Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Pitch Wars Early Bird Mentor Critique 11 - First 500 - YA Contemporary 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:

It doesn’t take a genius to know Freyja isn’t coming.
I peer through the clouded windshield and scoot lower in the freezing captain’s chair. I’ve been waiting half an hour in this cockpit, the icy shell of a wrecked passenger plane that acts as our meeting spot in the center of town. My stomach’s heavy and seasick, the way you’d feel if you ate a whole jar of pickled herring in one sitting. It set in the minute I got the rejection letter this morning. It’s only getting worse as the day drags on.
I told Freyja this was important.
I let out a slow breath and watch it fog and swirl in the still air of the cockpit. On the horizon, the just-risen sun catches on the low, jagged hills that hide the nearby fjord. It spits sunbeams. The earth and sky are gears struggling against each other for purchase.
It’s winter in Iceland, and even deeper winter in Eldeyja. My home sits a hundred kilometers off the main island’s north coast, well within the Arctic Circle. We’re a flame-shaped speck on the tempestuous open sea, and this time of year, we hardly ever see daylight.
It’s the sort of weather that makes the dragons ill-tempered.
I check my phone again. It’s nearly noon. Where is she?
I know what she’s usually doing this time of day. She might be up a fjord tending dragon pups, or in the lava fields coaxing rock dragons from their burrows so she can dress their bite wounds. It’s what she was born to do. She’s the only person on the island who can, and I see how much she loves it. I don’t usually mind the way it eats up most of her life
But this time, I let the ill feeling in my stomach turn over into frustration. I text her a string of question marks, then tug my coat over my nose—it’s already zipped as high as it can go—and swing out of the cockpit, down through the hollow fuselage.
Between the windows, historical plaques cling to the rusty walls. The plane wrecked on the island fifty years ago and was relocated into the town square to be a transportation exhibit. An ironic one, I think. Eldeyja doesn’t have planes at all.
I drag a gloved hand across the first panel on my way out. It shows a photo of this plane from forty years ago, when it crashed here. Even in water-stained black and white, it’s a fright. Flames pouring from the windows, tail snapped off by the sheer force of a whale-sized crater dragon’s fearsome claws.
Our scaly friends don’t like to share their skies.
I step through the ragged gap into the choppy wind and clump down the metal stairs, clinging to the handrail to avoid the ice slicked on the grated steps. The little park sits near the center of town, but today it lies deserted, halfway buried in drifts and plowed mountains of wet snow. Freyja’s still nowhere to be found.


CRITIQUE (My notes in red font):

It doesn’t take a genius to know Freyja isn’t coming.
I peer through the clouded windshield and scoot lower in the freezing captain’s chair. I’ve been waiting half an hour in this cockpit, the icy shell of a wrecked passenger plane that acts as our meeting spot in the center of town.

You’ve got the right elements here to kick off a story, but you need to back off on the modifiers/descriptors. Choose one of “clouded”, “Freezing”, “icy”, and “wrecked”. It’s slowing your pace and creating too much to process in such a short time. Use showing, rather than telling. (I.e. If you want to show that it’s cold outside, give condensation on the windows, or her breath clouding while she waits).  


My stomach’s heavy and seasick, the way you’d feel if you ate a whole jar of pickled herring in one sitting. It set in the minute I got the rejection letter this morning. It’s only getting worse as the day drags on.

What kind of rejection letter? I know it feels like you’re building mystery, but instead it creates a question that can’t be answered, so an image can’t be assigned to it. That mental loop takes a split second that pulls the reader out of the read and creates the beginning of frustration. Simple fix, say “USC rejection letter” or “the honors program rejection letter”—whatever it is, give the reader the image and add that important detail to the world you’re building (it will subconsciously tell them both about the current conflict, and the character herself)


I told Freyja this was important.
I let out a slow breath and watch it fog and swirl in the still air of the cockpit.

Ah, there your showing is. Move this up to the front so it’s creating a picture before we move into information.


On the horizon, the just-risen sun catches on the low, jagged hills that hide the nearby fjord.

Lots of modifiers again “just-risen”, “low, jagged”, “nearby”…all these extra words actually hurt you this early in the read, when the reader is still aware of reading words, rather than falling into a moving image. Cut all but one at the most (in theory, there should only be one in the first 250-500 words. Use images to show, instead).


It spits sunbeams. The earth and sky are gears struggling against each other for purchase.
It’s winter in Iceland, and even deeper winter in Eldeyja.

 Because I stink at geography, I don’t know if this is a real place or not. If this is real world, make sure and give other details to confirm it, because your setting, while realistic, is unique, and a strange name like that made me question.
Secondarily, my advice would be to move this right up to the top—show us where she is, then how she feels, and what she’s doing. Give the setting parameters first so this isn’t happening in a vacuum. Then the reader will fall into it faster because things feel tangible.


My home sits a hundred kilometers off the main island’s north coast, well within the Arctic Circle. We’re a flame-shaped speck on the tempestuous open sea, and this time of year, we hardly ever see daylight.
It’s the sort of weather that makes the dragons ill-tempered.

More modifiers. But I’ll stop hammering at that.
Aha! Fantasy. So go ahead and leave the question there, but still move those setting details to the beginning, then shift to this after the observation that Frejya isn’t coming, etc.


I check my phone again. It’s nearly noon. Where is she?
I know what she’s usually doing this time of day. She might be up a fjord tending dragon pups, or in the lava fields coaxing rock dragons from their burrows so she can dress their bite wounds. It’s what she was born to do. She’s the only person on the island who can, and I see how much she loves it. I don’t usually mind the way it eats up most of her life
But this time, I let the ill feeling in my stomach turn over into frustration. I text her a string of question marks, then tug my coat over my nose—it’s already zipped as high as it can go—and swing out of the cockpit, down through the hollow fuselage.

Nice. You’re losing the constant descriptors so the read is much smoother.


Between the windows, historical plaques cling to the rusty walls. The plane wrecked on the island fifty years ago and was relocated into the town square to be a transportation exhibit. An ironic one, I think. Eldeyja doesn’t have planes at all.

Excellent world-building.

I drag a gloved hand across the first panel on my way out. It shows a photo of this plane from forty years ago, when it crashed here. Even in water-stained black and white, it’s a fright. Flames pouring from the windows, tail snapped off by the sheer force of a whale-sized crater dragon’s fearsome claws.

I had to re-read that last sentence four times, and I’m still not 100% what it was saying. The name of the animal is a crater dragon? If that’s not right, you need to clarify. If that is correct, and the species is important to the early world-building, keep whale-sized or fearsome, drop the crater, and use a second sentence. That way it’s very clear and concise, the reader won’t be forced to re-read (which breaks the flow) and you get all your details in. Something along these lines:
“…tail snapped off by the sheer force of a whale-sized dragon’s claws. A crater dragon, they say.”



Our scaly friends don’t like to share their skies.

Nice line. Good world-building.



I step through the ragged gap into the choppy wind and clump down the metal stairs, clinging to the handrail to avoid the ice slicked on the grated steps. The little park sits near the center of town, but today it lies deserted, halfway buried in drifts and plowed mountains of wet snow. Freyja’s still nowhere to be found.


Lots and lots of modifiers, and they change the rhythm of your read. They aren’t needed for you to make this feel real. Instead, give sensory details—smell, sound, sensation. Don’t talk about the choppy wind, have her pick hair of out her mouth that’s blown across it. Or her palm prickles, chilled by the metal handrail, that kind of thing. It’s much more tangible and draws the reader deeper, instead of having this constant see-saw of words that just describe a picture. 



SUMMARY:

You’ve got a great setting (and yay for a cold climate in a dragon book!), intriguing element in the dragons themselves, and your writing clearly shows that you know how to weave a scene. Well done.
All you have to do it look for these moments of “adjective-noun, the adjective-adjective noun” and replace them with sensory detail. You’re doing well with the sight, so add smells, sensations of air, cold, or metal on skin, sounds of feet clunking on metal stairs, that kind of thing. If you do that, this opening will rock. (I mean that).
Because I’ve read ahead, I also know that you nail your chapter out. That kind of cliff-hanger detail is exactly what this despondent character needs so the reader feels excitement, rather than depression (if you know what I mean).
All in all, while I got nit-picky about word choices, it’s overall a great opening chapter. I think with some finessing you’ll definitely get requests in Pitch Wars (if I received this one, I’d request at least a partial to see if I liked where the story was going).

Good luck!

1 comment:

  1. I agree that it was a great first chapter. The only thing I'd add is that I didn't immediately know the MC's gender.

    ReplyDelete