Bill sent his prologue and first chapter, and I fear that Bill isn't
going to care for my reaction. It may well be that what he's written
just isn't my cup of novel, and thus can disregard my opinions. For
opinion is all that it is, of course, as with any reader or editor. You
be the judge.
First, Bill, I would delete the prologue. It's all backstory and
foreshadowing, with very little happening. Which is what many beginning
writers use prologues for. Which is the reason I and, I've read, a
number of agents skip them. Miss Snark, for example, is as anti-prologue as I am. A prologue can work if it's an intense scene with conflict and action --
but if it is, why not make it chapter one and then do a time
transition? In this case, there wasn't that. Here's how Bill's chapter
one opens:
Jon sat up and dropped his papers on the desk. It was almost four
and he was tired and bored, so let his phone continue, savoring the
legitimate interruption of his routine and suspending his faculties in
a little panorama of perspective. On the third ring he plucked the
receiver from the cradle and swivelled his chair about to gaze out over
the skyline of Manhattan.
"Hello?"
"Jon?"
He recognized Liz's voice and his face softened. "Hello."
"Jon? Something awful has happened."
"What's the matter?" His wife was no stranger to catastrophe. No doubt the ring had come off the bathtub stopper again.
"It's my mother." Her voice began a quaver, then straightened.
"I thought your mother went home this morning."
"She did. But she came back awhile ago saying she's dying. I don't
know what to do. I'm frightened." Her voice caught on a sob and
disintegrated as she burst out crying.
Jon sat silent a moment, gathering the impact of his wife's words.
"Here," he said, drawing out his sentence in a Midwestern drawl.
"There's no use crying. Of course she's dying. We all are."
But this philosophic levity did not stop the sobs. "I don't know what to do," she choked.
Jon frowned. "Liz, stop." He waited, then spoke more sharply. "Liz! Stop it. I can't talk to you when you're like that!"
Presently the sobs abated.
"What makes her think she's dying?"
"She's been to see the doctor."
"When you phoned this morning you said she was going to see the doctor and then going home."
"I know. She left. But she came back here instead. She walked in and
said `I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying!' Can you come home?"
"Sweetheart! I'm at the office. I'm at my job. I have to work."
"Jon, I'm frightened."
"I'm sure you are. But you've got to pull yourself together. Tell me what happened."
"What do you want to know?" asked Liz, with a sniffle.
"Well, apparently she's not bleeding to death on the living room floor."
"No. It's not like that."
"Is she there now?"
"Yes."
"Can she hear what you're saying?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"All right. Your mother says she's dying?"
"Yes. That's what she says."
Jon paused, chagrined, and stymied. He raised his hand to smooth the
longish hair at the back of his head. He didn't actually know how to
handle this. "She left this morning saying she was going to the doctor,
then home, but came back to the apartment?"
"Yes."
"What doctor?"
"I don't know." Her voice faded as she queried her mother. "Buchsbaum."
"The one at Columbia-Presbyterian?"
"Yes. And then she came in saying, `I'm dying! I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying! I'm...'"
"OK, OK. What did the doctor say is the matter with her?"
"That's just it. He didn't say exactly. But it's the same as before. And the same that makes her talk that way."
"You mean that word...from that Sunday? Amyotrophia?" The thought of it annoyed him.
"Yes."
"Well, ask her again." He had the feeling he could get worked up and
then find it all a misunderstanding. "If she knows she's dying, she
must know what she's dying of."
(removed 635 words of backstory)
"She says she doesn't know," said Liz, coming back on the line.
"They didn't tell her. But they want her to come back next week."
Refusing to name the ailment did not seem plausible to Jon. But
lately she had also complained of a peculiar weakness in her hands and
arms, and with the conjunction of all these difficulties decided to
seek serious help. For the last month or two she had resigned herself
to near-weekly appointments at the outpatient clinic of
Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, and during that week, while the schools
were closed for Easter, her doctor there had wanted her to stay
overnight in the clinic for observation. She refused of course, since
the stay would have entailed an additional bed fee, but she had
consented to an extra visit and come in to Manhattan to spend the
weekend with Jon and Liz so she would be handy to the clinic for her
appointment Monday morning.
"Well, does she know when she's dying?"
Another garbled exchange.
"She's not sure. But the doctor says she has only two or three years left. Whatever, it's incurable."
"But she doesn't know what it is?"
"No."
"Does the doctor know what it is?"
Another exchange.
"Yes. But she doesn't. And he doesn't know what causes it."
"Christ! And she doesn't even know when except for `two or three years'?"
"That's what she says." Suddenly Liz was away, talking to her
mother. Then she was back. "Two or three, or three or four. Maybe even
one. She's not sure."
"There has to be a mistake. Doctors just don't tell people they're
dying. Even if they think it, they don't say it. That's just television
junk!"
"I thought it might be a mistake," said Liz. She stopped, then began
again. "Well, we talked about that once." Suddenly she was not making
sense.
"What?"
"Yes, that could be. What was that?"
"Are you trying to tell me something without having your mother hear it?" asked Jon, suspiciously.
"Yes."
"Are you talking about the senility?"
"Yes."
Okay, we've read 885 words, 1,500 if I'd included the flashback, and
what has happened? And how effective is this opening in hooking this
reader? But first, some editorial notes:
Jon sat up and dropped his papers on the desk. It was almost four and he was tired and bored, so he
let his phone continue, savoring the legitimate interruption of his
routine and suspending his faculties in a little panorama of
perspective. On the third ring he plucked the receiver from the cradle
and swivelledswiveled his chair about to gaze out over the skyline of Manhattan.
"Hello?"
"Jon?" These first two lines are useless. Get to it. Condense. You could start with the next sentence.
He recognized Liz's voice and his face softened. "Hello." "His
face softened" is a point-of-view slip: he can't see his face and what
it does. Maybe better to give him an emotional response, something
like: He recognized Liz's voice and it warmed the way her smile did.
"Hello."
"Jon? Something awful has happened." Why does she
repeat his name? She called his number and expected to get him.
Overwriting. Also, if she's so upset, shy doesn't she go ahead and tell
him?
"What's the matter?" His wife was no stranger to catastrophe. No doubt the ring had come off the bathtub stopper again. Nice use of sarcastic thought to characterize him and their relationship. But the dialogue doesn't contribute anything.
"It's my mother." Her voice began a quaver, then straightened. This is where I'd go as soon as he recognizes her voice and says hello. Cut straight to "It's my mother."
"I thought your mother went home this morning."
"She did. But she came back awhile a while
ago saying she's dying. I don't know what to do. I'm frightened." Her
voice caught on a sob and disintegrated as she burst out crying.
Jon sat silent a moment, gathering the impact of his wife's words.
"Here," he said, drawing out his sentence in a Midwestern drawl.
"There's no use crying. Of course she's dying. We all are." The
reference to drawling/Midwestern drawl is another pov slip. He can't
hear how he says things, and surely wouldn't be consciously thinking
about how he was speaking. Suggest delete.
But this philosophic levity did not stop the sobs. "I don't know what to do," she choked. I
wouldn't used "she choked" as a dialogue tag. Just use said. You can't
really choke words. You can do something such as: She sounded choked.
"I don't know what to do." However, she has already told him that she
doesn't know what to do, so this is totally repetitions. Suggest delete
the first reference to not knowing what to do.
Jon frowned. "Liz, stop." He waited, then spoke more sharply. "Liz! Stop it. I can't talk to you when you're like that!"
"then spoke more sharply" is telling, and a pov slip. The exclamation
point and repetition tells the reader a lot about his delivery. If you
add action and emotion, "sharply" isn't needed. Thought-starter: He
waited, but she kept on. Christ, couldn't the woman control her
emotions? "Liz! Stop it…"
Presently the sobs abated.
"What makes her think she's
dying?"
"She's been to see the
doctor."
"When you phoned this
morning you said she was going to see the doctor and then going home." Overwriting and repetitious.
We have to read “to see the doctor” again, and we already know that. Her
phoning that morning isn’t relevant. This could be handled with something such
as: “You said she was going home after that.” (Note: later narrative reveals
that she went to the doctor after spending the weekend with Jon and Liz for
that express purpose, so Jon should already know all this at the time of the
conversation.)
"I know. She
left. But she came back here instead. She walked in and said `I'm
dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying!' Can you come home?"
"Sweetheart! I'm at the
office. I'm at my job. I have to work."
"Jon, I'm frightened."
This is the second
time she’s told him that she is frightened, using the same words. I don’t see
how this repetition is helping, and I believe that readers will find the
repetitive nature of this conversation wearing.
"I'm sure you are. But
you've got to pull yourself together. Tell me what happened." Strikes me as a
not-very-sharp question—she has already told him what happened.
"What do you want to
know?" asked Liz, with a sniffle.
"Well, apparently she's not
bleeding to death on the living room floor."
"No. It's not like
that."
"Is she there now?"
"Yes."
"Can she hear what you're
saying?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"All right. Your mother
says she's dying?" This is the third time we’ve heard this, why is it being
repeated? Perhaps “real” people would wander around and repeat like this in a
conversation, but dialogue in a novel has to MOVE.
"Yes. That's what she
says." Repetitious.
We know that, so does Jon.
Jon paused, chagrined, and
stymied. He raised his hand to smooth the longish hair at the back of his head.
He didn't actually know how to handle this. "She left this morning saying
she was going to the doctor, then home, but came back to the apartment?" Now you’re telling us again
what we’ve just been told. I found this to be irritating.
"Yes."
"What doctor?" As mentioned, he should
already know this. And why is it relevant?
"I don't know." Her
voice faded as she queried her mother. "Buchsbaum." Why is it relevant?
"The one at
Columbia-Presbyterian?" He already knows this, so why is he asking?
"Yes. And then she came in
saying, `I'm dying! I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying! I'm...'" Lordy, this is the FOURTH time we’ve been told this.
"OK, OK. What did the
doctor say is the matter with her?" I’d plug this in instead of the earlier “Tell me what
happened.” And cut out all the stuff between that point and here. The reader
wants to know, so help her out.
"That's just it. He didn't
say exactly. But it's the same as before. And the same that makes her talk that
way."
"You mean that word...from
that Sunday? Amyotrophia?" The thought of it annoyed him. <Why does this thought annoy
him?
"Yes."
"Well, ask her again."
He had the feeling he could get worked up and then find it all a
misunderstanding. "If she knows she's dying, she must know what she's
dying of."
(removed: 635 words of backstory) There was a chunk of history that stopped the dialogue dead
in its tracks. While it did give information on the mother-in-law, it wasn’t
necessary to understand what was going on in this scene. I’d cut it all.
"She says she
doesn't know," said When, coming she came back
on the line, she said,
"They didn’t tell her. But they want her to come back next week."
Refusing to name the ailment did
not seem plausible to Jon. But lately
she had also complained of a peculiar weakness in her hands and arms, and with
the conjunction of all these difficulties decided to seek serious help. For the
last month or two she had resigned herself to near-weekly appointments at the
outpatient clinic of Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, and during that week,
while the schools were closed for Easter, her doctor there had wanted her to stay
overnight in the clinic for observation. She refused of course, since the stay
would have entailed an additional bed fee, but she had consented to an extra
visit and come in to Manhattan to spend the weekend with Jon and Liz so she would be handy to the clinic for
her appointment Monday morning. This big chunk of backstory slows things down for me. I’d
delete it. This would avoid repetition of stuff that has already been revealed in
the dialogue.
"Well, does she know when
she's dying?"
Another garbled exchange.
"She's not
sure. But tThe doctor says she has only two or three
years left. Whatever, it's incurable."
"But she doesn't know what
it is?" We
already know this. Why repeat it?
"No." We already know this. Why repeat
it?
"Does the doctor know what
it is?"
Another exchange.
"Yes. But she
doesn't. And he doesn’t know what causes it." “But she doesn’t” is
telling us again something we’ve heard 3 times already.
"Christ! And
she doesn't even know when except for `two or three years'?"
"That's what
she says.” Suddenly Liz was away, talking to her mother. Then she was back.
"Two or three, or three or four. Maybe even one. She's not sure."
More
repetition of what has already been revealed. You tell us three times running
that she has two or three years.
"There has to be a mistake.
Doctors just don't tell people they're dying. Even if they think it, they don't
say it. That's just television junk!"
"I thought it might be a
mistake," said Liz. She stopped, then began again. "Well, we talked
about that once." Suddenly she was not making sense. This is “telling.”
You show it with the following dialogue.
"What?"
"Yes, that could be. What
was that?"
"Are you trying to tell me
something without having your mother hear it?" asked Jon, suspiciously. I like what he says
here, deducing what his wife is saying. Don’t need to say “asked”—note the question
mark at the end of the sentence. The adverb doesn’t add anything, the dialogue
does the work, as it should.
"Yes."
"Are you talking about the
senility?"
"Yes." At last, something new.
There were 3600 words in Bill’s 1st chapter, 16
pages, and it consisted of just this conversation and backstory, and it ended
with Jon dialing the doctor to ask what was wrong with the mother-in-law. In
answer to what happened in these 16 pages, we learned that Jon’s mother-in-law
is dying, his wife is upset, and Jon is sarcastic. Not much of a hook to get a
novel started, in my way of looking at things.
I’m guessing that, with his dialogue approach, Bill is going
for some verisimilitude regarding the way people might really speak in a tense
situation. But, the way I see it, dialogue in fiction should not be real. It
needs to move the story forward. Having characters saying the same thing over
and over has the opposite effect.
In my view, for any writer to break in the first few pages
have to be compelling. Make that COMPELLING. Bill started out with a prologue that,
while nicely written, was not a scene, had no conflict or tension to speak of,
was mostly backstory, and was about 15 pages long. I would wager the price of
an edit that no agent would read all of it. More than one literary agent
blogger has said she skips prologues.
And then the phone-call chapter. For me—remember, this is
all subjective—the repetition in the dialogue was laborious, and I would have
put the manuscript aside after a page or so if I were an agent or an acquisition
editor. The reason: it’s a clear clue to the pace that I can expect, and it was
wayyyy too slow for me.
What if the opening went like this instead:
Jon had smiled when he
recognized Liz’s voice on the phone, but he sat up and dropped his papers on
the desk when his wife said, “It’s my mother. She’s dying.”
He forgot about the Manhattan skyline outside
his office window and said, "The doctor told her that?"
Her voice caught on a sob and
disintegrated as she burst out crying. “I'm frightened."
Jon sat silent a moment,
gathering the impact of his wife's words. "Here," he said.
"There's no use crying. Of course she's dying. We all are."
But philosophic levity did not
stop the sobs. "I don't know what to do."
"OK, OK. What did the
doctor say is the matter with her?"
"That's just it. He didn't
say exactly. But it's the same as before. And the same that makes her talk that
way."
"You mean that. . .amyotrophia?"
He still didn’t know what that word meant.
"Yes. The doctor says she
has only two or three years left."
"There has to be a mistake.
Doctors just don't tell people they're dying. Even if they think it, they don't
say it. That's just television junk!"
"I thought it might be a
mistake," said Liz. She stopped, then began again. "Well, we talked
about that once."
"What?"
"Yes, that could be it. "
"Are you trying to tell me
something without having your mother hear it?"
"Yes."
"The senility?"
"Yes."
Now this is a quick look at a rewrite, but don't you think this 232 words does much the same job as the previous 885? But with more tension? Bill may have an interesting story, but I felt the pace was
so slow and the repetition such a struggle that I don’t think I’d ever get to it.
I think he needs to concentrate on creating tension and building movement for
his first pages and forget about all the backstory. Use dialogue to
characterize and to show the reader what they need to know.
Bill’s language was clean and the writing often good. But
there was, in my view, just too much of it. His manuscript word count is 168,000 words, and
I think I know why.
Many thanks, Bill, for sharing your work with me. Your
writing is sound, and I hope you keep at it, and that this post has been
helpful.
For what it’s worth.
Questions? Comments?
Ray
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© 2006 Ray Rhamey