Friday, July 26, 2013

Friday Feedback: A Writing Problem or Two


Hey, Campers!

Can you believe we're wrapping up our FIFTH week?! Me neither.

I hope many of you are starting to feel writerly, and some of you are wrapped up in that exciting phase of seeing that you can actually make a story come alive before your very eyes. I hope there are hooky beginnings and vomit drafts appearing, and for some of you, maybe you are in the thick of revision. 

I hope it is fun to share here, and that you take something from it -- at a minimum, the sense that writing can be a community sport where you can get input and advice from others who want you to succeed.

Speaking of which, I have another Algonquin Young Readers ** co-hort with me this week, 
the fabulous Amy Herrick whose first middle grade novel, The Time Fetch (SLJ starred review, ages 10+) comes out from AYR on August 27th. 

Amy says of Time Fetch: "The original notion for this story came from my suspicion that there isn't as much time as there used to be. I wondered if it was possible that something had gotten into our world and was stealing the stuff. Out of this arose a winter solstice fantasy/science fiction story about four young people who accidentally let loose just such a dangerous and insatiable power."  

Please look for Time Fetch in August and add it to your classroom shelves and library!

Amy is also an educator, a mom, and the author of two novels for adults: At the Sign of the Naked Waiter  and The Happiness Code

So, without further ado (except a reminder to read the FRIDAY FEEDBACK RULES if you haven't been here before), I give you Amy and a chance to give and get feedback!


Amy, taking a writing break with her pal. 
Dear Writers!  What kind of madness is this?  To invent characters. To make up stories for them. To get them down on paper in such a way that they tempt a reader to come in and sit down.  And then to keep the reader sitting by the fire, listening until the very last word. What hubris! What chutzpah!

Yet here we are, oh brave and intrepid ones.  It is Friday.  We will stick out our necks.  We will dare to try our hands at this heroic and necessary thing, for where would the world be without the story tellers?

I notice that the Friday conversation often turns to the brain freezing problem of how, exactly, to find your way from the beginning to the end of your story.  Best to start out with a map, a plan?  Best to just close your eyes and plunge ahead without turning around till you’ve got a draft?  Best to go moseying along, erasing and adventuring and discovering as you go?  Do not imagine that I know the answer.  But I do love Geoff Herbach’s advice to try writing into your tale a ways, and then begin a more serious outlining attempt. Sensible and workable advice, I think.  I’m going to try to remember it, but here’s a description of how it usually goes for me:

I begin with the intent to stay moving and not to stop.  An idea or a character has come to me.  I believe I sense the shape of the whole story stretching away into the distance. I leap up on my high horse. I urge us forward, a nudge with the knees, a little flick of the whip.  Go my trusty steed. Do you see it? There’s something glimmering up ahead between the trees.  Hurry, hurry before we lose it.  And off we gallop for a few paragraphs or so, and then abruptly we slow down to a trot and shortly thereafter, we stop, not simply because there’s the usual:  the unmarked fork in the road and then the mist that descends and causes us to lose our way and then the strange old woman who appears suddenly from out of the mist and wants to sell us a hatful of dried beans, but also because there’s  a whole maddening swarm of questions buzzing around our heads:  

What tense shall the story be told in? From whose point of view?  Shall the narrator’s voice stand close or distant?

In any case, I end up slow as rust, as mud, as a snail on crutches. And much of it is misery. Some of it is rapture.

But I see I am veering off the track, as always, and the rapture is another question, a discussion for another day.  Let me present the “problem” I am struggling with at the moment.  

I recently finished The Time Fetch, which is about four middle graders (Feenix, Danton, Brigit and Dweebo) who discover that a power has accidentally gotten loose in our world and is feeding upon our time. They must attempt to stop the time foragers before the entire space-time continuum unravels.  The story, told mostly in “close” third person, switches around, chapter by chapter, from one character to another.  (When I started it, I had only one main character, but the book took things into its own hands, as it tends to do!)  I found it a fearful challenge—trying to make each of the characters truly themselves, to make each voice distinct and someone the reader is eager to hear from again.

Now I have begun what appears to be a sequel to this tale (a summer solstice story—working title The Cemetery Dog)) and find myself fixated on questions of point of view and the position of the authorial voice in relation to the character’s voice.  I feel something nudging me to play a bit with what I did in The Time Fetch and have begun Danton’s first chapter (which is the second chapter of this new book) in such a way that he becomes a type of “unreliable” narrator. He is telling a story to his younger brother, a third grader, who is sick in bed.  Danton claims his story is fiction, and certainly, it is pretty implausible.  But I am trying “suggest,”  as he tells the story, that we are all on shifting ground, that some part of what he is telling his brother is not invention.  Or that something else is going on that he is not revealing.  Some of my motive is to create an interesting tension, an ambiguity that the reader will want to understand.  Some of my motive is more mechanical.  I also want to set up a device that I can use to throw light on what is happening to the other characters in the “outer” story.

So here it goes.  Let me know any thoughts you have, if you think this is working or not.  Too subtle? Too preposterous? And, are you curious to find out what is really going on?

And then, of course, I am eager to see what you will share of your own work!




 “I’m gonna tell you a story.”
His little brother looked up at him curiously.  “What kind of story? You mean like a made-up story?”
Danton hesitated.  “Yes. A made-up story. A dog story.”
Jay loved dogs.  “Go ahead, then.”
“Well, a long time ago there were four friends and they lived near here and, before this story begins, something impossible had happened to them.”  Here, a gust of wind spattered the rain angrily against the window.  Danton unfolded himself from the bed and went over looked out into the darkness. 
“What? What’s out there?” 
 “Nothing,” Danton said.  He came back and sat down on the bed.
Jay coughed and shook his head.  “Well, okay then.  What kind of impossible thing happened to these people?”
“I can’t say.  I’m not allowed to talk about that. But the thing was that after this impossible thing happened they discovered they were under a…well, a curse, I guess. The curse was that they were being driven crazy by an itch they couldn’t scratch.”
“Oh, I hate that,” Jay said. “Where was the itch?”
“No, no, no.  It wasn’t that kind of itch. Maybe it was more like a thirst. A craving. Like when you really, really want a chocolate milkshake.  Only it wasn’t a milkshake they wanted.”
“OK.  What was it that they really, really a wanted?”
“They wanted to go back to the place where the impossible thing had happened to them.  They wanted to go into Prospect Park.” 
“Prospect Park?! Our Prospect Park?!”
“Yes. Ours.”
 “I don’t understand.  Why didn’t they just walk into the park, if that’s what they wanted to do so bad?”
“Well, they tried, of course.  But that was the thing.  Every time they got near one of the park entrances something always seemed to stop them. Once it started to hail—these big killer chunks of ice, shaped like  macaroons.  Once a tree just uprooted itself and fell down right across the sidewalk in front of them and almost made them into paninis.  Then, last week they were just going in the Ninth Street entrance---“
Jay interrupted.  “Last week?  Didn’t you say this happened a long time ago?”
Danton looked startled. “Oh, well…that was just a figure of speech.”
In the dim illumination of his Star Wars nightlight, Jay examined his older brother suspiciously.  “Well, OK.  So what happened at the Ninth Street entrance and where’s the dog come into it?”

- Amy (& gae!)

** speaking of Algonquin Young Readers, my second YA novel, The Summer of Letting Go, March 2014, was just announced in Publishers Weekly Sneak Previews! Getting closer to print! 

57 comments:

  1. I posted a version of this earlier in the week, and Joanne Levy suggested more showing, less telling. I understood how my students felt because I looked at it and really didn’t know how to do that. So this is my revision…
    Kasni pressed her back into the cool metal of the gate so she was within its shadow. She was out of sight as long as she stayed close to the fence. Her breath was quick and came in shallow gasps. How had she gotten herself into this predicament? She could hear footsteps coming closer and peered into the fog holding her breath. Suddenly the person turned and walked the other way. She let her breath out quietly but did not relax. She panicked and tried to plan what she should do next, but her mind was completely blank. Anxiety and fear paralyzed her as her heart raced out of control.
    After a long time she began to edge her way along the fence, using her hands to scrabble her way down the chain links to the end, she could try to fit through a space between the fence posts where the fence was damaged. She held her breath and tried to squeeze through the opening. It was too narrow. Her clothes caught on the sharp edges and she was wedged in place.
    A large black crow mocked her from the rooftop of a neighboring house, "Caw! Caw! Caw!" She heard his wings flap as he rose into the air and envied his freedom.
    With one fierce pull she was through, leaving torn shreds of her clothing snagged on the fence behind her. She stumbled and her right leg crumbled beneath her, her ankle making a large crrrackkk as it twisted. Her left knee smashed hard on the cement. Suddenly everything was churning and it was as if fireworks were going off inside her body. The ankle itself didn't hurt but she was reeling and nauseous. She lay there too stunned to get to her feet. Suddenly she was struggling to wake up from a strange dream. In her pain, she had passed out. Now she got up slowly and staggered a few steps before everything started spinning again. She lay on the cold hard ground completely drenched in sweat. She heard rapid footsteps returning and everything went black.

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  2. Hi, Kristina,
    You've got us right up front, looking through Kasni's eyes. Wonderfully heart-thumping writing. We really feel we're in your character's situation with her, which is a great way to work this kind of suspense. I would have loved to have seen an earlier draft, but I think you're very successful in the "showing--not telling" department. All the details of the movement along the chain link fence are very strong. Is there really a fog? If so, would there then be shadows? (I'm not sure what time of day it is, but I'm guessing that context is given in the writing before this scene?)I would perhaps suggest ditching the word "predicament" which, to my ear, has a slightly comedic ring. This scene is definitely not funny. And I don't think you need to "tell" us she panicked. Your description of her feelings is very clear. The last bit is wonderfully painful and nauseating to read. Perhaps the "Suddenly she....." would work better as "The next thing she knew...."
    Very exciting writing. Keep on!

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    1. Thanks! All very good points and I appreciate it!

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    2. Kristina,

      You've done a good job of showing with your description. The only sentence I would edit is'Suddenly everything was churning and it was as if fireworks were going off inside her body. Perhaps shorten it to "Fireworks began going off inside her body!"

      Great job, Kristina. Keep writing. I need to know who is following her or what she has seen that puts her in danger.

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    3. I echo what both feedbackers have to say. You do an AMAZING job of creating setting and tension here, and I think it's really spot on for show over tell. For illustrative purposes only (because I know you just revised this, so it's still rough), I'm going to do a superspeed flash edit, pulling back some of your unnecessary or passive language (could hear vs. heard) to make it more active (and youre three "suddenly" which are at least two suddenlys too many ;)) which would make it shine even more. The point is, you should barely be able to see where I've done it, because all your important words will go untouched:

      Kasni pressed her back into the cool metal of the gate so she was within its shadow. She was out of sight as long as she stayed close to the fence. Her breath was quick and came in shallow gasps. How had she gotten herself into this?

      She heard footsteps coming closer and peered into the fog holding her breath. The person turned and walked the other way.

      She let her breath out quietly and tried to plan what she should do next, but her mind was completely blank. Anxiety and fear paralyzed her as her heart raced out of control.

      She began to edge her way along the fence, using her hands to scrabble her way down the chain links to the end. Maybe she could fit through a space between the posts where the fence was damaged. She held her breath and tried to squeeze through the opening. It was too narrow. Her clothes caught on the sharp edges and she was wedged in place.
      A black crow mocked her from the rooftop of a neighboring house -- "Caw! Caw! Caw!" -- his large wings flapping as he rose into the air. She envied his freedom.
      With one fierce pull she was through, leaving torn shreds of her clothing snagged on the fence behind her. She stumbled and her leg crumbled beneath her, her ankle making a large crrrackkk as it twisted. Her other knee smashed hard on the cement. Everything went reeling. Fireworks popped inside her body. The ankle itself didn't hurt but she was nauseous, and lay there too stunned to get to her feet.

      She struggled against the haze, as if trying to wake from a strange dream. In her pain, she had passed out. Now she got up slowly and staggered a few steps before everything started spinning again. She lay on the cold hard ground completely drenched in sweat. Rapid footsteps returned and everything went black.

      ??? stuff to play with. Pick and choose. You have a great piece of writing started here! It's all in the polishing (I've just started to play with it) that it will fully shine. Keep going! And, yay for posting here! :D

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    4. not "you're" "your." I hate when I do that! >:(

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  3. Hi Amy and Everyone!

    I really like this! I love that it seems like Danton is telling some sort of made-up story to his little brother, but there are undertones that suggest that it is more than fiction. I am definitely intrigued. What I especially like is the realistic dialogue, and the mix of dialogue and description. I could definitely see a little guy and his older brother having a conversation similar to that...the "itch" mix up is cute! I am now anxious to read The Time Fetch. Thanks so much for sharing.

    Below is a excerpt from the first chapter of a YA contemporary mystery I've been working on. I posted the first page way back in week 1. The story focuses on four best friends (one of whom is murdered). I'd love to hear thoughts! :) Thanks, all! :) Jennie K.

    -------

    “Something to munch on?” Mary asked, jarring Emma from her thoughts. Mary’s wrinkled hand held a braided basket filled with fresh rolls. They smelled delicious.

    Emma’s stomach growled, or maybe it churned from nerves. Either way, she couldn’t get herself to eat. “I’m good, thanks,” she said, sending a bleached and forced smile Mary’s way.

    She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a stick of cherry flavored lip-gloss. After a quick application and then a deliberate flick of the finger, the gloss dropped to the black and white checkered floor. Emma’s wide-set eyes scanned the room again, and she got on her hands and knees and looked under the booth. Left then right. Nothing. What the hell?

    Just as she pushed herself off the ground, lip-gloss in hand, she noticed a flash of pink taped to the bottom of the table- a folded over post-it – Bekah’s trademark. Emma was scrawled on the front flap - in Bekah’s handwriting. Emma swallowed hard and stared at the paper that trembled with her hands. Although she wanted to rip it open as fast as possible, there was a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. She felt that this secret note thing and Bekah’s whole “accident” was not entirely a coincidence.

    With eyes searing into the paper, Emma’s breath came out in quick short bursts. She closed her eyes and tried to center herself. Her therapist said in last week’s session that slowing down her breathing would help Emma with her ever-present and ever-growing anxiety. “You’re too anxious for a sixteen-year-old,” Dr. Hazelton had said. Emma counted. One. Two. Three. It didn’t work this time.

    With trembling hands, she finally opened the note. At first glance, she could see that the message was from Bekah. But where Beks typically used exaggerated swoops in her cursive lettering, those details were missing from this note - it was sloppy. She obviously rushed when writing this one. But more confusing than the handwriting was the message itself.

    --The fires of revenge burn slowly. I should have known. You need to find—
    And that was it. --

    At first Emma thought that maybe Bekah was playing another one of her practical jokes. The cut off words. Ominous tone. Rushed handwriting. Cliché. But then Emma remembered where Bekah was now - Cedar Oaks ICU. This was far from a joke.

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    1. What a stomach clenching Friday morning! So much murder and mayhem already. Jennie, I went back to your first page just to get some context and to see how things were evolving. You are really getting some great momentum going. All your details seem on point and add to the atmosphere you're trying create for us. I love the contrast between Mary's warm rolls and the dread that your MC is feeling. Nice bit with the lip gloss and this business with the notes under the table is most catchy. I would suggest paying sharp attention to who's doing the narration. I was slightly jarred by the "wide set eyes" and the "searing eyes" because this scene is told from very close inside Emma's head. To describe her eyes to us means the camera suddenly jumps back and is looking at her from the outside. Not at all impossible to make work, but you have to establish the fluidity of movement for that in a way that it doesn't make the reader pause. I don't know that you need to do it here. It's great to be just looking out from Emma's POV. I'm guessing that the handwriting question is setting us up for something big to come. So be as clear with it as you can, without letting it draw attention to itself. I think details missing from handwriting probably means it's not the person's real handwriting. But do you want us to be thinking that yet? Would it be enough to simply suggest that the handwriting was really rushed? I'm not sure what you're after here, which is what you want, right? Just be sure we're not overly confused.
      The overall atmosphere seems perfect. All readers will be waiting for the next Post-It with bated breath.

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    2. agree with all Amy has said/suggested here. Really love the set up and you have me hooked too. I was a little confused by some of the business with the lip gloss -- who dropped it, whether it was dropped because then she sees nothing left or right but then it's in her hand. I need some minor clarifying there.

      As for the searing eyes, etc. I think Amy is exactly right. The details may be much for the close observation and for the heart-stopping action that is taking place. If I were to do a superspeed edit pulling back on those details, maybe read through and see where you, as the author, miss them, and where you don't:

      “Something to munch on?” Mary asked, jarring Emma from her thoughts. Mary’s wrinkled hand held a braided basket filled with fresh rolls. They smelled delicious.

      Emma’s stomach growled, or maybe it churned from nerves. Either way, she couldn’t get herself to eat. “I’m good, thanks,” she said, sending a forced smile Mary’s way.

      She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a stick of cherry flavored lip-gloss. After a quick application and a deliberate flick of her finger, the gloss dropped to the checkered floor. Emma’s wide-set eyes scanned the room again, and she got on her hands and knees and looked under the booth. Nothing. What the hell?

      As she pushed herself up, lip-gloss in hand, she noticed a flash of pink taped to the bottom of the table- a folded Post-it – Bekah’s trademark, "Emma" scrawled on the front flap - in Bekah’s handwriting. Emma swallowed hard and stared at the paper. Although she wanted to rip it open, a feeling of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. She knew this secret note thing and Bekah’s whole “accident” was not entirely a coincidence.

      She stared at the note, closed her eyes and tried to center herself and breathe. Her therapist said in last week’s session that slowing her breath would help her with her ever-present and ever-growing anxiety. “You’re too anxious for a sixteen-year-old,” Dr. Hazelton had said. Emma counted. One. Two. Three. It didn’t work this time.

      With trembling hands, she finally opened the note. At first glance, she could see that the message was from Bekah. But Beks' cursive typically swooped exaggeratedly, and those details were missing from this note - it was sloppy. Obviously, she must have rushed writing this one. But more confusing than the handwriting was the message itself.

      --The fires of revenge burn slowly. I should have known. You need to find—
      And that was it. --

      At first Emma thought Bekah could be playing another one of her practical jokes. The cut off words. Ominous tone. Rushed handwriting. Cliché. But then Emma remembered where Bekah was now - Cedar Oaks ICU. This was far from a joke.

      Food for thought? Great stuff! Keep going!

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    3. Also, can we all just give Amy kudos here for going above and beyond the call of duty and finding the part of this excerpt that came before on a prior FF post! Geesh, someone get her a complimentary coffee! <3 :)

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    4. I agree! You are awesome, Amy! Thank you so much for your detailed feedback. And thanks Gae for the flash edit! Great suggestions! :)

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  4. Hi Amy and Everyone!

    I MUST read The Time Fetch. You've got me with the dialogue. I must find out what the "impossible thing that happened long ago" is. Love, love, love the dialogue. Where is the dog? Any book with a dog and I'm in. Every Friday I find myself at amazon ordering another new book and the next week I'm reading. I just finished Shallow Pond.

    Jennis,
    Great dialogue and voice in your first chapter. I love your description of detail - I can see this teenage girl on her hands and knees pretending to look for her lip gloss when she actually has a different motive. You mentioned a murder in your paragraph about the book so I began to wonder if Bekah is the one killed or if it is one of the other friends and Bekah and Emma are looking into their friend's death and Bekah is hurt and in ICU. Bekah isn't dead yet.

    I also love your descriptive details - I can picture Emma breathing too quickly (panic attack?) and the reminder of what her therapist told her gives yet another dimension to her character.

    I love mysteries and you've got a great start of clues here. Keep writing please!

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    1. Hi Jugrox! Thanks. I love dog stories,too. This one is going to be a very unusual sort of dog.
      Agree with all your thoughts on Jennie's piece.

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    2. an unusual dog?! Well, I'm down for that. Also, Jugrox (do I know your real first name?), so jealous you've already read Shallow Pond! How was it?

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    3. Gae,

      Yes, my real name is Pat Keefe and I'm your Facebook friends. But, in Google docs I'm jugrox (school mascot) and I don't know how to change it. It was a major challenge to manage to post some Fridays back.

      Shallow Pond was fabulous. I could not put it down. I did not know what the reveal was going to be and I thought perhaps it might be a vampire (Twilight) romance, but it is far more complex than that. No vampires. The kids will love it.

      It is truly written in teenspeak which is a must for a great YA novel. Realistic settings, typical high school drama, but what a twist and surprise in the second half of the book. What you thought you knew in the first half of the novel makes you say "aha" as you keep reading.

      You must read it. Love the cover. Read it on a Saturday. I need to get my book review written and posted!


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    4. Thanks, Pat, for your kind words about Shallow Pond!

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  5. Amy,
    You have hooked me here. I usually write in 1st person, but I like the way your close third person works. I can see through the eyes of each of the characters. They have unique voices. You also have some great imagery, especially the tree almost smashing them into paninis.
    This line, I think, needs the words "to the window." I got confused about the action. "Danton unfolded himself from the bed and went over looked out into the darkness."

    I am working on a verse novel told in first person from the MC to God about her best friend with cancer. She also falls for the BF's brother, Todd. In this scene near the end, I am trying to show that she will move on and discover Todd's not the only fish in the sea. Thanks for reading.
    At the pool, the lifeguard blows his whistle,
    All out—lightning sighted!
    Sure enough, the sky begins to roll,
    rumbling thunder echoes,
    dark clouds move across and drop
    a shower, a soft sprinkling.
    Steam rises from the pool,
    the gutters clank with the overflow of water,
    the green of the leaves deepen,
    drops cool my sunburned face.
    Two little kids twirl around
    trying to catch the drops on their tongues,
    mothers gather them up in beach towels,
    squeals of resistance.
    I look over to see Todd offering a towel to Elizabeth.
    They are laughing.
    Next to me, I feel the warmth of someone standing near.
    It’s Neal, the new boy, smiling at me with a towel offering.
    His deep brown eyes make my stomach jump.
    Here, I brought two, just in case.
    I swim in the curl of his smile.
    All I can say is thanks.


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    1. You really capture the moment so deftly. Your details are evocative, and you've packed so much in these lines. Beautiful verse. I wish there was more of a tinge of jealousy or disappointment when Todd offers a towel to Elizabeth (but that may have all unfolded earlier and be over and done with). And maybe add something about the feel of the towel--soft? scratchy? Those are the only things I'd add to the other suggestions.

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    2. Wow, thank you for sharing! I'm so grabbed but this. "I swim in the curl of his smile." Lovely lines, evocative of so much that is summer, and youth.

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  6. Margaret,
    Oh what a beauty of a read for a summer morning. I just love that mid section where you describe how it feels to be young and at a swimming pool on a hot summer day when a shower passes by. The choice of details (the soft sprinkling, the steam rising, the gutters clanking, the coolness on the sunburned face)recreates the sensations so exactly and so sensuously. You bring it all back to me so clearly. Mmmmmmmmm. I really feel I'm right there. There is a very subtle, lovely sense of movement too, as we move from her own immediate physical sensations to her sighting of Elizabeth and Todd and then to her discovery of Neal standing next to her. The lightest touch of sad yearning and then "I swim in the curl of his smile." Out of the water and then back in. Seems just right.

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    1. Love this too, and flagged the line:

      the gutters clank with the overflow of water,

      Just love that so much especially as a swimmer... gosh, I wish I wrote that line. :)

      The only thing that caused me pause was the repetition of the word drop/drops here (3 uses). Maybe you wanted that repitition? But it confused me a little, especially the first usage by which you mean release, right? I thought it was almost a descriptive sound "drop" there at the end... so I wonder:

      Sure enough, the sky begins to roll,
      rumbling thunder echoes,
      dark clouds move across releasing
      a shower, a soft sprinkling.
      Steam rises from the pool,
      the gutters clank with the overflow of water,
      the green of the leaves deepen,
      drops cool my sunburned face.
      Two little kids twirl around
      trying to catch the rain on their tongues,

      ??? I don't know. Food for thought. This book and your writing are just beautiful. Keep going!

      gae


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    2. Thanks everyone for such positive feedback.
      Gae, funny that you mention the repetition. In my writing group, we often find each other using the same word over and over. Thanks for finding it here, and the fix is just right. While I enjoy hearing positive feedback, I really like to have that fine-tuned feedback, too. Thanks.

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  7. Amy, The Time Fetch sounds like an intriguing story that I think my 11 year old son would love! I like what you have shared for The Cemetery Dog. Readers will want to keep reading to find out what is going on and, like Jay, will be impatient to find out where the dog comes into the story, especially given the title of the book!

    My goal is to practice writing to improve my instruction in the classroom, particularly with giving effective feedback to help my students improve their writing. The following is from Tuesday's Quick Write:

    Things weren't going well. Not well at all. Take this morning for example. First, there were no more frozen waffles, so Daniel had been forced to eat Cheerios. Dry. They were also out of milk. His mom had "just been too busy" to make it to the store to pick up groceries. Then, he discovered that his favorite shirt wasn't clean. Guess she was too busy to do laundry too. Sheesh, what did she do all day? To make matters worse, his little brother Henry was now screaming like a madman about who knows what, and they were going to be late to school. Again.

    "I'll be in the car," Daniel said, storming out the door and slamming it behind him. He yanked open the car door, threw himself and his backpack in, and slammed that door too. There was something very satisfying about slamming doors.

    "Man, this sucks!" he yelled to the empty car. He suspected the car didn't really care, which was to be expected. No one cared.

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    1. Amanda, note that Amy and my comments to your excerpt somehow got down there below Jane's... they are there!

      gae

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  8. Amy,
    I really like the piece you shared from The Cemetery Dog. I like the play on time (a long time ago which is actually last week), the set up of a story told to Jay where the reader is in the same position of wanting more, wanting to get to the dog, trying to piece it together as weather interrupts. The urgency and intrigue is definitely there.

    This is a section of my WIP. I've posted several other pieces, and I decided to include some dialogue today.

    Bracing against the ship's rocking, Miranda pushed open the heavy door. Anthony was sitting on a low stool in the corner, haggard and small. The sourly sweet stench of sickness filled the chamber. Sir Drake lay in the bed, his eyes closed. His dark skin had turned gray, and his breath came in rasping spasms.
    “He hid it from me for weeks.”
    Miranda jerked at Anthony’s voice.
    “I thought he was seasick. We all thought he was seasick.” He was pleading with her.
    Cold horror crept through her as she stared at Sir Drake’s shrunken form on the bed.
    “He isn’t seasick?”
    Anthony shook his head, his eyes filling. He pulled back the sheet just enough to show a grotesquely swollen upper arm. Sickened, she turned away, but not before she had seen the skin, shiny from stretching.
    “I don’t know how he got injured, he never tells me things, but it’s taken infection and I don’t know what to do. He didn’t even let me see it. Fought me off it until today.” Anthony’s voice was almost a whisper.
    Swallowing the bile that burned the back of her throat, Miranda walked closer. She could feel heat coming off him even before she touched her fingertips to his face. She noticed with a pang that his moustache was impeccably groomed.

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    1. Wow, Jane, what an upsetting, evocative section of writing. I think you've done a tremendous job and that last line nearly had me well up with tears. Wowwy, wow, wow. Keep going!

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    2. Jane, What sure-footed writing! It instantly feels like I am in the middle of an already well-developed story. The movement is very clean and clear. We know exactly where we are with just the right amount of description. And we're interested in where we are and where we are going. (An earlier or fantasy time; an important sea journey;an intriguing relationship between the three characters.) The dialogue is great, too. Very succinct and seems to fit an earlier historical moment. And Gae is right about that last line. What a perfect sockeroo. Although I found it more chilling than sad, as if it underlines the apparent hopelessness of Sir Drakes situation. Don't stop, whatever you do. But clearly you won't. This work is well past lift-off.

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    3. Thank you so much. This week has been hard, trying to fit pieces together and filling in holes. You've given me the boost I need to grind it out!

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    4. keep grinding, Jane! Keep grinding. :)

      (er.)

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  9. Amanda, Thanks for your kind words. I hope The Time Fetch will be just right for eleven year olds and beyond.

    One of the things I really like best about your piece is the way it moves forward. It has this unbogged-down pace which perfectly reflects Daniel's exasperation. That is such an important, but subtle thing, that the rhythm and length of sentences can really work for or against the atmosphere your're trying create. Maybe something worth exploring in a writing classroom? Here, you use no excess detail. Just the right amount. Short, sweet, well-chosen. The lack of frozen waffles just made me laugh out loud. This is so exactly the item kids get mad about and moms forget. The not-clean favorite shirt. Huh! The screaming younger brother (possibly you might want to tell what he's screaming about in two words or less? Missing Transformer toy? I'm not sure I'm right about this, but you've got such an excellent sense of humor.) Then without any further ado or transitional slow-down you've got your character in the car. It would have been so tempting to slip into more description there, but you didn't fall into the trap. I know I would have. I always get lost in digressions. But this is just right. And then that super last paragraph. Really sharp little switch to one perfect line of spoken exclamation. Just what is needed.
    One of the other things I so love here is, as I mentioned, your sense of humor. For me, the story is working on two rich levels. You are accurately inhabiting the mind of this young dude (how old? ten? eleven?) while you are also slyly commenting on his inexperience: "Sheeesh, what did she do all day?" "forced to eat Cheerios." It gives it a richness that a youngster and an oldster will surely appreciate.
    You are also opening up doors to a lot of possible avenues. Is there something more serious going on this guy's life? Is he feeling generally uncared about? Is there possibly something more serious going on in his mom's life? Lot's of possibilities. I hope you go on working with it. It's really engaging.

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    1. Wow, thank you so much for the feedback, Amy! I hesitated to share but now I'm glad I did. :)

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  10. Amanda, agree with all Amy has said. What more can I add? Keep going!

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  11. Hello- I am an elementary gifted teacher that writes horror and dark fantasy. My students unfortunately don't see what I write, but when I teach writing, I talk about a YA novel that I want to do in the future. Here is a scene from my new dark fantasy project "Aristid"

    The summons set crumpled on Mayor Blanchfield’s desk as he paced frantically in the office. He wiped the sweat from his brow even though the cold night air made him shiver. A White Citadel knight delivered the dreadful news, the Magistrate wanted a private meeting, now. The Magistrate, the boogeyman of Alfodr’s region and grand interrogator of evil was here in Elta. The knights walked him down to his office and waited outside.
    The oil lamp burned low, etching deep shadows in the wall that moved in rhythm to his pacing. Mayor Blanchfield adjusted the flame and waited. He wanted as much light as possible when it entered his office.
    “Hello?” Blanchfield whispered to the darkness thinking it had arrived. He attempted to summon courage, thought of his children, and whispered a quick prayer in their names as a slight breeze pushed the farm reports on his desk. The flames undulation forced the shadows to dance in the room.
    Horses stopped outside and unseen voices commanded the hungry that paced the streets away. The office’s temperature plummeted and the mayor’s chest tightened. Two armed knights entered his office, all with spears at the ready. They shut the door and locked it.
    Shadows poured from the wall. Their inky blackness spread over the room as if searching, then swarmed into long velvet robes. From the top of the mass, a tight, nearly skeletal face emerged. A hand arose from the robes, and placed a wide-brimmed hat on its head that framed its intense dark eyes.
    “Magistrate,” the mayor croaked.
    Mayor Blanchfield felt the Magistrate’s mental intrusion. He even understood its words before there were spoke.
    “You have received aid from a witch,” the voice scraped inside Mayor Blanchfield’s skull.
    The mayor steadied himself against the desk, the presence of the Magistrate pulled the life from him. He tried to speak but couldn’t.

    My horror novel "Hell to Pay" is available from Hellfire Publishing. http://tinyurl.com/4yzb32k if you would be interested in reviewing or would like to read some horror, contact me.

    Check out my writing blog: http://fatherthunder.blogspot.com/

    and my elementary blog about my life as a storm chaser: www.ruminationofthunder.com

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    1. Hey, Brian,
      I hope you notice that my reply to you somehow got pushed down below my reply to Mary. The mechanics of this thing are a bit mysterious to me.
      Amy

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  12. OMG! How fortunate to find myself in the company of such writers! Kudos to you all.

    Gae-

    I love the excerpt you posted. It sucked me right into the bedroom and now I want to read more.
    The paragraph below troubled me a tiny bit.
    "Well, a long time ago there were four friends and they lived near here and, before this story begins, something impossible had happened to them.” Here, a gust of wind spattered the rain angrily against the window. Danton unfolded himself from the bed and went over looked out into the darkness.

    Here's my flash edit for your consideration:
    A gust of wind spattered rain against the window. Danton unfolded himself from the bed and moved toward the darkness.

    Here is a bit from my WIP- an essay for a This I Believe project.

    She was in charge. It was the first day of school and she was determined to run the classroom. It was her domain and if she was not in charge, chaos would reign. This is an ambitious task for anyone, but especially for an eight year old. I was the teacher, and she was my student.

    She was loud and rude. She bullied those she perceived were her betters. She challenged everything and everyone. Her spoken vocabulary was strong and tended toward the profane. Her challenges were constant. Her classmates feared her. She was unpredictable and volatile. She was also afraid.

    I don’t know all of her fears, but I suspect a few. Fear of moving again. Fear of others discovering her struggles with academics. Fear of attachment. Fear of sharing her caring side. I imagine there were more.

    Despite the frequent outbursts and foul language, I respected her skill in manipulation and leadership. She was bright and capable, two characteristics I pointed out to her several times a day. As November approached, the outbursts began to diminish and she began to make progress.

    Then the news came. She was moving. She was going to live with her father. The trust we had established was replaced by the fears swirling and a need to push us away. Rejecting us was less painful than saying good-bye. Even with the return of ugliness, the edge was softer and sadder.

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    1. Mary, thanks for your helpful flash edit. Seems like a number of folk got stuck on that paragraph so I'll use your suggestion.

      What I am struck most by in your essay is the generosity of your portrait of this child.In clear, frank and sympathetic language you sketch a picture of her behavior, her background and her fears. In the process of telling us about her,we also come to see your strength and generosity. You draw us in with these things and make us want to know more about the drama that unfolds.
      That drama is introduced in the very first paragraph, so let me make a specific suggestion there. How this paragraph works depends a lot on whether it is the first paragraph in the essay or one that comes after you have introduced the child. If it is first, you are trying out a very interesting device. We begin by thinking that you are talking about the teacher and end by realizing that the teacher/student relationship has been turned on its head. I found that the final sentence didn't quite do the clarification job that was needed to make this work for me. (This could be me. I can be rather dense. I'd like to hear what others think.) I'd suggest you fill out that sentence a little more. Maybe something like: "I couldn't let this be, of course, because I was the teacher and she was the student."
      Now, as I've said, the other thing this paragraph does, is suggest the struggle that is going to unfold between the student and the teacher. You have made the reversal of the roles a dramatic moment and it would be lovely to see some actual details of their interaction. In what you have presented here, we get a general summing up of the year, but not specific events or dialogue. I think just a smattering of those would add great strength to the essay. Possibly you are already intending to go in that direction?
      My favorite paragraph is the one that begins "She was loud and rude." It is funny and forgiving paragraph, with a lot of punch. I love that sentence about her language "tending toward the profane"!
      I hope there's more to come.

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    2. Mary, I'm just going to step back and defer to Amy's excellent advice (and agree with all her praise). A very evocative, moving piece. Keep going.

      p.s. hopefully you realize that the excerpt posted is from Amy's next book, and not mine. I see she likes your flash edit! Isn't it fun around here? ;)

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    3. Thanks so much for your comments! I will give them careful consideration. I need to think about what events might add to this. I might have to bleep out parts of her comments...thank you for the food for thought.
      So sorry about the author confusion. Glad you liked the flash edit, Amy! I thought the allusion to the darkness might play into the suspense you were building.

      Thanks for hosting, Gae. Your comments are always welcomed and appreciated.

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  13. Hi, Brian,
    This is a change of pace! Yummmy dark fantasy. You've created a compellingly frightening and creepy scene here. Part of this comes from the "special effects"-specifically,the unpleasant way that the Magistrate enters the room--but even more from the way in which you elicit sympathy from us for the mayor. Seeing things through his eyes and understanding his fear, without giving us complete information about what he is fearing is very effective. I'm not a dark horror writing person, but I'm always very interested in how suspense is created. Incomplete info with something nasty clearly hanging in the balance is a good tool, no? Bringing children into the picture, as you do when the mayor prays to/for them, helps to up the ante, too. Of course, the best stuff doesn't rely too heavily on the old effects and images. So you must make sure to surprise us, right? (I like that the knights locked the door BEFORE the entry of the magistrate.)
    I would suggest, editing-wise, that the first paragraph is a bit confusing in terms of who is where, and who is being moved where. You start by saying the mayor is in his office, but then the last sentence in the paragraph says the knights walked "him" to his office. I thought at first "him" must be the magistrate, but that is apparently not the case. And when and to where did the White Citadel Knight deliver the summons? Perhaps some tense cleaning would clear up some of this confusion. Gae--you're really good with tenses and unclear pronouns. Do you have a suggestion?
    Anyway--onwards! Great,chilly work!

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    1. Amy, I had the same confusion you did (and enjoyed the piece for the reasons you state as well). I think it's the Magistrate's office the Mayor moves to from his, but I'm not sure. So, I'm going to let Brian sort through the crit and clarify. Otherwise, the piece is strong and compelling. Keep going, Brian!

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  14. Goodness. So much is hooking me today! Everyone has such great work to share. Amy, I got my ARC of Time Fetch at ALA Midwinter, and it has been sitting there taunting me in the HUGE pile of books I want to read. Now it moves closer to the top (sorry - I have reviews actually due on a deadline or I'd toss it all to read this). I can think of several students who will want to dive into this one. I think you've really captured what you suggested you wanted to do - the inside story solidly hints of something outside that story and makes us wonder... your words dance and I want to follow!
    As for me, I am going to put this one out there with a huge gulp. Gae knows my WIP, and my MC Kate and I have visited here before. But what I'm sharing is the first draft of a scene revision, written TODAY!! Kate is on a shopping trip with her housemates. Originally, there was an "almost" accident between a truck and a horse and wagon. Lisa Graff (I got her first 30 pages critique from the Hurricane Sandy benefit - lucky!!) suggested that really, something bad SHOULD happen. Everyone had been so agreeable and everything so tidily tied up so far, nearly 20 pages into this middle grade historical fiction. I've made a couple of nice people mean, and now, I've involved an animal in an accident...
    So... here goes. Yikes.

    The truck did not slow. The driver was looking to his left, ignoring the oncoming wagon on his right, too close to stop. There was a terrified whinny, then a horrid crunch as the wagon shafts shattered against the side of the truck. Everything halted for just a moment; time hung suspended. Leaping from his truck, the man ran for the wagon to aid the wagoneer.

    Without stopping to think, Kate headed for the horse. She was terrified for him, hoping against hope that he’d not been badly injured by the collision. He was screaming in terror now, struggling to get free of the traces which held him captive between the truck and the wagon. She stepped forward to reach for his head, which was flailing dangerously from side to side. She looked briefly for help; no one else was near. All focus was on the man in the wagon, who seemed to be hurt, maybe badly. Kate calmed herself and stretched her arm through the wreckage, reaching again for the reins. She finally caught hold of them and was nearly jerked off her feet by the power of the horse, but she remained calm, determined to help get him free.

    She murmured and coaxed, finally getting through to him as she reached the bridle and held on, rubbing his neck, stroking and talking, all the while looking about her to see how he could be freed from the wreckage. Sam was suddenly at her side, carefully pulling a broken shaft aside and releasing the hasp to free the traces. It was slow going, but the reins were finally untangled from the mess, and she held them while Sam examined the struggling animal for injuries.

    “He seems unhurt,” he said at last. “Don’t know how that’s possible. All that broken up wood and the truck and all. Let’s get him away from this mess, if he can stand.”

    Kate stepped even closer now, giving a stream of quiet instructions to the horse, easing him up, watching carefully for signs of broken bones or other injury as he struggled to his feet. He jerked his head and tried to bolt as they stepped carefully over shattered wagon parts, but Kate kept a firm grip, moving him carefully away from the mess to a quiet place where he could stand out of the road. Sam offered to take him but she shook her head, knowing that she could gentle him now.

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    1. Wow, Valerie, this is great. My pulse quickened as I read it. The detail is rich, and your pacing is just right. My only question (and this probably happens in a later paragraph) is what happens to the maybe badly hurt man? Kate is a great character, and I want to learn more about her. Thanks for sharing this.

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    2. Jane, thanks for your kind words about Kate, and the writing! The badly hurt man, as I have just found out in wrapping up the scene, has at least two broken bones, maybe three, and has been carted off in a drover's wagon to be cared for at the doctor. The storekeeper Kate made purchases from just before the accident has agreed to take over care of the horse (the driver is a friend of his). It's harder to wrap all this up than I ever could have believed!! Is that why I was afraid to have something serious happen? They can't just pop into the dry goods shop now...there's stuff to react to, and to think about.

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    3. Kate is a great character... i've been watching her grow for two summers. This is terrific. Keep going!

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  15. Oh, Valerie, I held my breath from start to finish. It's language, detail, and pacing are superb. I admit, I'm a terrible sucker for crises involving animals, but if you were looking to create a little excitement in your story, this is it. Plus, Kate has completely won me over. She's kind, she loves horses and she's brave. I'll follow along to the very last chapter.
    Also-kudos to you for turning nice people mean!
    It's so hard to give up niceness, isn't it? I find it almost impossible. But it's tough to think of a good tale that doesn't have its meanies. You are a brave one too! Hope I get to see more of you and Kate.

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    1. And thanks, Valerie, for your nice words about my excerpt. Every bit of encouragement helps!
      Amy

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    2. Amy, here's something else I wanted to tell you about your writing: in your introductory remarks, you said you begin with the intent to keep on going, and not stop. The idea of this particular scene had been rolling around in my head for weeks. But I couldn't sit down and write it and not stop until I read your words today, and then when I did, bingo! So thank you, thank you! Your comments are so encouraging. Pacing is something I am learning but it's been tough for me. And Kate is becoming more dear to me every time I write to her true Self. I'm glad she is beginning to shine through for others. As for animals, my students told me in no uncertain terms that I could not kill any in this book! I couldn't have done it anyway, but they were very convincing. And yes it IS hard to give up nice. But a very good idea anyway. Thanks a bunch too for saying I'm brave...

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    3. This second note made me so happy. Glad Amy said something that sparked you to confident action. I LOVE when that happens! :)

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    4. And me too! Proud to have some part of this great piece of writing.
      Amy

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  16. Amy-- loved your text and the way you drew me in--a dog story will do it every time :) On first read I thought the vocabulary was slightly stilted in places, but after reading it again, I think it's fine. I thought the younger brother was perhaps in 1st grade, not 3rd, but I'm sure that will be clarified through dialogue in later chapters. I think a YA reader will clearly understand that the narrator is alluding to things that, though implausible, actually happened. Can't wait to read more :)

    OK...here it goes. I went to school for writing but laid it aside for 25 years. When I was going to bed in June I had a thought, and for the first time, I actually got up and wrote it down. The floodgates opened and a verse "memoir" began. The working title is "Special--The Unexpected Journey I Didn't Want to Take". the excerpt is from Part I where the participants are introduced.

    William

    Today he draws roads.
    Lots of roads.
    Straight lines with sharp corners and dotted lines to divide lanes of traffic.
    Intersections of up and down, side to side roads cause laughter as imaginary cars collide. More lines.
    More lanes, until every space is full.
    More imaginary traffic zooming from place to place and getting nowhere.
    Just like this shy little boy.
    Thoughts intersect on random pathways and crash together in jumbled sounds.
    Letters and words jump lanes with numerals and objects,
    switching direction without warning, leaving him silent.
    Looking for another piece of paper.

    He picks up a pencil and begins to draw roads.

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  17. ok...formatting didn't transfer, but I would appreciate any feedback. Be gentle :)

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  18. Valerie...I was holding my breath! Great, tight writing that drew me in and kept me there. keep it up!

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    1. Beth, thanks for that comment - I am beginning to believe that I can make my readers care, and want to keep reading. That has been my toughest task in writing fiction. And thanks for sharing your piece! This struck me, just grabbed me. "More lines.
      More lanes, until every space is full." I picture the filling in of the spaces.

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  19. Beth, glad you got drawn in by my excerpt. I do get a little peculiar in my vocabulary choices sometimes. I will take heed and listen carefully.

    And speaking of which:
    Your introduction to William is a lovely invitation to listen and visualize. I needed to read through a few times to see William's picture in my mind and then to begin to understand what it was the "speaker" felt for him. But good poetry is like that, it always bears and needs rereading. I'm not very confident discussing the stuff, being a prose maker, but I think the way you make the connection between what he's drawing and the struggles he is experiencing internally, is very tenderly done. And the way the ending comes full circle is very powerful.
    I wish you much luck and joy with this return to writing. Glad the door has reopened for you.

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  20. Beth, I just loved, loved, loved this piece. It just struck a chord with me... this boy drawing roads and lines, the traffic in his head...it made me want to weep. It's lovely. Keep going.

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  21. Thank you so much for the feedback! I feel so incredibly blessed and privileged to have found Teachers Write. Thank you for taking your time and sharing of yourselves. And thanks to all who posted--you've inspired me to press on, and can't wait to read, read, read all that you've written!

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