Critique #32: Erin Underwood #2
Kevin Andrew Murphy July 12th, 2006
The man arrived with the box shortly after sunrise. Kahill studied it while his father, Kassim, and the stranger named Lem began their negotiations. The box was black and made with wood that felt cold to the touch reminding Kahill of the winter stone that lies deep beneath the sandy dunes of his desert homeland. Crouching next to the box, Kahill studied the hundreds of pin-sized holes drilled into its front, back, and lid. Carefully, he flipped the lever on the tap, which was attached to the bottom of the box, but nothing flowed from its concealed reservoir.
Once the negotiations ended, and a bulging sack of gold lay at his feet, Lem began to tell Kassim and his men a story that sounded more like fairytale than fact. Kahill’s attention shifted from the box to Lem’s description of the Oolahn, the mysterious spirits who dwelled within Dunmere’s rivers and lakes.
Everything had been risked on this chance to save their clan. Kassim looked from the storyteller to his son who sat in rapt awe of the stranger’s tale. A palpable wave of guilt filled Kassim’s eyes for taking them on this fool’s quest to bring the water of Dunmere into the Shar al’Hahn desert. They had left their home, crossed Rhinoch’s barren plains, and climbed the wild mountains of Dunmere for nothing more than a child’s tale.
Erin,
Where the hell are we? From the intro of the scene, I mean? When we hear in the start that the man had arrived, it takes a while to figure out that he’s the same person as stranger named Lem who at first I’d assumed was a third party, likely daddy’s hired broker. Then we sort of figure out we’re not in the boy’s homeland from the line “lies deep beneath the sandy dunes of his desert homeland” (but the tense on “lies” should be changed to the past as well, for purposes of the story), but we still don’t quite know. A Russian place, keying off “Lem”? Then later we hear “Dunmere” and have a list of where they went put told in such a convoluted bit of third person that the reader still doesn’t have a clue as to where this is taking place. A smoky tent? The backroom of an inn? Motel 6?
The only clear description we get is of the box, and even that is so spare it sounds impressionist pictures of Amish furniture, which is to say blurry descriptions of terribly plain things. What type of metal was the tap made from? Silver? Brass? Was it unusually cold as well? Was there any ornamentation aside from the pinholes or is it really that plain (and if so, could you mention this fact).
Beyond that, while I don’t have any particular objections to an omniscient narrator, the viewpoint shift from the son to the father is clumsy, in particular because they have such similar names and reading along, I thought I was still getting the boy (or youth’s) perceptions and I had to reread the start of the third paragraph to realize we were now looking into the head of the father.
And this is a very dull negotiation, especially for someone who’s come so far. Did they have Turkish coffee with ambergris and cardamom in the bottom of the cups? Smoky Russian tea poured from a silver samovar? Little glasses of whiskey or aquavit? Are they sitting on chairs or benches or cushions or are their asses suspended in the void? There are so many little details that could be used, any two or three of which used together would telegraph the rest of the scene to the reader which they could fill in from their imagination. Coffee + rugs + tent? *POOF!* We’re in Arabia, or some otherworldly equivalent thereof.
However, even if you do that, the main trouble that I’m having here is that while of course a magical water source would of course be insanely valuable in a desert land, desert tribesmen are sort of used to infrequent water so they wouldn’t be going off on a quest for such a widget. Drought-stricken farmers from a fertile river valley might, but a river valley is not a desert as you’ve described. The whole world and description is simply ringing false. Sorry.
Kevin, thanks for the feedback. I think I have finally learned a really big lesson with this post. I keep trying to cram too much information into the first 13 lines in order to grab the reader. Instead, I manage to edit out much of the original detail and description that should be there to orient the reader with the story.
I’m actually pretty new to writing short stories and this 13 line intro is a little frustrating. Do you think that I should just try to put more effort into just telling the story without concentrating so much on hooking the reader within the first 13 lines?
Erin,
To be short, yes. Longer answer: Even a languid, lyrical or dreamy longer intro to a piece should have something in it to entice the reader to read onwards. This is said to be the “first 13 lines” because in proper manuscript procedure, a double-spaced sheet of paper has 25 lines, whereas the first page of a short story, with the header and other spacing, comes to thirteen lines. This does not mean that every first page should end with a cliffhanger at the final word, just that there should be something to intrigue the reader enough to make them turn to page two.
The cliffhanger emphasis comes from television teasers, those short bits at the beginning of TV shows which introduce the beginning of the episode and usually have an incredibly strong hook to entice the viewer to stay through the first commercial break, rather than channel surfing. Short stories, thankfully, are not quite in that same boat, but most readers will still not sit still for uninteresting blather. Worse, editors and especially junior editors are just looking for some reason to be bored.
Start the reader with an orientation to the story, certainly, but make it an interesting enough orientation for us to go on from there. You could start with a much lusher description and still let us see the mysterious box, the anxious man who’s traveled all this distance to purchase it, his curious son, and have the reader hooked from those details alone. In fact, that would probably do better than simply saying this is the legendary rain-in-a-box that the undescribed desert kingdom desperately needs.
Another trouble with your sample here, however, has surfaced as I’ve thought of this: Lem’s recounting of the legend of the box, even when just quickly glossed over, is an as-you-know-Bob instance. Kassim wouldn’t have come here if he didn’t think that this was it, or at least had a chance of it, while Kahill would have heard his dad talking about this the whole trip there, so would also be up-to-speed on what the widget is reputed to do as well.
Perhaps you just might try showing us the beginning of the story as you think it should be and let the critiquers see if we find enough interest in the first swatch straight off?
Just having the first 13 be really well-written is often enough of a hook for overworked editors.
Revision:
The tavern’s common room was stuffy, filled with the smell of burning peat from the hearth and smoke from the sconces. Caked on layers of horsehair plaster, which boasted a fairly fresh coat of mustard colored paint and a thin film of soot, covered the walls. A dozen wooden tables with benches were spread throughout the room, most of which were in use by travelers who had stopped in for the night.
“He should have been here by now. Where is he?†growled Rashim.
Kahill glanced at the door wondering when the stranger, Lem, would be arriving. It had taken them three months to reach Dunmere’s lake lands from their desire home, and Kahill’s father was growing increasingly impatient. There was no use in trying to sooth Rashim’s frustrations. Instead, Kahill kept to himself, letting his father grumble over the delay to the tribesmen who accompanied them on the journey.
The door to the common room swung open. A burst of cool damp air blew inside, carrying with it the faint fragrance of rain and wildflowers. Kahill turned his head toward the door as the largest man he had ever seen walked inside. The enormous man was nearly bald with a closely shaven beard that made his mouth look as if it were cast in shadow. Giving the room little more than a cursory glance, he shook the damp from his cloak and shut the door before making his way to their table.