|Author Janice Hardy.|
First, sorry I’ve been gone for a couple of days! Thursday was very busy and I woke up Friday feeling like death. I’m better now, though, so onto the post!
I’ve already mentioned Janice Hardy in my post Writers Who Write About Writing, but I only vaguely mentioned a newer section of her blog where she critiques a short section (approx 250 words) of your work in progress or finished manuscript. I submitted the first 250 words of Sing, Sweet Nightingale to her in December and this morning she posted her critique. Her answers are so detailed and helpful I was blown away! You should definitely stop by the site and read through this and all past critique posts, but I am also going to post my 250 words here.
As it stands now, this is the opening to my novel Sing, Sweet Nightingale. I hope you enjoy!
Sleeping is the best part of my day. Everything goes slowly downhill from there. Waking up, searching for new music, faking my way through school, studying useless information for hours, suffering through dinner. The only thing I look forward is the buildup of anticipation before it’s finally time to go to sleep.
Can you imagine living like that? What kind of life that would be? I can tell you right now.
It’s no life at all.
That’s why I’m trying so hard to make sure I spend the rest of my life asleep. Who wouldn’t if they had a choice between paradise and Swallow’s Grove?
I saw my mom at the grocery store this morning. In most people’s lives, this wouldn’t be a story that goes beyond that sentence. That’s it. I saw my mom at the grocery store this morning. The End. That, however, is not my life.
In my life, this event is much, much more complicated.
Horace forgot that we were almost out of food, so he asked me to make a run for necessities. I don’t think twice about this because A) I don’t really have the right to refuse Horace such a simple request and B) it’s the grocery store. What can happen? I grab a cart at the door and start coasting through the aisles, automatically pulling our usual staples off the shelves as I pass. The normality of it, the routine of the actions, lulls me into complacence; I don’t see the danger until it’s too late.
It’s the hair-raising tingle that alerts me first. My head snaps up and some inner sense I’ve always had immediately locks on to the watcher. I almost drop the glass jar of spaghetti sauce in my hand when my gaze meets my mom’s.
Hudson’s chapter continues for another ten pages, but this is the section I sent to Janice Hardy, so this is all I’m posting here. Hope you like it! And please feel free to leave critiques in the comments section.