On Saturday, while searching for a prototype photo I had found online and saved for Kellen Weschler back in 2008 (never did find it), I stumbled across something in my files that I had considered long gone: the original version of Bryony.
No, I'm not referring to those random, typewritten scenes from decades ago, long since rotted in some landfill, scenes I tried pecking out while older children remodeled the fort in the backyard and babies crept around the bedroom, writing was so awful I couldn't bear to read them at the time.
I'm referring to Bryony the pseudo-novella, before it was named (It was actually never named until I'd completed it) and saved only as vampire story, my paltry attempt at pullling the story out of my head and onto paper (well, the computer) as a present for Timothy's seventeenth birthday, that Labor Day weekend in 2007 when I realized Bryony was not a weekend project and not a novella, that to do a proper job, I had to write a book.
All this time, I has believed that I had rewritten that novel's first draft over the original file, that, rough as that draft was, it was the oldest remaining draft. To my delight, I learned on Saturday that it is not.
Delight?
When I first began writing Bryony, I had read a quote by (I think it was by Stephen King), something to the effect of hoping that no first drafts would lying around when he died. I recall vigorously agreeing with that saying after first time I'd read a scene aloud (Henry trapping Melissa in the closet at the Harrington's ball) and nearly gagging at the horrible writing, thankful I had whispered those lines so Rebekah in the next room would not hear how bad it was.
I don't agree with that quote anymore, and here is why. I learned two things from that draft. I saw how far my writing had progressed in seven years, and I also realized how well I could write, even then.
For amongst the badly constructed scenes, characters, dialogue, plot, wordings, I found some very well-done lines that actually appear in the published version. Sprinkled throughout the muck were seedlings of the progress I would make if I actually kept learning, and writing, and rewriting, and editing.
I could not have made this improvement had I not kept writing.
This tells me two more things. One, I'm glad I kept writing, and two, I'm hopeful that if I keep writing, I'll continue to grow as a writer.
And THAT, is very good news.
Okay, now for the real reason you read this far. Excerpts! Average chapter size: 500 words.
Munson High School
was located in the same building as Munson Junior High and Munson Elementary Schools Chicago ,” she thought.
No, I'm not referring to those random, typewritten scenes from decades ago, long since rotted in some landfill, scenes I tried pecking out while older children remodeled the fort in the backyard and babies crept around the bedroom, writing was so awful I couldn't bear to read them at the time.
I'm referring to Bryony the pseudo-novella, before it was named (It was actually never named until I'd completed it) and saved only as vampire story, my paltry attempt at pullling the story out of my head and onto paper (well, the computer) as a present for Timothy's seventeenth birthday, that Labor Day weekend in 2007 when I realized Bryony was not a weekend project and not a novella, that to do a proper job, I had to write a book.
All this time, I has believed that I had rewritten that novel's first draft over the original file, that, rough as that draft was, it was the oldest remaining draft. To my delight, I learned on Saturday that it is not.
Delight?
When I first began writing Bryony, I had read a quote by (I think it was by Stephen King), something to the effect of hoping that no first drafts would lying around when he died. I recall vigorously agreeing with that saying after first time I'd read a scene aloud (Henry trapping Melissa in the closet at the Harrington's ball) and nearly gagging at the horrible writing, thankful I had whispered those lines so Rebekah in the next room would not hear how bad it was.
I don't agree with that quote anymore, and here is why. I learned two things from that draft. I saw how far my writing had progressed in seven years, and I also realized how well I could write, even then.
For amongst the badly constructed scenes, characters, dialogue, plot, wordings, I found some very well-done lines that actually appear in the published version. Sprinkled throughout the muck were seedlings of the progress I would make if I actually kept learning, and writing, and rewriting, and editing.
I could not have made this improvement had I not kept writing.
This tells me two more things. One, I'm glad I kept writing, and two, I'm hopeful that if I keep writing, I'll continue to grow as a writer.
And THAT, is very good news.
Okay, now for the real reason you read this far. Excerpts! Average chapter size: 500 words.
The man produced a set of keys, examined one of them and
swiftly unlocked the door. The rush of bright light startled his friend. He
looked about in amazement and wonder. “Why did you never tell me?” he asked,
astonished.
He did not receive
an answer to that question. A sudden, sharp pain in his back took his breath
away and caused him to fall to the ground. He was dead before he could ask his
best friend why he had stabbed him.
“There isn’t much to tell,” Melissa said. She and Brittany
had looked him up on the Internet. His name was John Simons and he had lived at
the turn of the last century. John Simons was a composer and pianist who had
played all over the world. The rest of the story was a mixture of fact and
fancy.
Apparently, while
vacationing at Munson, John had met the beautiful young Bryony Marseilles, just
16, daughter of the local minister and asked her father’s permission to marry
her. The minister refused. He thought John too worldly and Bryony too young.
But Bryony had other ideas. She had fallen in
love with the handsome musician and begged and pleaded for her father to marry
them. She said if he didn’t, they would have to leave Munson forever and he
would never see her again. Against his better wishes, the Reverend Marseilles
married John and Bryony.
CHAPTER 4
The cottage was too square, too old and most of all too
ugly. Melissa thought she would rather die than ever live in such a stupid
looking place.
But Brian was
excited with the idea of living next to a mansion that might have some mystery
to it.
“Remember, Liss,”
Brian must have told her at least a dozen times already, “No one REALLY knows
what happened to John Simons. He just went away and never came back. What if
his ghost haunts the place by night? How awesome would that be?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,”
Melissa snapped at him. Scooter tugged at his leash and Melissa tugged back.
Brian grabbed the leash from Melissa and walked the brown-spotted white terrier
around the yard, letting him sniff at the delightful scents of his new home.
Darlene bought the
dog as their “new home” surprise present for Melissa and Brian. They had never
before owned a dog. Frank had not thought it fair to a dog to keep it in the
city although Melissa and Brian had often begged for one anyway. Frank thought
a dog should have lots of room to run free. But now that she had a dog, Melissa
didn’t care if she had one or not. Melissa would have traded a hundred dogs to
have her father back.
CHAPTER 5:
“I’m sure there is
a perfectly reasonable explanation for it,” Steve said as he bit into his
hamburger. While Melissa and Brian were exploring Simons Woods, Steve Burns the
maintenance man had dropped by the house to measure their bedrooms for the new
built-in shelves he was going to build tomorrow. He was a lanky man, about 30,
with a friendly face and a length of blond hair that kept falling over his
brow.
Darlene brought out
hamburgers and hot dogs and invited Steve to stay for dinner. He said he would,
on the condition that Darlene allowed him the pleasure of grilling the meats.
As they ate, Brian told them about the mysterious mist in the woods, the mist
that Brian had not seen at all. Steve assured them that it was probably nothing
more than cold air mixing with warm air, much the same way clouds are formed.
Brian was not convinced.
CHAPTER 6:
“For your homework
this weekend, do page 22 in your algebra textbook and begin working on your
research project for the celebration,” said Mrs. Rebstock. “Class dismissed.”
The small class filed out into the hallway. Although school had been in session
for a week now, Melissa still could not get used to its small size.
The ancient red brick
building was three stories high and had survived two severe fires over the
years. It stood near the town square as if to say, “It takes a lot to destroy
us Munsoners.”
There was
absolutely nothing modern about it—there wasn’t a computer lab or even a
gymnasium for crying out loud—but Melissa could grudgingly admit it had a kind
of charm.
No comments:
Post a Comment