You knew this was coming. Just want to hear your thoughts if you haven't told me already.
Ever consider going back in time? Is it on purpose and to a specific time? Well, not this time in The Supernatural Case of an Accidental Time Traveler. This story is the first in a series of time-travel escapades with various supernatural and mythological undertones scattered throughout the...
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Alright, buckle up, Paul—this is going to be a ride. I’ve trudged through your opening gambit, from the
synopsis to
Chapter 1, Part 2, and now I’m here, dripping with sweat because I'm procrastinating while an important banner needs to be printed, armed with a misplaced focus sharper than Lou’s apparent lack of survival instincts. Since time is short and procrastination isn’t on my side today (unlike you, who clearly found the time to drown me in wandering prose), I’m limiting this roast to what I’ve read. Consider this your intervention.
First, let’s talk about your
synopsis. You’ve got a story with supernatural time travel, mysterious peacekeepers, and a protagonist named Lou Barrett—an everyman thrust into chaos. That’s already a concept with legs. But instead of giving it the sleek, compelling elevator pitch it deserves, your synopsis stumbles around with vague buzzwords and tired tropes like a Victorian drunk trying to find his hat. “Accidental time traveler”? Come on. That’s a descriptor we’ve all read a thousand times before, in 2000s at least. And who are these “supernatural peacekeepers”? Right now, they sound like ghostly mall cops. You need to stop hiding behind vagueness and deliver the goods.
Here’s the issue: a synopsis is supposed to
sell your story. Right now, it feels like a placeholder text you scribbled down because “it’s just a synopsis; the story will sell itself.” It won’t. Give us specifics. Hook us with something unique about your story, not tired descriptions like “scattered mythological undertones.” Show us why
your supernatural time travel tale is different from every other accidental hero story clogging the genre. And maybe—just maybe—give Lou a glimmer of personality in the synopsis. Right now, he’s just a faceless, unlucky bloke getting yanked around by time and fate.
Moving on to your
prologue, because
boy oh boy does this need some love. I’ll start with the good news: you’ve got atmosphere. The imagery of space, the disembodied voices, the infinite selves—it’s all creepy, surreal, and perfectly set up for a story dripping in existential dread. But that’s where the praise ends. You’re setting up a tone here, yes, but your execution is like trying to build a gothic cathedral out of marshmallows.
Let’s address your
so-called antagonists. These spectres or time gods or whatever they are—the ones who are “bored” and “choosing a lucky bastard to wield their power”—come across like petulant children playing with action figures. They have no gravitas, no menace, no depth. Their dialogue sounds like someone trying to write cosmic beings but forgetting that these entities are supposed to make readers tremble with awe, not cringe. If these are the entities that kick off your story, they need to command attention. Right now, they’re undercutting their own role as harbingers of chaos.
And because these spectres lack ethos or gravitas, the entire prologue’s emotional weight collapses like a cheap IKEA shelf. Logos—the logic of this scene—is a dreamlike jumble, which could work
if the emotional core (pathos) was solid. But Lou doesn’t react. He doesn’t question. He’s just there, standing passively as strange things happen to him. You can’t leave your protagonist—or your readers—adrift in surreal nonsense without some emotional anchor. It doesn’t need to be realism, but it does need
something. Fear. Awe. Confusion. Anything but this detached monotone.
And let’s not ignore how rushed and overloaded this prologue feels. You’re throwing in mask creatures, infinite mirrors, river-haired children, and godlike beings in one go. These concepts are interesting, sure, but they’re competing for attention like toddlers in a ball pit. Slow down. Give us one or two focal points and let us soak in the horror and mystery before moving on to the next big idea. Make the prologue longer in words.
To be clear, the prologue isn’t bad—it’s just
underperforming. It’s like a piano with a few keys out of tune: it has potential, but playing it as-is makes everyone wince. Rewrite it. Give your antagonists some gravitas. Let Lou feel something—anything—about his infinite selves and the surreal horror around him. Tighten the pacing, and for the love of all things literary, stop treating this like a checklist of “cool ideas.” Pick your moments and let them shine.
Now,
Chapter 1, where things start to
really wobble, even though the foundation is solid. Part 1 shows you’re capable of balancing ethos, logos, and pathos. You’ve painted a vivid picture of London, old and new, and the details are rich enough to immerse readers in Lou’s fish-out-of-water predicament. But here’s the problem:
you’ve overcorrected. Every corner, every smell, every brick gets a description so thorough that it feels like you’re auditioning to write the London chapter of a travel guide. The pacing suffers
immensely.
Look, you’re playing with realism, and that’s fine. Readers love immersive settings. But you’re not writing historical nonfiction—you’re writing a supernatural webnovel. Readers don’t need to know every nook and cranny of Whitechapel, they just need enough detail to conjure the illusion of realism. The rest? Let their imaginations fill in the blanks. Right now, your descriptions are padding the story, drowning the tension and forward momentum in sensory overload.
And then there’s Lou himself. While his bewilderment is understandable—it’s not every day you wake up in 1888—his reactions are so
muted that it flattens the pathos. He’s bewildered, sure, but that’s it? No fear? No frustration? No sense of grief at the life he’s left behind or anger at the universe for doing this to him? Lou feels more like a neutral narrator than someone experiencing an existential crisis. And while I understand he’s meant to be a bit “unfazed,” it’s overdone to the point that it undercuts the emotional weight of the story.
Then there’s
Chapter 1 – Part 2, where you veer into the realm of controlled chaos—and lose control entirely by the latter half. Things happen so quickly, and in such rapid succession, that neither Lou nor the reader has time to process anything. Burning coins, a vicious fight, mysterious dusting deaths, Ponytail Martial Arts Man dropping in from the roof, and Lou getting arrested—all crammed into a single sequence that feels like a frantic sprint.
Here’s the thing about chaos: it only works if it’s paced properly. Each chaotic moment needs room to breathe, both for Lou to react and for the readers to absorb the stakes. Instead, everything collides together in a way that feels overwhelming, not engaging. The supernatural dread you’re trying to build—burning coins, inexplicable deaths—needs to
sink in. Lou’s disbelief, fear, or even curiosity should anchor these moments. Instead, the focus shifts to environment and action, leaving Lou’s emotional flatness to drag the scene down.
The pacing issues from Part 1 carry over here, but they’re exacerbated by the relentless bombardment of events. Without separation between these chaotic moments, the story feels rushed. Each key event—the woman’s attack, the supernatural properties of the coins, the fight, Ponytail Man’s deus ex martial-arts arrival—needs to stand on its own, with clear transitions between them. The moments should influence each other naturally, but they’re competing for attention right now, and it’s a mess.
On the technical side, the overall pacing of these chapters needs a lot of work. Both Part 1 and Part 2 linger too long on setting details and environmental descriptions while rushing through the emotional beats. Lou’s emotional flatness only makes this more apparent—because instead of focusing on his fear, confusion, or frustration, you’re describing cobblestones, fog, and smog for the third time. This isn’t about cutting out atmosphere entirely—it’s about prioritizing. What matters more: Lou grappling with his circumstances, or another reminder that London smells bad?
What does this story need to fix its opening?
Tightened prose, clearer emotional stakes, and better pacing. For Part 1, trim the descriptions down to what’s necessary to establish the tone and immerse the reader. Let Lou react to his predicament in a way that deepens the emotional connection between him and the audience. For Part 2, break the chaos into digestible segments. Separate the burning coins from the brawl, the brawl from Ponytail Man’s entrance, and Ponytail Man from the cops. Between each chaotic event, give Lou (and the reader) a moment to breathe, reflect, and process what’s happening. Let the dread and mystery of the supernatural sink in before slamming into the next big moment.
To wrap this roast: you’ve got the bones of an intriguing webnovel opening, but right now it’s buried under layers of unfocused chaos, overdone descriptions, and a protagonist who seems to have replaced emotional depth with a shrug. It’s not a lost cause, far from it. The plot is great. But unless you’re ready to tighten your prose, reign in the chaos, and make Lou
feel something, it’s going to be a slog for your readers. Fix this, and you’ll have a webnovel worth coming back to. Don’t, and it’ll be just another story that loses readers before the real adventure even begins.