We left off in An Example of the Experiments, 2 – Fains I with the promise of sharing the original Fains I opening and the rewrite making use of multiple storycrafting techniques.
First, the original’s first ~900 words
Tim screamed. His father kicked off covers and rose quickly. He didn’t bother with robe or slippers and hollered, “It’s okay, Tim. We’re coming.”
Mrs. Young lifted her gown and cursed the folds as her hands fought to find their place. Mr. Young wrenched the door open.
A hallway nightlight flooded their bedroom with dark colors.
“Put on a real light , ” he said as he and his wife raced down the hall to Tim’s room.
Mr. Young entered first. Mrs. Young caromed off the door at the end of the hall.
Mr. Young grabbed Tim as he landed on the bed, his tears washing Tim as he held his son against him, rocking and speaking softly.
Timothy continued to scream, unrelenting, unaware of his father’s arms, each scream higher than the last, longer than the last, each scream more hopeless than the last.
Mrs. Young flicked the light in Tim’s room. His bed held a sweat soaked outline of his body. “Can you move him? I should change the sheets.”
Mr. Young continued rocking Tim, his eyes closed, still holding his son against him, too big to sit in dad’s lap, too terrified not to. “Why bother? The covers are off the bed. Just let it dry out.”
Tim stopped shrieking. His eyes started to focus. He sat up, rigid, arms locked by his sides. He looked at his father.
“You’re home, Tim. Mom and I are right here. Do you know where you are?”
Tim clenched his father like a child seeking the security of its mother’s breasts, sobbing heavily. His body finally went limp and he slept again.
Mr. Young looked at his wife, framed in the doorway. “I’ll spend the night in here with him.***
Timothy stared at the twin reflections in his father’s dresser mirror, he in full view, his father partially eclipsed by his son. Mr. Young reached around Tim and knotted his son’s bow tie.
“Watch. You only think its hard because its your first time. ”
A few quick twists and the operation was complete. Mr. Young pulled back and spun his son around. Facing each other his father kneaded the tie until it assumed the proper shape. “Looks good. ”
Mrs. Young entered their bedroom. “You’re certainly a handsome young man, Timothy. Betty’ll have trouble keeping the other girls away from you tonight. ”
Timothy turned back to the mirror. Irish catholic fair skin and freckles, blue eyes, his face rouging in high contrast to his carrot top red hair. “I really look ok, mom? ”
Mrs. Young came up beside her son, Mr. Young behind them and with a hand on each’s upper arm, embracing, supporting. “Looks like a family portrait, doesn’t it, with the black frame and oval glass?”
Five miles away, in her own bedroom in the second level of a brownstone, Betty French and her mother worked to draw eyes to Betty’s positives; golden tresses framing a quiet, graceful face that had matured faster than the rest of her and doe eyes, large and limpid, all seeing yet innocent.
“A little perfume, Betty?”
“Do you think I’ll need it?”
“No, I think Tim’ll want it.”
Betty laughed as Mrs. French caricatured adding fragrance here and there. “Okay, seriously. Remember, less is more. Make them want to get closer, not give them a bath from two feet away.”
Betty cleared her throat as her mother demonstrated how to accent. “Mother, what time do you expect Tim to bring me home? ”
Mrs. French replied while continuing to adjust Betty’s strapless formal. “I trust you and I like Tim. I suppose you two will know when you should be home. ” She pulled up Betty’s decolletage and caught her daughter’s eyes. “When would you like to be home?
“I don’t know what Tim has in mind. He said that we’d go out to eat either before or after the prom. ” She looked at herself in her mirror smirked at the reflection. “He’ll probably want to go to the reservoir. ” She adjusted her gown. “You know how boys are. ”
Mrs. French smiled. ” There . All done. ” She stepped back as Betty sashayed in front of the full length mirror on her closet door. “Your father would have been so proud of you, Betty. You’re turning into a beautiful woman.
“Would daddy really have been proud?”
“Yes. ”
Five miles away, Timothy took the corsage out of the refrigerator and said good-bye to his parents. At the door his father stopped him and shook his hand. “Enjoy yourself tonight, son. ” He palmed Timothy ten twenty-dollar bills.
Timothy looked up. Mr. Young winked and handed Tim the keys to his new Boxster.
Timothy took the keys numbly. “I’ll try to be back by midnight, dad. ”
“Don’t worry, son. This is your night. ” He opened the door for his son and patted his back, guiding him out of the house. “You have a good time and be comfortable. The car’s pretty smart. It’ll let us know if you need us.”
Timothy blushed.
Mr. Young quickly added, “Not that that’ll happen. Our phones’ll be off, see? ” He pulled his phone from his pocket, showing Timothy the red circle surrounding the CarSmarts icon. A red line went through the icon at a diagonal. “I’ll see you tomorrow sometime. Just be careful. “
And now, why it sucks (for those who’ve read So I gave myself an exercise (eating my own dogfood)… and Writers’ Groups – Critiques, you have an idea what’s coming):
Tim screamed.[[weak. The reader doesn’t know anything useful at this point, no reason to be engaged, no reason to be drawn in]] His father kicked off covers and rose quickly.[[Whose covers is Tim’s father kicking off? At present we don’t know the exact reason he’s rising: is he enraged at his Tim’s screams? Is he running away/towards whatever’s causing Tim’s screams? Is he a somnambulist preparing for a walk downtown?]] He didn’t bother with robe or slippers and hollered, “It’s okay, Tim. We’re coming.”[[So far this is T~S (Told, not Shown). It could also use some attribution via action.]]
Mrs. Young lifted her gown and cursed the folds as her hands fought to find their place. Mr. Young wrenched the door open. [[Possible POV violations, definitely forced/pushed tension. It’s written to pass a sense of urgency (cursed, fought, wrenched), but the reader doesn’t know enough about the characters or their situation to feel the urgency at a deep level.]]
A hallway nightlight flooded their bedroom with dark colors. [[Ditto (flooded, dark).]]
“Put on a real light, ” he said as he and his wife raced down the hall to Tim’s room. [[Use Action via Attribution, ditto (raced).]]
Mr. Young entered first. Mrs. Young caromed off the door at the end of the hall. [[You’ve got to love “caromed,” and ditto.]]
Mr. Young grabbed Tim as he landed on the bed, his tears washing Tim as he held his son against him, rocking and speaking softly. [[At this point, the forced melodrama becomes laughable (landed, washing, rocking, …). You can almost hear an old radio drama “We sent for Doc Marley because Timmy needed his medicine but then the storm hit and we never heard from Doc Marley again.”]]
Timothy continued to scream, unrelenting, unaware of his father’s arms, each scream higher than the last, longer than the last, each scream more hopeless than the last. [[At this point the errors repeat and compound. There’s no point in critiquing further until the challenges noted are addressed.]]
Okay, it sucks. We knew that going in. Next week’s post is the rewrite. Feel free to do your own rewrite and put it in the comments. I’ll take a look and get back to you with some ideas/suggestions/hoorahs, if you’d like. Let me know.