big and cold” when he’d already been in there for a while. I had to pause and reorient myself. By preceding action with “Meet in the bathroom, make the exchange,” you’ve already put the reader’s head in the bathroom. Don’t then backtrack to the gate area for the guy popping out of his seat.


I thought the tension fell off a bit in the last paragraph, probably because I was confused during the first read, and thought he was exiting from the bathroom. I had no idea why he would smile, since he hadn’t made the exchange. 

It should be an easy fix to focus the action so that readers won’t get confused by the  flow. I admit that I’m relatively easily thrown as a reader. Not everyone would trip over the issues that misled me, but you don’t want to lose any reader on the first page.


Was I the only one who got confused? Anyone else have anything to add?

Responding to Feedback/Criticism

Posted on by

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

We have done a number of first-page critiques in recent weeks and I thought it might be a good time to think about how writers should respond to feedback and/or criticism. I think I speak for many when I say that dealing with criticism is one of the hardest things you have to do as a writer, especially when you get a myriad of comments, some of which are contradictory! 


Even some of our recent critiques show that feedback can be a very subjective thing – what might be a really compelling first page for one person may be a complete let down for another…so how should writers handle criticism?


I think first and foremost, you need to take note of consistent feedback about a particular aspect of your writing. With many of our first page critiques there was a commonality of responses – often that the page involved too much ‘telling’ and not enough ‘showing’, or that it failed to have sufficient dramatic weight to tug a reader into the story. This kind of consistent feedback is useful stuff and, though sometimes a writer has to suck it up, it’s worth listening to. 


It becomes more problematic when there are contradictory comments, especially if the feedback is ‘this really worked for me’ versus ‘this didn’t work at all for me’. Such contrasting responses are harder to deal with – not merely because you can never satisfy everyone (if you did it would be way too dull a world!).  


Here is my rule of thumb: If it speaks to me as a valid criticism (deep inside, once I get past pride and ego…), then I take it on board. If not, I seek additional validation from others that I trust, to see if they agree that the criticism has merit. Many times, especially in a writing class, some criticism is more about the  reviewer’s own issues that the work itself.


As a writer you have to get used to all forms of criticism, because you’ll get it from fellow writers, readers, agents, editors and reviewers.  How you respond can be indicative of how seriously you take your art. Here at TKZ, I have been very impressed by how the people who have fessed up to their submissions have taken the critiques and comments provided. Everyone has behaved professionally and has been gracious and respectful of the feedback offered. Thankfully, we have seen for the most part only insightful and helpful commentary…but for many of us, there will come a time when it won’t be, and we will have to work out how to respond (or if to respond at all, as sometimes it is better to remain silent!). It could be the crazed one-star Amazon reviewer, or the snarky anonymous commentator…or it could even be a scathing review in a prestigious book review (we can dream, can’t we!)


So, how have you all found the first page critiques so far? Are they helpful in a wider sense or limited to the author who submitted them?


Have you ever had a really wrenching ‘criticism’ moment  – and, if so, how did you deal with it? Were you tempted to get into an all out flame war with someone who dissed your work or did you just take a deep breath and hoped to disappear into the floor?



First Page Critique: OF DREAMS AND STARS

Posted on by

This is an excellent example of a first page by an author who does a great job of creating a mood but who needs to pay more attention to basic grammar and punctuation. Reading this first page is similar to being seated in a restaurant and loving the promise of the menu but finding spots on the glasses and — worse — a crusty flake or two of something unidentifiable on the silverware:
Between Dreams and Stars
John knew that if he didn’t find shelter soon, that this would be the end.  It would be fitting though, for this icy wasteland was the first place that reflected how he had felt for the past three years, since she disappeared.
The shrieking wind reached another octave.  John brought his arms and head towards his chest. Even if he could have lifted his head up, it would have been useless.  The wind distorted the snow and ice into a blinding static. Groping along the frozen mountainside, he struggled to bring one foot in front of the other, sinking deeper into the snow.
He felt like he must be getting close now.  The Sherpa, who remained thousands of feet and a day and a half behind, claimed that what he was after was within hundreds of yards of the summit.  This peak, with rock as dark as the night, was a nameless crag amidst the Himalayas. Anonymous, jagged, and relentless, it challenged John’s resolve.  He had to know.  John moved his leg forward and suddenly there was nothing. The narrow rock he had been on, slid down the mountain.  Losing his balance, he reached out, hoping there would be something. His left hand found a slim crack, it was enough.  He swung his right hand around and he fiercely clung to cliff, heart racing with adrenaline, his chest heaving with rapid breaths.
He closed his eyes and focused, slowly bringing his respiration rate down.  He began to inch his way backwards until after an excruciating hour he made it back to the last place he had solid footing.  He collapsed to the ground. The near fall had sapped a lot of energy out of him.  He reached for his pack to grab some food.  To his dismay it was gone.
Let’s get the bad and the ugly over with first so that we can focus on the good. The problems begin with the first sentence, and that’s not a good way to begin: two “that(s)” when one would do nicely with a comma the author doesn’t need at all. Try this:  “John knew that it would be the end if he didn’t find shelter soon.” You can switch the clauses around if you want.  Just use one “that,” however. Additionally, the absence of that pesky comma makes for a smoother sentence and introduction. It’s the first patch of storytelling ice that lets the reader slip right into the narrative and heightens the suspense. Let’s keep going. The second sentence is a bit overlong, and needs more than a comma to break it up. I’d like to know who “her” is as well. It makes the tragedy of “her” disappearance a bit more personal.  Maybe: “It would be fitting.  The icy wasteland around him was the first place that reflected his mood for the past three years, since (fill in name of ‘her’) disappeared.”
Similar problems surface and resurface throughout this piece. The author uses too many commas,  an ongoing problem I have with my own writing as well). “His left hand found a crack, it was enough,” is but one example. It could be separated into two sentences or set off by a semi-colon, if one likes those.  There are also some problems with adjectives and metaphors and the like (the wind doesn’t reach a new octave; the shriek of the wind would. Static would not be blinding, but a haze would be). Sometimes the author tells us the same thing one too many times. If John is cold, hungry and on the side of a mountain and he reaches for a pack of food and it’s gone, we don’t need to be told that he’s dismayed. “(D)ismay” doesn’t cover it in any event; I’d feel as if someone had p**sed in my cornflakes if I hadn’t already dropped them down a crevice. Add some good old fashioned typographical errors (“…and he fiercely clung to cliff…”) and it is quickly apparent that this piece needs some hard-nosed red-pencil review.
So. There are spots on the glasses and the silverware isn’t serviceable. The menu, however, is impressive. The author creates a great mood immediately. John is cold and hungry and between a slippery rock and a hard place that is waiting several thousand feet beneath him. There was a discussion here several days ago about opening a story with the weather. That is fitting and proper to do here. The weather is the story — at least for the moment — and it is a dangerous mother indeed. The author sets it up well, demonstrating that John is driven and desperate. He otherwise would be back at the lodge or camp or whatever, riding the storm out in front of a roaring fire while trying to talk the reindeer sweater off of a snow bunny. There is also that high peak where John is perched. You don’t have to be acrophobic when confronted with a stepladder in order to appreciate John’s predicament.  

I’d like to see what happens next and find out what happened to the “her” that got him on the mountain and the snow. First, however, the author needs to rev up the snow blower and make the path accessible.

WHAT’S THIS STORY ABOUT?

Posted on by

I dunno. I got dis feelin’, ya see? Like, sometimes I start a story. Ya know? An’ da autha thinks it’s so important for ya ta listen–and dat you understand. Ya know? Yeah. So, he, well, he tells ya stuff that doesn’t really go no where because he’s workin’ up a head o steam to get to da point. Ya know what I’ mean? But you keep listenin’ cuz da way dis guy is tawkin’ you know there’s sometin’ interestin’ coming. I’m just sayin’.

You’ll have to excuse my fooling around with dialect, but, that was my immediate reaction to this first page I’m critiquing today.

Now, please understand that this first page has actually intrigued me with the narrator’s voice. I know this character dislikes public speaking even though he’s in front of a huge audience, and he is reunited with a mountain of a man from whom he wished he had  the chance to run. Even the few misspellings and wrong word choices were surmountable. My biggest concern is that from this first page, I have no idea what is going on.

No Who? (Well, two guys with gangster-sounding names.) What? Nope. Where? (A stage somewhere.) Why? Nope. When? Nope.

Again, it all can’t be delivered on the first page, but I’m lost. I want to know much more. I feel like I was asked on a blind date and all I have to go on is a fascinating voice over the phone. Otherwise, I’m in the dark.

That said, I’d take a chance on that date—cuz’, ya know? Sometin’ tells me I’d find a diamond in da rough here. Ya know what I’m sayin’?

So, hook me, baby. Don’t need much. Perhaps spend less time telling me about the voice Nicky hears in the crowd. Maybe, let him hear it, then  spend a few sentences telling me why Nicky wants to run. That way, when they embrace in that bear hug, I can be screaming, Run Nicky! Run!

Kudos to the author for the courage to share. I would read more. Tell me what you think.

Catalina Eddie

THE CROWD ERUPTED. Dominic Bellagio grasped a microphone and waived his appreciation to his audience. Hating public speaking, Dominic’s subsequent expression of appreciation was perfunctory and terse. Once completed, he offered a final waive. Just as he was about to leap from the stage, he picked out a familiar sound coming from the audience. A sound he hadn’t heard in years. Right away, he couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. But there it was just the same. There was no mistaking Eduardo Catalanos’s big hoarsey laugh. Too late to make a run for it. Catalanos had plowed through the crowd, shoving people aside, as if they were little children. Now he stood at the edge of the stage grinning up at Dominic.

“Hey, Nicky! NICKY!” The big man shouted, arms opened wide. “How’ya doin’, bro?”

“Hey . . . uhhh, Cat. Wow! CAT!” said Dominic. “It’s . . . it’s been a while . . . buddy.”

Dominic jumped from the stage and the two men wrapped each other in a bear hug. His friends called him Cat; anyone else knew him as Catalina Eddie. An imposing sight—six-six and two-eighty-five—two coal-black eyes gleamed from a smiling face. To his credit, he looked a cheerful person. In truth, he was far from it. Favoring black, he was dressed in a simple black tee shirt and matching karate pants. His body was solid and tight.

“So, Cat . . . whaddaya been up to the past three years? Least it seems like three years since . . . since what was it now? Cartagena, I think it was. Huh?”

“Yeah, Nicky. That’s about right, bro.”

Grounding the Reader – First Page Critique

Posted on by


 Today’s first page critique is for a piece entitled Eyes in the Ashes. By now, you all know the drill, and my comments follow:
    Layla blinked, unable to see.  She strained trying to see something, anything in the pitch-black darkness.  She groaned. Her head hurt, much worse than a hangover ever had and the pain throbbed in time with her heartbeat.  She ran her fingers over her face, her eyes.  Her eyelashes fluttered against her fingertips.  They were open, nothing covered her face, but something sticky was all over it.  She tried to think. The last thing she remembered – walking out of the back room of the art studio. She’d heard someone in the outer room and when she walked out caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, someone grabbed her and then…. Nothing. 
She couldn’t remember. She must have blacked out.  She waved her hand in front of her face.  Why can’t I see?  I can’t be blind. She tried to sit up but something tangled around her body, some sort of soft, smooth material. A sheet?   She struggled to loosen it and sat up.  The movement sent her head  spinning. She groaned, pulled her legs up and dropped her head to her knees.  “Oh God” she whimpered and the sound echoed all around her.  
“h h h hello”  she whispered.
    Her voice echoed back to her.  Something rustled behind her and from nearby came a high pitched squeak.  She drew in a startled breath and shuddered. A horrible stench stung her nose and throat. She grabbed the cloth and covered her mouth, trying not to gag. Noises all around her now, squeaking, fluttering , scratching.  She struggled to her feet, swayed when they sank into the mushy ground. Something cold and wet crept between her toes.   
    She grimaced and stumbled forward, one foot at time, dragging the sheet with her like a security blanket.  She held one hand out in front of her, groping, searching, hoping to find something solid to touch.   Her throat stung and she took shallow breaths as she shuffled forward.           
    “Don’t pass out, don’t pass out”.


My comments:


I liked the visceral sense of foreboding that this first page evoked, and the author has created a situation that is both compelling and scary. I must confess, however, to finding myself a little ‘ungrounded’ at times in the scene. 


First off, I found the phrase that her eyes “were open, nothing covered her face, but something sticky was all over it”, awkward. I started thinking about how her eyelashes could flutter if they were sticky which made me question whether her eyes had sticky stuff over them or not (which is making the reader work too hard!).  Then, having discovered this stuff all over her face, why didn’t she try and work out what it was? (I was imaging all sorts of horrible stuff…) But instead she immediately starts thinking back to what had happened at the art studio. As a reader, I confess I wanted to get a stronger sense of the horror and panic she must be feeling. 


Two paragraphs later, when the horrible stench ‘stung her nose and throat’,  I wondered how she hadn’t noticed this immediately (had there not been a stench before then?) When the cold and wet seeped between her toes, I realized I had no idea whether she was clothed or not and, given I assumed she was clothed when she was attacked, wondered how she could notice the softness of the sheet around her but not the state of her undress  (or at least the fact that she didn’t have any shoes and socks on)?  This is when I think the author needed to think through the sensory experiences depicted and make sure they were consistent and well-grounded so that, even though the reader is as unsure as the protagonist about what has happened, we feel like we have enough information to keep reading without getting confused. 


I would also have expected her to scream or yell rather than whisper ‘hello’ (I certainly would panic in this situation!) but I was willing to go along with this reaction until I learned more about her as a character. On a more pedantic note, the sentence at the end of the first paragraph: “She’d heard someone in the outer room and when she walked out caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, someone grabbed her and then…. Nothing.”  is awkwardly phrased (and grammatically incorrect – is something missing perhaps?).  I think the author needed to proof read this page a little more closely. (For another example, the word ‘stung’ is used twice which is repetitive for one page).


Otherwise, I was intrigued. I would probably keep reading but I would want to be a little more firmly grounded, in terms of her sensory experiences and location, to feel fully engaged in the story.


What do you think? 

First Page Critique: ROAD TO ARRAY

Posted on by

By now, we all know the drill.  First, the submission in its entirety (the italics are mine), and then I’ll see you on the other side:

Daniel watched the rain drops rolling down the windshield. The drizzle had quickly become a downpour, but he couldn’t use the wipers, couldn’t risk the burr of the engine.  The car’s lights were out, and the Crown Victoria hidden in the alleyway where no one could spot it.
“Rick.”
He whispered instinctively, then remembered that this time they weren’t using the communication wires. Rick had argued the situation was dicey enough without a guard pointing out the tiny earpiece and microphone. Daniel shifted in his seat. He should have insisted. Not that it would have made a difference. He was a rookie on his first major assignment. Rick had been on the force for a decade.  His partner made a decision, and that was that.
Daniel glanced at his watch again. Rick was ten minutes late, which wasn’t very long in this weather, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
“Ah dammit.” Before he changed his mind, he rushed out the door. He was drenched in an instant. 
            Removing the gun from his shoulder holster, he pointed the Browning .38 at the ground as he slid alongside the apartment building. He and Rick had scouted the area earlier, but he peeked at the entrance again from around the corner. He saw no one. He would have welcomed some security on the place, even a sniper on the roof, to ease the queasy feeling forming in his gut.

My first thought in reading this is that I’ve seen it before—a hundred different times in a hundred different cop shows.  I realize even as I write the comment that it’s a tad unfair criticism, because at one level, we’ve all seen elements of every story before.  In this case, though, there’s not much to differentiate it.  A stronger narrative voice would have helped.  Some distinctive action would have helped, too.

When we did this critique exercise last year, I believe it was either Jim Bell or Joe Moore who verbalized something that I had always felt, but had never quite put my finger on: It is always, always, always a mistake to start a story with a weather report.  That first paragraph is arguably the most valuable slice of real estate in any book, and I hate to see it squandered with rolling raindrops.

In his haste to bring readers into action, this author neglected to give us a sense of the stakes.  Weather is not tension.  It’s barely even atmosphere.  By placing a barrier of non-communication between the two characters in this scene, the author robbed himself and his readers of an opportunity to care about the characters.

The issue of the “communication wires” bothers me at several levels, beginning with the phrase, communication wires.  I’m not a cop so I don’t know their lingo, but that phrase strikes me as not-legit.  I was an emergency responder for many years, though, and I know my way around assault operations, and I have heartburn with “a rookie on his first major assignment” getting to make decisions regarding something as essential as the communication protocol.  As the senior team member, Daniel is responsible for everything that happens on this op, and he comes off as a real toad when he tries to palm that responsibility off on the new guy.
 
How, exactly, does one whisper instinctively?  Is that really something we’re born with?  I think you might have been going for reflexively, but even that’s not quite right.  Even more importantly (certainly for Rick), ten minutes is a freaking eternity when an op is in motion.  What could Daniel possibly have on his calendar that was more important than pulling his partner out of a jam?  (This, by the way, is why communication protocols exist.)

If Daniel preferred to have additional security, why didn’t he call for it?  Just because Rick ran off without a radio doesn’t mean that Daniel didn’t have one either.  And if firepower is the thing he’s worried about, why the hell is he advancing on the apartment with only a “Browning .38” (whatever that is)?  Surely, he’s got some higher-caliber toys in the trunk of his Crown Victoria, and if he doesn’t there should be a reason.

I’m sorry to say that this piece really didn’t resonate with me.  It read as research-by-television series, and it just didn’t work.  Not knowing what lies ahead in the story, I will venture a guess that this part of the story might be better told from Rick’s point of view.  Assuming that he’s having a bad day on the other side of Daniel’s suspicions, I propose that Rick’s world view might be more interesting.

Bringing them in the door

Posted on by

As we’ve discussed many times here at TKZ, our first job as writers is drawing the reader in. Today’s first-page sample accomplished that goal for me. I’ll let you read it, then finish with my thoughts.  
THE SAHARA INTERCEPT

El Al has this silly rule requiring passengers to travel unarmed. I always thought the best way to stop a hijacker was to blow his head off. Thus, I arrived at Ben Gurion International Airport, the site of the nineteen seventy-three Lod massacre, disarmed, without my little Walthers PPK pistol, like the one Double-O Seven carries. He would have found a way, but I’m no James Bond.

I didn’t anticipate any danger in Israel, but it never hurts to practice situational awareness. Not paranoia, just attention to details, in other words — watch my back — a good way to stay alive. For the last two years, it’s worked. I’m still breathing.
Counter surveillance is an art. The most important thing is to be able to blend in, keep a low profile. Don’t project an image someone will remember. I dressed as an ordinary tourist: tan pants, light blue polo shirt, and clean socks. 

The key is to appear confident and natural, like you belong. I cleared customs and immigration and strode into the hustle and bustle of the main lobby, resolute in my ability to spot any imminent threat. 

“Mister Ross Brannan?”

A slim well-groomed young woman with raven hair and deep penetrating green eyes stood before me: hand on hip, dressed in a neat crisp-pressed olive-green army uniform, her black beret worn at a jaunty angle, her self-assured smile and attitude enhanced by the nine-millimeter Uzi automatic carbine slung over her shoulder.

“That’s me.” How did she pick me out? Expectations can blind you if you simply concentrate on preconceived notions. You may miss a threat that may be real and near. I should have spotted her first.
 

“Shalom, welcome to Israel. My name is Tamara Alon. I am your escort.” The way she said escort, was both sexy and suggestive.”

“Thanks.” Tamara seemed pleasant enough and not bad looking, not bad at all — matter of fact she was hot. “Say how did you know who I was?”

“I was shown your picture.” Her eyes sparkled. “So I looked for a cowboy from the movies.”
 *   *   *

The humor here works well for me. First-person narrators are tricky to handle, but I like the way this page quickly establishes the main character as an Inspector Clouseau-type. He sees himself as James Bond, but in reality he’s a bit of a bumbler.

I do have a small nit is with the first paragraph. The lengthy sentence with its many commas was a bit of a stumbling block for this reader; I think it would help to use numeric 1973 instead of spelling out the year. I also tripped over the first Double-O Seven reference, and had to reread the sentence that starts “He would have found a way” for clarity.)
I was a bit thrown by the use of italics. The italics, used to show internal thoughts, are interspersed with non-italicized, omniscient pronouncements (“Expectations can blind you if you simply concentrate on preconceived notions. You may miss a threat that may be real and near.”). In this case, I would suggest removing these two non-italicized sentences, leaving only the narrator’s chagrined reaction.

I think it’s unnecessary to italicize the word “escort,” because you provide the inflection in the next sentence. If you both italicize and explain, it’s overkill. (It also is humorous to imagine, as this reader was by now, that the woman’s inflection was only in the narrator’s mind, not intended by her.) Remove the end quote from the end of that paragraph.

This is a personal preference, but I always bridle at “raven” hair and “sparkling” eyes.  They’re a bit cliche. You’ve already established that she has penetrating green eyes, so you probably don’t need the sparkle. Also, I’m no gun expert (paging Miller and Gilstrap here), but I would check to make sure exactly which weapon an IDF escort would carry. And I’d work in an IDF reference, for Israel Defense Forces, where you say “army.” The more specific your references are in your manuscript, the more authentic it will seem to the reader.


In the second-to-last paragraph, your narrator’s reaction between “Thanks” and “Say, how did you know…” is a bit distracting, and doesn’t add anything new to Tamara’s description.  Right now your character is thinking about the fact that he’s been ID’d, not whether Tamara is hot or not. As a general rule, try to keep every paragraph tightly focused on a single action or reaction.

Those are all minor nits, though. Overall, I’m drawn in by this page. It’s refreshing to have a hard-boiled main character taken down a notch on the first page. 

What do you all think?