All new Page 1 critiques!

This continues the reprisal of my series of page 1 critiques - you can read about the project HERE, and there's a list of all the critiques so far too.

I'm also posting some of these on my Youtube channel (like, subscribe yadda yadda).

It's worth noting that I critique whole batches of chapters on a monthly basis for my top teir patrons.

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I gave doing this up about 6 months ago, but I missed it and asked for some new, unpublished page 1s so that I would be critiquing work where the author had the opportunity to change things if they agreed with any of my comments.

Today I'm feeling too ropey to write my own stuff, so I'm casting an eye over one of the page 1s that came in last month.

(My standard disclaimer)

It's very hard to separate one's tastes from a technical critique. There are page 1s from popular books with which I would find multiple faults. I didn't, for example, like page 1 of Terry Goodkind's Wizard's First Rule (I didn't pursue the rest of the book). But that book has 150,000+ ratings on Goodreads, a great average score of 4.12 and Goodkind is a #1 NYT bestseller. His first page clearly did a great job for many people.

I'm not always right *hushed gasp*. You will likely be able to find a successful and highly respected author who will tell you the opposite to practically every bit of advice I give. Possibly not the same author in each case though.

The art of receiving criticism is to take what's useful to you and discard the rest. You need sufficient confidence in your own vision/voice such that whilst criticism may cause you to adjust course you're not about to do a U-turn for anyone. If you act on every bit of advice you'll get crit-burn, your story will be pulled in different directions by different people. It will stop being yours and turn into some Frankenstein's monster that nobody will ever want to read.

Additionally - don't get hurt or look for revenge. The person critiquing you is almost always trying to help you (it's true in some groups there will be the occasional person who is jealous/mean/misguided but that's the exception, not the rule). That person has put in effort on your behalf. If they don't like your prose it's not personal - they didn't just slap your baby.


I've flicked through some of the pages looking for one where I have something to say - something that hopefully is useful to the author and to anyone else reading the post.


This one is from Rebecca Styles and an upcoming book called Chain of Bones.

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I've posted the unadulterated page first then again with comments inset and at the end.

Like a malicious donkey, the door ‘hee’d’ open and ‘hawed’ closed with every crest and dip of the Par.

Vyardin wiped her face on a nearby shirt and sighed at the useless wedge of paper she’d shoved under the door, watching as it slid back and forth in the dip of the wooden boards. She hated fixing things, it never went right.

Vy scanned the shelves of rolled and folded maps, some hand drawn by herself across two decades, others by hands as equally calloused, generations before her time aboard. A stack of reports from surveyors and logbooks of journeys mixed with ledgers and tallies, were pushed far to the back of the shelves, whilst newer documents and trinkets and knives from faraway places, sat in easy sight and reach. There was a thick leather folder containing letters of proposed contracts, sponsorships for further expeditions -from whence the current wedge of paper had been taken- but none of it was recent. Probably because it had been five very long years since setting foot in the dirt of civilization. She doubt any of those factors would even recall the proposals they’d sent.

She yawned against the heat and lack of sleep, nothing seemed a suitable wedge. Not even the actual wedge.

Again she had to wipe her sweating forehead, then dipped a pen into the ink bottle and hovered over the chart she had been working on. If she sold all the new maps, there would be enough money to return home. Be with her children. But the cabin and the Par was her home too. Its smell of papers and leather mingled with the sea, decking oils, wax for the sails and, she crinkled her nose, a lot of unwashed men.

Three children she had conceived in the bed she no longer shared. Children she had promised to return to, believing she would only be away a year.

Her sadness ground to a halt and anger began to flood through her as the door laughed again. It laughed because no one had fixed it properly. No one had fixed it because it needed new parts and there was no money for new things because Captain Raysh had spent all their coin ‘upgrading’ the Par. This, apparently, did not include doors and hinges, nor a million other things on board the ship. Her ship. Her ship and her money. Not that anyone else much cared about either point. She’d sell the maps and figure things out from there.

 Vy took a steadying breath and set pen to paper only to find the ink had dried in the immense heat. She stabbed the pen into its crib and reached for the string-wrapped graphite stick, to continue marking their progress, forcing herself to stay focused.

“Mid knuckle joint.”

Vy scowled at the random interruption, tried to ignore the conversation seeping down to her cabin, just as she tried to ignore the wretched door. Dragging the shirt down her face to her now dripping neck and chest, and flinging it aside, she moved to the other end of the large map table and lifted the jug -empty- and thumped it back down. What she wouldn’t give for some ice-cold fruit juice instead of warm water, which seemed to just go straight through her. She hoped their next port had supplies enough for them. Somehow, and with a shudder, she doubted it.

Staring down at the chart, Vy dragged her finger along their route until it crossed a line and the listed fathom count dropped suddenly. That would be tomorrow. They had run too far already.

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Like a malicious donkey, the door ‘hee’d’ open and ‘hawed’ closed with every crest and dip of the Par.

 

The hee and haw almost do the job – certainly if it meowed we wouldn’t need “like a cat”.

“Like a donkey” feels insufficient on its own though and the author has sensed this and added “malicious”. I’m not sure “malicious” works. I would probably lose the donkey entirely, or lean into it and called it “persistently annoying” or some such.

 

On first reading I got a bit further in believing she was in a type of carriage called a Par. But that was almost entirely my fault. Still, there is very little that says “ship” or “ocean” for quite a while.

 

Vyardin wiped her face on a nearby shirt and sighed at the useless wedge of paper she’d shoved under the door, watching as it slid back and forth in the dip of the wooden boards. She hated fixing things, it never went right.

Vy scanned the shelves of rolled and folded maps, some hand drawn by herself across two decades, others by hands as equally calloused, generations before her time aboard. A stack of reports from surveyors and logbooks of journeys mixed with ledgers and tallies, were pushed far to the back of the shelves, whilst newer documents and trinkets and knives from faraway places, sat in easy sight and reach. There was a thick leather folder containing letters of proposed contracts, sponsorships for further expeditions -from whence the current wedge of paper had been taken- but none of it was recent.

 

All of this is good description. It’s good on the “word” level, and it brings our PoV in too which is good. That element could be pushed a bit more, but it’s not essential.

What is perhaps less good is that these 10 lines of describing things in a room are occupying vital real estate on page 1 where we might be hoping for questions, tension, action, and dialogue. Maybe not all four, but certainly two or three.

 

Probably because it had been five very long years since setting foot in the dirt of civilization. She doubted any of those factors would even recall the proposals they’d sent.

 

This is the first thing that really sets up an interesting situation with possible tension and questions. Before that we have a woman at a desk being annoyed by a door.

 

She yawned against the heat and lack of sleep, nothing seemed a suitable wedge. Not even the actual wedge.

 

I know she has said she’s not good at fixing things. But map making is a precise and scientific undertaking, and she’s clearly good at it. Wedging a door is so simple that I am having trouble believing that she can’t achieve it. Paper is great for wedging a door. The disbelief damages the story.

 

Again she had to wipe her sweating forehead, then dipped a pen into the ink bottle and hovered over the chart she had been working on. If she sold all the new maps, there would be enough money to return home. Be with her children. But the cabin and the Par was her home too. Its smell of papers and leather mingled with the sea, decking oils, wax for the sails and, she crinkled her nose, a lot of unwashed men.

 

OK, so now we have the very definite ship setting. That could have been made idiot-proof in the first few lines with a single word about waves or sails.

 

Three children she had conceived in the bed she no longer shared. Children she had promised to return to, believing she would only be away a year.

 

So the tension and the questions are strengthened – why did she stay away so long, what will she return to?

 

Her sadness ground to a halt and anger began to flood through her as the door laughed again. It laughed because no one had fixed it properly. No one had fixed it because it needed new parts and there was no money for new things because Captain Raysh had spent all their coin ‘upgrading’ the Par. This, apparently, did not include doors and hinges, nor a million other things on board the ship. Her ship. Her ship and her money. Not that anyone else much cared about either point. She’d sell the maps and figure things out from there.

 

Seems odd that she has no say on the spending of her money. It makes me question if she is a prisoner or being exploited/abused. But we see on page 2 that this is not the case and she’s ordering the crew around.

 

Again – the non-closing door feels like a non-problem. I imagine that most sailors are in part handymen (handypersons) good at improvising with a knife, tar, rope, sailcloth etc.

 

 Vy took a steadying breath and set pen to paper only to find the ink had dried in the immense heat. She stabbed the pen into its crib and reached for the string-wrapped graphite stick, to continue marking their progress, forcing herself to stay focused.

 

“Mid knuckle joint.”

 

The first spoken words. They are intriguing as well as confusing.

 

Vy scowled at the random interruption, tried to ignore the conversation seeping down to her cabin, just as she tried to ignore the wretched door. Dragging the shirt down her face to her now dripping neck and chest, and flinging it aside, she moved to the other end of the large map table and lifted the jug -empty- and thumped it back down. What she wouldn’t give for some ice-cold fruit juice instead of warm water, which seemed to just go straight through her. She hoped their next port had supplies enough for them. Somehow, and with a shudder, she doubted it.

 

This is good scene-setting in terms of it being hot and uncomfortable (although after 5 years at sea she might have grown tolerant of such things). But, again, it does use quite a few lines to tell us she’s hot, at a time when first page of the book could be working harder on convincing us to turn to the second page.

 

Staring down at the chart, Vy dragged her finger along their route until it crossed a line and the listed fathom count dropped suddenly. That would be tomorrow. They had run too far already.

 

And at the end of page one I can recognize that the writing is good – which might be enough to make me turn the page on its own. But unfortunately it will likely have to do the job on its own as there are no strong hooks.

 

The page 1 does do a good job of introducing the setting, and there is the question of the long-delayed return. If a reader likes those ideas – they will carry on. If a reader is less sure, then they need to be sold harder on the good stuff to come.

 

 

A second page was included where we see our MC tell off some of the crew who were gambling over cutting off each other’s finger. And then we end with a, “WHAT’S THAT BEHIND YOU?” gambit, which carries a degree of page-turniness, though will have to back it up sharpish or lose the reader’s trust.

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