Death by Critique - 6 Tips on How To Avoid It

Recently I talked about the risk of overediting your manuscript. In other words, making it SO technically perfect that it was about as lively as boiled broccoli. Some of you agreed with me; others argued that you can always make a manuscript "more perfect", that you should never stop trying to make it better.

As a perfectionist myself, I understand where those people are coming from. In all aspects of life, I feel like I can always do better, that I should never stop trying to improve. And improvement IS good. We can't get complacent. We should always be learning. BUT, I do believe that with a manuscript it's a bit of a bell curve when it comes to editing it.

You start with your funky rough draft. You rework, rewrite, polish. You work with your crit partners. The dot on the graph moves up--you're making it better! But I do believe you hit a point, a peak, where you've gotten it as good as it's going to be (before a professional editor takes a look at it.) If you keep pushing it after that point, you're reworking it so hard that you are draining the fire and magic from the words. You're taking out what makes that book special and different from other books (and oftentimes inserting your critique partner's vision of your manuscript instead of your own). You're murdering the vision your muse had in the first place. And the story is going to be pasteurized by the time it hits an agent's or editor's desk.

Don't believe me? Dear Author had a post this week talking about what she learned from this year's RWA from talking to editors. One of the points on her list spoke to this issue:

Editors think that authors self censor too much (and that critique partners may be doing more harm than good). I heard more than one editor say that the manuscripts that they like best are ones where they can see the raw voice of the author. Many times, submissions come in that are polished so much that they are too smooth to be interesting. Write with raw passion, authors. This is an industry built on emotion and the manuscripts have to show this.

Re-read that statement again. Editors are looking for the raw talent in your voice, in the way you tell a story--not if you had one too many adverbs on the page.

Now that's not to say you shouldn't study craft and grammar and use things correctly, but that isn't what you should be obsessing about. Polish your manuscript but you don't have to follow EVERY RULE ever created for writers. And your critique partners are there to help you, but what they say IS NOT LAW. Even if they are a more established author than you are. This is YOUR BOOK.

Six Tips to Help Watch Out for Death by Critique

But first, a disclaimer...

If this is your first book, get good critique partners and listen with open ears to everything they say (even if you don't incorporate it all) and read books on craft. On your first go around, many times more experienced crit partners are going to have advice you really need to hear. This goes back to my rule: Don't query that first book until you've had someone not related to you or sleeping with you to critique it.

If this is not your first rodeo...

1. Write your rough draft without input from others.

Stephen King said in On Writing--write the first draft with the door shut. Then after you're done, open the doors and windows and let others in. I have found this to be true for me. If I get feedback while I'm drafting, it freezes me up and confuses my muse. Critique and creativity do not make good bed partners for me. Now, I know some will disagree with this and prefer to have chapter by chapter input as they are writing. If that works for you, that's fine. (Julie Cross sends chapters to her editor as she writes and that works great for her.) But make sure it's really working for you. Have you finished a manuscript yet? Or are you just constantly re-working as you go because you're getting outside input?

2. Get critiqued on big picture.

Line edits (super detailed edits) are notorious for sucking out voice. Your word choice, the style of your sentences, structure of your prose is YOUR voice and your style. This is why finding the right editor for this is so important once you're publishing. You have to find someone who "gets" your voice and style. When others who don't get it (or those who are focused on following every rule) start tinkering with it, it muddles that at best, murders it at worse. So ask you crit partners for feedback on the big stuff: plot holes, flow, logic, characterization, emotional arc, plot arc, etc. Those are the things that are hard to see in your own work because you're so close to it. And save the line edits for a pro who gets you. My publisher has "style sheets" made for each author so that editors know what our style quirks are. Mine says things like: sometimes uses short incomplete sentences. That's part of my style, and though it's grammatically incorrect, it's kept.

3. Check your gut.

This is your story and these are your characters. You know them better than anyone. So if your crit partner gives you a suggestion, step back and make sure it resonates with you. I don't care if they are a NYT Bestselling author--if the change doesn't feel right in your gut, don't do it! That goes for when you have an editor, too. You don't have to make every change if you don't feel good about it. Have the confidence to know that you can tell the difference between advice that makes your book better and advice that doesn't. This confidence only comes with time, unfortunately. However, if more than one person bring up an issue, it may be something to look hard at even if your gut is fighting you.

4. Re-evaluate your critique partnerships regularly.

Crit partners are wonderful. I don't think I would've gotten to this point if I hadn't joined my first crit group. I learned so much. But that doesn't mean that group or that person is going to be right for you forever and ever, amen. We outgrow each other. We go in different directions. Or maybe THEY'VE become too close to your writing as well and now can't see the things they need to see to help you. If you feel like you're getting crits back and the advice is no longer helping you or it's draining your voice (even though the advice is good-intentioned), then stop wasting their time and yours. Doesn't mean you have to stop being friends, but maybe you don't need to be beta readers for each other anymore.

5. Know enough about craft and grammar so that you don't distract from your story.

Yes, I'm advocating not shooting for perfection and for playing with style. BUT you also need to have a good handle on craft and grammar. If your handle on the rules and conventions is so low as to pull the reader out of the story, you're not going to get anywhere no matter how good your story may be. You need to know the rules in order to make deliberate style choices if and when you decide to break some of those rules.

6. Edit until you love the story, not until it's perfect.

Outside of crit partner relationships, edit your story until you can read through it and love it. Don't edit it until you can't find ANYTHING to change or fix because there will always be something you can find to fix. And that's when you start cutting too deep. It's like people who want a little plastic surgery. They just want to fix that bump in their nose. But then they get that done and realize--ooh, now that makes my chin look too big. So they fix that. Then their cheek bones don't look angular enough. And so it goes until they don't resemble the person they used to be.

Don't do this to your manuscript. The things we love the most often have imperfections--and sometimes that's the very reason we love them. Make sure your manuscript is the one that the editor can feel the raw passion bleeding from. Do that, and you're golden.

So what do you think? Does this idea send you into a perfectionist panic? Does it give you a sigh of relief? Have you ever sensed your manuscript was getting more and more anemic as you edited it? Have you ever had to leave a crit partner relationship because it just wasn't working or helping anymore?

Take A Chance On Me...It's For Charity, People

Alright, today I am up on the auction block over at Crits for Water. I'm offering a 2500 word crit for a manuscript and also a random winner will get a query critique. The genres that qualify are listed as romance and YA since that is where I feel my critting skills are the strongest, BUT I'm open to critting any genre (and have critted across genres for others before) so don't let that stop you.

The charity that benefits from this provides clean water to those who need it. Twenty dollars gives one person clean water for a year, so it's a great cause.

So go bid! I promise to give you a thorough, feel-like-you've-been-to-the-doctor-for-a-physical critique. (If you want examples of how I crit, click here).

I have this abject fear that no one is going to bid on me and I'll end up raising like three bucks for this great charity, lol, so please...if you're in need of a critique and you've liked what I've had to say these two years on the blog, then go check it out. (See? I'm not even above begging. Well, I do write BDSM romance, so I guess it's apropos.)

So if you'd like to alleviate me of my paranoia, GO HERE AND PUT IN A BID.  :)

*Auction ends at midnight EST!

If you're not going to be able to do that, then check out my interview over at Not An Editor where I talk about critiquing, how to hone your critting skills, and what you should always do when you get a crit.

And even if you're not bidding, I'd appreciate any retweets you guys want to bestow on me. :)  *gives you the puss n boots face*

The Beta Club: The Face of a Lion (Middle Grade) - Come Critique!

It's Beta Club Day!  On today's agenda, our first middle grade!  So, I hope you'll take the time to take a look and let the author know what you think.

For newbies:  If you haven't been here on beta club day yet, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below. 

Author: Deniz Bevan (check out her site here!)
Title: The Face of a Lion
Genre: Middle Grade Historical/Time Travel

Excerpt:
 
 

Austin met the cat during his first week in Turkey.

Bored with helping his parents clean their villa, he set out to explore the town. Every few minutes he had to climb onto the stone wall edging the street – there were never any sidewalks in this country – when a car or bus full of tourists whizzed past on the narrow road, a stench of diesel fumes floating behind. As the roar of each vehicle faded, the seaside sounds rushed back into his ears: the drone of motorboats slicing the water, cicadas buzzing in the distant tops of the fir trees, and below everything else, the unending rhythmic crash of waves breaking one after another on the sand.

He waited on the wall as another car zoomed by, then peered through the exhaust and added up the houses he had passed. His mum had said there were forty houses in the original village. Something had to be wrong somewhere, because he had counted every house for the past ten blocks and there were still a few streets to cross before he reached the ice cream shop –

An unearthly howl filled the air, drowning out the disappearing rumble of the car. It came again, a long-drawn out screech, close at hand. Austin ran to the crossroads and looked down into the weed-filled garden of a boarded-up villa. On a patch of paving stones, two kids crouched over the prone figure of a thin grey cat. One gripped its front paws as the other tied a couple of tin cans to its tail. The cat wrenched and jerked its back legs.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

His yell was swallowed by the roar of two buses zooming past behind him, and a truck loaded with watermelons that came clacketing up the street. He looked down, ready to risk a jump, and saw a garden shed directly below. He leaped, and as the boys glanced up, hands still on the squirming cat, he vaulted off the shed's roof to stand beside them.

"What are you up to?" He glared, trying to look as imposing and foreign as possible – easy enough, given the contrast of his blond hair and blue eyes to their own dark features. They looked about eight years old, four years younger than him. They shot each other shifty glances out of the corners of their eyes.

"Abi, yabancı bu. Bizden büyük."

"Ya birini çağırırsa? Hadi gidelim."

It was impossible – but he had understood what they said! They were afraid because he was older – what if he called someone?

He took a step forward, as if to grab the cat. As one, they released their grip, leapt up and ran off.

The cat crouched low on all four paws, eyes wide and ears taut, but did not move as Austin approached. If it would just trust him… With one hand extended, palm out, he waited. Either the cat would sniff the offered fingers or get up and run.

Slowly, slowly, he bent and untied the twine binding the tins to a tail puffed out and crackling with electricity. The cat did not twitch once, even as Austin broke away the last of the metal and tossed it aside, but eyed him the entire time, as if waiting for a signal.

He stroked the cat between the ears and, to his surprise, heard the low rumble of purring. The yellow eyes narrowed and, for a moment, he had the silly idea the cat was actually smiling at him.

"Thank you."

He had been bending forward, petting. He overbalanced and nearly tipped over, palms flat on the tiles to keep from pitching head first into the cat.

Had it actually spoken? He gazed at the shadowy creature, who had stopped purring, but stayed still, yellow eyes fixed on him. Had he really heard –

"Thank you, Augustine."

There it was again! Not meowing or purring, but chirping, like a new species of bird. And under that tone, he could have sworn the cat had spoken in English.

He peered around the garden. No, there was definitely no one else near. He sat and stared back into the unblinking eyes. Far down on the beach, he could still hear the ordinary shouts and laughter of tourists, and the unending whine of cicadas and crash of surf. The smell of fried fish floated up from the restaurants on Ocean Boulevard.

He said the first thing that came into his mind. "My name's not Augustine, it's Austin. After my great-grandfather." He kept his voice low, as though he might be overheard. Silly, talking formally to an animal – the cat wasn’t really talking was it?

But the chirping English came again. "In Latin, your name is Augustine, or Augustus. In Ancient Greek it would be Σεβαστός."

Sebastos. Austin heard the cat's mrrp!, the soft Greek letters, and yet understood the name as if it was in English. "But no one speaks those languages anymore!"

"Perhaps not here, Augustine. Yet I know a number of languages from a variety of places, and times. In return for your kind gesture today, rescuing me from those young hooligans," the cat rested a paw on Austin's knee, "I may be able to do something for you. Not a favour, exactly, but I fancy you're a little bored here?"

"How did you know?"

"You were not walking with a friend and you had time to notice an animal in distress." The cat sat up, so that they were nearly face to face. "I can lead you to an adventure."

"An adventure? Where would we go?"

"Not where but when."

Below is my detailed critique.  Please select FULL SCREEN to view, then once the document is open RIGHT CLICK to ZOOM and view the comments.


Alright, so what do you think?  Are you hooked?  What did the author do well?  What things could  be improved?  Agree or disagree with my crit?

Thanks ahead of time to all of you who comment and thanks to the author for volunteering!

**Today's Theme Song**

"Time Is On My Side" - Rolling Stones

(player in sidebar, take a listen)
*sorry Deniz, couldn't find your song choices on playlist.com, so had to pick another*

The Beta Club: The Calling (Paranormal Romance) - Come Critique!

It's Beta Club Day!  On today's agenda, one of my favorite genres, paranormal romance.  So, I hope you'll take the time to take a look and let the author know what you think.

For newbies:  If you haven't been here on beta club day yet, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below. 

Author: Mishi (check out her site here)
Title: The Calling
Genre: Paranormal Romance

Excerpt:
 
 

Maire ran to the man who lay face down in a heaping mess before her, his head mass of blood and hair. “What do I do?” she gasped, kneeling down beside him. Then it hit her, “Cell phone!  Iris, can you help him while we wait for an ambulance?” She asked, fingers fumbling in her purse for the tiny phone.

“Don’t worry about calling for help; it’s not needed,” the angel assured her, placing a finger on the vampire’s head. Instantly, the wounds began to close.

“Are you kidding me? Look at him!” The blood terrified her, “There’s no way he could survive that kind of a beating. You know how much damage a demon can do when they possess people.” Glancing again at his head, “Not that I’ve ever seen one up close and personal like that. There’s no way this guy will survive without some medical attention.”

“Should I try to move him, he can’t possibly be able to breathe like this.” She inched closer as Iris watched. “I will not to panic if his face is worse,” she whispered, reaching out to him. “I hope I don’t do more harm than good by doing this.”

“Oh thank God, he’s fine on this side!” She sighed. Reaching for a tissue, she muttered, “He’s a little pale and cold to the touch, but this is much better.”  She reached for his jugular, trying to find his pulse, “His heart is beating too slow, should I perform CPR?’

Touya felt warm trembling fingers on his neck. The air was thick with the scent of human fear and flowers-irises-of all things. He felt energy beaming down on him; soft and pure as it pulsed against his skin-nothing like the energy of the demon he had been fighting. With fangs out, Touya sprang to a sitting position, and found himself staring into a young woman’s panic filled eyes.

“Iris, it’s another demon!” She cried and scrambled backwards.

Trying to get to his feet, Touya growled angrily, “Do not insult me, I’m no more a demon than you are!”

He looked around himself for the power that he felt, Where are they? Are they in the building waiting to gun me down? It doesn’t matter, I need blood and I need it now!  He looked back to the man lying out of sight near the dumpsters. If I have to feed, it’s going to be on someone tainted by evil, and not this innocent woman. But she gets to watch for that demon crack.

Even in his weakened state, Touya moved faster than human eyes could follow, and with a sharp jerking motion, he had Mr. Baseball Cap in his grasp. The man moaned with the shock of being on his feet. “Stop complaining,” Touya grumbled, “I just took enough to get the demon out of you. You can complain when I’m done, because this will not be pleasant. Next time you’ll think twice before asking a demon to possess you.”

Rising to her feet, Maire walked over to him as he cradled the stranger in his arms.

“Oh God, you’re drinking his blood!” She gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth.

Touya stopped to look at her, “It’s how I heal. Sorry that it displeases,” he said, with an edge of sarcasm before returning to his business.

“Darn it, Iris! Why didn’t you tell me he was a vampire?” She looked behind her, her voice holding heavy with anger.

The angel was leaning against a wall with her arms crossed over her chest. Her tone dry, she asked, “Would you have believed it?” 

“Considering that I talk to you on a constant basis, I think I could handle the information. What the hell do you think?”

“Oh calm down, sweetie, I was only playing it out the way I was told. I don’t write the dialog, I just deliver the lines.”

He bit his thumb and placed a drop of blood on the wound showing on the man’s neck. After seeing the marks vanish, and releasing the hold over the man’s mind, Touya let him fall to the ground. I need to get out of this alley and find someone else; this guy’s given me all he can. He looked down at his shirt, which was ruined, Home and shower…I won’t find anyone if I look like a mob hit!

He wiped his mouth, turning to the young woman, he glided towards her. “You didn’t see what happened here. You will go home and sleep…”

“Whoa, hold the Jedi Mind Tricks, I don’t think you can make me forget this,” her hands out in front of her as she backed away from him.

Stunned, Touya looked her over. “Your mind is too strong for you to be crazy. Maybe I was wrong about that.” He reached out with his mind and found silence. Flustered he asked, “Who the hell do you keep talking too?

            Maire felt that old familiar panic creep into her voice,“Iris.” It was more of a plea than an answer, but Iris was more than happy to keep herself hidden from the vampire.

“Iris?” He spun his hand, gesturing her to continue.

Turning to face the angel, she cried out, “Come on, Iris, stop playing around!”

Iris shrugged, “I can’t help it, I’ve not been told to reveal myself.”

Marie threw up her hands and yelled, “Great, just great. Thanks God, thanks for making me look like a total nut again!”

“Well, at least you know you’re crazy.” He said with a harsh chuckle, picking up his sword. Moving towards his coat, “I would’ve liked to take some of the shock from your mind, but oh well…it’s not like anyone will believe you.”

She whirled to face him, “I’m not crazy. I was sent here to find you. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now, but I’ve got instructions to stick around.  The salvation of your soul depends on it.”

“The what…?!”

Below is my detailed critique.  Please select FULL SCREEN to view, then once the document is open RIGHT CLICK to ZOOM and view the comments.


Alright, so what do you think?  Are you hooked?  What did the author do well?  What things could  be improved?  Agree or disagree with my crit?


Thanks ahead of time to all of you who comment and thanks to the author for volunteering!

**Today's Theme Song (Author's Choice)**

"In a Darkened Room" - Skid Row

(player in sidebar, take a listen)

The Beta Club: The Ivory Promise (YA) --Come Critique!

It's Beta Club Day!  On the agenda today: Young Adult.  So pull up a chair, take a gander, and let the author know what you think.

For newbies:  If you haven't been here on beta club day yet, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below. 

Author: Plamena Jetcheva
Title: The Ivory Promise
Genre: Young Adult

Excerpt:
 
 

Get up, Clara told herself. Get up or you’ll be late for class again and stuck in detention for the rest of the school year. She didn’t want to stagger out of bed and put her cold clothes on. This morning’s lecture was a waste of time. The teacher only read out of the book anyway.

Clara’s left eye cracked open cautiously to check the time as she tried to decide if she could risk sleeping for another five minutes. As her vision adjusted to the light and the room swam into view she realized there was something strange. Rubbing her eyes she looked out at the bottom of the lecture hall where Ms. Lipsinks was sitting at her desk. As usual, she was reading the textbook without pauses between the sentences and without ever looking up at the students.

Nice. I’m already in class. Clara grinned and stretched her arms out. No need to get up. In fact, I could sleep some more. She had drifted away with her head on An Introduction to History. After trying to flatten its pages out without any success she slid the book to the side. There was a crick in her neck. I really need a better pillow. Rummaging through her schoolbag she pulled out a scarf and arranged it on her desk.

Clara’s head had just touched the soft fabric when a bang cut through the room and silenced Ms. Lipsinks. Clara startled and sat up trying to locate where the noise had come from. All the girls in the room were staring down at the open door which had slammed against the wall. Standing in the doorway was a man wearing a dark green military uniform. A gun glinted in his hand reflecting the fluorescent lecture hall lights.

“Freeze!” He bellowed raising the weapon to chest level.

He didn’t need to say it. Clara was already frozen along with everyone else in the room. She sat transfixed as uniformed men poured into the room each of them carrying a rifle. Had it happened? Had the Equal Rights Movement already taken over this part of the country?

The click of the soldiers’ polished boots was the only source of sound in the room and it reverberated off the walls making them seem to be closing in on her from every direction. Clara could hear some of them marching up the steps towards the back of the auditorium where she was sitting but didn’t dare looking up. Instead she stared straight ahead at the front rows where the soldiers were inspecting every girl’s face.

They reached Amanda, the daughter of the family that was currently in power, and one of them called out “We found one!” Grasping her upper arm he roughly pulled her to her feet, spun her around and handcuffed her wrists behind her back. Clara could see Amanda’s face as she looked out frantically over the girls filling the seats in the room almost as if she expected someone to spring to her rescue.

The gravity of the situation started to sink in Clara’s mind. Her palms began to perspire dampening the paper they were resting on and sticking to it. She expected for the intruders to leave now that they had found Amanda but they continued to search the room. Clara tensed when she heard the scraping of chairs against the linoleum flooring only several seats down her row.

“Take your hood off!” a voice barked from her right. 

Clara couldn’t move. It had been a very happy day for her when the school revised the uniforms and added a hood to the sweater. She hid behind it whenever she could get way with wearing it. Clara didn’t want it removed now but she would have still pulled it off if only she could have forced her arms to move.

The man to her right let out a quick tsk under his breath and the shadow of his hand fell across her face as he reached for her hood. Clara felt his fingers dig into the back of her scalp as he grasped the fabric and yanked it off snagging a few strands of her hair. Her head snapped back and she gasped at the pain that shot through it. Tears filled her eyes and she had to blink several times to clear them.  

“I think I found the other one,” the soldier’s tone sounded pleased.

Below is my critique, click on FULL SCREEN, then once the document opens, RIGHT CLICK to zoom so you can see the comments.  

Alright, so what do you think? Are you hooked? What did the author do well? What things could be improved? Agree or disagree with my crit?


Also, this author is looking for beta readers to exchange with, so if you are interested, please email her at phoquinn(at)gmail(dot)com.
 
Thanks ahead of time for offering feedback and thank you to the author for volunteering!

**Today's Theme Song (Author's Choice)**

"Manic Monday" - The Bangles

(player in sidebar, take a listen)

The Beta Club: In the Shadow of Illium (Historical) - Come Critique!

It's Beta Club day!  On the agenda today: Historical Fiction.  

But first, a quick announcement:  My online crit group had a member leave this week because of other time commitments, so we are looking for a new member for our Rumored Romantics crit team (which includes the fabulous Lynnette Labelle and the amazing Gwen Mitchell).  The way we fill openings is by holding a contest to see who is the best fit (this is how I got in, too).  This involves submitting a writing excerpt and possibly critiquing a sample.  Details and the link to enter will be here on the blog tomorrow.  At this time, we are only looking for people who write adult romance (any subgenre: paranormal, romantic suspense, contemporary, erotic, historical, etc. is fine), but no YA (sorry!)  So if you are interested or know someone who would be, please make sure and stop by tomorrow to check it out.  I can't wait to find our new member!

Alright, so on to Beta Club.  Enjoy the excerpt and let the author know what you think!

For newbies:  If you haven't been here on beta club day yet, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below. 

Author: Katie-Marie Stout (go check our her blog and sign up for her college blogfest!)
Title: In the Shadow of Illium
Genre: Historical

Excerpt:

            Burning. Wherever I looked, everything was burning. I peered out from underneath the wagon as armed men unfurled swords and threw spears. Their shining metal armor caught the sun’s rays and blinded me.

            Blood spilt on the ground, stinking in the heat. I closed my eyes and tried to think of peace while shutting out the horrors of battle around me. I pulled my legs to my chest and made myself as small as possible, hoping to shrink into nothingness to escape this place.

            Something dripped on my hand, hot and sticky. I gazed down and saw a patch of red. A gasp caught in my throat. Biting my lip, I looked up at the slats of the wagon’s bed. Between the cracks, I saw a body slumped on top of them. Blood seeped from a wound in the man’s chest and fell to the sand at my feet. I scooted away from it, faintness clouding my thoughts.

            Certain names I heard repeated over and over again, unfamiliar terms. Troy, Hector, Agamemnon. Who, what, did these names mean? I knew nothing of them.

            The hollow sound of something hitting the ground, followed by the sickly sweet scent of poison, assaulted me. I peeked open my eyes and saw the contorted face of the caravan leader; an arrow protruded from his back. He no longer breathed.

            But I still did, though probably not for long.

            Screams rang out around me, and I cowered behind the wagon’s wooden wheel. Donkeys squealed as men slaughtered them. Gold jingled in heavy purses, and wood crackled amidst flames.

Adonai, protect me.

            The entire caravan was lost, and most of its passengers had been killed. Soldiers now herded up the scant number of women into a tight ring. Any remaining men had swords thrust into their bellies while I grimaced and fought the instinct to gag.

            “That one down there.” A man pointed at me. “Under the wagon. Bring her.”

            A bronzed and bloodied face turned towards me, and fear gripped my heart. I scrambled out from my hiding spot and sprang to my feet. Before me lay a vast wilderness and beyond, the sea. The azure waters called to me, and I ran towards them.

            Footsteps pounded the earth behind me, accompanied by laughter. But soon, my own panting drowned out all other sounds from my ears.

My sandal caught on a rock, and I tumbled to the ground. I landed hard on my back, and for a moment, could not breathe. My mouth worked and my lungs gasped for air, but nothing came. Had I been speared? Was this death?

            A bloody face appeared above me. The man grinned, his black beard parting to reveal yellowed teeth. He spoke to me in the language of the men from the caravan. “You’re a pretty thing. It would be a shame to lose such a fair face.”

            He grabbed both my arms and swung me over his shoulder. Shock and terror had so consumed me I couldn’t fight. I stared at the receding view of burning wagons, killed livestock, and a pile of goods the attacking soldiers had stolen.

Our caravan had been given no warning, no chance. How could the men have defended themselves against these armored warriors? And why did I feel such pity for the people who’d enslaved me years ago? I had not joined this caravan by choice.

 

 

 

Below is my critique, click on FULL SCREEN, then once the document opens, RIGHT CLICK to zoom so you can see the comments. 

Alright, so what do you think? Are you hooked? What did the author do well? What things could be improved? Agree or disagree with my crit?
Thanks ahead of time for offering feedback and thank you to the author for volunteering!
 
 
 

**Today's Theme Song (Author's Choice)**

"Knights of Cydonia" - Muse

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

The Beta Club: The Guardian (YA Paranormal Romance) - Come Critique!

It's Beta Club day!  On the agenda today: YA Paranormal/Sci-Fi Romance.  Enjoy the excerpt and let the author know what you think!

For newbies:  If you haven't been here on beta club day yet, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below. 

Author: Christine Danek (stop by her blog and say hi!)
Title: The Guardian
Genre: YA Paranormal/Sci-Fi Romance

Excerpt:

The moonlight created a glow through the large picture window illuminating the dark room.  I took soft steps as I crossed the hardwood floor and something caught my eye. The tick tock of the clock matched the beating of my heart as it raced due to my surprise and my stomach developed a knot.  Adrenaline pumped through my veins as my eyes hesitated to find what I thought I saw.

“Did you see that?”  I whispered.

“What?”  Ivy’s hand grabbed my upper arm

“Something ran in front of the window.  A shadow I think?”  I stood frozen in middle of the room.

 “How big was it?” Bryn’s voice lightly came from the side.    I could barely make out his silhouette as he approached. 

“I don’t know.  It was a blur.”

The floor creaked as we stepped closer to the window and I could hear Ivy holding her breath. The air felt like it was electrified causing the hairs on my neck to stand on end.

 All three of us jumped as a growling screech traveled out from under the couch.

“It’s a stinking cat.” Bryn turned his flashlight on and shone it in the direction of the culprit.  The calico’s eyes reflected red as it stared at us.

“We live in a town that is over a hundred years old so you would think we would find something. I swear we are never going to find anything,” Bryn’s voice switched to disappointment.  “I think we would have better luck searching for aliens.”

“We are not going to find aliens in West Chester,” Ivy flicked the light switch on.

“Why?”   Bryn flopped onto a chair.

“Every time I hear of an alien sighting it’s in a desolate place.  We live in a suburb of Philadelphia.  I don’t think they like bright lights,” Ivy squinted and put her hand on her hip. 

“We’ll find something.   We just started this ghost hunting thing and have only had three cases,” I softly smiled. 

 “Let’s just pack up. I think if we got anything it would have happened earlier, “   Bryn began to disassemble a camera that hung in the doorway.  “Anna, am I dropping you off at home?”

“No, my dad is working on a restoration job down around the corner so he said he’ll call when he’s on his way.  I have to get home and work on that paper for English so no hanging out tonight.”

“Maybe he’ll stir up some old energy to get those ghosts moving.  They always say renovations stir up paranormal activity.  He should let us know when he’s finished and we could investigate,” Bryn’s eyes twinkled with excitement.

My phone started to ring.  “There he is, “I flipped open my phone. “Hey…”

But I couldn’t get “Dad” out because I was interrupted by a voice filled with hysterics.

“Anna, Anna!” she sniffed and choked.

 “Mom?  What’s going on?” My face sank at her panicked tone. 

 “Your father…he’s been hurt…really bad. He fell off of a roof and the doctors…” she began to cry.

  “Is he o.k.?” My voice cracked.

   “I don’t think…we’re at the hospital,” She sobbed.

   Ivy’s head tilted as her eyes rounded in concern.   My mom called my name but I just lowered my phone flipping it shut.

    “Anna, what’s wrong? “ Ivy lightly touched my arm.

      I shut my eyes for a minute and shook my head.  My body started to shake as the rise of panic filled me.  I had to get to him and make sure he was o.k.  Grabbing my jacket and my bag, I bolted for the door.

   “Anna!” Ivy yelled out to me as I put myself on auto pilot dashing out onto the brick sidewalk heading in the direction of the hospital. 

   As I ran, my tears began to fall.  He had to be alright –he will be alright. I tried to pass positive thoughts through my brain, but my thoughts were cut short as my attention was drawn to the blinding lights that were heading in my direction.  A horn started to blare and I froze unable to move my feet.  My mind said –run, get out of the way-- but my body didn’t respond. 

Below is my critique, click on FULL SCREEN, then once the document opens, RIGHT CLICK to zoom so you can see the comments. 

 

Alright, so what do you think? Are you hooked? What did the author do well? What things could be improved? Agree or disagree with my crit?
Thanks ahead of time for offering feedback and thank you to the author for volunteering!

 
 

**Today's Theme Song (Author's Choice)**

"Panic Switch" - Silversun Pickups

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

The Beta Club: A Sad Song In A Flat Key (Lit Fic) - Come Critique!

 

It's Beta Club day!  On the agenda: Literary Fiction.  As I've mentioned before, this is not my specialty, so I'm hoping my lit fic buffs out there will help me out with this critique (along with everyone else.)  Enjoy!


For newbies:  If you haven't been here on beta club day yet, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below.
 
Author: Amber Tidd Murphy (Stop by her blog for some daily hilarity)
Title: A Sad Song in a Flat Key
Genre: Literary Fiction

Excerpt:

     It all started when Laurel was a girl, and her mother walked out on Laurel's father, because don't all our stories really start there, all the way back in those formative years? The deck might already be stacked against us, but the cards are still being shuffled and have not yet been dealt. Then, like lightning, some event or non-event happens or does not happen, and we are thrust into the wheels of fate, which are turned and clank.

     Yes, she suffered from the same daddy issues that afflict almost everyone else in this day and age. Still, she felt it poor form to use that as an excuse for the way her life turned out. Who didn't keep a skeleton stuffed closet, after all, crammed full of those secrets that go bump after midnight? When her mind chased sleep the darkness left little room for facades, and she was left to remember it all. If she were celebrating a middle-aged birthday, an emcee might have grabbed a microphone and crooned, Laurel Lancaster, this is your life! as he rolled the tape. A curly haired, cherry cheeked child would appear on a screen while the music of a merry-go-round faded in a bit atonally.

     Laurel remembered it with clarity: the day her mother left her father. She was barely five years old; she hadn't started kindergarten. Her sister, Laine, was a screaming toddler. Carol, Laurel's portly mother, wore a powder blue dress. She told her husband the girls were off for ice cream, and they walked out into the heat of that summer in 1986 and never looked back. Carol drove the seven miles to her parents' house and moved back home, heavy two children.

     Laurel's grandmother, Elizabeth Hutchings, was a warm, round woman who made butter and sugar sandwiches for Laurel and Laine. Her grandfather, Calvin, worked for Farm Bureau Insurance and smelled of cigarettes, not stale cigarettes, but like bonfires in October. He traveled often, yet when he returned with the grandest of presents -- piggy banks already nearly full of shiny silver coins -- his absence was forgiven and forgotten. They were married in the early forties, before the war. Carol was their only living child; Laurel's uncle Ross died before she was born. Mr. and Mrs. Hutchings hosted many friends and dinner parties, and were the sort who would neaten their home before the cleaning lady arrived, embarrassed to show any sign of weakness, even in the form of dust bunnies.

     They were big on appearances, but Laurel crept halfway down the stairs the night they moved in, and watched from behind the banister, her chubby childish fingers tightly wrapped around the smooth, white bars until her knuckles became camouflaged in the same color. Her grandparents sat up straight on the couch, one on either side of her mother. Calvin smoothed Carol's hair while Elizabeth wiped her daughter’s tears. In the dark, drapes tightly drawn, family secrets could breathe. An envy rose in Laurel's chest as she watched her mother in that moment, surrounded by two loving parents, strong Midwesterners who had lost their son to AIDS and would now carry a daughter through divorce.

     They lived in Bedford, Indiana, the limestone capital of the world. The house was red brick with a wide front porch overlooking the main street in town. It sat directly across from the new city pool, a chaotic, loud place, foreign to Laurel. She was afraid of the water. She sat in her playroom and stared out the second floor window, mesmerized by the twisting water slide. She wondered when she would be brave enough to climb the mountain of steps to the top for the sole purpose of sliding down.

    

     The day the call came would be that day. 

 

 

Below is my critique, click on FULL SCREEN, then once the document opens, RIGHT CLICK to zoom so you can see the comments. 

 

Alright, so what do you think?  Are you hooked?  What did the author do well?  What things could be improved?  Thanks ahead of time for offering your feedback!  And thank you to Amber for volunteering!

**Today's Theme Song (Author's Choice)**

"Falling Slowly" - Kris Allen

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

The Beta Club: Remembering You (Romance) - Come Critique!

*Sorry couldn't resist using this picture.  You'll understand after reading the excerpt*

It's Beta Club Thursday!  On today's agenda: Contemporary Romance.  My personal favorite.

I hope that you will take the time to read through the excerpt and provide the author with feedback.  I've noticed on my stats that Beta club days are getting a lot of hits, but not so many comments.  Some people have expressed that they are a bit reluctant to give feedback or feel they have nothing to add.  Don't be scared!   The authors are posting here because they want to know what people think.  Also, everyone has something to add, even if it's "really enjoyed this."  When you're putting yourself out there, even those little comments help. :)

Plus, my critique is just one opinion.  I don't want anyone to feel like if they disagree with my crit that they shouldn't feel comfortable saying so.  If you think I'm off base on something, share that.  The author needs to hear all the perspectives.

Okay, *steps off soapbox*, with that being said, I do want to thank everyone who stops by and participates.  Now on to the excerpt...

For newbies:  If you haven't been here on beta club day yet, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below.
 
Author: Anne Gallagher (go visit her at Piedmont Writer)
Title: Remembering You
Genre: Contemporary Romance

Excerpt:
 
 
 

     

**The author requested that her excerpt be removed.  If you'd like to see other Beta Club critiques instead, please click here.**

Below is my critique, click on FULL SCREEN, then once the document opens, RIGHT CLICK to zoom so you can see the comments. 

 
 

*removed*

Alright, so what do you think?  Are you hooked?  What did the author do well?  What things could be improved?  Thanks ahead of time for offering your feedback!

*Today's Theme Song (Author's Choice)*

"I've Got You Under My Skin" - Frank Sinatra

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

The Beta Club: Annual (Literary Fiction) - Come Critique!

It's Beta Club time again!  Today we tackle literary fiction.  This genre is admittedly not my specialty, so I'm counting on you guys to give great input for the writer.  Also, you'll notice I'm now putting in a new section for the featured author.  I'm going to list when the author is seeking beta readers/crit partners for the work and will provide their email address link.  If you read an excerpt and are interested in being a beta reader for the person, please email them directly from the link to let them know.


For newbies:  If you haven't been here on beta club day yet, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below.
 
Author: Katie Loud (go check out her site)
Title: Annual
Genre: Literary Fiction

Excerpt:

Christian McKenzie was sixteen years old the last time he used a time clock to punch out of work.

            His sneakers left green smudges on the cement floor of the main storage building at Peter Neal Landscaping as he walked toward the back office to turn in his timecard.  He tapped the buff-colored rectangle measuring out a forty-hour workweek against his khaki shorts in the innate way that musicians do.  Christian was surprised to see Pete Neal himself, owner of the landscaping business that had employed him for two summers now, sitting behind the desk in his tiny office. 

            “Why you still here?” Pete asked, standing and hitching up his fatigue pants.  Although his pants were always falling down, his t-shirts were never without oval sweat stains at the armpits, and his few remaining teeth were gray and rotting, Christian liked him.  Pete had always been fair.

            “I wanted to finish that stone wall for you, sir.  It’s my last day.”

            Pete nodded.  “Yeah, Pentinicci already reminded me.”

            “He still here?”

            “Hell, no.  He was gone soon’s his eight hours was up.”  Pete grumbled a bit more before saying what he’d been leading up to.  “I told him job’s here for him next summer, same as I’m saying to you.”

            “Thank you, Mr. Neal.  I’ll be needing a job next summer between graduation and college, and you’ve been good to me.”

            “You’re a good worker, McKenzie.”  Pete held out a calloused hand, and Christian shook it gratefully. 

            “I’ll, uh, see you around, I’m sure.”  Christian was uncomfortable.  Pete’s company did the extensive landscaping at his parents’ mansion, a fact that both of them were a little embarrassed about and which neither of them mentioned.  “And I will be back next year, sir.”

            But he wasn’t.  The trajectory of his life changed forever that evening when his girlfriend told him she was pregnant.

                                                                        2.

            Christian checked the time as he walked to his red Saab convertible.  He wouldn’t be able to go home and shower before soccer practice, and that bothered him a bit.  Most of his teammates found it absolutely hysterical that Christian and to a slightly lesser degree his best friend Roy Pentinicci labored in the hot sun for forty hours a week all summer.  Although their teasing on the rare days he showed up with green ankles didn’t really bother Christian, the sense of bewilderment in their eyes did. 

            His father was one of the wealthiest men in the country.  There wasn’t a reason in the world for him to slave away mowing lawns, weeding gardens, erecting stone walls, accompanying balding, sweaty men with bad grammar.

            But then, Christian had always been something of an enigma to his peers, a fact that bothered him not in the least.  They wondered where his drive to excel came from, of course, why he worked his ass off to earn straight As at the prestigious Stephens Academy, what made him attend intensive extra baseball practices when he was already one of the best high school pitchers in the northeast.  It seemed unfair, of course, that Brian McKenzie’s son should be brilliant, talented in numerous areas, and model-handsome, but Christian was just too likable a guy to hold it against him.

            So people asked Roy, who was not quite as likable and not technically a McKenzie, why on earth the two of them worked for a landscaper instead of just pushing paper at one of Mr. McKenzie’s many offices.  Roy had been taken in by Brian and Belinda McKenzie when his famously dysfunctional family imploded in the fall of his freshman year.  They were his legal guardians, but they were not his parents.  He explained that his Porsche was a strings-attached present for his sixteenth birthday, the strings being that he pay his car insurance with money he earned.  As a three-season athlete and an honors student, this was impossible to accomplish during the school year.  Hence, a summer job was necessary.   That Brian McKenzie had made the same arrangement with his own son (and bought him a far less ostentatious car) when Christian turned sixteen a year later was what confused, almost frustrated people.  What was the point?

Below is my critique, click on FULL SCREEN, then once the document opens, RIGHT CLICK to zoom so you can see the comments.

Alright, so what do you think?  Are you hooked?  What did the author do well?  What things could be improved?  Thanks ahead of time for offering your feedback!


*Also Katie is looking for beta readers, so if you are interested in exchanging work with her, email her!


 
 
 

*Today's Theme Song*

"Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" - Good Charlotte

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

The Beta Club: Makin' Love (YA) - Come Critique!

Thanks so much for all the well wishes yesterday!  You guys are the bestest!  My partial will officially be sent out today, so please send positive thoughts out into the universe for me.  :)


Now, on to the Beta Club!  


For newbies:  If you haven't been here on beta club day yet, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below.
Author: Julie Cross (check out her blog)
Title: Makin' Love
Genre: Contemporary YA

Excerpt:
 

I was locked in a room with a perfect guy, just not my perfect guy. Despite the fact that wewere not a scientific match, he was staring at me like he might kiss me anysecond. And not a sloppy first kiss, but a hot, passionate, blood boiling kiss.In the dim light, his brown hair and gorgeous face lit with excitement.

            Even as I reviewed my careful planknowing this wasn’t anywhere in it, my defenses crumbled to bits.

“Annie,” he whispered. “Haven’t you ever done anythingimpulsive?”

            I shook my head fiercely, unable tospeak. He leaned forward and my breath caught in my throat. The tip of his nosegrazed my cheek. 

            “You’re seventeen, everything you doshould be impulsive,” he whispered without lifting his head.

            “Kyle . . .please . . . don’t.”

            He laughed softly. “I’m not eventouching you, Annie.”

            Hewasn’t touching me, but I still felt so . . .

            Kyle lifted his head again and his brown eyessmoldered me.

            “We’re not compatible. I checked thetest myself,” I managed to spit out.

            “Can’t you turn off that big brainof yours for a few minutes? We’re stuck in here aren’t we? Might as will have alittle fun until someone lets us out.”

            I cracked a smile unwillingly and hemust have taken that as an invitation. His mouth pressed firmly to my neck. Iclosed my eyes and a sigh escaped my lips.

            This was just a physical response.Completely chemical.

Just get itout of your system, Annie. You need to focus on your science project.

            “You’re thinking so hard, I canalmost hear you,” he said.

            “I can’t do this. I already wrotethe probable conclusion.”

            His fingertips brushed my cheek. “Iwon’t tell anyone, I swear. You have my word.”

            My heart sped up in my chest. “It’snot like we’re getting married. Just normal adolescent hormones.”

            A slow lopsided grin spread acrosshis face. “Is that a yes?”

            I closed my eyes again and nodded. Iran my hands through his hair, something I’d dreamt about doing for a longtime. “If you don’t make a move in the next five seconds, there’s an eightypercent chance I’ll change my mind.”

            His touched the back of my neck,pulling me closer and every nerve in my body lit on fire. How was this possible? He hadn’t even kissed me.

            “What should I do?” he asked. “Areyou going to interview me?”

            I laughed with my eyes still closed.“Just kiss me, please.”

            He didn’t hesitate and when his lipspressed against mine, my entire insides turned to mush. 

Oh, God thiswas bad, very bad . . . and yet so good. My hands moved to hisface. Then he pulled away and smiled.

            “Is that all you wanted?” Kyleasked.

            I grabbed the front of his shirt andpulled him close again, then wrapped my arms around him. I ran my lips down hisneck, letting the last wall of defense crumble. 

                                                                                                                      

I worked years to perfect every aspect of my life andnine months on a science project I might have completely screwed up, and all Icould think was how much I wanted him. Really wanted him.

            Ifthis was more than physical, my entire project would be invalid. NoHarvard. No Geneva Scholarship. No justification for what a bitch I’ve been toeveryone and anyone getting in my way. None of this was strong enough tosurface while the hot half-British teenager let his tongue dance around in mymouth. 

            His breathing grew heavier and myhands moved over his backside. “Annie, what are you doing?”

            “Everything,”I breathed.                                       

            Then I’ll forget it happened. Prove I’munattached to the incompatible subject.

            I un-tucked the bottom of his shirtand pulled it over his head. My fingers glided over his bare chest. Kyle’s eyesmet mine and he slowly unbuttoned my shirt, not looking away for a second. Hehesitated with the last button then finally let my shirt fall to the floor.

            “Have you done everything before?”he asked, softly touching my back.

            I nodded, letting his bare skinpress against mine.

            “With Trevor?”

            I nodded again feeling his fingerstense up around my arms. He didn’t like Trevor. “Only five times, each onecarefully planned with every precaution used.”

            “Oh, I can imagine the romanceinvolved in those perfectly calculated moments,” he whispered.

Below is my critique, click on FULL SCREEN, then once the document opens, RIGHT CLICK to zoom so you can see the comments.

Alright, so what do you think?  Are you hooked?  What did the author do well?  What things could be improved?  Thanks ahead of time for offering your feedback!


 
 
 
 

*Today's Theme Song (Author's Choice)**

"Beast of Burden" - Rolling Stones

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

The Beta Club: Embrol (YA Sci-Fi) - Come Critique!

Happy Thursday!  Thanks to everyone yesterday who wished me well about sleep yesterday.  Unfortunately, I didn't fall asleep until 1:30 due to writer's insomnia and then the kidlet decided to wake up at 3am for no apparent reason and didn't go back to sleep until 5am, sending me into another bout of racing mind afterwards.  So I'm coming to you today, live and hyped on caffeine.  On a good note, I wrote 2300 words yesterday!  :)


Alright, enough about me, it's time for the Beta Club!  I hope that you guys are still enjoying this feature.  Comments have dropped off a bit over the last few beta days.  I'm not sure if it's because y'all are over the idea or if people aren't commenting because others have already said what they planned to say.  Either way it's fine, I would just like you to let me know in the comments if you want me to continue this bi-weekly feature, if you're still finding it helpful, or if you want me to lose it (the feature, not it in general, although last night around 4am I was particularly close to losing the general "it".)

For newbies:  If you haven't been here on beta club day yet, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below.

Author: Abby Annis (go visit her and say hi!)
Title: Embrol
Genre: YA Sci-Fi

Excerpt:

            Three seconds. That’s how long ittook for my life to end.

            Well, it was an end of sorts. And itmight’ve taken longer. My recollection of that day is fuzzy, at best. I supposeit depends on which point was the actual end. Some might say it was the firstor second or third time I died. For me, it was the moment I saw that truckbarreling toward us. A girl really should have better memories of hereighteenth birthday.

            The day started gray. Not a dismal,ominous gray, but a beautiful, no sunshine or blue skies type of gray. A rareoccurrence in Mesa, Arizona, and my absolute favorite kind of day. Dark, heavyclouds hung low in the sky, moisture and dust mingling in the air to create thesmell that promises rain. Fat drops began to fall, drumming the metal roof andmuffling the chatter of the students filling the outdoor locker area aftersecond period.

            “How’s my favorite redhead on thislovely December morning?” Trevor hooked his arm around my neck and gave me hischeesiest grin.

            I slammed my locker shut. “LovelyDecember morning? What are you? Forty?”

            “Not cool, Livy. You make me promiseto be nice and when I do, all I get is crap from you?”

            “Yeah. Nice for one day. That’s it.Not a complete personality change. I love you just the way you are.”

            “Heh. That was way easier than I thought it would be.” His hand curled around myupper arm, and he let out a high-pitched whistle that made me wish I didn’thave ears. About a million heads swung toward us.

            Ifonly I could melt into the concrete on demand.

            “Today is Livy Ryan’s birthday,” heshouted.

            I tried to yank my arm from hisgrip. He wouldn’t budge. “Trevor, you promised—”

            “You don’t want me to be somethingI’m not. You said so yourself.”

            I should’ve known he’d fabricatesome loophole to wriggle out of his promise. This scene had been an inescapablepart of my birthday since I turned seven. He’d been my knight in shining armorthen. Now, I just wanted to choke him.

            People stared, some of themsnickering.

            “You know I hate you, right?” Isaid, making another lame attempt at escaping.

            He laughed and raised his voiceagain. “Today is Livy’s eighteenth birthday. And what do we do when someone hasa birthday?”

            His audience dwindled, thankgoodness, but a mousy girl blushed, her eyelashes fluttering, and squeaked,“Sing?”

            Whatdoes she see that I don’t? Sure, he was tall—almost six feet—and cute in aTrevor sort of way. His black hair curled up around the bottom of his cap, andhe always had that look in his dark eyes like he was up to something. Seriouslythough, one time a girl actually sighed as he walked by—totally ridiculous.

            Trevor pointed to mousy girl andwinked, flashing his most obnoxious grin. “Give the pretty lady a prize!”

            She giggled and—along with likefifty other people—joined him in singing the world’s longest version of thebirthday song. I pulled my hood up to hide my face, certain my cheeks haddarkened enough to match my auburn hair.

            He finally released me, and I shovedhim away. “Your word is worthless, Trevor.”

            “Aw, c’mon. It’s tradition.”

            “I don’t care what you call it, youpromised… No way. You know that pouty face doesn’t work on me.”

            “Yes it does.”

            “You’re such a pain.” I barelymanaged to withhold a smile.

            Trevor’s arm found its way backaround my neck. He draped his jacket over our heads  and dragged me out into the rain, toward themain building. “We still on for Friday?”

            “Yeah, right. I’m not going out inpublic with you.”

            “I’ll pick you up at six.”

            “I won’t be there.”

            “Yes you will.” He rested his head againstmine. “You love me.”

            “Ha! So what? Doesn’t mean I likeyou.”

            “You know, Liv.” He laid his handover his heart in mock pain. “You really know how to hurt a guy.”

            “Whatever. You wouldn’t be happy ifyou weren’t making me crazy.”

            “Maybe not, but you’re still my bestgirlfriend.” He always said that when he wanted to get on my good side.

            “I’m so telling Brooke you saidthat.”

            “She’ll never believe you,especially after last night—”

            “Ew! No details, please.”

            “The details? Those are the best part.”

Below is my critique, click on FULL SCREEN, then once the document opens, RIGHT CLICK to zoom so you can see the comments.

 

Alright, so what do you think?  Are you hooked?  What did the author do well?  What things could be improved?  Thanks ahead of time for offering your feedback!

 
 
 
 
 

*Today's Theme Song**

"Happy, Happy Birthday Baby" - Ronnie Milsap

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

The Beta Club: Untitled Commercial Fiction - Come Critique!

Tuesday is here, which means it's time for the Beta Club!  Are you ready to put that critical eye to use?

If you're new to this feature, don't be afraid to jump in with your comments.  All feedback is welcome as long as it's constructive.  And if anyone has an itch to be critiqued, the rules for submitting to the Beta Club are under the "Free Critiques" heading at the top of the page.

Also, Tina Lynn, our first Beta Club volunteer, has revised her excerpt based on our input.  She's posted the updated version on her blog.  Be sure to stop by and tell her what you think!

Alright, please read through the author's excerpt, then provide your feedback in the comments.  My detailed critique is below.

Author: Rebecca (visit her at Diary of a Virgin Novelist)
Title: Untitled
Genre: Commercial Fiction

Excerpt:

Daylight fought its way in aroundthe edges of the window shades and the old, dust-covered box fan rattled in thecorner of the room.  Eleanor cracked aneye open, disorientated.  Her mouth feltcarpeted and her shirt, the same flimsy, black top she’d worn to the bar thenight before, was damp with sweat.  Thebed was smooth and empty next to her; the clock on her husband, Andrew’s,nightstand read 10:07.  She wondered whatday it was.

Eleanor leapt from the bed.  There was something she was supposed to be doing.  From far away came the tinny sound of aphone.  Stumbling from the bedroom,pantless and little dizzy, she tried to find the noise.  Debris from her arrival home littered thecramped apartment – heels kicked off in the hallway, wool coat flung to thefloor, jeans balled up on the leather armchair – but no purse.  Eleanor’s heart seized in that panicky,hungover way that accompanies realizing you slept with someone ugly the nightbefore or cackled to a friend about her new boyfriend’s creepy small hands.  Eleanor could taste sour whiskey in the backof her throat.  And that damn phone wasstill ringing. 

Following the sound, Eleanorsnatched her coat off the floor. Searching through the pockets she found nothing but a five-dollar billand a slip of paper with a number scrawled across it.  Frustrated, Eleanor threw the coat to theground.  Looking down at the puddle ofgray material, Eleanor saw her bag right by her feet.  It had been under the coat the whole f***ingtime.  Wincing in pain from her throbbinghead and complete ineptitude, she dug the cell phone out and gingerly held itto her ear.

 “You’re up! I was afraid I was going to have to call you over and over to rouse youfrom the dead.” Andrew’s voice was clear and bright.  He was always so damn chipper in the morning.

“When did I get home last night?”

“Sometime after three AM,” Andrewsaid. “You told me you wanted to buy a Rottweiler so you could terrorize thekids in the neighborhood and then you passed out.”

“That must have been attractive,”Eleanor said as she wandered the 12 feet across the living room.  She knew it was 12 feet because she hadmeasured it in a fit of rage a few weeks after moving into the apartment.

“Very much so,” Andrewchuckled.  “Now, don’t forget yourinterview is at 11:30.  You need to getmoving.”

Eleanor peered at her image in themirror over the mantle.  Her normallyperfect, asymmetrical bob was matted and stuck to the back of her skull; blackeye makeup cut a trail down her face. “That’s right.  The interview.  I knew I had something to do today.”

“You’re going to be great.”Eleanor could hear him typing in the background. “Just be your normal,wonderful self.  If they ask why you leftyour last job just tell them what we practiced: you wanted to work for a smaller,more personable firm where you could have a larger impact.”

“And if they ask about thepenises?”

“They’re not going to ask aboutthe penises,” Andrew said, dropping his voice on the word penises.  “And if they do, say you made a youthfulindiscretion, you were going through a tough time in your personal life, youmade a horrendous mistake but sincerely hope that you will be given a secondchance.  Then redirect them to yourportfolio.  Your work stands for itself.”

“What are you typing?” Eleanorasked.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Eleanor walked backtowards the kitchen, praying for coffee. “I like this idea of a youthful indiscretion. I didn’t know those werestill allowed at 33.”

“I’m pretty sure that was yourlast one.” Eleanor could hear someone come in to Andrew’s office.

“What if I don’t want this job?”she said in a small voice.  There was noreply.  Eleanor could hear the muffledsounds of Andrew speaking to a woman, probably that toothy girl who worked insales and wore her hair in a ponytail.  Ahigh ponytail. 

“Sorry, Eleanor,” Andrew saidafter a beat, “It’s a busy day here. I’ve got to run but call me later. Good luck, honey.”

My critique is below.  Click on FULL SCREEN, then once in the document, right click to zoom so you can see the comments.

Alright, so what do you think?  Are you hooked?  What did the author do well?  What things could be improved?  Thanks ahead of time for offering your feedback!

 

*Today's Theme Song**

"Morning After" - Dead By Sunrise

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

Things I Learned This Week

I had a couple of articles I read this week that I wanted to blog about, but instead of doing individual blog posts, I figured I would summarize and then provide you with the links.  And, for those of you who aren't doing the Twitter thing yet, you're missing out on a lot of good info.  Most of these articles came to me by way of tweets.  (Btw, if you want to follow me, click on the flying birdie on the right.)

Alright, so things I learned this week...

• First, blogger has a PAGES feature now!  I have to thank Jody Hedlund for bringing this to my attention.  If you're not sure what I'm talking about, look at the top of this page.  See that?  Other links to other pages within this blog!  So, now we can make our blogs be more like websites.  Of course, I find this out right after I built my professional website, but that's okay.  I'll maintain both for now.  Feel free to click around above and let me know what you think of my new pages.  (To add this feature to your own blog, add the pages gadget in your layout.)

• The action opening isn't all it's cracked up to be.  This is one of the things that has come up in a few of the Beta Club critiques--help me know the character so that I care that she's/he's in danger in the first place--but this article explained it's much better than I could:  The Biggest Bad Advice About Story Openings (thanks to @elizabethscraig for the tweet)

• And if that's what not to do in an opening, here are some "to dos" from C. Patrick Schulze's blog.

• Why critting others makes you a better writer.  So bonus points for you guys participating in the Beta Club critiques! (tweet from @inkyelbows)

• For some reason writers continue to put down other genres.  Why can't we all just get along?  Here's a quote, but the full article is here. (thanks to @Gwen_Mitchell for the tweet) 

Nicholas Sparks has no love forpeople who call his stories "romances."   "If you look for me, I'm in the fictionsection. Romance has its own section," he says toward the end of a long conversation.

• I'm capable of writing large amounts when I put my mind to it--7000 words this week baby! *happy dance*

Alright, so that's all I've got.  How about you?  What did you learn this week?

*Today's Theme Song**

"You Learn" - Alanis Morissette

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

The Beta Club: Strings (YA Paranormal) - Come Critique!

It's Beta Club Thursday!  I've been so impressed with all of your feedback on the last few beta posts.  So thank you to everyone who has been participating.  You guys are awesome.


Now for today's entry.  Please take the time to read through the passage and offer the author feedback.  My detailed critique is below.

Title: Strings
Genre: Paranormal YA
Author: Tere Kirkland (visit her site and say hi)

Excerpt:
 
 

Blinding smoke chokes me as I dashinto our tiny bow-top wagon. Its wooden walls haven’t caught yet, but theywill, sending my home to the hereafter. Just like Papa. It’s been just over aweek since his death, but life without my sweet papa already seems unlivable.Now I’m losing my home, where he used to sing with me. Where he used to listento me play for hours. If I lose my violin, I might as well die, too.

I fling open the doors to my littlebunk, praying for its safety. Orange light flickers off its smooth surface,right where I left it, the bow nearby. You should have loosened the bow whenyou were done playing, Mara, comes Alex's voice in my head. A fine time forsuch a warning, when I'm risking my skin.

The wooden doors of my bunk are aflamenow, but the blanket is still unburned. I snatch it from the soft mattress,holding my violin tight to my chest and wrapping the blanket close. I canbarely breathe. Crouching down low, I stumble sightless toward the door I'dleft open while the flames eat away our beloved vardo. They'll eat menext if I stay any longer.

Mother is shouting outside."Sweet Saint Sara, save my baby girl!”

I try to croak that I’m here, but myfirst breath scorches my throat. Coughing drops me to the ground. The heat aloneis enough to suck most of the air from my chest. If I die, there'll be nothingleft of my possessions to burn. Nothing left of me to be remembered. Nothingbut my restless muló to haunt them.

I'd laugh at myself if it wouldn'tmean sucking in more smoke. Me, just another muló like old Kira and theTinker? Wouldn't they love to see me so? I grit my teeth. I'm determined tolive, if only to keep from spending the afterlife with those two chattering inmy dead ear.

Clutching my violin tight, I forcemyself to stand. I tuck my face under the blanket and make myself walk towardthe door—that painted door I know so well—quick as a match is struck.

I trip down the three steps and suckfresh air in, nearly collapsing. Mother runs to my side and clutches at thesooty blanket I’m coughing into. Even as she babbles at me through a mess oftears, I push her away. Not that I'm not glad to see her, but I see anotherface in the gathering crowd. The cold, manipulative face of Lucia Saray.

Old Kira stands unseen next to her,rubbing her bloodless hands and speaking threats that I alone can hear. OnlyLucia could have convinced Mother to send our vardo up in flames afterPapa died inside. Though today was his first pomana, the memorial supperheld nine days after his death, Mother still feared his spirit might haunt ourhome.

But she didn't have to worry aboutPapa's muló. Perhaps she wouldn’t have believed me, but I should havetold her so before she burned our vardo. Before she let Lucia take itfrom me. My punishment for chasing Alex away.

I thrust my violin and bow at Motherand drop the blanket to the ground. The wind whips it into the wheel of theclosest vardo where it flaps like a dying bird.

“Mara, what were you thinking?”Mother cradles my tiny violin as if it's a baby. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“No thanks to that old hag,” I spit,stepping closer to Lucia.

The woman’s needle-like eyes narroweven further.

My sister Jeanette steps in betweenus. “Behave yourself, Mara. Have some respect for your elders if you’ve nonefor the dead.” Her grim-faced husband Hugo watches the fire from behind her forany signs it might spread to the other wagons.

Holding my chin up, as if that couldmake me any taller, I spin on my heel away from the judgment in their eyes. Awayfrom the cunning frozen smiles of the Tinker and Kira.

Fire licks at the painted sides ofthe bow-top wagon. Flame manes crown Papa’s painted mares, one each for me andmy two sisters. The little birds Mother kept bright with oil and wax havecurled and warped under the heat. For sixteen years I’ve called the vardohome and in less time than I could play an Irish jig, it’s been taken from me.And soon Jeannette will take Mother away, too. 

Below is my crit.  Click FULL SCREEN to view, then once in the document RIGHT CLICK to zoom in to see comments.


Strings-Crit by Roni


Alright, so what did you think of the passage?  Did it hook you?  What did the author do well?  What areas need some work?  Thanks ahead of time for taking the time to give feedback!

 
 

*Today's Theme Song**

"I Burn" - The Toadies

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

The Beta Club: Lights Out (Fantasy) - Come Critique!

                

It's that time of the week again!  On today's agenda, a fantasy story.  Please take the time to read through the passage and offer the author feedback.  My detailed critique is below.

Title: Lights Out
Genre: Fantasy
Author: Kristina Fugate (check out her blog: KayKay's Corner)

Excerpt:

    

   Winter made itself known last night—hitting us hard in the form ofa heavy snowstorm. The city had been covered in nearly a foot of snow overnightand there was no one feeling it quite like Bolton Falls and the surroundingcommunities. My whole neighborhood has been transformed into a huge, fluffypillow.

    Sadly, snow makes toddlers go insane and my brother is no exception tothe rule. And, as his main caregiver, it is my job to watch over him and makesure no harm comes to that precious head of his.

I stand solemnlyon the porch adjacent to my wheelchair-bound grandfather, tapping my footslowly as we stared out at the frozen wasteland before us. Ashton, the four-year-oldI’m in charge of, is bounding around the yard, dazzled by the heaps of icygoodness covering ground.

    “Ashton!” I call, glancing around for him. He’s managed to disappearfrom sight—probably buried under a pile of snow. His head pops out of a moundof ice, his brown curls littered with snowflakes. “Get away from the road.You’ll get hit!” I command, waving him over.

    I take a quick peek at my watch, realizing it’s nearly time for Granddadto take his medication. Issuing a heavy sigh, I put my hand on his shoulder andsqueeze, trying to get his attention. “Grandpa,” I say loudly, hoping mynearly-deaf grandfather would hear me, “it’s time for your medicine.”

    “Whaa…?” he hums, glancing up at me, “You say something, Skye?” I narrowmy eyes and clench my jaw tightly, trying to keep my cool.

    “Your medicine!” I repeat, almost shouting, “It’s time for yourmedicine.” His expression changes, as if he’d just realized it himself, and hegoes to nodding—like he always does.

    “Ash!” I snap, “Stay close to the house! I’m going inside to giveGranddad his meds!” With that said, I wheel my senile guardian inside. We’vegot one of the smallest, drabbest places in Falcon Ridge, the rather high-classneighborhood we live in, decorated with black and white pictures of relativesthat have been dead for decades and furniture that was probably manufactured inthe 1930s. Our place even has a different smell compared to the other houses inthe area—a very distinctive musky odor.

    I park Grandpa at the kitchen table and go to the cabinet, shiftingthrough dozens upon dozens of pill bottles. I’d had to move them up on theshelf because Grandpa likes to feel independent and take his meds by himself;two stomach pumps later, I figured out they needed to be out of his reach.

    I grab the needed bottles and splay them out on the table, leaningforward on my elbows. “Gramps,” I say sternly, catching his attention, “yourmeds.” He nods for a few moments and stares at me expectantly. “Two of these,”I say, pointing to the appropriate bottle, “One of those kidney pills. And twoof these red ones with a full glass of water. Yeah?”

    “Yes,” he hums, waving me away, “go watch Ashton. I’m sure I can take itfrom here, child.” I quirk a single thin eyebrow, momentarily wondering whetheror not he could really handle it, but decide to let him haveat it and walk away.

     “I’m so underappreciated,” I grumble, gritting my teeth angrily asI head towards the door, “The most unrewarded person on the face of this—”

     My heated comment is cut short by the sound of Ashton screamingbloody murder. The front door flies open and my brother rushes inside, wrappinghimself around my leg. “Si-sissy!” he stammers. He’s trembling and crying hislittle eyes out.

    “What’s the matter, mutt?” I ask, rolling my eyes, “Didja fall in theroad? I told you not to—!”

    “A boy!” he wails, “There’s a boy!”

    I bring my eyebrows together to form a stern, confused line. “A…boy?” Iask, “Whuddya mean a boy? Did someone push you?”

    “No! No! There’s a boy in the snow!” he screams, shaking my leg roughly,“He’s in the snow!”

    My heart almost stops. I can’t be hearing him right. “In…in the snow?”

Below is my crit.  Click FULL SCREEN to view, then once in the document RIGHT CLICK to zoom in to see comments.

LightsOut-Crit by Roni

Because I referenced buried dialogue and wordiness in my critique, I figured I'd link to the posts that described those things:

• Buried dialogue 
• Eliminating Wordiness

Alright, so what did you think of the passage?  Did it hook you?  What did the author do well?  What areas need some work?  Thanks ahead of time for taking the time to give feedback!
 

*Today's Theme Song**

"Everything to Everyone" - Everclear

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

The Beta Club: Half Past Midnight - YA (Come Critique!)

Welcome back to the Beta Club!  Today's entry is a submission from a writer who is new to the word of critiquing, so high five to the author for being brave enough to put the work out there for its first critique!.  :) Below is the unedited entry.  Then underneath that, you will be able to click on the Scribd document to see my critique.

I hope you will all give your encouragement and constructive feedback in the comments.

Title: Half Past Midnight
Genre: YA/New Adult
Author: Choosing to remain anonymous for now.

Excerpt:

Night time isnever a good time to go out alone, but my Tuesdays had shaped up to be brutal.If I wanted to get in a run it had to be now; and if I wanted to keep up withRyan the next time we ran together then I had to get more efficient. The lastand only time I had run with him he had to stop several times to let me catchmy breath. It humiliated me, and I promised myself I wouldn’t let it happenagain. Of course, I didn’t know at the time he had been a high school trackwonder. I should have known. He’s good at everything.  

 It had been busy today; with work, twoclasses, and a lab. The setting sun called out the end of the day when Istarted my run. Now however, it was dark, and the thick trees lining thestreets of my neighborhood blocked out what few streetlights there were.  With only a few blocks left, I was relievedmy run was nearly over. My legs burned and my sides ached, but I resisted theurge to walk the rest of the way. I would have to get in better shape if Ihoped to keep up with Ryan next time. It would be even better if I could outrunhim at some point.

As I jogged closerto my house my thoughts drifted to my class load this semester. It had workedout pretty well, for once. My Monday-Wednesday-Friday would hopefully be alittle lighter load than today had been. My last class on those days wasCreative Writing. I felt a little leery about sharing my creative thoughts withother people, and hoped Dr. Gellar would not be too hard. He was a pretty sarcasticcharacter yesterday. 

Of course, Jessemight make that class more interesting. He sat next to me yesterday, andinstantly intrigued me. A junior majoring in music, he had the darkest eyes Ihave ever seen.  He didn’t say much. I’mnot sure he would have said anything at all if Dr. Gellar hadn’t asked us tointroduce ourselves. He had a mysterious, dark quality I couldn’t quite put myfinger on, as if he couldn’t decide whether to put a wall up around him or takeit down. One minute he had his back turned to me, but the next minute we were sharinga quick grin at something snide Dr. Gellar said.

I couldn’t believehe actually signed up for this class as an elective. Who takes Creative Writingjust for fun? I would have to be careful with myself around him. He stirred mycuriosity a little too much. And Ryan and I were too close now to let a littlecuriosity come between us, even if we were “just friends” still. I didn’t wantanything to mess up the possibility of something more.

Just as mythoughts turned back to Ryan something jumped into my peripheral vision. Theblur flew toward me, and I was immediately knocked over the bush that lined thesidewalk. I slid down the picket fence behind it, and found myself pinned, thebush on one side and the fence on the other. But it was more than the fencethat had me trapped.  I felt a hugeweight on top of me.  I tried to pushagainst it when a grisly hand that smelled of alcohol clamped against my mouth.

“Don’t make asound!” he growled into my ear.

I felt a franticpull on my shirt and shorts. I thrashed, trying to shake him off of me. Iscreamed, but nothing more than a muffle came out. My arms were pinned. My legscouldn’t budge. I twisted and kicked with every ounce of strength I had, but Icouldn’t move more than an inch. I clung to a fading hope that he would make amistake and I could wriggle free. 

My critique.  Click on FULL SCREEN, then once in the document, RIGHT CLICK to zoom.  (If that doesn't work, click here.) 

Please provide your feedback below.  Are you hooked?  What did the author do well?  What areas could the author improve upon?
 
 
 
 

**Today's Theme Song (Author's Choice)**

"The Reason" - Hoobastank

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

How Do You Handle Critiques? (and a call for Volunteers)

Getting feedback is a necessary part of this business of writing.  I didn't realize the true meaning of that when I first started--I thought my mom loving my first novel was more than enough.  :)  But as we've discussed before, your mama isn't a valid beta reader.

So we go out and we find critique groups or send our manuscript out to beta readers, then we brace ourselves for the feedback.  We know what we want to hear: "You're fabulous, this is ready for submission, you don't need to edit a thing."  But usually the crit is decidedly less stellar (unless it's from your mom.)

So when the tough feedback comes your way?  How do you handle it?  Do you get angry, down on yourself, blame the critiquer, want to give up and go back to your day job?  Or do you breathe through it and look at the feedback as a gift for you to work with?

I've gotten a range of reactions when giving critiques to others's work.  I admit I'm a tough critter.  And I usually warn people of that before I offer to read their stuff.  But of course, people usually say, "Bring it on, I want honesty."

In some cases, that's true.  I've critted for a number of people outside my critique group and most have been awesome about receiving the feedback (including Tina Lynn whose twitter comment to me inspired this post.)  I've also gotten the stunned reaction--the "oh, okay, eighty crit comments on ten pages, um thanks."  Which I take to mean the person is either ticked off at me, dismissing my opinions, or really just needs time to soak the feedback in.

We each have our own way of dealing with those emotions that flood us after hearing the negative feedback.  Some of us tend to direct our anger and frustration outward--being defensive, getting angry at or discrediting/dismissing the critiquer--she doesn't know what she's talking about, this isn't her genre, and anyway, her work isn't that fabulous either.

 Others direct it inward--blaming themselves--I'm never going to be able to do this.  I suck. Why do I even bother?  Most of us tend to lean toward one pattern or the other--and this goes for life in general, not just for this specific situation.  Type ones get mad, type twos get depressed--same emotion just directed in a different way.

I am definitely a type two person.  I blame myself, wonder if I'll ever be good enough, yadda yadda yadda.  I've very rarely been frustrated with the critter themselves.  But either type can learn something from the other.

• Type ones need to take a breath and reflect.  They need to look for the truth in the comments, absorb the responsibility for the mistakes they may have made, and direct the frustration into determining which changes they think are valid and which ones they are going to ignore.  And most of all, do not be rude to the critter.  They took the time to give you honest feedback, which is not an easy thing to do.

• Type twos need to realize that a crit is just an opinion.  Sure, there is probably truth in most of what someone says, but not everything they say is cardinal law.  If type twos aren't careful, they'll end up flipping their story upside down every time they get a different crit trying to please everyone.  You have to remember that it is ultimately your story.  Make sure you pick and choose which advice you want to go with.

Okay, so related to this topic, I wanted to ask if anyone would be willing to be critted here on the blog?  This would mean you submit your first few pages and I offer a crit in a post along with getting feedback from commenters?  Obviously, this takes some bravery, but also means you could get some invaluable feedback from a bunch of talented writers (a  la Public Query Slushpile or Miss Snark's First Victim).  Everyone could also learn from each other on what to look for in a crit.  

If you think this would be a valuable tool, then let me know in the comments.  If you are willing to submit pages to get that critique, also let me know.  If you don't want to do it in the comments--just email me (click the little blue @ symbol under my picture.)

Alright, so back to the original topic, which camp do you fall in?  How do you handle a bad crit?  Have you ever had anyone get upset with you over a crit you gave them?  
 
 
 

**Today's Theme Song**

"Say It Ain't So" - Weezer

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

Sifting Through Opposing Feedback

Photo by engineroomblog (click pic for link)

First, thanks so much for all of your nice comments and congratulations yesterday.  You guys are the bestest!

Now, because I had the opportunity to review the judges' comments and revise my submission before sending it along to the editor, I spent the entire afternoon yesterday obsessing over two paragraphs.  Last night, I finally hit the point of mostly happy with it and went ahead and sent it in.  If I looked at it any longer, I know I would have ended up changing too much.  The entry got me to the finals, so I'm trying to go with the ain't-broke-don't-fix-it (well, don't fix it too much) mentality--a philosophy that is hard for me to embrace at times. So I have officially let it go and am giving it over to the Fates at this point.

But as I was going through the judges' comments and emailing back and forth with my crit group to get their input, my head started to swim.  It's amazing how subjective this whole writing thing is.  One reader will point out how much they love something, then another one will say I totally blew that part.  

When I threw out options to my crit partners, each had different opinions of which version I should go with (and gave completely valid rationales behind why there opinion was such.)  I'd read one of their suggestions, and be like, yes that makes so much sense.  But then I'd read another's opposing opinion and her reasoning, and be like, damn, that makes total sense too.  Gah!  

So it makes me wonder, how do you know which advice to take and which to toss? Ultimately, I went with what had the best "feel" to me when I read it out loud, but believe me, I agonized over every freaking word.

So how about you?   When you get opposing opinions that all make sense, how do you determine your course?  

 

**Today's Theme Song**

"Brain Stew" - Green Day

(player in sidebar--go ahead, take a listen)

Structuring a Critique Group Online

Cartoon credit: Inky Girl

I've mentioned my online crit group on here a number of times and many of you have asked how it's structured or set up.  So I thought it may be helpful to discuss how ours works.  Keep in mind that crit groups can take on any number of structures and set ups.  This is just what happens to work out perfectly for me.  There is no "right" way to do it.  So it's important to figure out what works best for you and the members of your group.

First, I want to say that Lynnette over at Chatterbox Chitchat set up our group, so the credit on this set up style goes to her.  :)  But I have found this structure really efficient, so I figured I'd pass it along.

One of the most important things is to set up rules and expectations up front (and stick to them).
--We have a document that actually outlines these things.
--Just like with anything else, if you're super lax about expectations, people will eventually slack.  It's human nature, lol.
---Our rules:

• Each person is responsible for critting at least one chapter a week (not one per person, just one.)
• Make sure you check the database (more on that below) to see whose critting what, and pick the chapter you crit based on who hasn't gotten a crit yet that week.
• Delete the person's work off your hard drive when you're done.
• Don't share anyone's work with anyone else.
• If you can't crit that week, let someone know, and make it up the next week.

It can help to have a designated leader.
--This is very helpful.  This doesn't mean the leader has more power than anyone else, he or she is just a goto person for different things.  Lynnette has taken on this role in our group.  If we can't crit, we email her.  When the group had spots open for new members, she led the search for a new one.

Choose what genres you're going to cover.
--Some groups are totally fine being mixed genre, but I find that harder to work with.  My group does all romance.  There are different subgenres--romantic suspense, paranormal, contemporary--but all adult romance.
--This eliminates issues of people who are not readers of your area not understanding the components of your genre.  For instance, a sci-fi person may not understand why romance has to have a happy ending.

Try to find members who are not too far apart in skill level.
--If you have brand new beginners with seasoned veterans, people can get frustrated.  (The beginner because they are getting torn apart and the veterans because they aren't getting enough valuable feedback.)
--It's okay to have some variance in skill, just make sure people aren't on opposite ends of the spectrum.

Alright, now a few technical aspects...

We have our group set up through Yahoo Groups.  This website has been very helpful in keeping things organized.  It also provides you with a group address so you can email your members and everyone sees the email and can respond to them--which means you can have conversations on the email loop.  This aspect is almost as helpful as the crits themselves.  You have a sounding board at your fingertips.

In the yahoo groups, there are two folders set up for each member--a "to do" folder and a "done" folder.  For instance, the Roni To Do folder is where I upload my chapters that are ready to be critted.  Then, the Roni Done folder is where the members upload their crits of my chapters.  So if I go in my Done folder, I'll see all the chapters that have already been critted and I can download them to see the critique.

To keep track of who is critting what and to make sure everyone gets  a crit each week, we have a database set up in yahoo as well.

Okay, that's a little hard to see, but basically it has our names along the side and top--grid style.  So my name is second from the bottom, if you scan horizontally from my name, this shows that I critted for three different people (the names at the top) that week.  We designate this by code: (novel title initials) Chapter #, date, then either C (for currently being critted) or D (done and uploaded for viewing.)

So if someone had critted Wanderlust chapter two, it would look like this: WL Ch.2  D 1/13.  Now if someone goes in the database ready to crit, they will see that someone has already done one for me this week, so they will find the person who still needs one and enter that they are critting their chapter.  For instance, in the pic above, you can see that the person on the far right end hasn't received any crits yet that week.  (For the record, she had nothing uploaded that week to do, so that's why she didn't have any.  Otherwise, other people wouldn't have gotten multiple crits before she got one.)

There is also a handy dandy box you can check when you upload someone's chapter that automatically sends an email to everyone to let them know the chapter is now available for viewing.  That way you don't have to constantly check the database to see if people have finished critting your work yet.

Lastly, and most importantly, remember that in any critiquing relationship, all members need to treat others with respect and kindness.  Give tough feedback if it's called for, that's your job.  But don't be rude, tear people down, or make fun of anyone's work.  Also, be sure you know how to take a crit.  Don't get all defensive and fussy when you get back feedback you don't like.  Honest feedback is a gift, treat it as such.  We're all in this together.  :)

How about you?  Are you in a crit group?  How does yours work?  Have any tips for those trying to put a group together?  What have you seen gone wrong in a crit group--how did you fix it?

**Don't forget, the win a 10 page crit contest is still accepting entries until Friday.  Click here to enter!**

**Today's Theme Song**

"Perfect Situation" - Weezer

(player in sidebar, take a listen)