- I will be kind.
- But I won't withhold the truth either.
- I will look at grammar, clarity, structure, usage, and all those other pesky English teacher things.
- I'll also evaluate the uniqueness of the piece. And I'll welcome other reader's comments. (Particularly those who disagree with my critique).
- One sentence telling me the context of your paragraph.
- Your paragraph.
This is from an article about Hamsters as therapy.
A well known fact in elder care circles is the therapeutic use of weekly animal visits for residents. Care centers see a sharp rise in activity levels, happiness quotients, and flea distribution after each pet visit. What they don't yet realize is they can further elevate residents' joy levels (without those pesky fleas) if they'd simply use what veterinarian Bob Fuzzy calls, "The Hamster Cure." Fuzzy has dedicated his life to placing Habitrails in Nursing Homes, and the result has been astounding. "All I wanted to do was play Bingo and eat jello," said Eloise Farmer, "That is, until Hammy came along." She stroked Hammy's silken fur, smiling. While tying a bonnet on Hammy's head, she added, "She's changed my perspective on life."
So, submit away. In the next weeks and months, I'll be critiquing your pieces.
Stumble It!
20 comments:
Struggling in an abusive household, nine-year-old Lissa MacGregor must contend with her father as well as the fact that God won't save her from him.
I couldn't see him from where I was sitting, but I was pretty sure he was grittin' his teeth. He had a way of doing that when he was mad. His jaw would get real tight and his lips would curl a little as he pushed mean words through his clamped teeth. I never knew if his face looked like that 'cause those mean guys were struggling to get through, or if there were meaner ones he was straining to hold back. Since he didn't really hold back much, I was pretty sure it was the other.
This paragraph introduces my 3 year-old character, Colin.
The boy is little, not quite four. Like his dad, he's got fiery red hair. His parents believe that he's possessed of a quiet intelligence that transcends his age. But most parents feel that way about their children. He seems to get on better with adults than with kids his age. This little guy, though he probably couldn't put it into words, just wants to fit in.
Ok, when I copied and pasted this, it seemed about the same length. Now I'm not as sure(Hopefully it's just because it includes dialogue). This section comes after Prince Veylan, the main character has disappeared from the castle, and is about how Dameon, his friend, finds out about it. (I've been having some issues with this scene, so critiques are REALLY helpful.) Thank you, Mary!
King Terdan and Prince Starfa were acting no differently than usual, and gave no indication that Veylan’s absence was unexpected. They and the other two priests simply sat in their usual spots in the Star. Dameon thought of asking Starfa what had happened, then quickly dismissed the idea. Starfa would likely take insult to being spoken to without a request, and would probably find some way to punish him for his temerity. Dameon certainly did not have any sort of the familiarity with Starfa as he did with Veylan. He was certain that Starfa only tolerated him because of his brother. He would have to see if one of the other courtiers knew what was going on after the Star was over.
“Please, my son has been coughing for three days now!” The man currently in front of the king pulled a sickly-looking child in front of him. The boy was coughing every few seconds, and his whole body shook with each cough.
“Step forward, child.” The child stepped forward timidly, and the king placed a hand on the boy’s forehead. A few seconds later, the coughing was gone, and the boy ran back to his father, laughing all the way.
“Thank you, your Majesty!” the man shouted, bowing before disappearing into the crowd.
True account of a friend who fought his way out of the homosexual lifestyle told in first person. Opening paragraph:
Fear ruled my childhood. I was molested on a regular basis by a young man in my parent’s church from the age of five until I was seven-years old. After we moved to another town and he became a steady visitor, my mother’s suspicions were aroused. When she questioned me, I told her the truth. My parents banned him from our home, but the seeds of despair and dysfunction had been planted.
This is a short article on the Proverbs 31 women from the perspective of a women that is no longer married, a topic that doesn't often come up in Proverbs 31 discussions.
Proverbs 31:29-“Many women have done wonderful things, but you’ve outclassed them all!” -the Message
NO!!! Not Again! Proverbs 31
Many of us that wear the big “D” as a Scarlet Letter look at the Proverbs 31 women and feel either slighted, angry or like a big fat failure. I have at times experienced all three of those emotions. Does a single woman, a widow or one that has been through a failed marriage have any business trying to relate to Ms. Perfect in Proverbs 31? Does any woman in our present day have any business for that matter? Of course we know that God would not have placed her in His most Holy
Word if He did not have something to teach us from her character and tenacity.
A woman who was raped as a teen is stalked by an obsessive co-worker.
He came up beside her like a cat on a midnight prowl. Drake Carter stopped four-inches from her shoulder. For a moment, she wondered if her past had caught up with her.
This is from an chapter discussing the concept of "transforming the mind", within an book on spiritual growth for young adults.
As we move through our day, a number of voices give commentary to our actions and feelings. One voice might sound like a punitive mother, chiding your missteps while laying down judgment on all people, places and things. Another is that of a petulant preschooler, insisting on your immediate wants and complaining about thwarted desires. Still another is the quiet but persistent voice of self-hate, weaving its own interpretation of a life where the villain is always you.
Whoops, trying again :-)
Rule-bending PI falls in love with the cop determined to halt her investigation of the mayor (contemp.romance)
“You don’t even come close to knowing me.” Rachel's hands flung up, whisking so close to his chin that he jerked back. “For your information, I don’t always bend the rules ..."
Grant regained his equilibrium and pushed his face close to hers. His eyes, pale in the moonlight, glittered like diamonds. “You’re the coldest woman I’ve ever met.”
This is my current wip. I know it needs work, but here goes. Thank you for looking at it. :) Pam
I, Reece Madison, am in way over my head here. What was I thinking when I let my best friend Landon talk me into coming to Africa? After two long days of heat and exhaustion, I can finally say I feel human again. The jet lag was awful.
Hey,
It's Pam again.
Maybe I should have set the above paragraph up for you.
My character is a pampered doctor from Scottsdale Arizona. She's used to manicures and hot rock massages, not bugs and things that growl in the night. She's having serious attitude issues as she faces her time on a medical team in Africa.
This is the beginning of the plot climax in a story about MC Will (author-omniscient), a currently seemingly unconscious young man who needs deliverance (this scene), and 2C Ralph (third-person, only), his burly pastor, speaking first into the intercom to his wife/secretary, and is followed by gross escalation of the spiritual battle in his office.
“Will’s here—pray!” he managed as he slumped Will into his desk chair. Kneeling at Will’s feet, Ralph began earnest battle of his own. “God, I feel so helpless here, in the middle of eternities for Will. Help me help him, Lord!” Grasping Will’s knees, he paused, then began with hushed pleas for their protection. Sniffing around him, he made a sour face—was it garlic? Huh. Shaking his head sharply, as if to clear it, he raised his voice in battle. “Jesus, You alone are mighty and powerful. I praise Your perfection and beauty. With all my heart I acknowledge your excellence and glory. The Kingdom and the power and the glory are Yours, forever, dearest Lord…” His voice faded to whisper as a vast weightlessness fell upon him and made him clutch Will’s knees tightly. Collecting himself, he led the charge, renouncing the enemy of Will’s soul, the bondage to past cruelty, lies, false guilt, and fear. The stillness in the room grew as Ralph’s prayers reduced to whispering again, then sighing of elements too deep for words. He eased his guard slightly.
A fugitive princess must keep the secret of the remnant of her people hidden beneath the city.
All she could feel was the rough spun fabric of Ruggles’ robe—clutched tight in her fist as though her life depended upon it. And it did—for there was not a lamp, nor torch, nor any bit of light she could detect in any direction.
Emily is visiting Ian’s house in Scotland and has recently told him she can’t marry him because she’s dying. She has spent the last two days trying to forget him and their last encounter. (There is more than one paragraph here for context sake, so maybe you'll want to just look at the last one?)
========================
She needed a distraction. A book. Something.
The bible Ian kept on the dresser would help clear her mind. She took it down and settled into the corner chair. It fell open with ease to the dedication page. The slightly faded inscription was penned in an elegant, feminine hand. Emily caught her breath at the words:
To my beloved Ian. My lover, my rock, my shield.
A noble, humble man of strength, dearly loved by God.
Philippians 4:13. Never forget. I love you, Katy
Through brimming tears, Emily focused on the date of the inscription. Nine years ago. She closed her eyes and replayed in her mind what Ian had told her about Katy. With a sinking heart, she realized his wife had given this bible to him the year she died.
She already knew Katy was a woman of faith and noble character. To Emily, she had become something of an icon. But these were the words of a real woman who not only admired and adored Ian, but also loved him. Body, mind and soul.
A queasy feeling churned in her stomach and she closed the bible. It felt wrong---like she’d read someone’s diary. She stared at the closed cover, but too late. The words had singed into her memory.
I'm a TWV2 member and our current topic is the first five pages. I even want my first few paragraphs to stand out so I'm submitting this to you for critique. These are the first two paragraphs of an inspirational speculative novel I'm working on. Does it intrigue you and make you want to read on?
I wanted to die. I wanted to close my eyes and give up the life within me. How could they ignore me like this? How could they dance around me, brushing past me as though I didn’t exist? If only one of their smiles were meant for me, perhaps I wouldn’t have felt so alone. Alone amidst all the frivolity. It seemed impossible. My ears pounded with their laughter, echoing in my head as if it rang out from far away instead of just within my grasp. They were so close I could touch them…if only they would notice me.
My fingers were bleeding again. I fought back the tears as I pulled cloth strips out of my pocket and wrapped them around my fingertips. I couldn’t allow the master to see me crying. And if I marred his clothing with my blood the punishment would be …well, let’s just say the scars from the numerous lashings had formed a unique pattern on my backside.
Hey, Mary. Thanks for suggesting a submit a paragraph for this!
OK, this is from my fantasy novel The Second Crown. One of my main characters, Jakon, is working as a spy for a rebel named Robert.
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“Sir Melthon told me to give you a warning.” Scott smiled thinly.
Jakon tried to jerk his head away. Scott’s hand moved from his arm to his hair, grabbing a handful and twisting.
Jakon winced. “A warning about what?”
“He wanted you to realize exactly how much we know, Jakon. The camp they’re going to attack is Robert’s training camp.” He laughed as he felt Jakon tense underneath him. “Now we couldn’t have you running off to warn them. And I’ve been given permission to knife you and Rhia in a second if I see or hear anything that looks slightly suspicious.”
"You're wasting your time."
This is the first paragraph in a YA Fantasy Novel. Thanks.
The night sky was perfectly black; void of the moon and stars. Deep shadows shrouded the mountain cliffs and valleys, resulting in a darkness so total that the world seemed drained of all light. No owls hooted, no crickets chirped, and no monsters stirred. There was only an eerie silence, as though nature itself was in a somber mood. Mystery hung in the air like a subtle, foreboding mist, whispering to the deepest corner of one’s heart that something terrible had happened.
Below is the first paragraph of my MG historical fiction about a young couple's first years of marriage in rural Appalachia.
Only my parents saw me get married that Saturday afternoon in 1908. It was a cool crisp autumn day and the leaves were a golden yellow and russet brown. They blew in the wind and rustled beneath my feet as I carried a bucket of cold well water into the kitchen. I laid down the bucket, placed the long handled dipper in it and smoothed my hair in place with my hands. I always wore my hair flowing down with the front tresses tied back from my face with a white ribbon. But this morning I piled up my light brown hair hoping this grown up style made me appear older than my 17 years. I tucked my crisp white blouse into my long gathered skirt. The freshly ironed ruffle hung down and covered the buttons of my blouse. They rolled smoothly up and down like the brightly colored hills surrounding our house.
thank you
The woman has just endured another abusive blow up with her manic-depressive husband and has taken the children on a day trip to escape and allow him to cool off.
I left the Canadian border behind me and waved with exaggerated exuberance at the “Welcome to the United States of America” road sign. I honked the horn and everyone in the car cheered. The children prattled on about the Sundog in the sky. There was much laughter. I lavished the children with merriment. I gaily pointed out things of interest as we passed by while my stomach knots refused to retreat, despite the lightheartedness in dialogue. I was still incensed. I cannot explain the toll the arguments with my husband take on me. I reason with my chest that all is well and that he always calms down and that he will be Mr. Helpful once I get home, but my heart still insists on aching. I rejoice at the good humor of the children, who on the surface appear unfazed, yet I still find moans uncontrollably escaping from my throat as I mull over my pain, causing the kids to cease their laughter to inquire, “what’s wrong, Mommy?” in sudden concern. I tell myself that “it could be worse” and how fortunate we are to be alive and breathing, but then I wonder, "Wouldn’t it be better to be dead?" I even thank God for the opportunity to momentarily escape and for the blessing of chocolate-box milieu to minister to my lonely soul, but then I grow bitter and angry that yet again my husband has robbed me of what should be my joy. I cannot enjoy my joy. Ever. Not my surroundings, not my friends, not my kids, not my life. I resolutely hold my panic in a half-nelson while the adventurous world hastens past without me. Without me! My adventurous world. The one I appreciate. Without a nod to my admiration, it whizzes by, as if my good opinion means nothing! “Quicker than a weaver’s shuttle.” It is gone. Why should I care? The world does not love me. Why should I want to love it?
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