What are some ways to be a good critique partner? @Ava_Jae breaks it down in today's vlog. (Click to tweet)
Curious about what it's like to work with an editor in traditional publishing or freelance circles? @Ava_Jae breaks it down. (Click to tweet)
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Not sure where to start with revisions? @Ava_Jae suggests planning with flashcards. (Click to tweet)
When should you work with a freelance editor? @Ava_Jae talks critique partners & working with professionals when self or traditionally publishing. (Click to tweet)
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"Zeke Williams had had his first wet dream about his best friend when he was thirteen years old. It had been one of his first wet dreams,period, definitely the first one that he remembered, not one where he just woke up sticky and feeling a little bit grossed out, a little bit satisfied, a lot bit totally unaware what had just happened. In this one he’d been with Kevin and they’d been skating, going up and down the cul-de-sac Kevin lived in, doing rudimentary tricks on the makeshift ramps Kevin had managed to cobble together, and then Zeke had taken a pretty bad spill and then while Kevin was patching him up…
He’d never forgotten about it, and now, four years later when they were going into their junior year of high school, still trying to do stupid tricks off of a cobbled together ramp, as he fucked up his balance and ended up skidding pretty far on the rough asphalt, tearing the hell out of his forearms, he had a brief flashback to the dream. Kevin kicked up his board and came for him. 'I’m good,' he said. He pushed himself up to sit and poked at his arm. Some good-looking roadburn, but nothing broken, and it was just his arm. He didn’t skateboard with his arm.
'I’ll go get some gauze,' Kevin said. 'Gotta wrap that shit up, son.'"
"Zeke Williamshadhad his first wet dream about his best friend when he was thirteenyears old. It'had been one of his first wet dreams,[space]period, definitely the first one that he remembered, not one where he just woke up sticky andfeelinga little bit grossed out, a little bit satisfied, a lot bittotallyunaware what had just happened I find this bit hard to believe. Even at thirteen, he'd know what happened. Even if his school didn't do sex ed, he would've heard from his peers, or the media, etc. In this one he’d been with Kevin and they’d been skating, going up and downtheKevin's cul-de-sacKevin lived in, doingrudimentaryeasy tricks on the makeshift ramps Kevin hadmanaged tocobbled together, and then Zeke had taken a pretty bad spill andthenwhile Kevin was patching him up…
He’d never forgotten about it, and now, four years laterwhen they were going into their junior year of high school, still trying to do stupid tricks off of a cobbled together ramp, as he fucked up his balance andended upskiddedingpretty far on the rough asphalt, tearing the hell out of his forearms, he had a brief flashback to the dream.
[new paragraph]Kevin kicked up his board and came for him.
[new paragraph]'I’m good,.'he said.Hepushed himself up tosiat up and pokedathis arm. Some good-looking road[space]burn, but nothing broken, and it was just his arm. He didn’t skateboard with his arm.
'I’ll go get some gauze,' Kevin said. 'Gotta wrap that shit up, son.'"
.@Ava_Jae talks reworking openings, wordiness and more in the 40th Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
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"The tavern was filled with pirates of various fashion senses. A gaggle of them roared for refills, sporting offensively garish breeches and egos to match. The older ones slouched in corners, black trench coats pulled up around their grizzled faces, rapiers hanging like dead men from their belts. With her outlandishly feathered hat and high collared coat, Captain Scarlet Rogue was right at home.
She sat in the corner, hands clasped around a mug of ale that, by the look of the tavern, was most certainly watered down. The amber liquid sloshed in her glass as she tipped it back and forth, listening to pirates shout for drinks and pretty barmaids.
One such barmaid had approached her, asking in a reedy voice if that was all she’d be having. Scarlet ignored her until she flounced off to go sit on some drunkard’s lap. She’d been sitting in the same tavern all day, and her hands were clenched around the mug so tightly she didn’t think she could let go if she tried.
Her crimson hair was tied up and shoved under her hat, her revolvers tucked away into her coat. She was no longer the feared Scarlet Rogue, captain of the Vespers, a name that had once struck terror into the hearts of every good-hearted merchant and dirty-mouthed sailor. She was just Scarlet, captain of a ship that hadn’t left port in months."
"The tavern was filled with pirates and Captain Scarlet Rouge was right at homeof various fashion senses. I'm suggesting you move (part of) the last line to the start, for a few reasons. First, starting with the protagonist right away helps better ground readers, who in your original version are left to kind of float around aimlessly until you mention Scarlet. And secondly, the "various fashions senses" bit wasn't really carrying its own weight, meaning that it was vague and didn't really add enough to the sentence that I felt it was worth keeping. A gaggle ofthemprivateers (or another word for pirates) roared for refills, sportingoffensivelygarish breeches and egos to match. The older ones slouched in corners, black trench coats pulled up around their grizzled faces, rapiers hanging like dead men from their belts. I love this image so much! "rapiers hanging like dead men from their belts" like, what powerful imagery! Really, really nicely done.With her outlandishly feathered hat and high collared coat, Captain Scarlet Rogue was right at home.
SheScarlet sat in the corner, hands clasped around a mug of ale that, by the look of the tavern, was most certainly watered down. Nice voice. The amber liquid sloshed in her glass as she tipped it back and forth, listening to pirates shout for drinks and pretty barmaids.
One such barmaidhadapproached her, asking in a reedy voice if that was all she’d be having. Scarlet ignored her until she flounced off to go sit on some drunkard’s lap. I want to encourage you to be careful with the word choice here, because Scarlett is starting to come off as arrogant, like she thinks the barmaid is beneath her. It's not endearing. She’d been sitting in the same tavern all day,andher handswereclenched around the mug so tightly she didn’t think she could let go if she tried.
Her crimson hair was tied up and shoved under her outlandishly feathered hat, her revolvers tucked away into her high-collared coat. Bringing back some of that description I cut earlier. She was no longer the feared Scarlet Rogue, captain of the Vespers, a name that'dSo there are my suggestions! Overall, they're mostly just tightening notes, to help move things a little more quickly and ground the reader right away. I think this was a really strong start to begin with and I'm totally interested—if I saw this in the slush I'd definitely keep reading.hadoncestruck terror into the hearts of every good-hearted merchant and dirty-mouthed sailor. She was just Scarlet, captain of a ship that hadn’t left port in months."
.@Ava_Jae talks grounding the reader, imagery and more in the 39th Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
What are the 3 types of editing and why is each important? @Ava_Jae breaks it down in today's vlog. (Click to tweet)
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"She's dazed, the white of her nightshirt standing out like a beacon in the moonlit forest, but it's the circle of guns pointed at her that captures my attention. Four Enforcers surround her, and as I watch from my hiding place behind an oak tree and try to get my bearings, inexplicably, they laugh.
'A little confused, Traveler?' It's the leader who speaks, his rough voice amused at this poor girl's blinking bewilderment. If his beefy stature towering over the others isn't clue enough that he's in charge here, his unremarkable unhandsome face is. It's Donovan, and although the fact that he's not currently threatening me is a nice change, I still shiver, knowing exactly what this stranger in pajamas is feeling.
'Am I... am I dreaming?' She turns a full circle, taking in the men surrounding her. She tosses her long black hair over one shoulder and tentatively reaches out to touch the barrel of one of the guns. 'It feels so real.'
My pulse speeds up and I steady myself, leaning into the tree. I should intervene somehow, do something. But what? I'm as unprepared as this girl is, ripped from my bed in the middle of the night—no warning, no weapon--just me in my Ravenclaw PJs, bare feet sinking into the soft grass. At least I've been here before. This Traveler isn’t quite as savvy.
Donovan sneers. 'Dreaming, huh? Funny, that's what they all think. I keep hoping one of you will be original someday.'"
"She's dazed, the white of her nightshirtstanding out likea beacon in the moonlit forest,but it's thea circle of guns pointed at herthat captures my attention. Adjustment made both to cut wordiness and remove filtering. Four Enforcers surround her, and as I watch from my hiding place behind an oak treeand try to get my bearings, inexplicably, they laugh.
'A little confused, Traveler?'It'stThe leaderwhospeaks, his rough voice amused at this poor girl's blinking bewilderment. If his beefy stature towering over the others isn't clue enough that he's in charge here, his unremarkableunhandsomeface is. It's Donovan, and althoughthe factthat he's not currently threatening me is a nice change, I still shiver, knowing exactly what this stranger in pajamas is feeling. Again, suggested cuts are to lessen wordiness and remove filtering.
'Am I... am I dreaming?' She turns a full circle, taking in the men surrounding her. She tosses her long black hair over one shoulder and tentatively reaches out to touch the barrel ofone of thea guns. 'It feels so real.'
My pulse speeds up and I steady myself, leaning into the tree. I should intervene somehow, do something. But what? I'm as unprepared as this girl is, ripped from my bed in the middle of the night—no warning, no weapon—just me in my Ravenclaw PJs, bare feet sinking into the soft grass. Love the Ravenclaw PJs detail! Not only is it a great image but it tells me a little more about your protagonist. At least I've been here before. This Traveler isn’tquiteas savvy.
Donovan sneers. 'Dreaming, huh? Funny, that's what they all think. I keep hoping one of you will be original someday.'"
.@Ava_Jae talks wordiness, details and more in the 38th Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
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Author @Ava_Jae says POV should influence every word in your WIPs. What do you think? (Click to tweet)
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"I check my phone: 4:05 p.m. We’re supposed to start at four, so I get up and peer through the door with the plaque reading Farid Ansari, LPC.
Mr. Ansari’s office is full of all sorts of sculptures on the window panes and his desk. A couple of paintings hang on the walls, along with his framed certificates. Overall, it’s borderline cluttered, but I shouldn’t be complaining since my room’s not always the tidiest...
Mr. Ansari turns to me, and his face brightens. 'Come in Sam,' he calls. 'I'll be with you in a second.'
I sink into one of the black leather chairs and wait for him, looking out the window at the street.
'Hello Sam,' he says as he rolls his desk chair to mine. 'How are you doing?'
Whether it’s the first time or the fifth time, my nerves still start jumping. It’s not always easy to talk about your feelings like this, especially when you know it’s someone who’s getting paid to put you under a microscope, dissect you, and find out what’s wrong with your life.
'I’m fine,' I say. 'Uh, school’s been going on for a couple of weeks now.' Mr. Ansari keeps his gaze on me. I tap my fingers as I think of what to say. My heartbeat picks up. 'I’m doing all right in my classes…'
He nods. 'That’s good. Are you enjoying yourself?' Somehow, his gaze seems to intensify, like he’s switching to a higher powered lens on the microscope."
"I check my phone: 4:05 p.m. We’re supposed to start at four, so I get up and peer through the door with the plaque reading Farid Ansari, LPC. Made italic just to better differentiate the narrative and what Sam is reading.
Mr. Ansari’s office is full of all sorts of sculptures on the window panes and his desk. A couple of paintings hang on the walls, along with his framed certificates. Overall, it’s borderline cluttered, but I shouldn’t be complaining since my room’s not always the tidiest...
Mr. Ansari turns to me, and his face brightens. 'Come in Sam,.' he calls. 'I'll be with you in a second.'
I sink into one of the black leather chairs and waitfor him, looking out the window at the street. What does Sam see? This could be a good opportunity to hint at where Sam lives. Is it a wintry city street outside? A rolling spring landscape? Some orange and red autumn-tinted woods? Show us what Sam sees.
'Hello Sam,.'he says ashHe rolls his desk chair to mine. 'How are you doing?'
Whether it’s the first time or the fifth time, my nerves stillstartjumping. It’s not always easy to talk about your feelings like this, especially whenyou knowit’s someone who’sgettingpaid to put you under a microscope, dissect you, and find out what’s wrong with your life.
'I’m fine,' I say. 'Uh, school’s been going on for a couple of weeks now.' Mr. Ansari keeps his gaze on me. I tap my fingers as I think of what to say. My heartbeat picks up. 'I’m doing all right in my classes…'
He nods. 'That’s good. Are you enjoying yourself?' Somehow, his gazeseems tointensifiesy, like he’s switching to a higher powered lens on the microscope." Nice ending image there. :)
.@Ava_Jae talks hinting early at conflict, building setting and more in the 36th Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
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How many POVs should you use? What characters should get their own POV? @Ava_Jae talks choosing POVs. (Click to tweet)
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Author & freelance editor @Ava_Jae shares their most common critiques. Do you catch these in your own work? (Click to tweet)
Freelance editor @Ava_Jae is hosting a one year anniversary sale w/ 5% off all projects & 10% off #ownvoices projects until 5/31/17! (Click to tweet)
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How many drafts do you generally do per manuscript? Join the discussion on @Ava_Jae's blog. (Click to tweet)
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Do you really need that scene? @Ava_Jae talks the importance of making sure every scene has a purpose. (Click to tweet)
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"It’s not the moment your life collapses that’s the worst part.
It’s what comes after.
When you wake up from the nightmare to find out that it wasn’t, unfortunately, a nightmare, but your life, and you have to go on living it.
So this is me, approximately three months after my life ends and I have to start it all over again:
Sitting like a taut wire at the edge of one of those red velvet, deceptively uncomfortable auditorium seats, while on the stage a tiny Asian boy with skin issues is eking out Hamlet’s soliloquy.
“What dreams may come,” he squeaks, “When we have shuffled off this mortal coil—”
Which sounds exactly what I’d like to be doing right about now.
My knuckles are white. My intestines have tied themselves up into a knot and are currently trying to escape through my throat. I’m two people away from my audition. Some people have sucked, like this kid, but most have been pretty good.
And me? I’ve never done this before. But if we’re going to base this on my high school endeavors to date, I’m placing my bets on the “suck” end of the spectrum.
I could just get up and leave. I should just get up and leave.
But that would be admitting defeat. To Mom. To Vicky. To myself.
This was my last great idea. I’m out of options.
I take a deep breath. I can do this. I love plays. Especially Shakespeare. Especially Hamlet."
"It’s not the moment your life collapses that’s the worst part. It’s what comes after. When you wake up from the nightmare to find out that it wasn’t, unfortunately, a nightmare, but your life, and you have to go on living it. Suggest making this one paragraph because I can already see you use short paragraphs a lot and "It's what comes after" doesn't really stand well on its own, and as a whole it makes more sense with all three together.
So this is me, approximately three months after my life ends and I have to start it all over again:
Sitting like a taut wire at the edge of one of those red velvet, deceptively uncomfortable auditorium seats, while on the stage a tiny Asian boy withskin issuespimples is eking out Hamlet’s soliloquy. Love the imagery in the bolded. I'd squeeze more in this first page if you could—not in this paragraph, but overall.
“What dreams may come,” he squeaks, “When we have shuffled off this mortal coil—”
Which sounds exactly what I’d like to be doing right about now. Heh, this is a line that sounds very teenagery and snarky and I like it.
My knuckles are white. My intestineshaveare tiedthemselves upinto a knot andare currentlytrying to escape through my throat. I’m two people away from my audition. Some people have sucked, like this kid, but most have been pretty good.
And me? I’ve never done this before. But if we’re going to base this on my high school endeavors to date, "Endeavors" isn't really a word teens (or even most adults to be honest) use casually. Switch this out with something more casual. I’mplacing mybettingson the “suck” end of the spectrum.
I could just get up and leave. I should just get up and leave. But that would be admitting defeat. To Mom. To Vicky. To myself. These work better as a paragraph together, IMO.
This was my last great idea. I’m out of options.
I take a deep breath. I can do this. I love plays. Especially Shakespeare. Especially Hamlet."
.@Ava_Jae talks voice, stylistic writing effects, and more in the 32nd Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
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"Jacinta Rose committed her first murder ten years before she was born.
Six months ago, when the memories of her serial killing first returned, she’d thought herself delusional. But now, as she lingers in the rotting heart of the power station, she can’t deny the truth any longer. All her research has brought her here.
Jacinta stands on a web of concrete bridges suspended three stories high. Drab steel walls frame the vast industrial area, barred windows twisting the afternoon light as it spills inside. Only her dark pea coat keeps a gaunt chill at bay. The power station is old and withered, a nest of spiders and memories. From her perch, Jacinta can see where the body landed. In her mind’s eye, she can still see the body.
The power station had been decades away from being abandoned after Cyclone Briar, the floor a writing mass of bodies and machinery. She’d walked nonchalantly, rolling up the sleeves of her casual black suit. Brown skin and dark curls reflected back at her in the glass windows parallel to the walkway. Despite the gulf of time, she still appeared twenty-five.
The foreman was looking way, didn’t even see the knife she seemed to pull from thin air. It rippled like liquid silver and stabbed into his back once, twice. Rubies of blood fell. Jacinta struck him hard in the neck before the first droplet hit the walkway. The man twisted, muscles spasming. Smiling, she swept his legs out from underneath him, and he fell."
"Jacinta Rose committed her first murder ten years before she was born. Very interesting opening line.
Six months ago, when the memories of her serial killing first returned, she’d thought herself delusional. I'm questioning whether you need this line right here, because right now I'm finding it confusing and it isn't adding any understanding to this scene, for me. But now, as she lingers in the rotting heart of the power station, she can’t deny the truth any longer. What truth? All her research has brought her here.
Jacinta stands on a web of concrete bridges suspended three stories high. Drab steel walls frame the vast industrial area, barred windows twisting the afternoon light as it spills inside. Only her darkpea coatpeacoat keeps a gaunt chill at bay. The power station is old and withered, a nest of spiders and memories. From her perch, Jacinta can see where the body landed. It'd be more effective if you replaced this with a description of the body. That way you aren't filtering ("Jacinta can see"), but by describing it the readers know Jacinta can see it. In her mind’s eye, she can still see the body. Recommending deleting that line because it's basically the same as the previous line.
The power station had been decades away from being abandoned after Cyclone Briar, the floor a writing mass of bodies and machinery. She’d walked nonchalantly, rolling up the sleeves of her casual black suit. Brown skin and dark curls reflected back at her in the glass windows parallel to the walkway. Despite the gulf of time, she still appeared twenty-five. This paragraph is pretty well done. We've got nice description and some important information without info-dumping.
The foreman was looking away, didn’t even see the knife sheseemed topulled from thin air. It rippled like liquid silverandas she stabbedintohis back once, twice. Adjusted because the knife didn't stab him itself—she used the knife to stab him. Rubies of blood fell. Jacinta struck him hard in the neck before the first droplet hit the walkway. The man twisted, muscles spasming. Smiling, she swept his legs out from underneath him, and he fell." Last note: I'm a little confused here about whether this is the body she was looking at near the beginning of the sample and if we've jumped back in time to see what happened or if this is another body.
.@Ava_Jae talks character connection, motivation and more in the 31st Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
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Getting ready to polish your MS but not sure where to start? @Ava_Jae rounds up some posts focused on line edits. (Click to tweet)
How do you know when you're done revising? Join the discussion on @Ava_Jae's blog. #vlog (Click to tweet)
Not sure when to declare your WIP done? @Ava_Jae vlogs on how to know you're done revising. (Click to tweet)
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"The priests are always telling me that my mother should never have bathed me in the moon. It sets a girl up for mischief, and worse as she gets older. Now that I’m nearing sixteen, I’m far too old to be forgiven for knowing things no natural person should.
I remember the moon-baths clearly enough, even though I wasn’t quite four when my mother was found out and taken away to Temple. I remember being cold and cranky, whining and stomping as she stripped away my overdress and tunic.
'No, moma, no!' I would shout, my cries echoing off the garden walls. I must have woken up half the compound with my yelling, but no one ever shouted back or lit a lantern to see what all the commotion was.
'Calm down, Luna, just calm down,' my mother would say. She tried to distract me with special full-moon songs, and showed me how the light played in the big, round basin. I did like to watch the silvery ribbons dash around the polished bottom, swirling like watersnakes. Sometimes she could win a giggle from me before I remembered that I wasn’t going to like what came next.
It wasn’t just the icy feeling of the night air against wet skin - I didn’t like the squirmy feeling the bright water woke in my belly. I’d thrash and protest the whole time, even though mother would promise better and better treats each time if I would just be good.
I was never good."
"The priestsarealwaystellingtold methatmy mother should never have bathed me in the moon. Beautiful opening line and image—I also like how it sets up tension right away. Well done. It sets a girl up for mischief, and worse as she gets older. Now that I’m nearing sixteen, I’mfartoo old to be forgiven for knowing things no natural person should. Iiiiinteresting. :D
I remember the moon-baths clearly enough, even though I wasn’t quite four when they found my motherwas found outandtakentook her away to Temple. Adjusted to make the sentence active (vs passive). Iremember beingwas cold and cranky, whining and stomping as she stripped away my overdress and tunic. Adjusted to remove filtering (I remember).
'No, moma, no!' Iwouldshouted, my cries echoing off the garden walls. I must have woken up half the compoundwith my yelling, but no one ever shouted back or lit a lantern to see whatallthe commotion was.
'Calm down, Luna, just calm down,' my motherwould saysaid. She tried to distract me with special full-moon songs, and showed me how the light played in the big, round basin. Ididliked to watch the silvery ribbons dash around the polished bottom, swirling like watersnakes. Sometimes shecould winwon a giggle from me before I rememberedthatI wasn’t going to like what came next.
It wasn’t just the icyfeeling of thenight air against wet skin - I didn’t like the squirmy feeling the bright water woke in my belly. Adjusted to remove some filtering and wordiness. I’d thrash and protest the whole time, even though motherwouldpromised better and better treats each time if I'dwouldjust be good.
I was never good."
.@Ava_Jae talks prologues, great opening paragraphs, wordiness and more in the 30th Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
