YARebels Week 8 Companion Post - Edit Progressions

mood: weekend hangover
pandora/ipod: olympicsolympicsolympics!

If you haven't yet seen the vlog in question, this week over on the YARebels we are discussing the editing process. (Gag.) Anyway, on my Monday vlog I thought it would be cool to show you the progression of edits on my WIP BANISH showing how the first page and a half changed for me from Draft 1 through Draft 3.

And I expect props for putting something as heinous as the first draft up here. Thank you.

DRAFT THE FIRST

Bridget eyed the staircase. The fake marble, rosy pink with flecks of gold paint, glistened with a layer of moisture deposited by the late afternoon fog. The house looked inhospitable and uninviting; dangerous even, as a slip on one of its twenty plus steps could mean a broken neck.

She was pretty sure the house didn't want her there.

A sudden gust billowed fog down 18th Avenue, momentarily obscuring the row house from view. Bridget shivered and shoved her hands deeper into the faux fur-line pockets of her bomber jacket, cursing the morning's decision to wear a skirt and tights.

What had she been thinking? She should turn back, run the eight blocks home at a full sprint and be done with all this for good. Yet her feet wouldn't budge. She had been waiting for this opportunity ever since that afternoon in at the Ferguson's house last month. Something woke inside her that day and she needed to feel it again.

Muffled beeps emanated from the depths of her backpack. Four o'clock. As if on cue, a light blazed forth from the house, illuminating a second floor bay window through the thickening mist.

Bridget closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Come on, wuss. Knock on the door. You know what to expect this time; you'll be fine. He promised you'd be fine.

She stumbled towards the staircase, her eyes straining against the dank atmosphere. The fog seemed to be building around her, creating a wall between her and the house. The air hung in her nostrils like musty water and for a panicked moment, she felt like she was drowning. What the hell? Bridget had lived in San Francisco her whole life and never, not once, had she encountered a fog bank this thick, this disorienting. The outline of the house was completely gone; was she even moving in the right direction?

Now, this is a polished first chapter from the first draft, but you can see there's a lot of meandering, insertion of some backstory (too much, I thought) and I'm working pretty hard to establish the mood. It's overly wordy which detracts from the mood I'm so desperately trying to set and to be honest, there's not a lot of Bridget in here.

DRAFT THE SECOND

Bridget eyed the staircase. The fake marble--rosy pink with flecks of gold paint--glistened under a layer of moisture deposited by the late afternoon fog. Dangerous; a slip on one of its twenty plus steps could mean a broken neck.

She was pretty sure the house didn't want her there.

A gust billowed fog down 18th Avenue, momentarily obscuring the row house from view. Bridget shivered and zipped her fur-lined bomber jacket to her chin.

What had she been thinking? She should turn back, run the eight blocks home at a full sprint and be done with all this for good. Yet her feet wouldn't budge.

Maybe what happened at the Ferguson’s house had been a fluke? A hallucination? Some weird family prank? Maybe if she walked up those stairs right now, she could prove to herself that she wasn’t really a complete and total freak of nature?

Or her worst fears would be confirmed. Either way, she needed to know.

Muffled beeps emanated from the depths of her backpack. Four o'clock. As if on cue, a light blazed from the house, illuminating a second floor bay window through the thickening mist.

Bridget closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Come on, wuss. Knock on the door. You’ll be fine. Monsignor promised you'd be fine.

She took a step then froze. The fog built around her, creating a wall between her and the house. The air hung in her nostrils like musty water and for a panicked moment, Bridget felt like she was drowning. What the hell? She'd lived in San Francisco her whole life and never, not once had she encountered a fog bank this thick, this disorienting. She stumbled forward in what she thought was the right direction but the outline of the house had vanished. Bridget swallowed hard. It was as if the entire street had disappeared into the mist never to be seen or heard from...

Structurally, pretty similar. You can see where I've trimmed some of the descriptions and inserted more voice. There's still too much "information" in here - some of which is necessary and some of which isn't - and the pacing isn't quite right...yet.

DRAFT THE THIRD

The house didn't want her there.

Fog billowed down 18th Avenue, momentarily obscuring the row house from view. As the grayness dissipated, Bridget eyed the staircase. The fake marble glistened under a layer of moisture. Dangerous; a slip on one of its twenty plus steps could mean a broken neck.

Bridget shivered and zipped her fur-lined bomber jacket to her chin.

What was she thinking? She should turn back, run the eight blocks home at a full sprint and be done with all this for good.

Her feet wouldn't budge.

Maybe what happened at the Ferguson’s house had been a fluke? A hallucination? Some weird family prank? Maybe if she walked up those stairs right now, she could prove to herself that she wasn’t really a complete and total freak of nature?

Or maybe her worst fears would be confirmed. Either way, she needed to know.

Muffled beeps emanated from the depths of her backpack. Four o'clock. On cue, a light blazed from the house, illuminating a second floor bay window through the thickening mist.

Bridget closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Come on, wuss. Knock on the door. You’ll be fine. Monsignor promised you'll be fine.

She crossed the street. As she approached the stairs, the San Francisco fog built around her, creating a wall between her and the house. She couldn't see a thing, only the undulating grayness. The air hung in her nostrils like musty water and for a panicked moment, Bridget felt like she was drowning. She stumbled forward, unsure if she was even moving in the right direction. The entire street had disappeared into the mist never to be seen or heard from...

Still not perfect but - AH HA! - I discovered that the second paragraph makes a much more interesting opening line. Duh. Why did it take me months to see that? I've chopped up the structure hoping to reflect Bridget's state of mind and coloring the overall tone of the opener and while I'm still not happy with how I've establish the San Francisco location, I think it flows better than it did in the first two versions. Also, did you notice how the word count went down? Ah, edits.