WRITING: The Power of Editing

I look forward to the day when the words come already trimmed and complete.  In the meantime, with the guidance of a reminder, here is what editing does to a piece:

YOLANDA (old version)

Down the road, out towards the west where sunsets simmer like a ball of butter melting into an oatmeal desert, a shadow of a man jogged closer and closer in little flicks of black.  Yolanda dropped her arm back into her widespread lap.  He was far away. Every few moments she’d glance up from the basket of jalapenos in which her fingers fiddled and picked. She’d select one and stab it with a threaded needle, drawing it up into a clustered ristra that tomorrow she would hang out in the sun to dry. 

She held her fat fingers in a salute above her eyes again and leaned forward in her seat. The black specter bobbled in the distance. He’d made about a yard of progress.  That was Yolanda’s way of seeing things. To her, he’d grown from just a speck to maybe eighth of an inch in height. She tried to estimate how long it would take him to pass by her house.  She leaned further forward and squinted into the sun.  Wind whistled out of her in a long low moan, and she resettled herself into the wicker rocking chair.  She reached over and picked up the bottle of beer that stood on the small table beside her, brought it to her mouth and sucked it dry. She rubbed at the wet rings left on the table with her hand, then wiped it on her neck.  The wetness felt good.  She rolled the still cool bottle against the tops of breasts that mountained above a tight cotton blouse. (259 words)

YOLANDA (new version)

Down the road to the west where sunsets sizzle like a ball of melting butter, a shadow jogged closer in little flicks of black.  Yolanda picked through the basket of jalapeños with fingers fat and stiff as sausages.  She’d select one and stab it with a threaded needle, drawing it up into a clustered ristra.

The black specter bobbled in the distance.  She tried to estimate how long it would take him to pass by her house.  She leaned forward in her chair and squinted into the sun.  Wind whistled out of her in a long low moan. With a sigh, she picked up the bottle of beer that stood on the small table beside her, brought it to her mouth and sucked it dry. She rubbed at the ring of water left on the table then wiped it on her neck.  The wetness felt good.  She rolled the bottle against breasts that mounded above a white blouse stretched to its limits.  (162 words)

Tain’t true that a teacher cannot teach creative writing; while he/she cannot teach one to be creative, the elements of better writing are things to be taught, things to be learned. With tools such as poetry, imagery, impact, focus, and all the rest that we understand as exposition, pace, effect, etc., we can understand the effect and apply to our own storytelling voice.

That’s why feedback is so vital. It’s just that we sometimes forget.