Tenebris Sanguine: Vol. 1

Posting this as a demo run to see what people think. If it does well enough over time I hope to get it published once it's finished. (Actual summary pending, I'm bad at them.) Language warning!

In the beginning, before the era of man, Gods watched over the mortal plane. Each governed an aspect of the realm, one for Light, another for Shadow, and a final Brother, Spirit. When the land of Mantle was first formed, the Three Gods often quarreled as to which of them would take responsibility for it’s inhabitants. After much debate it was decided that Light would take hold for a period of time now referred to as day, and Shadow would take hold for the remainder, leaving Spirit, the most neutral of the three, to govern the end of life and what lay beyond. 

During the day, Light would use his power for the purposes of creation, bringing beauty and colour to the world of Mantle. He found joy in watching the fauna and flora he created grow and develop under his radiant gaze. When his time ended, however, Shadow would come to look upon the world, and find himself disgusted. He despised such things as colour and radiance, and so he sought to rid Mantle of these qualities. He employed agents of destruction, such as fire and natural disasters in order to render Mantle free of what his brother had defiled it with.

And so this cycle of creation and destruction continued, with no reasonable end in sight. Spirit, who had contented himself with the creation of the Afterlife, soon took notice of his brothers. He came to them, demanding that they set aside their petty disagreements, and work together towards something they could both be proud of. Light and Shadow eventually came to agree with their brother, realizing the childishness they had thus far displayed. And so the two melded their powers as one to create a creature who could both create, and destroy, who could learn about itself and the world around it. And, most importantly, it would be given the power of choice, so that it might decide it’s own future, whether it be the path of benevolence, or that of evil and malice.

And that, is how humanity came to be. 

But, no peace lasts forever. Over time, as humanity grew and developed, Shadow began to hate his part in their creation, viewing them as his greatest mistake. He saw their potential for creation as an affront to the power of the Gods, and soon sought to wipe them from Mantle. However, his brother had grown to love humanity, and so when Shadow made to destroy their shared creation, Light intervened, and so a battle of Gods began.

The battle did not last, however, and as it came to a close, Shadow found himself overwhelmed. He decided to make a last, desperate attempt for victory, centering all of his Godly might to slay the eldest of the Three. The resulting blast caused an enormous fissure to cut the world of Mantle in twine, giving form to two new continents, which would eventually come to be known as Anima and Nalmos

Spirit, upon his return from his Afterlife, confronted Shadow, who was desperately weak from his previous battle. Spirit, in his vengeful rage, attacked his brother, obliterating his physical body and cursing him to walk the ruined lands of Mantle as a human. In doing so, Spirit too was shed of his ethereal form, joining Shadow in the land of mortals. 

And so the era of Gods came to a close. 

End of Prologue 

Bang!

I jolted upright, the resounding clang of metal shattering my grogginess instantly as my reflexes kicked into high gear. My head automatically jerked to my left, the direction the sound had come from. 

“Ah! Son of a b***h!” A familiar voice shouted, and for an instant I was nearly worried. Then, I couldn’t help but crack a smirk as I realised it was my father shouting his frustrations. If it were anything serious, he would have said something a bit more substantial than just, 'Son of a b***h.'

Must have started up the forge without me… I thought, and then I rose to my feet. After stretching a bit I spent a few minutes putting on some random clothes, which ended up being a plain white tee shirt, and some torn blue jeans. I slipped my feet into my boots which were black, and rose to midway up my calves. Once the laces were tied, I made my way back to my bed, which creaked with the semi-rotted floorboards as my boots clunked against the old wood.  

The walls, which I had always kept a standard alabaster white, had cracked somewhat over the years, and dust had slowly begun to shade their colors. I had to sidestep a couple of piles of clutter that had accumulated over the last few days, and nearly tripped when the heel of my boot caught the lip of a raised piece of floorboard. I didn’t, thankfully, and stopped when I reached the small drawer beside my bed. I reached down, the drawer far too short for me to reach comfortably. I grasped the handle of it, and pulled. 

The drawer opened, an ear-grinding screech of rusting and misshapen metal cracked the silence that had fallen since I woke up. I flinched, rather violently, and once I recovered I reached inside. My hand then produced a small box, no larger in size than the palm of my hand, and which glistened in the morning sun that had peeked through my bedside window. I simply looked at it for a moment, my thoughts drifting to the memories that were held within the container. After steeling myself, I flipped the small latch which bound the box shut, and lifted it’s lid. 

Inside was a small, detailed depiction of a rose, made from silver, with a ruby no larger than a small pebble adorning its center. Attached to the top of the rose was a chain, which had been pooled underneath. I dipped my hand inside, cautiously retrieved the small rose with my fingers, and lifted it. I glided my thumb across its surface, the cold silver biting at my warm skin. The icy grooves and edges of the locket were so deeply ingrained in my mind that I could probably replicate it perfectly in the forge. As my thumb traveled, it brushed against a small button located on it’s side. The digit froze, and I felt that familiar sense of apprehension take hold. It rose up from my gut and wrapped itself around my heart, strangling any hope of pressing down on that button. This happened every single time I’d ever even attempted to open it. If ever my thumb brushed against it, my entire body would shut down out of fear and frustration. I was, quite honestly, terrified of what was inside of that locket. It held within it too many reminders of the past. Too many reminders of my own failures.

It reminded me that no joy or love lasts forever.

“Cheshire! Wake the hell up and give me a hand out here!” My father’s shout snapped me from the trance of self doubt I’d fallen into, and I immediately let the rose fall over my head and rest upon my shoulders, the cold silver prickling the skin underneath my shirt. I bent over, reaching beneath my bed and retrieving my personal shortsword. It was, honestly, completely bare bones, just a medium length blade and a leather-bound guard.

I turned around, and began to walk to the far end of my room, towards the door that led to the living room. I cracked my knuckles as I went, the satisfying pop of the air bubbles within the joints sending a small wave of relief through my body. By the time I finished, I was already at the door. I let out a small sigh, not looking forward to the day ahead of me at all. I reached down, grasping the door handle. 

It was made from a poorly conceived mixture of bronze and steel, and I was pretty sure that whoever made it had never even bothered to purify the metals before smelting them. That, of course, meant that it was extremely prone to getting jammed and, thanks to my awful luck, it did. I tried to get the damned thing to budge, but it was jammed hard. After a solid five minutes of trying to open it normally, I decided I didn’t have the time nor the patience to f**k with it anymore, so I took a few steps back….

 And then I slammed my foot into the lock below the knob at full force.

The door flew open, the poorly forged locking mechanism not having the strength to withstand the sudden pressure my kick had applied to it. Turns out knowing metalwork and forging like the back of your hand has its perks. Who knew. 

Anyways, I walked through the doorway, and noticed that dad apparently hadn’t made breakfast yet. That usually meant we were almost out of coal. I groaned, knowing he’d pin the task of going to town and buying more on me. I eventually decided to grab something small to snack on, choosing a large piece of jerky. We ended up having to make it quite often, since this area of Anima wasn’t very populated with wildlife. That, and the butcher shop in town charged far more than my father and I could afford. Blacksmithing wasn’t exactly the most profitable business, after all.

After eating a few bites, I walked over to the coat rack, and grabbed my leather smithing apron. After getting it secured at my waist, I walked outside. Thankfully the door didn’t jam, and opened without so much as a sound. I was greeted by the familiar sight of my father, Blaine Shirem, treating his burns in the nearby well.

“Gods, you couldn’t handle a pair of tongs if they were tied to your hands, could you?” I said as I finally got a look at his hands. They were already swelling, the reddened burns a sharp contrast to his normally caramel skin tone. He was in the midst of wrapping his burns in bandages, and shot me a nasty glare as I approached. 

“Like you’d do any better, short-s**t. Forgot to wipe the handles of oil last night. F****r caught fire right in my damn hands!” His hands wrapped, my father stood from his crouched position by the well. He stood nearly a foot over me, his amber eyes glinting in the sunlight. “Now, you gonna help me start up the forge, or just stand there like a dumbass?” I gave a pointed look, before turning away and taking a few steps towards the forge.

5 Hours Later…

Blood.

Sweat.

And dear, f*****g Gods, the burns! 

For those who’ve never done so, working a metalforge on a budget is painful. Normally, forgemasters and their apprentices don a number flame-resistant materials, all very specifically tailored for the sort of work they specialised in. These are, of course, extremely expensive, and why most blacksmiths were already quite wealthy before entering the trade. It is considered immensely dangerous to operate a forge without protection, but my father was never one to care about that. After all, he was without a doubt the most skilled craftsman on the continent.

For nearly three decades he’d been at the very top of Animan culture, constructing weapons of war for the Animan Imperial Army. But, after the Nalmosian War kicked off, all of the remaining Royalty had ‘liquidated’ their staff out of paranoia. My father was then left completely bankrupt, with nothing but a reputation and his skill to keep himself afloat. I’ve been told that it wasn’t long after that that he and my mother met.

But, that was the past. Immutable, unchangeable, and not worth brooding over. 

Back to my point. Seeing as my father and I are pretty much at the bottom of the societal food-chain, we can’t afford the proper protection that normal blacksmiths consider essential. But, seeing as my father is who he is, he simply shrugs off the pain like it’s natural and expects me to do the same. 

The difference between us? I haven’t been doing this for thirty years! The best thing I can liken it to is the feeling of standing next to a dwarf star, but for whatever reason it can’t kill you. The heat alone is enough to make anyone not used to it pass out in minutes, and that’s not even accounting for the fact that sometimes, if the molten metal contains impurities, the lava-like liquid can bubble up and burst. The only reason my father and I haven’t been roasted alive is because he’s damn good at cleansing his material. 

My thoughts were interrupted as my father let out a groan, sliding the freshly hammered blade into a cooling bath before dropping his scorched tongs to the granite table beside it. He turned back to look at me, his spine arching as he stretched out. “We’ll finish this up tomorrow, Chesh. For now I want you to head into town and pick up some more coal. Here, this should cover it.” He flicked something at me, which shimmered silver as it flew through the air. I snatched it, and turned the small, thin object over in my hand. It was a coin, an Animan Cresch, to be specific. 

For a moment I was baffled, we didn’t normally deal in Cresch. Mostly just Grit copper or whatever we could trade. I looked up, catching his gaze with a questioning expression. He noticed, and cracked a small grin filled with mischievousness that I sometimes forgot he was capable of. “Got somethin’ waiting for you if you can make it back before dark.” He said, winking devilishly. 

Anticipation flushed my body, a grin breaking onto my face before I could think to stop it. “Hell yeah!” I was immediately overcome by a sense of urgency, one that drove me to turn fully around and begin sprinting away from the house, my heels digging into the dirt as I ran down the trail leading to the Gold Road. The Gold Road is a long, winding path that snakes from the southern commercial Districts of Anima, all the way up the continent to a small village in the mountains. My father and I live about two hours from the village, Strafa, I believe it’s called. The small trail leading from our home actually links up with the Gold Road just before it reaches Strafa, making trips there take substantially less time than it would otherwise. Without following it, one could easily lose themselves among the forests. 

So, with the sun’s light slowly turning a shade of wispy pink, I ran. 

And, just like every other time I had, my eyes were treated to the untarnished beauty of the northern Animan landscape. Small tributary streams sparkled in the evening light, the uphill slope carrying spilloff from the Anima River which traced the Gold Road. 

I snapped my head from side to side, dispelling my own captivation. The run didn’t last all too long, maybe ten minutes? Regardless, I soon found myself bursting from the treeline, skidding across the cobblestone surface of the Gold Road. I recall feeling… wonderful. Like the world was confined to myself and this magnificent landscape.

How naive.

I stepped back into a sprint, the sound of my boots hitting the road encompassing my ears. The Gold Road was wide, exceptionally so. One could likely fit three separate carriages side by side across it, and still have a bit of room to maneuver. I probably ran for another half an hour, taking brief stops to catch my own breath. 

In time, I noticed the familiar lights which were scattered across Strafa, all flickering in the subtle breeze. I slowed to a jog, waving to the two Guards which were patrolling the perimeter of the village. They recognized me quickly, gesturing with their spears in greeting. I sadly didn’t have the time to spare and actually talk with them, so I kept going. 

Strafa was a rather populus town, considering its small size. People lined the streets, all browsing the central marketplace and talking amongst their peers in the blur of civilian life. A few looked over to me with welcoming eyes, I was somewhat well known there. Often I assisted the locals with various things when the chance arose, and that soon made me a common sight in the village. Retracing my memory, I rounded a corner and slid to a stop. My balance was thrown slightly askew as my left foot caught a spot of mud, but I managed to avoid falling. 

“Careful now, they haven’t swept the street yet, son.” A familiar voice made my head snap to attention. There stood an elderly man, garbed in attire more fitting of the southern, hotter areas of Anima. Lengths of thin fabric wrapped around him, meant more for protecting the skin from burning than ensuring the comfort of the wearer. “Yeah, I noticed. Father sent me, needs some coal for the forge.” I said, and the trader, I believe his name was Inka, merely nodded before turning around in his stand. 

As he sifted through his stock, he asked over his shoulder, “How much does he need?”

“One Cresch worth.” I answered, Inka tipped his head to look in my direction. I heard him let out a ‘hm’ before he turned back to his items. After a few seconds he stood straight, turning to face me with a burlap sack of coal. It was larger than usual, meant I wouldn’t have to buy more for some time. I set the silvery coin on the table separating us, and he dropped it into something behind the stand that I couldn’t see. “Thanks for the business, kid. I threw some extra in there, call it a ‘thank you’ for being such a consistent customer.”

I thanked him in turn, and took my leave in short order. As I ran, my hair blew into my face, the breeze having grown into a mild wind. My hand reached up to push the silvery locks to the side, but before I could finish a hand suddenly grasped my shoulder, yanking me into an alleyway to my right. 

Instantly my fight or flight reflex kicked in, my eyes flicking to my assailant. He was big, much bulkier in frame than I was, and behind him stood another, lankier man. They both wore a similar black shroud, I wasn’t able to make out many details. Even as the big one slammed me into the wall, I heard screams echo throughout the town.

As far as I could tell, this was a raid.

I freaked out at the realization, kicking the musclebound man holding me in the groin with a lucky shot. His grip failed, and the second my feet hit the ground my sword was drawn. I rolled to his side, positioning myself with my back facing the street. I wasn’t a slouch with a blade, but I did not want to actually fight these two. They each looked like seasoned fighters, and I didn’t like my odds of actually winning against them.

The one in the back didn’t move or react to his comrade’s pain, which was obviously fading quicker than I thought. Within seconds they’d be on me, I could feel it. So, I made a split second decision to run. I needed to get home, and warn my father of the attack.

I heard a voice roar after me, but I didn’t look back. I caught glimpses of fire, and blood was everywhere. How I wasn’t spotted by any of the other raiders, I have no idea. I sprinted across the central market, vaulting stands and slipping in the mud with almost every step. It wasn’t just mud, I knew, it was too warm. A glance down and my eyes caught the sight of red staining my legs.

I kept going.

With a leap I dove over the fence between the town and the treeline. My landing was messy, a foot slipping out from under me that nearly halted my momentum. Thankfully I managed to maintain my pace, tearing through underbrush in an effort to put as much distance between myself and that bloodbath as humanly possible. 

Without warning, my foot failed to find solid ground, causing me to tumble into a dried up creekbed. My frame collided with a large rock, and I let out a choked gasp as the wind was knocked from my lungs. A sharp cracking sound emanated from my arm, which had been pinned between my body and the boulder, followed by a blinding pain that pulsed and burned with such intensity that I wailed in agony.

I lay there for a bit, the impact having heavily jarred my body. As my ability to breathe began to return, I used my good right arm to push myself up off of the rock. I stood there for a moment, heaving as I gathered the will to ignore the stabbing sensation in my left elbow. Mustering up what little energy I had left, I pulled myself up from the ditch, my arm screaming in protest every time it brushed the ground. 

Everything hurt. It felt like I’d been trampled by a horse. My muscles ached, my head throbbed, and even as I ran I could feel myself weakening further. The trek to my home was gruelling, for what seemed an eternity I continued, thorns and stray branches scratching and scraping my body.

Even before I broke through the treeline, I could see the flames. I could hear the repeating clash of metal, see the sparks as they danced through the air. A weight settled in my stomach, and I stepped out into the clearing around my home.

It was burning to the ground. 

Flames wreathed the building, casting an orange glow on the clearing. My eyes looked further down, and I saw my father in the midst of fighting three of the raiders. The sword in his hands was a Katana, one we'd finished forging the day before. 

Right now it seemed like only one of the three men were engaging him, the other two just standing back and watching. They weren't much to note, both gave off the vibe of fodder. The other, however, was completely different. A dark, blue-ish mist trailed off of his every movement, and the man was moving at inhuman speeds. Every time my father found an opening to lash out, the man's frame would blur and instantly reclaim the advantage. With every strike that collided with my father's guard, his stance weakened. Before long the raider was purposefully attacking the Katana with wide, swift arcs. His Lance slung his prey to and fro, dragging my father off balance before slamming a kick into his jaw.

He dropped to the ground limply, blood leaking from various cuts across his body. For several moments nobody moved, waiting to see if it was truly over. Then the Lance-wielder paced over to his prone form, pushing him over onto his back with a foot.

"Yeah, he's out. Thomias, get him on a horse. We need to rendezvous with Sombra in the village, confirm the boy's termination." The man ordered, his voice gruff and ragged.

Until this point, I'd been stuck in place, transfixed by the scene playing out before me. Fear and anger clouded my thoughts.

This wasn't supposed to happen. None of this made sense. Why were they here? Why was my 'termination' so important? 

Why are they killing my dad!?!

In that instant, fury overrode my fear.

"Hey!" I shouted, causing the three to look in my direction. Their faces shifted in looks of shock and confusion. The man, however, merely chuckled to himself. "So, guess you managed to give those two idiots the slip, eh? Good. Means I get to have a little more fun."

I drew my sword, having sheathed it escaping Strafa. My body protested this, pain exploding in my arm from the sudden motion. But, my rage snuffed out that pain, and the adrenaline pumping through my veins doubled in intensity. I settled into a defensive stance. Even then I knew better than to charge in blindly, this man had just picked my father apart before my eyes, with seemingly supernatural physical attributes. I would need to play smart, and hope that I got lucky.

He isn't dead yet, can't be. If I can just get them to leave, I can stop the bleeding long enough for us to get to a bigger city.

Reaffirming my resolve, I waited. The Lance-wielder watched me with an amused smirk, daring me to strike first.

Or at least, that was what I thought.

His entire frame suddenly became wreathed in that dark mist, and blurred as he rushed forward at a speed my eyes could barely track. Before I could manage a guard, he was on me. That Lance twirled and danced in a never-ending stream of building momentum, and I knew it would be foolish to challenge that kind of assault as I was. I leapt back, sidestepped a thrust, and took advantage of his overextension with a vicious overhead slash. My blade bounced to the side as he twisted the Lance over, catching my attack with the hilt. He flashed a feral grin before kicking me in the chest hard enough for me to feel my ribcage wax and wane from the pressure. 

The blow sent me a few feet back, sliding against the dry ground. I couldn't move, I could barely even think. My diaphragm spasmed, causing the rest of me to convulse violently from the shock.

That reaction time… that strength…

Now fear flooded my mind and heart, pinning me in place as my attacker closed in. I couldn't win this. No matter what I did, this man was going to tear me apart 

He's going to kill me. He's going to kill both of us, isn't he? Dad, wake up! Please! I need you here, I can't save us alone!

"D-dad…" I breathed, still too overcome with fear and pain to voice my pleas.

"Daddy isn't gonna help you, kid." The Lance-wielder said, loosing a terrible cackle as he reveled in my despair. Then he reared back a leg, before his foot careened into my left, broken, arm with enough force that I felt the air displace around us.

Pain.

A hoarse scream clawed its way from my throat, my good arm grasping the other even as I rolled across the dirt. A shooting, almost mind-numbing agony swept through my body, forcing me to shudder and hyperventilate as I realised just how hopeless this all was. 

If it wasn't broken before, my arm’s skeletal structure was pulverized, now.

My opponent outclassed me in every possible aspect.

And even if I somehow survived, his two subordinates would finish me.

To top all of it off, they were going to take my father if I didn't stop them.

No…

Even my thoughts were weak, muffled, at this stage. Every muscle and bone in my body creaked and squealed in pain, and my vision was becoming blurry. If I'd not taken that fall, I might have been able to last a bit longer.

The man scoffed, "Damn. Here I thought you'd be able to entertain me for a little while. Pathetic! You're even frailer than the old man." I felt something cold slide underneath my chin, and lift my head up. His face was contorted into one of anger, but it seemed almost… playful? Like a kid who hadn't been given something he wanted desperately.

This was a game to him?

My eyes began to feel heavy, all of the adrenaline in my body seemingly vanishing as I teetered between life and death. 

Everything was getting… cold.

Then pain burst from my stomach, the man having slammed a knee into me. Nausea oozed up from the blow, and blood flew from my mouth, mixed with spittle that splashed upon the Lance-wielder's weapon. All I could do was think at this point, speech or movement was beyond me.

Inter...nal….bleeding….

There was a flash of something black, but my body and mind were so numb now that I could barely register it. Suddenly the blade that'd kept my head up vanished, and I fell face first into the dirt. I felt my nose break on impact, blood gushing out and soaking my face.

The last thing I remembered before everything faded to black, was a strange feminine voice resonating around me.

"What the hell? Where am I? Blaine! Blaine, where the f**k did you go!?"

Then I slipped into the void.

Author's Note

What I'm really looking for is opinions on how this reads as a whole. As in, how does the dialogue, descriptivity, and perspective all mesh? Does it come off well? Or do I need to do some tweaking? My only outside opinion comes from my family, so I want to make sure it isn't just their bias. See if people I don't know actually like it, ya'know?

Reviews

[JayG]

Okay, you did ask, and though I know I’m not going to make you happy, since you have some serious issues getting in the way, I thought it best that you knew. Just keep in mind that the things I point out are unrelated to how well you write, or your talent.

Look at the opening lines, not as the author, who knows exactly what each line is intended to mean, but as a reader, who must have context as they read, to make the words more than just a line of words.

• In the beginning, there were three.

Three what? The beginning of what? You know. So the words of the sentence act as pointers to the data that's necessary to make the line meaningful, stored deep in your mind. But for the reader? The words of the sentence are pointers to the necessary data to make the line meaningful, stored deep in *YOUR* mind, not theirs. So the first line, while deeply meaningful to you, has the reader confused. And since there is no second first-impression…

• Three lords of Light, Shadow, and Spirit.

Okay…so there are three lords of light…three lords of shadow…and three lords of spirit.

Not what you meant, of course, but it is what you said. and remember, you can't call the reader stupid. Making the meaning clear, as-a-0line-is-read is YOUR job. So if the reader is dumb you need to know how dumb and write accordingly.

But forget that, What in the hell is a "lord of light" in the context of your story? And is the lord of spirit in charge of ghosts? You know. All those lords know. But the reader, the one you wrote this for? They’re still trying to figure what “beginning” means.

Short version: The reader just arrived. They have no access to your intent, only what the words suggest to them, based on THEIR background, not yours. You need to take that into account.

Because you already know the story, as you read your own words the story makes perfect sense…to you. Because you already know the characters and their history, cultural and placement data, and character motivation and desires, you’ll leave out details that you see as obvious, then automatically fill them in when you read, never realizing that they were missing. And because you know the story, and how you would perform it, the voice you hear in your head as you read is your voice, all filled with emotion. The reader? Have your computer read it aloud to hear what they get.

The problems in the actual story can be summed up with the line: “Ah! Son of a b***h!” A familiar voice shouted, obviously in pain.

Have you ever, in your entire life, on hearing your father’s voice, say to yourself, “Ahh, a familiar voice shouted those words. And, they’re obviously in pain.”? Of course not. On hearing them,you’d simply say, “Dad? Are you okay?” And had the protagonist done that, the reader would know who shouted, and that they're in pain, without you having to stop the action and appear on stage to tell the reader that the protagonist heard a voice, and then explain that it was their father. As as Sol Stein put it: “In sum, if you want to improve your chances of publication, keep your story visible on stage and yourself mum.”

Here’s the problem in a nutshell: We all leave school believing that the skill we call writing is the same skill referred to in the name of the Fiction-Writing profession. But it’s not.

Remember all the reports and essays you had to write in school? That made you ready to write reports and essays on the job. But not one teacher explained the elements of a scene on the page and how to manage them. None mentioned that a scene ends in disaster for the protagonist—and why. Nor did they mention the three issues a reader need to have addressed quickly, or any of the techniques of writing fiction, because all professions are acquired IN ADDITION to the nonfiction skills that prepare us for the needs of employment. So we literally leave our general education years as well prepared to write a novel as to remove an appendix. Luckly for our friends, we realize that medicine requires additional training. And while we apply that idea to such writing fields a screenwriting and journalism, we make the assumption that by reading fiction we learned how to write it. And we do, I suppose…about as well as eating teaches us to cook.

So how do you fix it? Simple. Add a few of the tricks the pros—and the publishers—take for granted. The library’s fiction-writing section has lots of books on the subject, but at the moment the libraries are closed. So head for your favorite online bookseller and download a copy of Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, the best book I know of on the nuts-and-bolts issues of creating scenes that sing to a reader.

For an overview of the issues involved, the writing articles in by blog are based, in large part, on the views you’ll find in that book.

So dig in. But while you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/

[LucianGrimoire]

Hello, just wanted to say that this is probably the best piece of brutal constructive criticism I've ever received. I made the mistake, early on, of giving my family details on the characters and plot, so it makes sense that they'd miss the same things I did. This is exactly what I wanted when I posted this. I'm not currently in a spot to get ahold of the books you mentioned, but I will try to go back and work out a few kinks based on what you said here. Again, many thanks for being so honest!

[LucianGrimoire]

I altered the wording of the areas you specified. Hopefully now it isn't as lacking in context.

[JayG]

First: Definitely, you’ve clarified and improved the opening. But…it’s a report, given for unknown purpose, drom the reader’s viewpoint. And because it is a report, it will be as exciting as any other historical synopsis.

My point is that while this may be accurate, historically—in the context of the coming story—are 564 words of the summation entertaining to a reader who just arrived? In the words of Sol Stein: “A novel is like a car—it won’t go anywhere until you turn on the engine. The “engine” of both fiction and nonfiction is the point at which the reader makes the decision not to put the book down. The engine should start in the first three pages, the closer to the top of page one the better.” So…in the prolog you used two of the three pages Sol talked about for a history lesson. Will the reader say, “Ahh…tell me more,” or, “Will this be on the test?”

Think about an alternative: The reader learns all that you present here through deduction, and, as part of relevant conversations. That way they get the information when, and AS needed.

Make sense?

And since as you know, when you clear the bar, they raise it…

• Bang!

Reader’s perspective: A door slammed. Or, Someone backed their car into the garage door. Or… In general, sound effects on the page don’t work. It’s their effect on the characters and their reaction to it that matters. So you might say, “The crack of a gunshot brought Sam to the window, where…” But saying “Crack!” Then having Sam decide that it’s a gunshot, and then reacting to it, doesn’t work.

When opening any scene, the reader needs to know where we are, who we are, and what’s going on, quickly, if they’re to have context. And that orientation should come, not as explanation from an external observer, it should be provided in the way that the reader doesn’t feel they’re having it explained.

As an example, look at a few paragraphs of the opening for, “Necessity.”
- - - -
Finished adjusting his tie, Jim Cross stopped to admire his wife.

“Helen, my love, you are a truly beautiful woman.”

“A grateful woman, at the moment, thank you,” she said, as she sat up and slipped on her robe. “Nothing like a bit of morning glory to begin the day well.”
- - - -
Where are we? In Jim’s bedroom. Who are we? Jim Cross. What’s going on? Jim’s getting ready to go to work.

Has anyone had to explain that to us? No. We learned it in context, and at the same time, we learned that Jim loves his wife and sees value in expressing emotion and appreciation to her. We learn that his wife is happy with both Jim and their marriage. And we did that early on page one, with only the two of them in that bedroom, as against being with a narrator who is talking ABOUT them. So now, if the words work, we find Jim a person worthy of our attention. We know things are about to go to hell because that’s the nature of storytelling—and why we read—but because of our impressions of Jim as a worthy person, when things do go wrong we will care, and cheer for him.

Make sense? In light of that…

• I jolted upright, the resounding clang of metal shattering my grogginess instantly as my reflexes kicked into high gear. My head automatically jerked to my left, the direction the sound had come from

Look at this line with the idea of condensing it to the essential elements:

1. Do we need to tell the reader that “clangs” resound? No. So one word goes away and the line reads just a bit faster.
2. How many ways must we tell the reader that the sound brought the unknown protagonist awake? Doesn’t the word “clang,” as against the more mild “clank” imply pretty much everything you say, were the line to read “The clang of metal nearby brought me fully awake.”? Wouldn’t those nine words say everything that the eighteen you used did, without a winding path to that conclusion? Remember, the purpose of your first sentence is to bring the protagonist awake. The fewer words used, the faster we get to what matters, which means more impact for the reader.

The print medium is a serial medium, while life comes at us in parallel. So, it’s inherently much slower. And if it takes you longer to bring him awake than that takes in life, the event happens in show motion.
3. Why does the reader need to know which direction the protagonist turned? That’s irrelevant visual information. Why do we need to stress that the “jerk” is automatic? Isn’t that implied by the word jerk? And think abut it. Would the character look in any other direction but the source of the noise? Use implication. The reader, on being made to deduce something feels as if they’re on the scene noticing what matters.

True to your training, you’re explaining and reporting. But, the moment you do, the reader can’t live those events in parallel with their avatar, the protagonist. And making them feel they’re living the story in real-time is our goal. As E. L. Doctorow wisely observed, “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

So…the problem you face is that all your training is to provide a weather report, not hose down the reader. And you can’t use the tool you don’t know exists. So, the article I link to, below, is a condensation of one of many powerful tools you’ll find in that book by Dwight Swain that I recommended.
http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php

Used well, if someone shoots an arrow at our protagonist, the reader will duck.

The tricks of writing fiction are very different from those you use every day. And one of the hardest things you’ll do is convince your existing writing reflexes to keep away from the controls when you’re writing fiction. In the beginning, you’ll consciously make use of the motivation/response units of fiction. But then, when you diagram them during editing (necessary till you do it auomatically as you write). You’ll find that there aren’t any M/RU’s, because on the way to the page your writing reflexes “corrected” the wording.

But once you do get it working you’ll wonder what was so hard about it. And as you read that Dwight Swain book you’ll spend a lot of time saying, “But that was…it’s so simple. Why didn’t I see that myself?” In fact, as I slowly worked my through it for the first time, thinking about each point and practicing it so I wouldn’t forget I read it three days later, I felt so stupid for having missed so MUCH, that I nearly quit halfway though. But I didn’t, and I sold the next novel I queried for, plus the three after that. So a bit of professional knowledge does make a big difference.

I know how frustrating this is. I once flushed close to 2000 beautiful, and descriptive words from the second scene of, Starlight Dancing.” I opened the scene with the protagonist enjoying the view of a desert scene. But then, instead of a line or two on what he say and its effect on him, I left him standing there while I babbled on about the history of the land—which was irrelevant to that scene. But it was included because I loved the writing, itself, for it’s beauty, not for how it moved the plot, meaningfully set the scene, or developed character. We call something like that a writer’s “darling.” And one of the first rules of writing is: “Kill your darlings.” And in this case a critique group’s reaction to the scene was that the history lesson got in the way. So, with deep regret I highlighted the words and pushed delete, then replaced what was chopped with 107 relevent words.

But then, I went back and read the scene from the seat of a reader. In the new version, our protagonist looks out over the land, enjoys the view for the moment a person would, in life—if they’ve seen that view a dozen times before—and got on with his meeting with destiny, in the form of a young hooker who’s dying of Aids and thirst, lying next to a little used roadway through the desert in the American Southwest.

And finally… a thought on family as first readers:

1. They have a relationship with you that they cannot ignore. So they will always be kind.
2. They can hear your voice narrating as they read, and so, get things the reader won’t.
3. As Ben Bova once told my son: “Forget family. Give your work to someone who dislikes you. If you can make them like it you may have something.”

But that being said, one of the single most satisfying moments I’ve had in writing, came during the final edit of, Necessity. In one section, I was making the reader know, and hopefully love, a young Arab woman who would become critical later on. In the sequence she meets, and falls in love with an American man. But she can’t marry him for plot reasons. And at the same time she must go though fire to become what she is when she reenters the story. So the catalyst for that change is the abrupt death of the man, at the hands of someone she trusted. I thought the scene worked, and after what I hoped was the final edit, gave the manuscript to my wife as a beta reader.

Two days later she came into the room, her face grim. She stared at me for about ten seconds, while I tried to guess at what had her so upset. But before I could, she pointed an angry finger at me as she said, “You son of a b***h, you KILLED him!”

Living the story AS the protagonist, Lynn didn’t simply learn that our protagonist had fallen in love, SHE had fallen in love with the man, too, and she was reacting as if he was real and SHE had lost him. In fact, after I completed the scene in which he died, I’d spent several days grieving for his death because I had come to know him, not as a character I was writing about, but as a close friend, someone I truly cared about.

I reasonably told my wife that I didn’t kill the man, that Nasser had done it, and that he’s the one she should blame. In response she shook her head and said, “No…you did it. And this story better damn well turn out well for her in the end. Because if it doesn’t you’re sleeping on the couch from now on.”

I LOVE when that happens. I loved her, and, I didn’t have to sleep on the couch.

Hope this helps.

[LucianGrimoire]

Goodness, these reviews are fantastic. I'm going to spend a while looking over this chapter after I read that article, and I'm already thinking up a few things I can change to make the post-prologue content read a bit better. Do you think the opening I have is salvageable, or should I do away with it and try working those points into the story itself? I always visualised that bit kind of like the Three Brothers story from Harry Potter, but I doubt that's how someone's going to look at it for the first time. Or at least, not many people. Also, thanks for the tip on sounds, I always felt weird doing that. Should have listened to myself and worded that differently.

[JayG]

• Do you think the opening I have is salvageable, or should I do away with it and try working those points into the story itself?

Bottom line: At the moment, though no fault of your own, you left school, as I did, believing that writing-is-writing, and that what we’re given is what we need. So you, literally, own only nonfiction writing skills. They’re fact-based and author-centric. Use them, and no matter how hard you try, and no matter how much you embellish they are nonfiction skills, so someone not on the scene is talking about the story in a voice the reader cannot hear. That means the narrator’s voice lacks emotion and is, inherently, dispassionate. And it matters not at all that you use first person, because the author talking about events and the author pretending to be the one who once lived them, describing the same events using first person pronouns is still, someone not on the scene talking ABOUT them in overview. Think about reading a horror story. You can tell the reader that, step-by-step, as Charles descends the steps into the basement, his fear grows. That keeps the reader informed. Or, you can make the READER feel as if THEY’RE descending, THEIR tension growing, step-by-step. I don’t have to ask which one you’d prefer, but I will pose the question: did anything your teachers gave you prepare you to terrorize the reader, as against reporting that the character feels terror?

See the problem? You have the desire, the writing skills, the enthusiasm, and the story. But you need the specialized knowledge the pros take for granted. As someone who owned a manuscript critiquing service I can tell you why a given manuscript will be rejected. And, I can tell you were to find the information you need to eliminate the problem. But I’m not a writing teacher. That I leave to the pros. I suspect that as you work your way through Swain’s book you’re going to see places where you need to trim detail to fix a problem and those where a rewrite is quicker.