Reluctant Judge

Fiorella has to write a one-page critique of an excerpt she is judging for a romance writing contest, and she doesn't want to.

In the first place, Fio is very aware that her viewpoint is strictly subjective, as is everyone's. There is no golden template, nor does Fio possess a map of a yellow brick road to literary stardom--if so, she would have rolled down it herself.

But there are realizations that help, and that's what she will try to provide. Fresh eyes often see what familiar ones miss.

Fio's been judging a fair amount lately, and a common problem seems to be sense of setting, or lack thereof. After an announcement of the setting--a snowstorm, for instance--there's no follow through, like snowflakes landing on one's face, problems stumbling on rocks or curbs hidden by the snow, the cold taking away one's breath. And in a restaurant, wouldn't one hear silverware clinking and the hum of other diners' voices? And smell the food?

Oooops--Fio has set off one of her pet peeves--jarring odors. In an effort to "use the five senses," a common literary admonition, all of a sudden, we learn that the heroine of the moment smells like roses, summer breezes, and fresh cinnamon. Might as well add that she likes long walks on the beach, evenings on a bearskin rug in front of a fire, and measures 36-24-36. Heroes are all too often described by their colognes. Fio thinks if a man's outstanding characteristic is his cologne, he has problems.

Oh, dear--Fio's being judgmental again. But what else can one do when one is judging?