Years ago, when I was judging a contest, and asking older son for a second opinion, because I literally didn’t know how to select winners, period.
It will tell you the general quality of the writing that I ended up giving third prize to what we nicknamed “woman of kleenex.”
You see, there was this woman who was a maid in a Victorian house. The master made improper advances, so she ran. She ran up area stairs, and fell, and it tore holes in her skin. Then she reached the street…. Let’s say by the end of the chapter, she had massive tears in her skin, and was bleeding…. from things no one ever bled of. Mostly because our skin isn’t made of kleenex. If it were, we’d all have bled all day, and probably died of infection.
This rant is brought to you by reading another story yesterday in which a girl going hysterical at a full grown, muscular man not only made him lose an eye (believable since girls can have really long nails) but also breaks his arm, so that his bone protrudes.
Children, gentlemen, ladies and dragons: unless the girl were a giant or a circus freak, and the man was a tiny man, or perhaps had some wasting disease, she couldn’t break his arm to that point without oh, at least a broomstick or a mace. No, seriously.
I recognize the problem with this, and it makes me giggle, because I have a similar one: you see, I can’t remember sizes.
It’s like an endemic problem. I remember things as being wildly different sizes than they are. Including, yes, people.
The problem with this is that I also can’t imagine sizes. So, say, dragons, I have to keep continuously thinking about it to remember their size. Otherwise, they are the size of a bed, the size of a bus, the size of whatever at any given moment.
These people simply don’t have a sense of bodily integrity. And it makes me giggle. Because I wonder if the authors are afraid of walking out of their house, lest they tear to pieces.
Anyway, what is your big failing, and how does it impact your writing or your life?