Dragon's Princess by C. Swallow on Inkitt

Blurb

When Princess Summer defies her brother’s war against the dragons, she’s thrown into a battle of loyalty, passion, and power. The Dragon Lords who should be her enemies become her fiercest protectors — and the only ones who see her heart for what it truly is: dangerous.

In a world where dragons are enslaved and hearts are weapons, Summer must decide who she’s willing to fight for… and who she’s willing to burn for.

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Original (First 500)

I jogged at a steady pace through the jungle while howls of many dragons filled the sky like haunting music. Dragons only howled in extreme circumstances, and right now, many of the dragons were being injected with a deadly poison from a local tree frog in this area of the Patter Forest.

The King, Ross the “Great” wanted all dragons tamed and controlled by local Warlords to be loyal pets under the Kings dominion. It was far fetched, reckless and just plain stupid that Ross the Great had gone to such lengths to make his dream come true.

I myself tagged along on this newest mission to lure the dragons in with a strong peace scent so I could disable as many traps as possible. It was treason, yeah, but I couldn’t live with myself by not doing anything. I was allowed to come because I was a natural Healer, I could heal by drawing power from the earth. I could help any of the injured that would indefinitely come with this suicidal mission to bring the dragons under control, so I was using this opportunity to my full advantage.

I was meant to be back at the main trap site but I already had an excuse planned for later when I’d be questioned where I had disappeared to. I had disabled two outsider traps already, and there were at least 16 traps altogether. The central traps had already been successful so I only had a chance at disabling one more trap on the outside perimeter before it’d be too dangerous to be out in the open, especially with blood thirsty, revenge seeking dragons flying above. The only protection I had was the dense coverage which made it harder for the dragons to land.

I saw the last trap ahead of me and quickly went down on my knees to smother the rock that emitted the peace scent with mud. It would effectively counteract the scent and be disabled completely. It was as I finished smothering the scent rock that I realized just how quiet it was. In fact, it was deadly silent and that only meant one thing.

Every so slowly I raised my head and looked ahead, nothing, to my left, nothing, the slowly to my right. A glowing pair of blue-green eyes level with my head was staring straight at me. I sucked in a breath, fear closing off my throat and making my heart start to race at surely an unhealthy speed. I slowly made out the outline of the humongous black head, and the long glinting fangs, the length of a short sword. I closed my eyes in silent acceptance.

I was going to die.

My Edit

King Ross ‘the Great’ had wanted me with his army — every campaign needed a Healer. I had agreed, only so that I could commit treason.

The air hung heavy with the earthy promise of more rain mingling with the spicy musk of dragons. I jogged at a steady pace through the forest as dragons haunted the darkening sky, their howls eerily musical.

I followed the scent of peace extract to a small boulder that came to the tops of my knees. It took several minutes to cover it with mud, but the forest floor had plenty to spare. At least a dozen traps remained. I searched for the next one, hoping it would be smaller.

The clash of swords against dragon scales rang through the forest. I would be missed soon, as the dragons fought back against the king’s army. The dragons hadn’t started this war, but maybe, with my help, they would win it.

For me, if I didn’t want to be branded the traitor I was, and exiled, I’d have to maintain the appearance of fealty. The screams of warriors joined the dragon howls as I moved through the forest. The next trap was a rock only about as big as my foot. I kicked mud over it and moved on.

Peace extract was ensorcelled perfume. Ladies used it to calm themselves when their corsets got too tight, and men used it in battle when their broken limbs needed to be re-set or cut off. It was currently being used to trap dragons in a part of the forest that was too dense with tree cover to escape by flight.

The next boulder was half as large as the first. I coated it with mud as quickly as possible, fighting the urge to lay down next to it instead. At this moment, I had three enemies; the army, the dragons, and the weapon I was trying to defuse.

I was already tired, and already needed back at the base. I was lured to the next boulder almost against my will. It was twice as big as the first one, almost as tall as me, and nearly perfectly round. This would take forever! I didn’t even know if I’d be able to resist the scent long enough to cover it up. I kicked the boulder in frustration. It wobbled and slid an inch or so on the muddy ground.

My breath caught. Could I – just roll it over? I nudged it with my shoulder and praised whatever gods might be listening when it spun away from me, almost as if it was eager to help. A few more nudges and a hefty shove later, the peace scent had been neutralized. I sagged against the side of the muddy boulder in relief.

This was definitely the biggest threat against the dragons. I could detect smaller threats close by but I wondered if it would be safer for me just to return to base.

Before I could decide, I realized that the forest had gone silent. Distant shouts and clanging persisted, but all of the forest sounds; rustling, chirping, slithering—had ceased. I turned slowly, bracing myself against the boulder with one hand and reaching for my dagger with the other.

My hand froze as I stared into a glowing pair of blue-green eyes. The dragon was jet-black with tiny scales that glimmered like freckles across his nose. His fangs, as long as my forearm and as sharp as my dagger glinted dangerously, inches from my face.

I closed my eyes.

I was going to die.

(Original word count: ~450 → Edited: ~600)

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Critique

The idea of dragons being poisoned and a healer committing treason to save them is compelling and original. Early on, though, we spend a bit too much time on why the protagonist is in the forest instead of what she’s doing there. Since the purpose of the scene is to lead to a dragon encounter, every line should build tension or reveal character. In my edit, I condensed this exposition down to:

King Ross “the Great” had wanted me with his army — every campaign needed a Healer. I had agreed, only so that I could commit treason.

Those two lines cover everything we need to know from that entire paragraph—now it's such a strong hook, that this is how my edit starts, with the setting and jogging through the forest in the second paragraph instead of the first. 

Throughout the excerpt, there is some awkward phrasing, and some typos and malapropisms. Nothing too distracting, just enough to be noticeable. For instance, "rung" should be "rang", "diffuse" and "defuse" are two different words, "every so slowly" should be "ever so slowly". 

A passage like this:

Every so slowly I raised my head and looked ahead, nothing, to my left, nothing, the slowly to my right.

This is the moment after Summer noticed that the forest has gone silent, and right before her gaze meets the gaze of the dragon. This is very cinematic, like something you'd see in a movie, but I think this moment needs to ramp up the tension as much as possible.

I turned slowly, bracing myself against the boulder with one hand and reaching for my dagger with the other.

In my edit, I use the setting and have her reaching for her weapon before she even sees the dragon. This drives home the danger that she senses, and the fact that she's prepared to face it.

Setting

The scene-setting is lush and plays with textures and sounds. 

I jogged at a steady pace through the jungle while howls of many dragons filled the sky like haunting music.

This is a fantastic sample of the sensory experience of the character, and a great way to open a chapter. I did rephrase this slightly in my version, but not enough to notice unless you're looking for it.

I also love the idea of "peace extract" not only as an agent of peace, but as a weapon. That is genius-level world building. The existence of an element like this could have world-shattering implications. You could have regions of the world that are super serene hippies, and other regions who don't have access to it, and then you have the region this story takes place in, where it's used casually (in my version) and also as a weapon. 

That said, when you have an element in your story that isn't already part of the zeitgeist, you have to slow down and explain it a bit. So, with the rocks covered in "peace extract", we need a little more information. What is "peace extract" made of? How does it work? Is it expensive and rare or is it readily available to anyone who wants it? 

In my edit, I explored that a little bit, in part of the story where Summer is finding the next rock. These are good moments for world building because they give a moment for the reader to breathe, and makes it feel like time has passed in between leaving the last rock and finding the next one.$$

Characterization

Summer's character is already pretty interesting. She's a healer who is defying her brother in order to save dragons that view her as an enemy. We get a lot of external information, which lets us fill in the blanks with what we’d feel in that situation. Those are often the most fun moments to read, because sometimes, I would feel differently than the character does. In those moments, I get to be in the mind of someone completely different from me, which, again, is part of the magic of reading. 

I like that Summer has tactical awareness of where the fighting is happening, based on sound. Her attention to sound also pays off when the silence has settled over the forest. This line, "A glowing pair of blue-green eyes level with my head was staring straight at me," made me freeze and gasp, too. This is what is great about reading—that you can become so absorbed in the story that you feel their stakes as strongly as they do.

An internal monologue is not necessary, here. I think that Summer's dialogue and action speak volumes, especially in this chapter, but it might be good to establish her inner voice for quieter moments, when the stakes aren't as high. The moments between snuffing out peace extract would be a good time to let her personality shine a bit. Despite the danger, is she glad to be out of camp where she only has to watch out for external danger, rather than the risk of betraying herself with a word or glance? As a healer, is she generally stuck at bedsides, and it's nice to get some fresh, musky air, and move around a bit? Just small, personal observations of the forest can do that.

Something like:

The [flower] in my gardens look tame and stiff next to this wild bouquet of [flower] mixed with [flower] and [moss or something]. It even smells different

$—$

freer? Maybe.

Or, as a healer, she can spot some rare element that she's running low on and pocket some, making mental note of where to find more of it later. Little things like that can make her journey to the next rock, which I imagine are pretty far from each other, make that time feel real without bogging down the action too much.

Conflict/Tension
We have enough stakes and urgency to choke a horse—what she's doing puts her in danger from the people she's betraying as well as the dragons she's trying to save.

We could maybe do with some internal conflict. Does she feel bad at all for betraying her brother, or has she always resented him? Has he always been like this, tearing the wings off of flies for fun when he was a kid? Or is he motivated not by cruelty, but insecurity? Does Summer love him but vehemently disagree with is actions, or have they never been able to bond? Again, the moments in between rocks would a great time to explore these questions—just little hints.

When people complain about too much worldbuilding, they're talking about paragraphs and paragraphs of information that is not relevant to the scene. Little one-off lines here and there that give us glimpses into the world or mind of the character are fine. They actually increase, rather than decrease, tension.

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Final Thoughts

A bugbear of mine is having a POV character holding back on the reader. So, if in the blurb, Summer is defying her brother, there's no reason to hold that information back in the first chapter. She can name the character, "King Ross The Great—my brother, and honestly, not as he makes people say he is."

All of that said, the basics are here: setting, characterization, and tension. The cliffhanger at the end of the excerpt/chapter is great and pretty much ensures that anyone reading so far is going to continue to the next chapter.

The Pink Assassin by Crystal Charee

Blurb

I had completely forgotten about this story until I was looking through old stuff to do another First 500 exercise on. I was pleasantly surprised to find it way less cringy than my writing from four years earlier. At this point in my writing journey, I had found that I didn't really like sketching out scenes to figure out plot and adding style later.

 
Rather, I preferred to let the details I found in writing the little bit of the story that I knew fill in details for more of the story. This backfired a bit in that there is way too much exposition dragging down the action, especially with information that should be worked in naturally with the rest of the story — or not needed at all, other than as information for myself.

But, it's still fun! This story is about an assassin who has refused to complete a job, but since she works for her uncle, this has become a family matter.

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Original (2009)

Sally is a smart, if not a particularly wise, girl. She knows that bubble gum pink and lemon yellow are inappropriate colors for an assassin to wear. The colors stand out, especially on her svelte, leggy future carcass. But the colors go so nice in contrast to her shaggy old black cloak and matching belt. She just can’t help herself.

Despite her weakness for fashion, Sally has two things going for her as an assassin that few of her contemporaries share. One is her literal, killer bod; a distraction at the best of times, a playground of carnal delights at ever better times. The other is her willingness to accept that her own demise is not only inevitable, but imminent. In the assassin business, there’s always someone who wants to kill you back.

Live by the sword, die by the sword. Sally likes to pretend that the proverb is from an old Bob Dylan song because few things give her the shivers like thinking about the wages of sin that she’s been racking up for years.

Morality aside, she has little choice of vocation. And if she can’t justify every kill by telling herself her victims deserve it (because quite a few didn’t), she can at least take pride in her efficiency and athleticism.

“Salleee….”

Death’s breath mists on the back of her neck as her assassin stalks the circle of mannequins, leaving knife holes in one cute outfit after another. Gokor has killed eleven out of twelve of Sally’s mannequins and he’s left a nice slice of steel searing the spot between two of her ribs. Black really is the best color for hiding stains.

“Sally-jhan, it‘s no use hiding from me. You know that. Just come out and let Uncle Gokor give you one last hug.”

As she waits for Gokor to find her, Sally no doubt feels the urge to pee that always reminds her of playing hide-and-seek as a kid. It never failed. As soon as she found the perfect hiding spot, she’d curse herself for not going to the bathroom first. It’s a problem that has persisted into adulthood. She’s killed countless men (one hundred and twenty-three (and a half)), and many a victim’s toilet discreetly disposed of her DNA before she disposed of him.

Although she’s been murdering since she was eleven, she’s never received this sort of injury. She’s been slashed at during knife fights with would-be rapists in dark alleyways, and from sparring with Gokor, -- everyone needs hobbies. She was even shot once. This is different. The steel is embedded, and she isn’t allowed to scream or cry or even breathe hard. No desperate scramble away from her murderer; no effort of movement or destination to distract her from the pain -- or from the need to urinate. No way to express her fury at her uncle’s betrayal, although, she must be accustomed to that particular frustration by now. Or maybe not.

Sally isn’t particularly misandristic, but she only kills men. She once waited two months to take out a guy on his eighteenth birthday. Gokor has thus far been surprisingly lenient in regard to Sally’s refusal to kill women. Sally’s failure to kill Dick is the reason she’s on Gokor’s “to do” list.

My Edit

“Salleee….”

Death’s breath mists on the back of her neck as her assassin stalks the circle of mannequins draped in her favorite capes and corsets, leaving knife holes in one cute outfit after another. Uncle Gokor has stabbed and slashed up eleven of the mannequins that are dressed up like her, and he’s left a nice slice of steel embedded in a spot between two of Sally's actual ribs.

“Sally-jhan, it's no use hiding from me. You know that. Just come out and let me give you one last hug,” Uncle Gokor says.

Sally, coldblooded assassin since the age of eleven, has never felt this helpless. She has scars from fights to the death with disfavored members of Uncle Gokor's gang -- Uncle Gokor's version of assassin school. She’s been slashed at during knife fights with would-be rapists in dark alleyways. Everyone needs hobbies. She was even shot, once. 

This is different. The steel is embedded in her side, and she can't scream or cry or even gasp. She definitely can't fight back. Her life depends on her uncle neither seeing nor smelling the blood seeping into her clothing. She wore black because it looks similar, whether it's wet or dry. Especially in the dark.

Until now, Gokor had tolerated Sally’s refusal to kill women and children. She once waited two months to take out a guy on his eighteenth birthday.  Sally’s failure to kill me is the reason she’s on Gokor’s “To Do” list. 

And he can't excuse her for her latest refusal to complete a job, as I am neither woman nor child.

(Original word count: ~543 → Edited: ~365)

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Critique

Okay, so, a few things. First, the story started from an avatar outfit prompt, which explains why the opening emphasizes her clothing -- that was literally all I knew about her.Second, the POV in the original is not clear -- this is the would-be victim of Sally's that she refuses to kill. Not sure why I felt the need to make the whole story in his POV but I'm pretty sure it was just lack of confidence as a writer and just throwing as many bells and whistles into the thing as possible.

The main thing I've learned since then is that clarity beats style. It doesn't matter how cleverly something is phrased if the context it's placed in doesn't make sense.

Setting

The setting is supposed to be Sally's giant walk-in closet. Yes, she has mannequins that look exactly like her to help her pick out her outfits. The story takes place in her house. She's dressed as one of her mannequins because she wants him to think that she's a mannequin so that he doesn't try too hard to kill her — it's more of a symbolic thing.

Anyway, I didn't spend a ton of time on the setting because by the time we get to this part of the scene, we should already be familiar with the setting.

Characterization
Sally’s been an assassin since age eleven, with a strict code: no women or children. She kills would-be rapists in dark alleys — her favorite hobby. Honestly, I still love her. What a badass.

Did I add any more depth to her character in the re-write than I did in the original? Nah. But, as this is an action scene (albeit one with a lot of inaction), it doesn't makes sense to go into backstory. I actually deleted about half of the original excerpt when re-writing because it was information that was not necessary to the scene.

Conflict/Tension
Oh, yeah, we have conflict. We have a kingpin (or something) who is intent on killing his personal assassin for refusing one too many jobs -- and he's her uncle. So, this isn't just business -- it's family business.

 
We also have Sally, who can't move and give herself away as a non-mannequin, for plot reasons. I think conflict and tension are covered.

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Final Thoughts

To be honest, I think the only thing going for the original story is the hook. 

That sounds harsh to my 2009 self. I think the writing of the original is funny and clever, but that's all it's trying to be. It's not really trying to be part of a story, it's trying to be the whole story at once. This is something I see in a lot of newer writers, and obviously something I was guilty of. 

But that's not to say that there's no value in the original version. First, it's fun. I didn't hate reading it. I loved the character and the convoluted story I was trying to tell. I think if I was going to continue with this story, it'd be a lot more grounded, and less sassy.

But I do think that part of this excerpt could work as a blurb or query letter:

Sally has two things going for her as an assassin that few of her contemporaries share. One is her literal, killer bod; a distraction at the best of times, a playground of carnal delights at even better times. The other is her willingness to accept that her own demise is not only inevitable, but imminent. In the assassin business, there’s always someone who wants to kill you back.

I just don't think that you can build a whole story out of a blurb voice. At least, that's not something I'm currently interested in trying. I really like exploring motivation the differences between how we try to present ourselves, see ourselves, other people see us, and who we actually are. Those things don't really work in blurb voice — and, for me, at least, it's too hard to sustain. 

The Placeholder by Mindful Imaginist on Wattpad

Blurb

In rain-soaked Dublin, Aoife begins to unravel the life she thought was hers, discovering that love, identity, and belonging are not given — they are claimed.

Aoife Brennan planned the perfect night to celebrate the life they were building. But when the clock strikes midnight, she learns that some truths don’t crash down; they unravel, quietly.

Set in the rainy corners of Dublin, The Placeholder is a story of love mistaken for fate and the quiet ache of being someone’s almost.

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Original (First 500)

The clock struck six.

It was a quiet sort of evening, the kind she used to dream of when she was a little girl -- soft rain tapping the windows, cinnamon-scented candles flickering in glass jars, and the promise of love hanging in the air like the scent of the stew simmering on the stove. Except it wasn't a dream anymore. It was her first wedding anniversary.

And he wasn't home.

Aoife Brennan stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the folds of her navy silk dress. She had curled her hair just the way he used to say he liked it when they were younger -- back when he still laughed with her over burnt cookies and muddy shoes. Back when they were friends.

Her eyes flicked toward the hallway. Silence.

She'd taken the day off from the children's hospital -- cancelled four appointments, rescheduled a critical consultation, and sent an apologetic message to a new mother whose baby had colic. Everyone had understood. After all, even one of the best pediatricians in Dublin deserved a break to celebrate her first anniversary.

But the person she'd planned the day for didn't even know what she'd sacrificed.

The house smelled like roasted rosemary chicken and chocolate fondant. His favorites. In the living room, a playlist of the songs they used to love in school hummed softly under the clink of glassware. The bath was drawn. Warm. Scented. She'd even booked a couples' massage -- at home, discreet, romantic.

And still no sign of him. 

It wasn't unusual -- not anymore. Ronan had grown distant. At first, she'd told herself it was work. Then stress. Then his father's expectations. Lately, she wasn't sure what lie she was feeding herself anymore.

They'd been childhood friends. Always in each other's pockets. First snowball fights, then rooftop conversations, then shared dreams of what life might become. Their marriage had made sense -- to their families, at least. The O'Sullivans and Brennans had been allies in business long before Aoife and Ronan knew what alliances even meant. But it hadn't felt arranged. Not then.

She had loved him. Quietly. Patiently. She had thought he would come around. 

But these days, he wasn't even her friend. 

She checked the phone again. Still nothing. Last message was from this morning. Just a curt:

"Will be working late. Don't wait up."

But she had.

It was now eleven thirty. The bath was cold. The chicken had dried in the oven. The fondant had collapsed slightly in the center.

Still, she sat, watching the door. Watching the clock.

It struck midnight.

She stood, slipped out of her heels, and pulled a cardigan over her dress. The rain had started to thicken into a proper downpour. She couldn't ignore the tight coil in her stomach any longer -- the one that whispered something was off. Wrong.

She tried calling him. Once. Twice. Voicemail.

On impulse, she grabbed her keys and rushed to the car.

The pub near his office -- the same one he always slipped into with his colleagues -- was twenty minutes away.

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Critique

I love this. There are a couple of small nitpicks — like how she has stew on the stove but later it’s rosemary chicken in the oven — and a couple of structural quirks, but overall, the scene is beautifully set, the characterization is subtle but detailed, and the tension is abundant. 

You can’t really get much better for the first 500 words of a novel. I didn’t write a revision because mine would have such minor tweaks that you probably wouldn’t even notice the difference. So instead, we’ll just focus on the author’s writing: what works, and what doesn’t.

This entire chapter is a quiet escalation of nothing happening. We start at 6 p.m., with Aoife recreating her childhood fantasy — candles, food, “and the promise of love hanging in the air.” And he’s not here.

We zoom from her childhood fantasy to the mirror. She wears her hair the way he “used to say he liked it.” Oh my god, gut stab! When was the last time this man even complimented her?

Then we go through all the appointments she canceled or postponed to make this night special for him. A couple of small notes here: she’s a doctor — clearly successful and organized — so why wouldn’t she have planned this in advance? Why would she need to cancel appointments instead of just blocking the day off, with a colleague covering emergencies?

Also, the placement of this passage feels awkward. We start with the warm, sensory scene — decorated apartment, good smells — then zoom in to Aoife at the mirror, and then suddenly zoom way out to her career. I think that bit would work better later, maybe when she’s in the car on her way to find him. That would be a good time to fume about her sacrifices.

Okay, now we’re back to the dreamy apartment atmosphere: his favorite food in the oven, the bubble bath warm and waiting. The only awkward part here is the mention of the couples’ massage. No one else shows up, and she never cancels it, so it feels like a loose thread. Plus, bringing strangers into the setup kind of kills the intimacy the author is building, so I’d leave that detail out.

Anyway — back to the vibe: food, music, bath — and he’s still not here. And just as we’re starting to worry he’s been in a car accident or something, we get: “It wasn’t unusual — not anymore.” WHAT?!

Wait. Our lovely, angelic Aoife has gone out of her way to create this warm, romantic anniversary evening — and she’s not even surprised that he stood her up? This story just took a turn. 

That’s the good record scratch, writing-wise. But then comes the bad one: we learn that he texted her that morning to say he’d be working late and not to wait up. So… what the heck? Why has she been expecting him? Why did she draw a warm bath at 6 p.m. when she knew he’d be working late? Why is his dinner getting cold in the oven after he told her not to wait?

Let’s pretend that didn’t happen, because everything else — aside from this and the appointment passage — escalates beautifully, with a romantic, melancholic tone. Every new detail adds context, layering hope, anticipation, and disappointment. Until this text. It makes her look naïve, and it makes the reader feel tricked — like we’ve been pulled out of Aoife’s head. So, no text message. Or, if there is one, it should come around 7 p.m., after she’s already set everything up.

Moving on: she tries his voicemail a few times. At midnight, she grabs her keys. She’s going to the pub to find him. That’s where the excerpt ends.

Setting

Warm cozy apartment, good smells, good songs. Overall, strong setting. 

Aoife’s head is the setting within the setting. Her narration, though, is a little disorganized. As mentioned earlier, we start with her childhood fantasies, then zoom into her reflection (and that first subtle crack: “he used to say he liked it”). Then we zoom out to her career, then to Roman’s distance, then to their friendship-turned-marriage, and finally — we wait.

The writing is evocative, but the structure could be cleaner. I’d start with the childhood fantasies, then move into the development of their relationship — “always in each other’s pockets” — followed by her reflection and the first indication of unhappiness. Then Roman’s distance. Then the revelation that she knew he wasn’t head over heels, that she agreed to marry him thinking their friendship could grow into something deeper.

She had loved him. Quietly. Patiently. She had thought he would come around.

But these days, he wasn't even her friend.

Oof. Gut punch. This is such a strong passage, because friendship is the backbone of their relationship. The idea that her closest friend doesn’t even tell her he won’t be coming home — that’s not just the betrayal of a marriage; it’s the betrayal of their entire history. 

He doesn’t have to love her romantically, but he could at least act like a friend. Or, bare minimum, a decent human being.

After this, I would go with the revelation that their relationship worked as an alliance between their two families. That would keep this information fresh in the reader's head for what comes after the excerpt (yes, I read ahead. I always read ahead, I just try to keep my focus on the first 500 words).

If the structure followed that sequence, we’d build the expectation of a romantic anniversary, then gradually dismantle it. By the time we hit the “arranged marriage” reveal, the intimacy we’ve been clinging to would be completely gone — the perfect moment for her to grab her keys and go.

Characterization

Aoife is smart, capable, organized, and tenderhearted. She’s not impulsive or dramatic — she believes in the kind of love that grows from loyalty and shared history. Still, she does her part: candlelight, music, bubble baths, dresses. Her love for Roman is real and deep, and so is her pain. Losing him as a husband would hurt — but losing him as her friend is devastating.

The author does a great job of keeping Aoife from seeming like a doormat. Aoife's practicality about their marriage means that she wasn't foolish or masochistic to plan and carryout this whole anniversary set up. It was her last gasp of hope for the relationship, that Roman would step up and treat her as though she was a human worth some kind of goddamned dignity. (Sorry, I got a little heated.)

Roman’s characterization needs some work. Lines like:

“They’d been childhood friends. Always in each other’s pockets. First snowball fights, then rooftop conversations, then shared dreams…”

That’s a nice summary, but it could describe anyone. What specifically defined their friendship? Does he get her into trouble, or out of it? Did he get her into trouble or out of it? Where did they hang out? What were their dreams? 

We know Aoife is a doctor — but what was his path? What drives him? All we know is his name, that he has a job, and that he cancels anniversaries via text. We do know his favorite meal — rosemary chicken with fondant for dessert — and that Aoife cooks it for him. It’s a lovely, specific detail that adds warmth to her, but we still need a reason to fall for him, too. 

If we want to be as devastated as Aoife is, we need to be in love with him, too. The first couple of paragraphs would be the perfect time to build up what she believed was his character, and with a sprinkle of little mementos around the house that show his thoughtfulness, whereas the rest of the scene shows her.

Conflict/Tension

This entire passage has no dialogue — one text message (we’re ignoring it) and no action beyond waiting. Dinner’s done, she’s dressed, the bath’s drawn — yet the scene crackles with tension.

That tension comes from expectation and denial. The entire room is set for two, and there’s only one. The author nails this with small beats: The author sells the tension with little asides like, "Her eyes flicked toward the hallway. Silence." Or, "She tried calling him. Once. Twice. Voicemail."

The reader starts to wonder if something bad happened — and then realizes, no, he just doesn’t care. Their decade of friendship has eroded into indifference, or worse, contempt.

Because think about it: if Roman simply didn’t love her romantically, he’d say so. He’d rely on their shared history and basic human empathy to communicate that. But for him to let her sit alone for hours, waiting, without a word — that’s punishment.

But, for what? What turned warmth into this cold contempt? And what twisted his one-time open affection toward her into this utter contempt? Nothing that we've learned from Aoife's POV points to a reason for this change. So, either she's the most unreliable narrator known to man, or he has been affected by something his wife is not aware of.

Amazing questions for a reader to have, halfway through the first chapter of a book. Tension? Yes, here you go, all you can handle. You want some more? Here, here's some more!

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Final Thoughts

I think that we've established that we've got an excellent opening, rife with the three elements that I look for at the start of a story (setting, character, DRAMA). Plus, beautiful evocative writing. Even with the notes on structure that I had, this beginning has me locked and loaded to read the rest of the book.

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I wanted to address something happening in the text of this book outside of the narration, without disrupting the flow of the critique. Every few paragraphs, there’s a note reminding readers that this book belongs to the author, and that if they find it anywhere else, it’s stolen. Her frustration is completely valid — theft is awful — but I think this approach backfires.

Yes, it may help her track stolen copies, but it also interrupts the reader’s experience. It’s jarring. You can’t control or stop theft entirely, and trying to will only steal your own energy and your readers’ immersion. Pick your battles carefully. Keep the fights that don’t serve the story off the page. Punish the thief, not the reader.

It's a shame to see beautiful storytelling scarred by what's happening to the author in real life. I don't say all of this to call the author out (I doubt she'll ever see this), I just wanted to note that in case this becomes a tempting option if you find yourself in a similar situation.

Skater Cinderella by Kmmy G at Inkitt

Blurb

If Cinderella skated rather than danced, ran rather than cleaned, and chased her dreams herself, what would have changed? Tessa Hale is waiting for something great. Both of her biological parents have passed, and she is stuck living with her neglectful stepmother and roller-coaster stepsisters. Trying to make it through school with decent grades is difficult enough, but add in a cocky prince charming who folds to peer pressure, an eccentric best friend, and a skateboarding competition that puts $100,000 on the line, and you’ve got a complicated story on your hands. Tessa has been told by many that she doesn’t have what it takes and that she doesn’t deserve the victory. It is up to her to prove them wrong and fulfill the dream that her father wanted her to chase.

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Original (First 500)

Okay, Tessa, you can do this, breathe.

The death warrant sat in front of me like an omen of horrific luck. I could not look away because, if I did, it might just swallow me whole. There was a fine line between strategic bravery and chaotic idiocy, and I, for one, was leaning towards the latter.

My eye twitched in trepidation, and for one moment, I questioned whether I was making a correct decision or not. However, the very nature of the situation demanded that I decide on a path and stick to it -- so that is what I did. Taking a deep breath, I slowly lowered my hand, touching the tip of my weapon of war to the paper before me.

Writing down my answer, I moved on to the next question on the geometry quiz.

Geometry and I have had a hate-love relationship for many, many months. No matter how hard I try, how much I struggle, or how often I visit the textbook from hell, there is no chance I would ever graduate Geometry with a grade higher than a B. With the luck that seemed to follow me since birth, it was most likely that the day I received a phenomenal grade in mathematics would be the same day the world ends.

With every question that was answered, the ticking of the clock became louder in my hearing. The knowledge that there were mere minutes left before the resounding bell would echo throughout the classrooms of the school's main building, thus signaling the end of the quiz was foreboding, to say the least. I knew there was no way I could ace this quiz -- much like all the other quizzes in this class -- so I elected to guess on the multiple-chose and taking my chances. My battle with plane shapes and measurements continued for the next ten minutes. I wrote answers, erased them, and wrote them again. The process went on for quite a while, might I say.

Write down the answer.

Erase said answer in anxiousness.

Give yourself a pathetic pep talk that maybe, somehow, your answer that wasn't even one of the four answers could possibly be correct.

Write the (most likely, incorrect) answer again.

Repeat this process once more on the next question.

This meticulous method of failure continued until Mr. Gregory slammed his hand down on his desk as he stood up, making almost everyone in the classroom jump.

While there were the people who were finished and waiting for the noise, and then those who were sleeping, there were also many who were still focused on the quiz. I was one of those sad, forgotten souls still focused on the quiz.

"Miss Hale!" Mr. Gregory exclaimed, slamming his palm on my desk and drawing a surprised yelp from within me. Had anyone asked me how I felt in that moment, I would have told them that I could have sworn a little bit of my soul left my body.

My Edit

The stupidly loud tick of the clock in the silent classroom was drowned out by the rapid beating of my heart. 

Okay, Tessa, you can do this, breathe.

I closed my eyes. The room smelled faintly of pencil shavings and burnt dust from the heater.

You've prepared for this moment.

 I opened my eyes.

Question 1: What is the sum of the interior angles of a convex quadrilateral?

Oh, my God. What is the what of the what what of a what what-what-what-what-what? Skip!

Question 2: If two parallel lines are cut by a transversal, what is the relationship between their alternate interior angles?

I wanted to throw up. How can I answer the question if I don't know what any of the words in the question mean? I skimmed down the page, looking for an easy one. Something to boost my confidence. It was all gibberish. I looked around the classroom.  Has anyone else noticed that the test isn't in English? The overhead fluorescents buzzed, washing everything in a headache-white glow. I was surrounded by bent heads, frowns of concentration, and the scratching of pencil on paper, steady as rainfall. 

Mr. Gregory, Belgian, beige, and balding, was staring at me. His wire-framed glasses flashed like warning lights as he squinted in my direction. He pointed two of his fingers toward his eyes, and then at the desk in front of him, telling me to keep my eyes on my paper. And he wasn't joking. He once threw Stacy Solomon for leaning over to sneeze.

I looked back down at my test. Words and phrases swam in front of me. Symmetry...interior...definition...supplementary hypotenuse...convex quadrilateral polygon...transversal inscribed intercepted arc. One word caught my attention: "definition". Math was never my subject but I was good at spelling and grammar. In fact, the night before, I'd experimented with treating Math like English and creating a vocabulary list. In my panic, I'd totally forgotten my battle plan.

On the quiz, I looked for the word "definition" again, and found it. Question 7: What is the definition of supplementary angles?

Ooh! I know this! I closed my eyes before the multiple choices answers could get stuck in my brain and make me question myself. Supplementary, supplementary. I visualized my vocabulary list. Two angles that add to 180. I opened my eyes. "A" was two angles that added to 90 degrees, "B" was 35. And, "C"! Blessed "C" was 180! I circled the C and started scouring the page for other vocabulary words. 

I saw "formula" and silently cheered. A formula was just Math for a definition. These weren't multiple choice, but that was fine, because it meant I wouldn't get confused by slightly different wrong answers. I filled those in.

I realized that the clock was getting louder, which meant that my heartbeat had slowed. I was a little lightheaded, but part of that was the excitement from answering some questions correctly. I looked up at the clock and realized that there were only six minutes left. A lot of the kids had been stirring, looking around, and making faces at each other. Whispering was breaking out around the classroom.

"Quiet!" Mr. Gregory called out. The classroom snapped back into silence. Except for the stupid clock. 

Okay, six minutes. How many questions do I have left? Six. Oh, God. I've only answered four questions in fourteen minutes! How is that possible? Focus! Six questions in six minutes means one minute per question, more if the question is easy. 

I scoured the page for easy questions, but the restless rustling of the other kids was starting to disrupt my concentration. Most of them had already finished. Were they smarter than me, or was I dumber than them?  

Worry about that later. Look for definitions.

I did. Aside from the formulas, which I'd already filled in, the rest were all multiple choice. On each question, "D" was "All of the above," which was Mr. Gregory's idea of a joke. He did it on every test. The answer was never "D". 

I closed my eyes and visualized my vocabulary list for each question before circling an answering letter. My confidence dropped as the whispering rose again. Chairs creaked. A sneaker squeaked against the linoleum.

Focus, focus, focus.

SLAM!

"Miss Hale!" Mr. Gregory had slammed his palm down on top of my quiz.

I yelped. Everyone giggled. A little bit of my soul left my body.

(Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~736)

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Critique

The juxtaposition of Cinderella and Skateboard in the title caught my attention immediately. I was sold on the title alone, so I skipped the blurb (though I’ve posted it here in case you want to read it).

I thought that the way the chapter started was interesting: 

The death warrant sat in front of me like an omen of horrific luck.

I skimmed ahead to see what the "death warrant" was. The first couple of paragraphs really build to the reveal, which, spoiler, is a Geometry quiz. It’s a cute conceit — an unexpected way to dramatize the experience of taking a test.

One problem is that after this immense build-up, we just go into non-metaphorical narration for the rest of the story. It ends up feeling more like a writing prompt than a sustained metaphor.

Another problem is that there's no indication of the stakes of the quiz, no parental pressure or consequences if she doesn't do well on the quiz or in the class, just this overwhelming sense of doom. Which — fair. I had the same reaction to Geometry when I took it, and I had no parental pressure. But the pressure came from me. I wanted to do well so that I could get into Harvard and become rich and beautiful and never need anyone. TMI? The point is, there's a reason Tessa is sweating this so hard, and a glimpse into why would add a lot to her characterization.

Finally, I think the rest of the scene is done well in terms of capturing the epic stress of a Geometry test, so the metaphor is not necessary. The premise overpromises. This is a compelling scene if you know that you're reading about a Geometry test. It's a letdown if you started out thinking you were about to rush headlong into a life-or-death sword fight (or skateboard battle).

Setting
The advantage to using a setting that would be familiar to most people is that the reader can fill in the blanks. In this excerpt, we get a classroom, a clock, and a teacher's desk. This is all we need, but it wouldn't hurt to fill out the classroom a bit. Where is Tessa sitting in regard to her friends, her crush, her rival? Does the classroom have windows that overlook a place Tessa would rather be? Something my teachers would do is erase the chalkboards. That was always unnerving. 

That covers the physical setting. The emotional setting is Tessa's mind.  The original excerpt shows that Tessa has a strong imagination. Even without the battle metaphor, she personifies Geometry by defining the relationship as "hate-love". Not to be mean, but I don't think that Geometry knows she exists. We'll explore more of Tessa's psychology in the Characterization section.

Characterization

The battle plan that Tessa comes up with is to guess. The quiz is multiple choice. This passage is pretty cute:

Write down the answer.

Erase said answer in anxiousness.

Give yourself a pathetic pep talk that maybe, somehow, your answer that wasn't even one of the four answers could possibly be correct.

Write the (most likely, incorrect) answer again.

Repeat this process once more on the next question.

This meticulous method of failure continued until...

I really like "meticulous method of failure" -- that would make a great band name. I like the pathetic pep talk, too, but I think that this is a perfect example of telling, not showing. We're already in Tessa's head, so this could read more like:

Circle C. Half of the time it's C.

Erase the circle around C. If it's only C half of the time, then this time it's probably not.

Are you calculating probability during a Geometry quiz? Idiot. Sorry sorry. You're, like, a really smart genius. You've got this, guuurrrlll...cringe. What is wrong with me?

Circle C.

And, repeat.

This meticulous method of failure continued until....

Now, we sound like we're in Tessa's thoughts instead of the abstract idea of Tessa's thoughts. I didn't end up going in this direction because I started thinking about my own Geometry flop sweats. I was never good at math, but I rebelled against the idea of failing and having to take it again. So, when studying, I related it to what I was good at -- English. 

I used that experience in my revision for this excerpt and I think that it reads as much more personal. To help with specificity, I Googled "Geometry quiz" and used the questions I found, with, pretty much the exact thoughts in the revision as I had when I looked at the questions. Geometry was a long time ago. I don't even know what half of the questions are asking.

One more thing about Tessa before we move onto the other characters. I do think that it's interesting to have Tessa potentially be more chill at the top of a really tall ramp with a skateboard in hand than on solid ground with a Geometry quiz in front of her. If we started Chapter 1 with a skateboard scene, the Geometry quiz following immediately would both introduce the skateboard in the title, and make the intensity of her anxiety over her Geometry quiz read as even funnier in contrast.

Tessa is the only character in this scene, which is odd, because she's in a classroom full of people. Plus a teacher. One thing I remembered about taking Geometry quizzes was noticing when other people were done, how many were done before me, etc. I never wanted to be last. The dumbest one was always last. I was okay with being second-to-last. Anyway, Tessa never looks up. I admire her concentration, but it would feel more realistic if she got distracted — maybe tracking the clock or noticing who’s done before her.

Also, one thing about the classroom. I always knew where the mean boys were, the mean girls were, the people who wouldn't be mean if I sat with them, and, of course, my unrequited crush. (I was, obviously, wildly popular.) I think that we could add depth to the scene by being aware of the other kids especially her crush, her friends. Is her rival the first to finish? Does she sashay up to the front of the class to drop off her quiz, ten minutes before anyone else? Typical!

Also, we should get a basic description of Mr. Gregory so that when he slams his hand down on his desk, we get a visual of him. And when he slams his desk on Tessa's desk, we can get more detail, like his cologne, the peeling pleather belt, etc. 

Conflict/Tension

There's plenty of tension between Tessa and her quiz. Even though I didn't love the battle metaphor because it felt more cute than real, and I think that deeper humor comes from pain that hits the bone, I can't accuse the author of skimping out on the tension. Here's how she approaches the battle:

My eye twitched in trepidation, and for one moment, I questioned whether I was making a correct decision or not. However, the very nature of the situation demanded that I decide on a path and stick to it -- so that is what I did. Taking a deep breath, I slowly lowered my hand, touching the tip of my weapon of war to the paper before me.

We've got the eye twitch (physical/personal), questioning her decision (mental), and her weapon of war (physical/setting). 

We also have Mr. Gregory slamming his hand on Tessa's desk. I don't care how strict he is, that is inappropriate, and that behavior from a teacher hasn't been socially acceptable since Tom Berenger was in his heyday. Even though Tessa's not likely to stand up to Mr. Gregory, that just ramps up the tension, because of the power imbalance.

I like the way that she reacts. The "soul leaving my body" line is visceral. I think I left mine, too. I did clean up the wording of it, though. "A little bit of my soul left my body" reads a lot more powerful and immediate than, "Had anyone asked me how I felt in that moment, I would have told them that I could have sworn a little bit of my soul left my body."

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Final Thoughts

The quickest and easiest way to add depth to the scene would be to include Tessa's fellow students, particularly the ones that she cares about (love or hate would be ideal). Doing so would automatically force her to describe the layout of the class. Describing the other kids would also add physical and psychological texture to the scene. (As well as introduce them to the readers, since these characters will be important later.)

More depth could come from some context as to why she's sweating Geometry so hard. Back in my day, Geometry was not required in order to graduate from high school. Things may have changed since the 1800s, but probably not this? I guess it depends on the school. I think, based on the blurb, that it might be good to work in the skateboarding competition -- like, if she doesn't keep her grades up, she won't be allowed to compete. Or, it could be the generalized getting-into-college anxiety. Do kids still go to college?

Overall, it’s a strong first draft with a fun, comedic voice. The author's note on the story says that it's a first draft, unedited, so it's surprisingly coherent (better than a lot of my first drafts). We have the basics of setting, characterization and tension, with plenty of room to add detail and tease out more of Tessa's unique voice. A second pass adding classmates and clear stakes would make the humor land harder and give readers more to root for.