Friday Feedback, Frankie Sky

So, I decided to toss a brief Friday Feedback together because I'm suddenly really needing some feedback.

Frankie Sky is one of two YA manuscripts I've been working on during the past 18 months, and I've just started a big revision and am wondering about the opening hook. I've been spinning my wheels a bit on the very opening and would love your honest feedback.

Are you interested? Is there a hook? What do you like? What do you not like?

And, if you want to post an excerpt for the same feedback, please do!

Chapter One

The first time I see Frankie Schyler, he's diving into the Lawrenceville Country Club pool, which is only the first of many coincidences that will make me question everything I know about life, death, and the nature of our existence during the short eight weeks of summer.

It’s not so much coincidence as stupidity that Frankie marches to the edge of the coping, arms raised above his mop of blond curls, and purposefully plunges himself headfirst into the water, but rather the coincidence is that I am here, too, staring at the very same water, wondering if I might walk over and slip myself in, then sink to the bottom and disappear.

Or, maybe that’s not a coincidence either, since I’ve spent much of the past four years thinking about ways to disappear.

For example, there was the Year of Non-Breathing the year I turned twelve, which was one year after I let my brother Simon die. I’d read a story about a Buddhist monk who had meditated himself right into his own death. The article described how, knowing his body’s physical demise was near, he sat by a tree and made his breath so slow and barely, until he simply ceased to exist. I wanted that, too. I wanted to cease to exist.

For months I practiced endlessly. Every day after school, I would sit in front of the beautiful, old oak tree in our backyard, close my eyes, and make my inhales and exhales slower and more shallow until I couldn’t feel my chest move or the air go in or out. But when I’d finally open my eyes, I’d still be there alive, our house in front of me, everything intact, except Simon.


- gae

OyMG, it's Friday AGAIN?!?!

Hey, Peepos,

It's that time again, Friday Feedback time, but I'm not here because I'm here:

At the NYC Teen Author Festival (NO, not as a speaker (boo) just as a fan (yay!)). AM excited though because I get to meet some writer peeps I've known virtually for some time, but have never met in person, like fellow CLASS OF 2K11'er Alissa Grosso, author of Popular. Yay!). Anyway, I'm not here in person, but I'm here in spirit, or, um, shoe:

 

WHY in shoe, you ask? (yes you did, I heard you think it all the way from here. Also, you thought, those are some kickass Frye riding boots you have there, and they match those beach rocks nicely. Why, yes, thank you, they are and they do).

Anyway. Why in shoe? Because my super awesome guest Feedbacker today is a bit of a shoe girl herself.

Here, I'll show you. This is her:

                                                                      

 And, this is her:

And this is her:

Yep. She likes her feet shots.

But, don't be fooled, the rest of her is gorgeous and adorable too:

Amy Fellner Dominy of the Beautiful Hair*
*yes, that is her real name.

See? I kid you notsies. Yeah, I wrote notsies, what of it ? (you try writing four gazillion blog posts in a few weeks...)

Anyway, THAT, is Amy Fellner Dominy, one of my fellow Class of 2K11'ers and all around greatest persons in the world. And she's here for Friday Feedback today. But before we put her in the hotseat (*shoves more newspaper and kindling under to keep it toasty warm*), let me quick tell you about Amy's debut YA novel: OyMG, due out the same day as mine, May 10!

That is Ellie. I adore her.

Ellie Taylor loves nothing better than a good argument. So when she gets accepted to the Christian Society Speech and Performing Arts summer camp, she's sure that if she wins the final tournament, it'll be her ticket to a scholarship to the best speech school in the country. Unfortunately, the competition at CSSPA is hot-literally. His name is Devon and, whether she likes it or not, being near him makes her sizzle. Luckily she's confident enough to take on the challenge-until she begins to suspect that the private scholarship's benefactor has negative feelings toward Jews. Will hiding her true identity and heritage be worth a shot at her dream?


FYI, this is one of the few Class of 2K11 books I've already read and let me just tell you it a beautiful little gem. You should order it.

But enough gushing about Amy, let's put her in the hot seat.

Below is the opening to her NEXT book (yep, deal is made!) Audition and Subtraction due out September 2012, but she's got more revisions to do. She's been working on a new opening and really wants your feedback on what works and what doesn't. In fact, those are the rules today: tell her what works and what doesn't. Period. Then, if you want the same feedback, post your own little excerpt (and tell us what it is!) at the end of your comment or in a new one. Not more than three paragraphs, remember! Also, FYI, I won't be around today and neither will Amy, so the feedback will trickle in Saturday or Sunday. But I promise we won't forget you.

Chapter 1

Death by Bikini.

When I died of embarrassment today that was going on my tombstone.

“Tatum?” Mom called from the bottom of the stairs. “You up?”

“Yeah,” I called back. I was up. I’d even made it as far as my swimsuit drawer. Now, I just wanted to crawl back in bed. I rubbed a hand over my face and felt a frown line between my eyes. Was I face-scrunching in my sleep? Great. One more thing to worry about—wrinkles at the age of fourteen.

I held up the red flowered bikini top, so faded it was practically see-through in the center of one triangle. No way I could wear this to the band car wash. Not without getting arrested for indecent exposure.

“You better get moving,” Mom called again. “Lori will be here in twenty minutes.”

I groaned and dug deeper into the drawer. Normally, the car wash would be a good thing—even if it did mean getting up early on a Saturday. But not only was I bathing-suit-impaired, he was going to be there. Michael Malone. None of us had met him yet, but I already hated him.
---

- gae

Friday Feedback

How is it Friday again? Well it is, which means it is time for --dumdedadum! -- Friday Feedback.

:)

You know the RULES, right?

Ok, fine, just in case, here they are again. There are only 3:


(If you want more details, read this blog post here: http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/12/friday-feedback.html otherwise, just follow along.

I would like the following feedback (and will offer the same to you if you post an excerpt for me to read in the comments):

#Uno (that's 1 in Spanish): If it is the first few paragraphs of a novel – today it is NOT, so skip to dos (Spanish again, for 2) -- tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?

#2 (well, I already gave away the Spanish): What works for you, draws you into the piece and why? (this is called the flattery part ;))

and,

#Trois (yep, switched to French. It's late and I'm punchy): What doesn’t work for you and why? (ouch, this is called the constructive, sting-y part).

When you are done giving feedback, if you want some of the same multi-lingual feedback from me (or my readers!?) please post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tell me what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem, etc...). Please post no more than 3 -5 paragraphs, 5 if they're short, 3 if they are long. If there's more, I will only read the first 3 -5. If the comment gets too long, feel free to reply in two separate comments. If you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such. If not, let me know how you found me.

Today, I am posting another piece from my young adult work in progress In Sight of Stars narrated by a 17-yr old boy who has a nervous breakdown after the recent death of his father. This piece is from p. 97 of about 155. Still very rough. But it's okay, have at it.
---

     On Thursday, we arrange for my mother to come in. Dr. Alvarez thinks I need to confront her, tell her what I know and how I feel about it. All of it. Even if it means she sees how angry I am. Even if it means that I end up hating her. Or she ends up hating me. “You can’t keep walking around with it, Klee, keeping it all bottled inside.”

     I don’t feel great. Sick to my stomach. My jaw is clenched and my head hurts. I’m glad Dr. A. will be there.

     When I reach her office, Dr. A. is already in there, sitting with the Van Gogh book open on her lap. She turns and looks up at me, then taps the page with her finger. Beneath it, a cheerful, lavender sky swirls above a golden field. Dark green fir trees reach to the sky.

     “Wheat Field with Cypresses,” I say, sitting, “1889.”

     “I love this one,” she says, placing it down on the table between us. “It’s very airy and hopeful. You can smell the trees and feel the wheat blowing.” I study it with her. “The thing I didn’t realize,” she continues, “is how many different styles he had. You think of Van Gogh and you think of his sunflowers or Starry Night, and even those two are quite different. But, now I see that some of his paintings had a strong Japanese influence, magnificent cherry blossoms and peach trees, and incredible color. Yet others are dark and brooding, like his illustrations, or the Potato Eaters, which I’d never heard of but is obviously very famous.”

     I nod.

     “What fascinates me is how we presume to know so much when we so often know so little. I’m glad you made me look at his work. It seems very worth knowing.”

     “My Dad loved him,” I say. “As long as I can remember, he would always talk to me about Van Gogh. And not just Van Gogh, all the masters. But especially Van Gogh.”

     “Well, I’m glad he did. And I’m glad you held onto it. And that you’ve passed it on to me.” She slides the book off to the side a little but leaves it open to that page. I’m grateful for that. I understand that she leaves it there intentionally.

     There’s a knock on the door. My mother. Her eyes go to me. “People have all different sides,” she reminds me.

***

Friday Feedback #2

Okay, you know the RULES.

Okay, well at least three of you do. But just in case, here they are again.
There's only three.
If you want more details, read this blog post here. http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/12/friday-feedback.html, or click on "the Rules" above, otherwise, just follow along.

I would like the following feedback (and will offer the same to you if you post an excerpt for me to read in the comments):

• If it is the first few paragraphs of a novel – as it is (again) today – tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?

• What else (if anything) works for you, and why?

• What doesn’t work for you (if something doesn't) and why?


If you would like the same feedback, please post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tell me what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem, etc...). Please post no more than 3 -5 paragraphs, 5 if they're short, 3 if they are long. If there's more, I will only read the first 3 -5 paragraphs. If the comment gets too long, feel free to reply in two separate comments. If you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such. If not, let me know how you found me.

Today, I am posting the opening paragraphs from another WIP (Work In Progress) of mine called In Sight of Stars. The audience is Upper YA (16+). Because it is an opening chapter, the main question is, does it hook you? And there is a curse in it, so if that offends you, stop reading now. :)

If you're here, thanks for participating. Can't wait to read your stuff.

Week One


1.


My dad and I are walking through Soho. The day is bright and brisk. As we talk, our breath puffs out in front of us like steam from the street vents. Sarah is there with me. The sky turns dusky gray; the Empire State building towers ahead in pink-red glory. Dad laughs at something, and Sarah takes my hand.


Except, no. That’s not right. We’re not in Soho.


And Dad’s not there.


No one is there.


I scratch my ear.


“Try not to do that,” she says.


What?


I look up. The woman is still there.


Middle aged. Dark, frizzy hair. A little overweight.


Dr. Andersen.


No, that’s not right either. Alvarez.


Shit.


Art, I say, I met Sarah in art class. Is that what you asked me? I seriously can’t get my thoughts to collect.


Dr. Alvarez nods and I stare at the print on her wall. It’s a Van Gogh. Daubigny’s Garden. 1890. I think that’s why I’m willing to talk at all. Because of that print on her wall. If it had been anything else – a Monet, a Renoir – forget it. But it’s a Van Gogh, so there’s hope then.


“Tell me more about that,” she says.


I pull at my ear again. I try not to, but it itches.


My eyes go back to the print. The frame is wrong, too modern, and matted. You don’t really matte a Van Gogh. His paintings are expansive. The color should go right to the frame. I close my eyes and breathe. My throat feels too choked to swallow.

***

-gae