The Love Of A Mother by Daniel A. J.

One ability all short story writers need is to tell a story in a small number of words. “The Love of a Mother” achieves a lot in 279 words. We get a sense of the setting, descriptions of six characters, an understanding of the situation, and we see the main character make a major decision. That’s a lot. The piece has some vivid sensory details and raises questions in readers’ mind regarding the characters’ situation and what they are urging the mother to do, and those questions create suspense and engagement.

One area I think could be strengthened is the point of view. The POV is unclear to me now, which leaves me unable to settle into the story and experience it from a specific perspective. The first sentence, with the phrase “His mother,” implies that I’m in “his” point of view, which means the POV of the dead boy. I don’t think that’s what’s intended because the rest of the story is not from the dead boy’s POV. The second sentence shifts to calling the mother “her,” making me feel I’m in her third person limited omniscient POV. In the second paragraph, “Tears squeezed past her eyelids, flowed down her dirty, grunge-caked cheeks” shows me things the mother can’t see, so now I think I’m in a third person omniscient POV, hearing from the omniscient narrator. In the fourth paragraph, “Each breath she took filled her exhausted lungs with the warm, shit-and-piss-soaked air” puts me back in her body with her. After that, I think we stay in the mother’s POV until the last paragraph, when the “Dark blood ran down her chin and neck, vanishing into the cleft between her breasts.” That puts me outside of her, in an omniscient viewpoint looking at her. The story seems to end in that omniscient perspective, describing her “hysterical state of satisfaction and guilt,” which seems the way a rather dispassionate observer would describe it, not the way she would experience it. Staying in one consistent viewpoint throughout would allow us to experience the story more strongly, without being jarred or confused by POV shifts. And the story could be presented in a more unified way, from a striking, involving perspective speaking in a strong voice.

The voice right now feels inconsistent. Some word choices feel sophisticated and a bit old fashioned, like miniscule, bosom, and moribund. Other words feel somewhat crude and more contemporary, like grunge-caked, shit-and-piss-soaked, and deadbeat. This leaves me without a clear sense of the voice or the world in which these characters exist.

The other element I’d like to discuss is characterization. It’s not clear why the man and the woman are urging the mother to eat her child. If they are all starving, which is how I interpret the story, then the others should be eager to grab the dead child and eat it. I think they’d actually discourage the mother from eating the child and offer to bury the boy or take him to reduce her temptation. If they’re in some situation in which the mother, for some reason, needs to eat her son to avoid being killed by some unseen jailers, and the others want her to survive for some reason, I think that needs to be clarified.

I think the characterization could also be strengthened with some research. I believe the characters in the story are suffering from starvation. If so, their condition and situation could be described incorporating some realistic details. Research can strengthen most fiction, no matter the genre, since it can provide fascinating details the author would most likely never think of. I’m no expert on starvation, but I believe that people who are deep into starvation—deep enough that they’d become cannibals—would have swollen bellies, not sunken ones. And I think they would not be strong enough to growl or bellow, and the mother would not be able to hold her son up by the ankle.

I think a more consistent point of view and some stronger characterizations could help maximize the impact of this piece. I hope my comments are helpful. I appreciate all that this story did in such a few words.

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

I Object by Kate Orman

“I Object” caught my attention this month with its 1930s pulp-style interstellar royal court, a gorgeously breath-held tone, and some thorough thematic thoughts on objectification and agency. It’s also an incredibly good example of how to crystallize a very big story through one particular lens. In these monthly critiques we talk a lot about sensory prose, but this month I want to drill down a bit and look at how we think about which sense we’re basing our science fictional experiences in—and how being deliberate about that can cohere our stories.

“I Object” is, for such a quiet, dreamlike story, very full: an interplanetary cruise gone wrong, a household preparing for its asteroid tomb, a dying teenaged princess and her devoted quasi-sentient robot bodyguard/chaperone—all told from the robot’s perspective. In comparatively few words, it’s creating a fascinating mix of classic space opera pulps, a near-Egyptian burial ritual, and a 1920s country house picnic disaster, punctuated with almost distant, dreamlike murders through the back halls. There’s a lot going on here, and all very smoothly—so well-integrated none of it sticks out or obstructs me. Its air of strange and breath-held waiting is absolute; its grief-laced sexual politics are ugly in a way that rings emotionally true. Its ending is dark and beautiful and says a lot about liberation and limited ambition.

And a lot of this is done through one of the biggest—and least obtrusive—strengths in “I Object”: its prose. There’s solid, inventive work being done on the sentence level to support every other priority the story has—and all that work is mostly grounded in the sense of touch.

Touch is very thematic in “I Object”, and it’s perpetually central. From the first scene, the story’s description of its major speculative element, a quantum travel mechanism, is beautifully textural: “broken glass and pink champagne” in the rugs juxtapose sharpness with softness with bubbliness in the mouth in a way that tells you this was supposed to be soft and ebullient, but it’s gone wrong. “Stuck in the narrow passageway like sauce in the neck of a bottle” stays with that concept of consumption and pleasure being turned inside out, and adds tension, pressure, dehumanization to the situation. Later, “poached in radiation” lands the food metaphor, what’s consuming whom. Outside the bubble, rougher words like “fibers” pull against smooth ones (“sliding”): it’s both extending our idea of touch to how to think about this speculative element and setting up an experience in very few words.

It’s centred around a particular situation, but as readers, we’ve been clued in: look for texture, look for touch, look for things described in those terms to have meaning. Even if we’re not aware of that message consciously, readers pick up on consistencies in a story very quickly; we’re pattern-matching creatures by habit. So now that we’ve been primed, what does “I Object” do with it?

The first way “I Object” uses that idea of touch as a tool is to build in plain weirdness and make it feel comprehensible: the ways quantum travel is described as almost contradictory (“silver oil” against “black water”, the stars peering in instead of peering out at them) are a great strategy for hinting that this experience is uncanny, and should feel uncanny. All this is said without saying it directly on the page; it’s an experience built for readers as the plot and characters move forward.

It’s also showing up in characterizing Zain without having to deliberately or directly state his emotional life, and emotional changes. Part of what makes this story work is Zain’s very matter-of-fact, direct, reportage-style narration. He uses a lot of short, deceptively plain sentences and initially rarely adds much emotional subjectivity: he talks about anxiety as his timepiece swinging rather than a feeling, just before a quite violent intervention. He is not in touch with things, at his base state. It’s a detachment that allows this strategy of working in touch to stand out more clearly, and then one that—as it changes, and he starts thinking in terms of joy, of anxiety, of fear—lets readers walk along with that developing emotional journey without having to be told it’s developing.

The grounding in touch extends into the worldbuilding, thematics, and relationships. The palace as a bubble strung above earth is a physical image: delicate, precious, ornamental, ultimately fragile and ephemeral, tied absolutely but at a distance. It’s an image that absolutely supports the transient quality of this relationship, of the princess’s self-image (I found it really telling that she calls him “silly bauble” affectionately, after critically describing her own social function as basically that), of the household now that the princess is dying. When the princess complains of it as an artificial womb for the womb she is—a barrier—the images are lining up together and reinforcing each other, making the story feel more whole. That lack of contact makes her complaint feel exceedingly real.

In short, that one element—routing most of the important ideas in this story through their tactility—is how “I Object” pulls them all together and makes the story feel whole, and does it almost invisibly. It’s a great, quiet strategy to use to make a world feel emotionally honest, relevant, real, and immediate, and it’s something we can do as writers without too much extra effort: just with extra focus.

That said, in terms of suggestions to improve this draft: I think it’s publishable as is. The only thing I would actually suggest changing in “I Object” is the title. It does highlight what’s at the centre of the piece, but without that context—as the first thing readers encounter—it’s a bit stiff and unbending, a bit too reflective of “I, Robot” to really communicate the depth of what’s going on here. It stands a chance of miscueing readers as to what kind of story they’re about to get, and I think something with a little more texture (ironically! or not!) might serve the story better.

If the author does opt to change the title, however, it may be worthwhile to concretize the ending just a hair more. I understand what it’s saying, about the value of lives, about worth, about souls going through the door to heaven—but a lot of that reading is informed by the title as it is. Taking that clue away does change the mix of what I as a reader am looking for, and so I’d also suggest finding a way to incorporate it into a new title, work it back in somewhere early on, or compensate by clarifying a touch at the end.

But it’s a wonderful, deep, deliberate, balanced, gorgeously disturbing, epiphantic story, and I’m looking forward to seeing it in print.

Thanks for the read, and best of luck!

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

The Moon Talker by Martin Grace

The concept of this novel is both classic and thoroughly timely. Science fiction since its beginning has been telling stories of a ruined Earth and a last desperate diaspora. The fact that we’re at a tipping point on climate—if we haven’t already gone over the cliff—makes it all the more relevant.

I really like the title. It’s intriguing and evocative. It invites the reader to speculate as to what it means, and how the story will unfold.

I have a couple of observations about the chapter as it’s written. The first is structural. There’s a lot of action here, a lot of story-movement, and the final paragraphs blow everything up spectacularly.

And yet, much of the chapter consists of Harper’s ruminations on the past, descriptions of the other characters, exposition about how they all got to this point. She’s woolgathering while the world collapses—and in fact she’s called out on it.

That calling-out is what I call “Author Id speaking.” That’s the author recognizing that the narrative isn’t quite doing what it needs to do. Instead of focusing on the immediate action, it’s stepped outside and is wandering around the edges.

One thing that might help is rethinking Harper’s character. Not so much who she is or what her role is on the ship, but how she appears in the story. If she’s more directly involved in the action, if she’s concentrating on what’s happening in the here and now, there’s still potential for filling in the background, but it stays in the background rather than taking over the narrative. Action first, backstory second—and if the backstory can be directly related to what’s happening, so much the better.

Think about what we absolutely need to know right here, right now. What the mission is. Why it’s happening. What the stakes are—especially the fact that the planet is about to fall apart. Keep Harper focused on her job and the jobs of the people around her, as they impinge on hers.

A major part of this is the emotional aspect. There’s quite a bit of powerful emotion here, but the draft tends to back away from it. The prose for the most part is flat, expository; it’s full of passive constructions. We’re told about feelings but we don’t quite get below the surface, where the feelings actually live.

More active prose, more sense of what’s going on in Harper’s mind and body, will help. Think through how she feels; what she feels and why. Get into her head. How would you feel if you had been through what she’s been through?

Even if she’s dissociating so she can do her job—that’s one way to deal. Make it clear that’s what she’s doing. Show how she balances grief and fear, desperation, and the need to be calm, strong, efficient. How tightly does she need to hold on? How many layers of feeling can she be coping with, while the top layer focuses on the mission?

Hard SF, which is what this seems to gravitate toward, doesn’t devote a lot of time to feelings, but I think going deeper into Harper’s emotions will make the story stronger. It might be worthwhile too to think about her voice, the way in which she tells her story. The style and cadence of the draft has an old-fashioned feel, somewhere between Golden Age science fiction and an almost Steampunk sensibility, with a hefty dose of techno-speak.

Does the style fit the character? Would it work better if she were a different age or gender? Could she be older? Younger? Male? Nonbinary? What qualifies her, specifically, to be the narrator of this story? In short—why this character, and why this narrative style? Is it just the right one? Or could it be different? What is the best way to tell the story, and who is the best person to tell it?

Best of luck, and happy revising!

— Judith Tarr

Eloi, Eloi, Chapter 1 by James Cooper

This chapter is a pretty definite early draft. The prose loses control of itself here and there, and sometimes I had to stop and go, “Huh?” while I tried to parse the meaning of a phrase. But that’s fixable in revision, with a good line edit and some careful copyediting.

At the same time, there are some stunning bits of imagery. Those show me where the revision can go, and what potential it has. The idea of Satan’s poetry, and a world filled with it. The moonlight moving as if it’s sentient—as if it has volition. The angels’ movement, more math than magic. The way the dream fades, like some great symphony falling into silence.

Structurally I think the chapter could use a little rethinking. The individual memories are poignant, and they’re important to Jacob’s life and character. But the way they’re set up is a bit slow, with the rhythm of exposition rather than active narration. It takes a while to get to the event that actually begins the story, the encounter with Death followed by what appears to be Jacob’s first dream.

Two things stand out to me in the narrative: Satan’s poetry and I do not dream. Is there a way to lead with the latter as well as the former? Is there some connection between them—whether it’s real or in Jacob’s head?

Perhaps a less linear timeline would help with the story’s movement. Start in the church, bring in memories of his mother’s funeral and the life experiences that brought him back here. Could he have seen Death at the funeral, too, or thought he did? Might he feel as if time is slipping off its straight track, and he’s caught in between memory and reality? And that’s what he’s been told dream logic is like?

There’s also the fact that according to science, dreams are essential. If we can’t get that level of sleep, we might as well not be sleeping at all. Actual lack of dreaming (as opposed to just not remembering dreams) can have serious mental health consequences.

Which I’m sure you know, and probably will address later in the story, but it might be relevant here. He may wonder about his own sanity, and interpret the dream as a hallucination brought on by longterm sleep deprivation. Or, and again this may be addressed later, there’s something going on with his immortal soul; it has something to do with Satan. His non-dreaming is a sign that he’s not the otherwise normal guy he thinks he is.

In short, I think the Satan’s poetry theme could be made a little clearer, while the narrative itself uses the church and the Mass as a frame for Jacob’s backstory. Let us dive straight into the present day, with quick flashbacks to fill us in. That will help with the pacing at the beginning, but also give us the information we need to understand where Jacob is coming from.

There’s lots of good story-potential here, and some powerful ideas and images. I’m looking forward to seeing how it evolves from draft to final.

— Judith Tarr

The Light Reveals by J. Rokusson

— Judith Tarr

Save It For A Rainy Day by Jim McDougall Version 2 (formerly an Endless Rain)

“Save it For a Rainy Day” caught my attention this month with the way it’s braiding workplace life into an incipient, less-than-defined disaster. However, it’s a journey that doesn’t quite yet have a destination, so this month, I’d like to talk about making sure our pacing and visuals fit the stories we’re telling—and how to diagnose which story we’re telling.

“Save it For a Rainy Day” takes a not-always-usual approach to a science fiction story in its choice of protagonist: Ryley’s somewhat tedious, lonely supply management job—one that makes me feel the ghost of Amazon warehouses—is interrupted by the slow, persistent leak. It’s got callbacks to Alien, except with characters almost more bored with their shiftwork, and it’s a great perspective to tell this story from. I appreciate that Cyro isn’t exactly dedicated to his job and has a particular tone for deescalating bad behaviour, and that all three don’t exactly like each other, but have well-worn ways of working together. The dynamics between them bring texture and personality to this artificial world.

Likewise, that ever-present leaking adds structure to “Save it For a Rainy Day”: as the tension ramps up, more and more water moves into the space of the story. It’s a subtle but powerful effect, and well done.

I think there’s room for some improvements in the next draft, and first and foremost, I’d suggest tightening and cutting this piece so it’s terse, clean, and polished. There’s a lot of hedging in the dialogue—notably in the lunchroom scene and the trek down to the tubeway—that doesn’t entirely get the story forward, and since “Save it For a Rainy Day” has characters racing against those leaks, it’s a good fit to keep the story moving: it makes the pacing tell the same story as the ideas are, instead of pulling against those ideas.

On the plot level, some cuts would streamline the action of the story. Ryley has his mother’s Pathfinder, and that’s their second way into the tunnels, but since Torgas dies before their expedition launches, it’s not strictly necessary: they could have somehow fished out his and used it. Likewise, Ryley’s passing out and wondering if he’s died—and Cyro’s amnesia—don’t seem to change their actions or situation in the slightest. I’d like to suggest that they either do add something we can’t find elsewhere in the piece, or that you consider cutting them out to keep the momentum going.

I think there’s also work you can do with that pacing to show who takes the crisis seriously: if Torgas’s dialogue is more meandering, less tight than the others’, that can speak to his outlook and character.

Likewise, I’d love to see work on the visual description in “Save it For a Rainy Day”. There are some great visual moments here: the dissolved textures on the lunchroom photo, the dying expression on Torgas’s face. But since Sphere is a contained, somewhat sterile environment—and the parts of it Ryley accesses aren’t the most exciting—I’d love to get some sensory detail and worldbuilding into the short passages where he’s outside, and some visual sense of its few characters. I think there’s a chance to do some worldbuilding when he crosses Median Street to his apartment, and give readers a sense of what the rest of this habitat is like—especially because you’ve already introduced a live question about whether Sphere is artificial or just Earth. Giving us a little information about what Sphere is like helps readers feed that question and make it meaningful. Likewise, giving us a bit of visual sense of Torgas and Cyro will help readers understand something of their personalities, and what pressures they work under.

Ultimately, I think all of these thoughts hinge on a question about what readers should take away from “Save it For a Rainy Day”. Ryley finds out that Sphere is a submarine, and he’s the only one of the work crew left. And then—what does he do with that information, or how do you want readers to feel about that reveal? The secret’s revealed inside the story, but how do you want that information to touch the readers, who live outside it?

I think the answer to that question will define where “Save it For a Rainy Day” should go next. Thinking about readers and what you want them to take away from a piece can help shape the conversation you’re having: on pacing, on characterization, on visuals, and on every other piece of craft.

Thanks for the read, and best of luck!

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

Time Is Unkind by Bobby Harrell

— Judith Tarr

Hold The Anchovies Part 1 by Ethan Sabatella

— Judith Tarr