Title: Through Closed Eyes
Genre: YA Paranormal
"We're trying to find him," I blurted out. I sighed and shrugged further into the couch, hoping that their expensive cushions would swallow me up.
"Who?" Christian asked dumbly.
"John, who the h*** else?" I snapped impatiently. "I told you the truth, now you give me what I came for," I commanded as I placed my hand out in front of me. He smiled down at me and shook his head.
"You didn't tell me the full truth." He said it slowly, as if I was a kindergartner who kept cheating at a game and he had to keep retelling me the rules.
"You can't know the full truth," I said in a slight mimicking tone. I placed my lips in a pout.
"Pouting’s not pretty," he laughed, he touched my lips lightly.
"Neither is being a jerk," I muttered, reconsidering the whole killing angle.
"Yeah, but I'm a guy. We don't care about being pretty."
"Who's the liar now?" I giggled, rolling my eyes. Now, Gabriel doesn't care about being pretty, but I know almost every other guy does. Or, well, I suppose they prefer the term hot, pretty is an insult to their manliness. Ha ha.
Showing posts with label Talking Heads. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Talking Heads. Show all posts
Saturday, March 19, 2011
"Talking Heads" Critique Session Entry #6
TITLE: Darkblood
GENRE: YA Fantasy
GENRE: YA Fantasy
Sabin and Zaida are running from yovi, servants of their enemy. Now, they’re visiting Sabin’s old town to find someone Sabin says can help them, but secrecy is key; there are posters of their faces everywhere. This is the scene where the gatekeeper — who recognizes Sabin — lets them in.
A heavy lock clicked behind the door and it creaked open a crack.
“Who goes there? We said we… oh.” It opened wider. “Sabin!”
“Shut up,” Sabin said quietly.
A middle aged man slipped out of the door and shut it behind him. “What are you doing here? The yovi arrived this morning said they were looking for two dangerous runaways. Your face is on posters right now! No one could believe it was—”
“Save it for later. I have to see Evin.”
“Not now you can’t.” The man seemed genuinely agitated. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Sabin glanced at me. “I can’t explain. Just trust that things are finally going the right way.”
The man seemed to notice me for the first time. “Zaida. She’s here too? Look, if you bring the yovi down on all of us…”
“Trust me, all right?”
“Your word is all I’m on.” The man opened the door and hurried us in. “Make this quick. Last I saw her was in the Inn ‘bout a week ago.”
Sabin cursed. “If she’s not here and we have to leave, tell her I came as soon as you next see her, all right?”
“Will do. Only be careful.”
"Talking Heads" Critique Session Entry #5
TITLE: OBLIVIOUS
GENRE: Thriller
A homicide detective is spending Christmas at his parents’ with his siblings. He is playing the piano with his wife before dinner when she expresses her concerns about his passion. Raynaud’s is a disorder that causes blood vessels to constrict at stress/strong emotions. (A Writer Gone Mad actually has this disorder.)
Her hands fell from the keys, fingers white. I prayed it wasn’t the Raynaud’s again. Not in my haven. “Do you think you’ll ever stop?”
I stole a glance at her, stumbled and then caught myself. “Playing the piano?”
“Letting yourself get so engrossed in these cases, Jack.”
I pulled her close before she could finish and I could think, abandoning the piece. Her thumbs slipped through the belt loops of my jeans. “Of course, I will Abs,” I said. “Someday, I’ll have to. Why would you-”
“I’m just wondering,” She pulled me closer, put her head on my chest. “What if you’re killed before you stop?”
I didn’t say anything; there was always the possibility that it could happen. It almost did three years ago, and she knew it. I couldn’t forget what she had said to me. What if you’re killed?
I was grateful Naomi had stuck her head in, her hands lost in a paper towel, to brake my train of thought. “Hey lovebirds, dinner’s almost ready.”
I looked at her over Abby’s shoulder. “We’ll be right there.”
The expression on her face asked me what she dared not say out loud. Is everything alright?
I just looked at her. I don’t know.
The chandelier was on for the first time since I’d been back, throwing familiar shards all over the walls. I said grace, and felt the safest I had in years. Maybe that was dangerous.
Ethan raised his goblet for a toast and said, “To family, for without it, we’d all be insane.”
"Talking Heads" Critique Session Entry #4
Title: The Tale of the Pie-Rats
Genre: Fiction (I'm not sure what the sub-genre is)
This is a short story about a group of Pie-Rats (Pirate rats who eat pies) that are on a ship searching for buried treasure.
“Hoy, Squeaker, what’s the matter with you? You look all giddy and out of sorts. Has Bulky been teasin’ you again?” Thomas said as he sat down next to a small, skinny rat.
“Oh…no Thomas…it’s just a little bit of indigestion…I don’t do so well with all these seafood pies…you know…sets my stomach all a ‘tumble’, thinking about fish…” replied Squeaker in a small, quavering voice which matched his small stature. All the rats were eating supper in the dining room below deck, after a hard days work.
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ll be mighty glad when we reach Shell Island and can stock up on some meat. I hate all these salty, fishy, pies.” Fusser said from across the table. He was the kind of rat who was very particular about the taste of his food.
“Shut up and quit complain’ or I’ll use my fists to quiet you down. You need a good beating what with all your pickiness and complain’,” called out a rat in a deep voice; everyone knew him as Bulky, the strongest, biggest, meanest rat on board the Star-Sail.
“Now, now Bulky, lets not be too hasty, I meant no offense. I’m just a little tired of tasting the sea in everything I eat, that’s all,” Fusser replied quickly, suddenly afraid of the idea of Bulky harming him.
Genre: Fiction (I'm not sure what the sub-genre is)
This is a short story about a group of Pie-Rats (Pirate rats who eat pies) that are on a ship searching for buried treasure.
“Hoy, Squeaker, what’s the matter with you? You look all giddy and out of sorts. Has Bulky been teasin’ you again?” Thomas said as he sat down next to a small, skinny rat.
“Oh…no Thomas…it’s just a little bit of indigestion…I don’t do so well with all these seafood pies…you know…sets my stomach all a ‘tumble’, thinking about fish…” replied Squeaker in a small, quavering voice which matched his small stature. All the rats were eating supper in the dining room below deck, after a hard days work.
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ll be mighty glad when we reach Shell Island and can stock up on some meat. I hate all these salty, fishy, pies.” Fusser said from across the table. He was the kind of rat who was very particular about the taste of his food.
“Shut up and quit complain’ or I’ll use my fists to quiet you down. You need a good beating what with all your pickiness and complain’,” called out a rat in a deep voice; everyone knew him as Bulky, the strongest, biggest, meanest rat on board the Star-Sail.
“Now, now Bulky, lets not be too hasty, I meant no offense. I’m just a little tired of tasting the sea in everything I eat, that’s all,” Fusser replied quickly, suddenly afraid of the idea of Bulky harming him.
"Talking Heads" Critique Session Entry #3
TITLE: THE NIGHT
GENRE: Epic YA Fantasy
The prince/keralealon, Taeon, and his manservant, Ghale, are preparing for their mission, to capture a fugitive and bring them back to the capital.
Ghale pulled a set of gold, ruby-encrusted ceremonial robes from the closet. “Perhaps these shall be of some use to you on the journey, sire.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Yes, I agree.” Taeon turned back to reading the details of the mission. “Find a good place for them among the saddlebags. Wouldn’t want them to become wrinkled.” Ghale knew perfectly well what he ought to be packing.
There was a clinking of metal on metal. “Master Taeon, what are these for?” He held three silver arm bands, each about the width of two fingers.
“My father has decided he must have a hand in what I wear. As if the people concern themselves with such trivial things.”
“Must be popular with the keradealas.”
Taeon gave him a look.
“Maybe he hopes you’ll find a wife during your travels,” he continued with a sly grin.
“Ghalen, we’re to be chasing dangerous fugitives from the law. I doubt we’ll take the time to attend any keraden banquets. If you’re coming solely to chase maidservants, I suggest you stay home.” Not that the boy had any choice in the matter.
“Already have a girl in mind, then, sire?”
“You are dismissed, Ghalen,” he said without looking up. “And when I say dismissed, I mean permanently.”
Ghale placed one more item on the pile, then assumed a sullen expression. “As you wish, my keralealon. I will go pack my things.” He left.
Taeon shook his head. If he ever truly wished to dismiss Ghale, he wouldn’t take him seriously.
GENRE: Epic YA Fantasy
The prince/keralealon, Taeon, and his manservant, Ghale, are preparing for their mission, to capture a fugitive and bring them back to the capital.
Ghale pulled a set of gold, ruby-encrusted ceremonial robes from the closet. “Perhaps these shall be of some use to you on the journey, sire.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Yes, I agree.” Taeon turned back to reading the details of the mission. “Find a good place for them among the saddlebags. Wouldn’t want them to become wrinkled.” Ghale knew perfectly well what he ought to be packing.
There was a clinking of metal on metal. “Master Taeon, what are these for?” He held three silver arm bands, each about the width of two fingers.
“My father has decided he must have a hand in what I wear. As if the people concern themselves with such trivial things.”
“Must be popular with the keradealas.”
Taeon gave him a look.
“Maybe he hopes you’ll find a wife during your travels,” he continued with a sly grin.
“Ghalen, we’re to be chasing dangerous fugitives from the law. I doubt we’ll take the time to attend any keraden banquets. If you’re coming solely to chase maidservants, I suggest you stay home.” Not that the boy had any choice in the matter.
“Already have a girl in mind, then, sire?”
“You are dismissed, Ghalen,” he said without looking up. “And when I say dismissed, I mean permanently.”
Ghale placed one more item on the pile, then assumed a sullen expression. “As you wish, my keralealon. I will go pack my things.” He left.
Taeon shook his head. If he ever truly wished to dismiss Ghale, he wouldn’t take him seriously.
"Talking Heads" Critique Session Entry #2
Title: Splashback
Genre: YA Thriller
Lottie and Maureen are top-level swimmer frenemies whose jealousy has finally boiled over. Lee is their coach.
Rolling my eyes, I turned to her. "Get over yourself, Maureen. You're just pissed I'm beating you in practice again. Newsflash--I've always been faster."
"Lottie . . ." Lee sounded disappointed, but I ignored him. She needed this.
"I'm treating you the way you deserve to be treated," Maureen snapped. "Everyone has treated you like you're Michael Phelps for the past year and a half. They all tip-toe about like I'm about to Tonya Harding their a**, while you--you can do no wrong." She stood up, towering over me for a rare moment. "Except you can and you do and you never have to fix it!"
"Maureen!" Lee's cries were background noise.
I stood too. "I can't help that people like me because I actually care! I care about others, okay, and I care what they think of me--it's polite!"
"You care so much about yourself and your appearance and your reputation! Just shut up and swim. You're going nowhere in life with your looks--except maybe onto a pole!"
"GIRLS!" Lee slammed his fist down on his desk. "I don't know what has gotten into the two of you, but I can't have you guys fighting like this. My senior group has fourteen swimmers, and they all look up to you every day, sometimes twice a day. The rest of the team looks up to you during meets. You can't set a bad example."
"Little Miss Sunshine won't ever set a bad example," Maureen said, glaring at me.
"Little Miss Raincloud doesn't know how to set a good example," I returned.
Genre: YA Thriller
Lottie and Maureen are top-level swimmer frenemies whose jealousy has finally boiled over. Lee is their coach.
Rolling my eyes, I turned to her. "Get over yourself, Maureen. You're just pissed I'm beating you in practice again. Newsflash--I've always been faster."
"Lottie . . ." Lee sounded disappointed, but I ignored him. She needed this.
"I'm treating you the way you deserve to be treated," Maureen snapped. "Everyone has treated you like you're Michael Phelps for the past year and a half. They all tip-toe about like I'm about to Tonya Harding their a**, while you--you can do no wrong." She stood up, towering over me for a rare moment. "Except you can and you do and you never have to fix it!"
"Maureen!" Lee's cries were background noise.
I stood too. "I can't help that people like me because I actually care! I care about others, okay, and I care what they think of me--it's polite!"
"You care so much about yourself and your appearance and your reputation! Just shut up and swim. You're going nowhere in life with your looks--except maybe onto a pole!"
"GIRLS!" Lee slammed his fist down on his desk. "I don't know what has gotten into the two of you, but I can't have you guys fighting like this. My senior group has fourteen swimmers, and they all look up to you every day, sometimes twice a day. The rest of the team looks up to you during meets. You can't set a bad example."
"Little Miss Sunshine won't ever set a bad example," Maureen said, glaring at me.
"Little Miss Raincloud doesn't know how to set a good example," I returned.
"Talking Heads" Critique Session Entry #1
Title: Short Swords
Genre: YA fantasy
Sophie and Brent live in the Under City where food is scarce and children are forced to live on the streets. To survive they must steal what ever they can get, however, if caught by the Street Sweepers, punishment is harsh. Sophie has joined Tommy's children's street gang, of which Brent is a member, but Tommy has set her up for failure.
“Who’s coming?” she tried not to yell in her panic and began wiggling faster.
Brent took hold of her shoulders and pulled. “Tommy spilt the beans. Told the Street Sweepers ye would be here. I’m sorry Soph, it’s my fault.” His panicked tugs were more hindering than helpful.
“Brent let go, I can do this myself. And it isn’t your fault, you were trying to help feed me.” She grunted in pain. “Will Tommy hang?”
“Tommy?” Brent froze. “Hang? Oh no Soph ye dinna understand. They dinna catch him. He volunteered the information. He only let ye join ‘cause I insisted but he dinna like the way ye talk.”
Sophie kicked her feet trying desperately to find something to push against. The blood in her temples was beating so hard her eyes watered, “He doesn't like the way I talk?” she whispered. “I can’t help that my grandmother made me learn fansy Upper City speech.”
New foot steps echoed down the ally. Two more men had arrived.
“Brent go!” yelled Sophie. She knew there was no point hiding now, sped was their only remaining hope.
“But?”
“I’ll be out in a moment, just get out of here!” Sophie redoubled her struggles as, with one last look, Brent melted into the darkness.
“Well well well, what have we here?” asked a new voice and a pair of filthy shoes appeared in Sophie’s vision.
She stopped moving as all feeling left her limbs and old terrors took over. Twice already the Sweepers had caught her, a third time would mean death or transportation.
Genre: YA fantasy
Sophie and Brent live in the Under City where food is scarce and children are forced to live on the streets. To survive they must steal what ever they can get, however, if caught by the Street Sweepers, punishment is harsh. Sophie has joined Tommy's children's street gang, of which Brent is a member, but Tommy has set her up for failure.
“Who’s coming?” she tried not to yell in her panic and began wiggling faster.
Brent took hold of her shoulders and pulled. “Tommy spilt the beans. Told the Street Sweepers ye would be here. I’m sorry Soph, it’s my fault.” His panicked tugs were more hindering than helpful.
“Brent let go, I can do this myself. And it isn’t your fault, you were trying to help feed me.” She grunted in pain. “Will Tommy hang?”
“Tommy?” Brent froze. “Hang? Oh no Soph ye dinna understand. They dinna catch him. He volunteered the information. He only let ye join ‘cause I insisted but he dinna like the way ye talk.”
Sophie kicked her feet trying desperately to find something to push against. The blood in her temples was beating so hard her eyes watered, “He doesn't like the way I talk?” she whispered. “I can’t help that my grandmother made me learn fansy Upper City speech.”
New foot steps echoed down the ally. Two more men had arrived.
“Brent go!” yelled Sophie. She knew there was no point hiding now, sped was their only remaining hope.
“But?”
“I’ll be out in a moment, just get out of here!” Sophie redoubled her struggles as, with one last look, Brent melted into the darkness.
“Well well well, what have we here?” asked a new voice and a pair of filthy shoes appeared in Sophie’s vision.
She stopped moving as all feeling left her limbs and old terrors took over. Twice already the Sweepers had caught her, a third time would mean death or transportation.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Call For Submissions: Talking Heads
Submissions are now open for your dialogue-rich excerpts. (In other words, mostly talking.)
Guidelines:
SCREEN NAME: (type it here) (this is whatever name you use when you leave comments here)
TITLE: (type it here)
GENRE: (type it here)
(type your first 250 words here)
Guidelines:
- You may submit a 250-word, dialogue-rich excerpt from your novel, whether it is a completed work or a work-in-progress (WIP).
- You may include a BRIEF lead-in (that is, a sentence or two to set up the scene).
- The submission window will open at 4:00 PM EST today, and will close at 4:00 PM on Friday or when we have 10 entries--whichever comes first.
- You may only submit one entry. Subsequent entries will be disqualified.
- All entries will be posted anonymously.
- By entering this critique round, you are giving implicit permission to have your work posted and publicly critiqued.
- By entering this critique round, you agree to critique a minimum of 3 other entries.
- Send your submission to A Writer Gone Mad at awritergonemad.submissions(at)gmail.com. (Replace the (at) with an @ sign.)
- You will receive a reply email with your post number. Please be patient; unlike the critiques on Miss Snark's First Victim, this contest is NOT automated. Mad will be taking care of submissions by hand.
- Format your entry EXACTLY AS FOLLOWS:
SCREEN NAME: (type it here) (this is whatever name you use when you leave comments here)
TITLE: (type it here)
GENRE: (type it here)
(type your first 250 words here)
Monday, March 14, 2011
Crit Round This Week!
Time for some more in-house critique!
Submissions will open this Wednesday at 3:00 pm EDT for our first TALKING HEADS round!
TALKING HEADS means just what it sounds like: I want you to find an excerpt from your novel that is dialogue-rich. Maximum 250 words. And that's what we'll be critiquing.
Dialogue is an important part of story-telling. And writing believable, natural dialogue can be challenging. We don't want our characters to sound like B-movie actors, but sometimes they do. So let's expose them when they're talking a lot and weed out the not-so-good stuff.
What mistakes do we sometimes make?
Submissions will open this Wednesday at 3:00 pm EDT for our first TALKING HEADS round!
TALKING HEADS means just what it sounds like: I want you to find an excerpt from your novel that is dialogue-rich. Maximum 250 words. And that's what we'll be critiquing.
Dialogue is an important part of story-telling. And writing believable, natural dialogue can be challenging. We don't want our characters to sound like B-movie actors, but sometimes they do. So let's expose them when they're talking a lot and weed out the not-so-good stuff.
What mistakes do we sometimes make?
- Big chunks of info-dumpy words. Real people don't speak in paragraphs.
- Awkard, wordy prose. Real people don't sound like dictionaries.
- Bland sameness. Real people have different speaking styles.
- Odd spellings, apostrophes, etc., in order to connote colloquialism or accent. Real people do have different ways of saying things, but if we can't read it, we won't know what they're saying at all.
Anyway, the guidelines will post on Wednesday, and we'll take the first 10, like last time. In the meantime, comb your manuscript for a heavy bit of dialogue that you'd like critiqued. And post your questions below!
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