Why You Need a Critique Group

 I meet with OCFictionaires bi-monthly. I found and joined the group about 15 years ago. You can read more about them here and here.

They make me a better writer (and also a better person.) I love what they do for my stories, and the bonus is I enjoy their company. I'm posting what I read last night followed by their feedback.

First, a brief recap:

This is from chapter two of book four of my Small Town series. There are dual timelines. There’s a modern-day story and also the story of when Max and Bailey first met twelve years earlier. In the first chapter, we’re introduced to Max and Bailey in current day. Bailey has shown up at a community fundraiser, The Policeman and Fireman’s Ball, looking for Max. She tells Jamie and Belle, the couple from book three, that she’s Max’s wife. There’s also a flashback to twelve years prior to Bailey trespassing on a piece of property Max’s family owns and considering asking if she could rent the abandoned barn. While there, she sees Max, a guy she knows from the university, and runs away without speaking to him. It’s also important to note that Bailey’s sister and brother-in-law had died six months earlier. The brother-in-law had broken all contact with his family because he thought they were crooks. Six year-old-Layla had been left under Bailey’s grandmother’s care, but Lady G, Bailey’s grandmother, is sickly. (Lyme disease.)

 

CHAPTER TWO FOR FICTIONAIRES

They say still waters run deep. Which is another way of saying don't judge a book by its cover. The bible says it this way, The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

I wish I had done a better job of studying my scriptures all those years ago when I first met Max, because I could have used that counsel. Sure, the Lord was talking about King David, but he could have been talking about anyone.

 Max seemed quiet and laidback, but inside, he was a bundle of deep thoughts and strong emotions. A super complex personality. So, just because his face looks as impassive as Mount Rushmore, that doesn't mean he’s shallow. Appearances can be deceiving. There's a lot more going on beneath Max’s beautiful surface. I should have dug a little deeper and really gotten to know him before marrying him.

Max had always been an impossible poker opponent. Not that we played much poker, but he’d also been an impossible read during Scrabble—a game we had often played during our brief time together.

I placed my fingers on my lips to keep them from trembling, because I wasn’t as good at hiding my emotions as he was. Why had I ever thought that meeting him again in the crowded setting would be a good idea?

But it hadn’t been my idea. I blamed Jess. Her degree in operational behavior led her to believe she knew all the best techniques in handling awkward social situations. And this was definitely awkward. Until Max smiled and held out his arms for a hug.

I fell against him. He was solid. Safe. Warm. And still smelled of leather and cloves. His arms held me against him and my thoughts went back to that one night. The last night.

Max drew away and took my hand. “Come on. Let’s talk outside.”

The curious gazes of his brother, friends, and neighbors followed us through the barn’s wide doors.

Max pulled me to the dark side of the barn. The cold December air bit my skin. Moonlight sparkled on the snow and an owl called from the nearby woods.

“So, twelve years later and you’re finally ready to admit to marrying me?” He didn’t sound as angry as I thought he might, but he did drop my hand, sending a chill up my arm.

Why had I let Jess convince me this was the best course of action?

Take the upper hand, she had said. Start in a place of power.

But I had always been the weak one in our relationship. I had hoped that now, after all these years, it might be different. I might be different. And, yet, here I was, feeble-kneed and tongue-tied standing in front of him, ready to ask another impossible favor.

“You’re here for a divorce,” Max said, his voice steady and as conversational as if he were asking if I wanted a cup of coffee.

“N-no,” I stammered. “Unless, of course, that’s what you want. I owe you that much…”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said, smiling at me, looking genuinely happy to see me.

Why did he always have to be so nice? I had forgotten that too-good-to-be-true quality that had made it so easy to make all of those long-ago mistakes…

I swallowed hard. I wasn’t that person anymore, and, yet, here I was and here he was…

“It’s Layla,” I said. “She’s missing.”

 

TWELVE YEARS EARLIER

 

I loved my sister. Her death left a huge, gaping hole in my life. I missed her every day when I heard or saw something funny I wanted to share with her. I missed her every day when a disappointment hit and I wanted her to commiserate with me.

But as much as I loved her, as much as I missed her, there was a small evil part of me that resented her for upending my life. For abandoning me and leaving me myself to care for the two people I loved most in the world. One of whom trotted by my side, holding onto me with one hand, and clutching her ridiculous Frisbee with the other.

Together we navigated through The University of Washington’s bustling quad. Sunlight filtered through the towering trees, casting patterns on the manicured lawns. I took a deep breath when we rounded a corner and the Fine Arts Building came into view. Meeting my professor with my niece in tow wasn’t ideal, but what choice did I have?

Layla tugged at my hand and used her Frisbee to point at a group of students gathered on the lawn. Their laughter and Cold Play’s A Sky Full of Stars coming from a vintage boombox made my heart skip.

A friend had played the song on his cello at Danica and Parker’s funeral. An unconventional choice, but since it had also been sung at their wedding, it seemed more appropriate than any of the hymns the funeral director had suggested.

Layla’s stiffening told me she recognized the music, too.

Lost in memories, I barely noticed Max emerging from the nearby tech center. His presence caught me off guard.

Layla, ever perceptive, gave him a shy smile.

"You again,” Max greeted, his voice a familiar echo from the physical science class we’d shared my sophomore year.

"Max," I replied, a mix of surprise and uncertainty lingering in my tone.

As if sensing my roiling emotions, Layla looked up at me with questioning eyes, reminding me I had somewhere to be.

“I’m Layla,” she said, extending her hand in a formal gesture that made her seem like an old, very short, business man.

“Max Haywood.” His big hand engulfed Layla’s small one and he stooped to look her in the eye.

My gaze went back toward the Fine Art’s Center. "I've got a meeting with Professor Anderson," I explained, my gaze drifting toward Layla.

Max's eyes softened as he looked at her. "No worries. I can watch her for a bit.”

“You would do that?”

“Sure. If you’ll tell me what you were doing on my property yesterday.”

Of course, there had to be a catch…everything and everyone has a price…I hesitated, but Layla took a step toward Max.

“I like your watch.” She pointed at the Mickie Mouse attached to Max’s wrist.

“And I like your Frisbee,” Max replied, nodding at the space ship designed toy cradled in Layla’s arms.

“I found it at the dog park,” Layla told him. “All of the other dogs had left and Buster told me I could have it.”

“Buster?” Max asked.

“He’s George’s boxer. Do you like boxers?”

“I’ve never met one that could talk,” Max said.

“George says all dogs communicate, but most can’t talk, like Buster.”

Max and I exchanged glances.

The bell tower sounded, reminding me I was going to be late. Unlike Buster, it really could talk—or at least tell time.

"Thank you, Max," I said, the gratitude genuine.

Layla and Max strolled toward a sunny spot on the lawn, and I jogged toward the Fine Arts Center. Cold Play’s music followed me, a happy song, but a grim reminder of the funeral and the pastor’s words.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

                      Hath had elsewhere its setting,

                         And cometh from afar:

                      Not in entire forgetfulness,

                      And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

                      From God, who is our home:*

William Wordsworth. Ode: Intimations of Immortality.  A sleep and a forgetting. Sometimes, I wished I could sleep and forget…But then I thought of Layla and Lady G. Without me, who would look out for them?

 

*MAX

Who was this child? Was she Bailey’s? Where was the dad? Anger for this unknown, irresponsible loser ripped through me.

“Will you introduce me to George and Buster sometime?” I asked the child. I didn’t tell her I wanted to beat George to a pulp.

Layla had Bailey’s creamy pink skin and caramel colored hair. They were related somehow. Bailey couldn’t be that much older than me, could she? Teenage pregnancies did happen, but I hoped it hadn’t happened to Bailey. Not that I would wish Layla out of existence, but Bailey had a whip-smart wit and, when we had worked together in Physical Science, she’d been in class as steady as the Bunsen burners. But I hadn’t seen her recently.

And then she’d shown up at the farm—and took off without speaking to me. What was that about? Maybe the child knew…

Layla held the Frisbee up. “Wanna play?”

“Huh, sure, but not here. We’ll have to find an open space.” My gaze swept over the quad and the clusters of lounging students. This happened whenever there was a rare sunny Seattle day, the students sprouted like mushrooms over the lawns.

Layla planted her tiny sneakers on the cement. “We can’t go too far or Bailey won’t be able to find us.”

Bailey…not mom. So, who was George?

“I’ll go easy on you,” Layla marched onto the quad as if she knew I would follow.

I did.

Layla found a patch of unclaimed lawn and pointed at it. “You stand here.”

I followed her instructions and watched her back away from me.

“You have to focus,” she informed me. “Keep your eyes on the Frisbee.”

“I’ve played before.”

“Not with me,” she said in a serious tone.

“True. But I play football with some really big guys.”

Layla placed her hands on her hips and gave me a don’t be stupid glare. “Do I look like a big guy?”

“No, but—”

“The trick to playing Frisbee is paying attention. Buster is really good at Frisbee. Do you think you can be as good as Buster?”

I had a mental image of a boxer flying and snatching the Frisbee out of the air. “Probably not.”

“Do your best. That’s all anyone can do,” Layla said, sounding a lot like my mom.

Layla contemplated me for a long moment, then tossed the Frisbee behind her and over her head.

I sprinted past her, but, of course, couldn’t reach it before it crashed to the ground.

Layla chortled and dashed for the Frisbee. She plucked it up and wiped off a few free-loading grass shoots. “Max is a loser!”

“You cheated.”

“I did not!” she said, looking indignant.

“You threw it behind you.”

“So what?”

“That’s not how you play.”

“Say’s who?”

I waggled my fingers. “Give to me, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“You have to earn it,” Layla announced. “It’s still my turn to throw it because you’re a loser.”

“I am not—” I began.

“You didn’t catch it, did you?”

“No, but—”

Without waiting for me to finish my sentence, Layla tossed the Frisbee toward a couple spread out on a blanket.

I darted after the Frisbee, but the guy easily caught it before me.

“Loser!” Layla called out, laughing.

“Sorry, dude,” the guy said. “Looks like you need to up your game.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I grumbled.

“We’re rooting for you,” the girl said, flashing her dimples at me.

Layla gave the couple a hostile glance. “This is our game,” she informed them. “Max needs to learn how to focus,” she said, as if I was a puppy that needed to be house broken.

After fifteen minutes, I had yet to catch the Frisbee, but I had worked up a sweat, and we’d gained an audience. The crowd cheered every time Layla tossed the Frisbee and, with even more enthusiasm, booed when I missed the throw. Spurned on by her fans, Layla’s throws grew increasingly ridiculous.

Bailey emerged from the Fine Arts Center and my heart lifted at the sight of her. Her smile warmed when she caught sight of Layla. She trotted toward us.

When Layla spotted Bailey, her demeanor completely changed, she dropped the Frisbee, and she ran toward Bailey with her arms extended.

Bailey swept her up and swung her around. “We’re going to be okay,” she said, and I wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince—Layla, or herself.

“Thanks, Max,” Bailey said with a smile.

Layla encircled Bailey’s waist with her legs and laid her head on Bailey’s shoulders. I had a fleeting image of Bailey clinging to me that way and it hit me so sudden and sharp, it took my breath. “Any time.” The two words came out strangled and breathy.

I watched them walk away, Layla still clinging to Bailey like a koala. The child mouthed the word, loser, as her head bounced against Bailey’s shoulder.

Mike Payne (fantasy writer) was worried about the placement of the Frisbee. So I rewrote a couple of sentences. 

Layla placed her hands on her hips so the Frisbee stuck out a ninety-degree angle like a lever. She gave me a don’t be stupid glare. “Do I look like a big guy?”

AND:

Layla encircled Bailey’s waist with her legs and laid her head on Bailey’s shoulders. The Frisbee dangled from her fingers like a flag at half-mast. I had a fleeting image of Bailey clinging to me that way and it hit me so sudden and sharp, it took my breath.

Biff (who is writing a literary novel about stolen Russian gold) questioned I'd chosen the word ridiculous to describe the Frisbee. Since my goal was to illustrate how desperate their financial situation was that Layla's favorite toy was a Frisbee she'd rescued from a dog park, I reworded the sentence to:

One of whom trotted by my side, holding onto me with one hand, and clutching a half-chewed and dog-mangled Frisbee with the other.

Greta (author of the Mortician and Seven Deadly Sins murder mysteries) was concerned about Bailey trusting her young niece with a man she barely knew. Since this seemed like something that would also give me pause, I added this:

Max, the oldest of seven children, had tried to lead a group project without being interrupted by his host of younger siblings. The project had ended when a member of the class, Marc-someone, had attempted to demonstrate the properties of invisible ink using lemon juice. But, when it came time to reveal the messages under heat, Marc-someone accidentally set the paper on fire, sending smoke billowing across the kitchen and prompting a hasty evacuation as the smoke alarm blared. What stuck with me was how when everyone else went scrambling out the door, Max quickly marshalled his siblings into a well-oiled battalion, directing the next older brother to take his little sisters outside while the another was sent in search of the fire extinguisher. Max used a pitcher of water to put out the flames. By the time his parents had returned, only a whiff of smoke lingered in the air to tell of the near disaster.

I knew I could trust Max with Layla, but could I trust Layla with Max?

Terry (a horror writer best known for writing the screenplay Dead Heat) wondered if a six-year-old was too big to carry. I assured him that six-year-old girls, if they're small, are indeed portable.

These might not seem like monumental changes, but even small things can wrench a reader out of story. The more engaged the reader remains, the more satisfying the story.

How about you? If you were in my critique group, what suggestions would you offer?