YA SF- 800 words

[Emily MacGowan]

Hi guys,

A while ago I posted this section of my book and have re-written it to try and dig out the exposition and attach a couple of hooks. I've gone over and over it and would really appreciate some external feedback! Don't water down your critique, I'm a big girl and can absolutely deal with it. My goal is to make it better and get it published - not boost my ego

The novel is light SF but doesn't really collide with that genre until the end of the first chapter - another 2000 words from this excerpt.


Alexis wants Mr Cross.

Sash shaves his back.

I traced my fingers across the glitter nail-polish messages, grinning. A decade’s worth of high-school gossip was scratched, painted and cut into the wood of this most holy of lunch tables. If Alexis or her minions caught me sitting here, they’d disinfect the seat. Unpopularity is absolutely contagious.

Today, though, it was six am and the hair-straightener brigade were asleep in their mansions. I was wrapped in two layers of puke-colored fleece, waiting for the rest of my bio class. I had two hours on a bus to endure before being dumped at the beach - my least favorite place on the planet. Now seemed as good a time as any to catch up on gossip.

A shadow cut across the table. “Ellie? Oh my god.”

I looked up from a comment on a dodgy nosejob and squinted into the sunrise. Andy Jackson glared down at me from behind a pair of yellow women's sunglasses. Andy was a celebrated member of the gossip table, and I’d just read more than I ever wanted to know about his anatomy. He lowered himself into the seat opposite me. “You know Alexis will eat you alive if she finds out you’re sitting here."

“Pffft, she’d never eat me. Too many calories."

Andy didn’t smile. “You’re totally dead. Hey, speaking of dead, the homework you did for me sucked.”

Great. A customer complaint, my favorite way to start the day.

Andy pulled a stack of pink papers from his bag. He leaned towards me, whispering conspiratorially. “I got an F.”

“I see that,” I replied in a clearly non-whispering voice. “The, uh, enormous red letter on the front is a bit of a giveaway.”

Andy scowled. “Drake knew I didn't write it, which means you messed up. I want a refund.”

Oh, jeese. It was early. I was tired. I wasn’t ready to deal with this level of stupidity.

I crossed my elbows on the table, sighing. “You see how the paper is pink, Andy?”

Silence.

“You see how the writing is purple, and there are little flowers in the margin?”

Andy looked confused. This was one of his staple expressions. I rubbed my forehead, wincing. This sort of thing didn't usually need explaining.

“You're meant to copy it out in your own handwriting, genius, that's why I put it on such pretty paper. I didn't think anyone would actually hand that in.”

Andy‘s cheeks reddened. “But you didn't tell me that.”

“No refunds,” I said, pushing the papers into his hands. “If you have a problem you can bring it up with the principal. I bet he’d love hearing about our little arrangement.”

Andy paused, glaring, then snatched the papers from the table. “It's... it’s a stupid story anyway.”

I wanted to say How else could I make it look like you wrote it?, but didn’t feel like getting my bag peed on. Instead, I shrugged. My apologetic smile didn’t feel very convincing.

Andy leaned forward, his face close enough that I could see veins tracing across his eyes like scarlet spiderwebs. “There’s one about you,” he said, pointing at the messages on the table. “In pen on the right.” He stood and stormed off, papers in hand.

I frowned and shuffled to the edge of the table, searching for my name. He was probably bluffing. I hadn’t dated since I was four, and certainly hadn’t undergone questionable teen surgery. The only two people who knew enough to embarrass me were banned from this table as well. If I’d made it on to the holy grail of local gossip, I was pretty sure I’d know about it. I scoured the overlapping layers of marker and polish for anything remotely connected to me, then froze.

Scrawled in black pen in the corner of the table, I spotted my name. A wave of anger coursed through me.

I stood quickly, slung my bag across my shoulder and marched to the car-park. Half the class stood about half-asleep, and I pulled up my hood to hide from them.

Nobody could see me like this. Nobody would understand.

I turned around the back of the math building and slumped against the wall. Two words, written in black. Two words were all it took to make my hands shake, to make me double over, fighting for control. I breathed slowly, eyes closed until my focus returned.

Nothing in high-school is sacred. No life-changing moment is yours alone to cherish or regret. Everything is passed around, cheapened and twisted into something whispered over lunch. Something scrawled on Alexis’s table. Something you have to face, every day, whether you’re ready to or not.

If I found out who wrote it I’d gladly kill them. Tie them to the table and burn the lot.

Two words.

Ellie jumped.

[Claire Young]

Hi, Emily!

Sorry I must make this quick. Just a few things . . .

I crossed my elbows on the table, sighing.

I don't usually think of crossing elbows, but okay.

“No refunds,” I said, pushing the papers into his hands. Then: Andy paused, glaring, then snatched the papers from the table. Aren't they in his hands?

I frowned and shuffled to the edge of the table Isn't she sitting? She stood quickly after she spotted her name and got angry.

I turned around the back of the math building You left out a word or words.

I'm not sure about her having not dated since she was four. Who dates at age four? You mean what? Play date?

I don't know what Ellie jumped means. But this is where I'd turn the page, right?

You have a good "teenager" voice and you're on the right track. Just needs some tweaking. A bit of editing.

[Emily MacGowan]

Thanks Claire!! I evidently need to take much more care with my action sequences. That is incredibly helpful, I hadn't noticed those before. Crossed elbows makes no sense, indeed, and I had forgotten that Ellie put the papers in his hands.

As for her shuffling, "slid" would be a much better word for her moving across while sitting - I will replace that one!

Dating at age four is a joke. I might elaborate and say something like "I hadn't dated since George Hargreaves kissed me in first grade." which should make it clearer - thanks!

Exactly what I was looking for

[Kitty Foyle]

I crossed my elbows on the table,

You probably meant to say you crossed your arms. That we can do, y'know!

*_*

[leslee]

JUST MY OPINION, FEEL FREE TO IGNORE:

I traced my fingers across the glitter nail-polish messages, grinning.
I crossed my elbows on the table, sighing.
I rubbed my forehead, wincing.

Really? Messages grinning? Table sighing? Forehead wincing?
Those sentences need a rewrite.

I hadn’t dated since I was four . . .

The joke doesn't work.

The whole thing talks too much for my taste. Examples:

I frowned and shuffled... Can't do one or the other? Has to do both?
looked up from a comment on a dodgy nosejob and squinted... Looking and squinting.
A wave of anger coursed through me. Not just anger, a wave coursing.
Andy paused, glaring, then snatched... Pausing and glaring and snatching. Oh, my!

Rather than make a story more interesting, this kind of chatter distracts from a storyline. It shows that the writer isn't secure in their writing and doesn't trust the reader to "get it" without adding all this stuff.

Grab your machete and chop this thing. It needs a good edit.

[Emily MacGowan]

Thanks, leslee.

Getting critique reminds me of when I was at university, where I studied math. Some subjects were hard, but whenever I studied calculus, when the lecturer would describe a new technique or equation, I would always feel like I already knew what he or she was saying, that I just needed them to say it so I could consciously be aware of it. Sort of like I knew calculus by instinct, and needed classes just to bring it into the light.

I feel like that when I get a good writing critique. I knew those sentences were bad - some half-formed voice in the back of my head didn't like them - I just didn't know why, and I found it hard to hear the voice. Now I can see it, and I can see how much stronger the piece will be without them. Now the voice will be that little bit stronger, until, eventually, I can hear it as I write. Hopefully. Now I'm going to go through and look for those sentences. Sheesh, there's a lot in my novel Gonna be a busy few days!

I absolutely concur that the writing isn't confident - I'm not connected to my reader. Yes, I paint the scene more than I should. I keep waiting to get there with confidence in my writing, and I know I'm making progress, but still not quite there. As that voice gets stronger I feel much better about what I write.

Thanks, I really get a lot out of this whenever I ask for critique. Absolutely invaluable.