Flogging the Quill

Edit: do the last one on paper

It never ceases to amaze and sometimes consternate me how differently I perceive a narrative on a computer screen versus on paper.

This was recently driven home yet again to my slowly-catching-on-brain by a rewrite of good old novel number one, We the Enemy. Long story short, I decided to switch it from present tense to past. That REQUIRES a paper read because it's too easy to miss small mistakes such as a shift in tense onscreen.

The sample below, the opening of the first chapter du jour, has been read and reread onscreen dozens of times. I thought the polishing was done, and that I only needed to check it for translation errors. Here it is:

Sleepy equaled dead. Jake Black stretched in the car seat and shook his head to clear the drowsiness seeping into his mind. Surveillance was not his strong suit. He studied the apartment house across the street and imagined the suspected terrorist inside charging out the door, AK 47 blazing, Jake leaping from his car and returning fire. Anything to break up his boredom.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He took it out; it showed his home phone number. Gretchen, the tiny red-haired English nanny who cared for his daughter, had orders never to call him on the job -- except in an emergency. "What is it?"

Her whisper had the edge of a scream in it. "She's here."

Impossible. "How?"

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

His gut tightened. "Does she have Amy?"

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

Dear God. He started his car. "I'm coming. Call 911 now!" He disconnected, slammed the gearshift down 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."

"Tell me -- "

Jake ended the call. How could Marcie have escaped from the sanitarium? Still locked in the grip of abnormally deep postpartum psychosis, no way she'd have been released. The "baby blues" that had come with Amy's birth had intensified until one night he'd been awakened by screams, Marcie's and the baby's. He had raced to the nursery and found his wife hitting their four-month-old daughter, screaming, "You can't do this to me! You can't!"

He had dragged Marcie to their bedroom, tossed her on the bed and pinned her until her rage subsided into sobs. The diagnosis had been quick; she agreed to admission into a psychiatric facility, and she hadn't come out. Any exposure of Marcie to Amy still brought on a violent attack. He couldn't even mention their daughter's name to her.

Now, I'm hoping that you're not seeing any obvious flaws. I feel confident that many would think it's fine. But you just read it onscreen. How differently does it appear in a printout? Well, I saw lots of flab after I printed it out and looked at it critically:

Sleepy equaled dead. Jake Black stretched in the car seat and shook his head to clear the drowsiness seeping into his mind. S -- surveillance was not his strong suit. He studied the apartment house across the street and imagined the suspected terrorist inside charging out the door, AK 47 blazing, Jake himself leaping from his car and returning fire. Anything to break up his the boredom.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He took it out; it showed flicked it open to see his home phone number. Gretchen, the tiny red-haired English nanny who cared for his daughter, had orders never to call him on the job -- except in an emergency. "What is it?"

Her whisper shook had the edge of a scream in it. "She's here."

Impossible. "How?"

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

His gut tightened. "Does she have Amy?"

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

Dear God. He started his car. "I'm coming. Call 911 now!" He disconnected, slammed the gearshift down 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."

"Tell me -- "

Jake ended the call. How could Marcie have escaped from the sanitarium? Still locked in the grip of abnormally deep postpartum psychosis, no way she'd have been released from the sanitarium. The "baby blues" that had come with from Amy's birth had intensified until one night he'd been awakened one night by screams, Marcie's and the baby's. He'd raced to the nursery and found his wife hitting their four-month-old daughter, screamingshrieking, "You can't do this to me! You can't!"

He had dragged Marcie to their bedroom, tossed her on the bed and pinned her until her rage subsided into sobs. The diagnosis had been quick; she agreed to admission go into a psychiatric facility, and she hadn't come out. Any eExposure of Marcie to Amy still brought on a violent attack. H--he couldn't even mention their daughter's her name to her.

Here, without all the mark-up, is how it now reads:

Sleepy equaled dead. Jake Black stretched in the car seat and shook his head -- surveillance was not his strong suit. He studied the apartment house across the street and imagined the suspect charging out, AK 47 blazing, himself leaping from his car and returning fire. Anything to break up the boredom.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He flicked it open to see his home phone number. Gretchen, the tiny red-haired English nanny who cared for his daughter, had orders never to call him on the job -- except in an emergency. "What is it?"

Her whisper shook. "She's here."

Impossible. "How?"

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

His gut tightened. "Does she have Amy?"

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

Dear God. He started his car. "I'm coming. Call 911 now!" He disconnected, slammed the gearshift down 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."

"Tell me -- "

Jake ended the call. How could Marcie have escaped? Still locked in postpartum psychosis, no way she'd have been released from the sanitarium. The "baby blues" from Amy's birth had intensified until he'd been awakened by screams one night. He'd found his wife in the nursery, hitting their four-month-old daughter, shrieking, "You can't do this to me! You can't!"

The diagnosis had been quick; she agreed to go into a psychiatric facility, and she hadn't come out. Exposure to Amy still brought on a violent attack—he couldn't even mention her name.

I'm probably not done with this, but I like the quicker version that resulted from the edit. Whether you agree with my edits on this or not, I hope you see the difference a paper edit can make in your work.

So what do you think? Any suggestions, thoughts? Questions?

For what it's worth.

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.

ARCHIVES .

© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Edit: timing and telling diminish a scene with potential

Susie sent the following opening to the first chapter of her novel.

Elaine quietly entered her father's hospital room. It was getting late. She was physically and emotionally exhausted. Approaching the bedside, she took his hand, very aware of the beeping monitors and the sound of the ventilator.

"Good night Daddy," she softly said, "I'll be back as soon as I can in the morning. I want to talk to your doctor before he leaves. George and Aunt Dianna will be in to see you as well. Get some rest, ok?"

To her surprise, he lightly squeezed her hand. He was looking at her. She smiled, "Do you know who I am?"

He paused, then gave her hand another weak squeeze. This was the first response she had gotten from him. Elaine was ecstatic. She smiled to encourage him.

"Do you know where you are?" There was no response. "Daddy you're in the hospital, you're sick. The doctors are going to make you well again."

A flash of comprehension entered Robert's eyes, like beacon shining into the murkiness of his fogged mind. He opened his eyes wide, a look of desperation on his face.

"What do you want? What is it? What's wrong?" Elaine said, looking desperately for the nurse call button. Robert's monitors beeped faster. A nurse hurried in and began checking his vitals.

"What's happening?" she asked the nurse.

"Your father seems to be agitated. You should let him rest," the nurse replied.

"I was talking to him. He can hear me," Elaine said, excitedly. "He squeezed my hand."

Suddenly, with what seemed like a great amount of effort, Robert lifted his arms and head trying to sit up. He fell back onto the pillow clutching Elaine's hand tighter. She searched her father's face. His brow was furrowed as his eyes pleaded for something.

"Daddy?"

The word escaped her lips. All the monitors and beepers were going wild. Elaine was frightened. The nurse called for help. Instantly there were people running into the room from the desk outside. She was told to leave as a nurse took her arm, forcefully pulling her toward the door.

"What's happening?" Elaine pleaded.

She heard one of the people in the room say, "He's crashing."

My thoughts: The writing is "clean," meaning not a lot of edits were needed, though I saw some tightening opportunities here and there.

Shortcomings are on the storytelling side. To my eye, they involve "telling" rather than showing in a number of places, and a reliance on adverbs. I was also not happy with references to "people" doing things where, in a hospital, I'm pretty sure they would be either doctors or nurses, and the lack of specificity seemed to sap meaning for me.

Notes on the sample as is:

Elaine quietly entered her father's hospital room. It was getting late. (Not much meaning here. Late at night? Late morning? Late afternoon? Why not give a time? Maybe relate it to her day -- she'd had a full day at the office and now five hours at the hospital, waiting.) She was physically and emotionally exhausted. (This is "telling." You need to portray her exhaustion so we can feel it. For example: All she wanted to do was crawl into bed. And cry. She didn't think she could be calm and composed for another minute.) Approaching the bedside, She took his hand, very aware of the beeping monitors and the sound of the ventilator. ("very" is a weak word, and I wonder if this couldn't be more evocative and yet still evoke her awareness. For example, "A beeping monitor and the hiss of the ventilator sounded loud in the room.)

"Good night Daddy," she softly said, "I'll be back as soon as I can in the morning. (Adverbs are the weaker way to go in description. Look for verbs that describe. Here, it seems like a whisper would be appropriate.) I want to talk to your doctor before he leaves. George and Aunt Dianna will be in to see you as well. Get some rest, ok?"

To her surprise, he lightly squeezed her hand. He was looking at her. (She should have already seen this. What was he doing when she entered? Eyes shut? Open but looking up? If his looking at her is a change, you need to clue us in, i.e. He opened his eyes and looked at her. By they way, try to avoid "was" and "-ing" verbs instead of simple past tense. They're mushier.)  She smiled, "Do you know who I am?"

He paused, then gave her hand another weak squeeze. This was the first response she had gotten from him. Elaine was ecstatic. (More "telling." Can't joy fill her heart, or excitement rush into her mind, or something?) She smiled to encourage him.

"Do you know where you are?" There was no response. "Daddy you're in the hospital, you're sick. The doctors are going to make you well again."

A flash of comprehension entered Robert's eyes, (Point of view: she can't know what his "flash" was. Technically, should be something like "flash of comprehension seemed to enter Robert's eyes…) like a beacon shining into the murkiness of his fogged mind. (point of view: she can't know whether his mind is fogged or lucid.)  He opened his eyes wide, a look of desperation on his face.

"What do you want?  What is it?  What's wrong?" (Three of these questions seems too much. I'd delete the first one, since his look was of desperation.) Elaine said, looking desperately for the nurse call button. (Another adverb, and a repetition of "desperate" from the previous paragraph. Use action, such as "She scrambled to find the nurse call button.") Robert's monitors beeped faster. A nurse hurried in and began checking his vitals.

"What's happening?" she asked the nurse.

"Your father seems to be agitated. You should let him rest." the nurse replied.

"I was talking to him. He can hear me," Elaine said, excitedly. (again, try to avoid adverbs, even if it takes longer to say. For example. Realizing that she had gotten louder with excitement, she lowered her voice and said, "He squeezed…etc.") "He squeezed my hand."

Suddenly, with what seemed like a great  amount of effort, Robert lifted his arms and head trying to sit up. He fell back onto the pillow clutching Elaine's hand tighter. She searched her father's face. His brow was furrowed as his eyes pleaded for something. Monitors and beepers were going wild.

"Daddy?"

The word escaped her lips. All the monitors and beepers were going wild. Elaine was frightened. (more telling. You could illustrate her emotion with internal monologue. For example: Oh, God, what was happening? "Daddy?" Why didn't he respond?) The nurse called for help. (how does she do this? Yell? (seems unlikely) Press a button? Step into the hall and call for someone? Show us.) Instantly there were people (Just "people?" Specifics help the reader. How about another nurse, followed by a doctor.) running into the room from the desk outside. She was told to leave as a nurse took her arm, forcefully pulling her toward the door. (I think this would be stronger without the "as" construction. And why not use dialogue? For example: A nurse took her arm and pulled her toward the door. "You've got to leave now.")

"What's happening?" Elaine pleaded.

She heard one of the people (Once again, be specific. She heard the doctor say, "He's…etc.") in the room say, "He's crashing."

This has potential to be a dramatic scene, and the protagonist's feelings about what causes him to "crash" have bearing on the later narrative. However, I didn't feel that entering a room was a terribly engaging opening.

Instead, what if the first sentence was:

After days of unconsciousness, her father opened his eyes and looked at her.

For me, something like that raises story questions immediately. Why was he unconscious? Will he be okay?

Then the scene could be set from within her point of view. For example, for a next paragraph, here's a thought starter:

The beeping monitor, the wheezing of the ventilator, the hospital smell of medicine vanished and Elaine gripped his hand. Joy brought tears to her eyes and a break in her voice when she said, "Do you know who I am?"

Anyway, those are some thoughts. Good luck, Susie.

For what it's worth.

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.

ARCHIVES .

© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Edit: a dark opening that could be more compelling

Irene sent this as her first, very short chapter.

Grace stirred in bed, kept her eyes closed. In a voice confused with sleep she asked, "Lucey, that you?"

A floorboard creaked beneath the worn carpet.

"No Mama, it's me, Dan. Remember? Lucey's in Colorado."

She combed her fingers across her forehead. "Of course. I must've been dreaming. What time is it?" she asked. "It feels early, feels so dark."

"It's near 5:30 Mama." He approached her bed with ease, his eyes already adjusted to the darkness. He knew exactly where he was going, knew exactly what he was about to do.

Grace stirred again, letting her sleep slowly fall away, not ready to stretch her body awake. The sun crept toward the horizon like a hungry cat about to pounce. A thin jagged pinkness outlined the distant hills and fields. "You've been drinking, haven't you?" She knew he had been. "Sun's not even up. What am I ever going to do with you?"

"Yes Mama, I have."

Dan had been a late talker -- about three years old when words started to jerk from his mouth. He had a stutter that made words get caught in his throat like a fish bone that needed to be coughed loose. When he was in junior high he discovered alcohol stopped the stuttering. It was a cruel discovery. Whiskey freed his words, but over the years alcoholism pitifully imprisoned the rest of him. He was twenty-six now, and Grace knew her son had already started drinking because his words were smooth, unfettered.

He had a pillow in his hands, taken from his own bed. "I'm sorry Mama."

"I know you are Danny Boy." Her eyes were still closed, never to be opened again.

"No Mama. I'm really sorry."

In the distance, a neighbor's rooster scratched up small puffs of dust, stretched its neck, and beckoned the whole wide world to wake-up, wake-up, wake-up.

He put the pillow over her face, pushed down hard. She barely struggled, seemed to be ready, not surprised. "I'm sorry Mama."

It was the third time he had told her he was sorry, but he wasn't. He hated his mother.

"Wake-up, wake-up, wake-up," the rooster shouted again.

Dan had carefully planned his mother's murder. He knew she was seeing Dr. Sakys on a regular basis for a heart condition, and that she wouldn't take any medication. He knew an autopsy would not be required, and Dr. Sakys would attribute his mother's death to heart disease. No one would ever know the truth.

After a short while, he lifted the pillow. It hadn't taken long because Grace had so very little life to take away. He left the room to call Lucey, his sister.

"Wake-up, wake-up, wake-up -- now!" the rooster demanded. But the whole wide world continued to sleep as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

I feel that, if at all possible, a novel's opening sentence should create tension, to raise questions. If not then, then the first paragraph. And I feel that Irene hasn't gotten there yet. It's not until the fifth paragraph that something of interest happens. Until then, it's nothing more than a woman waking up. So what?

In an edit, I would do the following with a comment, but here I'll just do a little restructuring to show how, using the exact same sentences, I think this opening could be much more suspenseful. I'll make some small edits and change just a couple of little things, such as using his name and identifying their relationship, which I think adds to the reader's need to know what happens next. Here goes. . .

Dan approached his mother's bed with ease, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He knew exactly where he was going, knew exactly what he was about to do.

A floorboard creaked beneath the worn carpet.

Grace stirred, but kept her eyes closed. In a voice confused with sleep she asked, "Lucey, that you?"

"No, Mama, it's me. Lucey's in Colorado."

Here's what I think happens in this version:

• The new opening sentence raises questions immediately -- where's he going, what's he going to do. And there's a sinister feeling to it.
• The floorboard creaking motivates Grace's stirring. Before, it came afterward.

Rather than show edits for the following, I'll just add comments.

In the first paragraph, I'm not sure about the meaning of "a voice confused with sleep." How does sleep cause vocal confusion? Must be a better word. Blurry?

She combed her fingers across her forehead. "Of course. I must've been dreaming. What time is it?" she asked. "It feels early, feels so dark." (For me, this dawdles. Why not just cut to the chase, i.e. "What time is it? It feels early.")

"It's near 5:30 Mama." (comma missing after the time)

Grace stirred again, letting her sleep slowly fall away, not ready to stretch her body awake. (breaks point of view. We started in his, this shifts to hers because it tells us things that only she would know, i.e. her readiness to stretch) The sun crept toward the horizon like a hungry cat about to pounce. (nice imagery but, if it's dawn, they can't see the sun, only the approach of light) A thin jagged pinkness outlined the distant hills and fields. (for me, one to many adjectives in "thin jagged pinkness." I think, since the word "outlined" follows, "thin" should be deleted) "You've been drinking, haven't you?" She knew he had been. (another point of view break. We should be in his, and only his, because we started the scene with him and she was asleep) "Sun's not even up. What am I ever going to do with you?"

"Yes Mama, I have." (comma needed after "Yes")

Dan had been a late talker -- about three years old when words started to jerk from his mouth. He had a stutter that made words get caught in his throat like a fish bone that needed to be coughed loose. When he was in junior high he discovered alcohol stopped the stuttering. It was a cruel discovery. Whiskey freed his words, but over the years alcoholism pitifully imprisoned the rest of him. He was twenty-six now, and Grace knew her son had already started drinking because his words were smooth, unfettered. (for me, a wrong time to drop in this backstory. Right now the author's job is to HOOK the reader, not explain things. Save this for later.)

He had a pillow in his hands, taken from his own bed. "I'm sorry Mama." (comma needed after "sorry")

"I know you are Danny Boy." Her eyes were still closed, never to be opened again. (comma needed after "are" The "never to be opened again" part is the author talking. Suggest putting it in his point of view. Thought starter: Her eyes were still closed. He would never again see them open.)

"No Mama. I'm really sorry." (comma needed after "No")

In the distance, a neighbor's rooster scratched up small puffs of dust, stretched its neck, and beckoned the whole wide world to wake-up, wake-up, wake-up. (where did this come from? He couldn't see a rooster in the distance, and her eyes are closed. It's fine to give us the audio, but not a visual that the point-of-view character can't see. For example: A distant rooster beckoned the world to wake-up, wake-up, wake-up.)

He put the pillow over her face, pushed down hard. She barely struggled, seemed to be ready, not surprised. "I'm sorry Mama." (I'd put an "and" instead of the comma in the first sentence. With a pillow over her face, how is it that he perceives that she seems ready, not surprised? Comma needed after "sorry")

It was the third time he had told her he was sorry, but he wasn't. He hated his mother. (I think the last sentence is not needed -- it's clear that he hates her as he is murdering her.)

"Wake-up, wake-up, wake-up," the rooster shouted again.

Dan had carefully planned his mother's murder. He knew she was seeing Dr. Sakys on a regular basis for a heart condition, and that she wouldn't take any medication. He knew an autopsy would not be required, and Dr. Sakys would attribute his mother's death to heart disease. No one would ever know the truth. (I would delete all of this. It's "telling," and slows the momentum of a dramatic scene.)

After a short while, he lifted the pillow. It hadn't taken long because Grace had so very little life to take away. He left the room to call Lucey, his sister. (saying "to call Lucey, his sister" feels like the author telling me information [that she's his sister]. Since we already know that Lucey is in Colorado, what about: …to call his sister in Colorado.)

"Wake-up, wake-up, wake-up -- now!" the rooster demanded. But the whole wide world continued to sleep as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. (I would delete this. Doesn't raise questions or create suspense, nor is it something Dan would be thinking. I think leaving the reader wondering what will happen with the sister is more compelling)

For what it's worth.

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.

ARCHIVES .

© 2006 Ray Rhamey

What this editor does

It occurs to me that some of you might be interested in what an editor's process consists of. I can tell you about what one editor does. Below is the description I send with my contract, and my contract specifies that I will do the edit as outlined in the description.

Of course, it is also a list of what you must do as an author -- you could post it somewhere as a checklist of the things you need to focus on. The one thing I provide that you can't is a fresh eye.

Following is what I send to editing clients, along with a contract that specifies protections for the author, the fee, and other functional details. It begins with a caveat. . .

editorrr.com

Full developmental edit and critique

A caveat: keep in mind that any edit has a strong subjective component. While an experienced editor will have professional knowledge of craft issues (voice, tense, point of view, grammar, etc.) and will lend an objective eye to those issues, the editor still has a personal sense of pace and tension, and that's subjective. One writer told me that two agents said the following to the same suspense novel: "The pace is too slow." and "You need to linger more."

If what I do and suggest make sense to you, if you see improvement, then my edit will work for you. Now, here's some of what to expect:

Step 1. I read the whole manuscript to get a feel for your writing style, voice, and an understanding of the story. As I read, I edit line-by-line, looking at language for pace and clarity, and making comments on storytelling and craft issues. This is done onscreen.

The issues I address issues include:

• Tightening the writing (you may see lots of adjectives and adverbs go away);
• Spelling;
• Sentence structure;
• Story flow & pace, rooting out dead spots;
• Plot flaws, continuity inconsistencies;
• Staging (how action is visualized);
• Effectiveness of dialogue
• Character development;
• Setting scenes and description;
• Transitions;
• Use of active voice;
• Proper word usage;
• Clarity and "weak" word choices;
• Subject/verb agreement;
• Overuse of words;
• Redundancies, clichés;
• Coaching on writing craft.

Step 2. I print out the edited manuscript and go through it again, editing line by line. I make more notes, edits and cuts, word choice recommendations. You will see additions and deletions noted on your manuscript. I may suggest relocation of sentences, paragraphs, sections or even chapters. It's likely you'll see suggested deletions of material to enhance story and pace.

Step 3. I enter these additional edits and comments in the electronic manuscript file, catching even more as I do. This amounts to three trips through your manuscript. The edited manuscript will have all changes recorded in the file but not made permanent -- that's for you to decide. There will be suggestions on what you need to do in places, often accompanied by an example of what might work. These examples are thought-starters that you can incorporate, build upon, or ignore, as you wish. Authors have incorporated my ideas for stronger endings.

Step 4. I write a critique letter with an overview my thoughts on the strengths and shortcomings of the manuscript. If I've found a flaw in plotting or structure, I'll do my best to suggest a solution as a thought-starter for you to apply your own talent to. My goal is the same as yours -- a crisply told, engaging story. All comments are aimed at achieving that goal. It is, of course, entirely up to you to agree and adopt or disagree and discard.

Will my edit guarantee that your work will be accepted by an agent or publisher? Nobody knows what will guarantee success. That's where story comes into play. But your book will be as well written as you can make it, and then it's up to the forces of the marketplace.

And that's it. I don't know what other editors specify or promise, but I suspect it's similar.

The result is a Word document file that I email to the client. I use Word's Track changes and Comment features. Track changes shows the writer every deletion and addition I make, which they can accept or decline. Going through an edited manuscript and accepting theses changes can save a lot of retyping. My comments range from "Nice." to long paragraphs that may be coaching -- pointing out a shortcoming, explaining why it's a shortcoming, and how to fix it -- or "thought-starters," ideas for narrative that deals with issues. In a recent edit I wrote over 40,000 words of comments. An extraordinary amount, but that's what the author needed.

For what it's worth.

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.

ARCHIVES .

© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Edit: action aplenty, but needs thought

"RW" sent the prologue and first chapter of her novel for a sample look-see. Here are the first pages from the prologue.

Moenkopi Arizona 1994

She couldn't run any more, but she didn't dare stop. She couldn't see anything through the pouring rain and darkness. She tripped and landed on her face in the slippery clay dirt. A sharp stone sliced into her cheek and she cried out in pain. A pair of lights swished by in the distance; then another. It was a road, had to be. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled through the brush and rocks. If she could just make it to the road and catch a ride… almost there.

Suddenly she was sliding down over rocks and sharp roots she screamed and clawed at the slippery bank but the little scrubby tree she managed to grab just slid through her cold wet fingers like a piece of sandpaper taking a layer of skin with it. She should have known that the only drainage ditch in all of Arizona would be beside the road that she Alexis Morgan would need to reach. It was her luck. Damn!

She huddled for a moment in the bottom of the ditch. A few inches of icy water flowed over her already soaked dirty white tennis shoes and the bottom of her jeans. She couldn't stop shivering. So she stood and began to climb up the other side; she could hear another car coming. If she could just get to the road before it went by. One shoe was planted firmly atop a large jagged rock. She couldn't see it but was sure that it would hold her ninety nine pounds. She hung on to a little scrub whose tiny thorns dug into her numb fingers. She hardly noticed. She was almost there. Then the rock slid and she with it back to the little river in the bottom of the ditch. The lights flashed past, Damnit, damnit; damnit! Her teeth were chattering so hard she could hardly pronounce the words.

It appeared that she should have stayed and gone through with it. She was going to die any way, and their way might have been less miserable. Now she was going to hell for sure. Tears began to mix with the rain that stung her face despite the soggy bill of her baseball cap. How long did it take to freeze to death in the rain? A day? A week? They would find her by then and force her to go through with it. She should, she knew it was the right thing but she was afraid. And for that she was dammed to eternal hell. It wasn't fair!

I like the way RW has opened with strong action, and a character in terrible trouble. Good movement, mostly effective visualization, but there's some tightening to do, and some staging to think more carefully about. Usual caveat: this is all subjective, take it or leave it. Now the edit:

Moenkopi Arizona 1994

She couldn't run any more, but she didn't dare stop. (I would use her name here. The later introduction is a little clumsy, and there's no reason to withhold it here. A name helps give the reader more to connect with.) She couldn't see anything through the pouring rain and darkness. She tripped and landed on her face in the slippery clay dirt. A sharp stone sliced into her cheek and she cried out in pain. A pair of lights swished by in the distance; then another. It was a road, had to be. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled through the brush and rocks. If she could just make it to the road and catch a ride… almost there.

Suddenly she was sliding down over rocks and sharp roots. (I don't think roots can be sharp.) she She screamed and clawed at the slippery bank. (This construction means that she screamed at the bank, which doesn't make a lot of sense. A fix: She screamed, and she clawed at the slippery bank.) but the little scrubby tree she managed to grab just slid through her cold wet fingers like a piece of sandpaper taking a layer of skin with it. (Even as a separate sentence, this is a bit tangled and run-on. Also, what is a "scrubby tree?" A "tree" is a big thing and should not slip through fingers, but brush would. How about this: She grabbed a small sage brush, but it slipped through her cold, wet fingers. Like sandpaper, it took skin with it.) She should have known that the only drainage ditch in all of Arizona would be beside the road that she, Alexis Morgan, (Need commas to separate name, and construction is clumsy, see earlier note about where to introduce name.) would need to reach. (This is a sardonic thought, and doesn't seem appropriate for someone running through the dark; it seems contrary to the panic and fear she must be feeling. More than that, Arizona must have more than one drainage ditch. I would cut the rest of this paragraph and pick up with huddling in the ditch.) It was her luck. Damn!

She huddled for a moment in the bottom of the ditch. A few inches of iIcy water flowed over her already soaked dirty white tennis shoes and the bottom of her jeans. She couldn't stop shivering. So she stood and began to climb up the other side; she could heard another car coming. If she could just get to the road before it went by. One shoe was planted firmly atop a large jagged rock. (This is passive. Better: She planted a foot atop a jagged rock…) She couldn't see it (if she can't see it, how does she know it's large, or jagged, or will hold her weight? I know you're working to slip her description in, but this doesn't seem to work in a physical sense.) but was sure that it would hold her ninety-nine pounds. She hung on to a little scrub ("scrub" can be a verb or an adjective, but it's not a thing to hold onto.) whose tiny thorns dug into her numb fingers. She hardly noticed. She was almost there. Then the rock slid and she fell with it back to the little river in the bottom of the ditch. (This is good, but I think you need to go through her actions and the environment carefully and try to "live" it in order to avoid things such as knowing what a rock is like without being able to see it. Here's an example of how this action could work. She groped and her fingers discovered a large, jagged rock. It felt like it would hold her ninety-nine pounds, so she planted a foot on it and pushed upward. The rock broke free and she fell with it back to the bottom of the little river in the bottom of the ditch. (you need to work at getting inside the head of the character and experience the environment and what is possible as realistically as possible) The lights flashed past, . "Damnit, damnit; damnit! " (If it's said out loud, it's dialogue and needs quotation marks.) Her teeth were chatteringchattered so hard she could hardly pronounce the words.

It appeared that sShe should have stayed and gone through with it. (I know you don't want to tell us what "it" is, but is there any clue you can give? I.e., is it a ceremony? A trial? What?) She was going to die any way, and their way might have been less miserable. Now she was going (Suggest "would go" to avoid the "was" with a participle, which is not as crisp.) to hell for sure. Tears began to mix with the rain that stung her face despite the soggy bill of her baseball cap. How long did it take to freeze to death in the rain? (If it's raining, it's not possible to "freeze" to death because the temperature is not below freezing. It would be possible to die of exposure to very cold temperatures in a cold rain, but to use "freezing" is contradictory.) A day? A week? They would find her by then and force her to go through with it. (how would they force her if she was frozen/dead?) She should, she knew it was the right thing to do, but she was afraid. And for that she was dammed to eternal hell. It wasn't fair! (Nice mysterious allusion to things she knows and we don't.)

There's not enough room to show the entire prologue, but it does end with a snap and a very strong story question (on top of the ones about who is this person and what's she running from), and I believe it served its purpose of drawing me into the story.

Thanks, RW, for sharing your work with us.

A word on my process: for these quick edits, I go through the sample just once, and that's what you're seeing here. In a paid edit, I print out the first edit and go through it again in hard copy, then there's more looking at the ms as I input the notes from the hard-copy edit. As you see, I do a great deal of coaching with comments--in a recent edit I inserted 45,000 words of comments!

For what it's worth.

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission of a sample that you have questions about.

ARCHIVES .

Edit: Is this B’s best opening?

“B” sent me the opening to her novel and asked this question: “Is this beginning sufficiently entertaining to invite a request for more material from an agent/editor?” Here are the critical first two pages:

Inspector Steve LaViolette of the National Security Branch watched her stride down the airport concourse. Black it was, just as she had said: black boots, black pants, black leather jacket, black scarf - covering some but not all of that extraordinary hair. She towed black leather luggage and carried a black travel case.

Tres chic, he thought, but she walks like a warrior.

Her gaze passed over him with seeming indifference. Steve was momentarily startled. Had she really crossed her eyes when they met his? He watched her angle toward the lounge area and, with a quick stride and a twitch of her travel case, neatly beat a mother and two kids to the only free double seat.

She parked her suitcase beside the bench and plopped down, dropped the carry-on beside her feet, checked her watch, extracted a pen and note pad from the side zipper compartment and sat back. She left the compartment unzipped and nudged the case sideways with her boot.

"So that's my contact? Nice ass..." said a voice at his shoulder. Steve turned and looked the source over slowly. "You really are young, aren't you," he said at last. "There you go. She set it up for you."

Steve watched the body language critically as the young agent ambled through the seating area, newspaper in hand, scanning the headlines, a glance at his watch, the recognition of a convenient seat, the question in mime -"Is this seat free?" Her brief glance and nod and slight personal space withdrawal from a stranger. The paper falling from a careless grip as the young man hitched at his raincoat. The apology. She waving her hand in a think-nothing-of-it gesture and continuing to scribble on her note pad.

Cocky young prick, thought Steve, too tricky for a safe hand-off, not good; draws the eye, also not good. Newspaper not good for this time of night - magazine would be better. The young man gathered up his scattered newspaper sections and sat back with a smug expression.

And froze.

She must be saying something, Steve thought with a chortle, but I don't see her lips moving. She flipped her note pad closed, stuffed the pen in the coils and bent to slide it back into the side pocket, then zipped it shut. Now that's proper use of diverting action, approved Steve. The young operative slowly opened his paper.

Steve waited until they were walking back through the parking lot. "Well, what did she say to you?"

The smart young man missed a step. "Uh...how did you...? Un...she said she wished she had a balloon to pop to see if I would dive under the furniture. She said..uh...that fit young men in nice suits and short hair do not drop old newspapers, and that I stuck out like a sore thumb....And...uh...she called me a 'silly bugger.'"

Steve smiled.

"She also said," the young man continued, "to say hello to Inspector Gadget."

Steve frowned.

She boarded her flight with a minimum of hassle, just as Steve had promised, and found she had a window seat. She wished Steve had just faxed or couriered the information as he usually did. Or simply have it handed to her direct with a "Hi. This is for you. Steve sent it." Let him test his new boys' techniques on someone else, next time. She felt silly back there.

I’ll answer B’s question in a minute, but first a quick edit of some of this narrative. Caveat: it’s all subjective but, with luck, objective enough from a craft point of view.

Inspector Steve LaViolette of the National Security Branch watched her stride down the airport concourse. Strongly suggest you use her name instead of the pronoun. These first 2 pages never give her name, and she is the main protagonist. Black it was, just as she had said: black boots, black pants, black leather jacket, black scarf covering some but not all Redundant: “not all” means the same as “some” of that extraordinary hair. “Extraordinary” means nothing with no picture to go with it. It is black? Especially full or curly or bushy or long? Why is it extraordinary? She towed black leather luggage and carried a black travel case.

Tres chic, he thought, but she walks like a warrior.

Her gaze passed over him with seeming indifference. Steve was momentarily startled. Had she really crossed her eyes when they met his? Her gaze didn’t “pass over him with indifference,” she crossed her eyes at him. Contradictory. A solution: Her gaze met his and she crossed her eyes at him. Steve was startled. Had she really done that? He watched her angle toward the lounge area and, with a quick stride and a twitch of her travel case, neatly beat a mother and two kids to the only free double seat.

She parked her suitcase beside the bench and plopped down, dropped the carry-on beside her feet Two “besides” in one sentence. Suggest “at” here, checked her watch, extracted a pen and note pad from the side zipper compartment and sat back. She left the compartment unzipped and nudged the case sideways with her boot.

"So that's my contact? Nice ass..." said a voice at his shoulder. Confusing without a dialogue tag; this could be Steve talking, especially since he’s the only one we’re aware of. A solution: A voice at his shoulder said, “So that’s my contact? Nice ass.”</font> Steve turned and looked the source over slowly. Why be vague with “the source” when you can give a name (instead of having to use “young man” the rest of the way) and a brief picture to help the reader “see” what’s there? For example: Steve looked at Johnson. The kid was smirking. </font> "You really are young, aren't you," he said at last. "There you Go.  She set it up for you."

Steve watched the Johnson’s body language critically as the young agent Suggest something such as “novice” here to get at his inexperience. We’ve already established that he’s young. ambled through the seating area, newspaper in hand, scanning the headlines, a glance at his watch, the recognition of a convenient seat, the question in mime -"Is this seat free?" Her brief glance and nod and slight personal space withdrawal from a stranger. The paper falling from a careless grip as the young man hitched at his raincoat. The apology. She waving her hand in a think-nothing-of-it gesture and continuing to scribble on her note pad. I thought this was a good way to describe the action, but a little tangled with verb tense and the inclusion of her body language as well when the narrative just mentions watching his. Thought-starter: Steve watched Johnson critically as the novice agent ambled through the seating area, newspaper in hand, scanning the headlines. Then came the mini-play of strangers at a station: A glance at his watch, the sighting of an empty seat, miming the question “Is this seat free?” Her brief look (avoids a second use of “glance”), nod, and slight withdrawal from a stranger…etc.)

Cocky young prick, thought Steve, Can delete “thought Steve—not really needed for internal monologue.  too tricky for a safe hand-off, not good; Suggest delete “not good” as “too tricky” says the same thing, so it’s redundant draws the eye, also not good. Newspaper not good for this time of night - magazine would be better. Steve is the boss; why didn’t he instruct him about the newspaper beforehand?  Johnson The young man gathered up his scattered newspaper sections and sat back with a smug expression.

And froze.

She must be saying something, Steve thought with a chortle, but I don't see her lips moving. Thought with a chortle” bothers me. Suggest: Steve chortled. He didn’t see her lips moving, but she must be saying something.  She flipped her note pad closed, stuffed the pen in the coils and bent to slide it back into the side pocket, then zipped it shut. Now that was proper use of diverting action, approved Steve. The young operative slowly opened his paper.

Steve waited until they were walking back through the parking lot.

"Well, what did she say to you?"

The smart young man Johnson missed a step. Would he really miss a step? He should be cooler than that, even as a novice.  "Uh...how did you...? Un... She said she wished she had a balloon to pop to see if I would dive under the furniture. She said..uh...that fit young men in nice suits and short hair do not drop old newspapers, and that I stuck out like a sore thumb... And...uh...she called me a 'silly bugger.'"

Steve smiled.

"She also said," the young man continued, "to say hello to Inspector Gadget."

Steve frowned.

She boarded her flight with a minimum of hassle, just as Steve had promised, and found she had a window seat. She wished Steve had just the information faxed or couriered as he usually did. Or simply have it handed to her direct with a "Hi. This is for you. Steve sent it." Let him test his new boys' techniques on someone else next time. She had felt silly back there.

B’s writing is clean, with nice touches here and there (“walked like a warrior”), though there were some redundancies. It’s good technique to use one character’s pov, in this case Steve’s, to characterize another. And the airport scene had entertainment value as we watched a pro make a fool of a smug novice.

B had many promising plot elements and a potentially interesting character. But she has done what many novice novelists do--one writer calls it “throat-clearing”--giving a lot of information through exposition that the author feels the reader needs to know instead of hooking the reader with action and “trouble in River City,” to quote from The Music Man. The key to a strong opening is THINGS HAPPEN. In the 10 pages of this first chapter, all that really happens is that a man gives a woman a note and the woman does some work on an airplane.

As for “sufficiently entertaining to invite a request,” in my opinion, this is not, for reasons that include:

• No real conflict in these pages. No serious jeopardy for anyone, or the promise of it.
• The only story question raised is “who is the woman?” I didn’t feel that was enough.
• This is supposed to be suspense (has spies), but the first two pages don’t give a hint as to a dramatic story, and two pages may be all you get with an agent or her assistant.
• The rest of the chapter, which you haven’t seen, was primarily exposition and backstory while the protagonist sat on a plane. I felt that the lack of action and/or conflict resulted in a lack of tension that did not add up to the “compelling” that is needed to provoke a request for more material.

I think B needs to look to her later narrative for a gripping opening—the clues are obvious: action; conflict; questions being raised right and left. The exposition and backstory can be woven in after she gets the story running.

Thanks, B, for sharing your work. I hope this has helped you.

For what it’s worth.

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.

Edit: terseness shortchanges mood

The prologue to Judith's novel is below. Give it a read, then see what I think.

Stralsund, June, 1990

All this cloak and dagger stuff is stupid, he thought as he nursed a few beers while he waited for night to fall. With Midsummer approaching, the daylight lingered on like an unwanted guest. Night, when it came, was inky, perhaps from the faint mist hovering over the harbor. He left the Goldenen Anker and walked toward the abandoned grain elevators, with his footsteps echoing down the wooden platform. Lonely sound. Not a soul around.

Eintritt Verboten signs were plastered on the bricks and the boarded up windows. "No Trespassing." If the police patrol came along, how would he explain his presence?

Wanting a cigarette, he waited in the shadows. After this interview, which was bound to go badly, he would visit his sister in Hildesheim. He hadn't been back since their mother died. Ten years. It would be nice to get home again. He would walk around town like a tourist, admiring the half-timbered houses. The ancient white rosebush growing on the cathedral would be blooming. They called it the Millennium Rose. More than a thousand years of blossoms. Now that was something technology couldn't produce.

Even in the gloom, he recognized the man walking to meet him, the "Back Office" as he insisted on being called. The code names were even stupider than the rendezvous spots. He was "the Go-Getter." Goodborn was "the AWOL." That at least fit.

The Back Office didn't bother to shake hands, but flicked on a small flashlight for an instant, muttered "in here," and pushed open a door into a chill black space. Somewhere up in the cavernous ceiling, the moonlight filtered down through a small grilled window.

"Your report, please."

"He won't come home. He certainly won't give it back. He called me a 'weaselly asshole,' and told me to get lost. He said his new friends would kick my butt all the way back to the States." He took a deep breath and braced himself for the unpleasantness to follow.

The Back Office had begun to pace around in the dark.

"Is that all?"

"It's enough for me. He sounded very determined."

"The woman?"

"She wasn't mentioned. I didn't ask."

The Back Office continued to pace. The soft tread on the old floorboards sounded like the man was behind him. The pacing stopped. There was a pause. He felt a pang of fear.
It happened quickly. A rough hand yanked him by the hair and he felt a sharp stab of pain in his throat. He was falling and trying to grab his neck. In the moment of death he still traveled to Hildesheim to visit the old cathedral with the white roses sprawling against the apse.

Caveat: my cuts, additions, and comments are suggestions, not facts, to be used or discarded by the writer.

Juditn's writing is "clean," missing the grammatical and punctuation errors I so often see. Not many line edits here -- but plenty of comments. I thought her prologue missed opportunities to create mood and setting.

Stralsund, June, 1990 This sounds foreign, but isn't necessarily so -- include the country?

All this cloak and dagger stuff is stupid, he thought as he nursed a few beers while he waited for night to fall. For me, too much crammed into this sentence. Also, this means that he had just this one thought while nursing a few beers. Better, I think, to break it up. Thought-starter: All this cloak-and-dagger stuff is stupid. He nursed his beer, the fifth since he'd been waiting for night to come. With Midsummer approaching, the daylight lingered on like an unwanted guest. I think there's a voice problem here. The phrasing in the character's thought evokes a fairly crude man, but this sentence has much more elegant language. I feel that all the narrative, including exposition such as this, should reflect the voice of the character. He wouldn't think in this nicer, more delicate way, with words such as "lingered." Also, you're cramming hours of waiting into three sentences here. I wonder if it wouldn't be more effective to begin with action. Thought-starter: He stepped into the night, the darkness inky from the harbor mist. All this cloak and dagger stuff was stupid. He walked toward the abandoned grain elevators, wondering if he'd nursed one too many beers as he waited for night to fall. His footsteps echoed…etc. Night, when it came, was inky, perhaps from the faint mist hovering over the harbor. why "perhaps?" unless the inkiness does not come from another cause, this raises doubt in the reader's mind. Unless there is another cause, why not be definite? Thought-starter: The faint mist hovering over the harbor turned the night inky when it finally arrived. He left the Goldenen Anker and walked toward the abandoned grain elevators, with; his footsteps echoing echoed down the wooden platform. What "wooden platform?" A dock? Not clear. Lonely sound. Not a soul around.

Eintritt Verboten signs were plastered on the bricks and the boarded-up windows. "No Trespassing." If the police patrol came along, how would he explain his presence?

Wanting a cigarette, he waited in the shadows. Are there lots of street lights? if so, need to mention them so that shadows makes sense -- the night has been described as "inky," which suggests totally black darkness. After this interview, which was bound to go badly, Good foreshadowing and characterization he would visit his sister in Hildesheim. He hadn't been back since their mother died. Ten years. It would be nice to get home again. Suggest delete this sentence -- the rest of the narrative lets me know he thinks it will be nice. He would walk around town like a tourist, admiring the half-timbered houses. The ancient white rosebush growing on the cathedral would be blooming. They called it the Millennium Rose. More than a thousand years of blossoms. Now that was something technology couldn't produce. Since none of the rest of the prologue relates to technology, is this needed?

Even in the gloom, he recognized the man The night has been described as inky, and "gloom" implies light of some sort. Also, without light he couldn't see well enough to recognize the man. walking to meet him, the "Back Office" as he insisted on being called. The code names were even stupider than the rendezvous spots. He was "the Go-Getter." Goodborn was "the AWOL." That at least fit.

The Back Office didn't bother to shake hands, but flicked on a small flashlight for an instant, Did he aim the flashlight at the narrator's face? I would think so, but you need to say so. The narrator would react to light in his dark-adapted eyes, and resent it, I think. Also, I would break this sentence up into two. muttered "In here," and pushed open a door into a chill black space. Maybe more specifics to help give a picture. Is this an abandoned grain elevator? If so, let the reader know, i.e. …a door into the chill black space of an empty grain elevator. What about smell? A musty odor of old grain? Somewhere up in the cavernous ceiling, the moonlight filtered down through a small grilled window. The moonlight would only illuminate a small area of the floor.

"Your report, please."

"He won't come home. He certainly won't give it back. He called me a 'weaselly asshole,' and told me to get lost. He said his new friends would kick my butt all the way back to the States." He took a deep breath and braced himself for the unpleasantness to follow.

The Back Office had begun to pacedaround in the dark. "Is that all?"

"It's enough for me. He sounded very determined."

"The woman?"

"She wasn't mentioned. I didn't ask."

The Back Office continued to pace. The His soft tread on the old floorboards sounded like the man was behind him. The pacing stopped. There was a pause. He felt a pang of fear. I think this could be a little more clear and crisp. i.e: The Back Office paced in a circle, his tread soft on the old floorboards. He Go-Getter felt a pang of fear when he heard the pacing stop behind him.

It happened quickly. A rough hand yanked him by the hair and he felt a sharp stab "sharp stab" is redundant, a stab being sharp by its very nature. Suggest delete "sharp" of pain in his throat. He was falling and trying to grab his neck. if his throat has just been cut he would be able to grab his neck, perhaps feel the blood coming from it. In the moment of death he still traveled to Hildesheim to visit the old cathedral with the white roses sprawling against the apse. To me this last sentence is not credible. His thoughts would be terror and focused on the betrayal.

I suspect Judith didn't write this scene from inside this "throwaway" character's pov, and that's why mood and description are less than they could be.

Ray

Dealing with details, character depth, and tension

Cecelia sent the opening chapter of her novel and writes:

1. How to make details enrichment and not boring?
2. How to add tension to a story without making it unreal?
3. How to add depth to characters without slowing the plot?

Here's how the narrative opens:

Allison could sense something was wrong all the way to the roots of her fur. This is the first time I've been in the game room since coming home and it's already mid hot season. Perhaps after the ritual Dad will let me stay with Kim and Jeff? He seems to be concerned about something…

Why would he keep me working at his study-link for half the hot season? Something has to be wrong, but what?

She stretched, trying to ease her neck and shoulders that ached from the long hours at the study-link. While waiting for Kim and Jeff to begin, she looked around the game room and noticed the sunbeams from Orus, the lesser sun, still played on the wooden floor. There's hours to go before Khylus rises and bedtime, she thought. Her eyes continued to travel across the room  pausing to watch the bright fish swimming around the screen of the children's study-link, in one corner of the large room.

Her gaze returned to the two boys. They were still walking up and down near the far wall, imitating the Trayreligan star explorers who had become lost in the vastness of space, while looking for a new world. They had landed on this planet, which they named Unreligus, in the cool season and found the climate pleasant, but the planet swung around on its orbit closer to the larger sun. As the weather turned unbearably hot even the rain became dangerous. The hot rainstorms had already killed several of the Trayreligans and it was crucial for them to find shelter.

Allison knew the story well. She knew it was important to remember these things, but her mind was still occupied with the reports from Earth. They were mostly the work of one man, Ambassador Seekay. The reports gave Allison a frustratingly one-sided view point of Earth culture. She wished that Earth were a part of the Allig communication network or at least had sent more books on Earth's culture to Unreligus but all the transports were kept busy supplying the eight star systems. Again she stretched to ease her aching shoulders as she watched her two young brothers walk away from each other. She kept her eyes away from her parents who were observing the ritual from near the doorway.

She became aware of Kim and Jeff standing in different corners of the games room and ready to start the next stage of the ritual, she sighed and gathered her quiet thoughts, Dad kept me studying for so long I was starting to think that we would never celebrate the middle of the hot season. For as long as I can remember, when Unreligus was between the two suns we've performed this ritual. First Mum was the mirror tree and I was the Trayreligan. Now it's my turn to spread my arms to shelter Kim and Jeff from the worst of hot season weather.

Allison spread her arms out. Allowing her blond hair and bodyfur to flow about her as she pretended to be the mirrortree, which would keep hot rain from cooking those beneath it. Jeff saw her movement and took it as a signal to start reciting.

I'm going to do something a little differently with this sample and go for a little "show" rather than "tell" to illustrate how I'd handle Cecilia's questions 1 and 3. Rather than do edits, here's a quick rewrite that strives to keep the author's voice but streamlines the narrative, followed by notes and thoughts.

Allison sensed something was wrong all the way to the roots of her fur. She glanced at her parents, standing in the game room doorway and watching her younger brothers begin the ritual. Dad seemed calm, but why'd he had her studying Earth for half the hot season?

She stretched to ease the ache in her neck and shoulders from long hours at the study-link. Sunbeams from Orus, the lesser sun, played on the wooden floor. There were hours to go before bedtime, when Khylus rose. Bright screensaver fish swam on the children's study-link in another corner of the room.

Kim and Jeff walked back and forth near a wall, imitating the Trayreligan explorers who had become lost in space and landed on this planet, which they named Unreligus, in the cool season. The climate had been pleasant but, when Unreligus swung closer to the larger of the two suns, the weather turned lethal. Boiling rainstorms had killed several Trayreligans, and it was crucial for them to find shelter.

The boys walked to different corners of the game room, ready to start the next stage of the ritual. Allison spread her arms, allowing her blond hair and body fur to flow about her as she pretended to be a mirrortree that would keep hot rain from cooking those beneath it. The boys began reciting.

I've condensed and cut 533 words into 224 to pick up the pace yet, I hope, remained true to the author's intent. I felt there were too many informational "asides" that could be deferred, and there was a need to set the scene and get the reader involved with what was happening.

Some notes:

• I felt the scene needed a little more setting, thus the additions to the opening paragraph. And I still don't think there's quite enough of a picture being generated.
• The planet name "Unreligus" became "unreligious" in my mind…is the similarity intentional? If not, might want to change it, it could be distracting or create unwanted expectations.
• 3rd paragraph: seems illogical that the explorers would need to find shelter if they had space ships to get into. But it would make sense if they had had time enough for the population to outgrow the shelter of the ships.
• I moved the parents to the doorway at the opening of the scene -- it's a bit of a cheat to introduce them later.
• I think the ideal time to describe the parents (the mother is an Earth human) is in the opening. Thought-starter: Dad seemed calm, his brown fur unruffled -- but why'd he had her studying Earth for half the hot season? Mum's expression, easy to read in the furless face given her by pure Earth ancestry, was all motherly affection.
• Thoughts can be done with interior monologue rather than using italics.
• "Her eyes continued to travel across the room" -- nope, not unless they left her head. But her gaze can travel.
• Continuity problem: 3rd paragraph has her waiting for the boys to begin, yet the next paragraph has them "still walking" in imitation of the explorers in the ritual story. Seems contradictory. Also: having them walk "up and down" caused me to, on the first read, imagine them going up the wall and down it. That's why I changed it to back and forth.
• I cut the paragraph about the ambassador's reports to move to later in order to draw the reader more firmly into this interesting new world.
  

As for the remaining point, how to add tension: I think that, in science fiction, readers allow authors a little more time to set up and establish the world that they are visiting. I think Cecilia does a nice job of unobtrusively creating otherworldliness in her narrative. The opening paragraph, especially as revised, does promise trouble and creates some tension.

That said, and having read the rest of the chapter, which finishes the ritual and then has Allison giving her brothers lessons in telekinesis, does not reach a compelling (i.e "gotta read more") level of tension. There is no conflict, nor a promise of jeopardy that will directly affect Allison. I suspect that, were I to see more of Cecilia's manuscript, I'd find an action/peril-oriented scene that would be the opening hook needed. The rest of the material, I'm certain, can be woven in at other spots.

For what it's worth.

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

Toiling in the lands of the blind and tone-deaf

Let's face it, many first-time novelists (and I, most assuredly, once bore that label) live in the Land of the Blind. We work our way to a completed manuscript by feel. And it feels good.

To us, being blind is the way things are. We have no clue about what vision can reveal because we have no concept of vision. We had a story in our heads and, as nearly as we can see, it's right there on the paper. But, you see, we can't see.

We might give our manuscript to another group of fellow land-of-the-blind denizens, readers. They might be family, friends, fellow first-timers, or even more qualified people. But they're still blind. They can only give us input on how our manuscript feels.

One of my clients said this:

"I was using friends as editors, all of them people with some knowledge of storytelling-an actress, a business magazine editor, an amateur writer and an English teacher. I thought that would cover the spectrum of problems I might create in my story.

"I did get good comments, but the criticism was not very constructive. All my friends felt there was 'something missing,' or 'something is not working.' While I knew they were right, I didn't know exactly what was bothering us."

Cliché alert: the blind leading the blind. Have you been there?

With work (lots of studying, writing, critiques…), some of us get one eye open and become the One-Eyed Writer in the Land of the Blind. Our vision isn't perfect, being monocular, but at least we have a shot at seeing some of the flaws in our stories and in those of others. Our one-eyedness comes from being subjective creatures, unable to know all and see all because our other eye is covered up by personal filters and lack of perfect knowledge.

One-eyed writers sometimes also turn into editors. And they learn ways to help their blind compatriots to see shortcomings in storytelling and craft that chain their stories to the page and prevent them from springing to life in the minds of readers. I can tell you that it's very satisfying work. My client again, about my editing:

". . .pinpointed difficulties in the story, but the best part was specific proposals of how to remedy the problems, suggestions that allowed me to move from where I was stuck and take the story to a higher level."

But vision isn't the only ability writers need to succeed: in the land of music it's called "pitch." Writers need good, if not perfect, "pitch" for the rendering of written narrative. I've seen reports that linguistic ability can be genetically influenced, and I know that all my life I've been helped by an innate sense of pitch for the sound and rhythm of both spoken and written narrative. Where to put the commas, for example, and how to arrange verbs and nouns to achieve both clarity and impact.

Unfortunately, as I'm sure agents and other editors will tell you, many first-time novelists are not only blind but tone-deaf, too. Right now I'm struggling with what to say to a couple of writers who have sent sample chapters because they're interested in an edit.

I see pages of comma faults, for example, where words just string out, with no modulation for pace or meaning. Here's a sample (modified for content but structure maintained):

A gate opened and a cop came out peering in their direction continuing on to the street.

My basic fee for editing this novel would be about $1,400, a sum my bank account would be delighted to see. And this is clearly a writer in need -- I'd have to charge more if I took it on. But here's what I won't say: "Sure. I'll edit your manuscript." I hope to find a gentle way to decline the opportunity and still help this writer.

I don't want to take on the job because I don't know how to cure linguistic tone-deafness. Oh, there are rules that could be cited, but this reaches deeper than rules or craft. It's a matter of talent. Like pitch. You have it or you don't.

I can help a writer to "see" on storytelling and craft issues. As my clients know, my edits are filled with comments that not only spell out the nature of shortcomings, but also suggest ways to deal with them. But how do you teach a singer to sing on key if the biological/mental ability to do it just isn't there?

I respect ALL writers who have the gumption to complete a manuscript. It's huge. But first-timers can't stop there and plunge into submitting their stories. I feel sorry for those who never seek out a one-eyed person to show them the way to a living story, those who don't know that they're blind. Those people, though, can still control their writerly destinies by changing their ways and finding an expert, fresh eye to open theirs.

The ones I despair for are writers who, blindness and all, have created manuscripts that fail on the even more basic level of language. What can I say to them? "I'm sorry?" That's no help. "You've spent countless hours creating something that, at the professional level, is fundamentally unreadable?" No. What's the kindest thing to do, go easy on their feelings and soft-pedal the message? Or, like a good doctor, tell them the bitter truth about their incurable disease?

To complicate matters, I still have to deal with the fact that I'm subjective. Who am I to pronounce a death sentence? Maybe there's another surgeon down the hall with a cure for tone-deafness. Maybe it's a combination…I'm sorry, I can't help you because I think…etc. Maybe, baby…

I'm wondering, why this post? I guess it's just my way of wrestling with this issue out loud. But maybe it's also a way of letting you know about the reality of what agents and freelance editors and slush-pile readers who receive manuscripts unscreened by any criteria of professionalism have to deal with, day after day. Maybe those form-letter, "it's not for me" rejections are the only way empathetic agents and editors can deal with it. But it's a quandary -- can I leave a disabled writer to continue wandering, searching, alone, blind? Maybe this post is my way of saying to writers, walk in the shoes of agents and editors before decrying the way they must, necessarily, decline your work.

For what it's worth.

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: fun, interesting, but…

Give this a read, then I'll line-edit and evaluate how well it works as the opening two pages of a novel manuscript. This is from Kathy. Thanks, Kathy.

"Amame, como nunca has amado a nadie," she whispered.

He touched his lips to hers. Their eyelids melted in unison as the moonlight draped across their naked bodies. He couldn't resist. His hands quivered as he followed the silhouette of her shape that had more curves than an airborne lasso. "Esta noche…sera' imposible de olvidar…" he panted as he clenched her meaty hips, ready to devour a fleshy cheek. Instead he gripped her dainty waist, pulled himself up, opened his mouth and …

"Oh my GOD! This is soooo corny…" Star squealed in disbelief. She laughed uncontrollably, covered her face with her hands and shook her head as if she had just been showered with a bucket of confetti. The gigglefest simmered to a shaky smirk and she peeked over her shoulder. She didn't want anyone to see her ogle at the latest issue of El Solitaro: Jinete Sin Fronteras. She didn't understand the Spanish conversation bubbles, but she did know it was a juicy, racy and deliciously nasty Mexican romance comic - and it was chock full of lusting couples going at it.

"Woo hoo! What a way to kick start a Thursday morning!" she thought.

Star squirmed in her chair and turned the five-inch page to see the rest of the full-on nookie fiesta that took place at the top of a lush grassy meadow.

"This is so vulgar! Obscene! Beyond filthy!...And I love it, muy perfecto!" she thought, just as her dreadlocked dad tapped his knuckle on the purple molding that framed her doorway. The abrupt interruption startled her enough to drop the comic.

"Why does he always have to pop in at the worst possible moment? My love life has been on hold for three years, I need to finish this shrine to give to Diego, like right NOW! " she thought.

"Estrella, please…it's not even 7," he shouted over the bouncy Bollywood soundtrack that pumped from her stereo speakers. He tugged his tie-dyed tank over his head and continued. "I'm all for Indian pop songs, but not before I've had my double shot of Sumatra. Respeto?"

Star slid the dirty comic under the army green matte board that lined her art table. Eee gads. Hopefully his eyes were too gunked up with goop to notice her scandalous periodical. Oh, who cares?

"Hey, Daddy? What does Amame como nunca has amado a nadie mean?"

He approached her table and lifted her face that glowed with a café con leche complexion. It was one of an unblemished ingénue. One that had yet to experience tragedy, heartache or even sorrow. Well, except when she was 12 and her pet turtle, Ozzy, met his demise in a bucket of New Year's Eve menudo.

The opening paragraphs grabbed me and I enjoyed reading them. The narrator's bouncy, energetic voice is great fun and entirely enjoyable. First a little line editing, and then my thoughts on this as an opening. Caveat: all any editor can offer is opinion -- my cuts, additions, and comments are suggestions, not facts, to be used or discarded by the writer.

"Amame, como nunca has amado a nadie, " she whispered.

He touched his lips to hers. Their eyelids melted in unison as the moonlight draped across their naked bodies. He couldn't resist. His hands quivered as he followed the silhouette of her shape that had more curves than an airborne lasso. "Esta noche…sera' imposible de olvidar…" he panted as he clenched her meaty hips, ready to devour a fleshy cheek. Instead he gripped her dainty waist, pulled himself up, opened his mouth and …

Star squealed, "Oh my GOD! This is sooo corny." …" Star squealed in disbelief. She laughed uncontrollably, (I've never been able to picture what "uncontrollably" means. Show behavior that illustrates what's happening.) covered her face with her hands and shook her head as if she had just been showered with a bucket of confetti. The gigglefest ("gigglefest" is fun, but doesn't seem like uncontrollable laughter to me) simmered to a shaky smirk and she peeked over her shoulder. She didn't want anyone to see her ogle at the latest issue of El Solitaro: Jinete Sin Fronteras. She didn't understand the Spanish conversation bubbles dialogue balloons(that's what they're called), but she did know it was a juicy, racy and deliciously nasty Mexican romance comic - and it was chock full of lusting couples going at it.

(Big logic flaw. This is a Spanish comic. The narrator doesn't understand the dialogue balloons. So where does the purple English prose describing the action come from? Has to be the narrator. So it reads like a bad romance, which is what I found so much fun, but it turns out that it's not. I don't know how to solve this, but it took me right out of the story.)

"Woo hoo! What a way to kick start a Thursday morning! " she thought. (For internal monologue, I think it's much smoother to just put the thoughts -- in the same tense as the narrative -- without using "she thought" or quotation marks. And using quotes makes it the same as dialogue, which would be confusing.)

Star squirmed in her chair and turned the five-inch page to see the rest of the full-on nookie fiesta (Love this!) that took place at the top of a lush grassy meadow.

"This is so vulgar! Obscene! Beyond filthy!...And I love it, muy perfecto!" she thought, just as her dreadlocked dad tapped his knuckle on the purple molding that framed her doorway. The abrupt interruption startled her enough to drop the comic.

(How I'd do this paragraph: It was so vulgar! Obscene! Beyone filthy! Mui perfecto!) (and then, to avoid a clumsy "as" construction: Her dad tapped his knuckle on the purple molding that framed her doorway. Startled, she dropped the comic. I cut "dreadlocked" because she's not looking at her dad.)

"Why doesdid he always have to pop in at the worst possible moment? MyHer love life has had been on hold for three years, Ishe needed to finish this shrine to give to Diego, like right NOW! " she thought.

"Estrella, please…it's not even 7seven(spell out numbers below 100)," he shouted over the bouncy Bollywood soundtrack that pumpinged from her stereo speakers. He tugged his tie-dyed tank over his headdreadlocks and continued. "I'm all for Indian pop songs, but not before I've had my double shot of Sumatra. Respeto?"

He approached her table and lifted her face that glowed with a café con leche complexion. It was one of an unblemished ingénue. One that had yet to experience tragedy, heartache or even sorrow. (Suddenly we're out of her head for a description. This is bad form for close 3rd person, which the author is using. Need to find another way to describe her) Well, except when she was 12twelve and her pet turtle, Ozzy, met his demise in a bucket of New Year's Eve menudo. (When you use foreign words that are not commonly known or given meaning by the context, you should include a translation. Let's say "menudo" means "barf." In this case, you would write… a bucket of New Year's Eve menudo, barf. I looked menudo up in two online dictionaries and was informed that it means "slight." So this makes no sense whatsoever -- if the writer means a colloquial meaning for the word, it's even more important to include the meaning.)

As the opening of a novel, a strong start (except for the logic problem), but in the 2 pages that are posted here, no tension develops. No sign of any kind of problem for Estrella. So, while this opens with something happening and a strong voice (good), what is happening, as far as the protagonist is concerned, is benign (bad, from a hook point of view). I'm sure that later on the true, involving, compelling opening to this story is there. Kathy needs to pinpoint that and begin with it.

For what it's worth.

---

I'm still wanting your help with a novel. Please. I've sprouted doubts about the opening chapter of one of my novels...I'm thinking maybe I should cut it and start with Chapter 2. But then, I had good reasons for Chapter 1. So.... if you could spare a few minutes, how about reading the first 4 chapters (posted on my editing website) and giving me your opinion? Should I keep Chapter 1? Lose Chapter 1? Keep it but find a way to do it later? Any other feedback will, of course, be entirely welcome. To help out, please go here when done with today's post. Thanks.

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.

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© 2005 Ray Rhamey