I go by fionnabhar online, but it’s just the Scots Gaelic spelling of my real name, Jennifer.
One of my WIPs is the second in a YA paranormal series. I wrote it during my first NaNoWriMo, and I had the attitude of oh, write it any old way, you can always edit it later. Consequently, it’s a scrambled hot mess after many, many rewrites and edits. And that’s what I need a critical eye (that isn’t my own) for.
The work is technically paranormal, but it doesn’t fall into the horror category. It’s a cozy paranormal, which is a genre I just made up.
What I would be looking for, once I’m ready for someone to look at it, would be a critic who could check out the overall story arc, check for loose ends and plot holes, gaps in exposition, continuity errors, and that sort of thing. Not anywhere near needing proofreading mechanics checked yet.
In return, I would happy to do the same. I’m also a topnotch proofreader. I’m an English teacher by day. I’m also a pretty fast editor. I prefer to work with MSWord for it’s comments feature, so I’m not actually changing anyone’s document. As I mentioned, I’m almost ready to have someone look at this dumpster fire. I’m hoping to have it at least beginning-to-end in a sensible manner by the end of this year’s NaNoWriMo. For the record, I am not precious about critique. I don’t get all up in my feelings hurt about negative comments or constructive criticism. For this work, it’s what I need desperately!
It’s probably not applicable, but I’m in Kansas City, Kansas.
Here’s a first little bit:
The pain made Philip Devlin open his eyes. His room was dark, except for the sliver of silver moonlight streaming through the window and across his bed. A breeze rippled the curtains and raised goosebumps on his sweaty skin. It all looked familiar—the bedclothes, the curtains, the wardrobe, the glass of water by his bed, the lampshade. He just couldn’t remember how he’d gotten home.
He stretched out one leg towards the foot of the bed and turned his ankle this way and that. His muscles were stiff and cramped for some reason, and it felt good to move. When he extended the other leg, however, the pain was there again, tearing through his upper thigh. He reached down with a tentative hand and felt the thick bandages around his leg. Then he remembered.
He slit his eyes and looked around through his lashes so no one would know he was awake. Across the room, his brother coughed. Stephen sat slumped in a chair with his long legs reaching towards a low fire in the grate. At first, Philip thought he must be asleep. Then his eyes picked up a red flicker reflecting in the firelight. Stephen was twirling a dagger in his hands, and Philip was sure of two things. One was that his brother loved him. The other was that Stephen was going to kill him.
It was his own fault, and he knew it. He deserved it. If he had trusted Stephen and stayed out of the way, none of it would have happened. Philip had thought he was saving his friend, but he had failed at that, too. He didn’t like to think about Emma’s being dead like that other boy, but he figured that horrible Fitzwilliam man had taken care of that. Stephen would have done it himself, but he’d been too busy taking care of Philip.
In his mind, Philip could see Stephen’s face as he’d carried him away from the crowded street after the attack. He’d never seen anything so terrible. Fear and fury had been mingled on Stephen’s handsome features, and there had been a desperation he’d never seen in his brother’s eyes. Stephen’s men in the Were-Guard had seen it, too, and had let him take Philip away without challenge. Philip would give anything to take it all back, to have stayed at home in the window seat watching the rain splatter against the window.
But he hadn’t. He’d gone off half-cocked, not knowing what he was doing, and run straight into the path of a fully-grown werewolf and gotten himself bitten. And now he was in the biggest trouble he’d ever been in. Poor Stephen, he thought.