Prose Critique: Dustborn

Use active verbs and strong adjectives to balance description and pacing

I’ve enjoyed reading

Erin Bowman

’s thoughts on writing and publishing for while now, so I asked if she would share a look at how she revises her novels for publication. Here, she shares her edits on an early draft of Dustborn, a genre-blending post-apocalyptic Western from Clarion Books about a girl searching a wasteland for a rumored paradise.

In this scene from the second chapter, Delta is in the process of transporting her sister, Indie, across a stretch of desolate desert in the hopes of getting her medical aid. This requires using a sort of makeshift sled/stretcher that Delta drags behind her.

Erin’s explanations for her edits follow in the footnotes. The economy of Erin’s prose, along with her focused imagery, lends tension to a suspenseful story. Even though the scene requires the reader to envision an unfamiliar post-apocalyptic world, strong verbs and adjectives allow description and action to move at a quick pace.

The ocean is like nothing I’ve ever seen.¹

We come upon the Old Coast as the sun begins to sink behind the horizon, its endless parched expanse stretching before us. I slow to a standstill, taking it in for the first time. Flint’s descriptions are accurate. It’s like the wastes—just as endless, just as desolate—but witnessing it with my own eyes is harrowing.² 

The ground dips steadily here before me—the remnants of a what used to be a bank or shoreline of some sort—and I have to run to keep from getting clipped in the back of my the ankles by the dragger. Once I’m on the dried ocean bed itself, things are easy for the first time since leaving we left Dead River.

No scrub to slow me down. No ruts or rivets to claw at the dragger.  The ocean bed is hard-packed rock, a cobweb of cracked dirt, but there are no obstacles. I’ll make good time.³

I confirm my heading with the lodestone again, then check on Indie. Her usually bronze skin is sallow, and despite the sweat on her brow, she feels cold. 

“Hey, can you drink?”

She mutters something in response, which I take to be a yes. I tip the waterskin toward her mouth, and half the liquid dribbles uselessly down her chin. 

“How much…” Her eyes flutter.⁴

“Farther?” I glance out across the ocean bed. If I squint, I can make out a lump the height of my thumb in the distance. That’ll be the oil rig Flint spoke of, Zuly’s watchpack. “Little over three clicks?” I tell Indie.⁵ “Four at most.”

Her Indie’s⁶ head lulls and her eyes fall shut.

“Just hang on. We’re almost there.”

I take off at a jog, the dragger strap burning my chest and torso. My feet are chapped now too, the sweat having put blisters into on my heels. I press on, ignoring the sting, my eyes pinned to the lump on the horizon. Soon it’s not so much of a lump, but a small grave-marker, a large boulder, then a hut on wide stilts. I pull a pale flag from my rucksack and hold it overhead. Flint said a white flag announces that you mean no harm, but with each step, I can’t help but feel that I’m waving a target and shouting, “Aim here!”

As twilight falls, my destination morphs into the behemoth rig Flint described, an impossible behemoth.⁷ I’ve never seen something so large. The stilts are rusted and reddened from the elements, and slightly crooked too, as though the wind has tried to blow them over. Rungs are built into each of the stilts, turning them into ladders. They extend up to the hut-like portion of the rig, which is four times as large as our huts back home and, encircled by a deck with a railing. It towers above me like an impossible island. 

A figure appears on the deck, the unmistakable shape of a rifle aimed my way. I freeze, and the dragger sliding slides to a halt as it bumps my ankles.

“Name and business?” the figure calls down.

“I’m Delta of Dead River. My sister is sick. Pregnant, but something’s gone wrong. I need to see Zuly.”

His rifle lowers slightly and if I squint, I can make out a weathered face, dark and wrinkled. “Patients outside of Zuly’s pack aren’t allowed on the Ark. If you need treatment meds, you should have sent a trader for meds.”

“She’s seen one of ours before. Years ago, when we still called Alkali Lake home. My friend Asher was sick with an endless fever. His ma brought him, and Zuly treated him.”

“You must have must’ve⁸ had good payment.”

I don’t know what Silla paid Zuly that day, but I nod anyway. “I have payment again now. Please. My sister is dying.”

It’s only when I speak the words that I realize they’re true. She has to be. If Indie was fine, Gwen Astra⁹ would have delivered the baby at home. Ma never would have sent me into the wastes.

“The tanker is a half click that way,” the watchman says, and points pointing southeast. “You better be quick. The skies paint warnings.”

I glance over my shoulder, to the north. The darkening northern sky is alight with ribbons of green and white, dancing and twining above the darkening horizon. 

A silent storm is coming.

I curse, remembering the solar flare yesterday as I helped Indie in the cornfields. We’d had to take shelter among the stalks for awhile a few minutes, shielding our eyes until the flare brightness¹⁰ passed. Was that really only a day ago? It feels like a lifetime. Doesn’t matter. Flares always come before the auroras, and the auroras always come before the silent storms. The gods may send them to punish us, but at least they warn us, too.

I touch the lodestone beneath my shirt. I’ll be able to find my way, but will Indie? Some silent storms have no consequences outside of disrupting merely disrupt Old World compasses and stirring stir up more dust. Others are so strong, you can feel your heart racing, your blood boiling. They’ve killed the elderly on rare occasions, caused their hearts to stop cold. And in Indie’s weakened state…

Silent storms. Silent killers.

The watchman tugs at something behind him, and a faded red flag unfurls on the rig. “So they know you’re coming,” he explains.

“Thank you.”

“The flag only means Zuly will be expecting you. It doesn’t mean she’ll see your sister.  You best pray your payment is enough.¹¹ Now go. Before the dust comes hits.” 

The flag flaps gently above him, teased by a breeze that hasn’t existed all day. 

I turn southeast and run.¹²

1. This scene opening leaves a lot to be desired. It's also a classic example of 'telling' rather than showing, so it got cut. The next sentence sets the stage better anyway, and is far more intriguing too.

2. This does a much better job of showing why the ocean is so bizarre/foreign to Delta's eyes. Through her actions (slowing to a halt) and her memory of hearing about the ocean through a friend, the reader understand quite clearly how/why it's "like nothing I've ever seen."

Yes, it's a few more words. But it's more intimate, more personal, and it's conveyed with action. "Show, don't tell." ;)

3. Most of the edits in this paragraph are to streamline for repetition and redundancy. I like to be really purposeful with my prose. Why use five words when two will do? "remnants of a shoreline" is cleaner than "what used to be a bank or shoreline." The same is true for why I cut "but there are no obstacles." The previous sentences described just that; a clear landscape. No need to say it twice.

4. I felt I needed a bit of description here to showcase how Indie is acting/feeling when she manages to speak. These three words do the trick without bogging down the scene.

5. It's obvious whose speaking here, so I cut this dialog tag.

6. Having just cut Indie's name in the above dialog tag, I wanted to change the pronoun to her name here, just for some added clarity.

7. Again, edits for streamlining and clarity. I also wanted to cut the word "impossible" to avoid an echo later in the para.

8. Edits here for voice; The speech was sounding to formal to me.

9. I typically know my main casts' names before I start drafting, but for minor side characters, that's not always true. I'll throw in the first name that comes to me in the moment, or sometimes even write XX as a placeholder, then figure out a fitting name later. This helps me maintain momentum in the draft. Sometimes the name I put down sticks, sometimes not. In this case, "Gwen" didn't feel fitting for the world, and I renamed her later on.

10. Again, some simple but purposeful edits in this para, and the one before it, to help with clarity

11. This is all redundant. We already know Delta needs good payment. They've discussed this just earlier. Saying less, especially in this moment, ups the urgency.

12. Putting this final line on it's own para is mostly just an artistic choice. But I think it really helps highlight the stakes again, the need for Delta to travel quickly... and since it's the end of a chapter, hopefully it also hooks readers and encourages them to read on.