02 March 2022
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Under the Microscope extra
A reader's novel opening goes under the editorial microscope
Read our suggested rewrite of a reader's first 300 words and for the full critique, see the April issue of Writing Magazine.
Dancing with Fire by Emily Foster-Tomkinson - original version
It started like most unexpected tragedies start; uneventfully. The day was grey and overcast with a constant stream of drizzle that did nothing to dampen Zoe’s spirits. The forest was a wash of reds, oranges and yellows. Leaves were falling as quickly as the rain and the smell of damp foliage mixed with that of bonfire smoke that seemed to be constantly around that time of year.
“Aren’t you cold?” said Oliver, looking at Zoe in just her jumper. The son of a mother from Berkshire and a father from Edinburgh, Oliver’s accent constantly swapped from English to Scottish, sometimes mid-sentence.
“A bit,” she admitted. “But I don’t mind the cold. It reminds me I’m alive.”
“Most people don’t need reminding.”
“Yeah they do, they just don’t realize it. It’s why people like rollercoasters and scary films. Reminds them they’re more than a drone working in a boring box.”
They stopped talking while they tried to navigate a patch of marshy ground without sinking up to their knees.
“George asked Jess out the other day,” said Zoe, leaping onto a rock sticking out of the mud.
“Finally. How long has everyone been saying they should get together?”
“She said no,” replied Zoe, jumping from the rock to the solid ground. Misjudging her footing, she slipped and had to put her foot back to steady herself. Her trainer sank into the stinking mud, filling with goop and freezing water.
“Why would she say no?” said Oliver, as Zoe cursed and tried to wipe the dirt and water off with a handful of fallen leaves. Zoe shrugged and wiped her hands on her jumper.
“Because she doesn’t like him like that. They’re friends.”
McCredited version
Zoe wanted to walk even though the day was grey and overcast with a drifting haze of drizzle. The forest, though, was a blaze of reds, oranges and yellows. Leaves were plopping wetly to the earth and the smell of damp foliage was mixed with bonfire smoke. A typical Autumn day.
“Aren’t you cold?” said Oliver, looking at Zoe’s moisture-beaded russet jumper.
“A bit,” she said. “But I don’t mind the cold. It reminds me I’m alive.”
“Most people don’t need reminding.”
“Yeah they do. They just don’t realize it. It’s why people like rollercoasters and scary films. Reminds them they’re more than drones in a boring cubicle.”
The path gave way to a patch of marshy ground whose pools were pocked with raindrops. It looked deep.
“George asked Jess out the other day,” she said, stepping carefully onto a rock amid the grassy water.
“Finally. How long has everyone been saying they should get together?”
“She said no,” said Zoe, jumping from the rock to drier ground. She almost made it, plunging one trainer into the stinking marsh where it filled with goop and freezing water.
“Why would she say no?” said Oliver as Zoe cursed and tried to wipe off the dirt with a twig.
She shrugged and cleaned her hands on her jumper. “Because she doesn’t like him like that. They’re just friends.”
Oliver sprang to the rock and then to the path, avoiding the marshy ground completely.
For the full critique, see the April issue of Writing Magazine