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Sat Aug 04, 2012 6:58 pm
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Twit says...



7.5/10

I like that we get such an immediate sense of character straight away. The narrator's joy and the description of the ocean through their POV give a very personalised feel to the prose, which is very good. But I don't know--even though this is ticking all the boxes, I don't feel that inclined to read on. This could be just me and my mood at the minute, though. I was really liking it until you mentioned the boat because until then it was a relationship between a person and the sea, and that was something more unique than a guy in a boat liking the sea. I don't know, I'm confused. :/


The letter was propped up against the teapot and morning muffins. I pulled out my chair and sat down, reaching for the cup of tea Effie had already poured for me. ‘Who delivered that, Effie?’

‘I don’t know sir. It was on the mat when I came down.’

‘No seal?’

‘No sir.’

My address was written on the front in neat black letters, and there was a tiny ink spot in one corner. It looked boring.
"TV makes sense. It has logic, structure, rules, and likeable leading men. In life, we have this."


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Thu Dec 11, 2014 7:31 pm
Rosendorn says...



I'm going to revive this thread because I need it and it was my favourite.

I'm actually going to go 8/10 because this is weird but treated very mundane, leading to a disconnect in a strange letter and the character's completely nonpulsed reaction to it that makes me want to keep reading.

--

This wasn’t how a Promised life was supposed to begin. Not with Magic resurfacing, its curse landing on her shoulder.
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo

Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
  





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Tue Dec 23, 2014 12:35 am
LittleFox says...



It's very small, but it piques my interest a little. That fact that 'Promised' is capitalized makes it sound mysterious so the reader wants to read on.

~

The small blade fell from Rahim's hand with a clatter, though he barely noticed the sound. Adonia stood hunched in front of him, her long dark hair falling over her shoulders like waterfalls. Rahim's eyes moved down her body to where her hand clutched at the wound in her side, blood staining her fingers. She faltered and Rahim tried to to catch her, but she caught her balance in time to push him away with a sharp breath. "Adonia, I'm sorry," he choked on his words as she lifted her face to meet his gaze, her jade eyes boring into him and twisting his stomach into a knot.
"What's 'taters, Precious?"
  





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Tue Jan 20, 2015 5:23 am
Apricity says...



6.4/10

There is a certain amount of suspense in the paragraph, though nothing too impressive about it. A lot of the descriptions in there are cliches, note water fall and stomach into a knot. The dialogue tagging is slightly obtrusive, not overtly so but it could be shortened to bring more emphasis onto the spoke words itself.

I often dreamed about Mei Mei.

Every night in fact, in these dreams, we're always replicated into the childhood versions of ourselves running and playing down the streets we used to run. I wasn't the architect of these dreams, I was merely the dreamer she was the one who created it all.

Did I have a choice? No, I didn't. I already owe her her life, I had no say in what she choose to do in dreams.
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'And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.' ― Friedrich Nietzsche

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Sat Jan 31, 2015 10:07 pm
LittleFox says...



7/10
I like it the overall feeling of it. It seems to set a good tone for a story I would be interested in. However, I feel like some editing could be done to make run smoother and give a little more spark.

~
With a tired sigh, she lit her pipe and gazed out onto the gray waters. Shura's journey had nearly cost her her life, and for what gain? The little boat drifted on, carried by the swelling of the sea. The little demon who was Shura's only companion sat next to her, quietly whispering to itself. What a strange being, she thought to herself as she regarded it distantly.
"What's 'taters, Precious?"
  





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Tue Apr 12, 2016 2:48 am
Vervain says...



5/10. I feel like we're starting in the middle of a story, and not in the attention-grabbing way but in the "what?" way. It leaves me lost and unsure how to process what's going on, considering we have no clue who Shura is, what her world is like, who the little demon is, or what Shura's journey has been like and how it's changed her as a person. Generally, it feels unfinished in the opposite direction than things are usually unfinished; it needs a beginning.

- - -

Every four minutes, another person was registered as an Undesirable. For something as small as a birthmark, they could be added to a list pending genetic evaluation and exclusion, and in the worst of cases, sterilization. This reorganization of their social status happened behind closed doors, without their consent, a broadcast by medical officials to the world at large. Many in New Amsterdam went to sleep on a normal day and woke up with an invalid ID card and a new one coming in the mail, their new status stamped all over it in bold black letters.

Every three months or so, one of my father’s colleagues hosted a dinner to bring attention to the growing Undesirable epidemic.
stay off the faerie paths
  





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Sat Apr 23, 2016 7:28 pm
Rosendorn says...



Hmm... 7.5/10, thereabouts, because I'm most certainly intrigued but it also feels very dark and there isn't a character to latch onto yet, and a character would need to have a solidly developed voice in the next paragraph or two.

- - -

People call me Jasmine Ghost. I wish they’d be a little more imaginative about it, considering how it sounds like the most boring action adventure novel ever. It’s not like I’m particularly unique in talking to them, either. Of course, not everyone who could speak to ghosts kept them exclusively as pets.
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo

Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
  





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Sat Jul 09, 2016 6:28 pm
Vervain says...



Probably about a 6/10 or a 7/10 -- it's strong, but I don't think it's strong enough. Combine the first line being a "My name is" situation with the wording being vague (it's not clear that Jasmine is talking about ghosts in line three) and line four feeling redundant to an extent, and I think it could use a bit of elbow grease.

I kind of feel like "exclusively" in line 4 either needs to be expanded upon or needs to be cut, because as it is, I don't know why it's important that Jasmine "exclusively" keeps ghosts as pets, and the meaning is ambiguous. Does it mean all the ghosts she speaks to are her pets, or all of her pets are ghosts?

- - -

Rose didn't want to go inside. She didn't want to lift her head off of her steering wheel. She didn't want to see the time on the LCD monitor that he had insisted on getting installed in her car, and she definitely didn't want to get out. Getting out would mean she had to go upstairs, and the only thing waiting for her upstairs was another pile of crap after a long day at work had her buried in the stuff.
stay off the faerie paths
  





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Sun Jul 10, 2016 12:13 am
Wolfi says...



7.5/10

The first two sentences are great because they're to the point and easy to grasp. But the end of the third sentence made things out of order. Let me explain.

Here's the order that you wrote in: she doesn't want to (1) go inside (2) lift her head off of the steering wheel (3) look at the time (4) get out (5) go upstairs. Chronologically, it would make more sense for (1) to be mentioned either not at all or between (4) and (5). Either way, beginning your novel with the second sentence would be best.

The last sentence is a bit too wordy for my taste. In any case, the material is great and most readers will already be able to relate to the MC because she's trapped in the comfort of her car and doesn't want to do work.

- - -

The sky was the color of melted snow, and the trembling sun grazed across it, red and hot, like glass from the furnace. Brett Crawford turned his face away, groaning, and pushed himself up off the ground. The carpet of dead desert grass felt like a bed of nails against his skin. Where were his shoes? Where was his dog, Lucy? Heck, where was he? He didn’t see anything but a monstrous terra-cotta mountain range far off to one side and the setting sun to the other. By the looks of it, he thought he must be in someplace like Arizona or Oklahoma - someplace, at least, far removed from Lake Washington where he was last conscious of walking his dog.
John 14:27:
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.
I do not give to you as the world gives.
Do not let your hearts be troubled
and do not be afraid.
  





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Thu Aug 04, 2016 6:06 pm
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Rosendorn says...



5/10

You've thoroughly tripped yourself up with your description— melting snow, for me, is either white or muddy grey with lots of brown flecks in it, and it feels very unnatural to me. The "sun grazed across it" was odd, as well, and the description of it being red continued into the realm of unnatural.

This would've been fine if the assumption was "this is a fantasy world", but then you tie it up with Arizona, and I'm going "... wait this world description isn't a new place?" and in general, it feels like a major set up without any payoff. Then "last conscious of walking his dog" just feels awkward, and could probably be worded much better to give the same information without something that makes me tilt my head to the side and wonder why it's worded that way.

--

People call me Jasmine Ghost. I wish they’d be a little more imaginative about it, but when the general consensus is it's weird to take fire spirits as pets, I guess I brought it upon myself. Everyone keeps telling me they'll suck the life out of me if I hung around them too much, but that's only when they're angry. I try to give them reasons not to be.
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo

Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
  





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Tue Jul 04, 2017 5:30 pm
Vervain says...



It's been 11 months to the day since anyone posted here, sooooo...

@Rosendorn -- I'm bad with numbers, so I'll just give feedback. I know you've moved on from this as a first paragraph (at least I seem to remember that), but this still might help in the future.

You have a good variation in sentence structure in this paragraph. However, your two longer sentences are clumped together between the shorter sentences, and especially in a first paragraph -- this is the first thing we're seeing of your voice in this story -- it can be clunky. I recommend cutting one of the clauses out of the second sentence -- almost any 2/3 combination works as a sentence without leaving out too much or being hand-holdy. You can always expand the clause you cut in a different, shorter sentence to vary the flow even more.

Your tense is also a little odd here. You go from present tense to one past tense verb -- which may be a typo, but "they'll suck the life out of me if I hung around" sounds very odd to my ear.

Additional nitpick -- maybe not too useful, I'm just playing this by ear right now: "Everyone keeps telling me" -- possibly cut down to "Everyone tells me". Or "always tell me", or something like that. "Keeps telling" sounds a little awkward, but I'm not 100% for or against it. And I can't quite pin why.

All in all: good open! Not as strong as it could be, but I'd probably read the first few pages.

- - -

"I had that dream again." Ederlander sat on the edge of the chair. They had never been comfortable in the Programmer's office, but it was not a room made to be comfortable. Everything was stark black and white, lit edges and deep shadows. The walls were spiked -- ostensibly, it was to better absorb sound. It looked like a medieval deathtrap. "The rooftop dream."
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Fri Jul 07, 2017 8:29 am
Sassafras says...



@Lareine

It has me questioning. I'm interested to find out who "they" are and why they're in an office that seemingly does not belong to them. You've set up a good dark atmosphere so I'm really intrigued by that. Nice work.

However, I do think that the sentence following the intro dialogue should be on a separate line. But that's just aesthetics.

-


Innya could taste the energy in the air, a copper tang that coated her tongue and made her cheeks pucker. The promise of change was tangible.

As she rested in the back of the bumping carriage, looking upon the sunset, she knew it would be her last moments of peace. It wasn’t the exhaustion that turned her thoughts grim - she was no stranger to sleep depravity - rather, it was the coil of terror that had begun to tighten the day she found the boy.
A pale imitator of a girl in the sky.
  





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Mon Nov 06, 2017 2:02 am
Leo says...



@Sassafras

So, the first part gave me the impression that there was going to be some kind of beginning of a "new chapter" but when I got to the second part it seemed as though the change that's coming isn't exactly positive. It honestly makes me want to read more because I have zero context and it's intriguing enough for me to want to understand what the heck is going on: Where's she going? Where's she coming from? Who's the boy? Why has his discovery had such a terrifying effect on her?

I like your metaphors too. Your grammar seems fine. I'm not sure how to nitpick at it, tbh. I like it.


= = = = =

To Leonard,
the son I did not acknowledge as my own.


Alas, despite my positions of authority, I was never very good at putting my thoughts in order without a tutor or my secretary right by my side. Still, I feel it is necessary for me to write this wholeheartedly, on my own. So, I will forge through my muddled thoughts and pray that they form something of sense.
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Wed Mar 21, 2018 6:28 pm
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Rosendorn says...



@Leo It's interesting but it doesn't feel connected enough. The actual letter feels like a mid point in the letter (even though I've written many a letter beginning like that), so there's some tweaking that needs to happen to make it feel like a true introduction.

- - -

“Tell me I did well.”
The words were written on the walls of our dorms, not as a demand but as a plea. A ghost’s plea, a reminder we could become one at any moment. I walked by them every day from classes to rooms, from church to the rector, from cafeteria to communal area.
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo

Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
  








Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if only you try!
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