# Writing > Short Story Sharing >  story - edited

## sarah.nichole

Hi everyone, 

This is the same story as my first post, but with a lot of editing done to it. I tried to take as much of the criticism that was given to me the first time and put it into the story. This time it's only the first chapter. But it's still quite lengthy so I understand if not many people read it. 

H - if you read this, yes I know it still opens with weather, but that's how it's going to stay for now. So you don't need to say how much you dislike that part :P I know you hate forecast starts. 

Please critique! Be as brutal as you want. I can handle it!


Chapter one

The oil lamps that lit the muddy street flickered in the wind as a storm slowly rolled towards the city. Dark clouds blocked out the final rays of the setting sun. Lightning flashed, followed by a peal of thunder. I watched as the few vendors that were left on the street hurried to close their carts, yelling of low prices to rid themselves of their last lingering products. Most people had already run for shelter, either to their homes or ducking into nearby restaurants or pubs. 

I flipped the hood of my cloak up over my head, and pulled the rest of it tighter around my body. I lifted each leg a few times in an attempt to warm them up. I thought longingly about how much warmer I would be if I had stockings, or at least boots without holes in them. I stared down at my poorly dressed feet and sighed. I could see my wiggling toes through the cracks at the end of my beat-up boots. 

My gaze shifted back to the street in time to see a few street lamps blow out as the wind picked up. Most of the vendors had closed and were making their ways home, except for one. It was a fortune tellers cart. It had black symbols painted on the wood and was draped in vibrant hangings that billowed in the wind. The inside of the stall was covered in strange tapestries with symbols that matched the ones decorating the outside. A small candle burned at the center of a table covered in a purple cloth. A woman sat behind the table. I studied her closely; she looked to be in her early thirties. Her wavy black hair fell well past her shoulders. Her eyes were shadowed and serious. Her lips were small but full and under an equally small nose. Her skin was dark with an olive undertone, suggesting that she was from across the sea. She had on a deep green dress that tied behind her neck. A black shawl covered her shoulders; a small piece of modesty clothing. I could see that she was focused on her hands which were busy sorting through colourfully painted cards. 

Suddenly, her head snapped up and she scanned the street until her gaze landed on me. She flashed a kind smile, showing off two rows of straight, white teeth. With one long graceful finger she beckoned, inviting me to join her. I hesitated, taking a step back further into the shadows. In all my twenty years, I had become sceptical and I was hard pressed to trust people that I did not know. However, against my better judgment, I found my feet shuffling across the narrow street towards the booth. Her smile stayed in place as I crept closer. I paused outside the shelter, still wary. The increasing wind pulled at my cloak, causing me to shiver. The small shelter did look much more welcoming than any place I had slept in lately. The woman kept smiling and motioned for me to take a seat on the stool across from her. Nervously, I stepped into the stall. I sigh escaped my lips when I instantly began to warm up once I was beneath her cover. It was just large enough for me to be completely shielded from the cold air. Again, the fortune teller motioned for me to sit on the stool, so I sat, clasping my hands in my lap. I shook my head so that my hood would fall and I would be able to see things more clearly. The small shack was quiettoo quiet. I looked behind me and could see that rain was now falling, the wind causing it to fly sideways, but I could not hear the storm as it grew stronger.

Welcome, Rayne, she said warmly. Ive been waiting some time for you. I jumped and turned back to her when she said my name, the silence of the small box quickly forgotten. Had we met before? She could read the confusion in my eyes because she chuckled and added, I have Seen our encounter happening in my cards. I have also had vision-like dreams, preparing me for this moment.

I frowned at her, but stayed silent. People with magical abilities made my skin crawl. All that magic did was hurt people. I had seen it enough to be sure of that. 

The woman gave me a moment to absorb what she had said before continuing. My name is Dria. I am a fortune teller. She paused again, and then added, I can tell that you are not comfortable in my presence and it is not just because I am a stranger. I met her gaze evenly, even though my hands shook. She was perceptive.

She smiled at my bland expression. Do not fret, child. I am no threat to you. I was sent to help guide you down the right path, so you may start your lifes true journey.

I couldnt help but ask, My journey? I was a street rat, scum, nothing. My one lot in life was stealing to stay alive. I had no skills, no education. The only reason I was able to speak proper English and read was because my mother and father had hoped for better things for me. They had thought that maybe if I sounded rich, it would one day happena lot of good that had done me. 

Yes, Rayne. You are meant for better things than living on the streets and fighting every day for your life. You have unexplored talents. It is up to you to discover what those talents are. Search yourself, Rayne. Search your past. All the answers are there, once you realize what youre looking for.

I couldnt speak. All I could do was stare at her, baffled. What on earth was she talking about? I had no potential. I had no talents. I was nothing; the only things that I hoped for were living through the coming winter, and to find a pair of stockings, or a pair of boots without holes.

She reached across the small table and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. A shock went through my body as my vision blurred. My surroundings twisted and folded until I was suddenly in a small room. To my left, a woman lay on a bed, with an infant in her arms. She rocked the child back and forth gently while a man stood protectively, but lovingly over them. I went cold. I recognized where I was and I knew I didnt want to be there. Panic started to bubble up in my throat and my palms began to sweat. Watch carefully, Rayne, a voice said seemingly from inside my head. I then realized that Dria was showing me a vision. It had to be her; there was no other explanation. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat; it was suddenly clear to me what she meant by my abilities. 

I could hear soft singing coming from the young mother. It was a pretty lullaby, one that was common throughout the lower city. It was a song asking the gods for protection and good luck for a mothers child. 

Suddenly, the mother stopped singing as a terrible cough took over. The man held a dirty towel to her mouth. His eyes were sad, but his movements were decisive. She had been coughing up whatever was in her lungs for a long time. He steadied her with one arm around her shoulders while she continued to cough. Finally, the fit ended. Tears streamed down her face as she fought to breathe. 

The baby in her arms did not stir. I of course knew why; it was dead. An invisible force moved me closer to the bed. I fought hard but it did no good. Soon I was near enough that I was able to see the babys blue lips and grey-tinged skin. 

I heard a floor board creak behind me and turned around. A young girl, no more than a toddler, stood in the doorway that separated the parents room from the rest of the house. She had black hair that reached down to the middle of her back with odd blue streaks in it. Her eyes were a startling sapphire blue framed in dark lashes. Her skin was pale and porcelain like, with full red lips and a straight, proud nose that she would one day grow into. 

I stared at my three year old self and felt my insides turn to stone; I didnt want to relive this. I had spent years trying to repress the memory and now Dria had dropped me right back into it. 

I remembered this night vividly. My mother had taken sick after giving birth to my younger sister, who died when she was only a few weeks old. I was now watching the night of her death. 

My mother looked up and spotted young me. She smiled a shaky smile and said quietly, Oh, Rayne, did I wake you? Go back to bed, little one, everything is alright. Young me, with her thumb in her mouth, ignored my mothers suggestion and walked to her bedside. I quickly stepped aside as she passed by.

Mama, whats wrong with Leah? young me asked, resting her chin on the edge of the bed. Why isnt she moving? She always moves.

My mother looked up at my father, the pain clear in her expression. He answered for her. She wasnt healthy, Rayne. She wasnt able to stay awake. My mother closed her eyes, holding back tears. My father had always been brutally honest, even if it was hard to hear. I had inherited that trait from him. 

Cant you just shake her like you do me when I have to get up? All gentle like? Young me placed a small hand on Leahs pale cheek. Papa, why is she so cold?

My father sighed. Rayne, do you understand what death is?

My little head nodded. When you lived in the slums, you were acquainted with death at a young age. Thats why she wont wake up?

Yes, child. She wasnt strong enough. She was born sick and too small.

Oh.

My mother opened her eyes and took a deep breath before looking down at young me. Are you alright, Rayne? I know its a sad thing, but its all a part of life; especially for people who live like us. She looked back up at my father. We had hoped for too much, when we decided to have another child. We were so blessed when Rayne was born without illness that we thought it would happen again. I suppose this is the gods way of punishing us for wanting more than whats meant for us.

My father stroked her cheek with a gentle hand. Dont say such things, love. No god would use the death of a child as punishment. Kayeth took her to be merciful; she was in no condition to stay in our world.

My mother snorted in reply which tossed her into another round of chest ripping coughs. When she was able to speak again, she said hoarsely, If the god of death was merciful, he should have taken me instead of Leah...or with her.

My father turned away from his wife so she couldnt see his face, but from where I stood I could see that her words had struck him hard. 

Young me sighed, completely oblivious to the conversation my parents were having. I just wish she hadnt died. She was fun, when she wasnt sick.

My mother smiled sadly down at me. I know sweetling. Were all going to miss her. She was about to say more, but she broke into another fit of coughs that shook her so badly she almost fell to the floor. My sisters body tumbled from her arms and landed on the bed between my mother and young me. My father placed his hands on both of her shoulders to keep her as steady as he could. 

Young me rested a hand on my mothers leg, and one on Leahs body. I knew what was going to happen next and tried to turn away, but my body was locked in place. I fought the invisible hands that gripped my body, but it was no use. I was forced to watch as my mother gasped and stared down at young me in horror. She turned a ghostly grey colour, matching Leahs. Her skin pulled tight against her bones, like she was rapidly losing weight. The veins in her face and arms became visible as they were squeezed between her skin and bones, almost to the point of bursting. With one last guttural cry she collapsed, her eyes wide and blank. 

I heard what I was waiting for next; the cry of my little sister. I wanted to say something. I wanted to stop my three year old self from doing what had already happened. I wished desperately that I could take that night back. When I opened my mouth to speak, I was suddenly sitting in Drias booth once again. She was watching my face intently. 

That is but the beginning of your abilities, she said quietly. There is more to it than just the transfer of life, however. The rest I will leave for you to discover on your own. But I will tell you this; there are three more for you to remember, and all can be found by looking in your past and your familys history. 

A look of sympathy crossed her face. Slowly, she moved her hand from my shoulder and to my cheek. She ran her fingers gently just below my eye. I realized that she was wiping away tears. I had no idea when I had started crying. I jerked away from her touch and wiped at the wetness roughly with my sleeve. 

I know that was a terrible loss, and what followed was even worse I cringed away from her words. The memory of my father was still painful sixteen years later. but you must learn from these memories. It will be a painful road, but many things in your future depend on them. Do not be afraid to receive help from those around you. Your problems with trust will only hinder you on your path. Learn to trust and to love.

I guffawed, still wiping the wet patches from my cheeks. Love only leads to heartache.

Dria shook her head. What happened to your parents was indeed tragic. But, if you were able to ask your father, I am sure that he would not give up the time he had with your mother for anything, even though it meant his eventual death. 
And when I speak of love, I do not only mean the intimacy between lovers. I refer to the love between friends. 

I shook my head and mumbled, I can take care of myself.

You will need the support of others to complete the tasks ahead of you, Dria pressed. You are a strong girl, Rayne, no one can deny that. But believe me when I say that you are not strong enough to face your future alone. I can see many outcomes, but the ones when you are on your own do not end well. Learn to love, child, in all ways. You will need the strength that it can give to you.

I shivered and looked away from Drias piercing eyes. The thought of having to depend on other people made me break into a cold sweat. Needing someone else and not being able to accomplish things on my own was something that I dreaded. 

Suddenly, Dria was crouched by my side. I jumped and looked at the chair where she had been sitting. She smiled that kind smile of hers. I have a few extra talents of my own, child. She took my hands in hers and kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes, surprised by her sudden show of affection. What was more surprising was how much it comforted me. I must go now, before the others realize Im here. Ive risked much to show you what I did, but I felt that you needed help, or you would have never realized your potential in time. Good luck, Rayne. Once you find your second ability, I will come to you again. She vanished then, but I could still hear her voice and feel her presence. Follow your instincts, child. They will lead you in the right direction. And dont forget about love. You will need it. With her last words, all trace of her vanished. 

I opened my eyes and watched in shock as the shelter around me started to fade; first the candle and the charms hanging from the ceiling, then the table. The entire stall and its contents quickly disappeared. With a hard thud I was sitting in the muddy street, the stool having disappeared from underneath me. I gasped as the frigid rain and wind tore through me. Thanks for that, I thought sarcastically. I doubted she could hear my thoughts, but just in case, I wanted her to know my disdain. I struggled to my feet and took off running down the nearest alley desperate to find shelter from the wind.

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## hillwalker

Hi sarah - it's not me who hates stories that start with a weather update. It's recorded fact that literary agents frown upon any stories opening with the weather or with someone waking up. They tend to reject these without bothering to read beyond the first sentence.

Still - I'll read and comment as I go along.

Tightening up is always a good thing - 'slash and burn' whenever possible:

_Dark clouds blocked out the final rays of the setting sun. Lightning flashed, followed by a peal of thunder. I watched as the few vendors that were left on the street hurried to close their carts, yelling of low prices to rid themselves of their last lingering products. Most people had already run for shelter, either to their homes or ducking into nearby restaurants or pubs._

I think most of the underlined parts can be removed completely or trimmed to fewer words.

_I thought longingly about how much warmer I would be if I had stockings, or at least boots without holes in them. I stared down at my poorly dressed feet and sighed. I could see my wiggling toes through the cracks at the end of my beat-up boots._
This seems contrived - a clumsy way of informing the reader than she has holes in her boots. By hammering the point home so forcefully you make it obvious that the author is *telling* the story rather than *showing* it to us through the eyes of the character. Also it's rather adverb-heavy.

_My gaze shifted back to the street in time to see a few street lamps blow out as the wind picked up. Most of the vendors had closed and were making their ways home, except for one._
Didn't you already tell us this earlier?
_It was a fortune tellers cart. Where did it come from? I thought you were writing about one of the vendors_ 

And I'm wondering how a candle flame still manages to keep alight in such a storm.

_I studied her closely; she looked to be in her early thirties. Her wavy black hair fell well past her shoulders. Her eyes were shadowed and serious. Her lips were small but full and under an equally small nose. Her skin was dark with an olive undertone, suggesting that she was from across the sea. She had on a deep green dress that tied behind her neck. A black shawl covered her shoulders; a small piece of modesty clothing._

Another thing that turns off literary agents - 'laundry list' character descriptions. It drags us out of the story into some other place - not sure where. Why does the reader need all this information?
To paraphrase child psychologist Bruno Bettelheim: The more the character in a fairy tale is described, the less the audience will identify with him. . . The less the character is characterized and described, the more likely the reader is to identify with him. The same applies to most genres.

Not sure this scene works either:
_Nervously, I stepped into the stall. (I) A sigh escaped my lips when I instantly began to warm up once I was beneath her cover. It was just large enough for me to be completely shielded from the cold air._
We've already had an entire paragraph telling us how your MC nearly didn't enter the tent, then we have some more time wasting. It's as if you're dragging your heels instead of keeping the plot moving.
'slash and burn'

_Again, the fortune teller motioned for me to sit on the stool, so I sat, clasping my hands in my lap. I shook my head so that my hood would fall and I would be able to see things more clearly. The small shack was quiettoo quiet. I looked behind me and could see that rain was now falling, the wind causing it to fly sideways, but I could not hear the storm as it grew stronger._
Ditto - nothing's happening except you're keeping your audience waiting.

_I jumped and turned back to her when she said my name, the silence of the small box quickly forgotten._
I can't picture this - how high did she jump? and where had she been facing in order to have to 'turn back'? As for the comment about the silence being forgotten. If it's forgotten, why would she mention it?

The actual laying on of hands is described well enough though again you do take us on some rather pointless detours.
_It was a pretty lullaby, one that was common throughout the lower city._ - Is there a point in adding this detail?

And I'm not sure how she can move towards the baby in the vision and turn back to see herself in the doorway. I know it's her 'three year old self' she's looking back at, but I would have expected her to be inside that child's body experiencing everything. . . and 'young me' is probably unnecessary because most readers will have figured out the set-up.

_My mother opened her eyes and took a deep breath before looking down at young me._
I assumed mother was lying on her death bed - so would she be looking down? It's a gripping scene, so don't leave the reader distracted by trying to picture things that don't seem clear.

You already know you're a good writer, but you have to tighten this much more. It's a good exercise to trim away the superfluous anyway. But I suggest you press on with the rest of the story for now. You can take out that pair of shears later when you get around to editing prior to submission.

H

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## sarah.nichole

Thanks H. 

I have moved on with the story. Quite a lot actually. I did this editing a while ago. Just thought I would post it again.

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## Charles Darnay

Most of what I could say would just echo's Hill's points. 

I liked it (I feel I should start with that)

There are a few logical fallacies (such as the lamp staying lit in the rain) - and also some smaller ones.

"Suddenly, her head snapped up and she scanned the street until her gaze landed on me" - if your head snaps up, you have a target of focus, you don't snap and then scan. These are too contrasting actions to co-exist.

First your protagonist shuffles towards the booth then creeps - which is it?

I guess I shouldn't question your decisions when it comes to your own fantastical world - but gypsy's cards and vision-like dreams (a terrible phrase by the way, sorry.) don't logically tell your someone's name. They could tell you events, descriptions of people, but you need stronger magic to get a name....and least according to established lore.

This may seem to be trivial things (and they are) but - and I find this particularly true with fantasy - the more grounded your story is, the more your readers will accept the fantastical. Even in an imaginary world filled with magic, humans must be human.

A second point I could make is to provide more detail in certain places. This does not mean more wordy, but sometimes your writing comes across as vague.

"Yes, Rayne. You are meant for better things than living on the streets and fighting every day for your life." She has the gift of insight and foresight - she could probably do better than describe what anyone with eyesight can tell by just looking at Rayne. This might be a matter of "show don't tell." Give us a specific indication that she had to fight for her life every day.

I may have mentioned this in your other post (the original version) - but a protagonist has to be, above all else, human (even if your protagonist is not physically human.) If you want us to be o Rayne's side - establish her as the hero - this has to come from somewhere relatable. Starting off with "you are meant for great things" is a bit of a warning that we are headed for the grand hero. This isn't something you necessarily need to change at this point - just be aware of. A tragic backstory can help make your character more sympathetic, but sympathy does little if we cannot invest in her.

Best of luck with everything.

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## qimissung

_Hi sarah - it's not me who hates stories that start with a weather update. It's recorded fact that literary agents frown upon any stories opening with the weather or with someone waking up. They tend to reject these without bothering to read beyond the first sentence._


You mean like this one:

"The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green."

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## hillwalker

Slow writing with a lot of description puts me off very quickly. I like a first chapter that moves quickly and draws me in so Im immediately hooked.
Andrea Hurst, Andrea Hurst Literary Management

Avoid any description of the weather.
Denise Marcil, Denise Marcil Literary Agency

The weather is always a problemthe author feels he has to set up the scene and tell us who the characters are, etc. I like starting a story in medias res.
Elizabeth Pomada, Larsen-Pomada Literary Agents

I dont want to read about anyone sleeping, dreaming, waking up or staring at anything.
Ellen Pepus, Ellen Pepus Literary Agency

I'm just the messenger boy here.

H

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## qimissung

Oh, I believe you. Wasn't questioning your statement at all, actually. But this is the opening sentence to a very famous short story, proving, I guess, that there is always an exception to the rule.

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## hillwalker

I agree - if the story is sufficiently engaging then I suppose it doesn't matter how it begins (though maybe in 1948 when this was written it hadn't become such a cliche). But I'm sure if you did a survey of all the short stories ever posted on here and counted how many of them started with the weather or the MC waking up it would show how unoriginal both have become. . .
. . . perhaps a nice little job for you or Scher to undertake when you're feeling bored?  :Frown: 

H

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## qimissung

I suspect that it was left, not because it wasn't trite in 1948-after all it fairly screams of triteness-but because it has a job to do in the story, and it does it very well. It lays there in stark contrast to the horror that awaits.

Which is probably more to the point, then-that everything in your story is there because it is doing something in this little creation, either to move the plot forward, deepen characterization, or set the tone. So the question all would-be writers need to ask themselves is "What is this doing for the story?" And if the answer is 'not much,' then you've got to be brave and throw it out.

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## Calidore

> Oh, I believe you. Wasn't questioning your statement at all, actually. But this is the opening sentence to a very famous short story, proving, I guess, that there is always an exception to the rule.


You might say that getting away with it is like winning the lottery.

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## qimissung

You could indeed.  :FRlol:

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## AuntShecky

> You might say that getting away with it is like winning the lottery.


Right you are, Calidore!

And sarah.nichole: For the most part your writing style is clear; however, I'd prefer more of a mix of the different types of sentence structure rather than long strings of simple, declarative sentences. Additionally, there may be an issue with the choice of topic and its treatment, which comes off (to me, anyway) as a trifle pretentious. For the nonce allow me to say that one of the things we writers should do is to try to put the " Now I am writing a short story" kind of self-consciousness in the background. In other words, let the story write itself, if you catch my muddled drift.

Keep writing!

Auntie

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## islandclimber

> You mean like this one:
> 
> "The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green."


Shirley Jackson. I can't stand her prose. Her novels are atrocious, her short stories slightly better. Her writing style is so... insufferably pedestrian? A case of a writer that was slowly disappearing to posterity, and then, suddenly, we have all this contemporary academic scholarship on her work appearing analyzing it in Marxist and Post-Feminist lights. So unnecessary with this empty, vacuous prose. Oh well.

Other examples of weather or awakening at the beginning of works of prose...

_Crime and Punishment_ begins with a description of the weather. 

_The Death of Artemio Cruz_ by Carlos Fuentes - a contemporary novel - begins with the line "I wake up... The touch of that cold object against my penis wakes me up." (translated of course)

_Volkswagon Blues_ by Jacques Poulin begins with waking up.

_The Master and Margarita_ by Bulgakov begins with a description of the weather.

Borges' famous short story _El Aleph_ begins with a description of the sweltering heat. "That same sweltering morning that Beatriz Viterbo died..."

_Metamorphosis_ by Kafka begins with waking up.

GG Marquez's short story _Someone Has Been Disarranging these Roses_ begins with a mention of how it has stopped raining.

His short story _One of these Days_ begins: "Monday dawned warm and rainless."

_Two Gallants_, the short story by James Joyce begins: "The grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets."

_The Victim_ by Saul Bellow begins: "On some nights New York is as hot as Bangkok. The whole continent seems to have moved from its place and slid nearer the equator, the bitter grey Atlantic to have become green and tropical, and the people, thronging the streets, barbaric fellahin among the stupendous monuments of their mystery, the lights of which, a dazing profusion, climb upward endlessly into the heat of the sky." Marvellous, this one.

I could go on here, for quite a long time with examples from both classic and contemporary literature. I agree that it can be overdone at times, and certainly there are literary agents and publishing houses that deplore it, yet the opposite is certainly also the case, as these are all critically acclaimed works...

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## qimissung

lol, islandclimber. I do agree that Shirley Jackson's writing does not belong in the pantheon of the greats that you have listed, although I do happen to like her and I would list_ The Haunting of Hill House_ as a favorite of mine-although it's doubtful I'll read it again anytime soon. It's too painful for me.

All of your additions are quite wonderful. I've only read _The Gallants_, although I certainly did not remember how it began.

The only one I thought of on my own was a quote from _The Amazing Bone_, a children's book by William Steig, about Pearl the Pig. It's not the first line, but I think it's on the first page:

_Later she sat on the ground in the forest between school and home, and spring was so bright and beautiful, the warm air touched her so tenderly, she could almost feel herself changing into a flower. Her light dress felt like petals.
"I love everything," she heard herself say._ 

 :FRlol: 

If you all haven't read it, I highly recommend it. 

And now, Sarah.Nichole, on to your story. I read it, and I have to say I enjoyed it very much. There are some things I probably would change, but overall I was interested in who the young lady was and what would happen to her. As AuntShecky said, keep writing!

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## hillwalker

I agree with all the above. I've actually had a novel accepted for publication that begins with the MC waking up from a dream. . . but the situation she finds herself in is completely relevant to the plot.

Too often aspiring writers begin a story with their MC waking up because that's where his/her day begins, so by association that is where the story must begin. Not necessary for obvious reasons.

H

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## islandclimber

Yes, it is likely I was flirting with a little hyperbole there in my description of Shirley Jackson. She's no better, nor worse, than many mid-grade writers. I just found all the academic scholarship popping up with her work kind of irritating. It likely did not help I had to read a couple stories of hers in a lit. class in University. English literature classes seemed to have a tendency to do that... They always seem to toss in some rather mediocre fiction, and force you to analyze and research this empty content. Ahhh. There I go again with hyperbole. I haven't even read that particular story. It's the one that was turned into a film, n'est-ce pas?

I shall look into this William Stieg book. I have always liked certain realms of Children's Literature. 

The story, above. I like parts of it. The pacing is good. The dialogue is pretty good and at the very least, interesting. Even though the story starts with a description of the weather, I like the way it leaps into being. Only, get rid of the word "storm" in the first sentence. It seems terribly banal there. I might combine the first two sentences in some way. Replace "a storm rolled towards the city" with "dark clouds rolled towards the city", this will allow us to infer from the wind and the dark clouds that a storm is approaching. 

This might be a little overwritten at times, though I adore hopelessly overwritten works... However, I find this only works if the writer knows what he/she is on about, and is not just overwriting random bits due to lack of control. This piece seems to be more so the latter. A tendency I sometimes fall into as well. 

My only other issue would be the rather cliched narrative. An ominous setting with the weather, a not so chance encounter with a prophetic stranger who turns out to not really be a stranger at all, but someone who has followed your life closely and is now there to set you on the true path, where your undiscovered talents will be unearthed and you will be raised up out of your present dire circumstance. And this first encounter, where you are forced to dredge up a terribly painful memory, and through it to gain sort of toehold on this new pathway to some kind of power/enlightenment. And then, this "fairy godmother/spiritual guide" disappears and you are left back in that dire circumstance, knowing that your life will never again be the same. I don't know. This seems like an awfully predictable storyline. 

Regardless of my misgivings as to what you are writing about (I think your talent with prose would be better placed alongside a little more originality), I like your prose stylings. So yes, keep writing!




> I agree with all the above. I've actually had a novel accepted for publication that begins with the MC waking up from a dream. . . but the situation she finds herself in is completely relevant to the plot.
> 
> Too often aspiring writers begin a story with their MC waking up because that's where his/her day begins, so by association that is where the story must begin. Not necessary for obvious reasons.
> 
> H


You are right here. I think in an "established" writer this type of cliched beginning is okay, as it can serve a purpose, it can be necessary even. Like you say though, it's in the aspiring writer that this is problematic. Far too often they feel they must begin stories with overly descriptive settings of scene, establishing the weather, the time of day, an awakening, the date, etc. A warning in that regard is certainly justifiable, I only object to the setting of general rules like avoiding these things to begin with. Although, if one looks at the examples I listed they all touch rather briefly on waking, or the weather, etc. They don't dwell, they touch, and as though burnt by this blasphemous touch, leap immediately in another direction. Even the rather lengthy description by Bellow there, only briefly describes the weather and seems more intent on the metaphorical city being undressed on this hot equatorial night. 

So, maybe it's just the overly long scene settings (of any sort) that are the problem? New writers have a tendency to do this with weather or awakenings...

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## Sancho

Flannery O'Connor sums up well what a lot of people are saying here:

"It's always wrong of course to say that you can't do this or you can't do that in fiction. You can do anything you can get away with, but nobody has ever gotten away with much."

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## qimissung

> Yes, it is likely I was flirting with a little hyperbole there in my description of Shirley Jackson. She's no better, nor worse, than many mid-grade writers. I just found all the academic scholarship popping up with her work kind of irritating. It likely did not help I had to read a couple stories of hers in a lit. class in University. English literature classes seemed to have a tendency to do that... They always seem to toss in some rather mediocre fiction, and force you to analyze and research this empty content. Ahhh. There I go again with hyperbole. I haven't even read that particular story. It's the one that was turned into a film, n'est-ce pas?
> 
> I shall look into this William Stieg book. I have always liked certain realms of Children's Literature. 
> 
> The story, above. I like parts of it. The pacing is good. The dialogue is pretty good and at the very least, interesting. Even though the story starts with a description of the weather, I like the way it leaps into being. Only, get rid of the word "storm" in the first sentence. It seems terribly banal there. I might combine the first two sentences in some way. Replace "a storm rolled towards the city" with "dark clouds rolled towards the city", this will allow us to infer from the wind and the dark clouds that a storm is approaching. 
> 
> This might be a little overwritten at times, though I adore hopelessly overwritten works... However, I find this only works if the writer knows what he/she is on about, and is not just overwriting random bits due to lack of control. This piece seems to be more so the latter. A tendency I sometimes fall into as well. 
> 
> My only other issue would be the rather cliched narrative. An ominous setting with the weather, a not so chance encounter with a prophetic stranger who turns out to not really be a stranger at all, but someone who has followed your life closely and is now there to set you on the true path, where your undiscovered talents will be unearthed and you will be raised up out of your present dire circumstance. And this first encounter, where you are forced to dredge up a terribly painful memory, and through it to gain sort of toehold on this new pathway to some kind of power/enlightenment. And then, this "fairy godmother/spiritual guide" disappears and you are left back in that dire circumstance, knowing that your life will never again be the same. I don't know. This seems like an awfully predictable storyline. 
> ...


Yes, it was made into a movie-twice. Once in 1963 and again in 1999. Don't bother with the second one, please. The first one has Julie Harris and Claire Bloom and is actually quite good.

Here is the first paragragraph of the book. No one wakes up, no weather is described, and yet...

_
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill house, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for 80 years and might for 80 more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone._"

I think, Hillwalker and IslandClimber, that that is the very thing that beginning and aspiring writers do think, that they have to prettify their writing. English teachers probably contribute to the problem, in that student writing is so uniformly awful we try to get them to describe, to include sensory details to try to help them draw the reader in, while they are just trying to get a grade...sigh.

And actually, Sarah, all the things that IslandClimber found cliched _I_ liked... :Tongue: ...which is why it's important to know your audience and who your writing for.  :Biggrin: 




> Flannery O'Connor sums up well what a lot of people are saying here:
> 
> "It's always wrong of course to say that you can't do this or you can't do that in fiction. You can do anything you can get away with, but nobody has ever gotten away with much."


 :FRlol:

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## islandclimber

> Yes, it was made into a movie-twice. Once in 1963 and again in 1999. Don't bother with the second one, please. The first one has Julie Harris and Claire Bloom and is actually quite good.
> 
> Here is the first paragragraph of the book. No one wakes up, no weather is described, and yet...
> 
> _
> No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill house, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for 80 years and might for 80 more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone._"
> 
> I think, Hillwalker and IslandClimber, that that is the very thing that beginning and aspiring writers do think, that they have to prettify their writing. English teachers probably contribute to the problem, in that student writing is so uniformly awful we try to get them to describe, to include sensory details to try to help them draw the reader in, while they are just trying to get a grade...sigh.
> 
> And actually, Sarah, all the things that IslandClimber found cliched _I_ liked......which is why it's important to know your audience and who your writing for.


That beginning is rather intriguing. Qimi. What are you doing to me?!?! I don't want to find Shirley Jackson's prose intriguing! *shakes head

But, but, but... 1999 version has Catherine Zeta Jones and Lili Taylor! So epic!  :FRlol:  I might check out the earlier version. Looks interesting. 

I wonder about how the education system introduces creative writing in general; I know it was a highly neglected format in my secondary school education. Post-secondary creative writing courses are all rather banal as well. They seem to be far too formulaic in approach. I think beginner/aspiring writers often have not read near enough and they fail to see how great writers avoid hackneyed and "prettified" style (love this word!)...

You are so write about knowing one's audience and who one is writing for. Although sometimes I think it would be best if we all wrote without an audience in mind... It would certainly make for less contrived content.  :Wink:

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## qimissung

You have a good point there, Islandclimber. That's another rather hackneyed approach we learn to present to kids. It's all horrible. And frankly, we are not allowed to really teach them how to write, or read even. I work in an inner city school, and all we do is play catch up, since almost all of them read slightly below grade level. As far as writing goes,the state tries, with their stupid tests, to give the kids something to aspire too, I guess. For this five years they must learn how to write a persuasive paper, for the next five it's a personal narrative, then it's a literary essay. I have come to believe in the natural approach. They should read-what they want. Then they should write-about something they are interested in. Then we publish. This approach has worked in other schools, but right now everyone believes teachers should be directed to within an inch of their tiny little lives, so nothing good is going to happen for awhile. Or maybe ever.

Yes, I am your worst nightmare-the ghost of Shirley Jacksons' past! Catherine Zeta-Jones has been in some decent stuff, as has been Lili Taylor, but this was NOT one of them. It's a bloated, overdone monstrosity, Hollywood at it's absolute worst.Shame on them for signing on. Shame on them! (rattles chains) Between this and "Battleship" I really wonder how a decent movie ever gets made there anymore.

Let me know if see it, and what you think of it.

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## Calidore

I showed the 1963 _Haunting_ to one of my friend's kids and his friend (they were probably early teens at the time), and this black-and-white movie with very minimal special effects scared them silly. Score one for the old school.

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## qimissung

Which just goes to show, it's the _writing,_ stupid Hollywood.

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## hillwalker

> I have moved on with the story. Quite a lot actually. I did this editing a while ago. Just thought I would post it again.


Probably the most frustrating response ever. Sometimes it helps if we know in advance that you don't really want our feedback.

H

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