Tuesdays with Story

Fifth Tuesday stories
April 30, 2019

Writing challenge: My worst critique ever. It can be fiction. Maximum length for your story, poem, or essay is 500 words.

 

My Worst Critique Ever

Chris Zoern

“And you do understand that this is a very selective program, correct?” the Sergeant asked.

His words were muffled, and I had trouble processing them.  Rejected? How? I had the best time on the course, and I was certain I had done well on the written exam. I slowly nodded.

“I’m sorry, I really am. You’ll have to collect your things from your barrack by the end of the day,” he continued.

“Do I at least get to know why I’m not allowed in?”

“Unfortunately, the basis of the examination is confidential. The more we divulge the easier it will be for future applicants to cheat it.”

I felt a painful burning start in my lungs. My knuckles turned from red to white. “There has to be a mistake. There is no way you could reject me! I was obviously the best soldier on that field. You know I was, Sergeant.”

I had expected some form of pity from him, but there was nothing. Just that callous, unemotional mask that he always wore. If I had to go back to the front lines, outside the Engineer Corps, it would mean certain deaths. Both of us knew that daily casualties were in the thousands.  He was sending me to my death, and there wasn’t even a reason. Not an ounce of compassion. Typical Army.

Shortly after the Sergeant stood up, the door to his office opened and two uniformed men entered.

The Sergeant handed me an unmarked envelope. “Here are your tickets back to the front. Report to C.O. Williams. He’ll know what to do with you.”

The papers crinkled as my grip tightened on them. I turned to leave before things got messy and caught a glimpse of one of the guard’s faces. It was that little shit Adams! He had made it, and I had been left behind. It made no sense! He could barely tie his shoes by first bell, and I had done so well.

As we were walking back, I saw that he still had the safety on on his rifle and suddenly saw my only chance for surviving this shithole. As we turned into one of the more remote hallways, I grabbed the uniform of the other escort and threw him to the ground, relieving him of his rifle. I clicked off the safety just as Adams was starting to jump to action, fumbling with his own weapon. I hit Adams’ head with the butt of my rifle, and his body crumpled to the floor.  The other guy was reaching for his sidearm, so I gave him a football punt to the ribs. That stopped him.

I took off down the hallway. Left. Right. Right. Down the ladder. I knew this compound better than most, and, with any luck, I would be a ghost within a few hours. Just an AWOL marking in a manila folder.

 

Rejected

Mike Austin

Dear Michael,

Thank you for your submission of “Gentlemen Prefer Venusians” to Warped Drive magazine. While we at Warped seldom respond to pieces which we have no intention of publishing, we felt, (except for Gloria, who has always disturbed us and is now a former editor) for the sake of our own collective conscience, and for the sake of the world, that in this case we needed to reach out. We have decided to buy this piece and all of the rights to it, so that it may never see the light of day again.

While our magazine specializes in sci-fi erotica—and, to be fair, you do have an exhaustive and exhausting knowledge of every sci-fi concept ever written—we feel that there is a line, or perhaps a gaping chasm, between our definition of “erotica” and yours. (Gloria disagreed. But, again, she no longer works here, and we hope the two of you never meet.) Erotica is not supposed to leave our first readers curled up and sobbing under their desks. Nor is it supposed to make editors wish they had worn latex gloves to turn those sweat(?) stained pages. And even though what we publish is erotica, we still prefer to have some sort of storyline. We look for a beginning, a middle, and an end. This piece has only an interminable middle. An endlessly black and disturbing middle. An entire piece “en medias res” simply does not work. You did stop writing, and for that we are grateful. Or, at the very least, relieved. But it was hardly an end. It was also far too late to prevent lasting emotional damage. There was a point in the reading during which I wished your multi-purpose, multi-headed, multi-everything alien sex beast (which, again, Gloria liked. Did I mention that she no longer works here?) had clawed my eyes out, and, dear God, it’s back in my head again.

As we are paying for this piece, we feel that it is within reason to offer some suggestions and perhaps even guidance. In a sentence: Get help. We could not agree on whether you were a precocious juvenile or an adult with a limited grasp of vocabulary. Some could not agree on the word “precocious” and leaned more toward “appalling.” We also disagreed on “limited grasp,” once again leaning toward “appalling.” We also disagreed on our emotions re. your writing. There are simply so many synonyms for appalling. Odious? Vile? Monstrous? We did agree that you should move out of your parents’ basement and that you should get help. And that you should pursue some other outlet. Perhaps a career in psychological warfare for the Department of Defense. Though, on consideration, we wish you wouldn’t. It would only lead to more atrocities. Have you considered construction?

Thank you for considering us. But, in all honestly, we hope to never hear from you again.

 

Sincerely, etc, etc. I do wish to remain anonymous. As you should.

Senior Editor,

Warped Drive Magazine

 

The Battle

Jessica Smith

The voice was loud again, saying, “You aren’t good enough” or, “Nobody cares if you’re here or not” or, her particular favorite, “Wouldn’t it be easiest to just not be?” To be or not to be? Apparently, her inner critic liked Shakespeare.

Most days she battled through the arrows being flung at her with a series of meditations, prayers and mantras. Today wasn’t one of those days. Today she felt she was fighting the tide, trying to move as the waves of fear, shame and perfectionism slammed her just before she got close to the calm waters beyond.

“You’re mixing metaphors,” her critic chided.

She sighed and out loud answered, “I know!”

The inner voice continued, unwavering in its need to critique her. “You could say, ‘You are moving through the muck under the drawbridge while the army of self-criticism wages war above you.’”

“That’s dumb,” she said out loud again. To herself.

“But then you’re not mixing metaphors,” her inner voice continued, trying to reason with her.

She sighed. It never stopped. She knew she wasn’t a good writer. She could see that what she wrote was pedantic and, worse still, unoriginal, but she couldn’t help it. It was where she was. The only way to get better was to move through it.

She thought about quitting, doing something easier, but she knew the voice would follow her around no matter what she did.

I’m taking everything too seriously again, she thought, and tried to lighten up.

She took a sip of her coffee, happy with the strong taste. Her critic was, for the moment, silent, probably because it liked coffee, too.

During the few blissful minutes of silence, she typed away at her novel, trying to make progress. It started up again when her protagonist got stuck in a story arc that seemed to end abruptly.

“What the…” she said out loud, confused about what just happened in her story.

Being disturbed from his slumber, her dog looked at her, assessing whether he needed to move from his comfortable position on the couch. Using whatever logic dogs had, he decided against it and went back to sleep.

“You’re part of the one percent of dogs, you know,” she said to him.

He ignored her.

The voice started up again, “Why didn’t you write fiction more in your life, then it wouldn’t be so hard now?”

She was tired and decided not to argue. “Yes, yes, you might be right,” she replied, taking up the mantle of creativity again.

“Just pick a metaphor! A mantle isn’t in a war,” her critic exclaimed.

That’s debatable, she thought back. She had to laugh, the situation was so ridiculous. She once read that we think “surrender” means surrendering one’s side the battle, but really it means realizing there is no battle, or side, to surrender.

“Finally,” her critic said. “The same metaphor!”

She chuckled and got back on the horse.

“Oh, come on,” the critic exclaimed.

 

My Grandmother’s Honest Observation

Lisa McDougal

Author’s note: I based this little piece a conversation I recently had with my grandmother. It’s short, but it’s the first thing I thought of when I read the prompt. Wish I could be there to read it for context.

Grandma, I’ve lost 17 pounds!

*Stares in Skepticism* Doesn’t look like you lost any in your breast.

Jesus, Lady, I’m trying!

 

Critic-que … A prickly but useful critique

John Schneller

“This story is pointless and ridiculous!”

Author’s note:

This critique had some barbs in it. As a result I stepped out of the group for a time, but not out of offense. I needed to be step back from editing, be clear in my own mind as to what the point of the story was. Working to bring that out clearly in my stories is an ongoing edit I need to remember.

As to the second word, I retained the feeling/reaction I experienced when hearing the word ‘ridiculous’ applied to something I valued …. There will be a place to insert that emotion into a storyline in the future.

 

Representation Declined

John Schneller

Dear Mr. Schneller,

Thank you for your unsolicited query relating to your half-finished “fictional novel masterpiece,” Return On The Wind.  I was unaware that Margaret Mitchell hired you at the age of six to write a sequel to Gone With The Wind. That was “quite a feather in your little bonnet,” as you say.

Despite Ms. Mitchell’s trust in you, I am sorry to inform you that we will not be able to offer representation at this time. Our greatest problem lies in the fact that if this book is, per your words, “the greatest written work since The Bible, and possibly equally divinely inspired,” we must be honest and acknowledge that we do not have adequate staff to work with an author like you. Your predictions are impressive, but our agency would never survive handling the volume of sales we calculate.

As to your other suggestion, we cannot purchase Amazon at this time. If you would like to pursue the hostile takeover you referred to, I do recommend getting an opinion from someone other than your Uncle Larry. I did not recognize all the organizations you mentioned in your bibliography, other than the NRA, but you might be able find help within one of those institutions.

We would like you to know that it was not a unanimous decision within our agency to decline your representation. I did share your letter with my seven contemporaries. Four of us voted to resent you. Four did not respond.

One final note. Our agency owner is thrilled to hear you live just down the street from her but, due to unfortunate coincidences, both she and our business location are relocating in the next week. We will be sure to send you our new address.

Regards,

John Smith

Author and Agent, Long-Shot Publishing Associates

 

Ouch, Mum!

Tracey Gemmell

My mother takes seriously her responsibility for keeping me and my writing career humble. She’s good like that. I wish I could say the following is a work of fiction. It is not. It is a series of actual emails, redacted where necessary to preserve any shred of dignity I may have left.

July 10, 2016

Mum’s email to her brother. She didn’t know she’d copied me on it. Or maybe she did …

Mum: Can you believe Tracey’s book, Dunster’s Calling, was runner-up in a competition? Obviously, I should have published the book I wrote.

(Mum asked me not to sign the copy of Dunster’s Calling I gave her – in case she gave it away.)

March 10, 2019

Me: I’ve attached the cover image for More or Less Annie and the text that will go on the back cover. What do you think?

Mum: Who wrote the blurb for your book?

Me: I, of course, wrote the blurb. Who do you think wrote it? I wrote the book too. You don’t say whether you like the cover or blurb, so not an encouraging sign.

March 13, 2019

Mum: There is nothing wrong with either cover or blurb of new book.  I know you have an editor and I always think that the blurb is more important than the book. If that doesn`t grab, the book is not read. The first paragraph of the blurb is the most important and can mean a sale or not a sale. We all do it and it is probably very unfair but has to be kept in mind.

Me: So you wouldn’t read More Or Less Annie, then?

Mum: I am just waiting for you to make a fortune so that I can live as I want to. You are taking an awful long time, and I haven`t got that long. Do keep that in mind.

Love, Mum

The good news is, thanks to Mum’s conditioning of my self-esteem, no agent, publisher or TWS group member will ever be able to hurt my feelings. I owe Mum a great deal.

 

Advice from T.

Cindi Dyke

CHARACTER CRITIQUE OF NORTH ROAD   PROGTAGONIST

SUBMITTED BY TESSA, THE AUSTRALIAN SHEPHERD

Note to author: This critique addresses the seven elements of character review. While there is no intent to denigrate or debase the writing, candid feedback cannot avert it from presenting organically.

Sincerely,

T.

 

1. PHYSICAL APPEARANCE: The white fur on my chest “wafting side to side with each step” and the carrying of my head in a “manner befitting royalty” begins to capture my essence. This should be developed in greater detail with an additional ten to twelve pages. Delete the mundane description of my owner’s blue eyes.
2. BACKGROUND: Good decision to ignore my eleven siblings. Haven’t heard from any of the boys or bitches since CC adopted me. To the best of my knowledge not one has become the protagonist of a novel.
3. PERSONALITY: You wonder if my “sparkling copper eyes shine with intellect of mischief.” You decide it is both. Astute observation. Dedicate a few more pages to this.
4. RELATIONSHIPS WITH OTHER CHARACTERS: My trueheartedness and steadfast devotion to the humans is the leading exemplar of relationships between characters. Their messy and conflicted relationships with each other are unnecessary and should be deleted. Eventually, you have them figuring things out but it takes far too long for them to grasp even the basics. I find your portrayals of humans as slow learners authentic, but if you would have them focus more of their attention on me, your lengthy novel could be a compelling short story.
5. ROLE IN WORK: See #4
6. HOW DO THE CHARACTER’S ACTIONS ADVANCE THE STORY? Here is the major failing of your work. My introduction in the book does not occur until page sixty-six. How can I, your protagonist, your most interesting, most vital character, advance the story if I am not introduced until chapter thirteen? Expecting the first twelve chapters to advance by conflicted humans alone is just not realistic. Bring me in sooner. It would elevate interest, engage readers more quickly, and increase the opportunity of your human characters to learn the things they need to learn.
7. WHAT STRUGGLES DOES THE CHARACTER ENCOUNTER? The attack on the beach. Really? Why would any respectable author pit a noble, peace-loving Aussie against not one, but two fight dogs? The whole scene is unnecessarily brutal. Far too much blood being spilled, most of it mine. And then there’s the ripped ear. Mine again. Does it really need to come off? Then just when I thought the fight was over and I was grateful to survive, you bring a third fight dog across the dunes. Have to say I did not see that coming. You need to identify your target audience. Perverse readers might find the struggle suspense filled and dramatic, but I implore you to delete the entire scene. It has given me nightmares.

 

 

My Worst Critique

Larry Sommers

“Your penultimate line comes to eleven-sixteenths of an inch from the right edge.” Miss Breiseth lays down her wooden ruler and stares up at me over the tops of rimless bifocals. “The required margin is three-quarters of an inch.”

I sigh. I can’t believe this.

“And, by the way, Larry Number Two: You are aware that it’s not okay to occasionally split an infinitive, are you not?”

“Huh?”

“Here, in the second paragraph, you have written, ‘I wanted to always stay in my home town.’ That’s a split infinitive. It should be, ‘I wanted always to stay in my home town.’”

“But,” I splutter, “that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Indeed not, but you’re the one who wrote it. I’m merely pointing out the misplaced adverb.”

“Why wouldn’t the adverb come right before the verb it modifies?”

“But it does. What you fail to understand, young man, is that ‘to’ is part of the verb. ‘Always’ must modify the whole verb, the infinitive, and not split it.”

“It doesn’t sound right.”

“It is the rule. Just like the three-quarters inch margin.”

This is another reason I hate it here. Why did we have to move? Life was perfect in Streator, I was getting some friends, at long last; but now we live in Kenosha—all for Dad’s dumb job.

Miss Breiseth, who doesn’t come up to my shoulder, is prim, proper, and pig-headed. I’m just a number to her. Back home, Mister Wittrup used to call me “Old Man Sommers,” as if I deserved some respect. To Miss Breiseth I’m “Larry Number Two.” Larry Pileski can’t help being Larry Number One. He has a natural talent for coming earlier in the alphabet. I don’t hold a grudge.

“So you must re-write it without violating the margins. And without splitting the infinitive. And then hand it back to me. Do you understand?” Her beady little eyes bore into me.

“Yes,” I mumble.

“And one more thing.”

I sigh again. Her prissy little mouth makes a smirk that tells me what she thinks of my attitude. And then she knits her brow. “How long ago did you move here?”

“Two years ago,” I mutter.

“Two years . . .” The old battle-ax stares at me like I’m some kind of specimen. “A long while to be a victim. But you’re here now, and life is all ahead of you. Get over it.”

Scowling, I trudge back to my desk, sit down, and take out a fresh sheet of paper.

 

It’s No Game of Thrones

Jerry Peterson

Game of Throngs

Jerry Peterson, author

Minnesota Heritage Press

March 2019

 

Review by Wendell Farnstorm

Minneapolis Tribune

April 28, 2019

This book critic thought Wisconsin writer Jerry Peterson had done his worst when he penned Man with the Bigger Axe: Leonard Fillmore, the First White House Vampire Slayer.

That was last year.

This year, he authored Game of Throngs, a poor imitation of George R.R. Martin’s wildly popular series of novels Game of Thrones.

Peterson sets his book, the first of a promised trilogy, in what will at some time in the future become Minnesota’s Koochiching and Lake of the Woods counties, on the Canadian border. At this time, it is known as Brumunddal Vest, settled by descendants of Leif Erikson and his Viking band of marauding explorers.

Aksel Torvaldsson, king of Brumunddal Vest, has died. Now two contingents of the Norski community he had ruled for the last half century are vying for the throne, one led by Magda Nielsdotter, the other by her cousin, Gudbrandt Haugen.

The Norskis, unlike their Viking forebears, are a gentle people. They negotiate an agreement whereby the next ruler will be determined by means of a series of tournaments—sheepshead, kübb, and curling—in which teams from the Nielsdotter and Haugen contingents participate.

On the eve before the third and final day of the tournaments, with the Neilsdotter team having won the sheepshead games and the Haugen team the kübb games, an outrider races in on a hodagg to raise an alarm. He shouts to the gathered throngs of Norskis that an army of wild-eyed Canucks is on the march south from the frozen tundra of their North Country home to ravage Brumunddal Vest and carry off its Norski women.

From here Peterson’s story grows more outlandish by the chapter. Magda Nielsdotter and Gudbrandt Haugen agree to suspend the final tournament and raise an army of their own to defend their land. Nielsdotter offers to recruit two companies of trolls to supplement her share of the soldiers if Haugen will capture and train fifty of the most ferocious hodaggs the roam the outermost regions of the kingdom to supplement his share of the soldiers, hodaggs that his cavalrymen will then ride into battle.

Thus ends the first book. One can only hope the hodaggs will devour the manuscripts for Books Two and Three.