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Post by melpend on Jul 14, 2022 8:12:28 GMT -5
(Updated)
Aunt June always says I have an active imagination. In this case, I can’t imagine anything good about what looms outside my passenger-side window. Our new home, 4218 Winging Way. It looks like it belongs on the set of some horror movie. The paint is the color of dirty water, the black trim is faded and chipped, a dingy film covers the windows, and one of the shutters hangs by the hinges. This has to be a joke. Or, maybe we stopped at the wrong address.
The car idles for a moment then shuts off. I glance over at my aunt.
“You wanted an adventure, Lacy. Here it is,” she says with a wink.
“This is not what I remember,” I reply.
Winging Way is the richest street in Riverhill, a small town in upstate New York. The houses are so big, they’re not even houses. They’re estates with massive green lawns, lush gardens, and fancy front gates. I’d only been here a couple of times before, but when Aunt June said we were moving to Winging Way at the start of summer to turn Mrs. Tisdale’s old home into a bed and breakfast, I was as excited as the time I found a fifty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. I mean, who wouldn’t want to live in a big fancy house?
I frown at the weeds covering the yard like an ugly green carpet. “How are we ever going to fix this?”
Aunt June sweeps her long, silver hair into a bun. “Wait until I get my hands on it. You won’t even recognize it in a month. Besides, it’s all cosmetic. It just needs a little paint and elbow grease.”
“I can’t believe Mrs. T. left you this place in such bad shape,” I say as we climb out of the car. “What’s happened to it?”
“I’m afraid neglect has taken its toll.” Aunt June lets out a long, sad sigh.
I know Mrs. Tisdale wasn’t living in the house before she passed away, but neglect? How is that possible? I can’t imagine she would just let her house go. She didn’t strike me as the lazy, uncaring type.
“Let’s get the car unloaded before it gets dark.” Aunt June hands me a box from the trunk labeled “Kitchen Items.” As I turn from the car, I glance across the street and fumble the box, causing the utensils inside to rattle. The man watering his lawn, the lady walking her dog, and the two old women huddled together whispering are all staring at us.
Weird!
Then one of the old women points in our direction. It reminds me of the time in my theater class when Sophie and Carmen were jealous I got the lead in the play. Every day during rehearsal they tried to distract me to make me mess up. They stood off to the side whispering and laughing and pointing. That’s how I feel now. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck tickle under my brown ponytail.
“What’s with them?” I ask, gesturing to the neighbors.
“Let’s not worry about that,” Aunt June answers. She picks up a suitcase. “What do you say we go inside?”
I glance across the street once more before following Aunt June through the front gate that creaks and moans like a worn-out French horn.
“I guess that needs some work too,” I mutter. “It’s okay,” I say to the house. “We’ll take care of you.”
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Post by DianaDeBolt on Jul 14, 2022 8:42:22 GMT -5
Aunt June always says I have an active imagination. In this case, a million possibilities run through my mind about what looms outside my passenger-side window. Our new home, 4218 Winging Way. The car idles for a moment then shuts off. I glance over at my aunt. [with the focus on her imagination in the first sentence, I was hoping for a description of the house, or maybe imaginary things she's thinking it will be. Instead she looks at her aunt.]“You wanted an adventure, Lacy. Here it is,” she says with a wink. I smile. “It’s just like I remember.” [Again, if she already knows what the house looks like, I don't see why her active imagination is brought up first. I do really like how her aunt remarks that she wants an adventure.] Winging Way is the richest street in Riverhill, a small town in upstate New York. The houses are so big, they’re not even houses. They’re estates with massive green lawns, lush gardens, and fancy front gates. I’d only been here a couple of times before, but when Aunt June said we were moving to Winging Way at the start of summer to turn Mrs. Tisdale’s old home into a bed and breakfast, [cool! This sounds like fun!] I was as excited as the time I found a fifty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. I mean, who wouldn’t want to live in a big fancy house? “I can’t believe this is ours,” I say as we climb out of the car. “Though the grass needs a little work.” I frown at the weeds covering the yard like an ugly green carpet. “You’re going to see the inside needs some work too,” Aunt June replies. “Why?” I ask. “What’s happened to it?” Aunt June lets out a long, sad sigh. “I’m afraid neglect has taken its toll. But don’t worry.” She sweeps her long silver hair into a bun. “It’s all cosmetic. A little cleaning. A little painting. It’ll be as good as new in no time.” I know Mrs. Tisdale hadn’t lived here in a while, but neglect? How is that possible? I can’t imagine she would just let her house go. She didn’t strike me as the lazy, uncaring type. [hmmmmmm, intriguing!]“Let’s get the car unloaded before it gets dark.” Aunt June hands me a box from the trunk labeled “Kitchen Items.” As I turn from the car, I glance across the street and fumble the box, causing the utensils inside to rattle. The man watering his lawn, the lady walking her dog, and the two old women huddled together whispering are all staring at us. [uh-oh. nosey neighbors!]Weird! Then one of the old women points in our direction. It reminds me of the time in my theater class when Sophie and Carmen were jealous I got the lead in the play. Every day during rehearsal they tried to distract me to make me mess up. They stood off to the side whispering and laughing and pointing. That’s how I feel now. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck tickle under my brown ponytail. [My active imagination is shining up all kinds of things.]“What’s with them?” I ask, gesturing to the neighbors. “Let’s not worry about that,” Aunt June answers. She picks up a suitcase. “What do you say we go inside?” I glance across the street once more before following Aunt June through the front gate that creaks and moans like a worn-out instrument. “I guess that needs some work too,” I mutter. “It’s okay,” I say to the house. “We’ll take care of you.” Moving into a mysterious mansion full of mystery is one of my absolute favorite tropes! I do wonder if you could add in a few details to elude to what makes your take on this idea unique. I think you could reduce some of the instances about the renovations/work needed to the house to give yourself room to do this in the opening. I'd read on because I love these stories so so much. |
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Post by melpend on Jul 14, 2022 8:51:55 GMT -5
Thanks, DianaDeBolt! In the next section of the chapter, there is a description of the house but you bring up a good point about her imagination and describing the house sooner. Actually, the original version of the story did start with a description of the house. After some feedback, I changed it, but now you have me rethinking it again.  |
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Post by cblevins on Jul 14, 2022 14:29:22 GMT -5
After reading your query, I ran right over to find the first 500 words! The description of the house in the opening chapter definitely draws the reader in. You have included the perfect amount of foreshadowing. Based on the opening paragraphs, it seems like the kind of book that will have kids reading under the covers by flashlight when they're supposed to be asleep!
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Post by DianaDeBolt on Jul 14, 2022 14:35:04 GMT -5
I don’t think you necessarily have to describe the house right away if you give us a taste of her imagination like the first sentence promises.
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Post by melpend on Jul 16, 2022 15:02:46 GMT -5
Thank you cblevins! I appreciate the feedback and your encouraging words! |
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Post by scottrho on Jul 16, 2022 18:28:06 GMT -5
(Updated) Aunt June always says I have an active imagination. In this case, I can’t imagine anything good about what looms outside my passenger-side window. Our new home, 4218 Winging Way. It looks like it belongs on the set of some horror movie. The paint is the color of dirty water, the black trim is faded and chipped, a dingy film covers the windows, and one of the shutters hangs by the hinges. This has to be a joke. Or, maybe we stopped at the wrong address. First of all, I'm a sucker for creepy house stories, so it doesn't matter to me much that this doesn't sound especially original. It's trope-y, but it's a trope I like, so this paragraph is telling me what kind of story it is, and making promises about a creepy house story.The car idles for a moment then shuts off. I glance over at my aunt. “You wanted an adventure, Lacy. Here it is,” she says with a wink. “This is not what I remember,” I reply. This threw me for a loop. So, she knows the house? I feel like, if that's the case, we should have been told about up front, rather than having an important fact withheld. I immediately wondered what she remembers, and why, and what emotions are attached to those memories.Winging Way is the richest street in Riverhill, a small town in upstate New York. The houses are so big, they’re not even houses. They’re estates with massive green lawns, lush gardens, and fancy front gates. I’d only been here a couple of times before, but when Aunt June said we were moving to Winging Way at the start of summer to turn Mrs. Tisdale’s old home into a bed and breakfast, I was as excited as the time I found a fifty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. I mean, who wouldn’t want to live in a big fancy house? That they've been there before and that they're turning the house into a B&B tells me they're pretty wealthy. Is that going to be an important part of the story? Also, if she knows the neighborhood, and if her family can afford to turn the house into a B&B, how impressed would she be with the neighborhood. Also, I assume a neighborhood like that would have something like an HOA that might have done something to sorce Mrs. Tisdale from letting the house go to near-ruin. (That last point is probably picky, but it crossed my mind, so I thought I should mention it. I frown at the weeds covering the yard like an ugly green carpet. “How are we ever going to fix this?” “Wait until I get my hands on it,” Aunt June says, sweeping her long, silver hair into a bun. “You won’t even recognize it in a month. Besides, it’s all cosmetic. It just needs a little paint and elbow grease.” I know Mrs. Tisdale hadn’t lived here in a while, but neglect? How is that possible? I can’t imagine she would just let her house go. She didn’t strike me as the lazy, uncaring type. Again, it feels like something is being withheld. How does Lacy know Mrs. Tisdale? Who is she? How is she connected to the family? This sounds like maybe we should be a little worried about Mrs. Tisdale. Is Lacy? Is her family? “Let’s get the car unloaded before it gets dark.” Aunt June hands me a box from the trunk labeled “Kitchen Items.” As I turn from the car, I glance across the street and fumble the box, causing the utensils inside to rattle. The man watering his lawn, the lady walking her dog, and the two old women huddled together whispering are all staring at us. Weird! Weird indeed. I wonder if we should have seen them earlier. The kind of pop up out of nowhere. How does Lacy respond? Do they creep her out? Can they add more to the sense of foreboding we need at the start of this kind of story?Then one of the old women points in our direction. It reminds me of the time in my theater class when Sophie and Carmen were jealous I got the lead in the play. This is a very specific memory. Why does this bring it up? Just because she's pointing? OK, maybe. I can see that. But I feel like there needs to be a little more. Every day during rehearsal they tried to distract me to make me mess up. They stood off to the side whispering and laughing and pointing. That’s how I feel now. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck tickle under my brown ponytail. “What’s with them?” I ask, gesturing to the neighbors. “Let’s not worry about that,” Aunt June answers. She picks up a suitcase. “What do you say we go inside?” I glance across the street once more before following Aunt June through the front gate that creaks and moans like a worn-out instrument Maybe be more specific about the kind of instrument?. “I guess that needs some work too,” I mutter. “It’s okay,” I say to the house. “We’ll take care of you.” I think this is an interesting start. I love the creepy house, and that the neighbors seem to know something. I think we need more of a creepy feel from Lacy, though, a sense of foreboding or some emotional response. This is a great opportunity for some serious atmosphere. It's a first-person story, so that atmosphere needs to come from her reactions and whatever we're feeling. I think you could use more sensory details to create the atmosphere. We get a lot of sight, but we don't get other senses, other than the tickle on the neck, which is good, but we're not sure how that makes her (or us) feel, and a little bit of unsurprising creaking and moaning. There's lots of opportunity for smells. There's also a lot of opportunity for more emotional responses to help us know Lacy and help us know how we should feel about her new situation. But it's a nice start to a story that has my interest. |
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Post by melpend on Jul 16, 2022 19:26:29 GMT -5
Thank you scottrho for the detailed feedback! |
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