Friday, February 20, 2026

Keeper Martin's Tale by Robert Stanek

Blurb

The "Ruin Mist Chronicles" begin when the Elf Queen sends her sworn protector, Seth, on a journey to the lands of Men. Legend says that the races have been divided for hundreds of years and there are few survivors among the brother races. In Keeper Martin's Tale, readers embark on the unfolding of the first path through the histories of Ruin Mist. This is a deep epic fantasy ostensibly chronicled by Keeper Martin, head of lore keepers.

Original (First 500)

Sunrise loomed across the horizon, pale as jasmine and mostly obscured by dark, feral clouds. The early morning air held an unusual chill and Adrina gathered her light shawl more closely as she stepped out onto the catwalk atop the wall. A breeze blew long strands of hair across her face. The hair, black as the receding night, flowed to her waist and while it was normally braided and folded over her left shoulder, it wasn’t now.
Summer must surely be at an end, Adrina surmised, for the breeze came from the north and not from the West Deep.
Adrina walked to a place where the wall jutted out and cut its way into High King’s Square. Behind her the palace parade grounds were empty and silent, as was the square before her. Many stories below, the city’s residents would soon awake. The square would fill with sounds as merchants began to unpack their wares. Palace guardsmen would muster for breakfast. City and palace would stir to life.
Yet Adrina preferred the empty moment just before all this happened, for the silence echoed the aching of her heart. She pressed her chin into the palm of her hand, her elbow glued to the stone framework of the wall. She sighed mournfully. The palace was truly dead, all real life having long since been gnawed away.
She could have passed the day dreaming about things beyond the gray stone edifice, the cold palace wall, with its portcullis tucked cleanly out of view. She had sauntered through many a day thus, envisioning magnificent journey to the four corners of the land.
Great Kingdom had many holdings. High Province in the north – the far, far north – where amidst mountains of ice and stone the rivers boiled and filled the air with blankets of fog. South, beyond a forest of great white trees called giant birch, lay South Province with its capital city enveloped by the majestic Quashan’ valley. East through the Kingdom along the East-West road were the Territories, divided east and west. The untamed Eastern Territories were awaiting discovery. The Western Territories held but two Kingdom outposts: Zashchita and Krepost’. Traders claimed the walled city of Zashchita was carved from the very trees of the forest, and its building lifted so far into the heavens that they were lost in the clouds. Beyond Zashchita lay Krepost’ and her ferryman who took travelers across River Krespost’ so they could begin the climb into the mountain city, and where afterward the gatekeeper may or may not chase them over the cliffs into Starter’s Bay and to their deaths.
But today Adrina was frustrated to the point of tears. She wouldn’t pass the day dreaming of things she may never see. She didn’t understand what difference the passing of a year made. Why did it matter so that she was a year older? This year seemed the same as the last.

My Edit

Sunrise loomed across the horizon, pale as jasmine and mostly obscured by dark, feral clouds. The early morning air held an unusual chill and Adrina gathered her light shawl more closely around her as she stepped out onto the catwalk atop the wall of the castle. A breeze blew long strands of hair across her face. The hair, black as the receding night, flowed to her waist, free of its usual braid.
Summer must surely be at an end, Adrina surmised, for the breeze came from the north and not from the West Deep. She walked to where the wall jutted out, overlooking High King’s Square. Silence seemed a shroud over the whole of Imtel, clear to the Braddabaggon foothills. Below, the city’s residents would soon awake. The square would fill with sounds as merchants unpacked their wares. Palace guardsmen would muster for breakfast. City and palace would stir to life.
This aching silence each morning before the city awoke, resonated within her. She leaned her elbow atop the stone framework and pressed her chin into the palm of her hand, staring out across the land.
To the far, far north, amidst mountains of ice and stone, rivers boiled and filled the air with blankets of fog. Adrina longed to see this for herself. She longed to see Zashchita to the west, a city carved from the very trees of the forest; its buildings lifted so far into the sky that they were lost in the clouds. And Krepost’, which could only be reached by ferry, where she'd make the three-day climb into the mountain city. The Gatekeeper would find her worthy and invite her in or find her unworthy and chase her over the cliffs and to her death.
She shivered at thought. She'd prefer to be invited in, but at least being chased off of a cliff would be an adventure. Better than dying of boredom and grief at home. As of midnight, she was officially a year older. But the only way this year would be different than the last was in her dreams.
(Original word count: ~503 → Edited: ~347)

Critique

The blurb on Amazon is a mess. It mostly talks about how great the author and series are, but almost nothing about the story. I pasted the most coherent description into the "Blurb" section at the top of the page, but it's so generic, it could literally be describing a thousand high fantasy stories. There's nothing specific to this story except for the character names for Seth and Keeper Martin.

I will say that the writing itself (at least of the first chapter) is lovely and evocative. "Sunrise loomed across the horizon, pale as jasmine and mostly obscured by dark, feral clouds." Feral clouds, really? That's beautiful. We also have, "The silence seemed a shroud over the whole of Imtel..." Even the less poetic sentences clearly have a lot of thought put into them.

Setting

The setting is the top of a castle at dawn -- looking over the square and countryside. Maybe not the most unique setting for a fantasy story but still more interesting than real life. I'd definitely rather be there than here.

Characterization

The characterization is less specific. I think Adrina is supposed to be young, maybe sixteen or so, but the passage makes her read as much older, especially the hints about her grieving. We know that she likes this time of day, before the rest of the city wakes up, we know that she wants to see some of the more spectacular and unique parts of the world, so that hints at an adventurous spirit, and we know that she's melancholic. (The silence echoes the aching of her heart, and she sighs mournfully.) That's pretty much all we get but definitely enough to start a story with.

Conflict/Tension

Conflict comes from what Adrina wants versus what she's allowed. She wants to travel and have adventures, but she can't. Something about this day being her birthday means that she can't just hang out on the roof, people watching and daydreaming.

Final Thoughts

Overall, a pretty strong first 500 words for a story. I will say that the longest passage, describing the different territories kind of made my eyes cross a bit. We don't really need a verbal map this early on, but if we have one, for me, the potential adventures in each land are more important not only to me but to Adrina, so this is where I made the most edits.

In the passage below, I've underlined all of the unique descriptions and crossed out all of the generic ones.

~~Great Kingdom had many holdings. High Province in the north – the far, far north – wher~~e amidst mountains of ice and stone the rivers boiled and filled the air with blankets of fog. ~~South, beyond a forest of great white trees called giant birch, lay South Province with its capital city enveloped by the majestic Quashan’ valley.~~ East through the Kingdom along the East-West road were the Territories, divided east and west. The untamed Eastern Territories were awaiting discovery. The Western Territories held but two Kingdom outposts: Zashchita and Krepost’. Traders claimed the walled city of Zashchita was carved from the very trees of the forest, and its building lifted so far into the heavens that they were lost in the clouds. Beyond Zashchita lay Krepost’ and her ferryman who took travelers across River Krespost’ so they could begin the climb into the mountain city, and where afterward the gatekeeper may or may not chase them over the cliffs into Starter’s Bay and to their deaths.

Sometimes, in fantasy stories, authors are tempted to describe the entire world, but that doesn't feel natural to the scene, the direction of Adrina's thoughts, and it's not interesting. What IS interesting is boiling rivers and cities built into the boughs of trees and potentially being chased off of a cliff. At a moment like this, a snapshot is more effective than an entire map.

So, for my edit, I just kept the interesting parts and cut out all of the generic stuff:

To the far, far north, amidst mountains of ice and stone, rivers boiled and filled the air with blankets of fog. Adrina longed to see this for herself. She longed to see Zashchita to the west, a city carved from the very trees of the forest; its buildings lifted so far into the sky that they were lost in the clouds. And Krepost’, which could only be reached by ferry, where she'd make the three-day climb into the mountain city. The Gatekeeper would find her worthy and invite her in or find her unworthy and chase her over the cliffs and to her death.

There aren't any glaring sins in this excerpt. If anything, some of the writing can be tightened up and focused, but this was obviously crafted very carefully, not thrown together for attention. This is actually way better writing than half of the stuff I run across when I'm looking for excerpts for this blog.

This is a story I heard about from a YouTube video talking about how the author faked reviews and fan sites to make himself seem like a best-selling author. He was pretty elaborate with it, and I was intrigued to see what his writing was like. Honestly, not bad.

If you Google this author's name, you'll get a lot of results describing him as the "worst author in the world" and stuff, and that's just because people like to feel superior. Robert Stanek is cringe for creating sock puppets in order to talk about how great his work is, so that means that his writing is automatically bad. Now, I haven't read the entire book, and maybe it's not great, but based on this sample, he knows exactly the story that he wants to write and he has some skill in pulling it off.

I think his biggest sin was wanting to be a successful author more than he wanted to be a good writer. It has actually occurred to me to do exactly what he did -- build up hype, talk to myself about how great I am, all that stuff. There were two main reasons I didn't follow through with that. First, I thought that if I was going to go through all of that trouble to try to seem great, I might as well just work on trying to be great. Second, I thought I would probably be caught and humiliated for it, and that's exactly what happened to him.

I wonder if he partly did all of this for his own amusement, thinking that nobody would ever find it, and getting to play the big important author. The internet isn't as forever as we like to think, and it's so easy to be anonymous on it just because so many people are doing so many things.

I find it distasteful the way that people like to find someone dogpile on, like they're not an actual human being. I don't know anything about this Stanek guy (unless I AM him, bwahahaha) but -- I don't know -- to do the amount of writing that he has done shows a certain level of commitment. And, frankly, the level of marketing that he's done, shady or not, is also impressive. And I can't help but cringe in empathy with him instead of in superiority toward him. I hope he keeps writing and has a good life outside of the internet.

Thursday, February 12, 2026

The Incorruptible Man by Crystal Charee

This is an old story that I started re-writing last year. This is what I'm assuming will be Chapter 3, but we'll see. The story is about Tracy, a con woman who has run away from her old boyfriend (not abusive but very married).

She has a spreadsheet of known marks, what scams have already been performed on them, and by whom, and how much money each con artist made off of the mark, as well as the mark's potential net worth.

Fred has an asterisk under his name, which, at the bottom of the spreadsheet just says "The Incorruptible Man". He's a used car salesman, owns his own lot in a small town in the middle of nowhere. He has been touched by a LOT of con artists in Tracy's circle, but never for more than a few thousand dollars. His net worth is estimated at almost a million dollars. Tracy is intrigued and has nothing better to do, so she goes to check him out.

She meets him at a bar, offers to go home with him, and initiates sex. The next day, while he's at work, she cleans his house, gets to know his neighbors, and throws out the randos that he lets stay in his home. Chapter 3 is later that day, when Fred gets home from work. The previous chapters were from Tracy's POV and this is our first look at Fred from his POV.

Original (First 500)

Fred wasn't sure which smell hit him first, or hardest. The succulent beef stew simmering on the stove, or the total and utter lack of musty gym socks. The kitchen was dark and quiet, with only the stove hood light on. Silence reigned in his home for the first time in forever. He walked into the empty living room the beef stew trailing behind him to mingle with the faintest hint of weed snaking through a stronger combination of Pine Sol and Lemon Pledge. The couch was empty, all of Todd's stuff was gone. No bong, no scattered clothing and sneakers, no overheating XBox or screaming television. Only a lamp in the corner that Fred had completely forgotten he owned offered some light in the dark room. Thick bows that had previously lay abandoned on the carpet now held the curtains open. Fred felt the sudden need to set down. He sank down on to the armchair next to the couch and looked around.
He couldn't remember the last time the curtains had been open. Way before Todd, some couch guest had closed them, and that had become their permanent position. His second wife, Eve, had kept them open, but they had been chosen by Janice and hung by Fred. He'd never understood Janice's excitement about the exact shade of sage green, the way it perfectly matched the leaves on the floral couch. Everything had been chosen and placed so carefully, been preserved by Eve, and left to rot by Fred and his menagerie of uninvited guests.
Tracy had done this. She'd cleaned his house and made him dinner as a gesture of gratitude for hosting her the night before. Her car hadn't been in the driveway when he'd gotten home -- maybe she had gone back to Stucky's to find a more attractive, age-appropriate host. He tried to feel grateful, instead, he felt old, tired, and alone. He stood and fled the living room on slow, achy knees.
The hallway was cleared of the random accumulated junk he'd grown so accustomed to seeing that it had turned invisible over time. The absence of it made the space feel bigger and cleaner. And emptier. He flipped a light on in the bathroom. The bathroom smelled like clean laundry and had towels neatly layered over the towel racks. The sweet, plasticy smell of a fresh shower curtain liner wafted in the air, but he couldn't see it because it was hidden behind a mauve linen shower curtain. He recognized it as his wife's. For a deliciously delusional moment, he stared at the matching bath mat and engaged in a fantasy where Janice wasn't dead after all.
When the moment was over, that old cactus-spiked blanket of grief pricked at him, settling into his skin.He flipped the light back off and continued down the hallway. He already knew that the guest room would be clean and empty before he opened the door.

My Edit

Fred wasn't sure which smell hit him first, or hardest. The succulent stew simmering on the stove, or the total and utter lack of musty gym socks. The kitchen was dark and quiet, with only the stove hood light on. He walked over to the simmering pot, and stared down at it. Yep. That was beef stew. The scent trailed behind him as he walked into the living room. Over the stew, the faintest hint of of weed snaked through a stronger combination of Pine Sol and Lemon Pledge.
The couch was empty, all of Todd's stuff was gone. No bong, no scattered clothing and sneakers, no overheating XBox or blaring television. Only a lamp in the corner that Fred had completely forgotten he owned offered some light in the dark room. Thick bows that had previously lay abandoned on the carpet, held the curtains open first the first time in years. Fred felt the sudden need to sit down. He sank down on to the armchair next to the couch and looked around.
Way before Todd, some couch guest had closed the curtains, and that had become their permanent position. His second wife, Eve, had kept them open, but they had been chosen by his first and only real wife, Janice. He'd never understood Janice's excitement about the exact shade of sage green, the way it perfectly matched the leaves on the floral couch, but he'd been happy that she was happy. Everything had been chosen and placed carefully by Janice, preserved by Eve, and left to rot by Fred and his neverending parade of uninvited guests.
Tracy had done this. She'd cleaned his house and made him dinner as a gesture of gratitude for hosting her the night before. Her car hadn't been in the driveway when he'd gotten home -- maybe she had gone back to Stucky's to find a more attractive, age-appropriate host. He tried to feel grateful. Instead, he felt old, tired, and alone. He stood, knees creaking, and continued the tour of his home.
The hallway had been cleared of the random accumulated junk he'd grown so accustomed to seeing that it had turned invisible over time. The absence of it made the space feel bigger and cleaner. And emptier. He flipped a light on in the bathroom. The bathroom smelled like clean laundry and had towels neatly layered over the towel racks. The sweet, plastic smell of a fresh shower curtain liner wafted in the air, hidden behind a mauve linen shower curtain. Another Janice pick that some guest had switch out for a cat wielding a trident and riding a whale, at some point. With the original curtain back, for a deliciously delusional moment, he stared at the matching bath mat and engaged in a fantasy where Janice wasn't dead after all.
When the moment was over, that old cactus-spiked blanket of grief pricked at him, settling back into his skin. He flipped the light back off and continued down the hallway, dread building in his stomach. He already knew that the guest room would be clean and empty before he opened the door.
(Original word count: ~490 → Edited: ~521)

Critique

It's hard for me to be objective about this scene, partly because it's newer writing, and partly because it just makes me love Fred so much. If you met Fred in real life, you'd think that you were meeting the personification of a beige paint chip. But this scene shows him at his most tenderhearted, grieving, and lonely self, and I'd die for him.

I'll usually critique the first 500 words of a story, but since this is a couple of chapters in, I'll probably be a little more forgiving of the fact that it's a quieter scene.

Setting

Fred's house at dusk. It's quiet and clean, with the hint of weed peeking through the savory scents of stew and Pine Sol. It feels warm to me, probably because of the beef stew greeting us on the stove and wafting behind him as he wanders through his house.

Not the most exciting of settings, but this scene will have been preceeded by Tracy cleaning and cooking and clearing out house guests all day. I think it'll be a nice contrast -- the chaotic hustle of Tracy's day versus Fred's lonesome self-guided tour of his own house.

Characterization

We get to know several characters through this passage. Fred, of course, but also his first wife, Janice and his second wife, Eve. We also get remnants of Todd as well as the ghosts of other house guests. If this was the first scene in the book, we'd be getting an interesting picture of Tracy, as well. Someone maybe a little presumptuous but generous. Maybe someone, as we move through the house, that doesn't understand that a neat home isn't as appealing to Fred as a full one.

One thing I had in the original was bringing Janice's mauve shower curtain back. I think I originally pictured just the liner being used for years, but since that wasn't clear when I re-read the passage, I just put in a shower curtain that I actually purchased for my own home because I thought it was hilarious.

Fred's ambivalence toward the changes to his house is interesting. He's not really pleased or displeased. At first, he doesn't really react at all, just kind of accepting, then he's kind of hit by the curtains being open for t he first time in years, then he feels lonely as he moves through the hallway, checking the bathroom and on his way to he guestroom.

His guilt over letting people treat his house however shows up with the curtain tie backs, but the shower curtain makes him hallucinate for a second that Janice is alive. His connection to Janice feels very big in this scene, in a way that it probably won't for the rest of the book. I think that at this point in his story, he associates Janice more with loss than companionship. I want to see, as he moves through the rest of the story, him be able to focus on what they had that he gets to carry with him, rather than what he doesn't have anymore. And I'm not talking about curtains.

Oh, and I have to mention this, because it makes me love Fred, even though I'm the one who wrote him this way. He mentions that he "hosted" Tracy the night before and acknowledges that her cleaning his house is a gesture of gratitude. If you hadn't read the previous chapters, you wouldn't know that Tracy initiated sex and that Fred was very interested in giving her as many orgasms as he could for as long as she'd let him. I like that he uses the word "hosted", I like that he doesn't feel entitled to her continued presence, and he doesn't slut shame her or otherwise be disrespectful of her, even internally. This is how you know Fred is fictional, but I don't care. My world, my perfect love interest.

Conflict/Tension

Fred is not the most demonstrative of characters, even internally, so I worry that he, and this scene, can come off as boring, but I think it's important to allow him to be boring and ordinary. His life is about to get VERY interesting. In a way, this story offers him a call to action, even though Tracy is the main character. She's already in action, has never not been in action, so this is the calm before the storm that she's about to drag him into.

Even without knowing that, there is tension in Fred's ambivalence. Most people walking into a warm, clean home with food on the stove would feel cozy, cared for. Fred feels guilty and abandoned. His lack of gratitude is also in conflict with what the reader might expect after watching Tracy do all of this for him for a full chapter.

Final Thoughts

My revision doesn't have any sweeping changes from the original, probably because the writing is so recent. I think I wrote this in 2024. I did go through and try to smooth out some of the transitions between rooms and clarify Fred's reactions, although I still want him to be a bit hard to read. Fred is never going to be a demonstrative character, but at this point in the story, he's very disconnected from his emotions, so melancholy and guilt are going to be uppermost.

I will share a spoiler, though. Fred is not alone in the house. Tracy is in his bedroom, which is at the end of the hallway, around the corner from the guest room. So, as Fred gets lonelier throughout his tour, and maybe even a bit resentful at Tracy's presumptuousness, he's going to be blindsided to turn the corner and see light shining under the door.

I came up with this character I think around twenty years ago and never did anything with him. He's so blah of a character at first glance that I didn't even know if I'd ever try to write his story. I came up with the idea for The Incorruptible Man maybe ten-ish years ago? And when I realized that Fred could the The Incorruptible Man, I was really happy that's I'd be able to use Fred in a story that had such a fun premise. For me, it's going to be really fun to balance the absolute soda-crackerness of his personality with a wild, WILD plot.

I don't have a lot of story ideas for "real world" settings. I mostly like high fantasy and speculative stuff. The thing about that is that you have to ground more fantastic settings with believable (for the genre) plots and characters. Not an issue with this story. As it's set in "reality", I don't need to ground it and it's going to get weird. Sometimes, conflict and tension just come from contrast. Fred's bland personality in juxtaposition with a wild plot is going to be SO fun.

Wednesday, February 4, 2026

The Magical Beasts Calls Me Mother by Rojeen_Zara

Blurb

I died from exhaustion in a world that never wanted me.
When I opened my eyes again, I was no longer a nameless office worker...
I was the beloved daughter of a duke inside a novel I once read.

But here's the problem:
I'm not the heroine.
I'm not the villainess.
I'm just the "ex-friend" side character who was supposed to fade away quietly.

That was my plan too-
...until I stumbled upon a black dragon's egg.
Until it hatched and called me "Mother."
Until it transformed into a child and dragged me into the center of every noble's gossip, every battle, and... every man's heart.

Now the male lead won't stop appearing in my life, the second male lead keeps getting too close, and even the villain himself seems interested in me.

And worst of all? The so-called heroine is furious that everything she wanted... is becoming mine.

I never asked for this.
But if fate insists on putting me in the spotlight-
then fine.
I'll shine brighter than anyone else.

Original (First 500)

Warmth.
It was the first thing I felt. The kind of warmth I had never known in my life.
When I opened my eyes, sunlight spilled across silk curtains the color of dawn. My body sank into a mattress so soft I thought I was still dreaming.
"Celestria, you're awake."
I froze. The voice was gentle. Loving. So unlike the one I grew up with.
A woman sat by my bedside, her golden hair coiled elegantly, her emerald eyes shimmering with relief. She reached out and touched my cheek as though I were the most precious thing in the world.
"My darling daughter, you frightened me. You've been asleep for so long."
Daughter.
The word pierced through me. My throat tightened. My adoptive mother had only ever spat that word at me like a curse. But this woman...she said it as though it were a blessing.
"...Mother?" My voice cracked.
Her eyes softened further, and she gathered me into her arms. "Yes, I'm here. Your mother is here."
I couldn't stop it. Tears burned my eyes and slipped down my cheeks. I clutched her gown as if she would vanish.
She stroked my hair patiently. "Shh, you're safe. Your father and brother will be overjoyed to hear you've woken."
Father? Brother?
I pulled back, blinking rapidly. My gaze darted across the room -- gilded furniture, crystal vases, walls adorned with paintings that looked centuries old. Nothing about this resembled my dingy apartment or the office where I'd collapsed.
And then...memory hit me like storm.
The novel.
I knew this place. I had read these very descriptions.
This was the Arden Duchy. The home of Celestria Arden, the duke's beloved daughter. A side character in the story.
My heart pounded in my chest. If I was here, that meant...
I wasn't the heroine.
I wasn't the villainess.
I was the girl destined to stand in the background until she disappeared from the story altogether.
The door burst open before I could breathe.
"Celestria!"
A tall man with silver hair and commanding presence rushed in -- the Duke himself. Behind him, a boy around my age with stormy blue eyes barreled past, nearly tripping in his haste.
"Sister!" the boy cried, grabbing my hand.
I stared at them -- at the father and brother I'd never had in my real life.
They looked at me as though I were their treasure.
My lips trembled. This wasn't possible. None of this was possible.
And yet, when my father's large hand rested protectively on my shoulder and my brother grinned as though I'd hung the moon, I couldn't help but whisper the one truth my heart knew:
For the first time in my life...I was loved.

Critique

This is a showcase post — an excerpt of the first 500 words of a novel that are so good, I don’t see any reason for my own edit. This will still be a critique, but it’s mostly a highlight of excellent work, with discussion of a couple of areas I wanted to nitpick.

Let’s start with the easiest fix: the title. It has too many plurals. It should either be The Magical Beasts Call Me Mother or The Magical Beast Calls Me Mother, depending on how many magical beasts call her “Mother.” Based on the blurb, it’s only one.

The blurb is great. For most posts on this blog, I try to provide a more compelling or cohesive blurb than the author provided — that wasn’t necessary here. The author describes her story beautifully.

The first line, “I died from exhaustion in a world that never wanted me,” is intriguing but heartbreaking. In the next line, she opens her eyes, and in the line after that, she’s a character in a novel. Each successive line escalates with more intriguing detail: from a world that never wanted her, to being fine with being a side character destined to fade out of the story, to this crescendo: "But if fate insists on putting me in the spotlight-/then fine./I'll shine brighter than anyone else."

We do get a bit Mary Sue-ish. Every guy in the book falls in love with her, including the villain. But I’m fine with it. I’ve never had a problem with self-insert characters. They get to be what I want to be, the smartest, most talented, most desirable person in the room. A character doesn’t need to be fatally flawed to be interesting. Conflict and tension can come from choices, rivals — existence.

Similarly to the blurb, the writing in Chapter 1 is poetic, and in fact repeats a couple of the same lines as she realizes she’s a character in a book: “I wasn’t the heroine./I wasn’t the villainess.” The next line differs from the blurb: “I’m just the ‘ex-friend’ side character who was supposed to fade away quietly.” This feels contemporary and slightly jarring against the poetic rest of the blurb.

The line in the book, “I was the girl destined to stand in the background until she disappeared from the story altogether,” is much stronger. It matches the poetic feel of the prose and says so much. Compare “ex-friend” to “girl”: an ex is nebulous — the victim or the villain — whereas “girl” feels more innocent, less powerful. Compare “fade away quietly” to “disappeared completely”: both are beautiful, but “disappeared completely” is so final.

Setting
Here are some setting descriptions: “sunlight spilled across silk curtains the color of dawn” and “a mattress so soft I thought I was still dreaming”. These scream luxury even before we get to “gilded furniture, crystal vases, walls adorned with paintings that looked centuries old.”

The setting tells us the MC didn’t wake up as a peasant on a straw mattress or a hard, cold ground. She woke up as a princess (daughter of a duke — but what’s the diff?). We get texture with silk, soft, gilded, crystal. For color, we get “the color of dawn.” There’s just enough imagery for the reader to fill in the details without slowing the pace of the MC’s realizations.

That said, the room could use a few more colors and some additional physical description. The bed could be a canopy, there could be a chest of drawers, candlelight, or a book that her mother is reading before Celestria wakes up — something period-specific to set the scene. Very short mentions of clothing would help too: a “brocaded gown” for the mom, “doublet and hose” for the father and brother would immediately evoke a medieval vibe.

Characterization
The heart of this chapter beats through the MC’s interactions with her new family. Her mother’s “golden hair coiled elegantly” and “emerald eyes shimmering with relief,” the father’s “commanding presence,” and the brother’s “stormy blue eyes” all frame a scene overflowing with tenderness. The mother touches her cheek “as though I were the most precious thing in the world,” and the father and brother “looked at me as though I were their treasure.”

What saves the reader from going into sugar shock is the MC’s memory of her old life. When her mother calls her “daughter,” the MC thinks, “My adoptive mother had only ever spat that word at me like a curse. But this woman… she said it as though it were a blessing.” That contrast gives the emotion its weight.

As someone who’s been abused and neglected, the MC could react with suspicion or discomfort — but instead, she cries and accepts the affection. That choice tells us she’s not naive, just starved for love. Even her calm acceptance of waking up in a novel feels believable: people who’ve survived chaotic households are experts at adapting to sudden shifts in reality.

The family’s one-note warmth works here because the chapter ends before it overstays its welcome. If the chapter lingered longer, we’d need a little more complexity. Even naming the parents and brother add dimension to a simple characterization, since names come with so much baggage.

The brother could use a distinct moment. He’s uninhibited; maybe he climbs onto the bed before being gently scolded. How the parents handle that tells us more about the household’s emotional rules than paragraphs of exposition could.

Finally, it might help to clarify whether the MC still has her own memories or any of Celestria’s. Her physical state — any lingering pain or dizziness from Celestria’s “injury” — could also ground the scene. Those small details of body and memory would make this lovely, dreamlike opening feel just a little more real.

Conflict/Tension
Conflict doesn’t come from tension between characters or the MC’s rejection of her situation. Instead, it comes from remembered loneliness and pain. The height of tension is a hug:

“I couldn’t stop it. Tears burned my eyes and slipped down my cheeks. I clutched her gown as if she would vanish.”

That is heartbreaking. The last line is similarly heartbreaking:

“For the first time in my life...I was loved.”

This feels positive on the surface, but “the first time” carries a lifetime of conflict in the background. Imagine living an entire life without feeling love — there’s so much unspoken tension for the reader to fill in. It’s a very powerful statement.

Final Thoughts

The chapter works beautifully as is: dreamy, half real. This fits a character who just died or woke from a coma. A little more depth would fill some questions for the reader and make the opening even more compelling — without ruining the poetic voice.

Waking up in a novel isn’t original, but it’s rare. Waking up as a side character? That’s intriguing. I love the idea of exploring a world you know so well, like walking through a painting and seeing what’s out of frame. What happened off-page that you now get to be part of?

The blurb promises action, intrigue, and romance — I’m excited to read further.

Tuesday, January 27, 2026

Delta: A Spy Novel by vb123321 on Wattpad

Blurb

Gunshots. Karate moves. Flipping through languages so fast that my brain struggled to catch up. For six years, these had been as familiar to me as a school bell or sound of a teacher's voice might be to any other kid. At sixteen, I had seen more death than I cared to talk about. But what could I say? As part of America's little-known espionage agency Delta, that was what I was accustomed to.

But I couldn't have known that things were about to change. A drug dealer, working undercover in France. People from my past, popping up in the most unexpected places. And the boy with the blue eyes, who could be completely for me or utterly against me, depending on his mood.

This was one assignment that would stay with me forever. But, of course, I didn't know that as I headed into...Hell.

Welcome to Delta. Now that you're here, good luck getting out.

Original (First 500)

Shooting ranges had always fascinated me. Call it creepy for a sixteen-year-old to say that, but it was true. Something about holding the cold metal of the gun, combined with the adrenaline as the bullet explodes from the barrel, not to mention the satisfaction received if it hits a target -- it all added up to be one amazing time.
It was also a great way to get things off my mind. This was the sole purpose I had had in mind as I entered a private range, tipping the bored-looking attendant a bright smile to assure him that I wasn't about to commit a homicide. Sliding the gun I had been issued out of my jeans pocket, I checked the magazine and then leaned against the wall, breathing out through my nose. As fun as it was, any time I was in a firing range, I had to mentally prepare myself, because my imagination tended to go overboard when alone in a cold, quiet room, with a gun in hand.
Something about it freaked me out. I couldn't understand why I was able to shoot men straight through the heart in the heat of adrenaline-boosted field work, but once inside that room, my heartbeat sped up more quickly than if I had been confronted with a KGB agent armed to the teeth.
Once the psychological part was over and I had entered what was generally referred to as the Arctic Zone -- because once inside, all emotion ceased, and it was just you and the gun -- I stepped forward, drawing my gun up in front of me. My finger caressed the smooth metal, tucking itself under the trigger as I fixed my eyes on the target, which stood about seventy-five meters away.
Exhaling again, I closed one eye, sighting down the barrel and taking a little more time than necessary. Giving my imagination a boost, I pictured the target as a man dressed completely in black, holding a knife against the throat of -- I shook my head in slight irritation. No, memories like that weren't going to help. The man switched to holding a gun pointing at me even as I leveled my own at him. Part of me wished I had asked the attendant to give me man-targets instead of the normal bull's-eye ones.
Concentrate.
What would my early trainers have said if they saw me now? Fire first, and then think. I could almost hear them saying it. Training eleven-year-olds to fire a gun couldn't be an easy job, especially since you knew that one day soon they would be in the field, firing at real targets. It made me grateful to know that I was one of the very few agents Delta, the spy agency that employed me, had.
Breathing out for the third time, I re-leveled my gun at the target, emptying my mind of all thoughts. My gaze completely focused, I snapped off a succession of shots, all of which slammed into the target in a split second.

My Edit

As fun as it was, something about a firing range freaked me out. At sixteen years old, I was able to shoot grown men straight through the heart, but once inside that room, it was like that paper target was every potential enemy assignment gone wrong in every possible way.
I stepped forward, drawing my gun up in front of me. My finger caressed the smooth metal, tucking itself under the trigger as I fixed my eyes on the target, which stood about seventy-five meters away. It helped to imagine one specific enemy.
I closed one eye, sighting down the barrel. I pictured my arch nemesis, Phoryn Forinman holding a knife to the throat of -- I shook the flashback away. Not helping with the anxiety. Too specific. I tried again, picturing a generic man-in-parka with hood up, shadowing the generic face.
Fire first, then think.
I exhaled, re-leveled my gun at the target, emptying my mind of all thoughts. I snapped off a succession of shots, all of which slammed home.
(Original word count: ~502→ Edited: ~171)

Critique

Teenage spies will probably always intrigue me, even though I'm a million years old. It's the last line of the blurb that hooked me, though: "Welcome to Delta. Now that you're here, good luck getting out." Also, if you do blurb math, the character is sixteen and has been a spy for six years, so she started when she was ten. AND at sixteen, she's seen more death than she'd care to talk about. A lot of spy kid stories are pretty lighthearted, so this one already sounds pretty gritty. I'm in.

Setting

The description we get of the setting is that it's a private range, it has a wall, it's cold, and she's using bullet targets instead of man-shaped ones. This is all serviceable, but not particularly interesting. It's hard to tell if she's been to this range before, or not. It's a "private range" but I don't know what that means. Is she on the road, renting, or is it part of the Delta facility?

If all gun ranges all look pretty much the same, then emotional context could add some texture to the scene. Is this Astrid's favorite gun range, does it feel like home? Did it used to, but the anxiety she's talking about is a new development that she doesn't know what to do with? If she's on the road, what about her usual range does she miss?

Characterization

We have two characters in this scene, Astrid and the bored-looking attendant. We get no physical description of the attendant, so we don't know if this is a fellow teen or a middle-aged woman flipping through a Seventeen magazine. Astrid is the focus of the scene but something visually interesting about the attendant would make them a person, not piece of furniture. Again, if we've established that this is a home or away firing range, Astrid interacting with her favorite attendant versus one she doesn't like versus a stranger would add some color to the scene.

I didn't actually include the attendant in my version for a couple of reasons. First, Astrid is supposed to be shooting. If we're already at the point in the story where Astrid is leaning against a wall and taking aim, then mentally returning to the front desk (or whatever) interrupts the scene. That's fine, if there's a reason to. Like, if this scene was about Astrid realizing there was something weird about the new attendant and then ending up in a shooting with that character, this would work. If we feel the need to mention the attendant, then we do it chronologically -- walk in, greet the attendant, get set up, and then go into the private room or whatever (I know nothing about gun ranges).

The second reason I didn't include the attendant in my version is that the attendant is not a character. We see the attendant again on the way out, and the attendant isn't a character. Again, if we did this chronologically where we walked in, got set up by the attendant, etc. then it would be less jarring to include them, but since the attendant doesn't matter, I would still skip mentioning them. Even as someone who knows absolutely nothing about gun ranges, I still understand that people work there.

For Astrid's characterization, she's a teen spy, that's it. She doesn't have a single thought about friendship, family, regular school or other human things. This is fine, since it makes narrative sense that if we're at a gun range, we'll be thinking about gun-related things, but contradictions help sell the dimensionality of a character, so it wouldn't have hurt to have her set her Hello Kitty backpack on the ground or something.

I did think it was an interesting aside that she has more anxiety at a gun range than in real-life shooting situations, but she immediately clocks that it's because of adrenaline, so there's nothing to learn here and we spend too much time on the thought.

Also, Astrid has come to the gun range in order to clear her mind, but we don't get any hint as to what she's trying to clear. There is a moment when she's picturing an enemy to shoot and has to stop an image because it's too specific -- I liked that moment. I wished that it was more specific. In my version, I gave the enemy a made-up name in order to make that moment more specific.

Conflict/Tension

The tension of the story comes from the premise and setting -- a teenage spy at a gun range. But the tension deflates really quickly when we spend 500 words on generic thoughts. A generic range attendant, a generic KGB agent, thinking about generic rather than specific teachers, and too much breathing and steadying oneself as we aim.

There are a couple of directions that we could take to bring the tension back up. The first is just to keep this character intro as short as possible, which is what I went with, because it was the quickest and easiest option. The second would be to introduce whatever Astrid is stressed out about, the reason she's here to let off steam. Interspersing Astrid shooting with thinking about how her roommate keeps stealing her lip balms and never re-fills the ice trays would be an interesting contrast of serious with silly issues.

We could also stop and focus on the image that Astrid stops herself from thinking about in this excerpt, the man with the knife to someone's throat. If this became more of a PTSD flashback, then this scene would have huge stakes not just for this scene but for the rest of this story. How is Astrid supposed to continue being a teen spy when the violence is already affecting her so negatively?

An interesting option would be to combine all three -- edit and focus Astrid's inner monologue to her anxiety, her annoying roommate, and her trauma. That would create a layered, dynamic scene that would promise an equally dynamic story. That's a lot to ask from a new author, so it's fully valid to introduce one character at a time and slowly introduce the reader into the world we're creating. We just want to avoid spending too much time in a character's thoughts, especially non-specific ones.

If we're going to mention teachers, give the teachers names, sharp or warm tones to their voices, and an emotional connection to them -- fear, affection, both? If we're going to mention enemies, make them specific, too. If we meet a career-long nemesis in the first scene via memory or flashback and then meet that character later in the story, we as the reader already having history with that character, which makes the world feel more lived in. If we're going to talk about how we're here to let off steam, let's obsess about why, for a moment. All of these small, details are what would anchor us to the character and make the world feel more dimensional.

Final Thoughts:

We have a really interesting premise and a potentially interesting setting (most stories don't start in a gun range). However, when it comes time to explore these things, we're let down by a lack of specificity. The gun range isn't interesting to look at, to feel, or to smell. And the main character's inner dialogue skims the surface of a lot of interesting thoughts, without landing on anything specific.

I will admit that I'm being overly critical here. At the end of the day, I wanted to know what happened next, so I'm still calling this a successful first 500 words.

Monday, January 19, 2026

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?

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)

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).

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.

Sunday, January 11, 2026

Getaway by bazookah on Wattpad

Blurb

We've all heard the tales of good and bad, the tales of innocent deceit and her hero, the tales that despite their nature, show us the beauty in contrast.

But it's the tales of pure evil that get swept under the rug. The tales of deception, where cruelty is rewarded. The tales that have you questioning who the real villain of the story is.

There's a simple philosophy to most thing in life; two wrongs 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 make a right.

So what ensues when you put two of the worst kinds of people together?

Loyalties transfer, lines blur, and hatred ignites complete chaos.

She's cunning.

𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴.

She's dangerous.

𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴.

She's evil.

𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦.

Or so that's what we're told.

The devil is always worse.

But maybe, just maybe, she's the devil in disguise, playing his advocate...

Original (First 500)

"Absolutely unacceptable--" more specifically; revolting, pathetic, and a fucking blessing. "--and what it is." But I don't dare dump the hard truth onto the hysterical girl crying on the other end of the line.
To be quite honest, it's a miracle I'm able to keep my mouth shut for so long, especially considering I've been sitting here, listening to her sob over a mediocre man for the past ten minutes.
This is the issue with women who emotionally involve themselves with men. They give full control of their emotions over to a man, who is by textbook definition; a disappointment.
While the rest of us, whether it be their children, mothers, sisters, or the women they fucked, are subjected to this disappointment they seem to ooze out of every clogged up useless pore in their bodies.
Not only did Hana have yet to understand this simplistic notion, but she was the worst kind of victim. The kind that saw the good in them.
This was the first thing I'd picked up freshmen year about my new roommate turned friend. Only she was the worst type of friend. Sweet, naive and far too innocent to ever take any of my advice. Even if it was the only right way to deal with her problems.
I examine the dark shade of red coating my almond shaped nails and briefly wonder how I'm going to find a nail tech that I don't want to slaughter in America.
"Lina?" A choked sob fills the line, louder than the others. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Mhm." With a roll of my eyes, I set the phone on speaker and reach into my bag to pull out my laptop. "Thomas, dick, little brunette from Political Law 101."
If three years at Oxford had taught me anything, it was how to be an expert at listening without actually listening.
That gets her off my ass and back to her breakdown while I hold up my empty champagne glass, ushering one of the two flight attendants over.
Yet they are both too busy ogling the body guards positioned on either side of the bar.
"If word of this gets out...it'll look so bad on me." Hana's soft voice trembles through the line and despite the annoyance bubbling in my chest, I don't like hearing it crack. "I-I just want him to feel as terrible as I did when I saw him and her --"
I sigh, fed up.
Not only was this trip back to New York so sudden, and frankly, against my will, but I was spending it cooped up hundreds of feet in the air with useless staff, listening to a messy breakdown, completely sober.
"There's only one thing men like Thomas care about." I look to the guard positioned closest to me and raise a brow at the stoic faced man.
It takes a moment for him to draw his gaze towards me but when he does, I look from him back to my empty glass, my request clear.

My Edit

Hana is the worst kind of victim. The kind that sees good in men. "Li-na?" A sob causes my best friend to hiccup my name over speaker phone. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Mhm." I hold up my empty champagne glass, signalling to the flight attendants that I want a refill. "Thomas, dick, little brunette from Political Law 101." Neither of the attendants notice me; they're both too busy flirting with my bodyguards at the bar.
I tap the forefinger of my dark red, almond-shaped nails against the flute of my glass. How am I going to find a nail tech in America that I don't want to slaughter?
"If word of this gets out...it'll look so bad on me." Hana's soft voice trembles through the line. Despite my irritation, I don't like hearing distress in her voice. "I-I just want him to feel as terrible as I did when I saw him and her --"
I set the champagne glass down and reach into my bag to pull out my laptop. I stifle a sigh as Hana continues to babble about her broken heart. Not only was this trip back to New York so sudden, and frankly, against my will, but I'm spending it cooped up hundreds of feet in the air with useless staff, listening to a messy breakdown, nearly sober.
I finally catch the eye of one of my bodyguards. I lift the empty champagne flute in the air. He nods without twitching a muscle in his stoic face. He interrupts the attendant who is flirting with him. On the other end of the line, Hana stops to catch her breath.
"There's only one thing Thomas cares about," I say, as the flight attendant finally turns toward me.
(Original word count: ~505 → Edited: ~292)

Critique

The thing about the blurb that intrigued me was the idea of a human woman being worse than the actual devil. I hoped that this was a literal devil, but (spoiler), he turns out to be just a man. That said, the blurb sets us up to expect a less-than-perfect protagonist and that's exactly what we start the story with. A self-involved, cynical, vain woman who treats people in service jobs like garbage. I find it hard to imagine wanting to read an entire book that follows this woman around, so the author made a smart choice in having Lina be counseling a friend through a heartbreak over the phone. To have her care about anything other than herself, even as minutely as she does, humanizes her enough to make reading about her bearable.

Setting

A private plane complete with bodyguards is a fantastic setting, however, since the setting is so unique, it's important to establish it before we get too far into the dialogue. In my edit, I established the fact that the women are talking over the phone in the first paragraph and the plane, bodyguards, and private bar in the second paragraph. This allows the reader to build on the correct image from the beginning, rather than abruptly switching from a presumed mundane setting to a unique one halfway through the scene.

Characterization
Lina is immediately established as cold and vain and barely interested in her friend's problem. Hana is immediately established as sweet and naive. Lina basically states that the two would not be friends if they hadn't been college roommates, but that's not necessarily a given. No doubt Hana would be the kind of person who would be hoping for a bosom friend, but I could imagine Lina going four years of college with absolutely no acknowledgement of a roommate she has nothing in common with. The fact that they are friends, and that Lina is, albeit reluctantly, counseling Hana, this automatically adds dimension to Lina's nearly one-dimensional characterization in the rest of the scene.

I love the line about Hana being the worst kind of victim in the original excerpt. In my edit, I made that the first line, partly because it's a line that says as much about Lina as it does about Hana, and partly because it's much snappier than the original first line, but conveys the same information.

Conflict/Tension

Tons of conflict in this scene. First, we have the opposing personalities interacting with each other, second, we have a character in tears, third, the setting only exaggerates the differences between the women, we have the fact that Lina does not want to be going to New York, and we have the presence of bodyguards which doesn't hint -- it shrieks -- of danger. Also, Lina's blase attitude toward the presence of bodyguards not only works as characterization but contrasts with the tension inherent in needing bodyguards in the first place.

Final Thoughts

We have a fun premise, a unique setting, and a ton of conflict. Characterization is the weakest part of this excerpt. Without the addition of Hana in this scene, she would be one-note horrible, and Hana is one-note sweet. The bodyguards are beefy and stoic, the flight attendants are flighty. However, it's not unusual or even bad to have characters start out a story as one-dimensional because we have a whole book in which to explore these characters. In the first 500 words of an action-packed dark romance, conflict is the most important, a cool setting adds flavor, and characterization can wait. So, overall, the original excerpt in combination with the blurb is a promising intro to an interesting story.

My main issue with the original excerpt was just the set-up of the scene. I was a little confused to find out, 400 words in, that we were on a plane AND on the phone. So, that's where the majority of my attention went to in my edit.

Full disclosure: I've read most of this book. The author is obviously writing a chapter at a time, potentially from an outline, and for a first draft, the story is incredible. Lina doesn't get much warmer, but she does have genuine affection for certain characters. The 18+ scenes are some of the best I've ever read. As an Old, I started reading romance novels in the late 1980s, and am so accustomed to reading the same love scene in every book over and over, and I really enjoy how creative and character-focused each sex scene is in this book. The progression of the plot is uneven, and the author often creates minor reasons for the characters to get into fights just so that they can make up, but overall, it's just a fun read.

I wouldn't usually say this because I try to focus on the potential of the first 500 words, but the first chapter is the weakest part of this book, and the first 500 words are the weakest part of the chapter. I say that to say that there is a lot of emphasis placed on the importance of starting a book strong, but I find it much easier to find a story that starts out strong and then gets disappointing than a book like this that starts out okay and only gets better and better.

The author clearly has a strong grasp on the kind of story that she wants to tell, and seems to be having the most amount of fun telling it, and that's what makes it so enjoyable to read. Any of my criticisms of what I've read so far could be fixed in a second draft and polished in a third, but you can't teach an author how to enjoy telling a story, and I think that's what I and a lot of other aspiring writers are missing. For me, I want so bad for the writing to be good, that I'm too scared to write anything. The main thing that I take away from this author is that a story doesn't have to be perfectly paced with geometrically precise character arcs and a satisfying conclusion. It just needs to be a fun ride, not just for the end user, if there ever is one, but for the author.

At the end of each chapter, the author leaves a little note for the reader (this is not unusual on Wattpad, apparently). I've seen the author promise multiple times to keep writing. "This is my therapy," she has stated several times. The readers of this story recognize and feel a desperate need for the energy that the author puts into her storytelling. They don't care about typos and malapropisms. What they connect to is the author's passion.

In this blog, I try to focus on structure because good structure creates coherent writing which makes the work accessible to more readers and impressive to critics. I have no argument against coherence, but impressive writing can also be bleak as fuck. I can't read non-genre novels because no matter how well-written they are, I end up leaving the story feeling more depressed than when I started. I like a happy ending. I also like a happy journey.

Something I'm moving away from as a writer, is the idea that conflict in a story has to be the most traumatic thing I can think of as happening to a character. Conflict can be as simple as two best friends with diametrically opposing personalities interacting with each other. Or trying to find a piece of gum you know you had in your purse -- and the fact that you can't find it makes you question your sanity and condemn your lack of organization and spiral into terror about how if you can't organize something as small as a purse, how are you supposed to figure out your life?

Anyway. If you're 18+ and want to witness the pure joy of storytelling as well as experiencing a ridiculous story where two sociopaths fall in love, this is a good one.

Saturday, January 3, 2026

The Age of Scorpius by Audra Winter

Blurb

In Gardian, the stars decide everything — and the Scorpio-born are feared most of all. When ancient prophecies awaken, seventeen-year-old Aria discovers forbidden power and is thrust into a conflict she never wanted. As enemies close in, she must uncover the truth behind the zodiac-ruled unions before destiny claims her for good.

Original (First 500)

Someone had re-written the history of Conviction Woods, the cursed forest I called home. Despite all the texts describing Conviction Woods as eternally inhabitable, there were hundreds of wartime artifacts scattered amongst the forest's grounds. The records had been altered to hide the truth of Gardian's last war, a truth that allowed the Woods to protect those mysteriously meant to survive beyond its boundaries.
I lingered on the edge of the farthest northern reach of Conviction Woods. Before me stood a crumbled and dilapidated stone arch, old runic etched across its surface, worn away by the structure returning to the earth. A few fallen stones lay scattered across the surrounding ground, freezing into the dirt as ancient remnants conjoined with snow and soil. Beyond the arch's gaping mouth laid Assiduous's barren territory.
Assiduous's barren territory, and its occupants who didn't want me meandering on their land. It was too late for me to trace the rest of the runic on the arch. I'd only recorded the lower carvings, my arms too short to reach the tallest stones. I let my eyes linger on the writing to try to memorize the patterns. The clock ticked as enemies neared, and while my feet drew me away from the arch, my mind bent around the writing.
The arch's inscriptions must've been centuries old. I'd never, in any of my studies, seen a combination of Union languages on an artifact. Mixing two Union languages was almost unfathomable to modern-day society; besides our common tongue, Gardian prioritized the separation of the four Unions -- Conviction, Assisuous, Autarchic, Societal -- in their own societies and territories. Even more intriguing, the arch dated back to a war where Conviction and Assiduous were enemies; a combination of the two languages was further proof that Gardian's recorded history was wrong.
I had spent months scouring over records, libraries, and books to pinpoint the location of the arch as soon as I spotted it mentioned in a 300-year-old document. My research eventually revealed that the arch was placed in Assidian territory on the edges of the Woods at the border, though that could've spanned hundreds of miles from the eastern part of the Hub, Gardian's shared centralized city, to the coastline of the continent. To trace the steps of ancient battles to the coordinates of the arch was a tedious process requiring my nose to be stuck in at least two dozen scrolls within the past couple of months.
Deciphering the runic on the arch was my next step to decoding the true history of Conviction Woods, and the moment I finally found it, an Assidian border patrol just had to be there -- of course.
There was no doubt about it. The two of them had spotted me. I'd stepped past the 10-foot-wide path into Assidian territory where the arch stood, and they were headed straight toward me.
I backed up to Conviction Woods, safely passing beyond the aura of protection set on the trees.

My Edit

Before me stood the crumbled, dilapidated stone arch, runes etched across its surface. Had they been carved any less deeply—or had another decade passed—the inscriptions would have vanished entirely. Fallen stones lay scattered across the ground, freezing into the dirt and snow.
It was technically only ten steps into Assidian territory, but if I was caught here, I’d be killed. That said, this far out, the guards weren’t especially vigilant. When they'd come around, once every four hours, their laughter drifted from beneath their face guards, loud and careless. It almost made them seem human.
Three days ago, I had started with charcoal rubbings; that should have given me the most accurate record. But the carvings were too worn, the impressions too soft. With half a day gone, I'd had nothing but smudged ghosts on parchment. With the ink in my bottle frozen solid, I'd switched to graphite, copying each rune by hand.
The longer I stayed here, the more likely I was to get complacent and forget to keep an eye out for the guards, or get too cold to concentrate and miss a detail that would ruin the translation. But I also knew I'd make more mistakes if I rushed.
Snow and frost building up on the runes, and the changing shadows as each day progressed didn't help. Sometimes, it felt like the runes themselves were changing, in protest against being recorded.
I was checking my work -- again -- when a shout split the silence. My head snapped up. Two guards were running toward me. I shoved the parchment and graphite into my satchel and tried to stand and run at the same time. Muscles frozen from the cold made me clumsy as I fled.
Just as I made it into the woods, I stumbled over a tree root, dropping my satchel. Graphite and parchment tumbled across the snow.
I lie there, sprawled at the base of the tree that had tripped me. The guards came to a stop at the edge of the forest. But they couldn't see me. The aura of protection around Conviction Woods was supposed to kill anyone who crossed its boundaries. I didn't know why I was safe within it, but I was grateful even as I cursed my foolishness. Now that I'd been spotted, the archway would be guarded more carefully. Would I even be able to complete copying the runes?
(Original word count: ~498 → Edited: ~400)

Critique

The thing that intrigued me about this story was the controversy over the author, so I didn't find this story organically. Still a fantasy story about a teenage girl and prophecies sounds right up my ally, so I wanted to check it out.

Setting

We have two settings, side-by-side, an ancient, crumbling arch covered in runes set in enemy territory, and a magical forest. These are both great settings, but the way the original blurb introduces them is a bit confusing. In my edit, I introduce the Assidian arches first, because that's where the action of the scene takes place, and I wait until the end of the excerpt to introduce Conviction Woods.

The original way that the Assidian arches are described is good. This is the original passage:

Before me stood a crumbled and dilapidated stone arch, old runic etched across its surface, worn away by the structure returning to the earth. A few fallen stones lay scattered across the surrounding ground, freezing into the dirt as ancient remnants conjoined with snow and soil. Beyond the arch's gaping mouth laid Assiduous's barren territory.

This is really nice imagery, especially if you're super into magical old arches, like me. It sets an atmosphere as well as as providing visuals. I especially like, "ancient remnants conjoined with snow and soil". If this was the first paragraph of the original excerpt, I wouldn't feel any need to adjust it, but because this is the second paragraph after a pretty incomprehensible lore dump, it reads as vague and confusing. When we're introducing a brand new reader to a brand new world, coherence needs to take precedence over poetry.

The second setting, Conviction Woods, although it takes up most of the word count, is actually less clearly described than the Assidian arch. The only physical description we get of the woods is the mention of war artifacts being scattered around. Also, there are trees. Since Conviction Woods is the second setting that the character is physically in, and we as the reader only get there at the end of the excerpt, it's okay that we don't really know what the forest looks like, but it's weird that we spend so much word count on the woods with so little physical description.

In general, I try to avoid describing one setting when the reader/characters are already in another setting. We want to stay as present as possible. Exceptions would be if we're in a flashback or if one character asks another to describe the other setting in detail. But then, a flashback is its own scene, so that doesn't count, and the second scenario should really only take place if it's a setting that the reader either won't/can't get to or if the setting has gone through a dramatic change by the time the reader gets to it.

In this case, since the opening scene takes place in Assiduous, all or most of the Conviction Woods exposition should wait until we're actually there. This is maybe counter-intuitive, since the reason we're in Assiduous territory is because we're trying to find out about Conviction Woods, but I'd argue that the reason we're here is less important when we're establishing a world, a main character, and stakes at the start of a story.

Characterization

Characterization is about the contradictions that people are made up of. Like, surly but gentle, funny but mean, charming but stingy, that sort of thing. And only two characteristics, even opposing ones, will still make the character feel only two dimensional, but that's fine for an intro. As we get to know the characters, we can explore all of the facets of their personalities, but lets start with at least two.
In the original excerpt, there are zero characteristics of our main character. If we wanted to stretch, we could say they are studious, but we have no sense of if the narrating character is bragging about how much studying they've done, or complaining. If they were doing either, that would make the character more interesting.
Actually, I'm being unfair. We have this passage: Deciphering the runic on the arch was my next step to decoding the true history of Conviction Woods, and the moment I finally found it, an Assidian border patrol just had to be there -- of course. This is is a nice bit of ironic inner dialogue, but it comes toward the end of the 500 words, so it's basically drowned in infodump. I didn't keep it in my version because I feel like it undercuts the drama of the situation. If the narrating character is scared enough to run at sight of the guards, then they're too busy for snarky inner narration. The exception would be if this was the character's voice throughout, but it's not. The exposition to this point is pretty straightforward, with a slight bent toward poetry when describing the setting.
As for the guards, they do have distinct personalities, but not until after the first 500 words. Like with most novels by first-time authors, most of the first 500 words could be deleted or distilled down to a sentence or two, as the story gets a lot more flavor once the characters start interacting with each other. But we're dissecting the first 500 words, so here we are.
In my version, I added this paragraph:
It was technically only ten steps into Assidian territory, but if I was caught here, I’d be killed. That said, this far out, the guards weren’t especially vigilant. When they'd come around, once every four hours, their laughter drifted from beneath their face guards, loud and careless. It almost made them seem human.
This is pretty bare bones characterization, but what we get is someone who is willing to risk their life, and who thinks of the Assidians as less than human. I have no idea if this is true to the actual story because we get this vague wording about being on Assidian territory ("its occupants...didn't want me meandering on their land") and absolutely nothing about the guards, not even a short description.

Conflict/Tension

Again, we have the suggestion that the narrating character is trespassing is the "meandering on their land" line. But what are the stakes? Imprisonment? Death? We also have a line about the clock ticking as enemies near, which is a weird statement. First, we don't have a clock. We're outside. If anything, it should be a watch, and second, who are the enemies? The Assidians or the people who messed with he history of Conviction Woods -- or are they the same? For a story that starts with an infodump, the info is too vague to be informative.

We have hints that what the narrating character is doing is important, like the amount of research they've done, a war that was covered up, and ancient arches with mysterious runes that need to be translated. But the tension is undercut with words like "lingered" and "meandering" and also with the suggestion that the character isn't even trying to get the full imprint of the arch runes -- like, they're only getting impressions of the ones they can reach.

In my version, I have the attempt at rubbing not work with the excuse that the etchings are so old that the rubbings aren't really showing up, but mostly because I didn't want to have to address the idea that the character wasn't even going to try to copy down the ones they couldn't reach -- just memorize them. Also, there's a sense that they don't have time to copy them down, but no reason why. Like, the woods are ten steps away, so the character can disappear and come back any time guards aren't present, so why is the character just trying to memorize them? Is the "ticking clock" referring to a different deadline, maybe a prophecy-related one?

Final Thoughts

For me, the only sin that an excerpt of the first 500 words of novel that can't be forgiven is a lack of conflict/tension. We always have time to fill in a sketched out setting and characterization, but stakes need to be clear. They don't always have to be life or death, but they have to feel important to the character. The biggest failure of the first 500 words of this story is that the author is trying to hint at urgency but continually undercuts herself by spending too much time on lore and using vague language to hint at danger.

That said, none of the sins in this excerpt are unfixable. Honestly, if we started the story at the end of this first 500 words, the next 500 wouldn't be perfect, but they'd be a lot more interesting way to start a story. Also, none of the sins of this writing is unexpected or unusual in a first-time author. Some of the other critiques on this blog are of excerpts from the second 500 words, for that reason.

Starting a story like this is like the author popping in to promise that this is going to be an interesting story, but not wanting to spoil anything. It's the move that a lot of insecure authors do (I have to fight the urge myself), but it's not one that should make it to publication if you have a good editor.

From my understanding, Audra Winter had hyped up her novel on TikTok, talking about how she'd been working on it for ten years. People who don't know anything about writing would naturally assume that the writing after that amount of time would be amazing. Someone like me, who has been working on certain stories for three times longer than that, know better.

To be fair to Audra, I don't think she was trying to trick people into thinking her writing was better than it was. I think that she was genuinely excited about her book and thought that her writing was excellent. She knew her world and her characters so well that she didn't understand that the translation from her brain to the written word wasn't happening as smoothly as she thought.

Editing is a different skill from writing. And yes, good writers can also edit their books, but generally only after having had really good editors work on their first several books -- or, at least, the author having studied editing separately from writing.

I'd bet that there's an excellent story buried in a lot of direction-less writing, and I'm glad that she seems to have a good editor helping her dig it out. And, actually, seeing that Audra is trying to fix the story says a lot about her sincerity. A lot of people who get criticism about their writing will just decide that the critics are just jealous and double down on how good their writing is.