"The Fisherman and the Olm" - dark mythological fantasy

[notveryalice]

About 800 words of a WIP. This is meant to be the beginning of the book.

The handrail had rotted with salt and rain. Under it, metal bubbled up in fragile shells of rust; when he slid his fingers along it, it flaked onto his skin and lodged under his fingernails where they were notched with age.

The old man had a woollen cap with a long brim. Rain cascaded from it, past his sodden cotton scarf, onto the lapel of his winter coat. The water was in a foul mood; he kept it company as it shouted and screamed at the ship.

Out from the stern about a nautical mile, just in view, the old man could see waves like city skyscrapers rise from deep ocean and slip away again as if they'd never been there. Closer to, the water crashed against itself, swell against swell, and shattered into white droplets that showered the boat.

The old man coughed and shuffled his feet to work out some stiffness in his knees.

"Lord knows what he's waiting for," said Heijman, Lieutenant ter zee.

"Probably nothing," said his companion. "Watch your post. If he drowns it's his fault."

"Still, uncomfortable tale to bring back to the Kapitein," said Heijman. He tapped the glass rather loudly. "Hey, out there! Come in before you're lost at sea!"

"Can't hear you," said the other lieutenant. He looked at the dial nearest his left hand and wrote a number in his logbook. "Waves making too much noise."

"I'm not going out there," said Heijman.

"Damn right. Watch your post."

"Respectfully, friend," said Lt. Heijman, "I'm concerned about that guy because I'm the sort of person who pays attention to his post."

"Right."

Lt. Heijman reached out a conciliatory palm. "Let's turn on the radio."

"Sure."

The old man adjusted his shoulders inside his coat. He didn't seem at all worried by the waves. A particularly large swell, crossed and scarred with a web of bubbles, crested nearby and broke over the deck, surging up around the soles of the old man's shoes--but the old man only patted his breast pocket and then his trouser pockets for his handkerchief, which he used to blot his nose.

He kept a respectful hand on the railing, but his fingers were loose.

"Well, goodbye then," he said.

The wind sighed. The old man tipped his hat and turned around, changing hands on the rail with great care. His footing was sure and confident, but he'd been close with the sea, an integral part of her; he showed her weakness that wasn't there, as was polite, or to soothe hurt feelings.

When he got back to the cabin he shared with his daughter, she said, "You've been to say goodbye every day this trip. Are you sure you're ready to do this, papa?"

The old man took off his hat and brushed water from it onto the floor. He thought about his answer as he unbuttoned his coat. Martje, his youngest child, was from his second marriage. By that time the old man was better with people, so she was brought up well enough to wait for her father's response.

"Your accent is so pleasant, Martje, my darling," he said. "But I wish I'd taught you Russian sooner, before this revolutionary nonsense came about and everybody started talking around things rather than about them."

"Let me take your coat from you, papa," said Martje. She hadn't been alive before the revolution.

"At least you don't call me Comrade Father," said the old man.

"You're Amsterdammer now, papa," said Martje. "I can call you anything I want."

The old man waited for her to catch up to herself.

"Except I won't, of course," she said. "Just 'papa'. We should go to dinner."

"All right, darling Martje. I'll leave my scarf and take a new hat." The old man chose a fashionable canvas boating hat with a striped ribbon from the coat rack on the back of the door. He didn't like it but Martje had given it to him for Christmas.

They stopped a few times on the way to the dining room, so that the old man could bend down and look at something, or wipe his thumb over a windowpane.

"They're not good to this boat, are they, papa?" Martje would say, and the old man would answer, his head behind a curtain or inside a cupboard, "No, my darling, they're not. Look at the salt damage here, where they've neglected to replace the screws!" Then he'd draw his head back out for a bit and say, "I expected better when you chose a Dutch shipping company. They should know their business."

Passing crewmen glared at him, but they never caught him, because he would try to look innocent at the last second. The Dutch are genial--and the softly spoken torrent of Russian they heard only reminded them of rain chattering through city gutters, so they let him alone.

And Martje wasn't embarrassed by her father; she wouldn't be even if he scolded the crew in perfect Dutch, because he was right, the boat had been badly neglected. Her father was always right about boats.

 

[Jo Zebedee]

The handrail had rotted with salt and rain. Under it, metal bubbled up in fragile shells of rust; when he slid his fingers along it, it flaked onto his skin and lodged under his fingernails where they were notched with agethis gave me an odd image. The notches are on the surface, right? But they aren't holes. But the way this is worded it makes me feel like the notches and the lodgement are linked, and I can't see how this would be.



The old man adjusted his shoulders inside his coat. He didn't seem at all worried by the waves. A particularly large swell, crossed and scarred with a web of bubbles, crested nearby and broke over the deck, surging up around the soles of the old man's shoes--but the old manthe old man is starting to get a little repetitive. Elderly maybe? Or is there any reason we can't have his name yet? only patted his breast pocket and then his trouser pockets for his handkerchief, which he used to blot his nose.

The wind sighed. The old man tipped his hat and turned around, changing hands on the rail with great care. His footing was sure and confidentso why the great care above, if he's confident? , but he'd been close with the sea, an integral part of her; he showed her weakness that wasn't there, as was polite, or to soothe hurt feelingsdidn't quite understand the last little bit.


The old manI think you could go he, there's only one man here took off his hat and brushed water from it onto the floor - implied, I think. He thought about his answer as he unbuttoned his coat. Martje, his youngest child, was from his second marriage. By that time the old man was better with people, so she was brought up well enough to wait for her father's response.

"Your accent is so pleasant, Martje, my darling," he said. "But I wish I'd taught you Russian sooner, before this revolutionary nonsense came about and everybody started talking around things rather than about them."

"Let me take your coat from you, papaPapa?," said Martje. She hadn't been alive before the revolution.

"At least you don't call me Comrade Father," said the old mansorry, they're definitely getting in my way now. I don't think you need an attribute here at all, actually. .

"You're Amsterdammer now, papa," said Martje. "I can call you anything I want."

The old man waited for her to catch up to herself.? not sure what this means.

"Except I won't, of course," she said. "Just 'papa'. We should go to dinner."

"All right, darling Martje. I'll leave my scarf and take a new hat." The old man chose a fashionable canvas boating hat with a striped ribbon from the coat rack on the back of the door. He didn't like it but Martje had given it to him for ChristmasI like this, it shows a softer side to him.

They stopped a few times on the way to the dining room, so that the old manhe! could bend down and look at something, or wipe his thumb over a windowpane.

"They're not good to this boat, are they, papa?" Martje wouldwhy would? Does she say it each time they walk to the dining room? say, and the old man would answer, his head behind a curtain or inside a cupboard, "No, my darling, they're not. Look at the salt damage here, where they've neglected to replace the screws!" Then he'd draw his head back out for a bit and say, "I expected better when you chose a Dutch shipping company. They should know their business."

Passing crewmen glared at him, but they never caught him, because he would try to look innocent at the last second. The Dutch are genial--and the softly spoken torrent of Russian they heard only reminded them of rain chattering through city gutters, so they let him alone.the Dutch on the boat, or all Dutch. If the latter, it seems a huge generalisation. From a pov character, I'd have no problem, but from an omni narrator, of whom I know nothing, and who hasn't identified themselves, therefore to my mind being neutral, it seems odd.



I'm not all that good at critting omni, I'm afraid, as I seem to have got stuck in close pov, so please take with a grain of salt. (take all of it with a grain of salt, actually, I know nothing. )

The narrative structure worked for me in some places, the way it jumped easily from person to person reminded me of Capt. Corelli's a little. In other places eg, the she would paragraph, it jarred, and I think this might be around a change of tense. Better grammaticians than me might identify it better, but it pulled me out, because one minute I was with them, and then I was being told what they would do. I hope that makes sense.

I mentioned it above, but the repetition of old man did jar with me, I thought it was a little overused and some hes could have been popped in, instead.

It's nicely written, you present an interesting arrangement of characters with an intriguing central character. The slow build is fine imho, but at some point I would like to see a widening out of engagement.

 

[notveryalice]

I tend to write in a close 3rd POV that's called "fly-on-the-wall" in which the reader's viewpoint can go anywhere within a small physical range. It tends to stick on the shoulder of one person in particular, like a fly--and like a fly it can sometimes pull back a little and watch from the corner. This is the reason I can't give his name, because I can't mention his name without someone else speaking it first. I can dip into his head just a little, but not too much.

I wondered about the "would" paragraph, because in this case the action isn't repeated enough to be exactly habitual, so I wasn't sure it worked. I'm glad you didn't like it, actually!

I'll swop "the old man" for "he" in a few more places.

Ta for the critique!

 

[Cosmic Geoff]

About 800 words of a WIP. This is meant to be the beginning of the book.

The handrail had rotted makes me think it's wooden with salt and rain. Under it, metal bubbled up in fragile shells of rust; when he slid his fingers along it, it flaked onto his skin and lodged under his fingernails where they were notched with age. The handrail had rusted with salt and rain. It flaked onto his skin and lodged under his fingernails

The old man had a woollen cap with a long brim. Rain cascaded from it, past his sodden cotton scarf, onto the lapel of his winter coat. The water was in a foul mood; he kept it company as it shouted and screamed at the ship.

Out from the stern about a nautical mile, just in view, the old man could see waves like city skyscrapers rise from deep ocean and slip away again as if they'd never been there. Closer to, the water crashed against itself, swell against swell, and shattered into white droplets that showered the boat. Enough of the description, already

The old man coughed and shuffled his feet to work out some stiffness in his knees.

"Lord knows what he's waiting for," said Heijman, Lieutenant ter zee.

"Probably nothing," said his companion. "Watch your post. If he drowns it's his fault."

"Still, uncomfortable tale to bring back to the Kapitein," said Heijman. He tapped the glass rather loudly. "Hey, out there! Come in before you're lost at sea!"

"Can't hear you," said the other lieutenant. He looked at the dial nearest his left hand and wrote a number in his logbook. "Waves making too much noise."

"I'm not going out there," said Heijman.
Enough chat, already
"Damn right. Watch your post."

"Respectfully, friend," said Lt. Heijman, "I'm concerned about that guy because I'm the sort of person who pays attention to his post."

"Right."

Lt. Heijman reached out a conciliatory palm. "Let's turn on the radio."

"Sure."

The old man adjusted his shoulders inside his coat. He didn't seem at all worried by the waves. A particularly large swell, crossed and scarred with a web of bubbles, crested nearby and broke over the deck, surging up around the soles of the old man's shoes--but the old man only patted his breast pocket and then his trouser pockets for his handkerchief, which he used to blot his nose.

He kept a respectful hand on the railing, but his fingers were loose.

"Well, goodbye then," he said.

The wind sighed. The old man tipped his hat and turned around, changing hands on the rail with great care. His footing was sure and confident, but he'd been close with the sea, an integral part of her; he showed her weakness that wasn't there, as was polite, or to soothe hurt feelings. ?? Unclear what you mean

When he got back to the cabin he shared with his daughter, she said, "You've been to say goodbye every day this trip. Are you sure you're ready to do this, papa?"

The old man took off his hat and brushed water from it onto the floor. He thought about his answer as he unbuttoned his coat. Martje, his youngest child, was from his second marriage. By that time the old man was better with people, By what time? Doesn't make much sense. so she was brought up well enough to wait for her father's response.

"Your accent is so pleasant, Martje, my darling," he said. "But I wish I'd taught you Russian sooner, before this revolutionary nonsense came about and everybody started talking around things rather than about them."

"Let me take your coat from you, papa," said Martje. She hadn't been alive before the revolution.

"At least you don't call me Comrade Father," said the old man.

"You're Amsterdammer now, papa," said Martje. "I can call you anything I want."

The old man waited for her to catch up to herself.

"Except I won't, of course," she said. "Just 'papa'. We should go to dinner."

"All right, darling Martje. I'll leave my scarf and take a new hat." The old man chose a fashionable canvas boating hat with a striped ribbon from the coat rack on the back of the door. He didn't like it but Martje had given it to him for Christmas.

They stopped a few times on the way to the dining room, so that the old man could bend down and look at something, or wipe his thumb over a windowpane.

"They're not good to this boat, are they, papa?" Martje would say, and the old man would answer, his head behind a curtain or inside a cupboard, "No, my darling, they're not. Look at the salt damage here, where they've neglected to replace the screws!" Don't mention the screws, it makes no sense to me. Then he'd draw his head back out for a bit and say, "I expected better when you chose a Dutch shipping company. They should know their business."

Passing crewmen glared at him, but they never caught him, because he would try to look innocent at the last second. It's not clear why the crew would care what the passengers are saying about their standards of maintenance - in a foreign language at that! The Dutch are genial--and the softly spoken torrent of Russian they heard only reminded them of rain chattering through city gutters, so they let him alone.

And Martje wasn't embarrassed by her father; she wouldn't be even if he scolded the crew in perfect Dutch, because he was right, the boat had been badly neglected. So it's badly maintained? Is this relevant? Does it sink in the next chapter? Her father was always right about boats.

This could be a good story, but there is too much detail of a kind that seems irrelevant to the story. We want to know about the old man and his daughter, and not the other stuff. If we are meant to be worried about an imminent shipwreck, you need to rewrite.

 

[SciFrac]

"This could be a good story, but there is too much detail of a kind that seems irrelevant to the story. We want to know about the old man and his daughter, and not the other stuff. If we are meant to be worried about an imminent shipwreck, you need to rewrite."

Agreed. I'm still not sure what the old man is doing. Saying goodbye to the ocean? You have lots of well written detail, but I have no sense of why we are here or what's at stake. First I thought he was trying to go somewhere, then I hoped he had a job to perform. It sounds like he just walked outside and came back in?

The writing kept me interested, but I'd like more purpose too.

 

[HareBrain]

I liked this, but the POV took some adjusting to. Your categorisation of it is something I haven't heard before. I would call it omniscient. People generally expect one-at-a-time close-third (when not first) in SFF these days, so to avoid throwing people who expect close-third, you might want to establish the omniscience early on with a clearer, more obviously external narrative voice in the first couple of paragraphs. A couple of individual issues: you introduce the old man as merely "he" in the first paragraph, so when we encounter "the old man" in the second, it isn't obvious it's the same person, and indeed, because it's more specific than "he", I took it to be someone different. Also (though more minor) you tag Heijman as simply "Heijman", then as "Lt Heijman", which feels the wrong way round.

A few other nit-picks. I wasn't sure about "notched with age". I wasn't sure if you meant they were notched at their ends, or if the dirt had actually got right under the nail. And do nails "notch with age"? They might weaken, but it's something else, like wear and tear, that does the notching, no? (I don't have an aged person around to examine right now, so you might be right).

Also unsure about "conciliatory palm". It reads as though he wants to shake hands, but if that's what they do, it should be mentioned, as it reads as though he reaches out the "conciliatory palm" simply to turn on the radio, in which case why is it conciliatory? (And why should it need to be? They haven't exactly had a row. Are the Dutch really that civil?)

From the introduction of Martje, I really liked it, but the above points about the opening para might have stopped me getting there if I were flicking through first pages in a shop.

 

[notveryalice]

Thanks for the critiques! Please continue to send them along.

Edited to add:
I've been drafting chapters for this tonight, and per HB's suggestion they're in omniscient proper--old fashioned, stuffy, early 20th c. omniscient that warms my pompous little heart.

 

[allmywires]

As per usual, only my suggestions etc. I do like your prose, you have a good way with description, I only think in some places it's a bit hammy and your imagery could be a little snappier.

The handrail had rotted with salt and rain. Under it, metal bubbled up in fragile shells of rust; when he slid his fingers along it, it flaked onto his skin and lodged under his fingernails where they were notched with age. Bit clumsy here, and 'notched' isn't the right word, I don't think. To me it brings to mind something like 'pitted.' How about: 'his fingernails, rutted with age.'

The old man (I really dislike these deliberately obtuse tags: why are you withholding his name from us? Doesn't add much to the story and 'he' or his name would do just as well) had a woollen cap with a long brim. Rain cascaded from it, past his sodden cotton scarf, onto the lapel of his winter coat. The water was in a foul mood; he kept it company as it shouted and screamed at the ship. I like the idea of this sentence, but I don't think it quite works: I wouldn't describe water as shouting and screaming, more hissing, spitting, roaring.

Out from the stern about a nautical mile, just in view Don't think you need that, it's fairly obvious if it's a nautical mile away it'll be distant, the old man could see waves like city skyscrapers rise from deep ocean and slip away again as if they'd never been there. Closer to, the water crashed against itself, swell against swell, shattering into a shower of white droplets that sprayed the boat.

The old man coughed and shuffled his feet to work out some stiffness in his knees.

"Lord knows what he's waiting for," said Heijman, Lieutenant ter zee.

"Probably nothing," said his companion. "Watch your post. If he drowns it's his fault."

"Still, an uncomfortable tale to bring back to the Kapitein," said Heijman. He tapped the glass rather loudly. "Hey, out there! Come in before you're lost at sea!"

"He can't hear you," said the other lieutenant. He looked at the dial nearest his left hand and wrote a number in his logbook. "Waves making too much noise."

"I'm not going out there," said Heijman.

"Damn right. Watch your post."

"Respectfully, friend," said Lt. Heijman, "I'm concerned about that guy (seems a bit anachronistic) because I'm the sort of person who pays attention to his post."

"Right."

Lt. Heijman reached out a conciliatory palm. "Let's turn on the radio."

"Sure."

The old man adjusted his shoulders inside his coat. He didn't seem at all worried by the waves. A particularly large swell, crossed and scarred (this didn't work for me either I'm afraid) with a web of bubbles, crested nearby and broke over the deck, surging up around the soles of the old man's shoes--but the old man only patted his breast pocket and then his trouser pockets for his handkerchief, which he used to blot his nose.

He kept a respectful hand on the railing, but his fingers were loose.

"Well, goodbye then," he said.

The wind sighed. The old man tipped his hat and turned around, changing hands on the rail with great care. His footing was sure and confident, but he'd been close with the sea, an integral part of her; he showed her weakness that wasn't there, as was polite, or to soothe hurt feelings. I really didn't get this either. In some places you're trying too hard to be literary - what do you mean by 'showed her weakness that wasn't there?' Is he pretending to be afraid?

When he got back to the cabin he shared with his daughter, she said, "You've been to say goodbye every day this trip. Are you sure you're ready to do this, papa?"

The old man took off his hat and brushed water from it onto the floor. He thought about his answer as he unbuttoned his coat. Martje, his youngest child, was from his second marriage. By that time the old man (bored of this repetition now) was better with people, so she was brought up well enough to wait for her father's response.

"Your accent is so pleasant, Martje, my darling," he said. "But I wish I'd taught you Russian sooner, before this revolutionary nonsense came about and everybody started talking around things rather than about them."

"Let me take your coat from you, papa," said Martje. She hadn't been alive before the revolution.

"At least you don't call me Comrade Father," said the old man.

"You're Amsterdammer now, papa," said Martje. "I can call you anything I want."

The old man waited for her to catch up to herself.

"Except I won't, of course," she said. "Just 'papa'. We should go to dinner."

"All right, darling Martje. I'll leave my scarf and take a new hat." The old man chose a fashionable canvas boating hat with a striped ribbon from the coat rack on the back of the door. He didn't like it but Martje had given it to him for Christmas.

They stopped a few times on the way to the dining room, so that the old man could bend down and look at something, or wipe his thumb over a windowpane.

"They're not good to this boat, are they, papa?" Martje would say, and the old man would answer, his head behind a curtain or inside a cupboard, "No, my darling, they're not. Look at the salt damage here, where they've neglected to replace the screws!" Then he'd draw his head back out for a bit and say, "I expected better when you chose a Dutch shipping company. They should know their business."

Passing crewmen glared at him, but they never caught him, because he would try to look innocent at the last second. The Dutch are (tense shift) genial--and the softly spoken torrent of Russian they heard only reminded them of rain chattering through city gutters, so they let him alone.

And Martje wasn't embarrassed by her father; she wouldn't be even if he scolded the crew in perfect Dutch, because he was right, the boat had been badly neglected. Her father was always right about boats.

I think you definitely have a nice literary style, which at times is clean and precise, but you fall down on your metaphors sometimes (especially the ones at the beginning about the sea). Also, withholding characters' names is a huge pet hate for me, but if it's absolutely necessary you can't tell us who he is, please find something other than 'the old man' to call him.

One last thing: rightly or wrongly I got the impression at the beginning that your old man was readying himself to throw himself overboard. The 'goodbye' line followed by him returning to his cabin really jarred with me. If you made some of your paragraphs a little less vague I think this could be excellent; there's a fine line between intrigue and frustration.

edit to add: I've just read your justification for not giving his name, yet you identify the Lt. and Martje. IMHO the benefits of just saying who he is outweighs adhering to a questionable rule of narrative.

 

[notveryalice]

edit to add: I've just read your justification for not giving his name, yet you identify the Lt. and Martje. IMHO the benefits of just saying who he is outweighs adhering to a questionable rule of narrative.

You're right! Hmm.

This is embarrassing, but sometimes my reasons for doing things aren't clear to me until after they're challenged. I think it's in omniscient as some have said (though a limited one, if that makes any sense) and the reason I'm holding back his name is specifically to emphasise that he's old, and to put that phrase "the old man" in your head, because it has plot significance.

He's a mythological character gone mortal, so rather than being old but unchanging, he's started to age properly.

 

[notveryalice]

The handrail had decayed with salt and rain--metal bubbling up in fragile shells of rust; when the old man slid his fingers along it, it flaked onto his skin and lodged under his fingernails where they were notched with age.

He had a woollen cap with a long brim. Rain cascaded from it, past his sodden cotton scarf, onto the lapel of his winter coat. The water was in a foul mood; he kept it company as it roared at the ship.

Out from the stern about a nautical mile, waves like city skyscrapers rose from deep ocean and slipped away again as if they'd never been there. Closer to, the water crashed against itself and shattered into white droplets that showered the boat.

The old man coughed and shuffled his feet to work out some stiffness in his knees.

"Lord knows what he's waiting for," said Heijman, Lieutenant ter zee.

"Probably nothing," said his companion. "Watch your post. If he drowns it's his fault."

"Still, an uncomfortable tale to bring back to the Kapitein," said Heijman. He tapped the glass rather loudly. "Hey, out there! Come in before you're lost at sea!"

"Can't hear you," said the other lieutenant. He looked at the dial nearest his left hand and wrote a number in his logbook. "Waves making too much noise."

"I'm not going out," said Heijman.

"Damn right. Watch your post."

"Respectfully, friend," said Heijman, "I'm concerned about that guy because I'm the sort of person who pays attention to his post."

"Right."

Lt. Heijman reached out a conciliatory palm. "Let's turn on the radio."

"Sure." They shook hands.

The old man adjusted his shoulders inside his coat. He didn't seem at all worried by the waves. A particularly large swell, crossed and scarred with a web of bubbles, crested nearby and broke over the deck, surging up around the soles of his shoes--but he only patted his pockets for his handkerchief, which he used to blot his nose.

He kept a respectful hand on the railing, but his fingers were loose.

"Well, goodbye then," he said.

The wind sighed. The old man tipped his hat and turned around, changing hands on the rail with great care. His footing was sure and confident, but he'd been close with the sea, an integral part of her: he showed her frailty that wasn't there, to soothe her hurt feelings.

When he got back to the cabin he shared with his daughter, she said, "You've been out to say goodbye every day this trip. Are you sure you're ready to do this, Papa?"

The old man took off his hat and brushed water from it. He thought about his answer as he unbuttoned his coat. Martje, his youngest child, was from his second marriage; by that time he was better with people, so she was brought up well enough to wait for her father's response.

"Your accent is so pleasant, Martje, my darling," he said. "But I wish I'd taught you Russian sooner, before this revolutionary nonsense happened and everybody started talking around things rather than about them."

"Let me take your coat from you, Papa," said Martje. She hadn't been alive before the revolution.

"At least you don't call me Comrade Father."

"You're Amsterdammer now, papa," said Martje. "I can call you anything I want."

The old man waited for her to catch up to herself.

"Except I won't, of course," she said hurriedly. "Just 'Papa'. We should go to dinner."

"All right, darling Martje. I'll leave my scarf and take a new hat." He chose a fashionable canvas boating hat with a striped ribbon from the coat rack on the back of the door. He didn't like it but Martje had given it to him for Christmas.

They paused a few times on the way to the dining room, so that the old man could bend down and look at something, or wipe his thumb over a windowpane.

When they stopped, Martje would ask, "They're not good to this boat, are they, Papa?", or something like it, and her father would answer, his head behind a curtain or inside a cupboard, "No, my darling, they're not. Look at the salt damage here." Then he'd draw his head back out for a bit and say, "I expected better when you chose a Dutch shipping company. They should know their business."

Passing crewmen glared at him, but they never caught him tinkering, because he would try to look innocent at the last second--and the softly spoken torrent of Russian they heard only reminded them of rain chattering through city gutters.

And Martje wasn't embarrassed by her father; she wouldn't be even if he scolded the crew in perfect Dutch, because he was right, the boat had been badly neglected. He was always right about boats.

 

[HareBrain]

I don't know how much you've changed -- I noticed a few things at the beginning, which is where I had most problem, and still do, mostly again to do with POV. It's your choice, of course, but I thought I'd at least go through in more detail to show why I'm getting confused, and, as a reader, might be put off.

Also, I'd prefer a comma instead of the dash between rain and metal. I don't like the dash there, especially not with the semi-colon following.

The handrail had decayed with salt and rain--metal bubbling up in fragile shells of rust; when the old man slid his fingers along it, it flaked onto his skin and lodged under his fingernails where they were notched with age. [OK, so we're in the old man's POV, I'm thinking. Fine.]

He had a woollen cap with a long brim. [Except that sounds a bit external.] Rain cascaded from it, past his sodden cotton scarf, onto the lapel of his winter coat. The water was in a foul mood; he kept it company as it roared at the ship. [But still in his POV]

Out from the stern about a nautical mile, waves like city skyscrapers rose from deep ocean and slipped away again as if they'd never been there. Closer to, the water crashed against itself and shattered into white droplets that showered the boat. [Again, still his POV]

The old man coughed and shuffled his feet to work out some stiffness in his knees.[And again]

"Lord knows what he's waiting for," said Heijman, Lieutenant ter zee[Ach! So we were in the Lieutenant's POV all the time, I-as-the-reader think, and the previous was just what the Lt saw. But how could he see the old man's fingernails in so much detail? And the rust -- why would he have paid so much attention to the rust? Something's not right! POV VIOLATION! AWOOGA! ABANDON SHIP.]

I exaggerate, but only a little. And I have read books which shifted POV like this, and didn't run screaming from the room. But it's a risk. There's nothing to show this isn't a normal close-third POV, and, assuming it is, it isn't being handled very well. I still think you'd be better off making it clear from the outset that it isn't, before readers get antsy about you failing to do something you're not actually trying to.

 

[allmywires]

Agree with HB in that oddly, the thing I noticed that you'd changed the most was the beginning and I really don't think it works. The dash followed by the semi-colon set my teeth on edge.

The handrail had decayed with salt and rain, the metal bubbling up around it in fragile shells of rust. It flaked onto the old man's skin when he slid his fingers along it, lodging under his fingernails which were notched with age.

Obviously I've completely rewritten it, and I really don't like the 'which were' bit in the last sentence (but right now can't think of a way to make it better). HB has a point about the POV too, because we do seem to switch rather rapidly from his to the Lt's, despite it being omni. It's not something that can't be done, and I like it (setting a scene is not something that really works in close POV, unfortunately for me...). I think it's just the nitty-gritty of your introductory sentences that aren't quite working at them mo. The later bits are very good.

edit: ahh, I think the reason why the 'which' doesn't work is because 'which' is a word that belongs with a prefixed comma, otherwise it's 'that'. But switching it to 'that' makes it sound clunkier...argh. Sorry, not being helpful!

 

[notveryalice]

I'm not sure POV is meant to be that rigid, HB. In your piece, the one in the pine forest, you start out from a swooping vista that encompasses an entire mountain and move in. IMO, it's just as valid to pan out--especially if it's controlled and doesn't head-hop willy nilly.

Of course that doesn't mean much in the face of a gut reaction...and I don't mean to invalidate your critique!

 

[Jo Zebedee]

I'm not sure POV is meant to be that rigid, HB. In your piece, the one in the pine forest, you start out from a swooping vista that encompasses an entire mountain and move in. IMO, it's just as valid to pan out--especially if it's controlled and doesn't head-hop willy nilly.

Of course that doesn't mean much in the face of a gut reaction...and I don't mean to invalidate your critique!

Hmmm i enjoy books with an unrigid pov structure. But at the moment the market is dominated by third close, with first holdng its own as a strong niche. It wouldnt put me, as a reader, off, but i would write it aware it might make it more difficult to sell.

 

[HareBrain]

I'm not sure POV is meant to be that rigid, HB. In your piece, the one in the pine forest, you start out from a swooping vista that encompasses an entire mountain and move in. IMO, it's just as valid to pan out--especially if it's controlled and doesn't head-hop willy nilly.

If all you were doing was panning back, it would be different, but as I said, the details of the rust and the fingernails cannot credibly be part of the Heijman's POV (and seem to be part of the old man's consciousness anyway), so what you're doing is sort of zooming out and sort of headhopping, and it's the apparent lack of clarity about what it is that makes me anxious, I think.

I should say that the better-written a piece is generally, the more hyper-critical I can become of the things I pick up on, so I wouldn't pay too much attention to my crit unless it's echoed by others. A few years ago, before I started (over)thinking about these things, what you've done might have caused me a moment's adjustment, but probably wouldn't have bothered me beyond that.

Edit: as for mine, the fact that the first line does pretty much belong to an external narrator has bothered me in the past, but my gut feel is that as a first line, I can get away with it, because the reader doesn't have set expectations of a starting position. Zooming in to close POV feels intuitively more acceptable than zooming out and losing it (unless you've already established that as your technique).

 

[notveryalice]

Zooming in to close POV feels intuitively more acceptable than zooming out and losing it (unless you've already established that as your technique).

I think that's probably true.

As for mine, the fact that the first line does pretty much belong to an external narrator has bothered me in the past, but my gut feel is that as a first line, I can get away with it, because the reader doesn't have set expectations of a starting position.

I must insist that the reason you get away with it is because it's well-written.

 

[notveryalice]

Sorry, not being helpful!

Nonsense. Thank you for the critique!

 

[JoanDrake]

It looked fine to me, very atmospheric opening.

Despite the fact that he was looking out from the stern I had the idea they were on a dock at shore for two readings. I think this was because of the way you had the waves changing as they got up close and especially the rotting handrail, which would be a major concern to me if I was on a ship at sea in foul weather.

 

[Cosmic Geoff]

Comments on revised version:
I still feel that there is too much description and too much chat in the first part. Making the crew conversation grammatical is NOT an improvement - previously it indicated that they were not native English speakers, or not speaking English at all. I didn't say this before, but the poetic prose rather masks a picture that ought to be there, of the boat rolling and pitching around as it punches through a nasty sea, waves hitting the ship and occasionally coming aboard, presenting a hazard to anyone out on deck, and a brisk wind whipping rain and spray across the decks. In the latter part the old man's maintenance obsession is handled better.
Overall, the changes are not radical enough to address my concerns.

 

[Stephen4444]

I love your descriptions. It’s great! My problem is the lack of action in between "a lot of" description. Sometimes you can get away with a descriptive style if you add verbs to your descriptions,(making it part of the plot.) Sometimes, “though I don’t recommend it,” you can use the dreaded adverb. Another trick, is to make it part of the characters dialog. An example would be:

The handrail had rotted with salt and rain. Under it, metal bubbled up in fragile shells of rust; when he slid his fingers along it, it flaked onto his skin and lodged under his fingernails where they were notched with age.

He slid his fingers along the rotted handrail; the salt and rain made the metal bubble in fragile shells of rust. He kept his face stolid, though a single metal sliver lodged under his fingernail.

I must be getting old… my leathery hands… my notched nails.

I am not saying write your prose like that (you are much better at writing the descriptions). “I’m jus sayin…” that these are a few tools to get [in] more of your scene, without taking away from the plot (or flow).