What Happens to an Author When She Finishes Editing?

Last week, I finished the paper edits of First Draft B. Cue the fanfare, tears of happiness, and confetti. Now it's time to pull off the gloves and re-type the entire thing with the new edits to see what we've got. And so begins the Second Draft.

Now, there are multiple things an author feels once she or he gets past another stage in the writing process...

• Fear that what you wrote stinks beyond belief.
• Elation that you finished it, you really finished it.
• Depressed that at some point, you're going to have to let someone else read it and tell you exactly what they think about it.
• Proud that, upon reading over it, you like more than you hate.

I know some of you are reading this now because of my editing workshop, and I bet you're wondering if I followed my own advice.

Yes, I did print it out, put it in a binder, and not look at it for a month.

The month I finished First Draft B, I graduated from my engineering program, moved back home for a summer internship between undergrad and graduate school, and visited with family for two weeks. So I didn't have time to edit.

Lack of time didn't stop me from lugging the binder everywhere in the desperate hope I'd sneak an edit in, though.

I was brutal with edits.

As soon as I had to read something twice, I either cut it out or re-wrote it. I cut an entire chapter because it dragged the plot and made Mary look whiny, which she isn't. I re-wrote at least three chapters because they head-hopped, were disjointed, and didn't make sense.

My biggest writing vice is that I tell too much.

This is a problem because I write historical fiction, and I know more information than will show up in the final product. I had paragraphs that sounded like I was channeling a history professor. Yikes.

To combat this, I read a number of books set in the same time period to see how other authors handled the problem.

I then went through a quick bout of depression because I felt like I couldn't do it as well as the other authors. Turns out I needed more sleep, because once I got a good nine hours, I was ready to edit again.

I wrote First Draft B, a whopping 99,899 words, in present tense.

Yes, Trentwood's Orphan is historical fiction. Yes, I know "history" implies "past." No, I was not dropped on my head as a child.

I wrote in present tense because I couldn't get into Mary's head. She's the opposite of my last heroine, Veronica, who was impetuous, a bit ditzy, funny, and determined to get her way. Mary, on the other hand, is quiet, cautious, analyzes everything, and does her accounting when she's stressed. I'm more like Mary than Veronica, so Mary should have been easy to write. She was surprisingly harder. By writing in present tense, I felt the immediacy and was able to gauge Mary's reactions much better.

I also wrote in present tense because it cleaned my writing. There is no "had had" syndrome in present tense. The action either happened, is happening, or will happen. But now that the experimentation phase is complete, I need to re-write the entire thing in past tense.

(Need help discovering passive writing? The Writer's Technology Companion wrote a tutorial to highlight passive writing in Microsoft Word 2003.)

What are some of your writing rituals? Do you have a trick that you use to improve your writing? Are you finally convinced I'm insane? Let us know in the comments!

WIP: A New Beginning

A little over a week ago, I added a new scene to the beginning of the WIP. It shifts the moment when the reader joins the story from the original scene to fifteen minutes earlier. Amazing, what a quarter of an hour can do, right? This new scene completely changes the tone of the opening chapter, yet still is in keeping with the tone of the entire work. My problem is that I feel the original scene also sets the story and tone correctly. Which should I choose?

Original

Clouds, dark and thick, descend over Mary Winslow as she flees the manor house at Compton Beauchamp. Her throat is hoarse from shouting and her gloved hands shudder; her black walking skirts swirl around her rushing feet and she half-trips. The gravel drive crunches with each step until she slips through the high wrought-iron gate and out into the pale green English lane, where shriveled leaves spin and dance with a small eddy. Her lips press together against what she fears is a sob. There is a figure to her right and she jumps away, scratching her back along the brick wall that flanks the gate on either side. Ten minutes ago was bad enough; now is much worse.

“Took you long enough,” Trentwood says. It is windy, and there is a bite to the air, but he is without a coat and stands spinning the chain of his pocket watch, his black boots gleaming in the gray light.

Mary stares at Trentwood, taking in his sandy hair lined with gray, and his irritated expression. How he stands without needing her arm as a support. How he can watch her without forcing a smile through the ever-encroaching pain. I can’t do this again.

Above, boughs sway and whisper as Trentwood follows the silent Mary down the shadowed, tree-lined lane. “Now you’ll answer me. How could you have accepted that idiot?”

Shadows play across her face. If I ignore him…? Her low voice is raw and ragged when she finally speaks. “I felt alone.”

He tucks away his pocket watch. “In that house?”

Mary’s mouth twists. “Well… lonely, then.” She scrambles over a low opening in the hedgerow to walk across the farmer’s field. Her skirt catches on a grasping bramble, and she yanks it free.

“You’d rather be lonely and alone your entire life than marry that idiot.”

. . .

Update

Mary Winslow suspects today will be worse than most when she finds her fiancé seducing her scullery maid.

The point of coming to the scullery in the first place was to hunt down the cook, whose name Mary cannot remember at the moment, and ask what came of the smoked ham that should have been at breakfast. But when Mary entered the kitchen, she found the stoves untended, and the scullery door open. It was an innocent and natural assumption to think the cook—oh, what is her name?—was back there, already preparing for luncheon. The scraping, shuffling noises certainly corroborated Mary’s suspicion that someone, at least, was in the scullery and might have an answer to her question. After all, one does not pay for ham and then expect it to disappear.

Head tilted to the side, Mary gapes at the back of Mr Spencer’s blonde head, which nuzzles naughty words into the freckled neck of her giggling maid. His pants are undone; the girl’s short kitchen skirts hitched up.

In all fairness, the clandestine couple is only half-hidden in the back refuse closet of the scullery, paying no mind to the pile of vegetable peelings rotting on the floor beneath them. Even with the lamp dimmed, they are plainly visible. They are insulting by their carelessness. Mary’s lip curls, wondering how they can stand the rancid, greasy smell that comes from standing in—oh goodness, is that an actual pig’s snout, there? Does anyone do their cleaning duties anymore?

This is what comes of rash decisions. How many times did Mary warn Mr Spencer that if she heard so much as a murmur of his philandering, that she would end it?

This is more than a murmur.

. . .
 

So here is my question: Should I keep the old beginning, or continue with the new one? FYI, the original still exists, but happens later in the chapter (as in, about two pages later). I have my own opinion, but I'd love to hear yours. Which one grabs you more, as a reader? Does the new scene completely turn you off, or intrigue you?