Thursday, February 5, 2009

Riding Ten Thunders Chapter One

For those interested, here is the latest version of the first chapter of the manuscript


And just a reminder, this material was previously published at Reflection's Edge(in a more raw form) and protected by copyright.


JC said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
JC said...

*take two*

A few notes before I commence in my opinion.

1. Please realize it's my opinion and I fully accept it not to be fact, just a personal point of view based on preference.

2. Being an artist myself, I know how it feels to be criticized. I just ask that you please don't take it personally (even though in some measure all of us do).

Now that I've put on (I think) adequate verbal body armor, let me now proceed.

The pacing is too slow.
Even though chapter one goes straight into a battle only a few minutes in, the amount of descriptions weigh the pacing of the story down. Also, even though beautifully written, the amount of descriptions made me feel like I was going through sensory overload. In culinary terms it felt like going through starvation then being fed a rich German chocolate cake.

The main character intro took a bit too long.
As mentioned before, I realize it is preference, but I found myself wondering "whose head am I in"? It took a bit too long to establish the hero.

The story finally picked up during the last 1/4 of the chapter.
The physical introduction of the uncle is when it felt as if the pace of the story picked up. Prior to that, it was really difficult to read through.

Please don't get me wrong, your descriptions are beautifully written but they mentally overload the senses and take away from the premise of the story. Giving visual leeway allows your audience to still be in the moment without bogging down the pacing of your story.

*preparing to duck and cover*

Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away