FAR TOWN Critique by Robert L. Bacon

This is the second opening-chapter critique that I've posted on this new blog format of mine, which I plan to devote exclusively to opening-chapter evaluations.

This blog is offered as a real-time learning tool, and I encourage active participation.  And since writers like to also hear what others think of their work, please feel free to express your opinions.  To do so, click the word "comments" that appears at the end of each respective chapter's material, and a comment box will appear.  Also, feel free to ask any questions about my revision suggestions.  And if anyone would like to submit material for a free opening-chapter critique (up to 5000 words), please paste the narrative to the body of an e-mail (sorry, no attachments will be opened) and send it to theperfectwrite@aol.com.

Lead time varies, and I'll let you know after I receive your material when I think I'll be able to get to it.  And with each opening chapter I post, I'll only list the author's first name and first initial of the last name, or the phrase "Author's Name Withheld by Request."  I currently have a nice backlog of material with permission to post, and I plan to add a new chapter to the blog every Monday.  This way, each author's material will be the lead piece for an entire week.  Of course prior chapters and critiques can be viewed by clicking the archival links.  And any author can have his or her work removed at any time.

In the area of line editing, I try to do a good job of providing ideas that will improve a narrative.  The suggestions range from necessary to highly subjective.  But it must be noted that what I'm offering should not be assumed to deliver a draft in final form, and this is why I refer to my line editing that accompanies these first-chapter critiques as cursory.  My primary goal is to advance ideas to strengthen the story and point out situations that an author might've overlooked, whereas an in-depth line-edit may indeed be more expansive.

What follows is the next opening chapter for this blog, with my critique and line edit.
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FAR TOWN 1^st Chapter Critique

By Robert L. Bacon

November 9, 2010

Hello Ellyn,

Because I was so enamored with your writing, I read your material twice.  You're making a difficult subject (or, to be more appropriate, several) enjoyable to read, and this is generally not the case when I look at commercial fiction and a lead character who's conflicted.  In many instances the writing can be quite good, but I too often find I'm turning pages that seem to weigh ten pounds each.

If the remainder of your narrative follows the opening, my position is that you've conquered the single most important criterion for a literary novel to be successful, and this is creating a redemptive character.  With Marnie, I think of Ginny in A THOUSAND ACRES.  (And your work indeed could be viewed as literary fiction as well as commercial fiction.  These distinctions are often quite blurred, but it's a nice problem to have.) 

I immediately liked Marnie, and my reason is because I can identify with her in many ways.  And I think most people will too.  Life isn't fair, but Marnie isn't going to give up or compromise her principles or ideals because she's been hit with several low blows, even though it's obvious she'd like to throw a few punches even lower.  All of us get this way at times (or at least everyone I've ever met), and the way you're setting up her character is terrific.

Your writing is crisp and the prose flows smoothly.  I have some issues with word repetition (which I'll address shortly), and the use of certain words with respect to the context in which they were placed.  And I want to make a few punctuation suggestions.  My contentions will be illustrated when you look at my cursory line edit of your first 3 pages, but overall I found your opening to be one of the best pieces of unpublished work I've read in a long time.  I'd very much like to read the entire story when it's completed.

Now I want to make a comment about repeating words, such as "butt."  Since "butt" of course sounds the same as "but," this makes the word even that much more problematic to get away with.  And I've found that repeating a word for effect is iffy at best.  It can work, but more often than not the cuteness of the technique wears off in a hurry and tends to grate on the reader.  

Additionally, please look at how I reconciled some of the verb tenses so everything is consistent.  And you may want to consider shortening some of your paragraphs as I have done.  You might not approve of the particular location for the breaks I chose, but I strongly suggest always using shorter rather than longer paragraphs when possible.  You'll have a much easier time selling your book.  I also want to mention the use of the phrase I had the clout to take it.  It didn't work for me in its original context, so I offered a substitute phrase and a revision of the overall "spoils" syntax. 

Every editor I know who is worth anything tells his or her clients that editing is often highly subjective, and I'm stating this loud and clear.  So with the aforementioned disclaimer out of the way, ha ha, here is my cursory line-edit of the first 3 pages of your text after I double spaced it, and with a non-annotated draft following it for easy comparison.  Certainly, a lot of what I provided is indeed most subjective, but I hope you will find that some of my suggestions might enhance your narrative.
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FAR TOWN, By Ellyn Z

Chapter One                                                                                       

            There are times in the life of a social worker where when your very butt is on the line.  Butt saving And while saving one's behind is an art form, and part of the landscape in my line of work, but there is a balance to it.  You can save watch someone else’s butt back a million times, and they can save yours, but if it was not your turn, your butt's you're going down and you will get royally reamed drilled in a most uncharitable way of ways, deserved or not.  Take it from me, Marnie McArdle, the queen of reamed.
            I was glad to take the fall, let some of and let my subordinates eat up the glory keep the spoils of what would've been my glory.  There was plenty of glory to go around, and I had the clout to take it. resolve to absorb the hit.  I was skilled.  My personnel file was thick, mostly letters of commendation.  The reaming , and the rebukes never landed in the official record because my statistics were good.   The front office brass loved my stats.  They The data measured everything from the budget to the number of placements I made, along with the drop-out rates of foster children, kids in special education,  hospitalizations, and of course deaths--but that’s another story.  Just look at my county evaluations over the past twenty or so years.  They always stated:  Exceeds Expectations!
             But sometimes, my job at The Department of Children and Families (DCF) was the home of a good cop - bad cop mentality.  I’d get screamed at by my boss for not telling the executive director some useless piece of information, like where a child had spent the night or how money got into the hands of a homeless parent, information knowledge that I’d supposedly withheld, again butt saving, and then the boss man main man would waltz in and make nice so I wouldn’t quit.  Then the next day I’d be spewing the same shit to some underling as she gulped an apology.

            All I ever hoped for was to mold some of them into decent social workers like me.  I could step in and sooth a worried four-year-old and or put a wayward teen in his place.  The next day Right afterwards I would be chairing a fundraiser, or getting an award for righting a social ill, fixing some problem or another.  I’d be and  rubbing elbows with the mayor and the friggin’ governor. with our   My picture would be with theirs on the front page of The Eastfield Observer, and I'd be feeling like some kind of hero.  Suffice it to  However, it's suffice to say that the last time I made the paper it wasn’t good.   

                        .                                    .                                     .

I dressed carefully.  I took out my gray suit, pale pink blouse, black pumps and a single strand of pearls.  It was fall and the suit was a little too springy, but it was the only outfit that fit me.  The skirt was a little loose, my diet consisting mostly of liquid this past month, so I pinned it at the waist and with the jacket on, it wasn’t all that noticeable.  This interview needed to work, and though I tend to be much more comfortable in cottons, I went for professional.  I was down to my last unemployment check, my bank account was a wreck, and if I didn’t get work soon I’ll be homeless.  Well Okay, maybe not homeless, but it is much harder to find a job when after you’ve been fired.  I knew that well.

My Ford still started most mornings and had miraculously survived the summer.  Not too much rust, even although the side was a bit crumpled where in the section where I grazed a guard rail rounding a corner on the highway, dodging the dreaded D.U.I.   I made a mental note not to ever never to drive while intoxicated again.  Scratch that.  I strengthened my resolve not to imbibe at all.  I nursed the old girl along with gallons of water and coolant to keep her from overheating, but I finally had to replace the water pump, another hit to my dwindling savings.  She delivered me to nineteen 19 fruitless interviews.  I called her Shannon.  She was a Kerry-green station wagon, a strange choice for a woman without kids, but like most everything I owned at the time, a bargain.
            I scratched at my waistline where the pin was starting to chafe me and laid the jacket neatly on the back seat, covering the indentations where the car seats had been.  I had to be ready to transport children on at a moment’s notice when I was working at DCF, so the car seats were a must.  I since have turned them back in to the county.  That part I was glad about.  Me  Driving around in a station wagon with baby car seats for babies in it hardly helped my single image.  I swore I will would invest in a new vehicle as soon as I was working, maybe a sports car.
             My pink blouse was made of silk.  I got it from the Goodwill store downtown.  No one would ever know.  It looked brand new.  Goodwill took had taken over the W. T. Grant building where I worked part-time in my teens.  The blouse was a DKNY and I was sure certain someone had paid good money for  the piece garment before it landed on the five-dollar rack.  The top was probably the nicest thing I owned, clothes-wise.  It felt However, it was soft and slippery against my skin but the sheerness and threatened to expose more than I want desired to show.  I didn’t want to appear too racy in for an interview.  Well, maybe I did want to show off a little bit. Still, I decided to keep the carry the jacket, whether I wore it or not.,
           I wind had wound my wet hair into a tight bun at the nape of my neck, wear worn my glasses instead of contacts, and I had to admit, I looked pretty sharp yet business-like.  I know I am I'm hot, but this time I'll I decided to start out professional, and if that’s not working didn't work, I will I could  definitely use my formidable assets to turn it around.  I hoped prayed the interviewer is would be a male.
             “Good news.  I'd received good news before I left for the interview.  The unemployment office let me know that they My unemployment benefits would be extended my check for another month, which meant they will the agency would continue to post job opportunities in on my on-line to my folder.  Now This meant I’ve been I'd be gifted with more chances to get kicked in the teeth by big wigs some jerk with nothing better to do than say no.  I threw had thrown the “no” rejection letters that were collecting on my kitchen counter into the fireplace, but with the Indian summer upon us, it was too hot to start a fire to burn them.

Chapter One with 1^st Three Pages Revised

            There are times in the life of a social worker when your very butt is on the line.  And while saving one's behind is an art form, and part of the landscape in my line of work, there is a balance to it.  You can watch someone else’s back a million times, and they can yours, but if it was not your turn, you're going down and you will get royally drilled in a most uncharitable of ways, deserved or not.  Take it from me, Marnie McArdle, the queen of reamed.
             I was glad to take the fall and let my subordinates keep the spoils of what would've been my glory.  There was plenty to go around, and I had the resolve to absorb the hit.  I was skilled.  My personnel file was thick, mostly letters of commendation, and any rebukes never landed in the official record because my statistics were good.  The front-office brass loved my stats.  The data measured everything from the budget to the number of placements I made, along with the drop-out rates of foster children, kids in special education, hospitalizations, and of course deaths--but that’s another story.  Just look at my County Evaluations over the past twenty or so years.  They always stated this:  Exceeds Expectations!
             But sometimes my job at The Department of Children and Families (DCF) was the home of  a good cop/bad cop mentality.  I’d get screamed at by my boss for not telling the executive director some useless information, like where a child had spent the night or how money got into the hands of a homeless parent, knowledge that I’d supposedly withheld, and then the main man would waltz in and make nice so I wouldn’t quit.  But the next day I’d be spewing the same shit to some underling as she gulped an apology.
              All I ever hoped for was to mold some of them into decent social workers like me.  I could step in and sooth a worried four-year-old or put a wayward teen in his place.  Or I would be chairing a fundraiser, getting an award for righting a social ill, or rubbing elbows with the mayor and the friggin’ governor, with my picture alongside theirs on the front page of The Eastfield Observer, and I'd be feeling like some kind of hero.  However, it's suffice to say that the last time I made the paper it wasn’t good.   

             .                                               .                                               .

I dressed carefully.  I took out my gray suit, pale pink blouse, black pumps, and a single strand of pearls.  It was fall and the suit was a little too spring-like, but it was the only outfit that fit me.  The skirt was somewhat loose, my diet consisting mostly of liquid this past month, so I pinned it at the waist, and with the jacket on it wasn’t all that noticeable.  This interview needed to work, and though   I tend to be much more comfortable in cottons, I went for professional.  I was down to my last unemployment check, my bank account was a wreck, and if I didn’t get work soon I’ll be homeless.  Okay, maybe not homeless, but it's much harder to find a job after you’ve been fired.  I knew that well.
             My Ford still started most mornings and had miraculously survived the summer.  Not too much rust, although a side panel was a bit crumpled where I'd grazed a guard rail rounding a corner on the highway, dodging the dreaded D.U.I.  I made a mental note never to drive while intoxicated again.  Scratch that.  I strengthened my resolve not to imbibe at all.  I nursed the old girl along with gallons of water and coolant to keep her from overheating, but I finally had to replace the water pump, another hit to my dwindling savings.  She delivered me to 19 fruitless interviews.  I called her Shannon.  She was a Kerry-green station wagon, a strange choice for a woman without kids, but like most everything I owned at the time, a bargain.
             I scratched at my waistline where the pin was starting to chafe me and laid the jacket neatly on the back seat, covering the indentations where the child seats had been.  I had needed to be ready to transport children at a moment’s notice when I was working at DCF, so the special seats were a must.  I since have turned them back in to the County.  That part I was glad about.  Driving around in a station wagon with car seats for babies hardly helped my single image.  I swore I  would invest in a new vehicle as soon as I was working, maybe a sports car.
            My pink blouse was made of silk.  I got it from the Goodwill store downtown.  No one would ever know.  It looked brand new.  Goodwill had taken over the W. T. Grant building where I worked part-time in my teens.  The blouse was a DKNY, and someone had paid good money for the garment before it landed on the five-dollar rack.  The top was probably the nicest thing I owned, clothes-wise.  However, it was soft and slippery against my skin and threatened to expose more than I desired to show.
              I know I'm hot, but this time I had decided to start out professional, and if that didn't work, I could use my formidable assets to turn it around.  I prayed the interviewer would be a “he."  Yet even if it was, I didn’t want to appear too racy for the interview.  Well, maybe I did want to show off a little bit.  I had wound my wet hair into a tight bun at the nape of my neck, worn my glasses instead of contacts, and I had to admit I looked sharp yet business-like.  I decided to carry the jacket whether I wore it or not.
             I'd received good news before I left for the interview.  My unemployment benefits would be extended for another month, which meant the agency would continue to post job opportunities on-line to my folder.  This meant I'd be gifted with more chances to get kicked in the teeth by some jerk with nothing better to do than say no.  I had thrown the rejection letters that were collecting on my kitchen counter into the fireplace, but with Indian summer upon us, it was too hot to start a blaze and burn them.  This week alone, three more of those despicable missives had arrived.  I hadn't bothered to open them.  If some agency wanted me, I would have to be called.