Hi folks,
Here are the first few pages of my WIP. The primary question I have is whether you find it engaging enough to keep reading.
I'm trying to decide between two starting points. One that is quiet and one that is more action-oriented.
I think this quitter opening server the whole novel better, but I worry it won't draw a reader in like something higher paced. This is not the whole first scene even, but by the first 1000 words, I think you'll know whether you want to read on or not. My main concern is that it is a bit too domestic. The rest of the book isn't.
Another concern I have is achieving the right balance between action and description. I want to avoid info dumps but also want to sketch the world well enough so the reader won't come to any false conclusions.
Thanks so much to all of you for taking the time to read.
Thin mist clung to the valley like a raged sheet of polywrap.
It swirled around her boots and away to nothing as Penn crunched along the gravel that led back to her lodge, a long polymer structure that was older than Grandfather. She shuddered away the morning's chill, sloshing well water from her heavy pail, and in her satchel waited the day's ration. A little more than half of what she and her sister had turned in at the storehouse yesterday, mushrooms, green beetles, a few small camas roots still crusted in sandy earth. Her stomach churned, and she willed herself not to shove a beetle past her teeth until breakfast was ready for the whole family.
Behind the lodge, she stopped to fill the trough in the quail coop, pouring the water in through the wire mesh. The sight of a bird on its back, toes curled up, halted her. She sucked in a fraught breath. Another dead. The second this week. There were only four left now, all of them hens -- they would never lay another hatching egg. The elders had cast signs of the Quadra, but the answers held no solutions. Her sister had named this one Paradise, though their father had said not to give them names. She scratched at the collar of her polyester sweater that always made her sweat, even in the cold. Giving the news to Father would not be pleasant. The casualty was not her fault but still, it would be.
She untwisted the wire that held shut the coop and removed the dead bird amidst the coos of the remaining, their crest feathers bobbing down and up. She set it away, far away. If it was going to infect the others, it likely had already, but she wasn't taking chances. Later, she would bury it in a garden box. At least it could serve as compost.
As she passed under the taut powerlines that connected her clan lodge to the wind turbines, her skin prickled. She couldn't say why, but she always felt a crackle in her gut when something was amiss with current. But she'd have to let that wait for now.
Shouldering through the backdoor of the lodge, she almost flicked on the LED lights but instead waited for her eyes to adjust. Best save the power for the kettle, and the sun will be coming through the windows soon.
She poured half of the water into a pot then dangled a spiralled heating element from the lip before plugging it into the socket on the countertop. A whiff of sulphur tinted the air. The rest she poured into the kettle. She was about to head out for another pailful when she heard Grandfather coughing in the frontroom. Early for him to be out of bed. She set the tatty pail aside and started down the hall, dodging the spot where the floor panels squeaked so as to not disturb her father.
"Penelope, you're up early," Grandfather said in his thick voice. Morning light streamed through the window behind, burnishing his thin hair that had long turned from black to white.
"I'm up same time every day," she answered crossing the room to his wheelchair. "Why are you out of bed already?"
"It's the last day of summer," he said as though that answered her question.
Penn hummed, patting his shoulder. "And tomorrow fall." It had been one hundred days since any traders had visited their mountain village. Even in the spring, the visits had become less frequent. The last to arrive had spoken of a long-term agreement with their city across the bay but still had not returned to negotiate the pact. A month ago, when the quails began falling ill, her father had sent her cousin, Lee, on a journey to find a new trading partner. He had not returned either.
"Would you reach that book for me? My leg's gone to sleep again." Grandfather nodded to the near-empty bookcase against the wall.
"Of course." She tucked a stray lock of her copper-red hair behind an ear and reached past the brush sketch of her mother to the Rea clans two books. One was a collection of stories about the Quadra, the other, a compendium of birds from the last epoch, a few of which could still be seen in the mountains. As a little girl, she had spent hours sitting with him, turning the crinkly pages and marvelling at the colourful pictures. "No not that one. The other one," he said as her fingers touched its spine.
The Analects of the Quadra then, every clan had a copy. Penn slid the hardcover off the shelf and handed it to Grandfather. Little bits of the red-brown cover clung to her fingers. Grandfather carefully spread the book open on his lap "And my reading glass. Should be there too."
It wasn't. Penn glanced around the room, spied the large magnifying lens on the tea table and set it into Grandfather's cool, wrinkled hand. He must have read the book a thousand times, must have it memorized by now. He was a village elder and the elders were the keepers of the Quadra in Aeramen. But still, he needed to inspect every stroke of each letter on the page. Penn could read many of the words herself but had little use for reading and writing. Their neighbours, the Sun clan, had over ten books on their shelf but never let anyone touch them.
She took a seat in one of the antique wooden chairs and lifted Grandfather's leg onto her lap. "Which leg is asleep?"
"Both," he said, squinting at the text and moving the glass closer then farther from his face.
"I'll start with this one then." Penn began to knead the thin flesh on the bottom of his foot. Dark blue veins showed through. In time, his skin began to warm.
From the kitchen, she heard the kettle click, ignored it for the time being. A minute later Father came into the frontroom, tea kettle dangling from one hand.
...
Here are the first few pages of my WIP. The primary question I have is whether you find it engaging enough to keep reading.
I'm trying to decide between two starting points. One that is quiet and one that is more action-oriented.
I think this quitter opening server the whole novel better, but I worry it won't draw a reader in like something higher paced. This is not the whole first scene even, but by the first 1000 words, I think you'll know whether you want to read on or not. My main concern is that it is a bit too domestic. The rest of the book isn't.
Another concern I have is achieving the right balance between action and description. I want to avoid info dumps but also want to sketch the world well enough so the reader won't come to any false conclusions.
Thanks so much to all of you for taking the time to read.
-1-
Thin mist clung to the valley like a raged sheet of polywrap.
It swirled around her boots and away to nothing as Penn crunched along the gravel that led back to her lodge, a long polymer structure that was older than Grandfather. She shuddered away the morning's chill, sloshing well water from her heavy pail, and in her satchel waited the day's ration. A little more than half of what she and her sister had turned in at the storehouse yesterday, mushrooms, green beetles, a few small camas roots still crusted in sandy earth. Her stomach churned, and she willed herself not to shove a beetle past her teeth until breakfast was ready for the whole family.
Behind the lodge, she stopped to fill the trough in the quail coop, pouring the water in through the wire mesh. The sight of a bird on its back, toes curled up, halted her. She sucked in a fraught breath. Another dead. The second this week. There were only four left now, all of them hens -- they would never lay another hatching egg. The elders had cast signs of the Quadra, but the answers held no solutions. Her sister had named this one Paradise, though their father had said not to give them names. She scratched at the collar of her polyester sweater that always made her sweat, even in the cold. Giving the news to Father would not be pleasant. The casualty was not her fault but still, it would be.
She untwisted the wire that held shut the coop and removed the dead bird amidst the coos of the remaining, their crest feathers bobbing down and up. She set it away, far away. If it was going to infect the others, it likely had already, but she wasn't taking chances. Later, she would bury it in a garden box. At least it could serve as compost.
As she passed under the taut powerlines that connected her clan lodge to the wind turbines, her skin prickled. She couldn't say why, but she always felt a crackle in her gut when something was amiss with current. But she'd have to let that wait for now.
Shouldering through the backdoor of the lodge, she almost flicked on the LED lights but instead waited for her eyes to adjust. Best save the power for the kettle, and the sun will be coming through the windows soon.
She poured half of the water into a pot then dangled a spiralled heating element from the lip before plugging it into the socket on the countertop. A whiff of sulphur tinted the air. The rest she poured into the kettle. She was about to head out for another pailful when she heard Grandfather coughing in the frontroom. Early for him to be out of bed. She set the tatty pail aside and started down the hall, dodging the spot where the floor panels squeaked so as to not disturb her father.
"Penelope, you're up early," Grandfather said in his thick voice. Morning light streamed through the window behind, burnishing his thin hair that had long turned from black to white.
"I'm up same time every day," she answered crossing the room to his wheelchair. "Why are you out of bed already?"
"It's the last day of summer," he said as though that answered her question.
Penn hummed, patting his shoulder. "And tomorrow fall." It had been one hundred days since any traders had visited their mountain village. Even in the spring, the visits had become less frequent. The last to arrive had spoken of a long-term agreement with their city across the bay but still had not returned to negotiate the pact. A month ago, when the quails began falling ill, her father had sent her cousin, Lee, on a journey to find a new trading partner. He had not returned either.
"Would you reach that book for me? My leg's gone to sleep again." Grandfather nodded to the near-empty bookcase against the wall.
"Of course." She tucked a stray lock of her copper-red hair behind an ear and reached past the brush sketch of her mother to the Rea clans two books. One was a collection of stories about the Quadra, the other, a compendium of birds from the last epoch, a few of which could still be seen in the mountains. As a little girl, she had spent hours sitting with him, turning the crinkly pages and marvelling at the colourful pictures. "No not that one. The other one," he said as her fingers touched its spine.
The Analects of the Quadra then, every clan had a copy. Penn slid the hardcover off the shelf and handed it to Grandfather. Little bits of the red-brown cover clung to her fingers. Grandfather carefully spread the book open on his lap "And my reading glass. Should be there too."
It wasn't. Penn glanced around the room, spied the large magnifying lens on the tea table and set it into Grandfather's cool, wrinkled hand. He must have read the book a thousand times, must have it memorized by now. He was a village elder and the elders were the keepers of the Quadra in Aeramen. But still, he needed to inspect every stroke of each letter on the page. Penn could read many of the words herself but had little use for reading and writing. Their neighbours, the Sun clan, had over ten books on their shelf but never let anyone touch them.
She took a seat in one of the antique wooden chairs and lifted Grandfather's leg onto her lap. "Which leg is asleep?"
"Both," he said, squinting at the text and moving the glass closer then farther from his face.
"I'll start with this one then." Penn began to knead the thin flesh on the bottom of his foot. Dark blue veins showed through. In time, his skin began to warm.
From the kitchen, she heard the kettle click, ignored it for the time being. A minute later Father came into the frontroom, tea kettle dangling from one hand.
...
