Friday Fricassee

This says it all.

It's funny; an old college colleague shared this photo on my Facebook wall this morning.  It's not even someone I knew well.  But I guess I'm pretty obvious on Facebook about what's important to me.

(I can imagine all the eye-rolling that goes on among my non-writing, non-language-oriented friends.)

At any rate, I just want to make one observation for the benefit of all:  The number one grammatical problem I'm seeing in my critique work is the misuse of the comma.  (Sometimes blatant.)

Of course, I edit every error I find...so you can imagine how fixing All The Commas can slow down my critique pace.

(Yes, I fix them all.  It's a good first step for a writer to learn what's right.)

So, here's the thing:  Why are commas such a problem?  What is it about the lowly comma that produces such angst and chaos in a manuscript?

I'd fully expected to be inundated with a lot more lay/lie errors, for example.  And certainly errors with the subjunctive voice.  But comma errors have surpassed all.

Talk to me about commas!  And about everything else that trips you up while you're crafting words.  If we can weed out the things that slow us down, our stories will be a lot shinier!

What's Broken -- How to Critique

Are you ready to help 10 authors fix what's broken?  Here are some tips:

• Read the entire excerpt for continuity, and to help ground you (since most, though not all, of the excerpts drop us into the middle of the story).
• Then go back and critique as normal, focusing on what isn't working.
• If you can, explain why it isn't working.
• And, of course, if yours is one of the 10 entries, please take the time to critique a minimum of 3 others.

This should be an interesting exercise for everyone, and will hopefully be helpful to the 10 participants. Time to sparkle, everyone!

What's Broken? #10

TITLE: THREE WISHES
GENRE: YA Contemporary Fantasy

Eugénie (Genie) Lowry's body changed from Kate-Hudson-flat to Katy-Perry-curvy the instant she turned 17 1/2. Her grandmother (Mamère) is trying to explain to her why this happened. (I've been told that Genie accepts this new information too readily.)

“Are you being deliberately dense, my dearest girl? Haven’t you ever heard of genies?”

“What?” I gasp, floored. Can she actually be implying what I think she’s implying? I couldn’t, in my wildest dreams, ever have imagined that this is what my grandmother was going to say. “No. What are you talking about? You’re trying to tell me, I mean, I’m a . . . real . . . genie?”

“Yes,” she says with a breathy gush, nodding in relief that I understand her.

“That’s crazy. You’re crazy. There is no way.” I breathe for a couple of beats, trying to get my bearings. This is a ridiculous conversation.

“How—how can this be? Mamère, I don’t understand,” I whisper.

She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She won’t meet my eyes. “Eugénie, today you have begun the six-month process of becoming a genie. As with all genies, you reached your physical maturity on your 17 ½ birthday, and you will reach your full wish power between now and the day you turn 18. I don’t know much more about it, unfortunately, just the little your mother told me before we lost her.” She glances at me quickly. “Thank goodness I knew this much, so Papa and I could be prepared for this change, if it were going to happen.”

“Are you saying that my mother was a genie? I thought they lived in bottles, or something like that. Am I supposed to grant you wishes now?!” I pause, wide-eyed. “How can this possibly be true? I don’t understand. I mean, I get it, but I still don’t get it. What does this mean?” Mamère is struggling to answer me as I’m babbling out questions, and moves to put her arms around me. I hold up my hand to stop her, and drop my face into my arms. This is too much to take right now, and I don’t want to be touched.

I sit back, nearly rocking the papasan out of its base, suddenly thinking about strange occurrences from throughout my life: the lunches forgotten at home that seemed to magically appear in my backpack when I wanted them; the perennial green lights I get when I drive around town—it’s always been a joke between Leia and me.

My heart is racing, and I blink slowly. I look at her and start to ask a question but stop myself, instead nodding silently at her. With my world turned upside-down in a single day, there’s a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach that can only be helped with more chocolate. My grandmother swallows, and opens her mouth, as if to say more. I shake my head for her to stop. Choking on more questions rising inside of me for which I’m just not ready for answers, I am floored, and I need to be alone. Immediately.

“Good night, Mamère,” I manage to get out, and flee up the stairs to my attic room—my sanctuary--only stopping in the kitchen long enough to grab some peanut butter cups on the way up.

What's Broken? #9

TITLE: Tree of Many Colors
GENRE: MG Historical

In the 1930's ten-year-old Jamie struggles through the WV Coalfileds in search of love and a home.

(Does first person pov work for this? Am I using age/era appropriate slang? Should I drop the slang?)

For the tenth time my metal hoop clanged to the ground, and I could almost hear Pa saying, “It’s okay, Jimmy, hoop rolling's an art. I rolled mine to school and back every day when I was your age.”

I wanted to roll the hoop like Pa, but it kept going sideways and flopping on the ground. Each time it hit the ground, I grabbed it and tried again – rolling my tree limb around the inside while trying to keep it upright. I had to learn how for Pa’s sake so I kept picking up and whacking that hoop until it kept rolling.

That was almost a year ago -- one day after Christmas. Pa didn’t come home on time, and we learned he’d been killed in a coal mine accident. Everything changed overnight. Ma disappeared. I was sent to a state home to live with strangers. The people at the home tried to comfort me, I didn’t want their help, I just wanted Ma and Pa. I kept hearing Pa’s last words in my head so I practiced rolling my hoop every day just like he had taught me, but Pa doesn’t know that. He can’t watch me anymore, and the emptiness won’t go away. If I can’t have Pa, I don’t need anyone. I can take care of myself -- I have this whole year.

What's Broken? #8

TITLE: Love and Cupcakes
GENRE: Women's Fiction Magical Realism

This is the opening of my novel about Jack Pace, the owner of a cupcake bakery whose ability to sense other people's desires threatens to ruin her business and the possibility of a romantic relationship with her business partner, Graham.

Jaclyn Pace could smell desire. Not in the a-wild-bear-can-smell-fear kind of way, but in the physical, literal sense. When she came within two feet of people desperate for something sweet to eat, she could tell with one inhaled breath exactly what they craved.

With some people, it was a subtle whiff of chocolate that tickled her nose. With others the sensation was so strong Jack had to hold on to the smooth counter to keep from being knocked over by the scent of strawberry shortcake or rocky road.

It didn’t help that the town of Sugar, Georgia, was shrouded in a faint scent of spun sugar year round. It clung to clothes and wove into hair so the townspeople smelled like they’d just come from a circus, though the last one of those to come to Sugar was more than ten years before.

She didn’t have to concentrate or chant magic words to make it happen. It was simply there. Like a hint of flavor in the air. As the owner of a cupcake bakery, she normally didn’t mind the constant attack on her senses—it was good for business.

But business could always be better.

Jack removed the special order cupcakes from the cooler. The metal tray numbed her fingertips. She transferred the pink cupcakes topped with vibrant lemony icing into boxes, fitting each one into a hole in the cardboard tray. Then she stacked the boxes and inched them off the table until she could get both hands underneath them. Halfway to the front counter, she froze.

The pang of desire hit fast. It was strong, almost deliberate, like whomever it belonged to wanted her to feel them. She shook her head to dislodge the scent. The air in the room grew hot. She leaned into the door jamb and forced herself to breathe. The air burned her throat. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the flavors that assaulted her. The sharp bite of salt mixed with the sugary flavor of milk chocolate and caramel made the glands in the back of her throat clench.

Her vision blurred when she opened her eyes. Dark figures moved on the sidewalk and across the street, but she couldn’t make out their faces. She lost feeling in her fingers. Her arms trembled with the weight of the boxes. They slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a crunch. The top two boxes slid off the bottom. One tipped, hitting on its side before landing upside down.

She crouched, hanging her head between her legs as she forced air in and out. The sensation subsided just as quickly as it started. The scent of lemon emanated from the mess on the floor. She lifted the lid of one box. Icing clung to the top in thick, yellow globs. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

“S***,” she said.

She picked up both of the mashed boxes and dumped them in the garbage.