Calling for Critiques
In the last two months, on the occasions where I managed to log into my Mac at home after a stressful day in front of my dual screens at the office, I would check Facebook, email and then my Blogger dashboard. I'd committed to participating in Write Club 2012, a competition hosted by DL Hammons, where two short stories or excepts (500 words or less) were randomly selected to compete with voting determining the winners. With over a hundred entries, not all stories would be selected. I knew I would be ok if mine was never posted and I was determined to vote on every story to show support to my fellow writers. The stories were posted every Monday, Wednesday and Friday... the three days I had hoped to put myself on a blogging schedule. And while it's not a good excuse at all, and while I only managed to vote on about 20 of the 36 rounds of competition, I must admit that after reading and carefully entering commentary that I thought might be helpful to the writers, I was just done for the night. When I did try to post, the blank screen of where my new post should have been written seemed to mock me and only worsened my case of writer's block. Exhaustion is a tough hurdle to overcome, especially when you don't have a whole lot of progress to report as to your creative writing efforts.
Well, the Write Club contest is just about over and the winners of previous rounds are all competing to be the final champion. There were so many great stories and I really did enjoy reading and offering my critiques... so much so that I began to worry that maybe I should have pursued becoming an editor instead of an aspiring author. However, I was thinking now that the voting commitment has lessened and my entry was not selected... perhaps posting it here and asking for critiques would be a good way to get back into the writing game and get myself motivated again to finish this book. So, for anyone interested in helping me, I am not in search of warm fuzzies (though they are nice to receive). I am hoping for honest and critical feedback on this excerpt. Ready, set, go:
My skinny, salt-covered legs were plodding across the heavily weeded yard back to the small beach house that offered a long awaited blast of cool air-conditioning. After a full day of being dragged behind the boat like shark bait, I wanted nothing more than to push past the sea foam green front door with the ridiculous starfish knocker and sprawl out onto the cold tile floor of the rental. A slurred voice shouted over my shoulder, breaking my focus.
“What was this one’s name again?” I turned my sun crisped body sharply as dread rose up and began to form an unsettling lump in my throat. My father’s eyes narrowed in conjunction with his drunken sneer. At his feet lay a red and white cooler and dangling from his outstretched hand, twitched my temporary pet of the day. When I’d first found her, I had silently hoped she wasn’t big enough to keep. Among all of the typical brownish red ones we’d caught that week, she was unique… and therefore I thought she should be spared. Unfortunately, Eugene-the-Pain had been watching me like an annoying little hawk through his cloudy snorkel mask and had scooped into his bag what I’d pretended to miss. On the two hour choppy ride back, I plucked one of the normal ones out of the cooler and inspected him. I decided that he would be called Fred and when I turned him on his back, he barked. I reached into the cooler again, carefully retrieving the one-clawed bright pink lobster and closed the lid. After settling in to my lone spot at the rear of the boat, I turned her over and she barked, too. Fred instantly barked a reply. I wondered how many other kids knew that lobsters could talk and smiled to myself.
My crustacean puppet show had been all fun and games until now. “It’s PINKY!” my younger brother squealed in delight as he waved a box of Ziploc baggies like a baton. He was leading the Tortured Sister Parade. My eyes welled with tears as I started to run back toward the dock. I was ashamed of myself for not throwing Pinky overboard when no one was looking. Surely I could have faked an accidental drop as we hit one of the waves without igniting my father’s wrath… but my lack of courage had sealed her fate. I stopped running across the sun-scorched yard, knowing that my tears would have no effect on what was about to happen. In horror, I watched as my father gripped Pinky’s head and abruptly twisted. With a loud snap, her body separated. Her little head was still barking as it flew through the air and hit the water.
“Well, now its name is Dinner,” said my father smugly as he slid the pink tail into a baggy and sealed it shut. A silent tear slid down my cheek as he wrote my name on the outside of the bag in bold black letters as if it were a school lunch sack.
My skinny, salt-covered legs were plodding across the heavily weeded yard back to the small beach house that offered a long awaited blast of cool air-conditioning. After a full day of being dragged behind the boat like shark bait, I wanted nothing more than to push past the sea foam green front door with the ridiculous starfish knocker and sprawl out onto the cold tile floor of the rental. A slurred voice shouted over my shoulder, breaking my focus.
“What was this one’s name again?” I turned my sun crisped body sharply as dread rose up and began to form an unsettling lump in my throat. My father’s eyes narrowed in conjunction with his drunken sneer. At his feet lay a red and white cooler and dangling from his outstretched hand, twitched my temporary pet of the day. When I’d first found her, I had silently hoped she wasn’t big enough to keep. Among all of the typical brownish red ones we’d caught that week, she was unique… and therefore I thought she should be spared. Unfortunately, Eugene-the-Pain had been watching me like an annoying little hawk through his cloudy snorkel mask and had scooped into his bag what I’d pretended to miss. On the two hour choppy ride back, I plucked one of the normal ones out of the cooler and inspected him. I decided that he would be called Fred and when I turned him on his back, he barked. I reached into the cooler again, carefully retrieving the one-clawed bright pink lobster and closed the lid. After settling in to my lone spot at the rear of the boat, I turned her over and she barked, too. Fred instantly barked a reply. I wondered how many other kids knew that lobsters could talk and smiled to myself.
My crustacean puppet show had been all fun and games until now. “It’s PINKY!” my younger brother squealed in delight as he waved a box of Ziploc baggies like a baton. He was leading the Tortured Sister Parade. My eyes welled with tears as I started to run back toward the dock. I was ashamed of myself for not throwing Pinky overboard when no one was looking. Surely I could have faked an accidental drop as we hit one of the waves without igniting my father’s wrath… but my lack of courage had sealed her fate. I stopped running across the sun-scorched yard, knowing that my tears would have no effect on what was about to happen. In horror, I watched as my father gripped Pinky’s head and abruptly twisted. With a loud snap, her body separated. Her little head was still barking as it flew through the air and hit the water.
“Well, now its name is Dinner,” said my father smugly as he slid the pink tail into a baggy and sealed it shut. A silent tear slid down my cheek as he wrote my name on the outside of the bag in bold black letters as if it were a school lunch sack.
And there you have it, a snippet from my memoir style novel... and also the reason why I don't eat seafood anymore. :-) Now, I know it wasn't the most uplifting story (I promise the whole book won't be like this), but the contest was supposed to be about writing skill, not so much content. I picked this because I thought it would evoke emotion in the reader. With that in mind, I would absolutely love to hear your feedback. Pretty please, and thank you.
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