Flogging the Quill

Soon, soon...

New post coming a little later today but, while you're here...

How about a little feedback on the Flog? I know, it's my blog and it's what I want it to be, but you know how it is when you create something...you wonder, how's it going?

A few folks have written to suggest collecting the posts into a book, and that creates a whole new way of thinking about what I've been doing.

So tell me -- how's it going? What brings you back? What turns you off? Have favorite parts? Turn-offs? How would you complete the statement, "It would be good if Ray would..."

Feedback will be appreciated, especially constructive criticism.

So tell me...

Ray

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

Edit: turgid beginning to promising narrative--maybe

J said it was okay to post this edit of a sample he sent. Very interesting work, although I think there are things holding it back from its potential. You may see here an illustration of the subjectivity of editing -- the part that doesn't work for me may be jam for your toast.  It has mostly to do with the second opening paragraph.

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. Things I added are in red and comments are green.

There is beauty in everything. (Big. Makes me wonder.)

Vinatoru Kocescu, with ebon eyes hooded by the sludge of hair across his brow and rimmed by abnormally puffy grayish skin, scanned the street. Gray ferroconcrete buildings with shattered windows abutted gutters overflowing in used condoms and cigarette butts. I-beams long oranged by the rust of local government corruption lay orphaned in the cratered lot across the street. What did they call these places in America? The ghetto?

(For me, this paragraph was like encountering a hurdle before I'd left the starting blocks. I believe a reader should be able to glide effortlessly through a narrative, and my mind bounced off the density of language here, created by word choice and uncommon usage. Clearly you labored to achieve this imagery -- but it was over the top for me. This is not true of later narrative.

My troubles began with the "sludge" of hair; no picture comes to mind; what is a sludge of hair? Sludge is a mushy, muddy mass. Why "ebon" eyes instead of black or dark? This sentence is also unnecessarily complicated, I feel. How about: Vinatoru Kocescu scanned the street, dark eyes hooded by hair falling across his brow, the flesh around them puffy and gray. BTW, I ditched "abnormally" because we can't know what that means -- abnormal in respect to what? His normal puffiness? What's that? The adverb doesn't create a picture or add meaning here. Also, breaking this up into discrete clauses helps the meaning go down more easily.

In the next sentence, "ferroconcrete" is a fancy word that means reinforced concrete, with steel imbedded inside that may not be visible. If you can't see the reinforcement, why use it instead of "concrete?" Why the large word instead of the usual? My advice: use simple words unless they just won't do.

But wait, there's more: the "I-beams" sentence doesn't work well for me either. You're reaching further than I want to go with "oranged" as a verb meaning rusted. Don't get me wrong here -- I'm okay with using words as verbs even though they technically aren't when it fits, and do so myself. But here the reader has to slow down to translate. And what does the "rust of local government corruption" have to do with the I-beams? The biggest problem with that sentence is that, for me, it fails to conjure a picture of the lot. I'm so busy deciphering it that a visual never comes to mind, except for a hazy image of I-beams and dirt.

You are doing the right thing in attempting to set the scene through the lens of your character -- that's great -- but the language obfuscates the meaning.

As I said, we're into really subjective territory, and I plead with those who disagree with the above to send their comments. Please. Now to continue…)

Kocescu called it paradise - his paradise.

Just after eleven o'clock this morning, drizzle dribbled like God had a prostate problem. (nice)   Kocescu's best whores formed a ragged garland across the pockmarked apartment entrances (pockmarked? by what? bullet holes? tell/show us), awaiting the lunchtime crowd of bureaucrats, office workers, and construction jJoes to blow their pitiful paychecks on fifteen minutes of sticky friction. (nice)

God bless them all, thought Kocescu.  Them and their money.

Another spit of rain dotted his face, rivulets stumbling through the deep ravine of scar tissue (I think "ravine" says all you need to of "deep" and is more effective unmodified) that spanned Kocescu's right jaw from his ear lobe to his chin.  The souvenir came from a knife fight he'd had (redundant: of course he had the fight, otherwise he wouldn't have been cut) in Bucharest years back.  His opponent had slashed and cut deep(don't need this, it's obvious from "ravine"). A millimeter lower and it would have been Kocescu's blood that sprayed the dank alley. (if he was cut that deeply, his blood would have been in the alley, wouldn't it? This implies that it wasn't.) Enraged - giddy, almost - from the cut, Kocescu had dipped his shoulder and pumped his own blade up and under the punk's sternum, shredding the pulmonary artery. (shredding the pulmonary artery would not, as implied earlier, "spray" the alley with blood -- it's inside the chest, right? Suggest you visualize this scene thoroughly and conform the dramatic staging details to what could really happen.)

Kocescu took a deep breath, passing the air up his nostrils and then opening his mouth to let it escape again. He repeated the cycle once more. Despite the yoke of carbon monoxide from too many cars, he smelled something. (if it were me, I'd consider opening with this paragraph and continue until noted below -- this is far more intriguing, and raises good story questions.)

Now he used his tongue to taste the air, flicking and waggling, allowing the entire range of his olfactory system to break the air molecules apart, catalog them, and confirm or refute the presence of prey. (exotic, but darned interesting, and denotes an unusual character).

Kocescu could smell a woman before he even saw her. He'd acquired the skill establishing himself as the kingpin of lust and depravity in Moldova. Dealing with the thousands of women he'd pimped, beaten, or sold into slavery, he got to know all the weird and wonderful scents that leaked from their pores and dripped from their dark places. (I'd look at starting the story here and working in the locale and character description along the way. This smacks of "story" more to me than the preceding stuff. You could follow this paragraph with the two above, then go to the one that follows. Just a thought.)

His nostrils flared again.  He knew the perfume.  And he knew the scent that lay beneath the manufactured smell.

Old woman. (With his senses, he should also be able to smell the girl who is with here. I suggest you add his sensing of the girl here and a hint of what that means. What I'm looking for is the insertion of tension/conflict as early as possible, and character/locale descriptions don't do that for me. For example, if he senses the young woman, he might… Kocescu glances at an aging blue van parked down the street. Here came an opportunity, and his men had better be ready. Note: not that this is right; I think it could/should be more fraught.)

(here's where I would move the opening paragraphs to in order to set the scene, then insert a transition in the following paragraph to remind the reader, something such as: The scent of old woman grew stronger. Kocescu turned his…etc.)

Kocescu turned his head, knowing she'd be coming around the corner. An old woman didn't interest him. Most of Kocescu's clients preferred much younger delicaciesy. But for those who did enjoy (suggest "enjoyed" instead) a more mature interaction, he had two lively grandmothers on speed dial.  Just in case.

There.

She ambled around the corner with a slight limp, leaning forward just a bit. Kocescu figured both arthritis and an injury were to blame. But he stopped caring about the old woman when he saw she wasn't alone. ("caring about" doesn't seem appropriate to this character -- he wouldn't care about much of anything. Could it be something like: But he lost interest in the old woman when…etc.?)

Kocescu eased back into the recessed doorway of the building behind him. What, he wondered, would make an old woman come out on a day like this and walk through a dangerous section of town renowned for its whores? (no fair. the previous paragraph told us that he wasn't alone, and I think you're obligated to follow up on that, at least a little. Just move the that includes the girl up ahead of this one.)

Arrogance. He could see it in the way she moved.  Even with her various afflictions, he could sense anger and determination in the old gal. The way her jaw was set firm. The way she struggled to keep her chin up. The way she eyed the scene before her with a mixture of contempt and pity.

In the material that follows, J really gets his story moving, and I suspect the best opening is waiting to be unearthed from there. For what it's worth.

Thanks, J, for sharing your work.

RR

Free edit: 1,000 words of your novel's opening in exchange for permission to post it. I won't post it without your okay.

Cooking up some tasty beats

It's such a pleasure when you see skilled writers use "beats" -- action interwoven with dialogue (including thought as action) -- to invisibly accomplish a number of vital storytelling tasks, including:

• Advancing the story.
• Illuminating character.
• Identifying speakers without having to use dialogue tags.
• Adding meaning to speeches that wouldn't otherwise be there.
• Breaking up long strings of quotations to avoid a staccato effect and to create a pleasing rhythm.
• Creating pictures in the reader's mind of what's going on. (In storytelling, construe "picture" to include time [pace], scents, sensations, and sounds as well as action and physical description.)

Here's an example of a beat that does one of those things…and yet is a waste of words. The scene: a man and a woman sit at a table in a café, talking about a woman (his wife/her friend) who has been missing for over a week. In the course of the conversation, this happens:

A man from the next table asked to borrow the extra chair to my right. As I nodded, Robert said, "I have not told you everything."

"What?"

"Her car was found abandoned in Stewart State Park."

"Oh my God! When? How long after…"

The solo beat at the beginning did inject action into the scene…but the action had nothing to do with story. Not with the subject of the conversation or the people having the conversation. It had no impact on the conversation or the scene. It's just there to provide activity. And then the rest of the dialogue lies like a rug.

The remaining dialogue suffers due to missing beats. How about a little body language when Robert confesses he hasn't told his listener everything? Or a reaction when the narrator learns fraught information? Wouldn't the scene have been better with something like this…

Robert shifted his gaze away from me. "I have not told you everything." (This tells you who is speaking and gives character and nuance.)

How like the man to withhold information. "What?" (Internal monologue adds characterization for both parties.)

"Her car was found abandoned in Stewart State Park."

"Oh my God!" Fear for my missing friend jolted through me. "When? How long after…" (Injects emotion and characterization.)

Let's beat up some more dialogue. Here's a partial scene from my work in progress with all of the beats removed. In the scene KB, a junior law enforcement officer, reports to her superior officer, and she expects him to praise her for an engagement the day before.

Captain Berman's door is open, as usual. His white-haired head is bent over a stack of paperwork, as usual. Adrenaline pumps KB up, and she taps lightly on the doorframe and goes in. The office is too warm, as usual, the radiator has to be cranked all the way open.

"Take a seat, Lieutenant. So, you think you found a subject of interest."

"Yessir!"

"Did you see it with the thermal imaging device?"

"I did, sir."

"Did you record it?"

"No, sir."

"I see. You say it changed appearance on three occasions?"

"From something that didn't look human to an older woman, then to a hick, then to a girl. Yessir."

"Did any of your team see these apparitions?"

"Schultz saw it come in. Sanchez saw it on the stairs, and Bailey saw it come out."

"After receiving your email, I asked your team for their input. Schultz didn't mention an 'inhuman' face."

"He didn't get a good look. But he saw the glow in the camera."

"I see. No one else saw the older woman?"

"Not until she changed into a farmer."

You learn things, but there's no tension, no depth, you can't see a damn thing, and there's no rhythm -- it's like a radio machine-gunning words at you. Now here's the full narrative:

Captain Berman's door is open, as usual. His white-haired head is bent over a stack of paperwork, as usual. Adrenaline pumps KB up, and she taps lightly on the doorframe and goes in. The office is too warm, as usual, the radiator has to be cranked all the way open.

He looks up and nods. No smile. "Take a seat, Lieutenant."

The old fart is old-fashioned and formal, so maybe he's not gonna come right out with her attaboy. Sitting, she tells herself to be patient, something that never comes easily.

He signs a piece of paper, places it in an out box, leans back, laces his fingers over his belly, and gazes at her. "So, you think you found a subject of interest."

She smiles. "Yessir!"

"Did you see it with the thermal imaging device?"

Inside, she smirks at his fussy way of talking. "I did, sir."

"Did you record it?"

Oh, shit. She'd been too excited. "No, sir."

"I see." He leans forward and studies a printout of her email. "You say it changed appearance on three occasions?"

"From something that didn't look human to an older woman, then to a hick, then to a girl. Yessir."

"Did any of your team see these apparitions?"

Couldn't the old idiot read? "Schultz saw it come in. Sanchez saw it on the stairs, and Bailey saw it come out."

"After receiving your email, I asked your team for their input." He picks up a printout. "Schultz didn't mention an 'inhuman' face."

"He didn't get a good look." Why does she feel like she's on trial? "But he saw the glow in the camera."

"I see." He reads more. "No one else saw the older woman?"

"Not until she changed into a farmer."

The beats give pace to the conversation and much, much more. Through the beats you "saw"…

• His chilly greeting when she expects warmth, and then his dawdling even though she is anxious. (finishing with papers, leaning back, lacing his fingers)
• Her smugness (the old fart is old-fashioned…)
• Her eagerness (she smiles)
• Her low opinion of him (smirks at fussy way of speaking)
• Her realization of a mistake she's made (oh shit, too excited to record)
• His calm, steady approach (leans forward and studies a printout)
• More of her disrespect (can't the old idiot read? )
• His steady pursuit (he picks up a printout, he reads)
• Her increasing anxiety (is she on trial here?)

You get a sense of escalating tension in KB. The scene continues to build from here, and ends with her feeling defeated, angry, and near tears when she'd begun the scene expecting praise. And it is the beats that take you there.

Not every line gets a beat -- that'll wear a reader out. Every beat is tied to characterization and/or giving a picture of what is going on. The scene utilizes physical action and internal monologue (Couldn't the old idiot read?) to add meaning to the words. Another example: I think the action beats after the Captain's two "I see." lines add meaning and intonation to those simple words.

The beats help pace the exchange, creating pauses (signs a piece of paper, places it in an out box, leans back, laces…) and emphasis (reading from something, etc. ). Also note that there's not a single dialogue tag, not a "said" or a "gasped" or an "asked," yet you always know who's speaking and how they deliver their speeches.

For what it's worth.

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

Edit: a rushed story gets off to a rough start

Jack sent the following sample for a quick editorial look. My reaction is that he clearly has a story in his mind, but that it's not making it to the page. In addition, there are craft things he needs to improve -- specifically, point-of-view, setting the scene, and staging action.

Another shortcoming, for me, is that the opening paragraphs don't create much in the way of tension or raise story questions. Basically, a guy comes into a room, then goes into another room and takes off his shirt, and he has scars from unknown origins.

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. Things I added are in red and comments are green.

Alex Thompson opens the sliding glass door with care. He steps in and wanders across the morning gallery into the first floor commons. Betty sits by the hearth in a low-back chair made of rough-hewn wood. (Commons of what? A hotel? A ski lodge? A large home? An apartment complex? What is the room like? Who's there? I can't see anything!)

She stands amid the din of the three families gathered around. (Confusing to me -- first she is sitting by the hearth and then standing amidst three families. I guess you mean that she got up from her chair, but you don't show that. Also, you don't tell us that Alex goes to her when he wanders into the area. Also, the families are gathered around what? Betty? The fireplace? Doing what? What time of day is it? What does "families" mean here -- are there kids? Couples? For me there's not enough of a picture to understand what I'm supposed to be "seeing." This feels to me like a case of you seeing the picture clearly but not yet putting it on the page. You need to set the scene so the reader is grounded and can visualize the action in some kind of context.) Brushing away pine needles from Alex's long, thick, dark hair, she sighs. "Your man," Sshe says. (to whom does she say this?) Cindy comes from the kitchen proper and takes Alex by the arm. (I would use this action to open the following paragraph so Cindy's dialogue is connected with her entrance.)

"I see how it is, I get the dirty work," Cindy says, turning with Alex to head into the hall. She shoves him into the wall, leans close to his ear and whispers. (The following dialogue should be part of this paragraph.)

"Bitch, you left us alone with them. (Seemed odd for a woman to call a man a bitch. In my world it would probably be "bastard." And left whom alone with whom? Who is "us?" Who is "them?" The references for the pronouns "us" and "them" are not clear at all. Again, it's in your head, for sure, but not on the page.) Betty was about to crawl out of her skin (cliché). Tell me why I shouldn't have my way with you (cliché) right now!" Her hands start sliding slide down his chest as he watches her face intently.

"You know if you do I'll cancel our trip into Egypt?;(I don't; understand. It sounded like she was offering to make love to "her man." For that he'll punish her?) Maybe that's not enough reason, though. Should I cut your allowance?" Alex says in a low voice as he wrestles (do you mean "wrenches?") from her grip. (The "Alex says in a low voice as he…" construction is a little hard to follow. How about: Alex breaks free and keeps his voice low. "You know that if I do…etc. Also, it feels to like there should be a break between the part about Egypt and the rest. For example: "…trip into Egypt?" He studies her. "Maybe that's…etc." Include in the conversation why wanting to make love to him is something for which she deserves punishment.) He walks on;toward the master bedroom. Cindy blushes, obviously considering the forcefulness of his words (What makes it obvious? What physical cue shows him that it is the forcefulness of his words that she is considering?). (I'm confused about whose point of view I'm in. This piece starts with Alex, so the assumption is that it is his pov. But here we "see" Cindy blush. If we were in Alex's pov, we couldn't do that because he's walking away from her and can't see behind him.)

She follows closely behind him and both (suggest "they" instead of "both") enter the chamber's bath. Alex starts pulling pulls off his jacket, grimacing with each slow movement. "I know," Hhe says, looking at Cindy, who is shaking shakes her head. (Very complicated with her shaking her head and all. I suggest: Alex pulls off his jacket, grimacing with each movement. Cindy shakes her head. He says, "I know…" etc.) "I pushed myself again. Honey, Iit was only a five-hundred-pound; (hyphens added to form compound adjective) log. Two of us got it squared away."

"Baby, I didn't say a thing." She says. Reaching over sShe helps him lift off the chambray shirt with a huge blotting of sweat on it. (This doesn't quite create a picture. What is "huge" in this context? Where is the blot? Only one blot? When I sweat up a shirt, it affects at least four areas -- chest, back, and underarms.) His chest, back, and arms are covered in scars from diligence and rough devil-may-care actions. (We're no longer in his point of view, if we ever were -- he would not be thinking of the scars on his body. Also, what are diligence and devil-may-care actions? Suggest specifics here if the reader is to understand what you're referring to.)

"You do know better, though. We are fine without the farming. That agent of yours called yesterday, told me all about the new book. (With no transition, this sudden turn gave me mental whiplash. Suggest she see something first that motivates her remark.) What's going on in that drawing room?" Sshe says, passing him a washcloth from the shelf. (Double whiplash -- why does she suddenly wonder what's going on in "that drawing room?" What drawing room? There has only been a commons, a hall, a bedroom and bath. I think you need to motivate this last statement as well. Logically, a sound, perhaps people noises [be specific],would prompt such a question.)

The remainder of Jack's sample continued in a similar vein. I felt that he was rushing, packing things in, but not giving enough context to understand what was going on. And the movements and actions of his characters need thought and description. Nor did I have an idea of what the story was about.

To be fair, hints of interesting story questions began to appear after this segment. But, for me, not soon enough. There can be no delay in reaching out to snare your reader's full interest with interesting action or vivid character.

To develop your storytelling craft, Jack, it might help if you sit back, turn your story on, watch the movie and record what happens, especially the pictures so we can see. I don't know if this will help you, but a reader needs to experience the story, not read a report. Experiences come from sights, sounds, smells, feelings, action, dialogue and thoughts. You have a story…and now you have to write and rewrite to acquire the craft and techniques you need to make it come alive in a reader's head.

When I sent Jack the above critique, he responded:

"I thank you, now I must rewrite. I had wondered if I was moving too fast. I see now the reader wants it all."

You bet, Jack, we want it all -- good insight. Now give it to us. Thanks for sharing your work with us, and luck.

RR

Free edit of your novel's opening in exchange for permission to post it. Send 1,000 words or so. I won't post it without your okay.

© 2005 Ray Rhamey

Is giving away an unpublished book a good marketing idea?

I have two novels represented by my literary agent. He's been pretty good at getting them to editors -- We the Enemy, a speculative thriller, is at several publishers/imprints. And the wait goes on. It's been at one place since last August.

I am poised on emotional running blocks, eager to spring forward the second the contract gun sounds to do whatever it takes to get my book into the hands and minds of readers.

The wait, the hope, the fear make me nuts. Is there anything I can do to tighten an editor's finger on the trigger? This leads us to an idea I'm formulating.

I'd really like your input.

Really. Please.

What if I offered a FREE e-book version of my unpublished novel? The only requirement would be that readers give me feedback.

Or maybe offered the e-book for $1 and begged for feedback? But wait, there's more.

I'm thinking about a full-disclosure offer here, not just a blurb and a cover. What if an author tells potential readers about the "real" book instead of just lathering up a high-concept pitch that titillates with sensational story elements?

For example, this novel began (and finished) as a novel of ideas. Try telling that to an agent or an editor. Just the label alone, I suspect, provokes thoughts of ewwww, gonna preach at me, get thee behind me, dullard!

But, you see, I wrote this particular novel with the following idea in mind -- no one will be interested in reading a diatribe from me about my ideas for how the world ought to be. Nope, not gonna work.

So what might work? How about creating characters that could benefit from my ideas but would resist them, and then let those characters "experience" a world in which those ideas are operative?

And then put those characters in a suspenseful, action-filled, page-turner firecracker of a good read? So what if the foundation is "ideas" if they're wrapped in a damned good story?

That's what I wrote. I, of course, think it works on both levels. Readers think it works on both levels. My agent may think it does, but I only know that, for him, it works on the story level, and that's good enough for him. And that's how he pitches it to acquisition editors. (Even though it's a "tough market" out there for thrillers in particular and for fiction in general, and I keep wondering if the novel-of-ideas-wrapped-in-suspense aspect of We the Enemy wouldn't work to separate it from the crowd and catch the eye of thoughtful editors.)

So, am I interesting you in the book with this kind of insight? Here, let me try a blurb out on you…

What if the President of the United States is so fixated on winning his re-election that he will stop at nothing to remain in the White House for a second term? What if he hires a former CIA operative who is now a deadly gun for hire to stop his political adversary?

We the Enemy is a story of vision and scope told in the style of a thriller, and it delivers on a premise that touches each of us -- how can we prosper in this troubled world?

What if the blurb included this:

We the Enemy is a speculative thriller that tackles crime and guns with action & ideas.

Does that add or detract appeal?

What if my in-depth pitch included this from a draft for a preface…

Frustration wrote this book, with powerlessness as inspiration.

Like you, I could do nothing about the assault on us by madmen (and madchildren) and criminals with guns.

Like you, I could do nothing about the revolving doors in our justice system that spit criminals back into our faces almost as soon as they are arrested.

I felt increasingly isolated in our society of chaotic differences, a fragment in the midst of increasing fragmentation.

But hope had a part, too, because human beings can be powerful when they ally, and can do prodigious good.

That's what We the Enemy is about.

Too much? Better?

On top of that, I'll throw in a sample chapter or two.

So tell me. Let's say I create a .pdf version of the book that can be read with the free Adobe Acrobat Reader software, and even printed out. It can be emailed to you in a flash.

I set up a web page with stuff like the above and give you a link on this blog.

Seriously now…

1. Would you ask for a copy?
2. Would you promise to give feedback?
3. Would it deter you if I asked for $1 through PayPal?
4. What of the above stuff would you NOT include in my offering copy?
   

The marketing angle: Here's where I would hope this to go -- if a sufficient number of people asked for the book, maybe my agent could use that to kindle extra interest in an editor. If word spread and a few thousand copies were requested, I'm thinking that adds name recognition and buzz to the novel's appeal. And maybe that would be the push that gets the manuscript over the hurdles at a publishing house.

What do you think?

C'mon, talk to me. If you would, include where you're coming from -- writer, reader, editor, agent, Martian visitor, whatever.

Thanks,

Ray

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

Edit: good writing misses chances for stronger storytelling.

Amber sent a sample for an edit, and I post it here with her permission. I liked the mood she set and the voice of her character, but there are a number of opportunities for both tightening and expanding the narrative. 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.

There's something there. (good, suspenseful opening line)

Something in the back of the brain that decides which way we'll go in the scheme of things. I guess we don't know, not consciously anyway, which way we will go until that exact moment when that little synapse goes "ping" and we say either yes or no. There's no turning back after that. No turning back at all. (for me, this was disappointing after the opening line. Maybe wouldn't have been if not in a separate paragraph. But the opener led [misled?] me to expect some thing that created jeopardy for the narrator, and this philosophical aside isn't enough to satisfy me.)

Sitting there, I realized I wasn't going to say no this time. (I think you've missed a vital opportunity to set the scene in a provocative way. For example: Sitting there, at a table in the toughest bar in the Quarter with the toughest guys in the whole fucking town, I realized I wasn't going to say no this time.) There was no way for me to say no. It was either I go with them, or I end up being somea statistic onin a crime poll. On top of that, though, I didn't really want to say no. Temptation, the temptation that had been there since I saw my first gangster film, wouldn't let me say no. That respect, that power that these guys get in the town. (My feeling is that the use of "that" in the first two instances instead of "the" makes this fragment harder to understand, and it creates too many repetitions of the word. Suggest: The respect, the power…etc.) And they wanted me to join in thistheir crew. Me. SomeA dumbass ex junkie who has really good luck at not getting caught. (for me, this is a much better opening paragraph. I'd cut the first two paragraphs altogether.)

Of course, I played it up to them that I actually had a grasp of the scheme of things, not that so far , it had all been just blind luck. In a way, I did know what the fuck I was doing, but Fortune had smiled on me more times than not. Just the fact that I had made it this far through this meeting alive proved that. (good suspense building)

"So, what you're saying is , is that it's a straight, six-man operation, in and out in under five minutes, during operating hours,. "  I said, finally getting enough balls to do more than nod my head at these guys. (the reference to "balls" might work if we knew up front that the narrator is female. As it is, the following reference to "girlie" confused me. I had to stop and think about it, and you don't want a reader doing that.) I took a long drag off my cigarette, trying to let reality set in.

"Yeah, girlie. It's a straight-up deal. In and out, no fucking around. You think you're up for it?"  Tthe head guy said, looking straight through me, it seemed. He's trying to shake me, to see if I'll break and run. (couple of things: for me, I'd like to know who's talking before the speech. Secondly, this sentence -- The head guy said, looking straight through me, it seemed. -- is pretty contorted. Suggest opening the paragraph with something like: It felt like the head guy looked straight through me when he said, "Yeah, girlie. Etc.")

"Of course I'm up for it. I'll need to check out the hardware before I commit, though."

"We don't have the time for all that shit. Either yYou're in, or you're out. Right now."

Ain't ("ain't," meaning "there isn't," is present tense. This needs to be "Wasn't) no fucking around with these guys. "All right, I'm in." What did I just agree to?

"Good. Let's have us a drink on it then. Seal the deal, as it were." He signaled to the bartender for a round for the table. I looked around to the other guys at the table , who all had remained silent during this exchange. (You don't have to tell us they were silent because, obviously, they said nothing. You've shown us.) There were five of them, a hodgepodge of Anglos, Italian, and Creole. The youngest was Tommy, an Italian kid who still looked wet behind the ears (cliché), other than this wild look in his eyes that suggested, at least to me, that you didn't want to meet him in a dark alley. With this group of guys, yYou really didn't want to meet any of these guys them in a dark alley. This kid, this kid really scared me. (I didn't care for the "this kid" repetition.) He was a real psycho. I could see the soul of a Charlie Manson staring back out at me through his eyes. (ooo, nice)

Then there was Remy,. Remy was my contact to all this. A suave, charismatic cCreole that I had known for a couple of months. (I don't think this fragment does anything for you, just makes the narrative choppy to me.) That was forever in my scheme of things. He was the first person who was nice to me when I had come to this godforsaken city. I always thought of him as the whore with a heart of gold kind. Thief by trade, romantic at heart.

With the deletion of the first couple of paragraphs (which could be moved to internal monologue later for purposes of characterization), this opening raises interesting story questions for me. I'd like to hear more.

Thanks, Amber, for sharing your work with us. And keep writing.

For what it's worth.

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

What would you do/pay to get a great critique?

We all need "other eyes" to help us better see our work as it is rather than as we perceive it, "blinded" by intimacy and our deep knowledge. But they have to be informed eyes that belong to a writer/editor who can be articulate and knowledgeable on issues that need to be dealt with --

• overwriting
• underwriting
• grammar
• characterization
• scene setting
• description
• dialogue tags
• clichés
• muddy language
• lapses in continuity
• poor staging
• lack of tension
• need for conflict
• missing motivations
• clumsy language…the list goes on.

But, for a novel, the fees of even an eminently affordable editor such as myself are just not possible for many writers these days, especially those working on their first novel. I hear from many writers who are frustrated by their inability to get good feedback. What to do?

Finding a good local critique group is one answer, but that comes down to being in a locale where there are enough writers to sort through, and then a matter of luck finding writers who can also edit. I'm lucky enough to be in a critique group that works through email. One is an author with three published novels to her credit, and another works full time writing in her day job. Both have knowledge, insight, ability to articulate shortcomings they see, and to suggest solutions. I'm lucky.

But there are so many with no access. So I've been thinking about a novel (pun intended) way for you to get an intensive, objective, affordable critique of the opening chapters of your novel.

Please let me know what you think of this. All constructive criticism is welcome.

What if I started an Internet-based e-critique group? It could work this way:

The critiques would be on the first 50 pages (rounded up or down to the nearest chapter ending) of a novel. The crits would be in depth, including line editing (of the sort you've seen on FtQ, but of far larger samples), comments, and critiques.

They would be provided by me and four fellow writers of comparable skills.

Writers would email to me their samples. I would screen and sort each sample to put together groups with comparable skills. Some might not qualify if their work was not at an appropriately competent level -- this is no task for beginners. I would coach everyone in the use of word-processor tools to use. I'd prefer that all be able to use Microsoft Word and take advantage of the track changes and comments features.

I'd include pointers on critiquing, as well. After I send out the samples to the group, we would have, let's say, one month to go through the samples, make edits, and craft commentary. At the end of that time we all "meet" at an agreed-upon time in an Internet critique room (I set this up) and share our edits and thoughts real-time. This would include a comprehensive edit by me, and I would critique the critiques as needed. The session could be for a couple of hours. The writers would also email to the others files of the edits so each would have a permanent record of all five.

There would also be an agreement signed by all guaranteeing confidentiality and nondisclosure of the material. This would be a hard copy agreement signed by each participant. It would cover ownership and ground rules for the critiques.

I think a wealth of information and insight would be generated for each writer at an affordable cost. They may make contact with compatible writers for other critique sessions. The possibilities go on. The group could continue, month by month, staying together for their entire novels. Or not.

There would be a fee for this. For one thing, I'd be paying to set up a chat room for our private sessions, reviewing submissions and organizing, and doing professional editing. In return, writers would receive five insightful, instructive critiques on their work, and a thorough lesson in editing and self-editing.

Motivated writers should be able to learn from this input and apply their new insights to the rest of their work. In the best of possible worlds they would still get "other eyes" for their whole manuscript once polished, for they will still need it. One possibility is that, out of the group that does the Internet critique, each writer will find one or more others willing to trade a read-through of a manuscript.

So now tell me…

• Is such a service of interest to you?
• What would such a service be worth for you? Payment can be though a credit card, done online with PayPal. Keep in mind that I'm visualizing a critique of a significant amount of work, not the few hundred words you've seen posted on FtQ. For a 50-page document, my base rate would be about US$170.
• Do you have any ideas to add to the above outline?
• See problems?

In summary, the "what's it worth question" is in regard to a ball-park idea of what you would pay in hard-earned dollars to receive:

1. Five substantive/line edits of the first 50 pages of a novel.
2. One would be by me (a pro) and four by qualified writers who have received coaching in what to do and how to do it.
3. The edits should resemble those I've posted on FtQ.
4. Coaching in the kind of editing I do, which informs your own self editing.
5. New analytical skills and experience that will help you with your own work.
6. Potentially, a connection to other writers who are capable of and willing to exchanging valuable critiques/edits of your work.
   

I think this could be a viable way to give professional and semi-pro feedback to writers who need it but can't find it. My belief is that all novelists need, at some time or another, exactly that kind of input. And I think that, if they can't afford a pro to peruse their entire manuscript (really the best option), this notion could definitely lift the level of their narrative.

Please let me hear from you via email or comment. If you'd like to try such a group one time, please let me know. Include your recommendation for an appropriate, one-time fee. I imagine being able to pull together ad hoc groups of competent authors whenever a sufficient number is ready to sign on.

For what it's worth.

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

This novel's opening is horrible--just the way it ought to be.

Joe, a published horror novelist, sent a first-draft opening chapter of a novella and has okayed a post of my quick edit. This guy knows how to get a story moving. I figure we can all learn from good work. 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.

In the moment after midnight, the world held its breath. (nice. Immediately creates a mood of suspense.)

Like a finely-tuned watch (an adjective modified by an adverb is generally not hyphenated. I have struggled with this myself, retraining my instincts.) in need of attention, time slowed, and then stopped. One moment the truck stop was full of noise and activity, in the next everything came to a halt.

In the sudden silence, I looked up from my late-night meal of eggs and hash to find the room around me frozen in time. A few tables away, the lithesome teen who moments before had been haranguing her bull-necked boyfriend in righteous anger now stood with her finger pointed at his chest, one hip cocked jauntily as if in unintended invitation. The waitress, a plump matronly woman with too much makeup and a quick, easy smile, had been caught in the act of pouring another cup of coffee for the bearded trucker at the end of the breakfast counter, the liquid suspended in mid-air like a wave on the verge of breaking. (Couple of things: the phrase "caught in the act" is a cliché, you can do better. And "caught" is a little ambiguous here, for me, anyway. Maybe something more evocative, such as: had become a statue pouring a cup of…etc.) The highway patrol officer who'd just hustled in from the parking lot stood halfway between the dining area and the bathroom, one foot suspended inches above the floor.

Even the clock on the wall had stopped, silenced at 30 thirty seconds after twelve. (question: do smells still happen in frozen time? The scent of the hash browns or coffee, etc.?)

Everyone, and everything, was still. (how about adding a reference to the utter silence that would also occur?)

Except me.

The sense of déjà vu I experienced in the next moment was almost overwhelming. I had seen this place before; I knew what was coming next.

And it scared the piss out of me.

Before the thought had fully formed I was up and moving, scrambling away from the weary family in the booth behind me, getting out in the center of the room where my options increased and the chance of collateral damage to those around me would be minimized.

As I moved I kept my attention firmly on the long stretch of mirror that covered the wall behind the breakfast counter. Even as I watched, it grew smoke-dark and frost began to form at its edges. (nice)

Too late!

A face swam into view (bit of a cliché) in the glass; long and gaunt, with sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks, a face of winter grey capped by strands of writhing hair that twitched and moved with life all their own.

Its empty eyes pinned me with the inerrancy of a laser. (technically, this "its" refers to the hair, not the face. Suggest you just delete the its, i.e. Empty eyes pinned me…etc.)

Snarling silently (actually, a snarl is a sound, so it can't really be silent. maybe something else, i.e. Its face twisted with a snarl,), the chimera pierced the Veil and reached toward me. The mirror's surface seemed to ripple and shiver (why "seemed to?" why not …The mirror's surface rippled and shivered…etc.), the creature's hand passing through it without resistance, and then the chimera pulled itself into our world, the glass behind it going solid with a sharp snap. ("going solid" makes my case for getting rid of "seemed to" earlier; here the glass reverts to what it was before rippling and shivering, right?) Without hesitation the creature leaped for me. (I could use a little more picture here. Remind me that it's behind the counter. Did it spring over the counter from a standing position, or did it place a hand on the bar and vault over? Help me see what it does. Also, does it wear clothes? You've described the face, but what about the rest of it? Tall? Muscular? Clothes?)

The gun I'd taken off the dead cop in Toledo was out before the beast had cleared the counter (Passive. Maybe something like: I had the gun I'd taken off the dead cop in Toledo out before…etc.), the thunder of the weapon's voice echoing in the confines of the room. My shots struck it full in the face, tossing it backward to the floor like so much discarded garbage, (since this is horror, don't you think a little more gore would be good here? Just a touch?) but I knew it wouldn't be down for long.

After facing them three times, I still had no idea how to kill these things.

Motion caught my eye and my gaze shifted back to the mirror just as several more ("several" is vague, abstract -- why not tell us how many? Specific details create a reality. I imagine four.) faces began to form inside the darkened glass. My arm lifted slightly, my finger twitched, and anothermy shot shattered the mirror's surface, closing that exit from the Road. (cool)

I knew it would only take the reinforcements a few moments to find another portal. (he can't really know. How about: Before it had taken only moments for reinforcements to find another portal.) Every single moment counted. Even the tiniest advantage might mean the difference between life and death and I didn't intend to waste a bit of it.

The truck stop was too confining; I'd have a better chance of survival outside, in the open, so I headed for the door, snatching the satchel off the seat next to me on my way.

Things had started going crazy five weeks ago, when she came to me in my dreams for the first time. Eyes of green and hair that deep blue-black that seems almost iridescent in certain light. She was standing off in the distance, yelling, but I was unable to understand what she was saying. Each night her image grew steadily clearer, those two almond shapes eyes staring out of a hazy profile (If her face is in profile there would be only one eye visible.) that grew more distinct with each passing day, until I could recognize the expression of fear and pain on her otherwise gorgeous face. On tThat night, I'd heard her voice clearly for the first time.

"Run!" she'd said.

Note how Joe's use of short paragraphs creates a fast-moving pace and a sense of action. I, for one, want to read more. How about you?

Many thanks, Joe, for sharing your work. In a paid edit, I might get even pickier but, realistically, there's not much to pick at.

For what it's worth.

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

It takes story questions to turn pages

To keep a reader reading -- especially an agent or editor overwhelmed with submissions -- I believe a narrative must continually spark story questions in a reader's mind. Emphasis on continually: please, no scenic side trips. And, as I've harped about before, there's no more important time to sprout questions than when your novel opens. I thought a look at how some of the pros do it might be helpful. These are from books on my shelves.

Anne Rice opens The Witching Hour with this:

The doctor woke up afraid. He had been dreaming of the old house in New Orleans again. He had seen the woman in the rocker. He'd seen the man with the brown eyes.

And even now in this quiet hotel room above New York City he felt the old alarming disorientation. He'd been talking again with the brown-haired man. Yes, help her. No this is just a dream. I want to get out of it.

I was enthralled by Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones. Here's how it drew me in…

My name was Salmon, like the fish; first name, Susie. I was fourteen when I was murdered on December 6, 1973. In newspaper photos of missing girls from the seventies, most looked like me: white girls with mousy brown hair. This was before kids of all races and genders started appearing on milk cartons or in the daily mail. It was still back when people believed things like that didn't happen.

If that voice alone isn't enough to hook you, don't you just have to keep reading long enough to find out what happened to Susie? And note that the author slips in an "active" description of the character in the context of the story question and the character's thoughts.

J.K. Rowling launched an incredible career with this opening from the first Harry Potter story, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone -- the chapter was titled The Boy Who Lived:

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

I like openings that involve you with the protagonist right away. Here's the opening from The Footprints of God, by Greg Iles:

"My name is David Tennant, M.D. I'm professor of ethics at the University of Virginia Medical School, and if you're watching this tape, I'm dead."

I took a breath and gathered myself. I didn't want to rant. I'd mounted my Sony camcorder on a tripod and rotated the LCD screen in order to see myself as I spoke. I'd lost weight over the past weeks. My eyes were red with fatigue, the orbits shiny and dark. I looked more like a hunted criminal than a grieving friend.

Story questions don't, however, have to be limited to what's happening plotwise; they can be about the character. Here's how Pulitzer Prize winner Carol Shields opens Unless:

It happens that I am going through a period of great unhappiness and loss just now. All my life I've heard people speak of finding themselves in acute pain, bankrupt in spirit and body, but I've never understood what they meant. To lose. To have lost. I believed these visitations of darkness lasted only a few minutes or hours and that these saddened people, in between bouts, were occupied, as we all were, with the useful monotony of happiness. But happiness is not what I thought. Happiness is the lucky pane of glass you carry in your head. It takes all your cunning just to hang on to it, and once it's smashed you have to move into a different sort of life.

We've all suffered loss and unhappiness, and the questions in my mind include wondering what caused hers and how she will deal with it.

One more from a published author. Harlen Coben begins No Second Chance with this:

When the first bullet hit my chest, I thought of my daughter.

At least, that is what I want to believe. I lost consciousness pretty fast. And, if you want to get technical about it, I don't even remember being shot. I know that I lost a lot of blood. I know that a second bullet skimmed the top of my head, though I was probably already out by then. I know that my heart stopped. But I still like to think that as I lay dying, I thought of Tara.

Okay, now I'll put myself under the microscope with the opening of my novel in progress. A version this of this has appeared here before, but this is what I'm happy with today.

Despite the trudge of two hundred and seventy-three days, the death of my Graeme pierces me more now than the moment he died, the random victim of a crazed homeless man.

No, not random. I was there.

I was more than there.

If only I had. . .if only I had not. . .if-onlys torment me. It is said that pain diminishes with time, but I can testify that the ache of guilt does not. It grows until it eats your life.

Today it gets its last bite of mine.

What do you say? Are you ready to put the book down? (Lordy, I hope not. How embarrassing.)

So how does the opening of your novel compare to the pros above? It doesn't have to be similar in technique -- these vary widely -- but it does have to rouse questions that are going to itch unless scratched. First, though, figure out a way to distance yourself from it ( some ideas here). If you're too close, still living it instead of able to observe it, you're not going to see the real thing.

Once you've opened your novel, the narrative has to do two things simultaneously:

1. answer some of the questions you raise and
2. bring up new ones -- like a bird following a trail of seeds, the reader sees the next seed just as he eats one…and so the page turns.

The most important times to bring up new questions or twist existing ones, I believe, are at the beginning and end of each chapter. Of course, during the course of the middle smaller questions are continually raised and answered. But you don't want your reader to reach the end of a chapter feeling that this would be a good place to put your book down. There should never be a good place to put your book down.

For what it's worth.

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

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