Now that the first draft is complete, and I’ve had a few days to distance myself from the story, it is time to do a read-through and start revisions. I don’t have a set method for this. Sometimes I start reading, and make edits as I go along. But if I know there are some significant plot problems, I might hold off on line edits and read through the entire story, paying attention to larger problems.
This story is short enough that I’ll probably do both at the same time. Go through, making edits along the way, but noting, as well, what things don’t quite work for me. I’m not entirely sure the best way to capture this on a blog, however. Generally I open the document, go through and make edits, and save the changes. But for the purposes of this blog series, I want to explain why I’m making various changes, so what I’m going to do is do a critique in the same way I’d do a critique for someone else. Generally that means making comments in-line along the way, as well as comments at the end that address larger issues.
The Deer Man
The first time I met the Deer Man, I was bringing a vase of roses for my grandmother. It was her birthday, not that she’d remember. In fact, she didn’t even remember me, and the only reason I bothered coming in was because my own mother guilted me into it.
I’m not fond of this opening. It is pretty much all telling. Of course, I figured as much. I almost never like my openings. But this one does establish a few things. One, why the main character is at the home, and his attitude toward such a visit. This same information should come across later if I simply yank this paragraph...which I’m inclined to do.
He was sitting at a table in the rec room, muttering to himself. I wouldn’t have paid any attention to him, ordinarily. The whole place kind of creeped me out, to be honest. I had trouble seeing most of these old folks as human. Those that could still walk kind of shuffled along the wall holding onto the wooden handrails, eyes not quite focused on the carpet two steps ahead of them. Most sat in wheel chairs, chattering on and on about a life that existed fifty years earlier or simply said nothing at all.
This is a stronger opening. It gets rights to the matter of things. It creates some curiosity. Who is the “he”? (And rather than “was sitting”, I’ll probably change that to “He sat...”)
Some of this is wordy. “I had trouble seeing most of these old folks as human.” I’ll recast that sentence and convey the same attitude a bit more fluidly I think. And yank, “to be honest.”
Those in the rec room were the brave few who clung to their sanity, finding satisfaction in bingo and chess, and they even interacted like normal people. A couple of the old ladies even winked at me, grossly enamored, I assumed, by my youthful physique. Or, well, by their standards. To my peers, I was nothing much to look at.
The self-derogatory comment about seeing himself as not much to look at really doesn’t serve this story. In fact, it seems counter the somewhat arrogant attitude he starts out with, so I’ll yank that. Focus still needs to be on his perception of these people, leading us to the moment where he notices the Deer Man.
So, when I saw the Deer Man sitting there, a loner, he seemed out of place. I hesitated, straining to hear what he was saying. He glanced up from his chess board and narrowed his gaze.
“What you looking at?” he said.
For the most part I like this bit. For now, just tweaks.
The old man sat in a chair, no walker nearby, so I knew he was one of the healthier ones. Still, his body arched over the table like he was half of a rainbow and I was reminded of Homer Simpson’s evil boss.
I shrugged and started to turn away, but he stopped me with a grunt.
Awkward construction, but I like the idea here. I’ll rewrite it in, hopefully, a clearer way.
“Figures,” he said. “Guess the boy’s too chicken to play a decent game of chess with an old man.”
I smiled at this, and sat myself down across from the man. There was something to him. He wasn’t like everyone else in the home. He was smart...and manipulative. I thought I just might come to like him.
Again, tweaks for now. In general, I like what is going on here. Probably rearrange a few sentences to better capture the thoughts and flow of the MC.
It took ten minutes and twenty-seven moves before I had him check-mated. He didn’t speak, but spent the entire game with the tip of his tongue pinched between his teeth in thought. I hadn’t really been trying, and some of his moves were kind of basic. But it felt mean to beat the poor guy. He slumped back in his chair, lips pressed tight together, and for just a moment I thought he might actually cry.
I stood, then offered my hand. “Good game,” I said.
But rather than a sportsmanship-like handshake, he peered up at me and said, “Do you have a car?”
Some awkward bits, again. Tweaks to the sentence structures, orders, but basic concept here I like.
“Well, yes.”
He grinned—the first I’d seen from him—and pointed to the seat. “Sit down, and we’ll play again. But this time, let’s up the stakes.”
“I’m sorry, Mister...”
“Wilkens.”
“...Mr. Wilkens. But I really should be going.”
At this point, I’m noticing a bit of problem with the MC’s voice. He comes across both as immature and arrogant, but also polite and overly formal. That’s something I’m going to have to address as I make edits or go in during the second round of edits. “But I really should be going.” It sounds like he was just visiting over tea.
He shrugged. “Okay. Suit yourself. But I’ve got enough money to make it worth your while. You win, you make a hundred bucks. You lose, and you take me for a ride.”
“A ride? Where?”
“Does it matter? I mean, you beat me the first time.”
At that moment, a woman, perhaps my mother’s age, came over. She was carrying a large foil pan, the kind you’d expect to find at a picnic filled with macaroni and cheese or half-burned hot dogs. Aluminum foil covered the top.
“Here you go, Mr. Wilkens,” she said, setting the pan on the table beside ours.
The deer man waved her off, then started resetting the chess board.
A hundred bucks. I figured it was akin to stealing, playing this man again. But clearly he was desperate for company, and who was I to turn down the cash? So I sat back down.
End of the scene, for me, works fairly well. I’ll probably clean things up a bit, but I like it.
And there we have the end of the first scene. So, after my comments, below you’ll find my edited version of this scene. So, this is the first scene of the second draft. Second draft is not, by any means, the final draft. Just an improvement, like passing a comb through a nest of hair.
The Deer Man, second draft, scene one
He sat in the rec room, muttering to himself. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have paid any attention to him. The whole place kind of creeped me out, and I just wanted out of there. These old folks weren’t quite...well...human. Only a few could walk, if you could even call it that. They kind of shuffled along the wall holding onto the wooden handrails, eyes not quite focused on the carpet two steps ahead of them. Most, however, sat in wheel chairs, chattering on about a life that existed fifty years earlier. Or, they said nothing at all.
A brave few clung to their sanity, finding satisfaction in bingo and chess, relegated to the rec room. They almost seemed normal, like the couple of old ladies who winked at me as I passed by, grossly enamored by my youth moreso than my looks.
So when I saw the Deer Man sitting there—a loner—he seemed out of place. I hesitated, straining to hear what he was muttering, when he glanced up from his chess board and narrowed his gaze.
“What you looking at?” he said.
There was no walker nearby, so I knew he was one of the healthier ones. Still, the old man sat in his chair, one elbow on the table, his body hunched over the chess board.
I shrugged and started to turn away, but he stopped me with a grunt.
“Figures,” he said. “Guess a boy like yourself’s too chicken to play a decent game of chess with an old man.”
I smiled at this. There was something to his man. He wasn’t like every one else in the nursing home. I sat myself down across from him, a glint forming in his eye. He was smart. And manipulative. Someone I might just come to like.
It took ten minutes and twenty-seven moves. He didn’t speak, but spent the entire game with the tip of his tongue pinched between his teeth. I, on the other hand, hadn’t really been trying. Some of his moves were kind of basic, and I soon had him check-mated. It felt mean to beat the poor guy, especially after he slumped back in his chair. With his lips pressed tight together, I thought he might actually cry.
I stood, then offered my hand. “Good game,” I said.
But rather than a sportsmanship-like handshake, he peered up at me and said, “Do you have a car?”
“Uh. Yeah?”
He grinned—a perfect, false-toothed grin. The first I’d seen from him. “Sit down,” he said, with a tip of his head. “And we’ll play again. But this time, let’s up the stakes.”
“I’m sorry, Mister...”
“Wilkens.”
“...Mr. Wilkens. I really have to be going.”
He shrugged. “Okay. Suit yourself. But I’ve got money. Enough to make it worth your while, I think. How about this: you win, you make a hundred bucks; you lose, and you take me for a ride.”
“A ride? Where?”
“Does it matter? I mean, you beat me the first time.”
At that moment, a woman, perhaps my mother’s age, came over. She was carrying a large foil pan, the kind you’d expect to find at a picnic filled with macaroni and cheese or half-burned hot dogs. Aluminum foil covered the top.
“Here you go, Mr. Wilkens,” she said, setting the pan on the table beside ours.
The deer man waved her off, then started resetting the chess board.
A hundred bucks. I figured it was akin to stealing, playing this man again. But clearly he was desperate for company, and who was I to turn down the cash? So I pushed up my sleeves and took a seat.
Next time, I’ll tackle scene two.
