Young Writers Society

The beginnings of a story.....


He stood outside the carriage, staring at it wonderingly. In his memory, an image floated slowly to his eyes, one where he’s stood, another lifetime ago, outside a different carriage. With his mother. She was beautiful then, no more or less than ever before, with her wavy blonde hair bouncing as if the breath of the gods always blew across it at the precise angle. Her blue eyes always seemed to reflect the greatest oceans known to man, sparkling and shining, full of joy and freedom and laughter. One could never know from looking into her carefree eyes that she woke every morning fearing for her life as well as her son’s, that in her mind, every stranger in the hollow world of 1886 London posed a potential death threat. Her eyes did not tell her story, as authors claimed eyeballs always should, but instead took on a certain façade.

This was the image that came to haunt Tom now, the apparent last time he’d seen his mother, as she paid the carriage driver a sum of pounds and lifter him into the buggy, whispering goodbye. He had just turned nine and did not understand why she looked so sad nor where he was going. Tom had assumed he was merely being taken around for a ride, perhaps around town, and would arrive back in time for dinner, so his mother could give him a piece of bread and kiss him good night as she always did. Instead, he was taken to his Uncle Jack’s and apprenticed under him for five years in the dull art of tailoring.

Once Tom had earned a reasonable sum, which even then was hardly sufficient, he’d left his uncle’s home in the outskirts and returned to London. There he’d tried to make good on all he learned of tailoring, but it proved more difficult than he’d anticipated. He was kicked out of his first job after just two days and failed to last a full week at another.

It was not that Tom was incapable of doing the job, he found out, but rather that he lacked the overall work experience. Feeling dejected and slightly desperate, Tom could not understand this reasoning; if one could only work after gaining proper experience yet not get a job without experience, how could one achieve anything at all?

He’d at last had to settle for a job that required no experience whatsoever: paper delivery. During that seven-month stint, he awoke each morning before dawn and truly, he felt, before a reasonable time. He’d walk the two miles to the printing shop, gather the deliveries in his bag, and set out on the owner’s rickety bicycle, which Tom felt made his job more dangerous than any possible one in a factory.

Since only the rich had their papers delivered, Tom had the rare opportunity to become acquainted with some of London’s most brilliant. Of course, he only saw them from a distance, as he’d dealt strictly with their servants for payments. However, the kind ones would wave once in a while as he passed, making him feel as important as a fourteen-year-old could.

After he felt he’d served enough time with such a talentless job, he’d returned to looking for a job in tailoring, now that he had the proper “experience.” He’d been offered a full-time job on the spot as soon as he’d mentioned he knew were most of London’s aristocrats lived and did not mind making deliveries.

It happened after about three months at the job. A would-be gorgeous lady rushed into the store, her face plastered with stress and worry. She’d asked the boss, Mr. Daniels, whether he made wedding dresses. When he’d replied yes, she’d hurriedly went on to specify that the material must be of the finest cotton and of a yellow color with a silk white collar, and was this possible? Of course, Mr. Daniel’s had replied yes and the lady had nearly burst into tears of relief as she’d breathlessly recounted she’d been all over town and no one else would even hear of a silk collar.

Once Mr. Daniels had recorded all the specific measurements, the lady, who by now had let it be known she was called Miss Amanda Whitney, asked to have it delivered to the Burgeon House. Mr. Daniels had glanced at Tom and he’d apologetically told her that he already had two deliveries booked for today. Miss Whitney would hear none of that though, and she’d snapped open her purse and shoved a thick stack of pounds into Mr. Daniel’s surprised hands before coolly saying, “Before 4:30, if you don’t mind, gentlemen,” and walking out the door.

When four o’clock had come around, Tom had bid farewell to Mr. Daniels and set out for the Burgeon House. Everyone in London, of course, knew the Burgeon House was home to Charles Smith, the building financer of nearly the entire north side of the city. Tom had been excited to be going there, even if it was just to ring the bell and offer a bag holding a yellow and white wedding dress to a servant. The homes of the rich had always fascinated him, if for no other reason than the success of the people who lived there.

Tom had arrived at the house at 4:20. He’d been stopped at the front gate by the guard but been pointed to the front door once he’d explained his purpose. Walking up the long winding path, he’d watched the gargantuan yards, as rich people’s yards should. As he’d craned his head around the endless grass fields, he saw a group of older young girls playing with a slightly older lady down by the first gate he’d crossed. The lady looked to be in her early thirties, with light-colored hair and a fair smile. The young girls stood making a crown out of dandelions and placing it on the lady’s hair, who laughed and accepted the gift kindly.

Watching the scene, Tom had thought the wedding dress must be for her, suddenly understanding why Miss Whitney had ordered such precise colors and materials. He’d found himself at the end of the long path and hurried up the brick steps. At the front door, he’d been spared the need to announce his arrival, as he’d been greeted immediately by a servant. She’d seized the bag out of his hands and shooed him off, slamming the door rudely in his face.
He’d tread back down towards the entrance, now walking slightly faster, thinking of the other two deliveries he had yet to make. Tom had raised his hand in acknowledgement to the guard as he left the premises but had only received a cold stare in return. He’d shrugged, wondering why he bothered being nice to rich people at all.

Now outside the premises, he’d turned to look at the house once more before, when his eyes fell on the fair lady, and the laughing young kids now rolling about in the grass. He had stood and looked more closely at the lady, watching the sun reflect her wavy blonde hair. At that moment, she’d inclined her head and caught his glance. Ordinarily, Tom’s first thought would have been to apologize immediately for rudely staring but that was not what he did at all. Instead, his senses had been shocked stupid as he’d looked back at the lady’s bright, sparkling blue eyes and realized how beautiful and familiar she looked.

C-could it be? He’d suddenly wanted to wave, shout, do something to find out if she was –




I have written more at this point, but I'm not gonna post it all yet at the risk of people seeing how long it is and suddenly not wanting to read it all. If you like what you've read, please tell me and leave some crit, and I'll post more.

Your first mistake is waiting until the second paragraph to give us your characters name. It doesn't help. Neither does the tone. The character feels very real for me, but a passage of talking about the past with nothing happening in the present can make people lose interest very quickly. As for the setting, when you're doinga period piece, make sure you know what the society was like at the time. From the sounds of things, you've got different centuries all mixed together.

You speeded through a great deal of the character's life, so the reader has no connections with the character. I suggest rewriting this again, making more detail in each event and slowing down a bit in explaining. In the scene with 'Miss Amanda Whitney,' I think you should put some dialogue into it. The words being exchanged in that part weren't very impacting when I read it. Like I said before, you should slow down the story. It seems like an interesting plot, but if you stretched it out, I think it would be more exciting.

Reichieru, I agree that my way of telling this slowed down the storytelling, but it's the only way I could fit what needed to be told. I know this part goes fast, but it's ment to, because it's not the main attraction. The main idea was to recount the important points of Tom's life, and then get to the action. Here's the rest:

“Excuse me, sir?” His entire body had jumped as he’d felt a tap on his shoulder. He’d turned to find a delivery man standing beside a horse-and-carriage and offering an envelope to him. “Is your name Tom Bishop?”

Tom had still been too shaken by who he’d just seen to properly reply. “Yes, but –” He’d turned back to the gate, to the beautiful lady, but she and the kids were already walking back towards the mansion. He’d still had a chance to say something. He had been just about to shout a question to her when the delivery man had once again interrupted his thoughts.

“Sir?”

“What?” Tom had cried exasperatedly.

“This letter is for you.”

However, Tom had barely heard the man. He’d been looking past him, at the carriage, and been hit with the sudden memory of his mother.

The deliverer outstretched his hand farther. Tom snatched the letter out of his hands.

“Who’s it from?”

“Sir, my only directions were to issue you the letter and bring you back with me.”

Tom’s first thought was he was in some kind of trouble with the law and this man worked with the police. “Who are you? Bring me back where?” he asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

“147 Picket Lane, sir,” he skillfully avoided Tom’s first question.

Tom furrowed his brow. “Uncle Jack’s?”

The delivery man began to appear agitated. “Please, sir, just read the letter.”

Now primarily curious, Tom unceremoniously ripped the envelope apart and pulled out the letter. It was short, vague, and barely skimmed the point:


Dear Tom,

Please return immediately. Something tragic has happened.

Uncle Jack


Tom’s curiosity inflated. Before his garbled signature, Uncle Jack had apparently written more but decided to cross it out so decisively, Tom could make nothing of it.

He looked up to find the delivery man watching him closely. The man raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

Tom stepped into the back of the carriage.

Along the ride, Tom attempted to interrogate the deliverer, but he quit after receiving the same reply four times: “Sir, my directions were to give you the letter and bring you back.”

Each time he said that, Tom had the sudden urge to throw something heavy at the man’s head but refrained by gripping his shoe tightly.

They arrived at 147 Picket Lane a couple hours after nightfall. Uncle Jack came out to greet Tom.

“Uncle Jack, what’s happened?” Tom asked, feeling they were beyond greetings.

Uncle Jack, looking tired and wearing dark circles under his eyes, sighed. “Come, come inside and I’ll tell you all about it.”

However, before he led Tom into the house, he stopped to pay the delivery man. In return, the man handed Uncle Jack an envelope, which Jack pocketed.

Tom followed his uncle through the house he’d left two years ago. They came to the parlor, where Uncle Jack had tea set up on the table.

“Come now, sit, sit,” he invited, greatly annoying Tom, who just wished he’d get on with it.

“Now, what I’m about to tell you will not be easy. I ask you not interrupt and save any questions till the end.”

Tom nodded, feeling his pulse quicken.

“Tom,” began his uncle, “I’m sorry to tell you your mother is dead.”

Tom opened his mouth stupidly to reply, but Uncle Jack held up his hand.

“Please, let me just finish. I found out just a couple days ago, and was deeply saddened. I was told of it by a government agent. She was captured by the police and beheaded. No, it’s nothing she did, but rather, what your father did. Now, your mother wished me not to tell you this, but seeing as – well, I think now it’s appropriate.

“You never knew your father, Tom, because, when you were about a year old, he hung himself. He told your mother he’d done something terrible, and illegal too, and the government was going to put him to death as soon as they caught him. Now, exactly what he did, your mother chose not to tell me. But she knew the government would come after her as well, since her husband had been too much of a coward to turn himself over to the law, and when they caught her she’d pay his price and be killed. That’s why she kept you for as long as she thought it necessary for, then sent you to me.

“Great bit of judgment on her part, too, because the government never found out you existed. As far as they’re concerned, you are mind and your Aunt Molly’s boy, and that’s only because we share the same last name. And that’s why you don’t have to worry about the government coming after you either.” He took a sip of tea to show he was finished.

“Why would the government want me too?” Jack asked. It seemed the most reasonable place to start.

“Well, it turns out that the price for whatever crime your father committed will only by fulfilled by killing his whole family. Which is why we don’t want that asinine government to know Matthew Bishop had a son.”

They both fell silent, Uncle Jack respectfully giving Tom time to digest it all. Tom first wondered about what crime could be so bad, the price would be to kill a man’s entire family, but he quickly turned to other matters. His mind kept spinning around the part about his mother being killed. He didn’t believe it. Not in the sense that he was in denial, but that he was positive he’d seen her earlier today. He knew that beauty, those eyes and that hair, could only be his mother’s.

“You’re – you’re sure she’s dead?”

Uncle Jack nodded sorrowfully.

“Did she leave me anything?”

Uncle Jack gave a humorless smile. “Son, your mother spent too much time on the run to have any real possessions.”

Tom nodded slowly. “Do you mind if I stay here tonight?”

“Why, sure, sure, I expected it. Even drew up your old bedroom.”

“But do you think you could arrange a carriage to take me back to London tomorrow? Mr. Daniels is probably wondering where I am.”

“Ah yes!” Uncle Jack said suddenly, holding up his finger. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope Tom had seen the delivery man hand him when they’d arrived. “I sent a letter to your employer with the delivery man, told him to give it to Daniels before he picked you up. I told Daniels you’d be taking a couple days off. Here’s the reply, I expect.”

He unfolded the letter and skimmed it quickly. “Well, he calls you a lazy scoundrel but wishes you well.”

“How’d you know where I worked?” Tom asked curiously.

“I’ve got some friends in London and sometimes ask them to check up on you,” Uncle Jack said easily.
“You have me followed?”
“Well, of course not, Tom,” Uncle Jack replied, his usually easy manner disrupted. “I just like to know you’re doing all right. I’m going to bed now. You can go up to your room whenever you’re ready.”

Tom nodded, wanting to be left alone to his own thoughts for a couple minutes. So his mom was dead, according to Uncle Jack. No, thought Tom, she’s not. I saw her today. I saw her and tomorrow, I’m going to go back and prove it. She’s not dead.

He got up, went to his old bedroom, collapsed onto his bed, and fell asleep immediately.

So what if it's not main attraction? If you rush through stuff, the reader either gets bored, has trouble following it, or could miss important information. But more importantly, it shows that you didn't care. And if you didn't care to give it the time and effort it deserved, why should we?

I find that usually grammar tells a lot about a person's style, and can reveal a lot of what is wrong with the story. Therefore, you will see a lot of grammar mistakes pointed out, among the stylistic errors that I care to point out.

Kylie J wrote:He stood outside the carriage, staring at it wonderingly. In his memory, an image floated slowly to his eyes, one where he’s stood, another lifetime ago, outside a different carriage.

Check tense.

With his mother.

Awkward fragment.

She was beautiful then, no more or less than ever before, with her wavy blonde hair bouncing as if the breath of the gods always blew across it at the precise angle. Her blue eyes always seemed to reflect the greatest oceans known to man...

"...known to man" sounds clumsy and takes away from the general meaning of the story. Delete it.

...sparkling and shining, full of joy and freedom and laughter. One could never know from looking into her carefree eyes that she woke every morning fearing for her life as well as her son’s...

Awkward. Can you change the sentence around so that it flows better? It looks like you have, but it still is rather awkward.

...that in her mind, every stranger in the hollow world of 1886 London posed a potential death threat. Her eyes did not tell her story, as authors...

You're making a unbased assumption that all authors claim something, and because of that, the sentence sounds strange. In my experience, usually authors make the character's eyes hide an emotion.

...claimed eyeballs always should, but instead took on a certain façade.

Do not use the word eyeballs. You do not have to change every word around to make the sentence powerful -- indeed, it is the opposite which works better.

This was the image that came to haunt Tom now, the apparent last time he’d seen his mother...

Apparent? Adjective sounds awkward and you are misusing the word.

...as she paid the carriage driver a sum of pounds and lifter...

lifted

...him into the buggy, whispering goodbye. He had just turned nine and did not understand why she looked so sad nor...

or

where he was going. Tom had assumed he was merely being taken around for a ride, perhaps around town, and would arrive back in time for dinner, so his mother could give him a piece of bread and kiss him good night as she always did. Instead, he was taken to his Uncle Jack’s and apprenticed under him for five years in the dull art of tailoring.

YES! FINALLY THE STORY HAS BEGUN!

Let me repeat this again since this sentence is so important:

Instead, he was taken to his Uncle Jack’s and apprenticed under him for five years in the dull art of tailoring.

In one of the great children's stories, Johnny Tremain, the author talks about Johnny's life and then... bam. The first change -- something happens and he has to "seek his fortune" as it were.

Starting out a story is an art. Whenever you start out a story, the sentence where your character begins to "seek his fortune" is what hooks in the audience and makes them want to read more. This conflict will lead to the next conflict and the next. This is the first main conflict.

As I read it, I wondered what would happen. Would Tom be forced to live with a cruel miserly man? Would Uncle Jack die? Was Uncle Jack more powerful than he seemed? Why was it dull? Was Uncle Jack boring? I wanted to find out more about this character. Already, you hinted that there was something potentially dangerous in this story. Could Uncle Jack be the only place of safety where Tom go to? Did Uncle Jack know about the danger he was in?

Let's see what you do with it.

Once Tom had earned a reasonable sum, which even then was hardly sufficient, he’d left his uncle’s home in the outskirts and returned to London.

You have failed as a storyteller. This part might not be important in your eyes, but as I read it, I wanted to know more. I bet the other critiquers thought the same. It seemed like a main conflict to me. Now it seems to be just the boring routine of a guy. A guy that doesn't matter. What is special about him? What about Uncle Jack? All these questions that I had were kicked aside and you have given me dry bread instead of luschious pastries.

"But it's not important!" you say.

Well guess what? As a reader, as soon as I read that sentence, I thought, "Oh no... he is going to ramble on without a point for the rest of the story. And you know what? I was right. I read the rest of the story, and it was dull and dry. Finally, when you did get to the dialogue, I didn't care anymore.

Let me repeat this again, since this is so important.

Instead, he was taken to his Uncle Jack’s and apprenticed under him for five years in the dull art of tailoring.

This sentence made me excited about the plot and I wanted to know more. That one sentence had such an effect on me that, if you had expanded on it, I would have certainly given you a good review on this.

Once Tom had earned a reasonable sum, which even then was hardly sufficient, he’d left his uncle’s home in the outskirts and returned to London.

This one sentence ruined it all for me.

Sentences are important. They hint to your reader what you are going to talk about about and make them more excited. Finally, when the conflict is described, they will not be able to put the book down. You may have thought that since it is just a sentence, it doesn't matter. Nothing is farther from the truth.

You may think this is strange, but in a good story every sentence matters. In Jane Austen's book, there is a brief conversation between Lizzy and Charlotte about Jane's behavior with a gentleman. When reading it, you think nothing much of it, but later, it is the whole focus of the book. In that same book, the first conflict, which is a gentleman coming to twon, is repeated throughout the book. Your first conflict should have the same importance.

How can you fix this? Well, if it isn't the first conflict, then rearrange your work. I suggest writing an outline. Lots of young writers balk at that idea, but you must be able to organize your conflicts so you describe them properly.

Good luck.

Wow. THANK YOU SNOINK. Rather than just telling me what needed to be changed, you explained why too, which helped me see a lot of my mistakes in taking the story without properly developing it. I've already begun working on a more complete version.

HI! nice!