Editor’s Choice Award March 2022, Short Story

Published on by Jaime Moyer Category: Editor's Choice

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, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

The Sea Above by V.R. Collins

The simple, exquisite mourning of “The Sea Above” stood out for me this month: a journey made because its protagonist isn’t yet ready to let go, in a world where the gods are dead and the vast beasts of the deep grieving. It’s also touching on something I think is very important right now: how we mourn together, or parallel to each other, without ripping everything apart. So this month, I’d like to talk about how emotion makes our worlds real, and how we balance storystuff with the stuff of the world.

First and foremost, the world of “The Sea Above” is a fundamentally gentle one, despite its wreckage. It’s positing a high fantasy universe where gods aren’t creatures of control (a world where chaos breaks loose when they die, because authority’s gone) but of love; where the lake not being the sea is still close enough to appreciate, and difference isn’t a threat. Where sea monsters raging can be reasoned with if you send a diplomat, and there is such thing as a ball of lightning gently carried up in giant jaws.

It’s also avoiding one of the pitfalls of epic fantasy by subtly showing deep domestic consequences to the high-register, earthshaking acts happening around Inah. The gods die—and that means the sea is weird and wild, and concrete pieces of Inah’s personal world have evaporated with them. People have moved on as well as died; relationships have subtly but fundamentally changed. It’s a personal apocalypse that hasn’t neglected the big picture, and having both interworked with each other gives Inah’s loss weight and substance.

More importantly, though, there’s beautiful work being done here with the sound of language: the choices of language and sentence structure are what make “The Sea Above” work. From the first line—picked up like a dropped thread—”The Sea Above” puts readers into a mythic cadence, offset with a plain, clean poetic voice (“that moment between frail mortal flesh and the vast mysteries of the ocean” was a favourite). The ways before and after echo through its structure actively set up Inah’s realization at the end: reclaiming the vast expanse of now. By the time I knew Marden was lightning in a jar, “The Sea Above” had me completely—and the language is why.

Starting in the rhythms of oral storytelling—symbolic, abstract, rules-of-three—and setting against that Inah’s uncertainty and emotional precarity is a powerful choice. This is one of the ways narrative tropes can really work for us as writers (especially tropes that are about structure, not content): readers know how a world told in mythic language is supposed to go. We know what a quest structure is, and what dead gods mean. But when we work that deliberately into a new direction, it can heighten the feeling of what we’re talking about: this is true, but. The known story truth makes the new one also feel more true: verisimilitude can be catching.

In “The Sea Above”, juxtaposing the emotional state and shattering world against forms and formalisms that readers know in our bones are about stability makes the feeling of worlds breaking that much more real.

So while lightning in a bottle is an obvious play on words—and a nicely thematic one, given Inah’s journey—it’s also a great example of how that sense of what’s real spreads in “The Sea Above”. It’s a familiar enough metaphor (stable trope) for many readers to easily think about as a literalized speculative element; making metaphors literal is one of the basic tools of SFF. But when placed against Inah’s loss and the emotion that the story has already set up, that metaphor becomes more than a tickbox, and more than clever. It becomes a manifestation of the love and grief I’ve already been told about, and the whole world of this story unscrolls for me as real—because the emotions are real.

Where “The Sea Above” tangles a little for me, and loses that tight grip on my attention is Inah’s conversation with the lake serpent. Departing from the very direct, simple handling of emotion we’ve seen previous, it mires a touch in circuitousness and ritualized language—and it feels like the story never quite comes back to baseline. “The Sea Above” feels most effective to me as a reader when it’s walking the balance of a plain, clean life in a formalized setting: real people doing real emotional things—that sense of realism again!—in a world built of ritual, gods, monsters, and cataclysms. The pieces of “The Sea Above” that are genre tropes and storystuff, in other words, overtake the life stuff, the feeling of complexity and grief and unpreparedness and motion. With the realism of this piece so rooted in that emotion—with what it’s offered me so far being storystuff as a box to hold life stuff well—as a reader, I lose my tight connection to what’s happening here.

Case in point: The author’s asked in notes whether there are places that past events need to be better foregrounded to understand what’s going on. I had no instances where I needed that, because what caught and carried me through was the feeling, the life stuff. And the feeling? I understand just fine. The rest are places I can suspend my disbelief when the feeling makes sense.

So, I’d suggest revising with an eye to maintaining that balance that works so well in the first half of the piece: keeping real emotion, simple hands, and Inah’s humanity at the centre of “The Sea Above”. Fundamentally, this would be a question of finding ways to hold the energy of the first half of the story through the second half: simplifying ritual, foregrounding emotion and reaction, looking at the balance of poetic to plain language, and tightening up the pacing until the frequency of the second half the story matches.

This is on its way to being absolutely magnificent. I think with some careful calibrating, it will be.

Thanks for the read, and best of luck!
–Leah Bobet, author of Above (2012) and An Inheritance of Ashes (2015)

Editor’s Choice Award February 2022, Science Fiction

Published on by Jaime Moyer Category: Editor's Choice

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, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

The Final Variant (Part One) by RedDwarf Star

This is a very topical submission, which I think all of us can relate to at this point in the pandemic. It depicts an all too believable future, if certain historical and cultural developments proceed to their logical conclusion.

Before I address a more general issue, I have a few specific observations.

First, the “fat slob” whom Lisa is forced to marry. Is there another way to portray him negatively, without resorting to body-shaming?

Second, the “Medieval Age.” It’s properly called the Middle Ages.

Third, the concept of “Asian Israel” needs to be thought through in more detail. Israel is the ancestral homeland of the Jews. It has deep religious, cultural, and political significance.

This grant of land seems more like Native reservations in North America: real estate no one in power wanted, that might include ancestral lands, but if so, excluded the parts that had actual value to the colonizers. Is there another metaphorical name or term that might more accurately apply? Or if the narrative needs to keep this particular term, might Wong reflect on its accuracy or lack thereof?

On a more general level, I’d like to address the use of passive voice. It’s very much in vogue in certain styles of writing, notably technical and scientific. The point is to create an impression of objectivity by removing the subject. Subtract the human element; separate the action from the one who performs it.

The focus of fiction is the human (or equivalent) element. Its native voice is active. Characters act and react and interact. That’s where the story lives, in the lives and thoughts of its characters.

Passive voice in fiction can have a devastating effect. When the author removes the subject, they are, in a way, subverting the purpose of the genre.

In this submission, passive voice serves as a marker for exposition. It could be very effective if the context were clearer: if the author established, for example, a more explicit theme of dehumanization, of actions taken without thought for the people they affected. Nobody actually took responsibility for these things. They were all done at a remove, without consequences for the perpetrators, only for the victims.

One exercise that might be useful here is to rewrite the entire chapter in active voice. Give every verb a subject. Make someone or some entity directly responsible for every action.

See what happens to the narrative then. How does it change? Are these changes effective?

Then go back and ask if one or more of these altered sentences conveyedhe concept more clearly in passive voice. If so, how and why? Do they get the point across more strongly because they stand out—because the rest of the text is written in the active voice?

That’s what passive voice does in fiction. It stands out. It makes a point. It’s a powerful tool, if it’s used sparingly and with skill.

–Judith Tarr

 

Publication News

Published on by Jaime Moyer Category: Publication News

Another OWW member sale!

Douglas Schwarz wants to share his great news: “Hello.  Per a suggestion on the Profile page, I’m writing to let you know of a major sale!  (My first, other than a flash piece in Altered Reality.)  Earlier this month I received notice that Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine had accepted my story, “Le Sorcier de Lascaux.”  This story was posted for a while on OWW (it is now on my shelf), where I received many useful suggestions that helped mold the final version.  I don’t know when the piece will be published — many months from now, at least — but I thought I would let you know.  All the best.”

Congratulations, Doug!

Editor’s Choice Award February 2022, Horror

Published on by Jaime Moyer Category: Editor's Choice

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, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

The Unusual Case of Dr H by Nigel Read

“The Unusual Case of Dr. H–” draws me in with its familiar, comforting voice. I’ve read and enjoyed many first-person narratives set in 19th-century England (most of them horror), so the opening paragraphs of this story wrap around me like a warm blanket, promising delightful horror to come. Since this submission is only an excerpt, the promise of horror hasn’t yet been fulfilled at the end, but I’m still hopeful it will be.

The action so far has moved along well, with an interesting cast of characters introduced. Several mysteries keep us curious and engaged: the mystery of exactly what Dr. H– is up to, the mystery of what the brotherhood wants, and the question of whether Cavor, Montgomery, and Lady Brampton really want to help Dr. H–. I think those are the greatest strengths of the piece thus far.

It’s always hard to provide a critique on an excerpt, not knowing where the story is headed. But for me, as I read, a few things stood out as areas that might be improved.

In this section, the biggest mystery is what Dr. H– is up to. Based on the clues provided–the name of his manuscript, the Burkers–and the setting of the story, which carries strong associations, it seems like Dr. H– is reanimating the dead, similar to Dr. Frankenstein. The fact that all indicators are pointing me in this direction makes this mystery less intriguing than it might be. As I read, I’m kind of dreading that the story, after making such a big deal about this mystery, will ultimately reveal that it’s just as I’ve suspected all along. The other possibility I’m dreading is that the story flips all these clues around and reveals Dr. H– is engaged in some perfectly benign activities, which would be a big letdown and probably feel unbelievable. What I’m hoping is that Dr. H– is involved in some very chilling, horrific activities, far more disturbing than anything Dr. Frankenstein or Herbert West ever conceived. If that’s the case, it would be nice to have some small clue in this section to encourage that hope that Dr. H– is more than another Frankenstein, and to get readers trying to figure out exactly how this is different.

If the clues remain similar to the ones we’ve gotten so far, and the answer to the mystery is never given, then I think most readers would assume Dr. H– is doing the same things Dr. Frankenstein did and be disappointed. So I hope we’ll be given either a clear revelation of what Dr. H– is doing or clues that clearly point us in a direction distinct from Frankenstein.

The main area I see for improvement in this section is the characterization of the narrator, Raskin. It sometimes feels as if the author is forcing him to do things or feel things, rather than that Raskin would actually do or feel them. For example, when Chisholm mentions Dr. H–, Raskin tells us, “At the mention of Dr H–, a thrill of recognition went through me.” The problem is that between Chisholm mentioning Dr. H– and this reaction, Chisholm has another line of dialogue, and then Raskin provides a sentence of exposition, explaining Chisholm’s job. The “thrill of recognition” is too delayed to be believable.

Later, Raskin thinks about spending time with Dr. H– years ago: ” Despite the pleasantness of these reminiscences, a lowness of spirit began to settle on me. I did not have many friends – writing is a solitary craft – and it occurred to me that the loss of even one was something to be regretted.” For me, this reaction isn’t believable. It seems too general and abstract to have emotional power–particularly the power to motivate Raskin to seek out Dr. H–. I could believe he could generally miss friends and feel lonely, but then get on with his work. He’d be used to living his solitary life, and something so minor as remembering a friend wouldn’t make him seek someone out after many years. The mention of Dr. H– is the inciting incident, and that doesn’t seem like enough, in itself, to knock Raskin out of his normal activity (which is what the inciting incident does). If Raskin had suffered a major setback with his book in the earlier meeting with Chisholm, that might make him feel depressed and lost. Maybe some more specific details about his relationship with Dr. H– could tie into that. Maybe when they were younger, Dr. H– would read his early manuscripts and, being of a scientific mindset, offer really bad suggestions (with the best of intentions), and those would prompt Raskin to realize how to make his stories much better. This could help to humanize Dr. H–, so we get some hint of what he’s like and start to care about him, and it could motivate Raskin to seek out Dr. H–, now that he’s at a crisis point with his writing. Usually lengthy flashbacks or exposition dumps are not good ideas, but a couple details here and perhaps a few elsewhere could help us feel Raskin’s emotions and motivation, and could help us care about Dr. H– (or at least care about Dr. H– as Raskin thinks of him), since this is the story of his death.

Raskin obtains the manuscript of Dr. H– and agrees to share it with the others, but he has conditions. He wants assurances that Dr. H– will not be harmed. That could work well if we felt Raskin’s affection for Dr. H–. But then a few lines of dialogue after he demands reassurance, he agrees to take orders with no questions asked. He still hasn’t received any reassurance at that point, yet he agrees with a shrug and a “sure,” as if this is no big deal. This seems contradictory to me. Demanding that Dr. H– not be hurt means he won’t follow orders unconditionally, and both he and everyone else in the room ought to know that. Lady Brampton seems foolish for asking him the question. And Cavor not only threatens Raskin but shows himself to be willing to kill, which should raise even more reservations in Raskin’s mind. It seems like the story is trying to avoid conflict, which reduces interest and undermines Raskin’s character. Perhaps Raskin insists he will ask questions if he disagrees with their course of action, and if they don’t like that, then they won’t get to see the manuscript.

I’m wondering what the character arc is for Raskin. The opening of the story doesn’t reveal any change in him, as far as I can tell. While that may be fairly common in stories written in that period, something this story might add to that tradition would be to give Raskin more emotional investment in events, put more at stake for him, and show that the events change him. That would make the story more involving, for me.

I hope this is helpful. I enjoyed reading the excerpt and being drawn into the setting and the mysteries presented by the story.

–Jeanne Cavelos, editor, author, director of The Odyssey Writing Workshops Charitable Trust

Editor’s Choice Award February 2022, Fantasy

Published on by Jaime Moyer Category: Editor's Choice

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, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

Chapter 1 – A Look Backwards by M. Kung

This is a powerful and, especially at the beginning, harrowing pair of scenes. There’s some strong writing here, though I would recommend a thorough copyedit and line edit before submitting for publication. In the meantime, there are a couple of things that may benefit from rethinking or deeper thinking as the story moves forward.

Muizi is a strong character. I personally like it that she’s unsympathetic. Her character type—the coldhearted and conniving senior wife—is often framed as the antagonist; readers don’t get to see the story through her eyes. It seems she’ll be the protagonist here, which is a nice variation on the usual theme.

The direction she appears to be going in is a sharp reversal of fortune, and a steep drop in status. I would guess that her arc will continue to plummet, but she will, through sheer toughness and dogged determination, claw her way back to the top. It’s possible she may find a form of redemption at the bottom and find something else to live for, but there’s not enough here to suggest where or how that might happen.

Definitely the Muizi we see here would aim to get her old status back. What may happen to her later could change her, possibly profoundly. But we’re still in the early stages of her story.

I would suggest making a clearer connection between the Muizi in the first scene and the Muizi in the second. In the second scene, a major theme is the pain in her feet. It pervades her entire experience. And yet in the first scene, the child feels all of that pain with many of the same details (the putrefaction, the broken bones), but Muizi does not.

We don’t get a sense of her physical being. She is essentially a pair of eyes and coldly calculating mind. I think Muizi should either share the child’s pain or explicitly shut off her own. If she does the latter, we need to know she’s doing it. We should understand that this is an experience she shares in full.

When she hears that the Grand Duke is dead, I think she should react more strongly. Is she expecting it? Did she help to cause it? Is it part of a plot she’s involved in? What are her feelings about him personally, as well as politically? A bit of that appears here, but I think it needs more.

I have similar questions about Muizi’s thoughts and reactions in the second scene, when her grand plan is abruptly and catastrophically shut down. On the one hand, she does suffer from hubris, from overestimating her own brilliance. On the other, if she has spent years of her life as first wife, presiding over the complex maneuverings of a grand-ducal court, would she be as unaware of the plots against her as she is here? Would she be truly caught off guard? Would she be as alone as she seems to be, with only her one servant as an ally?

There are numerous ways to play this. She might have been taking measures against one or more palace intrigues, only to be blindsided by the one she didn’t expect. The co-regent seems to have presented himself as an ally. Could the heir’s birth mother have also pretended, convincingly, to be a friend? Might Muizi have promised her some great prize or compensation in return for the alliance, that would make the betrayal even more crushing?

What the draft needs, I think, is more complexity. More complicated relationships between Muizi and the rest of the court. More wariness on her part, and more sense that it won’t be as easy as she might hope. She’s built this, she’s fought for it, she’s crushed (she thinks) all possible opposition. Then the betrayal will be all the more shocking.

I wonder too if the potential consequences might be more dire. Might she expect to be killed if she fails? Or buried alive with her late husband? Is it a deeper shock or a worse punishment to be allowed to live, but condemned to whatever fate she’s being carted off to at the end of the chapter?

There is plenty to work with here. I’ll be interested to see where Muizi’s story takes her, and how she gets there.

–Judith Tarr

Publication News

Published on by Jaime Moyer Category: Publication News

2022 is starting off well for OWW members!

Rodrigo Culagovski wrote to say: “I published my first short story, ever: Hot Dogs, Saltenas, Curanto, and Feijoada after workshopping it on OWW. Thanks!”
And Sara Kate Ellis wants us all to know: “I just wanted to say that my story “The Machine Wasn’t in the Mood” (Now “Sturm und Clang”) will be in a future issue of Metaphorosis. I wanted to say thank you because the reviews on the site helped a great deal; in particular,  Leah Bobet’s kept me going when I was about to give up. So, thank you.”

Editor’s Choice Award February 2022, Short Story

Published on by Jaime Moyer Category: Editor's Choice

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, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

What Wizards Do by Elizabeth King

“What Wizards Do” caught my attention this month with its understated mix of classic fantasy tropes, teenaged restlessness, and a system opening its doors just briefly for a way out. There’s an ennui at its centre that feels very much like whiling away your life in a small town, punctuated by limited choices and some very real dread. However, there’s work to do here: it’s a piece full of ideas that doesn’t always begin or finish them. So this month, I’d like to talk about how we set up ideas or themes in our work, and what the life cycle of an idea is in a story.

“What Wizards Do” opens strong. Othai and Kerol’s predicament puts an instant, interesting twist on the trope of an isolated village sacrificing teenagers to the local dragon. It’s a fun—and powerful—contrast to meet them both in the middle of their utter failure to get Othai pregnant and potentially save her life; an opening that brings the universe of wizards, dragons, and bandits straight down to earth. And it’s a universe that feels fresh again when it’s seen through their restless, anxious eyes.

The opening scene quickly introduces Othai and Kerol’s village, the wizard, and their characters in clean strokes: Othai’s squeamish and shame-laced but pragmatic attempts to get pregnant to dodge the dragon, despite what reads like asexuality, and Kerol’s more passive, eager personality. Ernst’s perpetual awkwardness with his own semi-corrupt authority plays out well, and the village holds up as the kind of place that calls a wagon a palisade gate.

However, as the piece continues through a fascination with the wizard, a bandit attack, and some mutual sexual threat, aspects of “What Wizards Do” start to drop and flicker: feeling disjointed, diffuse, or unorganized. And universally, it’s in moments where ideas are raised but not connected to their later development—or where ideas are presented as payoff, as resolution, but were never initially raised.

For example: Kerol and Othai’s fascination with the wizard is persistent and visible on the page through their actions, but persistently comes across as a buried motivation. They both just happen to drift places; they just happen to feel funny in his presence—whether that’s by magic or recognizing another way to live. When “What Wizards Do” raises the question directly, the story waves it away as them not having anything better to do. But in the middle of a story that’s so thick with competing—and driving—motivations, it’s hard to believe, and feels hollow. The question of their motivations isn’t connected to the density of the motivations around them.

Likewise, Othai’s avoidance of the boys in her village becomes a little too coincidental. There’s an atmosphere of sexual threat that only kicks in for both Othai and Kerol when it’s mentioned by Ernst, as if it hadn’t existed before. If everyone who lives there is aware of the terms of the sacrifice, and the town’s full of horny teenaged boys, it would have already been before it’s mentioned. The atmosphere of the town before that conversation isn’t connected to the atmosphere afterward.

When the battle with the bandits does come, it is anti-climactic—for me as a reader as well as the characters, and unfortunately, putting it on the page doesn’t correct the readerly impression. There’s not much buildup to the event from the request for help to its start, and there aren’t many consequences after; it feels like something of an isolated incident, rather than a turning point in the story itself.

In a smaller way: I found myself unsure if the song Kerol mentions the wizard singing is something that’s been previously cut. Kerol’s calling back to an idea, expanding it to find out what it means, but the idea’s never been presented for readers, so the way he talks about it only evokes the feeling of having missed something.

The question of “the kind of thing a wizard would do” is signaled as important—enough to build into the title!—but it comes up once, and then disappears, not playing a part again.

I had noticed that other workshopper critiques on “What Wizards Do” mentioned confusion and vagueness, and some of that is, I think, down to these bits of information. It’s these linkages, connections, setups, and payoffs that are missing throughout “What Wizards Do”: the connective tissue, thoughtful development, and reminders of older ideas that make a story more than a collection of vignettes. And to correct that—and tie “What Wizards Do” together clearly—it’s important to think about how readers organize information.

While it’s not exactly mandatory, thinking in threes is a standard way to structure ideas, themes, and motifs: an introduction, some development (this is how this concept’s growing or changing because of what’s going on), and a conclusion or payoff. If an idea—that there’s a kind of thing wizards do, that there’s an external threat to the village—is important to the story, it’s worth making sure it at minimum goes through those three phases.

What we’re doing when we start with this basic structure is showing where the situation started (Othai is trying to get pregnant because she’s afraid of being fed to the dragon), how that situation changes because of the events of the story (meeting the wizard gives Othai and Kerol another idea about authority and power), and a conclusion (Othai and Kerol feel empowered to leave the village and join the wizards). It’s the basic, skeletal structure of how we show characters and situations changing.

With an already-written story where several elements are missing one of those steps, the approach has to go a little differently. A great way to diagnose where ideas aren’t starting or finishing is to make a scene-by-scene chart: what new ideas are introduced in each scene, what new ideas are paid off, what ideas are developed to where. It’s a way to map the gaps in that simple message of “it started like this, but it changed because of this, and now it’s like this.” Then we’re capable of finding ways to fill them. Asking “What can happen here—or how can this happen differently—to start, continue, or finish an idea?” can be a good guide for revising.

There’s a lot going on in this piece, a lot of it very interesting, tucked-away, rich, and tonal. I think with a little work and a few revisions—at least one to get those structural developments of ideas complete, and then one to manage the information it leaves you so it’s not too obvious, and not too subtle—it’s possible to arrange all the textured information, subtexts, worldbuilding, and personalities in “What Wizards Do” to make a really interesting, lush, touching story.

Thanks for the read, and best of luck!

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

 

Publication News

Published on by Jaime Moyer Category: Publication News

Peter S. Drang is having a wonderful start to 2022. “Just wanted to report two sales and an honor, all coming in the past week. All three stories involved were reviewed extensively at OWW.

Dreamforge (semi-pro) purchased “The Integral of My Life Over All My Choices”, and Nature (pro market) purchased “Dogman Relates the Parable of Context”.
In addition, SFFC, a European science news organization, selected my story “Zeroing Out His Wavefunction” as one of the four best Nature science fiction stories of 2021 (out of 70 stories published by Nature that year).
Thanks so much to everyone’s thoughtful comments, which made these successes possible!”
Huge congratulations, Peter!!

Editor’s Choice Award January 2022, Fantasy

Published on by Jaime Moyer Category: Editor's Choice

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, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

Gold To Black by Ella Scott

Before I begin, I want to be clear about one thing. There is no such thing as a bad first (or early) draft. Nor is there any wrong way to write it. However the words get on the page, that’s the right way for the individual writer. Or to put it more concisely: Just get the words down. Worry about the rest later.

When “later” is is equally individual. Some writers work best if they write a section (a page, a scene, a chapter) and then go back and revise it. Others will write the whole thing, often multiple times from different directions, before it’s time to cut and prune and shape the story.

This submission has the feel, for me, of an early draft. It’s still finding its balance. The author’s note with the pitch tells me what the writer wants to do. The idea is clear to me, and gives me a hint of how the story will evolve.

It’s a strong idea. It turns a favorite trope on its head, and expands the reader’s perception by showing us not only how the central character sees the world, but also how others see her. This adds depth to the concept, and rounds it out in potentially interesting ways.

Since the expressed intention is to write for publication, there are a few things that may need to be done on the way to the final draft. The prose in this draft is strangely compelling. The rhythms, the word choices, the organization of sentences, are unusual and often nonstandard.

Because they are so unusual, the writer will have to balance their natural style and the needs or demands of the broader market. Most readers in my experience want a seamless connection between themselves and the story. They don’t want the words to get in the way.

Readers who embrace more complex writing will enjoy the challenge of less transparent prose. Writing for such readers can be a joy, but in some ways they’re much more demanding than the “just the story, please” readers. They ask the writer to be fully aware of every detail: every word, every phrase, every nuance of structure and syntax and punctuation. Non-standard words and usages have to read as intentional. If a word is used in a way that may seem “wrong” to the hypothetical high-school English teacher, the writer should be aware of that, and even more challenging, to make it clear to the reader that they know what they’re doing.

That means making sure all the words are the right words for the style and the story. Just to take one example from the very beginning, is sauntered what Elias really did at that moment? Would he move like that, with that emotional implication? If he would, how can the passage clarify the discrepancy between the word and the apparent context?

That’s the sort of question to ask at the line-edit stage, for every word and every line. The writer should make clear to the reader that they meant to do that. They know what words usually mean, and they’re making a conscious choice to depart from that meaning.

Another thing to think about in revision is the order of ideas. That’s how I read the author’s question about proving better descriptions for a reader. If “descriptions” means setting, character, action, exposition—all the elements that move a story forward—then one of the first priorities is to make sure these elements proceed in an internally consistent fashion.

The timeline does not need to be strictly linear. Characters’ thoughts and perceptions can weave in and out as the scene develops. They will see what they want or need to see, in the order in which they need to see it. They might see the mountains above the plain, and only see the elephant charging toward them after that, if their mind is on the place they’re traveling to rather than the place they’re in at the moment.

But again, as with using words in unusual ways, the apparent failure to see what’s immediately present instead of what’s distant and less relevant, has to read as if it’s meant to be that way. What this usually means, in order of ideas as well as in word choice, is that the writer will demonstrate their ability to do things the usual way, and do it so well that when they depart from the usual, the reader knows it’s a deliberate choice. Most of the narrative will proceed in a more or less linear fashion. Characters will tell their story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. If the story gets convoluted, or events happen out of chronological order, the reader will see the reasoning behind it: the rationale for turning events or exposition or descriptions inside out.

In this submission, section 4 particularly might be untangled for the purposes of revision. Set up the chronological order of what Elias does. Trace his movements in a linear fashion, from arrival to sleep. Then work in the exposition where it is most directly relevant.

The location of Arrone for example might be relevant at the beginning, to establish the where of the scene and then place Elias in it. At that point, establish who he is, what he’s there for, and why he’s the first to arrive. In the process, the reader will learn what the Coven is and how they dress, which leads logically to the description of Elias’ marks of rank and position. Once the reader has that information, they can move with Elias through the city, see what he sees as he sees it, and at the end, settle with him into his room.

That’s just one way to set up the scene. It’s perhaps the most conventional way, but since it’s so early on in the narrative, it can help the reader to appreciate that the writer knows what they’re doing. That they can follow traditional rules of narrative, even if they go on later to turn those rules inside out. A writer can do pretty much anything at all once they’ve won the reader’s trust—but first they have to win it.

In short: The idea is strong and the characters and the world have considerable potential. The rest is knowing when to follow rules and how to bend or break them.

— Judith Tarr

 

Editor’s Choice Award January 2022, Science Fiction

Published on by Jaime Moyer Category: Editor's Choice

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, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

WIP / One Night At The PáJaro Azul by Rodrigo Culagovski

The worldbuilding in this submission is rich, deep, and thorough. I had a real sense of being there, of the full sensory experience of the setting and the characters. It’s well done, and it pulled me along from scene to scene.

In places the prose might use a little polish, a bit more attention to the structure of sentences and the meanings of words. At the same time, some of what seemed at first like wobbles or bobbles looks in retrospect like an intentional expression of the character’s take on the world. Coté in the first section has a way of qualifying everything he says: adding throat-clearing words and phrases like maybe, however, to be honest, and rambling on a bit through his sentences. And yet, as I read whole of his scene and then the two viewpoints that followed, I realized that these verbal tics help establish the character.

Saleh by contrast—and this reads as intentional, too—is almost too flamboyant. He declaims, he throws in flourishes, he lets us know just how sure he is of himself. I might be tempted to tone it down a little, to smooth it over just a tad, on the principle that less is more.

I might also suggest for this section that the dialogue be framed a little more clearly, with a bit more stage business. Not a lot—not every line or every two or three or half a dozen lines—but I’d have liked more sense of what’s going on as the characters speak. What are they doing, what are their expressions, their body language, their tone of voice? They’re rather hanging in space in the draft, coming across as what’s often called “floating heads.” An anchor here and there would clarify the action and define the characters.

Mailén’s scene could use a little more of this as well, though the more extensive exposition helps to fill in the background. These passages of history and description work for me, for the most part; there’s enough going on, enough movement from scene to scene and through each scene, that I don’t feel as if the story is bogging down.

By this point too I’ve got a sense of how the narrative works and what the story is trying to do. In comparison to the third scene, the first one, from Coté’s viewpoint, might benefit from some trimming and tightening. It’s dense with worldbuilding detail, and in general that’s a good thing. But as with Saleh’s flamboyance, the story might flow more smoothly with fewer pauses for exposition and description.

When I’m revising a draft and polishing the prose, I try to think about what we absolutely must know in order for the scene to make sense. I see what I can do to pare down the details and the backstory. I focus on what’s directly relevant right here and now, and what the character might actually be thinking as he travels through this complex landscape. Would he perceive it in such detail, or would he be caught up in his errand, in his need to move toward his goal? What would actually be in the front of his mind, and what would he dismiss as irrelevant to his immediate purpose?

Saleh’s scene is very spare by contrast, even with the conversation that serves as exposition. Malén’s scene feels more tightly focused, more intent on moving the action forward into the next scene or chapter. If Coté’s scene came closer to the spareness of Saleh’s and the focus of Malén’s, this opening sequence would be even more effective than it is.

As for where I think it’s going, clearly they’re all going to converge at the Pájaro Azul—that’s evident even without the author’s note. We have a spectator who’s sneaked away to attend, a performer who wants to be a star, and a group of hackers/saboteurs who must be planning something suitably disruptive. For the rest, as a reader, I’m happy to strap in for the ride and see where it takes me.

— Judith Tarr