Hook Victorine #10

Here's the first 400 words from Eland Dances, not yet published, by Philip van Wulven.

I have no cover art, since it's not yet published, so I'll just jump right on in.

Chapter 1 - Welcome to the Jungle -

I froze in the chair. There was a lion right there in the room, on the other side of the table.

Hmm, interesting beginning. It makes me wonder… what kind of room? A dining room, since there’s a table? I’ll keep reading to see.

Just what I’d been warned about, but hadn’t believed.

So unlikely, even in Africa. Here, in Heathrow, in a bar that smelt of stale beer, cigarettes, and damp socks, it was plain unbelievable.

Ah, a bar. This is interesting. I’d like to see the lion a little better, does he look like he’s going to strike?

I tried not to move. Maybe he’d ignore me.

No such luck. His shoulder muscles bunched and his eyes blazed red as he looked at me.

Perfect. This is just what I wanted. You’ve got me hooked. I want to know what he’s going to do now.

Avoid eye contact. Don’t challenge them. I looked down at my beer.

Since it’s just one lion, I’d say, “Don’t challenge him,” but that’s nit picky.

“I'm in charge at the loony bin, Pete. My cabbagepatch. Like when the loonies get the s***s I take care of things. Fix 'em up. They're always so friggin' grateful.”

I’m a bit confused. Who is speaking? And why are they speaking so casually with a lion in the room? Don’t they see the lion?

I looked up and saw just plain old Big Sid hunched forward over the formica table, pint in paw, with the light from the ‘DEPARTURES’ sign outside the bar reflected on his bottle-bottom thick specs.

Ah, I fell for it. There’s no lion… only Big Sid. Well, of course I’m relieved for the MC, but also disappointed. I was hoping for a tense lion charging moment.

His shoulder length blond straggle was backlit by light reflected off the mirror behind the counter, so just for a moment his silhouette, combined with his attitudes, had shown him as what Gran called a man possessed by a lion spirit.

He chugged beer, burped, and carried on. “The doctors think they know it all. Nobody else could do their job. Bloody power freaks don't want us to do medical stuff, even simple things. They keep it all complicated. Keep it all scientific and that. I mean, look at how they treat someone who's dehydrated. Simple, all they need is fluids in them.”

This is mildly interesting to me, the voice is good. I’m still not as hooked as I would have been if there were a real lion about to charge. But I do like the writing style. And of course, everything I say is just my personal opinion.

I looked down at my mug and tried to keep my face expressionless, but couldn't help thinking, ‘Power-freak yourself. Bloody predator. Everyone’s just prey, ego-food on the hoof to you.’ I wanted to say that, but I knew there was no way a guy like Sid, five years older and a foot taller, could let me score any points.

So I played along. “Go on then. Tell us, Sid. What's wrong with how they treat that, then?”

“They stick 'em in a bed, with needles and tubes and one of those drip things. Scientific. Now we all, us orderlies, we know that's not needed. Then too, we like to keep things cool, you know. There's stuff that's better kept quiet.”

“Now why would that be, in a nice place like the Hertfordshire Psych.?”

Hmm, now that part is interesting to me. What should be kept quiet? This implies that bad stuff is happening over there, and it would make me read more. Great! My only suggestion would be to move that part up. I’m not sure the whole lion fake out is needed to grasp someone’s attention. But you did hook me in the end!

Hook Victorine #7

Here is the first 400 words from Dead Forever: Awakening by William Campbell.

WE REMIND: Events depicted in this record occurred during the use of language systems other than English. In consideration of the reader, all representations of character thought and speech have been translated to the nearest English equivalent in use at the time of transcription.

Fun beginning! I do like how we jump right into this strange world with this simple notice. Nice way to get the reader’s attention.

One


Blackness, crashing, every touch is a searing impact. Extreme motion without purpose or destination—chaos. Up and down have become mere concepts in this nightmare of heat and confusion.

Interesting... I’m not sure what’s going on but I’m intrigued by this. As long as it’s not a dream. Please, don’t start your book with a dream. Waaaaay too many people do it. Literary agents blog about it all the time... don’t start with a dream or someone waking up. Alright, off my soapbox now.

A flickering glow bleeds from the void—flames.

I’m still confused by this, but it’s okay because I want to know more. If I don’t get grounded in a scene pretty quickly though, I’ll get bored and move on.

“Put it out,” a woman shouts.

Yes, thank you, I hope we’re going to get grounded in a scene now.

My skin is burning. Snapped alert by a blistering surface, I spring up only to tumble over and smack the floor. Or was it the ceiling? The two have traded places, and again, flipping end over end.

Boy this sure reads like a dream. I suspect it is. The funny thing is several of the previous authors confessed to me that their beginnings were dreams too. I don’t want to say that you’re totally sunk if you start with a dream, just be aware of what is out there. (And what is out there are a lot of books starting with dreams. A lot.)

From thick smoke, flames snap out like whips, steel panels glisten white-hot, creak and moan, melting conduits dangle and sway. The upending eases but the compartment is spiraling—we’re falling. A warm flow trickles down my forehead, into my eyes. I reach for my scalp and the wet mess leaves my fingertips bloody. Something hard and I became far more intimate than we should have.

Ha ha ha, funny. I actually have a line in my book that is quite similar to this last one. I guess great minds think alike.

Someone darts through the smoke. Then back again, and she stops to look at me.

“Put it out.”

Since the main character keeps mentioning heat, I’m assuming the “put it out” is about a fire. I’m getting glimpses of what is going on, and despite the fact that many books begin with dreams, I will admit this one is well written. The reader gets the feeling of a dream, and I can’t find any nit picky things about the writing.

She is strangely familiar. Rusty hair in a high ponytail, determined stare, her cheeks are heated rosy. A woman of such beauty she may be a goddess, casting a disapproving glare as if provoked and contemplating wrath if I don’t get up and . . . do what?

I like this description of her.

Dread strikes. Something bad is going to happen, and worse—it happens to her.

There’s a change in tense here that I might reword. I might say: Something bad is going to happen, and worse—it will happen to her.

“Hurry!” she cries.

The fire. I came here to put out a fire. An extinguisher is here somewhere. In a cabinet, but the door won’t budge. The hinges are melted, the handle is hot, now my palms are charred.

Failure obscures all fear. I don’t know which is worse—the fear, the failure, the dread—or knowing that I’m completely useless.

Towering flames rise at her back. She rushes to reach me, her arms outstretched. The goddess is drained of wrath, stricken by sorrow, streaming tears and hollow. Her hopeless stare won’t let go, yearning for a last embrace, and testament to our fate—there is no tomorrow.

Again, this is well written. I am interested in what will happen after the main character wakes up.

“We won’t survive,” she says. “Don’t get lost. Remember, I’ll find you. I’ll find you!”

I can’t tell if she’s mad here, and is saying she’ll find him to harm him, or if she is saying this out of love. I’m guessing she isn’t mad, but I can’t quite tell.

Rapt by her mesmerizing gaze, I am spellbound, the threat of incineration a distant concern. Her eyes—so clear, so light, so blue.

Tender blue eyes, that may never forgive me.

I’m wondering if this is a dream about the future, or the past. I admit I would read on, even though I’ll keep telling authors to not start with a dream. Not that you can’t get published with a book that opens with a dream. A very popular series opens with a dream in the second book. I was surprised by this. And I don’t want to say anything bad about the book because I did enjoy it. I’ve just seen dream openings so much that I tend to get put off by them.

Hook Victorine #4

Here's the first 400 words from Cameo the Assassin (Book One), by Dawn McCullough-White.

Her eyes were wide, nearly sightless orbs staring into the sky.

Nice first sentence. If I were to get nit picky (which I always do) I would say to take out the ‘were’ to make the sentence more active. The adverb isn’t the worst in the world, so I won’t pick at it. I like the feeling this brings right here at the beginning. If she’s nearly sightless, something must be wrong. I’ll read on to see what else is happening.

She watched as the clouds drifted overhead, gasping.

This reads to me like the clouds are gasping. I know that’s not what the author meant, but I would suggest a reword. I also would take out the “She watched as”, because if she’s staring at the sky, obviously she’s watching it. It kind of repeats what the previous sentence already set up. However, the imagery is powerful, and makes me wonder what happened to this woman, that she’s staring and gasping.

She could hear her own blood bubbling at the corner of her mouth as it slithered out and slipped in a gob onto her neck.

Oh, she’s bleeding. She must be on her back or something. I might mention this. She also can’t hear her blood slip in a gob onto her neck, and it sort of reads like she does. I might say she feels it. Otherwise, good chilling picture this sets up. I want to read more.

For a moment she felt nothing, her eyes went dark, and she felt herself suck in the air once more.

Her vision probably went dark, instead of her eyes going dark. But again, this is a good image here. I want to read on to see what happens.

Never had simply breathing given her such happiness, at least, not as far back as she could remember. Maybe this is exactly how she felt with the very first breath of her life.

I like how Dawn compares death with birth here.

At her throat was the dead head of Adrian, his blonde hair was tousled gently about her.

I would try to get rid of both ‘was’ verbs, I just think it might read better. I might say “At her throat sat the severed head of Adrian, his blonde hair tousled gently about her.” I changed ‘dead’ to ‘severed’, because I liked the image better, but it might not be accurate. I figured the head was severed, but I’m not positive.

It was the first gentle thing he had done with her all day.

The first gentle thing was to die, and lie on her throat? Interesting. This makes me think he’s a kidnapper or an abusive boyfriend.

His blood was mingled with hers now, predator and prey, dead and dying lying in the beauty of the summer meadow.

Again, I’d take out ‘was’ here. It would read fine, in my opinion, to say, “His blood mingled with hers now...” Ah, and here we find out he was the predator. I wonder what happened to lead up to this.

Somewhere beside her lay sandwiches and colorful plates. Ivy had wanted pretty plates and had made certain that the silver was polished very well.

This makes me think they were having a picnic, and things got out of hand... as often happens at my picnics.

The last she had seen of her little sister had been her lifeless form, knocked hard into the Faettan soil.

This must be a fantasy novel. This beginning is quite sad and bloody. And violent. I’m usually a huge fan of action, but too much gore grosses me out. I’m saddened by her little sister, and I’m wondering if she’s still alive.

She was a few feet away now, a little body lost in the sea of tall grass ... like her own ... and like that of the young lord with his head still on her breast.

The sun was warm on her face, illuminating exactly what had taken place only a little while ago, showing all of Faetta true darkness in the brilliant light of day. Somewhere, drifting in on the summer's breeze, was the sound of people passing on the ridge, chatting about their lives as she was dying just down the hill, in the meadow.

Again, I’d try to reword some of the ‘was’ verbs in here. It’s just a weak verb. You can’t cut every one, nor should you, but sometimes it’s easy to substitute a better verb.

Her eyes were fixed; the transformation of the day into dusk was recorded behind those lenses. Her body rigidly awaited death.

Ack, this is a little disturbing. But I would keep reading, so I think the author successfully hooked me. If the character here dies, I would get disappointed and probably put the book down. Unless this is a ghost story, then I would read more. I’m hoping for a rescue though, for her and her sister. One thing I might suggest to the author, since this is in the woman’s POV, we probably should know her name. All in all, I would keep reading, so I’d say great job, Dawn!

Hook Victorine #3

 This is the first 400 words of Thrill of the Chase, by Christina Crooks.

Powering up through the gears, Sarah felt all the muscles in her body tighten with readiness and excitement before the two turns.

I like this beginning.  I only have two nit picks.  (And I’m famous for nit picking, so just ignore me.)  The first nit pick is the word ‘felt’.  Since we’re in her POV, we don’t really have to know she felt her muscles tighten... if her muscles are tightening, we know she’s feeling it.  So, if I were to reword, I’d say, “Powering up through the gears, all the muscles in Sarah’s body tightened…”

Now the second nit pick is there is just a little bit of ‘telling’ in here.  Now the best case would be for us as readers to be able to figure out she’s excited by her muscles tightening.  I *think* we could figure this out, so I would try to get rid of the telling part, and just say “Powering up through the gears, all the muscles in Sarah’s body tightened before the two turns.”  This shows excitement and readiness, so we don’t need to be told that.  But, like I said, super nit picky and this is just the first sentence so I’ll go on to read more.

She gripped her Mustang’s custom wood-lacquered shift knob with one hand, the thick steering wheel with the other. Though the late-morning traffic was light, she checked her side mirrors twice and carefully scanned from left to right through her windshield, alert for any movement. There were no cars nearby. And, of course, no pedestrians. Nobody walked in Huntington Beach’s industrial-zoned “automotive alley.”

Ah, so I thought she was racing.  Nice fake out.  If you wanted to continue with it a little more, I’d like it even better.

My only other nit pick would by the adverb.  “Carefully scanned” is redundant, in my opinion.  If you say, “…she checked her side mirrors twice and scanned from left to right…” I as the reader can tell she’s scanning carefully for any movement.  Do you ever scan for movement sloppily?  No.  But that’s really nit picky, so I’ll keep reading.  I try not to be too much of an Adverb Nazi.  I’m interested to see where this is going.

Jerking the steering wheel to the right then pulling it smoothly left, simultaneously heel-toeing the clutch and brake pedals with the edge of her running shoe, she felt her car’s tires break free from the pavement’s friction. The car slid sideways.
Now here I do get the impression that she’s racing again.

Maintaining the throttle pressure to keep her wheels spinning, she steered into the same direction she slid. She spotted the large, faded red letters of Big Red’s Auto Performance Shop’s sign out of the corner of her eye.

So, she’s racing to the Auto Performance shop?  Maybe she’s late for work.

Right on target.

The four-wheel drift positioned her to race up the exact middle of the entrance to the shop’s parking lot.

With a satisfying screech of tires, she floored the gas to gather more speed, then whipped her car into the second and final turn.

Another four-wheel drift, pressing her back into the firm, curved racing seats she’d installed. She grinned as she piloted the sideways-hurtling car with an instinctive touch, lifting off the gas pedal and feathering the brakes to bleed off her speed.

The yellow Mustang slid to a halt. It was positioned perfectly in the middle of her parking space.

I liked the racing feeling of this.  My only suggestion would be to take out the indicators that she’s not really in a race, until we get to this point.  Then it would be a better fake out, in my opinion.  But good nonetheless.  We do get a nice grasp on the feeling of the book with this opening.

“Yes!” Energized, she leapt out of the car. Another day’s commute concluded.

I’d take out the word ‘energized’ here, just because we can totally tell from her dialogue and actions that she’s energized, and it’s important to cut unnecessary words.  It tightens up the writing.

Now let me talk about the hook here.  I like the feeling the author has created with the race talk, but now that she’s at work, the little bit of excitement is over.  Now I’m looking for something else to hook me.

Sarah pushed the building’s tinted front door open, humming. She jogged through the shop’s retail area, neither seeing nor expecting to see anyone manning the front desk.

The jogging is a little strange to me.  Usually people don’t jog around the work place.  But I can get past that.  I’m being terribly hard on the author.

 Matt was probably in the back again, complaining to the technicians. He pretended to be a gearhead, but she knew they saw through it. What he should be doing was unpacking and stocking those magazine shipments she saw lining the front wall in boxes, or cleaning the grimy glass display case. He should be sitting on that padded stool answering the ringing phone. Her dad hadn’t hired him to hang out.

Matt must not be Sarah’s love interest.  (Yes, I’ve read the description of this book.)

She shrugged. Matt didn’t know a 9/16th from a hole in the ground, but he wasn’t her main problem.

Hmm, now we get somewhere.  Who is her main problem?  I’m guessing it’s her love interest.  I do like a good unrequited love story, so I would probably go on to read more and see where this goes.  But if her main problem turns out to be someone else, I might lose interest.  So, for me, this is a mild hook right here at the end.  If we get to see some conflict between her and her crush, I would be hooked even more.  Great job, Christina!

Hook Victorine #2

Here's the next installment of Hook Victorine.  This is the first 400 words from New Coastal Times, by Donna Callea.

Same drill.  I'll critique as I go, inturrupting when I feel like it.  At the end I'll tell you if I was hooked.

It wasn’t Yvette Carlyle’s fault that the beach washed away and the condos and hotels collapsed into the sea.

I like this beginning sentence. I want to know what she did, and why she’s being blamed for this. You know, “It wasn’t her fault the earth blew up. She didn’t mean to push that button.” It almost has a humorous ring to me; although I’m not sure the author meant it that way.

She’s only one person, after all. And you certainly can’t hold her responsible for all the people who died when the buildings toppled, or all the struggling hordes rendered homeless and dependent, or the total human and fiscal fiasco that’s been at least as bad as (if not worse than) the recent string of other really horrible natural disasters.

Now here we lose the humor, and I’m getting a little disappointed. Maybe I just took the first sentence wrong. I’ll clear the humor out of my head so I can get into the horror of the story. I think Donna has successfully painted a picture of disaster here. My only nit pick would be the words ‘really horrible natural disasters’. The word ‘really’ is a weak word, it doesn’t describe the horror, it weakens it for me. I’m intrigued by this picture of disaster. I’d say it is a mild hook for me.

Not to downplay them. I wouldn’t want to downplay them.

The climate is changing, and not for the better. Everyone knows that now, though maybe Yvette didn’t then. Or maybe she just didn’t think much about it then. And every major catastrophe is —well—catastrophic.

To me, this doesn’t add a whole lot to the story, so I’m starting to get a little bored. I’m still wondering why they’re blaming Yvette for the destruction, even though it wasn’t her fault. I’ll read on to see if it’s dealt with.

But from a purely local and personal perspective, Hurricane Walter really was the worst. Because it happened where we were. Because it seemed to be the beginning of the end for so many— the start of everything falling apart. Because some of the devastation really could have been prevented. By Yvette, had she known. Maybe, a little bit, by me.

Hmm, I’m wondering how anyone could say Yvette might have prevented some of the devastation. What in the world did she do?

Anyway, Yvette is as sorry now as anyone. And you really can’t blame her for everything. Not for the hurricane, obviously. Plus you’ve got to give her this. She’s got spunk.

When we were all holed up on the fourth floor of the old and creaking New Coastal Times building, in the dark and powerless newsroom, as the wind lashed at the windows and the foundation shook, didn’t she come out of her plush private office to give us hope?

The author is doing a good job of making me not like Yvette here. I’m not as drawn into the story as I would like to be, though. I think I’m distanced from it by the narration, and the ‘looking back’ perspective, rather than ‘here we are in the moment... huddling in the dark while the storm is hitting us’ kind of thing. But this is quite subjective, and could just be me. Well, of course it’s just me, everything I say is just me. ;)

Tall, big-boned Yvette, her blonde pixie-cut trimmed to perfection, her eye shadow and mascara and glossy red lipstick as garish as ever, her smile superior, her crow’s feet caked with makeup.

Yep, not liking Yvette at all.

She was never pretty. That was the problem. Or at least one of them, as far as her career was concerned. And despite extensive cosmetic surgery (she was due to have her eyes redone when the hurricane hit) she looked all of her 57 years.

She considered herself a beacon of bravery— an inspiration to us. She could easily have been elsewhere.

Yvette emerged from her recently remodeled fourth floor executive sanctuary, where at least there was light (which we could see under the door), followed by Patty and Paula, her ever-present identical twin administrative assistants.

I wonder why there’s electricity in her office and no where else. That has to be unusual. Looks like we’re pulling in closer now, the narration isn’t so distanced. I do prefer that.

Patty and Paula— helmet-haired petite brunettes who never dressed alike because that might cause confusion— carried battery-powered lanterns …

Awe, I wanted to read more. That’s a good thing! I’d say you were successful in hooking me. Great job! My only nit pick would be how long I felt distanced from the scene. I liked the beginning sentence... and I liked the hint that the narrator is somehow to blame for some of this. The rest of the narration I could have done without. But I’m really an action lover, so I do tend to gravitate to the action part of the story. As far as the writing goes, I think this was well written. In the end, I was hooked and wanted to read more, and that’s what matters most.

Hook Victorine - A Challenge

Here's the challenge: Try to hook me with your first 400 words. I'll put a picture of your book on my blog with a link to it. I'll let you know if I am hooked or not.

What's the catch? The catch is I'll critique it as I go, and I must warn you, I am very nit-picky. I'll tell you exactly what is going through my mind as I read it. If it's good enough to hook me, you win. :)

Author Jenna Elizabeth Johnson was kind enough to be the first to let me rip her first 400 words apart on my blog.

Here's her book:

And now I'll post her first 400 words, interupting as I see fit.  Now, I'll just say here that whatever I say is just one reader's opinion, so take that into consideration.

Gilded sunlight poured over the landscape and pushed through the trees, announcing the break of dawn or signaling the approach of evening. It was hard to tell in this strange, noiseless place.

I like the beginning. Already I have a clear picture in my mind, and it evokes a mystical feeling. Great start!

The colors here were bright, but fuzzy around the edges as if stained and blurred by water. Nothing stirred here; there were no deer, no foxes, no rabbits, not even a solitary bird to disrupt the foggy solitude. All around the trees stood silent, watching and waiting for something profound to happen.

I'm a little confused by this last sentence. All around the trees what stood silent?

And then something did happen.
Far below the wooded hillside in the bare, spacious glen something finally moved. A fair-haired child, barely older than ten, danced into sight. She looked happy and carefree, her laughter alone breaking the unnatural, oppressive silence. She wasn’t dressed like a typical girl, wearing only a plain cotton shirt over a pair of leather pants. Her hair was loose, unbound and falling past her shoulders. It caught the eerie light and reflected it in golden shards that cut through the monotony of this world. She chased after butterflies, doing cartwheels and kicking up clouds of ladybugs with her bare feet.

Nice description of the girl. I'm not so sure whose point of view we are in yet... or if we are in Omniscient. I'm not a huge fan of Omniscient, but I can take it if it's just the beginning of a novel. It's really hard to pull off for the whole thing, IMHO, so I'm hoping we switch to Third Person Limited soon.

It was obvious she felt safe here, even as the atmosphere slowly began to change. The slumbering trees grew more rigid and the pleasant scene dimmed, as if a black cloud had crept in front of the sun. Something sinister was approaching, but the girl was too caught up in her own antics to realize she was no longer alone. She was too busy dancing across the field and making merry, so she didn’t feel the change in the air; she didn’t notice the darkening sky.

I like the picture in my mind here.  Jenna does a good job painting with words. I might cut the 'Something sinister was approaching', because to me that is really 'telling' the reader that, and I would much rather get the feeling of something sinister on my own, if you know what I mean. The darkening sky, and the change in the air should give me that feeling without the author telling me something sinister was coming. Also, I'd cut 'It was obvious she felt safe here' too, that's totally apparent by her playing and cartwheeling, and you don't need to tell the reader what is already apparent.

And then it happened. Something like a dark flame appeared on the edge of the meadow where the dense wood began. It was a figure wearing a blood-red cloak, creeping between the shivering trees, stalking around like a predator hunting down its prey. The creature crawled from the edge of the tree line and drew closer to the girl. But the girl kept at her games, unaware of the menacing threat to her safety.

Again, I really like Jenna's descriptions. I'm not in love with the 'Something like a dark flame appeared'... that doesn't really tell me what it is. I also see some more 'telling' in the last sentence. If she's keeping up her games, obviously she isn't aware of the threat. It's more powerful to not tell the reader that she isn't aware, just show her being unaware.

As the ominous figure moved ever closer, it threw open its arms like a great, blood-stained bat, its crimson cloak curling and flowing behind it as if pushed by an imperceptible wind. The creature began to grow, becoming larger and larger with each step.

I like the feeling Jenna's created here, and I want to know what happens to the girl. I would say this is a pretty good hook for me. I would continue to read, to see what happens. Great job Jenna!

Leave a comment and tell me if Jenna's first 400 words hooked you.