Category: First Page Critiques

First Page Friday #17: Crime Mystery

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Just a reminder everyone: My wedding reception is tonight and I am leaving on my honeymoon! So if you email me or leave a comment that needs approved (anyone who hasn’t commented before), you won’t hear back from me until the first week of February.  Thanks!

Crime Mystery First 500 – Renee Thomas

Tempest McAllister sat in her bedroom starring into space. She was covered in blood and her husband lay dead beside her bed with a knife in his heart. She had stabbed him eighteen times. After the third or fourth stab, he had been dead, but she had kept stabbing him until she was too tired to lift the knife anymore. She had loved the feeling of Jack’s blood, so hot, gushing over her hands. She had smeared it all over herself.Tempest was sitting in the same place when the maid arrived the next morning. Rosalita walked into the bedroom and started screaming. She could see that Jack was dead, and it looked as if Tempest was, too. She went to the phone and quickly called the police. Rosalita was standing on the front porch when they arrived. She led them upstairs to the bedroom where they found Tempest staring down at her bloody hands.“Oh my God! She is alive! I thought she was dead. The way she was staring out into space I…” Rosalita cried.

“Rosalita, what is going on? What happened? Why am I covered in blood?” Tempest asked.

Tempest turned and saw Jack’s body. She began to scream. She crouched down beside him. “Jack? Jack wake up! Come on baby. Wake up please! Please Jack, wake up!” She began shaking him.

“Mrs. McAllister, would you please come with us? We would like to as you a few questions,” the officer stated.

“What? Why? I can’t…I can’t leave him alone.”

“Mrs. McAllister, please.” He held out his hand and gestured for her to follow him. Tempest stood and reluctantly walked out of the bedroom glancing back at Jack as she left.

Tempest was released five hours later. She was taken to her parents’ house because her own home was overrun with police. She had been asked all types of questions about her relationship with her husband. Had they had any arguments recently? Was she upset with him for any reason? Was either of them having an affair? She had answered all of their questions, and they finally released her with a cold, “Don’t leave town.”

Tempest knew that they thought she had killed her husband. When they arrived at her parents’ home, the police talked to them in private, and then they left. Tempest went up to her bedroom to lie down. She wrapped her arms around her knees and began to rock. Her parents came in and stood staring at her.

“I really do not want to talk about this right now,” Tempest said before they had a chance to speak.

 “But Tempest, they said you killed Jack,” her mother said exasperatedly.

“I did not kill my husband! I would not do that. I love Jack.”

Mrs. Lucas turned away. “Tempest you were the only one there and you were covered in his blood. How do you explain that?” her father asked.

“I don’t know, daddy. Do either of you think I killed Jack?”

Her mother didn’t reply, and her dad hesitated before saying, “Of course we don’t think you killed Jack. We just want all of this to be over.”

Reader Participation – What Do You Think?

Before reading my take on this novel opening, please take a moment to record your thoughts in the poll below.

Your thoughtful critiques and suggestions for the writer are also welcome in the comments section. Explaining your vote gives the author even more insight into where they’re hitting the mark and where they can improve.

The Writeditor’s Feedback

 Critique Key

Original Text is in italics.

Red is text I recommend removing.

Green is text I recommend adding.

Blue are my comments.

Crime Mystery First 500 – Renee Thomas

Tempest McAllister sat in her bedroom starring into space. She was covered in blood and her husband lay dead beside her bed with a knife in his heart. She had stabbed him eighteen times. After the third or fourth stab, he had been dead, but she had kept stabbing him until she was too tired to lift the knife anymore. She had loved the feeling of Jack’s blood, so hot, gushing over her hands. She had smeared it all over herself. < When you could show this as an actual scene – intense, evocative, frightening even – it doesn’t make sense to write it as a summary of what happened in the past. Put the reader in the moment and let us watch this scene unfold and experience her feelings as she experiences it. As is, this isn’t reeling me in. 

Tempest was sitting in the same place when the maid arrived the next morning. Rosalita walked into the bedroom and started screaming. She could see that Jack was dead, < Try to describe this more evocatively. How does she know he’s dead? What does he look like? Make us feel the terror that Rosalita is feeling. Don’t just tell us that she could see that he was dead. Show us why and how. and it looked as if Tempest was, too. She went to the phone and quickly called the police. Rosalita was standing on the front porch when they arrived. She led them upstairs to the bedroom where they found Tempest staring down at her bloody hands.

“Oh my God! She is alive! I thought she was dead. The way she was staring out into space I…” Rosalita cried. < This line of dialogue doesn’t add anything. It points out what the reader already knows (that Tempest is alive and that Rosalita thought she was dead.).

“Rosalita, what is going on? What happened? Why am I covered in blood?” Tempest asked. < Give Tempest more presence – what is she physically doing? What is her facial expression?

Tempest turned and saw Jack’s body. She began to scream. She crouched down beside him. “Jack? Jack wake up! < The name and line of dialogue reminds me of Titanic too much. Come on baby. Wake up please! Please Jack, wake up!” She began shaking him.

“Mrs. McAllister, would you please come with us? We would like to ask you a few questions,” the officer stated.

“What? Why? I can’t…I can’t leave him alone.”

“Mrs. McAllister, please.” He held out his hand and gestured for her to follow him. Tempest stood and reluctantly walked out of the bedroom glancing back at Jack as she left.

Tempest was released five hours later. She was taken to her parents’ house because her own home was overrun with police. She had been asked all types of questions about her relationship with her husband. Had they had any arguments recently? Was she upset with him for any reason? Was either of them having an affair? She had answered all of their questions, and they finally released her with a cold, “Don’t leave town.” < If you are summarizing what’s happening, then it leads me to believe you’re not starting this story at the right point. Put the reader in a scene and let it unfold to lure them into the story, don’t summarize.

Tempest knew that they thought she had killed her husband. When they arrived at her parents’ home, the police talked to them in private, and then they left. Tempest went up to her bedroom to lie down. She wrapped her arms around her knees and began to rock. Her parents came in and stood staring at her.

“I really do not want to talk about this right now,” Tempest said before they had a chance to speak. < I would expect her to be more hysterical than this.

“But Tempest, they said you killed Jack,” her mother said exasperatedly. < I think she would be way more than just “exasperated.”

“I did not kill my husband! I would not do that. I love Jack.” < This feels like canned dialogue. It doesn’t read as unique or natural.

Mrs. Lucas turned away. “Tempest you were the only one there and you were covered in his blood. How do you explain that?” her father asked. < That doesn’t seem like a natural response. Wouldn’t he first ask what had happened – if she saw the killer, walked in on Jack already dead, etc.?

“I don’t know, daddy. Do either of you think I killed Jack?”

Her mother didn’t reply, and her dad hesitated before saying, “Of course we don’t think you killed Jack. We just want all of this to be over.”

My Overall Thoughts

There’s nothing that makes this opening stand out from the crowd in terms of plot (so far) or writing style. Figure out what it is that makes your story unique and put at least a hint of that in the opening page. Remember that this is your first (and possibly only) impression with agents, editors, and readers.

Key Places to Improve:

  • Try to show more and tell less. Most of this opening page just summarizes what happened or is happening. You aren’t lingering long enough to create an evocative scene for the reader. Focus on details that help paint a larger picture.
  • Use more descriptions of everything. Who is Tempest? Is she middle aged? A twenty-something? Does she have any interesting personality traits you could bring across right away? What does the bedroom look like? What does her parents’ house look like? You don’t need a ton of descriptions, just a few things here and there will go a long way towards making the story come alive.
  • Your dialogue comes across as a bit cliche and unnatural. This is common in beginners. Try to step into each of your characters’ shoes and imagine how they are feeling and what they might say. Really think about it to come up with authentic sounding dialogue.
  • Right now you are writing this story in a very distant omniscient. I don’t think that’s doing you any favors because it’s keeping the reader far away from Tempest’s point of view. An alternative that would likely improve the story would be to tell this in first person or third limited (for more on using third limited, read Developing a Solid Third Person Point of View). Either of those perspectives would allow you to stay tight on what Tempest is feeling – her confusion, fear, heartbreak, etc. instead of constantly pulling back away from her in omniscient. (Note that omniscient is not always distancing, but it takes most writers years to develop a “closer” omniscient point of view.)

The Writeditor’s Grade (out of 5): 1

As hard as it is to hear that your writing isn’t there yet, I want to be as honest with you as I am with my clients. You really need to spend more time learning the basics of creative writing, especially how to show instead of tell. Once you learn that, you will see that your writing quickly improves. Don’t give up! It takes a lot of time and education to become a great writer. You may want to check out my Ultimate Guide to Writing & Editing a Novel, which is where I organize all my blog posts and videos for easy reference. Practice, practice, practice and you will get there. Good luck!

A note on the grading scale: The rating of the first chapter does not indicate the rating of the novel as a whole nor does it indicate the writer’s overall ability.

Submit to First Page Friday – (currently booking second week of March and beyond)

If you’d like to submit your novel for First Page Friday, please send the following to ellenbrock@keytopservices.com:

  • The name you want me to use in the blog post (real name, alias, or anonymous).
  • The genre of your novel.
  • The first 500 words (give or take, don’t stop in the middle of a sentence) pasted into the body of the email.
  • Any links (Twitter, Blog, Goodreads, etc.) that you’d like included in the post (not required).

Please do not submit if you are not okay with your first page being posted, critiqued, and edited on my website.

About the Editor

Ellen Brock (AKA The Writeditor) is a freelance novel editor who works with self-publishing and traditionally publishing authors as well as e-publishers and small presses. She owns the editing company Keytop Services and the writing and editing blog The Writeditor. When not editing, she enjoys reading, writing, and geocaching. Check out her freelance novel editing services and mentoring.

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First Page Friday #16: Science Fiction

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This week we have our first teen writer on First Page Friday! Aimee is sixteen, so it’s super brave that she’s sharing her work with us today! (:

In case you missed it, I posted a new video this week called How to Spot a Bad Scene or Chapter. Also, please note that I will be gone for the next two Fridays because I will be on my honeymoon! Woohoo! I am scheduling First Page Friday for both of those weeks so hopefully they will go up without a hitch, but if they don’t, I will get them up as soon as I get back.

Just a reminder to all the readers, it’s great when you can leave comments for the author letting her know what you think of the opening! If you catch anything I missed or agree or disagree with my edits, I know the author would appreciate your feedback! Just please be polite to both me and the author. Also, please share this post on Twitter, Facebook, etc. so the author’s feedback can be diverse and plentiful. Thanks!

YA First 500 – Aimee

Bright lights glared in my eyes, and there was a constant soft hum of the whirring machines around me. I tried to shift out of my uncomfortable position, but the binds all over my body were too tight. How long had I been strapped to the cold table? An hour? Ten hours? A day? Every time I was in the Operation Room, it was as if I was in a time warp, unable to determine how much or how little time had passed. I was trapped in a horrible nightmare, unable to escape the never-ending torment I was faced with each day.Oh, how I wished it was just a nightmare.For a long time, the lights were the only thing I knew, and the machines were the only thing to pierce the cold silence. I strained to tilt my head up to survey my surroundings. Out of the corner of my eye, a tiny Asian woman with thin-framed glasses was standing at a table full of macabre instruments. I knew them by heart, and had experience with many of them. My least favorite was a mix of a scimitar and a saw. It had a curved, serrated blade with a long, blood-stained handle.

Dr. Euterpe’s back was to me and the soft ping of glass against fingernail met my ears. She turned and click-clacked towards me with her pointy heels, placing a gloved hand on my shoulder. “Eliana, you’ll be okay,” she said in a pseudo sweet tone. “This is your last injection for the day. You can go back to your room when I’m finished.”

Prison cell was more like it.

The woman pierced my skin with the syringe gun in her hand and I winced. In my peripheral vision the green liquid seeped into my arm, making tingles spread throughout my whole body. Once the syringe was emptied, she pulled it out of my skin and put it back where it belonged. Snapping off her gloves, she switched off the light hanging over my head. I blinked as bright circles entered my vision.

“Well, we’re all finished here for today, Eliana!” the woman bubbled. I groaned at her enthusiasm and she glared at me. “I’ll have Bruce and Octavious bring you back to your room.”

The woman pressed a red button on the wall and sauntered to the sink to cleanse her hands, humming as she did so. A few minutes later, two armed, muscular men strode into the room, hands on their guns. One of the men, Bruce, had a huge scar running down his face, making him much more intimidating than Octavious.

“You called, Dr. Euterpe?” Octavious asked in a gruff voice.

“Would you please escort Eliana back to her room?” the woman asked the men without turning away from the sink. They grunted in response and came to the table I was lying on.

“What nice weather we’re having, huh?” I asked. “Well I wouldn’t know, of course. I’m always locked away in my musty little cell.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at them. They never struck me as smart people. And I was pretty sure they weren’t. They were mindless idiots, always lumbering around like robots and taking orders from people. Only an imbecile would want to work for Paragon Corporations.

Reader Participation – What Do You Think?

Before reading my take on this novel opening, please take a moment to record your thoughts in the poll below.

Your thoughtful critiques and suggestions for the writer are also welcome in the comments section. Explaining your vote gives the author even more insight into where they’re hitting the mark and where they can improve.

The Writeditor’s Feedback

 Critique Key

Original Text is in italics.

Red is text I recommend removing.

Green is text I recommend adding.

Blue are my comments.

YA First 500 – Aimee

Bright lights glared in my eyes, and there was a constant soft hum of from the whirring machines around me. I tried to shift out of my uncomfortable position, < What about the position is uncomfortable? More details here would be nice. but the binds all over my body were too tight. How long had I been strapped to the cold table? An hour? Ten hours? A day? Every time I was in the Operation Room, it was as if I was in a time warp, unable to determine how much or how little time had passed < This is implied by “time warp” and her questioning of how long she’d been there.. I was trapped in a horrible nightmare, < I’d prefer if you could show what is horrible about it. unable to escape the never-ending torment I was faced with each day. < If she knows she is there each day, then it seems like she has a better grasp on how long she’s there than the previous sentences imply.

Oh, how I wished it was just a nightmare.

For a long time, the lights were the only thing I knew, and the machines were the only thing to pierce the cold silence. I strained to tilt my head up to survey my surroundings. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see < Add this or cut “out of the corner of my eye.” Otherwise the wording seems strange. a tiny Asian woman with thin-framed glasses was standing at a table full of macabre <“Macabre” doesn’t seem like the right word to me (it means pertaining to death), but others might disagree. instruments. I knew them by heart, and had experience with many of them. < I don’t think you need this because it’s telling what is already apparent based on the next two sentences. My least favorite was a mix of a scimitar and a saw. It had a curved, serrated blade with a long, blood-stained handle.

Dr. Euterpe’s < Is this the Asian woman or someone else? If she knows the Asian woman’s name, it would probably be clearer for her to use it straight away. back was to me and the soft ping of glass against fingernail met my ears. < What makes this sound? She turned and click-clacked towards me with her pointy heels, placing a gloved hand on my shoulder. “Eliana, you’ll be okay,”  < I think Eliana needs to indicate in some way that she’s not okay. Otherwise, it’s not clear what Dr. Euterpe is responding to. she said in a pseudo sweet tone. “This is your last injection for the day. You can go back to your room when I’m finished.”

Prison cell was more like it.

The woman pierced my skin with the syringe gun in her hand and I winced. In my peripheral vision the green liquid seeped into my arm, making tingles spread throughout my whole body. Once the syringe was emptied, she pulled it out of my skin and put it back where it belonged. Snapping off her gloves, she switched off the light hanging over my head. I blinked as bright circles entered my vision. < “Entered” seems a tad too formal. Perhaps something like “flashed across my vision” would work better? 

“Well, we’re all finished here for today, Eliana!” the woman bubbled. < I didn’t realize the doctor was supposed to be enthusiastic. I’m not exactly sure if she’s faking and is actually malicious or if Eliana just finds her genuine enthusiasm frustrating given the circumstances. I groaned at her enthusiasm and she glared at me. “I’ll have Bruce and Octavious bring you back to your room.”

The woman pressed a red button on the wall and sauntered to the sink to cleanse < “Cleanse” seems a tad too formal. Perhaps “clean” or “wash”? her hands, humming as she did so. A few minutes later, two armed, muscular men strode into the room, hands on their guns. One of the men, Bruce, had a huge scar running down his face, making him much more intimidating than Octavious.

“You called, Dr. Euterpe?” Octavious asked in a gruff voice.

“Would you please escort Eliana back to her room?” the woman asked the men without turning away from the sink. They grunted in response and came to the table I was lying on.

“What nice weather we’re having, huh?” I asked. “Well I wouldn’t know, of course. I’m always locked away in my musty little cell.” < I’m not sure if she’s saying this as a joke or if she’s serious.

I couldn’t help but chuckle at them. They never struck me as smart people. And I was pretty sure they weren’t. They were mindless idiots, always lumbering around like robots and taking orders from people. Only an imbecile would want to work for Paragon Corporations.

My Overall Thoughts

Your voice is good (you said this is science fiction/fantasy, but is it also YA?), and you don’t have any of the major beginner’s issues. So congrats! You started at an interesting place that doesn’t feel contrived or overdone, and you dropped the reader right into the story rather than making them wait to get to the interesting parts. The main thing you could work on is showing more (see below).

Key Places to Improve:

  • Try to show more and tell less. Rather than saying that she is in an uncomfortable position, show this to your reader. For example: “My knees were pressed so hard against the table that the joints ached.” Do you see how that shows the reader that she’s uncomfortable? Showing just means that you let the reader infer what you’re trying to convey (that she’s uncomfortable) rather than outright telling them. This makes for a much more evocative piece of writing.
  • I would like more vivid descriptions of the girl’s surroundings. The blade is described as “blood stained,” which would not be allowed in a clinical environment (they would be steralized and cleaned immediately after use), but the Asian woman was described as a doctor (not a torturer), so I wasn’t sure how to imagine the surroundings. Was it like a hospital or more like a dungeon? It only takes a few well-written sentences to create a much stronger impression of where they are.
  • The intentions behind the lines of dialogue were a bit unclear to me, so I would also work on clarifying the motivations. Was the doctor pretending to be nice to comfort Eliana or to condescend her? Did Eliana tell the guards she never gets out to make them feel bad or was she just trying to make conversation? Clarifying motivations will help give the reader a stronger impression of what’s going on.

The Writeditor’s Grade (out of 5): 3.5

Most of what this opening needs is more details and a bit of clarification. I feel like your writing is competent, easy to read, and doesn’t have an amateur sound to it, which is awesome! Since you’re only sixteen, I do want to mention the piece of the puzzle that First Page Friday doesn’t (and can’t) address: plotting. There’s no indication that you can’t plot (it’s impossible to assess from the first page), but it’s an element of writing that a lot of people forget to study and it can bite them in the butt later. So make sure you work on not just the sound of your writing, but also its content.

If you have any questions or need any clarification, don’t hesitate to ask. Best of luck to you!

A note on the grading scale: The rating of the first chapter does not indicate the rating of the novel as a whole nor does it indicate the writer’s overall ability.

Submit to First Page Friday – (currently booking first week of March and beyond)

If you’d like to submit your novel for First Page Friday, please send the following to ellenbrock@keytopservices.com:

  • The name you want me to use in the blog post (real name, alias, or anonymous).
  • The genre of your novel.
  • The first 500 words (give or take, don’t stop in the middle of a sentence) pasted into the body of the email.
  • Any links (Twitter, Blog, Goodreads, etc.) that you’d like included in the post (not required).

Please do not submit if you are not okay with your first page being posted, critiqued, and edited on my website.

About the Editor

Ellen Brock (AKA The Writeditor) is a freelance novel editor who works with self-publishing and traditionally publishing authors as well as e-publishers and small presses. She owns the editing company Keytop Services and the writing and editing blog The Writeditor. When not editing, she enjoys reading, writing, and geocaching. Check out her freelance novel editing services and mentoring.

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Help First Page Friday be a Success!  Please use the buttons below to share this post. The more views, the more submissions, the more First Page Fridays!

First Page Friday #15: YA Fantasy

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Wow, this is the fourth YA submission in a row!  Not that I’m complaining, I love YA! (:

Just a reminder to all the readers, it’s great when you can leave comments for the author letting her know what you think of the opening! If you catch anything I missed or agree or disagree with my edits, I know the author would appreciate your feedback! Also, please share this post on Twitter, Facebook, etc. so the author’s feedback can be diverse and plentiful. Thanks!

And once again, no matter how many spaces I add between paragraphs, they scrunch together when I publish. Sorry about that!

YA First 500 – Nova Mitchell

The bells of the clock in the high tower of the Order rang, signaling the start of the eighth-hour. The sound traveled down to the basement of the Order and into the stables. I had fallen asleep there in the middle of my morning chores, but the sound jolted me awake from where I was resting against the horses feed sacks that I had put up earlier. Oh no, I thought, Scotia, you’re going to be late. Again. I scrambled to my feet and hastily filled the horses troughs before dashing out the stables. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but when I had, I started to dream. My dream always felt so real and I had a hard time waking from this one. But, there was no time left for dreams. If I didn’t make it to class before the instructor realized I wasn’t there . . . I shuddered to think of what would happen.
I tried not to trip over my own feet as I ran as fast as I could up the staircases and down the hallways, lifting my long and heavy blue skirt up to my knees to allow my legs extra freedom. Aside from the hard slap of my slippers against the stone flooring the only thing I heard were the ending chimes of the hour. I’m not going to make it. I prayed that no one would come out from around a corner and see me running. If a Ma’Tradom, or even a Proxi, caught me I’d be caned for sure. As a Novilite, it was against the rules to run inside the Order unless your life were in immediate danger. This qualified as such a circumstance to me. 
I was out of breath when I reached my classroom on the third floor and spared a few moments to lean against the neighboring wall and breathe. I was already late. The chimes had stopped and I could hear Ma’Tradom Aquali lecturing.
I hated this class. Geokenisis. Out of all the Kenisis offered this was my weakest. Using my skirt to wipe the sweat off my hands I opened the door, but only enough for me to slip inside. Every student had a pot of dirt in front of them on their desk and had their fingers buried up to the knuckles in the soil. The students sat on high stools. Between that and the thin legs of the desk, there was nothing for me to hide behind. The rooms bright light exposed everything and my hope to go unnoticed lessened with every crouching step I took towards an empty desk in the back. 
“Late for class again, Scotia,” Ma’Tradom Aquail said in her cool and condescending voice. 
I froze in place and everyone suddenly turned to look in my direction. Only a few more steps and I would have been at the desk and could have tried to pretend that I had been there the entire time. I turned towards the Ma’Tradom, kneeled and bowed my head to the floor in the way we were taught.

Reader Participation – What Do You Think?

Before reading my take on this novel opening, please take a moment to record your thoughts in the poll below.

Your thoughtful critiques and suggestions for the writer are also welcome in the comments section. Explaining your vote gives the author even more insight into where they’re hitting the mark and where they can improve.

The Writeditor’s Feedback

 Critique Key

Original Text is in italics.

Red is text I recommend removing.

Green is text I recommend adding.

Blue are my comments.

YA First 500 – Nova Mitchell

The bells of the clock in the high tower of the Order rang < As a general rule, avoid using more than two prepositions in a phrase. Three of them together like this reads very awkwardly. , signaling the start of the eighth-hour. The sound traveled down to the basement of the Order and into the stables. < These first two lines read as omniscient, then suddenly in the next line it’s first person, which is a bit jarring and requires the reader to restructure how they’re imagining the story. I suggest opening with lines in your character’s voice, from her perspective. As is, she is narrating the sound before it wakes her up, which doesn’t make sense. I had fallen asleep there in the middle of my morning chores, but the sound jolted me awake from where I was resting against the horses‘ feed sacks that I had put up earlier. Oh no, I thought, Scotia, you’re going to be late. < I’m never a fan of people thinking their own name in thoughts. It has always seemed incredibly unnatural to me. That said, I am not much of a fan of character thoughts in first person as they never seem necessary since it’s already in the character’s voice and from their perspective. Again. I scrambled to my feet and hastily filled the horses‘ troughs before dashing out the stables. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but when I had, I started to dream. < Since dreams as openers are one of the biggest writing cliches, I would not even mention a dream in the first chapter. My dreams always felt so real and I had a hard time waking from this one. But, there was no time left for dreams. If I didn’t make it to class before the instructor realized I wasn’t there . . . I shuddered to think of what would happen. <If you want to create a sense of real stakes here, go ahead and tell the reader what will happen.
This is not to say that you can’t do it, but I just want to point out that opening with a girl being late for class is one of the most common opening scenes in amateur YA novels. In fact, two of the last four YA novels I’ve edited opened with a scene very similar to this one.
I tried not to trip over my own feet as I ran as fast as I could up the staircases and down the hallways, lifting my long and heavy blue skirt up to my knees to allow my legs extra freedom. Aside from the hard slap of my slippers against the stone flooring, the only thing I heard were the ending chimes of the hour. I’m not going to make it. I prayed that no one would come out from around a corner and see me running. If a Ma’Tradom, or even a Proxi, caught me I’d be caned for sure. As a Novilite, it was against the rules to run inside the Order unless your life were in immediate danger. This qualified as such a circumstance to me. 
I was out of breath when I reached my classroom on the third floor and spared a few moments to lean against the neighboring wall and breathe. < It always feels odd to the reader when a character is urgently doing something, only to stop and take a break. If she’s so scared of getting caned, I would think she would want to stumble into the classroom out of breath just to get there a bit earlier. I was already late. The chimes had stopped and I could hear Ma’Tradom Aquali lecturing.
I hated this class. Geokenisis. Out of all the Kenisis offered this was my weakest. Using my skirt to wipe the sweat off my hands, I opened the door, but only enough for me to slip inside. Every student had a pot of dirt in front of them on their desk and had with their fingers buried up to the knuckles in the soil. The students sat on high stools. Between that and the thin legs of the desk, there was nothing for me to hide behind. < I’m a bit confused about what you’re describing here. If the desks had been normal height, wouldn’t they have been harder to hide behind? I imagine all these long skirts up on high stools as creating a much better hiding place (not worse) than a normal classroom. The room‘s bright light exposed everything and my hope to go unnoticed lessened with every crouching step I took towards an empty desk in the back. < I think this needs to be described more clearly. I am imagining her going through a classroom door (which are usually at the front of the class near the teacher’s desk), attracting the attention of everyone, and then crouching as if she can’t be seen. To me, I feel like she would be noticed immediately – the moment she pushes open the door.
“Late for class again, Scotia,” Ma’Tradom Aquail said in her cool and condescending voice.  < Describe this woman. Make her seem real. “Cool and condescending” is the cliche of all teachers in YA. Give her something unique.
I froze in place and everyone suddenly turned to look in my direction. Only a few more steps and I would have been at the desk and could have tried to pretend that I had been there the entire time. I turned towards the Ma’Tradom, kneeled and bowed my head to the floor in the way we were taught.

My Overall Thoughts

While there aren’t any glaring problems, this opening doesn’t make me sit up in my seat and take notice. My guess is that in your head, this is super vivid and exciting, but that vividness is not coming across in your descriptions and word choices.

Key Places to Improve:

  • The characterization feels weak to me. In YA, you want to give the reader an immediate sense of who the protagonist is, but this opening isn’t doing that. She falls asleep doing her chores, but there’s no explanation as to why. Is she more tired than usual? Is she a scatterbrain? Does she not value her education? Was she up so late studying for a big test that she crashed? Give us some characterization. Is this girl a rebel? A good girl? An outcast? Who is she? Give readers some point of identification and some frame of reference for her choices and thoughts.
  • Describe things more vividly. She’s running down the hallways, but what are they like? Is this like a castle? A dungeon? An ordinary school? Are there tall windows? Tapestries on the walls? Posters about “sharing is caring”? What does the place look like?
  • If her being late to class is not integral to the plot (meaning that it doesn’t lead directly into the plot of the novel), I would try to start this in a different place. It helps to show the protagonist being proactive in the opening scene rather than simply reactive.
  • Watch your punctuation. You missed three possessive apostrophes and a few commas.

The Writeditor’s Grade (out of 5): 2.5

I don’t think anyone would have any significant complaints about your writing. You’re not falling into any major beginner’s mistakes, but you’re not creating something that stands out either. This reads too bland, like a polished first draft written before you nailed your character’s voice or fleshed out your story’s world. Focus on what makes this story unique. Focus on who your character is and her emotions.

A note on the grading scale: The rating of the first chapter does not indicate the rating of the novel as a whole nor does it indicate the writer’s overall ability.

Connect with Nova!

Connect with Nova (the author of the first page) on her blog or on Twitter!

Submit to First Page Friday – (currently booking first week of March and beyond)

If you’d like to submit your novel for First Page Friday, please send the following to ellenbrock@keytopservices.com:

  • The name you want me to use in the blog post (real name, alias, or anonymous).
  • The genre of your novel.
  • The first 500 words (give or take, don’t stop in the middle of a sentence) pasted into the body of the email.
  • Any links (Twitter, Blog, Goodreads, etc.) that you’d like included in the post (not required).

Please do not submit if you are not okay with your first page being posted, critiqued, and edited on my website.

About the Editor

Ellen Brock (AKA The Writeditor) is a freelance novel editor who works with self-publishing and traditionally publishing authors as well as e-publishers and small presses. She owns the editing company Keytop Services and the writing and editing blog The Writeditor. When not editing, she enjoys reading, writing, and geocaching. Check out her freelance novel editing services and mentoring.

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First Page Friday #14: YA

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Happy New Year Everyone! I have a good feeling about 2014! I’m ready for an awesome year!

For those who haven’t heard, I am adding a new service option for 2014 – Mentoring! Not only will this allow me to help writers who can’t afford (or aren’t ready for) a full edit, but I am also allowing writers to go in together to purchase enough hours to get high volume discounts! You can check out the details here. I hope this opens up my services to some writers who would not have been able to afford it previously.

And now, without further adieu, this week’s submission:

YA First 500 – Mari

When you’re born and raised in the same town, memories can become sprinkled like grass seed and spring up nearly anywhere. For Haley, every corner she turned she could easily recollect carefree days that she and Kevin had bounded through like rabbits.

During her walk home from school, she looked out over the field and remembered a late afternoon when Kevin ran so far ahead of her. The last of orange sunlight flashed in his eyes as he threw his head back and laughed, but there wasn’t always laughter between them. There were also memories of bruises and scars mapped out on Kevin’s flesh. The very thought of them made Haley’s own skin crawl.

She quickly shook away her thoughts as her eyes moved over her little house. There was nothing unique about it’s the old farm house’s set up or style. And had she not spent every day of her life there, Haley could’ve easily gotten confused.

Out on the front porch, her mother waved her hands frantically in the air.

“Haley!” she called out in her twangy voice. “Come quick!”

Haley’s heartbeat began pounding out of fear as she ran towards her house

“What’s wrong?” she wheezed as she reached the porch steps.

Her mother calmly shook her head. “Nothing, I just need you to watch your dad while I get dinner started.”

Haley dropped her backpack with a loud thud.

“What?!” she shouted. “You had me freaking out, Mom! I thought maybe Dad was dea—”

Her mom quickly cut her off. “Haley, hush!”

Haley placed her hand over her heart attempting to calm herself down.

“Fine,” she sighed. “Where is he?”

“Where he always is,” her mom replied with an irritated wave towards the side of the house.

*

Haley’s dad had begun falling down lately. He’d once been a strong looking man with a sense of determination in his walk, but both the cancer and his treatment made him frail. His doctor told him that it was far more likely he was only going to get worse.

One morning he’d asked his wife to move his rocking chair to the back porch. From then on he would spend every evening sitting out there with a blanket wrapped around his thinning shoulders.

Haley crept around to the back to look at him before making herself known. She could see that his eyes were closed, but by the way he drummed his fingers lightly on the arms of the chair she knew he wasn’t asleep.

She cleared her throat and he slowly opened his eyes to look at her.

“So…what, uh…what are you doing back here?” she asked, not knowing whether she should sit or stand.

It was harder than ever for her to hold a conversation with her father. She even cringed at the sight of his gray face that looked creased in light of the sunset.

“I’m just sitting, Haley,” he replied plainly in his gravelly voice.

Haley’s parents were opposites in nearly every way possible. Her father was very coolheaded, but stern in his ways. Her mother, however, flitted around faster than a hummingbird. Yet without a single word passing between them, it was obvious they shared a great love that not even Haley’s inquisitive mind could figure out.

Reader Participation – What Do You Think?

Before reading my take on this novel opening, please take a moment to record your thoughts in the poll below.

Your thoughtful critiques and suggestions for the writer are also welcome in the comments section. Explaining your vote gives the author even more insight into where they’re hitting the mark and where they can improve.

The Writeditor’s Feedback

 Critique Key

Original Text is in italics.

Red is text I recommend removing.

Green is text I recommend adding.

Blue are my comments.

YA First 500 – Mari

When you’re born and raised in the same town, memories can become sprinkled like grass seed and spring up nearly anywhere. For Haley, every corner she turned she could easily recollect carefree days that she and Kevin had bounded through like rabbits. < Lots of people are born and raised in the same town (most people I would assume), so this isn’t much of a hook. There also isn’t any voice pulling me in, and I am immediately questioning whether this is actually YA (it doesn’t read like it). I am also questioning what the point of view is (omniscient?).

During her walk home from school, she looked out over the field and remembered < You never want to open a novel with a character remembering something. It indicates that you aren’t starting the story somewhere interesting enough to carry the chapter on its own. a late afternoon when Kevin ran so far ahead of her. The last of orange sunlight flashed in his eyes as he threw his head back and laughed, but there wasn’t always laughter between them. There were also memories of bruises and scars mapped out on Kevin’s flesh. The very thought of them made Haley’s own skin crawl. < Her remembering this does not move the plot forward nor is it relevant to what comes next so it feels tacked on just for the sake of conveying information you want the reader to know. It takes time, but writers have to learn ways to “hide” the fact that you’re conveying information.

She quickly shook away her thoughts as her eyes moved over her little house. < You don’t need to explain that a character’s thoughts have shifted in order to move on to different subject matter. There was nothing unique about it’s the old farm house’s set up or style. And had she not spent every day of her life there, Haley could’ve easily gotten confused. <I’m not sure what you mean. What would have made her confused?

Out on the front porch, her mother waved her hands frantically in the air.

“Haley!” she called out in her twangy voice. “Come quick!” < Dialogue should be in the same paragraph as action if it’s by the same character, so combine this line with the previous one.

Haley’s heartbeat began pounding out of fear pounded as she ran towards her house. < “Out of fear” is not needed because it is telling what has already been shown. “Pounded” is stronger than “pounding” because verbs ending in “-ing” are weaker than those ending in “-ed.”

“What’s wrong?” sShe wheezed as she reached the porch steps. < “Wheezed” is not a dialogue tag because you can’t wheeze words, so the “she” should be capitalized. 

Her mother calmly shook her head. “Nothing, I just need you to watch your dad while I get dinner started.” < This feels like a bait and switch. You’ve lured the reader in on the false pretense that something exciting is happening when really this is a totally ordinary day.

Haley dropped her backpack with a loud thud.

“What?!” < Don’t use both an exclamation point and a question mark. she shouted. “You had me freaking out, Mom! I thought maybe Dad was dea—” < This comes across as something a little kid might say (8-11), but not a young adult (14-18).

Her mom quickly cut her off. “Haley, hush!”

Haley placed her hand over her heart attempting to calm herself down.

“Fine,” she sighed. “Where is he?”

“Where he always is,” her mom replied with an irritated wave towards the side of the house. < The dialogue comes across as unnatural, mostly because there doesn’t seem to be logical motivations behind what they’re saying. Why would the mom act so frantic if there wasn’t an emergency? Why would Haley ask where her dad was if he always sits in the same place?

*

Haley’s dad had begun falling down lately. He’d once been a strong looking man with a sense of determination in his walk, but both the cancer and his treatment made him frail. His doctor told him that it was far more likely he was only going to get worse. < This is an info dump. Learn how to avoid info dumps here.

One morning he’d asked his wife to move his rocking chair to the back porch. From then on he would spend every evening sitting out there with a blanket wrapped around his thinning shoulders. < Find ways to show this rather than tell it.

Haley crept around to the back to look at him before making herself known. She could see that his eyes were closed, but by the way he drummed his fingers lightly on the arms of the chair she knew he wasn’t asleep.

She cleared her throat and he slowly opened his eyes to look at her.

“So…what, uh…what are you doing back here?” she asked, not knowing whether she should sit or stand. < Why would she ask this if she knows that her father always sits out there?

It was harder than ever for her to hold a conversation with her father. She even cringed at the sight of his gray face that looked creased in the light of the sunset.

“I’m just sitting, Haley,” he replied plainly in his gravelly voice. < She already knows this and so does the reader, so this conversation should be cut in favor of moving on to new/interesting information.

Haley’s parents were opposites in nearly every way possible. < This feels like the topic has changed too rapidly and without reason or transition. Her father was very coolheaded, but stern in his ways. Her mother, however, flitted around faster than a hummingbird. Yet without a single word passing between them, it was obvious they shared a great love that not even Haley’s inquisitive mind could figure out.

My Overall Thoughts

Overall, the tone is too young for YA. This is a very common problem I see in YA manuscripts (check out last week’s First Page Friday submission for the same issue). The writing style, tone, and Haley’s personality read at an MG level (about 8-11). Whether the content is appropriate for that age group, I would have to read more to find out. I made this video a while back about the differences between YA and MG and I think it will help you.

Key Places to Improve:

  • The bait and switch opening (making it seem like Haley’s mother has a problem but really there isn’t one) is not a good idea. It gives the impression that you cannot create suspense on your own and possibly that you are not starting the book in the right place. To see this issue in someone else’s work, check out First Page Friday #3.
  • Watch out for info dumps. Information should be revealed gradually and naturally, not in big chunks. Also, focus on places where you can show things instead of tell them.
  • Increase the voice. Both YA and MG rely heavily on voice to catch the interest of young readers. There is no indication of voice in this opening, which makes it difficult to latch onto the story or characters. The lines are at times very distancing and pull the reader out of the moment.
  • Think about the dialogue between your characters and assess whether it is logical for the character and interesting for the reader. Right now, the dialogue is detracting from the opening rather than adding to it.
  • I don’t think you’re starting this story in the right place. Novels should open with an interesting and engaging conflict that immediately gives the reader a sense of who the main character is and what she wants. Check out this video I made on how to write and edit the set up of your novel. It explains this is more detail than I can get into here.

The Writeditor’s Grade (out of 5): 1

I know it’s hard to get a tough critique, but this book is not where it needs to be to stand out in the current market. Check out some bestselling YA or MG books (whichever you decide your book is) from your library and flip through them, making notes about the voice, pacing, dialogue, etc., then think about how you can restyle your novel to better fit the expectations of the age group. Voice is absolutely vital, as is a book that fits neatly in either MG or YA. I hope you stick with this book and find ways to improve it. If you have any questions, get in touch!

A note on the grading scale: The rating of the first chapter does not indicate the rating of the novel as a whole nor does it indicate the writer’s overall ability.

Submit to First Page Friday – (currently booking third week of February and beyond)

If you’d like to submit your novel for First Page Friday, please send the following to ellenbrock@keytopservices.com:

  • The name you want me to use in the blog post (real name, alias, or anonymous).
  • The genre of your novel.
  • The first 500 words (give or take, don’t stop in the middle of a sentence) pasted into the body of the email.
  • Any links (Twitter, Blog, Goodreads, etc.) that you’d like included in the post (not required).

Please do not submit if you are not okay with your first page being posted, critiqued, and edited on my website.

About the Editor

Ellen Brock (AKA The Writeditor) is a freelance novel editor who works with self-publishing and traditionally publishing authors as well as e-publishers and small presses. She owns the editing company Keytop Services and the writing and editing blog The Writeditor. When not editing, she enjoys reading, writing, and geocaching. Check out her freelance novel editing services and mentoring.

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First Page Friday #13: YA

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Happy Friday everyone!  I hope you all had a magnificent Christmas!

I am really looking forward to the new year for so many reasons! I’ll be starting with some new mentoring clients in January. I’m getting married on New Year’s Eve! My novel is going to be pitched to agents at the end of January, right before I head to Disney World for my honeymoon! I’m feeling so thankful for all the great things this new year is bringing me, and I truly hope the new year brings great things to you too!

If there’s anything I can do to help you have a great 2014, let me know! I have room for more mentoring and editing clients, I can sign you up for First Page Friday, and I’d be happy to make blog posts or video addressing any questions you have about writing, editing, or publishing. Just leave a comment or shoot me an email: ellenbrock@keytopservices.com

This week’s submission:

YA First 500 – Anonymous

Here in Grain Valley Township, we don’t have a paid fire department or ambulance crew to rescue us.We rescue ourselves.Dad has been a volunteer fireman, or first responder, since he was eighteen. My late grandpa also was one of the brave men who protected us, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. Dad always carries an emergency radio with him, fastened to the belt of his jeans. At night, the radio sits on the recharger, on his nightstand.No matter where he is or what he is doing, when the radio goes BEEEP! he leaps into action. The alarm means someone’s been in some kind of accident or one of our neighbors’ houses or barns is on fire. Itdoesn’t happen every day, but often enough. Too often, I say.Sometimes the first responders are called out of our small country church on Sunday morning. Beeping radios go off all over the sanctuary. And even if the preacher is in the middle of a prayer, the men leap up and bolt for the door.Being a first responder may seem exciting, but it’s stressful and dangerous. For one thing, they never know what kind of accident they’ll be responding to or how badly someone is hurt. And for another, since everybody knows everybody else around here, there’s a good chance that whoever needs help is related to one or more of the first responders, adding to the pressure.

It was shortly after eleven on Friday night, June third, almost a year ago, when Dad and Mom and I heard the beeper sound on the emergency radio. I was in the bathroom washing my face and getting
ready for bed when Dad rushed from the bedroom toward the kitchen and ran out the back door to his pickup truck, which was parked outside in its usual spot, keys left in the ignition as always.

I heard the words “two-car crash, both cars are on fire, 39 Highway, three miles east” as the screen door slammed. The engine roared and wheels spun on the gravel as he sped away into the night.

Mom came out of the bedroom in her robe, fussing with her short salt-and-pepper hair. With the radio gone, the house was quiet. We had no way of knowing what Dad would find out there on the highway.

“Maggie, have you heard from your brother or your boyfriend lately?” Mom asked.

“Not since before supper,” I said.

When the alarm goes out, whoever is closest to the station drives over, opens the metal door, and starts one or both of the fire trucks, depending on what the call is. Some of the other men show up within
two or three minutes, skidding to a stop and jumping from their pickups. They put on their boots, jackets, and gloves and dash to the trucks.

Through the screen door, we heard the sirens. Both trucks were on the roll.

“Why don’t you call your brother, see when they’ll be getting back home,” Mom said.

Reader Participation – What Do You Think?

Before reading my take on this novel opening, please take a moment to record your thoughts in the poll below.

Your thoughtful critiques and suggestions for the writer are also welcome in the comments section. Explaining your vote gives the author even more insight into where they’re hitting the mark and where they can improve.

The Writeditor’s Feedback

 Critique Key

Original Text is in italics.

Red is text I recommend removing.

Green is text I recommend adding.

Blue are my comments.

YA First 500 – Anonymous

Here in Grain Valley Township, we don’t have a paid fire department or ambulance crew to rescue us.

We rescue ourselves.

Dad has been a volunteer fireman, or first responder, since he was eighteen. My late grandpa also was one of the brave men who protected us, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. < For the sake of cutting to the chase, I would leave this sentence out because it isn’t really adding anything necessary or relevant. Dad always carries an emergency radio with him, fastened to the belt of his jeans. At night, the radio sits on the recharger, on his nightstand.

No matter where he is or what he is doing, when the radio goes BEEEP! he leaps into action. The alarm means someone’s been in some kind of accident or one of our neighbors’ houses or barns is on fire. < This line seems like it’s over explaining things. It would make sense for a middle grade audience, but YA readers will already know what the alarm means. It doesn’t happen every day, but often enough. Too often, I say. < “I’d say” would make more sense here. “I’d say” is not past tense, it just means “I would say.” “I say” only makes sense if he actually says it, in which case, I’d put it in quotes. Alternatively, you could write “I always say.”

Sometimes the first responders are called out of our small country church on Sunday morning. Beeping radios go off all over the sanctuary. And even if the preacher is in the middle of a prayer, the men leap up and bolt for the door.

Being a first responder may seem exciting, but it’s stressful and dangerous. < This too feels like you’re over explaining, almost like you’re talking down to your reader. For one thing, they never know what kind of accident they’ll be responding to or how badly someone is hurt. And for another, since everybody knows everybody else around here, there’s a good chance that whoever needs help is related to one or more of the first responders, adding to the pressure. <This is an interesting concept – that the first responders could be there to help someone they know – but this line falls flat. “Adding to the pressure” just doesn’t sound very intense.

It was shortly after eleven on Friday night, June third, almost a year ago, when Dad and Mom and I heard the beeper sound on the emergency radio. I was in the bathroom washing my face and getting
ready for bed when Dad rushed from the bedroom toward the kitchen and ran out the back door to his pickup truck, which was parked outside in its usual spot, keys left in the ignition as always. < This slows down the action while not adding anything, so I’d cut it.

I heard the words The radio screeched, “two-car crash, both cars are on fire, 39 Highway, three miles east” as the screen door slammed. < This modification (or one similar) makes the sentence easier to read. The engine roared and wheels spun on the gravel as he sped away into the night. < I’d cut what’s in red because it’s a cliche.

Mom came out of the bedroom in her robe, fussing with her short salt-and-pepper hair. With the radio gone, the house was quiet. We had no way of knowing what Dad would find out there on the highway.

“Maggie, have you heard from your brother or your boyfriend lately?” Mom asked. < Prior to this point, I thought the narrator was a boy. Also, as a reader, it seems like the topic is very abruptly changed here. It would help if the mom first addressed the fact that her husband rushed off. For example: “Another accident.” Mom sighed, then turned to me. “Have you heard from your brother or your boyfriend lately?” (Or perhaps something that connects the two concepts more clearly)

“Not since before supper,” I said.

The topic has suddenly changed back to the first responders again, but for me (as a reader), I don’t see any transition. > When the alarm goes out, whoever is closest to the station drives over, opens the metal door, and starts one or both of the fire trucks, depending on what the call is. Some of the other men show up within two or three minutes, skidding to a stop and jumping from their pickups. They put on their boots, jackets, and gloves and dash to the trucks.

Through the screen door, we heard the sirens. Both trucks were on the roll.

“Why don’t you call your brother, see when they’ll be getting back home,” Mom said. < Does her saying this have something to do with the emergency? It reads like there’s too much flip-flopping between the brother and the first responders without any explanation as to why.

My Overall Thoughts

This reads too young for YA. I’d have to read more to know whether or not it would be appropriate for MG (middle grade), but it definitely reads like it’s written for kids with poorer reading comprehension and who would need more things spelled out (perhaps ages 8-11).

Key Places to Improve:

  • Give Maggie more room to shine in this opening. She is little more than an observer in an opening that seems to really be about her father. It’s always a good idea to show the main character being proactive in the opening scene so that the reader knows this is someone who is active and who they can root for.
  • The voice is not particularly strong and isn’t giving me a good sense of who Maggie is. Developing a strong character voice can be difficult, but it’s vital for MG and YA. This just reads a bit too bland to stand out in today’s MG and YA markets.
  • Give the reader a reason right off the bat to know that this is Maggie’s story, that there’s something unique about her experience. Pull us into her world and her perspective and show us why it’s an interesting place so that we want to stick around. Put us in her shoes, not her father’s shoes from her perspective.
  • The biggest setback of this opening is that it isn’t gripping. We know something interesting is going on with the father, but Maggie isn’t there, and what she is perceiving in the moment feels like an afterthought and not a very interesting one. You’re not giving me any reason to be interested in Maggie. She doesn’t seem to be feeling any emotions about her father’s actions, so why should the reader?

The Writeditor’s Grade (out of 5): 2.5

Your writing is clear and easy to follow, but sometimes too much so, making it seem like it’s talking down to the reader. Spend more time focusing on Maggie and what she does and how her father impacts her life and less time on having her describe things she isn’t even participating in.  Her witnessing her father rushing off late at night could be interesting, if you place the reader firmly with Maggie and her thoughts and feelings rather than trying to explain the details about what her father is doing. Basically, show instead of tell and keep it focused on Maggie. I want to know why this story matters to Maggie, not the specifics about what her father is doing.

A note on the grading scale: The rating of the first chapter does not indicate the rating of the novel as a whole nor does it indicate the writer’s overall ability.

Submit to First Page Friday – (currently booking February)

If you’d like to submit your novel for First Page Friday, please send the following to ellenbrock@keytopservices.com:

  • The name you want me to use in the blog post (real name, alias, or anonymous).
  • The genre of your novel.
  • The first 500 words (give or take, don’t stop in the middle of a sentence) pasted into the body of the email.
  • Any links (Twitter, Blog, Goodreads, etc.) that you’d like included in the post (not required).

Please do not submit if you are not okay with your first page being posted, critiqued, and edited on my website.

Holiday Editing and Mentoring Sale Going on Now!

Get 10% off developmental edits and 25% off mentoring/coaching if booked before January 1st!

About the Editor

Ellen Brock (AKA The Writeditor) is a freelance novel editor who works with self-publishing and traditionally publishing authors as well as e-publishers and small presses. She owns the editing company Keytop Services and the writing and editing blog The Writeditor. When not editing, she enjoys reading, writing, and geocaching. Check out her freelance novel editing services and mentoring.

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First Page Friday #12: Contemporary YA

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Happy Friday everyone! And Merry Christmas!

I just wanted to take a moment to say that this is a super busy time for me because of the holidays, Pitch Wars, and because I’m getting married on New Year’s Eve! So I am behind on my emails and probably will be until the first or second week of January. If you don’t hear back from me right away, don’t panic!

Also, I will be here next week with a new First Page Friday (I’m not taking the day off for the holidays). So I hope to see you here!

This week’s submission:

YA First 500 – By Rhay Christou

When I was little, Daddy swore I’d grow up to be a kick-ass princess, vanquishing dragons and saving the world. Since he was surely better than Santa Claus and Superman and Jesus Christ all rolled together, I believed my daddy. But sitting here, in the middle of Al’s abandoned auto shop, with Aden stabbing black ink into my skin, it was impossible to put much faith in fairytales.

Again, Aden jabbed his sawed off twelve-gauge guitar string into my wrist, and again my arm jerked. The homemade needle skittered flat topping the O, and Jared Marcum reached across the scarred card table. He scattered the baggies of pot and bottles of pills and the pile of cash I’d handed over. He cinched my palm in his grip and stretched my arm so far across that table my fingertips brushed against his stained wife beater.

 “Stop squirming, Taylor.” His voice was raspy from over indulgence, and the whites of his blue eyes were red lined maps to nowhere. He pinned my wrist to the pleather as hard as his don’t-you-move look pinned me to the wobbly foldout chair.

I swallowed. I nodded. I did not fight.

 But Aden didn’t get back to poking. Instead, he half-turned on the stool he’d stuck between my knees and scratched his hand across his bad buzz-cut. Shooting Jared a questioning look, he sliced me a kick-the-tires and check-under-the-hood, appraising leer. 

Not that he could have found much in me worth buying. With crazy-wild hair and my best asset being my shimmering green eyes, I was cute, maybe. But too short, too flat, I’d never be one of those tall, voluptuous blonds that hot guys watched saunter and sashay.

 I’d never be worth all this warped effort.

But as the right hand of the Rowdy Redneck gang’s homegrown God, Aden always made sure Jared got what he wanted. And right now, Jared wanted me.

“Don’t move.’ Aden snapped his tricked-out electric SpongeBob toothbrush back to life and re-dipped his needle into his ash and vodka slurry. “You want the tat to look like shit?” His glare buzzed my pulse and soured my tongue.

 “Don’t matter.” I toughed up my voice and pressed down on my knee, jittering a rhythm off-kilter to the pounding beats and sex rhymes blaring from the speakers. I stared down Jared’s hand, promising pain and swallowed the awful taste eating its way through my mouth. I gave Aden one hundred percent of my attention.

 It wasn’t his cockeyed stare that made some of the toughest Trojan football players drop their gaze and back out of his way. It was the loaded gun he supposedly carried behind that glare that got all those boys quaking.

I would not shake. I would not cry. I would not give either of these boys the satisfaction of looking away. It wasn’t that I had a death wish or was all that brave. The difference between those big old football players and me was the minute the last bell rang, they climbed into their SUVs, pickups and Beemers and drove across the bridge back to Tulsa or out south to their McMansions.

Reader Participation – What Do You Think?

Before reading my take on this novel opening, please take a moment to record your thoughts in the poll below.

Your thoughtful critiques and suggestions for the writer are also welcome in the comments section. Explaining your vote gives the author even more insight into where they’re hitting the mark and where they can improve.

The Writeditor’s Feedback

 Critique Key

Original Text is in italics.

Red is text I recommend removing.

Green is text I recommend adding.

Blue are my comments.

YA First 500 – By Rhay Christou

When I was little, Daddy swore I’d grow up to be a kick-ass princess, vanquishing dragons and saving the world. Since he was surely better < “Surely better” could imply that she still feels this way, and I think it would be stronger to indicate that she used to think that but doesn’t anymore (unless she still does feel that way). than Santa Claus and Superman and Jesus Christ all rolled together, I believed my daddy. But sitting there, in the middle of Al’s abandoned auto shop, with Aden stabbing black ink into my skin, it was impossible to put much faith in fairytales. <I don’t think this opening paragraph is working as well as you want it to. It isn’t really telling me much about the character. The first line made me think this was going to be a fantasy where princesses and dragons really exist, which set me up to expect the wrong kind of story. It feels like you are focusing more on voice with this paragraph than on relevancy to the story.

Again, Aden jabbed his sawed off twelve-gauge guitar string into my wrist, and again my arm jerked. The homemade needle skittered flat topping the O <I don’t understand what this means. Maybe that’s because I don’t know anything about tattoos, but I can’t visualize how the needle could’ve “skittered flat.” , and Jared Marcum reached across the scarred card table. He scattered the baggies of pot and bottles of pills and the pile of cash I’d handed over. < Why does he scatter these things? Also “scattered” makes me imagine him sprinkling the pot and pills across the table when I think what you really mean is that he’s shoving them out of the way. He cinched my palm in his grip and stretched my arm so far across that table my fingertips brushed against his stained wife beater.

 “Stop squirming, Taylor.” His voice was raspy from over indulgence, and the whites of his blue eyes were red lined maps to nowhere. <This feels a little too forced with the voice. If you keep it, “his bloodshot eyes” would make more sense to me. As it is, “red lined” made me think about a line around his eye, like “red ringed.”  He pinned my wrist to the pleather as hard as his don’t-you-move look pinned me to the wobbly foldout chair.

I swallowed. I nodded. I did not fight.

 But Aden didn’t get back to poking. Instead, he half-turned on the stool he’d stuck between my knees and scratched his hand across his bad buzz-cut. Shooting Jared a questioning look, he sliced me a kick-the-tires and check-under-the-hood, appraising leer. <I had to read this twice, then read the next sentence and come back to this one to understand what you mean, but it still reads like Aden is looking at two people at once.

Not that he could have found much in me worth buying. With crazy-wild hair and my best asset being my shimmering green eyes, I was cute, maybe. < Self descriptions always read as awkward. Since none of this really matters or affects the plot at this point, I’d leave it out. But too short, too flat, I’d never be one of those tall, voluptuous blondes that hot guys watched saunter and sashay.

 I’d never be worth all this warped effort. < Whose warped effort is she referring to?

But as the right hand of the Rowdy Redneck gang’s homegrown God, < This is difficult to understand, and I found it confusing even after two or three reads. Aden always made sure Jared got what he wanted. And right now, Jared wanted me.

“Don’t move.’ Aden snapped his tricked-out electric SpongeBob toothbrush back to life and re-dipped his needle into his ash and vodka slurry. < Why did he temporarily stop tattooing her and why does he resume again? It’s not clear. “You want the tat to look like shit?” His glare buzzed my pulse and soured my tongue.< I don’t know what emotion you’re trying to indicate with this description.

 “Don’t matter.” I toughed up my voice and pressed down on my knee, < What is she pressing down on her knee with? Her other hand? Why?  jittering a rhythm < What do you mean by “jittering a rhythm”? Do you mean that she’s tapping her foot? If so, why does that require her to press down on her knee? off-kilter to the pounding beats and sex rhymes blaring from the speakers. I stared down Jared’s hand, promising pain <This reads like she is promising pain, not that Jared’s hand is. and swallowed the awful taste eating its way through my mouth. I gave Aden one hundred percent of my attention. <I don’t understand what emotion she is experiencing.

 It wasn’t his cockeyed stare that made some of the toughest Trojan football players drop their gaze and back out of his way. It was the loaded gun he supposedly carried behind that glare that got all those boys quaking. < What does this have to do with anything? If it’s the reason she’s giving him her full attention, you need to find a  way to clearly connect the two concepts.

I would not shake. I would not cry. I would not give either of these boys the satisfaction of looking away. It wasn’t that I had a death wish or was all that brave. < This reads like what you’re saying is that not crying, shaking, or looking away means that she has a death wish. I’m sure that’s not what you mean, but a bit of clarification would help. The difference between those big old football players and me was the minute the last bell rang, they climbed into their SUVs, pickups and Beemers and drove across the bridge back to Tulsa or out south to their McMansions. < This is another sentence that doesn’t seem relevant to me. How does this tie into her not having a death wish?  Make sure your paragraphs are staying focused.

My Overall Thoughts

You do a nice job introducing this as a gritty story, but I think too much emphasis being placed on voice makes this difficult to follow, which prevents readers from really getting sucked in.

Key Places to Improve:

  • The voice feels a bit forced to me at times, like you are trying too hard to write something edgy. Remember that clarity must always come first. Many lines of narration were confusing and difficult to understand.
  • Make sure there are logical connections between sentences and paragraphs. Work on transitions between topics. If a subject is brought up, it needs to relate in some way to the situation so that readers can easily follow the thought process.
  • Something to differentiate Jared and Aden would help a lot in keeping them straight. I found that I never knew which was which and was sort of reading them as the same person. A different speech pattern, a distinguishing feature or personality trait, etc. would help keep the two straight.
  • The narrator’s emotional state was not clear to me. I wasn’t sure if she was afraid of the boys or just nervous about getting a tattoo.
  • It also wasn’t clear to me what was going on. Why was she getting the tattoo? Did she want it or not? Were the boys making her get a tattoo? If so, why? I felt more confused than intrigued about these details.

The Writeditor’s Grade (out of 5): 2

If clarity issues were resolved, this would definitely have potential. I found the subject matter interesting because it wasn’t the typical lighthearted YA story, but the voice became a source of confusion and distraction rather than strength.

A note on the grading scale: The rating of the first chapter does not indicate the rating of the novel as a whole nor does it indicate the writer’s overall ability.

Submit to First Page Friday – (currently booking 4th week in January)

If you’d like to submit your novel for First Page Friday, please send the following to ellenbrock@keytopservices.com:

  • The name you want me to use in the blog post (real name, alias, or anonymous).
  • The genre of your novel.
  • The first 500 words (give or take, don’t stop in the middle of a sentence) pasted into the body of the email.
  • Any links (Twitter, Blog, Goodreads, etc.) that you’d like included in the post (not required).

Please do not submit if you are not okay with your first page being posted, critiqued, and edited on my website.

Holiday Editing and Mentoring Sale Going on Now!

Get 10% off developmental edits and 25% off mentoring/coaching if booked before January 1st!

About the Editor

Ellen Brock (AKA The Writeditor) is a freelance novel editor who works with self-publishing and traditionally publishing authors as well as e-publishers and small presses. She owns the editing company Keytop Services and the writing and editing blog The Writeditor. When not editing, she enjoys reading, writing, and geocaching. Check out her freelance novel editing services and mentoring.

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First Page Friday #11: Contemporary Romance

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Happy Friday the 13th!  I hope it’s a lucky one!

This week’s submission:

Contemporary Romance First 500 – By Mindy Hardwick

“There is a man. He is a man from the past.” Dallas peered into the crystal ball. A gust of crisp fall air blew her fortune telling booth sign to the ground. Dallas shivered and pulled her purple cape around her. After living in San Diego for ten years, she wasn’t used to the cooler fall temperatures of the Oregon coast river town.   “What does he look like?” Dallas’s only customer of the afternoon leaned forward.“He has dark…”A loud burst of laughter jarred Dallas. She looked up and frowned. A large crowd gathered around the booth to her left. A hanging stenciled sign read: Plots to Hell. It was all a ploy to support the Riverview Fall Festival. Buy an imaginary plot to hell for your ex-boyfriend or girlfriend and receive a certificate to hang on your wall. It seemed foolish to her, but the booth had a steady stream of traffic.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear what you said. Can you repeat it?” The woman smiled at Dallas. “There seems to be some competition.”

Dallas gritted her teeth. Everyone wanted to buy one of the imaginary plots and it was costing her customers. “Excuse me. I will be right back.”

Dallas strode across the wet grass. She pushed her way through the crowd until she reached the front of the make-shift booth.  “Hello,” Dallas’s voice rose above the crowd as she tried to attract the tall, slender man’s attention. “I am trying…”

“Yes?” The man turned. His jet black eyes met hers.

“Bryan.” Dallas sucked in her breath. She knew coming home to the small town where she grew up would be challenging. But she couldn’t let that challenge stop her. Dallas took a deep breath.  She squared her shoulders and looked Bryan straight in the eye. She wasn’t the same love struck teenage girl. She was a grown woman, who, up until two months ago had a very successful design business. She had fallen in and out of love and had no reason to be worried about her old feelings for Bryan.  “I am trying to give fortunes. My booth benefits the town’s weather disaster fund. My customer cannot hear her fortune.” Dallas looked around for the cause Bryan was supporting. Every booth was supposed to support a local non-profit. The only sign Dallas saw was Riverview Real Estate Company.

Bryan gazed at her empty booth. He turned back to her, winked, and said. “Ladies and Gentlemen. Who will buy the next plot from hell?”

Dallas fumed. Without thinking about how she would pay for it, she said loudly. “I will buy the next plot.”

“Sold.” Bryan said. “To the fortune teller.” He waved his hand at a tall and gorgeous blonde woman working behind him at a long table. “Please bring your payment to my assistant. She will give you the certificate and you can fill in the name for your plot.”

Dallas faltered. What was she thinking? She didn’t have money to buy foolish things like imaginary plots to hell. She barely had grocery money.

Reader Participation – What Do You Think?

Before reading my take on this novel opening, please take a moment to record your thoughts in the poll below.

Your thoughtful critiques and suggestions for the writer are also welcome in the comments section. Explaining your vote gives the author even more insight into where they’re hitting the mark and where they can improve.

The Writeditor’s Feedback

 Critique Key

Original Text is in italics.

Red is text I recommend removing.

Green is text I recommend adding.

Blue are my comments.

Contemporary Romance First 500 – By Mindy Hardwick

“There is a man. He is a man from the past.” < Starting with a strange line of dialogue is a bit jarring. I would put this after the second line so that it’s clear it’s dialogue relating to a crystal ball. Dallas peered into the her crystal ball. < Changing “the” to “her” clears up two problems – it makes it clear that she is a female (I assumed she was male) and it makes it clear that she is the one telling the fortune (rather than getting her fortune told by someone else). A gust of crisp fall air blew her fortune telling booth sign to the ground. < I’d like a clearer picture of this booth. Is it just a little stand? Is it like a tent? Did the sign fall from a pole or was it just a paper sitting on a table? Where is the booth located? Dallas shivered and pulled her purple cape around her. After living in San Diego for ten years, she wasn’t used to the cooler fall temperatures of the Oregon coast river town.  

 “What does he look like?” Dallas’s only customer of the afternoon leaned forward. < I’d rather have a description and name of the customer here and then learn that it’s the only customer of the afternoon in a separate sentence.

“He has dark…”A loud burst of laughter jarred Dallas. She looked up and frowned. A large crowd gathered around the booth to her left. < At first I thought you meant there was a crowd around her booth. It would help if you made it clearer from the first paragraph where exactly this booth is – in an amusement park? On a boardwalk? At a fair? A hanging stenciled sign read: Plots to Hell. It was all a ploy to support the Riverview Fall Festival. Buy an imaginary plot to hell for your ex-boyfriend or girlfriend and receive a certificate to hang on your wall. < It’s not clear if this is a tagline, a thought, or just mistakenly in present tense. It seemed foolish to her, but the booth had a steady stream of traffic.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear what you said. Can you repeat it?” The woman smiled at Dallas. “There seems to be some competition.”

Dallas gritted her teeth. Everyone wanted to buy one of the imaginary plots and it was costing her customers. < It’s not clear to me why it would cost her customers since it would attract people to the area and it’s an unrelated service. “Excuse me. I will be right back.”

Dallas strode across the wet grass. She pushed her way through the crowd until she reached the front of the make-shift booth.  < I’m struggling to picture the scene. Where are they that there is wet grass? How big is the crowd? “Hello,” Dallas’s voice rose above the crowd as she tried to attract the tall, slender man’s attention. < What tall, slender man? Presumably the booth owner? “I am trying…”

“Yes?” The man turned. His jet black eyes met hers.

“Bryan.” Dallas sucked in her breath. She knew coming home to the small town where she grew up would be challenging. But she couldn’t let that challenge stop her. < These two lines are telling something that you could easily show. Dallas took a deep breath.  She squared her shoulders and looked Bryan straight in the eye. She wasn’t the same love struck teenage girl. She was a grown woman, who, up until two months ago had a very successful design business. She had fallen in and out of love and had no reason to be worried about her old feelings for Bryan.  < It’s not clear to me what falling in and out of love has to do with having or not having feelings for Bryan. I also think you’re telling here when showing her feelings would be stronger. “I am trying to give fortunes. My booth benefits the town’s weather disaster fund. My customer cannot hear her fortune.” Dallas looked around for the cause Bryan was supporting. < I thought she already knew that he was supporting the festival? Every booth was supposed to support a local non-profit. The only sign Dallas saw was Riverview Real Estate Company.

Bryan gazed at her empty booth. He turned back to her, winked, and said. “Ladies and Gentlemen. Who will buy the next plot from hell?”

Dallas fumed. Without thinking about how she would pay for it, she said loudly. “I will buy the next plot.” < Why does she buy a plot? What does she think it will accomplish? Make her motivations clear.

“Sold.” Bryan said. “To the fortune teller.” He waved his hand at a tall and gorgeous blonde woman working behind him at a long table. “Please bring your payment to my assistant. She will give you the certificate and you can fill in the name for your plot.”

Dallas faltered. What was she thinking? < As a reader, I want to know what she’s thinking too. What makes her go from angry to buying a plot? Is she trying to show him up? If so, how? She didn’t have money to buy foolish things like imaginary plots to hell. She barely had grocery money.

My Overall Thoughts

I think this could work well as an opening with a few modifications and clarifications. Overall, the writing feels a bit too sparse – too lean on the details. Fleshing things out a bit would help root the reader in the story.

Key Places to Improve:

  • Location – A sense of location is really important in setting a scene, but it’s unclear where her booth is located, how many other booths are in the area, what type of booth it is, etc. Take some time to flesh out those details.
  • Voice – There wasn’t much sense of voice in this opening. I should be getting a sense of Dallas’s personality traits, but I’m not, for two reasons: 1. The word choices didn’t provide insight into her personality, and 2. Her motivations were not clear (Why is she so upset about this other booth? Why does she buy a plot in hell? Why is she even fortune telling in the first place?).
  • I struggled a little bit with her logic because I don’t understand why the “plots in hell” booth would compete with her fortune telling booth. Additionally, when it is explained in the narration that the “plots in hell” booth is fundraising, it makes her seem a little petty that she would make a fuss about its success. This plot point would make more sense to me if either: 1. The rival booth was also fortune telling and stealing her thunder, or 2. She hated or was opposed to the cause the booth was fundraising for.

The Writeditor’s Grade (out of 5): 2.5

The writing itself was not bad, but perhaps a little on the bland side. It was definitely too sparse and vague, like a draft written with just the bare bones. If you pump up the voice and flesh out the details, this could work  well as an opening for a romance.

A note on the grading scale: The rating of the first chapter does not indicate the rating of the novel as a whole nor does it indicate the writer’s overall ability.

Connect with Mindy

You can connect with Mindy on Twitter, her website, and at her blog.

Submit to First Page Friday – (currently booking 3rd week in January)

If you’d like to submit your novel for First Page Friday, please send the following to ellenbrock@keytopservices.com:

  • The name you want me to use in the blog post (real name, alias, or anonymous).
  • The genre of your novel.
  • The first 500 words (give or take, don’t stop in the middle of a sentence) pasted into the body of the email.
  • Any links (Twitter, Blog, Goodreads, etc.) that you’d like included in the post (not required).

Please do not submit if you are not okay with your first page being posted, critiqued, and edited on my website.

Holiday Editing and Mentoring Sale Going on Now!

Get 10% off developmental edits and 25% off mentoring/coaching if booked before January 1st!

About the Editor

Ellen Brock (AKA The Writeditor) is a freelance novel editor who works with self-publishing and traditionally publishing authors as well as e-publishers and small presses. She owns the editing company Keytop Services and the writing and editing blog The Writeditor. When not editing, she enjoys reading, writing, and geocaching. Check out her freelance novel editing services and mentoring.

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Help First Page Friday be a Success!  Please use the buttons below to share this post. The more views, the more submissions, the more First Page Fridays!

First Page Friday #10: Literary Fiction

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First Page Friday #10! Woohoo! We made it to the double digits!

I took last Friday off due to Thanksgiving craziness and really missed it. I enjoy First Page Fridays so much, but I’ve been wondering how you feel about it. Is there any way I could change things up to be more useful? Do you like the grades? The surveys? Are there any sections you’d like to see me add? Please leave a comment.

Also, if any of my previous First Page Friday participants have any success stories or news they’d like to share, please get in touch. I’m sure the other blog readers would love to hear about it.

And lastly, I am opening up to new mentoring clients. You can read more about it here. It is on sale for the holidays – 25% off! You don’t have to use the time over the holidays, you just have to pay before January 1st.

This week’s submission:

Literary Fiction First 500 – By Carol Dunbar

FALL
In the morning before Luvera came charging up the driveway, panicked and honking the horn, Elsa Arnasson is doing the laundry. She comes out of her little, unfinished house with her wild hair caught up loose and haphazard at her neck, wearing her son in a backpack carrier and holding a basket of wet clothes. She slides her feet into shoes and crosses the temporary porch. Still new to living in the country and the quiet it offers, she steps out into the sun and stops, to look out at the day.There is nothing about the scene before her that might suggest catastrophe. The yard is littered with yellow leaves, the poplar and birch nearly bare now, the oaks still holding onto theirs, rust colored and brown. A small wind turns leaves cartwheeling past her feet, past the fire pit he dug for them, past the folding chairs they put out within hearing distance of the baby monitor. Farther out across the yard stands a row of pine, their boughs heavy and dark, watchful and protecting.

From out of this, a puff ball comes floating along. She sees it first down by the garden. Like the white part of a dandelion only larger, it drifts up the hill and crosses the yard. It approaches, this airy jewel suspended in sunlight; it captures her full attention then because of the way it hovers there, right at eye level, lingering in front of her, sitting on a current of air. She watches it and it seems to watch her, friendly, interested even. Elsa forgets about the laundry basket in her hands and the baby on her back. A feeling of rightness buzzes inside her, this beautiful day, this house they are building and their two children, all of it exactly the way it should be and she cannot imagine a better life or feeling that things are wrong. Then without prelude, the puff ball whirls backwards and away, spinning into the trees.

Had she known what would be coming next, she might have made more of this, but as it happened, she stands there watching, and it blows away, and she smiles. She chalks it up to life in the country, something mysterious, maybe even silly. It made her happy, and now she had work to get back to.

She walks up the hill through the woods to the clothesline behind their house, her insides still buzzy, unhooked a bit from time. Finnegan on her back plays with her hair, wrapping strands of it around his fist and trying to fit that into his mouth. She wades through the leaves, approaches the clothesline, where it should be, and it is no longer there. The bears again, she thinks, and sets her basket down.

Again she looks up at the trees, through the nearly bare branches and the sky pressed bold and blue beyond. She goes to her basket, and hangs a towel on a branch. She smiles, and starts draping clothes, red and blue and striped kitchen towels.

Reader Participation – What Do You Think?

Before reading my take on this novel opening, please take a moment to record your thoughts in the poll below.

Your thoughtful critiques and suggestions for the writer are also welcome in the comments section. Explaining your vote gives the author even more insight into where they’re hitting the mark and where they can improve.

The Writeditor’s Feedback

 Critique Key

Original Text is in italics.

Red is text I recommend removing.

Green is text I recommend adding.

Blue are my comments.

Literary Fiction First 500 – By Carol Dunbar

FALL

In the morning before Luvera came charging up the driveway, panicked and honking the horn, Elsa Arnasson is doing the laundry. < I find the mixing of tenses in this first sentence jarring. She comes out of her little, unfinished house with her wild hair caught up loose and haphazard at her neck, wearing her son in a backpack carrier and holding a basket of wet clothes. She slides her feet into shoes and crosses the temporary porch. <What is a temporary porch? A little more info here would help paint a stronger picture for the reader. For example: ..crosses the bare wood planks of the temporary porch. Still new to living in the country and the quiet it offers, she steps out into the sun and stops, to look out at the day. <I suggest cutting this. The next line implies that she is looking. Generally, you want to avoid outright stating that a character is looking at things or thinking about things because it is so easy to show/imply. 

There is nothing about the scene before her that might suggest catastrophe. The yard is littered with yellow leaves, the poplar and birch nearly bare now, the oaks still holding onto theirs, rust colored and brown. A small wind turns leaves cartwheeling past her feet, past the fire pit he dug for them, past the folding chairs they put out within hearing distance of the baby monitor. Farther out across the yard stands a row of pine, their boughs heavy and dark, watchful and protecting.

From out of this, a puff ball comes floating along. She sees it first down by the garden. Like the white part of a dandelion only larger, it drifts up the hill and crosses the yard. It approaches, this airy jewel suspended in sunlight; it captures her full attention then because of the way it hovers there, right at eye level, lingering in front of her, sitting on a current of air. She watches it and it seems to watch her, friendly, interested even. Elsa forgets about the laundry basket in her hands and the baby on her back. A feeling of rightness buzzes inside her, this beautiful day, this house they are building and their two children, all of it exactly the way it should be and she cannot imagine a better life or feeling that things are wrong. <I find the wording of this sentence difficult to read and understand. Then without prelude, the puff ball whirls backwards and away, spinning into the trees.

Had she known what would be coming next, < This is considered a pretty cliche line in omniscient. It might bother some and not others, depends on the reader. she might have made more of this, but as it happened, < “as it happened” doesn’t really make sense in present tense because it’s actively happening, but I have a stricter opinion about the use of present tense than some other editors. she stands there watching, and it blows away, and she smiles. She chalks it up to life in the country, < She chalks what up to life in the country? The puff ball’s existence? The happiness she derives from it? something mysterious, maybe even silly. It made her happy, and now she had has work to get back to.

She walks up the hill through the woods to the clothesline behind their house, her insides still buzzy, unhooked a bit from time. < “unhooked a bit from time” does not hold any meaning to me. It’s not an experience I can relate to. Not that that makes it inherently a problem – others may completely disagree. Finnegan on her back plays with her hair, wrapping strands of it around his fist and trying to fit that into his mouth. She wades through the leaves, approachesing where the clothesline, where it should be, and it is no longer there. < This rewording makes more sense because she can’t approach the clothesline and then have it not be there. The bears again, she thinks, and sets her basket down.

Again she looks up at the trees, through the nearly bare branches and the sky pressed bold and blue beyond. She goes to her basket, and hangs a towel on a branch. She smiles, and starts draping clothes, red and blue and striped kitchen towels. <Wording of this sentence is a bit awkward. Are the clothes she’s draping kitchen towels? That’s how I read it initially, but I think what you mean is that she’s draping clothes as well as red and blue and striped kitchen towels, but then that still has a clarity issue – are some of the towels red, some blue, and some striped or are they red and blue striped?

My Overall Thoughts

I don’t doubt your ability to write. This has a nice, pretty sound to the language. However despite the nice writing, too little was going on to draw me into the story, but the writing carries my interest enough that I would give you another few pages to hook me.

Key Places to Improve:

  • Clarity comes first. Always. If you have to write an ugly sentence that readers can understand, that’s better than a pretty one they can’t. Lovely language can get you pretty far, but clarity and substance will still trump it every time. So read your sentences carefully. Make sure they make sense.
  • The puffball had such a prominent position in this opening that I would expect it to have a major impact on the catalyst of the story. If this is not the case, you may need to downplay it.
  • Some sort of conflict had better be introduced within the next few hundred words or you’re going to start losing readers.
  • The present tense combined with a few past tense omniscient phrases (“as it happened,” “in the morning before,” “had she known”) kind of made my head spin, however it is not “wrong.” It’s just a matter of preference.
  • My biggest concern is that perhaps none of this opening matters, that you are just trying to be poetic by including the puffball, when really it does not tie into the story arc. If that’s the case, it makes this opening a bit too meandering and you might want to start a bit later.

The Writeditor’s Grade (out of 5): 3

This is a tough one to grade because it depends a lot on where the story goes from here. If these opening paragraphs tie in well with a conflict that begins within the next few hundred words, I’d probably bump this up to a 4. If no conflict occurs and these paragraphs are style without substance, I’d probably bump it down to a 1 or 2.  If you focus on clarity and substance (no pretty words just for pretty’s sake), I think you’re probably on the right track with the novel as a whole.

A note on the grading scale: The rating of the first chapter does not indicate the rating of the novel as a whole nor does it indicate the writer’s overall ability.

Submit to First Page Friday

If you’d like to submit your novel for First Page Friday, please send the following to ellenbrock@keytopservices.com:

  • The name you want me to use in the blog post (real name, alias, or anonymous).
  • The genre of your novel.
  • The first 500 words (give or take, don’t stop in the middle of a sentence) pasted into the body of the email.
  • Any links (Twitter, Blog, Goodreads, etc.) that you’d like included in the post (not required).

Please do not submit if you are not okay with your first page being posted, critiqued, and edited on my website.

Holiday Editing and Mentoring Sale Going on Now!

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About the Editor

Ellen Brock (AKA The Writeditor) is a freelance novel editor who works with self-publishing and traditionally publishing authors as well as e-publishers and small presses. She owns the editing company Keytop Services and the writing and editing blog The Writeditor. When not editing, she enjoys reading, writing, and geocaching. Check out her freelance novel editing services and mentoring.

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First Page Friday #9: Literary

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Please read the chapter without my notes and record your feedback in the poll before moving on to my critique. This really helps the author. Thanks!

The Submission:

Literary First 500 – By Nicola

Before my mother died, Kenny was not my friend. He didn’t have any friends. No one even hung around with him much. He was okay, sometimes, if there was no one else to play with, but mostly we tried to ignore him.  He lived in another part of the street and didn’t belong to our gang. There were lots of Catholics in our neighborhood so there were enough kids to go around without him joining in; we thought he had a snotty nose and big freckles and his clothes were handed down way too many times.  He had straight, mousy-brown hair that hung down over his eyes in the front and knotted up like a bird’s nest in the back. We would leave him out on purpose, when we didn’t need him for a game, which was almost always.  He would stand a little way back and watch, his hands deep in his pockets, trying to look like he didn’t care, and didn’t really want to join in. He stood, or kept himself busy with the stone beneath his shoe, or the coins in his pocket. And I thought he must have just gone home when the rest of us did at five o’clock on Saturdays, when our mothers stood on the back steps and called out “Dinner! You’ve got five minutes or your father’s going to hear about it.” People still said things like that then.Except, after the excitement of my mother’s death had died down, and after the social workers who made us dinner and did our laundry had stopped coming, then there was no one calling me home. There was no dinner. And then I found something out: Kenny didn’t go home like the rest of us. When all the other kids ran home, he stayed there still, with his tennis ball, or soccer ball, or empty handed, watching the other kids run back up the hill from the park and disappear around the backs of houses.The first time I realized no one was calling Kenny, I was waiting to hear my name, and when I didn’t I waited a bit longer, then ran home anyway. No one called him either, and when I turned at the top of the path to look back, he was still there, looking down at his sneakers.

A couple of weeks later, I didn’t go home either, and Kenny talked to me then. He asked me if it was because a dog bit her—her dying. I told him it was, and I wondered for a long time after that if it was true. I was eight years old. Before my mother died, I had never known anyone who had died.  And, I had never even thought how many ways there might be to die. Dying from a dog bite seemed as good a way as any other. And there were some pretty mean dogs around.

But I didn’t know for sure how she died. And didn’t want to. No one had told me the details. I didn’t know what day she died, or what time it was, exactly.  I never visited her grave; I didn’t know where she was buried. No one told me, and I didn’t ask.

The thing is: it was important not to know. Not knowing the truth made my fictions all the more reliable.

Reader Participation – What Do You Think?

Before reading my take on this novel opening, please take a moment to record your thoughts in the poll below.

Your thoughtful critiques and suggestions for the writer are also welcome in the comments section. Explaining your vote gives the author even more insight into where they’re hitting the mark and where they can improve.

The Writeditor’s Feedback

 Critique Key

Original Text is in italics.

Red is text I recommend removing.

Green is text I recommend adding.

Blue are my comments.

Literary First 500 – By Nicola

Before my mother died, Kenny was not my friend. He didn’t have any friends. No one evern hung around with him much. < “Much” is a weak way to end a sentence. I would rephrase. He was okay, sometimes, if there was no one else to play with, but mostly we tried to ignore him.  He lived in another part of the street and didn’t belong to our gang. < This sentence feels disjointed and unneeded. I would cut it. There were lots of Catholics in our neighborhood so there were enough kids to go around without him joining in < The flow would be better without this sentence.  ; we thought < There’s no reason to say that it’s what they thought. It just weakens the sentence. he had a snotty nose and big freckles and his clothes were handed down way too many times.  He had straight, mousy-brown hair that hung down over his eyes in the front and knotted up like a bird’s nest in the back. < Personally, I would also cut this sentence for flow and because it doesn’t connect as nicely to the next sentence. Kids might not want to hang out with a poor, snot-nosed kid, but I don’t think they’d care what his hair looked like. We would leave him out on purpose, when we didn’t need him for a game, which was almost always.  He would stand a little way back and watch, his hands deep in his pockets, trying to look like he didn’t care, and didn’t really want to join in. He stood, or < Not needed because we already know he’s standing. kept himself busy with the stone beneath his shoe, or the coins in his pocket. And I thought he must have just gone home when the rest of us did at five o’clock on Saturdays, < This sentence feels disjointed from the rest of the paragraph because it seems unlikely that the narrator actually put any thought into whether or not the kid went home in the evenings, especially since this is a kid they ignored and didn’t like. Rephrasing would help. For example: “I guess I just assumed he went home when the rest of us did…” when our mothers stood on the back steps and called out “Dinner! You’ve got five minutes or your father’s going to hear about it.” People still said things like that then.

Except, after the excitement of my mother’s death had died down, and after the social workers who made us dinner and did our laundry had stopped coming, then there was no one calling me home. There was no dinner. And then I found something out: Kenny didn’t go home like the rest of us. < This sentence is telling as well as vague. How did the narrator figure that out? When all the other kids ran home, he stayed there still, with his tennis ball, or soccer ball, or empty handed, watching the other kids run back up the hill from the park and disappear around the backs of houses.

The first time I realized no one was calling Kenny, I was waiting to hear my name, < There is not a clear connection between this and the previous paragraph. Is this after people stopped calling her home? Is it the first day she wasn’t called? If so, you could restructure this so that the first sentence of the previous paragraph leads into this paragraph (cutting out telling and creating a better flow). For example: “Except one day, after the excitement of my mother’s death had died down, and after the social workers who made us dinner and did our laundry had stopped coming, no one called me home. I waited to hear my name, and when I didn’t, I waited a bit longer, then ran home anyway. No one called Kenny either, and when I turned….” and when I didn’t I waited a bit longer, then ran home anyway. No one called him either, and when I turned at the top of the path to look back, he was still there, looking down at his sneakers.

A couple of weeks later, I didn’t go home either, and Kenny talked to me then. He asked me if it was because a dog bit her—her dying. I told him it was, < I would like a stronger indication at this point that she doesn’t actually know how she died. Restructuring this paragraph and combining it with the next one would be ideal. For example: …dog bit her – her dying. Dying from a dog bite seemed as good a way as any other. And there were some pretty mean dogs around, so I told him it was. But I didn’t know for sure how she died. And didn’t want to…   and I wondered for a long time after that if it was true. I was eight years old. Before my mother died, I had never known anyone who had died.  And, I had never even thought how many ways there might be to die. Dying from a dog bite seemed as good a way as any other. And there were some pretty mean dogs around.

But I didn’t know for sure how she died. And didn’t want to. No one had told me the details. I didn’t know what day she died, or what time it was, exactly.  I never visited her grave; I didn’t know where she was buried. No one told me, and I didn’t ask.

The thing is: it was important not to know. Not knowing the truth made my fictions all the more reliable.

My Overall Thoughts

You said you weren’t sure of the genre. From this sample, I’m going to have to go with literary. You suggested this may be YA, but unless the bulk of the story is told from the perspective of a teenager and contains issues relevant to teen readers, it’s most likely not YA.

Your voice is very engaging and easy to read, which is great, however it does seem structurally disorganized at times.

Key Places to Improve:

  • Make sure that the structure makes sense. That’s really your only issue here. Some tips on structure:
  • Make sure the right information is conveyed at the right time. Don’t wait to convey clarifying information because it requires the reader to untangle preconceived notions, which is hard to do.
  • Don’t break up information of the same topic with other sentences or paragraphs. Group sentences making the same point together so that it doesn’t feel like a point is left and then returned to – this creates a sense of redundancy.
  • Cut out sentences that aren’t needed. Be ruthless. Unneeded sentences really disrupt the flow. Consider carefully what the reader needs to know.
  • Also, watch out for sentences that make the same point as another sentence, even if in a slightly different way. This gives the sense that the plot is stagnating.

The Writeditor’s Grade (out of 5): 3

Though there were some major structural issues, I really liked your voice. I could definitely see the potential in this. It felt like a diamond in the rough, rather than just a hot mess. Focus on line editing as you move forward, and do research into literary fiction if you aren’t familiar with it.

A note on the grading scale: The rating of the first chapter does not indicate the rating of the novel as a whole nor does it indicate the writer’s overall ability.

Submit to First Page Friday – Pretty Please! I’m out of Submissions!

If you’d like to submit your novel for First Page Friday, please send the following to ellenbrock@keytopservices.com:

  • The name you want me to use in the blog post (real name, alias, or anonymous).
  • The genre of your novel.
  • The first 500 words (give or take, don’t stop in the middle of a sentence) pasted into the body of the email.
  • Any links (Twitter, Blog, Goodreads, etc.) that you’d like included in the post (not required).

Please do not submit if you are not okay with your first page being posted, critiqued, and edited on my website.

About the Editor

Ellen Brock (AKA The Writeditor) is a freelance novel editor who works with self-publishing and traditionally publishing authors as well as e-publishers and small presses. She owns the editing company Keytop Services and the writing and editing blog The Writeditor. When not editing, she enjoys reading, writing, and geocaching. Check out her freelance novel editing services.

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Help First Page Friday be a Success!  Please use the buttons below to share this post. The more views, the more submissions, the more First Page Fridays!

First Page Friday #8: Fantasy/Alternate History

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First Page Friday

First Page Friday is a new section on The Writeditor’s blog. Every Friday I will provide an in-depth edit and critique of the first 500 words of an unpublished novel.

Please read the chapter without my notes and record your feedback in the poll before moving on to my critique. This really helps the author. Thanks!

First Page Friday Edit & Critique

Fantasy/Alternate History First 500 – By Yvone Williams

The Captain
    As Constance emerged from the ship’s hold, a gale swept her brown hair over her eyes.
    “Left,” a man called from the bow. “Pull left, you blind codger.”
    She pushed her hair back and scanned the ship: Creedy stood on the quarterdeck, yanking the wheel in silence. Normally, he would have severed the other man’s tongue with a sharp reply. Constance rushed to meet him.
    “Creedy, what’s happening?” she asked, lowering her head against the wind. The skirt of her frock coat whipped her legs.
    “Lost your eyes to the wind, have you?” he asked. The irises of his eyes were clouded and shifted toward her voice. “Make sure that piece of filth Pisador is still in the hold.”
    “He’s there,” she said. But I had to untie him. Her gaze shied away from him, toward the wind, and over the main deck. Half of her crew was bunched around the mainmast. Overhead, men climbed the ratlines. Above them, others recklessly hung from the crosstrees. Both groups fought to keep the wind-gashed topsail attached to its yard.
    Constance left Creedy at his position and climbed down to the main deck. A delicate-framed man struggled to pry the main topmast’s halyard from around the mainstay. Another man, hunched and grey, stood beside him.
    “Why did no one reef the sails?” she asked.
    “Because I’m not a sailor,” the slight one said, fighting the twisted ropes. “I’m a naturalist.”
    Constance knew Sanctuary did not care who did her trimming– Creedy had said as much, and his words had yet to fail her.
    “Angel Shades, Rosy Underwings… my interest is in moths. Not rope, not sails, not ships,” he said, shaking the rope.
    “Stop!” Constance frowned; the tangled lines were beginning to fray.
    “Just a doctor, myself,” the old man said with a shrug.
    “Well.” Constance slid her trembling hands into pockets. “I advise you get your doctoring tools ready. You might have a chance to prove it.”
    “Chance?”
    She walked away, but the doctor trailed her.
    “You’re the captain. Why can’t you fix this? It’s your responsibility; none of us asked to be here.”
    She tried to ignore him while she walked. All she wanted was a moment alone. A single moment to think.
    Save the stays and you’ll save the ship. But how?
    “It won’t unravel itself, you know,” the naturalist called after her.
    “Christ’s sake,” Creedy said. “Just cut the damn thing. We can afford to lose one sail if we’re as close as it sounds.”
    Constance moved starboard to look beyond the sails. He was right; the snow-covered ground seemed to wink and coax the sun from behind the clouds. They were less than 20 minutes away.
    Her eyes roamed past the clipped, icy shore of Greenland. It was all a blur of white, and mountain ridges were only visible due to the shadows they cast. Constance took her pendant in hand, fingers running along the gilt. Soon, its small, arcane marks would lead her to la vara de centuries– the Rod of Centuries– and then… then, she would restore everything.

Reader Participation – What Do You Think?

Before reading my take on this novel opening, please take a moment to record your thoughts in the poll below.

Your thoughtful critiques and suggestions for the writer are also welcome in the comments section. Explaining your vote gives the author even more insight into where they’re hitting the mark and where they can improve.

The Writeditor’s Feedback

 Critique Key

Original Text is in italics.

Red is text I recommend removing.

Green is text I recommend adding.

Blue are my comments.

Fantasy/Alternate History First 500 – By Yvone Williams

The Captain
    As Constance emerged from the ship’s hold, a gale swept her brown hair over her eyes.
    “Left,” a man called from the bow. “Pull left, you blind codger.”
    She pushed her hair back and scanned the ship: Creedy stood on the quarterdeck, yanking the wheel in silence. Normally, he would have severed the other man’s tongue with a sharp reply. < This sentence and the next one feel a bit disjointed to me. I think a transition would help tremendously. Constance rushed to meet him.
    “Creedy, what’s happening?” she asked, lowering her head against the wind. The skirt of her frock coat whipped her legs.
    “Lost your eyes to the wind, have you?” <This line confused me on the first read-through. After reading it a second time, I think I understand that he is being sarcastic. Some sort of response from Constance or a more specific dialogue tag would help nail down that explanation. he asked. The irises of his eyes were clouded < Having him say that she lost her eyes to the wind, then having his eyes be clouded made me wonder if the wind really was doing something to their eyes. and shifted toward her voice. “Make sure that piece of filth Pisador is still in the hold.”
    “He’s there,” she said. “But I had to untie him.“ Her gaze shied away from him, toward the wind, and over the main deck. Half of her crew was bunched around the mainmast. Overhead, men climbed the ratlines. Above them, others recklessly hung from the crosstrees. <Instead of relying on an adverb, a stronger description would be better if possible. Both groups fought to keep the wind-gashed topsail attached to its yard.
    Constance left Creedy at his position and climbed down to the main deck. A delicate-framed man struggled to pry the main topmast’s halyard from around the mainstay. Another man, hunched and grey, stood beside him.
    “Why did no one reef the sails?” she asked.
    “Because I’m not a sailor,” the slight one said, fighting the twisted ropes. “I’m a naturalist.”
    Constance knew Sanctuary did not care who did her trimming– < I don’t know anything about ships. I don’t know what you mean by “her trimming.” Creedy had said as much, and his words had yet to fail her.
    “Angel Shades, Rosy Underwings… my interest is in moths. Not rope, not sails, not ships,” he said, shaking the rope.
    “Stop!” Constance frowned; the tangled lines were beginning to fray. <I always prefer linear order: The tangled lines fray, and then she says stop.
    “Just a doctor, myself,” the old man said with a shrug.
    “Well.” Constance slid her trembling hands into pockets. “I advise you get your doctoring tools ready. You might have a chance to prove it.”
    “Chance?”
    She walked away, but the doctor trailed her.
    “You’re the captain. Why can’t you fix this? It’s your responsibility; none of us asked to be here.”
    She tried to ignored him while she walked. < This sentence stood out to me as much weaker than the others. Firstly, avoid having characters “try” to do things. Secondly, we already know that she is walking so perhaps a description of where she is or what she’s passing would work better (For example: She ignored him as she pushed between two sailors repairing the sail). All she wanted was a moment alone. A single moment to think.
    Save the stays and you’ll save the ship. But how?
    “It won’t unravel itself, you know,” the naturalist called after her.
    “Christ’s sake,” Creedy said. < Isn’t Creedy on a different level of the ship? I think it would be helpful to mention that (For example: Creedy said, leaning over the railing of the quarterdeck.) Something like that helps to orient things in the reader’s mind. “Just cut the damn thing. We can afford to lose one sail if we’re as close as it sounds.”
    Constance moved starboard to look beyond the sails. He was right; the snow-covered ground seemed to wink and coax the sun from behind the clouds. They were less than 20 twenty minutes away.
    Her eyes roamed past the clipped, icy shore of Greenland. It was all a blur of white, and mountain ridges were only visible due to the shadows they cast. Constance took her pendant in hand, fingers running along the gilt. Soon, its small, arcane marks would lead her to la vara de centuries– the Rod of Centuries– and then… then, she would restore everything.

My Overall Thoughts

You have a very nice, easy to read writing style that drew me in right away. You started with a great conflict that has action that is interesting but not overwhelming to the reader. Well done.

Key Places to Improve:

  • There were a few places where I felt slightly confused about what you were trying to say. This may have something to do with the fact that I don’t know anything about ships, but you do need to assume that readers know nothing about ships to ensure clarity.
  • You do a great job with keeping the descriptions brief, but there were a few places where I felt it would be better to give the characters more concrete positioning on the ship (where Creedy is when he talks to Constance and the doctor; where Constance is when she is ignoring the doctor).
  • You could turn the emotional dial up just a tad. It wasn’t clear what was at stake for Constance – Was she in fear for her life? Was she just worried about damaging the ship? What exactly was the consequence if things didn’t turn out right?

The Writeditor’s Grade (out of 5): 4

I really enjoyed this first chapter. Aside from some minor tweaking and clarity issues, this seems more or less good to go. I have no real complaints other than a few line edits. This read like a publishable book. Well done!

A note on the grading scale: The rating of the first chapter does not indicate the rating of the novel as a whole nor does it indicate the writer’s overall ability.

Connect with Yvone

You can connect with Yvone on her blog and Twitter.

Submit to First Page Friday

If you’d like to submit your novel for First Page Friday, please send the following to ellenbrock@keytopservices.com:

  • The name you want me to use in the blog post (real name, alias, or anonymous).
  • The genre of your novel.
  • The first 500 words (give or take, don’t stop in the middle of a sentence) pasted into the body of the email.
  • Any links (Twitter, Blog, Goodreads, etc.) that you’d like included in the post (not required).

Please do not submit if you are not okay with your first page being posted, critiqued, and edited on my website.

About the Editor

Ellen Brock (AKA The Writeditor) is a freelance novel editor who works with self-publishing and traditionally publishing authors as well as e-publishers and small presses. She owns the editing company Keytop Services and the writing and editing blog The Writeditor. When not editing, she enjoys reading, writing, and geocaching. Check out her freelance novel editing services.

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Help First Page Friday be a Success!  Please use the buttons below to share this post. The more views, the more submissions, the more First Page Fridays!