All right. Everyone sitting down? Sharpen your number two pencils, bring out the composition books, spit out your gum and wipe your collective noses.

Always remember that this is not personal and that I’m not infallible. I could be and often am wrong. I might not be attuned to your subgenre. I might have missed your implication. Also I have had a blinding sinus headache since Sunday, so, you know, I’m flying by experience and intuition only. Rationality might have gone missing.

(WL, yes, I got the rewrite, but I might not get to read till the weekend. Sorry. I am in alligators up to my butt just now.)

Sample 1

“Bureaucracy is the bane of the supervillain.”

My name is Bill.  I’m a Fed.  I had been tasked with investigating [scary acronym] the correspondence school of choice for aspiring henchmen.  Officially, the supervillain gimmick was a metaphor, but we’d seen a lot of their graduates as unindicted co-conspirators. Somebody decided that we should look into it, and it was my lucky day. I was in my first class “Be the Dragon: Human Resources for Effective Organizations”.  The instructor continued.

CLASSES SHOULD NEVER BE HELD MID AIR SURROUNDED BY GREY FOG! This is your cue. After “. And before The Instructor, which should be in the next paragraph, give me an idea of what the classroom looks like. Since I hope to bog this is humor, be as inventive with the classroom as you wish. About three sentences, make it amusing.

“Bureaucracy exists to diffuse blame, so that none can be accountable.  Supervillainy concentrates blame into one point.  When you see a supervillain on the witness stand scoffing that ‘he couldn’t possibly have known that’, he’s telling the truth.  His support staff certainly did, but that was never the question.  The supervillain exists to shield his organization, so that it can accomplish superhuman things in his name.”

Break this paragraph with stage business. He points at the board. He looks out the window, he glowers at student chewing gum. whatevs. Make him a real person. Also, before or after, let us know whatever the heck the instructor looks like. I prefer my instructors to have a body. DO NOT give it a lush romance description, but remember that what this person looks like is part of the setting/mood inspiring/funny/scary/serious point of the whole thing.

He went on to name several celebrity CEOs to demonstrate his point.  I was not aware of any of them being supervillains.  Maybe they were.  Maybe they weren’t. But they were effective.  Mainly at shaking down the government, but their shareholders approved.

So, how does the class react to each name?

“Your magic number of staff is 25.  Kenneth Galbraith did some groundbreaking work showing that any organization inevitably becomes a bureaucracy before it comprises 35 people. (We’ll set aside his conclusion of “therefore socialize all the things!” as unproven and unhelpful.)  You’ll need to bring in specialists on occasion, to deal with inevitable nepotism, and some of your employees might not be the most socially apt, so you will need wiggle room.”

Again, could we have reaction?

* * *

It was Friday night, and I had homework.  The assignment was to write a personal mission statement. The professor stated that he expected none of us to qualify for the executive track. I didn’t want to do it.  I’ve seen enough of the vapid things, carefully weasel worded to commit to nothing, while opening up subordinates for summary dismissal.  So rather than do it, I was enjoying a nice cold beer.  Or two.  No more than three.

And he’s doing this? On his sofa? in the bar? Oh, Qwatch! Floating around in mid air again, without a body. Please, remember you have to sell the reader on this person existing and mattering. EVEN FOR SATIRE. Maybe particularly for satire. No Shakespearean descriptions — there tends to be a tendency to overcompensate when you start doing environment, but something. “I was at the fern bar in the corner, leaning over their bathroom-appliance-grey table, and looking out the window at giggling coeds.” whatevs.

While I watched the talking heads on the news channel assure us that there was no way the President’s direct order had caused the obvious consequence. 

Um…. We might need more than “the obvious consequence. If it’s the shooting of a family, I’d say so.

Screw it.  I didn’t want this stupid assignment.  I opened up the form to enter my answer. I’m not naive.  I know full well that other feds spent three years entrapping Randy Weaver, then killed most of his family in a tantrum when he refused to play ball.  There’s no shortage of people in my agency who would be better suited for this crap. I just want to protect regular people from criminals, and it’s criminals who write the laws.  The words “Power demands responsibility” looked lonely in the empty space.  I didn’t care.  I pushed “Send”, and went to bed.

* * *

There was pounding at my door.  Nobody yelled anything about a warrant, and I hadn’t irritated my boss recently, so I vaguely hoped some kind soul was bringing me coffee.  Stranger things have happened. I’ve read the reports.

Paragraph there. For the love of bog, don’t give me vast, indigestible walls of text. You want the paragraph there so the punchline lands.

I threw on some rumpled clothes, and looked through the peephole.  There was a deliveryman at my door, a very large one, in> livery UNIFORM (Unless this is taking place in an alternate regency England) <I didn’t recognize. 

Paragraph for impact.

He saw my shadow, and yelled “Delivery!” 

Ditto

Even through the door, it was hard on the ears.  I opened the door. 

Dittoissimo. Paragraphing, incidentally, for the class, in a work of fiction (or an essay with emotional impact and emphasis is not done strictly according to the rules, but because you want the words to be seen and felt. In the case of action/counteraction you might have one-line paragraphs. That’s fine. Not only does it give the impresiosn of action, but it mimmics “event/interjection” –>response and turn around again.

He looked me over, and asked “You Bill?”

I said I was pretty sure. 

He gave me the hairy eyeball, and shoved a clipboard at me with [scary acronym] letterhead, with a helpful picture of me, and a copy of my signature.  “Sign.  I get box from truck. Welcome executive.” 

I’m pretty sure the clipboard took my fingerprints when I took it.  It beeped and glowed green. I dutifully signed anyway. 

The box he came back with, was a wooden crate.  It had its own wheels. It barely fit through my front door. 

It would have helped if we had some idea what that front door looks like. No, seriously, like “I stumbled out of bed, across my crappy ikea living room and to my front door.” would do. Look, until you mentioned living room in the next paragraph, I thought he was in a hotel room/dorm.

He pushed it into the middle of my living room, gave me the instructions “Push red button to start.” and left.  I realized that I’d never before wished to own a crowbar, and went to find a hammer.  A certain amount of cursing and splinters later, there was a big metal box in the middle of my room.  With a big red button on one side, and a stencil that stated “KEEP AWAY FROM WALLS”.  By this time, I was a bit curious, and pushed the button. 

Paragrah, you! It’s not like you’re taxed per paragraph break!

The button lit up like a photocopier. Evidently, it was satisfied with my thumbprint, because there were loud thunks as it drove bolts into my floor.  So much for that deposit.  A small door slid open to reveal a screen that read “Now scanning for surveillance”, and green laser light swept the room.  There was a puff of smoke from the smoke detector, which failed to alarm, and another from an outlet I’d always found impractical. It really didn’t like my cell phone.  I was very happy not to have it in my pocket when it exploded in a cloud of burning sparks.  I checked later.  There were the remains of a camera in the smoke detector, and a microphone in the outlet.  I guess Snowden got the government a bit paranoid.  As to the cell phone, I’m sure you already know. 

The screen now said “initiating start up”. 

Paragraph

After a few seconds, a keyboard slid out, and the screen changed to read “Choose codename”.  I typed “Bill”. 

And yet again, like we paragraphed last time.

The computer-thing didn’t like that.  The screen turned red, and read “Error: Codename may not include any variation of actual identity”. 

Volta reverse paragraphing

I tried “Mole”.  It seemed appropriate.  Again, the red screen popped up.  “Error: Identity already taken.”  I thought for a moment, and typed “Worm”. 

Paragraphissimo, with gusto and Wagnerian music!

The computer seemed to think about it for a few seconds, then the screen turned green, and read “Identity accepted:  Your identity is now Wyrm”.  It flashed three times, then changed to read “Welcome to Wyrm Command, the ultimate resource for all your Supervillain needs!  To get started, press any key”. 

Now, how could I resist an invitation like that?

So, overall, this is decently written and shows promise, but you really can’t have this poor man float through grey goo with absolutely no body. I mean, it can — and should be very light, but remember it can enhance humor too. I assign you to read some Pratchett, or even, say P. J. O’Rourke’s All the Trouble In The World. Short, clippy, and if you can devastatingly funny. For instance, I don’t actually expect the instructor to have a duck on his head that no one ever refers to — Pratchett already covered that gag — but you can think of something like, I’m sure.

I do realize it’s supposed to be humor or satire, perhaps, but part of what lands the punch in humor is either an absurd premise and treating it absolutely seriously (what you have here) or a completely serious premise that you treat in a very silly way indeed. It’s one or the other. You don’t get to skimp on snesory detail and story telling just because it’s supposed to be funny. on the contrary. Particularly because you start with a class and we expect to be bored, you need to give us something that’s very strange to counterbalance it.

Also, for the love of heaven, paragraph.

Sample 2

Chapter 1: Monday, June 25^th, 2012, 2:00 PM

“Stop fighting, Valerie. I don’t want to hurt you.”

I was enraged by the command. The last time I heard that, I was defending myself against a rapist.

Having read ahead, this seems…. a little heavy. Remember these first three pages are when your character just rang my doorbell. I’ve never met her. She’s giving me her pitch as to why I should spend some hours with her. After that line above, I’m expecting a tale full of nitty-gritty violence, and possibly rape. If that’s not what you’re going to do, if she’s not some kind of cold blooded operative on a quest to kill or be killed, I’d throttle this WAY back. If her having been raped is important that should come out later. Same with the sentence after this. Unless it’s that sort of book, don’t.

That man wrecked my childhood, but I made him pay. I’d beat this guy too. It would not be easy; this man was stronger, faster, and more skilled than me. He easily evaded my kicks and hand strikes with subtle turns and body movements. He was toying with me like a cat playing with a mouse before the kill.

WHY am I reading an outline, and an outline set in midair at that, with grey fog all around. Get pencil and paper and draw out that last sentence in separate points. Stick figures are fine. Then write it out. I kicked, he evaded. The sharp smell of his sweat in my nostrils, I kicked again, desperately. The green mat on the floor seemed suddenly slippery beneath my feet. The e sounds of the city came through the window” Like that.

I barely dodged his occasional chops and tripping maneuvers, any of which would have defeated me. I knew he outclassed me and couldn’t find any weaknesses I could exploit.

So, if his moves are so cool describe them. No, I’m not saying to tediously narrate ten or fifteen, because you don’t need that. These fights tend to be fast. BUT DO NARRATE it, otherwise it makes no sense.

I’d never surrender, but I was getting tired. If I didn’t act fast, I’d lose.

On the other hand, consider cutting out everything before this bit below. The fake-fight/fake danger of death is too mean a trick to carry too long, and starting here is about enough. Just give us a bit more about the surroundings, and what the opponent looks like (tall, powerful, color hair, that sort of thing. Blurred because fight.)

Time to use my killing blow. I slashed out with a sharp left-hand chop toward my opponent’s neck. I knew he could block my strike, making it ineffective, but it was a feint to force him into a vulnerable stance. As I expected, he raised his right arm to block my fake attack. Now that his arm was out of position, I could launch my true assault.

I swung my left leg straight up over my head, rotating on the ball of my right foot. I brought the raised foot down, heel first, to strike from above. This was the naeryo chagi, the axe kick, to strike the top of his head. Done right, it was one of Taekwondo’s most powerful attacks and virtually unstoppable, but it would leave me defenseless if I didn’t strike accurately. I had spent years perfecting the technique. It was second nature to me. I was confident he was going down, hard.

But he evaded my kick. He shifted his feet slightly and rotated so my descending heel swished harmlessly through empty air, just a fraction of an inch from his face. With his fast reflexes, he could have easily grabbed my descending leg, which would throw my body to the ground. That maneuver would have dislocated my ankle and knee, and probably broken my leg.

So, you do know how to do it. Now go back and do the top, at about this length, too. But with surroundings. What is she hearing? Smelling? Tasting? Don’t tell me she’s scared, as you did above. Tell me her breath grew rapid or ragged.

To my surprise, he let the opportunity pass. I struggled to recenter myself as I got both legs under me again. I only needed a fraction of a second to regain my balance, but I didn’t get it. His hands lashed out, grabbing me by both armpits. He knocked my feet out from under me with a left leg sweep while pulling me off the ground with his hands and arms. My body flew up; the ceiling-mounted fluorescent lights drew closer and then receded. My back slammed against the thick, foam-filled floor mat that boomed like a drum from the impact. My breath blasted from my lungs, and my body sprawled like a beached starfish. I was utterly defeated and humiliated. So much for making a good first impression.

“Are you hurt, Valerie-san?” The dojo’s sensei, a Japanese man in his mid-twenties with tightly cropped black hair, loomed over me. He wore the traditional martial arts gi, but his uwagi jacket was dark blue instead of the usual white. This Jujitsu dojo occupied a storefront in Los Angeles’s Little Tokyo. I’d heard Jujitsu described as the “art of softness,” but right now, I felt everything except soft.

I gritted my teeth to stifle a groan and said, “No, I’m fine sahyun nim, ah I mean Fujimoto Sensei.”

I shifted around on the gymnastic mat and attempted to stand upright. I lost my footing on the mat’s slick and wobbly vinyl surface. I fell back, landing on the seat of my pants instead of my back. The air escaping from the vents on the sides of the mat now sounded like I was breaking wind. The embarrassing sound mortified me, and my face went beet red when I heard the sound of high-pitched giggling. I glanced over to the other side of the training room, where a row of elementary and middle school children, wearing their own gi, were doing their best to contain their laughter and “shhing” each other.

Sitting among the kids was a tall young man wearing a gi with a yellow belt. He held an ice pack to his face with a dazed expression. He was my first sparring partner and was the unfortunate recipient of my well-placed front kick to his cheek. He was completely unprepared and did nothing to stop or evade the strike. When I realized he didn’t know how to block, I tried to pull back my kick. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop it completely. He went down, ending the match in just seconds. I was sorry that I was so rough on him. I wished I had been faster, stronger, and meaner against the second man.

I glared at my second sparring partner from my sprawled position. He was very different from my first opponent. He was also in his mid-twenties but was significantly shorter at a couple of inches under six feet, just two inches taller than me. He was tanned instead of pale, dark-haired instead of blond, and his face consisted of hard angles, unlike the baby-like softness of the first man’s. His eyes were piercing green instead of light blue. He looked down at me with an aloof expression, showing no sign of exertion. He was cool and collected, with not a bead of sweat or a hair out of place.

Fujimoto Sensei silently extended his hand to help me get back on my feet. I took his hand, and he pulled me upright. My legs finally decided to do their job. With his support, I moved off the thick mat onto the tatami flooring, where I could stand securely. He turned to the second man and said, “I’m disappointed in you, Sean-kun. While I can not deny that your technique was excellent, the ashi waza is inappropriate for Jujitsu. You’re setting a bad example for the other students.”

Sean bowed deeply from the waist to acknowledge Fujimoto’s rebuke and said, “Forgive me, Sensei. I thought if we prolonged the bout, she would hurt herself.”

He stood back up, giving me a small, sardonic smile.

I fumed silently. Of course, the best-looking guy here is a massively arrogant jerk. Typical.

I assume romance?

Fujimoto grinned at Sean and said, “Sure, Sean-kun, keep telling yourself that. But I know you just wanted to show off some of the fancy moves you learned in Osaka.”

How does Sean react?

The sensei rubbed his chin thoughtfully and added, “Although I have to admit, that sweeping technique was very effective when Valerie-san’s last kick left her wide open.”

Fujimoto turned to his young disciples, returning to his more dignified and scholarly mode, “Students, you have just learned several valuable lessons. First, the foundation of martial arts is respect, courtesy, and self-discipline. Valerie-san tried to show off, to dominate by force, which left her vulnerable.”

The students stared at me. I felt myself shrink back and redden again. Great. Now the teacher’s picking on me too.

See, this is completely inappropriate with the fumes of memories of rape and vengeance with which you start this. She’s either a competent but insecure woman or a traumatized killer.

“Second, Jujitsu relies on the least possible force. Never seek to overpower or control others. We use martial arts to defend, not attack. And third…”

The sensei gave a boyish grin, “Do what works. Sean-kun used a judo throw because he knew it and it was appropriate. In a competition, the judges would have disqualified him. But in the real world, he ended the fight.”

I presume this is a cute romance set around a martial arts scene. Or perhaps a martial arts book with a romance. If it’s anything else, everything after the first pragraph or so is …. odd. And if it’s a killer thriller with a strong female, all of the stuff after it’s revealed it’s just a fight it’s inappropriate. If it’s sf or fantasy, for the love of heaven why start here? Start where it gives some hint of what’s to come.

So I’ll assume it’s a romance and this was the meet cute. Though, to be fair, it could be a cozy mystery with a romance wrapped around it, but if so, I expect a body in the next page.

Th-Th-Th- That’s all folks. Probably more tomorrow. If not more tomorrow, more for sure Saturday. Friday is looking mighty iffy.