If nothing more, comments from generous readers tells you about the ubiquitous subjectivity that faces your work when it goes out and hopes to seduce a reader. For every reaction, there was an equal and opposite reaction. Some would turn the page, others wouldn't.
A strong element in a story had the power to both engage and repulse a reader. In the opening of my WIP, several folks immediately liked the voice of the cat character for its "cattitude," yet one reader, ironically named Kitty, didn't buy it at all. Who's right? All of them.
The responses to the kitty-cat story and others illustrate another point: not only is writing and craft sometimes not enough, even a good story isn't. There were samples that had good writing and storytelling elements firing, but some declined to turn the page because it just wasn't a story that interested them.
No wonder it's so tough to become published.
Despite that, I think the Flogometer does illustrate another truth: less-than-professional writing and storytelling craft can sink your ship before it lifts anchor, no matter how fine a story is hidden beneath.
There's also a lesson here in the art and practice of critiquing. I thought the commenters did a terrific job of offering insights and suggestions in considerate, thoughtful ways. Even so, every once in a while, in their eagerness to be helpful, a line was crossed.
On the cat story, Mike took considerable time and trouble to lend a
hand. However, in his rewrite of the opening, he retained nothing from
the original. For this editor, this represents something I avoid at all
costs
Voice comes from word choice, story elements chosen, tone, and more. When I edit, I'm aware that my client's voice has to be maintained, no matter how much I might differ in how I would have done it. When I make word suggestions, they are consistent with the rest of the narrative. While it's true that my client's voice may never make a sale, it still has to be that voice that comes from the page. It's an editor/critiquer's job to help the writer lift the existing work, not to throw it all out and recast it in one's own voice.
Yet even that overenthusiastic approach gives me useful food for thought. Speaking of food for thought, here's another take on that long sentence in the first paragraph of my opening that caused so many comments.
The sentence is long on purpose. The technique (whether it's working or not is another subject) was to give a flowing, continuing sense of the character's current world. He's just moving along, experiencing. . .and then abruptly interrupted by the short, declarative sentence that follows it. I was aware of the length of the sentence and liked what I felt it did. I will still, however, give it some thought.
Thanks to everyone.
Moving on
If they want it, one of the recently flogged writers will receive a free edit of the first three chapters of their novel, if they wish. Caveat: if each chapter is 30 pages long, you don't get three. Too much. Maximum free edit: three complete chapters or 45 pages, whichever comes first.
Following are my nominations for a free edit. These are the openings that had two virtues for me: the story seems interesting to me, and the writing doesn't need a lot of work.
In comments, let me know which of these you'd like to see get the free going-over. Tune in tomorrow for my choice.
And now, for those of you who would have turned the page on the
vampire kitty-cat, here's the next page (those who wouldn't have to
stop reading now). Keep in mind that this is a first draft, mostly not
polished.
Pretty soon I was pretty spacey, just floating. The woman stopped her noshing, laid me on the dirt in front of her, and looked at me. Her eyes weren't scary any more. I couldn't see real well at this point
-- things were dim and it was hard to focus-- but her expression seemed sorrowful. Then she turned her head and, patooie, spat out fur. Served her right.She turned sad eyes on me and said, "I'm sorry, kitty-cat. But the pain hurt so much . . ." She trailed off and licked my blood from her fingers like she'd just had some Kentucky Fried Chicken. I could only lie there like a sack of cat meat.
As though handling something precious, she shifted me to the grass and then climbed out of her hole. After brushing dirt from her clothes, she lowered me into the hole and stroked my back
-- I could hardly feel it, but I sensed my body moving under her hand. And then she pushed dirt over me. Too weak to move, I waited to die.I didn't pass out
-- I guessed she hadn't completely drained me of blood. My heart slowed and slowed, and then stopped. Amazing how utter the silence was, lying there in total darkness. I'd never been aware of my heart beating but, once it quit its constant lub-dubbing, I missed it.I thought, "Well, that's it."
I was sorry I couldn't give Amy a parting purr. I'd been with her since kittenhood, maybe four years by now, but cats don't keep track of things like that. We'd sit in front of a fireplace in the wintertime, me curled in her lap, her with a philosophy book in one hand and the other petting my favorite spots. I enjoyed the times her college students came over. When one kid tried to argue that I was just a concept, I countered with reality by climbing up his leg. Ah, the intellectual life.
And then I thought, "I'm still thinking."
I focused on my innards. No heartbeat. And I wasn't breathing. Probably a good thing with a snootful of dirt.
(I know, I repeated "pretty" in the first sentence. That's on purpose.)
For what it's worth,
Ray
Public floggings available. If I can post it here, send 1st chapter as an attachment and I'll critique the first couple of pages as I've been doing in the Flogometer.
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© 2007 Ray Rhamey