the Anonymati

This Blog Is On Hiatus

2009-08-22T23:34:00.001-04:00

But I'm keeping it up in case I want to do anything else secretive or clinic-y. And so people can read the back posts.

PLEASE READ: 1st pages clinic

2009-07-04T23:43:00.002-04:00

I am beginning to despair of maintaining two blogs. Keeping up with the Editorial Anonymous one is tough enough right now. Do you guys want me to keep posting 1st pages, and just let you all comment? (And I'll chip in in the comments if I have a chance?)

First Pages: YA / French Braid

2009-06-24T06:40:00.001-04:00

As I run the silver-backed brush through my hair, I study the large gray eyes reflected in my mirror. They are somber now, veiled with fog, as though they have seen a hundred years instead of just nineteen. My face is young, but my eyes are old.

Too many adjectives.

This afternoon, I’ll attend the dress rehearsal of my father’s latest play.

And she's already a drama queen.

We’ll sit side by side in the empty theatre, and instead of watching the actors he’ll be glancing at me, brows knitted, as though wondering who I am, and where his little girl has gone. I will nod and smile and complement his direction, then speak of other unimportant things. Later, he’ll grin and present me with some small gift, as though a sketch pad or stick of charcoal will somehow bridge this gulf between us. He doesn’t understand. I do not try to explain. I am still my father’s daughter, but I’m not a child any longer.

I remember the day that everything began to change.

There are some nice touches here, but it's feeling overwritten to me. And the 'day everything changed' thing is overused--I'd suggest losing that.

First Pages: MG / Twelfth of Never

2009-06-24T06:38:00.000-04:00

Elvis, please, leave the building. I’ll listen to Jailhouse Rock later -- at home, with Mom. Promise. She can dance in front of the window, and I won’t hide when she waves at the neighbors. I’ll even thumbs-up when she shouts over the music how this song inspired my name! Just not now, I’m begging. No warden, no party, no county jail.

It’s torture enough hearing the PA speakers crumple The King every morning in homeroom. Here in the empty cafeteria, the sound rattles off the walls like spoons banging pots.

My stomach’s queasy. It’s 7:50 a.m., and the air is ninety-nine percent Snickerdoodle exhaust from the lunch ladies baking. Plus the Most Popular kids dart in and out of view through the far, far double doorway like hungry sharks in a holding tank.

If I were lucky they’d never come in from the hall. But when they do decide to waltz through the doors -- could I possibly be more visible than I am? Standing in the middle of the stage, next to Mrs. Beemer? Surrounded by a circle of chairs?

Mrs. Beemer bends to unzip her backpack, so the neckline of her dress sags, exposing her wrinkly chest in a giant bra.

Elvis crash-boom-bangs as she cranes her red face at me. “Presley, sweetheart, be a dear and go round everyone up.”

Round everyone up, d-e-n-o-p-r-u-v-y…

Most people’s brains kick into fight-or-flight when they get scared. Mine alphabetizes. Really fast. Without being asked.

The beginning paragraph struck me as out of pace with the rest of this-- a bit stilted. But the rest is better on track, and people are often intrigued by brain quirks like the above. I'd keep reading.

First Pages: YA / Landon Gilbreath Thompson

2009-06-17T15:34:00.000-04:00

“C’mon, Dad. This is total BS.” I slammed my fist into the leather arm of his office chair.

I'm not crazy about this as a beginning.
Also: the timing of gestures is very important for believability. The truly genuine fist-slam would happen at the same time as the speech--making it sound like it happens after the speech, like an afterthought, makes your character sound like he's faking.

Cy Thompson swiveled in his chair and looked across the desk at me, his only son. “Hey buddy, if you’re dumb enough to get caught, prepare to pay the consequences. It would be one thing if this had stayed out of the newspapers, but your last couple of months was reckless. In the newspapers? Twice? Ever considered the embarrassment you’re causing your mother and me?”

The father character's speech feels a bit stilted, but possibly in a believeable way... some real blow-hards do speak this way because they are essentially acting/bluffing their way through life.

Anger bubbled up. This conversation was probably the first Cy and I entertained since Christmas.

Bubbled? Entertained? These word choices are distracting me. Are you sure these are the words the MC would use if he stopped to describe the situation?

And now that school was over, Cy’s sole purpose in calling me into his office—to inform me I’d spend the summer with freakin’ missionaries in the Dominican Republic.
“What about me? I’m sorry I got caught. Jeez. But sending me to a third world country? With missionaries? What kind of a punishment is that? That’s BS and you know it.”
Cy laughed. “The kind that keeps you out of the papers for three months. Besides I may not be a big fan of Joe Abram but you’ll be safe with that family. Bored too. Just don’t go getting religion on me and turning into some sort of fanatic. This conversation is finished.”

Most of this was all right, but the last sentence feels rushed. Maybe you're just not giving us enough other clues about these characters-- body language, tone of voice, pauses, looks, gestures.

_________________
Stale air blew out the vent above me, Landon Gilbreath Thompson, and the overweight businessman next to me snored. In fact, he had been snoring ever since inhaling dinner and downing two glasses of wine. Not a drop left over an underaged guy could swipe. I shifted in my cushy first class seat and peered down at the royal blue water. If a first class plane trip to my personal version of hell was supposed to make up for the forthcoming summer of boredom, my father had another think coming. I gritted my teeth and flicked my thumb off my pointer finger as I remembered the last conversation my dad. My mom couldn’t be bothered with the details. She had charity work to do.

This is starting to sound more natural, and I might give it a couple more pages. I'm wondering if you just have a case of first-page-itis (ie, too much stress about writing the first page, thus a rocky beginning) or if you have consistent trouble with dialogue.

First Pages: MG / Stone's Nest

2009-06-16T15:29:00.004-04:00

The problem with a castle carved from a stone monolith was that the plumbing was notoriously unreliable. All he wanted was a hot bath. Was that too much to ask? But the spigots sputtered at him, spitting cold water on his hands, and then vomiting huge quantities of the icy stuff into the sunken bath. Also carved from stone.

Interesting... but "vomiting"? Is that the right word?

Stefan had gone to school in the north, where it was cold and castles were built from timber and there was movable furniture. He’d had the hardest time explaining how…organic his home was. The furniture was part of the room, carved into the dark black stone the way the stairs and toilets and beds and bathtubs were.
His grandmother had spent her lifetime making the stone castle less dreary. Every wall hung with colored fabrics, raw satins dyed the colors of rich jewels,

Rich jewels? As compared to the colors of cheap jewels?

or soft, cool cottons tie-dyed in whimsical patterns. While the bed and bedposts were carved from rock, they’d been intricately designed with mythological creatures and personified virtues. (Ten years later when gryphons were discovered to have returned to the land, a hasty amendment was made in the architectural books about the idealization of gryphons in early decoration. “Hmph,” Zac had said. “As if they could apologize for making my beak look that big.” Zac was slightly vain about his beak.)

You had me up until the gryphon speaks. Feels out of place here.

Magic-handlers had figured out a way to make decent mattresses from sea foam – for a rather exorbitant price. The castle boasted no fewer than 500 of the mattresses within its walls.
“But food?” Stefan’s friends had asked. “Do you cook? Or is everything roasted over an open spit?” They’d laughed as though he were the butt of a joke, but he didn’t get it. He’d explained about the great bread ovens, warmed underneath by a fire that never needed to be put out. Breads, cakes, muffins, all cooked as well as any roast.
“Although we don’t eat much meat,” he went on. “Serafina made the decree when she was first made queen.”
Of course, Sera had been made queen when she was three, and her vegetarian declaration was made when, at age five, her favorite chicken found its way into the dumplings. By the time the advisors could figure out what to do, Sera had outlawed the killing and eating of chickens, rabbits, pigs and cows. It was Stefan who had convinced her to allow the eating of deer and fish, and he’d always thought he had an easier time of it because Sera had never been let out of the castle long enough to meet a deer.

I'm definitely curious enough to continue. Could be a promising fantasy.

First Pages: MG / Manna Bend

2009-06-15T22:58:00.000-04:00

I didn’t want to sit in the front seat of our car – that’s where Mum always sat – but Dad was begging.
‘Please, Sasha,’ he said. His voice caught and he cleared his throat. ‘We promised. A new start.’
His face was so creased with sadness that I couldn’t say no. I forced my foot and then my leg into the car, and slid onto the dusty blue seat, yanking at the seatbelt. My hatred for Mum burned through me all over again.

Hmm. Interesting.

‘Bye, house,’ Nicky said, waving out the back window at the familiar cream weatherboard we’d lived in all our lives. I refused to look back.
All the way to Manna Bend,

(Sorry to interrupt, but: mum? manna bend? is this Australia?)

I hunched down in the seat and listened to my iPod. Nicky sat in the back seat, clutching his box of magic tricks, staring out the window. Every now and then he’d go, ‘Wow’ and point, but it was only something dumb like a cow or a sheep. I hated how enthusiastic he was, and knew it was mean, but meanness seemed to have replaced blood in my veins.

I'm... cautiously hopeful.

The removal van followed us like a lame dog that was scared it’d get lost before we made it to our new house. New old house. I’d already seen a photo of it, and it was beyond renovation. It needed demolition.
'Manna Bend hasn’t had a policeman for six months,’ Dad had told us. ‘This is a golden opportunity to put the dirty, nasty city behind us and make a new life.’ I’d blocked him out – I didn’t want to leave the city. But I’d lost my vote when I’d got into trouble and ended up in the Children’s Court. If moving to the back of nowhere and becoming a country cop would make Dad happy again, I’d have to give it a try. I owed him that.
‘Here we are,’ Dad announced, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Looking good, kids.’ A big sign flashed past that said 'Manna Bend.'
‘Watch out!’ I screeched, my feet digging into the floor.

No immediate issues, and I'm interested to read more. (Goodness, have I had too much wine? I would want to have a look at the manuscript at the office next morning, in the clearer light of my hangover.)

(Yes, Australian, hence the Mum and the cop, rather than Mom and sheriff.)

Aha! I was right!

First Pages: YA / Final Score

2009-06-15T22:55:00.000-04:00

The game was not going as planned.
It was a short season, eight games compared to the ten they’d played last year. With only one stadium, the rotation of football, baseball, and soccer was now shared with track and wrestling teams, in hopes that the added variety would quell the worst of the violence.

Decent voice, but I am immediately impatient with the way you're withholding information. What violence?

It had the opposite effect. The feet of thousands of fans stomped, rocking the stadium in the frigid wind. They were hungry, literally, and wanting entertainment, wanting, Alex Winter knew, as he lifted his head and panned the throngs, to kill someone.

Ok, some good tension. But still no clue for the reader, dammit. Really? The crowd wants to kill someone? Why??

Long ago they’d changed the scoring system. Alex was six when the meteors plunged to the earth, but days before that chaos he remembered sitting with his brother Garrett, eating popcorn from a ceramic bowl, watching football.

That's it. I'm lost, and getting pissed off. What kind of story is this? Where are we? What's going on?

After each touchdown, Alex would count on his fingers, trying to add six points and blurt out the new score before the scoreboard changed. Garrett would punch him if he got it wrong. Their father had just left the family, and their apartment, and minds felt large, liberated from his presence. Watching football with Garrett, Alex could forget the dark figure dragging him from his bed in the middle of the night, forget the terror that had hovered his every thought, forget the piles of papers, garbage, dishes stacked floor to ceiling, hoarded by his father, the telling indication of a sick, sick mind.

Grrr. I'm turning the page, but you've got about a paragraph more leeway before I stop reading.

First Pages: YA / David

2009-06-15T22:51:00.000-04:00

I ran for a lot of reasons. To keep in shape. To win races. To stay out of trouble.

Really? I didn't know a lot of kids growing up who wanted to stay out of trouble.

And sometimes I ran just for the heck of it. Today I followed the path by the river. It had enough inclines and twists to make any cross-country runner happy.

You've got a nice voice...

My feet pounded the ground with a steady thud, recording my progress. My muscles burned in that half pain and half pleasure kind of way that let me know that my body was working like it was supposed to. A well trained biological mechanism. Sweat soaked my shirt even though the wind had kicked up. The warmth of the day changed into a strange cloying humidity that raised the short hairs on the back of my neck.

And now I'm getting a little bored with the running stuff. Maybe a little less of that.

The last leg of the run, I think it was maybe at mile nine or ten, stretched out before me. Most of it was hidden in the trees. My car waited somewhere beyond them to take me home to a silent house. I didn’t pick up my pace.
Just past the dead pine with the stubborn cones still hanging from its branches, I jerked out of my running daze. I stopped, not believing what I saw. A woman lay curled on the ground. My stumbling steps took me closer. Blonde hair hid her face so that I couldn’t tell her age. She wore a pair of dark jeans and my attention fixed on the ugly color of red staining her arms and most of her shirt.

Your voice gets a little less confident when we reach what I assume is a murder scene, but I would turn the page. There's something promising in the flavor of this.

First Pages: MG / Last Will and Test-Taking

2009-06-15T21:45:00.000-04:00

I, Steven Morgan Carter, being able to read and write, would like to give my stuff away if I die.

I'm interested.

After what happened earlier, I had to be sure the right things would be done. Just in case.
My little brother, Justin, can have any of my toys he wants. Mom can have my clothes, school pictures, and story notebook.

(Snort! Your laundry? She'll be so pleased.)

Dad can have my dictionaries. Andy, my best friend and the only one who understands Doorstep, can have him. And the red wagon we pull him around in. Pieter can have his checkerboard back, even though he’s been dead for five hundred years. I’ll tell you how to find him in a minute.

I'm intrigued. (Congratulations.)

Everything started this morning. We finished eating breakfast, and Dad did the usual kitchen scrub-down. Mom helped Justin with a school project. He had to decorate a potato in autumn colors. It sounds stupid, but Mom goes all out for school stuff. I wanted to go to Andy’s house, so I had to get busy finishing my own work. First thing I did was take off my socks. The only good thing about doing homework is I get to have my feet licked. It’s ticklish and slobbery, and I can sit at my desk for hours.
“Here you go, Doorstep.” I put another dog biscuit between my toes and read Miss Donnelly’s assignment. ‘Write an essay telling what you admire about yourself. Remember to give three good examples.’ Most of her other assignments are pretty dumb, so I’ve been getting bad grades. But this one looked easy. I ripped a blank page out of my notebook and began writing.

Well, I'm turning the page. I would have liked to have a better sense of why he thinks he's going to die by now, but this seems accessibly written and humorous. I just hope he doesn't go on and on in a journal. Writers seem especially prone to that trope (why do you suppose?), and it's quicksand for a lot of stories. Most kids do not spend a lot of time writing.

First Pages: MG / Fat Chance's Magic Map

2009-06-15T21:01:00.000-04:00

Tony made a bet with the entire fifth grade class. If he didn’t get Mr. Chance’s magical map by his eleventh birthday, he was going to wash the kindergarten toilets every day for the rest of the school year.

Does fifth grade seem too old to believe in magical maps? Or maybe we just need more introduction to this story before we're supposed to take as a given such a thing's existence?

Some kids said that was desperate. Crazy. Just plain suicidal.
But Tony was a rule-breaker.
Nevertheless, Tony couldn’t ignore the Legend of Mr. Chance, as scribbled in a secret notebook on the back shelf of the Watson Elementary School library. The story filled the entire notebook except for the last page. Tony planned on writing the ending himself.

If I were feeling particularly short of patience on the day this was submitted to me, I might be done reading right here. The Legend of Mr. Chance? A secret notebook?

This is an important, but more conceptual, kind of telling rather than showing. When you deprive us of the experience of discovering the notebook and working through our doubts with the main character, you deprive us of action--and an important piece of the story. But you also place the burden of effort on the reader instead of on yourself. That's what show-not-tell is about: you, the writer, should be doing the work of convincing us of your story, rather than handing us the Cliff's Notes and expecting us to try to invest ourselves in the plot.

He stood in the library, skipping his dreaded math class, and read:
The Legend of Mr. Chance
Mr. Chance had only one purpose in life-to make miserable little kids even more miserable.
Little kids who laugh at his shiny bald head and big bulging belly.
Little kids who hide his glass eye under his wig collection.

Ok, I'm giggling.

Little kids who barge into his magic shop and mess up the fake vomit display.

In spite of myself, I'm a little intrigued.

In short, little kids who fart and burp and sneeze and cough and do all sorts of gross things. Kids who want a little more freedom from their parents and a little more sugar in their lunchboxes.
Kids just like you.
Mr. Chance enjoyed his purpose in life. His daily checklist included:

Spray two boys with girl’s perfume
Chop off the ponytail of a girl wearing a pretty pink dress
Switch the homework of a kindergarten kid with the homework of a fifth-grader
Throw pies at six kids
Throw mud at seven kids

You can probably guess by now, Mr. Chance did not attend the School For Treating Kids With Kindness. But Mr. Chance wasn’t always a half-bald, half-blind, big ol’ bucket of mean.

The last line switches to a different voice.
This has some interest and humor, and it may be going someplace marketable. If I were feeling generous, I might turn the page. But the show-not-tell issue is the kind that is likely to crop up again and again in a manuscript, and if that happens, I'm really sorry, but I don't have the time to fix that with you after acquisition.

First Pages: MG / Big Red

2009-04-19T08:10:00.000-04:00

“Mom, look!” Patrick remembered saying. “A playground. Can I go on the swings? Please!” “We can’t stay, sweetie,” Mom said. “We only came so you could have a peek at Grandpa’s magical fishing camp. I told Grandma we’d be back quickly with butter and sugar. You want shortbread cookies after dinner, don’t you?" Sure he did. He loved Grandma’s cookies more than anything in the world. Well, except for Mom and Grandma of course. He’d been hearing about Big Red’s Fishin’ Hole for so long though, he wanted more than just a peek. “Why’s it magical?” Patrick asked. Mom gave him one of those can’t-tell-you-it’s-a-secret looks. “Maybe some day you’ll find out.” “Can’t I swing, just for a minute?” At five years old Patrick was a playground expert and decided this looked like a good one. “We’ll come back another time,” Mom said. “You can then.” But that promise never happened. That night Dad overheard Patrick tell Grandpa that they sneaked to the camp and how he wanted to play on the swings so much. Dad was furious and made Mom swear to never take Patrick there again. And for the next seven years none of them—not Patrick, his mom, nor his dad—had taken been there. That was about to change. In less than an hour he would be at the camp for the second time ever.

I am having the feeling that you write a lot of picture books. The language and feel of this is putting us close to the 5-year-old MC, rather than to the middle grade MC we need to identify with-- it's making this text sound too young.

And I'm worried about the swings. Why are they in here? Why are they important? They're part of your very beginning-- more than that, your first sentence. They'd better be more than a transient plot device to justify the 'coming back' element, which could easily be achieved some other way.

Beginnings are first impressions. Your readers are going to remember yours, so make it count.

After you age-up the tone, and either cut the swings or make their role in the book's plot more clear, I would suggest that you give us a hint--just a foreshadowing-- of what the MC found at the fishing camp, and what he expects to find there now.

First Pages: YA / Shadow Queen

2009-04-18T20:21:00.003-04:00

Lady Maya dressed quickly by the dim light of the moon. She glanced out over the balcony where a glow blooming on the horizon heralded the approach of dawn, and her heart skipped a beat as she realized how little time she had left. She grabbed her light cloak and threw it about her shoulders as she rushed toward the door.

Romance novel? I'm unfamiliar with this genre, so feel free to take my feedback with some salt.
If, of course, this isn't a romance novel, reconsider the constellation of 'glow', 'blooming', 'heralded', and 'heart'. A few too many words like that in one place, and the next word we expect is 'bodice'.

The well oiled hinges swung open without a sound. Maya exited and closed the door with a click more felt than heard. She fought the urge to run down the halls in a mad race against time. The sound of her shoes echoed from the stone walls. The soft clicks seemed deafening to her, and the dancing shadows cast by the wall torches felt suddenly ominous, as if ghostly fingers clutched at her skirts, trying to stop her.

Ok, sounding more like fantasy now.

Take out "mad race against time". In addition to being a cliche, it doesn't fit the feeling of the scene. You haven't given us any reason to believe the 'mad' part.

Cut the fourth sentence, and just put 'of her shoes' in the fifth. Always condense where possible.

I would suggest "reached out for" rather than "clutched at" as a bit less melodramatic and more like the effect shadows would have.

Maya dismissed such thoughts, chiding herself for giving her imagination too free a rein. However, the shadows of old tales would haunt anyone’s consciousness while preparing to descend into the castle’s depths in the hours before dawn. Few ventured below the ground level, so the area carried a mystique, a feeling of emptiness unsettling to the human mind.

Oh, too meta. She's supposed to be frightened, feeling, and worried, right? "Dismissed" and "chiding" give the sense of a colder, more rigidly rational nature, and would she really think about how other people would think about old wives' tales?

Consider using another word for 'mystique'. We're back in bodice territory. And what's this about the human mind? Are you implying there are non-humans around to be thinking about this?

Knowing her way would grow ever darker, Maya steeled herself against the screaming of her nerves. She felt a presence following her and looked behind momentarily, but the winding stairwell was empty. She shook her head and silently scolded herself for letting her imagination get the better of her again before she stepped out of the stairwell and into the catacombs.

Take out 'ever' before 'darker'; it's a bit too melodramatic to my ear. I don't think you've given us enough foundation for 'screaming'. Take out 'she felt a presence following her' and just let us intuit that from the way she looks behind her. Show, not tell.

She’d walked these passages in the early morning hours many times before as a game when castle life became too tedious. But this time was different; this time was real.

Not bad. You create some intriguing tension, and I'm at least a little curious about where this is going. Your tendency to overwrite a bit isn't entirely to my taste, but it's within the range of what I've seen in some genre fiction, so this may be perfectly publishable with the right editor. Tell me though--am I right about it being fantasy? I imagine we could have an interesting discussion about what elements pointed me in that direction as early as the second paragraph.

PS to my readers: I made up the title; this didn't come with one.

First Pages: YA / The Outlook Is Bleak

2009-04-18T20:02:00.002-04:00

I am death. Some people call me the Grim Reaper. If you're one of those people, I'm probably not what you're expecting. I don't have a scary, black hood that covers my face. I don't have a scythe and I am not silent or 'grim'. My bones are far from frail and skeletal beneath my black cloak -- another item I don't have.

Your voice is very conversational, which is an interesting start to something narrated by death. But for that reason, I don't think you need that first sentence. Punch up the casual feel of this voice, rather than going for the drama. I also think you don't need that last sentence, which is a tad confusing.

My name is Blake Deakin, or at least that's what I call myself around normal people. When I'm with other Reapers – there are about fifty of us – we use another name: Bleak. As in, the outlook is bleak. I'm a teenager. I bet you weren't expecting that, eh? Most teenagers have jobs at the local supermarket, me – well, my job isn't so much a job as a lifestyle. An unpleasant one.

Still interested. "I bet you weren't expecting that, eh?" sounded off to me, though. Who says "eh?" south of Canada?

I do everything a typical teenager does. I live with my parents, fight with my siblings and go to high school, a hell far worse than any other. At the moment, I'm about to do the one thing I do that isn't so typical: write names in a book.

Instantly bored at the start of this part. You're telling where you should be showing. Let us discover these normal parts of his life naturally--and milk those moments of realization for as much irony and humor as you can. They're in there.

I pop open the bottom drawer of my mahogany desk and flip through the things on top impatiently. My English book, a few sheets of loose paper, a dictionary and then, the Book of the Living. I pull out the brown tome and set it on my table, eyeing it with reverence. Picking it up, I trace the spidery words that run down the side. I've read and reread those words so many times that I don't need to read them to know what they say: I decide who lives.

Something about 'mahogany' and 'brown tome' are sounding forced and out of place to me. Keep the language teenaged to best play up what's so interesting about this scenario.

Overall, not at all bad. Maybe publishable. I'd like to see you connecting your reader to your quirky, unusual MC earlier and stronger, though.

First Pages: YA / Worth It

2009-03-29T18:11:00.004-04:00

It felt good to hit someone. I can’t say that out loud, but it’s the truth. After weeks of digging my nails into my palms to hold it all in, months of going numb to avoid the inevitable fight, it felt fucking amazing to let loose and beat the shit out of someone. Even if I got banged up, even if I got suspended, it was so worth it.

Intriguing beginning, good voice. Cut "to hold it all in"; make the last sentence into two: "Even if I got banged up, even if I got suspended. Worth it."

That first perfect punch was almost in slow motion, with a hazy comet trail following my arm all the way to Pinscher’s face. But then his nose exploded with a crunch, like smashing crusty ice with the heel of your shoe. Blood flooded Pinscher’s mouth and chin, making him sputter, dripping down what was left of his shirt. Maybe the blood and sound should have made me stop, or at least pause, but they didn’t.
In that moment before the others jumped in, I was The Man. I was a god. For the briefest of flashes, I was a son Dad could be proud of and a brother T.J. could tell his buddies about. I wasn’t me, not really, and in a way, I was more than me. It was like T.J. and Dad were behind me, like their strength was in my arm. And in another way it was like there was no T.J. or Dad: Just me, this strong and strange me, in total control and in total chaos, all at the same time.

Cut "all at the same time".

I wish I had more comments here.
I gotta say, I'm hooked. I want to read the rest of it.

First Pages: MG / Mercy Me

2009-03-27T14:00:00.000-04:00

I skip down the stairs from our roof garden, pausing outside the front gate to fish my keys out of my pocket. The stairwell is sultry and smells like wet socks. I unlock the gate and go inside. Mom and my older brother Gavin are at the dining room table.

There's a gate that opens from the outside directly into the dining room? What kind of house is this?

I notice right away that Gavin's eating strawberry shortcake. They stop talking when I come in and just sit there staring at me.
"What?" I say, slamming the gate shut.
"Where were you?" Mom asks.
"Upstairs on the roof."
"In this weather?"
"It's stopped raining, Mom. A long time ago." I kick off my flip-flops under the piano bench and stalk over to the table. I'm wondering why Gavin gets strawberry shortcake. Mom didn't say anything to me about strawberry shortcake when we finished dinner.

'Stalk' drew me up short; it feels out of place. It also doesn't ring true to me-- a girl who slams, skips, thumps, and kicks off her shoes, seems like she has too much energy to achieve a stalking movement.

"Marcy." Mom's voice sounds tired. She rubs her temples with her index fingers.
"What?" I thump down into the seat next to Mom. This is getting irritating. I feel like I'm missing something. Then I notice Mom's nose is red like she's been crying.
"Mom got bad news," Gavin says with his mouth full of strawberry shortcake. "Well, we all got bad news."
"Grandma Duncan had a stroke," she says, blowing her nose into a crumpled tissue.
I gasp. "When?"
"A few hours ago. Uncle Dick called. He seems to think I ought to come home, at least for a few weeks. The doctors … don't know how long she has left."
Gavin holds her hand as he takes another bite of shortcake. Mom settles a grateful look on him. He always knows the right thing to do. Not like me.
"We're going back to America?" I say. "How long can we stay? The whole summer?"
My glasses have fogged up in all the excitement. I take them off and scrub them on the hem of my shirt.
"Well, I'm sure your dad can't go," Mom says.
"Why not?"
"Oh, come on, Beaker," Gavin says. I hate it that he still calls me Beaker after all these years. I haven't looked like a Beaker since at least third grade when my hair finally grew out. I mean, it's still red, and my eyes do look sort of buggy in my glasses. But besides that, I look nothing like a Beaker.

This digression is hampering the pace of the scene. Put it in elsewhere.

Gavin goes on, "You know Dad has to make a good impression at work or else he'll lose his job." Sometimes Gavin treats me as if I'm still in second grade. Of course I know how important this job is to Dad. It's the reason we moved six thousand miles away from home to Hong Kong. Though I don't know why we bothered. We might as well have stayed in Everett for all we see of him these days.

I would cut "gavin goes on" as a tad stilted, but overall this first page shows promise. Good voice, good dialogue. A couple missteps, but editable. I'd keep reading.

First Pages: PB / Be a Princess in Just 5 Steps

2009-03-27T13:02:00.002-04:00

When Sadie announced that she was going to be a princess, her brother Josh laughed so hard he snorted.
"You can't be a princess," he said. "You're too little, Baby Sadie."
Sadie stuck out her tongue at Josh and ran to her room.
Safe inside, she opened her newest library treasure: Be a Princess in Just Five Steps!

Does it seem like your story just started when she got to the book? What was the plot reasoning behind the first little scene with her brother?

So you really, truly want to be an honest-to-goodness princess? You've got the right book! Just follow these five steps.

Intriguing. Maybe cute.

WARNING: Don't peek ahead! You must follow all five steps in order if you really, truly want to be an honest-to-goodness princess.
"I'm really, truly ready," Sadie said, carefully turning the page.

Sadie's speech feels like a throw-away line. Seems like you could have something here instead that will tell us more about the character or further the plot in some way.

Step #1: Every princess must live in a castle so she can always find her way home.
Sadie imagined digging a moat around her room. Then she pictured her parents getting mad. So she borrowed a few couch cushions to create her castle.
She pushed and squished and tied them together. On the tippy top of the tower, she taped a paper flag that read "Sadie's Castle."

Cute idea, and very true to children. But I'm not getting how this scene/step builds on the emotional core of the story, and I'm starting to worry that there isn't really going to be an emotional core. I'd read on, but simply being about princesses is not enough. What will make this princess story stand out from the many others already published or in the pipeline?

Intermission: The Open Arms of Critique

2009-03-26T10:40:00.004-04:00

I would like to pause a moment to say how impressed I've been with my Anonymati.

After I posted the first few Evil First Pages and it was clear to what degree I intended to be Evil (or perhaps we should just say frank), many, many Anonymati still sent in first pages. So many I don't know when I'll get to them all.

And the people reading this blog have offered quite a bit of thoughtful critique themselves in the comments, which seems to have benfitted submitters as well.

Most of all, the people I've so far critiqued have shown a heroic willingness to hear that critique.

So while critique can be hard to hear, I hope you are all fortifying yourselves with this: It is not the willingness and ability to write well that separates the amateurs and hobbyists from Real Writers.

It is the willingness and ability to rewrite well that makes you Real Writers.

You're doing the evil secret society proud.

First Pages: MG / Orchestra Pits

2009-03-24T09:13:00.001-04:00

I can't believe this!
I've counted 341 excruciatingly long days to be with Z, my best friend, soul mate, twin separated at birth! Not sharing a room?
Camp is ruined.

Too much information all at once. This is like the condensed expression of morse code or semaphore signals.
Do expect your editor to be close-reading your work. Don't expect your child audience to.

The woman at the registration table glares at me through her emerald eye shadow. "Cannot change roommate. Go to orientation, Edie Tan. You're late already."

The woman is likewise speaking as though she's being charged per word; she sounds robotic. (How do you look at someone through your eyeshadow? Maybe under instead.)

I drag my luggage out to the hallway, my jeans heavy and soggy from sploshing through the monsoon storm. My inside feels just as sploshed and heavy and soggy.
***
Z and I were roommates at last year's camp, our first. When I arrived at our room that first day, she ran to help me with my luggage and tripped. I jumped out of her way, jabbing the doorframe with my funny bone, and then fell over my luggage on top of her. As we untangled ourselves, Z sang, to the tune of the 1812 Overture: "Oh I can see that you're another Clum-Klutz"
"Yes, let's go celebrate and eat kumquats!" My response came as naturally as saying "Who's there?" to a knock-knock joke.

That's much better. Interesting details. A sense of personality, and humor.

We stared at each other, stunned,
This was the person I'd been waiting for; the person who breathed music and craved giggles the way I did.
And that was just the beginning. We found out we had an instinct about each other. Sometimes all it took was a shared look for us to understand an entire joke and burst out laughing.
We're a two-piece puzzle that finally found each other.
When camp ended, we promised to hone our telepathy by transmitting our thoughts every night across 500 miles. I don't know if stuff like that works, but I do know that I've been waiting so long to see her my neck has grown a foot.

'to see her my neck has grown a foot'? Is this a misprint?

Now that I'm finally at camp, I find out we're not sharing a room.
Oh, I know I'll see her around but it isn't the same. She's a violinist, I'm a percussionist; we're at different tutorials and we sit far away from each other in the orchestra. Sure, we can eat together, but our post-midnight, talk-about-everything sessions are what made camp stupendous, magnificent, unmatched by anything on earth. I sit curled up outside the door and cradle my throbbing head in my hands. Maybe I'll just remain here till I fossilize so millions of years from now archaeologists can have some fun studying a human in shrimp form.

'Shrimp form'? Some good details here, but also a few rocky bits. I'd read on, but I think this would really benefit from a good edit before it's submitted.
What monsoon was that at the beginning? Is this band camp in Thailand, or something?

First Pages: MG / Yeller

2009-03-24T08:58:00.000-04:00

Ben opened his eyes. Darkness pressed against him.

Bit of a cliche.

The whole world tilted and spun.

How can he tell, if he's blind?

He tried to reach out into the space in front of him, but he couldn't lift his arms.
He tried to wiggle his toes, to roll over. He realized that he couldn't move at all. He felt his chest tighten.
He gasped for air. Was he trapped? He remembered the museum shaking and rumbling, then collapsing. How long was I knocked out? He thought. Is anyone looking for me?
"Help," he yelled. "Help me! I'm over here!"
Everything started shaking again. Something slid off his face. White light stabbed his unready eyes. He squeezed them shut and yelled again. The room lurched wildly from side to side, like a ship in a storm. In the distance, he heard a buzzing sound. He thought he heard footsteps and voices.

I'm confused about where we are and what's going on. And you know I have a low tolerance for that.

Ben opened his eyes again, slowly this time, so they could adjust to the light. The first thing he saw was the machine.

Isn't he covered in rubble? What machine? How did a museum collapse on him and not crush him?

It was covered in dials and buttons and threaded through with strange tubes.

Wait, it's a familiar enough machine to get the article "the", but the tubes on it are strange? Hasn't he seen this machine before?

A rainbow of wires cascaded from the top of the machine, then ran along the wall and through a hole in the ceiling. Some of the wires and tubes looked like they'd been yanked loose. One tube hung limply, pouring red liquid onto the floor. Is that blood? Ben thought. My blood?

That's it. I'm lost, and getting fed up with feeling lost.

He'd never seen so much blood before. It made a shiny red lake that spread quickly across floor. Why was it spilling everywhere? Why didn't anyone come and make it stop?
The room slowed down, until it was hardly moving at all. Then the people in blue came swarming through the door. They shouted to one another. One put a cuff around Ben's arm, another examined his eyes. A large group of them gathered around the machine, poking and prodding it. Ben tried to understand what they were saying, but their voices buzzed together like a cloud of gnats.
Nurses! Ben thought woozily. Those must be nurses! I'm in the hospital. His throat felt dry and scratchy. He glanced at the machine. He must be hurt pretty bad. "Where are my parents?" Ben rasped. "Are they okay? Am I okay?"
The room trembled again. An Aftershock! Ben thought. That thing at the museum – it must have been an earthquake.

Ok: starting in the action = good. Starting where your reader can't tell what any of the action means = not so good. Maybe clarifying this will only be a matter of adding a little and subtracting a little. Or maybe it will involve starting again. Why not back up to when the museum starts shaking?

First Pages: PB / A Very Nice Rock

2009-03-15T11:21:00.002-04:00

Abby found a rock.
It was the size of a plum, dark gray, and roundish.

Good voice, nice pace.

I would like to pause and just remind writers that editors really can tell stuff like this from your first two lines. Already this manuscript has made a good impression... and there are plenty of other manuscripts that I've rejected based on the first two lines. Never underestimate how closely your editor will be reading what you've written.

A very nice rock. Abby took it inside and washed it with soap and water.

I don't think you need that last sentence. Most kinds will feel a rock that doesn't have obvious dirt on it is "clean." And this story isn't about relative cleanliness, is it?

She put the rock on the table next to her plate.
“Abby, rocks do not belong on the table.”
“You’re right, Mom. Pets should eat on the floor.”

Cut that last sentence, too. You're handing it to us. Show, don't tell. It's ok if she just puts in on the floor without comment and it takes us the next couple scenes to see that the rock is a pet/friend.

“That is not a pet,” Mom said. “That is a rock. And it’s dirty. Please wash your hands.”
“He’s clean, Mom. I gave him a bath.”

You could cut these lines, too, I think.

The next day during recess, Abby sent the rock down the slide. She buried it in the sandbox. She pushed it on the swing.

Nice.

Walking home from school, Abby heard a sound. Rumble, rumble. But when she looked, nothing was there.
“Abby, come here!”. Mom was pointing into Abby's room.

The transition here from street to indoors was confusing. Does she need to hear the "rumble rumble"? Other solution?

Abby's eyes opened wide. The floor was completely covered with rocks. Big rocks, small rocks, tiny rocks. Bumpy rocks and smooth rocks. Rocks of every shape and color.
Abby saw the open window. She remembered the rumbling. “They must have followed me home from school.”
"Don’t be silly,” Mom said. “Please pick them up.”
Abby piled all the rocks in the corner of her room. “Maybe I’ll start a rock collection.”

Well, I'm certainly turning the page. Good storytelling, overall. I'm very curious about how this wraps up. If it's clever, you may have something quite publishable here.

The Bookshelf Above

2009-02-28T14:18:00.003-05:00

I went out of my way to make these books as anonymous as I could. Some, of course, will still be quite recognizable, since there aren't so many books to choose from with an image on the spine. But I defy you to name them all! Mwah-ha-ha-ha!

First Pages: YA / Gmail

2009-02-28T11:11:00.003-05:00

I’ve always hated Nancy Drew. Some relative with good intentions bought me the first 3 books in the series when I was 9-years-old and they annoyed the crap out of me. There was something about a perky blonde sleuth that didn’t sit well with me, even at such a young age. So, if someone had told my 9-year-old self that a few months before my 16th birthday I’d decide to start channeling everyone’s favorite girl detective, there is no way I would have believed them.

"Didn't sit well with me" sounds to my ear like an adult speaking rather than a kid.
Why did your character read all three books if they annoyed her?
Channeling, like psychically? Or...? The word choices here aren't quite adding up for me.

Of course that was before I’d even met Ava, let alone read her e-mail.
I stared disbelieving at my computer, wondering if this was some sort of cruel joke.

The second sentence is a cliche.

The unopened e-mail made my heart pound with joy but at the same time sent shivers down my back.

What?
Dropping your reader into the action = good.
Dropping your reader into an emotional reaction your reader can't share = not so good.

It taunted me, sitting bold-faced in my inbox. It didn’t move or disappear or do any of the creepy things I’d expect an e-mail from a ghost to do. It just sat there.
Existing.
But if Ava was going to email me, she picked the perfect day. It was the first anniversary of her disappearance. The first anniversary of the last time I saw her. The first anniversary of our final fight.
And so, I sat alone in my room, stolen wine cooler in hand, mourning the loss of my best friend. Not pretty.
And, no, I'm not an alcoholic. Do alcoholics even drink wine coolers?
I just have this thing for wine coolers when I'm depressed. And on that night, the sweet fizz of my mom’s Blue Hawaiian wine cooler filled a void that only a stain-your-tongue-blue-quasi-alcoholic drink could fill.

A ghost is emailing her. Ah, I get it, "g-mail".
Don't call it that, it's cheesy.
The ghost aspect is intriguing, but the voice--what the narration focuses on, the words it chooses, the mood it's conveying-- is giving mixed signals. And starting in an emotional place for your main character before we've identified with her puts us on the wrong foot.

So I would suggest backing up just a little so we understand what a shock it is when this email arrives, and then think hard about what information and word choices will put your reader in your main character's head.

First Pages: PB / Barking at the Sky

2009-02-28T11:08:00.001-05:00

Morning thunder shakes me awake.

Morning thunder sounds just as scary through my pillow.

Morning thunder makes me feel like it will swallow me whole, slurping me up with the soup that it is making.

It's making soup? I don't understand.
The repetition is nice, but why is morning thunder important?

Crack! Boom! The rain pounds on the roof.

The scare goes deep down and my stomach feels sick.

My dog Sammy doesn’t like it either!

She launches out from under my covers like an angry rocket.

Bursting through her dog door, she runs around the backyard barking at the sky. Sammy thinks she can chase the storm away.

I know that won’t work but it seems to make her feel better.

There's some nice writing here, but I worry that (if this is for 3-6 year olds), it's taking a while to ground the reader in what the story is about. If it's for older picture book readers, then sure, I'd keep reading.

First Pages: YA / Wrack

2009-02-07T17:07:00.006-05:00

Tom lay on the ground under the trees, wet. Soaked to the bone from the saltwater swim.

“No,” Tom groaned. “No,” trying to block out the fact that he was alone.

I'm confused.
(This is not necessarily an unforgivable thing, so near the beginning, but I'm not going to put up with much more of it.)

He knelt on the forest floor, then stood up. His fourteen year-old body felt tiny, like a matchstick in a swimming pool, dwarfed by the towering evergreens and endless seascape. The cold breeze chilled him but he barely noticed, still numb from the shock of the accident.

I'm not sure I buy this description. People are often aware of the difference in size between themselves and the world, but to my own instinct, they're more likely to feel the world is big rather than that they are small. Each person is, to himself, an entire cosmos.

I still don't know what's going on here. If I were reading submissions in one of my grumpy moods, I might have stopped already.

Grey-black clouds covered the late-August sky. Rain fell lightly but steadily. Six-foot waves pounded the shore on the outer coast of Blake Island in the waters of Prince William Sound, Alaska. The rocky points framing the cove to the north and south were awash in a white froth, an angry sea.

Oh, that would definitely be the end. The author seems to have given up working the setting into the narrative and has just plonked a paragraph of description in. Many of your readers will be giving up around now.

Eighty miles of rugged coastline separated Tom from the nearest town, plus two ocean crossings each about five miles long, possible only by boat in the frigid water.

Tom shivered as he stepped out of the forest. He placed his hand just above his eyes, and searched the water. A narrow strip of slanted, rocky beach separated him from the big, white-capped waves that broke to the horizon. Behind him the dark green forest dripped.

He paced the short beach, slipping and sliding on the wrack of wet sea weed that made up the strand line closest to the forest. He stopped where a small stream carved its way toward the sea.

“Dad!” he yelled. “Dad!” His shoulders collapsed. No sign of him here. Nothing. He’s gone.

Finally! Some indication of what's happening.

Tom looked toward the water again. He couldn’t even make out the rock reef in all those waves. The reef that had turned their two person kayak into scraps of fiberglass. With the rudder they would have cleared the reef, Tom felt sure of that.

There's clearly some good tension to start off this story, but you're giving up its power to compel your readers forward by burying it in a bunch of (a) setting-description that could come later and (b) obscurities about your main character.

You don't have to lay all your cards on the table, obviously. But being unwilling to admit you have any cards until the reader antes up by reading several paragraphs is no way to play.

First Pages: MG / Raskin's Wings

2009-02-07T07:09:00.000-05:00

Raskin leaned into the bird’s neck, guiding the animal with his legs. A single, black braid jostled along his shoulders, as stray tendrils clung to his sweat soaked face. Each brush of his back reminded him of his missing wings.

Stray tendrils of what? What's his back brushing against, the braid, the tendrils?

The brown bird dipped low in the sky, swooping beneath tree branches to land on the deserted pavement. Raskin hopped from its back. His pale pink eyes widened as he watched the animal return to the open air. Jumping as high as a wingless fairy could muster, he grasped at the fluttering reigns. Then he stomped on the ground in frustration. That was the third saddle he’d lost in as many months. They were difficult to craft and even harder to get the blasted birds to wear.

Widening his eyes seems like the wrong reaction. Wouldn't this happen too fast for a moment of non-action?

Pale pink eyes? Are fairies albinos?

“Over here!”

Raskin’s cousin, Seth, hovered near a building. His iridescent blue wings beat out a slow rhythm that kept his feet just inches from the ground. Seth was, as always, the perfect picture of fairydom. He had the same jet hair as Raskin, but his lay in one pristine braid down the center of his back. Where Raskin’s tunic most often looked worn and ragged, Seth hadn’t a thread out of place. Needless to say, Seth had never done anything near terrible enough to warrant having his wings clipped.

This beginning is involving itself a great deal in description, a little in character development, and not much at all in plot. I would suggest seeing if you can get to the action a bit sooner.

Enid stood off to the side. Her delicate features and frothy, pink gown enhanced the beauty of flowing mahogany hair. She made a comical portrait, with the stance of a drill sergeant and a scowl on her face.

Talbit waved him over. His stout, sausage-shaped fingers flicked toward his chin, as if to say, ‘Come on, then... we’re waiting’. Bright yellow locks dripped from underneath Talbit’s red cap, swinging back and forth with the wind like a metronome counting time. Being an elf, he was the only other of their troop without wings.

Colorful language is great. The trouble you can run into, though, is too much metaphor all in the same place. It's not technically mixing metaphors, but they're all cheek-by-jowl enough to make your reader think, "Frothy drill sergeants? Dripping sausages and metronomes?"

Raskin sprinted over to greet his friends but didn’t get so much as a ‘hello’ out before they bombarded him.

“It’s gone,” Enid said.

“They sent it in the post.” Talbit said.

“To some town in the States.” Seth continued.

“Enid only got part of the address.” Talbit paused long enough to roll his eyes as his bulb shaped nose quivered in a laborious grunt.

“Hey,” she yelled, “at least I got something. You got your trousers caught in the door, you dolt.”

“Right,” Raskin said, “where is it and how are we going to get there?”

“We know it went to a place called the Beautiful Goddess in a town called Berwyn.” Seth said.

“But the gnomes know as much as we do,” Talbit added.

This 'bombardment' doesn't ring true to me. When three excited people in a small group start yelling at fourth person, they listen to what the others are saying only enough not to exactly repeat them-- they don't listen so carefully that they finish each others sentences and give the fourth person all the information he needs as though tendering a report.

Raskin’s chest tightened and a dull pain invaded his throat. It wasn’t an unusual pang, something he should have grown accustomed to over the last hundred years, considering how often the feeling of failure assailed him.

This last paragraph at last puts us firmly with the main character. I would suggest going back through this scene and rewriting it from the point of view you've managed here-- less narration, more action, and a closer focus on the main character's experience.

Good luck!

First Pages: MG / Crash

2009-01-24T08:12:00.001-05:00

They’re at it again! The sound of Dad’s shouting and Mom’s crying in the kitchen made it hard to focus on the TV show my younger brother Jason and I were watching. Why does Mom put up with it? I wish Dad would just disappear. I can’t take much more of this.

The impulse to drop us into a scene where something's happening is a good one... but we need somewhere to land, and this isn't giving us something to focus on: the fight in the kitchen? the TV in the living room? which one of the narrator's related but not terribly cohesive thoughts?

CRASH!

Something smashed against the kitchen wall. I wondered what Dad had thrown this time, and hoped Mom hadn’t been hit by it before it shattered into pieces. I glanced at Jason huddled up in a corner of the sofa with his hands over his ears and tears dripping down his cheeks.

You also want to be careful about throwing us into a high-emotion situation before we've gotten to know the characters enough to sympathize with any of them. What are we supposed to feel when we look at the crying kid? We don't even know clearly what the MC feels.

“I’m leavin’!” I yelled, and clicked off the blaring TV. “And I’m taking Jason with me. Come on, Jason—let’s go.” I don’t know if Mom heard me over the shouting, but I didn’t even want to get anywhere near the kitchen right now.

The sounds of my dad’s yelling and my mom’s crying followed us out as the door banged behind us. I grabbed my helmet, jumped on my bike, and started pedaling down the street as hard as I could. My heart pounded and my breath came in gasps. I had to get away.

Jason hopped onto his bike and raced behind me. “Louie, wait for me!”

I looked over my shoulder and saw Jason was almost a block behind me. I stopped and waited for him to catch up. I guess I should have known he couldn’t keep up with me—he’s only seven and four years younger than me.

“Are you okay?” I asked when Jason pulled up beside me.

No sooner are we introduced to to the idea of domestic strife in this kid's life than we're taken out of it. You're not giving your reader the chance to understand your setting or your characters.

That can be hard to do, of course, without running the risk of an info dump, but that's your job as writer. Ask yourself what word choices will show us the mood of this scene; what things we need to know about these characters to intuit how they feel... and then ask yourself if you can achieve that in 1st person. If not, you may need to switch to 3rd.

First Pages: MG / The Carnie's Conspiracy

2009-01-23T20:55:00.004-05:00

Silas Poisson was the most dangerous man in Muldable City.

Most children will see "poisson" and be reminded of poison; however I am reminded of fish. Deliberate?

His wardrobe being all in hues of magenta was not generally seen as funny.

Awkward grammar.

It trivialized the (reputed) blood on his hands into a lolly-colored joke. Why couldn't he wear red, like any other self-respecting villain?

I'm having a bit of a hard time getting a handle on the voice here. "Trivialized" doesn't seem to synch with "lolly-colored".

Poisson was not actually a self-respecting villain.

That's better.

He did not consider himself a villain at all, and self-respect was for the boring. Like his arch-nemesis, Alan Birch, librarian and treasurer of the Friends' Trust.

"Treasurer of the Friends' Trust" feels like it's taking this in an unexpectedly cutesy direction--to my ear, anyway. Could the trust have a slightly less sunshiny (and perhaps funnier) name?

They were always very polite to each other. Poisson would return a book he'd come to regard as quite his own, until, with a nasty shock, he discovered a library stamp in the front. When Alan calculated the late fee, Poisson would be grieved and appalled. Getting out his little book of cheques, he would offer an advance on the next time.

Why is Poisson referred to by his last name, but Alan by his first?

“Mr. Poisson,” the librarian would say, “we at the city library desire to believe in the best in humanity. I sincerely hope you will remember to return—” glancing at the book under Poisson's arm, “'Deaths of the Eminent: a Case Study in Fame Homicide' within the month. I can't ignore my principle of hoping for the best by accepting an advance on possible late fees. With regrets.”

Nice. But I'd reconsider the last two sentences. Maybe cut them (and indicate in the paragraph above that Alan declines)? They make this speech a little less punchy.

Poisson would smile, tilting his head in a gesture of apology, and write the cheque out for the large sum on Alan's receipt, but no more. Anyone observing may have admired how the mild-mannered librarian, young and pale behind his glasses, stood up to the dark and impressive man of a (reputed) history of infamous if not famous homicide. Perhaps Alan's belief of the best in humanity really included Poisson. Perhaps it was just hard to take a man seriously when he wore candy-cane striped pajamas to the city library.

There's an awful lot of "would" going around here. Think about making this a more concrete scene-- the "would"s make this a generalization, and rob it of its immediacy--and thus some of its humor.

This is promising, and I'd turn the page.

This manuscript looks like it probably needs a detailed line edit, but it could be the kind of editing an editor would be willing to take on. With a good revision, though, this might become something editors would fight over. Depends on the rest of the story, of course.

First Pages: If You Don't Give Me a Title, I'm Going to Start Making Them Up

2009-01-22T23:06:00.005-05:00

He stood, wearing only a simple wrap around his loins, empty hands dangling at his sides.

Loins, in the first sentence? Really?
I'm betting his hands aren't the only thing dangling.

So you might reconsider having that word so close to the other word. Ahem.

He cocked his head,

Another word choice you might reconsider.

listening to the silence, savoring the quality of it, the absolute stillness as if the world held its breath in anticipation. The hall, unlit, was pitch black, though Rak did not have any problem seeing. The depth of the darkness was another thing to enjoy, and Rak did so fully.

"As if the world held its breath in anticipation" is a bit of a cliche.
Think about starting with a more active first paragraph. At the end of this one, we still don't know where we are or anything about the character--we're still without clue about the story we're reading. Save this drawing-out-of-a-moment for later in the story.

Once he had been a Royal Dancer, before Scorth had rescued him from bondage. He remained a Dancer, it was just that he no longer Danced for kings. Hearing something that only his mind perceived, Rak began the Dance, his hands and feet sweeping through the still air, singing a song of rhythm and motion. As he tread the opening measures of a Dance that would have stunned the Zothian Dance Masters, he could feel the power already whispering down his limbs, dark sparks of night flame gathering in his wake, shooting out with every light step and whirl of the Dance that was older than time.

You lost me. Several times. Scorth? Zothian? Night flame? Is he singing, or is it his hands and feet (and if so, um, what?)? Why is the man in a lioncloth standing in the pitch black and dancing? Why would the dance have stunned... anyone? Especially if it's that old?

Zotien, Lord of Night, came down to earth, and lightning crackled along the walls as the God joined the Dance, or perhaps He had already been Dancing, and His arrival allowed the priest to perceive it. Rak flowed through the measures, opposite the God, in perfect symmetry, and the power built around them. The room, or the perception of the room, faded, until the two Dancers, one mortal, one not, Danced down a cloud of glowing dust, the stars surrounding them. The tempo quickened, the stars spinning as they journeyed on, colorful orbs spinning about them in glorious display. On and on went the Dance, the stars together in their majesty swirling about a bright center, a center so full of stars and light it hurt to look upon it. The Dance of the stars and the orbs was the same as the Dance of the God and His priest.

And the confusion continues. Zotien? What did his arrival allow the priest to perceive? And then what sounds like a (pretty decent) acid trip?

I join all your readers in the Eternal Question:
Huh?

High fantasy is challenging to write for the very reasons you're running into here-- you've created a very (very) different world than the one we're in, and it's going to be uphill work introducing your readers to all the differences and doing it so that they can understand.

But listen, we can't get to page 20 before we feel like we know what's going on. It's got to happen on page 1, or we've moved on to some other book.

I would suggest starting with a scene that combines action, clear character development, and a situation with only mild differences from our world, so that we can ease our way into this soup of unfamiliar names, magical dance steps, and nonstandard clothing choices.

First Pages: PB / Mother Maple

2009-01-21T09:45:00.003-05:00

On a crisp day in the middle of November, little Henry, a sweet hare, was contentedly hopping by.

In the same way that you shouldn't include directions to the illustrator interlinearly with the text, you also shouldn't include them in the text.
Cut "a sweet hare". The fact that Henry's a bunny will be obvious to the child reader from the illustration, and will be intuited by the pre-illustration reader by "hopping". And "sweet" is just an unnecessary use of an adjective. Adjectives (and adverbs likewise) are candy--they're tempting, but they often aren't nearly as fortifying to your writing as a strong noun or verb would be.

I would also advise against "little". It reads as a deliberate attempt to make the main character cute, and that's the wrong approach. Your main character is not someone for your child reader to be entertained by. He is someone for your child reader to identify with-- he is a proxy for your reader, and deserves the same respect.

Unless you're building a very clear narrator's voice (as in Beatrix Potter), it's usually a good idea for the text to treat the main character the way he treats himself. So if Henry thinks of himself as "little" or "sweet", then you could bring that across (though, because most children would rather think of themselves as "big" and other dynamic adjectives, this attitude will not endear Henry to children), but if it's just that you want your reader to think he's "little" or "sweet", calling him that will not convince us. Show not tell.

Just as he hopped past little Marty the Maple Tree, Marty stopped him.

Oh, no.
You've just run into a classic editor peeve-- and I mean pretty much all editors, not just me. Alliterative names.

I know, I know, there's nothing inherently wrong with alliterative names. And there are good examples of successful children's books whose character names alliterate.

But the impulse to name characters in this way is among the most common elements in the writing of amateurs. I know editors who will stop right there--and I'm one of them. So it's a good idea to avoid doing this in your submissions. Give your characters normal names, and wait until an editor wants the manuscript... and then talk to her about changing the names to more alliterative ones.

I would also suggest being careful with the idea of naming inanimate objects. Sometimes this works just fine, and sometimes it will throw the reader. Here I think it would be safest for submission purposes not to name the tree.

"Wait, Henry! Where are you going?" he asked him.
"I'm going to bring gifts of food and water to Mother Maple like we do each year," he told Marty.
Marty knew that every year all the happy hares, plump pigs, and silly squirrels, took gifts of food and water to Mother Maple. She was the tallest tree in the whole meadow. The meadow had many trees but none were as big as Mother Maple.
"Why do you take gifts to Mother Maple each year?" Marty asked Henry.
"Let me tell you a story," Henry told him as he parked his cotton-ball tail next to Marty.

Ok, that's really enough of that. There's no call to populate your story with solely those animals that match the adjectives you've thought of to go with them.

I would suggest that when you revise this story, you go back and think about every word in it-- I guarantee your editor will be doing that-- and think hard about how/whether each word is truly serving the story you want to tell.

First Pages: YA / Love & Steam & Gasoline

2009-01-19T11:44:00.004-05:00

A small, black snowflake landed on my arm, but when I tried to wipe it off, it smeared across my pale skin leaving a thick smudge.

Too. Many. Adjectives.
This is a rookie mistake, and might make some editors stop here. If the whole manuscript is over-adjectived, editing will take far longer than we have time for.

Another reminder of how pale I was. I could hear Aunt Millie now: You should get out more and get some sun. Cooped up in that workshop all day, who do you think is going to marry a skinny, pasty-skinned girl like you?

Marriage. Ha! While all the girls at school worried about marriage, I was worried about the starving people next door and the nearly shot piston on my bike.

Aunt Millie's speech feels trite to me. And while that may be the goal (perhaps Aunt Millie is tragically trite), it's not a good way to start off your manuscript. If this text needs to be here, work on making Aunt Millie's nagging more unique; or perhaps better still, back off from it and let it be reported not as a quote but as a fleeting thought. This girl has better things to think of.

Besides, if your main character's thoughts are really with the people next door and her bicycle, then we should see that. Would she really spend so much time thinking about what other people think she should be thinking? Most people are not quite so meta.

These first paragraphs should introduce us to (and bond us with) her character, not the influences she's clearly not going to be influenced by.

I licked my thumb and rubbed at the black smear again. Dark clouds and even darker snowflakes filled the sky. Up ahead in the city, the factories loomed, making more clouds and sending them onto the horizon. If you got far enough from the city, the snowflakes would eventually turn white.

Huh, I like this paragraph.

I bent down to start the engine on my bike, but a rustle in the bushes next to me made me sit up with my back straight. Aunt Millie would be so proud of my posture right then as she often gets after me for slouching.

No man’s going to marry…

She's still thinking too much about marriage / Aunt Millie to my ear. How brow-beaten is this girl? I would make this "Aunt Millie would be so proud of my posture." and cut the following 15 words. That makes her sound ironic rather than brow-beaten.

The bushes fell silent. I scanned their dark shapes blending into one another. The bare trees stood like sentinels over them. Must’ve been the wind, although I couldn’t remember its chill.

I bent back down to start my bike’s engine when I heard a whirring sound behind me.

"I scanned their dark shapes blending into one another" is a break in voice. Keep up the mood you're creating by making this a more interesting sentence. The rest is intriguing.

I think I would turn the page, but with some foreboding. You've got some good stuff here, but this manuscript promises to be in dire need of editing. Regretfully, no editor has time for "dire".

Roll up your sleeves and (with a good critique group, if you can find one) get started on the revision this manuscript needs before it's submitted.

First Pages: MG / Untitled

2009-01-19T11:42:00.001-05:00

What do you wear to an awards ceremony?
I throw open my closet doors and listen as the white plastic hangers clap for me.

Cute.

I bow. “Why, thank you. I’m so happy to have won this award.”
Movie stars wear long dresses and sparkly jewelry to the Academy Awards. I reach for the only fancy dress I own—the blue satin one I wore to my Aunt Lucy’s wedding. It even has some sparkly jewelry attached. A rhinestone belt buckle. But I’m not sure blue satin is right for the last day of school.

Are you sure this is middle grade? It's sounding like 2nd-4th grade to me.

I stand on my tippy-toes and cram the blue dress back into the closet between the mad scientist costume I wore for Halloween last year and the pink fuzzy robe my grandmother gave me for my birthday that I’ve never worn.
“Stripes,” I decide. “I’ll wear stripes.”

Tippy-toes? Possibly a little too cute. It's sounding like Fancy Nancy when I think you're really going for something more Clementine.

The voice here sounds uneven to my ear. If you're going for a very unique first person voice, you've got to nail it.

I know some people like to match their clothes by color. My best friend, Ainslee Moore for one. But I prefer to match by pattern—stripes with stripes, plaid with plaid, floral with floral. It’s more interesting.
I grab my American flag shirt, my jean skirtall and my rainbow-striped toe-socks. Nice. But nice enough for an award ceremony? I spot the purple and white striped scarf Mr. Orr, our next door neighbor, knitted me for Christmas. Bingo! I don’t usually wear a scarf in June, but it will look cool dragging behind me as I walk up to the stage to accept my award. Very movie star-ish.
I throw on my green-glitter flip flops—to add a little sparkle—and run downstairs to grab some breakfast.

I swear I saw this very outfit on a kid.

“Wow!” my mom says when I walk into the kitchen. “You look…”
“Don’t say it, Mom,” I warn, picking up a cinnamon roll and pointing it towards her. “Don’t you dare say it.”
“What?” My mom throws her hands up in mock surrender as I pop the cinnamon roll into my mouth. “I was just going to say that you look…terrible. The ugliest daughter a mom could hope to have.”
I smile and lick the icing from my fingertips. “Thanks, Mom!”
I hate for anyone to call me pretty. You can either be a pretty girl or a smart girl. And I have my sights set on smart.

Not bad. This is clearly a character with a lot of character, and that's great for the age group. However, we're getting most of her character from the things she does, and little from her voice. The quality and consistency of that voice will need some work before this starts to shine.

First Pages: PB / A Little Quiet

2009-01-19T11:05:00.009-05:00

The day started out with a bang.
(Toddler holding cymbals or something over Mom's head while she is sleeping in the bed. Mom's eyes open wide.)
And then a few booms.
(Drumming on pots and pans while Mom is cooking breakfast)
And rattles and such.
(Cereal being dumped. Giant messes)

The noisiness of this manuscript will appeal to toddlers. But while this is a situation mothers can certainly empathize with, toddlers' ability to empathize with mom/others is notoriously spotty. Which is probably why I identify with them.

However, you'll need to be careful that the end result is not one long laugh at Mom's discomfort-- few parents will buy a book they think will encourage bad behavior.

You also need to be extra careful with the illustration notes. Usually I advise against including any illustration notes at all, but here a little guidance for the reader is needed. Even so, you do not need this much (we can imagine Mom's expressions without tips), and it would be politic of you to end each suggestion with "e.g." to make clear that you'll expect the illustrator to do what he/she thinks best.

I would also suggest adding the sound effects for read-aloud (ie, "CRASH-SMASH!"; "BANG-BONG!"), and consider making these effects cumulative in the interest of (a) audience participation and (b) a growing amount of noise on each spread.

There was also some splashing…
(outside wading pool - Mom is getting wet as she stands on the side)
and some painting…
(Mom is holding a sponge.Paint is dripping everywhere)
and a parade.
(Instruments and costumes. Mom in line too)
And then… there was lunch.
(Messy, Loud, Everybody talking. Mom's eyes are bulging now)

Again, the illustration notes are way too specific. Once the editor has gotten the idea of the sorts of things that will be going on in the illustrations, consider whether any more are needed at all. The painting note is perfectly superfluous; probably the parade one, too.

By 1:30, Mama needed Something. So she went up to her room.
(lying in bed)
After three minutes, she heard footsteps.
"Mama! What are you doing?" they asked.
"Oh, I'm looking for a little Quiet," Mama answered.
"Oh," they said. "Well, did you find it?" as the little one jumped up on the bed.

If the changes I've suggested were made, I would keep reading past this first manuscript page. I would expect a good punchline at the end, though--something in keeping with what's happened so far, but not just more of the same.

Every picture book writer, every one, should be extraordinarily careful with illustration suggestions. Go back through them over and over to make sure they are only present where a reader with a good imagination might be confused about what's meant to be happening next to a piece of text. Where they avoid confusion, they are acceptable. And nowhere else.

Crest and Motto

2009-01-06T16:30:00.006-05:00

The motto of the Anonymati:
Praedicatio, Adhortatio, Inritatio*

The crest of the Anonymati:

*"Publication, Exhortation, Irritation"

Rites of Initiation*

2009-01-06T16:29:00.003-05:00

I

Give yourself seven papercuts.

II

Acquire seven rejection letters in which the word "however" is used.

III

Drop a dictionary or other weighty reference work on your foot. Utter seven profanities.

IV

Bow to the seven points of the compass and vow to abjure henceforth all nitwitery, knuckleheadery, and jackassery. Yes, those are words. Shut up.

*Many Anonymati will find they have completed some of these rites already.

Secret Handshakes

2009-01-06T16:28:00.010-05:00

fig 1 "The Immaculate Semicolon"

fig 2 "The Guerdonless Caret"

fig 3 "The Beginning of New Paragraph"

fig 4 "WTF?"

Code Phrases

2009-01-06T16:27:00.002-05:00

Phrase: "The squirrel has being napped when the acorn fallen awoke."

Incorrect response: "Excuse me?"

Correct response: "Precipitation in conspicuous large nuts."

Phrase: "I'm looking for a book about dogs and shrill winds."

Incorrect response: "Puppies, Dogs, and Blue Northers?"

Correct response: "Walter the Farting Dog Gets a Whistle?"

Phrase: "What words suffice when bosom friends are parted?"

Incorrect response: "Fare thee well, my beloved friend. Henceforth we must be as strangers though living side by side. But my heart will ever be faithful to thee."

Correct response: "Ta ta, ta-tas."

Induction

2009-01-06T16:26:00.000-05:00

You are hereby inducted into the ranks of the Anonymati.

As a Knight of the Order, you are entrusted with knowledge and common sense, and with the sacred duty to fight ignorance and nitwittery wherever they appear; to spread information; to patiently correct the innocent idiocies of those eager to learn; and to soundly heckle the recalcitrant idiocies of the lazy and arrogant.

Go forth upholding these precepts.

Pitch Contest Honorable Mentions 20-34

2008-08-03T13:29:00.002-04:00

20. In /The Soul Collector/, a 65,000 word midgrade fantasy book, a peasant girl is commanded by the cheeky self-absorbed gods of her land to reunite a group of souls and bodies that have been separated. While her simple task provides the god’s with the entertainment they seek, it makes her a target for the person who stole the souls in the first place. It turns out the thief plans to use the souls to become a god, but in doing so, the soul’s bodies will die. The girl must find a way to stop the thief from destroying the bodies and keep him from stealing souls in the future.

I'm confused by the levity of the "cheeky" gods' "entertainment" and the very fraught nature of people whose souls have been stolen. I'm not sure this manuscript knows what it is.

21. David’s teacher is a ruthless, uncaring monster, and he will gladly share the stories of how Mrs. Murkel earned her nickname, the “Murkel Monster.” On the other hand, Mrs. Murkel would describe David as an irresponsible fourth grader with a penchant for playing with paper and making up excuses. It would seem that David and Mrs. Murkel understand each other perfectly. However, in an unexpected (and admittedly unbelievable) turn of events, a special girl named Lucy helps the two see each other in a new light.

The setting and action of this story seem to target elementary schoolers, but the voice of this pitch is very adult. Remember that I'm going to take as many clues from your pitch as I can--and this one is saying "I can't write for my age group."

22. There comes a moment in every teenager’s life when he or she wonders what it might be like to be the opposite sex. Most geeks fantasize about popularity. Every popular kid wants to stay on top. Alternating Earthling, alien points-of-view shed light on the things we tolerate about ourselves and those we must accept in others.

What? Is this about gender? Popularity? Aliens? What happens in this story?

23. After pressing on mysterious bumps that have appeared suddenly on their backs, fourth-grader Kara Kennelly and her cousin Avery discover they can transform into amazing creatures that are half-girl, half-bird. They soon learn the joy of flying comes with extreme danger in the form of “Scare Crow,” a giant winged monster determined to do battle with the “Gird Birls.” Kara and Avery must also battle their own moms, who are secret Gird Birls themselves and dead-set against their daughters flying. But if Kara and Avery don’t fly, who will rid the skies of Scare Crow?

Are you saying they have wing buttons, or magical zits? What's with the "gird birls"? That name is not striking me as high in cool factor. And their moms? I'm feeling confused about what this story is about at heart.

24. Teachers HATE show and tell day; student teachers HATE show and tell day; mommies HATE show and tell day; but kids LOVE show and tell day. I wrote a great book explaining show and tell. "Sydney Brooks Loves Show and Tell." The reviewers (aka kids) of room 120 loved it, perhaps you will, too.

This was for worst pitch, right? You remembered what I said about what editors think of children's opinions?
If this was sincerely meant, take that last sentence out, and tell me what happens in this manuscript.

25. Minerva Fletcher, Minnie if you please, is probably not a witch. She's just a skinny seventh grader who happens to have a bumbling magician for a father, a mother who disappeared in an unfortunate magic trick gone wrong, and a granny who is one of the original Salem witches and a card-carrying member of the Witches' Relocation Program. Teased mercilessly in her new school by the Queen Bee, Skinny Minnie forges a friendship with Krystal, the candy-eating ghost who haunts the hallways. Trouble brews, along with wasted wishes and kooky spells, when Minnie gets a magical moonstone ring and a junior witch handbook for her thirteenth birthday.

There's just something so familiar about this story line. Maybe I'm just over witches for a while.

26. I have been a rugby player, a Canadian infantry soldier, a wilderness survival instructor, have rode bucking horses in the rodeo, married an Eskimo-Cowboy, and am the kick ass (but not peppy) mother of three children under five. I am postnatal and a little more than premenopausal. So, I am not only to be feared if rejected, but also have a plethora of phenomenal stories. If you want to read about an inspiring street child I once knew in South Africa, an Outlaw bush pilot from Northern BC, or a rodeo cowgirl and her bovine sidekick with irritable bowel syndrome (to name a few), I'm your gal.

Is this a pitch for a manuscript? It sounds like a pitch for you, which I'm not buying. All the experiences in the world do not necessarily make you a good writer; all the writing in the world does not necessarily mean you have a story that works.

27. Natalie dreams of building little tiny fences along the cliffs of the Arctic to SAVE THE LEMMINGS! from their mass suicides. How will she ever raise awareness for the cause? When Natalie invents the Texty-Talky she becomes an overnight success but the media quickly turns on her and muddies her reputation. Will Natalie be able to rise above the media muck and SAVE THE LEMMINGS!

a. What's a texty-talk? b. Who cares about lemmings? c. Is this supposed to be funny, or are you serious about this?

27. On a lonely night, a fox tricks a little kid into following him into the woods. Disguised as a man named Mr. Albatross, he leads the boy far away from home to devour him. But soon Mr. Albatross discovers he's become his role, forgetting all of his fox instincts. Can he and the boy find their way out of the woods?

What? Is this some kind of allegory? Ok, I get it--the fox is the author, Mr. Albatross is the story's narrator, and the boy is the reader. By the end, everyone's lost.

28. For Frankie Kinnessey, it’s hard enough being the new kid going into eighth grade, let alone trying to fit in while hiding the fact that her mother’s a witch. When her secret is uncovered, the entire school starts buzzing, but instead of being relegated to the loser table in the lunchroom, Frankie becomes the most popular kid there. Her new found fame propels Frankie to embellish her non-existent powers and alienate the two girls who liked her before she became the resident witch extraordinaire. If she can come clean with her classmates, she just might be able to make it through middle school relatively unscathed... even if she is just a mere mortal.

Again, this is feeling a tad familiar. There are just so many witch stories out there...

29. Grandma loves her snuggly-wuggly grandbaby so much, she'd do anything for him. She'd bake him cookies and buy him wookies. She'd smother him with kisses and grant all his wishes. Illustrated with cutting-edge-computer graphix (see attached), Gramma's Snuggly-Wuggles is my 500-word, rhymed, sure- to- be- adored- by- anyone- who- has- ever- had- a- grandma picture book manuscript!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (art in email)

Heehee. I got something just like this recently, but it also included a photo of a cat throwing up.

30. Ben was a happy kid leading a normal life - until, somehow, his voice destroyed a museum. Now he's practically a prisoner at Dr. Miller's academy for super-heroes. The only other kids his age are Zach, Dr. Miller's super-intelligent lackey, and Moira, whose screams echo through the hallways as she undergoes "reeducation." In Yeller, my 26,500 word upper-middle grade novel, Ben must navigate the perils of Dr. Miller's academy to preserve his sense of self, rescue the girl, and return to his old life.

This doesn't sound at all bad, but I need to know more about these perils. And how did his voice destroy a museum? More info.

31. (YA Contemporary Fantasy Novel) Fifteen-year-old Belle is perfectly normal and perfectly bored with her normal life—until she meets her new English teacher, a witch named Ms. Wendt. Ms. Wendt's classroom is located behind a blue door that erases her students' memories of magic and of Ms. Wendt when they leave. As Belle and her friends Robert and Esperanza try to find ways to thwart the door and remember their magical teacher outside of class, they discover that Ms. Wendt is a prisoner of her own classroom, trapped behind the blue door that ensures no one will remember her or help her escape. Belle's new science teacher hints that there may be a way save Ms. Wendt, but the alchemy he teaches them makes them wonder if he's there to save Ms. Wendt or use his magic for his own purposes... either way, the first step for Belle to save her teacher is to remember her.

I'm just not feeling the conflict. What's the personal investment for your MC?

32. George's peaceful summer takes a dramatic turn when he realizes Gloria Stinkmeyer has returned on the same day he learns aliens are about to invade earth. Coincidence? George doesn't think so. George Jones and the Gooey Sneeze that Saved the World is a 900 word picture book with a comic book format that engages kids using gross-out humor.

Are you implying that Gloria Stinkmeyer is an alien? Why? How does the gooey sneeze save the world?

33. Fifteen year old, half-Italian, half-Vampire Tommy gets sent to a new school to learn about his Vampire heritage. He attracts a lot of attention: from the biggest bully, to the prettiest girl, to a young boy with an amazingly short attention span, to a gang that wants a taste of Tommy’s human blood. What he does learn is that there are Vampire Rules and his parents may be breaking every single one of them.

This sounded funny and maybe interesting up until the last sentence, when it suddenly sounded serious. What rules? And I hope he learns something about himself, rather than just his parents... they're not the focus of the book, right?

34. Picture book 4-6 years of age /Peter Fly is a messy little fly who never cleans his room. It isn’t until his favorite toy is broken that he decides it’s time to clean PETER’S MESSY ROOM.

What differentiates this story from a Berenstain Bears story? What diffuses the lesson that this seems to be headed toward?

Pitch Contest Honorable Mentions 1-19

2008-08-03T11:35:00.002-04:00

I received one pitch for an adult crime fiction book. I can't comment on adult fiction; it's a very different market, and I know little about it. That pitch should be submitted to Query Shark.

Ok; here we go:

1. Its skin was the color of boulders and rocks. It was bumpy and cold as rocks too.

This was a good try at a 'worst pitch' but it should have gone on longer. If you're going to be this pointlessly repetitive, you have to really go for it. And you might want to throw in something totally incongruous for flair:

Its skin was the color of boulders and rocks. It was bumpy and cold as rocks, too. Its teeth and hair and long, softly feathered, swan-like neck were like rocks. It was, all around, pretty rock-like.

That's the kind of pitch that makes an editor's head explode.

2. Eugene and his Amazing Homework Machine
Eugene will do anything to avoid doing his homework. He'd much rather spend his time building model airplanes, trains, and other crazy doodads. When a teacher threatens him with an ultimatum, Eugene builds his most elaborate creation ever - the homework machine! Only time will tell if Eugene's amazing homework machine is grade A material...or if it's class dismissed for good!

It sounds like this story is maybe supposed to be funny, but the humor isn't coming across in the pitch. Remember to include not only what the story's about, but the story's main appeal, as well.

3. Historical novel for middle-grade readers
Longing to study the sacred stories of the prehistoric Polynesian island where she lives, thirteen-year-old Ani begins spying on classes taught by the High Priest. When a failing student named Atev catches her, she agrees to teach him how to read and write, something only she has figured out how to do. Ani and Atev become friends, but their status differences create friction, and when the High Priest suddenly accuses Ani of breaking the law, she is convinced Atev has betrayed her. Exiled, Ani must learn what really happened – and why.

If she's the first to read and write on the island, it's not something she figured out-- it's something she's invented. This ms might be interesting enough to request, but I'd want to know whether it's historically feasible (ie, the story is fiction, of course, but how true to ancient Polynesia is it?) That'll make a difference to whether it's useful in classrooms.

4. Historical novel for middle-grade readers
Despite drought, dwindling food supplies, and hostile neighbors, twelve-year-old Towhee is the only member of the ancient pueblo community of Sand Canyon who does not wish to search for greener pastures. When marauders attack as her people are leaving, Towhee falls through a dilapidated pit roof and is left for dead. She is tested by many challenges – including how to find food and evade predators – but the biggest is how to contend with the spirit voices that have begun to call to her. With the help of new friends, Towhee must find a way to understand her unusual talent and discover the true meaning of home.

Sounds kinda Island of the Blue Dolphins. I might request this, but I wish I understood the 'spirit voices' part a little better. Are you using that aspect to convey more about the culture and your MC's character? Or are you going somewhere spiritual and new-agey with this (in which case I don't want it)?

5. Sixteen-year-old Ester Elaine Lambert (Eel for short) meets incoming college freshman Lexington at a local malt shop, and he confides that he owns something he feels could make anybody rich and famous: a bottle of bubble solution with magical properties. Eel doesn't believe him, but she steals the bubbles anyway on the off chance that they might boost her bank account—the only hitch is that she accidentally drops a bowling ball on Lexington's head in the process. After blowing the bubbles all over her parents and best friend and concluding the whole thing was a joke, Eel discovers that the bubbles actually do have a magic power—the power to give people instant midlife crises. When her mother jets off to New York to join the Rockettes, her father embraces an embarrassing new career path, and her best friend shaves off her hair and her endearing qualities, Eel must reverse the bubble solution's effects before the local police nab her for the assault on Lexington.

This needs a little work. Bubbles? Is this manuscript meant to be funny? If so, so should the pitch be. Right now I'm getting 'disjointed'.

6. Pumpkin House (picture book)
The label on the seed packet did say 'Jumbo Pumpkin,' but who knew it would keep growing and growing and....
"Just like those magic bean things," mused Mom.
It was a shoe-in for a blue ribbon at the State Fair, till a tussle with a rogue pie-man squashed their hopes. So, the family wondered what to do with a damaged gourd, until Sam got an idea.

Could be funny. But I don't get enough of an idea of the whole manuscript from this. You're hinting. Don't hint in pitches.

7. What if your nation stood defenseless against a sorcerous enemy, while its only hope for survival was sealed in a magical prison by a centuries-old injustice? What if freeing that hope requires that you, yes you, solve an ancient puzzle while breaking every law you’ve sworn to uphold...and costs your father his life? Fifteen-year-old Ruadhan wonders how he can inherit his father’s mission but not his druid magic; why his dead mother has no grave, and why he’s been stuck with this absolutely impossible quest...but he doesn’t wonder why his sister’s trying to kill him. If only she didn’t have her own army... if only he had more than three days [Star, YA historical fantasy, 190 pages.]

You've started with a question that's hard to follow, let alone identify with. Take out the "yes you" part. Breaking every law you've sworn to uphold and costing your father his life? Jeez, this sounds turgid. And then there's the rest of the pitch.
Remember that your pitch is an introduction to your story. Don't dump every wringing thing on the reader all at once.

8. Title: Always Music
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Sarah sees a swordsman killing things on the streets of Baltimore. No one believes her, until she confides in Jack, a bitter young widower who owns a music shop. Jack has his own history with invisible swordsmen--one killed his wife. When the swordsman comes after her, Sarah turns to Jack for help, only to find out that Jack knows a lot more than he's letting on--because his story doesn't end with his wife's murder, it only starts there.

Killing things? What things? ...Potato bugs? ...Tulips? ...Unicorns?
Concentrate on your main character's point of view--including this Jack character. There's too much info about him in this pitch. Judicious sharing of information is key in pitches.

9. A long time from now, in an age that may or may not come to pass, when much of humankind has lost all sense of reason and people live as slaves under a power-wielding Strong Man and his brutal Cohorts, there lived Ed, a boy able to see through darkness and great distances... Ed Night-Seer (young adult, 35,000 words) is a hero's journey story set in the former United States one generation after nuclear disaster has decimated the world as human beings regress back to a state of one-man dominance, forcing the people to toil and only dream of freedom. Ed is marked by the Strong Man to join his ranks; he must escape to save himself and his people from permanent servitude.

Overwrought. And the term 'strong man' reminds me of circus folk in tights.

10. A MAP OF HEAVEN describes a parent's worst nightmare and a child's greatest fear. A young girl copes with the loss of a parent and hopes for a place where love never ends.

Approach this from the child's perspective (ie, lose 'parent's worst nightmare'). And there isn't enough info in this pitch. What happens in the story?

11. Everyone wants Peter. The school bully wants to rearrange his face for Peter breaking his nose. The class flirt wants him for her boyfriend. And an older dancer wants to make Peter his latest lover. But all Peter wants is to partner his beloved Melissa in a romantic pas de deux.

Let's just acknowledge that a book about a ballerino is going to be tough to sell. I mean, even without the gay issues. But if it were really funny and smart, it could work. ...The funny part isn't coming across here.

12. Harold loves baseball, old cowboy movies and pumpkin pie, but hates his crown, which is heavy and old-fashioned and gives the king a bad case of crown-head at the end of the day. Can Harold and his twenty-three closest advisers update his image before the dastardly editor of the Regal Register convinces its readers to oust the monarchy? Of course! But not without first causing the palace team to forfeit the championship, destroying the kingdom’s pumpkin crop, and nearly burning the palace down . . .The King’s New Hat is a chapter book for ages seven to ten.

Updating his image isn't a terribly relate-able issue for children. Is there another way to put this?

13. Genre: YA
When Rory, a selective mute and math genius, at Manfredo's Charter School for the Highly Gifted finally solves Dangle's Last Theorum, the world isn't ready for what comes next. One after another, the basic laws of the universe begin to unravel. Gravity. Time. The speed of light. Newton's Laws. Even the planets stop rotating, sending the world into an eternal noon. Unable to communicate with Rory, the rest of Mrs. Jozwall's eighth grade class furiously tries to stop the breakdown of the Universe Machine, while chaos breaks out hilariously all around them. The students soon learn, however, that Manfredo's elite school isn't what it appears—and maybe even worse, once Dangle's Theorum has been solved, there's no way to unsolve it.

You lost me at 'basic laws of the universe begin to unravel'.

14. Being able to time travel has been useful for Sienna and her fellow Travelers; however, their gift comes at a price: always knowing when they’re going to die and not being able to do anything about it. When Sienna’s best friend, Joan, loses her brother, Henry, in an accident, she alters history to save him. Joan’s changes backfire though, and she creates a utopian world, except for the fact that Sienna’s left an orphan. It’s up to Sienna to change things back, except it’s not as easy as it looks, and she’s not so sure that it is the right thing to do—not with a hot Henry who is all she’s ever wanted, and an angry Joan willing to do anything to keep her brother alive.

It sounds like her sex life is more convincing argument for leaving her parents dead than the utopia the world has become. Seriously?

15. In the forest of Giants a bluebird’s greatest song tames all the wild creatures – for one night. Piper and the Sleeping Giants is a 429-word picture book written in lively verse. It is an animated tale about a bluebird, Piper, whose dream of serenading the giant sequoia trees takes flight when he braves the presence of predators. Although Piper and the Sleeping Giants is an adventurous picture book that highlights the inhabitants of Sequoia National Park, the poetic text may also double as a sweet bedtime story.

You lost me at "bluebird's greatest song".

16. Mistakenly betrothed to a man who is a deadly sexual predator, Margaret Sinclair must find a way to survive not only her wedding night, but come to terms with her late father's affair and consequently an older brother who is now the heir to all she loves. Two men have sworn to protect her with their own lives, and both men may have to pay that price for her freedom. Historical Romance.

Mistakenly betrothed? Was it an accident? We need some more information here.

17. No one will date Katherine Pearce because her divorced, socialite mother writes a weekly man-bashing column, circulation: the entire planet, or so it seems. While mother goes island-hopping, Katherine spends the summer between junior and senior year with her Midwestern aunt, a ceramics teacher. Katherine takes a job at a factory, praying that the eligible males on the assembly line and in the remote town have never heard of Margot Pearce. She finally finds a boyfriend, an aspiring musician, but when mother jets in for a surprise visit, will Katherine's relationship be yesterday's news?
Title: Dish
Genre: YA humor
Age range: 14 and up

Take out 'ceramics teacher'. Insert humor.

18. Pete only likes to play astronauts, firemen and pirate games with his best friend Daniel. That all changes one rainy day when his little sister triumphantly transforms him into Princess Pete. Pete is endearing as they explore their kingdom, put out fires in the castle and rescue incompetent princes. But his sister’s joy turns to despair when Daniel calls and threatens to ruin the perfect afternoon.

You know people have a hard time with alternate gender views, right? Unless this is going in a William's Doll direction, this is a pass. What's your message?

19. Because he’s so lazy, Omkar arrives late at the farm market, barely in time to buy the last bag of mustard seeds. The tiny bag contains only ten brown seeds. When his father’s illness worsens, it’s up to Omkar to grow those seeds into a field of mustard, or the village won’t have mustard oil to cook their suppers and light the lamps. But after he plants the seeds, Omkar forgets about them, until it's almost too late.

I just don't get why people will want to buy this.