Progress: Editing and Purple-Lining Katharine

As I sit here drinking (and thoroughly enjoying) my annoyingly expensive designer grande half-caf pumpkin latte with a splash of chocolate, I have come to the realization that it's time. I have fought the inevitability that Katharine needs to be edited. When I began writing it at 13, I failed to understand that not every nuance has to be told flat out on the first page; characters need time to develop; and, while descriptions are great, using a thesaurus for every other word probably is not going to make the story sound more polished. 

I laughed a little when I opened the file again; I have grown in my writing, and while I may not be professional-grade, I am a heck of a lot better than I use to be. Published writers have better editors anyway. 

Today, I started editing... again. This time though I was not afraid to toss it all.

I hate editing in red. It's hateful, almost vindictive. I myself like using a nice purple. Purple says, "Hey, it's fine, I get it. This isn't your best work, but maybe we can make it okay." 

After nearly two hours, I have only made it through two pages, was originally three. I rewrote large chucks, finally being able to convey what my eight-grade self saw as the opening scene in her head, adding a little more mystery. I have got to say: purple-lining feels good. 

Writing Clip: Arizona

In an effort to open myself up to public criticism, I have decided to post clips of my writing occasionally to my blog. The following is a bit of the first draft of "Arizona," which I began writing a couple months ago. Bring on the constructive criticism. :)

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Twenty-four and a failure. Mama told me to come on home to Tennessee, that we would figure it out together. I don’t even want to think about it. The long road winds out in front of me like a long grey ribbon. I’ve got nearly two hours to go to get home. My Coke is sweating in the cup holder and the air conditioning isn’t working... 

I’m forcing all the little things come up in my mind instead of the big things. I lost: unengaged, no job, no future. Damn it all to hell. Stop crying.

***

“Ari! You made it!” Banks, my little sister, shrieked as I pulled into the driveway of our massive farm house that sits on several acres of uncultivated farm land. Mama fell in love with the house and had to have it.

“Hey B,” I waved out the window. I climbed out of my Jeep, swinging a bag over my shoulder. 

“Gracious Arizona, could you stop walking around like a trucker?” she smiled as I cam closer to the front step. “Hey baby girl. Welcome home. I’ll get your brother to grab your bags.”

Our Mama named me after the great state of Arizona, where I was born in a windstorm. Banks got saddled with Mama’s maiden name. Being only six, she hadn’t learned to hate her name yet. She wandered back into the house clutching a doll.

“I can get them, Mama.”

“No, no, no. Russ will get them. C’mon, I want to show you your surprise,” she said, leading the way into the foyer. The smell of artificial cinnamon and carpet cleaning powder hit me in the face once I crossed the threshold, both of which my Mama is obsessed with.

Russ was lounged on a sofa in the den at the back of the house, the television blaring the sounds of Tennessee football, “Rocky Top” blaring from the speakers. Russ waved without turning around. Russ and I always had an interesting relationship. He’s not really my brother, or even related to me at all. Had he been my mother’s son, he would have had a name like Pierre or Cobra. Our parents met and got together when we went to the same high school. 

In fact, he took me to junior prom and I lost my virginity to him that night. Russ is a really good-looking guy, broad shoulders, dark hair, dark eyes. His wild streak turned girls on in our little town, and I thought that’s what I wanted. He drove a motorcycle and worked on cars in high school; I assume he’s doing more of the same in his mid-twenties. I have only seen him the few times I made the trek home for holidays in the last six years, a rarity because of school, work, and the ex-fiance. 

“I put you in your old room, but I fancied it up for you,” Mama said, still leading the way. She babbled on about paint choices and duvet covers as we made our way up the second staircase. Swinging the door open with a smirk, she threw her arm out like Vanna White. My neon pink wall where I had displayed all my high school memories was painted over with a nice eggshell paint that upon closer inspection proved to have light gold stenciled designs painted on them. She had always hated that wall, said that the daughter of an interior designer needed better taste. She finally conceded to keeping it after I claimed it expressed my innate individuality. I only did it to make her angry during my senior year in high school, hoping to make her as angry as she made me.

The ceiling was pitched to make a cozy feeling room. It was also the furthest room from anyone and anything, which is why I picked it when we moved in my junior year. She had replaced my bed too. Gone was the twin bed covered in floral print; it was replaced with a queen bed covered in a white bedspread with gold trim and tons of throw pillows in navy, gold, and royal purple. It was beautiful, and something I never would’ve picked for myself, with all those throw pillows to put back on the bed everyday. Not a detail was missing from curtains to carpet.

I had paused for too long.

“You don’t like it?” Mama asked.

“It’s beautiful,” I answered placatingly. “It looks like magazine spread.”

My mother beamed. “It is, honey! It’ll be in House and Gardens next month! Well, I will let you get settled. I’m ordering Indian for dinner. Do you still like the coconut curry?”

I nodded and she made her way out the door. I threw myself onto the perfect bed making all the pillows go flying as tears rolled down my face. 

A small knock tapped on the door. Swiping at my face, I yelled “Come in.” I was still laying in the mass of pillows when the door opened and Banks walked in carrying her doll. She climbed into the lofted bed with me a cuddled in close, kissing my tears before she closed her eyes and wrapping her arms around me. I slept soundly then for the first time in weeks.

***

Banks was gone when I woke up in the morning to the sound of an engine roar. Fully clothed, someone had removed my shoes and wrapped me in a blanket. I was starting to sweat as the sun hit me from the windows. 

Flipping the blanket off, I went in search of more clothes. The ones I had on were stained with bad voodoo, not how I wanted to start my phase. All my bags and boxes were in my room, stacked neatly in the corner. I’d have to remember to thank Russ when I saw him. 

Striping down to naked and leaving my clothes in a heap on the floor, I walked into the attached bathroom and flipping on the water. A shower was just what I needed to push the restart button on my life. I washed my hair with more diligence than was necessary, letting the lather run over my breasts and back in rivulets. 

Hungry, I realized, as my stomach rumbled. After the water started getting cold, I jumped out and wrapped a towel around my body and walked back into my room to rummage through my boxes. He was there, sitting on my bed.

“Good morning, sis,” Russ grinned, not bothering to look away.

“Wha-? Gah - what are you doing?”

“Sittin’.”

“It’s my room Russ.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he joked sardonically, then a serious look washed over his face. “Ari, I just wanted to check on you.”

“Well, you checked. Now leave me alone.”

He stood up and walked over to me, towering over my small five-foot-two frame, and stared into my eyes. “I’ll kill him,” he said, dead-pan serious.

“No need.”

“Why? You do it yourself?”

“Of course not,” I answered. “But karma’s a bitch.”

He snorted. His arms went around me and I stiffened and grabbed at my towel. Too close. Much too close. He picked up on my cold response and let me go. 

“Okay, Ari. I get it. Let me know when you want to talk about it... or for me to kill him.” He kissed my forehead and strode out without a backward glance.

The smells of coffee and and bacon wrapped their way around me, and I realized that Russ brought me a plate of breakfast. 

Everyone needs to stop being nice.

Why I am Chasing Katharine

Eighth grade: the blip of embarrassment of any grown adult. And I was stuck there with my triangle hair, sparkly retainer, and nerdy full-blown obsession with young adult fiction that stemmed from my early childhood. 

Books were my outlet, helping me jump into adventures I imagined I was too young to have. I devoured them one by one, often one in a day. J.K. Rowling, Meg Cabot, and so many others (probably with the help of a little too much sugar before bed) painted my dreams, which is where I met Katharine. 

Katharine (yes, it's spelled correctly) is where my writing finally began to take shape. She lives in my head even now, and is why I thought for some insane reason that I (at the mature age of 13) could be a famous writer like my teen-life icons. Katharine haunted my nights, with her auburn hair and fiery spirit. I would be her in the battle of a mythical land, racing across fields to face my enemies with swords and magic. Her story would break into my dreams occasionally, and I would feel reenergized, ready to write again.

I've written and rewritten, stopped writing and stopped believing I would ever finish it. Every year or so, I pull it back out, look at the editing marks, praying for inspiration and better skill. And every year, I put it away, because there is not enough time to focus or a bad case of bad writer's block or 100 other excuses I have made since I began writing it. Over the years, I have started seven (yes, seven) stories and danced around countless ideas I intended on finishing, for which I made the same excuses. 

What it really comes down to is fear. I've never been keen to let people read my stories, opening myself to public criticisms on thoughts that for so long have been my private musings. Even in my teens, only a few people were allowed, which included my best friend who lovingly told me that  Katharine's Story (a working title that was never changed) was amazing and has been asking for the next chapter for nearly a decade. 

I've been waiting for the story to come to me, which wasn't working; I think it's time I start chasing Katharine. This blog is the first step in my effort to opening my stories up for viewing. So here it goes...