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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