Editor’s Choice

Editor’s Choice Review August 2016, Short Story

Published on by Jaime Moyer

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Amal El-Mohtar, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

Not a Mule, But Working Like One by Robyn Hamilton

“Not a Mule, But Working Like One” caught my attention this month because of its spare prose, subdued sense of menace, and cool, unglamorous take on a modern-day fantasy setting.  I’ve rarely seen this Max Gladstone-style economic fantasy on the workshop: One that uses the addition of magic to delve into the financial end of social systems.  This month, I’d like to spotlight how the use of cumulative details brings both this world—and its argument about work—into full colour, and how showing and telling aren’t diametrically opposed strategies for building a world, but techniques we can pair up to make a story even more effective.

The major strength of “Not a Mule, But Working Like One” is very much the degree of attention being paid to its worldbuilding.  While the central conflict—that before one’s magic comes in, one can get stuck, and that many of the company’s systems are designed to get people stuck—doesn’t make it to the page until the end of the first long scene, readers have already been shown, in the details, exactly what’s going on here.  When Alice notes Caro’s frizz and a slightly off shade of lipstick, it sets up a strong cue as to what kind of perfection is demanded in this particular working life, and what it costs the people who don’t already have the resources to manage that.  Inside a few paragraphs it’s made clear, mostly through details—Caro’s appearance, Mark’s, Alice’s reaction to the receptionist, and the worn-in, comfortable way that Caro and Alice cover for each other—that this is an environment built for the comfort of people with unlimited magic.

The result?  When the straight-out statement arrives near the end of the first scene, that magic can be overstrained early on and stuck in one skill rut, that piece of telling—that information just handed to the reader—doesn’t create so much the filing of a new worldbuilding fact, but the shock of sudden recognition; the feeling of a key in a lock.  Readers get a confirmation of something already figured out, and the boost from that solved puzzle helps enmesh them in the story.

When we tell readers a fact about our worldbuilding, frequently what we’re giving them is a piece of abstract information; it doesn’t necessarily connect to something real, emotional, or experienced in the story.  But by delaying the tell until this point of the piece—still early, but late enough that there’s already a connection built with the character and situation—that told fact can connect to all the ways readers have already seen this fact working itself out in action.  Instead of “that’s new,” the reaction can move to: “so that’s what that means”—and move to the real heart of “Not a Mule, But Working Like One”: establishing the implications of why Alice’s company is actively perpetuating the tiny, very real inconveniences she’s encountered just in her fifteen minutes on-site.

It’s a strategy that connects well with this piece’s narrative style: understated, subtextual, with occasional vivid sensory moments of opulence that pops against a sea of procedure and greyness.  The moments of clear explanation in “Not a Mule, But Working Like One” bring all the subtle tells front and centre for readers, allowing the story to stay natural-feeling and yet build this increasing atmosphere of unfairness and dread.  Likewise, the constant tiny reminders of privilege, tiny pieces of gatekeeping—even as small as the faster Wifi networks being locked or the lab coat fast-track system—grate at readers in the same way they constantly grate at Alice, and make the temptation to use that magic and get stuck she’s told us about multidimensional and real.

Most importantly of all, it helps connect readers to Alice, whose displacement and confusion and desperate, controlled need to not give in to those microaggressions become the centre of the story’s struggle—one that I simultaneously wanted her to win while wincing the whole time at all the joy she’s not having, all the dry toast she’s eating at the metaphorical buffet.  The push-pull between Petra’s burnout, Caro’s desperation, and how Alice’s restraint is killing her in a different way is almost unbearable, and it’s a highly effective piece of tension in a quiet story.

The one suggestion I would have for “Not a Mule, Just Working Like One” is that its obliqueness almost overwhelms in the last few scenes.  It’s clear Caro is terrified of some kind of smuggling inflating the dollar values on the shipments, and it’s clear that by hiding the label on Alice, she’s trying to pass the blame and implicate Alice to save her own job.  But that threat never quite comes clear—which means the stakes never quite come clear—and that blunts the story’s effectiveness emotionally.  As a reader, I’m not entirely sure what fate Alice just avoided (firing, criminal charges, or a different kind of getting stuck).

I’d suggest that bringing more to the surface, plot-wise, in the last few scenes of the piece would help crystallize what exactly is at stake, and help guide readers to a stronger emotional reaction when Alice and Petra eventually escape—would help the piece stick its landing.

Best of luck!

–Leah Bobet, author of Above (2012) and An Inheritance of Ashes (2015)

 

Editor’s Choice Review November 2016, Horror

Published on by Jaime Moyer

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Amal El-Mohtar, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

The Fat At The Top Of The Thighs by April Grey

This story stood out immediately with its fun, light tone, which is unusual in horror.  The protagonist’s desire to get back in shape is easy to relate to, and the method she chooses creates interesting and unusual problems.  Scarlet’s voice is strong and distinctive.  I was engaged throughout the story and wanted to keep reading to find out what would happen.

That said, I wasn’t very emotionally involved in the story, and when I finished, I didn’t feel satisfied with the plot.  I think these two problems are related, and they arise out of mixed signals about what kind of story this is.

For part of my reading, I feel this is a comeuppance story, in which an evil or foolish person ends up getting the comeuppance she deserves.  I wasn’t more emotionally involved in the story because Janet is hard to care about.  I begin the story feeling sympathetic toward Janet, who just wants to get in shape again.  But when she encounters the woman selling nanotechnology that will solve her problem, she seems so foolish, it’s hard to care about her.  I’m not more emotionally involved in the story because I’m getting mixed signals–that I should care about her part of the time and that she’s a fool deserving of punishment part of the time.  Why not have Janet ask key questions, such as what the possible side effects are, whether the procedure can be reversed, what exactly is guaranteed, and how this “personality overlay” will affect her own personality?  She doesn’t even ask how much weight or body fat she’ll lose.  This undermines her character, so I can’t really believe in her as a person.   Why not have her read the five-page contract, since so much money is involved, and ask questions about some of the language?  The salesperson also seems unconvincing.  If she’s good at her job, she would have smoother ways to convince a potential customer than “you can sign it without reading.”  The interaction between these two makes me think the story wants to be a comeuppance story.  The scene seems to present Janet as a fool, which seems to set up an ending that punishes the fool.  But Janet is rescued at the end, and it’s unclear what brain damage she has suffered, so this doesn’t seem like a comeuppance story.  She’s not receiving her just punishment for her stupidity.  She seems to have gotten through it, and we’re left with a humorous tone at the end with her fat still there.  One possible solution would be to change the end, so she gets her just desserts, and to modify her character in the rest of the story so that she comes across as someone who does deserve some punishment.  We will then be emotionally involved because we’ll be eager to see her get her punishment.  A possible just punishment might be for her husband to prefer Scarlet to Janet and be unhappy when Janet regains control at the end.

As I mentioned, other parts of the story send me a different signal, that this is the story of a character who tries for something she shouldn’t, learns better, and barely escapes back to where she began (such as The Wizard of Oz).  The sympathy I feel with Janet at the beginning and as Scarlet takes over her body make me think this is the kind of story I’m reading.  If this is the story you want to write, then Janet needs to be someone worthy of overcoming her mistake, someone who learns from her troubles, and someone who plays a key role in escaping them.  In that case, she needs to be trying harder every step of the way, and to not be so foolish (or if she is foolish, to learn better and use what she learns–such as about reading fine print–to overcome her problems), and to realize that shortcuts to fitness are not a good idea.  A key to showing this type of character, who learns through struggle, is having her struggle to achieve her goals.  Janet struggles very little in this story, and when she does struggle, it has no effect.  Janet’s first goal is to be fit again.  A store offering a nanotechnology solution conveniently appears in the mall.  What if, instead, Janet tried many solutions–diets, exercises, hypnotism.  These could all be recapitulated (summarized), but we’d at least see her trying and failing.  We could see her lack of discipline and determination (or whatever prevents her from succeeding on her own).  Finally, in her Internet searches, she uncovers this nanotechnology treatment.  It could have great reviews and exciting before and after videos, so she wouldn’t be so stupid to give it a try.  She may have to struggle to get the money, by taking out a loan or stealing it.  Then you could show Janet working to get in shape after the treatment.  We don’t really see her struggling to do this in the current story.  Tennis might help her at first, and as she grows stronger, she might realize that she could have done this on her own if she’s had the discipline and determination.  Then Scarlet starts to take over, and Janet realizes her mistake in depending on this other personality to help her rather than in working harder herself.  Now Janet struggles to regain control, but finds herself powerless to stop Scarlet’s activities.  After much struggle, she realizes she can control her own body, but only when Scarlet is having an orgasm.  She must come up with a clever way of leaving some sign to alert her husband (or the dog) during those few seconds.  Having her husband save her without Janet doing anything is not a satisfying resolution.  Perhaps Janet puts the credit card receipt for the procedure under her husband’s pillow, or texts his phone with a link to the nanotech website.  This would allow her to play a critical role in her own fate.

With either type of story, the suggestion that Janet is, in essence, being raped, doesn’t seem to fit with the plot or tone.  You may want to rethink that section.

I hope this helps to clarify some of the decisions that need to be made to bring this story to the next level.

I really enjoyed the tone and the inventive nature of the technology.  I hope this is helpful.

–Jeanne Cavelos, editor, author, director of Odyssey

 

Editor’s Choice Review October 2016, Science Fiction

Published on by Jaime Moyer

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Amal El-Mohtar, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

The Sea,The Land, And The Sky–Chapter Renna 1 by Jon Obermark

This one drew my attention because of the author’s cry for help. Sometimes we hit a wall in revision, and we just don’t know what to do. Workshopping can do a great deal to push through the wall, but it can also create a confusion of conflicting advice, which is what’s happened here.

So now of course I’m offering input that might make matters worse.

Or not. I hope not.

The first thing I’d like to say is something that we all know, or should know, but we tend to lose when we’re at the hair-tearing stage: It’s your book. You get to decide what works and what doesn’t. Editors and betas can advise and suggest, but the ultimate arbiter is you. Your book, your choices. Your right to take the advice or ignore it.

So, what feels right to you? What comes closest to your idea of what your book should be? Which solutions seem most workable, and which make you go Oh Hell No? That’s where you’ll find your way through.

With that in mind, I’m going to comment on what I see here. My comments are my own, individual, based on my experience and yes, personal taste. If they’re useful, that’s great. If not, as I said, it’s your book.

The bones of the story are intriguing, and there’s great potential for the characters and situations. The twists and turns promise some interesting plotting as the story goes on.

I’m not sure if the various critiques caused the large infodumps in an attempt to answer everybody’s questions or concerns, or if they were there originally. Either way, I think the extensive backstory and the worldbuilding, while valuable as notes and synopsis, get in the way of the story in this specific scene.

It actually feels to me as if the story wants to begin earlier—heresy, I know, according to the doctrine of “begin as close to the end as possible,” but what’s happening here needs so much bolstering and explanation that it doesn’t stand on its own the way an opening sequence needs to do. How to fix? That’s the author’s call.

Begin earlier? Commit the further heresy of a prologue? That’s one option.

Another would be to let the scene carry its own weight, then work in the “tell” by way of additional scenes, either flashbacks or scenes in story-present that convey the necessary information. There is enough action here, and enough of a twist, to carry the reader forward. I think the situation is affecting enough to create sympathy.

Questions to ask would be:

What does the reader need to know here? What’s the bare minimum of information required to make the scene make sense, without front-loading it with exposition and synopsis? Do we need to know every detail—which hand Renna uses to get her drink (step by step) from the cooler, the nature of text and language, Renna’s diagnosis and its ramifications, her childhood history, Ten’s history, and so on?

On the one hand the reader does need to know why she should care about this character, but on the other, a full history up front can be overwhelming. There’s a balance between them, a sweet spot that an author needs to find.

One of my favorite rules of thumb comes from Harry Turtledove: “The author needs to know 500 details. The trick is to find the three that are most important, that encapsulate or imply all the rest.” We don’t have to be rigid about the number three, of course, but it’s a useful figure. It shows the rough proportion of worldbuilding and background to what’s actually on the page. And it encourages the writer to think in terms of the key detail, the one that implies the rest.

In this scene, if we strip away the backstory and the exposition, we have a set of clear actions that move the story forward, leading to the emotionally affecting twist. For me, that was effective, because we’ve seen Renna doing what she does (and struggling with apparent amnesia), then comes the revelation: she’s dead, and Ten is in some way channeling or dissociating.

For me at least, knowing they’re life partners covers the backstory about the events and motivations surrounding their marriage. Other details (her pregnancy, the family, the tour) aren’t relevant here but may be relevant later—they’d go in my “worlduilding/flashbacks” file, for use down the line.

The fact Renna is non-neurotypical is topical and adds interest, but the infodump, especially at this early point in the narrative, gets in the way of the story’s movement. Is there a way to show without telling? Can she demonstrate, concisely, how she processes the world differently from the non-Alienated?

Best case in terms of writing craft would be for her to react to something she’s doing in a way that, say, Ten would not, and for her to catch herself or stop and think, wait, would he do this? Should I be doing it his way? Is my way more efficient? Or pretty much anything else that may help to illustrate what, in this draft, you’re filling in with exposition.

When I get stuck on a revision, cutting back to the bare bones often helps, then layering in emotion and key details. So does walking away from the scene and writing something else. Or even realizing that the scene isn’t the opening I was looking for. It might belong further down in the storyline, or it can actually be cut in favor of another scene that conveys the important information through another’s character or situation.

The timeout method can be really useful for easing frustration and giving me fresh eyes when I come back later. I might have a new idea as to how to make the scene work, or I’ve found another scene that does the job. I might also change the viewpoint or the emphasis—though here, I think the key to it all is already there in Ten’s channeling of Renna.

That’s powerful. It feels like good, solid story-stuff, and nice forward plotting. The devil, as so often, is in the details. I hope I’ve offered some paths through the confusion, if only in the order of, “No, not that way! This is how it needs to be!” Friction in editing, as in plotting and in physics, is how things move, after all.

–Judith Tarr

Editor’s Choice Review October 2016, Horror

Published on by Jaime Moyer

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Amal El-Mohtar, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

 

Winter Winds by Jason Guinn

So many characters in fiction feel like characters rather than people. Many are characters we’ve seen hundreds of times before. Others may feel different but not real. For me, the strongest part of this novel excerpt is the character of Gail. While her martial arts skills and the suggestion that on her good days she looks like a Victoria’s Secret model make her feel familiar, those traits aren’t on display in this excerpt, so I can pretend they don’t exist. What is on display here is her personality–her natural outspokenness, her easy confidence, her no-nonsense manner, her quickness to stick up for the underdog. She feels real and appealing to me. I like her and want to spend time with her. I want to see what she does.

I would be very excited to read a novel with Gail as the protagonist. The other characters in the excerpt aren’t coming to life for me in the same way. They feel like characters, not people. Often, writers create supporting characters who are much stronger and more engaging than their main characters. Many times, this occurs because the author thinks about the internal life of the main characters, becoming deeply intertwined with them and relating to them without being able to see how the reader, who is meeting these characters for the first time, will perceive them. Authors usually think about supporting characters in a more external way–how they would look, act, interact, and come across to others. This means that authors tend to create supporting characters that a reader, meeting them for the first time, will find engaging. These are, of course, massive generalizations, but they help explain my experience in being drawn to Gail, having very little interest in Ann, and actually disliking Marty. An author may like or be fascinated by his characters, but that doesn’t mean the reader will feel the same.

For me, Ann is essentially “the girl,” the stereotype I’ve seen my entire life who holds no interest for me. The moment I read the description, her “baby doe eyes swimming with fear,” I know this is a character I don’t want to spend time with. The main traits stressed are how good looking she is, which doesn’t make me like her or Marty, who seems to care only about her appearance. I realize this is only an excerpt, and I’m sure that Ann will develop more as the novel continues, but if the excerpt doesn’t make me want to continue, then I’ll never find out. I need to see something about her in this scene that makes me interested in following her. She needs to be changed from a character to a person. Maybe she works out because she’s overweight and likes hanging out with the body builders. That could make her seem more of a real person.

Marty is another familiar character, the insecure young man afraid to talk to the pretty girl. Making him a writer only makes him more familiar, since many writers write about writers. The main trait that stands out about him is his tendency to make snap judgments about people based on their appearance. As soon as he sees someone, he notices their appearance and makes judgments about the person, often scathing judgments. There’s “a big guy with enormous flabby tits,” “a big man with a Fu Manchu straight out of a seventies porn flick . . . [a] genetic freak” and a man with a “folder, where he guessed the arrogant, brash, bumptious cocksucker kept his so-called prose.” While his judgment of Ann is positive, it is again based solely on her appearance. He doesn’t even listen to her poetry. This is not a character I’m interested in spending time with. Perhaps this is the starting point of a character arc that will show him learning to avoid judging people by their appearance and to get to know them first. But I see no sign that the excerpt is setting up such an arc. If that is the intent, then the author needs to signal that to readers, so we’ll keep reading. For example, Gail could call him on this negative trait, saying, “That girl you’re so hot about? She’s a selfish bitch who sleeps with a different guy every night and gave her handicapped kid up for adoption. That body builder you have contempt for? He has an MFA and just sold his first chapbook. You need to stop with the snap judgments and actually come out of your shell long enough to get to know someone.” This will cue the reader that the author is aware of his protagonist’s problem and the book will deal with him struggling with this problem. Another way to cue the reader would be to have one of Marty’s snap judgments be proven wrong. For example, the man with the folder could get up to the mic and read poetry that’s completely different from what Marty expected–and he could read it with a stutter, showing he’s not the cocky, assured person Marty thought. This would make me want to follow Marty through his journey.

The other issue I’d like to talk about in this critique is style. Stylistic weaknesses are another turnoff to readers–and especially editors. When an author doesn’t wield the tools of the language with skill, the reader can’t become immersed in it. Readers are constantly thrown out by confusing sentences or inappropriate word choices. This excerpt contains many spelling errors, grammatical errors, unnecessary words and phrases, and awkward sentences. I’d like to focus my discussion on the sixth paragraph of the excerpt, which I’ll paste here in its entirety, with the sentences numbered:

(1) Nestled in the center of the Empty Cup and surrounded on all sides by booths and tables, was a circular platform engulfed in smoky orange and yellow hues. (2) There were a pair of black stools and a microphone stand, and that was it. (3) The set up was as minimal. (4) For the artist collected here, everything came down to the words spoken, not the decorum. (5) Marty was certain if it was the other way around, nobody would ever set foot in the Empty Cup for fear of getting a disease. (6) It was vile place, but the coffee was cheap and the staff friendly.

My intention is just to give some specific examples to be helpful. My writing teachers always used to write “awk” all over my papers without explaining why my sentences were “awk,” which means I didn’t improve for a long time. In the first sentence, Nestled and surrounded are both words that describe the relationship between the stage and the rest of the coffee shop. You don’t need both. In addition, it’s unnecessary to say “surrounded on all sides.” The word surrounded means the items are on all sides. So this could be rewritten, “Surrounded by booths and tables, a circular platform stood in the center of the Empty Cup.” I don’t understand what “engulfed in smoky orange and yellow hues” means. I don’t know what is orange and yellow. The stage is already surrounded; I don’t think it also needs to be engulfed.

In the second sentence, the phrase “There were” is a weak phrase. The verb to be is a weak verb, since the action if describes is only being or existing (rather than running, jumping, screaming, barfing, or other more action-oriented verbs). The phrases there were or it was increase the weakness, because there and it are vague words. Starting a sentence with “There were” doesn’t tell us anything about the content of the sentence; starting a sentence with “A pair of black stools stood” gives us a strong sense of what the sentence is about and we have something to visualize. The final phrase “and that was it” doesn’t add anything.

The third sentence doesn’t make grammatical sense. Perhaps it’s intended to read “The set up was minimal,” but the previous sentence has already shown this, so it’s unnecessary.

The fourth sentence also isn’t grammatical. “Artist” should be “artists.” The word collected isn’t the right word. No one has collected them. One could say gathered instead.

The fifth sentence is quite jarring, because it doesn’t follow what’s been said. No germ sources have been described. If people did think the place was unhygienic, they wouldn’t be drinking the coffee. If people cared about the decorum over the poetry, then they’d go to somewhere classier. They wouldn’t fear getting disease. That seems like the author saying something for effect that he doesn’t really mean, and that undermines the reader’s trust in the author.

The sixth sentence requires “a” before “vile place,” but again, the excerpt hasn’t shown us the place is vile. The excerpt is telling us things that contradict what it has shown, so we’re left with contradictory ideas and little faith in the author. Every author needs to work hard to gain and maintain the trust of the reader, so the reader can believe and enjoy the story.

I hope that this provides some helpful guidance. I really enjoy the character of Gail.

—Jeanne Cavelos, editor, author, director of Odyssey

Editor’s Choice Review September 2016, Science Fiction

Published on by Jaime Moyer

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Amal El-Mohtar, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

Iniquity’s Child, Chapter 4 by Crash Froelich

I love mysteries and thrillers, and if they have an SF or supernatural twist, so much the better—so I enjoyed this chapter. It has a nice grounding in the physical setting, and I get a sense of the characters, notably the protagonist and Spooky, who has a manic-pixie-dreamgirl vibe about her.

What I’d like to talk about in this Editor’s Choice crit is a particular aspect of craft: Dialogue.

Dialogue is an interesting animal. Some writers can spin it off just about automatically, though for them it can become so much its own thing that it loses track of plot and pacing. Others struggle with it.

Truly realistic dialogue and fictionally realistic dialogue are two completely different things. If you go out and record actual conversations, there’s very little story-meat in them. They mostly consist of what I call filler: Hello, how are you, what are you up to, I’m fine, nothing much, and so on. These preprogrammed phrases serve as social lubricants, and provide transitions into and out of human interactions, but they don’t as a rule convey actual, unique or relevant information.

In fiction, there’s this thing called narrative economy. The writer pares away extraneous details and focuses as directly as possible on the themes, actions, words, and concepts that are directly relevant to the plot and help to move it forward. He may scatter the text with red herrings, especially if he’s writing a mystery or telling the story through an unreliable narrator, but those details are also carefully chosen to misdirect and distract. They’re there for a reason.

Or to put it another way, the story we read is the good-parts version. Everything else either exists in the background or simply doesn’t need to be there.

Dialogue works the same way. If anything, because spoken words stand out so dramatically from the surrounding text, it’s even more important to prune away the excess. The reader will fill it in as applicable, or the writer can do so with a quick line or so of framing. Then what’s actually on the page is the information that moves the story from that scene to the next.

New information, or new light on information already conveyed, is the engine that drives plot. Dialogue is a great way to make this happen, but even more than narrative and exposition, dialogue needs to be directly on point.

Readers are quite good at picking up implied information, which in dialogue would be most stock and filler phrases. That’s not to say those phrases should never be there—a well-applied bit of conversational filler can be a great vehicle for character development or narrative irony. But for the most part, if it’s not actually saying something, it doesn’t need to be said. The reader will get it, and you can get straight to the point of the conversation.

In this chapter, dialogue does several things. In the scene at the Ascendance building, Sorgen questions employees about Dr. Parsons, with a side dish of snarky interaction with the receptionist. The next scene features a subset of dialogue, a phone conversation with Spooky, during which Sorgens sets up a face-to-face meeting. A few changes of venue later, Sorgen reviews a video that conveys important information, followed by the meeting with Spooky and, shortly thereafter, Kelli. The chapter ends with a heart-to-heart in the car between Sorgen and Spooky.

Each form of dialogue tries to do a different thing. It undertakes to move the story forward, establish character and interaction, expand the protagonist’s (and therefore the reader’s) knowledge of the case, and introduce information that will be relevant later. Even coming in cold, without having read the opening chapters, I get a sense of who Sorgen and Spooky are, what they are to each other, and how the various subsidiary characters fit into the picture.

These are all excellent goals, with good support in the needs of the story. Wher the dialogue as written falls short is in the predominance of filler over substance.

This is particularly true in the Ascendance sequence. We get the throat-clearing portions of the conversation—greetings, introductions, stage business (body movements and expressions, especially), and general setup for each interrogation—but the actual interrogation happens effectively offstage, in synopsis. Here’s the bread, here’s the mayo, but there’s no meat in the sandwich.

The meat is where the story is. The dialogue that’s written can for the most part be replaced with quick sketch-and-framing segments, and what’s currently summary needs to be written as dialogue. Basically turn the scene inside out: turn dialogue into summary and summary into dialogue. And then you’ve got a living, vibrant scene with characters who come alive on the page.

I’d also, as a matter of characterization, wonder if Sandy the brassy receptionist fits the setting. Are her comments appropriate to the corporate culture of which she is the immediate public face? Is Sorgen responding appropriately in light of who they both are and what his job is? Would Sandy say the things about her boss that she says to Sorgen, in that setting, where she could easily be overheard? Does this make sense? Is it part of your overall plan? If so, you might clarify that her extremely loose lips are a plot and/or she’s a mole, and this is a performance designed to elicit some information or action that will help resolve the case.

The fondness for filler carries on through the rest of the scenes which feature dialogue. Do you really need all of the details in the phone conversation, for example? Can it be shorter and punchier, while still conveying his very avuncular relationship with her (which is borderline creepy—if not intentional, maybe tone it down)? Do you need the hello-goodbye parts? Can you just get right in and then when it’s done, shift scene without losing any key information?

The later segments of dialogue move more quickly, though Kelli arrives and leaves a bit too fast to keep up with—you might frame that a little more solidly. I wonder too, as her conversations with Sorgen evolve, if Spooky is a little too little-girl in the way she talks and acts. Is she running a con? Is he in on it, or is he in denial? Do you want her to come on so strongly?

How old is she, exactly? She talks as if she’s prepubescent. This is something that’s probably established in the earlier chapters—it just caught my eye here, in the way she talks and acts. She seems very young, emotionally if not physically. The words she uses and the way she looks and moves point to immaturity and dependence on the protective Uncle Ricky.They might also, in a fuller context, point to her manipulation of him through plays on his sympathy and his protective or fatherly instincts.

All in all, I see plenty of potential here, especially once the dialogue comes into its own. A little less filler, a little more story-stuff, and you’ll be good to go.

–Judith Tarr

 

Editor’s Choice Review September 2016, Horror

Published on by Jaime Moyer

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Amal El-Mohtar, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

My Lady, Malady, Mad Lady by RM Graves

This story grabbed my attention from the first paragraph and kept me interested until the last.  So many stories feel so familiar, it’s great when a story surprises me or heads in an unexpected direction.  The description of the narrator “spreading out” is awesome.  On the other hand, I read many stories that seem like they’re trying to be weird for the sake of being weird, not because they have something to say.  What I appreciate most about “My Lady, Malady Mad Lady” is that the surreal elements ultimately provide a payoff, an insight into human nature, rather than just showing me a bunch of weird stuff and leaving me with nothing more.

I do think that payoff could be strengthened , though.  For me, the ending suggests that the narrator’s obsession with helping his family climb up out of a hole has made him too inwardly focused.  He has been missing what’s important–the external world and his family–by focusing on this perhaps non-existent problem.  I like that, but I don’t feel the earlier part of the story sets this up as well as it might.  If the problem is his obsession with this hole, what happened before the beginning of the story to trigger or escalate his worry?  It seems as if he has thought of life as a climb up a cliff for a long time.  But something must have happened to increase his fear of failing at this climb.  Did he feel his father was helping, or would help with an inheritance upon his death, but the inheritance was quickly spent and they are in more debt than ever?  Has he lost his job or have his hours cut back?  I think you could make a reference to something like this early in the story.

Some of the details also don’t seem to work with the ending.  When the narrator relates that his eyes would “sometimes roll to the back of [his] head when [he]rested on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon,” that makes he think that his contemplation of the hole is something he does for relaxation and recreation.  Instead, I would think that his eyes would do that when he’s at work, when he is paying the bills, when anyone in his family asks for anything, at night, as well as on Sunday afternoons when he’s trying to relax but can’t.  Instead of resting on the sofa, I think he would be pacing or distracted.

His realization that he is climbing down instead of up seems a passing thought, when I think it should be a horrifying motivator.  He ought to be desperately trying to figure out how to flip it around, instead of just thinking that once and dropping it.  How does he think he can turn it around?  Worrying about this can escalate his obsession with this hole further.

The narrator seems too passive at times.  If this concern has frozen him into inaction, so all he can do is worry, that needs to be clearer.  When he finally does act, going to the doctor and then the Mad Lady, I don’t really believe he would do it.  I understand his wife is pushing him, but I think he needs his own reason to go.  Maybe he sees that his transformation is getting worse.  Maybe his penis is disappearing or something similar to escalate his problem and make him desperate enough to try something he hasn’t been willing to do before.

I think some changes like these will make the ending feel more “right” and will also make it more powerful.

I hope my comments are helpful.  I really enjoyed the bizarre images and the theme.

–Jeanne Cavelos–editor, author, director of Odyssey

August 2016 Editor’s Choice Review, Fantasy

Published on by Jaime Moyer

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Amal El-Mohtar, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

Stolen Blade (Chapter 3) by Samia Hayes

This is a really good, solid chapter that held my attention and engaged my sympathy and interest throughout; it’s fast-paced, but paired with a cautious point of view character it’s also enjoyably tense, and the balance between that pace and that tension is kept up pretty well. Where I think it could be improved is with some attention to language, and, relatedly, in the interaction with Marcus.

You’ve chosen a pretty conversational prose style, one that sometimes gets called “invisible prose,” and this suits your plot and subject matter very well: it’s contemporary society with a twist, so you’re free to play with familiar idiom and inflection. But you have a tendency to get bogged down in repetitive language, and this, in turn, bogs down your action: do a search for how many times a variation on “growl” occurs in a short span of words, or the fact that “the house growled” happens twice in the chapter. Once, and it’s a cool substitution; twice, and it’s distracting.

Something similar’s happening with Marcus’ introduction:

An engine roared down the driveway, knocking away the gravel in its path. A white range rover splattered with mud pulled up beside Ally’s red car. A monster in human skin stepped out of the driver’s seat. He was built solid, his lean muscles bulging under his t-shirt. His hair was a straight, nondescript brown, cut short enough that it wouldn’t fall in front of his eyes if someone was suicidal enough to hit him. The air around his body pulsed with his magic as he stood surveying the yard. His posture was possessive, as if everything and everyone around him was his.

(Emphases mine)

There is so much repetition of subject-verb-object construction throughout this paragraph that I get lost, but mostly I’ve highlighted instances of redundancy or unnecessary description. How does the engine knock away gravel in its path separately from the white range rover? Why is it necessary to separate those things from each other? Why specify that Ally’s car is red? Why add that Marcus’ muscles bulge when you’ve said he’s built solidly? If his posture is possessive, why do you need to explain what possessive means in the second half of the sentence?

All of this means that when Marcus appears, I feel tired rather than concerned.

It makes perfect sense to slow things down a bit when someone as threatening as Marcus arrives on the scene, to decompress your storytelling and focus on small details — but the choice of detail should be careful and deliberate enough that you don’t need to repeat it over and over.

A white, mud-splattered range rover roared down the driveway, knocking away the gravel in its path as it pulled up next to Ally’s car. A monster in human skin stepped out of the driver’s seat. Lean muscle bulged under his t-shirt. His hair was straight and brown, cut short enough that it wouldn’t fall in front of his eyes if someone was suicidal enough to hit him. The air around his body pulsed with his magic as he surveyed the yard as if everything and everyone around him was his. Even his posture was possessive.

I think this could be improved further, breaking up the description by cutting away to Ally or Magalie’s reactions earlier, spreading it out. But clearing out the repetition’s like weeding a garden: it lets the description you’ve already done take up its space and do its work unhampered by sentences that strain a reader’s attention by giving them information twice.

(OK maybe that’s not totally like weeding. Muddling metaphors is generally to be avoided also. Do as I say, not as I etc.)

That aside, though, this is a really strong piece of work that I thoroughly enjoyed. This section only stuck out as much as it did because the rest of it was so smooth and effective.

–Amal El-Mohtar

August 2016 Editor’s Choice Review, Science Fiction

Published on by Jaime Moyer

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Amal El-Mohtar, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

This month we have our first review from new Science Fiction Resident Editor, Judith Tarr.

Judith Tarr’s first novel,The Isle of Glass, a medieval fantasy, appeared in 1985. Her most recent novel, Forgotten Suns, a space opera, was published by Book View Café in 2015, and she’s currently completing a sequel. In between, she’s written historicals and historical fantasies, epic fantasies and a great deal of science fiction. She has won the Crawford Award, and been a finalist for the World Fantasy Award and the Locus Award. In her editorial incarnation, she’s taught novel writing at Wesleyan University in Connecticut, has twice been an instructor at Clarion, and for the past decade has been editing and teaching online. We’re thrilled to have Judith join us here at OWW.

“Playing Dead” (NEW DRAFT) by Christine Lucas

This month I picked a short story because I wanted to talk about a particular issue that every writer faces, at every length, and this story is perfect: it concentrates everything into a compact package. There’s a lot of worldbuilding there, and a lot of plot for the length. There’s a nice sense of a larger universe outside the boundaries of the story.

I like it. It has a clear point, and it sticks to it for the most part (though see below). The ending says all it needs to say without adding another scene.

What I’d like to address is something I see quite often in drafts of all lengths. It has to do with thinking things through: in this case, the background of the character and the way she presents herself in the story. The questions the author asks, and the answers she provides, lead me to more questions:

Is this character thinking and acting in line with her pay grade?

Does she show competence in her job?

Does she appear to know everything she should know, and does she use that knowledge appropriately?

We find out fairly late in the story that Cassie is a military medic, though we get the gist of it right at the start with the fact that Cassie has been in combat, and the reference to Brian as her patient. It’s clear she has a responsibility to him, and she’s feeling it as she goes looking for him.

What’s not coming through is a sense of Cassie as essentially competent at her job. She thinks of Brian as “that fool,” which may be intended as a sort of joke but comes across as rather callous. Why does she feel this way? What makes her view a patient, who is apparently quite well educated, as an idiot? Does this affect her ability to do her job—from her bedside manner to her judgment in timing or selecting treatments?

Then, as a medical person who would presumably be aware of scientific terminology at least in terms of drugs and diseases, she reflects on the name of the alien otter-possum-whatevers as being “something unpronounceable.” The reader starts to wonder why why a scientific expedition needs an army medic with relatively little education, when it might be more economical to have one or more of them be an MD/PhD. Fewer bodies to use up resources, and greater diversification of skills among the available personnel. What requires her, specifically, to be there?

The main point where Cassie’s characterization falls down however is in the slowness with which she responds to a possible case of anaphylactic shock. She not only takes her time tracking Brian down, she actually forgets about him for a not insignificant amount of time. She’s not acting or thinking like a trained medic. Anaphylactic shock is not the sort of thing that allows a medic to tour a lab, stop for coffee, and get distracted by odd alien behavior on her way to the patient. It’s life-threatening, and time-critical.

She’d probably have a stronger reaction than “Crap” when she finds him, too. Cassie’s lack of affect points to lack of thinking through who she is and what she’s there for. She’s not operating on the level a reader might expect for someone of her training and experience.

Luckily the fix isn’t terribly complicated, and needn’t add many if any words to the story. A line or two would underscore the reason why Cassie’s presence is essential here. A change in the wording throughout would give her more credibility: a shift in attitude toward her patient, a sense of urgency as she juggles her concern about the aliens along with her concern about Brian, and a more solid reason why it takes her so long to find him.

Rather than her forgetting about him, what situation can she encounter that prevents her from getting to him as quickly as she wants to? The scene with Dr. Ramirez has lots of potential in that direction. Cassie is trying to get to Brian, the alien dissection derails her, she has to deal with that while also being even more desperate to find him.

Then when she does find him, think about how she feels as a medical practitioner. Her patient is down, and turns out to be dead. Does she feel responsible? Guilty? Angry? What complex of emotions will run through her, in view of her history, her background, and her training for the job?

All of this can happen without adding big chunks of words. What the story needs is different words, more focused and carefully chosen, in place of the ones that are already there.

Rethinking the character, and thinking through who she is, what she’s been trained for, and why she’s in this particular place, will give both the story and the character more depth. It’s still fun, it’s still tightly focused, it’s just a little bit stronger in both character and plotting.

–Judith Tarr

 

August 2016 Editor’s Choice Review, Horror

Published on by Jaime Moyer

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Amal El-Mohtar, Jeanne Cavelos, and guest editor Gemma Files. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

The Last Road Ch 1 + 2 Revised (C4C) by Helen Rena

The Last Road has several qualities important for a novel aimed at young adults:  an engaging, first person voice that sounds as if it comes from a teen; a protagonist concerned with issues of identity, belonging, loyalty, and friendship; and a romantic element.  The opening of Ch. 1 pulls me right in and makes me want to keep reading to find out what’s happening.  Ch. 1 and 2 both end with action and anticipation, creating suspenseful situations that pull me into the next chapter.  So these chapters have a lot of strengths.

I think there are several areas where the chapters could be improved, though.  I was confused by the references to what happened on the porch.  At first I thought this was something that happened on the porch of the house where Mara is in Ch. 1.  Later I decided I must be missing a prologue, so I looked in the older submissions and found a very short prologue in a previous version that seems to take place on the porch of Mara’s house.  For me, the prologue from Rumpelstiltskin’s point of view is not very effective.  I feel distant from the action and feel little emotion about the abduction of Mara’s sister.  It’s always difficult to offer advice on a novel without reading all of it, but I think there are two possible ways to handle this that would be stronger.  One would be to write the prologue from Mara’s POV.   We could better understand what this meant to her and how it affected her.  Was she traumatized?  Did she blame herself for what happened?  Was she happy because her sister got all the attention?  Was she confused and unsure what really happened?  Knowing what this meant to her would help us understand how she feels about the fantastic experiences she has in Ch. 1.  I find it hard to relate to Mara as she sees all these strange things in Ch. 1 and seems to take it in stride.  I would expect a much stronger reaction.  Whether that reaction would be terror that this force that stole her sister is back, or excitement at having her belief in the fantastic confirmed, or something else, would depend on how she reacted to that initial experience in the prologue.  Going through that prologue experience with her would help me to understand her in Ch. 1.

The other possible way to handle this material would be to cut the prologue.  Mara could have repressed this memory because of the trauma, and it might only come out later, as some experience with the fantastic awakens that memory and she realizes what really happened to her sister.  In this case, Mara would react to the fantastic much like many of us would, with disbelief and fear, which would be easier for the reader to relate to.

This leads to the next point I want to discuss, which is Mara’s character.  For me, these first two chapters don’t show me anything about Mara that distinguishes her from all the other YA protagonists out there.  She doesn’t seem a compelling or memorable character to me yet.  She’s basically a victim and seems helpless through most of this excerpt.  John Gardner famously said, “No fiction can have real interest if the central character is not an agent struggling for his or her own goals but a victim, subject to the will of others.”  I suspect the book will show Mara gaining some power, and perhaps you’re trying to establish a character arc where she starts with little power and ends with more.  But she can’t start with no power.  To show her “struggling for his or her own goals,” you first need to strengthen her goals.  Her initial goal seems like it should be to find Blake, but she seems to give up on that when she reaches the kitchen.  She thinks about leaving but doesn’t.  She resists Paige but not strongly, and she seems not to care about Blake.  So she has no clear goal she is struggling to achieve.  She decides Blake can save her.

For myself, I’m pretty worried about Blake.  It seems like he was pulled away on purpose, and Paige might be behind it.  I’m thinking they might have him locked in a room somewhere.  But Mara doesn’t seem to care.  Does Mara think Blake would just wander off and leave her?  If so, is she determined to hold onto him?  Or does this confirm that she should drop him and leave the party?  The fact that she has no clear goal leads to the rest of her character seeming unclear.  If she believes in him and their relationship, then I think she’d try to find him.  If that’s her goal, then she needs to struggle more strongly toward that goal.  That doesn’t mean she has to succeed; she can still fail.  But she has to try with all she has.  She spends too much time unable to speak or act.   Why not let her pull her arm free of Paige?  She would still go down in the basement in her search for Blake, and Paige could accompany her with a smile.  Even when Mara has a heavy alcohol bottle, she doesn’t hit Paige on the arm with it to free herself.  Why not?

Similarly, she is helpless when falling toward the car and gets saved by the unknown hand rather than herself.  This makes her seem the victim of other forces.  The only significant action she takes in these chapters is to pull Chelsea aside, and her motivation to do so seems to arise suddenly and without sufficient setup.  It’s unclear what her goal is after leaving the party except to get away, but that is easily accomplished, not requiring struggle.  Then she decides to eavesdrop on Paige and Chelsea for no clear reason.  When the protagonist has no clear goal, it usually feels as if the author is manipulating the character, making her do these things, and that’s how I feel through much of this.

Giving Mara clearer goals and allowing her to struggle to achieve them will make her character stronger and the plot stronger as well.  For example, if Mara’s goal is to find Blake, let her struggle to free herself from Paige and finally succeed, only to go in the basement and find Blake making out.  Then let her go and confront him.  Her goal could be to hurt him as much as he has hurt her, or her goal could be to try to understand what’s happened, or her goal might be to say something clever and recover a scrap of respect out of the situation.  Why is she with this guy who has a new girlfriend every week?  What did she think their relationship was?  What did he think it was?  Providing some sort of interaction between them will give us a better sense of her character as well as some good conflict.

When she sees Paige and Chelsea at the gas station, her goal could be to pull some trick on them to get revenge.  This would make her more active and tie better to what’s come before.  Then when the blue boy wants to hurt them, Mara can realize that she doesn’t want that.  She doesn’t want anyone to be physically hurt; she only wanted to pull a prank.  Then she can push Chelsea out of the way, not because Chelsea opened the door for her (which again makes Mara passive and makes her seem at the mercy of/a victim of others) but because she doesn’t want them to be injured.

This ties to my final point, which is about plot and the causal chain.  Right now, many things seem manipulated by the author, not arising out of a strong chain of cause and effect.  The kids separate Mara and Blake for no clear reason; Blake thinks he can make out in the basement without Mara finding out for no clear reason; Mara falls in front of the car for no clear reason; she is rescued for no clear reason; the snake and other fantastical creatures appear for no clear reason; Mara gains the power to see fairies for no clear reason; the blue boy wants to attack Chelsea for no clear reason.  While I suspect a couple of these points will later have their reasons revealed (I suspect the person in the brown cape may be Mara’s sister who saved her from the car), I think most of them don’t have reasons.  Even if they all have reasons, it’s not satisfying to the reader to leave all of them unknown.  One could be left unknown, as a mystery, such as who or what saved her from the car.  But we should have a sense about the others.  Did Blake arrange for his friends to free him from Mara?  Did Blake arrange for his friends to keep Mara out of the basement (and Mara overcame them)?  A small gesture from Blake, before the split occurs, might indicate that, as well as the behavior of those people who initially split them up.  He might even see the girl he ends up making out with as they enter and give her a signal.

These points really all tie together.  It’s about establishing who your characters are, what they want, and what they’re willing to do to try to achieve their goals. This helps link all the actions in a causal chain driven by character and action.

Strengthening these elements will make the chapters even more involving and suspenseful.  I hope this is helpful.

–Jeanne Cavelos–editor, author, director of Odyssey

August 2016 Editor’s Choice Review, Horror

Published on by Jaime Moyer

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Amal El-Mohtar, and guest editor Gemma Files. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

“De-Arrangement” by Lee Melling

“De-Arrangement” works primarily as the portrait of a man unravelling mentally in the wake of his beloved mother’s excruciatingly long, slow death from cancer. Brandon uses his taxidermy business as a coping mechanism, immersing himself in the making of “metazoan splices,” composite chimeras cobbled together from many different animal sources: an alligator-bear, an eagle-duck, a flamingo-weasel. Eventually, these creatures seem to come alive, and Brandon is either physically consumed by them or dies in a car accident while escaping from them.

The best horror stories are those in which the main character inhabits a reality which begins in a place the reader recognizes, then deforms and/or skews, revealing an unfamiliar and increasingly threatening perspective. Unfortunately, we’re introduced to Brandon at what seems like the very moment of his psychological downward plunge; things begin feverishly, at a high emotional pitch, and don’t ever seem to decrease in intensity, potentially burning out our ability to care what happens to him next.

Because Brandon is such a deliberately-crafted unreliable narrator—grief-stricken, frequently drunk, possibly insane—it’s almost impossible to figure out whether or not the “splices” turning on him is something that definitely happens, or whether it’s all in his head. The issue is further complicated by Brandon’s constant side-trips into memory, which may need to be organized a bit more linearly, to give a sense of progression.

For example: we start off with a brief look at Brandon’s mother’s degeneration, with a side-order of Brandon thinking about how his drunk, abusive father abandoned them long ago. In the background, we’re introduced to Brandon’s uncle, from whom he learned his taxidermist’s trade, who is shown as already being sick at Brandon’s mother’s funeral, then disappears somewhere in the first three sections of the story. Brandon seems to have taken over the business—did his uncle die? Keeping him alive might actually be a good way to clock Brandon’s disintegration, giving us an outsider’s perspective on his increasing madness as he has to try and convince his uncle that he’s keeping up with his responsibilities. (He never seems to have any customers, either.)

Then there’s the character of Brandon’s older brother Adam, first introduced the story’s second section, perhaps as a role model for Brandon’s fascination with taking animals apart of putting them back together. Brandon is initially horrified by Adam’s sadism, while Adam calls Brandon a “soft boy” for not wanting to hurt living things for his own amusement or to expiate his hatred of their father

“Just think of it as Da’, as if it’s his legs you’re pulling off. Like I do.”

Again, making Adam a character Brandon could interact with directly—in the present—might be helpful, in terms of keeping the story’s action more immediate, rather than stranding the readers inside Brandon’s skull.

But Adam dies “offscreen” instead, his funeral becoming the last place Brandon can remember seeing his father. So while it’s possible to extrapolate that Brandon’s memories of Adam might explain why he chooses to channel his rage about his trauma-filled life into re-arranging dead animals rather than live ones, it’s never really stated, clearly or otherwise. I don’t think you’d lose anything by doing so, since it would establish one more link in the chain of emotional causality.

Similarly, there’s the element of the neighbours’ dog whose constant barking gives Brandon headaches which he seems to be able to soothe by making more and more splices, though this strategy becomes increasingly less effective. (Why “metazoan,” by the way? This term might need some unpacking.) I must admit that I thought this plot thread was going to result in Brandon eventually killing the dog and turning it into a penultimate splice, perhaps the one which ends up menacing and killing him. As it is, it doesn’t really seem to pay off, much like the element of suddenly identifying the alligator-bear’s mastication with that of Brandon’s mother.

There’s something very powerful in the idea of taxidermy “turning on” Brandon, hearkening back to this observation—

He thought how it still seemed strange he didn’t know earlier that taxidermy was his calling. Like his mother, it had been good to him, where nothing else had.

—but you need to start seeding the idea that the pain Brandon’s mother suffers might have destroyed her love for him by the end earlier on, if that’s what you want to get across. It could be quite exquisitely hurtful for him to remember how she became more and more resentful as her vulnerability grew, maybe starting to lash out at him in ways the reminded him of Adam, or even their father…even more so if it, too, was happening in the present.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’d like to see what might happen if you reframed the story, moving the timeline back so that Brandon’s mother’s death was the midpoint rather than the beginning. As it is, what we’re watching very much reads like a fait accompli, a chronicle of a mental break foretold. We need to watch Brandon change and we need to care about the damage he’s doing to himself, especially in the wake of all the damage already done to him.

Final verdict: there’s a lot of interest and impact in what you’ve got here but it has integral pacing issues, so that’s definitely where I’d concentrate during your next draft, long before fixing the smaller problems (grammar, sentence structure, occasionally swapped the word “dog” for the word “god”). Best of luck in your process.

–Gemma Files