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 1 
 on: Yesterday at 03:20:54 PM 
Started by markparker1690 - Last post by RockWhitehouse
Hi Mark -

I am late to the party but will repeat what others have said: this reads a lot better for me.

Still a little hung up on Khufu but getting over that.

Slowly.

 2 
 on: Yesterday at 12:52:27 PM 
Started by Rushikesh - Last post by Pineapplejuice
These are the first five pages of my MS: Black White.

Thanks in advance. And just a heads up, the fictional story is set in India (but have tried to put many truths happening around me).

..........................

The Legend of “The Bastard”

1959
Beggar Ali

Roshan was walking along the railway tracks, desperate, kicking every freed ballasted pebble ( comma or full stop ) aiming at a sewer running along the line, ( I think you need to rearrange this sentence as it is reading like you are trying to squeeze too much in, to me )  putting happy face on every triumphant plunk - dubuk ( What is a 'triumphant plunk dubuk? Do you mean a plank? From the railiway? ), then looking at her right palm, its spread fingers and counting them loudly, all, one by one - ek, do, teen, chaar, paanch, paanch rupiya. This is how he showed her and said, ‘five rupees.’ And here she was, seeking only that much. Five rupees.

( I'm not clear on what MC is doing )

Roshan was walking along the railway tracks, feeling desperate. She kicked at every loose ballasted pebble, aiming at a sewer running along the line.  ( putting happy face on every triumphant plunk, not sure how to re-do ) Looking at her right palm, she spread fingers out and counted them loudly, one by one - ek, do, teen, chaar, paanch, paanch rupiya. This is how he ( who is he? ) showed her and said, ‘five rupees.’ And here she was, seeking only that much. Five rupees.

She really thought it will make him happy but knew it was an impossible task. Having five rupees by end of the day.

She kicked another pebble which scudded and stopped just at the edge of sewer. She fussed at it ( what do you mean by fussed excactly? Fussed does not tell us what she is doing. Is she touching it with the toe of her boot? ) and that same moment heard a long loud hooter of a local train leaving Masjid Bandar for Victoria Terminus.

That deep sound from the distance suddenly reminded her - she had only seven minutes to reach at her usual spot that too in her perfect avatar, in her perfect garb. She gazed up warily at the sun which was lingering far above the horizon and wiped the mist of sweat emerged on from her forehead with back of her wrist. Though time was not allowing her, she stood over that overflowing sewer keeping her feet on its banks and bent herself to have a closer look at her reflection in that creeping sewage. In that crawling grey matter her face looked perfectly grimy, her new Saree perfectly blotted, with mud, with blood. There were holes too in it. Still, somewhere somehow she felt not that convinced. ( not convinced about what? )

She heard again that same loud horn trying to put some sense in her, telling her to hurry, to run. She turned a little and caught a glimpse of a local train. The train was bloated with passengers, slowly emerging through the misty station. She quickly jumped across the gutter on an unused railway track and started running without looking behind, but.

But, her new Saree’s strong pico ( I don't know what 'pico' is or what 'pico work' means )  work was resisting her strides, making them fall short, smaller every time. She cursed her new Saree for making her slow, vulnerable. She stopped to lift the base of her Saree, to take it towards her knees. She stooped and that very instant she was buzzed by the toot that train made behind her. She looked at motorman’s cabin ( what is motorman's cabin? You mean the driver? ) and saw a smirking motorman looking down at her enjoying the race he just had won.

‘Aey saala bhenchod’ she roared ( comma ) waving at him and picked up a loose stone from the track’s sleeper. Cursing him once more she flung that stone at the train slightly missing a passenger dangling at the door. ( Does the train have open doors? Perhaps explain this, describe earlier )

‘Hey! mad woman.’ ( Who is talking? )

‘Mad or what?’

‘Arrey o… pagal.’

A chorus of passengers shouted from the train’s windows, from the doors, cursing her back.

Ceded ( I don't know what this means ) , she looked down at her new Saree and cursed it, cursed her fate and ran behind the train as it passed past her.

By the time she reached the station the train was almost empty. There were few passengers though, still protracted in their third class compartment removing their belongings, their baggage. Few families were still lingering on the platform. She walked towards them with hopeful eyes spreading her left hand, moving her right hand slowly between her mouth and stomach, seeking their attention, seeking their mercy, singing “oh janewale Babu ek paisa de de” a hit song amongst vagrants from the film Vachan. Singing, sighing, she observed men and women looking at her, discreetly. They were looking at her barefooted paws, her rubbished blood stained Saree, her mucky grey face avoiding her gaze trying not to fall in her trap. She knew the limits of these passengers from the third class. She knew they were not in any hurry and will not get irritated like the neatniks from the first class compartment that she always targeted, whom she found forever in a great hurry not even to give a second thought handing her the money from their pockets. She knew it was nothing but their arrant disgust towards her. She really enjoyed those faces, but here it was shame.

Looking back again in their shameful eyes, unriddling ( I am not familiar with this word ) their vulnerability she gave up spreading her hands in front of them and moved forward in big long corridors of Victoria Terminus - again to flaunt her rubbished new Saree to the passersby thinking about her new possession.

She felt cheated by herself for wasting so much money on her new possession, her new saree which she was wearing. ( We already know she's wearing it ) She had possessed it that same morning from a lament ( lament is an emotion not adjective to describe a thing. Did you mean latent? ) , unclaimed dead body of a woman from the government hospital. She had given one whole rupee and a quarter for it, which by the way the ward boy wasn’t ready to vend below two. But Roshan was glad that she prevailed that bargain. The saree was blood dappled, stained here and their visibly, the frayed saree she then torn to more visible holes, making it more begrimed for the impact. Though people were looking at her, her stretched hands, her pitiable face, her Saree, they were not making fool out of themselves. Thoughtfully they were avoiding her, keeping space between themselves.

As the sun dangled towards the west, Roshan – bushed – boarded the luggage compartment of 4.30 local train for Sion, making herself room at the door. She carefully pulled out the bunch of coins she had collected from her blouse pocket and counted them. It was much less than five rupees which she was dreaming that morning. Almost by three rupees.
“Only three rupees short?”  It was always a plain question, then there was thrashing. The thought of Babu thrashing her made her tremble but she wanted to quickly accept the fact, even though it wasn’t her fault. Anyhow, she knew the night would be difficult for her and she couldn’t do anything about it.

She was drained living without any choice.

She was very hopeful that day. She was thinking someone will give her a paisa or two just by looking at her attire, but the day passed poorly. For her, the business was bad as she was hardly able to make even two rupees a day. She was tired of it, tired of scouting new ways for her business; she failed and was failing all the time. She kept herself mucky - her face, her hands, all her discernible body parts. She had even kept her hairs soiled, un-oiled, unwashed. Her appearance was perfect, her acted deplorable face was perfect, still the money she was making was not good enough. Not good enough for her, for her man, Babu, who was always eager to give her her usual whipping for not giving him his share for sheltering her in his hut and protecting her from useless proletariats. Anyhow, he was an expert in axacting his dues in some way or the other from her.

At Masjid Bandar, a lone woman, vagrant like her, boarded the car carrying an infant child.  Looking at Roshan, she beamed and made herself comfortable opposite her, beside the door. Roshan smiled back painfully and enquired her from head to toe. The woman was looking clean. Her hairs, her face, her caked saree was not that tampered as Roshan’s except her blouse, which was wet at nipple cones – may be of excreted milk drippings, Roshan thought. Her toes were covered with dirty socks on which she wore slippers. In all, that woman appeared wholesome to Roshan.

While Roshan was observing her, the woman rested her child at her side on the car floor and heaved out a heavy pouch from her blouse pocket which was already weighting, balancing her heavy, milky breasts. She took out bunch of coins and few one and two rupee notes from it and started counting them. Roshan too, in her mind, started counting along with her. When she was done, Roshan totalled thirty one rupees seventy five paisa. “Must be saving since long for her kid” - Roshan thought intending to start conversation with the woman.

‘It must be difficult to carry your infant child and do the business?’ Roshan showed curiosity and enquired the women looking at her infant child which was silently sleeping at her side on the car floor.

‘It is not my child’, the woman was grinning.

‘Your husband’s?’

Woman shook her head from side to side, laughing bluntly.

‘Then?’

‘This kid, it is rented, I don’t even know if it is a boy or a girl. Mine is at home, with his granny.’ Said the woman.

‘Rented?’ appalled, Roshan kept looking at the woman in disbelief.

‘What are you looking at? Don’t you know this?’ Woman too made a shocking face on Roshan’s unawareness. In reply, Roshan kept looking at her for a brief moment and nodded no to append her shock.

‘You really don’t know this?’ Asked woman showing her surprise and added, ‘this is not a new thing, a very old trick.’

‘No. What is it?’ Roshan demanded.

‘You really don’t know about renting kids and parading them for their mercy, our mercy,’ woman pitied Roshan and continued, ‘you know, people are bunch of fools, idiots. When they see these kids in our hands, they pull out money mechanically from their pockets and offer it to us, without even having any second thought. We just need to show them these feeble kids. And do you know the most impressive thing about all of this? We can rent these kids in abundance, from many sources, like brothels, churches, remand homes. There are few parents who are readily renting them to us, for little bit profit you know.’

‘Is it? How much for?’ There was still a concern in Roshan’s tone.

‘Anywhere between one rupee to ten. Now look at this kid,’ woman pointed towards latent toddler beside her and said, ‘I rented it for two rupees.’

‘Two? For week?’

‘Naaah!!! Two for a day.’

‘That much…. for a day?’

‘It is nothing when you compare it with the business. Look at this,’ women said flaunting her wet blouse to Roshan where she’d just kept the pouch, ‘I collected more than thirty rupees today.’

‘That much in a single day?’ Roshan said re-counting the exact total in her thoughts “thirty one rupees seventy five paisa”. She looked visually stunned.

‘Yes. That much, that also in a single day.’

‘And what about the kid? Doesn’t it give any trouble, doesn’t it cry?’

‘Never, because we make them lick opium or put it in their milk. They sleep at least for six hours, sometimes when dose is high, they sleep for nine – ten hours.’

‘Oh! And what if it dies?’

‘They don’t die, trust me.’

‘But it looks malnourished’ Roshan said looking at the kid, ‘what about the food, what do you give it?’

‘Not always my responsibility. Today, it will stay with me for six hours, so I am not supposed to waste my time for his food. And I don’t want to get thrashed up again if my man finds out that I was spending time and money for its food. And anyway, this kid will die soon. I guess. Then why should I care about its food…..’

‘But, you are dripping…….’ With no particular concern, Roshan interrupted her looking at her wet blouse, ‘You can spare some for the little one’

‘Why would I allow any bastard suck ‘my’ blood? I don’t even know from which cast this bastard belongs to, let it die if it wants to die, who can challenge its fate. And yes, why would I care, I have my own son to feed to, I am saving it for him.’
Roshan ogled at that misfortunate infant lying on the floor indifferently, no pity for the kid touched her heart, her mind. Instead she was wondering, seeking money. For her that infant was thirty odd rupees of daily takings. She observed that kid again. Its hairs were too much boorish for any infant that age, its gaunt eyes were tightly pinched, at its corners was hardened dirt, though the nose was tiny, it seemed big above brown, papery dry lips which were tightly curled trying not to utter a sound of pain, little fists of petite hands were making unsuccessful attempts to cover its open ears from harsh winds passing through the doors, bare chest pumping like wings of flying humming bird, legs coiled to stomach. To her, toddler seemed less than six months old. It never will make it, she thought and smiled.



I like all the action ( I found it hard with the bad english to figure out what was happening  There are some poor/wrong word choices ) and I haven't finished reading it but it's interesting how this MC appears to be a homeless beggar who ruins her new dress. I think your sentences are too long. Which is a common complaint from me, so part of that opinion is personal taste, but in this case I also think the sentences feel rushed because there are too many comma's.

I mean, you'll have two words, then a comma, and , it gets too much, if you see what I mean, I am doing it here, lol.

I may read the rest later. Interesting but hard to read.  Smiley



 3 
 on: Yesterday at 09:38:04 AM 
Started by Rushikesh - Last post by Rushikesh
These are the first five pages of my MS: Black White.

Thanks in advance. And just a heads up, the fictional story is set in India (but have tried to put many truths happening around me).

..........................

The Legend of “The Bastard”

1959
Beggar Ali

Roshan was walking along the railway tracks, desperate, kicking every freed ballasted pebble aiming at a sewer running along the line, putting happy face on every triumphant plunk - dubuk, then looking at her right palm, its spread fingers and counting them loudly, all, one by one - ek, do, teen, chaar, paanch, paanch rupiya. This is how he showed her and said, ‘five rupees.’ And here she was, seeking only that much. Five rupees.

She really thought it will make him happy but knew it was an impossible task. Having five rupees by end of the day.

She kicked another pebble which scudded and stopped just at the edge of sewer. She fussed at it and that same moment heard a long loud hooter of a local train leaving Masjid Bandar for Victoria Terminus. That deep sound from the distance suddenly reminded her - she had only seven minutes to reach at her usual spot that too in her perfect avatar, in her perfect garb. She gazed up warily at the sun which was lingering far above the horizon and wiped the mist of sweat emerged on her forehead with back of her wrist. Though time was not allowing her, she stood over that overflowing sewer keeping her feet on its banks and bent herself to have a closer look at her reflection in that creeping sewage. In that crawling grey matter her face looked perfectly grimy, her new Saree perfectly blotted, with mud, with blood. There were holes too in it. Still, somewhere she felt not that convinced.
She heard again that same loud horn trying to put some sense in her, telling her to hurry, to run. She turned a little and caught a glimpse of a local train. The train was bloated with passengers, slowly emerging through the misty station. She quickly jumped across the gutter on an unused railway track and started running without looking behind, but.

But, her new Saree’s strong pico work was resisting her strides, making them fall short, smaller every time. She cursed her new Saree for making her slow, vulnerable. She stopped to lift the base of her Saree, to take it towards her knees. She stooped and that very instant buzzed by the toot that train made behind her. She looked at motorman’s cabin and saw a smirking motorman looking down at her enjoying the race he just had won.

‘Aey saala bhenchod’ she roared waving at him and picked up a loose stone from the track’s sleeper. Cursing him once more she flung that stone at the train slightly missing a passenger dangling at the door.

‘Hey! mad woman.’

‘Mad or what?’

‘Arrey o… pagal.’

A chorus of passengers shouted from the train’s windows, from the doors, cursing her back.

Ceded, she looked down at her new Saree and cursed it, cursed her fate and ran behind the train as it passed past her.

By the time she reached station the train was almost empty. There were few passengers though, still protracted in their third class compartment removing their belongings, their baggage. Few families were still lingering on the platform. She walked towards them with hopeful eyes spreading her left hand, moving her right hand slowly between her mouth and stomach, seeking their attention, seeking their mercy, singing “oh janewale Babu ek paisa de de” a hit song amongst vagrants from the film Vachan. Singing, sighing, she observed men and women looking at her, discreetly. They were looking at her barefooted paws, her rubbished blood stained Saree, her mucky grey face avoiding her gaze trying not to fall in her trap. She knew the limits of these passengers from the third class. She knew they were not in any hurry and will not get irritated like the neatniks from the first class compartment that she always targeted, whom she found forever in a great hurry not even to give a second thought handing her the money from their pockets. She knew it was nothing but their arrant disgust towards her. She really enjoyed those faces, but here it was shame.

Looking back again in their shameful eyes, unriddling their vulnerability she gave up spreading her hands in front of them and moved forward in big long corridors of Victoria Terminus - again to flaunt her rubbished new Saree to the passersby thinking about her new possession.

She felt cheated by herself for wasting so much money on her new possession, her new saree which she was wearing. She had possessed it that same morning from a lament, unclaimed dead body of a woman from the government hospital. She had given one whole rupee and a quarter for it, which by the way the ward boy wasn’t ready to vend below two. But Roshan was glad that she prevailed that bargain. The saree was blood dappled, stained here and their visibly, the frayed saree she then torn to more visible holes, making it more begrimed for the impact. Though people were looking at her, her stretched hands, her pitiable face, her Saree, they were not making fool out of themselves. Thoughtfully they were avoiding her, keeping space between themselves.

As the sun dangled towards the west, Roshan – bushed – boarded the luggage compartment of 4.30 local train for Sion, making herself room at the door. She carefully pulled out the bunch of coins she had collected from her blouse pocket and counted them. It was much less than five rupees which she was dreaming that morning. Almost by three rupees.
“Only three rupees short?”  It was always a plain question, then there was thrashing. The thought of Babu thrashing her made her tremble but she wanted to quickly accept the fact, even though it wasn’t her fault. Anyhow, she knew the night would be difficult for her and she couldn’t do anything about it.

She was drained living without any choice.

She was very hopeful that day. She was thinking someone will give her a paisa or two just by looking at her attire, but the day passed poorly. For her, the business was bad as she was hardly able to make even two rupees a day. She was tired of it, tired of scouting new ways for her business; she failed and was failing all the time. She kept herself mucky - her face, her hands, all her discernible body parts. She had even kept her hairs soiled, un-oiled, unwashed. Her appearance was perfect, her acted deplorable face was perfect, still the money she was making was not good enough. Not good enough for her, for her man, Babu, who was always eager to give her her usual whipping for not giving him his share for sheltering her in his hut and protecting her from useless proletariats. Anyhow, he was an expert in axacting his dues in some way or the other from her.

At Masjid Bandar, a lone woman, vagrant like her, boarded the car carrying an infant child.  Looking at Roshan, she beamed and made herself comfortable opposite her, beside the door. Roshan smiled back painfully and enquired her from head to toe. The woman was looking clean. Her hairs, her face, her caked saree was not that tampered as Roshan’s except her blouse, which was wet at nipple cones – may be of excreted milk drippings, Roshan thought. Her toes were covered with dirty socks on which she wore slippers. In all, that woman appeared wholesome to Roshan.

While Roshan was observing her, the woman rested her child at her side on the car floor and heaved out a heavy pouch from her blouse pocket which was already weighting, balancing her heavy, milky breasts. She took out bunch of coins and few one and two rupee notes from it and started counting them. Roshan too, in her mind, started counting along with her. When she was done, Roshan totalled thirty one rupees seventy five paisa. “Must be saving since long for her kid” - Roshan thought intending to start conversation with the woman.

‘It must be difficult to carry your infant child and do the business?’ Roshan showed curiosity and enquired the women looking at her infant child which was silently sleeping at her side on the car floor.

‘It is not my child’, the woman was grinning.

‘Your husband’s?’

Woman shook her head from side to side, laughing bluntly.

‘Then?’

‘This kid, it is rented, I don’t even know if it is a boy or a girl. Mine is at home, with his granny.’ Said the woman.

‘Rented?’ appalled, Roshan kept looking at the woman in disbelief.

‘What are you looking at? Don’t you know this?’ Woman too made a shocking face on Roshan’s unawareness. In reply, Roshan kept looking at her for a brief moment and nodded no to append her shock.

‘You really don’t know this?’ Asked woman showing her surprise and added, ‘this is not a new thing, a very old trick.’

‘No. What is it?’ Roshan demanded.

‘You really don’t know about renting kids and parading them for their mercy, our mercy,’ woman pitied Roshan and continued, ‘you know, people are bunch of fools, idiots. When they see these kids in our hands, they pull out money mechanically from their pockets and offer it to us, without even having any second thought. We just need to show them these feeble kids. And do you know the most impressive thing about all of this? We can rent these kids in abundance, from many sources, like brothels, churches, remand homes. There are few parents who are readily renting them to us, for little bit profit you know.’

‘Is it? How much for?’ There was still a concern in Roshan’s tone.

‘Anywhere between one rupee to ten. Now look at this kid,’ woman pointed towards latent toddler beside her and said, ‘I rented it for two rupees.’

‘Two? For week?’

‘Naaah!!! Two for a day.’

‘That much…. for a day?’

‘It is nothing when you compare it with the business. Look at this,’ women said flaunting her wet blouse to Roshan where she’d just kept the pouch, ‘I collected more than thirty rupees today.’

‘That much in a single day?’ Roshan said re-counting the exact total in her thoughts “thirty one rupees seventy five paisa”. She looked visually stunned.

‘Yes. That much, that also in a single day.’

‘And what about the kid? Doesn’t it give any trouble, doesn’t it cry?’

‘Never, because we make them lick opium or put it in their milk. They sleep at least for six hours, sometimes when dose is high, they sleep for nine – ten hours.’

‘Oh! And what if it dies?’

‘They don’t die, trust me.’

‘But it looks malnourished’ Roshan said looking at the kid, ‘what about the food, what do you give it?’

‘Not always my responsibility. Today, it will stay with me for six hours, so I am not supposed to waste my time for his food. And I don’t want to get thrashed up again if my man finds out that I was spending time and money for its food. And anyway, this kid will die soon. I guess. Then why should I care about its food…..’

‘But, you are dripping…….’ With no particular concern, Roshan interrupted her looking at her wet blouse, ‘You can spare some for the little one’

‘Why would I allow any bastard suck ‘my’ blood? I don’t even know from which cast this bastard belongs to, let it die if it wants to die, who can challenge its fate. And yes, why would I care, I have my own son to feed to, I am saving it for him.’
Roshan ogled at that misfortunate infant lying on the floor indifferently, no pity for the kid touched her heart, her mind. Instead she was wondering, seeking money. For her that infant was thirty odd rupees of daily takings. She observed that kid again. Its hairs were too much boorish for any infant that age, its gaunt eyes were tightly pinched, at its corners was hardened dirt, though the nose was tiny, it seemed big above brown, papery dry lips which were tightly curled trying not to utter a sound of pain, little fists of petite hands were making unsuccessful attempts to cover its open ears from harsh winds passing through the doors, bare chest pumping like wings of flying humming bird, legs coiled to stomach. To her, toddler seemed less than six months old. It never will make it, she thought and smiled.



 4 
 on: June 23, 2018, 09:00:35 AM 
Started by macaroni_thief - Last post by Pineapplejuice
I'll have a proper look at it to compare at some point. It did jar a little when I read it, but then I got over that so fast as was so absorbed in seeing William. Love the clinks and ticks. At first glance i think that the observation from Hortatio is a good addition, but the trembling of the hand is going too far.

It's fun as a reader to figure these subtleties out for yourself. It did come across to me the first time that William was just putting on a dismissive face, ( and I realized that as I read on ) - and it was brilliant. So it's tricky to reduce the jarring effect ( I agree it doing a little something will improve it ) and also keep that subtlety, that delightful unfolding insight the reader gets to experience in their own head, without having spoon fed to them.

 eek wag Thumbs Up Kool-Aid  Grin ( Don't read into these emoji's anyone,  I simply wanted to use them lol )  embarrassed2
  innocent

 5 
 on: June 23, 2018, 08:38:13 AM 
Started by macaroni_thief - Last post by macaroni_thief
There's a pretty noticeable and sudden shift in demeanor in this section.

You're absolutely right. I was trying to show that his nonchalance was to mask his fear, but that didn't quite make it through. I've made a few changes to the section, moving things around, and I hope that they work a little better.


"As always you follow to your nature: Learn. Observe. Study." William gestured to himself with a casually elegant wave and the manacles clanked. "Have you taken enough notes with your eyes yet, Horatio?"

"William…" Horatio recognized the autosimile's feigned nonchalance as a familiar mask used to cover his true feelings. "Little brother…enough of this."

William ran a trembling gloved hand over his head to smooth down his mop of bronze-colored curls, and the heavy iron manacles clinked against his neck. His black-on-black Royal Aeronautics Corps uniform was laid open at the throat and unbuttoned down half the length of his greatcoat, giving him a haggard appearance rather than his accustomed rakish air.

"Speak to me," Horatio urged.

William's gloved hands curled around the bars, and his fingers ticked in that old malfunction—twitching each finger as if unconsciously counting on his hands like a small child.

"God, they think that I'm the Master." Desperation made the autosimile's voice rough, and Horatio could hear the child-like fear in William's tone. "The Master of the Half-Men. As if I haven't been fighting his ilk, bleeding for this very ship for years. Tell me, Horatio, that you cannot believe me capable of such atrocity."

 6 
 on: June 23, 2018, 06:43:53 AM 
Started by markparker1690 - Last post by markparker1690
Thanks again for all the replies. I have seen the light and taken the whole part about the prince out. He has an entirely different story line which I will write about in the synopsis rather than try to shoehorn into the query. I have also specified Lady Eerika's goal with slightly more clarity and combined parts to make it appear less 'spread out.' Smiley

 7 
 on: June 22, 2018, 06:30:09 PM 
Started by markparker1690 - Last post by Sabreur
So, three things hit me: first, I liked this version much better. Second, it almost felt as though I knew too much by the end of the query. And third, why the heck would he try to kill only one of the quins? That has nothing to do with the query, I know, but it still hit me. Still, overall I think it works well.

 8 
 on: June 22, 2018, 04:31:33 PM 
Started by Sabreur - Last post by Sabreur
Rock,

And now you’re carrying the stupid ring again, breaking into the Fortress of Publishing. Dang, man, glutton for punishment?

I used to feel a lot more at odds with the gatekeepers than I do now. I spent a long time reading queries at QueryShark; one night I read about 30 in four hours and got pretty sick of them, then I realized that was a just light day for most agents. That’s when I recognized they’re working under siege, and I had more sympathy for them. I still think the situation is ridiculous, but I don’t blame them for it anymore. They’re caught in it, just like we are.

 9 
 on: June 22, 2018, 12:15:31 PM 
Started by alislove - Last post by Pineapplejuice
Lol I'm so happy for you Alislove!

Firstly - BE HAPPY!

Secondly Make a cup of tea and breathe lol

Thirdly - Agents are humans and if anyone is ratty enough to decide they don't want to see your book because 1. you sent the wrong attachment and send a follow up email or 2. there's one part of that ms that's a little unclear to some people - then ...they wouldn't ( like TigerLily1066 said, be nice to work with ) or have been that keen on your ms anyway.

But I"m sure they are!

I personally would send it. I've seen a couple of agents that say on their bio section 'if you misfire and send the wrong attachment or make a mistake in the email, just resend it with the write contents and I'll delete the first one'

Hope they love your book.   Grin


 10 
 on: June 22, 2018, 11:44:12 AM 
Started by macaroni_thief - Last post by JBeachum
There's a pretty noticeable and sudden shift in demeanor in this section:

William possessed the irrepressibly handsome face of a marble-carved Greek god, eternally youthful. Where the sculptor would chisel away at his stonecraft to make that immobile substance come to life, William's skin was just as smooth. Even as Horatio studied him in silence, the autosimile's mouth curved up into a bitterly amused smirk, contorting the faint scar on his right cheek. His eyebrows were a bronze-colored hair thin metal, but even they quirked wryly at Horatio's prolonged regard. The whites of his porcelain eyes still hadn't darkened since the moment he had been animated; those steel-gray irises were the same, and his obsidian pupils were wide to let in enough light to let him see better in the dark than any true flesh-born man.

"Have you taken enough notes with your eyes, Horatio?" William gestured to himself with a casually elegant wave and the manacles clanked. "But as always: Learn. Observe. Study."

William ran a gloved hand over his head to smooth down his mop of bronze-colored curls, and the heavy iron manacles clinked against his neck. His black-on-black Royal Aeronautics Corps uniform was laid open at the throat and unbuttoned down half the length of his greatcoat, giving him haggard rather than rakish air.

"William…"

"God," his brother whispered. "Horatio, they think that I'm the Master." His gloved hands curled around the bars, and his fingers ticked in that old malfunction—twitching each finger as if unconsciously counting on his hands like a small child. Desperation made the autosimile's voice rough, and Horatio could hear the child-like fear in William's tone. "The Master of the Half-Men. As if I haven't been fighting his ilk, bleeding for this very ship for years. Tell me, Horatio, that you cannot believe me capable of such atrocity."


In an instant, without explanation or observation from Horatio, William goes from smirking and waving casually and quirking wryly to being desperate and fearful. I think it's okay to make this shift, but Horatio needs to comment on it - otherwise it's too jarring for the reader. It made me read back over and go, "Huh?"


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