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Date Posted: 14:59:43 03/30/10 Tue
Author: Fi
Subject: Jumping in with my contribution>>>
In reply to: Debi 's message, "Prepare for takeoff..." on 20:50:15 03/20/10 Sat

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.

“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 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 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.

“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.

“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.

“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.”

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Replies:

[> [> Re: Jumping in with my contribution>>> -- susiej, 16:21:59 04/01/10 Thu

Fi, I really like this: the subject the perfect flow of the writing, the spot on dialogue- all great.

One thing, though- I was a bit confused in the beginning on whose POV we were in. You start with that line that I loved- about the sun and silver hair- loved it. I knew we were observing this man, and then he asks a question and you answer it with "the boy said," so I thought someone else was in the room, watching. That's how distant "the boy" felt. If it's Richard answering and he's our MC, I think you need to say "said Richard. You establish his age next anyway, so we'll see right away he's a boy.

And the hankerchief threw me a bit too. Maybe because i was still confused on POV, but it didn't click that "the boy" had given it. Even though you said his name was Richard. I don't know maybe that personal info came after that great inbetween line- about wondering why Ma, etc. I think I was still pondering all that interesting info, and didn't absorb his name well. So when "Richard" popped in, I went...who? If you'd called him Richard first, it would have cleared things up for dimwits like me.

But, I had it all worked out by the end and definitely wanted to read more! Keep posting.

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[> [> Re: Jumping in with my contribution>>> -- debikm, 21:14:05 04/01/10 Thu

>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

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[> [> Re: Jumping in with my contribution>>> -- Fi, 07:25:51 04/08/10 Thu

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.
>

Will post more soon - watch this space :)

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