Name: April C. Rose
Genre: Young Adult Contemporary
Title: Winter on Brimstone Hill
I roll over to check if the milk is frozen. It is. It’s going to be a bad day.
I pull the sleeping bag over my head. Maybe, just maybe, I’m
hallucinating. If I pretend to fall back asleep and go through the
whole process of waking again, then perhaps there’ll be a fine icy
film over the milk and nothing more. It’s worth a try.
I almost convince myself it’s going to work, but when the sleeping bag
comes down, the day looks pretty bleak. The milk, neatly stacked in
three crates of glass bottles, appears solid.
I could pray that the bottles won’t break as the room warms with
daylight. I could pray, but I won’t. In any case, there’s no use
wasting energy over frozen bottles. If it’s going to get cold, it’s
going to get cold, and all things—milk among them—freeze. There’s a
life lesson for you.
I pull the folded clothes from my nightstand into the warmth of the
sleeping bag. I am the salamander that used to live in the cellar.
Joseph and I used to amuse ourselves by enticing it with earth- or
mealworms. It shot from under the stone long enough to bite down on
the morsel before retreating. The salamander couldn’t guess we
weren’t going to hurt it. It didn’t need to move fast, but I do.
Otherwise, my body heat will escape. The chill will never leave me
then.
At least my bedroom isn’t as damp as our cellar. That’s something.
I also manage to get my underwear on right this time. That’s also
something. You’d think I’d be a pro at dressing within the sleeping
bag’s confines by now, but it’s the price I pay to avoid more “Did you
see Sarah’s wrinkly shirt?” episodes.
My hand gropes for the boy’s aviator frames I call glasses. They
hearken back to Tom Cruise and the 1980’s, but they work. Why someone
would beg her parents to spend twenty dollars extra to buy girl’s
frames when she can have her peers make fun of her for wearing
outdated and gigantic frames is beyond me. I mean, what’s not to love?
The clock reads five a.m. My glasses let me see that.
Only sixteen more hours left in the day. Five hundred eighty-four days
until graduation.
Grace will sleep a while longer, being too young for chores and
school, and it’s another hour before Joseph wakes to tend the
chickens. He’s lucky; throw some scratch down and refresh their water
and they’re fine. I don’t have to be in the kitchen to know my father
sits at the head of the table with a coffee cup in one hand, and Mom
sits to his right with a deck of cards in hers.
I climb from bed to examine the bottles. The wooden floorboards,
painted grey to hide two hundred years, creak under my weight.
The milk sloshes inside the bottles as if it were on the top shelf of
a too-cold refrigerator. Oh, good. It’s not completely solid.
Just to be sure, I check an apple from the box at the foot of my
bed—even better. And the potatoes—nice. Maybe all will be well. I
don’t want to lose our farm’s entire winter store barely into
November. Last year it was almost March before that happened.
Fifteen hours and fifty-eight minutes more.
I turn off the old lamp Mom gifted to me when the storeroom became my
bedroom. They were my sixteenth birthday presents. They aren’t ideal,
but they’re mine. Sort of. If you call going from sharing a bedroom
with a one-year-old to sharing a storeroom with perishables ownership.
In the kitchen, it’s exactly as I anticipated. My parents listen to AM
radio, the steady tick tick tick of the electrical fence interrupting
the radio waves. They listen to the morning show with DJ Dan with
such frequency that he might as well be family. The only other noise
is the burble of the coffee pot on the wood stove and Mom’s cards
flicking onto the table.
I press my feet into my muck boots and shrug into Mom’s oversized wool jacket.
I’m turning the doorknob when my father speaks. “Not going to say
‘morning,’ are you?”
“Good morning,” I say, chastising myself for the slip.
“It doesn’t mean anything now that I had to tell you to say it.”
“I’m sorry.” My voice is soft, little. It’s not my real voice; it
doesn’t belong to me. He inspires this voice; it belongs to him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he says.
“To milk the goats.”
“How many times have I told you not to mumble?”
Mom stops dealing the cards to the piles on the table.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was going to milk the goats.” I put more force
behind my words, but they still come out tight.
“Look at me when you speak to me.”
My eyes dart up to meet his. I don’t want to stare into the green we
share, but I have to. I can pretend I’m stronger than he is. This
time, my words carry. “I was going to milk the goats.”
He turns back to his coffee, Mom’s cards flick onto the table, and I
escape to the barn.
Fifteen hours and fifty-three minutes.
Chapter Two
“Dodge,” I call. The saanen frisks her way through the pen and greets
me with a nuzzle.
I bat her through the doorway and laugh. “I know what you want, you old nanny.”
Instead of going to the milking stanchion like the others do when it’s
their turn, she persists.
One Easter, that’s all it took. Unbelievable.
Her nose presses against my pocket, knocking me against the wall.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I say. “Patience is a virtue.”
Patience lifts her head from her grain.
“Not you, silly.”
As soon as I unwrap the egg and Dodge satisfies her addiction to cheap
chocolate, she jumps on the stanchion like the good little goat she
is. Good thing Wal-mart puts the darn things on sale after Easter each
year; otherwise, I’d go broke, or Dodge would run dry.
That’s too dramatic. Actually, what happens is this: she puts up such
a stubborn fight I end up missing my bus.
My head rests against her belly, soaking in her soft warmth. She may
be annoying, but she’s always happy to see me. I guess I’d be too, if
someone came bearing chocolate and relief.
I work the bag balm into Dodge’s swollen teats, at the same time
liberally applying it to my own hands. It doesn’t matter. My hands
chap and my knuckles splinter by the time I finish milking.
My parents aren’t in the kitchen when I set the bucket of milk on the
stovetop and turn on the gas. I light a match and hold it to the
burner until the flame spits. Then I toss the expired match into the
sink. It wouldn’t do to start a fire. At the match’s sizzle, I
stopper the sink.
The heat from the woodstove behind me entices me, summons me, but I
ignore it to skim the hair and dirt from the milk. The milk’s
temperature rises. Burned hair and animal stink fill the air, and I
fight down my gag reflex. That’s how I know the milk is nearly done.
First Five Pages Writing Workshop: Jump Start Your Novel and Career
Again, really nice writing. Not sure if the "You’d think I’d be a pro at dressing within the sleeping
ReplyDeletebag’s confines by now, but it’s the price I pay to avoid more “Did you
see Sarah’s wrinkly shirt?” episodes." works. Maybe if she had to face the cold despite wishing she could change in the bag? That might make more sense. IDK. Just a thought.
I like that you've streamlined it a bit and I think you could even do a tiny bit more. I like the goat scene. I wondered about her spending money on the eggs even though you mentioned they were on sale. :D
A couple questions:
Delete1.) You say you think I can streamline it more. Is there a particular area you're thinking of?
2.) When she spends money on the eggs, does she come off as careless or compassionate (or something else) to you? I know what I want her to be, but I don't know if that matches how people read her, you know?
I'm so, so sorry that I didn't see this! My apologies. 1. It's at the point where I'd just go through and read each sentence and make sure it's there for a purpose. That's all I meant. You might be showing the reader the same thing in different ways in a spot or two. You may not though, so you have to decide.
Delete2. It is sweet that she spends money on the eggs, but it also makes me feel like maybe they aren't that bad off as I originally thought. Where's her spending money coming from anyway? I read her situation as pretty dire money wise so it surprises me.
Hope that helps!
Thanks! :)
DeleteHello, April! It was a pleasure to read your sample.
ReplyDeleteMy first thought as I read was that you're hiding the ball from me a bit. I learned a variety of interesting things about this character, and her life, and yet I could not say for certain what world I am in (feels mildly dystopian), or her circumstances (poor? abused?), or what this story is going to be about (inciting moment).
Now, because this is in present tense, we don't have the benefit of summary statements to help indicate some of this information. However, if our character is this worried about certain aspects of her life, I wonder if she might give more specific voice to them? We need to feel the driving force of the story, even if the inciting moment doesn't happen on the very first page. That said, with YA these days, the inciting moments happen extremely close to the opening of the book, if not in the very opening scene. In the contemporary genre, I'd say you have a little more leeway to establish your character before hitting the inciting moment, but if you reference other contemporaries (like Looking for Alaska, or OCD Love Story, or This Song Will Save Your Life), these stories launch into the game-changing moment for the character in the very first scene.
I would challenge you to list the plot points in your scenes, and determine if you are opening in the correct spot. I like to list action, emotion, and mystery plot points separately, with the intention of having 1-3 plot points in every scene, so that every scene is carrying it's weight. Your opening scene is lovely, and interesting, and has lots of special moments, but what happens within it that changes your character's life, or starts her story?
At a writing level, I'd recommend reading aloud. You have a knack for unique imagery but some of the phrasing is a tad awkward. Again, I wouldn't fuss with this until the scenes are right. You want to pair that unique style with a cracking opening scene that makes an agent beg for more pages!
Best of luck!
Melanie Conklin
Hi April,
ReplyDeleteThis revision is tighter than the original. Your imagery is good and I can tell you have a strong grip on your character and her world. However, I get this sense that you are holding something back--there's a layer you aren't showing about this girl beyond facts such as her name, the name of her town, street, school, etc. I feel like there's a tension here because maybe we don't have a key "plot point" or "want" yet, and that the build of the story is compromised because this girl won't tell us why she's afraid of Dad, why she's counting down the days to the end of high school, or why she's in charge of the milk... Which brings me to what I see as the most important question for making these opening pages irresistible to an agent: Is MILK important to the story? Because, from frozen milk, to milking, to skimming milk, we get a lot of this detail and, while it's clear you know your goat milking facts and it's atmospheric, I think it may be at the sacrifice of building the core plot. If milk isn't something on which the story turns, then this may be some great material but not your most captivating first page. Writing-wise, I'd suggest making a list of 5-10 opening sentences (or paragraphs--whatever feels better to you) that do not involve the milk. Think about what this girl wants in her life besides getting through her chores. What is she worried about? Hungry for (metaphorically)? Maybe even seek inspiration from classic "great" opening lines, such as: It was a pleasure to burn. - Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 (1953); It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. - George Orwell, 1984 (1949); Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board. - Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937); There is one mirror in my house. It is behind a sliding panel in the hallway upstairs. - Veronica Roth, Divergent (2012); I believe in ghosts. They're the ones who haunt us, the ones who have left us behind. - Christina Baker Klein, Orphan Train (2013). Feel the weight/importance of what these opening images and ideas tell us about the rest of the novel. Make sure your first lines do this and any tightening required of the rest of the first five will probably feel easier. Good luck and happy writing!
-Stasia
Hi Stasia (by the way, I love your name),
DeleteI'm not sure to what extent I should respond, especially since I'm a great proponent of the glass house style of critiquing. I don't want to defend my novel. I'm also open to changing things. So with that reservation on the table, I guess I'll respond.
1.) I aim for my novel to be literary--not literary like Faulkner or Joyce--but literary nonetheless, and real. Above all else, I want it to be real. Except for my 2yo who insists in calling me "Mommy" every other sentence, people don't call me by my name unless they need my attention and I'm not immediately paying attention to them. I don't think of my name unless I introduce myself or I need to write it on paper. I believe this is similar to other people, so it would be the case for Sarah. I don't recall the town I live in or the state, and I don't notice the color of my walls unless I specifically focus on them. Why would Sarah? Of course, everyone is correct in that I must define these things for my readers, but because I must do it through Sarah's eyes and because I choose to write in present tense, I need to do it in a way that fits with what she sees. That's the type of reality I mean when I say I want it to be real.
2.) I truly try to take a minimalist approach to writing (and maybe that's literary too, I don't know), so I want every single word I write to count, to mean something. It's important that the milk is frozen. Not only is it going to be a bad day, but it's going to be a bad winter. "All things--milk among them--freeze" foreshadows what will come. Her father plays a large role. I want the farm and the cold to be characters in their own rights. The line I added, "but she’s always happy to see me. I guess I’d be too, if someone came bearing chocolate and relief," was designed to show what's coming and what Sarah wants. Of course, I don't expect people to see this the first time they read it. There are many books that, upon rereading, I see the little pieces that the author set up that I overlooked the first time. I want them to be subtle and invisible, but I want them to be there, too.
3.) I can definitely tone down the references to milk, if you think that would be appropriate. I tried to curtail the historical feel and give evidence that this, while bizarre, isn't quite historical, but I want that feel because it's going to make Sarah awkward when she's around her peers. There's an electrical fence. They listen to a DJ on the radio. Her glasses are 1980's old, so we at least know it's after the 1980's. I'll try to do a better job at that. I guess what I mean is, I haven't discovered how to ground the reader in Sarah's world at the same time showing the reader the one that Sarah doesn't feel she's a part of--the one the reader belongs to. I guess it's coming across as this weird dystopian(ish) world. I definitely need to work on that; my problem is avoiding the info-dumps. I'll try opening my novel later in, but I'm afraid it will lose it's tone and feel, and thus confuse the readers more. Maybe I underestimate them. ;)
Delete4.) The more I participate in this workshop and the more I read of contemporary fiction, I begin to feel that maybe I shouldn't label this as YA. One of my critique partners swears up and down that I should write adult fiction instead. He says my writing is too literary for teens. I balk at measuring the literary-ness of what teens can and cannot understand. It's a coming of age story, but maybe that's not enough?
I think I'm breaking the workshop rules, because it says specifically not to included a synopsis, but I'll remove this comment if I'm asked to. I also want to have an open dialogue, so as to get the best possible feedback (and make sure I fully understand the feedback). So I've created this (very) rough "elevator speech":
Sarah lives on a farm when farm-life is quickly diminishing around her and her impoverished family. She's different from her peers and everyone knows it. She resigns herself to remaining distant from them. Then she meets the belligerent foster girl Bonnie. Bonnie leads Sarah to believe they share an abusive past--something Sarah works hard to keep secret and something Bonnie lies freely about. Both girls want to be loved, but the lie might break their friendship apart.
Okay. Time to begin working (on my novel later, and my "real" job now). :)
I would like to specifically address your bullet point number 4 above, regarding Literary Fiction and YA. I write literary MG, as well as YA. YA is a category that includes both commercial and literary fiction, so I would not let yourself fall into the trap of thinking that because you write a literary style, your story cannot be categorized as YA. The hallmarks of YA fiction can be found in both literary and commercial works.
ReplyDeleteWhat is really at question here is where your STORY belongs in both category and genre. From this selection, I would categorize your story as YA, because it offers a teen protagonist dealing with teen themed issues of parental conflict and world dissociation, and the prose offers an insight into this teen's perspective on her world. All of those factors are solidly YA.
Whether or not you shift to writing adult literary fiction is up to you, but in either case, you will still need to tell a story. Even the best adult literary fiction tells a story, with active plot points in each scene. I'd recommend reading the openings of several other literary works in both YA and adult fiction. Analyze these openings beyond the words--what carrot does the author dangle? What tidbit of story do they reveal to keep a reader turning pages? Even literary works must offer the reader enticement beyond the beauty of their words.
Thank you for your comments, especially those regarding literary fiction in YA. I think too many people fall into the trap that YA is "dumbed down." Ick.
DeleteOn your last note: You say to analyze the opening lines beyond the words to check for what the author promises. Do you feel that my first lines (recall: "I roll over to check if the milk is frozen. It is. It’s going to be a bad day.") don't/do offer any tidbit of information? Are these sentences enough for the reader to say, "Hold on...why is someone 1.) sleeping next to milk, 2.) worried it's frozen, and 3.) know the frozen milk portends something bad?"
I can say what I want my first lines to mean (she's got an unusual life, she worries about things beyond herself--even though in the next few paragraphs I hope to show she knows she shouldn't be, she's poor, she's 'godless') but I am more interested in knowing how they are interpreted by others.
I think of the examples Stasia cited above are brilliant, because they do exactly what you said--offer something more. And I'm not lying when I say I have already done that, both with classic works and contemporary works. I tried to make my opening do that too. If it doesn't, I definitely want to know. Every word must count. :)
When I say, "opening," I mean the opening scene. I think there's flexibility in opening lines. Ideally, your opening line should say something thematically about your entire book, or establish the world, but not all do that. I try not to obsess over opening lines, but the opening SCENE should grab the reader.
DeleteWhen I first read this sample, I was okay with the opening lines. They didn't wow me, but they didn't make me want to stop reading. I read on, hoping to catch a spark of interest. I saw some lovely phrasing and images, but I did not feel the spark of a story catching. I didn't gather anything form the scene that made me say: I want to know what this story is about!
That's why I suggested that you look at what plot points you are sharing with the reader. Yes, there are conclusions that can be drawn about the text, but we don't learn something BIG or SURPRISING, and those are generally the kind of elements that hook a reader. Not something dramatic, but something that is important and that we clearly recognize as the beginning of a story. Something that you share with us that makes it imperative for us to read on.
Hi again, April. I found your comments very interesting. One caveat I might add to my above feedback it that the MOST IMPORTANT THING in the writing process is for you to own the novel. Not me. Not your critique group. And one of the tricky parts of that is knowing when (in your own heart) it is right to work on a certain part of the ms and when you should just be creating more and leaving the draft in its own form. Since I'm not certain where you're at in terms of completion (which draft you're on; whether you have a clear sense of how the story ends), some of the feedback you receive here may be stuff to just kind of let simmer in the back of your mind until more of the puzzle is in place. For my own part, I don't use a critique group because I tend to feel very fragile while I'm drafting. Instead I have a few trusted beta readers to whom I chuck the whole ms when I can muster my courage. So, it's fine if you feel like these first pages are where they need to be right now. I still feel it'd be a very useful exercise for you to write a 1-3 sentence summary (elevator pitch) of the story to help you clarify the direction you're writing in for yourself. I'd be happy to read it for fun (not feedback) if you like. Also w/r/t YA versus adult, I honestly think it's not that important for you to pigeon-hole your ms. Write the best story you can in the strongest voice you can. You can always switch up your agent-submission list and query letter at the last minute if you feel clearer on the best reading audience for the story.
ReplyDeleteI'm afraid I came off more defensively than I intended. I'm really sorry about that. I truly didn't mean it.
DeleteI was at a writers' conference last June where much of the week was spent in workshop with a small group of writers. We were critiquing each of our manuscripts, which we read the month before the workshop. (This was for my first novel.) I referred to my beta readers a few times. Eventually our mentor said, "I hate beta readers!" He cited a similar thing--take what you want, but leave the rest; writing is for you first.
I agree with this, but I'm so consumed with my writing being misunderstood, that I want as much feedback as I can get. Sometimes I wish I can just pop into someone's head while they read my work so I can feel what works and what doesn't for them. I know. I know. This goes against everything art, but I'm a mathematician so old habits...
That being said, I also understand how hard it is to let people read my work, too. Let me correct myself--let people I know read my work. Many people have read my first novel, but none of them are family. Not my husband, my mom, or my close friends. Even my beta readers (one of whom haunted this site earlier today) were people who I didn't know well at first, teenagers to whom I had only been acquainted for a few months for the most part.
I'm about half-way through my first draft, but I have a very good idea in which direction my novel is headed. About two weeks ago, I wrote a rough "elevator pitch," albeit longer than 3 sentences because I have an agent who is potentially interested in my other novel but also wanted to learn more about this one. I posted the pitch above (4 comments above this one) although I'm not sure if that's breaking the rules of the workshop.
I want to take a moment, though, to thank you and everyone else for your honest and thorough feedback. I truly appreciate the time you invest in my novel (and thus me). Even though this is internet-land, I still feel you (and the others) should understand that it means a lot to me that you help me out. So thank you.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteHi April,
ReplyDeleteI like what you’ve done with this revision. I didn’t see much wrong with it before, but this is really strong. Great job!
Graduation from Middle school? Only sixteen more hours left in the day. Five hundred eighty-four days until graduation.
This is much better, but I’m still not sure if she’s in a bedroom. Are all the rooms this cold? The whole house? I think you can take this a little further and really give me a good vision of this house and where she sleeps. BTW, I get why the milk being frozen means it will be a bad day and like that you’ve added in that it’s not today. Maybe it won’t be such a bad day after all. But now we see she has fruits and vegetables at the foot of her bed. Where does she sleep?
I climb from bed to examine the bottles. The wooden floorboards,
painted grey to hide two hundred years, creak under my weight.
The milk sloshes inside the bottles as if it were on the top shelf of
a too-cold refrigerator. Oh, good. It’s not completely solid.
Just to be sure, I check an apple from the box at the foot of my
bed—even better. And the potatoes—nice. Maybe all will be well. I
don’t want to lose our farm’s entire winter store barely into
November. Last year it was almost March before that happened.
This last part really intrigues me and I want to know more. Can you build on it just a bit? They’re farmers. They make their living off the food they produce. If it freezes, not only do they lose food for themselves, they can’t sell it and make money. Most MG’s won’t know this. I know you list it as YA, but it feels MG to me. Show us what this means to her, so that we can have even more empathy for her situation.
Okay here we’re told she sleeps in the storeroom. Is there a way to get this in sooner? Maybe above when she first notices the fruit? We also find out she’s 16. I think it’s the things she cares about and how she expresses her worry that made me think she was closer to twelve or thirteen. Is she in the storeroom by choice? The way it’s worded it seems as if it was a gift for her B-day. Why would she choose to sleep in a cold storeroom instead of the house where it must be warmer? Even if she had to sleep on the couch on cold nights, seems a smart girl would make that choice. And I’d have slept with the one year old any day to stay warm. I need to understand this to buy into it.
Electrical fence? Why is there an electrical fence? This makes me think sci-fi, unless it’s to keep livestock in. If so I think it needs to be clarified. In the kitchen, it’s exactly as I anticipated. My parents listen to AM radio, the steady tick tick tick of the electrical fence interrupting
the radio waves.
The what? The saanen? I had to Google it. Is this what you want kids to do to understand? “Dodge,” I call. The saanen frisks her way through the pen and greets
me with a nuzzle.
Cute! This is all adorable and so much more fun than the previous draft. I love it. Although, I did have to look back at what time of year it is. It’s November. So she buys them after Easter and still has some in November? How many did she buy? She’s poor right?
I bat her through the doorway and laugh. “I know what you want, you old nanny.”
Instead of going to the milking stanchion like the others do when it’s
their turn, she persists.
One Easter, that’s all it took. Unbelievable.
Her nose presses against my pocket, knocking me against the wall.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I say. “Patience is a virtue.”
Patience lifts her head from her grain.
“Not you, silly.”
As soon as I unwrap the egg and Dodge satisfies her addiction to cheap
chocolate, she jumps on the stanchion like the good little goat she
is. Good thing Wal-mart puts the darn things on sale after Easter each
year; otherwise, I’d go broke, or Dodge would run dry.
That’s too dramatic. Actually, what happens is this: she puts up such
a stubborn fight I end up missing my bus.
Continued...
Okay, wait. So this didn’t really happen? Um, I feel let down. Why can’t it happen that way? Does it need to be a downer all the time, just because she’s depressed or unhappy with her situation? I don’t think so. She will be more three dimensional if we see that she can laugh and have some fun, even if it’s just with the stupid goats. Could this be the only time she’s happy? She hates the job, but they make her laugh and in their way show her love? That’s more than she gets from her parents? Maybe she sees them as her only friends and how pathetic is that. Another place for some light humor. Just some thoughts. Hope they help.
ReplyDeleteApril, I love this. You've done a great job fixing the pacing problems and keeping us invested in your story--and you haven't sacrificed any of her awesome, strong voice. Nice job.
ReplyDeleteI have to echo Tina above, re: "But that didn't happen." That felt cheap to me--why even bother if it didn't happen? What would be so bad about it actually happening? It gives us this great moment between the MC and her goat. It gives us some glimmer of hope. People tend to find little moments of happiness in even the most desperate situations--it's human nature. Just because you want it to be real and literary doesn't mean you need to have every single moment be so bleak.
I'm still not sure what your MC wants, or what the story is going to be about (I know you explained it up above, but I'm going off what's here on the page). Deep down, what does she want more than anything? Right now, all I'm getting in...milk. Which is cool, if your story is about milk, but I don't think it is. How can you show us right in these first few pages what your main struggle is going to be?
And one more comment that's been floating around my brain since last week -- is there a better way to start this? I think the whole "waking up" thing is so overdone it counts against you, and you want to start off on the strongest possible foot. :)
Hmm...I'm confused. What "But that didn't happen" are you both speaking of? I went back and reread what I wrote and the only part that I see like this is:
Delete"...otherwise, I’d go broke, or Dodge would run dry.
"That’s too dramatic. Actually, what happens is this: she puts up such
a stubborn fight I end up missing my bus."
Is this what you're talking about?
Yes! That's exactly it.
DeleteApril, I think just changing it to 'What would actually happen is this' so the reader knows that that's what WOULD happen if she didn't bring chocolate. Not what actually happens this particular morning. I think that's the mistake, they're reading it as if that whole chocolate scene didn't actually happen.
DeleteAh! Thanks! Maybe I'll say something like, "What has happened is this." :) Thanks!
DeleteHi again, April!
ReplyDeleteSo this is still great, an interesting peek at a girl living a life most of us don't know much about. It is a pretty vague opening in terms of setting and genre and time period, and reading the comments I see I'm not the only one who thinks so. But I don't find that to be very distracting, I'm willing to wait to get a bigger picture. Though I think you could work in a few details without compromising the authenticity of the voice. Some kind of mention about how her peers at school with their fancy ipads and smart phones make fun of her for not even having the right kind of glasses, or when she's thinking about the fate of the winter stores last year you could throw in some mention of Iowa (or wherever she is) winters not being very forgiving. Tiny little ways to ground the reader without giving them buckets of backstory or compromising the voice.
The kitchen scene with her parents is still excellent. :) The new part with the goat makes for a nice break in the gloom, though it leaves me with questions. The chocolate detail took me out of the scene instantly to think about logistics. This is a family poor enough that one of their children has to sleep in a room designed specifically to store perishable foods, so a room designed to be cold. Their poverty is one thing you make clear in a few ways. But here it is six months after easter and she's still got enough chocolate to treat her goat to an egg a day. It seems like a strange luxury for a girl that poor to get for just one of her family's many animals.
I'd keep reading to find out if it's an important aspect of her character to do things like that. Hopefully it is.
You're writing literary and writing the voice of a teenage girl, and there are moments for me where the former interferes with the latter. The paragraph about the salamander, for one. And phrasing here and there. 'Actually, what happens is this: she puts up such a stubborn fight I end up missing my bus.' The 'what happens is this' is one of those turns of phrase I wouldn't expect to come from the thoughts of a young girl describing her day.
All in all, though, it's still a really nice piece of writing. :)
It’s, as before, lovely writing. So many great moments. Confident. Minimum/subtle. Smart. The details are there. Being worked in fine. No need to explain any more…. You’re doing great. Her voice is consistent and unique and believable. I "get" her.
ReplyDeleteQuick tweaks if you want: A lot of paragraphs start with “I” and are easily fixed. Example: Maybe, just maybe, I’m hallucinating. If I pretend to fall back asleep and go through the whole process of waking again, then perhaps there’ll be a fine icy film over the milk and nothing more. I pull the sleeping bag over my head. It’s worth a try.
I might pull back 20% on the woe,-is-me social issues. What's the best references to being a bit of a misfit? She brings it up straight on the nose a couple times... and she's so darn subtle everywhere else.
Aviators? I think sunglasses. Tom Cruise. I think sun glasses. Are they? I don’t think so. When IS this set? Would a 2014 lass think this way? Maybe… Big boy’s glasses from the 80s.
I just deleted two paragraphs about trying to work in Bonnie sooner/earlier – to get to the novel’s main issue. Start with the moment Bonnie appears in her life… and get to all this after. But… maybe it’s just not that kind of book. The voice is strong enough to carry a couple chapters without some major crises. Is EVERY agent/editor gonna fall over… No. But the RIGHT one(s) will with this one. They’ll have the patience. So, I’m gonna be quiet.
Or…. Hmmm. Five minutes later now. Maybe I won’t be quiet. Would you be willing to share the first scene with Bonnie? WHY does the story start with frozen milk? It’s a symbol, sure. But this character is sharing the most important story of her young life thus far… Maybe this isn’t the scene to start. I have no doubt he first meeting with this other girl is equally beautifully written and interesting (likely MORE interesting) and that her voice carries through. She can milk cows the next morning and think about this new girl…. I don’t know. Worth toying with. Just seems if she’s telling us this story, she’d start with the start of the story: I meet her… the rest easily coming later. If you’d be willing to share. If happy with the slow build, as is, go for it.
“the steady tick tick tick of the electrical fence interrupting the radio waves” – so great! Maybe interrupting the morning news??? I don’t know. I know exactly the sound… but it’d be interrupting some show. Another opp to build her family’s character.
Look, I’ve been staring at this for another 30+ minutes trying to find something "wrong." Silly. All I want is to see MORE… it IS what it is. At this point, I’d look for any sentences/moments that are repetitive (doing the same building job) but it’s pretty darn polished as is… Since it's just the partial to send out... is EVERY word the EXACT word you want to use? Be that precise. (I think you kinda are already doing that...but double check for Round #2)
Should I post it here?
DeleteYour call. IF you're willing to share... I'm imagining a best case where you put up that first Bonnie scene and all of us go: YES! This is equally amazing writing AND a powerful start! (Worse case, we selfishly get to to see more of your work!)
DeleteIf that's "breaking workshop rules" somehow or you don't want to share with the world: I'd happily take a look at at email@geoffreygirard.com and I'm bettin' some of the others would like a peek too.
I have no clue if it breaks workshop rules, but I can always delete it, if necessary. Here's where we meet Bonnie. It's shortly after Sarah gets wet when the water displaces in the sink. Just a note from my overly-self-conscious self: I haven't really spent much time on this scene. It's not much different from my first draft, and I'm seriously contemplating nixing Sarah's journaling.
DeleteI almost miss my bus. Thank the stars, I don’t.
After going to my bedroom and waiting for the sound of the door, I barely had enough time to bottle the milk and date it. There certainly wasn’t enough time to change my clothes. It’s a good thing I packed my backpack last night, because I was carrying the last of the bottles to my room when the bus screeched to a stop four houses up.
Sinking into the first empty seat, I throw my bag onto the floor. My cheek stings, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s from imagined pain or not. Most times, the memory sticks around long after the blow.
I shiver. At least I can be grateful for the bus ride. The bus isn’t warm, but it’s warm enough. It’ll give me time to dry before the others see me. Big thanks for small wonders.
I retrieve my journal from my backpack and stretch my shirt over my knees to dry. It’s awkward, but it’ll work. I turn to the first blank page.
She removed the rag from the urn, I write. Heavy droplets of goat’s blood fell to the earthen floor. She waved it thrice above her head, blood spiraling outward, and cried out high and throaty, ‘I raise this rag in the devil’s name.’ She brought it down against the encryption with a wet smack.
No one says ‘urn’ anymore, but I can’t think of a different word. I’m trying to figure out if someone can speak at once both high and throaty when someone sits beside me.
My first instinct is to glance outside. I didn’t think we traveled far enough to reach Madison’s house. I’m right.
My second instinct is to check for empty seats. There they are, plenty of them.
Finally, I manage to look at the seat’s new occupant.
“Fu-uuuck,” the freckled face says. “Sorry, but you smell. Really, you fucking stink.”
I blink. I mean, I’m used to others talking about me behind my back—that’s the way things are—but no one’s ever so direct. If you’re going to talk about me, at least have the grace to do it out behind my back.
“Seriously, girl. You fucking smell, like—I don’t know—like pavement and animals or something.”
My eau de chévre cologne. Thanks for the reminder. It’s not like I can spend time around goats without picking up their distinctive odor. But the girl notices the bag balm’s scent, and that is surprising.
“You smell like cigarettes,” I say. It should be a reproach, but it sounds like a question. This is why I shouldn’t talk to people.
The girl laughs a raucous, grating laughter. “Fuck, yeah, I do.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Bonnie.”
I stare at it. Surely she doesn’t mean to shake hands.
Bonnie laughs again. “Damn, girl. I’m not going to bite. I’m Bonnie,” she repeats, as if that explains everything. She thrusts her hand into mine, and squeezes. Her handshake matches her personality.
“Hi, Bonnie.”
“And you are?”
“Umm, Sarah.”
“Well, Um Sarah, nice to fucking meet you.”
She doesn’t let go of my hand. I can’t tell if I should pull away or let her continue to cut off my circulation. Seriously, who shakes hands?
Bonnie doesn’t notice my silence. She doesn’t let go, either. Instead, she jerks me towards her and leans in. “What the fuck happened to your face? Don’t tell me your old man knocks you around.”
This is enough. I recover my hand. “Umm, no,” I say.
“Hey, no shame in it. My old man beat the shit out of me. That’s why I’m here in Ware Massa-fucking-chusetts. Damned state placed me in foster care.”
Eying the bus driver, I say, “Could you maybe stop that?”
“Stop what?”
“The swearing? I don’t want to get in trouble.” Lynn’s the type of bus driver who doesn’t put up with anything. I’d die if she kicked me off.
Bonnie follows my eyes to the front of the bus where Lynn watches us through the rearview mirror. Bonnie laughs and sinks deeper into the bucket seat. “I getcha. I getcha,” she says. This time, her words are quieter. “No need to start trouble, yet.”
DeleteYet.
Bonnie doesn’t carry a school bag, and she certainly doesn’t look like she’s gearing up for education. She only has a small multi-colored crocheted purse with a long shoulder strap. When Bonnie takes out wine-colored lipstick, I glimpse a smooshed pack of cigarettes. She thrusts her hand into her purse and returns with a similarly colored eyeliner.
I don’t bother to hide my amazement as Bonnie applies the deep red around her eyes. With the new color, her already pale skin becomes paler.
“That’s better,” she says. She raises her eyebrows and smiles at me. “What do you think?”
My parents would kill me if I ever thought of wearing make-up.
Bonnie mustn’t expect an answer because she doesn’t wait for one. She offers me the eyeliner and says, “Here.”
I cringe, which only makes Bonnie laugh again.
“All right, all right. It’s probably too bold for you anyway.” She eyes me up and down. “So I already know the town sucks, but what can you tell me about the school?”
I shrug. There’s not much to tell about Ware High. It’s small and unspectacular, but that’s every school. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
Small talk has never been my strong suit. After the initial introductions and comments on the weather, I run out of things to say. My mind races for something to keep the conversation going, but something tells me Bonnie wouldn’t appreciate talking about how cold it is. I search for something in common. “Do you play an instrument?”
“Nope.”
“Sing?”
“Only in the shower.”
The problem is I don’t know what other people my age do. “Read?”
The corners of her lips tighten, and she shakes her head.
The bus stops at Madison’s house. She lives in one of the new McMansions that used to be a hay field. They have a five-car garage. A five-car garage. It’s unbelievable.
Madison only has enough credits to be a sophomore, even though she should be a junior. She was nicer before her parents told her she has to pass all her classes with C’s before she can get her license.
I mean, I get it. It’s got to suck being in the same grade as your little brother, having to ride the bus with him when you should be driving and all that.
I bet one of the ports in the garage is for the car she’s not allowed to drive.
As soon as Madison sits, the bus rolls into motion.
“Sit down,” Lynn says.
I look away from Madison’s house to catch Bonnie take the seat beside Madison. She flips Lynn off in the process. Madison laughs. It’s probably a good thing for Bonnie that Lynn doesn’t see her do it; Bonnie would be out of a ride home by the time school’s out for the day.
It would serve her right, too. I’d never get caught flipping off anyone. Ever.
Madison and Bonnie are already in conversation. From the way Madison laughs, they’re past the small talk stage and already more comfortable around each other than Bonnie and I were after our conversation.
I reopen my journal and read. She brought it down against the encryption with a wet smack. I cross out ‘encryption’ and write ‘inscription’ in its place. Then I cross out the entire sentence and write, “Your writing sucks,” in big letters.