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valis2Intro/Index of all parts | Read without the commentary
So. Here we are at the Wavedancer project. This is an unfinished romance novel I began during the mid-nineties, and I'm going to reread it and record my observations. I hope that I'll learn something from the experience, and that we'll all have fun poking at my sillier mistakes. I have no problem if you link to this. And please, join in the fun!
When I finally awakened the warm fall sun had all but disappeared beneath the willows, leaving behind the chill that heralded night. I made no move to pull my faded overshirt on, preferring instead to lay in the gentle rocking of the skiff. It was kind of odd to spend this rare moment of free time on the water, given that I was the owner of a charter fishing company, but this was slow-moving river water, far different than the choppy Lake Michigan waters I wrestled with daily. As long as the mosquitoes held their peace I could drift here, alone and uncomplicated.
As an opening, it's not horrible. However, I must point out that I made one of the weirdest beginner mistakes there is: no name for the heroine. Hell, we don't even know she's a she. I think that, in my arrogance, I thought everyone would be interested in this novel, that it would be so awesome that all readers would be intrigued and want to keep reading, and that my heroine was so kickass and awesome that it wouldn't matter that I didn't include any details. She would just capture everyone's attention right off the bat.
Well, that and I couldn't think of a name for her at first. lol. Still, I was convinced that it didn't really matter. Now that I've read a ton of bad fanfic, and a ton of good fanfic, and a lot of advice for writers, I know that this is an amateur writer mistake. Not a terribly common one, but still.
I was never arrogant enough to think that this romance novel would be read by tons of people and would be on a bestseller list, but I really thought that it would appeal to romance readers, and maybe I could write several more.
How wrong I was.
Let's see. What else can I point out about the opening paragraph? It does clue the reader into what she does for a living, and that I didn't understand lay vs. lie. Also, as a reality check, there is no way the mosquitoes would be holding their peace. Bloodthirsty little bastards. She'd have fled a long time ago.
As a child this cove was the eye of the storm for me, a place I could escape to, a safe haven from my family. I discovered this tiny sanctuary quite by accident in my early explorations of the Moray River, as the twin willows that guarded the entrance grew down to the very surface of the water and camouflaged it well. Only close scrutiny revealed the tiny cove behind the boughs, the quiet and sacred secret of my childhood, only once entrusted to another.
Memories I did not wish to recall surfaced, and I closed my eyes, pressing the heels of my hands to them. The boat shifted in the water and my thoughts returned to the cove. The river wound past it and emptied into Moray Bay, the other fork twisting around Moray Island, where I lived now.
OH NOES! The angst begins! What could these memories be? Oh dear, the poor, suffering heroine.
Just to make it easier, let's just call her Sarah. I think that was her name.
The few readers I roped into reading this fic were originally very confused about the river and the island. I think I managed to clear it up in revisions, because this doesn't sound too bad. Though I'd probably have to include a drawing for it to make sense.
And willows growing down to the surface of the water? I think I meant branches. heh.
The cold began to bite, and I thought further of the shirt lying in the bottom of the boat. I watched unmoving as the last of the sunshine began to fade. Gradually I became aware of the rhythmic stroke of oars. The sound called me out of my reverie, and I half-smiled, as it was Mike. For a solitary moment I was glad that I had shared the hidden cove with him so many years ago.
Aw, Mike! I really like him a lot. Hence this novel.
Apparently she can tell it's him just by the sound of the rowing. *laughs*
Amusingly enough, years later I realized that Mike was a gigantic Freudian slip of sorts. Um. You see, in elementary school I had the most ginormous crush on a kid named Mike. He was blond with blue eyes, and he was gorgeous. I mean, just lovely. And I totally wrote him a love letter and stuff. But then I forgot all about him. I wrote this ages later, and then about three years ago I realized exactly who my subconscious was thinking of when I "created" this character. heh.
The bright splash of his rowing drew nearer and brought with it unbidden thoughts of the many times we'd been here as children. He'd been a perfect companion to me for three glorious summers. Together we'd experienced all Moray had to offer, despite the fact that he was three years older than me and my brother's friend during the off-seasons. The sunny days found us setting snares for wild game, racing canoes in rapids, playing pirates in the Bay, and still having time left over to go fishing, the true lifeblood of not only our families but of Moray Town as well.
Nice images of childhood games, mentions of how important fishing is to everybody there, and then there's an ominous mention of a finite amount of time that they were friends. What terrible thing could have ended this, I wonder? lol.
And I'm sure it was confusing to readers that Mike was her "brother's friend during the off-season." The season is the summer, the off-season is school/winter.
Everything always came to an end, and these carefree memories were no exception, leading me down a darker path into one harsh evening that changed my life. After that terrible cold night in the cove Mike became year-round friends with my brother Corny, and I avoided both.
*convulses with laughter*
Okay, let me explain.
There is too much. Let me sum up. There was a book called the Secret Horse I read that I was absolutely fascinated with as a little girl, and the brother of the main character in the book was named Corny, and he was awesome, and I loved the book. Hence the name. I thought of it way before I turned the character into a villain, you see. I had no idea how important it is to properly name characters, you see, and I really didn't understand the impact this silly name had on the readers.
I wish I could remember the deus ex machina of the terrible cold harsh evening in the cove, but it's not coming to me at the moment. Some bit of trickery involving Corny. *laughs again*
I had warned Mike before of Corny's falseness, but after that night Mike seemed to gravitate towards him in defiance of me. Mike and Corny went to college together, and graduated together, and Corny went to work on Wall Street, where he'd always wanted to be. I hadn't seen Corny since the day he left for college, which was fine with me. I never even got any correspondence or call when I sent him the inheritance checks, even though I knew he cashed them. Mike never came back either; his father, Joe, told me he head tried to make a go of it, worked for some firm out in Kalamazoo, and eventually returned after a couple years when Joe could no longer hold back news of cancer. When Joe died that fall I offered Mike the captaincy of Wave Dancer II, the fishing boat my father had bought for Corny on his thirteenth birthday. At that time it had been named the Cornelius, after her owner, but Corny hated fishing almost as much as he hated his given name. I rechristened her and used her myself until my father's death gave me Wave Dancer. This was the end of my sixth season as her captain and full owner of the company, and the end of Mike's third as captain. It had been a rough go, but we both worked hard, and I was making more of a profit every year.
I was ready for any situation, and, given the unpredictability of life, I was quite relieved that Emil was turning sixteen this year. He'd finally be able to take charters of his own if Mike decided to leave, as long as the Champlains didn't forbid it, and I doubted they would. Half the time they didn't even seem aware he was there.
Holy cow. Exposition dump. And this totally reminds me of wish fulfillment, and of building a character that you want to be. And wow, death everywhere. I think both Mike and Sarah are orphans at this point.
So now we know that she owns a charter fishing company, and pilots a boat, and he works for her and pilots the other boat.
And I love how "Wall Street" just sums everything up. My early-twenties mind was still grappling with the larger issues of society and life, and "Wall Street" was shorthand for teh ebil! *rolls eyes at self*
Um. "Mike never came back either," except for that point where in the same sentence he so came back. There wouldn't have been an attempt at a novel if he hadn't.
Yes, I know, we are all confused about Emil. Seriously, for an exposition dump, this one doesn't even dump enough to be understandable. Emil helps the heroine out, doing odd jobs, and is a very nice boy with an unfortunate name. I apologize, Emil Champlain. At least you weren't named Corny.
The sweep of the oars was clearly audible, and the willows parted as Mike rowed through. His long, white-gold hair was gathered into a ponytail, and he smiled when he caught sight of my skiff, his teeth shockingly white in his darkly tanned face. Even in the approaching twilight I could see the startling blue of his eyes. His presence here was a conduit to old emotions, pulling me back to that cold night so long ago.
More emo! grah, I really laid it on with a trowel. And blech to ponytails. Though at the time, that was sexxah.
"I thought I'd find you here," he said, his warm voice loud in the quiet of the cove.
I refused to cling to old heartaches, and pushed them to the back of my thoughts. "I just wanted to be lazy," I replied, sitting up in my skiff and stretching. "My afternoon charter canceled, and I was too tired to get any real work done."
"Definitely a good day to take an afternoon off," he remarked, and seemed pleased, which puzzled me.
I like the old heartache bit, which implies a little more about their past friendship. But then we get into another problem that I had, which was the Poor Unappreciated Hardworking Protagonist scenario. You see, Sarah embodies this concept beautifully. She works insanely hard, she does not receive much appreciation for it, she regularly is waaay too hard on herself, and she's entirely noble and self-sacrificing. Everyone else around her (well, except Mike) takes advantage of her or hurts her somehow, and she only retreats and works the harder. Do you see what I mean?
I've seen this a lot in extreme hurt/comfort, where the protagonist is beaten down and is run ragged, trying to keep up, and no one appreciates them or helps them, and eventually an unbiased outsider has to point out the obvious and make everyone around the protagonist feel guilty, or the protagonist faints and has to go to the hospital and everyone around the protagonist suddenly realizes just how terribly they've been treating the protagonist, or the protagonist's love interest figures it out and has to protect them from the outside world.
I am not saying that any of this is bad, per se. I'm just saying that at the time I had no idea that this was what was fueling the story. Now that I understand it a little better, I don't think I could use that scenario in commercial writing. Though it is used; Mercedes Lackey's Arrows trilogy immediately comes to mind. Just that I don't think it's enough for me to base a story structure around; I'm not personally engaged enough by it.
"How did your charter go?" I asked, slipping on my extra shirt.
And of course I had her dress much like I did at the time; jeans, t-shirts, worn flannel shirts, etc. Boots. Plain hair in a ponytail. Everything plain, plain, plain. It's definitely not the gorgeous Sue heroine we have here, folks. Still, it's so opposite that it falls into anti-Sue territory, which can be just as bad.
"We limited," he said evenly, his eyes focusing on the skiff. There was a rough patch where the boat name was traditionally displayed, and I wondered if he was remembering the time he had returned from an afternoon charter to find me furiously filing the name Bear off. There just came a day when I couldn't stand the name or the painted teddybear anymore; even as a little girl I'd been too old for it, hadn't wanted it.
I don't know if I ever explain limiting in this fic--it just means catching your daily quota of fish, according to DNR regulations. If you have a charter, and there's the captain and three people on the boat, they each have a limit of...let's say...four walleye they can catch. So four people x four fish = sixteen fish. Once you've hit sixteen fish, you've "limited" and you can come back in.
And the little emo detail about the bear being sanded off--heh. Part of me loves that, and part of me thinks it's just waaay too melodramatic. Then again, I adore melodrama. If you're on my flist, you already know that, lol.
"You must have finished early," I said, rubbing my eyes drowsily.
He nodded. "I started cleaning up and packing up stuff for winter...I was thinking of running down to Glenn's to pick up some steaks, but I couldn't find the grocery list."
"It's on my kitchen table," I said, absently fingering the frayed cuff on my shirt. "I was going to go tomorrow...did you say steaks?"
"That's an affirmative," he said warmly.
"Last one home has to grill 'em," I dared.
He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Not another race."
I'd already hefted my well-worn oars and was past him. Despite his mock disinterest in racing me he spun his own skiff about expertly and began to row with long powerful strokes. I grinned and really put my shoulders into it, stretching the gap between us as we emerged from the willows onto the river.
I do like writing dialogue. The only thing I don't like about dialogue is revising it, because dialogue dovetails in a specific fashion, and to insert something new means that I have to find an appropriate place for it, which can be a challenge. I like the exposition here, too, that they're a little competitive, but it's affectionate, and I love that they work together so smoothly now that it's pretty much like clockwork.
The Moray was deserted, especially with the end of the season only a week away. All of the locals were busy winterizing their boats and homes and trading summer's equipment for winter's. The tourists and seasonal residents had almost entirely departed. I had only a week's worth of charters left--Mike's last one had been this afternoon, which explained his celebratory mood--and I relished the thought of a few weeks to myself until the grueling outdoor show circuit began. Traveling from show to show was exhausting but necessary, as it was how we booked the majority of our charters.
One little bit of fun trivia; the locals call everything "Moray," regardless of whether it's Moray Island, Moray Town, Moray Bay, or Moray River. The listener just knows what it is through the context. I actually thought this was a cute detail; now, I'm not certain. It might be too "precious" and "look at the down home folks, ain't they cute" and that bothers me. Still, it might not be that far from the truth in some locales.
I think that the timing of the fishing show circuit is erroneous. I can't remember the show circuit being so limited to that time of year. I went to plenty of outdoor shows--and by this I mean shows that featured boats and hunting stuff and fishing gear, not by shows held outdoors--and they happened year-round, I think. Still, it's a good detail. They would absolutely have to attend them in order to book new charters.
The sun was fast disappearing and the chill was beginning to pierce through both layers of clothes. Mike was gaining on me, but if I could underhandedly stay in the stronger current he'd have to work harder to keep up. "Are you ready to grill?" I shouted between oar strokes. My subtle crowding act had worked, as he wasn't aware that I was mostly coasting. We were approaching the delta, which poured into the beautiful Moray Bay. As soon as I caught sight of the house I let fly and easily outpaced him, getting to the beach with enough time to pull the skiff ashore and stand on the dock triumphantly.
Yes, my adverbs often languished far away from my verbs. Poor![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
odddollsstories; this drives her absolutely batty when she betas for me because I still do it. lol.
Also, there are a lot of watered down verbs here. "The chill was beginning," "We were approaching," that sort of thing. Just "began" and "approached" would be a little more succinct and actiony.
He rowed up and raised an eyebrow as I pulled in his skiff and tied it to the mooring post. "The day you win fairly," he grumbled, "is the day I polish the Celestial with a toothbrush." He was referring to my gorgeous old wooden Chris-Craft and the arduous task of revarnishing her every year.
"Aw you're just jealous of my superior rowing technique," I teased. "C'mon, I'll drive."
"Where I come from it's called a superior cheating technique," he said slyly.
"You're just upset that you didn't think of it first," I said, fishing in my pocket for my keys.
"You'll probably want to get a jacket too," he said, turning and heading off to the driveway.
I nodded and went in the house to retrieve one, almost forgetting the list. When I came back outside he was already sitting in my Blazer, waiting.
I forgot that she had three boats. And the thing about being on a river is that the current is stronger in spots than others, though I very much doubt it could happen as I've written it here. Still, a cute moment. And you can see more Poor Heroine stuff, as he's reminding her to get a jacket. Mike is so sweet; he just wants to take care of her! Say it with me: awwwww.
In RL I have this giant gratitude for anyone who steps out of what I call the "sphere." Your everyday sphere of life contains what you normally do. Get up, stop and get a coffee at Starbucks, go to work, stop at the little grocery store on the way home, have dinner, go to bed. Anything you do outside of that is what I think of as stepping out of the sphere. So when Husband stops at the farmer's market and buys tomatoes, that's outside the sphere, and I am always extremely grateful. I hate going outside the sphere, and when someone does that for me, it's huge. So that's why you'll see all of these little things--Mike taking care of Sarah in subtle ways--because it's so affecting to me personally.
On to part two
Read this section without the commentary
So. Here we are at the Wavedancer project. This is an unfinished romance novel I began during the mid-nineties, and I'm going to reread it and record my observations. I hope that I'll learn something from the experience, and that we'll all have fun poking at my sillier mistakes. I have no problem if you link to this. And please, join in the fun!
When I finally awakened the warm fall sun had all but disappeared beneath the willows, leaving behind the chill that heralded night. I made no move to pull my faded overshirt on, preferring instead to lay in the gentle rocking of the skiff. It was kind of odd to spend this rare moment of free time on the water, given that I was the owner of a charter fishing company, but this was slow-moving river water, far different than the choppy Lake Michigan waters I wrestled with daily. As long as the mosquitoes held their peace I could drift here, alone and uncomplicated.
As an opening, it's not horrible. However, I must point out that I made one of the weirdest beginner mistakes there is: no name for the heroine. Hell, we don't even know she's a she. I think that, in my arrogance, I thought everyone would be interested in this novel, that it would be so awesome that all readers would be intrigued and want to keep reading, and that my heroine was so kickass and awesome that it wouldn't matter that I didn't include any details. She would just capture everyone's attention right off the bat.
Well, that and I couldn't think of a name for her at first. lol. Still, I was convinced that it didn't really matter. Now that I've read a ton of bad fanfic, and a ton of good fanfic, and a lot of advice for writers, I know that this is an amateur writer mistake. Not a terribly common one, but still.
I was never arrogant enough to think that this romance novel would be read by tons of people and would be on a bestseller list, but I really thought that it would appeal to romance readers, and maybe I could write several more.
How wrong I was.
Let's see. What else can I point out about the opening paragraph? It does clue the reader into what she does for a living, and that I didn't understand lay vs. lie. Also, as a reality check, there is no way the mosquitoes would be holding their peace. Bloodthirsty little bastards. She'd have fled a long time ago.
As a child this cove was the eye of the storm for me, a place I could escape to, a safe haven from my family. I discovered this tiny sanctuary quite by accident in my early explorations of the Moray River, as the twin willows that guarded the entrance grew down to the very surface of the water and camouflaged it well. Only close scrutiny revealed the tiny cove behind the boughs, the quiet and sacred secret of my childhood, only once entrusted to another.
Memories I did not wish to recall surfaced, and I closed my eyes, pressing the heels of my hands to them. The boat shifted in the water and my thoughts returned to the cove. The river wound past it and emptied into Moray Bay, the other fork twisting around Moray Island, where I lived now.
OH NOES! The angst begins! What could these memories be? Oh dear, the poor, suffering heroine.
Just to make it easier, let's just call her Sarah. I think that was her name.
The few readers I roped into reading this fic were originally very confused about the river and the island. I think I managed to clear it up in revisions, because this doesn't sound too bad. Though I'd probably have to include a drawing for it to make sense.
And willows growing down to the surface of the water? I think I meant branches. heh.
The cold began to bite, and I thought further of the shirt lying in the bottom of the boat. I watched unmoving as the last of the sunshine began to fade. Gradually I became aware of the rhythmic stroke of oars. The sound called me out of my reverie, and I half-smiled, as it was Mike. For a solitary moment I was glad that I had shared the hidden cove with him so many years ago.
Aw, Mike! I really like him a lot. Hence this novel.
Apparently she can tell it's him just by the sound of the rowing. *laughs*
Amusingly enough, years later I realized that Mike was a gigantic Freudian slip of sorts. Um. You see, in elementary school I had the most ginormous crush on a kid named Mike. He was blond with blue eyes, and he was gorgeous. I mean, just lovely. And I totally wrote him a love letter and stuff. But then I forgot all about him. I wrote this ages later, and then about three years ago I realized exactly who my subconscious was thinking of when I "created" this character. heh.
The bright splash of his rowing drew nearer and brought with it unbidden thoughts of the many times we'd been here as children. He'd been a perfect companion to me for three glorious summers. Together we'd experienced all Moray had to offer, despite the fact that he was three years older than me and my brother's friend during the off-seasons. The sunny days found us setting snares for wild game, racing canoes in rapids, playing pirates in the Bay, and still having time left over to go fishing, the true lifeblood of not only our families but of Moray Town as well.
Nice images of childhood games, mentions of how important fishing is to everybody there, and then there's an ominous mention of a finite amount of time that they were friends. What terrible thing could have ended this, I wonder? lol.
And I'm sure it was confusing to readers that Mike was her "brother's friend during the off-season." The season is the summer, the off-season is school/winter.
Everything always came to an end, and these carefree memories were no exception, leading me down a darker path into one harsh evening that changed my life. After that terrible cold night in the cove Mike became year-round friends with my brother Corny, and I avoided both.
*convulses with laughter*
Okay, let me explain.
There is too much. Let me sum up. There was a book called the Secret Horse I read that I was absolutely fascinated with as a little girl, and the brother of the main character in the book was named Corny, and he was awesome, and I loved the book. Hence the name. I thought of it way before I turned the character into a villain, you see. I had no idea how important it is to properly name characters, you see, and I really didn't understand the impact this silly name had on the readers.
I wish I could remember the deus ex machina of the terrible cold harsh evening in the cove, but it's not coming to me at the moment. Some bit of trickery involving Corny. *laughs again*
I had warned Mike before of Corny's falseness, but after that night Mike seemed to gravitate towards him in defiance of me. Mike and Corny went to college together, and graduated together, and Corny went to work on Wall Street, where he'd always wanted to be. I hadn't seen Corny since the day he left for college, which was fine with me. I never even got any correspondence or call when I sent him the inheritance checks, even though I knew he cashed them. Mike never came back either; his father, Joe, told me he head tried to make a go of it, worked for some firm out in Kalamazoo, and eventually returned after a couple years when Joe could no longer hold back news of cancer. When Joe died that fall I offered Mike the captaincy of Wave Dancer II, the fishing boat my father had bought for Corny on his thirteenth birthday. At that time it had been named the Cornelius, after her owner, but Corny hated fishing almost as much as he hated his given name. I rechristened her and used her myself until my father's death gave me Wave Dancer. This was the end of my sixth season as her captain and full owner of the company, and the end of Mike's third as captain. It had been a rough go, but we both worked hard, and I was making more of a profit every year.
I was ready for any situation, and, given the unpredictability of life, I was quite relieved that Emil was turning sixteen this year. He'd finally be able to take charters of his own if Mike decided to leave, as long as the Champlains didn't forbid it, and I doubted they would. Half the time they didn't even seem aware he was there.
Holy cow. Exposition dump. And this totally reminds me of wish fulfillment, and of building a character that you want to be. And wow, death everywhere. I think both Mike and Sarah are orphans at this point.
So now we know that she owns a charter fishing company, and pilots a boat, and he works for her and pilots the other boat.
And I love how "Wall Street" just sums everything up. My early-twenties mind was still grappling with the larger issues of society and life, and "Wall Street" was shorthand for teh ebil! *rolls eyes at self*
Um. "Mike never came back either," except for that point where in the same sentence he so came back. There wouldn't have been an attempt at a novel if he hadn't.
Yes, I know, we are all confused about Emil. Seriously, for an exposition dump, this one doesn't even dump enough to be understandable. Emil helps the heroine out, doing odd jobs, and is a very nice boy with an unfortunate name. I apologize, Emil Champlain. At least you weren't named Corny.
The sweep of the oars was clearly audible, and the willows parted as Mike rowed through. His long, white-gold hair was gathered into a ponytail, and he smiled when he caught sight of my skiff, his teeth shockingly white in his darkly tanned face. Even in the approaching twilight I could see the startling blue of his eyes. His presence here was a conduit to old emotions, pulling me back to that cold night so long ago.
More emo! grah, I really laid it on with a trowel. And blech to ponytails. Though at the time, that was sexxah.
"I thought I'd find you here," he said, his warm voice loud in the quiet of the cove.
I refused to cling to old heartaches, and pushed them to the back of my thoughts. "I just wanted to be lazy," I replied, sitting up in my skiff and stretching. "My afternoon charter canceled, and I was too tired to get any real work done."
"Definitely a good day to take an afternoon off," he remarked, and seemed pleased, which puzzled me.
I like the old heartache bit, which implies a little more about their past friendship. But then we get into another problem that I had, which was the Poor Unappreciated Hardworking Protagonist scenario. You see, Sarah embodies this concept beautifully. She works insanely hard, she does not receive much appreciation for it, she regularly is waaay too hard on herself, and she's entirely noble and self-sacrificing. Everyone else around her (well, except Mike) takes advantage of her or hurts her somehow, and she only retreats and works the harder. Do you see what I mean?
I've seen this a lot in extreme hurt/comfort, where the protagonist is beaten down and is run ragged, trying to keep up, and no one appreciates them or helps them, and eventually an unbiased outsider has to point out the obvious and make everyone around the protagonist feel guilty, or the protagonist faints and has to go to the hospital and everyone around the protagonist suddenly realizes just how terribly they've been treating the protagonist, or the protagonist's love interest figures it out and has to protect them from the outside world.
I am not saying that any of this is bad, per se. I'm just saying that at the time I had no idea that this was what was fueling the story. Now that I understand it a little better, I don't think I could use that scenario in commercial writing. Though it is used; Mercedes Lackey's Arrows trilogy immediately comes to mind. Just that I don't think it's enough for me to base a story structure around; I'm not personally engaged enough by it.
"How did your charter go?" I asked, slipping on my extra shirt.
And of course I had her dress much like I did at the time; jeans, t-shirts, worn flannel shirts, etc. Boots. Plain hair in a ponytail. Everything plain, plain, plain. It's definitely not the gorgeous Sue heroine we have here, folks. Still, it's so opposite that it falls into anti-Sue territory, which can be just as bad.
"We limited," he said evenly, his eyes focusing on the skiff. There was a rough patch where the boat name was traditionally displayed, and I wondered if he was remembering the time he had returned from an afternoon charter to find me furiously filing the name Bear off. There just came a day when I couldn't stand the name or the painted teddybear anymore; even as a little girl I'd been too old for it, hadn't wanted it.
I don't know if I ever explain limiting in this fic--it just means catching your daily quota of fish, according to DNR regulations. If you have a charter, and there's the captain and three people on the boat, they each have a limit of...let's say...four walleye they can catch. So four people x four fish = sixteen fish. Once you've hit sixteen fish, you've "limited" and you can come back in.
And the little emo detail about the bear being sanded off--heh. Part of me loves that, and part of me thinks it's just waaay too melodramatic. Then again, I adore melodrama. If you're on my flist, you already know that, lol.
"You must have finished early," I said, rubbing my eyes drowsily.
He nodded. "I started cleaning up and packing up stuff for winter...I was thinking of running down to Glenn's to pick up some steaks, but I couldn't find the grocery list."
"It's on my kitchen table," I said, absently fingering the frayed cuff on my shirt. "I was going to go tomorrow...did you say steaks?"
"That's an affirmative," he said warmly.
"Last one home has to grill 'em," I dared.
He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Not another race."
I'd already hefted my well-worn oars and was past him. Despite his mock disinterest in racing me he spun his own skiff about expertly and began to row with long powerful strokes. I grinned and really put my shoulders into it, stretching the gap between us as we emerged from the willows onto the river.
I do like writing dialogue. The only thing I don't like about dialogue is revising it, because dialogue dovetails in a specific fashion, and to insert something new means that I have to find an appropriate place for it, which can be a challenge. I like the exposition here, too, that they're a little competitive, but it's affectionate, and I love that they work together so smoothly now that it's pretty much like clockwork.
The Moray was deserted, especially with the end of the season only a week away. All of the locals were busy winterizing their boats and homes and trading summer's equipment for winter's. The tourists and seasonal residents had almost entirely departed. I had only a week's worth of charters left--Mike's last one had been this afternoon, which explained his celebratory mood--and I relished the thought of a few weeks to myself until the grueling outdoor show circuit began. Traveling from show to show was exhausting but necessary, as it was how we booked the majority of our charters.
One little bit of fun trivia; the locals call everything "Moray," regardless of whether it's Moray Island, Moray Town, Moray Bay, or Moray River. The listener just knows what it is through the context. I actually thought this was a cute detail; now, I'm not certain. It might be too "precious" and "look at the down home folks, ain't they cute" and that bothers me. Still, it might not be that far from the truth in some locales.
I think that the timing of the fishing show circuit is erroneous. I can't remember the show circuit being so limited to that time of year. I went to plenty of outdoor shows--and by this I mean shows that featured boats and hunting stuff and fishing gear, not by shows held outdoors--and they happened year-round, I think. Still, it's a good detail. They would absolutely have to attend them in order to book new charters.
The sun was fast disappearing and the chill was beginning to pierce through both layers of clothes. Mike was gaining on me, but if I could underhandedly stay in the stronger current he'd have to work harder to keep up. "Are you ready to grill?" I shouted between oar strokes. My subtle crowding act had worked, as he wasn't aware that I was mostly coasting. We were approaching the delta, which poured into the beautiful Moray Bay. As soon as I caught sight of the house I let fly and easily outpaced him, getting to the beach with enough time to pull the skiff ashore and stand on the dock triumphantly.
Yes, my adverbs often languished far away from my verbs. Poor
odddollsstories; this drives her absolutely batty when she betas for me because I still do it. lol.Also, there are a lot of watered down verbs here. "The chill was beginning," "We were approaching," that sort of thing. Just "began" and "approached" would be a little more succinct and actiony.
He rowed up and raised an eyebrow as I pulled in his skiff and tied it to the mooring post. "The day you win fairly," he grumbled, "is the day I polish the Celestial with a toothbrush." He was referring to my gorgeous old wooden Chris-Craft and the arduous task of revarnishing her every year.
"Aw you're just jealous of my superior rowing technique," I teased. "C'mon, I'll drive."
"Where I come from it's called a superior cheating technique," he said slyly.
"You're just upset that you didn't think of it first," I said, fishing in my pocket for my keys.
"You'll probably want to get a jacket too," he said, turning and heading off to the driveway.
I nodded and went in the house to retrieve one, almost forgetting the list. When I came back outside he was already sitting in my Blazer, waiting.
I forgot that she had three boats. And the thing about being on a river is that the current is stronger in spots than others, though I very much doubt it could happen as I've written it here. Still, a cute moment. And you can see more Poor Heroine stuff, as he's reminding her to get a jacket. Mike is so sweet; he just wants to take care of her! Say it with me: awwwww.
In RL I have this giant gratitude for anyone who steps out of what I call the "sphere." Your everyday sphere of life contains what you normally do. Get up, stop and get a coffee at Starbucks, go to work, stop at the little grocery store on the way home, have dinner, go to bed. Anything you do outside of that is what I think of as stepping out of the sphere. So when Husband stops at the farmer's market and buys tomatoes, that's outside the sphere, and I am always extremely grateful. I hate going outside the sphere, and when someone does that for me, it's huge. So that's why you'll see all of these little things--Mike taking care of Sarah in subtle ways--because it's so affecting to me personally.
On to part two
Read this section without the commentary
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(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-29 08:20 pm (UTC)relistic- it will be great- of that i am sure
so please dont bother about the mistakes i made- just be generous as valis always is----nice,and
always helpful--release my----
Like your style of writing so much--hope to "Read from you soon"
Penball
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-30 01:30 am (UTC)Your kind words are so wonderful and are very appreciated. Thank you for responding!!
I have written 37,000 words so far. I am hoping to finish before I leave in May for my next trip. I will let you know how the writing is going.
I'm glad you like my writing!