The lovely Brenda Drake is doing another awesome contest. The Writer's Voice is an amazing opportunity to learn from folks who know their stuff, and to make some good connections with other writerly types.
Also, agents. They'll be involved as well.
So that's happening starting Monday. And you need a query and 250 words. So I thought, I'd open the comments today to queries OR 250 words. Post yours and I'll comment back, letting you know what I think. Hopefully the feedback is helpful and gets you a little closer to the agent round. So go, post. I shall comment back. Feel free to tell your friends! :)
N~
My first 250:
ReplyDeleteMost people our age had parties on a Saturday night. In those parties, people made out in wardrobes, or at least that was what the movies said.
But instead of drinking Coke and fist-pumping to songs that would hurt my ears, I sat with my boyfriend James in the living room, drinking apple juice. Mum and Grandma were dancing, eyes glued to an aerobics television program.
‘James, you wanna dance?’ I said.
He shook his head and sat up straighter. Cleared his throat. ‘No thanks.’
I shrugged and got up. Grandma had this glint of evil or delight in her eyes - I wasn’t sure which. In any case, I joined Mum and Grandma in their dancing. The light of the TV blared out across the dark living room and my eyes started to hurt, but it was fun. James didn’t join in.
After that was a round of pass the parcel, almost a family tradition. Mum squirmed as the music stopped and I opened the first item - a doll shoe. ‘Thanks, Mum!’
I had a collection of them. Doll shoes. Little ones, big ones, pink, fluffy, frilly, miniature. Mum had rigged the pass the parcel, of course. James ended up getting a book called 5 WAYS TO MAKE YOUR LIFE LESS BORING. I glared at Mum for that one. He wasn’t boring. Not MY James.
The first sentence--structure is off. Try: Most people our age had parties on Saturday night. At those parties, people made in out in closets--or that's what the movies said.
DeleteSecond paragraph--those parties have people drinking beer, not Coke. Keep it realistic.
Use " instead of '
I'm intrigued by this, but there's nothing really hooking me in. So your query needs to be out of this world amazing, or you need to rework this to really hook me--good luck!!! :)
This is awesome! Thanks for this :)
ReplyDeleteHere's my first 250.
My feet skid across the sand, stopping inches from the front door. The Saharan sun reflected through a side window, making me squint. I lifted my arm, knocked three times, then moved to the window in time to see a Council Member look up and nod as if he expected me. Seconds later, the other two Council Member’s joined him and an argument broke out—no doubt discussing my problem but never coming to a conclusion.
Same old, same old.
I squeezed my fist tighter and slammed it against the window. They didn’t even flinch. Maybe overreacting was the only way to get something done. “Hey,” I yelled. “I’m right here. Come out and talk to me.”
Finally, they turned around and filed out the door.
“Happy birthday, Brielle.”
“No. It’s not. But it could be.”
One Council member cleared his throat. I held my breath and waited for him to tell me something good.
Those few seconds felt like several minutes. “We can’t help you.”
I cursed the seven dunes. “Can’t or won’t? It’s been four years since my lamp was put into storage by a human. And you won’t do a thing about it. I could be helping someone, getting my magic. You three can’t even figure out who’s in charge.”
The short one rubbed his bald head. “But there will be a vote next week.”
I almost rolled my eyes. “You’ve been saying that for two years. Please get my lamp out of storage or get me a new assignment.”
I like what you have going on here, but I feel like there isn't a real hook. There isn't enough tension, if that makes sense. For example:
Delete"Sand dug into my palm as my fist clenched. Four years. Four years of waiting. I stared at the Council members through the grimy window, and knew: they weren't going to do anything to help me."
The first two paragraphs don't really add anything--you want to start with something that drags me in, raises questions that I need answered. My sample (which, obviously, is just an example and a bad one) raises questions and stakes. Then you can go into the discussion with the Council members.
Be careful with your dialogue that it doesn't come off as forced or over the top--her 'I cursed the seven dunes "Can't or..." dialogue? That's a bit over the top and it's info dumpy. She's stating info they already know, for the benefit of the reader. Make it natural. ("You won't help," I corrected, my spirit sinking. I couldn't keep waiting. "How would you feel, if you were in my position? If you had been stuck on a shelf for four years?")
Okay, so both those were lame examples, but yeah. I like where your going, here. Lamps and jinn (i'm assuming) are pretty awesome. Just rework this opening so it's more enticing and you'll be set! :) Good luck!!
Thanks so much!
DeleteFantastic! Thanks so much for volunteering to do critiques! Here's my query:
ReplyDeleteSeventeen-year-old Cade Shor just murdered his girlfriend Hailey with a kiss, and the body count is on the rise.
Of course he didn't mean to kill Hailey—he's not even sure how it happened. But with an assassin now hell-bent on taking his head and new instincts driving him to kill again, he doesn't have much time to figure out what's happening to him, or how to stop the bloodshed.
When Cade's best friend Ana convinces him to get help, neither of them expect it to come in the form of immortal punk-ass Malachi, a Ward created to guide and protect Reapers. He explains that Cade's a Reaper—an immortal tasked with releasing the souls of the dying from their bodies—but Malachi hasn’t told him everything.
Cade isn’t just any Reaper—he’s a direct descendant of the most powerful Reaper on record. Now a society of immortals as old as the myth itself is watching him, and as far as they’re concerned, he’s a loose cannon that needs taming.
If Cade doesn't learn how to fight his body's new addiction to the life force of the living—and fast—an assassin will be the least of his problems.
Try as he might, he can’t outrun an army of Reapers.
I'm adding my thoughts in-line:
DeleteSeventeen-year-old Cade Shor just murdered his girlfriend Hailey with a kiss (nice hook), and the body count is on the rise. (but you lost me. What other bodies are in this body count??)
Of course (cut of course) he didn't mean to kill Hailey—he's not even sure how it happened. But with an assassin now hell-bent on taking his head and new instincts driving him to kill again, he doesn't have much time to figure out what's happening to him, or how to stop the bloodshed. (Slow down. I'm hella confused. He's got an assassin after him and new instincts and apparently bloodshed....but where is all this coming from??
When Cade's best friend Ana convinces him to get help, neither of them expect it to come in the form of immortal punk-ass Malachi, a Ward created to guide and protect Reapers. He explains that Cade's a Reaper—an immortal tasked with releasing the souls of the dying from their bodies—but Malachi hasn’t told him everything. (I'm getting whip lash trying to keep up. You've got way too much going on in this query. I'm gonna try to boil it down some in a sec)
Cade isn’t just any Reaper—he’s a direct descendant of the most powerful Reaper on record. Now a society of immortals as old as the myth itself is watching him, and as far as they’re concerned, he’s a loose cannon that needs taming.
If Cade doesn't learn how to fight his body's new addiction to the life force of the living—and fast—an assassin will be the least of his problems.
Try as he might, he can’t outrun an army of Reapers.
Cade just killed his girlfriend--with a kiss.
He doesn't understand the new instinct that's pushing him to kill, but with someone trying to kill him, he's gonna have to figure it out soon.
With his best friend Ana, Cade starts looking for help. Neither expect it to be Malachi, a punk ass Ward tasked with guiding and protecting Reapers.
What Malachi doesn't tell Cade is that he's a direct descendent of the most powerful Reaper on record and a everyone is watching him.
If he doesn't learn out to fight his body's addiction to the life force of the living, the assassin will be the least of his problems.
Okay--my major question: the way this is written, his addiction to life-force is a normal reaper thing. So why is it a problem for the reapers? Clarify that, and simplify your query and you'll be fine!! :) Good luck!!
Thank you so much!
DeleteThanks so much for offering your critique, Nazarea!
ReplyDeleteHere's my first 250:
If Linh could have a friend, it’d be a dragonfly fairy. If dragonfly fairies were real, they could make her house as beautiful as Vietnam’s ancient imperial palace. There would be golden couches, jade dragon statues, yellowish-red doors glittering a welcome to each room instead of the mismatched junk cluttering their Irish home.
The fairies could even teach her tricks with bamboo sticks and help them grow a bamboo grove in un-sunny Dublin. How proud her mother would be!
Linh fantasized a lot and could escape so easily into a long movie of herself sitting in a meadow, laughing and talking with the fairies. It never failed to make her happy—until her mother snapped off the video.
“Are you listening to me?” Her mom’s voice was stern.
Linh blinked as the mental movie dissolved. She scanned the drab living room. No fairies. Oops. “Uhhh—”
“You’ve been daydreaming.” Her mother shook her head. “I have to leave for work now. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“Don’t leave!” Linh grabbed her mom’s arm. “I don’t want to be alone again.”
“I know it’s hard, dear,” her mother said. “Try to do your best.”
“I’m still scared of losing you like Dad. Can you not work at night and stay home again?”
Her mother sighed. “I know it’s been hard without Dad, too. You’ve been very brave. The reality is that many people are losing their jobs. Who’ll take care of us if I don’t work?”
Hmm. I'm not really sure what to say. This reads like MG, which isn't my forte (sorry). It's got good imagery in your first paragraph, but no where in the 250 words is there a hook. Nothing makes me want to keep reading, or really grabs my attention. And since I'm not getting a real feel for the story, I can't really offer anything.
DeleteMy best advice is to rework this and up the stakes. Let me feel her longing for the dragonfly fairy to be real. And the fear of her mother leaving. The frustration of her mom. Connect me to the characters, and it won't matter if I don't know what's going on.
Thanks Nazarea, I appreciate your feedback!
DeleteThanks SO much, Nazarea!
ReplyDeleteThe Maiden Villas sit on the highest peak of Pine Crest and hide under a shadow of trees. I sure don’t want to meet Mrs. Egremony, the creepy landlady, with the way she stares at me, but she told me to come.
Alone.
She says she knew my grandmother.
I click into first gear.
I have to stand on my pedals to reach the top of Ridge Road, heaving like a billy goat, and swaying side-to-side. A black crow comes out of nowhere. I swerve and slide hard onto the blacktop. When I lift my head, I swear that crow is laughing at me through the tree branches. It flies away. I check my burning knee, but it’s just a scratch. I hop back on my bike.
At the top of Ridge Road you can look out over most of the valley of Pine Crest, and over the tops of the pine trees below. What were once the old Cabins became the Maiden Villas when Mrs. Egremony took over.
I leave my bike on the side of Mrs. Egremony’s cabin. Compared to the others her “villa” is large. It’s unusual she’s not in the garden. I ring the doorbell, looking around for suspicious crows. There’s no answer.
I know she’s just an old woman, but something’s not right. For starters, Mrs. Egremony dresses like she’s stepped out of the pages of Little House on the Prairie with those longs skirts dragging on the ground.
I like this. I'd cut:
DeleteI click into first gear.
I have to stand on my pedals to reach the top of Ridge Road, heaving like a billy goat, and swaying side-to-side. A black crow comes out of nowhere. I swerve and slide hard onto the blacktop. When I lift my head, I swear that crow is laughing at me through the tree branches. It flies away. I check my burning knee, but it’s just a scratch. I hop back on my bike.
It doesn't add anything to the story and it pulls me out of the mood your creating, which is faintly creepy and forbidding. Aside from that, it's really good. I like it. :)
Thanks, Nazarea! That crow is essential to the whole plot. Let me see, where can I stick him. Come here little crow-y
DeleteThank you!
Thank you so, so much, Nazarea!! I really appreciate this! Here's my first 250:
ReplyDeleteRiches, love, and death. That’s all they cared to hear about. All anyone wanted from my tarot cards and me. No matter where our caravan traveled, the townspeople came in droves, traipsing through the wilderness to our shoddy camps, desperate to have their fortunes told. Like a swarm of angry bees, they’d buzz in and out our vardos, tossing fistfuls of pennies in our hats, hoping to learn the secrets of life, as they called them.
I called them falsehoods. Dirty, little lies. But, perhaps, I was too blunt.
“Tell me, Madam Taliya, why am I not rich?” they would ask me. Or: “How can I make her fall in love with me?” Or: “When and where will I die?”
Riches, love, and death. Always in that order.
Foolish gaujos.
But I wasn’t above making a dime, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell them the truth— that the cards were just a guideline, a prediction of events should their course not change. That wasn’t what the customers wanted to hear. Wasn’t what they were paying for. No one wanted to be told they were poor ‘cause they were a worthless drunk. Or that they would never find love ‘cause they had an insufferable personality— one they likely inherited from their equally insufferable mother. That implied a portion of their bad luck was their own doing, their own fault, and worse yet still, that they could change it.
Change. Such a filthy, rotten word. I learned never to mention it ‘cause change sounded hard. Change meant work.
Man. I got nothin'. This is awesome just the way it is. Also, I want to read it. Good luck!!!!!
DeleteThank you, thank you, thank you! That just made my day :)
DeleteHi Nazarea! Thanks for this. What a gift.
ReplyDeleteMy first 250:
The irony is, my acute sense of smell ended up being my greatest asset.
Of course, I didn’t know that before it saved my life. Before that it was usually just an annoyance. The sweaty boys coming in from recess smelled like rotten cheese; my brother’s room smelled like walking into the local waste dump—two weeks worth of smelly socks must have been hiding under his bed.
My sense of smell must be one of the clue-digging skills I was endowed with. I always wanted to be a private investigator, for as long as I could remember. In middle school my best friend Clara and I would dress up in our dads’ khaki trench coats and our Hollywood-sized sunglasses and sit in my dad’s ’84 Buick in the garage pretending we were spies holding an all-night vigil. We’d pretend to be listening in on some explosive argument—or even better, a dynamite affair.
We wrote emails to each other and addressed them To Juniper McKenzie, P.I. and To Clara Larson, P.I.
It was just fun and games for a long time…until it wasn’t any more. One day the games became the real thing. Well, sort of…
I never would have expected to uncover what I did about Noah, or to find the missing pieces so infuriating. But mysteries are like that—if we knew all the answers beforehand, there would obviously be no mystery.
This is a lot of build up, but nothing actually happens. There's no hook or explanation of WHY it's her greatest asset. We need that. Rethink your opening to start where he story does. Good luck!!!
DeleteThanks for this, Nazarea!
DeleteThanks for reviewing my (and others) work. Here is my first 250:
ReplyDeleteWesley’s hands trembled as solutions in glass flasks percolated. Yellow, orange, and green fluids coursed through tubing and collected in glass beakers.
Please be a match.
The collected samples of hair from the prince and the maiden in question, curled together in a small cauldron upon the tripod. Wesley carefully added the distilled concoctions, turned up the flame underneath, then stepped back.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
The cauldron steamed in the sweltering laboratory. As the experiment rose to a boil, Wesley’s heart raced.
She could be the one. Then this would all be over.
Wesley’s unruly hair fell into his eyes. He swiped the damp strands away before extinguishing the flame. He watched the solution cool.
Please be red. Please put an end to this.
The fluid continued to bubble for a long while, turning from purple to pink to...
Red! It’s going to be red! Finally—I am saved!
With a loud belch, the solution curdled and turned black. And stayed that way.
Wesley dropped his head in his hands.
I better warn that sweet girl before Duncan gets a hold of her.
I'm a little confused. I think it's cuz of limited formatting, but the I SHOULD'VE... that's thought, right? If so, I think your good. There is a good sense of tension, but I'd suggest employing some of the senses--what does the solution taste like, feel the sweat rolling down his face to show us the temp in the room--it draws the reader in more. Aside from that, I really like it!!
DeleteThanks for the review! Here is my first 250:
ReplyDeleteMARY EXITED the vehicle--a sturdy red Chevy pickup from a bygone era, in one graceful twist of her lower body. The slip of wind that tugged at her lengthy blonde strands was unseasonably warm for the first week of November in Nebraska. Glancing upwards, she pulled her light weight blue jacket tighter around her lithe body. The sky was a bright, cartoon blue with wisps of mare's tail clouds scattered randomly in the heavens. What leaves remained in the parking lot were clumped together in corners of the curb, as if huddled together in protection from the approaching winter.
Willard's was the largest of four grocery stores in a two hour radius of Mary's farm, and just happened to also be the closest. Making her way across the parking area to the white painted brick building, she was surprised at the number of vehicles in the lot, especially for a beautiful Saturday morning. Far from the exorbitant availability of a Wal-Mart, it still held its weight against a Baker's or Save-A-Lot. Willard's always had a few customers no matter what the time, but today two-thirds of the lot was full.
Inside the building an air of urgency swam down the aisles, infecting each person it came across. Loud voices and barely contained arguments could be heard over the muzak pumped through the store's speakers. Mary tugged one of the last remaining carts loose from its hangar and said a quick prayer of serenity before tackling the masses. She unfurled her list and headed straight to the produce section.
Cut the first paragraph in half. It's all description that's very pretty but not needed. In fact, I'd almost consider cutting it completely. What really matters is getting to the story--why is the store unusually full? I like the writing, but I'm not compelled to read on.
DeleteThanks N~!
DeleteThanks for your comments!
ReplyDeleteYes, the format went all wonky when I copy-pasted. There are active thoughts sprinkled in there. I like the sweat idea.
thanks again!
Hi Nazarea, thank you so much for doing this! Here's my query:
ReplyDeleteSeventeen-year-old Hope grew up living aboard a spaceship, heading to a new home planet. Arrival on CR-3 was supposed to be a new beginning. But no one counted on the Locals.
The survivors of Earth are held captive and contact with the Locals results in only one thing. The Stacks. A mountain of metal cylinders encasing a series of holographic testing rooms. A symbol appears in the middle of the night on the foreheads of the specimens who must go.
Some days Hope’s drowning in the middle of the ocean. Some days they keep them locked up without food. Once, they sent her in naked. Hope’s ex-boyfriend has also been chosen as a specimen. The two of them can ignore one another outside of the Stacks, but inside they’re forced to rely on each other and the wound opens again.
As the Locals study Hope, she studies them. She wants to believe the tall blue creatures are peaceful. She wants it so badly she may be ignoring warnings that could mean the end of the human race.
So I love the premise here. Like LOVE the premise. But it's awkwardly constructed and I had to read it twice to make it make sense. With 150 entries, the coaches won't be reading twice. Try something like:
DeleteHope has lived on a spaceship for 17 years--her whole life spent headed to CR-3, the new home planet. The new beginning for Earth's survivors.
But it's nothing like they expect. Captured by the Locals, they are brought out for one thing: the Stacks, a mountain of metal cylinder that encase a series of holographic testing rooms.
Then, pick up with your query. It's good the rest of the way through. Raise the stakes in the last paragraph--WHY does she want to believe the aliens? What makes her sympathetic to them? Aside from that? It's awesome. Good luck!!! :)
Thank you Nazarea! I appreciate this so much!!!
DeleteThis is my first 250 words:
ReplyDeleteGyms are not built for private apologies. They’re noisy and the acoustics are perfect for eavesdropping. This apology demands privacy. My first day of tenth grade, and I’ve hunted for Danny everywhere so I could get this over with, and P.E is my last period. I’ve got a headache the size of Hawaii.
“Stoney,” Jenna, nudges me in the ribs with her elbow, covering her mouth with her hand. “There she is.” Her eyes are focused on Kylie Smith.
I stare at Kylie’s short skirt and long hair down to her waist that swishes with her every movement and all I can do is pull on the wisp of hair I once considered my bangs, and be reminded that I am the one that attacked it with nail scissors.
I heard this morning that Danny and Kylie are together. I’m glad he took some time to get over me. Must have been rough.
Despite this news, my mission to apologize to Danny has not been side tracked. Even though I have not seen him or spoken to him all summer, somewhere inside, deep where I keep a few other fantasy scenario’s that have to do with Justin Timberlake, is a fantasy that goes something like this: “Danny, I’m so sorry that when you came to visit after the accident all I did was slam the door in your face. Please forgive me.” Danny: “Stoney, I’m crazy about you. I’ve missed you. Do you still want to go out with me?”