Blurb
Fame can be deadly. Out of the wreckage of environmental collapse, the country of Delicatum emerged. Its most popular celebrities are the Famoux, uniquely beautiful stars of a reality TV show called the Fishbowl. In a world still recovering from catastrophe, they provide a 24/7 distraction. Sixteen-year-old Emilee Laurence is obsessed with the Famoux-they provide a refuge from her troubled home life and the bullies at school. When she receives an unexpected offer to become a member herself, she takes it. Leaving behind everything she's ever known, Emilee enters a world of high glamour and even higher stakes. Behind their perfect image lies an ugly truth-an anonymous stalker has been dictating the Famoux's every move, and being popular really is a matter of life or death.
Original (First 500)
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 duffel bags in the hall closet, I realized it already had.
My mother was gone. She had run away.
"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 duffel bags in the hall closet, I realized it already had.
My mother was gone. She had run away.
My Edit
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 are powerful," she said. "Good or bad, they have their way of coming true."And when I'd come home from school crying every day, for years, she was there to wipe away the tears and feed me more honeyed fiction. My differences weren't flaws. My bullies were wrong. I was beautiful, unique, good. Even then, I knew they were lies, but, oh, I needed to hear them.
One morning, 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 liquid amber eyes smiling, her peony perfume enveloping me.I was fourteen, so I rolled my eyes and swatted her hands away, outwardly rejecting the comfort that sustained me. School, as usual, was terrible, and I cried the whole way home. When I skulked inside, no one was there. Peony perfume was a faint whisper in the stale air. I'd beat my siblings home -- they had friends to hang out with after school -- my father was at work, my mother must have gone into town.
I wasn't sure if I felt abandoned or released from the ritual of confessing every humiliating moment of my 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 the closet to return my mother's 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, originating in the pounding of my heart thrummed through my veins until it reached my brain, but I shut it out. If I thought it, it would real. My mother wasn't gone. She wouldn't have left me. She couldn't have.
But her perfume was not on her dresser, no underwear in her drawers. Her small, pink suitcase was not in the hallway closet. She was gone.
(Original word count: ~583 → Edited: ~396)
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 are powerful," she said. "Good or bad, they have their way of coming true."And when I'd come home from school crying every day, for years, she was there to wipe away the tears and feed me more honeyed fiction. My differences weren't flaws. My bullies were wrong. I was beautiful, unique, good. Even then, I knew they were lies, but, oh, I needed to hear them.
I was fourteen, so I rolled my eyes and swatted her hands away, outwardly rejecting the comfort that sustained me. School, as usual, was terrible, and I cried the whole way home. When I skulked inside, no one was there. Peony perfume was a faint whisper in the stale air. I'd beat my siblings home -- they had friends to hang out with after school -- my father was at work, my mother must have gone into town.
I wasn't sure if I felt abandoned or released from the ritual of confessing every humiliating moment of my 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 the closet to return my mother's 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, originating in the pounding of my heart thrummed through my veins until it reached my brain, but I shut it out. If I thought it, it would real. My mother wasn't gone. She wouldn't have left me. She couldn't have.
But her perfume was not on her dresser, no underwear in her drawers. Her small, pink suitcase was not in the hallway closet. She was gone.
(Original word count: ~583 → Edited: ~396)
Critique
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.
Conflict/Tension
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.
I feel like this is a moment that is glossed over compared to the paragraphs and paragraphs of navel-gazing, BUT I really like the writing. The distinction between a fully-furnished and stocked house that is still empty because a person is missing is really lovely. And the discovery that her mother's things are gone is a shock, not just because I was expecting Emilee to find her mom dead, but because everything up until this point depicts a loving and devoted mother who would never leave her child voluntarily.
So, yes, there is tension, it's just kind of buried in too much thinking, and the moment of finding her mother gone needs a bit more attention. My version is almost 200 words less than the original excerpt overall, but the discovery of the missing mom is 80 words in the original whereas in my version, it's 144 words. Word count is like a weight, indicating to the reader where their focus should be, so we want to make sure we're giving the important moments the weight they deserve.
No comments:
Post a Comment