fb

Historical Fiction Writers

Help with historical mystery fiction

Viewing 5 posts - 1 through 5 (of 5 total)
  • Author
    Posts
  • #125681
    katie02
    @katie02

    Hey y’all!

    I’m brand new here but I’ve been writing for quite a few years now… never finished any WIPs, but this time I’m bound and determined to. However, I was wondering if any of you would be interested in reading my “introduction” and first chapter. I honestly am not sure if I like it or if it is intriguing enough for readers to want to read more. Also, I may have over-developed some of my side characters? I really have no idea and at this point, I just need another pair of unbiased eyes to help me out… I’ve read and re-read this so much that I’m not sure I like it anymore. I would love to have some brutally honest feedback, please!

     

     

     

    INTRODUCTION

     

    I ain’t much of a writer, but I thought as I should put this down for all Sunshine’s little tykes and her relations too (those that’s to come).

    It’s a queer kind of story – one not even famous people could think up in them big brains of theirs to write in books. Yes, it’s queer all right. I certainly thought so the day Sunshine was found in the mailcar of the eastbound train. She was just a little tyke then – a short, round thing with the biggest, bluest eyes you’d ever seen, and curls as golden as the sunshine. I’d tell you what her real name is, but if she’d had one, I never knew it.

    She was just Sunshine.

    E.B. Bandford

    P.S. Since I ain’t much of a writer, and there’s so much more to the story than I ever saw, I got certain other persons as shall remain unnamed here (Sunshine told me to put that down) to help with the writing. And used a pinch of – what do you call it? – imagination, I guess? Imagining that’d be true to who the people are and how it all went down. But mind you, the writing of it were all my idea. And Sunshine did the editing of the book. She’s good like that you know – making it all pretty like and proper. E.B.B.

     

     

    CHAPTER 1

     

    “I say, Ma, put an eye here and see this. Clear as I make out, there’s an fig’r, all in white, tearin’ up the road –  seems to be makin’ for us. Ain’t it sorter strange at this here unearthly time a’ night?”

    Mrs. Bill Fry raised the window and stepped out onto the porch, utterly regardless of the ridiculous figure she cut in a much too large cotton nightgown and an ancient yellowed lace nightcap that had been stuffed over her unruly wisps of gray. “There, Bill, ain’t I been telling you how allus drinkin’ a big mug a’ molasses tea can’t be none but no good right ‘fore folks should be up an’ tucked in bed? An’ here you be makin’ a fool a’ yerself! Ghostes can’t appear when they ain’t real.”

    Bill took the pipe out from between his lips and leaned forward in his rocker, the moonlight casting a dark oddly shaped shadow on the rickety porch floor. “An’ now who be makin’ a fool of theirselves? I ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout ghostes. If you used them eyes of yours ‘steadin them lips you’d see it ain’t my mind.”

    Mrs. Bill Fry craned her neck and peered into the darkness. She turned with a shriek, clawing at her husband’s arm with brown bony fingers. “But, Bill, ghostes can’t be real! An’ I ain’t drank none of that molasses tea neither!”

    Bill shook off her death-like clutch then lifted himself with a grunt from his seat. “Old Farley ain’t none too off’n the truth. Sure as day, women-folk allus be strange.”

    With a muttered vindictive, Mrs. Bill Fry hopped nimbly back through the window, leaving old Bill to confront “one of them ghostes” alone.

    When the white-clad figure had nearly reached the porch, Bill gripped the rocker back involuntarily. To be sure, it was a young woman, no doubt of that, but such a young woman! Her long, dark hair streamed freely in the moaning wind, and she had a look in her eyes that Bill reckoned akin to that of “a poor little critter catched in a huntin’ trap”.

    She staggered forward, catching herself on the wooden pillar that held up the rusty porch roof. Her pale lips parted, but no sound passed them but an agonized gasp. Starting with a low moan, one trembling hand extended beseechingly towards Bill, she gasped out, “Please! My husband! He was robbed – they shot him! Oh, please help!”

    “Well, I’ll be,” drawled Bill, running a hand through his bushy hair, then turning and raising the window. “C’mon out, Ma.”

    Mrs. Bill Fry’s lace nightcap again appeared through the window, followed by her long, billowing nightgown. She threw up her arms with a shrill cry at sight of the wild figure. “Laws a’ mercy! So you ain’t one of them ghostes after all, and you’s ain’t no figment of molasses tea neither! Well, why on earth is you here, miss? You ain’t got no part in robbers an’ highwaymens, have you? I reckon all good folks be in bed by now,” she added, narrowing her eyes and cutting a swift glance at the woman, utterly forgetful of the fact that she herself, worrisome old soul that she was, could scarcely ever be included in that generalization of “all good folks”. Twisting the voluminous folds of her nightgown about her bony wrist, she plopped down into the rocker and propped her feet up on the chopping block.

    “She ain’t one of them beastly critters, Ma. Only well nigh killed by ‘em, that she is, poor gal. Her man’s been shot,” stated Bill, chewing thoughtfully on the tip of his pipe.

    Mrs. Bill leapt to her feet, bits of wood chips sticking in the wool of her socks. “Shot, you ol’ fool! An’ you a sittin’ there like a… like a rock in a creek bed a chewin’ on yer tobaccer! Get up an’ help the gal, why don’t you!”

    Bill fingered the pipe, then sighing, set it down on the windowsill. “Sure thing, Ma, sure thing. Ain’t you got some of that soup-like sticky stuff for wounds an’ the like? I reckon it could be mighty fine fer a bullet ‘ole, though I can’t say we’ve put it to that use as a yet, but I reckon there always be a first.” He stroked his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “An’ I reckon I’ll go an’ hitch up the cart an’ wake up that poor critter. I reckon a cart might come in handy for a hurt feller.”

    “If you don’t stop yer reckonin’ and do somethin’!” cried Mrs. Bill, as she bustled back through the window after the “soup-like sticky stuff” and a whole host of other “necessaries”. Bill shook his head and slumped off to the shack of a barn, redoubling his shuffled pace after another shrill remonstrative floated out from the open window.

    Under the influence of Mrs. Bill Fry’s ever sharp eye and tongue, the little cart was soon bumping down the road at an alarming rate. The young woman had shrunk into the back corner, where she sat in a muddled heap of Mrs. Bill’s “necessaries”. Her dark eyes roving wildly over the passing landscape, her fingers clasping and reclasping the thin golden chain about her white neck, her ashen face, etched with terror, shining pale and bright in the eerie moonlight – all caused Mrs. Bill Fry to whisper hoarsely to her husband, “You think she out a’ her mind or in it? I ain’t a’ likin’ the looks a’ her.” She shivered and dug her fingers into Bill’s elbow. “If she don’t give me the chills. They way them eyes of hers stare at one… laws a’ mercy!” Mrs. Bill shivered again and slid over to Bill’s side, clutching tightly with both hands the right arm he very much needed.

    “Gettup, Sal,” growled Bill, for lack of anything better to say. The scrawny gray beast, who had for minutes past been “getting up” as fast as her bent little legs could go, swished her matted, knotted tail in disdain and drew up suddenly in the middle of the dusty road, the little cart behind her coming to a violent jolt that sent Mrs. Bill, with a shrill scream, into her husband’s lap.

    She shot up, her face flushed as she planted the nightcap firmly back on her head. “I told you you ain’t should have bought that ol’ fool of a hoss! Laws a’ mercy! I ain’t carin’ how many dollars you did save, if I can’t get a decent ‘nuff ride without a breakin’ of my neck.”

    Before Bill could retort, the white clad figure in the back of the cart rose with a pained cry, then leaping nimbly over the left wheel, darted off down the road.

    Mrs. Bill started up, nightcap in hand, and squinted into the moonlit night. “Laws a’ mercy! It’s a wagon, Bill! You s’pose…”

    Bill rubbed his chin. “Why, Ma, I reckon…”

    “How many times have I got to tell you to stop yer reckonin’ an’ do somethin’!” cried Mrs. Bill, throwing down the nightcap and hopping out of the cart. Then, on second thought, she sprang back into the seat and tossed the reins into her husband’s work-roughened hands. “Well, don’t jest sit there like a catched fish a openin’ an’ closin’ yer mouth – get Sal up, you ol’ fool!”

    Bill hastily slapped the reins across the horse’s bony back. “Sure thing, Ma, sure thing. Gettup, Sal.”

    Sal waited for no second word, but tore off recklessly down the road. Mrs. Bill Fry clutched at the bouncing seat and cursed the fateful day Bill had gone down to the Saddlebrook Ridge livestock auction.

    When they at last came to the scene where the awful deed had been done, there was the girl, standing as still as stone in the very middle of the road, her dark hair tumbling about her shoulders, her pale face lifted to the clouds, her hands clasped piteously together. On the right side of the road was a rough farming wagon, half overturned and resting in a clump of shrubs and tumbleweed.

    The girl turned suddenly and took hold of Mrs. Bill Fry’s thin arm with a hand as cold as frost. Mrs. Bill shuddered and shrank away, turning from the two fiery, glowing orbs of darkness piercing her own. With a low moan, the girl trembled and held out her arms, her tremulous voice barely over a whisper. “He… he is gone, gone! Please, oh please, I need you!”

    Bill fumbled awkwardly with his cap and kicked at the dust at his feet. Here was an entirely different specimen of woman than he was acquainted with, and he was quite at a loss for words.

    Mrs. Bill adjusted her nightcap. “You mean he’s dead?”

    The girl turned with a cry. “No, oh, perhaps so! He is gone… missing!” She sank to her knees in the middle of the road and covered her face with her hands.

    “P’rhaps they taked him away to murder him, so as no one could give ev’dence to who they was or what they was like!” said Mrs. Bill.

    Bill rubbed his chin. “I ain’t a thinkin’ that’s helpin’ much, Ma. I tell you what, poor gal, I reckon…”

    “If you won’t stop yer reckonin’!” shrieked Mrs. Bill.

    Bill, for once in his life, dared to shoot a withering look at his domineering wife. This fortunately was quite lost on her, as she had turned to satisfy her timid curiosity by peering into the wagon bed. “As I was sayin’, I can search through these here parts for yer man, if you like, poor gal. P’rhaps he wandered off lookin’ for help when he gots to feelin’ a bit better. After the first pain from a bullet gets past, I reck – I s’pose that you could be a feelin’ all chipper like and ready to do somethin’.”

    The girl started up. “Yes, yes! Though… in my heart I know it can only be… differently.”

    Bill, armed with a rusty old lantern and an equally rusty and old gun that Mrs. Bill had had the foresight to add to the mound in the back of the cart, tied Sal to the abandoned wagon and set off in the direction of “San Francity, I reckon” with more alacrity then had ever before been shown in his life.

    Mrs. Bill, after conjecturing upon the likelihood of “wolvses, highwaymens, storms, and ghostes at this here unearthly time a’ night on a lon’ly road in Californy state” settled into the awful wagon bed and was soon snoring away as though she had not a care in the world.

    Again alone, the young woman paced restlessly back and forth on the little stretch of road, now with her head in her hands, now with her head held high and her fists clenched tightly, a bright fiery spot burning on either cheek.

    At length her fingers closed over the thin chain around her neck, and she drew it out from underneath her dress. From the little silk pouch at its end she took out a faded bit of folded paper. Tearing it open, she read and reread its few enclosed words. “George Sadler… Sarah Linton,” she muttered from between clenched teeth. “Oh, would to Heaven I had never known him!”

    She bit her pale lip determinedly and began tearing off little pieces of the paper and scattering them to the restless wind. Then stopping abruptly, she caught up the dangling pouch and replaced the paper inside before dropping it again safely underneath her dress. She wrung her hands with an agonized moan. “What have I done? He is my husband… my husband! And as such I owe him my honor.” She clenched her fists and shot a look of blazing fire at the wagon in the sagebrush. “Yes, George Sadler, my honor is yours, but my love and my respect I can never give. Never… never,” she repeated absently. Then she threw her hands to her face and hurried on. “Oh, Heaven! Heaven forgive me of my sins this night!”

     

     

    #125706
    claire
    @claire-h

    @katie02

    Thank you for sharing your work! I know it takes a lot of courage sometimes. 🙂 I really enjoyed this snippet! Great job with the characters …and the mysterious happenings. Mr. and Mrs. Bill Fry are so entertaining. XD So here are the few thoughts I had:

    First off, this story reads like it was written in the 1800s. Have you read a lot of Victorian literature by any chance? 😉 That’s not a bad thing, if it’s the feel you’re going for, but I thought I would point that out. Also, the melodrama of your descriptions especially stood out to me. Maybe tone them down a bit? A couple examples of what I mean: “the two fiery, glowing orbs of darkness piercing her own.” and “Her dark eyes roving wildly over the passing landscape, her fingers clasping and reclasping the thin golden chain about her white neck, her ashen face, etched with terror, shining pale and bright in the eerie moonlight.” The same with Mr. and Mrs. Bill Fry. Their speech is very entertaining, but I think if you toned it down a bit it would still be just as entertaining, and maybe more readable.

    Hope that helps you!

    a flower does not think of competing with the flower next to it.
    it just blooms.

    #125727
    katie02
    @katie02

    @claire-h WOW, thanks so much! This was super helpful.

    I think one of my problems was that the Frys where so entertaining that I didn’t want to make light of the guy being shot and missing, and I overcompensated on the melodrama, whoops. I toned them both down a little now. I do want the story to be somewhat realistic, although I do have a fairly wild plot line. Honestly, please truthfully tell me – would you want to keep reading at this point?


    @erynne
    Here’s the updated chapter 1… I’d love to get your opinion on it!

     

     

    Introduction

     

    I ain’t much of a writer, but I thought as I should put this down for all Sunshine’s little tykes and her relations too (those that’s to come).

    It’s a queer kind of story – one not even famous people could think up in them big brains of theirs to write in books. Yes, it’s queer all right. I certainly thought so the day Sunshine was found in the mailcar of the eastbound train. She was just a little tyke then – a short, round thing with the biggest, bluest eyes you’d ever seen, and curls as golden as the sunshine. I’d tell you what her real name is, but if she’d had one, I never knew it.

    She was just Sunshine.

    E.B. Bandford

    P.S. Since I ain’t much of a writer, and there’s so much more to the story than I ever saw, I got certain other persons as shall remain unnamed here (Sunshine told me to put that down) to help with the writing. And used a pinch of – what do you call it? – imagination, I guess? Imagining that’d be true to who the people are and how it all went down. But mind you, the writing of it were all my idea. And Sunshine did the editing of the book. She’s good like that you know – making it all pretty like and proper. E.B.B.

     

    CHAPTER 1

     

    “I say, Ma, put an eye here and see this. Clear as I make out, there’s an fig’r, all in white, tearin’ up the road –  seems to be makin’ for us. Ain’t it sorter strange at this here unearthly time a’ night?”

    Mrs. Bill Fry raised the window and stepped out onto the porch, utterly regardless of the ridiculous figure she cut in a much too large cotton nightgown and an ancient yellowed lace nightcap that had been stuffed over her unruly wisps of gray. “There, Bill, ain’t I been telling you how allus drinkin’ a big mug a’ molasses tea can’t be none but no good right ‘fore folks should be up an’ tucked in bed? An’ here you be makin’ a fool a’ yerself! Ghostes can’t appear when they ain’t real.”

    Bill took the pipe out from between his lips and leaned forward in his rocker, the moonlight casting a dark oddly shaped shadow on the rickety porch floor. “An’ now who be makin’ a fool of theirselves? I ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout ghostes. If you used them eyes of yours ‘steadin them lips you’d see it ain’t my mind.”

    Mrs. Bill Fry craned her neck and peered into the darkness. She turned with a shriek, clawing at her husband’s arm with brown bony fingers. “But, Bill, ghostes can’t be real! An’ I ain’t drank none of that molasses tea neither!”

    Bill shook off her death-like clutch then lifted himself with a grunt from his seat. “Old Farley ain’t none too off’n the truth. Sure as day, women-folk allus be strange.”

    With a muttered vindictive, Mrs. Bill Fry hopped nimbly back through the window, leaving old Bill to confront “one of them ghostes” alone.

    When the white-clad figure had nearly reached the porch, Bill gripped the rocker arms involuntarily. This was no ordinary looking visitor. To be sure, no visitor could be ordinary at this time of night, but the look of her sent a shiver down Bill’s spine. She was young, nothing but a slip of a girl, her long, dark hair streamed freely in the wind, and her soiled skirts were clutched tightly in her white-knuckled grasp. She had a look in her eyes that Bill reckoned akin to that of “a poor little critter catched in a huntin’ trap”.

    She staggered forward, catching herself on the wooden pillar that held up the rusty porch roof. Panting for breath, one trembling hand extended beseechingly towards Bill, she gasped out, “Please… help… me. My husband… he-he was robbed… they shot him!”

    “Well, I’ll be,” drawled Bill, running a hand through his bushy hair, then turning and raising the window. “C’mon out, Ma.”

    Mrs. Bill Fry’s lace nightcap again appeared through the window, followed by her long, billowing nightgown. She threw up her arms at sight of the wild figure. “Laws a’ mercy! Why on earth are you here, miss? You ain’t got no part in robbers an’ highwaymens, have you? I reckon all good folks be in bed by now,” she added, narrowing her eyes and cutting a swift glance at the woman, utterly forgetful of the fact that she herself, worrisome old soul that she was, could scarcely ever be included in that generalization of “all good folks”. Twisting the voluminous folds of her nightgown about her bony wrist, she plopped down into the rocker and propped her feet up on the chopping block, and began hurriedly biting at her fingernails.

    “She ain’t one of them beastly critters, Ma. Only well nigh killed by ‘em, that she is, poor gal. Her man’s been shot,” stated Bill, chewing on the tip of his pipe.

    Mrs. Bill leapt to her feet, bits of wood chips sticking in the wool of her socks. “Shot, you ol’ fool! An’ you a sittin’ there like a… like a rock in a creek bed a chewin’ on yer tobaccer! Get up an’ help the gal, why don’t you!”

    Bill fingered the pipe, then sighing, set it down on the windowsill. “Sure thing, Ma, sure thing. Ain’t you got some of that soup-like sticky stuff for wounds an’ the like? I reckon it could be mighty fine fer a bullet ‘ole, though I can’t say we’ve put it to that use as a yet, but I reckon there always be a first.” He stroked his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “An’ I reckon I’ll go an’ hitch up the cart an’ wake up that poor critter. I reckon a cart might come in handy for a hurt feller.”

    “If you don’t stop yer reckonin’ and do somethin’!” cried Mrs. Bill, as she bustled back through the window after the “soup-like sticky stuff” and a whole host of other “necessaries”. Bill shook his head and slumped off to the shack of a barn, redoubling his shuffled pace after another shrill remonstrative floated out from the open window.

    Under the influence of Mrs. Bill Fry’s ever sharp eye and tongue, the little cart was soon bumping down the road at an alarming rate. The young woman had shrunk into the back corner, where she sat in a muddled heap of Mrs. Bill’s “necessaries”. Her dark eyes roving wildly over the passing landscape, her fingers clasping and reclasping the thin golden chain about her neck, her face shining pale and bright in the silvery moonlight – all caused Mrs. Bill Fry to whisper hoarsely to her husband, “You think she out a’ her mind or in it? I ain’t a’ likin’ the looks a’ her.” She shivered and dug her fingers into Bill’s elbow. “If she don’t give me the chills. They way them eyes of hers stare at one… laws a’ mercy!” Mrs. Bill shivered again and slid over to Bill’s side, clutching tightly with both hands the right arm he very much needed.

    “Gettup, Sal,” growled Bill, for lack of anything better to say. The scrawny gray beast, who had for minutes past been “getting up” as fast as her bent little legs could go, swished her matted, knotted tail in disdain and drew up suddenly in the middle of the dusty road, the little cart behind her coming to a violent jolt that sent Mrs. Bill sliding into an undignified heap on the floorboards.

    She shot up, her face flushed as she planted the nightcap firmly back on her head. “I told you you ain’t should have bought that ol’ fool of a hoss! Laws a’ mercy! I ain’t carin’ how many dollars you did save, if I can’t get a decent ‘nuff ride without a breakin’ of my neck.”

    Before Bill could retort, the white clad figure in the back of the cart scrambled up, then leaping nimbly over the left wheel, darted off down the road.

    Mrs. Bill started up, nightcap in hand, and squinted into the moonlit night. “Laws a’ mercy! It’s a wagon, Bill! You s’pose…”

    Bill rubbed his chin. “Why, Ma, I reckon…”

    “How many times have I got to tell you to stop yer reckonin’ an’ do somethin’!” cried Mrs. Bill, throwing down the nightcap and tossing the reins into her husband’s work-roughened hands. “Well, don’t jest sit there like a catched fish a openin’ an’ closin’ yer mouth – get Sal up, you ol’ fool!”

    Bill hastily slapped the reins across the horse’s bony back. “Sure thing, Ma, sure thing. Gettup, Sal.”

    Sal waited for no second word, but tore off recklessly down the road. Mrs. Bill Fry clutched at the bouncing seat and cursed the fateful day Bill had gone down to the Saddlebrook Ridge livestock auction.

    When they at last came to the scene where the awful deed had been done, there was the girl, standing as still as stone in the very middle of the road, her dark hair tumbling about her shoulders, her hands clamped over her mouth in mute horror. On the right side of the road was a rough farming wagon, half overturned and resting in a clump of shrubs and tumbleweed.

    The young wife turned suddenly and took hold of Mrs. Fry’s thin arm with a hand as cold as frost. Mrs. Bill shivered and shrank away. Clutching at her neck, the girl’s tremulous voice barely rose over a hoarse whisper. “He’s gone! Please, oh please, tell me he’s not -” She stopped short, her pleading eyes resting first on Bill and then on his wife.

    Bill fumbled awkwardly with his cap and kicked at the dust at his feet. Here was an entirely different specimen of woman than he was acquainted with, and he was quite at a loss for words.

    Mrs. Bill adjusted her nightcap. “You mean he’s dead?”

    The girl turned with a cry. “Oh, is there no hope? He was here when I left, now -” Faltering unsteadily, she sank back against the side of the wagon and covered her face with her hands.

    “P’rhaps they taked him away to murder him, so as no one could give ev’dence to who they was or what they was like!” said Mrs. Bill.

    Bill rubbed his chin. “I ain’t a thinkin’ that’s helpin’ much, Ma. I tell you what, poor gal, I reckon…”

    “If you won’t stop yer reckonin’!” cried Mrs. Bill from between clenched teeth, stamping her foot emphatically.

    Bill, for once in his life, dared to shoot a withering look at his domineering wife. This fortunately was quite lost on her, as she had turned to satisfy her timid curiosity by peering into the wagon bed. “As I was sayin’, I can search through these here parts for yer man, if you like, poor gal. P’rhaps he wandered off lookin’ for help when he gots to feelin’ a bit better. After the first pain from a bullet gets past, I reck – I s’pose that you could be a feelin’ all chipper like and ready to do somethin’.”

    The girl started up. “Please try! Perhaps so – though… in my heart I know it can only be… differently.”

    Bill, armed with a rusty old lantern and an equally rusty and old gun that Mrs. Bill had had the foresight to add to the mound in the back of the cart, tied Sal to the abandoned wagon and set off in the direction of “San Francity, I reckon” with more alacrity then had ever before been shown in his life.

    Mrs. Bill, after conjecturing upon the likelihood of “wolvses, highwaymens, and storms at this here unearthly time a’ night on a lon’ly road in Californy state” settled into the awful wagon bed and was soon snoring away as though she had not a care in the world.

    Again alone, the young woman paced restlessly back and forth on the little stretch of road, now with her head in her hands, now with her head held high and her fists clenched tightly, a bright fiery spot burning on either cheek.

    At length her fingers closed over the thin chain around her neck, and she drew it out from underneath her dress. From the little silk pouch at its end she took out a faded bit of folded paper. Tearing it open, she read and reread its few enclosed words. “George Sadler… Sarah Linton,” she muttered from between clenched teeth. “Oh, would to Heaven I had never known him!”

    She bit her pale lip determinedly and began tearing off little pieces of the paper and scattering them to the restless wind. Then stopping abruptly, she caught up the dangling pouch and replaced the paper inside before dropping it again safely underneath her dress. She wrung her hands with an agonized moan. “What have I done? He is my husband… my husband! And as such I owe him my honor.” She clenched her fists and shot a look of blazing fire at the wagon in the sagebrush. “Yes, George Sadler, my honor is yours, but my love and my respect I can never give. Never… never,” she repeated absently. Then she threw her hands to her face and hurried on. “Oh, Heaven! Heaven forgive me of my sins this night!”

     

     

    #125733
    katie02
    @katie02

    @Claire-h

    Oh, and I forgot to mention that I do read a lot of books written in the 1800s and early 1900s, and that’s kind of become my style. 🙂 I don’t know if it’s annoying to most modern day readers, but I was hoping since the book was set in that historical era, that people’d be okay with it.

    #125743
    claire
    @claire-h

    @katie02

    Yay, I’m so glad my suggestion helped! 🙂 And yes, I would definitely want to keep reading! (I’ve read a lot of books from that time period too, so I can totally relate with it becoming your style 😉 ) I saw that you mentioned The Hidden Hand in your introduction thread. It’s one of my favorites too! Your book so far reminds me a lot of a Lamplighter, so you’re doing a great job at that style!

    a flower does not think of competing with the flower next to it.
    it just blooms.

Viewing 5 posts - 1 through 5 (of 5 total)
  • You must be logged in to reply to this topic.
Story Embers

Enroll in Our Seven-Day Mindset Challenge Course

Enter your email to begin taking the course. We'll send you a link to begin the mindset course along with emails to help you grow in your writing craft!

You've joined the course! Check your email to watch the first video.

Plotting Is Hard

That’s why we created a worksheet that will help you make sure your story hits all the right plot beats.

 

Sign up below to learn how to ace story structure.

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the plot sheet in one moment...

Stop Using Meaningless Character Questionnaires

Knowing your character's favorite ice cream flavor won't help you write engaging protagonists.

 

Our questionnaire is different. Use it to discover your character's core fears, longings, hopes, and needs.

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the character questionnaire in one moment...

Enjoying This Article? Get the Full Series!

 You can download the entire Tricky Subjects for Christian Storytellers series in e-book form for free!

 Learn how to wisely handle subjects like violence, language, and sex as a writer.

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the eBook in one moment...

Worldbuild Smarter, Not Harder

 Some worldbuilding questionnaires force you to answer as many questions as possible about your world.

 

Ours doesn’t. Answer targeted questions that reveal what’s actually important about your world.

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the worldbuilding questionnaire in one moment...

Take Your Style to the Next Level

Take Your Style to the Next Level

The written word matters to God.

 

Does it matter to you?

 

Learn how to develop an eloquent, practical, and personal style by downloading our free e-book.

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the eBook in one moment...

Every Year, Thousands of Writers Give Up

Every Year, Thousands of Writers Give Up

 Don’t be the next.

 

We understand how exhausting writing can be, so download our free e-book and find inspiration to press on!

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the eBook in one moment...

Don't Be That Kind of Christian Writer

Want to impact the world for Christ with your writing—without being preachy or cliched?

 

Learn how to avoid common pitfalls and craft powerful themes by downloading our free worksheet!

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the theme worksheet in one moment...

So You Have Clichés in Your Novel...

Thankfully, we’re here to help!

 

Enter your email below, and we’ll send you a simple process for smashing clichés.

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the cliche worksheet in one moment...

Sign Up for Updates

Enter your email to receive updates on the Engaging Plots Summit, along with emails to help you grow in your writing craft!

You have successfully subscribed for updates!

Does Christian Fiction Need to Be Clean?

Our Tricky Subjects for Christian Storytellers e-book examines how to depict sensitive topics like violence, language, and sex with realism and wisdom. Sign up to download it for free!

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the eBook in one moment...

Poetry Isn't Just for Poets

Poetry Isn't Just for Poets

It can also help novelists write better stories!

Get our Harnessing the Power of Poetry e-book to learn how techniques used by skilled poets can enrich your storytelling.

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the eBook in one moment...

Enjoying This Article? Get the Full Series!

Enjoying This Article? Get the Full Series!

You can download the entire Harnessing the Power of Poetry series in e-book form for free!

Learn what surprising insights and techniques novelists can glean from poets.

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the eBook in one moment...

Uncover the Secret to Relatable Characters

Uncover the Secret to Relatable Characters

Learning how to help readers connect with your story's characters doesn't need to be a mystery.

Get our Evoking Reader Empathy e-book to discover how successful authors build empathy.

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the eBook in one moment...

Stop Using Meaningless Character Questionnaires

Stop Using Meaningless Character Questionnaires

Knowing your character's favorite ice cream flavor won't help you write engaging protagonists.

 

Our questionnaire is different. Use it to discover your character's core fears, longings, hopes, and needs.

 

 

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the character questionnaire in one moment...

Plotting Is Hard

Plotting Is Hard

That’s why we created a worksheet that will help you make sure your story hits all the right plot beats.

 

Sign up below to learn how to ace story structure.

Congratulations! Redirecting you to the plot sheet in one moment...

Learn What the Bible Says about Engaging Plots

Learn What the Bible Says about Engaging Plots

Enter your email to get your guide, along with other resources to help you grow in your writing craft!

You have successfully subscribed for updates!

Pin It on Pinterest