I don’t know how many times I’ve heard agents and editors tell writers to, “start with action.” Many writers have taken that advice and transformed their manuscripts with openings that resemble a Michael Bay action flick on steroids–complete with a much younger Tom Cruise who sparkles in the sunlight. OK so maybe you don’t know who Michael Bay is and maybe Tom Cruise is not your cup of tea (anymore but whatever, you know you still think he’s hot) and maybe your vampires don’t sparkle or whatever. So what? You get my point. Or maybe you don’t. But here’s the thing. Taken too literally, the opening of your manuscript can only go downhill from there.
Let me explain what the heck it is I’m talking about.
Knowing WHERE to start your manuscript is critical to managing the flow of your story and engaging your reader early on. It is the difference between grabbing the reader by the collar and never letting go and begging the reader to grab onto you while wearing slime and sliding down a slippery slope at one hundred miles per hour. Yes. I like a good metaphor.
Here is what I always tell writers who offer up their manuscripts for me to review either because they are clients of mine, I’m judging a writing contest, I’m vetting for my awesome agent panel over at YALITCHAT.ORG or I’m doing someone a favor: NEVER OPEN WITH DIALOGUE!
You’d be surprised how many writers open a book with dialogue–and not just ANY dialogue. Really mundane dialogue that is no interest to anyone but the writer themselves. I advise writers against this because I feel this way–and really it is a personal preference. Unless you have the most amazing dialogue of all time that is going to make the reader feel as if he MUST know what happens next, then you have failed to grab your reader with the opening line which is dialogue. I often find when this happens, there is a line of text 3-5 lines down that would have made a perfect opener but it remains hidden beneath the mumbo-jumbo because the author is so busy trying to explain something he feels the reader needs to know in order to “get it” instead of simply telling the story.
Readers do not want to be introduced to a story that needs to get going or build up and finally off and running about twenty-five pages in. In other words: ENOUGH WITH THE BACKSTORY ALREADY. They expect to be taken RIGHT into the story as it is happening on page one. What do I mean by this? OK, let’s make up a story. Boy is only survivor on boat that washes ashore on strange island. Has no idea where he is and upon arrival is captured by natives tribe who raise them as their own for a few years and he falls in love with daughter of tribal leader. Once found, he must decide whether to return home or stay. Where do you start this story?
A. At home preparing to leave for trip. We see him with all the people he will leave behind including the girl he has a crush on, his sick mother and best friend and brother. We also find out why he is taking trip in first place.
B. On boat during terrible, raging storm. We see flashbacks of his life before the trip including the girl he hopes he will see again, his best friend and brother and his sick mother. We meet his father who dies during the storm creating a heart-felt moment/emotional moment.
C. Hiding out behind heavy brush, having washed ashore–alone, afraid, cold. Taking notice of a tribal ceremony at night, the sounds, smells, people. Experiencing many emotions over the course of the chapter. Seeing his love interest for the first time but not as she would like to have had him see her had she known he was watching.
Each of the above scenarios are all perfectly acceptable openings which could be built out into workable first chapters. I can look at each of these and tell you what I know for certain a newbie writer would choose, a more experienced writer would definitely choose and what and agent or editor would advise against choosing. For the sake of learning, fun and because I think this topic deserves more attention–tell me which YOU would choose AND if you so dare, write a few lines–at least four paragraphs.
I’m giving away ARCs of Melinda Lo’s HUNTRESS to the first twenty people who enter (with one of the above openings and at least four real paragraphs). HOWEVER, the one I deem the BEST will WIN a chance to have the first twenty five pages of their manuscript critiqued by me for a chance to have it forwarded to the following agents by me:
Michelle Wolfson
Sara Davies
Mark McVeigh
Bernadette Baker-Baughman
Natalie Fisher
Lindsay Ribar
Laura Bradford
Brianne Mulligan
Lauren MacLeod
Deidre Knight
I will accept comments/submissions through March 31. Thank you and good luck!
For those interested in learning more about when, where and how to begin your story, I’m teaching a webinar on Self-Editing and Revision on February 19th. Click here for more info. You may register through Feb 16th!
Write well-
Georgia
I’d choose C. Here’s my take on it.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Quick drumming mimics my heartbeat. I peer through the heavy brush again. Firelight teases me with glimpses of food and drink on a long table. My dry, swollen tongue sticks to my parched lips. I shiver in the cold moonlight. Survival instinct urges me forward. Fear holds me back.
Smoke drifts my way, choking me. I pull the neck of my tattered shirt over my mouth and nose, resisting the urge to cough. My eyes burn, but no tears moisten them. I’ve nothing left.
The clear notes of a pipe counter the drumbeats. A hush falls over the cloaked figures gathered around the fire. Then they sing. Their strange language has no meaning for me. Their mournful tone breaks my heart.
The singing stops. One by one, they step forward, taking a bit of food or drink from the table. They toss it onto the fire.
“No.” My unused voice is no more than a whisper. More food and drink go onto the fire. “Stop!” They can’t hear me. I pull myself through the brush, ignoring the pain when the brush scrapes my skin. My fingers dig into the sandy earth, propelling me closer to the life-giving sustenance.
One of the cloaked figures turns toward me. “Please,” I beg. “Help me.”
More turn my way. They shout in their strange language. Some scream and run. Others grab up weapons and rush toward me. I should have crawled back to the wreckage of the boat and died with the others.
I was in a hurry to get my kids from school and forgot to tell you why I chose C. A wouldn’t start “in the action,” and B has flashbacks. I’m not a fan of flashbacks as a reader or writer. That’s why I chose C. =)
Interesting. Very hard to capture agony and emotional drain in this way in short presentation. I did not see or feel any of the things mentioned in the backstory I presented. I was disappointed re this. I found too much focus on flowery language and not enough on real emotional distress. The feeling of dying, of being deprived of life and what that does to a person, a teenager whose own mother is dying, who has a sibling, has just lost the people he was traveling with, etc. I didn’t see any of that here. There was too much focus placed on the elements of thirst, hunger and physical discomfort and not enough to make an emotional connection with the reader.
I understand what you’re trying to achieve but it feels too rushed to relate to. I wish you would have taken more time with it. Overall, I like the writing.
I chose C as well, but I think B could work out well too with the right approach. I think the flashbacks would distract from the action a lot. With C, you can start with the action, then move back to the meat and potatoes easier without disturbing the flow to incorporate everything from A and B.
Anyway, here’s my start. I had a hard time wanting to stop. :[
“If something happens out there Eli, remember to keep looking forward.”
Those were the last words his mother had spoken to him. That had been three months ago when he first left home to go on his journey around the world. They could very well be the last words he ever heard from her. Shipwrecked and alone, Eli might not ever make it back home to New York City again. If he did make it back home, he might not get there before his mother died of the illness she just couldn’t shake. No, Daniel would take good care of her. Daniel was reliable and smart. Maybe if his twin brother had gone on the journey instead of him, the ship wouldn’t have sunk in the storm. At the very least, perhaps his father would have survived along with him.
“Can’t think about what if.” Eli whispered to himself. “Keep looking forward.”
Forward was the jungle brush separating him from a massive fire. He’d noticed the smoke through the trees when he first washed ashore of the island. He’d thought perhaps it was the surviving members of his crew. A number of life boats had been able to lift off from the ship as it sank. Surely someone else must have made it to shore as well?
Pressing onward, he followed the direction the smoke was coming from, and stumbled upon a massive bonfire. Dancing around the bonfire were a number of native men, dressed in ceremonial tunics of bright blues, greens, yellows, and purples. He stared in awe as they danced happily around the fire. Women, children, and other men sat around, watching this celebration all the while eating and conversing quietly. Eli almost stepped forward to the warm fire when he noticed these natives were drinking from cups hollowed out from human skulls.
Everyone at this celebration grew suddenly quiet. Drums began to sound, and from out of the foliage stepped a girl who couldn’t have been much older than his sixteen years. She was dressed in leather armor, her tan face and body covered in red war paint. Her long black hair was pulled away from her face in a tight ponytail. She was beautiful, yet disturbing all at once. His eyes could not turn away from her. Then her eyes met his, and she screamed a war cry pointing in his direction.
I went with option A. That sounds like a fun story to write!
Alex zipped his suitcase shut and heaved it off the bed; it hit the floor with a thump. Enough clothes, books and toothpaste for a four-week boat tour of the Amazon certainly weighed more than he’d been expecting. He eyed, the suitcase, wondering if her should leave behind a pair of jeans, or maybe extract his extra pair of tennis shoes. The idea of leaving behind any of his guidebooks–or the journal Lia had given him the night before, along with a brief, unforgettable kiss on the cheek–was unthinkable. Before he had time to break into the suitcase, though, his best friend Rory burst through his bedroom door.
“Amazon chicks!” Rory yelled, then threw a magazine at Alex’s chest. The pages flapped wildly in the air and bent beneath Alex’s grasping fingers. “Cheers, Mate. It’s a little teaser of what you’re sure to find in those creepy jungles.”
Alex turned the magazine face up, and blushed. A half naked woman stood atop a moss covered log, clad only in a few strips of leather and a liberal amount of wet mud. Her black hair was piled atop her head, and her bright red lips were twisted in what might have been a lusty leer.
“Thanks,” Alex said as he handed it back to Rory. “But you can keep it. She’s uh…not really my type.”
Rory scoffed, an ugly noise the came covered in phlegm from the back of his throat.
“You’re not still on about Lia are you?” Rory asked. Alex felt his blush deepen. “Oh, man! You have got to get over that. Here,” Rory stuffed the magazine into the front pocket of Alex’s suitcase. “Just in case you get…bored.”
Great opening line, made me want to read more. However, the first paragaph seemed crammed with lots of info, details that perhaps were even irrelavant for an opening. After reading on, it even seemed like that opening paragraph may be even written in an entirely different storytelling style. The rest is easy, well-paced and not at all rushed or jumbled–much more likable. I like the descriptions. Good job.
i don’t hate it. I like the voice. I just wish you’d started with something less mundane than packing which is like dressing or thinking or staring into a mirror. Again. I like the voice. The characters seem like they could be interesting if you’d taken more time with them. Could have been a fun approach.
I would choose option B.
And Action
Wyatt clung to the railing of The Reel Deal with all the strength his 8 year old grip could muster. The 48 foot trawler bounced and tossed. Huge waves pounded the vessel.
He should have stayed in the cabin like his father told him to do. He knew that now, but it was too late to turn back. Wyatt inched closer to the bridge.
“Dad!” Howling winds carried Wyatt’s voice into the night. Flashes of lightning lighted the night sky. Out of nowhere, a great wall of water rushed toward him. The Reel Deal pitched violently as the wave caught the trawler from the port side. Wyatt lost his grip on the railing and skidded toward the side of the ship. He grabbed and clawed but found nothing to hold on to. The Reel Deal listed higher and higher, threatening to capsize. Another angry wave gave the trawler a final push. The Reel Deal was now bottoms up. Cold wet darkness swallowed him.
“Wyatt! Wyatt!”
He felt himself being shaken. A large rough hand held on to his life jacket. Wyatt coughed and sputtered. “Dad!” Wyatt threw his arms around him, clinging tightly. Jack struggled against the waves, heading for the capsized trawler. One of the crew members clung to the side of the ship.
I guess I had always thought of this as a YA — what with the love story and all and the seriousnes of the subject matter. But you have presented me with an 8yo protag and based on the presentation–it is reading pretty middle grade here. I like the presentation. I can sense the danger, the innocence and uncertainty. I would NOT want to be Wyatt in this situation and I think anyone around his age would find this to be quite a thrilling scenario to read about. HOWEVER, you miss the point of the exercise by ignoring the instructions. I do really like your writing.
I hear it long before I see the billowing plume of smoke. The rhythm of the drum calls to me, and its steady beat ignites the first flicker of hope. Caked sand peels off my skin in clumps when I quicken my pace. Faster I go, until my heels no longer sink into the wet padding of the beach. Behind me, the water laps against the shore, erasing any trail of footprints. Almost as if I’ve never existed at all.
Flames rise high in the clearing. They lick the sky and beckon me with their promise of warmth. Only when the figures emerge from the shadows do I heed the warnings in my mind. Be careful, the voice says. Remember the stories? They could be dangerous.
Carefully hidden behind the brush, I watch the tall figures circle the fire. They move wildly, but their dance is synced with the drum’s pounding music. The bonfire casts strange and frightful shadows on their faces. Their bodies glisten with fresh beads of sweat—a stark contrast to the goose bumps that prick my own skin.
I look for all the signs. My father used to read me the stories of the ancient tribes who killed and offered humans sacrifices to their gods. But there are no necklaces made of men’s teeth, no hints of human offerings. The only sign of worship seems to be directed to the old man sitting on the opposite side of the clearing. A woman kneels by the rustic throne of hollow branches and palms and offers up a wooden bowl. The old man waves her off, but not before he reaches into the bowl and holds out something to the young girl beside him. The girl can’t be much older than me. Her long hair frames her face like a dark curtain. She shakes her head, and then stares into the fire. There’s something about her eyes that draws me in. No, not dangerous, I decide. Beautiful.
I forgot to add that I picked option C.
There is something about the imagery in the first paragraph that really got to me–in a good way. Even the 2nd paragraph seemed to be more of the same however, like there wasn’t anything more that you added to the scene/story. While there isn’t much more to really go on, I like opening use of sound to engage the reader. The drums, the water. I could almost visualize the scene as I read–the caked sand, running, the water splashing and drums in the distance with a plume of smoke rising. As much as it seemed cliche, it was a nice build up and there was a good amount of tension added with the running, the drums and the water. Very well done. That you are unable to hold me longer is something you will need to work on–but the opening I liked. Well done.
Opening the metal door to the alley, I dropped my skateboard to the cement. My fingers laced around the straps of my backpack and I pulled the straps tighter around my shoulders. I adjusted my feet on the board and started to roll down the road. I turned a corner and headed down the main drag.
It was pushing midnight, and I had to get home fast. My curfew was an hour ago, but I didn’t want to leave the skate park. School was starting tomorrow and that meant less time there. My stepmother had my whole month planned out with social events I didn’t want to attend and on top of that there were also my father’s ridiculous business dinners. Being the daughter of a famous criminal defense lawyer totally sucked especially when you didn’t want anything to do with the snob and elite.
Engaged in my thoughts, I took a sharp turn down the alley between Central and Riverside. I came to a quick halt when I noticed a dark figure leaning against a dumpster.
The hairs on the back of my neck lifted. Chilling goose-pimples erupted down my arms. Just calm down Analee, he’s probably just some homeless dude. The tall figure turned his head in my direction. A pair of red eyes glared at me, while it smiled a mouthful of sharp silver teeth. Oh no, it was one of those freaks who thought everyday was Halloween. I wasn’t going to deal with this tonight.
I went with C.
Opening the metal door to the alley, I dropped my skateboard to the cement. My fingers laced around the straps of my backpack and I pulled the straps tighter around my shoulders. I adjusted my feet on the board and started to roll down the road. I turned a corner and headed down the main drag.
It was pushing midnight, and I had to get home fast. My curfew was an hour ago, but I didn’t want to leave the skate park. School was starting tomorrow and that meant less time there. My stepmother had my whole month planned out with social events I didn’t want to attend and on top of that there were also my father’s ridiculous business dinners. Being the daughter of a famous criminal defense lawyer totally sucked especially when you didn’t want anything to do with the snob and elite.
Engaged in my thoughts, I took a sharp turn down the alley between Central and Riverside. I came to a quick halt when I noticed a dark figure leaning against a dumpster.
The hairs on the back of my neck lifted. Chilling goose-pimples erupted down my arms. Just calm down Analee, he’s probably just some homeless dude. The tall figure turned his head in my direction. A pair of red eyes glared at me, while it smiled a mouthful of sharp silver teeth. Oh no, it was one of those freaks who thought everyday was Halloween. I wasn’t going to deal with this tonight.
I’m not really certain how this is C.
The welcoming fire would warm Shawn’s skin and dry his drenched clothes. But only the fire. The natives chanting in the distance might not find him so welcoming, but he wasn’t sure he’d survive the night anyhow, so he moved ahead at a determined pace. The shoreline behind him disappeared behind the dense tropical foliage, but he was still close enough to hear the ocean swells roll and break upon themselves. Such a peaceful calm compared to the turbulent deep-sea tidal waves that had slammed Genève, reduced her to jagged wood, its flotsam carrying away her only survivor like a generous spirit with sights on just one.
Shawn crept closer, dripping and shivering, and teeth chattering loud enough to drown out the drumbeats. There was a party going on and he wasn’t invited, he joked to himself using his last reserve of humor. The temptation to run toward the music, toward the heat, toward the smells of cooking, was almost too much to bear. His reckless youth competed with his good judgment, enough to sense imminent danger if he were to barge unannounced like a crazed animal.
He arrived at the perimeter of the village and took cover behind a bush with leaves the size of elephant ears. It looked just like his mother’s houseplant in her kitchen window, a miniature replica, mouse ears by comparison. Tears pooled in his eyes and he wiped them away to keep focused. He could cry later. If there was a later.
Just feet away from him, a girl stepped into his line of sight carrying what looked like a ferret on her shoulders. She appeared to be his age, around seventeen or so. Her distance from the rest of the tribe suggested she was a loner. She seemed content just to gaze at her people and stroke the animal draped around her neck. She turned and kissed the critter on the head while her eyes slowly looked up and met his.
Darn it. I forgot to say I chose C.
Your opening is rather confusing with many extraneous words. It’s overcrowded–like 5 people living in a NYC studio apartment. Get to the heart of the story. What’s happening? What is going on RIGHT NOW? Where is the protag? What has happened to turn his world upside down? Simple is best. The reader needs to quickly and easily understand you. This is a short presentation. If I can’t understand your opening, your chances of me connecting with your protag are pretty slim. If I can’t connect with him, I won’t really care what happens to him.
I’m choosing C on this as well.
He was almost grateful for the scrape of cold wet sand on his cheek. At least it meant he was alive.
He pushed himself upright, coughing as his salt-soaked lungs gave protest to his movement. Stopping when he reached his knees, he vomited salt water onto the moonlit shore. His lungs were on fire, but that meant he had a chance to see Abigail once more. He’d take it.
That’s it? I like this. I think even though it’s short, it gets to the hert of the emotion and motivation–character need/desire. I really like it. Well done.
Sorry, aparently space bar equals enter on this website! Continuation of the above post:
He clambered to his feet, surveying his surroundings. Other than wreckage from “The Saucy Lady,” a ridiculous name for a ship if he’d ever heard one, there was nothing but jungle ahead. But jungle meant plants, and hopefully animals he could catch to sustain himself. He had to stay alive. He’d promised her. She was back in North Carolina busily planning the wedding. His heart sank when he thought of her pale blue eyes, filled with tears at the thought of his departure.
“William,” she’d cried, her hands digging into the blue coat he’d worn for the sailing. “Please, don’t go. Your father can take care of his plantations in Jamaica. Please, you don’t have to do this.”
He’d brushed away her tears, and kissed her soft pink lips, and promised her that he’d be back before she knew it.
The thoughts of home were enough to drive him onward. He walked up the beach, cursing his legs for their weakness. The storm had taken its toll, as well as the long hours tossed in the sea. He needed to find some water soon.
He came to a bend in the shore, and followed it around. As the side of the island came into view, he gasped.
A large bonfire was burning, its warming flames dancing like chorus girls in a show. He nearly ran toward the blaze, but stopped when he saw them. Ducking behind a nearby bush for cover, he watched.
There were drumbeats and women singing in a strange language. Warriors stained and painted with odd colors danced around the fire, chanting in time with the women’s song. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her.
Her long dark hair swung around her as she danced, the warriors each passing her and bowing as they circled. She was dressed only in a simple woven shift, which flowed out around her like a ballgown as she twirled. It was the most breathtaking sight he’d ever seen.
He started to come to his feet again when he felt the cold steel point of a spear in his back.
The words were unintelligible, but the meaning behind them was cold, cruel, and unmistakeable. He raised his hands in surrender, and allowed the warrior to take him.
That concludes my entry. Thank you for the opportunity!!!
THIS is what I’m talking about. WHAT PROPELS A PERSON FORWARD AT A TIME LIKE THIS. How can you NOT love this: “A large bonfire was burning, its warming flames dancing like chorus girls in a show.” Just fantastic. I love it. Did I say that already? Don’t want to be redundant.
Great post – I hate it when a story starts with boring stuff, especially dialogue, and something when the MC is waking up in her bed on a regular day.
I chose B.
It was a tough choice, but Matthew came to the conclusion that he would not recommend Doctor McGundy’s Herbal Remedy for Seasickness and Salt Water Related Ailments to any of this friends. Though to be fair to Doctor McGundy, his product was probably intended to be used during a slightly rough day out on the parish pond, and not while trying to keep the world’s tiniest (and potentially ugliest) boat from sinking in the middle of the ocean.
He reached for the rope, gasping. The cold numbed his fingers, curling them up into fists and sending shooting pains down his entire arm whenever he tried to open them. On his third try he grabbed and pulled tight, trying to fasten it to the metal key that jutted out from the aged wood. He fumbled, and the roped sailed in the air, nearly whipping him in the face. He heard another rope snap off to his left and the sail freed itself completely waving like a frantic ghost. More of the cloudy black ocean washed over him, nearly turning the boat up on it side.
“Dad!” He yelled as the ship began to right itself, slipping across the little sailboat to where his father wobbled precariously. His father’s arms were filled with thick rope as he struggled to tie the sail down. Like Matthew, his t-shirt was soaked through and his lips were blue from the cold. Matthew wondered if his teeth were chattering, but it was impossible to see in the near dark.
“Give me the light,” his father called over the roar the storm, shoving the rope in his hand. Matthew handed him the flashlight attached to his belt, removing it with painful hands. It glowed dimly as his father raced across the boat, like a firefly. Matthew tied the soaked rope as tight as he could, trying his best to ignore the searing pain in his fingers. As another wave crashed over, he heaved, sending another round of his lunch skittering down the boat, mixing with the salt water.
I’m not sure I follow your opening. I don’t get why it was a tough choice, why he would or wouldn’t recommed the remedy. I open the book and I’m confused from the outset. It’s pretty clever to blame Dr. McGundy for his product’s failure in light of the situation–but this way is simply confusing. Sometimes simple is the best.
I chose C because it begins with the actual story that we’re going to agonize over, the love interest. His thoughts/feelings/conflicts of the past can be woven in later to add tension.
This is my tribal scene opening:
133 days ago, Curtis Bynholder had a different life. He kept count so he could remember. Before then, Curtis had never woken to the kiss of a deserted island princess.
But that’s exactly how the black-skinned daughter of King Somthin-or-other greeted him every day, ever since the sea had stolen Curtis away from his real life. He’d learned to call her Miara, but he avoided saying that name as much he could. He couldn’t bare the fact that it resembled the same name as his real lover. His golden-haired, Miss Townsfork beauty queen Mary whom he had married. 150 days ago.
Miara began every morning reminding Curtis that even though she was ten years younger than him at least, she expected him to be his lover. Her father enforced the expectation with his ten foot long spear and army of 7 foot tall blood soaked warriors.
Day 134, Curtis lay still as stone on the dry, palm leaf matt. Miara entered the mud wall hut, the pale glow from the sunrise oozing her long shadow across the bare sand floor. Every scuff of her naked feet approaching him grated on Curtis’s gut. She leaned and kissed his cheek as usual, the smell of coconut milk on her breath. Then she whispered, “Good Morning, Darling.”
Not sure if you read the instructions or not.
I am really enjoying reading the posts! It is amazing how differently everyone sees the story. So far, only one person besides myself chose option B. I chose option B because I felt it not only had a lot of action, but was also an opportunity to show the emotion of losing his father in one disaster and then finding himself totally alone, struggling to survive. I am looking forward to more posts!
I would choose C because the opening page of a young adult novel needs to capture the reader’s interest, establish quickly who the protagonist is and what their challenge is going to be, and set the tone for the story to come.
Branches scratch at my skin. Behind me, there is scuffling in the sand, and a strange snuffling sound. An animal. How big is it? I scrunch my body tighter, as tight as I can, trying to keep warm and keep my body from touching anything.
I don’t know where I am.
The sun set hours ago and the wind whips grains of sand against my bare arms and legs. I watch the fire on the shore. Its flames leap up into the dark night sky, colouring the stars with a yellow glow. People are gathering. Adults grab small children, pulling them away from the flames. A group of older kids, five of them, stand along the line of the shore. They face the water, ignoring the growing crowd building up around the fire.
There’s a sound. A low rumble. I can feel it through my feet, coming up through the earth. My heart pounds. The kids lining the shore turn around. There are four boys, and in the middle of them, a girl. The firelight glows across her face as she whips back her long, dark hair around her head like a spiralling leaf in the wind.
Smoke from the fire stings my eyes. I wipe them with the back of my hand. There’s something about this girl I know I need to see. My breath is tight in my throat as I creep closer, hoping no one on the shore sees my shadow.
There’s a shout. The girl yells. It sound like she is cursing the moon. Then her eyes lock onto my face. It’s night. She can’t see me. It’s impossible. Yet, I know she does.
The intro is a tad distracting–scuffling and snuffling–hard to distinguish between these two words or the need to use them both in the same sentence. Also the repitition of the word “bofy” in the next body along with “tight” and “tighter” and “keep” and “keep.”
The other theing I would say is the boy seems like an observer rather than a participant in the story. He is not actively engaged exept for the first few sentences and therefore we do not get a sense of how he feels, what he wants, or what it is like to BE him.
I chose C, but any of them would have worked if you played it out right. C however, gets right to the story and you can add background information in throughout.
Their skin was the color of fried chicken; it glowed as they danced around the fire. Their feet kept track of the drums rhythm. My eyes followed their movement while my stomach rumbled. The smell of smoke lingered around me. I eyed the food that was behind the dancers: grapes, nuts, tomatoes, oranges, chicken. I licked my lips and imagined what they would taste like.
I snapped out of my daze when the drums got louder and there pace increased. The dancers spun. A low hum came from the tribes men. The fire that they surrounded grew in size. The tribe parted and led a young girl, no older than me, through the middle. Her hair flowed like a gentle stream as she stared straight ahead.
My stomach clinched together. A long white haired man stood yards behind her, something glistened in his hand. He gripped the object tighter and raised it in the air. The others that were gathered around hollered and cheered. The girl closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. His white braids swung as he limped up beside her. She bowed her head, preparing herself for what would come next.
My throat tightened along with the rest of my body. A deep part of me knew that something was wrong. The white haired man spoke in a tongue I never heard before. He took the glimmering object and sliced his hand. Blood trickled down his palm. He marked the girls face. Silence spread once he stopped. I could hear my heart throb in my ears. He clinched the blood streaked object tighter. My muscles constricted. He raised his hand in the air. Downward it came.
“STOP,” I jumped out from my hiding spot just in time. One hundred eyes were on me. But I stared at the girl I had just saved. Her blueberry eyes glared back in an unforgiving way. I had just risked my life for a willing victim. I gulped down my last breath of air as they closed in around me.
First sentence was distracting. The color and the visual were not one and the same. Fried chicken is wrinkly and greasy. I imagined that before I thought of the color–which I’m sure is not what you were going for. The use of words here is impartant. You must be careful to say what you mean. “The smell of smoke lingered around me. I eyed the food that was behind the dancers: grapes, nuts, tomatoes, oranges, chicken. I licked my lips and imagined what they would taste like.” I assume you mean the food–which should be refered to as “it” not “they.” Here, they refers to the dancers. This is not what you intended, I gather.
Thanks for pointing stuff out! That really helps, especially when I am teaching myself.
There is a lot of lead way with writing but still some restrictions that I am trying to figure out.
Thanks again <3
C feels like the right answer to me, but honestly any of these could work well.
Moonlight glowed on the still calm beach as the fiddler crabs came out after the storm. Josh felt his eyes spin in his pounding head as he watched the strange creatures scurry, kicking up sand as they scratched the ground.
It had only be a few days but to Josh, time seemed lost, never ending. Every moment was racked with hunger, fear, and isolation. He had wondered around the island, but this was not the big city he was use to. Tall sky scrappers were replaced with forests, thick and impossible to cut down. Vegetation would tangle around his legs and make anyone feel like the world was after then. This was the true power of man verses nature.
Josh rubbed his aching bones, and rolled over. The stars in the sky reminded him of the twinkling lights of Chicago’s cityscape. He wondered what his mother would be doing right now. He was sure, dinner would be the first thing on her mind when she woke up. He could smell the roast beef and baked potatoes. The aroma wafted around and consumed him. He sucked in the air yearning to taste the food he was dreaming of.
Suddenly he jumped up, this was not his feverish mind playing tricks on him, he smelled food. Real food! Steadying himself he stumbled around in the darkness. He had to find it, at whatever cost.
Sweat was dripping from his brow as he pushed back branches, that whipped him in the face. His eyes peered through the darkness yearning for a sign, anything to help him. The slight flicker of what appeared to be a fire caught him my surprise. He stood on his tip toes trying to see where it was, but nature was not that kind.
The ground whined under him as he felt his feet loose their footing. He tumbled down, spinning and twisting around tree roots, and rocks, as dirt was shoved into his mouth. He blinked and tried to rub the muck out of his eyes, but he was not given a chance. Something wet hit him right in the face, making his head spin as he fell backwards on the ground. He heart raced as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.
His arms and legs were getting pulled behind him, he was sure they would break any moment. He tried to free himself but whatever was attacking him in the darkness was not so forgiving. Another wet object hit him in the face, but oddly it felt familiar in some way.
He blinked and tried to shake his head but something cold and sharp was at his neck. He gulped, what was happening to him? Finally he had, had enough, he tried to stand but Josh was pushed back against a tree. “What do you want!” He screamed
The creature scurried back and made a yelping noise. He watched as it walked into the dim fire light. His eye sight was blurred by the bits of debris covering his face but her long slender golden brown body was all in view. Her black hair was falling around her, covering her chest. She was shaking as she pointed the knife at him.
It was around this time Josh noticed, she was dripping wet and not a strip of clothing was on her. Her cheeks were flushed and she was almost in tears.
“Hi.” It was the only thing he could think to say. He had never walked in on someone bathing before. As he prepared to apologize, she charged at him. At that moment everything went black, as his mind whirled. Yeah, it was a familiar feeling, the slap of a girls hand. The pain and the passion in it, he smiled as he fell back unconscious. Even in the wilds of the Caribbean he had the same effect on women.
I LOVE THIS. My one complaint–no sick mom. Where is the sick mom. You mention her but she’s not sick.
I went with option C. I feel like mine might be a bit long compared to the other entries so far, but I really enjoyed writing this and didn’t really want to stop! Anyway, here is my entry (hope you guys like it!):
The first thing I saw was a pair of eyes, dead and unseeing as they stared back at me. I scrambled away from the body of my father as the world tilted sideways. I turned, emptying my stomach as saltwater and acid burned my throat. A throbbing in my head pounded against my skull and my hands shook as I crawled in the shifting sand back to my father. His body was cold and lifeless beneath my touch, a contrast to the hot tears that burned my eyes. My heart hammered in my chest, threatening to break apart like the ship that brought me to this wretched island.
I beat my fists into the wet sand as a wordless cry shot out of my mouth. My hands hit the ground, one dull thud after another until the sound filled my ears and I sagged onto the ground. The drumming continued despite my still hands. I looked up, searching for the source of the noise and saw dark clouds of smoke curling up into the air and blending in with the blackened sky.
Turning to my father, I closed his eyes with slow shaking hands and stared down at him, clenching my jaw to ward off the anger and grief that were fighting for dominance within me. I tore off my coat, now ragged and drenched from the sea, and gently covered it over the body of my father before turning back to the sound of beating drums. My limbs felt heavy as I stumbled forward, off the beach and through bushes with waxy leaves as thick as curtains. I clawed my way through plants and roots until the pounding rhythm grew so loud I thought it would consume me. The pain in my head grew with each step that brought me closer until I fell, grasping my head against the sound.
When I looked up, I found myself on the edge of a clearing. I crouched behind a plant with leaves almost as large as me and watched as men and woman danced around a giant fire. Skirts made of grass and long dark hair adorned with feathers swayed with the movements of the dancers while a chorus of chanting rose up from the crowd around them.
The drums and chants rose to a crescendo before cutting off abruptly as a single girl left the crowd and drew closer to the fire. Her golden-brown skin shimmered in the light, a stunning shade so much richer than my own pale coloring. Each step she took closer to the fire was mesmerizing in its grace until she stopped in front of a stone table. She looked like statue carved out of amber and obsidian as she stood there, so foreign and beautiful at the same time.
The sound of screaming, high-pitched and inhuman, filled the air as the girl lifting something silver up into the air. Two men drew closer to the girl, carrying the source of the cries. The men stopped near the girl and dropped a large boar onto the table—not a table, an altar—as the girl held a long curved knife up to the night sky. I crept closer, forgetting my hiding spot and wondering what kind of girl could look so lovely and fierce at the same time. My breathing matched the frenzied screeches of the boar as I watched the knife come down. The silver blade sliced through the air like a falling star and the cries of the animal fell silent. I swallowed passed the bile in my throat as crimson blood flooded the gray stone before pooling into a deep bowl cut into the front of the altar. I watched, unable to turn away even as my stomach revolted, while the girl dipped two fingers into the sticky river of blood before smearing a line down her face, marring her golden skin. The line slashed down her forehead, over her nose, and covered her soft lips as she watched the fire with dark eyes and the shouts of the crowd filled the night once again.
WOW. I was taken right into thes story despite the fact that I really didn’t fall for the lack of emotion around the death of his father. Something about it seemed rushed and uncertain. But I read on because the writing was so good. I really like this presentation but like some of the others, we still don’t get a sense of the dying mother or the others back home. Even still I was captivated and would like to have continued reading. Good job.
Thanks for the feedback! I did option C so I didn’t know if I was supposed to add in stuff about Mom and left behind friends but if I had continued this story that stuff would have been woven in eventually. I was worried about my entry ending up too long. I agree though that the father part does seem rushed/not enough emotion. Thanks again for the feedback! It was encouraging and helpful!
I’m going with B because I think you have to care about the character before you care about the action. Here’s my riff on the story:
All I can think about is vomit. Hot, sticky, usually chunky, in colors that don’t remind people of rainbows. (Well, there was that Skittle incident in junior high, but the less said about that, the better.) I had finally gotten used to the UPdownUPdownUPdown of the ship after two days of puking, but now the ship pitched UUdownPPUUdownPP in a way that had me clutching the ridiculously small toilet in my cabin in a death-grip.
Dad enters the cabin, a tinge of green under his sunburned face. Dad had his sea legs after the first day of the cruise, but I bet he regretted that all-can-you-eat breakfast buffet he had this morning. I’m not giving up the toilet, though.
“You got anymore of those pills your mom gave you?” Dad sits on the edge of his twin bed, but the ship pitches so hard he has to grab the corner of the built-in desk.
“No,” I manage to rasp out. I’d puked up the last of them about an hour ago. When my mom had packed the Dramamine pills in my rucksack, I thought she was being over-protective, as usual. I’d never been on a ship before, but she had, in the days before The Big C.
puke, poop and skittles. huh. OK. I have to say–i wasn’t sure i was going to like this but i did. what i liked was the voice. although in direct contrast, i couldnt be sure how old your protag is. i do know, i like him. i didn’t get the sense he was at all worried re his sick mom or anyone back home though. that is part of the backstory and i didn’t tell it as an FYI–i wanted to see it incorporated into the story. other than that–i found the focus on grossout too much. i wanted to see more of the emotion of your character, maybe even his connection to his dad. he is after all being shopwrecked or about to be. i like what you presented but did not think it captured the heart of what i asked for. writing is really good however.
I went with the rebellious option and chose B.
The cold water was a shock to the system, but not as much as the impact. The force of it jarred every part of Brandon and slammed every trace of air from his chest. Immersed in the dark, storm-tossed water, he had no direction, no bearing. The life vest he wore should have helped, but the sea was in such turmoil that it only tangled him further. Panic threatened to overwhelm him as he struggled, alone, against the massive power of the ocean. Brandon flailed his arms, trying desperately to find the surface before the need to breathe overcame reason. Lightening flashed in the sky above, and Brandon found his salvation.
He burst through the ocean surface, frantic for oxygen. Pain seared his lungs as he inhaled and breathing turned into coughing. The waves continued to toss him about as he tried to keep from inhaling the water. When the coughing subsided, Brandon’s mind whirled back to the boat. Dad… Where’s dad? Where’s the ship?! He spun in the water, attempting to see over the tossing sea. “DAD!!” Brandon screamed, over and again, but his voice was swallowed by the thunder and the storm. Water slapped him around, getting in his mouth and eyes, and he dissolved into another coughing fit.
In an instant, as lightning once more lit up the sky, and a wave took him above the chaos, Brandon saw it.
The Blue Heron.
Destroyed.
The wave that had thrown him bodily into the raging sea had shattered the boat that he once called home. His father he had last seen struggling at the helm, and Brandon saw no trace of him now. Little enough of the boat remained, and Brandon’s heart sank as he realized he was alone, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, in September. The kind summer ocean was gone, replaced by the cruel and unpredictable fall beast he and his father had made one last trip into. And now everything was gone.
Too shocked to do more than stare at the wreckage of the Blue Heron, Brandon didn’t notice the piece of flotsam that swept up behind him, knocking him into blackness, and memory.
“You two make this trip every year,” his mother said. “I don’t want that to change just because I’m sick. Go.”
Brandon heard his father sigh, and knew his mom had won. They’d be going, and he needed to pack. He quietly stepped away, running upstairs to call Shelly. She’d offered to come home early after hearing about his mom’s cancer, but he knew she’d wanted to stay. Since he’d still be going on the annual sailing trip, there wasn’t a reason for her to leave yet.
Brandon’s memories swirled around his head, avoiding the disastrous loss of his father and the boat, and shifted again.
Jon punched him in the shoulder, and Brandon smiled even as he rubbed his now-sore arm. “Enjoy yourself, lug-head.”
Darkness enveloped his memories, and in his mind Brandon struggled again against the dark sea, heard again his own hoarse shouts for his father. Fear, agony, loss, and sadness raged through him as face after face flew through his subconscious. Dad, always smiling… Jon, home from college for the summer… Mom, sick but refusing to give in… Mom… The loss of both of them would be a devastating blow to her. Shelly, ecstatic as she left for Italy…
Brandon groaned, becoming aware of something under him, something solid. Struggling back to consciousness, he realized it was wet sand.
there is something interesting about this and yet I feel there is TOO much focus on the storm, the shaking, the turmoil and not enough on all the elements. then once this happens, there is a tendency to rush through everything else and so nothing gets the time it deserves. HOWEVER, this is a good entry and I really like the writing. PS-one caution — watch for repition of words and phrases like, struggling against, struggling back, struggling again, struggling at the helm. We get it. He was struggling.
I never heard the results from this contest. Where were they posted?
Thanks!
Gina
The results have not been posted. Contest only ended 3 weeks ago! Once I’m done reading through all the entries and decide on the winner, will post. I’m thinking first week of May. Stay tuned.
Georgia,
Thank you so much for the feed back. It was very encouraging. I very much appreciate the time and energy you spent on commenting on each entry. You’re terrific!