As writers, we spend a lot of time alone, pouring our hearts onto the page. But if we want to produce the very best work that you can, this isn’t enough. To truly make our work the best it can be, we need fresh eyes. We need to show our work to others willing to pick up that loathed red pen and critique our writing.
Photo by Nic McPhee
Most writers know this, but a lot of us still avoid it like the plague. Who wants to hear their own work get blasted? Fortunately, being receptive to criticism is a skill that you can develop. It always stings a little, but I’ve got three steps that have helped me learn to cope better:
1. Choose critique partners you trust.
Don’t let just anyone let their pen loose on your beloved drafts. For feedback you’ll respect, only share it with people you trust.
There’s two kinds of trust I look for. First, be sure these are people who you trust to have your best interests in mind—don’t pick competitive writers who might want to cut you down, for example. And don’t pick people who will say your work is wonderful just to keep you happy, either—your mom may not the person for this job.
It also means choosing people whose writing sensibility you trust. If you’re a Tolstoy, a Hemingway might not the person to get feedback from. Choose people who know the craft and will appreciate your style.
2. Believe in yourself.
You seek out critiques to improve your writing. Implicit to that statement is the belief that you are capable of improving your writing. Simply by seeking a critique, you are exposing confidence in yourself. Never forget this!
When I find myself fearing a critique or despairing over feedback, it’s because I lose sight of my belief that I am a capable writer. All I’m hearing in the feedback is reasons why my work isn’t good enough. But deep down, the confidence is still there. Remembering other times feedback helped me improve helps me remember that I believe in myself.
3. Give it a try.
You may not agree with all the feedback you get. That’s okay! No one knows your work as well as you do, and that makes you the expert. But don’t dismiss a critique based on a gut reaction. First, give it a try.
Sometimes we simply get so deep within our own concept that we can’t see outside of it, no matter how good the advice. So before writing off a critique, open up a fresh document, copy and paste in the scene in question, and give that feedback the old college try. You might surprise yourself—I know I have many times.
With these steps, you can have a better critique experience and get more from the feedback you receive. And remember, practice makes perfect—okay fine, we may never be perfect (after all, that’s why we get critiques). But the more you expose your work to critique, the better you will get at accepting it without feeling hurt. And the better we’re able to listen to feedback, the better writers we can become.
How about you? Do you like to critique other writers? Do you like it when your writing is critiqued?
PRACTICE
Let's prove that this is a trustworthy community, where writers can receive helpful, honest feedback. Today, share a small segment (3 to 4 paragraphs) of something you wrote recently.
Then, spend some critiquing a few pieces by your fellow writers, giving specific feedback about what you liked, what you didn't, and why.
These are excellent points and suggestions. There is nothing we have written that cannot be improved on. Critique can be respectful as well as helpful. A fresh set of eyes can pick up many weak spots. Thanks for sharing this blog.
Thanks Ruth!
I have always said that it was mainly through the support and guidance of two wonderful critique groups that I have reached publication. I learned so much from them, not just the mechanics, but style, voice, and consistency. I enjoy critiquing in return because seeing how other people write and having the opportunity to ask why helps to further imbed the lessons learned. Don’t miss out on this precious and FREE method of improving your writing!
A great tip, Denise. I adore my critique group, and I don’t know what I’d do without them!
Oh man, I have issues with crit. It all rests on not having faith in myself, I guess – I have a serious perfectionist problem, tied up in a lot of anxiety and bad memories, to the point where even if I agree with the crit and trust the person giving it just trying to read it makes me fell sick and shaky.
Good news is, I’m starting to slowly get better with it! I mean, very slowly, but if I leave a piece for… over a year and then ask someone to look at it and then forget that I asked them and finally read the crit a while after I get it… I just wished there was a faster way to get the necessary emotional distance. 😛
It is frustrating, especially since when I tried to talk about it with someone their response was ‘it’s normal to not like crit because your stories are your precious children!’ and noooo, my stories are NOT my babies and I desperately want them to be as good as possible, but it’s so hard getting past my emotional hang-ups. :/
I know, Maure, it can be so hard! But I think your persistence is going to pay off–good for you for not letting the uncomfortable-ness of seeking feedback stop you from your efforts to improve.
Critique away fellow practitioners and artisans…..this is an old post from a few days ago about control….
Control.
This has to stop. After all I’m the grown up right? I’m the parent. I’m the one with the responsibility; the one who pays the bills, does the washing, shopping, cooking, caring. He can’t keep on treating me like this.
I pace the kitchen floor, glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. My phone lays silent on the cold granite bench; no message, no missed calls. I text again. ‘You better reply to me or I’m cutting off your credit tomorrow. What is your problem?’
My heart pounds. Is he ok? Perhaps something’s happened. Is that a siren I can hear?
The school registrar rang; he hasn’t been there for three days. His car’s not here. He must have slipped in when I was at work. The biscuit tin is empty and the milk is nearly out. There’s a wet towel on the bathroom floor, shaving cream around the bathroom taps, dirty washing in the laundry sink.
(‘Stuff you, I’m not doing your washing anymore you …’. A momentary win slices through the quiet.)
I roll a cigarette. I’m smoking too much. It’s got to stop. Headlights ripple up through the trees along the driveway, then disappear into the distance.
So much for being a liberal parent. So much for fair discipline. Where’s the text book for this bit? The last frayed and worn thread of umbilical dangles in metaphysic silence from my ageing maternal belly, teasing time. Heart yells into a silent chasm, wasting away it’s cherished beats into frowns and despair.
Perhaps a chamomile tea will help me gain perspective. This wine isn’t working. Let go. I can’t. He’s my baby.
Am I that bad? Seriously. Have I asked for this stoney retreat? This blatant disrespect gorges on my power and gnaws deep into the leathery reins I have pulled and jerked and released for 17 years. I hold out my hands and see the blisters, scars and welts of mother etched into their thinning skin and dish-wash calloused palms.
At a loss. At sea in a squall of hissing indignance. How dare he? Where is he? Love becomes hate becomes love becomes anger becomes ….
Chamomile softens the edges. I pull the alpaca throw rug from the edge of the couch and plump up the velvet cushions. I’ll wait here, on the couch in the dark and see if he slinks in. I’ll catch him by surprise, confront him, let him know I will not be treated like this.
I glance at the clock. I roll another cigarette. I’m smoking too much. It’s got to stop. Headlights ripple up through the trees along the driveway, then disappear into the distance. Life repeats. I’ve been here before. My eyelids droop.
Plush velvet kisses me. I succumb. Heart glides gently into sheltered port. I try to smile a little and remember he is the last one. The youngest. This too will pass and I will be free. A final glance at the clock. Tick tock, tick tock. And I gallop into the thickness of a martyrs slumber.
This is good. You capture the angst every parent feels at some point. I get confused on the last paragraph. Has he come home and emptied the biscuit tin etc or is this at his college room? I think it’s the line “His car’s not here.” that throws me off.
Like the visuals of shaving cream dirty washing, maybe throw in a smell.
Thanks AJR. So grateful for your feedback. I’m getting more confident with sharing.
Good point about the car, and yes add smell – especially as we are talking teenage boy -I’m sure most parents could relate.
Son in this story is at high school, not college, and lives at home not in a college room.
Re …the last paragraph do you mean at the very bottom of the post about galloping into slumber… Or did you not read that far, I’m a bit confused.
Thanks again. Totally appreciated.
Hi Dawn, I really enjoyed this piece. As AJR, commented, it does capture that parental angst well. Omitting any character description, and allowing the reader to fill that in, also worked very well, as did the chop and change of the mother’s heart.
Great choice of words in the final para,
Thanks for sharing.
Thanks Al.
It’s always interesting to get feedback on what works or resonates for people.
I appreciate your taking the time to comment 🙂
Oh I remember similar late nights. Your choice of words is wonderful. I love the”momentary win,” in particular and the leathery reins. Nice imagery.Her angst and worry comes through easily, and I especially like her random thoughts on what might be happening to what she might be doing in the future to the past. Nice juxtaposition.
One thought. Regarding the sentence “Heart yells… Consider dropping part if it to read: Heart wasting away its cherished beats…
It gives that idea more punch, IMO.
Great job. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks Diane for reading and responding. I’m glad it made sense to you.
Yes teen-parenting, many opportunities to dip in and out of mixed emotions, fears, doubts, hopes and aspirations etc.
I appreciate your suggestion too. I’ll give it a whirl.
All the best. 🙂
I was working on this piece when the Write Practice, email arrived. It is part of a novel – in first draft. All comments and critique welcome.
Heather’s eyes were glistening, her mood sombre, as she turned from the setting sun to face Sam. “I wish we were just living like this. You know, without all the drugs and agenda, without any of that negative shit. It is so peaceful; so beautiful at times. There must be thousands of places to go, and just be, without having to worry about the likes of Mitchell, the Reeds, and Mad Ray. Places where we could just start over. Two people without pasts, with unplanned futures, only the here and now.”
“There are many such places. It would take more than one lifetime to visit them all. Many people look at those sailing this way and think, or even say ‘how lucky’; ‘I wish I could do that’. It is not luck as you have come to see in the past couple of months. It is more about taking a chance, giving up many of the supposed comforts of home, and living in a way that can call upon you at a moment’s notice.” He paused in thought for a moment then continued. “It is also a lifestyle that causes change in many of those that take it up. It certainly did in me when I first lived this way. And even now, with everything else that’s going on, I still feel a sense of personal change. More important than that, I see and feel a profound change in you.”
“You do?” Heather said timidly, “I thought that I was just imagining it. That I just felt different, because of this way of living; because I am away from all of that shit in Sydney.” She thought for a moment, “Do you think it will last? Or will I just lose it all once I get home?”
“We are all changed by our situation, our surrounds, by the pressure of life, to a greater or lesser degree. When that pressure is relieved or the situation normalised, then we are free to revert to who we really are. And even though the changes might be reversed, they can never be completely removed, because you know how it is to be different, so you will always think differently. You will always know what it was like to escape the bullshit. To lose your fear. To see beauty where once only the unknown existed.” He took her hand in his before going on. “When you were a kid of sixteen and your life was ruled by drugs, you adapted to that in the only way you understood then. That became your life, and you became of that life. Circumstance forced change upon you. Pressure forced you into a mould, which for you became the norm. You no doubt convinced yourself that you liked your life that way; that you were independent, free and living on the edge. A rebel.
“Life can be a harsh mistress. She tempts you do things that you would never believe you are capable of, things that go against the very grain of your soul, against all your previous ideas of who you are. Sometimes it seems tempting to leave her cruel ways. Only fear of the unknown stops us. That, and our addiction to her.
“Later, you adapted that lifestyle to something more bearable, more endurable. Eventually you took more control of what you did, but still it was like an inmate adapting to prison routines, finding a tolerable niche within an unsympathetic and sometimes violent world. However, unlike that institutionalised lifer, when you saw a chance of escape you took it, almost regardless of the risks. Now, you are on the outside. You are free to become the real you, without any outside interference and influence. The pressure is off; the threats have gone.”
“That’s how I feel, I think. It is as if I can start again with a fresh, clean slate. As if Heather-the-escort and drug addict, no longer exists, and that there is this new person waiting to start her life. To start living, instead of just existing. Sounds stupid I guess, but I don’t know how else to say it.”
“You said it how it is. Since arriving in Antigua, all of your past life has been stripped away. It was like stepping into somebody else’s life, a life that you knew almost nothing about. I think that you have done brilliantly. No, I know you have. Look at how you have taken up all the new knowledge that you need to make the most of this. You could have sat back and relied on me to do all of the sailing, navigation, and decision-making, but you didn’t do that, not for a minute. If I had told you back in March, that you would be sailing and navigating across the Pacific Ocean, you would have rolled your eyes and said what? Bollocks, most probably.”
“That’s just what I was going to say. Bollocks! But I can, can’t I. I mean, I can actually navigate now, and sail, a little. It is so hard to believe that it is me doing all of this.”
She looked across the water at the soaring green peak of the island, as if to remind herself that she was actually there. “That night,” she continued, “when I first spoke to you about doing this… about trying to get them busted, and then you sort-of laughed and walked out on me. I thought then I would never be anything more than an escort until my looks faded completely, and I would be left with nothing but a house and fading memories. I felt I had blown my last chance, my only chance, at ever getting out of that awful life, other than by dying. I thought it was all that I could do. But now, now I see that I can learn things, can do things, useful things, fun things.” She raised her hand taking Sam’s with it and gently wiped a tear from her eye, “I’m not afraid anymore Sam.”
As a first draft it is pretty good. Like most first drafts though the real action is too far into the story. I really had to fight my way through the first half which was a lot of telling but very little showing. Once you started talking about the sailing thats where you begin to get the conflict and change. The first part is more like the theme of the story, which makes sense as your ideas ae just forming in the first draft.
Hi Al,
Off to a sailing start…:-)
I agree with AJR re the action being a long way in and a lot of telling and not showing.
I got a sense of movement and stillness in this, like ebb and flow and suggest a little less all-knowing dialogue…perhaps the MC could just be thinking some of this and it could be expressed outwardly with gestures for example a slight twinkle, a smile, a gentle brush on her shoulder.
Also this lovely setting, and reflection on growth and transformation, could be brought to life with some description of the surrounds, the water,sky, clouds,breeze, ocean smells and colours, ripples, movement, fluttering sail, slap of steel cables, the sip and slap of water on the hull…you get my drift.
Great story. Thanks for sharing.
Regards
Dawn.
Al,
Nice beginning, and the idea is great. Much opportunity for character arc here. I do agree, however, with Dawn and AJR about the telling dialogue. Perhaps some internal thought, a line or two of personal backstory, or some other way to break up the long dialogue passages that may have a tendency to become tedious. Include some grounding in the setting maybe. You have a wonderful way of expression. Use that strength.
First drafts are all about this kind of fixing.
Thanks for sharing your work.
Thank you all very much for taking time to read and comment.
Perhaps I should have mentioned that this extract is close to the end of a 120k word manuscript, and that it is deliberately slowing down after a session of mayhem and trauma.
Yes, the first half is referring to the theme, — how one changes under pressure — but perhaps too directly and for too long, and, perhaps as Dawn suggested, in an ‘all-knowing’ way. @Dawn – does he come across as a real know all??
Heather’s development has been ‘shown’, perhaps too much even, prior to this scene. Maybe I am ramming it down the reader’s throat here? Driving the point too far? Something I tried to avoid with the ripple flutter slip and slap, with which I have lightly peppered the sailing section of the story.
Again, thanks for the valuable input. I will go over this scene again with a knife in one hand and a brush in the other.
Cheers, Al
A short snippet. Please blast away
“Scars are the starting point of most conversations here,” said Walter. “You nervous?”
“A little.”
“Excited?”
She nodded.
“Yeah scars and tattoos. Without clothes and fashion that’s where the conversation drifts. Only the Navy guys have tattoos. Just ignore them, they’re showoffs anyway with their ‘Peacock’ poses.”
Sonja wondered, would anyone notice?
At the time she was consumed with grief, the whole country was. It was so tiny. She couldn’t believe she had done it—all alone—wandering to that side of town. What had possessed her? She wouldn’t have, if it were a man running the shop, but Julie had an inviting way about her.
As Walter drove, her hand drifted over her heart, as if reciting a pledge. It was so small. As long as she stood or sat upright, she thought the cup of her breast would conceal the three tiny blue letters—her homage—’JFK’.
Hi.
I enjoyed how you have captured a moment in time, starting with dialogue to set the scene or context.
I also enjoyed how the conversation peels off to Sonja’s inner wondering and reflection on her past decisions and how she will be in the imminent situation. This paragraph also ‘showed’ and era very well.
The only suggestion I have is to consider introducing Walter as driving at the beginning rather than the last paragraph.
…but then again you’re bringing him back into the story with it in the last para…so just a style thing really. 🙂
Nice writing, flawless to my amateur eye. Thanks for sharing.
E.g
1st para
….. said Walter, relaxing his hands on the wheel.
Thanks Dawn. Love your suggestion.
A tiny snippet of a rough draft for a short story.:
~~~
The ancient clock on the free side of the thick glass prison counts down the last minutes of my life. Me, and the other doomed prisoners, have a half an hour of breath left. It is surreal knowing the exact time you will die. With each passing moment the world around me changes.
Tick
The world brightens.
Tock.
My senses heighten.
The trees orange and yellow leaves fall droop to the ground. Free people step on their decaying, crunchy shells. The world is vibrant and spectacular, and I am not ready to leave it.
My fellow Fatal’s deal with the inevitable death in their own unique ways. A dirt covered husband holds tight to a sobbing woman dressed in brown rags. A seven year old child sleeps in his dazed fathers’s arms. A solitary man sits in a corner and stares at his reflection with a scowl. I too sit alone. Everyone I have ever known is gone, lost to the plague, or became a Fatal and died like I am about to do.
The epidemic that almost wiped out the human race swept swiftly into our home. It captured my loving mother first. Alex, the oldest of the five children, found her thin body outlined in blood on the tile floor of the bathroom. He was taken next. I was the who found him, but I can’t remember it. The only memory I have is of screaming for hours, and then the leftover, raw pain from my spent throat.
I absolutely love this idea! Great job- it keeps me wanting to keep reading.
Well thank you so much! That someone would want to keep reading is an excellent thing to hear. 😀
Eliese,
I absolutely love the clock image and its measure of time left. I assume it will recur in the piece?
You pose a host of questions that beg answers. What made those folks Fatals? Why is the narrator awaiting death? Can you see me rubbing my hands together in anticipation?
Great start. Thanks for sharing.
Hehehe. I have all the ideas in my head and some on paper already. I like building up to it. 😛 Glad you liked it 😀
Oh my. It makes me so sad. I hope he somehow makes it out alive. Amazing job of pulling me in and making me care immediately. Keep up the good work! : )
Yay!! Thanks!
I have had mixed results with critique groups, but I think it’s worth the effort to find the right people or person who can help you see your work through other eyes. I’m fortunate to have a best friend who is an incredible editor and who is also brutally honest even when she knows I don’t want to hear it. I think that the “even when I don’t want to hear it” part is the most important aspect of a critique partner or group.
I’ve always believed that the ones willing to give the “even when I don’t want to hear it” advice are the ones who really believe in my writing abilities, because they are the ones who know it’s worth saying anyway because they know I can fix it.
A short piece from a long-ago writing group.
We leave the train at Penn Station. The rental car was adequate – a 2007 Chevy of some sort – brilliant blue, all the requisite accommodations. He and I stuff our bags in the trunk and pile in. Destination Portland, Maine, to see the colors.
As we near Boston, we notice the trees and shrubs subtlely turn from green to chartreuse to gold to bronze to blood red. We stop at a small roadside cafe and grab sandwiches to go, drive a little farther, and stop at a patch of grass at the edge of a tiny cemetery. A service is in progress, not a burial, but what looks like a niche ceremony. A small boy, maybe 8-years old, holds, clutches actually, a green ceramic urn, his jaw set, black eyes intent. A woman, with gardenias in her hair, facilitates. Four people hover over the urn. He and I eat and watch from a few yards away.
In an instant, a rogue gust of wind blasts from bayside and lifts the ashes from the urn, and, in a swirl, deposits them on and around him and me. I grind the ashes between my fingers and raise them to smell the burnt residue. I’m fascinated, and felt an odd kinship to the soul who “dropped” by on a puff of wind. There’s grit in my mouth and I spit.
He, on the other hand, is appalled, freaked out actually. He throws down his ashy sandwich and slaps at his clothes and hair, as if bees are attacking. I can do nothing but laugh, and act about which he is quite judgmental, I might add.
At dinner that night in a small pub at the Portland Harbor, he tells me that next time we go anywhere, it will be on a plane and that I wasn’t invited.
What a neat story. The idea of seeing something so intimate, and personal from an outsiders view was interesting. I also like that, by chance, this couple became part of this scene.
I thought that if you put a name for the man in the story, even though it’s a short story, it might make it easier to read, and with less ‘he’. Also I was confused by the sentence with…act about which he is… but that might just be my problem.
I loved the descriptions you used, especially with the trees. Great ending. Well done.
Hi Eliese,
Thank you so much for reading and commenting. I agree about naming the man in the piece, though the original instruction was to engage a reader without giving names to the character(s). Perhaps not a great idea.
The confusion you experienced with the “act” sentence was the fault of my errant typing fingers. It should have read: …an act…
The reference to the laugh.
Again, thank you so much.
That is an interesting idea to do something without names. That would be hard but you did a nice job.
You have that point of view down. The main character strikes me as a woman. I can feel the calmness and the irony in the narration. I’d love to read more.
Great work! : )
Many thanks for taking the time to read it and for your kind words.
I slowly walked through the grave yard weaving in and out of headstones as I searched. The sun setting in the summer sky cast shadows as they dance throughout the graves. My red hair spun in the breeze. Glowing like an ember from the fire. As the willows leaves rustled in the breeze I bent down next to the graves I was looking for and left only a single rose on each grave and a note. The sky turned dark thunder soon began and the rain came down falling on the ground:
I walked out pulling my hat down on my face in fear that someone would see me. The ravens crowed as i walked past them on my way to the cab waiting for me. The driver simply looked at me and asked the address. “369 Cobble Rd.” I said. He nodded and drove off. Leaving me with me thoughts and such. “So kid.” He said. “Where are your parents.” I ignored his question and stared ahead. “Hey.” “Their dead.” “Oh I’m sorry.” “Not your problem.” He stayed quiet till we reached the house pulling into the uneven driveway.
The dark and looming house was once cream but faded to a errie dark. The dead grass filled the yard miles away from the nearest neighbor. The picket fence was torn and stained. Not really welcoming. I grabbed my blue suit case and walked up the worn steps to the door. The sky gave a low rumble of thunder. The breeze turing into a sinster force. The knocker was shaped as I loin. It’s eyes seemed to see through you. I brushed off the uneasy feeling and grabbed it giving it a hard rasp on the door. The knob turned creaking slowly as if the door hasn’t been open in years. I looked at the figure staring at me.
I really like your descriptions!
For critique, it would probably be that some of your sentences didn’t vary in length enough.
Wonderful story. Hope to see what happens next! : )
A great creepy start. I immediately had questions: why was s/he in the graveyard and why specific graves? I assume from the cabbie’s question that this is a fairly young person. I also agree with 709writer that your descriptions are good and varying your sentence length would make for less choppy reading. I noticed a few missing commas that required a rereading of some sentences.
Great start, and thank you for sharing your work.
Here are a few paragraphs of my current fanfic. It’s a light hearted adventure story about present day Musketeers, after the recent BBC series. In this scene Constance has agreed to put up the newest recruit for a night. I will return and feedback on the other pieces posted here, and thanks for all your comments. -Sef
That night, Constance served casseroled lamb shank for dinner and frowned at the rather unpolished table manners of her new lodger. D’Artagnan was slouched in his chair, flicking through his (new) phone, in his faded T shirt and unnecessarily tight indigo jeans. His long legs were stretched out in front of him and as she studied him, he scratched his inner thigh and then went back to dabbing at his phone.
Classic single male, in other words. She was amazed he knew what a dining table was. Every meal would be eaten standing at the kitchen counter or out of takeaway boxes balanced on his chest as he slumped on the sofa. He looked like a man who was well versed in how to remove outer packaging and pierce film lid.
He had showered on arriving home, though. That was good. His room was the so-called fourth bedroom in the attic, which had its own ensuite. It also had a view of last year’s buddleia clinging to the railway embankment, and the trampolines and bikes in the back of other, more blessed households nearby. Constance was blessed mainly with enough space to put up three D’Artagnans, not that it would be allowed. In the kitchen rubbing harissa into a shank, she had heard the clank of the pipes and then the rattle as hot water drained away. So D’Artagnan might be a slob, but he was a clean slob. Fresh-smelling around the house, that was important.
The musketeers in general kept pretty well scrubbed. Maybe it was a soldier thing. Athos had that spicy aftershave, though presumably he just dabbed it under his ears or something, since shaving was a hobby he’d given up when he joined. Porthos favoured a down-to-earth twenty second blast of Lynx. And Aramis, well.
Aramis always smelled wonderful. She had no idea how he did it. A different scent every time she noticed. She could swear she’d caught a whiff of Chanel Number Five one time. -Maybe he moonlighted on the perfume counter at Harrods. Blimey. He would make a fortune.
Hi Sefton, I like your writing here. The descriptions are nice and I like how she knows he’s clean from the clank of the pipes 🙂
If I had a critique, it’s the lack of conflict or tension in the story (it may come later, but I’m giving feedback on what I can read). It starts off with the potential for conflict – he’s a slouch and she apparently isn’t. But then it meanders off to the other musketeers and the tension is dissipated. Again, it very well might turn up later in spades. But that’s what I noticed from this section.
I love critiques, and I’m more than happy to supply them to fellow authors. Now if only someone would return the favor. I understand the part about finding the right people. I tried to get my friends to read it but she isn’t much of a reader and she replied without even reading it. And I don’t know anyone else to ask.
Nanny With a Tattoo
Hello I’m Harriet Frances, a tattooed-and-not-so-much-of-a-nanny-anymore…Harriet sighed. Just one tattoo…who was it going to hurt? But, no! Would her employer listen? Of course not. The women had raised her stiff snobby nose up in the air with indignation and ordered her to either to have it removed or suffer the consequences. Since she wasn’t inclined towards having her skin scrubbed, and cut at, just to get a meager tattoo off…the divine dementation had befallen her. The women had fired her.
Now Harriet had to find a new job, possibly one as good as the previous one, before she ran out of her savings.
“Oh, my bag!” Harriet hurried back to her car and grabbed her jade boho bag; which totally un-clashed with her boring faded-brown business skirt and white shirt.
Beep!Beep!Beep!
Ugly prosaic clothes, check. Car locked, check. Harriet shot a glance at her rearview mirror and nearly gagged. Mental not-to-self. Don’t look at self.
Adorning a calm demeanor, Harriet turned to walk up to the building where the nanny interviews were going to take place. On her walk up, something flashed in the mirror of a nearby car. Her tattoo was showing around the wrist. Crap! The tattoo! Bristling, Harriet looked around the empty parking lot to make sure no one was looking.
This tattoo is really getting to be a pain! Harriet thought as she fumbled through her huge bag to find something to cover the small condemning piece of art that was surely to get her thrown out of the interview room. Just for a tattoo! Who’d have thought that getting drunk one-night at a bingo party could lead to so much misery? She’d definitely would have to repay her old friend Dorothy for the favor.
Contemplating murder and what-not impish thoughts; Harriet pulled on a besparkled bangle to cover her wrist. Looking back at the mirror, she considered, and pulled out a silky pink scarf. She than proceeded to wrap it around her neck; leaving the ends untucked. It give her a little pomp to her image.
Nearly giggling at some thought, Harriet bit her lip and tried to regain composure over her excited self.
“Mrs. Harriet Frances?” The receptionist read from a paper and raised his head to scan the waiting room. “Mrs. Harriet Frances?”
“Oh, oh, that’s me!” A middle-aged women stood up with crochet needles in her hand. “That would be me, dear!
“It’s your turn, ma’am.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” the women bustled about picking up her things around the table. Napkins, rings, and fluffy boas, and everything else a woman needs in a big green stuffed bag. The receptionist looked away to hide his smile.
“Would you like a cookie?” Mrs. Frances asked coming to stand in front of his desk.
“No, ma’am,” he replied cheekily. “Doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”
“Oh, dear,” Worried, the older women patted his hand. “Well, we should lay off the cookies for today. The Doctor just gets into a hype when they think about sugar and hygiene…”
The receptionist, Jared Wollensky, couldn’t imagine his doctor getting into a hype about anything, nodded politely.
The women went scurrying back into her bag. She pulled out a packet of mints. “Here, you’d better jew on this. It helps the teeth.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Jared grinned and waved the women towards the closed door. “Mrs. Whickham is waiting for you.”
Mrs. Taylor Whickham, a mother of five raucous children, and the director of an international family business was in a pinch. She loved her work but she loved her children more. And taking care of five children plus directing a business can become a live, fire frying, hellhole. So, her friends had suggested she get a nanny, and since her children were all above the age of 5 she’d felt like she could do that without feeling guilty. Now she wondered why she had agreed in the first place. Someone knocked on the door.
Tylor braced herself with a just-warm and just-polite-enough smile for the 60th time this week. Get a nanny, they said. It’ll be easy, they said! I’d like to wring their necks is what I would like to do!
“Enter.” An elderly women entered the room. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you, dear,”the woman grinned and flopped down onto the chair in front of her. Her green bag jiggling as she swished it to and fro. Taylor grimaced at the flashy color, but mentally nodded approval of the suit and scarf. Very sensible taste.
“Shall we get started?” Taylor asked. The elderly women nodded. “Is your name Mrs. Harriet Frances?”
“Yes.”
Taylor opened a pink folder in front of her. “Mrs. Frances when did you start working as a nanny?”
Mrs. Frances paused before replying. “1995, December 16th, wednesday. Just a couple of weeks after my husband died. I started work for the Jenkins uptown.”
“And you never got married again or had any kids yourself?”
“No, ma’m,” the older women face fell. “I love kids…and just before Harry’s death we found out I wouldn’t have any.”
“I’m sorry,” Taylor offered uncomfortably.
Mrs. Henry laughed and waved a hand at her. “Oh, it’s nothing. And I get a lot more kick out of OPK’s then I would have with my own brod.”
“OPK’s?”
“Other people’s kids,” Mrs. Frances explained. “I just love these acronyms. They save me so much time from trying to reach all the letter on the keyboard.”
Hmm, tech savvy nanny.
“You’re absolutely right.”
“Mrs. Frances can you tell me a little about your last job?”
“I worked for the Salmans, my 5th family. They have two daughters, age of 6 and 5, and most of my duties consisted of watching the girls, picking them up from school and taking them to their various after school programs. We would have dinner together, then I would help them with their homework and after a bit of lounge time, it was off to bed at 10 pm.”
“Did your jobs consist of waking them up, breakfast, and getting them ready for school?”
“No, absolutely not.”
Tylor surprised, studied the hard features of her prospect employe. “I’m going to assume this is something you object to?”
“Yes. Now I understand that parents of today can be very busy, with both having their own jobs and all, but the kids need to see them for more than a few seconds each day.”
“They could hire someone else to do that job.”
“Yes, they probably can, as they have hired me to look after them for the rest of the day. But I won’t be doing it. Just cause you got a job doesn’t mean you can’t take a few minutes off your schedule to be a parent.”
“If we wanted to do that, then we wouldn’t offer to hire you.”
Mrs. Frances snorted. “And your hiring help, not a parent stand-in either.”
Taylor considered, “I guess that’s fair enough.”
“Mrs. Francis can you tell me a little about yourself?”
“So?” Jared asked as he closed the door behind him. “Did you find anyone one you liked?”
“Ughh,” Taylor massaged the back of her neck; moving it in a circular motion to ease the tension. “I think so. But first…How are you?”
“Awesome,” Jared replied falling into the chair in front of her. “How else am I supposed to be while pretending to be your receptionist.”
“I told you it’s-”
“-part of the process,”Jared chanted with her. “Yes, I know. Do you really think having me watch them all day is going to help us find the perfect nanny?”
“Out there you can actually see how they are,” Tylor explained as she flipped off her shoes and leaned back into her chair. “You’ll get a better idea of how they truly are.”
Jared rolled his eyes, “Do you want me to set up camp outside their house as well? Maybe we missed something?”
“No, that won’t be necessary, besides that way we won’t get finished for months.”
Silence.
Jared grinned as Taylor raised her head and both of them burst into laughter.
“Ok, getting serious,” Taylor held a hand over her belly to help ease the flutters there. “Did you like anyone?”
“Well, most of them didn’t even bother smiling at me. Being a receptionist and all. They saved the charm for you.” Jared scoffed and tapped his fingers on the table rhythmic manner.“But….”
“Yay!” Taylor cheered, her hands moving side-ways and side-ways in a seat dance jingle. “There’s a but. I love when there’s a but! Please go ahead and tell me more about this but.”
“Ooooookkkaayy…” Jared whispered the word and shoot his wife looks that seemed skeptical of her sanity. “Moving on…”
“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” Taylor pointed at him. “Your the one who proposed to me.”
Jared groaned, “Yes, and I’ll regret it my whole life. Can we please talk about the lady in the green bag?”
Taylor’s eyes narrowed, “The ugly fat one?”
Jared’s eyes popped.
“I meant the bag!” Taylor stated as she realized what she’d said. “Ugh..what was her name?Mrs…Ha..Harriet Frances! That one?”
Jared nodded. “Yup, that’s the one. I liked her. I think she’ll be amazing.” Sweet, motherly, and with cookies.
“I liked her as well….she seemed a lot less conservative than many of the others we’ve seen. Did you know one of the ladies believed that the computer is the tool of satan and it’ll be the ban of us all?”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Ouchy, I guess she didn’t know you made computers.”
“Exactly, but back to Mrs. France. I really liked her.” Simple, practical and authoritative. Perfect.
Jared raised his eyebrow, ‘Since we both liked her…can I assume I can go back to my regular job?”
“Yes, now you can go back to tinkering with your guitar.”
Please tell me if this has a proper beginning/hook, middle and end/resolution. And do you think the conflict was solved or not? Was there a conflict?
Hello. I enjoyed reading your story. At first I didn’t know if I even read it when I saw that it was longer than some, but it captured me.
Suggestions. I think it would be nice to let the reader now earlier on Harriets age because I imagine her as a twenty something, and was confused later.
I would use less elipses (…) in the story, and show how they paused when talking instead. Also, it would be nice if there was some sort of marker that showed how time had moved on like *** or —, otherwise it can be confusing.
WIth the name of the title and the emphasise on the tattoo I thought that the new employer was going to hate/ love it, and that could help to build and resolve the confict. Since the ‘receptionist’ is important it would be nice to see a description of how what he looked like early on so we can picture him later.
I thought you had great dialogue. I liked the descriptions you use, and the way your characters were doing something while talking, like how Taylor was massaging her neck. It was a nice way to show how she was exhausted. I really enjoyed Harriets character. You had a nice tag for her with the tattoo and a strong personality.
Nice job.
Thanks for letting me share my thoughts 🙂
Eliese
Thank you for all your comments. This was the first draft and I was just thinking that the tattoo had been undermined. I just didn’t understand how to integrate it into the conv. between Taylor. I was thinking, maybe Jared would see it when she left and he then could bring it up to Taylor. And Mrs. Harriet would think she got away free but when her appointment letter arrived it would say –
P.S – Cool tattoo.
How’s that?
I like that idea. It brings the story full circle. I especially like that she would think she would got away free. Then you could even have her being afraid of getting fired again until she sees the letter. Also, it could maybe mention that her unique personality, and decorative skin is what helped her get the job lol. I don’t know, just brainstorming while sleepy. 😛 Fun stuff 🙂
Cool. Thanks for the ides. 🙂 I went back and did a little editing. She doesn’t even realize that her tattoo was seen, until the letter. I’ve added a paragraph where she’s just happy that it wasn’t seen/ prepelaxed about finding new ways to hide her tattoo for the rest of her life.
Really fun story. You have a unique way of describing the character’s actions, and I loved the narrator’s voice. : )
I liked the hook in the beginning. There was a nice flow to the story, and I noticed that it gained momentum as time went on (as a story should). The beginning was definitely Harriet stressing out about the tattoo and going in to see the receptionist. The middle was her conversation with the interviewer. (I really liked the part where she refused to wake kids up, get them breakfast, and get them ready for school. That’s an interesting part of her character.) The end was when Harriet walked out of the room and the others talked it over.
For me, the main conflict seemed within Harriet herself as she fretted over the interview at the beginning. The ultimate conflict (which would be Harriet getting the job) was solved.
I especially enjoyed the part where Harriet got into her car and went off the checklist, glanced in the mirror, then made a note not to look in the mirror. : )
Keep up the great work!
Thanks for the awesome interpretation. 🙂 If you need someone else to look at your work feel free to let me know!. I would love to read more of your work.
You’re very welcome. : )
If you’re interested in critiquing again, I just put something new up at the top. I appreciate your support! : )
Hey there! Pretty much the only person I trust to critique my writing is my brother. He’s so awesome and points out inconsistencies and helps me come up with new, fresh ideas when my brain won’t work.
It’s a challenge to put myself out here, but I’m going for it.
“What’s your status?” Shadow’s voice was distorted over the comlink.
Julia pressed back in the corner, speaking to the recording device in the room.
“The walls are closing in, and I’m stuck inside.” Tears clogged her throat.
‘I’m coming. Just hold on.”
She prayed he was closer than she thought he was. Water lapped at her knees.
“The water’s rising,” she said in a high-pitched voice.”
“I’m coming.”
It touched her elbows. The water swallowed her shoulders. As it rose to her chin, she lifted her face to the ceiling and studied the texture of it, unable to form words. Water crept into her ears, triggering chills on her arms.
Before the water closed over her face, she inhaled a huge breath.
First and foremost – A round of applause!
Moving on – The amount of details described in such a little excerpt was truly a feat. “high-pitched voice” “comlink” and etc. The panic, and the actions really imitated the actions of a real person. Awesome. Please share most of your work. 🙂
Thank you so much!
Here’s something else I wrote recently.
Julia’s fingers fumbled for the lock. Dark Shadow swung the door open. It slammed her cheek and she staggered back with a cry. She tripped over a chair and crashed through the glass in the coffee table.
Shards stabbed into her hands, sliced her arms. Sobs tore from her throat as blood dribbled from her palms. But she shoved herself up and stumbled toward the bathroom. That door had a lock.
Dark Shadow blocked her path. He chuckled in his throat. “Nice try.” As he approached her, all emotion left his eyes, leaving them cold. “But now you’re mine.”
Her fingers searched for something, anything to throw at him. She found a paperweight that had once been on the coffee table and hurled at Dark Shadow with a grunt.
He sidestepped it without blinking.
She darted into the bathroom, shut the door, and twisted the lock. Her chest heaving, she glanced around for another escape, or at least a weapon.
Something on the ground grabbed her attention.
Thanks Emily. I’m a big believer in critiques and feel that any writer can improve their work with the help of others , that said, as you point out it does need to be people you trust. And you have to have an open mind (as well as a reasonably tick skin) about your own work. If you can’t accept criticism, aI’m afraid you’re in the wrong business.
Hey everyone! I would love some critique on my latest post (the one before this that starts out “Here’s something else I wrote…”), if you have some for me. Thanks much! : )