FUNNY-FOOT AND THE WOON OF BINK - Humorous Mid-Grade Fantasy - Original Post

[Kim_S]

Just out of curiousity, does anyone else feel violently ill when submitting their work to be critiqued?Is there a way to get beyond that? Thank you ~KS


======================================================================

Three years. It had been only three years since the tyrant Woon had taken control of all the countries of Bink. Only three years since he built the first Great Paper Wall of Daily Laws around the capital. For the tiny people of Bink, the weight of the Wall was the foot of a giant grinding down hard on their necks. For in three years, the Woon had banned laughing, dancing, and so much more, and this made three years seem like a very long time indeed.


Once, the green, misty hills had looked like a parade of handsome green soldiers guarding the flowers of the central plain. Now, the countryside around the capitol of Bink was grey and dead.  Any observer might think that the land was dying of grief 


… any observer but the strange little fellow hurtling up the gravel road at a break-neck pace.  And he didn’t have much time for observing because it looked like he was really going to break his neck!


 “Ohhh-Whoa-Oh! Help! Stop!” he hollered, though no one was around to hear him. “Oh, My! Oh! Whoa! Oh! Heh-ELP!”


He was a curious sight because he was no more than three-feet tall, and was therefore a good half-foot shorter than the average Binkarian.  He was even more curious precisely because he had no good feet.  Instead, he had polished cherry-wood rockers where his feet should have been. Once he got started, it was all he could do to get stopped again.  To move forward, he had to take big hops that rocked him to and fro when he landed.  Each time he rocked “fro”, he would almost overbalance and fall on his rump. Each time he rocked “to”, he would almost land flat on his nose.  This caused his face to go all squinchy. (Though what really caused his face to go all squinchy was that he couldn’t help but imagine how much it would hurt his face if it really did knock into the ground.  The simple truth was that his imagination made his face hurt almost as much as a real bump!) Gasping and red-faced, Funny-Foot finally flopped down to rest his face near the entrance to the Great Paper Wall.  He hated hurrying. His face was all squinched up tight with the strain of traveling, and as sore as could be. And he had awful cramps in the bowed parts of his rockers. He rubbed his thumbs hard into the achy wood to ease it, and then sucked on one thumb that had caught a splinter.


Funny-Foot sighed around his thumb.


“Ohhhh,” He said to himself. “I wish I could have come here in a pambanouche.  It would have been so much easier.”


For a long time, Funny-Foot huffed in great, deep breaths.  He rolled over and flopped on his back, staring at the sky with shiny black eyes.  (He wanted to count the sheep in the clouds, but he didn’t dare. Counting cloud sheep was against the law.)  Eventually, his lungs stopped hurting so much, and his face relaxed back into its normal appearance – that of a happy gentle clown. It still felt ouchy, but at least he could unclench his teeth now.  He sat up, and scooted himself against the Wall.  After taking a quick look around and assuring himself that no one was watching, he scratched his lower back against its crinkly flash paper and sighed in relief. Then he turned his head to the Wall, and spoke to it.  (Not many people take the time to talk to walls, but Funny-Foot had always found them to be good listeners.)


“In case you didn’t know, a pambanouche is that light, cheerful buggy drawn by a pair of three-legged donkeys.” He paused, considering.  “It’s very important that the donkeys have only three legs, for it is always the fourth leg of a donkey that makes it go along all jerky and bumpy.”


The Great Paper Wall said nothing, but a few pieces of paper shifted politely in the wind, and Funny-Foot took that as an invitation to continue.


“My Uncle Mizz was the inventor of the pambanouche… and he even raised the very first three-legged donkeys.” He chewed on his thumb, and finally released the splinter. He frowned and spat it out. “The prettiest pambanouches were made in my country. The Woon wanted them all, but didn’t want to pay for them.  So, he declared pambanouches against the law in my country. Then he confiscated all of the pambanouches for the capital of Bink. And my Uncle Mizz… my poor Uncle Mizz --…”


It took a moment for Funny-Foot to go on.


“Uncle Mizz is in a Jug-jail forever an’ ever, along with most of my people. And what makes it even worse is that I never even got a chance to ride in a pambanouche.  Not even once.  And now I never will.”


The Great Paper Wall rustled sympathetically.  The wind blew on Funny-
Foot’s face, and dried his tears a little. The sun felt warm on his rockers. But the world felt so very big. And he was so very small.


To distract himself, Funny-Foot unpinned a shiny, copper ribbon from his vest and held it up for the Wall to see. 


“See this?” The ribbon was a lovely smooth satin, and had the words ‘Nicest Person Ever!’ written on it in big silky letters. “The people in my country gave me this. Said this little copper ribbon meant I was to be their ‘Bassador.  When I asked what a ‘Bassador was, they said it meant ‘Somebody-Who-Goes-To-the-Woon-To-Ask-Him-To-Stop-Making-So-Many-New-Laws.-Or-At-Least-Ask-Him-To-Hold-Off-A-Bit-Until-Everyone’s-Learned-the-Old-Ones’.”


Funny-Foot stroked the ribbon and pondered it uncertainly.


“Wonder what it would have meant if I’d gotten a little green ribbon?”


The Wall had no response for that.


Funny-Foot sighed something that sounded like apologetic hiccup.  Initially, he’d been flattered when they’d given him his ribbon and new title. Still, he couldn’t help but feel the people of his land were, well … a little silly.  (And this was quite true. The people of his country were always known to be remarkably good-hearted, but they were also known to be terribly naïve.) They thought that if they liked and listened to Funny-Foot, that everyone would like and listen to Funny-Foot. But that said, it should also be mentioned that none of them – including Funny-Foot – were naïve enough to actually want the job of ‘Bassador. 


They said Funny-Foot’d talk to anyone or anything, and that made him qualified, but Funny-Foot had his doubts. Frankly, he didn’t have the vaguest idea how to go about changing the Woon’s mind.  Funny-Foot didn’t get the feeling that the Woon was very impressed with nice people. The very thought of facing the  mean old Woon and his five-hundred lawyers made Funny-Foot’s face squinch up and hurt more than all the imaginary bumps he’d ever almost had. If he was lucky, the Woon would only laugh at him.  If he wasn’t…


“Ohhhh, if only there weren’t so many things against the law,” moaned poor Funny-Foot, daubing liniment on his face with his handkerchief. The liniment made his sore face feel a little better, but it didn’t quite do the trick. Funny-Foot decided to put his face back in the cool grey grass. He did so, and his face felt better still. Then he thought about all of the laws of Bink, and his poor Uncle Mizz -- and that made him cry, and the tears cooled off his face even more. That was why he did not see the Detective coming. He was so busy crying, with his face down in the grass, that he'd been caught for ten full minutes before he even knew it.


Maybe he wouldn't have known it even then if the Detective hadn't sneezed. However, when the Detective sneezed, his sneeze was so big and so hard that it blew Funny-Foot's cap right off his head. (The Detective had been granted the Woon’s Special Dispensation to Sneeze. The Detective was the only person in Bink allowed to sneeze at all; and so it was, that when he had to sneeze, he made it count!) When Funny-Foot rolled over to see where the sneeze got loose from, he discovered that the big, heavy Detective was looking him all over with a big magnifying glass. The Detective squinted with his sharp eye to find suspicious marks on Funny-Foot. From the Detective’s growly looking face, Funny-Foot could tell that he was just Suspicious All Over.


It made Funny-Foot terribly nervous to know he was Suspicious All Over, so he had to wriggle a lot. The Detective put his heavy foot on Funny-Foot to hold him still, and squinted through his magnifying glass for even more suspicious marks. Poor Funny-Foot quit wriggling then, for he thought he might be making the suspicious marks jiggle and jump around every time he moved. He was afraid that the scowly Detective might think he saw a new one, rather than only an old mark that had wriggled to another place.

[swanndown]

Hi Kim,

Karma to you for posting.  Yes, it takes courage to share work, and can feel nerve-wracking.  It does get easier in time.  Actually, it gets downright exciting in time, since critiques have the potential to make our work so much stronger.

Reading this, I feel a whole lot of imaginative ideas.  That's great stuff with which to begin. I also sense a pleasure and comfort with language.

Some thoughts on possible improvements. Just my take, do check with others.

On the craft side, I see some weaknesses that you can easily address, but it may take working with a critique group to get you where you want to go. For instance, you employ an overabundance of passive language in these pages.  I highlighted the most obvious instances in the first couple of paragraphs.  I am by no means an extremist when it comes to the passive voice.  I believe there ARE times and places for it in writing.  Too much of it though, and your work will read flat. Go through your pages and circle or highlight all the times you used is, was, are, been, etc.  Experiment with using more active verbs.  Secondly, you're doing a whole lot of telling in this opening, as opposed to showing.  It's creating what feels like too much distance between the reader and your MC.  You've made it especially hard for yourself, in terms of forcing exposition, by giving your MC only the wall to speak to. Why not experiment with opening with the scene where the townsfolk ask Funny-foot to be their "Bassador.  Show the reader than moment of conflict, and Funny-foot's reaction.  Your narrator seems to be overwhelming the story a bit, and your MC in the process.  If you pump up the "show" factor, and beat down the "tell", the narrator's presence should naturally recede a bit.

One more thing: The story telling at times seemed directed at younger than middle grade children, at six or seven year olds.  I know we get attached to names, but I'm wondering if the name Funny-foot is contributing to the sensation of this being a story for the younger set.

You have an interesting idea.  Good luck taking it to the next level.

Just out of curiousity, does anyone else feel violently ill when submitting their work to be critiqued?Is there a way to get beyond that? Thank you ~KS


======================================================================

Three years. It had been only three years since the tyrant Woon had taken control of all the countries of Bink. Only three years since he built the first Great Paper Wall of Daily Laws around the capital. For the tiny people of Bink, the weight of the Wall was the foot of a giant grinding down hard on their necks. For in three years, the Woon had banned laughing, dancing, and so much more, and this made three years seem like a very long time indeed.


Once, the green, misty hills had looked like a parade of handsome green soldiers guarding the flowers of the central plain. Now, the countryside around the capitol of Bink was grey and dead.  Any observer might think that the land was dying of grief 


… any observer but the strange little fellow hurtling up the gravel road at a break-neck pace.  And he didn’t have much time for observing because it looked like he was really going to break his neck!


 “Ohhh-Whoa-Oh! Help! Stop!” he hollered, though no one was around to hear him. “Oh, My! Oh! Whoa! Oh! Heh-ELP!”


He was a curious sight because he was no more than three-feet tall, and was therefore a good half-foot shorter than the average Binkarian.  He was even more curious precisely because he had no good feet.  Instead, he had polished cherry-wood rockers where his feet should have been. Once he got started, it was all he could do to get stopped again.  To move forward, he had to take big hops that rocked him to and fro when he landed.  Each time he rocked “fro”, he would almost overbalance and fall on his rump. Each time he rocked “to”, he would almost land flat on his nose.  This caused his face to go all squinchy. (Though what really caused his face to go all squinchy was that he couldn’t help but imagine how much it would hurt his face if it really did knock into the ground.  The simple truth was that his imagination made his face hurt almost as much as a real bump!) Gasping and red-faced, Funny-Foot finally flopped down to rest his face near the entrance to the Great Paper Wall.  He hated hurrying. His face was all squinched up tight with the strain of traveling, and as sore as could be. And he had awful cramps in the bowed parts of his rockers. He rubbed his thumbs hard into the achy wood to ease it, and then sucked on one thumb that had caught a splinter.


Funny-Foot sighed around his thumb.


“Ohhhh,” He said to himself. “I wish I could have come here in a pambanouche.  It would have been so much easier.”


For a long time, Funny-Foot huffed in great, deep breaths.  He rolled over and flopped on his back, staring at the sky with shiny black eyes.  (He wanted to count the sheep in the clouds, but he didn’t dare. Counting cloud sheep was against the law.)  Eventually, his lungs stopped hurting so much, and his face relaxed back into its normal appearance – that of a happy gentle clown. It still felt ouchy, but at least he could unclench his teeth now.  He sat up, and scooted himself against the Wall.  After taking a quick look around and assuring himself that no one was watching, he scratched his lower back against its crinkly flash paper and sighed in relief. Then he turned his head to the Wall, and spoke to it.  (Not many people take the time to talk to walls, but Funny-Foot had always found them to be good listeners.)


“In case you didn’t know, a pambanouche is that light, cheerful buggy drawn by a pair of three-legged donkeys.” He paused, considering.  “It’s very important that the donkeys have only three legs, for it is always the fourth leg of a donkey that makes it go along all jerky and bumpy.”


The Great Paper Wall said nothing, but a few pieces of paper shifted politely in the wind, and Funny-Foot took that as an invitation to continue.


“My Uncle Mizz was the inventor of the pambanouche… and he even raised the very first three-legged donkeys.” He chewed on his thumb, and finally released the splinter. He frowned and spat it out. “The prettiest pambanouches were made in my country. The Woon wanted them all, but didn’t want to pay for them.  So, he declared pambanouches against the law in my country. Then he confiscated all of the pambanouches for the capital of Bink. And my Uncle Mizz… my poor Uncle Mizz --…”


It took a moment for Funny-Foot to go on.


“Uncle Mizz is in a Jug-jail forever an’ ever, along with most of my people. And what makes it even worse is that I never even got a chance to ride in a pambanouche.  Not even once.  And now I never will.”


The Great Paper Wall rustled sympathetically.  The wind blew on Funny-
Foot’s face, and dried his tears a little. The sun felt warm on his rockers. But the world felt so very big. And he was so very small.


To distract himself, Funny-Foot unpinned a shiny, copper ribbon from his vest and held it up for the Wall to see. 


“See this?” The ribbon was a lovely smooth satin, and had the words ‘Nicest Person Ever!’ written on it in big silky letters. “The people in my country gave me this. Said this little copper ribbon meant I was to be their ‘Bassador.  When I asked what a ‘Bassador was, they said it meant ‘Somebody-Who-Goes-To-the-Woon-To-Ask-Him-To-Stop-Making-So-Many-New-Laws.-Or-At-Least-Ask-Him-To-Hold-Off-A-Bit-Until-Everyone’s-Learned-the-Old-Ones’.”


Funny-Foot stroked the ribbon and pondered it uncertainly.


“Wonder what it would have meant if I’d gotten a little green ribbon?”


The Wall had no response for that.


Funny-Foot sighed something that sounded like apologetic hiccup.  Initially, he’d been flattered when they’d given him his ribbon and new title. Still, he couldn’t help but feel the people of his land were, well … a little silly.  (And this was quite true. The people of his country were always known to be remarkably good-hearted, but they were also known to be terribly naïve.) They thought that if they liked and listened to Funny-Foot, that everyone would like and listen to Funny-Foot. But that said, it should also be mentioned that none of them – including Funny-Foot – were naïve enough to actually want the job of ‘Bassador. 


They said Funny-Foot’d talk to anyone or anything, and that made him qualified, but Funny-Foot had his doubts. Frankly, he didn’t have the vaguest idea how to go about changing the Woon’s mind.  Funny-Foot didn’t get the feeling that the Woon was very impressed with nice people. The very thought of facing the  mean old Woon and his five-hundred lawyers made Funny-Foot’s face squinch up and hurt more than all the imaginary bumps he’d ever almost had. If he was lucky, the Woon would only laugh at him.  If he wasn’t…


“Ohhhh, if only there weren’t so many things against the law,” moaned poor Funny-Foot, daubing liniment on his face with his handkerchief. The liniment made his sore face feel a little better, but it didn’t quite do the trick. Funny-Foot decided to put his face back in the cool grey grass. He did so, and his face felt better still. Then he thought about all of the laws of Bink, and his poor Uncle Mizz -- and that made him cry, and the tears cooled off his face even more. That was why he did not see the Detective coming. He was so busy crying, with his face down in the grass, that he'd been caught for ten full minutes before he even knew it.


Maybe he wouldn't have known it even then if the Detective hadn't sneezed. However, when the Detective sneezed, his sneeze was so big and so hard that it blew Funny-Foot's cap right off his head. (The Detective had been granted the Woon’s Special Dispensation to Sneeze. The Detective was the only person in Bink allowed to sneeze at all; and so it was, that when he had to sneeze, he made it count!) When Funny-Foot rolled over to see where the sneeze got loose from, he discovered that the big, heavy Detective was looking him all over with a big magnifying glass. The Detective squinted with his sharp eye to find suspicious marks on Funny-Foot. From the Detective’s growly looking face, Funny-Foot could tell that he was just Suspicious All Over.


It made Funny-Foot terribly nervous to know he was Suspicious All Over, so he had to wriggle a lot. The Detective put his heavy foot on Funny-Foot to hold him still, and squinted through his magnifying glass for even more suspicious marks. Poor Funny-Foot quit wriggling then, for he thought he might be making the suspicious marks jiggle and jump around every time he moved. He was afraid that the scowly Detective might think he saw a new one, rather than only an old mark that had wriggled to another place.

[MaryL]

This is so clever, but it feels much younger than middle grade. How long is it? Perhaps you are dealing with a late chapter book.

Karma for posting.

[allegretta12]

Hi Kim S! I enjoyed reading these pages. You have lots of creative ideas and I'd be interested to know how the plot develops. My main comment is that there's a heavy "narrator" voice here and I'd like to hear the story in a way that's more intimately tied to your MC. i.e. when you say "any observer might think the land was dying of grief ... any observer but the strange little fellow" You tell us what Funny-Foot doesn't think rather than what he is thinking, which creates separation. I feel like I'm learning about him from a distance rather than getting inside his mind. I hope that makes sense. Also, there's a ton of info here about your MC's past and his mission at the capital. Could we find out about that later in a more organic way, maybe through his trouble with the Detective?
My thoughts as I read are below. Good luck and karma for posting!

Just out of curiousity, does anyone else feel violently ill when submitting their work to be critiqued?Is there a way to get beyond that? Thank you ~KS


======================================================================

Three years. It had been only three years since the tyrant Woon had taken control of all the countries of Bink. Only three years since he built the first Great Paper Wall of Daily Laws around the capital. For the tiny people of Bink, the weight of the Wall was the foot of a giant grinding down hard on their necks. For in three years, the Woon had banned laughing, dancing, and so much more, and this made three years seem like a very long time indeed. Right away, I'm wondering why he banned all those things. Is he prohibiting expressions of happiness just because he's evil?


Once, the green, misty hills had looked like a parade of handsome green soldiers guarding the flowers of the central plain. Now, the countryside around the capitol capital? of Bink was grey and dead.  Any observer might think that the land was dying of grief


… any observer but the strange little fellow hurtling up the gravel road at a break-neck pace.  And he didn’t have much time for observing because it looked like he was really going to break his neck!


 “Ohhh-Whoa-Oh! Help! Stop!” he hollered, though no one was around to hear him. “Oh, My! Oh! Whoa! Oh! Heh-ELP!”


He was a curious sight because he was no more than three-feet tall, and was therefore a good half-foot shorter than the average Binkarian.  He was even more curious precisely because he had no good feet.  Instead, he had polished cherry-wood rockers where his feet should have been. Once he got started, it was all he could do to get stopped again.  cute To move forward, he had to take big hops that rocked him to and fro when he landed.  Each time he rocked “fro”, he would almost overbalance and fall on his rump. Each time he rocked “to”, he would almost land flat on his nose.  This caused his face to go all squinchy. (Though what really caused his face to go all squinchy was that he couldn’t help but imagine how much it would hurt his face if it really did knock into the ground.  The simple truth was that his imagination made his face hurt almost as much as a real bump!) Too cute. Overall, I think your parentheses come across as trying too hard. You've already got a lot of narration, so it would work fine grammatically without the () marks. Gasping and red-faced, Funny-Foot finally flopped down to rest his face near the entrance to the Great Paper Wall.  He hated hurrying. His face was all squinched up tight with the strain of traveling, and as sore as could be. And he had awful cramps in the bowed parts of his rockers. He rubbed his thumbs hard into the achy wood to ease it, and then sucked on one thumb that had caught a splinter. What an interesting idea, that he has feeling in his wooden "rockers"! I thought at first I'd misread or you'd made a mistake; you might want to consider making it really clear that the wood is a living (?) part of him.


Funny-Foot sighed around his thumb. This image - the MC with his thumb in his mouth - might be too young. How old is Funny-Foot?


“Ohhhh,” He said to himself. “I wish I could have come here in a pambanouche.  It would have been so much easier.” What a random thing to say.


For a long time, Funny-Foot huffed in great, deep breaths.  He rolled over and flopped on his back, staring at the sky with shiny black eyes.  (He wanted to count the sheep in the clouds, but he didn’t dare. Counting cloud sheep was against the law.)  Eventually, his lungs stopped hurting so much, and his face relaxed back into its normal appearance – that of a happy gentle clown. It still felt ouchy, but at least he could unclench his teeth now.  He sat up, and scooted himself against the Wall.  After taking a quick look around and assuring himself that no one was watching, he scratched his lower back against its crinkly flash paper and sighed in relief. What is crinkly flash paper? Then he turned his head to the Wall, and spoke to it.  (Not many people take the time to talk to walls, but Funny-Foot had always found them to be good listeners.) Again, why in parenthesis?


“In case you didn’t know, a pambanouche is that light, cheerful buggy drawn by a pair of three-legged donkeys.” He paused, considering.  “It’s very important that the donkeys have only three legs, for it is always the fourth leg of a donkey that makes it go along all jerky and bumpy.” Poor donkeys. They don't cut a leg off, do they? This humour might be too young for MG, since it's illogical/not true (in our world and according to donkey anatomy as we know it).


The Great Paper Wall said nothing, but a few pieces of paper shifted politely in the wind, and Funny-Foot took that as an invitation to continue.


“My Uncle Mizz was the inventor of the pambanouche… and he even raised the very first three-legged donkeys.” He chewed on his thumb, and finally released the splinter. He frowned and spat it out. “The prettiest pambanouches were made in my country. The Woon wanted them all, but didn’t want to pay for them.  So, he declared pambanouches against the law in my country. Then he confiscated all of the pambanouches for the capital of Bink. And my Uncle Mizz… my poor Uncle Mizz --…”


It took a moment for Funny-Foot to go on.


“Uncle Mizz is in a Jug-jail forever an’ ever, along with most of my people. And what makes it even worse is that I never even got a chance to ride in a pambanouche.  Not even once.  And now I never will.”

The Great Paper Wall rustled sympathetically.  The wind blew on Funny-
Foot’s face, and dried his tears a little. The sun felt warm on his rockers. But the world felt so very big. And he was so very small.


To distract himself, Funny-Foot unpinned a shiny, copper ribbon from his vest and held it up for the Wall to see. 


“See this?” The ribbon was a lovely smooth satin, and had the words ‘Nicest Person Ever!’ written on it in big silky letters. “The people in my country gave me this. Said this little copper ribbon meant I was to be their ‘Bassador.  When I asked what a ‘Bassador was, they said it meant ‘Somebody-Who-Goes-To-the-Woon-To-Ask-Him-To-Stop-Making-So-Many-New-Laws.-Or-At-Least-Ask-Him-To-Hold-Off-A-Bit-Until-Everyone’s-Learned-the-Old-Ones’.”


Funny-Foot stroked the ribbon and pondered it uncertainly.


“Wonder what it would have meant if I’d gotten a little green ribbon?”


The Wall had no response for that.


Funny-Foot sighed something that sounded like apologetic hiccup.  Initially, he’d been flattered when they’d given him his ribbon and new title. Still, he couldn’t help but feel the people of his land were, well … a little silly.  (And this was quite true. The people of his country were always known to be remarkably good-hearted, but they were also known to be terribly naïve.) They thought that if they liked and listened to Funny-Foot, that everyone would like and listen to Funny-Foot. But that said, it should also be mentioned that none of them – including Funny-Foot – were naïve enough to actually want the job of ‘Bassador. 

They said Funny-Foot’d talk to anyone or anything, and that made him qualified, but Funny-Foot had his doubts. Frankly, he didn’t have the vaguest idea how to go about changing the Woon’s mind.  Funny-Foot didn’t get the feeling that the Woon was very impressed with nice people. The very thought of facing the  mean old Woon and his five-hundred lawyers made Funny-Foot’s face squinch up and hurt more than all the imaginary bumps he’d ever almost had. If he was lucky, the Woon would only laugh at him.  If he wasn’t…


“Ohhhh, if only there weren’t so many things against the law,” moaned poor Funny-Foot, daubing liniment on his face with his handkerchief. The liniment made his sore face feel a little better, but it didn’t quite do the trick. Funny-Foot decided to put his face back in the cool grey grass. He did so, and his face felt better still. Then he thought about all of the laws of Bink, and his poor Uncle Mizz -- and that made him cry, and the tears cooled off his face even more. That was why he did not see the Detective coming. He was so busy crying, with his face down in the grass, that he'd been caught for ten full minutes before he even knew it.


Maybe he wouldn't have known it even then if the Detective hadn't sneezed. However, when the Detective sneezed, his sneeze was so big and so hard that it blew Funny-Foot's cap right off his head. (The Detective had been granted the Woon’s Special Dispensation to Sneeze. The Detective was the only person in Bink allowed to sneeze at all; and so it was, that when he had to sneeze, he made it count!) Cute, but also maybe too young. When Funny-Foot rolled over to see where the sneeze got loose from, he discovered that the big, heavy Detective was looking him all over with a big magnifying glass. The Detective squinted with his sharp eye to find suspicious marks on Funny-Foot. From the Detective’s growly looking face, Funny-Foot could tell that he was just Suspicious All Over. I don't understand what you mean by suspicious marks.


It made Funny-Foot terribly nervous to know he was Suspicious All Over, so he had to wriggle a lot. The Detective put his heavy foot on Funny-Foot to hold him still, and squinted through his magnifying glass for even more suspicious marks. Poor Funny-Foot quit wriggling then, for he thought he might be making the suspicious marks jiggle and jump around every time he moved. He was afraid that the scowly Detective might think he saw a new one, rather than only an old mark that had wriggled to another place.

[Kim_S]

Passive voice is one of my biggest problems.  I have the darnedest time switching it up.  I wouldn't mind cutting back on the narrator voice, and I wouldn't mind cutting back on that...but this is written in the style of Norton Juster, P.L. Travers,  and Dahl's work, and all rely on the narrator. 


I also think one of my biggest problems is trying to define this story for specific audience group.   Oddly enough, I'm not finding a specific genre-definition for any of the books from the authors above.  "Light Humorous, Fantasy", sure.  "Confident Reader", okay.  Apparently, it's too long for a chapter book (though it is broken into chapters) and too short for a mid-grade. I feel my this story is for readers age 8 and up, or anyone with a sense of whimsy.  Personally, I'd put it in the same category (whatever that turns out to be) as Mary Poppins or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

I like big words, and use them frequently.  The story itself is an innocent allegory stressing the need for leaders to treat their followers with fairness, and to make laws that help all of their people.  I also believe that everyone, even the littlest person can make a huge difference in this world, and that is what I try to convey as well.

My writers group had a critique group, but there were so many scheduling conflicts that they couldn't keep them up.  I also live so far out in the boonies that I can't find any other options locally.  I need fresh eyes and someone to go at this story with a machete.


===================
Now to the other points,   

• crinkly flash paper -- Flash paper is a prop used by magicians.  It flares up in a big white flash, and disappears leaving no trace. Think about how many times you've seen a dove appear in a magician's hand. It is crinkly, because well, paper is crinkly. Crinkly is the sound. Crinkly is the feel. I explain a few pages later that the Great Paper Wall of Daily Laws is destroyed each evening and replaced with another wall of newer laws ... that there are so many laws coming in that they can't even keep them all in one place.  Every square inch of paper is covered in teeny, tiny writing, and the populace may only view them at night, in total darkness (also explained a few pages later).
• The Woon's Laws are at the heart of the story.  The Woon wants to be in charge of everything, (this is explained later), and he does this by making laws that squish everybody into submission. He's literally a bad egg descendant of Humpty Dumpty who always resented that even royalty would come the aid of his ancestor, but nobody goes out of their way to help out the Woon. The people get more laws daily and can’t keep up. The Detective is a bookend, only showing up at the beginning and the end.  His job is to get "the bad guys" from one place to another, and to be a little comic relief.
• When I had written previous 1st-5's, they told me that I needed to jump right into the problem, and that if I had backstory, it needed to be dealt with quickly so that I could move on to the rest of the story.  Funny-Foot has to be arrested the moment he sets foot in the capital, because the rest of the story spirals out of his new definition of self as a “desperate criminal”…and because in the land of Bink, it doesn’t take much to become a desperate criminal.  When I didn’t say why the first few times, I got called on it.
• The parenthesis are there as sort of a breaking-the-wall whisper to the audience.  It was something I noticed in several of the books I used to read (see the authors above), and I always liked the idea of being let into a secret.
• The P.O.V does shift into Funny-Foot's head shortly, but I'm not very good at writing in someone's head, and the transitions feel clunky.

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Thank you everyone for the kind words.  At least some of what I'm trying to convey is getting through properly, and that gives me hope. 

[allegretta12]

Well explained! I empathize with not being able to pick an age category, and trying to figure out what category books like Dahl's fit into. Also, there are so many MG kids who read YA books, which makes me wonder even more if they'd find my MG stories too babyish. I was surprised by how many of my 10-year-old students read The Hunger Games around the time the movie came out. And I have one 6-year-old student (I teach violin, but talk to them about books ) who's almost finished the Harry Potter series.

My theory about the classics you mentioned is that parents often buy them to read to their kids, so the children's reading level doesn't matter as much. The MC's age and your overall word count are important in picking a category, as well as an appropriate/accurate voice. I've noticed more passive language in classic kid lit compared to more recent stuff. Do you have favourite current authors you also identify with?
I'm living on a remote farm for the summer, near a small town with a tiny library and no bookstore, so I know what it's like to have little access to new books (thank goodness for the internet, eh?). I download dozens of samples of books from Amazon's Kindle store, to read 1st chapters from a variety of authors (and then often end up buying the whole book). Kate Messner is one of my favourites right now, and Hilary McKay!

I love the idea of your villain being a "bad egg" descended from Humpty Dumpty!! :D Very cool. I'd be happy beta for you if you're interested in swapping manuscripts (PM me if you are!)

~A


 

[Kim_S]

Bless your heart, Allegretta12.  I'd like to take you up on that. I will also be happy to offer whatever help I can in return.  I've been working on this, and four other stories for three years... and I've gone as far as I can on my own. Only this story, and one other are suitable for publication...I have no idea how to corral the others into submission...or for Submission for that matter. Uhhh, but I hate being in limbo.  Writing is so much easier when I can head in a particular direction.

I love describing the Woon of Bink.  Initially, the only description was that he liked looking down his long nose at people.  Then I got the idea about Humpty Dumpty, and started pondering egg shapes, and he just came together perfectly.

Regretfully, I just can't get into most of the current books for kids. Everybody's got to be all angst-y and depressed, and there's little tolerance for innocence, and less acceptance of it.  In fact, the trends seem to say that if a character is innocent and gentle that there is something terribly wrong with that, and that person must be changed drastically and directly.  There are things that get me down in life, but I was taught at an early age that being happy and seeking joy was a conscious choice. It isn't something you are given, just something you do.  So, I suppose my work is a throwback, and that makes sense. It's based on the original stories of my great-grandfather, a man who lived through the trials of the Great Depression and was a prolific reader even though he had no formal education past the eighth grade.  "Can-Do!" was his philosophy.  In fact, while I was writing these stories, I tried to keep the vibe I felt watching Shirley Temple's Bluebird. (I often pretended my stories were just movies she hadn't gotten around to making yet.)

Harry Potter was fine for a while, and then I got fed up with his constant whining and couldn't bring myself to get through the final three books.  (I mean, Yes, people are trying to kill you. But C'mon!  You've whaled on them any number of times before you even hit puberty, have the most powerful magic users in your pocket, and have friends who play with dragons.  Get some perspective, Harry ol' boy. Your life isn't that bad.  I only have two crazed cats and a six year old trying to kill me on a daily basis. And do I get to play with dragons? Nooooooh!) 


Thank you again for the offer, and for your great kindness.  Sincerely, KS