Young Writers Society

Ha I was reviewing this chapter in the chapter four post for some reason..lol. ANyways I have a few nitpicks.

Setting: I want more. I know someone has already covered this but I want to reiterate it. I want how a room, how a street, how her room at the boarding house looks, feels, smells, and sounds. I want to be able to visualize the furniture, the textures, the colors, etc. Clothing as well needs more description. I want to indulge myself in the rich fabrics, the vibrant colors, and the style of that time period. You might stop and do some research for this.

The other thing that bothered me was Rand. What is the history of those two? I'm guessing they courted each other, but what made their relationship go astray? Why, if all Rand cares about is money, does he send a mere maid roses? What about the letter? Why does she never read it? What does it say? If it isn't important to the plot line why is there a letter at all? I'm not exactly sure how Rand and Rachel and their past really works into the plot line so I can't really offer any suggestions to remedy this.

The blackmail letter should be short and sweet. You wrote:

Dear Rachel Baldwin,

[s]It is Baldwin isn’t it? Oh yes, how silly of me, of course it is.[/s] I am writing you this to tell you I’ve found out about your past. [s]Will the mistress be pleased to know that she has the daughter of a drunk and a wanton in her home?[/s] I will go and tell her everything if you don’t do this simple thing for me. [s]And it really is simple, dear, just like you. All I require for keeping my mouth closed is what all of us want: money. I’ve a great need for it, and I know you have it. I’d guess that you’ve been saving for months. And you probably have something left over from what your poor father left you. [/s]I want only a little of it—merely thirty pounds. [s]That’s all I ask, Rachel. Then this little problem will be over.[/s] I want the money by Thursday morning. Leave it under the empty milk can outside the servants’ entrance. If it is not there, Rachel… do I need to tell you what will happen?

Sincerely,
Your needing friend

Dear Rachel Baldwin,

I know your secret. Leave 30 pounds under the empty milk can outside the servents entrance by thursday morn. Or else.

Your needing friend

A moment [s]pasees,[/s] passes and Beatrice suddenly rushes back, hugging me again, before darting right out of the door for good this time.

“Here.” Violet appears with the tea tray, a typical scowl on her face, and shoves it in my hands. She also leaves.

I smooth my apron nervously [You should at least comment on the difficulty of this. She's holding a tea tray, presumably quite heavy. And she's ballancing it on one hand? Or perhaps her hip? Either way, this would be tricky so at least comment on the difficulty in it.] and force myself to propel forward, entering the bright room.

“No, thank you,” he says in a low voice, not taking his eyes from me. I find that I can’t tear my own gaze away. I am not caught in the way that the dark young man had held my eyes; he had been almost hypnotizing me. No. Rand has always had an entirely different way of meeting the eyes—he caresses them, as if he cares and wants to know all your secrets. Any poor fool who believes him—like I [s]had[/s] once did—will pay. Subtly and in such a way you won’t know that you’ve lost something until much, much later.

“Rachel? My tea, please?” Miss Nathanial asks with strained politeness. If we were alone [Comma here.] I have no doubt she would have thrown one of her delightful tantrums. I blink, breaking the invisible string between me and Rand, and give the small teacup to my young mistress.

No. There isn’t anything walking anywhere except me. I was childish, foolish for believing that strange young man and letting him frighten me into thinking that something is out to kill me. I [s]had been[/s] was dazzled by his thick lashes and his mouth… his mouth…

It is everything everyone says it is. The streets are narrow and grimy. Groups of people huddle underneath the gaslights aligning the sides of the street, and they whisper amongst themselves. The smell is worse than it [s]had been[/s] was in the old woman’s shack—it reeks of horse droppings, overpowering urine, and refuse. These streets aren’t empty as empty as mine are, regardless of Joseph Hawkley’s unfortunate death. [This sentence is real strange. Typo I'm guessing? But I can't make much sense of it...] Either they don’t care whether they live or die, or are just ignorant, and think that there is no danger lurking in this city.

The woman who [s]had[/s] shouted at me is squatting by a doorway. She has a harsh, heavily painted face. Her hair is a mass of tangles on top of her head. She wears a thin dress that is so low that her breasts almost fall out of the neckline. I shudder in distaste and look away. [It all feels a little listy. She is this. She is that. She wears this. She has that. I think you need a little sentence variation here.]

Oddly enough, my struggle for control [s]on[/s] over my emotions and mind has ceased, and a strange calm has flooded my being. I begin walking again, noting with nervousness that the people sitting on either side of me—on the streets and against the buildings—are watching me. But a mixture of horrified curiosity propels me to keep going. I chafe at my arms to do something with my hands, as they’ve been clenching painfully in my skirt.

He drops the bottle and it breaks on the stones, the same way the other [s]had[/s] did. He sneers at me once more and goes back to the wall, where he slumps in the same position [s]he had been in[/s] as before. Looking at him, it almost seems as if nothing has occurred.

I gasp when one of the men grabs my collar with both beefy fists and tears it savagely. The top three buttons of my blouse pop off, and I [s]scamble[/s] scramble away, only to run into the shins of three others. They run their fingers through my hair, now unbound and tumbling over my shoulders in tangles. I scream, and begin to kick and flail my fists every which way. My feet and fists do connect with some, and I am satisfied to hear oomphs of pain.

Why did I tell him that? I rarely confide in anyone, much less [s]stangers[/s] strangers. It must be something about the way he’s gazing at me… like he knows that he can get me to tell him anything. His eyes emanate arrogance and [s]frusteration[/s] frustration.

Once inside, and I have shut the door, [Maybe 'Once inside, with the door shut,'.] I lean against the solid wood. A dreamy smile curves my lips. Seconds tick by and I slowly regain my senses.

Suddenly I bolt upright, my eyes flying open. The magic of his eyes [s]are[/s] is gone. What has replaced it is pure disbelief. My nostrils flare. How dare he? How dare he order me about like I’m his sister or his—his—wife! [s]He’d[/s] He had no right to yell at me, or lecture me so! He acted as if I am a mindless child! I may be many inconsequential things, but a child is certainly not one of them. Although he [s]had[/s] certainly made me feel like one.

I lay and listen to my heart accelerate. The single black iron post outside shines through the panes of my window, casting patterned and dim yellow shapes across the bare wooden floor. I hate how my mind plays tricks on me. The walls seem bigger somehow. It almost seems as if they are breathing in, anticipating something I cannot possibly divulge. I turn on my side, and feel something in my pocket crumple. Rand’s letter. With a sigh, I take it out of my pocket and toss it on the floor beside [s]thebed[/s] the bed.

okay so far that is my all time fav chapter for needles and roses.

*EDITED*

Before I Critique

Hey KJ! I’m so sorry I took so long. To make up for it, I’ll just skip the rambles and send this in.

Also, the comments were being stupid, so I just added comments in the middle of sentences/paragraphs.

After I Critique

Again, I’m in love with your story.

Two things I noticed throughout the whole piece:

- You didn’t have much description. You really need to use all the senses, let me feel like I’m there. (At the end you don’t need to, though, since she’s too preoccupied with the pain.)

- She rants – a lot. The paragraphs are all getting really wordy, and it’s a bit boring.

Also, introduce the vampire slowly. When it grabbed her, I started believing it. But from when I saw it to that part, I was bored, and upset that you just ruined a perfectly good book with vampires.

That’s it. (I hate this – you never need many critiques!) The ending was great, but the rest really need work. It’s not your best.

Good luck, and happy editing!

~JFW1415

(Everything else is in the attachment. There actually aren't as many comments as usual this time, since you really just need to work on showing and taking away the rants. )

KJ,

So I finally reached the point where I'll have to wait for the next installments with the rest. I can't say I'm to happy about it, really. And yes, what I am writing right now - this - is pointless, but I do want this to be counted as a review, heh. But, my critique:

This was good. I can't say that the plot 'twist' was completely unexpected as it wasn't but I enjoyed it nonetheless. I'd like to see a deeper, more gruesome description of the red-haired girl and the other vampire. Afterall, that's the essential pivot of this chapter and you need your reader to feel Rachel's pain and her fear. Other tan that though, it was really good. The plot was believable in a weird, sureal way and the characters are really well defined.

Your historical is, however, still lacking in places. Describe these alleys, are they dark and flithy? Are the buildings on either side tall? Do washing lines stretch across building to building with ragged garments hanging from them, only the type of clothes no one would want to steal. How does the blood look on the cobbles -- I assume it's cobbled? -- and is it dark or is the scene washed in moonlight?

Keep up the good work, specific comments sent by pm as usual,

Heather xx