McAnally's (The Community Pub) > Author Craft
Okay new game: hooked or not hooked.....
belial.1980:
Meg- Hooked. Nicely done. Only thing--I didn't make an immediate connection with the phone's heavenly glow and the lawyer, but that might be just me.
Nothinwicked/Starbeam, honestly I think you could both just start off with the very last few lines of your individual pieces, because those were the ones that really grabbed my attention:
"Power over life and death he'd said. Power over life and death."
::That:: caught my interest. Let's see what happens next.
All I was trying to do was kill myself. I missed my dand and grandmother. And I was just so tired of being alone all the time. How was I supposed to know that stupid dagger was magical? And possessed?
Ditto. Now I want to know about this dagger and where it came from.
He Who Walks Backwards I'll echo what Meg said. Maybe a good starting point would be the moment when the character finds out that Derek is a vampire. That could be a good flashpoint for conflict.
(EDIT: Caffeine rush, sorry) What I meant to say is that I think all three pieces could benefit by placing more focus on grabbing the reader's attention right off that bat and worry about exposition/explanation till later. All three have intriguing premises and look promising.
Here's mine:
A mask of blood covered the face of the abomination that was once a beautiful young girl and its eyes shined with something that cut even deeper than madness. The light of Rhea's lantern revealed the creature crouched on the Cypress bower, feasting on the young cowpuncher's eviscerated remains. The dead man hung slumped over the branch like a jaguar's kill, dribbling crimson streams onto the brush below. A breeze wafted the miasma of death over Rhea and she caught a whiff of his last meal—beef stew—amidst the stench of spilled guts. Without a sound the girl-thing bounded from the tree and charged, running upon all fours.
Rhea's grip tightened on her tomahawk, but before the girl-thing managed three strides a shadow whisked through the grass like an eel through water and crashed into it. The beast Rhea had named "Pluto" threw the girl-thing nose over toes with a toss of his horns. The abomination rolled to its feet screaming and tried to bite its attacker, but Pluto entwined it with his sinuous body and pinned it to the ground.
meg_evonne:
Starbeam: wow, I liked a lot of stuff in here! I agree that the strongest line is the last part, "All I was trying to do was kill myself. I missed my dand and grandmother. And I was just so tired of being alone all the time. How was I supposed to know that stupid dagger was magical? And possessed?"
That's the strongest line and I think it's a great starting point, but what I also like is who you pulled together as a main character. She's interesting! She's quirky to be talking to herself and I like that she's not the normal hero walking the streets. I do want to spend time with the main character.
NothingWicked: I don't have enough yet to feel that I'm hooked into it. That last line again is strong. Can you post more? :-)
belial: Graphic death scene--cool. The girl creature intriguing and really interested in the Pluto, which I assume is a compatriot of Rhea and is neat. Plus the body description gives me a sense of the environment without actually describing it.
In the first paragraph I lost my physicality. The first sentence took me into the girl creature, the next three sentences took me to the body and then it was back to the girl creature. This may have been on purpose and your choice. I personally would feel more comfortable with the 2nd sentence that introduces Rhea through the lantern, moves on to the body... continue to the last line and then incorporate the first sentence into that last bit.
To me, I feel more comfortable with the camera view idea. Right now the camera is shifting too much and I got lost. Starting with the lantern that reveals the body, the description of the body, then the camera eye would move to the girl creature. Does that make sense?
Oh, hey ya, I'm hooked!
LizW65:
Here's mine:
October, 1947
Eighteen months ago, Jerry Straight left his Times Square office to get three corned beef sandwiches and a pack of Chesterfields and vanished off the face of the earth. As mysterious disappearances went, it didn’t get a lot of press coverage, and the cops barely made a show of concern before shrugging their shoulders and moving on to the next big thing in crime. Jerry was no Judge Crater; he sure as hell was no Amelia Earhardt, and the authorities didn’t like to waste a lot of time on what they considered a lost cause. The city was full of guys like Jerry, little fish in a great big pond, trying to make an honest living and help out a few people in need along the way.
For the most part, the only people who cared that Jerry had made like a magician’s assistant were Russell and me. Russell was Jerry’s partner and one of a few, maybe the only real friend he had, but even he missed a lot of the signs that all was not well in Jerry’s world. A guy who has everything going for him doesn’t walk away from his whole life without a word to anybody. A private dick with a reputation to uphold doesn’t do a runner in the middle of a case. Russell spent more than a few sleepless nights wondering if he was somehow responsible for his partner’s disappearing act, or worse, that Jerry could have been done away with by the very guys they were investigating...
LizW65:
Oh, and of the previous fragments, Meg Evonne's and Belial's definitely hooked me. ;D
Starbeam:
I've actually been debating over whether that bit is more fitting as a sort of blurb/forward/preface kinda thing. I think Simon Green's Drood books do this kinda thing. The actual story start(which needs lots of work) is:
"You're dripping on the carpet."
I blinked and looked around. I stood in the middle of a white room. Everything was white. Except the man in black. I had a somewhat hysterical urge to ask if he was the Dread Pirate Roberts.
He was dressed head to toe in black. And it looked like the exact same costume, as well. Aside from the cowled black cloak falling and hitting at the ankles. The only color I could see was a golden shimmer from beneath the hood.
"Dont just stand there; clean it up."
He had a British accent, too. Why did that feel like home? He gestured, and I followed the movement.
Blood was sliding down my hands and drip-dripping onto a spreading red stain. It looked very bright against the white carpet. I still held the dagger in my hand, but even though blood dripped from the point, the blade was clean.
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