In the Margins: Fic reviews from my editor

Okay, first of all what you are about to read is the result of me looking for good fan fic and finding… well, not so good fan fic. In fact, a good deal of it was excrement, to put it politely. This one, however, was just… laughably bad. So I shared it with Phuriedae, who has acted as my beta/editor on “What You Wish For” and my in progress “Complications.” Her unrestrained GLEE while mocking this turned into the following (unsolicited) review.

Should the author of this want to strangle someone for the following: I’d recommend throttling your thesaurus. Really. It’s not doing you any favors. The story in question is “Just Peachy” by pit author The Slow Hand Muse. Comments in GREEN are from Miss Phurie. This is not the whole story. If you want to read it, just follow the link.

If you want to read Phurie’s thoughts on it, the rest is below the jump.

I tried to comment throughout the whole thing. I had a small stroke about a quarter of the way through, and decided to break it up into my “favourite” chunks. You’re really not missing anything. Just imagine me yelling “DOES NOT COMPUTE!” at the author at the end of every sentence. For about forty odd paragraphs.

(I’d blame KnifeEdge for this horrible experience, but she DID try to protect me by refusing to link me to the fic. I’m a glutton for punishment however, and hunted it down)

Just Peachy by The Slow Hand Muse

She swore lightly as the pager beeped again, the annoying buzz seeming all the more loud for the close confines of the booth at their favorite Diner. It never failed; she’d finally gotten her best friend away from her social activities and her own work schedule for a casual lunch and BAM…. The small annoyance (Do you think it’s annoying, by any chance?) sounded again as the russet-haired young woman glared across the table at the frantic blonde (Do you know their names? Then use them. We all know the brunette is Sarah – there’s no suspense here) digging through the bottomless pit she called a purse. Relentless and ruthlessly the black cased devil (No, seriously! I really can’t tell) wailed till finally the girl gripped expertly painted fingers around the bit of plastic and machinery. (Unlike all those other pagers out there that are made of bubblegum and sticky tape? Hands up who really couldn’t have extrapolated that detail for themselves? It’s okay, though. Luckily for you readers, this is the last time superfluous detail will ever happen in this fic.

Hah. Gotcha.)

“Damnit, Leslie, can’t we have even one moment without something coming up?,” she breathed out irritably her face resting against the palm of her hand, her elbow firmly and impolitely planted on the table (And where on the table was it planted? Left or right arm? We need to know these things.) as she stirred her straw about the glass disturbing the ice and what little remained of her soda. (I’m going to bet right now that I could strip this fic to a quarter of its original word count without losing any important plot points)

“I’m sorry Sarah,” the blonde merely smiled apologetically as a loud exhale escaped her own pursed lips, her blue eyes flashing in the same echo of frustration and irritation. (She’s smiling, pursing her lips, speaking, and loudly exhaling at the same time? Look, I know women are supposed to be good at multi-tasking, but really…) “I have to go…. It’s my work.” Leslie hung her head in defeat, wisp of blonde hair falling into her eyes and shadowing her face. Canting (casting) her head to the side the blonde slowly raised her eyes to her friend, tried to paint her expression sheepish and apologetic as much as possible. (We get it, ok? She’s sorry. And a really bad drama queen.)

A slight smirk set to Sarah’s darkly painted lips (That had better be a deep, tasteful ruby red we’re talking about.) as she tossed the straw across the table at the rueful expression of her friend,(She threw a STRAW at her? What is she, six?) she wasn’t falling for it (Please fall for it. I don’t want to see Leslie’s defeated canting act again) as a light spray of dark sticky liquid dotted the surface between them and spattered the offending girl’s dark blue shirt. “You always do this,” a pout was forming (My mistake. She’s four.) across her own mouth (Her OWN mouth? So who is this – someone who stole Sarah’s mouth and made it smirk two seconds ago? I think I prefer that to the idea of Sarah POUTING), her disappointment cutting deep, but then she always knew it would happen, it always did. No one ever had time for her any more; no one ever remembered that Sarah needed attention too. (My god. Pre-Labyrinth Sarah was whiny, but she was never this pathetic.)

“Its not…” the last word caught in her throat, rang oddly in her head before she clamped her mouth shut and lowered her eyes, muttering softly, “I’m sorry for throwing the straw at you. You better go.” She bit back the sigh threatening to spill forth (What, because a sigh would be too much on top of the swearing, bitching and throwing things?)as she raised her glance unable to bring her eyes up (She just DID) and around to Leslie, afraid to show her the raw and unheralded loneliness and pain there in those shifting hazel depths. (You’re hearing Linkin Park lyrics just like I am, right? Don’t lie. Come sing with me!)

“Look, I’ll make it up to you,” the blonde pleaded softly eyeing the small device with great disgust as it buzzed again. (I’m starting to feel quite sorry for this poor pager. It’s only doing its job.) She forcefully pushed the button, grumbling, “I hear you damnit.” Without further thought she threw the object back into her purse, not caring that she might miss or even break it (Seriously. Let’s all root for the pager. It might make this less painful.) as she turned sympathetic eyes towards the sullen and brooding girl. (Maybe not.)

*******
Sarah runs off to the bathroom because she doesn’t want to look like a drama queen in front of Leslie. Oh honey, THAT ship has sailed.

Generic walls done in light creams, metallic silver stalls greeted her in absolved silence as she pushed through the swinging door with the little pink and white sign, the symbolic ‘female’ adorning said sign the shape of a stick figure in a dress. It suddenly occurred to her that maybe this wasn’t the women’s restroom, maybe it was for cross dressers, I mean other than the dress the figure looked rather androgynous to her. And she’s known a guy or two that wore a dress better than she did. Another cynical smirk tugged at her mouth as she took her hands from her pockets and turned to face the ordinary and sterile mirror that lined the wall before the three deep basin sinks. (Yes, for those of you wondering at home – that WAS an entire paragraph dedicated to the diner’s toilets.)

Ignoring her reflection was automatic these days; she didn’t like the person staring back at her. The pale flesh (no…) accented by brackish lipstick (please no…), the smoky eye make up (SONUVA…! You did it. You bloody well turned Sarah into a Goth. By the way, applying smoky eye makeup and dark lipstick requires pretty intense consideration of the mirror. Keep your cliches straight.) giving her once lively hazel eyes a haunted cast. It didn’t matter because more than not, she couldn’t see it anymore, there was no face staring back at her inside the glass. Sometimes she swore there were other things, but it only gave cause to not look even more intently.

(IIII’VE BECOME SO NUMB! I CAN SEE YOU THERE…!)

She’d become invisible even to herself, everyone around her had pushed her existence off to the side, forgotten and waylaid like an old tattered photograph faded away to nothing. Naturally it’d been ingrained into her how unsubstantial she was because well it was what everyone thought; she might as well follow their lead. (BECOME SO TIRED! SO MUCH MORE AWARE I’M BECOMING THIS!) Following along someone else’s footsteps had become as normal as breathing. Maybe eventually she’d just disappear because no one would see; no one would know that Sarah Williams had ever been.

******
She returns to find Leslie has left her dessert. Is is cheesecake? Is it brownies and ice cream? We get a whole paragraph dedicated to drawing out the suspense.

Yes, of course it’s peaches. It’s always bloody peaches. The title of the story mentions peaches. Just try and look surprised, ok?

It hadn’t registered coherently when her hand went for the fork, gripped the silver and moved to dip into the cobbler. The dismay elusive like a nymph running through the trees, captured and manifest too little too late as the first nectareous touched her dark lips. (…Huh? Excuse me while I go see if English is this chick’s first language.) She wasn’t entirely positive she wanted to fight against the pulling, the need to taste this time. She just wasn’t that strong anymore. (Yeah. Sarah, defeater of the Labyrinth, kicker of the Goblin King’s ass, just CAN’T stand up to the scary badass peach freakin’ cobbler)

The brisk clean taste of pure vanilla danced over her tongue cool and comforting just before being entwined and enhanced with the saccharine flavor of ripe and juicy fruit. “Why does it have to be so good, “ she could only whisper as her eyes fluttered closed, the contents washing warm and gratifyingly down the back of her throat muffling an ambrosial mewl (ambrosial is not the word you’re looking for) at the tastes dancing over her palate.

The world spun behind her eyes, the light of the restaurant filtered and hazed through the suddenly heavy lids, delicately dark lashes resting against slightly flushed cheeks as a look of pure enjoyment and long forgotten peace fell over her features. The oddest sensation of floating bubbled up from her stomach, spread through her limbs in a weird and fascinating sense of duel perceptions of real and unreal. On the one hand she could feel the seat beneath her and on the other she felt as is she were descending, falling through the cracks of reality between motes of light and the heavenly intoxication of peaches. (Look, I’m sure all these words together on a page look very, very pretty. Well done. But next time you want to put all your favourite words from the dictionary together, make a collage. Next time you want to write a fanfic, make sure it’s intelligible.)

*******
Now, this is the part that KnifeEdge sucked me in with. The description of Jareth. The real Jareth is over in the corner, killing himself with laughter.

The air crackled with his power, small motes of dust caught in the winds caressing with whimsical fingers over his enchanting form, making the light glitter ensorcelled with his virile presence (Light doesn’t glitter, it makes other things glitter. Dust certainly does not make light glitter) The breath stole from her lungs at the beauty of his ethereal handsomeness. (“The beauty of his ethereal handsomeness?” Aww, and he sweats gorgeousness and breathes sexiness and sweet radiance shines out the backdoor.) The angular features of his finely boned face were haughty and playful with the promised kiss at the corner of his mouth teasing and pulling the thinly mouthed lips into a smirk. The pure white of fallen snow lay around his lithe body as if the flakes themselves could be molded to perfection to the fine and enticing lines of his lean and athletic physique. (Jareth snowman!)

About his shoulder lay a cape of white, the feathers and fur so diaphanous as to come not from any mortally made creature (I’m not sure what to make of this. Either animals are supposedly “made” by mortals or Jareth skinned and plucked an immortal one. That’s going to be one pissed off griffin.) with such softness. Alabaster and cream, the smoothness of his muscular chest could be viewed from between teasingly gaps of the white poet’s shirt, the fringe laying in artful creases to the masterpiece of design. Embossed and raised, leaves in swirling of carefree winds coursed through the light grey leather of the low necked vest buttoned tightly to mold to his form. (I got nothing. Decipher it yourselves.)

Strong and nubile (Nubile? NUBILE? Even if you want to call him Bowie’s age, that’s beyond pushing it.) legs bore skin tight breeches all the same pure shade of white (Artistic nitpick – white doesn’t have shades, dammit!), having the impression of being painted on and leaving every detail of his masculine stature boldly apparent to her roaming eyes. The only mar in all that perfect the stiff black leather of highly polished riding boots capped off at the knees. It was possible his exotic appearances could have been appreciated by her younger mind back them, but were once she was ignorant she was now painfully aware. (So she appreciated his appearance, but was ignorant of it?)

The thundering of her heart raced and fluttered in against her breasts just as his first whispered tauntings had stirred in her body. A slow shuddering breath escaped her lips, set flight to the rush of butterflies threatening to overfill her belly and explode out her pores in desperate need of release. (This girl has never felt desire. Ever.) The sparse light turned the platinum of his wild and unkempt hair into fine spun strains of moonlight, set it to caress his face like docile lovers stealing embraces in a hedonistic fashion. (Docile, but hedonistic. And how does that work again?) How she longed to be a strand of that thistle down mass clinging for a lingering moment to the curve of his epicurean mouth.

*******
The climax! Oh, what will happen? You may think you’ve missed vital dialogue and plot in between this part and the last. You’d be wrong. Jareth asked Sarah if she understood. She said yes. He offered her a crystal. She turned it down. This took up several hundred words and approximately four lines of dialogue. I’m still not sure if anything actually happened.

A tiny death, so melodious, so fleeting as his lips came down upon hers in one last parting kiss. (They never kissed before this. Or maybe they did. I might have missed it in between all the prancing moonbeams and glittering spangles of sparkliness.) The world exploded into a thousand points of aching pain and divine pleasure with the softness of that sensual mouth so pensively exploring the contours of her lips. His tongue darted out to taste the bitterness of her lipstick before pouring into the welcoming passage of her embrace, hungrily growing bolder. More insistent in his discovery as a faint mewling crawled in want of more from the woman’s own throat as he thrust his tongue deep, playing the fleshy digit (ick?) along her own and claiming that unique taste that was purely hers greedily for himself.

Well. I don’t know about you, but I’M turned on.

She could hardly breathe around the heated embrace, each being pulled from his own mouth, each leading her further from the warmth of his gloved hands and scorching across her mouth with the deliciousness of each sinfully deprived nibble. Perceptions shattered (with every nonsensical phrase), painted in violent succession behind her eyes as the half light of moon and shadow gave way to the blinding illumination of overhead lights and tacky surroundings. Once more the bench firmly beneath her rear as it always had been and the pleasant scents of newly prepared foods enticed her from her half dream state.

And the moral of the story is? Jareth can be summoned by eating peaches. TOTALLY worth the read, right?
…
Why are you all crying?

So what have we learned from this, Little Goblin scribes? One: don’t write bad fan fic or it will make Phurie’s head go ‘splody. Two: Put the Thesaurus down carefully and sloooooooooowly back away. Three: There is such a thing, I promise, as TOO much of a good thing. A sprinkling of big words=good. A Noah and the Ark sized deluge=Not so good. A little bit of description to set a scene, describe a character, get across a mood=good. Making us wade through the description to get to whatever it is you want us to know=not so good.

To the author of this… yeah. We snarked you. I’m sorry, but… really, hun, you need a beta. Preferably one that knows English and the right way to approach a sentence. I’m not sure I’d recommend Phurie… for one thing, she’s mine. For another, she’s kinda scary when she gets going.

I’m now going to slink off and rewrite whole sections of Immortal Love out of shame.