Story Telling VS. Writing A Story – Part 3: Similarities and Differences
So, here we are in what was supposed to be the final blog on telling vs. writing a story. I have a confession to make. I was a story writer who wrote like a storyteller tells stories. For me, it was fine. I liked my stories. And, since most of my early writing consisted of short stories, problems arising from writing that way were minimized.
However, I’m now working on a significant detective novel: The 5th Page. and I have learned a LOT about telling vs. writing in the process of that editing and revising.
To illustrate what I’m talking about—and hopefully whet your interest in reading both the blog and The 5th Page—I want to begin with a before and after of one scene from As you read through these examples compare the two versions. Look for specific instances of what I describe between this paragraph and the story excerpts.
When I sent the first version to my publicist, Sherry Frazier, and I began a long series of telephone conversations about the topic of this short blog series and her ideas for necessary edits to my “finished” book. Her actual description of my 80,000-word manuscript was, “This is a great outline.”
Why did I change what I thought was finished?
I didn’t want to at first. As I listened to her go through the manuscript page by page, I wrote her comments in a page-numbered list. It took quite a while for me to accept much of what she was saying. My thoughts: My book was finished. It’s pretty darn good, too.
Fortunately, she went slowly. And I had time to “get over it” in terms of what she was trying to convey. I sent a sample rewrite of the opening of the book.
She said it was better, but…
I sent another rewrite of part of the opening. There was no way I was going to keep going back over the same scenes over and over. I wanted closure.
She liked the rewrite better, but…
After a second, and now a third, list of fixes to the manuscript, I’ve finally figured out what she wants…
and why!
Too often through my first drafts, the reader was left wondering who or why or when. Although much of those concerns were addressed in the conclusion, there wasn’t enough detail to keep the reader engaged.
As you read the two versions, which one built the most tension in you? My suspicion is the latest edit did. Which version had you caring the most about the characters? Again, I suspect it was the latest version, in which Mary’s fear is palpable. I suspect that, even in this short excerpt, you began to care about what happened to Mary.
You want your readers to care about your characters. When you revise, look carefully at your characters. How many of them just seem to be there to move the plot along? If that number is high, your readers will not engage in the story. Your book will not appeal to most of your potential readers.
By the way, my first thought was to title the latest edit, Final Edit. I did not do that. The reason is not that I’m hoping to revise it again. Rather my journey through this hard to learn lesson has taught me to slow down. I’m waiting until the whole manuscript is the latest version before I consider using final as a descriptor.
The Scene: Mary Carstairs has ratted out her boss in a drug syndicate. Sid Brewster, the drug supplier’s supplier, has contracted with Oscar “Big O” Briggs to eliminate her.
Original: Story Telling
About 7:30 two evenings later, Mary unlocked the door to room 245. She waited until she had closed and bolted the door before feeling around for the light switch. She snapped it up. Darkness remained.
"Figures!" Mary grumbled. She groped her way toward the kitchen.
She never made the linoleum flooring.
Strong hands grabbed her roughly from behind. One hand clamped tightly over her mouth. The fingers of the other dug into her waist. She felt herself being dragged to her right. She decided to relax and enjoy what she expected was coming. Fighting a rapist usually brought more pain and abuse than compliance.
"Quiet!" Her assailant spoke the single word as he uncovered her mouth. His right hand moved to her arm. The sound of something tearing aroused her curiosity. The curiosity passed quickly. A large piece of adhesive tape was pushed roughly over her lips.
Two rough hands ripped the clothing from her body. The same hands threw her naked form to the bed. She felt her muscles tense and forced herself to relax.
The end of a long piece of adhesive tape was wrapped around each wrist and ankle. The other end of each piece soon circled the posts of the bed before joining its partner on her wrist or ankle. She felt panic rising within her. This was not a simple rape.
"Sidney hopes you don't enjoy this at all," the voice taunted. She heard a zipper opening.
"But I'm sure I will.”
Latest Edit: Writing a Story
Three evenings after she’d moved into the Royal Guard Hotel, Mary Carstairs once again unlocked room 245. She waited until she’d closed and bolted the door before feeling around for the light switch. She snapped it to the ON position. Darkness retained its grip on the room.
"Figures!" Mary grumbled. This place is a DUMP with all capital letters. She groped her way toward the kitchen.
She never made the linoleum flooring.
Strong hands grabbed her roughly from behind. Oh, God! One hand clamped tightly over her mouth. Breathe, Mary, breathe. The fingers of the other dug into her waist. Crap! I know what’s next. She felt herself being dragged to her right. After an initial squirm, she let her body relax—as much as she could relax. She understood that fighting a rapist almost always brought more pain and abuse than compliance did.
Yep. He’s headed for the bed. This happened before… once. Stay relaxed and at least pretend to enjoy what’s coming. I’ll guarantee he'll never do this again. If I have to, I’ll find me a rabbi with a circumcision flint…
"Quiet!" Her assailant spoke the single word as he uncovered her mouth. His right hand moved to her arm. The sound of something tearing aroused her curiosity. What the… Curiosity morphed into an infantile form of panic as a large piece of adhesive tape was pushed roughly over her lips. I don’t like where this is headed at all. All bets are off now!
She beat her hands against her assailant’s chest. I hate you! I hate you! Let me go, you son of a b--! He continued as though she still hung limply. Her imprecations went unheard—the tape covering her mouth reducing them to meaningless noise.
She tried to scratch his eyes. I’m not going down easily bas---! With a derisive snort, he grabbed both her wrists in one hand and squeezed. When she’d only winced at the pain, the attacker twisted both wrists to the right, slightly spraining them both. Oh, God! He’s going to break my arms!
She willed her arms to relax, but that only fueled the sadist’s desire. He gave a final twist of his hand—and both Mary’s wrists—this time to the left. Oh, oh, oh! That hurts so bad! Mary felt herself involuntarily trying to fold herself into the fetal position. Stop! Body, please stop! He won’t like this! Don’t ball up! Another snort. He released his grip. Oh, thank you, God! But, when she tried to move her hands, pain knifed up her arms. Panic began to build. Help! Help me, please! I don’t want to die!
Rough hands ripped the clothing from her body, leaving her entirely naked. This is no ordinary assault! How’d Brewster find me? I’ve got to get out of here! I’ll give you money! Help! Oh, God, please!
The same hands threw her naked form to the bed. Before she could react, the male’s fully clothed body landed upon her. Push away! Get off me! She felt her muscles tense, but she didn’t move. This guy’s too big! I’m going to die! Think, Mary! Think! She forced herself to relax—a minimally successful gesture. Maybe I can wiggle out if I pretend to…
One end of a long piece of adhesive tape was wrapped around each ankle and wrist. This guy’s done this before. No way this is the first time he’s lain on a woman while taping her wrists. Shockwaves of pain burned through the nerves up her arms. Don’t you know you’ve broken my wrists? Tears erupted from her eyes—and, for the first time in a long time, they were genuine. P-p-please don’t do this. P-p-please!
She began to sob as—one by one—the other end of each piece of tape circled its own post of the bed before joining its partner on her wrist or ankle. Oh, God, no! This isn’t just an assault! I’ve got to get off this bed! During the fleeting existence of that thought, panic matured from an infant to a fully mature emotion within her. No! No! No! You can’t do this! I don’t deserve this! She twisted from side to side as she attempted to tear at least one of the tape-ropes from its bedpost.
A flash of her past—Catholic school religious training—brought the prayer of the Rosary to her mind. At least she recalled parts of it. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
"Sidney Brewster hopes you don't enjoy this at all," the voice taunted. She heard a zipper opening. "But, I'm sure I will.”
Mary prayed even more fervently. O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, and lead all souls to heaven, especially those in most need of thy mercy. Dear Jesus, that’s me!
She tried to scream. I’ll tell Brewster I didn’t mean it! Please don’t hurt me! Oh, my God! I don’t want to die!
Three sounds punctuated Mary's final earthly thoughts.
…The squeaking of bedsprings.
Someone help me, please!
…The speaking of a name, “They call me Big O.”
Help me, please! I don’t want to die!
The attacker climbed off her and the bed. She squirmed trying to find the rapist. But, darkness still prevailed.
Oh, God! Don’t let me die like th—
…The sound of a single silenced gunshot.
The too short roller coaster life of Mary Carstairs was over.
Both versions of the scene have the same ending. Mary Carstairs is eliminated by Big O.
This blog is intended to help open your eyes to some new insight in the process of writing. I don’t expect a conversion to the idea by reading this one blog. It took me until I was a good distance into the second Frazier edit of The 5th Page before I really had a handle on what she was trying to get me to do to improve my writing. That was over nearly one month of back and forth communication and revision.
In the title of this blog, I promised similarities and differences. However, this post long enough. Two weeks from today, I PROMISE to list clearly and succinctly the similarities and differences between telling a story and writing a story.
Next blog: Story Telling VS. Writing A Story – Part 4: Similarities and Differences... Clearly and Succinctly
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