Young Writers Society

Part I: Point of Origin

Arthur: Saving Princesses
Arthur has grown up this way: he has read and been told fairytales and he has believed in them for a long, long time, with the fervour and single-mindlessness of a child who has no other outlet for imagination. Arthur after all lives in the smallest of towns, nothing like the city which unfurls in waves of concrete and jagged walls and nothing like the countryside which offers freedom of a kind, and if not that then at least peacefulness. Arthur is a small, at times sickly boy, and because his parents are perhaps a little overprotective he is confined to the house and is, only the brightest of days, allowed to adventure in the front yard.

It is – not a bad life, really, for Arthur knows nothing else, and for all that it is restricting he is loved and cared for.

So, safely ensconced in his bedroom, Arthur reads: of princesses and knights and kings and dragons, the monsters that creep into children’s bedrooms and whisper their dark advice, the fairies that curse infants out of spite or envy. Arthur grows up on tales of heroes and sacrifices, battlefields on which the sun rises gold and sets ashen, and in his dreams there is the sound of hoofbeats and the chaos of a charge, the clash of swords and mail as they crash into each other.

(there is an discussion in class once, and a question that goes thus: what, of all things in the world, would you rather see burnt and torn? Arthur is thoughtful for a moment, almost says Paper, almost says Meat. In the end though, the words that fall from his mouth are: A flag.)

He likes school because it is easy, and because it is where he thinks best. When he is finished with his work he sets his elbow on the table, leans his cheek in his palm and looks outside, to the ever-changing sky and the branch that cuts through the window, all shifting leaves and spring-summer-fall colors. In the winter he rises from his seat, careful not to make any noise that would draw the teacher’s attention, and takes the few steps that will take him to the window’s glass panes. He likes it when all is white outside. Then he breathes on the glass and writes his name through the fog, Arthur all crisp and clean for a few seconds before condensation kicks in and it all drips down in a formless mess. He is tempted sometimes to add Pendragon there, but he is not that other Arthur and so he doesn’t, because he knows the power of names.

But Arthur’s still looking for dragons, and he does find them, sometimes in the unlikeliest of places, (there is one once that thought to fool him by dressing itself up as a cloud, but he glared at it long enough that it ran away, and there is another hiding itself in the cracks of the schoolyard’s walls, amidst the twisting ivy and the cool shade of trees. That one is a small one and Arthur lets it be, though he checks on it every day, just to be sure) and for princesses (because he may not be King Arthur but that doesn’t mean he’s not a knight, doesn’t mean it’s not his job to save people). They’re rare, he discovers, but he finds that helping Marian, who’s broken her leg, walk up the stairs or convincing little Isa that her teddy bear has just gotten a bit lost and will be back soon is close enough. He’s just glad he can make them smile.

Then they’re moving to the city, and Arthur is completely, utterly lost. He’s missing most of his books, because they were too heavy and took too much space, and he doesn’t know anyone anymore. Everything here smells like steel and concrete instead of fresh earth and sun-warmed bricks, and there seems to be no color but grey and silver, like they’re all living in one of those old photographs, the ones he finds in his parents’ drawers when he explores the house or the ones that stare out of wood-carved frames at family gatherings. It should make things simpler, but it doesn’t. The light reflecting off every surface hurts his eyes and there’s nowhere for him to go. It is strange, he reflects, that what he misses the most are the thunderstorms that would occur every so often, lightning flashing blindingly white in-between moments of darkness and making the landscape into a dreamland where fey creatures would dance laughing under the sky’s wrath.

Arthur has trouble sleeping nowadays. Most of his nights he spends turning and tossing in this new unfamiliar bed, curled up in the middle of the new mattress as car lights flash by almost uninterrupted, flooding the room in light, and now when he dreams there is rain falling on the battlefields, glinting off rusted helms and splashing under destriers’ feet, and thunder illuminating massacres, mist rising in thin filaments from the streams and a sword left untarnished, an open, pale hand rising from the lake.

There are no dragons here; not in the sky, not on the walls, save for the ones painted on by teenagers with nothing else to do but to vandalize the white facades of buildings in exquisite details, sharp fangs and long winding bodies, outstretched wings. Those stare back at him with a calm born of months spent under the smog and the small drizzle that passes for rain here. Arthur is coming to believe, as he walks past those coloured walls and runs his fingers over the cracks in the paint, that not all dragons should be slain.

This new school is confusing. It is at least ten times as big as his old one, and there are too many people here, most of them older than he is. Still Arthur is a nice boy, and he smiles and answers questions in that calm way of his, and offers help when he can. Strangely the others do not seem to appreciate his efforts, and while he never really stops he does tone it down after a while, for he cannot keep it up against the whole world. He comes to think then, also, that maybe some people just don’t want to be saved.

It is, he will come to think later, his first step in growing up.

(and in the end, Arthur’s problem may be just this – that he dreams too much)


So this was last year's NaNoWriMo. Couldn't get it finished, due to sudden homework avalanche in the second week, but I'm still pretty happy with what I have so far. Figured I'd like having some of your opinions as to how it was, see if it could get me back on track, since the inspiration's fallen a bit aside. The first three chapters are mainly setting up the characters, then the plot (or what little of it there is) starts. Thanks for reading!

Hello Jagged, my French word fixer. My name is Alice, but I think you already know me as Cirque. As promised, I am doing your review. I am very sorry I could'nt do it earlier, though my mother had stolen the computer and wasn't going to budge no matter what I said.

Terminology:

Bold: Word/s, commas or punctuational markings not needed.
Blue: Suggestions of replacements of words.
Green: General comments.
Red: Grammatical mistakes.

Also, I just want to mention that I'm new and if I get anything wrong, well then I am sorry.

Arthur has grown up this way: he had read and been told fairytales and he had believed in them for a long, long time. With the fervour and single-mindlessness of a child who has no other outlet for imagination. Arthur after all lives in the smallest of towns, nothing like the city which unfurls in waves of concrete and jagged walls and nothing like the countryside which offers freedom of a kind, and if not that then at least peacefulness. Arthur is a small, at times sickly boy, and because his parents are perhaps a little overprotective, he is confined to the house and is, only on the brightest of days, allowed to adventure in the front yard.

It is – not a bad life, really! for Arthur knows nothing else and for all that it is restricting, he is loved and cared for.

So, safely ensconced in his bedroom, Arthur reads: of princesses and knights and kings and dragons, the monsters that creep into children’s bedrooms and whisper their dark advice, the fairies that curse infants out of spite or envy. Arthur grows up on tales of heroes and sacrifices; battlefields on which the sun rises gold and sets ashen, and in his dreams there is the sound of hoofbeats and the chaos of a charge, the clash of swords and mail as they crash into each other.

(There is an discussion in class once, and a question that goes thus: what, of all things in the world, would you rather see burnt and torn? Arthur is thoughtful for a moment, almost says Paper, almost says Meat. In the end though, the words that fall from his mouth are: A flag.) Was this supposed to be in brackets? I feel that it is better if there is none, if you were intending on having them.

He likes school because it is easy, and because it is where he thinks best. When he is finished with his work he sets his elbow on the table, leans his cheek in his palm and looks outside, to the ever-changing sky and the branch that cuts through the window, all shifting leaves and spring-summer-fall colors. In the winter he rises from his seat, careful not to make any noise that would draw the teacher’s attention, and takes the few steps that will take him to the window’s glass panes. He likes it when all is white outside. Then he breathes on the glass and writes his name through the fog. Arthur, all crisp and clean for a few seconds before condensation kicks in and it all drips down in a formless mess. He is tempted sometimes to add Pendragon there, but he is not that other Arthur and so he doesn’t, because he knows the power of names.

But Arthur’s still looking for dragons, and he does find them, sometimes in the unlikeliest of places, (there is one once that thought to fool him by dressing itself up as a cloud, but he glared at it long enough that it ran away, and there is another hiding itself in the cracks of the schoolyard’s walls, amidst the twisting ivy and the cool shade of trees. That one is a small one and Arthur lets it be, though he checks on it every day, just to be sure) and for princesses (because he may not be King Arthur but that doesn’t mean he’s not a knight, doesn’t mean it’s not his job to save people). They’re rare, he discovers, but he finds that helping Marian, who’s broken her leg, walk up the stairs or convincing little Isa that her teddy bear has just gotten a bit lost and will be back soon is close enough. He’s just glad he can make them smile. I don't really think the brackets are needed. Comma's might to the exact same job, though I'm leaving that up to you.

Then they’re moving to the city, and Arthur is completely, and utterly lost. He’s missing most of his books, because they were too heavy and took too much space, and he doesn’t know anyone anymore. Everything here smells like steel and concrete instead of fresh earth and sun-warmed bricks, and there seems to be no color but grey and silver, like they’re all living in one of those old photographs, the ones he finds in his parents’ drawers when he explores the house, or the ones that stare out of wood-carved frames at family gatherings. It should make things simpler, but it doesn’t. The light reflecting off every surface hurts his eyes and there’s nowhere for him to go. It is strange, he reflects, that what he misses the most are the thunderstorms that would occur every so often. Lightning flashing blindingly white in-between moments of darkness and making the landscape into a dreamland where fey creatures would dance laughing under the sky’s wrath.

Arthur has trouble sleeping nowadays. Most of his nights he spends turning and tossing in this new unfamiliar bed, curled up in the middle of the new mattress as car lights flash by almost uninterrupted, flooding the room in light, and now when he dreams there is rain falling on the battlefields, glinting off rusted helms and splashing under destriers’ feet. Thunder illuminating massacres, mist rising in thin filaments from the streams and a sword left untarnished, an open, pale hand rising from the lake.

There are no dragons here; not in the sky, not on the walls, save for the ones painted on by teenagers with nothing else to do but to vandalize the white facades of buildings in exquisite details, sharp fangs and long winding bodies and outstretched wings. Those stare back at him with a calm born of months spent under the smog and the small drizzle that passes for rain here. Arthur is coming to believe, as he walks past those coloured walls and runs his fingers over the cracks in the paint, that not all dragons should be slain.

This new school is confusing. It is at least ten times as big as his old one, and there are too many people here, most of them older than he is. Still Arthur is a nice boy, and he smiles and answers questions in that calm way of his, and offers help when he can. Strangely the others do not seem to appreciate his efforts, and while he never really stops he does tone it down after a while, for he cannot keep it up against the whole world. He comes to think then, also, that maybe some people just don’t want to be saved.

It is, he will come to think later, his first step in growing up.

Grammar: Relatively good. What I do want to comment on though, and I have found this most frequently through this site, is your use of comma's. I just want to stop there and mention that this was only a minor problem for you, because in most instances all the comma's used were needed. Sometimes you run on your sentences and this only amplifies the problem when excessive amount of comma's are used. It's a simple problem that can easily be fixed, though it's not something horribly bad. Just remember, it's only minor throughout your work.

Plot: I thought the plot was rather sad. For some reason I feel connected to this kid. Trying to find fantasy and something that people consider make believe, though the gremlin out my window disagrees rather strongly. I feel very sorry for Arthur and I definitely share his distaste for large cities. The country life is definitely a life well living.

Characters: As I said above, Arthur is just a brilliant character who many, especially me, can relate to. I thought you really placed a lot of effort into explaining his character and life and definitely want to see more of this little, adventurous character.

Overall: Something that did confuse me though was your use of brackets. I don't think that they are really needed, but if you prefer them to comma's then don't let me stop you. Another pointer is the way you wrote this. You told the reader instead of showing them and though that is looked down upon, I really believe it worked wonders for this story. It was as if you were the narrator and Arthur was your actor. Though, if you do want to make this into a chapter book I think you'll have to change the writing style because it would really have the same effect.

Hello Jagged! Were you one of the people with whom I was discussing experimental prose and perspective-tense combinations in Chat? I think you were. I also think you posed the question as to whether it was alright to introduce a character briefly before the action; am I correct in assuming that this is one of those character introductions?

It is – not a bad life, really, for Arthur knows nothing else, and for all that it is restricting he is loved and cared for.

I'm really not sure what you're hoping to accomplish with that jarring dash, unless you want your readers to stumble over that line, which seems unlikely.

there is an a discussion in class once

Tense confusion. "Is" is a present tense verb, but "once" symbolized a past event. Plus, "discussion" doesn't begin with a vowel sound, so "an" should be "a".

In the winter he rises from his seat, careful not to make any noise that would draw the teacher’s attention, and takes the few steps that will take him to the window’s glass panes. He likes it when all is white outside. Then he breathes on the glass and writes his name through the fog, Arthur all crisp and clean for a few seconds before condensation kicks in and it all drips down in a formless mess

In my experience, teachers notice when a student so much as leans over to pick up a dropped pencil. I don't think he could be innocuous enough not to draw the teacher's attention if he's walking to the window, breathing on it, and writing his name in the frost.

Overall, I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this! It's a very well-written character sketch, painting a somewhat tragic (yet intriguing) picture of a little boy with a roaming imagination and only a tentative hold on reality. I like that, and I like the way you progress through his characterization.

But I can't reconcile this with the beginning of a novel. Not a novel that I'd continue reading, anyway. I'm a strong believer in conflict as a hook, and you've basically thrown the show-don't-tell rule out the window with this. While it intrigued me, and I sympathize with the character you've drawn, I'm not too keen on sitting through another two introductions of this sort.

This is all information and back-story that you could easily incorporate throughout the actual story, later. I just think that taking these wonderful stories and sprinkling them into the narrative whenever the opportunity arises would be more effective than dumping their histories on the readers before we even realize what story we're reading. The points about not slaying every dragon is wonderful-- it'll be even more striking after we've spent some time with this character. Think about a movie-- do they show quick character profiles before the actual story? No, because people like to get to know the characters as they go along. When you lay it out in black and white like this, it takes away some of the mystery of who we're reading about, and it distracts us from the conflict.

This was interesting and well written, and you've clearly showed that you can craft an excellent character. I just think that if you put those skills to work throughout the story, it'll be more effective.

Best of luck, keep writing, and PM me for anything!

~Evi