A Big THANK YOU From Our Second First Chapter Author

Adding my own thanks to those below: Once again, your critiques were thoughtful and helpful. Lots of really detailed suggestions for Blodwyn, as well as your signature encouragement. Hot chocolate with whipped cream all around!

Her words to you:

Dear everyone,

Thank you so much for your uber-helpful, thoughtful, in-depth critiques of my 1st chapter (see, I can't stop using adjectives!). I feel like words cannot express my appreciation, but I am, after all, a writer (or trying to become one) and I must avoid defeatist thinking, so I hope that I am able to get across in these words my appreciation and gratitude for the time and effort you placed in helping me to make my story stronger and tighter.

I am wordy and effusive in real life, and you have definitely helped me to see where it is coming through too much in my writing. I LOVE the way that people took my overlong sentences, chopped a bit here and there, and sped up both the tempo and the message I was trying to get across. I also am going to do a rewrite where she sees the purple tent right away also, and then compare the two. I see the fake hook problem, and it makes me feel torn. Some SAs mentioned that they like to see some character building before the action. But I could probably find a way to marry both.

I'm very glad that Sam comes across like a 12 year old, with some glitches that I can fix. And I definitely need to clarify some things. Sandra, you're right, Sam does get possessed or taken over by some psychological magic in the tent, but I'm guessing that since many people thought it was just her stepping out of character that I need to bring something in that clarifies that. My vision for Sam is that she will be a complex heroine, very tempted by power as well as drawn toward goodness, and much of the series (for it is a series, oh my!) will deal with her struggle with self. So I was attempting to bring forth this pull toward domination, toward her end at any cost, but I can see that it needs more clarification. I also see that Sam needs to react to her name on the book, because, after all, with the exception of the doll that's probably the creepiest thing that happens to her in the tent.

Abby was able to sense Sam because, as it turns out, she has a pendant too - but I also need to clarify that. I laughed out loud here at work when I read the line about how stalker-ish the toy line seems. I will definitely fix that! I also chuckled about how they seem like the Keystone cops in the tent and will be editing out most of the falls. In terms of them not being talked to, it comes out later that the Liffeys are considered weird because of their father, who is also very distant toward them, which motivates them to go meet the Baba Yaga since that's where their mother is. Good calls on the cliched lines, and the places where they can be cut.

I also want to express appreciation to you all for pointing out what you liked about the story mixed in with what you think could be improved. It's good to know what works and what doesn't. I am grateful for both your positive comments and your constructive comments.

This has been extremely helpful and encouraging. With writing I feel like the ultimate goal is reachable. The only thing that would get in the way would be not wanting to spend the time to fix something, to work with the imagination to create something stronger than the previous until it is as good as possible. And I definitely want to spend the time to work with all of your suggestions. Writing is slow - and I think that once we accept that, we can accomplish what we want to accomplish. When I'm ready to agent this, it will be much better for the slowness.

Authoress, thank you again for this opportunity, and for your critique. I love the edits you made. The story reads so much smoother. I do indeed want my readers to breathlessly move to the next chapter. As of now, I'm giving them too much time to breathe!

I am humbled, and I appreciate it. Thank you. I look forward to reading more 1st chapters. I have learned so much from this blog, not only from my own feedback but from reading the feedback given to others and giving my own.

Best,
Blodwyn

Our Second First Chapter

Kinda weird title. Our second first...?

Anyway, Blodwyn's chapter will be up all week, waiting for your thoughtful critiques. Questions? Post them here, to keep the other comment box filled with critiques only.

Thanks for your bravery, Blodwyn!

First Chapter Critique #2

TITLE: Book of the Baba Yaga
GENRE: Middle reader fantasy/adventure
AUTHOR: Blodwyn



Samantha Liffey jumped back, barely avoiding the gaggle of elves, goblins, witches and sprites that tumbled out of the alehouse and into the crisp autumn evening.

“Toadspawn!” cursed a petite, rather plump witch. She steadied her tall, black pointed hat and aimed her wand at Sam. “Look out, young sorceress, lest danger befall you!”

Sam rolled her eyes and pushed past the witch. Oh, how she loathed the Salem Halloween Festival. Grown people dressed as warlocks, wizards, fairies…come on. Next year, her older sister was just going to have to find someone else to drag with her.

And of course Abby had vanished just after they’d gotten through the gates. She’d probably gone off to the fortune-teller’s hut to hear her love forecast, or to the apothecary for some beauty-enhancing potion. Lately her sister’s mind ran on one track: boys. Not that she ever had a date, though. No one talked to the Liffey girls if they could avoid it.

Sam jammed her hands into the pockets of her jacket and shook her coppery, corkscrew hair out of her eyes. Enough of that. And make the best of it. That’s what Mom would have said. Sam pulled a golden necklace hung with a ruby spider charm out from under her sweater - the last gift Mom had ever given her. It was kinda goth. Maybe it would help her get into the spirit.

“Hi there, little girl, want to look at some toys?” A teenager with purple-streaked black hair waved a doll at her. Sam shook her head and walked on. Little girl? Give me a break. I’m twelve years old. I don’t play with dolls. She stopped at a stall selling witchy clothes and pulled a white, lacy gown off the rack. Now, this was more like it. She twirled, the dress fanning out in front of her.

“How lovely,” said an old woman with a toothless grin. “That color really brings out your dark eyes. Get some cream for those freckles, dearie, and you could look almost pretty!”

Almost pretty? Sam gave the old woman the meanest glare she could muster and stuffed the dress back on the rack. She ducked around the stand as the buzz of voices swirled around her.

Turning the corner, she spotted a bright purple tent at the very back of the festival. Shimmering in the fading sunlight, it stood in sharp contrast to the busy, open stalls surrounding it.

Sam frowned, squinting. It looked abandoned. No one was going in or out. Interesting. Maybe it was some relic of last year's festival. She headed down the row, moving this way and that to avoid the jostling, talkative, mirthful crowd. Her feet kicked up clouds of dust and the scents of kettle corn and mulled mead washed over her in waves.

As she neared the tent, an abrupt stillness fell, just as if someone had hit “mute” on a TV remote. No one laughed, talked, shouted or cried, and no one walked near the tent. In fact, no one even looked at it. It was like the tent wasn’t even really there.

Sam stood in front of the entrance and studied it. Should she go in?

Suddenly, the ground seemed to jerk under her feet, and she stumbled forward, catching herself on the tent flap. An earthquake? In Massachusetts? The pendant around her neck felt warm. Looking down, she saw that it glowed scarlet.

Get out of here. The words came to Sam's mind as clearly as if someone had spoken. Her legs felt like rubber, but she forced them to move back toward the pathway. Turning, she tried to run, but the tent materialized like magic in front of her. Her head began to pound. She moved to the left and then to the right, but the tent moved with her. She twisted this way and that, but everywhere she turned, the tent blocked her path.

"Help! Someone help me!" she yelled around her heart, which seemed to have moved up through her neck and lodged into her throat. She waved her arms, but everyone just kept on walking by. Had she become invisible? "Help! I need help!" she shrieked.

The pendant on her neck grew warmer until it felt hot enough to be on fire, but it didn’t burn her skin. She felt it tug gently against her throat, pulling toward the tent’s entrance.

“Help!” Sam shouted again, twisting inside the chain as the necklace began to pull harder.

“Sam!” Abby called in the distance.

“Abby!” Sam screamed, her voice strangled by the necklace. “Hurry!” She saw her sister dart toward her through the crowd, her long, dark blonde hair streaming behind her. She reached Sam in large strides that were more like leaps. Grabbing Sam around the shoulders, she tried to pull her away from the tent.

“Help!” Sam and Abby screamed together, but the crowd didn’t take any notice of them. The necklace pulled harder and harder at Sam’s neck until the force broke Abby’s grip. Sam fell through the tent flap and into the darkness inside. The pendant dropped back against her chest with a small thud.

“Ouch!” Sam slammed into a table. A candle flickered to life, casting eerie shadows against the walls of the tent. The air felt cold and damp, like the inside of a cave.

“S-Sam?” Abby asked from outside. “A-are you okay?”

“I think so,” said Sam, rubbing her hip. Turning toward the entrance, she yanked at the tent flap but it didn’t budge. “It won’t open, Abby!” What was going on? She heard her sister shouting for help outside.

Sam pounded on the tent flap. “Get me out of here!”

“Sam - no one's answering me, and I can't seem to move away from this tent. It's like I hit a solid wall of air. I’m going to try to pull you out,” said Abby, her voice sounding breathless. “Take my hand, okay?” She reached in through the doorway and Sam grabbed her hand.

Instantly, the pendant came to life, tugging at Sam’s neck until she fell backward, wrenching Abby through the entrance and into the tent. Sam hit the table again and Abby landed on top of her. Pain shot up Sam’s back and the pendant fell, lifeless, against her chest.

“Oh, no,” Abby whispered, standing up and pulling Sam after her.

Sam squinted into the dim light. Now what?

“Hello?” she asked. No answer. She swallowed hard against the dryness of her throat. What was this place?

Abby squeezed her hand as the two girls looked around. Sam’s eyes found a glimmering crystal skull sitting on the table. She bent closer. Inside each of its deep eye sockets sat a brilliant red ruby. Pulling her hand from Abby’s, Sam tapped the skull between its eyes. It felt smooth and cold.

Her breathing slowed. This didn’t seem so scary. In fact it seemed…homelike, familiar. She shook her head from side to side. It felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls. She hummed a little under her breath, feeling her shoulders relax. Nothing in this tent could hurt her. She was too powerful, too cunning, too brave…

“I think you’d better leave that alone,” said Abby. Her voice sounded as though it came from far away. Sam looked up. Her sister had her hands clasped in front of her stomach.

Abby has always been a little bit chicken, Sam thought as she ran her finger down the skull’s cheekbone. She’s always liked her magic best faked. But I like my magic to be real.

“I said, stop touching that,” hissed Abby.

Sam pulled her hand away from the skull. No need to make Abby pitch a fit and spoil the mood. She picked up a small blue book that lay next to the skull. Silver spirals covered its surface, and they appeared to be moving. The book began to vibrate. Sam tilted the book toward the candlelight.

“Stop it!” Abby begged. “Don’t be stupid. You don’t know what any of it is!”

Oh, bother. Abby had no spine.

Sam did, though. She opened the book.

"I just want to take a quick look," she said. A brilliant white glow emanated from the pages, causing the shadows on the wall to grow.

Sam’s mouth fell open as words began to form in golden letters on the first page. Book of the Baba Yaga, they read. She leaned closer - smaller letters were forming under the title. By Samantha Liffey.

"What does it say?" asked Abby, her voice sounding fearful. Sam looked up. Just then, a large, hairy red spider dropped from the ceiling onto Abby’s arm. She yelled and brushed it off as Sam dropped the book. The spider scuttled away in the darkness.

Sam heard a rushing sound, like that of a strong wave hitting the beach, and her mind cleared as though a fog had lifted. She pressed a hand to her forehead. What had come over her? Her heart, which had been beating a slow, steady rhythm, began to pick up its pace until it pounded in her ears.

“Let’s get out of this place, now!” Abby clutched Sam’s hand convulsively and pulled her toward the tent flap, but Sam’s foot caught the table leg; she fell and the table overturned. Abby leaped out of the way as the skull crashed to the floor and its eye sockets lit up, flooding the tent with light.

Pushing herself to her knees, Sam crammed her hand over her mouth to block the ferocious scream that threatened to fill the air. She had landed right on a yellowed doll with brown hair that fell to his waist. He had thin, black lines for eyes, a misshapen, crumbling nose and a flattened, crooked mouth. A leather shirt and pants decorated with beads and jewels covered his body. Sam almost stopped breathing as she studied the doll. She caught a faint moldy, musty smell like that of an attic. I know this doll, she thought. But how? With trembling hands she lifted him from the floor.

The doll’s eyes snapped open. He grinned at her.

“Hello, Samantha,” he said. “How good to see you. You’ve kept us waiting for a long, long time.”

A Big THANK YOU From Our First Chapter Author

To all of you, from our brave and grateful Ali Katz:

Oh, my goodness. This, gentle friends, is real critiquing.

Give me a moment.

"This is too hard! I'll never be any good at it! I'm a hack, a poseur, a pitiful wannabe! What have I done to myself? No one understands me. Snivel."

Ok, I'm done.

I appreciate every mot. Especially the style issues. I've never been satisfied with my voice.

And, the sexual tension, which I didn't believe I could do but apparently create without trying and where I don't want it. Errg.

FYI, for those interested, Daniel might be considered bi, though he prefers men and his experience with women is limited to a period when he was drinking and drugging while trying to get over Josh. A time when, in his own words, "he'd f*** anything that walked upright". He's currently in a committed, gay relationship. Hence, there will be no hanky panky with Melanie. His interest is professional, he's impressed with her performance, and the fact they were both in love with the same man. The theme is reconciliation.

Thank you all so much. I thoroughly recognize and appreciate the thought and effort each of you put into your comments on my behalf.

I'll start putting what was discussed here into effect once I recover.

BTW, I tentatively called it Love Story actually to differentiate it from genre romance. In my mind, the two are not synonymous . No man, gay, bi or straight, willing to risk an already committed relationship (Ramon) to pursue a new one would make the grade as a romance hero. Sorry for the confusion the title created.

Bravo! Bravo!

I'll keep repeating myself until someone slaps me: You are an AWESOME group of authors!

Kudos to Ali for her bravery (and humility -- because you all know how humbling it is to throw your work out there to the critical masses), and kudos to each one of you for taking the time to share thoughtful, kind, honest, helpful feedback.

If you haven't had a chance to critique Ali's chapter yet, feel free to do so.

And while we're in this state of fuzzy crit-bliss, here's some food for thought thrown out to me by Disorderly (who refuses to be the president of the Authoress Fan Club -- can you believe it?): What makes an effective crit group/partner?

Because, honestly, a weak crit group, or a crit group that's strong but doesn't collectively "get" your work, is worse than no crit group at all. (Kinda like the ever-true adage, "A bad agent is worse than no agent at all." And those of you who have read AGENT: DEMYSTIFIED know that that's true in my life.)

So...what makes a crit partner work for YOU? And why do you think we're having such phenomenal success here on MSFV?

Because it's not me. Sure, I've created this place, and I keep it running. But it's YOU who have created this wonderful atmosphere. YOU are what makes it "work" around here.

Share the secrets of your collective wonderfulness.

First Chapter Critique #1

Love Story (untitled), Chapter 1

by Ali Katz

Prologue

Pain in her ears woke her. Then, everything hurt, every joint and muscle. Her very skin burned. When she tried to move, the cold hit her.

Groggy, Melanie opened her eyes half-mast against a mid-afternoon light while waiting for her limbs to respond and the fog to lift from her brain. What was she doing lying in bed, stiff and hurting—alone—in the middle of the afternoon? Where was Josh?

"I'm here, Baby." Light as air, his voice carried on a breeze from the open window. A third story window. Impossible. A ringing in her ears grew louder; she must have misheard.

Pushing herself up, she scrabbled for the comforter only to grow more confused by what she wore. A dress? Melanie never wore dresses except to perform. She hadn't performed in months. The thin fabric bunched around her hips. The hose sagged. She gathered the bedclothes, buried herself in layers and began to shiver.

"Josh?" The word croaked from her aching throat.

"I'm here." Barely audible, directionless, but definitely his voice. The man himself was nowhere to be seen.

She swung her legs off the bed, and as she stood, a wave of dizziness struck. Catching herself with one hand against the footboard, she avoided falling then stumbled to the window.

A thick crust of ice coated the shelf of snow on the sill. When did it snow?

Disturbed, she pulled the sash closed, turned away and froze. A wild glance around the room revealed dirty glasses, plates of uneaten food, a mess she would never consciously allow and had no memory making. Had Josh done this?

Then she caught her reflection in the mirror over the vanity and stared in horror. How long had she been lying in bed? Puffy eyes stared back from a face she barely recognized, red, chaffed, the lips, dry and flaking. Stringy, unwashed hair hung limp on her shoulders. The dress, ugly, black, unfamiliar, wilted on her frame. And she stank; she needed a shower. The prickling of a thousand insects crawled over her skin, growing unbearable as the blankets warmed her.

Her tongue felt like sandpaper and tasted like desert. Shivers turned to quaking as she reached for one of the half-empty glasses. The blankets fell to the floor. Melanie followed. How did this happen? She couldn't remember. What day is this? A breath caught in her throat and stuck.

Something had happened, but every time she tried to focus, her brain fogged. A deep pain erupted in her chest.

"Josh!" she called, but her voice barely squeaked past her tightened throat. "Josh where are you?"

"I'm here, Baby."

His arms came around to embrace her from behind. Her eyes fell closed. "Have I been sick?" Of course, the aches, the shivers, she was feverish. She'd been sick.

"Try to remember."

Her mind snatched at fleeting thoughts, but they evaporated so quickly. "I don't remember anything. How long was I asleep? Your voice is strange. Why do you sound so far away?"

"I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere until you say. What's the last thing you remember?"

Wincing, she took a deep, cleansing breath and tried to summon a memory. "I waited dinner. You were late." When did that happen? How much time had she lost?

"Yes. I stopped to get you flowers."

Flowers. Her lungs locked; a low, pitiful sound emerged. "You knew I'd be angry. I was. I was mad." She moaned and floated back into his arms.

And through them to the floor. Shaken, she stared at the ceiling. She remembered the bell ringing in the middle of the night, walking down the stairs, grumbling and rehearsing what to say, thinking Josh had forgotten his keys again. Instead…

"Mrs. Taylor?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"I'm Officer Nadine Madden. There's been a terrible accident."

Chapter 1

Five years later

"Daniel, get down here." Russell was using the damn speakerphone again. The voice sounded hollow, barely intelligible. His annoyance, however, came through loud and clear. "Will you stop by the booth? Tell the cellist to get her cute little butt in here? Dollar signs are floating out the window."

"Right." Daniel set the receiver in its cradle. Not willing to try his manager's patience when it came to money matters, he smiled at the receptionist (mental note: Diane) and the teenage daughter (Emily) she'd brought in to meet him.

"Sorry, ladies, gotta go make some music." The girl tittered when his lips brushed her cheek, but her nervousness was gone. "Great meeting you, Em." He had a gift for putting fans at ease, in spite of himself.

Rule number one: Always leave 'em thinking you're a nice guy.

The door to the isolation booth didn't budge when he tugged. Locked. Naturally. A few steps farther, the next one, leading to the control room, opened. Music from an open mic escaped into the hall.

He let the heavy, soundproof door swing closed behind him. The deep voice of the cello swelled until it filled his head and started his chest vibrating with its power. A little surprised, he had to admit he didn't recognize the piece she played.

A quick glance through the glass and his finger stalled above the mic's switch. Pretty, he thought: long, straight black hair, creamy complexion, black jeans, black silk blouse—very Goth. Goth always drew his eye, especially the long-legged, tight-bodied kind, though he couldn't see the face beneath the hair until she raised her head.

Daniel recognized the woman immediately.

Well, hello again, Mel-an-ie. He moved his hand a few inches to hit record, wishing for video. This he wanted to keep. Everyone always said she was good, but this private solo sent chills through him. Alone in the studio, she played with the uninhibited passion of someone who thought herself unobserved, making love to her instrument.

He stepped back from the glass to watch from the shadows.

Fingers flying over the strings, her whole body thrown into the playing, she breathed as though trying to inhale the sound. Little moans of pleasure escaped her throat now and then, adding their own voice to the music. A dewy sheen covered the exposed flesh of her face, neck and chest.

Beautiful. So, this is what had stolen Josh's heart—all that seductive passion. Strange, he'd missed this aspect of her. On the few occasions she'd accompanied Josh to one function or another where Daniel was present, he'd thought her mousy, too reserved for his old friend. He'd heard talk, though. When she came into the picture during their junior year at Julliard, their whirlwind romance became legend—brilliant young composer falls for stunning, amazingly talented unknown.

Maybe not so strange he'd missed it, since Daniel didn't stick around to watch.

And, apparently, his perception was tainted.

A twinge of guilt prodded him. Where has she been for the last five years? Josh's death must have been hard on her. A better man would have looked in on the wife of a friend.

He studied her through the rest of the unfamiliar Allegro. As the music burst into its final chords, she shuddered and threw back her head with an expression that might be pain or ecstasy—an intensity that sent a ripple of almost sexual arousal sweeping over him. My God, she's exquisite.

The music ended. She fell against the chair, flushed and breathless, exhausted. Her limbs trembled.

Setting the machine to burn the track onto a CD, he gave her a moment to recover then flipped the mic switch.

"Melanie." She jumped at the sound of his voice; her gaze locked on the glass. "They're waiting for you." He angled forward until the light from the booth illuminated his face. He waved, then gave her his sexiest grin, knowing she'd recognize him.

Melanie turned the prettiest shade of fuchsia and waved back.

***

Jeez, how long had Daniel been there?

Daniel Sanborn, Teen Idol. He remembered her? Surely, not. Their last award ceremony was more than six years ago. He wouldn't recall much about that night, drunk as he was. Someone must have reminded him.

Melanie lovingly replaced the cello in its case. Burdened under its weight while balancing her purse, bottle of water, music folders, she muscled open the door and narrowly missed colliding with Mr. Rock Icon himself.

"Wow, Melanie, are you always so hot? What were you playing? I didn't recognize the piece."

Heat blossomed on her face. So, she'd gotten a little carried away. "You startled me, Daniel." In spite of herself, she couldn't help smiling at those laughing, blue, Peter Pan eyes. The man just refused to grow up despite having seen the last of thirty-five. His body, proudly displayed behind an open shirt and low-slung jeans, drew her attention as intended, but the kohl-lined eyes hooked her. Their black frames turned the blue irises almost sapphire.

A knowing grin graced those full lips. This time, she refused to be embarrassed. "You might have said something sooner. It's one of Josh's."

"Uh uh, you would have stopped playing." He seemed genuinely happy to see her. "Here, let me carry that."

The studio was just down the hall, but she handed the heavy instrument over gratefully.

"Has it been published, Josh's piece? I usually recognize his work."

"No, he wrote this one for me." His claim surprised her. "I thought you were through with classical music. You're still interested in modern composers?"

His eyes narrowed. "Yes," he said, making the word a dare. "Josh was my friend. Of course, I followed his work—and others' as well, believe it or not. Do you think I whored my soul along with my talent? Is that what he thought?"

Whoa. "I'm sorry." She quickly tried to smooth things over. They had to work together for the next week. It was a careless assumption on her part; she didn't know him well, but she'd heard him play. "I didn't mean to imply anything. You know Josh was proud of you." Daniel and Josh were friends long before she showed up. Surely, he knew better than she how Josh felt.

In front of the studio, Daniel reached for the knob and paused. "Forgiven," he said with a grin. "Meet me for coffee after the session."

Coffee? Innocent enough, but his grin was hard to decipher. This move back into the world was a giant step for her, a chance to break from her shell, get accustomed to people again, but she'd rather avoid unwanted advances for a while. No, that wasn't fair. Nothing he'd done so far gave her reason to question his intentions. Anyway, could he be any gayer?

He probably wanted to talk about Josh, which scared her more than the idea of fighting him off. Icy fingers gripped the back of her neck.

"What should I do, Josh?" she murmured then glanced up quickly, realizing Daniel must have heard.

His brow rose to his shaggy hairline.

Like a breath without substance, her ghost said, "Talk to him."

***

A blast of cold air greeted them as they left the sweltering, ninety-degree New York afternoon to enter the coffee shop next door to the recording studio. Daniel took Melanie's elbow. With a nod to the kid behind the counter, he guided her to a private booth in the back.

"Move over." He slid into the booth next to her and, slinging his knee onto the bench, turned his back to the room to face her.

"Trust me," he said to her guarded expression. "This is best. Angel will come to take our order as soon as he can get away." He didn't often venture out without security. He loved the fans, but for the most part, they scared the p*** out of him. "How've you been? You kinda fell off the face of the earth. I didn't get a chance to talk to you at the funeral."

"You were there?" Surprise flashed across her face but dulled quickly.

Why should his presence at the funeral surprise her? If nothing else, the business relationship the band had with Josh warranted the group's attendance. Josh, though, was more than a business relationship. Was it possible she didn't know about his and her late husband's more personal affairs?

"Of course. We all went," he said. They'd flown in from the coast just for the day. No one ever discovered how word got out. "A crowd of fans swarmed us as we left the church. We couldn't ask you to deal with them, so we didn't go to the cemetery."

"I don't remember the funeral, Daniel."

"Nothing?" Recalling her state at the church, the fact didn't surprise him. That creepy mother-in-law of hers must have propped her up.

"I didn't know until… No one stayed to… We probably should talk about something else."

"No one stayed with you? Do they call at all?" She wouldn't meet his eyes. He reached for her hand where it lay on the table. "Okay, we'll talk about something else."

They f*****g left her alone. He might have known if he'd given her any thought at all. Josh told him she had no family—Daniel always considered the fact part of the attraction, since Josh's parents were such cold-hearted p****s. Still, his mother should have taken to her. She was, after-all, the instrument which got rid of Daniel. It seems the senior Mrs. Taylor didn't like her daughter-in-law any better. He should have guessed, but at the time, was too busy hiding his own grief to think too long about his rival's problems.

His rival? This woman was not a rival. Even if she knew about him, Daniel couldn't blame Melanie for his own decision to leave. He couldn't even blame Josh. Josh didn't want him to go. In fact, he'd asked him to stay. Asked, begged, demanded…but Daniel's anger wouldn't allow him to listen. He made a preemptive move, knowing who the loser would be in the end.

Rehashing all this did neither of them any good. Josh had an approach to dealing with the kind of stress that kept him from getting things done. Daniel repeated the old mantra aloud. "Pretend you're all right." Good advice, for the most part. Pretend long enough and you can't tell the difference.

She heard. She offered him a weak smile then pulled her feet onto the bench to hug her knees. The move gave her a bit more space and put an effective barrier between them.

The teenaged barista chose that moment to show up for their order. In the few moments it took for Daniel to ask for coffee and Melanie a latte, the tension left her body. "Pretend you're all right" apparently worked for her. No doubt she had practice.

Her gaze wandered the room beyond his shoulder. "Someone over there recognizes you. Or thinks she does."

Now that she'd brought it to his attention, he could feel the eyes boring into his back. Without turning, he asked, "Do you see a big, bald guy in a gray suit at one of the tables? Probably wearing shades." He'd be surprised if Sandy was around. No one knew he'd slipped over here for a few minutes alone with her.

She made a quick sweep of the room and shook her head.

Okay, he could handle this. "One girl, right?"

"Yes."

Resting his arm along the back of the bench, he forced himself to relax. Just a fan and Melanie here to witness what happened—nothing was going to happen.

These irrational fears grew worse every year. Okay, he was a coward, but too many unpleasant incidents made him cautious. Caution was a good thing in this business—or so he continued to tell himself. He needed to get a grip. For a while, he'd tried toning down his appearance, hoping to blend in better, but fans were going to recognize him. He had to get a handle on these panic attacks or he'd be back to drinking, or worse, before his well-earned ulcer had a chance to heal.

Stop drinking. Blend in. What next? Go straight?

He'd been zoning. A quick glance in her direction found his fingers toying with a lock of her hair—more nerves. She didn't seem to mind, but gently lifted the hand aside when she caught him watching.

"You're hands are beautiful," she said.

Josh had thought so, too. Long, strong pianist's hands, he'd called them. Enough!

"So, how are you?" He repeated his original question. Sitting here, across from the woman he'd spent so much time anguishing over, put him in a constant state of deja vu—perhaps too much blast from the past.

"I'm okay. I've been teaching, but won't be going back in the fall. If I don't get back in the circuit soon, no one will remember me."

Footsteps approached from behind. He turned his head slightly to find a young woman standing politely off to the side, waiting for his attention.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said. "I know how rude this must be, but I'd kick myself a thousand times if I passed up the chance to get your autograph. Would you?"

"It's all right, darlin'." It wasn't in him to brush the girl off. He reached for her paper and pen with what he hoped was a sincere enough smile. "What's your name?" They chatted while he composed a message. As she walked away, her excitement showed in the way she scooped her things from the table and practically danced out the door. He laughed to himself over all the fuss. Maybe he should try a little harder to make "pretend you're all right" work for him as well.

When he turned his attention back to Melanie, she said, "That was nice of you."

"Thanks. My craziness is pretty transparent, isn't it? We've had some bad experiences." Then steering the conversation back to where they'd left off, he asked, "Why are you taking gigs like this? Talk to Zankel. You should be playing at Lincoln Center."

She shrugged. "No, this is what I need—work, no pressure. The house costs so much to keep up. Josh loved our house. I don't want to lose it."

She needs to make a living, he thought. Josh's royalties must be thinning out. Everyone's were. Five years is a long time to go with no new sources of income. How'd she get by for so long?

Angel brought their order. Melanie wrapped the paper cup in her hands and breathed deeply of the coffee's aroma. "Thanks for introducing me around today."

"No problem. Tomorrow, warm up in the studio where the producer can hear you. Give him something to remember besides your name. Bring a demo; he'll ask for one."

A rough sigh parted her lips. "Of course. I should have thought… I'm so rusty."

"You'll manage. Don't miss a chance to make an impression. Are you thinking of stretching yourself? There's work in Hollywood." He lowered his head to catch her eye and grinned. "I understand you're outrageously versatile."

She glanced up from her coffee wearing a wry smile. "Anything with strings. They need me for two more tracks this week. That's the plan to date. It never occurred to me to branch out permanently. I like the song we recorded today, though."

"Yeah? I agree. Sam wrote a sweet ballad this time. Not award material—not this one anyway. Those are hard to come by since Josh." The five songs Josh wrote for The Wanton Boys had rocketed to the top of the charts; three won awards for the group—and the writer.

"I seem to remember one or two in the last few years—not so bad."

"Aha, you're paying attention." He'd wondered how far her interest went. Whenever he'd approached her in the past, she'd seemed so aloof. The one time he'd tried to shake her out of it, he hadn't gotten the reaction he planned from her—or her husband. "The guys recognized you from the Grammys. Remember the party after we won for Sweet Silent Thoughts when I tried to kiss you."

She blushed. "I'm surprised you remember. You were drinking."

"True enough. Not drunk though. Besides, even drunk, total rejection is hard to forget. You weren't even tempted—scarred me for life."

Laughter bubbled from her chest. "For about five minutes, maybe. You left with some redhead."

Cute. So different from what he expected. Women mystified him. "Melanie, you noticed," he teased. But had Josh noticed? "How flattering. I needed consoling. Besides…" He grinned. "I'd been drinking."

"You surprised me. Aren't you gay?"

"Oh, what makes you think so? Are you listening to rumors?" He gave her hair a playful tug. "Make it up to me. Have dinner with me tonight."

"No, Daniel."

"And, why not?" More rejection—again, without a second's hesitation—and he was being so charming.

"Do you mean apart from the fact you abuse alcohol and drugs? Aren't you seeing someone?"

"Yeah, apart from that." Heat rose in his own cheeks. The first two didn't apply anymore, but he wasn't about to try to convince her. The last? "What does Ramón have to do with it? I said dinner, Melanie, not dessert. So, why not?"

"I don't date."

"When a gay man asks you to dinner, it's strictly platonic, sugar."

Her only response was to stare at her knees, making him wonder if she, in fact, disagreed with the truth in that statement.

"Are you saying you haven't gone out to dinner with a friend since Josh died? Not healthy."

"Probably not, but I'm happy this way, Daniel."

He wondered if 'happy' was the word she intended. It occurred to him Melanie might not be recovered from her grief. He could see it happening. Josh had a way of reaching into your soul and making it his. What chance did either of them have?

The silence stretched between them. After a few moments, she raised her head, jaw set. "You and the others can come to dinner at the house some night before you leave," she said.

He got the impression the offer had not come easy.

So here's what we're going to do...

Tomorrow I'm going to post THE ENTIRE FIRST CHAPTER from somebody's manuscript. Then we'll all have the rest of the week to read it and offer our helpful feedback.

RallyStorm members: CHECK THE BOARD. The "winner" (chosen randomly) will be posted over there.

Many thanks to Luc2 for the inspiration behind this. I think it's going to be enjoyable and educational. I'm not even worried about the feedback; you've all proven yourselves time and again to be fair, honest, and kind. Authors don't grow thick skins from constant, sugary pats on the back; neither do they grow in their craft if the criticism is harsh and personal. You already know the balance, and I never cease to be amazed at what you all offer here.

Yep, just a little "reader love fest" there.

So post your questions here, and keep a lookout for the chapter tomorrow.