The Bloated One
Well-Known Member
Dear All,
I recently had my first three chapters looked at by a much respected author of science fiction and fantasy. (PM me and I'll tell you more). He suggested that children's editors would have a hard time if I didn't explain how my protagonist, Tarquin came to be time travelling very early on in the book. I have therefore tried to put a lot of exposition in the opening chapter. I have dressed it up by having Tarquin sitting in detention and reflecting on his first two years of travel.
I know I will get excellent advice from the members of this superb site, so if you have the time I really would appreciate your thoughts.
Simple question - Does exposition the way I have put it work?
The Adventures Of Tarquin Seebohm Jenkins
Chapter One
The Canal Boat
Tarquin Seebohm Jenkins could travel five hundred years in a second but fail to keep an appointment a mile from his house. Miss this ‘jump’ and he would have to wait a further month before travelling again. Time, for so long on Tarquin’s side, was running out.
“Jenkins,” said Mr Reynolds, wagging a finger in Tarquin’s face, “I am fed up with your fairytales. Detention, now.”
Tarquin was horrified. The timing of his trip was now on a knife-edge.
“And don’t give me those big soulful eyes. Sit at the back of the room and think about the nonsense you told the class today.”
Arguing had made Tarquin late. He simply couldn’t resist questioning Mr Reynolds knowledge of Eduard Manet in front of the whole class. Advising teachers wasn’t unusual; some found it irksome, others humorous. But, all agreed that Tarquin spoke of historical figures as if he knew them personally. Except that is for Mr Reynolds, his art teacher.
Tarquin crossed his arms, looked out of the classroom window and sighed. He was going to be late, very late. For two years he had never missed an appointment on the canal.
He thought back to the fateful day in 2008 when he received the invitation to a Teddy Bears Picnic in the Steeple Snoring Tea Rooms. He had gone along, more out of curiosity than expectation and found the Tea rooms empty apart from an old couple and two bears; a kodiak and a grizzly sitting at a corner table, hunched over a map of the Macclesfield Canal drinking coffee through straws. He knew it was the Macclesfield Canal as the invitation told him to look for two bears reading it and also be prepared for a big surprise. He wandered over and was greeted by a paw.
“You must be Tarquin,” said the paws owner, the Kodiak. Tarquin shook it.
“Sit down, we have a lot to talk about.”
Tarquin sat and looked at the two bears. “Where are the others?” he asked, half expecting to see Goldilocks and a posse of smaller bears coming out of the washroom.
“Others?” said the kodiak, looking at the grizzly.
“There’s be no others?” said the grizzly with a thick country accent that Tarquin found hard to decipher.
“The invitation was for a party and to expect a big surprise?”
“Oh that,” said the Kodiak, dismissively, “you’re the only one invited.” Tarquin looked around, half expecting someone to jump out from behind one of the many plastic fern pots and startle him. Nothing happened. The only thing moving albeit it slowly, was ‘Nippy’ Tumbley, the silver haired octogenarian waitress and owner of the Tea Rooms, coming to the table.
“What would you like to drink,” she asked.
“I am not sure I am stay—“
“He’ll ‘ave a pot of yer finest Earl Grey tea, Mrs Tumbley,” said the grizzly.
“No problem Mr Cavendish,” said ‘Nippy’, unconcerned she was talking to a large brown bear. She turned and began her slow trek back to the kitchen, ambling the way old folk do, resplendent in her original J Lyons teashop black dress, starched apron and paper tiara; a living homage to simpler and more elegant times.
“Please, take off your heads, you’re making me very nervous,” said Tarquin, addressing the bears.
“Of course, how impolite of us.” They took off their heads and placed them on the table. Tarquin sat down.
“Me names Jeremiah Pharaoh Cavendish,” said the tall, thickset man with the baldhead and silver handlebar moustache.
“And I am Jules, Jules. Rigsworth,“ said the smaller man with the manic expression, fiery eyes and ill-fitting wig of red, curly hair.
“We knew your parents.”
“We were their travelling companions.”
Tarquin breathed deeply, looked intently at Jules and shook his head. His parents had died unexpectedly several years ago and it still hurt.
“I am not finding this at all funny,” said Tarquin, getting up to go.
“We travelled in time together,” said Jules.
Tarquin stood by the table and shook his head. “People like you need help,” he said, walking toward the door.
Jules pointed to his throat and shouted.
“Around your neck is a gold cricket bat given by your Father.”
“We can tells yer what the inscription means,” said Jeremiah.
Tarquin stopped. How did they know? He turned, walked back to the table and sat down just as Mrs Tumbley, ably supported by her tea trolley arrived. She swung effortless through her tea ceremony and, after much instruction, Tarquin was allowed to take charge of the pot of Earl Grey tea.
“I suppose,” he said, looking at Jules, then at Jeremiah, “You are the Doctor and you are his travelling companion?”
Jules grabbed Jeremiah’s hands just as the big man’s eyebrows knotted and the ends of his moustache went south.
“So like your Father,” said Jules, shaking his head. He spun the Macclesfield Canal plan around on the table. "You see those lines."
Tarquin took his cup, looked at the map and nodded. It wasn’t a plan of the Macclesfield Canal at all. Tarquin examined it carefully. It reminded him of a map of the London Underground but this much bigger and far more complicated with dozens of intersecting coloured lines and hundreds of odd sounding station names. He thought it more a picture of spaghetti and alphabet soup than a map.
Jules pointed to a bend on a line of green. "That’s the lock keeper’s cottage on the Grand Union Canal at Steeple Snoring. Travel Manager, Jeremiah. P. Cavendish, my colleague."
“Yer interested?” asked Jeremiah, leaning forward.
Tarquin nodded.
“Right then, sit back and listen.” Jules explained the link between wormholes, follies and the waterways of the British Isles. How follies and canals were similar to rail stations and how wormholes converged on the stations. Jeremiah, a member of the Venerable Corps of Lock and Folly Keepers guarded the converging wormholes.
“Okay, but how do you know what the wormhole is and where it’s going? And what has this to do with my parents?”
“Isabella Mary Mayson,” said Jeremiah beaming.
“Who?” asked Tarquin.
Jules chuckled and shook his head. “Mrs Beeton, of course! The mother of all time travelers.” He went on to explain that Mrs Beeton wasn’t a simple Edwardian housewife with a unique lifestyle plan. Somehow she understood that shifts in time, portals, and black holes by their very nature can be constant, and in certain circumstances, form a repeating pattern. After logging their appearance, she made a jump calendar that followed a ten-year cycle and cleverly disguised the information and other nuggets amidst her needlework, recipes and housekeeping recommendations. Her books were the definitive Time Travellers' companions. Jules also pointed out, with some relish, that they also held Jeremiah’s three favourite meals: broiled pheasant, jugged rabbit and potted chicken. Jeremiah explained that he wasn’t allowed to go out hunting for the ingredients any more. A misunderstanding at Trotter’s Open Petting Farm, situated just outside Steeple Snoring, had led his wife, Ingeborg to demand he hand over ‘Bessie’, his twelve-bore shotgun, and promise never to go “a hunting” near the farm again.
“And, my parents?” asked Tarquin.
“They want you to enjoy travelling through history and meeting famous people like they did.”
Jeremiah nodded. “We agreed. Once yer reached thirteen.”
TBO
I recently had my first three chapters looked at by a much respected author of science fiction and fantasy. (PM me and I'll tell you more). He suggested that children's editors would have a hard time if I didn't explain how my protagonist, Tarquin came to be time travelling very early on in the book. I have therefore tried to put a lot of exposition in the opening chapter. I have dressed it up by having Tarquin sitting in detention and reflecting on his first two years of travel.
I know I will get excellent advice from the members of this superb site, so if you have the time I really would appreciate your thoughts.
Simple question - Does exposition the way I have put it work?
The Adventures Of Tarquin Seebohm Jenkins
Chapter One
The Canal Boat
Tarquin Seebohm Jenkins could travel five hundred years in a second but fail to keep an appointment a mile from his house. Miss this ‘jump’ and he would have to wait a further month before travelling again. Time, for so long on Tarquin’s side, was running out.
“Jenkins,” said Mr Reynolds, wagging a finger in Tarquin’s face, “I am fed up with your fairytales. Detention, now.”
Tarquin was horrified. The timing of his trip was now on a knife-edge.
“And don’t give me those big soulful eyes. Sit at the back of the room and think about the nonsense you told the class today.”
Arguing had made Tarquin late. He simply couldn’t resist questioning Mr Reynolds knowledge of Eduard Manet in front of the whole class. Advising teachers wasn’t unusual; some found it irksome, others humorous. But, all agreed that Tarquin spoke of historical figures as if he knew them personally. Except that is for Mr Reynolds, his art teacher.
Tarquin crossed his arms, looked out of the classroom window and sighed. He was going to be late, very late. For two years he had never missed an appointment on the canal.
He thought back to the fateful day in 2008 when he received the invitation to a Teddy Bears Picnic in the Steeple Snoring Tea Rooms. He had gone along, more out of curiosity than expectation and found the Tea rooms empty apart from an old couple and two bears; a kodiak and a grizzly sitting at a corner table, hunched over a map of the Macclesfield Canal drinking coffee through straws. He knew it was the Macclesfield Canal as the invitation told him to look for two bears reading it and also be prepared for a big surprise. He wandered over and was greeted by a paw.
“You must be Tarquin,” said the paws owner, the Kodiak. Tarquin shook it.
“Sit down, we have a lot to talk about.”
Tarquin sat and looked at the two bears. “Where are the others?” he asked, half expecting to see Goldilocks and a posse of smaller bears coming out of the washroom.
“Others?” said the kodiak, looking at the grizzly.
“There’s be no others?” said the grizzly with a thick country accent that Tarquin found hard to decipher.
“The invitation was for a party and to expect a big surprise?”
“Oh that,” said the Kodiak, dismissively, “you’re the only one invited.” Tarquin looked around, half expecting someone to jump out from behind one of the many plastic fern pots and startle him. Nothing happened. The only thing moving albeit it slowly, was ‘Nippy’ Tumbley, the silver haired octogenarian waitress and owner of the Tea Rooms, coming to the table.
“What would you like to drink,” she asked.
“I am not sure I am stay—“
“He’ll ‘ave a pot of yer finest Earl Grey tea, Mrs Tumbley,” said the grizzly.
“No problem Mr Cavendish,” said ‘Nippy’, unconcerned she was talking to a large brown bear. She turned and began her slow trek back to the kitchen, ambling the way old folk do, resplendent in her original J Lyons teashop black dress, starched apron and paper tiara; a living homage to simpler and more elegant times.
“Please, take off your heads, you’re making me very nervous,” said Tarquin, addressing the bears.
“Of course, how impolite of us.” They took off their heads and placed them on the table. Tarquin sat down.
“Me names Jeremiah Pharaoh Cavendish,” said the tall, thickset man with the baldhead and silver handlebar moustache.
“And I am Jules, Jules. Rigsworth,“ said the smaller man with the manic expression, fiery eyes and ill-fitting wig of red, curly hair.
“We knew your parents.”
“We were their travelling companions.”
Tarquin breathed deeply, looked intently at Jules and shook his head. His parents had died unexpectedly several years ago and it still hurt.
“I am not finding this at all funny,” said Tarquin, getting up to go.
“We travelled in time together,” said Jules.
Tarquin stood by the table and shook his head. “People like you need help,” he said, walking toward the door.
Jules pointed to his throat and shouted.
“Around your neck is a gold cricket bat given by your Father.”
“We can tells yer what the inscription means,” said Jeremiah.
Tarquin stopped. How did they know? He turned, walked back to the table and sat down just as Mrs Tumbley, ably supported by her tea trolley arrived. She swung effortless through her tea ceremony and, after much instruction, Tarquin was allowed to take charge of the pot of Earl Grey tea.
“I suppose,” he said, looking at Jules, then at Jeremiah, “You are the Doctor and you are his travelling companion?”
Jules grabbed Jeremiah’s hands just as the big man’s eyebrows knotted and the ends of his moustache went south.
“So like your Father,” said Jules, shaking his head. He spun the Macclesfield Canal plan around on the table. "You see those lines."
Tarquin took his cup, looked at the map and nodded. It wasn’t a plan of the Macclesfield Canal at all. Tarquin examined it carefully. It reminded him of a map of the London Underground but this much bigger and far more complicated with dozens of intersecting coloured lines and hundreds of odd sounding station names. He thought it more a picture of spaghetti and alphabet soup than a map.
Jules pointed to a bend on a line of green. "That’s the lock keeper’s cottage on the Grand Union Canal at Steeple Snoring. Travel Manager, Jeremiah. P. Cavendish, my colleague."
“Yer interested?” asked Jeremiah, leaning forward.
Tarquin nodded.
“Right then, sit back and listen.” Jules explained the link between wormholes, follies and the waterways of the British Isles. How follies and canals were similar to rail stations and how wormholes converged on the stations. Jeremiah, a member of the Venerable Corps of Lock and Folly Keepers guarded the converging wormholes.
“Okay, but how do you know what the wormhole is and where it’s going? And what has this to do with my parents?”
“Isabella Mary Mayson,” said Jeremiah beaming.
“Who?” asked Tarquin.
Jules chuckled and shook his head. “Mrs Beeton, of course! The mother of all time travelers.” He went on to explain that Mrs Beeton wasn’t a simple Edwardian housewife with a unique lifestyle plan. Somehow she understood that shifts in time, portals, and black holes by their very nature can be constant, and in certain circumstances, form a repeating pattern. After logging their appearance, she made a jump calendar that followed a ten-year cycle and cleverly disguised the information and other nuggets amidst her needlework, recipes and housekeeping recommendations. Her books were the definitive Time Travellers' companions. Jules also pointed out, with some relish, that they also held Jeremiah’s three favourite meals: broiled pheasant, jugged rabbit and potted chicken. Jeremiah explained that he wasn’t allowed to go out hunting for the ingredients any more. A misunderstanding at Trotter’s Open Petting Farm, situated just outside Steeple Snoring, had led his wife, Ingeborg to demand he hand over ‘Bessie’, his twelve-bore shotgun, and promise never to go “a hunting” near the farm again.
“And, my parents?” asked Tarquin.
“They want you to enjoy travelling through history and meeting famous people like they did.”
Jeremiah nodded. “We agreed. Once yer reached thirteen.”
TBO
