Welcome to this critique where today's manuscript
follows a restless wanderer named Ishmael as
he travels to Nantucket, befriends a heavily
tattooed harpreneur named Queekegg, and signs
aboard the ominous whaling ship Pequod. And jumping
right into the feedback, the material here is
undeniably brilliant. with rich philosophical
depth, but it really requires some structural
refinement to maximize the reader's engagement
right from page one. Front -loading the manuscript
with extensive etymological definitions and historical
extracts creates a formidable barrier to entry
before the narrative even begins. It really does.
Getting the reader onto the ship and invested
is everything, but we hit this wall of text first.
Right, okay. So what I really like about this
part is the sheer depth of the research, you
know? Oh, absolutely. You're making a strong
case for the whale's mythological and historical
significance. Highlighting ancient Hebrew translations,
quotes from Darwin, King Alfred, it shows profound
dedication. The texture of it is wonderful. It
feels like stepping into a dusty 19th century
archive. Exactly. But the distinct weakness here
is that placing these etymology and extract sections
before chapter one completely disrupts the initial
narrative hook. Yeah, you're asking the reader
to wade through dozens of quotes from Genesis
and Job, and even a fictional sub -sub librarian,
all before they even meet the protagonist. It
delays that immediate, compelling voice. Right,
before the opening lines of the story, the reader
has to parse through pages of dense academic
framing. It's a huge demand on the reader's patience.
You open a novel expecting a story, and instead
you hit what feels like a dictionary. A massive
history lesson before the fictional dream is
even established. That makes sense, but could
the evidence also support a different conclusion,
like utilizing these incredible historical fragments
differently? Yes, absolutely. My suggestion is
to relocate these preliminary sections so they
serve as chapter epigraphs or maybe an end of
book appendix. Oh, that's a great idea. This
allows the reader to immediately connect with
the protagonist's forward momentum without losing
the rich historical texture. By shifting the
architecture, we allow the narrator to welcome
the reader aboard first. Establish the stakes,
the tone, those freezing Nantucket streets, before
zooming out to the grand historical lineage.
Let's look at some concrete examples for improvement
here. Instead of a standalone extract section
sitting at the very beginning, you could take
that fantastic quote from the Book of Job. The
Leviathan make it the path to shine after him.
Yes, that one. And use it as an epigraph for
a later chapter dealing directly with the whale's
majesty. Or right before the ship's first encounter
with a spout. Building on that point, what if
we looked at it from the perspective of the sub
-sub -librarian himself? Such a delightful, melancholic
invention. Right? You could move that charming
introduction into a forward or, better yet, make
it an interlude later in the text once the ship
has actually sailed. Or just group them as a
comprehensive appendix that the protagonist explicitly
directs the reader to reference. Of course, these
are just a few out of all the possible ways you
could solve this problem. But implementing one
of these strategies will clear the runway so
that fantastic opening chapter can take flight
immediately. Moving on to pacing, the complete
uninterrupted transcription of Father Maple's
sermon totally stalls the forward momentum of
the protagonist's physical journey to the sea.
It really grinds things to a halt. Let's look
closely at this section discussing the Whaleman's
chapel. The scene leading up to the sermon is
incredibly evocative. The freezing sleet, the
memorial tablets on the walls. and that profoundly
atmospheric entrance of the chaplain climbing
a rope ladder into a ship bow pulpit, it is masterfully
staged. Palpable atmosphere. You can almost smell
the damp wool. But the weakness is that dedicating
an entire lengthy chapter to a verbatim theatrical
monologue stops the actual plot. right as the
protagonist is actively preparing to leave for
his voyage. It's a massive unbroken block of
text that risks losing the reader's engagement.
We completely leave the protagonist's point of
view to read a transcribed speech about Jonah.
It forces the reader into a passive state. The
sermon is thematically brilliant. And establishes
the moral weight of the ocean perfectly. But
the delivery method turns our active protagonist
into a passive stenographer just sitting in a
pew. Is there a risk that focusing solely on
the unbroken dialogue of the sermon might overlook
the protagonist's internal emotional journey
during this pivotal moment? That is exactly the
risk. So the suggestion to fix this pacing drag
is to condense the sermon by weaving the protagonist's
internal reactions and environmental observations
throughout the delivery. Focus the spoken text
only on the most crucial thematic beats. Right.
The thematic weight of Jonah's disobedience is
vital, but it needs to be filtered through the
lens of the character about to risk his own life
on those waters. Let's explore some concrete
examples of how to execute this. You could definitely
keep the powerful opening hymn, and Father Maple
climbing the rope ladder. Those physical details
are too good to lose. But you might summarize
the middle sections of the Jonah retelling through
the protagonist's wandering thoughts and anxieties
about his upcoming voyage. One might argue that
summarizing loses Maple's unique thunderous voice.
True, but you can preserve his voice while breaking
up the dense text by having the protagonist physically
observe the space. For example, Have the narrator
watch the widows in the congregation reacting
to Maple's delivery of the line out of the belly
of hell. Yes, or have him notice the storm violently
rattling the chapel windows, just as Maple describes
the tempest striking Jonah's ship. That makes
it so much more cinematic. Having the narrator
reflect on his own reasons for going to sea as
the sermon reaches its climax maintains that
terrifying awe of the scene while tightening
the pacing. It keeps the narrator active. And
again, there are a dozen different ways you can
handle this pacing issue. These are really just
a few options out of all the possible ways to
solve it. The goal is just to ensure the narrative
drive survives the sermon. Absolutely. So once
we get on the water, the fleeting treatment of
Bulkington promises a significant character arc
that is abruptly truncated, leaving us with a
real sense of unfulfilled narrative potential.
A key theme in this material seems to be the
deliberate introduction of fascinating maritime
figures. Quee Craig, the Spouter Inn Landlord,
Captain's Peligan Build -Ad, they all feel vivid
and essential. They leap right off the page.
But the weakness here is that Bulkington is introduced
with immense reverence, and then he is discarded
almost immediately. He's highlighted early on
as a standout figure among the Grampus' crew,
a man who holds aloof from the others. And then
he is described as a demigod seeking the open
independence of her sea. The text builds this
deep poetic mystique around him. You build this
guy up to be an absolute legend. And then he
is dismissed in what the text itself literally
calls a six inch chapter. It creates a really
jarring imbalance. It raises the reader's expectations
for a character who vanishes from the plot right
after being framed as vital to the thematic core
of the journey. If you spend that much narrative
currency on a character, the reader naturally
assumes they are going to follow that character
into the fire. Is the connection between A and
B fully established in the material, or is that
an area to potentially bolster? Right now, the
setup of Balkington and his ultimate payoff feels
like a dropped thread. When he disappears into
a stoneless grave after half a page, the reader
feels slightly betrayed. My suggestion is to
either integrate Bulkington more actively into
the ongoing crew dynamics aboard the ship, or
to repurpose his philosophical weight onto a
character who actually remains central to the
narrative. We need to align the amount of textural
real estate given to a character with their actual
importance to the plot. Let's see how we can
strengthen this with some concrete examples.
If the author wants to keep Bulkington in the
story, you could allow him to interact organically
with the mates during the chaotic departure scenes.
The Merry Christmas chapter. Exactly. Have him
assist in securing the boom alongside Queekegg.
Or have Captain Peleg specifically call him out
by name, just to anchor his physical presence
on the crew before launching into the grand philosophical
musings. That works well. I wonder, though, if
we've considered an alternative approach where
Bulkington is removed entirely. Oh, that's interesting.
You could easily transfer the powerful metaphor
of the Lee Shore, the idea that safety on land
is actually the soul's direst jeopardy, to the
protagonist's own internal monologue. Let the
narrator look out at the freezing waves during
his very first night watch and realize that his
own restlessness is driving him away from the
safety of the port. You take that beautiful truth
meant for Bulkington and use it to deepen our
understanding of our main character. That's just
one tool in the toolbox. and these examples are
just a few out of all possible ways of solving
the character imbalance. But either expanding
his footprint or redistributing his thematic
weight will definitely fix the issue. Now, let's
talk about the advocate chapter. The sudden shift
into a defensive, essay -like justification of
the whaling profession jarringly pulls the reader
out of the established fictional dream. Right
when the ship sets sail, the narrative grinds
to a halt. As I understand it from the notes,
The argument here is that the author wants to
elevate the status of the whaleman. To prove
to the reader that this is a noble, historically
significant, and economically vital profession.
Which is a totally valid authorial goal. The
information itself is genuinely fascinating.
The idea that whale men are the true global pioneers,
opening up Australia and South America. But the
weakness is that this chapter completely abandons
the immersive, narrative -driven world of the
ship's departure. Just as the Pequod has blindly
plunged like fate into the lone Atlantic, the
text stops the story to directly address the
reader. with historical data. Financial statistics
like the $20 million value of the fleet, defensive
appeals regarding the respectability of the trade.
It feels much more like an authorial intrusion
than a natural progression of the story. It turns
our narrator from a vulnerable participant in
a grand adventure into a defensive lecturer at
a podium. When you step on stage to hand out
statistics, the continuous fictional dream breaks.
Building on that point, what if we looked at
it from the perspective of dramatizing this information
within the world itself. I like where you're
going with this. The suggestion is to dramatize
these defenses of the whaling industry through
organic character dialogue or to integrate the
historical prestige seamlessly into the world
building. Rather than presenting it as a direct
standalone argumentative essay. We want the reader
to feel the majesty and danger of wailing through
the action and the characters, rather than being
explicitly told to respect it. For concrete examples
for improvement, you could dramatize this exact
information earlier in the manuscript during
a natural scene of conflict. Yes, have Captain
Pelag or Captain Bildad boast about the one million
pound British bounties while they are aggressively
negotiating the protagonist's sleigh. When Bill
Dad is stubbornly arguing for the 777th lay,
he could easily justify his stinginess by citing
the massive capital at risk and the global economic
impact of their specific voyage. Or let the protagonist
reflect on the global impact of the whale ship
while he marvels at the cosmopolitan crew loading
the vessel. As he watches the riggers and the
harpreneers working, he could internally marvel
that these rough men have mapped uncharted archipelagos.
Keeping the information rooted in an active scene
tied directly to the physical reality of the
ship and the sweat of the crew solves the pacing
issue instantly. Obviously, these suggestions
are just a few out of all possible ways to handle
the exposition. But the key is to show the nobility
of the profession through the narrative rather
than stopping the narrative to argue the point.
To quickly recap our critique today, we have
identified four key areas for high -level structural
refinement. First, relocating the opening etymology
and extracts to epigraphs or an appendix to clear
the runway for the immediate narrative hook.
Second, breaking up the pacing drag of Father
Maple's sermon by weaving in the protagonist's
active observations and physical reactions to
the chapel environment. Third, fulfilling the
narrative promise of the Bulkington character
by either expanding his active role in the crew
dynamics or transferring his profound philosophical
weight directly to the narrator. And finally,
dramatizing the essay -like defenses of the whaling
industry into active dialogue and organic world
-building rather than relying on standalone argumentative
chapters. We highly encourage the writer to implement
these structural and pacing adjustments. By addressing
these areas, you will effortlessly maintain the
story's incredible philosophical depth and its
striking character work. While ensuring a seamless,
gripping experience for the reader from the Spouter
Inn all the way out into the deep, open ocean.
We warmly invite you to submit your revised work
back in for another critique once you've had
a chance to experiment with these suggestions.
Keep writing, keep refining your craft, and we
look forward to seeing where this incredible
voyage goes next.