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Ruthy
A chill tickled MacKenzie’s arm, reaching into the freezer. She squeezed her bicep, dragging the scooper through the hard ice cream. Who needs weight lifting when you scoop ice cream all day? She dropped the ice cream flecked with vanilla bean into the bowl before scouting the counter behind her. The toppings lined up in a row. Chocolate, caramel, and peanut butter sauces sat next to the homemade whipped cream dispenser, which nestled itself by the jar of cherries. Large bottles of sprinkles surrounded the multi-level candy jar of sugary goodness. The rusty antique waffle cone maker kept its spot on the end with a tray of pre-made waffle cones by its side for quick reference. A place for everything and everything in its place like it had been for almost fifty years.
ReplyDelete“This could get at least 300 likes.” Piper angled her phone.
Mackenzie drizzled caramel sauce, then reached for a pre-made waffle cone, crushing it up on top of the ice cream. She dug in the spoon and folded it through the ice cream, mixing it together.
“If you post anything, don’t tag the shop,” MacKenzie said.
“Tagging the location could really help business around here.”
MacKenzie’s stomach tightened. She agreed with Piper’s idea to get more customers, but her dad, being the owner, held the final say. In his mind, a family business that has moved through generations needed to stick with the traditions it began with.
Piper snapped a quick picture. They both took a bite. Piper nodded and gave a thumbs up.
Mackenzie savored the smooth vanilla flavor contrasted by the sugary crunch of the waffle cone bits. Velvety caramel danced on her tongue while the toffee pieces added a little tang. Coming up with sundae combinations was Mackenzie’s guilty pleasure.
Tonya, an ice cream shop is a great setting! Love the idea and the photo shoot beginning. Just ensure the reader knows what's happening in that first paragraph where you provide lots of ice cream info. My suggestion would be to include a bit about Piper taking the photos at the get go.
DeleteI also like the idea that Dad doesn't want to change with the times or use social media. The waffle cone maker is 50 years old. Everything is where it's always been. Ripe for conflict.
DeleteThank you, Debby and Mary!
DeleteI love Mary's comment about adding the vintage feel... But I'm wondering what the story might be about. Is it a romance? Is it coming of age/young adult? Is it suspense, do the girls get murdered on page two? I would like a barest sense of where it's going... it can be one line:
Delete#destinedtoscoop4ever
Or...
A perfect afternoon should be just that way. Perfect.
Or...
She hadn't planned on making ice cream her life but Dad did... and Piper would do anything for her father.
Just something to set a hint of tone.
This is a flash fiction piece:
ReplyDeleteLila stared at the blinking curser. She willed her fingers to type. Ever fiber of her being craved it, but she held back. She typed one word and deleted it. Typed another, and deleted that one, too.
“This is all wrong.” She put her face in her hands.
How can someone desires something so much, but freeze every time they start? Every word typed, and every idea thought of is lame. Nothing came close to the way she envisioned it. Sentences sounded trite. Paragraphs boring. How can she be a writer if she can’t write?
Lila got up from her chair, headed to the living room, and threw herself on the couch. She clicked on Netflix and flipped through the endless selection of movies and tv shows.
How does anyone get published? How do their ideas develop? They were questions she didn’t know how to answer, but weeds of jealously grew in her heart as the perky romcom music intro played.
Her phone trilled. It’s Molly, Lila’s best friend.
“Hey,” Lila answered.
“You’re supposed to be writing.”
“Then when did you call?”
“To check up on you and make you accountable.”
“Who said I’m not writing?”
“You answered the phone.”
Lila groaned, knowing Molly was right. “Nothing comes out right.”
“Says who?”
“It’s all lame.”
“Again, says who? You’re never going to be a writer if you don’t write. Plus, expecting every word to be a piece of gold is all wrong.”
Lila paused, knowing Molly wouldn’t let her go so soon.
“Professional athletes aren’t perfect one hundred percent of the time, and they certainly weren’t when they started out. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Molly said.
“But if I can’t write anything good, how am I going to be a writer?”
“By taking the time to learn. Getting critiques and taking their advice. Good things take time.”
“I don’t know what to write about.” Lila stood from the couch and paced.
“Pick something, no matter how simple or trivial, and give it a shot. If you don’t start somewhere, you’ll get nowhere. It’ll always be better than nothing.”
Lila said nothing.
“You can edit, but the most important thing is writing something. I know you’re still there and don’t say you’re writing, there're no clicks in background.”
“I thought it would be easier.”
“Set a timer and writer whatever word pops into your mind for five minutes. Then take a picture and show me. If you do, I’ll bring over pizza.”
“Fine.” Lila tossed her phone down and went back to her computer chair.
Timer set, she typed “once upon a time.” And forced one word after another until beeped. Her hands dropped off the keyboard, and she stared at the words on the screen. Were they any good? No. But there had to be four hundred words. Done every day how many words could she do in a week? In time, they could form something.
Lila opened her calendar, marked tomorrow to type words for five minutes and then called Molly. She wanted pepperoni pizza.
Felicity, you've nailed the emotional roller coaster so many writers experience when they sit down to write. Love the fast pace! Great ending. I'd cut the questions Lila asks herself at the beginning...or, at least, cut them back to just one or two. You make your point quite nicely in the dialogue. Good job!
DeleteI'm not a published writer, but I think this is great! And oh so true!!! I have a sign on my door that says "Talent is not a rare commodity. Discipline is." When I first started writing, the writing was the easy part. The believing I could be a writer and the figuring out HOW was the hard part. You've got the talent. Now just keep on keeping on. (LOL! And be kind enough to preach this back at me the next time I'm the one who needs it.)
DeleteI can't help but smile over this. A perfect description of how a writer feels!
DeleteThank you! I had a feeling you guys would understand 😀
DeleteI am smiling. Fist bump!
DeleteThis is mid-story, so I'm not sure how much sense it will make and I know I need some more dialogue tags so the conversation is a little easier to follow, but a little feedback would be nice. Thanks!
ReplyDelete-----
Stuart was walking toward her in the hallway. Not quickly, and leaning on his cane, but steadily and with purpose.
“Are you alright? We’re waiting for you.” His voice was gruff but not unkind. Marcus’ voice had never been kind. Not like Stuart’s even when he was grumpy.
She pulled the door shut behind her and quickly put on her wrap. She hated being late. It always flustered her and made her uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than she usually was.
“I’m fine. I’m sorry. I got a phone call I had to take right as I was leaving. I should have come down anyway, just to let you all know I hadn’t died.” Yikes. That was dark.
“Liliya insisted I come check on you.” He put out his arm for her. “And what a relief to know you haven’t died. I’d have to finish this tour all on my own as an extra wheel. How ghastly.”
She couldn’t help but smile, especially with his phrasing. When was the last time she’d heard an American use the word ‘ghastly’?
They started down the hall, Bridget matching his limping gait, but it was clunky. She could keep in step with him for a few steps, but eventually they ended up out of step and bumping against each other. She slowed adaptively, trying to stay in sync.
“I hope the call was good.”
“I thought you promised not to pry.”
He didn’t even seem abashed, and he smiled a little. “Yeah, I don’t consider that prying. I’d say it’s more making sure that you’re alright.”
She wasn’t smiling anymore. Why couldn’t he just leave it alone?
“Do you ever just mind your own business?”
“Well, let’s just say stories are more interesting when you know more facts. And you can only learn more facts when you talk with people.”
“No. You learn more when you listen. Which implies shutting up.”
------
Glynis, I'm very intrigued by this conversation. But yes, I did get a little confused as to who was saying what. Still, you don't need tags to distinguish that. This is a great opportunity to go deeper into the POV character's head. How they feel about the other person or what's being said. Are they being thrown together as a couple or going to a meeting? Let us see how she (I'm assuming we're in her POV) feels about that. Is she nervous, excited, ready to get it over with? Dialog only does so much. We learn so much more when we're able to get inside the character's head to see how they think and why they think that way. Keep up the good work!
DeleteThanks for the feedback, Mindy. I should have used the word beats instead of tags, since I do rarely use them. Those are fabulous ideas. Thanks again!
DeleteMy suggestion would be to toss the modifiers "always" and "even" and "quickly"... maybe shouldered her wrap, or draped her wrap, something like that. I think it needs tightening, Glynis. Sometimes less is more. More uncomfortable than she usually was could become "More uncomfortable than usual".
DeleteI like the strength of the scene... and I think confusion would be cleared up if the 'don't you ever jus..." line was with the paragraph before it (as long as it's her talking)... then the back and forth rolls nicely.
Thanks, Ruthy! I appreciate you taking the time and that feedback is perfect.
DeleteLight notes of oldies music filled the bakery storefront. Ivy hummed along, filling the display cases with cookies and cupcakes. She closed the case, wiped off her hands, and went to the project board to remove the day’s task.
ReplyDeleteSetting out desserts was a favorite task. There was an opening for a specialty baker, and Ivy decided it was time to step up her game in every way possible. Left to her, there would not be a stray sprinkle in the display cases or on the counter. No task left unfinished or completed a minute late. There for sure wouldn’t be any burnt left overs and every pastry scrutinized by Ivy until it looked like it could be on the cover of a culinary magazine.
“There’s a batch of cupcakes in the oven.” Paige wiped down the tables.
“I’ll watch them,” Ivy said.
She had until eleven o'clock before the meeting started. Sparks of insecurity popped up each time she looked at the clock. She dreamed of decorating wedding cakes as long as she can remember. She learned a lot about being a day baker, but the call of multi-tiered cakes covered in fondant and flowers stayed in her heart.
“You don’t have to be so tense. You’ve got this.” Paige finished the last table.
“Easy for you to say.” Ivy aligned some chairs at a table after Paige wiped them off.
Ivy watched a sports car pull into the parking lot. The next appointment was the first step in Ivy moving up the ladder. She watched as a woman stepped out of the car and flipped her blond hair over her shoulder. A man stepped out of the driver’s seat, his chestnut hair glistened in the sun. He walked around to the woman’s day and Ivy froze. She must be seeing things. Noah Delaney left years ago.
Anonymous, you had me at cupcakes. And the last line made me want to keep reading. The section between the two feels a little ho-hum, though. We need to strive to do two things in the opening (which I'm assuming this is): Capture the reader's attention and establish the character's goal and motivation (and conflict, if possible).
DeleteEXAMPLE: Ivy wanted that specialty baker position so badly she could taste it.
Humming along with the Beach Boys tune that filled the bakery, she added more cupcakes to the display case, taking care to remove any stray sprinkles that might have escaped their buttercream mountain home. Ever since she was a little girl, Ivy had dreamed of creating gorgeous, multi-tiered wedding cakes covered in fondant and flowers. And today was the day she hoped to make that dream a reality.
Immediately, we know what she wants and why she wants it. And then what if that car pulled up right after that? Talk about conflict. Having to design a wedding cake for the man who broke her heart. At least, I'm assuming he's the groom. But maybe he's the bride's brother or cousin. Oh, the tangled webs we weave. ;) Keep going because I can't wait to read more of this.
This made me smile. Her dream is within her grasp, then the man! Excellent. :)
DeleteThe only thing I might add is senses. The smell of baking cupcakes. The color of the cupcakes, lemon cakes piled high with lemon yellow frosting...her favorite.
DeleteMindy, I felt like the dialogue was a nit bland but haven't figured out what to say onstead.
DeleteMary, senses- yes! As soon as you saud it, I saw the need!
I'd like this more immediate. Less explanation.
DeleteTables wiped.
Displays done. And perfect. Just as she'd hoped and planned years ago.
Today was the day. Her day. The day to commission her first tiered wedding cake, and all the skill and support that entailed.
The happy couple would be arriving any minute.
Her palms went damp.
She swiped them across the apron, then ditched the apron for a more professional look. The bake-show look of a woman on top of her game, and Ivy Smith was absolutely, positively on top of her game.
Okay, that's just my example of a way to re-fire the opening so you don't tempt someone into Ivy's story, you immerse them in her emotions. Anything dealing with a bakery is always so much fun! Don't feel the need to explain everything... let the emotions of the moment carry the opening. You've got this!
From the Prologue of a Cinderella retelling
ReplyDeleteIt was always about the house.
Thirteen-year-old Sarah Harrison crept cautiously up the back stairs from her bedroom in the basement to sit on the floor in the corner of the dark kitchen, listening to the angry voices that shouted at each other in the living room. Her father and his wife were fighting again. About her. About the house. About how much Vivian Delaney hated living in Corinth, Kansas.
"You can't sell the house!" Sarah's father yelled. Luke Harrison's voice was slurred in the way that Sarah had come to realize meant that he'd been drinking. "That was the deal. I marry you, and you pay off the mortgage on the house. All that money you like to shove in people's faces has got to be good for something. This house is for Sarah. It's Sarah's house. Her mother loved this house."
"It's MY house!" Vivian screeched. "MY name on the deed, MY house to do with as I please! I can sell it if I want to!"
"Then I get half of everything you've got."
The silence was so complete that all Sarah could hear was the kitchen clock ticking. She froze, trying not to breathe, not to make the least bit of sound that might draw their attention. Finally, her father chuckled, the sound sharp with a men, nasty edge.
"You're the one who insisted on the prenuptial agreement," he said in a low, hard voice. "So worried about making sure I could never touch YOUR money. Well, I never will . . . unless you sell the house."
Sarah jumped as glass shattered. Once, twice, three times. She tried to imagine from the sounds which pieces Vivian was throwing. The delicate pink dancing princess? The fragile fantail goldfish? The brilliant blue hummingbird hovering over an even bluer morning glory?
Sarah's mother had loved the beauty and whimsy of blown glass and had collected pieces all her life. She'd bought the dancing princess for Sarah's seventh birthday, the goldfish during the summer of the following year, and the hummingbird just days before she'd died. The living room of their family's old farmhouse was full of breakable memories. Sarah closed her eyes tight, fisted her fingers, clenched her teeth. Saying anything or doing anything would only make it worse.
Terri, I was completely drawn into this. You did a good job of bringing Cinderella's tale into the 21st century. And of sprinkling in enough details and description for me to envision the scene. The only comment I have is about her sitting on the floor in the dark kitchen. I wanted to know what kind of flooring. Tile would be cold (fitting with the scene), while wood represents warmth (her mother). Worn vinyl might indicate the house has fallen into disrepair. Regardless, I think you've done a bang-up job here.
DeleteTerri, I loved this first glimpse into your story and want to read more! Keep writing!!! You hooked me. If the rest of the manuscript is as nicely written, you'll soon hook an editor too!
DeleteThanks for your feedback, Mindy! Great suggestion! It's definitely old linoleum for the flooring, and certainly cold as it's right before Christmas and there's a draft coming from under the back door. I'm off to work on revisions!
DeleteWow, this is powerful. And if it's a Cinderella retelling...how soon until Dad dies? I'm hooked.
DeleteAgreed. Hooked. I want to punch dad and stepmom.... wonderful!
DeleteThanks, Debbie! I'm at that muddy middle stage and soooo needed that encouragement to keep on keeping on.
ReplyDeleteWell, Mary, what if Dad didn't die? What if Dad just couldn't stand up for Sarah the way she needed him to? What if Sarah's philandering ex husband wasn't there for her either? What if Sarah felt like God wasn't ever going to write any happily ever afters for her life story? What kinds of problems would that cause when Prince Charming comes calling on Sarah and her two precious little boys?
ReplyDeleteWay to go with the "what-ifs," Terri! That's the best way to keep digging and come up with unique twists and turns.
DeleteI guess it's a Cinderella with a twist or two or three. Lol!
ReplyDeleteI love that this is a grown-up Cinderella flashback... and that she's a single mom, standing on her own (make her strong. She could choose to cave or be strong and she chose strength...) and make the hero just as strong.
DeleteI'd say throw in humor, too. She's jaded, he's jaded, and somehow they get stuck with each other and neither one wants anything. Not lookin' for nothin'. And then God's timing paints a whole different picture.
I LOVE THIS!!!!!
The twists are how you build that middle.
Think action/reaction.
Impediments that rile those old emotions.
And if Dad's alive, he can either be penitent or still weak and she forgives him anyway to make herself a whole and better person.
I've been away at Women's Retreat with NO cell service! It was wonderful, but I'm glad to be connected again. Thanks for the feedback, Ruth. And you hit the nail on the head! The story is all about forgiving those family members who have hurt us. Not because they necessarily deserve it, but because Jesus wants better for us than the darkness and bitterness that unforgiveness causes. Some of your suggestions I already had, some I will definitely add.
DeleteThis is awesome, Terri! Ive been brainstorming a Cinderella retelling, too. I shiukd start drafting next week!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Tonya! And I wish you happy drafting! I love the way the same story can be told from so many different angles.
Delete