Crit the Writer Above

[wills]

I've used this format on another board I frequent.

The idea is to provide feedback on the 'Idol' short story posted by the writer above you in this thread.Obviously this applies to writers only, though others should feel free to give crits.

To kick this off, Mark P has asked for a crit on another thread, I'm happy to do that. The next poster on this thread should take my 'Idol' short #227, do a crit, and so on...

This system gets a lot of the stories read and provides writers with the feedback we all desire.

Happy Reading :Thumbs:

EDIT: re-worded to 'attempt' to improve clarity of system

[wills]

MarkP
You mentioned you reduced this extract from 1200 words - I think it shows.
Nothing wrong with the writing, it's tight, controlled and brisk, as it should be leading to a momentous event in the boy's lives. I feel the word reduction you've undertaken has reduced the piece almost to a staccato effect, short stabbing sentences. You've retained the essence but possibly thrown away some of the padding that might have filled in the gaps. Would I want to read more - hell yes, for starters I want to know why she's decided to leave her husband.

Best of Luck - wills

Please see the starter post, the next poster should read my short, #233 and the one after should follow on down the chain.

[JennaGlatzer]

Nice idea. :) Many of the entrants probably aren't checking back in, though, so it won't work for everyone, but it's certainly a start. And I know some of the non-entrants have volunteered to do some critting... jump right in, please!

[MacAllister]

I'd be happy to do a crit--is anyone feeling particularly anxious for feedback? Or shall I just look at all the 230+ stories and go eeny-miny-moe....;)

(I'm not automatically going to Wills', because I don't have an entry for the writer who follows me)

[underthecity]

Actually, I would. I would love a critique of my piece. It is half of a chapter I've written for an upcoming book on entertainment history in Cincinnati. Since this will be published in the book, I'd like to know if it reads OK and what work it still might need. Here's the link (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=122653&postcount=6).

And. . . . it's not fiction, so please enjoy.

underthecity

[BlueTexas]

I'd be happy to do a crit--is anyone feeling particularly anxious for feedback? Or shall I just look at all the 230+ stories and go eeny-miny-moe....;)

(I'm not automatically going to Wills', because I don't have an entry for the writer who follows me)

I'd love to have my piece critted. I find it very hard to get perspective on my own work.

[Mandiric]

Great idea, wills, or at least great benchmarking of an idea. :)

Here's my take on yours:

There's word repetition in the first paragraph (and extending into the second) that makes it difficult for me to get into your piece. You use the word "life" four times in the first 'graph, then once quickly in the second. Try reading it out loud -- it's distracting, at least for me.

If "life" is a theme in your novel, consider using the word as little as possible. Find other ways to understate your point. Pointing frantically detracts from the power, IMO.

...a Lark...
Not sure if you need to capitalize this.

...you did your best trying hard to relate it to things that I knew
"trying hard" is superfluous. Axe it.

...but you cannot describe a bird for me
"cannot" switches the tense to present, where before you were in past. I understand that you're retelling an event that already occurred, but still it can be jarring. I'd stick with one tense throughout, if possible.

...between my thumb and the one finger I can control.
Which finger is that? Details! Let us see it.

I can’t measure the size of anything, but if you place it on my stomach or my thighs, I feel its weight and sometimes I can perceive its size.
Slightly contradictory. First you say this person can't measure size...but they can perceive it? I'm confused by the distinction.

Like colour, it is just a description measured against other descriptions, a Lark is brown...
You'd do better with a period in place of that second comma, methinks. The clause seems to end there, not continue.

You have given me so much and yet I still sometimes think it would have been better if we had never met. In showing me how to be a person, you showed me how to love.
Good. Deft way of saying "love is dangerous" without trumpeting it.

That whole spine tingling, heart stopping whirlwind that rips through me...
Overwrought, IMO. This sounds like a twitterpated teenager, and I don't think that's the image you want for your protag.

I can hear what clothes you are wearing as you move round the room and immediately know what the weather is like.
Confusion here. As written, it sounds like the therapist is moving 'round the room knowing what the weather is like. I know you mean that your protag can infer the weather through the therapist's garb, but that should be clearer.

...and that funny ‘phut’ sound you make with your tongue when you are concentrating.
Nice.

The way you used to rub my thigh when things work out.
work-ed out. Another tense shift.

And then four years ago...
I'm not a fan of "And then..." One of the two can most always go. In this case, I'd suggest keeping "Then."

When I called your number...
Earlier you said your protag can't hold anything, which would preclude handling a phone and dialing numbers, I think. Maybe not. It could also be that you've explained this earlier. 700 words is rather limiting, especially when you have two chapters ahead of this one.

I admit I'm puzzled by the passage of time. How does the four years play in? The twelve months?

it took me that long to realised you had moved on.
realize. Er...realise. Another tense shift. Did you write this in one tense and change it afterward?

I don’t need to paint it any clearer.
Cliche.

I need to love you for everything you have given me not to hate you for not returning my love.
I read this three times and I'm still scratching my head. It's a circuitous sentence, which lessens the oomph you're trying to achieve. Consider splitting it into two or paring the one down.

I don't want to comment on structure, organization, or flow, since this is only a small part of the whole. But I will say that, on its own, I found this an enjoyable, if slightly disjointed, piece.

If your goal is to funnel everything to the mini-climax -- "I need to move on" -- consider cutting some of the description of how the protag senses the world. Chances are you've built up to it by now, in chapters one and two. It sounds too much like you're talking straight to the reader. If the protag and the therapist have had this long a relationship, I'm sure the therapist already knows this information.

I hope this helps, wills.

For whoever comes next, my entry is number 218 (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=131961&postcount=218).

[jdkiggins]

Actually, I would. I would love a critique of my piece.
underthecity

I hope this works. I tried to put everything in red and parenthesis that I found made me hesitate in reading and I'm hoping the cutting and pasting takes here. Very nice story. Take what suggestions you think will work for you (if any) and dump the rest of my suggestions. (I came back to add that I remember my grandmother talking about burlesque, and reading your excerpt sounded just the way she described it. I think you did an excellent job here.)

This is the "Burlesque history" part of my Burlesque/Vaudeville chapter from my upcoming book on entertainment history in Cincinnati.

A century ago instead of “stepping out,” many folks enjoyed entertaining at home. Families gathered in their parlors and played their pianos or organs, or wound up their Victrolas and played Billy Murray and Ada Jones records, or invited their neighbors over for sing-alongs and lemonade. When it was time to step out, live entertainment in the Queen City was just a streetcar ride away. Variety shows of all kinds could be found downtown at a number of places at nearly any time of day.

When folks wanted (to) see a variety show, laugh at dirty jokes and watch sexy girls, they went to burlesque. In burlesque theater during the Victorian era(,) characters onstage mocked and lampooned society’s attitudes, conventions, language barriers, and anything involving the upper classes. Performers wore minimal costuming, and the routines moved fast and used simple “low brow” humor. In the Victorian era of huge dresses and hoopskirts, audiences of society(ally)-repressed men watched(ing) the young ladies singing and dancing onstage in little more than their undergarments. This was a mighty powerful draw.

The format of burlesque shows was based loosely on three-act minstrel shows. In act one, the ensemble sang and told jokes; in act two, an olio of variety acts with singers, comics, and skits; and in act three, a complete one-act musical show with parodies of Shakespeare, Gilbert and Sullivan and other routines from popular legitimate stage. Routines took place in settings and situations familiar to the working class audiences such as courtrooms, street corners, and doctors’ offices. Sexual innuendo was worked into the show, but the focus was on making fun of sex and what people were willing to do in its pursuit.

The top banana was the lead comic in the burlesque company. Sidekicks including the third banana took the falls and slipped on banana peels. The lower they were in the “bunch,” the more likely they were to get pies thrown in their faces or seltzer water shot down their pants. With all the shenanigans (going on) onstage, vaudevillians considered it a disgrace to appear in burlesque and looked down on (burlesque) performers. However, beginning actors used burlesque to break into the business so they could eventually move into vaudeville.

By the early 1900s, burlesque had become synonymous with sex, ribald humor, and scantily-clad women. The goal now was to reveal as much of the female form as laws allowed and still put on a funny show. In August, 1916 Mayor Puchta warned Cincinnati theater managers not to permit any improper shows in the coming season. He expected managers to obey the “rules of decency and decorum” and keep the Queen City from developing an undesired reputation. To keep with the mayor’s dictum, the Heuck Opera House added “high class” burlesque in 1919 with its own local stock company.

Big burlesque companies organized vaudeville-style show circuits at the turn of the century, and entertained nationally until they finally closed in the 1920s. After losing their touring shows, desperate theaters offered something vaudeville, radio, and picture shows lacked: striptease. Already infamously risqué, strip shows gave burlesque a sleazy reputation. Uniformed police officers patrolled theaters like the Empress on Vine Street, waiting for the first sign of indecency. Simple accoutrements and G-strings, named after the longest string on a violin, concealed just enough of the female body parts to avoid arrest.

Scandal broke out at the Empress in September(, )1934 when twelve underage girls were arrested for working as chorus girls at the burlesque house. The 13 to 18 year-old girls were encouraged to go onstage to perform strip numbers, and one girl explained that the wardrobe mistress beat her for refusing. (she was beaten by the wardrobe mistress for refusing. )

By the 1930s burlesque houses had completely shed the old minstrel-show format. They now featured only bump-and-grind strip routines interrupted by bland comedy bits. Since the male audiences went only to watch the strippers, the comedy was dropped altogether. Now the burlesque houses only featured sexy girls. One frequent customer summed up his experience: “In the long run, the best thing to do about burlesque is to buy a ticket at the box office, check your brains with your hat, and have a hell of a good time.”

[MacAllister]

UnderTheCity, I thought Joanne did a very nice analysis of the few technical niggles I noticed in your piece.

Overall, I liked it quite a lot--your voice as our "guide" is very smooth and professional. I did notice that the sentence and paragraph lengths could be varied a bit more, to maximize your command of the subject matter, and your control of the reader's attention.

You also begin to nicely capture the "naughty" edge of the subject matter--I just wonder if this could be even more fun (not everywhere, just injected carefully), given the topic?

I love the documentary feel of the piece--it reads like History Channel narration (of which I'm a big fan) frex:Already infamously risqué, strip shows gave burlesque a sleazy reputation. Uniformed police officers patrolled theaters like the Empress on Vine Street, waiting for the first sign of indecency. Simple accoutrements and G-strings, named after the longest string on a violin, concealed just enough of the female body parts to avoid arrest.

I can almost see Vine Street...

I do wonder if you found the word count challenging, because this piece almost feels rushed, in some places--like we're careening along, when I'd be willing to spend much more time.

Overall? I'd definitely read more.

Blue Texas--I should have a crit up for you later tonight. :)

[firehorse]

This is a great idea! The two above me haven't logged on since March 19 and 16, respectively, so that takes me up to Jill, whose piece I loved. Not much of a crit, but I'm falling asleep at the keyboard, and I promise I'll actually analyze/evaluate it in the morning.

Not sure about the woman who posted below my entry - she was here a couple of days ago, but she's only posted her entry (shy, maybe?); below her is Mags, who I know is around, so Mags, if you read this, go for it! (If you want - no pressure)

-Sarah

[Rhush]

I would enjoy a crit from anyone who wants to give it. I'm #108 on the 5th page. It's a rough draft of my 1st chapter. Feedback is very welcome.

[CaitlinK18]

Oo! Oo! Crit me!

I'm #137 on page six, "Quest". The excerpt was from an older WIP, so I'd be interested to see if the writing still holds up...

Thanks! I'll give back as much as I can with crits...

[JennaGlatzer]

Ohhhhhhhhh, I get it! Wait, Wills' idea was smarter than I realized. I thought he (he?) was saying that people should crit the entry above their own in the auditions thread... but no, that's not what he's saying. (Some of you realized this, and some were thinking what I was thinking.)

He's saying you should crit the entry from the person who did the last crit.

In other words, since Wills posted the first critique, the next person who posts has to critique Wills' piece. Then the next person critiques the person who critiqued Wills... make sense?

I'm all for this. It makes it a lot more "fair" than everyone just jumping in and saying "I want a critique." In short, do a critique and you'll get a critique. :) And it can keep going around as many times as you want, so you can get more than one critique.

P.S. Mac hasn't posted an entry, so this means that the next person to post should critique Mandiric's entry, then we need someone to catch us up and crit Joanne's entry (jdkiggins).

[wills]

Hey, great to see this working and others joining in happy to give and receive crits.

Mandiric - thanks for the crit, always difficult to chose an extract for an exercise of this type, you are asking the reader to take a lot on trust. I have a tendency to be 'relaxed' with dialogue and not apply the same construction rules as I would to narrative. This does not excuse all of the errors you kindly highlighted but I still prefer a degree of looseness, it feels (to me) more natural.

The piece does have a slightly disjointed edge, the speaker is not given to emotional statements, he's on unsure ground and risking a lot by exposing his feelings. It is a 'do or die' approach, difficult to convey without seeing more of the story - and possibly indicating I chose the wrong piece for this 'comp' ;)

OK - Following the list, Caitlink18 should be reading/crit Rhush and the next poster should read / crit Caitlink 18 not me - I've had my turn. I see no one has read / crit Mandiric's piece, I will do this myself so as not to skew the system.

[wills]

Just to try to settle out the list:

firehorse should be read/crit jdkiggins
Rhush should be read/crit firehorse
Caitlink18 should be read/crit Rhush

I will take Mandiric who was missed out from earlier - the next post on the thread takes Caitlink18

When you post, please confirm who you are reading / critiquing so it is obvious you are 'in the game' and prepared to give and take.

[TashaGoddard]

I'm up for it, but can you confirm whose piece I should look at (I think it should be Caitlink18, but I may be confused - it's early still). I am #216 on p.9.

I think this is a really good idea. As it stands there will be 230 who do not get through to the finals (and no doubt quite a few more entries will posted in the next 2 days). While just entering the competition is a great experience in itself (gets you writing, editing, tinkering, etc. as well as working to a deadline and a word limit), getting the chance to have some feedback will considerably add to that usefulness. Well done wills!

[TashaGoddard]

Crit/line-edit of CaitlinK18’s piece (#137 on p.6). [I went ahead and did this, so if I was supposed to do a different one sorry. And perhaps Caitlin will be happy to get two crits!]

I may well have gone overboard here! I can get carried away sometimes. Some specific points: I have cut out some of the more ‘flowery’ language, but I have left quite a bit of it in. In fantasy, descriptive language with imagery can be quite useful in painting a picture of the different world in which your story is set. But if it’s overused it can be quite annoying and get in the way of the actual story. I think the elements that work here are where Archeon is looking out to admire the beauty of his world – floweriness is good here. In some places, I have expanded on it or changed it slightly (hopefully) to make it stronger. Something I have noticed in a lot of the entries I have read is the repetition of the protagonist’s name, which you have done quite a bit. Particularly here, where there is no dialogue, it is probably better to make much more use of ‘he’. Repeating the character’s name can seem as though you’re trying to bang it into the reader’s brain. I have also tried to put across Archeon’s age a bit more in the language (though I might have cut out some of your intended humour in doing so, so perhaps that was wrong). I have changed the wording a bit here and there to make it (hopefully, again – this is only one opinion!) flow a bit more naturally and cut out the odd bit that seemed unnecessary.

One thing I haven’t changed (except for the wording) but that I think might warrant another look, is the implication that the spell is a difficult one. When the actual casting of the spell is described, it doesn’t really come across as having been difficult. Perhaps you could show the toll it has taken on his strength and health?

It seems like the story that is to come will be an interesting one. I would certainly like to know what havoc Archeon’s little error will play in this world.

The bits in orange are meant to be crossed out (there doesn't seem to be a code for strikethrough - if anyone knows of one, please tell me and I'll edit the post to put them back, and make it clearer). The bits in red are added. I have posted a full edited version in blue at the end, so you can read it through without the 'crossings out'.



Archeon, Tenth Mage of the Order of Rasputin, stood in his garden and looked down.He saw on the frozen white gleam of the Hoar Mountains to in the east and the inkblot of Mabog’s lava peaks to in the west. The great blue azure blade of the Iris River cleaved them apart and the green verdant and , fertile expanse that was the land of Draconia lay exposed to Archeon’s his gaze. All this he could see He saw all of it from his home on Top O’ the World, the highest peak on the continent[maybe name the continent, instead of say ‘the continent’?].

For a moment he felt able to observe purely for, the mage imagined he was just looking at the beauty of the countrysidehis surroundings. ThenBut a high wind whipped across the tiny patch of vegetation, flapping Archeon’s his worn robe open and reminding him of his age, his arthritis and the slight chill he was currently battling. that he was an old man, one with arthritis and a bit of a chill. As Tenth Mage of the Order of Rasputin, he had a job to do, and staring into space like a bloody idiot didn’t finish it any faster.

Once upon a time, Archeonhe had thought the entire business of being athe work of a mage very glamorous,;with all the staffs, theand robes, theand chanting, all symbols of power. Wiser now, he just wanted to getonly for this unsavory task to be over with. He’d doneHe had cast the same spell five times in the span of sixty annums, last sixty years and it never became easiereach time was as hard as the last. In fact, Archeon’s finely aged wine-keg of wisdom told him the entirewhole thing was probably bollocks, and that he should go back inside, fix a bitpot of jasper tea for his ailmentscomplaints, and leave the fate of Draconia in someone else’s hands.

The flaring of Mabog’s volcanic fires seemed to indicate agreement.The volcano fires of Mabog flared, as if in agreement. “That’sis the way of it, it isindeed,” Archeonhe muttered, turning and shuffling back towards the door of his sturdy stone cabin. He was almost inside whenbefore the youthfully impetuous cider-barrel of his mage pride won the argumentover.

Archeon grunted. DHe was damned if he failed he was going to be the first Mage of Rasputin to fail in his duty. He was the Tenth Mage of Rasputin in as many centuries, and not one of them had ever gone derelict on this particular magic before. He wasn’t goingfelt disinclined to go down in history as Archeon The Incompetent One Who Buggered Everything Up. The magic represented tradition, duty and the Order’s sworn oath to the Draconian royal family,. Not to mention unspeakableunthinkable torments in this life and several subsequent ones for the mage who dared break itthe oath.

HeStretcheding out a scrawny, scarred arm,andhe called his staff. It came floatingfloated lazily across the garden at a lazy speed and settled into his hand like an insouciant, very wooden snakein the shape of a snake. “Rascal,” Archeon scoldedhe said. The staff promptly turned itself into a long loaf of bread. “No, no!” he shouted, beating it against a fencepost until it resumed theits proper shape.

Very cold now,He raised his arms, mumblingand hastily mumbled the words toof the spell quickly and withincantation, none ofeschewing the ceremony that an history-changing enchantment that could change the face of history probably deserved.

TherequisiteForbidding purple clouds gathered over the mountainspeaks of Mabog. Archeon supposed If heWere he more theatrically inclined he might have uttered a peal of sinister laughter. But there was no-one to hear him save the this far up Top O’ the World except mountain goats, and theywho never deigned to talked back anyway. Archeon letLetting his staff float away, heand hurried back inside to the warmth just as the first snowflakes began to fall from his conjured clouds.

Had he done his magely duty and stuck aroundstayed to see the full results, Archeon would have noticed the magic bounce off an errant mote in the atmosphere and come down in precisely the wrong location.

But he didn’t not, and that’s why so this story is must be told.



Archeon stood in his garden and looked down on the frozen white gleam of the Hoar mountains in the east and the inkblot of Mabog’s lava peaks in the west. The azure blade of the Iris river cleaved them apart and the verdant and fertile expanse of Draconia lay exposed to his gaze. All this he could see from his home on Top O’ the World, the highest peak on the continent.

For a moment he felt able to observe purely for the beauty of his surroundings. But a high wind whipped across the tiny patch of vegetation, flapping his worn robe open and reminding him of his age, his arthritis and the slight chill he was currently battling. As Tenth Mage of the Order of Rasputin, he had a job to do.

Once he had thought the work of a mage very glamorous; the staffs, the robes, the chanting, all symbols of power. Wiser now, he wanted only for this unsavoury task to be over. He had cast the same spell five times in the last sixty years and each time was as hard as the last. In fact, Archeon’s finely aged wine-keg of wisdom told him the whole thing was probably bollocks and he should go back inside, fix a pot of jasper tea for his ailments and leave the fate of Draconia in someone else’s hands.

The flaring of Mabog’s volcanic fires seemed to indicate agreement. “That’s the way of it, indeed,” he muttered, turning and shuffling back towards the door of his sturdy stone cabin. He was almost inside before his mage pride won over.

He was damned if he was going to be the first Mage of Rasputin to fail in his duty. He felt disinclined to go down in history as Archeon The Incompetent Who Buggered Everything Up. The magic represented tradition, duty and the Order’s sworn oath to the Draconian royal family. Not to mention the unthinkable torments in this life and several subsequent ones for the mage who dared break the oath.

Stretching out a scrawny scarred arm, he called his staff. It floated lazily across the garden and settled in hi hand in the shape of a snake. “Rascal,” he said. The staff promptly turned itself into a long loaf of bread. “No, no!” he shouted, beating it against a fencepost until it resumed its proper shape.

He raised his arms and hastily mumbled the words of the incantation, eschewing the ceremony that a history-changing enchantment probably deserved. Forbidding purple clouds gathered over the peaks of Mabog.

Were he more theatrically inclined he might have uttered a peal of sinister laughter. But there was no-one to hear him save the mountain goats, who never deigned to talk back anyway. Letting his staff float away, he hurried back inside to the warmth just as the first snowflakes began to fall from his conjured clouds.

Had he done his magely duty and stayed to see the full results, Archeon would have noticed the magic bounce off an errant mote in the atmosphere and come down in precisely the wrong location.

But he did not, and so this story must be told.

[DTNg]

I too would love to hear what others think about my writing. (But do be gentle, this is the first time I've had the nerve.) I'm number 15 on the first page.

I've never critiqued anyone's writing before so I'm not sure i'm the right woman for the job. Even so, I wasn't sure who was next on the list either. Maybe I'm just one of those people who are easily confused. (At least I didn't post my entry in the wrong thread though.)

[Melina]

DTNg-

You would crit TashaGoddard, who indicates she's #216 on pg. 9. Then whoever posts after you would crit your piece (which, by the way, I read and enjoyed, but I am not competing and this is an exercise for contestants).
Good luck!

Melina

[Delirium Author]

Well, since the person above me did not critique. I have decided to crit the lady who is above me on the idol submissions thread. I am #78. She is #77.

Growing up as a young man, I was never as into unicorns as a young lady might be, but I found new respect for the unicorn by reading this excerpt. The power of this mythological creature, the fire coming from it and the ways that the unicorn is able to defend itself. Nothing wussy about that. LOL. I liked the realistic dialogue, pacing and the surprises in this piece. Very good work.

Coming up next...HOPEFULLY...a critique of my work...entry #78 on page 4...'Alien Boy volume 2: the other alien boy'.

Chad Miles Descoteaux
www.dahcstudios.com (http://www.dahcstudios.com) :welcome:

[KimJo]

I'd like to give this a try, though I don't know how good I'd be at doing line-by-line critiquing. My excerpt, "Dark Destiny", is #127 on page 6; please let me know whom I should critique. Thanks!

[underthecity]

UnderTheCity, I thought Joanne did a very nice analysis of the few technical niggles I noticed in your piece.

Overall, I liked it quite a lot--your voice as our "guide" is very smooth and professional. I did notice that the sentence and paragraph lengths could be varied a bit more, to maximize your command of the subject matter, and your control of the reader's attention.

Overall? I'd definitely read more.
JDKiggins and MacAllister,

Thank you very much for your crits, they do mean a lot! As for the technical issues, I didn't really consider what I posted here as the "absolute final product." I've written the chapter, proofread it, rewrote it, rewrote it, and rewrote it; and have moved on to other chapters. When all chapters are finished, I will be going through them all very carefully again, fixing all the things I missed the first times around. I always miss the little things in my first rounds of revisions, and jdkiggins has made my next step a WHOLE lot easier. :)

The step after that will be my editor at the publisher to further revise. But what am I saying, you guys already know all this!

If you guys liked the burlesque half of the chapter, then you'd love the vaudeville half, written very similarly.

But if you think my writing is on par with what you'd hear as voiceovers for pieces on the History Channel, then--well, I'm just speechless. Thanks, that's high praise indeed. :Sun:

Who's story am I supposed to crit? The OP said you are supposed to do the one before you, but nobody was before me. Please advise.

EDITED: I'm critting Will's piece.

And thanks again!

underthecity

[TashaGoddard]

Delirium Author, it seems that you should actually crit DTNg's piece, which is #15 on p.1.

KimJo, you should critique Delerium Author's piece with is #78 on p.4.

Whoever is next, should critique KimJo's piece, which is #127 on p.6.

[Hope I'm not giving wrong instructions here!]

[TashaGoddard]

Underthecity, I think you need to crit wills' piece, which is #227 on p.10.

[Jakalyn]

Okay, I am going to critique KimJo's piece below.

Please take my critique for what it's worth, take from it anything you think might help, and leave any suggestions you dislike. I thought the piece was really good, and there are only a few changes I thought you might want to consider.



Dark Destiny climax scene 689 words
You should not have come here, Blake.

“I wondered when you’d show up,” I muttered. I think you should stick more to just "said". it almost reads as if you are avoiding the word, since you use told, replied, etc. so often. Not a problem every now and then, but if it's throughout the whole novel, it could get distracting.

You should not be here, the darkness repeated.

“I’m here because Faith’s here,” I replied.

She was to come alone.

“Blake isn’t here to help me,” Faith said. “Only to make sure I do what I’m here for.”

You will fail.

“Arrogant,” I told it. “Isn’t that what you always accuse me of being?”

When she has lost, I will send you back. You will watch as I take your friends.

“If Faith loses, I’ll keep fighting you. If you try to take my friends, it won’t be easy. I’ll fight you until there’s nothing left of either of us. Anyway, Faith will win.”

She has never been strong enough before. Always, she has only watched.


“Always, she has helped us,” I replied. “Every time she’s come with one of us through the portal, you’ve lost. This is the last time. This is when you lose for good.”

You should not have come here, it told me again. You will cause her to lose.

A second too late, I realized what it meant. You might want to consider leaving this first sentence off. Just my opinion, but I think it might have more of an effect. You tell later what it meant, and it is already obvious that it is too late, so all this sentence does is make the reader wonder what you are talking about, which distracts some from what is actually going on. And then the full force of the darkness’s power hit me. I had blocked my mind, but it tore through my block, shredding my mind, laying every part of my being open for anyone to see. “No!” Faith shouted. “Leave him alone! I’m the one-”

By attacking me, the darkness hoped to upset Faith enough that she couldn’t focus. It knew that she loved me, and was using that love against her. I wasn’t going to let it happen. The pain in my mind was excruciating, but somehow, I managed to focus, to reach a small part of my mind into the darkness’s, and began to draw its power as it was drawing mine. “Faith, now,” I said. I think this should be written different. It doesn't get across any kind of urgency as it is. You could consider doing something like "Faith! Now!" I tried to yell to her, but it barely came out above a whisper. She heard me, though, and...

I was barely able to speak above a whisper, but Faith heard, and I sensed her pulling herself together for the battle. Briefly, her mind touched mine as she entered the darkness’s mind through the opening I had made. I pulled back, allowing her to force her way further into the darkness.

Before, in the darkness’s world, I had caught glimpses of Faith’s aura. Seeing auras was Topher’s ability, not mine, but in the world of the darkness, anything was possible. Now, her aura grew brighter, until I could barely see Faith for the light that shone from her. The darkness released my mind, and I collapsed to what what was it? what did it feel like? obviously different than normal ground, but how?passed for the ground here.

Before me, light met darkness. The black aura of the darkness briefly eclipsed Faith, but she fought back, reaching into herself to draw on the strength that had always been there, but which she had been unable to use until now. Her light blazed still more brightly, but still the darkness battled her. It and Faith were evenly matched; I could almost see the division where its darkness met her light, exactly between them. It could not defeat Faith, but neither could she defeat it.

My ears were filled with a roaring that I could not find the origin of I would leave this phrase out. this phrase makes it sound like you searched for the origin of the roaring, and my eyes ached from looking at Faith’s light. But I couldn’t look away; I had to know which of them would win. It looked as though the battle would end this way, neither of them able to defeat the other. And then I knew what I had to do.

“Faith!” Calling to her, I reached out my hand. I sensed her hesitation, then she took it and reached into my mind, drawing on my strength to increase her own. I didn’t know whether this was allowed; Faith had said she had to fight this battle alone. But I knew somehow that without me, she would be unable to do what she had been sent here for. As I shared my power with her, her aura became so bright I had to close my eyes against it, and even then, it was blinding. suggestion: I knew now that the roaring I heard was the darkness's pain and fury, and it just got louder as Faith's...Now the roaring I heard was the darkness’s pain and fury, as Faith’s light eclipsed it entirely.

Then the light was gone, and there was silence.


Great story, from what I can tell from this excerpt. Thank you for letting me crit it.

For the next person who comes to crit, my piece is on page 2, #46. Please be gentle. http://pages.prodigy.net/rogerlori1/emoticons/BLUEGUY.GIF

[DTNg]

TashaGoddard...I've never critiqued anyone's writing before and to be honest, don't know how to go about it. I'll offer my thoughts and if anyone else wants to give a more thorough crit...please do jump in.


I enjoyed your excerpt but it left me intrigued and I wanted to read more and learn more. For instance, who on earth is Mel and why would he need saving?

I have to admit, I had to think about the meanings of words such as "binned." It's not an expression we use often in NJ, but I understood and enjoyed your accent.

I'm sorry I don't have much to offer in the way of critcism, I don't think I'm experienced enough to pick apart your excerpt line by line. I read it and wasn't confused or falling asleep and that's always a good sign.

[KimJo]

Delerium Author, I liked your piece. Even though the characters are aliens, they are believable and easy to relate to. You've made it clear what is happening in the piece and why. The only suggestion I have is that you may want to change the wording of the following sentence; to me, it sounded awkward, not flowing as well as the rest of the piece:

"After acquiring a good amount of food from the ship’s cafeteria, Bloxnor and Zi headed back to their quarters and just lounged around on the floor and in their underwear, eating and talking."

I would be interested in reading more to learn whether Bloxnor finds his child, and what bearing it has on whether Earth is allowed to join the other planets.

Good luck in the contest!

[underthecity]

Wills kicked off this thread and has yet to receive his crit which was supposed to be done by the next person down the list--me. Here we go.

227 (http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=132751&postcount=227)

Got my third cup of coffee, and I've read the piece twice now. I want to point out that I've never really closely critiqued anyone's work before except for my own, and I'm my own worst critic. I also tend to not hand out high praise unless I feel it's really worth it.

It's difficult for the average person to imagine what it must be like to live as someone who is both blind and severely disabled. The person in your story is intelligent, feeling, and in all ways the same as you or I; but due to his handicaps cannot experience and express things the way most of us are able. He must rely senses other than just sight to "see" the world around him.

In that respect I feel you handled this very well, giving us an inside "look" as to how this person experiences events in our everyday perceptive world: happiness, nature, and even love. The piece reminds me of "stream of consciousness" almost, showing us is inside the head of this disabled person.

And that's a key issue: show versus tell. At no time did I feel you were "telling;" instead you expressed the experiences this way: That whole spine tingling, heart stopping whirlwind that rips through me when I hear your car approach and wait for your footsteps in the hall. Your cheery greeting, a kiss on the cheek, the spices on your breath and smell of your body. I can hear what clothes you are wearing as you move round the room and immediately know what the weather is like.
This is good writing. You involved all of the person's senses when others might rely on what the eyes see to advance the story.

I liked this piece a lot, and from this excerpt I would be interested in knowing what else happens in the story, and why Amanda stopped visiting him.

Oh, and if I must also point out the flaws, I did find one typo. In the second last paragraph you say "it took me that long to realised you had moved on." Drop the "d" in realise, and that's it. I didn't spot anything else.

Nice story. And while I hope mine wins :Trophy: I think your story is a solid contender as well.

underthecity

[TashaGoddard]

DTNg - thank you. It's great that it left you 'intrigued' and wanting to 'read more and learn more'. I'm also glad you picked up on Mel and why she (it's a her not a him, btw) would need saving. This is something quite integral to these two characters and which I am trying to drop in bit by bit to gradually reveal some of the reasons behind elements of their personalities and the decisions they make.

It's interesting that some of the UK English may not work for US readers. I don't tend to have the same problem the other way round, but I think that's because we are exposed to so much American culture here (TV, books, news, etc. etc.) that we don't really think about it anymore. (Binned = deleted/thrown in the trash can).

Thanks again.

[KTC]

Hi guys,

I wouldn't mind doing a critique and being critiqued. I think the list is a bit out of wack. Mine is on page 8, #199...a very short vignette.

I will come back and catch the next person in the list.

Thanks,

Kevin

[KimJo]

Jakalyn, thanks for your critique. Your suggestions are very helpful, particularly with increasing the urgency of what's happening near the end of the piece. This scene was from the first draft of a young adult novel I'm working on, so now I have some ideas for how to fix it as I revise. Thanks again!

[DTNg]

DTNg - thank you. It's great that it left you 'intrigued' and wanting to 'read more and learn more'. I'm also glad you picked up on Mel and why she (it's a her not a him, btw) would need saving. This is something quite integral to these two characters and which I am trying to drop in bit by bit to gradually reveal some of the reasons behind elements of their personalities and the decisions they make.

It's interesting that some of the UK English may not work for US readers. I don't tend to have the same problem the other way round, but I think that's because we are exposed to so much American culture here (TV, books, news, etc. etc.) that we don't really think about it anymore. (Binned = deleted/thrown in the trash can).

Thanks again.

Your welcome. I hope that was what you were looking for. Please let me know when you're finished with the piece so I can read it in it's entirety.

I would love to be critiqued as well...not sure where i am on the list. My piece is on the First page. A Case for the Parking Lot Police.

Deb

[vig]

well, what can i say... it was more questions than writing. it was another house wife talking about the mundane. another women talking about her daughter and the things that passed her by. the lines on her face, the shallowness of humnan kind and the utter defeat most everybody feels in todays world.

the more i read unproduced writers, and i'm one of them, the more i it strikes me that people are boring, and writing about how boring and unsatisfied there life is... i'd rather listen to jim croce talk abou missing his son, than a housewife talk about the same old hat.

all in all, beyond my cynicism and the disdain i hold for the same damn story, it was okay.

sorry i couldn't say anything more about this, but i want to enjoy what i read and be surprised and challenged and if i talked to 200 women i'd get this same piece 190 times.

good luck

[vig]

okay, another mother, another mother story. can i blow my brains out. this one was short, thank god, but had a kind of different voice.

it's just so annoying, i know you're supposed to write about what you know, and i know everymother in the world has the SAME damn day, but i don't want to hear about it. can someone for the love of god not tell me about the bullshaite of the day. i got up and took a piss standing up and i feel no need to write that.

writer is about bringing me and the reader to a different place, i don't want to read about snot, and another mom complaining how hard it is to raise kids. i was a kid, and i had a mom, enough said.

again, the writing was okay, the bs of life is well, DONE TO DEATH. bring me to a world i havent' seen, please for the love of god, some mother somewhere tell me something different. like, hey i was so sick of cleanng up after my kid i wanted to put him on the roof with a golf club and tell him he had to hold it above his head until god sent a bolt down to punish me, like my mother did.

ho-hum. i know there is a story you have that isn't shared by the minions.

vig

[mommie4a]

Hi Vig. Reading your comments about 203 compelled me to read your entry. Certainly not by a housewife.

What I got from it: You offer a number of emotions - anger, upsetment, disbelief, vengence. That comes across loud and clear. Some of the sentences/phrasing could probably be tightened up even more and punch the reader even harder and help us identify where the protagonist's mind is.

I'm definitely interested in knowing more about how the situation evolved and why the protag. made this choice for resolution. And what will happen to him (or her I suppose!). Good luck. But you know, you could always co-opt a housewife figure in there to liven it up even more!;)

[Jakalyn]

Jakalyn, thanks for your critique. Your suggestions are very helpful, particularly with increasing the urgency of what's happening near the end of the piece. This scene was from the first draft of a young adult novel I'm working on, so now I have some ideas for how to fix it as I revise. Thanks again!

You're welcome.

Glad to hear my thoughts could be of some help.

Good luck in the contest!

[vig]

some funny lines ed, and a very easy read. i wouldn't call myself religious, but i do identify with embracing a higher power to ground oneself.

loved abestos line. you kept the same tone throughout, and all in all i would say i liked it.

vig

[TashaGoddard]

vig - you should actually have critiqued KTC's piece, which is #199 on page 8. The idea (as explained by wills in the first post of this thread) is for the next poster in this thread to critique the entry of the poster before him/her. It is getting a bit confusing what with some of us responding to the critiques we have received, though, so it's easy to be mistaken.

What is not supposed to happen though is for posters to just pick entries to critique (even if it's the one above them in the audition thread). The idea is that people who want to receive critiques, make one themselves (give and take). That way everyone who actually wants to be critiqued is. The two people you picked may not have wanted to be critiqued, so in theory your comments might have been better placed in the 'Comments on auditions' thread.

In addition to this, I think you might be a little confused about what a 'critique' is. While you do, of course, have every right to state your dislike of 'housewive's' writing, your personal opinion here is just that. What is more useful for people who have asked for critiques is to look at the overall writing style, rather than (necessarily) the actual subject matter. The story is, of course, of great import, and I think you should say so if it leaves you cold. But it's useful to try and look beyond that to see if the writer is succeeding at what they are trying to do (whether or not it is personally to your taste). Entry #203, for example, which you gave your opinion on above, has quite an important message (? if that's the right word, not sure) at the end, which I think you have may have missed. There is actually no indication that the character or the writer is a housewife. Though she is a mother, if you read to the end you will see that she didn't actually get to a be a mother to her child (I would assume because the child was adopted, but it might be another reason).

Personally, I thought that entry was quite well-written, although there are some elements I would probably change. I don't personally go for 'domestic' stories myself, but I can still see the merit in the writing itself, if it's there.

I don't want to upset you by criticising your critique! However, I think it would be useful for people to know what other posters are probably looking for in a critique. While some people may just be looking for an ego boost, most will be looking for ways to improve their writing - and I don't think it's necessarily the right thing to say 'don't write about this subject matter' without giving any further input. (Of course, in the critique I gave I may well have gone too far the other way - so feel free to shout me down!)

wills - this is your thread, so please correct me if I'm wrong! Perhaps it's fine to just state that subject matter isn't to your liking?

[vig]

i don't agree with what you think a critique is, but i like how you bold your words.

vig

[TashaGoddard]

OK. That's fair. There are different interpretations, of course. However, it would be good if you could KTC with a critique according to the instructions/guidelines that wills set out. mommie4a has been kind enough to give you a critique, so it would be nice if you could return the favour for someone who has requested a crit.

Thanks and good luck with the competition - I liked your entry by the way (I've already done my actual critique, so I won't go into any more detail, unless you want me to).

[KTC]

Hmmm. Maybe we should have a comment thread for this critique thread so that only those critiquing are posting in this thread. It would make the rule of critiquing the person above you a lot easier. Which would keep the posting in this thread down to one per person, which would make more sense for the "writer above you" part of the critiquing idea.

Just a thought.

[JAlpha]

Jakalyn,

It looks like your request to have your piece (pg.2 #46) was overlooked, so I'm stepping up to remedy that. I write and critique a great deal of very short fiction (under 1000 words) and story excerpts for my writing friends. Often, I find that my critique can end up being longer than the piece I'm critiqueing. But, I've found a way to get around that, and I'd like to try my method with your excerpt.

What follows are your exact words of your original piece and in the exact order in which you wrote them. All I've done was extract everything I didnt' feel the piece needed. I think you will find that the tension in the piece is greatly increased, and something that had been a negative in your original version--a lack of sentence variety--has now become a strength in the style of the piece. What I am referring to is the large number of sentences beginning with the word "I". However, now that structural repetitiveness actually becomes a stylistic strength which contributes to the tension of your first person POV.

Here is my version of all you really needed to hook the reader in this excerpt . . .

I was sure that at any moment I would see that dark blue car in my rearview. But it never happened. I waited for any second to bring with it the flash of blue and red lights. But it never came. I watched the rearview so much, there were many times I caught myself swerving into the wrong lane. I was on edge the entire time, thinking maybe they were watching me and just playing head games. Let her think she’’s gotten away safely and we’’ll bust in on her while she’’s sleeping one night.

I drove and drove until I barely had any gas left. I pulled up to the gas tank and pumped. I had resigned myself to the fact that at any moment a helicopter would land or a load of cop cars would sweep the parking lot, or something big would happen, and they’’d have me. It didn't happen.

I took off driving again, and I was somehow able to let go of all the fears I had of them catching me. I just kept thinking, I know that this could be over any minute, and if I am wasting these last few free moments worrying about being caught, why did I run in the first place? I looked at my watch. They were probably going through everything in my house right about now.

Good luck in the contest, and I hope you didn't mind my no nonsense style of editing i.e. whittling your word count into a tense little bundle of words.

My piece is on pg 4. #100 (Sea Cameo).

[vig]

tasha, have you always annoyed with your passive aggresive subjective viewpoint of what is or is not the letter of the law - and the lay of the land?

I think ultimately me exitng my thread without giiving a detailed critique saved me in the eyes of court.

humbly, the venomous poet.

vig

[KTC]

Sea Cameo

Off-season at Point Pleasant Beach, a deepening gloam creeps across

the sand, stealing my day.(Nice opening. Made me want to read on...liked the gloam creeping and stealing.) But(,)<I would remove this comma. I linger a little longer, wandering

farther along the shore, gazing into the murky Atlantic -- just beachin’

in my Old Navy gear. I meet an elderly man in a gray sweater. He asks me

what I think of war, if I would serve my country if needed. His somber tone

compels me to think he still remembers his cold plunge into combat. (Cold plunge into combat....I like it a lot! I think a fuller description of the old man would help a bit.)


He tells me, no matter the day, he still hears spirited sounds of the Big Bands

seasoning the salty air Seasoning the salty air - nice) just like the summer his country called him to duty.

His memories appear to pulse on the beat of five, six, seven, eight as he

swings, twirls, dips, splits and poses for me.(You have a very poetic style...I like this last line) I took Music Appreciation 101; I

suspect his mind’s ear is swaying to the music of Arthur Murry’s Tequila

Fantasies.


But(,)<again, I would remove this comma. I tire of watching him step-close, step-slide--no doubt he will shuffle

alone all night, recalling his bygone days of strolling the beach boards

in a jacket and tie, before distant memories of bombs explode in his mind over

and over again. With no pack or rations, I sit in the sand--my fingers sifting

through land mines (Great description here...land mines of...nice tie in with the war and the beach at once)of half eaten crab cakes and skeletal skewers of shrimp,

the cold briny air stinging my eyes as I begin to tell the old man my opinion

of war.


" I have already served my country," I say.

He staggers away, appearing not to have noticed my prosthetic leg.(I can't say enough about how nice this piece is. I loved the ending...the way the prosthetic wasn't noticed and the old man was trying to convey his own war-time memories without even realizing that the younger one was also at war)


Good luck with your piece. I found it poignant. The themes of the war and the ocean intermingled nicely. And it had a real poetic feel to it.

[vig]

199 -KTC

what can i say about this other than it's brilliant. in that little space an idealogy of sorts drifted into me, permeated. the writer conveyed to me what his character was. ktc has probably read more books than one should, or he has been given a gift that may whallow in his adobe as life may imitating art... anway. great job, suiccent, heavy and perfectly paced.

200 - jammison

a 180 in the opposite direction, writing the next patriot games, james bond, or triple x. recogonized the writing from early ludlum and felt the familiar pace of that genre. though it nagged at me was the writer talking about his or expertise in this piece, or was it just the many hats the crichtons, ludlums, etc... to write with a knowledge of all JACKS. either way, i thought you have a tendency to be redundant, especially the amount of times you use the lead characters name

the shot is pretty much regluated to one character and one location so as a writer it is you duty to condense the work. in that aspect i don't think you did a good job. almost was looking for a tad bit more of in monoluge of character as you gave us a payoff at the end that would warrant some more inner narrative.

for you i would say i think you have a grasp of the genre, hoping it's n ot your 'life case specific' and would find a better way to lean down your writing. but ultimtely, which i've gathered from this board is that all of you are writers, but the fine line between breaking through in your discipline is much like the comparison between 199-200

at the end of the road, to me 199 might actually be a better writer, but 200 as a chance to sell a or be commissioned to write because as a reader i can see that's he's good at it... not really good at it yet, but doesn't suck. but hell, novel writers really have to be abl to weave a story. my guess would be, you're not gonna make it, but nobody makes it, but hell could freeze over.

both of you can write, but your competition is daunting. my suggestion screen writing where an adobe sitting guy with higher intentions is made into a movie like THE TAO OF STEVE,

i'm going to actually revise my thoughts. ktc should make it to the top 10. know, i haven't read all the entries, but i have read at least 80 of them and only three have had as good, or better opening, to me, than this one. another that has to help is the brevity of it and as each time you read it, you get a different and more powerful image of what it means to you, as the reader, than what may have been the intentions of the author... to me, that is art, when you create something that ignites something in the reader.

if you can't do that in your opening paragaph, you MUST learn that in end you are selling a concpet of what you think will make other people money.

art is absolutely the devil step child of hollywood and our bastard mother is the first fool who decided that the masses are about income, or cultural relativity, but capitalism.

as far as the contest is developed and the judges are supposed to judge on what will benefit the competition, the many disciplines involved in idol, it would seem that I WOULD, want to see what type of range 199 has.

this critique will cost you 199 and 200 five cents a word you agree with, and 20 cents a word you don't.

choose your words carefully my fellow scribes or the venemous poet will tax you --

[JAlpha]

Vig,

Your piece contains some very vivid writing--my favorite image . . . the splash of blood painting the cement like a Andy Warhol canvas in blood red jealousy.

However, I have always struggled technically with stories that are written from the perspective of a dead person--sort of strikes me as the "ultimate unreliable narrator".

As a matter of creative exploration, have you considered writing this piece from the perspective of the cowaring bum?

In the way of technical glitches I found the following . . .

As the red and yellow lights swirled around me, bouncing off the dumpster, reflecting off the shallow puddles of grime, then brick facade, around and around. (This is a sentence fragment)

Invading my sleeping moments, stoking the fires of madness. (Also a sentence fragment)

But his prays (did you mean "prayers"?) would not stop this from happening.

The click of the trigger was so loud I thought the dead could hear. (A bit of a cliche, as in "waking the dead".)

It reverberated into my fingers, up through my spine to my brain, a thousand synapses all firing images of the love that I lost. ("Reverberated" doesn't seem like the right word--gives me too much of the feeling of an auditory sensation. Though I do know it can also be a synonym for vibrate)

The love that Demitri stole from me. (Sentence fragment)

Good luck in the contest,
JAlpha
(Sea Cameo) entry #100--pg. 4

[Elincoln]

I like the details on the scenery. Very real (made me homesick). You could almost feel yourself standing beside the narrator. Your characters stand out very well; there's two distinct personalities throughout the story. The

I had to re-read the story twice to get all the visual effects. I got very confused to what the older gentleman was doing. Was he actually dancing or was he just moving to the beat in his own head?

I would like to know more about the narrator a bit more in the beginning. Why was he beachin' there and what made him go to Point Pleasant specificly? What was there that made him feel better?

The ending was wonderful. Completely surprising and it really made me think.

You certainly did better at this contest than I did. Best of luck to you.

- Elaine

P.S. For the next in line, my story is #178, Pg 8. "Wishes & Friends" Be honest.

[Elincoln]

Opps. Sorry. Didn't know he was already crit.

Maybe we should do this in 1/2hr intervals?

-Elaine

[BlueTexas]

LOL. Well, you solved my problem. I get to crit you now.
My entry is #104 on page 5.

My comments in red...I'm new at critting, but I'll be honest.

Wishes & Friends by Elaine Lincoln

“Let’s go,” said Johnny as Darby, the Leprechaun climbed back onto his shoulder. They made their way into the forest, where they found the dry riverbed, a log bridge over it, and a small dirty hunt (hut?) underneath. Underneath what? A big pot in front again, of what? was bubbling. It smelled awful. I'd like to know how awful...like rotten eggs or boiling squirrel? The boy crept above the riverbank, making sure he didn’t step on a twig or make a sound. When they reached the bridge, Darby jumped down and carefully walked to the front entrance. The front entrance of what? Then he walked back. to where?

“He’s gone,” said Darby. “Probably looking for dinner. We better hurry.” Johnny nodded and they split up. Johnny looked inside the hut with his flashlight while Darby searched the outside. The smell inside the Troll’s home was worse than the pot. It was completely empty. He turned around and signaled to Darby. The Leprechaun trotted over, shaking his head.

“Nay, I haven’t found my treasure. How bout you?” Johnny shook his head. “Well, what now?”

As Darby grumbled to himself, Johnny shook his head again and started looking at the trees.

“Darby. Look up there. See that?” Johnny pointed up to the should this be 'a' tree, as used in the next sentence? tree. They both could see a small sack tied to a tall tree’s limb.

“You found it.”

Throwing the rope over the limb, Johnny used it to climb up the tree. As he got to the top of the rope, he pulled himself up and crawled over to the bundle. Johnny opened the sack and pulled out a large four-leaf clover. It was made of gold and gemstones. I think a little more description here would be good. Rubies, emeralds, gold shining as sunshine...something so I can picture it. He quickly put it back into the sack and tried to free the knot. The know in the rope or in the bag? Then he saw the something running over the bridge. It was covered in dirty, knotted hair with a pair of black feet and claws digging into the old log wood as it raced across the logs. A pair of burning red eyes appeared under the blacken (blackened or black) hair. Johnny quickly opened his backpack, shaking in fear, when he heard Darby shouting. The troll spotted the Leprechaun and had trapped him by the black pot. How did he trap him?

“Leprechaun. Good. Dinner.”

The little man shook his stick at the beast. “Don’t do it, troll.” But the troll scooped up Darby and trotted over to the pot. Johnny quickly jumped down from the tree, startling the troll.

“Stupid human. Go away.” The troll shook his fist at Johnny.

“I have something very good to eat,” coax Johnny. “Here’s something that’s much better.” He took out the bar of soap and waved at him. The bar of soap made me want to know where he got it, and the word 'the' rather than 'a' makes me think I should already know about the soap. “Look. Candy!” The troll’s eyes grew wide. It steped towards Johnny, but the boy raised his arm high. “Uh, uh. Don’t come any closer or it’s in the river.”

The gullible troll dropped Darby. The Leprechaun ran as fast as he could towards Johnny. The troll whined, “Give it to me!”

“Sure, ugly.” Johnny threw the soap into the black pot. The troll jumped after it, dunking his head into the pot and getting stuck. Soapsuds foamed around the beast’s body. Darby and Johnny laughed as they headed out of the woods. When Johnny came back to his own back yard, Darby gave a cry.

“Oh, nuts. We forgot my treasure! It’s still hanging in that tree.”

Johnny smiled and put Darby down. He then opened his bag and took out Darby’s lost treasure. “I took it out of the bag when I couldn’t undo the knot. Again, I'm confused about the knot. The troll’s only going to find some nuts in his.” his bag.

Darby’s eyes twinkled as he held his treasure in his hands. It was shrinking down to fit the Leprechaun’s hands. “Aye, Laddy. I knew you were a good kid. Great job!” He laughed a little and then looked up at Johnny. “This is where I say me good-byes, Lad. Time to go home. Now, what would you be having for your third wish?”

Johnny sighed. “Just come back to visit once and awhile.”

Darby nodded. “Will do, Johnny boy. Will do.” He rubbed over the surface of the jewel I'd like description here, too. Which jewel? Did it glow as he rubbed it? Something. and started to rise into the air. Soon he became a speck in the clouds, and Johnny started to head inside his house after his wonderful adventure.

All in all, I liked it. It flowed well, and I wanted to know the rest of the story, how the leprechan found Johnny and all. I think 90% of success in writing amounts to whether or not a person wants to read more, and you did that.
http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/statusicon/user_online.gif http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/buttons/reputation.gif (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=9572&page=3&pp=25#)

[wills]

BlueTexas,
I'm delighted so many people have run with this idea, it does however have the potential for confusion.

If someone has already received a crit, it doesn't matter if they receive a second as long as they are giving crits themselves, the only sound rule is if you want a crit, read and crit someone else first - preferably the person above you.

Tasha, many thanks for trying to 'moderate' the queue - an almost thank less task.


Here is the way to do things

1. Read and crit the person above on this thread.
2. Post saying "I'm taking Tasha - and I'm next in queue, my story is xxx on page 4."
3. When you've read the story post the crit as an EDIT to the post where you entered the queue - preferably leading the post and clearly marked as 'Edit - Critique'.

If we can follow this system it will avoid clogging the thread with critiques such that the continuity becomes obscurred.

Many Thanks - and thanks for the crit on my piece by Underhill

wills.

[vig]

poetic throughout. nicely woven story drenched in the theme i took out of it that as we get older the generation gap is unavoidable even with people who lived through violence for a greater good.

it was hard to read in some places, had to go reread several times, but that might be a symptom of mine, than a fault of yours.

nice job and how you tied the ending to the entire piece will earn you some points. I enjoyed it, thanks for posting and adding you opinions of mine.

vig

[plumberman029]

I want to join in on the fun, but I am unsure who is next. If someone will kindly say who is next, I will proceed. (Sorry for this. Just wasn't sure.)

Carl

[Jakalyn]

It looks like you should critique BlueTexas, I think it said page 5 #104, but you might want to double-check that.

Whoops! nevermind, then i guess it would be MacAllister who is next

[MacAllister]

Walking to the shed, <Sarah felt the woods all around her.could delete> Sarah felt the tall trees watching, judging her haste, the snagging bushes against her legs chiding her for not knowing what to do. Her damp hair clung to her neck, a light sweat attracting mosquitoes, adding to the buzz that followed her. It was a steady hum, a motor going nowhere, fast. She was out of breath as she reached the shed. Panic rose in her chest, sharpening her, hollowing her out as she realized this was her only hope for Ed. She had to find a way to save him. <this sense of urgency isn't conveyed well by the first verb in the piece, "walking", perhaps this 'graph could be rearranged so that first, the reader senses the urgency, then we zero in on where she was going? Or maybe just a more specific verb...>What else was a shed in the woods good for if it couldn’t help Ed?<I actually really like this rhetorical question--it suggests a sense of whimsy in spite of the urgency that is perplexing, but makes me REALLY want to read the next paragraph>

Opening the door, the dank, musty smell of rotting wood flooded her nostrils. The dim light<what dim light? Where is it coming from? The moon in the window? Her kerosene lantern?> barely allowed her to see what was inside. She groped at the shelves lining the walls, sliding her hand along the dusty wood. Rusted nails rattled to the floor, making a small clink.<if there is more than one nail, they would make more than one clink> An old coffee can fell, spilling last season’s dead bugs.<?? Why on earth is there a coffee can full of last seasons dead BUGS?> She felt nothing else on the shelves. <what is she looking for?>All she saw were the oars, an old bucket, and lifejackets.<where? Not on the shelves, eh?> She slung a lifejacket over one shoulder. It was slimy with mold and left her fingers slippery. She wiped them on the wooden wall. She took an oar, too, dragging it behind her as she walked back to Ed.<and where is Ed? I'm getting disoriented...>

He has to be awake when I get there, she thought. He has to be. There’s nothing else to do, he has to be awake. Ed has to wake up.

When she returned to Ed, he hadn’t moved.

*

It was late that night when she returned to the shed in the woods. Her throat was sore, as if she’d been screaming, but she didn’t remember that. She’d bought a lock for the shed and come back through the woods, walking slowly in case someone had found Ed. If he’d been found, she’d hear people ahead if she walked quietly, which she did. All was quiet. Not even the mosquitoes followed her path. When she reached the shed, it was as she had left it. The bloody oar was leaning against the wooden wall, and Ed was slumped in the corner. Poor Ed. He had babbled a little with the first blow, proving to her that she was right. <this is friggin' fabulous--very "Yellow Wallpaper" or "Telltale Heart">

If he was babbling, he wasn’t Ed anymore. If he wasn’t Ed, he couldn’t be trusted. She had done the brave thing. She had sent Ed on to be with angels, like Grandma, and she had kept her secret safe. No one could blame her for that. It was for the best. He hadn’t really been Ed anymore. Not at the end. <ditto the comment just above>

As she snapped closed the hasp of the shiny new padlock, she wished he hadn’t remembered the voices from so many years ago. Starting to hear Grandma’s voices, have<having> a weird thought, that was something you could <only> share once. <a bit confusing as to just who is hearing the voices...> How could she have forgotten she had told him before? Worse, how could she have forgotten that the bad thoughts were not new, but old friends waiting in the background for her to listen again? Padlock in place, the shed door, and Ed, were secure. No one would find her secrets.

She pushed the memory of the last walk to the edges of her mind.

That one didn’t count, she thought. Not for real. I just had to be sure he wouldn’t tell anyone about me. With his mind not all there, how else could I be sure? I didn’t have a choice. It had to be done.

Sarah walked back to the water's edge, staring at her reflection in the calm, dark water.<could use "pond" or "lake" or something, having just used water a few words ago> Her mind was clear at last. Ed would have been happy about that.

BlueTexas--this is a spooky and chilling little vignette, and well-told. Kudos!

But what on EARTH did she use the moldy life jacket for?

-------------------------------

Plumberman--I'm not actually playing, I'd just promised BlueTexas a crit, late last night before so many folks jumped on board. Since I'd said I'd do one, I thought I should.

My understanding of the game is that you crit whoever did the last crit, just above you--that is, you'd crit Vig's piece (cuz peeps can play more than once) and whoever follows you will crit yours.

[Rhush]

I was supposed to crit FIREHORSE many, many pages ago, so here I go. I really liked it! It was really cute! I am probably the last person who should crit it though because as a lesbian, I had a certain bias...and fondness for it, that swept me more into the story than the actual crit! I did smile during it though, so I know that you, at very least, are going to pull the lesbians out there into the story! From what I've read, you did well to pull others in as well. I thought it was entertaining and painted a pretty accurate picture, (me... I have no leather outfits...as of yet anyway, and do not sport the mullet. You didnt mention mullets, but tell me how many of those old school lesbians were rockin' one! Ha!) I'm only 29, but I probably have at least 2 or 3 friends doing exactly that same little experiment. Good stuff, Firehorse!

[DTNg]

I want to join in on the fun, but I am unsure who is next. If someone will kindly say who is next, I will proceed. (Sorry for this. Just wasn't sure.)

Carl

I don't know who is next either, but mine seems to have gotten lost in the shuffle and has yet to be critiqued if you want to go ahead. It's on the First page.

Deb

[vig]

what a great opening paragraph. disturbing. very good.

vig

[vig]

i've already went off on my diatribe about the mundane ritual of the house wife, and as luck has it i get the ol'e parking lot cop from a persepective of a house wife or mother with a kid.... as diana ross once said... I'm so exited.....

okay, i just didn't like your voice and the not so clever asides. i'm sorry i didn't care for it.

vig

[TashaGoddard]

I really liked this. I thought it was funny and all very true (not that I'm a driver, but I can totally get it). Very little I would change and mostly it's a comma here and there.

My husband had an encounter with the Parking Lot Police recently. It took place at the local Stop 'N Shop, and, (you need the comma after the and here, rather than before) although we may have been only slightly guilty, we do feel there were extenuating circumstances and would like to use this opportunity to plead our case.

It was Thursday, July 17th. I know this because it happened to be my birthday. I also know this because we had spent the morning with a very cranky 13-month-old (generally, you’d hyphenate this, though it’s not an absolute definite), who was suffering from an ear infection and we were returning from the pediatrician’s office(seems to make the sentence too long; maybe split the sentence into two?). As is our usual practice, we pulled into the "Customer With Infant Parking." A convenience that rates up there with air conditioning and the epidural. Upon parking we noticed that our son was fast asleep. Since I subscribe to the theory that one should never wake a sleeping baby, especially one who just had a sore and swollen ear poked and prodded by a harried pediatrician, I decided to stay in the car while my husband ran inside.

I understand that since our son stayed in the car and my husband didn't actually have to carry a struggling toddler across the parking lot into the supermarket, proper etiquette would require us to park elsewhere. I submit however, that the sign over the parking space reads "Customer With Infant Parking" and not, "Parking For Customers Who Are Actually Carrying Infants Into The Supermarket." It may be a technicality that our son was sleeping inside the car, but I do believe we were well within our rights.

What I wasn't prepared for was the woman who was laying in wait when my husband exited our SUV. "Where's the kid?" she demanded.

"Huh?" My husband is not a man of many words.

"Your kid," the woman snapped, "you do realize you're in the Customer With Infant Parking, don't you?"

"He's in the car," (missing comma) he explained, well aware of where we had parked, but irritated that it had been pointed out to him.

"ALONE??" The woman shrieked. “Alone?” the woman shrieked. (not sure the caps and extra question mark are necessary, but then again they did make ‘hear’ the shriek more, so maybe leave it)

"Yes, with all the windows rolled up." He may be a man of few words, but he was well versed in the art of sarcasm.

"I'm going to dispatch the police," (missing comma) the woman informed him before heading into the store.

Good taste doesn't permit me to repeat my husband's response, but I’m sure you get the picture.

I can appreciate that there are special parking spots set aside for the convenience of handicapped people, pregnant women, and yes, even customers with infants. I can also appreciate that to certain passersby it might even have looked like my husband might have been taking advantage of a parking spot intended for someone who was carrying a child in his or her arms. It should be pointed out, however, that this event took place late on a Thursday morning; not exactly rush hour at the Stop ‘N’ Shop parking lot. I further testify that there were hardly any cars in front of the supermarket that morning and that the above-mentioned lady parked in a prime spot two spaces away from us. In fact, on that morning, all spots were prime. No-one was inconvenienced. I might even go as far as to submit that the reason my family shops at this particular venue is because it’s never as crowded as, say, the Shop Rite in the next parking lot over. Not only that, we were only in need of a gallon of milk, which means we were parked in the space in question for a maximum of five minutes.

So I ask you, were we really guilty? Should my husband have pulled out of the parking space upon seeing our sleeping son and pulled into the empty space next to ours? Should we have awakened our sleepy child, earache and all, so that we could stay in the spot originally chosen by us? Maybe I should have just stood outside the car and explained to anyone who walked by that we did indeed have an infant, he was just inside sleeping. I’ll leave it up to you to decide.

In the meantime, I rest my case.

[vig]

i don't want to burst anyone's bubble here, but the fact that you are all writers suggests that logically the idea of a random posting time, and sequencing of said post, makes it impossible to follow the orginal rules stated by willis.

but why would anyone on a screenwriting board suggest something so tivial as logic.

vig

[BlueTexas]

There's a lot more to the Water Cooler than screenwriting. There was a separate thread started for comments. You can find it one thread up.

[wills]

i don't want to burst anyone's bubble here, but the fact that you are all writers suggests that logically the idea of a random posting time, and sequencing of said post, makes it impossible to follow the orginal rules stated by willis.

but why would anyone on a screenwriting board suggest something so tivial as logic.

vig

Vig - this 'scheme' works on forum significantly more active than this one. Requires a modicum of discipline, 'tis all, and writers prepared to enter into the spirit of the game by give and take. I see you have reviewed several stories - kudos to you.

The next writer to be reviewed is 'plumberman029' - unfortunately I have no idea where pman's story is located.

[firehorse]

Hi Joanne,

I got really into this and ended up doing more of a line-edit than a crit; I hope that's okay.

You've totally lured me in here; I want to know more. I immediately pictured a house, grown-over driveway and barren patch, so you've evoked very specific visuals. Keep in mind that suspense is not my genre, and I know this is a WIP, so take these comments with the proverbial grain of salt. I've put nitpicky punctuation things directly into the text (redfor insertions and grey for deletions) and more general comments below each paragraph.

Overall, I want to feel like I'm right next to Mary Ellen, and I don't feel that yet; I'd like to see and feel her reactions, and in this excerpt, I feel like I'm most often hearing about them indirectly.

Unearthed --Great title!

The camper fishtailed when Mary Ellen brought her truck to a screeching halt. She nearly missed the small bridge and once-picturesque driveway of her parents’ estate, because bushes, trees, and overgrown weeds hid them. --I like having 'fishtailed' up front, because it's very specific. On the other hand, the sentence seems backwards. I'd rather follow Mary Ellen's actions and thoughts: she braked, the tires screeched, the truck fishtailed, and then she noticed how overgrown the driveway looked...
--You are wonderfully specific about weeds in the rest of the piece; it would be great if you could foreshadow some of the creepiness with specific, creepy-sounding weeds here.

A tinge <do you mean 'twinge'> of guilt tugged at her chest as she sat staring at the small bridge, crumbling from age, that led to this place she once called home.--I'd like to get just a bit more foreshadowing about why Mary Ellen felt guilt, even if it's an allusion to something vague like 'her actions years before' or something.
--"Twinge" is kind of vague; could you maybe make it a specific physical response?

As she drove up the steep winding drive, a feeling of uncertainty fluttered in her breast. Thick vines reached from tree to tree enveloping and darkening the drive. Thistles, ragweed, and thorn bushes overran the flower gardens. The old homestead was covered with large leaves of wild grapevines and poison oak, except for the door and the second-story dormer windows.--Here's a place in which you can bring the reader closer to Mary Ellen. Rather than saying "uncertainty fluttered," maybe switch the sentence around and say "Mary Ellen felt..."
--"uncertainty" is vague; can you find a more specific word? Is she hesitant? frightened? ambivalent? Or maybe it's an action: does she wonder what she's doing here?
--Do you mean breast or chest?
--The word "strangled" came to mind as I read about the thistles, ragweed and thorn bushes - it foreshadows evil, whereas 'overran' is less powerful. You could even go further and say the weeds had choked the life out of the garden...
--"...except for the second-story..." Here's a place I'd like to know more about how M.E. feels. Do the higher levels feel safe to her because they aren't covered with vines? You don't need to necessarily say what she's feeling, but you could imply it with something like "Only the second-story... were safe." (meaning from the vines)

Mary Ellen sat in her truck and looked up at the windows; that they glared back at her like the hollowed eyes of a skull. For the first time in years, since that horrible June night in June ten years ago, fear ran rampant through her body and reminded her why she had fled from this place vowing and vowed never to return.--"hollowed eyes of a skull" - FANTASTIC image (well, horrific really, but fantastic in its horrific-ness). I'd be inclined to make it even creepier by having the house actually look back at her, as noted above.
--"Fear ran rampant" - a bit cliche. What, specifically, happened in Mary Ellen's body that she recognized as fear? Did her toes clench? Goosebumps?
--"vowing" - "and vowed" is a more parallel construction

She surveyed the abandoned estate and breathed in cool air that reeked of rotten wood and death.--Very evocative image! A totally nitpicking thing is that 'death' smells different to different people. Be specific. Do you mean the the iron smell of dried blood? The odor of rotting flesh? The smell of ghosts? (You have more leeway there - nobody really knows what ghosts smell like!)

Tall grass, growing between cobblestones barely visible, grabbed at her legs as she slid from the truck, and the ground seemed to move under her weight. Something was trying to pull her deep beneath the soil into depths she was sure she would reach soon enough.--Also creepy and evocative! This is one place you could follow Mary Ellen's actions. The grass doesn't grab her until she gets out of the truck, so maybe restructure the first sentence (she slides from truck, grass grabs, ground moves).
--I'm more freaked out by the idea of something trying to pull her into the soil than I am by her awareness that she'd be there 'soon enough.' Does she feel something creeping up from the soil to grab her? Where does it grab her?

The two-story barn her father had built when she was a child had finally tumbled to the ground. It, too, was covered with the thick grapevines and poison oak. Every garden and yard area, that once thrived with vegetables, flowers and lush grass, was thick with new trees, vines, and thickets. Every area < -- delete the dash>but one.--Walk around with Mary Ellen and have her notice these things, rather than telling us about them. This is a very powerful scene, but it rushes by (that could also be because of the word count, I realize).

Directly behind the fallen barn, on a small slope, a patch of land was barren. It had always been like that; it stood out like a desert in the center of a flower patch. Mist hovered above only that spot. As one walked closer the mist dissipated and an odor of things rotting permeated the air.--You've got a great image here (desert in the center of a flower patch), but it's getting lost by being a second clause. Maybe put it first and "it had always been like that" second. I was a little confused, because you're talking about foliage already; would another analogy work better? I had to re-read the sentence to make sure that the patch actually wasn't a desert in the middle of a flower patch.
--Because the barrenness is so important, I'd like to know what grows on the rest of the slope. If it's lush green grass, then knowing that creates a stronger and more sinister picture in my mind of the barren patch.
--The pronoun "one" creates a distance. If Mary Ellen remembers that the closer she walked, the worse it smelled, that's more emotionally immediate.

Just the sight of the barren patch sent chills up her spine, returning a feeling she had never been able to shake. There had been something gravely wrong there. Mary Ellen hadalways said nothing grew there because it was a place of death and evil. Her opinion hadn’t changed. --Wonderfully foreboding!

She didn’t bother to push through the weeds to get a closer look. She had no need to be reminded of the horror; and she had seen all she cared to see of that place years ago.--"the horror" on its own is very vague - maybe "the horror she witnessed" or "...participated in" or "...that happened." You don't have to reveal another layer; maybe just give the reader a little more information.

The longer she stared at the area, the more it summoned her closer; playing scenes in her head she had tried to drown out.--Great!!

She fled to the comfort and security of the truck, brought the engine to life, and sped down the steep winding drive. When she glanced in the rear view mirror, she thought she caught a glimpse of something in one of the dormer windows. It was the window of the room she had called hers when growing up in that house.--Also great!
--"...the room she had called hers..." I think I feel distanced from Mary Ellen (and in turn, the suspense) because you're using very formal language. Maybe something simpler like "her childhood room" would work.
--"...when growing up" is redundant.

In more than thirty years of driving, she never reached the bottom of her parents’ drive so quickly. The two empty neighboring homes hadn’t escaped her scrutiny on the way down. Both were completely engulfed by foliage. Both neighbors had been among the number of dead she had reported in The Envoy’s last issue.--My biggest question here is whether you mean "on the way down" or "on the way up." Seems as though she drove so quickly going down that maybe you meant 'up' and typed 'down.' If you do mean 'down,' mention the neighbors' houses before she reaches the bottom of the driveway.
--If she only reported the number of dead, rather than the names, then keep "the number of" in; otherwise, it's redundant.

It had been in that last issue she had tried to warn residents of the evil in the area and she had taken the entire 14-page newspaper to tell the story. Since Because Mary Ellen had been one of four people whom she believed were responsible for unleashing the evil, the story was etched in her brain. The other three were also among the dead and unfortunately were not able to confirm or collaborate her story.--It strikes me that the story would be etched in her brain anyway, as the reporter of what appears to have been a major catastrophe.

None, not even Mary Ellen, had spoken of what they had unearthed that day--ever. That is, until she realized what they had done. and By then, she was the only one left to tell the story.--Beautiful!! In an eerie, creepy sort of way ;)

Well done, Joanne!

[vig]

no, it can't work, because the randomness of the posts, that's an undisputable fact. the possiblilty of it being worked out so that it works is being done as we speak.

don't confuse he effectiveness of the 'plan', with the facts. i'm looking for a sement about a mother or cat, can someone point me in that direction.

vig

[plumberman029]

The next writer to be reviewed is 'plumberman029' - unfortunately I have no idea where pman's story is located.

I appreciate this, but I have yet to review anyone's story. I will do so just as soon as I can comprehend which one I should read. I thought BlueTexas was the one. Then somebody did it. Next I thought I was supposed to review DTNg's entry. Then someone else came along and said they had already done it. I just want to review whoever is next. Anyone who who knows who it is--perhaps the author of this particular thread--please tell me and I will participate.

Sincerely,

plumberman029

[Mandiric]

Hi plumberman,

I critted wills' entry near the top of page one, but my entry has since been leapfrogged. I'd appreciate your thoughts.

It is number 218 (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=131961&postcount=218).

[Sabine]

Hi plumberman,

I critted wills' entry near the top of page one, but my entry has since been leapfrogged. I'd appreciate your thoughts.

It is number 218 (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=131961&postcount=218).

Hi Mandiric,
I may overlap with someone else, but I'll critique yours.

Ooh, creepy. I like it. I especially like the voice in your piece, since it seems so rational--more like a Hesse narrator (have you read Siddharthe, or Damien?), until I read on and realized that it's the very rational voice of an utter madman.

A couple of comments: I suggest you spend a little more time on the transition from when the devil licks the ex-wife's picture and you tell him to go away, and then obediently go along with him. You spend a lot of time at the very beginning having your narrator agonize over the devil's presence, but in the narrative when the narrator actually makes the decision to follow the devil, he has no such agonizing self doubts--the reader has no sense of the narrator's decision making process here, at a crucial point in the narrative.

I also think that the devil is more insidious when he doesn't have gore and blood all over him--his evil is more effective when it's not cliched by bad horror-movie special effects. He's terrifying by his actions--love the part where he licks the picture frame, so keep him scary by what he does, rather than what he looks like.

This is solid writing--I look forward to reading more.

I'm not sure what number my piece is, but it's on page 3 and it's the first chapter of a kid's novel written in verse called We Walk West.

Thank you.

[Jolie]

I really enjoyed the imagery of this story, especially the lines…


We are a parade
Of overloaded wagons and plodding oxen,
Fathers and mothers and children,
Dogs and chickens and sacks of flour.

Your use of descriptive words really formed the picture of a dusty old caravan for me!

At times, due to the choppiness of the sentence structure, I did find myself lost and having to reread a few lines. Maybe the story would have worked better in a more formal paragraph structure. But overall, the words work to convey the erratic thoughts and conversation skills of a 12-year-old girl.


I also like the way this paragraph drew me into the mind of Sarah, it conveys the thought processes of a child who id in the mist of growing up.

No, Mama wouldn’t understand
That sometimes necklaces
Don’t mean courting between
A boy and a girl but just
Promises between two friends.
I gave him my silver thimble
So we could be sure
To recognize each other when
He came west, too.
Someday.

I did enjoy the story, and in just so few words you already have me interested in finding out what happens to Sarah and more importantly if she ever meets up with her friend again.

Great Job!
Jolie
P.S. My entry is number 139 on page 6. Thanks!

[Duncan J Macdonald]

Jolie -- My entry is number 139 on page 6. Thanks!
Okay Jolie, I've got yours. Critique coming up, and as requested, it will be an edit to this very post.

I'll use some of the tricks other critiquers have used. Deletes will be in RED. Adds will be in BLUE. SIDE COMMENTS will be in parentheses.

An excerpt from my WIP...

(This sounds like a prologue)

It all started with the meatloaf. Well, maybe the meatloaf and the fact that is was my fortieth birthday. I remembering thinking that t The meatloaf was a bad sign. Nobody liked the meatloaf; and when they didn't like the food they used it as an excuse to linger, to complain. (insert new paragraph)
Usually the lines went moved quickly. Proper, single file lines of bad decisions, broken dreams, (yes, I admit it, I'm a serial comma-ist) and pain shuffled patiently (how does something that shuffles patiently move quickly? Looks like a contradiction. Perhaps, the lines could move quietly instead?) past mounds of over-cooked carrots and mushy peas. Dirty fingers held up shaky trays while hallow hollow eyes stayed downcast. It was my Saturday morning routine, this two-step process, ladle…smile…ladle…smile., that was supposed to cure my discontent. A sort of "count your blessings" type of therapy suggested and eventually imposed by my best friend, Sara. But that Saturday was different, and I blamed it on the meatloaf. (Unless this therapy and Sara become inportant later, this really doesn't need to be here -- if they do become inportant later, then tell us later)



"You know what they say about meatloaf," chuckled a wisp of a manI called Hats., "The ingredients are always the same but it’s the touch of the cook that gives it its flavor."



I smiled, or at least tweaked the muscles responsible for a smile, hoping to indulge him enough to keep him moving down the line. Ladle…smile…ladle…smile.
(Confusing. The narrator has been smiling all along -- why is she tweaking muscles? Also, I wouldn't indulge someone to get them moving along.)


"Ya know Pooh," he continued, using the soup kitchen moniker I had earned one early Saturday morning after a long and drunken night out that led to from a misfortunate getting-dressed-in-the-dark sweatshirt incident. "I sure hope you didn't make this meatloaf. I would hate to guess at the flavor it would have after mingling with whatever it is that darkens your soul."



"Move on," the director yelled (not a nice soup-kitchen if the director yells a lot) as my replied held reply caught in my throat much like my half tipped ladle of gravy stayed suspended over Hat's tray.



Ladle…smile…ladle…smile, I kept at the routine, overcome disturbed by how much Hat's the words had bothered me. Lucky guess, I assured myself, just keep going, only 60 more spoonfuls to go.



As I cleaned I was cleaning the last deserted table, (really? Normally one doesn't clean occupied ones.) I felt the heat of someone's stare. across the back of my neck Bent over, the sudsy white rag in my hand still making its required passes, I struggled with what to do. I knew it was Hats and somehow I knew I didn't want to face him.



"Pooh," I heard him mutter as I felt more than saw his shadow draw nearer. "Happy Birthday." Before I could force myself to turn around, he was gone. Where he his hand had been sitting was a crumpled, greasy scrap of paper. (His hand's been a lot of places, but the last time we actually saw it, it was holding a tray.)



I don't remember much else about that day, mostly just erratic snapshots of my celebration. A present here, a hug with good wishes there, and the moment where I finally found the time alone and the nerve necessary to open Hat's note.



True judgment of one's self, My Dearest Pooh, does not come from the mere reflection of one's present state. Rather, TRUE judgment comes from making peace with where you have been, acknowledging where you are and striving to go where you want to be.



Wise words from a hobo, I remember thinking.


So, here I am, five miles from the place I used to call home and 17 years, 16 days and 23 minutes from the reason I now call it hell. And yes, I still I blame the meatloaf.

(Do we really need to know the exact length of time? And is it time from that remembered Saturday, time from when she got married, time from the birth of her first, second, or nineteenth child?)



Now, my overall comments. This piece looks and feels like a prologue, with the actual story beginning with the last paragraph. Unfortunately for the prologue's sake, nothing in it appears to have anything to do with the reason that home became hell just over 17 years ago. Except for the meatloaf. Now that I think about it, that's a wonderful opening line: "Home became Hell 17 years ago." I'd recommend that you put the information from this opening into the flow of the story, and not keep it separate.

_______________________
Okay. Mine's on Page 1, #23

[mommie4a]

Diamonds Are For Never

by

Duncan J Macdonald
Chapter 1 (excerpt 690 words)


The title is a great play on words and with the description of the Vegas show girl, it foreshadows also.

The voice of the narrator is authentic and consistent. There are no wasted words. I'm kind of a slow reader, so read it a couple of times to make sure I got the action, especially at the end. But your description of the action, when the pace speeds up, is crisp and obvious.

What makes me want to read more, and works well as a transition, is my desire to know who's the main person we're interested in at this point? Margie? The dead dame? I want to know, so I want to read.

Great work.

I'm entry #50 for the next person.

Here's Duncan's piece for those who want to see what I've commented on.

It's the dame. It's always the dame. Don't matter if it's your Sainted Mother, your Maiden Aunt, the Girl Next Door, or some Floozy down at Sid's.

Take the one in my office. I gave her the once-over as Margie showed her in: five-ten, auburn hair, green eyes, built like a Vegas show girl -- and dressed like the owner's squeeze.

"Mr. Treadway?" Her voice was smooth, warm honey.

"Yeah."

"You did get my note?"

"Yeah." I waved vaguely toward the front of my desk. She poured herself into the battered oak chair. I'd looked her up when she made the appointment -- Adams, Dominique Olivia, un-married second daughter of Francis X. and Elizette Adams. Yeah, that Adams, stocks, bonds, banks -- you name it, he owns it. "Miss Adams..."

"Dominique, please."

"... Miss Adams, you said you wanted to see me. What can I do for you?"

"I want you to call me Dominique." her languid smile implied a lot more. "And I want you to find someone for me." She took a thick envelope from her handbag. "I brought some money. Will five thousand be enough?"

For five G's? "Who?"

"He's my ... a friend." She blushed and glanced down. Her finger glittered with a two-carat rock. "His name is Alfred Simpson, and haven't heard from him in a long time. That's not like him."

"Miss Adams, I'll be blunt. How well do you know your ... friend ... Alfred?"

She blushed harder. "We're to be married next June." She looked up. "You must understand, Mr. Treadway, that our situation is a delicate one. My family, well, they simply detest Alfred. He's not good enough for them -- not the right family, not the right schools, not the right anything. But I love him!" She started sobbing. "Please help me -- I don't know who to turn to next. I must find Alfred! I'm afraid for him! Mr. Treadway, you must help me!"

I have a soft spot for beautiful dames, and a bigger one for beautiful crying dames. But my biggest soft spot is for dough -- and she was offering a lot of it.

"Miss Adams, I'll do what I can."

She nodded, still crying. I buzzed the intercom, "Margie, would you help Miss Adams compose herself? I'll lock up, no need for you to stay."

Margie came in and shepherded the girl out, clucking her tongue in disapproval of whatever I'd done to start the crying.

I dialed the phone, "Metropolitan police, Sergeant O'Toole."

"Evening Sean, this is Dave Treadway. Is Tommy there?"

"Lieutenant Hearns is out at the moment Mr. Treadway. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Just ask Tommy to look into a Mr. Alfred Simpson -- local, travels a lot." I read him Simpson's address that she'd left me.

"Sure thing Mr. Treadway. There are still enough of us here on the Force who remember what really happened to you and Detective Flynn. Give my best to Margie." He rang off.

My investigation into John's death had earned several things: my retirement, the 'retirement' of the assistant Commissioner, the support of the rank and file cops, and the enmity of Johnny Threes, local sewer rat. I'd taken Margie Flynn on as my secretary -- I just couldn't stand to see her and the kids out on the street.

My reverie was shattered by the sound the outer door being kicked in, and the roar of a scattergun blowing the inner door to kindling. Johnny Threes is also the reason why I carry an Army .45 everywhere I go. I popped off three shots at the figure in the doorway and heard the sound of iron hitting the floor. I didn't recognize the gunsel leaking blood, staring with dead eyes at my ceiling, but I did recognize his three-barreled shotgun. Word was Johnny Threes had 'em made special; whatever, it made this hit 'official'.

Damn. Margie.

I charged out the door and saw legs sticking out from the Lady's room doorway. Margie was still breathing, with a bruise forming on her forehead, but Dominique Olivia Adams would never breathe again. Single shot, small caliber, left temple.

Damn.
__________________

[JAlpha]

Jolie,

The narrator is strong in this piece, and there is a steady development of conflict & tension---this is a good thing whether you intend this piece as fiction or creative nonfiction.


However, the setting could be a bit more developed. And perhaps you could introduce the precise setting (a soup kitchen) a bit sooner. An earlier introduction of the setting would fit in nicely right here in your line . . . Nobody liked the meatloaf, aka saying instead that . . . Nobody at the soup kitchen liked my meatloaf . . .

There are some great visuals of your setting . . .Usually the lines went quickly. Proper, single file lines of bad decisions, broken dreams and pain shuffled patiently past mounds of over-cooked carrots and mushy peas. Dirty fingers held up shaky trays while hallow eyes stayed downcast. However, adding some sensory details especially the smells in the soup kitchen would help add even more depth and richness to your setting.


I found this next passage to be very strong in terms of exposing your narrators conflict
. . . It was my Saturday morning routine, this two-step process, ladle…smile…ladle…smile, that was supposed to cure my discontent. A sort of "count your blessings" type of therapy suggested and eventually imposed by my best friend, Sara. But that Saturday was different, and I blamed it on the meatloaf.

I also liked your narrative technique of repeating the ladle...smile...ladle...smile phrase. It was very effective in conveying the narrators rather numb reaction to her surroundings and circumstances.

The only part of your entry that I felt needed a bit more clarity is why the content of the hobo's note mattered to the narrator. What mattered to the narrator about this particular hobo? What made that note matter? There seems to be a little more to be said about what in particular is making the narrators life "a hell".

Also, the reference to the sweatshirt was a bit cryptic, almost as if it were an inside joke, but the reader isn't in on it.

For a WIP, there is a great deal of strength in this piece and I look forward to seeing more of it.

Best of luck in making it into the top 10,

JAlpha (Sea Cameo) -- this is my third crit, and I have already received two. So please by all means if someone else's piece has been skipped over, please speak up and make sure you are placed in line ahead of my thread time in-line.

[firehorse]

I've also received a few crits, and I'd be glad to look at another piece or two. Just scroll up the page a bit so you know what you're getting into ;) and then either post or PM me.

-Sarah

[Susie]

I read diviner's historical romance excerpt and it's wonderful. I don't normally like romance novels, but I was eager to really get into this one and read the entire novel! The writing is very good and has a smooth flow to it. I enjoyed it a lot.

[vig]

the best piece i've read so far. i feel confident that you could pretty much write about anything and it would sound great. i'm impressed. I do not see how you don't make it into the top ten.

[vig]

you had me from the opening line and kept me interested and repeatedly paid me off as the reader. i felt comfortable that you would hold my interest, and if i was your editor i'd simply suggest you cut the last paragraph altogether, but of course i'm a male who hates to wash dishes but does, mind you...

and you know how much i wanted not to like it...lol.

it was touching, got sappy at the end, but it was witty, sharp, funny and authentic. i don't see it making it to the top ten, but i really enjoyed it.

good show

[plumberman029]

I am terrible at criticism. I have not the inclination nor the requisite grammar skills. I shall, nonetheless, give my thoughts and pray they qualify as a 'review.' (This, though I fear mommie4a may be disappointed.)

What initially seemed to be a humorous work turned out to be a funny short with solemnity intermixed. The humor grabbed my attention. The serious conclusion made me think. It made me realize that, yes, though our mothers may sometimes cause us frustration, we do have them here to cause said frustration. And though we may wish for any number of things to be different in our relationship, very few wish their mothers dead and gone.

"...every additional day I get to hear my mother tell me she hates my hair. Because at least she's here to tell me."

I have similar sentiments with my own mother. I assure you, however, she seldom comments upon my hair. She comments instead on some other perceived vice. But the point is that your story drew me in. This is, after all, what writers seek to do; and you accomplished it with me.

Whatever else it was that drew me in to the story, one thing that certainly did this with the parallel between your story and my life. Good job. I do not say this 'good job' out of mere civility; I mean it.

Plumberman029

---------------------------------

(Lost the first review I wrote...stupid computer.)

Mine is Page 3, #59, "Open letter to contestants." Or simply, http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=124168&postcount=59 .

[firehorse]

i feel confident that you could pretty much write about anything and it would sound great. Even if I were writing about being a mother and housewife? :poke:

Thanks for the compliment. I appreciate it, and I'm glad you liked the story (well, the beginning of it).

[SueB]

Even if I were writing about being a mother and housewife? :poke:

Thanks for the compliment. I appreciate it, and I'm glad you liked the story (well, the beginning of it).

Can someone kindly tell me which piece is next in line for a critique?
Thanks,
SueB

[firehorse]

SueB, I think you critique Plumberman029's entry. I think.

[SueB]

OK, I guess mine in Plum029. I found your letter boring. Not something that excited me and made me want to read more......Being a musician, I would say you needed more cres. and dim. This reader likes to have tension built and then released. Some action! It's obvious you can write, within the constraints of the English language, correctly and coherently. Now, I would like to see your imagination!

But hey, I am only an amateur, myself. And I freely admit that others might heartily disagree. I never cared for The Three Stoodges, but a multitude of others certainly loved it!

OK, I guess this makes me next. My piece is titled The Empty Chair and is #191 on pg 8.
PS--I wish the very best to Plum and all writers here. I wish you all to write from deep within. I wish for you to open up your heart until the words just pour out so fast that your fingers can barely work fast enough to record the story!

[BlueTexas]

Sue commented that there was no action in your letter. So I thought I'd take a look and review it too.

(I know I'm out of order, but aren't we all at this point? When done with this, I will review Sue's, who is next in line, if she will tell me where to find it.)

Personally, in the form your letter takes, I don't see a need for action. That's not what you're aiming at.

I thought it was well organized, and quite well written. Your sentences flowed together well, and your ideas were presented clearly. Strong writing, a unique entry, and I loved the last line.

I suppose that's not a very helpful review, but when you're not writing fiction it's hard to find plot flaws and missing descriptions :)

[SueB]

SueB, I think you critique Plumberman029's entry. I think.

Thanks firehorse. That is who I thought I should do too. I did my critique on him--hope it was the right one. I found it very difficult to do, though. My opinion is just that--my opinion. That is frightening to me. I would like to help but really fear hurting, especially if I might be really off base.

[BlueTexas]

The Empty Chair
By SM Baumgardner

OK This is an excerpt only (415 word count)

I could smell the hot, dry dust beneath me, as I lay, crumpled in the driveway, beside my beautiful 1967 Mustang, on that unforgettable September day in 1968. That day is forever indelibly etched in my mind. How I wished I could simply dissolve into the dust and be gone from this world. But the reality was, there was to be no easy way out. Almost unrecognizable was the woman standing over me. My mother, who had cradled me, soothed me, empathized with me, praised me, bragged on me and loved me, was now standing over me in a rage. Scarlet faced, with disheveled hair and bulging eyes, she looked at me, with what? Contempt, disgust, and if I am truthful, pure hatred.

I had driven into the driveway, an 18-year-old girl, in trouble, with a crumpled right front fender on her beautiful car, and staggering under a broken engagement from her first and only love. I was just trying to figure out how I was going to explain the car to my parents, when I saw my mother, with fists clenched, walking towards my car. I opened the car door and stepped out. She demanded to know what had happened. I tried to explain that I had simply cut too sharp when turning off the Cove Road onto the Main Road, and side swiped a telephone pole.

“And tell me, just what were you doing over there?”

Well, the whole story came tumbling out. I had literally been chasing Robbie, who was in his father’s truck. I just needed to talk with him, but he wasn’t interested. Her words came rushing out, between clenched teeth, in a rapidly rising crescendo, “Why, Susan? What did you need to talk with him about? Don’t you have any pride? What did you need to talk with him about?!”

I couldn’t answer. I was surprised when she suddenly lowered her voice with the dreaded “Susan, are you pregnant?”

I slumped against my battered automobile, looked down at the ground I was standing on, and somehow managed a whispered, “I don’t know….”

All hell broke loose! My sympathetic mother was nowhere to be found. There was a mad woman looming over me, slapping me, screaming at me. As I lay on the ground in a demoralized heap of helplessness and shame, my mother, just before turning her back to me and walking away, kicked me and screamed at me, sounding as if it might be her last breath, “Whore!”


http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/statusicon/user_online.gif http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/buttons/reputation.gif (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=9083&page=8&pp=25#) http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/buttons/report.gif (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/report.php?p=130978)



You conveyed the emotion well in this. Some of the mother stuff in the first paragraph, "praised me, empathized with me" could probably be pared down so it packs more of a punch without dragging the sentence out.

The way the events jump from now to a little while ago was a bit jarring, and I had to re-read it, but that might be me and not your writing style.

Should lay be laid?

[Rhush]

Hey guys. I did a crit a page back and I'm not certain anyone noticed. I would still love to get a crit for my piece on page 5 of the auditions. Thanks.

[DJP]

Hi, I'll take a look at your work, and give you a crit, but I'm new at this!!

[SueB]

The Empty Chair
By SM Baumgardner

OK This is an excerpt only (415 word count)

I could smell the hot, dry dust beneath me, as I lay, crumpled in the driveway, beside my beautiful 1967 Mustang, on that unforgettable September day in 1968. That day is forever indelibly etched in my mind. How I wished I could simply dissolve into the dust and be gone from this world. But the reality was, there was to be no easy way out. Almost unrecognizable was the woman standing over me. My mother, who had cradled me, soothed me, empathized with me, praised me, bragged on me and loved me, was now standing over me in a rage. Scarlet faced, with disheveled hair and bulging eyes, she looked at me, with what? Contempt, disgust, and if I am truthful, pure hatred.

I had driven into the driveway, an 18-year-old girl, in trouble, with a crumpled right front fender on her beautiful car, and staggering under a broken engagement from her first and only love. I was just trying to figure out how I was going to explain the car to my parents, when I saw my mother, with fists clenched, walking towards my car. I opened the car door and stepped out. She demanded to know what had happened. I tried to explain that I had simply cut too sharp when turning off the Cove Road onto the Main Road, and side swiped a telephone pole.

“And tell me, just what were you doing over there?”

Well, the whole story came tumbling out. I had literally been chasing Robbie, who was in his father’s truck. I just needed to talk with him, but he wasn’t interested. Her words came rushing out, between clenched teeth, in a rapidly rising crescendo, “Why, Susan? What did you need to talk with him about? Don’t you have any pride? What did you need to talk with him about?!”

I couldn’t answer. I was surprised when she suddenly lowered her voice with the dreaded “Susan, are you pregnant?”

I slumped against my battered automobile, looked down at the ground I was standing on, and somehow managed a whispered, “I don’t know….”

All hell broke loose! My sympathetic mother was nowhere to be found. There was a mad woman looming over me, slapping me, screaming at me. As I lay on the ground in a demoralized heap of helplessness and shame, my mother, just before turning her back to me and walking away, kicked me and screamed at me, sounding as if it might be her last breath, “Whore!”


http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/statusicon/user_online.gif http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/buttons/reputation.gif (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=9083&page=8&pp=25#) http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/buttons/report.gif (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/report.php?p=130978)



You conveyed the emotion well in this. Some of the mother stuff in the first paragraph, "praised me, empathized with me" could probably be pared down so it packs more of a punch without dragging the sentence out.

The way the events jump from now to a little while ago was a bit jarring, and I had to re-read it, but that might be me and not your writing style.

Should lay be laid?

Thanks BlueTexas. Where can I find your piece? I would like to return the favor. It means a lot when someone bothers to read my stuff, and then take the time to critique! Thanks again.
SueB

[DJP]

Rhush,

All I can say is WOW! I love how descriptive your writing is. My heart actually started beating faster as I was reading your piece. I like the way you broke everything down, it almost seemed like I was watching something in slow motion. There was one spot where I though the word soul should be souls. Your piece certainly hooked me and had me asking questions about what happens next, why did this happen, etc. Good luck!

My piece is #168 on page 7, Both No More
Thanks

[BlueTexas]

Thanks BlueTexas. Where can I find your piece? I would like to return the favor. It means a lot when someone bothers to read my stuff, and then take the time to critique! Thanks again.
SueB

p5 #104.

[DTNg]

i've already went off on my diatribe about the mundane ritual of the house wife, and as luck has it i get the ol'e parking lot cop from a persepective of a house wife or mother with a kid.... as diana ross once said... I'm so exited.....

okay, i just didn't like your voice and the not so clever asides. i'm sorry i didn't care for it.

vig

I had a feeling...

PS I believe you have your disco mixed up. It was the Pointer Sisters who were so excited. Not Diana Ross.

[wills]

Mandiric - apologies, I meant to do this yesterday but damaged my back and was unable to concentrate other than to write a few meaningless posts.


This tale is a chilling glimpse into the dark side - very enjoyable excerpt, I would certainly like to read more.

A few specific words and constructions may require your attention.

He capered and sang as the sun melted into the horizon, howled and danced as it scaled the morning sky. The hours between were filled with his vile celebrations.

The full stop after 'sky' interrupts the sentence and loses (for me) the time linkage in the first part of the sentence. You might consider re-wording this, my own preference would be: He capered and sang as the sun melted into the horizon, howled and danced as it scaled the morning sky; the dark hours between filled with his vile celebrations.

At the end of the first para, I don't think you need the comma after 'sleep'… He would not sleep you see, so neither could I.

I don't think you need either of the commas in the first line of the second para… Should I share then in the blame?

Similarly, I don't think you need a comma after 'Or' in the same paragraph.

We came back that night with my wife. In the morning we left, carrying a corpse. When we returned, the devil made himself a milkshake and sat down to watch cartoons. He has been here ever since. I understand the meaning in this paragraph but feel it ought be better constructed. You may have been constrained by the 700 word target and condensed this passage, I would not advise treating this step beyond normality in so brief a fashion.

I can see him now, through the half-open bedroom door. He is sprawled on the couch, breathing deep and regular as a babe. His lips and chin crusted with dried blood; bits of flesh and viscera dangle from his fingers. I am becoming inured to the gore. You might wish to consider the small amendments to this paragraph.

The last paragraph is superbly chilling.

Good Luck.

Wills.


I believe SueB is next in queue for a crit. If not taken up in the next hour or so by a new poster, I will rejoin the queue and take SueB's to crit.

[mommie4a]

and you know how much i wanted not to like it...lol.


Well - if that's not a resounding endorsement! ;)

Thank you both for taking the time to read and comment. Very honestly I might add. Vig - I think you may be right re: good but not in the top ten. Still, given how much I'm learning on these boards, and how much reading and thinking I'm doing about genres I never usually explore, I feel like the Idol experience is a win-win situation for me.

Plumber - I'm going to look at your piece and private message you comments, just so I don't bog down the crit thread.

Have great days fellas

Jill

[mommie4a]

Well, first I have to say that I've been told alternately and by different groups of people that I have no sense of humor and that I'm very funny. So, there's a big gap in there. That said, the first couple of paragraphs had a consistent tone and I got the sense of it from the start.

I felt the piece was strongest in the last paragraph and the PS. Those lines made me smile much more. And I thought, if those kinds of lines were closer to the top, and if the letter contained more of them, I think I would have found the whole piece humourous. I'm not sure what tone you were shooting for, but after I read the last paragraph and the PS, I felt like I wished the whole piece had been like those lines and that the first two paragraphs now seemed too formal and somewhat repetitive, in terms of setting up the tone.

I don't know if any of this makes sense - blame it on the one-dimensional nature of communicating through posts and emails.

As for the writing itself, I thought it was good.

Best of luck and congrats on entering - I hope you do well.

[kibkid]

I know this is not the rule of this thread but since my thread has passed long before this thread began and since you are so anxious to crit (McAllister) or anyopne, then please crit mine. Don't hold back I want to learn.

Thank you.

http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=9083&page=6&pp=25
That's the link, my name is kibkid, and it's the fourth.

[vig]

in the begining i would read the first paragraph and see if i wanted to read on. i read to the part, "it's not everyday you sell your kidney" i read one paragraph after that and then i had to do something else, not so much i didn' t like what i was reading, i didn't know quit what to think of it. your voice is a lot like mine, and pov,and i wondered if the writing was indicating the character or was the author THE character...

so, today i read your request and i get your link and your piece comes up. i read down to the kidney, read past that, and it's gaining momentum, i'm starting to enjoy the story, and the narrator and you get to the last stanza and just hit the note.

when they say that the ending is the most important because you have sucked the audience in and what they want most is to learn or grow or see something inside what was written that they either want, wish, desire, or grow from....

the whales and the social commentary was great. a WHALE could be some many things. loved it. i hope this advances. i would advance it, but i don't know if you're gonna get the nod.

it's an art to tell a two page story.

vig

[kibkid]

Thank you very much, I appreciate it.

If you want to read the whole thing just let me know.

And no it is not based on my life.

[trumancoyote]

Hey, Kidbid. I didn't see anyone else who needed a critique (I apologize if there is, but I've been paying more attention to the posts than the names themselves), so I figured I'd recritique yours for the eff of it.

This may be messy, but I've got a rather chaotic thought process; so bear with me, and I hope this makes sense.

(Additions: Red. Subtractions: Blue)

-Your first sentence feels a bit too long, in my opinion, for an opening sentence. Not that opening sentences can't be long, mind you -- but there needs to be a particular flow to them that I'm afraid this one is lacking. I'd suggest the following: "I did as Ben had told me and sat down on the wooden chair. with My eyes sort of closed because of the light coming in from the bare windows behind Mike." Moreover, I'd consider changing the word 'because.' It makes sense, but it just doesn't feel as if that's the word you need there. To continue:

“Well Sir, what’s your name?”— asked Ben.

- I may be a bit too traditional here, but I'd suggest breaking up the dialogue. It almost makes me claustrophobic, the way these particular lines are stringed together. And breaking them up would also ensure the clarity of who's speaking. So I'll treat the last part of the paragraph as one that's been spliced.

“Jamie.”
“Alright Jamie, now that you decided to come, your life will take a turn in a good direction. After you sign these papers that we are about to show you, you will be six thousand dollars richer”

- I think you should break to a new paragraph her, so as to clarify your antecedant. It's not that one can't tell who's feeling this, but there is a slight mental tick when jumping so seamlessly between the speech of one person and the action of another.

- Also, as another criticism: the first line suggests that the main character knows these two other men personally -- or at least personally enough to know their first names. They don't know his, though. So either they have name tags, and the narrator is just being personable; or you got ahead of yourself, and should either enable the doctors to know his name, or what I'd prefer: don't let him know theirs. Y'know?

My eyes opened like two awaking volcanoes, spitting seas of (this feels overwrought) light instead of lava. Something those sons of bitches did not miss.

- This last line confused me a bit. At this point, I wasn't aware of why they were sons of bitches, so it seemed out of place. Moreover, was it the action --the opening of his eyes-- that they didn't miss (as in, didn't notice) or was it the light itself spewing from the eyes, the lack of which they didn't presently miss (as in, long for) after completing the surgery?

Does that make sense? :Wha:

“First of all, read it carefully before you sign it—and make sure that all of your questions are answered.”— Said Mike Brown, handing me the papers. “Pending your signature you will leave with us right now and. The money will be given to you in cash after the procedures are completed.”

- Again, new paragraph would be good here.

I read through it all once.

I signed it.

Judging by the look on their eyes they couldn’t be happier that they were ‘helping’ me.

- The 'helping' in sardonic quotation is good, but at this point, aside from the 'sons of bitches' comment, I didn't quite get the feeling that these doctors were preying on the main character. Perhaps imbue this distaste more subtley and thoroughly throughout the text.

Climbing down the stairs now with them I was feeling a bit confused, and many thoughts were flushing through my mind like a slide show gone out of revolution.

- Great image! I can see the slideshow gone awry, and practically hear the flappity flap of the film. One criticism: you use the word 'now,' and though I can understand that you're trying to evoke a sense of immediacy by using present tense in this paragraph (something that's not in line with the sporatic past tense in the paragraphs before, by the way), I'm to understand that this is in the past, so it'd probably be better to keep it that way.

After all it is not every day you sell your kidney.

- Teehee. Great line.

After some tests they decided I was fit for the operation.

- This line may be altogether unnecessary, especially since the main character's surgery was supposedly dependent on his signature alone.

Following surgery I received the six thousand dollars (later I found, reading the newspaper (this is one word), that the police had cracked on a group of guys in the same business but who had instead asked for fifteen thousand dollars for a kidney) and eventually got my own apartment. They also gave me an address for a doctor I could see if I had any problems.

- Though I'm a big fan of parenthetical asides, I think this one is a bit too long, and can therefore detract from the meaning of the first sentence. It's necessary information, however, so I'd find another way of introducing it. But that's just me :gone:

Now every time I tell my story to people they think I’m crazy, but what the hell was I supposed to do with two kidneys and no place to pee? They just don’t get it.

- This is the first intimation that the character is homeless. I'll comment more on this at the end of the piece.

“Are you glad you did it?” is a question I get very frequently. (This sentence is a bit akward) And to tell you the truth: Yes, I’m glad, because at least now I don’t have to live on the street. And I get to cook my meals instead of hunting for them. But people never understand because they just haven’t been through what I have and don’t understand the motives that push you to do something so radical.

- This is a good place for a new paragraph. And also, if this were a longer piece, the 'they just haven't been through what I have' would be an ideal place to actually go into what he's been through.

Am I thankful to those two in the black suits with the glasses? Of course not. They are two sons of bitches that should rot in hell—along with the surgeons and the whole group that takes advantage of people in need.

You know, once, when I was about ten and lived at home in New Brunswick—my house was right on the coast of the Atlantic—I used to love to watch the whales come during the summer and spray the water through the wholes on their backs. It was beautiful.

- You use the word 'once' in the first sentence, and this implies that you only watched the whales once. As it was a habitual thing, I'd suggest that you take out the 'once' in this paragraph, and save it for the isolated incident in the one below:

Then Once I was playing on the shore and I saw, far away, a huge black lump standing on top of the sand. and As I got closer I saw that it was a whale.

- This is a neat image, but I question your use of the word 'standing.' In combination with the image of the whale's corpse, it's almost a bit too comical. Mind yo' diction. (Also, don't take the placement of this comment to imply that there should be a new paragraph here. There shouldn't)

On its back was a long trench of about five centimeters wide and about fifteen centimeters deep. It was dug by the harpoon of a fisherman that had missed enough for him but had been bad enough for the whale. The whale was dying.

- I get where you're going with the 'had missed enough for him but had been bad enough for the whale,' but it's an akward construction. I'd consider revising it.

For years it puzzled me. Why does the whale come to shore to die?

- You're using present tense again. (Again, don't take the placement of this comment to imply that you should break the paragraph here.)

To shore, the place where the men who put them through so much pain lives.

And the reason is because the whale does not care about the men who shot her, at least not any more. All it cares about is finding a place where it could just lie down and take its last breaths in peace.

- You refer to the whale as a she, which I like. It lends a sense of familiarity to the whale, and thus makes its death more visceral. The only problem is that you revert to calling her 'it,' which completely robs you of the feeling you had begun to evoke. Also, 'breaths' may be better as just 'breath.'

It neither forgets the men nor forgives them; it just wants to die in peace and as comfortable as it can.

* * *

This is a very interesting idea, Kidbid. And as vig already stated, the comparison between the whale and the bum is a moving one indeed. I have but a few suggestions (aside from those listed above):

- We're to understand that the character's a bum, but the only line indicating as much is about halfway through the piece. You should perhaps consider making his squallor more apparent, either in his appearance or thought process; that is to say, try to limn some soup lines, cardboard boxes, or hobo knife fights, etc.

- Watch your tense.

- Perhaps make the main character's animosity toward the doctors et al more pervasive, as opposed to the occassional 'son of a *****.' That might make his situation more pitiable.

- And finally, often times when I write I find that, when I've finished, the progression of the story doesn't feel right. Generally I happen upon a line while rereading the thing --and said line is usually about half to 2/3rds the way through-- and know, just KNOW, that that is where the story should begin. In my most humble of opinions, that line is the following in your story: "After all, it is not every day that you sell your kidney." Its close second was "'Are you glad you did it?' is a question I get very frequently." And thus, I'd suggest that you combine the two in some way, e.g., "It's not every day that you sell your kidney and I'm frequently asked, 'Are you glad you did it?'" or something like that. You can then proceed to explain what happened, then close, again, with the whale. I think that'd make it fantastic.

Sorry this is such a friggin' novel, but yeah -- that's just how it turned out. I liked your ideas, and I enjoyed the potential; but as is always the case, it could be better. And you can make it that way! :)

And please, take my commentary with a grain of salt. It is, after all, wrought with a young boy's opinions.

* * *

Mine's here: http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=9083&page=10&pp=25. About halfway down.

If anyone would be so kind :)

[DJP]

I think mine got lost in the shuffle. It's number 168 on page 7; Both No More. Please be honest, I want to learn all I can. Thanks.

[wills]

I think mine got lost in the shuffle. It's number 168 on page 7; Both No More. Please be honest, I want to learn all I can. Thanks.

I'd be happy to, will post comments here later.

That puts me back in the queue. Mine is #233.

wills.

[DJP]

Rhush,
Sorry for the tiny crit. I thought I'd better be fair and expand a bit, so here goes. By the way, I love the names!
(D) - delete
underlined - add

Askca opened her eyes to see the Queen step back and motion the First Commander forward. Askca clenched her jaw, her (D) blood surging under her skin, rushing fright through her body. The First Commander now stood over her; lowering the blade to the leathers that covered her youthful breasts.

Suddenly, Askca could hear nothing but the thump of her heart and her heavy, trembling breath. She longed to close her eyes. Paralyzed by her panic, she was unable to even (D) blink. The First Commander’s black hair tickled over Askca’s chin, and she felt the cold blade scratch up the warm skin of (D) her ribs. The sharp edge split through the laces of her ceremonial skins, one by one, until the leathers came to rest on the jade alter, exposing Askca’s heaving breasts. The First Commander slid the skins from the alter. Askca could now feel the cool stone on her back merged with the discomfort of the other Commander holding her arms back. The woman had tightened her grip as soon as the blade had touched Askca’s body. The First Commander looked to the Queen. Queen Perseathea motioned the sacrificial blade to proceed.

A shiver stung Askca. The hair on her skin rose up. Twitching nerves burned her stomach. Fourteen summers had brought her to this moment… and how she feared it. The hypnotic fire crackled and the winds seemed to rush (D) rushed. Askca peered at the jagged blade through squinted eyes. Steadily, it floated to her. The drums swelled louder and the song grew more frantic. Heavy breathing parched Askca’s throat, choking her on her own air (D). Her pulse raced. The blade came closer. The sea of spectators began to shout. Sweat droplets covered her entire body as she trembled. Her eyes would not shut. The dagger shined with the light of the fire. Gritting her teeth, denial seduced Askca and she shut her eyes. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t happen. Cold steel grazed the supple skin just under Askca’s right breast. Askca now clenched her eyes shut as her body began shaking uncontrollably. She could no longer breathe. Her eyes stayed shut without her urging.

A fierce scream, a shrill of torment, cut through the mystical sounds and ripped through the souls of all who stood witness. Askca struggled violently against the hands holding her down. She forced both Commanders to use all their strength to uphold their bruising grasp. The blade slashed until it disappeared under the heavy side of Askca's breast. The young girl opened her mouth and her screams howled in and out, with pain sometimes too great to be poured into sound. She could feel the First Commander's hand wrenching and clawing at her breast, wrestling to free it from the bones it rested upon. Askca’s tears pushed out of her eyes without so much as one cry from her lips. She struggled against the Commanders, but nothing could stop the ceremony.

Askca’s eyes opened wide in pain as blood flashed in front of her. She strained, balling her hands and gritting her teeth until a guttural cry emerged from deep in her throat. The dagger tore relentless, persisting in its mutilation of her flesh. The First Commander stood calm, urging her bloody hand on through the amputation. Askca heard her own screams, gut wrenching and filling her ears as if they belonged to someone else. She twisted in the brutal grasp, feeling her own warm blood drain down her stomach and over her sides to form pools in (D)under the small of her arched back. Her body slid in the fresh blood as the First Commander made the painful last cut, liberating the breast from the confines of her body. A moment later, (D) The woman dipped down to hiss in Askca’s ear.

“The time has come for us both.”

There's just one part I can't visualize. How is she laying to have the blood run down and pool in the small of her back?
Hope this helps, -DJP

[edfrzr]

Okay guys, I just picked up on this thread. Someone please give me some guidance as to where to go to crit and be critted. I'm always open to a little criticism.

I am #33 on page 2 -- Retribution

thanks

[trumancoyote]

You critique the last person who's done a critique, and in turn the next person to join'll do yours.

[Rhush]

I enjoyed this. It has a really good flow to it that I picked up immediately. I tried to crit it...but I am not a poet what-so-ever, so I suppose you should take my ideas with a grain of salt! You obviously are far more qualified in this genre. All my thoughts come from a purely "reader on the street" point of view, which I hope might be helpful. Oh, and thank you so much for your 2 reviews. They were both very helpful and insightful! As far as Askca having the pools of blood...I simply imagined that at that point she was prob completely overtaken with adrenalin and pulling the 2 women into to struggle, but I can certainly see where that might not be everyones view...so thanks!


There’s glass in the grass and blood on the glass at the corner of fourth and main. (there's bloody glass scattering the grass or... I'm not certain if you mean the car windshield?)

The community hall and my daughter’s rag doll were witness to terror and pain.

He had called after work, his voice held a smirk, “I’ll be home after golf, OK hon?

We’ll play a quick nine,” he laughed on the line, “I’ll show the boys how it’s done.”

I scolded him gently, “You know, incidentally, we’re cutting the cake at 5:30.”

“I’ll be there, okay? I won’t miss her day. I’ll play nice and I won’t get dirty.”

“You’re goofy,” I state, “try not to be late.” I hang up; he’s already gone.

I make some iced tea, pour glasses for three, and rejoin the girls on the lawn.

Her guests all arrive and by quarter to five I get the games underway.

Piñatas and sticks, find treasures for six, I’m glad a few moms asked to stay!

The kids start to whine, I glance at the time. “Let’s throw the dogs on the grill.”

Potato chips, pop, their plates fill non-stop. I run for an iced tea refill.

It’s six on the clock, I hear a soft knock, my anger rolls like thunder storms.

“So, what’s your excuse?” My dropped glass spills juice on two smartly pressed uniforms.

“Is he okay?” I manage to say. “Yes.” But their looks of despair.

“Tell me.” I plead. “Ma’am, you may need to sit.” So I sit on the stair.

“Shouldn’t we go…” I cut him off, “No, we’ll have some privacy here.”

He tells me each fact while choking tears back. His tale, every woman’s worst fear.

“He needs me, let’s go.” I keep my eyes low and excuse myself to the girls.

On the ride over, my mind replays over our happiness as it unfurls.

Let’s push rewind, and all will be fine. If only real life were like that.

I enter his room and push through the gloom. I find his hand; give it a pat.

I search for his eyes, he sees mine, and cries,”I’m sorry, so sorry.” He weeps.

“Hush now, sshhhhh, hush, it’s okay, now shush.” I hold him, and sway to the beeps.

He’s fine, not a scratch, but his eyes can’t match (http://69.42.87.214/cgi-bin/ezlclk.fcgi?id=6718) that diagnosis, I know. (can not... might help the flow.)

He feels it inside, a little girl died; his guilt will do nothing but grow.

“If some drunk did what...” he squeezed his eyes shut, “what I did, I’d kill him. I would.”

A doctor came in, his face looking grim, “I’d tell you good news if I could.”

“The numbers don’t lie.” I started to cry. Bang on the blood alcohol limit. (I'm not certain by what you mean with "bang"?)

“The police are outside,” he looked up and sighed, “I’ll ask them to give you a minute.”

What could I say? Words won’t change this day. Lord, what will I say to our girls?

“I’ll get help,” I say, “I’ll find us a way.” I run my hand over his curls.

In the hospital hall, I lean on the wall. Our whole lives have changed; I’m in shock.

Then I see them come in, I feel like I’ve sinned. It’s the family from just down the block.

They’ve lost their child, her eyes appear wild. Wild with grief and raw pain.(Maybe add raw "with" pain...for flow)

“But he’s not a bad guy,” I think, but don’t try to convince them. My cheeks burn with shame.

One life lost forever, no one will ever be as we were just before.

Her family, ours, a coffin, cell bars, freedom and life, both no more. ( I really like this last line. )

[Rhush]

Sorry..the post above me is to DJP!

[edfrzr]

From what I can see, it looks like Trumancoyote is my guy

At first I wasn't sure where you were going. It was the last line that opened my mind. It seems as though you are talking about the little taboos or no-nos that we ALL are faced with in life. We don't want anyone to know "we" did it and the satisfation that follows, but we want somone to know that it was done, even if it is only ourselves. Plus, taboos or the unspeakable only add to the the thrilll of the violation (e.g. heterosexual male [?] masturbating to the thought of another man or men. Not original but no one (HMs) wants to admit they do it, and that is the excitement--we want some one to know.

The desciption of the uncomfortability (if that's a word) of the plane is pretty good. I realize you may have had to cut it to fit the mold, but I may have gone into more detail and really make this guy miserable (crying babies, turbulence. long flight, etc.)

Alot of times a title will draw me to book. Again, I understand the 700 word max, but where does it fit. I know that's picky, sorry.

Gramatically--great, word choice--excellent, continuuity--it flowed.

Anyway, overall I had no problem getting to the end but, I think I would need some excitement to keep me going. I'm sure it's there--just an opinion.

I hope this helps.

[kibkid]

- Also, as another criticism: the first line suggests that the main character knows these two other men personally -- or at least personally enough to know their first names. They don't know his, though. So either they have name tags, and the narrator is just being personable; or you got ahead of yourself, and should either enable the doctors to know his name, or what I'd prefer: don't let him know theirs. Y'know?



Hi, thank you for your crit, I appreciate and respect it. And I understand what you mean above and throughout your comments about me not explaining too much about the main character. However, if you read the first lines of my post, I say that this is an excerpt from a short story in which I go into much more details. I'm afraid that with seven hundred words there was not much I could do as this already stands at 652.

Thank you for your crit and I understand and agree with it, just understand this is not "the story" it's an excerpt.

[SueB]

The Empty Chair
By SM Baumgardner

OK This is an excerpt only (415 word count)

I could smell the hot, dry dust beneath me, as I lay, crumpled in the driveway, beside my beautiful 1967 Mustang, on that unforgettable September day in 1968. That day is forever indelibly etched in my mind. How I wished I could simply dissolve into the dust and be gone from this world. But the reality was, there was to be no easy way out. Almost unrecognizable was the woman standing over me. My mother, who had cradled me, soothed me, empathized with me, praised me, bragged on me and loved me, was now standing over me in a rage. Scarlet faced, with disheveled hair and bulging eyes, she looked at me, with what? Contempt, disgust, and if I am truthful, pure hatred.

I had driven into the driveway, an 18-year-old girl, in trouble, with a crumpled right front fender on her beautiful car, and staggering under a broken engagement from her first and only love. I was just trying to figure out how I was going to explain the car to my parents, when I saw my mother, with fists clenched, walking towards my car. I opened the car door and stepped out. She demanded to know what had happened. I tried to explain that I had simply cut too sharp when turning off the Cove Road onto the Main Road, and side swiped a telephone pole.

“And tell me, just what were you doing over there?”

Well, the whole story came tumbling out. I had literally been chasing Robbie, who was in his father’s truck. I just needed to talk with him, but he wasn’t interested. Her words came rushing out, between clenched teeth, in a rapidly rising crescendo, “Why, Susan? What did you need to talk with him about? Don’t you have any pride? What did you need to talk with him about?!”

I couldn’t answer. I was surprised when she suddenly lowered her voice with the dreaded “Susan, are you pregnant?”

I slumped against my battered automobile, looked down at the ground I was standing on, and somehow managed a whispered, “I don’t know….”

All hell broke loose! My sympathetic mother was nowhere to be found. There was a mad woman looming over me, slapping me, screaming at me. As I lay on the ground in a demoralized heap of helplessness and shame, my mother, just before turning her back to me and walking away, kicked me and screamed at me, sounding as if it might be her last breath, “Whore!”


http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/statusicon/user_online.gif http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/buttons/reputation.gif (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=9083&page=8&pp=25#) http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/buttons/report.gif (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/report.php?p=130978)



You conveyed the emotion well in this. Some of the mother stuff in the first paragraph, "praised me, empathized with me" could probably be pared down so it packs more of a punch without dragging the sentence out.

The way the events jump from now to a little while ago was a bit jarring, and I had to re-read it, but that might be me and not your writing style.

Should lay be laid?

Hi BlueTexas #104 pg 5
Well, I finally have the time for the critique I promised you last night.
Sorry, it took so long. Had a big day.
Great reading. I kept reading, wanting more, more...
A couple of minor things: You might watch all those contractions--perhaps better to write out both words. Also, the voices--were they really old 'friends'? I am not sure 'friends' is really the word you want here.
I would really like to read the rest of the story!
You are a good story teller. Good luck.
SueB

[hapsburg]

Ok, I think edfrzr is next with his story Retribution so I'll give it a go.


The story was well written and flowed nicely.. It kept me curious and reading. You had a very effective hook with your first line and the sensuality/sexuality of Anna was strongly and effectively conveyed.

The uneasy sense of danger and surreal become apparent as the story progresses, as the reader and Father alike become aware of the strange and threatening character Anna has become. I think I understand the story, but you ended it with the discalimer that "if you think you know what this story is about you are worng" I wish you'd have left that disclaimer out because I like closure and now wonder if there is something I missed or failed to understand. As I understand it, this priest and others, before the priethood, did something wrong (raped anna perhaps) and somehow that act and the girl inspired them into the priest hood? At the point of the story she is enacting one of her many revenges.

Initially, I thought this would be purely erotica, and as a Catholic I was instantly uncomfortable that a priest was involved. Considering where the story progressed that discomfort for the reader may have been to your advantage.

I like that the story went in a direction that wasn't immediately expected, and think you should change the title to make it even less obvious. I also like that the reader isn't totally clear as to what happened in Anna's past with this man, or what she is going to do with that bowie knofe she had hidden under the matress. Though the title, I felt, was a little to suggestive as to the nature of the story, in contrast I think you should be less subtle near the end as to Anna's case. Anna is clearly sadistic and psychotic, I like that she doesn't reveal this until the perfect moment where at her victim is fully at her mercy, but I think you should give a little stronger clue as to what strange and horrible thing could have happened to her to have pushed her to that extreme. The reader's imagination isn't always sufficient, give us a little more to toy with in our minds and you can really scare us.


hapsburg, #42 "Mastication

[digital scale]

Well I am having a wee bit of trouble giving you a critique becasue of the odd nature of the material. It was written well enough, if not juvenile. If I was forced to judge the struture of a snippet of work possible in the vain of the grim brothers or a very inebriated Tim Burton, I would say the ending gave me the feeling of a barbaric nursery rhyme told with less than the virtue of the many greats before us...

It felt like you wrote it in ten minutes, like you said you had. You are creative. Good luck.

My submission is 263, last page from a novel I have yet to complete.

[BlakeOvard]

I'll give this a go. I hope I did the right one. (I'm #195) What I would eliminate is in RED, what I would change is in BLUE, what I would add is in TEAL and general notes are in GREEN

“It is past midnight and the coffee drips fresh in my cup.I like this sentence, but I find it a bit confusing, as I think you're trying to say that coffee is dripping into the coffee pot, as you have coffee on your desk in the next sentence. If it is the same coffee cup, then you may want to re-work this part. It might even be that you want to eliminate the word "fresh" or may want to change "drips" to "sits" or some other word with the same general meaning. On my desk papers, papers, coffee, papers, pens, some more papers... With my stare fixed on (change to IN) a circular trajectory, I am vainly seeking up and down the walls for the proverbial mare’s nest to splash through my pen onto the blank page before me. My jaw flattening in my palm, my elbow piercing through the desk and my lips babbling in droll delirium, I feel trapped. A stale mood pushes me fixed into the chair Maybe you would want to be trapped in place in the chair, or fixed in place in the chair, but the wording here is choppy., face to face with the hot inspiration-drying summer night exposed at the window. My thoughts hustle out of my mind (or head, skull, brain, etc.) to stray like cats on the streets, meowing in search for (change to OF) some city adventure or a pat on the head. My mind needs praise and soothing, stimulation and thrill, and all I have is the blank sheet on top of the pile where other pages wait (change to: other blank pages), unstained with vagabond thoughts.

At this time my mind can’t be made to settle down on paper. Instead, it is rebelling (change to: It rebels) blank against fatigue, coffee and daydreams. No care it takes. The same as him (italicize).

He never goes out in the world to claim anything. Scraps are as good. Not sure if you mean that scraps are as good as he is, or if scraps are good enough for him. Curse the day I met him! (itallicize) I’m sure he’s out there partying with a cheap boob in his good-for-nothing spending hand, while I weep over my misery and the chain embracing me to gulp blockage of a bitter story that seems never-ending. Maybe I'm just dense, but I don't get the "chain embracing me to gulp blockage"

For 3 hours I have been trying to gather and lay my feelings on paper…

Good gracious, woman, speak it out loud! You hate him. (itallic) What’s more to say? What feelings? No feelings! You plainly hate him! (itallic) I hate him! I do! So why exactly am I standing are you standing or sitting while writing this? at the desk trying to write a stupidly long letter to explain my reasons? I want to break up with him. B.Y.E. Nothing more!

Who could call at this hour?

"Hi! […] I’m fine […] I’ve been trying to reach you today, but your battery must have been low […] Oh… you turned it off… I see… […] Why do you say that? I haven’t realized I’m bothering you. […] Why? [..] I think I deserve to know why you’re dumping me […] You can’t just announce me it’s over. Please give me the reason! […] Hello? Hello? “



‘Have you ever considered becoming a writer, not only jotting in your diary, but developing and using your skill with words?’ asked the therapist.

All in all, I found this enjoyable and would like to read more of the story. Good luck in all of your writings!

[SueB]

I'll give this a go. I hope I did the right one. (I'm #195) What I would eliminate is in RED, what I would change is in BLUE, what I would add is in TEAL and general notes are in GREEN

“It is past midnight and the coffee drips fresh in my cup.I like this sentence, but I find it a bit confusing, as I think you're trying to say that coffee is dripping into the coffee pot, as you have coffee on your desk in the next sentence. If it is the same coffee cup, then you may want to re-work this part. It might even be that you want to eliminate the word "fresh" or may want to change "drips" to "sits" or some other word with the same general meaning. On my desk papers, papers, coffee, papers, pens, some more papers... With my stare fixed on (change to IN) a circular trajectory, I am vainly seeking up and down the walls for the proverbial mare’s nest to splash through my pen onto the blank page before me. My jaw flattening in my palm, my elbow piercing through the desk and my lips babbling in droll delirium, I feel trapped. A stale mood pushes me fixed into the chair Maybe you would want to be trapped in place in the chair, or fixed in place in the chair, but the wording here is choppy., face to face with the hot inspiration-drying summer night exposed at the window. My thoughts hustle out of my mind (or head, skull, brain, etc.) to stray like cats on the streets, meowing in search for (change to OF) some city adventure or a pat on the head. My mind needs praise and soothing, stimulation and thrill, and all I have is the blank sheet on top of the pile where other pages wait (change to: other blank pages), unstained with vagabond thoughts.

At this time my mind can’t be made to settle down on paper. Instead, it is rebelling (change to: It rebels) blank against fatigue, coffee and daydreams. No care it takes. The same as him (italicize).

He never goes out in the world to claim anything. Scraps are as good. Not sure if you mean that scraps are as good as he is, or if scraps are good enough for him. Curse the day I met him! (itallicize) I’m sure he’s out there partying with a cheap boob in his good-for-nothing spending hand, while I weep over my misery and the chain embracing me to gulp blockage of a bitter story that seems never-ending. Maybe I'm just dense, but I don't get the "chain embracing me to gulp blockage"

For 3 hours I have been trying to gather and lay my feelings on paper…

Good gracious, woman, speak it out loud! You hate him. (itallic) What’s more to say? What feelings? No feelings! You plainly hate him! (itallic) I hate him! I do! So why exactly am I standing are you standing or sitting while writing this? at the desk trying to write a stupidly long letter to explain my reasons? I want to break up with him. B.Y.E. Nothing more!

Who could call at this hour?

"Hi! […] I’m fine […] I’ve been trying to reach you today, but your battery must have been low […] Oh… you turned it off… I see… […] Why do you say that? I haven’t realized I’m bothering you. […] Why? [..] I think I deserve to know why you’re dumping me […] You can’t just announce me it’s over. Please give me the reason! […] Hello? Hello? “



‘Have you ever considered becoming a writer, not only jotting in your diary, but developing and using your skill with words?’ asked the therapist.

All in all, I found this enjoyable and would like to read more of the story. Good luck in all of your writings!

To blakeovard #195 pg 8

Cute story. Easy read. Reminds me of a letter one might receive from a friend. Your conversational style of writing makes one feel as if you are indeed their friend.
A few suggestions: Perhaps too many contractions. You might consider changing 'hard' to 'difficult'. In the 3rd paragraph from end, you have 2 different tenses in one sentence--"I figured............so I'll......." Consider sticking to one tense. And your very last sentence is a bit weak. Could you think of a more intriguing, delicious even, one liner?
As I said, this is a cute story and easy read. The reader relaxes as they read something from 'a friend.'
Keep writing, and good luck!
SueB. #191 pg 8
I have a blog and would love to hear from many of you! writeinmaine.blogspot.com/

[NikeeGoddess]

i don't get the who you criticing formula. it just seems so random like?

[[[the NikeeGoddess is confused]]]

[wurdwise]

I just got back here today, and I entered the contest, but I don't know who I am supposed to critique or who is supposed to critique me. If someone will direct this little lady, I would be glad to give and equally glad to receive a critique. This whole thing is so friggin cool!:hooray:

[wurdwise]

Nike Goddess, I think I've figured it out. You are supposed to critique the last person's work who gave a critique, which is SueB, and once you do, I will critique yours, then whoever comes along next will critique mine, is that right, guys?

[BlakeOvard]

To blakeovard #195 pg 8

Cute story. Easy read. Reminds me of a letter one might receive from a friend. Your conversational style of writing makes one feel as if you are indeed their friend.
A few suggestions: Perhaps too many contractions. You might consider changing 'hard' to 'difficult'. In the 3rd paragraph from end, you have 2 different tenses in one sentence--"I figured............so I'll......." Consider sticking to one tense. And your very last sentence is a bit weak. Could you think of a more intriguing, delicious even, one liner?
As I said, this is a cute story and easy read. The reader relaxes as they read something from 'a friend.'
Keep writing, and good luck!
SueB. #191 pg 8
I have a blog and would love to hear from many of you! writeinmaine.blogspot.com/

Thanks for all of your comments Sue. The actual piece is about 1100 words. I chopped and edited it down to get to the 700 word limit, and just squeaked in under that amount. My last edit was in the last sentence. I had to make the cut to get to the word count.

The last 'graph originally was ...

When my wife and I got back to the hotel at the end of the day and took a long soak in the hot tub, she turned to me and asked if a hot tub would count as the water feature for our booth. Out of all the ideas emanating from my Feng Shui checklist, selling 10-minute timeslots in a hot tub would probably make us the most money. She must have been the one sitting in the "great ideas" position in the wonderful bubbling cauldron of relaxation.

[CaitlinK18]

Hi Rhush,

Here is my line edit of your piece. Things in bold are added/changed and comments are in italics. Things cut are underline.

---
Askca opened her eyes to see and saw the Queen step back and motion the First Commander forward. Askca clenched her jaw. Her blood surging under her skin, rushing fright through her body. The First Commander now stood over her, lowering the blade to the leathers that covered her Askca's youthful breasts.

Suddenly, Askca heard nothing but the thump of her heart and her heavy, trembling breath. She longed to close her eyes. Paralyzed by her panic, she was unable to even blink. The First Commander’s black hair tickled over Askca’s chin, and she felt the cold What kind of blade? A dagger? blade scratch up the warm skin of her ribs. The sharp edge split through the laces of her ceremonial skins, one by one, until the leathers came to rest on the jade alter altar, exposing Askca’s heaving 'heaving' is very romance-novel-y for this type of piece. Chose another adjective, maybe, or just cut. breasts. The First Commander does she have a name? slid pushed the skins from the alter altar. Askca felt the shock of cold stone on her back merge with the discomfort of the other Commander holding her arms back this sentence doesn't work--we need to know about the second commander before this. The woman had tightened her grip as soon as when the blade had first touched Askca’s body. The First Commander looked to the Queen. Queen Perseathea motioned the sacrificial blade sacrifice to proceed.

A shiver stung Askca shivered. The hair on her skin rose up. Twitching nerves burned her stomach. Fourteen summers had brought her to this moment… ,and how she feared it. The hypnotic fire crackled again, setting needs to be established early and the winds seemed to rush roared. Askca peered stared at the jagged blade through squinted eyes I thought she was so frightened she couldn't blink?. Steadily, ceremonial music floated flowed to her ears. The drums swelled louder and the song grew more frantic. Heavy breathing parched Askca’s throat, choking her on her own air. Her pulse raced. The blade came closer. The sea of spectators began to shout. Sweat droplets covered her entire body as she trembled. Her eyes would not shut. The dagger shined with the light of the fire, gritting her teeth. Denial seduced Askca and she shut her eyes. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t happen. Cold steel grazed the supple skin just under Askca’s right breast. Askca now clenched her eyes shut as her body began shaking uncontrollably. She could no longer breathe. Her eyes stayed shut without her urging.

A fierce scream, a shrill of torment, cut through the mystical sounds chants and ripped through the soul of all who stood witness. Askca struggled violently against the hands holding her down. She forced both Commanders to use all their strength to uphold maintain their bruising grasp. The blade cut slashed until it disappeared under the heavy side of Askca's breast. The young girl opened her mouth and her screamed, her s howled in and out, with pain sometimes too great to be poured into words sound. She could feel felt the First Commander's hand wrenching and clawing at her breast, wrestling to free it from the bones it rested upon. Askca’s tears pushed out of her eyes without so much as one cry from her lips but she was screaming two sentences ago. She struggled against the Commanders, but nothing could stop the ceremony.

Askca’s eyes opened wide in pain as blood flashed in front of her. She strained, balling her hands and gritting her teeth until a guttural cry emerged from deep in her throat. The dagger tore relentless, persisting in its mutilation of her flesh. She opened her eyes and saw the First Commander stood standing calm, urging her bloody hand on through the amputation. Askca heard her own screams, gut wrenching and filling her ears as if they belonged to someone else. She twisted in the brutal grasp, feeling her own warm blood drain down her stomach and over her sides to form pools in the small of her arched back. Her body slid in the fresh blood as the First Commander made the painful last cut, liberating the breast from the confines of her body. A moment later, the woman dipped down to hiss in Askca’s ear.

“The time has come for us both.”
---

[Eussie]

My comments in bold...

Archeon, Tenth Mage of the Order of Rasputin, stood in his garden and looked down. Can you give us more info on the character here...perhaps an emotion? Was he looking down and feeling blue, happy, or just...looking down?

He saw the frozen white gleam of the Hoar Mountains to the east and the inkblot of Mabog’s lava peaks to the west. The great blue blade of the Iris River cleaved them apart and the green, fertile expanse that was the land of Draconia lay exposed to Archeon’s gaze. He saw all of it from his home on Top O’ the World, the highest peak on the continent.

I like the above description but again, it's lacking what he 'felt' about the sight. It might help giving it a bit more 'oomph' for the reader.

For a moment, the mage imagined he was just looking at the beauty of the countryside. Then a high wind whipped across the tiny patch of vegetation I got confused here...I thought he was looking at mountains and got an impression of a huge, vast plain. The you call it a tiny patch??, flapping Archeon’s worn robe I like your descriptive words :) open and reminding him that he was an old man, one with arthritis and a bit of a chill. He had a job to do, and staring into space like a bloody idiot A fellow brit! *chuckle* didn’t finish it any faster.

Once upon a time, Archeon had thought the entire business of being a mage very glamorous, with all the staffs and robes and chanting. Wiser now, he just wanted to get this unsavory task over with. He’d done the same spell five times in the span of sixty annums, and it never became easier. In fact, Archeon’s finely aged wine-keg of wisdom told him the entire thing was bollocks, and that he should go back inside, fix a bit of jasper tea for his complaints, and leave the fate of Draconia in someone else’s hands. I'm intrigued now...what does he have to do? Makes me want to read more...

The volcano fires of Mabog flared, as if in agreement. “That’s the way of it, it is,” Archeon muttered, turning and shuffling back towards the door of his sturdy stone cabin. He was almost inside when the youthfully impetuous cider-barrel This might be too descriptive. I would cut either 'youthfully' or 'cider-barrel' of his mage pride won the argument.

Archeon grunted. Damned if he failed in his duty. He was the Tenth Mage of Rasputin in as many centuries, and not one of them had ever gone derelict on this particular magic before. He wasn’t going down in history as Archeon, The Incompetent One Who Buggered Everything Up.Is your mage cockney-like? This made me giggle...he sounds like an East-End gansta and I wanted to make sure that was the impression you were trying to give...The magic represented tradition, duty and the Order’s sworn oath to the Draconian royal family, not to mention unspeakable torments in this life and several subsequent ones for the mage who dared break it.

He stretched out a scrawny, scarred arm and called his staff. It came floating across the garden at a lazy speed and settled into his hand like an insouciant, very wooden snake.I'm not feeling this one. I don't see snakes as ever being blithe or nonchalant.

“Rascal,” Archeon scolded. The staff promptly turned itself into a long loaf of bread. “No, no!” Archeon shouted, beating it against a fencepost until it resumed the proper shape.

Very cold now, he raised his arms, mumbling the words to the spell quickly and with none of the ceremony an enchantment that could change the face of history deserved. The requisite forbidding purple clouds gathered over the mountains of Mabog. Archeon supposed if he were more theatrical he might have uttered a peal of sinister laughter. But there was no one this far up Top O’ the World except mountain goats, and they never talked back anyway.

Archeon let his staff float away and hurried back inside just as the first snowflakes began to fall from his conjured clouds. Had he done his magely duty and stuck around to see the full results, Archeon would have noticed the magic bounce off an errant mote in the atmosphere and come down in precisely the wrong location.

But he didn’t, and that’s why this story is told.

Overall I liked the piece and found it interesting, it left me wanting more but in some parts I felt the descriptions were too wordy. That's about it. Cheers, Eussie.

[wurdwise]

Ok, I will post this again. Maybe someone will see it and let me know if this order is correct. This system sounds good in theory, but seems very convulted.


"Nike Goddess, I think I've figured it out. You are supposed to critique the last person's work who gave a critique, which is SueB, and once you do, I will critique yours, then whoever comes along next will critique mine, is that right, guys?"

[wills]

Edit to add - More than 50 Crits posted thus far - I think this is a great performance by everyone involved, roughly a fifth of the 'Idol' stories critiqued.

Ok, I will post this again. Maybe someone will see it and let me know if this order is correct. This system sounds good in theory, but seems very convulted.


"Nike Goddess, I think I've figured it out. You are supposed to critique the last person's work who gave a critique, which is SueB, and once you do, I will critique yours, then whoever comes along next will critique mine, is that right, guys?"

Wurdwise - I started this thread and had aspirations of acting as a quasi moderator to smooth the flow. Unfortunately I damaged my back on Friday and have been unable to spend as much time at the computer as I would have wished.

The smooth operation requires just a little discipline (or a moderator). You critique the person who posts above you on this thread. In your case Nikee Goddess - the next poster will critique you.

It is helpful if new posters join stating:

"I'm taking Nikee Goddess for critique and offer my contribution #xxx on page x for the next poster."

It is even more helpful if the critique is then posted as an EDIT to the original post, eg:

"EDIT

CRITIQUE

GOES

HERE"

"I'm taking Nikee Goddess for critique and offer my contribution #xxx on page x for the next poster."

Adopting this arrangement keeps everything in the right place and a continuity in the thread - then again we are writers and all want to something different *LOL*

Best of luck - wills

Next in queue for critique is wurdwise whose story is #269 on page 11

[SueB]

Thanks for all of your comments Sue. The actual piece is about 1100 words. I chopped and edited it down to get to the 700 word limit, and just squeaked in under that amount. My last edit was in the last sentence. I had to make the cut to get to the word count.

The last 'graph originally was ...

When my wife and I got back to the hotel at the end of the day and took a long soak in the hot tub, she turned to me and asked if a hot tub would count as the water feature for our booth. Out of all the ideas emanating from my Feng Shui checklist, selling 10-minute timeslots in a hot tub would probably make us the most money. She must have been the one sitting in the "great ideas" position in the wonderful bubbling cauldron of relaxation.

Yes, Yes!
700 words--Did anyone out there find it easy taking a 700 word snippet from a longer piece?
Anyways, Blakeovard, I really like your original ending a lot better!

PS I somehow got skipped in the critique. I'm # 191 on pg 8, if anyone is game. Thanks!
SueB

[wurdwise]

I am critiquing this for Nikee Goddess and would appreciate my turn at a critique by whoever's next. My enty in # 269 on page 11. Thanks in advance, Wurdwise


Here goes, Nikee. Bear with me and take this with a box of salt, because i have ner' critiqued a script before. Lucky us!:Ssh:



INT: LIVINGROOM

Tommy lowers the volume to a celebrity chef on
television. He takes a long hit on the bong.... holds his
breath..... And releases...

TOMMY
We need to find some kind of
gimmick...a unique twist or...
damn, I'm hungry. How long till
that pizza gets here?

Tommy pays no attention as Adrian enters the room with an old
rifle.

ADRIAN
My grandfather wanted me to have
this for some reason.

TOMMY
Hey! What if we put some fresh
leafy weed in the house salad?!
That'd make'em freakin' itchin' to
eat three or four courses...

Adrian shoves the window open.

Tommy leans back and rubs his jelly belly....dreaming.

TOMMY
And desert! Do you have any creme
brulee' or maybe a pear pecan tart
... and some hazelnut chocolate
sauce?



EXT. OUTSIDE THE WINDOW

At a short distance: tall leafy oak trees - several squirrels
run up and around and throughout the branches.

Adrian sticks the rifle out the window and aims.

THROUGH THE RIFLE LENS:

Adrian gets a beat on a squirrel nibbling on a nut.

ADRIAN
Cheap meat.

Tommy finally pays attention and looks up.

TOMMY (O.S.)
Hey...man.

Adrian shoots and misses.

ADRIAN
Damn.

TOMMY (O.S.)
Let me try.

Adrian squeezes and shoots again.

ADRIAN
S h i t!

TOMMY
Let me try.

Tommy grabs the gun and recklessly shoots several times.

A squirrel drops from a tree.

ADRIAN
You got one. You actually got one!

The squirrel squirms helplessly on the ground.

ADRIAN (CONT'D)
Come on.

Adrian runs to the kitchen and grabs a large chefs knife.



EXT: BESIDE THE TREE.

Adrian and Tommy look down at the blood spurting from the
wriggling squirrel.

ADRIAN
(twirls the knife)
I'm better with this.

Adrian raises the knife high in the air; aiming for the kill.

POLICE OFFICER 1
Freeze! Drop that weapon!

Several police officers aim their guns at Tommy and Adrian.

The knife clinks on the pavement below.

Tommy's fat belly jiggles as he raises his hands straight in
the air. Adrian does the same.

POLICE OFFICER 1
Down on the ground. Palms up.



INT: LIVINGROOM

Handcuffed from behind, Tommy and Adrian are pushed down on
the sofa.

ADRIAN
It's an antique...a gift from my
grandfather.

POLICE OFFICER 1
We still gotta check it out. You
can't just go shooting up the
neighborhood.

TOMMY
Hey, the game still on. Do you mind
if we watch?

Tommy awkwardly reaches for the remote.

POLICE OFFICER 2
Yeah, why not? I wouldn't mind
seeing it myself.

Police Officer 2 grabs the remote and flicks the channel to
the a football game. He turns up the volume.



INT: T.V. SCREEN - A FOOTBALL GAME IN PROGRESS.

Tommy looks around gleefully as several OFFICERS huddle
around the couch and sit on their sides.

TOMMY
(Feigning interest)
Now that's what I'm talking about.

ADRIAN
Do you think you could take these
handcuffs off? They're starting
to chafe.

POLICE OFFICER 2
I don't think so.



INT: FRONT DOOR OF APARTMENT

A PIZZA DELIVERY MAN knocks on the door as Adrian's wife,
CARLA storms down the hall.

CARLA
You must have the wrong apartment.
We aren't ordering pizza's anymore.

PIZZA DELIVERY MAN
It says 2B on my ticket.



INT: T.V. SCREEN

The game in progress: a player makes a long run escaping
several tackles.



INT: APT LIVINGROOM.

CARLA enters followed by the Pizza Delivery Man.

CARLA
What's going on here?

Tommy jumps up and heads straight for the tv; hunched over
screaming...

TOMMY
Gooooo! Go, mutha-****a!

Adrian jumps up in order to fit in.

TOMMY
Get your *** down that field!

TOMMY & ADRIAN
Touchdown!

Tommy and Adrian body slam their bellies together.

CARLA
What is going on here?

DELIVERY MAN
Who ordered the pizza?

CARLA
Adrian?!

LATER:

The Police Officers file out of the apartment, each one
taking a slice of pizza as they go.

POLICE OFFICER 1
There's no need to make a big deal
over a dead squirrel. But they
better not make me come out here
again.

Police Officer 1 takes the last slice.

TOMMY
(cries)
My pizza.

The door slams shut.
__________________


Ok, I read it three times. I can see funny parts, but it was confusing to me. Did the cops ever take the handcuffs off or did they leave and never do that? You did a good job of showing two dope heads acting like fools, and the cops watching football on their TV and eating their pizza, but the wife just appears out of nowhere and seems to have no personality. But like I said, I don't know squat about scripts. I will say, if this had been in story form, I would have probably thought it was hilarious. Not that I am telling you that you should have put in in that form, only that it would have been something I was accustomed to. The descriptions of these guys are good, but the cops, I think, need to be fleshed out more, and the wife, like I said. JMO and good luck in the competition.
http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/statusicon/user_online.gif http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/buttons/reputation.gif (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=9083&page=12&pp=25#)

[wurdwise]

Oh, and thank you wills for the clarification. :Thumbs:

I hope your back heals quickly! ;)

[wills]

Oh, and thank you wills for the clarification. :Thumbs:

I hope your back heals quickly! ;)

You are welcome. Osteopath tomorrow - with luck! Typical misfortune to put it out ahead of a long holiday weekend.

wurdwise is next up for critique #269 on page 11

[Jolie]

This post is out of order, I picked up SueB's entry when it was the last post. Sorry about that!

Deletes in Red, adds in Blue



The Empty Chair






The Empty Chair
By SM Baumgardner

OK This is an excerpt only (415 word count)

I could smell the hot, dry dust beneath me, as I lay, crumpled in the driveway, beside my beautiful 1967 Mustang, on that unforgettable September day in 1968. That day is forever indelibly etched in my mind. (Maybe delete this and show with more description later what an impact this day had instead of stating it out right.) How I wished I could simply dissolve into the dust and be gone from this world. But this time there wouldthe reality was, there was to be no easy way out. Almost unrecognizable was the woman standing over me. My mother, who had cradled me, soothed me, empathized with me, praised me, bragged on me and loved me, was now standing over me in a rage. Scarlet faced, with disheveled hair and bulging eyes, she looked at me, with what? Contempt, disgust, and if I am truthful, pure hatred.

I had driven into the driveway, an 18-year-old girl,and in trouble, with a crumpled right front fender on her beautiful car, and the staggering weight of under a broken engagement from hermy first and only love pressing hard against my heart and my mind. I was just trying to figure out how I was going to explain the car to my parents, when I saw my mother, with fists clenched, walking towards my car. I opened the car door and stepped out. She demanded to know what had happened. I tried to explain that I had simply cut too sharp when turning off the Cove Road onto the Main Road, and side swiped a telephone pole.

“And tell me, just what were you doing over there?”

Well, the whole story came tumbling out. I had literally been chasing Robbie, who was in his father’s truck. I just needed to talk with him, but he wasn’t interested. Her words came rushing out, between clenched teeth, in a rapidly rising crescendo, “Why, Susan? What did you need to talk with him about? Don’t you have any pride? What did you need to talk with him about?!”

I couldn’t answer. I was surprised when she suddenly lowered her voice with the dreaded “Susan, are you pregnant?”

I slumped against my battered automobile, looked down at the ground I was standing on, and somehow managed a whispered, “I don’t know….”

My whispered words changed everything.All hell broke loose! My sympathetic mother was nowhere to be found. There was a mad woman looming over me, slapping me, screaming at me. As I lay on the ground in a demoralized heap of helplessness and shame, my mother, just before turning her back to me and walking away, kicked me and screamed at me, sounding as if it might be her last breath, “Whore!”



Over all a very good excerpt. You might want to tighten up the wording a bit, change some of the descriptions by using more powerful words but less of them.



I could feel the narrator's internal struggle but needed a little more background on her and maybe her mother in order to truly feel for her. Maybe with a few more words you could describe her feelings, explore the emotions brought on by the break-up, then the accident and then her mother's uncharacteristic rage.



Good Luck in the competition!

Jolie



My entry is on page 6, number 139, but I have been reviewed once so if someone else needs a turn feel free to skip me!

And Thank you to Duncan and JAlpha for their great comments on my entry. They helped a ton!

[DeadlyAccurate]

I don't know much about children's books, so take with a grain of salt.

Brandon's hair was a mass of blonde curls, his eyes a mesmerizing blue. Maddy still couldn’t get over the fact that she danced with him. There she was, the only girl not on the floor and she'd just stuffed her mouth full of Twinkie.


I like this imagery of her with a mouth full of Twinkie.

When he walked up she almost choked. But he acted like he didn’t notice as he asked her to dance. The song just happened to be to one of her favorite oldies, When the Doves Cry, by Prince. She nodded yes, and Brandon softly took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Never had anything felt so romantic.


I would go with "Brandon gently took her hand..." instead of "softly took her hand..."

This morning she danced slowly across her room to the haunting words spilling from the speakers, “My immortal….. I’m so tired of being here….” She closed her eyes and pretended that Brandon held her in his arms again, but they were gliding across a ballroom floor in her imagination. He was dressed in a black tuxedo and she, a long pink evening gown. He spun her in a graceful circle as he gazed lovingly at her…”because your presence still lingers here.....” However, when she opened her eyes she was standing in front of the mirror, and her true image knocked her back into the middle of reality.

She was a bean pole, a skinny, flat-chest wonder. As she moved in closer
she studied her lips, thin and sexless, her eyes set too close together, below eyebrows that were like two wooly caterpillars kissing above her too-wide nose. Grandma wouldn’t let her pluck her them or shave her legs till she turned fourteen. She wouldn’t even let her get her ears pierced; which was totally ridiculous. But that’s what happened when you were raised by an old person. Jennie Freeman’s mother was young, like Daddy, and she let Jennie get her navel pierced last week. Besides that, Jennie’s ears have been pierced since fourth grade and she’s been shaving her legs and plucking her eyebrows for at least a year.


This morning she danced slowly across her room to the haunting words spilling from the speakers, “My immortal….. I’m so tired of being here….” She closed her eyes and pretended Brandon held her in his arms again, but this time they glided across a ballroom floor in her imagination. He wore a black tuxedo and she, a long pink evening gown. He spun her in a graceful circle as he gazed lovingly at her…”because your presence still lingers here.....” She opened her eyes and stared at the reality in the mirror.

She was a bean pole, a skinny, flat-chested wonder. She leaned in and studied her lips, thin and sexless, her eyes set too close together, below eyebrows that were like two wooly caterpillars kissing above her too-wide nose. Grandma wouldn’t let her pluck her them or shave her legs till she turned fourteen. She wouldn’t even let her get her ears pierced; which was totally ridiculous. But that’s what happened when you were raised by an old person. Jennie Freeman’s mother was young, like Daddy, and she let Jennie get her navel pierced last week. Besides that, Jennie’s ears have been pierced since fourth grade and she’s been shaving her legs and plucking her eyebrows for at least a year.

I liked that second paragraph a lot. It said more about how she sees herself than what she genuinely looks like, which is the way a teenager could well see herself. I don't know what color her hair is, or her eyes.

Turning from the mirror, Maddy’s face burned with embarrassment. Brandon saw her standing there and felt sorry for her. A pity dance, that's all it was. What would a hot freshman like him see in a bony, hairy eighth grader like her? She went to the dresser and grabbed underclothes from her drawer, putting on her so-called bra-which looked more like a white band aid-and white panties, telling herself that good looking guys usually turn out to be jerks anyway.


I like the sudden change in tone. The irrational anger came through well.

Lamenting all good looking guys, she sang along again to the music, “..Now I will tell you what I’ve done for you…fifty thousand tears I’ve cried…,” as she searched for what to wear. She picked out a pair of old blue jean cut offs and a faded blue t-shirt that read across the front, Spoiled Brat, or at least it used to. She’d worn it so much that the glittery silver plastic that covered the letters was mostly gone.


The phrase, "Lamenting all good-looking guys" doesn't really fit the tone of the story so far.

She searched for some clean clothes and sang along again to the music, “..Now
I will tell you what I’ve done for you…fifty thousand tears I’ve cried….” She picked out a pair of old blue jean cut offs and a faded blue t-shirt with "Spoiled Brat" across the front. At least, that's what it used to say; she’d worn it so much the glittery silver plastic that covered the letters was mostly gone.

While she dressed, her mind roamed. She pondered what she and her daddy might do while he was on vacation, but like a pendulum it swung back to negative thoughts of Brandon. Maybe somebody bet him he wouldn’t ask me to dance, a notion she quickly squelched, instead honing in on the summer and what it held in store. It stretched into the future as bright as the yellow brick road in the Wizard of Oz. She was Dorothy and Katie a large Toto. Grandma was Auntie Em ; Daddy one of the concerned uncles. But what would that make her best friend Corey? He was no coward, so he couldn’t be The Lion; he was smart, so not The Scarecrow, he had a big heart, so he shouldn’t be The Tin Man.


What did Daddy plan to do on vacation? Did someone bet Brandon he wouldn't ask me to the dance? That's stupid. I can't believe it's summer vacation already. I wonder what will happen.

I don't know if that really conveys what I'm trying to say, but maybe you can show us how her thoughts are jumping around. Put more thoughts in, for example.

Shaking her head, she smiled. Did everyone’s brain work like hers did, jumping all over the place, coming up with this outrageous kind of stuff? Unfortunately, it ended up where it did without fail if she let it wander too long, like a static ridden radio with one clear station that played only one song, where is my mother?

This sort of lost me. I can't remember now if your sample was the middle of the book or the very beginning. If it was the beginning, it came out of nowhere. If it's the middle, I assume there's some explanation, so disregard what I said.

ETA: Mine. (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=122785&postcount=10)
I'm not particularly concerned about mine being critiqued, though, so if someone wants to do someone else's, feel free.

[SueB]

This post is out of order, I picked up SueB's entry when it was the last post. Sorry about that!

Deletes in Red, adds in Blue



The Empty Chair






The Empty Chair
By SM Baumgardner

OK This is an excerpt only (415 word count)

I could smell the hot, dry dust beneath me, as I lay, crumpled in the driveway, beside my beautiful 1967 Mustang, on that unforgettable September day in 1968. That day is forever indelibly etched in my mind. (Maybe delete this and show with more description later what an impact this day had instead of stating it out right.) How I wished I could simply dissolve into the dust and be gone from this world. But this time there wouldthe reality was, there was to be no easy way out. Almost unrecognizable was the woman standing over me. My mother, who had cradled me, soothed me, empathized with me, praised me, bragged on me and loved me, was now standing over me in a rage. Scarlet faced, with disheveled hair and bulging eyes, she looked at me, with what? Contempt, disgust, and if I am truthful, pure hatred.

I had driven into the driveway, an 18-year-old girl,and in trouble, with a crumpled right front fender on her beautiful car, and the staggering weight of under a broken engagement from hermy first and only love pressing hard against my heart and my mind. I was just trying to figure out how I was going to explain the car to my parents, when I saw my mother, with fists clenched, walking towards my car. I opened the car door and stepped out. She demanded to know what had happened. I tried to explain that I had simply cut too sharp when turning off the Cove Road onto the Main Road, and side swiped a telephone pole.

“And tell me, just what were you doing over there?”

Well, the whole story came tumbling out. I had literally been chasing Robbie, who was in his father’s truck. I just needed to talk with him, but he wasn’t interested. Her words came rushing out, between clenched teeth, in a rapidly rising crescendo, “Why, Susan? What did you need to talk with him about? Don’t you have any pride? What did you need to talk with him about?!”

I couldn’t answer. I was surprised when she suddenly lowered her voice with the dreaded “Susan, are you pregnant?”

I slumped against my battered automobile, looked down at the ground I was standing on, and somehow managed a whispered, “I don’t know….”

My whispered words changed everything.All hell broke loose! My sympathetic mother was nowhere to be found. There was a mad woman looming over me, slapping me, screaming at me. As I lay on the ground in a demoralized heap of helplessness and shame, my mother, just before turning her back to me and walking away, kicked me and screamed at me, sounding as if it might be her last breath, “Whore!”



Over all a very good excerpt. You might want to tighten up the wording a bit, change some of the descriptions by using more powerful words but less of them.



I could feel the narrator's internal struggle but needed a little more background on her and maybe her mother in order to truly feel for her. Maybe with a few more words you could describe her feelings, explore the emotions brought on by the break-up, then the accident and then her mother's uncharacteristic rage.



Good Luck in the competition!

Jolie



My entry is on page 6, number 139, but I have been reviewed once so if someone else needs a turn feel free to skip me!

And Thank you to Duncan and JAlpha for their great comments on my entry. They helped a ton!

Jolie--Thanks. Some very good suggestions. (especially your suggestion to replace 'all hell broke loose'.) Thanks for your time and input.
SueB

[NikeeGoddess]

so the critiquing process is still confusing to me b/c after i critique then someone critique's mine but, i've already been critiqued which prompted me to critique so, it just goes in a circle to me. i know i've got it wrong but anyhoo ---


While she dressed, her mind roamed. She pondered what she and her daddy
might do while he was on vacation, but like a pendulum it swung back to
negative thoughts of Brandon. Maybe somebody bet him he wouldn’t ask me
to dance, a notion she quickly squelched, instead honing in on the summer and
what it held in store. It stretched into the future as bright as the yellow brick road
in the Wizard of Oz. She was Dorothy and Katie a large Toto. Grandma was
Auntie Em ; Daddy one of the concerned uncles. But what would that make
her best friend Corey? He was no coward, so he couldn’t be The Lion; he
was smart, so not The Scarecrow, he had a big heart, so he shouldn’t be
The Tin Man.

Shaking her head, she smiled. Did everyone’s brain work like hers did,
jumping all over the place, coming up with this outrageous kind of stuff? Unfortunately, it ended up where it did without fail if she let it wander too long,
like a static ridden radio with one clear station that played only one song,
where is my mother?

i need to apologize b/c i'm not skilled enough to do this. scriptwriters are all about eliminating the fluff and anything that doesn't need to be seen on the screen and being creatively concise where as narrative is the exact opposite.

all i can say is...the story is fine. whatever goes through the mind of a 14 year old is open for all kinds of interpretation but, i didn't feel the music.
i was confused with 3 instances in the last two paragraphs thou - the italics were words to the song before but i don't think they are here? or it could be that i just don't know the words to the song. but, if i'm right then why are they in italics?
i know this doesn't help much with the story thou.

[NikeeGoddess]

It blows that you got stuck with a critiquer who'd never read a screenplay, although it's good to know you have already gotten one critique.
i'm guessing the judges don't read screenplays either and the lack of screenplays entered makes me believe we're at a disadvantage anyway. so there you go.

[trumancoyote]

From what I can see, it looks like Trumancoyote is my guy

At first I wasn't sure where you were going. It was the last line that opened my mind. It seems as though you are talking about the little taboos or no-nos that we ALL are faced with in life. We don't want anyone to know "we" did it and the satisfation that follows, but we want somone to know that it was done, even if it is only ourselves. Plus, taboos or the unspeakable only add to the the thrilll of the violation (e.g. heterosexual male [?] masturbating to the thought of another man or men. Not original but no one (HMs) wants to admit they do it, and that is the excitement--we want some one to know.

The desciption of the uncomfortability (if that's a word) of the plane is pretty good. I realize you may have had to cut it to fit the mold, but I may have gone into more detail and really make this guy miserable (crying babies, turbulence. long flight, etc.)

Alot of times a title will draw me to book. Again, I understand the 700 word max, but where does it fit. I know that's picky, sorry.

Gramatically--great, word choice--excellent, continuuity--it flowed.

Anyway, overall I had no problem getting to the end but, I think I would need some excitement to keep me going. I'm sure it's there--just an opinion.

I hope this helps.

Thanks, Ed :)

The title would seem pretty irrelevant at this point, because this was only an excerpt from the second chapter of the novel. And moreover, I'm afraid to admit that there was no hidden meaning behind the character's actions, though your interpretation was a neat one. Basically, he's obsessive compulsive, and the novel is an exercise in explicating how and why he is, and what he's going to do about it -- among other things.

Thanks again for the critique, though; it's always splendid to hear another's opinions.

[ShadowGuide]

If I followed correctly, Eussie still needs a critique. If so, I'll be happy to do it if whoever comes next will do mine. Mine is entry #64, I believe, entitled "Blessed Life Mission." BTW, I already know I missed an end-quote for one line.

Be gentle. This is my first piece of writing I've ever put in front of anyone outside of a classroom.
Thanks.
-Mel.
P.S. Eussie, your crit is coming, just give me a few. Thanks.

[ShadowGuide]

Eussie, Take my crit with a bucket of salt. I used to work in a domestic violence shelter, so my first reaction was, "What a terrible topic," because I've seen so many results of violence first-hand. Then I had to say, "Okay, Mel, if this was writing that one your students did, you'd have to look at it for mechanics etc." So, that's what I've tried to do.
Thanks for letting me try this critc of a hard-to-read topic for me.
-Mel.
***********
Many writers believe that adjectives and adverbs slow down an action scene.
You've got some real solid ideas but I think you are trying too hard to please your readers or relying upon familiar phrases.

For example, "rotting wooden stairs." Only wooden stairs rot, right? Also, they either creaked in unison or they didn’t. No “seemed to” needed.

In paragraph 4, you describe her swallowing. I assume you’re trying to stay away from cliches, but a steak I don’t see as a (rounded) lump. Try another round object and say that the swallowing pained her as one thought instead of in two sentences.

Paragraph 5, "For as long as she could remember" How long is the memory of a child? How old is she? Try to be more specific with a time period.

Paragraph 6 "had more knots in it than a cat’s cradle." Done right, there are no knots, unless you count the one that makes a straight string into a continuum.

I'd get rid of the extra words in describing past tense as well.
For example, this paragraph:
He had sat next to her on the threadbare plaid couch. and She had cringed at the rancid smell of from his Jim Beam breath. He held her close and spoke softly. His tobacco-stained fingers played tenderly with her long stringy hair that had more knots in it than a cat’s cradle. Done right, there are no knots, unless you count the one that makes a straight string into a continuum. “First of all, your Daddy doesn’t just play poker. And secondly--”

Could be shortened (to keep suspense building) to: He sat next to her on the threadbare plaid couch. She cringed from his Jim Beam breath. His tobacco-stained fingers played tenderly with her long stringy hair. “First of all, your Daddy doesn’t just play poker. And secondly--”

Eussie, if you want a full color-coded edit done in MS word e-mail me off-list at: meledwardsconnect@yahoo.com.
Hope this helps and you don't hate me forever. Like I said before, your action idea is solid.
-Mel.

[Mr Underhill]

If I followed correctly, Eussie still needs a critique. If so, I'll be happy to do it if whoever comes next will do mine.

Right, you do Eussie's, and I'll do yours, Shadowguide.

To restore the proper order to this thread, I suggest editing the post by replacing it with the critique. That is what I will do with this post as soon as I'm ready. Also, those posting non-critique comments here instead of on the comments thread immediately below, can always delete their posts (hint, hint).

The next person up can do my submission. It is #286, The Celebrated Detective. Thank you.
______________________________________
Critique for Shadowguide

I like this piece. It has a good premise, lead-up and conclusion. The overall atmosphere and voice is compelling from the start. You do a good job of getting the idiom of the MC into words. That is one of the strengths of the piece, so it perhaps deserves a bit more thought. While African-American English, street talk and hipster-speak all kind of blend into one in early 21st century America, think about which points on the map each person occupies. Do Darvez and his “bro” use the same idiom (probably)? What about his mother (maybe not). What about the narrator?

Look into what is called “diction level.” Maintaining an even diction for each voice is one of the key skills to creating believable writing, and one of the hardest. (I struggle with it myself.) You might consider getting the full flavor of the dialect only in dialog, and leaving the narrative part neutral. Or you could have narrative with hints of “street flava” but staying away from spoken contractions like ol’. Or you could switch to first person, so that the idiom Darvez speaks in is the same as the narrative, but probably just a notch lower. (Alex in A Clockwork Orange is an example of this.)

Let’s get into some specifics so I can show you.
Darvez slid into his ride and let the bass beat pulse him down the road.This is a good sentence. I would go with the diction level here and try to maintain it throughout the narrative.

Probably was a church thrift shop filled with raggedy ol’ threads some fool didn’t want anymore.Nit: I’m slightly confused now - did he just see a sign with that title, or is he re-evaluating his own choice of title?

...he’d snag himself a crib on the beach, make films that would last for-evah, and meet THE woman. That would be off the hook.

Once home, Darvez searched for a dictionary.Abrupt shift in diction level, or narrative flav-uh. In the first part you do an excellent job of capturing street/hipster language, but it suddenly returns to pedestrian narrative. So this would be an excellent place to think about converting the part about the Spike Lee fantasy to dialog instead, so that Darvez is the one saying “off the hook,” not the narrator.

If it worked for the Commodores, he reasoned. After a few, he quit.Nit: a few what?

What the hell made him think he had a dictionary?This is hilarious. I have a former roommate who would say exactly this.

...a Holy Bible, a gift from mama back in the day. He lunged at it, cleaned it by swiping it across his jeans, and sucked in deep. Life-altering, divine intervention was the goal. Where else should anyone look?Very nice development. Again, “gift from mama back in the day” sounds like how Darvez would talk, while “life-altering divine intervention was the goal” sounds like a narrator. I like the image of cleaning the book on his pants, but maybe you could be even more specific: what is he cleaning? a thick layer of dust (probably)? Pizza crumbs? Bong water?

But overall this is excellent. Already a little voice in the back of my head is saying uh-oh...

He beat feet to the kitchen table and kept his eyes wide as he slammed it open. His right index finger jabbed. Snap! There it was.
....
She’d wait for one of the biddies to ask and she smile, self-assured and certain-as-death, and coo, “You don’t know, girlfriend? My baby be Pestilence!”Great punch line. I feel like I’ve come to the end of Chapter One here, so you’ve done your job well. You might set this up a little bit more. One suggestion would be to be more specific. What book and chapter of the Bible, for instance? While Pestilence is one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the word surely shows up in the middle of the Bible, where he would probably be looking. There are on-line bible browsers where you can look for occurrences of the word in different versions. The King James probably uses “pestilence” more than most, and Isaiah and Jeremiah would be good places to look for it. The reason I say this is that specificity makes things more real for the reader.

Next the part with his mother proudly sharing his life-mission with the other church ladies. Hysterically funny. You might try this a couple of ways, however, to build it up. Maybe that little snippet really happened, so you can say, “In later years Mama would tell the biddies at the church...” Or it could just be Darvez imagining this scene. But either way, draw it out a bit and make it real for the reader while you string him along for the punch line.

One more thing about diction: use your words carefully here. Is “biddy” appropriate to AAE? Is it a Darvez word or a narrator word? Is Mama a “biddy” and if so would she say “girlfriend”? Finally, my understanding of AAE grammar is that the invariant be is used to denote habitual action, while present-tense be is dropped, as in Russian. So that sentence would probably read “My baby Pestilence!” Of course, I don’t know your background, so you may know better than I.

Keep up the good work. Now I’m curious to know how Darvez lives out his new-found mission.

[pabtm]

Mr. Underhill -- Herewith, a critique of your entry:

First I should tell you that I am a HUGE Sherlock Holmes fan back from when I was a pup. In fact, the first short story I ever wrote (when I was 8 or 9) was a blatant ripoff, in tone and subject matter, of "Hound of the Baskervilles." Take that for whatever it's worth, just to let you know my perspective on this.

Right away I liked your subject matter (see previous 'graph), and I liked the pace of the initial interchange with the housekeeper. (One minor note here, I would substitute the word "commit" for "create" in the third 'graph.)

I also like the setting--of course it's a classic--of a gathering of social elites in an old castle somewhere, and suddenly they're caught up in a whirlwind of danger and mystery (at least, I assume that's what will happen). I like, too, the characters as you've sketched them so far, again keeping to type for this kind of story. So far so good.

Where you run into problems, I think, particularly when we get to the after-dinner conversation, is with the dialogue. I know what you're trying to do, and I think it would be great to capture the rhythm and cadence of the old Conan Doyles, but it's a tricky bit of business to pull off. You have to manage both the British idiomatic elements as well as the stuffy upper-crust bits. You're also depending on the dialogue to carry a lot of exposition--maybe too much.

In my opinion, I think you've over-cranked the stuffy dialogue part to the detriment of the whole. You need to turn the dial down... keep a hint of crustiness but allow the characters to speak in a more natural way. Allow for some pauses, too, and visually descriptive beats--a couple of times I got lost in the back-and-forth dialogue, couldn't keep track of who was saying what.

If you fine tune your dialogue, plus figure out other ways to handle some of the exposition, you'll be in much better shape, IMHO.

I can't comment much on the story, since this excerpt is too short to get a clear view of it... but you left me definitely curious to read more.

pb

BTW -- FYI, for the next person, my entry is #157, "Last Respects"

[William Haskins]

Hi Patrick,

First let me say what a fine bit of serendipity the word count requirement turned out to be for you. Even if you engaged in some internal editing, it turned out to be a perfect fit, giving it a self-contained beginning, middle and end with the stand-alone strength of a well-structured short story.

Your subject matter is universal, and yet it’s framed so well within one woman’s personal grief, we can immediately sympathize with Karen. In my case (and a pleasant surprise it was), it wasn’t only her mourning that I could relate to, but to the focus of her nostalgia as well.

I spent a great deal of time with my grandfather when I was a boy, and many hours in his workshop (he was a carpenter). His wife, my grandmother, died when I was 8 after a long bout of cancer, with all the horrible machinations that accompany it—the chemo, the medicine, the slow descent into horror. You handled these nightmares deftly, with a subtlety that avoided cursing Karen with self-pity.

I commend how you textured Karen’s childhood memories and, you’re right, a child would remember the sounds of the tools, the spray of sawdust… the sensory overload of the screaming blades. And it’s definitely apt to recall the absurdity of “the goofy Wood Man”, made cartoonish by the sawdust settling over his features. So, kudos for not projecting unrealistic memories onto Karen’s inner child.

You displayed a good sense of how far to carry Karen’s internal struggle, before having it manifest in the physical symptoms of her nausea. The, in turn, you transfer that tension and energy onto Tom, as she demands that he pull over… and then onto Michael, when she exits the car to vomit. To lock the readers in Karen’s mind would be self-indulgent, perhaps even making the reader resent it. Instead you bridge the internal with the external.

In the process, all four characters—Karen, her deceased father, Tom and Michael—are given dimension in the scene, interconnected by the grief that Karen could never articulate adequately, yet whose full weight is felt on a subconscious level by those who love her.

The ending is superb—again, by virtue of this being an excerpt. Because you deliver us to the destination, justifying the escalating tension in her mind during the car trip, and its takeover of her physical being as she nears the place where she must say goodbye.

I went back and read it again just to find something to gripe about, and I really can’t do it.

Well, maybe the all-caps when she tells him to pull over…

Great work.


- william (#207)

[Alphabet]

Amazon Queen
by Betty Dobson

Specific comments

I'm not sure what a three-by-one panel is and that threw me a bit.
I thought belly was a part of the torse, but my anatomy is not 100% so I'll assume I'm wrong on that one. I think it could have been shrunk to 'It was long enough that the extra flesh--heaven knows where it came from -- had nowhere else to go' though.

The 'Why oh why didn't I...' seems out of tense in the paragraph where it is placed. It caused me to lose 'calendar' forgetting that the purchase was actually a year ago, and therefore reading a contradiction into the next paragraph (looming birtday that was got through) I think you either need to push that thought into the past tense (with a 'I thought' or a clever technique) or move the 'Why oh why...' to the start of the next paragraph, where it becomes a present tense observation about a past event.

I think you could have said '...my life was already half over' that would have made it more emphatic - yes an assumption - but humans do make assumptions.

I think it could have been 'Not that I feel old on the inside: I finally...'

I'm not sure what effect you are trying to achieve with putting happily inside brackets. It could have remained unbracketed IMHO.

If you said 'Life is pretty good after forty' you'd please a lot more readers!

Perhaps 'my knees are unwinding' would hold a better rhythm and continuation of action.

General comments

I thought that the use of --- --- was excessive, it grated on me, but the overall voice was pleasant to 'listen to' and the character likeable.

I found the premise contradictory. You say that you have confidence, and that you know how to be happy without a man, yet the entire piece is obsessing about appearance, size, and shape. Why?

[William Haskins]

i think i must have done something wrong. this shouldn't be surprising, as it's sort of my motto.

[vig]

i've been trying to tell you guys this, the system can't work. first the guy who thinks it up swoops in, doesn't get his read at first, gets his, then bails with this phantom back ailment... please, it was called the final eight and it consisted of large, soon to be wealthy 20 year olds.


haskins, i noticed that your poem didn't rhyme so much... hear, i'll help you

riff, raff, ree
kick them in the knee
riff, raff, ras
kick them
in the...... other knee

you see in my poem, the 'other knee' was supposed to be asss

and maybe in your poem, you could have more words that sound alike. maybe bee, tea, sea, glee... stuff like that.

vig

[Mr Underhill]

i think i must have done something wrong. this shouldn't be surprising, as it's sort of my motto.Actually I think you have the right of it, Mr Haskins. You critiqued pabtm, who critiqued me. It's your turn next.

Alphabet, you seem to have critiqued Inkspotter's piece, which was just entered. Had she submitted a critique herself earlier?

Next person up should critique WilliamHaskins' piece. (Done)

Then we can delete the extraneous posts, and/or remove them to the Comments for the CTWA thread.

[vig]

i think giving a critique of a poem is difficult and it seems to have scared the locals off. i thought it succesufully captured the tone and mood of the author and i think he should be getting some proffesional help for starters.

this, btw, is not considered a proper critique so it's doesn't count. i didn't love it, and for a poem to really catch my eye, or tongue i want it to read as if if i'm listening to a song. i don't feel like that haskins in this particular poem.

vig

[William Haskins]

definitely don't break the flow of the thread over my silly poem. i wasn't angling for a critique; i just wanted to jump in a review a story.

feel free to leapfrog however you see fit.

-william

[pepperlandgirl]

Next person up should critique WilliamHaskins' piece.

.

Ok.


When once—in the silent fall of night,
As the dew rose to meet the sky,
And the stars lay strewn
Across an empty universe—
A single thought erupted,
Clasping its chains around the breath of my soul;

When I first gave a poem to my prof to be critiqued, he told me two things. 1) More imagery and 2) Don't do anything expected. As a reader, I expect "stars lay strewn across the empty universe." It's not a bad image, certainly, but it's almost an over-used image. How else can you convey the same thing idea but with more powerful language?


I passed through a door
That forever shut behind me.

The thought burned brightly,
A candle-flame enraged by the slightest whisper.
It writhed and hissed and licked the air—
Kind to the eye, but cruel to the skin.
I have the same comments for this section. I think "a candle-flame enraged by the slightest whisper" is great, especially because you have the powerful verb like "enraged." I think it weakens a little on "it writhed and hissed and licked the air--" I can easily see what's happening, and in that regards, the line is successful. However, I should be able to hear the poem as well. This would be an excellent time to use assonance or consanance and use the natural rhythm of the language and its sound to carry the line.

I raised monuments to the thought,
Crucified it.
Deified it.
I made it my center
And embraced it as my child.
I would say that concrete imagery would be good here.


The thought grew stronger and
Rolled across my skies,
Pregnant with a burgeoning storm…
Dragging shadows across my windows,
Obscuring my light.

"Dragging shadows across my windows" is a great line. There's concrete imagery, shadows rhymes with windows, and you have the repetition of the "s" sound. "Dragging" is a bit hard on the line, but it doesn't take away from it too much.


It grew bigger than me,
Bigger than life, and
Pounded my temples
Like the gavel of God.
It roared like a lion in my night…

This section starts weak but ends stronger. "Gavel of God" and "roared like a lion in the night" are both great concrete images. The first two lines could use more attention. "Bigger" is very vague and it doesn't "sound" nice. I think this is another section of the poem where you can focus on the sound and the natural rhythm of the language. For an example of what I mean, check out Whitman's freeverse poetry. It's the sound of the lines that carry the rhythm of the poem.

Then, ignited by the lightning
That marked its violent birth,
The thought burst open to
Cast away the rain
That gathered in the deepest,
Farthest corners of my self.
No longer did I think, but felt,

My heart unfolded like a flower.

I feel like your imagery in this section is almost there. Like the first section, the imagery is powerful enough to convey your message, but also like the first section, it's not unexpected. As Terry Wolverton said, "Is there enough strange in your poem?" Take me, as a reader, to places and images I never expected to go. That'll make your poem more emotionally satisfying and make it memorable.

[Gimpy]

Peperlandgirl:

Wow. This is a very intense piece. I have to say, I was expecting nothing and was presently surprised by an intense and very flowing story.

I hate cliches, and I believe I only found one in yours: "Daisy felt like she had been hit by a train"

That one is a pretty common cliche. Other than that, I didn't see any others.

You seem to either be very good with grammar or you have edited the crap out of it. I read it through and then skimmed it again solely for grammar. Nothing jumped out.

You also seem to be able to convey what you have to say without a lot of frilly language. A lot of amateur writers use adverbs as a crutch, and I don't think i counted more than one or two. That's very easy on your readers!

The writing style is straight, to the point, and blunt. The style is very much like what is actually going on... a beating. Beatings are very blunt.

I guess I'm not very good at reviews.. meh. I think the only thing that threw me is that I was wanting to know why everything was happening, but that has to do a lot with the length and this only being an excerpt.

[wills]

i've been trying to tell you guys this, the system can't work. first the guy who thinks it up swoops in, doesn't get his read at first, gets his, then bails with this phantom back ailment... please, it was called the final eight and it consisted of large, soon to be wealthy 20 year olds.


haskins, i noticed that your poem didn't rhyme so much... hear, i'll help you

riff, raff, ree
kick them in the knee
riff, raff, ras
kick them
in the...... other knee

you see in my poem, the 'other knee' was supposed to be asss

and maybe in your poem, you could have more words that sound alike. maybe bee, tea, sea, glee... stuff like that.

vig

Hey Vig
What ails you?
Or is this your normal face?
Over 60 crits posted here - which bit doesn't work?

....k

Next in queue 'pepperlandgirl'

[vig]

well, i'm a bit hungry, "what you talking about willis," but i make it a policy that after march 1st i don't eat after nine until labor day.

vig

[Alphabet]

Alphabet, you seem to have critiqued Inkspotter's piece, which was just entered. Had she submitted a critique herself earlier?


Sorry, I misunderstood. I thought you had to critique the audition before yours in the auditions thread... ok, so what do I need to do? I don't mind doing another critique - who is needed next?

[Alphabet]

Ok, now don't be offended, the critique I gave earlier was much longer, but there really isn't that much to be said here.

Specific comments

A snarl came to his lip could have been said more simply and more accurately as 'He snarled'.

And instead of 'quickly decided' I thought 'impulsively decided' would have been more vibrant and in keeping with the artist temperament.

General comments

A very enjoyable piece. The letter exchanges were humourous and entertaining. The dialogue quaint. Efforts were made to show instead of tell but for me they did seem a bit obvious without much invention e.g. shifting weight from foot to foot for nerves/discomfort - hand rubbing might have been a less cliched body signal at this point.
The speaking and betrayed painting is intriguing, making this a fantasy or sci-fi I suppose. I'd probably read more of this one to find out about what else unusual exists in this 'world'.

[Gimpy]

Ok, now don't be offended, the critique I gave earlier was much longer, but there really isn't that much to be said here.

Specific comments

A snarl came to his lip could have been said more simply and more accurately as 'He snarled'.

And instead of 'quickly decided' I thought 'impulsively decided' would have been more vibrant and in keeping with the artist temperament.

General comments

A very enjoyable piece. The letter exchanges were humourous and entertaining. The dialogue quaint. Efforts were made to show instead of tell but for me they did seem a bit obvious without much invention e.g. shifting weight from foot to foot for nerves/discomfort - hand rubbing might have been a less cliched body signal at this point.
The speaking and betrayed painting is intriguing, making this a fantasy or sci-fi I suppose. I'd probably read more of this one to find out about what else unusual exists in this 'world'.



Thanks for the comments. You did two reviews? Hmm, Next in line = Alphabet

[stranger]

#221 p12- crit below the poem
****

Facing Labels
(Labeling Faces)

I buried my mother, but I was
Burying every daughter of the earth
Before her.
I told her that she didn't know
What being a woman was
Today
And things had changed,
From when you only listened
And did not say.

Danger colour.Blood and Love,
Is that all a family is?
Wrap me up in pink sheets
But I will be any colour I choose.
You make me worry
About the food I should eat.
...Energy: essential
...Protein: sufficient
...Fat: non-existent
If I turn around,
What labels will I see on me?
...Wit: sufficient
...Strength: non-existent
...Beauty: essential
Who invented EC standards
For the way I should be? Going out,
Dancing 'round the town,
Champagne bubbles but
Am I a bubble-head if I
Take pleasure where I find it?
If I like a man, so what?
Champagne bubbles, but
Taking what you can
Is not always going out.
If we are meant to be so weak
Then why do you
Need to do
So much to make us weaker?

Sisters
Join us who would rather take up arms
Than be taken in by them.
Each one of us
Is a brick out of their foundation.
Think of your mothers and your daughters.
Daughter yours, and your mother thinks of foundation.
They're out of bricks,
And we are building walls to storm them.
No
I don't want an enemy.
I don't need an enemy,
Or a fight.
I'm me, and I won't change;
For men,
Or you who have to hate them.

When
Will we learn women are not stupid?
Or that they are not fixed
In the eye of the beholder.

****
I'd just like to preface my comments by saying that I don't read poems much so
I was thinking of waiting till the person last in line had written a story but
after reading this poem a few times I decided to give it a go.

I'm male so this could be contrued as a critique from the enemy.

I really liked the fact that the first time I read the poem I didn't really
understand much but each time I re-read it (I felt) I understood it more and
more.

I'm not sure if you care about the structure but I felt there was a lack of
symmetry in terms of verse length and some one-line sentences jarred with me a
bit.

I felt the second verse went off the theme of the poem, with most of the
poem being about how women are percieved it society while this verse was more
about family.

The first verse ties in with the theme more than the second verse but it
seems to be more about the difference in attitudes to women across a
generation. The beginning should normally be tied into the end, but in this
poem the end ties more in with the third verse.

In the third verse I'd remove the word EC.

The fifth verse seems to be saying: why do men want to make us weaker but it
is not explained how men (society) want to make you weaker. This is in
contrast to the third verse where it is much clearer that you are saying that
magazines etc. perpetuate the beauty myth.

I feel that at times the poem seems to be talking to men (verse 5), at times to women (verses 6,7), at times to the authors mother (verse 1,2). I think this causes confusion and the author should pick one and make it clear to who she is talking to.

There is a nice use of contrasts throughout the poem starting with the title:
Food we are told to eat versus how women should be, the two uses of the words
arms. I also enjoyed the way the word beauty is suggested rather than said in
the last verse.

In summary I was surprised at how much I enjoyed and took from this entry but
I feel the message of the poem should be more focused.

Hope this was helpful.

If someone wants to critique mine it's #92, page 4

[wurdwise]

Stranger, I am going to do a critique, but for the record, you are #91.





Bubbles in the Brain


I am greedy.

I have previously climbed a mountain at 4000 meters but now, I and two companion gluttons will attempt to go higher. Our goal is Coropuna in the Andes at 6400 meters.

We have a three hour walk to our campsite which is just below the snow line at 5100 meters. The day is cold and sunny. Coropuna rises above us, a snowy giant outlined against the cloudless sky. The Incas see the white peaks as gods and Coropuna does appear god-like, overshadowing the featureless, rocky terrain. It fills my forward vision, sucking me onward. But I´m starting to feel the effects of the altitude: the walk is more difficult than I expected. I feel weak, nauseous; an intermittent headache plagues me. My friends don´t have any problems, but if I can't make it they also will have to return.

Our guide describes the climb and although he has very little English, a nightmarish scenario swirls into my mind. I picture my frozen limbs battling against a blizzard of ice and snow.

We will hit the sleeping bags at six and wake up at midnight. After drinking soup -- for warmth and energy -- it'll take ten hours to reach the summit and another five hours to return. All we'll have is a torch to light the way and a few bars of chocolate for nourishment. Resting for more than a few minutes at a time will be avoided due to the cold.

So, anyone else fancy a fifteen hour walk over a snow-capped mountain, where the air is too thin and it's too cold to stop, with hardly anything to eat?

Even before six, we retire to the tents, chased in by the approaching cold. I am tired and doze off immediately. However I soon wake and this time with a fierce headache. Altitude sickness has struck. I try to remember what I have read about the sickness. There are three types: acute altitude sickness, cerebral edema and pulmonary edema. The latter two involve bubbles in the brain and bubbles in the lungs. The only cure for all types is to descend immediately.

My headache is pulsating. The thought -- bubbles in the brain -- revolves inside my head. Please let the headache pass. After an hour with no improvement, I struggle inside my cramped tent to put on four layers of clothes, gloves, hat and boots and I leave the tent to speak with our guide. He reckons that I shouldn't climb any higher but it is not dangerous to remain at this altitude. I do not trust him; he is the expert but safety standards in this part of the world are lax. In my imagination beads of blood swell and pop behind my eyes. But I don't want to ruin the trip for my friends and descending alone at night is impossible, I need to be guided down. I return to the tent.

Doubts and questions bombard my altitude-ravaged brain. I begin to wonder what I am doing on the side of this godforsaken mountain, ready to enter a cold white hell? Why don´t I just leave the mountaintops to the birds. Or do even they venture into icy peaks like this? Is it just us stupidly clever humans: clever for being able to climb any mountain, stupid for wanting to? Sleep descends upon me.

I wake again. This time my head is screaming at me. The front of my skull as far as my eye sockets is on fire. My thoughts loop: bubbles in my head, brain damage, only cure is descent, bubbles.... Panic wells inside me: a hard, controlled panic. I can't stay any longer; everyone is woken and we pack up and head back down. It isn't yet ten, sometimes a lifetime can pass in hours. As we return the stars seem closer. Not just clearer but closer: large and bright against the inky blackness. It must be the thinner air or perhaps it's the altitude sickness. Both my panic and headache subside as we descend but the journey back is unreal and unworldly; my mind feels strange.

Coropuna has defeated me.
http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/statusicon/user_online.gif http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/buttons/reputation.gif (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=9083&page=4&pp=25#) http://absolutewrite.com/forums/images/buttons/report.gif (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/report.php?p=125084)

Stranger, you did a great job of putting the reader in the head of the protoganist, and since the story is about bubbles in the brain, I'm sure this is what you set out to do. But since this is an excerpt, I would feel unfair saying too much about how I wanted to experience more than just what was going on in his head, the scenery, the other people's reactions to him. You gave me just enough of a taste of the outdoors that I was hungry for more, for the full experience of climbing a mountain. Mission accomplished, you made me want to read more.

One more thing. If this is a short story, I think it would be interesting to start it like this:

"So, anyone else fancy a fifteen hour walk over a snow-capped mountain, where the air is too thin and it's too cold to stop?

I have climbed a mountain at 4000 meters, but now I am greedy. I and two companion gluttons will attempt to go higher. Our goal is Coropuna in the Andes at 6400 meters."

All told, nice piece. And good luck

Denise

[bjewel77]

These are some of my thoughts about post #269, "The Sun Shines on Maddy Weaver." by wurdwise.

The opening paragraph in this excerpt hooked me, it made me think you were there taking notes on my own life way back then as an awkward 8th grader.

The good looking guy paying attention to you - what a thrill for a young girl who sounds like she usually watches Jennie Freeman get all the guys.

The scene in her bedroom dancing and singing in front of the mirror, trying to recreate the dance with Brandon from the night before, but her self doubt creeping in as she studies her features...taking away any notion that Brandon might have asked her to dance because he liked her and replacing it with thoughts that he must have been put up to it, or he felt sorry for her. How many guys did I sing about and cry over in my bedroom at that age?

I assume Katie is Maddy's dog. You probably mentioned this elsewhere in your story.

To me, this story captures the feelings of Maddy quite well. It's the feelings of more than a few girls her age. Reminds me alot of "Pretty in Pink " and even of the song "At Seventeen."

No mother around to talk to or argue with...Grandma's there, but it's not the same. Daddy's there too, but Maddy wishes for a Mom at this tender, emotional age. How this story plays out for Maddy will be interesting.

I still remember. This story brought back some memories! Good luck with the rest of it.

My entry is post #297, "Cooking For Betty"
Can someone take a look at it for me? It's a short story expanded from a flash fiction of 250 words I had just finished.

Bjewel77
in Arkansas

[Alphabeter]

I would like some honest criticism about my entry (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=134516&postcount=252).

You can post it here if you would like to up your count or PM me (though my box gets full during the day when I'm napping) or preferably email me (alphabeter@gmail.com). I promise to keep all "that sucks" email to myself. I won't even sign you up for spam (publishamerica.com).

[wurdwise]

I love this ! What a true original. But I see some places that I think it needs tweeking, so I am going to do that now. I will put my changes in red.


Cooking For Betty


The day was going by as usual until I heard Lucille barking. I would delete this sentence.

Lucille the blue tick hound didn’t care about hunting raccoons up and down the hills. She spent (most of, delete) her time lying (around,-delete) in the shade, waiting for her feed bowl. So when she started barking like mad, she instantly got my attention. I figured she had found a snake (this time, delete), though twice recently her bark had fooled me. First she cornered a helpless terrapin, (and was, delete) upset when I took it from her and let it go. The last time, she was attacking her empty feed bowl, (and, delete) tossing it across the lawn as if (she was, delete) punishing it for being empty. good metaphor!

I was shocked when I (reached Lucille and , delete)saw what she had found this time. Crawling through the woods, (across the poison ivy) tangled in the poison ivy, was a (well-dressed, don't say it, show her well dressed) woman with a swollen ankle. I ran to her (and noticed her swollen ankle) and helped her hobble inside (the house) (and, delete, (where I tried to make her comfortable as I could and put an ice pack on her ankle.

With her foot up, (and, delete) sipping (on, delete ) iced tea, she told me her name was Betty, and that she was fed up with her hectic life. She had fled a business meeting to get away from it all, deciding to take a drive in the country when her car had overheated. (Walking to my creek for water, she had sprained her ankle, and then crawled to my house.) She sprained her ankle while walking to the creek for water to put in her radiator, and unable to walk, she had crawled to my house.

Betty accepted my offer to stay a few days while her ankle (healed) , never offering her full name, but I figured she would tell me if I asked. She mentioned that the company she worked for was in the food industry.

(She lounged) Lounging in my old warm ups, (while her ankle healed, delete) she rubbed the calamine lotion I gave her on her arms and hands for the poison ivy. I fed her fried potatoes with onions, beans and cornbread, and poke salad (and) My family was amazed at how much poke salad she ate. Betty complimented my cooking, but I told her (I said it) that it was just “plain ole’ country food,” (but) Betty) She insisted it was the best she had eaten in years.

On Betty’s (her) last night (here, delete), I wanted to cook something special, so I searched through some cookbooks. Betty hobbled in into the kitchen and closed the cookbook one I had in my hand front of me. “Please, (Hon, ( I hate when people call other people hon, it sounds condescending, I would have her call the character by her name), just fix your food; fried potatoes, poke salad, beans and cornbread. watch out for overusing exclamation points. Here I would break up Betty's monologue with a bit of action, just a few words, have her do something, heck I don't know, look straight into the character's eyes, maybe, Nothing’s better. Unless maybe you topped it all off with chocolate cake and milk!” (As ) She left the kitchen and I reached for a cake mix, (and) then suddenly froze. (I stared at the smiling face on the box. I picked up the cookbook and stared at the same face). The face looking at me from the box and the one on the cookbook where the same, and they were both the woman in my house. (one on the front of the cookbook). I was cooking for Betty Crocker!

I called into the living room?“Betty...can you come back in here a minute?” (When Betty walked back into the kitchen,delete) I met her with the cake mix box and the cookbook. “Why didn’t you tell me?” (I asked, delete)

Betty She smiled and sat down at the bar. “Because you would not have been yourself. (she said, delete) Every time I meet someone It seems everyone I meet acts natural until they find out who I am, and then they suddenly have some new exotic recipe to try out on me. I’m so sick of phony people and their phony food. Your cooking is down home, character's name. It's the food I grew up with, not something (you, delete) concocted to (try to, delete) impress (someone, delete).”

I reached over and, or where you already standing right beside her? hugged (Betty) her, (and ) (thanked) thanking her again for (praising) her praise of my cooking. “I don’t cook anything extraordinary, Betty, just what we have.”

“That’s what everyone should do." (Betty ) she replied. “We need to quit trying to impress the rest of the world and just enjoy a good traditional meal. In fact, (I would like you to) how would you like to help me with a new cookbook!”

“(A new cookbook!delete ) Why me? (What would I do?delete)” I asked.

“You could teach me again,” Betty (she) said. “It’s been so long since I made this kind of food I don’t (even delete) remember how. (to do it, delete). Have Betty do something here, I need your help. Have Betty get excited In fact, most cooks will need your help. It’s been too long. We have left ( your kind of cooking ) behind for the more (I would think of a classer way to say it than more showy stuff.

"What will we call it?" I asked, marveling at all this? something like that.

She thought for a minute, (what did she do while she was thinking?) "I've got it! We will let people know that this is a return to my roots, to the food I grew up with. We'll call it Cooking with Betty!"

(In my opinion, it would cooler to call it cooking with Betty and the character's name, since it makes Betty look like she's leaving the character out of recieving recognition. )

My keyboard started eating words, that's why the end is all typed instead of changed.

Keep in mind, these changes are all just my opinion. Good luck.


Dang! I just went back and looked, this is a bit more than a tweek, this is a rewrite. I hope I didn't offend you, I got totally into it!

[mommie4a]

Hi Joy - your entry caught my eye before. Here are my thoughts - toss what makes no sense to you.


I like the piece. I want to read more, I want to know more about the girl and the defendant.


I think you can tighten up a lot of the description and the action very easily. I'd start with the verb tenses. There's a lot of use of had done this or that (I suck at grammar to be honest but I think it's called the past perfect?). There must be another convention you could use to convey that the scenes or memories of the girl when she first engaged with the man that would give it a more active in the moment feel for the reader, otherwise it's a bit bogged down. Take a look through the first couple of paragraphs and see if you see what I see. If not, ignore me!


But as a contrast, your last few paragraphs really move and move the reader. Your verbs are active and show us what's going on and being thought. I'll add some highlight in those parts below.


I think the interaction with the mother is great - her glances and motions to the daughter. Also, the bathroom time. You have some wonderful lines there too.


It must be so hard to take something from a larger work and just plop it into this kind of setting and then have people like me make comments! But I guess overall my opinion would be: good work, draws me in, could you do more to make the beginning or the flashback parts less laden with the past tense?


Good luck and feel free to set me straight!

Jill



She couldn't believe how easy it had been. Maybe build up the fact that she'd been anxious and thought it couldn't be done but instead, ... In other words, set up the conflict: how she thought it would be and how surprisingly easy it actually was. Maybe even say it simply: She stood in the gutter (or on the sidewalk or whereever). She waved to the driver. She walked away, in the direction of her home. After the bus turned the corner, she shed her clothes and chucked them. She laughed at the ease (or something to that effect). In other words, use the past tense of active verbs instead of had...She just didn't get on the bus. She had waved to the driver and walked away as if headed back toward her house. And as soon as the bus was around the corner, she had shed her uniform shirt and skirt and chucked them under the bushes.

She had smoothed down her underlying dress while she watched for his van. She had not been disappointed. He had beamed out from behind the wheel. He had opened the side door for her and she had scampered around into His arms. She had greeted Him as if it had been days instead of just a few dawn hours. She had settled herself on the plush floor cushion as they took off for an entire glorious day to themselves.


She later (if you use the past tense above, you can keep this "later" in and you won't need the "had")told her lawyer that first day trip had been like a dream. Why not say "She'd told the lawyer that the first day trip felt like a dream." How even during all that afternoon she had told Him she wished it would never end. Who is she telling this to - the man who abducted her or the lawyer?

She'd learned before (do you want to expound on that or hint to when that lesson came up?)that beginnings don't always foreshadow endings. If they did, she'd still be...(what exactly would she still be doing - I'd love some obtuse reference to what exactly it was)One of her lessons had been all beginnings do not fortell their endings or perhaps she would still be living in that delusion instead of waiting for twelve people to decide her future.

She sat on a bench in the hallway. She flipped through a catalogue. just a typo in here I think Her mother had brought for a distraction. She sighed.

He would have pointed to a page and told her to pick just one and then bought her the whole page. She adored his big gestures. He was especially sweet right after...


She blinked at his apparition and tried to take a deep breath. It did her no good. A tear slid toward her ear.

She stood up and dropped the glossy to the floor. Her mother heard the thump. She looked at her from down the hall and put a finger to her lips. She did not notice. Unconsciously she smoothed her skirt.

I like all the description above this.

He liked women, not girls. He especially liked his women to look like ladies-impeccably groomed at all times. No rips, tears or wrinkles. She had initially thought it old-fashioned. There was a reason these things went out of style. She had come to love the simple style. Hmm - can you make more of a transition here like...there was a reason things went out of style, and yet she'd come to love the simplicity of those very things. Impeccably groomed with no rips, tears or wrinkles - this makes me think she's from a poor background? I'm not sure the impeccable goes to the rips and tears etc. Hmm - just not sure - maybe it's because I'm of a different generation?! Need to think about that.


She was starting She started to panic at the memories. She paced the upper hall and tried to avoid the camera lights that beamed up from the atrium below. There was so much interest in this case, she couldn't even breathe without a live breaking news update. This time she caught her mother's reproving look.

She ducked into the bathroom. With a learned paranoia, she checked all the stalls and the little storage closet. There was nothing unusual. She locked herself in the handicapped booth. The private tears came quickly. She wailed for a full three minutes. She was globbing tissues over her face when the door creaked open. She pulled up her feet and waited...and listened. Private and wailed connote different things to me. I think of loud sobbing, heaving into one's hands, head down, shoulders shuddering with the power of each stiffled cry. Something like that.
As a reader, I'd like to know who opened the door - just another person in the courthouse? A reporter? Her mother? Her imagination? I think the way it's written here leads us to want to know what she heard. Based on the next graph, I would guess she heard people talking about the case? Can you give the reader a little more info to heighten our expectatiosn between her being in the bathroom and the calling from person to person to person?

When she emerged from the bathroom, she was smiling. No trace of any pain visible. She had just heard the best thing next to the jury foreman proclaiming her acquittal. She called to her mother. Her mother called to her lawyer. After a frantic whispering session, her mother ran downstairs and through the media horde.

It wasn't long before they all had an answer. Love this last line.


GOOD LUCK! I don't hurt easily so again, take it for what it is, or isn't!

I'm #50 but you can email or PM me if you want. A couple of people posted crits for me here a few days ago. BUt I love the review process.

[Sonya]

Just want to make sure I do the right one.

Sonya

[mommie4a]

I've had a couple done for me already but I love feedback. HOWEVER, if there's someone else who's wanted one and hasn't gotten it, Sonya, I would say do theirs instead. Or, read through mine and PM me whatever thoughts you want and crit someone elses.

I'm calling out to Wills for advice! I don't want to hog.

[Sonya]

Shoot. I'll go ahead since I think I'm supposed to crit the person above me plus, I read the entry and really loved it. So..here goes...I only have one suggestion in bold below. I thought this piece was extremely well written, it engages the reader, shows emotion and the pace doesn't bog down at all. It reminds me of stories I've read in the Chicken Soup anthologies. I can tell by reading the piece that you are not a newbie at writing and I'd hazard a guess that you've already been published somewhere.

Sonya

Nobody Loves Me Better







by Jill Miller Zimon





My mother hates my hair color. She says it’s unprofessional, a color only men like, and if I want to be taken seriously, I’ll retreat to dishwater brown.

I give her compliments too. A few years ago, after she had cosmetic surgery, I told her she looked creepy. Who wouldn’t want me for a daughter?

And yet, this woman does for me what I’d never do for myself. While I finished up graduate school, she planned my wedding. My kids’ Halloween costumes? Made by Grammy. Clothes with missing buttons? Ripped seams and extra long hems? Stuffed in a plastic bag until she visits her only daughter.

I let her commandeer my house when she comes. I don’t buy food for days beforehand because I know she’ll shop and pay for everything. She makes her bed and retrieves towels from unfolded piles of laundry. Then she folds the rest. Not like I fold, mind you, but I let it slide.

Do I feel guilty? Am I abusing the woman who delivered me and survived teaching me how to drive a stick shift? The truth is, my mother can’t help herself. She’s become the mother she never had as an adult daughter. (This is the only line I saw that I had trouble with. The way it's worded, I had to read it twice to get it) And that’s what I feel guilty about.

My mother was 27 years old and parenting three kids ages 7, 4 and 1 when her mother died from breast cancer at 52. She became motherless at a time when young mothers depended on their extended family for answers about marriage, childrearing and personal growth. Those issues were private. No one consulted Dr. Phil, Oprah, iparenting.com, What to Expect books or Sylvia Rimm in 1966.

Sadly, my mother’s efforts to parent me as an adult woman with a family and its associated challenges can’t be based on anything she knows. She can draw only on what she imagines a mother of an adult daughter should be.

Her motherless status doesn’t haunt me, but after I call her to ask if there’s any substitute for matzo cake meal, and what the heck is matzo cake meal anyway, I think about how she never had anyone to ask these same questions. When she agrees without hesitation to fly to Ohio at her expense and baby-sit so that my husband and I can have a long weekend alone, I’m aware that she never had a mother around to do that for her. When she bombards me with questions about what to give my kids for any occasion, I know she’s eager to provide all the love she must have expected and wanted her mother to provide to her grandkids, if only she’d lived.

I feel like I’m taking advantage of her most often after I’ve complained to friends about how she called my dye job cheap. Then I remember that more than a couple of these friends have been motherless mothers for too long themselves.

The older I get and the closer I am to the age when my mother confronted her own breast cancer more than 20 years ago, the more I think about what it must have been like to be so young with no mother. I tell myself, be kind, be kind, be kind. Don’t laugh or criticize when she says she’s lugging 15 pounds of brisket to my house for Passover so I won’t have to cook. Let her point out as many times as she wants that I’ve overloaded my cupboards with carbohydrates and I should prefer exercise to sleep.

Because she’s also the mother who still sends me a corny card and a mushy one for each birthday. Because she’s the mother who stuffs hundred dollar bills in my hands so I can buy things for myself that I wouldn’t otherwise consider. Because she knits sweaters for every person in my family plus my kids’ stuffed animals and Barbie dolls. Because she bakes homemade macaroni and cheese for me even though she’s on the Atkins diet.

In my life, Mother’s Day is every additional day I get to hear my mother tell me she hates my hair. Because at least she’s here to tell me.

[Jolie]

Sonya,

If I am doing this right, yours would be the one I critique. Since you didn't list an entry number I am gonna search for yours and then post my thoughts (for what they are worth, LOL) So... your crit is on the way!

[Jolie]

Deletes in Red, adds in Blue



Mr. Clueless

by Sonya Weiss


There were certain things a man knew about women and that knowledge could almost fill a thimble. (The tense in this sentence confuses me as I read it, maybe There are certain things a man knows about women and…) When it came to the unknown things, a man just stumbled around blindly, trying not to mess up too badly in the relationship. But despite superhuman efforts, messing up was inevitable and as long as a man learned to say, "It's all my fault. Will you forgive me" odds were he could remain in the relationship.

Until he committed the BIG MISTAKE. The BIG MISTAKE could range from watching the game out of the corner of you’re his eye while she was being emotional to forgetting to call on the eighth month anniversary of the day you they met. Usually, roses and a sincere, "I'm sorry" could restore good humor and order.

Having received more than his fair share of 'Dear John' letters or in his case, 'Dear Jack' letters, Jack Reynolds considered himself a pro with women. Not at understanding them (did such a man even exist) but at knowing how to keep from avoid making them mad for brief periods of time .

This magical feat was best accomplished by having very little to say. Caveman grunting noises could pass as anything from 'You look fine' to 'There will never be another woman for me'.

Jack had grunting down to an art. Still, he always ended up alone. And it was getting old. He was getting old. He didn't want to be alone and that's when the BIG MISTAKE idea came to him.

Why not advertise for a girlfriend? He could outline specific requirements in the ad. That way, there would be no surprises. He would list what he expected his duties to be; buy flowers, be nice to her family, and don't flirt with her friends. Under her duties, he could put; LEARN TO FORGIVE in big block letters. So what if a guy forgot your birthday three years in a row. Wasn't there a statute of limitations on holding a grudge?

He batted the advertisement idea around with his buddies and they told him he was no better than they were and to suffer in silence. (Maybe go into more detail here with the buddies' comments in order to give the story more conflict and depth) He ignored them and placed the ad on the front page of the Chicago Tribune.

He should have known something was wrong with his idea when the first day the ad ran, he got calls from Jerry Springer and Oprah's people begging him to be a guest on the show. (This paragraph reads sort of generic, maybe punch it up a little with stronger, more action oriented words…Jack got his first inkling that something was wrong with his fool-proof idea when, on the very day that the ad first ran, the phone started ringing but not with the results he had planned. Instead of finding the girl of his dreams on the other end, Jack found himself thrown onto the world of oddity by the likes of Jerry Springer and Oprah. It seemed as though he was the new must-have guest for every hokey talk show. Not exactly like this J, but I hope you get my idea LOL)

A writer for Cosmopolitan devoted an article to his idea and wrote, rather sarcastically he thought, that Jack believed in fairy tales.

Jack did not. He figured women were behind fairy tales. Had they been written by men, the stories would tell another tale indeed. Even the titles would have been different. Snow White and the Seven Big Screen TV's.

Jack didn't understand all the fuss over his ad. The way he saw it, it cut to the heart of matters, weeded out women who were looking for Mr. Perfect and Mr. Huge Bank Account. If a woman could be happy with Mr. Willing To Be Trained, well, then she was the one he was looking for. I like the Mr. Titles here, very funny and to the point!



As for general comments, I would say that the story is strong, it pulled me in, I am dying to know if he finds a girl with the ad or through his fifteen minutes of fame. The only thing I wanted more of was a connection to Jack, maybe some insight on him that will make feel as though I knew him so that I cared more about him and his plight.



I hope some of this helped!?! If not, feel free to ignore the entire thing! LOL Good Luck!

PS- My entry is on page 6, number 139 if anyone would like to help me improve on it!

[Sonya]

I appreciate the crit of Mr. Clueless! I wrote this as sort of a tongue in cheek short story and not from a male bashing stand. I hope no one took it that way.

It's always such a help to see my writing through someone else's perspective, so thank you very much!

I'll go read your entry. Want me to post a crit here or to you privately?

Sonya

[Jolie]

Your welcome! I hope it helped, at least a little! :) and yes, you can just post the crit here! Thank you in advance for your time and comments!

[Sonya]

For what it's worth, Jolie, here is my opinion on your work:

It all started with the meatloaf.(Good opening line. Drew me in, made me question, what about the meatloaf) Well, maybe the meatloaf and the fact that is was my fortieth birthday. I remembering thinking that the meatloaf was a bad sign. Nobody liked the meatloaf, and when they didn't like the food they used it as an excuse to linger, to complain. Usually the lines went quickly. Proper, single file lines of bad decisions, broken dreams and pain shuffled patiently past mounds of over-cooked carrots and mushy peas. Dirty fingers held up shaky trays while hallow(did you mean hollow?) eyes stayed downcast. It was my Saturday morning routine, this two-step process, ladle…smile…ladle…smile, that was supposed to cure my discontent. A sort of "count your blessings" type of therapy suggested and eventually imposed by my best friend, Sara. But that Saturday was different, and I blamed it on the meatloaf.



"You know what they say about meatloaf," chuckled a wisp of a man I called Hats. "The ingredients are always the same but it’s the touch of the cook that gives it its flavor."



I smiled, or at least tweaked the muscles responsible for a smile, hoping to indulge him enough to keep him moving down the line. Ladle…smile…ladle…smile.



"Ya know Pooh," he continued, using the soup kitchen moniker I had earned one early Saturday morning after a long and drunken night out that led to a misfortunate getting-dressed-in-the-dark sweatshirt incident. "I sure hope you didn't make this meatloaf. I would hate to guess at the flavor it would have after mingling with whatever it is that darkens your soul."



"Move on," the director yelled as my replied (reply) held in my throat much like my half tipped ladle of gravy stayed suspended over Hat's tray.



Ladle…smile…ladle…smile, I kept at the routine, overcome by how much Hat's words had bothered me. Lucky guess, I assured myself, just keep going, only 60 more spoonfuls to go.



As I cleaned the last deserted table, I felt the heat of someone's stare across the back of my neck. Bent over, the sudsy white rag in my hand still making its required passes, I struggled with what to do. I knew it was Hats (how?) and somehow I knew I didn't want to face him.



"Pooh," I heard him mutter as I felt more than saw his shadow draw nearer. "Happy Birthday." Before I could force myself to turn around, he was gone. Where his hand had been was a crumpled, greasy scrap of paper.



I don't remember much else about that day, mostly just erratic snapshots of my celebration. A present here, a hug with good wishes there, and the moment where I finally found the time alone and the nerve necessary to open Hat's note.



True judgment of one's self, My Dearest Pooh, does not come from the mere reflection of one's present state. Rather, TRUE judgment comes from making peace with where you have been, acknowledging where you are and striving to go where you want to be.



Wise words from a hobo, I remember thinking.


So, here I am, five miles from the place I used to call home and 17 years, 16 days and 23 minutes from the reason I now call it hell. And yes, I still I blame the meatloaf. This excerpt is interesting and makes me wonder who this person is and what's happened in her life. I pictured a woman serving in a homeless shelter based on the descriptions you gave. In my opinion, you have a strong hook here. I only saw minor typo mistakes.

Hope this helps,
Sonya

[Jolie]

It helps a lot! Thanks for catching my typos! LOL