Welcome to another Death Of 1000 Cuts, making you an awesome writer, one cut at a time.
The postman just knocked on the door and delivered a surprise package of new books. Basically this ‘being an author’ lark is already proving to be a sweet, sweet gravy train – and my novel isn’t even out for nearly a year! I improvised a song and did a little dance, I was so excited.
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As always, read the extract, decide what you like and what you’d change, then read my thoughts after ‘The Cuts.
It’s the End of the World as We Know It (by AJ)
For several months, a man occupied the corner of Blossom Drive and Holly Avenue. He and his sign, a simple message of “The End is Nigh” had been as constant as the street sign and the sidewalk. His presence was picked up on by passersby, though people continued on with their day-to-day tasks despite reading his warning.
No one was exactly sure when he arrived or when he left, as even the earliest commuters had seen him before they saw the morning sun. His clothes didn’t changed, nor did his stoic demeanor. His beard grew longer, his jacket and slacks dirtier, and the sign showed evidence of wear and tear, especially on the corners where he gripped it for hours at a time.
Then one day he was gone. A staple for many drivers, even becoming a landmark for some who would reference him when giving directions, had up and left.
Some figured he took the day off. Others thought he was preparing for whatever atrocity he believed was coming, having provided ample warning. A few even theorized that the sign was about him–it was his end and it had finally come. All the speculation would have been put to rest had he showed up again the next day, but he didn’t. Nor was he on the corner the day after that. In fact, the lack of the man eventually was as constant as his presence had been, until one day the people who had seen him stopped referencing him completely.
The Cuts
For several months, a man occupied the corner of Blossom Drive and Holly Avenue.
In principle, a solid opening bid.
There are some shit bits: ‘occupied’ feels unnecessarily abstract. You could give us a clearer, more specific image – is he sitting, standing? ‘occupied’ is weirdly legalistic.
‘Blossom Drive’ and ‘Holly Avenue’ are horrible names for roads, even if they’re real. They sound made up, and they’re instantly forgettable. I’m not suggesting you put him standing on the corner of Puce Arnold Street and Fucknugget Mews, but something less bland would be a nice hint to your reader that you’ve made an effort to make this story resonant and memorable and out of the ordinary.
But otherwise, yes. You introduce a character, a milieu, and a mystery. It might seem inconsistent for me to gripe about ‘occupied’ but wave past the super-broad noun ‘man’, but I think it’s appropriate, it sets him up as a bit of an enigma, and – by implication – you’re going to expand on just who he is in the following sentences.
He and his sign, a simple message of “The End is Nigh” had been as constant as the street sign and the sidewalk.
Ugh. This sentence is so covered in fluff it’s like you sucked it, accidentally spat it out and let it roll under the sofa.
The repetition of ‘sign’ clangs. ‘the street sign’ is so lazy you might as well replace it with Vine of you swiping your hand at the camera and saying ‘pfft – you imagine it’. Which sign? The one with the street name on it? How do your two examples – the existence of a pavement and a street sign – materially embellish our mental image of this fictive world? Do you honestly not think that when you tell us a man stood on the side of Blahblah Road, we haven’t already pictured a pavement beneath him and a street sign?
If you need to include a simile (spoiler alert: you don’t – you’ve already told us he occupied the corner ‘For several months’, so this is just rehashing old information) or a comparison, at least use it to introduce surprising, idiosyncratic yet fundamentally true details that tell us we are seeing a particular street, in a particular time. Perhaps go for a wander around your neighbourhood and note down a couple of interesting specifics that catch your eye.
This is the whole point of show, don’t tell – specifics can’t help but haemorrhage information. They suggest era, they imply the affluence of the neighbourhood, perhaps season, and they also contribute to mood. If you decide to mention an old plum tree that overhangs the pavement, dropping first blossom, then a few ripe plums, then finally leaves, that has a very different feel to an electricity junction box concreted into the ground and Tippex-graffitied with the slogan: ‘Josh Parsley is thin’
The only mood mentioning ‘the street sign’ and ‘the sidewalk’ evoke is one of stultifying blandness. Please don’t be swooningly tedious. Make an effort.
You don’t need to preface the simple message by explaining that it’s a ‘simple message’. We’ll see that it’s a simple message if you just let us read it instead of interjecting to instruct us how to digest it. This is the expositional equivalent of ‘she retaliated raucously’ in dialogue tags.
I might recast the sentence like this:
His sign read: ‘The End Is Nigh’.
Simple. Gets to the point. All we need to know is that he’s an apocalyptic dude.
His presence was picked up on by passersby,
Really? So a corporeal man, wearing clothes and existing in time and space, can be detected by other human beings? Well, that’s inherently noteworthy and worthwhile spending 8 words making clear.
though people continued on with their day-to-day tasks despite reading his warning.
Again, absolutely worth spelling out. After all, most readers – in the absence of information to the contrary – will assume that all pedestrians read his message, took it as literal truth and abandoned their plans to run screaming. You might want to add that no one spontaneously combusted or dropped trou and took a dump on the pavement – y’know, just to be clear.
No one was exactly sure when he arrived or when he left, as even the earliest commuters had seen him before they saw the morning sun.
The first part of this sentence is confusing. On an initial pass, it sounds like you’re talking about his first ever appearance – which, as you’ve already explained, was a ‘several months’ ago – and only with the explanatory second clause do we realise you mean ‘No one was sure when he arrived each morning’.
‘exactly’ is a fluff word. Cut it.
This scene feels odd and unanchored because there’s no viewpoint character. You’re apparently giving us access to a general pool of knowledge shared by local commuters, but with no real point of view or stakes attached to it.
If he’s always there before the sun comes up, and no one sees him leave, why would they assume he leaves at all? Is there a time by which he’s always gone?
His clothes didn’t changed,
‘change’, obviously.
This is a particularly cruel move on your part: ‘His clothes? Oh, yeah, they’re just the same ones he’s always wearing. Y’know – his usual clothes. The ones I’ve never fucking mentioned once. What’s wrong? Can’t you peer through the text with your magical interdimensional eyes and simply perceive them directly?’
nor did his stoic demeanor.
Show, don’t tell. What, in his appearance and actions, leads people to believe he’s ‘stoic’? ‘Stoic’ is an abstract value judgement, not something that excites the senses. He’s just standing there, after all. Is that really stoic? One might just as easily see it as stupid, unimaginative, bloodyminded, or the sign of severe mental illness. What’s his expression? Is he frowning? Smiling?
His beard grew longer, his jacket and slacks dirtier, and the sign showed evidence of wear and tear, especially on the corners where he gripped it for hours at a time.
Okay, so we’re seeing a kind of time-lapse image in this sentence, which is more or less fine. What colour is his beard? ‘jacket and slacks’ is too vague – specify.
How can onlookers detect ‘evidence of wear and tear… on the corners’ if the corners are covered by his hands gripping them?
Then one day he was gone. A staple for many drivers, even becoming a landmark for some who would reference him when giving directions, had up and left.
These two sentences are the wrong way round. Oh, and the second one is 70% crappy.
I’d change ‘day’ to ‘morning’. That’s when people would first notice. At least locate it in a broad narrative present.
I really like the idea that he is used when giving directions. It has a nice ring of absurd authenticity. But egad, if it doesn’t take you a long time to get to the punch.
‘A staple for many drivers’? No. A thousand times no. You’ve just told us this. And now you’re telling it us again, in even more leaden, abstract, clichéd language.
‘even becoming a landmark for some who would reference him when giving directions’ is such a mouthful. And not a nice mouthful. Certainly not a mouthful of warm double-chocolate chip muffin. It’s a mouthful of turpentine and dog hair, AJ.
‘Drivers gave directions by him.’ or ‘Drivers referenced him when giving directions.’ would sum up everything this sentence needs to do. NB: ‘upped and left’, not ‘up and left’ (which sounds distractingly like actual directions), but I’d cut that (it’s just repeating what you’ve already told us, and switch the sentence order. Then it reads:
Drivers referenced him when giving directions. Then one morning he was gone.
More of a wallop, that way round.
Some figured he took the day off. Others thought he was preparing for whatever atrocity he believed was coming, having provided ample warning. A few even theorized that the sign was about him–it was his end and it had finally come.
I hate that we still don’t have a viewpoint character. All this ‘some’, ‘others’, ‘a few’ bullshit – it’s just so banal and general and it renders what could be quite an engaging mystery uninvolving, distant, and faintly implausible.
Engage the reader’s five senses. What are we supposed to picture when you say ‘some’? That’s even broader than ‘a man’! It doesn’t even evoke images of actual humans! It’s beneath the standard required of even basic conversations:
‘Hey AJ. Have fun at the barbecue last night?’
‘Oh yeah, it was great.’
‘Who was there?’
‘Y’know, some. Others. A few.’
‘I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Sure you do. They were wearing those clothes they always wear. They occupied a corner.’
These theories would be so much more involving if we heard actual characters with personalities and emotions and power dynamics exchanging them in an actual dramatized scene, instead of this wishy-washy summarising.
All the speculation would have been put to rest had he showed up again the next day, but he didn’t.
A fundamentally badly constructed sentence.
By ‘would’, most readers are intelligent enough to work out that the guy doesn’t return the next day. They’re probably smart enough to have figured this out anyway – after all, a story is constructed from the unusual, the breaks in routine. So you’re forcing them to plough through the rest of this doughy, drab sentence, just to establish what they already know.
You don’t need to tell us that the speculation would have stopped if he had reappeared. We’re not idiots. We know that. Just say: ‘The next day, he was still gone.’ That’s quick, says everything we need to know, and it’s only by ‘still’ that we know how the sentence will end (and, to be frank, that redundant ‘gone’ bothers me – ideally, all your sentences should end on their most important word, so the reader isn’t picking through a litter of grammatical busywork after the party’s over – if it takes six redrafts, shuffling around the word order until you find the simplest, most direct way of expressing what you mean, it takes six redrafts).
In fact, the lack of the man eventually was as constant as his presence had been, until one day the people who had seen him stopped referencing him completely.
Again, so many words to say so little. What does ‘in fact’ add? How does it contribute to our understanding or sharpen our perception of your imagined world? Is it, in fact, utter bollocks?
How does ‘one day’ usefully modify ‘until’? If you don’t include it are your readers likely to conclude that the event described took place outside of conventional space-time? And it’s not even accurate – ‘one day’ implies that on a particular day, everyone stopped talking about him, as if by mutual agreement, instead of gradually.
How does ‘completely’ elaborate on ‘stopped referencing him’? How does ‘stopped referencing him’ not contain a sense of completeness? Would you ever write ‘Greg murdered Beryl completely’? I hope not, AJ. I hope not.
The entirety of this sentence can be boiled down to ‘People stopped mentioning him.’ 4 words instead of 29. And while, sure, one can boil anything down to less words (Hamlet = ‘Royal git dithers.’) I’m not convinced, in this case, that anything information is lost in the distillation.
This whole intro lacks texture. It’s grey and toneless – a loose collage of concepts, rather than a scene. I want character, and I want all my senses excited. I want sharp focus.
The whole alchemy of fiction is doing enough work so the reader no longer perceives your arrangement of words on a page as something concocted in an author’s mind, but as a window onto a world that is real and actual. (unless, of course, you’re being juvenile and self-consciously postmodern, which usually has a flavour of a dad chortling at his own puns) One of the key tricks is detail – something your extract conspicuously lacks.
Go to it, AJ. Do a bit of local research, and tighten up those images. Underneath this porridgey morass is an absolutely serviceable story concept. Do it justice.
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