The Loudest Silence by miss20something on Inkitt

Blurb

Kidnapped as a child and trapped under a ruthless man's control, Isabella Wright has known nothing but fear, betrayal, and survival. But when a fleeting chance at freedom appears, she must risk everything—because in a world of lies and silence, even the smallest choice can be deadly.

[Trigger Warning: Discussion of control and abuse, father/daughter.]

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Original (First 500)

A cool autumn breeze whisked past me as I softly shut the door behind me. I quickly ducked and crept past the front lawn as I made my way towards the small gate that enclosed the perimeter of the house. I held my breath as I heard something fall from inside the house. I quickly moved towards the house and pressed my back flat against the wall. The only sounds I could hear were those of my labored breathing and the sounds of cars as they drove by. I silently stood there hoping that he didn’t see me sneaking out.

The consequences would be intolerable.

I pushed my medium length raven hair behind my ear and stared up at the window that was directly above me. I let out a deep sigh of relief as I saw the light go out. He was going to sleep much earlier today.

Pushing myself off the wall, I once again ducked and made my way across the lawn. Quiet as a mouse, I lifted the lock to the gate. Glancing over my shoulder, I made sure the lights in the house were still off. Upon noticing that the coast was clear, I quickly rushed out. Shoving my hands in the pocket of my worn out hoodie, I began walking towards the park around the corner from where I lived. A small smile rested on my face as I walked towards the one place where I felt at peace. It was the one place where I could always gather my thoughts and clear my head. It was a safe haven in the dark world I lived in.

I soon made it to the park and took a seat on the small bench under the large Oak tree. It was nearing sundown and there were only a few people left in the park. I moved my legs on top of the bench and placed my chin on top of my knees. I let out a deep breath as I cocked my head to the side and stared ahead. To most people I must’ve looked odd.

 It wasn’t ideal being out here at this time, but I’ll take this over nothing. With the risks I took by even sneaking out, I was determined to enjoy whatever small amount of time I got out of the house.

I silently scoffed as I thought of my life. A young adult, hostage to a criminal, living right under the noses of oblivious neighbors who have yet to notice. I shuddered as I thought of the punishment I would receive if he ever caught me sneaking out, or trying to escape. There was no escaping him as long as he was alive. The connections he had were too strong. He would always end up finding me.

I bitterly chuckled.

My own father was the culprit.

A father didn’t act the way that he did, a…

My Edit

As the back door clicked quietly shut behind me, a crash from inside made me freeze. My father should have been asleep. An hour ago, he’d mumbled something angry through my open door. A moment later, I'd heard his own door slam – his drunken pre-bed ritual.

I pressed myself against the side of the house and looked up to see his bedroom window light up. I edged back toward the door, anticipating the bellow that would follow his discovery that I wasn’t in my room. 

Instead, his window slid up and I froze again. A lamp smashed against the tree in the middle of the yard, raining down bits of ceramic onto the grass. A smaller piece of lamp joined it a moment later, followed by a lampshade. The window slammed shut again. 

The lamp had been on the nightstand by his bed. He must have knocked it over while stumbling to the bathroom. I waited, listening. He'd either pass out again, or come looking for his favorite punching bag. If he hollered, I could be back in the house, in the kitchen, sweeping or doing the dishes – again -- or something before he could thunder his way down the stairs.

Cars whooshed down the street. My father's bedroom light went out. I breathed. My knees trembled a little as I considered going back inside, just in case.

But then I pictured my night in my bedroom, on a bed with no sheets or pillows or furniture other than a desk with no chair, flinching at every creak of the house settling. Or, the park. Sunset, darkness, and only the screeches and squawks of nightlife keeping me company. No contest.

The fence was eight feet tall, making the yard a white-picket prison. I moved slowly toward it, still listening for my name. On the side closest to the house and furthest from my father's room, I'd created an escape hatch by turning two of the pickets into a door with a hidden hinge. 

Using the escape hatch was my evening ritual, escaping the dark cloud of rage that stormed over the house, infusing my psyche with fear. Making me dumb. And mute.

The park was close, just a few minutes' walk. The sun hovered at the horizon as I reached my favorite bench beneath an old oak tree. I pulled my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them. In the fading light, kids ran around, dodging parents trying to herd them toward the parking lot.

My own rebellion, sneaking out every night, was dumb. Fresh bruises made their ache known all over my body, reminding me that I didn't even have to defy him in order to earn his wrath. Whatever affection I remembered from my childhood, real or imagined, was long gone. 

I inhaled deeply, but couldn't relax. He was a constant shadow, hovering over me, whether he was there or not. I fought the urge to look around to see if he was actually behind me. If this was my last moment of freedom, I was going to enjoy every damned millisecond of it.

(Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~520)

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Critique

Interesting premise — a little darker than I'd usually go for. I didn’t realize at first that the ‘ruthless man’ in the blurb was Isabella’s father — a reveal that hits close to home for me (ba-dum-bum).

This is a powerful way to start a story, with a protagonist eking out a moment of freedom from a controlling, abusive person, literally at the risk of death. When I was seven, in a particularly bad foster home, I remember purposely not peeing before bed so that I would wake up in the middle of the night, just so that I could be alone, a person, out from under the microscope. That’s why Isabella’s risky little rebellion felt real to me — that craving for even five stolen minutes of personhood.

I will say that I think she's a little blase, leaving out of a gate that her father's room overlooks, and "hoping" he doesn't see her. In my revision, I created a little bit of space for her to wait and see if her presence is missed. I also gave her an "escape hatch" on the side of the house, not within view of her father's room.

Setting

We have a house and a park with short, but serviceable descriptions. The point isn't where we go as long as it's away from him. Plus, the lack of description keeps the world feeling small, still slightly claustrophobic.

Characterization

Isabella is obviously smart, brave, and resourceful. She's resigned to her permanent fate of being under her father's thumb, but still makes room to defy him covertly. There's also something claustrophobic about her thoughts in that even when she's not with him, she's thinking about him.

A lot of teenagers in a similar situation will sneak out to meet up with a boyfriend, party with friends, etc. There's an attitude that, if I'm already in trouble, I'll stuff as many sins into my outing as possible.

With Isabella, her rebellion is quiet, it's about reflection, the mental relief of being able to process the situation she's in, not push it away temporarily with sex or drugs. With this choice, the author reveals something about this character. She's not desensitized to the violence, she actively resents it, is hurt by it, and feels trapped in it.

Conflict/Tension

Um, yes. There is plenty of tension. The action in this story amounts to: Isabella leaves her house and goes to the park where she sits on a bench. There's no dialogue, no flashbacks, no real investment in the scenery. There's just tension.

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Final Thoughts

The author has effectively set a fearful and hopeless, yet angry tone. A lot of this is done through exposition, but the more effective way she does it is the way she positions Isabella within both settings; silent, zero human interaction, watching instead of participating, reacting to what has happened and what could happen.

The small rebellion of sneaking out while he's passed out, just to people watch, to think, to be -- this is a psychological thriller. We haven't even met the man, but his shadow looms over the entire excerpt.

With my edit, I tried to take Isabella out of her head, a little bit. I added the father throwing a lamp out of the window, both to show his irrational violence, and also to derail Isabella's smooth transition to the park. When she pauses, ready to flee back inside, it tells us that her sneaking out isn't a fun, teenage rebellion where she's going to go to the drive-in with Ken and Barbie and eat too many jujubes and end up with a tummy ache. Make no mistake. This is her escape.

The one thing that I did not include in my excerpt is the late reveal that Isabella's father is the abusive, controlling man spoken of in the blurb. I revealed that immediately, and here's why. This excerpt is a quiet moment of rebellion that works best with full reader participation. We need to feel every hesitation, every bruise.

If we're waiting for the reveal of who Isabella is being abused by, that is distracting us from empathizing with her. When we're reading from the close POV of a character, we need to be able to follow her thoughts. Isabella knows that this is her father, so we need to know, otherwise, in this moment, we are not her, and this weakens the effect of the tension the author is trying to build.

Overall, this is an excerpt that has everything we need. I hope that creating the "escape hatch" adds a little bit of characterization, another small rebellion hidden from her father, and maybe one that could come into play later in the story.

Alpha of the Millennium (The Millennium Wolves 02) by Sapir Alexandra Englard at Inkitt

Blurb

Eve is powerful, fearless, and on a mission she can’t refuse. Protecting the high-profile Morgan family puts her in the crosshairs of rogue werewolves, vampires, and dark forces—and her destined mate, Killian Darrow, blurs the line between duty and desire. Can she survive the danger and embrace the Alpha she was born to be?

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Original (First 500)

London, England

May 16, 2014

The clock ticked midnight and I closed my eyes, letting the sound of the Big Ben echo through the square, the neighborhood, the quiet city of London. The sound was rich and bombastic, carried away by the slapping wind, and I would’ve smiled at its familiarity had I remembered what it was like to smile from the heart.

Another sound invaded the quiet while the bells began to diminish. That sound was rougher, rugged, that of a motorcycle. Across the square from where I was sitting, a bike appeared, its rider draped in dark leather clothes, thinking himself to be a cool gangster, but I knew better. He rounded the square dramatically, riding over puddles on purpose so he could splash water like the little kid he was, and then stopped right next to me. Show-off, I thought disapprovingly as he removed his black helmet and, as if he was in a hair-conditioner commercial, flipped his dark gold hair so the silky locks wouldn’t simply be messy, but orderly so. Then he opened his gold-flecked brown eyes that seemed like molten honey that melted many a woman, and gave me a grin full of dimples and sin.

Killian Darrow was nothing if not a charming son of a bitch, but no one should underestimate him; he might be a pretty boy, but he had a mind sharper than a scalp, held ruthlessness within that he mostly concealed, but let pop out here and there. All in all, though, he was good people, and he was one of mine. That, including his intelligence and the excellent job he was doing for me, made him of deep value to me.

He was also my ward.

“You look just the same as you did a couple of years ago,” he said as a way of greeting while I rose to my feet. He scanned me from head to toe and back, and his lips curled into a mocking smirk. “Your fashion statement also stayed the same.”

I glanced down at my black hiking pants, black cape on top of black, baggy tee, black hiking boots, and black scarf and gloves, and knew he was right. “It’s necessary,” I responded dispassionately. “It helps me blend better.” Because if I were to wear what I truly wanted, I would’ve attracted too much attention, and that wasn’t acceptable.

“I know that,” he said, tucking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “I just wish I could see you in other clothes, because as far as I’m concerned, your wardrobe consists of this outfit only.”

He wasn’t wrong but talking about my attire was not the reason we were meeting tonight in such a secluded part of the city, with no one around but us. “Killian,” I said, giving him my hard stare, the one that had once made his knees shake, but now only made him arch an eyebrow. “While I love talking to you after so long…

My Edit

London, England
May 16, 2014

The clock ticked midnight, and I closed my eyes, letting the sound of Big Ben echo through the square, the neighborhood, the city of London. The sound was rich and bombastic, carried away by the slapping wind. I would’ve smiled at its familiarity—had I remembered how.

A different sound echoed through the square as the bells faded. Rougher. Rugged.
Across the square, a motorcycle appeared, its rider clad in dark leather. Killian rounded the square dramatically, riding through puddles on purpose so he could splash water like the little kid he was. He stopped on a dime, a foot away from me.

Show-off.

He removed his helmet and flipped his dark gold hair like he was in a shampoo commercial. Then he looked at me with eyes the color of molten honey and flashed a grin full of dimples and sin.

“Long time,” my ward said as I rose to my feet. He scanned me from head to toe. "You look good," he added, grinning, the ever-present glint of mischief in his eye. "Same outfit."

I glanced down at my black-on-black outfit—hiking pants, cape, baggy tee, and boots. I shrugged. “It helps me blend.”

He acknowledged that with a jerk of his head and another full-body scan, this one longer, assessing, dangerous.

“Killian,” I said, giving him my hard stare—the one that had once made his knees shake but now only made him arch an eyebrow. “While I love talking to you after so long…

(Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~212)

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Critique

The writing in the first two paragraphs is about as perfect an introduction to a first chapter as one could ask for, and is particularly refreshing in a Prologue which is usually just a fancy word for Infodump. The last line of the first paragraph stabbed me in the gut, the second paragraph made me smile, and the first sentence of the third paragraph almost made me laugh out loud.

Setting
Big Ben at midnight, in the rain. Already atmospheric with the "bombastic" bells, and then we get the vrooming of the motorcycle. The action of the motorcycle splashing through puddles and stopping in front of the POV character is easy to follow -- and cool. What the heck? What a great way to start a story!

Characterization
We have the POV character, Eve; older, over it, likes to blend. And we have Killian, a gorgeous show-off. A nice contrast in personalities. We know from the reading ahead that they're meeting so that he can hand over a piece of information he found that is important to the POV character.

I'm a little disturbed to see Eve describe her ward as having, "a grin full of dimples and sin." I'm not sure what the age difference is, but this comes off as a bit creepy with the power imbalance alone. That, combined with Killian's obvious flirtation makes me wonder if these two characters are supposed to become romantic partners.

For her part, Eve is not at all encouraging, and Killian seems like a born flirt, but I would like their dynamic to be a little clearer.

Conflict/Tension
We have the conflict in personalities as described in the Characterization section. We have Killian trying to prologue the conversation, flirting, and we have Eve trying to get to the point. That push-and-pull dynamic drives the first interaction, even when the dialogue meanders a bit.

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Final Thoughts

There is a little bit of extra exposition with Killian's intro and description, and most of the rest of the scene is bad flirting and vague dialogue. In my version, I cut about half of the word count. I didn't have to add any details or fill in any blanks. I just took away extraneous passages that slowed down the narrative, and condensed the dialogue.  

Now that I’ve talked about what works overall, let’s look closer at a section that could be trimmed for greater impact. To show what I mean about extra exposition, let's parse this passage:

Another sound invaded the quiet while the bells began to diminish. That sound was rougher, rugged, that of a motorcycle. Across the square from where I was sitting, a bike appeared, its rider draped in dark leather clothes, thinking himself to be a cool gangster, but I knew better. He rounded the square dramatically, riding over puddles on purpose so he could splash water like the little kid he was, and then stopped right next to me. Show-off, I thought disapprovingly as he removed his black helmet and, as if he was in a hair-conditioner commercial, flipped his dark gold hair so the silky locks wouldn’t simply be messy, but orderly so. Then he opened his gold-flecked brown eyes that seemed like molten honey that melted many a woman, and gave me a grin full of dimples and sin.

This is great. In one paragraph, you get a man, who is still part boy, zoom in on a motorcycle, stop on a dime, and give a grin "full of dimples and sin". Wow. That is dramatic, and it tells us a lot about this guy in one paragraph. The "show-off" line tells us a lot about the narrator, as well as her wry comment about the hair-conditioner commercial. Also, the fact that this is supposed to be a clandestine meeting, and he zooms in on a loud motorcycle. Awesome.

However, there is a full sentence in this paragraph that we don't need. We can cut out: "Across the square from where I was sitting, a bike appeared, its rider draped in dark leather clothes, thinking himself to be a cool gangster, but I knew better." All of the information in this sentence is shown through action, imagery, and the "show-off" line. 

We also have a couple of sentences with awkward phrasing. This one: "Show-off, I thought disapprovingly as he removed his black helmet and, as if he was in a hair-conditioner commercial, flipped his dark gold hair so the silky locks wouldn’t simply be messy, but orderly so," contains too much action in one sentence. Also, the final phrase, "flipped his dark gold hair so the silky locks wouldn't simply be messy, but orderly so," is indicated by the "hair-conditioner commercial".

Here's the same paragraph, only with the unnecessary words crossed out:

Another sound invaded the quiet while the bells began to diminish. That sound was rougher, rugged, that of a motorcycle. Across the square from where I was sitting, a bike appeared, its rider draped in dark leather clothes, thinking himself to be a cool gangster, but I knew better. He rounded the square dramatically, riding over puddles on purpose so he could splash water like the little kid he was, and then stopped right next to me. Show-off, I thought disapprovingly as he removed his black helmet and, as if he was in a hair-conditioner commercial, flipped his dark gold hair so the silky locks wouldn’t simply be messy, but orderly so. Then he opened his gold-flecked brown eyes that seemed like molten honey that melted many a woman, and gave me a grin full of dimples and sin.

Without the extraneous description, the action of the scene reads more dramatically. With my edit, I refined the paragraph, and ended up with this: 

A different sound echoed through the square as the bells faded. Rougher. Rugged.
Across the square, a motorcycle appeared, its rider clad in dark leather. Killian rounded the square dramatically, riding through puddles on purpose so he could splash water like the little kid he was. He stopped on a dime, a foot away from me.

Show-off.

He removed his helmet and flipped his dark gold hair like he was in a shampoo commercial. Then he looked at me with eyes the color of molten honey and flashed a grin full of dimples and sin.

I separated the paragraph into three, to give the action room to breath. I made "show-off" it's own paragraph, instead of part of a sentence. This emphasizes the narrator's wry opinion of Killian's dramatic entrance. I also changed "hair-conditioner" to "shampoo" because it reads more smoothly. The original paragraph was great, but with the edit, we get a condensed version of all of the sharpest observations and commentary, and it reads much more powerfully than before.

Dialogue is another area that needs a bit of tightening:

“You look just the same as you did a couple of years ago,” he said as a way of greeting while I rose to my feet. He scanned me from head to toe and back, and his lips curled into a mocking smirk. “Your fashion statement also stayed the same.”

I glanced down at my black hiking pants, black cape on top of black, baggy tee, black hiking boots, and black scarf and gloves, and knew he was right. “It’s necessary,” I responded dispassionately. “It helps me blend better.” Because if I were to wear what I truly wanted, I would’ve attracted too much attention, and that wasn’t acceptable.

“I know that,” he said, tucking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “I just wish I could see you in other clothes, because as far as I’m concerned, your wardrobe consists of this outfit only.”

This is a lot of words, and I'm not a hundred percent sure what it's supposed to convey. The impression I get is that he has a crush on her, but if he's flirting, he's bad at it. These are all neutral statements, and aside from the mocking smirk (which seems ruder than I think is intended), his actions are neutral, too. 

In the edit, I cut down most of the dialogue and exposition, but kept the vibe of him flirting with her that I think the author was going for (inappropriate or not). Here’s what that exchange looks like when pared down to more realistic but subtle flirting on his side, and total lack of flirting on hers:

“Long time,” my ward said as I rose to my feet. He scanned me from head to toe. "You look good," he added, grinning, the ever-present glint of mischief in his eye. "Same outfit."

I glanced down at my black-on-black outfit—hiking pants, cape, baggy tee, and boots. I shrugged. “It helps me blend.”

He acknowledged that with a jerk of his head and another full-body scan, this one longer, assessing, dangerous.

I changed, "you look the same" to "you look good" -- still innocuous, but more of a direct compliment. I cut the fashion critique down to "same outfit", and I made him say a lot with his "full-body scan". The edit makes his words and actions a little more obviously on the inappropriately-flirting-with-my-guardian side, but subtle enough that she can't call him out on anything specific. 

All of that said, if I was to decide whether or not to read this book based on the first 500 words, I would say "yes". Sorry, that's an understatement. I would say, "YES!" Even with a bit of wordiness, the story nails all the essentials: an intriguing setting, interesting character dynamics, and immediate tension. I’m a sucker for spy stories, and with an opening that starts with a roaring motorcycle and a shampoo-ad hair flip — I'm in.

Empress Theresa by Norman Boutin

Blurb

Eighteen-year-old Theresa Hartley never asked for limitless power—but when it comes, the world depends on her. Ordinary in every way but her courage, faith, and integrity, she faces impossible problems that challenge her to do what is right, not what is easy.

Governments fear her, nations look to her for guidance, and the fate of millions rests on her choices. In a story of conscience, courage, and quiet heroism, Empress Theresa shows how one young woman can change the world by staying true to her heart.

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Original (First 500)

Our house was next to a pond close to the river where all the neighborhood’s kids spent many happy hours looking for turtles and frogs. I was lounging on the deck reading a book on the school summer list. Catherine was inside reading a magazine.

Taking a momentary break from the book, I notice a red fox walking along the pond’s edge. It disappeared behind a little patch of woods which dad let grow wild like most of the neighbors. This was very rare. Red foxes were never seen in broad daylight during the summer months. It didn’t happen.

Then something really amazing happened. It came out of the woods and walked towards me!

I kept still and waited to see how close it came before noticing me. It was sixty feet away, forty, twenty. By now it was clear it was looking at me. I considered running into the house but curiosity won out.

The fox reached the four steps of the deck. It came up to the steps, stopped, and sat on its haunches staring at me. It did not seem vicious so I waited.

In an instant, faster than you could blink an eye, a softball sized white ball emerged from the fox and went straight into my stomach.

I screamed and ran into the house. The fox ran away. I slid the glass deck door closed and locked it just in time to see the fox disappear into the woods.

“What did you scream for?” asked Catherine who had walked into the kitchen.

“There was a fox out there.”

“He won’t hurt you” she said and went back to the living room.

I stood at the glass door for five minutes watching for anything else that might happen. At last I thought it was all over.

I went into the living room to sit down and think. What was that white thing? I couldn’t come up with any theory. It was nothing I had ever seen on those nature programs.

Perhaps it was a daydream from not eating enough. Mom had warned me about that. At age ten, I was already conscious of my weight and tried to stay skinny. I should eat something.

I went into the kitchen to prepare an early lunch of fried eggs, a strip of bacon, toast, and milk. I gobbled all this down in a couple of minutes and soon felt better. It was too little eating after all. Nothing had really happened.

Satisfied, I walked back into the living room to find something else to do. I turned on the television and watched the late morning talk shows for a while.

I heard fire trucks in the distance blaring their deep toned sirens. These trucks could be heard from a mile away. They were coming closer. Soon the sound made it obvious they were in the vicinity of our street. My intuition told me this had something to do with the white thing that jumped at me.

My Edit

Our house was next to a pond where all the neighborhood kids spent many happy hours looking for turtles and frogs. I was lounging on the deck, enjoying the warm breeze and reading a book on the school summer list. Actually, I had already read all the books on the reading list for my upcoming fourth grade year—as well as fifth, sixth, and seventh grade—so I'd Googled the eighth-grade reading list and was currently working on Lord of the Flies.

My sixteen-year-old sister, Catherine, had said that the book was a good reflection of what to expect from junior high. I was only on Chapter 3, but so far, eighth grade didn't sound that much different from third grade, plane crashes aside.

A flash of movement caught my eye. I looked up and saw a red fox walking along the pond’s edge. I held my breath. Red foxes were never seen in broad daylight during the summer months. It was too far away to tell for sure, but it seemed to be looking directly at me. My skin tingled with sudden goosebumps.

Even odder, it was walking toward me, with purpose. No grazing of the water or sniffing of the ground. Just the unnerving stalk of an animal intent on its prey. I froze. I knew that foxes only attacked humans if they were cornered or had rabies.

 It definitely wasn't cornered, and though it walked directly toward me, it seemed calm enough. It was close enough now to see that, yes, it was definitely making direct eye contact.

The fox reached the base of the stairs up to the deck, paused, stepped daintily up each stair—one, two, three, four. It stopped and sat on its haunches, never breaking eye contact. It opened its mouth.

A softball-sized ball of light emerged from its mouth and slammed into my stomach. I screamed. The fox ran away. I clutched at my stomach. The ball of light had disappeared. Nothing hurt. My tank top and jean shorts were intact. Had that just happened? I looked for the fox. It was gone.

Catherine came hobbling out of the house on her heels, her toes separated by cotton balls. She wore a green face mask and her dark hair was up in curlers. Her soft, pink bathrobe fluttered behind her, revealing her pastel green pajamas.

"What's the matter? What's wrong?" she called. Our parents were out and she was babysitting.

“Th-there was a fox,” I stuttered. Should I mention the ball of light? I didn't know. I wasn't even sure of the fox, now. That whole thing was just too bizarre.

Catherine looked around, saw no fox, and then snorted. “He won’t hurt you,” she said. She started hobbling back into the house, but paused and turned back to me. "You should come in, just in case," she said, looking around the wilderness of our backyard again.

I caught up with her, and she shooed me ahead of her into the kitchen. She closed and locked the sliding glass door. "If you stay inside until Mom and Dad get home, I'll still let you keep half," she said. She always shared half of her babysitting fee, as long as I didn't annoy her. I nodded, stunned at the offer. She usually jumped at the smallest excuse to keep the full fee.

She hobbled back toward the living room while I stood at the glass door for a few minutes, still confused. I couldn't think of a reason why a fox would track me down just to hock a light ball into my stomach, and then run away. Had it really happened? 

Mom had warned me about hallucinating if I didn't eat properly. I'd thought she'd just said that to try to halt my blossoming eating disorder. It made more sense to think I'd dreamed the whole thing.

I heated up the breakfast Mom had left in the fridge—two fried eggs, a strip of bacon, and an English muffin. I was glad I hadn’t thrown it away. By the time I'd washed it all down with half a glass of milk, I felt a lot better. I'd almost convinced myself that the whole fox thing had never happened.

But, I decided to leave Lord of the Flies outside. I still had most of the eighth-grade reading list in my room, anyway.

I wandered up to my room and flopped down on my unmade bed. I sorted through the books on my nightstand and selected Night by Elie Wiesel. It was the smallest book; I could probably finish it in a couple of hours. I flipped open to the first page.

"Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp—" Ooh, summer camp! My parents had started sending Catherine to summer camp when she was thirteen, but now that we had the summer house, I'd probably never get to go. At least I could read about it, though.

The sound of sirens caught my attention. I would have ignored them, but they got louder and louder so quickly that I was sure they were heading directly toward me.

Like the fox, earlier. I pushed the thought away. I put down the book and got up. My room faced the street. As I approached the window, a fire truck pulled up right outside.

(Original word count: ~498 → Edited: ~915)

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Critique

Full disclosure, there was quite a long prologue-ette at the beginning of Chapter 1. Rather than trying to translate that into a story, I just started where the author actually says, "OK. Now I can begin my story." I think infodumping is an itch that just needs to be scratched when you start a story, and it's fine, but ultimately, when you get to the point where you're saying to yourself, "okay, this is where the story starts," delete everything before that point.

Setting
The setting is a house with a backyard that looks out on a large pond. It's summer, and there's a warm breeze on the outside deck where Theresa is reading a book. Inside, we have sixteen-year-old Catherine, who is taking her babysitting duties extra seriously, by reading a magazine. The kitchen is right off the deck, via sliding glass door. I think the settings could be described a little more, but we get what we need.

In the original, after the fox (attack?), Theresa makes herself some breakfast and goes into the living room to watch TV. She doesn't mention Catherine who is supposed to be in there reading a magazine. I think it's valid for Theresa to not want to be alone after the fox thing, but since there's no interaction or anything, I took Theresa up to her bedroom. Theresa's room faces the street, so she actually gets to see the fire engines when they pull up.

Characterization
Catherine is sixteen and babysitting, while Theresa is outside on the deck, working on her summer reading list. I like the juxtaposition of Theresa outside reading a book with her older sister inside reading a magazine. This immediately connotes that the older sister is a little more trendy, superficial, and sheltered, while Theresa is a little more intellectually adventurous, but less social. (She notes that kids love playing around the pond, but she's off alone on her deck, reading a book.)

I played this up in my edit by having Theresa's sister doing self-care instead of reading a magazine. Not only does this exaggerate the difference in the girls' personalities, but it creates a more vivid image when Catherine comes outside after Theresa screams.

To add a bit more characterization to both girls, I named the book that Theresa is reading, gave her sister's opinion on it, and then and gave Theresa an opinion both the book and her sister's opinion it. Quick, simple layering with the information we already had.

Also, based on the accusation of Theresa being a Mary Sue (quick Google search), I made her extra smart by having finished her grade's reading list and working her way through a list several grades up. I don’t personally have a problem with Mary Sue or self-insert characters. Honestly, I think one of the most natural ways to create a character is to imagine the person you’d like to be and send them on the adventures you wish you could have.

Conflict/Tension
There's plenty of conflict with the fox shooting a lightning ball into Theresa's stomach and then Theresa wondering if she hallucinated it. She doesn’t trust her sister with the experience, and with her parents gone, she doesn’t even consider telling them about it later.

Her thought process is that her mother warned her that if she doesn't eat, she might hallucinate. So, at least the mother is aware that there's an issue. In the narration, when Theresa mentions that she "tries to stay skinny", she says it so matter-of-factly that it's hard to tell if she's bragging or being vulnerable. I kept the matter-of-factness, but made "blossoming eating disorder" connote it as a negative thing, even if only in hindsight.

There's also tension after this, where she feels like the experience she had with the fox was only the beginning, and then the fire trucks start showing up and she has that feeling even more.

There's also tension in the fact that she has no friends. Don't get me wrong, I spent the summer I was ten reading, too, because I had no friends, and looking back, I don't regret a thing. But it is odd. I'm not sure if the author didn't want to bother creating another character, didn't want there to be a witness, or if he meant for Theresa to be a loner, but here we are.

So, plenty of conflict, no notes. In my edit, I slowed down the action with the fox a little bit, let her trepidation build, and then, BOOM -- lightning ball! That was fun.

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A Goblin's Mind by J.D. Dresner on Amazon

Blurb

Doctor Harlow is methodical. Composed. A trusted mind in a kingdom full of unstable ones. On a remote island far from the crown, Harlow treats the bizarre, the enchanted, and the profoundly unwell—with tea, therapy, and an ironclad refusal to get emotionally involved.

But when a quiet goblin arrives—haunted by invisible friends and stories that don’t quite add up—something begins to crack.

At first, the sessions seem harmless. Eccentric, even amusing. Then people begin to vanish. Details shift. Memories blur. And the threads that hold reality together begin to fray like cheap spell work.

As the island slips further out of sync, Harlow must confront a terrifying possibility: the patients aren’t the ones unravelling.

For readers drawn to fractured fairy tales, crumbling uncertainty and psychological spirals wrapped in fantasy, A Goblin’s Mind is an unhinged descent into magical therapy, delusion, and the fine art of losing one’s grip.

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Original (First 500)

As a therapist I shouldn’t pathologize my patient – I shouldn't be so quick to brand her with a disorder, staining her permanent record and shrouding the real personality behind her disease. Once you are labelled, say, as a depressed person, or someone suffering from bipolar tendencies…or a psychopath, others find it hard to regard you as anything else. A therapist should see their patients’ minds as a sum of parts – parts that don’t always work well with one another, requiring realignment from time to time.

Nessy is a pathological hoarder, but I shouldn’t call her that. She is, after all, an individual with an array of other normal emotions, behaviours, and habits. She works like everyone else, she eats like everyone else. I’ve never come across a creature like Nessy before: half-woman, half-unicorn – and no, this isn’t some kind of joke. Necia Lita Floriana la Gwynth is a genuine human-beast hybrid. From horn to tail, she is a living, breathing…what do you even call such a creature? A womicorn?

We exchange blank stares. Her hair is in her mouth again, and I’m pretty sure she just piaffed on the spot the way fidgety horses do. You could understand how taken aback I was when she first entered my home in the forest nearly half a dozen sessions ago. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me when I saw a topless woman riding a white horse into my den. I distinctly recall saying, “Please dismount, Miss Gwynth,” before realizing she could not possibly dismount herself!

She forgave me quickly, for she is tolerant, slow to anger, and kind.

She is also a hoarder.

She procures things of little value to most others and she clutters her abode and her person with them. She won’t dispose of anything despite how much her acquisitions impede her movements, take up space, or cause dust, mold, and disease-borne bacteria to grow; it’s beginning to affect all parts of her life.

There must be a rotting banana in one of her satchels. I casually place my fingers under my nose, pretending to ponder her dilemma with the full force of my seventeen seasons of psychological tutelage. Really, I am just thinking about rotting bananas.

“Yesterday I lost a belt buckle in the river,” says Nessy, shamefully at first, “but I decided not to look for it.”

“That is very good.” She is looking for affirmation.

My chair is exceptionally comfortable. Despite it being made from wood and having no cushioning or padding, I like sitting in it, behind my wooden desk in this wooden dwelling of mine. The parchment in front of me is almost blank. The sketch of a crude little rowboat near a dock made its way onto the bottom left corner of the page sometime during the session, though I don’t exactly know when I drew it. Black ink spots from a dripping quill blend almost seamlessly into the water near the boat, threatening to absorb the little oar I drew…

My Edit

Nessy stands across from me, chewing a hank of her long, gossamer hair. She does this when she’s anxious — and she’s always anxious. That’s why she needs me. She stares at the floor, long, blonde lashes veiling her iridescent eyes, but her pert nose and full lips are on full display — as are certain portions of her bare torso not obscured by her hair. Not that I notice, of course. I’m far too professional.

The opalescent unicorn horn in the center of her forehead catches the sunlight streaming through my cabin window, scattering tiny prisms across the walls. Her ghost-white flanks shift restlessly, one hoof tapping the wooden floor in a nervous rhythm. I always invite her to sit; she's more comfortable standing. 

As a therapist of considerable experience, I make it my solemn duty to resist the crude impulse to pathologize my patients. To affix a label — depressed, bipolar, psychopathic — is to commit a quiet act of vandalism upon the soul, reducing a complex being to a mere entry on a chart. No — the enlightened clinician must view the mind as a grand architecture of interdependent chambers, each with its own echoes and drafts, occasionally in need of repair.

Nessy is a hoarder. The copse of trees she inhabits beside a waterfall would be prime real estate if not for the broken chairs, rusted prams, and bins of spoiled fruit and vegetables that were “still good, yesterday.” Stacks of almanacs with most of the pages torn out, heaps of bottles and bits of twine — you get the picture.

There’s a smell coming from one of her satchels. Familiar. Pungent. A challenge to my gag reflex. I rub my chin, surreptitiously pressing a finger beneath my nose under the guise of deep thought. I try to ponder her dilemma, but really, I am just thinking about rotting bananas.

The session is nearly over, and something is clearly bothering her that we haven’t covered yet. I’ll give her another minute. The parchment in front of me is nearly blank. A crude little rowboat near a dock has appeared in the bottom corner, though I don’t recall when I drew it. Black ink spots from a dripping quill have bled into the water, threatening to swallow the tiny oar. I pull the pen away and lean back in my chair.

My chair is made of wood, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. The curves fit my body perfectly. My desk, also wood, stands between me and my patients. In this case, it’s a nice — though not nearly wide enough — buffer between me and the smell wafting from Nessy. The uncarpeted floor and log walls complete the motif: wood.

“Nessy?” I prompt. While I wait for her to speak, I dip my pen into ink and jot down the goal of today’s visit: to persuade her to empty her saddlebags and dispose of anything actively decaying. I also note to do that at the beginning of each session from now on.

She removes the hair from her mouth with long, tanned, delicate fingers and clears her throat. “A belt buckle fell out of one of my bags and into the river yesterday,” she says. “But I decided not to look for it.”

I look up from my parchment and smile. “Excellent.”

She flushes with pleasure at my approval and her shimmering eyes shoot another of flash of prisms against the walls. Then her face falls. “But I went back for it this morning.” She holds up a rusted piece of junk about the size of a large coin.

(Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~612)

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Critique

I don’t think I’d ever write a blog post about a premise I don’t like—but a therapist for magical creatures? That’s right up my alley, especially when you open with a unicorn-woman (unitaur). The blurb doesn’t even mention a unicorn, and I’m not particularly into goblins, but the title was intriguing and the blurb sealed the deal: a therapist to mythical beings who thinks he might be losing his mind? Yes, thank you!

I’ll admit that I completely missed, on my first read, that the narrator was supposed to be pompous and unlikable. I just didn’t like him. I wrote a whole critique pointing out all the ways he was disrespectful to his patient.

Even knowing that now, I still think the satire reads a little too subtly—so in my edit, I played up the doctor’s arrogance quite a bit.

(I’ll leave my initial “earnest” revision at the bottom of this post if you want to read it.)

Setting
The original description of the setting is these few lines:

"My chair is exceptionally comfortable. Despite it being made from wood and having no cushioning or padding, I like sitting in it, behind my wooden desk in this wooden dwelling of mine."

The phrasing is fun and lyrical. It reveals character as well as setting, which is a mark of good writing. If these were the first words of the chapter, it would work as adequate, albeit bare-bones, scene setting. Unfortunately, this passage doesn’t come until the end of the excerpt, and it’s the only real setting detail we get, aside from a quick “my home in the forest” a bit earlier.

There’s a daunting list of things to introduce in this story: a magical world, a specific setting within that world, and two distinct characters within that setting. This is how I handled it in my earnest review:

“I’m pretty lucky. Most therapists don’t get to hold their sessions in a log cabin, surrounded by waterfalls, in the middle of a forest. However, as a therapist to mythical creatures, that is exactly where I live and work.”

Tossing in the intro to the world, some visuals, and the narrator’s place in it leaves the rest of the scene open to focus on the action.

However, I don’t think this works as well with the unhurried, unimpressed vibe the author is going for. So, in my edit, kept the elements already present in the excerpt, but wove in clues—the light through the window, prisms from Nessy’s horn, the wood floor and walls. 

If we start by introducing Nessy, her magical being-ness works as both characterization and setting—because unitaurs are generally only found in magical places. Add to that the POV character observing her, and we get to combine scene-setting with characterization for both characters at once.

I think the author initially used so much exposition to a) show that the narrator is kind of an ass and b) let Nessy’s silence stand awkwardly for as long as possible. However, this only works if we introduce Nessy early, and then pontificate, pathologize, describe the setting, and finally reveal that his parchment is blank except for a doodle—really underlining his disinterest—before prompting her to speak.

That way, the expectation of what a unitaur might say to her therapist becomes the culmination of the excerpt—and it’s surprisingly banal. We’d be starting on observation and ending on action, while also highlighting the subtle humor of such an absurdly ordinary line.

Another, more systemic way to introduce a lot of unusual elements in a story, is one at a time. So, start with the doctor on the porch, sipping tea, waiting for his patient to arrive. This naturally introduces the scenery and the sense that we’re in the middle of nowhere. It would also give him a moment to pontificate about not pathologizing patients. 

Then when Nessy canters up, he can think something like, ah, my 9 a.m. pathological hoarder is here. And then we could include the "dismount" flashback. I left that out of my edit because it didn't flow well in that context, but it's a funny moment and this would be a good place to let it shine.

Nessy could greet the doc with the memory of letting go of the belt buckle the day before, he could mentally note that the clock has started, and they can go inside. We can get a description of the inside of the house, and continue the scene from there.

A word about world building. It's a fine line between sharing too much and not enough. A rule of thumb to remember is that you only share what the reader would need to know in order to understand the current scene. Also, find quiet moments to describe settings. Before riding into battle, describe the battleground, because once you ride in you don't want to be juggling scene setting and action. 

In this case, the doctor points out wood as the overwhelming aesthetic of his abode. So, it could be fun to explore what kind of wood it is? Cedar? Redwood? A mix? Do we have any purple heart in there? Is the office a rainbow of polished grain? Is it unfinished—or a combination of rough and smooth? Wood smells amazing, so this is a great chance to involve scent in a positive way and would introduce a smell into the scene other than dead banana.

Characterization

As mentioned in the Setting section, having the narrator describe the person he’s observing gives us a chance to get to know both characters at once. Here’s how the narrator introduces Nessy in the original:

From horn to tail, she is a living, breathing…what do you even call such a creature? A womicorn? 

We exchange blank stares. Her hair is in her mouth again, and I’m pretty sure she just piaffed on the spot the way fidgety horses do.

It was the “piaffed” comment in the original that personally offended me. I took it out of my edit partly because it’s rude and partly because I wanted to play up the contrast between Nessy’s ethereal appearance and the smell from her saddlebags and living conditions. If she just poops on the floor like an animal, then what does it matter if her home is infested with mold?

Playing up her beauty also makes the doctor’s indifference even more impressive, I think. If I were the doctor, I’d be sitting across from Nessy with stars in my eyes, telling her she deserves to keep everything she wants. The point being that his reaction to her is characterization in itself.

The idea of a unitaur with a hoarding problem is absurd and rich with possibilities—honestly, it’s a premise that could carry its own book. However, I am a bit bothered by the inaccuracy of the doctor’s depiction of hoarding. Hoarders don’t keep things until they rot because they like rotten things. They have a deficit mentality—the fear that these items might not be easily replaced, and it would be a shame to waste them. The fact that many of the items go to waste due to rot is a tragic irony of trying to save too many things that don't have an immediate use.

Using a more realistic version of hoarding pathology as a window into Nessy's psyche could add a depth of humor to her character that isn't present in the current quick stereotyping. I also think the doctor being indifferent isn’t the same as being ignorant. If we’re supposed to trust this man to solve a mystery—including his own sanity—we need him to sound like he knows what he’s talking about when he discusses the first pathology we see. That said, if he's supposed to be bad at his job, this works as-is.

Conflict / Tension

At first glance, this scene doesn’t look like it has much conflict. The therapist isn’t yelling, Nessy isn’t crying, and the biggest drama is a belt buckle. But conflict doesn’t have to be loud to work. Here, tension comes from personality. The therapist is pompous and self-serious, while Nessy is anxious and ashamed.

He’s in the power position—the calm, rational observer—but truly confident people don’t need to work so hard to feel superior. And it takes courage to be vulnerable, to admit you need help. So, the outer power dynamic conflicts with the inner one, even though neither character realizes it. That’s the kind of subtlety that makes a scene compelling, even if readers can’t quite name why.

Between the setting, the concept, and the doctor’s indifference to Nessy’s beauty and uniqueness, there’s plenty of tension to sustain a full book, not just a chapter. In my edit, I just enhanced that contrast—adding details to the magical setting and the beautiful creature while highlighting the doctor’s love for wood and…boats.

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Final Thoughts

I was initially disappointed to start a story with such an interesting premise, when I disliked the narration so much. Starting a new story as a reader is always fraught—am I going to like this? Is it worth my time? Will I get halfway through and realize the author has nothing to say? So, I put a lot of stock in the first few paragraphs to gauge whether the author has a strong enough grasp on their story to sustain a book. 

That said, as a reader, I'm not necessarily giving the first few paragraphs a close reading -- I open the book, look for clever dialogue, rich descriptions, and some sort of tension or conflict. Should I be a better reader? Yes? Am I? No. We as writers can't rely on the patience of the reader. In order to win the benefit of the doubt regarding the whole book, we have to front load the first few paragraphs of a story with structure, and imagery.

In this case, the elements of a story that I look for were present in the excerpt, but the disorganized structure of it tripped me up. If I hadn't chosen this excerpt to critique, I wouldn't have looked at this story twice. Which, now that I recognize the start to a really compelling story, would have been a shame. 

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"Earnest Edit"

I’m pretty lucky. Most therapists don’t get to hold their sessions in a log cabin, surrounded by waterfalls, in the middle of a forest. However, as a therapist to mythical creatures, that is exactly where I live and work.

Nessy is a pathological hoarder. Her hair is long and white, almost clear, with opalescent shimmers that send rainbow reflections pinging around the dark wood of my office walls. With her large violet eyes, and long, lush eyelashes, she looks like a half-woman/half-horse without a worry in the world.

The scent of rot coming from her saddlebags belies that impression. I always make sure to open all of the windows in my cabin before she visits. In summer, we hold our sessions in the clearing outside.

She arrived a few minutes ago, and hasn’t said much. She's chewing on a hank of gossamer hair, lost in thought.

"Nessy?" I prompt. While I wait for her to speak, I write down the goal of today's visit, which is to get her to empty her saddle bags, and toss anything that is actively decaying. 

Nessy removes the hair from her mouth, with long, tanned, delicate fingers, and clears her throat. “A belt buckle fell out of one of my bags and in the river yesterday,” she says. “But I decided not to look for it.”

I look up from my notepad and smile. “Excellent.” 

She blushes with pleasure at my approval, but then her face falls. "But I went back for it this morning." She holds up a rusted old piece of junk, about the size of a large coin.