Page critique 4/1/21

Offer up your page (or query) for Nathan's critique on the blog.
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Nathan Bransford
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Page critique 4/1/21

Post by Nathan Bransford » March 29th, 2021, 1:37 pm

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.

August 1995
Stunning views of Idaho's Rocky Mountain foothills and the breadth Lake Coeur d’Alene softened Claudia’s morning memories of her size-four mother and sycophant brother. It was a warm summer afternoon in mid-August as she strolled the well-trod trail around Tubbs Hill, a city park--a fat hill of peninsula--that jutted from the resort town of Coeur d’Alene and out into the lake. She loved to stroll the easy walk that circled the hill. Lake breezes hummed through White pines. Water grazed ancient granite boulders with surges and splash. Nattering of chipmunks echoed the crunch of her shoes on the dirt path.

"The sheriff has money for a beach patrol?” she said aloud. Below the trail on the beach, Claudia spotted a shiny steel sheriff's launch pulled up on golden sand. Two people in uniforms worked their way back and forth over the beach area with rakes and plastic bags. A third examined trashcans. She continued around the hill towards town until yellow "crime scene" tape blocked the trail. On the water, two more boats with the county's crest bobbed in light chop.

A young deputy at the barrier announced, "Sorry, Ma'am. Sheriff's investigation. You'll have to go back." Claudia gritted her teeth at the "Ma'am." Down on the water, she saw a drag rope off the stern of one of the Sheriff's boats.

"Oh, god. Someone's drowned."

"Don't know, Ma'am.”

Claudia fixated on the water, mesmerized by the silvery metal boats of the Marine Patrol. A diver in full wet suit emerged to stand on barely submerged rocks. Waves from power boats and skiers made his balance precarious. He signaled to someone up on the trail, far inside the taped-off area in front of her.

Claudia followed the silent communication to a lanky man, his face shaded by a battered Stetson that barely hid graying teak-brown hair. He stood just off the trail; cowboy-booted foot planted on a granite boulder. She recognized his form before his face came into focus.

Frank Adams. The Sheriff was personally directing this operation. He signaled a thumbs-up to the diver and glanced up the trail.

She did not see his look of recognition. Overcome by a rush of blush, she turned away, forcing her attention to the action below. Frank Adams…She couldn’t believe it. He looked as if he were wearing the same plaid shirt and worn jeans he’d inhabited in high school.

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