The Famoux by famouxx on Wattpad

Original:

When I was younger and more susceptible to liars, my mother let me in on a little secret that took me years to outgrow. If I really wanted something, she told me, all I had to do was think about it, and hope for it, and my requests would always be heard.

"Thoughts are powerful," she said. "Good or bad, they have their way of coming true."

Poor advice to give a child, much less one as vulnerable as I was. I took her wisdom as fact and accepted no other opinions. As children do, I thought only of ways to make my singular life easier. I thought about acing my tests instead of studying for them.  thought about making good and lasting friends instead of being one in kind. I thought about standing up to Westin van Horne one day instead of ever becoming brave enough to do actually do it.

But thoughts without action, as I'd later learn, are meaningless. My grades, my loneliness, and my torment persisted, because I didn't do a thing to change them. Yet, as I walked home, I kept my mother's promise in mind. I thought new thoughts of a better life, sure that these would be the ones to come true. And when I came home crying, she was there to wipe the tears from my eyes and feed me more honey-tasting lies. She'd tell me how my differences weren't flaws, and that I wasn't worth any less than Westin or any of the other kids. She'd tell me I was beautiful, unique was good, and a whole menagerie of other little myths long since proven untrue. I'm sure even then I knew they were lies, but oh, were they wonderful lies to live. I grew to depend on them -- on knowing that no matter how bad the day was, my mother would always be there to comfort me with tall tales of a better future.

Which turned out to be yet another lie.

The morning in question wasn't inherently different than any before it. She insisted I wear her jacket to school, a blue corduroy thing lined with fleece, since mine was getting small in the arms. She told me as always to think positive thoughts that day while she fastened the buttons. I was fourteen at the time, so the sentiment was met with rolling eyes, a swat at her hands, and an assertion I could fasten a coat just fine on my own, thank you. At school, Westin and his group gave me their worst, and I fought tears the whole way home. It was the usual routine. It was expected. So when I creaked open the door and sulked inside with my usual, miserable flair, the last thing I expected was to find the house empty.

Sure, the furniture was still in place. The cabinets were still stocked. But the smell of peonies in her perfume was faint, as if she'd been out of the house all day. I didn't think much of it until I went to her closet to return the jacket and discovered her things were gone. 

A thought tried to enter my head at that moment, but I wouldn't let it. Thoughts had power, after all, and this was one I couldn't bear to let come true. But as I checked her empty drawers and noted the missing duffle bags in the hall closet, I realized it already had.

My mother was gone. She had run away.

My Version:

When I was young and susceptible to lies, my mother let me in on a little secret. If I really wanted something, all I had to do was think about it, and hope for it, and my wishes would be heard. Thoughts, good and bad, were powerful.

But my grades, my loneliness, and my torment persisted. And when I'd come home crying every day, she was there to wipe the tears from my eyes and feed me more honeyed fiction. My differences weren't flaws. I wasn't worth any less than my bullies. I was beautiful, unique, good. Even then I knew they were lies, but oh, did I grow to depend on them.

One day, she insisted I wear her jacket to school; a blue corduroy thing lined with fleece, since mine was getting small in the arms. "Think positive thoughts," she said, fastening the buttons, her peony perfume wafting around me.

I was fourteen, so the sentiment was met with rolling eyes, a swat at her hands, and an assertion I could fasten a coat just fine on my own, thank you. As usual, the day was terrible, and I cried the whole way home. But when I pushed the squeaky door open and skulked inside, I found the house empty.

The furniture was still there. The cabinets were still stocked. But the smell of peonies was faint, as if she'd been out of the house all day. I stomped up the creaky stairs -- creak, stomp, sniff, creak, stomp, sniff. I stomped, sniffed, stomped to the open door of my parents' room. Stomped and sniffed my way to their closet to return her jacket. 

My father's clothes hung there, brown and beige and smelling of starch and dust. My mother's flowy floral dresses were not hanging next to them. Her neat, dainty shoes were not next to his big, worn ones on the bottom of the closet. 

A thought tried to enter my head, but I wouldn't let it. Thoughts had power, after all, and this was one I couldn't bear to let come true. 

But her perfume was not on her dresser, no underwear in her drawers. Her small, pink suitcase was not in the hallway closet.  

My mother was gone. She had run away.

Final Thoughts:

There were a lot of repeated thoughts without any additional details in the original so I condensed a lot of that, while trying to keep the melancholic vibe. In the original, her mother's stuff being gone is one sentence. I wanted to slow down a bit, zoom into that moment. It's only four extra sentences, but I think they add a bit more weight to that moment.

The premise of the story is that it's a dystopian future in which the MC is invited to be part of a reality show that she loves. But the experience isn't as glamorous as she's expecting, and "being popular really is a matter of life and death". A fun concept, but the execution is not as dynamic as the premise.

Unfortunately, Chapter 1 is just a giant infodump, and Chapter 2 is long and uneventful. I'm sure there's a good story in there somewhere, but it's swimming in a lot of uninteresting dialogue and exposition. The scenes don't have a direction or a purpose. The MC's siblings are insufferable, but not in an interesting way, and there are indications that the MC is "different" but I wasn't interested enough to wade through all of the exposition to figure out how.

The good news is that writing like this is easier to edit than underwritten stories. The bulk of the work is to remove all of the information that isn't immediately necessary in order to move the scene forward. Conflict/tension only takes a few details here and there, and same with characterization. I don't have any current desire to continue with the story, but I'd give the author another shot in a couple of years.