Edit: the opening of an SF novel

Shelly sent the opening of her science fiction novel and okayed using it as a sample edit in Flogging the Quill. It was a pleasure to deal with the work of a writer who's well along the craft road. Here 'tis. Things I added are in red and comments are green. Please keep in mind that all any editor can offer is opinion that is necessarily subjective -- my cuts, additions, and comments are suggestions, not facts, to be used or discarded by the writer.

Cyber Babe Cafe was tucked in the middle of a block of aged brick buildings, three steps down from street level in defiance of accessibility ordinances. Mike Sheehy grunted as he took the cracked concrete steps one at a time, his bum knee protesting the activity by shooting flashes of pain up his leg.

A bell tingled (unless this is a sentient bell, I think you mean "tinkled" here) as he pushed the heavy door inward and limped into the hot, dimly lit restaurant. As his eyes adapted, he took in the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the round tables and their touch consoles, the straight-backed chairs. Two easy chairs with worn cloth upholstery flanked an old-fashioned fireplace. The holographic fire flickering dutifully was a nice touch.

Most of the seats were empty. Over on the right, (I've found spatial directions such as left and right mostly useless in fiction. I suggest here, instead, "At one table a guy…) a guy with long, stringy blond hair was hunched over a console while the girl with him was slumped uncomfortably (POV problem; narrator can't know if she's uncomfortable, though she can look or seem uncomfortable to him) in her chair, staring at the ceiling. Mike pegged the guy as a gamer, addicted to whatever game was the current rage. Sooner or later, the bored girlfriend was bound to find her entertainment elsewhere.

The other two occupants were at the bar. The long counter was made of stained oak like the rest of the furniture. (most of us would visualize a bar as a long counter, so I'd cut that. Then you go passive, and "stained" has a couple of meanings [the wood would have to be colored with oak stain]. How about: …were at a battered bar stained with decades of spilled booze like the rest of the furniture. Or some such) The place reeked of musty paper and aged leather, though there wasn't a book or speck of dust in sight. There was pProbably a scent generator stashed somewhere, maybe pumpinged the smell in through the air vents along with the stifling heat. Mike unzipped his jacket but didn't remove it. It had been a long time since he'd been this warm.

"Be right with you," the red-haired woman behind the counter said. She was stacking  stacked glasses on a shelf, her back to him. Her trim ass swayed in the tight jeans as she moved.

"No problem." His voice was coarse from lack of use. A big, white fluffball hissed at him from the countertop and he glared at it (since this is SF, a reader might assume the fluffball is an alien thingie instead of a cat. I'd put "cat" here instead of the pronoun). The fluffball hissed again, unimpressed.

"Easy, Melville." The woman turned and reached to pat the surly creature's head. Then she caught sight of Mike and a slow smile spread across her face. She still looked pretty, despite the lines around her pale eyes that the poor light couldn't hide.

Mike nodded at the cat still glowering at him with suspicion. "Guess he remembers me."

Elsie Dahl snorted. "Unlike me, Melville holds grudges. Maybe I should listen to him."

"Want me to leave?"

Her curls (what color curls?) bounced as she shook her head. She gave the cat a gentle shove and it stretched and yawned, then sauntered off along the counter as if Mike had ceased to exist. A lot of his so-called friends had acted like that in the weeks before he'd gone away, though none had been able to pull off that nonchalance (suggest "the cat's" instead of "that"). Instead, they'd hastily retreated as if he'd been struck with some dreaded, contagious disease. Lock-up-itis. (the earlier "gone away" sounds like a voluntary departure, then this suggests he was imprisoned. I suggest making the earlier a little more clear, i.e. "sent away.")

As you can see, Shelly's writing is pretty clean. I felt the need for few cuts and only occasional clarification or expansion. She sets the scene well, and we have a sense of the protagonist. On the writing side, her craft is working. Then there's the storytelling side…

For this reader, as the opening of a novel this sample fails to raise any significant story questions in these first 476 words. In my opinion, some hint of story needed to begin within the first paragraph or two. It's true that in science fiction there's a lot of world-building and scene setting that needs to go on, but that's support, not story.

What's the story here? A guy with a bum knee goes into a bar. A cat hisses at him. A female barkeep recognizes him.

No tension there for me. Maybe the guy went to prison, maybe not. Don't know what for. We don't know if he desires anything, or if going to the bar is his try at finding it, or if there's a chance he'll fail there. There's no conflict. There's no jeopardy even hinted at for the protagonist, much less present.

Why should I read on? The story hasn't raised any questions that COMPEL me to continue for an answer. In the full sample Shelly sent, after 875 words I learned that the guy is an "info thief," though not what that involves to make it a serious criminal offense. There was more, and my interest slowly grew…but slowly.

I don't think a novelist trying to break in can afford "slowly." I don't think a book on the racks will be snatched up with "slowly." And I don't see any reason why it has to be "slowly."

It may be that this story is starting too early, that it should begin in the midst of something happening to the protagonist. I know I had to scrap the first two chapters of one of my novels to get to the part that could interest a reader -- I had thought the opening was okay through three rewrites, and it was a critique group member that opened my eyes.

I liked Shelly's writing and the world she created…but, in the roughly 3,000-word sample she sent, the protagonist had no clear, important goal -- 12 pages deep into the manuscript. There was no jeopardy to him -- the very end of the 12 pages hinted at possible complications, but only that; far too late for me as a reader. I suspect that if I were to edit the whole manuscript that I'd find that compelling opening and would be able to figure out how to use that to begin with and then weave in necessary exposition from the existing opening.

Thanks, Shelly, for sharing your work with me, and keep writing -- you'll get there.

I sent the above to Shelly -- approval is part of the deal -- and she sent the following response:

"I don't agree with everything you said, but will be thinking on things. I tend to draft sparse, then build things up in revision. When I go back to this, I'll definitely consider putting more in re: Mike just getting out of prison. I was aiming for building suspense, but perhaps I erred on the side of caution. I'm always afraid of revealing too much. Because I know what I mean, I'm always afraid I'm giving too much away too soon."

My reply to her included this, for what it's worth: I know what you were doing only too well. In my current novel-in-progress, I was going for the same suspense-building thing. However, in a university manuscript development class that had a number of excellent writer/critquers in it, including the professor, I learned that I had not given them enough satisfying meat to engage them in the characters and the story. So I learn.

RR

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission.

© 2005 Ray Rhamey