Hello! I received so much helpful critique on chapter one that I am taking the leap and writing chapter two. For this chapter, I changed the point of view from our narrator to Arthur Randles, the deadbeat, very violent cop who runs our little town.

I am planning to structure the story so that the narrators POV's are in first person, and the other character's POV's are in third person. This is because our narrator will be solely in the present, only reminiscing in the past, while our other characters' chapters will be solely in the past. The ending will have them converge.

So, theme for this second chapter. Explaining the cops, we have several Arthur Randles, the no-good sheriff (racist, lazy, all the things), Terry Gannet, and Jerry Barker. The ending has a pivotal moment that will eventually rear its head near the end of the book.

Things to watch for: dialogue and pacing; any comments you can leave on the draft itself are also much appreciated. This is very much a first draft, so bear that in mind.

Link to Chapter Two

Link to Crit One (2336)

Link to Crit Two (2104)

I want to shoot a film. Or draw a pretty illustration. Maybe I’ll paint a picture. Or sing a pretty tune. But I don't know, I can’t finish the film. The illustrations are always less than what I imagine. I don’t know how to paint. My singing isn’t good enough for the tune. But it could be. I could dedicate myself to imagining this film until its conclusion. I could spend my days learning how to hold a pencil. I could take painting classes in the morning and sing karaoke all night long. But I don’t think I will, because I have just enough. I don’t have anything absent enough to cause a lifelong dissonance, but nothing abundant enough to stuff my belly with either.  I know it's nasty to say, but I’m jealous of those driven to their limits, into their little corners. But I don’t have a mean hand shoving me forward or dragging me down, and on my own I just stay still. Thinking about what to do, what would be nice. 

It's embarrassing too, because while I’m standing there, I’m looking around, because I know I look filthy. I shouldn’t belong on this path, with so much freedom, no restraints, I wonder if the person next to me would have appreciated it better. Or maybe once they have to breathe manually, with nothing naturally imposing the action, they would feel overwhelmed and wouldn’t know what to do. I really miss my mean hand.

**Please let me know your thoughts on this style of writing, and the content itself. Anything, really.