Robert C. Day's Blog, page 61

editing checklist

Editing Checklist (© The Open University):

Is it what you meant to say, really?
Have you found the best way to convey it?
Would a particular event really have happened that way?
Would a particular character definitely use that expression or turn of phrase?
Does an idea or scene really belong where you’ve put it, or would the piece be better if that element was cut? Could it be used elsewhere, or on another occasion?
What’s missing from your story? Details or background information?
Is there enough to engage your reader?
Do events occur in the best order and are significant events given enough weight, or are they lost beneath less important things? If so, is that what you intended?
Does it read too slow, or too fast?
Overall, does the writing convey the right tone – does it create the mood you hoped for?

editing practice

Ya’ll might think them clouds is black, but this bleeding heart ‘a’ mine is a darker pit of rot and shame. I’m gonna get me some fun now – my pretty gun’s gonna stomp y’all right down to hell.

—————————

(and before you get worried that I’ve gone nuts – this is just the result of an editing exercise where we are asked to reduce the following to just 2 lines:

‘The heavy black and blue winter sky groaned awfully with rain clouds that at any moment were really about to fall crashing heavily down upon the street where, because it was rush hour, so many people, wearing all manner of different clothes, hats, shoes, boots, some of them carrying bags, suitcases, briefcases, scampered and strolled about the place as though oblivious to what was just about to happen over their very heads. One of these people was called Hilary and concealed inside her voluminous coat she carried the loaded, snub-nosed gun, and she also seemed to be the only one looking upwards into the tempestuous thundery heavens.’)

the night we woke the neighbours

“Don’t worry Mr G. the attic’s big enough – it’ll all fit.”

That night, deep into darkness hours there came, sneaking upon them, a creak and a groan.

“What was that?” was the whisper.

“What was what?” came the groan.

Mrs G. gripped the covers, ears stretched out to embrace the …

A pop. Up there. A louder snap. A deep, ominous rumble.

Then there was light.

Hand on lamp, eyes blinking desperately to accept, then to deny the sight of the ceiling bulging – impossibly huge – directly above!

He rose, flinging off the covers, grasping for, then dragging Mrs G. behind him with a desperate strength.

For all his speed the ceiling descended in brutal slow motion, cutting off the sight of his wife’s wide open eyes – pleading for him – begging for speed – then gone.

Her hand was wrenched from his as she vanished in an avalanche of bags, beams and plaster-board.

Too late for anguished love and gut-wrenching sorrow.

Frantically he grabbed her arm again and pulled with all his strength.

Hope sprang into his heart as he felt movement towards him, slowly, sliding.

A triumphant cry – “Yes!” as he stumbled backwards, gripping her still warm hand.

And then the shriek that snapped all the neighbours bolt upright.

reviewing and redrafting

Censorship (Draft 02)

I remember that on the day Fatema was born, what hair she had was curled so sweetly that it was as if angels had been twirling it around their fingers. I remember her beatific smiles as she grew from baby to child. I remember her gurgles and burbles turning into words and sentences that spoke of her growing love of language. I remember her trusting nature and the care she took to please family and friend alike. I remember the day that her trust was betrayed.

It happened on a bright day – the kind where the sky and the sun bid you welcome to the world and the sidewalk was full of greetings and friendship. When the car stopped, Fatema smiled at the man who asked her name, and gave it gladly as was her nature.

She was still smiling innocently, thinking perhaps that this was some neighbourhood prank, as two men with grim faces full of lines that spoke of the strictest laws grabbed her arms and lifted her bodily. The back door of the car was suddenly flung open and she was thrown inside as if she were a sack of dirty laundry.

Maybe it was the horror she saw in my face, just before the car door closed that told her that this was no joke but even then she barely had time to change her expression. Only one word emerged before the closing door cut off the sight of her pleading eyes and it is the sound of my name on my little sister’s lips that has haunted me every waking second since: “Aisha!”

Heedlessly dropping my bags, I lurched towards the car and tugged at the door handle. Locked. I resorted to battering my fists impotently against the blacked out car window and I called her name – “Fatema! Fatema!” but my only reward was a faint scream that was cut off too abruptly – then nothing. As I continued to hammer on the impenetrable window, I dimly heard the sound of two doors slamming shut and then the car was ripped away from me as it accelerated swiftly down the street.

I ran after it as fast as my heavy skirts could allow – but the car pulled rapidly ahead and as it turned the distant corner I knew that I was done. I stopped as if I had hit a wall. Tears streamed down my face as I waved my fists at nothing and I crumpled, alone and beaten, to the hard concrete floor.

The first week was the worst. I was allowed to stay at home for two days. Forty-eight hours to mourn and try to come to terms with what had happened before being ejected from my home back into school. How could they expect me to cope so quickly with the unthinkable – that my beautiful Fatema was gone!

The first month was the worst. My mother wailed her grief into my father’s stony face. Rooms went silent when I entered. The very air seemed full of urgent phone conversations: either enraged calls that were stopped violently by the crash of a receiver, or worse – pleading and cajoling calls that ended with the faintest, most fawning clicks. But regardless – both kinds of conversations always resulted in a grim shake of the head and renewed sobbing from my mother.

The first year was the worst. The streets that I used to walk with Fatema’s gentle hand in mine now saw me walking with only a dark shadow for company. I began to read books as I moved lifelessly along – anything to bring an end to my obsessive thoughts. Mindful of eyes on me – I restricted myself to safe books and gradually, little by little I felt their eyes slip away to more lively targets. Time tore away at the sharpest edges of my memories and the tide of life scraped away at what remained.

Towards the end of the year, they gave me the phone back – the one Fatema and I used to share. I watched it warily for two days as it lay on the bedside table. Then on the third day, as if a sudden thirst had come across me, I snatched it up.

Greedily I logged back into our shared online world and it expanded towards me with an almost visceral rush. We had ignored Facebook and Twitter as being irrelevant. Our love had been for books, for the people who wrote them and the people who shared our passion for the lush landscapes of imagination and freedom. I started with Goodreads.

Our 103 friends were still there – waiting with devout and bookish patience and I smiled faintly to see their familiar hijab framed faces. Tapping on the messages icon, I scanned quickly down the list, and then stopped abruptly. My eyes had caught an unfamiliar picture – a man with a face that matched his distinctly western name – Robert.

Frowning, I clicked on the subject: ‘Brave’ and scanned the conversation so far. My eyes widened as I read the last message Fatema had sent: “Thank you .. I loved the kinds of books you read and also you write interesting reviews”.

My eyes flicked across to the date and time of the message and sweat sprang suddenly from my forehead as the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. It was the date that I had last seen Fatema and the time was barely an hour before she had been snatched from us!

I pushed my fist hard against my lips but it did nothing to stop the wail that climbed my throat and emerged from my mouth with an agony of hurt.

Words seemed to scream themselves into my horrified mind – “She didn’t mean anything by it – she was only eleven!!”

story from the ideas

Censorship

I remember the way Fatema’s hair curled around the edges when she first came home. I remember her smile as she grew from baby to child. I remember her gurgles turning into words and sentences that spoke volumes about her growing love of language. I remember her trusting nature and the care she took to please everyone. I remember the day that her trust was betrayed.

It happened on a bright day – the kind where the sky and the sun bid you welcome to the world. A day much like any other. A day that men in black suits took her – lifted her bodily from the sidewalk as we walked home from the supermarket.

She barely had time to squeak – only said one word as the car door cut off the sight of her pleading eyes – ‘Aisha!’

Dropping my bags, I stepped towards the car and battered my fists impotently against the blacked out car window and called her name – ‘Fatema! Fatema!” and was rewarded with one small thump in return and a faint reply that cut off abruptly. I heard the sound of two car doors slamming and the car accelerated swiftly down the street.

I ran after it – of course I did – but as the car turned the corner I knew it was no use and I stopped hard, tears streaming down my face as I crumpled to the hard concrete.

The first week was the worst. I was allowed to stay at home for two days. Two days to mourn and to try to come to terms with what had happened. To come to terms with the unthinkable – my little Fatema was gone.

The first month was the worst. My mother wailed her grief into my father’s stony face. Rooms went silent when I walked in. Urgent, whispered phone conversations that either ended with a receiver crashing down, or with a faint polite click, but always with a grim shake of the head and renewed sobbing.

The first year was the worst. Where I used to walk with Fatema’s tiny hand in mine I was now alone. I began to read as I walked, just to stop my thoughts. Safe books only. Gradually they stopped watching me. Slowly, the sharp edge wore away from my memories.

Towards the end of the year, they gave me my phone back – the one Fatema and I used to share. I watched it warily for a while – a day – two days – then, as if a thirst had seized me, I snatched it up.

Greedily I logged back into our accounts and my world expanded again with a rush. We had ignored Facebook and Twitter as being irrelevant. Our love had been for books, for the people who wrote them and the people who shared our passion for the lush landscapes of imagination and freedom. I logged onto Goodreads.

Our 103 friends were still there – waiting with devout and bookish patience and I smiled faintly to see their familiar hijab framed faces. Clicking into the messages I scanned down the list, and stopped short. An unfamiliar picture – a man with a name that matched his distinctly western name – Robert.

Frowning, I clicked on the subject: ‘Brave’ and scanned the conversation so far. My eyes widened as I read the last message Fatema had sent: “Thank you .. I loved the kinds of books you read and also you write interesting reviews”.

My eyes flicked across to the date and time of the message and I pushed a fist into my mouth to stifle a scream. It was the date that I had last seen Fatema – barely an hour before she had been snatched from our life!

I could not stop the wail that climbed my throat and emerged from my mouth with an agony of hurt.

Words arose unbidden in my shocked mind – ‘But she was only eleven!!’

ideas for a story

The first thing mentioned on the radio was ‘censorship’. My character is Fatema who is eleven and wears a hair covering, favours black t-shirts with white stripes that look like skeleton ribs, is of medium height and has a bright sunny smile.

Her thoughts are of home life, the state of her country, reading classics and self-help books both in Arabic and English, talking to interesting people – mainly those at home and of the same religious and cultural persuasion, but sometimes not.

She is bright and happy, but worries about the future of her country and the government. She would love to be open, creative and travel widely, but fears that she will be enclosed in her country, religion and eventually her marriage to the exclusion of the things she loves.

Fatema is located in Cairo, Egypt in a small apartment in the middle of a sea of buildings, but the story is located by the beach where she loves to wander and speak to the sea – for the sea knows no censorship and she is free to be herself.

Fatema’s back story revolves around family and family friends. She enjoys school and mixes with the other children well, but always keeps a part of herself to herself. She has no real close friends, preferring to read books instead and search for interesting things and people on the internet. She is aware of the dangers of the internet, but considers herself to be mature and sensible enough to know what she is doing.

In the world Fatema is reserved around people even though she has ample social skills and opportunities to make enough superficial friends so that she fits in enough to avoid teasing and negative attention. She is always kind and attentive to her family and is willing to give help whenever required. She is a dutiful daughter who keeps her eyes down but her heart and mind up.

more starting ploys

I remember what I don’t want to remember and forget what I want to remember and … what is this? Who are you? Why are you staring at me with such a serious face? No – I won’t do it – I refuse! Stop! What are you doing? Take your hands off me you npojZ :hif e q o

finding a voice

Emma said that … the bounce of the ball was too leetle; and he was right – the ball really needed more air. But before I could persuade him to nip down to Sports Direct to buy a pump and needle, I lost all interest in Emmanuel and his silly Spanish accent. Ah well – that’s life!

familiar words in unfamiliar places

First – my original draft with familiar words in familiar places:

It was getting late and the fire in the hearth was going out. Samantha sat up lazily, stretching her arms as she debated whether to stir the coals or climb the stairs to bed. She swivelled her legs to the floor and eased her feet into warm slippers.

Standing brought the familiar ache in her back so she planted her feet firmly and, digging her hands into her sides, bent her body backwards.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise and she had the strangest sense that someone was watching her. Slowly she straightened and turned towards the window behind her – curtains open – moon full and high above her isolated yard.

She shivered despite the warmth and, hurrying towards the window, yanked the curtains shut.

It didn’t help.

Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the feeling left her and she snorted a delighted laugh into the air – “Damn it Robert – are you writing about me again?!”

And now the redraft with familiar words in unfamiliar places:

It was getting late and the fire in the hearth was getting ready to sleep. Samantha unwound, stretching upwards as she debated whether to stir the coals or climb the stairs to bed. She swivelled her legs to the floor and snuggled her feet into warm slippers.

Standing brought the familiar knife in her back so she planted her feet firmly and, softly punching her sides, made like a banana.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she had the strangest sense of being watched. She straightened inchmeal and turned towards the yawing window – moon spooky above her isolated yard.

Shivering despite the warmth she hurried forward and yanked the curtains shut.

It didn’t help.

Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the feeling fled and she snorted a delighted laugh into the air – “Damn it Robert – are you writing about me again?!”

comparing characters again

When I was able, I surruptitiously watched Harry out of the corner of my eye as we walked through the park on that cold winter day. Mostly though, he outpaced me so thoroughly that all I could see was the back of his long black coat. He galloped forward faster than I would have thought possible for a man twice my almost middled age.

‘C’mon Chick, keep up’ he flung over his shoulder, and my feminist feathers ruffled in outrage.

I contented myself with noticing how his skull perpetually seemed to want to shake loose its skinny cover and escape. The frown lines across his face seemed to say that it was only by sheer muscle control that his bones were kept inside. This made Harry look like he was angry, although his cheerful nature gave lie to this impression.

I searched in my mind for a way to tell him that, when he walked so fast, he seemed to be rushing forward into a future he just couldn’t quite seem to catch. It took me ten minutes to think of a way, by which time we had travelled a mile and had already reached the riverside path.

Half speaking, half singing, half to him, half to myself I called out “Rushing towards the future Harry, rushing towards the future.” and it seemed as inadequate to me as it must have to Harry, for he made no reply.

“How fast can you really walk?” I said; stung by his silence and that provoked a response. He began to march forward with real vigour now, his body straining onward, arms arcing, lower limbs barely keeping up with his torso. He seemed for all the world like a manic scarecrow on speed.

Frost lay on the ground thick as a beetle’s brow on that day, but this had nought to do with what happened next.

As the hammer fell silently, yet with brutal force, and sent Harry into a tumbling, arm-thrashing, bone-threatening trajectory, all I could think was ‘my fault, my fault’; but as inevitably as a snowflake, gale-blown from the top of a mountain, falls downward into the void, there was nothing I could do to revoke my words to Harry though I wished for many years after that I could have pulled them back into my mouth.

Harry hit the ground hard and lay still – breathless and broken.

There was a curious silence in the air, heavy and prescient as he looked up from the bird’s nest that gravity and momentum had made of his body and I could do nothing but watch helplessly as his life ebbed away, taking all will, all feeling with it.

Bending over him I touched his cheek gently, and suddenly I felt that I was with him, his feelings becoming my own. I heard as he heard, saw as he saw and our eyes locked onto the deep blue immensity of the empyrean.

As we lay there, an expression of utter serenity crept over our features. Creases ironed themselves out; the proud line of our jaw became soft as chewing gum; and a lifetime of narrowed eyes became an infinity of ocean.

I expected colourful scenes of his life to roll through our mind yet I felt his astonishment when, instead, a blank white screen appeared, superimposed against the sky.

And reason all but left him – I could feel it slipping away – when, instead of some manner of high and mighty judgment, a line of blinking red letters appeared on the screen:

‘ERROR – SYSTEM FAILURE IMMINENT – COMMENCING EMERGENCY UPLOAD.’

I felt him blink once; caught his sudden shock – hard like a bird hitting against a window.

Then the screen clicked off and he was gone from my sight.

I sank to the ground, threw my head and arms back, and howled uncomprehendingly into the sky.