WRITING: Another Example of Editing

With about a third of the original wording cut out of A Bottle of Beer, it’s time to look at the changes and how and why they work.  Not indiscriminate slicing of adjectives, nor cutting of necessary incidents of story, but a total word by word reading, often aloud, to determine voice, flow, pace, impact, tone, and all the elements of story that are the result of words put together into sentences, paragraphs, story.

Here’s another before and after:

Old Version:
Herve was hot, tired and drained from the journey.  The last of the water was gone.  He’d had to take the long path through the hills to avoid the patrol at the border where he usually had no problem getting through.  But for three days the company did not budge, had tents set up and laid out campfires at night. (below him)

The smell of greased pork fried with beans came up through the night to Herve and a tear for his Yolanda rolled down his dark cheek just in thinking of her. (and he missed his home and his wife) Clinking and clanking of tin cups and soon, the strong scent of hot coffee wafted up to Herve, now shivering in his little space in the rocks where (teased him) (Starving, his tongue swollen with thirst, his eyes cracked open with fear,) he dare not light a fire to warm himself or cook a meal if he had something left to cook.  Or even make coffee if he only had water.

Herve finally fell asleep to the singing of the men down below, and the happy playing of a guitar. (the flickering campfire lighting their stage) He dreamed of his sweet plump Yolanda, safely under the care of his great friend Carlos who was a brother to him and he trusted more than anyone in this cold desert world.
(200 words)

New Version:
Javier was cold and spent and the last of his water was gone.  For four days the border patrol sat camped below him.

The smell of pork grease fried with beans came up through the night and he missed his home and his wife. Clinking of tin cups and the strong scent of hot coffee teased him.  Starving, his tongue swollen with thirst, eyes cracked open with fear, he dare not light a fire even to warm himself.

Javier fell asleep to their singing, the flickering campfire lighting their stage.  He dreamed of his sweet plump Yolanda, safely under the care of his amigo.  (104 words)

This is a Shard, an extra bit of information for the curious that needs to be clicked upon to reveal itself from the main Fragment.  In A Bottle of Beer, I’ve used the Hypertextopia format of linearity blessed with small intuitions and dots of memory to infuse warmth and understanding into the simple story of a woman sitting on her porch drinking beer and watching a man coming down the road out of the sunset.  The Shards, therefore, should be  recalls of memory,  metaphors  of life that are  stored, not vital to story but relevant and interesting.  It’s the half-listening to someone’s tale versus encouraging the details that make it a more common and yet unique experience.

I’ve cut much out of the Fragments–the main story–as well:

(Old) A WOMAN ALONE
Leaning heavily on the railing, she rested. Her breathing smoothed to a low rattle, her heart an occasional thump.  Yolanda opened the beer with a quick twisting-yank of the cap and without taking her eyes off (She stared at the man advancing towards her, as she lifted the beer and gulped down three good swallows.

There was something that held her attention, that made it almost impossible to look away from the runner.  Something was familiar and yet it was not something (im)precise.

She backed the three steps into the rocker, and lowered herself (sat) down, still holding the beer.  She dared look(ed behind her, saw) around for the rifle, saw it  leaning against the wall close within reach.  Though she had a very odd  (an uneasy) feeling about the man, she knew (that) the gun would be of no use to her. (133 words)

(New) A WOMAN ALONE
Her breathing smoothed to a low rattle, her heart an occasional thump.  Yolanda opened the bottle with a quick twisting-yank.  She stared at the man as she lifted the beer and gulped down three good swallows.

Something held her attention, something familiar yet imprecise.

She backed up to the rocker and sat down.  She looked behind her, saw the rifle within reach.  She had an uneasy feeling that the gun would be of no use. (76 words)

These words didn’t form a tighter rank all in one read-through.  It’s almost a constant thing until, over and over until it says what it needs to say.  There’s room for imagery, for beauty but there’s more  beauty in matching the words to the story.  With sentence length we pick up pace, show Yolanda’s stark world for what it is.

Do I do this automatically after so many years of writing?  No.  I had to be reminded.  For a writer is a lover of language and to his ears, his words are the laughter of his children.