SeanDSchaffer said:Forgive me for asking, but I'm honestly curious: why would an author want to burn his first novel?
Actually, that was my *cough*second*cough*...go figure...SeanDSchaffer said:(Unless published by P*Cough, cough*a?)
James D. Macdonald said:How do you not InfoDump?
You don't! Not in the first draft. Dump that info right on the page. It counts for writing.
Then, when you go back for the second draft, take your big honkin' ol' red pencil and cross it all out!
See, the InfoDump is gone.
This is material the author needs to know, but not necessarily the reader. The reader will learn all that's necessary from the character interactions during the course of your book.
wurdwise said:Some of that info is part of the story, and maybe lots of it should go, but if all you have is character interaction, how do you have a story?
Mrs. Roger Collins stood in the visiting room of her home. "Mansion" would have been a better word. The sun shone in through a bay window flanked by French doors. Filmy drapes kept the sun from bleaching the delicate cloth on the circular table in the center of the room. Spiced air from the gardens gently wafted in.
Mrs. Collins was expecting her friend Mrs. Frederick Baxter. She had something she wanted to talk to Shirley about. Last night the strangest thing happened. Mary Collins had known for years that the house was haunted, because there was a window on the second floor that would not stay closed if it wasn't locked. But last night, in the misty dark of twilight, while entering the upstairs guest bedroom, she saw the translucent shape of a young lady, and the apparition looked at her and she felt --
"Mary, dear!"
It was Shirley, being shown in by Mr. Collins. Mr. Collins had retired at the end of the war, and he had been very helpful during his wife's recent illness.
Mary had the tea things ready, and the tea itself, a nice oolong with a great deal of milk and sugar, occupied their time along with the small talk of doings in the town. Mr. Collins removed himself to his study. He had always played the stock market, and played it well. The war had left him wealthy, still quite young, for munitions had been greatly in demand. The prosperity that the whole nation now experienced made his investments more valuable by the day, while the contacts that he had across the nation gave him insights that perhaps other men didn't have.
Now was the time for Mary to tell the story, for that delightful frisson, in the bright afternoon.
"I'm sure you'll think I'm being silly," Mary said, "but I felt such a feeling of sadness coming from that woman. It was like a palpable wave. I gasped and took a step backward. Then I switched on the light, and she was gone!"
"You're so brave," Shirley said. "I'm sure I would have screamed and run."
"I was too surprised," Mary said. "And it wasn't until the light was on that I realized it wasn't a real woman at all; she was gone. She would have had to come past me to leave the room, you know. I looked under the bed and in the closet, and in the bathroom, but she was gone completely. It was only then that I realize I'd been able to see through her."
"You could? What are you going to do now?"
Mary's eyes sparkled, and she sipped her tea. "I thought it would such great fun to have a seance."
"Are you quite certain? I mean, if you felt this sadness ... that can't be good."
"She wants help, the poor thing," Mary said. "This is an old house. After all these years of opening the window, she's finally gotten to trust me enough to appear and ask for my help."
"What does Roger say about your plan?"
"Oh, I haven't told him. You know what a stick-in-the-mud he is."
Christine N. said:Sorry for the long exerpt.
Megan kicked Thunder into a gallop. The gelding whinnied as he took off across the open field. The quiet of the countryside was disturbed by the rumble of the big horses’ hooves as Megan raced through the dew drenched grass, auburn curls flying behind her.
Megan Montgomery had become quite a proficient rider since coming from New York to the English manor where her and her father now lived. Riding was something she had never been able to do when she lived in the city. Now it was one of her favorite hobbies. She came to the end of the meadow and rounded a copse of oak trees, scaring a murder of crows that had taken up residence. They took off in a black cloud of loud caws.
She reined in the big horse, slowed him down to a trot, then to a walk. As they approached the stable she sat up straight in the saddle and admired her home. The grounds were beautiful -- well-tended lawns of emerald grass dotted with stately trees stretched out to the horizon. Between the main house and the stable sat formal gardens awash with color on this gorgeous spring morning.
Megan stopped in front of the stables, jumped down from the horses’ back and walked him inside. The stable manager, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, waved to her. “Good morning, Miss Megan,” he said. . “Did you have a nice ride?”
“Yes, Stephen,” Megan replied. She grabbed a towel from the stack just inside the door. “I heard the larks singing down by the stream. It’s going to be a beautiful day.” She rubbed Thunder’s legs briskly with the towel, then his head and neck while Stephan removed the saddle and took it away to the tack room. Megan finished rubbing Thunder down, led him into his stall and filled his feed bucket with oats. She gave him a farewell pat on the neck and headed toward the house.
The manor house was huge, made of dark grey stone, three stories tall, and shaped like a U. The early morning sun reflected off the upper floor windows. She followed the crushed stone path through the flower gardens. Past the gardens, set in the courtyard created by the shape of the house, was a large reflecting pool. The pool was a bit of an oddity. Instead of modest English embellishments it was surrounded by the classical Greek statues and columns that gave the house its name: The Parthenon.
Megan hopped up the two short steps to the back door. She stopped briefly in the little mudroom to change out of her riding boots and into her sneakers. Miranda, the head housekeeper, would be very upset with her if she tracked dirt over her clean floors. She opened the inner door and stepped into the large, warm kitchen. Maggie, the plump Irish cook, was preparing breakfast.
Mrs. Roger Collins [Our protagonist] stood in the visiting room of her home.
jules said:Interesting changes there. I see that you cut out a lot of the adjectives, particularly where they were already implied by context (e.g. "emerald grass" rather than "emerald green grass"). You also moved the name of the house to a later paragraph, and I'm curious as to why you did that. It seemed to work as it was, to me.
I read YA books but not middle grade books, so there may be matters of genre convention that I'm not familiar with. But, my reaction upon reading, is that I have no idea what the story's about. There's Megan, she's riding, her family is rich, she's going to have breakfast. She doesn't seem to be worried about anything, or planning anything, or thinking about the future, or the past.Christine N. said:Ok, so I'm going to do something I NEVER do, and let you all see the first draft of something. It's the opening paragraphs of the new book.
Understand, this is the second in a series, and the first "next book" I've written. It's producing it's own set of headaches. Feel free to pick it apart, or let me know if I'm on the right track. I appreciate all input (note: this is a middle grade book)