SeCrit #10

By the time the dragons found me, I figured it was too late. The blood leaking from my torn skin slowed from a trickle to drops, like the steady ticking of a clock. Drip, drop, drip. Time was up—when I needed it to call out for someone, to fight, to run, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything. Because I saw the Olympians, the gods; therefore, I must be dead.
But reality returned in a violent lurch, releasing me from the darkness dragging me down, down, deeper down. They arrived in a frenzy of movement and sound. Pounding footsteps crushing the grass parched dry from summer's heat. Faces whirling above, varicolored masks. Swelling voices. Hands on my body, touching the wet, sticky scarlet stains.
The twelve gods watched, stoic and silent. The sight of them fading didn't make me realize I still lived, that my heart still pumped and my lungs still inflated with precious air. It was him, the sight of the boy with the pale skin and messy auburn hair and improbably bright blue eyes. It was his words of Hang on grounding me in the here, the now. It was him calling my name, calling me. He kept me from letting go.

The critique:

By the time the dragons found me, I figured it was too late. (You definitely had me at dragons.) The blood leaking from my torn skin slowed from a trickle to drops, like the steady ticking of a clock. Drip, drop, drip. Time was up—when I needed it to call out for someone, to fight, to run, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything. (Who is this character? Where is this situation taking place? I love the tension of this paragraph. Starting your story here is definitely an attention grabber, but the reader is left unsure of the time and place. We need a little more solid detail to really connect with the narrator.) 

Because I saw the Olympians, the gods; therefore, I must be dead. (I'm not sure I understand what this line means. Why does this mean he/she is dead? With dragons existing in the world, I feel like Olympians and dragons could co-exist. So I'm a little thrown by this last part. I'm intrigued by the mention of the Olympians, that's for sure. But I'm still not entirely sure what's happening. The narrator is fighting a dragon, clearly. But how did the character get here?)

But reality returned in a violent lurch, releasing me from the darkness dragging me down, down, deeper down. They arrived in a frenzy of movement and sound. Pounding footsteps crushing the grass parched dry from summer's heat. Faces whirling above, varicolored masks. Swelling voices. Hands on my body, touching the wet, sticky scarlet stains. (Who? The Olympians? Where did they came from? What is their relation to the narrator? Initially you tell us that the sight of them means he/she is dead, so the Olympians come off as bad. I'm not sure that's how you meant it. Perhaps this could be clarified by tweaking the sentence in which they are first mentioned.) 

The twelve gods watched, stoic and silent. (They come running but then they stall. Where did the urgency go?) The sight of them fading didn't make me realize I still lived, that my heart still pumped and my lungs still inflated with precious air. It was him, the sight of the boy with the pale skin and messy auburn hair and improbably bright blue eyes. It was his words of Hang on grounding me in the here, the now. It was him calling my name, calling me. He kept me from letting go. (I'm still not sure if the MC is a boy or a girl, but I think the first 250 could be fleshed out a bit more to give the reader something to work off of. As I mentioned before the tension is fantastic, but I'd like to feel more like I was there watching this happen, as opposed to confusing myself by trying to catch up to a story I was thrown into. With that being said, this is a great start! I'm absolutely intrigued with this story and would love to read more, but would like to see a few more details to really get a grasp on the time and place and the why of what's happening.)

Thank you so much to all who submitted! Please be sure to check back for more critiques. And thank you to the awesome author of this entry for allowing us to share this on our blog. If you'd like to add some constructive feedback to this entry, feel free to voice your thoughts in the comment section. 

SeCrit #8 (First 250)

Dear Secret Critiquer, 

Whenever I envisioned coming face to face with my family's murderers, the scene always took place in a courtroom or jailhouse, complete with dramatic tears on my part and pleas for forgiveness on theirs. They would confess their sins, tell me why they had broken into my house that summer night and killed my parents and my brother, and I'd be able to move on with my life. After four years of unfounded hope, I resigned myself to never finding the closure I desperately needed, and vowed to forget about the past and focus on my future.

It turned out I hadn't been thinking low enough, because the scene wasn't nearly that dramatic. I finally found two of the killers during something as mundane as a corporate takeover.

The day started off normally enough. The Detour landed on Psyche, a mining colony in the asteroid belt, just after local dawn. The ship's cargo hold was filled to the brim with perishable food items transported all the way from Earth, earning the crew much-needed funds on this trip. I entered the hold as soon as the Detour was secured at the gate, and proceeded to scan the supplies before they were taken off the ship. It was our typical routine for landing and unloading on a colony, and after five years I was an old pro at it.

I worked for Rodriguez Shipping, a small food distribution company owned by my pseudo-uncle, John. When I was younger, I never imagined having this sort of career.

Critique: 

Dear Secret Critiquer, 

Whenever I envisioned coming face to face with my family's murderers, the scene always took place in a courtroom or jailhouse, complete with dramatic tears on my part and pleas for forgiveness on theirs. (Great first line. You definitely have my attention. I'm curious to know the timeline here. How long ago were they murdered? How? Why? It definitely strikes interest, and that's a good thing!) They would confess their sins, tell me why they had broken into my house that summer night (What summer night? When? This sentence is a little too vague. Give us a timeline to work with.) and killed my parents and my brother, and I'd be able to move on with my life. After four years of unfounded hope, (Okay NOW we have a timeline. I would maybe fit this into the previous sentence. Also, what happened with the killers? Were they not found? Why didn't anything happen? I feel like something should have happened after four years.) I resigned myself to never finding the closure I desperately needed, and vowed to forget about the past and focus on my future. (This is kind of asking a lot. I mean her whole family was brutally killed, the MC got zero closure, and now they're moving on with their life? That seems too easy. Make us feel the pain. Why should we care about this character? We need more to really get a feel for her/his situation.)

It turned out I hadn't been thinking low enough, because the scene wasn't nearly that dramatic. I finally found two of the killers during something as mundane as a corporate takeover. (How did she/he find them? Why not leave it to the police? And if she/he is a teenager, how did they find the killers during a corporate takeover? We need more information to connect with the story.) 

The day started off normally enough. The Detour landed on Psyche, a mining colony in the asteroid belt, just after local dawn. (I'm a little confused here. If this is sci-fi, I feel as though you should set up the world building a little sooner so we don't jump right into something we can't quite picture. Up until this point this story could take place at any point in time. Present, past, etc. Tell us what year it is. Give us details that explain the world so that when this sentence comes up, we have a better idea of the time/place.) The ship's cargo hold was filled to the brim with perishable food items transported all the way from Earth, earning the crew much-needed funds on this trip. I entered the hold as soon as the Detour was secured at the gate, and proceeded to scan the supplies before they were taken off the ship. It was our typical routine for landing and unloading on a colony, and after five years I was an old pro at it. (So it's been four years after her family was murdered. Now it's been five years including those four? Did she grow up on this ship?)

I worked for Rodriguez Shipping, a small food distribution company owned by my pseudo-uncle, John. When I was younger, I never imagined having this sort of career. (I think it's very important for you to set up the stage in more detail. First we have a bomb dropped on us about her/his whole family being killed, and now we're set up on a ship being told a backstory. Let us take in the fact that this person has lost their entire family. Make us feel what she feels. She/he must be lost and struggling with all sorts of emotions. Describe her life up until this point. It doesn't have to be super long or info dumpy, but something that gives us a better idea of who this person is before ripping us away from the conflict.)

This manuscript has a very strong opening and an intriguing premise. It only needs a little tweaking to make the audience understand where the main character is coming from. Thank you so much for participating in SeCrit! 

And thank you so much to everyone who submitted their first 250! Be on the lookout for more critiques coming from Life of Writers. Share your thoughts on this entry in the comments below. 

SeCrit Tuesday: NA Contemporary

First off, thanks to everyone who submitted their first 250 words for SeCrits this week. It's always so difficult to choose one, and the way I personally go about it varies. Most of the time, I read through each entry twice—once to get a gist of the story, and a second time to see if any ideas pop into my mind. It's also tough because while there are a ton I love (including a YA murder mystery), if I feel like they don't need that much work I have to leave them in the Secret Life inbox graveyard. *sniffs* 

This Tuesday's entry caught my eye because it's interesting, yet also something that could still use a little tweaking. So here it is, the first 250 words of a NA Contemporary. (Crit is in orange, per usual.)

Kate dropped the overloaded clothes basket on the floor with a thump and scanned her new dorm room. [A sense of scene here would be nice. What does this place look like? You don't have to go into a ton of detail; even just a quick description of the chipped paint and crooked bunk beds would help. Maybe her roommate's stuff is already there—sans roommate. That way we can get the sense that it's move-in day without having to tell us it's move-in day (see below).]   She heaved in and out, trying to catch her breath after carrying her last load of belongings up eight flights of stairs. [If you tell us about the room and the roommate's stuff, we don't need the heaving in and out sentence.] It was move-in day and she had grown annoyed with jockeying for a spot in one of two elevators and decided she could make it eight floors. [You can take out the part about specifically telling us it's move-in day if you shift some things around above :)]

She’d been assigned to room 808 of Summit Hall. The dorms consisted of two-bedroom suites with a main living area flanked by two smaller bedrooms. While she’d have her own bedroom and share the living space with a roommate, unfortunately she’d be sharing the bathroom down the hall with twenty other students. [Something about this paragraph is a little dry. These are the kind of details that are important, but they don't have to be told to us. Maybe Kate could shift through her roommate's stuff a little bit and find something weird in there, and then she can panic at the idea that she's going to have to share a microscopic space with a weirdo. OR Kate could poke her head in the bathroom and think something to herself like, "Not impressed." These are just suggestions, but overall, we need more showing, less telling.]

She glanced at the two bedroom doors, contemplating which room she'd take, when she heard shouting down the hall. [Move-in day is pretty loud, yeah? Especially since she had to fight for a spot in one of the two elevators. There's probably lots of shouting. What makes this shouting distinctive?]

"Hey. You dropped something!" It was a male voice. And then its tall, dark haired, blue eyed owner appeared in her doorway. He was holding her favorite gray t-shirt. "You dropped this." He held it out to her while trying to catch his breath. [Is he annoyed? Genuinely happy to help? Is there a weird expression on his face that gives away he isn't telling her about everything she dropped yet? Even just adding something like "with a smile" will help clear that up.]

She quickly grabbed the shirt. "Thanks." 

"Yea... you dropped something else," he replied, looking down the hallway. [Once again, I need a hint about what he's thinking. Is he smirking like he thinks it's funny? Or biting his lip because he's embarrassed for her? etc.]

She raised her eyebrows in response, wondering why he hadn't bothered to pick that up too. She leaned out the door to look down the hall, where she saw a pile of fuchsia on the floor in front of the door to the stairwell. And then she gasped as realization hit her. [Let's make this a touch more embarrassing, shall we? Yeah, it's embarrassing Hot Guy saw her bra, but what if it's in the middle of the hall and there are a ton of people stepping around it (being move-in day and all that)? Just a thought.]

It was her bra. [Haha, love! Poor Kate.]



There you have it, folks! What do you guys think? Suggestions/thoughts and welcome in the comments below.

SeCrit #3 (First 250 Words)

Title: SIGHTLESS

Genre: YA Urban Fantasy

A warm flush crept up Carly’s neck and onto her face as the crowd in the Flying Owl pressed in on her, their sweat and perfume becoming her own. She edged her way through the throng, pressing against damp backs and oversized purses until she came to a clearing near the bar. Leaning against the wall, she wiped her forehead. Her fingers came away shiny with sweat and make-up.

The voices around her morphed into a single yell as the band walked on stage. Carly tried to catch Tyler’s eye, but he bent over his amp, a crease between his eyes. She knew that nervous look, and it twisted her insides to see it now.

Despite the heat, a cool tingle crept up Carly’s spine. The people around her were looking everywhere but at her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She wrapped her arms around herself and searched the crowd. A moment later, the sea of people parted, and Carly locked eyes with a woman leaning against the bar.

Carly searched her face for some sign of familiarity. The woman stood up straight, and Carly saw that she was wearing skintight leather pants, a low-cut red shirt, and black, high-heeled boots. Hardly the wardrobe of a security guard.

           The corners of the woman’s mouth slowly curled into a knowing smile. Carly shivered. A yell went up around her and the crowd closed in around Carly once more.

 Critique:

A warm flush crept up Carly’s neck and onto her face as the crowd in the Flying Owl pressed in on her, their sweat and perfume becoming her own. She edged her way through the throng, pressing against damp backs and oversized purses until she came to a clearing near the bar. Leaning against the wall, she wiped her forehead. Her fingers came away shiny with sweat and make-up. Okay, here's what I get from this first paragraph: She's in a bar and it's hot. The setting itself is fine, but pretty much every sentence mentions or alludes to sweat. To me, that's over-describing just one aspect of the setting. What does this bar and its people feel like, not just physically, but what is the vibe? I get that the bar is packed, but from this description, I imagine a lot of sweaty people standing around. Is that what's happening? I would expect there to be a lot of talking, yelling for drinks, maybe dancing? Also, what is she doing there? I know you start to tell us that in the next paragraph, but you have plenty of opportunity to do it now and really hook me.

The voices around her morphed into a single yell as the band walked on stage. Carly tried to catch Tyler’s eye, but he bent over his amp, a crease between his eyes (do you mean “between his eyebrows”? Between his eyes seems awkward to me. Also, I wouldn't mind a tiny bit more description of Tyler here. Especially if he's the love interest ;) ). She knew that nervous look, and it twisted her insides to see it now. (I like this. I think it shows a lot about the character and the situation in few words. Well done.)

Despite the heat, a cool tingle crept up Carly’s spine. The people around her were looking everywhere but at her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She wrapped her arms around herself and searched the crowd. A moment later, the sea of people parted, and Carly locked eyes (“locked eyes” is kind of a cliché saying. Try using your voice to put your own spin on this, maybe?) with a woman leaning against the bar.

Carly searched (watch out for repeating words) her face for some sign of familiarity. The woman stood up straight, and Carly saw that she (you don't really need to tell us this. We know Carly's the one doing the seeing) was wearing (instead of "was wearing" how about "wore"?) skintight leather pants, a low-cut red shirt, and black, high-heeled boots. Hardly the wardrobe of a security guard. (Why are we assuming she's a security guard? This sentence seems to come out of nowhere.)

           The corners of the woman’s mouth slowly curled into a knowing smile. Carly shivered (I feel like I want more here as to why Carly is creeped out by this woman. She doesn't seem too creepy to me.). A yell (I highlighted “yell” here and earlier because you use it for the same thing. I want more of your voice, more description. Was it a frenzied scream? A collective chant of the band's name?) went up around her and the crowd closed in around Carly once more.

Notice how many times the character's name is said? This is one of those things I find tricky about third person. Knowing when to use the character's name and when not to. I think you've used it too much here. 

So, there you have it folks. Thanks to everyone who submitted and special thanks to the author of this submission! I think you have a great start, you just need to allow yourself to embellish, have fun with the words! And remember, folks, we want to encourage all of you to add your own thoughts in the comments!

"SeCrits" #1 (First 250 words)

First off, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who shared their work with us! If we had time to critique them all, we totally would. If yours wasn't chosen to be critiqued this time, then please feel free to submit to future "SeCrit" events (the next one is scheduled for February 12, 2013!). All entries from this first event will be deleted shortly.

So basically, when choosing which entry to critique, we read every single one that was submitted to us. Then, the person in charge of getting this post up simply picked the one that they thought they could make the most useful commentary on--both the positive and constructive type. There's not really anything scientific about it, and it's not a popularity contest or anything like that. Though, in the future, we do plan to give precedence to people who have participated in the comment section of previous SeCrit posts. You give critiques, you're more like to get them, savvy?

Okay, so without further ado, let's get on with it!

The brave, anonymous, awesome writer's first 250:

Title: GRIT OF BERTH AND STONE

Genre: YA Fantasy

Everything changes at midday. Grit clenched her fingers tightly around the hilt of her dagger as she stared at the ceiling above her straw-filled mat. Her dame, a wiry woman nearing forty, stood by the fireplace, one hand on her hip, the other using a hooked metal rod to replace the lid on the heavy, black cooking pot. A plan formed in Grit’s mind as she inhaled the fragrance of Dame Berth’s porridge. 

“You’ll miss your Branding if you lie there all day gawking at the ceiling,” Berth scowled just loudly enough for Grit to hear, but not so loudly as to wake the three younger children asleep on mats around the room.

Grit rolled onto her side and studied her bare arm. Fifteen perfect circles, starting at her shoulder and reaching nearly to her elbow in two offset rows, scarred her olive skin. Every year, on the anniversary of her birth, the branding rod etched each scar a little deeper before adding a new mark. Like all Threshan youth, Grit had been collecting these tokens of strength since the day she had achieved one year of life. Now, on the brink of adulthood, she determined to present a show of strength rarely seen among her people, to prove to herself as well as to her harsh dame that she, Grit of Berth and Stone, was beyond weakness, beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond control. 

“I’m getting up,” Grit growled.

She tossed aside her thin blanket and pulled her tunic over her messy head. 

And now, after several readthroughs, here are some thoughts:

Everything changes at midday. [This is a bit vague for an opening sentence, and it sort of pales in comparison when you get down to all the awesome fantasy-ish bits in the third paragraph. Could we make it more interesting? Can we somehow establish that this is an awesome, unique fantasy immediately, in this very first sentence? Also, the fact that it's present tense ("changes" instead of "changed") is strange.] Grit clenched her fingers tightly around the hilt of her dagger as she stared at the ceiling above her straw-filled mat ["above her straw-filled mat" isn't really necessary; ceilings are generally "above" things, yes? This is overwriting, however subtle]. Her dame, a wiry woman nearing forty, stood by the fireplace, one hand on her hip, the other using a hooked metal rod to replace the lid on the heavy, black cooking pot. A plan formed in Grit’s mind as she inhaled the fragrance of Dame Berth’s porridge. ["A plan..." This is vague, and, assuming it's referring to her plan to "prove herself" that you mention a little ways down, it's also unnecessary telling.]

“You’ll miss your Branding if you lie there all day gawking at the ceiling,” Berth scowled [you can't scowl words] just loudly enough for Grit to hear, but not so loudly as to wake the three younger children asleep on mats around the room.

Grit rolled onto her side and studied her bare arm. Fifteen perfect circles, starting at her shoulder and reaching nearly to her elbow in two offset rows, scarred her olive skin. Every year, on the anniversary of her birth, the branding rod etched each scar a little deeper before adding a new mark. [ah, see, this is where things start to get really interesting. Totally intrigued by these circles! I can visualize them, am a little grossed out by them, but more importantly, they have me asking questions about this world--questions that I'm eager to keep reading to find the answer to. You might consider moving this to the very beginning]. Like all Threshan youth, Grit had been collecting these tokens of strength since the day she had achieved one year of life. Now, on the brink of adulthood, she determined to present a show of strength ["determined to present a show of strength" feels a bit awkward. I think you might have been going for that lofty high fantasy voice, but I'm not sure it's quite working here] rarely seen among her people, to prove to herself as well as to her harsh dame that she, Grit of Berth and Stone, was beyond weakness, beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond control. [Okay, so on the one hand, love that she has a plan to be strong and to prove herself--strong female characters ftw! BUT, I'm a bit confused here. Because you just said that, "like all Threshan youth", she's spent her life collecting tokens of strength. So I was picturing an almost Spartan-like society of lots of warriors, yet this last sentence suggests this isn't the case? Also, is being "beyond control" really a sign of strength?]  

“I’m getting up,” Grit growled. [you  can growl words more than you can "scowl" them, perhaps, but don't be afraid of just a plain old "said". If you want to show Grit's irritation, body language that gives readers something to visualize (narrowed eyes, fists clenching her blanket, etc...) is almost always stronger]

She tossed aside her thin blanket and pulled her tunic over her messy head. [is her head messy (seems weird), or just her hair(ah, that makes visual sense)? Specificity is a writer's best friend.]


And there you have it! Now, despite the abundance of glowering orange font, would I keep reading? Almost definitely. Because I'm totally intrigued by those circles on Grit's arm, and I want to know more about this world. So, in essence, these first 250 have done their job for me--despite the fact that there's possibly some room for improvement among them. So, why all the nitpicking, then? Did I really have to go sentence by sentence and tear this poor writer's lovely work apart?

Well, here's the thing you should keep in mind: your first 250 words are a sort of microcosm for your manuscript as a whole. That's how agents/editors are looking at them. And if there's a single, awkward sentence, or even the slightest bit of vagueness here or there--then agents and editors are going to assume that it continues throughout the whole manuscript, whether it does or not (though at least in my critiquing experience, it does more often than not). And though I would keep reading despite a few rough spots in an opening page, an agent who has 500 unread queries in their inbox might be a little less enthusiastic to do so ;)

So, thoughts? Feel free to offer your critiquing suggestions in the comment box, whether you agree or disagree with things I said, and also tell us whether or not this helped you in any way (we'd love to know if it did!). And give a round of applause to this awesome writer who shared their work with us :)