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Now then. Time for the Page Critique. First I’ll present the page without comment, then I’ll offer my thoughts and a redline. If you choose to offer your own thoughts, please be polite. We aim to be positive and helpful.
Random numbers were generated, and thanks to Echo, whose page is below:
TItile: THE HOUR OF THE SNAKETHE STORM
THE STORM
Summer 2017Digging. Mary rummaged through the glove compartment of the 1973 Mercedes-Benz. Delving. She tossed out an expired registration, two empty pill bottles, and a deck of tarot cards before noticing eyes glaring at her. The homemade voodoo doll resembled somebody she once knew, and she did not dare look back, opting to pocket a Trojan condom instead. Finally, she spotted an open pack of Marlboro Reds. “Oh, thank, God,” she gasped, snatching the cigarettes. “I thought I was gonna have to wait till after the funeral to buy more smokes.”
Dwelling. Mary deflated into the passenger seat and lit the lone germ. She cracked the window and took a drag. Exhaling, she polluted the parking lot of Brooklyn’s Holy Cross Cemetery. For a second, then two, she observed the mist of smoke depart. It seemed to dance up, up, up into the heavens. Mary almost waved goodbye, but before she got the chance, an eerie, chilling breeze swept through the lot, robbing any existing cheerfulness. Flinching, goosebumps crawled onto Mary’s skin like bloodthirsty spiders from Hell itself on this dark and cold … summer’s day.
Mary set the thought aside while setting the cigarette on a 7-Up can. Pulling off her shirt and Levi’s cut-off denim shorts, she replaced them with a black slip-dress. Simple. Sexy. In an attempt to brighten the mood, Mary smiled at the driver, her childhood bestie, Valentina Sahira. “Thanks again, Valentina, for letting me borrow this dress, ‘cause it’s like … perfect!” she exclaimed.
Valentina didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Instead, drool dripped from her mouth as her eyes fluttered like a butterfly with two broken wings trapped in a mason jar. Her head nodded down, down, down, bobbling off her neck. Glimpsing Valentina’s flask on the dashboard sitting next to a handful of A.A. sobriety chips, Mary swayed her head, quipping, “That’s a fold.” It was.
There are some strong elements to this page, and the overall image in the opening has potential. I also really like the closing quip about “folding” a game with A.A. sobriety chips.
That said, the approach to the writing and storytelling makes this page needlessly confusing. Because the overall scene isn’t established at the start and the Mercedes is described as just “the Mercedes” as if Mary doesn’t know whose it is, I initially thought she was rummaging through a random car. When Valentina eventually shows up, I thought she was arriving in a separate car. It was extremely disorienting to realize they were in the same car and I had to go back and read the page again.
Be sure and set the overall setting and be clear who is present.
In addition, quite a few of these sentences feel overstuffed with excess verbiage and make the reading experience needlessly choppy. Pare back the excess in order to let the good ideas shine.
This felt particularly glaring with all the looking and seeing Mary is doing. In a third person limited perspective, you don’t need to always point out when a character sees something unless it’s truly additive. If you just describe the object, by definition we know they’re seeing it.
Here’s my redline:
TItile: THE HOUR OF THE SNAKE
THE STORMTHE STORM
Summer 2017Digging. Mary rummaged through the glove compartment of
theher childhood bestie’s Valentina Sahira’s 1973 Mercedes-Benz [“The “Mercedes implies she doesn’t know whose it is. I initially read this as Mary rummaging through a stranger’s car] in Brooklyn’s Holy Cross Cemetery on a dark and cold summer’s day [Set the overall scene so we can visualize this]. Delving. She tossed out an expired registration, two empty pill bottles, and a deck of tarot cards.before noticing[Clunky. In a third person limited POV it doesn’t need to be pointed out that the protagonist is noticing something] The glaring eyesglaring at her. Theof a homemade voodoo doll that resembled somebody she once knew [We’re not “allowed” to know who this is?], and she did not dare look back,[If she did not look back, how did she see it enough to recognize someone? Feels contrived]opting toShe pocketed a Trojan condominstead. Finally, she spottedand snatched an open pack of Marlboro Reds.“Oh, thank, God,” she gasped to Valentina
, snatching the cigarettes. “I thought I was gonna have to wait till after the funeral to buy more smokes.”Dwelling. Mary deflated into the passenger seat and lit the lone germ. She cracked the window and took a drag.
Exhaling, she polluted the parking lot of Brooklyn’s Holy Cross Cemetery. For a second, then two, she observed tThemist ofsmokedepart. It seemed todancedup, up, upinto the heavens. Mary almost waved goodbye[Belaboring and I just am not really believing this], but before she got the chance, aAn eerie, chilling breeze swept through the lot, robbing any existing cheerfulness.Flinching, gGoosebumps crawled ontoMary’s skin like bloodthirsty spiders from Hell itselfon this dark and cold … summer’s day. [Feels overwrought/overstuffed]Mary set
the thought aside while setting thecigarette on a 7-Up can.PullingShe pulled off her shirt and Levi’s cut-offsdenim shorts,sheand replaced [You know how I feel about front-loaded sentences] them with a black slip-dress. Simple. Sexy.In an attempt to brighten the mood,Mary smiled atthe driver,her childhood bestie,Valentina.“Thanks agai
n, Valentina,for letting me borrow this dress, ‘cause it’s like … perfect!”sheMary exclaimed.Valentina
didn’tcouldn’t answer.She couldn’t. Instead, dDrool dripped from her mouth.as hHer eyes fluttered like a butterfly withtwobroken wingstrapped in a mason jar[Overdoing it again]. Her headnodded down, down, down, bobbling off her neckbobbled.GlimpsingValentina’s flask on the dashboardsittingsat next to a handful of A.A. sobriety chips,.Mary swayed her head
, quipping,. “That’s a fold.”It was.
Thanks again to Echo!
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Art: Ein Friedhof im Salzkammergut by Franz Xaver Reinhold
Am I the only one who hates constant brand mentioning? Maybe its just me, but I would tone it down. Is there any reason to mention the brand and year of the car? I don’t even know if the car is new or vintage so it doesn’t really convey any useful information. Also have you ever tried changing women’s clothing in a car. (Possibly not, Nathan, but I have) You do not just take off your shorts that easily and ‘slip into’ what sounds like a tight dress, so wriggle, wriggle, tug, wriggle. (Did a guy write that?) Just my thoughts.
I’ve changed clothes in my car several times, but I’m a guy. But I’ve watched my wife change into a dress so, yeah, I know what you mean.
Interesting page. Don’t think I’ve ever read a passage describing this. Still curious to know what the hell is going on, though. Some writers will really stretch out building to the story. I’ve been known to do that.