Analysis of Samples - Ghost Writer by C. A. Winter - (WIP)
C. A. Winter - For January 22, 2026
Chapter Analysis; Sample Sections
The purpose of this submission is to see how my section from last week stands in different lighting. After some feedback, I was able to edit it based on what I interpreted, then another time based on what I liked. There are commingled factors in all of them. I want to know which of these samples works best, without the context of the rest of the scene, since I did not provide it before.
I took a look at the core of the section and found two things; we were jumping around timelines and I didn’t realize it was jumping. The first edit (Sample 2) is what I did the night after hearing the feedback. The second edit (Sample 3) is a serious reconsidering of the structure and importance of the timing of everything. Does it matter where they did the call? Does it matter when he was at the gas station? No, I don’t think so. Not anymore, anyways.
Written feedback given:
“…To directly answer your questions: Are we in the moment with the character? I think we're in a physical, spatial moment with the character. We're not yet in his emotional or story moment…”
“…I'm given an immediate question that isn't answered. Does this need more descriptions? I think it needs more varied descriptions. To explain what I'm thinking, here's some things that I noticed: Clarity/follow through: You set up something in the opening paragraph that doesn't pay off. The character doesn't elaborate mentally on it, he jumps into a car trip description. By the end of the scene, I still don't know what it's referring to (Murder, fire, case, job, house?). Likewise in the dialogue, the characters are speaking naturally to each other but it leaves the reader a little too in-the-dark as to exactly what they're talking about. It hasn't been stated what the main characters job is and why he's travelling; I wouldn't be able to guess accurately without the submission form. I think both of those details are very important in an opener and we need them on page. The result of the above is that I don't know his situation or his motivations. I'm wondering if just adding more introspection would solve these issues and put us more in the moment with him.** About the car trip right after the first paragraph: This section is readable and vivid, but I'm wondering about its function in the story. It's getting him from point a to point b, but that could also be done in a single expository sentence. The objects he's talking about and conversations he's having with these strangers along the route don't read as important enough to slow down the explanation of the hook (whatever has happened in the first paragraph) but they COULD be important if it illustrated something about his character or his internal world or the story at large etc. Right now, I think it's something you're writing to tell yourself the timeline of the story and figure out what's going on, so it's functional in that sense, but if it goes into the final draft I think you should give it more jobs to do…”
Comments from others: (generalized)
Dialogue good
Dialogue needs more tags
Wasn’t sure what was going on until dialogue
Beginning too vague
Beginning to confusing
Without the context, (I) would not have known what was going on or who he was.
Who is the agent? Skip or Miranda?
What is he doing?
Response:
The feedback I highlighted stood out the most to me. This is a thriller/horror/mystery, so within the context of the genre and story, the scarcity of details is going to be the part that gets filled in by the reader. I dispute this specific nugget of feedback because the story is planned around ninety-thousand words, and the submission is about nine-hundred words. Things unfold. However, I did take that into serious consideration and saw where there was room for improvement without revealing anything more. A change to who called him on the trip and adding two lines in the opening line made the opening more poignant without actually revealing anything. (Sample 3)
I believed that through context clues, it was very clear what was going on. Skip was his literary agent, Miranda was his contact at his destination, his house burned down, etc. In my initial pass-edit (Sample 2) after the feedback, I went through and added a bunch of context and phrases to placate the idea, and to be frank I think it killed it. So, by using both discernment within the genre and the feedback of it being too vague, I believe Sample 3 is the best of both worlds without changing much.
As for the confusing-ness of the first sample, I hear you. It took me about five re-reads to see it clearly within the context of the story. We jumped, a lot. The timeline, the specifics, the back and forth of it all. I had to re-hash. Sample 3 fixes it completely, where Sample 2 improved on it. Comparing Sample 1 and 3 are night and day. I was too close to the canvas on this one and didn’t see where the issue was until I zoomed out. How important is a town name? How important is the timing? Not at all if it doesn’t really matter in the story.
***
Sample 1: (Original)
soul patch or maybe his girlfriend. His agent told him it was about time he looked for something
new. All were true, and all sucked.
There was a gas station in a through-town that didn’t have any cigarette lighters in stock. At
some point there were six rows of five lighters, each with their own patriotic slogan and flag.
Glossy, some with eagles. The thought of driving on gravel and fumbling with a matchbook
didn’t sit well with him. Too much wildlife and not enough gumption. He settled for a long
orange barbeque lighter and pointed it up at his face like a gun. Smoke whipped the back of his
throat and he coughed.
Ruts and washboard rattled the inside of his car. His laptop and papers bounced in the passenger
seat. There was a big green sign with shotgun spray at the corner that read “Flueton-Motel-Gas-1
Mile.
” Knowing there was a motel nearby settled his stomach. A break during his long visit
might be necessary.
A lady in Flueton with jeans on was kind enough to sketch him a map on the back of a heat-
sensitive receipt. The map was a long squiggly line with four little lines going in either direction.
The fourth line was his turn off. A man with a grey shirt tucked under his belly chimed in and
told her to draw ‘that rock before the road so he caint miss it.’
There were a lot of rocks on the side of the road, but the one in front of him now looked like the
one on the paper. Two five-foot spires of reddish pocked stone. They didn’t look like anything
else he’d seen on the trip, so a description of ‘two red rocks’ would have sufficed. The drawing
was a gesture of kindness, and he appreciated her creativity.
Before he bought the barbeque lighter, there was another gas station with more people and nicer
floors. That was two hours ago. Miranda called him and asked what time he was planning toarrive. They figured out what town he was in, talked about the drive and the road number. They
decided on a rough estimate of three hours and she hung up.
Driving made his legs sore and his underwear sticky so he took a lap around the asphalt and gave
Skip a call. It was a longshot- it being after business hours- but he wanted to talk to someone. He
picked up on the second ring.
“Hey champ, how’s the ride?” Skip was chewing between words.
“It’s fine. Boring. It’s Illinois.”
“Remind you of home?”
“Not really.”
“Sorry- not home. Well, sorry about home.” He stammered. “Uhh. Anyways, how’re you
feeling?”
“I’m good. My legs ache and my shirt’s too tight but I’m good.”
“Are you nervous?”
“What do you think?”
His voice tuned up and a fork hit a plate. “Should you be? Would that help me figure it out?”
“You gotta stop asking stuff like that.”
“So it’s a yes?”
“Drop it. For the hundredth time, drop it. I signed that paper, same as you.”
“God damn boy. If it weren’t for the money I’d be grilling you now, you know that.”
“I know. Chatty boy.”
“Hey- so like, what do you think about my offer?”
“Offer- oh, yes. I’ll be honest, I haven’t been thinking about it much.”
“I know it’s my uncle and all, but you could go there when you come home- even for a few
weeks while insurance figures it out.”
“I’ll think about it, I will. I just need to think about this stuff right now.”
He paused. “So, it’s in Illinois, it’s someone big and I might be excited about it. I came up with
one idea but I didn’t think it’s the one. Can I tell you who I thought?”
“Do I have to answer?”
“Does their name start with the letter L?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
His fist clinked the table. “God, I wished. I wished it was who I was thinking of, though I was
even skeptical myself. He’s too- you know- out there and all that. No offense, and honestly, I’m
glad it’s not.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Leonard Paulson- you know him, right? ‘Four Dead Horses’ series?”
“I’ve heard of him, never checked him out. Is he good?”
“Ehh, not as good as my clients, of course, but he’s pretty good. Genre kinda guy. Keeps it to the
one formula. It works for him, though. The guy makes mulah. Big schmoney. There was a Forbesabout him two or three years ago that talked all about his fancy house. None about his writing-
beyond his titles and descriptions- and I found that funny. Everything about a writer but his
writing. Whatever. Whoever it is that you’re going to, I’m sure it’ll be better than whatever soup
‘Santa Pauls’ has cooking.”
“Here’s hoping.”
“Amen, brother.”
They sat for a minute between bites and steps. A truck zoomed by and Skip piped up. “Was there
something you needed?”
“No, just bored. I’ll let you go. It’s dinner time. What’re you having?”
“It’s nothing, just wife slop.”
“Don’t let ole Nancy catch you saying that, man.”
“She’s smiling and holding two middle fingers up at me right now. All in good taste. It’s
enchiladas. They’re real good but getting cold. Drive safe bud.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep you updated.”
“Within contract.”
“Within contract.”
After the call, he opened his laptop and hooked up to the public Wi-Fi to see the house for
himself. It was slow to load. There were only a few pictures- mostly of the kitchen and living
room. An online architecture forum said that the Paulson’s bid and won an auction for a giant
piece of sequoia tree. The rumor was that they used it as their patio. He’d find out in a few hours.
*
The news said it was a gas leak. The neighbours said it was the guy on the second floor with the soul patch or maybe his girlfriend. His agent told him it was about time he looked for something new. All were true, and all sucked.
There was a convenience store in a through-town that didn’t have any cigarette lighters. At some point there were six rows of five lighters, each with their own patriotic slogan and flag. Glossy, some with eagles. Now his options were slim. The thought of driving on gravel and fumbling with a matchbook didn’t sit well. Too much wildlife and not enough gumption. He settled for a long orange barbeque lighter and pointed it up at his face like a gun. Smoke whipped the back of his throat and he coughed. Ought to quit.
Ruts and washboard rattled the inside of his car. It was a bad soundtrack. The radio crapped out a while back and his cord wasn’t working. His laptop and draft papers bounced in the passenger seat. A few pages were on the floor. There was a big green sign with shotgun spray at the corner that read “Flueton-Motel-Gas- 10 Mile.” Knowing there was a motel nearby settled his stomach. As nice as the mansion was, a break during his long visit might be necessary. He wiped his hands on his pants and kept an eye out for a gas station.
A lady in town with jeans on was kind enough to sketch him a map on the back of a heat-sensitive receipt. The map was a long squiggly line with four little lines going in either direction. The fourth line was his turn off. A man behind them in line with a grey shirt tucked under his belly chimed in and told her to ‘draw that rock before the road so he caint miss it.’
There were a lot of rocks on the side of the road, but the one in front of him now looked like the one on the paper. Two five-foot spires of reddish pocked stone. She even dotted in a dozen pock marks and pierced the thin paper. A description of ‘two red rocks’ would have sufficed, but her gesture and creativity were a nice touch. Awfully kind to a stranger. Hicks have a way.
At the urinal, he got an unexpected call from Miranda asking what time he would arrive. In their email, they discussed a mid-evening arrival but never settled on a time. He was supposed to write her back but forgot. They figured out what town he was in and talked about the drive and the road number. Thirty minutes was her estimate, and they ended the call on that. He finished relieving himself and went onto the parking lot.
Driving made his legs sore and his underwear sticky so he took a lap around the asphalt and gave Skip a call. It was a longshot- it being after business hours- but he wanted to talk to someone. He picked up on the second ring.
“Hey champ, how’s the ride?” Skip was chewing between words.
“It’s fine. Boring. It’s Illinois.”
“Remind you of home?”
“Not really.”
“Sorry- not home. Well, sorry about home.” He stammered. “Uhh. Anyways, how’re you feeling?”
“I’m good. My legs ache and my shirt’s too tight but I’m good.”
“Are you nervous?”
“What do you think?”
His voice tuned up and a fork hit a plate. “Should you be? Would that help me figure it out?”
“You gotta stop asking stuff like that.”
“So it’s a yes?”
“Drop it. For the hundredth time, drop it. I signed that paper, same as you.”
“God damn boy. If it weren’t for the money I’d be grilling you now, you know that.”
“I know. Chatty boy.”
“Hey- so like, what do you think about my offer?”
“Offer- oh, yes. I’ll be honest, I haven’t been thinking about it much.”
“I know it’s my uncle’s apartment and all, but you could go there when you come home- even for a few weeks while insurance figures your stuff out.”
“I’ll think about it, I will. I just need to think about this stuff right now.”
“Alright. So, we’re in Illinois, it’s someone big and I might be excited about it. I came up with one idea but I didn’t think it’s the one. Can I tell you who I thought?”
“Do I have to answer?”
“As your agent, no. As a friend, maybe.” He loves that line. “Does their name start with the letter L?”
“No.”
“No?” He clinked cutlery around with his fist. “God, I was hoping. I wished it was who I was thinking of, though I was even skeptical myself. He’s too- you know- out there and all that. No offense, and honestly, I’m glad it’s not.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Leonard Paulson- you know him, right? ‘Four Dead Horses’ series?”
He chuckled. “I’ve heard of him, never checked him out. Is he good?”
“Ehh, not as good as you or my other clients, of course, but he’s pretty good. Genre kinda guy. Keeps it to the one formula. It works for him, though. The guy makes mulah. Big schmoney. There was a Forbes about him two or three years ago that talked all about his fancy house. None about his writing- past his titles and descriptions- and I found that funny. Everything about a writer but his writing. Whatever. As your agent, I wish you could write for him. As a friend, I’m thankful you’re not going there. His wife’s a nut. Met her once at the conference- Whoever it is that you’re going to, I’m sure it’ll be better than whatever soup ‘Santa Pauls’ has cooking.”
“Here’s hoping.”
“Amen, brother.”
They sat for a minute between bites and steps. A truck zoomed by and Skip piped up. “Was there something you needed?”
“No, just bored. I’ll let you go. It’s your dinner time. What’re you having?”
“It’s nothing, just wife slop.”
“Don’t let ole Nancy catch you saying that, man.”
“She’s smiling and holding two middle fingers up at me right now. All in good taste. It’s enchiladas. They’re real good but getting cold. Drive safe bud.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep you updated.”
“Within contract.”
“Within contract.”
After the call, he opened his laptop and hooked up to the public Wi-Fi to see the house for himself. It was slow to load. There were only a few pictures- mostly of the kitchen and living room. An online architecture forum said that the Paulson’s bid and won an auction for a giant piece of sequoia tree. The rumor was that they used it as their patio. He’d find out in a few hours.
*
The news said it was a gas leak. The neighbours said it was the guy on the second floor with the soul patch or maybe his girlfriend. His agent told him it was about time he looked for something new. Somewhere in there is a pile of smoldering clothes and everything he ever owned. Not a problem to solve for today.
There was a gas station in a through-town that didn’t have any cigarette lighters in stock. At some point there were six rows of five lighters, each with their own patriotic slogan and flag. Glossy, some with eagles. The thought of driving on gravel and fumbling with a matchbook didn’t sit well with him. Too much wildlife and not enough gumption. He settled for a long orange barbeque lighter and pointed it up at his face like a gun. Smoke whipped the back of his throat and he coughed.
Ruts and washboard rattled the inside of his car. His laptop and papers bounced in the passenger seat. There was a big green sign with shotgun spray at the corner that read “Motel-Gas-1 Mile.” Knowing there was a motel in town settled his stomach. A break during his long visit might be necessary.
An earnest weathered lady in town with jeans on was kind enough to sketch him a map on the back of a heat-sensitive receipt. The map was a long squiggly line with four little lines going in either direction. The fourth line was his turn off. A man with a grey shirt tucked under his belly chimed in and told her to draw ‘that rock before the road so he caint miss it.’
He got a call at the urinal from a Spanish sounding woman asking what time he was arriving. About forty-five, he said. She told him that Miss Miranda said to write the road number down. 2241. His hands weren’t free but he said he had it written anyways. They hung up and he finished relieving himself.
His legs were stiff and his underwear was sticky from the drive so he took a lap around the asphalt before heading out. It was a longshot- it being after business hours- but he wanted to talk to someone he knew before he got there. Skip was his speed dial. He picked up on the second ring.
“Hey champ, how’s the ride?” Skip was chewing between words.
“It’s fine. Boring. It’s Illinois.”
“Remind you of home?”
“Not really.”
“Sorry- not home. Well, sorry about home.” He stammered. “Uhh. Anyways, how’re you feeling?”
“I’m good. My legs ache and my shirt’s too tight but I’m good.”
“Are you nervous?”
“What do you think?”
His voice tuned up and a fork hit a plate. “Should you be? Would that help me figure it out?”
“You gotta stop asking stuff like that.”
“So it’s a yes?”
“Drop it. For the hundredth time, drop it. I signed that paper, same as you.”
“God damn boy. If it weren’t for the money I’d be grilling you now, you know that.”
“I know. Chatty boy.”
“Hey- so like, what do you think about my offer?”
“Offer- oh, yes. I’ll be honest, I haven’t been thinking about it much.”
“I know it’s my uncle and all, but you could go there when you come home- even for a few weeks while insurance figures it out.”
“I’ll think about it, I will. I just need to think about this stuff right now.”
“Alright. So, it’s in Illinois, it’s someone big and I might be excited about it. I came up with one idea but I didn’t think it’s the one. Can I tell you who I thought?”
“Do I have to answer?”
“Does their name start with the letter L?”
“No.”
“No?” His fist clinked on the table. “God, I wished. I wished it was who I was thinking of, though I was even skeptical myself. He’s too- you know- out there and all that. No offense, and honestly, I’m glad it’s not.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Leonard Paulson- you know him, right? ‘Four Dead Horses’ series?”
“I’ve heard of him, never checked him out. Is he good?”
“Ehh, not as good as my clients, of course, but he’s pretty good. Genre kinda guy. Keeps it to the one formula. It works for him, though. The guy makes mulah. Big schmoney. There was a Forbes about him two or three years ago that talked all about his fancy house. None about his writing- past his titles and descriptions- and I found that funny. Everything about a writer but his writing. Whatever. Whoever it is that you’re going to, I’m sure it’ll be better than whatever soup ‘Santa Pauls’ has cooking.”
“Here’s hoping.”
“Amen, brother.”
They sat for a minute between bites and steps. A truck zoomed by and Skip piped up. “Was there something you needed?”
“No, just bored. I’ll let you go. It’s dinner time. What’re you having?”
“It’s nothing, just wife slop.”
“Don’t let ole Nancy catch you saying that, man.”
“She’s smiling and holding two middle fingers up at me right now. All in good taste. It’s enchiladas. They’re real good but getting cold. Drive safe bud.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep you updated.”
“Within contract.”
“Within contract.”
After the call, he opened his laptop and hooked up to the public Wi-Fi to see the house for himself. It was slow to load. There were only a few pictures- mostly of the kitchen and living room. An online architecture forum said that the Paulson’s bid and won an auction for a giant piece of sequoia tree. The rumor was that they used it as their patio. He’d find out within the hour.
*
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