first impressions - Praire Dog Town

Our second submission of the month comes from Cheryl. Here are the first 300 words of her "Peter Rabbit type adventure story." The age of the intended audience is 4 – 8 year olds and the setting is the American Southwest. The main character is, obviously, a prairie dog! My comments are in purple and to see what Dianne Salerni had to say, check out her blog, In High Spirits.

Prairie Dog Town

Under a sunburnt sky, below a long sandy field, lay a town of prairie dog families. Now, the prairie dog mothers all loved their babies, and the prairie dog fathers all loved their burrows. But what the prairie dog babies loved most of all was listening to stories. I like this beginning. It has a certain cadence to it I imagine might be appealing to children.

***

Especially, one baby named Angel. Angel loved hearing stories about the earth above. I'd like a more imaginative name but that's just me...

***

“Tell me about the sky,” he said to his aunt.

“It’s bigger than this whole burrow,” she said, again.

Angel’s eyes opened wide, wondering how anything could be that big.

***

“Tell me about the trees,” Angel said to another aunt.

“They’re taller than all our burrows stacked together,” she said, again.

Angel twitched his nose, trying to imagine something so tall.

***

“And the plains,” he said to a third.

“Are longer than all of the tunnels in Prairie Dog Town, end to end,” they said together.

“The desert is so fun,” said a fourth. “You’ll love it!”

***

One day, Angel couldn’t wait any longer. When his mother wasn’t looking, he raced to the end of the tunnel and stuck out his head.

***

“Is that the …?” he said, staring up at the vast blue space.

SCREEECH!

***

An eagle swooped down and snatched Angel up in his talons.

***

“Oh my,” Angel said, feeling the pinch of the eagle’s claws. “The sky may be big, but it hurts.”

***

The eagle flew to a patch of high ground and landed in a tall pine tree.

***

“Is this a …?” Angel said, twisting with excitement.

The eagle loosened his talons in surprise.

***

Down, down, down, Angel fell.

Until THUMP, he landed in bank of snow.

***

“Goodness,” Angel said, shivering. “The trees may be tall, but they’re very cold.” If Angel is a baby he should talk a little more like a baby, imo. How about this: Angel shivered, eyes big. "The trees may be tall, but they're very cold."

***

Angel shook his coat, and started walking. Downhill. After a while, he came to a plain filled with waving blue grass.

***

“Look here,” he said to two sets of straight legs. “Is this …?”

“MOOOOOOOOOO,” said a bison.

Angel stepped back, and back,

Until BASH, BUMP, CRASH,

***

he stumbled over a pile of rocks.

I would love to see the illustrations that might go along with this story. That said, I have to profess my ignorance when it comes to picture books. It has been a long time since I bought them on a regular basis and my tastes run to the old fashioned like Mike Mulligan and Dr. Seuss and Maurice Sendak. I do think this sounds like a fun story about a naughty baby praire dog who is going to learn a lesson. I also hope my friend Sheri will stop by because she knows lots more than me about PBs! 

Thank you Cheryl for sharing this and I hope my readers will chime in on this one.

Sunday pics - Geese

Yep. That's what I've got in my little 'pond.' Mostly it's just some water with cattails and weeds and peepers and a little stream that runs under the road. But this is the second year in a row the geese have tried to raise a family here. I say tried because last year I don't think any of the babies made it (snapping turtles being the likely reason why). I do hope a couple of them make it this year. They're awful cute...

Have a lovely Sunday :)

first impressions - Realm 17

Out first submission for this month comes from Christine. This is the first page of her book, a YA paranormal titled Realm 17. My comments will be in purple. I hope you will add your own and if you want to know what Dianne Salerni thought about his piece, check out her blog, In High Spirits.

Colored light stretches across the floor of the landing. I look up to see the same angel with her arms spread, her yellow hair flowing, and rainbow colored glass surrounding her form. I know I’m dead, but really, do they have to remind me at every turn.(there should be question mark after 'every turn.' Cool beginning and great voice!

Death is a strange beast. You hear so many theories on what it’s like on the other side. Then you hear about those people who died for like a minute, and then came back from the dead claiming they heard angels, saw a white light, and felt calm and peaceful.

            It’s totally not true.

Realm 17 has been nothing but one big bore-fest except for this part of my day. For six months, I’ve repeated this routine. I scoot back onto the window seat and adjust a button on my white oxford shirt. Each follicle of hair hurts because I’ve tied it back in a ponytail every day. You know--the rules.

            Students pass by all wearing the same thing--white shirt, black skirt or pants, and black shoes. They walk up the steps to class in one heaping mass of spirits. Then I see him.

Asher.

He comes up from the bottom floor, taking each step just like the others, but slows on the landing, glancing at me. A black curl falls over his left eye and is accompanied with a smile creeping up his cheek--typical hot boy in sea of monotony, and I like it.(love that) He turns and follows the others to class.

“Becca.” Kat waves her fingers in front of my view.

I look at her, hoping that my narrowed eyes give a hint of disappointment. “You’re totally ruining my day.”

Wow. I really liked this and can't think of anything else to crit. I would definitely read on to find out whether Realm 17 is like a way station for the dead or something more...permanent. Interesting concept and great voice which gives me a character to like. What more can I say? 

But what do you think, gentle reader? Liked it? If so why? And if not, what fell flat for you? Lastly, if you're interested, Dianne and I still have two slots open for July. Care to submit your first page?

Standout Markets

EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing

Founded in 1998, EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing is seeking the following: urban fantasy, werewolf, scifi mashups, fantasy, but no epic or multi-volumed. If you think your story is unique and you are well-versed in the genre, Edge might be a good fit for you. Send a query/cover letter, synopsis, title page, prologue (optional) and first three chapters by mail to: PO Box 1714, Calgary, AB T2P 2L7, Canada. No simultaneous submissions, nothing previously published.

 EDGE is one of the few large independent book imprints in North America that focuses solely on fantasy, horror, and science fiction. I would suggest checking out their website before submitting.

Want to know more? Check out Writer's Digest Magazine - and have a wicked wednesday :)

Dreaming 101

In the dream I'm at a school in a room (building?) in the back. To my right is the door I came in with a window I can see through. Directly ahead of me is another window which looks over the campus. There are trees and well kept paths and grass clipped short. Inside are the usual things, a long table where work is done, cabinets for supplies, a closet, off-white linoleum floor. The strange thing is the cake on the table, chocolate with white icing, half gone. I can see how moist it is and I want some. But then I see figures outside the glass on both sides. Figures clad in black with guns and masks. I duck down, not wanting to be seen but it's too late.

Someone is there, suddenly, inside the room. I can't see who for the mask but the black can't quite conceal the sex and she raises her weapon. We grapple and I get my arm around her throat, squeezing tight, cutting off her air until I feel her go limp and then a final twist - snap! She falls limp to the floor.

I escape out the door behind me and am soon in my car speeding away, just in time to see a massive plume of amber rise up from the school behind me...


So you see why I like to sleep...and dream.

*to learn more about dreaming, go here: Inception: Dreams, Waking, and Epistemology. 

Sunday pics - the lupines are coming

For me?

Thank you Chandra!

And here are a few blogs I like - maybe you will, too: 

Alicia
Michael
Tyrean
Carol
Jem
Andrew

To the recipients: feel free to take, share, or whatever; I just want you to know I enjoy your blog and hope others will find you as creative and versatile as I do :)

Lightning Flashed - blogfest

Lightning flashed, illuminating the flat wet stones, grass grown long between them. Her feet stepped lightly, carefully, ankles flashing white beneath the hem of her skirts. She glanced back at the castle, shadowed by mist and rain, pausing long enough to see that her spell of gloom held before hurrying forward on silent feet.

The path soon narrowed, and the stones turned into steep steps that cut between a thick knot of tall trees, down to the river and the stone wharf, one of many the royal family maintained. This one, however, had been forgotten.

Or so she’d been told.

It didn’t look forgotten, she thought, noting the lack of debris revealed by each crack and flash.

She pulled her cloak closer, peered into the dark. Eyes narrowed, she scanned the shadowy tangle of wood and bramble that hid the wharf until the smallest of movements caught her eye. 

“Show yourself,” she said.

A moment later a light flared, and she let go an inaudible sigh, putting her knives away.

Her Master stepped forward, bringing the light with him. “I am glad to see you have not grown soft and forgetful…” he said, crossing the space between them.

And as soon as he was close enough to touch, the rain ceased above their heads. It still fell all around them, hard and fast, splattering against stone, filling cracks, hitting leaf and branch.

“We are safe now,” he said. “No one can hear our words, even if by chance you were followed.”

She didn’t ask how. Only envied the trick and wondered how long until she learned it.

“Soon,” he said, sensing her thoughts, her desire, “But first, the matter at hand, the reason you were sent here.”

She looked up at him, hope fluttering in her chest. Had the time come at last?

To read more flash fiction from this blogfest, go here - and enjoy :)

ps 303 words, a tad over...

sunday pics - Florida

A few more lovely flowers from Leu Gardens...

and the Datura on my mom's porch

and this lovely Painted Bunting

Isn't he a handsome fellow?


Enjoy your Sunday.

Unicorn Bell

source

Some of you know I also moderate over at Unicorn Bell but for those that don't,  Unicorn Bell is a blog I share with other writers with the goal of helping you (and me) get published, primarily by critiquing but also by sharing what we've all learned as we journey through the process of writing toward the goal of publication. Which is why I'm promoting Unicorn Bell here today. Because aside from the fact that I'm there - which in and of itself is pretty cool - there are some other folks there who are pretty darn cool, too, and in no particular order here they are:

Huntress, who can also be found over at Spirit Called
Charity, who blogs at Charity's Writing Journey
Sharon, who blogs here
Jeffrey, who hangs out at Jeffrey Beesler's World of the Scribe
Alicia, who can be found at Saffron Wine
Liz, who hangs out over at Laws of Gravity
and L. Blankenship, who likes to blog at Notes from the Jovian frontier

In addition to critiquing and helpful posts about writing, we also offer a prize every month to the top commenter/submitter so if you'd like to offer your two cents as well as your own work for others to crit I urge you to come check us out and see if you like us.

And don't forget about first impressions in which Dianne and I critique your first page. For more info, check out my sidebar, top right. We are now accepting submissions for July.

Have a great weekend all and come back on Sunday for my regular feature, Sunday pics.

my next house

Point of Rocks Rd - Sarasota: This incredible display of Prairie style architecture was designed by the legendary John Randal McDonald in 1979, a follower of Frank Lloyd Wright. Sited on 180 feet of private Gulf of Mexico beachfront, this home captures spectacular views from each and every room. A bold open design gives way to stunning sightlines utilizing; multi-level flowing spaces, double-sided fireplace, open riser staircases and a continuous span of sliding glass doors. Privacy is created by moving partitions and operable shutters. Functional spaces and storage areas are skillfully concealed behind sliding Brazilian mahogany panels. Innovative before its time, this home incorporates energy saving features such as, floor air conditioning ducts and glass skylights working with our tropical Florida climate. Steel pilings and mahogany clapboard insure that this home is structurally sound. Price reduced from $3.9mil to $2.9mil. What a bargain!

the boring bits and how to make them interesting

I have read upon more than one occasion that the best way to keep your readers interested is to leave out the boring bits. Often this means description because it’s usually the one place where nothing is happening. Dialogue and action move the story forward but description is like a rest area where you’re supposed to enjoy the scenery. So the question becomes how do we make our descriptive passages interesting.

Here's an example from a book I loved:

“Alone in his flat, Marco constructs tiny rooms from scraps of paper. Hallways and doors crafted from pages of books and bits of blueprint, pieces of wallpaper and fragments of letters.

He composes chambers that lead into others that Celia has created. Stairs that wind around her halls.”

From THE NIGHT CIRCUS by Erin Morgenstern

This is a description of what Marco makes and while it might not make much sense to those who haven’t read the book (which I highly recommend, by the way) you can still see how lovely it is, hear the cadence of the words, perhaps even picture what Marco is making.

The trick then is making our descriptions come alive with voice. I don’t know about you but I can hear the longing in that short little passage and I get the feeling we’re talking about more than architecture. This is how to make your descriptions stand out, be memorable, and above all, be interesting.

How do you make your descriptions sparkle?Any tricks you'd like to share?

Sunday pics - my fat little friend

I was at my brother's yesterday, playing Skyrim (currently at the college in Winterhold - and yes, it's cold!), and this little guy was sitting on one of the chairs on the porch. Apparently he (she?) has been there a few days according to my brother, just hanging out. And while I was inside playing, my brother actually saw him yawn! Ha!

Have a great Sunday :)

How to write a story - Description, cont.

"From two-thousand feet, where Claudette Saunders was taking a flying lesson, the town of Chester's Mill gleamed in the morning light like something freshly made and just set down. Cars trundled along Main Street, flashing up winks of sun. The steeple of the Congo Church looked sharp enough to pierce the unblemished sky. The sun raced along the surface of the Prestile Stream as the Seneca V overflew it, both plane and water cutting the  town on the same diagonal course."

I love the comparison of the town to something gleaming and "freshly made" and how the first sentence immediately suggests to me that our narrator may be hinting at something... interesting. Either the town is indeed like something "freshly made and just set down," or, it is not. And really, where do cars trundle? Probably ONLY in Chester Mills. Some mythical small town in some northwest corner of  Maine - my fair state.

It also happens to be the home state of the author, Stephen King, and this first paragraph is from his novel, THE DOME. If you like Stephen King I'll wager you'll like this. Both as a writer and and a reader.

How to write a story - Description

"From two-thousand feet, where Claudette Saunders was taking a flying lesson, the town of Chester's Mill gleamed in the morning light like something freshly made and just set down. Cars trundled along Main Street, flashing up winks of sun. The steeple of the Congo Church looked sharp enough to pierce the unblemished sky. The sun raced along the surface of the Prestile Stream as the Seneca V overflew it, both plane and water cutting the  town on the same diagonal course."


Here is a short descriptive passage written by someone who shall, for the moment, remain nameless. What I would like all of you to do is read it and tell me what you think. What do you like about this? What sense about the story do you get from this beginning? And if you do know who wrote this, keep it to yourself for the moment. I'd like to hear everyone's thoughts on this paragraph before I reveal the author...


...which I will do on Friday along with my thoughts about this paragraph :)

first impressions - The Game Warden's Daughter

Our third and final first impression for the month of May comes from Terry Lynn Johnson, the author of DOGSLED DREAMS (available now) and the upcoming ICE DOGS (next year). You can find her here.  This is the first page of her MG Adventure, THE GAME WARDEN"S DAUGHTER. My comments are in purple and please visit Dianne's blog, In High Spirits to see what she thought about this piece. 

  

           Grandpa was the one who found me on the day Dad went missing. Of course it was Grandpa. No one else in my family really knows where I go. Is this important? That her grandfather seems to know her best? If so keep this, if not, I might start with the next paragraph.

            The day had started with me hanging high over the water from a spindly sapling, trying to get Dig's line untangled. Again. For a genius, the boy cannot fish for his life. He catches rocks, stumps, trees, my ear — actually, let's not talk about the ear incident. lol. Yes, some events are best forgotten.

            "If this branch breaks, I'm doomed." Note to self: never say that again when I'm dangling over an ice-cold brook trout creek. Doomed seems like an odd word choice for an MG student, imho. What about this: Looking down over an ice-cold brook trout creek I remember thinking, "If this branch breaks I am so gonna be sorry."

            Next thing you know, I'm falling, my life is flashing — all eleven years of it. I'm short, squat, frizzy-haired and loud. It's not a pretty thing to watch, so thank god (God should be capitalized, right?) it was a quick drop. And then I plunged into Prawn Creek.

            The water was just slightly warmer than solid ice, so that was good because it softened the landing.(I had to read this sentence a few times as I wasn't sure whether the creek had actually started to freeze or were we strictly speaking of water temperature. I think you cut it and get right to the dunking.) My head went under and water rushed over my ears, frigid and stabby. Panicked, I kicked for the surface, gulping a noisy breath when I came up.

            "Kiera, you have to get out of the water!" Dig hopped up and down. "You'll get hypothermia."

            I mentioned Dig was a genius, sort of why I hang around him. I'm hoping maybe some of that will rub off on me. But geniuses can actually be annoying.

             Grabbing at roots and rocks, I scrambled out, water streaming off me. The autumn breeze smacked me in the face and I began to shiver.

            "You have to take your wet clothes off," Dig said, without a hint of recognizing that might be awkward. We’re both in sixth grade, but he’s a typical brainiac - advanced in some ways, but so behind in others.

 "In the time it will take us to get home, the conduction may drop your core temperature below 35 degrees."

            "Seriously, could you be any more freaky?" I was alarmed at how quickly my fingers were losing feeling. Dig was right, of course.

            There was an emergency space blanket in the saddlebag of my quad. (what's a quad? A four-wheeeler? And how come she's so well-prepared. This seems a bit unusual in an eleven year old) I peeled out of my sopping clothes, then wrapped myself in the blanket. It was silver. And crinkly.

            Dig offered his coat, but since he's sized like a twig, I couldn't even fit both arms in it and still drive the quad. Which I had to do because Dig is horrifyingly incapable of driving it without putting everyone's life at risk. Trust me on that point.

            So I ended up wearing the jacket like a cape with it flapping out behind me as we sped down the trail back home. Did I mention I was draped in a silver blanket? Wearing my helmet with star stickers? And that's where we met Grandpa Morris coming toward us on his quad.

            "Curses. I'm so busted." My niece is 12 and she would never say 'curses.' Neither would my nephew who's 11. But I can totally hear either of them saying, "I'm so busted..."

Aside from the places I've already marked the one thing that would make this first page better - imho - is to get closer to an eleven year old girl's voice. This sounds more like an adult reliving and telling about something that happened when she was eleven, not like a girl telling it within weeks of the event. I think if the author can nail the voice down this will be an awesome MG read. But I also have to say I read very little MG so I may not be the best judge of what works and what doesn't. 

What did you guys think? Was there something you really liked? Any suggestions for the author on how to make it better?

Sunday pics - the Rose Garden

As you may recall, I recently went to visit my mom in Florida and among the places we visited was Leu Gardens in Orlando. These pictures are from the Rose Garden.

Have a lovely Sunday.

first impressions - Lovesense

Today we have the first page of Robin Hall's novel, LOVESENSE, a YA-Magical Realism  If you want to know more about Robin (like where she blogs) go here. And if you want to read what Dianne thought about this piece head on over to her blog, In High Spirits. My comments - as always - will be in purple.

Some people can smell an artesian cheese and know to the minute how old it is, how it was made, and when it will spoil. I’m not one of those people. But give me a photo of a couple, and I can tell you those very same things. I’ll know how they’ve aged—if they’re a month-old cheddar, or a block of aged parmesan—and when the relationship will go sour. I’d much rather look at those pictures and see what the rest of the world sees: two people in love. But I’m not that lucky. This first paragraph tells me that the narrator has a gift for looking at pictures and knows a lot about cheese. The next paragraph identifies her as a seventeen year old girl. I can easily buy the girl having the gift of knowing things about couples but not that she knows so much about cheese. The voice feels a little older to me. But that's just my opinion - someone else might have something very different to say.

That’s why I often regret my part-time job as the ice cream/photo counter girl at Alfred’s Drug Store. But in a town as small as Sparrow, a seventeen-year-old doesn’t have a lot of options. Worse than the uniforms, with their straight-legged pants (awful for my curvy legs) and the Peter Pan-collared shirts with their attached red vests, are the photos I print on my Saturday morning shifts.

Right now I’m tapping my trainers (what are trainers?) against the photo processor and trying to make three-hundred prints of Mary Brighton and her fiancé without seeing their smiling faces. It’s hard to find a good place to look. (here is where I would cut with the description and give us something interesting like the narrators thoughts about the couple. Because that's what I'm curious about, not the game across the street.) Watching the empty store is depressing now that a Rite Aid opened in Hickory, so I’m taking advantage of our windows and checking out the Little League game across the street. Not that I can see much for all the trees, but then, that’s one thing I love about living in the foothills of the Appalachians. Green is everywhere.

The only other comment I'll make is that if this is YA I'd cut to the chase quicker and show the reader more about how the narrator can know things about couples, let us in on her thoughts so we see her, understand her, connect with her. I think there's an interesting mystery here but it's buried beneath too much description.

Anyway, that's my opinion, for what it's worth, but do go check out what Dianne's thoughts were because I'll wager they're quite different than mine. And I would love to hear what anyone else thinks about this piece.

First impressions - The Key Collective

Well hallelujah a-z is finally over and if you finished then a big congrats to you. It was fun but a lot of work and I'm ready to get back to business as usual. It being May, Dianne and I have three new, never before seen first pages which we will be critiquing on our respective blogs. First up is this one from Alicia over at Saffron Wine. This is the first page from her Steampunk novel, THE KEY COLLECTIVE. My comments are in purple and you can find out what Dianne thinks here.

She found the key under his bed.  Not that she was looking.  She didn’t even know the guy. Why would she be looking under his bed, for crying out loud. (question mark?) Assignations are odd like that.  One minute you’re locked in the most intimate of embraces, the next you’re crawling around on his floor, ass in the air, looking for your sock.  Instead you find this key. It was just a key.  Nothing special about it.  But when her fingers touched it she automatically grasped it, glanced over her shoulder and hid it in her fist like a child sneaking away with stolen candy. Very interesting beginning. Is she a prostitute? An agent? And why does she take a key that does not belong to her? Hmm...must read more!
           Twenty minutes, money exchanged, and an awkward hug/cheek kiss good-bye she was finally able to get a good look at her stolen treasure. She leaned against a battered guard rail under a flickering florescent light in the building’s basement parking garage, and slowly unfurled her tightly clasped fist.  
           The weird pinkish yellow light seemed to be absorbed by the thick brass key cupped in her hand, giving it an odd greenish color.  It was about three inches long, fairly freshly cut, or rather, not used much. She felt the raw edges scrape over her callused fingertips as she twisted it around and around.  There weren't any distinguishing markings on it but she couldn’t seem to put it away, turning it over and over in her chilled fingers. Anoria raked her long, tangled hair out of her eyes and hunched her shoulders deeper into her threadbare navy pea coat.  Idly, her fingers twisted the key around again, rubbing it between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. What was that groove in the head? She brought the key closer to her eyes, moving it directly under the unsteady light.
           In the pocket of her coat her cell buzzed. Startled,she jumped and almost dropped the key on the damp pavement.  “Goddamn it!” She muttered halfheartedly, (The exclamation point after goddamnit isn't consistent with the word 'halfheartedly'  - imho. I might lose that word) “What the hell can you possibly want at this time of night, Braedon?” She shoved the key deep in her pocket and wrenched the phone out, flipping it open. Text message.  Sender Blocked.  

           “What the hell…?”  Curious, she hit the open key.  Two words blipped onto the screen.  

          “Look Up.”  

         

Really loved this beginning. If I had picked this book up in the store I would've already been on my way to the checkout counter. Happily. The only thing I'd watch is if when you're writing close third, be careful how much personal info (threadbare coat) you use since your character wouldn't be thinking of those things (the hair yes, because it's in her way). She might try to hide the frayed edges of her coat so no one else would notice but I don't think she'd be noticing or thinking of the threadbare coat after having stolen a key or while she's inspecting it. Does that make sense?

Anyway, really not too much to crit here. There's great voice and even though I know very little about this character I am very interested to see what's going to happen next. Now, what do you guys think? Would you read on? Do tell :)

Zulu

In the phonetic alphabet, Zulu represents the letter Z. The Zulu Kingdom was a monarchy in Southern Africa that extended along the coast of the Indian Ocean from the Tugela River in the South to Pongola River in the north. The small kingdom grew to dominate much of Southern Africa until it came into conflict with the British Empire in the 1870s during the Anglo-Zulu War where it was ultimately defeated.

Today the Zulu people are the largest ethnic group in South Africa, with an estimated 10–11 million people living mainly in the province of KwaZulu-Natal. Their language, Zulu, is a Bantu language. Under apartheid, Zulu people were classed as third-class citizens and suffered from state-sanctioned discrimination. Today they are the most numerous ethnic group in South Africa, and now have equal rights along with all other citizens.