MEMBERS ONLY: Self-editing webinar 30 March
Hi folks, there’s a (members only) webinar coming up on 30 March, where I’m going to pick out a few chunks of your work and edit them live on screen, talking about what I’m doing and why I’m doing it as I work.
If you are a member and intend to attend this webinar, then feel free to give me a maximum 250 word extract of your work in the comments below. Do note that I’m going to have time to handle only about 4 submissions during the hour we have, so do understand that most submissions won’t get chosen.
And any case – it’s not really about whether your submission is or isn’t chosen. It’s really about understanding how sentence-by-sentence editing works in the raw, so you can apply some of the same insights to your work.
This is a webinar we’ve run before and it’s always been fun, so I hope you come along and get a lot from it. Till soon!
Hi Harry! Have at it! Thanks!
Lew Chandler hankered for solitude. It was being a sad day, and the most un-get-to-able place on the ranch was where he wanted to hide. He pulled off the gravel farm-to-market road and left his pickup idling as he went to unlock the gate at the hardly ever used western entrance. Rusted beer cans littered the grass around the battered metal barrier. Empty and crushed, tossed aside by someone who didn’t give a damn, the cans mirrored his mood. He plucked the rubbish from the brush and tossed it in the bed of his bug splattered Silverado.
Releasing the chain that anchored it to its post, he swung the gate wide. Like many a thing on the ranch, the gate could use some attention; a fresh coat of paint would help. He climbed back in his truck and rode down the rutted trail to its hidden-away end. It was a sorry road, its center mounded with clumps of grass and an occasional stumpy cactus. It’s saving grace was that it led to a spot where the mesquite yielded its stubborn hold on the landscape long enough to reveal the Brazos River, a lazy green ribbon, rift in the red earth of cradling farmland. There, overlooking the wide valley, Lew killed his engine and cranked down his window. The September air, warm and smelling of rain, floated across his tanned face. It held memories and a hint of desolation.
You are ready, the voice whispered in Kashaar’s mind. All is prepared. It is time to act.
He shivered. His army was arrayed before him, spiked turbans bristling like bee stingers. He spread his arms, and raised his chin.
“My children. Today is the beginning of our future.” His chest hitched with the truth behind those words. He could hardly believe he had finally reached this point. “Fight bravely for your wives and your children. You contend for a better life. You contend for glory. And you contend for your god.” Kashaar put his hands on his chest to emphasize his words. “Those of you who will not return perish for me, and shall be rewarded hereafter. Courage, friends, and make me proud.”
The men gathered in the vast cavern below raised thousands of pykes as one and shouted, “Vaaran! Vaaran! Vaaran!”
Obligingly, Vaaran Kashaar raised his hands again and accepted their praise. He smiled proudly down on them. They would make him proud. Soon he would have control of Salaam. Soon the Sun would be in his grasp.
Behind him on the balcony, a glass door opened. He glanced over his shoulder to see his wife sinking to her knees and bowing before him. A smile spread across his face, and he stepped toward her.
“Stand, love,” he said.
She rose and smoothed out her gown. Every inch of her except for her smooth hands was covered in beautiful purple fabric.
Hi, Harry. Thanks for the opportunity for this. this is the opening to a middle grade story I am writing:
The motorcycle slewed sideways across the muddy, shell cratered track, it’s engine crackling almost as loud as the machine guns of the Fokker DII biplane that strafed it. This was no-man’s-land, fought over but unoccupied, well, not by the living — a dead zone.
The rider looked back, the flaps on the fleece lined leather flying helmet flapping uncontrollably from the speed and oncoming wind. Taking a Colt 45 pistol from beneath their long, mud splattered leather coat, they fired as the plane passed over head, emptying the magazine and punching small holes in its plywood and fabric wings but missing their true target.
As the plane climbed and began to circle back for another attempt, the rider pulled up. Taking binoculars from a leather pannier strapped to the bikes side, they searched the landscape.
“There you are,” they said in a polite English accent. “Now all I have to do is lose old Max up there! Time for a reload and then we can get home and have a nice cup of tea.” But feeling along the bandolier buckled over their shoulder they found no ammunition. A quick search of the panier revealed a Very Pistol with 2 cartridges. “Well, I suppose this will have to do. Not quite what I had in mind, but beggars can’t be choosers.” Loading one cartridge into the pistol they held the other in readiness between their teeth.
A sudden short burst of rifle fire from the German lines behind pinged off a nearby overturned lorry sending sparks across the ground.
Here’s mine for editing …
I moved silently along the hall, not wanting to wake Papa if he was still asleep, for he had not been expecting me. No aroma of the strong coffee that he loved. In the salon, his chair empty. I paused, puzzled. It was too early for him to have left the house. He wasn’t in the bathroom. That left only one room. I paused at the door of his studio. The door was slightly ajar and I peered through. My father sat at his wide oak desk, writing, head bent in concentration over his papers, Quietly I made my way back along the hall to the salon to wait. I thought about putting on some coffee for him, but didn’t want to disturb him.
On a table by the window lay two books and a stack of papers. I picked up some of the papers on the pile and began to read. The writing was my father’s. It read like a memoir or a diary. It described in detail the incarcerations, the tortures and abuse of women, the killings he presided over in his work as a fascist Captain in charge of interrogations. I read on in disbelief and horror. Stunned, I replaced the papers, groped my way back down the hall and let myself out into the street.
Part of my story is romance between colleagues. Jack and Maddy are returning from a disastrous funeral of a friend that Jack helped to organise. The priest named and described a different person.
Walking back to the station, I blamed myself. I must have addressed George’s details to the wrong person. I went over it repeatedly with Maddy until she swung me round against park railings, and with one hand on my chest, waved the other around as she spoke.
‘Why on earth do you think it’s you, Jack? You are the fucking bureaucrat. You don’t get those sorts of things wrong, Jack.’
I do, I thought. Everyone does. Jesus, she’s fierce. But I like that. I like it a lot.
She turned. I couldn’t see her face. Then she came back, thumped me in the chest and looked me in the eye.
‘To be honest, you’re a little bit boring Jack. You worry all the time. Work is all you think about. That’s the only reason you want to be with me, so you can talk about the bloody job. I’m sick of it all.’
She might as well have punched me in the gut. She stood there, hands at her side. One limp red-leather glove at her feet.
‘Maddy, you shouldn’t have dumped it all on the Vicar.’
At this, she smiled through gritted teeth, raised both hands in supplication and brought them down with a growl of despair. When she strode away, I waited, emotionally pinned to the railings. I thought she might be pacing back, to take a run at me, but she just said:
‘C’mon,’ so I scooped up the glove and followed at a safe distance.
Thanks for the webinar and the chance to participate! Part of my first chapter of a historical fiction novel based on Macbeth:
Mindful of the broad horns, she stroked the cow’s ginger fringe and tickled her ears, putting her own auburn brow against the bovine forehead. A snort of rank breath warmed her neck. “Don’t you be resisting me now, my lassie. Not when I’m taking you on a grand adventure.” She rubbed the soft hide as she sat. “We’ll be bobbing down the Moray Firth like sea creatures, leaping like the dolphin! Now my lassie, here we go.”
Hitting her rhythm, she closed her eyes, and the teats yielded their rich flow. A fair verse rose from her lungs, but the song hung mid-air, choked by rough hands. Her head whipped as if it would snap from her neck over her flailing body dragged to the side of the shed. Swinging horns and terrified moans goaded her to kick and punch, but two muscled Norsemen, heavy with weapons, silenced her body with theirs. One held her down from behind; his stench made her wretch. The other, painted and braided, controlled her kicking legs. Sitting on her shins, he tore her skirts. Cruel ice-blue eyes scanned her legs and prying claws tried to open her thighs, but a burst of blood gushed from his twisted mouth onto her lap. She winced. Stunned, she froze. He fell on top of her. A sharp grunt reverberated against her back; the hand over her mouth loosened; and that man standing over the carnage, ripping swords out of the dead Vikings, was her father.
Maybe this for editing? (248 words)
CHAPTER 1
By the time I was eighteen I had been in prison, loved a boy and killed a man.
All through the soft protected years of a sunny childhood I grasped at freedom, a liberty that offered choice. I ached to flee the sanctuary of my mountain village to be with my father in Madrid. This was permitted only once a year for a month. My brother Isandro would take me there and deliver me to my father’s house.
“Why can’t I go on my own now, and for longer?” I demanded. “I’m seventeen, almost the age you were, Mama, when you had my brother. I am not a child now! Please, let me go!” My mother and brother exchanged looks. I was familiar with these looks. They had passed between them over the years with an odd silent acknowledgment that excluded me and made me furious.
“No.” My mother was blunt. “No point in arguing. When you are eighteen, we will talk again.” My brother kissed the top of my head and left.
I had never understood why everyone hated my father. With me, his only child, he was gentle and affectionate always. When he was still strong, he had a fierce energy and took me to the plains around Madrid to race our horses across the distances with wild abandon, laughing into the summer winds. He had few friends and cared only for me, a mirror image of my mother, he once told me.
As a newbie to writing, I would really appreciate your guidance with this one? 🙂
242 words: edited extract
A true 4000-mile Search & Rescue story within Ruby’s Memoir:
“THE GUARDIAN ANGEL”
Amber Glow Xaarmist heard my Landrover approach and smiled. She might only be a trainee, but her strategy had worked….
I strode hurriedly up the path, intending to get the visit over as quickly as possible. No sign of potential here. Negotiating broken furniture, I stopped in my tracks. A whimpering noise. From a chipboard box to my right.
Investigating further, a dry nose emerged and I met half of Ruby for the first time. I say half because Ruby had become entangled in her chains. She lay helpless and, from the look in her eyes, hopeless…
I helped her free, then left the owner as soon as I could. A misunderstanding. No idea poor Ruby was intended as the breeding mother.
As I walked back down the path, coming from the box I heard a gentle thump. Leaning down I opened the flap and saw Ruby, on her back, four paws in the air, tail thumping fast now and a soppy upside-down grin on her face. My first glimpse of the talented actress within that innocent exterior. Making a fuss of her, I eventually bade farewell and reluctantly made off, so guilty to leave her there.
Later, I did wonder if Ruby had somehow engineered our meeting. Even a golden retriever of Ruby’s capability couldn’t do that. Could she? Worthy of the bottom of a whisky glass, at least that idea could be dismissed. We had enough challenges to worry about.
Here’s an extract from my MG novel about twins who’re sent to a boarding school for a reality TV show and discover the headmistress is secretly drugging pupils and fleecing the school:
On Tuesday, I met up for lunch with the others and the eight of us crowded around a table trying to eat a horrible stew of fat and gristle that tasted like it had been made weeks ago. I had stomach ache anyway so, after two mouthfuls, I gave up and pushed my plate away.
“Nervous?” Poppy asked.
“Yeah. A bit,” I admitted.
Tomorrow, the parents would be here to watch the Christmas performance and the whole thing would be filmed for TV.
The cooks already gone mad baking quiches and scones and cream cakes for the parents’ buffet and didn’t have time to cook for us which explained the revolting stew.
I ate my pudding (chocolate sponge, no sauce – they hadn’t made any) and got up to clear away. As I turned round, I collided with a giant coming the other way. My tray bounced off its stomach, sloshing cold stew over the edge of my plate.
“Hey, watch it,” growled the giant (actually it was Horrible Harriet). She pushed me away with an outstretched arm and wrinkled her nose at the disgusting mess on my tray. “What’s your name?”
“Benedict Weaver.”
“Hmm. And why are you leaving before the bell?”
“Dress rehearsal,” I mumbled. “For the Christmas performance.”
“The dress rehearsal doesn’t start for ages.” She arched her eyebrows suspiciously.
“I’ve got to get my costume and make-up on first.” I really didn’t want to have this conversation right now.
The screen switches again. Jack is in a jeweller’s shop now, wearing a sharp suit. The old man behind the counter is studying my ring through an eye glass, making approving noises. I faintly catch Jack giving him some story about a broken engagement, then they start haggling over a price, ping-ponging numbers back and forth until Jack eventually accepts an offer of $20,000.
My cheeks are hot as I grip the bench. My ring. My last link to Anthony. Jack knew what it meant to me, and it hadn’t made a blind bit of difference. All he saw was the money – just like he had with the fire.
‘How could you?’ I glance at him through clouded eyes as the image fades.
His expression is stricken, and I know the image is true. ‘I’m sorry,’ he desperately whispers, but he can offer no other defence. I realise with a sickening jolt that there is no defence that would make a difference. Everything good he ever did, everything I ever loved about him, is permanently tarnished by what he has done. And I can’t forgive him.
The walls are closing in on me. I can’t breathe this heavy air, can’t stand the heat a second longer. I have to get out, see the sky, feel the breeze.
I stagger to my feet, the ground rocking violently under me. Charon’s evil laughter rings in my ears and I think for a horrible moment I am going to pass out.