Chapter 1

“Hello, Arden.” 

The all too familiar women sat down across from me in the stuffy room, accommodating herself on a chair. Her kitten heels clicked over to where I was situated, nestled on a puke green couch. 

I crossed my arms and muttered a “Hi,” only for the sake of not being terribly and utterly rude. Her optimistic demeanor and bounce in her step was overly exaggerated, and quite frankly, annoying as hell, and she sat opposing me on a seat. She revealed a black notebook from her purse and opened it up to a blank page, whilst pulling off the cap of the pen with her teeth. 

“How are you feeling today?” 

Her pen was perched on the paper, ready to document whatever I happened to say. 

“Just grand, Miss Berkhart,” I said sarcastically, crossing my legs and praying that the designated twenty-five minutes of therapy would be over as soon as possible. I shot her a scowl. 

Her brown eyes met mine, bright behind the rims of her glasses, but her expression looked troubled as she scrutinized me, like I was some puzzle that was impossible to solve. 

“I sense you’re harboring hostile emotions,” she continued, dutifully scribbling incomprehensibly on a page, “care to tell me what’s wrong?” 

I winced at those last words. ‘What’s wrong?’ is such a stupid question to ask a teenager in high school, especially one like me who was drowning in a crippling amount of depression. A better thing to say would be ‘What isn’t wrong?’ for there would be a noticeably shorter list of answers. And I had no real desire to pour out the contents of my soul to a complete and total stranger. 

I sighed. “No, Miss Berkhart. I really would not like to talk about it.” 

Her eyebrows rose up to her forehead, as if to say: Well, too bad, we’re going to talk about it anyway. 

“How’s school?” She rested her head on her palm, and I glanced down to fidget with a loose strand of thread on my tee-shirt.

“Fine.” 

I grimaced. The lie lingered on my tongue. 

Miss Berkhart nodded, and hummed while she scrawled more words into her stupid book. She could sense the fabrication, I could tell. 

“Friends are good?” 

I nodded, biting my lip. 

“And last week,” she proceeded, “you told me you had a boyfriend. How’s that going?” 

“Great,” I blurted out, maybe a bit too intently, and my mouth wobbled despite all my efforts to maintain my pokerface. 

She reached forward to lay her hand on mine. I flinched and pushed her away, glancing out the window, as she jolted back to her chair. Miss Berkhart thought I wasn’t watching, but I saw her run her fingers through her short hair, and in that second, she looked almost a hundred years old, despite the fact she was barely 27. 

A few awkward seconds passed by. I stared into my lap.

“He broke up with you?” Her voice was smaller this time, like she was almost begging for me to tell her what happened. “I want to help.” 

I huffed, trying not to let her know how shattered I was. “He cheated on me.”

An “Oh” was all she could manage to articulate. 

“Yeah,” I said, looking out the window at a group of children playing hop-scotch. “I really don’t want to discuss it.”

Her face blanked. 

“Well, then,” she announced. The cheerful element that rang through her voice led me to believe that she was trying to steer the conversation in a lighter direction. I was glad. Anything was better than talking about Jacob. 

“Let’s talk about today, then. How are you feeling today, other than ‘grand?’” 

Suppressing a groan, “Hopeless,” I replied. I decided to let her have that one. More mad scribbling was done. I tapped my foot on the hideously carpeted floor, wondering if I could get away with making a run for it. 

“I’ll make a note to adjust your daily allowance of Effexor. I sense the drug is insufficient for your needs.” She cleared her throat, oblivious to anything but her notes. “Any thoughts on, um, suicide?” 

My foot froze. I squinted at her, giving the best impression I had to a death glare.

“We’re all going to wither away into oblivion someday,” I began. “So why not speed up the process. Those are my thoughts.” 

It genuinely surprised me how shocked she looked. Her mouth dropped open in a circular shape and she completely forgot to record my words in her book. In a way, it was satisfying that I had instigated such a reaction. 

“Why do you feel that way?” she stuttered, in an attempt to regain her composure. 

I offered a shrug. “Is it not the truth?” 

Miss Berkhart’s lips formed a tight line. She leaned forward in her seat and said, “You know what, Arden?” 

“What?” I mumbled, as I stuck a fresh stick of spearmint in my mouth. I did it only because the sign on the door said “NO GUM” in towering, black letters, but she didn’t notice, and continued her spiel. 

“Some of us have to be the lucky ones.” 

She watched me closely, like I was supposed to have an incredulous epiphany and figure out my whole entire life with that one philosophical sentence. The lady made me sick. 

“Can you not? Can you not attempt to sound all incredibly deep and whatever because to me it just sounds totally pretentious.” 

“Arden,” she warned. This was seriously getting on my nerves. My temper was about to burst, and that never ended well. I clicked a button on my phone so I could see the time. 

“No,” I said. “No. Now, I believe it has been twenty-six minutes and forty-eight seconds, so I’ll gladly show myself the door.” 

I got up and shrugged on my sweatshirt, not being able to move my feet quick enough to get out of that dismal room. Miss Berkhart didn’t stop me. 

I slammed the door a little harder than necessary on my way out, and all the people in the receptionist area shot me oppressing glowers. My mother sat huddled in a chair in the corner, hastily dog-earing her book, and she distributed apologetic glances throughout the space as if it were her job to repent for my horrendous mood. I walked straight by her. 

“Arden?” she questioned. It took her a bit to rise from the chair. To face the facts, she was getting old. I rushed with quiet dignity through the main door, ignoring all the stares, and collapsed in relief as I smelled the wonderful thing that is fresh air. It was like I had just taken a pillow off my face. 

I was feeling rather resentful towards my mother because of her endless worrying about me. Yes, I was mentally screwed up. No, I did not need to talk about my feelings 24/7  with ladies who barely knew a thing about me except my diagnosis and amount of medicine I was ingesting and attempted to influence me with their overblown hypotheses.

I jogged over to the passenger door of our clunky Honda and slumped into the seat. My mom briskly followed my steps. 

“Did it go okay?” She got in and started the engine with a flick of her wrist. 

I involuntarily flipped through radio stations, trying to find something loud enough to the point where we couldn’t communicate without screaming. 

“I don’t know,” I yelled, shrugging my shoulders. My mom looked moderately pissed. I fiddled with the makeup mirror and reapplied some mascara that I kept handy in my purse as some heavy metal rock band blared through the speakers. 

“Can you turn that blasted music off?” 

I shook my head. We approached a red light and she reached out to do it herself. I heard her sigh. 

“Look, Arden, I’m trying to help you. I don’t want you to be living with this constant feeling of inadequacy. It hurts, it really does.” 

I rolled down the window and let the wind envelope my body. She tensed, and I could tell she was about to ask me to roll it back up, but she didn’t. I wouldn’t have listened, anyway. 

“Good to know.” 

My mom puffed the air out of her cheeks, and even though this was as close as we’d ever get to an argument, there was no clear winner. We both lost. The silence was asphyxiating, and I realized that nothing sounded worse at the moment then going home and dealing with five more hours of it until sleep rescued me. 

“Can you take me to Gracie’s?” I requested, praying that she’d say yes. 

My mom exhaled again, and rotated the steering wheel, maneuvering into the right lane. That was her way of giving in. I smiled, albeit I wasn’t necessarily happy. I hadn’t been happy in awhile. Part of the whole “Depression in Teenagers” thing was avoidance of social interaction, so my mom was pretty iron-willed on ensuring that I got as much time with friends as possible, even if she had to use blackmail, her wrath, or mere force.  

In all honesty, I was so much more content to sit in my room all day, drinking tea and reading books, than putting up with everyone else’s crap. But in modern day society, isolating yourself was frowned upon, and deemed “antisocial.” Which maybe I was, in spite of the fact that it’s not completely a bad thing. 

Books, though. I loved them, and reading seemed to be the only past-time I hadn’t entirely lost enjoyment in. 

Disinterest in activities; another aftermath of depression. 

After I stopped by Gracie’s, I made a mental note to run by this quaint little store in the heart of downtown. It was old and rustic and completely brilliant and my little sister had recommended me a story called The Ubiquity of Desolation, which despite the morbid title, I was eager to read. 

My mom spun the vehicle into a rugged driveway, and I rushed out of the car and to the front door without saying goodbye. I heard the roar of the engine fade in to the distance, and I initiated Gracie and I’s secret rhythm. Two knocks, two rings, and then two more knocks. 

The door swung open immediately and I fell into my best friend’s arms. 

“Arden! I didn’t know you were coming.” She laughed, and her whole face smiled at me. 

“I didn’t know either,” I replied, “Mother troubles.” I looked over her shoulder. “Hey, Ethan.” 

A boy stood behind Gracie, nearly a foot taller, and his long blonde hair swooped over his forehead, almost covering his eyes. He wore a sideways smirk that dominated the whole bottom half of his complexion. 

“What’s up, Arden? Oh my gosh, you’ve got to come in and see this.” 

Ethan wasted no time in pulling me into the practical entryway, while Gracie trailed along behind. 

“We’ve been working on the end of the year prank,” he elaborated, gesturing towards a blueprint that took over half of Gracie’s kitchen table. “We’re still trying to work out some minor details, but we know we want it to include puppies.”

I sat down in a seat. “Puppies?” 

Gracie smiled at Ethan. She’d told me last night that she was “Kinda, sorta, maybe developing a thing for him,” and I was happy that she was jumping into the dating scene, especially with Ethan, one of our closest companions. He grinned back, but not at her. 

“Yeah, of course, it’ll be perfect,” Ethan proceeded, carrying on his briefing to me. I liked the way he talked. It was like everything he said had to be vocalized with unabashed enthusiasm. 

“Oh-” Ethan muttered, and then he bent down to scribble on the map of the school. 

I was watching him when Gracie came up behind me, and whispered in my ear, “How’s the getting over Jacob thing going?” She handed me a sweet tea, and I shrugged. 

“Okay,” I mumbled, smiling at her as a way to say thanks. I indulged in a sip. It really was okay, we’d only dated for two weeks and right after we broke up, he moved an impressive six states away. No awkward encounters for me, unless I happened to decide on a visit to Rhode Island, which was highly improbable. Gracie laid her hand on my shoulder, standing right behind my chair. 

‘When I fall in love with someone,” I said, “I want it to be mad and passionate.” I played with the lemon that was wedged on the rim of the glass. “And that’s just not gonna happen right now.” 

“I understand,” Gracie muttered in soliloquy, while sneaking a glance at Ethan. He was leaning over the table with a pen behind his ear, ignoring our -as he put it- “women talk.”

We both sighed in agreement, and all of a sudden a wave of fatigue rushed over my body. A blinking clock atop of the countertop read 6:02, and I knew that if I wanted to make it to the bookstore, I’d have to leave momentarily. 

“I’m gonna head out,” I announced. 

Reviews

[Storyworker]

So the first thing I noticed about your book was the title. “The Craters in the Moon”. Honestly, the title is what drew me to the story, as I found it to be very unique and interesting. Is it a symbolic title? Is it something that is involved in the plot? The reader asks these questions and is intrigued to know. One thing about the title though: make sure that something within the story happens that actually refers to the craters in the moon, or else the reader feels betrayed by the title.

This also ties into what genre the story is. I would make it clear whether the story is science fiction, fantasy, or realistic fiction. All you need to do is select a genre in the “genre” box for the story. That’s easy, and it makes the reader more sure of what they are reading, and what they can expect.

Getting past the title and genre and getting to the writing, another thing I noticed was the use of adjectives. Take a look at your second paragraph:

“The ALL TOO FAMILIAR women sat down across from me in the STUFFY room, accommodating herself on a chair. Her KITTEN heels clicked over to where I was situated, nestled on a PUKE green couch.”

Adjectives can be good, but when you use them too much, they tend to break up the story and interrupt the flow. They really get repetitive, and feel like speed bumps; especially if the adjectives don’t mean anything. For instance, if you take a look at your paragraph, you see that “All too familiar” tells the reader something about the character: that she’s been seeing this woman for a while. Now, “Kitten Heels” does not tell us much about anything. It is a rather pointless adjective that doesn’t help the story. If it doesn’t connect, or show something in some way, make sure you either don’t use it, or replace it with something that does. You actually did a very good job in using adjectives to describe the annoyance that your main character is feeling. “Stuffy” and “Puke” are good descriptive words that tie in to how the character describes things, showing her angry nature. Just makes sure that they aren’t so evident and repetitive that they feel like speed bumps.

So next, I want to talk about clichés. If you know me, I talk a lot about clichés, or things that are done way too often by way too many writers. It is very important to get rid of every type of cliché you can find. There were a few types within the story that I found:

First, there’s the development of the character. Your main character is an angst ridden teenager who is mad at the world and extremely depressed at the same time. This is a character who has appeared in many different novels. The question you must ask yourself is, “What makes my character unique?”. Find a way to give your character aspects that differ from all of the other characters you’ve read about in teenage novels. You must also make your character likable. An unliked character will be hated by the reader, and they might even make a reader stop reading. You definitely don’t want this, so make your character unique and interesting so you have a better chance of the reader liking them.

The next cliché happened in the dialogue. Dialogue is very tricky to get right, and takes time to develop. Many of the dialogue lines didn’t seem to match up both to realism, and to the character they were spoken from. Here’s an example of two lines from the main character:

“Just grand, Miss Berkhart,”

“We’re all going to wither away into oblivion someday, so why not speed up the process. Those are my thoughts.”

So if you examine these two lines, you have Arden saying jerky things like the first line for a long while, and then suddenly, she becomes very philosophical, and says something extremely well-thought-out and intelligent. This was a bit of a shock to me as I read. Make sure that the dialogue matches up to the characters, and make sure it sounds realistic. Real dialogue isn’t highly organized like the second line.

Now I did like how your character’s dialogue changed due to the situation she was in. That was very cool. Just make sure that the dialogue style changes aren’t out of place and shocking.

Next, therapists are often a part of teenage novels, and they are often misinterpreted. Therapists/counselors are hard to write because, well, they’re freaking smart. A therapist has secrets that they learn during years of study, and they are often extremely intelligent. It is hard to know how to write a therapist because many people simply don’t know what they know, and can’t figure out what they would say in many different patient situations. For one thing, they are not often shocked by what their patients are saying, but look at this:

“It genuinely surprised me how shocked she looked. Her mouth dropped open in a circular shape and she completely forgot to record my words in her book. In a way, it was satisfying that I had instigated such a reaction.”

A mental health counselor would never do this. They are often more professional, and are barely ever shocked by what they hear. Trust me when I say that mental health counselors hear things like this every day, and are used to them. They deal with depression every minute of their day.

This is just one example of how it’s hard to write a therapist. Really, it’s hard to write any profession unless you do your research. But researching is difficult, and may be out of range. Many writers have actually seen therapists themselves though, and they draw on this experience to write their mental health counseling scene. This probably won’t help at all, because once again a therapist has years of education in picking their patients apart. They are very hard to decode, and thus hard to write even if you’re experienced in seeing one.

Another thing while I’m on the subject of characters. Main characters often have parts of the writer in them. The problem is that sometimes a writer will make the character a carbon copy of themselves. You want to keep a healthy balance here, making the character unique from you, but still connected to you in a moderate way. If this is the situation, I would work to correct it a bit, but this probably isn’t the situation. I thought I’d include this little part just in case. You don’t want to write your story here in this novel by making everything based highly off of your experience and personality. Save that for when you become a famous writer and have to write your memoir or autobiography.

Now the ending was fantastic.

““I’m gonna head out,” I announced.”

It’s the perfect amount of balance between cliffhanger and normality. You aren’t making a huge dramatic cliffhanger here, but you also aren’t ending on a boring note. Good job on that. Sometimes writers will get carried away with their chapter endings to make people keep reading. You didn’t do this, which, in my opinion, is great.

That’s all I have to say. Take my suggestions as you will. You are the writer of the story and should only take the ideas that are right for you. Not everything I’ve said is law. The suggestions should only be taken if you agree with them. Keep working on this.

-Storyworker