Today’s piece isn’t what I envisioned when I invited writers to send us a page for critique. I expected a query letter, a synopsis, maybe even a scorching flame-to-the-editor. What I got was an existential, quarter-life crisis, stream-of-consciousness blog post.
Whew! Still, our stated mission is to help the writer clarify the message. I rolled up my sleeves for this one.
My hope was to give this writer an understanding of what works, what didn’t (for me), and offer suggestions to make it sing. But each ear is unique, and I didn’t want to impinge on the writer’s voice. In the end, the writer has to choose the ideas that bolster her theme, stay honest with her experience, and listen for the music playing in her head.
Some of the Beat writer’s works were published without any editing. Purists might consider any changes anathema to the genre. In keeping this logic, and the writer’s request, I attempted to stand on the edge of this garden whilst weeding. I focused less on the copy editing (commas, et cetera) and more on the message’s impact.
Here’s a quote from the author about the piece:
I’m thinking that I’d like to include it in a book that has similar entries about the deep parts of parenting that people don’t really write about. Parenting is very baby-centric and we forget about the parents as emotional creatures sometimes.
The U in the f-word was edited by me, only because my son reads this blog.
Here’s the original version:
It’s a miserable thing really. The clock ticks back and forth and back forth until you realize that you don’t have a clock and it’s your mind that’s ticking in the middle of the night. Your son lies sleeping next to you, his hand on your breast to make sure it’s still there for his comfort and you wish you had something warm and comforting to hold as you slept. F~ck, you wish you slept at all.
The walls are starting to move closer together and, in your sleep induced stupor, you put your glasses on to make sure that it’s not really happening. But your glasses don’t make anything clearer. Your life is about as clear as f~cking mud and the walls are moving in on you whether your Fendi frames are on your face or the window sill.
The stupid cat is meowing again and you swear that it wasn’t too long ago that you punctuated every sentence with “cats are hot.” Now all you can think is how long it would take you to fashion a cat noose with a crochet hook and that delicious organic yarn you picked up at the local craft store. You want her to shut up and there’s a terrifyingly large part of you that means it when you chase her in the middle of the night yelling “I want you to f~cking die.”
You look at your son and wonder what you did in your meager existence to be privileged enough to spend time with someone so wonderful. You look at your four walls that aren’t yours and you cry. Night after night you feel like you’ve failed him on some great level, you fear, irrationally, that he’s going to wake up in the morning and call you a loser for not having your own place. He’ll pack a beer in his satchel, grab a block of cheese from the fridge that isn’t yours either and hitch hike his way to some place other than here. You won’t blame him. You’ll be jealous. Then you realize the only thing he knows how to do with his thumb is bite it and your fears are eased.
Your relationship with your husband is barely a relationship at this point. This situation has all but ruined you as much as it’s bought you closer together. You hate yourself more and more as time goes on and the only thing you can connect on is your son because he’s the only one in the equation that’s not miserable. You secretly vow to learn a lesson from him, but don’t, and you spend your days moping with a deceptive smile. This is your life. This is it. These four walls that you don’t own. The dog that runs around in circles. The cat that meows. The constant feeling of being a houseguest that has well overstayed your welcome. The constant empty pit that is your life. A rollercoaster of lows and lower lows. You’ve repeated to yourself over and over that this has to be the bottom, only to be proven wrong. You talk to god. Then you yell because not even a fantasy makes you feel better. You want to throw a bottle. At the mirror. At yourself. This is your life. This is it.
The Editing KEY:
RED – words I added
STRIKEOUT – words I removed
GREEN – my comments
UNDERLINE – consider the word choice. I may or may not have given suggestions
Here’s the edited version:
You know It’s a miserable thing really. Set us up for the coming 2nd person perspective. Added bonus, you end the sentence on a word packed with emotion. The clock ticks back and forth and back and forth and back and forth Sets of three often have more power until you realize that you don’t have a clock and it’s your mind that ticks that’s ticking in the middle of the night. Your son sleeps lies sleeping more immediate next to you, his hand on your breast to assure make sure it’s still there for his comfort and you wish you had something warm and comforting to hold as you sleep slept . F~ck, you wish you slept at all.
The walls are starting to diluting words move closer together can only be together and, in your sleep induced we know this stupor, you put your glasses on to make sure that it’s not really happening. But your glasses don’t make anything clearer. Your life is about as clear as f~cking mud a cliché. and the walls close are moving in on you whether your Fendi frames are on your face or the window sill. I really like this line. I appreciate humor in the darkness.
The stupid cat meows is meowing again and you swear that it was last Tuesday wasn’t too long ago pick something, specificity makes it more real to the reader that you punctuated every sentence with “cats are hot.” This seems vague, Maybe “here, pretty kitty.” Or some such. Now all you can think is how long it would take you to fashion a cat tiny noose Personally, I think this is funnier with a crochet hook and that delicious organic yarn you picked up at the local craft store. What makes it delicious?. Maybe the color matches the cat’s fur?? Again, going for specificity. You want her to shut up and there’s a terrifyingly large part of you that means it when you chase her down the hall specific and yell in the middle of the night yelling “I want you to f~cking die.” We know it is the middle of the night.
You look at your son and wonder what you did in your meager existence to be privileged enough to spend time with someone so wonderful. Love this. As a parent, I feel it too. You look at your four walls that aren’t yours and you cry. Powerful stuff. Night after night you feel like you’ve failed him on some great vague level, you fear, irrationally, that he’s going to wake up in the morning and call you a loser for not having your own place. He’ll pack a beer in his satchel, grab a block of cheese from the fridge that isn’t yours either and hitch hike his way to some place other than here. New York? Portland? Sioux City? Be specific, ground the fear with some place real. You won’t blame him. You’ll be jealous. Then you realize the only thing he knows how to do with his thumb is bite it and your fears are eased. I love this paragraph! The ending made me LOL, as it were.
Your relationship with your husband is barely a relationship at this point. This situation vague, you got emotionally distant here, as if you want to keep this a secret. has all but ruined you again, vague. Ruined in what way? as much as it’s bought you closer together. This dichotomy is intriguing, but I’m on the outside of understanding. You hate yourself more and more as time goes on and the only thing you can connect on is your son because he’s the only one in the equation that’s not miserable. Great line. You secretly vow to learn a lesson from him, but don’t, and you spend your days moping with a deceptive smile. Great line This is your life. This is it. These four walls that you don’t own. The dog that runs around in circles. The dog is a last-paragraph surprise that slightly jars, maybe mention him earlier. The cat that meows. You feel like the The constant feeling of being a houseguest that has well overstayed a your welcome. The constant empty pit that is your life. A rollercoaster of lows and lower lows. You’ve repeated to yourself over and over and over that this has to be the bottom, only to sink to new depths. be proven wrong. You talk to god. Then you yell because not even a fantasy makes you feel better. You want to throw a bottle. At the mirror. At yourself. At the cat. Again, a set of three, and that darn cat deserves it. This is your life. This is it.
Me again. I found this moody, brooding piece that did not want to be consoled quite engaging. The writer has a strong voice, wit, and a keen bent for sarcastic hyperbole. This is my best shot at tightening the writing for greater impact. My many thanks to this intrepid author for entrusting her work to my care.
What do you think? Did I help or hinder the author’s voice? Your comments are appreciated.
p.s. By eye of einstein