Editing and being clearly understood

Have something to say, and say it as clearly as you can. That is the only secret.
Matthew Arnold

I've taken a break from my co-admin duties on Cafemom's The Written Voice, in order to have some time to read and edit. The 3rd part of my Cross Passage Series, Hearts Restless Winds, had sat dormant on my computer for quite awhile. Although I had one printed copy of the manuscript to peruse, once I got to reading it and furiously scratching out parts, I realized the manuscript needed a huge make over.


Yet the fall, my original conception for publishing it, came and went because I got involved in another book project. Hence, my online group produced Our Written Voices, (poems and short stories), which I'm very proud to be a co-author.

But the New Year came around and then Valentine's and I realized I wasn't getting anywhere closer to getting the manuscript in order, so I told my group leader and dear friend, Susan, how much I needed a couple of months to concentrate on it and my family as well. Begrudgingly, she granted me the time and wished me luck.

And luck is what I need indeed. As I peruse each paragraph with a keen eye, I realize all the blunders within: the misuse of grammar; the occasional typo; the long winded-sentences; the lack of laying out the character's feelings or history. I suppose in hindsight being part of The Written Voice, where I enjoyed countless of poetry and short story submissions to read over, helped me with my editing process. I look at my writing a bit critical than before. Can't I take this eight sentence paragraph and punch it up with more active verbs? Can't I reduce it so it's not so long winded? Can't I take out repetitive phrases and make it more concise?

It is a grueling process.




I wish I had this critical eye a bit more available and knowledgeable when I produced my first book, Hostage to Her Heart. There are many pages flawed with a redundant usage of the word "that", where I could have easily substituted another more meaningful word, but I didn't know it then. I do now and this is where I have grown ever since.








My second book, Falling for Her Heart, reads a lot better. And thanks to my participation within The Written Voice, I find it has also shaped me into a better writer.






Do I still make an occasional mistake? Of course I do, but every good writer researches ways to make their craft better. The bottom line is to produce a book easily read and understood. We want a good story to tell and we want our characters to spring to life. When we accomplish this well, our readers convey to everyone what a wonderful story they've read. There's no better sense of pride when someone comes up to you and say, "Wow! I loved your book!"

It's what I'm trying to accomplish with Hearts Restless Winds. With luck, I may have it ready for a second proofread by mid-May and then final publication by June. One can crossfingers, light several candles to send up prayers, and then email me words of encouragement until I've done it.

New book update

Well for many months, I have edited and whittled down the bulk of the manuscript which is the 2nd sequel- or make that, part of the original content from Hostage to Her Heart. I've decided to not put it into any contests, although there are several going on, through the Writer's League and through Amazon (Breakthrough novel), associated with CreateSpace and Penquin publishers. The reason I'm not doing this is because I'm an impatient soul. I don't have the entry fees nor the time to comply to all their rules and regulations. I don't have time to be patient while they decide if my material is "good enough" to pass to the next round. I don't have time simply because this sequel has been sitting on my shelf for far too long, waiting to be sprung out to a few eager readers. Even better, the third installment is halfway edited too and I predict that I can have it out by summer.

So, I am very pleased with the story's progression and the few fans that I do have are biting at the bit for Sequel one and two to make their debut.

The second quandry I had was how to publish it. I had found Createspace a few months ago, but it had a difficult outlet to submit the work into a pdf file and to create a cover. Just recently, they finally converted their software to help the authors upload a microsoft word document and convert it into a pdf file and they also found a way for us to create very basic book covers. I am very pleased with their progression.

So I have the sequel uploaded and a cover ready to go. I was so proud of it, I had to show my youngest daughter- a fan of the first book. She crinkled her nose as she looked at the title I initially gave it "When Fate and Faith Collide" and the newest idea I had, "Totally yours: now, then and forever" She frowned even more. Her boyfriend said the second title reminded him of a porn book title. Not good!

What's wrong with the first title, I dared asked.

She then went into this speech about how most book series try to stay within a certain phrase or theme. Just like Twilight, the sequels were called New Moon, Breaking Dawn, and Eclipse- things related to the night.

Well, I didn't feel I could be as creative as some authors had been with their book series. What's in a title and how far should the wording be alike? So I played around with several phrases, something similar to the first book, Hostage to Her Heart. Finally, after much "heart" discussion about the total theme throughout the
2nd book, and checking it against a google.com search for like titles, we concluded with this one: "Falling for Her Heart"

I must say it does make sense. Jimmy McFadden, an old flame, comes back to life in this book and can't help but fall for Tara all over again, no matter what their history, no matter what comes up to upset their relationship. She feels the same way about him. So in that sense, I'm satisfied with the new book title.

Currently, I'm waiting for submission approval from Createspace. I need to update the title on their system too. After this process, I can order a proof- something concrete to hold in my hands to check it over for the final publishing. I must say that they did make this incredibly easy. Far cheaper than my first experience with Authorhouse. Now my dollars can go towards promoting both books and I can't wait to get started on this. With any luck, book two will bring in more attention. It's solidly written with more romantic elements to it. A real page turner, with all the drama and a cast of characters surely to please. It's my hope that this book will have my fans "Falling For Her Heart" too.

Stirring up the creative juices

It's really been awhile since something has stirred up my creative writing juices. On a different social website for writers, someone posted a short story about a lady and her dog. Josie asked for a critique. From the gist of it, it seemed to be about an elderly woman, who was blind, and her dog. Yet, the details seemed lacking, so I played around for an hour with the sentences and then sent it back. She wasn't displeased with the results. I requested that I be allowed to post it on my blogs. Would love feedback if you think I made any improvement.

This is how her story went and feel free to check out her website too that is listed after her version:



The sun came through her white curtains to start the morning. She could feel the heat against her face, telling her the morning had began. She rolled and hid her face in her pillow. Mrs. Flowers three-year-old golden retriever came up to the bed, pushed its black wet nose under the sheets until it lightly collided with her, a wet pink tongue massaged her cheek.

She rolled over and patted his head.

“You are a good dog, Ogle,” she said.

Mrs. Flowers pushed her long slight gray, but mostly brown hair from her face. Her feet moved from the bed to the floor and searched for two blue fuzzy slippers. Once found she slipped them on her feet. She pushed her aching body from the bed, grabbed a bathroom and headed for her kitchen. Her automatic one-cup coffee maker was already brewing a fresh cup of French Roast coffee. Her favorite.

Ogle had already found his bowl and carried it to her feet slightly touching it.

“Don’t worry, Ogle, food is coming.”

Her wrinkled hand touched a table; she felt a dent. She turned slightly and walked to a counter. There her fingers found another dent. She reached up and pulled out a can of dog food and a can opener. Ogle moved the bowl to her feet and touched her with it.

Here it comes she said after she opened the can. She then poured it into his bowl.

Ogle gave a friendly bark and she laughed.

She ran her hand over the counter and stove. She found her cup of coffee and brought it to her mouth, tasting the richness. This brought a smile to her face as she leaned against the counter and listened to the birds outside.

“It must be a pretty day outside,” she said to Ogle. She ran her fingers across the counter and touched the metal top of a sink. Opening the curtains, she felt the heat hit her face. “Ogle go grab the flag,” she said.

The dog ran into living room where he found a brown woven wood basket next to and old green chair. Out of the basket he pulled out a red bag, which he brought to Mrs. Flowers.

She was still facing the mirror when she heard the patter of feet come up to her and stop. She turned and took the bag out of his mouth and patted him on the head.

“Thank you Ogle,” she said

As she ran her hands across the counter, she found two dents. She stopped and opened a brown door that led to her backyard.

“I wanted to lay it on his coffin, but I couldn’t. When I held it, it reminded me of holding my boy. My blessing from God,” she said. Sniffed back some tears. It had been too many years since she last held her boy.

She counted to fourteen and stopped in front of a long metal poll. She opened the red bag and pulled out an American flag.

“Ogl,e did I ever tell you that I made this flag soon after Jimmy died in the war,” she said. She felt him as he brushed her legs.

She ran her hands along the rich fabric feeling its thread and stripes. She followed a star until she found a hole, which she put her ring finger in. With her other hand she reached out and grabbed two strings: one, which is shorter, then the other.

She let go of the longer one and ran her fingers down until she found the clip. She clipped the shorter string to the hole in the flag. She then clipped the longer string to a second hole at the bottom of the flag.

She took a deep breath. In her mind, she could see the red, white and blue flag flap against the bright sunny sky. Johnny would have been so proud.
http://stayathomemomreview.blogspot.com/

Now- my version:
In a one-story house on a quiet suburban street, the morning sun came through white curtains, bright and warm, signaling a new day had begun. Mrs. Flowers could only feel the heat penetrate upon her face and so she rolled over to escape, longing for five more minutes of sleep. However, Ogle, a three-year-old golden retriever, heard her stir, and so he sprang up from a usual place at the foot of the bed. A cold wet nose pushed through the sheets. He let out a wet pink tongue to massage her cheek. At this, she patted his head.“Ok, I’ll get up. You are a good dog, Ogle,” she murmured softly and then rose to sit up against the edge of the bed, pushing away long strands of mixed salt and pepper hair from her face. Her toes searched the floor for two fuzzy slippers. Once found, she slipped them on. With one hand, she grasped her back to press away a nagging ache. An elderly woman who defied old age and its chronic symptoms, she simply reached for a nearby bathrobe. Methodically, the woman shuffled across the room to get to the kitchen. From one corner, the aroma of French Roast coffee penetrated the air, already brewed in a one-cup coffee maker-an absolute favorite blend. Ogle had already found his bowl and carried it to her feet, butting it against both calves slightly to get attention. “Don’t worry, Ogle, food is coming,” Mrs. Flowers smiled, exposing many fine lines on her forehead and eyes. With a wrinkled hand, she ran it along the worn counter top, feeling small dents notched into the wood that helped guide her along the area. At one point, she stopped and reached up into a cupboard, onto the middle shelf, where the canned dog food was always stored. Next, she reached for a can opener in the drawer below. Ogle anticipated his own breakfast and pranced loudly around her feet. He let out a bark to hurry the process along and this made her laugh. After placing the bowl onto the floor, she went over to the coffee maker and poured out a cup of coffee, letting a finger dip into it to feel how close to the rim it filled. She took a sip and sighed out loud, “Ah, rich and strong. Just the way I like it.”Next, she stood by the kitchen window and felt the warm sun rays touch her skin. She opened the curtains wide and pulled up the window. Outside, birds chirped merrily. A light breeze made the curtains flutter. “It must be a pretty day outside,” she said to the dog, “Ogle go fetch the flag.”The dog ran into living room where a brown woven-wood basket sat next to an antique green chair. He sniffed around for a moment, searching out a particular leather bag, which he brought to Mrs. Flowers, again butting it gently against both legs. “Thank you Ogle,” Mrs. Flowers took it from his mouth and patted his head in appreciation. Slowly, her hands ran against the counter top to guide her across the kitchen to get to the backyard. Out through the screen door, down two steps, she stepped upon the lawn. Counting out loud to fourteen, she walked steadily forward, reaching out with one hand until she could touch a long metal pole that stood dead center of the yard. She opened the red bag and pulled out an American flag.“I wanted to lay it on his coffin, but I couldn’t, Ogle,” she explained to the retriever, who perched both ears at the sound of her voice, “Whenever I hold it, I’m reminded of my sweet boy: my blessing from God.”She paused while sniffing back the many tears that fell upon her cheeks freely. This day, like countless others, only allowed lost memories to spring to mind. He had fought for his country with honor and bravery. The last time she heard his voice on the phone, he anticipated coming home from duty for a short leave. Only one mission had to be fulfilled and then he would be sent stateside. One more mission. Then, in the middle of the night, came the dreaded phone call that shattered her world forever. He had been shot in friendly fire. He would be awarded the Purple Heart postmortem. How ironic Jimmy’s fate, when he had always put his life first before his men and now some wayward bullet from a co-enlisted man took him down by mistake. Too many years had gone by since that call. Too many tears shed. When was the last time she held him? When did she last run fingers across his face to ingrain his chiseled features into memory? Now, the flag became a reminder of her most valuable treasure, now riding high on clouds in heaven. “Ogle, I made this flag soon after Jimmy died in the war,” she said as he brushed up against her legs. Her fingers ran against the grain of the rich fabric. She could feel the course threads raise where the stripes were sewn. She could feel the points of the star and traced it down until she found a hole, where she could put a ring finger into it. With her other hand she reached out and grabbed two strings to attach it to; one being shorter than the other. She found the clip to ensure it was secured and she pulled on the ropes to make it rise high for everyone to see. She took a deep breath. Although blind, in her mind she could see the red, white and blue flutter gracefully in the light breeze, with the warmth of a bright sun shining down. Warm like his smile. Her son, Jimmy, would have stood proudly by her side.

Chapter One - If God has a plan

(Excerpt from Chapter)

...........Wearily, Tara lay down to rest; her thoughts going over what he said. She did trust in people too much and she did need to toughen up. For every time her heart laid open for someone to have, they left. Time and time again, she found herself abandoned. A pattern established since birth, ever since her mother did the same at that Catholic facility. “Perhaps a pair of steel handcuffs adequately placed could keep them from running away,” she mused out loud and then noticed a wooden crucifix on the wall. Ross had bought it off someone peddling them on the streets and he thought it decorative enough to place on his wall. For the moment, she needed comfort, so Tara slid off the bed and kneeled down to pray:

“God, if you are up there, please help me. I can’t do this alone. This will put a strain on my friendship with Ross. He loves me, but he’ll only get mad if I don’t give in to be his wife. Then what will I do? I’m all alone in this world. I’ll leave it in your hands. Just send a solution for all of my problems. I do need one. Amen.”

Tara scooted back onto the bed and snuggled under all the soft covers. After awhile, she fell asleep and began to dream. In her subconscious, somewhere far away, she stood upon a valley road laden deep with fresh snow, with scattered heavy trees lining up on different sides. Up ahead, there stood a large house in the distance that she felt determined to reach, but this would not be an easy task. The snow drifts were thick and uneven. Bitterly, the cold winds nipped at her ears and at her legs, even if she wore rabbit fir-lined boots that hugged her calves. The blue anorak didn’t feel sufficient to keep in her body temperature and she felt unusually heavy in it. After several minutes, she stopped in her track. She gazed at the brick house that sat beautiful and wide, centered upon an expansive piece of land. Black smoke poured out of the chimney, making coal-colored swirls float up towards the stratosphere. The place, looking like something off a Christmas card, had windows decorated with full fur wreaths and red ribbon bows. Inside, she knew it to be warm; filled with caring, loving people.

Just then, a young man stepped out of the house, dressed in full naval dress attire. His thick head of blond hair seemed illuminated by the mid-day sun. Even the brass metals on his dark jacket reflected in the sunlight like diamonds. Tara called out against the brisk breeze. The man turned, scanning the field nearby, but he couldn’t make out where the sound came from and Tara was obscured by a snow drift. From the house, she saw someone rush out to join him and together they went quickly to a compact car. They stuffed luggage into the trunk and quickly jumped into the front seats to be on their way.

In a panic to reach him in time, Tara struggled again to get through the thick snow, but her efforts felt agonizing. Every muscle in her legs stabbed like sharp needles. Flawed from the start, her effort was not sufficient. The car pulled out of the driveway, lurched forward onto the gravel road, and then went around a sharp bend at a hurried pace. Fazed with defeat, steam rose around her face as she came to a halt and watched it disappear. Her lungs ached deep as she tried to catch her breath. She swallowed down a lump that rose sharply in her throat. What a disaster! She felt a staunch realization. That blond man was significant to her life. Someone important. And much too late, she realized the love she felt for him in her heart. Now, he was gone and she collapsed to her knees in the cold wet snow and threw her arms up to the sky to argue her case with God. “No!” she screamed, as it was all that she could do, as the sun blinded her eyes while gazing helplessly upward and beyond.

Tara’s eyes flickered awake at this point, her heart pounding hard in her bosom. Jolted at the swirling emotions worming its way out from her soul, she sat up in bed and noted there were tears flowing down her face. How vivid the dream? She took a moment to realize her surroundings again and regroup her careening thoughts. No, she was not kneeling in snow. Indeed, her arms were cold, but it wasn’t from the trek towards that house. She was in her bedroom in that cold brownstone apartment. The furnace that stood near a window had stopped working again. The clock on the dresser flashed seven o’clock in bold red numbers. Ross, now at work, wouldn’t be home until after midnight.

Rain pounded upon the building, so Tara listened to it for a minute or two while cuddled up in a thick blanket. She got out of bed, dragging the blanket, and went to the window. For a long while, she watched the heavy rain drops fall and splatter upon the glass. Her mind kept thinking over the dream. After several minutes, she struggled to recall what the blond man looked like, but simply remembered that his face seemed fair and handsome. Perhaps his eyes were blue or green. Other details of the dream were beginning to diminish too.

Wherever that lovely house sat was not in Brooklyn, New York. Somewhere, far beyond the familiar drab brownstone buildings and distant skyscrapers, a man existed to shake up her heart in a big way. Was he the answer to her problems? She hoped this to be true, but how would she find him? By dawn, all would be forgotten. Only God knew where such a man could exist.
Tara looked up at the sky, but only could see pitch black and the occasional streaks of lightening.

“I’m such a wayward romantic fool,” she sighed. This seemed to be the only truth to her, other than her future: dark and obscured.

Copy write © 2007 by Christine Hill