I’m working with a My Book Therapy premium member and she sent me this excerpt from her first chapter. She’s doing a great job of using the right tools — showing a hint of the want, wound, lie and fear, but the journey is a bit bumpy.
With her permission, I’m using our exchange to give you all some real time book therapy.
The story is a Biblical account set in the time of Elijah. The hero, is the son of a high priestess of a pagan god and expected to follow in her footsteps. But he’s starting to realize this is not what he was born to do.
***
At dawn on Preparation Day, Aban pulled on the threadbare tunic he’d purchased from the rag seller and climbed out a rear window, the very one he guarded during the nightly rituals to keep freeloaders from climbing into the temple of Melqart.
RH: This feels a bit “essayish.” More journalistic than pulling me into a story. Paint the scene for me/the reader. Don’t tell me “at dawn” show me.
The first light of a new day burned above the trees as Aban slipped from his bed and pulled on his threadbare tunic. It was Preparation Day and there was much to be done.
Make sense? Put us more in his skin.
Also, why does he have to climb out the window?
The scratchy garment twisted around his legs as he swung his knee over the casement. It was too large, < -- THE WINDOW OR THE TUNIC? -- but many of the town boys he taught to read wore similar tunics, passed down by a father or older brother.
Someone—an ordinary man, no prisoner of his destiny—had worn the tunic before him, had worn it long, by the look of it. And someone’s hands had woven the coarse threads into this plain, unadorned garment.
< -- DO WE NEED TO SEE THE GARMENT THIS MUCH? IS IT KEY? I THINK JUST SAYING IT WAS WORN AND TOO BIG IS GOOD.
Aban dropped lightly to the ground and paused a moment, his thoughts captured by this imagined pair, the two of them now becoming a family—living in a one-room dwelling, mother, father, children, perhaps a lamb, a few chickens—safe together at night, somewhere far from the twin temples of Melqart and Astarte, somewhere far from the city of Samaria.
RH: WHO IS HE THINKING ABOUT? THE MAN WHO WORE THE TUNIC?
CAN YOU KEEP US IN HIS THOUGHTS? WHERE IS HE GOING AND WHY?
Coming back to himself, he hurried away, the need to see his younger brother prodding him, sharp in his gut like hunger. < -- IS HE ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS BROTHER. YOU CAN TELL US THAT AS PART OF THE OPENING. -- Once more before First Rites.
He must get out of the sight of the temple windows, his simple disguise would not fool Rakim or any of the other acolytes if they woke early and looked out on the street, curious to see what went on outside their walls in the everyday life of the city. < -- AH, SO HE'S IN DISGUISE. I THINK YOU CAN SMOOTH OUT THIS SCENE SOME BY JUST LETTING US KNOW THE GARMENT IS A DISGUISE AS HE SNEAKS OUT THE WINODW. "... CLIMBED OUT THE WINDOW DISGUISED IN AN OLD MAN'S TUNIC."
MAKE SENSE?
Behind him, hidden by the temple edifice, came the muted sounds of the marketplace in early morning—a muffled dispute between vendors, the braying of a donkey, a rumble of wheels against the drought-hardened street.
< -- GOOD.
He shouldn’t worry—if any of the others wakened, they would be drawn to the temple’s front window facing the square. Still, when something dark flitted above him, he veered nervously from its shadow, scraping his shoulder against a plastered wall.
< -- IT SEEMS A BIT VAGUE ABOUT WHAT HE'S DOING AND WHY? ADD A BIT MORE DETAIL.
But it was only a young raven, perched on a roof ledge as a vantage point, probably hoping to find something to eat in the alley refuse. It dipped its head to focus a beady eye on him, leery of the only living thing standing between it and breakfast. Aban made a sound with his tongue, like the sound a gaggle of the birds made when greeting each other, and he moved on. No, unlike he and the raven, none of the other boys would be up until called by the high priest’s servant—the only danger would be from fox-eyed Rakim.
Aban jogged through the familiar twist of alleys until he emerged into the open.
< -- JUST REWORD, FEELS AWKWARD BECAUSE HE'S ALREADY MOVED ON FROM THE PARAGRAPH ABOVE.
There stood the palace, on the highest knoll of the city mount. Its white walls soared three stories high, gleaming palely in the dawn. Beyond it lay his destination—the temple of Astarte.
It was said that King Ahab, besotted with his queen in the early years of their union, was not content to honor her with a temple for Melqart—her favorite god, but he built another, a tribute to Astarte—the goddess who favors women. Others said it was the king himself who preferred the goddess…and her priestesses.
Certainly the temple’s location was convenient, sharing a common courtyard with the northeast corner of the royal residence. Around the corner, two guards stood in front of the iron gates, hands stretched over the remains of a watch-fire.
Because the courtyard allowed entrance to both the temple and the palace, one was a temple eunuch, one who had come from Tyre with the queen, the other a palace soldier, an Israelite.
“Maalik. Dov.”
The two men raised their hands in greeting. The bear-like soldier sang out, “Little water boy!” Aban had once made the mistake of telling the soldier the Phoenician meaning of his name, a name much in use by his seafaring ancestors, according to Donatiya, but unheard of in this desert country.
It meant all natural forms of water—rivers, lakes, streams—but Dov expanded the definition of natural to insinuate a small boy relieving himself in corners. Though the teasing was good-natured, Aban often wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
He didn’t need to be reminded how Donatiya would hold him on her lap while she told him the story—how his mother, a girl from the tiny seaside village of Zarephath, sick in this arid land for the home she left behind, gave her son a name that evoked her most beloved memory—the ocean.
The story was meant to soften his heart—to make him think of his mother as a homesick girl, rather than high priestess. After awhile, Donatiya stopped telling him the story.
“I’ll wager you’ve come to see the child.” Dov’s gaze took in Aban’s unusual clothing.
RH: CAN YOU HELP THE READER UNDERSTAND WHY HE DOESN’T WANT TO BE SEEN YET HE DOESN’T CARE IF THESE MEN SEE HIM?
“A safe wager.” Aban answered quickly, to discourage questions. It had seemed a good idea to be inconspicuous—on Preparation Day an acolyte should be nowhere other than his own temple. But he hadn’t thought how his ‘disguise’ would seem to these guards. He pulled out the pouch tucked inside his tunic.
“I’ve brought him a toy.”
The soldier stepped closer. “Ah—last week’s caravan. What have you got there? A carved horse? A lion?”
RH: IT WOULD BE GOOD TO KNOW WHERE HIS BROTHER IS AND WHY….
Aban handed him the pouch, watching as Dov shook the ivory squares into his scarred palm, the inked symbols turning as the pieces fell, clicking softly.
When the soldier looked back at Aban, his brow creased under the leather helmet. “You think you’ll teach an infant to read?”
“He can play with them—see how they fit together?”
Aban linked two tiles by their carved notches but then, fumbling, scooped the pieces back into their pouch. Excited to share with his brother the one skill he was proud of, he’d been pleased with the game when he bought it from the merchant. Now it didn’t seem like such a good gift after all. He turned to the eunuch.
“Can you take me to him, Maalik?”
“He’ll be asleep. They’re all sleeping.”
But he was already walking toward the courtyard, and Aban followed him. Maalik understood. The eunuch had undergone his own First Rites, many years ago.
He tightened his hold on the pouch as they passed beneath the stone image of Astarte, the long, curved horns of her headdress like Khopesh swords. Maalik pushed open the temple door and Aban followed him into the dark interior, past the draped windows of the outer chamber and the large sleeping rooms.
Oil lamps smoldered dimly along the walls, their wicks drooping into the last dregs of oil, but Aban’s steps were sure on the cool marble—even in the dark, he knew the way to the former storeroom, as well as he knew the rooms of Melqart’s temple.
At the last room, Maalik stopped, tapped on the door frame, and left Aban standing there. Two dark forms curled together on the woolen mat, Donatiya’s arm curved protectively around Joah, a light cloak covering them both.
They had this tiny room to themselves because the other priestesses complained the baby disturbed their sleep. Despite the frequent fertility rites, there were no other babies in either temple, thanks in part to Donatiya’s skill with herbs.
When the herbs failed, she’d told him, infants were given to childless Israelite couples who raised them as their own.
RH: GOOD. INTERESTING. NOW, HOW DOES THIS FIT WITH ABAN’S STORY? JUST TIE IT IN A LITTLE BETTER.
Maalik returned with a filled lamp, set it on a low stool, and disappeared again. The light spread over the room, waking Joah, who stirred, slitted his eyes, and sat up.
“Ban!” He shoved the cloak aside and stretched up his arms. Donatiya groaned and covered her face with a corner of the discarded garment.
Warmth spread through Aban at the babyish sound. He dropped to all fours and drew nose to nose with his brother. How could he be parted from him?
“I brought you a present, Joah.”
He rattled the contents of the pouch. “Present!”
“Ban!” The baby waggled his head comically. Proud of his ability to say his brother’s name, Joah refused to learn any other words.
RH: SO JOAH IS A BABY BUT NOT GIVEN TO AN ISRAELI COUPLE?
Donatiya sat up, sliding the cloak over her shoulders. The wrinkles around her eyes were deeper in the lamplight. “Why are you here, my heart? And what is that you’re wearing?” She wrinkled her nose. “It smells!”
Aban shook the tiles onto the mat. “Look here, Joah.”
In this moment, with his brother and the woman who had raised him, he wanted to forget the coming rites. He began to link the pieces together, pronouncing the symbols aloud as he aligned the daleth with the kaph, the nun with the sad he.
Interested, the baby plopped forward on his hands and knees and crawled toward the remaining pile of ivory squares. He grabbed one and shoved it in his mouth.
Swiftly, Donatiya sat up, hooked a finger between his tightened lips, and pulled it out. Still holding Joah by the shoulder, she lifted her gaze to Aban. Her eyes were dark and troubled.
“What are you doing here on Preparation Day?” RH: WHAT IS PREPARATION DAY? SHOULDN’T WE BE SEEING HIM PREPARE? SOUNDS LIKE A BIT TO-DO. WE SHOULD BE IN THAT WORLD.
Aban shrugged, pretending interest in the tiles. He brushed his fingers across their smooth surface, coming back to rest on the first in his random grouping. Daleth—a door. His stomach twisted. What waited behind the door he faced? He glanced at Donatiya, seeking an answer.
“I think you must be the one to prepare me.”
She leaned toward him, not pretending to misunderstand. “You must hold back your heart, Aban. Everything else belongs to the gods—our service, our bodies—we mortals are their pawns. But your heart, who you really are, that is yours, to give or withhold, as you choose. Remember that.”
As you choose. Aban dropped his gaze back to the tiles he had picked so casually, which now seemed to reinforce Donatiya’s advice. Kaph. Not only a door, but a hand that chooses to open or close it.
Joah, seeing the direction of his gaze, lunged for the linked squares. Laughing, Aban trapped his brother between his knees, instead scooping the loose tiles into a heap in front of them. Taking hold of the little hand, he helped Joah stack several tiles into a miniature tower.
The baby yanked his hand away, then with thumb and forefinger, picked up one tile at a time, stacking them into a perfect tower of his own.
“There was a time, when this one was born, that a choice was made. Then I had no say.” Aban picked up a tile to add to Joah’s stack, but the child waved his arms fussily and Aban dropped it back in the pile. “But after tonight, I will be a man. I’m here to ask you to think again on that decision.”
“I will protect him with my life. I love him.”
He’d known she would resist losing the boy. He pushed his own emptiness aside and sought to make his words convincing.
“As do I. But you have said, we are pawns of the gods—and they have no love for mankind. I will not be high priest until Sulonen dies…”
“Or is set aside,” she interrupted.
“Or set aside,” Aban repeated. He could not imagine that happening. The high priest had the ear of the king, and the queen consulted with him daily. “But I fear for Joah once I have sworn allegiance to Melqart. I’ll no longer be able to come and go as I have, or play with my brother in a back room during the nightly rituals. Who will protect him then? Send him away, Donatiya. Let him grow up a farmer’s son.”
Another voice answered. “Is that what you would have wished for, my son? To be a farmer? Indeed, you have dressed as one this morning.”
The high priestess stood in the doorway, imposing even in her sleeping tunic. Aban’s heart froze. Joah glanced sideways, then, showing off, slapped the little tower he’d been building, sending it clattering across the floor.
Aban got to his feet and bowed respectfully. “High Priestess.”
She inclined her head. “Future High Priest. You honor us.”
She was handsome, his mother, even in the smoky lamplight, this woman who had captured the lust of a thousand men and the envy of a thousand women. Hers was not a soft beauty.
Like the goddess she served, she was tall and strong, her strength of will as chiseled as the stone image itself. She folded her hands, not moving to touch either him or Joah, who, unconcerned, started a new tower.
RH: VERY NICE IMAGE. SUGGESTION: SMOOTH OUT SOME OF THE WORDING/SENTENCE STRUCTURE.
“Farmers seek the fertility Astarte promises, or the sun and rain Melqart commands. But always by night, in the shadows, have you noticed? Why is that, do you think?”
Aban shook his head. Who knew what went on in the mind of an Israelite? Why was she telling him this?
“They despise us…some even say we are hated by their god. Yes, these same farmers—and shepherds, potters, and shopkeepers—importune Melqart and Astarte in secret, but bring offerings to their own god by day.
“The wealthy among them are less superstitious—they enjoy the pleasures of our temples.” Her face grew cruel. “But not even a rich, childless Israelite would bring the spawn of Canaanite gods into his home! We are who we are, Aban. You can’t just put on a stranger’s tunic and step into his life!”
“Mara!” Donatiya jumped to her feet and circled his mother in her arms. “Say no more!”
The high priestess frowned and stepped away to break free of her friend’s embrace. Bending to hitch up her robe, she revealed a knife-sheath strapped to her thigh. The weapon was ugly and primitive with a scarred wooden handle, and its curved blade hissed like a snake when she slid it from the leather.
Aban reeled with the emotions she had flayed with her words. Though the other children born to the temple had been given to childless families, the High Priestess would not allow Joah to be adopted. Why? A dark possibility presented itself, impossible stories, rumors he’d heard that could not be believed.
No. He and Joah were children of Mara, in line for the High Priesthood. His mother had promised her children to the gods, and she must keep her promise. But he had made a vow of his own.
RH: THIS IS GOOD INFORMATION. I THINK IT NEEDS TO COME EARLIER. SO ABAN IS NOT FROM A FAMILY BUT THE SON OF THE HIGH PRIESTESS. AND HE DOES NOT KNOW HIS FATHER? AND HIS FATE IS ALREADY DETERMINED FOR HIM. IS HIS MOTHER THE ONLY ONE WHO KEEPS HER CHILDREN?
“There’s nothing for me now, but to accept my destiny. But I won’t let them have Joah. It’s all a lie anyway—there is no god.”
His mother’s hand tightened on the wood handle and she stared at him, weighing, it seemed, a terrible decision. Aban waited, arms limp at his sides. It was all the same to him whether he lived or died.
She turned the knife, extending it to him, handle first. Wordlessly, she bent to unstrap the sheath and gave it to him. “We will see to Joah.” She gripped Mara’s arm, and the determination on their two faces sparked a glimmer of hope for a future, if not for him, for his brother.
“Go now. And take care for yourself.”
He knelt first, to brush a kiss at the curve of Joah’s neck, smiling at the baby’s ticklish squirms.
Solemnly, the child offered him the contents of his clenched fist, opening his fingers to drop two tiles in Aban’s palm. Aban closed his hand around the gift and whispered, “There is another life. Seek for it, my brother.”
Then he left, walking hurriedly past the sleeping rooms where the priestesses of Astarte still slumbered. Only a few lamps retained enough oil to provide dim light along the way but ahead, the door to the courtyard stood open, flooding the entrance ahead with the stark light of morning.
He stepped outside, blinking to adjust his eyes to the sudden brightness. Dov stood in front of the gates to the street, his broad back hiding who he was talking to. Then the person stepped around him, a slight familiar figure, sharp-nosed, fox-eyed. Rakim.
***
SUMMARY:
I love this story. It’s very interesting and has great potential. I felt the author presented a unique idea but the structure was a bit awkward. She did a good job of showing but I had no context.
For example, Why does the tunic matter? Why is Aban dressing differently? How does he normally dress? I think she short cut his story world. We need to be in his world, in his skin, feel what he feels, see who he is and what he does before we appreciate him breaking the rules.
Is his dream a family or to be free of the burden of being the son of a high priestess and all that’s required? Is he the son of the high priestess? I wasn’t clear on that.
Does he want to be free from the expectation that he will be a servant of a cruel god. What goes along with being a high priest? Why does he dread it? What evil will he have to do? What ARE the first rites requirements? What does he have to do?
The author opening scene showing us Aban’s world an hinting at the questions I raised. What if the opening is someone dressing him for and instructing him in his first rites.
Then his mother (the high priestess?) comes in — show us her just like she did in the one scene with Joah — and she gives him instructions and admonition. Demands he meet all expectations. Show us what is at stake for him if he rebels. I like his mother being the high priestess because the layer of emotions conflict deepens.
Use dialog to give us a hint at what he wants, OR use it to show what’s expected of him but in his own thoughts he hints at his secret desires.
EXAMPLE:
The high priestess appeared in the doorway. “You wear the robes well.”
“I should, they are custom made.”
“Because you are the heir.” She moved toward him with exact, precise moves of power and control. Not with those of a mother who’s heart brimmed with love. No, Aban was nothing to her but an heir to the god she worship and the power it afforded her. “Make me proud. First Rites are an honor.”
First Rites. He’s avoided this passage for as long as possible — bedding as many of the temple women as he could in one night — (or whatever first rites are). The high priestess called it the supreme pleasure of the soul, a way to the gods, but Aban felt maligned by the very idea. His younger brother was conceived on such a night. A night when the high priestess chose a sacrifice. She bedded him before cutting out his heart.
“I don’t feel called to this.”
“Feel? This is not about feeling, Aban. You are called to this because you are of my flesh and blood.” She lowered her face to his, her sharp features hardening. “But make no mistakes, you shame me or the disgrace the temple, I’ll have you killed before a fortnight.” Her breath burned against his skin and her voice bore a sound not her own.
Chills burned down his back. “I want to Joah.”
“He’s with his nursemaid. He’s fine.”
END
In my scene I used the authors concepts to show Aban’s battle. We begin to see what he wants. Then in the next scene you can have him climbing out the window wearing a disguise to see his brother and his motivation is more clear.
Don’t be afraid to “tell” the story while you are setting the stage with scenes. Don’t cloak motivation or reasons in an effort to draw out the suspense or keep the reader guessing.
Too much guessing and they’ll abandon the story.
What’s at stake for Aban is no the mystery of First Rites but what will become of him if he fails. That’s the cloaked thread the author can use to draw in the reader.
Could his mother really kill him?
Build your story world so that the reader falls right in. Let the meet the characters and their dilemma right away. The stakes and consequences will draw them in.
Hope this is helpful. Thanks to the author for letting me share our exchange.