| talking about fiction |
writing that sees and hears We need to keep our senses turned on as we write, get eye and ear into our words. Often that can be achieved in revision. Below are some brief items from fictions produced by writers we have worked with. In each case, the first example is from the initial draft of a work and the second is from the final draft. The waiter came in carrying a very large container of rice. The waiter, saying something emphatic in Chinese, pushed through the swinging doors toting a steaming vat of rice that filled the whole room with the familiar ripe smell of my childhood. He got in the car and started it. He slid behind the wheel, briefly rested his hand on the brown leather seat and tilted the mirror so he could see himself. He smiled, turned the key, listened. The only way he could tell it was running was by hitting the gas pedal. What a damn sweet engine. What a damn sweet car. “Who wants to be ordinary,” he asked her in an angry tone. His face got even redder. “Who wants to be ordinary?” He growled it. “Huh?” Then he loomed toward her and she involuntarily took a step back. The following is supposed to be a ten-year-old girl responding to an adult’s suggestion that she must have lots of boyfriends: “There are some who like me, but I’m not interested in anyone. I am too involved in my school work.” The final draft: “Well…there’s one really yucky boy who likes me. But I can’t stand him. Anyway, I’m too busy. I mean...homework, girl scouts, soccer, piano lessons…” Same child, early draft: “I don’t like his self-righteousness and the way he assumes we must obey him. He’s like a quiet tyrant.” Later draft: “He’s so stuck-up. And he thinks he’s so smart he can boss us around all the time. Like we’re supposed to do everything he tells us!” And for good measure, a fragment of energetic writing from “All the King’s Men” by Robert Penn Warren. To get there you follow Highway 58, going northeast out of the city… You look up the highway and it is straight for miles, coming at you, with the black line down the center coming at you and at you, black and slick and tarry-shining against the white of the slab, and the heat dazzles up from the white slab so that only the black line is clear, coming at you with the whine of the tires . . .
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