Page critique 7/30/20

[Nathan Bransford]

Below is the page up for critique on the blog on Thursday. Feel free to chime in with comments, create your own redline (please note the "font colour" button above the posting box, which looks like a drop of ink), and otherwise offer feedback. When offering your feedback, please please remember to be polite and constructive. In order to leave a comment you will need to register an account in the Forums, which should be self-explanatory.

I'll be back later with my own post on the blog and we'll literally be able to compare notes.

If you'd like to enter a page for a future Page Critique, please do so here.

Title: Sutton's Choice
Genre: Women's Fiction

The cramped window seat offered Charlotte Sutton a partial view of Pittsburgh’s Roberto Clemente Bridge, its girded, straw-colored arches a staple of the city of black and gold. If she pressed her cheek against the glass, she could even glimpse a corner of the baseball stadium.

Ironic, really. She hated baseball. She’d always hated baseball—something she was certain her athletic father would never acknowledge about his only daughter.

Charlotte’s cellphone buzzed.

419 area code. Lakeside, Ohio.

Had she wished it upon herself? With precision, she placed the phone face-down on the windowsill, set aside her laptop, grabbed her coffee cup, and drained the last bitter mouthfuls of lukewarm liquid as she hurried to the kitchen. Plunking the ceramic mug into the sink, she scowled down at the sailboat etched onto its side. Her small-town, Lake Erie roots never failed to haunt her.

It’s nothing.

Just a telemarketer.

Charlotte shrugged at the thought, knowing it to be otherwise. She’d ignored several random calls from her hometown in recent weeks—hang-ups from what she assumed to be her father’s cell number, an unlikely occurrence on any day of any week of any month.

Either Chuck wanted to talk to her or he didn’t.

The previous evening, some kid—some teenager, Charlotte assumed—had also left a cryptic message asking her to call about Chuck. Sounding nervous, he’d hung up without giving his name. Charlotte hadn’t responded. If some star-struck, wannabe baseball player was looking for her esteemed father’s advice, address, autograph, or approval, he was looking in the wrong dugout.