Page Critique: Let actions speak for themselves

Page critique Tuesday!

If you would like to nominate your page for a future Page Critique Event, please enter it in this thread in the Forums. Also, I’m offering personal consultations and edits if you’re interested in that.

First I’ll present the page without comment, then I’ll offer my thoughts and a redline. If you choose to offer up your own thoughts, please be exceedingly polite and remember the sandwich rule: Positive, constructive advice, positive.

Random numbers were generated, and thanks to XXX, whose page is below:

Gone, Kitty, Gone: A Brock Rockster Mystery 

Middle-grade mystery/comedy

I smashed my steel-toed loafer through the front door and tumbled in, where I landed face-first on the floor of the large, dark foyer.

“Worst! Day! Ever!” I yelled. I knew everyone in the house was sleeping, but I didn’t care. I was upset, and with good reason.

“Carver!” I picked myself off the ground. “Carver! We need to talk!”

My perfect record had been shattered. When I woke up this morning I had been Brock Rockster, The Boy Who Always Got His Man, the twelve-year-old mustache prodigy and world’s greatest private investigator to the stars. I was untouchable, unstoppable, and undefeated – but not anymore. After today’s calamity, I didn’t know what I was.

I saw a room dimly lit off to the right and stomped toward it, each step echoing through the otherwise silent house. A reading lamp glowed in the room’s far corner over the head of Carver McCarver, who sat at her desk surrounded by stacks of papers and folders.

“Hello, pard,” she said. She finished reading the sheet in front of her before looking up. “Find Mr. Janston’s statue?”

“Janston got his weird little sculpture back just fine, Carver, but it wasn’t me that found it,” I said.

I took my fedora hat off, and Carver tipped her Stetson back in response. Carver was well over ninety years old, but had the energy of someone a third her age, and the wisdom of someone who’d seen the pyramids built.

This is an extremely solid, nay, excellent, nay, nearly flawless first page. The voice is strong, there’s some solid wit and humor, the concept is fun, and I enjoyed the descriptions. Very very well done and I want to read more.

I’m going to pick two nits here. The first is a very common mistake, which is over-telling emotion. After Brock stumbles in and yells, ““Worst! Day! Ever!” and notes that he doesn’t care if he wakes everyone up, it’s a bit redundant to then say, “I was upset, and with good reason.” It’s already apparent.

People often say show-don’t-tell, and this is one of those classic cases. Show emotion, don’t say what the emotion is. People will get it.

Secondly, people don’t generally say each other’s names in the middle of a sentence, and it can sometimes break up the flow to include it. I’d remove “Carver” from the second to last paragraph.

But seriously, those are two arguable small changes that are arguable. This is in very good shape. My redline:

Gone, Kitty, Gone: A Brock Rockster Mystery 

Middle-grade mystery/comedy

I smashed my steel-toed loafer through the front door and tumbled in, where I landed face-first on the floor of the large, dark foyer.

“Worst! Day! Ever!” I yelled. I knew everyone in the house was sleeping, but I didn’t care. I had a good reason to be upset.

“Carver!” I picked myself off the ground. “Carver! We need to talk!”

My perfect record had been shattered. When I woke up this morning I had been Brock Rockster, The Boy Who Always Got His Man, the twelve-year-old mustache prodigy and world’s greatest private investigator to the stars. I was untouchable, unstoppable, and undefeated – but not anymore. After today’s calamity, I didn’t know what I was.

I saw a room dimly lit off to the right and stomped toward it, each step echoing through the otherwise silent house. A reading lamp glowed in the room’s far corner over the head of Carver McCarver, who sat at her desk surrounded by stacks of papers and folders.

“Hello, pard,” she said. She finished reading the sheet in front of her before looking up. “Find Mr. Janston’s statue?”

“Janston got his weird little sculpture back just fine, Carver, but it wasn’t me that found it,” I said.

I took my fedora hat off, and Carver tipped her Stetson back in response. Carver was well over ninety years old, but had the energy of someone a third her age, and the wisdom of someone who’d seen the pyramids built.

Nice work!

Art: Sherlock Holmes by Frederic Dorr Steele