First Page Critique: Erased

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A first page critique by Nancy J. Cohen

ERASED by Anonymous
“I’ll kill her! I swear to God I’ll blow her brains out!”
Special Agent Brandy Jackson stood just inside the apartment, her body half-shielded by the outer living room wall. Omar, the heavily tattooed ex-con at the far end of the room held his strung-out blonde girlfriend in a headlock, with the barrel of his .44 revolver pressed up against her temple. What was her name? Jennifer? Brandy thought so. Jennifer sobbed hysterically.
Omar stood with his back against the inside wall where he had a clear view of the front door and the windows. His eyes were wild, frenzied, darting around the room. They were moving too fast. His naked chest rose and fell in quick pants. He was dripping with sweat.
The idiot was high. What was he on? Crack, maybe heroin? Brandy hoped it wasn’t heroin. That drug could turn thugs like Omar into supersoldiers. She’d seen a bank robber high on the stuff who’d taken almost thirty rounds before he finally collapsed and died of blood loss. That was the first robbery that Brandy had ever investigated. She would never forget it.
“Calm down,” Brandy said in the most reassuring tone she could muster. “We’re going to talk about this.”
“Nothing to talk about. You make one move and I’ll kill this bitch!”
Brandy kept her eyes focused on Omar but she concentrated on the area at the edges of her vision. The hallway was a tall, rectangular blob. If agent Smith was in there, she couldn’t see him.
“It doesn’t have to end like that,” Brandy said. “You’re holding the cards, Omar.” She moved slowly, sliding her .40 caliber Glock 23 into the holster at her side. She showed her empty hands. “See? I just want to talk. What do you want? Money? You want a plane ticket?”
Omar’s eyes flickered. He hadn’t even thought about that. His whole plan had been to go out in a blaze of glory. Good. Slow him down.
Keep him talking, Smith had said. Give me time to get in there.
Great first line! It’s gripping and immediately captured my interest. Now for some questions. Omar’s girlfriend is strung-out. What does this mean exactly? She’s hysterical or she’s on drugs?
“Omar’s eyes were wild, frenzied, darting around the room. They were moving too fast.”  You’ve already implied his eyes are moving fast by saying they’re darting. You can delete this second line. And it’s more like his gaze is darting about the room, not his eyeballs. So I’d change these two lines to: “His wild, frenzied gaze darted around the room.”
The next paragraph contains a flashback. Here a guy is about to blow someone’s brains out and she’s thinking about a past robbery? Just have her think how many more rounds she’ll have to use to take him down.
“Calm down,” Brandy said in the most reassuring tone she could muster. “We’re going to talk about this.”  I’d like to hear her motivation here. You bring it in later: Keep him talking, Smith had said. Give me time to get in there.
Maybe move these lines up, so it reads like this: “Calm down,” Brandy said in the most reassuring tone she could muster. “We’re going to talk about this.”  Give me time to get in there, Smith had said. Keep him talking. (This works better with the following lines, about Smith approaching from the hallway.)
Then you’d end this section with “Good, slow him down.” That works fine, because we’ve already seen that she’s waiting for Smith.
It’s a tense scene and a great beginning. Just do a little rearranging, and it’ll read smoother. I can sympathize with Brandy’s situation and the possible outcomes, and that adds to the suspense. Well done!

First Page Critique: The Table

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By: Kathleen Pickering

It’s my turn to post the first page of a work and offer my opinion—of which, I will stress is merely that. One of my fantasies about reading new, anonymous work is that I would come to discover that I critiqued the next block-busting novelist. Could this one be he/she?

The Table

When Noa Torson woke up, the first thing she noticed was that her feet were cold. Odd, since she always wore socks to bed. It was bright, too—and she hated sleeping in a bright room, had even installed blackout curtains over her apartment’s sole window so that morning light never penetrated the gloom. She squinted against the glare, trying to make sense of her surroundings as her eyes adjusted. Her head felt like it had been inflated a few sizes and stuffed with felt. She had no idea how she’d ended up here, wherever here was.

Was she back in juvie? Probably not, it was too quiet. Juvie always sounded like a carnival midway, the constant din of guards’ boots pounding against metal staircases, high-pitched posturing chatter, the squeak of cots and clanking of metal doors. Noa had spent enough time there to be able to identify it with her eyes closed. She could usually even tell which cell block she’d been dumped in by echoes alone.

Voices intruded on the perimeter of her consciousness—two people from the sound of it, speaking quietly. She tried to sit up, and that was when the pain hit. Noa winced. It felt like her chest had been split in half. Her hand ached, too. Slowly, she turned her head.
An IV drip, taped to her right wrist. The line led to a bag hanging from a metal stand. And the bed she was lying on was cold metal—an operating table, a spotlight suspended above it. So was she in a hospital? There wasn’t that hospital smell, though, blood and sweat and vomit battling against the stench of ammonia.

Noa lifted her left hand: her jade bracelet, the one she never took off, was gone.
That realization snatched the final cobwebs from her mind.

Cautiously, Noa raised up on her elbows, then frowned. This wasn’t like any hospital she’d ever seen. She was in the center of a glass chamber, a twelve-by-twelve foot box, the windows frosted so she couldn’t see out. The floor was bare concrete. Aside from the operating table and the IV stand, rolling trays of medical implements and machines were scattered about like an archipelago of islands marooned in a grey sea. In the corner stood a red trash bin, “MEDICAL WASTE” blaring from the lid.

***

Wow. Now that’s a nightmare to which I NEVER want to awaken. Am I hooked? Hell, yeah! This catapults “The Perils of Pauline” to the stratosphere–and, she’s not even tied down.

First off, the first three paragraphs delivered so much information so incredibly (what seems) effortlessly, while ratcheting up the tension, that this writer is no amateur. We learn Noa is tough, opinionated, world-weary and intelligent. Noa gives us insight into a world (Juvie) with so much detail, that you can taste the coppery resentment she holds against society. And now, as if she hasn’t been “processed” enough through life, she is stretched out on an operating table for the final dissection.

Is she in danger, or was she hurt and being aided? Holy smokes. I WANNA KNOW!

A poet at heart, I’m hugely into symbolism. This page is loaded with it. For example:

1. The “sole” window apartment and sleeping in the “gloom”—As if living in a rabbit hole, Noa has seen enough. When she’s most vulnerable she wants safety from the world.

2. Her jade bracelet missing –Jade symbolizes justice, renewal, contentment and courage. She never took it off. It’s gone. Now she has to go it alone.

3. A 12 by 12 frosted glass box and concrete floor—a reflection of her view of the world: cold, confusing, hard, unwelcome.

4. Two people whispering –nothing is ever clear. She always has to be on guard.

5. The Medical Waste trash bin –Is that what her life has been reduced to?

Next, every action verb (installed, pounded, dumped, scattered, split, battling), every description (blackout, clanking, squeaking, metal, cold) was perfectly chosen to create mood and move the plot forward. Not a feat for the unfocused writer. This author knows exactly what she/he is doing with word choice to make the reader empathize and act with the character.

Now, I know when given the chance to read on, I will learn her age (though I suspect she’s either still a juvie or a recent graduate), occupation, where she lives, why her bracelet is so important, why her chest hurts and what she was doing before awakening on this Table. But, let me point out, this page was so expertly crafted with concrete (not vague) impressions in this woman’s mind, that these questions created a need to know more; hence, a page turner.

Excellent writing. When can I read the book?

Recording the Past

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by Clare Langley-Hawthorne


I was up at my Mother-in-law’s house this weekend in the historic gold field town of Maldon, and one night we got talking about the importance of recording the stories of many of our, now very elderly, relatives. This conversation was prompted by my husband reading a book about a famous Australian landscape architect by the name of Ellis Stones who had designed his grandmother’s garden in the early 1960s. As we read some excerpts out aloud we realized how little any of us really knew about the details of her life. It turns out the garden she designed with Ellis Stones was considered one of his finest but, apart from photographs, the garden no longer exists (destroyed after redevelopment) -yet another piece of history consigned to the rubbish heap.

Tim’s grandmother is now 97 years old and imagine the stories she must have to tell – about her life in a country town before the second world war when, despite her talents, her father refused to let her go to university; her recollections of a brother who was taken away; her trials during the war as she struggled to bring up two boys alone; and her despair when her husband was declared missing and no news of was received for 2 years (during which, it turns out, he was a Japanese POW). Imagine the insights she would have into the way people lived and worked then – yet no one has chosen to record her story, and, I fear, she is now too frail to be interviewed at any great length about her life.

As a writer of historical fiction, I draw upon the stories of ordinary people to be able to paint an accurate, detailed picture of what it was like to live during a particular era. Thinking about all the lives that go unrecorded has made me realize how much ordinary day-to-day history we may be losing. Hardly anyone writes letters or keeps hard copy records anymore – still fewer probably take the time to ask and listen to people tell their stories of the past. Much of our world is consumed with the here and now or the latest and greatest innovation. Thinking about my husband’s grandmother has made me realize that we all need to become keepers of the stories of the past. Interviewing our relatives and friends may become an important first step in ensuring that these ordinary lives do not get forgotten.

So have you talked to anyone ‘of a certain age’ about their lives lately? How do you think we can preserve these stories so writers like me will be able to read them (perhaps even hear and see them as well) in the future and be able to recreate the past in all its ‘ordinary’ detail?

Give Us the ‘Tude

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We’re all about helping writers here at TKZ. We can do that on the blog, of course, but every now and again one of us will show up in person at a conference.
Or, we’ll throw one ourselves. That’s what I’ll be doing in Los Angeles, June 4th and 5th. Two solid days of getting your writing to the next level. Wall-to-wall instruction on what you can do to rise above the slush, get noticed, get sold. Click here if you’d like more information.
Of course, we’ll talk about openings and POV, which brings me to today’s first page entry:
THE FEN
The surveillance van stank. That wasn’t unusual. Put two or more people in a confined space for hours on end and the scent fallout will inevitably be a combination of stale sweat and funyuns with the desperate hint of pine from a cardboard tree hanging on the rearview mirror. 
           
 “…so I told her that’s how it would be irregardless of what she wanted,” Johnson said.
           
The words registered, but I hadn’t paid the slightest attention to the context. “Uh huh.”
           
“You’re a woman, what do you think the problem is?”
           
“I don’t know. Your use of the non-word irregardless?”
           
Surveillance work was the closest I’d been to the field since being shot three months earlier. I thought it would be better than desk duty. I was wrong.   
           
I popped the lid off a bottle of ibuprofen and dry swallowed three. Getting shot hurt. What was done to keep me alive hurt more. The company in the van and our location wasn’t helping. Ed Kowalczyk once wrote a song called “Shit Towne,” about York, Pennsylvania. I’ve been to York. Ed wrote a good song. He needs to write one about Reading.
           
“Do I have to go outside?” asked Johnson, changing topics. At least, I thought that’s what he was doing.
           
“What?”
           
“When I’m on surveillance with a guy,” he put too much emphasis on that gender specific word, “I can just pee out the back door of the van.”
           
“If I see your penis, I will shoot it,” I said.
           
He grumbled, but left in search of a public restroom, or a bush. I didn’t care as long as the smell from the contents of his bladder didn’t reach my nose.
***
The voice of the narrator in this piece is strong. When writing in First Person, that’s the main goal. Give us an attitude. The narrator should sound like someone specific, and someone who might be worth listening to. 
This narrator has a good, irreverent, spunky style. We like protagonists who have a bit of the rebel in them. Why? Because that promises conflict, which is the engine of fiction. In that regard, the repartee is promising. We know this Lead is going to run afoul of those she has to work with.
I also like the crisp attention to detail. The desperate hint of pine from a cardboard tree is excellent. And it’s mixed with Funyuns (note: capitalize product names). That’s specific. It’s almost always better to use actual names than generic categories.
The main way I’d strengthen this opening is to root us in the POV right from the start. I see this kind of opening a lot—a sensory description, but from a voice we have not identified yet. Could this be the author’s omniscient voice? A third person “in the head” voice? Or is this First Person? If so, who is the person?
We don’t get clued in until the third paragraph.
Thus, I strongly urge writers to make that opening paragraph clear about the POV. My suggested reworking is below. It’s by no means the only way, but it’ll give you an idea of what I mean.
****
I popped the lid off a bottle of ibuprofen and dry swallowed three. Getting shot hurt. What was done to keep me alive hurt more.
“…so I told her that’s how it would be irregardless of what she wanted,” Johnson said.
           
The words registered, but I hadn’t paid the slightest attention to the context. “Uh huh.”
           
“You’re a woman, what do you think the problem is?”
           
“I don’t know. Your use of the non-word irregardless?”
The surveillance van stank. That wasn’t unusual. Put two or more people in a confined space for hours on end and the scent fallout will inevitably be a combination of stale sweat and Funyuns with the desperate hint of pine from a cardboard tree hanging on the rearview mirror. 
Surveillance work was the closest I’d been to the field since being shot three months earlier. I thought it would be better than desk duty. I was wrong . . . .
***
Now, I know the thinking is that the author wants to establish the setting first, the van, then get to the scene. But readers will wait for setting information if something is happening, like dialogue with a little spice (with all due respect to Brother Gilstrap.) So putting in description after action is often the better choice for the opening page.
Establishing POV and voice right away are:
Janet Evanovich in Two for the Dough:
I knew Ranger was beside me because I could see his earring gleaming in the moonlight.
James M. Cain, The Postman Always Rings Twice:
They threw me off the haytruck about  noon.
J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye:
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
And so on. I know immediately we are in First Person, and that lets me understand better the descriptions that follow, because it’s coming through a particular perspective. And there is an attitude apparent in each narration as they move along.
Main point: it’s the voice of the narrator that’s the number one thing I look for in First Person. This piece has a good voice, so I would keep reading. 

More important than writing what you know, is knowing what you write.

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Critique by John Ramsey Miller


STORM RISING
Author Unknown

Tuesday December 14th 7:53 A.M.

West 164th and Broadway – Alleyway

Detective Kelli Storm ducked under the yellow crime scene tape as her partner, Bob Jenkins, held it up for her. She spotted the M.E., Jack Hastings, kneeling next to the body of a nun.

“So what do we have, Jack?”

The portly grey haired man spun his head and looked up at her. “Caucasian female, mid-forties. I noted ligature marks around her neck and petechial hemorrhaging. My preliminary COD is asphyxiation. She’s also missing her right hand.”

Kelli leaned in for a closer look. “Son of a bitch. What kind of sick shit would do that to a nun?” She stood back up, feeling a chill run down her spine.

Jack shook his head. “You got me, you’re the detective. From the looks of it, whoever did this is a pro,” he said, examining the arm. “No jagged edges, a clean cut.”

Kelli could swear she caught a hint of admiration in his voice. “Got a time of death?”

“Hard to say. It’s pretty cold, but judging by lividity, I’d put it somewhere around midnight. I’ll know more when I get her back to the morgue.” He motioned for two assistants who had been standing a few feet away.

Kelli watched as the two swooped in like vultures, a body bag unfolding as they closed on the corpse. She stepped back and bumped into Bob.

“Sorry,” she said, sidestepping.

“What’s wrong, Kelli? This isn’t your first crime scene.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the way she died. The way this monster mutilated her. I mean a nun for Christ sake.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty sick. Are you going to be okay?”

She nodded. “Who found the body?”

Bob tilted his head toward the street. “The elderly woman over there. Name is Mrs. Kilpatrick.”

Kelli turned and spotted the woman standing next to a uniformed officer. “Let’s go and talk to her,” she said, and headed for the street.


Okay, let’s begin at the beginning.

1- I would make this opening chapter the second chapter. The two-line time and place slug that opens the book is no substitute for description that sets time, place and mood. Movie scripts open like this. Draw the reader in. Where is the texture? I want to be there. What does it smell like? What does it sound like? How many people are there? If you aren’t going to start off with action to pull in the reader, then put us at the place. It’s a flat opening and doesn’t say anything interesting, show any compelling action, set a mood, describe or or introduce characters effectively.

2- M.E.’s head spins and he looks up? What is this, The Exorcist?

3- Too much too soon. The nun is the punchline. I would withhold the fact that the victim is a nun until later in the scene. If she is wearing a habit nobody has to say that she is a nun. Until the word is used, she’s just another corpse, who becomes a strangled woman and her right hand missing.

4- The detective likely wouldn’t say, “What kind of sick shit would do this to a nun?” Obviously the same kind of sick shit who would do this to any other human being. Unless you are Catholic, nuns are just religious women wearing a monochromatic outfit. This makes Kelli look like a rookie, (or perhaps she is a failed nun who became a detective due to priest friskiness or something). A missing hand is nothing. New York City homicide detectives see hollowed out heads, tortured children, limbs torn off, people with crowbars sticking out of their chests.

5- How about some black humor in introducing the fact of the victim being a nun. Kelli might say, “Who would do this to a nun?” Her partner, Bob, might reply, “Looks like she wouldn’t give up the ruler.” Kelli might frown at the retort, since vic is a nun. I think this would be more upsetting to Kelli if the victim were a child, a pregnant woman, or a young mother.

6- Lividity would be one indicator of time of death, but that is only accurate (color and intensity wise) for the first six hours or so. It tells if a body has been moved. An M.E. would use a liver temp (The organ that holds heat the longest) weighed against outside temperature and rate of cooling to get an approximate time of death. He would also rigor and the stage of blood coagulation.

7- A body bag doesn’t unfold itself and I wouldn’t use “vultures” to describe their motion. Vultures circle and land carefully, alert to danger. These guys are professionals and move fluidly because they do this all the time.

8- What about a cleanly severed hand points to ta professional? Would that be a professional killer, butcher, biologist, doctor, or an upholsterer? With a sharp instrument, anybody can remove a hand cleanly. If organs have been removed surgically, or the corpse skinned, or tattooed, that might indicate involvement of a person with medical knowledge.

9- Confusing use of tense. “Kelly could swear” right after “Kelly leaned in”

10- How does Bob know the woman’s name who found the body? Reading this, I assumed Kelli and Bob got there around the same time since they are partners. He’s been behind her since they arrived, I thought.

It feels more like a quickly written, rough first draft. The author’s notes in the margins might say:

*check out an alley in NYC for dimensions, lighting, etc…

*what would a female NYC detective wear? What is her rank? What precinct is she with? How does she carry her weapon? Does she wear sneakers or flat sole leather shoes?

*Check out steps M.E. would take and in what order. Would M.E. check lividity on the scene by undressing a nun? How would he figure time of death. Would the M.E. be there ahead of the detectives? Who rolls the body? What would the M.E. need to know in situ, and what would he do back at the morgue?

I think a large problem here is that there is nothing fresh, different or compelling here. It feels stale, and not well visualized or thought out.

Reading this, I didn’t get the feeling that the author knew as much as they should about what makes up this scene. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that their knowledge of police procedure comes in large part from watching TV. You can tell when an author knows a subject whether it’s from doing their research or first hand knowledge. This chapter just doesn’t feel real to me. I think you can tell when an author knows more than he or she puts on the page.

I think the author should take a deep breath and start over.




Government Funding for the Arts (?)

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Fair warning: This post wanders into the realm of political discourse, but I assure you that I’m coming from a very honest, confused place.

Earlier this week, Ron Schiller, National Public Radio’s (NPR’s) senior vice president for development (read: fundraising) accidentally went on the record stating that Republicans were ““radical, racist, Islamaphobic, Tea Party people . . . not just Islamaphobic, but really xenophobic, I mean basically they are, they believe in sort of white, middle-America gun-toting. I mean, it’s scary. They’re seriously racist, racist people.” He made this statement during an amateur sting engineered by filmmaker James O’Keefe, in which Mr. Schiller thought he was speaking to representatives of the Muslim Brotherhood, whom he believed would be donating funds to NPR.

Skirting the perceived truth or untruth of the statement, there’s no denying the leftward leaning political orientation of the speaker, whose parent company, the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, is supported by something north of $400 million in taxpayer funding. Mr. Schiller went on to say, “it is very clear that in the long run we would be better off without federal funding.” This at the very time that the newly-elected Republican majority in the House of Representatives is hunting for a reason to cut billions of dollars from the federal budget.

From a strictly business perspective, Mr. Schiller is a moron. There’s a time and a place for bigoted statements, and the moment when you’re under a microscope by people who are trying to shut you down is exactly the wrong time. He resigned, as did his boss (also name Schiller, but no relation), and that’s exactly as it should be, as far as I’m concerned.

All of this raises a larger question in my mind: Should taxpayers be compelled to pay for art?

I’m really on the fence on this one. On the one hand, I’m a big believer in the arts, and I fully subscribe to the notion that without art, there can be no civilization. On the other hand, I am as pure a capitalist as one could imagine, and I abhor the very thought of state-run media and state-rung propaganda campaigns. An independent media is our primary safeguard against totalitarianism.

There’s a huge part of me, as a resident of the Greater Washington Metropolitan Area, that loves the millions of dollars in subsidies that go to the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts (The Kennedy Center). To the degree that Lincoln Center in New York, and the Buttscratch Community Center in Middle America get federal funding (thanks to recently-prohibited earmarks), part of me supports the introduction of “culture” into areas of the country that would otherwise not see it. There’s real value to federal grants that help artists find their voice.

On the other hand, we are a free-market economy—and economic model that I believe in 100%. Every dollar I’ve made in my lifetime has been paid for by customers who decided that the products and service I represented were better than those represented by our competitors. I’ve never received a penny in grant money (I’ve never applied). For me to succeed in the book business, I have to produce compelling stories that people want to read, and I need to convince them that spending money on my imagination is at least as rewarding and an identical investment in the works of my competitors. The marketplace will decide whether I am financially successful or not. If I crash and burn, there you go. A bitter part of me questions why I should subsidize with my hard-earned income on art that I will never see in a part of the country that I will never see.

What do you think, dear Killzoners?  Should the United States government be subsidizing art?

DEAD GIRL Visits TKZ (It could happen…)

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DEAD GIRL – Chapter 1

The Shadow Lands

Dahlia felt rough cotton beneath her fingertips. She clenched her fist, wadding the sheet in her hand. Took a deep breath of cold air and caught the scent of ammonia.
And the smell of something else. Something thick and coppery.


Dahlia opened her eyes and stared up at a gray rectangle of pebbled plastic–a fluorescent ceiling panel. Unlit. She brushed her hair out of her eyes. Her face felt greasy.

She sat up, but a wave of dizziness hit her. She put out her hands to steady herself and felt a tug. A clear tube was taped to one wrist.
Dahlia heard a low smacking sound. Smelled salt and copper. She looked up. A wide metal door stood shut on her right. To the left, a gauzy curtain hung from a track on the ceiling. Beyond the fabric, gray light seeped through a window on the far wall.
Something moved on the other side of the curtain, but it wasn’t close enough to make a silhouette.
Dahlia shifted and a fat cockroach ran from under the blanket. She jerked. The bed creaked.
The smacking sound paused. Dahlia held her breath. The sound resumed, wet and crunchy, like someone eating celery.
Dahlia swung her legs off the bed. The cold tile floor shocked her bare feet. Still sitting, she grabbed a handful of curtain and yanked.
Eight feet away a thin, bald man lay in a bed identical to hers. A hunchbacked monster the color of pus straddled the old man, its head buried in his open stomach. Pink-tipped ribs and quivering organs lay revealed. Blood dripped from the bed frame to the floor.
Dahlia tried to scream but only hissed.
The old man’s head turned. His eyes found Dahlia’s. His lips moved. “Help me.”
The monster drew its bloody head out of the man’s ribcage. Its head rotated on a boney, elongated neck. Small, hard eyes glared at her. A ribbon of intestines hung from its teeth. The monster’s mouth widened in a red smile.
This time Dahlia screamed.
* * *

In the next scene, I’m really expecting Woody Harrelson to burst through the door with his shotgun blasting, Zombieland revisited. And before you ask – YES, I did see the movie. Bill Murray was the best part.

What I liked from this excerpt:
The author does a fine job of using all the reader’s senses and “shows” some of Dahlia’s feelings through her actions and reactions, rather than “telling” the reader. And by keeping the sentences relatively short, the focus is on the suspenseful build up. Also, the metaphoric description of celery really grossed me out, but it also described the scene in a way that brought it home for me, without more graphic wording.

Areas for possible improvement:
This is a great framework to start, but in my opinion and my personal reading taste, I would like to see more “meat on the bones,” pun intended. I want to know what is really in her head as the scene unfolds. The author does a fine job of describing the setting, almost like doing an inventory, but until Dahlia is really made human for the reader by giving her an opinion and “voice,” the reader doesn’t feel as connected as they could be to her plight. More of her needs to be layered into this scene to make her more human. And here are a few ways to do that.

Questions for Dahlia – Rather than me saying what I would do, I like to ask questions for the author to answer for Dahlia if they choose. And by infusing these answers into the story, you can see how this might add the layering of other emotions or senses into this section of the book. This is not an invitation for backstory. Stick with the action of the scene, but choose your words carefully and frugally to keep the pacing.

(As an exercise, it might be helpful for the author to switch this scene into first person point of view for Dahlia, just to get into her head more. I’m not suggesting this story should be in first person, but rewriting a short scene into 1st person POV is a good way to look at one scene in a different way.)
• What makes Dahlia wake up? Does she wonder that? Do buzzing flies awaken her? Does a steady dripping (of blood coming from behind the curtain) awaken her? What does she think of the reason that forces her to open her eyes?
• Does she struggle with the memory of what she was doing before this? Does she remember being taken or attacked? Who is Dahlia? And besides the big bad flesh eating monster about to have seconds, why should the reader care about her? Is she a continuing character or just a second helping? (She may be the DEAD GIRL or a secondary character, but either way, this scene could be enhanced if the reader knows more about her, even if it’s a quick glimpse.)
• Once she gets her first look around, does she wonder where she is? It’s human nature to react to what she sees. Given her past experiences, what is she thinking as she sees where she is?
• Is she completely alert when she first opens her eyes or is she fuzzy? When she stands, is she nauseous? Does she wonder why?
• Does she wonder what is going into her veins? Did she wake up because the drugs used to sedate her had run out?
• Does Dahlia like cockroaches? Does she want to cuss? (By giving more of a reaction that readers can relate to, this humanizes her.)
• Before she sees the monster, she’s scared about what is behind the curtain or door number 2. Does she look for a weapon…or even pull out the tube attached to her wrist? How would she defend herself?
• I would imagine someone being eviscerated would really stink. Does Dahlia want to gag or puke? How does she see the scene, given she’s in shock? Does she see it in one narration with lots of details, or does she see it in horrific snapshots, one more grotesque than the last?

I once wrote a scene where the reader was in the head of a guy getting his throat cut. He was an assassin and deserved his fate, but he was hunted in the dark by men more cruel. At the beginning of that scene, I had him thinking one more job would allow him to retire to a beach. He was smelling coconut oil as he entered the warehouse to meet a new client, when he should have been more guarded. He wasn’t used to being prey. But instead of graphically describing the scene as if I was a third party looking on, I wondered if he would go into shock like a rabbit does in the jaws of a wolf. So after his throat was cut, his mind drifted to the beach. And as he drowned in his own blood, he was under the waves trying to swim for the surface and just misses it. I chose that way to describe it so the reader was spared the graphic violence and I also tied in the assassin’s ego being his downfall.

In a similar manner, Dahlia could sense or hear something that the author continues to the end reveal, tying the scene together a little more too. The reader needs to see this scene from inside Dahlia’s head. And wrapped in her brain are all her life’s experiences that her opinions filter through. The reader needs to get a glimpse of this in order for her to be more real for them. As the scene is written, she is only a prop to the monster. Nothing is really known about her.

Overuse of name – Dahlia’s name is overused, in my opinion. It makes the writing sound stilted and formal. She is the only woman in the scene. The name of Dahlia is stated NINE times in this short intro, when “she” would suffice for most of them. Consider using her name at the beginning and end of this scene, with “she” used in between. And why not use her full name at the beginning? Does she have a last name? Even a throw away character can benefit from a last name. That can humanize her for the reader.

Words that Threw Me Out – Also, the door “stood shut” and “quivering organs lay revealed” took me out of the story. A door is shut or closed, but we assume it is standing and is not on the floor. And the “lay revealed” is too stilted and formal and passive, compared to the other vivid descriptions. I’m not sure the old guy who is serving as an appetizer would be awake and asking for help the way he is, with his ribs cracked open like a smorgasbord, but I’d still like to see what Dahlia thinks of what she sees.

Conclusion – In order for an author to completely get into the head of a character, even a secondary one or a victim, the writing should be layered with the inner emotions, life experiences, and opinions of that character. This is their motivation. Editors often use the term TSTL, which means a character is “too stupid to live” like the babysitter who answers the door in the middle of the night in a slasher flick. Even if Dahlia is a victim, she needs some history to make the reader care more about her and she needs enough smarts to do everything she can to defend herself. By adding the right depth to this scene, the reader will care whether she gets away, and be less grossed out by the graphic violence. Editors will be looking for this. Writing is about stirring all the emotions, not just fear.

First Page Critique: DISSONANT CHORDS

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By Joe Moore

Looks like I’m first up with our first-page critiquing fun. Before I take on today’s submission, I wanted to pass on some good news for e-book publishing and local bookstores. A recent Authors Guild bulletin stated that Random House, the largest trade book publisher in the U.S., announced last week that it is adopting the agency model for selling e-books. For readers and authors concerned about a diverse literary marketplace, this is welcome news, a chance for online bookselling to avoid the winner-take-all trap. Random House’s move gives brick-and-mortar bookstores, many of which are now selling e-books but cannot afford to lose money on those sales, a fighting chance in the new print + digital landscape. To read the entire bulletin, click here.

And now for today’s first page.

Dissonant Chords

Professor Bridget Sutton heard the screams.

Light seeped in beneath the door, a faint glow visible in fragments between the huddled bodies around her. Parts of her bare legs were numb where the marble floor wicked away her body heat. Her open toed shoes offered no protection from the unheated air, as pins formed in her feet. She needed a bathroom. She wanted to stretch. She would shift her weight, remove the shelf knifing her back, but the trembling girl latched around her neck prevented her from moving.

The girl gasped for air, breaking the silence.

“Shh, shh, shhhhh,” she pressed her lips into sweaty hair, taking in the smell of unwashed scalp. Hot breathe buffeted her chest. When the trembling intensified, and it seemed the girl was going to jump out of her skin and run through the door, she pressed her cheek against the girls head and held her tight, overpowering the kicking and clawing. When it was over, the girl put her head back under Bridget’s chin, and her body went limp. Bridget worried that others would panic from the darkness, lose it from being restricted, feeling like easy targets and attempt freedom, and try their luck on the run. Afraid to speak, to betray their location, she kept her reassurances to herself, running down a mental list of why they were safer locked behind a door in a storage closet down a side hall at the back of the admissions office. The fact that only one guard was on duty, unarmed, left her discouraged.

Sand scraped her skin, adding to the discomfort she felt everywhere else. Even in the dark, she was aware that her skirt was off center, riding higher that was comfortable. Pulled to one side and unbuttoned by the outburst, her blouse stuck to her skin, the silk soaked through by the girls steady leaking. She adjusted nothing, even as her bladder succumbed to the pressure, her pain threshold breached, nothing any amount of kegels could have prepared her for. The relief was temporary. The disgust lingered.

One of the things we preach here at TKZ is the importance of conflict—drop us into the conflict right off the bat, whether it’s physical or mental, or both, and make us keep turning the pages to find out how it resolves. This sample contains plenty of conflict. A woman is hiding inside a dark storage room with what I think is a group of kids. There is obvious danger on the other side of the door and little protection from that danger. The discomfort for the woman and the kids is extreme. The child she is holding in her arms is either reacting violently to the danger or experiences some sort of seizure. There seems to be nothing good going on here, and the situation calls for the woman to give in to her lack of access to a bathroom. The last two sentences sum up the situation well.

Overall, I found the sample intriguing but a bit over-written. Since I don’t know what type of danger the woman and the others face, maybe it’s appropriate. But there is a great deal of mixed visuals coming at me here, some of which are strong on their own but as a whole, seem to work against each other. But again, I don’t know the whole picture.

For instance, I get the impression that she is in the storeroom with children and yet we are in an admissions office with a professor. So are these college students or kids?

The woman smells sweaty hair and an unwashed scalp. I think that should be the other way around—hair doesn’t sweat, scalps do. Most people wash their hair, not their scalps. Does that mean that the girl is dirty and unkempt? That’s another reason I’m picturing children, not college students.

I’m not sure what “as pins formed in her feet” means.

Why is sand scraping her skin? Is there sand scattered across the cold marble floor?

The woman’s blouse became unbuttoned by the outburst. Could that be said better, such as the blouse was yanked open rather than the slower, more calculated action of unbuttoning?

Word choice is vital.

I’m sure that all my questions would be addressed if I had the opportunity to read the next few pages. And I’d definitely keep reading if I had the chance. All the elements of tension, suspense, conflict, danger and mystery are present. I think this first page reads like a first draft with great potential but in need of a rewrite. I don’t think it’s ready to be submitted to an agent or editor yet, but it’s a good start. What do you think? Would you keep reading?

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THE PHOENIX APOSTLES, coming June 8, 2011.
(The Phoenix Apostles has) “so many twists and turns that you won’t have time to catch your breath!" — Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author of ICE COLD

First-page critique of your work, here at TKZ

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We’re launching another round of first-page critiques  here at TKZ! You can send us the first page of your manuscript (anonymously, of course!), and we’ll critique it. Sound good?

Here’s how it works: Send the first page (350 words max) of your manuscript  as a Word attachment, along with the title, to the email address killzoneblog at gmail dot com. (We’ll take the first 33 submissions we receive over a month’s period, first come first served.) The pages will be divvied up among the Killers. From time to time we’ll post each page, and do a critique. Everyone will be able to comment as well.

Last year we had great fun doing this exercise! We’re looking forward to reading some of your pages!

Shipwrecked novels

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by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

“Writing a novel is like paddling from Boston to London in a bathtub. Sometime the damn tub sinks. It’s a wonder most of them don’t.” Stephen King

I saw an article in the New York Times on the weekend about why writers such as Michael Chabon, Jennifer Egan, Stephenie Myers and Harper Lee abandon novels after investing substantial research, angst and years of work on them. The article got me thinking – why (and how) do novels get shipwrecked?

Now I am not talking about novels that fail to achieve lift off. God knows, I am sure we have lots of them…the idea that never quite got off the ground, the first few chapters abandoned…no, I am more interested in those books that are nearly done, or completed, which get abandoned despite the work that went into them.

Michael Chabon abandoned his novel Fountain City after 5 and a half years because it was “erasing me, breaking me down, burying me alive, drowning me, kicking me down the stairs” – clearly despair at a novel not working plays a large role in its abandonment! But there are also other forces at play – Stephenie Myers did it out of sadness after the first 12 Chapters of her Twilight spin off, Midnight Sun, were leaked on the internet. Harper Lee was stymied by her very success (” when you’re at the top there is only one way to go”).

So what has caused you to abandon a novel? Has despair every forced you to shipwreck a project despite the months or years invested? Do you think those lost novels will stay dead forever, or will you be able to rewrite them in the future a la Stephen King who turned a 30 year old abandoned book into the bestseller “Under the Dome”?

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad