It is extremely difficult to edit your own work, especially if you wrote it days or only hours earlier. Even waiting a few weeks to a month may not be long enough to fully detach yourself from the writerly flow to be an effective self-editor. There is a mystical process between muse->brain->keyboard (or pen or pencil, depending on your particular flavor of this mythos) that is far too personal a communion to be able to step back and look at the entirety of “the big picture” – tiny facets of it, yes, because all authors should be able to edit grammar, mechanics, and make certain their intentions are carried through loud and clear. But a story needs more than just flashes of brilliance and overall coherence that every author should be able to impart. It needs consistency, and a high-quality with an eye on the audience that simply can’t be achieved to the fullest potential in a self-edit.
Which is why I feel it’s important for a book to be edited by someone who can not only see that “big picture” while the story is in draft form, but can help get it there without costing the author their voice. And no, not a friend who “took some writing classes”, not a loved-one who ”wants to help”, not the businessman that has you house sitting or walking his dog, and not even “the friend who got published” because there are certain things an editor will do better than even a fellow writer. Every author who is serious about their craft learned long ago that first drafts are little better than toilet paper when it comes to evaluating them as being publishable right now. It can sometimes even be difficult to convince an agent, publisher, or even editor, that a story is publishable at all – or at least that that it’s worth the time to get it into publishing shape. So what really matters is showing a story’s potential, and then being pushed to make that potential become a reality.
I say this because every story I’ve ever read has always had some redeeming quality. People who decide to write do so for reasons more numerous than number of words in the longest book ever written, but the most common thread between all of them is having a gem of an idea (or a character, or a scene) that made them not just want to write, but actually put out the words.
There’s a lot that can be said about editing in general, but today I want to focus on author’s voice.
Every author has a voice. Some are more well defined than others, usually because they’ve been writing for a longer amount of time, but even the greenest writer has some level of voice developed. The thing about editors is that they can, in an effort to clarify or bring out a part of a story’s potential or shift it into a more genre-sympathetic method of phrasing, overwrite the author’s voice with their own. In the case of a young writer, they might not know how to interpret this sort of change to their prose, or not know what the end-goal of edits should be – they’re not just to make certain all the i’s are dotted and all the t’s are crossed, but to produce prose that conveys, to the intended reader, the simplest and clearest images of the story, the characters, and the facets of a single scene that are important for that “big picture” I’ve been mentioning. The individual importance of each of those things will often vary from scene to scene, adding another layer of mystery to the whole editing process that can be just as difficult to explain as a writer’s communion between muse->brain->keyboard.
And it’s important to know that not all editors are created equal. Neither are authors, but that is often less of a dispute when it comes to the business of writing. Editors spend a great deal of time perfecting their craft, just like authors, but in very different ways than authors do. Editors need to know what the standard practices are in a given genre, such as how readers are familiar with visualizing prose, as well as a more-than-general knowledge of grammar and mechanics currently being used in the industry. They also need to have an in-depth appreciation of how a reader will “hear” and then “see” the things being conveyed by the words in a story. (Authors can be knowledgeable about all of those things too, but reference the first sentence of this post for why it is important to have editors too.) Editors especially need to be able to see any inconsistencies the intended audience will see, and then have the knowledge of how to actively address the problems before readers are given the story. Authors, when receiving edits, need to know the difference between an edit given for clarification, an edit given for grammar, and an edit given because there was something that needed to be changed so a reader can see what that particular moment of the story needed them to see.
For an example of editor vs. author regarding something that was not mechanical or grammatical in the sense of classroom learning: In EotS, I had a difficult time convincing Peter that a hyphen, not an ellipsis, was the standard notation for a line of dialogue being interrupted harshly. Whenever I changed an individual instance, it would come to me in the next draft altered back to the ellipsis. Eventually, I told myself I’d get to them when we were done with the damn thing so I didn’t lose any sleep over something so small. It was a shame, because I think a few of the hyphens are still incorrectly done as an ellipsis even in the final version – something that could have been avoided had I been able to explain the importance of the notation in a way that convinced Peter to stop altering them back. My failure as an editor was to let myself get into that position, which I now know for next time. (Different kind of learning.)
On the plus side, Peter’s voice is entirely intact throughout the book. If you read through EotS, I doubt you’d be able to tell which sections I rewrote. It’s one of the things I learned while editing that I’m rather pleased to be able to brag about – I hardly ever alter the author’s voice, preferring, and able, to work within what was given to me. If I can’t, and I start seeing my voice in the prose, I stop editing and simply ask for a rewrite to address the issue(s) I’d been trying to work through. The edits that matter most are often not about the delivery of a single sentence, but are about the delivery of the sentence before and the sentence after effecting how the reader will “hear” the sentence in question within their mind. Editors need to be careful they don’t put their own voice into the mix and accidentally add another layer of “fog” to how a reader will hear the entirety of the paragraph or scene. It can easily ruin the story – the opposite of helping it like an editor should do.
So, authors, you need to find an editor that can compliment your voice, but you definitely need an editor. When you find one, if you aren’t comfortable with how your words are being changed, then speak up and ask questions. The more you know about why editors do what they do is more that you can improve as an individual writer. Those sorts of improvements will reduce the amount of things editors need to rewrite in your future work, and thus can avoid the most common instances of unintentional voice-mixing. This will also leave the editors more time to focus on how to bring your story to its full potential in regard to “the big picture”.
As an excercize, if you want and because I think it could be fun: Write a [short] scene about someone being in a place they’ve never been before. The challenge: you cannot use the words “has not been there before” (or any variation thereof) to convey that fact to the reader. Post it in the comments here and I’ll offer feedback.
As always, thanks for reading.
J.R.
i have… no idea… of what you speak.
you do know my voice rather well by now. of course, that is akin to recognizing the voice of madness and knowing how to play its tune. still, i enjoy having a dance partner just the same.
hmm… somebody in a place they have not ever been. this sounds dangerously close to being an exercise in showing, not telling. here is my contribution, oh editor, my editor:
the doors shut behind him, sweeping backward before settling into place with little evidence of their action save but a final gust of wind. as his gaze drifted upward, he took in the sight of the vaulted ceiling and the enormity of the room which opened up before him. the high walls and dangling chandeliers served only to make him feel smaller than his normal size, in manners both physical and psychological.
it was why he did not often trek into such establishments. the people were dressed far more elegantly and the difference in station bore more forms than simple disdainful glances or short, brusque bursts of conversation. the plush carpeting consumed the soles of his shoes like quicksand and the leather couches would creak if he dared sit in them as though proclaiming to the world an interloper walked among him.
only thirty seconds inside the building and already, he wished to turn around and depart.
One mis-word: “…walked among them.” Although I’m now curious about how to visualize “walked among him.”
Total: 14/20
Language: 4.5 pts – a little high-brow
Visual Imagery: 5 pts – perfect
Length: 4.5 pts – just right
Adherence to Challenge: 0 pts – “did not often trek into such establishments” is a variation of “never been there before”. The bit about “interloper” is too, but I like that sentence too much too pick on it.
You conveyed “did not belong” more than “had never been there before”, but it was cleanly a ‘show’ rather than a ‘tell’. I could feel the un-named character’s discomfort as he evaluated his surroundings. Very nicely done, even if a bit off the mark.
i am well versed in having an interloper walk among me.
drat, i was hoping you would not notice “did not often trek”. *snaps fingers* still, now i have a score i shall try to best next time. thank you for the mental exercise.
And Peter, though I only know this because we’ve worked together so much, I should have commended you on the use of 3rd person POV. It should say something for how smooth it was that I didn’t actually notice until reading Anya’s that your hadn’t been in 1st person POV. Kudos. (I also ignored your non-caps habit
)
thank you very kindly, my editor.
i am hell-bent and determined to master the bloody POV if it kills me.
we actually attempted the beginnings of another project a few nights ago and both it and corbyn’s tale shall be third person. i am hoping, by the time we reach the point in my books when this is an issue, i shall be much more comfortable with the perspective.
OR, Y’know, I can keep poking and prodding Peter in the ways of the third person. XD
i am working toward achieving the zen. still feels so bloody strange saying “he” instead of “i”.
Trust me, I get it. It’s weird for me too when I switch POVs. It can be done, mind, but I get it. We’ll get you to the zen. And then you will call me master.
Nice. WP ate my last post! ARGH. Well, here goes as best as I can remember it.
~*~
Oh no way in /hell/.
My eyes snapped shut as I fought the urge to vomit. Holding my breath, I counted to eight, then slowly opened my eyes once more. Still disgusting but not nearly as bad. Bile rose up in my throat, but at least this time I could swallow it back down where it belonged. I breathed shallowly, adjusting to my new surroundings.
Blood. Fresh, metallic scented blood littered the walls in great splatters, trailing along the once pristine paint and marring it. Gross. So gross.
“Daaaaad,” I whined. “Why did I have to come?”
“Because your mother hates the smell of blood. That’s why.”
Yeah. Just because I’m half-vampire means I’m supposed to be able to deal with it even better? As if.
“Dad? Why are we — OH GOD THAT IS SO DISGUSTING.”
I turned my head quickly, but not before I watched my dad move closer to the wall and lap up one of the long drips. I mean, I know he’s a vampire? But still. A bit of warning would be nice.
“Animal blood,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Come on, let’s keep moving. There has to be something further back.”
Oh. Joy.
Total: 16.5/20
Language: 4 pts – two rough patches, see below
Visual Imagery: 4.5 pts – I saw the scene beautifully, and the characters resolved themselves fairly well by the end.
Length: 4.5 pts – just right
Adherence to Challenge: 3.5 pts – “my new surroundings” is technically a violation, but I’m letting it slide with partial credit because if you remove the word “new” you’d have the full 5 pts.
When I read this, I was picturing the scene from S1-Dexter where the Ice Truck Killer had created the room painted in blood with an electric chainsaw. That’s intended as a compliment.
Rough patch 1:
“Blood. Fresh, metallic scented blood littered the walls in great splatters, trailing along the once pristine paint and marring it.”
It’s just a little bumpy.
Suggested edit: “Blood. Fresh, metallic scented blood marred the otherwise pristine walls in great splatters, forming trails all the way to the floor.”
Rough patch 2:
“I turned my head quickly, but not before I watched my dad move closer to the wall and lap up one of the long drips.”
Wording preference – to stay away from double I statements in a single sentence.
Suggested edit: “I turned my head away quickly, but not before seeing my dad move closer to the wall and lap up one of the long drips.”
Overall, very nicely done. Your characters are a bit “fuzzy” regarding appearance, but their mannerisms shine through well. Your MC’s personality is extremely LOUD, but I appreciate that when it’s not overdone. (It helps to be familiar and fond of the character
)
As an added note between you and Peter, I love the differences here. Peter used descriptive language to give the sense of the character and his feelings on his surroundings. You utilized dialogue and played off another character.
It’s good to see writers stretching out in the sandbox.
Yeaaaah, I suppose it may have helped if I actually read through it before posting. I just got annoyed WP ate my first version. ;^)
And amusing as well? I as a usual 3rd person POV went for first; while Peter went for 3rd. Definitely nice to see us stretching in the sand box. *wiggles toes*
i call “dibs” on the shovel and pail.
HEY! So what’s left after that? *kicks sand in your face and steals the pail*
*spits sand out, scowls, but then pouts at the shovel left in my hand* i was going to give you the rake…
not that the rake is good for much, mind.
by the way, you had me in stitches with this piece.
It might be surprising that it took me this long to get here. At least, from an outside point of view and anyone who doesn’t know me or didn’t know him.
I don’t know what took me so long, really. Leftover childhood fears and bogeymen, maybe, combined with a little more than two decades of being the wrong kind of stubborn. I could claim distance and lack of time, but since the truth was I’d driven farther for a pair of shoes or a really good spicy tuna roll, that excuse is lame, at best, and an outright lie, at worst.
I didn’t go because I didn’t want to, at first. And then after a while, I didn’t think I deserved to. The guilt made it easy to talk myself out of it, every time I thought about getting in the car. It’s been too long, the voice would say, and what’s the point now, anyway?
It finally occurred to me that maybe there didn’t have to be a point. There doesn’t have to be a reason, and not every path leads to an end. Not every circle gets to close. I got in the car because I had to, and I drove because — finally — I wanted to.
The walk was chilly. So was the marble; I could feel it through my glove. The cold air was enough to crack the lump in my throat when I finally took a deep breath to speak.
“Hi, Dad.”
Total: 17/20
Language: 3.5 pts – There are a lot of commas and connected phrases, and some heavy reliance on genre turns of phrase. See below.
Visual Imagery: 4.5 pts – The character herself was wonderfully alluded to, but the appearance and relevance of the glove was rather abrupt.
Length: 5 pts – the building anticipation was so cleanly resolved by those last two simple words, that this more than deserves every point.
Adherence to Challenge: 4 pts – “it took me this long to get here” can be read as a reference to the flow of time, but it is close enough to “never been there before” that I can’t quite give full points. Since you state “I don’t know what took me so long” to reinforce the flow of time reference, it’s only a -1 pt.
This was an absolute pleasure to read. You have a wonderful way of capturing your narrator and using their voice to tell the reader so many things without needing to state them directly. BUT, the linked phrases, while entirely captivating and not at all boring, were very much an indirect method of telling us how the character felt. You do it very, very well, and I would be hard pressed to offer a suggestion on what to do differently in such a short piece.
Also, I wasn’t entirely certain how old the character was by the end – Your narrator voice, and the references to shopping for shoes (which I applaud since it allowed the reader to know that the character was indeed female without having to say “her” or “she” – it’s precisely the kind of descriptive stereotyping that writers should rely on when they trust their readers) gave me the sense that the woman was in her mid to late 20s. But the “two decades of being the wrong kind of stubborn” suggests that her indecision regarding visiting her father’s grave has been going on for two decades, which would place her at early to mid 30s. This is one of those things that, depending on the reader’s own age, if they identify with the character it will influence how they picture her, which will in turn influence how they see the “truth” about the character having two decades of life behind her – and not just life, but life where she was making her own decisions, even if just in regard to the visit. If I had to give a general guesstimate based off the details you included: the character is currently 28 or 29 and lost her father around the age of 10. Judging by the fact that she was deciding not to go see her father, she was either a very mature 10 year old, or was a little older when her father actually passed. It’s the sort of ambiguity that can confuse a reader and pull them out of your writing. In this case, it merely toed the line, but is something to be aware of.
Thank you so much for writing!
Kerry acted like his nights out were sacred, a necessary diversion from the life he never wanted to have. He likes to blame me for trapping him, but if he’d kept his stupid mouth shut, we’d both have been free. Instead, we were trapped in a cage of expectations neither of us could ever meet, with nothing to show for it. Turns out, there was no baby. There won’t ever be a baby, not between us.
I’d hoped to peek in the window and be gone, but the curtains showed only silhouettes with languid movements. A touch here, a slow spin, bodies leaning into and away from each other. No question in my mind that this was the sort of place a man went to do things he didn’t want his wife to know about. But I did know, had known for a while. Kerry was having an affair, and I could not be happier for the excuse to leave him.
Standing outside that bar, I was probably more excited and more afraid than I’d been when we messed around in the back of Kerry’s truck. One time. Just like walking through that door would be. One time to open my eyes and change my life.
It shouldn’t have been so pretty, all vibrant colors and pulsing music. Old Hollywood movie posters decorated the walls, and most of the space was taken up by a dance floor. There was a cage on a small stage, and part of me wanted to join the girl gyrating against the bars. She wore too much make up and her clothes were garish, but I admired her anyway. Zest for life. That’s what they called it. She had great legs, thick with muscle, but not beefy – a runner’s legs. Men called out things that would make a decent girl blush, but she just smiled and crooked her finger at them.
I looked around for Kerry’s omnipresent baseball cap, the worn flannel he wouldn’t give up, the jeans too big for his skinny frame, but it seemed he was hiding. Probably saw me and ran for the john. The men in the bar didn’t look up from their conversations. It was clear this was a guy’s place, but they weren’t going to ask me my business.
I waited for the music to stop, so I could talk to the dancing girl. For all I knew, she was the one keeping Kerry busy. I couldn’t feel bad about that, even if it made some small part of me sad.
I was nursing my drink when she came up behind me, smelling like roses and sweat. It did strange things to me, things I thought best to ignore.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was tight, like maybe she was afraid of me.
I turned to face her, and looked into the prettiest green eyes I’d ever seen, like the color of the ocean over dark gray sand. Breathtaking, mesmerizing. She stared back, terrified, knowing me.
“Kerry,” I whispered.
He ran.
Total: 14/20
Language: 2 – see below
Visual Imagery: 4 – wow. everything was extremely vivid, and moments punched through that were almost searing (in a very good way – the color of the girl’s eyes especially). The visual descriptions of the layout/interior of the bar were somewhat unclear.
Length: 3 – could have been shorter, which would have helped with the meandering.
Adherence to Challenge: 5 – perfect.
Re: language and length-
There was too much going on. This piece began as one thing, and shifted just at the end. The character also experienced two shifts: At first, we see a young, bitter-sweet woman who is looking to move on her with her life even if she’s uncertain where that will take her. Then, the first shift: her uncertainty is almost nowhere to be found when she walks into the bar – she’s a woman who means business, who’s going to confront her husband then and there, or at least let him see her so he knows she knows. That takes a certain brand of confidence that I didn’t see in her in that first section. Second character shift: She’s suddenly noticing that the dancer is doing “strange things” to her. She’s now not only a supremely confident woman, but one who is so self-aware that she can easily recognize that it’s the dancer causing her to feel something out of the ordinary – it could have been the situation, the adrenaline rush of resolving and following through confronting her husband, or the fact that she was in a place where men objectified women.
For the story shift, I’m not entirely certain what it shifted into. It started as a small-town shot-gun marriage about to break apart because of the husband’s infidelity. It became… not that. The implication left at the end was that Kerry somehow was the green-eyed girl, whereas the wife also states that the girl might have been the one that Kerry was being occupied by. The reason I wonder about the implication of the green-eyed girl being Kerry is because the wife didn’t see him and suspected he’d dodged into the bathroom to avoid her. There was no moment of recognition from the wife before the statement, “He ran”, but it leaves too much unsaid.
Visual Imagery: The vivid details of what the character was seeing were incredible. But it did feel based on something somewhat “canned”, as though this was a prose rendition of something seen in movies or read in other books rather than something experienced. I couldn’t visualize the bar at all, which may be in part due to my own inexperience of small-town bars (which is the location that seems to fit both the character and the bar) but it was also because of the behavior of the surrounding characters. A woman walks into a place where men are cat-calling at a dancer, and presumably drinking, but they leave the young wife alone? I have a hard time believing in a place like that.
My favorite line:
“Standing outside that bar, I was probably more excited and more afraid than I’d been when we messed around in the back of Kerry’s truck. One time. Just like walking through that door would be. One time to open my eyes and change my life.”
I obviously did not make it clear enough that she was walking into a gay bar. I thought the curtain-shrouded flirtation combined with no women (except the dancing girl) being present was enough of a hint, especially when all the men ignored her. The movie posters, decor, music and cage were also supposed to be clues, but it seems I saw more in my head than I was able to relay with my words.
The action couldn’t have taken place in the small town where they live, because small towns thrive on gossip. Kerry would have had to go somewhere else for his nights out or her neighbors would have been telling her all about his affair from the beginning. Again, I didn’t make the case for that strong enough.
The green-eyed girl is Kerry, and she didn’t recognize him because she wasn’t looking for a girl, much less her husband dressed up as one. I’ve seen amazing transformations when men do drag, but I didn’t make you see that the way I’d hoped.
I find it interesting that you thought she was young in the first paragraph. I thought the last line had a certainty that could only come from long experience. A young woman might still hope for a child with her husband, and perhaps not be so willing to leave him for an uncertain future.
I really appreciate the critique. You’ve given me a lot to think about.
“genre turns of phrase” — like what? You said see below, but I don’t see anything below
And thank you for the critique. You are absolutely correct — my narrative math was off and needs fine tuning.
Aha. I got wrapped up in hearing myself talk about the how and why referencing her age was important, and didn’t get back around to the other point I’d wanted to talk about. (Editor’s prerogative – can’t talk in our work, talk alot outside of it
)
Re:genre phrasing – What I probably should have said was “intended audience expectations” phrasing. This is both a positive and negative. It’s an extreme positive in that it makes stories done in this sort of narrator voice very, very marketable because it is very appealing to the college-bound (and post college) woman. (I say woman because the emotions tapped into here are very feminine, and college-bound because of the way you trust your reader and can rely on implication rather than outright statements.) It’s a negative only in the sense of appealing to an audience outside those boundaries, and sometimes it can also be more difficult to make your own author voice unique. This was not a problem present in what you wrote here.
Just in case my long-windedness sounds at all over-critical *sheepish* … You have a very envy-worthy gift at imparting emotion and the sum-total of my reaction to reading your entry was “wow… how do I critique that?” (in the way of: I’m going to have to try to find something to offer other than “loved it”). I’m also hoping that any writers visiting this find something to take away even if they don’t actually submit a comment of their own. So I let myself keep typing.
Not long-winded at all — I appreciate the critique, since I have just started writing fiction again after a very long absensce, and I am also in the process of preparing samples for applying to MFA programs. I am filled with terror and self-doubt, so this was invaluable to me. If you post more prompt/challenges, I’ll likely jump on them. Thank you so much, seriously.
You’re very welcome! I’ll be looking forward to the chance of seeing more from you, and best of luck with your applications.
I could smell fresh-baked bread and salt water. There were gulls crying, presumably for pieces of that bread.
The sun was hot on my skin and I could hear water lapping against something solid and perhaps wooden, like a deck or a pier. Busy footfalls thudded around me, along with snatches of loud Spanish and the occasional command in English. No one spoke to me.
The tug of a leash and soft whimper remind me I’m not alone. I put my hand on Shanty’s soft head and stroked her ears. I spoke to reassure her as much as myself, “Don’t worry girl, I know you didn’t mean it, after all this is just our first outing together.”
I adjusted my glasses and stood still, listening for footsteps coming in my direction. “Excuse me?” I called out. “Where do I pick up the number 10 bus?”
Total: 18.5/20
Language: 3.5 – You switch very briefly into present tense.
Visual Imagery: 5 – It made me wish I was standing somewhere nearby.
Length: 5 – the full capture was beautiful
Adherence to Challenge: 5 – perfect
I have to point out, in a very complimentary way, that you could have the met challenge in one line:
“I adjusted my glasses and stood still, listening for footsteps coming in my direction. “Excuse me?” I called out. “Where do I pick up the number 10 bus?” ”
But I would have missed not having all the other surrounding details.
You flip tenses here:
“The tug of a leash and soft whimper remind me I’m not alone. I put my hand on Shanty’s soft head and stroked her ears. I spoke to reassure her as much as myself, “Don’t worry girl, I know you didn’t mean it, after all this is just our first outing together.””
Also, I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of having a seeing-eye dog, so I’m curious why the character says “I know you didn’t mean it”. Is it simply a statement of something we didn’t see, or is it in regard to the fact that Shanty directed her companion’s attention toward her with movement and a sound?
Please be gentle. I have extreme low self esteem about my writing. Just ask anya.
_____
He had been in search of the bathroom.
A party was going on somewhere upstairs in the old hotel, and while the word, party, was a cheerful one, the actual gathering was as far from cheerful as a body could get. Not that there was weeping; far from it. Family and family of family gathered to drink, eat and at least look like they were having a grand old time, simply because it
was the sort of thing his family did. You had to be there, grinning like a fool and red-faced from all the fun you weren’t having, celebrating some milestone or wedding or something. Periodically, people broke off, drifted towards doors for air or a smoke or the bathroom. Really it was for a moment of peace, because if they really
wanted, they could have gotten a quick pee right off the main dining room instead of wandering down here, like he was, looking for some cool, out of the way place to sit on a toilet and remember how to be human.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t it.
Instead of tiles he found old brown carpeting and an old brown piano holding court over mismatched wingback chairs. It all looked like hand me downs from somewhere up above, where music played and where the chairs at least all matched, even if they really weren’t stylish. It was an oddly nostalgic room, like guest bedrooms in his memories, sacrosanct places he couldn’t go as a kid for fear of getting things dirty. Temples to furniture no one used.
This one was a forgotten temple. Maybe some day someone would come and disturb the dust and put all this in a museum. Who knew?
He had only just touched the piano, more than likely out of tune and out of use, just rubbed lightly against the worn finish and thought about opening the cover to peer at the keys, when the door behind him opened suddenly.
“This room isn’t for guests,” he was told by someone irate and working for the hotel. It made him wonder what the room was for then.
“I was looking for the bathroom.”
“This isn’t it.” He was scolded, as if he had been caught tinkling on the piano like it was a urinal.
“I know.”
After that, there wasn’t much he could do but rejoin the party upstairs.
Thank you so much for your words. I usually have very little faith in my writing. Probably much the same as any writer, but your comments are greatly appreciated.
I had to laugh at your comment that I could have written the story in one line because I mostly struggle with filling out a story. I tend to have too much faith in a reader that they can follow along.
I was intending that as this was their first time together being led/leading that Shanty took her master the wrong way.
And like Dawn, I too will be looking for more challenges.
Thanks,
Maureen
Emyrldlady
You are very welcome! I’ll make sure to drop in on the QT forums when I post a challenge up. Will be once a week a most, but more likely every other week. This was the first one, and I didn’t expect it to get this many entries, but I really enjoyed the exercise of seeing so many different styles and stories.
Re: Shanty taking her master to an incorrect place: That fits completely with the story, but yes, I definitely didn’t make the logic leap to get there. Would suggest amending the full comment from the character to: “Don’t worry girl, I know you didn’t mean it. After all, you kept me safe, and it is only our first outing together.” Combined with the fact he has to ask about the bus at the end, it should help fit the reader put those pieces together.
Total: 17.5/20
Language: 4 – a couple rough patches, see below
Visual Imagery: 4.5 – I have a weak spot for the inclusions of the piano.
Length: 4 – just a hair long, but you used the length very, very well.
Adherence to Challenge: 5 – perfect.
First, as I’m sure Anya’s told you, don’t be so hard on yourself.
I didn’t have to fluff numbers to get your total.
The visual imagery of this whole thing was gorgeous. I very clearly saw the hotel, and had a more than general sense of how everyone probably looked almost all the way down to their wardrobe.
The quick edit of rough patches:
“A party was going on somewhere upstairs in the old hotel…” – as the piece continues, we know that the character knows where the party is taking place because he had left it to look for the bathroom, so I’d remove the word “somewhere”.
“Periodically, people broke off, drifted towards doors for air or a smoke or the bathroom.” – The sections of phrases don’t quite fit. Suggestion: “drifting” instead of “drifted”.
“…old brown carpeting and an old brown piano…” – Suggestion: The double color statement may have been a stylistic choice to show the monotone of, and lack of attention given to, the room, but I think the description that follows handles that more than well enough to remove the repetition that could jar readers.
“…like guest bedrooms in his memories…” – Suggestion: “…reminding him of guest bedrooms [in other places he'd visited]…” to address the slight oddness of the “in his memories” part of the phrase.
“Who knew?” – Suggestion: Remove. It toes the line of being a POV switch where the character is addressing the audience.
“…just rubbed…” – Suggestion: “…his fingers rubbing…”
“…he was told by someone irate and working for the hotel.” – Suggestion: amend this to be more of a ‘show’ than a ‘tell’- if the person who comes in has a distinct name-tag like other hotel workers, or if the MC remembered seeing him somewhere upstairs. Irate can also be shown as an expression on the man’s face, or the terseness of his voice.
Favorite line:
“Instead of tiles he found old brown carpeting and an old brown piano holding court over mismatched wingback chairs.”
This was just a quick sprinkle edit for phrasing, not anything major. The piece flowed beautifully, and I loved the sense I was getting of the character and his inner turmoil that he does so well, but struggles so much, with burying. This is the kind of character I could follow around in a longer piece who would hold my attention very, very easily.
I was pointed here and was too tempted not to have my own attempt.
I always thought familial memory was a myth. Something told to us to make us love the motherland that we had not be born into, felt no real connection with.
But, as I step out of the battered LandRover, I suddenly, inexplicably feel as if I have come home.
I have made the driver stop early; there are no villages here. The sun beats down on me, tendrils of a breeze caress my face. The skyline is marred only by acacia trees and hills in the distance, and the silence is unlike anything I have experienced before.
I kick off my shoes and my feet mix with the dusty surface of the heat-baked earth. I know, without doubt, that this is where I belong.
Am I too late or can I still post? If I can, this would be my snippet:
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I looked at the ring on the low table beside the cushiony something that should have been my bed – bed as in “the bed I had slept in for years before dad got himself caught by Beast.”
No, I wouldn’t think of him. I got up and dressed. Luckily, some of my nicest clothes had come along with the ring. I put it back on my finger. One day was all he had agreed to, so I’d better make the best of it. I opened the shutters in front of the window and sunlight fell in. It was my room and it wasn’t at the same time. Pictures painted on paper as thin and smooth as the thinnest leather I had ever seen hung on the wall. They showed demons with spiked, colorful hair and metal studs all over their faces. Still, below all that they did look vaguely human.
Like Beast – if it would be possible to remove the ugly and scary bits. I turned, left the room and walked down the stairs. A real painting hung at the wall half way down. I stopped in amazement. It was my face staring at me. A black veil surrounded my head like a sad halo, and words in my father’s familiar hand sagged along the bottom. I bent down to read.
In memoriam of a daughter who did more than her duty for her guilty father.
A giant fist squeezed my heart.
“You like it?” A boy, 3 cheeses high, grinned at me from the bottom of the stairs. I’d never seen him, but he spoke my language. He wore short, blue pants and nothing else and dripped water all over the floor. Where did he come from? My gaze went past him. How much this part of my home had changed! The floor was no longer stamped earth and cobbles as it used to be. Shiny wooden floorboards, soft carpets and comfortable looking furniture made my home resemble that of the ugly love I had left behind.
“I said do you like it?” The boy climbed the stairs. I nodded, meaning the house, not the picture but he obviously misunderstood.
“It’s my great-grandaunt Belle. She was eaten by a monster, and no one has ever found her corpse. Maybe it ate her hair and bones and all.” His eyes sparkled with excitement.
He could have hit me with a hammer and I wouldn’t have felt worse. Great-grandaunt? What happened? Where had all the time gone? Beast must be frantic. Then, it dawned on me. Beast would be dead after all this time.
“Say,” the boy had reached the step below me. “You look awfully like her.”
I stared at the ring. Would it be strong enough to take me back to my time? Without a word, I fled up the stairs toward the bedroom that had once been mine. I had to go to sleep. I had to…
After locking the door to keep out the boy, I slammed the ring on the nightstand and flopped on the soft bed. A single beam of light fell through the shutters onto my face. I tried hard, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Quick Post – I will get to the latest two entries, but have a few things on my plate that need to be taken care of first. Hopefully by the end of the day
I know this is probably futile, considering the last two didn’t get critiqued and no one’s posted anything for a month, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to post my own.
I chuckled as I followed Jeannette over the bridge and into Taudis Rouge, but my smile faded when a horrible stench hit my nose. I looked down to see a half-decomposed cat lying on a doorstep, covered with flies.
“Why do they leave it there?” I asked.
“It died of some sort of disease and no one wants to touch it.”
I held my breath, hoping the flies wouldn’t bring the disease my way. Jeannette released my hand and I followed her steadily uphill, earning stares from half-naked kids in alleys and filthy women hanging laundry to dry on chicken-wire fences. After a red man yelled at me to get out, I thought it best to hide my fire in my pocket until we reached Jeannette’s house.
Except it wasn’t a house. It was a tent. A large, maroon tent with a tarp strung up to make a front awning of sorts. A wide, dark-haired man sat out front on a milk crate. In his red glowing hand he held a knife the size of my arm and was using it to sharpen a box of pencils.