Saturday, May 27, 2017

Pitch Wars Early Bird Critique 16 - First 500 - YA High Fantasy


To see the draft query attached to this novel, go here:

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

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry!”
“You’ll be sorry when I say you’re sorry!”
“You’re hurting me!”
“Good.”
I cried out on the creaking floor as my grandmother beat me with the handle of a broom.
Gritting my teeth I pulled thin arms tight over my long neck and side, so much so that I couldn’t breathe. As the pain of the broom wacked my boney back and legs I held myself tighter, wild curls covering my face and sticking to my wet lips. All I could hear was Alba’s breaths and my own deep winces as the broom fell. My body cramped, my mind was blank, my chest heavy, but I remained silent as she continued my punishment and lesson.
 “Always hiding things. Do you never learn girl? Shall I beat it into you every night until you understand?” I shook her head faintly, spotting the torn piece of parchment on the floor which she had found in my room, and Alba stopped. “No? Look at me.” She demanded and I did so as bruises formed, patching along my body. Alba looked disgusted with me, “You’re just like her. If I find anything more which does not belong in my home, it will be an iron rod I use next.”
“…Yes Alba.”

With stiff arms I ladled water into cups before sitting behind the worn wood table, body aching.
A tray of bread and olives was for breakfast, gathered from our small garden. I was careful to watch myself, cautious as I ate day old bread. Lately I’d been clumsier than usual, or as Alba put it, more of a nuisance. It was a name I was more familiar with then my own. It was normal in the cabin in the woods just as her my punishments were. If it was normal outside it I didn’t know. I reached for a few pitted olives placing them in my bowl. I was thankful they were green and not black so I didn’t feel as if I was eating my own bruised skin. At least my body healed fast, as some of the smaller bruises were already turning yellow.
I ate slowly despite gnawing hunger. If I ate too fast Alba wouldn’t like it. Taking hold of my water I pretended to drink as the morning air of the cabin warmed, and faint light of the sun rose across the table and into my empty face. Sneaking a peek, Alba sat with her short back straight and sunken black eyes on her bowl, as if eating by herself. And she might as well have been since she didn’t talk to me unless dealing out orders like a master to her starving servant.
My throat tightened swallowing a piece of scratchy bread.
Despoite all Alba had did for me and to me, I didn’t love her, but then why bother living with someone like her? Who was cold and cruel and hate-filled towards her own granddaughter?
She’s all I have left.



CRITIQUE (My words in red font):

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry!”
“You’ll be sorry when I say you’re sorry!”
“You’re hurting me!”
“Good.”
I cried out on the creaking floor as my grandmother beat me with the handle of a broom.

Your dialogue works well, but show, don’t’ tell. Have her cry out because the broom handle lands on her ribs, or her spine, or hear the thwack of belt leather accompanying the sting on her skin, that kind of thing.



Gritting my teeth I pulled thin arms tight over my long neck and side, so much so that I couldn’t breathe. As the pain of the broom wacked my boney back and legs I held myself tighter, wild curls covering my face and sticking to my wet lips. All I could hear was Alba’s breaths and my own deep winces as the broom fell. My body cramped, my mind was blank, my chest heavy, but I remained silent as she continued my punishment and lesson.

Except, she hasn’t been silent to remain so. If you want her silent, have her bite her lip and refuse to cry out again—something emotive like that.


“Always hiding things. Do you never learn girl? Shall I beat it into you every night until you understand?” I shook her head faintly,

“I” shook “her” head?

spotting the torn piece of parchment on the floor which she had found in my room, and Alba stopped. “No? Look at me.” She demanded and I did so as bruises formed, patching along my body. Alba looked disgusted with me, “You’re just like her. If I find anything more which does not belong in my home, it will be an iron rod I use next.”
“…Yes Alba.”

With stiff arms I ladled water into cups before sitting behind the worn wood table, body aching.

This is an odd transition. In a manuscript, if you’re making a scene break, use the “#” symbol—centered, or at the margin—to indicate a change of scene. However, I feel like it’s too early for a scene change, because we aren’t grounded in this scene yet.

Use this moment to show her pain by having her wince as she slowly pushes herself to her feet. Then have Grandmother intentionally bump into her as she stands, so she has to bite back another cry. Something to give us the mental image of her getting up—then moving towards the food. And show us the room she’s in while she’s on her way—ground us in the setting, senses, and emotions she’s feeling. Then the rest flows naturally out of that.


A tray of bread and olives was for breakfast, gathered from our small garden. I was careful to watch myself, cautious as I ate day old bread. Lately I’d been clumsier than usual, or as Alba put it, more of a nuisance. It was a name I was more familiar with then my own. It was normal in the cabin in the woods just as her my punishments were. If it was normal outside it I didn’t know. I reached for a few pitted olives placing them in my bowl. I was thankful they were green and not black so I didn’t feel as if I was eating my own bruised skin. At least my body healed fast, as some of the smaller bruises were already turning yellow.
I ate slowly despite gnawing hunger. If I ate too fast Alba wouldn’t like it. Taking hold of my water I pretended to drink as the morning air of the cabin warmed, and faint light of the sun rose across the table and into my empty face. Sneaking a peek, Alba sat with her short back straight and sunken black eyes on her bowl, as if eating by herself. And she might as well have been since she didn’t talk to me unless dealing out orders like a master to her starving servant.
My throat tightened swallowing a piece of scratchy bread.
Despoite all Alba had did for me and to me,

You have a typo in Despite, then “had did for me” is grammatically incorrect. If the latter is intentional, a device of the voice, you need to use it more often, and earlier. If it’s just a typo, correct it. It’ll drive grammar nazi agents crazy. And definitely get a proofreader. Your writing is solid, you don’t want it being dragged down and potentially rejected because an agent feels like they have to do too much of the grunt work.


I didn’t love her, but then why bother living with someone like her? Who was cold and cruel and hate-filled towards her own granddaughter?
She’s all I have left.

Very poignant. Well done.

  
SUMMARY:

You’ve got a great conflict, and a great showing of the conflict, right up front. Which is perfect. However, you need to fully deliver on that. The actual beating can end where it does, but we need to see her emotional reaction to it—as she gets up, does Grandmother leave and she flinches? Or, does she do everything she can to show she’s going to be obedient, so grandmother doesn’t have reason to launch at her again?
And while you move her from the floor, and show us her emotional response to the beating, show us the setting as well.
Because you opened the book on a physical altercation, you’ll get away with not giving the wider setting right away. But the second that altercation ends, you need to show the reader this isn’t happening in a vacuum. Give the cues of texture of the floor, items/furniture, sounds, smells, etc, to make the setting real. That way, when crazy things happen, the reader’s brain has already been fooled into thinking the world is real, so disbelief is suspended.
All-in-all, a solid start. Keep going, keep refining, definitely look for those typos/mistakes, and clear those up. Make sure every scene opens with setting and give sensory detail as you go, and this will grab people.
Good luck!






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