Edit: do the last one on paper

It never ceases to amaze and sometimes consternate me how differently I perceive a narrative on a computer screen versus on paper.

This was recently driven home yet again to my slowly-catching-on-brain by a rewrite of good old novel number one, We the Enemy. Long story short, I decided to switch it from present tense to past. That REQUIRES a paper read because it's too easy to miss small mistakes such as a shift in tense onscreen.

The sample below, the opening of the first chapter du jour, has been read and reread onscreen dozens of times. I thought the polishing was done, and that I only needed to check it for translation errors. Here it is:

Sleepy equaled dead. Jake Black stretched in the car seat and shook his head to clear the drowsiness seeping into his mind. Surveillance was not his strong suit. He studied the apartment house across the street and imagined the suspected terrorist inside charging out the door, AK 47 blazing, Jake leaping from his car and returning fire. Anything to break up his boredom.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He took it out; it showed his home phone number. Gretchen, the tiny red-haired English nanny who cared for his daughter, had orders never to call him on the job -- except in an emergency. "What is it?"

Her whisper had the edge of a scream in it. "She's here."

Impossible. "How?"

"I don't know. The doorbell rang, and there she was."

His gut tightened. "Does she have Amy?"

Gretchen's voice broke. "I tried to stop her, Mister Black, I tried to stop her."

Dear God. He started his car. "I'm coming. Call 911 now!" He disconnected, slammed the gearshift down and floored the gas. Driving one-handed, he called the Agency. "This's Jake."

"Kamura. Is he moving?"

"I am. Emergency at home. Get somebody out to cover for me, now. I'm gone."

"Tell me -- "

Jake ended the call. How could Marcie have escaped from the sanitarium? Still locked in the grip of abnormally deep postpartum psychosis, no way she'd have been released. The "baby blues" that had come with Amy's birth had intensified until one night he'd been awakened by screams, Marcie's and the baby's. He had raced to the nursery and found his wife hitting their four-month-old daughter, screaming, "You can't do this to me! You can't!"

He had dragged Marcie to their bedroom, tossed her on the bed and pinned her until her rage subsided into sobs. The diagnosis had been quick; she agreed to admission into a psychiatric facility, and she hadn't come out. Any exposure of Marcie to Amy still brought on a violent attack. He couldn't even mention their daughter's name to her.

Now, I'm hoping that you're not seeing any obvious flaws. I feel confident that many would think it's fine. But you just read it onscreen. How differently does it appear in a printout? Well, I saw lots of flab after I printed it out and looked at it critically:

Sleepy equaled dead. Jake Black stretched in the car seat and shook his head to clear the drowsiness seeping into his mind. S -- surveillance was not his strong suit. He studied the apartment house across the street and imagined the suspected terrorist inside charging out the door, AK 47 blazing, Jake himself leaping from his car and returning fire. Anything to break up his the boredom.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He took it out; it showed flicked it open to see his home phone number. Gretchen, the tiny red-haired English nanny who cared for his daughter, had orders never to call him on the job -- except in an emergency. "What is it?"

Her whisper shook had the edge of a scream in it. "She's here."

Impossible. "How?"

"I don't know. The doorbell rang, and there she was."

His gut tightened. "Does she have Amy?"

Gretchen's voice broke. "I tried to stop her, Mister Black, I tried to stop her."

Dear God. He started his car. "I'm coming. Call 911 now!" He disconnected, slammed the gearshift down and floored the gas. Driving one-handed, he called the Agency. "This's Jake."

"Kamura. Is he moving?"

"I am. Emergency at home. Get somebody out to cover for me, now. I'm gone."

"Tell me -- "

Jake ended the call. How could Marcie have escaped from the sanitarium? Still locked in the grip of abnormally deep postpartum psychosis, no way she'd have been released from the sanitarium. The "baby blues" that had come with from Amy's birth had intensified until one night he'd been awakened one night by screams, Marcie's and the baby's. He'd raced to the nursery and found his wife hitting their four-month-old daughter, screamingshrieking, "You can't do this to me! You can't!"

He had dragged Marcie to their bedroom, tossed her on the bed and pinned her until her rage subsided into sobs. The diagnosis had been quick; she agreed to admission go into a psychiatric facility, and she hadn't come out. Any eExposure of Marcie to Amy still brought on a violent attack. H--he couldn't even mention their daughter's her name to her.

Here, without all the mark-up, is how it now reads:

Sleepy equaled dead. Jake Black stretched in the car seat and shook his head -- surveillance was not his strong suit. He studied the apartment house across the street and imagined the suspect charging out, AK 47 blazing, himself leaping from his car and returning fire. Anything to break up the boredom.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He flicked it open to see his home phone number. Gretchen, the tiny red-haired English nanny who cared for his daughter, had orders never to call him on the job -- except in an emergency. "What is it?"

Her whisper shook. "She's here."

Impossible. "How?"

"I don't know. The doorbell rang, and there she was."

His gut tightened. "Does she have Amy?"

Gretchen's voice broke. "I tried to stop her, Mister Black, I tried to stop her."

Dear God. He started his car. "I'm coming. Call 911 now!" He disconnected, slammed the gearshift down and floored the gas. Driving one-handed, he called the Agency. "This's Jake."

"Kamura. Is he moving?"

"I am. Emergency at home. Get somebody out to cover for me, now. I'm gone."

"Tell me -- "

Jake ended the call. How could Marcie have escaped? Still locked in postpartum psychosis, no way she'd have been released from the sanitarium. The "baby blues" from Amy's birth had intensified until he'd been awakened by screams one night. He'd found his wife in the nursery, hitting their four-month-old daughter, shrieking, "You can't do this to me! You can't!"

The diagnosis had been quick; she agreed to go into a psychiatric facility, and she hadn't come out. Exposure to Amy still brought on a violent attack—he couldn't even mention her name.

I'm probably not done with this, but I like the quicker version that resulted from the edit. Whether you agree with my edits on this or not, I hope you see the difference a paper edit can make in your work.

So what do you think? Any suggestions, thoughts? Questions?

For what it's worth.

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Comments

[Eric von Rothkirch]

Agree. :)

Writing on paper sometimes helps too. Typing is almost too fluid, ends often in result that is too... superflous?

You can say anything, and say it really fast. So you almost work at a different economy of words than you do when forced to write things out by hand. It doesn't take long for the hand to start cramping up when writing in a notebook, so you have to make your words count!

Paper is good.

[Jason Gilman]

I prefer the edited version as well. It seems much tighter and in tune with a fast moving situation.

One minor nitpick: I believe "strong suite" should actually be "strong suit".

[Lady M]

OK.

Here's something I've been meaning to mention for a very long time. It is a trend I've noticed in writing that seems to be taking over.

It's the faster, quicker write. It's narrowing the same novel or story down by hundreds of pages in return for a faster read.

Me... I've always enjoyed the long reads - the build up. The explain it all - paint me a picture writing... But that all seems to be going the way of the dinosaurs.

Has anyone else noticed this?

Not saying that the quicker writing doesn't make a novel faster to read and keeps my interest... it is like... hmmmm.... uhm...

Oh I know...

It's like a waitress in a restaurant hurrying service so she can get a quicker turnover on the table. Rushing the diners so that there can be more people - which, of course, = more tips.

So perhaps with that analogy, books are being written so that the reader reads them faster and buys more?

Either style of writing is fine with me - it's just a growing trend that I've noticed and I was wondering if this is the way of the future?

Lady M