Flogging the Quill

Writing saidless dialogue

There are so many "rules" about writing dialogue tags. One you hear most often is to use "said" instead of more colorful verbs. The theory is that the narrative should give the reader an idea of the nature of the speech, of how it's delivered, and that "said" becomes "invisible" and thus lets the dialogue and action do their thing.

In general, I agree with this, although there are times a verb other than said can be better. For me, "said" does tend to disappear. Especially in my own writing, where I hardly ever use dialogue tags.

In my workshop at the Writer's Weekend conference this year, a participant who is also an editor volunteered that she felt that the dialogue tag "said" was, in fact, far from the "invisible" dialogue tag device that many say it is.

It turned out that the manuscript that provoked her comment probably stemmed from it having too many dialogue tags, whether "said" or otherwise. But that got me to take a fresh look at my own work -- was I over-saiding or over-tagging in any way? So I reviewed a work in progress, an older manuscript going through a polish.

As I said, I'm a proponent of avoiding dialogue tags whenever possible. The first 3 manuscript pages are an action scene, and there was hardly a dialogue tag in sight.

For me, examples teach far better than theory does. I could prattle on about the notion of using action beats instead of dialogue tags, and I have before, but seeing them in action (pun intended) may work better for you.

So I offer to you an example of how to do a virtually "saidless, tagless" scene -- there are just 2 tags in 3 pages. This is not intended to be an example of amazing writing, but of dialogue technique. I hope you find it instructive. Here's the scene.

Jake Black stretched in his car seat and imagined the suspect charging out of the four-story apartment house across the street, AK 47 blazing, and then himself returning fire. Anything to break up the boredom -- in his business, drowsy equaled dead.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He flicked it open -- damn, it was his home phone number. When he'd taken Gretchen on as his daughter's nanny, he'd made it clear to never call him on the job. "What?"

Her whisper shook. "She's here."

Impossible. "How?"

"I don't know. The doorbell rang, and there she was."

Dear God. "Does she have Amy?"

Gretchen's voice broke. "I tried to stop her, Mister Black, I tried to stop her."

He started his car. "I'm coming. Call 911 now!" He disconnected, slammed into gear and floored the gas. Driving one-handed, he called the Agency. "This's Jake."

"Kamura. Is he moving?"

"I am. Emergency at home. Get somebody out to cover for me, now. I'm gone."

Jake ended the call. How could Marcie have escaped from the sanitarium? Still locked in postpartum psychosis five years since he'd found her beating their four-month-old daughter, he couldn't even mention Amy's name to Marcie.

As he raced south on Lake Shore Drive, he called Gretchen. "How . . . how is Amy?"

"I'm so frightened, Mr. Black. I tried to grab Amy away, but your wife screamed she would kill her if I came closer. Amy was crying. But I don't . . . I don't hear her any more."

"Stay away from them." He rounded the corner and screeched to a stop in front of his brownstone. The afternoon sun dappled its bricks with the shade of trees lining the street. It couldn't have seemed more peaceful.

He yanked out his gun and raced toward the front door. It swung open before he got to it.

Gretchen pointed. "Upstairs!"

He ran up the stairs and through Amy's bedroom doorway. Toys and books cluttered the floor. Her window stood open; a breeze stirred the chintz curtains. His wife's laugh came from outside. He scrambled through the window and thundered up the iron fire-escape stairs.

On the roof, Marcie, as slender as ever, her long brown hair swirling in the breeze, held Amy over the parapet at the edge. Amy hung like a Raggedy Ann doll, her eyes closed. Marcie laughed as she swung Amy back and forth. Amy's head lolled with the motion. Her crucifix glittered at her neck.

When she'd asked to wear her necklace that morning, he'd said it was just for special days. And Amy had said, "Maybe today is a special day, and we just don't know it yet."

Marcie looked around at the crunch of Jake's steps on the graveled surface. She smiled. "Hi, honey, I'm home."

His heart ached at the madness in her eyes. "Please put Amy down, Marcie."

She frowned. "You like her better than me."

"No, honey, no way. You're the best. Just put her down."

Marcie brightened. "But she won't hurt me any more." She pulled Amy's limp form to her. "I fixed that."

He prayed that Amy was only unconscious. "Lay her down, Marcie, and step away from her."

She scowled at him. "No." She swung Amy back out over the parapet. "We're playing."

He aimed his gun. "Put her down."

She laughed and lifted Amy high and smiled up at her. "Isn't this fun, Sweetie?"

Amy swung inside the parapet, safe from the long fall -- he pulled the trigger. The bullet took Marcie below the ribs. Blood reddened an air conditioning tower behind her, and she staggered.

Marcie screamed at him, "Fuck you." She threw Amy over.

Too late, he pulled the trigger again.

The bullet spun Marcie to face him. Her expression softened. Her eyes cleared, and the woman he loved looked out at him. "I'm so sorry."

She threw herself over the edge.

Jake ran to the edge. Their bodies lay side by side in the alley below. It looked as if they held hands.

His heart locked up.

Comments?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here, send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.

ARCHIVES .

© 2007 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer—I was tempted, but passed

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective. Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

This is for Bill S. Here are the first 16 lines:

Skeets Hollaran knew the woman's look had all the makings of a life-altering event. The pretty blonde at the table of three ladies stared at him like a coyote circling a fawn. He was on good behavior going on three months since Gena Koster, his soul mate, threatened to throw him out of the small duplex apartment they shared. Throw him out for doing what he knew he was about to do again.

Singing in the bar of Rancho-O-Rita Bar & Grill, Home of the Flaming Chicken Fried Steak, was a humbling experience for Skeets. Every evening for months he'd made his way to the Bee Cave Road address just outside Austin, Texas. He'd wiggled his way onto the tiny stage that barely held a stool, his guitar, the microphone, and himself, and sang to an unappreciative audience. He knew the bar's ambience of faded photos from happier times, low-hung, roof-leak-stained ceiling tiles, and flickering beer neons could jar the sensibilities even of a bubba whose doublewide house trailer was decorated with nudes on black velvet. But Austin expatriate smokers, escaping the city's ban on their vice, flocked through Ranch-O-Rita's doors. Add lousy pay, patrons hungry but not for music, and the smell of chicken fried steaks bubbling in burned grease mingled with a pall of cigarette smoke; and Skeets had himself a disagreeable venue. "But a gig is a gig," he kept repeating.

I liked the writing (mostly), and the flavorful way Bill describes things, and the opening paragraph promised a fun story to come. But then the mix of exposition and things happening spun out of balance. The second paragraph didn't continue with the narrative hook that interested me in the first place, and that was a bad sign. It meant that I wasn't in the hands of a writer who could keep the focus where I believe it needs to be in the opening of a novel -- on the story.

Because a part of doing the Flogometer is turning the page anyway, to see if there is material that could help, I found the same thing, only to a less debilitating degree. The character is interesting, if over-written, and had promise.

While Bill is doing a fairly skillful job of establishing the world of his story, and an interesting world it is, I think that part of the narrative needs to be much leaner at this point so that what happens to this interesting character in this interesting world can hook me. Keep in mind, Bill, that this is entirely subjective. You might be able to get away with it with a different reader. Were I you, I wouldn't chance it.

Some notes on what's here: even the opening paragraph, IMO, could be tighter.

Skeets Hollaran knew the woman's look had all the makings of a life-altering event. The pretty blonde at the table of three ladies stared at him like a coyote circling a fawn. (That's nice.) He was on good behavior going on three months since Gena Koster, his soul mate, (Don't think we need her last name, and the "soul mate" part isn't needed to tell us about their relationship because what she does does. And it's a lie, considering that he's considering something you'd never do to a real soul mate, IMO.) threatened to throw him out of the small duplex apartment they shared. Throw him out for doing what he knew he was about to do again.

While some of the second paragraph is good for setting the scene, I felt there was too much of it.

Singing in the bar of Rancho-O-Rita Bar & Grill, Home of the Flaming Chicken Fried Steak just outside Austin, Texas was a humbling experience for Skeets. Every evening for months he'd made his way to the Bee Cave Road address just outside Austin, Texas. He'd wiggled his way onto the tiny stage that barely held a stool, his guitar, the microphone, and himself, and sang to an unappreciative audience. (Good, quick characterization.) He knew the bar's ambience of faded photos from happier times, low-hung, roof-leak-stained ceiling tiles, and flickering beer neons could jar the sensibilities even of a bubba whose doublewide house trailer was decorated with nudes on black velvet. But Austin expatriate smokers, escaping the city's ban on their vice, flocked through Ranch-O-Rita's doors. Add lousy pay, patrons hungry but not for music, and the smell of chicken fried steaks bubbling in burned grease mingled with a pall of cigarette smoke; and Skeets had himself a disagreeable venue. "But a gig is a gig," he kept repeating.

As you can see, if that amount of narrative is cut here, there's more room to get to the interesting part, where Skeets turns on the charm and hooks up with the blonde that leads to the first crisis in his life.

However, Bill, I have to wonder if we couldn't get to his crisis sooner. For example, what if the story opened up with this sequence, taken from page 9, instead (note, Bill, edits that make it tighter):

The blonde's Beamer slowed to a stop early the next morning in front of a house a block from Gena's duplex, a ploy both to disguise the location of his real digs and to avoid an encounter with Gena. As the Beamer roared away, he stood on the curb and took inventory. His guitar case leaned against his leg, and he had some recollection of putting his guitar in it. His shirt smelled of beer, scotch, expensive perfume, tobacco, and body odor. Sixty-three bucks still languished in his pockets as near as he could make it. Altogether, a pretty successful night.

Tired squealed, and Gena's black Pontiac LeMans flashed by with an unfriendly gesture extending through the driver-side window. He trotted toward the duplex as fast as his weariness allowed. He slid to a stop, breathing hard, and stood before his life, what there was of it, scattered on the lawn.

With that opening, Skeets has immediate conflict and his life is thrown into sudden crises. This writer is good enough to weave in more characterization as Skeets deals with this.

I mean this as just one way for Bill to think about how to open his story. While fun to read, the first 8 pages of the narrative, although there is some fine characterization happening within them, amount to "throat-clearing," in my opinion.

Keep at it Bill, a lot of promise and potential here.

Any comments?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here, send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.

ARCHIVES .

© 2007 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer—George was dying, so I turned the page

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective. Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

This is for John P. Here are the first 16 lines:

Chapter, the First:

Not the Way to Arrive in Heaven

George, the young organist/choirmaster from St. Christopher's United Church, died Easter Sunday morning, before the disbelieving eyes of its horrified congregation, the clergy, the choir, and his beloved Kathy.

George, himself, took it no better than they did. Worse, in fact. Not to mention more personally.

The music ended abruptly. His spirit drifted upwards. There was a tunnel...

Suspicions began to form in George's mind.

He felt as if he were rising on a powerful current of air inside an enormous organ pipe. A low moan rose up in his throat, growing louder in volume and higher in pitch with a pronounced musical quality which, under other circumstances, the young church musician might have appreciated.

As he approached the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, George's moan became a ragged surround-sound scream, the light rushed in upon him, and he was blown, cork-like, out the end of the pipe: one very specialized entrance to Heaven.

He reached a respectable height, hovered for a split-second at the apex of his trajectory, descended rapidly, and landed heavily, in a heap, yelling.

Despite some narrative flourishes I could do without, I turned the page. I think we're all interested in the topic of dying, and that makes a good hook. The writing is fun, a little tongue-in-cheek, and that's appealing.

But, of course, there are some things I would ask, in an edit, for the writer to consider.

First thing, I'd want to reconsider the "telling" that happens in the first paragraph. While the writer clearly sets the scene by telling us that George died, I wonder if that information couldn't have been achieved with George's experience instead. For example:

George played the chord that launched the St. Christopher's United Church choir into Amazing Grace. He chanced a glance at his beloved Kathy in the first pew, and found a sweet smile waiting.

Then the music cut off in mid-note. His spirit drifted upwards. There was a tunnel...

Suspicions formed in George's mind.

Because this version cuts to the chase, the first 16 lines would have included George landing in front of the Pearly Gates, and the reader would know that he had died. There was, in my view, no need to tell us that when it was immediately shown. And I think the reader is more involved in George's experience if we start with, well, his experience.

True, the "telling" version tells us things that George can't know from his point of view since he died (their disbelieving eyes and horror), but how key is that to the narrative? And, if you're a Christian, isn't being called to heaven a good thing, not a horrifying one?

George finds St. Peter waiting for him. The narrative continues to be fun, and promises a fresh take on heaven. As does the title, which is Odeon Paradise: A Night at the Movies with Jesus and George

While I like John's light touch, I did feel that there were, as I said, flourishes I could do without.

George, himself, took it no better than they did. Worse, in fact. Not to mention more personally.

The music ended abruptly.
(This is using an adverb in a lazy pass at description. You'll note in my rewrite that the music "cut off in mid-note." Which gives you a better sense of the experience?)

There was another lazy adverb usage I'd suggest revising, "descended rapidly." Wouldn't "plunged" or any of several other vivid verbs create more of an image? While I've recently discovered a key to when adverbs should be used and shouldn't and will do a post on it in a week or so, I think John needs to search for "ly" and look for ways to show instead of tell.

Suspicions began to form in George's mind.
(I'm opposed to almost all uses of "began to" and "started to." I did a post on this called Don't get me started. There's no reason for that little verbal stutter-step in most cases, and the more direct past tense verb is crisper and just as evocative, as in "Suspicions formed in George's mind.")

He felt as if he were rising on a powerful current of air inside an enormous organ pipe.
(I also urge writers to find other ways to describe an experience without "felt." In this case, wouldn't it work as well, yet give more of George's experience, with more descriptive language? A thoughtstarter:

As if propelled a powerful current of air inside an enormous organ pipe, he shot upward.

A minor grammatical thing:

In "a pronounced musical quality which, under other circumstances…" the "which" should be "that"

By the way, John's 17th line says,

St. Peter looked over the counter.

But how does George, who just shot out of a tunnel, know that the man is St. Peter? This is more telling. John later includes a much better description of what George sees:

. . .a bearded man in white robes behind a marble counter

Since this is all pretty much farcical, I'd have George see this when he lands, and then consider maybe adding a nameplate on the countertop that says "St. Peter." Or a nametag. Why not?

I liked John's continuing narrative, though the same touches of (in my view) overwriting continued. Some would be acceptable as features of the writer's voice and the light nature of the narrative, and I'd probably keep them. But I think John could use a good fresh eye on this manuscript -- it could make the writing crisper and the pace even better.

Nice work, John. Keep working.

Any comments?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here, send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.

ARCHIVES .

© 2007 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer—I turned the page, but then. . .

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective. Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

This is for Mary. Here are the first 16 lines:

Marian stood at the base of the mountain looking to the small village ahead. Only moonlight illuminated each wooden dwelling. Where is everyone? Mother, Terra, Yensid? She hunched her shoulders, feeling very alone. The village plunged into darkness. She looked to where the moon should be and gasped as the silhouette of a huge beast filled her vision. Adrenaline rushed through her as she bolted for the houses, desperate to warn someone. She stumbled into the village center and fell to her knees next to the well. Her frantic cries met silence. Her sobs broken by gasps for air. Marian whipped her head up as wind from the beast's wings pushed down on her. The sight of the monster's crimson, humanoid body and large wings made her whimper.

She shivered as the warmth left her body, the air around her chilling as if the beast drained all the heat from the world. Marian crept backward as it landed before

Sure, a heat-sucking monster will get you every time, although I think the writing could be tighter here. There was a bit of a let-down, though -- turned out this was a dream, a nightmare that Marian was having. Pages later some interesting things developed, but after this opening drama we settled in to a sister brushing her hair to comfort her and some backstory.

I have mixed feelings about the dream opening. If it leads immediately to a tie with what's happening or going to happen in the character's life, if it helps to raise story questions, it can work. But I think that in this case, in the part I'm not sharing with you, there wasn't much of a connection. It could have just been the result of some bad porridge.

A few notes on the narrative itself:

Marian stood at the base of the mountain looking to the small village ahead.

The problem here is that "small" is a relative term, and it doesn't give much of a picture. Cincinnati is small compared to Los Angeles, but huge compared to Peoria. For me, it would give me a much better picture if we were given an idea of how many houses or huts there are. A dozen? Fifty? It would take little to expand the picture.

Only moonlight illuminated each wooden dwelling.

As an editor, I'd ask the writer why not "Only moonlight illuminated the wooden dwellings."

The village plunged into darkness.

This confused me just a little. I associated this with all the lights going out, and then realized that there were no lights on. I suggest the writer think of something along the lines of a shadow darkening the village, which would avoid the confusion and set up the monster's arrival.

She looked to where the moon should be and gasped as the silhouette of a huge beast filled her vision.

A few things: this could be tighter. For example, "She looked to where the moon should be" would be crisper as "She looked for the moon." Another thing is "huge" as a description for the beast. "Huge" is another relative term, and without it relating to something, it gives no picture. To a mouse, a man is huge. Oh, and how about including the wings here, too. "the silhouette of a winged beast the size of a village hut…" As long as I'm being picky, "filled her vision" didn't help much. If the silhouette "covered the moon and grew as it descended," (apologies, this is really off the top of my keyboard) might help create an image in the reader's mind of something gigantic and terrible coming down out of the night sky.

Adrenaline rushed through her…

This is the author stepping in, and it distances us from the girl's experience. She wouldn't be thinking of her biochemical responses in this way, and I wonder if a person who lives in a mountain village would be all that educated about such things. In character terms, it would be panic or fear that rushes through her, not the hormone. I suggest that this kind of description reflect the character's experience.

Her sobs broken by gasps for air.

This sentence fragment didn't work for me, but I suspect that it's just a typo, where a period was typed instead of a comma.

The sight of the monster's crimson, humanoid body and large wings made her whimper.

A couple of things: this feels passive, and there's another one of those relative descriptive terms, "large." I would suggest the writer turn this around and put it in terms of what the character is doing. And would a village girl think a term like "humanoid?" Here's a quick thought starter:

She whimpered as the monster's crimson, manlike body descended on ten-foot bat wings.

Basically, I found the writing to be sound, but the narrative was overwritten at times. Mary has a good story here, but I felt she took too long to get to it (the man who is supposed to be her father trying to impregnate her, for example, raised powerful story questions in a dramatic way, but I'm not sure I would have gotten there). Look for ways to trim out backstory and tighten the writing, Mary, and you'll be on the way.

Any comments?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here, send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.

ARCHIVES .

© 2007 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer—opening created zero tension

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective. Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

This is for Robert. Here are the first 16 lines:

Father H moved quickly for a big man. He was over six feet tall and barrel-chested. His unadorned black cassock with the long row of buttons down the front was not at all like the stiff white vestments he wore at high mass. I sat on the worn sofa in the rectory basement. Father H was busy for the moment boxing up second hand clothing left over from the Ladies Sodality rummage sale. He said it wasn't his job and that if Mrs. Novaleski was there he'd "ream her out" for leaving the place in such a mess. Until then I had never noticed his shiny manicured fingernails or how bald he was. After he cleared the table he set up two folding chairs and told us to sit - me and the other boy who had just come down the stairs. He was taller than me and maybe older but I thought he looked scrawny. His red hair was piled up in front like a pompadour and he had freckles all over his forehead. Father H introduced us. His name was Jim and he had just moved here from another state with his mother. Jim wore brand stiff new brown shoes that looked like they were one size too big for him.

Jim and I shook hands politely and we sat down facing Father H who sat in a swivel office chair.

"What is the most important thing you have to learn as an altar boy?" he said.

Jim and I looked at each other.

Sorry, Robert, but the narrative up to this point gave me no reason to turn the page. The only two questions that have been raised are what's the narrator doing there and what the most important thing for an alter boy to learn is.

While the world of a Catholic priest can be an interesting one, and these days that world carries undertones of sexual abuse, there's no indication of the latter here, and nothing yet fascinating about the former. For this reader, anyway. The second page was more of the same -- we get into the Latin for the Confiteor, a prayer.

While we're here, though, let me give you a couple of notes on that dauntingly long first paragraph. I'd sure break it up if I were you. And I'd use dialogue to do it. An example in a moment.

The "introduction" of the other boy was also not smooth. The narrator has to tell us about his entrance after it happens, which interrupts the flow and springs something on the reader she should already know. If I were to keep this opening, and I wouldn't unless you can introduce something tension-causing in the boy's narrative, I'd look at something like this:

Father H moved quickly for a big man. He was over six feet tall and barrel-chested. His unadorned black cassock with the long row of buttons down the front was not at all like the stiff white vestments he wore at high mass. I had never noticed his shiny manicured fingernails or how bald he was.

I sat on the worn sofa in the rectory basement. Father H was busy for the moment boxing up second-hand clothing left over from the Ladies Sodality rummage sale.

He said, "Cleaning up this mess is no job for a priest, and I'd ream Mrs. Novaleski out if she was here."

Another boy came down the stairs. He was taller than me and maybe older but I thought he looked scrawny. His red hair was piled up in front like a pompadour and he had freckles all over his forehead. I noticed that he wore brand stiff new brown shoes that looked like they were one size too big for him.

After Father H cleared the table, he set up two folding chairs. "You boys sit." He said to me, "Rudy, this is Jim. He's just moved here from Illinois with his mother."

No, it's not any more interesting, but I think the flow is better. It also gives us a name for the narrator. Note that I added the state that the other boy came from -- details create a sense of "this is real," while vague generalities can't.

Sorry, Robert. Your writing is pretty clean, but I think you need to find the moment in your story where something is happening that hints at trouble ahead for someone, even if it's only a smaller, bridging event. You only sent two pages, and I would have looked ahead if I could have (this is why I ask for a whole chapter for the Flogometer).

Any comments?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here, send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.

ARCHIVES .

© 2007 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer -- Despite strong writing, I didn't move on

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective. Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

This is for Mark. Here are the first 16 lines:

A shriek of agony pierced the solitude of the underground alcove. Soul-searing in its pitch, each crescendo dwarfed the previous before the vocal assault gradually diminished to mere moans. The staccato counterpoint of water slowly plinking into pools below stalactites formed the irregular heartbeat of the dark world a mile below ground.

Cool and damp, the realm of the White Troll seldom saw even the barest glimmer of what a surface-dweller would call "light." To the oversized eyes of its inhabitants, the variations of heat created a spectacular display worthy of any art critic's time and talent.

Almost nobody visited the Pijmux Grotto. The ninth and smallest of Kolpek's "Nine Caverns," although there were many smaller caves and recesses, Pijmux marked one edge of the White Troll subterranean empire. Two tunnels led from the chamber - a natural passage to the surface, and an ancient marin mine shaft which led into Kolpek.

Magical wards, undetectable to all but the most accomplished spellcaster, inserted a subconscious message into the mind of any intruder: Go back! Only someone with a strong will or important mission could overcome the subtle need to reverse their path, thereby violating the border.

Alone in the dank chamber, near a stalagmite close to the southern wall, Ruraq, a female White Troll,

Now, I'll grant you, in the fantasy/SF world, a certain amount of introductory world-establishing is acceptable, if not sometime necessary. But I found I wasn't really caring about magical wards and an ancient marin shaft that I don't know what is.

The opening feels distant to me, and not involving. You might want to see a recent article in (I think it was) The Writer magazine about point of view -- your opening reminded me of that: an omniscient pov that later descends into a close third-person pov. Far better for this reader if you opened in that character's close point of view and filtered all this stuff through her mind/emotions/needs/etc. Even your descriptions would be more involving if you do that kind of thing. Maybe check out my post on Writing for effect: descriptions

The opening scream was a good hook, and I'd have turned the page if Mark had gone on to involve me with the screamer, a troll who was giving birth to a child, a troll who has a brother who just tried to murder her, and who (we later learn) has just killed her father. A troll who becomes the leader of the clan . . . and so on. Lots of intriguing situation and action.

Unfortunately, it was postponed, and I wouldn't have gotten there. For my money, Mark, get to the nicely done scene with the mom-troll and her good brother. Move the expository stuff to later (even including some of that in the scene), after the hook has been set.

While the writing is good, no doubt about it, I wonder if you're overdoing it just a tad. To take a look at the opening paragraph:

A shriek of agony pierced the solitude of the underground alcove. Soul-searing in its pitch, each crescendo dwarfed the previous before the vocal assault gradually diminished to mere moans. The staccato counterpoint of water slowly plinking into pools below stalactites formed the irregular heartbeat of the dark world a mile below ground.

For this reader, "each crescendo dwarfed the previous before the vocal assault gradually diminished to mere moans." was so convoluted and nuanced that I really lost the impact of what was happening. I think it was the "dwarfed the previous before the vocal assault gradually diminished" part. Too much to easily parse, and in my view good writing goes down smoothly and easily, like butter. Especially when you're depicting action, which this is. Keep in mind that this is subjective, though.

You've got good stuff, Mark, I just hope you'll get to it sooner and leaner.

Any comments?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here, send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.

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© 2007 Ray Rhamey

Hurt me good

First, a brief workshop report. I did a version of the Flogometer in a workshop for the Writer's Weekend conference in Seattle on the 1st. It was a fine group of about 14 writers, 5 of whom had submitted samples. I led the group in discussions about whether or not the first page was compelling enough, and then what to do to make it more so.

It seems counter-intuitive, but the critiqued writers came up to me afterwards, and after having their work deconstructed by a bunch of strangers, gave me big smiles and thanked me. Hurt me good.

---

You guys are great!

And that's what you've done for me with your insights on the opening lines of my WIP. You'll see below a rewritten version of the first 16 lines, and then a question about an alternative opening chapter.

The results:

• Would turn the page: 10
• Would not turn the page: 7
• No answer (but probably not, I'm guessing): 2

But first, a little about the critiques you gave. If you've read through the comments, you might have thought, as it occurred to me, that these readers couldn't be reading the same material, so diverse were their reactions. They ranged from "boring" to "information rich."

Just goes to show you the remarkably subjective nature of this business. And you know that agents are just as all over the lot when they're reacting to your submission. Kinda illuminates the odds against us, doesn't it?

That "present tense" thing

Almost half of the commenters were bothered by the present tense. I don't blame them, the first time I read a novel in present tense it bothered me, too. You've made me wonder if that was a factor in some agent rejections of partials.

It was written in present tense for a technical reason: one of the characters narrated the story in first person, and that character died in the end. So the character couldn't use past tense.

But I've since turned that character's narration into third person, and there's no real reason to keep the present tense. Today I just finished turning the whole thing, all 78,000 words, into past tense. What a fun chore that was!

Good suggestions

Several folks made excellent suggestions that helped free me from what was written. In particular was the notion of starting with the helicopter. You'll see in the rewrite. Thanks.

There were other good suggestions and comments that I'm applying to the narrative as well. Man, do those fresh eyes help. I told you that I was just much too close to this to see the flaws (it doesn't matter that I'm an editor when I'm in my writer persona). I had a feeling that there was work to be done, but I just couldn't see what or where. As I said, you guys are great.

Things that don't really help

For a number of people, the content was problematic. For some, this just wasn't their genre. Old sailing ships mixed with modern helicopters was a suspension of belief they just couldn't make. For another reader, that combination raised story questions that propelled him/her forward. Go figure. In terms of a critique, that kind of information doesn't help a writer deal with storytelling issues. If it's just not your kind of story, that's okay. I can't change that.

If one reader hates the idea of blue velvet curtains, well, the reaction is so subjective that I can't generalize. The one area where content reactions can help, though, is that if a number of readers object to a particular element, then the writer knows there's a problem.

I could go on, but this is long enough already. I will be going through the deeper comments some readers left about the following chapters and making good use of your fresh view. Thank you again.

Following is the rewrite du jour of the opening page. Let me know what you think, and if it makes a difference in whether or not you'd turn the page.

The percussive whup-whup-whup of a helicopter drew Drago to a porthole in his galleon's quarterdeck cabin. In the forest clearing where his ship and two others of his clan rested, a half-dozen clan children, teens to toddlers, built a snowman. The tall curved hulls of the sixteenth-century Spanish vessels, all grace when they sailed through the air, now seemed awkward, supports angling out like spider legs to hold them upright. The daylight was dim under the gray sky, but that didn't seem to matter to the children.

The helicopter noise smothered their giggles, and the galleons vanished behind glaméres of snow-clad forest, the illusions broadcast by alert sentries.

All save one of the children disappeared as well, disguised as young trees. Little Alexandra, her skills not yet awakened, burst into tears. Before Drago could move to help her, a sapling scooped up the child. In the flicker of a thought, a fat squirrel appeared in her place.

The helicopter sound faded, the ships and children blinked back into view, and a snowball fight developed. Intrusions by lessi -- and the danger they brought -- were normal to clan children, but for Drago they were a long-endured infestation that he would soon eliminate.

He'd rather have been basking in Louisiana sunshine with the rest of his clan, not skulking in a forest preserve on the outskirts of Chicago. But his research into recombinant DNA . . .

An alternative

The story used to open what became the second chapter in this iteration -- and it still could. Below are the first 16 lines of that chapter.

So tell me, which do you think is the most engaging? I'm particularly interested in what women think, seeing as how they buy the majority of books. Here 'tis:

A slender man in a black overcoat, half-hidden by one of the bronze lions that guarded the Chicago Art Institute, targeted Ailia with a small video camera. Alarm pierced her gloom, and she stopped at the bottom stair step. His camera would see through her glamére -- an illusion that, to the naked eye, disguised her short platinum bob with brown curls, and a dark tan to conceal flesh so white it sometimes looked bluish. She turned her face away.

Oh, for times past when only touch could put the lie to the mask of a glamére.

The January wind whipped her long coat and thrust icy talons under her dress, greedy for her warmth. Named the Hawk by the people of this city, she wondered if it wished it were a summer breeze instead of a harbinger of death.

From the side of her eye, she saw the slender man's lips move, and the wind carried his words to her. "I think I got one."

Shielding her face with her hood, Ailia shifted her gaze to the man, and he jerked the camera away to pan across the front of the Institute. She saw yellow-green strands of deceit blossom within the aura around his head -- he wanted to hide his purpose.

But what did it matter? It could have nothing to do with her.

Besides, she was going to die today.

Thanks for your help. We will return to our regular flogging schedule later this week.

Many thanks for your help and insights.

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here, send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.

ARCHIVES .

© 2007 Ray Rhamey