My First Sf Novelette

[Myself]

I am an aspiring writer, and have recently finished my first relatively long piece of writing - a novellete entitled Mirage. As of now, my novelette is 21,500 words long and about 103 pages. It is science fiction in theme and so far, I have submitted it to two magazines (F&SF and Analog) only to have it rejected by both. Because editors no longer have time to write meaningful rejection slips nowadays, I haven't been getting much feedback on how to make my stories better. Right now I'm 17 and I'm a senior in high school - I want to be a writer but I know that I will have to educate myself mostly (although The Art of Fiction has been a tremendous help). Since I value the opinions of many members of this forum I was wondering whether anyone could take the time to read my novelette and give me the roughest, most critical appraisal you can - I want brutal honesty (I promise I won't be offended). If anyone is interested in reading my work I can PM you a PDF version of my story as per request. The only other request I have, is that if I PM you my work, that you eventually give me some sort of criticism. Thank you in advance and I deeply appreciate those who take time to give me a response.

Edited January 23, 2006 by Myself

[Unconquered]

I tried my hand at writing SF a (very) long time ago and submitted a few stories to Isaac Asimov's SF Mag, when George Scithers was the editor. I actually received a specific typewritten postcard rejecting the first submission, but only printed standard rejection slips after that.

I would strongly suggest that you focus on writing short stories rather than something as long as a novel or novelette. Short-shorts would be even better (i.e., say, 1-4 pages long). There are arguments that it's actually more productive and challenging to write a good short story than a novel. I think you are much more likely to get feedback from editors or professional writers if your first stories are short enough to read in a reasonable time. As you note, they are busy people, and reading/commenting on a few pages is a lot faster than wading through 100 pages. It's probable that something of that size from an unproven writer will not even be read past the first few pages anyway, once a decision is made to reject it.

[DavidV]

I won’t promise to read it all, but I'd like to see it.

[Myself]

I won’t promise to read it all, but I'd like to see it.

Thanks GC, I'll PM you tonight.

[softwareNerd]

Here's a suggestion: post a short extract to the forum, as an advertisement to entice reveiwers.

[Myself]

Here is a sneak peak at my novelette:

The first Venusian Colony stops communicating...

"The sky was a wound, seeping rust colored blood across the horizon - the air, a dying man's red, haze wrapped vision of agony. Two figures stood out against the blasted wasteland, the withering heat bending and twisting the atmosphere, the sunless sky casting blurred shadows over an eternal twilight. All was still. The deathlike silence of the land assaulted the two, as the motionless plain of rocks and dirt broke their slumber only by the harsh winds blowing intermittently, picking up dust and moving for a time, and then stopping to lie still once more. Looking behind the two, was an assault against the purposelessness eternity of the landscape - a structure defiantly standing against the nightmare inferno, a structure untouched by the ceaseless wind and the aid of time - a dome hundreds of feet tall, and four miles in diameter, glinting dully in the faint light."

Three years earlier an expedition to the asteroid belt leaves one survivor

The radio still worked - it would have been better if it hadn't. Eon sat huddled in a corner awake - his morphine was gone. He consciously realized he could no longer smell it any longer but his mind didn't believe it - nothing but death would dull the stench from his brain. Stop, he ordered himself. Stop thinking, moving, breathing - just... die. It would be the honorable thing to do. He tried it. He knew it wouldn't work - his body, unbidden, drew air, the stench along with it. His hands were a rusted red, caked with blood.

"I won't do it anymore" he said. His shrunken stomach gurgled in protest. His bone thin arms and legs stripped of their fat, ached as they supported his greatly reduced body weight. Darkness crowded his eyes. He fought back, struggling to clear his vision. He crawled forward inch by agonizing inch and his hand made contact with his one chance of survival. His body took over, greedily chewing and swallowing, chewing and swallowing, juices running down his mouth onto his chin. The meat was almost gone. He dropped the arm, a gold band on one finger hitting the steel floor with a metallic clink. On an impulse he crawled to the porthole and looked out - an endless plain of rock; above him endless darkness. Thirty more days. He felt something stirring in him. Dimly, he realized it was anger. His mind focused on one thing. A name hung on his lips. Davidson!"

A renowned biologist returns from the jungle only to be contacted by a person he never wanted to see again...

"Tired and exhausted, triumphant - mix those all together and it still wouldn't approach what he felt. It was a weariness that after seeping into his bones seemed to eat away at his very being, sinking into every cell; it was the best feeling in the world. Gerry looked around his apartment and didn't recognize it - the door had been locked for almost two years. He brushed at the layers of dust on his couch, sank into the soft cushions, and set his bag down on the ground. A pair of furry ears poked out from the slightly undone zipper and a long lean body with brown fur emerged from the bag to prowl old territory, his tomcat, Jack.

He felt his mind relax, and in a flash, it all caught up with him in the rush of memory. His mind, incapable of forgetting anything, replayed every detail, every sensation. It was both a gift and a curse - perfect recall but without any control. He was in comfortable surroundings, but the adrenaline pumped and he felt the vise-like grip of death, daring him to make a mistake. His breathing became shallow, his eyes dilated. Death! So much of it and he still had never grown accustomed to it.

He could vividly feel the brush of wet leaves against his arm as he made his way through the jungle, his feet squishing through the muck. It had happened so fast, a normal person would have been dead before he could react. It struck from above, propelling itself from a low-hanging branch aiming for Gerry's neck. His trained senses and reflexes were just slightly slower and he turned and pulled a pistol out of his belt in one fluid motion. His finger hit the trigger just as the scimitar-like fangs made contact with his skin. They pierced his hand and sunk deep into his flesh, just as his pistol efficiently decapitated its head. With a barely stifled moan, he dropped the gun and with his other hand pried the head from his skin as the blood started to spurt. In panic, he checked to see if it had punctured an artery but it hadn't. He recognized the snake instantly of course; it was Dispholidus typus, the jet-black boomslang, one of the deadliest snakes in the world. The first thing he did was check to see if it had a foodball in its body, but as he picked the snake up, he saw it was flat. Damn! That meant that it hadn't eaten recently and its venom had been full. He sucked desperately at the wound trying to draw the venom out. He felt fine but he knew that by tomorrow he'd be dead if he didn't administer the antivenin soon. He opened his pouch, pulled out an ampoule of the serum, injected it into his arm, and cursed, knowing that he needed twice that dosage to counteract the venom. The other vial had shattered several months back and it would be at least three days to the next village. He just had to hope...

He shivered now, thinking how close he had come, thinking of the dozen other near-death accidents he had escaped. The room was dark and he absently rubbed at the scar on his left hand. The only thing he wanted to do was relax and escape, if only for a little while, the memories that seemed to have a life of their own. He flicked on the television."

Only to get an unexpected phone call...

"This better be good" he said into the receiver, mustering as much annoyance as possible into his voice.

When he put down the phone, he was no longer even remotely tired. A name hung on his lips. Davidson!

All of these events are caused by one man - Davidson!

"TEN YEARS EARLIER

"It is the unanimous decision of the board that Mr. Ernest Davidson be expelled from the Ph.D program."

Davidson stood there, his eyes blank, his hands clenched into fists as he received his sentence. Suddenly his eyes lit up and he heard his voice - calm, persuasive.

"Gentlemen - this is all a big misunderstanding. Gerry and I are friends - I would never do anything to hurt him. You must also know that I was the one who reached the summit and retrieved the specimen. It was my discovery not his. Sure, he may have helped me find it - but I got there first - I found it. If I thought that he'd have been in trouble, I would have rushed to help him. But I didn't know - besides, it was those sherpas, and, and..."

"Please Mr. Davidson don't embarrass yourself anymore than you have to. Some board members actually thought to merely suspend you, due to your perfect academic record, but we have new evidence now that you may have been less than trustworthy..."

"What! What has he been telling you?! What did Gerry tell you?!"

"Now, Mr. Davidson we cannot divulge our sources..."

"- I know it was him! How could he do that to me?!"

"Mr. Davidson, please gather your belongings and vacate the University grounds. Gerald has graciously agreed not to press charges, but this was the most we could do for you...

Davidson left the room quickly and quietly, no longer protesting, no longer scared. It was over. He stepped out into the brisk autumn day and onto the street, completely penniless. He had no prospects, no real skills. The bite of the wind was cold against his face, but he was burning inside. He had one goal."

If you want to read about the mystery of Mirage, PM me to get the full story...

Edited January 24, 2006 by Myself

[hunterrose]

I'm interested.

[RichardRahl]

I would like to read it.

[JMeganSnow]

Myself, I'll read your novellette, but how much criticism do you want? Even in the short you've posted I've noticed some grammatical errors. I'm willing to give a LOT of criticism, I mean, down to the nuts-and-bolts of sentence structure, but it will take a LONG time.

My only personal request is that you take my criticism as-is. You can do what you like with it, but I will NOT sit down and argue with you over whether I'm right or not. I'll tell you what I think, and then you can use that, perhaps, to help you iron out what YOU think and thus what you want to DO, if anything.

My advice, such as it is, is kind of the opposite of Unconquered, actually. Novels are easier to write than short stories, but they require more commitment.

If you stop by my blog and check out my Fiction entries, you'll see what I'm doing: breaking up a longer work into a bunch of short parts that I can write in one afternoon. I don't have to worry about making each piece self-contained (and on a blog, it doesn't matter that I don't edit them very much, either), and I don't have to think about 200+ pages worth of future story at this point.

I'm thinking about the possibility of turning my blog into a website where several authors will post various fiction serials that they're working on (along with various other stuff), but that's a ways off, maybe a year or more, because first I'm looking to make at least somewhat of a name for myself as a blogger, and I'd have to learn just a little bit (meaning, a LOT) more about website administration.

It's an experiment of sorts. I've noticed that a lot of writers obsess about getting something published. Well, heck, I can publish myself. I might not make any money at this stage, but I'm getting my work out there where people can read it and decide for themselves what they think.

[Myself]

Myself, I'll read your novellette, but how much criticism do you want? Even in the short you've posted I've noticed some grammatical errors. I'm willing to give a LOT of criticism, I mean, down to the nuts-and-bolts of sentence structure, but it will take a LONG time.

Jennifer - I appreciate any criticism you can give me. My focus is simply getting better at this point - and please, if you spot grammatical errors then point them out! I have trouble editing such a long manuscript, and since I've already read what I've written dozens of times, I don't always notice the errors anymore. Again, I don't shy away from any sort of criticism and I won't argue either way. Thanks in advance - a copy is on its way to you.

Edited January 27, 2006 by Myself