At Jess' request, another excerpt from my current work:
I woke calling out, “No!”, tears blurring my vision. Three words pulsed in my head, an anthem I couldn’t disprove or silence.
Avery is dead.
I felt strongly it had come to pass. Had I stalked her in what was actually a waking dream? Had I stabbed the girl I loved, the one who traveled with my parents to Maine to visit my hospital bed?
My eyes tried to establish my surroundings. I sat up in bed, not sure I was still in the hospital. My sight burned and blurred and I wasn’t sure if it was my tears or the pain of the dream.
Avery is dead.
A soft voice I didn’t recognize said, “You’ll be OK.” It was light, female, and confident. It also came off, maybe in my confusion, as presumptuous and arrogant.
My sorrow turned on a dime and I was out of bed to my right in one fluid motion. It was the act of pushing off my elbows that told me I wasn’t in the hospital, or even in a bed. The softness beneath me didn’t have much give – like cushions spread over a cement floor. Only then did I smell remnants of a full night of incense burning. I was in Ms. Twilight’s lair.
“I won’t be OK,” I exploded. It poured out and scared me a little, but not enough to stop what I was doing.
“Calm down,” the voice pleaded and I placed it, but that didn’t stop me either. In less than two seconds I crossed fifteen feet of pillowed floor and took Bianca, the other-Avery, down with a right cross. She never saw it coming and never had a chance.
Bianca called out in surprise, but I didn’t let it go farther than that. I fell to my knees on her chest and clamped both hands on her throat.
Avery is dead. I both heard and felt the phrase and took it as a taunt. It was as if the girl beneath me, with no oxygen reaching her brain, was now mocking me. Her face was screwed up, trying to suck air past my clenched fingers. Was she mocking Avery’s pain? My pain? Was she trying to crack a smile at me, even as she died?
Now, as I write this account with fifteen years to reflect, I know Bianca wasn’t egging me on as she gasped for one last breath. I’d describe it all now as the thought process of a crazed lunatic. And on that night, that’s what I was – a crazed fucking lunatic.
After all, it seemed as if my dreams had already decided my path – that of a killer – and Avery Brodeur, who I professed to love, wore a bull’s eye. I tried to tell myself none of the subconscious bullshit mattered. I wasn’t CT and I didn’t know his blond victim. Shit, I didn’t think I could wield a knife with the calculated precision of either dream. And I certainly wouldn’t – couldn’t – hurt my Avery.
Why, then, all the signs? Why did I hear Avery calling out to me on the car ride to Maine? Why had I been seemingly drawn to Bianca, Avery’s dead ringer? Then there was my first encounter with Ms. Twilight and what she’d seen me doing in her vision. Finally in this heap of (was paranormal the right term? I still don’t know) evidence was my dream in which I stabbed Avery, herself.
Before Bianca’s death, I was so sure all those things didn’t matter. They didn’t have to matter. But in the wake of her death – of my murdering her – vague shadows of an undesirable future started to solidify, if only a little. Hadn’t I taken the first step toward fulfilling the other visions? Would there be other victims? Would more of my loved ones be those victims?
My hands retreated slowly from her throat. My white knuckles offered a heavy contrast to the red finger lines already forming across Bianca’s neck. I fell to my left, rolling off the body and pushed up to my feet.
There was no stumbling this time. I complied with the only thought I had. Run. I burst out of Ms. Twilight’s front door and sprinted past the carousel, turning left up Old Orchard Beach Road. For all I knew at that moment, it could have been the same day Ms. Twilight had visited me in the hospital or it could have been a week later.
The carnival area was deserted and I assumed it was after midnight. I’d never seen this area so empty of life and the silence, beyond my footfalls, frightened me.
A handful of cars took up the metered spots running west up the slightly inclined road, less than a quarter-mile long. A shout in the distance, behind me and to my right, nearly made me jump out of my shoes, but I made it for a few drunken revelers getting all they could out of another summer night in Maine.
With no idea where I was headed or what my immediate objective was, I turned left at the top of the hill onto Route 5, which led to downtown Saco and Interstate 95. I settled to a walk, realizing I should probably try to look just a hair less panicked.
Headlights came up on me from behind. A dark Ford Taurus passed, likely making their way back to their hotel. I spotted what seemed to be stationary headlights ahead and to my left.
Rounding a slight bend, I saw the source and my stomach tried to make its way up my throat and into my mouth. An Old Orchard Beach police cruiser was parked in the otherwise empty BeachSide Drug and Pharmacy parking lot. The drug store was dark, except for track lights running along the signage over the sliding doors.
I had to figure the officer had spotted me. It was a near certainty unless he was asleep, so I had no choice but to continue at my leisurely pace and pass right in front of his car.
I gave his car another glance and saw he was, in fact, upright and awake. I averted my eyes to the front, following the quiet road as Route 5 made another bend to the right and toward a series of run down motels. I thought I might whistle, as everyone knows that whistling equals innocence - or maybe, just the opposite. Sadly, I can’t whistle. For whatever reason, I was never able to pick up the intricate skills required of the lips and tongue, working in tandem like brass and percussion sections of an organic orchestra.
As I passed through the beams of the cruiser’s headlights, my mouth in a silent circle to feign a whistle, the transmission groaned. The officer backed out of the parking space and went for the exit. My heart raced, but really what could I do? If I took off like a bolt, I’d be fleeing on foot in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I might as well write a confession. Without halting my forward momentum, I wagered a glance back toward the parking lot entrance. I thought if Bianca’s body had been found this quickly (and that was very unlikely), that he’d open up with a siren and flashing lights and I could at least watch him make the right back down Old Orchard Beach Road before I ran for it.
No lights, no siren. In fact, the officer turned left out of the parking lot and moved in the same direction I was headed, passing me without a glance. The only downside was that he’d be able to recall me as someone leaving the relative area once the body was found.
Frankly, I didn’t care. He would have no idea who the hell I was in a tourist town and, ideally, I’d be back home before much of an investigation could be mounted.
I kept my pace, casual but steady, and came upon a darkened Getty gas station and service shop. There was very little parking lot here and no lights at all, save for a small white and blue bell insignia over a tilting payphone.
For a moment, I thought I’d try to reach my parents. If they were still in Maine, I could catch a ride at the very least. If they were still in Maine, I assumed they were staying in Biddeford near the hospital, probably along Route 111. That would be a long walk from where I was. It would take hours and I felt a mounting pressure to get off the streets. Then again, if murder investigations in small Maine towns were as sophisticated as television made them out to be, a call made so close to Bianca’s time of death could ultimately be traced to them.
No. It was better to at least get to Route 1 in Saco before trying to get a ride.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Upcoming
Well, my 6 weeks helping out back at ABS Ventures is over. The bad news is, How will I put food on the table? The good news: I don't have to convince myself to write. I can just get back to my fixed, 3 hours a week or whatever escape I can manage.
But is this good?
Ask any popular published author. Read their websites. In order to do this - to write - you have to write. You have to write when you're inspired, but you also have to write when it seems difficult. If you want to be a professional author, to derive income from the writing you love, you have to treat the pursuit like a career; or worse, a job.
I haven't been able to get there yet. I seem to need the perfect conditions. Very frustrating.
My upcoming mission, if I choose to accept it, is to fix the bugs that prevent me from sitting each night and making progress.
But is this good?
Ask any popular published author. Read their websites. In order to do this - to write - you have to write. You have to write when you're inspired, but you also have to write when it seems difficult. If you want to be a professional author, to derive income from the writing you love, you have to treat the pursuit like a career; or worse, a job.
I haven't been able to get there yet. I seem to need the perfect conditions. Very frustrating.
My upcoming mission, if I choose to accept it, is to fix the bugs that prevent me from sitting each night and making progress.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Chapter 6 from the novel I'm currently working on; "A Hunger"
After a filling dinner of clam fritters and fish and chips, Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp headed to a local watering hole by the beach. Johnny and I walked them down the hill from our motel to the Old Orchard Beach Pier and promised not to stay out too late. The beach-side carnival glimmered in the night, an oasis of electric fun along the miles and miles of beach. I could hear the waves lapping in a rhythmic pulse and figured the tide was coming in.
The beach at night smells much different than it does during the day. Sun block and surf are replaced, at Old Orchard anyway, by fried dough and pheromones. Laughter and pitched conversations surrounded us as we crossed by the circular water fountain and headed first for the arcade. Several people sat around the fountain’s base eating pizza and cotton candy and drinking who knows what out of paper cups.
I wasted $10 each on Beachhead and Star Wars while Johnny got laughed at by a group of pre-adolescents for his foibles at QuickShot, the basketball simulation with an obscenely narrow rim.
Johnny had just dipped his face into frozen lemonade when I saw her. My left hand shot out and found my friend’s ribs. He spluttered, coughed and wiped his nose as the icy treat entered his nostrils and splashed his forehead, then spilled on his shoes.
“There she is,” I said without taking my eyes from her.
“Who, goddammit?”
“Who do you think?” He shrugged, not taking the time even to look up from the slippery mess that had been so promising a purchase. “Orange bikini at eleven o’clock.”
I broke off the conversation, leaving Johnny staring at the ground, and started a brisk power-walk toward the girl. Despite the reference point I’d used, she was no longer clad in her swimwear. Her look was now more appropriate for a night of merriment, teenage style. I focused, per my preferences, on her white spaghetti-strap tank top. It hugged her as nicely as her bikini top had, though it was made up of much more material. The tank top was complimented by Daisy Duke-style cutoff jean shorts and purple flip-flops. Her hair was down, something my Avery rarely did, and perhaps an inch past her shoulders.
My Avery, as if the one I was now stalking was someone else’s Avery.
She hadn’t seen me and likely wouldn’t. I’d caught her in profile and she had now turned away from me, flanked by two other girls. They were proceeding, three across, out the far end of the arcade and toward the kiddie rides area.
I stopped short, maybe fifteen feet behind her, as the three were accosted by two haughty older boys. The girls (I’d guess they were all closer to sixteen) scoffed at the crooked hats and tattooed arms and made a quick right turn.
“Slow down, you psycho.” Johnny was back at my shoulder, offering his typical encouragements.
“I need a better look at her face. Don’t ask me why.”
“You need your fucking head examined.” He was still licking the frozen lemonade off his fingers. I could smell the citrus aroma and probably would until he scrubbed it off with turpentine.
I wasn’t close enough to make out conversation between the three girls, but for some reason, I was OK with that. I didn’t need to hear her. I needed to look into her eyes. They laughed enthusiastically, as teenage girls do, and the sound chilled me. It was as if I was following my girlfriend’s ghost. I could watch her, but a dark veil prevented interaction of any kind.
She circled the kiddie rides, finishing by the orcas that dipped and rose in a sickening circle. Small children laughed and waved to parents, their heads thrown back each time the whale hit the track’s trough and turned up again. I maintained my distance and other-Avery, as I thought of her, retraced the original path in the reverse direction, then forked right toward the grand carousel and the beach entrance by the pier. Johnny padded along next to me in silence, struck that way by the sketchiness of our pursuit.
To our left now was a series of kiosks hocking Old Orchard Beach sweatshirts, tank tops, hats, then pizza, fried dough and soft drinks, then all types of tiny ceramic trinkets and costume jewelry. One of the girls with other-Avery stopped and pointed at the fourth kiosk – a fortune teller. The signage over the single door read, MS. TWILIGHT, with menu items below in smaller font – palms, tarot, fortunes told.
Holy shit, I thought. Someone either has a sense of humor and a couple of bucks burning her pockets or someone is a complete quack. Hey, other-Avery, I’m an Aries. Will my girlfriend survive the week without me? I felt another chill. I had no particular feeling either way on the rhetorical question, but still didn’t want to know the answer.
“What are you doing, now?” Johnny reached out for my arm and I felt his fingers brush my elbow as I altered course to match the girls’ maneuver. Ms. Twilight was ‘in session’, as told to us by a small off-white card hanging on her windowed door. The writing was stilted calligraphy and difficult to decipher.
Other-Avery and her cohorts queued up to the door’s left, as suggested by a small painted path on the cement. Without really knowing what I’d do next or why, I darted left and was fourth in line, just behind the object of my day’s obsession.
--
In turn, each of the two unnamed accessories entered, was behind the closed door for five or so minutes and emerged with a skeptical look. As the second went in, the first told other-Avery she needed to powder her nose and would meet the other two by Dunkin Donuts, up Old Orchard Beach Road just beyond the train tracks.
That meant I had five minutes to strike up my courage and engage her in conversation, if only to see her eyes. There was a determination I could make by looking into her eyes, I was sure, even if I had no idea why or what it would tell me.
Before I was ready, Johnny decided it was time to act. Actually, his sinuses did. He let out a vicious sneeze, perhaps to clear out the remainder of the sugary meltings that had been his lemonade. He jarred my left arm and knocked me off balance. Horrified, I took an unsteady step forward and knocked other-Avery’s purse off her shoulder. The purse was huge and pink and bordered on being a backpack. How much can a girl possibly need at a moment’s notice to burden themselves with such a weight at all times?
The back-purse dropped to hang on her wrist and if her hand hadn’t been in her pocket it may have hit the cement. Perhaps, it would have spilled its embarrassing (boys have to assume its innards are of an embarrassing nature, if only to explain the secrecy involved) contents in a small circle. I would’ve had no choice but to help her retrieve her belongings – her intimate belongings.
Uh, sorry miss. Please excuse my clumsiness. Here’s your wallet, if you carry such a thing, and here’s your…um - what the hell is this circle of tiny colored pills for? And why are they four different colors arranged by days of the week?
The purse held fast to her wrist. “I’m very sorry,” I said to her, shooting poor Johnny my best death look.
She leaned around me and to Johnny said, “God Bless you.” Only then did she look up to me. My face flushed, heat prickled at my ears and I averted my gaze. I knew this feeling. When presented with a pretty girl, tradition told me to either run or play stupid. Well, my Avery calls it stupid; I prefer to think of it as cute and innocent.
“I’m Carter.” It was the only thing in my head at the time – my name. Like the world’s biggest tool, I thrust out my right hand, offering her a shake. Idiot. She looked down at my hand, then back at my face. She didn’t take my hand and I never really expected she would.
“Bianca,” she said. Then she did the amazing. She leaned around me again to address my friend. “Your friend’s cute.”
Jesus, this was worse than having knocked a case of condoms out of her purse. My cheeks, ears and neck were on fire. A nervous smile played at the corners of my mouth and I felt an urgent need to say, Aw, shucks.
“Thanks,” I said instead, one sneaker kicking the other. I had nothing more profound. My head was down, my gaze focused on my shoes, but I could discern her looking finally at my face, instead of communicating through witticisms to Beauchamp.
I looked up and met her eyes. Our eyes couldn’t have been two feet away from each other. Bianca had Asian facial and eye features – high cheekbones, the epicanthic fold of the upper eyelid. It made her no less beautiful, but for whatever reason a great weight was lifted from my figurative shoulders. I felt as though I should immediately get on the horn to actual-Avery and organize a celebration. She’d be alright, simply because Bianca was not her ghost, but another human being altogether. Ridiculous? Absolutely; every single word and thought process – but that is how I felt at that moment.
“Kat ran off to the can,” Bianca said to her friend, as the second girl emerged from the kiosk. “I’ll meet you guys.” She gestured with her head in the general direction of the facilities.
Bianca didn’t afford me a second glance. My nose caught a wave of her flowery perfume as her head swung away from me. The girl who was not Avery ducked inside the fortune teller’s kiosk to have her eyes opened, to have her future laid out before her, to have some middle-aged hag recite vagaries in a mystic and mysterious manner.
--
“Goddamn you, Johnny Beauchamp!”
My best friend in the world distracted me for ten seconds to offer me a smothered sausage sandwich (I smelled his approach before I saw him) and I missed Bianca come out of Ms. Twilight’s and disappear.
I was missing something important. There was a reason, as yet unclear to me, that I saw her bikini earlier that day.
I sighed, filed the thoughts away and accepted the greasy sausage covered in sautéed onions and red peppers. The roll was a little hard and the sausage had probably sat out for twelve hours, but I crammed three gargantuan bites in my mouth. I chewed as quickly as I could, scraps falling from my lips, and handed the remaining half sandwich back to Johnny. Tendrils of grease – or was it Avery’s blood – leaked from the day-old bread between my fingers.My visit to Ms. Twilight, however, would reintroduce panic to my system - the way a steak knife never had. I smiled, patted Johnny’s shoulder and crossed destiny’s threshold.
The beach at night smells much different than it does during the day. Sun block and surf are replaced, at Old Orchard anyway, by fried dough and pheromones. Laughter and pitched conversations surrounded us as we crossed by the circular water fountain and headed first for the arcade. Several people sat around the fountain’s base eating pizza and cotton candy and drinking who knows what out of paper cups.
I wasted $10 each on Beachhead and Star Wars while Johnny got laughed at by a group of pre-adolescents for his foibles at QuickShot, the basketball simulation with an obscenely narrow rim.
Johnny had just dipped his face into frozen lemonade when I saw her. My left hand shot out and found my friend’s ribs. He spluttered, coughed and wiped his nose as the icy treat entered his nostrils and splashed his forehead, then spilled on his shoes.
“There she is,” I said without taking my eyes from her.
“Who, goddammit?”
“Who do you think?” He shrugged, not taking the time even to look up from the slippery mess that had been so promising a purchase. “Orange bikini at eleven o’clock.”
I broke off the conversation, leaving Johnny staring at the ground, and started a brisk power-walk toward the girl. Despite the reference point I’d used, she was no longer clad in her swimwear. Her look was now more appropriate for a night of merriment, teenage style. I focused, per my preferences, on her white spaghetti-strap tank top. It hugged her as nicely as her bikini top had, though it was made up of much more material. The tank top was complimented by Daisy Duke-style cutoff jean shorts and purple flip-flops. Her hair was down, something my Avery rarely did, and perhaps an inch past her shoulders.
My Avery, as if the one I was now stalking was someone else’s Avery.
She hadn’t seen me and likely wouldn’t. I’d caught her in profile and she had now turned away from me, flanked by two other girls. They were proceeding, three across, out the far end of the arcade and toward the kiddie rides area.
I stopped short, maybe fifteen feet behind her, as the three were accosted by two haughty older boys. The girls (I’d guess they were all closer to sixteen) scoffed at the crooked hats and tattooed arms and made a quick right turn.
“Slow down, you psycho.” Johnny was back at my shoulder, offering his typical encouragements.
“I need a better look at her face. Don’t ask me why.”
“You need your fucking head examined.” He was still licking the frozen lemonade off his fingers. I could smell the citrus aroma and probably would until he scrubbed it off with turpentine.
I wasn’t close enough to make out conversation between the three girls, but for some reason, I was OK with that. I didn’t need to hear her. I needed to look into her eyes. They laughed enthusiastically, as teenage girls do, and the sound chilled me. It was as if I was following my girlfriend’s ghost. I could watch her, but a dark veil prevented interaction of any kind.
She circled the kiddie rides, finishing by the orcas that dipped and rose in a sickening circle. Small children laughed and waved to parents, their heads thrown back each time the whale hit the track’s trough and turned up again. I maintained my distance and other-Avery, as I thought of her, retraced the original path in the reverse direction, then forked right toward the grand carousel and the beach entrance by the pier. Johnny padded along next to me in silence, struck that way by the sketchiness of our pursuit.
To our left now was a series of kiosks hocking Old Orchard Beach sweatshirts, tank tops, hats, then pizza, fried dough and soft drinks, then all types of tiny ceramic trinkets and costume jewelry. One of the girls with other-Avery stopped and pointed at the fourth kiosk – a fortune teller. The signage over the single door read, MS. TWILIGHT, with menu items below in smaller font – palms, tarot, fortunes told.
Holy shit, I thought. Someone either has a sense of humor and a couple of bucks burning her pockets or someone is a complete quack. Hey, other-Avery, I’m an Aries. Will my girlfriend survive the week without me? I felt another chill. I had no particular feeling either way on the rhetorical question, but still didn’t want to know the answer.
“What are you doing, now?” Johnny reached out for my arm and I felt his fingers brush my elbow as I altered course to match the girls’ maneuver. Ms. Twilight was ‘in session’, as told to us by a small off-white card hanging on her windowed door. The writing was stilted calligraphy and difficult to decipher.
Other-Avery and her cohorts queued up to the door’s left, as suggested by a small painted path on the cement. Without really knowing what I’d do next or why, I darted left and was fourth in line, just behind the object of my day’s obsession.
--
In turn, each of the two unnamed accessories entered, was behind the closed door for five or so minutes and emerged with a skeptical look. As the second went in, the first told other-Avery she needed to powder her nose and would meet the other two by Dunkin Donuts, up Old Orchard Beach Road just beyond the train tracks.
That meant I had five minutes to strike up my courage and engage her in conversation, if only to see her eyes. There was a determination I could make by looking into her eyes, I was sure, even if I had no idea why or what it would tell me.
Before I was ready, Johnny decided it was time to act. Actually, his sinuses did. He let out a vicious sneeze, perhaps to clear out the remainder of the sugary meltings that had been his lemonade. He jarred my left arm and knocked me off balance. Horrified, I took an unsteady step forward and knocked other-Avery’s purse off her shoulder. The purse was huge and pink and bordered on being a backpack. How much can a girl possibly need at a moment’s notice to burden themselves with such a weight at all times?
The back-purse dropped to hang on her wrist and if her hand hadn’t been in her pocket it may have hit the cement. Perhaps, it would have spilled its embarrassing (boys have to assume its innards are of an embarrassing nature, if only to explain the secrecy involved) contents in a small circle. I would’ve had no choice but to help her retrieve her belongings – her intimate belongings.
Uh, sorry miss. Please excuse my clumsiness. Here’s your wallet, if you carry such a thing, and here’s your…um - what the hell is this circle of tiny colored pills for? And why are they four different colors arranged by days of the week?
The purse held fast to her wrist. “I’m very sorry,” I said to her, shooting poor Johnny my best death look.
She leaned around me and to Johnny said, “God Bless you.” Only then did she look up to me. My face flushed, heat prickled at my ears and I averted my gaze. I knew this feeling. When presented with a pretty girl, tradition told me to either run or play stupid. Well, my Avery calls it stupid; I prefer to think of it as cute and innocent.
“I’m Carter.” It was the only thing in my head at the time – my name. Like the world’s biggest tool, I thrust out my right hand, offering her a shake. Idiot. She looked down at my hand, then back at my face. She didn’t take my hand and I never really expected she would.
“Bianca,” she said. Then she did the amazing. She leaned around me again to address my friend. “Your friend’s cute.”
Jesus, this was worse than having knocked a case of condoms out of her purse. My cheeks, ears and neck were on fire. A nervous smile played at the corners of my mouth and I felt an urgent need to say, Aw, shucks.
“Thanks,” I said instead, one sneaker kicking the other. I had nothing more profound. My head was down, my gaze focused on my shoes, but I could discern her looking finally at my face, instead of communicating through witticisms to Beauchamp.
I looked up and met her eyes. Our eyes couldn’t have been two feet away from each other. Bianca had Asian facial and eye features – high cheekbones, the epicanthic fold of the upper eyelid. It made her no less beautiful, but for whatever reason a great weight was lifted from my figurative shoulders. I felt as though I should immediately get on the horn to actual-Avery and organize a celebration. She’d be alright, simply because Bianca was not her ghost, but another human being altogether. Ridiculous? Absolutely; every single word and thought process – but that is how I felt at that moment.
“Kat ran off to the can,” Bianca said to her friend, as the second girl emerged from the kiosk. “I’ll meet you guys.” She gestured with her head in the general direction of the facilities.
Bianca didn’t afford me a second glance. My nose caught a wave of her flowery perfume as her head swung away from me. The girl who was not Avery ducked inside the fortune teller’s kiosk to have her eyes opened, to have her future laid out before her, to have some middle-aged hag recite vagaries in a mystic and mysterious manner.
--
“Goddamn you, Johnny Beauchamp!”
My best friend in the world distracted me for ten seconds to offer me a smothered sausage sandwich (I smelled his approach before I saw him) and I missed Bianca come out of Ms. Twilight’s and disappear.
I was missing something important. There was a reason, as yet unclear to me, that I saw her bikini earlier that day.
I sighed, filed the thoughts away and accepted the greasy sausage covered in sautéed onions and red peppers. The roll was a little hard and the sausage had probably sat out for twelve hours, but I crammed three gargantuan bites in my mouth. I chewed as quickly as I could, scraps falling from my lips, and handed the remaining half sandwich back to Johnny. Tendrils of grease – or was it Avery’s blood – leaked from the day-old bread between my fingers.My visit to Ms. Twilight, however, would reintroduce panic to my system - the way a steak knife never had. I smiled, patted Johnny’s shoulder and crossed destiny’s threshold.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest feedback
I was not chosen to progress past the entry process and into the quarterfinals with BENEFICIARY. As I've said in previous posts, I know BENEFICIARY has flaws and a long way to go before it is saleable, but I figured it couldn't hurt to enter. Also, a friend entered last year and I followed the contest to its conclusion as a result (and read FRESH KILLS, the winner).
Blah, blah, blah; enough background. My excerpt was reviewed by two "experts" and two separate sets of feedback were posted today to my CreateSpace account, as follows. I have one word: MIXED.
ABNA Expert Reviewer: This was well written. Clear, to the point, and quick. The dialogue flowed well, it was natural, just as it should be. I read this, and I could imagine actual people talking this way. Depending on how this story goes, it could be something good, or it could be a standard dead beat dad comes around looking for money. I get the feeling this is something a bit more. That maybe Dad the Dead Beat has something more to him. He knows he owes a debt, and is surprised to hear his sons might be coming into some money. So the question here is-Does he go to his sons and will they give him a second chance? Will he find redemption, or will he disappoint them again? Will Tommy bail his father out after all this time, or will he leave him to Roscoe's switchblade? This is something I would read. Again, just from what I have read, I sense something deeper. Something stronger than just your typical story. The characters were well fleshed out, but there wasn't so much given away that we feel as if we know everything already. Good beginning, and I really see some potential!
ABNA Expert Reviewer: This writer writes well, uses words well. He can describe an action scene, and he knows how to built character and makes his characters come alive. But I have an argument with content. This may be me, but a novel that starts with a 50-year-old man being beat up for owing money to the mob is not a turn on. Also, I need quite a bit more than a commitment to volleyball playing to gain my sympathy for the debtor's son (obvious one of the main characters in the novel). The first three-and-one-half pages of chapter 2 describe a volleyball game that doesn't really move the story forward. The main or one of the main characters appearing in chapter one is a fifty-year-old (or more) man who abandoned his family, disappeared for years, owes thirty thousand dollars to the mob and now must contact his sons to try to get them to pay his debt for him. Granted, he may not be the hero, overall, of this novel, but why should I care about this man? I mean, I can feel for him and the situation his mistakes have brought him to. But in the novels I read, I'm looking for more, for a character I like, admire (usually), maybe would even like to emulate. This character, obviously, isn't it.
Blah, blah, blah; enough background. My excerpt was reviewed by two "experts" and two separate sets of feedback were posted today to my CreateSpace account, as follows. I have one word: MIXED.
ABNA Expert Reviewer: This was well written. Clear, to the point, and quick. The dialogue flowed well, it was natural, just as it should be. I read this, and I could imagine actual people talking this way. Depending on how this story goes, it could be something good, or it could be a standard dead beat dad comes around looking for money. I get the feeling this is something a bit more. That maybe Dad the Dead Beat has something more to him. He knows he owes a debt, and is surprised to hear his sons might be coming into some money. So the question here is-Does he go to his sons and will they give him a second chance? Will he find redemption, or will he disappoint them again? Will Tommy bail his father out after all this time, or will he leave him to Roscoe's switchblade? This is something I would read. Again, just from what I have read, I sense something deeper. Something stronger than just your typical story. The characters were well fleshed out, but there wasn't so much given away that we feel as if we know everything already. Good beginning, and I really see some potential!
ABNA Expert Reviewer: This writer writes well, uses words well. He can describe an action scene, and he knows how to built character and makes his characters come alive. But I have an argument with content. This may be me, but a novel that starts with a 50-year-old man being beat up for owing money to the mob is not a turn on. Also, I need quite a bit more than a commitment to volleyball playing to gain my sympathy for the debtor's son (obvious one of the main characters in the novel). The first three-and-one-half pages of chapter 2 describe a volleyball game that doesn't really move the story forward. The main or one of the main characters appearing in chapter one is a fifty-year-old (or more) man who abandoned his family, disappeared for years, owes thirty thousand dollars to the mob and now must contact his sons to try to get them to pay his debt for him. Granted, he may not be the hero, overall, of this novel, but why should I care about this man? I mean, I can feel for him and the situation his mistakes have brought him to. But in the novels I read, I'm looking for more, for a character I like, admire (usually), maybe would even like to emulate. This character, obviously, isn't it.
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