Pitch Wars Early Bird Critique 14 - First 500 - YA Fantasy

To skip directly to the material and critique, scroll down to the star divider line. If you'd like to know how I break down a critique, and what I'm looking for, keep reading:

To help the authors as much as possible, I've critiqued their full first chapter, however I'm only sharing the first 500 words as these can get quite long.

When critiquing a first chapter, (especially the first 500 words), I'm always searching for these pieces of information. A great book can include all of them right up front. Sometimes one or two need to take longer. But in the first page, or two at most, I should see at least three of these:

- Who is the focus of the story?
- Where are they?
- When is it (i.e. what era--is it today? two hundred years ago? not sure?)
- What are they doing?
- Why are they doing it

And in the first chapter, if not the first 500 words, I want to know what the character's initial goal is. That goal will likely change as they learn more about the situation they're falling into. However, right up front, the character always needs to want something--desperately. And the author needs to communicate to me what that is, and why they might not get it, as quickly as possible. Because that's what tells me why I should care about this story.

I'm looking for technical expertise--does the author know how to set up a scene? Do they understand backstory and when to include it (and perhaps more importantly, when not to). Is their writing tight and polished, or are there a lot of unnecessary words? Is the author falling into purple prose (over-writing in an attempt to sound good, but actually creating a sense of melodrama which will turn many readers off).

Beyond that, I'm looking at how I respond as a reader. Am I intrigued? Do I care? Do I want to keep reading?

So, with all those elements in mind, here we go...

********************

ORIGINAL MATERIAL:

When I was born, my mother wished me dead. An ‘apaya’, she called me, according to the midwife. Meaning “born ill-fated” in our ancestors’ ancient language, it’s one of the most offensive curses for an unfortunate person. A proverb goes, “Wherever an apaya turns, a house burns.”

So whenever I hear the word, I feel like it’s directed at me. 

“Get up, you apaya!” The moment I hear it, I stop on my tracks, holding Azibo’s hand. Frowning, he looks over his shoulder. 

“Get up! You’re nothing but an apaya.” 

I want to hide from whoever it is, but Azibo holds me. 

“It’s not you, love,” he whispers. A kiss he places on my head while pulling me away. I dare to turn my head and find a girl of ten winters being lugged out of a hut. Her shift is too short, too tattered, too somber a view on this grey dawn. Her dark locks are tangled, bunched up in a man’s hands, the one dragging her. Teeth gritted, he lifts her scrawny body and hands her to two darkly clad men. 

My father’s men. 

My father, the king. 

On a mule few steps away from them is a sack. The man leers at it. When the girl’s been tied with bronze shackles and thrown over the mule, the man almost lunges for the sack. A few tears on it reveal its content; flax seed. From the look of it, it won’t last a fortnight, even for one person. 

The girl struggles. The clinging fetters cut her skin, drawing out blood. 

“Father…” she whimpers. Her greedy father doesn’t pay her any attention. He’s busy with the sack. 

This has been going on the Island ever since my father ascended the throne. Parents selling off their children, husbands using wives as harlots, all for a mouthful of food. Once cannibalism occurred in a family in the slum. Back then I wasn’t a resident of this place. 

“That’s enough, love. Please.” Azibo covers me with my scarf. Unlike the poor girl, my threadbare shift reaches my knees. Azibo’s in a skirt and a vest. My shift used to be his, before I altered and designed it to make it look more feminine. After all, those are my only talents. With my basket full of threads and needles, spindle and distaff, every day I look for work. Like my scribe husband does, weighed down by his satchel of clay tablets and reed pens. 

“I’m fine.” Though my trembling voice gives away. If I wasn’t born as the Prime Princess, if I was born as impoverished as that poor girl, I’m sure my father would sell me off. Even though he was the one who dubbed me with the title. 

“Prime Princess,” my father, the king of the Meridian Island used to address me. In our state, the largest among the five states of the Pantheon, the heir apparent are called Prime Prince. I used to be the only Prime Princess in history. 

CRITIQUE (My words in red font):

When I was born, my mother wished me dead. An ‘apaya’, she called me, according to the midwife. Meaning “born ill-fated” in our ancestors’ ancient language, it’s one of the most offensive curses for an unfortunate person. A proverb goes, “Wherever an apaya turns, a house burns.”

Excellent personal turmoil, right up front. For maximum impact, personally I’d make that first sentence its own paragraph. But that’s a stylistic choice and totally subjective.

So whenever I hear the word, I feel like it’s directed at me. 

But didn’t he/she just say that word is directed at them in their family? This line confused me. Reading on, I think you should cut it because you want the reader to have the same instinct your protag is having—that the statement is directed at them.

“Get up, you apaya!” The moment I hear it, I stop on my tracks, holding Azibo’s hand. Frowning, he looks over his shoulder. 

I think you mean, “I stop in my tracks.”

“Get up! You’re nothing but an apaya.” 

I want to hide from whoever it is, but Azibo holds me. 

“It’s not you, love,” he whispers. A kiss he places on my head while pulling me away. I dare to turn my head and find a girl of ten winters being lugged out of a hut. Her shift is too short, too tattered, too somber a view on this grey dawn. Her dark locks are tangled, bunched up in a man’s hands, the one dragging her. Teeth gritted, he lifts her scrawny body and hands her to two darkly clad men. 

Great imagery.

My father’s men. 

My father, the king. 

On a mule few steps away from them is a sack. The man leers at it. When the girl’s been tied with bronze shackles and thrown over the mule, the man almost lunges for the sack. A few tears on it reveal its content; flax seed. From the look of it, it won’t last a fortnight, even for one person. 

The girl struggles. The clinging fetters cut her skin, drawing out blood. 

“Drawing out blood” is overly complicated. Your brain has to process it. Change to “deep enough to draw blood” or “until she bleeds.”

“Father…” she whimpers. Her greedy father doesn’t pay her any attention. He’s busy with the sack. 

This has been going on the Island ever since my father ascended the throne. Parents selling off their children, husbands using wives as harlots, all for a mouthful of food. Once cannibalism occurred in a family in the slum. Back then I wasn’t a resident of this place. 

“That’s enough, love. Please.” Azibo covers me with my scarf. Unlike the poor girl, my threadbare shift reaches my knees. Azibo’s in a skirt and a vest. My shift used to be his, before I altered and designed it to make it look more feminine. After all, those are my only talents. With my basket full of threads and needles, spindle and distaff, every day I look for work. Like my scribe husband does, weighed down by his satchel of clay tablets and reed pens. 

Until this moment, I thought she was a child herself. You could rectify that by referring to Azibo the first time as her husband, or something along those lines. Because you start at birth, without any other indicators, the brain automatically assumes you’re staying back there.

“I’m fine.” Though my trembling voice gives away. If I wasn’t born as the Prime Princess, if I was born as impoverished as that poor girl, I’m sure my father would sell me off. Even though he was the one who dubbed me with the title. 

“Prime Princess,” my father, the king of the Meridian Island used to address me. In our state, the largest among the five states of the Pantheon, the heir apparent are called Prime Prince. I used to be the only Prime Princess in history. 

This last paragraph has important information, but it’s presented in such a dry manner, it doesn’t serve your story like it should. See if you can find a way to give this information as part of the progression of the plot/story, rather than just a historical statement of facts. Maybe her husband refers to her as Prime Princess. She can shove the compliment aside. He points out she’s the only one. She can say, “not anymore”, then fill the reader in on what it all means. Or, even better if there’s a way to use this title, and the history behind it, as part of the plot and don’t even have to explain it because it’s shown. But that isn’t always possible with backstory. So try to find a way to ground it in the action and characters, rather than just telling it as information.

SUMMARY:

My overall sense is that you have a well-developed world, with a character in an interesting and painful position. Both critical elements to a good story.

You also have the ability to paint pictures, and keep the reader seeing what the protagonist is seeing without using lots of extra words. That’s crucial to a good book.

Unfortunately, there’s something about the voice that isn’t connecting on an emotional level. You need to ground these experiences in sensory detail. You’ve given us all the sight we need—and in a very good way. Now add the protagonist’s sensory experience to create a real sense of emotion: When she’s frightened, her heart races, or she hears her pulse in her ears. When she’s angry, her face heats. When she’s grateful, she’s warmed by her husband’s kiss, that kind of thing. Put us in her skin, and make sure her skin is reacting to what’s happening and the emotions it sparks.

If you aren’t sure how to paint body language and physical sensation that reflects emotion, check out The Emotion Thesaurus by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi. It’s a great resource for this specific issue.

But don’t be disheartened by that note. Your writing is strong, and if you add this emotional element, you’ll find it really connecting for people. Which is what makes a good book great.

Good luck!