First 500

Monday, September 29, 2025

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.]

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)

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.

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.

Saturday, September 20, 2025

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

Blurb

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

Original (First 500)

London, England

May 16, 2014

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

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

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

He was also my ward.

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

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

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

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

My Edit

London, England
May 16, 2014
The clock ticked midnight, and I closed my eyes, letting the sound of Big Ben echo through the square, the neighborhood, the city of London. The sound was rich and bombastic, carried away by the slapping wind. I would’ve smiled at its familiarity—had I remembered how.
A different sound echoed through the square as the bells faded. Rougher. Rugged.
Across the square, a motorcycle appeared, its rider clad in dark leather. Killian rounded the square dramatically, riding through puddles on purpose so he could splash water like the little kid he was. He stopped on a dime, a foot away from me.
Show-off.
He removed his helmet and flipped his dark gold hair like he was in a shampoo commercial. Then he looked at me with eyes the color of molten honey and flashed a grin full of dimples and sin.
“Long time,” my ward said as I rose to my feet. He scanned me from head to toe. "You look good," he added, grinning, the ever-present glint of mischief in his eye. "Same outfit."
I glanced down at my black-on-black outfit—hiking pants, cape, baggy tee, and boots. I shrugged. “It helps me blend.”
He acknowledged that with a jerk of his head and another full-body scan, this one longer, assessing, dangerous.
“Killian,” I said, giving him my hard stare—the one that had once made his knees shake but now only made him arch an eyebrow. “While I love talking to you after so long…
(Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~212)

Critique

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

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

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

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

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

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

Final Thoughts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A different sound echoed through the square as the bells faded. Rougher. Rugged.
Across the square, a motorcycle appeared, its rider clad in dark leather. Killian rounded the square dramatically, riding through puddles on purpose so he could splash water like the little kid he was. He stopped on a dime, a foot away from me.
Show-off.
He removed his helmet and flipped his dark gold hair like he was in a shampoo commercial. Then he looked at me with eyes the color of molten honey and flashed a grin full of dimples and sin.

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

Dialogue is another area that needs a bit of tightening:

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

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

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

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

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

“Long time,” my ward said as I rose to my feet. He scanned me from head to toe. "You look good," he added, grinning, the ever-present glint of mischief in his eye. "Same outfit."
I glanced down at my black-on-black outfit—hiking pants, cape, baggy tee, and boots. I shrugged. “It helps me blend.”
He acknowledged that with a jerk of his head and another full-body scan, this one longer, assessing, dangerous.

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

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

Saturday, September 13, 2025

Empress Theresa by Norman Boutin

Blurb

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

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

Original (First 500)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There was a fox out there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Edit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Critique

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blurb

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

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

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

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

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

Original (First 500)

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

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

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

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

She is also a hoarder.

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

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

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

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

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

My Edit

Nessy stands across from me, chewing a hank of her long, gossamer hair. She does this when she’s anxious — and she’s always anxious. That’s why she needs me. She stares at the floor, long, blonde lashes veiling her iridescent eyes, but her pert nose and full lips are on full display — as are certain portions of her bare torso not obscured by her hair. Not that I notice, of course. I’m far too professional.
The opalescent unicorn horn in the center of her forehead catches the sunlight streaming through my cabin window, scattering tiny prisms across the walls. Her ghost-white flanks shift restlessly, one hoof tapping the wooden floor in a nervous rhythm. I always invite her to sit; she's more comfortable standing.
As a therapist of considerable experience, I make it my solemn duty to resist the crude impulse to pathologize my patients. To affix a label — depressed, bipolar, psychopathic — is to commit a quiet act of vandalism upon the soul, reducing a complex being to a mere entry on a chart. No — the enlightened clinician must view the mind as a grand architecture of interdependent chambers, each with its own echoes and drafts, occasionally in need of repair.
Nessy is a hoarder. The copse of trees she inhabits beside a waterfall would be prime real estate if not for the broken chairs, rusted prams, and bins of spoiled fruit and vegetables that were “still good, yesterday.” Stacks of almanacs with most of the pages torn out, heaps of bottles and bits of twine — you get the picture.
There’s a smell coming from one of her satchels. Familiar. Pungent. A challenge to my gag reflex. I rub my chin, surreptitiously pressing a finger beneath my nose under the guise of deep thought. I try to ponder her dilemma, but really, I am just thinking about rotting bananas.
The session is nearly over, and something is clearly bothering her that we haven’t covered yet. I’ll give her another minute. The parchment in front of me is nearly blank. A crude little rowboat near a dock has appeared in the bottom corner, though I don’t recall when I drew it. Black ink spots from a dripping quill have bled into the water, threatening to swallow the tiny oar. I pull the pen away and lean back in my chair.
My chair is made of wood, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. The curves fit my body perfectly. My desk, also wood, stands between me and my patients. In this case, it’s a nice — though not nearly wide enough — buffer between me and the smell wafting from Nessy. The uncarpeted floor and log walls complete the motif: wood.
“Nessy?” I prompt. While I wait for her to speak, I dip my pen into ink and jot down the goal of today’s visit: to persuade her to empty her saddlebags and dispose of anything actively decaying. I also note to do that at the beginning of each session from now on.
She removes the hair from her mouth with long, tanned, delicate fingers and clears her throat. “A belt buckle fell out of one of my bags and into the river yesterday,” she says. “But I decided not to look for it.”
I look up from my parchment and smile. “Excellent.”
She flushes with pleasure at my approval and her shimmering eyes shoot another of flash of prisms against the walls. Then her face falls. “But I went back for it this morning.” She holds up a rusted piece of junk about the size of a large coin.
(Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~612)

Critique

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Characterization

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conflict / Tension

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

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

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

Final Thoughts

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

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

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

"Earnest Edit"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, August 28, 2025

Britney the Dwarf Princess by Crystal Charee

This is another piece of my own writing. The story is about a little person who lives in our ordinary world and gets pulled into an alternate universe where dwarves actually live under mountains and sing “Heigh Ho” — basically, her nightmare. In this early draft, Brittany has twelve foster kids and is supposed to make it a baker’s dozen by the end of the book. I’ve started this story over at least three times; this was the first attempt. If you’d like to compare it to my latest version, you can find it on my portfolio blog here.

[TRIGGER WARNING: I use the words “dwarf” and “dwarves” throughout this post to describe fictional beings who live under mountains and mine for jewels, and “little person” to describe actual humans from our world. This story explores how the cartoonification of little people into a separate race has been damaging — but if this language feels uncomfortable, please feel free to skip this one.

I’m not a little person, and I don’t claim to speak for that community. I’m simply trying to explore an issue I don’t often see addressed in fiction. Despite the serious subject, this isn’t a dark or heavy story — it’s a middle-grade fantasy adventure that happens to center a little person as the hero.]

Original (2006)

A bevvy of fluttering papers greeted Brittany as she entered the den. Small children and loose pages littered the room. Tom jumped up as she entered the room. "Here's mine!" he exclaimed, thrusting a crayoned sun into her hands. He checked his watch, then sighed in relief. He looked at Brittany accusingly. "You were almost late." Then he smiled. "But you weren't." He skipped over to the TV and sat next to Vic. He checked his watch again, and switched off the video game that Vic was glued to. A year younger than Tom, Vic just looked at him in bemusement.

Brittany walked through the room, picking up final submissions for the gallery. Sophie, situated in the window seat and pretending to read a book handed hers over to Brittany without glancing up. Renee waited quietly until Brittany reached him. He handed his up to her, intent gaze searching for her initial reaction. She smiled approvingly, and moved on to Verlee, who was writhing in her seat.

The children weren't allowed to beg their way into the Top Five, and Brittany saw Verlee's lips clamp shut as she handed her drawing. Her eyes were filled with yearning to be picked and the absolute self-control it took not to speak. Her mouth opened and Brittany's brows rose. Verlee said, "It's got a spell on it. It only works if you say it when you REALLY want to be somewhere else, and you hafta find a four-leaf clover and spin three times in the direction the wind is blowing. And you hafta be outside for it to work." She paused, and her eyes lit with inspiration. "Oh, and it only works on your birthday!" Her eyes grew wide, and she clamped her mouth shut again.

As she started to leave the room, a couple of sheets were tossed toward her feet. Looking in the direction they came from, she saw Jay, looking away, uninterested. Brittany suppressed a smile, and picked up the pages. She left the room, taking one last glance at the inhabitants. Vic, Gerry, Tita, Lena, Wil, Emma, Tom, and Andy were all absorbed in their various activities. Some were getting their galleries ready for the next week.

Four auras stood out. Verlee's squirming one, Jay's feigned indifference, Sophie's sheer expectation, and Renee's introverted intensity. Brittany sighed in relief. Choosing the Top Five should be easy enough this week. Around holidays, kids tended to go nuts, and the expectations were often too much for Brittany choose from. In that case, she handed it over to Colin.

Speaking of, there he was, sitting at his desk. Colin wasn't the best looking guy in the world, but Brittany would have been hard-pressed to find a better one. She felt her fortune as she stood in the doorway.

Brittany ran her fingers through Colin's hair that was growing a little too long down the nape of his neck. He sighed, and she kissed his neck. "Mm..." he said, turning his attention toward her.

My Revision (2025)

Britney leaned against the doorway of the den and counted her mistakes. There was Vic, a slim four-year-old in Luigi pajama bottoms and a Yoshi shirt, Kool-Aid stains permanent around his mouth, glued to Mario Kart — a game he’d play twenty-four hours a day if Britney let him.

Next to him, Tom — five, pudgy, khakis and a button-down like a tiny accountant — divided his attention between a picture book and the race on-screen.

There was Jay, sixteen, and far less surly than he had been three years ago, when he'd moved in. He sat at the coffee table next to Aura, helping her cheat on her homework.

Ten years ago, Aura had been Britney's first -- and best -- mistake. Parents weren't supposed to choose favorites, but Britney didn't really think of herself as a parent so much as a warden. Aura was special, and not in the sentimental way that most parents thought their kids were special. For one thing, Aura's birth mother was a mermaid, and for another, Aura had magical powers.

Also, Aura was the only child Britney had adopted. The rest were all work that her social worker husband, Colin, had brought home with him. Britney had vowed to divorce him if he brought any more home. Then again, she'd made the same threat each time he brought home a kid. She was starting to think he didn't think she was serious.
Colin, Britney’s biggest mistake at six feet tall, joined her in the doorway and kissed the top of her head — a long drop from his height to her three-foot-five.

“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands as he stepped into the den. “Who’s got their drawings ready?”
The weekly drawing contest had been Colin's idea, of course. They'd posted five picture frames between the two windows in the kitchen and the five winners got their drawings displayed there for the whole week.

"I do!" Tom carefully closed his picture book, set it aside, and then picked up the old leather portfolio that Colin had given him. Tom scrambled to his feet and ran over to Colin.

Colin's favorite chair, an over-sized tufted gray leather monstrosity was occupied by Tita, Jay's two-year-old sister. But Britney's small yellow chintz armchair was free, so Colin squatted down onto that, his knees jutting aggressively toward the coffee table. Colin accepted the old leather portfolio and bent over it as Tom earnestly explained each of his submissions.

Sophie, twelve years old with short dark hair, wearing a baggy but immaculate matching white sweatshirt and sweatpants, bent over Tita. Tita was chewing on her forefinger and listening to something Sophie was saying. Sophie handed Tita a piece of paper that looked like it had been torn out of a coloring book. Coloring book pages were eligible for the contest, but didn't score as high as original artwork.

Tita scooted and wriggled her way out of Colin's chair, landing on her butt. She righted herself on the floor, turned, spotted Britney, and started toddling over. She was still chewing on the finger of one hand, the other hand held the now crumpled page. Sophie, following Tita's progress with an indulgent smile, looked over, and spotted Britney. She looked embarrassed and then defiant. She folded her arms and plopped down into Colin's chair, glaring at Britney.

Sophie had only been with Britney for a couple of weeks and had the worst attitude of any of the kids Colin had brought home. The kids tended to be confused, shy, and anxious at first. Colin explained that the other kids had come directly from their family's homes to Britney's, whereas Sophie had been through several foster homes. Most kids had intrinsic trust in adults, but Sophie had learned to be wary, even aggressive. Like a cat that stands on its tiptoes and fluffs out its fur in order to trick predators into thinking it's a lion.

Britney returned her attention to Tita, who was navigating around the coffee table and through the myriad of toys littering the room like an obstacle course. Just a couple of feet away from Britney, she stepped on a stuffed elephant and almost lost her footing. After regaining her balance, she continued to toddle, dark ringlets bouncing, finger still in mouth, paper crumpled in her fist.

"Is this for me?" Britney asked, feigning surprise.

Tita thrust the paper out. She unclenched her fist.

Britney caught the page before it fell to the floor. "Ooh, thank you so much," she cooed.

Tita grinned and held out her arms in the universal signal that she wanted to be picked up. They were nearly the same height, so Britney just plopped down on the carpet, pulling Tita into a snuggle. Tita leaned her head against Britney's shoulder, exchanged her forefinger for her thumb, and seemed to fall asleep.

One arm cradling Tita, Britney did her best to use the other hand to flatten the paper against the carpet. Sophie was still lounging on Colin's chair, one leg hooked over an arm. As Britney looked up, she could tell that Sophie looked away quickly, pretending to watch Vic play Mario Kart.

The page was from an activity coloring book. It was a game of Hangman. The clue was a slice of cake. The word should’ve been four letters, but Sophie had added four more, spelling out B-R-I-T-T-A-N-Y. Then she had filled out the stick "man" with all four limbs. She'd also filled in the face with two x's for eyes and a mouth that was just a tongue hanging out.

Britney couldn’t help but laugh. She looked up at Sophie, whose stoic glare had—just for a second—turned to shock. Maybe even relief.
It was the expression of a twelve-year-old girl, not a jaded thirty-year-old woman, and it gave Britney hope.
(Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~970)

Critique

The origin of the premise goes back to a friend I had on a message board who was a little person. She lamented how few fictional stories there are about little people, and I thought, I can fix that (nineteen years ago, lol). I started with the idea of a little person from our world meeting and interacting with storybook dwarves — half Disney, half Tolkien.

In the original excerpt, Verlee’s poem was an actual spell that worked, and Britney found herself in the dwarf world alone. The kids (and Colin) had to rescue her, and the story alternated between Britney and the rescue team.

So… if the whole idea behind the premise was to take a little person from our non-magical world and put her in a fantasy-like setting where dwarves are a separate race — why did I give her a daughter with magical powers?

To be fair to 2006 me, I never really fixed that. In the updated version, Britney adopts the baby with magical powers from a mermaid, which doesn’t exactly help with the “our world” issue. However, until Britney meets the mermaid, she believes they’re mythical — and it makes sense to her that a mermaid’s baby would be magical. (It turns out the baby just has psychic AI earrings, but that doesn’t come up until her own POV story.)

Setting
We have a pretty standard den — a TV, a kid playing video games, a window seat. It’s the bare minimum for a scene like this, but it gets the job done. There are flying papers and some crayons, which add a hint of life. The crayons hint at bright color, but otherwise, the space feels unanchored — like a room floating in space. There are no real colors, smells, or textures grounding it.

For my revision, I gave Britney and Colin their own favorite chairs and added a coffee table — still pretty bare bones, but not as floaty. The nice thing about realistic settings is that you can rely on reader experience to fill in the blanks, but I’ll refining the space in future drafts.

Characterization
There are twelve kids in the room, but only four (five, if you count Vic) have action in the scene. The characters we meet are basic sketches: Tom is sturdy and earnest — a little too cute, maybe. Vic’s personality is “video games.” Verlee is creative, Sophie’s a bookworm. For my revision, I gave the kids unique looks: Sophie in her pristine oversized sweatshirt, Tita with her ringlets, Tom with his little Assistant Manager vibe. Vic finally got an outfit this time — on theme with his Mario obsession.

The biggest offender is Britney herself, who’s supposed to come from a non-magical world but somehow can see auras? I meant that as empathy — she could “read” emotions — but it doesn’t come through that way.

I realized that I originally wrote Britney as the kind of mom I thought I would be — so attuned to her kids’ emotions that she could keep them all happy and stable. I still don’t have kids, and don’t want them, partly because I’ve realized I don’t have that kind of intuition. Kids are fascinating, terrifying little mysteries I have no interest in solving. So, I took away Britney’s sixth sense and made her a little more bewildered about what to do with Sophie. I like that by the end of the scene, she feels a little more like she can be a foster parent to such an untrusting, troubled girl.

When I wrote the original version, I thought adding a thirteenth character was too much work. Turns out, like any good partner, Colin halves the burden. He focuses on the easy kids so that our POV character, Britney, can focus on Sophie.

The quickest way to get to know a group of characters is through their interactions. Colin with Tom; Jay with Aura; Sophie with Tita; then Tita with Britney, and finally a silent exchange between Sophie and Britney.

Struggling with this scene in 2006 taught me it’s best to introduce characters one at a time, so each gets their spotlight. Then, when you reach a group scene later, you’re not juggling introductions and action at the same time. It’s like writing your story on Hard Mode.

That said, I’m at almost double the word count of the original and have still only introduced half the kids. I’d never start another novel with a group scene of thirteen people, but if you have to, let the biggest personalities shine and be okay with the reader getting to know the quieter ones later.

Conflict / Tension
In the original, there’s no conflict between the kids, so the only tension comes from Britney sensing who really wants to make it into the Top Five. But we’ve got a dozen kids in one room — and no one’s biting, crying, or shouting? Actually, that’s fine. There’s none of that in the revision, either.

The bigger issue is purpose. The scene’s meant to introduce the characters and show Britney’s dynamic with the kids — but doesn’t. Tom’s the only one who even looks her in the face. It’s also supposed to ground the fantastical story in realism, which sort of works, but only just.

In the rewrite, I made the main conflict between Sophie and Britney. Having Sophie use Tita as a messenger for her saucy note was not only inappropriate but perfect — it adds both conflict and character. When Britney laughs it off, it diffuses the immediate tension but leaves a subtle “this isn’t over” simmer beneath the surface. I like that. It promises more to come — that the emotional dynamics will matter just as much as the adventure itself.

Final Thoughts

I was unusually close to my mom — cough, codependent — and she was the most fascinating person I knew: funny, thoughtful, deeply philosophical. I thought it was strange that books for kids teach so much about relating to other kids, but not about relating to adults. Authority figures weren’t real people; they existed to praise or punish. So if I could pat my 2006 self on the back for anything, it would be combining two underexplored areas of literature: stories about little people, and stories for kids who have parents who are people, not archetypes.

The revised scene isn’t perfect — I still only addressed half of the kids — but it works so much better, and it’s revived my interest in this version of the story. Fortunately, Britney’s magical daughter has the ability to travel through the multiverse, so now she can visit this version of her mother.

Wednesday, August 20, 2025

Between the Crystals by CrystalScherer on Wattpad

Blurb

The aliens kill every human they catch, or in rare cases, put trackers on them to discover their hidden villages. When Natalie is caught in an ambush, she is unexpectedly released. But there is no tracker. The Saursunes have an entirely different motive this time.

***

Run. Don't look back.

When Natalie is trapped in an alien ambush, she is unexpectedly released. The first human to ever be let go.

The Saursunes invaded centuries ago, and everyone knows that getting caught is certain death. Natalie is confused but grateful to be alive. As a porter, one of the few humans with the rare ability to teleport between special crystal formations, she must leave the safety of her desert village every day to help gather food.

When other villages increase their raids on the Saursunes' farms, the aliens retaliate by hunting down every human they can find - except Natalie's group. Instead of trying to kill her and those helping her, they bring them food instead.

Is it a trap? Or something else? Natalie isn't sure, but one thing is certain: the Saursunes aren't done with her yet.

Original (First 500)

I warily eased through the undergrowth, finally spotting the apple tree I'd come to check on. My shoulders slumped when I saw every apple was gone. Another village must have picked them even though they were only half ripe.
I examined the forest around me, hoping to find something worthwhile to take back or report. Apart from a handful of dandelions springing back up, there was nothing edible. My trip had come to naught. With a sigh, I turned to go back.
The birds above stopped singing. Even as I froze, faint rustling in the shrubs sent my heart racing. I furtively glanced over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of blue reptile-like scales stalking through the shrubs about a hundred paces away.
A Saursune. There was no way it didn't know I was here. Not at that range, not with its sense of smell. Abandoning any attempt at stealth, I bolted back the way I'd come.
My hand-stitched leather shoes thudded against the forest leaf litter as I careened full-tilt down the trail. A faint hiss and heavier footsteps followed. I didn't dare look back.
I rounded a bend, skidding on the loose forest debris as I desperately raced back to the crystal formation. A rumbling growl came from the side -- the Saursune was circling around to cut me off -- toying with me like a cat with a mouse. Preparing to pounce, or perhaps just chasing me off to send a warning. There was no way to know unless I escaped alive.
Fear goaded me to even greater speeds. I didn't reach for the knife on my belt -- I didn't dare. Unarmed, it might be content with chasing me off. Brandishing a weapon in any form was certain death. Against a Saursune, my small flint knife was useless. I'd be better off attacking a grizzly.
Through a gap in the bushes, I spotted a lithe form far too my right. On four feet, the dark blue reptile's back was almost chest-high on me. The longer horns marked it as a male. His bared teeth glinted in the sunlight as he glared at me. This Saursune wasn't wearing armor or a belt. No phasers or other weapons -- not that he needed them when his claws were as long as my small knife.
With a hiss, the adult male began bounding through the bushes toward me, covering the distance between us far too quickly. My heart hammered in my chest as my eyes locked onto the waist-high bluish-green crystal spires growing out of the soil. I was almost there!
With a soft cry, I dropped to my knees and skidded across the grass as I clapped my hands onto one of the spires, desperately visualizing a similar crystal in the desert while whispering the location name.
It felt like sunlight was shimmering through my veins, and my vision blurred like I was caught in a heat haze. Within a couple of seconds, the forest greens turned to desert tans, then cleared. The Saursune was gone, left behind in the forest.

Critique

To be honest, the blurb isn't that compelling, but I have a thing for gems (my name is Crystal) and I thought the title cover art were cool. I was looking for a Sci-Fi Saturday post entry, and wasn't expecting much. But the writing is so good. Not perfect -- I can nitpick anything to death -- but really compelling setting, characterization, and conflict/tension. The thing about good writing is that you're thinking more about the story than that way it's told, so for me, someone who nitpicks everything to death, it's really hard to find that. I'm going to try to nail down what was so good about this, and then we'll be real mean about dumb little things that don't matter. Sound good?

Setting

We have two settings: a lush green forest teeming with life, and a stark beige desert. Neither get, like, a descriptive paragraph or anything (we get to the desert just as the excerpt ends), but we get flashes of imagery like, undergrowth, a handful of dandelions, birds that stop singing, the flash of a blue/black reptile spotted through a gap in the bushes. It's evocative without losing focus on the main point of the excerpt.

My favorite part is the "waist-high bluish-green crystal spires growing out of the soil". It's these crystals that Natalie uses to teleport. This excerpt doesn't really go into it, but basically, wherever these crystals grow, you can touch them and teleport to a different location with other crystal. It's pretty cool worldbuilding. I like that we only get as much as we absolutely need to know for the scene to make sense, with the understanding that we'll learn more about them as we go along. It's done really organically, especially for an action scene that we don't want bogged down with a ton of worldbuilding.

Instead, we get worldbuilding with other subtle clues like hand-stitched leather shoes, and a lizard whose claws alone are bigger than the blade on the small knife she carries. Also, the use of the phrase "another tribe" indicates that Natalie is also in a tribe. And what keeps us from thinking that she might be Native American or from some other part of our mundane world, we have giant lizards and magical crystals.

Characterization

We don't have any dialogue in this excerpt, but we do learn a lot about this character. Natalie (we know her name from the blurb) is resourceful. She's come to this clearing to check on some apple tree growth, and sees that the trees have been picked clean, even though there was no way for the apples could only have been half-ripe. She concludes that another tribe must have been desperate. I like this moment for two reasons: one, she immediately looks around for anything else she can scavenge, so she's resourceful, and two, she's not angry at the other tribe. She doesn't assume that only her tribe deserves food, and she doesn't condemn the other tribe for being selfish.

Natalie is also very athletic. She sprints through a forest, a known tripping-hazard zone, and at the same time, she recognizes that the lizard is playing with her because it could overwhelm her at any time. Her only chance at survival is taking advantage of the fact that the lizard is playing with her. I love that. She's constantly assessing the lizard's proximity, its intentions, its gender, the fact that it's not armed (another nice bit of worldbuilding to include). So, she's quick on her feet both mentally and physically.

We don't really get to know if she also enjoying snuggling up with a book on rainy days, but that's not really relevant to the scene. It's smart writing to understand which aspects of your character's personality to explore based on the situation they're in, especially in an intro to a new story. (A lot of new authors try to cram the character's bio into the first paragraph.) We have no idea if Natalie has siblings, parents, and we don't even know her name or what she looks like, and that's great.

Since we are in her POV, I would like a little bit more of her internal dialogue, a sense of despair or frustration when she sees that the apple tree is picked clean. Slumped shoulders could mean a lot of things. Also, how does she feel about the alien? Is she grossed out or fascinated? We don't really get an emotional reaction, just an intellectual one.

Conflict/Tension

Ooh, boy, do we have tension. I love the escalation of tension with the apple tree being picked clean, which indicates long-term survival issues, and then the immediacy of running from a huge alien lizard who is playing with us.

Final Thoughts

I will say, one of my nitpicks about the writing is that to indicate that Natalie is disappointed to find the trees picked clean, she, as the narrator says, "my shoulders slumped". Shoulders slumping is a result of an inner reaction, like the energy draining from your body. If you're inside your body, you just feel depleted, but you probably won't notice what your shoulders are doing. It's like a POV character saying "I furrowed my brow." Sigh. "I was confused," is the observation from inside the body, a furrowed brow is the way another character looks when they are confused. And "my lips curved into a grin" makes me cringe every time. Ugh.

Another nitpick is this sentence: "With a hiss, the adult male began bounding through the bushes toward me, covering the distance between us far too quickly." We've already established that the lizard is an adult male, so referring to it this way is weird and clunky. Also, "With a hiss, it bounded toward me," could be the entire sentence and we'd get the same amount of information and it would read faster and underline the urgency of the moment.

That's it. Those are my nitpicks. Overall, excellent start to a story. The writing shows a lot of confidence in that it focuses only on what the reader needs to know. I like that we start with a big-picture problem of food scarcity among multiple tribes, and then goes into immediate physical danger for our main character, with some worldbuilding (magic transportation crystals) saving the day. The setting, characterization, and tension are all interwoven throughout the excerpt which means that the reader is engaged in the story, rather than putting it together like a puzzle.

Also, a lot of new authors seem to think that we need to be introduced to a character at any random time in their life. This author dropped us into this girl's life at an exact moment when several aspects of the worldbuilding come together at once, we get to see the character under pressure, both immediate and long-term, and we get stakes built into both. It's life or death. You can't get any more dramatic of a moment than this to start a story with. Really smart writing.

Tuesday, August 12, 2025

My Fake Boyfriend by ToTheExtreme95 on Wattpad

Blurb

When outcast Alexis Dawson agrees to help Redwood High’s most notorious player, Aaron Walker, a harmless favor turns into a dangerous game of hearts. As fake dating blurs into something real, she must protect a secret that could destroy everything. Jealousy, betrayal, and unexpected love make this “favor” far more complicated than either of them imagined.

Original (First 500)

It was almost time. A minute left on the clock until it struck 3 – the end of school. Gathering all my papers, I stuff them carelessly into my binder. At long last – the weekend was here.

The bell rung and I remained seated, hoping to wait out the crowd of ‘kids’ stampeding their way to the door. When all was clear, I stood up, waved tiredly to the teacher and trudged outside the classroom and into the bleak hallways.

It was Friday, the last day of school until Monday, and, honestly, there was not a more joyous occasion. School was a horror-ridden nightmare, especially when spent alone.

I sighed heavily and opened my locker. Throwing my books in, I turned to glance at myself in the small mirror attached to the wall of the locker door, studying my reflection. My brown hair was up in a pony tail, giving a perfect view of my face. Two brown doe eyes stared back at me and I sighed heavily at the blatant lack of effort I had given into my appearance when getting ready every morning.

“You can keep looking, but it won’t change what you look like.” A voice sneered teasingly from behind me. I whirled on my heel to come face to face with Britney Sanders – otherwise referred to as the girl who had bullied me as soon as she was capable of forming a full sentence. I hated her, but I couldn’t deny the fact that, no matter how fake Britney looked, she was what I aspired to look like. She was gorgeous. Her blonde hair cascaded smoothly down her back, outlining her slim jawline. She wore a floral blouse and shin-length pencil skirt, showing off her thin legs, her entire look ending with ballet flat. Her face was slender and a natural tan coloured her face. She exuded the impression of a Mediterranean goddess.

“What are you staring at?” Britney snapped yet she was smiling slightly. Yes – it was evident in her eyes that she was aware that I envied her. She liked the fact that I would do anything to look like her. However, this didn’t stop the bullying, rather it encouraged it, acting as a means for her to showcase her beauty to a ‘pathetic soul’ such as me every single day, only increasing the envy I felt.

Britney chuckled slightly to herself. “You’re so pathetic.” She squeaked, looking down at her nails. Tears stung at my eyes. I looked around. Students stood and watched as the scene played out – most passed by and ignored my plight yet a few looked in sympathy. Nonetheless, none of them stood up for me. This always happened. No one would be my saviour. But I wouldn’t cry.

No. I had kept a vow to myself that I would never satisfy anyone by letting them see me weak or vulnerable to their taunts. I would never break down.

Britney scowled at me. She always did when I produced no reaction…

My Edit

The final bell pealed, announcing not just the end of the day, but the start of the weekend. I breathed a sigh of relief, the sound a whisper against the scrapes of thirty chairs on linoleum, thirty kids giggling and shouting out their plans to call each other.

Sam Thompson was having a party. Everyone was invited. I was technically part of everyone, but if I showed up, the actual everyone would wonder why.

The hallway was packed. I was jostled three times on the way to my locker and got two blurted apologies.

I had math homework, so I kept my textbook, but I wouldn’t need my biology textbook, so I dropped that off.

My copy of “Jane Eyre” was under all of my other books. I tugged it out and dropped it into my backpack. I was supposed to have read the whole thing by the end of the semester but could only stomach a page or two at a time. The main character was so meek and pathetic. Too relatable.

I did a quick zit check in the mirror attached to my locker. All clear. But there was a bump in my ponytail. I sighed. How long had it been like that? Probably since after P.E. I tugged out the rubber band and pulled my long brown hair back up into a ponytail, making sure it was smooth this time.

In my mind, I was already home, snuggled up with Tumblr and my cat, so I didn’t notice when the hallway noise faded to silence. My fault for letting my guard down.

“That won’t help.”

I closed my eyes. Britney Maples. Everywhere she went, people hushed. They watched her like she was a movie. To them, she was Elle Woods. To me, she was Heathers -- all of them, all wrapped up into one.

Britney had hated me since pre-school. I'd never been able to figure out why. Mom said she was jealous, but I could never figure out what of. My personal theory was that she had a sixth sense that I was worthless, and was mad that no one else could see it. Turning up now and then to stomp out any budding self-esteem wasn’t bullying — it was justice.

“It’s your face you need to fix,” she added, her saccharine tone echoing down the hallway.

I turned, hoping for once I could come up with a snappy comeback. I gave her the once-over, but of course, she was perfect in her floral blouse, pencil skirt, and ballet flats. Her blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders, catching the light like she had her own personal spotlight. Blue eyes tilted up at the outside corners, like a kitty cat, even without the perfectly-applied eyeliner.

Her eyes narrowed, her mouth curling into that familiar scowl. My silence always drove her crazy — she had no idea it was the only thing keeping me from crying.
Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~488)

Critique

The premise — I’m always down for a fake-couple-falls-in-love trope. It’s a classic. I also like the teaser in the blurb that Alexis has her own secret — it adds depth to what could otherwise be a straightforward romantic setup.

Setting
We start in a classroom where Alexis is waiting for the clock to turn 3 on a Friday. We’ve all been there. I remember being that kid with no one to whisper or giggle with, so this moment feels very familiar.

If we wanted to play up Alexis’s invisibility, we could have two kids — one in front of her, one behind — talking over her head like she’s not even there.

For my edit, I just started with the bell ringing and let her be invisible. It’s a good way to contrast the neutral way the other kids treat her with Britney’s overwhelming cruelty later.

Characterization
I like the contrast in energy between Alexis and the other kids. She’s excited that it’s Friday, but not for parties or dating or sleepovers. That gives her a lonely vibe without making her pathetic (no matter what Britney says). She doesn’t talk to anyone, and no one talks to her — until Britney.

I had a Britney too — same dynamic, same speechless frustration. She hated me for no reason and tried to humiliate me every chance she got. That’s why this relationship feels so real.

I like that although Alexis has no defenders, she has a backbone. She may not know what to say, but she’ll never let anyone see her cry. There’s a song that came out the year I was born called “Don’t Cry Out Loud” by Melissa Manchester. The chorus goes:

“Don’t cry out loud / Just keep it inside and learn how to hide your feelings / Fly high and proud / And if you should fall, remember you almost had it all.”

That was my anthem in junior high and high school. I can see Alexis living by the same rule.Trying to describe a POV character naturally can be rough, and it almost always involves a mirror. In this case, since most kids keep mirrors in their lockers — and Britney’s about to make fun of Alexis’s looks — is a realistic way to do it.

That said, Alexis describing herself as “doe-eyed” doesn’t sound realistic. It could work if she laments having boring brown eyes but then remembers her grandpa calls her “Bambi” because of her big doe eyes.

In my edit, I just had her fix her ponytail. That way she’s looking in the mirror (so Britney’s comment makes sense), but what she's looking at in the mirror feels more believable.

Britney feels cartoonishly evil — though, to be fair, my own “Britney” did too. At the time, she seemed larger than life. Like Alexis, I couldn’t understand why she hated me, and my mom’s “she’s just jealous” theory never made sense.

My private belief was that she could see my worthlessness and was furious no one else could. Being cruel to me wasn’t bullying — it was justice.

I wove that idea into my edit because it gives Alexis a way to internalize Britney’s cruelty as something she’s rationalized over time, not just accepted. It also shows this is a persistent enough issue that she’s brought it up to her mom.

It also suggests that Alexis and her mom are close enough for Alexis to confide in her.I made Britney’s dialogue a little more realistic and emphasized her charisma so it’s clear why no one steps in — and why Alexis gets tongue-tied. Some people just have that effect — and not all of them use it for evil. Go figure.

Conflict/Tension
Britney doesn’t show up in the until about a third of the way through, and that’s the only part that has any real tension in the original. The first third could be used more effectively. It’s a perfect opportunity to emphasize Alexis’s invisibility and build a quieter kind of tension before the confrontation.

So, in my edit, I made up a party all the kids except Alexis are excited about, and in the hallway, I had three kids bump into her — and two apologize. It gives Alexis a physical presence even though she’s socially invisible.

Final Thoughts

The original feels more like a synopsis of a chapter — it summarizes more than it dramatizes. I used the existing settings (classroom, hallway, locker) to fill in details that made Alexis feel more like a real person. She has an opinion on Jane Eyre that matches mine — who could’ve guessed?

The excerpt does a good job showing that Britney has a deep, irrational hatred for Alexis. The kids’ silence says it all: to them, Alexis isn’t someone to notice, let alone pick on. But Britney is so popular and so confident that Alexis should be destroyed that they question themselves instead of her.

It’s such a painfully familiar dynamic, and one I definitely don’t miss from my horrific school daze. The fake-couple trope is already a strong hook, but the hint that Alexis has a dark secret makes it even more intriguing. I can’t help wondering if Britney knows the secret — and if that’s what fuels her hatred. Not that that's necessary. There just are people who hate us for no reason, sometimes. Yay, life!

Monday, September 29, 2025

Blurb

Original (First 500)

My Edit

Critique

Final Thoughts

Saturday, September 20, 2025

Blurb

Original (First 500)

My Edit

Critique

Final Thoughts

Saturday, September 13, 2025

Blurb

Original (First 500)

My Edit

Critique

Friday, September 5, 2025

Blurb

Original (First 500)

My Edit

Critique

Final Thoughts

"Earnest Edit"

Thursday, August 28, 2025

Original (2006)

My Revision (2025)

Critique

Final Thoughts

Wednesday, August 20, 2025

Blurb

Original (First 500)

Critique

Final Thoughts

Tuesday, August 12, 2025

Blurb

Original (First 500)

My Edit

Critique

Final Thoughts