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.
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First 250 words
Title: A Season on the Piste
Genre: Memoir (written as a novel)
Puddles reflected the amber street-lights, proceed with caution they winked. Roger, my partner of ten years, clambered from the taxi, his once lithe physique lurking beneath recent excesses. The silver Skoda merged back into the traffic, disappearing, like our former lives. Our new life, together, would launch from this inauspicious Reading car park.
Late November dusk chilled my naked neck where auburn locks had lain only days before. Short tufts now demonstrated a low maintenance style, reducing the opportunity for wet hair to freeze in Alpine temperatures, with little time for lengthy blow-dries. I had yet to embrace my grey, the tinges reflected an absence of fripperies, like hair-dye, in this frugal lifestyle.
“Is this a massive mistake?” I said. “Is it too late to go home?”
“Yep,” Roger replied.
My chest tightened, I exhaled slowly, tried to lower tense shoulders, I could do this, another long breath out. We lingered on the periphery of a throng, well-travelled suitcases alluded to a common factor, packed in one life, to be opened in another. Through the gloom multi-layered figures stomped the ground in over-sized boots, cosy hats bobbed and arms draped around shoulders.
“They look fairly normal, I don’t feel so dowdy now.”
“Why did you?” Roger asked.
“You know, glitz, glamour, beautiful people and all that stuff."
“No.”
He scrutinised the replenishing snake of coaches, diesel fumes invaded nostrils and engines drowned conversations as a succession of willing victims climbed the illuminated steps.
Page critique 4/29/21
- Nathan Bransford
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