Critiquing in the Summer

Hi everyone, this month we’re looking at how we make it through the summer to get our writing done and our critiquing. It can be tough to  find time to critique when the kids are home for the summer. Here is how we both handle those lazy, crazy, wonderful days of summer.

Sue’s Comments

Ah, summer time. The kids are out of school, family visits, vacations are being planned and time to write and critique not only your own work but the people in your critique group has gone out the window.

So what to do.  Well, in one of our critique groups we simply stopped meeting for our regular breakfast once a week and decided to critique on-line.  But that hasn’t really worked out too well, as there is no “deadline” of when to send our stuff to the group.

We could critique and edit our own work either early in the morning or late at night when the family is sleeping and the house quiet...but that doesn’t work too well either, as by nighttime, we’re usually too tired and early morning work requires a lot of discipline...

Discipline to set the darn alarm, get up without waking anyone up, make the coffee and actually settle down at the computer.

So here is our list of how to critique and survive the summer:

1 - Don’t give up your group. Go on line if you have to or exchange morning meetings at different members’ homes and all pitch in for a baby sitter if needed.

2 - At the “last” meeting before the summer starts, have everyone bring their calendars... we don’t mean those little ones in your check book or small notebook… but the big ones you live and die by.  Map out the meetings and get everyone to agree on the dates.  If you plan the whole summer you can then work around your meetings instead of the other way around.

3 - Learn to critique in other places.  Several of my favorite places are the doctor’s or dentist’s offices, the dog park, before dinner when the cooking is under control, or even at the pool while watching the kids’ swimming meet.

It’s important to think of yourself as a writer and be disciplined. It’s the discipline that will get you published. Long ago when I was an editor of a national magazine and worked with beginning writers, I learned that to get published it is better to work with a writer who can get their work in on time and is disciplined to understand edits and editorial comments than to work with a supremely talented writer who wanted to do it only her way.  Grin.  Slow and steady is the name of the game or so said the tortoise.

Becky’s Comments

            For me, summer is actually a good time to get caught up. It’s fun to get out of the house, but I always take a notebook or laptop with me, even if it’s just to eat lunch out or have coffee. I’ve heard best selling mystery writers Harlan Coben and John Sandford talk about how they regularly write over dinners out or at coffee shops and I’ve been doing the same thing for years. Those outside venues can be a good way to break up the normal sit-at-the-office-desk routine.

Yes, there can be a problem with discipline in the summer. For instance, things seem to move slower, whether you’re waiting to hear from publishers or trying to get your own work done. It’s harder to concentrate when there is the daily lure of getting outside to do all the things you can’t do during the winter.

            When it comes to the critique process, I regularly work with an online critique group and the way we handle the summer months is by giving members a pass during the weeks when they are on vacation. If they want to critique while they’re out of town—which I normally do—they can, but they can also skip sending material or skip critiquing for that one go-round.

            We have five people in our group and we have set up certain days every month to send in our material—the 15^th and the 30^th. On those dates we email 10-15 pages of our work and then everyone has one week to finish the critique and send it back. This way we have a definite deadline that everyone needs to meet on a regular basis. Keeping that sort of schedule and a fixed deadline can keep the critique group working, even during the summer. 

            Deadlines are an important part of critiquing. Knowing that you have a certain number of pages to finish by the next week or in two weeks can help keep your productivity up. If you’re too busy to get your group or partner’s pages read, then let the group know you need to skip a round. It’s usually easier to work that out than to stress over the pages or drop the group all together.

            As I mentioned, when I go on vacation, I still continue to critique. Since I got my first laptop 14 years ago, I have never traveled without my laptop, even if it’s for a couple of days only. Sitting in airports is a good time to work on edits or critiques, and there is all that time while you’re in the air with nothing to do.

            There are always times and places to critique, so enjoy the summer, but don’t lose sight of your writing goals!

We would love to hear from all of you as to how you manage editing and critiquing in the summer months.  Drop us a note at writethatnovel@gmail.com and let us know how you do it...

This month’s critique

Red CAPS are from Sue... while blue CAPS are from Becky

Here is the scene.

Grace strolled out of the bathroom into the bedroom clothed in a drift of L’air du Temps and nothing else.  Anointed between her thighs, her breasts and at the pulse in her throat, she went up to the bed and leaned over Simon.

He lay on his back, asleep, his spiky black eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks.  They could have a daughter with those same astonishing eyelashes.  She stood quietly waiting for her perfume to reach out to him.  He stirred.  She bent closer and whispered, “Simon, wake up.”

His eyes, slitted against the light, widened at the sight of her breasts swaying above his face.  He raised a hand and caressed her.

“What’s that perfume?” he asked.  “Something new?  I don’t remember--”

“Shh.”  She tossed the sheet aside and straddled him.  Ignoring the stubble on his chin, she kissed his lips, and when he was ready, eased her way slowly into the connection they both loved.

Later, spread-eagled on his back with Grace lying curled against him, he glanced over at her and grinned.  “That was quite an eye opener.  Better than coffee.”

“Speaking of which.”

“Not so soon.  I’m ready for an encore.”

Good, she thought.  Good.  Today’s the day.  As he lifted himself over her and began anew, a question leapt into her mind.  What would he say when she told him she’d stopped taking the pill?

#   #   #

            Afterward, in the townhouse kitchen with its stainless steel countertops and the high-tech appliances Simon had chosen, she measured out coffee grounds, sprinkled them into the basket and carefully poured four cups of water into the Cuisinart.  She hated wasting water, and they rarely drank more than two cups apiece.

            From the refrigerator, she took out orange juice, bagels, and cream cheese for a quick breakfast.  Even so, they’d be late getting to the office.  But she didn’t regret a minute, and as she worked, a robe sashed loosely around her waist, her copper hair held high with a clip, she let her mind replay the morning.

Simon knew how to make love to a woman.  He knew all the right buttons to press, all the secret places that made her want to scream.  He brought out everything she had to give—every time.  What more could she ask of him?

A child. 

They both agreed to wait before starting a family—to get to know each other better, enjoy a carefree life for a while, ski, sail, work on their careers, honeymoon.  But playtime was over.  Her biological clock was ticking.  Not fast, maybe, but ticking nonetheless. 

The bagel popped up.  She rescued it from the toaster and slathered it with cream cheese.  But whenever she started talking of babies and her longing for one, Simon changed the subject.  And he wouldn’t tell her why.  Lord knows, she’d asked why often enough.  Too often.

SUE’S COMMENTS

A FAIRLY WELL-DONE SCENE...BUT IT NEEDS MUCH MORE EMOTION...THIS IS A BIGGIE...BEING OFF THE PILL...SO I NEED MORE EMOTIONAL REACTIONS AND INTERNAL REACTIONS FROM HER.

A FEW WORD CHOICES... DELETE A FEW TAGS AND WATCH THE TENSES... BE CAREFUL WITH THE CHOREOGRAPHY.. AND NEED ANSWERS TO SEVERAL QUESTIONS...

OTHER WISE, A NICE SCENE.  SUE

Grace strolled out of the bathroom into the bedroom clothed in a  NOT SURE THIS WORD WORKS... I KNOW YOU MEAN SURROUNDING HER, BUT DRIFT DOESN’T DO IT.. of L’air du Temps and nothing else.   ALSO DOESN’T WORK, AT LEAST FOR ME.... HOW ABOUT  “A DAB” between her thighs, her breasts and at the pulse in her throat, she went up to the bed and leaned over Simon. NEED A DESCRIPTION HERE... SATIN SHEETS, CALIFORNIA SIZE BED, ETC.

He lay on his back, asleep, his spiky black eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks.  They could have a daughter with those same astonishing eyelashes. AND WHAT... SHE WOULD BE GORGEOUS   She stood I THOUGHT SHE WAS LEANING OVER HIM??? quietly waiting for her perfume to reach out  AND SURROUND HIM.  He stirred.  She bent closer and whispered, “Simon, wake up.”

His eyes, slitted against the light, widened at the sight of her breasts swaying above his face. SO NOW SHE’S BACK TO LEANING He raised a hand and caressed her. WHAT PART OF HER???? GRIN...

“What’s that perfume?”   YOU DON’T NEED THE TAG AS WE KNOW IT HAS TO BE SIMON THAT IS TALKING...“Something new?  I don’t remember--”

“Shh.”  She tossed the sheet aside OKAY...IF THE SHEET IS THERE, WHERE IS IT??? and straddled him.  Ignoring the stubble on his chin, she kissed his lips, and when he was ready, eased her way slowly into the connection they both loved. NICE

Later, spread-eagled on his back with Grace lying curled against  HIS SIDE, he grinned.  “That was quite an eye opener.  Better than coffee.”

“Speaking of which.”

“Not so soon.  I’m ready for an encore.”

Good, she thought.  Good. NEED A MORE EXCITING WORD...GOOD IS A BIT MILD FOR WHAT SHE IS DOING... Today’s the day.

(NEW PARAGRAPH) As he TURNED AND lifted himself over her and began anew, a question leapt into her mind.  What would he say when she told him she’d stopped taking the pill?

#   #   # THESE NEED TO GO IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LINE

#   #   #

            Afterward, in the townhouse kitchen with its stainless steel countertops and the high-tech appliances Simon had chosen, she measured out coffee grounds,(DELETE-sprinkled them) into the basket and carefully poured four cups of water into the Cuisinart.  She hated wasting water, and they rarely drank more than two cups apiece. SO WHY DID SHE MAKE FOUR CUPS????

            From the refrigerator, she took out orange juice, bagels, and cream cheese for a quick breakfast.  Even so, they’d be late getting to the office.  But she didn’t regret a minute, and as she worked, a robe sashed loosely around her waist, her copper hair held high with a clip, she let her mind replay the morning.

Simon knew how to make love to a woman.  He knew all the right buttons to press, all the secret places that made her want to scream.  He brought out everything she had to give—every time.  What more could she ask of him?

A child.

YES, A CHILD...   THIS IS QUITE AN EMOTIONAL MOMENT... NEED TO PLAY IT UP MORE...

They’D both agreed to wait before starting a family—to get to know each other better, enjoy a carefree life for a while, ski, sail, work on their careers, honeymoon.  But playtime was over.  Her biological clock was ticking.  Not fast, maybe, but ticking nonetheless. MAYBE A BIT MORE HERE... DO WE KNOW HER AGE AT THIS POINT IN THE STORY??? 

The bagel popped.  She rescued it from the toaster and slathered it with cream cheese.  But whenever she  TALKED of babies and her longing for one, Simon changed the subject.  And he wouldn’t tell her why.  Lord knows, she’d asked why often enough.  Too often.

BECKY’S COMMENTS

            THIS IS A GOOD PASSAGE THAT PROVIDES SOME GOOD INSIGHT INTO THE HEROINE. IT SHOWS WONDERFUL FLASHES OF EMOTION, BUT WE DEFINITELY NEED MORE. SHE IS MAKING SOME BIG INTERNAL DECISIONS HERE AND THEY SHOULD BE SHARED WITH THE READER.

Grace strolled out of the bathroom into the bedroom clothed ONLY in a CLOUD (DELETE drift ) of L’air du Temps and nothing else.  Anointed between her thighs, her breasts and at the pulse in her throat, (THIS READS LIKE A DANGLING MODIFIER AND SOUNDS CONFUSING SO IT SHOULD PROBABLY BE CHANGED OR CLARIFIED.—PERHAPS SAY ANOINTED WITH THE PERFUME BETWEEN…ETC) she went up to the bed and leaned over Simon.

He lay on his back, asleep, his spiky black eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks. 

(NEW PARAGRAPH BECAUSE WE ARE GETTING HER REACTION TO HIM.) They could have a daughter with those same astonishing eyelashes.  She stood quietly waiting for her perfume to reach out to him. (HOW LONG? SECONDS? MINUTES?)  He stirred.  She bent closer and whispered, “Simon, wake up.”

His eyes, slitted against the light, widened at the sight of her breasts swaying above his face.  He raised a hand and caressed her. (WHERE? WHAT PART OF HER DOES HE TOUCH?)

HE INHALED. “What’s that perfume? (DELETE ” He asked.) Something new?  I don’t remember--”

“Shh.”  She tossed the sheet aside and straddled him.  Ignoring the stubble on his chin, she kissed his lips, and when he was ready, eased her way slowly into the connection they both loved.

Later, spread-eagled on his back with Grace lying curled against him, he glanced over at her and grinned.  “That was quite an eye opener.  Better than coffee.”

“Speaking of which.” (DOES SHE MOVE HERE? PERHAPS START TO SIT UP?)

“Not so soon.  I’m ready for an encore.” (ANY PHYSICAL REACTION FROM HIM?)

Good, she thought.  Good.  Today’s the day. (ITALICIZE HER DIRECT THOUGHTS) As he lifted himself over her and began anew, a question leapt into her mind.  What would he say when she told him she’d stopped taking the pill?

#   #   #

            Afterward, in the townhouse kitchen with its stainless steel countertops and the high-tech appliances Simon had chosen, she measured (DELETE-out) coffee grounds, sprinkled them into the basket and carefully poured four cups of water into the Cuisinart.  She hated wasting water, and they rarely drank more than two cups apiece.

            From the refrigerator, she took out orange juice, bagels, and cream cheese for a quick breakfast. (DELETE Even so)  They’d be late getting to the office, but she didn’t regret a minute. (DELETE- and) As she worked, a robe TIED (DELETE-sashed) loosely around her waist, her copper hair held high with a clip, she let her mind replay the morning.

Simon knew how to make love to a woman.  He knew all the right buttons to press, all the secret places that made her want to scream.  (MADE HER WANT TO SCREAM? OR DID HE MAKE HER SCREAM?) He brought out everything she had to give—every time.  What more could she ask of him?

A child. 

They both agreed to wait before starting a family—to get to know each other better, enjoy a carefree life for a while, ski, sail, work on their careers, honeymoon.  But playtime was over.  Her biological clock was ticking.  Not fast, maybe, but ticking nonetheless.  (MAYBE ADD SOMETHING HERE ABOUT SHE FELT SHE NEEDED TO GET MOVING ON THE BABY NOW – ADD SOME OF HER FEELINGS TOO SINCE SHE IS IN ESSENCE BETRAYING THEIR AGREEMENT)

The bagel popped up.  She rescued it from the toaster and slathered it with cream cheese.  (DELETE-But) Whenever she started talking of babies and her longing for one, Simon changed the subject.  And he wouldn’t tell her why.  Lord knows, she’d asked why often enough.  Too often.  (AGAIN, WE NEED MORE OF HER FEELINGS)

Thanks to this month's writer. We'll be sending you a story board chart. If you would like to have a few paragraphs critiqued on our blog, or if there is work you'd like us to look over, please email us at writethatnovel@gmail.com and if your piece is used on our blog we'll send you a storyboard to use in your plotting.

We'd also like to hear more on how you critique in the summer or during busy times, so please leave a comment.

The Benefits of Brainstorming

In our initial blog on critiquing, we mentioned some of the benefits of having critique partners or being in a critique group. One of them was having someone to use as a sounding board when you are having trouble with your work. That can also work in other ways.

 One of the great benefits of having a critique relationship is that you should be working with someone who knows your work and understands what you write and what you’re trying to accomplish. That’s why when you come up with a new idea, that person or that group can help you think things through even before you start to write.

Yes, we’re talking about brainstorming.

At lunch with several other Heart of Denver writers, the subject of brainstorming came up and one writer lamented the lack of having someone with whom they could discuss their stories. Writing is a lonely occupation and it’s good to have that sounding board every so often.

Is this idea too daring?

Would this plot device work?

Why isn’t this scene working?

What if I want to try something totally different?

That is where the critique partner or group can help. In our own critique group, we came up with an idea of having a plotting and brainstorming day where everyone comes armed with ideas for their stories and then the group sits down and tosses everything around. Hopefully by the end of the day, everyone goes away with something new to work on.

There were four of us, and we decided each person would get a little over an hour in which all of us would work on one writer’s idea. 

We put aside our normal meeting place and got together in one of the gal’s home—her  her dining room to be exact ( though we’ve also done it in a library study room)—where we could all sit in comfort, have drinks and perhaps a sandwich, and spent several hours going through each other’s plots and characters.

The only tools necessary were a big dry erase board, sticky notes and a clear head filled with creative ideas.

One person would start with an opening idea of what she wanted to write about and then everyone could toss out their ideas. The person whose book it was would write them down and we would put them up on the board. Nothing was off the table and we came up with a variety of ideas.  We put the ideas up on the board with the sticky notes, so they could be moved around.  Soon we had the notes arranged into a workable/suitable plot.  We even went so far as to create specific scenes. When the hour was up the plot had come to life.

Now you might think that it would make more sense to put them into your computer as the ideas come up. That would allow for moving them around or making quick changes. The benefit of putting them up on the board was that everyone could easily see them all at once. And using sticky notes was good because they were easy to move around or to tear down if you thought something wasn’t going to work.

Having the meeting at a house worked well because we could get up, walk around and then come back and take another look at the board. The same is true for a library study room. The idea is to have it in an area where you can move around, take your time and think. Stand for a while, sit for a while, drink coffee, stretch, and stretch your brains with new ideas.

When we were finished with one person, she would take down the sticky notes—in order—and then put them into her computer for use later or to re-arrange later at home. We’d then move on to the next person and begin a new story.

The fun part is this can get you new ideas and totally different suggestions for your story that you, sitting alone at your computer, would never have thought of. But it can also help to get your own creative juices flowing. Later as you write the ideas into your computer or put them down on paper in logical order you might have even more ideas that you can use. You might also come up with some new ideas for your own story as you help out the others.

And that brings us to this month’s piece we are critiquing – we were sent a piece by one of our students who wanted us to take a look at her work. She is trying something a little different and wanted our take on what she is doing. Again, this is a good reason for having a critique partner or group. They can look over what you are writing and not only critique the writing, but see if your intent works.

She is writing this from the villain’s point of view—the intruder and has to be careful not to let the reader know that person’s sex.

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

The thick Aubusson rug muffled all sound as the lone intruder entered the dimly lit main salon of the city’s most exclusive coutourier, Mon Chèrie. Oil paintings depicting nineteenth-century New Orleans hung on cream-colored walls. Delicate spindle-legged tables held Tiffany lamps. Brocaded love seats were arranged for clients to enjoy crystal glasses of champagne while being shown rich fabrics and silks. An archway with tied-back burgundy velvet drapes led into a world of exquisite lace-edged lingerie and Mon Chèrie’s signature Fleur-de-Lis lotions, bath oils and perfume.

The intruder smiled with smug satisfaction. Soon, very very soon, all of this will finally be in the hands of its proper heir.

The ormolu clock on the Adams mantel chimed twice. The intruder hurried to the office in the back of the shop. Turning up the desk lamp, impatient fingers tapped upon the desk’s smooth mahogany surface while waiting for the computer to boot up. When the Quicken icon appeared, triumph gleamed in the intruder’s eyes, but was quickly replaced by fury.

Damn , damn, damn, I should have known those two would have it protected. Okay, think. What would they use for a password? The top of the desk was clear, other than for a small stack of fabric swatches. The desk drawers were neat and orderly. No help.

The intruder began to pace nervously. Okay, neither Caterine nor the old lady would keep valuable information on just the computer. There had to be printouts. The file cabinet was next. Each drawer was yanked open and the folders pawed through. Come on, it has to be somewhere. Having found nothing, the intruder kicked the bottom drawer shut.

Hands balled into fists, the intruder began to shake. I need to see those God damned account files. A safe. There has to be a safe. The intruder began to search the room frantically. When a wall safe was finally discovered behind a painting of a riverboat, the intruder smiled with satisfaction. Seeing the safe had a combination lock, the intruder hissed through gritted teeth, God damn, God damn, God damn, I hate both those bitches.

Spotting a photograph of a pretty blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman standing beside a distinguished older woman as they accepted an award, the intruder picked it up intending to smash it against the wall. Startled by the buzz of an incoming fax, the intruder let the photograph slip through trembling fingers to land with a thump on the thick rug.

Okay, okay, I have to calm down and be clear headed. There have to be other ways of getting the information I need. If things go according to plan, everything I want will soon be at my fingertips. A malevolent smile crept across the intruder’s face as the photograph was replaced intact. One of you will be dead and the other getting what she deserves. Yes, soon it would all fall into place. I just have to be very clever and bide my time. As the lamp was switched off, the last flicker of light illuminated the intruder’s cold and deadly eyes.

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

Becky’s comments are in blue, Sue’s are in red.

The thick Aubusson rug muffled all sound as the lone intruder crept (delete entered—this verb needs to be more descriptive) the dimly lit main salon of the city’s most exclusive coutourier, Mon Chèrie.

(need a reaction here. Did the intruder catch his/her breath? Think Beautiful, perhaps?)

Oil paintings depicting nineteenth-century New Orleans hung on cream-colored walls. Delicate spindle-legged tables held Tiffany lamps. Brocaded love seats were arranged for clients to enjoy crystal glasses of champagne while being shown rich fabrics and silks. An archway with tied-back burgundy velvet drapes led into a world of exquisite lace-edged lingerie and Mon Chèrie’s signature Fleur-de-Lis lotions, bath oils and perfume.

The intruder smiled with smug satisfaction.

(new paragraph) Soon, very very-delete soon, all of this will finally be in the hands of its proper heir.

The ormolu clock on the Adams mantel chimed twice. The intruder hurried to the office in the back of the shop. Turning up the desk lamp, impatient fingers tapped (upon—delete) the desk’s smooth mahogany surface while waiting for the computer to boot up. When the Quicken icon appeared, triumph gleamed in the intruder’s eyes only to be replaced by fury. (but was quickly replaced by fury.-delete)

Damn , damn, damn, I should have known those two would have it protected. Okay, think. What would they use for a password?

(new paragraph) The top of the desk was clear, other than for a small stack of fabric swatches. The desk drawers were neat and orderly. No help.

The intruder began to pace. (Nervously-delete not necessary – pace denotes being nervous).

Okay, neither Caterine nor the old lady would keep valuable information on just the computer. There had to be printouts. The file cabinet was next. Each drawer was yanked open and the folders pawed through.

(new paragraph) Come on, it has to be somewhere. Having found nothing, the intruder kicked the bottom drawer shut. (no paragraph) Hands balled into fists, the intruder began to shake.

(new paragraph) I need to see those God damned account files. A safe. There has to be a safe.

(new paragraph) The intruder began to search the room frantically. When a wall safe was finally discovered behind a painting of a riverboat, the intruder smiled. (with satisfaction-delete or change, did that earlier). Seeing the safe had a combination lock, the intruder hissed through gritted teeth.

God damn, God damn, God damn, I hate both those bitches.

Spotting a photograph of a pretty blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman standing beside a distinguished older woman as they accepted an award, the intruder picked it up intending to smash it against the wall. Startled by the buzz of an incoming fax, the intruder let the photograph slip through trembling fingers to land with a thump on the thick rug.

Okay, okay, I have to calm down and be clear headed. There have to be other ways of getting the information I need. If things go according to plan, everything I want will soon be at my fingertips.

A malevolent smile crept across the intruder’s face as the photograph was replaced intact.

 One of you will be dead and the other getting what she deserves.

(new paragraph) Yes, soon it would all fall into place.

I just have to be very clever and bide my time.

(new paragraph) As the lamp was switched off, the last flicker of light illuminated the intruder’s cold and deadly eyes.

 (This scene works for what it’s intended to do, but it is a long passage with just one person doing everything and much of it in thought. One way to make it move quicker is to break up some of the action into shorter paragraphs, as though the thoughts are dialogue—which in a way, they are--internal dialogue. )

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

As I read this scene my first thought was...what is the author trying to tell us?  Right, the intruder wants something so s/he can have his/her revenge, but I think there is more to it, as we are hearing the intruder’s thoughts.  So what can we learn from both the thoughts and the actions... is the guy/gal really that stupid that s/he would leave behind evidence that s/he had been there?

I want the intruder to be smart...very smart... as smart killers are much more interesting... so I have tried to make this person a bit more intelligent....

I also had a lot of questions.. they are marked in yellow ....for the writer to think about...not all need to be answered, but as a reader I was curious...

The thick Aubusson rug muffled all sound as the lone intruder  cautiously entered the dimly lit main salon of the city’s most exclusive coutourier, Mon Chèrie. Now with everyone know what a “coutourier” is...???  Oil paintings depicting nineteenth-century New Orleans hung on cream-colored walls. Delicate spindle-legged tables held Tiffany lamps. Brocaded love seats were strategically arranged so the clients could enjoy crystal glasses of champagne while being shown rich fabrics and silks. An archwaywith tied-back burgundy velvet drapes led into a world of exquisite lace-edged lingerie and Mon Chèrie’s signature Fleur-de-Lis lotions, bath oils and perfume.

The intruder smiled with smug satisfaction. Soon, very soon, all of this will finally be in the hands of its proper heir. (Okay...here’s one of my questions...this implies that this person is not doing it for him/herself. So it this is true, we need a hint as to why this person would do this for someone else...)

The ormolu clock on the Adams mantel chimed twice breaking the deep silence of the rooms

The intruder hurried though the show rooms (this also implies that the person came in the front door...if this is so, how?  did s/he have a key?) to the office in the back of the shop. Turning up the desk lamp, this implies that the lamp is on... no one that I know leaves an office lamp on at night... impatient fingers drummed is a bit more powerful upon the desk’s smooth mahogany surface waiting for the computer to boot up. When the Quicken icon appeared, triumph gleamed in the intruder’s eyes, but was quickly replaced by fury.  this is all telling...show me how s/he feels. 

Damn , damn, damn, pretty luke warm swear words for a nasty person...once again giving me, the reader a hint that this is a woman. I should have known it would be protected.  Okay, think. What would they use for a password?

The top of the desk was clear, what... how could it be clear if the computer was on top of it??? and it also had a light on it... so this doesn’t work...other than for a small stack of fabric swatches.

One by one the drawers were opened. Damn...no cards, no passwords hidden in them.

The intruder paced let’s change the verb from passive to active.  don’t need the adverb as paced implies nervous....Okay, neither Caterine nor the old lady would keep valuable information on just the computer. There had to be printouts.

The tall file cabinet against the far wall was next.

Each drawer was yanked open and the folders pawed through. Come on, it has to be somewhere. (Question... here is where you can give the reader a clue about the intruder... if s/he doesn’t want to be found out, then the papers and files have to be put back carefully so no one will know anyone has gone through them...decide..is the person angry and messy, or angry and cautious???? big difference) Having found nothing, the intruder kicked  once again how s/he closes this implies the sex of the person... so you have me confused...kicked is a male action while tip-toeing is a female action...the bottom drawer shut.

Hands balled into fists, (male) the intruder  shook. I need to see those God damned account files. A safe. There has to be a safe. The intruder  searched the room. telling... When a locked wall safe was discovered behind a painting of a riverboat, the intruder  hissed through gritted teeth, God damn, God damn, God damn,    wouldn’t this person wonder where else they might keep this information...

Spotting a photograph of a pretty blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman standing beside a distinguished older woman as they accepted an award, the intruder picked it up intending to smash it against the wall. Startled by the buzz of an incoming fax, would s/he want to see what was on the fax??? the intruder let the photograph slip through trembling fingers to land with a thump on the thick rug.

Okay, okay, I have to calm down. There has to be another way of getting the information  If things go according to plan, everything I want will soon be at my fingertips. A malevolent smile crept across the intruder’s face as the photograph was replaced intact moving it back to its exact original position on the table/desktop. One of you will be dead and the other getting what she deserves. Yes, soon it would all fall into place. I have to bide my time.

Giving the office one last glance to be sure nothing had been moved the intruder switched off the lamp and stepped out into the cold night knowing what had to be done in the morning. 

Conclusions:

•   short paragraphs will give the reader a sense of urgency

•   active verbs work better

•   need to be sure no hints are given as to the gender of the intruder

•   not so much “telling”... more showing

We welcome your thoughts and comments on our blog and on our critique. We’d also be happy to critique your work. Just mail it to writethatnovel@gmail.com.

The Point of View Dilemma

This month on our critique blog we thought we would talk about POV and in particular the use of the First Person. POV or Point Of View is the voice of the person telling the story. Here’s a quick review:

•   First Person

•   I said

•   The sun sank below the horizon. I’d never seen such vivid colors before and wondered why I didn’t come to the beach more often.

•   Second Person

•   You said

•   You need to come to the beach more often as the sunsets are magnificent.

•   Third Person

•   S/he said

•   As she watched the sun slowly sink below the horizon, she wondered why she hadn’t come to the beach more often.

•   Omniscient

•   God/author said

•   The sun sank slowly below the horizon.  The girl watching looking pleased with the view as if she had never seen a sunset before.

Using the first person narrative is a familiar tool. It has been around as a popular literary device for a long time. Think back -- Charles Dickens used it in such novels as “David Copperfield,” Edgar Allen Poe told most of his mysterious tales in first person. Harper Lee does a great job of describing a young girl’s life in the book, “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Best selling author Harlan Coben often uses first person to make his suspense novels even more intense. First person has long been a  a staple for mystery writers. Raymond Chandler told his Philip Marlowe stories in first person and currently, mystery authors  Sue Grafton, and Janet Evanovich tell their stories in first person.  Robert Crais and Jonathan Kellerman use first person for their sleuths, but third person for sidekicks.  

First person can be very useful for mystery and suspense because the story is only seen through one person’s eyes. That mean that the reader only learns what the hero/heroine knows and sees what that person witnesses. All thoughts come from only one person. That can be useful when the writer doesn’t want the reader to know too much, or to figure things out along with the hero/heroine. It can also make the main character come alive, because the writer is literally living through that person’s life.

On the other hand, it can be limiting too. If the reader doesn’t like the main character or if the main character is not strong enough to sustain the story, the reader is going to be turned off.

Technically, one of the biggest problems facing writers when you use first person, is in fact, first person.  Since there is only one point of view, everything has to be in that person’s mind.  So there are automatically a lot of “I’s”...

As a person doing a critique of someone’s work in first person you need to watch for the overuse of  “I.” Sometimes an author will be unaware of doing that. One good way to pick out too many is to read the passage aloud. After a while you will realize how often you’ve heard “I” and it will make it easier to look for.

As a critique partner or in a group, it can be helpful to look for ways to change a sentence to get rid of the extra “I.”  Instead of saying “I saw,” the passage might stand alone. After all the story is being told by the main character so it stands to reason that what he/she saw is what is being described.

Instead of  I saw a tall blonde woman emerge from the car.

Try, A tall blonde woman slid from the car.

Instead of  I heard the phone ring.  No, No!  The phone rang.

These may seem like obvious problems, but too often they get forgotten or ignored by a writer. This is the sort of situation where a good critique partner can help out!

Throughout your critique, though, it is critical to keep the author’s meaning and to keep the author’s—or in this case—the character’s voice.  The author will be telling that character’s story through that character’s voice. It’s the job of a good critique partner not to try to change that voice, especially when you’re dealing with first person.

As you can see in the following piece there are too many I’s...so the problem for the critique is to figure out how to eliminate some of them, yet still keep the POV in the voice of the one storyteller. We’ve marked the I’s with pale yellow.

           

            “You need to die.”

            I stopped clearing the table and glanced over at the next one.  My station.  Great.  Another weirdo.  Full moon coming around the corner. There was a little man sitting alone. 

            The baseball game on the large screen televisions was loud, so I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.

            “Excuse me?”  I asked, staring into the oddest green-blue eyes.  Must be contacts.

            He smiled benignly.  He almost looked amused.  Almost.

            I checked his ears, perhaps a cell phone?  Bluetooth?  My eyes widened. Those were some seriously large ears.  Very large.  Bigger than Mr. Spock’s for sure.

            His smile faded, his glaze, glaring.

            “Were you speaking to me?”  I set my tray down, stepped over to his table and pulled my order pad and pen from my apron pocket.

            “You need to die.”  The little fella spoke again.  He was wearing a fedora, which I had to admit did look good on him, and the smallest trench coat I’d ever seen.

            I frowned.  Why was he wearing a coat?  It was summer.  Baseball season.  I didn’t think he could hide a weapon in those tiny pockets, but gathered my courage.

            “Well, we all die at some point, don’t we?”  Positioning my pen, I asked, “So, what can I get you?  The ‘burgers are mouth watering and the shakes are to die for…”  I pulled up short.  What was it with this dying thing?  I collected my thoughts, this guy was rattling me after all.  “And the nachos are really…”

            “I need a demon dream slayer.”

            I paused, and looked up from my writing.  “You want what?  A demon dream slayer?  I’m not familiar with that.  Is it a drink?  If you tell me what is in it, I’m sure our bar guy can make it for you.”

            I expected him to explain but he just returned my look.

            Growing irritated, I took a deep breath and smiled.  “Well,” I stepped back to see him sitting in the chair, swinging both his legs.  His little legs didn’t even touch the nutshell covered floor.  I squinted.  And those little legs were attached in tiny little webbed feet.  Webbed?  Feet?

            “You aren’t wearing shoes.”  I told him, looking up.  “Did you not read the sign on the door?  No shirt, no shoes, no service.  That’s the rules buddy.”

            He smiled and wiggled in toes.  “The sign in not for me.”

            His voice was beginning to slur a bit.  I looked at him.  I mean really looked at him.  His color was kind of gray green and I wondered if he was okay.  I wasn’t a nurse and didn’t know anything about medicine, but I  watched ‘ER’ on TV.

            “Are you alright?  You want something from the bar or grill?  Maybe call an ambulance or some oxygen?”  I was getting impatient and wanted to get away from this guy.

            “Siri!  Table two!”  My boss, Tom yelled from behind the bar.

            I waved my hand letting him know I heard.  My customers were getting rowdy and hungry.  I needed to finish with this fella and move on.  I was tired.  I had a day off tomorrow and wanted to sleep for a month.

            “I can help you with that.”  The little gray man said.

In this scene, there are 33 “I’s.”  Two don’t count as they are said by the other person.

So, about 15% of the story, so far, is centered around the story teller who we know nothing about. Is it a male or a female?  Age? We can’t tell. Well maybe we can, as the boss calls her “Siri,” but to my mind this could also be a name from a foreign country that could be for either sex. So, is the story teller young, old, tall, short, fat, skinny or even a human?  We can’t tell.            

Let’s see if we can get rid a few of the “I’s” and also learn a bit more about the storyteller.

Sue’s comments are in RED and Becky’s thoughts are in BLUE

           

            “You need to die.”

            The comment came from a tiny man sitting next to the restaurant’s window as I stopped to pick up a tip from a vacant table.  The full harvest moon gave him an eerie appearance and the blaring baseball game on the large screen television muffled his words.

            “Excuse me?”  I stared into the oddest green-blue eyes. 

            He smiled benignly. 

            Almost amused. 

            Almost.

            Was his cell phone set on speaker?  Bluetooth? Is that what I heard? Looking around, no phone.

            But large ears.  Very large.  Bigger than Mr. Spock’s.

            His smile faded, his glaze, glaring.

            “Were you speaking to me?”  Setting my tray down, I stepped over to his table and pulled my order pad and pen from my blue checkered apron pocket.

            “You need to die.” Strong harsh words. 

            Terrible words aimed directly at me. Was he a crazy? Did he really mean me harm? Stepping back a bit, I took a good look at him.

             He had on a green fedora slightly pushed to the side and a dark brown trench coat. Was he a midget? No wait, they call themselves “little people.”

             Why was he wearing so many clothes?  It was summer.  Did he have a gun or a knife hidden beneath that coat? A tinge of fear crawled through me.

            Gathering my courage I smiled.         

“Well, we all die at some point, don’t we?   So, what would you like?  The burgers are mouth watering and the shakes are to die for…”

            Stop.

            Do not use words that mentioned dying.

            This guy was rattling me.  “And the nachos are really…”

            “I need a demon dream slayer,” his low voice sent more shivers through my body.

            “You want what?  A demon dream slayer?  Not familiar with that.  Is it a drink?  If you tell me what is in it, our bar guy can make it for you.”

            Waiting for him to explain he just returned my look and turned in the chair.

            Taking a deep breath I saw that his legs didn’t touch the nutshell covered floor. And those little legs were attached to tiny webbed feet.  Webbed?  Feet?

            Confusion swept through my mind. Who was this guy? An escapee from the circus?

            “You aren’t wearing shoes. Did you not read the sign on the door?  No shirt, no shoes, no service.  That’s the rules buddy.”

            He smiled and wiggled in toes.  “The sign in not for me.”

            His voice began to slur, his words running together.

            Drunk.

            Intoxicated.

            His face was gray green. Was he going to throw-up?

            I took another step back. “Are you alright?  You want something from the bar or grill?  Maybe an ambulance or some oxygen?” 

            I was tired.

            And this creature was almost more than I could handle.

            Being the only woman waitress in an Irish bar took all my energy.

            Tomorrow was my day off and I wanted to sleep for a month.

            “I can help you with that.”  The little gray man said.

Okay we are down to eight I’s...so from 33, subtracting the 8 we now have, we’ve gotten rid of 25.... And we now know the storyteller is a woman, a tired waitress in an Irish pub and the time period is the fall of the year.

Here is also an example of why it pays to have your work critiqued by several people. Some partners will look at a story one way, while the other partner might zero in on different problems.

“You need to die.”

            I stopped clearing the table and glanced over at the next one.  My station.  Great.  Another weirdo.  Full moon coming around the corner.  A little man sat alone. 

            The baseball game on the large screen television was loud. Maybe I hadn’t heard him correctly.

            “Excuse me?”

            He smiled benignly.  His green blue eyes were an odd shade. Must be contacts.

 He almost looked amused.  Almost.  

I checked his ears for  [delete perhaps] a cell phone.   Bluetooth?  My eyes widened. Those were some seriously large ears.  Very large.  Bigger than Mr. Spock’s for sure.

            His smile faded, his glaze, glaring.

            “Were you speaking to me?”  I set my tray down, stepped over to his table and pulled order pad and pen from my apron pocket.

            “You need to die,”  The little fella repeated. He was wearing a fedora, which [delete I have to admit  ] did look good on him and the smallest trench coat I’d ever seen.

            [Delete -I frowned.]  Why was he wearing a coat?  It was summer.  Baseball season. Could he have a weapon in those tiny pockets? No, too small.

“Well, we all die at some point, don’t we?”  I gathered my courage and postioned my pen. “So, what can I get you?  The ‘burgers are mouth watering and the shakes are to die for…”  [DeleteI pulled up short]  No, that wasn’t right. What was it with this dying thing?[delete  I collected my thoughts,] This guy was rattling me after all.  “And the nachos are really…”

            “I need a demon dream slayer.”

            I paused, and looked up from my writing.  “You want what?  A demon dream slayer?  I’m not familiar with that.  Is it a drink?  If you tell me what is in it, I’m sure our bar guy can make it for you.”

            He  returned my look without explaining.

            Growing irritated, I took a deep breath,  smiled and took a step  back to see him sitting in the chair, swinging both his legs.  His little legs didn’t even touch the nutshell covered floor.  Huh?  Those little legs were attached in tiny little webbed feet.  Webbed?  Feet?

            “You aren’t wearing shoes. Did you not read the sign on the door?  No shirt, no shoes, no service.  That’s the rules, buddy.”

            He smiled and wiggled his  toes.  “The sign is not for me.”

            His voice was beginning to slur a bit.  I looked at him.   Really looked at him.  His color was kind of gray green. Was he  okay?  I wasn’t a nurse and didn’t know anything about medicine, but  watched ‘ER’ was a favorite  TV program.

            “Are you alright?  You want something from the bar or grill?  Maybe call an ambulance or some oxygen?”  Impatience raced through me. Time to  get away from this guy.

            “Siri!  Table two!”  My boss, Tom yelled from behind the bar.

            I waved my hand letting him know I’d heard.  My customers were getting rowdy and hungry. My head ached almost as bad as my feet.  Exhaustion.  I had a day off tomorrow and wanted to sleep for a month.

            “I can help you with that,” the little gray man said.

In both cases we’ve managed to get rid of a good portion of those “I’s”  The question is - does it read any better? Think about how you might change it.

We welcome your comments and questions on this critique or critiquing in general. Is there anything in particular you would like us to discuss about critique groups and partners?