Can you tell the difference?

I thought I'd let you be the judge.

As I've mentioned previously, I'm working on my time travel/romance story with an editor. One of the scenes I've been working on with Rosina is one that I'd posted on my blog before. This is where you can judge.

Here is the link to an older version of the scene. Below is the scene after my edits based on Rosina's initial comments. There will probably be more fixes to do, but until then...

Can you tell the difference between the two versions? Let me know in the comments.

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The whisky burned on its way down, and Edison Simpson welcomed it. Some days, the drink was the only thing that kept him sane. He put down his cup and fought the temptation to pour himself more. Too much of the stuff and he’d miss what he came here for.

Chatter in the room picked up as people finished their meals. The innkeeper and his wife moved among the tables as they checked on customers and took empty bowls back to the kitchen. Travelers sat at the edge of the room. Locals sat in the middle. He didn’t belong in either group. Had he gambled on the right group when he’d seated himself with the locals?

A few of men at his table leaned back in their chairs with their bellies full. A few of them made noises about going home, yet hadn’t moved off their chairs. Soon the conversation at the table came to a lull.

Now was his chance. With a friendly tone he said, “So, I heard some strange stories about them stone circles.”

The men froze in their chairs. Not even the man at the end of the table, who had an opinion on everything tonight, said a word. He couldn’t blame them, but if everyone shut down every time he mentioned the stones, he’d never get home.

“I did not mean…”

Maybe they needed more help to loosen their tongues. Edison grasped the whisky bottle only to find that it was empty. He lifted it in the air and waited until he received a nod from the innkeeper.

He didn’t care for the innkeeper’s frown or care what the innkeeper thought. Who was he to judge Edison? If it meant plying men with whisky or pretending to be their friend, he’d do it. Edison would do what he needed to get back home. 

Home. Wife. Children. His army men. His stomach tightened into a knot. There had to be a way. After all, that stone circle here in Scotland and that cave in his Shenandoah Valley had been connected. But how? 

The innkeeper set the jug in front of him. Edison took it and poured himself some. Jug still in hand, he tossed back the whisky then refilled his cup. He took a moment to focus on the burn, then gave more to each of the men around him. The men uttered words of thanks as they drank.

One of them, the man next to Edison, raised his cup to Edison then took a long drink. When he was done, he wiped his mouth and sighed. Angus leaned towards Edison. “Leave them be, man. The stones are cursed. Dinna be looking for trouble.”

Edison stifled a snigger. Trouble? As if Edison didn’t know.

From down the table, the man with all the opinions called out. “Only fae and witches play at the stones. Which would ye be?” Edison turned towards the voice and found the Talker glaring at him.

Edison’s hand tightened into a fist as he stared back. “Fairies and witches? How would you know?” The two men locked gazes for several seconds before the man looked away.

Fairy tales and witches. He might as well be listening to escaped slaves talk about their voodoo dolls. Edison took another swallow of his whisky to drown his impatience.

The innkeeper returned and took the empty plate from Edison. “Are ye one of those witch hunters?” Another silence fell in the room.

Edison needed answers. If it was what he needed to do to get what he want, he’d utilize the tool handed him by the old man. He leveled his gaze at the innkeeper. “It should be every man’s occupation to rid this world of evil. Don’t you agree?”

From around the room, people whispered the words. “Witch hunter.” Edison wanted to seek out each person who had said the name. Read their faces. See the set of their shoulders. Watch their eyes. Instead, he was stuck glaring back at the innkeeper.

Yet, that he should be considered a witch hunter struck him as hilarious. If only they knew the truth. He bit back a laugh, but allowed a corner of his mouth to curl up. The innkeeper turned away.

Would calling himself a witch hunter help him? He’d traveled through tens of villages he’d travel through and asked about the stones. Not once had he gotten him what he wanted. He glanced around. Many of the men began to count out their coins. A few of them shifted in their chairs but cast looks his way. The Talker smiled in his direction. Already a difference. This new title just might be what he’d needed.

Edison picked up his cup again. If nothing else, at least he had his whisky.

My Editor and Me

Thought I'd share about my experience working with an editor, just in case anyone else is contemplating this path.

 My editor isn't just any editor, she's one of my favorite authors. Even though it's usually full of things to do, I squee when I see a new message in my inbox from Rosina Lippi. You may be familiar with her pen name Sara Donati. Yes, THE author of the Into The Wilderness series. Turns out that in addition to being a wife, a mother, an author, a communications consultant, a researcher, she's also an editor. Beyond the squee factor, I chose to work with her because of her writing experience, her great stories, and her professionalism as witnessed from her weblog and services page.

A surprising thing, which shouldn't have been had I thought about it, is that she took the time to really understand what I wanted out of working with her. As time goes on, and her editing hours stack up, she continues to make sure that we are both efficient in improving my craft.

So far she's worked on the prologue and first chapter of my time travel story in its first revision form. I've worked on Akeva's story for a long time via Holly Lisle's How To Revise Your Novel course, so it was the one most polished.

I expected lots of issues to be highlighted most polished or not. Boy, did I deliver. Rosina pointed out some bad habits that I didn't realize I had. Like...

• My words creep in and replace the characters' words.
• I use adverb phrases.
• I use more words than necessary.

I hadn't noticed those issues before. But now, I can now see these issues all over the place in my writing and am working to break these habits. I keep a cheat sheet next to me as I work to make sure that I work on those issues. I'm revising the next chapter with her comments in mind, then I'll send it to Rosina. We'll see how well I did.

I'm glad I took the plunge and engaged with Rosina. So much so, that I'm figuring out how to continue this relationship as I revise the rest of this story and future ones.

It's Been a While

I know, I know. I've neglected this blog. I've been busy with the kids and fitting writing in when I can. So, until I can get more time to spend on the blog (hopefully soon), here's something that was inspired by my Life Coach.

I've placed a copy of this on my desk, right next to the monitor, to remind me ... No matter how long, I'll get it done.

My Take: Finding Frances ... Love Letters from a Flight Lieutenant

I've met some incredible people in this world of Irish Dance. And it's not just the dancers that share their passion and talent...

Catherine Harris, AKA as E.C. -- English Cathy, a former rock band agent who managed a teenage band called Van Halen, gives much of her heart and time to the Irish Community here in Tucson. Somehow, while working with the  St. Patrick's Day Parade Committee, the Celtic Academy of Tucson, her family business, and her other responsibilities, she found time to research and write the book "Finding Frances... Love Letters from a Flight Lieutenant."

From the publisher's website:

"Eric Hutchin was 17 when he joined the Royal Air Force to fight the Nazis in World War II. He trained as a fighter pilot at Falcon Field, a Hollywood-financed military base built in Mesa, in the Arizona desert, and there he fell in love with 17-year-old Frances Mackenzie. For the remainder of that savage war, Eric flew iconic Spitfires and Typhoons, protecting the shores of England, intercepting V-1 rockets, liberating Holland. And writing to Frances. Clever and poignant, his love letters, sketches and photos form the personal chronicle of one young flight lieutenant and his love for his special girl, but of course this is also a universal story — the coming-of-age tale of every young man who goes to war."

Through Catherine's careful arrangement of her uncle's letters and photographs,
I witnessed Eric's love grow for his girl Frances. Whether stationed in Arizona, England, or unspecified locations, Eric's words reminded me that love doesn't recognize political boundaries or edicts issued by commanders or tyrants. Be it the incessant waiting, rolling the dice with Death each time he got in that cockpit, or losing friends, Eric's love for Frances helped him navigate the day-to-day ugliness of war.

While primarily a love story, Catherine weaved factual tidbits throughout the book. Such as explaining how Hollywood financed a military site, complete with a swimming pool, that allowed the US to collaborate with England in training pilots before the US had officially joined the war. Catherine also included glimpses into how locals, regardless of location, supported the US and English soldiers.

This story captured my heart because of the love shared between Eric and Frances, for Catherine's tribute to her Uncle, and for showing one young man's dedication to his country and family.

This Memorial Day Weekend, I thank Catherine for sharing her tribute to her Uncle Eric. I also thank the many men and women that sacrificed much for their countries in the name of freedom. Including Eric Hutchin.

(edited 5/26/13 to add Photo of bookcover.)

#FridayFlash: Says The Master

Two years ago, my older daughter, lured by the pretty dresses and tapping shoes, pulled us into Irish Dance. When she began classes, this hispanic family knew absolutely nothing about Irish Dance. Reel? Jig? Hard shoes? It all might as well have been Gaelic as far as we were concerned.

The dance school family embraced us with open arms. The dance instructors, the dancers, and the parents helped our daughter, and the rest of the our family, to understand and love the sometimes crazy, but always fantastic life of Irish Dance. Now, our younger daughter has joined the ranks, we've made life long friends, and we know more about trebles than I think possible.

Recently, a fellow Irish Dance parent/writer challenged me to write a piece for something like an Irish Dance Storytime. So, me being me, I searched the internet for the history of Irish Dance. I came across information about Dance Masters, instructors that traveled across the land teaching villagers Irish Dance.

That history, as well as Darren Maguire's commitment to Irish Dance and his students, are the inspiration for this little poem that I wrote for my 21 Moments writing challenge.

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Says The Master

To the beat. With grace.

This foot here. That foot there.

Dance with your heart.

Says The Master.

Dancing gets the chores done.

Dancing brings the neighbors to call.

Dancing starts the ceili.

Says The Master.

In the morn, Dance to school

In the eve, Dance in the streets.

In the night, Dance in your dreams.

Says the Master.

Dance to forget.

Dance to remember.

Dance to love.

Says The Master.

Dance is life.

Life is Dance.

Love Life. 

Love Dance.

Says the Master.