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Viewing: Blog Posts Tagged with: Evil First Pages, Most Recent at Top [Help]
Results 1 - 9 of 9
1. First Pages: YA / French Braid

As I run the silver-backed brush through my hair, I study the large gray eyes reflected in my mirror. They are somber now, veiled with fog, as though they have seen a hundred years instead of just nineteen. My face is young, but my eyes are old.
Too many adjectives.
This afternoon, I’ll attend the dress rehearsal of my father’s latest play.
And she's already a drama queen.
We’ll sit side by side in the empty theatre, and instead of watching the actors he’ll be glancing at me, brows knitted, as though wondering who I am, and where his little girl has gone. I will nod and smile and complement his direction, then speak of other unimportant things. Later, he’ll grin and present me with some small gift, as though a sketch pad or stick of charcoal will somehow bridge this gulf between us. He doesn’t understand. I do not try to explain. I am still my father’s daughter, but I’m not a child any longer.

I remember the day that everything began to change.
There are some nice touches here, but it's feeling overwritten to me. And the 'day everything changed' thing is overused--I'd suggest losing that.

10 Comments on First Pages: YA / French Braid, last added: 7/6/2009
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2. First Pages: MG / Twelfth of Never

Elvis, please, leave the building. I’ll listen to Jailhouse Rock later -- at home, with Mom. Promise. She can dance in front of the window, and I won’t hide when she waves at the neighbors. I’ll even thumbs-up when she shouts over the music how this song inspired my name! Just not now, I’m begging. No warden, no party, no county jail.

It’s torture enough hearing the PA speakers crumple The King every morning in homeroom. Here in the empty cafeteria, the sound rattles off the walls like spoons banging pots.

My stomach’s queasy. It’s 7:50 a.m., and the air is ninety-nine percent Snickerdoodle exhaust from the lunch ladies baking. Plus the Most Popular kids dart in and out of view through the far, far double doorway like hungry sharks in a holding tank.

If I were lucky they’d never come in from the hall. But when they do decide to waltz through the doors -- could I possibly be more visible than I am? Standing in the middle of the stage, next to Mrs. Beemer? Surrounded by a circle of chairs?

Mrs. Beemer bends to unzip her backpack, so the neckline of her dress sags, exposing her wrinkly chest in a giant bra.

Elvis crash-boom-bangs as she cranes her red face at me. “Presley, sweetheart, be a dear and go round everyone up.”

Round everyone up, d-e-n-o-p-r-u-v-y…

Most people’s brains kick into fight-or-flight when they get scared. Mine alphabetizes. Really fast. Without being asked.
The beginning paragraph struck me as out of pace with the rest of this-- a bit stilted. But the rest is better on track, and people are often intrigued by brain quirks like the above. I'd keep reading.

8 Comments on First Pages: MG / Twelfth of Never, last added: 7/19/2009
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3. First Pages: MG / Manna Bend

I didn’t want to sit in the front seat of our car – that’s where Mum always sat – but Dad was begging.
‘Please, Sasha,’ he said. His voice caught and he cleared his throat. ‘We promised. A new start.’
His face was so creased with sadness that I couldn’t say no. I forced my foot and then my leg into the car, and slid onto the dusty blue seat, yanking at the seatbelt. My hatred for Mum burned through me all over again.
Hmm. Interesting.
‘Bye, house,’ Nicky said, waving out the back window at the familiar cream weatherboard we’d lived in all our lives. I refused to look back.
All the way to Manna Bend,
(Sorry to interrupt, but: mum? manna bend? is this Australia?)
I hunched down in the seat and listened to my iPod. Nicky sat in the back seat, clutching his box of magic tricks, staring out the window. Every now and then he’d go, ‘Wow’ and point, but it was only something dumb like a cow or a sheep. I hated how enthusiastic he was, and knew it was mean, but meanness seemed to have replaced blood in my veins.
I'm... cautiously hopeful.
The removal van followed us like a lame dog that was scared it’d get lost before we made it to our new house. New old house. I’d already seen a photo of it, and it was beyond renovation. It needed demolition.
'Manna Bend hasn’t had a policeman for six months,’ Dad had told us. ‘This is a golden opportunity to put the dirty, nasty city behind us and make a new life.’ I’d blocked him out – I didn’t want to leave the city. But I’d lost my vote when I’d got into trouble and ended up in the Children’s Court. If moving to the back of nowhere and becoming a country cop would make Dad happy again, I’d have to give it a try. I owed him that.
‘Here we are,’ Dad announced, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Looking good, kids.’ A big sign flashed past that said 'Manna Bend.'
‘Watch out!’ I screeched, my feet digging into the floor.
No immediate issues, and I'm interested to read more. (Goodness, have I had too much wine? I would want to have a look at the manuscript at the office next morning, in the clearer light of my hangover.)
(Yes, Australian, hence the Mum and the cop, rather than Mom and sheriff.)
Aha! I was right!

8 Comments on First Pages: MG / Manna Bend, last added: 6/19/2009
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4. First Pages: YA / Final Score

The game was not going as planned.
It was a short season, eight games compared to the ten they’d played last year. With only one stadium, the rotation of football, baseball, and soccer was now shared with track and wrestling teams, in hopes that the added variety would quell the worst of the violence.
Decent voice, but I am immediately impatient with the way you're withholding information. What violence?
It had the opposite effect. The feet of thousands of fans stomped, rocking the stadium in the frigid wind. They were hungry, literally, and wanting entertainment, wanting, Alex Winter knew, as he lifted his head and panned the throngs, to kill someone.
Ok, some good tension. But still no clue for the reader, dammit. Really? The crowd wants to kill someone? Why??
Long ago they’d changed the scoring system. Alex was six when the meteors plunged to the earth, but days before that chaos he remembered sitting with his brother Garrett, eating popcorn from a ceramic bowl, watching football.
That's it. I'm lost, and getting pissed off. What kind of story is this? Where are we? What's going on?
After each touchdown, Alex would count on his fingers, trying to add six points and blurt out the new score before the scoreboard changed. Garrett would punch him if he got it wrong. Their father had just left the family, and their apartment, and minds felt large, liberated from his presence. Watching football with Garrett, Alex could forget the dark figure dragging him from his bed in the middle of the night, forget the terror that had hovered his every thought, forget the piles of papers, garbage, dishes stacked floor to ceiling, hoarded by his father, the telling indication of a sick, sick mind.
Grrr. I'm turning the page, but you've got about a paragraph more leeway before I stop reading.

10 Comments on First Pages: YA / Final Score, last added: 6/19/2009
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5. First Pages: YA / David

I ran for a lot of reasons. To keep in shape. To win races. To stay out of trouble.
Really? I didn't know a lot of kids growing up who wanted to stay out of trouble.
And sometimes I ran just for the heck of it. Today I followed the path by the river. It had enough inclines and twists to make any cross-country runner happy.
You've got a nice voice...
My feet pounded the ground with a steady thud, recording my progress. My muscles burned in that half pain and half pleasure kind of way that let me know that my body was working like it was supposed to. A well trained biological mechanism. Sweat soaked my shirt even though the wind had kicked up. The warmth of the day changed into a strange cloying humidity that raised the short hairs on the back of my neck.
And now I'm getting a little bored with the running stuff. Maybe a little less of that.
The last leg of the run, I think it was maybe at mile nine or ten, stretched out before me. Most of it was hidden in the trees. My car waited somewhere beyond them to take me home to a silent house. I didn’t pick up my pace.
Just past the dead pine with the stubborn cones still hanging from its branches, I jerked out of my running daze. I stopped, not believing what I saw. A woman lay curled on the ground. My stumbling steps took me closer. Blonde hair hid her face so that I couldn’t tell her age. She wore a pair of dark jeans and my attention fixed on the ugly color of red staining her arms and most of her shirt.
Your voice gets a little less confident when we reach what I assume is a murder scene, but I would turn the page. There's something promising in the flavor of this.

9 Comments on First Pages: YA / David, last added: 6/21/2009
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6. First Pages: MG / Last Will and Test-Taking

I, Steven Morgan Carter, being able to read and write, would like to give my stuff away if I die.
I'm interested.
After what happened earlier, I had to be sure the right things would be done. Just in case.
My little brother, Justin, can have any of my toys he wants. Mom can have my clothes, school pictures, and story notebook.
(Snort! Your laundry? She'll be so pleased.)
Dad can have my dictionaries. Andy, my best friend and the only one who understands Doorstep, can have him. And the red wagon we pull him around in. Pieter can have his checkerboard back, even though he’s been dead for five hundred years. I’ll tell you how to find him in a minute.
I'm intrigued. (Congratulations.)
Everything started this morning. We finished eating breakfast, and Dad did the usual kitchen scrub-down. Mom helped Justin with a school project. He had to decorate a potato in autumn colors. It sounds stupid, but Mom goes all out for school stuff. I wanted to go to Andy’s house, so I had to get busy finishing my own work. First thing I did was take off my socks. The only good thing about doing homework is I get to have my feet licked. It’s ticklish and slobbery, and I can sit at my desk for hours.
“Here you go, Doorstep.” I put another dog biscuit between my toes and read Miss Donnelly’s assignment. ‘Write an essay telling what you admire about yourself. Remember to give three good examples.’ Most of her other assignments are pretty dumb, so I’ve been getting bad grades. But this one looked easy. I ripped a blank page out of my notebook and began writing.
Well, I'm turning the page. I would have liked to have a better sense of why he thinks he's going to die by now, but this seems accessibly written and humorous. I just hope he doesn't go on and on in a journal. Writers seem especially prone to that trope (why do you suppose?), and it's quicksand for a lot of stories. Most kids do not spend a lot of time writing.

12 Comments on First Pages: MG / Last Will and Test-Taking, last added: 6/19/2009
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7. First Pages: MG / Fat Chance's Magic Map

Tony made a bet with the entire fifth grade class. If he didn’t get Mr. Chance’s magical map by his eleventh birthday, he was going to wash the kindergarten toilets every day for the rest of the school year.
Does fifth grade seem too old to believe in magical maps? Or maybe we just need more introduction to this story before we're supposed to take as a given such a thing's existence?
Some kids said that was desperate. Crazy. Just plain suicidal.
But Tony was a rule-breaker.
Nevertheless, Tony couldn’t ignore the Legend of Mr. Chance, as scribbled in a secret notebook on the back shelf of the Watson Elementary School library. The story filled the entire notebook except for the last page. Tony planned on writing the ending himself.
If I were feeling particularly short of patience on the day this was submitted to me, I might be done reading right here. The Legend of Mr. Chance? A secret notebook?

This is an important, but more conceptual, kind of telling rather than showing. When you deprive us of the experience of discovering the notebook and working through our doubts with the main character, you deprive us of action--and an important piece of the story. But you also place the burden of effort on the reader instead of on yourself. That's what show-not-tell is about: you, the writer, should be doing the work of convincing us of your story, rather than handing us the Cliff's Notes and expecting us to try to invest ourselves in the plot.
He stood in the library, skipping his dreaded math class, and read:
The Legend of Mr. Chance
Mr. Chance had only one purpose in life-to make miserable little kids even more miserable.
Little kids who laugh at his shiny bald head and big bulging belly.
Little kids who hide his glass eye under his wig collection.
Ok, I'm giggling.
Little kids who barge into his magic shop and mess up the fake vomit display.
In spite of myself, I'm a little intrigued.
In short, little kids who fart and burp and sneeze and cough and do all sorts of gross things. Kids who want a little more freedom from their parents and a little more sugar in their lunchboxes.
Kids just like you.
Mr. Chance enjoyed his purpose in life. His daily checklist included:

Spray two boys with girl’s perfume
Chop off the ponytail of a girl wearing a pretty pink dress
Switch the homework of a kindergarten kid with the homework of a fifth-grader
Throw pies at six kids
Throw mud at seven kids

You can probably guess by now, Mr. Chance did not attend the School For Treating Kids With Kindness. But Mr. Chance wasn’t always a half-bald, half-blind, big ol’ bucket of mean.
The last line switches to a different voice.
This has some interest and humor, and it may be going someplace marketable. If I were feeling generous, I might turn the page. But the show-not-tell issue is the kind that is likely to crop up again and again in a manuscript, and if that happens, I'm really sorry, but I don't have the time to fix that with you after acquisition.

10 Comments on First Pages: MG / Fat Chance's Magic Map, last added: 6/21/2009
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8. First Pages: MG / Big Red

“Mom, look!” Patrick remembered saying. “A playground. Can I go on the swings? Please!” “We can’t stay, sweetie,” Mom said. “We only came so you could have a peek at Grandpa’s magical fishing camp. I told Grandma we’d be back quickly with butter and sugar. You want shortbread cookies after dinner, don’t you?" Sure he did. He loved Grandma’s cookies more than anything in the world. Well, except for Mom and Grandma of course. He’d been hearing about Big Red’s Fishin’ Hole for so long though, he wanted more than just a peek. “Why’s it magical?” Patrick asked. Mom gave him one of those can’t-tell-you-it’s-a-secret looks. “Maybe some day you’ll find out.” “Can’t I swing, just for a minute?” At five years old Patrick was a playground expert and decided this looked like a good one. “We’ll come back another time,” Mom said. “You can then.” But that promise never happened. That night Dad overheard Patrick tell Grandpa that they sneaked to the camp and how he wanted to play on the swings so much. Dad was furious and made Mom swear to never take Patrick there again. And for the next seven years none of them—not Patrick, his mom, nor his dad—had taken been there. That was about to change. In less than an hour he would be at the camp for the second time ever.
I am having the feeling that you write a lot of picture books. The language and feel of this is putting us close to the 5-year-old MC, rather than to the middle grade MC we need to identify with-- it's making this text sound too young.

And I'm worried about the swings. Why are they in here? Why are they important? They're part of your very beginning-- more than that, your first sentence. They'd better be more than a transient plot device to justify the 'coming back' element, which could easily be achieved some other way.

Beginnings are first impressions. Your readers are going to remember yours, so make it count.

After you age-up the tone, and either cut the swings or make their role in the book's plot more clear, I would suggest that you give us a hint--just a foreshadowing-- of what the MC found at the fishing camp, and what he expects to find there now.

12 Comments on First Pages: MG / Big Red, last added: 5/12/2009
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9. First Pages: YA / The Outlook Is Bleak

I am death. Some people call me the Grim Reaper. If you're one of those people, I'm probably not what you're expecting. I don't have a scary, black hood that covers my face. I don't have a scythe and I am not silent or 'grim'. My bones are far from frail and skeletal beneath my black cloak -- another item I don't have.
Your voice is very conversational, which is an interesting start to something narrated by death. But for that reason, I don't think you need that first sentence. Punch up the casual feel of this voice, rather than going for the drama. I also think you don't need that last sentence, which is a tad confusing.
My name is Blake Deakin, or at least that's what I call myself around normal people. When I'm with other Reapers – there are about fifty of us – we use another name: Bleak. As in, the outlook is bleak. I'm a teenager. I bet you weren't expecting that, eh? Most teenagers have jobs at the local supermarket, me – well, my job isn't so much a job as a lifestyle. An unpleasant one.
Still interested. "I bet you weren't expecting that, eh?" sounded off to me, though. Who says "eh?" south of Canada?
I do everything a typical teenager does. I live with my parents, fight with my siblings and go to high school, a hell far worse than any other. At the moment, I'm about to do the one thing I do that isn't so typical: write names in a book.
Instantly bored at the start of this part. You're telling where you should be showing. Let us discover these normal parts of his life naturally--and milk those moments of realization for as much irony and humor as you can. They're in there.
I pop open the bottom drawer of my mahogany desk and flip through the things on top impatiently. My English book, a few sheets of loose paper, a dictionary and then, the Book of the Living. I pull out the brown tome and set it on my table, eyeing it with reverence. Picking it up, I trace the spidery words that run down the side. I've read and reread those words so many times that I don't need to read them to know what they say: I decide who lives.
Something about 'mahogany' and 'brown tome' are sounding forced and out of place to me. Keep the language teenaged to best play up what's so interesting about this scenario.

Overall, not at all bad. Maybe publishable. I'd like to see you connecting your reader to your quirky, unusual MC earlier and stronger, though.

15 Comments on First Pages: YA / The Outlook Is Bleak, last added: 5/12/2009
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