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Post by Joxcenia on Apr 30, 2024 22:47:10 GMT -6
Or, When You've Set The Work Aside For A Few Weeks/Months.
If you're having a hard time editing your work, you need to set it aside for a few weeks or months. You may have to do this many times during the editing process. It's easier to edit someone else's work. Editing the works of others is good practice to help learn the skill when editing your own work. Editing someone else's work for practice is not the same as critiquing someone's work. They are two completely different things. Do not do this when giving feedback to another writer. You do this for you, not for the person who the work belongs to.
You can post your editing in the thread linked below, or on the same board that that thread is on. The Workshops Board.
whooshorg.proboards.com/post/152256/thread
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Post by Joxcenia on Apr 30, 2024 23:21:00 GMT -6
I'm going to post this sample chapter as an exercise. I'm going to edit this chapter as practice for myself. Others may do so as well. I'm not going to post my edit here though. I'm not asking others to post their edits in public either. You edit the works of others as practice for yourself, not for anyone else. There is a "Members Only" Workshops Board should anyone want to compare their edits, and critique the changes made with each other. You can also share the editing information you used when editing. Such, as books, web pages, articles, magazines, etc.
“Thomas!” Callum yelled as he left the pub. The wall of crisp night air dizzied him, causing him to stumble over cobblestones that seemed to shift beneath his feet. Drunken laughter muff led as the door slammed shut behind him.
“Where the hell are ye?” he shouted. His voice echoed through the deserted streets.
No answer came.
Lanterns flickered along the main road, setting the heavy fog aglow. In a wee town like Rosemere, the slightest whispers could be heard a mile away. They carried farther than that, Callum knew; the windows around him were shuttered, but candles burned low just inside. How many prying eyes watched from behind the slats? How many would speak of his friend, the disgraced fighter, in hushed voices at tomorrow’s market, over bread bought with the coin they’d won betting on him mere weeks earlier?
Callum clenched his fists. The whole pub had shouted and jeered while Thomas got pummeled that night. Sounds still rang in Callum’s ears: the thud of fist and flesh, the sickening crunch of bone. It was the third time this month that Thomas had lost—only the third time, in two years of fighting.
Brice would be angry.
Master, keeper, devil, father. Brice MacDonald was all of these things to Callum and Thomas. Whatever Brice’s wrath tonight, Callum could not let Thomas face it alone. Not when Thomas had looked after Callum for so long, raised him up from a nipper as well as a real older brother would.
But he would not abandon Thomas like his mother had abandoned him.
The thought sobered Callum. He called again, lowering his voice to a taunt.
“Thomas! You owe me three shillings!” Thomas could usually be drawn out with a jab.
Callum paused, straining his ears for a response but was met with unease instead. An owl watched from its perch atop the baker’s roof, golden eyes unblinking against the dark night sky. The shining orbs fixed on him.
He tore his gaze from the bird and walked on, moving away from the firelight and into shadow.
Even more worrisome than Brice was the fact that Thomas had given Callum his most treasured item earlier that night: his notebook, small sheaths of vellum bound in leather. When he first began carrying it around, Thomas claimed to have stolen it from the apothecary when he went in for a poultice.
He had kept it on him, always, and had never let Callum lay eyes on what was inside. Yet he had pressed it into Callum’s hand, just before the match tonight. He said something to Callum when he did, but his words were inaudible within the roar of the pub. Then after, he disappeared from the pub without even a goodbye.
Now Callum was wandering the streets, alone.
It was unlike Thomas to behave so strangely, to lose so badly. The Thomas he knew—boyish and rowdy, tough as leather but never mean—had fallen away with the autumn leaves these past months. Instead of spending evenings at The Black Hart Inn, weaving stories he’d learned as a child of selkies and sailors for red-cheeked barmaids until the sun rose, Thomas began to disappear for days, weeks at a time—stretches too long for Callum to explain to Brice. He took a beating or two for it, too. When Thomas returned, he was sullen, sometimes violent, and consumed by a strangeness Callum had no words to describe. His eyes stared but did not see, as distant as stars burning in his skull. If he spoke at all, he told tales of the demons that terrified them as children: like the Sluagh, spirits of the dead who wandered in flocks, flying around the sky like soaring reapers and stealing souls, flesh hanging off them like blackened rags. Or the bean-nighe, banshees, messengers from the Otherworld and omens of death, who lingered in lonely streams, washing the clothes of doomed men. Normally Callum heard of such dark creatures within the stories of heroes, but Thomas’s stories didn’t end in life…but death. He fixated on that fact, as if it were coming for him.
I saw her, he’d said of the bean-nighe. I refuse to die.
It worried Callum, but just as his worry morphed into confrontation, Thomas would come back to himself. This was enough to comfort Callum as he watched Thomas return to tales of ancient heroes and kings. Maybe he accepted his relief too soon since the nights of those stories were fewer these days, and more often Thomas’s speech would turn dark again. He would speak of strange visions, of men who leaped from one world to the next.
They’re coming, Cal, you’ll see. It’s as simple as stepping through a veil.
Who’s coming, Thomas? What veil? Callum asked, and Thomas would laugh.
It was no tale that Callum knew. He’d warned Thomas not to tell it. He didn’t like the wary looks it earned him. It was one thing to be a bard who told these stories for a living, but it was another thing to speak like a madman of evil spirits and fairies as if they were tangible things away from the lyrics of a song or the pages of a book.
Callum reached the end of the main road—the turn for Kelpie’s Close. If you wanted trouble, you found it in Kelpie’s. The narrow backstreet edged Rosemere like a blade pressed against the town’s throat.
A chill clung to his skin. Here, there were no lanterns to light the way, his only guide sparse slivers of moonlight. The wind picked up suddenly, lifting his hair and reaching under his woolen cloak. He tried to shake off visions of the Sluagh hovering above him, raking their cold fingers down his neck.
“It’s as dark as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat,” he mumbled.
Callum reached for the dirk tucked under his arm and found the carved handle concealed under layers of wool, feeling a sting of guilt. It was Thomas’s knife. Callum had slipped it away from him before the match, worried about what his friend might do in the crowded pub if he got enough drink in him. He tapped it, drawing enough strength to plunge into the darkness.
“Scunner!” he cursed, meaning it. “Where are you?”
A cry pierced the quiet.
Callum’s heart pounded as he followed the sound farther down the alley. He pulled the dirk from under his arm, certain now that he’d need to use it.
“Thomas?”
Unease, cold and metallic, crept up his spine. The alley appeared empty—strange, for this time of night—but the silence was thick, alive with a feeling Callum couldn’t name. He pushed on, deeper into the gloom. “Thomas?”
Another strangled cry, ahead.
Callum broke into a run.
A single lantern flickered a short distance away, casting a wan glow over a lone figure slumped against the wall. A sweep of red hair, bright even in the dim alley.
“Thomas, ye bastard, do ye ken what—”
The insult lodged in his throat. Thomas lay on the ground, his legs splayed at sickening angles. Blood seeped through his shirt, blooming like ink on paper. Callum rushed to his friend and knelt beside him. He dropped the dirk and pressed his hands against the deep slice that marred his friend’s torso. A knife wound.
“Dinnae fash, Thomas, dinnae fash,” Callum repeated, voice tight and panicked. He glanced up, searching for friend or foe, and found no one. “We’ll be back to the pub before Anderson kens we havna paid our tab.”
Thomas stared up at him with glassy blue eyes. With each shuddering breath, more blood spilled through Callum’s fingers. He ripped the cloth stock from his neck and pressed the fabric onto the wound. It did little to stem the flow of blood. Within a few heartbeats, the cloth was soaked through, red and dripping.
If he pressed any harder, would it be doing more harm than good? Should he call for help, though it might draw the attacker? Callum hadn’t a clue. He wished suddenly, ferociously, that he’d had a proper mother, one whose wisdom he could call upon to calmly guide his hands. However, Thomas was the only family he had.
His only family was dying.
Thomas opened his mouth, but instead of words, a wet cough came out, splattering red across his pale face.
“Dinnae move, Thomas,” Callum shushed him. His uncertainty gave way to desperation, burst from his throat. “Help! Help us!”
His words dissolved into the night air, leaving behind only a tightness at the center of his chest. If he hadn’t taken Thomas’s dirk, he would have been able to defend himself, he wouldn’t be dying in Callum’s arms—
Thomas gasped, but it seemed as if no air reached his lungs.
Lowering his head, Callum gripped Thomas’s hands, though his own were shaking. “I will find the man who did this, I swear—”
Then the world flipped sideways. A blow had hit Callum like a runaway carriage, throwing him against the alley wall opposite Thomas.
Pain exploded along his ribs. Grasping the mossy wall for purchase, he struggled to his feet and wiped blood from his eyes, scouring the darkness for his attacker—and found no one.
“Show your face,” he growled.
A cruel whisper cut through the quiet. “Are you certain?”
The man emerged from the shadows as if he had been one with them. He wore a dark black cloak, in stark contrast to his unkempt, pale hair. Deep set in his face, a pair of amber eyes seemed to emit their own light. Callum’s gaze was drawn to a glinting shape in the man’s hand.
A dagger, dripping with blood.
Thomas’s blood.
Callum’s heart pounded like a war drum in his ears.
The man sighed. “Move along. Unless you’d like to meet the same fate as your compani—”
Callum lunged forward, cutting off the man’s speech with a guttural cry, striking with the speed of a viper.
The man ducked. He whirled around as Callum charged again. He overreached with the arc of his knife, and Callum used the moment to surge upward with a punch. His fist took the assailant in the chin—
And the force knocked Callum back.
He stared. A blow like that would have laid out the toughest fighter, yet the man stood and smiled, rubbing his chin with a gloved hand.
“I’m going to have fun with you,” the stranger whispered. “I like a man with a bit of fight in him. It’s more fun to play with your prey, don’t you think?”
Callum didn’t see the blow coming, only felt the pain searing across his temple as he was thrown to the ground again.
He lifted his head, vision blurring. He blinked it clear, took in his friend’s ashen face. The sight flooded Callum with rage.
Whoever said to never fight with anger fueling your fists was a fool. Thomas’s best fights had been powered by emotion. Callum wasn’t fighting for money now. Or for Brice. He was fighting for Thomas. Because Thomas was—
“Stay down, little man,” the attacker’s voice hissed.
Callum dragged himself to his feet. His body, corded with muscle from a lifetime of training, screamed for him to stop. Instead he stood, swaying.
“I dinnae believe I’m going to Heaven,” Callum said, raising his fists once more, drawing strength from the familiar ache that radiated through his arms. “But I cannae wait to bring you to Hell with me.”
Lunging forward again, Callum poured everything he had into a single strike. He swung, landing the punch more out of luck than skill, half blinded by blood and dirt.
The man merely flinched, then caught Callum easily by the throat. A grin curled over his face.
How could that be possible?
“My, my, you are a feisty one,” he hissed.
The man lashed out, and pain flared along Callum’s torso. He released Callum and stepped back, red-tinged silver shining in his fist.
Callum touched his side, and his fingers came away wet with blood. He watched as crimson spread across his shirt. He tried to take a step, only to crumple to the ground beside Thomas, whose head rested limp against his chest.
Callum had never feared death, but now as he looked into its eyes, terror seized him.
“Many thanks for the entertainment,” the man said.
To Callum’s horror, he bent low, holding a vial to the spreading pool of Thomas’s blood. He was gathering it.
“If you’ll excuse me, there’s one last Pillar I must find.”
Pillar?
The unearthly amber eyes melted into darkness as his opponent backed away and turned, disappearing into the shadows once more. Softly hissed words echoed in the alley. Àiteachan dìomhair, fosgailte dhomh, Àiteachan dìomhair, fosgailte dhomh…
The words the man spoke were Gaelic, but Callum’s fading mind couldn’t make out their meaning. A dark, mist-like substance rose from the ground and curled around the man’s feet, nearly indistinguishable from the dim of night. Like a sudden fog had rolled in.
Callum sputtered a curse, lacking the strength to spit. He tried to lift himself, but with each breath, pain flared in his side like a web of fire.
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” he croaked. Tears fell freely down his face, mingling with blood and sweat. He pressed his forehead against his friend’s. Grief washed over him at the still-warm press of his skin.
Thomas was gone, and Callum would soon follow.
A shiver raked his body. His eyes drifted shut.
Take me already, he pleaded to the darkness.
And the darkness answered.
No, not the darkness—Thomas’s voice, a memory now, though it was solid as stone.
“Get up, scunner.”
The warmth of the words turned electric, spreading through Callum’s body like wildfire. His eyes shot open and he gasped, breathing in a shock of cold air still sharp with the smell of blood. His fingers found the dirk he’d dropped earlier.
Grief and agony and pain and rage lifted Callum onto his feet, thrumming in him as he charged after Thomas’s murderer, knife raised and eager for flesh. He grabbed blindly, finally grasping a handful of fabric—the man’s cloak. Turning, the man’s eyes widened, making two white rings of surprise in the dark. Callum’s hand grabbed the man’s neck and aimed his dirk at the pale slash of his throat.
Suddenly, they froze. Callum could not move. His hand remained around the man’s neck, the tip of the dirk pressed against his vein. Light flowed around them. It’s not time for sunrise, he thought. Dimly, he noticed markings along the man’s collarbone. Knots carved into his skin.
The man cried out—not in pain, but in anger—but then, the cry was stifled by a rush of silence, so thick Callum thought he might drown in it. His stomach turned violently as the ground seemed to drop out from under him, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut. He was falling, flying, falling.
I must be dead in the alley. The man must have killed me. This must be death.
A bright glow burned against his lids. He closed his eyes tighter and welcomed whatever might follow, only hoping he’d find Thomas there. A wall of light had formed above, descending as if the sun were pulling him through the sky. His body rose into its searing embrace.
He waited for the long drop to the ground, but it never came.
Callum kept soaring.
Not just through the street.
Not to death’s embrace.
But somewhere else.
Leaping to another world, like the man in Thomas’s story, Callum thought.
So he leaped.
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Post by Joxcenia on May 5, 2024 23:38:26 GMT -6
You can use this tip on the above excerpt.
Words To Consider Avoiding
ORDINARY words drain energy from sentences. Use active words to show instead of tell.
Example: She was so mad.
Better: She threw the book across the room.
Passive verbs make weak sentences. Use active verbs and avoid forms of the verb "to be."
Example: The sun was shining.
Better: The sun shone brightly.
Other examples of passive verbs are: am, are, could, had, had been, has, have, is, should and were.
Don't weaken sentences by starting them with "And," "But," "So," "Suddenly," "There is/are" or "Well."
Stay away from words ending in "ing" when used with passive verbs.
Example: Bill was running.
Better: Bill ran.
Replace "ly" words with stronger verbs.
Example: Kim worked slowly on her homework.
Better: Kim dawdled over her homework.
-- Carol Iverson (page 40 - The Writer Magazine - June 2007)
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Post by Joxcenia on May 5, 2024 23:42:54 GMT -6
And this tip.
The Writer Magazine - August 2006 - page 33
The scene through a character's eyes
- NOTE THE difference when a scene is experienced as the character lived it.
Problem
The story opens with a woman coming home from work. We're told how the house smells and what's playing on the radio. But the passage below is lifeless and the verbs are passive.
- Janci opened the door. The house smelled like fried fish and was cold. Bluegrass music was playing on the radio.
Solution
Readers want to experience the scene through a character---to live it with her. The passage comes alive when we walk inside with Janci and follow her thoughts and reactions, rather than watch her from afar.
- Janci smelled the fried fish even before she opened the back door. She slipped inside to find a platter piled with cold flounder. Where was Jaybird? She shivered. Did he forget to turn up the heat when he got home? Tossing her purse and keys on the table, she headed down the hall toward the bluegrass playing on the radio in the bedroom
---Betty Wilson Beamguard
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Post by Joxcenia on May 5, 2024 23:44:52 GMT -6
And this tip.
The Writer Magazine - August 2006 - page 13
Root out your wishy-washy verbs
Avoid nouns proliferation. If your subject is a noun ending in "-tion," a strong verb may be buried inside. Find the strong verb, then make it even stronger.
- Weak: The destruction of the levees by floodwaters happened overnight.
- Strong: Floodwaters destroyed the levees overnight.
- Stronger: Flood waters obliterated the levees overnight.
- Weak: An examination of the witness was conducted by the defense lawyers.
- Strong: Defense lawyers examined the witness.
- Stronger: Defense lawyers ambushed the witness.
Put a subject in the picture. Don't just name an action. First say whodunit, then beef up the verb.
- Weak: The burning of the flag was the work of protesters.
- Strong: Protesters burned the flag.
- Stronger: Protesters torched the flag.
- Weak: The couple's argument was carried on in sign language.
- Strong: The couple argued in sign language.
- Stronger: The couple bickered in sign language.
Replace empty verbs. If a verb needs help to tell what or how, get a stronger one. Then goose it!
- Weak: The victim experienced a loss of blood.
- Strong: The victim lost blood.
- Stronger: The victim bled.
A weak verb is a lost opportunity. Don't let another one slip by.
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Post by Joxcenia on May 13, 2024 22:45:50 GMT -6
And this tip.
Excerpt:
Page No Longer Available:
http[://]www[.]editorrr.com/writing_tips-techniques[.]html#simpletricks
Simple Tricks
Here are five simple tricks that can help give your prose energy, pace, and a good, crisp feel.
- Use the Find feature on your word processor and search for the word "that" (without the quotes, but type a space after the word or choose "Find whole words only). Eliminate every one you can (I could have said "every one that you can" but, you see, "that" wasn't needed). You'll be surprised at how many can go, though I've found a few need to stick around.
- Use Find again and search for "ing" (no quotes). You'll likely find it paired up with a form of the verb to be, usually "was," as in "He was desperately trying to get her attention." These are passive forms, and the more active past tense will be livelier (although the "ing" form is good for what I think of as "process" action). The example sentence would be better as "He tried desperately to get her attention."
- Search for "was" (space after, or whole word selected). You may find constructions such as "He was tempted by the doughnut." Look for a way to turn the verb around. For example, "The doughnut tempted him." is much more active by getting rid of the "was." Rid your prose of as many forms of the "to be" verb as you can by switching subject and object, etc.
- Hunt down adverbs and kill them off. Use verbs to do the job. In the example above, while "He tried desperately to get her attention." was an improvement, "He fought to get her attention." or "He struggled to get her attention." or "He strained to get her attention." sound to me like better writing.
- Go on an adjective hunt and take as many out as you can. For example, this phrase, " The old church is a small rectangular building." can become "The old church is small." Most churches are buildings, and most are rectangular—the reader fills in that stuff.
So zap your thats, whack your ings, eliminate your wases, and banish your adjectives and adverbs for lively writing.
Self-Editing Tips
Page No Longer Available:
http[://]www[.]writetightnow[.]com/Pages/Articles/sherry/self-edit-tips[.]html
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Post by Joxcenia on May 14, 2024 0:01:59 GMT -6
And these tips:
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Just Maybe
Sharon Wildwind
Blog Page No Longer Available.
poesdeadlydaughters.blogspot.com/2008/01/just-maybe_15[.]html
Just. Maybe. Might. Possibly. Started to. Almost, as in “She almost smelled popcorn.”
How can you not smell popcorn?
Could. Should. Would. All of those pesky conditional modifiers that destroy the tension in a story.
A couple of weeks ago I read a completed first draft—my own. Had I filled the manuscript with lucid, flowing language capable of making strong men weep? Had I used words like a craft-woman’s tools to convey nuances of delicate meanings? Did the story shine through the prose?
Ha!
Some sentences were sledge hammer where a jeweler’s hammer was needed. Others resembled rusty garden hoes, dull butter knives, or my favorite Canadian invention, the combination shovel and portable face shield. Yes, such a tool was issued to Canadian troops during World War I. It served no useful purpose.
The word I removed most frequently was “just.” As in “The sun was just coming up,” “She’d just hang around for a while and see what developed,” and my favorite, “She started to have a feeling that she just might have the beginnings of an idea about where to find him.”
Also, characters shivered far too much. I had so many shivers running up character’s backs, down their spines, and shaking their bodies that I considered putting a chiropractor on retainer.
Which brings up the interesting problem of how to show character hesitation. We already know that our characters have to be larger than life, capable of being better far than they are, and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. But sometimes, they falter. They’re not sure. They don’t know. They can’t decide. So how do we show hesitation and still maintain story tension?
Save uncertainty for big issues. I read a wedding-theme mystery where the main character dithered through the whole book over what she would wear to the wedding. It became tiresome to the point that I almost didn’t finish the book. About the only way to pull off an uncertain, seemingly minor issue, is the way it was done in the last episode of “Magnum—PI,” where Magnum’s apparent dithering became an essential turn in the story ending. (If you don’t know that ending and are desperate to know, e-mail me privately and I’ll tell you. No sense spoiling it.)
Our old friend show, don’t tell makes another appearance. The important thing about uncertainty is how it makes the character feel: confused, lacking confidence, not knowing what the options are, not knowing if she has a role to play, scared, even pushed to such a limit that she makes a stupid decision.
Finally, trim the language. Eliminate all the conditional modifiers, words such as just, maybe, might, possibly, started to, almost, could, should or would. Reframe the sentence in active voice and add an emotional kicker.
“She started to have a feeling that she just might have the beginnings of an idea about where to find him.”
Every time she closed her eyes and thought about Butch, Avivah smelled stale popcorn, that yellow, greasy stuff sold at carnivals. Oh great, now she was seeing things, like that guy on television.
“Tell me, Officer Rosen, how did you locate Butch?”
“I smelled popcorn, sir.”
Great. Wonderful police procedure. Go over real big in court. Besides, there wasn’t a carnival in town. So who else sold cold, greasy popcorn that clogged your arteries when you looked at it? Find the popcorn, find Butch.
________
Writing quote for the week:
We are not here to be timid.
~Donald Maass, writer, agent, and teacher
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