This week, I was lucky enough to have editor and author, Ray Rhamey, decide if my work was worthy of a read. Was my writing up to par? Could I make him turn the page?

I allowed Ray and others to decide if I had a strong enough beginning to make them read on. The first sixteen lines of both my prologue and my first chapter were posted on his website, Flogging the Quill (FtQ), for all the (internet) world to see and judge.

Was this bravery or stupidity?
I think I was brave—for what it’s worth…
One cannot gain without first giving up something, right? In this case, and in Sarah’s (who did the same thing a few weeks ago), something great came of the risk.

I learned that while my writing is strong in and of itself (basically no grammatical errors), I could stand to improve. And I knew that. But now I know how—or at least have different suggestions on hand to work with … since I’ve learned to take all feedback with a grain of salt.

Going into this critique, I knew my first chapter wasn’t going to pass the test, but was fairly sure my prologue would. Eh, it was half and half for both, barely—sort of. Ray turned the page of my prologue. He read on in the first chapter strictly because of the prologue. But he did say my work was something he would’ve liked to have read more of… So who knows?
All I know for sure is that my doubts about my first chapter were founded, and that even though my prologue seemed great, it could use improvement. More clarification. More of a sense of the evil involved. Just more, you know?

With Ray’s phenomenal notes he sent me and what was posted on the page by both him and other writers, I already have a far better version of the prologue. But he’s so phenomenal in how he edits that he didn’t take away my voice. It’s still my work—my words, my style, my pacing, my cadence, my everything—but more. It’s more good. Yes, I did just write that. OK, so my prologue is better (is that better?).

If any of you feel like checking it out, have at it, but just know my work has already improved.
I suppose the point of this post is to make others aware (although you should already know!) of the fabulous Mr. Rhamey’s site and book and his excellent advice.
But I also want to see how you all feel about editors and others critiquing your work. We’ve had two critiques on here, so this also my way of questioning what you’ve thought of those!
Is it too risky to throw yourself to the world, where you can possibly lose yourself in the process? Can you lose your voice and your plan for the story?
Or is it an invaluable tool that everyone should take advantage of?
My vote is for the latter.
How about y’all?

{Oh, and what about a first page critique – first sixteen lines? We’ve done the first five sentences and the first 500 words plus query, if one was available—but what about the first ~230 words? (The first page of an average paperback.) Can you get readers to read on to that oh-so-important second page??}

Thoughts….

Bookmark This

Since winning her first writing competition at a young age, Eden Tyler, has only fallen more in love with the written word. She uses her English, Psychology, and Sociology backgrounds to create depth to her own stories and novels while contributing to and running websites about writing. This is what fulfills her, along with working as Co-Editor for Fuel Your Writing, but she also enjoys the freelance work that puts food on the table (and that ever-essential roof overhead) for her family.

---

Please continue to critique the queries and first five hundred words. If you have any rewrites from the critiques, authors, feel free to post them in your comments.

Here are the links.

Query + 500 # 1

Query + 500 # 2

Query + 500 # 3

Bookmark This

I have been struggling with one of my characters. As I’m getting to know him, I’m realizing that he’s much more complex than I first ascertained.  He is driven by forces that I didn’t realize existed until I was forced to delve deeper into his psyche.

He is driven by a father who constantly belittled him. Nothing this character did was right. He was a sinner in his father’s eyes. This character has been talking to me all weekend and I now feel like I can write his story so much better. It will change many components of my novel drastically, but that’s what happens when you go from first draft not knowing motivation for things, to having the knowledge of how someone who’s not the main character, but the main love interest would truly behave. It changes what happens between them.

So I look forward to rewriting much of this novel. I look forward to learning more about my characters.

I found an article on characters that I found interesting, so I decided to share it. It’s written by one of the greats. Someone who knows what he’s looking for when it comes to characters.

Enjoy.

Agent Don Maass Explains Your Tools for Character Building

Posted by Chuck from Guide to Literary Agents Editor’s Blog

Finding a Protagonist’s Strength

Step 1: Is your protagonist an ordinary person?  Find in him any kind of strength.

Step 2: Work out a way for that strength to be demonstrated within your protagonist’s first five pages.

Step 3: Revise your character’s introduction to your readers.

Without a quality of strength on display, your readers will not bond with
your protagonist.  Why should they?  No one wants to spend four minutes, let alone four hundred pages, with a miserable excuse for a human being or even a plain old average Joe.  So, what is strength?  It can be as simple as caring about someone, self-awareness, a longing for change, or hope.  Any small positive quality will signal to your readers that your ordinary protagonist is worth their time.

Finding a Hero’s Flaws

Step 1: Is your protagonist a hero – that is, someone who is already strong? Finding in him something conflicted, fallible, humbling or human.

Step 2: Work out a way for that flaw to be demonstrated within your protagonist’s first five pages.

Step 3: Revise your character’s introduction to your readers.  Be sure to soften the flaw with self-awareness or self-depreicating humor.

Heroes who are nothing but good, noble, unswerving, honest, courageous, and kind to their mothers will make your readers want to gag.  To make heroes real enough to be likable, it’s necessary to make them a little bit flawed. What is a flaw that will not also prove fatal?  A personal problem, a bad habit, a hot button, a blind spot, or anything that makes your hero a real human being will work.  However, this flaw cannot be overwhelming.  That is the reason for adding wise self-awareness or a rueful sense of humor.

The Impact of Greatness

Step 1: Does your story have a character who is supposed to be great? Choose a character (your protagonist or another) who is, has been, or will be affected by that great character.

Step 2: Note the impact on your point-of-view character.  In what ways is she changed by the great character?  How specifically is her self-regard for actual life different?  Is destiny involved?  Detail the effect.

Step 3: Write out that impact in a paragraph.  It can be backward looking (a flashback frame) or a present moment of exposition.

Step 4: Add that paragraph to your manuscript.

Greatness is not always about esteem.  Those affected by great people may be ambivalent.  Whatever the case in your story, see if you can shade the effect of your great character to make it specific and captured nuances. The effect of one character upon another is as particular as the characters themselves.

Excerpted from The Fire in Fiction
(2009, Writer’s Digest Books).  You can
find the book in the F+W Bookstore here.
Donald Maass runs his own agency
in New York City.

Bookmark This

Sarah is writer looking for an agent. She is currently working on novel # 4, editing novels 2 and 3, and querying novel # 1. For more insight to her work, visit: http://legendoftheprotectors.wordpress.com/ or http://legendoftheprotectors.blogspot.com/

---

Query:

Pastor Bill Hanlin turns away from his faith the day God turned His back on him. As the balance of power between good and evil shifts, shadows hover pass sunset. A murder of crows tries to drive him off the road. And when a stranger, only few can see, turns out to be a demonic being, Bill realizes maybe he’s to blame.

Old journals, left by previous church pastors, reveal the secret to Somerville—the town established as a refuge for hurting Christians. Bill’s denial of God has fractured the protective shield placed on the town. As the cracks widen, the evil episodes become more frequent. Soon Bill realizes he needs to step up and become the man of God his town needs him to be.

As Bill stands firm, willing to return to his roots, he finds a truth that could destroy him. He must decide whether to look past hurts and recommit to his faith, or turn his back on God for good and allow the darkness to prevail.

ANGEL ON THE WALL is a spiritual thriller complete at 70,000 words.

I hold a degree in theology and lived the life of a pastoral team for ten years with my husband. I have won contests with previous pieces as well work as a freelance writer.

Chapter 1

When he awoke this morning, the day held promise.  After driving into the city to pick up donations for his charity, Bill planned to meet some old friends at Moxie’s for lunch. Armed with a mug of strong black coffee, he settled in for the drive to the city, but realized too late the directions to the warehouse were back at home. Having missed not only his appointment for the donations, but as well his lunch date, Bill found himself driving mindlessly for hours hoping to see a familiar landmark. Instead what he found caused him to flee in desperation.

The business sector Bill found himself lost in was full of dark and dingy alleys, surrounded by graffiti covered warehouses. Overflowing garbage bins, and cardboard box houses which lined the sidewalks cluttered the streets that he traveled. Double locking his doors, Bill drove carefully through the streets in search of the warehouse he was seeking. After a mindless tour of what had to be considered the ghetto district, he found himself with the options of two dead-end streets, one on his left and the other on his right. Straight ahead a deserted street had been blocked off by yellow police tape. He turned towards the right in hopes of being able to turn around and continue his search.

As he slowly drove down the dead-end street looking for a side entrance he could pull into, Bill noticed a man lying on his side, covered in blood. He pulled over and he ran to the man, trying to assess any damages as well as any danger that could possibly be still lurking in the area.

Kneeling down, carefully of not placing himself in contact with the blood on the ground, Bill gently eased the twisted body onto the cold cement road and tried to find a pulse. With his focus solely on the man, he didn’t notice as an arm reach out and grasp his elbow.

Startled, Bill jerked his body backwards while gasping for breath.

“Paper.” The injured man barely managed to whisper.

“Pa…per.” The man whispered again while trying to lift his upper body off the ground. His hand was still attached to Bill’s elbow but was slowly losing its grip.

Bill just looked at the man unsure of what to do. The man was unconscious and as he sagged back to the ground, Bill pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911, urging the dispatcher to have the ambulance arrive as soon as possible.

The grip on Bill’s elbow loosened and the hand fell away. Curled up in the palm was a torn piece of paper. The paper, crudely folded, revealed a set of numbers and a phrase that made little sense. Not thinking anything of it, Bill casually placed the paper in his jeans pocket and focused on the man before him.

The ETA from the ambulance was five minutes. Bill looked at the area around him. He was standing in a narrow alley that ended at a brick wall. He noticed a slight opening at the right side of the wall, perhaps another narrow alley, Bill surmised. Litter covered the ground, papers, magazines, newspapers, cans and empty fast food containers. There were no doors in the alley, and nothing to indicate how the man came to this place, or why he was in this condition.

Bookmark This

Query:

Dear (Agent’s name),

Seventeen-year-old Samantha Sanders has vivid nightmares—which take her inside the mind of a killer, as she dreams of murders that actually happen…while they’re happening. She discovers a connection between her dreams and an ancient line of Cherokee Protectors, who fight Flesh Eaters—monsters that look like us, but come straight from the depths of legend.

Sam finds herself, not only attracted to another Protector, local hottie, Sheriff’s Deputy Andrew Clearwater, but also to one of the monsters. And this man-monster has the power to control her dreams and influence her feelings.

Though I believe LEGEND OF THE PROTECTORS will appeal to the readers who love the romance in Twilight, it is not another vampire story. Loosely based on the Cherokee Legend The Stone Shield, this edgy, young adult urban fantasy LEGEND OF THE PROTECTORS is complete at 95,000 words.

A registered Cherokee, I enjoy studying the history and legends of my people.

If you would like to consider my novel, I can be reached at (email address) or phone #. A completed manuscript is available upon request.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sarah Jensen

Mailing address

Phone #

Email address

Websites or blogs

Chapter 1
Weightless and fast, I bolt through the deep woods. Hunger—unquenchable. The tent is a welcome sight. My outstretched hands are cold. Steel. They slice through the nylon with ease, making no sound. A man and woman sleep, backs to each other.

She’s too large, his liver will be healthier. I wonder where that thought came from. Why am I looking at these people like they’re food?

With no more effort than it would take to drag a doll across the floor, I pull him from the tent.

#

I leaned back in the booth and scanned my grandpa’s favorite diner. Not much had changed since the last time Paw-pa had brought me here. Old wagon wheels and lanterns on the walls, the concrete floor stained to resemble stone. Homey. Or was that homely?

Four men at the counter joked and acted obnoxious. Before their roaring laughter got any more out of control, a man, well over six feet, rose and sauntered over to them.

Wow.

My palms sweated and my leg started twitching. I felt compelled to run my fingers through his rich black hair, a little long on top with a hint of curls. He wore a brown deputy’s uniform.  His tanned muscles, visible beneath the short sleeves of his shirt, sent my heart into a frenzy. He placed a hand on the back of one man and spoke.

I twirled a strand of chestnut hair around my finger and smiled. He didn’t seem to notice me at all.

“Sam, pay attention. This concerns you.” My best friend’s dad, Brian, tapped his fork on the table in front of me, but I didn’t respond.

My stare was glued to the hottie in the uniform. The men smiled and quieted down and he returned to his booth, where another officer sat.

I still didn’t look away. “What?”

“Don’t snarl at me, young lady. We all have adjustments to make. Don’t take your frustrations out on us.”

I bit my lip, turned my focus back to my table, and smiled in an attempt to be pleasant. He was right after all, it wasn’t like he or Paw-pa were responsible for the accident. “Sorry.”

“Thank you.” He took my hand and said something about a file box with important papers in it at Paw-pa’s house.

Whatever.

I looked back at Officer Hotness.

I didn’t know if Brian gave up talking to me, or if I just stopped listening, but that was pretty much the end of our conversation. He paid our bill, and I tried to walk out seductively, shaking my hips with a slight exaggeration, until I almost tripped over Paw-pa in the attempt.

Okay, not my most graceful moment. But maybe Tahlequah won’t be such a bad place to live after all.

Bookmark This

Query:

BLOOD PROPHECY is a 65,000 word Paranormal Romance in which fate grants a young woman the gift of love with one hand and casts her into a maelstrom of government conspiracies and vampire politics with the other.

Seventeen-year-old Akasha Hope is being followed on her nightly ventures out of the orphanage.  She wonders if it is the uniformed men who murdered her parents, or if somebody knows she beat a man to death two years ago with her government-engineered super-human strength. She never guessed that it was a vampire who watched her, and not just any vampire. He is Silas McNaught, Lord of her home city of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. His psychic powers are among the strongest of his kind and Akasha has been in his visions for centuries. To find out what part she plays in his destiny, he plans to adopt her.

Akasha’s world is overhauled like a performance engine when she is adopted four months before her eighteenth birthday. Mr. McNaught is the antithesis of her last mentor, a coarse mechanic who was arrested for running a chop shop. She is suspicious of Silas’s motives and perplexed at his odd hours. Gradually, he wins her over with his generosity and support of her dreams of college and opening an automotive business. If only she could fight her growing attraction to him and dispel his curiosity about her painful past.

Despite her foul language and oil-stained clothes, Silas falls in love with Akasha. His actions reach the ears of his vindictive ex lover who leads a vampire cult. She reports him to the U.N. of the vampire world in a scheme to topple his power base. On top of that, Akasha and Silas discover that she is the daughter of a Vietnam experiment gone awry, and government assassins are looking for her. Together, they hope to be strong enough to combat this double threat.

I am a member of the Idaho Writer’s league and have an Associate’s degree in Automotive Technology. The complete manuscript is available upon request.
Thank you for your time.
(contact info)

Chapter One

Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. October: 1999

Akasha bolted behind a fir tree at the sight of the approaching police cruiser. She held her breath as it drew near. Her slight form pressed against the rough bark. ‘Last thing I need is to be busted after curfew.

The car crawled by, resembling a predatory insect. She extracted her mass of curly black hair from the tree branches and headed for the cemetery, relieved at her success. She hated being caught right when she snuck out the orphanage window. She hoped her friend had gotten out and was able to meet her. Akasha’s thoughts on the matter weren’t entirely unselfish. She didn’t want to be alone tonight.

She’d met Xochitl, (pronounced So-she, though Akasha had no idea how you’d get that out of such a f***** up combination of letters) at the orphanage. Her mother died and no one knew what to do with her. Xochitl was fascinating, with her carefree personality, Goth clothes, and talk of her metal band. Akasha enjoyed having her as a companion on her nightly walks. Unfortunately, it ended when an obnoxious bible-thumping couple adopted Xochitl a week ago. Akasha could see the zealot’s pyre burning in their eyes and her heart went out to her new friend. The only good to come out of it was that Xochitl was transferred to Akasha’s school. They agreed to meet in the cemetery tonight.

Akasha scanned her surroundings for the slightest movement; ears pricked for the tiniest hint of footsteps approaching. All was quiet. She straightened her shoulders defiantly and flipped a few shadows the bird.

Akasha sensed that she was being followed these last few weeks. A lot of people were looking for her. Neither of the possibilities boded well. There was only one question: Was it the uniformed men who murdered her parents, or did someone find out that she killed a man years ago? Why now? I’ve been fine here for two years and now that I’m almost eighteen, this shit’s gotta happen? She pulled her knife out, reassured by the feel of cold steel in her palm. Though it would be safer if she’d forego her nightly walks, Akasha couldn’t bear the thought of staying in that shitty orphanage a second longer than she had to. If that meant facing whatever was stalking her, so be it. She’d killed to defend herself before, she could do it again. Or, at least make somebody hurt.

Her boots made no sound on the cracked sidewalk as she padded down Government Way. The canopy of maples above turned the street into a dark tunnel at night.

Once inside the cemetery, she looked up and was overcome by the beauty of the full moon, framed by a swirl of silver clouds and twinkling stars in the cerulean sky.  When she reached the marble angel monument she dug her cigarettes out of her biker jacket. If only my parents could have had a monument like this.

Bookmark This