Great edits once again by Rachel!  Note, especially, the thoughts on the HOOK, emotional layering, and dialogue.  It’s hard for me to get the flow of it when it is pieced up like this – so I might make more tweaks before I post the rough draft final tomorrow (or Friday).  As usual, if you have any questions, head over to VOICES and we’ll do our best to answer them in the Chapter 1 discussion.

 

Note – the pieces I’m keeping are in RED type.  The original is in black, without highlights.

 

 

Chapter 1.2

 

Reverend William Archibald Lewis Alexander, the third, former pastor of the Normandy Ridge Bible Baptist church, decorated Vietnam Vet, widower husband of thirty-five faithful years to Miss Darlene Parker, and father of two grown children and one precocious grandson, and resident of room number 172 of the east wing of the Normandy Ridge Resident center was having a good day. 

This opening graph is well written, but a bit telling, We’re getting the skinning on this man and I don’t know who is he, or whose telling me this information. Is this the reverend’s POV? From who’s eyes are we seeing this.

 

SMW:  Good catch, RH!  This opening hook is what I call OVERLOADING.  There are times when you want to put in the kitchen sink, but…most of the time it drags.  A rewrite  is in order.

 

Suggestion: Open with Luke coming in, seeing his father and thinking all those things about him.

What event is this? Can Luke read the reverend’s resume from a flyer or invitation? (I’ll work in the information later…)

 

New HOOK:

  

Luke took one look at his father and wished he’d never come down from the mountain. 

 

“Pastor Alexander is having a good day today,” said Nursing Assistant Missy Guinn, as she wheeled Rev. William Lewis Alexander, the Third into the community room, and set the brakes on his wheelchair, adjusted his soiled bib, and patted him on the shoulder before leaving him to celebrate his seventy-second birthday with a family he only sometimes recognized. 

 

See how now we start in Luke’s pov, and then we go to briefly set the scene.  I’m going to keep the previous information and look for a way to work that in.

 

      Luke ran his gaze over his father, the familiar coil of panicbeginning to spin in his chest as he took in his father’s shiny eyes, the soggy dress shirt, his big, misshapen hands positioned on the tray on his chair, the way he lilted to the side.  

RH Sugg: show us the panic instead of telling us.

 

(SMW:  There are 4 layers to emotional writing: 

1.       Naming the emotion

2.      Name + physical response

3.      Physical response

4.      Metaphorical response

 

Each one is used in different ways.  For example, we might use the first just for a quick emotion, to intro a scene or an emotion.  The more we understand a character, the deeper we can progress.  Since we were just meeting Luke, I went with more of a telling emotion because we don’t know who we are talking about, and we need more time to get to know him. 

 

However, now that we’ve rearranged a bit, and introduced Luke at the beginning, and we know his dread, we can apply RH’s suggestionJ)

 

      Luke ran his gaze over his father, his chest beginning to tighten as he took in his father’s shiny eyes, the soggy dress shirt, his big, misshapen hands positioned on the tray on his chair, the way he lilted to the side.

 

(SMW: And now, since we brought it closer, this inner monologue line really strengthens his dread/horror.)

      Stay.  At least until the cake. 

 

      “Hey Daddy.”  Ruthann pressed a kiss to the old man’s tissue paper cheek and wiped the corner of his mouth.  “Happy Birthday.” 

RH: Can Ruthann approach Luke first? This scene is about him more than his father. “You came. Please say you’re staying.”

“Just until cake, and don’t’ make a fuss.”

 

(SMW: I like this…but since they were already waiting in the room, it seems that Ruthann would have approached him before this.  And, the father is the catalyst.  I think it throws the rhythm off to break from Luke and his horror at his father. )

 

      She stepped away, and it seemed to Luke that maybe the old man followed her with his eyes.  Or perhaps that could be wishful thinking.

      Still, Luke couldn’t move from his post by the wide picture windows overlooking the grounds, chilled under the crisp Tennessee air, the grass yellow and crunchy, the oaks still, their bare arms reaching up to the murky gray sky, as if in supplication for spring.  Lovely!

SMW:  This is just an extra note, but note the ways I tried to make the way Luke saw the outside mirror his sense of despair, especially the trees – I pictured the elderly reaching out for hope/spring/life…

 

 

      “Uncle Luke, look at me!” 

 

(SMW:  One of the VOICES pointed out that this nickname sounded jarring for a six year old.  So, let’s switch it up and see how it feels.)

 

      Luke turned just in time to see his six year old nephew, Trevor, sail by in an unoccupied wheelchair.  Luke caught the back handle, arrested the forward motion.  You had catch, then caught.  (Good catch, ha ha).

 

      “Whoa there, Andretti. Whose wheels did you boost?”  LOL!

 

      Trevor gave him a grin. RH: is passive. Have him just grin.

 

“Trevor grinned, revealing a gap where his two front teeth should be. (good edits!)  “I found it over there.”   He pointed to a gathering of the elderly watching Jeopardy.  Or, appearing to watch Jeopardy.  Luke pinpointed the victim of the lost wheels as the tiny woman snoozing in the recliner. 

Good. This clearly shows us where we are. No need to say “nursing home” or “assisted living.”

      “Return the hotrod, pal.”  Luke gave him a slight push.  “And keep it under the speed limit.”  

      “Always a cop, even when you’re out of the park.”Ruthann said, shooting a glance at her son.  Clearly she didn’t see the problem with him tooling around the nursing home.  Then again, they spent a lot more time here than Luke. 

 

 

RH: Luke’s response is too far from Ruthann’s dialog. I was taken aback by this. Can you move his answer directly under hers, then have the internal emotion?

(SMW:  RH brings up a good point.  Keep the dialogue flowing, even if you have to break it up some or add in more.  I’ve move it, and added a few extra pieces highlighted in pink.  However, often dialogue doesn’t follow a logical pattern – like people have two conversations with two people at the same time, which is what is happening here.  If you can’t move it, to keep it all straight, bring in pieces from the previous dialogue sentence to spark the next thread of dialogue.  I’ve highlighted those places in green. ) 

 

“I’m not a cop, Ruth.  I’m a park ranger. There’s a difference.” Although, admittedly, up on the mountain, in the backwoods in the middle of the Appalachian Trail, not much of one.  At least not this weekend. 

 “Then what’s with the shiner?” 

Luke’s mind flicked back to the so-called hunters he’d happened upon, the ones on the ATVS who’d managed to double team him before getting away.  He still had a warrant out for poaching. 

  RH: Can you add line or word that they were poaching or hunting out of season, without license or something?

“I had a run in with a Siberian Tiger.”

 

Ruthann glanced at him, her jaw tightening.  “Funny.    She pushed their father to the table, where she’d already lit the chocolate layer cake, smoke curling from the chunky number seven and two.  

 

He’s in a wheel chair and ailing at 72?

 

(SMW: This is a good question and part of Luke’s guilt.  Let’s give a smidge of an answer by moving down that previous information.  BUT, we don’t want to elaborate too much…)

 

Seventy-two short years.  Most men at this age should be on the golf course, touring Scotland, or fishing with his grandson.  Especially a decorated Vietnam Vet, a faithful husband of 35 years, and long-time pastor of the Normandy Ridge Bible Baptist church. 

 

(Now, let’s add a physical reaction to match the previous emotional one: )

 

Luke pressed a hand to the coil of pain in his chest, stealing from him the ability to move.   Alzheimer’s was cruel thief.

 

(Note:  I used level 2, then level 3, then level 4 for my emotional layering in that sentence.  We’ll see how it works as we put it all together.)

 

 

Come over here and blow out these candles with us.”  Ruthann shot him an undisguised, help make this good for daddy, expression (DELETE: of annoyance.) J

 

Hey, he’d wanted to do this outside, maybe bundle up the old man, wheel him out to a picnic table, let him smell anything other than the trapped, piped in air that probably, slowly, sucked the life out of his father with each breath. 

He knew it wasn’t fair, his judgment.  The residence house had kind orderlies, and he’d never seen his father neglected.  Yet, with everything inside him, he wished his stomach didn’t turn into a knot, his palms slick with cold sweat, his legs nearly quivering with an almost Pavlonian urge to bolt every time he saw his father.  Good!

      Like now.  Luke (DELETE: practically) had to push himself AWAY FROM (DELETE: off) the windowsill, force his body over to the table. 

He managed to set down his coffee, the stale, lukewarm brew for guests meant to give them a place to park their nerves, without spilling.

 RH: I’m not sure I get this? And doesn’t caffeine heighten nerves?

 

(SMW:  This is why an editor is so important – because in my HEAD, I meant, the kind of nerves that come with being uncomfortable.  Clearly, that didn’t translate.  So, I’m going to try again: 

 

He managed to set down his coffee, the stale, lukewarm brew for guests designed more for comfort than pleasure, without spilling, and leaned over to his father.  “Happy birthday.”  

 

RH: Again, I think this response is much  stronger if it comes directly after Ruthann’s question.

 

(SMW:  This time I disagree.  The Happy Birthday is its own piece of dialogue, and can stay separate.)

 

“For a guy who’s not a cop, you certainly get in enough scrapes.  I’m just saying that it doesn’t look like the Appalachian Trail is any safer than the jungles of Columbia.” 

 

(SMW: Now, because I moved that other piece up earlier, this is a little more disjointed, but it still works because she’s picking up a line of dialogue instead of answering a question. Note how I bring in the cop thread again, however).

 

Yes, probably it seemed the same to her – a woman who had her life tucked neatly together with her beloved son, her own business, her accountant husband, her three bedroom house with the front porch attired with rocking chairs, as if in preparation for their retiring years. Good!

 

 

“Let’s blow out the candles, Pop.”  He bent down, and to his surprise, when he looked over at his father, he saw someone there, someone who, when he’d arrived home six years ago broken and jumping at his own shadow, had nursed him through his nightmares. 

RH: Smooth this out. I had to read it twice to figure out Luke saw the man who nursed him. At first I thought it read like the father had nursed himself.

 

(SMW: That’s an easy fix by rearranging the components of the sentence.  A lot of times, confusing sentences can simply be rearranged, or parted into to: )

 

Let’s blow out the candles, Pop.”  He bent down, and to his surprise, when he looked over at his father, he saw someone there.  Someone who had nursed him through his nightmares when he’d arrived home six years ago broken and jumping at his own shadow.   

 

 

A former soldier who understood the difference between Columbian drug lords and a couple of illegal hunters on the top of Roan Mountain. 

RH: Smooth out. This sentence doesn’t feel like it belongs to anyone. Maybe add Luke’s name. (and maybe bring in the Vietnam part – good idea!)

 

Most of all, Luke saw the Vietnam soldier who understood the difference between Columbian drug lords and a couple of illegal hunters on the top of Roan Mountain. 

And then, just as Ruthann bent over and blew out the melting candles for all of them, his father moved his hand off his tray, and touched him. Excellent!

 

Luke startled.

 RH: I think if startle is a verb here it doesn’t have an object like Luke. How does one “startle?” It startled him would read smoother. (P.S. I had to look this up so… don’t be too impressed. LOL.)

(I think it’s a matter of voice, too, but, let’s also add a beat here.  One of the VOICES pointed out that it might be good for this touch to sink in a bit before it all goes south). 

 

Luke stared the hand, once strong and firm, now warm and soft on his.  His breath hiccupped and suddenly he could only hear the whirring inside. Faster, louder, drowning him, filling his throat —  he couldn’t breathe –

 “I think I’m just going to get some more coffee,” he said, jerking his hand away.  Somehow he managed to sound normal.  As if his world hadn’t blown apart, right then, into a thousand bloody pieces. 

Again.

 

He turned, RH: watch overusing “turned” in this scene. I think it’s be just as strong if it read “He aimed for a quick exit.” aiming for a quick exit, fighting the burn in his throat, but his sister stopped him with a hand to his arm. 

(SMW:  I think I want to make it tighter.  We already know he’s leaving, because he said he was getting coffee.  And I think we had enough emotion in the previous graph…here’s my rewrite: )

 

His sister caught him on the way to the door.

 

“Stick around, Luke.”  He looked down at her, and the gentle look on her face stopped him from yanking his arm from her hand.  “It’ll be okay.” Good!

 

No, it wouldn’t.  Because regret had teeth, and when he wasn’t looking, could gnaw right through him, tear him apart piece by piece. One touch, one memory at a time. 

RH: Most excellent. Love how Susie show’s us the power of emotions. Regret had teeth. Or forgiveness demanded too much heart and soul. Look for ways to cause emotion or feeling to “come alive.”

RH: Several paragraphs and sentences starting with the pronoun he. Can we have a Luke in there? J

 

Stepping away from her then, probably harder than he should have, he started for the hallway, his breaths coming fast, too fast.  He just needed to make it outside, where..there…was..air—

Antiseptic hit his nose, burning his eyes. Striding down the hall, he kicked a tray of half-eaten food, turned, and caught the cold chicken noodle soup bowl overturning on his hands. 

RH: Great paragraph. Only suggestion is show us he’s walking down the hall before he smells the antiseptic. I thought he was bursting out of the party room through a direct door outside. I didn’t know why he was smelling antiseptic.

(SMW:  I changed the above to show that he was going out into the hallway.) 

Setting it right, he grabbed a napkin, whirled, and crumpling it his fist, headed for the door, his jaw on fire as he held in his breath, his chest about…to…explode –

He slammed through the doors, gulping the cold air, one breath lapping another.  He bent over, gripped his knees, closed his eyes. 

And for a second, he could taste the past – the tinny acid of own fear, his body, sweaty and rank, the grimy feel of starvation in his teeth.  The surreal shriek of his own screams.  Excellent. Great showing of his panic, claustrophobia or whatever is going on with him. I’m there!

“Luke?” 

He jumped at her voice. Whirled.

 (RH: He just whirled? In a circle? 😉  

(SMW:  OK RH, listen, we get that he turned.  Gimme a break J.  But, because we know she walked in, it’s logical for him to face her.  We’ll delete it. )

 

Ruthann held out a wad of napkins, her gaze flicking to the dribble of noodles down his jeans.  He took them from her without a word, but instead of wiping himself off, turned back RH: another turned (I took the others out) and listened to the snarling Watauga river, just past the grove of trees.  The breeze raised gooseflesh on his bare arms but he drew it into his lungs, glad for its refreshing bite.

“Why didn’t I come home earlier?” 

His voice was so soft, even he wasn’t’ sure he spoke – it could have been more of a moan inside.  But he had because Ruthann stepped up beside her, her arms crossed over her chest.  “Because you needed to be away.” 

“I needed to be here.”

“You needed to get well.  To get your life together.  And start over.  We all understood that.  Especially Dad.  He didn’t want you to know–” 

“You should have told me how bad he was getting.”  He tried to keep the edge out of his tone, but it hit her anyway, and she flinched.

  RH: What is wrong with his father? Can you tell us earlier, even a one worder like “stroke” or something.  

(SMW:  I mentioned his disease above, we’ll just add to it here).

 

“I did.  You didn’t answer my email.  It’s nobody’s fault.  You were who you were, and you can’t go back.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it.  He couldn’t ever go back, fix it, make it right.  Not for his father, not for himself…

Luke closed his eyes; moisture pooled under them.  The wind dried RH: how about slowed instead of dried. A glacier isn’t really dry but it’s cold and moves really, really slow. J it to an icy glacier.  (SMW:  Yes, but it was wet, and now it’s ice.  I think it works, for now).

“I wish…” 

“You’d been here?  Of course you do. But you were here for the good parts.”

He couldn’t look at her.  She said that a lot – a coping mechanism he supposed, something she gleaned from her support groups.  Of course, it made sense.  Yes, he’d grown up happy, with parents who loved him.  Believed in him. 

Even when he hadn’t believed in himself. 

Excellent delivery of back story because the scene and dialog is about Luke facing himself and his past. This is short and to the point.

 

But his wishes went further back then just six years ago, and leaving town in a cloud of smoke.  And that was the problem….his father was forgetting the wrong things, hanging onto the ones Luke wished time might erase from the old man’s addled mind. 

 RH: I really want to know what is wrong with the father otherwise I don’t by a 72 year old being addled. John McCain was running for president at 70.

(SMW: We’ll add more backstory as we go along – for now it’s enough to know that he has Alzheimer’s.  And, btw, I have to friends who are in their 60’s with alzheimers….and one who got it at the age of 40, so…I think it depends on the person.  But, this is a good note to remember to elaborate along the way.  In the first chapter, you want to give just enough information to help the reader understand, and then unlayer it as you go.  Hopefully I’ve done that here…)

 

“Come inside, Luke.  Have some cake.”

“Miss Ruthann?”  Missy Guinn stuck her head out of the door behind them.  “Have you seen Trevor?” 

“He’s not inside?” 

“No ma’am. I came back to fetch your father, and one of the orderlies said she saw him pushing a wheelchair down the hall.”

“I told him to put that back—“Luke held open the door.

Ruthann pushed past Missy. “Why didn’t she stop him?” 

 RH: Why is it dangerous to push a wheelchair down a resident home hall. Seems safe enough to me.

(Not if you’re six years old – I’m seeing broken legs, and upset residents!)

 

“Well, she was busy with a patient –“
            Ruthann had already taken off down the hall in a jog.  “Trevor!” 

For crying out loud, the kid was probably pilfering someone’s candy supply. 

RH: If this is her concern, just go to this line instead of implying he walked off in the middle of a crowded mall at Christmas.

(SMW: This is in Luke’s POV – it’s his thought.  He thinks everyone is overreacting. )

 

Luke hot-footed it down the hall, peering into rooms, wincing now and again at the inhabitants.  Please God, he never wanted to be that helpless again.

RH: What helpless? When? I think we need more here on his past. EX: He hated feeling helpless, he’d been chained to it for too long. Searching for Trevor now reminded him of what he wanted to forget. . . but couldn’t. — Something like that.

 (SMW:  Again, I think it’s enough for us to understand that he was once helpless.  If we draw too much meaning now, we sacrifice our telling of his story later.  And, I think it’s important to resist the urge to explain everything – I’m going to let my reader infer some things, and reward them later with the full story).  

 

His sister’s voice echoed down the halls.  Perfect.  Maybe they could make the newspaper.  The Normandy Voice was always looking for juicy stories. 

Especially if it involved Luke Alexander. 

He passed by the side double doors leading out to the parking lot and out of his periphery, he glimpsed a gray blur.  Oh…no—

Turning, he sprinted to the door, banged it open.

Sure enough, Trevor the Terror Andretti was making for the parking lot on his stolen wheels.  RH: LOL

“Trevor!” 

The kid paid him no mind, wheeling fast as he sailed off the handicap access into the lot.  He shot past the few cars at the curb and was out into the smooth pavement, wheeling along with abandon. 

“Whee!” 

Luke broke into a run.  “Trevor!” 

            Because it wasn’t enough that Trevor was joyriding with the property of the Normandy Ridge Residence Center, but of course, Luke could spot trouble in the inclined drive toward the rush hour highway. 

“Trevor, stop – “

But no, as Trevor put out his hand to stop the chair, it ripped at his arm, and he let out a howl.  And of course, now he’d lost control of the wheels, set on an careening trajectory straight into death.

 “Trevor, jump!”

            A scream behind him – Ruthann had found them. He peeled out into a full-out run, his heart already ten lengths ahead of him as Trevor turned, holding onto the back of the chair, his big eyes now full of terror.  “Help, Unle Luke!” 

            Luke lunged for the chair, managed to hit it.

It shot out of his reach. 

            Brakes squealed, horns, the sound of metal crunching —  just as the wheelchair hit the barrier between pavement and asphalt, Luke hooked Trevor around the chest and dove. 

            Skin peeled from his arms, embedding gravel as he skidded into the ditch along the highway, grinding mud into his pores, his hair, his back even as he clutched Trevor to his chest. 

Ten feet away, two cars had collided, the wheelchair crumpled beneath the bumper of a third.

Trevor struggled in his arms, but Luke held him tight.  Simply laying there, staring at the gray, sunless sky.  Breathing.  Alive. 

            Alive. 

      And, at the end of the day, that was probably the most important part, right?  

 

RH: Excellent.

 

SMW:  Thanks.  GREAT Edits!