Developmental Edit #5

A meander into setting

The next story we’re going to take a look at was primped and polished but still could never make it beyond submission call. The premise was fun—a young man running from trouble who learned the hard way that the winter forest was not accepting of everyone. The action was enticing. The characters were well-rounded.

The issue remained: what was it that was causing it to be rejected? It’s a tough place to be in when you think highly enough of your own story that you can’t find anything wrong with it, yet slush pile readers disagree.

However, it’s not as easy as doing yet another read-through. The problems are always so deeply ingrained in your own habits you’re blind to them. Which is where editors come in. [Waves hello.]

Follow along as we provide insight as to why this story didn’t make it over early publishing hurdles.

…

Desolation Dues

Day 1 [This is a good way to let us know events are likely going to intensify over a handful of days. This won’t take place over months or years. That usually means it’ll have a fast pace.]

Swaths of tall pines funneled Landon further north as he outran his old life. It would never catch him now. [Decent opening line. It clues us into what’s going on and what the character’s current outlook is. It also foreshadows that he’s probably wrong about that latter part.]

He rode the gas pedal, racing along a lonely stretch of asphalt highway. The sky dimmed with evening and the trees blurred as his car growled with pleasure. Thick handfuls of ashy cotton clouds hovered low like they were going to catch on the tips of the pines.

Landon curled nail-bitten fingers into his beard, enjoying the scratch of it and the way the cold air brushed it side to side like he was a man at sea. His open windows baptized him in frigid air. [While that final line is lovely, we are getting to the point where we’re hungry for substance beyond setting.]

A cracked and mossy No Trespassing sign rushed past, signaling it was time to turn off the highway and onto a rickety, frost-battered road. Landon massaged the brakes and reeled in his horsepower.

As a kid, Landon always felt like the road to Arthur’s digested people. It swerved and curled enough that you could never get your speed right. The narrowest passage peaked on a hill where you couldn't see what was coming over the top. And as soon as you thought you were in the clear, a deer would bound from the trees and throw itself headfirst at your windshield. [None of this is wrong, per se, but it’s not making us feel tugged along, like we trust the writer has control. The direction we should be heading at this point is into the thick of the problem at hand. Yet, we’re still stuck in the opening credits.]

In this kind of country, you got where you were going by riding the brakes. And for the first time in Landon’s life, his brakes didn’t squeal. [Good character clue.]

The side of the road dropped off into a rocky creek bed before devolving into a single gravel lane, pitted with potholes. Landon’s prissy car complained as he wound up the drive. He rolled up his windows and settled his fingers on the six-o-clock edge of the steering wheel. His teeth clenched a little tighter.

What if Arthur said no?

Landon wouldn’t let him. Couldn’t. [Our first character dynamic, almost 300 words in and it’s not even real action or dialogue.]

The path spilled into a clearing where a slouchy all-wood cabin braced itself for winter. Its little half-shuttered windows squinted at Landon. The wood pile bristled to the roof like raised hackles. The tree line leaned in, swearing there was no such thing as the sun.

Landon parked the car.

The front door banged open and Arthur stepped out with a shotgun in his hand. That was the way of the folk up here, swinging guns around like they were dowsing rods.

If my 12-gauge don’t like you, I don’t like you.

“Who’s that?!” Arthur shouted from the deck.

“It’s me, Uncle Artie. It’s Landon.” Climbing out of the car, Landon exaggerated his smile to try and hide his sheepishness. Out in the cold, his breath puffed in billows of white smoke.

“Landon?? What in the burning heat of hell are you doing up here?” [A quip attuned to cold weather instead of hot would have been more fitting.] Arthur lowered the gun but brought up a wagging finger, “City had a meltdown, didn’t it?”

“No, I--”

“It was a bioweapon, I bet.”

“No, Art. City’s fine. Same as it’s always been, anyway. Um. Can I come in?”

Arthur eyed him. “You bring stuff?” It wasn’t a question about hospitality--such a thing had little worth out here--but a question about intention. [Nice.]

“A little.” In fact, Landon had packed his entire life, and he hadn’t needed more than his trunk to do it.

Arthur pointed with his gun barrel. “Where’d you get the car?”

“I bought it,” Landon said. He couldn’t help the pride that leaked into his voice. [This is another good insight into Landon’s situation, but we need more. We’re not sure how to feel about things yet.]

…

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