I'm not dead yet!

But man, sometimes I wonder.

Between weather, real life tragedies for people I love dearly, and just flat out feeling like warmed over donkey poo, I haven't been posting like I should.

The line for the flogging forms to the right.

However, my silence hasn't been entirely unproductive! In the interim, I have managed to receive and complete my page proofs for A SHOT IN THE DARK. What that means is, IT'S DONE!! Boo-yah! Hopefully we'll see ARCs soon, and the release date is creeping up faster than you realize.

I am also diligently working on the as-yet-untitled Book 3. I'm about 30K words into it, and less than halfway through my first draft, so I'm hoping this means my final word count will be closer to what it the final polished count needs to be. Every time, my first drafts are cleaner. Maybe that means I'm figuring this writing thing out.

I have a few entries for Kari's Critiques sitting in my email box, waiting for my loving attention, and I'll try to have those up for class on Friday. Things just haven't been working out schedule-wise for my kids/their teacher. Hopefully, stuff will settle down soon.

AND, for anyone who might want me to come babble at THEIR blog (I take off my shoes at the door, and I'm house-trained, I promise), shoot me an email at kari(dot)stewart21(at)gmail(dot)com. I'm trying to get things scheduled ahead of time so I have enough time to write nice, thoughtful posts and/or interviews for anyone who wants them.

Kari's Critiques, part 2

Well, our usual Friday critique feature got derailed by illness. Yes, I'm currently living in a house of plague. I've hung a sign on the door that says "unclean" and everything.

That said, here are this week's writing samples, better late than never.

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Excerpt 4:

The ribald and paternalistic old man was quick to insult the young paper boy who accidentally threw the Sunday morning paper on the roof. “How could you throw the paper onto my roof?!” screamed the old man. “You are an idiot! A poltroon! A proselyte of the paper delivery industry!” The old man was one of those people who used a lexicon of rare and confusing words, this was his forte. Throwing papers, on the other hand, was not the boy’s forte. He always had trouble tossing papers onto porches, and very often they went down drains, into bushes, and onto roofs.

“I am sorry, sir,” said the boy. “I will get you another paper, sir, I promise.” “I do not want another paper!” replied the old man. “I want THAT paper!” he said, pointing towards his roof. “The one that you ignorantly threw on top of my house!” “I am sorry, sir! But I cannot get that paper for you,” said the boy in a lachrymose tone. “Oh, you will, my boy! You will,” said the old man, “Or I will apprise the paper company that you are stealing papers!” “No, sir! Please! Do not do that! I will get your paper, I promise!” said the boy. “And I trust that today’s delivery will be gratis, correct? A free paper?” “Whatever you want sir, I just cannot lose my job!” cried the boy. The boy became victim of the old man’s rapacity. “Come, I will get you my ladder,” instructed the old man.
For Bobby, the daily paper route was the only way for him to save up money, and every day on this route was an adventure.

First, I promise you that no one knows what “lachrymose” means. I had to look it up myself. Mournful is much better.

This is a good chance to point out voice. It appears to me that your story is told from the point of view of Bobby, the paper boy. I totally believe that this grumpy old man would use words like “poltroon” and “proselyte”, words that speak to his older generation. I have a harder time believing that Bobby would use words like “ribald and paternalistic”. However, I could also see this playing out that because of the old man and his big words (it’s mentioned) that Bobby has taken it upon himself to learn bigger words as a result. It could add an interesting level to the story, watching him look up things the old man has shouted at him.

In the second paragraph, you’ve got a lot of dialogue going on here, very quickly. I might suggest breaking it up more, using paragraph breaks when it switches speakers, just for the ease of the reader. Even without dialogue tags (“said the boy”, “cried the boy”) it can help you keep track of who is speaking.

I’d like more clues as to how old Bobby is. He seems very young to me (an older boy, a teen, would have responded more aggressively, I think) and so it makes me wonder, what does a child of that age need money for? I’m interested in what can be so important to him that he puts up with this abuse.

I’d also like to know what time period this is set in. The lack of contractions on Bobby’s part (cannot, do not) makes it feel older to me. If that’s your intent, you’ve got a lot of good places in here to add some descriptions of clothing, or neighborhood, that could clue us into that.

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Excerpt 5:

Oh My Gosh! All I can hear is the beeping and it refuses to stop. It was a long night, I can remember that much. I had finally fallen asleep and I had to get back up. Welcome to another day in the life of a high school senior.

I hit snooze, “Just five more minutes,” I mumbled under my breath as I fell back into the pillow. Before I know it, the beeping goes off again. I consider skipping the day and staying n bed but my upcoming Physics test haunts me.

I roll out of bed, throw on some sweats and a random tee, brush my teeth and head out the door. As I get into my car, I realized my English midterm is due today, and I have been procrastinating. Guess I’ll try and complete it in band while I pretend to play.

Next thing you know, POP QUIZ! Since when do we have quizzes in Spanish? Here comes another big fat F! Hopefully my next class will be easy, study hall as a teacher’s aide. My wish was wrong. Grading little freshman tests for the next 45 minutes. I grab my red pen and jump right in to find way too many failing papers. I feel bad but hey, I’m not the one that didn’t study, at least not yet, my Physics test is tomorrow.

I leave school and head to my safe haven, my car. I tell myself, “Just a few more months, don’t fall into the senioritis path yet. I will be over soon enough…I hope” I drive out of the school parking lot and towards home to attempt to push myself to do homework and study. Here’s to another long night!

First thing I’ll say is watch your tenses. It seems to me that you’re trying to write this in present tense, which is totally doable. (Have you read the Hunger Games trilogy? All done in present tense) But you waver in a few places into past tense. For example, in the second paragraph, you say “I mumbled” instead of “I mumble”. Tenses are hard! I know professional authors who find themselves drifting into a tense they didn’t intend. It’s just one of those things, if you know you do it, you have to be watchful for it in your edits (or have a great beta reader who can help you catch the slips).

You go through an entire school day very quickly here, and at first I wasn’t sure what the point of it all was. Then, I get to the last paragraph, and I see the remark about senioritis, and suddenly, it all made sense to me. I think you could totally do an entire story about a senior in high school, battling to find some meaning to his/her final year. It could be a really good story, in fact.

If that’s your route, I suggest opening a bit slower. The reader needs to become engaged with your character, we need a reason to keep wanting to live his life with him. (I’m saying “him”, ’cause there’s really no clue as to the gender of the narrator, but the voice feels more male to me.) Starting the story with him whizzing through yet ANOTHER boring day isn’t a bad way to go at all. We get the idea what it’s all starting to blur together for him, that the homework and tests have ceased to have meaning. We understand that he sees himself falling into this “senioritis” and that he wants to fight against that drift. I would just expand on it a bit, add in some interaction with other students maybe. Lay some groundwork as to whether all seniors feel like this, or just some. Your narrator doesn’t live in a vacuum, so we need to see how he moves within the world around him.

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Excerpt 6:

You did not deserve to be badgered by my immature act for attention. You did not deserve the guilt you felt for the scars on my wrist. The demon inside me delivered a philippic day in and day out. Again I am sorry for my insecurities. Although I will never know if you have forgiven me for my mistakes, I will never be able to forgive you for your revenge. I was vulnerable, lost and lonely and you took advantage of that. My self-respect was downright diaphanous. You fed me the right words to overshadow my common sense. You used brutal humor to bring me down but then used cunning words to apologize. In my mind the good began to outweigh the bad. I began to place you on a pedestal; you were my knight in shining armor. Yet you were my mangled knight; I had broken you so bad that in my mind I needed to fix you. I then began to immure myself from my friends; to me they would never understand my guilt. To me at one point you were all I had. When the monster forcibly stole my self-esteem you were the one I turned too. You were my light in the darken hallway, you began to build up my self-esteem again and you had given me a reason to not give up.

There’s a lot of emotion going into this. Very stream-of-consciousness in a way. I would normally say that this needs paragraph breaks to make it easier to follow, but in a way, it also doesn’t. It’s the rambling of an agitated mind, and so running it all together like this does make a certain kind of sense.

I’m intrigued by the use of the world philippic. It’s not a common word, and most people would probably have to look it up (note for readers: It means a bitter denunciation), so normally I would say strike it and use something else. However, with the voice you’ve created here, it doesn’t totally jerk me out of the narrative. This person sounds educated, coherent, logical, even amidst all the distress. The word works.

I’m not sure, reading through this, if the “you” person is supposed to be a good person or a bad person. And maybe that’s because the narrator doesn’t know herself. (again, there’s no clue as to gender, but the voice just feels female to me) It sounds like they were involved in a very complex, very damaged relationship.

I would like to see this as the opening to a more traditional story. This feels almost like a journal/diary entry to me, and I could see sections like this interspersed throughout a more conventional narrative, following this girl and whatever personal demons she’s battling. That way, we get the true story, and then we get to see how it played out inside her mind as well. Done correctly, it could be very powerful.

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Excerpt 7:

Talos was very upset. He paced an abandoned courtyard with no where better to go despite the heavy rain. He conjured a sword and gripped the hilt tightly. Its blade immediately heated till it was red, reflecting his mood. The rain turned steam as it hit the metal. His brown hair and his clothes were drenched. His knee-length dark blue coat had scars to match his. Its bottom edges were burnt and seared, damage done the day his wife died. Talos thought about last four years as he stalked the same path again and again.

Four years ago Talos and Illia, his wife, took in two young Brands, Wil and Fari. They taught the two as they did with countless other. This much Talos expected of himself, the newly Branded deserved to understand their new powers. Talos and Illia had mentored young Brands for almost a century, but they never got involved past that. But then he and Illia became champions of Wil and Fari’s foolish cause. As near-immortals Talos and Illia had lived apart from the troubles of the world. When they finally got involved Talos was left alone, left with all the troubles of the world.

They had died one by one. First Fari died in fight with another Brand, who was then killed by Wil. Almost a year and a half later Wil himself died in battle during a long campaign to avenge his love. Then half a year after that Illia died saving Talos. Poor Illia, Talos thought.

Talos could not believe that she was gone. They were supposed to live forever, not worrying about the turmoil around them. If only he had not given to her when she wanted to help Wil and Fari. If only he had died instead of her. If only -

Then it hit him, hard enough that he stumbled and his sword slipped from his fingers, dissipating before it hit the ground. It was no longer raining and the sun shined more brightly than usual. Talos was not alone in the courtyard anymore. Illia stood in front of him. She wore her dark brown jacket with frilled cuffs protruding from the ends of the sleeves. Her curly blonde hair looked wild while perfectly under control. Best of all were her eyes, large beautiful pools that Talos could lose himself in. Illia grinned and shook her head, as she did when Talos was making a fool out of himself. Then she reached out and touched his face, the touch made him gasp. The cold damp air shook him from the vision, and he was back in the rainy courtyard.

Talos breathed heavily, clouds shooting from his mouth in spurts. He now understood that these were events of the past and that they weren’t changing. He could blame himself for Illia’s death, but where the blame lies doesn’t matter. Talos never lived up to the image of an aged immortal; the years had granted him neither wisdom nor temperance. But now he was resolute, and he knew that nothing would get better unless he fought for it. That idea was what made the others die for cause that he never devoted himself to. Now all of that was about to change.

Holy epic fantasy, Batman! A genre near and dear to my heart.

Gonna start with that first sentence, and talk about show vs. tell. You tell us that Talos is upset, but you could show us instead. Especially when there’s so many different KINDS of upset. Is he angry? Is he sad? Is he embarrassed? Let us see how he’s feeling at that moment, and we’ll figure out that he’s upset for ourselves.

Love the image of him conjuring a sword and heating it red hot in the rain. That simple action tells us SO much about this world right from the start. Also love the part where he drops the sword and it dissipates before it hits the ground. A good magic system so far, I’m interested to see what else is possible.

I have to say, I’m intrigued by this world you’ve started building. The Brands imply that this is something special, something important. I like the idea that these near-immortals got drawn into a very human war that they never intended to fight. You’ve got a TON of story potential here. It almost makes me feel like this is a Book 2 of a series. You’ve got enough backstory to make an entire novel out of what came before.

That said, be careful with dumping backstory on your reader like this. You’ve included a lot of facts and events which could be trickled into the story later instead of just heaped on all at once. If this were a Book 2, then the info-dump recap of past events would work, to remind the reader what had come before. But if you want this as a first book, doling it out in pieces might work better.

Your character’s resolution in the last paragraph seems to come on suddenly. I’d personally like to see him struggle with it a bit more, or at least get the sense that the struggle has been going on for some time before this moment. Love the idea that he has “neither wisdom nor temperance”. For another look at an immortal who never mastered the benevolent sage concept, try reading Brent Weeks’s Night Angel trilogy.

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Again, the kids have delivered an amazing range of work! Everyone give them some applause for their courage. Like always, anyone is free to add opinions in the comments, but anything cruel or hurtful will be deleted, and I will curse you with the fleas of a thousand camels in your belly button.

Kari's Critiques, part 1

As promised, this week we start something new here on the blog. For those who weren't around for the "Kari's Queries" series, I have a beta-reader who is a high school English teacher. She has so very kindly loaned me her kids. Er... Sort of.

For the Queries series, the kids got to ask me any question they wanted, whether it was about writing, or life, or whatever. I like to think we all learned a lot and are now better people for it. (or something.)

So now, those kids are bravely going to submit to me a small snippet of their own writing, and I'm gonna give a small critique. I'll do a few every week, just like with the Queries.

Now, keep in mind that these critiques are just my own opinion. The one thing you learn as a writer is that EVERYthing is subjective. In fact, I think most writers hear that in their sleep. One of the greatest (and most frustrating) things about writing is that there are NO iron-clad rules. People will tell you that there are, but you can almost always turn around and find an opposing example. My best advice for any author receiving a critique is to listen to the parts that strike a chord with you, and politely ignore the rest.

Anyone else is welcome to add their own opinions in the comments, but I ask that folk remember these are high school kids, and they've taken that HUGE first step of letting someone else see something they've written. Any overly harsh comments will be deleted. I'm going for constructive here, folks, not cruel.

And with that said, here we go!

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Excerpt 1:

Kaylin was running through the swords clashing around her. She could hear her brother screaming somewhere ahead of her but just could not see through the throng of people. “Jay! Where are you?” She was scared to death but all she could concentrate on was the fact that Jaykob ran off even though he was given specific instructions to stay by her side. It’s funny really, the things that go through the mind when disaster strikes. “That little twerp, when I get my hands on him…” Kaylin continued to grumble to herself, mapping out the many things she would love to do to her younger brother. She was still dodging the swordsmen sparring around her. They weren’t the disaster, not really anyway. The real disaster was what was waiting outside the walls of the fortress in which they were being sheltered. He just hoped she could reach her brother before the security in place was breached. She could never live with herself if she lost her little brother. Even worse was the fact that she would be betraying her mother.

“Kaylin, I expect you to take care of Jay. He looks up to you, you know that.” Kaylin looked to her feet, knowing her mom spoke the truth, but she couldn’t let her mom know that she didn’t know how to take care of him, to protect him. She held her mom’s trembling hand as tightly as she dared and gave a stiff nod, willing herself not to cry. Not here, in front of her mother. Death’s doorstep would be hard enough without watching the tears of your daughter too. Despite her fears and insecurities, Kaylin was determined to be the best big sister for Jaykob. Even at seventeen, she knew it was never as easy as you make it out to be.

Part of me is wondering why, if she can hear her brother screaming, no one else is paying attention to it. If the swordsmen are just sparring (ie: It’s not an actual battle going on) it seems to me that the adults would be paying more attention to a screaming child. If there is an actual battle (as indicated by the fear that security might be breached) then it makes more sense that no one is paying attention to one child.

Another thing I noticed is that this seems to be set in a medieval time (swords, a fortress, that sort of thing) but the main character’s voice seems rather modern. The one word in particular that catches my eye is “mom”. It seems a very modern word, compared to the rest of the piece. Maybe think of “mother” or even “Mama” instead. Voice is one of those elusive things that will make or break a piece, and it’s even harder to pin down just what is “right”. (Now, if you tell me this IS a modern piece, but in a world where we’ve had to regress technology-wise to swords and fortresses, then the use of “mom” would be expected, and would also make a really interesting twist to the premise) ((Yes, this is how my brain works. My apologies.))

With a small excerpt like this, it’s harder to comment on larger story-type issues. I know that I’m dying to know what the soldiers are fighting (Other men, like two rival armies? Something worse?). I want to know what’s outside the fortress walls that she fears so. So you’ve succeeded in making me want to know more! Which is all a story is, really, one person wanting to know more so they read on.

I also might caution using the spellings of the two names so similarly. For someone who reads as fast as I do, Jaykob and Kaylin have very similar sounds and shapes, and I have to slow down to consciously see which one you’re talking about. Removing the “y” from either name would solve the problem.

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Excerpt 2:

He walked alone along the foggy gray street. His worn boots patted rhythmically on the ash that covered the road below. He had been walking for weeks, months, maybe even a year, he could not tell. The days could only be measured by the number of sun rises or sunsets. It had been too many to tally.

His hands were protected by a pair of thin, knitted mittens with the finger tips cut off pulled over top of a pair of holey leather gloves. His left hand carried a six shooter that carried only three shells. His right, he usually kept in his pocket, shuffling with the knife he carried. He switched these often.

The upper half of his body was shielded by a stained tank top; an old gray t-shirt; an olive green, almost brown hoodie; and a tattered black leather coat. His lower half by boxer shorts; a pair of one size too small sweat pants; and a pair of cargo pants whose pockets were often filled with crumpled pieces of paper and anything else to get a fire started or keep it going.

His head wore a small beanie which was covered by the hood of the zip-up hoodie. About two inches of frosty black hair protruded from the bottom of the hat. It was knotted and the tips were coated with small chunks of ice; water that had frozen on its last wash. Covering his face was a strip of ripped shirt he used as a scarf. Underneath the homemade scarf was about an inch of a black-gray beard. Dirty, scratched black sunglasses were the only thing that protected his eyes.

Slung over his shoulders was a ripping backpack that carried a rock he struck to start fires; what little, if any, soap he had left: two cans of beans: and a small piece of cooked chicken he had wrapped in a piece of paper.

He suddenly stopped. He squinted his eyes as he lifted the sunglasses off his face. Something moved ahead. Crouched, it stood up and faced him. He slowly pulled up his sleeve and turned his arm outward so the pistol could fully be made out.

My first thought is, why is he wearing sunglasses in the fog? Doesn’t mean it’s wrong, just means it’s something that should either have an explanation (and could be a cool bit of world-building) or should be changed. (Same goes for fog plus ice. They can occur together, rarely, but if it’s important to the world building, this would be a good place to explain it)

I’m unsure about the laundry list of clothes and belongings. It’s a really GOOD description, first off. I can totally picture the man in my mind. I’m just not sure that having the full description kind of dumped on the reader like that is a good way to go. I’d have to see more context to truly make the call on that one, but it’s something to think about. I’ve seen books use this style to good effect, and I’ve also seen it totally bring a piece to a screeching halt. If you wanted to do it differently, you could try to spread it out more, drop the details into the rest of the story more fluidly.

Even with the long list of descriptions, you’ve still managed to tell me a lot about the world already, which is why I think it might be a workable style. I know it’s cold, I know there is some reason for a person to walk about with their face covered/protected. I know there’s something not-quite-human going on, because the mysterious creature is referred to as “it”. I wonder, is he showing the gun to warn the thing off? Because that implies that whatever it is, is intelligent. It reminds me of the recent movie “The Book of Eli” for some reason.

Minor nitpick, watch your word usage. Second paragraph, second sentence, you use “carried” twice. It makes the sentence read awkwardly. Perhaps try it like “His left hand cradled a six-shooter that carried only three shells.” One word difference, but it smooths things out a bit.

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Excerpt 3:

Somewhere in North Africa
March 18, 1942 6:33 a.m.

All I could hear was the sound of my heavy breath and the sound of my running strides echoing off the walls of this labyrinth. It was me and three others that had made it this far. I wasn't about to let the Germans catch up to us. I knew they'd be following closely behind. This felt very different from the previous jobs that I've pulled, though. This time, I was leaving empty handed.

A shattering volley of bullets wiped past my head. I flinched at the mere cry of the machine gun opening up from behind.

"Shit! Come on, boys!" I cried. It seemed to be the mot juste for the situation we were in. I could see daylight approaching fast at the other end of the tunnel. Almost immediately, the crisp smells of the ocean hit me like a wall. My thoughts raced. This was definitely no time for any sort of bravado. I attempted to constrict the feelings of doubt building up inside me. From the Intel we'd gathered, I knew enough to know that these tunnel systems were being built into the mountain as costal gun emplacements. This light at the end of the tunnel was nothing but an impasse. I made a decision with the hopes that acumen would follow with it. I ripped my rifle up over my head and threw it to the ground.

"Get rid of 'em, ladies! We're going for a swim!" I screamed. It may have been a non sequitur, but I had to take a chance. I heard the cackle of more guns hitting the ground before their sound was swallowed up by another volley of machine gun fire. I was sure this was going to be the most effusive moment of my career. The four of us reached the exit in a hail of gun fire. We took a leap off the edge of the opening and took a plunge into the sea below.

Hotel de Cazador
Cairo, Egypt
March 22, 1942 12:03 p.m.


Richard slapped down his cards. "You bastard! You bilked me!" he whined in his typical British accent. He reached his hand out to check Peter's cards.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "I what?" he chuckled, a smile coming across his face as he pulled in his earnings.

"You cheated me!" he said throwing Peter's cards into his lap.

"Yeah, well, maybe next time you'll learn what two-of-a-kind means, eh?" Peter spouted in an execrable manner.

"Go rot in hell, Peter." Richard cursed. I thought at any moment I would have to step in and adjudicate the situation. Richard finished off the last of his beer as Peter monolithically gathered all of the cards back into a deck.

“Marcus, you in this round?” asked Peter. I gave him a fulsome look.

“No, I’m good.” I continued to read my newspaper. Judging from his charisma, Peter probably possessed at least two aces in that deck. Poor, Richard. Peter had already impinged his wallet and yet he continued to let Peter shuffle and start another game.

Ooh, historical… Tricky to do well. Gotta get all your ducks in a row with research on a project like this one, ‘cause if you get anything wrong, people who know the era will call you on it. I’m not brave enough to do historical. (Yet.)

I know this was partly a vocab assignment for you, so I won’t remark on the plethora of three- and four-syllable words. In a real piece, I would advise against sprinkling so many fancy words around, but for our purposes here, it’ll work just fine. The trick with using thesaurus-type words is making sure that you’re using them all correctly. Words have connotations, and even though they may SEEM like they mean the same thing, they don’t. (And don’t rely on your word processing program’s dictionary/thesaurus/spell check. For example, the word “intel” is slang for intelligence. The word “Intel” is a computer company)

I like starting in the middle of an action scene. Thrusts the reader right into the story, and you can deliver an amazing amount of information in a short burst. For example, I know that we have a group of men, and our narrator is presumably the leader. I’ll guess military of some sort, since he’s bawling out commands. I know they’ve had a failed mission, and they’re running for their lives from German soldiers.

As for the time/place headings, I’m iffy on these, but I think it may just be my own personal taste. If the dates/times are important, leave them, because it’s harder to convey an exact date and time just randomly in the prose. I mean, how many times can you have somebody say “By the way, James, what date is today?” “Why, it’s the twelfth of October, Francis, thank you for asking.” It’s not natural, people don’t just stand around talking about the date.

The location, however, is something that you might be able to convey through the writing, sprinkling in hints about locations via some descriptions. Mention that someone is speaking a different language, or that the servants are dressed a certain way. Egypt in particular has a notable culture, and describing that will help expand the world for a reader who might not be familiar with the country/time period.

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And there we are, our first three brave authors! Everybody give them a hand, just for showing us their stuff. That's the first big step any writer has to take, and one that most people never take.