Date Posted:21:14:05 04/01/10 Thu Author:debikm Subject: Re: Jumping in with my contribution>>> In reply to:
Fi
's message, "Jumping in with my contribution>>>" on 14:59:43 03/30/10 Tue
>Taking a big gulp and jumping with an extract from my
>historical novel. A thorough critique would be
>welcome, but also I'd like to get overall impressions:
>does the dialogue/action mix work? Does the dialogue
>sound natural? Most importantly, would you want to
>read more?
>
>-------
>
>From Claddagh [working title]
>by F.H. Hurley
>Copyright March 2010
>For critique only
>
>Galway, Ireland. 1663.
>
>Sunlight streamed thinly through the window,
>illuminating silver threads in the man's dark curls. Nice image, but "Thin sunlight" sounds more direct, stronger, if you will, to me.
>
>“You're Kate Flaherty's son?” Mr. Joyce asked, placing
>his quill tip-down into a jar on the desk. He wore an
>indoor gown of rich brocade, and there were ink dots
>on his white cravat. Nice imagery. I can 'see' Mr. Joyce very easily!
>
>“I am,” said the boy, breathing in the oak-and-paper
>dust. His knees felt knocky, his empty stomach
>gurgled, and he wondered again why his Ma had sent him
>to this rich man's place. “Richard Mahon is my name.
>Son of Kate Flaherty and Joseph Mahon.”
>
>“How old are you, boy?”
>
>“I'm ten, sir.”
>
>Mr. Joyce fingered the embroidered fringe of the
>handkerchief that Richard had given him. The man's
>nails were trim trimmed? and his hands smooth; he'd obviously
>never worked on a fishing boat. But there was
>something oddly familiar about the shape of his face
>and the quizzical look in his blue eyes. A little intrigue, nice!
>
>“And when will you be eleven?”
>
>“Next March, sir.”
>
>“By Jesus, of course you will.”
>
>Richard was puzzled. “Mr. Joyce?”
>
>“Did your mother have any other message for me?”
>
>“Just that you'd know her and do right by her.” He
>frowned. He wasn't sure what that meant either. It
>sounded like begging, which his Ma would normally
>forbid him to do on pain of sore ears or arse. Yet
>when he'd queried her on the message, she'd sighed and
>said he'd understand later. And there was another part
>of the message that made even less sense. “She said
>also that you'd remember the bluebells.”
>
>“The bluebells. Of course.”
>
>The man looked again at the handkerchief, and Richard
>wondered what was so special about it. It might have
>been white once, but plenty of snot had been washed
>out of it over the years and it was now a faded
>buttermilk colour.
>
>“Your father?” Mr. Joyce asked. “John, did you say?”
>
>“Joe.”
>
>“He's a fisherman?”
>
>“He was. He's.... his boat went down.”
>
>You were supposed to say “God rest him” when someone
>mentioned a dead person, but this man just kept
>staring from Richard's face to the handkerchief and
>back again. It was just a bit unclear on my first reading that Mr. Joyce hadn't said this, then when I gave it a second look, it was clear. Might just be me and my too-quick reading.
>
>“God rest him,” Richard added.
>
>“Of course, God rest him. And your mother, she's well?”
>
>“She is. Misses Da, of course.”
>
>“Surely she does.”
>
>“Mr. Joyce,” Richard cleared his throat. “How do you
>know my Ma?”
>
>The man sighed, a frown mark creasing the bridge of
>his nose.
>
>“From before you were born, during the time of
>Cromwell.”
>
>Richard spit reflexively on the floor at hearing the
>hated name, and Mr. Joyce smiled. Very nice. I don't know enough about that aspect of Cromwell's 'reign'. I didn't know the Irish were so adversely affected by him. You're making me learn, good job!
>
>“Those were hard times, I'm sure you've heard, and
>made strange allies.”
>
>“My Ma says Cromwell is roaring in Hell now.”
>
>“I'm sure he is. Are you keeping well, boy?”
>
>Richard shrugged. “I am.” Apart from the scratch of
>hunger in his stomach.
>
>“It can't be easy, with your father gone, God rest
>him.”
>
>“We're not the worst off. My uncle Jack is good to
>us.” After he's fed all his own children.
>
>“You have brothers? Sisters?”
>
>“Two younger sisters, Nora and Eily.”
>
> The man kept nodding and staring. Richard, in an
>attempt to escape from the gaze, looked at the
>leather-bound books lining the shelf on the wall.
>
>“Can you read?” Mr. Joyce asked.
>
>What a silly question! “I can't, sir. My Da was a
>fisherman.”
>
>“Of course, of course.”
You've painted a very clear and intriguing picture of these two people. Generating curiosity in your readers is a gift and you have it in spades! I'm anxious to find out more about these two. Well done!
Debi
Thanks to both of you for your critiques. I've changed the first few paragraphs a little:
>
>Thin sunlight streamed through the window,
>illuminating silver threads in the man's dark curls.
>
>“You're Kate Flaherty's son?” Mr. Joyce asked, placing
>his quill tip-down into a jar on the desk. He wore an
>indoor gown of rich brocade, and there were ink dots
>on his white cravat.
>
>“I am,” said Richard, breathing in the oak-and-paper
>dust. “Richard Mahon is my name.
>Son of Kate Flaherty and Joseph Mahon.” His knees felt knocky, his empty stomach
>gurgled, and he wondered again why his Ma had sent him
>to this rich man's place.
>