Jessica's Critique

I liked the flare of this writer's style, although it needs to be refined. I read this post from beginning to end before critiquing without having a clear idea what was going on. Then, when I went through line-by-line, I realized the mistress/seductress was whiskey, his wife died in a fire, and he had, and continues to have, a very depressing life.

I suggest this writer works at making his/her thoughts clear, so the reader doesn't have to keep jumping up and down the page to figure out what is happening. When I kick back to enjoy a book, I don't want feel lost in a scene, having to piece together a puzzle to understand what's happening.

I'm not sure what point of your story this is at, but I have to say, I would not read further. This man's story did not interest me. I personally would not choose to spend time with him. He came across as a "pity party." My desire to see him free of alcoholism was not strong enough to make me read the book. In this scene, I have no idea what I'm rooting for. It's an old rule, but make your protagonist want something and then I can do more than just watch on the sidelines.

The sentence structure was the same, most often starting with a pronoun. Vary your sentences. Remember, fiction needs to have a rhythm to it. I don't know why you waited so long to give us Michael's name, but to me, it did not add to the mystery of the opening.

Computers have made it unnecessary to double space between sentences. When someone applies to our critique group and they have doubled spaces it's a sign to me they are a novice.

Lastly, the semicolons stuck out. Grammar is not my strong point and I rely on my critique group for that, so I'll not say a lot. I'm betting that Ane and Gina will have better instructions for you. Just remember don't use them!


“My wife is dead,” he said. {{rhymes, avoid rhyming sentences}}

His left hand reached out to her neck while the fingers of his right hand slid down her side slow and soft. He paused for a moment to savor the anticipation (; ) {{I'd been taught that semicolons are very rare in fiction. 'He' is your subject, why did you separate him from your verb "worked?"}} and worked his hand back up to her neck, following the curves with delight[.]

He laid his right hand {{on?}} {{over?}} her. His eyes closed as she neared his lips. His nostrils flared when the scent of his former lover reached him. His tongue, expecting satisfaction after so long, slid across his cracked lips. {{Try combining some of these to get rid of sentences starting with pronouns and for flow}}

His mouth watered, eager to experience her almost forgotten touch once again. When she touched his bottom lip he flinched. (In other time, she was all he needed.) {{I think this sentence clogs the paragraph.) To have her back, to taste her again, to smell her, it was almost too much pleasure (at such a time). {{suggest deleting the last part as it weakens the thought}} He should be grieving, but the scent of familiarity and comfort surrounded him[.] He exhaled (as he felt) [feeling] her warmth in his mouth. It had been so long.

He heard his wife called out his name and (he) froze. {{I have loved how you've confused the reader by making the bottle sound as though it were his wife's, or somebody's body, but this line confuses me. Is his wife dead? Can you give this more depth. I take it he's not literally hearing "Michael." Can you describe this so the reader realizes her voice is coming from his memory. Or use a memory of his wife}}

But the heat of his temptress took over, [and he] bid farewell to the plans(;) [comma] to what was his wife(; ) [comma] to his life.

Again, his lover drew near, she was silk to his lips; he lingered over a touch he’d almost forgotten.

{{I suggest combining the last two paragraphs:

But the heat of his temptress took over, and he drew his lover near, savoring her silk to his lips. He lingered over a touch he'd almost forgotten and bid farewell to the plans, to the memory of his wife, to his life.}}


He looked {{"looked" is like a dialogue tag. It's not wrong to say it, but it's stronger if you don’t use. We know whose POV we're in, so you don't have to tell us "he looked." Just describe the fireplace and it's a given that he looked. Ex: The flames in the hearth reached up begging for mercy.}} over at the fireplace, the flames reaching up begging for mercy. {{A great description, but does it suit his mood. His wife apparently died during a fire. Would this man feel he had mastery over the flames " reaching up begging for mercy" . . . or would he hate fire, a demon that dances and taunts him? }} They showed him how they wrapped their arms his wife and suffocated her. (Her voice rang out again. She was screaming so loud. Screaming his name over and over. )
{{I suggest putting this next part in italics. It will help your reader understand we've transitioned into the past. When possible, do not make your reader have to re-read to figure out where they are. This is also why I suggest you move the lines about her screaming and combine them with her dialouge}}

“Michael!” [Her voice rang out again.]

“Help me, Michael.” [She was screaming so loud, but thick smoke obscured her. She screamed his name over and over.]

“Where are you, Michael? I can’t see you.”

“Please, Michael. Help. Its hard to breathe”

[Suggest putting an action beat here, to show us the man before you change the mood.] The flames danced and swayed[,] and a different voice called him. A low, sultry voice [that] (. A voice that knows) [dwells in] (where) the secret places (are).Knows what passion tastes like. {{I suggest shortening this sentence to match the next one}} [Knows passion] Smells desire. A voice that drowns out all others with her whisper.

Michael caressed the smooth curves beneath his hands. He drank her in. The velvet voice of the seductress wrapped his soul. She was singing the lullaby to him. {{I wanted to combine these sentences: He drank her in, allowing the velvet seductress to wrap his soul and sing him her lullaby}}

He closed his eyes again, letting his mistress have her way.
A noise, almost inaudible came from near the piano. {{I suggest writing this noise in such a way that we the reader are hearing what you the writer are.}} Michael’s right ear instinctively rose {{suggest: prickled—as I found myself stopping to wonder if his ear could actually do this}}, {{why no period here}} his breath stopped; {{why no period here}} his eyes shut tighter. Again, the soft sound whispered from across the room. It sounded like a picture frame sliding on top of the… {{good, this sound I can picture}}

“What the…” Michael forgot the bottle in his hand and whiskey sprayed over the tile floor. He jumped towards the piano, stretched his arms out, and caught Beth inches from the floor. {{Because this would have to happen in a fraction of a second, it feels like too much time has passed to catch the picture. Not to mention, it makes us feel unsettled in the room. Are we by the piano or the fireplace? Keeping a piano near the fireplace would be unadvisable, as the heat would make it go out of tune often. Why not have the picture fall from the mantel? Have him catch the picture and then describe the wet tile and whiskey bottle clattering over the floor}} He held her tight. Tears again, hot down his cheeks when their eyes met. {{< -- Melodrama -- >}} His legs went numb underneath and he fell to the floor hugging the picture frame, sobbing.

(“I love you,” his chest heaved and his voice quivered.) “I tried. I tried [but they wouldn't let me go, I couldn't get to you.] (to find you. I heard you. Oh God did I hear you.)”

{{This is an info dump and doesn't feel natural to me. You have a whole novel to reveal this, we don't have to know all the details at once. I suggest cutting from here ***}} “Then they grabbed me, they grabbed my legs. I was yelling at them ‘No! I gotta find Beth!’ and I kicked one of them. I think I hurt him. He let go and then I didn’t hear you. And I kept going and did you hear me? Did you hear me calling your name? You stopped yelling for me and I thought they found you. They grabbed me again and I don’t remember anything else. Just waking up in the hospital and they said…they said…you were…gone.” His body folded over the picture he held tight against his chest. “I don’t want to remember you that way. I want you back. Please, please come back.” He rocked back and forth still holding the photo to his bosom like the way he held the baby just a year before when he was born still. “I want both of you back. I can’t live like this. It’s too much. Too much. I can’t.” {{***to here}}

Michael [rocked back and forth, holding the picture to his bosom like the way he held the baby just a year before he was born still.] (held her picture out, stared at her precious face. He let the tears spill again, a year to the day that his baby boy came but was already gone.) {{I moved one sentence from above, but why isn't he calling the baby his son? Why not say stillborn instead of born still? I suggest using the word "chest" because he holds the baby next to it. }}

You don’t deserve either of them.

{{Okay, at this point, my interest waned. I'm not sufficiently invested in this character. He's depressing me and it feels unrealistic. The way you wrote his whiskey as his mistress interested me, but it was the writing that interested me, not the story. Now he's starting to sound too depressing. This part doesn't draw me in, doesn't tug my sympathy, but rather makes me want to back out}}

good kids have real dads. Only kids who follow the rules have real fathers. The same voice that reminded him who he really was. The bastard child of a bastard child. No grandfather, no father. No siblings. A dead grandmother, a crazy mother. The father of a dead son and a dead woman’s widow.

He was alone. Again. {{Melodramatic}}

How quick one is to fall back into the arms of a mistress. {{< -- Who's saying or thinking this? This part reads like a 19th century moralistic story—complete with a narrator. I suggest cutting it}} He took another drink that emptied the bottle. She didn’t take away the pain this time, though. {{suggest combining the last two sentences}} He sat (for awhile just) staring at the fire in the dark. {{< --a hearth in a dark room is a good visual. Try expanding on this and see if more descriptions fit.}} He thought the whiskey would take away her voice. He thought it would make it go away if only for a little while. He just wanted a break, wanted a little bit of time that he didn’t think about all of it. And sometimes it hurt worse because he didn’t have a dad he could turn to. He wanted to be able to pick up the phone and say, “I really need you, dad.” He cocked his head to the ceiling and whispered, “Dad? Where are you? I really need you now.” {{The first thought I have as a reader going into the story is that the book will end with him finding out God is his father. I might be wrong, but if so, consider whether that's a predictable ending.}}

Everybody’s dead, son. Daddy. Gram. Beth and baby James. Poor baby James. Never even got a breath of air. Just like sweet {{extra space}} Beth (in the end, she) couldn’t get air (either, could she?). {{You have both a period and question mark. You've got to choose between one or the other.}} Why stay alive? You got nobody except me, son. You know how to end it. You know what to do.

“Don’t call me son!” Michael screamed to the air.