My First Free Chapter Review

Well, I've very pleased to announce my very first blogged Chapter Review. These are my thoughts and they may differ from yours. I haven't been harsh ( I hope anyway) but I have been truthful. Please, give your thoughts on both the review and the chapter. However, do not attack the writer or your comment will be deleted.

What did I like?

Let’s start with the book title: loved it! Dead Politician Society is obviously based on a movie title but it caught my attention enough that I may buy the book in a bookstore because of it.
Also, you use a lot of showing and not telling. That’s wonderful.


Also, I like the premise of the book. I love reading about undercover assignments and I love main characters that are female.


Another thing I liked about the chapter is that you could have added backstory and lots of description but you didn’t. Because you were in a coffee shop, we didn’t need much description. Most people know what a coffee shop looks like. And, the first chapter or second chapter is not the place to add large chunks of backstory.


Does the chapter end in a way that we want to keep turning the page? For me, yes. I want to find out what happens at the university. We know it’s going to get better and more exciting from here.


Does your POV (Point of View) switch in a way that the reader is confused? You’re in Clare’s POV and you remain consistent throughout the chapter. That’s great!

Problem areas:

I noticed two issues with the chapter… I think you’re not going to be able to fix the book if it’s going for publication in 12 days but I will give my thoughts anyways. It can’t hurt. You can use my opinions for your next book.


(1) You’ve said that this is your first chapter so I’m going to give you my thoughts accordingly. I wouldn’t start here. If I have this right, Clare is a police officer being given an undercover assignment – she’s to attend university and find the person responsible for killing the mayor? The information in this chapter is needed; however, I wouldn’t put it in the first chapter. This would make a better chapter two. My suggestion: You state that the mayor was murdered at the Working Child Benefit, could we see the murder happen? I would find it intriguing to see him go down in his own vomit.


(2) The second issue is with your main character. I would say be careful with your character in one aspect. She can’t appear too naive or dumb. For example, undercover work is a very difficult assignment that can put a detective’s life at risk, so when she asks “Is that more like politics or science?” I begin to worry about her intelligence. Perhaps you can have her state the question just to annoy Cloutier but let the reader know she knew what it meant. I love detective stories with humor but you want to make sure the realism is there as well. Three months as an officer is very little time so, to build the readers trust, you want to make sure that the reason she was pick for this assignment is well warranted.


Clare Vengel tossed a leg over her Triumph and kicked it into gear. The sun was shining, the mayor was dead, and Cloutier wanted to meet with her. (I actually liked this sentence the best. I would make it sentence number one. The sentence grabs our attention because it says the sun’s shining and then, bam, hits us with “the mayor was dead”. What!? See, it catches us off guard – great!) As she sped along Dundas Street, weaving a bit too quickly through traffic, visions of her first undercover assignment played in her head. (Is what we read of from this point visions of her first undercover assignment or does your character just think of the past until she arrives at Dundas and Dupont? Not clear enough for me.)
At Dundas and Dupont, she found the agreed-upon donut shop. Sergeant Cloutier was already seated with two enormous coffees. (Oh… coffee. *drool*)
“So.” Clare flashed her brightest smile. “Who am I?” She slid into the cushioned booth, and set her helmet on the seat beside her.
Cloutier opened a bag and pulled out a dutchie. “I’m not pleased to be using you.”
“Okay.” That was fair. She was as green as they came. Clare determined to please him with results.
“We need someone who looks young. We also need someone with field experience. Apparently in this enlightened age it’s the packaging that counts.”
Clare sipped her coffee. What was she supposed to say?
Cloutier nodded to some sugar packets in the center of the table. “You’re not gonna use those?”
Clare wrinkled her nose. “No, thanks.”
Cloutier took one and added it to his own coffee.
“You’re going back to school.” He slid a plain white envelope across the table. “You’re a third-year political science student.”
“Political science?” Clare opened the envelope and discreetly observed a student card, driver’s license, and other documents that identified her as Clare Simpson. “Is that more like politics or science?”
Cloutier shook his head irritably. “Politics.”
“Oh.” Clare would have preferred science.
“You think you can get up to speed fast enough?”
“Of course.” She’d stay awake all night if she had to. (Do you really feel one night of studying is equal to three years of political science studies? It shows the character’s is eager and willing but a little naïve.) “Is there a reason I’m only half undercover?”
“You’re keeping your first name to make things easier on you.”
“Thanks.” Clare wasn’t sure whether to feel protected or insulted. ( You might want to say something about this. Perhaps, “You’re trusting that I’ll pass as a third year political science student but you think I can’t remember two names?”)
“This isn’t a permanent transfer.” Cloutier broke a piece from his donut. “Screw this case up, and it’s back to the beat for a very long time.”
“Okay.” Again, fair. Most cops had to put in years in uniform before they’d be given an undercover assignment. She’d been on the force for three months. (She couldn’t have been the only one with a pretty face. I think the reader will want a better explanation as to why she was picked after such a short time on the force.) “How did the mayor die?”
“Do you live on this planet?”
Clare eyed Cloutier’s dutchie. She wished she had one of her own. Or something greasy, like bacon or sausage, to soak up her mild hangover. (Be careful about mentioning a hangover here. It really doesn’t add to the respect we should be giving the main character. We need to respect her to want to read a whole book with her as MC…)
“Hayden Pritchard died at last night’s Working Child Benefit. He collapsed in his own vomit. It was all over the news.”
“Oh.” Clare was supposed to feel ignorant because she didn’t spend her evenings glued to the local fucking news? Fine, maybe she felt a little bit ignorant, but she wasn’t going to show it.
“Just read this.” Cloutier passed a printed email across the stained Formica table.

Hayden Pritchard: July 27, 1954–September 6, 2010

We hereby launch our campaign to create a political utopia for the real world. Hayden Pritchard made a dramatic exit from life last night, facilitated by the poison we slipped him.

Pritchard became mayor thirteen years ago, at which point he began to skillfully destroy the city’s economy. He spent piles of money to cultivate all kinds of fringe votes, and when he went over budget, he simply raised taxes to compensate. Small business owners closed up shop or moved to the suburbs in response to punishing tax hikes, and Toronto was ranked the worst place in the western world to do business.

We might have been fine with this if that money had been used to save some wildlife or give scholarships to inner city kids, but as far as we can tell, society’s problems have remained intact.

Pritchard and his staffers are okay with all this; they’ve received a fifty percent pay raise.

With another election three long years away, we have decided to free taxpayers from Pritchard’s socialist nightmare.

You’re welcome.

This has been a message from the Society for Political Utopia.

Clare wasn’t sure why her fingers trembled as she handed the page back to Cloutier.
“This email was sent to Annabel Davis, the assistant obituary editor at the Star.”
“Obituaries?” Clare rolled her eyes upward, and saw that the drop ceiling was badly in need of repair. “I guess there isn’t a homicidal rants editor. Is the newspaper printing it?”
“Not for now.”
“Do we know who sent the email?”
“Yeah. That’s why we need the investigation.”
Clare wanted to groan, but reminded herself to stay positive.
“The source computer was wireless.” Cloutier took one of the unused creamers and added it to his coffee, not bothering to stir it in. “A laptop, or one of those fancy Internet phones. The address was nicknamed ‘Utopia Girl.’”
“I presume we know that the mayor actually died from poison.”
“You don’t need to do any presuming. We have detectives for that. But yes: the medical examiner found massive organ damage consistent with some common poisons. Pritchard’s genitals and urinary organs were congested with blood.” (That’s pretty quick for a post mortem to be done. The murder only happened last night.)
“You mean his cock was hard,” Clare said, then immediately felt morbid.
Cloutier looked Clare in the eye. “Pritchard’s death was painful and miserable.”
Of course it was — her comment had been callous and horrible. She tried another tack. “Had he recently started a new medication? Viagra maybe? If he was already on some other drug, for his heart or something, the two could have interacted badly.”
“Thanks for your medical opinion.”
Clare tried to take a sip of coffee, but ended up dribbling most of it down her chin and onto her favorite T-shirt.
“Your job is basic, Vengel: go in as a student, keep your eyes and ears open, and get in touch when you find something that might help us.”
“Okay.” Clare stroked her helmet, which sat beside her on the plastic bench. “How about an obvious question: Why do we think this ‘Utopia Girl’ is the killer? Doesn’t every nutcase and his brother pop out of the woodwork when a famous person dies?”
“The inspector obviously thinks there’s something to it.” (What does the inspector know? I think the reader should know a bit more here…)
Clare leaned forward. “Which inspector?”
“Detective Inspector Morton hand-picked you for this assignment.”
“Cool.” Clare liked Morton — and apparently he thought she was worth a chance. He had hardly been exuberant when she’d met him, but he at least hadn’t laughed her out of his office when she’d approached him about undercover work. “And — last question, I swear — what’s the connection to the university? Is that where the email was sent from?”
“Looks that way.” Cloutier ate the last of his donut and stuffed his crumpled napkin into the bag. “Your first class is at eleven a.m. if you can make it, but the course that most interests us is your two o’clock. It meets twice a week. Tuesday afternoons and Thursday mornings. It’s called Political Utopia for the Real World.”
Clare’s eyes scanned the obituary upside down. “Is it a large class?”
“Twenty students, plus you. Now go. You have pencils and notebooks to buy.”
“Can I invoice the station for them?”
“Of course. Just don’t buy anything fancy.”
“Do I look like I’d want something fancy?” Clare picked up her helmet.
“No, you don’t.” Cloutier smirked. “Have a good day at school.” (Personally, I would end it here. The last line does not add anything for me.)
Clare rode off into the morning.