Tag: edited

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Reintroducing Margaux

I’m going to see what I can do to patch up yesterday’s mess…

Margaux cinched the leather chin strap until she heard the groan of leather on leather.  She worked her jaw against the strap while snugging the helmet-like Chronicaller onto her head with her small hands.  If it sat loosely it got off symmetry.  If it got off symmetry she’d get funky results and a headache.  And she didn’t want a headache.

The grade schooler leaned forward to better balance the mass of copper and leather and shell and wood and rubber tubing that made up the Chronicaller.  It looked like a brain might look had it been designed by an artistic god who’d seen a real brain for a moment and then been given a week and a box of garage sale junk to come up with a working replica.  The Chronicaller now settled, Margaux removed the mouthpiece from it’s perch and situated it between her lips.  She blew lightly to check the rested tuning.  With expert fingers she dialed in a finer pitch and blew again–still lightly.  Satisfied with the result, she unlatched a locked rubber tube along the sagittal line and actuated two copper levers: one on the left and one on the right near the base of her skull.  Some part, one she’d never identified precisely but guessed was the transcrystor, warmed to a hum as the released gases rushed over it.

She quickly rubbed her palms and placed them on the nautilus-like swirls on her temples afraid the suddenly cooled pressure tanks would freeze the delicate shells.  The familiar hum would pitch up until the disparate temperatures evened out then it would begin to drop down.  Careful to breathe through her nose she kept her tongue over the mouthpiece to avoid any premature winding of the Chronicaller.  Then she simply waited.

Tendrils of near-blonde red hair stuck out from under the cumbersome headpiece like vines struggling under a fence.  She looked like a nun at prayer.

More pleased with this edit and the additions than I was with yesterday’s bits.  I meant o squeeze some damn springs in there somewhere but may have to do that at another time.

Day 339
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Marrow’s Next Step, Edited

A little housekeeping to start off the day then the good stuff.  A little transposition got me off in my day count at the beginning of this 2009 revival of 1000 Days.  I corrected that yesterday, so you no longer need to worry about the missing 100 days.

I don’t normally resort to gimmicky writing exercises like I did last night when perfectly good blather is to be had by the fire-hoseful.  I enjoy porting artistic practices to my writing where I can.  If you didn’t follow the link in yesterday’s post and then follow the link in that post over to Gorilla Artfare then you should click on this one to see what a skilled artist can do with 30 seconds of time.

Now that I’m back to writing and not doing so much screwing around with the layout I too am annoyed by the purple links and the poorly executed text-color contrast.  Usually my interstitial commentary is grey while the text you’re meant to read is nicely black.  I’ll do something about that when I can.

Last week I promised weekends would be for editing.  Today minus two-hundred days provides me with a day called “Marrow’s Next Step“.

“If you thirst, quench your spirit. Your body will wait.” My forearms lean on the lentil of the low door. I’m adjusting to the light and being upright.

“Is it true,” he asks.

“You cannot know the key and not know the truth.”

“I’m a skeptic, not a coward.”

“There’s a difference?”

I shuffle into my small home, surprised his presence doesn’t feel intrusive. After this many years alone I expected some annoyance. I motion to the barrel and the dipper; he waves a no. Zealot. “When I’m thirsty I don’t kneel.” I dip out two cups and force his into his hands. “Drink it and wait.”

“If you thirst, first quench your spirit. Your body will wait.” I support my weight by pressing my forearms into the lentil of the low door.  My eyes adjust to the darkness inside and my guts to being upright.

“Is it true?” he asks.

I consider dissembling or, more simply, pretending I didn’t hear.  Instead I answer as he before me answered: “You cannot speak the key and also not believe.”

“I’m a skeptic, not an Unbeliever…or a coward.”

“There’s a difference?”

I shuffle into my small home, surprised his presence doesn’t feel intrusive. After so many years alone I expected some annoyance. I pull the dipper from it’s perch on a rafter and  motion to to the water barrel; he flicks his hand to indicate no. Zealot.

“When I’m thirsty I don’t kneel.” I dip out two cups and force his into his hands. “Drink it and wait.”

There wasn’t much text to work with here–this post is the extension of the day’s prior post.  Unsurprisingly it relies on that post for much context.  Mostly I feel the first effort was overly cryptic in the narration.  It’s suitable for the dialog to be cryptic, but not the narrator’s thoughts–at least, not too much.

I’m still not happy about the “Zealot” thought in there, but I’m not sure how to get that across.  This seems like the kind of thing my narrator would immediately think, but not something he’d think much about to get to that conclusion.  So ultimately I’ve got to pre- or post-explain why not drinking the water makes the son a zealot.  It would help if I knew.

Day 331
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Editing Bunbun

Crap. I don’t really know what editing is.

I suspect my plan to edit something as short as “Bunbun of the Veleme” might be part of my problem. There isn’t enough to rewrite exactly. Most likely I’d simply erase the whole bit and start over with something else.

Instead I’ll punt.

Bunbun dropped from the family deck to the friend deck elegantly enough following his mother’s daughter, but there was no doubt she possessed the greater grace.

Assuming I’d be using this as the opening line of the entire story, there is nothing but characterization here.  No plotting.  I’m not so sure that’s bad, but I know some folks think you need to grab your reader by the balls on line one.  Characterization isn’t going to do that–this isn’t at least.

The deck thing is too obscure to be helpful.

“his mother’s daughter” is my shorthand for cultural upheaval.  I haven’t got the slightest idea how this would play out.  It could still go with women on top or bottom.

But in terms of Bunbun’s appreciation of her skills it puts her ahead.  Either way it characterizes him as having at least even judgment regarding his place in the world.  Easy enough from here to make him self-critical if needed.

Initially he’d planned to follow along to hear the [king] on the High Half Tread.

I guess there is a little plotting, but I am not sure going to hear someone speak is too compelling.  And it’s not in the first line.  I could zing it with some description of the event: first time in years, last time before he departs for…

Probably I thought the mysterious High Half-Tread would do the trick.  But it’s just world building I’ll need to get described as soon as I can.  I’m recommending as soon as Bunbun tears himself away from his artwork and gets his as to the meeting.

Now the plunging spears of light through the canopy conquered his eye. Shafts of this caliber occaisionally followed a wind storm like the one last night.

Again less here than I think.  The one word ‘canopy’ doesn’t quite give the whole ‘ewok village in the trees’ thing I was going for because you can’t obviously connect it back to those decks.  Maybe just a better tie between the two will give me what I think I have.

These beams needed to be drawn.

Character’s thoughts leaking into narration.  I like doing it this, I think the reader knows when this is occurring and appreciates the smooth insertion.  I think I’ve read other people write this way–I’ll have to keep an eye out.  I suppose that it’s just as easy to say, “Bunbun thought…”

He unslung his possibles bag and laid it flat on the deck.

I’ve been wanting to use ‘possibles bag’ in my writing somewhere.  Even though this isn’t strictly worldbuilding, it’s uncommon enough that it might as well be for the likely reader.

First he arranged the chalks perpendicularly to the ledge so they wouldn’t roll off.

I like to get macro with the simple actions.  Let’s mark this up as ‘voice’.

Next he slid his pad from it’s leather sheath.

More macro-action.  To me this slows the reader and characterizes Bunbun as careful.  It highlights his process.  Maybe focusing on Bunbun’s slow characteristics in the first few lines isn’t the best choice.

Finally he drug a lounge over to the edge of the deck and sat on the end near his tools.

More of the same with a little scenery.

Bunbun began his sketch, not with the light, but with the contrasting dark.

This is me heavyhanding the narration.  Not too heavy I think–certainly I’m due a bit of foreshadowy opinion?