Opening to Corn Dolly - enough info? (599 words)

[Phyrebrat]

I wonder if this is too much info or not enough. I've been writing my next novel; feeling, tone, sadness, etc is what I'm aiming for - a strong sense of rural geography - which I need to get right from the start. Any comments to that would be appreciated.

I won't mention the genre as I'd rather hear what you think.

Thanks.

pH

Restless from too much cider and not enough company, Rosemary stole from the cottage and made her way barefoot to the top of Goldenpuck Hill.

Soon come, soon done, she thought looking over the Vale of Pewsey in the chill of an early spring midnight. The night mists might hide the tiny spears of green pressing skywards from the chalky soil beneath them, but the white noise inside her head told her all she needed to know; in a few weeks she’d be unable to sleep, unable to leave, and unable to silence the noise in her mind no matter how much cider she guzzled.
The crop had been planted earlier than normal this year, and she supposed she should take a measure of comfort from that;
At least harvest will come sooner.

Till then she had around two months of hearing the screaming wails of the wheat in the East Field, two months of finding new ways round Camberic that would avoid passing any crop fields. Pumphrey Woods, the cruciform sprawl of ancient forest would be her scenery for those months and she might as well live in the Amazon forests. Being able to hear the wheat saplings so early in the year installed in her a simultaneous rage at the Goodfellow’s for their greed, but also an immobilising terror. It seemed they planted their crops around Camberic earlier and earlier each year.

Miles away, the horn of a speeding lorry on the A4 rang through the night like a clarion loud enough to wake the dead lying behind their stones in West Kennet Longbarrow, and she slumped down on the wet grass praying for sleep. Her white cotton slip, already damp from the air that hung in the roads cut between the slopes of wheat and barley fields, clung to her knees and at the sight of it a single tear swelled and fell to the grass.

Tubby Cribbard and the rest of the soul-cakers would no doubt be sh****ng themselves with excitement if they knew she’d already heard the wheat, and at this thought she wept freely. She doubted they’d be so happy if they knew what she had to endure just for the sake of…actually she didn’t know why. Was she ensuring a good harvest or ensuring the protection of the village from the Scarlet Battalion? It wasn’t clear to her anymore - probably wasn’t clear to anyone anymore; the festival now little more than habit and routine.

Not for Tubby Cribbard.

No, the sage with her dried apple-skin hands, the ones that fussed over her when they went a-souling at harvest, was likely fully aware of what she was doing. A fall in crop yields - Camberic’s only genuine income - would spell disaster. This stupid festival, this root-sucking superstition was to Camberic what the Pyramids were to Egypt.

Minus the spectacle.

Without it the village would miss the tourists who flocked here that time of year. Hell, even the hoaxers who tagged the crop fields with geometric pictograms had lately moved further afield; to The Netherlands, France, even Eastern Europe - where would that leave the village?

Where would that leave you?

Free, that’s where. Free to leave, free to move to the city - Salisbury or Loewe, perhaps.

Tomorrow she would go to the sage and tell her she was leaving. Tubby Cribbard could find another Maiden of Tears.
No more Straw Crow, no more threat of the Red Pwceh, no more Black Peter or Morrismen, but most of all, no more summer nights filled with the agonised screams of wheat.

 

[Boneman]

I like this, reads well, and makes me want to read more. Only two things to point out that jarred with me (so ignore them if you disagree):

Cut this, it's telling and foreshadowing, and dragging us a way from 'now' which is more intriguing...

Till then she had around two months of hearing the screaming wails of the wheat in the East Field, two months of finding new ways round Camberic that would avoid passing any crop fields. Pumphrey Woods, the cruciform sprawl of ancient forest would be her scenery for those months and she might as well live in the Amazon forests.

And dress her properly for goodness sake. I know she's the maiden of tears, but letting her go out in a nightie with no shoes is unnecessary. especially if she wants to fall asleep in the field. If however being MOT keeps her warm in all weathers, protected, give us a clue, mebbe.

 

[-K2-]

Right off, should 'Soon come, soon done,' be in italics? Also, is it your preference/stylistic-choice to not use (double I assume, if you use single for dialogue--opposite in U.S.) quotation marks for thought? The reason I ask is, a lot of the text 'I' infer as thought, yet I'm unsure, since the italics seems inconsistent leaving me confused as to what is narration, inner-thought, and possibly verbalized dialogue (speaking audibly to herself).

The rural/agricultural region aspect is very evident, no question there. I will mention (though is likely just me), that the mention of the Amazon and Pyramids/Egypt, took my mind away from the scene. I get the comparisons, but they disrupted the vision that was building in my mind of the scene-place in question. Personally, it would have helped me to maintain that vision, by sacrificing the single word location comparison (which implies a vast amount of info), and instead substitute a short descriptive comparison which kept me in the region.

It will take a few more re-readings to gather my own impressions, yet the rural geography is clear. Emotionally, I'm getting more of a sense of frustration, even anger, rather than sadness/depression.

K2

 

[Star-child]

I see the way the italics are being used and it worked well for me.

Honestly, this is about the best bit of writing l've read on Chrons. The only oddity is the Egypt/spectacle part, which implies Egypt had spectacle and this place does not, but then the next line says it does.

 

[Toby Frost]

I’m sure it isn’t, but from the excerpt it feels like some sort of folk horror, which to my mind always runs the risk of getting too close to cliché (or Cold Comfort Farm!). The names of the characters, rituals and places do make me think of the 1950s or early 60s at the latest, even though they could exist now. My first impressions of Rosemary were a hobbit (wasn’t there a hobbit called Rosie, and they went barefoot and drank cider) and then one of the sacrificial-type maidens from something like The Wicker Man. As Boneman says, dressing her normally would help. I agree with K2 that the references to faraway places are a bit distracting. I find the idea of screaming wheat very hard to imagine, but presumably it will be explained later.

However, it is well-written and there’s nothing that seems overtly wrong to me, although I probably would have made a few different choices. I’d certainly read on.

 

[HareBrain]

Good start. I'd say it's more important to intrigue than explain at this stage, and you've done that, but I had to read it twice to start to put things in order, and I wonder if that's a bit risky with an opening. Having said that, I didn't mind reading it twice, and would have been happy to go over it again if it were a book. With my "writing 101" hat on, I think it perhaps isn't the strongest start to have someone just sitting and thinking. But because what she's thinking about is so unusual, that's perhaps not the problem it might be, and it works well in introducing the set-up pretty succinctly.

I'm not keen on the "single tear", which is a bit of an outdated cliche. I'd rather she was more annoyed and less weepy. Unless that ties in with her "Maiden of Tears" title, but I assume that refers to something else (in which case having her cry might be a bit misleading).

So as an opening, it works for me, but I think I'd want to move to her (or another POV) doing something after this.

 

[The Judge]

Nice to see the new work! And yes, I'd have guessed folk horror even if I'd not known. But I agree with BM, give the poor woman some bloody clothes! (Why did I just get a flash of Kate Bush here? Does she wander around wheat fields in her petticoat??)

Anyhow, this is just about enough info for me -- enough to tell me she's some kind of corn maiden, albeit one who isn't sacrificed, but not too much to destroy all mystery as to who and what. However, I would like a tad more re the village and its welfare -- see my nit-picking notes below.

As to tone, to my mind it isn't coming off as sad so much as self-pitying, to be honest. And although I know where this is set, with all the name-dropping of real places, I can't say I'm getting any real sense of the rural, let alone the geography. More importantly, there's precious little sensory information. OK, it's midnight, so few birds, but surely an owl could make an appearance either with silent wings out of the dark or screeching in the nearby woods, or some pipistrelles flying around. There's precious little to see with no lights out there, but you don't mention what moon there is, nor sounds of animals and the scents that are surely rising with the mist -- snuffling badgers, stink of fox, perhaps blackthorn bushes in the hedgerows. There's not even any touch. She's barefoot, so unless she's got feet of leather she'd feel something -- flint poking out of the chalk, the smooth grass, nettles, squishy weeds, perhaps even low brambles. I know she's sozzled and no doubt trying to protect her mind from the cries of the wheat, and she won't have your wonderful lyrical ability, but surely there ought to be something here of nature?

As ever, too many italicised thoughts for my taste, but we'll continue to agree to disagree on that point!

I know this is only a first draft, but here's some nit-picking, as I'm feeling mean...

Goldenpuck Hill -- unless this truly is a name over Pewsey way, I'd suggest finding something that doesn't bring ice hockey to mind. Puck, as in Robin Goodfellow, is a neat idea, and I see the farmers are in on it, but does he fit the genre? Anyhow, Robinhill would work.

the Vale of Pewsey -- feels a bit tell-y; she surely wouldn't think this to herself in this way. (However, something like "the Vale of Pewsey spread out before her" would feel less you of author and more her, I think.)

a measure of comfort from that; - semi-colon wrong, you need a colon or full stop. And really no need for the next bit in italics.

the East Field -- realistic, but rather a boring name!

finding new ways -- how long has she been doing this? How can she find "new" ways after so long?

Camberic -- um... can we get a different name for the village? At the moment I'm getting cambric, as in the cloth, mingled with Camberwick Green, and it's not giving me a sense of horror nor of the numinous, just Windy Miller!

any crop fields. -- repetition of "Field/fields" a bit ungainly, and this one could be reduced to just "crops" though, of course, that would include root crops too (not sure how many grow there). Ditto "forest/forests" later in the para -- I'd suggest dropping the Amazon comparison anyway.

the cruciform sprawl -- is "cruciform" really a word she'd use?

the wheat saplings -- surely not "saplings" which are young trees. Not sure what word farmers would use -- "seedlings" is for something smaller, I imagine.

the Goodfellow’s -- no apostrophe, it's a plural, not a possessive

Miles away, the horn of a speeding lorry on the A4 rang through the night like a clarion loud enough to wake the dead lying behind their stones in West Kennet Longbarrow, -- rather long and inelegant as a clause and I'd suggest cutting -- "lying" could certainly go, and wouldn't the dead be beneath, rather than behind? And how does she know the lorry is speeding, and why on earth would it be sounding its horn?

and she slumped down -- the "and" makes it appear the two clauses have a connection, even a cause and effect, which surely isn't the case. I'd suggest new sentence and possibly even new para.

Her white cotton slip, -- do young girls wear slips nowadays? (You do know a slip isn't a nightie? And that they don't usually reach past the knees?)

already damp from the air that hung in the roads cut between the slopes of wheat and barley fields, clung to her knees and at the sight of it a single tear swelled and fell to the grass. -- another long and not very elegant line. Why damp air? Why in the roads, when there's mist in the fields and she's now up the hill, presumably no longer on tarmac if she ever was? And as phrased it sounds like the tear is upset at the sight of the damp slip, and swells on its own accord, rather than her crying. But why does she cry anyway?

She doubted they’d be so happy if they knew what she had to endure -- actually, they sound like people who wouldn't give a toss at what she suffers.

anymore -- not in correct British English, not yet; it's "any more" two words

No, the sage with her dried apple-skin hands, -- having difficulty picturing hands that are like apple skin, dried or otherwise, and coming after "sage" it does rather make her sound like stuffing for a goose.

Camberic’s only genuine income - would spell disaster -- highly unlikely nowadays, I'd have thought.

the village would miss the tourists who flocked here at that time of year. -- as written, this means it's the crop yields which bring in the tourists, which is surely unlikely, and it's the festival stuff, which would go on regardless.

where would that leave the village? -- I take it there's magic involved somewhere, with a curse that if the crop yields fall something awful would happen? If so, I think that does need to be made clear, otherwise people like me will be rather dismissive of a village being reduced to penury just because a farmer or two loses money. That's especially the case when she's bitter against the Goodfellows for their greed, so presumably the money they make thanks to her suffering isn't being spread about anyway.

Despite my nit-picking cavils, I did enjoy this. You're on the right road, but I'd like more nature-writing to get me really there. Nonetheless, well done! Good luck!!

 

[Phyrebrat]

This is great feedback, thank you. Didn't expect so many responses so quickly.

So:

Cut this, it's telling and foreshadowing, and dragging us a way from 'now' which is more intriguing...

Thanks, noted. This seems to have caused the biggest nitpick so it'll definitely be gone in the next post.

And dress her properly for goodness sake. I know she's the maiden of tears, but letting her go out in a nightie with no shoes is unnecessary. especially if she wants to fall asleep in the field. If however being MOT keeps her warm in all weathers, protected, give us a clue, mebbe.

She's drunk on the ol cider, maybe I overegged it. I'll give her clothes.

Right off, should 'Soon come, soon done,' be in italics?

Italics are for direct thoughts. This has 'she thought' afterwards so is written this way. I may change it to a direct thought which'll allow me to cut the word count by 2!

The only oddity is the Egypt/spectacle part, which implies Egypt had spectacle and this place does not, but then the next line says it does.

Noted. I was going for degree of spectacle, but bearing in mind the comments of Amazon and Egypt taking people out of the scene, I won't keep this.

it feels like some sort of folk horror, which to my mind always runs the risk of getting too close to cliché

I'm hoping for folk horror, what are my risks of cliche, do you think/what should I avoid?

make me think of the 1950s or early 60s at the latest, even though they could exist now.

This makes me happy: I've been visiting the area this is based on since 1996 (It's a conflation of Alton Barnes, Alton Priors, Lockeridge in Wiltshire, and Worth Matravers in Dorset) and I've always found the area has this strange juxtaposition of modern farming machinery with this 40s-60s vibe which always makes me think of Enid Blyton era.

I find the idea of screaming wheat very hard to imagine

Oh dear - that's one of the central 'things' of the story.

With my "writing 101" hat on, I think it perhaps isn't the strongest start to have someone just sitting and thinking. But because what she's thinking about is so unusual, that's perhaps not the problem it might be, and it works well in introducing the set-up pretty succinctly.

Thanks. I might have to rejjig it then. I just didn't want to mention the screaming wheat waking her from her sleep and makig her search à la "No, it [the wailing] can't be starring already, it's only the end of March!!' and tried to go a bit more in medias res. I'll play with this in the next post.

I'm not keen on the "single tear", which is a bit of an outdated cliche. I'd rather she was more annoyed and less weepy. Unless that ties in with her "Maiden of Tears" title,

It's a thin line for me; I don't want her to be annoyed, I want this melancholic resignation, almost ennui, but obviously writing Sylvia Plath would hardly be enticing for a reader. I'm trying to illustrate an undiagnosed clinical depression. I see Rosemary as walking processionally everywhere as if to her own funeral, and that's what I want to get across; back to the drawing board.

Does she wander around wheat fields in her petticoat?

She's drunk! (See BM's comment )

As to tone, to my mind it isn't coming off as sad so much as self-pitying, to be honest.

Noted; this defintely needs work, then.

I know she's sozzled and no doubt trying to protect her mind from the cries of the wheat, and she won't have your wonderful lyrical ability, but surely there ought to be something here of nature?

So this brings up a whole 'nother question (and thanks for the compliment) - I've been reading Stephen King's Doctor Sleep and noted that his authorial voice is inserted into his prose in a way I like - he writes in omni dipping into third - and I really want to write this way. He uses words his characters wouldn't, and then when he dips into their thoughts, he uses their terminolgy. It's confused me ever since I joined Chrons TBH and I thought I'd go this route with Corn Dolly. However I kinda bottled it thinking I'd end up writing every character as if they're a poor man's Thomas Hardy.

As ever, too many italicised thoughts for my taste, but we'll continue to agree to disagree on that point!

I was waiting for it....! Dear me, you are going to HATE SG

Goldenpuck Hill -- unless this truly is a name over Pewsey way, I'd suggest finding something that doesn't bring ice hockey to mind. Puck, as in Robin Goodfellow, is a neat idea, and I see the farmers are in on it, but does he fit the genre? Anyhow, Robinhill would work.

Goldenball Hill overlooks the East Field. It has always tickled me as the people who report witnessing crop circles 'appear' <ahem> report golden orbs (called amber gamblers in the 80s). I didn't want to use it as it was too literal and also Pwceh is a corruption of Pwca = Puck, hence the name.

the Vale of Pewsey -- feels a bit tell-y; she surely wouldn't think this to herself in this way. (However, something like "the Vale of Pewsey spread out before her" would feel less you of author and more her, I think.)

Noted.

the East Field -- realistic, but rather a boring name!

You think it's boring? I always find cardinal directions so evocative. I'm not wedded to it (just kept it because it's the field Led Zeppellin used for their famous crop circle album cover) so I'll consider changing.

inding new ways -- how long has she been doing this? How can she find "new" ways after so long?

Noted.

Camberic -- um... can we get a different name for the village? At the moment I'm getting cambric, as in the cloth, mingled with Camberwick Green, and it's not giving me a sense of horror nor of the numinous, just Windy Miller!

Camberic stays. Basically I'm turning the Scarborough Fayre song into a folk horror. Camberic is a corruption of Cambric as you so astutely noted

the cruciform sprawl -- is "cruciform" really a word she'd use?

I dunno, I assumed she would. I'm goign to change or lose that part so we'll see.

"seedlings" is for something smaller, I imagine.

Thanks, saplings made me laugh when I re-read it just now = GM Oak-wheat

And how does she know the lorry is speeding, and why on earth would it be sounding its horn?

It's miles away, who knows, but it underlines that the route to freedom (albeit symbolically) - the A4 - is some miles away.

Her white cotton slip, -- do young girls wear slips nowadays? (You do know a slip isn't a nightie? And that they don't usually reach past the knees?)

Mine does! okay, okay, I only wear them at weekends when I go by the name Brenda. Anyway, I've been bullied into dressing her by Boneman so this can be dealt with then.

Why damp air? Why in the roads, when there's mist in the fields and she's now up the hill, presumably no longer on tarmac if she ever was? And as phrased it sounds like the tear is upset at the sight of the damp slip, and swells on its own accord, rather than her crying. But why does she cry anyway?

The road from Pumphrey Woods to Alton Barnes lies in a deep cutting until it reaches the East Field. The ground mist is what she'd have walked through. She's on the top of Knapp HIll/Goldenball Hill looking down at the field, also covered in groundmist. Maybe I should make this clearer.

anymore -- not in correct British English, not yet; it's "any more" two words

Oh damn... You just increased SG wordcount by a third!!!

No, the sage with her dried apple-skin hands, -- having difficulty picturing hands that are like apple skin, dried or otherwise, and coming after "sage" it does rather make her sound like stuffing for a goose

Sorry, this stays. But... I do want to capitalise The Sage so it's more achetypal. That's not right though, is it.

as written, this means it's the crop yields which bring in the tourists, which is surely unlikely, and it's the festival stuff, which would go on regardless.

It's the crop circles thta bring in the tourists (a very real industry BTW, in Wiltshire, that has really cost them now that The Circlemakers and Team Satan now create formations in Europe more than Wilts and Hants. And no, I wasn't a member of either of those groups...even if I did create the odd bit of criminal damage at one time in a previous life... ). Just as in Egypt. One of my trips there just after the shootings in Hatshepsut's temple, the locals of Luxor all implored us to tell our friends and family that Luxor was safe and they loved tourists. Without that industry the place would fall. I was drawing an oblique reference to tourism, but I can shift it, no problems.

Okay, off to my final school for the day. I shall be home around 9.30 so will try and post an amended excerpt then.

Thanks all for your time.

pH

 

[HareBrain]

It's a thin line for me; I don't want her to be annoyed, I want this melancholic resignation, almost ennui, but obviously writing Sylvia Plath would hardly be enticing for a reader. I'm trying to illustrate an undiagnosed clinical depression.

That would be easier to do in another character's POV, of course, if that's worth considering. But I think losing the phrase "single tear" would help on its own. It's a trope, like someone falling to their knees and shouting "NOOOO!" at the sky.

I see Rosemary as walking processionally everywhere as if to her own funeral, and that's what I want to get across

Is she self-aware enough to think/observe that about herself? Because that would be interesting.

 

[-K2-]

As a personal p.s. @Phyrebrat ; your sample text and how you noted the character's thinking, really is a great lesson for me on how I'm presenting my character's thoughts poorly. I have a lot of 'she thought/pondered/mused/etc., which I don't need. The smooth flow from thought to elaboration in your text is something I'd like to emulate... with dialogue as well, for that matter.

This learnin' stuff zucks... everytime I think I got it right, I learn better, then have to fix it...again.

K2

 

[Brian G Turner]

Till then she had around two months of hearing the screaming wails of the wheat in the East Field

I actually liked this - it underlined a different way of perceiving the world, and the idea of crops screaming is just plain disturbing.

Not much to add, really - I very much liked this, and you managed to find a good balance between setting, character, and pacing.

My only niggle really is that when you reference the Amazon, Pyramids, etc, you throw me out of place - something about your prose suggests a timelessness, but geographic references throw me back into the modern world.

Otherwise, top stuff - you've started off on the right foot here, I think.

 

[Phyrebrat]

That would be easier to do in another character's POV, of course, if that's worth considering. But I think losing the phrase "single tear" would help on its own. It's a trope, like someone falling to their knees and shouting "NOOOO!" at the sky.

Oh, God, really? Okay, I will never use that phrase again... I might talk to you in PM or next meet up about the POV as I'm feeling undecided about what the best POV to use is (as in not even giving Rosemary a POV)

Is she self-aware enough to think/observe that about herself? Because that would be interesting.

TBH I haven't a clue. She's in her mid-twenties, dreams of escaping Camberic and had to take the mantle of MOT from her late sister after her tragic death. This might have given her a different way of looking at life, I suppose.

As a personal p.s. @Phyrebrat ; your sample text and how you noted the character's thinking, really is a great lesson for me on how I'm presenting my character's thoughts poorly. I have a lot of 'she thought/pondered/mused/etc., which I don't need. The smooth flow from thought to elaboration in your text is something I'd like to emulate... with dialogue as well, for that matter.

This learnin' stuff zucks... everytime I think I got it right, I learn better, then have to fix it...again.

K2

Aw, thanks K2. Let me say this. I had never written before I joined Chrons and I make no bones about the fact that any skill I have gathered over the years has come from advice here, including participating in the challenges. You're in good company here!

idea of crops screaming is just plain disturbing.

Thanks, I found the mental image of plants being in constant pain at night unshakeable and wanted to develop that.

I'll try to post an amended version before the weekend - right now I have to get some rest before the kids of two south London schools destroy me tomorrow

Thanks again for the feedback, all.

pH

 

[The Big Peat]

The sense of place is more or less there and when I read The Judge's comment about the sense of the rural, I realised why I was only more or less there. The geography is enough for me to form a picture but its not complete.

The sense of sorrow... mm. Unhappiness? Dread? Yes. Sadness? Not so much. I'm not even entirely sure what I should be feeling sad for tbh - her situation is clearly not to her liking, but that makes me root for her to change it. I think for sadness I'd want a sense of loss.

I do think she needs to be more sharply drawn as a character. I get hints of gallows humour but little more. Does she feel any loyalty to the village? Is there something else she'd rather be doing? How ridiculous does she find them? Etc.etc. Right now she feels little more than a pair of eyes for the reader and a basic set of emotions. Is she the type of person to be introspective, wonder if its her or the drink talking? Does she have flights of fancy?

I think in terms of story, you maybe show your hand a little early and could afford to spend more time establishing the shot before getting onto "She can hear the plants' pain and lives in the village of Creepington, Badthingsgonnahappenshire, SW England". I'm not sure there's a hook. Maybe "What happens when she tries to leave?".

There's also a few awkward phases/transitions. Stole from the house seems to imply stealth to avoid people, which doesn't seem to marry with a lack of company to me. And I don't get why its the lorry horn that makes her slump over and lose it.

 

[Azoraa]

I haven't read all the replies here, just quickly commenting on my first impression.
I probably didn't give this all the attention it deserves -- it's well-written, and hints at an interesting background story -- but for my taste it was a bit too much internal dialogue to start off with. It noticed I started skipping over the paragraphs to see what happens next.
And I agree with what others have said -- the pyramids of Egypt are a strange comparison that feels out of place, and her wearing a white slip (nothing but!?!) caused me to cringe and think WTF. Or is this going to be an erotic novel?? In that case...

Good luck with it!!!

 

[Toby Frost]

I'm hoping for folk horror, what are my risks of cliche, do you think/what should I avoid?

Well, I think that (as with a lot of subgenres) there a set of images that reoccur, because the scope is quite narrow. If I was to make a list of "classic" folk horror imagery, I'd include:

The Wicker Man
The Witchfinder General
"Rawhead Rex" by Clive Barker (not the film!)
The Company of Wolves
Some Hammer and Dennis Wheatley stuff
The League of Gentlemen (ok, it's a parody, but not too far off!)
Most things with Kate Bush in them

There was a game that did folk horror quite well, but I can't remember it. I'll let you know if I can recall it.

No doubt there's a lot of good stuff missing from that list, but I think that these contain a lot of reoccurring images, so when I see that there's a barefoot girl in a nightie (presumably with big hair) I immediately think of these. Perhaps (arguably) the visual reference is a bit too "on the nose", so that if she was in a long dress and flip-flops, I wouldn't immediately make that connection, but the concept would still be there. So there's nothing wrong with using the stock images, but I'd just be wary of alluding to them too obviously.

The other thing I'd avoid (if it was me writing this, and it isn't) would be outright references to Wicca and modern paganism, mainly because that would bring in a whole other kettle of New Age fish. But it doesn't sound as if that's what you're doing.

I should add that I'm not rubbishing the screaming of the wheat (Clarice). I think it could be a fine idea; in the excerpt, I find it strange more than sinister, but I'd still read on.

 

[-K2-]

Hmm, in response to the white slip (or perhaps nightgown?) and bare feet walking around outdoors at night, or while on privately held land... I'm not seeing the problem (past @Toby Frost 's observation about the existing similarities). Since critiquing critiques is not my intention, but counters the general consensus, I'll conceal my opinion in a spoiler.

Spoiler: -K2- Jumps the Rails...again.

I'm missing why everyone is having an issue?

Granted, here in the land of savages and barbarians, people don't dress like it's the Victorian Age. But, barefoot 24/7? It happens all the time all over the country...well, except in the Rockies where it's--uh--rocky. And as to folks stepping outside and around their yard at night in a nightgown, or underthings, or even nothing...even in densely populated urban/suburban areas, that happens MUCH more often than you might imagine. Head out to any rural/farming/ranch area, and it's pretty much a given--farmer's daughter jokes aside.

It has nothing to do with erotica, smut, pron, protest or social guideline incompatibility. It's just people doing what people do.

That said I get it. People in most literature never have bare skin (except their head and hands), no one ever takes off their clothes even to change them, bathes, sleeps without their daytime suit on, etc., and naturally, they're all celibate. The trick is, however, not to make fiction so fictional that it's even too fictiony for fiction.

I can't imagine in the situation presented, why the character would wear shoes. I'm also thinking she might be just plain lazy, otherwise the slip would have been shed, two rocks and a bush ago. Granted, I'm looking at it from a Merican's viewpoint where many people are textile impaired, too uncivilized to style their hair properly for a midnight stroll in the wilds, and tend to have the tact of coyote, but gee whiz.

And if the character is getting a little jolly from it? Well, that's pretty normal too... to a barbarian.

K2

 

[The Judge]

More thoughts:

I want this melancholic resignation, almost ennui, but obviously writing Sylvia Plath would hardly be enticing for a reader. I'm trying to illustrate an undiagnosed clinical depression.

If she's resigned, and depressed, would she have even the little bit of anger/hope she shows at the end of the scene? Is she going to be your main POV character? If so, have you considered how that might impact not only on readability but also on the horror element?

I see Rosemary as walking processionally everywhere as if to her own funeral

That would be something easily slipped into a scene where someone could do an unthinking "Cheer up, Rosie" comment about it.

She's drunk!

Before or after she heard the wailing? And why wearing a slip if it's midnight? Had she never undressed fully from earlier? There's no need to dress her fully -- if she was in bed and woken, she can have pyjamas and fluffy slippers? (You want horror!!) Why didn't she throw on a mac or anorak over her slip (or her nightie if that's what you intended her to be wearing)?

I've been reading Stephen King's Doctor Sleep and noted that his authorial voice is inserted into his prose in a way I like - he writes in omni dipping into third - and I really want to write this way. He uses words his characters wouldn't, and then when he dips into their thoughts, he uses their terminolgy.

If you want this omni, I'd suggest making it very clear to begin, and keep us out of her thoughts at least for now, until the omni is settled. Perhaps have something that makes it clear it's outside her, by giving details of what she can't see ie the traffic on the A4.

I kinda bottled it thinking I'd end up writing every character as if they're a poor man's Thomas Hardy.

(But perhaps restrict the nature writing to a couple of them, perhaps, and give different emphasis -- ie one might hear/see the birds, another the weather.)

Goldenball Hill overlooks the East Field. It has always tickled me as the people who report witnessing crop circles 'appear' <ahem> report golden orbs (called amber gamblers in the 80s). I didn't want to use it as it was too literal

I'd still suggest getting Robin in there, not only for the Puck allusion, but also on the pun on thieving, since it/they're stealing her peace of mind. Though calling it Goodfellow's Hill would also make it seem the farmers own it, and give a hint of their being here as long as the hill has been named, ie forever.

Camberic stays. Basically I'm turning the Scarborough Fayre song into a folk horror. Camberic is a corruption of Cambric as you so astutely noted

The problem I'm having with it --apart from Camberwick Green! -- is that it doesn't read as an English place name in Wiltshire.** The Anglo-Saxons had places ending "wic" meaning town or trading place, but over the centuries that became transmuted to "wich" -- I can't think of a place ending "bric" or even simply "ic" now. If you're corrupting, why not "Cambrich" which feels more realistic. Or rob from another part of the song and make it Drywell?

It's miles away, who knows, but it underlines that the route to freedom (albeit symbolically) - the A4 - is some miles away.

Ah, I didn't pick up on that at all. That's certainly something I'd think of stressing.

The road from Pumphrey Woods to Alton Barnes lies in a deep cutting until it reaches the East Field. The ground mist is what she'd have walked through. She's on the top of Knapp HIll/Goldenball Hill looking down at the field, also covered in groundmist. Maybe I should make this clearer.

I got she's on the hill, but didn't pick up the fields were below her in that way, nor that she's taken the road to get there, so yes, I think make that clearer.

I do want to capitalise The Sage so it's more achetypal. That's not right though, is it.

I see why you want sage now, but drop the apple hands and it'll be OK. Capitalise it if you want, but just as "the Sage" so lower case "t".

It's the crop circles thta bring in the tourists

Right, I didn't pick that up at all, so I think make that clearer, too.

Hmm, in response to the white slip (or perhaps nightgown?) and bare feet walking around outdoors at night, or while on privately held land... I'm not seeing the problem

For me, it's because it is a hackneyed image, and playing up to patriarchal attitudes of a slip of a girl wearing virtually bugger all, just something flimsy and floaty, which has been the archetype of the helpless female down the ages, with the added sexualised aspect of her wearing nothing underneath. Quite apart from her potentially catching her death of cold! She may be drunk, but she doesn't have to be stupid with it!

We don't dress like Victorians either, and I've been known to wander in my garden in my nightie*** first thing in the morning to inspect plants and feed the birds, but I'll have shoes on (most country-dwellers here have wellies and know how to use them!), I'll sling a jacket on if it's cold, and all the important bits are well covered. Some people shop in their night attire here (well, not here in my village, obviously; we have standards) but we're talking onesies and pyjamas, they're not dressed like a female extra from a Carry On movie.

It's not the bare skin per se -- you'd see worse at chucking out time in any town nowadays. It's the symbolism -- young girl, nothing on, helpless, victim. (And I don't know what books you read, but certainly in the ones I'm writing there's nudity all over the place!)


** there was a movie involving the Titanic in some way (?raising it?) and it ended with characters somewhere in the south -- Cornwall I think -- near some invented town they reference. I can't recall the exact name, only that it ended with "by". Which is Norse, and is therefore restricted to places under the Danelaw ie nowhere near bloody Cornwall. They spent millions on the movie and couldn't even spend a couple of quid checking through local maps for likely names for pete's sake.

*** with apologies for that image I've just put into everyone's head.

 

[Phyrebrat]

@The Judge I should be able to like and do a laugh smiley - but the end of your message has me grinning on the bus like a loon. I’ve rewritten the scene and might get round to posting it later tonight but I want to address @The Big Peat, @-K2- and @Azoraa’s points so it may be tomorrow.

I really didn’t know all that patriarchal stuff about slips. I just still hear it from my mum etc so I wonder if it’s still common in Geordieland. Tbh she was wearing clothes but her slip was wet. It just seemed a really sad and wretched thing that might be tipping point for someone.

My new version is longer -as SG is 270k I wanted to try and start this project with a more brutal approach to my usual floridity. I’m still not sure on the POV I want to use. I’d chosen hers as I want to chart her fall into almost-insanity à la Lovecraft but who knows.

Thanks all.
pH

 

[Phyrebrat]

I have drafted a second, er, draft, which I'll post afterwards, if anyone has the inclination to comment on the new version. Just wanted to reply to:

The sense of sorrow... mm. Unhappiness? Dread? Yes. Sadness? Not so much. I'm not even entirely sure what I should be feeling sad for tbh - her situation is clearly not to her liking, but that makes me root for her to change it. I think for sadness I'd want a sense of loss.

Yeah, it's a real struggle to give a sense of someone's loss and melancholia from their own perspective. I hope I've added a bit to her in the newer version. Certainly regards:

I do think she needs to be more sharply drawn as a character.

I realised I didn't really know much about her and so I've been backstorying her up in my mind the past day or two.

I think in terms of story, you maybe show your hand a little early and could afford to spend more time establishing the shot

I hope I've addressed this now. I think I'm so para about making this too long, I'm consciously trying to be more brutal than is natural for me.

Or is this going to be an erotic novel?

That's Folk Erotica, if you please

Most things with Kate Bush in them

This made me laugh, because I know you know I'm a huge fan, and because it's so true. But yes, I'mhoping to avoid all those kind of hackneyed tropes and clichés. I thought you'd meant that my excerpt was full of cheesiness (slips notwithstanding).

There was a game that did folk horror quite well, but I can't remember it. I'll let you know if I can recall it

Got your PM, thanks. Will check it out and get back to you. Thanks.

Wicca and modern paganism, mainly because that would bring in a whole other kettle of New Age fish

Definitely not.

pH

 

[Phyrebrat]

V2

Rosemary woke in midnight darkness praying the distant noise in her mind was a hangover from a bad dream. Restless from too much cider and no company in her bed she pulled the scratchy homespun blanket from wobbly, clammy legs, and sat up. The ancient wire frame squeaked in rhythm with her heavy breathing. Outside, a small animal clattered through the undergrowth.
Though the half moon shone through her cottage’s buckled windows, the single bedroom remained hidden in darkness. Her alarm clock flashed 88:88.

Great, fuse’s blown.

Covered with her jeans and jumper, the old fiddleback chair by the bedroom door loomed like a squatting monk. On her way to it she narrowly avoided a twisted ankle when she stumbled on the milking stool she used as a foot rest.
She lashed out, kicking the stool aside, praying whichever long-dead family member it had belonged to wasn’t watching her from Heaven.

Hell, more like.

She pulled on her clothes, left the bedroom and hurried downstairs, grateful that the squeaks from the cambered floorboards of the landing obscured the distant noise in her mind.

It’s too soon. Too early.

Yes, it was; it seemed the Goodfellows planted their crops earlier each year, so she wouldn’t be surprised if the little green shoots were already spearing their way skywards from the chalky soils. Still, she had to be sure.
Snatching up her keys and phone, she crept into the night, checking up and down the small cluster of cottages lining each side of the cul-de-sac for signs of life. Thankfully there were none. She turned left onto Lockeridge Strand, wading through a ground mist that in moments had soaked the lower part of her jeans.

Up ahead the moon had lowered, and now sat atop Goldenpuck Hill like a cold beacon beckoning her, reminding her of her impending, hateful duty. She followed Lockeridge Strand as it carved its way through the patchwork of looming brown fields to either side, from which the sweet stink of sh*t rolled downwards.

The noise grew a touch louder.

She stopped and tilted her head, listening. It was getting louder already, it was unnecessary to check, but a ridiculously optimistic voice inside encouraged her onwards. After all, she'd not seen the Goodfellows' red and blue tractor chugging along sowing its wailing cargo; that usually took days.

'The first fruits of thy labours which thou hast sown in the field,' she said automatically, impressed with her memories of Sunday School; those happy days before Heather... and before the Sage had inserted herself into Rosemary's life. She had to stop this; thinking about her poor sister and the Sage - let alone the start of the noise - would have her sticking her head in the oven...

The Aga would just give you a nasty tan.

Right now, at this subtle level, the encroaching noise sounded more like wavelets lapping the sands of Loewe; she had, what, about ten days till those ripples became something altogether different, something that—

A lorry thundered past her, its horn a clarion that could wake the dead behind the stones at West Kennet, and she yelped, scrambling into a cruel hedgerow. Why the hell wasn’t he on the A4? she thought stupidly as she watched the rear lights soften into a diffused red glow.

What matters is you didn't even hear it coming.

Hope against hope, she carried onwards till she reached the stile at the base of Goldenpuck Hill which she vaulted easily over. As she trudged up the hill, wet grass flickered and whispered at her calves till she reached the top.

Beyond, Sickle Field sprawled outwards all the way to the Goodfellows' farm, though it was hidden from view under the ground mist. In the absence of the whispers of the grass, silence settled briefly before the sound reasserted itself in her mind, spiralling out from somewhere in the centre of her head.

That was it then; for the next two months she could kiss sleep goodbye.

Tubby Cribbard and the rest of the soul-cakers would no doubt be pissing themselves with excitement if they knew she’d already heard the wheat, and at this thought she dropped to her knees, her face on the ground, and wept freely.
An urge to slap, punch, tear at her flesh swept over her; a self-loathing that was so easy to forget in autumn or winter - even late summer right after the Sickling - but Heather’s face floated up in her mind’s eye, the details sketchier with each passing day, her sister now reduced to just kind grey eyes and tumbling black curls. A sense of duty, of Divine penance blotted out Rosemary’s self-pity.

But…
What if she were to leave? Run to Loewe or Salisbury?
Just like you plan to every year, you mean?
No more Straw Crow, no more threat of the Red Pwceh, no more Black Peter or morrismen, but most of all, no more summer nights filled with the agonised screams of wheat.
You’d miss the bloody cottage, too.