The way that Critique Circle works, is that in order to submit chapters for review you need to build up credits through critiquing (or critting) other people’s stories. Being a critter (as is the parlance) and giving crits, does in itself improve one’s own ability to evaluate your own writing to the point that you can spot the problem areas before others get to find them.

Critting takes time though, and I think that’s why I fell out of active usage of the site, but I still owe the site alot, and I owe it to the site that I put my next novel, Mr Tumnal through the critiquing progress. To this aim, I have reactivated my membership of the site, got back in the critting arena, and given some crits, and I’ve submitted the first two chapters of Mr Tumnal’s story to the queue for the week after next. We shall see what happens next…

The way that Critique Circle works, is that in order to submit chapters for review you need to build up credits through critiquing (or critting) other people’s stories. Being a critter (as is the parlance) and giving crits, does in itself improve one’s own ability to evaluate your own writing to the point that you can spot the problem areas before others get to find them.

Critting takes time though, and I think that’s why I fell out of active usage of the site, but I still owe the site alot, and I owe it to the site that I put my next novel, Mr Tumnal through the critiquing progress. To this aim, I have reactivated my membership of the site, got back in the critting arena, and given some crits, and I’ve submitted the first two chapters of Mr Tumnal’s story to the queue for the week after next. We shall see what happens next…

Mr Tumnal has been read as it goes by my friend Jane, and I do know the absolute gut-wrenching, stomach-churning fear that I experience every single time I send the latest bit of the story to her. So far she’s liked it, a lot, and has always been really intrigued to know where I’m going to go next with it and I live in terrified fear that the next time its going to come back with an absolute panning from her. Apparently this sense of fear never leaves a writer. Michelle Harrison admitted that she still gets that fear when she sends off her latest manuscript to her agent and editor.

Also, when I do give my writing to someone to read I do want to receive some kind of criticism and as long as its constructive – and that they can recognise some elements of goodness to it – I’m fine with criticism. I guess I was a little hurt and upset when Emma tried and failed to read The End of All Worlds but then *completely* understood when, two years later, I attempted to read it back and realised just how unreadable it was in the present tense! I mean, what was I thinking. After pasterisation, she’s now read it and now likes it. I would also like Emma to read Mr Tumnal – and she did try (and liked what what she tried) – but I do understand that, whilst it is not an autobiography (obviously!), there is an awful lot of Me in this book, and for one reason or other, she’s not in a place where she can read it at the moment.

As to when my book is published, and ‘out there’? Well, we all buy books from time to time that we don’t just get on with. I would hope that some people would like it, just as I expect some people to hate it. Quite how I will feel if people I know don’t like it, I guess that is something I will just have to find out…

I needed have worried.

I really like your idea for this story, the old norse traditions/religion vs. modern times, evil aluminium smelter etc.

Okay, so I had somehow spelt Jökulsárgljúfur incorrectly, but I did correctly describe the storm that comes out of no where and in which Eleanor gets lost (and no, that doesn’t count as a spoiler) correctly. Some critters had wondered if all happens too fast and not enough time given for the buid-up, but no, in Iceland that kind of weather shift does happen.

2. In 10 days journal, his journal will be four years old. Tell me how I should celebrate.

3. I think I now know how Part Two of Blood & Fire will go. Or rather, I think the structure that it currently has will work okay. Thanks Helen…

4. Driving home tonight, was absolutely gorgeous. Even taking the hill out of Barton, past the crematorium with the Beckley radio transmitter on the hill ahead, looked nice; such rich, wonderful colours lit by winter sun. I think I might revise my opinion of Winter. So farJanuary/February has not been the grey durge that I have always remembered them to be.

5. I meant to watch another episode of Battlestar Galactica tonight, but in the end I have ended up critting into the night.

2. In 10 days journal, his journal will be four years old. Tell me how I should celebrate.

3. I think I now know how Part Two of Blood & Fire will go. Or rather, I think the structure that it currently has will work okay. Thanks Helen…

4. Driving home tonight, was absolutely gorgeous. Even taking the hill out of Barton, past the crematorium with the Beckley radio transmitter on the hill ahead, looked nice; such rich, wonderful colours lit by winter sun. I think I might revise my opinion of Winter. So farJanuary/February has not been the grey durge that I have always remembered them to be.

5. I meant to watch another episode of Battlestar Galactica tonight, but in the end I have ended up critting into the night.

One thing I’ve discovered though, is that CritiqueCircle does seem to be a US-centric site, and as such, I am becoming aware of things that I have previously been unaware of that do not travel across nations. References to this and that, or ways of saying things that are commonplace in our world, lead to confusion over there. The ‘tameness’ in some respects too of American culture seems to be reinforced too (please correct me if I’m wrong here, my US friends…).

For one, the characters in my novel are early twenties/student age, and as such there is a certain amount of going into bars and ordering drinks. One recent comment, was a query as to the legal drinking age in Iceland (it’s actually 20) – and was phrased in such a way as to ask if it was okay for drinking in YA novels. And this of course brings up another difference in perception. ‘YA Fiction’ does seem to be predominantly a US term which has taken over here, and it seems to cover books from anything from early-mid teens up to 23 but predominantly, under 18s. From what I can make out, in America, it is very much teenage books, whilst over here it does seem to be a bit vague. So drinking even amongst students who are legall alllowed to drink in a ‘YA’ book read by early-teens does seem that in some eyes, this could be a problem. In actual fact I don’t think it will be, because there is no drinking to get drunk, and they are allowed. It’s still interesting none-the-less…

It feels right to try out this critiquing site (recommended to me by aurora_floyd) because it was set up by a couple of Icelanders, and indeed has a Big Sister Icelandic site – so to post a story set in Iceland seems right…

I am a bit miffed that they concentrated so much on the nitty gritty detail when they do say from the outset that they can guess that it is a first draft (which it is). The words, I guess, speak for themselves…

The major problem that I had with these chapters was the plotting. Every tiny, mundane detail and action is recounted, and it bogs the whole story down. I often found myself skimming because I just wasn’t interested. I feel that by choosing the truly important parts, focusing on them and developing them, and then trimming the rest would help immensely. So many words are wasted on things that the reader doesn’t need to be told, while other things that would be of interest are omitted, such as details about who these people are, what their interests are, etc. I don’t feel like I know the characters at all.

Ben stops. He turns slowly, twisting round first on his hips, then by the souls of his feet. — “Soles”, not “souls”.

Also reading between the lines, it seems that the (often commented) challenging ‘filmic’ style and abrupt cuts in scene and viewpoint, was successfully done.

Whatever happens to this novel in the end, this is definitely good encouragement to keep on with it. I just hope that the remaining five chapters succeed in living up to expectations…?!!

“Welcome home to Hólar?” Ben repeats Bjäkk’s words with confusion. He stands, fiddling with the straps of his rucksack in the classroom presided over by portraits of previous tutors, scientists and academics. Hanna pushes some tables aside and moves to stack some chairs.

“It’s tradition,” Hanna explains, “It’s said that wherever we come from no matter wherever we’re headed, this place, Hólar – it’s home to everyone.”

Ben nods, “It’s a nice idea.”

“It’s, welcoming.” Hanna agrees, without a hint of irony. She turns to face her cousin, but is distracted by a noise at the door beyond. It swings open, and Bjäkk enters, backing his way into the room pulling and pushing two mattresses with him. Almost immediately the two cousins are taking the mattresses and sling them down on the floor.

Bjäkk sidles around the mattresses, coming alongside Hanna, allowing his hands to help her with the straps of her rucksack. Ben watches, eyeing the two of them, as he casts out his sleeping bag, and unpacks his towel and washing kit.

Bjäkk and Hanna laugh and share a joke, their conversation becomes close and private.

Ben watches from the outside, only supposing at the subject of their talk. They were close friends at school, he knows that, but he had never suspected &#150: till now &#150: how close it may have been.

Bjäkk notices Ben’s observing eyes, and draws Hanna further into privacy. Ben casts his eyes about the room. He takes up his wash kit, makes a brief interjection as to his departure, and leaves the classroom in search of the washroom. Hanna glances briefly after him, offering her cousin a slight wave as he turns before finally leaving the room.

Hanna returns her gaze to Bjäkk, taking in the rough lines of his jaw and his shock of dark black hair.

She leans into him under the portrait of a former headmaster, staring up into his darkly handsome eyes. She giggles flirtatiously, fingering the collar of his shirt.

“Helen,” he grins wryly, “Don’t.”

Andy steps back, removing Helen’s hand from him. She smiles coyly – he’s tall, slender, and gorgeous. She tugs at his sleeve, twisting her fingers in his cuff.

“Helen!”

Hanna starts. She pulls back, drawing in her fleece tightly around her. Bjäkk is staring at her, his face wrapped in concern.

“It’s nothing,” but still Hanna feels herself shiver, “Just, I felt here here &#150: with us.”

Bjäkk’s concern narrows, searching within himself to understand. Hi mindset is surrounded by the fear in Hanna’s voice and the agitation in her actions. He reads as a reaction to the events surrounding her cousin, and the tragedy unfolding in the mountains.

“She stayed here, didn’t she? You saw her,”

Bjäkk nods, “Just in the morning. The group she was with – I gave the tour,” he grins, “You know the aquarium, cathedral, the gruesome stories of bishops beheaded.”

“How was she? Helen?”

“Full of life. Spririted. I think,”

Helen runs from the school and across the grass outside the front entrance to where the dozen other people in her party are gathered under the trees. She launches herself at Andy, thrusting her arms around him, and rebounding around him, her fingers entwining with his.

Bjäkk looks to Hanna, remembering how the group of guys and girls had stood before him, gathering ready for his tour, “I think there was one that Helen &#150: she was sweet on.”

In the washed out, blue tones of night, Andy sits by the shore of Mývatn, looking out over the lake. A cold wind blows in across the water, stinging his skin into goose bumps and yet he feels nothing. He looks up into the mountains. Somewhere out there, he daren’t think&#150:

The three of them sit alone in the canteen, whilst somewhere beyond kitchen staff can be heard clattering plates, bowls, pots and pans. Ben spoons up hot meat sout, savouring the warmth as it travels down his gullet.

Bjäkk slides into the seat next to him pushing a bottle of Egils beer each towards Hanna and Ben. He lifts a third bottle to his lips, and nods.

“Salut!”

Across five tables Helen and her party of friends tuck in to a meal of soup, cold meats and salad. Helen swigs down a mouthful of water, looking out the window, across the grounds to the square white cathedral tower with its black spire, almost a silhouette against the valley view.

Drawn suddenly back to the group by a question aimed in her direction.

“Yeah, me and Ben &#150: my brother &#150: we have duel nationality. Our dad, Guðni Ármannsson, he wanted to make sure we grew to love this country. I don’t think there’s been one year I haven’t come out at least once a year.”

“But you’ve never done one of these holidays before?” her interrogator is a self-confident, fair-faced twenty-nine year old, Hannah Ball. With the fingers of her left hand she hooks back her shoulder length blond hair, and with the other, forks up some cold meats with some salad.

Helen shakes her head, “It was Andy that suggested it,” she glances across at her tall, dark, spindly friend, “We go fell running together at uni. He had done some of this kind of think in the UK &#150: and when I said what Iceland was like.”

Hannah nods, she glances at Alice to her side, “Kind of similar. We first met on a conservation holiday in Yorkshire – you know, dry-stone walling and the like. This kind of deal seemed like the next step.”

Hanna agrees, throwing the discussion open to her cousin, “That’s kind of similar to what Ben’s been working on.”

“Yeah?” Bjäkk swigs back more beer.

Ben observes Hanna from across the table with some wondering, “Well in a way. Hanna hasn’t got it quite right. You’re very marine based,” he puts his understanding to Bjäkk, “I look much more at the climate-temperature models. I think I may have found a new way of measuring the subtle differences in temperature change, season by season, year by year.”

A quick glance round the table tells Ben that Hanna’s understanding has glazed over, but Bjäkk, but Bjäkk he – Ben elaborates his theories, exploring the complex algorithms of sea ice formation against tidal reach, with someone who understands.

Hanna watches the discussion develop and her interest wane. She slowly slips away from the table with her bottle of beer. Soon she is stepping quickly across the tiled and deserted corridors.

“Welcome home to Hólar?” Ben repeats Bjäkk’s words with confusion. He stands, fiddling with the straps of his rucksack in the classroom presided over by portraits of previous tutors, scientists and academics. Hanna pushes some tables aside and moves to stack some chairs.

“It’s tradition,” Hanna explains, “It’s said that wherever we come from no matter wherever we’re headed, this place, Hólar – it’s home to everyone.”

Ben nods, “It’s a nice idea.”

“It’s, welcoming.” Hanna agrees, without a hint of irony. She turns to face her cousin, but is distracted by a noise at the door beyond. It swings open, and Bjäkk enters, backing his way into the room pulling and pushing two mattresses with him. Almost immediately the two cousins are taking the mattresses and sling them down on the floor.

Bjäkk sidles around the mattresses, coming alongside Hanna, allowing his hands to help her with the straps of her rucksack. Ben watches, eyeing the two of them, as he casts out his sleeping bag, and unpacks his towel and washing kit.

Bjäkk and Hanna laugh and share a joke, their conversation becomes close and private.

Ben watches from the outside, only supposing at the subject of their talk. They were close friends at school, he knows that, but he had never suspected &#150: till now &#150: how close it may have been.

Bjäkk notices Ben’s observing eyes, and draws Hanna further into privacy. Ben casts his eyes about the room. He takes up his wash kit, makes a brief interjection as to his departure, and leaves the classroom in search of the washroom. Hanna glances briefly after him, offering her cousin a slight wave as he turns before finally leaving the room.

Hanna returns her gaze to Bjäkk, taking in the rough lines of his jaw and his shock of dark black hair.

She leans into him under the portrait of a former headmaster, staring up into his darkly handsome eyes. She giggles flirtatiously, fingering the collar of his shirt.

“Helen,” he grins wryly, “Don’t.”

Andy steps back, removing Helen’s hand from him. She smiles coyly – he’s tall, slender, and gorgeous. She tugs at his sleeve, twisting her fingers in his cuff.

“Helen!”

Hanna starts. She pulls back, drawing in her fleece tightly around her. Bjäkk is staring at her, his face wrapped in concern.

“It’s nothing,” but still Hanna feels herself shiver, “Just, I felt here here &#150: with us.”

Bjäkk’s concern narrows, searching within himself to understand. Hi mindset is surrounded by the fear in Hanna’s voice and the agitation in her actions. He reads as a reaction to the events surrounding her cousin, and the tragedy unfolding in the mountains.

“She stayed here, didn’t she? You saw her,”

Bjäkk nods, “Just in the morning. The group she was with – I gave the tour,” he grins, “You know the aquarium, cathedral, the gruesome stories of bishops beheaded.”

“How was she? Helen?”

“Full of life. Spririted. I think,”

Helen runs from the school and across the grass outside the front entrance to where the dozen other people in her party are gathered under the trees. She launches herself at Andy, thrusting her arms around him, and rebounding around him, her fingers entwining with his.

Bjäkk looks to Hanna, remembering how the group of guys and girls had stood before him, gathering ready for his tour, “I think there was one that Helen &#150: she was sweet on.”

In the washed out, blue tones of night, Andy sits by the shore of Mývatn, looking out over the lake. A cold wind blows in across the water, stinging his skin into goose bumps and yet he feels nothing. He looks up into the mountains. Somewhere out there, he daren’t think&#150:

The three of them sit alone in the canteen, whilst somewhere beyond kitchen staff can be heard clattering plates, bowls, pots and pans. Ben spoons up hot meat sout, savouring the warmth as it travels down his gullet.

Bjäkk slides into the seat next to him pushing a bottle of Egils beer each towards Hanna and Ben. He lifts a third bottle to his lips, and nods.

“Salut!”

Across five tables Helen and her party of friends tuck in to a meal of soup, cold meats and salad. Helen swigs down a mouthful of water, looking out the window, across the grounds to the square white cathedral tower with its black spire, almost a silhouette against the valley view.

Drawn suddenly back to the group by a question aimed in her direction.

“Yeah, me and Ben &#150: my brother &#150: we have duel nationality. Our dad, Guðni Ármannsson, he wanted to make sure we grew to love this country. I don’t think there’s been one year I haven’t come out at least once a year.”

“But you’ve never done one of these holidays before?” her interrogator is a self-confident, fair-faced twenty-nine year old, Hannah Ball. With the fingers of her left hand she hooks back her shoulder length blond hair, and with the other, forks up some cold meats with some salad.

Helen shakes her head, “It was Andy that suggested it,” she glances across at her tall, dark, spindly friend, “We go fell running together at uni. He had done some of this kind of think in the UK &#150: and when I said what Iceland was like.”

Hannah nods, she glances at Alice to her side, “Kind of similar. We first met on a conservation holiday in Yorkshire – you know, dry-stone walling and the like. This kind of deal seemed like the next step.”

Hanna agrees, throwing the discussion open to her cousin, “That’s kind of similar to what Ben’s been working on.”

“Yeah?” Bjäkk swigs back more beer.

Ben observes Hanna from across the table with some wondering, “Well in a way. Hanna hasn’t got it quite right. You’re very marine based,” he puts his understanding to Bjäkk, “I look much more at the climate-temperature models. I think I may have found a new way of measuring the subtle differences in temperature change, season by season, year by year.”

A quick glance round the table tells Ben that Hanna’s understanding has glazed over, but Bjäkk, but Bjäkk he – Ben elaborates his theories, exploring the complex algorithms of sea ice formation against tidal reach, with someone who understands.

Hanna watches the discussion develop and her interest wane. She slowly slips away from the table with her bottle of beer. Soon she is stepping quickly across the tiled and deserted corridors.