Showing posts with label Critique. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Critique. Show all posts

Saturday, June 25, 2011

First Page Contest

This is my submission to Victoria Marini’s First Page Contest hosted by Shelly Waters!
Email: andrew.rosenberg at writerunner dot com
Title: Teen Alien
Genre: YA SF
Word Count: 55,000

Will return all critiques! (Make sure you leave a link in your comment)

Revised Submission (Thanks for the input!)

They say before you draw your last breath, your life hits replay.

They never said it could happen after.

Grett Hawk’s eyes stared up at the pale blue sky. Her heart and lungs lay still. A sharp rock spur impaled her belly, her jaw hung to one side, and her knees and elbows bent at impossible angles.

Two mule boys argued above her body, screaming in girlish voices. One grabbed her broken hand and yanked. Her shoulder separated in a sick, painless snap. The other seized her shattered wrist, grinding the cracked bones. They hauled her out of the ravine, over the jagged, blood-smeared rocks that had blendered her body.

Grett could neither move, blink, nor speak, only stare at the solar trees that crowned the ridge top. On Gwanda, trees were dead things, floral simulations. Grett was as dead as those machines, but by some miracle, thoughts still coursed through her head.

Is this what death is like? Grett wondered. She felt night-sky calm, disinterested in the assault that had just claimed her life.

Uninvited holovid-like images impinged her mind, of whips lashing the mules boys while a white-haired girl laughed at their torment. What do they know of suffering? she had thought. Grett’s mother and sister were dead, killed in action by the enemy. Someone had to pay. Someone had to suffer as much as Grett. Why not the dirty mules? They had overturned her mother's shrine with their frivolous play.

If her guts could clench they would.

Original Submission:
They say before you draw your last breath, your life hits replay.

They never said it could happen after.

Grett Hawk’s eyes stared up at the pale blue sky. Her heart and lungs lay still. Ribs jabbed through her side, dislocated jawbones and broken teeth dripped blood down her throat, and guts oozed out of the gash in her belly.

Two mule boys argued above her body, screaming in their girlish voices. One grabbed her broken hand and yanked, separating her shoulder in a sick snap. The other seized her shattered wrist, grinding the cracked bones. They hauled her out of the ravine, over the jagged, blood-smeared rocks that had blendered her body.

Grett could neither move, blink, nor speak, only stare at the solar trees that crowned the ridge top. Like all plants on Gwanda, trees were dead things, machines designed to simulate real trees. Unlike her, they did not have thoughts still running through their heads.

Is this what death is like? Grett wondered. She felt night-sky calm, disinterested in the assault that had just claimed her life.

A vision intruded into her mind’s eye, an image of whips lashing the mule boys until their backs bled. She had laughed at their cries. What did they know of suffering? Her mother and sister were dead, killed in action by the enemy. Someone had to pay. Someone had to hurt as much as Grett. Why not the dirty mules?

Unease electrified as her life replayed across her mind’s canvas.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Critique Freak

Critique Freak

catfight-758695 Okay. I’m going to tell you a little story about what happened during an in-person critique group I attended last night, then at the end, I’m going to introduce you to my “Two Laws of In-Person Critique” that I hope everyone will consider adopting for their own groups. These laws were massively violated with horrible consequences.

I was sitting at a table with two ladies, let’s call them “Mary” and “Sue.” I had not been to this particular group before except as an observer about a year ago. Mary had written a literary piece. It had little plot, but it painted a portrait of three people. It was eloquent, obscure, and a little rambling. But it was “literary,” a genre that I repeatedly told her that I was not very experienced in. My personal observation (that I never really got to tell her) was that it was mostly backstory and that I wanted to know the general conflict of the story before I knew the why’s and wherefore’s. Get me to care about the characters first before explaining them.

But anyways, Sue decided essentially that the piece sucked. It had no plot, it was meaningless, blah blah blah. Mary countered that Sue just didn’t understand, that Mary had X years of teaching creative writing, that the piece we were reading had won an award, and Sue was full of shit. So Sue countered that she can’t believe a creative writing teacher could write such crap. Fun stuff, no? I literally thought it would come to blows. It ended with Mary running off in tears, and when she got home, she wrote a nasty note to the group leader and left the group.

So here are my laws, which hopefully will demonstrate exactly why this ended poorly.

The Two Laws for In-Person Critique

1. Never Defend Your Writing

Here’s what happens: You hear something negative about your piece. Criticism. Disdain. Who wouldn’t want to correct or fix the critiquer’s perception of the piece? So you defend it, arguing that you are correct, and the critiquer is wrong. All that does is make the critiquer fight harder to prove their point. If someone says something blatantly useless about your piece, or has no clue how to critique your genre, just thank them for their effort. Hey, they tried. People come to these groups to improve both their writing and critiquing, and put a lot of effort to try to understand what they’re reading. Sometimes they fail. I myself knew I was highly unqualified to critique this piece. I told Mary many times that I probably wasn’t doing it justice.

Now this doesn’t mean you can’t discuss your piece, or find a way to help the critiquer understand your genre and what you’re trying to accomplish. Just don’t feel you have to defend anything you’ve written. If someone doesn’t like it or understand it…fine. Move on to someone who can truly connect with your writing.

2. The Author is Always Right

I just don’t understand why critiquers have a problem with this concept. The author wrote it the way they wanted to write it. They understand what the story is about, and what they’re trying to accomplish. This is even more important when you only receive a small portion of the entire piece to critique. If you give the author some feedback and they get defensive…don’t try to prove your point. If the author doesn’t “get it”…fine. It’s not your problem. As a critiquer, you’re never going to get to be right about what you’re reading, except in your own head. You have at best an uneducated opinion about something you know little about. Know your place. Now if the author wants to discuss some of your feedback, that’s fine and encouraged. But if the author gets huffy or defensive or argumentative, then move on. It’s not worth it, and an argument helps no one.

Realize that the author has spent countless hours on the piece before you received it, and you’ve probably spent 30 minutes. By offering the piece for review, the author is establish a trust with you that you will do your best but no more. When it’s all said and done, the author is the one who lives with the piece, not you, and they are the one who ultimately determines what works and what doesn’t, not you.

I hope this illustrates what went horribly wrong last night. I’m shocked that someone with literary teaching creds didn’t know how to shake off a poor critique, but Sue just wouldn’t let it go either. I really hope neither shows up again to this group, because I don’t care for the drama. Except that it makes for good blog fodder.

Remember, we’re all in this together.

Saturday, July 31, 2010

Monday, June 22, 2009

Critique Technique Part 2

Critique Technique Part 2

editingdemotivatorfeb07_n I submitted some fairly unedited text to Edittorrent. You can read it here. They did a pretty good job with it, and it’s a good example of what to look for in a critique. BTW everyone, it’s iapetus with an i.

Here is a small bit of background that those editors didn’t have. This is typical for critiques; they usually are considered in the context of the rest of the story:

During a meeting with our villain, Dawn freaks out, feeling something bad is about to happen. She is being transported back to a jail in a van when the ground begins shaking violently. The van tips over and she escapes her captors. She runs through the city, avoiding falling buildings and crumpling streets. She finds some relative safety in an old cemetery. The earthquake grows in intensity, until…

Original line in italics.
Edittorrent comments in normal face.
My comments in BLUE.


Iapetus posted:
A bulge of earth in the distance raced towards her at jet speed. As it passed, the ground ripped upwards, throwing Dawn into the air, almost 15 meters high. The earth threw off the top layers of soil, flinging buried pipes and wires as well as huge chunks of asphalt and concrete into the air. Dawn sailed over the soil, reminded of documentaries where tons of dynamite blew away a wall of material. The earth exploded in every direction. Dawn crashed onto a soft pile of debris and ducked from rain of high-flung rocks and bricks. A couple blocks away, Charlotte’s jewel, the HLSCO HQ building, the huge elegant structure almost a kilometer high, crumpled into itself, imploding in a huge cloud of dust and noise. Dawn spotted her own apartment complex, presumably with her Aunt Rose inside, settling down to the ground in a plume of debris.

"Bulge" seems to me still attached to the earth, not a projectile. Not sure if anyone else felt that way! Or do you mean it was still attached?
This should probably be “A bulge in the earth”
You know, a line of description might clear this up-- however, it's possible only I didn't get it.
I’m going to work on this a little more. With powerful quakes, you can actually see the earth ripple like waves on the ocean. If you watch videos of nukes, you can see this.

Good frenetic feel here, right for an action scene. Yay!

As it passed, the ground ripped upwards, throwing Dawn into the air, almost 15 meters high. The earth threw off the top layers of soil, flinging buried pipes and wires as well as huge chunks of asphalt and concrete into the air.

Maybe earlier say where we are? See if you can sneak it in-- like the bulge of earth ran past a highrise (we're in a city) or a silo (we're in the country).
This is out of context, so we know she’s in a cemetery within the city.

Notice that you've buried the experience of the POV character, in the middle of a line. How close are you to her own feelings? If you're in deep POV, or any kind of personal POV, you'll want to tell how it feels to be flung that way. If you're in omniscient, however, you want to concentrate on the overall scene-- but seeing a person flung into the air might be worth describing. Are her arms flailing, etc?
This is unfortunately typical of how I write drafts, where I just tell everything. :( It’s probably my number one style problem right now.

Dawn sailed over the soil, reminded of documentaries where tons of dynamite blew away a wall of material.

Uh, this doesn't seem to be a real person. She's sailing through the air, and a bulge of earth is pursuing her, and she's thinking about documentaries? Come on. Be in her. Close your eyes and imagine that you are her, and you are there on earth and suddenly you're flung into the air, and there is NOTHING you can do, but you try to do it anyway-- grab at the air, reach down for the earth, anything that can stop your flight. Be in her, and tell us what it feels like, and what you're thinking as you sail through the air to probable death.
I just love that image and I tried to sneak it in. I knew it wouldn’t fly (pun intended :). I’m thinking of rewriting sections in first person to get inside my character, then changing it back to third and see how that works. Or maybe I should go into screenwriting. Nah.

If you want to talk about documentaries, you need to be in omniscient POV, I think.
I think I see the topic of my next blog: what POV should I write in? Because I don’t know, and I’m not getting it right.

Then again, maybe she's a lot cooler under pressure than I am!
The earth exploded in every direction. Dawn crashed onto a soft pile of debris and ducked from rain of high-flung rocks and bricks.
How does it feel to crash? Can she scramble up, look wildly around, and then duck?
Noted. She’s dazed and confused, and of course terrified. This is the most dramatic scene in the novel save the final climactic scene (which makes this look like a walk in the park), so I have my work cut out.

A couple blocks away, Charlotte’s jewel, the HLSCO HQ building, the huge elegant structure almost a kilometer high, crumpled into itself, imploding in a huge cloud of dust and noise.

I like that "almost a kilometer high", and I can really see it "crumpling".
Maybe too many short elements there? The punctuation is right, but so many short elements might be kind of choppy, and the main purpose of the sentence might be lost. Maybe if you get rid of "Charlotte's jewel"? and end the sentence thus:

crumpled into itself and imploded in a cloud of dust and noise.

See what you think--
That sounds better. See? Editors do help. :)

Dawn spotted her own apartment complex, presumably with her Aunt Rose inside, settling down to the ground in a plume of debris.

I'd delete that "presumably" right away, as it bleeds out all your credibility. Come on, this is a novel. You're in charge. Aunt Ruth is there, as far as Dawn knows.
Hmm. I like that thought, that I’m in charge. I do rule this novel! Sometimes authors need a slap in the face.

I live in the Midwest, and we have tornadoes that will mow down a town and then delicately take one car and set it down undented a mile away. So I envision that apartment complex landing intact and just causing a big dustbomb as it lands. What do you mean? Is the apartment complex destroyed? Tell us.
Good idea. It’s a 300+ story complex, taller than the HQ building. It takes a while to fall down, too, like half a minute.

Also, Dawn is not just a camera. What's going on with her? Is she crouched behind a broken shard of concrete, watching helplessly as her home hurtles by and crashes into the cornfield/desert/parking lot?
See that? I don't know where we are-- the verdant farmland, the desert, the suburbs. "Ground" can be on the moon, for all I know. You did mention Charlotte, presumably the North Carolina city and not the girl I went to high school with. But you know, I'm from Virginia, just north of there, and I still want to know-- are those buildings crashing into the mountains? the mall? a lake?
Got it. I make sure the context is clear. Need to get in Dawn’s head. Working on it.

Look for non-informative words. "Ground" says less than "dirt" even. Sneak in info whenever you can without calling too much attention to it. You can almost always replace a generic word like "ground" with something more interesting, like "the North Carolina clay," or "the desert sand," or "the mall parking lot."

Challenge yourself. Find every generic word and see if you can specific it up. :)
Will do.


So I took my own advice, and rewrote it in first person, trying to get into my character’s head:

I staggered over to an old cemetery covered with dust. My throat ached and my eyes watered. I waved the dust away and covered my face with my shirt. My legs trembled, and I felt dizzy and disorientated. I prayed that this terrible vision would stop, that I would wake up in my apartment and everything would be fine, that there wouldn’t be bodies and buildings lying everywhere. The earth kept swaying as if I walked inside a canoe. I trembled with every cry and scream that mingled with the thunder of collapsing buildings, sounding like a rollercoaster that continuously plunged down. My voice keened as I looked around for a safe place, only to find nothing. From my small hill, I looked down past the airport towards the Catawba River. The land over there seemed to rise up in a wave, traveling towards me like a train. The river splashed into the air like someone was fishing with dynamite. Everything in the wave’s path exploded into the air. A plane tumbled into a fireball as it landed. I ducked, covering my head, knowing the wave would hit me in seconds. The ground dipped and then pulsed upwards, throwing me and the very ground I stood on far into the air. I screamed, swimming in tombstones and debris. The dirt blinded and choked me as reached out for anything. I hung in the air like a ragdoll tossed by a child, helpless and frantic, seeing nothing but brown soil flying everywhere.

The dirt collapsed back onto the ground. I landed with a thump on the freshly turned soil while tons of the stuff rained onto my back. A tombstone narrowly missed my head. I gasped for air, my lungs refusing to function. Pain shot through my body from a dozen places as rocks hit me. I pushed myself up before the raining soil could bury me. My head swam from lack of oxygen and I felt faint. As I rose, holding my arms over my head, my blood froze. A couple blocks away, the enormous HLSCO HQ building—where I had just been interrogated—imploded, folding in on itself in a tower of dust. I felt my stomach charge up my throat when I spotted the next sight. I watched the Edenville Sky Towers, all 325 floors, sink down to the streets with my Aunt Rose inside. I tried to scream but dirt clogged my throat. I retched, falling to my knees as my stomach spewed its contents. I could only breathe in tiny quick inhalations like a dog panting. My Eyespy warned me of my dangerously low oxygen saturation, and my Earbug chimed, another reminder that I was dying.

And then converted to 3rd person with some additional minor edits:

Dawn staggered over to an old cemetery covered with dust. Her throat ached and her eyes watered. She waved the dust away and covered her face with her shirt. Her legs trembled, and she felt dizzy and disorientated. She prayed that this terrible vision would stop—that she would wake up in her apartment and everything would be fine, without bodies and buildings lying everywhere. The earth kept swaying as if she walked inside a canoe. She shuddered at the cries and screams mingling with the thunder of collapsing buildings, sounding like a rollercoaster plunging down in an infinite loop. From a small hill, she looked down past the airport towards the Catawba River. The land rose up in a wave that travelled towards her like a train. The river splashed into the air like someone was fishing with dynamite. Everything in the wave’s path exploded into the air. A plane tumbled into a fireball as it landed. Dawn ducked, covering her head, fearing the wave would strike her in seconds. The ground dipped and then pulsed upwards, throwing her and the cemetery plots far into the air. She screamed, swimming in tombstones and debris. The dirt blinded and choked her as reached out for anything. She hung in the air like a ragdoll tossed by a child, helpless and frantic, seeing nothing but brown soil flying everywhere.

The dirt collapsed back onto the ground. Dawn landed with a thump on the freshly turned soil while tons of earth rained onto her back. A tombstone narrowly missed her head. She gasped for air, her lungs refusing to function. Pain shot through her body in a dozen places as rocks pummeled her. Dawn dug herself up before the raining soil could bury her, her arms and legs burning from exertion. Her head swam from lack of oxygen and she felt faint. She rose, holding her arms over her head, and her blood froze. A couple blocks away, the enormous HLSCO HQ building—where she had just been interrogated—imploded, folding in on itself in a tower of dust. She felt her stomach charge up her throat when she spotted the next sight. The Edenville Sky Towers, all 325 floors, sank down to the streets with Aunt Rose inside. She tried to scream but dirt clogged her throat. She retched, falling to her knees as her stomach spewed its contents. She could only breathe in tiny quick inhalations like a dog panting. Her Eyespy warned her of dangerously low oxygen saturation, and her Earbug chimed, another reminder that she was dying.

Okay, still not perfect, but is it better? It’s a heck of a lot longer, so I need to trim it. I think I grabbed a few things from surrounding paragraphs, so the whole chapter can be pared down.

Now your turn. What additional edits do I need now? What still needs work? I’d love to hear your thoughts.


[Edited 6/23/2009]
After I read Merrilee's comments I came up with this re-edit.

Dawn thought it appropriate to flee to a cemetery, because when she spotted the wave of destruction flying towards her across the landscape, she knew she was about to die. In the distance, a violent upheaval of earth raced along, flinging rivers into the air, tossing cars like toys, and detonating the ground like a vast field of dynamite. She prayed that this was a vision, one of her crazy delusions. It felt so real, and the fear reached down to her bones, shaking her knees and cramping her stomach. She saw Death coming in the form of an earthquake beyond her poor power to comprehend. The wave carved down streets and buildings, then before she could take another breath, it flung her and the contents of cemetery high into the air. She closed her eyes and held her arms across her face as she sailed through the flying soil, tensing her body in anticipation of the final impact that spelled her doom.

With a violent whump, she landed in a pile of loose dirt. Her breath escaped her body and she lay there trying to draw in air while dirt and debris rained down. Her eyes refused to focus, her legs threatened to collapse, and the dirt prepared to bury her like the other corpses all around her. Dawn clawed her way free, her breath finally coming in tiny gasps. Her only thought was survival. Just survive one more second. She pulled herself up by grasping a large tombstone that had narrowly missed crushing her head. She cleared the dirt in her eyes, and witnessed a sight that froze her. The grand HQ building, a kilometer high and the pinnacle of modern architecture, imploded on itself and collapsed into the streets in a huge cloud of dust. Dawn knew thousands of people worked there, all crushed in an instant. Another sight made Dawn wish she had died in the cemetery. The Edenville Sky Towers, all 325 stories, tilted and fell down, thundering and generating more dark dust clouds. Dawn’s heart sank. Not Rose. Please, not Rose. This vision has to stop. This can’t be happening. I want it to stop. Now! Everything she had in the world just vanished. Her family, her home, her job, her city, all destroyed in one instant. She fell to her knees as her stomach rebelled and purged itself, then she rolled onto her back, wishing her suffering would just end.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Critique Technique QnA

Critique Technique QnA

criticism2 First off, a hearty welcome to all new Blogger and Twitter followers, and Facebook friends. I hope you find this blog interesting and entertaining.

By no means am I an expert, but here are my thoughts on critiquing, in a Q and A format. This is for fiction critiques specifically.

Q: What is a Critique?
A: A critique is a well-thought-out evaluation of a piece of writing. The critiquer examines the work on many levels, depending on the desires of the author.

Q: What should Critiquers look for?
A: For me, when I look at a piece, the first and foremost thing I look for is whether the piece captures my attention and makes me want to read more. Many times, I’ll read something that is dull and pedantic. I’ve read chapters where absolutely nothing happens. This is death for a writer. It’s imperative that every chapter, paragraph, and even word moves the story forward. Everything else should be cut, or improved by adding conflict. Remember, there must be something at stake in every passage.

Q: What else?
A: The next thing I look for is style, grammar, spelling, flow, etc. Are the characters realistic? (Or if it’s zombies, are they consistent? They shouldn’t start flying or playing concertos). Do the characters have needs and fears? Is the science accurate? Do Vamps and Werewolves really sit and drink tea and talk sports? Every sentence should be crisp, concise, and clear. Tense has to agree. This is not an exhaustive list; there are boos upon books written on the subject.

Q: How detailed should a critique be?
A: This depends on what the author is looking for. The most detailed critique is known as a “line edit” where every single word and phrase is judged and considered. But sometimes the author just wants to know if it “works” and what general advice would make it better. Communicate with the author and come to agreement on the detail level of the critique.

Q: Why should I get a critique?
A: Everyone loves every little word they write. It all seems so perfect and magical, and only a fool would miss the brilliance of their writing. This is why an impartial observer will tear down your house of cards and force you to build something sturdy and well-grounded. Every time I get critiqued, I’m surprised by how many obvious problems I miss. Critiquers stand in place of your eventual readers, because none of them will give you feedback, and when the do, they will publicly berate you on Amazon.com for the world to see.
The other reason is that you will learn a ton from each critique. You can only learn so much from books and web sites. The best learning is by doing, writing and rewriting a passage until it’s perfect.

Q: How many critiques should I get?
A: All of them. I would say at least three from different critiquers. That way if two people say one thing and the third disagrees, then you can decide whether it’s a problem or not. If all three spot an issue, then you better address it. The more the better, but of course this can be a reciprocal process, so the more people critique you, the more works you should critique yourself. 

Q: How do I learn to critique other people’s work?
A: This is a tough one, since I’m still learning the art of critiquing. First of all, don’t be afraid of the process. People want to know what you think. Maybe you’re not great at grammar, but you have some ideas on how 15yo Filipinos speak in Tagalog and you want to provide some input. Picking out things to praise is well and good, but praise doesn’t help an author improve his craft. It just makes him all gooey and soft. A great way to learn is to put your own work up for critique, and see what kind of comments come your way. Soon you’ll be able to see the same issues in other people’s work. Once again you have to learn by doing.

Q: Should I do critiques? What if I don’t find anything?
A: Absolutely. Remember, the more you learn how to critique, the more you’ll be able to improve your own craft. You’ll begin to see your own work with a more critical eye. Now don’t get so caught up that you can’t write anything new without critiquing it! Get all your thoughts down, let it sit for a while, then critique it.
I find it hard to believe that you can critique a piece of work without finding anything to comment on. Heck, just comment on stuff that seems perfectly fine, because there’s no work that can’t be improved. Just don’t annoy the author with frivolous comments.

Q: How harsh should a critiquer be?
A: By “harsh” I mean “honest.” The critiquer should absolutely never ever state anything personal about the author.
What not to say:
”This is a stupid thing to write. No one’s ever going to read this.”
”This is the most unoriginal piece of crap I’ve ever read.”
”You’ll never get published because you’re an idiot.”
But these are harsh comments that can be appropriate:
”I just don’t connect with this character.”
”This contradicts what you just said. Is she really happy her dog died?”
”Where’s your basis for flying zombies? You need to establish this earlier. You can’t just throw them in.”
”Please choose a tense and stick with it. This is hard to follow”

Q: How do I find critiquers?
A: I wish I had a good answer here. Basically, wherever you can. The internet, local writing groups, references, desperate blog posts begging for readers. The bigger question is “How do I find effective critiquers?” I’ve lucked into a couple but I don’t have a general response except “keep trying.” It helps if you can find someone interested in your genre, and your story and characters in particular.

Q: Any other advice?
A: Always thank your critiquer, no matter how much they ripped your precious manuscript to shreds. After all, they gave you their valuable time and effort. And don’t take anything personally. They are critiquing a bunch of words on paper, not you as a human being. This also means you probably shouldn’t ask your mom for a critique.

What do you look for in a critique? What makes a good critiquer? Let me know your thoughts.