Editing- not my most favorite of things
Finally getting some work done on my novel - editing the rough draft into a second draft. It needs a lot of work! At this point I'm not even sure if the end product will be a salable story, but we shall see. Either way, it's good practice for future work, right? Here's the prologue in second draft - it's short, but gives you a little bit of an idea about where the story starts and what the style is like. Thoughts?
Tequila Sunset - prologue
It occurred to Mavis as she poured a second bowl of cereal that Philip hadn't been down to breakfast for the past five days.. She supposed that something was amiss - worry over the promotion, his parents, or the sizable debt they'd incurred buying their trendy new home.
She considered asking about it, but it also occurred that she didn't really care. Mavis set the bowl down. She folded the napkin precisely. On top of it she placed the red handled spoon that matched the red rim of her terracotta pattern cereal bowls. Everything in their new home looked perfect and pretty.
Five days became six days, but on the seventh day Philip sat at the table. In her chair! In front of her freshly poured corn flakes. Unshaven and red-eyed as he was, she supposed he might be ill. This didn't stop her from swearing under her breath as she rounded the table to fill the second bowl. Three lonely flakes fell into it when she shook the box. Nothing left for her - how typically Phillip. She resisted the urge to throw the box at him as he made unconcerned crunching sounds, and toasted some wheat bread instead.
"I hate you, Phillip Daniels," she muttered under her breath as she leaned against the counter to eat her paltry breakfast. She nearly choked on the words along with the toast. Good Catholic girls shouldn't hate. But she found herself meaning the words more and more every day.
Phillip looked up from his cereal at the sound of her choking. "Are you alright? You need water?"
"No, I'm fine," she managed after a moment. "I was just saying we're out of cereal."
Philip shrugged, and shook the box. He peered inside, to double-check. "We are," he agreed. "I'll pick some up on my way home."
Mavis finished her dry toast, turned away to face the sink. She watched a lone water bug crawl up through the drain and quicker than thought reached down to slice it in two with her sharp thumbnail. By the time she washed her hands, Philip was out the door.
"I hope he gets hit by a bus," she fumed.
The crosstown bus had no knowledge of Mavis's wishes, and did not, in fact, strike Philip down. It went on doing what crosstown buses are best known for doing, and opened its doors with a mechanical swoosh. Philip boarded the bus, took a seat by the window to watch the world go by on his way to work. The trees, buildings, and billboards were all familiar - he'd seen them a thousand times before.
He reached his stop, got off, and walked over to the newsstand where he always bought a paper. Same daily paper, same daily routine. The explosion, though - that was something new. Just a click and whistle, not much of a warning before the heat and the force. Philip Daniels hit the crosstown bus at an terrible velocity, his head smacking into the windshield with a resounding thump.
He slid wetly down to the street, into his first of many dreams.
Tequila Sunset - prologue
It occurred to Mavis as she poured a second bowl of cereal that Philip hadn't been down to breakfast for the past five days.. She supposed that something was amiss - worry over the promotion, his parents, or the sizable debt they'd incurred buying their trendy new home.
She considered asking about it, but it also occurred that she didn't really care. Mavis set the bowl down. She folded the napkin precisely. On top of it she placed the red handled spoon that matched the red rim of her terracotta pattern cereal bowls. Everything in their new home looked perfect and pretty.
Five days became six days, but on the seventh day Philip sat at the table. In her chair! In front of her freshly poured corn flakes. Unshaven and red-eyed as he was, she supposed he might be ill. This didn't stop her from swearing under her breath as she rounded the table to fill the second bowl. Three lonely flakes fell into it when she shook the box. Nothing left for her - how typically Phillip. She resisted the urge to throw the box at him as he made unconcerned crunching sounds, and toasted some wheat bread instead.
"I hate you, Phillip Daniels," she muttered under her breath as she leaned against the counter to eat her paltry breakfast. She nearly choked on the words along with the toast. Good Catholic girls shouldn't hate. But she found herself meaning the words more and more every day.
Phillip looked up from his cereal at the sound of her choking. "Are you alright? You need water?"
"No, I'm fine," she managed after a moment. "I was just saying we're out of cereal."
Philip shrugged, and shook the box. He peered inside, to double-check. "We are," he agreed. "I'll pick some up on my way home."
Mavis finished her dry toast, turned away to face the sink. She watched a lone water bug crawl up through the drain and quicker than thought reached down to slice it in two with her sharp thumbnail. By the time she washed her hands, Philip was out the door.
"I hope he gets hit by a bus," she fumed.
The crosstown bus had no knowledge of Mavis's wishes, and did not, in fact, strike Philip down. It went on doing what crosstown buses are best known for doing, and opened its doors with a mechanical swoosh. Philip boarded the bus, took a seat by the window to watch the world go by on his way to work. The trees, buildings, and billboards were all familiar - he'd seen them a thousand times before.
He reached his stop, got off, and walked over to the newsstand where he always bought a paper. Same daily paper, same daily routine. The explosion, though - that was something new. Just a click and whistle, not much of a warning before the heat and the force. Philip Daniels hit the crosstown bus at an terrible velocity, his head smacking into the windshield with a resounding thump.
He slid wetly down to the street, into his first of many dreams.