Gina's Critique

I guess I'm in the hot seat this week with the full critique. This is tough because I do have a lot of suggestions for you. I read this and didn't think this was where your story began. In chapter one, there's not much going on except backstory and her going up the stairs and massaging her swollen feet. What is the incident in this story that turns your protag's life on its head? What forces her to act? I think that's where your story begins. If it was her husband's death or being shipped off, than maybe you should begin there. If it's the birth of the baby, then we don't need the backstory of chapter one right up front. You c0uld show us in real time that he's gone. She could hold the baby and wish he was there to meet his son... or it could be done through dialogue with the baby or those around her.

This seems like women's fiction, which I'll admit, is not something I read much of. So, consider my suggestions with that in mind. There's promise here but you may need to cut a bit to get to the heart of this. Thanks so much for sharing it with us.

Prologue
“Hurry, hurry! The head . . . crowning.”

Slap, slap. Someone running. Flip flops? Rubber soles? *I don't think she'd be worrying about whether the moving feet were wearing flip-flops. I'd think she'd be very inward focused--on pain-thirst-fear-that sort of thing.**

“Shh!” Another voice, male this time, “don’t alarm . . . .”

“Paging Dr. Oglethorpe. Please return to nursing station nine.” Tinny voice. Crackling.

(Loudspeaker? ) *if this birth is going bad, I'd be more blatant about letting the reader know that. It would make it more interesting to have more panic going on in this room if that's the case. Right now it reads as if maybe there's a nuchal cord which is very common and doesn't really make me worry for mother or baby or force me to turn the page*

She squeezed her eyes shut (tight )and tried to concentrate on the words (being )whispered around her, but they (got mixed up with ) [bled? into ]other hospital sounds – announcements, bells, and doors whooshing open. Was something wrong? Was her baby in trouble? A clammy hand grasped hers and squeezed it hard.

*Is she feeling pain here? I'd think she would be. Smells? Nausea? Panic?*

“Breathe, Traci, breathe.” Mom’s voice? Where was Tom? **Why is she so far out of it that she forgot her husband was gone? I'd need to know before I bought it**

She heard a voice scream. Hers? *Try to avoid "She/he "heard". Just say: Someone screamed or a scream pierced her ears or whatever. I also find it difficult to believe she doesn't know if the scream was her own, particularly because she calmly asks herself in IM if it was her own. Didn't ring true to me.**


The pains came close now. **this is very vague. What pains? In her abdomen? Describe them. [Her stomach balled up rock hard, ?accompanied by excruciating pain. It couldn't be another contraction already. It hadn't been a minute since the last one...] She had no relief. (She felt ) *Avoid telling words like "felt, saw, smelled, heard, etc. when you can. It removes us a bit from the pov we're in. Better to say: something bulky [pressed down] *or whatever* between her legs. Some kind soul **When I was in the transition part of labor, I wasn't thinking this much. I wouldn't think "some kind soul" did whatever, just "someone mopped her brow with a cold rag. I think the "kind soul" part is too much***

mopped her forehead and whispered “Just a few more minutes, Little Mother. Hang on.”

A face masked in green hovered over her.**The previous sentence rings true to how I think she'd be thinking, in very basics***
Green again. A bell chimed signifying the birth of a baby. It was the last thing she remembered.

Chapter One

Nineteen Hours Earlier [...]

Good grief, how much longer do I have to do this? *this is in italics? If not, I'd put it in.*

Traci Michaels glared at the bottom step leading (up) *gws* to her condominium. A ragged sigh caught in her throat. Multi-colored pebbles encrusted in concrete glinted back at her in the hot Arizona sun.**I like that detail. Good job.**
Threads of sweat oozed *oozed paints a gross picture, though it's accurate enough. Is that the feeling you want me to have?**

from under the hairs at the nape of her neck and trailed their way down her back like the erratic edges of a jigsaw puzzle. She tried to get rid of them by scrunching up her shoulders and twisting her thrown back head *twisting her thrown back head? I'm seeing Linda Blair for some reason :)*
. She could put the grocery bags down and wipe the wetness away with a hand. But if she did, would she be able to pick them up again?

(The wet rivulets tickled her skin and reminded her of fingernails skipping lightly on a blackboard.) **adds nothing in moo**

(Like the time that Samantha girl tapped a staccato sound on one in the high school newsroom to draw attention to herself. Why, on God’s green earth, had that memory surfaced? Maybe to escape? To remember happier times?) *adds nothing* Oh, God, please help me. Please get this agony over with.

She heard herself groan **why did she hear herself groan and not just "She groaned as she...] ? as she hefted the bags bulging with groceries from the wire granny cart, as her mom laughingly called it, and rested them on her bulging stomach, then started counting. **If she's having painful contractions, I don't think she'd stop to have the im of "the wire granny cart as her mom laughingly called it." that serves no purpose to have there and actually, in moo detracts from what's important here**

One, two, three . . . . She paused to grip the green metal rail at step number eight. Thankfully, the rail was shaded from the intense heat of the sun by the feathery branches of a tree, so it was only warm to her touch. The tree that Tom planned to trim because its branches obscured the view of his beloved mountains. The letter from the United States government had come the same day he’d bought the long-handled trimmer. Their lives switched immediately from tree trimming to chaos. Like so many other chances, he never got the chance to trim the tree.**try to avoid backstory in the first few chapters of a book. It makes the reader want to skim it to get to the exciting here and now.**

She took a deep breath sucking in hot, dry air, and felt a nudge inside her belly. Maybe Michaela hates stairs as much as I do. (Her) [She] curled her lips into a sneer and forced her foot up the next stair.

Finally eighteen. Hating stairs to begin with, she had compulsively counted them when she first moved in. Now she was glad. Counting gave her a goal, just as marking the days off the calendar helped her focus on Michaela’s impending birth. She laughed inwardly at her compulsiveness. Tom would have teased her about that. Tom would have, if he could have. Tom is gone. And I am all alone.

The plastic bags slipped from her fingers onto the green-painted cement porch. She stood for a few seconds gripping the porch rail until the dizziness passed.

Her legs shook from the weight she carried in front of her. She fished in her purse for her key. Her fingers grasped the metal ring, and she realized she was sobbing. Tears plopped onto the package of chicken that had escaped to lay at her feet forming a puddle of pink condensation. Will this ever end? There was no sense praying or asking God her question. He hadn’t stopped
Tom from dying, and he certainly hadn’t comforted her since. *backstory*

The green metal door finally swung open. Green. Why is everything in my world green? She gathered the bags up and sucked in the chilled air like a guppy gulping food granules from the surface of the water. *This really the picture you want to paint?*

The sudden relief from heat in the air-conditioned room dried the sweat and tears to a film on her clammy skin. Still trembling, she collapsed in the room’s only chair that would accommodate her bulk. Staring at the pale green walls, she wept( openly) gws*. For what, she wasn’t sure. For loneliness, for love lost, for the life she carried inside of her?

Tugging off her shoes, she rubbed her swollen ankles until her fingers ached, but no relief came. *Until her fingers ached is a really long time* Why had she worn tennies when flip flops would have allowed her puffy feet to expand? She heaved herself out of the chair, pushing on the padded arms with sweaty palms, then transferred her hands to the beach ball-sized protrusion below her tender breasts knitting her fingers under her expanding belly to support it. Her knees locked for a moment and almost snapped from the effort. Maybe she should call Mom to come over. Or maybe just go to bed. She recalled Nana’s frequent complaining about her bones aching. As a teenager, she had scoffed at the old lady’s whining. Now, she wondered if it was possible for bones to ache. The tiredness she felt seemed to penetrate beyond her muscles to the core of her bones. Suddenly, Michaela kicked so hard Traci almost doubled over. Just one big kick, like an announcement, a declaration.

She was more than exhausted. If only Tom were here, he’d know what to do. There were plenty of American soldiers in Iraq without wives and children waiting at home.