Revising the Novel: Before & After Examples
Continuing the conversation about forbidden words—which is really just a discussion of the ways in which our own rules can work against us—I wanted to share a few more “before” and “after” sentence samples as I work my way from the fifth revision of the novel, toward the sixth.
In some sense, a business-savvy reader might tell me that I shouldn’t share my own “mistakes” publicly on the same website where I likewise promote my business as a writing coach and editor. But that kind of thinking never sits right with me. The writing experience is so private and intangible, I figure it’s the least I can do to apply a little X-ray vision now and again, in the spirit of learning. We’re all in this together, even if we’re competing on the bookshelves. At the end of the day it’s more about writing sentences that ring closer to the truth than it is about earning an extra buck.
With that in mind, note the changes I’ve made below in response to the feedback that I needed to “cushion” my prose a little more. This led directly to adding more “to be” verbs and “filler” words (such as “that”). I quickly saw that I’d been omitting pronouns quite often as well, so I’ve forced myself to add some of those. Mind you, these changes are painful for me. I’ve trained myself to be efficient to the point of “killing be’s” and “killing fillers” often before they even appear. Now, I’m seeing that—at least within the scope of a novel—there’s a time and place for that level of efficiency, just as there’s a time and place for a cushion. I still strongly dislike sentences that require more words than necessary, but I’m taking this feedback to heart. If I’ve done my job, perhaps the sentences will have so much cushion they can start to pillow fight on the page. My fear, of course, is excess, loss of personal style, and distillation of the work. We’ll see if the feathers go flying…
The other feedback I received was that, at times, my prose seemed too formal. This appears mostly in the Afghan narrative and I’ve known this for quite some time but wasn’t sure how to fix the problem. I think it arose partly because most of the translated writing from “the Arab world” that I’ve read is actually translated into British English. It also comes from the subconscious but not-so-subtle way many of us think about anyone who speaks with English as a second language. Of course, my characters are speaking Pashto (but I’m writing in English). That means there’s this weird, jumbly, semi-conscious notion of “translation” that resides in the back of my brain while I write, even though I’m not actually translating. The result is prose that’s too tight, too formal, too rigid. Below are some of my minute attempts to fix that problem.
BEFORE:Thinking of him now, she feels a sudden bolt in her chest, as if a bird tugs her by the heart, outward, toward the street. (25 words)
AFTER:Thinking of him now, she feels a sudden bolt in her chest. It’s as though a bird istugging her by the heart, beckoning outward, toward the street. (28 words)
BEFORE: At the crossroads, she turns down the main thoroughfare. A few rusted cars park haphazardly, half on the pedestrian pathway, half in the road. A blue scooter lays in a ditch, kickstand mangled. The neighborhood itself remains quiet, hardly a hint of human occupancy other than the occasional tails of smoke rising from courtyards where, surely, many more women tend to various tasks. Aaseya holds herself above these women, a fact that doesn’t aid her tumultuous social standing. But those women never had Ms. Darrow, the visiting English teacher. Those women weren’t born to such a worldy father. She knows she should wish these blessings on others now, but the gifts are only true for Aaseya in memory. She doesn’t intend to share, their private comfort like the lead thread in an embroiderer’s hand. Lose that, and the entire pattern disrupts, so much gone to waste. (146 words)
AFTER:At the crossroads, she turns down the main thoroughfare. A few rusted cars are parked haphazardly, half on the pedestrian pathway, half in the road. A blue scooter lies in a ditch, its kickstand mangled. The arrangement feels like home, her town always on the edge of disarray because of one thing or another. There’s comfort here in the randomness; an admission that anything, even a scooter that’s been tossed aside, will someday prove useful. The neighborhood itself remains quiet withhardly a hint of human occupancy other than the occasional tails of smoke rising from courtyards like little prayers. So many women tend to those fires amidst various daily tasks. Aaseya holds herself above them, a fact that doesn’t help her social standing. But those women never had Ms. Darrow, the visiting English teacher. Those women weren’t born to such a worldy father. Those women don’t look at the skyline and see a line to follow. She knows she should wish these blessings on others now, but the gifts are only true for Aaseya in memory. She can’t afford to share her hope, its private comfort like the lead thread in an embroiderer’s hand. If she loses that, the entire pattern will be disrupted, so much gone to waste. (210 words)
[The other feedback I received was to amp up my references to landscape and the sense of home. I’ve been working these concepts at opposite angles through quite a number of drafts and apparently it’s working, but my reader suggested turning the dial up even more—hence some of the added sentences in the above example.]
BEFORE: Her nonchalance unnerves him, the way she insists on remaining so calm and aloof. Does nothing disrupt this woman? Most days, it feels as though he’s barely been heard. Other times, the defiance across her face temps a tightening of his fists, a flash of anger down the middle of his body.
AFTER:Her nonchalance unnerves him, the way she insists on remaining so calm and aloof. Does anything disrupt this woman? Most days, Rahim feels like he’s barely been heard. Other times, the defiance across her face makes his fists tighten, a flash of anger down the middle of his body.
In some sense, a business-savvy reader might tell me that I shouldn’t share my own “mistakes” publicly on the same website where I likewise promote my business as a writing coach and editor. But that kind of thinking never sits right with me. The writing experience is so private and intangible, I figure it’s the least I can do to apply a little X-ray vision now and again, in the spirit of learning. We’re all in this together, even if we’re competing on the bookshelves. At the end of the day it’s more about writing sentences that ring closer to the truth than it is about earning an extra buck.
With that in mind, note the changes I’ve made below in response to the feedback that I needed to “cushion” my prose a little more. This led directly to adding more “to be” verbs and “filler” words (such as “that”). I quickly saw that I’d been omitting pronouns quite often as well, so I’ve forced myself to add some of those. Mind you, these changes are painful for me. I’ve trained myself to be efficient to the point of “killing be’s” and “killing fillers” often before they even appear. Now, I’m seeing that—at least within the scope of a novel—there’s a time and place for that level of efficiency, just as there’s a time and place for a cushion. I still strongly dislike sentences that require more words than necessary, but I’m taking this feedback to heart. If I’ve done my job, perhaps the sentences will have so much cushion they can start to pillow fight on the page. My fear, of course, is excess, loss of personal style, and distillation of the work. We’ll see if the feathers go flying…
The other feedback I received was that, at times, my prose seemed too formal. This appears mostly in the Afghan narrative and I’ve known this for quite some time but wasn’t sure how to fix the problem. I think it arose partly because most of the translated writing from “the Arab world” that I’ve read is actually translated into British English. It also comes from the subconscious but not-so-subtle way many of us think about anyone who speaks with English as a second language. Of course, my characters are speaking Pashto (but I’m writing in English). That means there’s this weird, jumbly, semi-conscious notion of “translation” that resides in the back of my brain while I write, even though I’m not actually translating. The result is prose that’s too tight, too formal, too rigid. Below are some of my minute attempts to fix that problem.
BEFORE:Thinking of him now, she feels a sudden bolt in her chest, as if a bird tugs her by the heart, outward, toward the street. (25 words)
AFTER:Thinking of him now, she feels a sudden bolt in her chest. It’s as though a bird istugging her by the heart, beckoning outward, toward the street. (28 words)
BEFORE: At the crossroads, she turns down the main thoroughfare. A few rusted cars park haphazardly, half on the pedestrian pathway, half in the road. A blue scooter lays in a ditch, kickstand mangled. The neighborhood itself remains quiet, hardly a hint of human occupancy other than the occasional tails of smoke rising from courtyards where, surely, many more women tend to various tasks. Aaseya holds herself above these women, a fact that doesn’t aid her tumultuous social standing. But those women never had Ms. Darrow, the visiting English teacher. Those women weren’t born to such a worldy father. She knows she should wish these blessings on others now, but the gifts are only true for Aaseya in memory. She doesn’t intend to share, their private comfort like the lead thread in an embroiderer’s hand. Lose that, and the entire pattern disrupts, so much gone to waste. (146 words)
AFTER:At the crossroads, she turns down the main thoroughfare. A few rusted cars are parked haphazardly, half on the pedestrian pathway, half in the road. A blue scooter lies in a ditch, its kickstand mangled. The arrangement feels like home, her town always on the edge of disarray because of one thing or another. There’s comfort here in the randomness; an admission that anything, even a scooter that’s been tossed aside, will someday prove useful. The neighborhood itself remains quiet withhardly a hint of human occupancy other than the occasional tails of smoke rising from courtyards like little prayers. So many women tend to those fires amidst various daily tasks. Aaseya holds herself above them, a fact that doesn’t help her social standing. But those women never had Ms. Darrow, the visiting English teacher. Those women weren’t born to such a worldy father. Those women don’t look at the skyline and see a line to follow. She knows she should wish these blessings on others now, but the gifts are only true for Aaseya in memory. She can’t afford to share her hope, its private comfort like the lead thread in an embroiderer’s hand. If she loses that, the entire pattern will be disrupted, so much gone to waste. (210 words)
[The other feedback I received was to amp up my references to landscape and the sense of home. I’ve been working these concepts at opposite angles through quite a number of drafts and apparently it’s working, but my reader suggested turning the dial up even more—hence some of the added sentences in the above example.]
BEFORE: Her nonchalance unnerves him, the way she insists on remaining so calm and aloof. Does nothing disrupt this woman? Most days, it feels as though he’s barely been heard. Other times, the defiance across her face temps a tightening of his fists, a flash of anger down the middle of his body.
AFTER:Her nonchalance unnerves him, the way she insists on remaining so calm and aloof. Does anything disrupt this woman? Most days, Rahim feels like he’s barely been heard. Other times, the defiance across her face makes his fists tighten, a flash of anger down the middle of his body.
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