cubed
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Post by cubed on Feb 5, 2009 13:51:57 GMT -5
I need an Alpha reader. First, let me explain. Most of you are familiar with Beta readers, and Alpha readers are much the same. They both read the entire manuscript, and critique it. At the same time, they are very different. The focus of Bata reading--which is usually the last critique given before sending a manuscript off to publishers--is grammar, spelling, and punctuation. While Alpha reading is the first read of the manuscript by someone other than the author. What an Alpha reader focuses on is the big parts of the story (plot, characters, setting etc.) to help the writer know what the biggest problems in the manuscript are—that’s what I need.
I need someone (or someone’s) to Alpha read me after I finish my second draft—I will be done sometime next week. Before you volunteer (put your hands down), please read the following summary.
PHYLES is the definition of experimental. It is written in a point-of-view that I don’t think anyone else has ever used (after taking six months to write just the first draft of the manuscript, I realize that there are probably several good reasons that no one has). Also there’s the tense, I decided to write PHYLES in present tense due to the way the story is told. The added fact that I give none of the main characters’ true names, makes this the oddest of all my stories, or any novel I’ve read for that matter.
The story revolves around five characters; Capstone, a kleptomaniac young foreign noblewoman; Sheepdog, the morally confused leader of a the city state’s constabulary; Red Eye, a drug addict, "cross-dressing" assassin; Sun Pillar, a lying foreign doctor; and Shaman, the oldest living resident of the state, an unknown man who is the most mistrusted person in the city.
The plot is fairly simple, with a few major twists, but over all very basic. I wanted a story that stayed true to who the characters were, and let them shine. I think I did that. The world building isn’t too original, but I have, what I think is, an interesting magic system that ties into the story, setting, characters, and theme nicely. I don’t use the fantasy archetype species, characters, or plot points. There will be no hero’s journey, orcs, or damsel in distress. Also, don’t look too hard for a protagonist, antagonist, hero, or villain, because there aren’t any, as far as I can tell.
It is a 90,000 word long (at the moment, the second draft could end up closer to 100,000 to 120,000 words long), first person point of view, fantasy novel, with Shaman narrating.
The underlining theme of PHYLES is the nature of a higher being; with minor themes addressed being insanity, and leadership. Minor-minor themes brought up, but not addressed are, homosexuality, gender confusion, self-sacrifice, fascism, anarchy, and mental disorders.
Impersonal, controversial, disturbing, and layered, PHYLES isn’t a story for the faint of heart, morally confused, or intolerant.
Note 1: If PHYLES were a movie, it would be rated “R” for extremely violent content, sexually suggestive material, and adult themes.
Note 2: I will post up the first chapter after I've finished the second draft, I probably won't post up anymore because it's chapter two on that gets disturbing.
Thank you!
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Post by Raihor on Feb 6, 2009 10:10:59 GMT -5
I think that this sounds literally like the perfect read for me. I'd be a good person to read it, because I'm extremely open-minded, and am not easily phased. I've never read anything that actually disturbed me (except one horror story about an aborted foetus *shudders*). The characters, setting and so forth sound very intriguing indeed too. BUT (big but) I'd probably be pretty useless as an alpha reader. I don't know all of the important technical stuff about plot devices, settings, characters, etc. and I guess I'm pretty lacking in skills. I didn't even do english literature as an A-level, so I am pretty much a non-expert normal person. If I did have what it takes (cheesy cliche, anyone?), then I'd jump at this opportunity like a shot.
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cubed
Junior Member
Posts: 83
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Post by cubed on Feb 6, 2009 10:25:38 GMT -5
Well, at the end of the manuscript I will proved a list of the biggest questions for the overall story for the reader. Most of the questions would be about emotional reactions to the manuscript and so on. (I also would like several readers, so one wouldn't have to give the "perfect critique".) So, if you're interested, I can send you via email the second draft after I'm finished.
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Post by Raihor on Feb 6, 2009 17:36:06 GMT -5
I am indeed very interested! But, unfortunately, I'm not the fastest reader in the world, so you better not be in too much of a hurry
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cubed
Junior Member
Posts: 83
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Post by cubed on Feb 6, 2009 18:18:50 GMT -5
Ha, that' fine (there are about thirty chapters, most chapters being at or just less then ten pages double spaced, it's shorter than most Chris Wooding novels). My main concern is that I have my youngest brother and my oldest sister as Alpha readers, but I wanted to get some people with no connection to me to read it as well. Although I fully trust Joe and Regan to do a good job of critiquing it (Joe’s liable to rip it apart if he doesn’t like it, and Regan is also a harsh critic).
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Post by Raihor on Feb 6, 2009 20:56:26 GMT -5
I'm no good at saying what I don't like about things, but I'll go for complete honesty. I can do it when I need to
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Post by lisajane on Feb 6, 2009 22:54:09 GMT -5
You state: It is written in a point-of-view that I don’t think anyone else has ever used then you state: first person point of view I can't imagine there could be a point of view outside 'I' (first person), 'you' (second person) or 'they' (third person)... is this in first person or somehow something different? I would be interested but I'm not a fan of most fantasy.
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cubed
Junior Member
Posts: 83
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Post by cubed on Feb 6, 2009 23:15:51 GMT -5
I call it First Person Cinematic, which is basically Orson Scott Card’s Third Person Cinematic written in first person. It's the ultimate “show, don’t tell” POV, not allowing any internal dialog. Everything is relayed to the reader second hand through the narrator who is giving a word-for-word, blow-for-blow account in the moment without personal bias, or opinions. Because of that, it's hard to describe, and decipher what the characters mean (all of the characters are liars--yes, I did that on purpose--and you can't ever be certain if they are telling the truth). That's the only way I know how discribe the POV, to find out more about it you should google Third Person Cinematic to see more of what I'm talking about.
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Post by lisajane on Feb 7, 2009 4:24:56 GMT -5
After reading a bit of third person cinematic, it sounds rather boring to read as a novel, to be honest. I'm not sure how first person cinematic would be much different. But good luck with it.
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cubed
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Posts: 83
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Post by cubed on Feb 7, 2009 12:44:26 GMT -5
After reading a bit of third person cinematic, it sounds rather boring to read as a novel, to be honest. I'm not sure how first person cinematic would be much different. But good luck with it. Which is why I have to have a suspenseful story with charismatic characters to keep the readers interest (one of the things I'm need alpha readers opinions on).
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cubed
Junior Member
Posts: 83
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Post by cubed on Feb 9, 2009 20:54:43 GMT -5
Okay, here's chapter one. It's a bit rough and needs some touching up, especially in the first two pages--it's way too reflective, I need to rewrite it.
PHYLES
Day One
Chapter One: The Opening Act in Fire Light
Beams from the full moon catch on the glass spires outside my window. They also catch in my throat. Beautiful. The obelisks light up, glowing fingers reaching towards the cold moon sitting on its icy throne. The frozen illuminator cast down thanks of this worship in the form of light, not quite blue not quit white.
You have work to do, I remind myself. Sighing wistfully, I turn around from by cross-legged position to look at the fire burning brightly in the center of my home. I do not have a fireplace, but a pit. If there is ever a place for fire, then it is a pit, not an honorary place.
There is a lone chair in the house. Not for me but my patients. It sits, all worn wood and with lumpy cushions, close to the wall to the right of my door. Aside from the chair and my bed, there is no more furniture in my house. I don’t need it. One has little need for furniture when they have my responsibilities.
The fire crackles in soft protest, but I pay no attention to its pleading. It doesn’t deserve recognition, especially because I’m busy.
Most would call me a passive man, but no man who does as I can truly be call passive. None fully know what I do for them, and they are probably happier that way, but soon one of them will. I can feel it. The end is coming, a storm whose end will bring another kind of ending. It is too close to call. I must know how it will end.
Wisdom always comes at a cost, Father had taught me that long ago. It is one of my first lessons, and most painful. Some types of information cost more than others. The kind I need is one of those. Normally I wouldn’t pay the price for the knowledge as I am, but it is so close.
Leaning over to the long box setting beside me, my red tunic rustles. Pulling the box onto my lap, I carefully lift away the lid. Inside is a knife. It isn’t just any knife: it is my knife. And as my knife it is special. Taking the blade from the box as a mother would a child from a cradle, I hold it up before me in one hand. Setting the box to the side I look lovingly onto the knife. It gleams with a dull red light that speaks of the number of times blood has been spilt on its edge. Slightly curved, with a plain bone handle, the knife looks almost identical to ones used by hunters, but anyone who looked upon it would know what it really is: a Shaman’s knife.
With one quick motion, I bring the knife down over my forearm. The blade runs through without breaking the skin. My skin runs cold. I feel a part of me being severed from the rest. Emptiness at its vacancy washes over me, leaving me feeling weak, tired, and sick. Shaking the dizziness out, I look into the flames of the fire. Staring into its depths, I start a hum.
It would, at first, sound random, and without cadence to someone untrained. Over time it grows into a steady rhythm of sharp and soft pulsations. My eyes lose their focus, widening the pulps to the point of being unable to take in any sight other than light, though they see past the flames, they see far more than anyone has ever seen before.
The light fades into various shades of gray. They mix together, swirling as the sounds of the fire in its pit, the wind beating at the window, and my own beating heart disperse into nothing. First comes grunting. The colors come together slowly into the shape of Capstone. She is dragging her leg behind her as she rounds the corner coming out of the ally and into a three-way intersection. At the top of the T shaped road is a small cottage—her destination.
The small girl with long black hair and large almond eyes set too close, stumbles down the street with watering eyes and grinding teeth.
“I should’ve listened to mother,” she mumbles to herself through grit teeth. “No, stop that! Now’s not the time.” She doubles her effort towards the cottage.
Inside the owner is visible bent over examining the blaze in the fire a pit in the middle of the floor. The distance is too far to be able to tell what he is doing aside from staring into the dancing flames with his eyes, all earth color, and oddly shiny eyes. She gives a knowing smile.
Step, drag, step she walks out of the alley and into the middle of the street.
Her eyes water and she squints in pain as the late summer wind whips her raven hair in her face and pelts her with sandy mud. It is nearly storm season, and the winds from the ocean are picking up impatiently.
At last reaching the door, the diminutive girl knocks hard on the cheap wood.
There are only a few seconds that pass before she receives the greeting, “You really shouldn’t be out this late, Capstone. A young lady needs her beauty sleep.” Without pausing, the man with a red veil over his face wraps his arm under the ladies, and helps her into the cottage. Capstone winces slightly as he does. She leans most of her weight on to Shaman as they walked into the house.
The cottage is split into two halves, one half worked as the dining room/kitchen/lounge; the other is the bedroom. It is without anything but the most basic of furniture and decorations.
“Well, are you going to say hello, or are you in too big a hurry?” Shaman says.
“Hi,” Capstone says through clamped teeth as he eases her down onto the lone chair in the room. “Have you had any other visitors tonight?” She asks as she gets comfortable.
“What?” he asks.
“Your knife,” she says pointing at the blade setting on the ground beside her chair. “I mean you don’t always keep that setting around your house like that, do you?”
“No, of course not,” he says. “But you never know when you might have a customer drop by unexpectedly.” He winks, his tan plots of skin around the eyes with their characteristic delta-wrinkles accenting their corners wrinkle happily. These are only part of his person visible.
Bending in front of the girl the tall thin man gently takes her foot by the heel and lifts the leg up slowly before him. Capstone let out a low hiss as he does. There is a large damp red spot on the outside of her right calf. Shaman fingers the torn cloth around the hemorrhaging cut with a gloved hand. Capstone watches his face closely but sees nothing but the look of a professional doing his job.
“How did you do this?” Shaman asks. He stands and walks over to the windowsill, taking the pitcher of water setting there, he walks over to a cabinet and pulls out a pot, into which he pours the water.
“Do you really need to ask?” Capstone says. She is rocking a bit back and forth.
Shaman sets the pot of water on the fire and looks at Capstone with easy eyes. “It makes people feel more at ease if I ask. Besides, sometimes people feel better telling me.”
“If a Constable comes looking for me you wouldn’t tell them about me, would you?” She asks, batting her eyes playfully at him.
”You’re feeling braver than usual. It is probably something to do with all your adrenalin rushing.” Shaman says. “What would I tell them?” he says in a disapproving tone.
Capstone’s face sinks a bit in a look of momentary disappointment. “Aw Shaman, I think you like me.” Capstone says with a mischievous smile. She gives a squeal as he runs a gloved finger over the sliced flesh.
“Don’t you care about what people think of you?” Shaman asks as he cleans off the skin around the cut.
With misty eyes Capstone says, “There is only one person whose opinion I care about.” She lightly places her hand over Shaman’s gloved one as she says this.
“Blood and fire don’t mix,” Shaman mumbles as he works.
“What does that mean?” Capstone asks.
Pausing while wiping the blood off her leg, Shaman says, “It doesn’t mean anything, and this is not proper talk for a young lady, I’m old enough to be your…well, let’s just say I’m old.” His voice shakes slightly as he says it.
“Well, I’m not much of a lady,” pausing she leans forward and put a hand under Shaman’s cloth-covered chin. “And it’s impossible to tell how old you are when you wear that veil covering your face all the time.” She runs her thumb over the bottom portion of Shaman’s face.
Shaman’s eyes soften. Then smiling with his eyes he says, “This is pretty bad, I might have to Score it.” Capstone winces, pulling her hand away.
Turning smartly, Shaman leaves the room to returns a moment later with strips of cloth that he puts into the hot water. Capstone watches intently as he busies himself with the wraps, neither says anything as he works.
Shaman stirred the cloth and takes the pot off the fire, setting it beside Capstone’s chair. Then he reaches for the long knife. His eyes meet hers as he crouches in front of her with the knife in hand. “You don’t have to watch if you don’t want too,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper.
Giving a big smile showing all her teeth, Capstone says, “Oh darling, I’m not going to faint.” She waves her hand dismissively. Shaman continues his stern look until she rolls her eyes and says, “I’m fine. How many times have we done this, and I haven’t had to look away in years.”
Shaman shrugs as he rolled back the sleeve on his right arm. “Most people don’t like to watch because they don’t understand that the wielder in most harmed by the blade.” Shaman says causally. Capstone’s eyes grow wide. Her eyes follow the blood stained knife as Shaman closes his eyes and gently presses the curved blade to his pocked arms. This causes her gaze to transfer to the deep, twisting maze of ravine-like scars in his flesh. The knife drags long in an odd shape size of a fist—it can’t be seen what the actual shape is because of the pooling with blood around the markings; he then draws the knife in a circular motion across the inside of the previous cut.
Capstone’s face turns wan as she beholds Shaman’s finishing touches to the irregular shape he carves into himself. Shaman stays in his seat on the ground with eyes shut for a second longer as the cut running along Capstone’s leg closes over itself in a precise form leaving only a fade of pink blemish. The perspiration on her face dries, and the pain dissolves. She ran a finger down her newly formed scar with a slight smile. Then she hears Shaman grunt and fall over.
Capstone gasps as she hops agilely from her chair and heaves Shaman into the chair in her place. She takes several boiled cloths and wraps them clumsily over the hemorrhaging arm.
“You said you didn’t have any other visitors, you lied!” Capstone yells in a frantic voice.
“No, no visitors.” Shaman says in a whisper as his head rocks back against the chair.
Capstone takes one of the warm rags and dabs at Shaman’s sweating face. “I’ve seen you Score a half dozen people in one day and walk away without breaking a sweat, there is no way that I could’ve been the only one you Scored today.”
Taking his hand Capstone says, “You’re shaking!” She pauses and asks, “When is the last time you ate something?” Shaman doesn’t answer, but groaned in response. “I’m going to get you something to eat, I’ll be right back.”
She ran to over to the cabinets and flings them each open only to find nothing in them. Running back over to Shaman she says, “You don’t have any food. How long as it been since you’ve eaten?” She asks again.
Shaman shakes his head weakly in response.
“Oh no, I’m going to get you something to eat! I’ll be right back.” Capstone says as she holds Shaman’s head in both hands. She kisses him lightly on the forehead. Shaman’s eyes flutter as she says, “Don’t die on me, I’ll be right back. I promise.”
Reaching the door, she looks back once at the semi-conscious Shaman before running out into the awaiting blackness. The darkness surrounding Capstone loses its sharpness as it blinds onto gray and the sounds of her footsteps on cobblestone fade. The sound of boots walking on broken glass rings out through the whirlpool as the colors reemerge and shape.
Sheepdog stands on the fifth floor looking down at the ground below through the broken glass. His face contorting in disgust, frown lines fold up towards the top of his bold head.
Turning back to the man beside him, his boots crunching the shards of glass that are scattering across the floor, Sheepdog says, “You couldn’t handle a robbery?” He waves his hand at what was once a window. He rubs his hand over his bold head.
“We thought you’d like to see the scene before we get the place cleaned up.” The younger constable pauses. “And we thought you could help us find a lead.” He adds in a soft tone with eyes tilted down slightly.
A groan escapes Sheepdog’s mouth. “You have to tell me every little detail.”
The younger man nods and says, “Yes, the thief came in from the second floor balcony outside the library. We got here right as the robber is leaving. We have no idea where the thief might have gone too.” He says quickly.
“You couldn’t find anything giving a hint to where he might have gone?” Sheepdog asks accusingly.
“She, sir, the thief is a woman.”
Scowling Sheepdog says, “That’s one of those details I need to know. Show me the library.”
The younger man quickly complies, leading Sheepdog out of the hall, down towards the left, and through double doors into a room with high roofs and bookshelves twice the height of a man built into the walls. One shelf has been pulled away from the wall it is supposed to be built into, like a door.
“So the family safe is in here.” Sheepdog says as if to himself, although the constable leading him answers.
“Yes, the thief went straight to it without going into any other rooms. She must’ve been here before, maybe even known the family.” The younger man says.
“She might have known the family, but I doubt that she is a close enough friend to have been given the location of their safe. Most likely, she is just an opportunistic thief whose been watching the family for a long time and sees through the windows where the safe is.” Sheepdog says.
The younger man frowns. “They say it’s been months since they’d last opened the safe. She’d have to be on patient thief to wait that long after learning its location before stealing from the family.”
Walking into the room behind the trap bookshelf, Sheepdog says, “Tell me about the encounter.”
“We are on patrol, when the husband ran out into the streets as he sees us passing by. The woman couldn’t see us from this side of the house, so we came up a quite as we could. We tried to come up the stairs behind her, but along the way she must’ve heard us because when we reached the library she is gone. We are looking around when we heard what sounded like glass breaking from a room down the hall. Running that way, we found she’d jumped out of the window and down to a second floor balcony and onto the ground.”
Looking the young man in the eyes, Sheepdog asks in a stern voice, “Is that all?”
The boy gives an unprofessional shake of his head as he adds, “As she is running along the lawn, she had a noticeable limp. I think she must’ve cut her leg jumping through the window.”
“Why didn’t you just follow the trail of blood? On a full moon night like this, it would’ve been easy, and being injured she would’ve been slowed down.”
“We did, but…” The man pauses. “She moved much faster while injured than we thought she would, she led us in circles miles away, and then all of a sudden the trail vanished. Almost like she waited until she thought she’d had us confused enough before bandaging up her cut.”
Sheepdog’s hand comes up to rub his eyes, as though they are full of grit. As he does this he lets out a low chuckle. “You let the woman fool you, not just once but three times, and during the last two she is even slowed by an injury to her leg.”
He chuckle gets a little louder as his shoulders began to shake. The young man gives Sheepdog a look of confusion and worry. His mirth became a full laugh. He pas the younger man’s back, as he wipes away the tears forming in his eyes.
The man with under the weight of his boss’ hand, and in sight of such jolly laughter, begins to chuckle a bit himself. Sheepdog snaps his head around as soon as his starts.
“What are you laughing at? I don’t know how someone as incompetent as you ever became a Squad Commander to begin with. Make no mistake about it,” Sheepdog adds as the boy’s face turns to shock. “You will no longer have that position, and may never get the chance to earn it back.”
“But sir, I don’t…”
Sheepdog cuts him off. “You don’t understand? That’s right, you don’t understand, which is why you’re losing your position.” He starts walking toward the door. Over his shoulder, he says back to the boy, “You too stupid to be a Squad Commander, or in command of anything for that matter.”
“Sir, where are you going?” asks the young man.
“The woman had an injury that is serious enough to make her limp noticeably from five stories up, she then ran around for a miles losing you and your squad. She’ll need some medical attention, fast medical attention.” Pausing in the doorway, Sheepdog turns around putting a hand on each side of the doorframe as he says, “There’s only one person in the city who can give that kind of “medical” attention.”
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Post by Raihor on Feb 10, 2009 13:42:11 GMT -5
Oh wow! Already the quality is better than a lot of finished works (excluding spelling and grammar). What areas would you like me to critique? I'm kinda new to this.
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cubed
Junior Member
Posts: 83
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Post by cubed on Feb 10, 2009 14:01:07 GMT -5
Firstly, your emotional reactions to the story and characters, what are they? Secondly, did you at any point get bored reading the story? If so, where? Thirdly, how was the POV, did it work for you?
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Post by Raihor on Feb 11, 2009 9:44:08 GMT -5
Ok, well my emotional reactions were mainly of general entertainment. Mostly a sense of wonder and intrigue. I never felt bored at all, the whole thing was great. And the POV does't seem to have anything wrong with it, aside from being a little confusing at the beginning though when it swaps from first to third person. Apart from that it's fine, and I like how it's written in the present tense too, the only other thing I've read that does that is The Fade by our very own Mr. Wooding to whom this site is dedicated. The characters seem very strong to me. You get a vivid impression straight away, and yeah, very strong personalities.
The only thing that didn't quite work for me was the part where Shaman collapses. It seems to change to being too frantic too quickly. I don't know, it just seems that way to me, but I'm not sure how to fix that.
Anyway, that's my impression so far. I'd also like to add that I think the whole shaman thing's really good. The healing techniques, the 'customs' (the guy's completely obscured by his outfit) and such- very nice. Anything else?
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cubed
Junior Member
Posts: 83
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Post by cubed on Feb 11, 2009 11:13:33 GMT -5
Only if you've got something else you want to say, feel free to speak up Thanks!
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