A motivating critique....

I entered a Self-Published Book Contest a while back. Didn't win, but got a lovely push in the right direction.

Note: 1= needs improvement, 5 = outstanding, 0 = n/a

Structure, Organization, and Pacing: 4

Spelling, Punctuation, and Grammar: 5

Production Quality and Cover Design: 5

Plot and Story Appeal: 4

Character Appeal and Development: 0

Voice and Writing Style: 4

Judge’s Commentary*:

Saballos enthralls her reader with short atmospheric stories that pivot around the theme of various Loteria cards, for in the game of Loteria, the cards decide the fate of the players. I enjoyed the ghost stories and cared what became of Salvador. The image of his mother’s spirit coming to kiss her sleeping son is powerful. Likewise, the story of Emilia Medina’s hearing music and finding a bundle of money under her pillow and having a sore forearm gave me goosebumps. Alberto’s untimely end at the hands of Senor Ibarro is tragic and the tale is potent, due to the crashing sound Elena hears in her kitchen just when Alberto must have died. The haunted house that Elena and Salvador lived in perpetuates the paranormal theme, after which I appreciated the way the author attempts to use grief in a baby’s death to slowly undo the spell of hauntings. There is a shift in ambiance because the following stories are far more modern and the vocabulary is more reflective of the street today. It is the clever Loteria device and the personal history of the stories that hold the collection together. “El Sol,” for instance, reflects the worry of an entire community when a murderer was on the loose; some readers may remember the occurrence. I felt sorry for the children’s swimming pool envy in “El Melon-The Melon.” Benicio’s discovery of the power he has over his new little brother is believable and yet captivating. I enjoyed reading these stories, but I would have liked to have had an introduction to or a summary of Loteria since I had never heard of the game or cards before seeing this book.

Comments

La Estrella - The Star

The sun had gone down by the time we reached San Diego County. On our right, we passed the twin water-power structures (a pair of boobs is what they're generally referred as) that unofficially mark the entrance to San Diego. We couldn't see the ocean but knowing it was out there in the night made this part of the trip ominous, like we were traveling along the edge of the world. At least it would have if any of us was actually paying attention. But we weren't. If we had run out of gas our incessant chatter could have fueled the car. Our high-pitched laughter was outdone only by the blaring music straining the twelve-year old speakers. Let's see, it would have been stuff like the Smiths, Depeche Mode, some Usher and Next, and a little bit of Tupac - it was 1998 after all and we were L.A. girls. Marina borrowed her mom's four-door Honda so we could take this road trip to El Valle de Guadalupe ( a town outside of Ensenada, Mexico) where her grandparents' ranch was

El Valiente - The Brave One

Back in 2000 I started recording family ghost stories as told to me by my Mom, my Grandma, and letters from my Aunt Socorro. Around that time I was taking an English course on memoirs and for an assignment I presented those family ghost stories as if they were being told to me and my other cousins by our Uncle George. Why did I choose my Uncle George as the storyteller? Because I (and my cousins who were present) share a vivid memory of one night we were all at his house, in my cousin Lorrie's room, waiting for him to tell us a ghost story. I can't remember what his story was about (something about an old outhouse) but the anticipation and excitement are what fuels this memory. That and the 10 feet leap into Uncle George's lap that cousin Desiree took when Ruben pounded on the window from the backyard! Here is the introduction to that memoir assignment, exactly as I wrote it, almost exactly as I remember it. The girls piled themselves onto the cushy queen-sized bed, wrap

La Mano - The Hand

The gush of blood surprised him. It came as quickly and unexpectedly as had the rage. Eight seconds after the last blow, hand sent message to head that it was in pain. Nothing too bad - he had felt it a dozen times before. Deliberately, he released the tension in his right hand, regarding the white knuckles. His fist must have been tightly clenched because its color was just now returning. He considered the speed of his reflexes and began to feel grateful. His mind thought something and without having to be asked twice, his hand reacted. No explanation necessary. At 16 years old he was sick of explanations. Mom. Counselors. Judge. Girlfriend. They always wanted answers, justifications, tell me one good reason why I should . When nothing else went his way at least he knew he could count on his dependable hands. His mom used to tell him and his brothers that if they refused to go to school they’d be forced to work with their hands for the rest of their lives. Not a horrible alternati

Stories of Lotería

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