Dear Beta Readers and Critique Partners

Dear Beta Readers and Critique Partners,

Writers need constructive criticism to perfect their manuscripts, but just because “criticism” is in that phrase doesn’t mean you have the right to be nasty. “Constructive” is the keyword there. To be constructive is to be helpful and being rude is never helpful.

Etiquette for Beta Reading and Critiquing:

      -       Before you begin reading someone else’s work, keep an open mind from beginning to end. The story may start off boring but could become amazing.

      -       As you beta read or critique, it is perfectly fine to fix any errors you see with grammar or punctuation (with Track Changes). This is extremely helpful to the writer. Even switching some words around in sentences to help the flow is fine. Just restrain yourself from doing so much that you’re editing their work.

      -       If you find repetitiveness (repeated phrases or ideas) or redundancies (sentences that don’t need to be said), point them out to the writer and suggest cutting them.

     -       Don’t just shine a light on the bad, though. If you read a metaphor that tickles your fancy or a sentence that strikes you with awe, let them know. Did a part make you laugh-out-loud? Highlighting it and leaving a simple comment like “Hilarious!” can really lift a writer’s spirits.

What if you find big problems?

      -       Don’t leave a scathing remark about how awful a scene is or how dumb the characters are. Instead, say you didn’t really care for the highlighted scene then explain why. Perhaps the characters’ actions weren’t believable, the scene wasn’t realistic, or something confused you. Then offer a suggestion or two for how the scene could be fixed if the writer chooses to do so.

Many people create a separate document of notes about the story or paste their notes into an email when they return the manuscript. There is also a way to go about doing this.

      -       Highlight the things you loved about the story, even if there wasn’t much. Tell the writer which characters you loved and scenes you enjoyed. Is the writing vivid? Does the writer have a knack for action scenes? Let the writer know all of this to boost their confidence.

      -       After you talk about the good, mention the not-so-good…the things you feel could be worked on. Tell them which scenes or characters could use some help, and include a sentence or two for why you feel this way. If there are plot holes, point them out and offer a suggestion for how the writer could possibly fix it. Try to be helpful no matter what; that is your job.

      -       Whatever you do, DO NOT write huge paragraphs bashing their writing, characters, or scenes. This is bad taste. And it doesn’t help the writer at all.

Below are real beta reader comments and what should’ve been said instead.

Beta Reader Comment #1: Oh, there are one or two one-liners in her first person POV, but not even those mentally spoken words show any real emotion. So it all just comes across as an author trying so hard to make the heroine the star that she's willing to make the men look weak and incompetent.

What Should’ve Been Said: Work on adding more deep POV and emotion into your main character here. And try to divide some of the heroism among the other characters in this scene.

Beta Reader Comment #2: You also put a couple of scenes in this book that were either unbelievable or ***** acted so contrary to anything a normal person would do that I just couldn't buy into the fantasy. 

What Should’ve Been Said: I pointed out a few scenes that need some work. I think your character’s actions need to be more believable. What would you do if you were in his/her shoes?

Beta Reader Comment #3: Single lines of deep, 1st person POV monologues work very well when used sparingly, but in my opinion, you've over used them in this manuscript and at times, it comes across as a short cut so you can avoid writing something more personal and descriptive.

What Should’ve Been Said: I found spots that could use more emotion and physical

responses so readers can connect personally with your characters.

There comes a point when “constructive” criticism becomes bullying. So remember, it’s important to be considerate during every phase of critiquing. From the first correspondence to the last.

Author of Hurricane Crimes, Seismic Crimes, 30 Seconds, Ghost of Death, and Witch of Death. Blogger. Reader. Auntie. Vegetarian. Cat Lover.

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QUESTION: Have you had a beta reader/critique partner say something harsh about one of your books? All of those comments above are from one of mine...who also said she wouldn't care if my heroine died.

How to Take Critique

A while ago now, I stumbled upon the blog post of a writer who was concerned about having his/her work critiqued. This writer was worried. Would an honest critique of his/her work devastate him/her? Would he/she take it personally?

I thought it was an interesting question. It is kind of true. It does feel a little odd to ask someone to tear into that piece of writing you've been slaving over for a long time. And the first few times you put yourself out there it can sting. But in the end the whole idea is to make your writing better, and the only way you're going to get better is to hear the things that are wrong with your work.

The question itself is a good indicator of the willingness of the author to send his/her work out there and have it honestly reviewed. It is the authors who think their work is perfect as is who don't belong in critique groups. They'll be the ones to argue and defend their work when all that's being offered is a way to help make it better.

Then there are the people out there who feel like this writing thing is a competition, and they'll seek to "win" by denigrating the writing of others. These are not good people to work with. They're not going to be very helpful.

But so long as those who are critiquing your work are doing it for the right reasons, there are some ways to get through the critiquing process:

1. Take a deep breath. This is going to be fine.
2. Listen to what the person is saying. You don't have to react. You don't have to defend. Just listen.
3. Keep in mind that this is not about who you are as a person. It's only about what was on the page. And sometimes, what you thought was on the page was not.
4. Thank the person for taking the time to help you make your writing better.
5. Don't do anything with the comments for at least a day. Let them sit in your subconscious before you tackle any revisions.
6. You are the writer. While other suggestions might be offered, you are the final determiner of what goes on that page. 

This is something that does get easier the more you do it. Keep in mind that it's all about making the work better, and a polished piece of writing is worth the trouble.

How do you take critique of your work? What tips do you have to offer to someone who's never gone through the process?

To Critique

© photosteve101

Joining a writing group is great. You get to submit your work to others who will read and give you the feedback you've been craving. The only catch: you must read and give feedback in return.

How does one critique someone else's work?

What if I have nothing to say? What if my opinion is wrong? What do I know about writing anyway? I can't help anybody. I should just sit quietly and let the real writers do the talking. After all, I have no idea what I'm talking about.

At least, that's what I was feeling.

When you ask others to read your work, you want honest feedback. We get to caught up in our little worlds that we have a hard time seeing what might be missing. Which is why we ask for others to critique our work.

And that's all you have to do. Read. Offer honest opinions.

When you read someone else's work, you can only read it from your perspective. Your opinion is just that. The great thing about being part of a group is that yours is not the only opinion offered. There are others there to agree or disagree with your opinion.

A few things to remember when reading for others:

1. You are offering an opinion about the writer's work. Not about the writer personally. If you dislike the person you're reading for, keep that out of your critique.
2. Be constructive. If something isn't working for you, say so, but if you have some idea on how to make that scene/section/chapter work, offer it. 
3. Let the writer know what does work for you. Point out favorite lines. If something shocked you or made you laugh, make sure to include it in your critique.
4. You may disagree with the group's assessment of something. If something doesn't work for you, but it worked for everyone else, say so. Conversely, if something does work for you that everyone else has an issue with, speak up. 
5. You are not the author. You are only offering opinions on how the story as presented reads to you. If you disagree with the plot or viewpoint of the story, you are free to write something that works better for you. It's not your job to rewrite the whole story.

You are there to help the writer with his/her revision process. Presumably, before publication this writer will work with others, like a professional editor. It is not your job to catch every little mistake. So, enjoy what you're reading, and have fun with the process.

What do you look for when you critique someone else's work? What other tips can you offer?

The Times, They are a-Changin’

Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen.
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again.
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin.
And there’s no tellin’ who that it’s namin’
For the loser now will be later to win.
For the times they are a-changin’. - Bob Dylan

Unicorn Bell, the product of writers, is a-changin’...er, making a few adjustments.

A regular schedule. Our team at UB has individual talents.

• L. Blankenship is gifted at critiquing 1500 word submissions. She takes subs anytime of the month.
• Marcy is expert at First Pages and interviews.
• I, the Huntress of Fantasy, like taming the Query Monster and all its minions including loglines and blurbs.

To give our followers time to submit their chapters, loglines, and first pages, a weekly schedule is in order. Submit with the appropriate request title in the subject line.

Blogfests and book tours. So you want to create a presence online. How to do it?

My publisher, Musa Publishing, suggests bloghops/fests. Enter as many as you can manage. Comment and participate. This gets you out there, puts your name in front of people.

So why shouldn’t Unicorn Bell conduct a regular bloghop too? Good question and now a two word answer: 

• Charity Bradford. She intends to hold a bloghop during some of her weeks.

Book tours. Excitement is building. You have a book coming out! Now you want everyone to get the message.

• Elizabeth Arundel takes command of book tours. 

During her week, she will post all the info you send about your book. Send all pertinent info to unicornbellsubmissions@gmail.com. In the Subject line, write Book Tour.

Lastly, do you have any special gifts that need an outlet? Would you like to join our team and build a writing platform to impress agents and publishers?

We are taking applicants for Unicorn Bell moderators. Send requests to our email with ‘Moderator Request’ in the subject line.

Learn to Laugh About It

The last bit of advice I have for this week is learn to laugh about your own writing mistakes. 

I forgot how valuable a gift this is until I was sitting at writer's group last night. Since moving to AR I've found the best writing group ever. We have so much fun together while becoming better writers.

Last night we laughed so hard we couldn't breathe. Why? One writer read some of her first draft stuff for us. You see, that's what we do. We bring 6-10 pages of our WIPs to read out loud to the group and then everyone weighs in with their thoughts. We all write different genres and we are all in different places in the process. It makes for a great time.

So, this lovely writer calls herself a "beginner" but she writes with a lot of humor. Add phrases like "trying to calm my bodies annoying reactions" along with some other phrases that hit all of us as funny at 9 PM.

Ex: "resigned to the new boy debriefing"--which was NOT what it sounds like. OMGosh we were crying we laughed so hard.

We all write funny things when we are getting our stories out of our heads and onto the page. At that point you're not supposed to be self editing anyway. However, sometimes we miss things in the subsequent revisions. Instead of getting embarrassed and upset by it, just laugh it off.

Trust me, its a lot more fun that way.

Far Away Eyes: Chapter 3

Today's submission is from Barbara from Far Away Eyes:

“Momma, do you remember what it was like to be fifteen?” I say in my most controlled voice, when I would rather be screaming at her. She is not going to let me go to the Baylor’s party, I know it.

“Hey beautiful girls,” Daddy says as he comes through the kitchen door from the back porch. Momma turns her stare on him, and I give him what I hope is my sweetest smile.

“Is there a problem?” Daddy asks.

[“Sandra thinks she should go to that party at the Baylor’s. We’ve discussed this over and over and I still feel the same. I don’t trust the Baylor boy, and I think Sandra is too young to run with that crowd,” Momma says.

“Now, Anne, it’s not the Baylor boy we want to place our trust in, is it? The question is whether or not we trust Sandra. I do. Don’t you?” Daddy asks and smiles first at Momma and then at me.

“Stanley, you know that’s not the point. Even a good girl like Sandra can easily be talked into doing things that go against everything she has been taught, under certain circumstances.”

Daddy looks at her and sighs. “Anne, you cannot control everything. This is one of those things that…,” Daddy stops mid-sentence. ]¹

I look over at Momma and see her normal [‘do not mess with me’]² look replaced with one of complete contempt.

“Sandra, Dee is tied up in the barn. Can you take her up to the low pasture and turn her out for me?” Daddy asks.

“Yes, Daddy. I’ll grab a sweatshirt, and go right out,” I say.

Momma is busy staring Daddy down. She’s good at that. [When she does, her look is pure mean.]³ I suppose at one time you would have called her pretty. Rich brown hair, which I did not get and those piercing green eyes that I did. Even after three babies she’s still slender. She can fit into my jeans, but hers are two sizes bigger. Heaven forbid, someone should think she has a waist or hips under all that denim. We do wear the same size shirt, but here it’s necessary to add to many layers everyone looks like a lumberjack. She and Daddy are so different. He’s so kind. I can’t imagine what keeps them together. She supports every decision he makes, but she doesn’t lift a finger to help out on the ranch. The kitchen and the kids are her responsibility, at least that’s what Daddy says.

Upstairs I grab a sweatshirt and pull it over my head as I come out of my room. I can hear them talking through the vent from the kitchen.

“She and Daniel Abernathy spend days out in the hay fields when we’re mowing. You never have a problem with that. Don’t you think they could have their clothes off and back on again before either one of us could walk out there to see why the tractor stopped?” Daddy asks.

“It’s not Daniel I’m worried about,” Momma replies.

“Maybe not, but he will be at this party too. Don’t you think he would take the Baylor boy apart before he would let him lay a hand on Sandra?” Daddy asks.

“You have a point. That poor kid is so crazy in love with her, I almost feel sorry for him,” Momma says.

This has a great teenage voice. I was a bit jarred by the present tense to start out with, but once I got into the rhythm of the piece, I didn't notice it. Otherwise:

1. I wonder if her parents would spell out their discussion like that. I would think they would do more shorthand with each other.
2. Full quotes: "do not mess with me"
3. That is such a great line.

Do I sense a love triangle brewing? 

What do you think?  

Golden Dawn: Chapter 3

Today's submission is from Aldrea from Golden Dawn: 

He entered the room, relieved to find his memory had proven true. Before him sat and hung the old cages full of tiny birds. He'd [help build]¹ each wire frame and, looking upon them after so many years, a flush of pride filled him at the sight of them still whole. His gaze swung to the far end of the room where Ștefan stood with his caped back facing Herald.²

He grit his teeth as his father feigned ignorance of his presence. Ștefan knew he was here from the moment Herald opened the door. Herald traipsed the length of the room, halting a good dozen or so paces away. "Father," he murmured, then stood to attention, waiting to be acknowledged.³

"You return so soon, my boy." His father turned. One of the small birds was perched on his hand. A sparrow, perhaps; it looked plain enough. "Rarely do I see you after sunrise. What troubles you?" Ștefan stared at the bird as if the question were meant for its little ears.

For some reason his father adored the tiny, feathered creatures. Herald didn't see the reasoning behind the affection. It didn't fit with his father's usual requirements for personal entertainment. They weren't big enough for a meal, they'd little in the way of will to snap and, most importantly, their tiny hearts gave out at the slightest hint of torture. ⁴

Herald looked about the room, marking how many feathered lives filled the cages. More prisoners. Be it birds or people, his father did have a liking for incarceration. At least the birds had the good fortune to die of old age.

"An angel, father?" he said, forcing his mind to focus on the woman still trapped in the tower. Could he really call it a woman? Weren't angels meant to be without a gender? His treacherous thoughts fast recalled the subtle curves under her gown, his face warming. Definitely female. "Are you trying to get us all killed?" Images of the castle being attacked from the sky filled his mind, shunting aside the previous, glorious vision. Is that why I'm here? When it came to commanding warriors, only his brother had surpassed him. Protecting the valley from men was easy. Was it even possible to defend against angels?

"So you've met your task." His father smiled at the bird, stroking the frail breast with a thumb. "Do not be so concerned, Herald. She has been here a while."

A while? That didn't say much. To his father a while could mean anything from three centuries back, to last week. "Exactly how long?" The desire to know pulled the words from his throat before he'd a chance to stop them.

His father's dark brow twitched at his commanding tone, pale lips narrowing and speaking his father's displeasure louder than any words could've done.

Herald flinched under that stare. Younger siblings had died for lesser defiance. Where had the insolence to speak in such a fashion to his father come from?

Great ambiance. I'm so afraid of this father figure. He seems like a bad dude.

1. helped build?
2. Great setup. This is not a cozy chapter.
3. And now we know these two don't have the best relationship.
4. Curious. We really get a glimpse of this man through his fascination with the birds.

This is a very dark chapter. Definitely setting something up.

What do you think?  

The Legacy of the Eye: Chapter 3

Our third submission comes from Patricia from her SF novel The Legacy of the Eye: 

Chapter 3—Graduation

Catrine walked into the main auditorium through the door by the stage. [The room was larger than any other she had been in at the Academy. The ceiling was two stories high like the council meeting room, but the arched windows overlooking the Center Gardens spanned the entire height. Catrine looked towards the teal flowerbeds and a longing pulled at her chest. She had not seen the park for two weeks and she missed it.

Her attention turned to those attending the ceremony. As a group, the audience rivaled the flowers. Instructors also wore the same basic uniform of the Academy, but in vivid colors to represent their areas of expertise. Seeing the faculty and graduates arranged by department reminded Catrine of the rainbow pattern of the Center Gardens.]¹

Most of the one hundred students graduating that day faced the stage and Catrine caught sight of David slouching in the front row next to Julian. Maryanne and Solana also were already there.

Catrine walked towards them and took the seat on David's left. “I’m assuming they want us in alphabetical order.”

He straightened in his chair. “All they told me was that governance students got front row. [You’re late, by the way.”]²

“I was rewriting the Tutor Program contract. Why didn’t you come get me?”

He looked towards the stage. “I thought you had already left. You, of all people, should have been the first one here.”

Catrine had been [speculating about her royal birth for the past two weeks.]³ Uncharacteristically, David had refused to give any opinion. His determination not to talk about the subject had dimmed its importance in her mind. Right now, all she wanted was to get through the ceremony.

Gerald and the council walked onto the stage. Silence filled the room as the Head of the Academy stepped forward. “Graduates, we have gathered here today to celebrate your accomplishments. We have invited your parents to participate in this event, and many are in attendance. Please do not judge those who could not make it. Travel around the Tetracoil Galaxy is not as easy as your instructors might have portrayed.”

Catrine felt like he looked at her, but then she remembered the debate techniques she had learned in class. He probably had made eye contact with everyone in the room.

The headmaster continued, “The Academic Council will call each graduate individually. Your birthplace will be mentioned, along with the names of your parents. Academic dowries will be discussed in private, so schedule an appointment with the council when you finalize your plans. Graduates and parents, please join us on stage when you hear your name. We will start with the Department of Languages and Dialects.”

Gerald moved to the left side of the stage and Walter stepped forward. He read from the tablet in his hand. “Cynthia of Demia, child of Ann of Demia and Carl of Demia.”

Not even a minute later, a girl wearing a red Academy uniform stepped onto the stage.

A graduation in chapter 3? Nice. Usually this would open or close the story. I like that it's not the main event.

1. Nice description. 
2. Late to her own graduation? Things must be happening. That's good.
3. So her focus isn't really on this graduation. 

The main thing I noticed was an overuse of "had". Many of the "hads" in this could be deleted, and the sentences wouldn't lose anything.

What do you think?  

Fade Into Me: Chapter 3

Our second submission comes from Charity, from her YA fantasy Fade Into Me. Caedmon is the narrator of this section: 

Caedmon 

"You look beautiful, Sedonia."

She stood beside a large rhododendron just out of sight of those gathering for her wedding. Her hair was swept up with ringlets breaking free to frame her face. The dress shimmered in the light that danced through the leaves overhead. For a moment I set the magic free, knowing none of the humans would see it anyway. Sedonia’s aura twinkled around her, playfully touching all the life around her.

"I see you brought Kathryn with you." She nodded to my date standing by the waterfall.

"She came on her own, but I'm glad. My time’s up today and I have to accept it."

"Caedmon, I'm sorry you didn't find your Anamchara. Remember, you can still love and be happy."

"You're the best example of that. Are you sure this is what you want? You have a choice."

Sedonia's eyes sparkled. "He's a good man. Kind, honest, and he makes me laugh."

"But you don't have to marry a human. Think of all you're giving up."

"A couple hundred years traded for happiness?"

"You can never come home."

"Then you'd better keep us safe. All my life I'll watch for your influence in the human world. Move them closer to ascension. I know it's in you."

Father joined us and took Sedonia's hand. "It's time. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"I'll see you after." [I didn't want to watch Sedonia release the part of her that made her Abhithian. It was hard enough knowing what it meant. From this day forward she would lead the life of a human, a shorter time on this earth. Life without the ability to feel the life forces flowing through every living thing. She would no longer be able to participate in keeping the balance between creation and destruction.]¹

Kathryn and I took our seats. Soon I would have to tell her who I really was. If I was lucky, crossing from the human realm to what we jokingly called the Fae wouldn't drive her insane. Her fiery hair and Irish heritage gave me hope. She had a wonderful imagination and believed in fairies and leprechauns. Maybe the truth wouldn't be too hard for her to accept.

I tried to focus on the arbor up front, but a nervous energy moved through my body. Swirls of color, unseen by the humans around me, rushed up the hill. I’d never experienced such a rush this side of the veil. Something magical called to the colors and I had to know what it was.

Very sad chapter. It's like an ending, although something is coming. 

The only specific thing I noticed is the "1" note: perhaps this would work better as a separate paragraph. 

But the other thing was this felt very static. Because this is taken out of context, it might be a pause between things, and that would be good, but this doesn't feel to me like it's going anywhere. But that's just my impression.

What do you all think?  

Branded: Chapter 3

So, this week I asked for your chapter threes. (I still have a couple spots open if you want to submit.)  

One of my quirks is I have a hard time reading something with comments. I see the comments and not the substance of the piece. So, my comments are all at the end. 

Our first submission comes from Katie, an excerpt from chapter 3 of Branded:  

[The area was charred, and the small sand beach of the creek was strewn with half burned bodies. Jasmine spun and ran back behind a boulder.]¹ “I don’t want to look!” she gasped. “It’s horrific! And what if someone I know is there?”

Andrew rested his hands on his hips. “You three stay here. I’ll go look.”

“I’ll come with you,” I offered.

He swung on me. “No. You stay here in case it’s a trap. I don’t want any of you to get hurt.”

He handed me his bag and wove his way through the trees to the creek. I watched him as Jasmine clung onto Jenna.

He reached the creek and scanned the area. Then he darted across to the closest body. I saw him tilt the head back, [then he covered his mouth to hold back his need to vomit.]² He checked all the bodies one by one, before he checked the pile of supplies on the edge of the far tree line. He carried several items back up to us and set them down to distribute among our packs.

“There were a few people I recognized; Mr. Davis from primary school, your hairdresser, some kids from one of the other high schools, but no one we really knew well,” he told us.

“What do you think happened?” Jenna asked.

“The enemy thought the same thing we did and took them out,” he answered as he zipped his bag up. “We need a new strategy if we hope to meet up with people. There was a radio that was destroyed, but [beside it was a message.]³ It said: The Kangaroo of Burragorang’s toe has sharp claws and still twitches.”

“What does that mean?” Jenna asked.

Andrew grinned and pulled out our map again. “Burragorang is the lake that Warragamba [dam]⁴ created.” He flattened the map out and pointed to it. “If you look at it, it’s kinda shaped like a kangaroo mid-bounce.”

We all leaned over to stare at it. “I guess it kinda does,” I muttered.

Andrew continued, “So the toe of the kangaroo…” he pointed to the southernmost tip of the lake, “[Has]⁵ sharp claws: so it’s armed–and still twitches: there are people still alive there.”

“[You’re]⁶ nerd factor really pays off sometimes, Drew,” I grinned.

“Shut up,” he grunted. “Now, I think we should follow this creek southwest until we meet this fire trail which goes south and will bring us out just north of Warragamba…”

“Wait,” I muttered. “That’s a long hard way around. Why don’t we just follow the Nepean and stay hidden?”

“Because,” he answered, raising his eyebrows. “We need to move deeper for a while. Around the edge of townships are easy targets. We’ll take a week or so to make that trek, so it’ll give us time for that area to be swept and forgotten about.”

“But what if we take too long and there’s no one there?”

He met my eye. “Then we’ll have survived another massacre.”

Wow, a lot must have happened in chapters 1 & 2. Sounds like they're on the run. And this keeps the tension going. Then the little things: 

1. Nice image (well, not nice...). Maybe a little more?
2. Why are we sure that he's holding his mouth to hold back vomit? This would be a more powerful image if this was described instead of stated.
3. Message? Written in the sand? On a piece of paper?
4. Should Dam be capitalized (since it's a proper name)?
5. has doesn't need to be capitalized (since it's in the same sentence as the previous quote). 
6. Your

Great chapter. Now I want to know what came before this.

Other thoughts?

Free Gender Check

I will be your host next week, so I am posting this a little early to give you time to ponder...

One of the (many) things writers worry about is portraying the opposite sex accurately. And it's well that they should; we're different creatures, men and women. But there are enough similarities, along with those differences, to make anybody loopy.

This has been on my mind because I've recently been engaged in a lengthy discussion of gender roles. I didn't want to subject you all to a week's worth of ramblings about actual and hypothetical social construction of genders... you're welcome... so let's do some critiquing.

I am CALLING FOR SUBMISSIONS of a scene wherein you are concerned about whether your opposite-gender character is acting "appropriately." What that means, exactly, is a hazy thing. We're talking about individual characters, not stereotypes. And we're not talking about specific behaviors like leaving wet towels on the bed -- I mean the more general "would a guy admit to this?" "would a woman freak out over that?" sort of thing. You'll probably get hazy answers, but we'll try to keep it all gender-oriented.

On second thought, I'll include outlines/synopses in this, too, if you're concerned about the character's behavior over an entire story.

Submissions can be up to 1,500 words. Please try to explain your concerns in the email. A brief character sketch for the character in question would probably help too -- is this meant to be a macho guy? a girly girl? a sensitive, artistic type?

Email to unicornbellsubmissions at gmail dot com, subject line "Gender Check."

Since we're mostly women here, I expect a lot of scenes involving male behavior -- and I hope some men will offer their thoughts on submitted scenes. But I also think that if enough women apply their personal experiences of men to the submissions, we can offer useful insights as well.

If you all FAIL to submit, I may be forced to ramble about social constructions of gender. You've been warned. :D

Last crit of the week

The writer says: Just some back story, MC has been sent to a new foster home after some trouble and is fleeing an abusive boyfriend, Luke.  The man she sees in the store has been showing up in her dreams along with her ex.

Four hours of high school monotony before lunch and I was free, well free to go grocery shopping. Armed with the list I’d ripped from the door I headed for the store.  The parking lot at the Red Apple Grocery was busier than I’d expected this early in the day. A chilly drizzle left a mist on the windshield.  I pulled my hood over my head and made a run for the door.

Basket in hand, I made my way through the store collecting the items from the list plus a few of my own.   My stomach growled, I was starving, and craved the Diet Pop sitting in my basket.  I was dying for a shot of caffeine.  As I dreamed of downing a cold cola a warm tingle traveled through my core.

The soft words of a hushed whisper tickled my mind, You are here.

The words were warm, a welcome feeling from the coldness of the kids at school. Standing on my toes I searched over the magazine rack and scoured the aisles.  It had been so clear, so precise.  It had to be him.

I think you mean contrast, or something like that?

 The guy from my dream.

When I found the source I almost didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t dressed as a Native American warrior and more importantly he wasn’t in my dreams.  He was standing in front of me—at the Red Apple Market dressed in jeans and a t-shirt just like every other high school guy.  His proximity made it nearly impossible to function. If I could have created a coherent thought I may have asked myself how he could go from my dream straight into the aisle of a grocery store but my brain waves had come to a complete stop.  His jet black hair, pulled back in a sleek ponytail, his skin—pale and smooth, his high cheek bones making his face sharp with angles, had me completely paralyzed.

I was afraid to speak, to move, fearing he would disappear.  His caramel eyes entranced me, sparkling as he locked them to mine.

A warmth ignited in my stomach, the heat of a blush started up my neck.

You are here.  The words vibrated inside my head.  The assurance from my dream flowed through me.

Holy crap!  was the only thought I had.  Not very eloquent.

Maybe it got lost in the copy/pasting, but you might want to use italics (or something) to set apart the thoughts from the narrative.

RRRRRRRR!...The vibration in my pocket jerked me out of the trance I’d fallen into. Flustered, I dropped my gaze. Removing my phone from my pocket, the glowing screen announced the name that haunted me.

Luke: WHAT IS FOR DINNER?

Heh. Nice grammar in a text? On second thought -- she's still feeding him, though she's in a foster home?

“Dammit.”  I jammed the phone back into my pocket. This was not happening. I wouldn’t let it.  “Not now!” I cringed.

The hair on my arms stood on end as the dread of Luke’s possible appearance cursed through me.  Regaining some composure I raised my eyes to look at Dream Guy again.  But he was gone.  I whipped my head around wondering if was I searching for Luke, or Dream Guy. Maybe I hadn’t really seen him.  Maybe I was hallucinating, dreaming while I stood in the check-out line at the local grocery.

I capitalized Dream Guy because you're using it as a name. Otherwise, I'd expect a my in front of it, or something. Also: interesting use of cursed -- I see what you mean, I think. She had a feeling of unpleasant inevitability? It might trip some readers up.

The cashier repeated her familiar script, “How are you today, paper or plastic?”

Ah, so we are, in fact, dreaming in the checkout line? 

“Uhh, good, thanks…plastic?” I hurried my words in the hope of hurrying her actions.

Nice observation. I do that, too.

I restrained myself from frantically grabbing my items and stuffing them into the bags.  I had to get out of the store.  Prove to myself he was real.  To prove I was not CRAZY!

How will getting out prove that?

Could she be any slower?

Her thoughts sliced through me causing me to cringe.  Looks like she used a lawn mower to cut her hair.

...? Maybe you've already established that our narrator's psychic. But how is the haircut relevant?

“Your hair isn’t so great either.”  I left her with her mouth hanging open.

With an echoing crack I smacked straight into a pole.

A little more, here, to be sure I know she's walking/leaving.

“Crap,” came out before I could suppress the jolt.

I dropped my bags, grabbed my head, and staggered back. Muffins broke free and rolled into the parking lot like misshapen balls. The Diet Soda careening behind.

We're out in the parking lot already? And there are poles out there? Needs some more specifics.

“Are you okay?” a woman asked, although her thoughts weren’t quite as considerate.

“Yeah.”  Was all I could muster as I rubbed my head with the butt of my hand. I was an idiot, there was no denying it.  At least I wasn’t bleeding.

“I think these are yours.”  A gravelly voice broke through my self-deprecation.

“Oh God,” I whispered.  I couldn’t look up.  I couldn’t know he saw me run into a pole. But I also couldn’t stand there.  If it was him he’d think I was mental.  I could only pray it wasn’t him.  Even through my watering eyes it was clear. He stood before me, holding my muffins and a stray can of soda.  He was even more beautiful close-up, like a super model but better.  Not a blemish of any kind on his face.  It was like looking at a statue, without the dull look of stone.   It was as if he glowed from the inside.  I stood in a daze, at a loss to find words needed to answer such a simple question as, “Were those my muffins?”  He probably thought I couldn’t speak English.  Feeling the blood rushing to my cheeks again, all I could do was stand and stare like an idiot.

A hard shove from behind followed by a half-hearted, “Excuse me,” pushed me a step closer, breaking my daze.

“Uh,” I stammered. “Yeah, thanks.”  I grabbed the muffins.

“No problem.” He cocked his head before he turned and walked away.

He had an unfamiliar accent, the cadence of which drew me in.  Almost as if his simple words were poetry.  I felt my heart melting.  As much as I knew I shouldn’t, there was something about him, a connection.  A cosmic pull?  Wasn’t that what they called it in trashy romance novels?

“Come back!” I wanted to scream.  “Who are you?”

Might want to leave the quotes off and italicize these, since she didn't actually scream them.

My pocket vibrated as another call came through.

“Stop.” Frustration filled my voice as I realized I’d said the words out loud?

Frustration can only fill her voice if she keeps talking, though...

He stopped, turned, and looked back at me.

“Uh, I was just…I …oh, I wasn’t talking to you.  Sorry.”  I dropped my head and prayed the earth would swallow me.

He shrugged, then continued into the parking lot.

I stood frozen, watching while he climbed into a big black truck.

A few moments of confusion, but overall: good job! 

Fourth Crit: The Word

The writer says: It's from a WIP called THE WORD, a YA paranormal romance (?) set in the Regency era. 1) Does the modern-sounding voice distract from the story, 2) Are the flashbacks jarring? Should I try to incorporate them another way? 3) Thoughts on the characters? 

Word around the house is that Mr. Weston suggested he return to London immediately that he might begin preparations for the wedding; but Mr. Kingsley refused, insisting that he stay a while longer, as he had only just arrived, and George would be sorely disappointed if he left so soon.   That night he writes a letter to his parents and friends in London, telling them of the good news and assuring everyone that he'll be home in a fortnight.   I know because I'm serving tea in the parlor, where he, George, and Harriett have gathered for the evening, Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley having gone off to bed.

After he seals the letters and tucks them away, he picks up a book, settling back in his chair while Harriett watches him from across the room.   Meanwhile George examines a clock with feigned interest, but it's all very plain that they're waiting for Mr. Weston to put down his reading.   He doesn't, and after a few minutes of strained silence, Harriett huffs and rises to her feet.

"Do tell me, Mr. Weston, are you always this dull?   Go on like this and I may have second thoughts about marrying you."

He doesn't even look up from his book.   "Why am I dull, darling?"

I start at the word.   A tea cup tumbles from my tray and shatters on the floor.   Darling.   It doesn't sit right with me, but I pretend not to notice and begin to sweep up the mess.

"You and your…your…"   Harriett waves at the novel, "…your  book.   Why don't you play cards with George and me?"

"No, thank you, dear."

"Hmph!"   She places her hand on her lip and pouts, but her eyes still maintain their twinkle.   "My husband will  not  spend his evenings  reading, when he could be doing something useful!   Like…like…How about you watch me perform on the pianoforte?"

I do my best to stifle a laugh, but it comes out a snort anyway.   Only Weston notices, and when he smiles, I can't help but wonder if he's chuckling at Harriett, or at me.

"Go ahead and play, love.   The beauty of books is that I can listen and read at the same time."

George butts in, for the first time turning away from the clock.   "Come now, Weston.   Play cards with us."   He crosses the room and slips the book right out from between Weston's fingers, snaps it shut and drops it on a mahogany table.

Weston purses his lips, but doesn't say anything as he picks himself up and settles at the card table. George shuffles the deck:   thith-thith-thith-thith…

…The wind beats against the cottage.   Through the thin walls I hear the trees rattle:   thith-thith-thith-thith.   I snuggle against Father's chest, so that his warmth will seep into my bones.   Nearby Mother sews up a hole in a pair of trousers.   Her fingers move rhythmically back and forth, and before long I'm in a trance that shatters only when she sets down her work to answer a knock at the door.

"I am sorry to intrude, Madame, but I am traveling and 'ope zat you might let me stay ze night?"   He speaks with a thick French accent, and later tells us his name is Bernard LaFontaine, and he has traveled all the way from Orleans.

I assume you've already established that her parents ran a boarding-house/inn/whatever? A little transition here from meeting Bernard at the door to feeding him would help -- I assume they invited him in, sat him down somewhere, etc. You want to save his dramatic reveal for later, that's fine, but just a little something so it's clear Mother isn't making him eat while standing in the door. 

Mother hands him a bowl of steaming broth and a crust of bread.   He thanks her, but before he eats he removes his coat, hangs it over a chair, and from his pockets draws a book.   A thin book, easy to hide, with a worn leather binding and stiff, uneven pages of a grayish yellow.   In the candlelight it seems to pulsate words, words, words, until I'm dizzy with words but can't pin any of them down.

Father notices the book, too, but doesn't say anything about it.   "Have you been long in Kent, Monsieur LaFontaine?"

"No, Monsieur.   I 'ave just come from London, actually…"

"Oh, London!   I just can't wait to go.   Do tell me, Charlie, that we'll visit there often once we're married?"   Harriett is again back on her favorite subject, and though I'm tired of hearing about London, her voice draws me out of my stupor.

I've been cleaning up this same teacup for ten minutes now, but nobody has noticed except for maybe Weston.   Every few seconds he glances my way, and when I lift my eyes to his, he doesn't avert his gaze.   Which terrifies me.   I am invisible.   A ghost among gods.   The Kingsleys only see me when they  want  to see me, and that's only to give orders.   But what really scares me is the way he seems to look not so much at me but through me.

As though my mind is an open book, and he just read it.

I swipe up the rest of the mess and rush out of the parlor, the tea service rattling on the tray.   In the hall I slump in the shadows, my back pressed against the wall as my heart drums, so loudly I swear they can hear it in the next room.

"What's wrong with you, Pippa?" I breathe aloud.   A chorus of laughter erupts around the card table.   It rumbles over the carpet, crackling and thunderous…

The card table's crackling and thunderous? On a carpet? Well, maybe, but all the antique card tables I've seen were pretty lightweight things.

…A flash of light, and he's only a silhouette in the doorway.   I begin to tremble, but Father hushes me and rubs my arms, until I'm still and safe in his embrace.   Mother waves for LaFontaine to come inside, but he just stands at the threshold, his hat in his hands despite the oncoming rain.

Maybe you should mention the storm more clearly in the first part of the flashback. You mentioned wind, but that doesn't necessarily mean a thunderstorm, to me.

Highlight: this pronoun is risky, because the actual antecedent is Weston... but I think the context is clear enough that it's not Weston... Judgement call, for you. :)

"You should know, Madame, zat I am a cursed man."   He whispers it, but the wind picks up the words and carries them to my little ears.

Mother glances at Father, and he takes over.   "Nonsense!   Cursed or not, we couldn't turn away a traveler, and definitely not when there's a storm on the way."

"I'm serious, Monsieur.   I'm a cursed man…"

I try to shake away their voices, but they stick, loud and heavy.   So clear my parents and Monsieur LaFontaine might have been in the next room, talking over tea and biscuits.

"What's happening to me?"   These are fancies fit for nightmares.   Memories only able to slip into my mind when unconscious takes over and my fortifications crumble.   Always I've managed to push them from my head by thinking of other things:   my work, my books.   Happier memories, like Father's lessons or my afternoons with Jonathan.   Not particularly easy, but it works.   Usually.   So why now?

I had no problems with the voice up until here -- it's somewhat antiquated, but not overbearingly so, and I think it works. (caveat: I don't read Regency, and I understand it's a demanding genre.) The unconscious is, of course, a Freudian concept that post-dates the Regency. The highlighted part sounds especially modern, to me, in its word choice and pacing.

Chairs scrape across the parlor floor, reminding me of my duties.   Soon Harriett will retire, and I'll have to help her make ready for bed.   I rush the tea service back to the kitchen, all the while praying that the memories don't get worse.

Are the flashbacks jarring: a little, but given the context I think they ought to be jarring. Just be careful with the pronouns and rigorously consistent with those ellipses. 

Thoughts on the characters: well, LaFontaine sounds interesting. :) Pippa, it depends on how seriously she takes the "ghost among gods" idea -- it's not one I would find endearing. Everyone in the parlor sounds kinda dull to me, but we didn't meet them very much. Weston comes off a bit predatory. 

As indicated by my general lack of complaining, I think this is pretty good!

Third crit: The Legacy of the Eye

The writer says: Here is the opening of my novel, The Legacy of the Eye. I would like to know if the start feels too slow and if I still have show vs. tell problems.



"Cat, we're stepping into our future and you're not even paying attention."

Catrine’s hand halted, palm pressed against the cool surface of the heavy wood door. She raised her eyebrows at David and made no further motion to exit the main building of the Academy.

Green highlights, throughout: vagueness and/or weak verbs. These are things that would read better if they were more specific and/or more active.

"Our future doesn't start for another couple of weeks," she said.

They were allowed to leave the school that day because the council had granted them an audience. Graduation was still two weeks away.

"You're wrong. This is it. Today we make history." David pushed the door open and the mid-afternoon light rushed into the hall.

She chuckled. "We should wait until the council approves the Tutor Program before we celebrate."

"Why would they reject it? You wrote a great proposal. The argumentation is flawless."

"Just because you couldn't find any faults, doesn't mean the council won't."

Show vs. tell in dialogue -- this dialogue is okay, but it doesn't sound like real people talking. Cat and David both know why they're going to this meeting, what was in the proposal, and when graduation is. Why would they talk about it, then, unless there were lingering questions or problems? They're only saying these things so the reader knows them.

How often do you turn to a friend and say "Today I make history," -- and not mean it as a joke? (it can be a good joke, admittedly)

This kind of narrative dialogue turns up a lot in TV shows. CSI is especially guilty, since they have to explain procedures and logical connections to the viewers. But real people do not talk like that. 

May I suggest explaining the proposal in the narrative -- and keep it very short, because you can explain more once we get to the meeting. Plus, it's not actually that important. Lead with drama: Cat's fears about the proposal, graduation, her attraction to David, or whatever's appropriate. Another problem with narrative dialogue is that it's low on emotions. Low emotions = "slow start". 

They walked toward the front gates of the Academy. The wooden bars stood wide open and seemed more decorative than a true barrier to their exit. Catrine’s eyes were still adjusting to the brightness, but they took in the novelty of her surroundings. This was the first time either student had left the school since their enrollment at the age of two. They were both eighteen now, but Catrine did not feel as ready to conquer the galaxy as David was. Her insides were twisted in knots. She had eaten hardly anything all day. But she would not let her nervousness show--not even to her best friend.

Yellow highlight: this is the only "tell" in the narration that you might want to "show" instead.

"You're fretting too much," David said. "Everyone in the department loved our idea to teach the rest of the galaxy and the council will too."


After this, the dialogue gets considerably better. 

Deep down, Catrine knew they were as ready as they could ever be. She had spent weeks writing the proposal and they had prepared David's speech with great care. But it was such an ambitious project...

"I'm just glad you will be the one doing all the talking," she said.

Their dark gray tunics and slacks sparkled in the afternoon light. The uniform designated them as students from the Governance Department, but no one prevented them from exiting the Academy grounds even though they were unsupervised. David had managed to convince their instructors there was no need for a chaperone. He thought the lack of one would increase their chances of successfully defending the proposal. Catrine had not argued with him, but she had made sure she had clear instructions on how to get to the government building. The last thing they needed was to get lost on the way.

Sparkled? How?

"Wow! I've never seen so many flowers in one place," David said as he stepped through the archway and out of the Academy grounds.

Catrine followed him toward the flowers. The bright colors on the other side of the entranceway grabbed her attention like David's raised voice in the quiet reading room. She inhaled deeply. The floral tones drifting from the garden gave the air a sweeter scent.

"Now we know why everyone talks so much about the Center Gardens," she said. "The directions say to go around it."

"We have time. Let's walk through the park."

"We don't want to be late..."

"Then don't waste time arguing." David grabbed her hand and led her down the footpath closest to them.

She knew better than to argue with him--especially considering she wanted to stroll among the flowers just as much. Catrine noticed flowers of different colors planted in sequence and she wondered if the colors represented the diverse departments of the Academy. The path in front of them started by a simple two-tiered stone pool and bowl adorned solely with the letter W three times around its circumference and led toward the larger fountain they could see farther ahead. The violet beds on either side were in different shades of blue, dark-colored at first then lighter the deeper into the park they walked. The fragrance of the flowers, on the other hand, intensified toward the middle of the Center Gardens.

Did you mean to hint at David being violent?

The perfume in the air stirred Catrine's empty stomach and she soon regretted their route. She squeezed David's hand for support when her step faltered and he halted.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "You look pale."

"I should have eaten more for lunch."

"Let me help you to the fountain. You can splash some cool water on your face."

He slipped his arm around her waist and her heart rate doubled its pace. Catrine took a deep breath to clear her head, but the cloying smell only made her dizzier. She staggered the next few steps towards the lilies that surrounded the fountain, leaning on David for support. She needed to get away from the perfume of the flowers, so she buried her face in his chest to mask the scent.

He enveloped her in a hug, his hand gently stroking her back. "Relax, Cat. You're just stressed about the proposal defense. Everything will be fine."

His voice was low and soothing. When she looked up, David was smiling at her. She wanted to thank him for being there, so she rose to her toes to give him a kiss. But instead of the friendly peck on the cheek they had often exchanged, their mouths joined in an embrace that did not let go.

Catrine tasted the sweetness of the lilies on his soft lips. It mingled with the alluring smells around her and the enchanting melody of trickling water coming from the fountains in the park. The kiss that had started as endearing gathered intensity like the scent of the flowers throughout their stroll in the garden. Catrine interlaced her fingers with the hair at the nape of David's neck and pulled him even closer. His hand reached under her tunic and seemed to burn the skin it touched.

Then David broke off the kiss gasping for breath and stepped back. "We don't have time for this. We're going to be late."

Neither of them seem particularly disconcerted by this passing flash of lust... so I have to assume this has been going on for a while? If it hasn't, you're passing up a gold mine of conflict and reader hooks. 

Catrine had no time to process what had happened. David grabbed her hand and dragged her through the violet bed, heading northeast. The sea of flowers they trampled changed from blue to purple to magenta. When they reached the path between the red-colored gerbera daisies, David followed it to the government complex. The four-story building was built of timber, but shined in the light of day due to its many windows. It was very similar to the Academy one that faced the park.

Highlight: kinda awkward wording, there. Past tense of shine is shone.

David had not looked at Catrine during his rush to leave the garden, but he had not let go of her either. When they reached the front door, he gave her hand one last squeeze before releasing it.

"Relax," he said.

Catrine was still trying to catch her breath, but she noticed David's back straighten and she mimicked his posture. Then she entered the main government building a couple of steps behind him, at a much slower pace than her heart rate.

To answer your questions directly: yes, it's a kinda slow start because you're not tapping the emotions I suspect are here. Your show vs. tell ratio is fine, in the narrative. I already talked about the dialogue. On the whole, I think all you need is to shift the focus a little bit. 

Second Crit: Glory Road

The writer says: I need to know if the world building is strong enough, and whether you’d read on. Any other critiques would be helpful.  The story is called GloryRoad.

Bar studied the waste from a distance, the edge where the peasants tried to burn back the purple vegetation blurred and indistinct. Magenta crept over the black, an almost visible advance.

There are a bunch of contradictions in the first few paragraphs, so I'm going to sound mean and snarky here. You say it's a waste, but then you say there's all this vegetation. A jungle, in fact. To me, a waste is more like a desert, so throughout this I was having to remind myself that you meant a jungle. Then you use two colors as nouns, and I don't know what you're referring to. The vegetation's purple, so it's not that... magenta light? magenta water? Is magenta a thing? And what's black?

A distance away a peasant team worked, silent and grim, the only sound the axes and saws cutting a swath through the vegetation. He wasn’t sure of the reason, although he could guess. They worked in teams, one team resting while the other cleared a space deeper into the alien jungle.

You told us Bar is at a distance. Yards? Miles? Paint some more picture for me -- the landscape, the time of day, the people... Also, you said they were burning back the vegetation, and now you say they're cutting it down. 

They wouldn’t go to all this work to push the waste back—they had that process well rehearsed, as ineffective as it might be. There must be someone trapped behind the edge. They'd penetrated perhaps eighty meters into the edge, an odd shaped bulge into the wasteland border.

The first team kept their weapons ready, eyes never stopping.

They're not actually resting, then.

As quickly as the vegetation was cleared, a third team dragged it away to toss it on the smoldering pile. It burned sluggishly.

OK, but when you say they're "burning back the purple vegetation" I'm picturing the controlled burns they do in parks...

One of Bar’s sisters had a lemon tree in her garden, perhaps the last one in the human lands, and this smell was enough like the scent of lemon to call up the comparison. Few of these ever would have smelled that, let alone tasted the acrid fruit.

He's far away, yet he can smell... the smoke?

A shout went up and the teams surged forward, guiding a handful of exhausted farmers from the waste edge.

These are two complex actions -- surging forward, and guiding out survivors. Be more specific.

The wasteland had grown to encompass another farm, the people trapped behind the line. A straggle of cows and sheep, accompanied by dogs, burst from the purple boundary and spread out into the green human lands.

If the jungle grows fast enough to trap people, wouldn't it be creeping as we speak? And yet you said earlier that people don't bother to fight it unless someone's trapped? If getting trapped is dangerous enough to require rescuing, how does anyone sleep at night with this stuff crawling around?

Bar heard a shout behind him, and the ratchet of a crossbow as his patrol team came up behind him along the ledge.

The farmers heard the shout, but knew enough to go on alert toward the wasteland edge rather than away.

Be more specific about what the farmers do.

Bar ran, his patrol behind him. Whatever was about to happen he would be too late to either stop it or help. The crossbow was a short-range weapon, but deadly within its limits.

So why is he running? Also: what do they have with a longer range than a crossbow, if that's considered short-range? Why aren't they carrying that instead?

Along the edge where purple and green mixed the peasants drew back in a staggered line, bows coming up, swords and knives ready.

Every time Bar saw the wasteland creatures there was something new. The first emerged from the back of the area where human saws had encroached on the alien wasteland, more than twice as tall as any man. Its nose was broad and flat, its body visibly that of a browser attracted by the scent of the cut vegetation.

You need to be more specific in describing the critter. Just for amusement, I'm going to assume it's a moose.

Bar winced. He would need to make sure the peasant councils were reminded to burn the edge as they cut. Just because it was a browser did not make it any less dangerous. If hungry enough, it would come out into the human lands for the cut stems and branches.

That doesn't sound dangerous.

Behind it others appeared, some obviously predatory but ignoring the herbivores around them. They crowded shoulder to shoulder and stared out into the open human lands as if surprised to find space there.

What does "obviously predatory" mean?

The humans held their fire, backing away one careful step at a time.

Keeper Bar and his ten slowed, moved cautiously into a position where they could support as they got closer.

So your statement that they wouldn't arrive in time was wrong.

A wasteland creature near the back of the pack reared up onto its hind legs with a roar, leaving the visibly unarmored underbelly vulnerable, and one of the peasants took the shot.

The thing screamed as the arrow sank in, and Bar shook his head. Only the eyes were vulnerable.

If the arrow sank in, then obviously the underbelly is vulnerable. What did you really mean?

Its scream became a howl of rage, and it spat the arrow back at the humans much faster than it had emerged from the bow. One of the humans fell, but because the bolt hadn’t been shot from a bow it hit him flat, across the head. He fell back.

So, these critters aren't dangerous unless you attack them... so why should I worry about these idiots getting hurt? They deserve it for provoking them. 

Neat trick, taking in an arrow from your belly and spitting it out your mouth. You should describe that more. 

The wasteland force surged forward, jostling each other, tusks, hooves, claws and teeth visible even on forms which held no other similarity to anything in the human lands. Too many to kill, and if the peasants killed one it would only start a feeding frenzy. The Keepers had learned that long ago.

A feeding frenzy of herbivores doesn't sound all that dangerous. Also, you refer to them as animals -- but they sure aren't acting like animals. 

“Fall back!” Bar shouted, and strode forward. “Fall back!”

The humans heard it. A few began to retreat as ordered, pulling others with them until they clearly stood on the human side of the charred and denuded wasteland edge.

The animals slowed as they approached that edge, which Bar had not expected. One snorted and shook its heavy head, backing away as if trying to get away from some unbearable stench. Others skittered sideways, crowding toward one side of the open space, away from something Bar could not see.

Bar’s people moved up in support—not too close. It took Bar a moment to see the one human shape which remained at the edge, but it didn’t attempt to move out into the human lands. It took a single step into the sunlight and raised a hand, not toward the humans but toward the animals massed at the edge.

If it's human, give it a gender.

The animals backed away, some now staring longingly toward the purple jungle.


Why don't they leave?

A woman alone, she stood between the enraged animals and seemed to push them back as she walked forward, one careful step at a time until they broke and ran, back into the magenta forest.

Magenta, not purple? Another contradiction.

Only then did she turn to face the humans, who stirred uneasily and surged toward the stranger.

“Shaper!” someone screamed, and with a howl of rage the humans went after her.

When Bar looked again, she had vanished.

Why did he look away? Wouldn't he keep a close eye on someone acting strangely? 

Is the world-building strong enough: well, I don't have a clear enough picture of what's going on to answer that. Not the sequence of events -- I mean the context: why these things are happening, why they're important, why the things these people do are reasonable and logical. Plus, you frequently contradict yourself in the details. Therefore, I'm not sure what you know, or don't know, about your world.

Would I keep reading? No. 

First crit of the week

A writer bravely throws this scene under my red pen:

A man’s hand reached out from the smoky-plated mirror and caressed River’s cheek. The dark pink nails glowed against her pale skin. A rusted manacle chain dangled from his fist, clinking softly as the open cuff slapped around her arm. River was trapped like an animal trapped in a cage. Her lips trembled, but she would not cry. Crying would only prove she was weak. Instead, she would make him suffer, but how? A sudden impulse spurred her thoughts into actions and her hand darted to the free-swinging manacle and she slapped the open end of the shackles onto his wrist, clicking it shut. She heard a startled gasp escape from his mouth and felt the jerk on her hand as he instantly drew his arm away. Too late, he seemed to realize what she had done. His arm was shackled to River’s wrist.

You win the first crit by putting up an interesting image that caught my eye as I was copy/pasting all the submissions into Blogger. However: if he's caressing her cheek, how is he also holding a manacle chain in his fist? I would assume a caress is delivered with an open hand. Or is there a second hand involved?  Second: she took the manacle away from him? Easily? Not real smart to hand somebody a manacle while you're reaching through a magic mirror, is it... but then you say that now he's shackled to her. So... now I'm confused about the shackle. Maybe there was a previous scene and your readers knew she was already half shackled, and why half of it would be left open for her to play with, but if there wasn't then you need to be clearer about the starting situation and how River managed this. 

On the whole, a good start. The highlighted phrase is a bit of wordiness I think you don't need. How about: On impulse, her hand darted...

 “You—!” he exclaimed, his voice between surprise and outrage. Again, he pulled his arm back, jerking against the chain, and River’s hand went with him. “What have you done? You loony girl. Do you think I do not have a key for these chains?"

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, and immediately stopped her fluttering eyes. Unprepared for his response, she cocked her eyes upwards and spied a key hanging from a hook. She snatched the key and slipped it down the bodice of her dress.  Immediately she felt her face grow hot and her mirror image proved her cheeks now flamed red.

“You are a mad woman!” Who said this?

The voice from the mirror was calm, deliberate, almost detached. “What possessed you to do something as childish as that? What were you thinking?”

River paused for a moment, struggling to sort her thoughts.

Is this really happening? No, it can’t be. Mirrors can’t talk. It must be a memory, but whose? Where am I in this memory?

If somebody remembers a mirror talking, then mirrors must be able to talk. Is there a reason that River wouldn't know that..? is it weird...?

She drew in a deep breath and tried to recall the time and place. Oh, yes. This wasn’t her memory. There was a convict onboard a ship. The poor girl had been sold into slavery but she escaped and River had been asked to erase the memory to protect the runaway slave. Thank goodness she remembered, but River had no choice but to follow along until the memory played itself out.

Highlight: the runaway slave, or River?

“I refuse to let you take me below this God-forsaken ship with the common criminals housed there. I do not belong there any more than you belong there. If I go, you go,” she said as she pinched her lips together.

The man lost his speech and River could tell he tried his best not to smile, as the reality of what she had done settled in. Half-comical. Half-dreadful. Completely crazy. As usual.

River glared into his eyes. She would make sure he did not win without a fight. Yanking her arm to her waist, the man fell completely out of the looking glass.

Just a thought: you could put the "River glared..." paragraph before she says "I refuse..." Also: how about a little description of this guy?

“Give me the key back,” he demanded, extending his free hand toward her, palm up. “Give me that key or I’ll rip that dress right off your body and retrieve it myself.”

That's very polite of him. She's a prisoner, sold into slavery (according to the memory) -- why's he being polite to her, and not immediately beating her down and ripping her clothes off?

River shook her head and stamped her foot on the floor.  “I will not return the key peaceably. I refuse to go below with the other convicts. I do not belong there.” River said.

The man narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He reached out and grabbed the eyelet of River’s collar, but as he yanked the material, River stepped back and he fell against the frame of the mirror. A pink light flashed, and suddenly, River stood alone.

The two hundred year old memory dissipated like fog on a cold night, as if written in the Memory Book with invisible ink.

The runaway slave was 200+ years old? Okay. I'm left wondering: does this mean River succeeded in erasing this memory? I hope you explain that ASAP. Because you said that she was just following along -- so everything she did is what the slave did? How does that erase a memory? Or was it just the last bit of struggle that broke the pattern?

On the whole, this was a decent scene. It could use a little more place-setting: I don't know if this happened in a prison, on the slave ship, or somewhere else. Sketching in the surroundings some more would clear that up.