Is it now an infodump? Sun, Sea and Selkies rewrite (abt 1100)

[AnyaKimlin]

I forgot to mention last time as I thought I'd copied and pasted it: It's set on Friday 3rd October 1986. (I need a time before mobile phones were so widespread)

It just looks so different to my usual writing style and I'm unsure if it is now just one big infodump.


CHAPTER ONE

Hour after hour with only a few breaks Kit played his fiddle. Money trickled in: one pence, two pence, three pence, four and the very occasional fifty. It was a long way from the amount he needed, so he upped the tempo. People gave more when he reminded of fairgrounds than they did when he reminded them of their grandmother's funeral. It had him tapping his feet and lost in the rhythm, taking him away from every trouble he had ever known.

He played until hunger got the better of him and he stopped for a breather. With his bow in one hand and the fiddle in the other he lent back against the cold, hard shutter of the abandoned shop behind him, his head obscured the latest graffiti: “Gazza is a Dick” in bright yellow. Exhausted, he closed his eyes. Until he made enough to cover the coat he desperately needed he couldn't spare a penny for food.

He regretted not postponing the daily row with his grandmother until after he had eaten breakfast, especially since the one from the day before had been right before dinner, and had ended with her throwing the fish stew in the bin. It was probably not a great idea to have told her it stank. There was no point in him trying not to offend her because that seemed to offend her more. His feet ached so he lifted one off the ground and rested it behind him. He smelt the greasy gravy of a warm delicious pie. It spoke to his stomach which provided a brief musical interlude.

“Kit?”

He opened his eyes and rolled his head to face Dieter, the hurdy-gurdy man, and he smiled.

“You look like you could use this?” Dieter sniffed and wiped his bearded face with the sleeve of his thick wool coat before holding out the pie in his hand.

“Thanks.” Hunger won and Kit took the pie before he could think of what might be crawling in Dieter's fingerless gloves. A bite – just one revived him and eased, a little, the pain gnawing in his stomach. “You having a good day?”

“Not too bad. Not too bad.” From his back, Dieter removed the heavy hurdy-gurdy in its wooden box. He had fashioned a contraption to allow him to carry it like a backpack. “Enough for me smokes, a beer and the pies.” He took a squashed pie, identical to the one he had given Kit, out of his pocket. “Slow down there you'll get indigestion, kid. Anyone would think you hadn't eaten in a week.”

Kit grinned and held up what was left of the pie. “Didn't have my breakfast.”

“Ahh.” Dieter picked a bit of pastry off and ate it. He didn't seem overly interested in the pie. “Been rowing with your gran again?”

Kit rammed the last of the pie into his mouth. He nodded... paused whilst he swallowed and wondered how much he could tell Dieter. Although they had been friends and Dieter made sure none of the other buskers harmed Kit, Kit didn't know him very well – in fact he knew nothing about the man. Still there was no one else. No other adult in his life who would listen. When he was with Dieter he felt safe, a feeling that had been in short supply in Kit's life. Dieter looked at him with his big eyes that resembled a black hole that drew Kit in like a traction beam and he decided he had to talk. He said it as fast as he could before his brain could change its mind. “Think I could be like my dad?”

“What makes you say that?” He handed over the second pie. “I'm not hungry you might as well have this.”

Grateful, Kit took it off him. He was aware Dieter wasn't his usual self but today he was consumed by one thought. “Gran said I was just like him.” The pie was colder than the other one and the grease just that bit thicker.

“Ahh. Usually, your gran is right but I suspect she was probably angry with that one.” Dieter seemed distracted and kept looking past Kit. Usually when he spoke he kept his deep dark eyes firmly on whoever he was talking to. Sometimes when he was with Dieter, Kit felt like he was at the bottom of the ocean in a cave with no one else around. Finally, he responded. “What did you do?”

“Left and slammed the door.” Kit shrugged. The anger that had coursed through him had scared him. “I wanted to well... I don't know but I was so mad.”

“What would your father have done in the same situation.” The way Dieter spoke it was obvious his concentration was elsewhere.

Kit looked back. All he saw was a blonde woman talking to some Asian bloke, probably one of the ones that worked at the new Chinese takeaway. He shrugged and returned to face Dieter who was now not even pretending to pay him any attention.

“Your father wouldn't have walked away. He never did so I think that answers your question.” Dieter spoke really fast and picked up his hurdy-gurdy which he slung on his back. “Look, kid, I have to go. I'll catch up with you later but I am sure there is nothing for you to worry about.” He patted Kit's shoulder and practically ran off in the direction of the promenade.

“But what if I kill her?” Kit shouted after him, voicing the fear he had carried since this morning's row.

A couple of girls stopped and looked at him until he felt like an exhibit. They were sharing a pasty and a Coca Cola. The fat one said to her skinny mate. “That's that Paki – the one whose dad killed his mum. Was in the paper last year.” She didn't seem to care that Kit and everyone else in the esplanade could hear her.

“Yeah. My Mum said she was mad and he was bad. Better go before he kills us and dumps our bodies off the pier.” The skinny mate sniffed, twiddled her plait and flounced off.

Her fat friend didn't move but continued to stare at Kit like he was a freak.

After a year of similar comments and people staring he had learned to let them go. Early on he would have threatened her and if she'd been a lad he'd have punched her. But it had given the gossips ammunition: the apple didn't fall far from the tree they said. Today, none of his usual attempts to calm himself worked.

“My gran's from the Caribbean not Pakistan you fat cow!” he shouted at her.

She shrugged and pulled a face. “Lindz, hang on. You can't leave me alone with him – he's nuts.” And she ran after her friend.

He'd let himself down he knew that. Putting his bow in the other hand he rested his fiddle beneath his chin and started to play. Anger fuelled his music this time; he didn't know the name of the piece it was one Dieter had taught him.

 

[HareBrain]

I think it is a bit. I preferred the previous version (from the point you started this one from) where we have just a paragraph before we get to their interaction. I suspect you might have a list in your mind of stuff you want to get across before you can get on with the "proper story". If so, i think this is a mistake. Launch into it and let the reader catch up. (I know the problem, though -- I had a bunch of background info I wanted to get across before I could just let the characters run off and be free. It took me years to get to a point where I found a way to feed it in convincingly (I hope) without jamming it in.)

For example, there's no need for the third paragraph about his daily row with his gran, because he mentions it to Dieter only a little later, and that piques my interest must more satisfyingly than being told about it by the narrator.

I think you might want more of Dieter here, though. The story has to have started at this moment for a particular reason, and not just as a setting to get across background. I don't find the two girls particularly convincing in a storytelling sense, because they come from nowhere and lead nowhere: they're just backstory in disguise (unless him getting angry is important to this particular point in the plot). It also might be a problem if his talk with Dieter leads nowhere too. A plot is a chain of cause and effect, and I don't get much sense of that here. In my opinion, his thinking about his father and that morning's argument should come after we've got the ball rolling with something happening now.

 

[Wo7f]

CHAPTER ONE Hour after hour with only a few breaks Kit played his fiddle. Money trickled in: one pence, two pence, three pence, four and the very occasional fifty. It was a long way from the amount he needed, so he upped the tempo. People gave more when he reminded them of fairgrounds than they did when he reminded them of their grandmother's funeral. It had him tapping his feet and lost in the rhythm, taking him away from every trouble he had ever known.

He played until hunger got the better of him and he stopped for a breather. With his bow in one hand and the fiddle in the other he lent back against the cold, hard shutter of the abandoned shop behind him, his head obscured the latest graffiti: “Gazza is a Dick” in bright yellow. Exhausted, he closed his eyes. Until he made enough to cover the coat he desperately needed. He couldn't spare a penny for food. So money was being thrown in while he rested? I felt he would have to open his eyes to see if he had enough

He regretted not postponing the daily row what is a row? Rowing a boat perhaps? with his grandmother until after he had eaten breakfast, especially since the one from the day before had been right before dinner, and had ended with her throwing the fish stew in the bin. It was probably not a great idea to have told her it stank. There was no point in him trying not to offend her because that seemed to offend her more. His feet ached so he lifted one off the ground and rested it behind him. He smelt the greasy gravy of a warm delicious pie. It spoke to his stomach which provided a brief musical interlude.

“Kit?”

He opened his eyes and rolled his head to face Dieter, the hurdy-gurdy man, and he smiled.

“You look like you could use this?” Dieter sniffed and wiped his bearded face with the sleeve of his thick wool coat before holding out the pie in his hand.

“Thanks.” Hunger won and Kit took the pie before he could think of what might be crawling in Dieter's fingerless gloves. A bite – just one revived him and eased, a little, the pain gnawing in his stomach. “You having a good day?”

“Not too bad. Not too bad.” From his back, Dieter removed the heavy hurdy-gurdy in its wooden box. He had fashioned a contraption to allow him to carry it like a backpack. “Enough for me smokes, a beer and the pies.” He took a squashed pie, identical to the one he had given Kit, out of his pocket. “Slow down there you'll get indigestion, kid. Anyone would think you hadn't eaten in a week.”

Kit grinned and held up what was left of the pie. “Didn't have my breakfast.”

“Ahh.” Dieter picked a bit of pastry off and ate it. He didn't seem overly interested in the pie. “Been rowing with your gran again?”

Kit rammed the last of the pie into his mouth. He nodded... paused whilst he swallowed and wondered how much he could tell Dieter. Although they had been friends and Dieter made sure none of the other buskers harmed Kit, Kit didn't know him very well – in fact he knew nothing about the man. Still there was no one else. No other adult in his life who would listen. When he was with Dieter he felt safe, a feeling that had been in short supply in Kit's life. Dieter looked at him with his big eyes that resembled a black hole that drew Kit in like a traction beam and he decided he had to talk. He said it as fast as he could before his brain could change its mind. “Think I could be like my dad?” Here I'm wondering if the crowd had dispersed yet?

“What makes you say that?” He handed over the second pie. “I'm not hungry you might as well have this.”

Grateful, Kit took it off him. He was aware Dieter wasn't his usual self but today he was consumed by one thought. “Gran said I was just like him.” The pie was colder than the other one and the grease just that bit thicker.

“Ahh. Usually, your gran is right but I suspect she was probably angry with that one.” Dieter seemed distracted and kept looking past Kit. Usually when he spoke he kept his deep dark eyes firmly on whoever he was talking to. Sometimes when he was with Dieter, Kit felt like he was at the bottom of the ocean in a cave with no one else around. Finally, he responded. “What did you do?”

“Left and slammed the door.” Kit shrugged. The anger that had coursed through him had scared him. “I wanted to well... I don't know but I was so mad.”

“What would your father have done in the same situation.” The way Dieter spoke it was obvious his concentration was elsewhere.

Kit looked back. All he saw was a blonde woman talking to some Asian bloke, probably one of the ones that worked at the new Chinese takeaway. He shrugged and returned to face Dieter who was now not even pretending to pay him any attention.

“Your father wouldn't have walked away. He never did so I think that answers your question.” Dieter spoke really fast and picked up his hurdy-gurdy which he slung on his back. “Look, kid, I have to go. I'll catch up with you later but I am sure there is nothing for you to worry about.” He patted Kit's shoulder and practically ran off in the direction of the promenade.

“But what if I kill her?” Kit shouted after him, voicing the fear he had carried since this morning's row.

A couple of girls stopped and looked at him until he felt like an exhibit. They were sharing a pasty and a Coca Cola. The fat one said to her skinny mate. “That's that Paki – the one whose dad killed his mum. Was in the paper last year.” She didn't seem to care that Kit and everyone else in the esplanade could hear her.

“Yeah. My Mum said she was mad and he was bad. Better go before he kills us and dumps our bodies off the pier.” The skinny mate sniffed, twiddled her plait and flounced off.

Her fat friend didn't move but continued to stare at Kit like he was a freak.

After a year of similar comments and people staring he had learned to let them go. Early on he would have threatened her and if she'd been a lad he'd have punched her. But it had given the gossips ammunition: the apple didn't fall far from the tree they said. Today, none of his usual attempts to calm himself worked.

“My gran's from the Caribbean not Pakistan you fat cow!” he shouted at her.

She shrugged and pulled a face. “Lindz, hang on. You can't leave me alone with him – he's nuts.” And she ran after her friend.

He'd let himself down he knew that. Putting his bow in the other hand he rested his fiddle beneath his chin and started to play. Anger fuelled his music this time; he didn't know the name of the piece it was one Dieter had taught him.


Nice. I didn't feel any info dump here.

 

[J Riff]

Not infodumpish, but maybe you could include the location, even in the 1st sentence 'played his fiddle on the corner of bleep and vine, or a fairground or wherever he is, just so's it's easier to visualize. )

 

[Prescott Fry]

Sometimes, you have to decide what is an info dump, when you got sticky melodrama, or even wether the information is truly relavent to the flow of the story. Sometimes, it's as hard as pulling teeth to throw away your beatiful sounding paragraphs.

It killed me at first, the big red lines through my writing. At some moments, I actuslly cursed my editor, calling her a stupid b*tch.

But it's just part of the writing process. Take a breather, give it more time. Maybe even write an excerpt about what you intend to accomplish by the story. Regardless of what you do, don't stop.

 

[AnyaKimlin]

I think it is a bit. I preferred the previous version (from the point you started this one from) where we have just a paragraph before we get to their interaction. I suspect you might have a list in your mind of stuff you want to get across before you can get on with the "proper story". If so, i think this is a mistake. Launch into it and let the reader catch up. (I know the problem, though -- I had a bunch of background info I wanted to get across before I could just let the characters run off and be free. It took me years to get to a point where I found a way to feed it in convincingly (I hope) without jamming it in.)

For example, there's no need for the third paragraph about his daily row with his gran, because he mentions it to Dieter only a little later, and that piques my interest must more satisfyingly than being told about it by the narrator.

Paragraph is out.

I think you might want more of Dieter here, though. The story has to have started at this moment for a particular reason, and not just as a setting to get across background. I don't find the two girls particularly convincing in a storytelling sense, because they come from nowhere and lead nowhere: they're just backstory in disguise (unless him getting angry is important to this particular point in the plot). It also might be a problem if his talk with Dieter leads nowhere too. A plot is a chain of cause and effect, and I don't get much sense of that here. In my opinion, his thinking about his father and that morning's argument should come after we've got the ball rolling with something happening now.

Dieter gets beaten up in the next scene, gets taken off by ambulance men, leaving Kit with the hurdy-gurdy and then Dieter goes missing. Dieter and the woman he follows are the Selkie.

The girls are actually being used as physical description rather than back story. How about:
Dieter was too far away to hear but his shout drew the attention of couple of girls who stopped and looked at him until he felt like an exhibit. They were sharing a pasty and a Coca Cola. The fat one said to her skinny mate. “That's that Paki – the one whose dad killed his mum. Was in the paper last year.” She didn't seem to care that Kit and everyone else in the esplanade could hear her.

He played until hunger got the better of him and he stopped for a breather. With his bow in one hand and the fiddle in the other he lent back against the cold, hard shutter of the abandoned shop behind him, his head obscured the latest graffiti: “Gazza is a Dick” in bright yellow. Exhausted, he closed his eyes. Until he made enough to cover the coat he desperately needed. He couldn't spare a penny for food. So money was being thrown in while he rested? I felt he would have to open his eyes to see if he had enough

No he knew roughly what was in the case before he closed his eyes.

He regretted not postponing the daily row what is a row? Rowing a boat perhaps?

That paragraph is now removed but from the OED
Row:
A noisy acrimonious quarrel: they had a row and she stormed out of the house:

” Here I'm wondering if the crowd had dispersed yet?

Not infodumpish, but maybe you could include the location, even in the 1st sentence 'played his fiddle on the corner of bleep and vine, or a fairground or wherever he is, just so's it's easier to visualize. )

Does this make these points clearer?
Graffiti, sorry looking planters and seagulls warring over a chip wrapper decorated White Bay's town centre; the holiday brochures called it local colour. Grease, salt and vinegar from the Northern scented the air. Two doors down from the chippy in front of a rusty shutter Kit played his fiddle. Hour after hour his music provided a little joy to the few people who wandered through on their way to the promenade. Money trickled in: one pence, two pence, three pence, four and the very occasional fifty. It was a long way from the amount he needed, so he upped the tempo. Nobody ever really stopped to listen but those who passed by gave more when he reminded them of fairgrounds than they did when he reminded them of their grandmother's funeral. It had him tapping his feet and lost in the rhythm, into a dimension where misery, vile graffiti and seagulls didn't exist.

Sometimes, you have to decide what is an info dump, when you got sticky melodrama, or even wether the information is truly relavent to the flow of the story. Sometimes, it's as hard as pulling teeth to throw away your beatiful sounding paragraphs.

I love my delete key. I've known to make other writers' hair curl when I delete 30,000 words just because I have decided my falcon shifter would be better turning into a white gyr falcon instead of a brown peregrine falcon. I'm a blood thirsty grim reaper when it comes to my darlings. However, this is a new style for me usually my starts are full of dialogue and seeing all those big paragraphs is making me a little itchy -- I'm not sure what to make of it.

 

[Cascade]

I think i prefer this version.

I don't think it is in an info-dump but I do think there are places where it can be cut, where you are saying more than you need to and over talking rather than over-explaining. but I suspect that is an early draft issue.

example-

He regretted not postponing the daily row with his grandmother until after he had eaten breakfast, especially since the one from the day before had been right before dinner, and had ended with her throwing the fish stew in the bin. It was probably not a great idea to have told her it stank. There was no point in him trying not to offend her because that seemed to offend her more. His feet ached so he lifted one off the ground and rested it behind him. He smelt the greasy gravy of a warm delicious pie. It spoke to his stomach which provided a brief musical interlude.

We get that there was an argument, we get that they were arguing all the time, we get that she had thrown something at him the night before, we get that he had offended her cooking, we get that even when he tried not to he offended his gran. It is a matter for you and for where the story is going as to whether we need to get all of those things.

I also think there are a few places where you are trying to get paragraphs to do too many things. In the paragraph below You are trying to get Dieter to give the 'you're not your dad line', which is powerful and affirming and pithy, but you are also trying to get him to be distracted and trying to rush off, and i wonder if those things aren't mutually exclusive.

Even if they aren't though I would suggest that the underlined stuff is superflous the bold my suggestions

Finally, he responded. “What did you do?”
“Left and slammed the door.” Kit shrugged. The anger that had coursed through him had scared him. “I wanted to well... I don't know but I was so mad.”
“What would your father have done in the same situation.” The way Dieter spoke it was obvious his concentration was elsewhere.Dieter asked, looking past Kit.
Kit looked back. All he saw was a blonde woman talking to some Asian bloke, probably one of the ones that worked at the new Chinese takeaway. He shrugged and returned to face Dieter who was now not even pretending to pay him any attention.
“Your father wouldn't have walked away. He never did so I think that answers your question.” Dieter spoke really fast and picked up his hurdy-gurdy which he slung on his back. “Look, kid, I have to go. I'll catch up with you later but I am sure there is nothing for you to worry about.” He patted Kit's shoulder and practically ran hurried off in the direction of the promenade.

Probably getting in to too much editing here so I do hope some of that is helpful

 

[tinkerdan]

I liked this one better.
I'd figured the Dieter Selkie connection right away based on previous questions in a different post.
Kit seems older in this piece or maybe it's just the way I read it.
I'm going to read it again later, but my time is limited right now.

Just wanted to say that this one read much better than the last and I'm sure that down the road it will only get better.
Keep at it.
I'll try to look closer tomorrow.

 

[JoanDrake]

It didn't seem infodumpy to me at all, more just a well-written character development. It got a little vague and slightly confusing at the end. If you think Pakistani can be confused with Caribbean I guess they can but I don't know if that rings true in my experience

 

[Ray McCarthy]

Dieter looked at him with his big eyes that resembled a black hole that drew Kit in like a traction beam and he decided he had to talk.

That line grates

“What would your father have done in the same situation.”

Meant to be Statement because Dieter knew him or a question?

No. doesn't strike me as an info-dump at all... But then I'm the idiot that has narration of how a class fabricates their own integrated circuit (IC) design using Mage talent instead of conventional Lithography or Tunnelling Electron beam.

There's probably the few inevitable textual errors. Personally I don't think those are worth highlighting in Critiques as everyone needs someone else decent to do at least one final proof read.

 

[Ray McCarthy]

If you think Pakistani can be confused with Caribbean

I think in rural 1985 we only understood Whites and Chinese (who might likely have been Malaysian). In late 1970s I think I'd never seen African/Caribbean /Indian/Pakiastani except occasionally on TV till I passed through London on my way to Essex from Carrickfergus.
It would be implausible today, but believable in pre-1986 British Isles outside major cities. Personally I never even had a situation to have a conversation with non-whites other than Chinese Restaurant staff till I met a Hong Kong guy and a Mauritian of Indian extraction in the BBC, then not for another 12 years till I was living in Middle East. Today I have both a Black & White African in my own "extended" family. Very changed days. Before 1980s the only continentals I knew was one Swiss married to an English woman. Now I have German daughter-in-law born in Kazakhstan in USSR era. I seem to meet Polish, African, Lithuanian etc daily now. Not so many Indian sub-continent.

I've never met a Caribbean person. Films and TV is my only experience of them. Because of where I was and who I was meeting, I think in all my USA visits (all long business trips) I spoke to no Hispanics and only three 'coloured' people, if that's the correct USA term.

It depends where the action is. If London or the Midlands in 1985, I'd think I think the girls oddly ill-informed. The title suggests Rural Scotland, maybe Western Isles.

 

[tinkerdan]

Test
Test

I forgot to mention last time as I thought I'd copied and pasted it: It's set on Friday 3rd October 1986. (I need a time before mobile phones were so widespread)

It just looks so different to my usual writing style and I'm unsure if it is now just one big infodump.


CHAPTER ONE

Hour after hour with only a few breaks Kit played his fiddle. Money trickled in: one pence, two pence, three pence, four and the very occasional fifty. It was a long way from the amount he needed, so he upped the tempo. People gave more when he reminded of fairgrounds than they did when he reminded them of their grandmother's funeral. It had him tapping his feet and lost in the rhythm, taking him away from every trouble he had ever known.
I like most of this paragraph but there is one sentence that could be trimmed and still maintain most of what you are trying to obtain-I think.
People are more generous at fairgrounds than funerals.
I know this is not action-y but I do feel it comes across introducing Kit and for now the small 'conflict' of some desire that exceeds his means and also demonstrates that he can enjoy the process of attaining those needs.

He played until hunger got the better of him and he stopped for a breather. With his bow in one hand and the fiddle in the other he lent back against the cold, hard shutter of the abandoned shop behind him, his head obscured the latest graffiti: “Gazza is a Dick” in bright yellow. Exhausted, he closed his eyes. Until he made enough to cover the coat he desperately needed he couldn't spare a penny for food.
The last sentence maybe could be milked more.
Life's desperate choices; full and frozen or warm comfy starvation.

He regretted not postponing the daily row with his grandmother until after he had eaten breakfast, especially since the one from the day before had been right before dinner, and had ended with her throwing the fish stew in the bin. It was probably not a great idea to have told her it stank. There was no point in him trying not to offend her because that seemed to offend her more. His feet ached so he lifted one off the ground and rested it behind him. He smelt the greasy gravy of a warm delicious pie. It spoke to his stomach which provided a brief musical interlude.
Switching the first line a bit might spice this up.
He regretted waking grandmother's ire before breakfast; but in truth the fault commenced at dinner the night before, which ended with the bins belly being the only one filled with fish stew.

“Kit?”

He opened his eyes and rolled his head to face Dieter, the hurdy-gurdy man, and he smiled.

“You look like you could use this?” Dieter sniffed and wiped his bearded face with the sleeve of his thick wool coat before holding out the pie in his hand.

“Thanks.” Hunger won and Kit took the pie before he could think of what might be crawling in Dieter's fingerless gloves. A bite – just one revived him and eased, a little, the pain gnawing in his stomach. “You having a good day?”

“Not too bad. Not too bad.” From his back, Dieter removed the heavy hurdy-gurdy in its wooden box. He had fashioned a contraption to allow him to carry it like a backpack. “Enough for me smokes, a beer and the pies.” He took a squashed pie, identical to the one he had given Kit, out of his pocket. “Slow down there you'll get indigestion, kid. Anyone would think you hadn't eaten in a week.”

Kit grinned and held up what was left of the pie. “Didn't have my breakfast.”
Maybe :: 'Skipped breakfast.'

“Ahh.” Dieter picked a bit of pastry off and ate it. He didn't seem overly interested in the pie. “Been rowing with your gran again?”
The last bit maybe::'So how are things between you and your gran?'

Kit rammed the last of the pie into his mouth. He nodded... paused whilst he swallowed and wondered how much he could tell Dieter. Although they had been friends and Dieter made sure none of the other buskers harmed Kit, Kit didn't know him very well – in fact he knew nothing about the man. Still there was no one else. No other adult in his life who would listen. When he was with Dieter he felt safe, a feeling that had been in short supply in Kit's life. Dieter looked at him with his big eyes that resembled a black hole that drew Kit in like a traction beam and he decided he had to talk. He said it as fast as he could before his brain could change its mind. “Think I could be like my dad?”

“What makes you say that?” He handed over the second pie. “I'm not hungry you might as well have this.”

Grateful, Kit took it off him. He was aware Dieter wasn't his usual self but today he was consumed by one thought. “Gran said I was just like him.” The pie was colder than the other one and the grease just that bit thicker.

“Ahh. Usually, your gran is right but I suspect she was probably angry with that one.” Dieter seemed distracted and kept looking past Kit. Usually when he spoke he kept his deep dark eyes firmly on whoever he was talking to. Sometimes when he was with Dieter, Kit felt like he was at the bottom of the ocean in a cave with no one else around. Finally, he responded. “What did you do?”
The eye description gets close to it here but it might only be because I know it in part is there to begin the Selkie connection. With out that it might not stand out so much and the overall image of that moment works well for me.

“Left and slammed the door.” Kit shrugged. The anger that had coursed through him had scared him. “I wanted to well... I don't know but I was so mad.”

“What would your father have done in the same situation.” The way Dieter spoke it was obvious his concentration was elsewhere.

Kit looked back. All he saw was a blonde woman talking to some Asian bloke, probably one of the ones that worked at the new Chinese takeaway. He shrugged and returned to face Dieter who was now not even pretending to pay him any attention.
It's always hard to tell with these short pieces if it is time to distract us with this scenario or if it might want to wait. I think in context you should know that. His distraction distracts me from the conversation and what Dieter says is important.

“Your father wouldn't have walked away. He never did so I think that answers your question.” Dieter spoke really fast and picked up his hurdy-gurdy which he slung on his back. “Look, kid, I have to go. I'll catch up with you later but I am sure there is nothing for you to worry about.” He patted Kit's shoulder and practically ran off in the direction of the promenade.
I really don't think the distraction hurts a lot, but eventually-if he acted like that often when having conversations-it might weaken the bond between these two for me. If that is not the goal perhaps when he pats him on the shoulder he could make eye contact.

“But what if I kill her?” Kit shouted after him, voicing the fear he had carried since this morning's row.

A couple of girls stopped and looked at him until he felt like an exhibit. They were sharing a pasty and a Coca Cola. The fat one said to her skinny mate. “That's that Paki – the one whose dad killed his mum. Was in the paper last year.” She didn't seem to care that Kit and everyone else in the esplanade could hear her.

“Yeah. My Mum said she was mad and he was bad. Better go before he kills us and dumps our bodies off the pier.” The skinny mate sniffed, twiddled her plait and flounced off.

Her fat friend didn't move but continued to stare at Kit like he was a freak.

After a year of similar comments and people staring he had learned to let them go. Early on he would have threatened her and if she'd been a lad he'd have punched her. But it had given the gossips ammunition: the apple didn't fall far from the tree they said. Today, none of his usual attempts to calm himself worked.

“My gran's from the Caribbean not Pakistan you fat cow!” he shouted at her.

She shrugged and pulled a face. “Lindz, hang on. You can't leave me alone with him – he's nuts.” And she ran after her friend.
Once again only you can know if this is relevant at this moment though his shout prior to the girl's involvement helps piece them into the whole and it read smoothly to me.
He'd let himself down he knew that. Putting his bow in the other hand he rested his fiddle beneath his chin and started to play. Anger fuelled his music this time; he didn't know the name of the piece it was one Dieter had taught him.

The last creates a scene that almost circles around itself, which is always fascinating.

I think again that the limited format is not conducive to line by line editing when trying to examine certain things outside of grammar, spelling, and punctuation. So the best we can do is explain what it does or doesn't do for us. Trying to determine if this is or isn't the time to include something or to determine it's relevance at the moment is dicey at best without seeing what it leads into next..

 

[tinkerdan]

Test
Test


The last creates a scene that almost circles around itself, which is always fascinating.

I think again that the limited format is not conducive to line by line editing when trying to examine certain things outside of grammar, spelling, and punctuation. So the best we can do is explain what it does or doesn't do for us. Trying to determine if this is or isn't the time to include something or to determine it's relevance at the moment is dicey at best without seeing what it leads into next..

I think the fear Kit has about himself helps and if the girls will show up again then they can stay. If this is a one shot scene for them then there might be a better way to have Kit tell us that small tidbit about his family.

 

[Bowler1]

This didn’t quite pull together for me. I didn’t mind the block of writing at the start simply because it was internal character thoughts. I would have liked more emotional connection with the character. There was a bit of a distance in the writing and not as close to the character as I’d like.

I had comma issues, missing comma I felt, but as these are optional I’ve not gone into corrections.

I liked Dieter, but how he disappeared from the scene felt odd to me, in effect running off. I also felt the girls at the end were not a good ploy/tool explaining past events. The big block of writing at the start I liked again, but… as this is chapter 1, is this the fireworks opening you’d want? The scene set up needs to be better constructed I think (Like HB, I felt the first paragraph was very strong but the information in next two could have come later). A little more background and setting (what did the street look like etc.) would have been nice too, or for me anyway. I felt the section lost focus near the end.

Yet there was a lot to like too. The pies were good and your dialogue was very strong. I’m a bit niffed at that I didn’t connect with the character this time, just a little more and I think I could have. I loved the opening paragraph, keep that no matter what. I’m feeling frustrated, because parts of this were really good for me, but it didn’t hold together by the end. Grrr – me growling, loudly.

 

[AnyaKimlin]

I liked Dieter, but how he disappeared from the scene felt odd to me, in effect running off. I also felt the girls at the end were not a good ploy/tool explaining past events. The big block of writing at the start I liked again, but… as this is chapter 1, is this the fireworks opening you’d want? The scene set up needs to be better constructed I think (Like HB, I felt the first paragraph was very strong but the information in next two could have come later). A little more background and setting (what did the street look like etc.) would have been nice too, or for me anyway. I felt the section lost focus near the end.

The girls are not there for background they are there to provide a physical description and provide a catalyst for an element of the main story.

The main story began the moment Dieter disappeared from the scene. Within 500 words of that Kit and his friend Gary find Dieter beaten up. Dieter gets into the ambulance that does not take him to hospital and begins Kit's search for him. Would it help if when Kit turns he follows Dieter's line of sight he sees the blonde and maybe I have him going in the direction they went?

Is this better for the setting? I've taken out the paragraph with his gran.

Graffiti, sorry looking planters and seagulls warring over a chip wrapper decorated White Bay's town centre; the holiday brochures called it local colour. Grease, salt and vinegar from the Northern scented the air. Two doors down from the chippy in front of a rusty shutter Kit played his fiddle. Hour after hour his music provided a little joy to the few people who wandered through on their way to the promenade. Money trickled in: one pence, two pence, three pence, four and the very occasional fifty. It was a long way from the amount he needed, so he upped the tempo. Nobody ever really stopped to listen but those who passed by gave more when he reminded them of fairgrounds than they did when he reminded them of their grandmother's funeral. It had him tapping his feet and lost in the rhythm, into a dimension where misery, vile graffiti and seagulls didn't exist.

It didn't seem infodumpy to me at all, more just a well-written character development. It got a little vague and slightly confusing at the end. If you think Pakistani can be confused with Caribbean I guess they can but I don't know if that rings true in my experience

How black Kit himself is,is a matter for the reader to decide. It isn't that relevant to the story. His gran is from the Caribbean but his grandfather (who he doesn't know yet isn't). He doesn't have an afro his hair is straight (he comments on that later) but to be honest again which the reader envisages isn't that important.

Like Ray said - it's a small seaside town somewhere round the North Western coast between Southport and Ayrshire. I'm not that specific as to exactly where it is beyond Ireland is across the water. In 1986 we are only one year out from the Toxteth Riots in Liverpool and when I was little there was still a certain amount of segregation. The one black kid in our school was from Mauritius and we had two boys from Asia -- all three of them were immensely popular because it was exciting to have people that weren't from Suburban Liverpool. I had hoped the girls would come across as ignorant more than anything over the years I've known people who wouldn't know that Pakistan wasn't in the Caribbean and that was what I was hoping to portray.

I think i prefer this version.

I don't think it is in an info-dump but I do think there are places where it can be cut, where you are saying more than you need to and over talking rather than over-explaining. but I suspect that is an early draft issue.
.

example-

He regretted not postponing the daily row with his grandmother until after he had eaten breakfast, especially since the one from the day before had been right before dinner, and had ended with her throwing the fish stew in the bin. It was probably not a great idea to have told her it stank. There was no point in him trying not to offend her because that seemed to offend her more. His feet ached so he lifted one off the ground and rested it behind him. He smelt the greasy gravy of a warm delicious pie. It spoke to his stomach which provided a brief musical interlude.

I've pulled it out. Yourself and Harebrain are wonderfully and perfectly correct it is a waste of good wordage.

Finally, he responded. “What did you do?”
“Left and slammed the door.” Kit shrugged. The anger that had coursed through him had scared him. “I wanted to well... I don't know but I was so mad.”
“What would your father have done in the same situation.” The way Dieter spoke it was obvious his concentration was elsewhere.Dieter asked, looking past Kit.
Kit looked back. All he saw was a blonde woman talking to some Asian bloke, probably one of the ones that worked at the new Chinese takeaway. He shrugged and returned to face Dieter who was now not even pretending to pay him any attention.
“Your father wouldn't have walked away. He never did so I think that answers your question.” Dieter spoke really fast and picked up his hurdy-gurdy which he slung on his back. “Look, kid, I have to go. I'll catch up with you later but I am sure there is nothing for you to worry about.” He patted Kit's shoulder and practically ran hurried off in the direction of the promenade.
Probably getting in to too much editing here so I do hope some of that is helpful

That line grates

It does a bit with me. Reminds me of a Mills and Boon but it has proved very popular with the teen boys I've run it past.

Meant to be Statement because Dieter knew him or a question?

A typo I corrected it thanks.

The last creates a scene that almost circles around itself, which is always fascinating.

I think again that the limited format is not conducive to line by line editing when trying to examine certain things outside of grammar, spelling, and punctuation. So the best we can do is explain what it does or doesn't do for us. Trying to determine if this is or isn't the time to include something or to determine it's relevance at the moment is dicey at best without seeing what it leads into next..

I think the fear Kit has about himself helps and if the girls will show up again then they can stay. If this is a one shot scene for them then there might be a better way to have Kit tell us that small tidbit about his family.

I've realised I've edited out the girls relevance but I've added it back. They don't show up again as such but something one of them says forms the foundation of the row with his grandmother which then has Kit running out of the house and ending up with the

 

[AnyaKimlin]

A rework based on some of the comments:
CHAPTER ONE
Two doors down from the chippy in front of a rusty shutter Kit played his fiddle. Hour after hour his music provided a little joy to the few people who wandered through on their way to the promenade. Graffiti daubed the walls, dead plants competed with weeds in planters and seagulls warred over a chip wrappe; the holiday brochures described it as local colour in an attempt to attract some poor souls to White Bay. Grease, salt and vinegar from the Northern scented the air. There was also a faint whiff of a drain that needed a good clean. Money trickled in: one pence, two pence, three pence, four and the very occasional fifty. It was a long way from the amount he needed, so he upped the tempo. Nobody ever really stopped to listen but those who passed by gave more when he evoked the mood of the fairground than when he reminded them of their grandmother's funeral. It had him tapping his feet and lost in the rhythm, into a dimension where misery, vile graffiti and seagulls didn't exist.

He played until hunger got the better of him and he stopped for a breather. With his bow in one hand and the fiddle in the other he lent back against the cold, hard shutter of the abandoned shop behind him, his head obscured the latest graffiti: “Gazza is a Dick” in bright yellow. Exhausted, he closed his eyes. Until he made enough to cover the coat he desperately needed he couldn't spare a penny for food. His feet ached so he lifted one off the ground and rested it behind him. He smelt the greasy gravy of a warm delicious pie. It spoke to his stomach which provided a brief but loud musical interlude.

“Kit?”

He opened his eyes and rolled his head to face Dieter, the hurdy-gurdy man, and he smiled. He placed his fiddle and bow back in the case.

“You look like you could use this?” Dieter sniffed and wiped his bearded face with the sleeve of his thick wool coat before holding out the pie in his hand.

“Thanks.” Hunger won and Kit took the pie before he could think of what might be crawling in Dieter's fingerless gloves. A bite – just one revived him and eased, a little, the pain gnawing in his stomach. “You having a good day?”

“Not too bad. Not too bad.” From his back, Dieter removed the heavy hurdy-gurdy in its wooden box. He had fashioned a contraption to allow him to carry it like a backpack. “Enough for me smokes, a beer and the pies.” He took a squashed pie, identical to the one he had given Kit, out of his pocket. “Slow down there you'll get indigestion, kid. Anyone would think you hadn't eaten in a week.”

Kit grinned and held up what was left of the pie. “Didn't have my breakfast.”

“Ahh.” Dieter picked a bit of pastry off and ate it. He didn't seem overly interested in the pie. “Been rowing with your gran again?”

Kit rammed the last of the pie into his mouth. He nodded... paused whilst he swallowed and wondered how much he could tell Dieter. Although they had been friends and Dieter made sure none of the other buskers harmed Kit, Kit didn't know him very well – in fact he knew nothing about the man. Still there was no one else. No other adult in his life who would listen. Dieter looked at him with his big eyes when he was busking people said they were like a starving child from a Band Aid documentary. To Kit they resembled a black hole; it was like they had a tractor beam that drew everything out of Kit. He said it as fast as he could before his brain could change its mind. “Think I could be like my dad?”

“What makes you say that?” He handed over the second pie. “I'm not hungry you might as well have this.”

Grateful, Kit took it off him. He was aware Dieter wasn't his usual self but today he was consumed by one thought. “Gran said I was just like him.” The pie was colder than the other one and the grease just that bit thicker.

“I suspect she was probably angry.” Dieter kept looking past Kit. Usually when he spoke he kept his deep dark eyes firmly on whoever he was talking to. Finally, he responded. “What did you do?”

“Left and slammed the door.” Kit shrugged. The anger that had coursed through him had scared him. “I wanted to well... I don't know but I was so mad.”

“What would your father have done in the same situation?” His voice was as distracted as his eyes.

All Kit could see in Dieter's line of sight was a blonde woman in a business suit talking to a bloke from the new Chinese takeaway. He shrugged and returned to face Dieter who was now not even pretending to pay him any attention. He kept staring at the woman. The couple finished talking and they were going their separate ways.

“Your father wouldn't have walked away..” Dieter spoke quickly and picked up his hurdy-gurdy which he slung on his back. “Look, kid, I have to go. I wouldn't if I didn't have to. You know that? I'll come find you later and we can talk properly. Sorry, lad, I forgot.” He had gone to pat Kit on the shoulder and Kit had flinched. Because of his father physical contact was something he avoided. Before he had recovered, Dieter had ran off in the same direction as the woman he had been watching.

“But what if I kill her?” Kit shouted after him, voicing the fear he had carried since this morning's row. He finished the last of the pie and contemplated giving up for the day. The total in the case fell far short of what he needed.

“He said he was going to kill me. Did you hear him?”

“Yeah I did. How scary is that?”

A couple of girls that resembled Laurel and Hardy in build stopped and looked at him until he felt like an exhibit. Their mouths hung open as they stared. He was almost certain they'd taken something recreational and the skinny one looked like she sniffed glue on a regular basis. They were sharing a pasty and a Coca Cola.

The fat one said to her skinny mate. “That's that Paki – the one whose dad killed his mum. Was in the paper last year or maybe two yers ago.” She didn't seem to care that Kit and everyone else in the esplanade could hear her. “My mum says he has to be a bad apple. Screw loose.” Her finger circled her temple and she used her tongue to push her chin out.

“Yeah. My Mum said she was mad and he was bad. Better go before he kills us and dumps our bodies off the pier.” The skinny mate sniffed, twiddled her plait and flounced off.

Her fat friend didn't move but continued to stare at Kit like he was a freak.

After more than two years of similar comments and people staring he had learned to let them go. Early on he would have threatened her and if she'd been a lad he'd have punched her. But it had given the gossips ammunition: if they'd given him a penny every time he'd been called a bad apple then he wouldn't be busking to buy himself a coat. Today, none of his usual attempts to calm himself worked.

“My gran's from the Caribbean not Pakistan you fat cow!” he shouted at her.

She shrugged and pulled a face. “Lindz, hang on. You can't leave me alone with him – he's nuts.” And she ran after her friend.

He'd let himself down he knew that. Putting his bow in the other hand he rested his fiddle beneath his chin and started to play. Anger fuelled his music this time; he didn't know the name of the piece it was one Dieter had taught him.

 

[Ray McCarthy]

seagulls warred over a chip wrappe; the holiday brochures described it as local colour

I've met those chip stealing birds. Dunno how you get a ; instead of r, a few other typos. Never mind. I'm astounded at what I have left out when I 1st proof read on my kindle. I seem to leave out stuff like n't on would, which rather changes the intended meaning!
I'm curious to read this someday. The "Laurel & Hardy" I think just about works

 

[AnyaKimlin]

I've met those chip stealing birds. Dunno how you get a ; instead of r, a few other typos. Never mind. I'm astounded at what I have left out when I 1st proof read on my kindle. I seem to leave out stuff like n't on would, which rather changes the intended meaning!
I'm curious to read this someday. The "Laurel & Hardy" I think just about works

Ugh sorry I wanted to show I'd taken comments on board but had a migraine and couldn't actually see very well. I hope there aren't too many typos I will check. Thanks for reading i despite them. I thought if I made them under the influence of something it might explain their bizarre behaviour. There's a scene later with his gran that comes back to this and if I can keep them I would like to.

The scene with Dieter being bizarre and the girls is part of the main story.

 

[Prescott Fry]

Paragraph is out.

Dieter gets beaten up in the next scene, gets taken off by ambulance men, leaving Kit with the hurdy-gurdy and then Dieter goes missing. Dieter and the woman he follows are the Selkie.

The girls are actually being used as physical description rather than back story. How about:
Dieter was too far away to hear but his shout drew the attention of couple of girls who stopped and looked at him until he felt like an exhibit. They were sharing a pasty and a Coca Cola. The fat one said to her skinny mate. “That's that Paki – the one whose dad killed his mum. Was in the paper last year.” She didn't seem to care that Kit and everyone else in the esplanade could hear her.

No he knew roughly what was in the case before he closed his eyes.

That paragraph is now removed but from the OED
Row:
A noisy acrimonious quarrel: they had a row and she stormed out of the house:



Does this make these points clearer?
Graffiti, sorry looking planters and seagulls warring over a chip wrapper decorated White Bay's town centre; the holiday brochures called it local colour. Grease, salt and vinegar from the Northern scented the air. Two doors down from the chippy in front of a rusty shutter Kit played his fiddle. Hour after hour his music provided a little joy to the few people who wandered through on their way to the promenade. Money trickled in: one pence, two pence, three pence, four and the very occasional fifty. It was a long way from the amount he needed, so he upped the tempo. Nobody ever really stopped to listen but those who passed by gave more when he reminded them of fairgrounds than they did when he reminded them of their grandmother's funeral. It had him tapping his feet and lost in the rhythm, into a dimension where misery, vile graffiti and seagulls didn't exist.



I love my delete key. I've known to make other writers' hair curl when I delete 30,000 words just because I have decided my falcon shifter would be better turning into a white gyr falcon instead of a brown peregrine falcon. I'm a blood thirsty grim reaper when it comes to my darlings. However, this is a new style for me usually my starts are full of dialogue and seeing all those big paragraphs is making me a little itchy -- I'm not sure what to make of it.

Hahah grim reaper. Good good. That's how you gotta be with the pen and pad. Great work!!

 

[Bowler1]

Paragraph one is better again, I knew you had it in you - I liked the touches and flourishes you used. I don't mind the second paragraph, it does add value, but do you think it slows you getting to the characters? I'm 50/50 and of no help to you deciding. I still don't like the girls, they feel too staged to me. Anyway, much sharper and clearer and more of the Anya I've come to expect.