Hey Jesse! Can you be brutal? I got some good brutality today that was really helpful. I can't help but think that beta readers are the only way it'll be read. I'd love to chat with you about a couple of thangs, too.

I don't know about brutal, but I'll give it a shot? Feel free to e.

Amy! That's perfect! Hee.

Susan, it isn't enough for me. But I'm not at all familiar with your genre, which is why I don't trust my comments on your work. So please feel free to disregard me.

AmyLiz, I love that drabble. Made me do the rare literal LOL.

You kill a guy in the second paragraph! It's great!

Just call me Tim Minear. Except the dead guy isn't especially lovable.

Hell, I love the wry tone of these first paragraphs, it saddens me that you're going to change it to something different.

Well, I'd hate to have to maintain that omniscient distance for any length of time! But I think most of my writing, though fundamentally serious, keeps a hint of the wry. Read Jane Austen enough and it rubs off on you.

Susan, it isn't enough for me. But I'm not at all familiar with your genre, which is why I don't trust my comments on your work. So please feel free to disregard me.

DH thinks I can throw in a phrase here and there that'll make it clear without having to be pedantic--maybe a reference to Bonaparte, and to how war-weary the riders are since most of them have been there for several years, etc.

Another point of contention from tonight's group:

I describe the hero through the heroine's eyes, and we discussed how to strike the right balance of enabling the readers to form a mental picture without it coming across as a laundry list of features like a description of a MarySue in a poorly written first fanfic effort by a starry-eyed teen. Everyone in my writers group wants me to have Jack remind Anna of her brother James, the hero of my previous effort, since I used some similar adjectives to describe them (i.e. wiry and strong-boned).

To me that means I need to step away from my pet adjectival shorthand for "manly hottie with the right build for a Regency wardrobe (mmm, tight pants)", because the Jack and James who live in my head don't look much alike beyond both having long noses. And I think it'd be really hard to have Anna think of Jack resembling her brother without it being incestuous and creepifying. Also, I'm trying very hard to make this work as a stand-alone so that I can sell it regardless of what happens withthe first book. But they think that since she's not yet at the level of being consciously attracted to him, to have her be reminded of her brother would be a nice way to show that she finds him comfortable and appealing.

Ew, I agree with you and not your group on him reminding her of her brother. That way lies ickiness. He could remind her, enough for her to be inclined to trust him, of someone else she's known, though, and felt comfortable with. Surely there was a neighbor, or a friend's father, even a merchant or a groom who showed a bit of awareness--anyone but a relative.

But I do very much agree with Dylan on

how war-weary the riders are since most of them have been there for several years

and also how routine this sort of thing would become to them. They're just trudging through it by rote, which is why the killing shot is so shocking. The way it's written (although P-C was all charmed by "utterly surprised"), I don't think it comes off as wry, I think it comes off as sarcarstic. But then again, me, with my scant knowledge of the genre.

But also? I think the ref to Boney would be superfluous.

I agree with Bev. I'd want more, also "tallest and handsomest" just... doesn't sound right. Too glib, perhaps? I can't live that story. "Dazzling blues?" How long have they been on patrol? I would think they ought to be dirty and tired and not paying attention because of it, not dress parade snappy and startled there's a war on. (I've forgotten his name, so used Jack in my "what I'd do" example below.)

Spain, June 1811

"Captain Jack, sir?"

The captain finally looked up, and frowned. "Yes, what, Macready? I wasn't attending."

"Thinkin' about a little slap and tickle, I'll bet. I know I am."

Jack's mouth tightened. "We are his majesty's dragoons, not Navy riff-raff. Let's act like it."

"Yes sir." The mounted patrolman wheeled his horse around, completely forgetting what he'd been going to ask at the unfairness of the reprimand. They'd been at this same patrol for days and not a single Frenchy in sight, finally about to get a little break and the Captain still had to act like he had a rod up his backside.

A shot rang out. For a few moments all was bedlam as the soldiers struggled with startled horses and tried to pinpoint the location of the sniper. He was gone, but so was Captain Jack. Macready was first off his horse. "Damn." He spit in the dust at his feet. "Never think ill of a soldier. You're likely thinking ill of the dead."

Not that you should use any of this, but I think it's easier to get into it. Of course, your style is different too, so I don't know if something like this would work with the rest of the novel. And if you hate it, just pretend I didn't say anything.

Drabble #21:

You knew you loved her (if you hadn't before) the moment you walked into her yard that April night. From the invitation, you had expected the first cook-out of spring, or possibly a bonfire.

This party, though, had a sole purpose, well beyond beer and grilled meat. Gathered around a small embankment were 20 biology majors, all leaning down to peer at the dirt, flashlights in one hand, beers in the other. They waited expectantly, jumping up and cheering when the first of the 17-year cicadas finally emerged.

Her cheers were more racous than all the others.

You were in love.

Aw. Entomology romance.

I'm starting to feel like a broken record, but... this is what keeps coming into my head.

Amen

Behind us is the peach orchard, and the breeze blowing through it brings the smell of new growth. No peaches yet, it’s too early, but the promise of them.

To the right, oak trees stand twisted, sturdy, leaving dappled light scattered on the ground.

Down the hill below our feet there’s a pond, and if you watch closely, you can see small silver fish jump toward the sunlight, snapping insects from the air.

We look down, at artificial turf over a gaping black hole under a smooth brown box, and we wait for the officiate to say the final amen.