Dead If You Do by KateNorth on Wattpad

Blurb

When Haley Bell is offered a scholarship to study at the exclusive Woodcreek College, famous for moulding the world's brightest thinkers, politicians and entrepreneurs, she jumps at the opportunity. 

Except when she arrives, the murders start.

In a campus hidden from civilization in the mountains of Colorado, Haley's classmates are slowly turning up dead. As the bodies pile up and eyes of suspicion turn on her, Haley finds that there's a reason why she was brought to Woodcreek. 

And it wasn't to study.

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Original (First 500)

There's a story my brother told Daisy and me when we were little.

We were sitting around a campfire, its fiery flames licking our marshmallows as Elliot held a torch beneath his chin. The effect made white light stretch across his face, distorting his soft, child-like features and transforming them into something sharp -- something deadly. Wind carried the clink of our parents' champagne glasses and their laughter wrapped around me like a warm blanket, but even that wasn't enough to sooth the goosebumps raised on my arms.

Not for as long as Elliot was speaking, anyway.

Beside our little fire was a lake -- Crystal Lake, we called it. In the summer, my cousins and I would drive off the pier and take turns to see who could hold their breath the longest. It was a summer paradise, but at night it looked different.

The shadows swallowed everything they touched, covering the lake in its shroud. Mosquitos buzzes above the water's surface and, as I looked out into the darkness, I swore the darkness stared back. Things moved inside those shadows -- I would have sworn it on my life -- shifting into shapes they didn't teach us in school. But cocooned inside the fire's light, I knew I was safe.

That's what I thought, anyway.

The story Elliot told was about doppelgangers. As we grew older, like most things, it changed. But it always got scarier -- no matter what.

'We all have one,' he whispered, his tiny voice rising sharp against the crackling fire. He leaned forward, blue eyes flickering between my cousin and me. 'They watch us,' he continued, 'hiding in the shadows as we walk our dogs or go to school. Sometimes, they even take out place. I could be my doppelganger right now and you wouldn't even know.'

I bit my lip, every nerve in my body ignited with fear. I knew what doppelgangers did; Elliot's story engraved itself in my mind from the very first time he told it. They watched you in back alleys, studying your habits and traits until they can finally take your place.

Looking back now, I think it was the idea that someone could take me away from my family that scared me more than anything else. It's silly, when you think about it. Back then, I couldn't imagine anything worse than losing the ones I love. Now, it's all I know.

As the moths buzzed around the fire, Mom stretched out front he patio to see us. Her small, delicate fingers unfolded into a wave and I smiled, waving back, trying to ignore how stiff the movement felt. I had to pretend I was enjoying myself, because if she knew what Elliot was saying, what words he twisted, she'd be angry and I wouldn't be allowed to come here again.

I'd been having trouble sleeping since turning seven. Waking up in the middle of the night screaming from nightmares I couldn't remember. Mom boiled it down to Elliot's storytelling, but because I couldn't remember what I dreamt of, I wasn't so sure.

My Edit

Every year, we sat around the campfire at Crystal Lake -- me, my brother Elliot, and my cousin Daisy. This year, Daisy and I were seven, Elliot ten. My brother liked to tell the same story every year, except every year was more elaborate and scarier than the year before. 

My mother, who blamed my night terrors on Elliot's stories, was safely out of earshot with Dad and Uncle Name and Aunt Name, but we could hear them. The clink of champagne glasses and warm laughter swirled around us on the wind as Elliot held a torch to his face, turning his round, friendly features into sharp, fearsome ones.

Shadows swallowed everything they touched, covering the lake in its shroud. Mosquitos buzzed above the water's surface and, as I looked out into the darkness, darkness stared back. Things moved inside those shadows, shifting into shapes they didn't teach us in school. I edged closer to the fire, believing that the cocoon of light was a physical barrier between us and the shapes. I held my marshmallow into the fire, more to mirror my brother and Daisy than out of hunger. 

The story Elliot told was about doppelgangers. "We all have one," he said, his voice rising sharp against the crackling fire. He leaned forward, blue eyes flickering between my cousin and me. "They watch us," he continued, "hiding in the shadows as we walk our dogs or go to school. Sometimes, they even take our place. I could be my doppelganger right now and you wouldn't even know."

Elliot's story always started the same, and I trembled, in anticipation for what was to come. I think it was the idea that someone could take me away from my family that scared me more than anything else. Back then, I couldn't imagine how I'd feel if I lost the ones I loved. Now, it's all I know.

(Original word count: ~510 → Edited: ~309)

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Critique

Great title, great blurb. The stakes are literally life and death, right there in your face.

For the excerpt, I love the contrast between the parents being close by and Haley's fear. They're present enough that Haley could call out to them, but she doesn't because of some unconscious need to be cool enough to listen to the scary story her brother is telling her. And the author doesn't have to say that explicitly because it's told in a way that we can infer it. All of the contrasts between dark and light, between danger real and imagined, are great. 

That said, the excerpt could benefit from a bit more clarity in the writing. For instance, we learn the kids' ages after this excerpt, but that should be mentioned as early as possible. What the reader would expect from a seven-year-old's perspective would be different from a thirteen-year-old's, even though, as an adult looking back, you'd describe either age as being a kid. And knowing that Elliot is ten will also contextualize how scary the story will probably be.

Another thing is that we get a line about how it's so dark that Haley is seeing shapes that don't exist, and then a sentence later, we see her mother leaning over the balcony to wave at her. If we wanted to show that Mom is a worrier, we could have her calling out instead of visible. Then, Elliot could be exasperated, Haley could be reassured, etc.

Setting

Sticking to the excerpt, we have two settings: the campfire where Haley, her brother, and her cousin are sitting, and the deck where their parents are hanging out. We basically get the clinking of champagne glasses and floating laughter as the setting for the parents, and that's great. That's all we really need to know. 

The campfire crackles, it licks marshmallows, and we can't see the lake but we can hear mosquitoes buzzing over it. Great details, short but evocative descriptions. The darkness that stares back is awesome.

Characterization

We have seven characters in this scene plus some unnamed cousins who go swimming in the lake but who aren't present at the campfire. I think that parents letting their kids tell campfire stories out of sight indicates a level of complacency and safety they feel with their environment.

Daisy is only mentioned as being physically present but we haven't heard from her yet by the end of the excerpt. Elliot is a storyteller, he tells a more elaborate version of the story every year and his mother believes that his stories are responsible for Haley's night terrors. I think that, despite that phrasing, Elliot must tell stories year-round. 

And Haley, our POV character, is scared of just the idea of a doppelganger taking her away from her family, but she doesn't want Elliot to stop telling his stories. When her mother waves, Haley tries to smile so that her mother won't figure out that Elliot is scaring her. Although, if her mother can see them, she can probably see Elliot holding a flashlight toward his face to make himself seem scary, so I don't know.

Haley is properly nuanced, which is good, since she's our POV character. She's scared of the story but more scared of not being included. She's sensitive and observant and aware of her autonomy to a believable extent for a seven-year-old. If we wanted Elliot to be more dimensional, we could have a line talking about how he makes the stories less scary for her, which doesn't work, or he makes them even scarier because ten-year-olds are sociopaths.

Conflict/Tension

We have internal conflict in that Haley is scared but doesn't want to stop the storytelling, we have the contrast of laughter being like a blanket but having goosebumps from the scary story, we have the contrast of the bright fire and the dark forest. And we have the foreshadowing line about Haley losing all of the people she loves.

The tension is undercut by things like Haley reiterating the point that Elliot just made about doppelgangers watching from the shadows.

 'They watch us,' he continued, 'hiding in the shadows as we walk our dogs or go to school. Sometimes, they even take out place. I could be my doppelganger right now and you wouldn't even know.'

I bit my lip, every nerve in my body ignited with fear. I knew what doppelgangers did; Elliot's story engraved itself in my mind from the very first time he told it. They watched you in back alleys, studying your habits and traits until they can finally take your place.

In general, even though the writing is evocative:

The shadows swallowed everything they touched, covering the lake in its shroud. Mosquitos buzzes above the water's surface and, as I looked out into the darkness, I swore the darkness stared back. Things moved inside those shadows -- I would have sworn it on my life -- shifting into shapes they didn't teach us in school.

Interruptions like "I would have sworn it on my life" and the mom checking in from her place on the patio keep the scene from feeling focused and purposeful. If the point of the scene is the story Elliot is telling, we need more focus on the story. And more story.

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Final Thoughts

The first line, "There's a story my brother told Daisy and me when we were little," indicates that the story her brother tells in this prologue is important to the rest of the novel. But he doesn't tell a story. He introduces the concept of doppelgangers and then we switch to present-day Haley at a crime scene, who concludes that we shouldn't be afraid of doppelgangers, we should be afraid of ourselves. This is an intense line, and an exciting one to step into the first chapter with, but it negates the entire purpose of the storytelling scene. Why are we experiencing an entire scene that the author essentially dismisses with the last line?

Anyway, other than that, this is a promising start. At the very least, the author can set a mood and come up with compelling hooks.

Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective by BenSobieck on Wattpad

Blurb

Zandra is an infamous "psychic" who grifts the gullible residents of her small Wisconsin town using her wits, not anything supernatural. Her skills are put to the ultimate test when the police tap her to help find a kidnapped girl. 

 But there's a catch. The girl's father apparently got away with murdering Zandra's husband years ago. Can Zandra put aside her grudge for the sake of a missing child? Or is this the perfect opportunity for revenge?

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Original (First 500)

She's obviously an undercover cop. What will it be this time? Theft by swindle? An accounting error? A parking ticket? This should be good.

Zandra sniffs out the disguise before the woman is through the door of Sneak Peek, her hole-in-wall "psychic services" business. It's bricked in between a head shop and a defunct coffee joint in downtown Stephens Point, Wisconsin. Just a chair behind a desk in a single room. A glorified closet stuff with too many eccentricities that catch the sunlight as the woman closes the door.

It doesn't take a psychic for Zandra to see her latest client is failing as an undercover cop. Maybe that's because Zandra isn't a psychic. Rather, she's a proud fraud, loving upon the reputation of that incident at Soma Falls years ago. An incredibly lucky guess? Sure. Psychic? No.

But when the masses spray paint the words "go back to hell witch" on the side of your house and stalk your every move, you'll settle for the psychic label. Better a psychic serving entertainment purposes than anything approaching legitimate in their paranoid eyes. Everyone knows psychics are frauds anyway. It's an unhappy middle ground. An uneasy truce.

Stephens Point didn't know what to make of her back then. Still doesn't. But that doesn't prevent people from coming into Zandra's business. Like cops making sure she knows her place as the village crone. That's probably why this latest one is here.  A reminder to not get too uppity about the reputation from Soma Falls. But don't walk away from it, either.  What happened with Zandra and Soma Falls put Stevens Point on the map. The tourism alone is worth millions.

The creases around Zandra's tired eyes life into a greeting. Smize as the kids would say. Not that she's been anywhere near hip for decades, made obvious by the oversized purple gown draped over her shoulders. It's acned with gaudy rhinestones straight off a cheap stripper's ass cheek. It's all for show, just like every other trinket of sparkly nonsense in Sneak Peek. And all for sale, of course. That's the proud in proud fraud. Not like anyone in town would give Zandra a real job anyway. But they'd certainly remind her she should.

The woman takes a seat across the desk from Zandra. As she does with all her clients, the "psychic" performs a mental checklist before saying anything. Zandra's got it down to three seconds. that's all she needs for her act.

Short, blonde hair pulled back tight into a small ponytail. 

Fingernails trimmed to a few millimeters. 

Baggy flannel shirt to cover the concealed pistol in a holster secured inside the waistband of her jeans. Right hand seated on her thigh at the ready to draw. Legs planted firmly on the floor instead of crossed or casual.

These aren't traits exclusive to cops. But playing the psychic, Zandra knows it's an odds game.

My Edit

Zandra is stringing beads for a suncatcher and lamenting the growing number of liver spots on her hands, when the door to her shop opens, setting the ceramic bells a-tinkling. She looks up. An undercover cop. Another one. 

Short, blonde hair pulled back tight into a small ponytail. Fingernails trimmed to a few millimeters. Baggy flannel shirt to cover the concealed pistol in a holster. Blue eyes that case the entire room, checking corners and blind spots. Not that there's much to check. 

Sneak Peek is her psychic shop set in a bricked-in alleyway between a head shop and a defunct coffee joint in downtown Stephens Point, Wisconsin. The center point of the room is a battered wood round table flanked by two comfy mismatched armchairs. A pitcher of water with two glasses are set in the middle of the table. This little tableau is surrounded by colorful wind chimes, dreamcatchers, pillows, blankets, and caftans like the one Zandra wears -- her signature bedazzled purple. All for sale, of course. Baubles sparkle in the sunlight as the cop closes the door, shooting prisms around the room.

The cop stalks to the chair across from Zandra and sits down. Right hand seated on her thigh. Legs planted firmly on the floor. No doubt uncomfortable to have her back to the door.

(Original word count: ~484 → Edited: ~219)

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Critique

I was intrigued by the premise of a fake psychic solving crimes. We've seen this on TV with shows like Psyche and The Mentalist, but I haven't actually ever read a book with this premise. I like that Zandra is female and old, we don't get enough detectives in that demographic, and especially not fake psychic detectives.

Also, the idea of not helping to find a missing child because the girl's father murdered Zandra's husband is unhinged in the best way. It really makes you question -- who the hell is Zandra? What is her deal? Of course you help find a missing child. If you need to, expose the father as a murderer, that's a totally separate issue. What's wrong with you? Like, yes, it adds tension to the scenario, especially if Zandra has to work with the man, but to purposely choose vengeance instead of helping a child? I'm sorry, but that is hilarious. I love it.

Regarding action in this excerpt, all that happens an undercover cop walks into Zandra's shop and sits down across from her. This isn't a criticism, that's plenty interesting enough. The author definitely covers setting, characterization, and conflict in this one excerpt. However, the author does spend too much time in Explain Mode, emphasizing the fact that Zandra is a fake psychic. Most people will walk into even a fictional a psychic shop with a certain amount of skepticism, especially when the blurb and the title alert the reader to the fact, so all of this isn't needed. 

And I don't love the half-description of Soma Falls. Just wait and give us a decent intro to that whole deal. The author is trying to cram so much information into the first few paragraphs that it just feels like a revving car that keeps stalling out (I'm not a car guy, did that analogy make sense? Maybe flooding the engine? I don't know. I never got my driver's license.).

Setting

A psychic's office that feels more like a gift shop -- which it is. Zandra sells replicas of her signature caftan, which is a beautiful way to combine setting with characterization. I was intrigued by the location "between a head shop and a defunct coffee joint". I love the specificity of the coffee shop being closed, especially with the juxtaposition of it being one shop away from a head shop. This location feels small and seedy with just that tiny bit of information. 

I also like the "sparkly trinkets", but Zandra is described as sitting behind a desk, which I thought was weird for a psychic shop. Maybe that's supposed to play up the detective angle but if the shop is full of gaudy, "look-at-me-I'm-a-psychic" stuff, I'd think we'd have a round table for the psychic to sit at with her clients. We didn't get a location of the desk, either, so I just took my own liberties and gave her a table in the middle of the shop. I think it fits the vibe better.

Characterization

Zandra is an asshole. She is super proud of herself for being a fake psychic, she's bitter about the townsfolk who wouldn't employ her but wouldn't excuse her being unemployed either, she speaks derogatorily about sex workers, she thinks that kids say "smize". Kids don't say smize. A middle-aged former model wants kids to say "smize" so that she can get residuals every time a kid says "smize". 

Anyway, it's all good detail if you're trying to build an unlikable character, but for me, it was too much, too soon. Like, it's hard to tell if the character is cringy or if the author is. So, I took all of that out of my version and zoomed in on the undercover cop. The way that the cop is described in the original excerpt shows Zandra's attention to detail and her cynicism but it's all drowned out by all of the unlikable stuff. As a reader, I didn't know what to focus on, so I focused on how much I didn't like Zandra.

One thing that throws me off is that this is supposed to be a really small town, so I'm not sure how undercover a cop could be, unless she's new to town. Especially with Zandra already having been harassed by cops pretty frequently, I would think she'd be pretty familiar with the local cops.

Conflict/Tension

Oh, yes, there's plenty of conflict. We have Zandra's conflict with the townsfolk, the inherent conflict with be a fake anything, let alone a psychic detective, the fact that she's being visited by an undercover cop, and whatever happened with Soma Falls. It's a little too much conflict for the amount of action, though. 

An undercover cop walks in to a psychic shop in a seedy part of town and sits down from a fake psychic. This is not an occurrence that is out of the ordinary for the psychic. This is INTERESTING. Let's focus on this. Zandra's fraught relationship with the townsfolk, and what happened in Soma Falls can wait (especially since Soma Falls is brought up almost immediately after this excerpt).

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Final Thoughts

I wasn't really sure, based on this excerpt, if this story would be worth continuing, because of the lack of focus on the immediate scene and the insecurity that the author is showing here. But the premise is interesting enough, the setting, characterization, and conflict are all here in Chapter One, so I read onto Chapter Two, which is much more focused on introducing Zandra to her conundrum and on her ancient bitterness. I actually thought that Chapter One could probably be deleted and we could just start with Chapter Two. 

That's the thing about the beginning of the story, though. It's really hard to know how to start, how much information to give up front, especially when you as the author already know everything that happens. It's hard to have the confidence that the first thing you say to a reader will convince them to keep reading, so the instinct is to try to cram as many interesting ideas into the first few paragraphs as possible, as a promise that the whole story will be good, even if this part is boring. The answer to that is, if you're starting with a boring part, don't.

Start with an interesting part, and trust that your reader will want to find out how and why we got here and where we're going next. I will give this story credit for not starting with a really interesting part and then walking directly into back story and infodumps. I'm glad that Chapter Two is better than Chapter One. That gives me confidence as a reader that the story will only get better and better.

Crash by luv234_luv on Wattpad

Blurb

Lyra Jay Kellie’s plane goes down in a violent Montana storm, leaving her stranded, injured, and completely alone. Her pilot is dead. Her satellite phone is useless. And the wilderness is closing in fast.

Then another crash lights the sky.

Nathan Wesley survives his own wreck—barely—thanks so Lyra, who drags him from the burning plane. Grateful and determined, he vows to get her back to civilization, no matter what it costs.

But the Rockies don’t forgive mistakes. Something is stalking the forest. Resources are vanishing. And the storm isn’t done with them yet.

Together, Lyra and Nathan must outrun the cold, the mountains, and the unseen danger hunting them.
Survival is the goal—falling for each other might be the only thing that saves them.

Original (First 500)

"Lyra! Come here now!" I yelled, irritatedly tapping the toe of my shoe. 

"What, what do you want?"

She stalked into the room as if she owned the place. Well, news flash, I own this place. Half of it, at least. It's my right and no one around here seems to act like it.

"What is this mess?" I demanded and looking at all the filth on the floor and then back at Lyra. This is disgusting, who lives like this? When I was a teenager, I never lived like this.

"Um, I'm packing. I'm going to go with dad to Fort Peck," she quipped and I glared at her. This girl has such an attitude and David never fixed it. That's what happens when you baby twenty year olds.

"Well do you have to make a damn mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms over my chest. She mirrored my glare and frustration bubbles in my chest.

"It's not a mess. But don't worry, I know where everything is and I'll be out of here tomorrow," she smirked at me, putting a hand on her hip.

"Thank god..." she  muttered under her breath.

"You disrespectful, annoying little brat. Someone is going to have to teach you to have some manners," I said lowly.

"Oh I have manners, you're just not worthy of receiving them," Lyra said defiantly. I could feel my blood boil and my face redden.

"And how exactly am I not worthy in your eyes?" I said through clenched teeth.

"Well, let's see. One, you're a bitch. Two, you're trying to steal all of my father's money but let's face it, as long as I'm around, you won't touch it. Three, I just plain resent you. Do you need more reasons? I have a list," she chuckled.

We were far past civil commentary.

"I am not trying to take your fathers money!" I gasped. Lie, but she's only a witless teenager, she doesn't know any better.

Really, David is loaded. I would love to get in on more than what I'm privy to, but he's got little miss everything and would hand his still beating heart over to the little rat.

"You're a liar," Lyra spat flatly.

"That's it! Give me your phone, your grounded!" I held my hand out to take her phone.

I had to do something about this girl or I'll never get anything I need to do done, dammit.

Lyra let out a humorless guffaw "I'm twenty years old and pay my own phone bill. You've got no right."

She continued to laugh, making me angrier by the minute. This girl was a walking entity of sass and I was close to beating it out of her.

"Wow, you're really off your rocker now. Does dad know you're getting crazier by every year?" she chuckled and quirked the corner of her lips into that annoying little smirk of hers. 

My Edit

I descended the half of the double stairway that led from my and David's wing of the house -- okay, let's be real -- mansion. I swept my gaze over the flawless marble stairs, the miniature statue of Venus de Milo set into an arched niche halfway down, the perfectly polished ebony wood banister. I wore flowing pastel blue robe over matching frilly silk nightgown. Slippers with kitten heels like a heroine in a black-and-white movie, clicked with each step.

Then I saw that my husband's twenty-year-old brat had taken over my formal living room, entryway, and the stairs that led up to the guest wing. 

"Lyra!" I screamed in fury. I felt my beauty mask crack. I hated this girl. She ruined everything.

Lyra walked into the formal living room from the deck as if she'd earned the place, not me. She wore jeans and a t-shirt, her blonde hair swept back in a neat ponytail. The toes of her red socks dotted with white hearts peeked out from under the hem of her jeans.

"What is this mess?" I demanded. Clothes, bags, shoes, and other stepdaughter detritus littered every inch of my flawlessly-decorated home.

"Um, I'm packing," she answered distractedly, looking around. "I'm going with my dad to Fort Peck." Her usual vitriol was at bay, her voice even, and she didn't meet my gaze. I'd overheard David on the phone with her a few days before she'd come to visit, making her promise not to pick fights with me. It seemed like she intended to keep that promise verbally, but assaulting the pristine beauty of my home meant war, as far as I was concerned. 

"Well do you have to make such a mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms, the fluffy sleeves of my dressing gown tickling my chin. "You have a bedroom, private bath, and walk-in closet you could be doing this in."

"It's not that bad," she said. She looked around again. "Don't worry, I know where everything is. And, I'll be out of here tomorrow." She turned to fuss with a make-up bag that she'd left open on my foyer table. She'd shoved the enormous bouquet out of center in order to make space for her crap. "Thank God..." she muttered under her breath.

"You disrespectful brat," I spat. "Someone needs to teach you some manners." My mask cracked even more with my scowl and started sliding down my face. I pulled at the pieces, collecting them with the French-tipped fingernails of my left hand, and piling them neatly in the palm of my right hand. If I'd been born rich, I'd probably just toss them onto the floor for the staff to clean up, but unlike this monster who had been spoiled every second of her twenty years, I had respect for my possessions.

"Oh I have manners, you're just not worthy of receiving them," Lyra said with a faux sweet smile. She finally turned to look me directly in the eye. 

That born-rich, nose-in-the-air expression made my blood boil. I took a step toward her. "And how exactly am I not worthy in your eyes?" I asked, through clenched teeth. As though we hadn't had this fight a million times.

"Well, let's see. One, you're a bitch. Two, you're trying to steal my father's money. Three, you're lazy. It's almost noon and you're still in your pajamas," she added, with a sweeping gesture toward my elegant nightwear. "Do you want more? I have a list," she said, disgust twisting her pretty face.

Her promise to her father lasted about as long as I had expected. Lyra hated me as much as I hated her.

My husband is still handsome for his age, but his best feature is his money. But his worst feature is his devotion to this little rat. He'd hand his still-beating heart over to her, if she asked for it.

I have to do something about this girl.

(Original word count: ~490 → Edited: ~677)

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Critique

For an intro to a brand new story, we look for setting, characterization, and conflict/tension. To be honest, tension is the most important, so the compelling blurb and opening with a confrontation is a good start.

Slowing down a bit and describing the setting will add a ton of dimension to the scene, and in a case like this, because luxury is such an extreme setting, the way the characters interact with it automatically adds characterization.

Setting
We know that these characters are a) in Alexandra and David's home and b) Lyra is visiting. Other than that, we're not given a lot of context for the scene. Based on Alexandra throwing a conniption over the mess, we would expect to be in a smaller apartment or condo. But the mention of how rich David is suggests otherwise, which could be confusing to a reader.

For my edit, I created a classic mansion with a marble double staircase. I threw in a foyer, and a fancy living room, and I had Lyra take over all of this space. In a house this big, with Lyra having her own suite, taking over the living room is a pointed choice, one that the would make specifically to make Alexandra angry.

A cute little vacation condo or cottage would also work, but the effect would be less extreme, and I thought it was fun to play up the wealth aspect.

Characterization
In the original excerpt, the stepmother, Alexandra reads as an exaggerated evil stepmother. If she was as deeply unstable as her demanding Lyra's phone suggests, her husband would notice. Even if Alexandra is "crazy", she's still intelligent. Like, having the same argument with your twenty-year-old stepdaughter every time you see her is pretty immature, but we all behave irrationally when we're jealous. If we want to ground Alexandra's emotional immaturity, an easy way to do that is to give her a quick back story where she had to fight for what she has whereas Lyra takes it for granted. 

Alexandra should also be smarter than to defend herself against the gold-digging accusation. She's been married to David for six years, so this accusation isn't new, and people don't react to old accusations with the same horror and defensiveness as new ones. 

In the original excerpt, Alexandra remarks on Lyra not needing to destroy the whole house just to pack a few bags. This is a good observation that I think got a little lost in the original, so I just highlighted it in my version. Compare:

"What is this mess?" I demanded and looking at all the filth on the floor and then back at Lyra. This is disgusting, who lives like this? When I was a teenager, I never lived like this.

"Um, I'm packing. I'm going to go with dad to Fort Peck," she quipped and I glared at her. This girl has such an attitude and David never fixed it. That's what happens when you baby twenty year olds.

"Well do you have to make a damn mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms over my chest. She mirrored my glare and frustration bubbles in my chest.

With:

"What is this mess?" I demanded. Clothes, bags, shoes, and other stepdaughter detritus littered every inch of my flawlessly-decorated home.

"Um, I'm packing," she answered distractedly, looking around. "I'm going with my dad to Fort Peck." Her usual vitriol was at bay, her voice even, and she didn't meet my gaze. I'd overheard David on the phone with her a few days before she'd come to visit, making her promise not to pick fights with me. It seemed like she intended to keep that promise verbally, but assaulting the pristine beauty of my home meant war, as far as I was concerned.

"Well do you have to make such a mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms, the fluffy sleeves of my dressing gown tickling my chin. "You have a bedroom, private bath, and walk-in closet you could be doing this in.".

The underlined parts are where I embellished from the original. So, instead of "filth", in the first paragraph, which is a word that suggests actual dirt, I listed clothes and such. I also played up Alexandra's possessiveness of the house with "my flawlessly-decorated home".

In the second paragraph, instead of just describing Lyra as having an "attitude" that David is lax about, I created a conversation for Alexandra to overhear. This does a few things. It makes David a more involved parent and husband, even though he's not physically present in the scene, it makes Lyra passive-aggressive for making a mess instead of picking a verbal fight, and it makes Alexandra smart for observing Lyra's passive aggression. 

In the third paragraph, I added a sensory detail with the fluffy sleeves, which also serves as a reminder of Alexandra's flamboyant opulence. 

For Lyra's characterization, in the original excerpt, she does come off as a bit bratty and entitled. It's not until the end of the excerpt that the reason she's acting like this is because she thinks that Alexandra is a gold digger. Even though cultural awareness of soap operas suggests this dynamic, nothing in the text does. So, by giving Lyra a basic outfit of a t-shirt and jeans along with a pair of heart-patterned socks, we have a visual indicator that Lyra is down-to-earth, but still youthful, as well as a contrasting image to her stepmother's over-the-top outfit.

Conflict/Tension

An argument between Lyra and Alexandra about Lyra leaving a mess is a great way to explore characters dynamics, unspoken versus spoken resentments. Since we're in Alexandra's POV, we get to know her hidden motivations, all the things she doesn't say to Lyra. The interesting this about this excerpt is that both women seem to be pretty up front with how they feel, nothing held back. 

An easy and effective way to exaggerate this dynamic is to play up the contradictions in the scene. Lyra is wearing a t-shirt and jeans and packing to go camping whereas Alexandra is still in her PJs at noon and there isn't even an indication of a plan for her day, even though we're in her POV. Lyra is quiet, where Alexandra is loud, Lyra's presence (through her scattered belongings) is large, whereas Alexandra is small (she carefully collects the pieces of her cracking mask in one hand).

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Final Thoughts

The author's note suggests that she was fourteen when she wrote this. I think that explains the lack of nuance in the argument in the original excerpt. It definitely reads like an argument a fourteen-year-old would think that a twenty-year-old would have with her stepmother. 

That said, at its core, a good story is one that we want to keep reading. The author, even at fourteen, starts with a compelling hook and an instinct for Drama. What else do we need?

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.

Shifting Greer's by K.D. Bledsoe

Blurb

Once, she was Greer Thomas: popular, fearless, impossible to ignore. But after witnessing her parents’ murder, she’s forced into Witness Protection with a new name, a new town, and a desire to be invisible.

Then she meets Kaleb Nixon. Rough around the edges, with secrets of his own, Kale has built his life on keeping people out. But there’s something about Greer—the way she hides behind sarcasm and oversized glasses—that makes him want to break every rule he’s made for himself.

As Kale gets closer to uncovering who she really is, Greer realizes that the past she’s running from isn’t finished with her yet. Secrets don’t remain buried forever, and Greer has a lot of them.

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Original (First 500)

How do the stories begin? Oh, right, with once upon a time.

So, so here it goes:

Once upon a time, there was an overlooked, beautiful girl who longed for someone to come and notice her. Along comes a handsome prince on horseback to save her. They live happily ever after in a ginormous castle.

Well, you know what I’ve got to say to those stories? Bullcrap.

Fairy tales are stories written by lonely people that want to deceive the minds of the youth. But listen up kids, no one ever gets their happily ever after. Some messed up shit happens in life. Did you get that? Are you taking notes? You could be because I’m a prime example of someone not getting their happily ever after. Heck, I would even settle for Cinderella’s life before she met Prince Charming or whoever.

Because right now, my story belongs in the tragedy section of the bargain bin.

My castle comes in the form of a one-story house, parked on the side of a busy street, in a small crater in the earth in Washington.

And it’s freaking raining.

I stare up at the brick ranch style house with a scowl on my face. My one suitcase is on the wet ground at my feet. My brunette hair is soaked to my skin. I’m not wearing a jacket, just a thin t-shirt. There’s a black pickup truck parked in the driveway. It has a bumper sticker for the high school in town. I can’t help but laugh. I haven’t even been to the school yet.

I can’t get my feet to shuffle up the cracked walkway. This doesn’t feel real. The last few months, I’ve been basically sleepwalking through my life. Standing here in front of my new home starts to wake me up a bit.

“You’ve been standing there for ten minutes now, are you going to go in?” Says a deep voice from beside me.

I gulp, “I’m working up to it.”

“It won’t bite, you know?” He chuckles.

I turn to look at the older man standing to my right. A shot of pain grips my chest tight as I look into his sparkling blue eyes. Leo looks almost identical to my mother. I wonder how long the pain will last every time I look at him. I wonder if it’ll ever get easier.

He gives me a forced smile as he noticed the look on my face, “One step at a time, remember, Greer?”

I nod. It all seemed so simple on the drive over here. I pumped myself up the whole plane trip. I told myself I could do it the whole car ride from the airport. So why couldn’t I do it now?  Why was this such a hard thing to do?

I vigorously nod, shaking myself from my stupor, and put one step in front of the other. I drag my suitcase behind me on its wheels. Leo keeps a safe distance behind me and…

My Edit

I scowl up at the red-brick ranch house. A black pickup sits in the driveway—Uncle Leo’s new truck—with a bumper sticker for the high school I haven’t started attending yet.

Cars hiss past on wet asphalt behind me, their tires spraying puddles onto the curb. Somewhere down the block, a horn bleats twice, impatient, and a delivery van door slams. The world moves fast and loud, but none of it feels like it belongs to me.

Wind whips dark, wet strands of hair across my face, casting diagonal prison bars across my view of the house. I’m not wearing a jacket, just a thin black T-shirt. There’s a hoodie in the suitcase next to my feet. The suitcase isn’t waterproof, so my clothes are probably as soaked as I am.

The cab dropped me off ten minutes ago, and I still can’t make my feet move up the cracked walkway. Two people pass on the sidewalk behind me, their voices rising and fading with laughter. I catch only the sound, not the words, and it feels like a language I used to speak.

The front door opens. Leo steps out, pops an umbrella, and jogs toward me. I fight the urge to run away.

“How long have you been out here?” he asks, sounding concerned and exasperated. He stops in front of me and tries to hand me the umbrella. I don’t budge, so he hovers over me awkwardly, using the umbrella to try to cover both of us.

I sense his grief. Is it as deep as mine? Deeper? His eyes are my mother’s eyes. Does he see my mother in me, too? Does something tighten in his chest—a stitch he can’t breathe through? Does he want to flee, as though not walking into that house with me means this isn’t real? His sister alive, his niece still happy and rebellious in California….

A wry smile quirks my uncle’s lips, though he watches me with concern, a wrinkle between his brows. “Are you coming in?”

I nod. But I don’t move.

“One step at a time, Greer,” he says, empathy radiating from him.

In the distance, I hear sirens. I shudder and step forward, suddenly eager to be inside. I never used to hear sirens. I'll never be able to ignore them again.

Leo moves with me, still trying to hold the umbrella over both of us as I wheel my suitcase up the path. He puts his arm around my shoulders. It’s warm and dry and makes a false promise—that everything is going to be okay.

(Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~428)

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Critique

A teenage girl in Witness Protection after watching her parents be murdered. Original, compelling, and comes with a built-in question: how do you balance grief and danger with teen romance?

The opening paragraphs use fairy-tale imagery and commentary about how those stories are “bullcrap.” It’s an eye-catching hook that instantly caught my interest, but because the story drops the conceit so quickly, it feels more like an attention-grabber than an organic entry point into Greer’s voice.

"I stare up at the brick ranch style house with a scowl on my face," is a much stronger opening line. It's an original line in the author's authentic voice, and it immediately poses a question. Why would someone glare at a seemingly inoffensive inanimate object? So, we have immediate conflict based on the reader's experience of brick, ranch-syle houses (nice, warm, dry, no stairs, middle class, comfortable) with the character's apparent hatred of it. Simple, straightforward, and brilliant.

A quick realism note: typically, participants in witness protection don’t get to keep their first name or live with known family members, since that could link them to their past.

Also, the title should probably be "Shifting Greers" instead of "Shifting Greer's".

Setting

My castle comes in the form of a one-story house, parked on the side of a busy street, in a small crater in the earth in Washington.

This is a cute transition from the fairytale conceit into the setting. A couple of nitpicks — first, “Washington” could refer to the state, D.C., or one of a million cities and towns in the U.S. If we changed it to “Seattle,” the reader would know immediately where we are.

We’re told it’s a busy street, but we never get any signs of foot traffic, passing cars, sirens, or life. I added some of these details in my edit. The other option would be to simply say it’s a quiet street.

The fact that we're staring at this house for so long, in the cold rain, makes me want to go in, especially after meeting Leo and realizing that the house is going to be warm and welcoming.

Characterization
Greer's voice; bitter but wistful, really works. Even without the fairy-tale framing, her vulnerability and resilience shine through. Her apathy about being rained on and her inability to take a step are realistic depictions of grief and denial, even without an inner monologue.

Uncle Leo is immediately lovable, and the fact that he encourages her without forcing her to move — even in the pouring rain — shows that Greer isn’t alone, even though she’s lost so much. The truck with the bumper sticker from the school she hasn’t started yet is a beautiful detail. It says she’s already welcome, that this is already her home, and that he’s already proud of her. It also hints that he might be a bit impatient with her grieving process, which could make for interesting character development later.

Describing a character’s appearance in first person is always tricky. What we look like doesn’t matter to us unless we’re thinking about how others perceive us. Still, you as the author might want the reader to know, so they’re not wondering what the character looks like for half the book.

An organic way to describe a character is to have her feel self-conscious or aware of what someone else is seeing. A perfect place for that here is when Greer and Leo look at each other — when she wonders if her uncle sees her mother when he looks at her, she can compare her features to her mom’s.

If you do want to describe her right away, the author’s original attempt mostly works. “A thin black T-shirt” is believable because it’s something you’d actually notice on yourself. The issue is the line “My hair is plastered to my body…” — we’ve suddenly zoomed out to a visual that the narrator couldn’t see herself unless she’s astral projecting. I changed it to “The wind whips dark, wet strands of hair across my face,” because that’s something she would realistically notice in the moment.

I also had Leo start from inside the house instead of revealing halfway through that Greer isn’t alone. That kind of surprise can pull the reader out of her perspective. It can work for an unreliable narrator, but that doesn’t seem to be the goal here. Giving Leo an umbrella also shows he’s already taking care of her before she even steps inside — a nice mirror to the bumper sticker detail.
Finally, I made Greer’s comparison of her uncle’s blue eyes to her mother’s into a moment of specific inner questioning that reveals her grief and panic. It also lets her wonder about him, recognizing that she’s not the only one grieving. That small shift adds empathy and emotional depth while keeping her thoughts self-centered in a realistic way.

Conflict/Tension

In terms of action, the first 500 words are simple: a girl stares at a house, a man comes out and talks to her, and they walk inside together. Potentially cinematic, but not outwardly thrilling.

What makes this compelling is the internal tension. Her inability to accept her new life is shown through her physical stillness, her apathy toward the rain, and the pain of looking at her uncle because he reminds her of her mom. That’s something a novel can convey far better than a film.

Also, it’s impressive to have a two-character scene full of tension without the tension coming from a fight. Both characters are likable and relatable — that’s what grounds the otherwise implausible premise.

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Final Thoughts

Overall, really compelling opening to a book, even without the small tweaks that I made in my edit. Between the hook and the tension in the scene, adding a little more detail to the setting and nuance to the characters only enhances what we already had.

Overall, this is a really strong opening — even without the small tweaks I made in my edit. Between the emotional hook and the quiet tension, a few more details in the setting and some nuance in the character work just enhance what’s already there.

I took out the fairy-tale conceit in my edit because the author’s authentic voice was strong enough to stand on its own. The fairy-tale angle felt like a crutch for something that didn’t need propping up.